Alligator Park (31 page)

I get my handgun out of the
Cruiser and Doug gets his rifle out of the Ranger. Then we switch keys. I drive
the Ranger out to the main highway with Doug right behind me. The black
Thunderbird is nowhere in sight. I wave the all clear to Doug and head back to
my home.

It’s almost dinnertime when I
arrive so I wait until we assemble at the table before relating the incident to
Fargo.

“Detective Bolt needs to know
this,” he says.

He leaves the table and calls
him. He’s on the phone for about ten minutes and then returns.

“Bolt’s going to put his team
on alert for a black Thunderbird. He’ll let us know if they see anything.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” I
say.

“How do you feel about
getting a new vehicle?” he asks.

“I think it’s time. Let’s do
it.”

After dinner, I call Doug and
let him know we’re coming over to his house to return the Ranger and pick up
the PT Cruiser. He’s waiting for us when we arrive and we swap keys. Fargo
takes over the driving in case we have the unlikely misfortune of crossing
paths with Damon, and even though it’s getting dark and making it difficult to
see inside the Cruiser, I pull a wide-brimmed hat low on my forehead and keep
my head down, just as a precaution. Hopefully, he hasn’t yet caught on to my
new way of dressing and I want to keep it that way.

We drive about ten miles down
the highway to a used car dealer he knows. It’s not much more than a gravel lot
with a white steel building set near the back. There’s a brightly lit sign by
the highway, “Ken’s Kars,” with another sign below it, “No Credit - No
Problem.” Fargo pulls the Cruiser into the lot and parks. The lighting is somewhat
subdued with only naked bulbs hanging from a wire, but I guess that’s how he
keeps his overhead low.

We hop out of the car and
Fargo tells the owner I’m looking to trade my car. He looks up the Blue Book
value, and then offers me a $4,000 trade-in. I know the Blue-Book is actually
$4,500, but what he doesn’t know is that his offer is double what I originally
paid for it, so I just play it cool and stroll through the lot, looking for
something that would appeal to me. Fargo and the owner tag along behind me,
chatting away, but keeping their distance, so as not to influence me. I
approach a silver Ford pickup with low mileage, climb into the cab, and then
put down the window.”

“What do you think?” I say to
Fargo.

“Kinda big for a little girl,
don’t you think?”

“This is a big country.”

“Indeed it is. Let’s take it
for a ride.”

The owner hands me the keys
and Fargo gets into the passenger seat. I start the engine, head out onto the
highway, and take it up to seventy. Driving it is an absolute joy. The driver’s
position is high giving me the pleasurable feeling of dominance on the road.
When we get back, I ask the owner what he wants for it.

“For a friend of Fargo, six
thousand.”

“I’ll give you five,” I
counter.

“Fifty-five, and it’s yours.”

“You got a deal,” I say, and
then transfer my personal belongings from the Cruiser to the Ford. I write him
a check for $1,500 and hand him the keys to the Cruiser. He removes the license
plate, attaches it to the Ford, and then completes the paperwork. Just before
we leave, Fargo warns the owner:

“If anyone, and I mean
anyone, asks you where you got the Cruiser, say at auction. Got it?”

The owner nods in agreement
and I anxiously climb back into the cab. Fargo takes the passenger seat and
gently runs his hand over the black leather interior testing the softness.

“Nice deal. I’m jealous.”

“It’s not meant to make you
jealous.”

“I know, but I’m still
jealous.”

I start the engine, put the
transmission into drive, and then, before I pull away, notice the PT Cruiser in
the rear-view mirror. It’s all alone, in the shadows, like an abandoned child.
I hesitate for a moment and think about all the great times Will and I had with
it, the adventures, the disappointments, and more importantly, how it had never
let us down. And for a few seconds, I feel guilty.

But then I remind myself that
even though it had a personality, it doesn’t have feelings. It’s nothing more
than a bit of steel, rubber, and plastic, woven together in a form to provide
utility for human beings. Life goes on, and all things must end, and someone
will buy that PT Cruiser and love it as much as I did.

So with a sense of
determination, I step on the gas, race onto the highway, and accept the fact
that that part of my life is over, never to be repeated. It’s the future that
matters now.

...

