The Crime of the Orange Inspector

“‘Adorbiez,’ I get it. They’re orb-shaped and they’re adorable. Funny!” The FDA inspector stopped rolling the navel orange in his palm when he realized the fruit vendor hadn’t congratulated him on his cleverness. 

“Adorb was my great-grandfather’s name.” 

“Oh- I mean-”

“Nah, I’m just joshing,” the vendor cut across the fumbled apology and clapped a big hand on his shoulder. “You got it in one. Name’s Cuthbert Maxwell. Let me get that badge and we’ll get this meeting started, eh?”

The inspector passed over the shiny shield that proudly stated he was Miles Salazar, CSO. And he still couldn’t believe it. After all that specialized training, all those meetings, all the prying background checks and personal investigations, he finally earned the right to wear a gold badge draped around his neck.

And the job didn’t pay for shit.

Well, it did pay, but Miles was rather down on his luck. His wife Margot had just given birth to triplets – Which was a good thing! A wonderful, miraculous thing! – and that came with so many unexpected health complications, they had to hire a full-time nanny. Nannies didn’t come cheap. Neither did medical bills. Margot’s health meant she wasn’t going back to work anytime soon, so to make ends meet, Miles had to commit to overtime. And for a food and drug inspector, that meant travel five days a week and paperwork the other two. Who could blame him for needing a little me-time? A little fun now and then? With such a stressful home and work life, it was only natural that after a couple buffet food inspections in Vegas, Miles caught the gambling bug. Before long, he was going out of his way to get assignments in Sin City. But luck had never been on his side. All of a sudden, overtime wasn’t cutting it. Not by a long shot.

So when he heard the buzz around the water cooler that after his colleague’s mysterious death, the Adorbiez account was open and had the potential to be incredibly lucrative – well, Miles didn’t have much choice, did he?

Miles did not ask what made Adorbiez an outlier, money-wise, but he knew he’d find out soon enough. He also knew it wasn’t going to be aboveboard. 

The fruit vendor handed back the badge with an approving nod. 

Miles followed Cuthbert into the warehouse and wondered if it could possibly be his real name. He had the sneaking suspicion it had come from some sort of free online name generator, but figured that was fair. Whatever Cuthbert was doing with Adorbiez, he’d probably need a cover. Miles kicked himself for giving his real name to this complete stranger.

Inside the warehouse, Miles’s shady-business-radar started pinging.

Dozens of unsavory-looking characters lined a slow conveyor belt full of oranges. None of the workers wore hairnets or aprons, as required by food safety regulations. Each worker grabbed a piece of fruit as it rolled by, and with a tiny knife attached to one thumb, incised the orange’s navel. With the other hand, the worker reached into a narrow trough surrounding the belt, grabbed a tiny item, and stuffed it into the incision. One two-second inspection, and the augmented orange was sent back on its way.

Miles squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of the items being stuffed inside the fruit, but Cuthbert moved to block his view.

“Now, Officer Salazar, I’m entrusting you with some very sensitive information. Our work here at Adorbiez is no laughing matter. What we do impacts much more than just you and me. This is national. This is international. This is global stuff. And if we don’t do our jobs perfectly, you know what that means?”

Miles wet his lips. 

“What’s in the oranges?”

“You really want to know?”

“I think I’d better.”

“Why, so you can report us to the FDA? The DEA, the CIA, or whatever acronym you can think of?” Cuthbert snapped. He suddenly looked ten feet tall.

“No, I just…” Miles gulped his fear and put on the poker face he practiced every weekend. “I am not here on an official capacity. I’m here for personal purposes.”

“Close, Officer. But you are here on official business. What we need from you is a signature. We can’t move our merchandise without your stamp of approval, you see. And that means reporting us to the FDA. In the best possible light, of course.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” rasped a voice dripping with menace. Miles whipped around to see a wall of muscle. Four, maybe five, burly men crossed their tattooed arms behind him. Miles hoped they didn’t see the sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

He turned back to Cuthbert and adjusted his collar. “I think you’d better show me what’s in the oranges.”

“Well, let’s go have a look then, shall we?” said Cuthbert, brimming with cheer.

The workers parted as if repelled by magnets. Miles took a few tentative steps forward, feeling the henchmen close behind.

Cuthbert reached into the little trough along the conveyor belt and took a bare-handed scoop. A cascade of diamonds poured from between his fingers, glittering in the flickering fluorescent light.

“How it works is we buy the diamonds wholesale from one group – let’s call them Group A – who, ah, obtains them from Group B. We collect them, then turn around and distribute them back to Group B, but at a much steeper rate. A portion of that rate, subsidized by Group C, funds aggressions toward Group A, thereby giving means to obtain more diamonds, and the cycle continues. Adorbiez is a more or less impartial facilitator, but absolutely essential for transporting goods. Export/import. You follow?”

