Alligator Park

by R. J. Blacks

  My battle plan rolls out in my mind like an unfolding scroll. I will have to demonstrate, to a very knowledgeable and hostile audience, how certain pesticide residues in blood and tissue samples correlate to unusual aggression in affected wildlife. I will have to go where no researcher has gone before.

  “That’s an enormous undertaking,” I say.

  “Nothing worth doing is easy,” he answers.

  At noon, after my four hour workday, I rush home and retrieve the frozen tissue and blood samples from that deceased alligator we took home from the diner attack a few weeks before. I place them in the refrigerator so they can thaw out for later analysis. I explain my situation to Fargo and he gracefully agrees to take me to various isolated locations in and around the swamp to get blood and tissue samples from various aquatic creatures.

  Watching Fargo snag an eight-foot alligator without injuring it is especially entertaining. He slips underwater to avoid detection and then slides a loop around its mouth. A quick tug and the gator becomes spasmodic, twirling around and around in an instinctive ritual of self-preservation developed over 30 million years to drown its victim and rip it apart for consumption. Fargo moves out of the way, patiently keeping clear as the gator performs its death roll, waiting for the alligator to wear itself out. Alligators are cold blooded, which is a highly efficient system of food conversion—alligators can go a year without eating—but there is one flaw; cold-blooded animals tire easily and Fargo was using this to his advantage.

  As soon as the animal tires, he drags it up on land and wraps tape around its jaws. At this point the gator is so exhausted it just lies there, but Fargo sits on its back as a precaution as I perform a quick biopsy on muscle tissue behind its back legs and take a blood sample. Fargo instructs me to get back into his Jeep and then releases the animal. Within seconds it scampers into the water and disappears. I place the blood and tissue samples in an ice chest for later analysis and then we proceed to another location.

  We spend pretty much the whole afternoon gathering blood and tissue samples, and then, about 5:00 PM, I ask Fargo to take me to an alligator farm where he knows the owner. I need to get some control samples from alligators that have never had contact with water containing agricultural runoff. Since their blood and tissue should be clean of any contamination, it would provide evidence that the chemicals and toxins I discover are not inherent in all alligators.

  ...

  The next day, I ask Doug if I can postpone my work until Wednesday and start right in on my experiments and he agrees. I run each sample through the MSQ 9000 EVO Liquid Chromatograph and save the results to my flash drive. It takes practically the whole day, but by closing time, I have all the data I need to begin my report.

  I rush home, confine myself to my bedroom, and begin analyzing the data. As I pour over the graphs and printouts, a new strategy occurs to me. Instead of directly submitting my dissertation for peer review and letting the corporate wolves devour it into shreds, it would bolster my argument if I could elicit the cooperation of the EPA and get them on my side. After all, they are there to protect the public and should welcome a chance to exercise with impunity the mandate given to them by Congress. And then, if corporate interests try to silence me, they would have to take on the US Government and that would most certainly make the evening news. They could run, but they couldn’t hide.

  I gather my results and carefully prepare a report showing how alligators and other aquatic creatures in captivity—those from the alligator farm—had no trace of Farm-eXia in their blood and exhibited no unusually aggressive behavior. But those in the wild had inflated levels, and it was those alligators that initiated the deadly attacks that annihilated two human beings. I then relate the story about the eight-toed super-gator and how it appeared to be organizing other gators into bands that would engage into coordinated attacks, behavior highly unusual for alligators in the wild. I include eyewitness testimonies from game wardens and police officers who had witnessed unusually aggressive alligator attacks against tourists and incidences where gators were put down to protect the public. I make it absolutely clear these are not isolated events of overly aggressive alligators which have always occurred in the past, but instances where packs of alligators were observed under the influence of the eight-toed super-gator, conspiring to collectively encircle and pull down their game. I follow with the conclusion that this behavior is highly irregular and not subject to normal natural variances which are well documented. Furthermore, I reiterate that this behavior was observed only in aquatic creatures that displayed high levels of Farm-eXia in their system.

  I end the report with a formal request that the qualification phase of Farm-eXia be reopened with additional emphasis on unusually aggressive behavior among reptiles and amphibians exposed to the pesticide. As I type the final period on my report, I feel a great sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. It has taken four months to get this far, but I’m finally getting my story out.

  The next morning, I hand my report to Doug for his opinion. He takes it to his office, and over a cup of coffee, reads the entire report paying particular attention to the graphs.

  “Looks good,” he says.

  “Do you think they’ll buy it?” I ask.

  “I don’t see why not. The data clearly supports your conclusions. At the very least it should stimulate them to take a hard look at their prior data and approvals.”

  “So I should send it?”

  “Go for it.”

  CHAPTER 26

  I place the report and cover letter in a US Postal Service Priority Envelope and hand it to the postman when he drops off the mail. And then I wait. A week goes by, another week, and then a third week, and nothing, no email, no call, no letter, absolutely no acknowledgement they even received my inquiry. Realistically, I didn’t expect anything for at least a month so I’m not terribly concerned and keep myself busy with my day job, and on my time off, helping around the restaurant.

