Authors: R. J. Blacks
I place the report and cover letter in a
US Postal Service Priority Envelope and hand it to the postman when he drops
off the mail. And then I wait. A week goes by, another week, and then a third
week, and nothing, no email, no call, no letter, absolutely no acknowledgement
they even received my inquiry. Realistically, I didn’t expect anything for at
least a month so I’m not terribly concerned and keep myself busy with my day
job, and on my time off, helping around the restaurant.
A few days later, when I
return in the afternoon, the head waitress approaches me and says a guy was
asking about me.
“What was his name,” I ask.
“The one that was here
before, that Damon guy.”
“Damon was here?”
“Yes, it looked like him.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him you didn’t work
here anymore.”
“Thank goodness you didn’t
tell him where I worked.”
“Uh-oh.”
“What do you mean, ‘Uh-oh’?”
“I’m sorry... I accidently
mentioned you worked at some environmental company.”
“What did you say that for?”
I say in a panic.
“He kept pressing me for
answers. But don’t worry, I didn’t tell him the name.”
“How many ‘environmental’
companies do you think are around here?”
“I don’t know. A couple?”
“Three. And when he figures
out I don’t work at the other two, he’ll know which one, won’t he?”
“I’m sorry. I goofed up.”
“It’s okay, not your fault. I
know how persuasive he gets.”
“If he comes back I’ll tell
him I made a mistake?”
“No, forget it. I’m calling
the police.”
I dial the number for the State
Police barracks and ask for Detective John Bolt.
“Yes, Indigo, what can I do
for you?”
“He’s here.”
“Who’s here? Oh, you mean
that Damon character, the one that’s been harassing you?
“He’s been asking about me at
the restaurant.”
“Did he threaten anyone?”
“No, not yet.”
“Okay, just lie low. Keep the
disguise. I’ll get a trouper on it.”
“You’ll let me know if you
pick him up?”
“Yes, of course. Check back
in a week.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, and
then hang up the phone.
Knowing he’s in the area
gives me the creeps and I redouble my efforts to remain concealed. I make
myself inconspicuous by wearing my Native American outfit at all times, avoid
walking alone, and place the gun at my lap whenever I drive anywhere. I know
it’s illegal to drive with a loaded gun, but if I get stopped, I’ll just tell
the officer I’m under the protection of Detective Bolt and maybe that will get
me off. But maybe not. Even though, I have to take the chance.
But the scariest part is
leaving my job at Semi-Environmental alone at noon. The area is desolate, not a
house or business for miles, and it would be easy to ambush someone without
leaving a trace. I ask Fargo if he’ll take me to the shooting range for
practice and he gladly complies. We spend the afternoon shooting rounds at targets
from seven to fifteen yards, until I can hit the bull’s-eye consistently, and
then he treats me to dinner at a restaurant on the rez that is off-limits to
non-Indians.
A week later, Will hands me a
letter addressed to a Ms. Indigo Wells and my eyes are immediately drawn to a
finely embossed image of the earth in the upper left corner with the words,
“Global World Industries” next to it.
“What the frig do they want?”
I say to myself, contemplating the possibility of legal action against me, and
then rip open the envelope, my heart pounding in anxiety. I unfold the letter,
hold it at reading distance, and can’t help but be impressed by the fine
parchment stationary and the elegant logo and heading at the top of the page
which obviously was obtained at great expense. How unfortunate it’s from a
company I’ve grown to hate. I scan the letter and can’t believe what I’m
seeing.
“Will, listen to this,” I
say, and begin reading:
“Dear Ms. Wells,
It has come to our attention, from our colleagues
and associates at various government regulatory agencies, you have submitted
data which appears to indicate “Farm-eXia” may be in conflict with the Water
Quality Act of 1987.
Naturally, as a responsible multinational
corporation with worldwide revenues of over $130 Billion, we are concerned
about this issue.
Therefore, we are proposing a joint
venture, with you as an independent contractor, to investigate these variances
and alleviate your concerns.
We are prepared to offer you the
substantial sum of $10,000 per month for a period of three years with the
conviction a mutually acceptable solution can be found in due course.
If this is acceptable, please return the
enclosed contract at your earliest convenience. The offer expires 15 days from
the postmark.”
“Do you believe it? They want
to partner with me. I get to clean up the environment and get paid for it. $120,000
a year for three years, $360,000 total.”
“Sounds too good to be true,”
Will says.
“Maybe they have a
conscience, want to clean up their act.”
“Who’s signature is at the
bottom?”
“Ellis Grimes, Special
Council.”
“A lawyer no doubt. Watch it.
What they say and what they mean can be two sides of a coin.”
“Oh Will, you’re such a
skeptic.”
“Hey, I’ve been around the
block a few times and seen a few things, some not good.”
“I’ll get Doug’s opinion.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
I rush over to
Semi-Environmental and show the letter to Doug.
“You know, I’m far from an
expert in contracts,” he says. “You need a lawyer to look at this.”
“I don’t know any lawyers.”
“I know someone. He’s well
versed in environmental law. Shall I call him?”
“Yeah, sure... I guess.”
Doug picks up the phone and
starts dialing. I wander out of earshot, thinking about all the wonderful
things I could do with $360,000. Of course, it would be somewhat reduced by
taxes, but even though, it would be a life-changing event for me, someone whose
used to living on a budget and getting my clothes from thrift shops. Doug hangs
up the phone and turns to me.
“He’ll be at his boat for the
next couple of hours. We can make it before dark if we leave now.”
“Is this outfit okay? Or
should I change?” I ask.