Three days pass and then a
postal truck drops off a large Priority Mail box addressed to me. It’s from
Berkeley. Inside are three-ring binders, legal books, and sheets of copied
articles with yellow high-lighting over the pertinent text. The whole package
must weigh thirty pounds or more. I thumb through the books and notice he’s
stuck yellow notes to certain pages explaining the subtleties of tort law and
the concepts he wants me to grasp. He’s also attached similar notes to the
sheets in the three-ring binders.

The next order of business is
to contact the spouse of the deceased restaurant worker who was attacked and
dismembered by those rogue alligators while emptying garbage at the dumpster.
Fargo drives me to the restaurant and explains the situation to the owner. He
responds in broken English with a strong Mexican accent and tells us the man
had only been in the states a short time and his wife lives in Mexico. I ask
him to call her and explain how we want her to file a lawsuit on behalf of her
husband’s death.

“Mucho dinero?” he asks.

“Yes, it could be millions,”
I say.

He then goes off on a tangent
excitedly telling us how he deserves some of the money because it was on his
land and all the money he lost because of declined business and keeps rambling
on until Fargo interrupts him and tells him there’s no money unless he can get
the widow to cooperate. The man calms down and asks what he needs to do.

“Call the widow now,” I say.

“What to say?” he asks.

“Tell her she can make a lot
of money if she files a lawsuit here. She doesn’t even have to be here. We’ll
do all the work.”

The man goes behind the
counter and returns with an address book that’s clearly past its better days.
There are food stains all over it, the front cover is missing, and the pages
are all dog-eared. He thumbs through the pages until he finds what he wants and
then balances it in his left hand, holding it open with his thumb. He dials the
number and we all wait in anticipation while it rings and rings and rings.
Someone answers, and I can vaguely make out the voice of a child speaking in
Spanish. The owner responds to the child, places his hand over the mouthpiece,
and then whispers to us.

“Is son. He getting her now.”

The woman answers and then
the man rambles on for fifteen minutes, going back and forth with her in
Spanish, and we don’t have a clue what’s going on. Finally he hangs up.

“She tell me she no
interested.”

“Just like that?”

“She afraid.”

“But why?” I ask.

“No believe me. Tell me I
loco.”

“I don’t understand. She gets
money for doing nothing.”

“She say trick. Her husband
illegal alien before killed. She think trick to give her big fine. She no want
money.”

Fargo and I shake our heads
slowly in desperation. The man grasps Fargo’s arm, points back at himself.

“I file lawsuit. I no afraid.
Have Green Card.”

I abruptly interject: “No,
I’m sorry. It must be his wife. Why don’t you call her again, later. Maybe
she’ll change her mind.”

“I try. But I think no good.
She mucho afraid.”

With our best strategy in
tatters, we leave the restaurant and head back home.

“So what happens now?” Fargo
asks.

“Remember way back, when I
first got down here, and those teenagers got attacked in a car?”

“Yeah, the girl climbed into
a tree, but the guy didn’t make it.”

“Whatever came of that?”

“It just got filed as
accidental, case closed.”

“We both know it wasn’t
accidental. Do you think the parents of the boy would cooperate?”

“Only one way to find out,”
Fargo says, and then does a U-turn, driving back the way he came.

“Where are you going?”

“To see Detective Bolt.”

“What for?”

“Let’s run the idea by him.
He knows more about the incident than I do.”

We arrive at the State Police
barracks about a half-hour later and join the detective in his office.

“Indigo, what a pleasure. I
see you’re still wearing the disguise. Love it. Native American suits you
well,” and then he winks at me to accentuate the point.

He looks at his watch then
turns his attention to Fargo.

“It’s dinnertime. I was just
about to leave.”

“That bizarre case, where the
girl climbed into the tree. Remember how the alligators were attacking the car?
What became of the guy?”

“Well, it was gruesome. Sure
you want to hear this.”

“It’s important.”

“We found the boy’s head
right away, you were there. Later, we recovered enough parts to call it a body.
Gave everything to the coroner, there was a funeral, and that was it.”

“How did the parents react?”

“Always hated that part of
the job. I knocked on the door; they greeted me, and then invited me in. Told
them I had bad news, and they better sit down. We go to the living room, and
then, I told them. Hardest thing I ever did. The mother freaked out. We had to
call rescue to give her a sedative.”