  A few days later, when I return in the afternoon, the head waitress approaches me and says a guy was asking about me.

  “What was his name,” I ask.

  “The one that was here before, that Damon guy.”

  “Damon was here?”

  “Yes, it looked like him.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him you didn’t work here anymore.”

  “Thank goodness you didn’t tell him where I worked.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Uh-oh’?”

  “I’m sorry... I accidently mentioned you worked at some environmental company.”

  “What did you say that for?” I say in a panic.

  “He kept pressing me for answers. But don’t worry, I didn’t tell him the name.”

  “How many ‘environmental’ companies do you think are around here?”

  “I don’t know. A couple?”

  “Three. And when he figures out I don’t work at the other two, he’ll know which one, won’t he?”

  “I’m sorry. I goofed up.”

  “It’s okay, not your fault. I know how persuasive he gets.”

  “If he comes back I’ll tell him I made a mistake?”

  “No, forget it. I’m calling the police.”

  I dial the number for the State Police barracks and ask for Detective John Bolt.

  “Yes, Indigo, what can I do for you?”

  “He’s here.”

  “Who’s here? Oh, you mean that Damon character, the one that’s been harassing you?

  “He’s been asking about me at the restaurant.”

  “Did he threaten anyone?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Okay, just lie low. Keep the disguise. I’ll get a trouper on it.”

  “You’ll let me know if you pick him up?”

  “Yes, of course. Check back in a week.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I say, and then hang up the phone.

  Knowing he’s in the area gives me the creeps and I redoubl
e my efforts to remain concealed. I make myself inconspicuous by wearing my Native American outfit at all times, avoid walking alone, and place the gun at my lap whenever I drive anywhere. I know it’s illegal to drive with a loaded gun, but if I get stopped, I’ll just tell the officer I’m under the protection of Detective Bolt and maybe that will get me off. But maybe not. Even though, I have to take the chance.

  But the scariest part is leaving my job at Semi-Environmental alone at noon. The area is desolate, not a house or business for miles, and it would be easy to ambush someone without leaving a trace. I ask Fargo if he’ll take me to the shooting range for practice and he gladly complies. We spend the afternoon shooting rounds at targets from seven to fifteen yards, until I can hit the bull’s-eye consistently, and then he treats me to dinner at a restaurant on the rez that is off-limits to non-Indians.

  A week later, Will hands me a letter addressed to a Ms. Indigo Wells and my eyes are immediately drawn to a finely embossed image of the earth in the upper left corner with the words, “Global World Industries” next to it.

  “What the frig do they want?” I say to myself, contemplating the possibility of legal action against me, and then rip open the envelope, my heart pounding in anxiety. I unfold the letter, hold it at reading distance, and can’t help but be impressed by the fine parchment stationary and the elegant logo and heading at the top of the page which obviously was obtained at great expense. How unfortunate it’s from a company I’ve grown to hate. I scan the letter and can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  “Will, listen to this,” I say, and begin reading:

  “Dear Ms. Wells,

  It has come to our attention, from our colleagues and associates at various government regulatory agencies, you have submitted data which appears to indicate “Farm-eXia” may be in conflict with the Water Quality Act of 1987.

  Naturally, as a responsible multinational corporation with worldwide revenues of over $130 Billion, we are concerned about this issue.

  Therefore, we are proposing a joint venture, with you as an independent contractor, to investigate these variances and alleviate your concerns.

  We are prepared to offer you the substantial sum of $10,000 per month for a period of three years with the conviction a mutually acceptable solution can be found in due course.

  If this is acceptable, please return the enclosed contract at your earliest convenience. The offer expires 15 days from the postmark.”

  “Do you believe it? They want to partner with me. I get to clean up the environment and get paid for it. $120,000 a year for three years, $360,000 total.”

  “Sounds too good to be true,” Will says.

  “Maybe they have a conscience, want to clean up their act.”

  “Who’s signature is at the bottom?”

  “Ellis Grimes, Special Council.”

  “A lawyer no doubt. Watch it. What they say and what they mean can be two sides of a coin.”

  “Oh Will, you’re such a skeptic.”

  “Hey, I’ve been around the block a few times and seen a few things, some not good.”

  “I’ll get Doug’s opinion.”

  “Yeah, you do that.”

  I rush over to Semi-Environmental and show the letter to Doug.

  “You know, I’m far from an expert in contracts,” he says. “You need a lawyer to look at this.”

  “I don’t know any lawyers.”

  “I know someone. He’s well versed in environmental law. Shall I call him?”

  “Yeah, sure... I guess.”

  Doug picks up the phone and starts dialing. I wander out of earshot, thinking about all the wonderful things I could do with $360,000. Of course, it would be somewhat reduced by taxes, but even though, it would be a life-changing event for me, someone whose used to living on a budget and getting my clothes from thrift shops. Doug hangs up the phone and turns to me.

  “He’ll be at his boat for the next couple of hours. We can make it before dark if we leave now.”

  “Is this outfit okay? Or should I change?” I ask.

  “Go as you are. We’ve been friends a long time. He’s well aware of Native American culture.”

