Alligator Park

by R. J. Blacks

  “They were two peas in a pod.”

  “I thought it was weird when there was no on-line obituary, even weeks after her death.”

  “Ellis probably quashed it to keep people from asking questions. It appears she had no other family.”

  “How sad,” I say.

  Berkeley closes the laptop and invites me to dinner at seven, adding: “There’s a very nice pool at the marina where we can cool off. If you need a swimsuit, they have a decent selection at the gift shop. Pick out what you want; it’s on me.”

  I thank him, but decline, telling him I’m already committed for the evening. He’s a great-looking guy, and fun to boot, but I’m not really interested in a transient relationship with someone who’s twenty-five years my senior. He walks me to my pickup; I thank him, and then set off for the trip home.

  As I drive quietly along the deserted highway with only the engine noise and the flattened remains of an occasional roadkill to break the monotony, my mind wanders and I find myself unconsciously pondering the options. I have just seven days to put together a world-class case against GWI or, if I can’t do that, admit defeat and try to convince the Stewarts to accept the $2.6 million offer. But should the deadline pass, and I flub the case, there’s going to be some very unhappy souls on my side of the isle. My stomach churns with anxiety as the enormous task plays on my psyche. Oh why did I ever get myself into this?

  CHAPTER 30

  With all this pressure on me, I’m having nightmares over the outcome. For three nights in a row, I’ve had the same dream, the hazy figure of a judge behind a bench glaring at me with an angry look, pointing, with his arm outstretched, and his black robes flowing backward, as if there’s a wind in the courtroom. He pounds his gavel on the bench, screams out, “Rule 11 sanctions, Rule 11 sanctions,” those dreaded words that hold us liable for the defendant’s legal fees. I stand there struggling to explain why I can’t deliver what I promised, and then, Berkeley and the Stewarts bare their teeth and their faces turn to anger. I dash out the courtroom into the street, look behind me, and see the entire courtroom on my tail. And directly in front there’s another crowd heading right for me, Logan, Dean Haas, and all the other suits that attended my dissertation. They get closer and closer and I’m trapped, nowhere to squeeze through, and then, just before they grab me, I wake up in a cold sweat. I sit up in bed, try to relax, and rationalize it’s just from the stress. And then, I make my way to the kitchen and get a drink of water.

  I lay down in bed, but can’t sleep. I’m too wound up. My mind is a whirlpool of activity and it’s only 3:00 AM, two hours before my normal rise time. The thing that bothers me is GWI’s claim they have documented proof high levels of Farm-eXia have no effect on aquatic wildlife, yet I saw with my own eyes what these rogue alligators are capable of. In no way was that normal behavior. But I’ve checked and double checked for every known chemical and pathogen and the only one that makes sense is Farm-eXia. Am I missing something? Is it something else?

  I have to assume the results GWI obtained with laboratory animals are valid and not a bluff. If they tainted the results, it would be fraud, and fraud exposed would be a public relations disaster for them. If there was any trickery going on, there is no way they could keep it a secret. There are too many people with loose lips that would spill the beans. And once the press latched on to it, it would go viral in hours.

  I get up at my regular time, do my normal morning routine, and then head off to my job at Semi-Environmental. I confront Doug with my dilemma, recounting the results GWI reported with laboratory animals.

  “Sounds like your case is too weak to go to trial.”

  “Our results are diametrically opposed. And guess who the jury will believe?” I say.

  “GWI of course. Their experts will hammer away at you, discredit your work, and make you look like a quack. The jury, not being chemists, will naturally believe the one with the most convincing argument.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “There’s only one thing you can do, acknowledge that their results differ from yours, and then go on to show what they missed during their analyses and how that would make their results invalid.”

  “What did they miss?” I ask.

  “They must have missed something or your results would be the same.”

  “Obviously. But that’s not helping me.”

  “Well, how about the isomers?”

  “The isomers?”

