Mid Ocean

by T Rafael Cimino

  “Mr. Harris, Roberto Alazar to see you,” she said in a smooth voice over the telephone’s intercom.

  “Send him in, Brittany,” Harris replied confidently without lifting his head from the back of the chair.

  “Roberto! ¿Cómo estás? Y Gordo!” Harris said as he rose to greet his valued clients, trying to put forth his best gringo-tuned Spanish.

  “How are you doing Clyde?”

  “Not bad, and you? How’s that beautiful granddaughter of yours?”

  “Getting bigger, and wiser.”

  “I bet she is,” Harris responded, interjecting a redundant chuckle.

  “What brings you here? You sounded worried on the phone?”

  “Well it’s probably nothing, just some typical harassment. But three of the people I do business with have been questioned and subpoenaed to testify at a grand jury. I don’t understand what’s going on,” Alazar said, his tone growing softer and more troubled as he handed his lawyer two stapled pages, each with the familiar Department of Justice letterhead.

  “These were given to the people after they eluded the investigators’ questions.”

  “I see, what type of business are we doing with these people?” Harris asked as he examined the papers.

  “Just regular business, you know, the pool man, the people who supply the restaurant I bought my cousin, shit even the guy who tiled my house last month.”

  “They must have been watching you for awhile Roberto. What we have here are several subpoenas for people to testify at a grand jury, one that has probably already been sequestered. Wait a minute…this is strange…why are they flying these people to Atlanta?”

  “Gee Clyde, I don’t know. Why are they flying these people to Atlanta?” Roberto asked naively, not expecting his savior Clyde Harris to be perplexed by anything.

  “This is going to take some digging,” Harris said as he looked at the second page of the subpoena. “Roberto, subpoenas are cut on two different government forms. The first details the witness’s name, address and other pertinent information. The second contains a listing of individuals, corporations or entities in which the government needs information in making its case.”

  Harris recognized some of the names listed on the second page. The instructions preceding them were crystal clear.

  •

  United States District Court

  Witness Summons

  You are hereby directed by the government of the United States to testify with full truthfulness to the events, transactions and persons involved with the case or cases pending before the Justice Department.

  Roberto Anthony Alazar

  Roberto Anthony Alazar, Jr., aka “Bobby” Alazar

  Morema Eniquez Alazar

  Monica Jade Alazar

  Tessa Sands Alazar

  Philipe Jesus Alazar, aka “Gordo” Alazar

  Café Con Leche Restaurant, Inc.

  Peter Delgado

  Scott Roberts

  Redland Ventures, Inc.

  Indian Powerboats, Inc.

  •

  “By the way Roberto, who is Tessa again?” Harris asked, pointing halfway down the second page.

  “Probably the biggest part of the problem. She is Bobby’s wife.”

  “I’m sorry Roberto. What part does she play in all of this?”

  “Bobby and Tessa married while they attended Miami-Dade Community College, despite Mima and my objections. Bobby was immature and I know he treated her bad. They were probably ready to separate before he was killed. Now she has disappeared, her and our baby Monica. Mima is still at home worried sick about this.”

  “Besides the obvious pain she is inflicting by preventing you from seeing Monica, and let me add, we can probably do something about that, is there anything else I should know about her, or should I ask, how well does she know you and Bobby’s business transactions?”

  “Well Clyde, you knew Bobby. He was a dreamer. Always fantasizing about the mafia and this new show, Miami Vice. Well this girl he married, her father is a special agent with the Customs Service. This is probably where she is right now.”

  “Wait a minute Roberto, this is starting to get complicated. You mean to tell me that Bobby, your deceased son, married the daughter of a Customs Special Agent?”

  “Yes sir, he did,” Alazar said, holding up his right hand as though to add credence to his statement.

  “What we need to do, Roberto, is think clearly. We need to be prepared before anything happens.”

  “Okay, now we’re talking. Where do we start?”

  “Well first we need to get a PI, a good one. These fucking agents from the Department of Justice can be real intimidating. Our guy needs to be able to tell them it’s okay, they can still keep their mouths shut and remain safe.”

