All the Devil's Creatures (5 page)

“Autopsy report says so, yes.”

“Okay, so there’s no question this is a capital case. I’ll ask for the death penalty. And we’ll make sure Tasha here has plenty of time in front of the cameras.” Hargrave paused, took a breath. Bobby glanced at Tasha; her face was inscrutable. The DA continued: “Sheriff Seastrunk, deputy, let me tell y’all, the Speaker is very concerned—”

“I’ve talked to Duchamp about his concerns. And, Mr. Hargrave, my department will handle this case with the same sensitivity and dedication we would any murder investigation. But I don’t work for Robert Duchamp—he doesn’t even vote in this county anymore.”

Hargrave blinked but did not modulate his tone. “Be that as it may, it’s imperative, Sheriff, that we demonstrate to the world that this county
is
united, as you say, and that we put the people that did this away.” The DA moved some papers on his tidy desk. “Now, what do you have so far?”

Seastrunk told him about the autopsy findings, the tire tread. Not a lot, but a start, they all agreed.

As they stood to leave, Bobby shook the two prosecutors’ hands again, his barely audible
nice to meet you
to Tasha his only words since entering the room. Unlike Hargrave’s, Tasha’s hand felt dry and as soft as vellum. He could smell a honey sweetness in her hair. Her dark eyes bored into him, as if seeking to dispel any presumption that Hargrave had put her on the case for no other reason than to use her brown skin as camera fodder.

G
eoff sat in his dingy motel room, case file before him, staring at the wall. He didn’t know how much time had passed when some thought, forgotten (
pushed aside
) as soon as it had materialized (
the baby, the heartbeat
), jolted him into the present. He sighed. The last beer floated in the ice bucket.
After the call. Get some work done. Then you’ll have earned it.

He used his cell phone to call the Dallas office of the corporate defense firm representing Texronco and asked for Rick White.

His opposing counsel came on the line. “Geoff, how are you? Believe it or not, you’re on my to do list today.”

“Oh?” Geoff could picture White in his corner office overlooking the downtown skyline. “What’s up?”

“It’s your dime—you first.”

“Right. Listen, Rick, I’ve had a bit of a tragedy here.” He explained about Dalia, the expert report, his need for a thirty-day extension.

“Jesus Christ, Geoff, that’s fucking awful. Of course, of course, as much time as you need, I’ll agree to it.”

No surprise there. Texronco would be happy with thirty years. But Geoff didn’t resent him for it—for lawyers like White, he thought, the cognitive dissonance between sincerity and self-serving cynicism was not only possible but a vital part of their practice.

“Thanks. Now what’s on your mind?”

“Geoff, this morning my client informed me that they are interested in making a settlement offer. It’s quite generous. Are you ready?”

He reached for a legal pad. “Sure.”

“First, they’ll agree to an enforceable consent decree requiring Texronco to stop all discharges into the lake. And standard fines assessed daily for noncompliance.”

“Okay.”
You’ve reached the bare minimum, Rick. What else?

“Second, they’ll pay all your reasonable fees and expenses, Geoff, including for monitoring work post-judgment. You just give us the breakdown. My client’s willing to be very generous here.”

“Uh-huh.”
Pay off the lawyer without quite crossing the line into fraud. Standard fare.

“Finally—and I know that your clients can’t take any award in the form of damages under these citizen suits, and keeping in mind that anything we agree to will have to be approved by the Justice Department—my client would be willing to fund a research grant of some sort for the lake. Now Geoff, we’re willing to leave it up to you and your clients to propose the details. The grant could go to fund your clients’ organization, or for seed money for a new non-profit.”

My clients’ organization:
Willie the crazy hermit and a few cantankerous retirees. And it’ll take a hefty “grant” to get a national environmental organization interested in helping to start something up down here.
“How much money are we talking about?” Geoff expected low six figures—maybe half the estimated cost to clean up the site.

“Ten million dollars. That’s what Texronco’s willing to put up.”

Geoff almost dropped the phone. He tried not to let his voice betray his shock. “Anything else?”

