The Law of the Sea : A Legal Thriller

by Dave Gerard

  “Fuck Google. You don’t give the orders here, Harder. It’s my case.”

  “Actually, it’s Kruckemeyer’s case. And Remington is running it.”

  “It’s my case,” I repeated. “I brought it in. Ashley’s my client. You were brought on to help me. Not the other way around.”

  “Technically, the estate of David Marcum is the client,” Harder said snootily. “Not Ashley. And I’m the senior associate. Naturally, I’ll manage the task allocation. That’s firm policy. I don’t see why this has to be an issue. I’m just trying to find the best way for us to collaborate and leverage our resources on key tasks, that’s all.”

  “Leverage this,” I said, getting up and giving him the middle finger. Not the classiest reaction, maybe, but it was heartfelt.

  I stormed out of the room, furious at Harder’s bullshit. I went back to my office. It took me a while to cool down. But eventually, I got back to work. An email popped up from Harder with his “task list” in a Google doc. He asked me for the case file number. I ignored him.

  But Harder had cc’d Kruckemeyer on the email, and presently Kruckemeyer wrote back and approved of the task list. “Good job,” he wrote. “Looks like you have this sorted out. Good job Richard. Good job Jack. Let’s get it done.”

  I smoldered. But there wasn’t much I could do about it just then. I wasn’t about to run to Remington about Harder’s bush league power play. He would probably tell me to shut up and figure it out. Whatever. I would sort this out later. For the time being, I opened up a new Word document and began drafting the lawsuit.

  That evening, I met Ashley for dinner. We went to Sushi King, a hole-in-the wall restaurant with a solid B+ rating and a good happy hour. It was pretty bare bones. But it was popular, mostly for the three-dollar spicy tuna rolls and two-dollar sake bombs. I had offered to take Ashley somewhere fancier, but she declined.

  We ordered a couple of Sapporo beers and some edamame, shishito peppers, and baked mussels to start. Then we settled on a dragon roll, a couple of spicy tuna rolls, and the eponymous King Roll for the entrees.

  “Why’d you pick this place?” I asked, sliding a baked mussel into my mouth. “Not that it’s bad. But we could have gone anywhere. Oichi Omakase, if you wanted. Kruckemeyer would have picked up the tab.” Oichi Omakase was the best Japanese place in town. It was just down the street. I had been there once, on someone else’s dime. It was incredible.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. “But I don’t usually go for fancy places. Unless I get dragged there on a date. And I could eat these spicy tuna rolls all day.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling as she put another one in her mouth.

  “They are good,” I agreed, stacking a heap of wasabi onto one. “A date, huh? Does that mean you’re single?” I said nonchalantly. Or tried to.

  “I am.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  “Yep.” She ate another spicy tuna roll and regarded me in silence for a moment.

  “Not that it matters,” I added. “Lawyer-client relationship, and all. You know.”

  “Right.” She picked up another spicy tuna roll and then smiled at me provocatively. My breath caught for a second.

  “Any news on the case?” she asked, switching tracks.

  “Yeah,” I said, relaxing as we returned to more familiar ground. “We’re getting ready to file in federal court.” I told her about Remington’s strategy and our plan of action. She was duly impressed. I didn’t mention my squabble with Harder. She didn’t need to hear about that.

  “What does Remington think about the coins?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Not much. He’s more focused on your brother’s death.”

  She nodded, spearing the last spicy tuna roll with a chopstick. “What do you think about the coins?” she said after a little while.

  The King Roll arrived then, and I used that as an excuse not to answer. But as the King Roll ran out, the question was still there. I thought about the Atocha, and the coin we had seen at Aqua Ray. I thought about the San Jose, and Rockweiller’s operations in Colombia.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “What if they were from a ship like the Atocha?” Ashley asked, voicing the question I hadn’t dared to ask. She looked at me, trying to gauge my reaction.

  I picked at my plate. “I didn’t mention this,” I said finally. “But I read about a big find in Colombia. A recent one. Near Cartagena, actually.”

