by R. J. Blacks
“Oh,” Fargo says.
“Yeah. You know how she was going to Gainesville tomorrow to get a job and she was also going to get an apartment there?”
“She’s not going?”
“She’s going, but the job fell through.”
“I’m sorry,” Fargo says, looking at me.
“Well the problem is, she don’t have no place to stay tonight.”
Fargo is quiet, preferring instead to sip on his beer. Will breaks the silence.
“So what do you think? Can she stay a couple more days?”
Fargo looks tired. He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes.
“Well, she’s using your bed. So if you don’t have a problem with it, neither do I.”
“Okay then, it’s settled. I’ll sleep on the floor like I always do, and you Indigo, take my room,” Will says.
Fargo yawns. I think the beer sapped the last bit of energy he had left. He stands up, shuffles over to the couch. When I glance at him again, he’s lying down, sound asleep.
Will looks tired, like he’s still recovering from the trip. He turns to me.
“About tomorrow. Do you want me to go with you?”
“I’ll be okay,” I say.
“I can help you drive.”
“No, I really need to start doing things on my own. Thanks anyway.”
“Okay,” he says, then makes himself comfortable on his mat on the floor. I gaze at the kitchen. There are dishes and pots all over the place, but I’m too tired to do anything about it. Besides, Will will have all day tomorrow to clean it up.
I gather my things and head to my bedroom. I get together my notes and anything else that might interest Dr. Parker. What to wear? I rummage through my suitcase and pull out an olive-green dress with a high neckline. I bought this especially for interviews but hardly used it. I hold it against me and glance in the mirror. No, I don’t think so. Too formal. This is Florida so I’m doing as the Floridians do. I’m going casual.
I slip out of my shorts and squeeze into a pair of almost-new blue jeans. I glance in the mirror; yes, they’ll do for starters. I scour through my suitcase and find a blue pin-stripe Henley top with long sleeves and a lace up neckline. I remove my tee-shirt and put on the top, allowing it to cascade loosely over my hips. Again, I glance in the mirror, turning to view it from all sides. Perfect, I think. Not formal, but not too casual either.
But what about my hair? I decide immediately against cutting it or dyeing it back to my natural color. But should I re-dye it blue, to hide the dark roots?
No, I think, I’m not going to do anything. It’s not like I’m going for a job interview. It’s already been established that Dr. Parker can’t hire me, so what’s the point of trying to impress her? If fate doesn’t agree with my plans, then so be it. Or, as the Italian’s say, ‘Che sarà, sarà’.
I slip into my night clothes then plop down on the bed. I turn off the light and within minutes I’m in dreamland...
CHAPTER 14
It’s 6:00 AM and still dark as I load up the Cruiser for the trip to Gainesville. It should take about two hours, but I’m allowing extra time so I can look around and get to know the area. There are about a half-dozen cars in the parking lot and Fargo’s airboat is missing. He’s probably out on an early morning excursion with some clients.
Back in the cabin, I see Will sound asleep on the floor. There’s no reason to wake him; he knows where I’m going. And he can always call if he needs to contact me.
I slip into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and find my way back down the same dirt road that brought us to Fargo’s place two days ago. It’s still dark, but I’m not quite as apprehensive as my first venture through the swamp when Will was driving and almost ran off the road. I’m starting to appreciate the beauty of this mysterious world and how nature fits all the pieces together with harmony.
I follow the road until it meets the main highway, and then, make a right turn, heading west. The road is endless and there’s not a car in sight. In my rear view mirror I can see the sun just rising above the horizon. The swamp is now well behind me and in front is a land I never knew existed, a magnificent land, consisting of plains, endless, reaching as far as the eye can see, and covered with tall grass. Right above the grass is a mist, that same mist I saw hovering over the lake.
Scattered throughout the fields are small groups of trees, mostly Live Oak, but also some Slash Pine. They got their name from the “slashes” left behind by early gum tappers in their relentless “bleeding” of the trees to recover valuable resins and turpentine for the marine industry. Interestingly, there are very few palm trees out in the field. They seem to be relegated primarily to the sides of the road next to the canals. I’m not sure why, but maybe they require a lot of water and the canals supply them with what they need.
I’ve driven for over fifty miles and haven’t seen another car or even a house. The sun has risen well above the horizon and is burning off the mist. Ahead of me is a road that is straight as an arrow and appears to be endless. What would I do if I broke down? There’s no cellphone service out here. Will wouldn’t know anything was wrong until I didn’t return later tonight. I could be stuck out here all day!
But in spite of my isolation, I’m not alone. In fact, I have plenty of company. The land is teeming with cattle, on both sides of the road, more than I’ve ever seen in one place. I’ve been told Florida raises over one million head of cattle per year and is the third largest producer east of the Mississippi. Driving through these vast open ranges, it’s easy to see why. And I thought they had only alligators and oranges down here.
As I get close to Ocala, the road turns into a four lane highway. It is wide and easy to follow making it a pleasant drive to Gainesville. I follow Dr. Parker’s directions and find the restaurant without difficulty. It’s a small Italian place called “L’incontro”, which from my limited knowledge of Italian means, “The Encounter”. How fitting, I think. It’s located about two miles from the university, far enough away to render insignificant the risk of Dr. Parker running into a fellow faculty member. And who has lunch at ten anyway?
I enter the lobby and peek into the dining area. It consists mostly of tables with some booths along one wall. The room is decorated with colored lights strung along the tops of the walls, and I can hear Christmas music playing in the background. The seductive aroma of fresh coffee pervades the air, and I detect the appealing scent of pine emanating from some oversized wreaths attached to the walls.
In the far corner is an eight-foot Christmas tree decorated with flashing lights and shiny ornamental balls of various colors. It’s not one of those manufactured trees made of plastic and wire that has “fake” written all over it; this one is real. The subdued lighting gives the room a feeling of tranquility and helps ease my apprehension of meeting Dr. Parker for the first time.
The hostess approaches me.
“How many?” she asks.
“Oh, I’m waiting for a friend.”
“No problem,” she says, and then scurries into the kitchen.
I scan the room, but only one table is occupied and it’s a couple with two young children. I retreat to the lobby just as a black BMW pulls into a parking space. The driver’s door opens, then a slender woman, fortyish I would estimate, slips her legs out the door and stands up. She’s about five foot nine wearing high heels and a tight-fitting black dress and is holding a Gucci handbag. She looks more like a corporate lawyer than a university professor. She slams the door shut, locks the car with her remote, then heads for the lobby. I recognize the face from the bio on the university web site. It’s her. As she approaches the front door, I suddenly panic. I feel grossly under-dressed against the elegant outfit she is wearing. But how could I have known? This is Florida, and a college town at that! Who dresses up in a Florida college town?
She enters the lobby and approaches me.
“Indigo?” she says.
“Yes. Dr. Parker?”
�
��Call me Jessica.”
The hostess leads us to a table.
“Could we have a booth instead?” Jessica asks.
“Of course,” the hostess says, and leads us to a booth set back in the corner.
I can see why Jessica chose this place. The seat backs are so high no casual observer could ever see us unless they intentionally walked in our direction.
Jessica picks up her menu. I do the same, searching for something light. The waitress stops by and we both give her our orders. A few minutes later she brings us our drinks, an iced tea for me and a Cappuccino for Jessica.
“You’re not quite how I imagined you,” she says, gazing at my blue hair.
“It’s a long story,” I say, and proceed to tell her how I had dyed my hair on a dare when I first entered college, then left it that way because I liked the way it looked.
“I often wish I was more reckless when I was your age. I played it straight and missed out on all the fun that comes with finding one’s identity. Now that my kids are in college, my husband and I are making up for it. We try to get away as much as possible.”
“Where have you been?” I ask.
“Africa, Alaska, Chile, Australia, Nepal, Thailand,” she says, counting them off on her fingers. “The more exotic the better. How about you? Do you like to travel?”
“This is my first trip, except for the Jersey Shore.”
“Just curious, how did you learn about me?” she asks.
“Your paper, about the baitfish.”
“You must have the only surviving copy.”
The server, a clean-cut male about twenty, stops at our table with the meals.
“Which one got the salad?”
I raise my hand. He places the salad in front of me, and the other meal, gnocchi in a white sauce, in front of Jessica. Even though it was mid-morning, I was ready for lunch. I waste no time devouring my meal.
“So what do you hope to achieve from your foray into the land of perpetual sunshine?” she asks.
“Well I admit my dissertation is a little light on the proof. But I plan to do the research, document the evidence, and publish. After peer review and publication, how could anyone deny its validity?”
“You are venturing into dangerous waters.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Like you, I had great aspirations. But as soon as I published, and suggested a link between Farm-eXia and the aggressive behavior of baitfish, GWI was all over me. They threatened a lawsuit. I didn’t know what to do. And I wasn’t getting any encouragement from the university. Then GWI offered me a deal. They wouldn’t press charges if I destroyed the evidence and signed a document admitting I had falsified the data. It wasn’t true, but what could I do?”
“What about a lawyer?”
“Every lawyer I saw wanted a ten thousand dollar retainer. And they bluntly told me the bills would go up from there. They all advised me to settle. GWI knew this and took advantage of my inexperience. Even though their case was weak, they could tie me up for years, stifle my career. Who would hire a researcher wrapped up in litigation for a paper she published? It was a lose-lose situation for me.”
I take a sip of iced tea trying to figure out what all this means and how it affects me.
“Why should they care about me?” I ask. “I’m so insignificant.”
“You’re a threat. They are well aware that a little bad press can easily escalate into a public outcry which can lead to a congressional investigation. Farm-eXia is GWI’s poster child. It generates fifty-six billion dollars in revenue every year, forty-two percent of their earnings. That’s not insignificant.”
“But there’s something that bothers me. Something I don’t understand. Why did they wait until the presentation? Why didn’t they contact me sooner?”
