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.
Half a dozen tables, doubtless borrowed from the cafeteria, were drawn together at half-court. The chairman of the board sat in the middle, two fellow commissioners on each side. A stenographer took notes. The suits sat at another table, three board lawyers, an assistant attorney general, and Abe Socolow.
Nicky Florio and Carlos de La Torre were at their own table. Guillermo Diaz sat behind Florio, covering his back, as a good bodyguard should. The model of the Cypress Estates project-museum, casino, and all-was placed on a platform in front of the board. There were perhaps three hundred spectators scattered throughout the bleachers.
To one side was a press table. I recognized a couple of the reporters. Britt Montero was there from the Miami Daily News. We were supposed to go out for stone crabs once, but she stood me up for a three-alarm fire. Two television reporters were lounging around a table of sodas and coffee. Photographers from both newspapers and television sat cross-legged on the floor.
“When will this board ever stop the dredging and draining?” Hunched over a microphone at a lectern was a tall, thin man with a white mustache and a creased face. He wore muddy hiking boots, khaki pants, and a bush jacket and looked close to eighty. Harrison Baker, founder of the Everglades Society. He had briefly testified at the Tupton trial.
“First a town. Now a casino! What next?”
I knew the answer, but it wasn’t my turn.
“We request a postponement of all board action until studies can be made,” Baker said. “Why, we don’t even know if it’s legal.”
“Hold on, Harrison. The state attorney’s here on that point.” Clyde Thornton, the board chairman, was a pudgy, balding, ruddy-faced retired tomato grower from Sarasota. He wore a beige suit with shoulder piping and a string tie.
Abe Socolow got to his feet and cleared his throat. “In the state’s opinion, the proposal of Florio Enterprises, as endorsed by the Micanopy Tribal Council, conforms to the provisions of the Indian Regulatory Gaming Act of 1988,” Socolow said, in perfect legalese.
“So there you have it,” Thornton said triumphantly, playing to the audience, most of whom looked like farmers, some the gentleman-conglomerate variety. “The only amendment to the proposal is the addition of gambling to what was already a substantial commercial and residential development. Frankly, I cannot see a practical difference.”
“Then you’re blind as a bat,” Baker muttered, half to himself.
“You’ve made your point,” Thornton said, his eyes narrowing. “But we have also heard from the Micanopy tribe and from National Sugar, both of which endorse the plan. I’m afraid your group, as usual, stands alone. Now, unless you have anything new to add-”
“It’s the same damn thing!” Baker shouted. “You boot-licking toadies would pave over Take Okeechobee if the sugar industry wanted a parking lot.”
“That’s it!” Thornton hit a switch, and Harrison Baker’s mike went dead. As if on cue, two burly men in Florio Enterprises windbreakers materialized from behind the bleachers. In a moment, they had gathered up the old man, one grabbing each arm, and were politely but firmly taking him back to his seat.
I had been right. ‘This was Nicky Florio’s show.
Thornton scanned the audience. “That concludes the formal agenda. Before we vote on the proposal, is there anyone in the gallery who wishes to address these issues?”
No one stood up.
Except me.
A split second later, Tucker Wakefield popped off the bleachers, nudged by Hank Scourby’s elbow.
“May it please the board, my name is Jacob Lassiter, and I have a witness to present.” I approached the lectern, Wakefield reluctantly following.
Nicky Florio wheeled, half rising from his chair, eyes aflame. His face flashed through a series of emotions, first surprise, then volcanic anger, and finally zealous determination. “Hold on! This man is a disbarred lawyer and a lunatic.”
“I’m not disbarred,” I said in my own semi-defense.
Thornton nodded deferentially’ toward Florio, consulted with the commissioner on his left, a man with what appeared to be a cancerous lesion on his nose, and turned back to me. “Under our rules, anyone can speak. Let’s get on with it, Mr. Lassiter, and please be brief.”
I nodded my thanks and guided Tucker Wakefield to a chair that doubled as a witness stand. I ran through his credentials, a bachelor’s degree in petroleum engineering from the University of Texas and a master’s degree from the Colorado School of Mines.
Behind me, I heard a chair scraping the gymnasium floor. I sneaked a peek at Guillermo Diaz backing away from the table.
“How are you employed?” I asked.
“I’m a geologist for Environmental Systems, Inc., of Houston.”
“What are you doing in Florida?”
“Seismic tests.”
“How do you perform these tests?”
“We set off small dynamite explosions to send shock waves into the earth. Our equipment-when it’s working-records the pattern of sound waves and helps us to determine what structures exist underground.”
I watched Diaz take quick, choppy steps toward the side exit, then disappear through the door.
“And why do you do this?”
“It’s my job.” ‘
Thornton snickered into the microphone.
“I understand that,” I said. “What is the purpose of seismic tests?”
“To find oil, of course.”
