Antonio knew he had to work fast. The security guard had just passed by on his golf cart and he’d be making the rounds again in thirty minutes. Antonio had studied the plans for the plant carefully, and knew exactly what to do. In fact, he thought it was almost too easy.
He found the valve handle to shut off the flow of wastewater. He had only moments before the sensors would activate the flow-rate alarms. He jerked hard, freeing the surrounding rust as the handle gave way.
Hands shaking and sweaty in the summer heat, he grabbed a wrench out of his bag and loosened the line that normally sent wastewater used in the reclamation process back to the beginning of the plant for re-treatment. He connected it straight to the stormwater system. The smell was overwhelming and he felt his stomach tighten in a knot as he almost wretched.
The effects were going to be a disaster on the ecosystem of Tampa Bay. He was only too aware of the devastation that was about to be unleashed. “Morality is in the eye of the beholder,” he mused.
“What else was I supposed to do?” he kept thinking. Maybe he kept repeating that thought to help steady his nerves, but probably more to help justify to himself what he was doing. “It was the last resort,” he rationalized.
A few years ago, the city of St. Petersburg spilled 2 million gallons of wastewater into Tampa Bay, with absolutely no consequences. Of course, the citizens were upset, but it didn’t take long to fade after a few news cycles. Even the Facebook trolls seemed to have let it go now.
He'd tried everything he could think of before coming to this decision.
He'd leaked documents to the media, highlighting a very cozy relationship between the city and the developers who were gobbling up every square inch of the city. Nothing had changed.
He'd leaked a report from the city’s wastewater management director, after revealing how closing the Albert Whitted sewage treatment plant would overwhelm the city’s three remaining plants. Nothing had changed.
He'd leaked a report from the same director after “mysterious” colors were seen flowing from the Northeast treatment plant. Nothing; every time.
Sure, a few people were vocal about demanding answers, but they never got satisfaction. What else could he possibly do?
Antonio quickly threw his tools back in his bag, stuffed in his gloves, and ran back through the unlocked gate to jump on his bike and take off for home.
He locked his bike downstairs and tried to sneak quietly up to his apartment. He didn't want anyone to see him coming in tonight, as he was sure they were on to him now. They had started putting the pieces together not long ago. He thought for sure he was being watched.
Antonio saw the same faces recently, although he had never see them before, in all of the same spots: the Kahwa coffee shop he always stopped at on his way into work, and Flamingos on the way home, where an outsider stood out like a sore thumb. Antonio concluded he was being followed.
…..
It all started a few years ago. He had gotten a job with the City of St. Petersburg through a friend. Sure, it wasn’t the best paying job, or the most glamorous, but he held his head high and knew that he was doing his part in making his city the best.
He mainly attended to the city staff’s administrative needs, but part of his job was to scan and electronically file all documents from city meetings, storing them on the city’s secure servers before shredding the documents for recycling.
Over the last couple of months, he started noticing a alarming trend. Documents that were sent down with red flags were meant for immediate destruction, not to be filed electronically. Normally this would not raise any suspicion because he routinely destroyed meaningless notes and such, but what set him off was the surprisingly sensitive nature of these documents.
Antonio noticed that some of these papers were from private meetings at the highest levels of city staff, which according to the state's "Sunshine Law" were supposed to remain on file for public access.
He didn’t know what to do. Certainly, he couldn’t question the destruction of the files because he didn’t want to lose his job.
That day, without thinking, he quickly shoved a pile of documents into his backpack. He didn’t really know what he was going to do with them then, he just knew he had to grab them.
Riding home on his bike, the backpack burned hot on his back. Thoughts flashed through his mind. What the hell am I doing? Damn, what a bonehead move! I could be fired or even go to jail! He pedaled faster.
He got to his apartment sweating and quickly ran up the flight of stairs. He was shaking trying to unlock his front door, but finally he got it open and bolted inside.
He ran over to his tiny kitchen table. With trembling hands he unzipped his backpack and ripped the files out, dropping them on the table as though they would bite him. “Take it easy Antonio,” he said to himself.
