Black Horizon

by James Grippando

  Jack glanced at Bianca. She wasn’t crying, but it wouldn’t have taken much to push her over the edge. “It’s the very least I can do,” said Jack.

  Chapter 9

  Havana. The capital city that defined Cuba for revolutionaries and dissidents alike. For Josefina Fuentes, it was simply home.

  “What a mess,” she said under her breath, no one near enough to hear her.

  Josefina was on Avenida Salvador Allende, just west of a ten-block neighborhood that was once the largest and most vibrant Chinatown in all of Latin America. A half-century of communism and racial assimilation had dulled the influence of thousands of Chinese immigrants who had risen from slavelike conditions in sugarcane fields to become shop owners and businessmen in pre-Castro Cuba. A few signs of Chinese culture remained, but on that Wednesday afternoon, Chinatown was no different from any other Havana neighborhood: the mark of Hurricane Miguel was everywhere.

  Before heading out to sea and slamming into the Scarborough 8 as a tropical storm, Miguel had blown across Cuba as a Category 1 hurricane and dumped more than a foot of rain in twenty-four hours. It had taken two full days for floodwaters to subside. Block after block was littered with fallen palm fronds and tree limbs, blown-off roofing tiles and pieces of old buildings, and tons of other debris. The neighborhood cleanup strategy was to push the mess into huge piles along the curb. Some residents used shovels and rakes while others improvised with boards, poles, branches, or whatever else they could find. The odor of wet garbage hung in the hot air.

  Josefina cut a winding path down the cluttered sidewalk, with occasional side steps into the street to find a clear passage. No need to check for traffic. Buses weren’t running, and anyone fortunate enough to own a car, a truck, or a taxicab was also smart enough not to waste precious fuel after a major storm. Most of Havana was still without electricity, so the usual sounds of the city were absent. No music blaring from las tiendas. No pockets of conversation at the walk-up café windows along the sidewalk. No groups of old men arguing over games of dominoes at shaded tables. Even the government offices remained closed—with one major exception.

  “Go to MINBAS,” Josefina’s friends had told her at lunch. “There is supposed to be an announcement at three o’clock.”

  And so, off Josefina had gone.

  MINBAS was the Ministry of Basic Industry, which administered Cuba’s energy program and offshore exploration. By Tuesday afternoon, the ministry had become the go-to destination for relatives and friends of Cuban workers on the Scarborough 8. All were desperate for details, having heard nothing from their government except that the rig had been evacuated. Misinformation was flying through Havana neighborhoods, and Josefina was not alone in fearing a major catastrophe. The forthcoming three p.m. announcement might turn out to be just another rumor, but word of mouth was all Josefina had to go on. The Internet was no help. Even in ideal weather conditions, Web access was sketchy, as the U.S. trade embargo prevented Cuba from linking up to the Web via a direct fiber-optic line to the states, leaving the island cyber-dependent on a single underwater line from Jamaica and on even less reliable satellites. The power outage had shut down all Internet cafés except those that were accessible by tourists in the most expensive hotels. The afternoon announcement from MINBAS was her only hope.

  Josefina approached a group of women on the sidewalk. MINBAS occupied seven stories of an unremarkable office building that was built in the minimalist and drab architectural style of the former Soviet Union. The women were standing right outside the main entrance. Directly overhead, a huge banner the length of three city buses hung from the roofline, draping over the windows of the top three floors: CADA CUBANO, it read, UN EJÉRCITO (each Cuban, an army).

  Josefina didn’t know any of the women, but their worried expressions gave her something in common and made them seem approachable.

  “Any news?” asked Josefina.

  “Nada,” the women told her. Nothing.

  Josefina continued down the sidewalk outside the ministry, scanning the crowd but seeing no one she knew. It was apparent that not everyone waiting for the announcement from MINBAS was a friend or loved one of an oil-rig worker. Many had gathered to get information of any kind, or because they had nowhere else to go. Generators were scarce throughout the city, so the promised broadcast from the temporary audio system that the government had rigged up outside MINBAS was, for many, the only working radio in the neighborhood.

