“That seems very unfair to the owner.”
“How sure are you that someone might get contaminated?”
“Let’s say someone dies from it. Then what?”
“I know this much: Intentional mishandling that results in an injury or death can result in prison time, and some fines that’d scare even Ross Perot. I think your friend should talk to a lawyer. You can refer him to me.”
“I’ll do that,” Jules said, “but tell me this, Willis. What if it was dumped out of our court’s jurisdiction?”
“Where?”
“Say in Mexico. And let’s say it’s a Mexican citizen who gets hurt or dies. Does my guy still have to worry?”
“This is getting wildly speculative.”
“Well, there’s some evidence that his load could’ve gone to Mexico for illegal dumping.”
“I’ll tell you this as a practical matter, Jules,” the lawyer said. “If the NAFTA agreement sails through the Congress of the United States under our sure-to-be-elected President Clinton and our green-as-grass environmentalist, Vice President Gore, I would not wanna be in your friend’s shoes. Not if a Mexican citizen is injured by our hazardous waste that’s been illegally dumped in their country.”
“I see what you mean,” Jules said.
The yacht had proceeded as far south as The Castle, a quixotic barge anchored in the shallows off Chula Vista. The barge had been constructed from surplus U.S. Navy landing crafts in the form of a floating castle with turrets at all four corners. The barge had served as a party-boat in good times and as a warehouse in bad times. Tied to one end of The Castle was a floating dinghy-dock littered with marine trash and guano, the gulls of San Diego Harbor being The Castle’s primary users.
Jules looked at The Castle and felt a sudden chill. In its abandoned state it had taken on the look of a prison. Mini-Alcatraz!
Willis turned the Peligrosa around and headed to Glorietta Bay, throttling back, barely causing a ripple when he took the boat inside, passing the Naval Amphibious Base and pointing toward the Coronado Yacht Club.
Beyond the little club was the Hotel del Coronado, the Victorian fantasy resort opened in 1888 on one of the loveliest white sand beaches in all of California. The hotel now stood like a proud but seedy old aristocrat surviving on money from package tours, but in bygone glory days a dozen U.S. presidents had stopped there. Legend had it that in 1920 the-man-who-would-be-king was mesmerized there by a naval officer’s wife whom he later courted and won, declaring to the world that he was renouncing the crown for the woman he loved. Perhaps the Del’s greatest glory in more recent years was that it represented the Palm Beach resort in the film Some Like It Hot.
While gazing at the observation tower on the very top of the old hotel, Willis Ross said, “With all the hell being raised over not having adequate safeguards for us from their pollution, can you imagine the political outcry if it turned out that a Mexican citizen died because of the criminal acts of U.S. citizens? I think the D.A. or the U.S. attorney, or both, would file big-time charges against your friend.”
“I see,” Jules said. “Well, this is all hypothetical. Nobody knows yet if an illegal dumping really occurred, or if anyone suffered as a result.”
The lawyer, who was used to friends offering all sorts of “hypotheticals” about dilemmas that might occur, took a business card from his wallet and looked Jules squarely in the eye. “Give him my name and phone number,” Willis Ross said. “Your friend needs representation, my friend.”
An accented female telephone voice said, “Mees Salter? Ees thees Mees Salter?”
“Yes, this is Nell Salter.” Then the voice said something in Spanish and Nell heard a familiar male voice on the line.
“This is Doctor Velásquez, Ms. Salter,” he said.
“Yes, Doctor, do you have news for me?”
“I have,” he said. “We are certain that our patients were exposed to something very much like Guthion. And we have been able to talk to the younger boy, Luis Zúniga, age nine years.”
“Good!” Nell said. “Then you know how it happened?”
“Yes, they found the drums on the ground behind a truck on a dirt road in Colonia Libertad. That is a very poor colonia by The Soccer Field.”
“Yes?”
“The boys accidentally overturned the drum when they were prying it open and they were both soaked with the liquid. The older boy, Jaime Cisneros, age ten, had a history of asthma, so the material had a devastating effect on him.”
“Is he still in a coma?”
“I am sorry to say that he died last evening just before midnight. He did not emerge from the coma.”
“Oh, Christ!” Nell said.
“We expect Luis Zúniga to recover. He is a strong little boy.”
“Christ!”
“Yes, I am afraid that too many of the children in the poor colonias do not survive to become adults.”
“About the drums of hazardous waste, have you …”
“The authorities were alerted, and I have personally been advised that the drums are no longer where the boys found them, although there is evidence of the spill.”
“Can we assume that the empty drums’re being used by the local people?”
“Of course,” Doctor Velásquez said. “Steel drums have many uses.”
“Even drums with a skull and crossbones painted on the side?”
“These people, Ms. Salter, face far greater dangers than that in their everyday lives. That is what they would say.”
“I hope I can find out if anyone besides the dead truck thief had a hand in this,” Nell said.
“I hope so,” he said. “Good luck.”
“If I do I promise I’ll try to have him prosecuted for causing the death of that child.”
The line was quiet for a moment, then Doctor Velásquez said, “I do not want to sound cynical, but down here we do not believe that the American courts would care that much about a dead child. A dead Mexican child.”
“If someone else was involved I’ll get him into court. I swear.”
“Yes, that is a good thought to keep,” said Doctor Velasquez.
After hanging up the phone, Nell stared at her copy of the police report detailing the truck theft. Then she called Fin and told him that now she intended to take this investigation very seriously.
That afternoon, while Jules Temple was on his booze cruise in San Diego Harbor, Abel Durazo was licking the ear of the pregnant secretary at Green Earth Hauling and Disposal.
“Stop that!” she said, but didn’t pull away.
“Okay, Mary,” Abel said. “Where else can I leeck?”
“You little brat!” she said. “You’re terrible!”
“We got time,” he said. “One more months, then no more to make love. But we okay for now.” He reached down and patted her belly.
“You really are terrible.” She smiled when he nuzzled and kissed her neck.
“I need to make call to T.J.,” he said. “Okay?”
“You’re lucky Mister Temple doesn’t check the phone bills,” she said. “Or maybe I’m the lucky one. He’d fire me for all your toll calls.”
“One more. Please?”
Mary was a plain dumpling even before the pregnancy, and she’d never been able to resist this handsome young hauler who might well be the father of her baby, for all she knew.
“Oh, all right,” she said, “but hurry up. Mister Temple might come back.”
Mary resumed her bookkeeping, not able to understand a single word of the angry telephone conversation that Abel had in Spanish with an employee of Soltero. But when he hung up he was smiling.
“I go to T.J. tomorrow,” he said. “Maybe breeng back some perfume.”
He slipped his hand inside the neckline of her maternity smock but withdrew it when there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs.