Black Horizon (Jack Swyteck Novel)

by Grippando, James

  With a click of the remote the rig was gone. The blue waters had turned black. Seas that had foamed with whitecaps were teeming with chemical dispersants. The sight was enough to make Andie nauseous.

  Or maybe that’s Viola again.

  “As you probably have guessed by now, the education you received over the past two months—everything from improved proficiency in the Chinese language to sharpened insights into the Chinese Mafia—has nothing to do with counterfeit Gucci handbags. So-called Operation Big Dredge was a mere cover to ensure the secrecy of your preparation for a much more vital operation at the core of our national security. The explosion of the Scarborough 8 has only shortened the timeline and heightened the urgency of the real investigation. I assure you, however, that everything you have learned will be of use to you.”

  Another click of his remote brought the image of a shipyard onto the screen.

  “From the day construction began in this shipyard in Yantai, Shandong Province, China, we have kept a close eye on the Scarborough 8. That scrutiny intensified when the world’s largest oil rig—an engineering and technological monster built entirely in China with less than ten percent American-made parts—ended up just sixty miles from the city of Key West. Through means that I will not get into here, FBI tech agents and experts from U.S. Homeland Security were able to access the Chinese rig’s computer system during drilling operations. We monitored the rig right up to the moment of the explosion. At this time I would like to introduce Special Agent Raj Gupta, who will briefly explain the technical aspects.”

  Andie found that sickening as well. Oh, my God, Viola, you little stinker. If you make me vomit in the middle of this meeting . . .

  Special Agent Gupta walked to the front of the room and took the remote.

  “Unfortunately, no one will ever be able to recover the exact software events leading to the Scarborough 8 disaster because, even on a state-of-the-art semi-submersible rig, there is no ‘black box.’ But here is what we do know.”

  The projected image on the screen was suddenly a collection of circuits in a tangle of colored wires, which did absolutely nothing to alleviate Andie’s nausea.

  Ugh, spaghetti.

  “Offshore oil rigs are made up of dozens of complex subsystems that use embedded software or are operated under software control. Each system is a potential point of failure. When the software is operating properly, alarms are routed to a central control station.”

  Gupta stopped and looked straight at Andie. “Are you okay, Henning?”

  “Fine, thanks,” she lied.

  Where is the Big Palm Island ice bucket when a girl really needs it?

  Gupta went to the next slide. “Industry standards for manageable alarm rates are one alarm per ‘normal’ ten-minute period with a maximum of five in any ‘peak’ five-minute period. During Tropical Storm Miguel, in the peak period immediately prior to the explosion, our monitoring systems detected almost five hundred alarms. It was impossible for the system and its operators to sift through this overload of alarms and prevent the explosion.”

  Andie pulled herself together to ask a question. “Are you saying the storm caused a computer malfunction?”

  “Homeland Security does not believe it was the storm, per se, that caused the computer malfunction. We believe the system failed in the storm due to computer sabotage, unleashing a cascade effect that resulted in catastrophe.”

  “But sabotage usually involves advance planning,” said Andie. “How would someone who sabotaged the alarm system know far enough ahead of time that the Scarborough 8 was going to be hit by a major tropical storm?”

  “Excellent question, Henning,” said Douglas.

  Thank you. May I puke now?

  Gupta replied, “As it turned out, the storm was the trigger event that overloaded the alarm system. But the same catastrophic failure could have been triggered by a major equipment failure or any number of events and conditions that rigs typically face in ultradeep water. We believe the sabotage rendered the system unable to deal with any significant emergency. In essence, the Scarborough 8 was a ticking time bomb that was doomed to explode the first time the rig faced an emergency situation that, if not for the sabotage, would have been manageable.”

  Agent Douglas thanked Gupta for his presentation and resumed his place in front of the team. “All of this raises an obvious question: Who was behind the sabotage?”

  A photograph appeared on the projection screen. It was a grainy black-and-white headshot of a man, like a mug shot without the prison identification number. Andie didn’t recognize the face, but it did elicit a gut reaction.