  “Yes, isomers. Molecules with the same chemical constituents but with different structure.”

  “I know what isomers are.”

  “Well, what did you find?”

  “Who looks at isomers?”

  “My point exactly. The reason you don’t hear much about isomers is that, in most cases, the chemical structure has no significant effect on properties.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “But not always. You’ve heard about the drug Thalidomide?”

  “Yes, it was given to women in the 1960’s to combat morning sickness.”

  “It was touted as the most tested drug in history, and it was. Unfortunately, ten-thousand babies were born without arms or legs and both doctors and researchers were baffled. Something had gone awry, but what? After years of research, the problem was eventually isolated to the isomers. The R-form isomer was a surprisingly effective drug for nausea with very few side effects. But the S-form had a much greater affinity for embryonic proteins allowing it to alter development of the fetus. This was an abrupt reversal of the conventional wisdom of the day since both isomers had the same physical properties and they shared the same chemical formula. The only observable difference was one version had the oxygen on the right and the other had the oxygen on the left. No one believed that could make a difference.”

  “So you’re saying it’s the isomers?”

  “I’m just saying you need to look at the problem differently than anyone else. Textbook learning got you this far, but now you have to analyze and understand molecular interaction at a level of sophistication well beyond the state of the art. Ask yourself: Does Farm-eXia have an isomer? How does it form? Does it combine with living proteins in a different way? Can it affect reptilian behavior when it passes into the brain? Sounds to me like your work is cut out for you.”

  “And I only have seven days.”

  “No time like the present to start.”

  I guess that’s Doug’s way of telling me I’m excused from my daily workload so I grab my laptop, pour myself a coffee, and retreat to the conference room. I go into the program, open setup, check the box, SHOW ISOMERS, and then go through each of the water samples, one by one, plotting the isomers, and saving the results. An hour later, I join Doug in the office.

  “What did you find?” he asks.

  “Well the isomers of glyphosate, atrazine, chlorpyrifos, metolachlor, and metam-sodium, were either insignificant or less than one percent.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. The S-form isomer of Farm-eXia was coming in at forty percent.”

  “What does that tell you?”

  “Seems high.”

  “And that’s the best you can come up with?” he asks.

  “Well, I suppose I should try to find out how it got into the water supply.”

  “I just happen to have a few liters of Farm-eXia left over from a job I did a few months ago. The stuffs brand new, right from the factory. It’s a good place to start.”

  I retrieve the Farm-eXia from the storeroom and test it at 100% concentration to establish a baseline. Then I reduce the concentration to 25 grams per liter, 10 grams per liter, and finally, 1 gram per liter, matching the sample concentrations I obtained in the wild. I test each one separately, carefully recording the isomers.

  In all cases, the R-form isomer came in at 99.98% and the S-form, the bad one, at 0.02%, practically insignificant. I double check the water samples I had obtained in the wild, and once again, they show 40% for the S-form isomer. I take my
results to Doug and offer him my conclusions.

  “Someone around here must be using a defective batch. The stuff you had in the storeroom is fine, but the samples I obtained in the wild are contaminated.”

  “Sounds like you’re on to something,” Doug says.

  “I’ve got to call Berkeley,” I say.

  I dial his number, and when he answers, I explain my results.

  “So you’re saying the product is defective,” he says.

  “Here’s what we know: First, the product we have here, brand new, is almost 100% R-form isomer. Secondly, the R-form material appears to have no effect on aquatic wildlife. Third, all the water samples I gathered from the lakes contain about 40% S-form isomer. Forth, all the rogue alligators had S-form isomers in their blood samples. Fifth, we can logically conclude it was the S-form isomer that caused the aggressive behavior and ultimately, Kevin’s death. Personally, I think GWI accidently shipped out some defective material.”

  “And what would make it defective?” Berkeley asks.

  “It could be one of many things. Perhaps the ingredients changed, or it wasn’t processed right, or it was inadequately tested. Either way, it’s a quality control issue.”

