Paul Levine - Mortal Sin

I turned back to the witness.

“Did you find oil in the swamp?” I asked.

“Yes. We located substantial reserves in the Big Cypress. It’s really the South Florida Basin, which is a deep geologic bowl running under the Gulf of Mexico eastward toward-”

“Substantial?” I repeated, in case anyone missed it.

“Yes, a very rich oil field.”

There was a murmur in the crowd behind him. I unfolded my purloined map and showed it to the witness. “Could you point out the precise locations?”

He studied it for a moment, then pointed to several of the numbered islands.

“Now, Mr. Wakefield, I notice that every place you have indicated is located within the boundaries of the Micanopy Indian Reservation, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Did you perform any tests on land outside of tribal land?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Those weren’t the orders form the client.”

“And who is your client?”

I heard Nicky Florio cough. When I half-turned to look at him, he was watching the balcony.

“Florio Enterprises.”

“Why were your instructions so limited?”

“I don’t know.”

“But Mr. Florio knows.” I turned to Clyde Thornton, who was staring importantly at the witness, now that the TV lights were on. “Mr. Chairman, I wish to ask Nicholas Florio a few questions.”

Two television cameras shone on Nicky’s face, their lights harsh and hot. Florio squinted and scowled. “I don’t have to answer this maniac’s questions. He can’t compel it.”

“Mr. Florio’s right,” Thornton said. “This has been very interesting, but I fail to see the connection…”

I looked toward Socolow. He gave me a shrug. Like he wanted to help but couldn’t.

“May I leave now?” Wakefield asked.

“Yes, indeed,” Thornton proclaimed.

Tucker Wakefield headed for the exit. Two policemen blocking the door parted to let him pass. I didn’t think they would do the same for me. In a gymnasium with three hundred people, I felt desperately alone. I needed time. I was trying to prove a case with circumstantial evidence, and I couldn’t get all the circumstances into evidence. Besides, my fears had been right. ‘They didn’t care. They didn’t understand. So Nicky Florio wants to drill for oil. Big deal. So do the oil companies. The law didn’t allow it. But there was one difference in their situation and his. Nicky knew it, and so did I.

“Anything else, Mr. Lassiter?” Thornton asked impatiently.

Sure there was, but how could I prove it?

“The contract,” I said finally. “Has the Florio Enterprises contract with the tribe been presented to the board?”

“It’s here somewhere,” Thornton said. One of the clerks began rummaging through a cardboard box of exhibits. While he was looking, I scanned the audience. “I’d like to ask Harrison Baker a question or two.”

“Go ahead,” Thornton said. “But, Harrison, no more speeches.”

Hunched at the shoulders, the old man made his way back to the lectern.

“Mr. Baker, assuming that there were oil rigs in the Big Cypress and a spill took place-”

Florio was on his feet. “Damn it, this isn’t about oil! It’s about building a town and a casino. How much longer do we have to listen to this crap?”

Thornton’s tone was respectful. “Now, Mr. Florio, let the lawyer say his piece, and we’ll all go home.”

“In the event of a spill, where would the oil go?” I asked.

“Well, the water flow would carry it south.”

“To the national park?”

“Yes, and it would seep into the Biscayne Aquifer, which supplies South Florida with its drinking water. On the surface, it would reach Florida Bay and eventually the Gulf of Mexico. It would also pollute the sugarcane and vegetable fields.”

That made Carlos de La Torre fidget in his chair.

“What would the effects of a spill be?”

“Devastating to both plants and animals. The birds and the reptiles are dependent on a fragile ecosystem. The beaches, the slough, the estuaries, would be a killing ground. Millions of animals would die. The wood stork and the Florida panther would likely be rendered extinct.”

“And the effect to the farmers?”

“If polluted water is released to the fields, well, obviously, oil and sugarcane don’t mix.”

“And if it isn’t released?”

“Death by drought or death by oil, take your choice.”

Harrison Baker was no fan of the growers, and there seemed to be a perverse delight in his voice. I took a quick look at Carlos de La Torre. He had turned a dark crimson and was angrily poking an index finger at Nicky Florio, who was shaking his head.

From the bleachers, I heard a buzzing. The Everglades Society folks were nodding and speaking excitedly to each other. I’d convinced them, but that was preaching to the converted. What about the board? They knew oil was deadly, but there was still a missing link in the evidence. I still hadn’t proved Nicky could drill for it.

The adrenaline flow seemed to have kicked in for the somnolent reporters and photographers. They knew something was coming but didn’t know what. Neither did I. A still photographer was kneeling at my feet, clicking pictures. A radio interviewer stuck the microphone of a portable recorder under Harrison Baker’s nose. Two reporters were trying to get Florio’s attention, but he ignored them. He looked ready to kill someone, and I had a pretty solid idea of the number one candidate.

Thornton banged his gavel to quiet the audience. Finally, the clerk found the contract and handed it to me along with the resolution before the board. I let Baker head back to the bleachers and reviewed the contract I had seen once before in Henry Osceola’s office. But then I’d been looking for something entirely different. Now I turned to the paragraph entitled “Grant of Rights.”

“Mr. Chairman, under this lease, not only has the Micanopy tribe granted Florio Enterprises the right to build commercial property, it also granted “all earth and mineral rights of whatever kind, without any limitation whatsoever, and for no additional compensation to the lessor, for a period of years coextensive with the term of this lease.”

I let that sink in for a moment and caught sight of Guillermo Diaz staring at me, drawing a line with his index finger across his throat. I added, “This clause allows the extraction of all oil and gas from the leased land, and if there were gold, diamonds, and uranium, that, too. It doesn’t cost Florio a dime. The tribe doesn’t get a cent. The state of Florida and the feds don’t get a cent, but Florio gets the oil, at least he gets every drop that he doesn’t spill. The rest of us will get that.”

The audience was humming now. Again, Thornton pounded his gavel. I looked up into the darkened balcony. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I saw a shadow move. Was it a shadow or the barrel of a rifle propped on the metal railing in the front row? I walked right, and the shadow followed. I walked left, same thing. So I did the only sane thing. I moved in front of Florio’s table and crouched down on my haunches, putting him in the line of fire.

“Now let’s look at the resolution you’re about to vote on,” I said, thumbing through the copy, Thornton watching me curiously. “It calls for approval of the ninety-nine-year lease ‘in every respect.’ Just as the government can’t prohibit the Micanopy tribe from running gambling on its land, it can’t prohibit drilling for oil. The tribe seeks to assign that right, but it gave up its sovereignty to this board, at least where environmental matters are concerned. If it hadn’t, there’d be oil rigs in the Big Cypress right now. In other words, Mr. Chairman, what you’re voting on is whether Florio Enterprises can drill for oil in the Everglades.”