The Law of the Sea : A Legal Thriller

by Dave Gerard

  I didn’t share this concern with Ashley. No client wants to hear about her brother’s failings. And she knew them already. But I wondered what a jury would think. That’s what this would come down to, in the end.

  For the time being, I put the issue out of my mind. There was nothing I could do about it. As Kruckemeyer liked to say, you couldn’t put your client on a pedestal. It didn’t mean we weren’t right.

  Ashley and I drove to some other places before dark, but didn’t have any more luck. The next day, we tackled the second half of our list. We managed to speak to two more former employees. But neither of them had worked with David Marcum.

  One of them remembered Marcum’s name, though. A man named Julio Jimenez. He had worked as a security guard on a rig just off the coast. He said the rig had a small office with some personnel records in it. Jimenez had never met David Marcum, but recalled the name from the file. He didn’t know any more than that. We thanked him and left, and then went back to the hotel for the evening.

  We had finished our list early, and we still had one more day in Cartagena. I knew just what to do with it.

  The next morning, we woke up early and drove to a private airfield.

  Before the trip, I had consulted Schnizzel about notable treasure wrecks near Cartagena. He had highlighted a few: the Nuestra Senora de Tarragona, the San Felipe, the Los Tres Reyes, and a pair of unidentified Spanish galleons that sunk in the area. And then there was the biggest find of all—the San Jose.

  The San Jose had lain heavily on my mind in the days leading up to our trip. Although it had already been found, it hadn’t been salvaged. And Rockweiller might have been hired to do it. The Colombian government was secretive about the whole thing, so there was no way for me to know. But if there was work going on, there was a good chance the site would be active.

  My plan was to charter a plane and fly over the sites of each of these wrecks to see if I could spot any unusual activity. If one of the wrecks had been found, perhaps there would be ships and salvage operations in the area. Schnizzel had given me the coordinates for each of the wrecks. Or rather, the coordinates where they were generally believed to be. Schnizzel had even managed to find the actual coordinates for the San Jose, although they were top secret.

  I hadn’t shared my fly-by scheme with anyone at the firm. I knew what they would say. Even the normally enthusiastic Schnizzel was dubious about it. But Ashley was game, and we decided to go for it. I have to say that I was also enamored with the idea of flying over the ocean in search of lost treasure, like a pilot in search of Shangri-La. That may have influenced my plan. If we found something, I would tell Remington and Kruckemeyer. If not, I would keep my mouth shut and eat the expense.

  Since I was funding the flight personally, I picked the cheapest one available. The result was a young pilot who had just gotten his flying license. He was advertising flights on the Colombian equivalent of Craigslist. We met him at the airfield, which turned out to be a flight school. He barely looked old enough to shave. But he seemed nice enough, and one of the older instructors told me he was an ace.

  With that recommendation, we ascended into the skies in a Cessna 172, a tiny plane that has been around in largely the same form since the 1960s.

  I had this majestic idea of what flying in a small aircraft would be like. I imagined soaring above the clouds, and reigning over the earth like an eagle. I had even toyed with the idea of getting a flight license myself. But the Cessna was nothing like that. It felt more like flying in a tin can. It was loud, and we had to wear headphones to be able to hear each other.

  I gave the pilot the list of longitudes and latitudes that Schnizzel had plotted out for us. He had no idea what they signified, but was content to plug the numbers into his GPS and cruise toward them on my dime.

  Despite the noise and the feeling that I was thousands of feet in the air in a can of Bumblebee tuna, I enjoyed the experience. The view was brilliant, and we were engulfed from all sides in blue – the dark blue of the water and the bright azure of the skies. The sun beat down on us warmly and illuminated the land and water beneath us. Ashley was captivated. I caught her grinning from ear to ear. I smiled to myself. The trip might have been worth it just for that.

