Messenger from God: A Story of Fate and Faith

38

CHAPTER ONE

Your Honor, my client is a highly decorated veteran of the Gulf War. He lost the majority of his lobster traps in the first hurricane and the rest during the second. His boat was badly damaged and when he finally could get out the normal fisheries were devastated. My client earns his living from the sea. He has great respect for it. He is a well-known environmentalist. In the scope of all things this is such a relatively trivial matter. The hurricanes have left him practically destitute. What he did was out of economic necessity.

The attorney stopped talking and peered at the man sitting behind the bench. The primly mannered judge did not return the attorney’s look. Instead he donned his reading glasses and studiously thumbed through the case record, occasionally stopping to underline or make notes. Time was not his priority. He finally looked up, staring intently at the well-dressed attorney and the defendant standing next to him.

Mr. Adler. Never again enter the courtroom of the Honorable Rufus T. Ferguson and presume what is and what is not a trivial matter. And if it’s such small potatoes, why does your client need a $1,500 an hour mouthpiece?

"Your Honor, Mr. Syms is a longtime friend. I took the case pro b….

That makes no nevermind to me. What matters is that your client’s actions are a clear violation of Florida Statute Code 68 Section 2015. The sale of speared fish to a commercial enterprise is prohibited.

Your Honor, with all due respect, my client’s total take from the transaction was $288.50. Surely with everything going on in the aftermath of the hurricanes there must be greater priorities facing the court than selling a speared grouper to a Chinese restaurant. My client is truly sorry and shows genuine remorse. Any fine would be a crushing burden to him, leaving him teetering on the brink of financial ruin. We throw ourselves on the mercy of the court and appeal to your noted fairness and good judgment.

The judge, never flinching from his stilted, formal posture, gazed impassively at the attorney and his client, pausing and checking his notes before speaking.

Mr. Adler, I don’t care if your client profited $288.50 or $288,000.00. The law is the law. And if he’s such a concerned environmentalist he should know better. I’ve been out on my boat the last six weeks and haven’t gotten as much as a nibble. Maybe if he wasn’t engaged in the illegal harvesting of the ocean there’d be some fish left for the rest of us weekend warriors. And Mr. Syms, you disappoint me greatly. A while back I attended a seminar you gave at the boat show on the need to impose size and catch limits on kingfish and wahoo. Great stuff. I learned a lot. You surely talked the talk. It saddens me that you don’t walk the walk. I find the defendant guilty of violating Statute 68 Section 20B and, as is permissible under said statute, you are subject to a fine of $1,000, the maximum allowable. In addition, as is also allowable under the statute, I order the speargun and scuba equipment used during the commission of the violation to be confiscated.

With that the Honorable Rufus T. Ferguson pounded his gavel. As the clamor reverberated throughout the courtroom the judge bellowed, Next case!

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In a bustling coffee shop a block from the courthouse Evan Adler and his client were the focus of unwanted attention. Accounts of the unusual proceeding involving the young legal superstar spread pandemically through the downtown legal community. Seemingly every customer had a comment.

Hey Ev, I heard you had a client with a fishing license violation and you kept him out of the electric chair. Way to go.

Evan, I got a guy with a speeding ticket. If I refer him do you think you can get him less than twenty?

Adler, maybe you should stick with corporate executive malfeasance and securities fraud. Those fishing cases are a bitch.

Weary from the flak and sick of smiling through his teeth, Evan Adler and his client retreated to a table in the back, joined by two of his partners and an associate. They were far more sympathetic. After introductions, the group made small talk while eating their lunch.

So Jesse, how do you know Evan?

We’ve been friends since middle school.

Knowing his client was a man of few words, Evan Adler intervened, Being a friend of Jesse Syms in North Miami High was like having a free pass to vagina heaven. Look at that face. Every single girl there had a crush on him. They would do his friends just to get close to him.

So that’s how you popped your cherry.

Exactly. That’s how I got my first blowjob too. I owe Jesse a lot. Plus he taught me how to really fish and dive. We still go out every lobster mini season and always get our limit in the first two hours. Jesse knows his spots. It’s a yearly ritual. The only year we missed was when he was stationed overseas in the gulf. We always try to make it to Bimini every August. At least not when there’s a hurricane every other week.

The conversation drifted from hurricane stories to scuba certification to the state of the Florida Marlins. Eventually it turned more personal. Harvey Marcus, who specialized in medical malpractice, asked, So, Jesse, currently, how are you making out with the ladies?

