Cane and Abe

by James Grippando

  “I have Mr. Cortinas on the line,” his associate said.

  Belter took the call. Immediately he could hear that Cortinas was not happy.

  “I just saw an e-mail from Maggie Green,” said Cortinas. “What the hell is this nonsense about a subpoena?”

  Belter signaled to the younger lawyer that he needed to be alone. An ejection seat couldn’t have popped her from the cabin any faster.

  “The subpoena was inevitable,” he said into the phone.

  “So is death. That doesn’t make it pleasant. What right does the government have to review Tyla’s e-mails and computer records at your law firm?”

  “Tyla is the victim of a homicide. The FBI is coordinating the investigation. They’re being thorough.”

  “Bullshit. The FBI is charging ahead with a subpoena before the state attorney is even on board, and I know exactly what this is about. This is shades of the Clinton administration, when that US attorney down in Miami sued the state of Florida for failing to enforce environmental regulations against us. Don’t ever forget history, Brian. The feds have been aching to bring criminal charges against the sugar companies since their slavery indictment got tossed out of court in 1941. They’re using Tyla’s murder as an excuse to go on a fishing expedition, dredge up anything they can find. Frankly, there’s probably plenty to sink their teeth into in Tyla’s files. And you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Belter did. “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “How?”

  “Maggie is on it,” said Belter. “Our position will be that everything is protected by the attorney-client privilege. The government can’t have it.”

  “That’s lame,” Cortinas said, scoffing. “It’s not enough to say they can’t have it. Before we even get into that fight, we need to know exactly what’s in there. I don’t want any more surprises like your phone number turning up on Tyla’s prepaid phone.”

  Mere mention of it made Belter cringe. “I hear you.”

  “I’m going to send in a couple of my IT guys to search Tyla’s computers.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  Belter glanced out the window, toward the corporate jet on the runway. “The helicopter just landed. I’m about to leave for La Romana.”

  “I know. Unfortunately, you’ve been called away on business out of the country and are unable to supervise this process. Of course, it would be a shame if some of Tyla’s files or e-mails were inadvertently deleted, but I trust these men will do their very best.”

  The helicopter engine shut down completely, and the whirring blades overhead faded into silence. Belter shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

  “Brian, do you hear what I’m saying?”

  Belter cleared his throat, then spoke in a firm voice. “We need to be very careful here. Depending on how this investigation plays out, a court could order an independent expert to examine our computer system and determine if any of Tyla’s files were deleted after her death. That would be a very simple analysis for any tech expert. And it would be very difficult for us to explain. My law firm has been served with a court-issued subpoena. There are criminal penalties for spoliation of evidence.”

  “I’m not worried about that.”

  “You need to be. I’m not just talking about corporate fines and a slap on the wrist. There could be jail time for anyone involved.”

  “Understood. But here’s the thing, Brian: I’m not involved.”

  Belter was silent.

  “Isn’t that right, Brian?”

  Belter still did not reply.

  “Brian, I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yeah,” he said in a clipped voice.

  “Yeah what?”

  “That’s exactly right. You’re not involved.”

  “I’ll send the driver to pick you up when the plane lands in La Romana. See you in a couple hours.”

  “Sure thing,” said Belter. “See you then.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I joined Carmen for dinner after the memorial service. She picked the restaurant, a trendy place north of downtown in the design district called—of all things—Sugarcane. I hadn’t eaten since lunch and I was starving, but I had too much on my mind to enjoy the food, which was served tapas-style. I basically drank while Carmen gushed about the crispy Florida frog legs potato purée with salsa verde, surpassed only by the duck and waffle crispy leg confit. I nibbled on a honey-glazed sparerib between beers, and Carmen cut me off after two bottles of some import that provided much more kick than the typical American brew. The last thing the state attorney needed was for one of her senior trial counsel to be pulled over for drunk driving.

  I was home before eleven. Angelina was still out. I was tired and wanted to go to bed, but I had to wonder if my claim to half the mattress had been at least temporarily suspended. I got another beer from the refrigerator, plopped on the couch in front of the television, and channel-surfed for a while. The bottle was empty and I was nodding off when the front door opened. Angelina was by herself, which came as a relief. I was deep enough in the doghouse without her mother’s involvement.

  “How’s your mom?”

  “Fine.”

  That four-letter word again. Angelina left her keys in the dish by the door and crossed the room behind me. “We’re doing a spa day tomorrow, so you should make plans.”

  I already had plans to go back to Belle Glade. “That’s cool.”

  She stopped. “What does that mean?”

  “What does what mean?”

  “‘That’s cool?’ Who talks to his wife like that? I’m not one of your buddies. Who’ve you been hanging out with all day? J.T.?”

  Sometimes I could have sworn that Angelina had ESP. “Are we circling back to J.T. now? Really?”

  A look of surprise came over her, followed by a knowing expression that marked the realization that she was onto something. “You did go see him, didn’t you?”

  “I took him to visit Luther at the nursing home.”

  She dropped her purse on the cocktail table, stood between me and the television, and looked straight at me. “We might as well discuss this now. Mom and I had a talk.”

