They wended precariously down to the main road, rough-and-tumble 160, the four-wheel-drive engaged. Mamí, asleep before the gate to the drive closed behind them, dozed in the passenger seat, her head bouncing disconcertingly, like an infant’s. Past the Nosara Yoga Institute, where Evangelína took classes five mornings a week. She stopped in Garza to let pass a mixed herd of livestock. Two pigs. Goats. One water buffalo. A dozen thick-skinned Brahman cattle, droopy ears, their dewlaps draping in folds down their chests. The livestock were herded by a vaquero on horseback, a lasso looped in his gloved hand. Three, four calves trotted to keep up. The sight of them sent a tremor up Evangelína. She’d been told by a Chorotega rancher that one in five becerros in Guanacaste were eaten by jaguars.
Evangelína hadn’t thought to consider Costa Rica’s wild jaguar population when deciding where to retire. She had—hopefully, wistfully—settled on Nosara because of the education offered by the Del Mar Academy. An independent co-educational day school with a culturally and economically diverse student population, DMA offered an innovative, bilingual English-Spanish immersion program for her daughters, Monserrat and Maura.
The fifteen-kilometer drive to the post office would take forty-five minutes. The roads were abysmal, gravel that, in the dry region during the dry season, churned up great storms of dust that settled over the lush tropical foliage, making the leaves and fronds, the creeping vines and vivid flowers, look blanketed by fallout ash.
Located between the airport and the Red Cross, the post office stood shabbily, a white block building, blue trimmed, with a corrugated red sheet-metal roof that deafened in the downpours of the wet season. Carteros in Costa Rica were detectives. One in five letters were delayed or disappeared. Letters came in addressed to: Cedar tree, 500 meters up, house with iron railing, painted blue. Or: Building, on the left, metal gate, just down from fig tree, old man out front, smoking.
The return address on the envelope mailed to her was destroyed but recognizable: from her attorney in Houston, a business relationship she’d maintained for the Byzantine bureaucracies facing the expat single-mother of two adopted Tica orphans with dual citizenship.
Evangelína and Mamí arrived early at the Del Mar Academy, and Evangelína parked in the wet dirt lot. A blackstrap smell seeped into the closed cab of the SUV and put her in mind of burnt flan. Homeowners and businesses controlled the Guanacaste dust with monthly dousings of thinned molasses.
While Mamí slept, Evangelína opened the envelope, ignoring her attorney’s cover letter. She skimmed to determine what the document was—the result of her years-ago Freedom of Information Act request—and then, skipping the title pages, she read the transcript starting with Bizzy’s opening statement.
* * *
STATEMENT OF F. BISMARK ROLLING,
FORMER COO OF IRJ, INC.
[Certain information has been redacted in accordance with IRJ’s FOIA request for confidential treatment.]
Mr. ROLLING. Chairman Franken and Members of the Subcommittee, I am pleased to appear before you this afternoon to discuss the charges brought against me.
In fall of 2012, we sent—
The CHAIRMAN. Mr. Rolling, my Senate colleagues have deferred to me, because of my interest, but if you would jump straight to the events immediately precipitating the arrival of Ms. Canek in New York State, the Committee would be grateful.
Mr. ROLLING. It just so happens, Mr. Chairman, if you’ll allow me—
The CHAIRMAN. I’ll allow you.
Mr. ROLLING. Ms. Canek was laying groundwork for what promised be the largest ***************************** Once it was up and running, we wanted Evy to—
The CHAIRMAN. Evy is Ms. Evangelína Canek?
Mr. ROLLING. It is, Mr. Chairman.
The CHAIRMAN. And do you have an intimate relationship with Ms. Canek, sir?
Mr. ROLLING. If by intimate you mean friendly, Mr. Chairman, I am a family friend.
The CHAIRMAN. Ok, proceed, Mr. Rolling.
Mr. ROLLING. Mr. Chairman, we eventually wanted Ms. Canek to be regional officer in charge. But her mauling complicated things.
The CHAIRMAN. The cougar, was it?