  “He doesn’t look Chinese Mafia,” said Andie.

  A steely gaze from Douglas swept across the entire team. “Not even close,” he said.

  Chapter 13

  Jack was back in Judge Carlyle’s overcrowded courtroom on Thursday morning.

  The supertanker hearing had been a complete victory for Jack, but it didn’t take long for thousand-dollar-an-hour defense lawyers to mount a counterattack. This time, the consortium’s sights were trained solely on Bianca Lopez. She was seated beside Jack at the mahogany table, leaving the plaintiff’s counsel and his client outnumbered six-to-one by the defense team on the other side of the courtroom. Luis Candela seemed to hide a smirk of satisfaction as he addressed the court from the podium.

  “Judge, this wrongful death lawsuit should be dismissed immediately, with sanctions entered against Mr. Swyteck for perpetrating a fraud on the court.”

  Candela had the full attention of a packed courtroom. Unlike the previous hearing, there was no overflow of property-claim lawyers to fill the gallery. Members of the media had replaced them, the courthouse beat having tripled overnight. The young and pretty Cuban-American widow’s lawsuit against a foreign oil consortium had become the spill’s David-versus-Goliath sideshow.

  Judge Carlyle glanced in Jack’s direction, then peered down from the bench at defense counsel. “Fraud is not an accusation I allow to be cast about loosely in my courtroom, Mr. Candela.”

  “There is no other way to characterize it, Your Honor. Mr. Swyteck’s client, Bianca Lopez—this so-called widow—was not the wife of Rafael Lopez.”

  The judge’s gaze swung back toward Jack, and this time he felt the full weight of her stare. Or maybe it was his sense that everyone else in the courtroom was looking at him, too.

  Bianca dug her nails into Jack’s arm and whispered, “That’s just not true!”

  “It’s okay,” he whispered back. “We’ll have our chance to speak.”

  The judge leaned forward, but her stare shifted to Candela.

  “Let me save Mr. Swyteck’s breath,” she said, her tone taking on an edge. “I’ve read the joint motion filed by the defendants. I fully understand your position: even if we assume that Bianca and Rafael Lopez were married at one time, that marriage was nullified under Cuban law. And I suppose that some jurists might find it creative to argue that Ms. Lopez abandoned her husband when she boarded a smuggler’s boat without him and fled to the United States. But I’m not impressed.”

  “Judge, she has no legal status as a widow to support her wrongful death claim.”

  “I’m not buying it,” said the judge.

  “I expected that reaction,” said Candela. “But as a matter of U.S. law, it is Mr. Swyteck’s burden to prove that his client was in fact married to Rafael Lopez at the time of his death. Nullification issues aside, Mr. Swyteck can’t even prove as a threshold matter that his client was ever married to Rafael Lopez.”

  Jack rose. “Your Honor, if I could interject. It’s true that we can’t simply call up the City Hall in Havana or search publicly available data bases to get a copy of the marriage license. The Cuban government registers marriage licenses with international data banks only for tourists who are married in Cuba, not for Cuban citizens, since international registration would facilitate defection.”

  “Judge,” said Candela, “I realize that the Cuban gov
ernment has exercised its right not to participate in this hearing, but could I ask the court to instruct plaintiff’s counsel to refrain from gratuitous attacks?”

  “It’s not gratuitous,” said Jack. “I’m simply explaining the constraints under which my client is operating. And we have the added difficulty that, for the average citizen, the Internet is inaccessible in the home and prohibitively expensive at a café, so the marriage record is not obtainable online from any public records database.”

  The judge seemed puzzled. “If that’s the case, then how do you intend to prove that Ms. Lopez was married?”

  “We have hired a reputable service in Miami to retrieve the marriage license, but this process takes time.”