“Go as you are. We’ve been
friends a long time. He’s well aware of Native American culture.”
Doug leads me to his Ford
Ranger and I scramble into the passenger seat. He races through pasture land
out to the main road and then turns on to Florida Highway 40 going east.
“Where does he keep the
boat?”
“Daytona Marina. Shouldn’t
take but an hour to get there.”
The road is desolate, cutting
through state forest and pasture land with few vehicles in sight, and Doug
maintains a constant seventy-five.
“Who is this guy?”
“He goes by the name,
‘Berkeley Janson the third, Esquire’. Always adds ‘esquire’ to the end of his
name.”
“I assume there’s a Berkeley
Janson the first and Berkeley Janson the second?”
“His grandfather and father.
Boston aristocrats. Comes from a long line of judges and lawyers.”
“Isn’t Florida a little out
of his element?”
“Actually, there’s an
interesting story about that. Seems he did all the right things: Harvard, Juris
Doctor, Summa Cum Laude, engaged to a Morgan.”
“A Morgan?”
“Daphine Morgan, beautiful
girl, heiress to the vast J. P. Morgan estate. Spent her days grooming race
horses and working on her tennis.”
“So what happened?”
“He gets a job at one of the
top Boston law firms pulling in a half-million in salary, and then, out of the
blue, gets this diagnosis, a rare form of cancer. They give him only six months
telling him it’s incurable so there’s no point in even trying. It was a top
university hospital, with the best doctors; he had no reason to question the
diagnosis. So he calls off the engagement, sells his assets, and comes to
Florida to party like there’s no tomorrow, because in his mind, there wasn’t.
Six months later he’s still partying and feeling pretty good so he gets checked
out. The doctors had made a mistake. You can guess how much he made on that
settlement. Basically, he was set for life.”
“So why didn’t he go back to Boston,
get back with Daphine?”
“She had a suitor. But more
importantly, his old routine had become too stodgy, too stifling, he told me.
He was addicted to the Florida lifestyle. Couldn’t see it any other way.”
“And where did you meet him?”
“He called me. After a few
years of doing much of nothing, he got bored, and felt like he needed to put
his education to work. He started a small legal practice and when the
big-money agri-businesses found out he was a Harvard lawyer, he became their
man. I had a small business at the time, checking the pH of soil samples for
local growers, and he was having trouble finding a local lab that had the right
certifications to analyze runoff, to make sure it complied with EPA
regulations. He made me an offer and it’s been good for both of us. We’ve been
doing this for close to twenty years now.”
“Is he married?”
“I guess you could say he’s a
confirmed bachelor. Goes with a girl for a year or two, and then moves on. I
don’t think he’s seeing anyone right now.”
Doug turns onto Route 1 south
and we pass a sign that tells us Daytona is only six miles down the road.
“You know, I was thinking; if
this guy’s working for big-agriculture... wouldn’t that be a conflict of
interest?”
“He’s semi-retired now,
nothing to gain or lose. Only takes cases that interest him. All the money I
made him, he owes me one anyway.”
We pull into the marina
parking lot and then Doug leads me to a wooden gangway with boats of all types
on each side. The gangway is only a foot and a half wide and has no handrails
so it wouldn’t take much to get distracted and walk off the side into the
water. We approach an elegant white sailboat with a blue stripe down the side,
a huge mast, and several long thin windows, and then Doug calls out: “Berkeley,
you there?”
A man with a deep tan, white
shorts, and a blue golf shirt, comes out the rear hatch, sees us, and then
waves us over. He appears to be about fifty-five from the patches of gray on
his neatly-styled hair. I follow Doug along an even narrower walkway to the
back end of the boat. I don’t know anything about yachts, in fact, this is the
closest I’ve ever been to one, but as we walk by, I’m impressed by the quality
and excellence of the style. A nameplate affixed to the side reads, ‘Beneteau
Oceanis 38’ which I imagine must be a really excellent brand since this guy
appears to have very deep pockets. Doug jumps on board and I do the same.
“And to whom do I have the
pleasure?” he asks, with a strong New England accent.
“Indigo Wells.”
“Welcome aboard. I’m Berkeley
Janson the third,” and then offers his hand in an act of friendship. I shake
his hand, and I notice him gazing at my clothes.
“Are you related to Doug?”
“Actually, I’m not really
Native American,” I say, and then explain to him the whole story about how I’m just
wearing this outfit as a disguise, to avoid being stalked by Damon.
“Well, it appears to be
working,” he says. “It fooled me.”
“Thanks,” I respond.
He redirects our attention to
the boat.
“Please, come inside,” he says,
and then slips through the hatch into the lower parts of the yacht.
“He didn’t say ‘esquire’,” I
whisper to Doug.
“You must have impressed him
so much he forgot.”
I make a face in disbelief,
and then, follow Doug through the hatch and down into the boat. The inside is
spacious and clean and finished in hand-rubbed teak with a large-screen TV at
one end. Handel’s “Water Music” is playing in the background and Berkeley is already
filling three wine glasses with a Pinot Noir. He sets the half-empty bottle on
the table and then opens a box of crackers, scattering a dozen on a silver
serving tray next to the wine bottle. I reach out to take one of the crackers,
but he blocks me with his hand.
“Just a moment,” he says.
I snap my hand back and watch
him fill a crystal bowl with crushed ice, reach into a compact refrigerator,
and then place an opened tin of Osetra Caviar in the center of the crushed ice.
He surrounds the bowl with three ornately decorated plates and then places a
mother-of-pearl spoon in the center of each one.