Alligator Park (15 page)

We hop out of the airboat and
leave the dock. Will takes me around, shows me the grounds. I see lots of birds
and even an alligator cruising the lake near the shoreline looking for an easy
meal.

“Don’t worry, we’re not food
to him. Unless you insist on going in the water,” he says.

I wasn’t, so I satisfy my
curiosity by taking some pictures as the alligator passes by.

 We stroll past some
unfinished construction that looks like a large pavilion. At each of the
corners and along the sides I see large wooden poles, the size of tree trunks.
And above that is an “A” frame roof assembled with smaller poles and covered
with palm leaves. The palm leaves are woven together so tightly even rain couldn’t
penetrate it. The whole thing is held together with generous amounts of rope
giving it the look of an oversized Tiki hut.

“What is this?” I ask.

“It was my mother’s idea. She
was always concerned with preserving the traditions of our people. She
convinced Fargo to build her a meeting place, where members of the tribe could get
together on a regular basis and discuss the issues which affected them. It was
also to be a place where young people could be taught the skills of our
ancestors, the skills they used to survive in the swamps. These skills had been
in the tribe for thousands of years; they were the identity of our people. She
was afraid they would be lost if they weren’t passed on to the younger
generation. Fargo liked the idea, and did what she asked. But when she passed
away, the idea died with her,” he says. “Fargo never touched the place after
that.”

I glance at my watch and see
it’s almost three-thirty. The day went so fast. There’s so much to do and so
much to see. And I’m really starting to like the wilderness.

“Let’s head back,” I say. “I’ll
throw something together for dinner.”

I know full well Fargo will
be returning at five and appreciate a good meal after all that hiking. Perhaps
it will soften his heart and he will allow me to stay longer.

Back at the kitchen I make a
mental inventory of what I have available. The kitchen is poorly stocked, but I
still have a couple of fish and a half-dozen apples. I could fry the fish and
bake the apples, but I need more. I find some rice in the pantry, but I still
need more. I see some bananas in the corner that are turning black, like
someone forgot about them.

“Can I use these bananas?”

“They’re not bananas, they’re
plantains. What do you want them for?”

“For dessert.”

“They’re not for dessert. Let
me show you.”

Will picks up the plantains
and places them on the cutting board.

“These are one of my favorite
meals, if they’re done right. And the secret to getting them right is to make
sure they’re ripe, very ripe.”

Will studies the plantains
for a moment.

“I’d say these are about
perfect.”

Will cuts off the ends then
slits the skin from end to end. He removes the skin with his fingers.

“See how easy that was?”

Then he slices each plantain
on a diagonal, creating slices about a half-inch thick.

“I need some cooking oil.”

“What kind of oil?” I ask.

“Palm or Canola.”

I hand him a half-empty
bottle of Palm. He heats a cast-iron pan then pours a small amount of oil in
it.

“Not too much. Just enough to
barely cover the bottom.”

He places the slices into the
pan and fries them for a couple of minutes. Then he flips them over and does
the same to the other side, until both sides are a golden yellow. He takes them
out and arranges them neatly into a dish.

“Here, try one,” he says,
holding the dish in front of me. I pick one up with a fork and nibble at it.
It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.

“I’ve never seen a single
person try one and not be hooked. And my mother’s were even better.”

“Did she show you how to
cook?” I ask.

“I picked it up by watching
her. Never really used any of it because the Navy provided us with K-Rations. All
you had to do with K-Rations was to heat them up. And most of the time you ate
them cold.”

He contemplates for a moment.

“I’ve forgotten most of what
I learned from her. It was such a long time ago.”

I hear some voices outside
and peek out the front door. The scouts have returned and are being loaded on
the bus. The driver starts the engine and the roar of the damaged muffler disrupts
the silence. Fargo waves to the scouts as the bus exits the parking lot. I see
him strolling towards the cabin so I race back to my bedroom and dab on some
perfume. I get back to the kitchen just seconds before he opens the front door
and saunters in. I pretend not to notice and focus my attention on lighting the
propane stove. The fish in the frying pan begins to crackle and pop giving off
a nice aroma. Fargo wanders into the kitchen.

