Alligator Park (30 page)

“Please,” he says, presenting
the snacks with his outstretched hand.

I sit quietly, my hands in my
lap, unsure of what to do next, fearing I’ll get rebuked again for having no
class. If he has adopted the Florida lifestyle, it’s obviously on his own
terms.

“Allow me,” he says, and
proceeds to show us the socially preferred method of scooping up caviar in the
precise quantities prescribed by countless generations of aristocrats using the
special spoon and then applying it decisively to the cracker. I find the
passionate intensity with which he presents the demonstration rather
entertaining so I sit back and chill out on the wine. It’s really excellent,
soft and fruity, with no hint of acidic aftertaste.

“I apologize for the red,” he
says. “Not the best choice for caviar. I had planned to pick up a few pastries
from the French bakery across the way, but unfortunately they were closed
today.”

As I take another sip, I
detect an almost imperceptible list to the boat, slowly, first to one side,
then to the other, as waves dance against the outside of the hull. I become
lulled into a feeling of serenity as the gentle rocking enhances the calming
effect of both the alcohol and the gentle background music. And then, unexpectedly,
he startles me out of my peace.

“You have something for me?”
he asks.

I hand him the contract and
letter. His joyful gaze suddenly turns serious, putting me on edge. He leafs
through the contract, one page at a time, for about twenty minutes, as Doug and
I stuff ourselves with caviar.

“Have you read this?” he
asks.

“I just had time to scan it.”

“Well, I’d be very concerned
about paragraph 37c, 42b, and 43e.”

“Could you give us the
layman’s version?” Doug asks.

“Paragraph 37 is the
confidentiality clause. Basically, it says you must keep all trade secrets
confidential, until which time they can patent them. There’s nothing wrong with
that. But sub-paragraph ‘c’ goes much further. It forbids you from discussing
anything about this with anyone outside of GWI, specifically the media. That
means you can’t even tell them you are involved in this research at all. You
can’t say anything, nada.”

“And the other sections?”

“Paragraph 42b refers to the
length of the contract. It says the contract shall run for a period of three
years, but GWI has the option of shutting it down any time after one year if
they so choose.”

“So what’s wrong with that?”
I ask.

“Normally, nothing. But they
sneaked a clause in at 43e which says that, even if they decide to shut the
program after the first year, you are still bound to the original terms of the
contract, PLUS, another three years. It’s a cheap legal trick. They offer
someone what seems like a substantial amount of money under the guise they want
to be involved, but the real plan is to shut you down. Basically, they pay you
for one year, but own you for a full six years. And if you sign this, there’s
nothing you can do about it!”

“What do you recommend?” I
ask.

“Walk away from it. Don’t
even answer. It expires in fifteen days anyway so they’ll get the message soon
enough.”

I could see my $360,000 go up
in smoke.

“Anything else I can do for
you?” Berkeley asks.

I shake my head no.

“Thanks Berkeley, appreciate
the time,” Doug says, and then gets up. He shakes hands with him and I do the
same. We hop off the boat and head back to the truck. The sun is now low on the
horizon and I’m getting famished. And then Doug says the magic words: “How
about dinner? I know a great place only five minutes from here, and we can
watch the sunset.”

“Love to,” I say.

Doug drives to a restaurant
on the bay and asks for a table overlooking the water. I order some Mahi-mahi
and Doug gets the Grouper. He also requests a bottle of Merlot which arrives at
the table a few minutes later. He pours me a glass, and then one for himself. We
sip on the wine and gaze at the setting sun as the fireball disappears slowly
into the water. It’s a beautiful sight, but the wine, consumed on an empty
stomach, is making me a little tipsy.

“How’s your wife,” I ask.

“Who told you I had a wife?”

“Fargo. And kids too.”

“That son-of-a-bitch. He may
be a dear friend, but he’s up to something. He knows full well my wife died in
a freak private plane accident ten years ago. And I don’t have kids.”

