Island Time The Beginning

By Larry Allan

JULIE and TOM BANKS travel to the island of Sinagua, where Julie is interviewing for a counseling position at a Caribbean medical school. While touring the culturally diverse island, they witness an accident. A truck driver dies. The goat lives. Accused of murder, they are jailed. Knocked unconscious, Tom recovers on the floor of the jail, and interacts with prisoners, inappropriately. A video of the accident emerges. After examining the facts, and the truck's contents, police corruption is exposed. Enemies are created. Alliances are formed. The guilty scramble, and eventually react. Their video is seen on TV and locals give Tom a nickname. Deception reigns. The press hounds Julie and Tom, seeking the details of the murder, and suspected police abuse involving Tom. With help, the couple evaded the press making it to the medical school where Julie is beginning her four-day interview process. The Chief Prosecutor, is waiting, catching them off guard, and deposes them in the Dean's office. Eyebrows at the medical school are raised. Tom walks to the beach, and is blindsided by the press. The Chief Prosecutor seeks justice. Julie's interviews progress. The school's British office manager provides Julie with comforting inside information. The couple dines, and is jointly interviewed by the Dean of the medical school. Impressions are made, not the kind you want. Tom interviews with a millionaire who owns a yacht provisioning company, and offers Tom a high-profile job as concierge and manager at his luxury vacation Villa. Tragically, a medical school student dies in an accident, accelerating the need for Julie's expertise. The Dean tests Tom's loyalty. Julie and Tom learn they were deceived, disappointingly, by each other. A surprise from the anatomy Department is accidentally placed as cake at a birthday party for a professor. They sing and dance, looking to the future as they party the night away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350903218

Book preview

Not Again

What is all that noise? Damn, my head hurts. Why does it smell like cigarettes and piss? I opened one eye and struggled to regain consciousness. My head was at the base of a stainless-steel toilet and the floor, strewn with cigarette butts. I lay there on my chest with my cheek on the cold damp floor and only one eye open. Where am I? Where is Julie? Why is everything getting dark again?

•••

I came to violently, gasped for air, and sat up slowly. My left eye is killing me. Every beat of my heart banged on the inside of my skull. It was hard to sit upright. I leaned back against the wall and rested my right elbow on the back of the toilet next to the sticky wall. Regaining some of my senses, I slowly moved away from the toilet and scooted across the dirty floor.

Where’s Julie? Where am I? Is this jail or prison? Laughing for a moment, I thought, At least I’m not asking, who am I? Why am I here? I chuckled quietly to myself, and thought of Ross Perot. This is another first: cool. Okay, I am obviously brain-damaged . . . let’s just sit here for a few more minutes in someone else’s piss. Why is everything getting dark again?

•••

What is that man yelling? Goddamn, my head hurts! Déjà vu all over again. That’s good; my short-term memory is intact. Fuuuck. How long have I been here? Why did that cop hit me? Okay, angry, that’s good, more memory coming back. Why does my right arm smell like piss? Oh yeah, the toilet. What is all that noise? What are they saying? What language is that? Okay, I am in jail. Shit. I’m in jail! Where is Julie?

I pressed my tongue against the top of my mouth and swallowed, trying to generate some saliva. Water, I need some water, I said, trying to speak for the first time. As I lay on the floor, I slowly opened my eyes and listened to all the voices echoing off the concrete walls.

I struggled to my feet and looked around. The jail cell was roughly four feet wide and eight feet long. A small, filthy toilet stood in the corner at the back of the cell. A bench, two feet long and maybe a foot wide, was centered against one of the long walls. The gray bars and cell door were worn and dirty.

I stood near the back of the cell, slowly regaining my senses. I staggered toward the cell door but stopped before I reached it. The light in my jail cell cast a shadow that the other prisoners could see. Now, the excited, angry chatter coming from the prisoners was directed at me.

The white killer is awake.

You’re going to die, white boy.

No… We gunna beat him first.

We got your woman, too.