“Oh, you’re back,” I say
nonchalantly. “Dinner will be ready in about five minutes.”

I can see he’s tired from the
hike, probably because we kept him up later than his usual routine. I secretly
hope the meal distracts him enough that he doesn’t hold it against us. He comes
up behind me then peeks over my shoulder at the fish sizzling in the pan. He inhales
deeply.

“Smells good.”

“Yes, fresh fish always has a
great aroma,” I say.

“I was referring to your
perfume,” he says, then wanders away. I’m amazed he even noticed. Up to now
he’s been keeping his distance. Is this a change, or just some careless remark
he blurted out without thinking?

I place the meal on the table
and Will and I take seat. A few minutes later Fargo joins us.

“How’d it go?” I ask.

“Very well. Some of those
kids have never been out of the inner city. The only trees they ever get to see
are the ones in a park.”

“Do this often?” I ask.

“Every month, but a different
troop each time. I was a scout myself. The other fathers took me under their
wing and helped me get through some difficult times. I don’t know how much Will
told you, but our father ran off before I was born. I feel the need to give
back to those folks who are going through the same thing.”

It was obvious Fargo shared Will’s
generosity. They probably picked it up from their mother in spite of all the
hardships they endured. It makes me feel ashamed of the envy I used to feel for
those that were better off than me. The one truth that life has taught me is
that everyone has a cross to bear and some have more than one. But it’s never
easy to bear it when you are the one that’s suffering.

Will shuffles over to the
refrigerator and takes out two beers.

“Want one?” he says to me.

“No, I’m okay.”

Will returns and hands the
beer to Fargo. He discretely waits until Fargo has finished his dinner then
lays the question on him.

“Indigo has a little problem.”

“Oh,” Fargo says.

“Yeah. You know how she was
going to Gainesville tomorrow to get a job and she was also going to get an
apartment there?”

“She’s not going?”

“She’s going, but the job
fell through.”

“I’m sorry,” Fargo says,
looking at me.

“Well the problem is, she
don’t have no place to stay tonight.”

Fargo is quiet, preferring
instead to sip on his beer. Will breaks the silence.

“So what do you think? Can
she stay a couple more days?”

Fargo looks tired. He doesn’t
say anything for a few minutes.

“Well, she’s using your bed.
So if you don’t have a problem with it, neither do I.”

“Okay then, it’s settled.
I’ll sleep on the floor like I always do, and you Indigo, take my room,” Will
says.

Fargo yawns. I think the beer
sapped the last bit of energy he had left. He stands up, shuffles over to the couch.
When I glance at him again, he’s lying down, sound asleep.

Will looks tired, like he’s
still recovering from the trip. He turns to me.

“About tomorrow. Do you want
me to go with you?”

“I’ll be okay,” I say.

“I can help you drive.”

“No, I really need to start
doing things on my own. Thanks anyway.”

“Okay,” he says,
then makes himself comfortable on his mat on the floor. I gaze at the kitchen. There
are dishes and pots all over the place, but I’m too tired to do anything about
it. Besides, Will will have all day tomorrow to clean it up.

I gather my things and head
to my bedroom. I get together my notes and anything else that might interest
Dr. Parker. What to wear? I rummage through my suitcase and pull out an
olive-green dress with a high neckline. I bought this especially for interviews
but hardly used it. I hold it against me and glance in the mirror. No, I don’t
think so. Too formal. This is Florida so I’m doing as the Floridians do. I’m
going casual.

