“It did indeed. Barton-Hammill had to file a request with the Department of the Treasury for an exemption to the embargo. As the leader of the team that invented the technology, I signed that request.”
“What was the basis for that requested exemption?”
“National security,” he said. “Specifically, environmental security.”
“Thank you, Doctor. No further questions.”
Gonzalez stepped away from the podium, looking quite smug as she returned to her seat.
The judge’s gaze swept the courtroom and came to rest on Jack. “Any cross-examination, Mr. Swyteck?”
Jack rose, puzzled. Is that it? He glanced at his co-counsel, but Cassie seemed equally underwhelmed by Cooper’s testimony. She cupped her hand to her mouth and whispered a word that Jack never used, but he totally took her meaning.
“Lame-ola.”
“Judge, I’ll be brief,” said Jack. He moved into position, standing directly in front of the witness, and began.
“Dr. Cooper, just so we’re clear: the threat to our national security that you identified is an oil spill from the Scarborough 8.”
“That’s correct.”
“You are aware that the Scarborough 8 is now on the ocean floor in the Cuban Basin, aren’t you?”
“I am indeed.”
“Oil from the Scarborough 8 spill has washed up in the Florida Keys as high as Marathon. You know that, right?”
“Yes. It may extend even higher by now.”
“And while some members of the Conch Republic may dispute the point, the Florida Keys are within the territorial borders of the United States and share the same national security interests.”
“Objection,” said Gonzalez.
“I’ll rephrase,” said Jack. “Dr. Cooper, would it be fair to say that the only national security interest you’ve identified is one that has already been breached?”
“Technically speaking, yes.”
“I don’t mean to be pedantic, but, ‘technically speaking,’ a court order that shuts down my client’s wrongful death lawsuit against the oil consortium isn’t going to undo that breach, is it?”
“Objection,” said Gonzalez.
“Sustained,” said the judge. “I think your point is made, Mr. Swyteck.”
“I think so, too, Your Honor. That’s all I have.”
It made Jack a little uncomfortable to cut short his cross-examination, but he saw no need for more. Gonzalez requested no redirect, so the judge excused the witness, and the courtroom fell silent as the deputy escorted him down the aisle and out the door.
Jack returned to his seat beside Cassie and whispered, “Am I missing something?”
“No,” she whispered back. “Slam dunk.”
The judge jotted down a few notes, then looked up.
“I’m prepared to rule,” she said. “Ms. Gonzalez, many of my reservations have already been stated. I don’t like lawyers who expect me to be pro-government just because I was once a prosecutor. I don’t like lawyers who submit affidavits with more holes than Swiss cheese. I don’t like lawyers who miss deadlines and switch witnesses without the court’s permission.”
Cassie whispered, “I think she’s going to hold Gonzalez in contempt.”
“Mr. Swyteck, I understand your point that the threat posed by the Scarborough 8 has already come to pass. But it’s the job of our government to find out whether this disastrous oil spill was caused by an act of terrorism. It stands to reason that any such investigation must focus on whether this was an isolated act, or if further acts of environmental terrorism threaten our national security.”
“Judge, this witness has provided no evidence as to the nature of the investigation, the scope of the investigation, or the target of the investigation.”
“I think it’s fairly implied. The government’s motion is granted. Ms. Lopez’s wrongful death action filed in this court against the defendants named in this lawsuit is stayed until the completion of the FBI’s criminal investigation into possible sabotage on the Scarborough 8.”
It ended with a crack of the gavel, and the judge hurried toward the side exit to her chambers.
“All rise!”
Jack tried to show no reaction, nothing to give Gonzalez the satisfaction. Cassie whispered, but she was almost breathless. “This was fixed.”
“Quiet,” said Jack.
“I mean it,” she whispered, but with urgency. “Between nine a.m. and four p.m. somebody got to that judge.”
“Later,” he said beneath his breath.
The heavy side door closed with a thud, and the judge disappeared into her chambers. Gonzalez immediately crossed the courtroom to Jack’s table for a parting shot.
“Justice prevails,” she said.
“It isn’t over,” said Jack.
“You’re right. But rest easy. I won’t be asking a grand jury to indict you for violation of the embargo.” She paused, then added, “This week.”
Gonzalez turned and headed for the exit.
“What an obnoxious bitch,” said Cassie, but it was only for Jack’s ears.
“Let it go,” said Jack. He packed up his computer, grabbed his trial bag, and headed for the exit. Cassie was all but latched onto his arm in pit bull fashion.
“How can you say, ‘Let it go’?”
“Judge Carlyle just did us a huge favor,” said Jack. He pushed the double doors and stepped into the hallway, still walking.
“What are you talking about? Our client just got screwed.”
“Far from it,” said Jack.
“You’re in denial. This judge was bought off. She’ll be driving around Key West in a new Mercedes before Thanksgiving.”
Cassie stopped short, a moment of panic triggered by the car allusion and the mere implication of an expensive lease. “Shit, I need to call Hunter at the real estate agency and cancel that office lease before the landlord signs it.” She dug her phone from her purse and found an alcove by the window where she could get reception. Jack waited by the drinking fountain in the hallway.
“Swyteck, you got a minute?”
It was Luis Candela, lead counsel for the oil consortium. Jack said, “You were unusually quiet in the courtroom, Luis.”
“I was in listening mode. I hope you were, too. Hope you listened really well to what the judge was telling you.”
“I did,” said Jack. “I heard her say that the case against the oil consortium can’t move forward in Key West, Florida. I didn’t hear her say anything about a case against a certain other defendant in another forum.”
“You heard right,” said Candela. “Bianca is your client, but if she were mine, I’d take a cue from the judge. I’d tell Bianca that there are dozens of multinational and jurisdictional reasons why the claims against the oil consortium will fail, that the U.S. laws that left BP on the hook for Deepwater Horizon don’t apply here. I’d tell her that even if you win, it’ll be ten years before you collect a judgment—if you collect at all. I’d tell her that unless she wants to go down in flames like Freddy Foman and his gang of plaintiff lawyers, she would do well to file a new lawsuit against Barton-Hammill in federal court.”
It was exactly the cue Jack had taken. “Appreciate that insight, Luis. Just a little puzzled as to why you’re sharing it with me.”
“From day one, my law firm has been working every conceivable connection at the Justice Department, trying to convince them to shut down all civil lawsuits pending a criminal investigation into possible terrorist activity. I got nowhere. But the minute Barton-Hammill entered the picture as the manufacturer of the alarm system, the National Security Division sent in the wolves to tear your case apart. Why do you think that is, Jack?”
“I have my theories.”
“As do I. So to answer your question, why am I sharing this with you? Because deep down, I believe in fairness.”
“Really? Fairness?”
Candela smiled thinly as he started away, then stopped. “Oh, and there is one
other reason,” he said, his expression turning very serious. “Because Barton-Hammill is the only company at fault here. But you don’t have to take that from me. Follow Judge Carlyle’s lead.”
Jack watched one very contented lawyer for the oil consortium walk away. It was still possible that Jack was right, that Judge Carlyle had reached out and done his client a favor by pushing her case into federal court, no impropriety about it. But Cassie’s view was gaining traction in Jack’s mind, seemingly affirmed by Candela’s gratuitous insight. Someone had lined the judge’s pockets and bought himself a favor—someone named Barton-Hammill.
Chapter 48
Friday night in Havana. Mojitos poured from icy glass pitchers garnished with mint leaves. Latin rhythms pulsed from the shops and cafés on Calle Obispo in Habana Vieja. Josefina was in her usual place: La Escuela de Boxeo.
