by Jim Markson
“True enough,” Mike responded, ending the conversation just as Tammy delivered a hot breakfast and more small talk to the table.
“So you said you had some boat trouble last night?” she asked.
“Nothing big really. Got a small sailboat and hit a rough patch out in the dark last night. Need to make a few repairs; we’re taking something of a leisure cruise down the Inland Coastal Waterway.”
“You aren’t one of them knuckleheads I heard about trying to kayak all the way from Tampa down to Key West by any chance, are you?”
“Well, we aren’t supposed to admit it, and I’ve got a small sailboat rather than a kayak, but yes, we’re one of the knuckleheads,” Mike responded, maybe with a sense of pride at being recognized for his adventurous spirit.
“You sure are slow! A whole bunch of them kayakers passed through here yesterday and got a quick meal before I even closed. And then I saw a whole herd more on my way home going over the bridge. And they didn’t even have no sails; they were just plugging away with their oars … mostly looked like real old guys too. Ain’t they got any time limit on how long it takes to finish?”
So much for Mike’s pride and adventurous spirit. According to Tammy, he was not only slow, but lazy. He almost started to explain the inherent complications of using wind to drive a boat rather than the direct propulsion of paddling; the berth and stability factors designed into sailing craft that resulted in slower speeds in light winds; the fact that they had gotten run over in the middle of the night by some clueless, probably drunk, motor-boater and were lucky to even be alive.
He almost started to explain, but he didn’t. “Yea, I guess you could say we’re slow” Mike said with a resigned smile. “But like you said, what’s the rush, right? We’re here in paradise, why hurry out?” But he couldn’t resist a final jab. “Besides, my brother built the boat, and it’s slower than a swimming cow.” Mike desperately wanted to look at this brother and see how much of a reaction he had been able to evoke, but avoided the temptation, dead-panning the line as best he could.
“Ah, don’t worry little Jimmie, it was a little rough out there yesterday, especially early on. And I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You may be younger and stronger than them old guys I saw, but for some reason, I got a feeling you don’t have as much to prove as they might. You stay safe…” Tammy paused before adding, “But if you are going back out there, remember Mass is at 11:00; it couldn’t hurt.” She chuckled to herself again as she put the check on the table.
Mike asked if there was a hardware store in town that might be open, and Tammy provided instructions to a store a few blocks over that would be opening in just about the time it would take to walk there. Mike left a big tip for the very moderately-priced breakfast, and as the two walked out of the empty restaurant, the first regular customers were walking up the steps.
The sun was fully awake as the boys walked over to the hardware store and, just as Tammy had predicted, the store was opening up as they arrived. They threw some wood screws, caulking, a yard of canvass, thread and needle, and a few small lengths of lumber in the handbasket. Neither could remember whether they still had a screwdriver, so they bought one just to be sure. They weren’t sure why, but they bought a roll of duct tape—it was so utilitarian you just couldn’t have too much duct tape. The hardware fit into one small bag, and the lumber was carried easily over the shoulder as Mike paid with his credit card, glad that it was his habit to keep a zero monthly balance now that he was totally dependent on its available credit.
“You don’t happen to know where there is an open liquor store, do you?” Mike asked the cashier as they checked out.
“You have got to be kidding me!” John mumbled as they were walking out, after the clerk had provided directions. “It’s Sunday morning! It’s barely 09:00! And you’re asking after a liquor store? Are you aware that these are indications you have a problem? Are you gonna try to rustle up a weed dealer also, Detective?”
“Wow, that’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” Mike responded lackadaisically. “First of all, this is Florida, where the use of liquor is promoted by the state 24/7 as evidenced by the very fact that there is a liquor store open at this obscene hour on a Sunday morning. I submit that, if it were not government policy to encourage the consumption of alcoholic beverages this morning, these establishments would not be granted a license to operate during said hours. I prefer to view the purchase as my civic duty … do you know how much tax income the state derives from liquor sales?”
“Further, my inhibited and puritanical brother, I highlight the fact that I am on vacation. While I can’t speak authoritatively on the habits of your brethren in military uniform, as a general rule, we in law enforcement tend to indulge the spirits when we are on vacation. While it might be argued that my eager and early consumption on this particular boat trip might be interpreted as an early-warning indicator, I prefer the alternate view that it is a timely, appropriate, and therapeutic response to the afflictions associated with work in the modern world. Besides, we’re sailors, and sailors drink.”
“And finally, as for your insensitive comments about the possible consumption of cannabis, I would like to highlight to you that I never even got to touch the insides of the bag … thank you once again for watching it bob away on the waves, all of about five feet away from you, while you clung to the boat like a scared little girl.”
“And no, I do not intend to try to buy some more. While I may exceed your risk tolerance on this free-spirited sailing adventure, I am not foolhardy. Despite your assertions to the contrary, my judgment is impeccable and, as a veteran law enforcement officer with significant experience at the federal, state, and local levels, I am aware that the purchase of illicit substances in an unfamiliar environment is always an extremely dangerous undertaking.”
At the liquor store, Mike bought three bottles of Wild Turkey bourbon and a single bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, offering the exaggerated explanation to an uninterested sales clerk that he was setting out on an epic boating adventure, and was not sure when he would next see land, let alone the inside of a liquor store. Mike asked that the bottles be triple wrapped in paper bags to avoid them banging against each other.
They walked back to the boat in silence, Mike only now beginning to understand the depth of the sentiments his brother held regarding the liquor purchases. They had gone through awkward disagreements in the past, and they had both learned there was rarely anything productive that would come out of additional conversation. The situation was what it was, and talking wasn’t going to change it. Besides, despite all the cavalier rhetoric, Mike Kelly was well aware of his problems and the downward spiral he had been on for the last several months. But that was what the trip was all about, right? The sun had come up this morning, he was still alive, hope sprang eternal; sometimes whether you wanted it to or not. Mike didn’t mention that, in the back of his mind, he had been thinking about going to Mass ever since they left Tammy’s.
By the time they had efficiently made repairs to the mast collar and the boom, re-filled the water jugs, and stashed the liquor below the bow plank, it was approaching the middle of the day and the temperature was warm. Their first conversation of substance since leaving the liquor store was whether to wear their dry suits. The weather was fine and conditions looked fair but, as they had learned the prior evening, things could change quickly. Despite the warmth of the beach, it was still March, and if they were tossed overboard, the water was cold and hypothermia would soon become a very real concern. The boat was too small to put the dry suits on while they were out on the water, so it was agreed they would put the suits on, but leave the top half unzipped and hanging from their hips in order to prevent overheating. They both wore special-blend long-sleeved white T-shirts that protected against sunburn, and were also good at wicking sweat away from the body.
They pulled the boat down to the water’s edge and John did a final walk-around, looking for any damage they might have m
issed earlier in the morning. The wind was blowing inland from the west and Mike suggested the obvious, that they row out past the breakers, and then head due south along the coast of the island. The initial plan had been to go on the inside of Anna Maria Island, sailing on the more gentle water of the Inland Coastal Waterway, or ICW as it was known in boating shorthand. But the mishap of the prior evening had resulted in their beaching on the western, outer side of the island, which faced the Gulf of Mexico, and the possibility of back-tracking up to the northern end of the island just to get into the ICW was never even mentioned. Neither really considered themselves genuine competitors in the EcoLoco Challenge, but they had been on the water enough throughout their lives that they had no inherent fear of the Gulf of Mexico. It would be a challenging sail, but as long as the wind and waves didn’t pick up too much, they would be able to make good time sailing at a 90-degree angle to the wind. The plan was to keep the shore in sight and, in another nine miles or so, they would be able to see the opening of Longboat Pass, where they could enter into the relative safety of Sarasota Bay, and get back in line with the kayakers who had apparently forged the more efficient path many hours prior.
The boys experienced no problems getting off the beach, sailing southwest until they were approximately 300 yards off shore. The water was still shallow, maybe nine feet, and the waves were mild and rolling as the boat turned more directly toward the south. No longer plowing through the waves at an angle, but sailing parallel to them, made for a significant side-to-side rolling of the type that frequently prompted sea sickness in new sailors, but it wasn’t bothering either of the boys this morning. There was regular wash-over into the boat, but that was easily handled with the bail bucket and, all things considered, both brothers quickly began to relax, settling into their habits and enjoying the quiet sea and sun. Lost in their own thoughts, Mike wondered at the human condition, and how the events of the prior evening, and even the friction of a few hours earlier, could so quickly and easily be washed away in the rocking contentment of the tiny boat. He pulled one of the jugs of water out from below the mid-plank and took a long drink before silently passing it to his brother. John accepted without a word being spoken, took a similar long drink, and left the jug out on the floor of the boat between the two.
V
While Mike Kelly had been frustrated with what he considered to be the unsatisfying conclusion to the boiler room investigation in North Miami, he did not let his frustration show, and continued pursuit of other cases with an unrelenting enthusiasm and aggressiveness. He eagerly learned about narcotics investigations, playing a supporting role on several important cases that resulted in the prosecution of some regional dealers. His heart, however, was not invested in the cases and, in truth, he felt the war-on-drugs was unwinnable using traditional law enforcement methods.
While most of the Special Agents working on the drug task force were drawn to the traditional targets of marijuana, cocaine, and heroin networks that seemed to inevitably originate from one Latin American country or the other, Mike found himself once again veering from the main stream and taking the lead in working against the growing population of “pain clinics” that seemed to be popping up on virtually every street corner of South Florida. There had been no hue and outcry against these clinics and, although it would eventually become a favorite topic of politicians and the media, at the time, Mike was the only one sounding the alarm.
Based on information from a source who had been arrested for heroin distribution and was looking to minimize his jail term, Mike learned about the pernicious qualities of prescription drugs like Oxycodone and Oxycontin that were liberally distributed from the pain clinics under the cover of genuine medical practice. Synthesized from the same poppy plant that produces heroin, Oxycodone was first developed in 1916 with the initial and noble intent of helping those in great pain, primarily wounded soldiers in battle. He learned how these synthetic drugs had been tailored to mimic the pain relief provided by opiate treatments like morphine, but with fewer of the side effects such as nausea. While the initial intent included hopes that the drug would be less addictive, advancements in chemical science ironically produced a product that could be used more often, with more focused intensity and fewer side effects, and eventually landed up being even more addictive than heroin in the long run.
As with morphine, the use of Oxycodone had quickly been subverted by those suffering from emotional or mental ailments for which it was never intended. The Oxycontin version provided a time-released tablet that made it possible to experience the effects without the use being readily apparent to anyone other than the user. But regardless the method or brand name, it quickly became a spiderweb from which there was no easy escape. Those abusing the drug had been drawn to its numbing effect as a result of psychological or emotional injuries, and the drugs only compounded and buried the root cause of the problem deeper into the abyss. The escape provided by the drug eventually and inevitably made it the overriding object of desire in the user’s life and, much like heroin years before, diminished the apparent value of everything else in the user’s life.
What had captured Mike’s intense interest was that, unlike other drug abuse schemes that law enforcement typically prosecuted, Oxycodone was openly marketed and promoted under the cover of legitimate health management. As a kid, Mike had heard grown-ups talk about “pushers” of marijuana, dealers who offered unsuspecting youths free marijuana in an attempt to get them “hooked”, a practice authorities warned would inevitably lead to a life of crime and destitution while lining the pockets of the dealers. Mike had never actually seen this dynamic in action at the time.
But now, despite an awareness that his comments sounded like a 1960s government warning movie trailer, he had absolutely no doubt that the pain clinics spreading through South Florida were acting as the “pushers” his elders had warned him about many years ago. Although they were in no way the innocent flowers of youth portrayed in the ’60s government propaganda, users would wander into one of these clinics and complain of chronic pain of one sort or the other, and would inevitably walk out with a prescription for Oxycodone. Typically, they would save some for their own use, and sell the balance of the prescription to others who were further down the road of addiction. The whole enterprise operated out in the open, under the cover of legitimate medicine, and, while the media and establishment would eventually awaken to the growing epidemic, at the time, Mike felt very alone in his outrage over the legal distribution of these drugs.
As he looked closer at the illicit industry, he began to uncover the attributes of a traditional organized crime industry. Principals would open up “clinics” in strip malls, he estimated at the rate of one every week, and would hire a physician typically trained abroad and who held little hope of being successful with a mainstream medical practice. All they had to do was hang a sign from the roof bearing the words pain management, and the clients would begin showing up on an ever-increasing basis.
The enterprises varied in how much they tried to cover what they were doing. Some would dispense prescriptions based on nothing more than a complaint of an old back injury, while the more sophisticated would require the patient to get an X-ray or an MRI, which could inevitably be interpreted as showing some symptoms of arthritis or some other anomaly that ostensibly could be causing pain to justify the issuance of the prescription.
The more Mike investigated the initial comments of his source, the more he realized that the size and scope of the problem was completely overwhelming. He had verified reports from his source that groups were traveling into South Florida from other states to visit the clinics and immediately returning home to distribute the pills, which typically sold for twenty to thirty dollars per pill, depending on where they eventually got re-sold. A drive through the parking lot in front of any one of these pain clinics would inevitably reveal at least a few license plates from Kentucky and Ohio, although Mike was not sure how or why these states were so connected with the distri
bution schemes.
He had initially brought his concerns to one of the Supervisory Special Agents on the Counter-Narcotics Task Force (CNTF) and, while he listened patiently, it was clear he thought of the issue as a second-rate threat involving relatively safe prescription drug abuse, not the epidemic Mike was describing. Despite his doubt however, he agreed to allow Mike to discuss the issues with the Assistant State Attorney, or ASA, who was working exclusively on CNTF cases.
The ASA handling CNTF cases for Dade County was Ricardo Blanchard, a young, aggressive, and charismatic Cuban who would eventually enter politics and do very well. He was hard-working and well-intentioned, and intrigued by Mike’s reporting on the alleged epidemic of Oxycodone abuse, and the network of pain clinics that served as a distribution network. As Mike relayed his initial findings, Blanchard immediately recalled half a dozen pain clinics that he passed every day on his way to and from his office in downtown Miami, but he had never stopped to wonder what the hell was going on. Although he had never heard anyone else speak about the scope of the problems Mike was reporting, Blanchard found every aspect of Mike’s reporting credible. And the passion in Mike’s voice when he talked about what he was uncovering could not help but stir the dust off some of those loftier goals Blanchard had held when he first applied to law school. And the more he thought about it, the more Ricardo’s mind turned to the question of whether this could be an opportunity to make a name for himself, a chance to finally boost himself into the big leagues of politics.