The Law of the Sea : A Legal Thriller

by Dave Gerard

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bock replied coolly.

  Remington nodded. “Right. When’s the last time you went to Malaysia, Bock?” he asked. I saw him flick an eye toward Cartwright and Rivera, gauging their reactions. They both froze. The executives glanced at each other with a look of disquiet.

  But Bock just stared back impassively. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “No?” Remington said. “I’m talking about the salvage business. I’m talking about Excel Resources. I’m talking about what Lloyd Gunthum found, in a place called the Strait of Malacca. Ever heard of it?”

  Now there was an unmistakable reaction. Cartwright had gone completely rigid. He was staring at Remington, the color drained from his face. Stephanie Rivera whispered something urgently in his ear. I felt like we were playing Marco Polo, and getting closer.

  My heart was beating faster. It felt almost dreamlike. I waited for Remington to say it. To come out with my delusional theory, and for everyone to stop for a moment, and then look at each other and laugh at me, like they all had when I proposed this crazy idea to begin with.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Bock, his face still giving away nothing. “Excel Resources engages in salvage operations. That’s public knowledge. I don’t see the relevance.”

  “I’m talking about a certain ship that sank in that area,” said Remington. “A very old ship. Historic, one might even call it. Does that ring a bell?” The whispers from Rivera and the executives grew louder.

  “No,” said Bock.

  Remington paused for a moment, and then leaned forward and just came out with it. “No? What about the Flor de la Mar?”

  Quinto choked on his coffee, spilling it everywhere. John Cartwright went white as a ghost. The executives’ eyes almost blew out of their skulls. Loudamire ran out of the room and slammed the door, and Stephanie Rivera hissed something at Bock. He told her to shut up, but I heard it. “How the fuck did he know that?” she said.

  Remington took in their reactions and smiled humorlessly. “You know, when Jack first told me about his theory, I laughed him off. Buried treasure? I said. Yeah, right. If you believe that, I’ve got a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn. I knew that you all were hiding something. But I figured it was an oil find. Some of that black Texas gold. But no. This is the real thing.”

  Bock finally spoke. It was clearly an effort. “Obviously, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his jaws grinding together. But the jig was up. We all knew it.

  Remington nodded. “Right,” he said. “Well, here’s what we’re going to do.” Remington pushed aside Bock’s fancy settlement folder, untouched, and clasped his hands before him.

  “You’re going to cut your bullshit privilege assertions and give me unrestricted access to all documents and witnesses involved in David Marcum’s death. You’re going to tell me what really happened, and exactly how the Flor de la Mar was discovered. Then, we’re going to negotiate a reasonable settlement with all of the facts in front of us.

  “If you don’t,” continued Remington, “I will amend our lawsuit to include the Flor de la Mar. A lawsuit needs to have all of the operative facts, wouldn’t you agree?” Bock looked like he was about to choke.

  “If I do that,” said Remington, “my guess is that Portugal, Malaysia, and half of Southeast Asia may have something to say about it. They may ask, for instance, why you haven’t reported the find of the Flor de la Mar pursuant to national and international law. They may also ask what you intend to do with it. That could cause considerable embarrassment to Rockweiller Industries,” Remington said, glancing contemptuously at the executives. “Particularly given the company’s sensitive international relationships.”

  Remington paused for a moment to let this sink in. Then he sat back, clasped his hands behind his head, and kicked his black boots up on Badden & Bock’s fancy sandalwood conference table. “We can do this easy or hard,” he said. “It’s really up to you.”

  Bock snapped out of it, trying to recover. “Even assuming that, uh, what you say is true, and of course, uh, uh, we absolutely deny these allegations, there is no way we would simply agree to such a course of action—”

  Remington ignored him and addressed John Cartwright directly. “You’ve got forty-eight hours to turn over all relevant documents and get me times to meet with the witnesses. You know where to find me.”

  With that, he got up and walked out the door. We followed him. On the way out, I glanced into one of the offices along the far wall. Through the blinds, I saw Loudamire. She was sitting alone in the corner, sobbing.

