The Law of the Sea : A Legal Thriller

by Dave Gerard

  Bock spluttered but eventually spit out an answer. “Because, Your Honor, the coins are ours. Judge Gleeson of the three hundred seventy-fifth District Court in Houston, Texas already said so.”

  “No he didn’t,” Graves said. “He merely awarded the coins to Rockweiller on a temporary basis pending trial. There was no final ruling on the merits, isn’t that correct?”

  “That’s technically correct, Your Honor, but implicit in that ruling is—”

  “There’s nothing implicit about that ruling, Mr. Bock. It seems to me that we have a bona fide dispute about who owns those coins. The plaintiff wants a chance to analyze them. Why shouldn’t they get to?”

  “Because, Your Honor, the coins were stolen. This would allow them to benefit from the fruits of their ill-gotten labor.”

  “But aren’t you putting the cart before the horse?”

  “No, Your Honor. In addition, there’s a significant flight risk. We believe that Ashley Marcum may take the coins and run.”

  Graves raised his eyebrows. “A flight risk? Where is she going to go? Will she decamp to Treasure Island, to bury the coins with Long John Silver?” He turned to Remington. “Mr. Remington, is your client going to run away with the coins?”

  Remington looked back at him levelly. “No, Your Honor.”

  Graves turned back to Bock. “There you have it, Mr. Bock. Mr. Remington is an upstanding lawyer in this jurisdiction. He says his client will not run away with the coins. Further, I will order him to post a bond with the Court in an amount equal to the value of the coins. Good?”

  Remington grimaced. He didn’t want to put up a bond. But he nodded. “That’s good with me, Your Honor.”

  “Good. Issue solved.” Bock sputtered a few more objections but Graves cut him off. “Let’s move on. Now. Your motion for protective order. You don’t want depositions to happen for privilege reasons. Is that correct?”

  “That’s correct, your Honor.”

  “It is my understanding that the young man, David Marcum, died while in the employ of Rockweiller Industries. Is that correct?”

  “Technically, not exactly, but more or less, that is the situation, yes.”

  “And you’re saying that they can’t take the depositions of the crew, who may know what happened, because of privilege?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Bock said without the slightest hint of remorse.

  “So how are they supposed to figure out how he died?”

  Bock shrugged, as if this was a grand problem and he welcomed any and all solutions. “The information is privileged, Your Honor. As we’ve argued extensively in our briefs—”

  “Mr. Bock,” said Graves matter-of-factly. “That is complete horseshit.”

  “Excuse me, Your Honor?” said Bock, aghast.

  Graves’ face took on a chilling expression. He pointed a finger at Bock. “I don’t know what kind of bullshit you get away with in New York, or what wool you pulled over Judge Gleeson’s eyes. But I can assure you that it’s not going to fly here. I know damn well that the attorney-client privilege doesn’t shield the basic facts of what happened to this young man.”

  Graves continued as Bock stared at him, shocked. “I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt this one and only time. Do not try to pull cute legal maneuvers with me. The next time I see a frivolous argument, I will sanction you. Is that clear, Mr. Bock?”

  “It is,” Bock said in a strangled voice.

  “Good. I like to sort these things out early on so you know how things stand. That’s the beauty of a Rule Sixteen conference, don’t you think? Put up your witnesses for deposition.”

  Bock nodded weakly.

  “Good,” said Graves. “Is there anything else?” Bock leaned over to confer with Quinto and Loudamire for a moment.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” he said, recovering his poise. “There is the matter of our motion for sanctions.” My stomach turned over and the grin melted off my face. Judge Graves looked at me thoughtfully. Remington had told me to look penitent and let him handle this. Neither of us knew how this would turn out.

  Bock continued. “Attorney Jack Carver broke into private property, used artifice to trick a guard, and stole records belonging to Rockweiller Industries. I request that the Court sanction Mr. Carver appropriately, including but not limited to censure and disqualification from this case.” Bock finished with a note of brutal finality. He looked at me. There was no hint of pity in his dark eyes.

