Chapter 12
If their brisk jaunt through the Agate Pass had taught Rachael that five years aboard the Raft had made Maggie a competent sailor, their hell-bent race back towards the Kalakala proved her skill unequivocally.
But the masterful sailing was all in vain. A good breeze and a skilled hand at the tiller were no match for the twin diesels of a Coast Guard Motor Lifeboat.
The Soft Cell was perhaps a thousand yards out from the Kalakala as the pair of 47-foot longboats cut past, buffeting Maggie and Rachael in their wakes.
Before the prows of the approaching authorities, the main body of the Raft, encircling the ferry, began to disintegrate. Like cockroaches at the switching on of a light, the hodgepodge collection of vessels began to scatter, seeking shelter in the wooded bays and inlet of the nearby Island. Only Maggie and the Soft Cell were hurtling towards the impending confrontation. Only Maggie and Rachael.
Rachael had to smile, though she quickly swallowed any sign of her excitement the moment Maggie glanced in her direction. This was journalism, she said to herself. If nothing else, Rachael knew she was about to find herself right at the epicenter of a story. It was thrilling, in an unwise, devil-may-care sort of way. Almost every part of Rachael knew she should be forcing Maggie's hand, making her turn about and head for the safety of dryland. But some small part of Rachael was relishing in the chance to do some actual journalism.
So much of her days were spent behind a desk. There was little budget nowadays to do any sort of fieldwork at the paper – any kind of investigative reporting. Publishing a newspaper had become little more than typesetting information that came across the wire, a relic left over from a bygone age, servicing a community too indifferent to setup an RSS feeds.
Rachael had grown up admiring real journalists. Though perhaps more the television news variety than the printed reporter. They had been her inspiration to enter into journalism.
Rachael's earliest memories were of being glued to the 24-hour news channels, the likes of Christiane Amanpour reporting from some war-torn corner of the globe in Prada and a flack jacket. The mix of smoldering sexuality and danger had always thrilled Rachael. She'd imagined herself one day in the thick of some revolutionary turmoil, hurriedly delivering some insightful, biting monologue to a shaky handheld camera as bullets cracked against stucco walls behind her and soldiers screamed in pain.
The reality of journalism, however, turned out to be significantly less exotic. In the years after Rachael had graduated university, there were no more wars left for her to cover, no combat units in which to be embedded. America's foreign reach, once so limitless, had long since receded to the coastline of North America. Military budget had been cut and a weary population had put an end to the government's foreign adventures. The United States, even by the most generous patriotic estimations, was no longer a world player.
The golden age of the country, and by extension, its media had passed before Rachael had even seen her first paycheck. Journalism for Rachael was about budget negotiations and rationing committees, not evil dictators and populist rebellions.
But aboard the Soft Cell with Maggie, racing against the roaring motors of the Coast Guard boats, Rachael could sense an echo of those bygone years and the journalism she remembered from her youth. Here was a real conflict about to unfold. But instead of CNN and a news crew, it would be Rachael in the thick of the fighting. What Rachael expected to happen – she didn't even dare to guess. After all, the whole point of her being aboard the Soft Cell was to keep Maggie safe... but the chance to witness the government and the Rafters coming to blows... now that would be journalism, Rachael thought.
Despite coming last in the race, the Soft Cell made respectable time across the open Puget Sound, returning to the Kalakala. But by the time Maggie began to furl her sails, the ferry's protective shell of small craft had completely evaporated and the two Coast Guard Motor Lifeboats were moored directly off the rear car deck. Small, black, commando-like dinghies were tied to the grab rail of the ferry. It was apparent that the Coast Guard was already on board.
It seemed to take an eternity to get Maggie's small motorboat into the water. The winches whirred as Maggie lowered it from its perch at the stern of the Soft Cell. The outboard motor had to be attached next as the little dinghy bounced in the water. Eventually, after what felt like an hour, Rachael and Maggie were in the small craft and puttering the short distance to the open rear car deck of the Kalakala.
As Rachael had both feared and anticipated, all hell had broken loose aboard the ferry.
Maggie and Rachael climbed up onto the car deck to a cacophony of screams and hollers. Three uniformed Coast Guard seamen were tussling with Chemical Ali G, who'd been wrestled to the floor. The putt-putt golf course was a wreck, as a collection of Gray Beards and Arrowsoft employees screamed insults at a cluster of dark-suited men and women.
