Aground on St. Thomas

by Rebecca M. Hale

  The man on the lawn chair wasn’t near large enough to be the Governor, but there was no one else in sight, the bartender having ducked beneath his counter when the agents cleared the top of the stairs.

  Friday couldn’t help but sigh at the relaxing scene. He would have liked nothing more than to jump into the pool and cool off—were it not for the matter of cleaning up the mess of Operation Coconut.

  “If I ever get done with this case, I’m taking a vacation.”

  The faint mutter caused the hotel guest to wake with a start. Wet towels tumbled to the grass, revealing a pale human form in a pair of neon-colored swimming trunks. The advanced state of his illness was impossible to ignore.

  Friday stepped back, instinctively repulsed. Trying to regain his composure, he directed his gaze to the ground beside the lawn chair, avoiding the skeletal face and wasted limbs.

  “Sir, have you seen anyone else up here today?”

  The man slowly sat up in the chair, gumming his dry mouth. With difficulty, he dropped his bedsore-ridden feet to the grass. He cupped a hand across his forehead, shielding his eyes. Blinking blearily, he stared up at the agents.

  “Well, I’ve just seen you, haven’t I? Hey, they called off the pirate party today. You boys can head to the beach. What do you say we all go? The pool is nice, but I’m hankering for some salt water.”

  He shifted his weight to try to stand, but Friday quashed his momentum with a slight tap on the shoulder.

  “This is a serious matter, sir. We’re searching for the Governor. He escaped arrest earlier this morning. We received word he’s hiding up here at Blackbeard’s.”

  The remaining towels went flying as the man tossed them into the air.

  “Well, let’s take a look, shall we? He must be around here somewhere. Now, where’d he go? Maybe we should look in the tower.”

  Friday frowned sternly. He didn’t want to waste time dragging this poor soul down all the steps he and his team had just hiked up. But if the fellow had sent in a false report on the Governor’s whereabouts, the agent would have no choice.

  “Sir, do you have some clothes nearby? You’re going to have to come with us.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, there, G-man. You’ve got this all wrong. I don’t know nothing about no governor. I’ve just been sitting up here relax-inating. I came here to die, man.”

  His face took on a pathetic, pitiful expression—which vanished when he noticed the empty glass at his feet.

  He peered up at Friday and asked hopefully, “Do you think you can you get me a mojito?”

  •

  THE HOTEL MANAGER arrived on the lawn to provide an alibi for his guest. He’d been summoned by the bartender, who had slipped out of the pavilion while Friday suffered through a lengthy mojito monologue.

  A survey of the property turned up no evidence the Governor had been there that morning. Friday was about to radio back to Government House to ask for more information about the source who had called in the reported sighting, when he noticed a color television mounted over the pavilion’s bar.

  The sound had been muted, but the picture on the satellite feed was tuned to one of the main news channels from the United States. Images of the Legislature Building and downtown Charlotte Amalie flashed across the screen, followed by footage of National Guard troops marching in formation down the walkway leading into town from the cruise ship dock.

  In another clip, troops were shown jogging past a closed Prada store and a row of mega-million-dollar yachts. The occupants of the last category stood on their decks, gaping and snapping shots with their cell phones.

  The bartender had returned to his station. Seeing Friday’s interest, he turned up the set’s volume, releasing a thunderous sound of combat boots thumping across the wooden boardwalk that wound through the shopping area.

  Friday sputtered, incredulous. Spinning around, he turned to stare down at the harbor.

  “Who let the Guard guys loose?”

  Legislature Building

  ~ 42 ~

  The Dignity of the Law

  IT HAD SEEMED like such a plum assignment, the third circuit appellate judge thought as he stood on a dais overlooking the Legislature Building’s meeting chambers.

  He’d fly down to St. Thomas and perhaps officiate over a few minor procedural matters. Most likely, his services wouldn’t be needed. Then he would spend a couple of days of much-needed rest and relaxation with his family at an all-inclusive beachside resort.

  Operation Coconut. It sounded so quaint. What could be easier?

  With a sigh, he crossed his arms over his chest. The black judicial robe he wore over his Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts swung loosely around his short pencil-thin frame.

  This is not what he had envisioned.

  Chaos reigned in the makeshift courtroom that had been set up in the meeting chambers.

  The indicted senators had refused to listen to the reading of the charges. They had rejected the public defense attorneys who had been offered, demanding instead that their own lawyers be brought in to provide counsel. With the arrival of the first private lawyers, the group had grown even more rowdy.

  The local district judge had thrown her hands up and fled the building, leaving the appellate justice in charge. He’d had no better luck bringing the room to order. His tinny voice had been drowned out by the senators’ continued jeers.

  He wiped a hand across his cheek, rubbing at a sticky residue on his skin, the remnants of a rotting banana peel someone had thrown at his face.

  The woman from the local attorney general’s office gave him a sympathetic smile. Given the growing instability in the surrounding downtown area, she had arranged to have the National Guard troops activated to secure the streets outside the building, but there was little else Wendy the Wunderkind could do to help.

