Alligator Park (35 page)

“I’m so sorry.”

“I was devastated for a long
time. But after a while, I picked up the pieces and went on. What else could I
do?”

I find myself gazing into his
eyes with no inclination to look away and am overcome with the impression he
feels the same way. I feel captivated, without an escape, as if there’s a bond
building between us, an unseen force drawing us together. His impeccable
physique is irresistible, the well-developed biceps, the tight stomach, the
glistening white teeth when he smiles; they call to me. But I resist the
overwhelming temptation to move closer, keenly aware if I let myself go, and
submit to my natural instincts, it would lead to a place I am not prepared to
go. It would be a place that would come back to haunt me; make me sorry I ever
crossed that line. My work must come first. I must stay on course. I must
finish the race!

I turn away, stuff myself
with a mouthful of fish, chew obnoxiously, and think about the upcoming trial,
trying desperately to break the magic of the moment, and he responds.

“You look worried,” he says.

“We can’t win.”

“Of course you can.”

“No, we can’t. They’re too
big. They have resources, unlimited resources. We don’t have a chance.”

“But you have perseverance.
Never underestimate the power of determination. Have faith in yourself, and you
will prevail.”

I turn to face him.

“Thanks. It’s nice to have
someone rooting for me.”

“En-gah,” he says.

“Mu-toh,” I respond, and then
we both laugh.

We finish breakfast, rinse
off the plates, and put everything back in its place. Fargo puts out the fire,
loads up the canoe, and then steadies it as I climb in. He pushes off and
paddles deeper into the swamp.

“Where are we going?”

“For a turkey.”

“We have food at the
restaurant.”

“I need to do this.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If I stop hunting, it will
be bad for me.”

I stare at him confused and
he notices.

“It’s our DNA. I can’t
explain it. Only an Indian can understand.”

“I am trying. I really am,” I
say.

“Perhaps someday it will come
to you.”

We arrive at the grasslands
and Fargo beaches the canoe like he always does. I step out as he retrieves his
bow and quiver from its storage place inside the canoe. He joins me on the bank
and then we hike about a quarter of a mile down the trail. He suddenly lies on
his stomach holding himself up with his elbows and signals me to do the same.
We both inch along the waist-high grass on our elbows, with scarcely a sound,
creeping up on a tree with about a dozen wild turkeys roosting. The grass is stiff,
and is scratching my skin, but I bear the pain and remain quiet lest I scare
away the birds.

Fargo sets an arrow in the
bow keeping it low to the ground. He pulls back on the sting, and then, lets it
fly. A turkey falls to the ground and the remaining ones explode into a
frenzied mass of wings, disturbing the serenity of the meadow as they flutter
away. He runs up to the turkey and it’s already lifeless, an arrow through the
chest. He pulls out the arrow, cleans it on the grass, and ties the turkey to
his belt. He takes out a pinch of tobacco, holds it up, says some Indian words,
and then releases it to the wind. I’m always touched when he does this. It’s a
feeling of respect for the land that is sadly lacking in our modern world.

It’s been a successful hunt
and we head back to the place where he keeps the canoe. Fargo drags it to the
bushes where he usually stores it, turns it upside down to keep out the rain,
and then places the spear and arrows under it, ready for his next hunt. We hike
back to the airboat, launch it, and arrive at the cabin just before noon. It’s
been a wonderful day and I’m glad I went. It has allowed me to reconnect with
the land and share the passion Fargo has for it. I thank him and we go our
separate ways. We’re back in the real world now.

For the next two weeks, I go about my
usual routine, my day job at Semi-Environmental on Monday, Tuesday, and
Wednesday, and helping out at the restaurant the rest of the time. But I’m
worried. The seven day deadline has long since passed and Berkeley hasn’t
called, and that can only mean one thing, he hasn’t heard anything either. I
can’t stand the tension any longer so I decide to call him.

“I was starting to get
concerned myself,” Berkeley says. “It’s not unusual for legal proceedings to
take time, but in this case, I was sure they would move fast. Tell you what;
I’ll call them right now, and then call you back.”

I hang up the phone and wait
for his return call. An hour later it rings and it’s Berkeley.

“I had a nice little chat
with Ellis and he’s not buying your report. He had his experts review it and
they told him they have the isomer thing under control. They test for that and
have never had a problem. Check your email. I just sent you the reports. Bottom
line, he’s convinced he can win and wants to move it along quickly. Trial in
six weeks.”

“Is that possible?” I ask.

“If the judge allows it.
They’ve already filed for a trial date making the argument that uncertainty is
costing them millions a day in sales, not to mention what it’s doing to their
stock price. They found a sympathetic ear in Baltimore who’s willing to put it
on the fast track.”

“Can we challenge it?”

“We could, but do you really
want to? Unless you have some compelling reason why we should delay it, we
might as well get it over with. I mean, would an extra month or two really make
a difference?”

