by R. J. Blacks
“Just a moment,” he says.
I snap my hand back and watch him fill a crystal bowl with crushed ice, reach into a compact refrigerator, and then place an opened tin of Osetra Caviar in the center of the crushed ice. He surrounds the bowl with three ornately decorated plates and then places a mother-of-pearl spoon in the center of each one.
“Please,” he says, presenting the snacks with his outstretched hand.
I sit quietly, my hands in my lap, unsure of what to do next, fearing I’ll get rebuked again for having no class. If he has adopted the Florida lifestyle, it’s obviously on his own terms.
“Allow me,” he says, and proceeds to show us the socially preferred method of scooping up caviar in the precise quantities prescribed by countless generations of aristocrats using the special spoon and then applying it decisively to the cracker. I find the passionate intensity with which he presents the demonstration rather entertaining so I sit back and chill out on the wine. It’s really excellent, soft and fruity, with no hint of acidic aftertaste.
“I apologize for the red,” he says. “Not the best choice for caviar. I had planned to pick up a few pastries from the French bakery across the way, but unfortunately they were closed today.”
As I take another sip, I detect an almost imperceptible list to the boat, slowly, first to one side, then to the other, as waves dance against the outside of the hull. I become lulled into a feeling of serenity as the gentle rocking enhances the calming effect of both the alcohol and the gentle background music. And then, unexpectedly, he startles me out of my peace.
“You have something for me?” he asks.
I hand him the contract and letter. His joyful gaze suddenly turns serious, putting me on edge. He leafs through the contract, one page at a time, for about twenty minutes, as Doug and I stuff ourselves with caviar.
“Have you read this?” he asks.
“I just had time to scan it.”
“Well, I’d be very concerned about paragraph 37c, 42b, and 43e.”
“Could you give us the layman’s version?” Doug asks.
“Paragraph 37 is the confidentiality clause. Basically, it says you must keep all trade secrets confidential, until which time they can patent them. There’s nothing wrong with that. But sub-paragraph ‘c’ goes much further. It forbids you from discussing anything about this with anyone outside of GWI, specifically the media. That means you can’t even tell them you are involved in this research at all. You can’t say anything, nada.”
“And the other sections?”
“Paragraph 42b refers to the length of the contract. It says the contract shall run for a period of three years, but GWI has the option of shutting it down any time after one year if they so choose.”
“So what’s wrong with that?” I ask.
“Normally, nothing. But they sneaked a clause in at 43e which says that, even if they decide to shut the program after the first year, you are still bound to the original terms of the contract, PLUS, another three years. It’s a cheap legal trick. They offer someone what seems like a substantial amount of money under the guise they want to be involved, but the real plan is to shut you down. Basically, they pay you for one year, but own you for a full six years. And if you sign this, there’s nothing you can do about it!”
“What do you recommend?” I ask.
“Walk away from it. Don’t even answer. It expires in fifteen days anyway so they’ll get the message soon enough.”
I could see my $360,000 go up in smoke.
“Anything else I can do for you?” Berkeley asks.
I shake my head no.
“Thanks Berkeley, appreciate the time,” Doug says, and then gets up. He shakes hands with him and I do the same. We hop off the boat and head back to the truck. The sun is now low on the horizon and I’m getting famished. And then Doug says the magic words: “How about dinner? I know a great place only five minutes from here, and we can watch the sunset.”
“Love to,” I say.
Doug drives to a restaurant on the bay and asks for a table overlooking the water. I order some Mahi-mahi and Doug gets the Grouper. He also requests a bottle of Merlot which arrives at the table a few minutes later. He pours me a glass, and then one for himself. We sip on the wine and gaze at the setting sun as the fireball disappears slowly into the water. It’s a beautiful sight, but the wine, consumed on an empty stomach, is making me a little tipsy.
“How’s your wife,” I ask.
“Who told you I had a wife?”
“Fargo. And kids too.”
“That son-of-a-bitch. He may be a dear friend, but he’s up to something. He knows full well my wife died in a freak private plane accident ten years ago. And I don’t have kids.”
“I’m so embarrassed,” I say.
“It’s all right. You couldn’t have known.”
The server brings our orders and I finish my meal without saying another word. We drive back to Semi-Environmental in silence, for the entire sixty miles.
When I get back to the cabin and open the front door, I see Fargo sitting in the living room alone. I storm in and confront him.
“You jerk. Why did you tell me Doug was married?”
“Well, he was.”
“Ten years ago. He’s not married now.”
“Who told you?”
“Doug. I was having dinner with him.”
“You were having dinner with Doug?”
“Strictly business.”
“So how’d his wife get into the conversation?”
“I asked about her. Told me she was killed. Caused me a lot of embarrassment.”
“Okay, I apologize. It was just to keep you from making any mistakes.”
“What mistakes? Dating Doug?”
“Well, sort of. You always told me you don’t have time for a relationship.”
“It’s none of your friggin business,” I say, and march down the hall to my bedroom.
