by Paul Levine
"What you're calling a shove was really just a finger to the chest, correct?"
"Stubbs took a step back. I call that a shove."
"But there was no striking, no blow with the fist, isn't that right?"
"Where I come from, you don't raise your hand to another man unless you can back it up. Unless you can go all the way. But then, maybe your client did go all the way."
"Your Honor, I move to strike the unresponsive answer."
Clive Fowles testified that Griffin instructed him to place a waterproof bag filled with cash—he didn't know how much—in a lobster trap near Black Turtle Key the day before Stubbs was shot. Usually all business, Richard Waddle had some fun with Fowles.
"Were lobsters in season, Mr. Fowles?"
"No, sir. It's only a two-day season in July."
"So, among other things, your boss is a poacher, a lobster mobster?"
"Objection. Argumentative."
"Sustained."
"All that cash is pretty unusual lobster bait, isn't it, Mr. Fowles?"
"I suppose."
"Mr. Griffin tell you what the money was for?"
"No, sir."
"But you figured it was for Ben Stubbs, didn't you?"
"Objection. Calls for a conclusion."
"Overruled."
"I thought the money might be for him, sir."
"So, even though lobsters aren't in season, public officials are?"
Waddle tried to get Fowles to corroborate Robinson's version of the argument between Griffin and Stubbs, but the boat captain had developed a case of witness blindness, aka three-monkey disease. He heard no evil, saw no evil, spoke no evil.
"Come now, Mr. Fowles, are you telling the jury you didn't observe the exchange of words between the two men?"
"I have a habit of tending to my own business."
"You like Mr. Griffin, don't you?"
"He's a good man."
"A good man who signs your paychecks, correct?"
Okay, point made, Victoria thought. Fowles was being loyal to his boss, and the jury would see that.
All three witnesses agreed that the others had gone ashore before the boat left the dock. Standing on the dock, Leicester Robinson and Delia Bustamante watched Junior dive off the bridge and swim away.
The lunch recess was just minutes away when Victoria spotted Steve in the gallery, sitting next to Sheriff Rask. She hadn't known Steve was coming. No calls, he just showed up.
After the judge called the noon recess and Griffin hurried to the outside patio to sneak a smoke, Steve sauntered up to the defense table. "Hey, Vic. How's it going?"
She shrugged. "You know how it is. Some moments are better than others."
"Getting crucified, huh?"
"I see you're making nice with the opposition."
"Willis keeps me updated on Conchy Conklin."
"They find him yet?"
"He's disappeared. But if he's still in the Keys, they'll get him. There's only a finite number of bars."
"A large, finite number."
"How 'bout lunch?"
"Oh, I'm meeting Junior."
"Ah."
"I need to prep him."
"Can never prep enough. Especially dim witnesses."
Too tired to fight, she let it go. "Have you been working on your father's case?"
"Don't want to talk about it." Like a proper gentleman, Steve grabbed her briefcase and walked her out of the courtroom. "How's your mom?"
"Don't want to talk about her."
Not now, she thought. Later, when the trial was over, she'd tell Steve about her mother's latest dramatics. Her father's suicide note and the mystery around it.
Father's alleged suicide note. Wondering if she could believe anything her mother told her.
They rode the elevator in silence. In the lobby, Steve seemed to want to hand over her briefcase but didn't know quite when and how to do it. It was like a lousy first date that neither party knew how to end. They left the building, and as they passed the kapok tree on the courthouse lawn, Steve said: "Look, this is ridiculous. If you need any help . . ."
She stopped in the shade of the tree, which bloomed with red flowers.
Sure I need help. With the case. With my mother. With my life.
"Thanks, Steve. I . . ."
"Excuse me, mate." Fowles approached, looking a little bashful at the interruption. "Ms. Lord."
"You've been excused, Mr. Fowles," Victoria said. "If you want to go home, you can."
"Oh, I know that. I just . . ." He was fumbling with his hands as if he didn't know quite where they belonged. "How's it going, do you think?"
"Too early to tell. But you did fine. Really."
"I hope it turns out okay. For Mr. G, I mean. No way he would have killed that arse-wipe."
"Now, there's a closing argument if ever I heard one," Steve said.
"Good luck, then." Fowles raised his right hand, two fingers spread, in his Winston Churchill mode. "V for Victory, Ms. Lord."
"Thank you, Clive."
Fowles seemed to have run out of things to say. "Think I'll go have a pint."
"Bar's right across the street," Steve said. "The Green Parrot."
"Don't I know it." Fowles let himself smile. As if on cue, a bell clanged inside the old bar, signaling that someone had just tipped the bartender.
Fowles nodded his good-byes and headed across Whitehead Street.
"What's with him?" Steve asked.
"If Uncle Grif is convicted, he's out of work."
"Yeah, maybe." Steve watched Fowles disappear into the bar, passing under the sign in the doorway: No Sniveling Since 1890. "Anyway, like I said, Vic, if you need anything, I'm here for you."
Do I need anything? Let's make a list. Peace of mind. Self-confidence. And a stunning cross-examination wouldn't hurt, either.
"I'm fine," she said.
"How are your experts coming along?"
"The prof from Columbia will say it's possible Stubbs shot himself loading the speargun. The angle of entry is a little problematic, but it might work."
"Except ...?"
"What you said that first day. We can sell one improbability to the jury, but when we start compounding improbables, we lose."
"Griffin being knocked unconscious being the second improbable."
"Without an explanation, it kills us. If we're saying Stubbs shot himself, then there's no assailant hiding on board who also knocks out Griffin. We're stuck arguing that Griffin fell down the ladder and conveniently knocked himself out. No one will buy it. Hell, I don't buy it."
"You check the weather for that day?"
"I remember the weather. It was warm and clear. We were standing in the surf, and you were trying to get into my bikini."
"The way I remember it, you were putting the moves on me."
"Just one of our many differing observations."
"You really should check the weather with NOAA."
"Eighty-one degrees, sixty-nine percent humidity. Southeast wind at ten to twelve knots. Light chop on inland waters. Three foot seas." She gave him her best smart-ass smile. The smile she'd picked up from him. "Like to know the barometric pressure?"
"What about the Coast Guard?"
"What about them?"
"Any boats capsize? Any rescues in the area? Maybe there was a rogue wave. A mini-tsunami."
"A mini-tsunami? Why not Moses parting the Gulf?
You want to add another improbable? I know you're
trying to help, Steve. Sorry if I'm being bitchy." "No problem." She took the briefcase from his hand. "Thanks. I've
got to go. Meet—" "Junior for lunch," Steve said. "I know."
Forty-three
LOOKING INTO THE PAST
"The Coast Guard rescued a couple fishermen off Raccoon Key, but nothing else that day," Bobby said.
"The fishermen report any rogue waves?" Steve asked.
"They reported drinking a case of Bud and one guy hooking the other's ear with a
shank barb." The kid gave him a told-you-so smirk. "Then they ran the boat onto a sandbar."
"It was worth a shot."
They were aboard Herbert's sagging houseboat, Bobby working at his laptop computer, a printed map of the Eastern Gulf spread in front of him. As soon as Steve stepped onto the creaky deck, Herbert took off, claiming he had to run errands. Steve wondered if his father was avoiding him, but in truth, the cupboards were bare of Bacardi.
"I checked the satellite photos, Uncle Steve. No tidal waves, no tsunamis, no flying saucers."
"Don't you start with me, too. Victoria already gave me grief."
"So maybe Mr. Griffin just fell down the ladder."
"Dammit, don't give up so easily."
"You mad at me about something, Uncle Steve?"
"Sorry. I missed lunch. I'm just hungry."
"You're horny. You miss Victoria."
"Mind your own business." Steve leaned over Bobby's shoulder. "What's that on the screen?"
"A shot from the NOAA Eastern Gulf satellite. The day of the boat crash." Steve peered at the monitor: green islands in a turquoise sea. Bobby pointed to a white speck on the screen. "There's the Force Majeure."
"No shit?"
"Cool, huh? I followed it all the way to Key West, except for when it got cloudy around Big Torch Key."
"The picture on the monitor now. Where is that?"
"Just west of Black Turtle Key. The island there..." He pointed at a tiny green speck. ". . . it's got no name. That's where Mr. Griffin stopped to pick up the lobsters."
"And the money. Don't forget about the money." Steve studied the image. There was another boat visible on the screen. Thinner and nearly as long as the Force Majeure. "How far away is that boat?"
"Little more than a mile. You can tell from the grid lines."
"Can you back up the pictures? Follow the Force Majeure all the way from Paradise Key?"
"I know what you're thinking, Uncle Steve. Did that other boat trail them out there and somebody come aboard and shoot Mr. Stubbs. But that boat got there first, then just sort of stayed in the same spot for a while."
Steve strained his eyes, staring at the long thin boat, a blade in the water. It wasn't a typical fishing boat. More like a speedboat. A Fountain Lightning, or a Magnum, or a Cigarette. Capable of astounding speeds. What was it doing anchored or idling in the middle of nowhere? Of course, the answer could be innocent. The occupants could have been having a picnic or a nap or an orgy.
"Where'd the boat come from? Did you track it back?"
Bobby shook his head. "I told you, it got there before the Force Majeure, so I didn't think it meant anything."
"Do it now."
Bobby made a face, hit some keys, and the screen flicked with dozens of images. Time was being reversed, the long skinny boat heading back to wherever it departed shore. The photos finally stopped at an overhead view of scores of boats lined up at several parallel docks.
"Where are we?" Steve asked.
Bobby checked the coordinates against his map. "A marina on Lower Matecumbe Key."
"What time is it?"
In the corner of the screen was the digital readout: "15:51 GMT."
"Ten-fifty-one a.m, our time," Bobby said.
"The Force Majeure left Paradise Key fourteen minutes earlier," Steve said. Remembering the time code on the security cameras. "Start it up again, Bobby. Let's see how close the mystery boat comes to Paradise Key."
The images clicked by again, the boat nearing the tip of Griffin's island.
"Does it stop anywhere?" Steve asked.
"I don't know. I just speed-clicked through these before. I mean, it didn't seem important. There's no way it followed the Force Majeure."
"Don't get defensive. You're doing a great job, kiddo. Now, please slow it down."
Bobby hit more keys. On the screen, the boat remained in the same place inside one of the grids. Then it started moving again. "There, Uncle Steve. It's stopped, but only for like thirty seconds."
"And that's Paradise Key." Even from high altitude, he could spot the lagoon with the huge house on the small island. "Maybe two miles away, right?"
"I know what you're thinking, Uncle Steve."
"Oh, you do?"
"Yeah. You think Junior Griffin swam out to meet the boat. It picked him up and took him to the no-name island. He waited for the Force Majeure, sneaked aboard, and shot Mr. Stubbs with the speargun."
"The thought crossed my mind." He gestured toward the screen. "Keep going."
Bobby clicked to fast-forward mode. After a blur of images, the photos slowed to a crawl. Now both boats were on the screen. "This is where the speedboat passes the Force Majeure."
"How fast they going?"
"Really fast. Like maybe fifty knots."
"In a big hurry to go nowhere."
The mystery boat slowed as it approached Black Turtle Key. Precisely where Griffin's lobster traps were submerged just offshore a no-name island. Bobby had been partly right. The boat hadn't followed the Force Majeure. It didn't have to; it got there first.
"Look at that." Steve thumped the monitor with a finger. "The bastards stopped. Just like they did off Paradise Key." He watched the seconds tick away on the digital clock on the screen.
Twenty-three seconds.
Long enough to let somebody slip into the water. Somebody like Junior Griffin, who could wait for the Force Majeure to arrive. The mystery boat moved away from the no-name island, then stopped about one mile away. The Force Majeure came into the picture and neared the island.
And suddenly, Steve knew. "Oh, shit!"
"What?"
"Junior didn't swim out there to meet the fast boat. He's not the one they picked up. He's not the one they dropped off."
"But you said—"
"I wish the son-of-a-bitch was the guy, but he's not."
"How do you know?"
"Because Junior didn't know the Force Majeure was stopping there. Griffin swears he never told Junior. And there's no reason to lie about it. Four people got off the Force Majeure before it left Paradise Key. They all knew the boat was going to Key West. But only one knew it was stopping to pick up lobsters and money."
"Who?"
"The guy who baited the traps and put the money in the pots. The guy who's in love with a woman who sautés snapper with bananas. The guy who could get off Paradise Key without being seen, riding his underwater chariot."
"Clive Fowles? Are you sure, Uncle Steve? Maybe Junior and Fowles did it together. Remember when you got thrown out of the hospital?" Bobby held up his right hand and spread two fingers, just as Stubbs had done in the ICU. "Two men attacked Stubbs. Isn't that what he meant?"
"Higher."
"What?"
"Stubbs was trying to raise his hand higher, but he
couldn't." Bobby raised his hand over his head. "Like this?" The boy didn't look exactly like Winston Churchill,
but close enough.
" 'V for Victory,' " Steve said. "The British submariner's favorite expression. Stubbs was trying to tell me Fowles killed him."
"Wow," Bobby said. "What now?"
"I've got to see a man about a chariot."
Forty-four
THE HUMAN TORPEDO
The device looked like a torpedo with two seats cut into it. Horace Fowles' sixty-year-old underwater chariot. His grandson, Clive Fowles, was hoisting the rusty cylinder onto the platform at the stern of his sparkling new dive boat.
"Need a hand?" Steve walked up to the dock on Paradise Key.
"Thanks, mate. Wouldn't hurt."
Steve hopped onto the rear deck of the boat and put both hands on the nose of the chariot. Fowles turned a winch handle, and two ropes unfurled from a double-sheaved block, lowering the old contraption toward the dive platform.
"Easy now," Fowles urged, giving up a little rope as Steve guided the chariot into place. The craft settled into an indentation in the dive platform, as snug as a gun in a holster.
"Pretty good fit," Steve said.
"It better be, after what Mr. G spent customizing the boat to my specs."
"And your grandfather's specs." Steve pointed at the lettering on the stern of the dive boat: "Fowles' Folly. Wasn't that the name of his midget sub?"
"Right. After Horace graduated from chariots. You remembered."
"Hard to forget. A Norwegian fjord. Your grandfather captains a little tin can that takes on a massive German battleship."
"The Tirpitz."
"David and Goliath."
"It was a miracle he even got into the fjord. Did I tell you Grandpop had to crawl out of the sub and use his knife to cut a mine off the tow line? Can you picture that, Solomon?"
"Not without breaking into a sweat."
"The North Sea's got all these freshwater layers, so it's hard as hell to maintain a trim. The Folly keeps popping out of the water like a crazed porpoise. When she gets to the Tirpitz, there's my grandpop, in the water again, attaching explosives to the big bastard's hull with German sailors firing at him. How would you describe a man like that?"
"The words 'bravery' and 'courage' don't seem to do him justice."
"You're damned right, Solomon. You understand." He swung the block and tackle out of the way and offered a hand to Steve to pull him back onto the dock. "Some people, I tell the story and they don't get it at all."
"I guess I'm attuned to the legacies our fathers leave us. Grandfathers, too, for that matter."
"I tried to live up to mine. Did my part in the Royal Navy."
"But like you said before, the Falklands and the Argentines weren't exactly the North Sea and the Nazis."
Fowles sat down on the edge of the dock and pulled out a small cigar. He put it in his mouth but didn't light it. "What are you getting at, Solomon?"
Steve sat down next to him. "Yesterday, when I was coming out of the courthouse, you wanted something."
"A Guinness Stout. The Green Parrot, mate."
"You asked about the case. You seemed worried about Griffin."
"Sure, I am. I hope he gets off."
"Because you know he's innocent."
Fowles took his time lighting the cigar. A breeze whipped off the water and the flame wouldn't catch. "I think Mr. G's innocent, but how would I know?"
Steve nearly said it then. Nearly said: "You know because you headed underwater on your chariot just like your grandfather in his midget sub. You know because someone in a fast boat picked you up and followed your directions to a nameless island just off Black Turtle Key. You know because you were there."