  “This is wonderful news.”

  “Really?”

  “Well yes, it makes our work so much easier.”

  “In what way?”

  “There’s a legal doctrine known as ‘res ipsa loquitur’ which relieves us of having to prove GWI was negligent. It’s a huge advantage. Basically, we can say, Kevin wouldn’t have been killed if the alligators weren’t aggressive, and they wouldn’t have been aggressive if GWI didn’t sell defective product. The incident speaks for itself. But it goes even further; GWI now has to prove it wasn’t negligent so they have to use more resources to defend themselves.”

  “I’m glad I have a lawyer on my side.”

  “And if that doesn’t work there’s another legal principle known as ‘strict liability’ where negligence is not even an issue. The fact the product was defective shifts liability to the manufacturer. It relieves us of having to delve into their manufacturing processes, which, as you know, can be quite complex to present to a jury.”

  “So all I have to do is show they sold defective product?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “I need you to put together a brief report, two or three pages, explaining that isomer thing. How the R-form isomer was harmless but the S-form was the culprit and how you believe it was a defective batch of pesticide. Then I’ll send it off to them.”

  “Why would you send it to them? Doesn’t that give away the element of surprise?”

  “Aside from being ethical, the law requires it. We have to disclose all evidence whether it helps or hinders us. Otherwise, if we spring it on them at the trial, they could ask for a delay to give them time to study it, or worse, have it declared inadmissible. An essential point of law is the search for truth. Withholding evidence is always a bad idea.”

  “And suppose they don’t buy it?”

  “That’s what the trial is for. But if they see the evidence, and it’s compelling, it might provoke them to settle for the full $8 million. I need you to give it your best.”

  I conclude the call and then frantically get to work on the report. By mid-afternoon, it’s completed, and I email it to him. I follow up with a phone call and he tells me he’s going to add some legal jargon to it, but otherwise it’s fine. The intense effort has exhausted me so I decide to call it a day and head home. There’s still much to do, but for now, I need a break from all this hectic intellectual activity.

  At the restaurant, Will and Juanita are working the floor so I chip in and assist them for a couple of hours. As dinnertime approaches, I put together a meal for the four of us using surplus food from the kitchen and carry it back to Fargo’s cabin. For a change of pace, I cover the table with a fancy tablecloth, light some candles, and open a bottle of wine. A few moments later, Fargo, Will, and Juanita wander into the dining room.

  “What’s the occasion?” Fargo asks.

  “Just the fact we’re together. I feel like I’m spending too much time working, and forgetting what’s important.”

  “Yeah, we don’t see you much these days,” Will says.

  “Well, I’ve decided to put my work aside tonight and spend some time with you guys.”

  I fill four glasses with wine and pass them along to the group. We click glasses and then everyone takes a sip. Next we each fill our plates with mashed potatoes, broccoli, and meat loaf, and then dig in.

  “How’s the lawsuit going?” Fargo asks.

  “Pretty good. The Stewarts rejected the settlement so it looks like we might be going to trial.”

  “How much longer will you be seeing that Berkeley guy?”

  “I’m not seeing him.”

  “Well, it seems like you’re always over there.”

  “He’s our lawyer.”

  “Couldn’t you just email him?”

  “I do, all the time. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m not blind you know. He’s got the yacht, and that Italian sports car. I’d imagine it’s pretty hard for someone to resist that life style.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s not my type.”

  “Isn’t that what you always wanted, to be rich? You said so yourself.”

  I think to myself, he’s right, I did say that once, but that’s not what I meant. Sure, I want money, lots of it. But it’s not only money I’m after, it’s love. Money without love is pointless.

  “I told you, he’s not my type,” I say, and Fargo takes the answer without further comment.

  We finish off dinner then settle down for a game of Trivial Pursuit, drinking wine, telling stories, and laughing a lot. It’s great being back with the group again. They make me feel like a person, like I’m appreciated. And then, at 10:00 PM, Fargo gets up and announces he’s going to bed.

