“You didn’t hire her for her tact.”
He held up a video tape. I hadn’t seen one in some time and it caught me by surprise. The bulky black plastic, the reality of our isolation here in St. Thomas, and the low-technology all struck me at once as very out of place; a time-warp.
“You should watch it,” Savannah said in a whisper.
Kendal’s basement had a bulky old television on a press-wood entertainment center that looked left over from a college student’s dorm room. A dusty Emerson VCR with a blinking green display sat on the bottom shelf.
“I’ve thought about throwing this bulky electronic junk away so many times,” Savannah commented before shoving in the tape.
The screen blinked to life, a blue field, then some static. From off camera Kendal’s voice hummed through the speakers.
“I can only get it to record in black and white,” he said in an irritated tone.
“Fine, fine,” said an older woman’s voice, then Francine Bacon filled the frame. She sat in a cushioned chair. She wore no make-up, but the poor lighting was kind. “Let’s get this over with.”
Francine Bacon stated that she’d been working for years in secret to bring the sugar industry down to earth. It needed clearing up. Morals and ethics had long ago perished because of those connected to it who needed to maintain profit margins. She named the players and government officials from places all over the world, but mostly the local Caribbean officials who helped to perpetuate the growing and processing of cheap sugar through what she termed the twenty-first century slave labor. She was forming “a sort of non-profit” to beat the bastards at their own game by any means necessary. She made clear that Kendal and the other two trustees were in charge of carrying out the annihilation of this white, crystal industry by any means necessary. The kids and Junior, and any others who made a claim to the family fortune, would be cut out completely if they contested the trust or undermined the singular purpose of the non-profit. She admonished the trustees to remain steadfast in their primary objective. Whatever was left after sugar was brought to its knees was to be then used to continue an assault on any other industries that enslaved people in unfair and unsanitary conditions.
“So, where’s this leave us?” I asked.
“I’m personally paying you to figure that out, remember? I’m struggling with my feelings about this.” Pickering made a fluttering gesture at Savannah. “Kendal got on my nerves, but he was a damn fine reporter with a nose for news. Two reporters gave me notice yesterday. One is a senior guy nearing retirement with tons of contacts. I’d convinced him to stay on the last two years, because we already have too many greenies on staff and even free-lancing. Every blogger thinks he’s a reporter these days. The experienced ones have more contacts and sources. They know where to sniff. The youngsters aren’t ... ” He snapped his fingers as he searched for the right word.
Savannah tapped his other hand in a motherly manner that made me wonder how long these two had been carrying on. “Dogged,” she said.
His eyes lit up, and he leaned into her. She held him off with a stiff arm. He cleared his throat and pulled back, an embarrassed look flashing across his face.
“Yes, dogged! They aren’t dogged. Anyhow, the second quitter is a woman right out of the journalism program at a northeastern school at the second tier. Tufts, I think. No huge loss, but it’s hard to recruit talent to leave a place like Boston or New York and come to this god-forsaken rock.”
“And you’re saying they split for fear of their safety? You can’t convince them to stay?”
“Convince them? Great idea, then when something happens to them, not only will their families sue the paper, they’ll sue me personally for telling them to stay on.” He pursed his lips like he was dealing with an insolent child. “This leaves me shy three reporters on staff and scrambling for people to give me enough content. So, although I’d like to stay on this with you, as they say on Broadway, ‘the show must go on,’ and I need to get with my headhunter on this asap.”
With that, Pickering rummaged in a cabinet and came out holding a pile of papers, Kendal’s laptop, a zip drive, and a bag.
“I haven’t even been through all of it.” He settled the pile in my arms. “Good luck.”
Savannah ejected the videotape and placed it atop my pile. “Walter says we need to trust someone who is not emotionally involved. Guess you’re as good as anyone.”
I looked at Pickering, a smile beginning to crack my lips. “I’m as good as anyone?”
He gave me his professorial stare. “I’ll have you know, I don’t trust easily and we’ve only been acquainted a few months.”
“Half-a-year,” I corrected.
“What I said.”
“Okay, so by your non-trusting standards, I’ve breached the wall quickly?”
“Very,” Savannah said, leaning into Pickering’s side and giving him a playful bump with her hip. “I’m still not sure he trusts me.”
Pickering rubbed her shoulder. “I trust you with some things.”
She playfully shoved him away, and he allowed a small smile. It vanished as soon as he turned back to me.
“This is all hush-hush,” he said, pointing back and forth at himself and Savannah.
“Course,” I said, “top secret, except one thing.” I explained that some details would need to be shared with Leber the next time I saw the curious detective. We hashed out which details were appropriate for disclosure and which should be kept under wraps. Savannah got antsy and went to bed, saying she trusted us to make these life and death decisions so long as no one else tried to break into her home for any more of
