Sunday Morning Going Up

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Later there was a knock at the door, and when I anxiously yanked it open, I saw a waiter with a tray of food. "The manager thought you might like to have something to eat, sir," he told me. I tipped the man and asked him to thank the manager for his thoughtfulness.

But even though I'd had nothing to eat since breakfast, I had no appetite and could only nibble on the food they'd provided. Every few minutes I'd get up and wander over to the balcony to look out at the Gulf. Though it was now dark, I kept hoping I'd see the lights of the helicopter or perhaps a rescue boat headed our way. But each time there was nothing.

Between my anxiety and the long nap I'd taken earlier, there was no way I could get to sleep, so to give myself something to do I began to pack up some of our bags. When I bent down to pick something off the floor, I noticed a wisp of lace under the bed. It was a pair of Felicia's panties, and as I picked them up, I saw that the crotch was crusty.

Suddenly the memory of last night's sexual games came back to me with full force, and I was overwhelmed with shame. Instead of being with my wife, I'd spent the last night of her life with another woman! That, in turn, made me think of poor, passionate Mia – she was gone and likely dead as well. If only I'd been with them, I might have done something to prevent the accident, or perhaps rescue them. Then a wave of resentment swept over me: if Mia hadn't exhausted me, I'd have been out there with them, and I might have been able to save Felicia. Next my thoughts turned to Don, and I realized that he must be going through the same agony as I.

I collapsed on the bed and began to weep, my emotions constantly flickering from guilt to grief, from anger to despair. It was the worst night of my life.

As I lay there, I kept remembering details about my life together with Felicia. Both of us had gone to Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton to play soccer on scholarship. That's how we met: she came up to me one day after practice and began talking about tactics. She really looked good in her soccer shorts and jersey, and I couldn't take my eyes off her. We wound up dating our last two years of college and getting married right after graduation.

I began to understand Felicia better after meeting her family. Her parents, I learned, were fervent anti-communists. Her father's family had owned a sugar plantation in Cuba back when Batista was in power. But after Fidel Castro's revolution swept to power in 1959, the landowners eventually lost their plantation and were forced to work in what had been their own fields. In desperation, her grandparents fled the island in a small boat and arrived penniless in Miami.

Felicia's mother was born in Miami and grew up in extreme poverty. She and her husband, Felicia's father, both worked in menial positions to make it possible for Felicia to go to college. As a result, Felicia was absolutely driven to succeed; she told me once when we were dating that after seeing how her grandparents and parents had been forced to live, she had vowed she would never be poor again.

That memory made me feel even worse about how our lives together had unfolded. The housing bust of 2008 had been especially hard on Florida, and my thriving construction company suddenly teetered on the brink of bankruptcy. For a while we had to cease all new construction and for a couple of years struggled to survive on repair jobs. Felicia and I were forced to sell our own home and move into a small condominium just to get by. I felt like a failure, but Felicia never had a word of complaint. Her support, both emotional and financial, had been critical to our pulling through and starting to grow again. And now I might never get the chance to truly show my love and gratitude to her.

I had both slipped away from the church in college, but now in the long night I found myself repeating all the Ave Marias and Pater Nosters of my childhood, asking for a miracle. It was all I had left.

I must have dozed off towards morning because I was awakened by a gentle knock on the door. When I rushed to open it, another Coast Guard officer was standing there. For a moment, hope soared within me, but the solemn expression on his face quickly crushed it.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Salazar, but the decision has been made to terminate the search for survivors," he said in an emotionless voice.

"But you can't do that," I shouted. "It's light now, and it'll be easier to find them. You've got to keep going."

He shook his head patiently. "Mr. Salazar, our boats have special radar to search the water's surface, and our helicopters have got infrared scanners to look for heat signatures. We've been combing the area all night – if there was anything or anyone to find, we'd have done so by now."

I must have had a stubborn expression on my face because he went on. "Sir, I've investigated a lot of boat explosions, but this was one of the worst I've seen. It's extremely unlikely that either of the two passengers survived the initial blast and fire."