  “The San Jose. I know.”

  “You know?” I said, surprised. “How?”

  “I can use Google too,” she said dryly. “Even though I’m not a lawyer.”

  “Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “Duh. Sorry.”

  She waved it away. “What if Rockweiller and my brother somehow got tangled up in something like that?”

  “I can’t say I haven’t thought about it,” I admitted. “But I just don’t think it’s realistic. Rockweiller is an oil company. If anything, it was probably some new oil or gas find.”

  “But what about the San Jose? And the fact that my brother was in Colombia? And that their offices just happen to be near Cartagena?”

  I shook my head. “Coincidence. Rockweiller has a lot of offices around the world. The fact that they’re there, and so was your brother, and we read this news article about the San Jose…” I spread my hands.

  “You’re probably right.” She finished the King Roll and cleared the rest of her plate. “Suppose we wanted to know more, though. Just hypothetically. What would we do?”

  I shrugged. “Serve discovery. They’re going to have to tell us eventually.”

  “Will they?” she asked doubtfully. “They’ve done a pretty good job of shutting everything down so far.”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “But now we’re filing a federal lawsuit. And Remington is involved. Somehow, I don’t think they’re going to be able to stop him.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  We finished the remainder of our food and drink. Our server brought the check. It was fifty bucks. What a steal.

  After dinner, I walked Ashley to her car. Then I said goodnight and walked back to mine, which was parked some distance away. On the way back, I walked past Oichi Omakase, and stopped for a moment to peer inside.

  The window was frosted, but I could see the warm, mellow atmosphere within. It was lit by candles and Japanese lanterns. Everyone seemed to be either good looking or rich, or both. I sighed and began to walk away when something caught my eye.

  It was Harder. I pressed closer to the window to get a better look. He was sitting at a table inside with two others. I recognized them as Lucius Quinto and Cornelius Adipose, two of the associates from Badden & Bock. They were drinking and laughing, and seemed to be concentrating intently on what Harder was saying. What was he doing there? I wondered.

  I thought about brazenly walking in to find out. But I decided against it. I would ask Harder about it later. For the time being, I set my curiosity aside and walked away.

  As I got back into my car and drove home, I thought about Ashley’s question. About how to find out more. As it happened, there was another way. To find out about treasure wrecks, and whether they could possibly have anything to do with her brother, Rockweiller, or this case.

  We could hire an expert.

  TEN

  After we filed the federal lawsuit, the litigation began in earnest. Bock & Co. were furious at our bait and switch. They castigated us for “flagrant forum shopping” and “barefaced abuse of the judicial process,” whatever that meant. I found this ironic after their timely “donation” to Judge Gleeson. But howl as they might, they couldn’t do anything about it. Judge Gleeson had no power to stop the federal suit. And privately, I guessed he was happy to have the matter off his hands.

  The federal judge who drew our case was named Nathaniel L. Graves. He sat in Galveston, a
small beach town about an hour south of Houston. Galveston and Houston were part of the same judicial district, and sometimes cases were assigned between them. I didn’t know much about Judge Graves. But when I told Remington, he shook his head and grinned. “Oh, boy,” he said. “Strap in.” I didn’t know what to make of that, but I had too much on my plate to worry about it just then.

  Per Remington’s plan, we served a horde of discovery requests on Rockweiller, noticed depositions, and filed a motion to get the coins back. Bock & Co. fought back, objecting, moving to quash, and generally being obstructive in every way they could. Remington said this was because we were putting the screws on them. This legal scuffling took place over the weeks and months after we filed suit, and Cindy, Harder, and I all worked overtime responding to their challenges.

  Between the Marcum case and trying to keep up with my other matters, I hardly had a moment to myself. Finally, I managed to steal a free afternoon by telling Kruckemeyer I was taking a “mental health day.” This confused him for just long enough for me to make my escape.

  I used the day to seek out my expert.