“I’m so embarrassed,” I say.

“It’s all right. You couldn’t
have known.”

The server brings our orders
and I finish my meal without saying another word. We drive back to
Semi-Environmental in silence, for the entire sixty miles.

When I get back to the cabin
and open the front door, I see Fargo sitting in the living room alone. I storm
in and confront him.

“You jerk. Why did you tell
me Doug was married?”

“Well, he was.”

“Ten years ago. He’s not
married now.”

“Who told you?”

“Doug. I was having dinner
with him.”

“You were having dinner with
Doug?”

“Strictly business.”

“So how’d his wife get into
the conversation?”

“I asked about her. Told me
she was killed. Caused me a lot of embarrassment.”

“Okay, I apologize. It was
just to keep you from making any mistakes.”

“What mistakes? Dating Doug?”

“Well, sort of. You always
told me you don’t have time for a relationship.”

“It’s none of your friggin
business,” I say, and march down the hall to my bedroom.

“And keep away from me,” I
shout, and slam the door.

I don’t know why I added
that, he’s never touched me or even tried to. Perhaps secretly, I always wanted
him to and couldn’t admit it to myself. Or perhaps it’s the wine talking,
putting crazy ideas in my head.

The next morning, while working at my day
job at Semi-Environmental, I get a phone call from Detective Bolt.

“What’s up John?”

“I thought you might be
interested in this. Damon was stopped for a traffic violation last night.”

“Where?”

“Daytona Beach.”

My God, I think to myself. He
was in Daytona the same night I was there. Was he following me?

“What happened?” I ask.

“It was a minor infraction,
drifting through a stop sign. But the officer found a switchblade on him.
Confiscated it.”

“Couldn’t he just buy another
one?”

“I suppose. But maybe he’ll
get the idea we’re on to him and get nervous and go back to where he came
from.”

“Thanks, let me know if he
turns up again.”

“No problem,” Detective Bolt
says, and hangs up the phone.

I contemplate the incident
and it makes me nervous. Was it just a coincidence? It’s not surprising he’s
spending his time in Daytona Beach. After all,
what is there around here to do that could possibly
interest a fertile unattached man in his mid-twenties?
But still, it
seems strange we just happened to be there when he was pulled over. If he was
following me, then he must be on to my Native American disguise. But if he’s on
to my disguise, why didn’t he confront me earlier?

...

Three weeks go by, and then, Will
hands me a letter. It’s from the EPA. Anxiously, I tear open the envelope.

Dear Ms. Wells,

This letter is official notification we
are closing the file on Farm-eXia. Our scientists have reviewed your data and
find nothing that would suggest this product has any detrimental effect on the
environment or on wildlife. We believe the results and conclusions you arrived
at were speculative and not supported by any meaningful data.

As always, our number one mission is to
protect the public and we appreciate your concerns. However, we find nothing
which would justify the expense of keeping the investigation open.

Thank you for your interest.

Very truly yours.

The staff of the EPA.

I tell Will I need to go back
to see Doug and he notices I’m agitated.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I can’t believe this.
They’re blowing me off.”

“Is there anything you can
do?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe Doug has
some ideas.”

I get back in my car and
speed over to Semi. Doug reads the letter, then hands it back to me.

“You can always sue them.”

“Sue the EPA?” I ask.

“Sure, companies do that all
the time.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Well, you need a lawyer.
Berkeley can explain the process. Got time now?”

“Absolutely.”

Doug calls Berkeley and lets
him know were coming to see him. When we arrive, he’s in his boat as usual so
we hop on board, climb into the galley, and on the table there’s already an opened
bottle of wine with three glasses. Berkeley fills the glasses and we all take a
sip.

“Do you have any idea what it
takes to sue the EPA?” he says.

“I assume it’s like suing any
other company.”