  The first coordinates that we passed over were Schnizzel’s best guess at where the Nuestra Senora de Tarragona had sunk. The Tarragona was a five-hundred-ton galleon that hit a reef and sank mere leagues from Cartagena in 1564. Its cargo was never recovered. According to historical accounts, the merchants had been so angry about the loss that they murdered the ship’s captain in port. We crisscrossed the area at low altitude, but saw no signs of activity.

  The next coordinates were those of the San Felipe, which sank in 1572. The ship somehow caught fire and blew up a few hours out from harbor, probably from all the gunpowder aboard. Both the Tarragona and the San Felipe would be worth millions, Schnizzel had assured me. But there was no sign of activity there either, except for a small fishing boat making its way across the shimmering blue expanse.

  The third set of coordinates were for the Los Tres Reyes, which sank in 1634 with about 1.5 million pesos aboard. It would be worth far more than that today. But there was nothing there, either. Nor did we find anything at the coordinates for a pair of two unidentified Spanish galleons that were destroyed in 1669 by fire ships of Henry Morgan, one of the most notorious pirates of the day.

  The final set of coordinates were those of the San Jose. My breathing quickened as we approached the spot.

  Unlike the other ships, we knew the San Jose was here. At these very coordinates, a kilometer below the surface, on the edge of the continental shelf. Somewhere down there were the remains of six hundred people, sixty-four guns, and enough gold and silver to see me through a thousand lifetimes. I strained my eyes, gazing down at the sea, hoping to see something. Anything.

  But though we crissed and crossed the waters above the site, there was nothing but calm blue waters. I directed the pilot to circle the area, and we spent the remainder of our flight time straining to see a hint of activity. But we found nothing.

  That evening, Ashley and I dined at a picturesque restaurant by the sea. We ate ceviche and other Colombian delicacies on the deck and watched the sun set over the ocean. Although we hadn’t learned as much as I’d hoped, Vasco de Valencia’s information had made the trip worthwhile. Ashley and I chatted about the flight we took, and the people that we met. She mentioned that David Marcum had known how to fly, though he didn’t have a formal license. A friend had taught him illegally in the deserts of New Mexico, Ashley said. I wasn’t surprised.

  As our dessert arrived, I saw that Ashley had her eyes fixed on a small island, just offshore.

  “I wonder what that is?” she said, pointing at it. The island was connected to the mainland by a narrow causeway.

  “Funny you should ask,” I said. “That’s an offshore oil facility. Owned and operated by none other than Rockweiller Industries.”

  “You’re kidding me!”

  “Nope. I read about it in their 10-K.”

  “Is that why you brought me here? For the view?”

  “Yes,” I said, laughing. “But not that view. That’s actually a tiny man-made island, you know. Apparently, it was cheaper than constructing a platform. That’s the place where the security guard worked. The one we talked to. Julio Jimenez.”

  We gazed out at the island. It looked hazy in the setting sun. There was an air of mystery about it, the long bridge fading into shadow, disappearing into an artificial island in the sea.

  We made conversation as the waiters came and cleared away our plates. But Ashley was distracted. She kept looking at the island. After dinner, I paid the bill and we went outside to call a cab. But she stopped me.

  “Wait,” she said, gesturing toward the island. “Let’s go a little closer.” I shrugged, and we walked toward the long causeway that beg
an on the beach. It was farther away than it appeared, and it took us a while to get there. Once we arrived, we walked around it, studying the entrance. It was fully dark now, but there was a full moon, which cast a soft, silvery light.

  The mouth of the causeway was protected by barbed wire. On closer inspection, we saw that a narrow highway, paved with concrete, led to the island. The entrance was deserted. A thick padlock barred any trespass. There were “keep out” signs that even I could read.

  Ashley eyed the fence and flexed it with her fingers.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I warned. “This is private property. There’s no way to climb that, anyway. It’s fifteen feet of barbed wire. And the whole place is in plain view of the town.”