  When lawyers need to know about a certain subject, they hire an expert. In a financial case, for example, they might hire an accounting expert. In a medical case, a drug expert. And so on. The expert would help the lawyer understand the subject and explain it to a jury, if it came to that. Expert witnesses were often criticized as hired guns who would say anything the lawyers wanted them to. But right now, I just needed information.

  As luck would have it, one of the world’s foremost experts in maritime archaeology was currently on a teaching fellowship in San Marcos, Texas. I called his office to make an appointment, and headed down the next day.

  San Marcos was a new city, built on the river. The university boasted Spanish-style architecture, with cream stucco walls and red adobe tiled roofs. College students walked lazily between classes and napped in the shade. I consulted a large campus map to see where I was going. Eventually, after some wrong turns and students who waved me in vague directions, I made my way to the office of Professor Jacob A. Schnizzel. I knocked on the door and stepped inside.

  I had expected a maritime archaeologist to be a rugged, seafaring type of guy. Tall, with a sailor’s tan and an air of the sea about him. Schnizzel was none of these things. Instead, he proved to be a short, fast-talking Jewish guy from Brooklyn. He wore jeans and a rumpled white shirt with a coffee stain down the front.

  Schnizzel’s office was a mess. There were textbooks and academic paraphernalia strewn everywhere. Most of the books seemed to be about computer science. There were a few about C and C++, as well as a beauty called “Java with Java,” which featured some nerd drinking a steaming cup of coffee and giving the would-be reader a thumbs up. Belatedly, I noticed a sign on the door that said “Jacob Schnizzel, Professor of Computer Science.” Did I have the wrong guy?

  Schnizzel jumped up and shook my hand energetically. “Jack Carver, I presume. My assistant tells me you need an expert. I do lots of cases out of New York and Florida, but I haven’t had any in Texas. Some people say I wouldn’t come off well to a Texas jury. But what do they know?” He blew off this fanciful notion with a wave of his hand. “So. What’s the case about? Software dispute? Breach of intellectual property agreement? Trade secrets? I do it all.” He rubbed his hands together excitedly.

  I hesitated. Maybe I did have the wrong guy. “Actually, I’m not looking for a computer science expert,” I said.

  “Oh no?”

  “No. Sorry. Is it possible I have the wrong Jacob Schnizzel?”

  Schnizzel scratched his head. “There are a few hundred of us in New York City. But I doubt nearly that many in San Marcos.”

  “No. Well you see, I was actually looking for a Professor Jacob Schnizzel, expert in maritime archaeology.”

  Schnizzel’s eyes lit up. “Maritime archaeology!” he almost shouted. “Well, why didn’t you say so! That’s what you need an expert for? Fantastic. I’ve been waiting for this kind of case. It’s not a field that sees much litigation. How exciting.”

  With a generous amount of gesticulation, Schnizzel explained that while his day job was computer science, his passion was maritime archaeology. In his spare time, he had become one of the world’s leading experts on the subject. Looking around his office more closely, I saw a collection of artifacts and relics from another time. A beaten bronze battleship. A beautiful white-sailed galleon, looking for all the world like a blooming flower. An antique globe, which looked considerably more authentic than the one I had bought for ten dollars from Target.

  “It’s not like I’m a world-class expert in maritime archaeology the same way as in computer science,” he said modestly. “But I do alright. Anyway. Enough about me. What can I do you for?”

  “For now, I’m just looking for some preliminary opinions,” I said cautiously.

  “Go on.”

  “If tell you about the case, will you keep it confidential?”

  “Of course. Think of this like an initial consultation with a lawyer. If I can help you, we’ll move forward. If not, I won’t divulge anything I learn.”

  “Great. You don’t do any work for Rockweiller Industries, do you?” I added, thinking about conflicts.

  “No. I don’t think I ever have.”

  “Great.”

  I filled Schnizzel in on David Marcum’s death, the gold coins, and the lawsuit against Rockweiller Industries. I also mentioned Mel Fisher’s Atocha, which he was familiar with, and what we had learned at Aqua Ray.

