“They did,” said Jack.
“There you go,” said Cassie. “Maybe the breach of security wasn’t the fault of the oil consortium. Maybe the culprit was the company who manufactured the security system.”
“I’ve thought of that,” said Jack. “That may well bear out in discovery. If it does, I’ll add them as a defendant.”
“Well, hold on,” said Cassie. “That’s where the terrorism/sabotage distinction becomes important.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Most lawyers wouldn’t,” said Cassie. “It’s a pretty obscure point of law. It’s called the SAFETY Act. It was part of the Homeland Security Act passed after nine-eleven. The idea was to encourage companies to create technology that detects and prevents acts of terrorism.”
“How does that apply here?”
“The way Congress chose to encourage companies to create antiterrorism technology was to put serious limits on their potential liability in the event something goes wrong.”
“How serious?” asked Jack.
“Very,” said Cassie. “Only one lawsuit can be filed. It covers all the property damage, all the personal injuries—everything the technology company might be sued for. The company’s liability is capped at the amount of insurance coverage required by Homeland Security.”
Jack thought of Freddy Foman and his team of lawyers. “My client, the fishermen, the hotels, the waterfront property owners, the boaters, the dive shops, the people who get sick cleaning up the sludge on the beach—we’re all lumped together in one claim under the SAFETY Act?”
“Yes, if it was an act of terrorism, and if the technology on the Scarborough 8 was registered with Homeland Security as qualified antiterrorism technology. ‘QATT’ for short.”
“This is a big deal,” said Jack. “The payouts in the Deepwater Horizon disaster were in the billions. That must be way more than the insurance coverage required by Homeland Security for QATT.”
“Way, way more,” said Cassie. “Any disaster on that scale covered by the Safety Act would leave a lot of folks walking away empty-handed.”
“How do I find out if the security technology on the Scarborough 8 was QATT?”
“As I see it, you have a couple choices. Do it yourself. Or let the smartest girl in your study group help you.”
“Thank you, Cassie.”
“Don’t thank me. Pay me.”
“Okay,” he said with a chuckle. “We’ll talk about a fee split.”
“You bet we will,” she said.
Chapter 39
At three o’clock sharp, Jack met with an eager young real estate agent outside an old redbrick building on Simonton Street. Hunter Collins was dressed smartly in a white blouse, red scarf, and matching skirt. Simple gold jewelry finished a look that was conservative by Key West standards, but it was stylish and hinted at success. She reminded Jack of Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but he shook off the thought. Now that Andie was expecting, his cultural references needed serious updating if Dad hoped to be considered cool beyond their child’s sixth birthday.
“This is the only office space available that meets your specifications and is truly within walking distance of the courthouse,” she said as she unlocked the glass door.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Alexis Kiley?”
“Who? No. But people do say I look like a young Elizabeth Taylor.”
“Really? Hmm. Yeah, I guess I see that.”
Hunter went inside, and Jack followed.
The space appeared to have been vacant for some time, not a stick of furniture anywhere, just a broom in the corner and a wastebasket. The echo of their footfalls on the oak floor harked back to an era when coffered ceilings and walls of solid plaster were de rigueur.
“Lots of charm and character,” she said. “The street level is two thousand square feet, and there’s an option to expand to the second floor.”
Jack stopped and looked around, confused. “This is not at all what I’m looking for.”
Hunter Alexis Taylor looked as though she might cry. “It’s not?”
“I’m sorry,” said Jack. “There must have been some miscommunication. I need at most two hundred square feet, furnished, leased week to week. It’s a very short-term thing for me, my investigator, and possibly a lawyer from New York from time to time. I’m not doing a build-out.”
“But Ms. Hahn was very specific,” she said, pulling up her message pad on the iPad. “She wanted space for eight lawyers, six paralegals, four personal assistants, two IT specialists, and two conference rooms.”
“That’s what Cassie told you?”
“Yes. With room to expand when your case goes to trial. It must be a big case.”
“Getting bigger all the time,” said Jack. “Excuse me a second, would you?”
Jack stepped outside and dialed Cassie’s number. A little help was a godsend; a team of eight New York lawyers, a nightmare. After six rings the call went to voice mail. Just as Jack finished the short message—“Call me”—the line beeped with an incoming call. It was Andie, which changed his mood immediately.
“Hey, how are you, love?”
“Missing you.”
“How’s the morning sickness?”
“Didn’t have it today. Or yesterday. Maybe I’m over it.”
“Fingers crossed.”
“I’m very sorry to hear about what happened to Bianca.”
“Thanks,” he said as he found a shady spot on the sidewalk. “She’s pretty shook up, but she’s tough.”
“I confirmed that Agent Linton will be her victim liaison, too, so he should be in contact with both of you. There are things he’s not at liberty to discuss, even with victims, but he promised to keep you informed to the extent possible.”
“I just met with him this morning.”
“So I heard.”
An open-air trolley rolled by on Fleming Street, the tour guide’s voice blaring over the loudspeaker: “And coming up on our right, tucked behind these buildings, is Nancy Forrester’s Secret Garden . . .” It was theater of the absurd, not a single tourist on the trolley, the oil disaster already working its black magic. Jack plugged one ear to block out the noise.
