by Diane Kelly
Dishonorable was more like it.
Trudy Craven stepped out of her chambers. Her black hair slanted across her forehead, looking especially shiny today. Perhaps she’d used some of her bribe money on fancy hair products. She climbed up to her bench, spent a few seconds organizing her pens and papers, then looked down at the counsel tables. “Everyone ready to get started?”
The attorneys indicated their assent and she called the plaintiffs’ attorney to make his opening statement. Fortunately, the guy cut right to the chase.
“This case is simple, Your Honor. Palo Pinto Energy contracted with the plaintiffs to extract natural gas from their properties. During the fracking process, PPE introduced a number of toxic chemicals into the substrata when disposing of the resulting wastewater. These chemicals seeped into the ground and contaminated the plaintiffs’ wells, rendering the water unfit for consumption by humans or livestock. As a result, the ranchers were forced to truck in water for themselves and their livestock at enormous expense, in many cases spending amounts far in excess of the royalties they were paid by PPE. It is our contention that PPE did not properly dispose of the wastewater in that it did not inject the contaminated water deep enough into the earth.”
With that he took his seat and the female defense attorney stood.
“Your Honor,” she said, “this case is not nearly as simple as the plaintiffs’ attorney would have you believe. First, the plaintiffs cannot prove that the levels of chemicals in their well water posed any health or safety hazard. Secondly, assuming that toxic chemicals did, in fact, contaminate their well water, the plaintiffs cannot prove that Palo Pinto Energy was the source of that contamination. Several other oil and gas companies drilled in the area and, as our experts will testify, any one of those other companies could have been the source of the pollutants. Finally, we will show that any well contamination was not due to improper disposal of the wastewater by PPE, but rather by defects in the wells themselves. Many were older wells that were improperly sealed, poorly maintained, or which had become compromised due to recent droughts in the area.”
I had to give the defense attorney credit. She talked a good line. Heck, maybe she was even right. What did I know about oil and gas and fracking and water well maintenance? Diddly squat, that’s what.
I spent the day listening to testimony from ranchers and farmers.
The first to testify indicated he’d become aware of the polluted water when the quarter horses he bred had refused to drink from their trough.
“Evidently they could smell something in the water I couldn’t,” he said. He went on to testify that he and his wife and young children later noticed an unusual taste in the water that came from their kitchen faucet. At the attorney’s direction, he presented copies of bills for the service he’d had to hire to keep his livestock watered. “As you can see, it cost me a fortune to water my horses.”
The second rancher to testify, a cattleman, had encountered the same problems with his water supply. What’s more, his cows’ reproduction rates had severely declined. The rancher suspected that chemicals in the water disrupted the cows’ endocrine systems and thus caused infertility. Rather than continue to incur the steep cost of watering his cows, the cattle rancher had sold off his herd at a loss.
The third to testify ran a dairy farm. Concerns about chemical levels in the milk he produced led the dairy farmer to employ the services of a lab to test for contaminants. “The lab found elevated levels of numerous chemicals in the milk and dairy products. Of course I couldn’t sell polluted products.” He’d taken a huge financial hit, too.
Of course the defense attorneys did their best to refute and minimize the plaintiffs’ testimony, even going so far as to insinuate that global warming could be to blame for the failure of the cattle rancher’s herd to reproduce. After all, what creature wants to climb on top of another when he’s feeling hot and ornery? I half expected the defense lawyer to take stabs at the sexual orientation of the bulls or point out that the rancher’s cows were visually unappealing or lacked personality. The defense also pointed out that the rancher was not an endocrinologist, and that his claims regarding his frigid herd were mere speculation. Personally, I thought he should check the cows’ hooves for purity rings. Maybe they’d taken vows of chastity and were saving their virginity for their wedding nights. Then again, maybe standing up all day had reduced the blood circulation to my brain.
