“My point exactly,” said Victor. “Cuba would blow up that rig if they could use the threat of environmental disaster to force the U.S. to end the embargo. That’s the quid pro quo on the table: lift the embargo, and the U.S. can stop the spill at its source.”
“The White House can’t just lift the embargo. It’s not an executive order. It takes an act of Congress to repeal it.”
“And this oil disaster is exactly what the Cuban government needs to bring the U.S. Congress to its knees.”
“A TV reporter raised that very point with my father. My dad’s pretty plugged in politically. Trust me: it’s just a rumor.”
“It’s not a rumor!” he said, pounding his fist. “Cuba has been fighting to end the embargo for over fifty years. If blowing up the Scarborough 8 helps them do that, so be it. If the embargo ends, there will be dozens of deepwater rigs that can drill in Cuban waters.”
Jack didn’t respond.
The cigars were burning low. Victor crushed out his nub in the ashtray. “Open your eyes, Jack. That’s the politics of Big Oil—Cuban style. If you want to prove it in court, I’m more than happy to help.” Victor slid his business card across the table. “All you have to do is call me.”
Jack took his card.
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, gentlemen,” said Victor.
The men rose and shook hands.
“I’ll see you out,” said Cortinas. He led the old lawyer away from the table and into the hallway, leaving Jack and Theo alone in the conference room.
“You gonna call him?” asked Theo.
“Nope.”
“So what are you going to do?” asked Theo.
“Whatever it takes to get Bianca as much money as I can, as fast as I can, from the oil consortium,” Jack said. “Before this spirals out of control. And before anybody else gets hurt.”
Chapter 35
The lower Keys stretched more east-west than north-south, so Jack and Theo left the oil behind them on the drive from Key West. Jack knew they’d reached Marathon when they passed an ambulance from the Turtle Hospital—literally, a hospital for turtles; it wasn’t just a name. The middle Keys also had a hospital for wild birds, and with an oil spill approaching, both facilities were preparing for environmental disaster. Jack was looking for pier number eight at Boot Key Harbor, which was due east of a capsized ship that Hurricane Georges had swept into the mangroves. He had to shade his eyes from the setting sun to see it.
“Ever had a settlement conference on a yacht before?” asked Theo.
They were crossing a gravel parking lot toward a long wooden pier at the west end of the marina. Their destination was one of the bigger boats at the deep end of the marina.
“Nope. Lots of ‘firsts’ in this case, starting with first client abducted.”
“You have a short memory, dude.”
Jack quickly conceded. “Well, then it has to be the first time my client and I have been abducted in the same case.”
“Aren’t you forgetting a little incident involving a TV weatherman, two prostitutes, and the mayor’s daughter at the Hotel Bambi on Biscayne Boulevard?”
Jack would have liked to forget. “How about this: first case where I was kidnapped and my client was abducted on different days by the same guy?”
They stepped onto the pier as Theo searched his memory. “I do believe that’s a first.”
Boot Key Harbor is the best protected anchorage in all of the Keys, with plenty of marinas and thatch-roofed joints to reprovision, like the Chiki Tiki Bar and Grill. For those unfazed by the U.S. trade embargo, it was generally regarded as the best place to wait out the weather for crossing to Cuba. For lawyers who wanted to talk settlement, it was “meeting halfway,” a rough midpoint between Key West, where Jack was staying, and downtown Miami, the oil consortium’s first choice. It also solved the logistical problem of roadblocks, which prevented all but cleanup crews and emergency vehicles from entering the Keys. Jack couldn’t leave the Keys with any assurance of getting back in, and by boat was the best way for the oil consortium’s lawyers to enter the Keys.
“I’ll do the talking,” said Jack.
“Got it, chief,” said Theo.
“You’re here only as a witness, in case this blows up and somewhere down the line they accuse me of saying some outrageous thing I never said.”
“I won’t say a word,” said Theo.