I slip out of my shorts and
squeeze into a pair of almost-new blue jeans. I glance in the mirror; yes,
they’ll do for starters. I scour through my suitcase and find a blue pin-stripe
Henley top with long sleeves and a lace up neckline. I remove my tee-shirt and
put on the top, allowing it to cascade loosely over my hips. Again, I glance in
the mirror, turning to view it from all sides. Perfect, I think. Not formal,
but not too casual either.

But what about my hair? I
decide immediately against cutting it or dyeing it back to my natural color.
But should I re-dye it blue, to hide the dark roots?

No, I think, I’m not going to
do anything. It’s not like I’m going for a job interview. It’s already been
established that Dr. Parker can’t hire me, so what’s the point of trying to
impress her? If fate doesn’t agree with my plans, then so be it. Or, as the
Italian’s say, ‘Che sarà, sarà’. 

I slip into my night clothes then
plop down on the bed. I turn off the light and within minutes I’m in dreamland...

It’s 6:00 AM and still dark as I load up
the Cruiser for the trip to Gainesville. It should take about two hours, but I’m
allowing extra time so I can look around and get to know the area. There are about
a half-dozen cars in the parking lot and Fargo’s airboat is missing. He’s probably
out on an early morning excursion with some clients.

Back in the cabin, I see Will
sound asleep on the floor. There’s no reason to wake him; he knows where I’m
going. And he can always call if he needs to contact me.

I slip into the driver’s
seat, start the engine, and find my way back down the same dirt road that
brought us to Fargo’s place two days ago. It’s still dark, but I’m not quite as
apprehensive as my first venture through the swamp when Will was driving and
almost ran off the road. I’m starting to appreciate the beauty of this
mysterious world and how nature fits all the pieces together with harmony.

I follow the road until it
meets the main highway, and then, make a right turn, heading west. The road is
endless and there’s not a car in sight. In my rear view mirror I can see the
sun just rising above the horizon. The swamp is now well behind me and in front
is a land I never knew existed, a magnificent land, consisting of plains,
endless, reaching as far as the eye can see, and covered with tall grass. Right
above the grass is a mist, that same mist I saw hovering over the lake.

Scattered throughout the
fields are small groups of trees, mostly Live Oak, but also some Slash Pine.
They got their name from the “slashes” left behind by early gum tappers in
their relentless “bleeding” of the trees to recover valuable resins and
turpentine for the marine industry. Interestingly, there are very few palm
trees out in the field. They seem to be relegated primarily to the sides of the
road next to the canals. I’m not sure why, but maybe they require a lot of
water and the canals supply them with what they need.

I’ve driven for over fifty
miles and haven’t seen another car or even a house. The sun has risen well
above the horizon and is burning off the mist. Ahead of me is a road that is
straight as an arrow and appears to be endless. What would I do if I broke
down? There’s no cellphone service out here. Will wouldn’t know anything was
wrong until I didn’t return later tonight. I could be stuck out here all day!

But in spite of my isolation,
I’m not alone. In fact, I have plenty of company. The land is teeming with
cattle, on both sides of the road, more than I’ve ever seen in one place. I’ve
been told Florida raises over one million head of cattle per year and is the
third largest producer east of the Mississippi. Driving through these vast open
ranges, it’s easy to see why. And I thought they had only alligators and oranges
down here.

As I get close to Ocala, the
road turns into a four lane highway. It is wide and easy to follow making it a
pleasant drive to Gainesville. I follow Dr. Parker’s directions and find the
restaurant without difficulty. It’s a small Italian place called “L’incontro”,
which from my limited knowledge of Italian means, “The Encounter”. How fitting,
I think. It’s located about two miles from the university, far enough away to render
insignificant the risk of Dr. Parker running into a fellow faculty member. And
who has lunch at ten anyway?

I enter the lobby and peek
into the dining area. It consists mostly of tables with some booths along one
wall. The room is decorated with colored lights strung along the tops of the walls,
and I can hear Christmas music playing in the background. The seductive aroma
of fresh coffee pervades the air, and I detect the appealing scent of pine
emanating from some oversized wreaths attached to the walls.