  “I’m hunting tomorrow, alone. Indigo, why don’t you come?”

  I start to tell him I’m too busy, then stop myself. Heck, I’ve been driving myself relentlessly for the last four months. If I keep this up, my friends will drift away and I’ll have no one to confide in.

  “Yes, I’d love to.”

  “Great. Be ready at 5:00 AM, but don’t eat breakfast. We’ll get it on the trail.”

  At five in the morning, I saunter into the living room wearing the Native American outfit he gave me for Christmas. The room lighting is subdued so as to not wake up Will who’s sleeping in his usual spot on the floor. Fargo’s already there, stuffing supplies into his backpack. He’s wearing only a breechcloth as he always does when he hunts alone and there’s a Bowie knife on his belt. He pulls it out, tests the sharpness with a flick of his thumb, and then, satisfied, slides it back into the sheath.

  We open the front door and slip into the darkness. The morning air is cool and crisp and feels good against my skin. I follow him down the path to the airboat, and after a few minutes of preparation, we’re on our way, dashing over the waves so incredibly fast my hair flails wildly in the wind. I’m glad it’s Fargo that’s driving. Even though my vision is obscured by fog and darkness, I feel secure in the knowledge he knows every inch of the lake by heart, every submerged log, every sandbar, every channel marker, and every moored boat, hazards that would be a disaster at sixty miles per hour.

  The morning sky is beautiful, with a reddish-blue glow that brings out the black silhouettes of the tree-covered islands off in the distance. Fargo parks the airboat in the hidden cove just as the crest of the sun’s fireball peeks over the water. We make our way down the trail to his secret hunting grounds accompanied by the chatter of a chorus of birds scrambling to find an easy meal before the sun ascends to its zenith and the day becomes oppressively hot. Along the way, Fargo stuffs wild oranges, lemons, coco plums, bananas, coconuts, and whatever else he finds along the trail, into a large leather bag.

  We arrive at the sandy cle
aring where the trail ends and the swamp begins and Fargo drags the canoe out from under the brush. He slides it in the water and steadies it while I get in. He then pushes off and maneuvers the canoe between the immense Cypress trees until we reach the crystal clear water where he likes to fish. He had once explained to me that this area is fed by a spring and that’s why it’s cooler and clearer than the other parts of the swamp. And the alligators stay away because they don’t like cold water.

  He ties the canoe to a tree and then slips into the water with the grace of a ballet dancer, scarcely making a ripple. I hand him the fish spear and he swims off to a group of Cypress about a hundred yards away where trout tend to congregate.

  The heat and humidity are beginning to get stifling compounded by my leather outfit which is making me sweat. The water looks so inviting; it’s as clear as a swimming pool and I get the inclination to take a dip. Fortunately I had the good sense to wear my swimsuit under the outfit so I shed my clothes and slip into the water with care, doing everything possible to avoid tipping the canoe or making a splash. The water is delightfully cool and I instantly feel refreshed.

  Fargo returns a few moments later with two trout tied together with a string through their gills and places them in an empty cooler in the canoe. He returns the spear to its storage place inside the canoe and then swims towards me. I splash him in the face, and he splashes me back, and then we horse around and laugh a lot. He lifts me to his broad shoulders and lets me dive off into the water. We have so much fun I’m reminded of the first time I went hunting with him back in December, how scared I was, but persisted because of my curiosity, and because I wanted to be accepted. How easy it is to get trapped in your daily life and forget the things you really love.

  It’s time to go, so Fargo lifts me into the canoe, and then, gets in himself. He paddles steadily for about a half-hour, guiding us between huge flared-out Cypress trunks anchored beneath a dense canopy of leaves which gives the area a subdued mystical look. Straight ahead, a sandy beach comes into view and he heads right for it driving the front of the canoe up onto the bank until it comes to an abrupt halt.