“What did you hear?”
“That you totally ticked him off.”
“Linton was out of line.”
“I got a message from him. He asked if I could help bring you around to see things his way.”
“Really? Did he tell you that the FBI wants to dictate the strategy of Bianca’s case?”
“He didn’t put it in those words. But I understand that he wants you to back off the allegations of sabotage.”
It surprised Jack that she was pushing it this far, given their understanding that working the law was his job, enforcing the law was hers. “Andie, you and I shouldn’t be discussing this.”
“That’s the reason I called. As far as I’m concerned, that is totally between him and you. And I told Linton exactly that.”
“That’s how you left it—it’s between him and me?”
“Yes. I wanted you to know that.”
Jack walked to the curb and back, as if moving his feet across the sidewalk would help him sort this out. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“I thought you’d be happy.”
“Happy? Really?”
“Is there something else I should have said?”
“You should have told him that it’s between me and my client, and that it’s none of the FBI’s damn business whether sabotage is in or out of Bianca’s case.”
“Jack, first of all, don’t get testy with me.”
“Sorry.”
“Second, I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“It works both ways. I can’t tell you how to handle your cases for your clients. And I can’t tell the FBI how to deal with you as a lawyer.”
“But you’re the one who told Linton to call me in the first place, remember? When I came back
from Cuba, you were madder than I was about the Bureau keeping me in the dark.”
“I intervened on your behalf because you were the victim of a crime. That’s totally different. I’m not going to get involved when you’re just another attorney butting heads with the FBI.”
“Butting heads? So you agree with Linton? I’m interfering with an FBI investigation?”
“I didn’t say that. My point is—you know what, Jack? Can we just agree not to talk about this anymore?”
Jack breathed in and out. It wasn’t the first conflict between Jack the lawyer and Andie the FBI agent, but it was their first since the wedding. Jack hadn’t deluded himself into thinking that marriage would fix everything, but he had at least hoped that a lifelong commitment would make it feel more solvable. It felt the same, every bit as difficult.
“Good idea,” he said. “It’s best to let it go.”
The next ten seconds of silence on the line felt much longer. “When will I see you?” asked Jack.
“Maybe soon,” said Andie, her tone softer. “At the very latest, we will do the first ultrasound together. I want you there for it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for anything. I love you.”
“Me, too. Bye, Jack.”
The moment he hung up, Hunter rushed outside, nearly pouncing on him before he could put his phone away. She was talking on her cell, and then handed it to Jack.
“It’s Ms. Hahn,” said Hunter. “I think we have this straightened out, but she wants to talk to you.”
Jack took Hunter’s phone. “Cassie, about this lease.”
“Forget that,” she said. “I have an answer for you on the Scarborough 8 technology. The entire computerized alarm system was registered under the SAFETY Act as qualified antiterrorism technology. And guess who the manufacturer is.”
“The Chinese?”
“Far from it. Barton-Hammill.”
“The defense contractor?”
“The biggest defense contractor. Actually a foreign subsidiary of Barton-Hammill. It was their way around the trade embargo against Cuba.”
“Or the security system was part of the ten percent U.S. parts that are allowed under the embargo.”
“Whatever,” said Cassie. “Don’t you see what’s going on here? If the Scarborough 8 exploded because the alarm system failed, Barton-Hammill is your principal defendant.”
Jack followed her train of thought completely. “But if the technology failed and the rig exploded because of an act of terrorism, the SAFETY Act applies. Barton-Hammill’s liability for every conceivable claim would be capped at the limits of its insurance policy. A few million dollars.”
“You got it,” said Cassie.
Jack was pacing the sidewalk, the picture coming clearer in his mind. “That’s what this pressure from the FBI is about. If I run with the sabotage theory in Bianca’s case, I might prove that the failure of Barton-Hammill’s technology and the oil disaster it caused had nothing to do with an act of terrorism.”
“And if you proved that,” said Cassie, “Barton-Hammill would have no protection under the SAFETY Act.”
Yet another trolley passed, not a single passenger aboard. No tourists.
“Barton-Hammill would be to this oil disaster what BP was to Deepwater Horizon: the deepest pocket in the courtroom.”
“Bingo,” said Cassie. “To be blunt about it, the Pentagon’s biggest defense contractor would be totally on the hook for the worst oil disaster in history.”
“And the FBI is running interference for them,” said Jack, “keeping the sabotage investigation under its thumb.”
“Now do you understand why we need office space for eight lawyers? This is going to go nuclear.”
Jack glanced at Hunter. She was pecking furiously at her virtual keyboard, filling in the terms of the lease on her iPad.
“When do you get here?”
“As soon as I can,” said Cassie. “Flights in or out of Key West are not easy to come by right now.”
“Tell me about it,” said Jack. “Thanks, Cassie. Thanks a million.”
“I think you mean a billion.”
“We shall see,” said Jack.
Chapter 40
His flight on Bahamasair left Miami International Airport at four p.m. The flight attendant invited him and the other passengers to sit back, relax, and enjoy the fifty-minute flight to Nassau.