In the far corner is an
eight-foot Christmas tree decorated with flashing lights and shiny ornamental
balls of various colors. It’s not one of those manufactured trees made of plastic
and wire that has “fake” written all over it; this one is real. The subdued
lighting gives the room a feeling of tranquility and helps ease my apprehension
of meeting Dr. Parker for the first time.

The hostess approaches me.

“How many?” she asks.

“Oh, I’m waiting for a friend.”

“No problem,” she says, and then
scurries into the kitchen.

I scan the room, but only one
table is occupied and it’s a couple with two young children. I retreat to the
lobby just as a black BMW pulls into a parking space. The driver’s door opens,
then a slender woman, fortyish I would estimate, slips her legs out the door
and stands up. She’s about five foot nine wearing high heels and a tight-fitting
black dress and is holding a Gucci handbag. She looks more like a corporate
lawyer than a university professor. She slams the door shut, locks the car with
her remote, then heads for the lobby. I recognize the face from the bio on the university
web site. It’s her. As she approaches the front door, I suddenly panic. I feel grossly
under-dressed against the elegant outfit she is wearing. But how could I have
known? This is Florida, and a college town at that! Who dresses up in a Florida
college town?

She enters the lobby and
approaches me.

“Indigo?” she says.

“Yes. Dr. Parker?”

“Call me Jessica.”

The hostess leads us to a
table.

“Could we have a booth
instead?” Jessica asks.

“Of course,” the hostess says,
and leads us to a booth set back in the corner.

I can see why Jessica chose
this place. The seat backs are so high no casual observer could ever see us
unless they intentionally walked in our direction.

Jessica picks up her menu. I do
the same, searching for something light. The waitress stops by and we both give
her our orders. A few minutes later she brings us our drinks, an iced tea for
me and a Cappuccino for Jessica.

“You’re not quite how I
imagined you,” she says, gazing at my blue hair.

“It’s a long story,” I say,
and proceed to tell her how I had dyed my hair on a dare when I first entered
college, then left it that way because I liked the way it looked.

“I often wish I was more reckless
when I was your age. I played it straight and missed out on all the fun that
comes with finding one’s identity. Now that my kids are in college, my husband
and I are making up for it. We try to get away as much as possible.”

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“Africa, Alaska, Chile, Australia,
Nepal, Thailand,” she says, counting them off on her fingers. “The more exotic
the better. How about you? Do you like to travel?”

“This is my first trip,
except for the Jersey Shore.”

“Just curious, how did you learn
about me?” she asks.

“Your paper, about the
baitfish.”

“You must have the only
surviving copy.”

The server, a clean-cut male
about twenty, stops at our table with the meals.

“Which one got the salad?”

I raise my hand. He places
the salad in front of me, and the other meal, gnocchi in a white sauce, in
front of Jessica. Even though it was mid-morning, I was ready for lunch. I
waste no time devouring my meal.

“So what do you hope to achieve
from your foray into the land of perpetual sunshine?” she asks.

“Well I admit my dissertation
is a little light on the proof. But I plan to do the research, document the
evidence, and publish. After peer review and publication, how could anyone deny
its validity?”

“You are venturing into
dangerous waters.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Like you, I had great aspirations.
But as soon as I published, and suggested a link between Farm-eXia and the
aggressive behavior of baitfish, GWI was all over me. They threatened a lawsuit.
I didn’t know what to do. And I wasn’t getting any encouragement from the
university. Then GWI offered me a deal. They wouldn’t press charges if I
destroyed the evidence and signed a document admitting I had falsified the
data. It wasn’t true, but what could I do?” 

“What about a lawyer?”

“Every lawyer I saw wanted a
ten thousand dollar retainer. And they bluntly told me the bills would go up
from there. They all advised me to settle. GWI knew this and took advantage of
my inexperience. Even though their case was weak, they could tie me up for
years, stifle my career. Who would hire a researcher wrapped up in litigation
for a paper she published? It was a lose-lose situation for me.”