Okay, I’m awake now. Don’t say a word. These people have no idea what happened. I need some water. God, should I even ask? My head is killing me.

We gunna mess you up, goat killer. Your woman, too.

Okay, keep your mouth shut. I want to talk to Julie. Damn, I smell bad. I have to sit down. Making my way back over to the small bench, I sat there for a moment with my elbows on my knees, head in hand. I took a couple of deep breaths and gathered my thoughts.

Damn, that cop hit me hard. I should have seen that coming. I want a lawyer. Do I get a lawyer? I am in a foreign country. Where is my passport? Taking a couple more deep breaths helped the cobwebs lift. My left eye and temple really hurt. I smell like piss, God Dammit!

As the harassment from the other prisoners grew louder, I held my head in my hands. If get out of here, I’m going to knock the shit out of . . .

Beginning to understand the gravity of the situation, I felt my adrenaline begin to pump. My head was clearing by the minute. I have to speak with someone. There must be a guard…. but will he help me or just pound me again? I got blindsided once already today, or was that yesterday? Damn. What time is it? Where’s Julie? God, I hope she’s okay.

As Julie consumed my every thought, I felt my heart beat faster. I’m thinking…. That’s good, let’s think a little more before calling for a guard. What questions should I ask him? Will he answer? God dammit; this is not right; we did nothing wrong. That cop had no reason to hit me. I was the one who called the police. That is police brutality.

Detective James, I talked with Detective James… he was stalling me. He could have told me he was sending officers to our location. Okay, I am starting to make a little more sense now. When did I learn self-monitoring skills? Oh yeah, my wife is a shrink. Trouble, I’m in trouble. Shit. Julie’s in trouble. I have to talk to someone. Oh yeah, the guard, I should ask for a guard. Okay, I don’t think I’m quite there yet.

The thought of Julie being treated as I have been treated scared the daylights out of me. I sat quietly for a while longer. Finally, the need for answers forced me to approach the cell door.

I was in one of four single cells. The cell across from me was empty. Now the others could see me. Down the corridor to my left was a large cell with about fifteen prisoners, probably the drunk tank. A few of them started hurling obscenities; others laughed as they made threats and gestured what they were going to do to me, as they grabbed their crotches.

I thought of the movie, The Shawshank Redemption, and the scene where the no-neck guard beat the shit out of a prisoner that begged for help on his first night in prison. He died!

Okay, I don’t want to be that guy.

Good, I am feeling better. What should I say? I took a deep breath. I think I need another five minutes of recovery…. Wait, fifteen men, threatening me bodily harm, death, and threatening to rape my wife, and I am not scared? Okay, maybe I’ll take ten minutes.

I’m really tired. I think I’ll take a nap. Shit. I must have a concussion. I cannot allow myself to go to sleep. How late is it? Maybe I can go to sleep. They wouldn’t let me die here.

Would they?

CHAPTER 2

Looking for a Chicken

Two days earlier

After a smooth flight from Minneapolis, we changed planes and were flying out of Miami on our way to the island of St. Maarten, and then the island of Sinagua. Julie and I finally had a chance to relax. The craziness of a week that included moving, kenneling our dog, Bart, and a hastily scheduled interview lay behind us, and a tropical island in the sun arose alluringly before us.

I always enjoyed the window seat, not because of the view but because it was more relaxing. The bulge of the plane at the window was just more comfortable.

Preparing for her interview, Julie was busy using her laptop. She studied her presentation on Stress Management and how it related to medical school students. The Sinagua School of Medicine, our destination, had provided the subject to her.

Julie polished her presentation and reviewed the profiles of the professors who might be interviewing her. It calmed her. During the previous week, Julie researched the Sinagua School of Medicine. She was surprised to see the school only had thirty or so full-time professors.

The students arrived in Sinagua, well-educated, having scored high on the M-CAT, the standard test given to students in the United States when they were entering medical school. Most students had already earned Master’s Degrees of some sort in, biology, chemistry, or any number of degrees that met the standards for entering medical school. Considering it was strictly a medical school that started with gross anatomy followed by courses in physiology, microbiology, and pharmacology, just to name a few, thirty seemed to be an appropriate number of professors.