“And keep away from me,” I shout, and slam the door.
I don’t know why I added that, he’s never touched me or even tried to. Perhaps secretly, I always wanted him to and couldn’t admit it to myself. Or perhaps it’s the wine talking, putting crazy ideas in my head.
CHAPTER 27
The next morning, while working at my day job at Semi-Environmental, I get a phone call from Detective Bolt.
“What’s up John?”
“I thought you might be interested in this. Damon was stopped for a traffic violation last night.”
“Where?”
“Daytona Beach.”
My God, I think to myself. He was in Daytona the same night I was there. Was he following me?
“What happened?” I ask.
“It was a minor infraction, drifting through a stop sign. But the officer found a switchblade on him. Confiscated it.”
“Couldn’t he just buy another one?”
“I suppose. But maybe he’ll get the idea we’re on to him and get nervous and go back to where he came from.”
“Thanks, let me know if he turns up again.”
“No problem,” Detective Bolt says, and hangs up the phone.
I contemplate the incident and it makes me nervous. Was it just a coincidence? It’s not surprising he’s spending his time in Daytona Beach. After all, what is there around here to do that could possibly interest a fertile unattached man in his mid-twenties? But still, it seems strange we just happened to be there when he was pulled over. If he was following me, then he must be on to my Native American disguise. But if he’s on to my disguise, why didn’t he confront me earlier?
...
Three weeks go by, and then, Will hands me a letter. It’s from the EPA. Anxiously, I tear open the envelope.
Dear Ms. Wells,
This letter is official notification we are closing the file on Farm-eXia. Our scientists have reviewed your data and find nothing that would suggest this product has any detrimental effect on the environment or on wildlife. We believe the results and
conclusions you arrived at were speculative and not supported by any meaningful data.
As always, our number one mission is to protect the public and we appreciate your concerns. However, we find nothing which would justify the expense of keeping the investigation open.
Thank you for your interest.
Very truly yours.
The staff of the EPA.
I tell Will I need to go back to see Doug and he notices I’m agitated.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I can’t believe this. They’re blowing me off.”
“Is there anything you can do?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe Doug has some ideas.”
I get back in my car and speed over to Semi. Doug reads the letter, then hands it back to me.
“You can always sue them.”
“Sue the EPA?” I ask.
“Sure, companies do that all the time.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Well, you need a lawyer. Berkeley can explain the process. Got time now?”
“Absolutely.”
Doug calls Berkeley and lets him know were coming to see him. When we arrive, he’s in his boat as usual so we hop on board, climb into the galley, and on the table there’s already an opened bottle of wine with three glasses. Berkeley fills the glasses and we all take a sip.
“Do you have any idea what it takes to sue the EPA?” he says.
“I assume it’s like suing any other company.”
“Not even close. Think about it, you are basically accusing the EPA of not doing their job and putting the public at risk. Everyone from the Director on down will have a fit and defend their position vigorously and they’ve got dozens of lawyers already on payroll to do that. And then there are the friends of the court. That’s every company worldwide that makes pesticides. They’ll all band together in one uniform voice to discredit you. Even though they’re competitors in the real world, it’s people like you they’re really afraid of. If you prevail, the whole industry suffers with more regulation.”
I turn away and climb out the hatch onto the rear deck to get some air. Depression wells up inside me as I realize I’ve wasted five months and a ton of work on a project I can’t ever bring to fruition. The special interests are just too massive, too organized, too determined to allow an irritation like me to prevail. The hopelessness of my efforts suddenly becomes apparent and overwhelms me. What was I thinking? How could a single person, with no legal training and no assets, even think of taking on a whole industry who would join forces and fight with such vigor I wouldn’t stand a chance? It was time to throw in the towel, admit defeat, make plans to go back to Philadelphia.
Doug and Berkeley join me on the back deck, reclining on the cushions around the edge and passing the time by refilling their glasses and sipping on the wine. I gaze off in the distance doing everything possible to suppress my overwhelming despair, biting my lip to hold back any physical display of emotional weakness. For a good ten minutes no one says a word, and then Berkeley breaks the silence.
“You know, it would be so much easier if this were a product liability lawsuit. We wouldn’t have to involve the EPA and other corporations would have little incentive to get involved.”
“What does a product liability lawsuit entail?” I ask.
“First you need a product, which you have. You need a manufacturer, which you have. Then you need a defect which you claim you have. And finally, you need a victim, which, from my perspective, you don’t have.”
“We have a victim.”
“An alligator can’t be a victim.”
“Not the alligator. The Mexican guy, that young man that got killed.”
Berkeley thinks for a few moments, as if he’s pondering the odds of winning a case like this.
“It’s a novel idea, but there’s another problem. In Florida, you generally can’t file a lawsuit for the deceased unless that person is your child or spouse. Of course the law is quite complex, and every case requires an attorney, but from what you’ve already told me, you have no case.”
“What about the victim’s wife?”