The thin, tautly muscled fisherman with dirty blond hair looked up from his plate, his emerald green eyes scrutinizing his inquisitor. Though not wanting to answer, he didn’t want to offend Evan’s colleague. He paused to swallow the last bite of his grilled cheese sandwich then replied, With all that’s been happening lately, I just haven’t had any time. It’s a 24/7 job just keeping my head above water.

Sensing his friend’s discomfort, Evan Adler changed subjects. As lunch wound down he called for the check. He picked up the entire tab and left a generous tip. When they rose from the table Evan Adler said, Jess, I forgot to tell you. I saw Susie last week. She covered my trial with the healthcare exec. She asked about you.

The younger associate couldn’t contain himself, Wait a minute. You know Susie Santiago? THE Susie Santiago? The Susie Santiago on Channel 4? The hottest babe on TV?

Know her? That’s Jesse’s ex-wife. They go back to high school. Then she was Susie Kilpatrick. Miami’s the one place in America where someone would change to a Latino surname just for career advancement.

Man, that must have been sweet. But dude, how did you ever let her go?

Jesse Syms shrugged, It wasn’t my choice. She said we were growing in different directions. Said we didn’t have the same goals anymore. I think she just didn’t like being seen in a twelve-year-old pickup that smelled of fish.

When they reached the street Evan Adler took his friend aside.

Listen Jess, I’ll have my bondsman take care of the fine. Pay me back when you can. If you need scuba gear you can borrow mine. You ought to hold it anyway. The only time I go diving anymore is with you. I don’t know what to say. This should have been a slam dunk. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. That asshole judge had a hard-on for you just because he can’t catch fish.

Hey, it’s not your fault. Just my luck. I get the only black judge in Dade County who doesn’t get seasick.

CHAPTER TWO

5:00 A.M. AWAKENED BY his biological clock Jesse Syms quickly showered and dressed. No matter the season, the time zone, day of the week, or when he went to bed, he always got up at the same time. He unlocked the chains securing his trailered boat, carefully backed out, and drove to the twenty-four hour Dunkin’ Donuts in North Miami Beach.

The doughnut shop bristled with its usual array of early morning customers. Working people, nurses, bus drivers, teachers, security guards, and cops coming off or preparing to start their shifts all sat at tables or waited in line. Jesse Syms nodded to some of the regulars and patiently waited to order. He paid for his #1 special, two old-fashioned plain crullers and a regular coffee, put change in the tip jar and found a seat.

He nibbled at a cruller and opened an old copy of Florida Sportsman magazine. It didn’t hold his attention. He couldn’t keep his mind off of the previous day. So implausible, so unreal. And to think how close he came to dying.

It started as a typical post-hurricane day. He couldn’t find any of his lobster traps. The fishing sucked. On the way in he had an idea. Maybe the fish took shelter in some of the wrecks during the hurricane. Maybe they liked their new habitat and lingered on. He set his G.P.S. and motored to the Orion. After setting anchor he decided to take a look. Instead of wasting time trolling he would dive down and see for himself. But when he attached his regulator to the tank the high-pressure hose blew, making scuba impossible. No matter. He’d free dive down and scope it out. He loaded his speargun and leisurely kicked down toward the bottom.

He knew from the green water at the surface that visibility would be down. He didn’t expect it to be so stirred up underwater two weeks post-hurricane. Large pieces of algae mixed with chunky particles of sand created a dark, silty vista. Jesse could see maybe ten feet. He glided over the deck then the port side, staying about fifteen feet off the hundred-foot bottom.

His hunch was right. The wreck teemed with life. He could make out thick schools of grunts and amberjacks. Taking aim at a nice sized mutton snapper, Jesse spotted to his left a stealthy moving shadow. There! A beautiful, huge black grouper! Sensing his presence, the fish gave him its tail. He wanted a perfect head shot but was almost out of breath. He quickly turned and fired.

Good news! The spear stuck in the midsection. Bad news! He didn’t stone it and could feel the fish violently thrashing while trying to swim toward the wreck. Lightheaded from lack of air, Jesse dropped the speargun and kicked rapidly upward.

He exploded through the surface gasping for breath. He took a couple of minutes to collect himself and get his breathing in sync. With any luck the weight of the spear would tire the fish out and he’d find it in the sand wedged against the hull.