  At three o’clock, the speakers crackled. Josefina’s pulse quickened. Her friends, it seemed, had given her reliable information. An announcement was indeed coming.

  “Good afternoon,” said the speaker, but he was not from MINBAS. He introduced himself as the minister of foreign affairs. The crowd outside the building fell silent as the minister spoke in a tone befitting the most serious addresses by high-ranking members of the Communist Party.

  “This morning, eleven ships, six aircraft, and two helicopters from the United States penetrated into the waters and airspace of Cuba in a flagrant violation of international law. Cuban naval ships maneuvered alongside the intruders to physically prevent the U.S. ships from going straight toward our coasts.”

  Josefina took a step closer to the loudspeaker, confused. It wasn’t the kind of emergency that she had feared, but it sounded ominous enough.

  “This is a hostile invasion,” said the minister, “and it is being conducted under the guise of international assistance to relief efforts. The people of Cuba do not need the assistance of capitalist interests who lack all commitment to the environment. Unlike the United States and its demonstrated incompetent responses to past oil disasters in its own waters, Cuba has a long history of commitment to the environment. With the help of the International Maritime Organization, we have prepared for a possible spill emergency. The United States and the rest of the world must know that we have this situation completely under control.”

  Josefina struggled to contain her frustration. Situation? Exactly what is the situation?

  “To be clear,” said the minister, “this morning’s transgression was not a genuine offer of assistance. This is driven by right-wing elements in Miami who wish to seize on any opportunity to invade Cuban waters and conduct terrorist activities. Our border troops have shown restraint, firing no weapons. However, like any other nation, Cuba cannot tolerate a flagrant violation of its frontiers or provocative acts against our country. It is well documented that on many past occasions intruders from the United States have entered our waters and violated our airspace to perpetrate terrorist actions against economic targets and helpless civilians. Some people have been assassinated in cold blood. The Revolutionary Government reiterates its firm determination to take every necessary action to prevent acts like this from happening. We therefore issue this final warning: Any ship coming from abroad which invades by force our sovereign waters is liable to be sunk, and any plane, brought down. We are a peaceful and patient people, but the patience also has limits. The responsibility for what happens will fall exclusively on those who encourage, plan, implement, or tolerate these piratical actions. Thank you and good afternoon.”

  Josefina stood silent. People around her exchanged empty glances, as perplexed and unfulfilled by the announcement as she was. There was nothing in the radio address about the dead, injured, or missing from the Scarborough 8.

  A warm, salty droplet ran to the corner of her mouth, but she wasn’t crying. It was a trickle of blood from her nose. She dabbed it away with her sleeve, repeating to herself the lesson she’d learned from this latest injury.

  Keep your left up.

  Josefina worked with a trainer at a boxing gym near the University of Havana. The Cuban boxing team was one of the most successful in modern Olympic history, but the government had refused to field a women’s team for the sport’s debut at the London games, deeming el boxeo “appropriate” only for men. Attitudes were changing, and Josefina was determined to be the first female Cuban Olympian to win gold in the ring.
She was two years into it, and she had a lot of work to do. Her sparring session that morning had marked an all-time low. Never had she been clocked so squarely in the nose. It was the price a fighter paid for distractions from her personal life. She tilted her head back and pinched her nostrils shut for two minutes.

  “Josefina!”

  She turned and saw her trainer coming toward her. She gave her nose a final pinch, the way her trainer had taught her in the boxing ring, and the bleeding stopped.

  “The three o’clock announcement wasn’t much help,” she said.

  “I know, but I have another idea. Come with me.” He grabbed her by the hand and led her away quickly.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see a friend.”

  They were walking fast, almost jogging as they continued around the corner. “What kind of friend?”

  Her trainer kept them moving forward. “The best kind. He has a homemade computer. If anyone can get uncensored Internet, he can. He even went to Festival Clic.”