Rick White laughed. “Isn’t that enough? Look Geoff, I’ll be honest with you. I strongly advised my client against making this offer. There is no way they’re exposed to anywhere near that amount of liability, even worst case scenario. You know that. But, it’s fair to say they’re concerned about their corporate image these days.”

“Sure they are. And I suppose Texronco will want a disclaimer against any future lawsuits?”

“Of course. Hey, I know you have to play it cool, but this is a good offer.”

“It’s certainly something I can take back to my clients.”

They rang off. Geoff pulled the can of beer dripping from the plastic bucket and exulted at the sound of the crack and hiss.
Ten million dollars.
Even hard-headed, paranoid Willie Kincaid would rejoice at that. One of the Washington enviro outfits—Sierra Club, NRDC—would take notice, come on board, set up shop right here in this sad little moss-draped fishing camp. And litigation: they would fund it. More lawsuits to clean up the lake, to block industry from treating the fragile bayous as chemical sumps—with Geoff retained as local counsel. The D.C. lawyers would do the heavy lifting while Geoff would make a few court appearances and collect the fees.
And finally, Janie, we’ll have time to
…

To what? The realization that he’d been mentally conversing with his dead wife clicked in Geoff’s brain, breaking his reverie. He sat down at the cheap little motel room desk and closed his eyes, hard, willing the darkness away.
This is good. You’re doing good
…

Geoff opened his dry eyes and drank the last of the beer. He reached for his phone to call Willie Kincaid.

•

Geoff stared at his client, agape. The crooked little man stood before the group of his dozen fellows in the harsh-lit, steel pre-fab community hall and threatened to destroy the next few months of Geoff’s life.

“I’m not saying it’s not a good offer,” Willie said. “It might be. And I’m not saying Geoff hasn’t done a great job. We owe him big time. We wouldn’t have come near this far if not for him.”

Applause from plaintiff-organization members at that. It almost embarrassed Geoff, but the fact was, he
had
gone above and beyond for these people. He had worked for no upfront pay and brought them a result better than they could have dreamed of. And now Willie—standing there in his brown polyester Sansabelt slacks and a snap-fronted shirt—wanted to force him to go on, for nothing?

Willie continued: “I’m just saying, maybe we should let it play out for a while. If they’re offering so much, maybe there’s more to this. We’ve all seen strange things out on the water, not just around the refinery, but all the way up by China Island.”

“It’s true,” said a woman in the audience—mid-sixties, permed graying hair, drugstore reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. Enid something, Geoff remembered. “Those men in spacesuits and a load of equipment came by in a big ol’ bass boat not fifty feet off my pier when I went out with my coffee just this morning. And it’s always like that—people comin’ and goin’ at the crack of dawn and the dead of night, sometimes in spacesuits, sometimes just in hospital scrubs. They sure as hell don’t look like they’re fishing for bass, I know that much. Lord knows what they’re up to.”

Murmurs of approval. Geoff knew he was losing them. He had stayed an extra night at the motel so Willie could set up this meeting to bring good news and bad news to his clients. Though he knew that the news about Dalia was so bad he had no choice but to deliver it first, before he shared with them Texronco’s generous settlement offer. The shock of the murder had set the tone before he even brought up the money for the lake. None of the plaintiffs knew Dalia, but they felt connected to her—
were
connected to her—through him and this damn lawsuit. His clients were angry, and now, try as he might, Geoff could not get the visions of dollar signs (
ten million for the lake, plus his own fees—and don’t forget the enforceable court order forcing Texronco to clean up its act
) into their heads. Willie had stirred their populist rage and their bayou-bred paranoia, reminding them of the logging companies that clear cut virgin cypress stands that were supposed to be untouchable, of the drilling companies that poisoned the rich waters. Now, they wanted to stand on principle. They wanted justice. And they would trust no one who came forth with reasons they should back down.

Geoff would not even mention Dalia’s voice mail to Eileen, the boyfriend T-Jacques. The plaintiffs were riled up enough already. No need to implant a fresh set of conspiracy theories. Eileen be damned, he had not yet decided whether to call down to New Orleans.
Some sort of weird science
, Dalia had said.
The last thing I need, when I’ve already got this crowd to contend with.