  Doug leads me to his Ford Ranger and I scramble into the passenger seat. He races through pasture land out to the main road and then turns on to Florida Highway 40 going east.

  “Where does he keep the boat?”

  “Daytona Marina. Shouldn’t take but an hour to get there.”

  The road is desolate, cutting through state forest and pasture land with few vehicles in sight, and Doug maintains a constant seventy-five.

  “Who is this guy?”

  “He goes by the name, ‘Berkeley Janson the third, Esquire’. Always adds ‘esquire’ to the end of his name.”

  “I assume there’s a Berkeley Janson the first and Berkeley Janson the second?”

  “His grandfather and father. Boston aristocrats. Comes from a long line of judges and lawyers.”

  “Isn’t Florida a little out of his element?”

  “Actually, there’s an interesting story about that. Seems he did all the right things: Harvard, Juris Doctor, Summa Cum Laude, engaged to a Morgan.”

  “A Morgan?”

  “Daphine Morgan, beautiful girl, heiress to the vast J. P. Morgan estate. Spent her days grooming race horses and working on her tennis.”

  “So what happened?”

  “He gets a job at one of the top Boston law firms pulling in a half-million in salary, and then, out of the blue, gets this diagnosis, a rare form of cancer. They give him only six months telling him it’s incurable so there’s no point in even trying. It was a top university hospital, with the best doctors; he had no reason to question the diagnosis. So he calls off the engagement, sells his assets, and comes to Florida to party like there’s no tomorrow, because in his mind, there wasn’t. Six months later he’s still partying and feeling pretty good so he gets checked out. The doctors had made a mistake. You can guess how much he made on that settlement. Basically, he was set for life.”

  “So why didn’t he go back to Boston, get back with Daphine?”

  “She had a suitor. But more importantly, his old routine had become too stodgy, too stifling, he told me. He was addicted to the Florida lifestyle. Couldn’t see it any other way.”

  “And where did you meet him?”

  “He called me. After a few years of doing much of nothing, he got bored, and felt like he needed to put his education to work. He started a small legal practice and when the big-money agri-businesses found out he was a Harvard lawyer, he became their man. I had a small business at the time, checking the pH of soil samples for local growers, and he was having trouble finding a local lab that had the right certifications to analyze runoff, to make sure it complied with EPA regulations. He made me an offer and it’s been good for both of us. We’ve been doing this for close to twenty years now.”

  “Is he married?”

  “I guess you could say he’s a confirmed bachelor. Goes with a girl for a year or two, and then moves on. I don’t think he’s seeing anyone right now.”

  Doug turns onto Route 1 south and we pass a sign that tells us Daytona is only six miles down the road.

  “You know, I was thinking; if this guy’s working for big-agriculture... wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?”

  “He’s semi-retired now, nothing to gain or lose. Only takes cases that interest him. All the money I made him, he owes me one anyway.”

  We pull into the marina parking lot and then Doug leads me to a wooden gangway with boats of all types on each side. The gangway is only a foot and a half wide and has no handrails so it wouldn’t take much to get distracted and walk off the side into the water. We approach an elegant white sailboat with a blue stripe down the side, a huge mast, and several long thin windows, and then Doug calls out: “Berkeley, you there?”

  A man with a deep tan, white shorts, and a blue golf shirt, comes out the rear hatch, sees us, and then waves us over. He appears to
be about fifty-five from the patches of gray on his neatly-styled hair. I follow Doug along an even narrower walkway to the back end of the boat. I don’t know anything about yachts, in fact, this is the closest I’ve ever been to one, but as we walk by, I’m impressed by the quality and excellence of the style. A nameplate affixed to the side reads, ‘Beneteau Oceanis 38’ which I imagine must be a really excellent brand since this guy appears to have very deep pockets. Doug jumps on board and I do the same.

  “And to whom do I have the pleasure?” he asks, with a strong New England accent.

  “Indigo Wells.”

  “Welcome aboard. I’m Berkeley Janson the third,” and then offers his hand in an act of friendship. I shake his hand, and I notice him gazing at my clothes.

  “Are you related to Doug?”

  “Actually, I’m not really Native American,” I say, and then explain to him the whole story about how I’m just wearing this outfit as a disguise, to avoid being stalked by Damon.

  “Well, it appears to be working,” he says. “It fooled me.”

  “Thanks,” I respond.

  He redirects our attention to the boat.

  “Please, come inside,” he says, and then slips through the hatch into the lower parts of the yacht.

  “He didn’t say ‘esquire’,” I whisper to Doug.

  “You must have impressed him so much he forgot.”

  I make a face in disbelief, and then, follow Doug through the hatch and down into the boat. The inside is spacious and clean and finished in hand-rubbed teak with a large-screen TV at one end. Handel’s “Water Music” is playing in the background and Berkeley is already filling three wine glasses with a Pinot Noir. He sets the half-empty bottle on the table and then opens a box of crackers, scattering a dozen on a silver serving tray next to the wine bottle. I reach out to take one of the crackers, but he blocks me with his hand.