by R. J. Blacks
“I was afraid this would happen.”
Doug pulls into the parking lot, parks, and then checks the Cruiser for bombs, cut brake lines, or anything out of the ordinary. Damon’s a psycho, and who knows what he’s capable of.
Doug finishes the inspection and declares: “There’s no evidence he touched your car. But why don’t you take my Ranger instead, as a precaution. I’ll drive the PT Cruiser, just in case he’s waiting somewhere. When he sees a man driving it, he’ll be totally confused.”
I get my handgun out of the Cruiser and Doug gets his rifle out of the Ranger. Then we switch keys. I drive the Ranger out to the main highway with Doug right behind me. The black Thunderbird is nowhere in sight. I wave the all clear to Doug and head back to my home.
It’s almost dinnertime when I arrive so I wait until we assemble at the table before relating the incident to Fargo.
“Detective Bolt needs to know this,” he says.
He leaves the table and calls him. He’s on the phone for about ten minutes and then returns.
“Bolt’s going to put his team on alert for a black Thunderbird. He’ll let us know if they see anything.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it,” I say.
“How do you feel about getting a new vehicle?” he asks.
“I think it’s time. Let’s do it.”
After dinner, I call Doug and let him know we’re coming over to his house to return the Ranger and pick up the PT Cruiser. He’s waiting for us when we arrive and we swap keys. Fargo takes over the driving in case we have the unlikely misfortune of crossing paths with Damon, and even though it’s getting dark and making it difficult to see inside the Cruiser, I pull a wide-brimmed hat low on my forehead and keep my head down, just as a precaution. Hopefully, he hasn’t yet caught on to my new way of dressing and I want to keep it that way.
We drive about ten miles down the highway to a used car dealer he knows. It’s not much more than a gravel lot with a white steel building set near the back. There’s a brightly lit sign by the highway, “Ken’s Kars,” with another sign below it, “No Credit - No Problem.” Fargo pulls the Cruiser into the lot and parks. The lighting is somewhat subdued with only naked bulbs hanging from a wire, but I guess that’s how he keeps his overhead low.
We hop out of the car and Fargo tells the owner I’m looking to trade my car. He looks up the Blue Book value, and then offers me a $4,000 trade-in. I know the Blue-Book is actually $4,500, but what he doesn’t know is that his offer is double what I originally paid for it, so I just play it cool and stroll through the lot, looking for something that would appeal to me. Fargo and the owner tag along behind me, chatting away, but keeping their distance, so as not to influence me. I approach a silver Ford pickup with low mileage, climb into the cab, and then put down the window.”
“What do you think?” I say to Fargo.
“Kinda big for a little girl, don’t you think?”
“This is a big country.”
“Indeed it is. Let’s take it for a ride.”
The owner hands me the keys and Fargo gets into the passenger seat. I start the engine, head out onto the highway, and take it up to seventy. Driving it is an absolute joy. The driver’s position is high giving me the pleasurable feeling of dominance on the road. When we get back, I ask the owner what he wants for it.
“For a friend of Fargo, six thousand.”
“I’ll give you five,” I counter.
“Fifty-five, and it’s yours.”
“You got a deal,” I say, and then transfer my personal belongings from the Cruiser to the Ford. I write him a check for $1,500 and hand him the keys to the Cruiser. He removes the license plate, attaches it to the Ford, and then completes the paperwork. Just before we leave, Fargo warns the owner:
“If anyone, and I mean anyone, asks you where you got the Cruiser, say at auction. Got it?”
The owner nods in agreement and I anxiously climb back into the cab. Fargo takes the passenger seat and gently runs his hand over the black leather interior testing the softness.
“Nice deal. I’m jealous.”
“It’s not meant to make you jealous.”
“I know, but I’m still jealous.”
I start the engine, put the transmission into drive, and then, before I pull away, notice the PT Cruiser in the rear-view mirror. It’s all alone, in the shadows, like an abandoned child. I hesitate for a moment and think about all the great times Will and I had with it, the adventures, the disappointments, and more importantly, how it had never let us down. And for a few seconds, I feel guilty.
But then I remind myself that even though it had a personality, it doesn’t have feelings. It’s nothing more than a bit of steel, rubber, and plastic, woven together in a form to provide utility for human beings. Life goes on, and all things must end, and someone will buy that PT Cruiser and love it as much as I did.
So with a sense of determination, I step on the gas, race onto the highway, and accept the fact that that part of my life is over, never to be repeated. It’s the future that matters now.
...
Three days pass and then a postal truck drops off a large Priority Mail box addressed to me. It’s from Berkeley. Inside are three-ring binders, legal books, and sheets of copied articles with yellow high-lighting over the pertinent text. The whole package must weigh thirty pounds or more. I thumb through the books and notice he’s stuck yellow notes to certain pages explaining the subtleties of tort law and the concepts he wants me to grasp. He’s also attached similar notes to the sheets in the three-ring binders.