Apart from the seamen's rifles, thankfully, Maggie and Rachael could see no other weapons.
“Get off my boat!” Gandalf was screaming at a young man, holding a bundle of papers in his hand.
“Now, you have to listen to reason,” the young man was saying.
“You can serve your warrants up your ass!” Gandalf bellowed at the man and shoved him. This produced a reaction from one of the armed seamen, who broke off the attempt to handcuff Chemical and brought a weapon around to Gandalf. “You think that scares me?” Gandalf threw his hands up at the baby-faced boy with the gun. Gandalf's beard billowed around his neck as he blustered, adding intensity to his anger.
“Now, nobody start point guns at people!” Maggie strode up, quickly situating herself at ground zero in the ballyhoo. She stepped right in front of the barrel of the seaman's M16, holding up a palm to it. “This is how people's feelings get hurt. And nobody needs to be hurting anyone's feeling.”
The baby-faced seaman faltered, looking to the dark-suited young man for a cue. The man with the papers in his hands shook his head and the seaman returned his attention to the handcuffed Chemical Ali G on the putting green.
“Now, what's all the yelling about?” Maggie smiled. She spotted the three representatives of Arrowsoft, who seemed to have turned sheet white in terror.
“Maggie, talk some sense into this pencil neck,” Gandalf gave the young man a dismissive wave.
“If you'll shut up for a second, I'll try,” Maggie condescended. She took a moment to whisper something to Rachael, then turned her attention to the young man with the fistful of papers. “Now who and what are you?” she said with an impish grin.
While Maggie spoke, Rachael circled around and spoke softly to the Arrowsoft employees. She herded them quickly away from the confrontation and the men with guns.
Meanwhile, the young man with his hands full of papers sucked in a lungful of air. He'd obviously explained who he was and what he wanted few times already. “I am Special Agent Galahad with the FBI. These are my colleagues, Agents Ralph and Chesterton.” He gestured to a man and woman behind him. Then he pointed at a second woman dressed in a gray suit. “And that is Special Agent Ortiz with the IRS.” The young woman with a briefcase nodded.
“IRS?” Maggie parroted, taken aback.
“Yes, and these -” Galahad held up the papers in his hands.
“No,” Maggie shook her head, cutting him off.
“What?” The Special Agent's momentum was lost, derailed. “No what?”
“No, we don't say another word, anyone.” Maggie gave a gesture to the encircling Rafter contingent. “Until she leaves.” Maggie lowered an accusatory finger at the IRS agent. It was as if she was pointing out a harlot at a stoning.
“What, no -” Galahad began.
“No, nothing. And that's final.” Maggie stepped off, taking Gandalf by his arm, turning him away from the confrontation. Rachael had ushered the Arrowsofters up a nearby staircase and returned in time to see Gandalf and Maggie exchanging words, but Rachael couldn't make out their conversation.
T
he Special Agent shook with frustration. He threw up his arms and turned to his compatriots. They could only shrug.
The Coast Guard seamen lifted Chemical off of the car deck and to his feet, his hands firmly handcuffed behind his back. Chemical's nose was bleeding again. He certainly wasn't having a good day.
“Fine, fine!” Agent Galahad said in despair. He turned to the baby-faced seaman. “Please escort Agent Ortiz back to the MLB.”
The boy nodded and he and the IRS agent crossed the car deck back to one of the black rubber dinghies.
“Now?” Galahad asked as Maggie turned back to him, all smiles and sunshine. “Are we done with all the screaming and pushing?”
“We most certainly are,” Maggie beamed. “How can I help you, Special Agent?”
For one final time, the Special Agent held up his crumpled fistful of documents. “I have here duly notarized warrants for the search of all vessels currently abroad on the waterways of the Puget Sound, collectively and colloquially known as the Raft. If you'll take a moment to inspect -”
Maggie took the stack of documents, turned them around and read the first line of the first page. “Well, this is no good,” she interpreted.
“I think you'll find that -” the Special Agent pushed on.
“This is warrant to search a domicile.”
“Yes, a conveyance, such as a boat, that is used as -”
“In King County, in the State of Washington,” Maggie ignored the Agent. “In the United States of America. I think you'll find this has no standing, Special Agent.” She tried to hand back the stack of papers. Galahad would have none of it.
“Ms... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?”
“Maggie Straight.” Maggie was trying to push the papers into Galahad's hands. He was trying to push them back.