  Oh boy.

  “Don’t roll your eyes, Abe.”

  “I didn’t.” At least I didn’t think so.

  “This J.T. nonsense has to stop. I’m tired of you taking care of him. I’m tired of you going back to where you used to live, tired of you looking after Luther, tired of the whole stupid extended family thing.”

  “I can’t just cut them off.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because J.T. will end up living under a bridge again.”

  “That’s not our problem, Abe.”

  “He’s my brother-in-law.”

  “He scares me, okay?”

  “There is nothing to be scared of.”

  “Abe, he kissed me on the mouth in our own house last Thanksgiving.”

  “We’ve been over this, Angelina. J.T. did not kiss you on the mouth. I saw the whole thing. He went to kiss you on the cheek, and you turned your head.”

  “That’s not how it happened.”

  “That’s exactly how it happened.”

  “Abe, this is the kind of thing that families don’t talk about, and they put up with it, and they pretend nothing’s wrong. Until one day it ends up on the six o’clock news because some crazed family member shows up at Christmas dinner with a semiautomatic pistol and blows everyone away.”

  “I’ve talked to J.T.’s psychiatrist. He’s not violent.”

  “I don’t want to take that risk, okay? Two days ago we talked about starting our own family—though frankly, the thought of having sex with you right now is not at the top of my list. But whatever. No sane mother would want J.T. around her child. You need to tell him he’s not welcome here anymore.”

  I looked away, but I couldn’t say that she was entirely wrong. “All right. J.T. doesn’t visit our house anymore.”


  “I don’t want you going over there, either. I don’t want you to have anything to do with him.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Make it simple, Abe. This has gone on too long. I’ve tried to be understanding, and as complicated and confusing as this may sound, I truly feel sorry that your wife died. I know it seems like I’ve turned into a nag, but I just can’t take it any—”

  My focus drifted past her, toward the image on the flat-screen. The volume was low, but the lead story on the eleven o’clock news was the memorial service for “prominent Miami attorney Tyla Tomkins.” Angelina turned and followed my gaze to the screen. Her annoyance that I had looked away from the conversation quickly turned to anger. There, on television, was me, alongside the state attorney, walking into the funeral home.

  Angelina looked at me in disbelief. “You went to that woman’s memorial service?”

  “Carmen asked me to go with her.”

  “And you couldn’t say no?”

  “She’s my boss.”

  “I’m your wife. Do you have no respect for me at all?”

  “You’re making way too much of this.”

  She glared at me like she’d never glared before. I wasn’t sure if she was about to burst into tears or erupt in a rage.

  “Get out, Abe.”

  “What?”

  She wasn’t screaming, but she was on the verge. She came to me, grabbed me by the arm, pulling me from the couch. “Just get out. Go stay with J.T.”

  “Angelina, please.”

  “Go!”

  Tears were beginning to flow.

  “Please don’t—” I started to say, but she was pulling me toward the door and screaming.

  “Go, Abe. Just get the hell out!”

  She was so loud that I was afraid the neighbors might hear, not to mention one of the extra MDPD officers who had been patrolling our neighborhood since Thursday night and the arrival of those photographs of Tyla and me.

  “Get out!”

  Angelina pulled me across the room and yanked open the front door. I grabbed my keys as she literally pushed me out, and the door slammed behind me.

  I stood outside on the porch for a minute, debating whether I should actually leave. I heard my empty beer bottle smash against the door, a direct hit from across the room, which was confirmation enough.

  I walked slowly across the lawn to my car in the driveway, got inside, and started the engine. I didn’t want to leave, but I didn’t blame Angelina. The steering wheel was the closest target available, and I pounded it so hard that I thought I’d broken my fist.

  “Idiot!” I shouted, and it had nothing to do with my throbbing hand.

  The porch light went out, and the front window went dark. Angelina’s final punctuation mark. I backed out of our driveway and drove away, not sure where I was headed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I ended up at J.T.’s apartment.

  J.T. had his definite downside, but one thing that could be counted on was that if ever you showed up at his door at midnight after an argument with your wife, not a word of it would end up on Facebook, Twitter, or any other social media. He didn’t do any of it. I assured him that nothing was wrong, but even someone as self-centered as J.T. could see the worry lines etched on my face.

  “Did you and Angelina have a fight?”

  “No.”

  “Was it about me?”

  Everybody but me had ESP, and I was getting tired of it. “I just need a place to sleep.”

  His interrogation continued, and finally my only exit was to close my eyes and pretend to fall asleep on the couch. He was a late sleeper on his medication, and I made a point of leaving the next morning long before he woke.

  Belle Glade was a ninety-minute drive north, and I didn’t even have to stop by my house to freshen up. Not to prove Angelina’s point, but “emergency” overnighters at J.T.’s apartment had become so commonplace that I kept clean clothes and a toothbrush there. I reached the Farm Aid office by nine thirty. Ed drove from there. After such a horrendous week, I must have been desperate for comic relief, because it struck me as the funniest thing on earth that Ed actually owned an old Volkswagen bus, and I just couldn’t stop laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  I got control of myself. “Nothing, Shaggy.”