The professor’s names indicated a diverse faculty. Patel, Johnson, Stein, McPherson, Li, Strobel, Van Der Zandt, and Skinner. Julie grew more impressed, as she determined what schools they attended, and the subjects they taught. It was an impressive list from around the world.

Julie was looking forward to her interviews. She worked as a rehabilitation counselor on a locked psych ward at a hospital for six years in Minnesota, while pursuing her PhD. Dealing with doctors was not anything new to her. She was confident and capable and earned respect from all her coworkers, professors, and supervisors.

My wife is driven and goal oriented. Always proud of her, I was willing to do everything to help her reach her potential. I told her often.

Besides working my job, I cooked, shopped, cleaned, and did everything necessary to make her life easier. We were in this together. Julie just completed her internship at Grand Valley State near Grand Rapids, Michigan. She applied for numerous postdoctoral positions. I laughed – okay, we laughed - when she filled out applications for Caribbean medical schools. She also applied for federal internships available in many far-away places. The nice thing about internships outside of the United States, was that they paid quite well. The downside, however, is that the internship may not carry the prestige of those available stateside. Our debt load was barely manageable. Maintaining our home in Minnesota and renting in Michigan for a year cleaned out our savings and increased Julie’s student loans. We were willing to take a chance if necessary.

A medical school in the Caribbean was the first response to the many applications filed. The medical school was US accredited and satisfied all the requirements for future licensure. The call from the school came while we were on our way home from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Things were moving fast.

We were feeling proud, and the fruits of our labor could now be seen.

I nudged Julie.

Check this out.

Looking out the window together, we watched the uninhabited sandy atolls glimmering in the sun, their white sand beaches disappearing slowly into the deep blue sea.

We smiled at each other and enjoyed a private chuckle, knowing we were really on our way to that paradise we had imagined only a week ago.

It was about a two-and-a-half-hour flight. The plane was full, and I tolerated flying at best. Looking out the window, I saw that the once blue skies had become dotted with thunderhead clouds. The clouds started to take on a more ominous dark gray, and they extended well above the altitude we were flying.

Suddenly and violently, we hit turbulence. One of the flight attendants fell in the aisle and drinks spilled from one end of the plane to the other. The captain quickly apologized for the unexpected turbulence, and calmly gave the instructions to remain seated until the seatbelt light was turned, off. We started to weave in and out around the massive thunderheads. I knew we would be just fine, but the situation made me tense, nonetheless. After twenty minutes, the skies cleared. I could see the blue water below, and cargo ships, and the occasional sailboat, traveling between the long arcing chain of islands that made up the Caribbean.

Anticipation engulfed us as we started our slow descent into St. Maarten. The skies were bright and sunny as we flew over numerous uninhabited islands. Just seconds before the plane landed, I was looking at a hotel surrounded by beautiful palm trees and a pool.

Moments later, we were thrust forward in our seats. The pilot was hitting the brake hard; it reminded me of landing at Midway Airport in Chicago. Looking out the window it was clear, a new terminal was being built, and construction was everywhere.

Because we were in a large jetliner, I assumed we would pull into a terminal with the gangway. That was not happening. We stopped about two hundred yards from a nearby building. Two men struggled to roll a set of stairs to the exit of the airplane between the cockpit and the wing of the plane.

Exiting the plane, we were asked to follow the instructions of the personnel on the ground. When we approached the bottom of the old but freshly painted stairs with our overstuffed carry-on luggage in hand, a tall skinny man with a heavy island accent was repeating.

Welcome to da Island mon, follow da white line an wait for de bus over dare.

The sun beat down on us as we stood on the tarmac. Grateful for the constant breeze blowing over us, we waited patiently for the bus to arrive.