  Judge Graves’ thick eyebrows drew down into a frown as he stared at me. I quailed. My heart was beating overtime. I wished this could just be over with.

  Abruptly, Judge Graves began to laugh. “Artifice, indeed!” he boomed in his deep bass voice. “Mr. Carver, you are quite the swashbuckler. A caper in Colombia. A moonlit masquerade on a mysterious island. An old federal judge like me cannot partake in these hijinks, I’m afraid. But I surely relished reading about your exploit.”

  Bock was flabbergasted, as was I. “So you’re not going to sanction him?” Bock said, his voice rising an octave.

  “For what?” Judge Graves asked. “A sanction requires that Rockweiller Industries suffer some prejudice. He didn’t take anything, or find out anything he didn’t already know. There was no property damage. He didn’t lie to the guard, technically. No harm no foul, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Bock?”

  Bock spluttered at this, protesting about violation of the law, and private property, and of ethical standards among members of the bar. Graves let him talk for a while before cutting him off.

  Then he turned back to me, his voice somber once more. “Young man,” he said. “My amusement masks what is, as Mr. Bock quite rightly points out, a serious breach of ethics, illegal trespass, and attempt to steal information from Rockweiller Industries. In view of your youth, and the fact that no harm was done, I am going to let you off. This time. But be warned. The next time I see even the slightest bit of questionable behavior, I will not hesitate to sanction you, suspend you from practicing law before this Court, and throw you in jail. Is that clear?”

  I swallowed. “It’s clear.”

  “Good!” said Judge Graves, in good humor again. “In addition, I will grant Rockweiller Industries’ motion for protective order with regard to ultrasensitive information. But do not abuse this privilege, Mr. Bock,” he warned, curdling Bock’s smile before it began. “Thank you for your time, counselors. We are adjourned.” He banged his gavel, and that was that.

  FIFTEEN

  A week after the hearing, Rockweiller grudgingly turned over the coins. They sent them in a Brinks truck, sporting armed guards with rifles and flak jackets. The guards looked at me sourly as I signed for them. I didn’t care. I thought Bock was being a tad melodramatic about the whole thing. I immediately telephoned Professor Schnizzel, who bid me to bring them to San Marcos at my earliest convenience. He and I had been in periodic contact about the case since our last meeting, and he was excited to see the coins.

  The drive from Houston to San Marcos took a couple of hours. Most people think of Texas as a desert, made of dust and tumbleweeds and the Marlboro man, staring a thousand yards away from a faded billboard on the side of the road. But that’s west Texas. East and central Texas are quite green. The highways wind their way through some handsome farmland and ranchland, sparsely tended, with old fences and odd houses by the side of the road. If you put on some country music, and drive a little faster than you should, you can reach a Zen-like state, with the sun and the road and the sunbaked sky all blending together into the present moment, and the hours slip by like fingers on a sundial. A tank of gas is cheaper than a therapist, and in my experience, the open road can be just as good.

  Ashley tagged along for the drive. She had never been to San Marcos before and wanted to meet the great Professor Jacob Schnizzel. The weather was so hot we could see shimmers on the asphalt, and stores and houses mi
raged into focus as we drove by. We gassed up once on the way and got coffee and kolaches, and saved the receipts.

  As we drove, I found myself dwelling on the court hearing. I wasn’t sure who had won. We had gotten the coins and the depositions. And I didn’t get sanctioned. But Bock got his ultrasensitive order, and I knew he would use that to hide whatever they’d found. I was also sure that my “swashbuckling” in Colombia had influenced Judge Graves’ decision. Ashley took the blame for that squarely, and apologized for putting me up to it. But I was frustrated nonetheless. Every time we seemed on the verge of discovering something, it got yanked away.

  I held a glimmer of hope that Schnizzel would be able to tell us the secrets of the coins, and that we would finally learn what had happened to David Marcum at the depositions, set to take place in just a few days.

