Black Horizon (Jack Swyteck Novel)

by Grippando, James

  Jack was dumbstruck, but moved. It was the first he’d heard that his father had truly wanted to be on the ticket. And now he was calling in whatever capital he’d earned—for his son.

  “Seventeen thousand nine hundred sixty-one,” said the chief of staff. Murphy was truly a numbers guy.

  “In a state of twelve million registered voters,” said Harry.

  “Okay, Harry. Your point is made. Here’s what I can tell you: We have figured out the significance of the string of numbers that the kidnapper used to sign the note.”

  Jack didn’t have the numbers memorized, but he’d combed through every line of the note with the agents, and a copy was still on the table. He checked the kidnapper’s “signature” once again: 3/6/11/17/9/42. Jack leaned over the cell phone on the table between him and his father and said, “The FBI asked me a ton of questions about the kidnapper’s technical savvy. I’m guessing this is some kind of computer code.”

  There was silence, which didn’t sit well with Harry. “Jack makes a fair observation. What do you think, Jim?”

  The chief of staff breathed so deeply that Jack could hear the crackle on the speaker. “You’re asking for an awful lot,” he said.

  “I’ve never asked for anything before,” said Harry.

  There was a faint chuckle, and then the voice on the line turned very serious. “Don’t ask me how, but Homeland Security was able to ascertain the sequence of alarms that signaled in the final minute of the emergency on the rig. A computer malfunction caused the alarm to get stuck in a loop, making it impossible for the system to respond to the emergency at hand.”

  “And these numbers in the ransom note?” asked Jack.

  “Those numbers match the alarm sequence perfectly. It’s the exact pattern of the loop that ran over and over again, until the explosion.”

  Jack and his father exchanged glances, silenced until the chills disappeared. “So my kidnapper is the real deal,” said Jack.

  “Yes,” said the chief of staff. “It would appear that he’s for real.”

  Chapter 27

  On Tuesday morning, Jack and his client were back in the Key West courthouse.

  Judge Carlyle’s courtroom wasn’t the zoo it had been the previous week, which was not to say that the battle over property damage and lost profits had abated. An estimated ten thousand barrels of spilled crude was creeping ever closer to Key West, the leading edge of it just twenty-five miles from shore. Calculators across Florida were overheating as Freddy Foman and his band of lawyers computed the potential losses. But Monday’s hearing was about Bianca and Rafael, exclusively. Jack needed a knockout punch for the oil consortium’s argument that his client was not Rafael’s widow.

  “Mr. Swyteck, what evidence do you have for me this morning?”

  Judge Carlyle was cordial enough, but her pointed words and harsh demeanor at the previous hearing were seared into Jack’s memory: Mr. Swyteck, come prepared to convince me that your client was married to Rafael Lopez at the time of his death. Come very prepared.

  There was no upside to waiting any longer. Jack’s evidence was as strong as it was ever going to be. Josefina—Rafael’s phony fiancée—would never be a witness in a U.S. court. Without her, a simple “hearsay” objection from the defense would prevent Jack from recounting her story. Rules of evidence aside, Jack couldn’t in good conscience betray her trust. Josefina had helped Rafael secure a coveted job on an oil rig by pretending to be his fiancée. She’d committed a crime—a fraud on the Cuban government—and by outing her, Jack could have landed her in a Cuban jail.

  Throwing Josefina under the autobús simply wasn’t an option. Jack needed a different attack.

  “Your Honor, I have two items of proof,” he said. “A certificate of marriage from the Cuban Ministry of Justice. And a photograph of Rafael and Bianca standing outside the Ministry of Justice after their wedding ceremony.”

  The judge waved him forward to the bench. Jack handed up the originals and, on the way back to the podium, provided copies to opposing counsel.

  “Any objection from the defense?” the judge asked.

  Candela rose. The six other lawyers on his team remained in their Naugahyde chairs behind the defense table.

