“You don’t say,” said Jack, deciding not to bite on Big Palm. “What’s the hearing about?”
“Money,” said Freddy. “The biggest problem we will all face—including you—is collecting a judgment from Chinese and Venezuelan companies who were drilling in Cuban waters. So a group of us came up with the idea to ask the court to freeze some of the defendants’ assets in the U.S. pending the outcome of our cases. The plan was to go after a supertanker filled with Venezuelan crude when it enters a U.S. port. One supertanker is worth about a hundred million bucks.”
“Sounds like a tough argument,” said Jack.
“Even tougher now. The oil companies somehow got wind of it, and they filed this emergency motion to stop us from going after any supertankers before trial.”
“Why didn’t I get notice of this?”
“Because these sneaky bastard defense lawyers didn’t file the motion in your case. They don’t want you here. You got the only client who’s a widow. Everyone else here is complaining about property damage and lost business. Judges are human, and the oil companies know that if they are going to persuade a judge to protect their assets, they need to keep the widow out of the courtroom.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to take the lead at the hearing.”
“I haven’t even seen the motion.”
“We have smart lawyers on our side, too, Jack. We can prep you in thirty minutes.”
“You should have given me more time.”
“I had to get the Plaintiffs’ Liaison Committee on board before talking to you. Everything’s all set.”
It wasn’t an ideal situation, but Jack had gone into court with less advance warning, sometimes in matters of life and death—literally.
“What do you say, Swyteck?”
Jack’s gaze drifted toward the elevators, where more lawyers were pushing their way into the overcrowded hallway.
“Either way,” said Jack, “it looks like my second honeymoon is officially over.”
Chapter 11
At two p.m. Jack was seated in the last row of the public gallery in Judge Carlyle’s courtroom in the Freeman Justice Center.
As expected, the Cuban government and its state-owned oil company refused to participate in the hearing in any way, through legal counsel or otherwise, but more than a dozen attorneys for the Chinese, Venezuelan, and Russian oil companies were at the defense counsel’s table. To their right, near the empty jury box, sat the Plaintiffs’ Liaison Committee—six men and one woman, seven distinguished members of the plaintiffs’ bar—and the not-so-distinguished Freddy Foman. Each had muscled his or her way to the forefront in the race to speak on behalf of all those who had filed lawsuits against the oil companies for property damage and loss of business. Jack had declined the invitation to join them, instinct having told him to keep Bianca’s claim away from the pack of wolves. To Freddy’s chagrin, Jack attended the hearing only as an observer.
“How many property claims you got?” asked the man beside Jack.
The question only confirmed that there were few bona fide “spectators” in the courtroom. Dozens of lawyers had lost round one in the power struggle to serve on the Plaintiffs’ Liaison Committee, and they were crammed shoulder to shoulder in the fifteen rows of public seating along with Jack. A separate, reserved section of seating for the media was likewise filled beyond capacity. More members of the press had managed to plant themselves throughout the gallery between the elbows of lawyers. Jack was pretty sure that the guy next to him was a lawyer, not a reporter—but it wasn’t always easy to tell.
“I’m just here to watch,” said Jack.
“I picked up six hundred new clients this morning, including Big Palm Island Resort.”
“Really? I heard that Freddy Foman has Big Palm.”
“Freddy had Big Palm,” he said with a wink.
The feeding frenzy had begun, triggering one thought for Jack: Thank God I stayed out of this.
“All rise!”
The crowd heeded the bailiff’s command, and a chorus of fading conversations and foot shuffling echoed through the courtroom as Chief Judge Sandy Carlyle took her seat at the bench. Carlyle was a transplanted lawyer from Manhattan who’d retired to Florida, nearly died of boredom in her condo, and so ran for one of Key West’s elected judgeships. With her typical “212” directness, she instructed everyone to take a seat and moved straight to the afternoon’s business.
“I’ve read the briefs,” said the judge. “The most directly impacted defendant appears to be Petróleos de Venezuela, the state-owned Venezuelan company that was in charge of the drilling on the Scarborough 8. The parties seem to be in agreement that Petróleos currently has a supertanker full of oil at the Port Arthur Refinery in Texas. It’s my understanding that Petróleos seeks an order of this court that would prevent the plaintiffs from seizing any Venezuelan supertanker in U.S. waters until after there is a trial on the merits and a final judgment is entered in the plaintiffs’ favor. Is that a fair summation, counsel?”
A distinguished Latin man with silver hair rose from his seat at the defense counsel’s table and buttoned his suit coat. Despite the relaxed Key West dress code, he was a walking advertisement for Savile Row.
“Yes, that’s fair, Your Honor.”
“And you are . . . ?”
“Luis Candela on behalf of Petróleos de Venezuela.”
Jack knew the name. Candela was a past president of the American Bar Association, the first Hispanic ever so elected. His Washington law firm specialized in mineral rights in Central and South America. He spoke with all the confidence of an authority on the subject.
“As the court is well aware, assets can be frozen before trial only in very limited circumstances, such as where the defendant is hiding assets in order to make himself judgment-proof. In this case, there is absolutely no danger that Petróleos will hide its supertankers. My client has long-term oil-supply contracts with refineries in the United States. It is absolutely critical to keep all of those supertankers moving freely in and out of U.S. ports to fulfill those contracts.”
“That’s a compelling point,” said the judge.
“It’s especially compelling here,” said Candela, “where it is highly doubtful that the plaintiffs will prevail at trial.”
“It’s too early to be arguing about that,” said the judge.
“This is a key point, Your Honor. After the Exxon Valdez spill in Alaska, Congress passed the Ocean Pollution Control Act. That act makes it unnecessary for anyone affected by an oil spill to prove that the oil company was at fault. The only issue is whether the oil spill caused damage and the dollar amount of those damages. But the act doesn’t apply to spills in Cuban waters. Every single one of the plaintiffs in this courtroom must meet the strict requirements of international maritime law. They must prove to a jury exactly what each defendant did wrong. In other words, the plaintiffs here are a long, long way from collecting any money.”
“That’s an issue I’ve not yet focused on,” said the judge, “but I understand your point.”
“One last thing,” said Candela. “It is important for the court to understand the history of overreaching in situations like this one. For example, in the Deepwater Horizon spill of 2010, two of Mr. Foman’s clients from south Florida were eventually convicted of fraud and had to give up their Bentley and waterfront McMansion on Lighthouse Point to serve a thirteen-year sentence in federal prison.”
“I object,” said Freddy, rising. “Mr. Candela is talking about two bad apples in a class action with over ten thousand members. Unbeknownst to me, they stole the identities of folks in Broward County and filed three million dollars in phony claims. I never even met those crooks.”
“No need to explain,” said the judge. “No one’s motives are being impugned today. But I will say this, Mr. Foman: the issue before the court seems like a no-brainer. I can’t imagine why any assets should be seized before one drop of oil has even reached
the Florida Keys.”
“Commercial fishing has already been impacted,” said Freddy. “Tourism is tanking as we speak. As we saw in Deepwater Horizon, if people even think there’s oil in the water, they won’t eat your fish or stay at your beachfront hotel.”
“People need to get their fears under control,” the judge said. “Until there is actual damage, any effort to freeze the defendants’ assets is premature.”
“I respectfully disagree,” said Freddy. “But if the question of prematurity is foremost in the court’s mind, I would point out that there is one case before this court in which the injury has undeniably occurred.”
Jack froze. Freddy is going to drag me into this.
“My colleague from Miami, Jack Swyteck, has filed a wrongful death suit on behalf of a widow of one of the workers on the rig. I would be more than willing to yield my time to Mr. Swyteck. I believe it would be beneficial for the court to hear from him.”