  The FBI agents had retreated to a safe distance at the far perimeter of the room. The senators had cowed them with their persistent demands, threats, and verbal abuse.

  There had been a few attempts to question the arrested politicians about their two missing members, but the effort had quickly been abandoned.

  The impounded senators had nothing but venom for Bobo and Sanchez.

  “Isn’t it suspicious that they disappeared right before the troops arrived . . .”

  “If they had a way out, they should have taken us with them!”

  “Traitors! They must have known the feds were coming!”

  If possible, the Governor was even more unpopular.

  “He’s a crook! I always knew it . . .”

  “Thief! He’s the one who’s brought this on us.”

  It seemed unlikely this group had any information on the fugitives’ whereabouts.

  The justice thought of his wife and two children, who were resting comfortably at the resort. By now, they would be enjoying a nice tropical lunch. His wife, a woman nearly twice his size, was likely on her second or third mai tai.

  He desperately wished he were with them.

  WENDY MANNED HER post at the side of the room, occasionally sending a chagrined look to the appellate judge and the unfortunate agents tasked with monitoring the senators.

  Every so often, the slight edge of a smile crept into the corners of her mouth, but she quickly smoothed it out, careful not to let on that the day was unfolding just as she and her coconspirators had intended.

  •

  WENDY TURNED AWAY from the melee in the chambers and strolled into the adjacent hallway.

  The head of the local attorney general’s office, she had an impressive résumé and, to most observers, appeared to be headed toward a bright legal future.

  Certainly, she had put in the time and effort required for such success.

  Born and raised on St. Croix, Wendy had diligently worked her way through the island’s public education system, earnin
g a coveted seat at Georgetown Law School. After graduation, she had moved into public practice, clerking with several high-profile judges before obtaining a position with the justice department.

  Despite the years of toil and sacrifice it had taken to reach her current status, she was prepared to risk it all for the cause.

  Growing up, she had attended a small church on the island’s west end. The preacher’s favorite sermon topic was independence, specifically, the need for St. Croix to free itself from the clutches of its American overlords.

  The message had stuck with her.

  Now it was time to cut those binding cords for good.

  •

  AN AGENT TAPPED Wendy on the shoulder and motioned for her to join him by the window.

  “Ma’am, you need to hear this.”

  Following him to the opening, she listened as a passing truck blasted the KRAT station from its speakers.

  The broadcast had resumed—and this time, the DJs were joined by a pair of special guests.

  The Lutheran Church

  ~ 43 ~

  A Crowded Cistern

  “HELLO, ST. THOMAS! The KRAT crew is coming back at-cha with some in-studio guests.”

  Dread Fred pushed the button for the “I Smell a Rat” jingle, giving his listeners a moment to return to their radios. He wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted the headset clamped over his bald scalp.

  The cistern had grown more crowded since the last broadcast’s abrupt termination. Double the number of bodies now occupied the concrete tank, increasing the humid heat in the confined space. Little breeze filtered through the roof’s open hatch.

  It had taken the concerted efforts of both DJs plus Senator Sanchez to convince Bobo to put on his shirt.

  Four was an uncomfortable squeeze in the cistern’s close quarters, but it could have been worse. The fifth member of their group had excused himself not long after he introduced the two senators.

  Dread Fred glanced up at the ceiling and the hole where the swishing cassock had disappeared moments earlier.

  He wasn’t an expert on Christian orthodoxy, but he had the distinct impression that the Bishop wasn’t your typical religious leader.

  •

  THE RAT INTRO ended, and Dread Fred returned the audio feed to his headgear mike.

  “Welcome back, islanders. Never fear, we’re still here. For this next segment, we’re bringing you a couple of special guests who have joined us in our studio. Voices from the front lines, so to speak. We think you’ll be interested in what they have to say.”

  “And no, they’re not the pasty boys,” Whaler cut in with a second microphone, a wireless handheld device set up to pass among the guests.

  Dread chuckled. “Or the Governor—but, hey, Guv, man, if you’re out there, we’d love to have you on.”

  Whaler paced around the table, his fluffy mane of hair bouncing with each step. “Unless the pasty boys have nabbed you. In which case, keep your distance. We don’t need to meet your new friends.”

  He paused and leaned over the table.

  “No offense, big man, but we don’t want to end up in the hoosegow.”

  •

  JULIA SANCHEZ PERCHED on a fold-out chair next to Dread Fred, listening to the familiar banter. She still couldn’t get over the DJs’ physical appearances. The two men didn’t look anything at all like what she had imagined.

  Like everyone else on St. Thomas, she was an avid follower of the KRAT broadcasts. The cheeky duo had even interviewed her before the last election—but the entire transaction had been conducted by phone. She wondered if they’d been holed up in a cistern like this during that previous conversation.

  Dread’s deep voice cut into her thoughts.

  “Now, Senator Sanchez,” he said with an impish grin, “perhaps you could give us some insight into the day’s . . . weather.”

  She issued a stern smile as Whaler handed over the mike. “Dread, I think we have far more important matters to discuss.”