Then, seeing the ashen expression on my face, he reached out to grasp my shoulder. "It's also extremely unlikely that either of them suffered. A blast big enough to blow that boat apart – well, it's likely they never felt a thing."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to force them to go back out on the water and find my Felicia. I wanted to die myself. But all I did was stand there and stare at the floor. Finally, I looked up at him. "Thank you Officer, for doing all you could," I said. He shook my hand, turned and solemnly walked away. I closed the door and sank down on the floor.

I'm not sure how long I lay there, but I was startled to hear another knock at my door. When I opened it, there were two men in uniform outside. "Mr. Salazar?" one of them asked. When I nodded, he asked again, "Andrés Salazar?"

"Yes," I said, "that's me. Who are you?"

He reached in his pocket and pulled out his identification. "We're from the Citrus County Sheriff's Department. We'd like to talk to you about what happened out in the Gulf yesterday."

"Alright," I said resignedly, "come on in." This was the last thing I wanted to do right now, but I guess there had to be some kind of official police inquiry.

We sat down in the living area of the suite, and the deputy asked, "Where were you when the 'accident' occurred?"

I thought the question was an odd one and I didn't like the way he emphasized the word "accident," but I told him I had been in the room between breakfast and about 4:00 p.m.

"That's six hours," he said. "What were you doing in your room all that time?" he asked.

"I was taking a nap," I told him, my irritation growing.

"You must have been partying pretty hard the night before." he said with a smirk. I just stared at him.

"Did anyone see you while you were 'taking a nap,'" the deputy asked in a sardonic tone of voice.

Keeping myself under control, I managed to respond, "Not that I know of. I was asleep the whole time."

"So there's no one who can verify your whereabouts between 10:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. Is that correct, Seen-yore Sal-a-zar?" he said, stretching out the syllables in a mocking drawl.

I stood up abruptly. I'd heard that condescending tone of voice before. It hadn't happened in a long time, but it still had the ability to touch a nerve.

South Florida is heavily Latino; in fact, almost 60% of the population of Dade County is Hispanic, with almost half of those foreign-born. But as you move north, that percentage drops precipitously, and, especially in the more rural areas, it isn't uncommon to encounter some of the old prejudices. But that didn't mean I had to accept it.

"What is this all about? My wife has just died in a terrible accident and you're asking questions like I'm a suspect in a crime!" I said angrily.

"You're the one who used the term 'crime,' Seen-yore," the other deputy said.

That was the last straw as far as I was concerned. "Officers, I know my rights, and I am not going to answer any more questions without legal counsel present," I said firmly.

The two men looked at each other. The first one closed his notebook. "I guess you know how this looks, Señor Salazar."

"It looks like a U.S. citizen who knows his Constitutional rights," I snapped back at him.

He shrugged his shoulders and the two deputies headed for the door. "Very well, then, we'll expect you and your attorney at the Citrus County Sheriff's Office in Inverness tomorrow," he said, and then left.

It took me several minutes to calm down; then I grabbed the phone and called José Pasquo,my attorney back in Orlando. When I told his secretary who was calling, she put me through immediately. "Andy," he said when he came on the line, "we were all shocked when we heard the news. Please accept my deepest condolences on the loss of your lovely wife."

"It doesn't take long for bad news to travel," I thought.

"That's why I'm calling, José. I'm still here at the Paradiso Resort and I've just had two bigots from the local Sheriff's Department questioning me like I'm a suspect in a crime. I'm in Anglo country here, and I think I need legal counsel pronto."

José thought for a moment and then said, "Look, I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding, but just in case we need to get you someone local, somebody with standing in the court up there. Let me make some phone calls and I'll get back to you."

I thanked him and slumped down in a chair. I could feel my head throbbing -- this nightmare was turning worse by the minute.

In about an hour, the phone rang, and I eagerly answered. It was José. "I have good news and bad news. Let me start with the bad. How well did you know Don and Mia Cavendish?" he asked me.

"We only met them this weekend."

"Well, Mia Cavendish is the former Mia Reynolds. Her father is one of the richest and most influential men in Marion County. He owns the largest thoroughbred horse farm in Ocala. The bottom line is that none of the major law firms in central Florida will touch your case. They're all beholding to Mr. Reynolds," he told me.

