Black Horizon (22 page)

Whitehead Street near the courthouse was to the Key West bar what Wall Street was to white-shoe law firms. The Cortinas firm was in an old wood-frame house, two stories, and built in the Victorian style. Its traditional front porch and balconies spared none of the gingerbread details that defined the very best of the island’s nineteenth-century architecture. Cortinas had been there since 1970, but the building had seen continuous use as a law office since 1828, when the first federal court opened in the territory and a newly established newspaper called the
Register
announced the arrival of a vessel from middle Florida with “an assorted cargo, and seven lawyers.” For the next fifty years, frequent wrecks on the coral reefs drew talented maritime lawyers from around the country who laid the foundation for a rich and distinguished legal tradition in Key West. Depending on the source, Alejandro Cortinas might or might not be called “distinguished.” Nobody disputed that he was rich.

Cortinas greeted them on the porch and showed them inside. They chatted and got acquainted during a ten-minute tour that took them upstairs to Cortinas’ office, then down a back staircase to the much smaller office that was available to Jack.

“You can also use the main conference room,” said Cortinas.

It was down the hall, behind double-paneled doors, and Cortinas led them there. An even older lawyer was seated at the long mahogany table, and Jack couldn’t help thinking that they both looked like antiques. Cortinas made the introduction.

“Jack, I want you to meet Victor Garcia-Peña, founding member of the Key West Cuban-American Lawyers Association.”

“Con mucho gusto,”
said Jack as they shook hands. “You probably wouldn’t guess this about a guy named Swyteck, but my mother was born in Cuba.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Victor has something he’d like to discuss with you,” said Cortinas. “Can we all sit for a few minutes?”

“Sure,” said Jack.

Victor sat at the head of the table. Cortinas was on one side, to his left. Jack and Theo sat opposite Cortinas, to Victor’s right. Victor pulled a handful of cigars from his pocket and offered them around the table. Cortinas and Theo took one.

“You don’t smoke cigars?” asked Victor.

“I really don’t,” said Jack.

“What the hell kind of Cuban are you?” he said, laughing.

“That’s what his
abuela
wants to know,” said Theo. More laughter.

Over the years, Jack had learned to let such jokes go, to avoid the mood-killer explanation that he’d been raised a gringo after his Cuban mother died in childbirth.

The cigars were lit, and before long, Jack might as well have been smoking one.

“On a more serious note,” said Victor, “I want to talk to you about your Cuban oil case.”

The “Cuban oil case” wasn’t the way Jack referred to Bianca’s wrongful death action, but he knew what Victor meant. “Sure. There are things I can talk to you about, and, naturally, things I can’t.”

“Understood,” said Victor. He drew heavily on his cigar, the smoke pouring from his lips as he spoke. “Let me just say that I find the list of defendants named in your lawsuit to be incomplete. Have you thought about suing the Cuban government?”

From another lawyer, the question might have taken Jack by surprise. But not from Victor. His uncle had been killed in the 1961 Bay of Pigs invasion, which stood as the worst blunder of the Kennedy administration. Not a single Democrat had earned Victor’s support since.

“The consortium operated under a production-sharing agreement with the state-owned oil company,” said Jack, “Cubapetróleo. So, yeah, I did think about naming Cupet. But what’s the point? Cuba never responds to any lawsuits filed in U.S. courts, and actually collecting a judgment against a Cuban sovereign entity is pie in the sky.”

Victor smiled thinly. “You have much to learn.”

Cortinas jumped into the conversation. “Victor was involved in the Brothers to the Rescue wrongful death lawsuits in the 1990s.”

“This was back when your father was governor,” said Victor. “You were probably still in law school.”

“I was in jail,” said Theo.

Jack kicked him in the ankle. “I remember Brothers to the Rescue,” said Jack. “They flew private planes out of Miami to look for rafters who might be crossing the Florida Straits.”

“Exactly,” said Victor, his expression turning very serious. “Until the twenty-fourth of February 1996. That’s when a Cuban Air Force MiG shot down two little Cessna 337s flown by the Brothers. One was flying nine nautical miles outside Cuban territorial airspace, and the other was ten miles out. Four men from Miami were killed. Two were very young men in their twenties. Two others married with kids. A lot of people told me don’t waste your time suing the Republic of Cuba. Well, guess what?
Not
suing would have been a 187 million-dollar mistake.”

