Boldt understood the malnutrition and dehydration then. ‘‘How much longer than expected?’’
‘‘Normal, ten days. This crossing, two times that.’’
‘‘The people in the container?’’
The boy shook his head.
‘‘I can detain you here in Seattle. The ship leaves without you.’’
‘‘There was nothing us people able to do. It was shut up.’’
‘‘Locked.’’
‘‘Yes, locked.’’
‘‘But you heard them?’’
The young man looked back suspiciously and shook his head again, a familiar response.
‘‘We have laws about lying to police.’’
‘‘We hear them. It bad, all the crying. Locked,’’ he confirmed. He crossed himself.
‘‘Food? Didn’t you feed them?’’
Again, the young man shook his head no.
‘‘Water?’’
Another.
‘‘You heard them,’’ Boldt pressed, remembering the shrill cries and haunting pounding. ‘‘And did nothing?’’
The man’s eyes glassed under a tightly knit brow exaggerated by his nearly shaved head. He mumbled, ‘‘The captain.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Boldt said, seizing upon this. ‘‘The captain.’’ The captain, who no doubt had taken the bribe; the captain, who had the connections to make the drop; the all-important captain. ‘‘You were paid extra because of this container.’’
The man appeared angry.
‘‘How many times before?’’
‘‘No. Not me. The others, yes. Not me. This, my first crossing with
‘‘No food, no water.’’ Boldt hesitated. ‘‘People died. Three people died. You understand?’’
A small nod, the man’s first.
‘‘Murder. You understand ‘murder’?’’
Terror-stricken eyes. Moist lips from a nervous tongue. A faint nod.
‘‘I arrest you,’’ Boldt said.
‘‘No!’’ the man protested.
‘‘The captain,’’ Boldt suggested.
A reluctance in the eyes. A stiffening of the spine. Then the slumped shoulders of resignation. The man mumbled, ‘‘The captain not open the container. He said, ‘The sea plays tricks on the ears.’ ’’
‘‘It’s blood money,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘You understand?’’
A nod.
‘‘Jail,’’ Boldt stated.
A nod. ‘‘The captain, he is not talk to you.’’
‘‘We’ll see about that.’’
‘‘He not talk. No. And I? I not talk against him. Jail?’’ he shrugged. ‘‘Better than to talk against this captain.’’
Boldt saw crew members ‘‘lost at sea.’’ He saw bodies caught in the ocean’s midnight swells fading into blackness, a hand crying from the waves. A crew kept loyal through fear. A silent captain. He saw a brick wall ahead of him.
‘‘The transfer during the storm. Something went wrong. Tell me about it.’’
‘‘Bad seas.’’
‘‘Your people lost the container?’’
‘‘Us people? No way! The others on the barge. That tug captain, has brain of a baby. Not able to handle barge. Their tower, not ours! They lost that piece, not us!’’
‘‘Their crane?’’ Boldt asked. ‘‘Is that what you mean by tower?’’ He gestured to indicate a crane and finally resorted to demonstrating with his pen.
The deckhand nodded vigorously. ‘‘Crane on barge.’’
‘‘Yes, of course.’’ Boldt wondered how many crane-and-barge combinations there were available to such people. He saw a narrow opportunity for investigation. ‘‘Something went wrong with the crane?’’
‘‘Not so much crane’s fault. Seas too high. Both captains are fools to make try. But we try.’’
‘‘The crane dropped the container?’’
‘‘No. No. Not crane. Guy lines snapped.’’ He moved his leathery hands in a circle as if shaping a sphere out of clay. ‘‘Container spin. Fall into water.’’
‘‘And your captain tried to recover them?’’
The man did not answer. He stared back through hollow eyes.
‘‘He did not try,’’ Boldt said.
The man sat stoically. The answers were not with him.
‘‘Go,’’ Boldt told him.
The man appeared stunned by the offer.
‘‘Go,’’ Boldt repeated, ‘‘before I change my mind.’’
The young man hurried from the room, pulling the steel door shut behind himself with the familiar hollow thunk of a jail cell door.
Boldt knew from earlier discussions with Port Authority that this investigation had become a question not only of jurisdiction but of whether any crime could be proven: The ship’s manifest was unlikely to list the dumped container, and it certainly would not list humans as its cargo. Even if it could be confirmed that the
Time, Boldt realized, remained his best weapon. If he threatened a delay, and thus prevented the ship from sailing, he might force the captain to cooperate. As backup, he had the INS’s authority to impound any vessels involved in the transportation of illegals. They did this regularly, as did the DEA.
He collected his things and sent for LaMoia. Time was everything.
Boldt was halfway into his explanation to Talmadge when the man passed responsibility, and the call, to deputy director Brian Coughlie, and Boldt had to start his explanation all over again. It seemed Cough-lie, in charge of field operations, investigations and processing the illegals, had more direct experience in impounding vessels, which was what Boldt hoped to set in motion.
‘‘You’d like a chat with the captain,’’ Coughlie summarized, ‘‘and you’re willing to play hardball to get it.’’
‘‘You have authority to impound or even confiscate the ship. You’ve done so before.’’
‘‘All the time. But I’d need a smoking gun for that.’’
‘‘How about the testimony of a crew member?’’
‘‘Good, but not great. The crew always holds some grudge against the captain. Anything else?’’
‘‘You could threaten him with impounding,’’ Boldt encouraged.
‘‘Sure I could,’’ Coughlie agreed.
‘‘And?’’
‘‘Maybe the captain is dumb enough to fall for it.’’
‘‘You don’t think so.’’
Coughlie said, ‘‘Listen, we could be more convincing if you guys picked him up on charges. That’s a kind of pressure we can’t apply. Some of them gamble, some of them whore, all of them drink. If this guy is facing criminal charges of some kind then there’s no harassment involved, no intimidation. International law gets sticky.’’ He hesitated on the other end, and when Boldt failed to respond, Coughlie said, ‘‘Listen, we used to cut deals with the