  We were bursting with excitement as we followed Remington into the elevator. He signaled us to be quiet until we had left the building. His policy was never to talk until he’d left enemy territory, so to speak. Just to be safe.

  We exited back out onto the hot street. The lunch crowd of lawyers and businesspeople in their blue and white starched shirts seemed like so many drones, oblivious to the momentous event that had just transpired fifty floors above their heads.

  Cindy and I couldn’t contain it anymore. We started yelling and high-fiving each other, about how we had totally owned Bock & Co., and how the executives had basically fallen out of their chairs, and did-you-see-Quinto’s-tie-fold-into-his-coffee-cup, and everything else. Some of the businesspeople looked up in surprise as they walked by, wondering what was going on. Ashley and Schnizzel were ecstatic. Remington finally allowed himself a smile.

  “So what happens now?” Ashley asked breathlessly.

  “Now,” said Remington, “they show us their cards, tell us what happened to your brother, and settle the case.”

  “Are you serious? How much are they going to pay?”

  Remington shrugged. “Ten million, easy. That’s the single-incident limit on their insurance policy.”

  “Ten million, did you say?” Ashley repeated incredulously. “And they’re going to tell us everything?”

  Remington nodded. “Yes. And that’s assuming this was just a simple accident, which I find suspect. If there was something else going on, it will be higher.”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” Remington confirmed. “These guys are in the middle of a serious international incident. If that’s really the Flor de la Mar they found, then they are looking at billions of dollars at stake. If word of this gets out, they’ll be up shit creek without a paddle, if you’ll pardon my French. Add that to whatever happened to David Marcum, and we have enormous leverage over them right now. Bock may not like it, but Cartwright will see it. That’s one reason I wanted him there today.”

  “And the other?”

  Remington chortled. “Did you see their faces? That wasn’t a settlement meeting. That was a show. I wanted to see whether we were right or not. That’s why I asked Jack to make sure they brought someone from the company. Bock has a pretty good poker face, but those other guys were like open books.” He shook his head. “If we’d been wrong, I’d have looked as dumb as a rock. Like Jack did when he first told us this idea. But I don’t mind looking the fool now and again if I have to.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  “I can’t believe this,” Ashley said. Neither could I. I shook my head to try and clear the sense of unreality.

  “It’s not over yet,” Remington cautioned. “But I’d say we’re in a good place.”

  “When do you think they’ll call?”

  “Within forty-eight hours,” he said confidently.

  Forty-eight hours, I thought. In forty-eight hours, we would know everything, and the end of the case would finally be at hand.

  NINETEEN

  I was sitting in my office, idly doing research, when the case notification came in.

  I felt relaxed for the first time in months. Ashley, Cindy, Harder
, and I had stayed out late last night, enjoying unlimited sake and sushi at Sushi King, courtesy of Bob Kruckemeyer. We had laughed at Loudamire and Quinto, conjured wild theories about the Flor de la Mar, and speculated on what Ashley would do with her newfound riches. We also talked in more sober tones about her brother, and what we would learn when Rockweiller finally showed us their cards. But overall, the mood was festive. Harder and I went at each other mercilessly, and Cindy and Ashley choked on their sake bombs in laughter.

  The next morning, I woke up pleasantly hung over. Now it was early afternoon. I sat back, kicked my feet up on my desk, and let out a contented sigh.

  The partners were well pleased with me. Kruckemeyer said that it took guts to stick to something that sounded so stupid, even after a lot of people told me so. Remington went so far as to give me the extraordinary compliment of “good job.” Other partners dropped by my office too, offering congratulations on a job well done. I picked up my ten-dollar globe and spun it, wondering if I would get a bonus out of this, and whether I should use it to buy a nicer globe.

  I heard my email ping. Usually, I had the sound turned off. Otherwise I felt like a squirrel, jerking to and fro every time someone sent me a message, which was usually not worth the kilobytes it was printed on. But I was watching YouTube videos, so the sound was on. I clicked over to see what it was.