He again kicked slowly downward, trying to conserve air. Squinting through the limited visibility he swam along the side until he spotted his speargun. Damn it! The grouper found a blast hole and was hiding inside the wreck. Despite the risk of entering an enclosed space a hundred feet down on a single breath of air, he really needed that fish. He squoze through the hole and felt along the line attached to the spear. The black, settled behind a bulkhead, began to quiver frenetically. It had just about wiggled off the spear when Jesse grabbed it in a bear hug. He stuck his fingers in its eyeballs to control it. Wiggling out of the blast hole was even harder than going in. He now had the grouper to contend with. Once out he kicked up like a maniac. He was in real oxygen deficit now, and still at least seventy feet down. On the verge of blacking out he felt a pronounced thump against his back. He turned to see a huge bull shark with its pectoral fins down, attracted to the blood trail from the grouper. The shark moved out of the range of visibility. Knowing the shark would make another run, he hugged the grouper with one hand and used the other to reel in the speargun. When the bull shark charged he jammed the gun so hard into its nose the muzzle cracked.

Somehow Jesse made it to the top. He just laid on the surface still holding the grouper. Lungs ready to burst, his head pounding from carbon dioxide buildup, he was too sapped to even worry about the shark. He eventually climbed into the boat, pulled anchor and headed in.

Reflecting on the ordeal, Jesse couldn’t help but swell with satisfaction. A close call for sure, but his catch in the ice chest was more than a nice payday. It was a beacon of hope. Selling it would fund two weeks of fuel and all the ice he needed. That he’d overcome so many obstacles and had a valuable prize to show for it must be an omen for the future. Yep, he could feel his luck ready to turn.

He also decided to forego selling the fish to his regular wholesaler. Another fisherman told him of a new Chinese restaurant/sushi bar just opened on West Dixie Highway paying top dollar for fresh fish, no questions asked. It was worth a try. He really needed the extra money.

In retrospect, he should have been more suspicious. The transaction just went down too easily. The little Chinese owner didn’t haggle over price or weight, quickly agreeing on sixty-one pounds, not sixty. He didn’t even complain about the body-shot. He simply took out his wallet and paid Jesse in cash. Simple as that.

As he exited out the back door he was quickly detained by a slew of uniforms.

I’m Lt. Mullen of the Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission. This is Officer Suarez from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. We are engaged in a joint operation formed to impede the sale of illegally obtained fish. Sir, you are on videotape engaged in the sale of a speared fish to a commercial enterprise, a violation of Florida Statute 68 Section 2015.

You’re kidding. This is some sort of practical joke….right?

Sir, we never joke.

Neither were they joking when they boarded his boat and seized his scuba gear. They didn’t want to hear how he got the fish free diving, not even using scuba. They simply issued a summons guaranteeing his appearance in court. If he refused they would confiscate his boat.

Yesterday forced him to face a sobering reality. He was a broke, homeless loser. It was time to change his life.

Fact. Since his apartment was officially declared uninhabitable after the first hurricane, he was living from friend to friend. He didn’t have the scratch for a security deposit and first and last month’s rent.

Fact. He didn’t have a credit card or checking account. His cell phone was turned off due to nonpayment.

Fact. Even if he wanted to run charters again his boat was in such disrepair nobody would hire him. And if anybody wanted to, how could they call him?

Fact. He owed money all over town; to Capt. Harry’s Fishing Supply, to the dive shop for air fills, to Performance Marine, and now to his friend Evan Adler. The bottom line was clear.

Fact. He could no longer make an independent living from the sea. His entire way of life was dead. He would have to get a real job. He had faced tough times before, but nothing like this. He could bemoan his luck. The whole fishing and lobster industries were hurting big time. But what good did it do? It sure didn’t pay bills. It was time. It was time to work for the man.

He lingered in thought over his coffee. No rush. The engine repair shop didn’t open until 8:00 A.M. After his last sip he glanced at his watch, stood, then dumped his tray. Richie and Santos usually opened up twenty minutes or so early. He would be there waiting.

Jesse turned onto 163rd Street, staying to the left until it merged with Route 9, the highway to nowhere. It actually ended in a place worse than nowhere. It ended in the crime-ridden, economically depressed city of Opa-Locka. He once asked Richie why they never relocated.

My dad opened this place when Opa-Locka was a haven for rednecks. It was so far out of the way but the rent was cheap. My dad insisted if you did quality work at a fair price people would find you. When the neighborhood turned he still wouldn’t move. He said emigrating from Cuba was move enough for a lifetime.

Richie’s dad was right. People found them. Performance Marine did the finest work and had the best reputation in town. Many of the customers were like him, longtimers who wouldn’t trust their engine work to anyone else. Also, they allowed him to use their tools and sold him parts at wholesale. And they extended him credit. But if Richie’s dad were alive he could never have imagined how drastically the area had changed. Their shop occupied a warehouse on Ali Baba Avenue, one block from the dreaded Triangle, the most dangerous section in a very dangerous city. Jesse Syms, ex-army ranger, put his hazard radar on high alert every time he ventured to Opa-Locka.

While driving he tried to think of some alternatives. Capt. Wayne of the Reward fleet might hire him to run a party boat for weeknight charters. Maybe as much as three or four times a week. Robert Arnove, owner of RJ Diving Ventures, worked full-time as a fireman. He could captain when Robert was on duty. That might be enough to keep fishing. The weather just started to turn colder. The sailfish would be moving in. In his bones Jesse could feel big runs of kingfish and yellowfin tuna close behind. If he could only hang on a little longer. Besides, Wayne and R.J. were friends. Running for them wouldn’t be like working at Fisher Island.

Captaining the Fisher Island Ferry represented rock bottom. Eight-hour shifts going back and forth from the island to the terminal on Miami Beach. Load up with $100,000 cars at one site, then motor across to the other. Load and unload. Back and forth. Every fifteen minutes, back and forth. Every trip for eight hours was monotonously the same. He subbed as relief captain one time, by far the most tedious day of his life. Yet the pay was good and steady. He would get health care benefits for the first time in his life and it was available. His roommate of the moment was senior purser and made it clear the job was Jesse’s if he wanted it.

Lost in thought, Jesse didn’t notice a bronze metallic muscle car tailgating him. When it pulled alongside he was startled by both the throaty resonance of the engine and the thunderous reverb from the super-sized sound system. Sunlight reflected off the highly polished reverse spinners, temporarily blinding him. The muscle car pulled within centimeters of the car in front of it. Blocked from passing, it pulled back behind Jesse’s trailered boat and passed him on the shoulder. The muscle car zoomed by at very high speed, continuing to tailgate and weave in and out of traffic.

Must have just made bail, Jesse muttered to himself as he could see the North Dade Detention Center in his rear view mirror. Before completing his thought he heard the booming, sickening clang of metal on metal. The muscle car lost control, crossed the divider into oncoming traffic, and sideswiped a compact car, sending it off road right into the lake bordering the highway. Jesse quickly braked onto the median. He pushed open the door, remembering to grab the little spare air bottle he kept under the seat. He dashed across the highway just in time to see the green compact slowly submerge out of sight.

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CHAPTER THREE

BROWN WATER. IT SPEWED up from the manmade lake created for landfill. Jesse Syms kicked off his topsiders and dove down in pursuit of the green compact. Murky under ideal conditions, the lake now offered zero visibility. As the car sank into the clay bottom, Jesse searched for it by feel. After a minute of flailing through the floating muck he bumped into what he assumed to be the roof. He groped around the frame until he located the driver side door. He tugged on it with all his strength. No good. The power locks shorted out when wet, sealing the door shut. With his left hand he grabbed the side mirror and, with the aluminum spare air bottle in his right, smashed the window. As he reached inside a violently out-of-control body resisted his help. Pushed backward, he felt shards of glass from the shattered window penetrate his neck and right elbow. The spare air fell from his grasp. He needed air but reached back through the window. He struggled around the squirming body, groping for the seat belt mechanism. He popped the release, grabbed the body under the arms, and jerked back mightily. While reaching across the chest he could tell the body was a female, a very large female. Jesse was way past out of air but kept straining to squeeze the woman through the window. He gave one last pull, freeing her from the car. With a death grip on her wrists he fought his way to the surface.

Total pandemonium. The woman, a black woman, snorted and coughed and gagged and wailed unintelligibly. She too bled profusely from her face and forehead. Shouts and screams came from the growing throng at lakeside. Jesse swam on his back, pushing the woman’s head above water. Far away sirens blared. Some onlookers waded out to assist with the rescue. When he neared shore two men grabbed the woman and tried to calm her down.

You’re alive! You’re alive! Try and take deep breaths!

M..bay. My bays! Help me, the woman slurred through coughs.

Slow down. Slow down. I can’t understand you!

My babies! Lord Jesus! You gots to save my babies!

My babies…..the words reverberated through Jesse’s brain. Without hesitation, he swam back down to the sunken compact, this time not as easily. He ears wouldn’t equalize as usual, slowing his descent. He felt dizzy, maybe ear-related, maybe due to blood loss. But the thought of children remaining in that deathtrap spurred him to fight through the pain.

Again he entered through the driver side window and again felt his torso shredded by broken glass. If anything, the visibility was worse. He reached over the seat and felt a body; the body of a child. A good sign. The body had movement but offered no resistance. He released the seat belt, then pawed to his left, locating another child’s body. It too had movement. He released the seat belt and now faced the formidable task of getting two kids out of the car through the muck and up