Jack could hardly believe his ears. To his dismay, the judge took the bait.
“Yes, my law clerk brought that case to my attention this morning,” said the judge. “Mr. Swyteck, are you in the courtroom?”
Reluctantly, Jack rose. Heads turned toward the back of the courtroom.
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Jack.
“Sadly, your client has already lost her husband, which would seem to put you in a different circumstance. So let me ask you this: If I rule for the oil consortium with respect to the property claims, should my ruling also prevent your client from attempting to seize any of the defendants’ assets before trial?”
Jack wasn’t fully prepared to explain his position, but there was only one answer he could give. “My client should not be affected.”
The judge waved him forward. “Come to the microphone, please. The court would like to hear more from you before ruling.”
Jack hesitated. “If the court would indulge me, I would like to have a little time to prepare—”
“Mr. Swyteck, come forward. The court is being asked to decide whether Venezuelan supertankers can or cannot sail into U.S. ports without threat of being subject to seizure. I am not about to defer ruling so you can go back to Miami and think about it.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” As Jack squeezed out from the bench seat toward the aisle, the new lawyer for the Big Palm Island Resort handed him a Post-it.
“My legal gem,” he said softly. “Use it.”
Jack read it quickly to himself: Mr. Candela is as slimy as the sludge in our ocean. A bolt of courtroom brilliance worthy of a law-school dropout.
“I’ll pass it on to Freddy,” Jack whispered. He walked down the center aisle, pushed through the swinging gate at the rail, and went to the podium.
“Jack Swyteck, counsel for Bianca Lopez,” he said, adding the case number.
It could have been Jack’s imagination, but reporters in the media section seemed to take even greater interest with Bianca’s wrongful death suit front and center. The judge, too, seemed more energized, twisting her long strand of white pearls as she spoke.
“Mr. Swyteck, what is your response to Mr. Candela’s point that anyone suing the oil consortium must come forward with affirmative proof that the consortium was at fault? That strikes me as a pretty tough row to hoe, given that this spill took place in Cuban waters.”
Jack had two possible strategies: He could be brief and simply distance himself from Freddy and the others, or he could go on the offensive and try to score points. Choosing the latter, he laid his iPad atop the podium and opened his research file.
“Proving fault will not be a serious obstacle for Bianca Lopez,” said Jack. “Already I’ve uncovered a damning report from the Center for Democracy in America, a Washington-based organization that sent a team of specialists to Cuba on an offshore drilling investigation. I would note that the CDA is not a right-wing anti-Castro organization. To the contrary, the stated goal of the CDA is to end the trade embargo and normalize relations between the United States and Cuba. Even with that agenda, the CDA made the following finding,” said Jack, pulling up the report on his iPad. “I quote: ‘A foreign diplomat provided the CDA delegation with one concerning evaluation. He said some of Cuba’s partners see Cuba as something of a laboratory for gaining experience in deep water.’ End quote.”
Not a single reporter in the courtroom missed that jewel.
“A laboratory,” said Jack, driving home the point, “conducting experiments in five thousand feet of water—without the necessary experience. I’m confident that we will be able to show that this ‘laboratory’ operated without proper safety and evacuation standards.”
Candela jumped to his feet. Even in his unprepared state, Jack was too well armed to suit the oil consortium.
“Your Honor, this is highly improper.”
“Yes, but highly interesting,” said the judge.
“I have much more,” said Jack.
“I think we’ve heard enough,” said Candela.
“I have time,” the judge said.
Reporters in the front row literally scooted to the edge of their seats.
Judge Carlyle settled back in her tall leather chair, making herself comfortable. “Continue, Mr. Swyteck.”
Jack could feel the momentum, but Candela cut him off, his tone somewhere between nervous and conciliatory. “Your Honor, since there is only one wrongful death suit filed in the United States, I am sure that the consortium can come up with an arrangement to satisfy Mr. Swyteck that, in the unlikely event his client prevails at trial, there will be sufficient assets to satisfy a judgment. As for today, we would urge the court to focus solely on the property claims and enter an order that protects our supertankers and keeps business operating as usual.”