Miles nodded slowly, not understanding at all.

Cuthbert raised his hands. “Oh no, no, don’t worry Officer. I see you’re upset about the fruit. These oranges aren’t for human consumption, though, see? They don’t ever make it to a grocery store. Well, they go on fruit trucks that look like they’re headed to grocery stores, but really, they’re just moving from place to place. There’s no need to worry about hygiene, so really, you won’t have to lie on the forms.”

Miles blinked a few times just to make sure he was fitting the puzzle pieces together correctly. 

“So you’re moving diamonds.”

“Yes,” Cuthbert said encouragingly.

“To fund… aggression.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

“So they’re blood diamonds.”

Cuthbert wobbled his head in a noncommittal gesture.

“Blood oranges. I get it! You guys sure tell a lot of jokes for war criminals.”

There was an immediate round of metallic clicking behind him. Miles didn’t need to call on his history of shady gambling debts to know he definitely didn’t want to turn around.

“What’d you call us?” Cuthbert stepped forward.

Miles held his breath.

In a move so fast he could barely see it, Cuthbert shoved a hand in his pocket and returned with a gun aimed dead center of Miles’s forehead.

The orange inspector wheezed.

Cuthbert’s knuckles whitened as he slowly squeezed the trigger. Miles clamped his eyes shut and waited for the end.

A moment later, an impotent little click told him he wasn’t dead.

“Hah! You’re right, man. We got a sense of humor around here, don’t we?”

More laughter from behind him.

Miles slowly peeled his eyes open. Cuthbert was actually smiling and tucking the gun full of blanks back in his pocket. Miles couldn’t believe his luck.

“Okay, Chuckles. Down to business. We keep tight records around here – a must for people with our profession – so it’s time for you to sign. We got a photocopy of your badge already and we got your verbal understanding of the arrangement on video.” Cuthbert gave a little wave to one of the top-of-the-line security cameras mounted on the ceiling. “Now we just need you to sign off on the inspection. I got the paperwork all ready to go.”

“And I’m, I’m, a partner, right? I get… a cut?” Miles’s mouth didn’t seem to be working very well.

“Of course, Officer!” That heavy hand clapped on Miles’s shoulder again. “Ten percent. Your services are incredibly valuable to us. After your colleague Officer Stevenson died, well, we’ve been in need of an exceptional inspector just like you.” Cuthbert touched Miles’s nose on those last three words. The gesture was far too intimate, especially after being threatened at gunpoint just moments ago.

“I’ll… need a pen.”

One of the heavies tapped Miles on the shoulder and presented a clipboard and pen. Sure enough, that was the right paperwork. Notarized and everything. 

Miles knew signing wasn’t exactly optional at this point. He left his free will at the water cooler. But this would be okay. Risky, sure, but what did they say about risk and reward? He lived and died by that rule. Now, it was going to make him rich.

For Margot, he thought, scratching pen on paper. And the babies.

Miles stared for a moment at the fresh ink of his signature. This was it. His career was over. If anyone found out, he could never get a government job again. Probably not any job. But ten percent! Ten percent of an international blood diamond trafficking conspiracy. He didn’t know the exact figures, but Miles knew he’d never have to worry about bills again. As soon as Margot was feeling better, he’d take her on that cruise to the Bahamas. No – Europe! No – the Galapagos! Anywhere she wanted, really. Miles had finally won one.

He looked up at Cuthbert with shining eyes.

“Miles Salazar, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit fraud and–” 

Miles didn’t hear the rest. He was too busy trying to comprehend how Cuthbert Maxwell, ringleader of blood diamond traffickers, had transformed into an FBI agent snapping handcuffs on his wrists. 

Miles wrenched around. Where were all the bodyguards? Where did all the orange employees go? He interrupted the litany of Miranda rights to ask as much.

“Bolted, I expect. Fine by me – I have bigger fish to fry. Namely, you. I’ve been working this operation for years and I almost had your old pal Officer Stevenson sewn up. I knew he’d had a finger in the pot for ages; I just needed to catch him in the act. But then he must’ve got wind because he up and offed himself without a leaving single shred of evidence that a government agent was ever involved. The whole blood orange thing would fall apart without FDA approval, so I figured, welp. That’s it for me. Guess I’m just a war criminal now. But then I heard a new FDA inspector was coming in to take his place. 

“Oooh,” Cuthbert Maxwell – which absolutely was not the man’s real name – squealed. “You were a winning lottery ticket.” 

“If only,” Miles groaned.