“Did the parents ever sue?” I
ask.

“Sue? Heavens no. Who would
they sue? It was just an unfortunate accident.”

”Maybe not,” Fargo says.

“You know something I don’t?”

“Indigo here does.”

Detective Bolt turns to me.

“A homicide?”

“In one sense of the word,
maybe. The water was laden with pesticides, agricultural runoff. I think it
provoked the gators. If I can prove that, the manufacturer would be liable.”

“You have evidence?”

“Some.”

“What else do you need?”

“Did you ever catch the
perpetrators?”

“You mean the gators that did
it?”

“Yeah, catch anything?”

“We did try. Slick little
buggers. Got away. All of them.”

“In order to file a lawsuit,
I need something from you.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“The parent’s identity, name
and phone number.”

“You know that’s
confidential.”

“John, how long have you
known me?” Fargo interjects, and then gives Detective Bolt one of those looks
that makes a person embarrassed he ever questioned your integrity.

“Okay-okay. Give me a minute
to find it.”

He scrolls down a list on his
computer, finds the file, and then opens the case on his monitor. 

“Here, write this down...”

Fargo reaches for a pen and
pad on the desk and takes down the information.

“How much money we talking
about, that is, if you win?” Bolt asks.

“Could be millions. But
please, don’t mention it to anyone, until it’s public,” I say.

“Confidentiality is the air I
breathe.”

Fargo and I get up and
approach the door. Detective Bolt calls out:

“Hey, remember us when you
get the big payoff. We need cars, equipment, and the roof leaks.”

“Unfortunately, we won’t get
a dime. The family, and of course, the lawyer, will get it all.”

“So why you doing this?”

I hesitate for a moment,
wonder that myself.

“Call me a sucker for
justice,” I say.

“Yeah, that makes two of us,”
Bolt says, and then we leave.

As soon as we get back to the cabin, I
dial the number Detective Bolt gave us. A man answers and I ask him if he is
Mr. Stewart, Mr. George Stewart.

“Yes, who is this?” he asks.

I tell him my name and that I
have new information about his son’s tragic death.

“It was an accident. What
else is there to tell?” he says.

“I have evidence it may have
been the result of negligence and could have been prevented.”

“Are you another one of those
lawyers that chase accidents?”

“No, I’m not. I’m a biology
student, but I have a vested interest in this.”

“My wife and I are just
starting to get over it. If you raise more questions, it’s just going to upset
us again.”

“Those rogue alligators are
still out there. There’s already been another victim and there could be more.
Please, help me put an end to this.”

“I say let the authorities
handle it,” he says.

“That’s just it. The
authorities won’t do anything because the company that’s responsible has
powerful lobbyists. They use their influence to quash every effort. I’ve tried,
believe me I’ve tried.”

“What can we do? We don’t
have any influence.”

“You have more than you
think. Can I meet with you and go over it?”

“You’re asking quite a lot,
you know. The whole incident was very unsettling to both me and my wife.
Neither of us wants to go through that again.”

“I understand completely, but
the issue is complicated. Give me just an hour. Then, whatever you decide, I’ll
honor it.”

“Hold on a minute. Let me
discuss it with my wife.”

The phone goes quiet for a
couple of minutes and then he returns.

“Okay, I’ll be available
tomorrow at 10:00 AM.

“Ten’s perfect. What’s the
address?

The man gives me an address
in Saint Augustine and street-by-street directions from the exit at I-95 and
then we conclude the call. I spend the rest of the day racking my brain, trying
to figure out how to condense a complex microbiological issue into language the
average person would relate to. If it was too technical, I would lose their
interest. And if I made it too simple, they wouldn’t be convinced and give me
the snub.

The next morning, as I’m
getting dressed, I wonder if my usual Native American outfit might alarm the
Stewarts, arouse them to suspicion, instill in them the idea that I’m somehow
using them to promote my own agenda. I decide to forgo it this one time and wear
something cosmopolitan. After all, Damon doesn’t associate me with my new
silver Ford pickup, so he’d have no reason to look at it. But more importantly,
if I do get into trouble, I always have the gun.

I put on a pair of black
slacks and select a Native American top that would fit in at any public
gathering, braid my hair into a ponytail, and then put on a wide-brimmed hat
giving me the look of a rancher’s daughter. A pair of wrap-around sunglasses
finishes off the disguise.