“Not even close. Think about
it, you are basically accusing the EPA of not doing their job and putting the
public at risk. Everyone from the Director on down will have a fit and defend
their position vigorously and they’ve got dozens of lawyers already on payroll
to do that. And then there are the friends of the court. That’s every company
worldwide that makes pesticides. They’ll all band together in one uniform voice
to discredit you. Even though they’re competitors in the real world, it’s
people like you they’re really afraid of. If you prevail, the whole industry
suffers with more regulation.”

I turn away and climb out the
hatch onto the rear deck to get some air. Depression wells up inside me as I
realize I’ve wasted five months and a ton of work on a project I can’t ever
bring to fruition. The special interests are just too massive, too organized,
too determined to allow an irritation like me to prevail. The hopelessness of
my efforts suddenly becomes apparent and overwhelms me. What was I thinking?
How could a single person, with no legal training and no assets, even think of
taking on a whole industry who would join forces and fight with such vigor I
wouldn’t stand a chance? It was time to throw in the towel, admit defeat, make
plans to go back to Philadelphia.

Doug and Berkeley join me on
the back deck, reclining on the cushions around the edge and passing the time
by refilling their glasses and sipping on the wine. I gaze off in the distance
doing everything possible to suppress my overwhelming despair, biting my lip to
hold back any physical display of emotional weakness. For a good ten minutes no
one says a word, and then Berkeley breaks the silence.

“You know, it would be so
much easier if this were a product liability lawsuit. We wouldn’t have to
involve the EPA and other corporations would have little incentive to get
involved.”

“What does a product
liability lawsuit entail?” I ask.

“First you need a product,
which you have. You need a manufacturer, which you have. Then you need a defect
which you claim you have. And finally, you need a victim, which, from my
perspective, you don’t have.”

“We have a victim.”

“An alligator can’t be a
victim.”

“Not the alligator. The
Mexican guy, that young man that got killed.”

Berkeley thinks for a few
moments, as if he’s pondering the odds of winning a case like this.

“It’s a novel idea, but
there’s another problem. In Florida, you generally can’t file a lawsuit for the
deceased unless that person is your child or spouse. Of course the law is quite
complex, and every case requires an attorney, but from what you’ve already told
me, you have no case.”

“What about the victim’s
wife?”

“She certainly has the right
to sue, but then you’ve got the enormous task of proving, beyond doubt, that it
was Farm-eXia, and only Farm-eXia, that caused the alligator to become
aggressive to the point it went out of its way to hunt down and kill the
victim. It’s a daunting task, and probably without precedent.”

“Okay, hypothetically,
suppose I could convince the victim’s spouse to sue, and then, get the
scientific data to prove, beyond a doubt, it was caused by Farm-eXia, would you
sign on to the case?”

“Probably not.”

“May I ask, why?”

“For one thing, I’m not a
trial lawyer. Most of my work consists of filling out documents, so my clients
don’t get entangled with the law. But more importantly, the chance of recovery
would be nil. To put it succinctly, the task would be so overwhelming, you’d be
outgunned.”

“Can you recommend another
lawyer?”

“No lawyer would ever take
this. It’s a shot in the dark.”

There’s a long period of
silence as if no one has anything more to add, and then, Doug confronts
Berkeley.

“We’ve been working together
for what, almost twenty years now?”

“About that.”

“Well, the one thing I’ve
learned about you, in all those years, is you like a challenge. Am I right?”

“That’s a true statement.”

“You know, Indigo here has
been working her guts out on this issue for a long time, and for no pay, and we
all know the problem will get worse if no one does anything about it. Now I’m
not asking you to work for nothing, but it’d be a damn shame if we let her go
home empty handed. And more importantly, if she gives up now, you might find
yourself on the wrong side of the fence, defending the very companies that
caused it. On the surface you’re a tough act, a staunch professional, but I
also happen to know that under that thick skin lies a caring heart, someone who
at the end of the day wants to do the right thing. If you don’t do it, who
will? Think about it.”

Berkeley stands up and stares
at the horizon for a good five minutes, then turns to face Doug.