  “No objection,” said Candela. “But this evidence misses the point. We don’t dispute that Bianca Lopez was at some time in the irrelevant past married to the decedent. Our point is that she was no longer the lawful wife of Rafael Lopez at the time of his death on the oil rig. The letters from Rafael Lopez to his fiancée, Josefina Fuentes, are proof of that.”

  Jack glanced toward Bianca, who appeared ready to jump from her seat and tell opposing counsel exactly what she thought of him and those letters. A subtle gesture from Jack assured her that all was under control.

  “Judge, this is painful and demeaning to my client,” said Jack. “But let me respond this way: even if Rafael was ‘engaged’ to another woman at the time of his death, he was still lawfully married to Bianca. At trial, any rift in their marriage may figure into the calculation of damages suffered by my client in terms of the loss of affections of her husband. But it doesn’t bar her from bringing this lawsuit as Rafael’s widow. The only bar at this stage would be an official divorce decree, which the defendants have not produced.”

  The judge rocked back in her chair, eyes cast toward the ceiling, thinking before she spoke. “I tend to agree with Mr. Swyteck on this point.”

  “I strongly disagree,” said Candela, rising once again. “Those letters call the marriage into serious question. Dismissal of the case may not be in order. But until Mr. Swyteck produces some evidence to rebut those letters and satisfy the court that his client is the widow of Rafael Lopez, at the very least, no discovery should be allowed. The defendants should not be required to respond to these allegations in any way.”

  “Are you asking me to stay this case?”

  “Yes, Judge. The plaintiff is seeking an eight-figure recovery from one of the largest oil consortium’s in the world. The court should at least require Mr. Swyteck to demonstrate that his client has the capacity to bring this lawsuit. He has nothing to rebut these letters.”

  “Well, we do have something,” said Jack.

  The judge raised an eyebrow. “Are you challenging the letters, Mr. Swyteck?”

  Jack hesitated. He had hoped that it wouldn’t come to this—that the photographs and certificate of marriage would get the job done. But he’d prepared for the worst. Plan B wasn’t without risk, but it was one worth taking.

  “Your Honor, at this point I’m prepared to cast enough doubt over those alleged love letters to demonstrate that Bianca Lopez should have her day in court. If the court will permit, I have one witness I would like to call at this time.”

  “I object,” said Candela.

  “What a surprise,” said the judge. “But let’s hear who he is first, shall we?”

  “Francis McGregor, retired, United States Coast Guard,” said Jack. “Captain McGregor served on various Coast Guard cutters in the Florida Straits over a thirty-year career. He also holds an advanced degree in mathematics and taught nautical science courses at the Coast Guard Academy in New London, Connecticut. Since retirement, the captain has worked extensively for the oil industry. Specifically, eleven different oil companies have retained him to rebut claims by drilling opponents that a proposed rig would be visible from shore and hurt tourism. In fact, six of Mr. Candela’s other oil clients have retained him for that very purpose.”

  “Does the defense stand on its objection?” the judge asked.

  “I don’t question the captain’s qualifications,” said Candela. “But I can’t see any conceivable relevance of his testimony.”

  One of the moments from Cuba that had stayed with Jack was his talk with Olga, and her explanation of how she knew that Rafael was still in love with Bianca. He said he could see the Key West shore from up high on the derrick. It had triggered a thought in Jack’s mind—one that made him go back and loo
k more closely at the love letter Rafael had written to Josefina. But the less said about his visit to Cuba, the better.

  “This is a five-minute witness,” said Jack. “The relevance will be immediately apparent.”

  “Oh, I just love it when a lawyer puts his credibility on the line. Five minutes, relevance immediately apparent. You’re on, Counselor. But for your sake, I hope you weren’t thinking of putting one over on me. Bailiff, start the clock.”

  “But the witness hasn’t even been sworn.”

  “Tick tock, Mr. Swyteck.”

  Jack turned sharply and signaled to the first row of public seating. Theo raced out of the courtroom to get the witness. Thirty seconds later, Captain McGregor was rushing down the center aisle. He was sworn, seated, and ready to testify in record time.

  “Four minutes,” said the judge. “And counting.”