  Ashley didn’t answer. She picked her way down to the water, and I followed. We looked out at the island. Lit faintly in the distance, we saw no obvious signs of life. But it was hard to tell. It was dark, and the island was at least a half mile off shore.

  “What if we could get there?” Ashley asked, her eyes bright in the moonlight.

  “We can’t,” I said flatly.

  “Not over the fence. I mean by the water. We could go directly to the island. There’s no fence there.”

  She was right. The island itself wasn’t fenced in. We had seen that before it got dark. It relied on the water to keep people away.

  “Are you crazy?” I said. “What do you want to do, swim out there? Even if we could, there’s bound to be security. What would we even do over there?”

  Her eyes didn’t waver at all. “Jimenez said they keep records there. Remember? Personnel files. We could find out what they’re holding back from us. About my brother. You know they haven’t given us everything.”

  “No,” I agreed. “But this isn’t an Indiana Jones movie. We can’t just go barging into Rockweiller’s private island to root around for files. It’s illegal. And it could seriously compromise our case if they found out.”

  Her lip curled. “Man up,” she said, her face taking on a harsher cast. “David would have done this in a heartbeat. I’ll find us a boat. This will be a ten-minute ride, max. I’m tired of Rockweiller’s bullshit. Let’s do it.”

  I was startled by the tone of her voice. I protested vehemently, but there was no stopping her. She said that she was going with or without me, and unless I wanted to tie her up or turn her in, I’d better get on board or shove off.

  An hour later, we were on a small fishing boat with an old diesel motor, bearing toward the island. The boat’s owner was a nervous-looking fisherman named Alfonso Curacao. Ashley had approached a few fishermen at the wharf as they were tying up their boats for the day. With her fluent Spanish and easy charm, it didn’t take her long to find a ride. At her direction, I shoved pesos into Curacao’s hands until he agreed to take us. She didn’t tell him where we were going.

  Once Curacao figured out our destination, he had second thoughts. He tried to talk Ashley out of it. But he was no more successful than I was. Ashley just responded in a calming, cheerful manner, as if she didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Curacao kept going, albeit with increasing wariness.

  As the small island grew nearer, we were struck by how beautiful it was. It seemed like a miniature tropical paradise, with palm trees all over. There was a compound in the middle, and a small dock by the western end. It felt like one of those mini-planets I’d seen in cartoons as a kid, where you could circumnavigate the globe in a few moments, and gravity somehow worked to keep you glued to the ground.

  Ashley told Curacao to dock near a thick cluster of palm trees. As we approached, she jumped out of the boat into knee-deep water. When Curacao protested, she came back at him sharply, and said something to the effect of, he’d better be there when we got back, or else. With a last look at the distant shoreline, I rolled up my pants, took off my shoes, and jumped in after Ashley.

  We quickly waded to shore. I shook the water off and put my shoes back on. Then we peered through the palm trees toward the center of the island.

  The compound in the middle of the island turned out to be a small shack, made of concrete, with a metal door in the front. A single floodlight cast a harsh glare over the scene. There was a sign somewhere that said Industrias de Rockweiller, Entrada Prohibida, in big red letters. But the place seemed deserted. I couldn’t see any cameras, despite my best efforts to find them.

  Ashley picked her way around the island, circling the edges. I followed her. There appeared to be nothing else there besides this small building and oil equipment everywhere else. After walking the whole island, we returned to the shack. Ashley looked at me. Then, without another word, she walked boldly toward the shack. I held my breath and followed. When we reached it, we were surprised to find that it the door wasn’t locked. Ashley took a deep breath, turned the handle, and opened it.

  Sitting right there, hunched over and reading an old paperback novel, was a Colombian security guard in a faded blue uniform. His eyes went wide with shock when he saw us. Both he and Ashley froze, their mouths open as they stared at each other.

  Shit, I thought. Shit, shit shit. There was a handgun on the guard’s hip, and a phone on the wall. If he picked up either of those things, we were done. My heart started to pound. Ashley remained stock still. Her lips moved as if to say something, but nothing came out. All of her bravado was gone.