Luis Candela stood at the end of the pier. The sun had dipped into the Gulf behind him, and the lead lawyer for the oil consortium was a silhouette against the burnt-orange sky. A gentle breeze blew across the mooring field, setting off a chorus of metallic pings, the sound of taut halyards slapping against the barren masts of the few remaining sailboats. Most boaters had taken heed of the NOAA warning and moved their expensive hobby out of the oil’s projected path, but still some motorboats and yachts slept silently in their slips, blissfully unaware of what was to come. Candela had just stepped off the bow of a forty-six-foot Hatteras Convertible named Drill, Baby, Drill.
Candela greeted them cordially and invited them aboard. The meeting was inside the salon, behind the closed cabin doors of highly polished teak. Candela’s partner, a woman from the New York office, was seated on the couch. Jack had expected a much stronger showing of legal muscle—lawyers for the Chinese, the Russians, and any insurance companies on the hook. But it was just Candela and his partner.
“We’re authorized to speak on behalf of all defendants,” said Candela.
Jack and Theo took the matching club chairs, facing an old ship’s wheel that someone with very little imagination and even less decorating skill had converted into a glass-covered coffee table.
“So here we all are,” said Theo. “Another exciting legal episode of David Versus Goliath.”
Jack shot him a look that said Shut it.
Candela almost seemed to appreciate the icebreaker. “I’m sure you’re expecting the same old song and dance,” he said. “This is where Big Oil is supposed to reach into its deep pockets, pull out a big fat check, and tell you to take it or leave it. And it would be my job to warn you that you’d better take it, because my client will spend ten times that amount in legal fees to make sure Goliath gets the W this time.”
“I’m not here for the usual dance,” said Jack. “There are good reasons for you to settle this case. Quickly.”
“That’s why I motored all the way down here on my boat.”
“It’s going to take well into seven figures to make this case go away,” said Jack.
“I came here with that full understanding,” said Candela.
“Are you making an offer?”
“That was my intention. Was,” he added, shaking his head. “Then everything changed—just in the last hour, as we were pulling into the marina.”
“Why?”
Candela peered out the window, catching the last flicker of daylight on the horizon. “It’s a diverse group, this consortium,” he said in a distant, philosophical tone. “Venezuelans, Russians, Chinese, Cubans. The American media portrays us as one big boogeyman. Truth is, we’re not always of one mind, and each member has very little control over what the other ones do. But the defendants all agree on this much: we refuse to be blackmailed.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Blackmail,” said Theo, as if to clarify. “Like the time I had those photographs of you and—”
“I know what blackmail is,” said Jack. “I’m telling the man it has nothing to do with this case.”
“Let me spell it out for you,” said Candela. “Today at two p.m. you met with Victor Garcia-Peña. At two-thirty, you called me and set up a settlement conference. At five p.m. Garcia-Peña went on Spanish talk radio, laying out his so-called evidence that the Cuban government blew up the Scarborough 8 and is responsible for the ‘unjustified killing’ of Rafael Lopez and fifteen other oil workers.”
“You’re linking things that aren’t linked.”
“I
t’s simple logic.”
“I don’t see it,” said Jack.
“God is love, love is blind, Stevie Wonder is God,” said Theo. “That kind of logic.”
“Stay out of this,” said Jack. He moved forward in his chair, tightening his gaze on Candela. “Victor Garcia-Peña does not speak for me and my client. Period.”
“Put that aside for a moment,” said Candela. “Are you or are you not planning to tell a jury that the Scarborough 8 was sabotaged?”
“Sabotaged by the Cuban government?”
“By anyone,” said Candela.
Jack wasn’t ready to play his hand and tell Candela about the FBI investigation. But he chose not to lie.
“Here’s how I see it,” said Jack. “Safety is the number-one priority on an oil rig. If sabotage sank the Scarborough 8, you should have had security measures in place to prevent it. I don’t have to prove who did it or why.”