  “Reputable?” said Candela, scoffing. “Your Honor, these so-called record-service companies are all over Miami’s Little Havana neighborhood. They operate outside the law, and they lead their clients to believe that they pull strings and even bribe Cuban officials to get copies of birth certificates, death certificates, marriage licenses, what have you. It’s a money-making scam. They charge hundreds and even thousands of dollars, and most of the documents they produce are fake.”

  “Your Honor, the defendants can challenge the authenticity of the marriage record once it’s produced.”

  “Or,” said Candela, “the court could cut to the chase by allowing me to ask Ms. Lopez a few simple questions under oath today.”

  “Nice try,” said Jack. “But ambushing a young widow by calling her to the witness stand without prior notice just two days after she files a lawsuit isn’t the way things work in this courtroom.”

  “Judge, please. Mr. Swyteck’s repeated slaps at the Cuban people have to stop.”

  “I wasn’t slapping the Cuban people.”

  “You said ‘in this country.’”

  “I said ‘courtroom.’ I wasn’t—”

  “Enough,” the judge said, as she banged her gavel.

  Candela persisted. “Your Honor, if I could have just five minutes to cross-examine Mr. Swyteck’s client, I’m confident that I can save us all a lot of time and establish beyond any doubt that she is not Rafael Lopez’s widow.”

  “I object,” said Jack. “No notice was given that any witnesses would be called at this hearing.”

  “The objection is well taken,” the judge said. “Mr. Candela, we can schedule an evidentiary hearing for a later date. But if you claim to need only five minutes, I suspect that you must have some sort of smoking gun in your possession. This isn’t a TV show, and I don’t like surprises. Let’s hear it.”

  “Judge, I’d rather wait.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Candela walked back to his table, and an assistant handed him two folders. With the judge’s permission he approached the bench and handed one up. On his way back to the podium, he dropped the other folder on Jack’s table.

  Jack glanced at Bianca, but her expression told him that she had no idea what might be inside. Jack opened the folder as Candela addressed the court.

  “Your Honor, the defense can prove that at the time of his death, Rafael Lopez was engaged to be married to a Cuban citizen. She lives in Havana. Her name is Josefina Fuentes.”

  Jack’s eyes were drawn to the first line of the handwritten letter inside the folder: Querida Josefina.

  “Exactly what do these letters purport to be?” the judge asked.

  “These are love letters that Rafael wrote while on the rig and sent to his fiancée in Havana. For the court’s convenience, translations are also in the folder.”

  The judge thumbed through her copies. “How did you get these?”

  “All mail from the rig was monitored by the Cuban government. It could take weeks for the letters to be reviewed before being forwarded to the intended recipient. These last two letters from Rafael were still in the hands of the Cuban government at the time of the explosion.”

  Judge Carlyle put on her eyeglasses and read to herself. Jack, too, read in silence. He focused mostly on the translations, but his Spanish was good enough to understand Rafael’s last written words: Todo mi amor.

  All my love.

  The judge looked up from the letter, her interest clearly piqued. “Let me ask a few questions of Mr. Swyteck.”

  Jack rose. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Counselor, have you seen these letters before?”

  “I have not,” said Jack.

  “Has your client seen them?”

  Bianca looked up at him and shook her head.

  “No, Judge,” said Jack.

  “I don’t mean to put Ms. Lopez on the spot. Mr. Swyteck, perhaps you can help me get answers to some questions that come to my mind. Does this look like Rafael’s handwriting?”

  Jack conferred with his client briefly, then replied. “She can’t say for sure it is.”

  “Then I assume she can’t say for sure that it isn’t,” the judge said. “Is that right?”

  “That’s correct, Your Honor.”

  The judge took a moment, then continued. “Did Rafael write any letters like this to your client? More specifically, does she have copies of any such letters?”

  Again, Bianca shook her head.

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Has your client had any communication with Rafael Lopez since she left Cuba?”

  “No,” Bianca told Jack, and he repeated it more loudly for the record.