  So I walked forward. I’m no action hero, but I can step up when the time comes. I wasn’t very good at deception. The only thing I could think to do was tell the truth.

  “Hola!” I said, putting on my biggest lawyer smile. “I’m an attorney from the United States. Un abogado. I apologize for dropping by unexpectedly. We anticipated arriving earlier, but our flight was delayed. I’m here to obtain some corporate records for Rockweiller Industries.”

  The guard’s hand was half lifted, whether at the gun or the phone I couldn’t say, but my words stayed him for a moment.

  “Registros?” he said in heavily accented English. “For corporation? No hablo ingles muy bueno.”

  “Si. Registros. You’re doing just fine. Corporate records, that’s correct.” I fished into my pocket and took out the subpoenas we had served on Rockweiller. They looked very official, if somewhat crumpled, and ordered the production of all sorts of documents and records—including those related to David Marcum.

  The guard hesitated.

  “We’re seeking the records described in these subpoenas,” I said authoritatively, handing him the documents. “They relate to a former employee named David Marcum, who may have worked in this general vicinity several years ago. Perhaps you recognize the name?”

  I kept on talking as he leafed through the papers. I kept up a steady flow of five-dollar words, hoping to brazen it out.

  The man was completely off guard. He had no idea what to do with this unexpected American attorney who had appeared near midnight with these very official-looking document requests. Ashley was looking at me in amazement. I held my breath. The guard held the papers, quite obviously not knowing what they said, and at a complete loss as to what to do with them.

  “You see how these are addressed to Rockweiller’s corporate counsel,” I said, pointing at the heading. “We’re looking for the records described below, in requests for production numbers one through fourteen. You follow?” I put the slightest bit of impatience into my voice, as if I was starting to be disappointed with his lack of response.

  The guard mumbled something. At that point, Ashley unfroze. She jumped in and smiled and started talking to the guard in Spanish. She seemed to be explaining and apologizing, all the while turning on her natural charm. It was working. They went back and forth for a while, and I saw the guard relax. Then he turned to me.

  “Identificación?” he asked.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my actual business card, which said: Jack Carver, Attorney at Law, Holland, Haroldson
, & Kruckemeyer. The guard turned it over a few times in his hands, and then, under the pressure of silence, he buckled, handed back the card, and turned toward a small file cabinet behind him. My heart was thrilling in my chest, and Ashley looked at me with crazy wide eyes.

  After a minute, the guard pulled out a manila folder labelled “Marcum” and gave it to us. We laid it out on the table and opened it. The guard said something apologetically to Ashley. Then he went over to the phone and picked it up. I tensed, but there was nothing we could do.

  He dialed a number and let it ring. Despite my apprehension, it seemed that no one was monitoring the line this late at night. After some time, he shrugged and hung up. I nodded reassuringly to him as Ashley looked through the records.

  “So?” I asked quietly. “What do you see?”

  “I’ll be damned,” she said, surprised.

  “What is it?”

  She showed me the records. They were the same ones that Rockweiller had given us for the pre-suit deposition. They showed that David Marcum had been employed by Rockweiller several years ago as a commercial diver, for about five months, and that he was paid a total 156 million COL.

  “Huh. That’s just what we already knew.”

  Ashley blinked. “Maybe they actually did give us all of the records,” she said, equally at a loss. We leafed through the rest of the papers, but there was nothing else in the small file that we didn’t already have.

  The guard was eyeing us warily. I turned back to him with a smile. “Great,” I said. “Muy bueno. That’s what we needed to know.” There was a small copier in the shack, and in my most brazen act yet, I had gall to ask the guard to make me copies. I didn’t want to leave emptyhanded, which I felt would look suspicious.

  The guard obliged. After we were done, we thanked him and prepared to leave. There was still an air of tension in the room.