What about drug-trade fracas and Saunders et al.? Well, there had been two people with protest signs on their cars. One of the cars belonged to the contractor who’d built Norman Saunders’s new house. It was six months since the last crime of note. “As a lawyer,” said Misick, “if I had to depend on going to court to defend people, I’d starve.” The only major robbery in Turks and Caicos history was a $600 Cable and Wireless Company payroll heist in 1931.
Governor Christopher J. Turner wanted to talk about development too. Balanced development—nice tourists in big boats, cruising, diving, sport fishing. His other points of hope for the underemployed: the fishing industry, financial services, and agronite mining. (Agronite being a kind of sea dirt useful in making driveways and chemical things. There’s lots of it around the place.) Turner was also hipped on some Smithsonian Institution research being done about algae farming. It would be exactly like cattle ranching except underwater with algae instead of hay and with Caribbean king crabs as the cows. At least this is what I have in my notes.
What about drugs? Turner, a career civil servant appointed from London with responsibility for the islands’ foreign relations and internal security, said, “Yes.” A simple fact of geography. The Turks and Caicos are 600 miles from Colombia, 575 miles from Miami. “We’ll always remain an interesting possibility to people engaged in the drug trade.” Are the Ts and Cs a hotbed of international dope crime? “No. A refueling option.” But, said Turner, “In a British dependent territory things like this aren’t supposed to go on.” He was the one who’d called in the DEA for a “straightforward double sting operation” which stung his own chief minister. Was Turner shocked? Satisfied? Incredulous? Cheesed off? The governor plays the cards close to his chest. “In the event of his being found guilty it would be a personal tragedy and a tragedy for the islands. Saunders had managerial skills.” Any turmoil? Turner said, “I told a reporter, There’s been no protest, no public demonstrations, and nobody has taken to the streets.’ This was reported as ‘British Governor Urges Populace Not to Take to the Streets.’” Alas, that’s what comes of using understatement on the press.
One languid guard in full dress uniform was reading a magazine under a picture of Princess Di in the governor’s waiting room. His walkie-talkie crackled with a report of an impending possible rain shower. “Just hang in and hold tight, ten-four,” said the guard into his radio.
The high point of my trip to the Turks and Caicos was the interview with Chief Minister “Bops” Francis, or, rather, the time I spent waiting for that interview. There I was, actually “sitting in a dusty colonial outpost waiting to speak to a native official.” Breeze whispered through palm fronds above the tin-roofed Government House. Bougainvillea—or something that looked like I’ve always supposed bougainvillea should—crept along the veranda railings. Etc. One doesn’t get much of this in a modern journalism career. Next I wanted to go to the “Colonial Club,” except there wasn’t one, and have a “stingah,” whatever that is.
Bops turned out to be a nice old man who was sick of talking to reporters. “I’ve commented all I can.” He was miffed at the way the DEA had treated Saunders, the head of a sovereign or semisovereign or something state. “Mr. Saunders,” said the chief minister, “is bitter that he was not taken into custody but to a penthouse and kept there waiting for the press to come around.” I checked with a Miami Herald reporter and this was true. The DEA called newspapers and television stations, held Saunders, Missick, and Smith at the Ramada until media got there, and then marched them, in handcuffs, to a paddy wagon. “I don’t think they would do this to a dignitary of the Caucasian race,” said Francis. Was Saunders framed? “I’ve heard it. I believe it.” He pointed out that the Turks and Caicos had failed to join the Reagan-sponsored Caribbean Basin Initiative.
“Please do not carry the tone that I condone any actions in drugs,” said the chief. “Under my administration there will not be forwarding of any part of the drug trade.”
And that was the extent of “Drug Arrests Raise Islands’ Tension.” I did not see any drugs. I did not smell so much as the faintest bouquet of a burning spliff. The girls all had both ends of their bathing suits on. I met a stern and dangerous-looking Jamaican colonel, but he was working for a UN agency planning hurrican-disaster relief. Nobody, not the police, not the governor’s honor guard, carried a gun. A hotel manager in Grand Turk told me there had been “threats of violence.” Threats of violence? “Well, over the telephone.” I pressed him. “There’s a rumor the governor received two crank calls.” A taxi driver talked of drug smuggling: “No. I have my children to live for. I have my grandchildren to live for. I want to make my dollar every day and go and enjoy my happy home.” A bartender said of his fellow citizens: “People will stick by you if you did right. But if you did wrong I pity you.”