I take a sip of iced tea
trying to figure out what all this means and how it affects me.

“Why should they care about
me?” I ask. “I’m so insignificant.”

“You’re a threat. They are
well aware that a little bad press can easily escalate into a public outcry
which can lead to a congressional investigation. Farm-eXia is GWI’s poster
child. It generates fifty-six billion dollars in revenue every year, forty-two
percent of their earnings. That’s not insignificant.”

“But there’s something that
bothers me. Something I don’t understand. Why did they wait until the
presentation? Why didn’t they contact me sooner?”

“It’s simple. They’re hiding
something. Their goal is to embarrass and frustrate you until you conclude it’s
not worth it and give up. They certainly don’t want you to dig deeper, do more
research, and find more evidence. You might uncover something damaging and
expose their deceit. They don’t want you to justify your claims. They want you
to go away. Your report is cancer to them. It could spread to Wall Street and
pull down the whole company. In their warped minds, the cancer has to be cut
out and burned.”

“And if I go on?”

“Then they will pursue you relentlessly,
with the determination of a Pit Bull. And once they get you in their sights,
their legal department won’t let go until the threat is put down. It’s you
against Goliath.”

“So you think I should give
up?”

“The best advice I could give
anyone is forget it ever happened and start over.”

I lower my eyes and quietly
pick on my salad feeling despondent.

“But I’m so damn mad over
what they did to me, I must see you prevail,” she says.

“I appreciate that.”

“There are dozens more just like
us, innocent researchers, only trying to advance science. I find it intolerable
that a major corporation should be so indifferent towards public safety. They
must be held accountable.”

“They’re the eight-hundred
pound gorilla,” I say.

“Yes, they are. But David
brought down Goliath, and if you’re committed, you can do the same.”

“Tell me what to do.”

Jessica leans towards me,
lowers her voice.

“The first step is to lull
them into thinking you gave up. That puts them off guard. Then you secretly do
the research, validate the evidence, and submit to peer review without them
knowing.”

“How do I submit to peer
review without them knowing?” I ask. “The second I publish, they’ll know
everything.”

“That’s where I come in.”

I was confused. Was she
offering to help me? How could she help me without getting herself involved?

“But aren’t you bound by the
agreement?” I say.

“I signed that agreement over
ten years ago. The statute of limitations will take care of that. Even though, I’m
still vulnerable. If GWI ever discovered I was helping you, they would use
their massive influence to discredit me. They have an army of scientists on
their payroll and they’re all willing to do whatever their employer asks. It
wouldn’t be difficult for them to convince the university I’m practicing bad
science and get my tenure revoked.”

“So what are you proposing?”

“I’m going to tell you
something very few people know,” she says. “Promise me you won’t share this
with anyone.”

“I promise,” I say.

“I’m involved with a network
of scientists and professors that share your objectives. We keep it secret so
we don’t expose ourselves to legal action. We share data and assist each
other’s research and agree not to share it with anyone outside the network. I
can get them to review your paper without you ever having to publish it.” 

“But at some point I would still
have to publish.”

“That would be entirely your
decision. The people that reviewed your research would be unknown to you so
their identity would be protected. But their expertise in the field of
environmental science would assure you that your publication would withstand
any serious challenge from the outside. And that makes all the difference.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“Well, if you are willing to
go the distance and see it to its conclusion, GWI could not prevail unless they
could show intentional misrepresentation. Do you understand the significance of
the term ‘intentional’?”

“Yes. It means I purposely
distorted facts in order to cause them harm,” I reply.

“Exactly. They would have to
demonstrate to the court that your ‘misrepresentation’ caused the company a measurable
decline in revenue. Take away the ‘misrepresentation’ and guess what, they have
no case.”