Paul Levine - Mortal Sin

Hank took an occasional look at the map, subtly changed directions two or three times, and kept flying. I looked at my watch. Noon already. We would never make it.

At one point, he seemed to be lost. We flew in a circle, then reversed field and did it the other way around. Finally, he tapped me on the shoulder and pointed wordlessly ahead. I squinted into the sun. It was a hardwood hammock like hundreds of others. He dipped the helicopter a little quicker than I thought was absolutely necessary and headed for a clearing on the beach.

I saw the truck when the sun glinted off its window. It was pulled halfway into a strand of mahogany trees, gleaming white as we drew closer. By the time we touched down, sending up swirls of sand, two men in white coveralls and rubberized boots were walking out of the woods toward us.

I was out of the copter first, ducking under the rotor, wincing against the noise of the engine. I remembered another chopper blade, and how it ended the life of Matsuo Yagamata and saved mine. One of the men, the larger of the two, carried a clipboard. The other had a pair of calipers in his right hand. Both were clean shaven, short-haired, and respectable-looking. Neither seemed alarmed or particularly surprised to see us. I was wearing my suit, carrying a briefcase, and doing my best to look like a working lawyer instead of a fleeing felon.

When the engine roar died, the larger man pointed to my briefcase. “Unless they Ye making ’em smaller than I remember, you’re not carrying a seismograph in there.”

“Afraid not,” I told him.

“Shee-it.” Texas dripped from his voice. “Twenty-four hours we’ve been waiting. Our graph’s deader than communism.” He studied me a moment. “So why’d they send you out here?”

I opened the briefcase and pulled out a file. “Which one of you is in charge?”

The other man stepped forward. Close up, he had a receding hairline and narrow shoulders, the slightly nerdy look of the grad student who never escaped from the lab or library. I had seen him before, climbing out of the cab of the truck on a narrow dirt road. “I am,” he said.

I looked at my file as if something important were there. “Let’s see, you’re Mr…”

“Wakefield. Tucker Wakefield.”

“Yes, of course.” I pulled out a pen and took the subpoena that had been issued two hours earlier in the name of John Doe, Geologist. I wrote in “Tucker Wakefield.”

“You a geologist?”

“Of course. What else would I-”

I handed him the subpoena.

“What’s this?”

The larger man looked over his shoulder and scowled. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

I ignored him and put on my formal, grown-up voice. “Mr. Wakefield, I’m taking your deposition this afternoon at two o’clock in Belle Glade. Your testimony is needed in the lawsuit of Granny Lassiter-that is, Jane Lassiter-versus Environmental Systems, Inc., et al. We’ll take you there.” I pointed toward the helicopter. “Now, if you’ll just climb aboard.”

Wakefield took a step backward. “I’ll have to consult with the company lawyers, of course. And a deposition today is just out of the question. I’ve been deposed many times as an expert witness, and I’ve always been provided ample notice. Really, this is quite unprecedented…”

The big guy glared at me. “This is bullshit!”

Wakefield thumbed quickly through the lawsuit, stopping at the signature block on the last page. “I assume you’re Mr. Lassiter.”

“Guilty,” I said.

“According to this, your office is in Miami. Why would you want to take my testimony in Belle Glade?”

“I like an audience when I perform.”

That puzzled him. Meanwhile, the big guy started walking toward their truck. “I’m gonna radio in, find out what the fuck’s going on.”

“Hold on, cowboy.” It was Hank Scourby, and he pointed a. 44 Magnum in the general direction of the big guy’s kneecaps. “I blow a hole in your leg, you’ll bleed to death before we get to the hospital.”

I’ve had aggressive process servers before, but this was ridiculous. “Hey, Hank, let me handle this, okay?”

“You’re not doing so well, Jake.” He turned toward Wakefield. “Okay, egghead, we’re going for a ride. Your pal can stay here, but let me have a look at that radio first. I think it may need a new part.”

Wakefield did as he was told, and Hank Scourby added two pieces of steel-jacketed lead to the radio.

It was 1:15. We flew north and then east, and soon the saw grass gave way to sugarcane. Endless fields of brown stalks, poking toward the sky. Below us, huge mechanical harvesters rolled between rows of cane, invisible blades chopping the stalks. In other fields, cutters from Jamaica, bent at the waist, swung machetes in a rhythmic motion, doing the same job. On the horizon, black smoke rose from other fields as the leaves were burned away prior to harvesting. A huge mill on the edge of the fields exhaled white puffs of steam into the blue sky.

Over the noise of the engine, Tucker Wakefield asked me the subject matter of his testimony.

The truth, I told him. Just tell the board what you’re doing out there.

He shrugged as if to say, no big deal.

Maybe he was right. Maybe no one would care. It might even be humorous to them, the dog-and-pony show I was planning. Maybe they knew the truth and didn’t give a damn. As I listened to the chucka-chucka of the rotor, I closed my eyes, yawned, and envisioned it. The truth spilling out in front of the board, and Nicky Florio guffawing at me. That’s your case, Lassiter? You think you can stop Nicky Florio with that? Then the commissioners, their pockets bursting with De La Torre’s cash, would cackle with laughter. After a town and a casino, what’s one more surprise? The only one not smiling would be Abe Socolow as he fastened the cuffs on me.

I kept looking at my watch.

Five minutes before two o’clock. We would be late. But there would be preliminary matters. Other voices to be heard. Below us the fields disappeared, and the town crept into view.

It took several more minutes to find the school. We made two passes over the football field; then, checking for power lines, Hank Scourby put the copter down on the asphalt parking lot behind the gym.

Two Micanopy tribal policemen leaned against their car, watching us, as the rotors whined to a halt and we got out. Friends or foes, I didn’t know which. I waved to them, as if we were pals, and one waved back. Maybe they figured we were the environmental boys from Tallahassee. After a moment, they turned back and resumed talking. I didn’t feel like towing Tucker Wakefield past them, so we slipped around the building to a side entrance, where there was another Micanopy police car with its distinctive emblem of alligator, saw grass, and colorful ceremonial jacket. Two more cops loitered there, chatting with a rangy man in sunglasses who wore jeans and a blue windbreaker with FLORIO ENTERPRISES printed on the back.

What were the cops doing here? I his wasn’t Micanopy territory. It was a small town practically owned by sugarcane baron Carlos de La Torre. Why did I think the tribal police had become Nicky Florio’s private security force?

We hustled Wakefield past the cops and into the side door that led to a locker room. Signs were plastered on the walls for the young athletes, THE FOURTH QUARTER IS OURS, WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GET GOING.

We took a stairwell to a balcony over the gym, home of the Fighting Sugarcanes, according to a banner. We crossed the empty balcony and took another set of stairs down to the gym floor, working our way to the front row of a section of bleachers pulled down for the hearing.

“Phosphorus and mercury levels are already appalling,” a voice said through an amplified sound system.