  It was a case alert for Rockweiller Industries. My stomach tightened. I had set up a case notification on them a few months ago. It informed me every time Rockweiller sued or was sued. Most of the lawsuits were routine stuff; slip-and-fall at a refinery, a breach of contract with a pipeline operator, a wrongful termination, and so on. But this one looked different.

  It was a federal lawsuit that Rockweiller had just filed in the Southern District of Florida, Miami Division. It was styled Rockweiller Industries, Inc. v. Unidentified Shipwrecked Vessel. My mouth went dry. I quickly downloaded the complaint and read it.

  Rockweiller Industries Inc. (“Rockweiller”) files this Verified Complaint in rem against an Unidentified Shipwrecked Vessel (“Vessel”), its apparel, tackle, appurtenances, and cargo, the coordinates of which will be kept secret due to the extreme sensitivity of the matter. Rockweiller attaches the sworn statement of Lloyd Gunthum, attesting that the facts herein are true and correct.

  The Court has admiralty and maritime jurisdiction within the meaning of Rule 9(h) of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure and Supplemental Admiralty Rules C and D. Further, the Court has original jurisdiction over this matter pursuant to 28 U.S.C. §§ 1331 and 1333. In addition, the Court has in personam jurisdiction as well as constructive quasi in rem jurisdiction over the Vessel.

  I skimmed through the legalese, looking for the meat of it. And then on page seven, I saw it:

  Rockweiller believes that the Vessel which is the subject of this verified complaint is the remains of a Portuguese carrack originating in the sixteenth century. The name of the Vessel is believed to be the Flor de la Mar.

  Rockweiller has deposited with the U.S. Marshal several gold coins and a bronze lion recovered from the site for the symbolic arrest of the wreck. Rockweiller asserts a salvage award claim pursuant to the law of salvage and a possessory ownership claim pursuant to the law of finds. Rockweiller hereby requests that the Court award Rockweiller title to the wreck, and for all further relief to which it may be justly entitled.

  The lawsuit was signed by Zachary Bock, of Badden & Bock, New York, NY. I sagged back into my chair.

  They had called our bluff. Not only had they refused to settle, but they had struck first and filed a lawsuit of their own. In one blow, we had lost our leverage, and the knife we had against their throats was gone.

  I didn’t understand. This got them out of the frying pan with us. But it put them in a much bigger fire. Or so I thought.

  I called Remington. He picked up immediately.

  “They filed a lawsuit,” I stammered, not expecting him to answer the phone. “Rockweiller Industries…the Flor de la Mar. I just got the notification a few minutes ago.”

  “I know,” he said tersely. “I’m reading it now.”

  “Oh. You are?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are they doing?” I blurted out. “I thought they had to keep this from going public.”

  “So did I,” said Remington. “I’m as surprised as you are. And I hate surprises. What is even more inexplicable is where they filed it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Southern District of Florida. As you know, the Eleventh Circuit issued a ruling several years back that basically guts their entire case. As far as I can tell, what they’ve done is legal suicide.”

  The Eleventh Circuit was the federal appeals court in Florida. When the Eleventh Circuit made a decision, all of the federal judges in Florida had to follow it. This was called precedent, or stare decisis. It’s the same principle that makes all courts do what the U.S. Supreme Court says.

  “Right,” I said. “Obviously.” Actually, I had no idea what ruling he was talking about. But I didn’t want to look stupid, so I kept my mouth shut. “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I need to think about it. I’ll be in touch.” Then he hung up.

  The Flor de la Mar lawsuit caused a sensation in the press. The Sun-Sentinel, the Tampa Bay Times, and the Miami Herald all picked it up. Then the internet got wind of it, and the soon the story was trending on national and social media. “Billion-Dollar Shipwreck Discovered,” proclaimed one headline. “Sunken Treasure Found After 500 Years: Case To Be Heard in Miami” said another. “Portuguese Powerball: Winning Ticket Sold.”