  I burst out laughing again.

  We drove west out of the town of Belle Glade for about ten minutes, until we had to stop at a railroad crossing deep in the middle of cane-covered farmland. An endless string of railcars passed before my eyes, brimming with mounds of freshly cut cane stalks headed for the grinding mill.

  “Six hundred thousand tons of cane every cutting season,” said Ed. “And that’s just Cortinas.”

  “How much sugar comes out of that?”

  “A shitload. And with the artificial price supports from Uncle Sam, they sell it wholesale at a guaranteed minimum of twenty-two cents a pound, compared to about eight cents for sugar grown in other countries. Big Sugar will spit in your eye and call your mother dirty names if you ever utter the words ‘corporate welfare,’ but if you add it all up across the industry, the sugar subsidy puts an extra two-point-five billion on the backs of American consumers each year.”

  Ed had an assortment of rants against the sugar industry, each packaged separately and as neatly as the pink, blue, and yellow sugar substitutes on the coffee bar. “Sounds like your next lawsuit,” I said.

  “Don’t get me started.”

  The end of the train finally passed, and the warning lights stopped flashing. The old van rocked over the rough crossing, but the next ten miles on the other side of the tracks looked exactly like the previous ten. The Cortinas family owned 12 percent of all the land in Palm Beach County, about 155,000 acres, not counting Alberto’s $20 million Mediterranean-style estate on the island of Palm Beach. Neat rows of cane sprouted from the rich bed of black soil that the slow flow of the Everglades had deposited over the last hundred thousand years, most of it decayed saw grass. Here, on Cortinas land, the waters flowed no more, except in the rainy season, when the runoff of phosphates and other pollutants from the drained wetlands found their way into the waterways and canals and became someone else’s problem.

  Ed slowed the van, and we stopped on the gravel shoulder of the road. It seemed to be no place special, sugarcane fields to the south, the mirror image to the north.

  “We’re here,” he said.

  “Where is ‘here’?”

  Ed reached across to the glove compartment, removed a yellowed newspaper, and handed it to me. It was the front page of the Palm Beach Post, dated January 17, 1986.

  “Car Crash Kills State Rep,” read the headline below the fold. The first paragraph told me why Ed had brought me to this spot:

  State representative Marshall Conrad (D. Sebring) died in a single-car crash twelve miles west of Belle Glade. The charred remains of his vehicle were found early Wednesday in a cane field. The field was undergoing a controlled burn late Tuesday night in preparation for harvesting, and workers for the Cortinas sugar company discovered the vehicle the next morning. Florida Highway Patrol reports that there were no known witnesses and that the accident is under investigation.

  I skimmed the rest of the story, but it was mostly a discussion of the victim’s record for fiscal conservatism as a state legislator and his plans to run for Congress in the upcoming fall election. Nothing further about the crash.

  “So what happened?”

  “You just read it.”

  I flicked the newspaper with my finger. “This hardly tells me anything.”

  Ed smiled and shook his head. “Welcome to the Cortinas world of privacy, power, and influence. Not another detail was ever released to the public.”

  “There must have been a police report,” I said.

  “Sealed.”

  “Medical examiner’s report?”

  “Sealed.”

  “Investigative file?”

  “Sealed.�
��

  “Why?”

  “Good question. This guy Conrad was a rising star in Florida politics. Not much help on the Everglades, but he hated Big Sugar on pure economics. He was gearing up to run a congressional campaign that would lay out the incumbent as the sugar industry’s boy—a puppet on Capitol Hill who lines the pockets of the Cortinas family with artificial price supports from the federal government.”

  Now I understood his corporate welfare rant as we’d watched the train pass. “So you’re serious? There’s no public account of how this happened?”

  “None.”

  I checked the masthead one more time, noting the year. “Nineteen eighty-six.”

  “The same year that Vernon Gallagher ended his cane cutting career.”

  “So, you’re thinking—what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Ed playfully. “A rising star in Florida politics dies in a fiery crash in a Cortinas cane field before he can challenge the sugar industry’s biggest supporter in Congress. And within months the Michael Phelps of cane cutting hangs up his machete. Coincidence? Or not?”

  I took his meaning. “The implication being that Vernon Gallagher was out in the field and knows something about the accident.”

  “Yeah,” said Ed. “Like maybe the accident was no accident.”

  “A homicide,” I said, “which has no statute of limitations.”

  “Which Tyla Tomkins would have reason to bring to your attention all these years later.”

  I glanced out the passenger side window, toward the thick cane field, then back at Ed. “We’re getting way ahead of ourselves here.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Ed restarted the engine.

  “The good news is that our next trip should be much more interesting.”

  “Next trip?” he asked.

  “Jamaica.”

  “Excellent. You’re going to Jamaica?”

  “No, we are,” I said. “Time for a little talk with Vernon Gallagher.”

  I called Angelina on the drive back from Palm Beach County. She didn’t answer, and I decided not to leave a message. Little more than twelve hours had passed since she’d thrown me out of the house. If she wasn’t ready to talk, pushing her wasn’t going to help.