"Mierda!" I exclaimed. "So what do I do now?"

"Well, the good news is that I've found an attorney in Inverness to represent you. Her name is Gina Ellerby. The bad news is she's pretty young and inexperienced, but several people in the area recommended her," he explained. "I'm sure she'll be able to get you through this just fine."

"Okay," I said, "if you think she can protect me from the bigots up her, that's good enough for me."

"Good," he replied, "because I've already contacted her office. She's going to meet you there at the resort in the morning, and the two of you can drive over to Inverness to meet with the sheriff's department. I'm sure you and she will get everything squared away."

He paused. "And Andy, once again, I am so sorry about your loss. Please let me know if there's anything more I can do to help."

"Thank you, José," I replied with difficulty. My emotions were raw; any reminder, it seemed, could set them off.

The resort management called a little later to tell me that I was welcome to stay another night if I needed to do so, and I thanked them for their generosity. Then I called my office to check on how things were going. Even in this time of grief, I knew that I couldn't neglect the business.

Once I was up to date on the projects we had going, I spent the rest of the afternoon in the painful process of arranging for a memorial service for Felicia. I felt I owed it to her friends and family, as well as to her. Then I spent another painful, sleepless night, trying to make sense of what had happened.

After breakfast the next morning I waited in the room for my new attorney to arrive. When I heard a somewhat timid knock on the door, I opened it to reveal a young, fresh-faced woman. "Good morning, Mr. Salazar," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Gina Ellerby, your attorney."

As she walked into the room, I couldn't help but stare. José had warned me that she was young, but this woman looked like she might have just graduated from high school! She was attractive enough, but she reminded me of one of those pubescent starlets that the Disney Channel seems to churn out like clockwork.

She turned around and caught me staring at her. "Is everything alright, Mr. Salazar?" she asked in a high-pitched voice that sounded like a little girl's.

"Excuse me," I said, "but do you mind telling me how old you are?" I knew it was rude of me, but I couldn't help myself.

Her face turned red and she drew herself up to her full height, although that didn't help much. "I know that I look younger than I am and that I have a childish voice, Mr. Salazar. But I'm 27 years old, I graduated from law school, I passed the bar exam and I have been accepted to practice law in the State of Florida. Now if that isn't good enough for you, I'll leave and you can find another attorney to represent you," she said hotly.

I held up my hands, both to stop her from leaving and in apology for my rudeness. "I'm sorry, Ms. Ellerby, it's just that you took me by surprise. Look, we've gotten off to a bad start – let's try again. I'm Andrés Salazar, but my friends call me Andy. I'd like you to represent me."

She took a deep breath and then extended her hand to shake mine. "Apology accepted," she said. "I'd like to call you Andy, and you can call me Gina. I'm looking forward to working with you. Now, Mr. Pasquo gave me a summary of your situation, but I'd like to hear the details from you."

"Well," I began, "Felicia and I drove up here on Thursday . . ."

"Oh, Andy," she interrupted, "what am I thinking? I'm so sorry about your wife. I meant to say something when I first came in."

I nodded; at that point there wasn't much more to be said except to thank her for her concern. Then I went on with a quick rundown of the events of the weekend, although I didn't talk about our little swap with Don and Mia on Saturday night. Somehow I felt like it would be disloyal to Felicia's memory to talk about that.

Gina took notes as I went through my recitation, and when I had finished it was time to get started on the 30-minute drive over to Inverness. Gina volunteered to drive, and as we headed east on FL-44, she told me that she didn't anticipate a problem. "I've already had a look at the Coast Guard report on line, and they're showing this as a boating accident. I'm guessing our session today is just routine to close the books on the case. You had the misfortune of encountering a couple of rednecks, but don't worry: they won't try that with me around."

I was starting to feel better about having Gina as my attorney. She'd obviously done her homework, and I liked her spirit.

