To Deke, it almost felt like the Sword of Damocles was hanging over him, with only a single thread sparing him from being impaled. Even though he and Gina and the Welcome Mat team had continued with their lawsuit preparations, everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop. There was little question that Judge Irwin was going to come down hard on Deke, but no one could predict the severity of his response, or when it would happen.
Tired of the wait, and knowing he needed a pressure release, Deke was more than looking forward to his favorite stress-buster. Once a month he and his good friend Robin Clark went out spearfishing.
“All set?”
Robin finished stowing the gear and saluted Deke in the wheel-house. “Aye, aye, captain.”
The irony was that in real life Robin was a commercial airline pilot whom others called captain. Out on the sea, though, Deke took the helm. For almost twenty years, the two men had been diving together.
Dawn was still a few minutes off as Deke piloted their dive boat out from the gray harbor. From experience, Deke knew it was best to get to their dive spot early. Their destination was fifteen miles offshore, a spot where a Navy transport boat had been sunk in ninety feet of water more than a quarter of a century earlier. Wreck diving was popular in Florida, with the artificial reefs attracting clusters of fish.
Once clear of the harbor, Deke put the twin Yamaha 250 horsepower outboard engines to good use. In the calm waters, the thirty-two-foot dive boat sailed along at a fast clip.
Over the loud motors, Robin shouted, “Wonder if we’ll see your colleague today.”
Deke knew where Robin was going and didn’t bite. That didn’t stop his friend from saying, “At least you don’t have to worry about him biting you, what with professional courtesy and all.”
It was the punch line to one of the oldest lawyer jokes in the world; what surprised Deke was that it had taken Robin this long to use it. The “colleague” his friend was referencing was a twelve-foot bull shark the two men had encountered during several of their dives. The much more common apex predators were the barracuda. There were always plenty of them hanging around in the vicinity of the old sunken boat. The presence of the bull shark was always good to get their adrenaline going.
“Nowadays it’s debatable whether it’s lawyers or sharks who have a worse PR problem,” Deke yelled.
Healthy oceans needed sharks as an essential part of the ecosystem, Deke knew, just as healthy societies needed lawyers defending the rule of law. He was always dumbfounded at how most people never understood that connection until they, or a loved one, desperately needed to retain a lawyer for one dire circumstance or another.
“Maybe lawyers should do the TV equivalent of Shark Week. That programming has changed a lot of negative opinions toward sharks.”
“Couldn’t hurt, and maybe it could dispel some of the legal stereotypes that plague the profession. But I bet even that wouldn’t stop people from calling us and asking to be represented by the biggest and meanest shark in our firm. That, or pit bull.”
Deke knew Robin was just kidding with his shark reference, but the lawyer stereotypes still grew old. The powerful forces that lawyers opposed had done a good job painting the legal profession as rapacious and predatory. Having worked in the trenches for as long as he had, Deke knew just how influential and deep-rooted the opposition was. There were plenty of forces allied against the rule of law. If lawyers were to fail, autocracy and corporatocracy would win the day. There were some days when Deke thought that already seemed to have happened.
Over the noise of the motors, Robin shouted, “I suppose it’s better to be feared than loved.”
Deke offered a noncommittal nod. For this morning at least, he didn’t want to think about being a lawyer. His resolve lasted about ten seconds, until he started dwelling on the drowned woman. Carol Morris was moving mountains trying to get a positive ID on the woman they believed was Karina Boyko.
As the sun began to rise, the waters seemed to transform in color, going from a dark navy blue to a bluish green. With the calm seas around them, Deke knew that by the time they arrived at their dive spot, the visibility would be upward of sixty feet. As the shoreline grew farther and farther behind them, Deke experienced the kind of calm he was never able to obtain on land. It was his form of detox, Deke liked to tell others, with the worries and pressures lifting from him.
The tranquil waters allowed them to make good time. As they approached the wreck site, they observed that they were the sole boat for as far as the eye could see. The anchor was dropped, and final preparations for the dive were made. Deke and Robin knew they shouldn’t be diving without a third person staying in the boat, a role usually filled by Deke’s son Andy when he was available. Such a precaution made sense in the event anything went wrong during the dive, but today they were violating that fundamental rule. Their concession to safety would be to strictly limit their dive times.
Both men were wearing a spring suit, or what Robin referred to as a “shorty.” The neoprene wet suits didn’t completely cover their arms or legs, allowing for easier movement. The spring suits were perfect for the Gulf’s warm waters. It was only after they descended below sixty feet that the waters started getting nippy. For today’s dive they had decided they wouldn’t be swimming in the interior of the old navy boat, but instead would be circling around its exterior, much in the manner of the prey they were hunting. Their routine was to do two dives, each twenty minutes in duration. Depending on the conditions, they sometimes traveled a short distance away to another favored spot for their second dive. That dive was for sightseeing; the first dive was for bragging rights.
“I’ll remind you that in our fish-off contest I’m ahead four to three,” Robin said.
Although in his mid-fifties, Robin’s competitive juices still ran deep. His idea of recreation was doing triathlons. Every time the men went out to dive, each of them vied to land the biggest fish. This was their eighth excursion of the year.
“We’ll be tied after today. And speaking of reminding, let’s not forget that last year you looked stunning in orange and blue.”
Robin was a graduate of Florida State; Deke of the University of Florida. On the big game day in November, the loser in their annual fish tallies had to wear the victor’s school colors.
“I can’t wait for your walk of shame this year. You can help cheer the Seminoles on to victory.”
