Death Rattle

by Alex Gilly

  Finn could tell by the increased number of clanks that Soto was growing frustrated with the snake’s refusal to bite Finn. Finn had a sense of where all the pieces were now, like a chess player playing blind who can see the whole board and not just the piece his opponent has just played. He remembered the savage nature show that Butterfield had put on for him, putting the green snake in the White Queen’s cage, the way the snake had raised itself, had smelled the air with its tongue, had swayed gently for a long moment before striking with such speed that the kill had happened in a blur.

  Finn swayed slightly in his chair, bringing his attention to all the muscles in his body. He counted out five, long deliberate breaths.

  Then he struck.

  In one motion, he opened his eyes, stepped with his bound feet on the snake hook to his left, slipped his hands from the zip tie and pushed a startled Soto as hard as he could, so that the murderer dropped his hook and fell on his butt. Finn felt a prick on his right leg but didn’t pay it any attention. He stayed focused on Soto, who was scrambling away from Finn toward his gym bag. Finn picked up the snake hook, lunged forward, and whipped the hook down. The hook pierced the soft part of Soto’s larynx right below his Adam’s apple.

  Soto opened his mouth wide and made a silent scream. He grasped at the handle of the snake hook now embedded in his throat. Blood pumped out of his neck, all over his shirt, all over the floor, and now it started gushing from his mouth, too, making a strange gurgling sound. He desperately tried to remove the hook from his throat, desperately wrestled Finn, but Finn held the hook firm. He looked in Soto’s eyes, waiting for the light in them to go out. Finn could feel the strength draining from his adversary. He was almost done. Which was just as well, because Finn was starting to feel weak himself; a strange numbness was spreading over his lips and face. A moment later, Soto’s hands slipped off the hook, and his head slumped back to the concrete floor. Finn let go of the hook. He turned and looked for the black mamba, but it was gone. He noticed that in the tumult, the White Queen’s box had been upended, and she was gone, too. He looked down at his still-bound feet. He hauled himself over to the forklift’s cabin, foraged around in its glove box, and found a box cutter. He used it to cut the zip tie around his ankles. The throbbing pain in his right calf was getting worse. Then he pulled up the hem of his jeans and saw the bite marks.

  * * *

  The burn in Finn’s ankle traveled up his leg. His lips and tongue felt numb, and he had a metallic taste in his mouth, like after receiving a local anesthetic from a dentist. He thought of Mona recounting Butterfield’s explanation of how venom works, of why the black mamba’s venom was so especially toxic: it poisons not only the blood but the nervous system. That growing numbness he felt was his nerve cells dying. He needed antivenin, fast.

  But first, he had to deal with the two goons outside. Finn noticed the gym bag with the money on the floor of the forklift. He unzipped it and found Soto’s weapon: an FN Five-SeveN semiautomatic. He checked the magazine: fully loaded. The numbness in his right calf kept spreading. He was sweating profusely yet felt a chill so pervasive it was making him shake. He knew he was running out of time. He walked over to Soto’s body and pulled the bloodied snake hook from his neck. Then he went over to the forklift, hobbled around to the cab, and turned it on. He maneuvered the machine to face the door where the two goons had exited the warehouse. He raised the forks with the barrel on it. He wedged the snake hook between the accelerator and the seat. The forklift sped toward the door. Finn limped after it.

  The forklift smashed through the door, knocking out the drywall around it. It crushed through the reception desk Finn knew was on the other side and kept careening toward the smoked-glass front, which it promptly shattered. The barrel on its forks fell off and rolled. Finn hobbled as quickly as he could in the forklift’s trail of destruction. To the goons, he must’ve appeared like a figure out of hell, his silhouette emerging from the cloud of dust kicked up by the forklift crashing through the wall. The dust triggered a fire alarm, while at that exact moment the city of Anaheim released into the sky the first of dozens of volleys of its Fourth of July fireworks, adding to the bewildering cacophony. Finn had Soto’s semiautomatic held out in front of him in a two-handed grip. He spotted flashlight goon to his left. Finn fired off two shots. Flashlight guy crumpled. Finn swung his arms, scanning for wand guy. He found him over to the right, his gun drawn and pointed at Finn. Both men fired. Wand guy missed. Finn didn’t. Wand guy’s head snapped back, and his body flopped to the ground.

  Finn had the cold sweats now. The gun suddenly felt heavy in his hands, and he dropped it. He walked over to where the reception desk had been, found the desk phone on the ground, and dialed 911.

  “911. What’s your emergency?”

  “I’ve been bitten by a black mamba. I need antivenin.” Finn felt woozy. He realized his speech was becoming slurred. He needed to speak up against the crackling of the fireworks.

  “Could you repeat that, sir?”

  Finn’s head whirled.

  “Snake bit me. Call Butterfield. Antivenin.”

  Somewhere in the fog, Finn understood that he wasn’t making sense. But he was still coherent enough to know that the most important detail was his location. He took a deep breath and made an effort to enunciate clearly.

  “Ambulance. AmeriCo. Warehouse. Chapman. Avenue. Anaheim.” He heard rapid typing on a keyboard in the background. He felt his legs giving way.