Yet he could not suppress the qualm he felt as his eyes travelled to Willie’s grandson Joey sitting tacit in the front row, watching him with eyes that seemed wise beyond his years. Somehow, it did not seem odd to Geoff that the old man had brought the boy to this attorney-client strategy pow-wow. Joey’s eyes drew him in—as if he was not just one boy but all boys. As if lurking behind those strange blue eyes was not just one intelligence but all intelligences. As if all souls existed within their shimmer ….

“
Geoff?
I said, what do you say, Geoff?”

He came to as if from a trance and shook his head.
It’s transference, Geoff, snap out of it. I lost something
(heartbeat)
when Janie died, and I’m transferring my feelings onto this child.
Willie looked at him. Taking one last glance at Joey as he stood, he faced the group in their folding metal chairs. “Willie, y’all—remember, this case is only about the refinery. You’re not going to solve any other problems at the lake through this lawsuit. But with ten million dollars in grant money, you could fund all sorts of research—”

“Didn’t you say Texronco would make us agree to never sue them again? Isn’t that part of the deal?” This from an old man in shorts, arms crossed over his pot belly.

“Well, yes. But the research could bring national attention, EPA involvement. And there are plenty of other polluters to sue …”

“And I’ll tell you one thing,” the shorts-wearing man said, “Seems mighty fishy that right when our scientist gets killed, Texronco tries to buy us off.”

Hopeless. The murmur of the crowd had grown to shouts and cheers. He had a choice: follow them, or walk away. He could not lead them from this decision born of righteous anger.
And maybe they’re right. Texronco might really be up to something (weird science) nefarious on the lake—beyond just the standard toxic discharges.
He thought of Willie, the group’s unlikely organizer. So out of character for the old coot, a natural hermit, to round these folks up and get in touch with Eileen and Geoff in the first place. What drove him? A love for the lake, passion for nature? A need to save it all for Joey?
Maybe it’s worthwhile to keep on fighting the bastards … for Willie and the boy, at least. Joey needs to see that the little guys—even oft-denigrated poor country folk—can stand up to the powers that be.

An image floated through Geoff’s mind (
Janie, her belly
). He closed his eyes for three seconds to clear his head.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll tell Texronco’s lawyer y’all aren’t ready to say yes or no, but you’re considering their offer. Is that fair?” Glances among themselves, then reluctant nods all around. “Good. Hopefully, they won’t take it off the table. We’ll give Eileen a chance to go through Dalia’s work, prepare her report, see if there’s any chance that Texronco’s up to more than we think. I suspect she’ll find nothing. And in that case, I’d strongly recommend y’all accept the offer.”

Hell, maybe I’ll even call Mr. T-Jacques.

Geoff paused and took a sip from the glass of water on a table near him. Having committed to abiding his clients’ wishes, he could only step forward and give them what they wanted to hear. He conjured the right words.

“But if Dr. Kim does get an inkling that there’s more oil-soaked, profit-driven, plain ol’ evil environmental degradation—putting y’all’s health and wildlife we all cherish at risk—putting y’all’s very way of life at risk—then we will pursue the sons-of-bitches through the courts and, if we have to, all the way to the gates of hell.”

Rising from their seats, his clients cheered and Geoff smiled and pumped his fist but felt trepidation and a little shame, questioning his own sincerity. Then he met Joey’s eyes—not strange now, but at once sharp and exuberant and pure as only an eleven-year-olds can be. And for that moment he fought past his troubled thoughts and allowed the passion of Willie and group to carry him.

•

Three hours after leaving the little community hall on the lake, Geoff exited I-30 onto Munger Avenue in Dallas, the century-old prairie style homes welcoming with their wide front porches and shaded lawns. He turned onto his street and then up his narrow driveway, parking in front of his detached garage, too dilapidated for its intended use. By now, a modern two-car garage with an electric door should have replaced it. A home office on top for Geoff’s solo practice started with the seed money from his years in the trenches at a downtown firm. Flexible hours—long breaks in the summer when Janie wasn’t teaching, camping trips in the Hill Country and New Mexico, vacations back east, plenty of time with his boy. He could be there for the first day of school, little league, flag football …