Deke waved a dismissive hand, then both men turned to checking their equipment. As many times as Deke had been diving, he always felt that same thrill of excitement just prior to entering the water. On the surface the diving gear felt cumbersome, but once underwater Deke was in his element. They clipped their lines to the two fish buoys and tossed them into the water. Each man offered the other a thumbs-up. Robin went into the water first, and Deke followed.
Before starting his descent, Deke took his bearings. He made a point of taking measured breaths, letting his body adjust to his surroundings. For Deke, it always felt like a Wizard of Oz moment, going from black-and-white Kansas to the striking colors and unusual sights of Oz. Still, you had to be mindful of any potential witches.
Deke checked his watch, then started down.
Their prey was amberjack. The state of Florida had a bag limit of one; for Deke and Robin, that meant making the best of their opportunity. State law mandated that the fish be at least thirty-four inches long, but to win bragging rights for the day would likely require taking a fish that weighed at least fifteen pounds. The guessing game was to take your shot early, or wait for just the right fish to come along.
Now that they were drawing near to the sunken boat, they could see there was no shortage of potential prey. Both divers stayed within sight of one another, but not so close as to impede the other’s hunt. Deke’s attention was drawn by a familiar flash of silver blue and the telltale brown band over the eye of the approaching fish. The amberjack drew closer, coming into range. Deke liked to take the shot from no more than five feet away. He sighted with the tip of his spear shaft, but then lowered his speargun. The amberjack was certainly legal in size, but he knew it wouldn’t tip the scales at much more than ten pounds.
Deke was a gambler; he was willing to wait to try and get the bigger fish. Sometimes his strategy paid off; sometimes, by not taking the early opportunity, he ended up being skunked. Robin always thought it was better to take the sure shot, and five minutes into the dive he landed his fish. From a distance, Deke could see it was good-sized, a minimum fifteen pounds. He watched Robin quickly gather in the amberjack and put it into the fish bag that was attached to the float line. It was important to get your fish squared away as soon as possible; leaving a floundering or bleeding fish in the water was sure to attract predators. Nearby, watching with interest, Deke sighted half a dozen barracuda, some as big as four feet. They weren’t a threat to their person, even if their big, bad teeth suggested otherwise, but they would happily snag any unsecured fish.
The clock, Deke knew, was running. Instead of trying to hunt down the fish, Deke settled on the bottom, positioning himself near the wreck. There wasn’t a game trail per se, but the fish were creatures of habit that liked to move along familiar routes.
Deke didn’t move; air bubbles were his only giveaway. Amberjack came his way. Some gave him a wide berth, others came close enough for Deke to get a clean shot, but they were clearly undersized compared to Robin’s catch.
From the corner of his eye, Deke was able to catch the time on his watch. He was almost at the fifteenth minute of the dive. Taking measured breaths from his Nitrox mixture of air, Deke knew he still had at least a quarter of a tank. The more immediate concern was he only had five minutes to land his fish.
He continued to remain as motionless as possible. The passage of time was trying his patience, but he didn’t alter his hunting plan.
Patience didn’t come easy to Deke, either in his job or in his fishing, but he had learned that sometimes it was a strategic necessity to let events unravel.
An amberjack slowly came his way. Deke’s breath caught. This could be it. But as the fish neared, Deke could see that it wasn’t large enough to win the day. Still, it would mean plenty of fish for weekend kabobs. Some fishermen mistakenly believed amberjack didn’t make for good eating; those same fishermen had clearly never dined on Deke’s marinated amberjack kabobs.
The shot was there. Deke’s trigger finger tightened, but he decided not to take it. There was still time, and Deke wasn’t yet ready to make his concession speech.
He saw the shadow before he could make out the body, a moving patch of darkness that appeared more spectral than substance. As the figure materialized, the silver-blue fish showed itself more clearly. It was a big amberjack, at least twenty pounds. Deke willed it to come closer. Adrenaline surged through his body, but he remained still, barely blinking. The big fish didn’t seem to notice him. Maybe he didn’t register as a threat. Maybe the fish thought it was well out of harm’s way.
Twenty feet, ten. Just a little closer for a clean gill shot, Deke thought.
The fish met its end at eighteen minutes and forty-eight seconds into their dive.
* * *
As Deke made his victory official by weighing the fish, Robin kept talking about Deke’s “lucky win.”
“Fluke win you might say,” Deke said. “By the way, we’re looking at twenty pounds, four ounces. Your fish is just under sixteen pounds.”
“You made that shot at the last possible second.”
“There was plenty of time still on the clock. And speaking of a ticking clock, I wouldn’t wait on making your purchase for the big game. There’s a sale going on right now at the University of Florida gift shop. What do you think about modeling a Gator dress at this year’s party?”
Robin made it clear he didn’t think much of that idea, which only made the grin on Deke’s face larger as he iced and stowed the fish. Both men recovered from their dive by hydrating with water. They usually rested for at least an hour before their second dive. In the last few years, they’d started to devote a part of each trip to spearing as many lionfish as possible. The invasive species was wreaking havoc on Florida’s reefs and fisheries.
Deke tried to keep diving sacrosanct and not let business intrude, but he still found himself reaching for his phone to scan the morning’s texts and emails. One of the texts was from Diana. She knew he was out diving that morning and wouldn’t have encroached on his private time without good reason. He read her note, ground his teeth together, and said, “Dammit.”
“What is it?”
“We’re not the only ones out spearfishing. A federal judge is trying to impale me with a motion to show cause. But if he thinks I’m going to be easy to land, he’s about to learn differently.”
“You want to go in?”
“It wouldn’t be fair to cut our trip short,” Deke said.
“Your last-second win already ruined my day. There’s no need to prolong my misery.”