Theo coughed on his cigar. “That’s a lot of
moneda nacional.
”

“We were able to recover about half the judgment,” said Victor.

“I don’t see how you got anywhere near that much,” said Jack. “My understanding is that most judgments against Cuba go uncollected.”

“Most,” said Victor. “But in the early sixties, the U.S. government froze Cuban assets worth hundreds of millions of dollars. We were able to tap into that fund.”

“I can see that in the case of a Cuban MiG shooting Cessnas out of the sky,” said Jack. “But an oil rig disaster is something else entirely.”

“Not as I see it,” said Victor. “Under the Anti-Terrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act of 1996, you have to prove four things. First, the foreign state is a ‘state sponsor of terrorism’ as designated by the U.S. State Department. Cuba is so designated.”

Theo did a double take. “Cuba is a designated state sponsor of terrorism?”

“Four countries are on the list,” said Victor. “Iran, Syria, Sudan, and Cuba.”

“I had no idea,” said Theo. “Did you know that, Jack?”

“Honestly, I did not.”

Victor exchanged a quick glance with Cortinas, then shook his head. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but what the hell kind of Cuban are you, Jack?”

Theo reached for the ashtray, flicking his ashes. “I think we’ve already established that, counselor.”

Jack kicked him again.

Victor continued. “The second thing you’d have to prove is that Rafael’s injury took place outside the territorial boundaries of the Cuban state. I think we win on this, since the rig was beyond twelve miles of the Cuban shore. Third, the plaintiff has to be a U.S. national, which Bianca is. We might have some arguments over the fact that Rafael was a Cuban national, but I still think we win in a wrongful death action brought by Bianca.”

“What’s the fourth element?” asked Jack.

“This is where things get interesting,” said Victor. “Basically, we have to prove that the Cuban government murdered Rafael.”

“Murdered him?”

“‘Unjustified killing’ is the statutory language. Manslaughter would probably cut it. But not mere negligence.”

Jack shifted in his chair, as if a straighter spine might help make his point. “I don’t mean to sound glib, but I’ll be lucky to prove that the oil companies were negligent. I can’t prove the Cuban government murdered Rafael. There’s no evidence of that. I don’t even have colorable
theory
.”

“I do,” said Victor. “Have you read carefully the statement the Cuban government issued when it sent warships to seal off the spill site and refused any assistance from the United States?”

“I’ve seen the English translation.”

“You don’t read Spanish?”

“Well, you know . . . menus and such are easy. A speech would be tough.”

Theo leaned back in his chair, out of Jack’s peripheral vision. “
Not really Cuban
,” he whispered to the other men.

Jack didn’t even bother kicking him this time.

Victor continued. “The warning issued to the United States was filled with accusations that the relief operation is really a hostile invasion driven by right-wing elements in Miami, that the Revolutionary Government cannot tolerate a flagrant violation of its frontiers or provocative acts against its people, and that the Cuban military will take all necessary action to prevent intruders from committing acts of terrorism and piracy.”

“I think we all hope they back off from that,” said Jack.

“Here’s my point,” said Victor. “The language in this latest warning is taken almost verbatim from the statement issued by the Ministry of Justice after the Brothers to the Rescue planes were shot down in ’96.”

Jack considered Victor’s point. “So from the Cuban government’s standpoint, the U.S. relief efforts are every bit the threat to national sovereignty that the Brothers to the Rescue flights were. Is that what you’re saying?”

Victor struck a match and gave his cigar a booster light. “I’m saying much more than that. To me, this proves that the entire Scarborough 8 disaster was a well-choreographed plan by the Cuban government.”

“The Cuban government is playing politics with the cleanup efforts,” said Jack. “Is that your point?”

“No. Let me be clear. This is the biggest threat Cuba has presented to the United States since the Cuban Missile Crisis. That does not happen by accident. My point is that the Cuban government
caused
the explosion on the rig.”

Jack paused, considering his response. “I mean no disrespect, and, without question, there has been political maneuvering on both sides since the explosion. But the idea that Cuba sent the Scarborough 8 into the Florida Straits intending to blow it up? You lost me there.”

