Alligator Park (16 page)

“And how do I do that?”

“It works like this: I submit
your paper to established experts who will peer over every word, every graph,
every bit of data, and every conclusion. They will determine, without
partiality, whether your publication meets established scientific standards. Then
you revise, once, twice... whatever it takes, until it is perfect. You must
hone your dissertation to the point it will withstand even the severest of
scientific scrutiny. Are you up to the challenge?”

The question takes me by
surprise.

“Yes, of course,” I say.

“If all this seems excessive,
it’s not. Misrepresentation of facts, their best weapon against you, must be
nullified. And unless GWI’s experts flat out lie, which is unlikely, their
legal argument collapses.”

“Then why didn’t you do
that?”

“Because I was green, a
neophyte. I didn’t have the contacts. There was no way I could get peer review
without publishing. GWI had all the good cards and I was playing in a game I
didn’t understand. I had no choice but to cave.”

“I appreciate all that, but
I’m still between a rock and a hard place. Without access to a lab I can’t do
the research. And by now every university has heard about me so that’s off the
table.”

“I’ve got that figured out. Give
me the samples and I’ll analyze them for you,” she says.

“I couldn’t ask you to do
that.”

“It’s for peace of mind. I
need to do this, to erase all those years of anger.”

“Well I can certainly
use the help,
” I say. “With
FedEx, you’ll get them overnight.”

“No. Absolutely not. They
can’t be mailed or shipped. There has to be no record I ever received them.”

 I understood completely why
she insisted on this. If there was a trial, and there most certainly would be,
the lawyers would cast their nets wide, to include as many fish as possible. In
a process called “discovery”, lawyers would accumulate any information deemed
pertinent to the case. It would be relatively easy for a lawyer to acquire the
delivery records of the US Postal Service, UPS, and FedEx, in and around my domicile.
If they noticed numerous deliveries to a certain Jessica Parker, they would
check it out, and, most likely, she would be implicated.

For her it would be a life-altering
situation. She has “assets” and lawyers love assets. They would go after her
savings, investments, and even her house. She could lose everything including
her job and even the possibility of a future job. It was a major commitment for
her to get involved.

I, on the other hand, had
little to lose. I had no professional future, no assets, and would probably qualify
for a public defender. The best they could get out of me was an admission of
fraud, which in some cases could carry a jail sentence. But they would have to
prove intentional misrepresentation of the facts. It wouldn’t be easy for them,
but the stakes are high, and GWI has the best lawyers and they could dump a
million dollars into this without even blinking. If I follow this to conclusion
it could turn out to be one hell of a fight. But it was either fight or be
professionally shunned for the rest of my life.

“Agreed,” I say. “No
mailings.”

“I anticipated you would be needing
some equipment so I salvaged a few things that were in the process of being
disposed of. There’s a microscope, some test tubes, a Bunsen burner, a pH
Meter, a triple beam balance, a hot plate, and whatever else I thought you
could use.”

“They don’t need this?”

“It’s old, but perfectly
usable. And all top quality. I checked it out myself. The university doesn’t
want it around, to protect the students. Safety regulations,” she says.

“Thanks, I don’t know how to
thank you.”

“There’s nothing more I want
than for you to win big against GWI. You’d be doing me a huge favor if you
could only do that.”

“I will,” I say. “I promise
you, I will.”

But secretly I wondered if I would
have the strength to go the distance. GWI has teams of lawyers and there is
only me. The only thing keeping me going is my resolve; they have hard cash.

We both finish our meals and
the waitress drops the check on the table. I reach for my wallet.

“Let me get that,” she says,
and grabs the check.

I wanted to treat Jessica for
taking the time to meet with me, but she insists so I give in.

We stroll out to the PT Cruiser
and I open the back hatch. Jessica walks around the cruiser gazing at it from
different angles apparently amused by the signs all over it.

“You work for an
exterminator?”

“No,” I say, then proceed to
tell her the story about how the dealer saved us a thousand dollars if we took
it as-is.

“Interesting.”

Jessica opens the trunk on
her BMW then helps me load the laboratory equipment into the Cruiser.

“Remember, if anyone asks,
you got this stuff at a flea market,” she says.

“A flea market it is,” I respond.

Jessica slides
into the seat of her shiny black BMW, pulls the door closed, and then, rolls
down the window.

“One more thing.”

She hastily scribbles a phone
number on a scrap of paper.

“If you need to call, use
this number. It’s registered to my daughter. She gave me her old phone when she
upgraded and it sure comes in handy. I use it to call scientists in the network,
so the university has no record of who I’m calling.”

I take the paper and thank
her.

She starts the
engine, races out the parking lot, and darts into traffic. As I watch her drive
away, I’m overcome by a feeling of envy. She has it all: money, tenure, and professional
status, all the things I dream about, and have been working so hard for. But most
importantly, she has it now. How much I admire her for it.