“What about discovery?”

“We talked about that. He’s
of the opinion there’s nothing more to gain on either side. You’ve stated your
position and presented your evidence and they’re convinced your case is weak.
He was quite emphatic that he intends to crush us, make us an example for any
other fool that wants to take them on.”

“Are you worried?”

“It’s too late to take the
$2.6 million. We quit now and we get nothing.”

“But what about you
personally? Aren’t you afraid?”

“I’m at the end of my career
anyway, by my own choice. Might as well go out with a bang.”

“I appreciate your
commitment.”

“All I can do is apply the
law. It’s up to you to figure out the science.”

“What happens next?” I ask.

“I’m going to push for
settlement, but if they insist on a trial, I need that girl to testify, the one
that was with Kevin and saw the whole incident.”

“I don’t know who she is.”

“I’ll contact Detective Bolt
and get a copy of the police report. That should have her name and contact
information. He won’t refuse a lawyer.”

“Did you want me to contact
her?”

“No, I’ll take care of that.
You just work on putting together a bullet-proof argument, why they have a
problem with the isomer. Assume a trial in six weeks.”

“So you agree they have a
defective product?”

“A product liability lawsuit
is the only chance we have. You better find some reason why it’s defective, or
we’re sunk.”

Berkeley’s arguments are
irrefutable so I thank him and conclude the call. I peer over the reports he
sent me, rack my brain, but there’s one thing that stands out and it bothers
me. Ellis had told him they have the isomer thing under control. What does that
mean?

I conclude they either don’t
believe the S-form isomer really exists in nature, or if it does, it doesn’t
have any adverse effect on wildlife. It’s a huge difference and one I have to
resolve.

When this goes to trial,
their legal strategy would be simple; use their expert witnesses to discredit
me, show the jury how my analysis was flawed, and then show how the S-form
isomer didn’t really exist and was caused by sloppy lab work, an inexcusable
crime for a researcher. The sheer weight and apparent authenticity of their
testimony would incite the jury to rule in favor of GWI, and the world would
never hear the complexities of the case.

It’s exactly what Ellis
wants, a simple win, because the public understands a win. They don’t care
about isomers, and theories, and the subtleties of the analysis. They would
just hear that I lost, and he won, and he could flaunt it all over the news and
no one would ever dare take him on again. It was the victory he lusted for.

Even though the reports
submitted by GWI appear on the surface to be rigorous, I decide it’s time to do
my own experiments. Perhaps the experience will enlighten me to what’s going
on. I discuss the possibility with Fargo and he suggests we visit his friend
that owns the alligator farm.

“He’s in tight with the local
universities. Always sponsoring students for field work. I’m sure he’d let you
set up some experiments, as a favor to me.”

We get into his jeep and
drive over to the attraction. He sneaks in the service entrance and parks in
the employee parking lot. We stroll along a pathway, past some exhibits, and
then, approach a black man wearing goggles and rubber coveralls. He’s working inside
one of the concrete pens.

“That’s him, over there,” he
says.

The man sprays what appears
to be bleach on the walls, scrubs them with a long-handled brush, and then
rinses off the residue with a garden hose. He sees us coming, shuts off the
water, and removes the goggles. He’s got short hair and a slightly greying
beard and I recognize his face from the TV news report back at the motel in
South Carolina. He smiles and greets us.

“Fargo, what’s up?”

“I’d like you to meet my
friend Indigo here.”

The man turns towards me.

“Hi, I’m Brad.”

“I saw you on TV,” I say.

“TV? When?”

“Back in December. You were
talking to a reporter about an alligator attack. The guy in the boat.”

“Oh yes. I remember that one.
Seems like they’re getting weirder, though. Did you hear about the kid getting
killed?”

“That’s kind of why we’re
here,” I say.

Fargo cuts in. “Tell him
about your research.”

I start to explain, but Brad
interrupts.

“Hold on. I’m done here.
Let’s go get a drink.”

He climbs out of his rubber
suit, takes us to an employee dining area, and then gets three bottled waters
from a refrigerator handing one to me and one to Fargo. He finds an unused
table and we each take a chair. Brad faces me and I notice his interest in my
Native American outfit.

“Haven’t seen you around.
Been here long?”

I explain how I ended up
coming to Florida: how I was doing research on residual pesticides, how the
university cut me off, and how I’m now trying to prove single-handedly that
Farm-eXia is the cause of Kevin’s death. We chat a bit more and then I find out
he has a PhD in Herpetology, exactly the kind of person we need on our side. He
seems quite interested in the experiments and eager to participate. I notice a
sparkle in his eye as he lays out a plan:

“We set up two pens, one with
the S-form isomer and one with the safe R-form, as a control group. I have some
baby alligators we can use, three in one pen, and three in the other. It won’t
hurt them, but since they’ve never been exposed to the wild, the changes in
behavior would be swift and obvious.”