  On television, the talking heads began to weigh in. The networks reached out to every pseudo-expert with half a clue about shipwrecks and put them on TV. Schnizzel was furious. He said they were all hacks and was bursting to go on the air and “show them what a real maritime archaeologist can do.” But Remington told him to wait, and that he would get his chance.

  A byproduct of this “expert” speculation was that the value of the Flor de la Mar increased every day. It started out as “billions,” which was likely true. But the media kept bidding it up. The news anchors would play a game of chicken with the experts, daring them to go higher. A reporter would say, in hushed tones, “do you think it could be worth more?” and the expert would say, with gravitas, “it’s possible.” This phenomenon echoed across the networks, and whichever expert went the highest was the most in demand. Soon, the reasonable experts were eclipsed by those who were less so.

  This frenzy reached new heights after someone unearthed an issue of Skin Diver Magazine from March 1992. The cover story was about the Flor de la Mar, and the headline proclaimed “$80 Billion Treasure Wreck Lost and Found.”

  The fact that a magazine had printed it decades ago made it gospel, and this became the de facto value of the Flor de la Mar. Anchoring, I thought, remembering Kruckemeyer’s technique. The news pointed out that this was equivalent to one-quarter of the value of all of the gold in Fort Knox. Some of the more aggressive experts started to bid up the number even higher, until it was flirting with a hundred billion dollars.

  It was insanity. As valuable as the ship was, it wasn’t worth that much. But just how much it really was worth, nobody knew.

  After watching the news all day, I was in a funk. I called Cindy. “Are you following this?” I said.

  “Yep.”

  “Can you believe it?”

  “Nope.”

  I told her what Remington had said about the Eleventh Circuit. “I didn’t want to ask him about it. But what do you think he means?”

  “It’s obvious. Haven’t you read the Odyssey Marine case?”

  “Not lately.” Meaning, not ever.

  “That’s probably what he’s talking about. Read it. I’m going to lunch.”

  “Cindy!” I said, exasperated.<
br />
  “I’m hungry!” she exclaimed.

  I relented, and told her to come see me as soon as she got back. I didn’t feel like doing research just then, so I called Schnizzel. I mentioned the Odyssey Marine case, and he recognized it instantly.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I’m quite familiar.” I was annoyed. Was I the only one who didn’t know about this case? “I should be,” he added with a chuckle. “I testified in it.”

  “What?” I said with a start.

  “Yes. I was an expert witness for Odyssey Marine. Although I don’t know what your boss is talking about. That’s legal stuff. Above my pay grade. But I’ll tell you about the case, and maybe you’ll figure it out.

  “In 2007, a company called Odyssey Marine Exploration discovered a shipwreck a hundred miles off the coast of Gibraltar. Near Spain. They were searching for the Merchant Royal, one of the most famous and elusive wrecks out there.

  “After some years, they found a ship. But it wasn’t the Merchant Royal. Instead, it proved to be a thirty-six gun Spanish frigate called the Nuestra Señora de las Mercedes. It went down off the coast of Gibraltar in 1804.”

  “Was this Mercedes a big find?”

  “Quite. According to court papers, the Mercedes contained silver specie worth over six hundred million dollars in today’s terms.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Indeed. I believe it was the richest haul ever documented. The San Jose, off the coast of Colombia, is said to be bigger. But that’s theoretical. Until it’s actually dredged up, you never know.”

  “And the Mercedes—did Odyssey actually recover any of it?”

  “Oh, yes. The company flew seventeen tons of silver on a private plane from Gibraltar to an undisclosed location in Florida. Then, they filed a claim for ownership of the wreck in U.S. federal court.”

  “Did they get it?”

  “Well. Let’s just say that’s when things got interesting.” I leaned into the phone, eager to hear more. But it was not to be. “Shit, look at the time,” said Schnizzel. “I’ve got to get to class. But read the opinion. We’ll talk later.” I opened my mouth to protest, but there was a click, and Schnizzel was gone. I would have to read the thing myself.