The drive to Saint Augustine
is easy and fast, and I never tire of visiting the place. Its history goes back
to 1513 when Ponce de Leon first called the area “La Florida” while searching
for the legendary “Fountain of Youth.” An archeological site marks a possible
location of the spring along with a monument at the exact spot where he was
reputed to have set foot ashore. The spring still flows and tourists have the
opportunity to sample the legendary water to see if it produces the desired
results.

The actual city was founded
in 1565, making it the oldest continuously occupied city in the United States.
The oldest section is still as it was, and visitors can wander among the small
gift shops and restaurants now occupying the ancient stone buildings. In 1672,
after a particularly destructive raid by privateer Robert Searles, a massive
fort, the Casstillo de San Marcos, was built. It was constructed entirely of
sea shells held together with limestone and Portland cement. Even today, 340
years later, it still stands in its original form making it the oldest masonry
fort in the United States.

With a population of only
14,000, the effect Saint Augustine has had on world history far exceeds its
modest borders. As recently as 1964, it was a major contributor to the Civil
Rights Movement when Martin Luther King Jr. came to engage in a peaceful
protest. Outside groups used the opportunity to commit shameful acts of
violence against the protesters right under the watchful eye of TV cameras, and
so enraged the nation, it eventually led to passage of the Voting Rights Act of
1965 which provided for federal enforcement of basic constitutional rights.
It’s a wonderful reminder to all of us that even the most overwhelming
challenge can be overcome with persistence and determination.

My exit is coming up fast so
I ease the Ford truck to the right lane, and then drive off the exit. I follow
the directions to a suburban residential neighborhood until I see the sign for
their street. I turn onto it, follow it for a while, and then see their
address, a white stucco house with a one-car garage and a few missing roof
tiles. A white commercial van is parked in the driveway with a sign painted on
the side:

“Stewart’s
Shutters - Be Prepared”

The van is old, with some
rust along the bottom. I pull into the driveway and park right behind it. As I
approach the front door, I notice the house paint looks faded and the shrubs
along the front are brown and wilted. It’s pretty obvious these folks are
struggling to get by. I ring the doorbell and a man opens the door, invites me
inside.

“You’re in the hurricane
shutter business?” I ask.

“Yes, but we haven’t had one
for a while. People forget. Always wait for the last minute.”

I enter the living room. It’s
neat and clean, consisting of discount store furniture obviously selected for
price and not style. A woman on the couch gets up to greet me.

“I’m Victoria Stewart,
Kevin’s mother. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

I wander to the couch and sit
down. Mr. Stewart sits in an easy chair nearby. Mrs. Stewart leaves the room
and I focus my attention on a small memorial on the adjacent wall. There’s an 8
by 10 framed photo of Kevin wearing his graduating cap and a few awards
surrounding it. Underneath is a shelf with some items: a watch, a cellphone,
keys, and a few coins, presumably the last things he had in his possession
before his tragic end. I am saddened by the sudden realization that this victim
is not just random fatality, a mere statistic; he was a real person, with
people that loved him, and would miss him.

His mother reenters the room carrying
a plastic tray. On it are three coffee mugs and a bowl of pretzels. She places
them on a serving table, and then sits on the couch. I pick up one of the cups
and a handful of pretzels and turn to face her.

“I was wondering... Lake
George is quite a distance from here. Was your son living near there?”

“He had just started college
in Ormond Beach. Oceanography. It was his passion. He wanted to become a marine
biologist. Worked really hard during High School. Graduated ninth in his class.
And then, when he got accepted to Ormond College, he worked all summer to earn enough
money to buy the blue Camaro. He loved that car.”

“And the girl, did you know
her?”

“I think she was a friend
from the university. She came to the funeral, but after that, we never heard
from her.”

“I’m so sorry for both of
you. We can’t bring Kevin back, but together we can find justice and perhaps
his death will save others.”

Kevin’s parents sit there
staring at me, cup in hand, waiting for me to begin and then apprehension
overwhelms me. I suddenly realize this may be my only chance to convince them.

“On the surface, your son’s
death may appear to be an accident. But I’m a researcher in microbiology, and I
have reason to believe those were not ordinary alligators that attacked your
son.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs.
Stewart says.