“No, of course you don’t,” he said with a mirthless chuckle. “All you need to do is send Garcia-Peña on a media tour to point the finger at the Cubans.”
“That makes no sense. What does that get me?”
“It gets the exile community good and worked up. It’s no secret that Key West juries are heavily Cuban-American. That’s your strategy, isn’t it? Take away any shot my client has at a fair trial and leave the consortium no choice but to settle for some extortionate amount.”
“Maybe your mind works that way, but mine sure doesn’t. I didn’t even know Victor was on the radio.”
“So you admit that you met with him before you called me,” said Candela.
“Yes, but—were you spying on me?”
“That’s none of your business,” said Candela.
“The hell it isn’t.”
“I could make it our business,” said Theo.
Candela bristled. “Is he threatening me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Not!” said Jack. “I mean it, Theo. Stay out of this.”
“Dude, it’s time to cut through the shit. We’re being called blackmailers because an old Cuban man went on Spanish talk radio? Really? Victor Garcia-Peña, who blows smoke even when his cigar isn’t lit? I mean, really?”
“Theo, stop,” said Jack.
“I’m just gettin’ started.”
“I got it from here,” Jack said firmly. “I’m serious.”
Theo settled back in his chair, quiet, but even his silence made it clear that no one but Jack could have shut him down.
“What Theo is trying to say is this,” said Jack. “Your allegations of blackmail are exactly like your claim that Bianca wasn’t married to Rafael. Ripped from page one of the official handbook of bullshit accusations.”
“I don’t need to listen to this,” said Candela.
“Listen good,” said Jack. “You thought those letters from Rafael to Josefina would prove that Bianca was a fraud. It turns out that the fraud was Rafael’s supposed engagement to Josefina. The judge figured that much out when she ruled that Bianca’s case could go forward. I’m sure you figured it out, too. Two days later, Josefina’s blood was found smeared on Bianca’s bathroom mirror.”
“What?”
“A message in blood,” said Theo. “ ’Drop it.’ As in ‘drop the case.’”
Jack still wasn’t sure if “drop it” meant drop the lawsuit or drop the claim of sabotage. But it didn’t matter for present purposes. Candela looked genuinely stunned.
“I know absolutely nothing about anything you just said.”
“It will be on the news tonight,” said Jack.
“Or your client can fill you in,” said Theo.
“That was completely uncalled for,” said Candela.
“Was it?” asked Jack, his eyes narrowing. “I’m told it’s a very diverse group, the consortium. Venezuelans, Russians, Chinese, Cubans. And one member has very little control over what the other members do.”
“This discussion is over,” said Candela. He went to the door and opened it. “Time for Shrek and Donkey to leave.”
“That’s it!” said Theo as he sprang from his chair. Jack grabbed him by the arm, half restraining him, half calming him.
“Forget it, Theo. Let’s go.”
Theo swallowed his anger. Jack led the way. Candela stood in the doorway, stopping them, one more thing to say.
“My client is not going to settle this case. Not now. Not on the eve of trial. Not ever.”
“Not a problem,” said Jack, meeting his stare. “Not for me. Not for Bianca. Not for the fifteen other widows your ego keeps you from thinking about.”
Candela was the first to blink. He moved aside, allowing Jack to pass from the salon to the deck. Theo was two steps behind.
“Come on, Donkey.”
Jack hiked over the boat’s side rail and stepped onto the pier. Theo followed. Weathered wood planks creaked beneath the weight of each footfall as a cool breeze brushed the moonlit waves in the harbor.
“Donkey,” Theo said under his breath, hands buried in his pockets. “Who you callin’ Donkey?”
Jack was deep in thought, trying to imagine what he would tell Bianca. Candela was no bluffer, and Jack wondered if his client had the stomach for the long, hard fight.
“I’m not Donkey,” said Theo, trailing a step behind. “You’re Donkey.”
Jack worried about Josefina, too, barely aware of Theo’s single-minded stream of consciousness all the way back to shore.