“Ms. Straight. I think you will find that these warrants are proper and correct, giving me the authority to search for evidence in connection to the death of Joanna Church.”
“Perhaps, Special Agent. I do not doubt these documents give you the right to do whatever you please. In the United States. But, I think you will find that this vessel you are currently aboard is officially registered in, and sails under the flag of the sovereign nation of Liberia. If you have a warrant you wish to serve aboard this ship, Special Agent, I suggest you take it up with the Liberian Embassy.”
The two stopped wrestling over the now tattered stack of papers.
Special Agent Galahad fixed Maggie with a withering stare. “I assume you have an ounce of evidence to support this claim,” the Agent muttered.
“If you care to look to the stern,” Gandalf chimed in. stepping up to the confrontation. “That is the flag of Liberia, fluttering proudly in the wind, is it not?”
There was a small flag, not much bigger than a handkerchief and almost indistinguishable from Old Glory, flapping from the roof of the car deck. But it was the flag of the state of Liberia.
“You're kidding me,” was the Agent's only response. In his shock, he accepted the crumpled mass of paper Maggie was thrusting on him.
“Do you want to go back to the judge who signed these warrants and argue it out?” Maggie crossed her arms and tilted her head. “Or would you rather be invited, as a guest, aboard this ship and each and every vessel that is collectively and colloquially known as the Raft?”
“Maggie!” Gandalf screamed. A cry of pain rose from the other Gray Beards.
Maggie raised a silencing hand.
Agent Galahad gave Maggie a sideways glance. “You'd do that?” Maggie nodded. “What's the catch?”
Maggie smiled a smile that could have melted butter. “Well, as a duly authorized law enforcement agent of the sovereign nation of Liberia, I have already begun an investigation into the death of Meer - Joanna Church. I would hope, in the spirit of international cooperation, that we might be able to collaborate on this investigation...”
There was a pause. A long, pregnant, uncomfortable pause. Seamen fidgeted with their weapons and Chemcial Ali G groaned. Everyone waited for Special Agent Galahad's reaction. Rachael took an involuntary step back, sure the whole situation was about to explode.
Then the Agent laughed. He tilted his head back and let out a guffaw. He shook his head and handed his torn mass of papers to a colleague.
“You people are insane,” Galahad laughed, rubbing his eyes.
“My thoughts exactly,” Rachael spoke up, seeing an opportunity. She stepped forward and held out a hand “Hi, I'm Rachael Bigallo with the Seattle Times. I just came aboard the Raft today myself, covering the Joanna Church story for the paper, and I have to agree with you. These Rafters are crazy. Looney toons.”
“The Seattle Times?” Galahad wasn't laughing anymore.
“Yes, Maggie here is an old friend of mine, and when I heard news that the body of a Rafter washed ashore... well, I smelled a story. And, as you know, stories about the Raft are very popular right now. Six of the top ten most read articles on our website are related in one way or another to the Raft. And with information on the ins and outs of the Raft so hard to come by... this seemed like an excellent opportunity for an exposé. For instance, I had no idea that each and every ship in the Raft is registered in Liberia.” Rachael reached into her pocket, took out a small notebook, and flipped it open. “Isn't that interesting, Special Agent? Interesting...”
“Now,” Galahad held out a hand. “Now, just because they claim their craft to be registered -”
“What was your name again, Special Agent? Galahad? One 'l' or two?”
“Now, wait a minute...”
“G-A-L...” Rachael began to write with a small pen.
“Okay, okay, okay!” Galahad waved his hands in surrender. He turned to Maggie. “If you want to play at being a cop, that's fine. If this old fool thinks some Internet site that prints out Liberian registrations makes him immune from federal law, that's fine, too. We're just here to investigate a murder. Not start an international incident. If you're all willing to cooperate, then perhaps there's no need for warrants. Can we all agree that we all want the same thing here?”
“We can, Special Agent,” Maggie replied.
“Then I don't understand why we're having this conversation.”
“As long as cooperation means a two-way street, Special Agent, we don't have a problem.”
“Good,” Galahad sighed in relief. “Good?” He turned to the handcuffed Chemical.
“Yeah, yeah. I'm peachy.” Chemical tried to smile through the blood running from his nose.
“Uncuff him,” Galahad told the seamen. “Now, in the spirit of international cooperation, do you mind telling me what you already know?”
“Of course, Special Agent,” Maggie smiled.
The Raft Page 21