Boxing was her life’s passion. Training was her discipline. For five years, she’d kept her eye on the prize. Most men had told her that she was wasting her time, that Cuba’s refusal to send a women’s boxing team to the London Olympics in 2012 confirmed that el boxeo would remain a “man’s sport” in her country as long as an old man was president. Josefina had bet against the naysayers. She’d earned the trust of a trainer. Not just any trainer, but El Sicario, a boxing legend. She’d worked through injuries. She’d dragged herself out of bed and come into the gym with fever. She’d forced herself into the ring for “just one more round” when she was too tired to wipe her own blood from her nose. She had never missed a practice.
Until the attack.
“That’s it, that’s it, that’s it!” Sicario shouted. Eso es!
Josefina was hammering away at the hundred-pound punching bag, blurry left-right combinations that would send all but world-class opponents to the canvas. Her trainer held the hanging leather bag in place, absorbing enough of the blows to make Josefina feel the resistance she would get from top competition. Sweat poured down her face. Down her neck. Her back. She felt the salty sting of her own perspiration in the wound between her shoulder blades. It was an inch-long vertical incision. Where the knife had cut her.
Ignore it.
She kept punching, fighting through the fatigue.
“Keep your left up!” shouted Sicario.
Josefina tried to focus, but the cut was on her mind, the sting too much of a reminder of the tip of that blade. Ironically, there had been no need for a knife. Maybe her attackers had brought a weapon for their own protection, in case something went wrong, but it was completely unnecessary as an instrument of control. They already controlled her. Very few people could physically overpower her, but anyone who knew the truth about her and Rafael had the power to control her absolutely.
“Again, again!”
What she’d told Jack Swyteck at Heladería Coppelia was completely true. Rafael could never have been accepted to study engineering at the university, and he could never have landed a coveted job on the Scarborough 8—not with a wife who had defected to Florida. A new fiancé named Josefina gave the Cuban government a false assurance that Rafael would not become part of the “brain drain,” yet another young professional who got education and training at the expense of the Cuban people and then bolted to greener pastures. Her fear, however, was not that someone like Swyteck would expose her complicity. Anyone who turned against her, who betrayed the trust of friendship and threatened to turn her in to the Cuban authorities, had Josefina Fuentes in the palm of his hand. She had no choice but to obey.
And it was killing her.
“Good. Two hundred sit-ups,” said Sicario. “Gloves on, quick combination on each up count.”
Josefina dropped to the mat on the floor, silently counting off the stomach crunches, but she soon lost track. Memories were always a distraction, and bad memories were the worst.
There had been two attackers. Only one had done the talking. Josefina had followed the directions to the letter. Don’t call Swyteck, since his phone might be tapped. Call his friend Theo. Tell him that the exchange was going through you, with instructions to follow. Josefina knew that the chances of a happy ending were not good, but she saw no way out.
“We’re done,” said Sicario, as he untied the laces on her gloves. “Good work. Shower.”
He left her alone, and Josefina took a seat on the bench. She pulled off her gloves and bent over to unlace her shoes. She loosened the left one and was starting on the right when she froze. Another pair of feet had come into view, and she recognized the shoes. Her old friend Vivien owned only two pairs.
Old friend.
Josefina straightened up but remained on the bench, her back resting against the wall. Vivien sat beside her.
“It’s time to make another phone call,” said Vivien.
Josefina said nothing. Acquiescence. No choice but to obey.
“Don’t be angry,” said Vivien. “This is going to make us all rich.”
“I don’t want to be rich,” said Josefina.
“Fine,” said Vivien. “Then just do as you’re told, and don’t make trouble. Be a good Burnt Sugar.”
Chapter 49
Key West was raving mad—even more than usual. Jack and Theo ran straight into the frenzy at the north end of Duval Street.
More than a week had passed since Jack’s last visit to Mallory Square. In the immediate aftermath of the Scarborough 8 explosion, Key West’s most famous wharf had turned into media central for “spill watch.” Much of the media had drifted up to the middle Keys, along with the most damaging effects of the oil spill. The traditional carnival-like atmosphere at sunset, however, had yet to return. Although the people had retaken Mallory Square, they didn’t feel like singing, juggling, or painting their kids’ faces. They were pissed, and they wanted the world to know it. The wharf was jammed with angry protestors, and the overflow had clogged Duval Street all the way back to Rick’s Café. Some carried sandwich boards, while others painted their messages right onto their half-naked bodies. Theo got caught up in the mood, and before Jack knew it, he was leading a chorus of drunks, thrusting his fist into the air, and shouting nonsense.