  Festival Clic was Cuba’s biggest social-media conference ever. Most young Cubans had heard of it, even though in a nation of eleven million only about a hundred people had actually been allowed to attend.

  “This way,” he said as he led her up a flight of stairs to a pink stucco building. The sign on the door said PELUQUERÍA UNISEX.

  “Your friend is a hairstylist?”

  “His wife is,” he said, knocking.

  The door opened about six inches, and a woman peered out from behind it. “We are not open today.”

  “I know. We’re here to see Javier.”

  “What about?”

  “A friend. It’s important for her to find out what happened to the Cuban workers on the oil rig. Please, I know Javier can help.”

  “He’s busy,” she said, and the door started to close.

  “Tell him it’s Sicario.”

  That was enough to keep the door open, if only a couple of inches. Josefina was not surprised. Many times before, she’d seen her trainer get results with the mere mention of his name. Sicario meant “hit man,” the nickname he’d earned as a light-heavyweight boxer for the Cuban Olympic Team.

  “Wait right there,” the woman said. She closed the door, but Josefina noted that she didn’t lock it.

  Several minutes passed, and Josefina handled her anticipation by watching the huge white clouds pass overhead. They were moving so fast, like time-lapse photography—which was ironic, since the wait for Javier’s wife to return seemed endless. Finally, the door opened.

  “Javier will see you,” she said, and she led them to a back office. The man behind the desk did not look up, did not acknowledge them in any way. He kept to his work. Josefina had seen ham radios before—often enough, in fact, to recognize this one as a solid-state Jaguey. But it was the first one she’d seen powered by a twelve-volt car battery.

  “Where’s the computer?” asked Sicario.

  “We sold it,” the woman answered. “But the radio will get you the information you need. It will just take a few minutes, since it’s not voice transmission. It’s Morse code on CW through data transmission.”

  “Who is Javier’s contact?” asked Sicario.

  “He’s been going back and forth for about a day now with a ham member in Canada. The man seems to know everything about the rig.”

  Javier continued to scribble notes onto a pad, decoding. Josefina wasn’t keeping track of time, but again the wait seemed without end. Finally, Javier switched off the radio and looked straight at Sicario. The tip of his index finger was resting on the paper, pointing ominously at the handwritten list of names.

  “Sixteen workers are dead,” he said. “I have their names here.”

  Josefina swallowed hard. “Any from Cuba?”

  “Two,” said Javier. “Who are you checking on?”

  She couldn’t find the strength to say his name, to have her worst fears confirmed. “My fiancé,” she said.

  Sicario stepped forward and took the pad from the desktop. Josefina looked away at first, then forced herself to watch her trainer read the list. The moment he lifted his eyes from the paper and looked at her, she knew. Slowly, he laid the list aside and came to her.

  Her whole body trembled as her trainer held her tight. “I’m so sorry, Josefina.”

  “Oh, no!” she said, burying her face into his shoulder. “No, no! Please tell me no!”

  Not even the arms of a former Olympian could stop her from shaking.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Rafael is gone.”

  Chapter 10

  Jack found the last remaining room in Key West at a bed-and-breakfast, at quadruple the normal September rate, and worked all night.

  It was important to move quickly. Although no one but Bianca was in a position to bring a wrongful death suit in the United States, Jack knew that armies of lawyers were ginning up individual and class-action claims on behalf of Florida businesses and property owners. Bianca’s injury was of an entirely different nature, and he didn’t want it buried in the avalanche of litigation over lost profits and damaged beach homes.

  Around ten o’clock Wednesday morning, Jack got a text message from the courier: Done. The wrongful death action on behalf of Bianca Lopez, a widow, was on file with the circuit court in Key West.

  Jack was too tired to walk upstairs to his room. His B&B was one of many century-old Victorian-style houses built during the commercial shipping heyday of Key West, and he fell asleep in a rocking chair on the front porch. The manager woke him at half past noon.

  “My apologies, Mr. Swyteck. I have your secretary from Miami on the line. She says it’s urgent.”