He stood up and grabbed a St. Pete Orange Wheat out of the fridge and slammed it down. The icy beer felt numbing going down his throat and helped cool him down. He quickly finished it and grabbed another one.
Finally, his hands stopped shaking as he sat back down at the table. His window air conditioner struggled to keep up with Florida’s brutal summer heat, and barely kept the room a few degrees cooler than the outside. A fan slowly turning on top of the fridge was the only thing keeping the air moving in the room, which tonight felt more still than any other night.
He opened the manilla folder and removed the sheaf of papers inside. Missing from these documents was the official seal of the city on top. These documents were never meant to be filed and the people in those meetings knew it.
The first few pages were engineering plans, which were way above his head, but he was able to discern that they dealt with water flow—or more specifically, wastewater flow. Everything looked fine until he got to the next few pages. The Albert Whitted wastewater plant had a big red X drawn through it.
The dates didn't make sense to him. These plans were dated 2010. He knew that Mayor Cook had ordered the closing of the plant in 2011, and then Mayor Wiseman had done so in 2015. Why were there plans with a big red X, dated a year prior to Cook’s decision? he wondered.
The next few pages were mainly handwritten notes, lots of calculations, and numbers with two and three commas in them. The words “Bay Vista Towers” were on the top of each page, which didn’t mean anything until Antonio got to the last page.
There it was… the smoking gun. An architect's rendering of a 35-story condo building, soaring above the land where the Albert Whitted treatment plant used to be. Alberto jumped up out of his chair, knocking his beer onto the floor.
He grabbed the towel hanging from the oven door and wiped up the beer that had spilled on the floor, head still spinning from what he had seen. “There’s no way!” he said loudly.
He frantically searched the drawer next to the stove until he found his Newports and a lighter. He lit the cigarette, hearing the tobacco crackle as it burned on his first drag. The acrid smoke filled his mouth, then lungs, tasting both minty and bitter at the same time. He had given these up months ago, but now was clearly the time for one.
There is was, right in front of him. Plans to build a massive condo tower on the wastewater treatment site. He knew that a project like that would bring millions to the developer, but there’s no way that the public would have ever been convinced of such a project at their expense. How could anyone ever get away with this? he thought.
He accidentally dropped an ash on the floor and quickly wiped it up with the towel. He ran the water from the sink and stuck the still-burning cigarette under it, extinguishing it immediately with a subtle hiss. He threw it into the bin and sat back down at the table.
Antonio’s head was spinning, because he knew all of the players. He knew that this actually could get done, with the right incentives to the right people. Why haven't they done it then? he thought. He didn’t know, but if anyone could find out, it was him.
…..
The next day at work, Antonio had a more harried pace than usual. He didn’t stop for pleasantries with the guard downstairs. He just breezed through with a small wave and a smile and headed for the elevator.
He immediately turned on his computer, and as the screens came to life he typed in his password to access the city permitting department archives. He typed in “Bay Vista Towers” and immediately found the file. The plans were in there but no permit had been applied for, so there was no public record entered yet.
It slowly dawned on him. He switched to the other monitor and started searching city regulations on the laws regarding a city employee investing in private development projects. Code 35.4, subsection B clearly stated: “No city employee shall maintain a financial interest in any public project for a period during and following employment, for a period of 5 (five) years.”
Quickly counting on his fingers, with a loud snap he exclaimed, “That’s it!” In five days, the statute ran out for those elected officials who had served during Mayor Cook’s term. A chill ran through Antonio as he pulled out his phone and dialed a familiar number. There was only one person he could trust now.
“Hey man, I need to talk to you and I mean like right now,” he said to the other voice on the phone.
“What’s going on Antonio?” his friend asked. “Man, you sound freaked out. Que paso?”
“I can’t talk over the phone,” Antonio said. “Can we meet tomorrow?”
“Umm, sure, but I’m stretched pretty thin tomorrow. How about we meet over at the Tavern and you can catch me up?”
“Ok, let’s do it,” Antonio said. “I get an hour for lunch so I’ll see you there at noon, cool?”
“Ok, see you then,” his friend said before hanging up..
…..
Antonio arrived a few minutes early and choked down a quick cigarette as he saw his friend’s truck pull into the parking lot in front of the restaurant. The Tavern at Bayboro was one of downtown St. Pete’s best kept secrets. It was the only place in town you could get an actual grouper sandwich for 10 bucks and watch the guys cut your fillet right in front of you.
Antonio would have preferred to meet someplace less public, but time was running out. His friend James was one of the top investigative reporters for the Tampa Bay Times and someone he could trust implicitly.
James had blown the lid on corruption cases and shady politicats, lining their pockets with tax dollars for over two decades. Everyone knew that when you saw James coming at you with a notepad in hand, you better be squeaky clean, which of course no one ever was.
They walked up to the counter together, not saying anything, and ordered the crunchy grouper sandwich with fries and a sweet tea. They picked a table off to the side where they couldn’t be overheard.
“You know the idiot food reporter, Moira Kocks, only gave this place one star?” James said, chuckling.
“Man, that’s fine by me!” Antonio replied. “Keep everyone outta here!”
The food came, and it looked and smelled amazing. Antonio ate slowly, savoring the fresh grouper that had a perfect crunch as he bit into it. Hot and juicy, this was the best grouper sandwich he had ever eaten.
They finished and got down to it. Antonio laid out what he had found out and produced the documents to back it all up.
“Whew,” James whistled, “man this is really a powderkeg, you know that Antonio?”
“Yeah, I do,” Antonio said, wrestling with whether to tell him the whole truth, about what he had done at the wastewater plant. He decided to spill it all. Stealing the documents, leaking the reports, the sabotage, all of it.
As he spoke, he felt a burden lift off his shoulders. But he didn’t like the look on his friend’s face.
“You fucked us,” James said bluntly.
“I didn’t see any other way!” Antonio protested.
“Goddamnit Antonio, what the fuck were you thinking?” James cried. “Was this a price you were willing to pay? You can go to jail for what you did!”
Not expecting this response, Antonio got defensive. “Yeah, man, I was! They weren’t listening! This corruption goes all the way to the top and who knows who’s involved!”
“Ok, ok, I get it … I really do. But damn man!” James took a breath. “Alright, let me take it from here. I think you’ve got enough here for me to start digging into.”
“Ok, great. One last thing though.”
“Damn, what now?” James said, exhaling deeply.
“I’m pretty sure they're onto me,” Antonio replied. “My computer search records have definitely been gone through.”
“How do you know for sure?” James asked.
“Man, it’s what I do!” Antonio answered. “My search history and recent documents were accessed from a different computer and there’s a way to see that when I look at it. Someone has definitely been checking me out.”
“There’s something else, but it may all be in my head too.” Antonio continued. “I keep seeing the same couple of guys at my local spots, and they’re definitely not locals. Like socks-with-flip-flops obvious.”
“Shit,” James whistled. “Okay, that makes things a little more interesting. Keep your routine the same and don’t do anything else. No more taking docs, no searches, nothing. Got it?”
“Yeah man, I got it. And thanks James. You are the only one I trust right now. Somebody needs to stop whoever is doing this.”
They finished up their teas and left. A man across the restaurant picked up his iPhone, touched the screen and few times and put it to his ear. “I think we’ve got trouble,” he said to the other caller and hit the end button.
…..
A few weeks later, the headlines screamed: “Albert Whitted Water Plant to Reopen!”
Antonio read the article through the newspaper box and smiled. “It worked!” he thought joyfully.
He pulled his phone out and called James. “Great work man!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” James replied with a mischievous tone.
“What happened?” Antonio asked.
“Well, let’s just say that the people involved had a change of heart,” James replied.
Turns out, James had visited the home of a developer named on the project to ask a few questions, and accidentally walked into what he could only describe as a late-night shredding session. Once they saw him, they knew the jig was up and admitted as much. They were over.
“All’s well that ends well, Antonio,” James said. “Let’s just keep that late-night escapade between us.”
“Agreed!” said Antonio and hung up the phone.
This article appears in Mar 28 – Apr 4, 2019.