  Once we arrived in San Marcos, we made our way across campus toward Schnizzel’s office. Schnizzel was holding office hours when we got there. He was surrounded by a mob of students and was yelling and gesticulating wildly with an erasable marker. After a few minutes, the crowd dispersed, chatting amongst themselves about anything and everything but computer science. Schnizzel beckoned us in and sat down tiredly.

  “Gen-Z,” he muttered. “There’s no work ethic anymore. It’s all Tik-Tok and Instagram.” I agreed. Must be getting old.

  Ashley smiled and extended a hand. “Professor Schnizzel! I’m Ashley Marcum. So pleased to finally meet you.”

  Schnizzel jumped up from his chair, noticing her for the first time. “Ms. Marcum! Of course. Jack’s told me all about you. Delighted to meet you. Simply delighted.”

  “I am delighted as well,” Ashley said.

  Schnizzel wasted no time eyeing the big briefcase I had brought. “So,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “You got the coins. How about that. Sometimes I wondered if you ever would. Or if they really even existed. It all feels so unreal sometimes, don’t you think? Just a bunch of words on legal paper. But there’s nothing like solid gold to make things feel true.”

  I put the briefcase on Schnizzel’s desk. It was banded with metal and secured with a built-in combination lock. Bock had given us an even nicer briefcase. But Remington had me take it to a specialist, who found that it contained a tracking device. I was furious and wanted to tell Judge Graves about it. But Remington said this wasn’t the time, and that I should just throw it away and get a new one. I toyed with the idea of floating the briefcase down the Buffalo Bayou, to see if Loudamire would chase it all the way to Louisiana. But, mindful of Judge Graves’ proscription against hijinks, I didn’t.

  I entered the combination to the briefcase. The lock snapped up, and I opened it to reveal its contents.

  The inside glowed with a soft golden light. The first time I had seen the coins, they were marred beyond recognition. But now they had been polished to a high sheen. They looked entirely different. Like the most exquisite pieces in the world. We stared at them for a long while. There’s something mesmerizing about gold, which has fascinated humanity since the dawn of time.

  Schnizzel reached in reverently and scooped up a handful of coins. He let them waterfall through his fingers. Then he picked one up and examined it carefully.

  His eyes widened in astonishment.

  “I don’t believe this,” he muttered.

  “What?” I asked. “Do you know where they’re from?”

  Schnizzel picked up a few more coins, examining them and evidently coming to the same conclusion. “Yes, I know where they’re from,” he said distractedly. “An amateur coin collector with five sales on e-bay would know where these are from. You’ve had me looking in entirely the wrong part of the world.”

  Ashley and I stared at each other in bewilderment. Without saying another word, Schnizzel ransacked his desk and produced a big canvas tube, which he unrolled to reveal a map of the ancient world. He weighed down the corners of the map with a mug of coffee, a C++ book, a bronze battleship figurine, and a Pez dispenser, the age of whose Pez I didn’t care to guess. Some coffee sloshed onto the map, unnoticed.

  “This is going to require a history lesson,” Schnizzel said. He stabbed a finger at the continent of the Americas. “In 1492, Christopher Columbus discovered the New World. Sailed the ocean blue, yada yada. Within a year or two, reports of his discovery filtered back to Europe. You can imagine the shockwaves this caused, the discovery of a new continent at the edge of the known world.”

  Schnizzel moved his finger and pointed to Europe. “After receiving the news, Spain acted quickly. She wanted to secure rights to this new world. And she wanted to secure them before Portugal, then her great maritime rival for control of the seas.

  “King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain petitioned the Pope to support their claims to the New World. The Pope, Alexander VI, was a Spaniard. Predictably, he issued a papal bull in favor of Spain. He set a line of demarcation and declared that everything west of this line—including the entire New World—belonged to Spain.” Schnizzel took the whiteboard marker and slashed a black line straight down the map, just east of the Americas.

  “He just…declared ownership of the world?” Ashley asked dubiously. “Can you do that? What about the people living there?”