Mr. ROLLING. Cougar, mountain lion, puma, panther, all the same thing apparently.
After we won the foreclosure auction, activist environmentalists started pushing the idea that the cat was an Eastern mountain lion. A roundup yielded DNA they’re claiming shows it’s distinct from the Western mountain lion. As such, it’s eligible for protection under the Endangered Species Act. A bogus claim, a stalling tactic, but Cuomo—
The CHAIRMAN. Governor Cuomo.
Mr. ROLLING. Governor Cuomo, the second, asked the US Fish and Wildlife Service to conduct a review.
The CHAIRMAN. We’re aware.
Mr. ROLLING. Then you’re aware development is on hold indefinitely. The concern at IRJ, and in Albany, is that the stoppage will keep us from ever breaking ground. The rush to development is because you allowed a popular incentive, ************************** to lapse. You renewed it in January. You might renew it again in ’14, but we can’t be sure. So we sit—
The CHAIRMAN. I remind you you’re no longer an employee of IRJ.
Mr. ROLLING. They, excuse me, Mr. Chairman, they sit on the Standard plat, which in the end they got for just above market value.
The CHAIRMAN. Please tell us more about Ms. Canek.
Mr. ROLLING. We wanted her to have been there from the start. The thinking was that would’ve given her the authority to manage what would become a three billion dollar project. But we didn’t tell her. Plan A on the table at that time started with ************.
The CHAIRMAN. IRJ has ******* ambitions?
Mr. ROLLING. You make it sound like we’re Iran.
The CHAIRMAN. That’s not an answer.
Mr. ROLLING. No, not as far as I know.
The CHAIRMAN. And plan A?
Mr. ROLLING. If anything it was *******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************.
The CHAIRMAN****************************************
Mr. ROLLING. ******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************* *********************************************** tremendous engines toward reviving the two most depressed local economies in the state.
The CHAIRMAN. Why not just build **************** on state land?
Mr. ROLLING. Republicans in the state legislature are the ones working toward environmental conservation, keeping more of the parks “forever wild,” as the state constitution says, but that’s a secondary aim for them. They want economic revitalization for two regions of the state that vote conservative.
The CHAIRMAN. But that’s not it.
Mr. ROLLING. I’m not sure what you mean.
The CHAIRMAN. I mean the plot to extort the landowner.
Mr. ROLLING. The answers to these questions are always a bore compared to what the imaginative mind dreams up. In the end, it’s business, drab and undramatic, meeting after meeting, followed by the moving of money. Every once in a hundred meetings, you get results that lead to something getting built. That’s the payoff. The making of things.
The only people who think there’s a second coming of the Borscht Belt heyday, like my wife, are the ones bedazzled by sentimentality and nostalgia. Someone with a little ice in his heart has to come in and say, Tear it down. Start from scratch with something else.
Now instead of a depressing, soul-sucking casino, imagine a ********* there. * ***********************************************************************************************************
************************************************** ************************************************************** for a geezer like me, to see a shift like that, that would be very rewarding. Might even help balance out what harm I’ve caused.
If it weren’t for those moments, I’d’ve retired at 55. Built my own airplane.
The CHAIRMAN. Very rueful, Mr. Rolling. Heartwarming, really. But what about the attempted extortion? The plotted kidnapping of Ms. Canek? We have the emails in front of us. We have Ellis Baum’s deposition.
Mr. ROLLING. Look, I’m responsible for those emails, and all of their incriminations, because Marisol and Ellis were under our employ, but I didn’t authorize them, I did not write them, and I do not believe they did either.
The CHAIRMAN. Who then?
Mr. ROLLING. Chinese government. Some primary schooler in Kamchatka. A former employee. IRJ has been an ongoing target in something called Operation Shady RAT, gets in the neighborhood of 100 attacks a day on its …
The CHAIRMAN. Yes?
Mr. ROLLING. You’ve dragged me into deep water here, Mr. Chairman. You’ve got me talking tech. Point is, it wouldn’t be the first time our email accounts were hacked.
The CHAIRMAN. Ms. Soto-Garza is facing serious charges. You’re going to let your lowly secretary take the fall?