  “Is that legal?” Gordo asked.

  “It’s just,” Harris replied with an affirmative nod from Alazar.

  “Second, you need to, and I don’t want to know about it, stop anything you are doing or are planning to do. One arrest, even a petty charge, could get this whole thing blown way out of proportion. That could give the prosecutor the right to get writs of disclosure out the ass. No, now is the time to play things cool.”

  “That sounds real good but what you’re asking me to do is shut down my whole operation. The people who depend on my crews and me will go elsewhere, soon they will forget about me. You know me, I’m not one to run rabbit. Is this that serious that everything must stop?”

  “Yes it is,” Harris answered directly.

  Roberto Alazar sat back into the deeply padded chair. All of his anger was now focused in one direction: the system. The government of which he had battled since he left Cuba, the system that killed his father working as a peasant for the aristocrats in Miami.

  “Okay Clyde, you’ve got a deal. I just don’t know what I’m going to do with all this time,” he said. “I’ll have to find something.”

  “That’s the attitude I like to see,” Harris replied in an anal-retentive sort of way.

  “You’re the boss, Clyde.”

  “This is what I’m gonna do,” Harris explained, ignoring Roberto’s last comment. “First, like I said, we need to hire a private investigator. I have a man - he’s expensive, but good. He’ll need to talk to anyone who has had contact with these agents. While we’re at it, I’ll have him locate Tessa and keep an eye on her. That situation concerns me. Next I’ll need to file an FOIA…”

  “Wait a minute Clyde, slow down.”

  “FOIA, Freedom of Information Act. I’ll file it through DOJ, Department of Justice, and they, by the way, have to disclose the details of their investigation.”

  “How long will all this take?”

  “It shouldn’t take too long. I’ll file it in the morning.”

  “Good,” Roberto said with a breathing sigh of relief.

  “I’m gonna need some money to get things started.”

  “I brought fifteen,” Roberto answered as Gordo reached into his gym bag.

  “This should hold us over until we meet again,” Harris answered as he watched the pile of twenties and fifties grow on his desk.

  “Listen, one more thing, as per the Omnibus Crime Control Act, when asked, I am supposed to report how much, and where your legal fees came from. As far as I’m concerned, we didn’t see this transaction.”

  “Whatever Clyde, you know what you’re doing my friend. When you find something out, beep us. We’ll be waiting.”

  •

  Five minutes later, Clyde Harris was on the phone.

  “United States Attorney’s Office, Second District, how can I help you?”

  “Hello, Pat Stephens please.”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Clyde Harris, representing Roberto Alazar,” Harris said, sucking on a bitter lozenge, swirling it around in his mouth with his tongue. With his feet propped up on the solid oak desk, he punched the speakerphone button on his new multi-line black phone system console. Harri
s always got a kick out of hearing the radio stations broadcasted over the hold system, especially when it was some city far from Miami.

  “WATL Atlanta! The weather today will be in the low to mid twenties with expected snow flurries by sundown. The forecast for North Georgia/South Tennessee looks like snow, snow, snow for the next three days! Now back to some music on Atlanta’s hot FM WA…”

  “Clyde, how’s things in Miami?”

  “Busy, thanks to you guys.”

  “Oh, you’re breaking my heart. Just doing my job, you know, perking up the old per diem.”

  “Yeah, look I’ve been retained to represent someone your office has had a lot of interest in. A potential target.”

  “Potential?” Stephens questioned.

  “Roberto Alazar, Senior.”

  “Not potential, he’s a target. Confirmed, the real deal.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not why I called…”

  “I’m glad to see Mr. Alazar can afford the best, you being an accountant and all, but if your client thinks this is just about taxes, well…” Stephens said as he chuckled into the mouthpiece, “Roberto’s got bigger problems than that.”

  “Would you like to expound?”

  “In time, Clyde, in time.”

  “Well then tell me this my old friend - why is such an important political figure like yourself handling such a typical case, you being in Atlanta and all?”