When we got to the Inverness Sheriff's Department, it was Sheriff McGee himself who wanted to talk to us. It quickly became obvious that this was not to be a routine session. He began by going over the same questions his deputies had asked about my whereabouts on the day of the accident. I felt very uncomfortable having to admit that there was no way I could prove that I had been in the room all day.

"You say you were taking a nap from about 10:00 in the morning to almost 4:00 in the afternoon. That's a mighty long nap – you must have been pretty tired out from the night before," the Sheriff remarked, raising his eyebrows.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat; this was an area I'd wanted to avoid. "Well, we'd stayed pretty late at the nightclub dancing," I said.

He made a note on his pad. "So how would you characterize your relationship with your late wife, Mr. Salazar?" he asked, catching me off guard.

"Good, Sheriff, very good," I said quickly. "I mean we had our disagreements like every couple does, but we had a great marriage."

Gina gave me a sharp look, and I realized that she didn't like the way I'd answered the question.

But the Sheriff just nodded sagely. "So you were a happily married, faithful husband?" he asked, and I quickly nodded my agreement. "Then why was it, Mr. Salazar, that members of the resort staff saw you leave the nightclub that night in the company of Mia Cavendish rather than your wife? Why was it that you and she retired to her beach cottage and were not seen to re-emerge until the following morning?"

As I hemmed and hawed, I could see Gina's shocked expression out of the corner of my eye. I realized belatedly how suspicious my efforts to protect Felicia's reputation sounded. The only thing I could do now was to come clean about the whole swinging encounter. "Look, Sheriff, Felicia and I had discussed trying to spice up our love-life a little, and when the opportunity came up with Don and Mia, we decided to try it." I went on to give him an overview of our encounter, omitting only the details of what Mia and I had done together.

When I'd finished, I added, "I hope you'll be discreet about this. It would be pretty hurtful to Felicia's parents to learn about this, especially at this time. I'm sure you understand."

He didn't respond, but made another note on his pad. Then he shifted gears.

"Did you and Mrs. Salazar have life insurance policies?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No, we never bought any. I've always thought they were a bad investment."

"So you had nothing to gain financially if your wife were to pass away unexpectedly?"

"No, absolutely not!" I said angrily.

"Not even the accidental death and dismemberment policy that your wife's employer provided?" he asked

"Oh," I said in confusion, "I forgot about that." Even as I spoke, I could see Gina looking at me in consternation.

"I guess you must have forgotten about the fact that your wife increased the coverage on that policy to $1 million just last month," the Sheriff continued matter-of-factly.

"Felicia said something about doing that, but I had no idea she'd increased it that much," I said hastily. Even as I spoke I realized how lame that must have sounded.

Again the sheriff jumped to another topic. "Let's go back to Mia Cavendish for a minute. How long had the two of you known each other?"

"This weekend was the first time I'd ever met her," I said quickly.

"Can you prove that, Mr. Salazar?" he shot back.

Before I could think of anything to say, Gina jumped in. "Come on, Sheriff, you know it's impossible to prove a negative."

The Sheriff had been on a roll and was clearly annoyed at Gina's interruption. "Now see here, little girl . . ." he began, but at his words Gina's face flushed and she jumped to her feet. The Sheriff had also arisen, and Gina stalked over and got right in his face.

"Sheriff McGee, I am a member of the bar association and an officer of the court. You will either treat me with the respect I am due or I'll have you up on charges!"

As she spoke, the Sheriff involuntarily began to back away from the angry young woman, but she kept moving forward until he was backed against the wall. She got as close as she could to him without touching him, and the 250-lb. man actually seemed intimidated by the tiny woman who might have been half his weight.

"I think my client has had enough of your badgering and illogical questions for one day," she went on. "So unless you intend to arrest him and charge him with a crime, we'll be leaving. If you want to talk to him again, you know where to find me."

The Sheriff looked over at me with a canny expression. "No, you're free to go, Mr. Salazar. You can even go back to Orlando, but don't even think about trying to leave the State of Florida."

With that, Gina turned, grabbed me by the arm and half dragged me out of the Sheriff's office. When we got back on the highway, I turned to look at her. "Wow!" I said, "remind me never to upset you. The way you handled the Sheriff . . ."