  “Captain McGregor, I asked you to make some calculations for the court based on your review of a letter that defense introduced into evidence at the last court hearing,” said Jack, handing the judge a courtesy copy. “Have you made those calculations?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “This is a letter that Rafael Lopez allegedly wrote to a woman named Josefina Fuentes in Cuba. As translated, the letter states, in part: ‘I miss you, my love. I think of you every day. On clear days I climb the derrick, as high as I can climb. From there, I see the shore you walk on. We are that close. I swear I can see you. This makes me smile, but it makes it even harder to be apart.”

  Jack put the letter aside. “I want to focus on one sentence in particular, where the letter states that from the highest point on the derrick, quote: ‘I can see the shore you walk on.’” Jack paused, allowing the judge to focus on the language. “Captain McGregor, is that possible?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Simple mathematics.”

  “Simple for you, maybe. Make it simple enough for a C student in geometry who was smart enough to become a lawyer.”

  “There’s no trick,” said the captain. “Any career cutterman who’s read Nathaniel Bowditch’s American Practical Navigator could probably tell you the formula in his sleep: visible distance in nautical miles is equal to 1.17 multiplied by the square root of the height, in feet.”

  “How does that formula apply here?”

  “Let’s calculate the height first. The Scarborough 8 was a floating rig, so the platform height could vary. So I took the maximum elevation of the platform, which was a hundred fifty feet above the waterline.”

  “Where did you get that information?”

  “It’s publicly available. The derrick rose another hundred and eighteen feet above the platform. Just to be safe, I based my calculation on the overgenerous assumption that a derrick monkey could climb to a height of three hundred feet above sea level. Applying the formula, Rafael’s maximum visibility would be about twenty miles.”

  Jack laid out the coordinates of the drilling site, which were not in dispute. “So if the Scarborough 8 was drilling a distance of seventy miles from the Cuban shore . . .”

  “Absolutely no way Rafael could see it.”

  “What if he had binoculars?”

  “Binoculars would make objects at a distance of twenty miles appear closer, but it wouldn’t enable him to see anything more than twenty miles away. Binoculars don’t change the curvature of the earth. It was simply impossible to see Cuba from that rig at that drilling site, if you accept the premise that the earth is round and not flat.”

  The judge smirked. “It may be the one and only point of agreement in this case, but I think we can all accept that the earth is not flat.”

  Jack stepped away from the podium. “No further questions, Captain.”

  “Nicely done,” said the judge. “Twenty seconds to spare.”

  “I aim to please, Your Honor.”

  He would have loved to say more, to come right out and tell the court that the letters, though addressed to Josefina, were in fact written to Bianca, and that the shoreline within sight from the rig was Key West, not Cuba. But he didn’t have to prove that much. He needed only to raise doubts in the court’s mind. He returned to his seat, enough said.

  “Any cross examination, Mr. Candela?”

  “No, just outrage. Mr. Swyteck’s obvious implication is that Rafael Lopez did not write these letters to Josefina Fuentes. Again he is attacking a sovereign party that is unrepresented in this courtroom, accusing the Cuban government of fabricating these letters to undermine his lawsuit.”

  The judge looked straight at Jack. “Are you making that accusation, Mr. Swyteck?”

  It wasn’t the argument Jack had intended to make, but Candela was inadvertently doing a better job of discrediting the letters than had the captain. But Jack had to be careful. He knew that Rafael had in fact written the letters. He couldn’t make an argument that he knew to be false.

  Jack rose. “Your Honor, all I’m prepared to say at this juncture is that something is just not right about these letters.”

  Candela couldn’t let it go, couldn’t stop digging his own grave. “Judge, Mr. Swyteck should be required to come forward with actual proof that these letters are fakes created by the Cuban government. His insinuation is not evidence.”

  The judge groaned, but Jack read it as a sign that opposing counsel had done the work for him: the letters were imbued with the requisite stink.

  “I’ve made up my mind,” the judge said. “Mr. Swyteck has produced a marriage certificate. Mr. Candela, if you want to challenge Ms. Lopez’s capacity to bring this lawsuit, show me a divorce decree.”