But then reality
hits. I had come to Florida only to do what was necessary to earn my PhD. But now
I was so caught up in the excitement of it all, so enamored by the thought of
becoming a respected member of that elite group of scientists whose research is
so compelling it shapes the destiny of mankind, I had mindlessly agreed to take
on one of the largest corporations on the planet. Was I nuts?

I think about all the things Jessica
had confided in me. How she was involved with a network of scientists and how she
would be my mentor and secretly help me achieve my goals. Suddenly, the task
didn’t seem so formidable. I had acquired a friend who was committed to my
success and had the resources to see it through. How could I fail? 

I return to Fargo’s cabin around
mid-afternoon. The same half-dozen cars are still in the parking lot and the
airboat is still out. I climb the stairs to the porch and approach Will
reclining in the chair.

“Can you help me with some
groceries?” I say.

“Groceries? In the Cruiser?”

“Yes, I picked them up on the
way back.”

Will jumps out of his chair
and follows me to the Cruiser. As I hand him the grocery bags, he notices the
laboratory equipment in the back.

“What is this stuff?” he asks.

“Equipment.”

“I can see it’s equipment. Where
did you get it?”

“Dr. Parker,” I say, then
catch myself remembering the promise I made.

“Dr. Parker gave it to you?”

“No, Dr. Parker told me about
a flea market. That’s where I got it.”

“How much did it cost?” he
asks.

I find myself getting drawn
deeper and deeper into a lie. Every answer I give will invariably lead to
another question which will lead to another lie. But if I tell Will the truth,
I would be breaking my promise to Jessica and that would be a lie too. What to
do?

I remind myself that Jessica
has everything to lose if certain parties find out she is helping me. So a lie
to her carried more weight than a lie to Will, if that makes any sense at all. But
lying to Will would compromise the trust we had built up between us and that
bothers me greatly. Even if he never found out, I would anguish in the thought
that I had not been one-hundred percent truthful to him. I make a snap decision.
I do what everyone else does when faced with a moral dilemma; I change the
subject.

“Let’s hurry, I want to start
dinner before Fargo gets back,” I say.

“Oh, sure,” he says, and
grabs a few bags from the Cruiser.

It worked, but I knew the
questions would probably come up later and I would be faced with the same ugly dilemma.

We bring the groceries into
the kitchen and Will sets them on the counter.

“I’ll go get the equipment,”
he says, sounding like a kid with some new toys to explore.

“Where would we put them?” I ask.

“I don’t know, but you can’t
leave them in the car. The sun will damage them. I’ll put them in your bedroom
for now.”

“Will, that’s your bedroom. Fargo
will be furious. He’ll think I’m moving in.”

“I’ll tell him it’s only
temporary. Besides, it’s Christmas in two days and he can’t expect you to go
looking for an apartment on Christmas. Everything will be closed.”

I don’t want Fargo to find
out later I had a part in this decision so I begin unpacking groceries without
comment. Will takes that as a ‘yes’ and slips out the door. He returns with the
microscope and places it in the bedroom. He makes a couple more trips while I
prepare dinner, passing me each time with another piece of the equipment.

On his last trip I follow him
to the bedroom and watch him set everything up on a table. The bedroom is
beginning to look like a small laboratory from the 1800’s, the ones with
paneled walls, wooden furniture, and glassware all over the place. Will peers
into the eyepiece of an ancient microscope obviously fascinated by what he sees.
He notices a stray ant on the floor and swats it with a rolled-up newspaper. He
places it under the lens and studies it.

“Wow, it’s gigantic. Reminds
me of those movies from the fifties, you know, where those monster ants attack
people.”

Will is clearly enjoying
himself. He runs outside then returns a few moments later with random samples
of plants and insects. He places them under the microscope and studies them
with the fervor of a biology major. It’s amazing. How far he could have gone had
life dictated a different plan for him.

At about five o’clock, I
faintly hear the roar of the airboat. I peek out the window and see it off in
the distance, approaching at full speed. The sun is low on the horizon, but not
quite ready to set yet. I watch as Fargo kills the motor and allows the airboat
to drift into the dock. He ties up, then assists his passengers unload their
catch of fish. The tourists saunter over to their cars and leave the parking
lot one vehicle at a time.

Fargo enters the cabin and
strolls towards me. He’s barefoot, has his khakis rolled up to his calves, and
is shirtless. There is an intriguing necklace around his neck consisting of
arrow-heads held together with a thin leather cord. His chest is dripping with
sweat and I am overwhelmed by the musty odor of the swamp as he gets near.

“Nice perfume,” I say.

Fargo stops, gazes at me like
he doesn’t understand, then suddenly realizes what I mean. He appears to be embarrassed,
looks around, as if he is about to say something.

“Dinner will be ready in
fifteen,” I say.

He grunts something
unintelligible, then wanders past me towards the bathroom.

And then I see it, on the
right side of his back, just below the shoulder, a two-inch scar. It looks like
it was hastily stitched up, perhaps an old war wound, but I’m pretty sure he’s
never been in the military so it must be from something else. He enters the
bathroom, closes the door, and then, seconds later, I hear the shower.

I approach Will.

“That scar, on Fargo’s back.
Was it an accident?”

“Don’t know. I wasn’t around
when it happened.”

“Did you ever ask him?”

“Every time I brought it up, he
would get real tense and walk away. My mother told me to let it lie. ‘It’s
better left untold,’ she said, so I never found out.”

His mother’s advice seems
prudent so I drop the subject. I hear the bathroom door open, and then, Fargo’s
bedroom door close. I drop my voice to a whisper.

“What are we doing about Christmas?”

“Shhh, I’ll take care of it,”
he says.

I put out dinner and a few
minutes later, Fargo joins us. His hair is tied into a ponytail and he’s
wearing buckskin pants and a matching shirt. I detect the scent of men’s after-shave.
It’s probably from a gift he was given ten years ago and just now had the
inclination to open. It’s the first time I’ve seen him do this. I wonder; is he
trying to impress me, or just making up for his embarrassment?

Will and Fargo dig in, as if
they hadn’t eaten in a week. I place a couple of beers on the table, one for
Will and one for Fargo. Will waits until Fargo has finished his beer then
engages him.

“You know, it’s Christmas on
Friday.”

“Yeah, so what?” Fargo says.

“We were thinking about hitting
the stores tomorrow, for groceries.”

“We don’t need groceries.”

“Yeah we do. Kitchen’s empty.”

“We’ll make do.”

“But it’s Christmas.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll make do.”

“Ain’t much left. Some apples,
bread. That’s about it.”

“When you used to come home
for Christmas, back when Mom was alive, did you eat okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Where do you think that food
came from?”

“Dunno. Never thought about
it.”

“You know our mother hardly
ever went to stores, unless she had to,” Fargo says.

“So what are you getting at?”

 “Seven o’clock, tomorrow, meet
me here. We’ll do what our mother did.”

“What about Indigo?”

“Both of you. Now, if you’ll
excuse me, I’ve been up since four.”

Fargo gets up then leaves the
room. I wait until I hear the bedroom door close then turn to Will.

“What does he have in mind?”
I ask.

“I’m guessing he’s taking us
hunting.”

“You mean like... killing
animals?”

“Sounds like it.”

“Are you allowed to hunt
around here?”

“This is Indian land. Tribal
laws allow us to hunt for ourselves. Can’t sell it though.”

“I don’t think I could kill
an animal,” I say.

“You’re a Biologist. You
folks kill laboratory animals all the time.”

“I’m a Micro-Biologist. In my
field, the only thing I ever had to kill was a couple of mice, a frog, and a
tadpole. I don’t like the sight of blood.”

“Then look away. Fargo will handle
it.”

“Do I really have to go?”

“I think you’d better. If you
don’t, he might be offended. He’s fanatical about the old ways, the ways of our
ancestors. You need to stay on his good side.”

I reluctantly agree to go and
spend the rest of the evening getting some specimen jars prepared for the
outing. It’s obvious Jessica was well aware of the challenges I would face because
the items she assembled are exactly what I need. I don’t know if I will have
time to do any research while out with Fargo, but if the opportunity arises, I
want to be ready. It makes good sense to gather my first samples from an Indian
reservation, where the water and soil are unblemished. I’m well aware that
Indians are passionate about respecting nature and doing things the natural way,
so any samples collected in this environment would make an excellent control
group.

I place a half-dozen specimen
jars in an insulated lunch bag I brought down from Philadelphia. It makes a
perfect carrier because the insulation protects the jars from breakage and I
can place a couple of those ice packs in there to keep everything cold. If the
samples get too hot from the sun, any living organisms in the water would be
destroyed making the experiment useless.

I glance at the clock. It’s
nine o’clock and I’m too tired to straighten up the kitchen. I’ve been up since
five and it’s been a long and demanding day.

“I’m going to bed now,” I
say.

“Good idea. You’ll be doing a
lot of walking tomorrow and you don’t want to lag behind. Don’t worry, I’ll
clean up.”

I retreat to my bedroom, slip
into a sweatshirt and some loose-fitting shorts, and get into bed. Hunting, as
a sport, was not something I approved of, but the thought of getting our food naturally,
from the forest, kind of excites me.

As a young girl, I had read the
book, “Little House on the Prairie” by Laura Wilder, and loved it. It tells the
story of a family that moves to Indian territory near the town of Independence,
Kansas during the mid-1800’s. The book had such a pronounced effect on me I
often wished I could go back in time and live that life, a life that was tough
but appealing. As I lie in bed in the dark, I imagine myself as a pioneer woman,
living off the land, just as they did in the book. It had always been a fantasy
of mine; a fantasy I thought could never be fulfilled. But here I was, actually
about to live it, a dream come true. As I’m slowly overcome by fatigue, my
thoughts become blurred and I fade into a deep slumber.