High Crimes

by William Deverell

  Kelly goes on. His mouth is a motor that grumbles incessantly, and when he is depressed, he speaks in a toneless mutter that can drive you crazy. “I’m telling you, Pete, this trip is going to go down. When I say going to go down, I mean down. I warned you, Pete. I told you so.”

  “A hundred thousand times,” Pete says sharply. “Lay off, for Christ’s sake!”

  Everything is really bitchy in here. I am angry with Pete, too, because I regard him as the major source of all the sexual tension that exists aboard the Juan Atrapa.

  “Dead in the water,” mumbles Kelly. “With generators half burned-out. No spare parts, because that’s another thing Juares lied to us about. Ah, sure, the engine storage is full of stuff, but none of it was meant to fit on this floating piece of garbage. We got no radio that works a good damn, no radar, nothing to steer the ship by. Even the magnetic compass is off twenty degrees. You are going to take a hundred-and-fifty-foot ship all the way to Newfoundland with an antique sextant? Shooting the Northern Star and the rising sun? You’re crazy, Pete, that’s what I think.”

  “I’ll get it up there,” Pete says.

  “You’ll get it up there?” This is me.

  I can see Pete’s crazy grin in the lamplight. “We’ll get it up there, boys. You and me and Billy Lee. With a little help from our friends.”

  That sets off Kelly again. “Who — Meyers? He’s setting us up, boys. He’s in cahoots with somebody that’s out to get us, to be sure. Juares is part of it, I am starting to think. Your lawyer’s business partner. Do you think they’ve bought your lawyer to set us up for a fine bust?”

  “Kevin,” Pete says, “paranoia will rot your dirty soul. Sure, and the Mounties have bought a third of a billion dollars’ worth of pot so they can put Pete Kerrivan in the slammer for good.”

  “Just Pete Kerrivan?” This is me, again.

  “Let’s try those terminals now,” Pete says. He is sounding testy.

  “Meyers will go where the money is in this operation,” Kelly says. “If he’s working both ends, let’s hope Paez is paying him more than the cops are offering.”

  “You’re not happy unless you got some disaster just over the horizon,” Pete says. “Sure, Meyers is in it for the money. That’s why he’s baby-sitting us all the way. How much do you think he’s getting paid for this little operation? I’ll tell you, it’s not under five million, I’ll bet you that.”

  My hopes are that Pete is right. Meyers has a big stake in this. He checked out the names in the world of sea smuggling and of course came up with Pete Kerrivan. He made contact with Billy Lee Tinker, and twisted Tinker’s arm hard for an introduction to Kerrivan. That, I tell myself, is what happened.

  “One more thing goes wrong,” says Kelly, “I’m jumping ship. One more thing, and it’s good-bye, boys. I’m going home to Merrie.”

  There is a period of silence, and then Kelly starts going again.

  “We are on our way to get ourselves busted out here, boys. If we don’t get this tub out of here before the sun comes up, we’ll be like a wounded duck in a shooting gallery.” Kelly jumps up and says in a loud voice, “Boys, I’m going to suggest that before we get ourselves boarded, which like as not is going to happen in a short time now, I say we hook up that crane to the auxiliary generator, I say we open the holds and sling the weed out into the sea and take the lifeboats into shore. Because if you don’t come with me, boys, I’m looking to take some extra gas on the longboat and I’m going in by myself!”

  Pete snaps. He shouts at Kelly, “For the sake of the sweet Lord, Kevin, take the Jesus longboat and take the Jesus Johnson 2000 and take yourself and your gloomy Jesus attitude to the Jesus Florida coast!”

  Kelly might very well have done that, but I have now combined the right wires and there is a sputter and sparkle of lights.

  With the plants once again on the line, the creaky old ship chugs back to life. Pete takes a shot when the sun touches the lip of the horizon, and we learn we are somewhere midway, hopefully, if Pete is accurate, between Florida and the Biminis. To the west is a pall of smoke. Meyers’s plane will be along soon, now that it is light, so we can get an accurate fix of how close we are to that smoke and mist — which is a distant landfall, marking the city of Miami.