The next order of business is to contact the spouse of the deceased restaurant worker who was attacked and dismembered by those rogue alligators while emptying garbage at the dumpster. Fargo drives me to the restaurant and explains the situation to the owner. He responds in broken English with a strong Mexican accent and tells us the man had only been in the states a short time and his wife lives in Mexico. I ask him to call her and explain how we want her to file a lawsuit on behalf of her husband’s death.
“Mucho dinero?” he asks.
“Yes, it could be millions,” I say.
He then goes off on a tangent excitedly telling us how he deserves some of the money because it was on his land and all the money he lost because of declined business and keeps rambling on until Fargo interrupts him and tells him there’s no money unless he can get the widow to cooperate. The man calms down and asks what he needs to do.
“Call the widow now,” I say.
“What to say?” he asks.
“Tell her she can make a lot of money if she files a lawsuit here. She doesn’t even have to be here. We’ll do all the work.”
The man goes behind the counter and returns with an address book that’s clearly past its better days. There are food stains all over it, the front cover is missing, and the pages are all dog-eared. He thumbs through the pages until he finds what he wants and then balances it in his left hand, holding it open with his thumb. He dials the number and we all wait in anticipation while it rings and rings and rings. Someone answers, and I can vaguely make out the voice of a child speaking in Spanish. The owner responds to the child, places his hand over the mouthpiece, and then whispers to us.
“Is son. He getting her now.”
The woman answers and then the man rambles on for fifteen minutes, going back and forth with her in Spanish, and we don’t have a clue what’s going on. Finally he hangs up.
“She tell me she no interested.”
“Just like that?”
“She afraid.”
“But why?” I ask.
“No believe me. Tell me I loco.”
“I don’t understand. She gets money for doing nothing.”
“She say trick. Her husband illegal alien before killed. She think trick to give her big fine. She no want money.”
Fargo and I shake our heads slowly in desperation. The man grasps Fargo’s arm, points back at himself.
“I file lawsuit. I no afraid
. Have Green Card.”
I abruptly interject: “No, I’m sorry. It must be his wife. Why don’t you call her again, later. Maybe she’ll change her mind.”
“I try. But I think no good. She mucho afraid.”
With our best strategy in tatters, we leave the restaurant and head back home.
“So what happens now?” Fargo asks.
“Remember way back, when I first got down here, and those teenagers got attacked in a car?”
“Yeah, the girl climbed into a tree, but the guy didn’t make it.”
“Whatever came of that?”
“It just got filed as accidental, case closed.”
“We both know it wasn’t accidental. Do you think the parents of the boy would cooperate?”
“Only one way to find out,” Fargo says, and then does a U-turn, driving back the way he came.
“Where are you going?”
“To see Detective Bolt.”
“What for?”
“Let’s run the idea by him. He knows more about the incident than I do.”
We arrive at the State Police barracks about a half-hour later and join the detective in his office.
“Indigo, what a pleasure. I see you’re still wearing the disguise. Love it. Native American suits you well,” and then he winks at me to accentuate the point.
He looks at his watch then turns his attention to Fargo.
“It’s dinnertime. I was just about to leave.”
“That bizarre case, where the girl climbed into the tree. Remember how the alligators were attacking the car? What became of the guy?”
“Well, it was gruesome. Sure you want to hear this.”
“It’s important.”
“We found the boy’s head right away, you were there. Later, we recovered enough parts to call it a body. Gave everything to the coroner, there was a funeral, and that was it.”
“How did the parents react?”
“Always hated that part of the job. I knocked on the door; they greeted me, and then invited me in. Told them I had bad news, and they better sit down. We go to the living room, and then, I told them. Hardest thing I ever did. The mother freaked out. We had to call rescue to give her a sedative.”
“Did the parents ever sue?” I ask.
“Sue? Heavens no. Who would they sue? It was just an unfortunate accident.”
”Maybe not,” Fargo says.
“You know something I don’t?”
“Indigo here does.”
Detective Bolt turns to me.
“A homicide?”
“In one sense of the word, maybe. The water was laden with pesticides, agricultural runoff. I think it provoked the gators. If I can prove that, the manufacturer would be liable.”
“You have evidence?”
“Some.”
“What else do you need?”
“Did you ever catch the perpetrators?”
“You mean the gators that did it?”
“Yeah, catch anything?”
“We did try. Slick little buggers. Got away. All of them.”
“In order to file a lawsuit, I need something from you.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“The parent’s identity, name and phone number.”
“You know that’s confidential.”
“John, how long have you known me?” Fargo interjects, and then gives Detective Bolt one of those looks that makes a person embarrassed he ever questioned your integrity.
“Okay-okay. Give me a minute to find it.”
He scrolls down a list on his computer, finds the file, and then opens the case on his monitor.
“Here, write this down...”
Fargo reaches for a pen and pad on the desk and takes down the information.
“How much money we talking about, that is, if you win?” Bolt asks.
“Could be millions. But please, don’t mention it to anyone, until it’s public,” I say.