Relax. The operative word. Mission accomplished.
The most important part of the trailer-park “meeting” with Bianca could not have gone better. Perfect execution, actually. His every word mattered, and it was vitally important that she live to pass them on, in detail, to Swyteck, along with the letters from Rafael. Bianca had been sufficiently frightened, at times petrified. But she’d never really lost her head—never screamed, kicked, clawed, or done anything totally stupid. Predicting how a woman will react when threatened was always difficult. Every person was different, and even the same woman might react aggressively under one set of circumstances, passively under another. Any level of resistance from Bianca could have put the outcome—life or death—in question. Luckily, she was the compliant type. Not weak, just not one to put up a physical fight.
Bianca Lopez was no Josefina Fuentes.
He poured himself a scotch. It was well deserved.
He’d handled the one and only glitch beautifully. It had always been his plan to release Bianca so that she could deliver his message, but he could not ignore the risk that she might see through his disguise to some extent. The benzodiazepine injection was his safety net. Without it, Bianca would have lain awake until her roommate’s return from work. For hours, Bianca would have played the attack over and over in her mind, combing through every detail, trying to figure out who he was. Rendering her unconscious for a few hours had been his answer to that problem. He’d played it safe, medically speaking, administering less than half the dosage he’d given Swyteck and his buddy. But it was still too much. Bianca barely had a pulse. Her breathing was too shallow. After several minutes of slow but steady decline, the possibility of losing her had become all too real. He’d found her keys, put Bianca in her car, and started toward the hospital. The impromptu plan was simply to pull her car up to the ER entrance and leave her there, if necessary. Halfway to the hospital, however, Bianca’s pulse and breathing returned to normal. She was still unconscious, but it was too dangerous to take her back to her trailer. He parked her car in a lot near the hospital and left her there.
There had been no way of knowing how quickly the police would find Bianca. It might have taken three minutes. Or she could have sat there all night. He knew, however, that as soon as they revived Bianca and learned of her attack, the roadblocks out of the keys would be traps waiting to be sprung. At Miami International Airport, baggage checkers, gate attendants, TSA personnel, immigration authorities, and a host of federal agents would be on alert for any suspicious character traveling alone to the islands and possibly on to Havana. Neither Swyteck, prior to his release, nor Bianca, before hers, had managed a good look at his face, but the safe thing was to assume that law enforcement would have at least a minimal physical description: over six feet tall, two hundred pounds, dark eyes, solid build, strong as a bull. Of course the authorities would be smart enough to monitor the circuitous routes to Havana through Cancún, Kingston, or Nassau.
The upshot was that it had been best to wait a day for things to cool off. His business with the bank in Nassau could wait that long. He needed a place to put ten million dollars, but he didn’t need it yesterday. Time was on his side. The closer the oil got to Florida, the more pressure the government would feel to pay an informant.
To the spill, he told himself in a silent toast, raising his glass of scotch, but it was empty already.
He ordered another from the flight attendant and drank more slowly, listening to two guys from Nashville in the seats in front of him. He sized them up in ten seconds. Clowns like them were all over Cuba. Two married guys flying Miami to N
assau, leaving their wives at home to go fishing in the Bahamas—I’ll be out on a boat, honey. You can’t reach me by cell”—only to hop another plane to Havana and roll with the jineteras. Their conversation turned to the spill.
“Honestly, who gives a shit about a little oil in the Gulf Stream? Nothin’ but a bunch of homos in Key West, anyway. A month from now it’ll all be in Newfoundland or Iceland or some other who-the-fuck-cares country.”
The man may have a point.
He emptied the rest of his second scotch from the minibottle and checked the specs. Fifty milliliters. It had taken just one bottle that size to get his message across on the bathroom mirror. One bottle of Josefina’s precious blood.
Drop it.
His point, he assumed, had been made. He didn’t need the likes of Jack Swyteck poking around for evidence in a lawsuit, stirring up the media, trying to find out what had really happened on the Scarborough 8. That was valuable information. Ten million dollars, payable by the United States government. Maybe he was asking too much. Maybe not enough. He could really name his price. Only he knew the cause. Only he.
He squeezed the empty bottle in his hand.
And all pretenders will pay in blood.
Chapter 41
Jack hated to turn on the television. The footage on the five o’clock news was worse than the so-called experts had predicted. The middle Keys were awash in Cuban crude. Overnight, Boot Key Harbor had transformed into Black Boot Key.
“Perfect,” said Theo, shaking his head. “Sir, how would you like your Florida snapper tonight? Grilled, fried, regular, or unleaded?”
They were downstairs at Jack’s B&B, watching television in what was originally the smoking room in the Victorian mansion of a nineteenth-century treasure hunter. Action News was reporting live from Marathon, where pristine waters and priceless coastline bore the unmistakable scars of a massive spill. Oil-covered pelicans floundering in black goop. Manatees washing up dead on the beach. Coral rocks along the shoreline resembling giant lumps of coal. Cleanup crews worked frantically to protect the tangled and sensitive root system of the mangroves, as their booms and vacuum hoses battled huge black blobs floating on the oil-stained surface.
Black Horizon Page 20