  “What about them? In those days, they were considered savages, fit only to be exploited by Europe.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Indeed. But that’s colonialism for you.” Schnizzel jabbed the map again. “No other European power accepted the Spanish Pope’s decree, which would have given Spain control over the New World. King John II of Portugal was especially incensed, because it interfered with Portugal’s rights in the region.”

  “I don’t blame him,” I said. “A Spanish Pope? Sounds like an inside job.”

  “Is it so different today?” Schnizzel queried. “Don’t presidents appoint supreme court justices with the aim that they will do what the president wants?”

  “Come on,” I scoffed. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think? Sure, the President appoints justices who share his or her views. But after they’re appointed, the President doesn’t have a say. They do what they think is right.”

  “Really? What about Bush v. Gore?”

  He was talking about the election case of 2000, in which the five conservative justices of the Supreme Court voted to give the presidency to Bush, and the four liberal justices voted to give it to Gore. Ashley raised her eyebrows. I started to say something, but stopped.

  “In any case,” Schnizzel continued, “in 1494, Spain and Portugal made a deal, and signed the Treaty of Tordesillas. This treaty affirmed the line of demarcation, but moved it a little to the west. The result was that Spain and Portugal split the world between them. Roughly speaking, Spain got the Western half of the world, and Portugal the East.” Schnizzel drew another line straight down the map, a little ways east of the other one, that cut through a chunk of Brazil.

  “The Treaty of Tordesillas was ratified by the new Pope, Julius II. Some years later, a Portuguese explorer named Pedro Álvares Cabral discovered and laid claim to what is modern-day Brazil. That’s why everyone in Brazil speaks Portuguese, while the rest of South America speaks Spanish.”

  “This is all fascinating, believe me,” said Ashley. “But what does it have to do with the coins?”

  “Ah!” said Schnizzel triumphantly, like a professor who has finally been asked the question he has been waiting for. “The relevance is this. Under the Treaty of Tordesillas, this entire half of the world—” he gestured at most of the western hemisphere—“belonged to Spain. But the other half”—now he gestured to the east—“belonged to the Portuguese.

  “These coins,” he continued, “are not from Colombia. In fact, they are not from South America at all.”

  “Then where are they from?” I cried.

  “Why, they are from Asia.”

  “
Asia?” I repeated stupidly. I tried to orient myself to this new development. Were we looking in entirely the wrong place? What did that mean?

  “But how would my brother get coins from Asia?” Ashley asked. “He’s never been there, as far as I know. And everything we’ve seen so far points to Florida or South America. Asia’s not even on our radar. Right, Jack?”

  “Right,” I muttered, dazed.

  “Even so,” said Schnizzel. “The coins are from Asia. Look at the markings. They are very distinctive. Any wreck expert worth his salt would know these, although an assayer might not. I may even have an idea of where in Asia they are from. Although I will need some time to confirm.”

  I nodded. The Judge had given us thirty days with the coins, so Schnizzel could take his time. I looked closely at the flowing lines and shapes that had so reminded me of Indian temples in Goa. I wasn’t far off.

  As Schnizzel walked us out, he chattered on about the coins and the Portuguese Empire and where they might be from. But I barely heard him. I was still trying to process the import of this news. What on earth did it mean?

  We shook hands and prepared to leave. Schnizzel was going on vacation for a week or two, he said, but he would see what he could do beforehand.

  Just as we began to walk away, I heard a voice call from our left. “Hey Schnizzel!” came a gruff baritone. “How’s it hanging!”

  I turned and saw a beefy man in his late forties, sporting a crew cut and an athletic tee. He wore sunglasses that were tethered to the back of his thick red neck by Croakies.

  “Fuck you, Cal,” Schnizzel yelled back at him.

  “Now, now,” the man said, grinning cheerfully. “No hard feelings! Have a super day!” He waved at us and powerwalked away.

  I stared at his departing back. “Is that…”

  “Yes,” Schnizzel said darkly. “The football coach. Un-fucking believable, these people. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in Talladega Nights.”

  Ashley looked perplexed, but was savvy enough not to comment.