“Confidentiality is the air I breathe.”
Fargo and I get up and approach the door. Detective Bolt calls out:
“Hey, remember us when you get the big payoff. We need cars, equipment, and the roof leaks.”
“Unfortunately, we won’t get a dime. The family, and of course, the lawyer, will get it all.”
“So why you doing this?”
I hesitate for a moment, wonder that myself.
“Call me a sucker for justice,” I say.
“Yeah, that makes two of us,” Bolt says, and then we leave.
CHAPTER 28
As soon as we get back to the cabin, I dial the number Detective Bolt gave us. A man answers and I ask him if he is Mr. Stewart, Mr. George Stewart.
“Yes, who is this?” he asks.
I tell him my name and that I have new information about his son’s tragic death.
“It was an accident. What else is there to tell?” he says.
“I have evidence it may have been the result of negligence and could have been prevented.”
“Are you another one of those lawyers that chase accidents?”
“No, I’m not. I’m a biology student, but I have a vested interest in this.”
“My wife and I are just starting to get over it. If you raise more questions, it’s just going to upset us again.”
“Those rogue alligators are still out there. There’s already been another victim and there could be more. Please, help me put an end to this.”
“I say let the authorities handle it,” he says.
“That’s just it. The authorities won’t do anything because the company that’s responsible has powerful lobbyists. They use their influence to quash every effort. I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried.”
“What can we do? We don’t have any influence.”
“You have more than you think. Can I meet with you and go over it?”
“You’re asking quite a lot, you know. The whole incident was very unsettling to both me and my wife. Neither of us wants to go through that again.”
“I understand completely, but the issue is complicated. Give me just an hour. Then, whatever you decide, I’ll honor it.”
“Hold on a minute. Let me discuss it with my wife.”
The phone goes quiet for a couple of minutes and then he returns.
“Okay, I’ll be available tomorrow at 10:00 AM.
“Ten’s perfect. What’s the address?
The man gives me an address in Saint Augustine and street-by-street directions from the exit at I-95 and then we conclude the call. I spend the rest of the day racking my brain, trying to figure out how to condense a complex microbiological issue into language the average person would relate to. If it was too technical, I would lose their interest. And if I made it too simple, they wouldn’t be convinced and give me the snub.
The next morning, as I’m getting dressed, I wonder if my usual Native American outfit might alarm the Stewarts, arouse them to suspicion, instill in them the idea that I’m somehow using them to promote my own agenda. I decide to forgo it this one time and wear something cosmopolitan. After all, Damon doesn’t associate me with my new silver Ford pickup, so he’d have no reason to look at it. But more importantly, if I do get into trouble, I always have the gun.
I put on a pair of black slacks and select a Native American top that would fit in at any public gathering, braid my hair into a ponytail, and then put on a wide-brimmed hat giving me the look of a rancher’s daughter. A pair of wrap-around sunglasses finishes off the disguise.
The drive to Saint Augustine is easy and fast, and I never tire of visiting the place. Its history goes back to 1513 when Ponce de Leon first called the area “La Florida” while searching for the legendary “Fountain of Youth.” An archeological site marks a possible location of the spring along with a monument at the exact spot where he was reputed to have set foot ashore. The spring still flows and tourists have the opportunity to sample the legendary water to see if it produces the desired results.
The actual city was foun
ded in 1565, making it the oldest continuously occupied city in the United States. The oldest section is still as it was, and visitors can wander among the small gift shops and restaurants now occupying the ancient stone buildings. In 1672, after a particularly destructive raid by privateer Robert Searles, a massive fort, the Casstillo de San Marcos, was built. It was constructed entirely of sea shells held together with limestone and Portland cement. Even today, 340 years later, it still stands in its original form making it the oldest masonry fort in the United States.
With a population of only 14,000, the effect Saint Augustine has had on world history far exceeds its modest borders. As recently as 1964, it was a major contributor to the Civil Rights Movement when Martin Luther King Jr. came to engage in a peaceful protest. Outside groups used the opportunity to commit shameful acts of violence against the protesters right under the watchful eye of TV cameras, and so enraged the nation, it eventually led to passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965 which provided for federal enforcement of basic constitutional rights. It’s a wonderful reminder to all of us that even the most overwhelming challenge can be overcome with persistence and determination.
My exit is coming up fast so I ease the Ford truck to the right lane, and then drive off the exit. I follow the directions to a suburban residential neighborhood until I see the sign for their street. I turn onto it, follow it for a while, and then see their address, a white stucco house with a one-car garage and a few missing roof tiles. A white commercial van is parked in the driveway with a sign painted on the side:
“Stewart’s Shutters - Be Prepared”
The van is old, with some rust along the bottom. I pull into the driveway and park right behind it. As I approach the front door, I notice the house paint looks faded and the shrubs along the front are brown and wilted. It’s pretty obvious these folks are struggling to get by. I ring the doorbell and a man opens the door, invites me inside.
“You’re in the hurricane shutter business?” I ask.