The judge considered it. “Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Swyteck?”
“A ten-million-dollar bond posted in the next three business days is acceptable,” said Jack.
“Ten million?” said Candela, incredulous.
“On the other hand,” said Jack, turning back to his iPad, “there are good reasons for this court to allow me to seize a supertanker. The latest projections from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration have oil landing on Florida’s beaches within the next four to five days if the spill is not shut off at the faucet. My understanding is that the consortium is still waiting around for a capping stack from Scotland. Seizure of a Venezuelan supertanker might give Mr. Candela’s client just enough incentive to get things under control before disaster strikes.”
Candela quickly conferred with his co-counsel, urgent whispers flying back and forth at their table. The entire team appeared anxious to shut down Jack’s pipeline to the press. Candela faced the judge and cleared his throat, the words not coming easy.
“Your Honor, a ten-million-dollar bond in the wrongful death suit will be fine.”
“So ordered,” said the judge. “I will defer ruling in the property claim cases.”
“Defer ruling?” said Candela. “But our supertankers—”
“The matter is deferred,” the judge said firmly.
Candela shot a quick but angry glare at Jack. It was obvious that Jack’s final point—his mere suggestion that the court had the power to push the consortium to expedite containment efforts—made it impossible for a judge who was elected by the citizens of Key West to side with a Venezuelan oil company.
“Judge,” said Candela, “Venezuela is this country’s fourth-largest supplier. The United States depends on Venezuelan crude for heating oil and—”
“That will do, Mr. Candela. We are adjourned.”
The judge ended it with a bang of her gavel. The crowd rose upon the bailiff’s command, the judge exited through the side door to her chambers, and the courtroom was immediately abuzz. Reporters leaned over the rail, calling Jack’s name, peppering him with questions about a lawsuit that, until Freddy’s ambush in open court, had managed to slide into the courthouse without notice.
“Who is Bianca Lopez?”
“When can we talk to her, please?”
Jack did not respond. He grabbed his iPad and pushed through the crowd toward the rear exit, not so much as glancing in Freddy’s direction on his way down the center aisle.
Chapter 12
Andie took the Red Line into Washington, D.C., exited the Metro at the Judiciary Square Station, and walked three blocks to the J. Edgar Hoover Building. She was alone. And she was at that early stage of an assignment where she needed to remind herself every now and then that her name was Viola.
Viola, she thought, noting another wave of “morning” sickness, even though it was five o’clock in the afternoon. How do you like that name, baby?
Her meeting at FBI headquarters was in a windowless room below ground level. The entire undercover team had been summoned for an update on Operation Big Dredge. Three months before, when Andie had signed on to the operation, she was told that it was an investigation into organized crime and business cheats from south Florida to Guangdong who were making billions on the smuggling and sale of counterfeit goods. But that evening, at their first official meeting since Andie’s deployment into the field, the team leader’s welcome made it clear that “smuggling” and “counterfeiting” had never been the real targets of the investigation.
“Say good-bye to Big Dredge,” he said to a roomful of agents, “and welcome to Operation Black Horizon.”
Andie was seated in the front row of metal folding chairs as the lights dimmed and, with the hum of an electric motor, a projection screen descended from a slot in the ceiling. Andie had seen enough television news coverage about the spill to recognize the image immediately: the Scarborough 8 oil rig floating in blue waters—before the explosion.
Agent Anthony Douglas was a Gulf War veteran and former Marine officer, the quintessential team leader. He walked slowly up and down the aisle, as if inspecting his soldiers, as he spoke. “What I want to talk about this evening is this team’s mission, which is, simply stated: How did we get from this,” he said, pointing at the screen, “to this?”
Black Horizon (Jack Swyteck Novel) Page 6