“She certainly has the right to sue, but then you’ve got the enormous task of proving, beyond doubt, that it was Farm-eXia, and only Farm-eXia, that caused the alligator to become aggressive to the point it went out of its way to hunt down and kill the victim. It’s a daunting task, and probably without precedent.”
“Okay, hypothetically, suppose I could convince the victim’s spouse to sue, and then, get the scientific data to prove, beyond a doubt, it was caused by Farm-eXia, would you sign on to the case?”
“Probably not.”
“May I ask, why?”
“For one thing, I’m not a trial lawyer. Most of my work consists of filling out documents, so my clients don’t get entangled with the law. But more importantly, the chance of recovery would be nil. To put it succinctly, the task would be so overwhelming, you’d be outgunned.”
“Can you recommend another lawyer?”
“No lawyer would ever take this. It’s a shot in the dark.”
There’s a long period of silence as if no one has anything more to add, and then, Doug confronts Berkeley.
“We’ve been working together for what, almost twenty years now?”
“About that.”
“Well, the one thing I’ve learned about you, in all those years, is you like a challenge. Am I right?”
“That’s a true statement.”
“You know, Indigo here has been working her guts out on this issue for a long time, and for no pay, and we all know the problem will get worse if no one does anything about it. Now I’m not asking you to work for nothing, but it’d be a damn shame if we let her go home empty handed. And more importantly, if she gives up now, you might find yourself on the wrong side of the fence, defending the very companies that caused it. On the surface you’re a tough act, a staunch professional, but I also happen to know that under that thick skin lies a caring heart, someone who at the end of the day wants to do the right thing. If you don’t do it, who will? Think about it.”
Berkeley stands up and stares at the horizon for a good five minutes, then turns to face Doug.
“I must be a damn fool for saying this, but I agree with everything you just said. We’ve been doing this for a long time, you and I, and made a very nice living at it. But everything ends at some point in time, and you well know I’ve been trying to ease my way out of the business. And then, when I leave this earth, I’ll just be another lawyer that worked on an assemblage of mindless cases of no particular significance.
But Doug, you’re right, this case is different. If we can win it, it would become our legacy, a case that will be remembered and studied as a precedent for future cases of this type. And more importantly, we’d be leaving something of value to future generations, the premise that no company will be exempt from the long-held principle that those that injure others will be held accountable for their actions and their negligence.”
“Does that mean you’re in?”
“Yes Doug. You talked me into it. I’ll do it, as long as the scientific proof will stand up in a court of law. Indigo, the burden is on you.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Doug says, and we all raise our glasses in a toast.
Berkeley pours us another glass of wine, and then, explains what we need to know.
“In product liability lawsuits, there are three types of defects: Design Defects, Manufacturing Defects, and Marketing Defects. You need to prove one or more.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure Farm-eXia has a design defect, and maybe even a marketing defect based on how it’s used,” I say.
“Pretty sure is not good enough. You are going to be grilled by lawyers and expert witnesses that may know more than you. They will be relentless, trying to prove your charges are completely baseless. All it takes is one slip-up, and your whole case falls apart. Are you strong enough?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sure I ca
n handle it.”
“Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’m going to send you a packet with everything you need to know about product liability laws. I want you to study it until you know as much as I do. Call me if you don’t understand anything.”
“No problem,” I say, with mindless courage.
“That’s just the beginning. Then you prepare me a report with your findings. You need to anticipate every question they will ask, have a response for every tactic they will use to discredit you, make your case so substantial not even Holmes could pull it apart. Then, when you’ve done all that, send it to me and I’ll prepare the legal side of it. Understand?”
“Completely.”
We chat a bit more and Berkeley explains how he took some courses in chemistry to help his legal practice.
“I don’t purport to be an expert, but I can hold my own with the best,” he says.
It’s fortunate we’re able to have a lawyer versed in chemistry on our side and I thank Berkeley for his help. And then we bid him a goodbye and Doug and I make the sixty mile trip back to Semi.
As we get within a half-mile of the turnoff from the main road, we see a car waiting to make a left turn.
“Get down,” Doug says.
I unsnap my seat belt and crouch onto the floor.
“What color is Damon’s car?” he asks.
“Black.”
“What make?”
“I don’t really know. A Ford maybe.”
“Stay down. Don’t look. There’s a black Ford waiting to make a left turn out of my road. I’m just going to make the turn like nothing is wrong.”
Doug slows, and then turns onto the dirt road leading to his place.
“Is it him?”
“It’s hard to tell. Can’t get a good look. It’s a Ford Thunderbird though.”
“Yeah. That’s his car.”
“If he’s been all the way to the building, your car is the only one in the parking lot. If he sees the same car at your restaurant...”
“Yeah, I know. I got a problem.”
“It might be time to get a new car,” Doug says. “He’s been looking for a green PT Cruiser with bugs on it. Suddenly the green one disappears but a white one pops up. And he sees the same white car at the restaurant and at an environmental company. He’s on to you, you know.”