  The judge continued. “That seems odd. Even after the Cuban government eased the travel restrictions on Cuban nationals, there was no communication at all between you about Rafael coming to the United States?”

  Bianca shook her head, and Jack verbalized it. “No, Your Honor.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Jack tried not to wince: Hmmm. No vowels. Technically not even a word. But it was one of the most potent messages a judge could send from the bench.

  The judge scratched her head. “Does she have any wedding photographs or any such things to substantiate the fact that there was a ceremony or celebration?”

  Jack had discussed this previously with Bianca, but he double-checked before answering in open court.

  “Your Honor, my client came to this country as a refugee, before the technical lifting of the travel ban. She arrived literally with the clothes on her back. Her personal belongings were left behind in Cuba.”

  “I understand,” said the judge. “One final question: Has Ms. Lopez held any kind of memorial service for Rafael since his death?”

  Jack looked at his client, and the meeting of their eyes was the most awkward moment to date in their young lawyer-client relationship. Jack needed no elaboration from her.

  “There has been nothing formal at this point,” he told the judge.

  “So your client has filed a multimillion-dollar lawsuit, but she has yet to conduct a memorial service. Do I have that right?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it like that, Your—”

  The judge raised a hand, stopping him. It was clear that she wanted no answer. Equally clear—and more disturbing to Jack—was that the media was eating this up, and the judge was beginning to pander. The evening sound bite was in the can.

  “I’m going to set this matter for a hearing,” the judge said. “Mr. Swyteck, come prepared to convince me that your client was married to Rafael Lopez at the time of his death. Come very prepared. We’re adjourned.”

  At the sharp crack of the gavel, Jack’s client popped from her chair and stood beside him. Together, they watched Judge Carlyle disappear into her chambers. The paneled door closed with a thud, unleashing another volley of questions on top of questions from reporters who were standing on the public side of the rail. Jack ignored them.

  “We need to talk,” he told Bianca, “in private.”

  Chapter 14

  Jack needed a way out.

  A gauntlet of reporters stood in the gallery, blocking the main exit at the rear of the courtroom. The bailiff allowed Jack and his client to escape through a s
ide door that led to a vacant jury deliberation room. Jack closed the solid oak door and sat Bianca down at the end of a rectangular table that was long enough to accommodate twelve angry men (and women). Standing, he laid the handwritten letters before her.

  “Is this Rafael’s handwriting or not?” He was trying not to be too accusatory, but it was pointed, nonetheless.

  “I told you: I can’t be sure.”

  “Bianca, I need the truth.”

  She took a long look at the letter, studying it, as if wishing it weren’t so. Her lower lip quivered with her reply. “It . . . it could be.”

  Jack drew a breath and stepped away. His thoughts made him pace—back and forth in front of an old portrait of James Monroe, the president for whom the entire county was named in recognition of old Key West and America’s “manifest destiny.”

  Jack stopped and planted his palms atop the table. “Who is Josefina Fuentes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The truth, please.”

  “That is the truth. I’ve never heard of her.”

  Jack pulled up a chair and looked her straight in the eye. “I need you to be completely straight with me. If you have something to clear up, now is the time to do it, before this spirals out of control: Were you or were you not Rafael’s wife when he died?”

  “Yes!”

  “How do you explain these letters?”

  The response caught in her throat. “I—I know that . . .”

  “You know what?”

  “I know Rafael would never give up on us, on our marriage. These letters must be fakes.”

  “You just admitted that they could be his handwriting.”

  Bianca shifted uneasily. “You heard Mr. Candela in the courtroom. He said that all mail from the rig was screened and that he got these letters from the Cuban government. You can’t put this past them. I defected. To the government, I am a gusano. All defectors to the United States are gusanos.”

  “Worms, I know. My grandmother is one, too.”

  “Just because they changed the travel laws after I left doesn’t mean they forget the people who defected. They would do anything to hurt me. This woman—this Josefina—must be an impostor. She is working with the government to kill my lawsuit and punish me, the way all gusanos should be punished.”