Chapter Ten The Trial

Gifford Knox, still allegedly suffering from headaches and seizures and still in the throes of protracted physical therapy, arrived on Camino Island, by sailboat, three days before the trial with every intention of stirring up trouble. His plan was to meet with black leaders both on the island and in Jacksonville and whip up some racial conflict. In his opinion, the trial was a clear example of a rich white corporation trying to steal hallowed land from a poor black woman. He’d seen it before in the Low Country of South Carolina and had even written a long magazine article about it.

But Steven Mahon was not sure it would help. Public opinion would not affect the outcome of the trial. Chancellor Clifton Burch had not been elected by the people and so far had played no favorites. Protests and press conferences would only irritate him.

Bruce managed to talk Gifford off the ledge and convinced him another blistering op-ed piece in a big newspaper would be more effective. Giff said he was working on one for The New York Times, and it was almost finished.

Gifford, using a cane as a prop when in public, arrived at the courthouse early on Monday, May 18, and took a seat in the front row, next to Mercer and Thomas. Bruce sat behind them. By 9:00 a.m. the courtroom was full.

In chambers, Chancellor Burch and the lawyers sat around a table sipping coffee and discussing last-minute matters. He said, “I suppose you want to make opening statements.”

Steven shrugged as if he could go either way. There was no jury to sway and the judge knew as much about the case as anyone. Monty Martin, the lead trial lawyer for Tidal Breeze, said, “I’d like to say a few words, Judge, for the record.”

“Okay. Mr. Killebrew?”

“The same, Your Honor, just for the record.”

Evan Killebrew was an assistant Attorney General representing the state of Florida.

“Very well, but keep it brief.”

The lawyers entered the courtroom from a door behind the bench and took their seats. Three tables had been arranged, each facing His Honor. On the far left was the petitioner’s table, where Ms. Lovely Jackson sat in glorious splendor, adorned in a bright red robe that touched the floor and a red-and-yellow-striped turban that seemed to reach for the ceiling. So far, no one had objected to her headwear in the courtroom. The three bailiffs, the opposing lawyers, the clerks—no one had said a word. Nor would they. Steven had whispered something to Chancellor Burch and he, too, was on board with her attire. Diane Krug sat to her left, like a real attorney, though she had yet to bother with law school.

The center table was manned by the state. Evan Killebrew had two associates and a paralegal as his entourage. To the far right Pete Riddle sat in the middle of the table as the proud agent of Tidal Breeze, Monty Martin on one side, a junior partner on the other, with paralegals and assistants protecting their flanks. Mayes Barrow had his nose buried in a file. The jury box had fourteen chairs, all empty.

A bailiff barked, “All rise for the Court!” The crowd snapped to attention and rose obediently. Judge Burch swept in, his black robe as long as Lovely’s. As he sat down he said, “Please be seated. And good morning.” He paused for a second as everyone sat down almost as fast as they had stood. “Good morning,” he said again, loudly, into his microphone. “This is a title dispute involving land commonly known as Dark Isle. I’ve tried these cases before and never had more than five spectators, so I thank you for your interest. I hope you won’t be bored to death. As you can see, there is no jury. In Florida we don’t use juries for title disputes, same as forty-five other states. I’ve gone over the lineup of witnesses with the lawyers and we’re confident we can wrap things up by late tomorrow afternoon or early Wednesday morning. We have plenty of time and we’re not in a hurry. I will allow each party to take a few minutes for opening remarks. Mr. Mahon.”

Steven walked to the podium beside the middle table and began with “Thank you, Your Honor. I am the executive director of the Barrier Island Legal Defense Fund and I’m here in that capacity. More important, I have the privilege of representing the petitioner, Lovely Jackson, and I must say it has been one of the highlights of my long career. She is the rightful owner of Dark Isle because it was owned by her ancestors, dating back to the mid-1700s. They were former slaves who knew nothing about land grants from the British crown, or rights of title handed down by other European intruders. Indeed, as former slaves, her people wanted no part of the laws passed by white men. They lived, worked, reproduced, had families, enjoyed life as free people, and died on Dark Isle, where they are now buried. Ms. Jackson is the last known descendant of the freed slaves and free people of Dark Isle. It belongs to her, Your Honor, not some ambitious developer from Miami.”

He sat down and winked at Mercer.

Evan Killebrew stood next to his chair and without notes said, “Your Honor, under Florida law, all deserted and abandoned islands with no owner of record belong to the state. There are over eight hundred of these islands from here to Pensacola down to the Keys, and they have repeatedly been declared the property of Florida. It’s that simple. Over sixty years ago the legislature passed a law making all uninhabited islands property of the state. We do not dispute the fact that people lived on Dark Isle for many years, but the proof will show that no one ever made a legal claim to the property. That is, until now. Now it seems to be in big demand. We expect the proof will also show that the last inhabitant, Ms. Jackson, left the island in 1955, some sixty-five years ago. No one has lived there since. It’s a simple case, Your Honor. The title belongs to the taxpayers of the state of Florida.”

“Thank you, Mr. Killebrew. And for the Tidal Breeze corporation.”

Monty Martin walked to the podium and frowned at Steven Mahon, as if he had been offended by something. “Thank you, Your Honor. My client has a sterling reputation for developing resorts, hotels, luxury apartments, and shopping centers throughout Florida. It is family-owned and has been in business for almost fifty years. It employs six thousand Floridians and last year paid over thirty-one million dollars in corporate income taxes to the state treasury. Tidal Breeze is a solid corporate citizen and it’s been my honor to represent the company for many years.”

Diane scribbled on her legal pad and slid it to Steven: $2000 an hour I’d be honored too!

“Your Honor, there is simply no proof that Ms. Jackson ever lived on the island. In her memoir, her own words, she writes that she was born there but left the island with her mother sixty-five years ago. I assume her memoir will be admitted as evidence. We’ve all read it by now. It’s a nice story, sort of reads like a novel. Has a rather fictional ring to it. But let’s say it’s all true. Even then, she abandoned the property decades ago. The law is clear in Florida. Possession has to be continuous, open, notorious, and exclusive, for at least seven years. She made no claim to the island until my client entered the picture with its plans to develop it into a major resort. Yes, my client has advertised that it will spend at least six hundred million dollars on the island. The state of Florida has tentatively agreed to build a new bridge. It is our position, Your Honor, as an interested third party, that title to this island was vested in the state of Florida when it became a state in 1845.”

Monty took his seat.

“Thanks, Counselors. The petitioner may call her first witness.”

Steven stood and said, “Lovely Jackson.”

There had been no requests for cameras in the courtroom. Judge Burch would have said no anyway. The lone sketch artist in the front row was from the Jacksonville daily, and she was having a grand time trying to capture the colorful image of the witness.

To match her red and yellow turban and her robe, Lovely wore a pair of round, red-framed bifocals, which she peered through at the clerk when she swore to tell the truth. She sat down in the witness chair, pulled the mike a bit closer, as Steven had instructed, looked out at the crowd, and smiled at Diane and Mercer. She saw Miss Naomi in the second row and gave her a little nod. She appeared to be anything but nervous. Proud, regal, onstage, and looking forward to telling her story.

Steven slowly walked her through the preliminaries with easy questions. She answered slowly and clearly. She was born on Dark Isle in 1940, left fifteen years later. They went through a series of questions and answers, just as they had rehearsed, that covered those fifteen years. Life on Dark Isle: her family, home, neighbors, village, school, chapel, their religion and daily routines, the fear that white people would take away their island, the fear of death and disease. From the age of seven Lovely went to school every day until noon, then went home and did chores. The women tended the gardens, cooked the meals, cleaned the houses. The men, even the young boys, fished and brought home the seafood, some of which they traded in Santa Rosa and on the mainland. No one had a real job; everyone pitched in. Death was always hanging like a cloud. Most of the men died in their fifties. Many children died. The cemetery was a busy place. Her uncle was a carpenter and built many coffins. The “priest,” as they called him, had a black robe he’d bought somewhere on the mainland, and she was always afraid of it because it meant death. She had vivid memories of watching coffins lowered into graves.

After an hour and a half of nonstop narrative, Judge Burch called for a recess. Diane led Lovely to the ladies’ room while the spectators talked in low voices.

“You’re doing great,” Diane said as they walked down the hall.

“I’m just talking, that’s all.”

Back in session, Steven handed Lovely a copy of her memoir, which she identified. He asked that it be admitted into evidence.

Monty Martin stood and said, “Your Honor, we have no objection as long as it’s understood that we’re not agreeing that everything in that book is actually true. We reserve the right to cross-examine the witness from her own book.”

“Of course,” said Judge Burch.

Steven returned to the podium and asked, “Ms. Jackson, why did you write this book?”

She took a long pause and studied the floor. “Well, I did it so my people will never be forgotten. I wanted to preserve the story of Dark Isle from the time my ancestors arrived from Africa. So many of the slave stories have not been told and have been forgotten. I want people to know and remember how they suffered, and how they survived. Today, we don’t know the real history because it has not been taught, and it’s not been taught because so much has been forgotten. People don’t want to talk about what happened to the slaves.”

He asked her about her writing process. How long did it take to write the book? Off and on, ten years. Did she seek advice? Not really, just read some magazine pieces. She wrote it in longhand and paid a young lady, a schoolteacher, to type it up for her. When it was finished she didn’t know what to do with it. The same lady, the typist, said she should look for a publisher, but she wasn’t sure how to go about it. Some time passed, nothing happened, then someone told her about a company that would print the book for $2,000 and make five hundred copies. That’s how the book got published.

Steven was not about to ask if the five hundred copies had sold. He knew they had not and he wasn’t about to embarrass his client. Instead, he switched gears and asked about the decision to leave (never “abandon”) Dark Isle. Lovely took a deep breath and looked down. She and her mother were the only two left. The village was sad and depressing, and all their family and friends were gone. They had little to eat and some days ate nothing at all. A friend came to get them and finally convinced them it was time to go. They moved in with another friend on Camino Island and went to work in the canneries. After her mother died in 1971, Lovely got married to a man with a good job. She moved up a notch and worked in the hotels. She longed for the island and wanted to see it, but her husband had no interest. She paid a man named Herschel Landry, a fisherman with a boat, to take her out several times a year so she could tend to her family’s graves in the cemetery. She did this for many years, until Herschel sold his boat and moved away. By then her husband had left her.

Lovely was suddenly tired and removed her glasses. It was almost noon and everyone needed a break. Judge Burch recessed until 2:00 p.m.

The nearest diner was across the street from the courthouse. Since the weather was nice, Bruce reserved a table on the patio and welcomed Mercer and Thomas, Steven and Diane, and Lovely and Miss Naomi to his little corner. He ordered iced tea and coffee. Gifford Knox arrived a few minutes later, on a cane, and ordered a whiskey sour.

Lovely had performed brilliantly on direct examination, and, so far, there was nothing to worry about. She was a bit fatigued but thought a good lunch would get her ready for the afternoon.

Steven and Diane had spent hours with her, crafting her testimony, deciding what was important and what could be left out, anticipating attacks from the other side. Steven had even tried some old courtroom tricks to trip her, but they had not worked. She had been unflappable, both in rehearsal and this morning onstage.

Their discussion was about how long to keep Lovely on the witness stand. Telling her entire story would consume hours and hours and, at some point, become monotonous. Steven knew from experience that good witnesses were often destroyed because they said too much. On the other hand, a great witness needed to be heard. The truth was that Lovely’s memoir was in evidence and had already been studied by Judge Burch and all the lawyers. The challenge was deciding how much to go over again and how much to leave alone.

Everyone at the table had an opinion about Judge Burch. Since he was the sole juror, his demeanor, body language, and reactions were of the utmost interest. So far, he was proving to be remarkably poker-faced. He absorbed every word, took a few notes, ruled on objections quickly, and gave away nothing. He appeared to be involved in the case and eager to hear the testimony.

At 2:00 p.m., Lovely settled back into the witness chair and smiled at His Honor. Steven asked her if she had been to the island lately. She said yes, about three weeks ago, with the archaeologists. He asked her to describe the island now, and she took a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice cracked for the first time. She took a sip of water, straightened her back, and began talking. Steven interrupted a few times to keep her on course. Monty Martin politely objected twice when her narrative rambled on, but Judge Burch waved him off. They were going to hear everything Lovely Jackson wanted to tell them.

“And did you find the graves of your father and grandparents?”

“Well, we’re not sure. We found a lot of graves but they were never marked. There were no stones or anything like that. Most of the caskets were rotted. The scientists did the testing with DNA but they found nothing. So, no, I can’t say for sure that we found the graves of my blood kin.”

On a large screen set up in the jury box, Diane flashed a color photo taken by Dr. Pennington when the team was at work in the cemetery. Tight string on stakes marked the graves. Neat piles of dirt stretched along one end of the cemetery. Two of the archaeologists were on their knees working with trowels.

“Does this photo look familiar?” Steven asked.

“Yes, sir. It does. We were right there just a few days ago.”

“And do you know who was buried in the graves that were being excavated?”

“No, not exactly. But I came to believe that it was my folks in that corner of the cemetery. My Daddy and all my grandparents. But, as I said, the tests don’t prove that.”

“What did the cemetery look like years ago, back when you went out there with Herschel?”

“Oh, it was much nicer. Wasn’t all grown up. There were some weeds and all because nobody lived there, we’d been gone a long time. Me and Herschel and a boy named Carp would cut some of the weeds around my family’s graves, but it was not as nice as when I was a little girl.”

“Why did you keep going back to the island?”

“Because Dark Isle belongs to my people, to my family, to me. I was the only one left. If I didn’t go take care of things, or at least try to, there was nobody else.”

In 1990, Lovely read a story in The Register about a new state park that had just opened between Jacksonville and Tallahassee. Officials from the Florida Park Service were on hand for a ceremony and one of them claimed that the state had the finest system in the country, with over 160 state parks and growing. Lovely wrote a letter to the person quoted in the article, and suggested that Dark Isle, with its truly unique history, would be ideal for a park, sort of a memorial to the former slaves who lived and died there. Her first letter was not answered, but her second drew a response from a Mr. Williford, who, in polite and official language, said they were not interested at that time. She waited six months and wrote him back. There was no response. She paid the same schoolteacher a few bucks to type her letters and make copies.

Steven handed her the first letter and asked her to read it. She adjusted her red glasses and said, “Dear Mr. Williford. My name is Lovely Jackson and I am the last descendant of former slaves who lived on Dark Isle, near Camino Island. Dark Isle was the home of my people for over two hundred years. No one has lived there since 1955, when my mother and I had to leave. As the last descendant, I guess I am the owner of Dark Isle, and I would like to talk to you about turning it into another state park, to honor my people. I visit it often to care for the cemetery. Most of the old houses and buildings are falling in. But the island is very historic and I think people would enjoy visiting it, if it was fixed up somewhat. Please contact me at your convenience. Thank you for your time. Sincerely, Lovely Jackson.”

She said there was no response. Her second letter was virtually identical to the first. When Mr. Williford did write back, he said, “Dear Ms. Jackson, Thanks for your kind letter of March30, 1990. Your request for consideration is certainly interesting. The state of Florida currently has six proposed new parks. Unfortunately there is funding for only four of them. I will place your request in the proper file, to be considered in the future. Sincerely, Robert Williford.”

Her third letter, six months later, was similar to the first two. Steven presented all the letters and asked that they be admitted into evidence. There was no objection.

“Now, Ms. Jackson, is it true that you tried to pay the property taxes on Dark Isle?”

“It’s true. I’ve tried for many years.”

“And how did you go about doing this?”

“Well, once a year I sent a check for one hundred dollars to the tax office across the street. Been doing that for a long time.”

“And what happened to the check?”

“Well, this nice lady, Miss Henry, the tax lady, she always writes me a little letter and sends it back.”

Steven stepped over and handed her two sheets of paper. “The one marked ‘Exhibit Seven,’ can you describe that?”

“It’s a copy of my check to the tax assessor, dated January fourth, 2005. Below it, right here, is a copy of my note, saying: ‘Dear Miss Henry, Here is my check for one hundred dollars for the property taxes on Dark Isle.’?”

“And Exhibit Eight, what is that?”

“It’s a letter from Miss Henry, says: ‘Dear Ms. Jackson, Thank you once again for your check for the taxes on Dark Isle, but, once again, I cannot accept your money. Dark Isle is not on the county’s tax roll, so no taxes are due.’?”

“And when did you send in the first check for the taxes?”

“Nineteen sixty-four.”

“And why did you do that?”

“Because I thought the owner of the property had to pay the taxes. My husband told me so, said if I didn’t pay taxes then the county would foreclose on the property and I’d lose it. I saved my money and sent what I could.”

“And how long did you do this?”

“Did it last January.”

“Every year from 1964?”

“Yes, sir. Never missed a single year. I’d send the check, Miss Henry, or the lady before her, would send it back.”

Steven picked up a thick file and said, “Your Honor, I have copies of the checks and the correspondence between my client and the county’s tax assessors.”

“Since 1964?” Judge Burch asked, obviously not eager to review the contents of the file.

“Yes, sir. Every year.”

“And they’re all the same? One hundred dollars every year?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. And you want them entered into evidence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any objections?”

Neither Evan Killebrew nor Monty Martin objected, because they knew it would do no good. Judge Burch was admitting everything to review later.

Steven said, “Your Honor, I have Blanche Henry under subpoena to testify if needed. She’s just across the street. Do you or counsel opposite wish to hear her testimony?”

Judge Burch looked at the two lawyers. Monty Martin stood and said, “I believe the point has been made, Your Honor. The evidence is in the record.” Killebrew nodded his agreement.

In his glory days as the top litigator for the Sierra Club, Steven had been known for his meticulous pre-trial preparation. For him, as for all great trial lawyers, it was the key to winning. Every phase of every trial was planned, then rehearsed over and over. Witnesses were given scripts, then coached by the trial team. Psychologists, even drama coaches, were sometimes hired to help witnesses. Phantom juries were paid to hear and evaluate the evidence. Of course, Steven had bigger budgets in those days. The Barrier Island Legal Defense Fund operated on a shoestring and couldn’t afford the experts. What it could do, though, was put in the hours.

The Friday before the trial, with the courthouse practically deserted, Steven and Diane ushered Lovely into the empty courtroom, put her on the witness stand, and walked her through her testimony. Steven then turned the tables, playing the role of an opposing lawyer, and tried to confuse her on cross-examination. The following day, Saturday, Lovely and Miss Naomi spent hours in Steven’s office polishing her testimony, cutting unnecessary dialogue, working on the soft spots. She would be by far the most important witness and she had to be believable. At the end of the day, both Steven and Diane were convinced she could go toe-to-toe with the “bad lawyers,” as she called them.

When Steven tendered the witness early Tuesday morning, Monty Martin stepped confidently to the podium and said hello. Lovely glared at him and did not return the greeting.

“Ms. Jackson, when did you decide to file this petition to clear the title to Dark Isle?”

Diane hid a smile. The question had been put to Lovely at least three different ways over the weekend.

“Last summer,” she answered. Keep your answers short! Volunteer nothing!

“And what prompted you to file this petition?”

“A casino.”

“A casino?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Would you care to explain?”

“I don’t understand your question.”