Mr. ROLLING. She’s not lowly, Mr. Chairman.
The CHAIRMAN. Were you having an affair?
Mr. ROLLING. With my secretary more than half my age?
The CHAIRMAN. Answer the question, and keep in mind you’re under oath.
Mr. ROLLING. I was not having an affair with my secretary.
The CHAIRMAN. That wasn’t the question.
Mr. ROLLING. May I have time to consult with my council?
The CHAIRMAN. Please.
[…]
Mr. ROLLING. Mr. Chairman, we’re going to take the Fifth.
The CHAIRMAN. I see. The buck stops with Ms. Soto-Garza.
Mr. ROLLING. I won’t be baited, sir. But I would like to thank you, the other Members, and the SEC for the opportunity to testify before you today. And if I may add one more thing, Mr. Chairman.
The CHAIRMAN. If you’re expecting to have the final word here, Mr. Rolling, you’ve come to the wrong place.
Mr. ROLLING. Please, Mr. Chairman, if I may. We, IRJ while I was there, were changing with the times. We were doing our damnedest to tap into reserves here. As you know, the president supports Alaskan drilling, including offshore Arctic development. And IRJ’s already there, raring to go.
This isn’t drill, baby, drill. This is drill or kill. Irony of the last two presidencies is, the oilman waged war while the law professor drilled for oil. The latter understands that nothing weakens our adversaries like *********, and does so as peaceably as humanly possible. From al-Qaeda on up to Venezuela, Russia and China.
What I’m saying is that the Standard Grande—and that’s “Grande” with an “E” for your stenographer—was part and parcel with national security. Indirectly, and a very small part, on a relatively miniscule parcel. But IRJ doesn’t move on an investment like the Standard unless there’s a whole host of options. One of which may ultimately be *************************************************. But plan A was beautiful. Plan A was clean. Plan A was trial tested by an earlier initiative, Sunrise at Seventeen Seventy. Plan A was aligned with your progressive, conservationist interests.
Thank you, Mr. Chairman, and my wife, in helping prep me for today, wanted me to tell you she loved you in The Coneheads.
The CHAIRMAN. Yes, well, thank you, Mr. Rolling. You may be getting a number of questions from Senators for a response in writing. And might I suggest, given the energy you’ve shown here today, you should go ahead and build that airplane.
With that the committee’s adjourned.
[Whereupon, at 3:42 p.m., the hearing was adjourned.]
* * *
Evangelína’s huffing, panting anger roused Mamí, and Evangelína was glad for it. The old woman felt somehow to blame for Bizzy’s smugness, his chummy, clubby grilling by a C-list celebrity gringo senator.
Bizzy, having an affair? With Marisol? The preposterousness of that line of inquiry made Evangelína doubt the authenticity of the entire document. And Plan A? Bizzy sounded like Mamí talking about the Maya God A, a catchall that could be almost anything. And the redactions! And the misspelling of Bismarck!
When Evangelína threw the transcript fluttering into the backseat, Mamí blinked her dry eyes, tasted her dry mouth.
Evangelína barked in English, “Mamí, get the girls.”
When the old woman didn’t budge, Evangelína stabbed her finger at the school surrounded by jungle.
Mamí was confronted with the button of her seatbelt. Still strapped in, she fought with the door handle.
Evangelína released Mamí’s seatbelt, feeling like she was the mother of three, reached over Mamí’s lap and heaved open the SUV door, offering no hand during the long, precarious minute it took little Mamí, getting littler by the day, to climb down and out.
When the passenger door failed to close, Evangelína yanked it shut and read her lawyer’s cover letter, blindly at first, then with some comprehension. He noted that the redactions fell under the fourth and fifth exemptions of the Freedom of Information Act. The transcript was a Congressional Committee Print, not an official Committee Report. Prints were viewed as internal publications. This likely prejudiced the Federal Communications Commission in IRJ’s favor.
