Cannery Row is at the far end of Lido Park on a little peninsula within a peninsula in Newport Beach.
I didn’t know much about commercial fishing or canneries, but I was developing a soft spot for little critters who couldn’t defend themselves.
Go figure.
I passed by the famous Cannery Restaurant, which had once been home to the biggest of the old-time fish processors in the 50’s. I knew this because I had eaten here a few times with Cindy, and the building itself was impressive.
I continued on Lido, crossing over a bridge, passing hip restaurants and nice boats and condos and Mediterranean-style homes that probably cost more than I would ever make in my lifetime.
I hung a right on Shipyard Way and took it to the end, following the address I had written on a small notepad. I don’t keep my files with me. Should someone break into my car and steal my file, well, I would be up shit creek and my clients’ anonymity would be compromised.
I parked in a parking lot and waited. At Starbucks, Heidi Mann had gone over the key players of the illegal shark finning operation. Shark finning, a term that meant catching sharks solely for their fins, is illegal off the shores of California. Ironically, it is legal to catch and process a shark-that is, kill it for its meat and fins. What’s actually illegal is to de-fin the shark and dump the still-living creature back into the ocean.
Bastards.
Heidi explained some more. The majority of the finning was done just south of the border. Shark fins are big business. Too big to ignore, and too big to care about the shark themselves.
The use of dogs and cats as bait seemed to be a relatively new phenomena, and it was practiced by poorer fishermen. Where the bigger ships used gill nets, which captured many sharks at once, the unlicensed fishermen with smaller boats would use any means they could to capture the sharks.
I had asked Heidi why these fishermen didn’t use chum and fish as bait, and answer was appalling. The kicking of the live animals, especially when added with the blood that poured from the hooks in their paws and muzzles and necks, was just too inviting, nearly guaranteeing a shark.
I imagined the little guys swimming in the ocean, terrified, bleeding, hurting, alone and abandoned, begging for mercy while hungry predators circled below.
I rubbed my forehead and cracked open the passenger side window.
According to Heidi Mann, one man was a key player in the local shark finning trade. One man who didn’t give a damn from where the fins came, be it from gill nets or the poor fishermen down south using dogs as live bait.
A man who might know something about Mitch Golden’s death, Raul Trujillo was called a fish broker, or a fish buyer. A harmless enough title, and not one generally associated with illegal dealings. It only became illegal, of course, when one dealt with contraband or poached seafood.
It was time to meet with Raul Trujillo.