  “We’re working on that, Your Honor.”

  Jack did a double take. “What?”

  “We are in contact with the Cuban Ministry of Justice.”

  The judge banged her gavel. “I’ve heard enough promises of what might be coming. Until the defense can show me a divorce decree, this case is moving forward. That’s my ruling. We’re adjourned.”

  “All rise!”

  The lawyers, Jack’s client, and a handful of reporters in public seating rose as the judge stepped down from the bench. Jack cast a sideways glance at Bianca, who seemed even more concerned than ever.

  “How can they be working on a divorce decree?” Bianca asked, her voice a mere whisper in an otherwise silent courtroom.

  Jack waited for the judge to exit to her chambers. The side door closed with a thud, breaking the silent show of respect for the judge. The crowd started toward the rear exit, but Bianca had taken hold of Jack’s arm, her nails digging through the sleeve of his jacket.

  “Mr. Candela said they’re working with the Cuban Ministry of Justice,” said Bianca, her voice filled with concern. “What does that mean?”

  Jack glanced across the courtroom at opposing counsel. Not a single lawyer on the defense team appeared disappointed by the judge’s ruling.

  “It means the battle is a long way from over,” Jack told her.

  Chapter 28

  Spill. It was the buzzword of the hour outside the courthouse. Never before had Jack walked the streets of Key West and felt more tension than humidity in the autumn air.

  “Looks like that black blob of shit is coming right at us,” said Theo. He was scrolling through the latest news on his iPhone. Jack assumed he was paraphrasing the headlines.

  “When?” asked Bianca. They were a couple of blocks from the courthouse, waiting in line at a little shop called Glazed Donuts. Theo was torn between the flavors of the day: blood orange or Key lime. He ordered a dozen of each, then checked the “spill update” on his phone again.

  “It’s moving slower than they thought it would,” said Theo. “But it’s coming. Two more days, they say.”

  The blood orange was just too tempting, and before they left the shop, Jack and Bianca were as hooked as Theo on the sugar fix. They were walking three abreast on the sidewalk, Bianca in the middle, doughnuts in hand, as they passed directly beneath a sleeping cat that was perc
hed on the sprawling limb of an old oak. An open-air shuttle bus stopped at the corner, and there was nothing like glazed doughnuts to make walking seem like a bad idea.

  “Come on,” said Jack, as he nudged Theo and Bianca aboard. “My father is being interviewed from Southernmost Point at nine thirty. Live.”

  “Cool,” said Theo. “Let’s all shoot him a moon and see how he copes.”

  “Shoot him a moon?” asked Bianca. “That means what?”

  “It means—”

  “It means you should ignore Theo Knight,” said Jack.

  The shuttle took them south on Whitehead, past the old Naval Air Station at the Truman Annex, where President Truman had built his “winter White House.” Since the opening of a new air station on Boca Chica Key, most of the annex had been converted into a residential development and public green space, only a small part of it reserved for military use. But the grounds occupied the prime southwest corner of the key—in the direct path of Cuban oil from Scarborough 8, carried by the same warm currents that had deposited thousands of refugees on the annex shores during the 1980 Mariel boatlift. A tall hibiscus hedge blocked most of Jack’s view from the street, but he guessed that preparations and activities behind the closed gates were at a level not seen since the Second World War.

  The shuttle let them off two blocks from Southernmost Point. A sea of pedestrians—tourists, members of the media, and curious locals—made it impossible for vehicles to get any closer. The usual vendors of conch shells and trinkets lined the sidewalks, but the overflow of visitors was all about oil and ground zero. Jack cut a zigzagged path down the crowded street.

  Southernmost Point was one of the most visited and photographed sites on Key West, even if the island’s true southernmost point was inside the Truman Annex, on Navy property and inaccessible to civilians. Jack had seen it before, but the inscription on the big concrete buoy—an old sewer junction painted in green, red, black, and yellow stripes—was particularly poignant, given the nature of the impending disaster. Directly above the words “Southernmost Point, Continental United States” was the inscription: