by Dave Gerard
To my surprise, as I opened the key documents binder and began to update Kruckemeyer, Remington showed up. So I caught them both up on the case. I went over our document review progress, explaining what methods we were using, what we had found, and how it all fit with our theory of the case. I showed them the key documents, and they questioned me about some of them. Remington was particularly interested in scuba diving equipment, for some reason. I promised to send him more on that.
At some point, I remarked on the unfairness of the document dump, and how it was bullshit that we had to review so many documents while Rockweiller just lolled around and laughed.
Kruckemeyer chuckled at this. “They may be lolling now. But they weren’t lolling before, I guarantee. I bet those guys reviewed every email before it went out the door.”
“You can’t be serious,” I protested. “That would have taken forever!”
Kruckemeyer shrugged. “They’ve got the manpower. They put an army of grunts like you on this, no offense, and bill by the hour.” Remington nodded in agreement.
“That doesn’t seem very efficient,” I said.
“Oh sure it is. They’re making a killing.”
“I meant for the client. Rockweiller.”
“Oh. No, they’re getting screwed. But that’s what litigation is about.”
“But why do they put up with it? Aren’t they in charge?”
Kruckemeyer waved his hand dismissively. “Pshhaw. Client’s not in charge. Rockweiller’s got some milquetoast in-house counsel on the job. Couldn’t litigate his way out of a paper bag. He’s scared shitless that if they produce one wrong document, it’ll wreck the whole case. Waive privilege or some other apocalypse. So they tell the lawyers to look at everything. Which Badden and Bock are happy to do.”
“Wow,” I said.
Remington nodded. “I might have put a finer point on it, but Bob is right. Bock is the one driving this train. And he’s not concerned about efficiency. Now don’t get me wrong—there’s a case to be made for reviewing all of the documents. That way, you know exactly what’s going on, and you don’t turn over the wrong thing. Could it be done more efficiently? Oh, yeah. But there’s no incentive. The lawyers get paid by the hour. If they’re more efficient, they lose money.”
“But you’d think the in-house lawyers would know this,” I said.
“They do. But they come from the same law firms that they later farm out work to. It’s the way they know to do business. That’s the system,” Remington said.
“Good work if you can get it,” said Kruckemeyer. “Unfortunately, we’re on contingency here. We don’t get paid by the hour. So we don’t get to stuff that peacock. Got to use our heads, like your girl Cindy did.” He sighed. “Goddamn David Wurlheiser. If he had more game maybe we’d be on the defense side of this. Think of the billings,” he said dreamily.
“Is there anything else?” Remington asked as we wrapped up. I took a deep breath. “There is one more thing.”
For a while now, I had been debating whether to tell Remington and Kruckemeyer about my treasure wreck theory. I hadn’t said anything so far. It seemed too far-fetched to be true. But after talking with Schnizzel, and learning what I had about the coins, the Atocha and San Jose cases, as well as Rockweiller’s presence in Colombia and the equipment aboard the Excelsior, I decided to say something. I would give them the facts and let them draw their own conclusions. If they thought it warranted further investigation, they would say so. If not, I would let it go.
So I laid out everything I had learned as best I could in a neutral, measured tone. As I heard myself say it out loud, I thought I made a pretty compelling case.
“What if Rockweiller found one of these ancient wrecks?” I concluded, trying to suppress my excitement. “It would explain the secrecy surrounding the case. It would explain why Rockweiller hired Badden & Bock to get the coins back. And it would explain why they’re fighting so hard to conceal what happened to David Marcum. I know it’s a long shot,” I admitted, my heart beating faster. “But do you think it’s possible?” I waited for an answer, poised on the edge of my seat.
Remington and Kruckemeyer looked at each other for a long while, considering this.
Then they burst into laughter. Kruckemeyer slapped his knee and cackled so hard I thought his dentures would fall out. Remington rarely laughed, but now he almost fell out of his chair. After a minute or so they calmed down and wiped the tears from their eyes.
“Golly,” said Remington, still chuckling. “I needed that. That is one tall tale. But let’s stick to the facts of the case, alright?”
“That’s right, Jack,” said Kruckemeyer with mock severity. “Stick to the facts. We’re here to figure out what happened to David Marcum. Not Blackbeard. Okay?”
The mention of Blackbeard sent Remington into peals of laughter again. Kruckemeyer grinned. “What? What’d I say?”
Kruckemeyer got up and gently patted me on the shoulder. “Good stuff,” he said. “But a little less time digging for buried treasure, a little more time billing hours, eh? Good man.”
Remington and Kruckemeyer might have blown me off. But Harder and Vijay showed considerably more interest the next morning. Kruckemeyer had probably told them about it, and they came into my office with wide eyes and hushed voices. So I told them all about the Florida trip, the cases, and what I knew about the coins. They proved to be an attentive audience.
“You’re saying these ships are worth hundreds of millions of dollars?” said Harder incredulously. I pulled up the Atocha court case and showed him where it said so.
“Dude. How is that possible?” he asked.
“Dude,” agreed Vijay.
“And that was in the eighties,” I added. “It would be worth even more today.”
“What would you even do with all of that money?” Harder wondered.
“Lot of cocaine,” said Vijay.
“Shut up,” said Harder. Vijay shrugged, unapologetic.
Harder leaned toward me intently. “Is there any chance your girl’s coins could be from that kind of situation?” he asked in a low voice. He and Vijay looked at me expectantly.
“I don’t know,” I said cautiously. “I mean, it’s possible.”
“The odds are against, obviously,” Harder said.
“Right. Obviously. But it’s possible.” I nodded. They got it.
“Wow,” whispered Vijay. “Imagine that.” We all sat back and imagined it. The staggering amount of wealth in those ships. What it would be like to have that much money. What we would do with it all. I could scarcely conceive of it.
“There’s only one thing you’d have to watch out for,” Harder said thoughtfully.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Harder and Vijay reached into their pockets and donned a pair of eyepatches and paper mache swords.
“Pirates!” they yelled together. Then they pranced around my office, laughing hysterically and whacking me with their swords while yelling “yar” and “argh” and suchlike. Eventually I told them to fuck off, at which point they collapsed on the floor in gales of laughter and then left me alone.
It was in a sullen mood that I went back to my document review.
After we had mined the Excel Resources documents for all they were worth, it was time to confront Badden & Bock. At Kruckemeyer’s direction, I prepared a letter demanding that Rockweiller produce all documents they had withheld about the Excelsior and David Marcum’s death. We knew they wouldn’t do it. But it was a necessary opening shot in the court fight that was coming.
We also served deposition notices for the Excelsior’s captain and crew. No matter how many documents Rockweiller hid from us, they couldn’t hide their people. I was sure someone on the crew knew what had happened to David Marcum. And they were going to have to tell us under oath, like it or not.
Badden &
Bock wasn’t going to give this up without a fight. We would have to go to court and take it, in front of this Judge Graves, whoever he was. So we began marshalling our arguments, and a court date was set.
The last thing to come out of the Rockweiller documents was a master list of all current and former employees of the company. It was a gigantic spreadsheet with tens of thousands of names that listed dates and places of employment for people around the globe. I doubted Rockweiller had intended to give it to us. It probably got caught up in the shuffle.
Initially, I didn’t think much of it. But in fact, this spreadsheet was destined to lead me on my most exotic adventure yet, a place that had featured in my thoughts and dreams for some time now: Cartagena, Colombia.
For one reason the firm knew of, and one they did not.
TWELVE
Ashley and I flew into Cartagena on the redeye. There were no direct routes, and our plane made two stopovers on the way. I spent the night trying to sleep under a pair of airline blinders, crammed in the middle seat and bent over my tray table like the hunchback of Notre Dame.
But my mood lifted as the city came into view. Cartagena was a seaside resort town, but it had a historic feel to it. The city was built in old stone and bright colors, and there were red and yellow and blue roofs as far as the eye could see.
We arrived in the morning and checked into our hotel. It had a stylish, boutique feel. I had found it on Yelp, which listed it as a top spot for romantic getaways. I glanced over at Ashley to see if it made any impression. It did not, as far as I could tell. We sat down in the hotel restaurant for breakfast, and I ordered a traditional Colombian dish called arepas, a type of cornbread pancake served with eggs and beans.
“You got the list?” Ashley said, all business.
I nodded and pulled out a folder containing names and addresses. I handed it to her.
From the master employee list that Rockweiller had given us, we had identified all of their employees in Colombia. Then, we’d narrowed that down to the dates that Marcum worked for them. Finally, we culled the list to include former employees only. We couldn’t talk to current employees without going through Badden & Bock. And I doubted they would be accommodating. But former employees were fair game. So we planned to interview these select people and see if any of them remembered David Marcum.
The job would have been easier by phone. That would have saved us the trouble of trekking around Colombia to track these people down. But the master list didn’t have phone numbers, and our trace programs were next to useless here.
The list did have addresses, however, the better to send these people paychecks. So we were going to do some old-school, door-to-door canvassing. Remington liked old-school, and said people were more likely to talk to us in person, anyway. He also said they were more likely to talk to Ashley than me. Combined with her knowledge of the language and the country, this made her an indispensable asset on the trip. Harder had tried to score this plum travel assignment, but was rebuffed. Kruckemeyer said he was needed at command and control. Ha.
Our food arrived. I ate with gusto while Ashley plotted our route. Then we rented a car and began.
There were about two dozen names on our list. It proved to be slow going. Traffic was bad, and the streets were rough. Ashley drove with grim determination around roadblocks and potholes while I navigated. Some of the neighborhoods were nice. Others were ungentrified. I thought we going to be carjacked at least twice. But we never were.
At each address, we would park the car and Ashley would walk up, smile, and inquire. Many of the people were not home, and others had moved away. We talked to a few former employees, but none of them remembered David Marcum.