  “Sir? Are you still there?”

  Finn slumped to the ground.

  “Yes.”

  “Sir, you say it was a black mamba that bit you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the snake still in the vicinity, sir?”

  Finn scanned the room. And though his vision was beginning to blur, he saw, through the hole in the wall that he’d just made with the forklift, in the pool of blood besides Soto’s body, the White Queen, her jaws opened wide, swallowing the black mamba.

  “It’s. Okay. The. Cobra. Ate. Her.”

  The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was the dispatcher’s voice asking him to say that again.

  THIRTY-SIX

  THE next day, July 5, for the first time in her career, Mona was late for court. She was only five minutes late, but Judge Ross reacted as though she had just burned the flag.

  “Have you no respect?”

  “Your Honor, I apologize. My husband was involved in an accident in Los Angeles. He’s in the hospital. I was speaking with him, trying to decide whether I should return or not.”

  “Well? What did you decide? Do you want your associate to take your place? Where is he?”

  “No, Your Honor. Thank you, Your Honor. My associate is fetching some documents relevant to today’s proceedings. He should be here soon.”

  “Very well. Then let’s proceed.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Your Honor, if it please the court, the plaintiff calls Michael Marvin to the stand.”

  By the look on Ross’s face, it did not seem to please the court. However, he gave a gruff nod.

  Mona waited while Michael Marvin, who was wearing a navy suit with a flag pin on the lapel, white shirt, and red tie, was sworn in. She stood leaning on her crutches, a laser pointer in her right hand, looking down at the notes she had hastily scribbled the previous night. Once the sheriff had finished swearing in Marvin, she looked up, still leaning on the table.

  “Mr. Marvin, what is your role at the Border Security Corporation of America?”

  “I am the chief executive officer.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And how long have you been the boss?”

  “Since 2016.”

  “And before that, you were employed by the BSCA in another capacity, is that right?”

  “Yes. I was head of new business.”

  “In that role, you were responsible for the rapid expansion of the BSCA’s operations, correct?”

&nbs
p; “We did develop significant new business, that’s true.”

  “And that was a significant factor in the board’s decision to appoint you to the top job?”

  “So I understand.”

  “Mr. Marvin, would it be fair to say that as CEO, you are ultimately responsible for the actions and undertakings of the Border Security Corporation of America?”

  Marvin looked at the jury and said, “I am the captain of the ship, yes. But the BSCA is a huge ship. We employ more than a thousand people at thirteen institutions across the country, including forty-four people right here in Paradise. I can’t know what each and every one of them is doing at any given time.”

  “Sir, perhaps I should rephrase my question. What I meant was, are you not legally ultimately responsible for everything that the Border Security Corporation of America does as it pursues its business?”

  “Within the scope set down by the law, I am responsible, yes. Although I can’t claim responsibility for rattlesnakes.”

  Laughter from the gallery.

  “Thank you, Mr. Marvin. I’m glad you brought up the scope of the law. It’s certainly pertinent to this case.”

  Mona paused and glanced at her notes. She didn’t need to read them, but she wanted to mark a pause before she opened her next point. She also needed to draw it out. She was waiting for Joaquin to bring her the missing key. Mona fetched a chart from her papers and put it on the projector. She took her time doing it.

  “Mr. Marvin, can you please explain this graph to the court?”

  “Sure. It shows the growth in the company’s share price over the past twelve quarters.”

  “Twelve quarters means three years, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Which is roughly how long you’ve been in charge, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Marvin, can you tell us what the numbers on the axes mean?”

  “Sure. The vertical is the value of the company’s shares. The horizontal is time.”

  “Thank you, sir. So looking at this chart, which you no doubt recognize from your annual report, the BSCA has tripled in value since you became its chief executive.”

  “Yes, it has,” said Marvin. He wore a puzzled look. Mona figured he had been expecting her to hurl grenades at him. Instead, she was demonstrating how much value he had added to the company since taking charge. She turned around and pretended to look something up in her notes and surreptitiously searched the public gallery. She saw Marius Littlemore entering. He gave her a little nod. Mona smiled and signaled for the next slide to go up.

  “Mr. Marvin, could you please explain this slide to us?”

  “This one shows profitability. The horizontal axis is time. The vertical axis shows how much net profit we made during that time.” Marvin sounded bored.

  “And this point here”—Mona used her laser pointer to indicate a bar that towered over its predecessor in the middle of the chart—“is June 2016, is that correct?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “Mr. Marvin, what happened in June 2016 that sent your profits skyrocketing like that?”

  “We opened two new detention centers.”

  “Which ones?”

  “One in Texas. And one here in Paradise.”

  “And straightaway, your profits doubled.”

  “Yes.”

  Mona let her gaze linger.

  “Business conditions are favorable, Mr. Marvin,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s what you wrote in your message to investors in your annual report. To quote you directly, ‘Favorable business conditions and recent policy decisions being made in Washington continue to validate our investments in new facilities along the southern border. Our new migrant-detention centers at Paradise, California, and Dawes, Texas, have already exceeded our revenue projections.’”