I returned to the courtroom Tuesday, arriving early enough to grab a seat on the back row. Today, research scientists testified on behalf of the plaintiffs regarding the levels of chemicals in the well water and soil. A petroleum engineer who’d been formerly employed by a gas company testified that he believed the source of the contamination was from PPE’s activity. He offered maps and geological data and a bunch of scientific statistics to back up his assertions. Finally, two well inspectors testified that they’d examined the plaintiffs’ wells and found them to be properly sealed and in good working order. Thus, they claimed, any contamination was not the result of defective wells.
The defense attorneys tried to poke as many holes in the testimony as they could, pointing out that the chain of custody for the water samples had not been adequately documented, raising doubts, however minor, about whether the samples were truly those of the plaintiffs. They also attempted to discredit the engineer by pointing out that he’d been fired from his job with the oil and gas company for alleged incompetence. The plaintiffs’ attorneys were able to rehabilitate him to some degree when they asked about the circumstances of his termination.
“The company will tell you different,” the engineer said from the stand, “but I was fired for being a whistleblower. I informed people up the chain at the gas company that certain safety protocols were not being followed at the wells. I was trying to protect the men who worked at the well, to protect the company from liability, too, but they didn’t see it that way. They said I wasn’t a ‘team player,’ that I was overstating the risks, and they kicked me to the curb.”
“What happened afterward?” the plaintiffs’ attorney asked.
“One of the wells I’d specifically brought to their attention as a potential hazard blew out and injured three workers.”
On conclusion of the engineer’s testimony, the plaintiffs’ attorney rested their case.
The plaintiffs’ legal team had done a superb job. Had I been on a jury, I would’ve voted in their favor. Still, the defense team had scored some points, too, raised some doubts. Would the judge be able to rule in favor of the defense without raising eyebrows? I wasn’t entirely sure.
Judge Craven called it a day. “We’ll begin testimony from the defense tomorrow.” She punctuated her words with a swift bang of her gavel. Bam!
chapter thirty-one
Beach Bums
After I dressed Wednesday morning, I put in a call to the marshal’s office.
“Any change in location?” I asked.
“No,” they said. “We’re still showing Mr. Rivers’s phone located in the waters near Cozumel.”
I thanked the man and hung up. Something didn’t feel right about this. Brazos was a young guy used to being on the move. According to Sierra, he never stayed anywhere for long. Guys that age got bored easily. They didn’t like to sit around and chill, they were always out looking for the next party.
I phoned Trish. “Have you heard from Brazos lately? Any chance he’s got a newer cell number?”
“I don’t know,” Trish said. “I haven’t heard from him since last time I saw you.”
She didn’t sound all that disappointed that Brazos hadn’t kept in touch. Trish must be a realist, knowing that any dalliance she’d had with the star would be short and fleeting.
I pulled up Brazos’s Facebook fan page. Nothing new had been posted on Brazos’s behalf since he’d fired Sierra. Looked like he hadn’t yet found a new manager. Several fans had posted, though. Several said they’d spotted the singer in various nightclubs around Cozumel recently.
One even posted a photo of her and the star on a patio trimmed in colored lights. Both held up margaritas, as if toasting the camera.
The last posted sighting was two nights ago. Where had he been since? In his boat sleeping off a hangover? Snorkeling? Lying on a beach somewhere wearing nothing but his cowboy hat, boots, and silver spurs? And as long as I was asking questions, exactly what was under that hat anyway? Inquiring minds wanted to know.
Having found nothing useful on Facebook, I pulled up Twitter and searched for #brazosrivers. I read through a number of useless tweets, mostly speculation about his new album and his breakup with the band.
I heard Brazos slept with 1 of the Boys’ girlfriends.
Another tweeter replied. Liar! He’d never do that! As if she knew the singer and his moral code firsthand.
Others were less personal.
Hope he’s writing more love songs.
Bought a pair of Buckin’ Bronco Boots today. Gave me blisters.
Heard BR was seen with Pippa Middleton in London.
No way! He knocked up Miley Cyrus.
What a bunch of useless drivel. I powered through, pushing myself to read on. My patience paid off. A half hour in I hit pay dirt. “Woo-hoo!”