Evangelína knew, too, that the FCC got in far more trouble for releasing information than for withholding it. Her attorney noted the date of the original filing: the request had been placed nearly four years ago. The holdup was caused by the government-wide practice of giving companies a chance to object to the disclosure of requested documents. One of her former coworkers had likely read the transcript, stalled for two or three years before recommending redactions, which the FCC then approved or denied.
Her lawyer closed by telling her she still had options. If she wasn’t satisfied with the FCC response, she could appeal. After an appeal, they could then file a civil lawsuit in US District Court to try to force more disclosure.
She jammed the cover letter into its battered envelope. She thought to go back, tear through all the documents she’d amassed: corporate, clandestine, the emails, the endless trails of paper and data. She could try to recall all the conversations. There were certainly clues to be found, signs and inklings that would reveal what IRJ intended for the Standard Grande. What did Bizzy mean that Plan A was trial tested by an earlier initiative, Sunrise at Seventeen Seventy? What did Sunrise have to do with the Standard? She had the sense—general, vague—that all she needed was the wherewithal, and the time, to find the answer. But she also needed to care.
As she sat in the air-conditioning, she couldn’t bring herself to want more waiting.
Her two daughters came bopping out of Casa Building, on either side of Mamí, nearly as tall as their grandmother, each holding a bony hand. Mamí kept up, shuffling her sandaled feet over muddy molasses. At six and eight, the girls had both overcome their developmental delays, mostly minor. Monserrat, whom they called Bunny, with her surgically repaired cleft lip, which Mamí said meant she’d been conceived during a lunar eclipse; and Maura, older but shorter, her free hand scratching her stubborn patch of eczema, likely exacerbated by her since-treated congenital syphilis. They were adorable, giddy girls she’d saved from a dirtfloor orfanato, and they helped Evangelína to fit in among the peaceful people of Costa Rica.
Evangelína’s resentments and suspicions vanished, for a time, as she watched an old woman skip hand-in-hand with her granddaughters. She vaguely remembered when the idea of a child seemed to offer not just an answer but the answer. Then, she’d taken custody of these girls like two open-ended questions. Here they were—asthmatic, unbelievably messy, mostly healthy—two beautiful, bottomless wells of inquiry. Question after question, asked in three languages, one of which Evange
lína barely grasped, until Evangelína began to question why she’d wanted children in the first place. Eventually, inevitably, they tired. They fell asleep on the shady patio couch, with its heartswelling view of the Pacific, nestled into their Chichí, all three of them snoring, and Evangelína had her answer.
* * *
Bicycle Lake Army Airfield recedes in the Humvee’s rattling sideview mirror. Three klicks up ahead, a small Middle Eastern city shimmers beyond the heat haze. Flooded and distorted by the desert, the city is an island in a silver lagoon. On the far side of the city, the wavy road narrows to nothingness beneath brown mountains.
Ant drives her three-man team. As they draw nearer, the dome of the mosque, stratosphere blue, looks more Russian Orthodox than Islamic. A pair of minarets flank the dome. The sun—white, insistent—feels like a daylong interrogation halfway done.
In the up-armored, CROWS-mounted M1114, the chunky tires sing against the sandblasted asphalt. They ride high. Sixteen inches of ground clearance—and four-wheel, double-wishbone suspension—lets them sink into kettle-holes and bounce out the other side without busting an axle or throwing the differential.
Every jolt feels to Ant like the before-shock of a blast. She has to remind herself she’s not in the Middle East. She can only imagine how her passengers feel, these three boys. Their combat’s closer in tow. Especially tough for the two in the tight backseat. The boxed-in windows offer what might as well be the view from a microwave.
She turns up the AC and loses a hundred horsepower. She wants to calm her crew. First, she needs to calm herself. Be cool, be careful. Total the Humvee, this little program will end at the beginning.
As they draw nearer, her thoughts muddle; her heart quickens. She has a hard time recalling the names of these soldiers—soldiers she’s led for months—but she knows her sense of displacement will pass.
At the approach to the simulated city, Jersey walls line up unevenly along both sandy shoulders, more scattered than situated. A green sign with white Arabic lettering over English reads: Yekiti Bajar.
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