  Marvin was quiet.

  Judge Ross said, “Is there a question, Counsel?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Marvin, to what do you attribute the jump in profit?”

  “You just said it—favorable business conditions and current policy decisions.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. What I should have said was, can you be more specific about what you mean by favorable business conditions?”

  “A growing market. Increased efficiencies.”

  “By a growing market, you mean more migrants to detain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Marvin, why do you think there are more migrants to detain?”

  Marvin gave an irritated shrug. “Washington sets the policy, not us.”

  “That’s true. But isn’t it also true that your business model depends on an ever-increasing number of migrants to detain? For instance, the capital cost of building Paradise Detention Center meant that you needed a return immediately.”

  Mona paused, then carried on, “Mr. Marvin, the Border Security Corporation of America is now an entity known as a real estate investment trust. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Is it true that the first thing you did, when you became chief executive, was to turn the company from a regular corporation into a REIT?”

  “It happened on my watch, yes.”

  “Can you tell us why you made that change?”

  Marvin gave Mona a condescending look. “It’s complicated.”

  Mona glanced at the jury.

  “You mean you don’t think we’ll understand?”

  “I mean it will take some time.”

  Judge Ross intervened. “Where is this going, Ms. Jimenez?”

  “Your Honor, I am trying to establish for the court the context surrounding the negligence that led to the death of my client. We are arguing for punitive damages, and therefore it’s vital to show that the negligence at Paradise Detention Center is part of a wider corporate malfeasance. I wish to illustrate for the court the context of profit-seeking and cost-cutting that led to the negligence that caused my client’s death.”

  Judge Ross looked unhappy. “Get on with it, Ms. Jimenez.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Marvin, what are the benefits of a real estate investment trust over other types of corporate structures?”

  “A REIT creates stability and security for investors.”

  “Isn’t it also true that to qualify as a REIT, you need to pay 90 percent of your income back to investors?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means you pay tax on only 10 percent of your income?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it means you pay the minimum amount of tax.”

  “I wouldn’t be doing my job if we weren’t. All companies in the world carry out tax-minimization strategies.”

  “I suspect that’s true, Mr. Marvin. Let’s continue. Can you please explain this slide to the court?” Mona put up another table.

  “That’s our balance sheet. From our annual report.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Marvin. I note that on the top line it says that in 2017, the BSCA had revenues of $1.6 billion.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Farther down are your operating expenses. I note that for 2017, the BSCA had operating expenses of around $1.1 billion.”

  “Correct.”

  “That’s compared to operating expenses of around $1.2 billion in 2016, and $1.3 in 2015.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell the court what the company’s operating costs were in the last year?”

  “Around $900 million.”

  “So operating costs have come down by almost $300 million since you became chief executive.”

  “It’s my job to run the company efficiently. We’ve been running efficiency programs.”

  “I’m glad you brought those up, sir. I’ll come back to them in a moment. But for now, can you tell the court how much money you earned from the federal government last year?”

  “I can’t remember the exact figure, but I think it was around a billion dollars.”

&nb
sp; “Allow me to help you, sir. According to your annual report, the federal government paid the BSCA $1.19 billion last year.”

  Marvin nodded. “That sounds about right. It’s in the report, so it’s public knowledge.”

  “Sir, can you see this line here?” Mona used her light pointer to point to a line on a table that read Facility Operations.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you read this phrase, please?”

  “Sure. ‘Compensated man-day.’”

  “Sir, can you tell the court what a ‘compensated man-day’ is?”

  Marvin glanced at Judge Ross. This time, Mona noticed a very slight but noticeable shake of the head from the judge. She was getting close. She turned to the jury. “A compensated man-day is the fee the private-prison industry charges the government per inmate per day. Does that sound about right, Mr. Marvin?”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “Is there another way?”

  “It’s a unit of measurement.”

  At that point, the door at the back of the court swung open, and Joaquin came in. He crossed the bar, apologized vaguely to the judge, and handed Mona some papers.

  “Mr. Marvin, are you familiar with the teachings of Saint Ignatius of Loyola?”

  A puzzled look came over Marvin’s face.

  “I’m sorry, I’m being opaque. More specifically, do you know the quote, often attributed to him, ‘Go forth and set the world on fire’?”

  “I’m familiar with that quote, yes.”

  “Can you remember where you first encountered it?”

  “At school.”

  “Where did you go to school, Mr. Marvin?”

  Marvin sneered. “You know very well where I went to school.”

  “Yes, but the jury doesn’t.”

  “I went to Saint Ignatius Loyola Academy.”

  “That’s a private Catholic prep school in Yorba Linda, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Now, Mr. Marvin, can you tell the court whether there is anyone in this room who attended Saint Ignatius Loyola with you?”

  Mr. Marvin sneered again. But all he could manage was a weak answer. “What kind of question is that?”

  He looked pleadingly at the judge. The judge stared at Mona. Mona held his gaze. Then she turned to Marvin and said, “I must remind you that you are under oath, sir, and are obliged to answer the question honestly and truthfully. Not to do so is a felony.”