  “Actually, I’m quite concerned about the possibility of rain,” Whaler muttered, nervously eyeing a series of troughs feeding into the cistern’s ceiling.

  “All right, Senator,” Dread allowed, “we’ll put off the forecast for a moment. Let’s move on to your current occupation. Why don’t you tell us what happened over in the Legislature Building this morning.”

  Before Sanchez could speak, Bobo wrapped his hand around the microphone and tilted it his direction.

  “If I may, Fred, it was a dreadful situation.” He grinned. “Pardon the pun.”

  “Senator Bobo, I was about to get to you, but please feel free to jump in . . .”

  Sanchez felt her chair slide sideways as Bobo maneuvered between her and Dread Fred.

  “Today, the United States government descended upon us like a plague. A locust swarm of federal agents invaded the Legislature, fouling our hallowed hallways with their heavy-handed assault. These same fetid roaches now gnaw at the very foundations of Government House, even as they pursue our lawfully elected Governor. It is a dark day for the Virgin Islands, I tell you. A dark day indeed.”

  Dread opened his mouth, searching for something—anything—to say, but he waited too long to interject. Bobo wasn’t finished.

  “Today’s unlawful action was a direct affront to our civil liberties, to common decency, and to the integrity of these islands. If this injustice is not remedied, if our government is not returned to the people, then a tempest will descend upon this land, blotting out the sun. The sea will turn to blood, and hordes of ravaging amphibians will fill the streets.”

  Throughout this soliloquy, Whaler stood behind Bobo’s back, mocking each Biblical reference with facial contortions and exaggerated hand motions.

  Dread struggled to maintain a solemn expression. “What do you propose we do to, uh, address this injustice and, perhaps most important, turn back the frogs?”

  Bobo stroked the side of his head, reflecting. The action only served to further distribute the scent of his musky hair oil, which had begun to concentrate in the humid room.

  “Well, Fred, I’m glad you asked. As you can imagine, I’ve thought about this a great deal. I believe we need someone to serve as interim governor until we can get this mess sorted out.”

  “Who do you suggest?” Dread asked, but everyone in the cistern had already anticipated the answer. Whaler shook his head as Bobo tossed the tail of his rainbow-colored scarf over his left shoulder.

  “I humbly submit my application.”

  ~ 44 ~

  Governor Bobo

  DREAD FRED STRUGGLED to maintain his composure, but Whaler made no such effort. His hoots echoed off the cistern walls.

  Finally Dread managed his first follow up question.

  “So, Senator Bobo, what makes you think you have the right qualifications to step in as governor?”

  Sanchez watched the interview from across the room, where she had retreated after Bobo commandeered the microphone. The stench from his hair oil was overwhelming, even at a distance.

  She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, suspiciously observing the proceedings. As Bobo disavowed any role in the alleged government corruption, she couldn’t help but think that the Reverend was delivering a carefully rehearsed speech. This was a well-practiced presentation, not something that he had pulled together in the last few minutes.

  “Look at me, Fred. Take a good close look. I live a pious life. If people were throwing money around, it wasn’t at me! Check my accounts. You’ll find nothing there, I promise you!”

  The radio host appeared unconvinced. “We haven’t seen the Governor’s accounts yet either . . .”

  “Fred, Fred, Fred. I take no position on the Governor’s guilt or innocence, and I object to the manner in which he has been treated. Today’s seizure was nothing short of a military coup.”


  “Then shouldn’t we give the Governor a chance to defend himself?”

  “In an ideal world, Fred, yes. Yes, we would. But I fear there’s no time for that. The territory is under attack. We have to put our government back together immediately, so we can fend off these invaders. Let’s select a new executive, one not tainted by the current allegations. Let’s assemble a new Legislature, without the indicted senators.” He paused, cleared his throat, and added, “Except, of course, for Julie here . . .”

  Senator Sanchez knew the last allowance had only been made because she was standing across the room glaring at Bobo. He seemed to have conveniently forgotten that he too was among the list of indicted senators.

  “And let’s go forward with a new government . . .” Bobo licked his dry lips, moistening them for the finale.

  “. . . without the United States.”

  •

  DREAD COVERED HIS face with his hands. He’d done a number of crazy interviews with Senator Bobo, but this one topped them all.

  Whaler snatched the end of Bobo’s rainbow-colored scarf and twirled it around the cistern like the tail of a kite.

  Sanchez stared at the broadcasting table, stunned by the implications of Bobo’s comments.

  The Reverend wore a smarmy, contented smile that made her skin scrawl. He couldn’t hide his satisfaction.

  While the DJs appeared to have lumped the senator’s last proclamation in with the rest of his wild notions, Sanchez had sensed a larger purpose to his final words—and she was beginning to suspect that Bobo was somehow secretly involved in the whole invasion scheme.

  “This just in, folks.” Dread looked up from his laptop and paused to clear his throat. “We’re about to have a real circus on our hands.”

  Whaler released the scarf, letting it flutter down over Bobo’s head. He peeked over Dread’s shoulder to read the message on the laptop’s screen and let out a whooping holler.

  Dread shook his head.