We spend the rest of the day
setting up the concrete pens, and then, Fargo drives me to the lake where I had
measured the 40% S-form isomer. We fill up two fifty-five gallon drums with lake
water. On the way back, we stop by Semi-Environmental to pick up a liter of the
brand new Farm-eXia Doug had been storing. We fill one of the pens with the
contaminated lake water and the other with a 1.0 gram per liter solution of the
new Farm-eXia dissolved in clean uncontaminated well water. Thus, one pen
contains the 40% S-form isomer—the contaminated lake water—and the other only
the safe R-form for the control group.

I fill up two sterilized
specimen jars with water samples from each group, just for the record. If the
defendant’s legal team insists on physical proof of our conclusions, and we
can’t supply any, they could have it declared speculation, and then convince
the jury it has no merit.

Brad gets the baby alligators
and releases them into the pen.

“They’ll be fed just like all
the other gators just to keep things honest,” he says.

Brad takes some yellow
“caution” tape and cordons off the area to keep his staff from getting near the
pens.

“Feel free to come over as
often as you want. Can’t wait to see what happens.”

I stop back a week later and
the baby alligators seem happy sunning themselves with no distinctive
differences in behavior. They look so cute I ask Brad if I can hold one, but he
reminds me this is a controlled experiment and we shouldn’t do anything that
might affect the outcome, so I just observe them for a while. Fortunately, the
pens are in a restricted area so the gators won’t be influenced by visitors to
the park.

By the second week, the
alligators show no perceivable differences, but then again, I didn’t expect
any.

By the third week, there’s an
almost imperceptible difference in behavior with the S-form group appearing to
be slightly more active than the control group.

By the fourth week, the
behavioral differences are even more striking. The control group is content to
lazily bask in the sun most of the time, but the alligators in the other group
are constantly roaming around the pen, sometimes getting into fights with each
other.

By the fifth week, the
differences are undeniable. The control group is as it was, inactive most of
the time. But the lake water group are constantly trying to get out, crawling
up the sides until the weight of their bodies cause them to fall over. And then
they do it all over again, never tiring of it. Even Brad is surprised telling
me he didn’t think this was possible, but that now he’s a believer.

I call Berkeley to bring him
up to date on the experiments; tell him about the aggressive behavior.

“That’s compelling evidence,”
he says.

“Do you think they’ll
settle?”

“It would save us all a lot
of trouble. Oh, by the way, I contacted the girl that was with Kevin right
before his death. Her name is Sandy Harris and she lives in Jacksonville. She
said she’ll testify as long as I paid all expenses and of course I agreed.”

Berkeley and I conclude the call
and I get back to work. On Friday, the last day of the experiment, Fargo joins
me on the trip over to the alligator farm and I show him the results in case he
has to testify as an expert witness. I document all the findings, take
pictures, and then, just when I am ready to leave, Brad offers some additional
suggestions.

“Take samples of the water
before you wrap it up, just to close the loop. That’s the mark of a world-class
researcher.”

I do what he says and thank
him for the help. As I gather my things together, he offers to be an expert
witness and I promise we’ll take him up on it.

The trial is only a week away
so I drop Fargo off at the house and rush over to Semi-Environmental to test
the water samples taken at the conclusion of the experiment, just for the
record. To my surprise, the control group water is showing 5% S-form isomer
when it should be showing none, only the harmless R-form. What in the world is
happening?

I run the problem by Doug.

“Something changed it. Was
there cross contamination from the 40% solution?”

I call Brad at the alligator
farm and he assures me that would be impossible.

“The concrete wall between
them is too high. I was the only one allowed in that area and made sure nothing
like that could happen.”

I retest the original water
samples taken at the beginning of the experiment and they are the same, no
changes detected. So where did the 5% S-form isomers come from? Since it wasn’t
cross contamination, it had to be some type of chemical process, but nothing
makes sense.

I think back to my chemistry
courses looking for a solution and then remember how ultra-violet light can
break molecular bonds. Theoretically, it would be possible for UV radiation to
split off the oxygen from a molecule of Farm-eXia, and then, when the light is
removed, the oxygen would have a propensity to reattach. But there was nothing
in theory that required it to reattach in the same place.

 That had to be it. It’s well
known that the sun is a powerful emitter of UV rays and the water in the pen
had been exposed to daily doses of direct sunlight for five weeks. The UV rays
from the sun could have knocked off the oxygen, and then, when darkness came,
it could be attaching in a different place causing the safe R-form isomer to be
converted to the dangerous S-form. It would be a slow process, but five weeks
was the right amount of time to produce a five percent solution. And because it
was a slow gradual process, the baby gators in the control group weren’t
exposed to the five percent concentration long enough to make any difference to
their behavior. My calculations reinforce the theory, but I have to test it to
be sure.