As some of the first passengers to get off the plane, we did not expect to stand for very long. Ten minutes passed. We watched the aircraft service personnel scramble to get the plane ready for departure. They were all dressed in matching uniforms, with long pants and long sleeves. All locals and not a drop of sweat could be seen. Conversely, most everyone waiting for the buses was starting to pour out sweat.

One by one, the buses finally arrived, and the passengers calmly wrestled each other to be first in line. The bus was old. A row of four poles ran down its center. Limited seating was available for the very old and very young. A sign stating Capacity 24 was clearly ignored. There were at least forty-five people and many bags crowded into the bus.

The driver stated loudly, I dake you do da baggage claim. I be sorry for da long wait in da hod sun. Follow da crowd to da carousel numba foe.

We were dropped off next to a large corrugated steel building. It looked like an old military Quonset hut but much bigger, nearly thirty feet high. A row of fans hugged the ceiling nearly twenty feet apart from each other down the center of the long building. Running on low speed, they were useless and did nothing to squelch the heat as the old terminal sat baking in the sun.

The reason for building a new terminal was quite clear; however, the existing terminal had charm and character. I imagined planes from a bygone era landing, their passengers finely dressed, holding their hats. I instantly thought of the old movie, Casablanca.

Several planes landed in a short period. Getting our bags was a little chaotic, but we soon had them in our hands, realizing the heat was a small price to pay for entering paradise.

Being directed by more local airport personnel, we were told Take your bags to da customs mon. Have your paypas and passports ready.

The airport workers were welcoming, happy, and willing to accommodate all our needs, and the sound of the local language was soothing and relaxing; nothing was rushed, including the long line of people waiting to go through customs. However, our connecting flight to Sinagua was scheduled to depart in one and a half hours, and the site of such a long line at customs moving so slowly was quite disturbing.

Standing in a long hallway cramped like sardines, holding our passports, and moving our bags six inches every two minutes was pure torture. I knew why the locals were so happy: they did not need to stand in line.

Never one to be patient, I was getting antsy. What I hoped would be a few minutes turned into nearly an hour. The sound of aircraft engines, both jets and propellers, echoed over the din of chatter from the cramped horde of people, serving only to increase my anxiety as I wondered if our plane was getting ready for takeoff.

Finally, we were at the head of the line, standing behind a bright red mark painted on the floor. Four booths with customs agents took care of the new arrivals one by one or in family groups. The booths each had a narrow counter just large enough to accommodate documents, with a small drawer that dipped into the counter and under the glass, to slide paperwork back and forth. A small hole with angled steel vents at head level facilitated conversation.

Before we knew it, a customs agent began gesturing at us to approach his booth. He seemed very serious, and his appearance matched his attitude: he was wearing an impeccably tailored uniform adorned with polished, gold-colored buttons, symbols of rank, and a gold, braided shoulder rope. His sidearm, plain to see, screamed, I don’t take shit from nobody! He had our undivided attention.

His piercing dark eyes looked steadily at us as he spoke directly and clearly.

Documents, please.

He looked at our passports first. Then, us, individually.

Business or pleasure?

Business, Sir, Julie responded.

State your business.

I am interviewing at the Sinagua School of Medicine.

What date will you be leaving for Sinagua?

Today, in less than a half-hour, Sir.

Why are you here, Sir? He asked, glaring at me.

Unsettled by the tone and unexpected nature of his question I smiled, I’m here to relax and drink heavily, hoping to reduce the tension of the moment.

Unfazed, he requested firmly.

Your tickets, please.

Holy crap. I just fucked up. We’re going home.

Julie was already scrambling for the ticket. We did not know it at the time, but it was standard procedure to provide your departure tickets upon entering the island. They did not care where you were going, only when you were going.

Julie presented the tickets to the customs agent. He glared again, this time at both of us, and said while pointing, I want you to take your bags and stand over there by that wall.

Nobody else was standing by that wall. It was the only quiet place in the bustling customs area. His instruction was quite upsetting: we thought we could be in trouble and maybe even kicked out of the country over a silly wisecrack.