“Honkey Donkey,” Theo said in a deep Super Fly voice. “Got a nice ring to it.”
Chapter 36
It was long after dark when Jack returned to Key West, but the shoreline was aglow. Generators rumbled in the night, pumping out enough power for cleanup crews to work around the clock. One portable lighting tree after another stretched along the southeast coast, each tower connected to the next by a temporary power line, the sagging wires a string of sad smiles above the black gunk that glistened beneath yellow sodium lighting.
“I wish they would let us help,” said Bianca.
Jack and Theo had caught up with her outside the Truman Annex, where the media and a crowd of onlookers had gathered to watch the emergency response teams from behind police barricades. It wasn’t Bianca’s night off at the café, but Rick had sent all but a skeleton crew to volunteer for the relief effort.
“Was it the Coast Guard that turned you away?” asked Jack.
“Yes,” she said. “Anyone who touches the oil has to be trained. Four hours minimum. Volunteers, too. It’s a law.”
“Probably HAZWOPER,” said Jack.
“Has a what?” asked Theo.
“Hazardous Waste Operations and Emergency Response,” said Jack. “An oil spill brings out the ultimate alphabet soup of state and federal agencies. I’m sure OSHA is part of it, too, if it involves worker-safety training.”
A police officer directed them back onto the sidewalk to allow a Coast Guard van to pass in the crowded street.
“So let’s get trained,” said Theo. “Where do we go?”
“Fort Lauderdale,” said Bianca.
“That can’t be right,” said Theo.
“That’s what the Coast Guard lady told me,” said Bianca. “It’s the closest place.”
“They’re being smart,” said Jack. “No one needs a bunch of amateurs trained on the fly, getting oil all over their bodies, posing for pictures on the beach, and trampling every bird nest and turtle egg between here and Islamorada.”
“The lady said we could volunteer for other things,” said Bianca. “Unloading supplies, getting food and bottled water out to the crews, that kind of thing.”
“Let’s do it,” said Theo.
The staging area for volunteers was at the high school gymnasium a few blocks north, an easy walk. They checked in at the information table, got a RELIEF TEAM hat and T-shirt, and signed a release that disclosed every conceivable injury and disease that a disaster relief worker could face—and then some.
“What the hec
k is leptospirosis?” asked Theo.
The woman at the registration table answered in a Haitian accent. “Symptoms are a lot like dengue fever. You get it by drinking water that has animal urine in it.”
Theo glanced at Jack, eyebrow raised. “If that’s what we’re volunteering for, I say we go back and take our chances with the oil.”
“No worries,” the woman said. “We actually borrowed a form release from the Port-au-Prince earthquake.”
Only then did Jack notice the HAITI RELIEF message in Creole on her cap. It was another sign of the international wave of volunteerism that was flooding into Key West from Global Green, the Oiled Wildlife Care Network, the National Audubon Society, and many others.
A fleet of supply trucks was parked outside the gymnasium, with new deliveries every few minutes. Teams of volunteers unloaded everything from hazmat suits to sunscreen and toilet paper. Around ten o’clock, Bianca started to fade. Staying busy was good for her psyche, Jack knew, with all she had been through. But there were physical limits. It wasn’t just the stress of the attack. It was also the lingering effects of the injection of barbiturates. A four-hour nap in the afternoon had helped, but it wasn’t enough. Theo was still working when Jack left to walk Bianca home.
“Theo likes to say you’re not really Cuban,” said Bianca.
They were on a quiet stretch of Whitehead Street, walking away from the gym. Bianca’s trailer was still a crime scene, and she didn’t ever want to go back there, anyway. Another waitress at Rick’s Café had offered to put her up at her apartment.
“Theo says a lot of things,” said Jack.
“Can I ask a personal question, if you don’t mind?”
“Sure.”
“How old was your mother when she came from Cuba?”
Black Horizon (Jack Swyteck Novel) Page 18