  “Hmm,” said Schnizzel, furrowing his brow. “Do you have any of the coins with you?”

  “No,” I said, cursing myself for losing them to Bock. “We’re trying to get them back. I took one to an assayer, though. He said it was pure gold and had been sitting undisturbed somewhere for a long time.”

  “Did the coins have any writing or markings on them?”

  “I think so. But they were covered with dirt or something, and I couldn’t make it out.”

  Schnizzel considered this. “What you’re describing does sound like the type of coin you’d find in a wreck. But that may be wishful thinking. You could also find them in any number of other places. They could have been owned by a collector, or uncovered at an estate sale. They could be from a museum. A couple of years ago, some kids stole a four-pound silver bar right out of the maritime museum in Florida.” I stirred uneasily, reflecting once more on David Marcum’s background.

  “Supposing it was a wreck, though,” I said. “What are the chances it’s from a new find?”

  “A new find?” Schnizzel scratched his head. “It’s possible. People find notable wrecks every few years. Some contain gold or silver in the quantities you’re describing.”

  Schnizzel got up and poured himself a cup of coffee from a huge pot brewing on his desk. He offered me some, but I declined and took water instead.

  “How many of these wrecks are out there?” I asked.

  Schnizzel took a sip of his coffee. “Nobody knows. Some say there could be as many as three million shipwrecks still undiscovered, and that the value of all the treasure they contain could exceed sixty billion dollars.”

  I choked on my water. “What?”

  Schnizzel grinned at me. “Now you see why my elective is so popular.”

  “How is that possible? Where do they all come from?”

  “Well. They come from several millennia of failed seafaring travel. But the most famous wrecks—like the Atocha—date back to around the Age of Discovery.”

  Schnizzel took another sip of coffee and regaled me. “The Age of Discovery was the period roughly from the fifteenth through seventeenth centuries,” he explained. “When Spain and Portugal set out to explore and conquer the world between them. After Columbus discovered America, and Cortés conquered the Aztec Empire, the New World became a massive source
of bullion for Spain. She would seize silver from the mines of Bolivia, and gold from the bowels of Peru, and ship it back to the Old World to fund the endless European wars.

  “The fortunes Spain took from these places was staggering. She became the richest and most powerful nation in the world on the backs of these countries. All of this wealth was sent back to the Old World in colossal treasure fleets, on galleons so bloated with gold and silver that they could barely float. But crossing the ocean in those days was a dangerous business. One-third of the ships sank, mostly in storms, sometimes in naval battles or pirate raids. Hence all of the shipwrecks.

  “Modern-day treasure hunters employ sophisticated techniques like side-scan sonar and remotely operated vehicles—ROV’s—to find and recover these wrecks. By combining new technology with old nautical records, they have been able to salvage wrecks that have lain undiscovered for centuries. And these aren’t just mom-and-pop shops either. Many of them are experienced outfits backed by well-capitalized investors. There are even some publicly traded companies in the business. Take Odyssey Marine Exploration, for example. It’s traded on the NASDAQ. It’s a treasure hunting company. Or at least, it used to be.”

  “But—sixty billion?” I said, still in disbelief. “Surely that figure is exaggerated.”

  “Maybe,” Schnizzel admitted. “The number was put forth by a well-known treasure hunter. Treasure hunters are optimistic by nature. They have a vested interest in inflating the amount of wealth out there. It helps them finance more expeditions. And a lot of the value is historical. People will pay more for ancient coins and artifacts than the metal alone is worth. So, is there sixty billion dollars’ worth of treasure out there? I don’t know. But is there a lot of it? Certainly.”

  I thought about this as Schnizzel got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. He sat back down and gulped it with relish, swirling it around the mug as if it were a fine wine.

  “What are the chances that the coins we’re dealing with are from a wreck like Mel Fisher’s Atocha?” I asked finally.