“I have evidence those
alligators exhibited unusually aggressive behavior that was initiated by a
certain pesticide in the water.”

“Aren’t pesticides tested by
the EPA?”

“Actually, no. The EPA has
certain guidelines that manufacturers must follow when testing the product to
determine if it’s safe. The manufacturer then sends their data to the EPA and
it’s reviewed by experts to see if it meets the required safety standards.”

“How does the EPA know if the
data is reliable?”

“Good question. They assume
the manufacturer is capable, diligent, and interested in the public’s well-being.
They basically trust companies to be honest.”

“And are they?”

“Think about the tobacco
settlement of 1998. For years, independent researchers claimed a plethora of
diseases were attributable to cigarettes. But the tobacco industry denied it
vigorously for years, quashing every lawsuit with legal technicalities. Only
when the evidence was so overwhelming, so patently obvious, that fighting
against it would be pointless, did they finally agree to settle.”

“Is that what’s going on
here?”

“I don’t know about other
pesticides, but for one, Farm-eXia, yes, I think that’s what’s happening.”

“Then why don’t you contact
the EPA.”

“Already have. They blew me
off. There’s only one way to beat this, with a product liability lawsuit.”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“Because a product liability
lawsuit requires a victim, and in this case that would be your son Kevin. Only
the parents can file a lawsuit on behalf of their child. No one else can do
it.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t
afford a lawyer. Business has been slow the last few years,” Mr. Stewart
interjects.

“Don’t worry, it won’t cost
you anything. I know a top rated lawyer, a Harvard graduate, which will take
your case for 40% of whatever settlement you get.”

“And how much do you get?”

“Nothing.”

“Why would you do this for
nothing?”

“Because it’s the science
that interests me. It bothers me to no end that a company can release a product
to the environment that is unsafe, and do it with impunity. It has to be
stopped.”

“Is this going to require a
lot of our time?”

“Actually, you only need to
sign the papers allowing us to proceed. I’ll prepare all the scientific data
and the lawyer will handle the legal end.”

“Can we think about it?”

I’m overcome by this uneasy
feeling if I don’t get a commitment today, I’ll never hear from them again. A
couple of days will go by, and then a week, and then the whole thing will be
forgotten. I need to put some pressure on them.

“I’d love to tell you we have
all the time in the world, but we don’t. I’ve been working on this for six months
and my samples are already getting stale. If we don’t start now, all that work
will be lost. And to be totally honest, I’m not sure I can do this all over
again.”

“How much would we get?”

“It would be based on your
son’s earning potential. Let’s just say he became an oceanographer and worked
for forty years. I’m not sure what they make, but let’s say an average salary
of $100,000 per year. So over forty years, that would be $4 million. You would
get 60% of that, about $2.4 million. But it could go higher, up to $10 million
or more.”

“$2.4 million? That would
solve a lot of problems,” Mrs. Stewart says.  Mr. Stewart nods in agreement.

“Do it for Kevin, not for the
money. The award sends a signal to other corporations that unsafe behavior will
not be tolerated by the public.”

Mr. and Mrs. Stewart look at
each other and I can see they are in a quandary. I reach into a manila envelope
and take out an agreement drafted by Berkeley and included in the package he
sent me. I hold it up for both of them to see.

“This agreement allows us to
file a lawsuit in your behalf. If you sign it now, we’ll get started right
away, and the next thing you know, you might be opening a letter with a check
inside for $2.4 million.”

Secretly though, I don’t have
a clue whether they’ll get any money or not, or if we can even win this case.
But I have to present it in the most favorable light and hope we can pull it
off, because if I don’t, my efforts of the last six months will be all for
naught.

I place the contract in front
of Mrs. Stewart, hand her a pen, and then wait. I have this feeling that if she
signs it, Mr. Stewart will too.

She rolls the pen between her
thumb and forefinger, deep in thought, unsure what to do. She looks at George,
then back at the contract, then at George again.

“I agree with Indigo. We
shouldn’t be doing this for the money. We should do it for Kevin,” and then she
scribbles her name on the contract.

“Thank you Mrs. Stewart,” I
say, and then hand the contract and pen to Mr. Stewart. He signs it without hesitation,
as I expected, and hands everything back to me.