  Jack took the cordless phone. Bonnie sounded out of breath, which was normal whenever there was a surprise development in a case. And a surprise it was: Jack needed to be at the Monroe County courthouse at two p.m. for a hearing on an emergency motion filed by the oil companies. Jack had expected a counterattack of some sort that was intended to send him a message that this was a war he should never have started. But this was ridiculously quick.

  “How can this be?” said Jack. “Our process server hasn’t even served our complaint yet.”

  “It’s weird. I called the clerk of the court, and there’s no motion on file either.”

  “Have you gotten anything from the opposing lawyers?”

  “No. Like I said, nothing’s been filed, so I don’t even know who they are.”

  “Has our case been assigned to a judge?”

  “Judge Carlyle. I called her chambers, but it went to voice mail.”

  “Who told you there’s an emergency hearing?”

  “Freddy Foman.”

  Jack sat up in the rocking chair. “Huh?”

  “Surely you remember Freddy.”

  Freddy was hard to forget. He’d started law school with Jack, flunked out after one semester, enrolled in a night school that was barely accredited—and then he’d gone on to become one of the richest lawyers in Miami, mostly on the backs of dead and dying clients in asbestos litigation. He was a gregarious guy with a big personality and stature to match, carrying a rotund three hundred pounds almost his entire adult life. The last time Jack had seen him, however, he had dropped to fewer than two hundred. It wasn’t the South Beach diet. Freddy’s law partner had turned out to be a con man who was running a multimillion-dollar Ponzi scheme. Freddy knew nothing about it but was swept up in the indictment. During the course of a two-month criminal trial, Jack had witnessed the suppression of Freddy’s appetite firsthand: Jack was the lawyer who’d won his acquittal.

  “What does Freddy Foman have to do with Bianca’s case?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Jack. He was getting ready to fly his plane to Key West and didn’t have time to explain. He just said you need to be at the hearing and that he would meet you outside the courtroom. If I were you, I would go.”

  Jack couldn’t remember a time when Bonnie had steered him wrong. He ran upstairs and put on
the nicest clothes he had with him. Khakis and a long-sleeve shirt wouldn’t have cut it in Miami, but the rules were different in Key West.

  The Freeman Justice Center is the main courthouse for Key West, probably the only judicial center in the world that closes one full business day each October for a citywide Halloween celebration. It was one thirty by the time Jack entered the building. He dialed Freddy’s cell for a fifth time before passing his iPhone through the metal detector. Again, the call went straight to voice mail.

  Answer your damn phone, Freddy.

  Jack counted at least three or four dozen lawyers in the hallway outside Judge Carlyle’s chambers, and more were pouring out of the elevators. Bianca’s lawsuit named multiple defendants—the manufacturer and owner of the Scarborough 8, the oil companies in the consortium, and about a half-dozen related entities that arguably did enough business in the United States to justify bringing Bianca’s lawsuit in Florida. As a sole practitioner, Jack had been outnumbered in cases before, but this was insane.

  No way can all these lawyers be defense counsel in my case.

  “Swyteck, how you doin’, my friend?”

  Jack recognized Freddy’s voice immediately. He turned and did a double take. Freddy had ballooned back up to well over three hundred pounds, and his size XXXL Hawaiian shirt looked like a circus tent covered with smiling dolphins and dancing hula girls.

  “Freddy, what’s this about a hearing in my oil case?”

  “Not your case,” he said, extending his arms widely. “Our cases. As of noon, there were about three thousand lawsuits filed against the consortium for property damage and lost business in Florida. Many more to come.”

  Jack suddenly felt like Rip Van Winkle, having slept through it all in a rocking chair on the front porch of his B&B.

  “Who do you represent?” asked Jack.

  “‘Places of lodging’ is the best description. Everything from trailer parks to Big Palm Island Resort.”

  “You don’t say,” said Jack, deciding not to bite on Big Palm. “What’s the hearing about?”