To our surprise, with a big smile showing his pearly whites, the custom agent said, Welcome to the island of St. Maarten, Mon, I’ll be sending someone over to take you to your departure gate.

Simultaneously we quickly replied. Thank you, Sir.

Shocked, and very relieved, we gathered our bags and followed the custom agent’s instructions.

Tom… what were you thinking? Didn’t you learn your lesson in Amsterdam? Don’t do that again. He could have kicked us out of the country or put us in jail. Your smartass remarks are going to get us in trouble someday, Julie exclaimed, punching my shoulder.

You’re right, I won’t do it again.

We waited patiently for a short time.

A stunningly beautiful, tall, slender local woman, wearing a perfectly fitted dark-blue dress with a St. Maarten Airport logo approached us and asked, Are you traveling to Sinagua?

Yes.

My name is Lillian, and I will be taking you to your gate. Please excuse the mess. We are building a new terminal.

We gathered our bags and followed Lillian through the construction site. While following her, I could not help but notice her black hair. It was beautifully braided in a way I had never seen before. There were rows and circles in complex patterns and designs that must have taken days to braid. She stood tall and walked with sophistication, leading us calmly through the chaos. Her fingernails were unusually long and intricately painted.

This woman is high maintenance.

After about a ten-minute walk, we arrived at the Sinagua International Airways service counter. No one was there.

Someone would be here soon. Relax in the air conditioning.

Lillian, what is your accent? I’ve never heard it before, I asked.

Lillian smiled, I am Dutch.

Proud of her heritage, Lillian went on to explain that the airport is in Dutch St. Maarten. The island is half Dutch and half French. One can expect to hear many different accents and languages. Many islands in the region are inhabited by the Spaniards, the French, the Dutch, the British and a small handful of other nationalities. The slave trade that ended long ago brought the African culture to nearly all the islands. The islands have changed hands between nations many times over the past three hundred fifty years, sometimes by war, and other times by treaty or purchase. A blend of cultures and foods like no other place in the world can be enjoyed on any of the islands in the region. Welcome. I hope you will truly enjoy your stay.

Our history lesson complete, Lillian graciously excused herself and said, Enjoy your flight to Sinagua, and bless you.

We thanked Lillian and sat down on the faded, hard, plastic seats near our gate.

We were without a doubt in the old part of the airport, a once cheerful colonnade, now just a shabby holding pen, a shadow of its former grandeur. Once brightly painted pinkish-coral-colored concrete block walls surrounded us on three sides. Posters and ads with azure waters, beaches, and palm trees depicting the many islands served by this hub airport dotted the walls. But the dropped ceiling tiles were sagging and water stained. Even to the untrained eye, it was obvious the roof had been leaking for ages. But most importantly, the air conditioning was working very well. Large plate glass windows extended completely across the front of the small terminal, providing an excellent view of the tarmac and runway. The muffled din of idling jets and prop planes echoed in the empty terminal. There were five small service counters, each serving a different airline. Worn, faded plastic bench seating was available at each of the gates.

Puddle jumpers. I hate puddle jumpers. I was hoping for at least a small commuter jet.

My first job, after receiving my degree in Industrial Electronics, required me to travel nearly 80% of the time, mostly across the US mainland. I always inquired about the types of planes I would be flying in. I endured more than my fair share of terrifying rides in small airplanes. If it were a short flight, less than a hundred miles, I would rent a car and drive.

It was the late 1970’s, and while personal computers had been invented, they weren’t yet available to most folks. However, industrial computers were revolutionizing production all over the country and the world. I worked on the cutting edge of the electronic revolution.

On many occasions, I woke up in strange hotel rooms and wondered what the hell city I was in. When I lived in Dallas, it was common for me to be in Houston by 9:30 AM, Springfield, Missouri, by 3:30 PM, and in Chicago by 10:00 PM, repairing equipment at each location. For over three years, I lived on the road and in the air.