  Already, fishing boats are putting out to sea in the distance. A few small planes buzz, going east. In a couple of hours, this will be a beehive.

  We hear Meyers’s voice crackling over the radio. “Take a heading northeast!” he yells. “Get out of there!”

  We see his plane.

  And then we see what Meyers has seen — coming at us like an ugly giant hornet.

  The dawn is shattered by the chattering of helicopter blades. We are staring up at the fat belly of a Sikorsky HH3F Pelican, with a diagonal red racing stripe.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Johnny Nighthawk

  Understand this: With my record of one long stretch behind me, plus a collection of bits and pieces, this will be the long count, the last count, the big out, finito. There will be no comeback for The Hawk. They will squeeze his juices out, wring his spirit dry, bend him, break him, crush him, and when twenty years pass by, if he survives in body, they will open the steel doors of Raiford Federal Prison and the shell of Johnny Nighthawk will stumble through them, his tired old-man bones covered by a Salvation Army suit. He will go to the gutter. The others will be fairly young when they get out. They may get off with five to ten. That is because they will take no criminal record into jail with them. I will be used, of course. The judge will give me the book — the heavy book, the one they save for three- and four-time losers.

  “You guys are fucking crazy to be coming in right off Miami.”

  Those are the only words I can remember from the first hour or so. Everything is recalled with blurred edges. A kind of amnesia sets in, protecting one from the shock.

  I remember standing on the deck, frozen to the rail as if welded, while the chopper danced in the air above us, waiting for the Coast Guard cutter to come alongside. She was a big mother, the cutter, over two hundred feet, one of their long-range ships. I remember it being armed with cannon, and I remember semi-automatics being trained on us.

  I also remember a guy slashing open one of the sacks as if he were gutting a pig. I remember a cloud of resin exploding into the air from the bulto, and the guy’s eyes enlarging. “Mother lode!” he yelled. Everyone could smell the sweetness of it.

  I remember thinking there will be promotions for these guys.

  I recall one of the Coasties saying something about thirty million dollars’ worth of pot. I guess they had no idea. They had probably never seized a shipment of pure flower.

  I remember thinking, kind of laughing to myself hysterically, that the custody crew they put on board the Juan Atrapa was going to have a good time trying to run that tired, complicated old boat.

  We are all herded to the stern of the cutter, and they zip through the routine — numbers pinned to us, photographs taken, identification examined, names, addresses, some woman giving us the Miranda speech in a fast monotone, probably hoping we will not be paying attention, although what difference does it make — knowing we have a right to remain silent, knowing we have a right to a lawyer — when we have got so much cannabis aboard this ship that we are tumbling over sacks of it in the corridors?

  I am thinking: why did I not listen to Peddigrew, hide the weed under the scrap metal? I was too greedy, of course.

  I am thinking: why did we not listen to Kevin Kelly, who seemed to divine this calamity?

  I can’t look Kelly in the eye. None of us can. Greed had blinded us to his truth.

  What else do I remember? Rows of boxlike cheap hotels in Miami Beach. Sailboats beating into the wind in Biscayne Bay. A white cruise ship. The buzz of speeding cars on the MacArthur Causeway. The mouth of the Miami River. The U.S. Customs Building, wher
e we disembark.

  We are cuffed, of course. Marianne is taken away by the no-nonsense female narc. The rest of us in a van. A jail. I am not sure if this is the Dade County jail, or someplace else, a Coast Guard lockup, a drug squad lockup. Fingerprints, mug shots. We are taken out separately for interviews. In my case, as I recall, my interview consists of all questions, no answers. I am the cigar-store Indian. I am down, depressed, haunted, two guys working me over verbally, scorn in their eyes.

  How is it that the Coast Guard has so suddenly zeroed in on us? It is no blind-luck case of stumbling upon a marijuana ship. I feel a dull ache in my head, like the throbbing pain that comes when the novocaine wears off, the pain that comes with the knowledge that we have been betrayed. By someone.

  Meyers. I see his clean, pink face smiling in my mind.

  The clang of metal doors. A cold cot and a blanket. Darkness. Distant cries. I hear the tick of time, slow seconds dropping away.

  ***

  In the morning we are taken to court to be arraigned. The sign on the old stone building says U.S. Post Office and Court House. The marshals, big, easygoing men, lock us in a large room on the second floor.

  Kelly is crouched like a ball in the corner. Pete and Billy Lee stand by themselves, quiet, closed in. Escarlata is ashen. Marianne is shaking.

  Someone barks, “U.S. Magistrate’s Court of the Southern District of Florida in session.” We rise numbly, sit again.

  Names are called, words briskly spoken.

  “Estreat the bond.”

  “Waive reading of the indictment.”

  “Case number 801173.”

  “Is your man here, Fred? Call the case.”

  “Let’s get on with the list, we’ll be all day.”

  The magistrate is moving people in, moving people out, setting bail, chatting with the lawyers. They still do not call our names.

  A door in the back opens.

  It is Meyers. He is smiling, nodding at us, greeting people. They will kill me if I move at him, but I want to.

  Behind him comes a man in a gray suit. He confers with Meyers.

  Now our names are called, and we are motioned to stay in our chairs. The gray suit moves to the center of the courtroom, in front of the magistrate.

  “This your case, Ben?” the magistrate says, informal, nonchalant.

  “Benjamin Ardell, for the record. I represent the five men and the woman, Your Honor.” Benjamin Ardell has lank hair, liver spots, and a red, bulbous nose that speaks of a taste for strong drink.

  Where has Benjamin Ardell come from? And why has he come in here with Meyers? Who is this man, this attorney, who seems to be speaking for us?

  And what do these words mean: habeas corpus? He speaks them in triumph, waves a document at the magistrate. The U.S. attorney sits with his back to the bench, glum, tapping a pencil against a clipboard. A woman — the narc that I remember from the bust — whispers in his ear. She is bouncy. Cute. Flaherty, I find out later, is her name.

  “I am directed by Judge Evans of the District Court to request their immediate release,” Ardell is saying.

  “That’s fast work, Ben,” says the magistrate, grinning.

  Ardell drawls, “Well, sir, the judge wasn’t too happy about getting out of bed before seven o’clock this morning, but we wanted to get in front of you before more damage was done. The government realized the error of its ways when we looked at the Coast Guard reports last night. Even the government of the United States isn’t entitled to commit acts of piracy.”

  The magistrate says to the U.S. attorney, “What’s the government’s position?”

  The attorney doesn’t get up from his chair. “Yeah, he’s right,” he says. “No real damage done. They can go.”

  The magistrate looks at us. “All defendants in the case of the United States versus Kerrivan et al. are free to go. Charges are dismissed.”

  Billy Lee scratches the stubble on his face, and says to the magistrate, “Sure like to know why. Just as a matter of passing interest, Your Honor.”

  “Well,” says the magistrate, slow and relaxed, “seems the Coast Guard fumbled the ball. When they rechecked your position, they found out you had been sitting about a thousand yards outside the twelve-mile limit. That entitles everyone to a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  “What it comes down to,” says Ardell, our lawyer, “is you were kidnapped by the government of these great United States.”

  I am thinking, I have fallen down the white rabbit’s hole.

  I am in Wonderland.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Johnny Nighthawk

  We are gathered, completely Zenned out, in a large government office at the courthouse. The six of us from the ship are there, and a grinning Rudy Meyers, and our lawyer, an assistant U.S. attorney, and Special Agent Jessica Flaherty.

  There is steam hissing out of this woman. She is looking at Meyers with undisguised hatred. To me, Meyers is an object of affection. A sort of uncle.

  “Don’t sit down,” Flaherty tells Meyers. “We don’t want your stink settling into the upholstery.”

  Meyers ignores her. His eyes, usually as hard as pebbles, are shining. His mouth has puckered into a muscular little smile under the bristles of his moustache. He seems almost merry. He and the lawyer are passing us sheets of typewritten paper.

  “Sign these, please,” Meyers says.

  They are in legalese. I am trying to read the document, but my hands are shaking, and the words are flowing into each other. Something about forgiving the government of the United States and its agents and attorneys, et cetera, et cetera.