My unexpected cry scared Anne, who leaped from the bed and ran under it. Fraidy cat.
Alicia stuck her head out of my guest bath in the hall and pulled the foamy toothbrush from her mouth. “Did you find him?” she asked, her voice garbled by a mouthful of toothpaste.
“He’s in Galveston,” I said. “A fan spotted the River Rat anchored in the bay this morning.”
I finished getting ready as fast as I could. I grabbed my ballistic vest, my raid jacket, and my handcuffs. Then I ran down the street to grab my favorite tool. Nick.
Too excited to knock, I used my key to let myself in. I found him sitting alone in his kitchen, finishing up a breakfast of frozen biscuits and sausage he’d nuked in the microwave. Nutty’s food bowl still sat on the floor, a few stale kibbles in the bottom. The dog’s blanket lay next to the bowl. It broke my heart that Nick hadn’t yet been able to put those things away, to let his dog go. But I couldn’t fault him. I knew I would feel the same way if I’d lost one of my cats.
“Come on!” I grabbed his plate from the table. “Winnie Seven is in Galveston. Let’s go get ’im!”
“Galveston?” Nick stood and grabbed the remaining chunk of biscuit off the plate before I set it in the sink. “No kidding?”
“Nope.”
He shoved the last bite into his mouth and mumbled something about rounding up his things.
A half hour later, Nick and I were headed south on I-45 in his pickup, pulling his bass boat on a trailer behind us. Fortunately, there was little midweek traffic on the interstate. We hauled both the boat and ass. If we were pulled over by a state trooper or a cop from one of the small towns along the way, we could pull rank and be back on our way in seconds.
Five hours later, we drove over the causeway into Galveston. It had been a few years since I’d last visited the island, which was a popular tourist spot given its proximity to Houston and its status as a departure port for cruise ships. As we drove through the historic downtown area, I admired the colorful Victorian houses, many of which had been constructed not long after the 1900 hurricane that had decimated the island and killed over six thousand people. The event, which was the most devastating natural disaster in American history, had led to the erection of the seventeen-foot-high and ten-mile-wide protective seawall. Unfortunately, even the wall was not enough to fully protect the island from Hurricane Ike, which hit in 2008 and wiped out several landmark hotels and restaurants positioned along the waterfront. The island had yet to fully recover.
Today, the island would be hit by Hurricane Tara. Yep, I planned to take this place by storm, arrest Brazos Rivers, and see justice served before blowing out of town.
On the drive down, I’d notified the marshals in Houston that I’d need a transport. I checked in with the office again by phone and was told two officers were waiting for us by a boat ramp. The agent on the phone provided an address and I plugged it into my cell phone’s GPS app.
We found the public boat ramp not far from Stewart Beach, a popular family vacation spot with a beachfront water park and arcade. The beach was nearly vacant today, only a young mother walking with a toddler along the waterfront and a handful of seagulls stalking bugs along the sand. In the distance behind them was the platform of an offshore drilling rig and a large merchant vessel.
Two female marshals in uniform waited by an SUV in the parking lot. No doubt they’d volunteered for the assignment once they’d learned who they would be transporting.
Nick and I climbed out of his truck and introduced ourselves.
Both of the women teemed with excitement, their eyes sparkling.
“Is it true?” one asked. “You’re going to arrest Brazos Rivers?”
Sheesh. She was clearly suffering from the same delusions about the man I had not long ago.
“Yes,” I told her. “But trust me. He’s not who he appears to be.”
“Really?” asked the other. “Because he appears to be a total stud muffin.”
The two shared a laugh. Nick rolled his eyes.
While the marshals waited onshore, I climbed into Nick’s boat. He backed it down the ramp, then released the boat from the trailer. After quickly parking his pickup in the closest available spot, he hopped into the boat, pushed us back from the shore, and started the motor. With a final wave to the waiting marshals, we set out into the water, trolling out toward the cluster of larger boats anchored offshore.
Nick sat at the wheel while I sat in the passenger seat. The day was cool but bearable with my raid jacket on. The salty breeze that blew in off the water smelled of brine and seaweed, leaving a wet mist on our skin and tossing our hair. Nick’s boat pitched gently up and down as we made our way over the waves.
“I wish I could get paid to do this every day,” Nick said. “Think I could convince Lu that bass fishing somehow moved my cases along?”
“Not unless those bass owe some money to Uncle Sam.”
A number of sailboats and large yachts were anchored in a designated no-wake area. Most had names painted on the back, the majority of which contained puns or irony or dirty sexual references. Seas the Day. She Got the House. Wet Dreams. Buoys of Summer. One sailboat read Love to be Blown. Another, the Betsy Sue, appeared to be named after the owner’s wife.
Nick’s boat had yet to be named.
I looked over at him and pushed out my lip in a pout. “How come you didn’t name your boat after me?”
“I will,” he promised. “I’ll call her Tara on the Seas.”
“Jeez. Never mind.” I picked up a red and white fishing bobber and tossed it at him, pegging him on the shoulder.
We scanned the boats, looking for the River Rat. The vessels, too big to come into the shallow waters around the docks, had smaller tenders or dinghies for the owners to use when coming ashore. The dinghies were missing from a number of the boats, indicating their owners had left their boats to venture onto the island. When we spotted the River Rat, however, we noticed its dinghy floating alongside, tethered to the yacht by a stretch of yellow nylon rope.
“He’s aboard,” Nick said, his intent gaze locked on the boat. “Boy howdy, this is going to be fun!”
I placed a call to Galveston PD, letting them know that federal law enforcement was on the water to make an arrest and requesting that they be prepared to provide backup via boat if necessary. After all, we had no idea how many people were aboard the River Rat. Brazos could be alone, or he could have his new band and an entire entourage of bodyguards on board. Maybe even some nubile young fans. Whether those on board would cooperate was another question. We special agents had learned to hope for the best but be prepared for the worst.
As we drew near, my eyes carefully scanned the boat, looking for signs of life. I saw none. What I did see, however, was
an empty bottle of Bacardi rum lying sideways on a seat, along with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s shoved under the railing and another of Jose Cuervo Especial tequila floating in the water next to the boat. A dozen beer bottles and cans were scattered about, too, some placed on tables or decks, others appearing to have been tossed aside. One of the beer bottles rolled lazily back and forth on the floor of the back deck, moving in synch with the waves, rr-rr-rolling from one side to the other, clinking up against the low wall at one side, then rolling across and clinking again as it rolled up against the other.
“What should we do?” I asked Nick. “Call out to him?”
“Nah,” Nick said. “Why give them any warning?”
True. The element of surprise could give us an advantage. Judging from the number of alcohol bottles, Brazos was sure to have a bodyguard or two out here, maybe even all five of them. This wouldn’t be a fair fight, if it came to that. My hope was that Brazos would realize the jig was finally up and that he’d peacefully surrender.
Nick turned off his motor and let momentum carry his boat the rest of the way. He reached out and grabbed the rail, pulling his bass boat up to the back and tying it to one of the metal cleats to keep it from drifting away once we boarded the River Rat.
My heart pumped wildly as we quietly climbed aboard, and I felt the warm surge of adrenaline flowing through my veins. We pulled our guns from our holsters and held them at the ready. Nick led the way, quietly moving toward the door that led inside the cabin. When he reached it, he looked back at me to ensure I was ready for whatever might face us on the other side.
I clenched my gun tighter and nodded.
He reached down and tried the handle. The resulting click told us that nobody had bothered to lock the door after their party last night. Some security team he had.
Nick slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. I followed on his heels.
We entered what appeared to be a combination living and dining room of sorts, with built-in couches and tables situated along the right side and a galley kitchen along the left. Though the room had windows all along the top of both sides, the curtains were, for the most part, pulled closed, letting in only narrow shafts of light where they gapped.