I maintained equipment for a multitude of government contractors: General Dynamics, Hughes Aircraft, McDonald Douglas, Boeing, AC Delco, Motorola, and Control Data, just to name a few. My job included dealing with business owners, managers, and supervisors. For the most part, my clients were happy to see me because they knew their operation would be up and running relatively soon.

I was confident in my skills: you could even say I was cocky: I was seeing the world, traveling throughout most of the US, and occasionally, Mexico and Puerto Rico. I traveled to Puerto Rico at least ten times within two years. San Juan, Mayaguez, and Ponce were some of my regular stops.

Even with all this flying experience, the flights on the island of Puerto Rico scared the crap out of me. Flying in forty-year-old planes through a mountain pass in a tropical storm has never been my idea of business class travel. One of my frequent flights was from San Juan to Mayaguez. It was the last time I flew in a prop plane, a 1947 DE Havilland aircraft. It held maybe twelve people. I remember sitting next to the window on the right side of the plane while facing forward and looking at the engine on the wing of the plane.

There was a large shallow pan placed under the engine. A closer examination revealed that it served to catch the oil that was dripping steadily from the engine. I stood up, looked across the plane at the other engine, and realized that the other engine was leaking oil, too.

Sitting back down, I noticed the original seats were removed from the plane and were replaced with one-person smooth fiberglass school bus seats without seatbelts. The seat in front of me had the classic chrome bar that ran across the top on the back of bus seats. It was the only thing to hang on to.

I sat uncomfortably as passengers started to find their seats. A large, overweight woman came in holding a chicken and sat two rows in front of me, behind the cockpit. Seeing the chicken reminded me of previous trips to the island. One of my contacts had taken me to a cockfight in the mountains above San Juan. He told me chickens could be quite valuable. Locals raised them to fight, and there was a market to trade and sell them.

The cockpit was in plain sight. The age of the equipment was beginning to scare the shit out of me. The plane even smelled old, a mixture of shop oil and a musty sink sponge. The entrance to the plane was located on the side near the back, and that, too, was unusual for me.

Just as I turned to check out the back of the aircraft, the whole plane shifted. Turning, I saw the cause; a stout, unshaven, barrel-chested man, chest hairs bulging from his open shirt, had entered the cabin, an unlit, half-smoked cigar, clinched in the side of his mouth. He relaxed his steely jaw and pulled the cigar from his mouth, stuffing the chewed end of the cigar into his grimy shirt pocket. After examining the cabin and the passengers, he directed the chicken lady to move to the other side of the plane in front of the wing, for balance.

It was the pilot.

That chicken should be in a cage; keep it under control.

The captain moved a few more people around, balancing the load of the plane side to side and front to back.

The pilot looked me over just as he did everyone else on the plane. I was the only gringo on the plane. When my eyes caught his eyes, I glanced out the window at the engine as it leaked oil.

He had been speaking Spanish to the other passengers, but his hand gestures and their actions clearly indicated to me what was happening.

With a heavy Spanish accent, he told me, Don’t worry Signor; that’s normal. Those are Rolls-Royce engines, and this is one of the safest planes in the world: The Queen of England flies in a plane just like this. I’m Captain Ruiz.

Captain Ruiz turned and went into the cockpit, pulling a small, stained curtain across the aisle behind him. I was certain: The Queen of England’s airplane did not leak oil. I was also quite positive that the Queen of England had upgraded her airplane since 1947. The captain’s comments did little to soothe my nerves.

Captain Ruiz fired up the engines. They coughed, they spit, they blew smoke, and after a couple minutes, they purred like kittens.

I felt a little better.

We started to taxi to the runway. I could see clearly through the windows on both sides of the plane. To the left of the taxiway, the runway extended out to sea and to the right, the end of the runway extended overland with mountains in plain sight. It was a spectacular, sunny day.

We could hear Captain Ruiz speaking to the tower. The curtain was not closed all the way, and I could see into the cockpit at an angle from behind. Captain Ruiz yelled in