“It’s simple. They’re hiding something. Their goal is to embarrass and frustrate you until you conclude it’s not worth it and give up. They certainly don’t want you to dig deeper, do more research, and find more evidence. You might uncover something damaging and expose their deceit. They don’t want you to justify your claims. They want you to go away. Your report is cancer to them. It could spread to Wall Street and pull down the whole company. In their warped minds, the cancer has to be cut out and burned.”
“And if I go on?”
“Then they will pursue you relentlessly, with the determination of a Pit Bull. And once they get you in their sights, their legal department won’t let go until the threat is put down. It’s you against Goliath.”
“So you think I should give up?”
“The best advice I could give anyone is forget it ever happened and start over.”
I lower my eyes and quietly pick on my salad feeling despondent.
“But I’m so damn mad over what they did to me, I must see you prevail,” she says.
“I appreciate that.”
“There are dozens more just like us, innocent researchers, only trying to advance science. I find it intolerable that a major corporation should be so indifferent towards public safety. They must be held accountable.”
“They’re the eight-hundred pound gorilla,” I say.
“Yes, they are. But David brought down Goliath, and if you’re committed, you can do the same.”
“Tell me what to do.”
Jessica leans towards me, lowers her voice.
“The first step is to lull them into thinking you gave up. That puts them off guard. Then you secretly do the research, validate the evidence, and submit to peer review without them knowing.”
“How do I submit to peer review without them knowing?” I ask. “The second I publish, they’ll know everything.”
“That’s where I come in.”
I was confused. Was she offering to help me? How could she help me without getting herself involved?
“But aren’t you bound by the agreement?” I say.
“I signed that agreement over ten years ago. The statute of limitations will take care of that. Even though, I’m still vulnerable. If GWI ever discovered I was helping you, they would use their massive influence to discredit me. They have an army of scientists on their payroll and they’re all willing to do whatever their employer asks. It wouldn’t be difficult for them to convince the university I’m practicing bad science and get my tenure revoked.”
“So what are you proposing?”
“I’m going to tell you something very few people know,” she says. “Promise me you won’t share this with anyone.”
“I promise,” I say.
“I’m involved with a network of scientists and professors that share your objectives. We keep it secret so we don’t expose ourselves to legal action. We share data and assist each other’s research and agree not to share it with anyone outside the network. I can get them to review your paper without you ever having to publish it.”
“But at some point I would still have to publish.”
“That would be entirely your decision. The people that reviewed your research would be unknown to you so their identity would be protected. But their expertise in the field of environmental science would assure you that your publication would withstand any serious challenge from the outside. And that makes all the difference.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“Well, if you are willing to go the distance and see it to its conclusion, GWI could not prevail unless they could show intentional misrepresentation. Do you understand the significance of the term ‘intentional’?”
“Yes. It means I purposely distorted facts in order to cause them harm,” I reply.
“Exactly. They would have to demonstrate to the court that your ‘misrepresentation’ caused the company a measurable decline in revenue. Take away the ‘misrepresentation’ and guess what, they have no case.”
“And how do I do that?”
“It works like this: I submit your paper to established experts who will peer over every word, every graph, every bit of data, and every conclusio
n. They will determine, without partiality, whether your publication meets established scientific standards. Then you revise, once, twice... whatever it takes, until it is perfect. You must hone your dissertation to the point it will withstand even the severest of scientific scrutiny. Are you up to the challenge?”
The question takes me by surprise.
“Yes, of course,” I say.
“If all this seems excessive, it’s not. Misrepresentation of facts, their best weapon against you, must be nullified. And unless GWI’s experts flat out lie, which is unlikely, their legal argument collapses.”
“Then why didn’t you do that?”
“Because I was green, a neophyte. I didn’t have the contacts. There was no way I could get peer review without publishing. GWI had all the good cards and I was playing in a game I didn’t understand. I had no choice but to cave.”
“I appreciate all that, but I’m still between a rock and a hard place. Without access to a lab I can’t do the research. And by now every university has heard about me so that’s off the table.”
“I’ve got that figured out. Give me the samples and I’ll analyze them for you,” she says.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“It’s for peace of mind. I need to do this, to erase all those years of anger.”
“Well I can certainly use the help,” I say. “With FedEx, you’ll get them overnight.”
“No. Absolutely not. They can’t be mailed or shipped. There has to be no record I ever received them.”
I understood completely why she insisted on this. If there was a trial, and there most certainly would be, the lawyers would cast their nets wide, to include as many fish as possible. In a process called “discovery”, lawyers would accumulate any information deemed pertinent to the case. It would be relatively easy for a lawyer to acquire the delivery records of the US Postal Service, UPS, and FedEx, in and around my domicile. If they noticed numerous deliveries to a certain Jessica Parker, they would check it out, and, most likely, she would be implicated.
For her it would be a life-altering situation. She has “assets” and lawyers love assets. They would go after her savings, investments, and even her house. She could lose everything including her job and even the possibility of a future job. It was a major commitment for her to get involved.