It was late afternoon when finally, we hit pay dirt. The man’s name was Vasco de Valencia. He wasn’t home. But his wife was, and she directed us to his place of business at a manufacturing plant a few miles away. We drove there and asked for him. After a short while, a pleasant-looking man came out to greet us.
“Vasco de Valencia?” Ashley inquired.
“Yes,” he said politely. “I am Vasco de Valencia. What can I do for you?”
“You worked for Rockweiller Industries a few years ago?”
“Yes.” There was a hint of wariness in his voice.
“Do you remember someone named David Marcum?”
“Dave. Yes, I remember. What about him?”
Ashley and I exchanged hopeful glances. De Valencia’s English was good, so I decided to take the lead.
“Mr. de Valencia, I’m sorry to tell you that David Marcum passed away.”
“Dave died?” said de Valencia, dismayed. “What happened? He was a young man.”
“That’s what we’d like to talk to you about. My name is Jack Carver. I’m an attorney from the United States. I’m investigating his death. This is Ashley Marcum, David’s sister.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” he told her sincerely, shaking her hand.
“Thank you,” she said. “Anything you could tell us would be helpful.”
“Of course. What do you want to know?”
“How did you know David?” I asked.
“From Rockweiller Industries. We both worked there a couple of years ago. On a gas rig. I did installation. Dave, he was a diver. He go underwater, place parts. Good man. Everybody like him.” Ashley smiled wistfully.
“How long did he work there?” I asked.
“Half a year, maybe.”
I nodded. This lined up with the records. “Did he leave after the installation was finished?”
“No. He got fired.”
This took me aback. There was nothing in the file about that. “Fired? For what?”
De Valencia laughed. “For getting into trouble with the supervisor, Rozato.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Rozato, he was a strict boss,” de Valencia explained. “Not good to work for. We all scared of him, except for Dave. Dave would sit on the platform after dives, drink a cerveza, smoke a cigarette. Rozato was not happy with this.”
Ashley shook her head. “Classic Dave,” she said under her breath.
“So he had a falling out with Rozato?” I asked.
De Valencia nodded. “Rozato hate Dave. But he couldn’t fire him. Too good at diving. So Dave keep drinking cerveza and smoking cigarettes and laughing at Rozato. Later, another diver came to the project. Older guy.”
“Do you remember his name?”
De Valencia thought for a while. “Gunther, maybe?”
“Gunthum?” I said with a start. “Lloyd Gunthum?”
“Yes,” de Valencia said. “Gunthum. That’s right.”
That was interesting. The name kept coming up. “You’re sure? Could you describe him?” I asked.
“Yes. He was maybe fifty. American. Experienced guy. He was in the army, I think.”
“How do you know?”
“Just a feeling. I was in the army. I know.”
“So Gunthum came to work with David Marcum? Why?”
De Valencia shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they needed two divers. Maybe Rozato got tired of Dave.”
“Did Dave and Gunthum get along?”
“Yes, they get along good. I see them go for drinks sometimes, at a bar on the playa after work.”
“How long did they work together for?”
“Not long. Maybe a couple weeks. Then, Dave got fired.” De Valencia smiled as he recalled the incident.
“One day, Dave was standing on the platform after lunch, drinking cerveza. He turns and starts pissing off the side.
“Rozato, he is on the lower platform. He starts yelling at Dave to put his dick away and get back to work. Dave pretends not to hear him, and he turns to the side. His piss gets real close to Rozato. He piss far, Dave.
“The piss is getting closer and closer to
Rozato. Rozato yells and moves away. Then, Rozato slip and fall off the edge of the platform, into the water. Big splash. Everyone laughs.
“Dave, he throw a life preserver and a cerveza down to Rozato and he say ‘Hey chochito, live a little, eh?’ Rozato fires him right there from the water. Dave, he just shrugs and say, ‘You can’t fire me, I quit.’”
I laughed along with Valencia as he finished the tale. Ashley was less amused.
“After that,” de Valencia went on, “Dave get his stuff and say goodbye. We all sad to see him go. Except Rozato.”
“Did you ever see him after that?” I asked.
De Valencia shook his head. “No.”
“And the other guy, Gunthum?”
“Gunthum stay on to finish the project. Took a couple more months. No problems. Job done, then he left. I continue working on the platform for a while, maybe another few months. Then my contract ended.”
“Did Dave ever work with Rockweiller again after that?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
I nodded. I looked at Ashley to see if there was anything else.
“Did Rockweiller ever have any problems with safety?” Ashley asked. “Accidents. Injuries. That sort of thing.”
De Valencia thought about it. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Some minor stuff. I think someone got killed once, a few years back. But that’s the business. I never heard Rockweiller had a bad safety record or something like that.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you for your time. We appreciate it.”
“No problem. I’m sorry for Dave. I hope you find out what happened.”
“Thank you,” Ashley said. After that, we got back into the car and left.
I was troubled as we drove to our next stop. As much as I loved de Valencia’s story about Marcum, it was clear that Marcum had a rebellious streak. I thought back to his background report. It wasn’t hard to imagine him nicking a few gold coins from a company like Rockweiller Industries. Especially if they had fired him.