“B-P must pay! B-P must pay! B-P must—”
Jack pulled him away. “Theo, what the hell does BP have to do with this?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you shouting that?”
“What am I supposed to shout, Cubapetróleo y Petróleos de Venezuela must pay? No wonder you don’t get rap, dude.”
Jack kept walking, pushing farther into the crowd. The handful of protestors that had first appeared outside the Truman Annex a week earlier had grown into a veritable Keys rebellion. The television media had left behind scaffolding and elevated camera platforms, which organizers (in the loosest sense of the word) had transformed into a makeshift stage for activists to make their plea. A handheld microphone passed from one speaker to the next, open to anyone with a grievance. An impromptu moderator stepped forward to limit each speaker to a few minutes, tops. One man read a poem he had written about the reefs back in middle school and cried. Another found countless ways to inject the f-bomb into a single rambling sentence.
I’m effing tired of this effing oil effing up our effing island and our effing government doing not an effing thing to effing . . .
The loudest applause was for a seventy-five-year-old woman who gripped the microphone tightly with both hands and said nothing. For a solid thirty seconds, she let out one long, primal scream.
Jack was about to move on, but the moderator caught his attention with the announcement of a “special guest” who was “one of the world’s leading authorities on climate change.”
“Climate change?” asked Jack.
The moderator continued with the buildup, heaping one accolade after another on “a courageous man” who had come “all the way from Los Angeles in a show of solidarity to launch an appropriate response to irresponsible congressional leaders who have cast reckless accusations against so-called environmental terrorists for the Scarbo
rough 8 disaster.”
A chorus of boos came from the crowd, not for the speaker, but for the congressional leaders. In truth, Jack had been so focused on the national security hearing that he’d lost track of the accusations led by the senator from Utah—the ones that shifted the blame from Barton-Hammill to left-wing radicals who opposed offshore drilling. Jack watched with interest as the microphone passed to the speaker from Los Angeles—“Please welcome Dr. Allen Crenshaw”—whom the crowd received with enthusiastic applause.
“Thank you, thank you,” said the gray-haired and ponytailed Dr. Crenshaw. “We have many folks with something to say, so let me get right to the heart of the matter.
“Ever since the discovery of huge oil reserves in Cuban waters, U.S. oil companies have been pushing the U.S. government to lift the trade embargo against Cuba so they could have one more way to line their pockets and profit from offshore drilling at the expense of the environment. Now, Big Oil is not stupid. They have pushed this agenda secretly, behind the scenes. They know that Cuban-American groups would boycott their brands if Big Oil came out publicly against the embargo against Cuba. Am I right, Victor?”
Jack did a double take—Victor?—as his gaze shifted to stage right. Victor Garcia-Peña, ultraconservative from Florida, was in the wings, smiling at the environmentalist from southern California.
The speaker continued. “The White House refused to change its policy toward Cuba. Chinese, Venezuelan, and Russian companies moved in. So Big Oil upped the pressure on the White House. They warned the U.S. that foreign oil consortiums aren’t safe. The only safe solution, Big Oil said, was to end the embargo and allow U.S. companies to drill. Now there’s an oxymoron for you: ‘safe offshore drilling.’ ”
That drew scattered laughter and applause from the crowd.
“Let me wrap this up,” the speaker said. “When I heard the senator from Utah blame environmentalists for the explosion of the Scarborough 8, one thought came to my mind. Big Oil didn’t get invited to the dance. To get into the dance, Big Oil warned us that drilling by anyone else but U.S. companies would mean environmental catastrophe. Now look around us. Could it be that Big Oil made its own warnings come true?”
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