  “Can’t comment on that ole pal,” Stephens replied without acknowledging the compliment.

  “Come on! You know…”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, bet you told him you’d file an FOIA. By the time the six months have passed, your client will have already pled this case out. Tell Roberto not to worry, I hear they are refinishing the pool and tennis courts at Eglin.”

  * * * * *

  Summons

  Tessa was getting used to staying at the family home and Owen and Jade were getting used to her being around again. Monica thrived with all the attention she received from her new family and Owen was a changed man. He hadn’t had a drink since the night they appeared on his doorstep and he was, as Jade described him, happier. Doing housework made her feel comfortable, especially in this house. It was something she did as a young girl working alongside her mother, dusting, cleaning the kitchen, and running the vacuum. Every task brought back countless memories of her mom who would have been wearing an apron working next to her, glancing over occasionally with a smile. She took a second to wipe the small tears from the corners of her eyes and check on Monica who was trying to push a large Kirby vacuum around the living room with one of her tiny hands while holding a half-eaten Pop-Tart with the other. It made her smile that her daughter was trying to follow in her footsteps and that she was occupied in the process, leaving her to deal with the laundry. The washing machine was acting up and she was going to have to pack up all the dirty clothes and run over to her grandmother’s apartment to use the machines at her complex. This was a welcome opportunity for Tessa to spend some time with her and let Monica meet her great grandmother.

  In the last few weeks, Tessa had a chance to spend some time with Joel and talk, a luxury she never got to experience in her own marriage. She apologized for leaving him at the swim basin, for taking off with his clothes, and interrupting him in the bathroom. She loved how he shook it all off and was willing to clean the slate without a second thought. Joel was easy to share her ideas and emotions with and this was what she had been looking for her whole life. During their conversations, her words outnumbered his five to one. She had a lot inside. When her mom died, her dad shut down, and Jade was too young to understand what was going on. Some of the counselors at the guidance clinic where her mom worked offered to help but she felt uncomfortable sharing her feelings with them. When she married Bobby, he was inattentive, displaying the attention span of a hyperactive child on a sugar high. Joel was different and she praised his patience as he listened and asked the right questions, letting her know that he was truly interested in her and the things that were important in her life.

  Tessa started stacking the baskets of clothes by the backdoor when, without warning, the doorbell rang and with it, a hard rasp that shook through the entire house. Before she could answer it, her three-year-old had already opened the front door. Tessa looked across the living room to see her tiny daughter overshadowed by the silhouette of two suit-clad men, the sun at their backs, standing in the entryway.

  “Can I help you?” Tessa asked, pulling Monica free from the door.

  “FBI ma’am, we would like to ask you a few questions. Would you mind if we came in?” asked the taller of the two. Both had reached into their breast pockets and revealed their credentials, a bi-fold leather wallet containing a picture ID and the gold shield of the Justice Department.

  “I’d really rather you didn’t. What’s this all about?”

  “We’d be just a minute ma’am.”

  Tessa watched as the two men found a place to sit on the sectional couch. They were clean-cut men, both dressed in suits, one blue, the other black. Both had matching haircuts and both carried similar leather-bound writing pads. As dramatic as it was, Tessa found it humorous that both men resembled a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses who were canvassing the neighborhood just days before.

  Monica stood in the middle of the living room staring up at the shorter agent, still nibbling on a broken piece of her Pop-Tart.

  “Ma’am, I take it you’re Tessa Alazar?”

  “Yes I am, what is the…”

  “Ma’am, please, if you could please verify your social security number.”

  As Tessa recited the nine-digit number, the shorter agent read, tracing with a pen along a corresponding column of numbers. Monica reached over to grab a file that contained something which was very familiar to her. In doing so, the entire bundle of papers fell to the floor at her feet.

  “Baby, no!” Tessa yelled as she stood and walked over to retrieve her child. In the process, she couldn’t help but notice a color picture of her and Bobby, taken anonymously. She looked up at the agent. His eyes met hers as he closed the file hastily.

  “Come on baby, sit over here,” she said, regaining her seat on the couch.

  “What we need to know Mrs. Alazar is…”

  “Let me save you the trouble. Mrs. Alazar will not be speaking without the presence of an attorney. I trust you can respect her right to fair counsel,” Owen Sands said, walking in from the kitchen.

  Monica picked up on the tone of her grandfather’s statement, throwing the remainder of her Pop-Tart into the lap of the shorter agent.

  “Why don’t you let the lady answer for herself?” the taller agent asked.

  “Gentlemen, I am a cop too and I carry a gun. Leave my house, now!” Owen commanded, this time taking steps toward the two agents who began to stand from the couch.

  “You’re making a big mistake, both of you,” the shorter agent said.

  “Yeah, they keep telling me that. I guess I’ve got a hard head,” Owen replied.

  “We understand. Mrs. Alazar, this is a federal subpoena to appear before a grand jury later this month,” the taller agent said as both exited the front door.

  Tessa took the packet of papers, two in all, stapled together.

  “Here is my card. You may have your attorney contact us at his convenience if you wish to proceed with an interview. Have a nice day Mrs. Alazar,” the taller agent stated as Tessa closed the door behind them.

  Tessa thumbed through the papers while her father went into the kitchen to make some coffee.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to get involved in all of this.”

  “The day your mother gave birth to you I became involved in all of this, sweetheart. I only wish I had come in here sooner. I was in the shower.”

  “I told them I didn’t want them to come in but they just came in anyway,” she cried with tears starting to run down her face and down to the subpoena,
the last page of which contained a list that included the names of her, Monica and Bobby. Owen picked up the papers.

  “Atlanta?” he asked surprised. “Why are they convening a grand jury in Atlanta? This doesn’t make any sense.”

  * * * * *

  Delivery

  Gordo, Del and Indian Powerboats’ chief Fiberglas man, Julio Martinez, walked down a concrete pier that extended through the center of the Miami Marina. The three walked through an extensive construction site. The area had been designated as a revitalization zone and a new two hundred and thirty thousand square foot mall called the Bayside Mall was to be built around the large boat basin. Since it was located downtown, the Miami Marina was the perfect location for urban art deco types who enjoyed browsing through shops and dining on the waterfront.

  After a month of sixteen-hour days, Indian set a series of new records by finishing Roberto Alazar’s new 42-foot commercial fishing boat he named Heads Up that sat berthed halfway down the pier. The sun glistened off her newly finished decks. Each of the men made their way down the dock carrying overfilled bags of groceries. Standing at the transom overlooking the craft was a small man, the dockmaster, a Cuban who spoke no English.

  “Muy bien, el barco, es nuevo?” the man asked.

  “Sí amigo, it’s new,” Gordo answered.

  It had been a long day. Starting at 6:00 a.m., Florida State Troopers met the crew at the Indian shop to escort the boat to the Jones Boatyard where she was launched just before noon. The slow trip down I-95 to Miami’s South River Drive required all the patience the men could muster. The troopers were helpful, moving most of the traffic from around the large boat that took up two lanes of highway. It was a resource Scott Roberts and Julio enjoyed using. For twenty-two dollars an hour they owned a living, breathing cop and his patrol car. Once in the confines of the yacht yard, a specially built hoist called a travel lift encompassed the craft. Like a spider encroaching over its prey, the travel lift lowered its straps under the boat, then carefully lifted the thirty-ton vessel from its trailer. From there, the lift rolled at a snail’s pace to an enclave cut into the side of the river. Its banks were carved precisely, just wide enough for the four legs of the lift to span from side to side. Once in place it could lower the boat into the awaiting water. It was a slow descent, just three feet per minute. Each of the men, along with two of the state troopers, watched as the deepest part of the keel touched the glassy water sending a small ripple to the sides of the slip. Inch by inch the hull became engrossed by the water, consuming the freshly painted black bottom coat, a copper enriched blend of paint designed to retard growth and any other fouling of the running bottom.