  “These are releases,” Ardell, the lawyer, says. “You are agreeing not to press charges or suit against the government.” I can smell a whisper of morning alcohol on the man’s breath.

  Of course, I am expecting Pete to pipe up with something to the effect, hell, no, we’re going to sue the pants off the government. But he is spaced out like me, and he is blinking his astigmatic eyes at the paper.

  “You will, of course, be allowed to take your ship and its cargo back into international waters once you sign the releases,” the lawyer says.

  Pete says softly, “They can’t seize the cargo?”

  “International law forbids seizure without the consent of country of registry of your ship, the Atrapa,” says the lawyer. “The government of Colombia did not give its consent.”

  “Somebody’s been bought off,” Flaherty said, giving Meyers another freezing look. “They seem to be able to buy anything down there. And anyone.”

  “Looks like the Coast Guard and the DEA were a little trigger-happy, Jessica,” Meyers says. “Jumped the gun.”

  “We’ll be watching them,” she says. “We know the ship now. We’ll tail them every fucking foot of the way. They drift just one inch back into U.S. waters, and we’ll scoop them so fast their socks will fall off.” She gives the fix-it man a crooked smile. “Maybe we’ll put a tail on you, too, Meyers.”

  “Oh, I don’t think there’s much of a chance they’ll be back here,” Meyers says. “No, I don’t think this ship will be back in this jurisdiction, Jessica.”

  “The Mounties,” she says, “always get their man.”

  “Yes, but Jessica, do they always get their ship?” He chuckles at his poor joke.

  “Just sign the releases and move everybody the hell out of here,” the U.S. attorney says. I think he just wants the episode to close. It is embarrassing to watch Flaherty and Meyers squabble. Between them, love is not lost.

  The releases are signed, collected.

  Flaherty smiles sweetly at us. “We are in touch with the Canadian police, you know. What do you plan to do — come in at night?”

  “You don’t have to say anything to that,” our lawyer tells us. “Please, Miss Flaherty, you know better.”

  S
he shrugs. “Enjoy the hospitality of Miami. The Canadians have one day before immigration warrants are issued. In the meantime, folks, don’t get caught doing anything I wouldn’t do.” She turns to Meyers for one last shot. “I hope you sleep at night.”

  “I sleep quite well, thank you. As well as you.”

  “I don’t have to wash the crud out of my sheets every morning,” she says.

  Cruddy though he may be, this man has saved our dirty skins. I am prepared to kiss his round, pink head.

  Outside, I drink deeply of the free air of Miami, U.S.A. I am feeling reborn.

  “Send me your bill,” Meyers tells the attorney.

  “Don’t think I won’t. I’m charging by results, not by the hour. Don’t collapse when you open the envelope.” He starts walking to his car, then turns to us. “I’ll give you guys credit for guts and luck. Not brains.”

  Escarlata smiles a wan smile. “Can someone tell me where I can find the next boat to Havana?” he says. “I think I would have a better chance at home with President Castro than on the high seas with Captain Kerrivan.”

  Meyers scowls at him. “You are not carrying on?”

  “A team of elephants will not drag me back to the Juan Atrapa, amigos. I am deserting Captain Kerrivan’s little navy. The sea and I, we do not love each other.” He turns to us. “I have a hotel suite in Coconut Grove, a penthouse. You are all welcome to shower, bathe, shave, soothe your souls and bodies in the sauna, the Jacuzzi, or the swimming pool, as you prefer.”

  The six of us smell like gorillas’ armpits. It is an offer one cannot refuse.

  Meyers suggests we stop at the ship to get some of our things. “I have a few surprises for you.”

  “I think maybe I have had enough surprises, Rudy,” says Escarlata. “I will skip the ship. You can join me later.”

  With that, this Latin lover of adventure hails a taxi, blows Marianne a kiss, bows low, and bows out.

  ***

  The ocean liners and the container ships tie up along an enormous man-made island in Biscayne Bay. But the hustle-bustle boat traffic — and I mean everything from runabouts to hundred-foot trawlers, yachts, tramps, and old merchantmen like the Juan Atrapa — hide out in the Miami River or the deep canals that spiderweb away from it.