“You underestimate the Revolutionary Government.”

“Oil is Cuba’s ticket to economic independence. I’ve been reading up on this. The average Cuban makes twenty bucks a month. Every dollar matters in Cuba, and the government is planning to spend nine billion of them to become a serious player in the petroleum market. They wouldn’t blow up the only shovel that can bring up the oil. Scarborough 8 was the
only
ultradeep-water rig in the world that was built to comply with the U.S. trade embargo.”

“My point exactly,” said Victor. “Cuba
would
blow up that rig if they could use the threat of environmental disaster to force the U.S. to end the embargo. That’s the quid pro quo on the table: lift the embargo, and the U.S. can stop the spill at its source.”

“The White House can’t just lift the embargo. It’s not an executive order. It takes an act of Congress to repeal it.”

“And this oil disaster is exactly what the Cuban government needs to bring the U.S. Congress to its knees.”

“A TV reporter raised that very point with my father. My dad’s pretty plugged in politically. Trust me: it’s just a rumor.”

“It’s
not
a rumor!” he said, pounding his fist. “Cuba has been fighting to end the embargo for over fifty years. If blowing up the Scarborough 8 helps them do that, so be it. If the embargo ends, there will be dozens of deepwater rigs that can drill in Cuban waters.”

Jack didn’t respond.

The cigars were burning low. Victor crushed out his nub in the ashtray. “Open your eyes, Jack. That’s the politics of Big Oil—Cuban style. If you want to prove it in court, I’m more than happy to help.” Victor slid his business card across the table. “All you have to do is call me.”

Jack took his card.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, gentlemen,” said Victor.

The men rose and shook hands.

“I’ll see you out,” said Cortinas. He led the old lawyer away from the table and into the hallway, leaving Jack and Theo alone in the conference room.

“You gonna call him?” asked Theo.

“Nope.”

“So what
are
you going to do?” asked Theo.

“Whatever it takes to get Bianca as much money as I can, as fast as I can, from the oil consortium,” Jack said. “Before this spirals out of control. And before anybody else gets hurt.”

Chapter 35

T
he lower Keys stretched more east-west than north-south, so Jack and Theo left the oil behind them on the drive from Key West. Jack knew they’d reached Marathon when they passed an ambulance from the Turtle Hospital—literally, a hospital for turtles; it wasn’t just a name. The middle Keys also had a hospital for wild birds, and with an oil spill approaching, both facilities were preparing for environmental disaster. Jack was looking for pier number eight at Boot Key Harbor, which was due east of a capsized ship that Hurricane Georges had swept into the mangroves. He had to shade his eyes from the setting sun to see it.

“Ever had a settlement conference on a yacht before?” asked Theo.

They were crossing a gravel parking lot toward a long wooden pier at the west end of the marina. Their destination was one of the bigger boats at the deep end of the marina.

“Nope. Lots of ‘firsts’ in this case, starting with first client abducted.”

“You have a short memory, dude.”

Jack quickly conceded. “Well, then it has to be the first time my client and I have been abducted in the same case.”

“Aren’t you forgetting a little incident involving a TV weatherman, two prostitutes, and the mayor’s daughter at the Hotel Bambi on Biscayne Boulevard?”

Jack would have liked to forget. “How about this: first case where I was kidnapped and my client was abducted on different days by the same guy?”

They stepped onto the pier as Theo searched his memory. “I do believe that’s a first.”

Boot Key Harbor is the best protected anchorage in all of the Keys, with plenty of marinas and thatch-roofed joints to reprovision, like the Chiki Tiki Bar and Grill. For those unfazed by the U.S. trade embargo, it was generally regarded as the best place to wait out the weather for crossing to Cuba. For lawyers who wanted to talk settlement, it was “meeting halfway,” a rough midpoint between Key West, where Jack was staying, and downtown Miami, the oil consortium’s first choice. It also solved the logistical problem of roadblocks, which prevented all but cleanup crews and emergency vehicles from entering the Keys. Jack couldn’t leave the Keys with any assurance of getting back in, and by boat was the best way for the oil consortium’s lawyers to enter the Keys.