“I must be a damn fool for
saying this, but I agree with everything you just said. We’ve been doing this
for a long time, you and I, and made a very nice living at it. But everything
ends at some point in time, and you well know I’ve been trying to ease my way
out of the business. And then, when I leave this earth, I’ll just be another
lawyer that worked on an assemblage of mindless cases of no particular
significance.

But Doug, you’re right, this
case is different. If we can win it, it would become our legacy, a case that
will be remembered and studied as a precedent for future cases of this type.
And more importantly, we’d be leaving something of value to future generations,
the premise that no company will be exempt from the long-held principle that
those that injure others will be held accountable for their actions and their
negligence.”

“Does that mean you’re in?”

“Yes Doug. You talked me into
it. I’ll do it, as long as the scientific proof will stand up in a court of
law. Indigo, the burden is on you.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Doug
says, and we all raise our glasses in a toast.

Berkeley pours us another
glass of wine, and then, explains what we need to know.

“In product liability
lawsuits, there are three types of defects: Design Defects, Manufacturing
Defects, and Marketing Defects. You need to prove one or more.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure
Farm-eXia has a design defect, and maybe even a marketing defect based on how
it’s used,” I say.

“Pretty sure is not good
enough. You are going to be grilled by lawyers and expert witnesses that may
know more than you. They will be relentless, trying to prove your charges are
completely baseless. All it takes is one slip-up, and your whole case falls
apart. Are you strong enough?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sure I
can handle it.”

“Okay, here’s what we’ll do.
I’m going to send you a packet with everything you need to know about product
liability laws. I want you to study it until you know as much as I do. Call me
if you don’t understand anything.”

“No problem,” I say, with
mindless courage.

“That’s just the beginning.
Then you prepare me a report with your findings. You need to anticipate every
question they will ask, have a response for every tactic they will use to
discredit you, make your case so substantial not even Holmes could pull it
apart. Then, when you’ve done all that, send it to me and I’ll prepare the
legal side of it. Understand?”

“Completely.”

We chat a bit more and
Berkeley explains how he took some courses in chemistry to help his legal
practice.

“I don’t purport to be an
expert, but I can hold my own with the best,” he says.

It’s fortunate we’re able to
have a lawyer versed in chemistry on our side and I thank Berkeley for his
help. And then we bid him a goodbye and Doug and I make the sixty mile trip
back to Semi.

As we get within a half-mile
of the turnoff from the main road, we see a car waiting to make a left turn.

“Get down,” Doug says.

I unsnap my seat belt and
crouch onto the floor.

“What color is Damon’s car?”
he asks.

“Black.”

“What make?”

“I don’t really know. A Ford
maybe.”

“Stay down. Don’t look.
There’s a black Ford waiting to make a left turn out of my road. I’m just going
to make the turn like nothing is wrong.”

Doug slows, and then turns
onto the dirt road leading to his place.

“Is it him?”

“It’s hard to tell. Can’t get
a good look. It’s a Ford Thunderbird though.”

“Yeah. That’s his car.”

“If he’s been all the way to
the building, your car is the only one in the parking lot. If he sees the same
car at your restaurant...”

“Yeah, I know. I got a
problem.”

“It might be time to get a
new car,” Doug says. “He’s been looking for a green PT Cruiser with bugs on it.
Suddenly the green one disappears but a white one pops up. And he sees the same
white car at the restaurant and at an environmental company. He’s on to you,
you know.”

“I was afraid this would
happen.”

Doug pulls into the parking
lot, parks, and then checks the Cruiser for bombs, cut brake lines, or anything
out of the ordinary. Damon’s a psycho, and who knows what he’s capable of.

Doug finishes the inspection
and declares: “There’s no evidence he touched your car. But why don’t you take
my Ranger instead, as a precaution. I’ll drive the PT Cruiser, just in case
he’s waiting somewhere. When he sees a man driving it, he’ll be totally
confused.”