I shot a look at Nicky Florio. He shook his head and looked back over his shoulder. Diaz emerged from the side door, two Micanopy policemen with him, two men in the blue windbreakers a step behind.
“Have you found oil?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Before Wakefield could answer, Thornton interrupted. “Mr. Lassiter, what’s the point of this? The oil companies have held leases in the Everglades for years, but there’s a state and federal ban on drilling. So that’s got nothing to do with our proceedings. Now, if you have anything to say about-”
“Your ruling today is all about drilling for oil,” I said emphatically. “You just don’t know it yet.” There was a stirring at the press table. One of the television cameras came on, its light forcing me to squint. Another camera focused on Nicky Florio. “Now, if I may proceed.”
Thornton shrugged. I caught sight of Hank Scourby being escorted toward the locker room door by a tribal policeman with two of the men in blue windbreakers right behind.
“Where did you discover oil?” I asked.
At the front exit, several more Micanopy police appeared. I scanned the gym, waiting for the answer. The rangy man in sunglasses from outside was climbing the stairs to the balcony. He carried a long canvas bag. It contained either a fishing pole or a rifle.
“Well, several places, really,” Tucker Wakefield said. “There’s the Sunniland trend in the southwestern part of the state. It’s about twelve thousand feet deep and runs in a line from Collier up into Lee and Hendry counties. Historically, it may have been-”
“But that’s not where you’ve been testing lately, is it?” I wanted to speed him up.
“No, we’ve been in the Big Cypress Swamp.”
“Which is in the Everglades considerably east of the earlier finds.”
“Yes.”
“And did you locate…?”
Suddenly, I felt a presence next to me. I half turned. Guillermo Diaz was on his tippy-toes, whispering in my ear. “You stop now, you live. Keep going, you die.” He shrank back to the table, behind Nicky Florio, whose eyes burned with hate as he glared at me.
I stared back, gaping at him. Not here. He wouldn’t try it here. Nicky Florio was a killer, but not crazy. Or was he?
“Mr. Lassiter,” Thornton prompted me.
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.