“Okay. Why did a casino force you to file this petition?”

“Nobody forced me to. I did it because I wanted to. It’s the right thing to do.”

“And why is that?”

“Because the island doesn’t belong to a casino. It belongs to me and my people, the ones buried on it.”

Monty picked up a copy of her memoir and said, “According to your book, and also your deposition, you left Dark Isle in 1955. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“But you filed nothing in court until last summer, 2020.”

“What’s your question?”

“Why did you wait sixty-five years before trying to clear the title?”

Word for word, the exact question Diane had written weeks ago. She could also recite Lovely’s answer.

“Because the island belongs to me and my people and it always has. No one else had ever tried to claim it, not until last summer when your client showed up. I filed my petition because somebody, namely your client, was trying to take my property.”

“Who suggested to you that you file your petition?”

“Some friends.”

“And who are these friends?”

“Is that really any of your business?”

Steven stood and said, “Your Honor, please, any out-of-court statements made by the witness and her friends and solicited by Mr. Martin will clearly be hearsay.”

Burch shook his head and said, “I hear your objection but let’s see where it goes. Ms. Jackson, I caution you not to repeat statements made by others.”

Steven sat down, but only for a moment.

Monty Martin asked, “Ms. Jackson, when did you first meet with Mr. Steven Mahon?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t write it down.”

“Had you ever met him before last summer?”

Steven stood again and said, “Objection, Your Honor, the relationship between me and my client is highly privileged. Not sure where Mr. Martin is going with this, but he’s out of bounds.”

Steven knew exactly where Monty was going, as did Judge Burch and the other lawyers. Tidal Breeze was itching to prove that Steven and his band of environmental zealots had recruited Lovely to file her petition, as the quickest way to stop Panther Cay. But its lawyers had been unable to get around the privileged relationship between lawyer and client. Nor would they be able to now, but Monty wanted to at least raise the suspicion.

Judge Burch was all over it and said, “Objection sustained. Move along, Mr. Martin.”

Monty flipped through Lovely’s memoir as if looking for something. “You use a lot of names and dates in this book, Ms. Jackson. Are all of these accurate?”

“As far as I can remember.”

“Did you use notes or old family records, things like that?”

“I had some notebooks, long time ago.”

“Where are those notebooks now?”

“I don’t know. I lost them and can’t find them.” It was a fib but she didn’t care. Protecting her land was far more important than being completely honest with a bunch of rich white men.

“On page one-twenty, you write that your great-grandmother, Charity, died in 1910. But in your deposition, given right here in this very courtroom last November, you testified that she died in 1912. What’s the truth?”

Lovely shook her head as if chatting with an idiot. “The truth is that she’s dead, been dead a long time now. The truth is that many of my stories rely on ones handed down by my people, so I suppose it’s possible that some dates got mixed up.”

“So, are all of your dates mixed up?”

“I didn’t say that. You just did. You see, sir, my people didn’t have a lot of education. We didn’t have a schoolhouse or teachers or books out there on the island. The state of Florida didn’t care about us. We didn’t exist as far as it was concerned. Now it claims to be the owner. How nice. Where was the state of Florida a hundred years ago when it was building schools and roads and hospitals and bridges everywhere else? Not one penny was ever spent on Dark Isle.”

Monty suddenly wanted to sit down. He was getting nowhere with the witness. In fact, he was probably losing ground. His staff had pored over her book and her deposition and made a list of eleven discrepancies regarding dates and names. Now that list suddenly seemed worthless.

Diane’s list had thirteen mistakes, all of which had been discussed with Lovely, who was poised to explain them away.

Monty whispered to one of his associates and killed a few seconds. He smiled at Lovely, who was not smiling at all, and said, “Now, Ms. Jackson, I’m intrigued by these lost notebooks. When did you start writing in them?”

“I don’t know. I don’t write things down like you do, sir. On the island we didn’t always have pencils and pens and papers and notebooks, things like that to write with. I went to school in a little square building that we called a chapel because it was our only church. We were lucky to have two or three textbooks to pass around. I don’t know where they came from. Half the kids didn’t even go to school. My parents could barely read and write. I learned most of what I know after I left the island and went to school here, in the old black school down in The Docks. Even that school didn’t have a lot of extra stuff, not like the white schools.”

Monty felt like apologizing. He had planned to make hay out of the missing notebooks and portray them as important documents that should have been handed over during discovery. Now, the notebooks also seemed useless.

Again, he changed the subject. “Now, Ms. Jackson, on page seventy-eight of your book there is a rather graphic story in which Nalla, you ancestor, cuts the throat of a man who raped her. She then dripped his blood along the beach. Was this some type of a curse?”

Her eyes glowed as she nodded and said, “Yes, it was.”

“Can you describe this curse?”

“Yes. Nalla had powers. She was a doctor who could heal people. She talked to spirits and could tell fortunes. After she sacrificed the man called Monk she spread his blood in the sand and said any white man who came onto the island would die a horrible death.”

“And you believe this to be true?”

“I know it’s true.”

“How do you know it’s true?”

Lovely glared at him for a long time as everyone strained to hear what she was about to say. She leaned an inch closer to the mike and said, “I know the spirits. I know when someone has gone onto the island.”

Monty offered a proud smile, as if he had finally cracked the witness and discredited her. “But you were on the island three weeks ago, with the archaeologists, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Some were white, some were black. Correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And no one was killed or injured, no one died, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“What happened to the curse?”

“I was there and I lifted it.”

“So you have that power?”

“I do.”

“Is the curse still lifted, or is it back on the island?”

“I’m not sure. Why don’t you go find out?”

The laughter was instant, loud, and contagious. Not a single person tried not to laugh. Judge Burch covered his mike with his hand and enjoyed the moment. All the lawyers were amused. Some of the spectators practically howled. Even Monty couldn’t help but appreciate the humor.

Judge Burch finally tapped his gavel and said, “Okay, okay. Let’s have some order. Continue, Mr. Martin.”

Monty was still chuckling when he said, “I’ll pass, but thank you.” He stopped smiling and asked, “Now, before your visit, when was the last time the curse of Dark Isle claimed a victim?”

“Last spring, about a year ago.” Her matter-of-factness slowed Monty for a second.

He sized her up, or tried to, and asked, “Okay, what happened?”

“Four men went to the island. All four were dead within a week.”

“Four white men?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know their names?”

“No.”

“Okay. What were they doing there?”

“Don’t know.”

“All right. Were their deaths reported anywhere?”

She shrugged as if she had no way of knowing. “Can’t say.”

“What caused their deaths?”

“A bacteria got in their skin.”

The cardinal rule of trial procedure is: Never ask a question if you don’t know the answer. Monty had learned this in law school and had adhered to it strictly for almost thirty years. But, at that moment, he simply couldn’t stop.

“And this bacteria was caused by the curse?”

“That’s right.”

Gifford Knox sat in the back row and reveled in Lovely’s performance. Next to him was Thalia Chan, a reporter for The New York Times, a woman he had known for a decade. Her favorite topic was environmental problems caused by big companies, and she had written several long pieces on Gifford and his exploits. She had seen him arrested twice, hauled into court, fined, and threatened. She had seen him testify in a coal ash case. Over the course of their friendship, Gifford had fed her many stories and plenty of inside dirt that was off the record. He was her favorite “unnamed source,” and he had never leaked something that wasn’t accurate.

Gifford had told her about Dark Isle months earlier. He had outlined the key players and repeated things he’d heard over dinner and drinks. He had not told her or anyone else about his fake accident and bogus lawsuit. Even for a bigmouth like Gifford, there were some things that should be kept quiet.

A big story in the Times was coming, and no one but Gifford knew about it. He couldn’t wait.

After a day and a half on the witness stand, Lovely was excused and allowed to sit at the table between Steven and Diane. Her performance could not have been better.

Steven’s next witness was Dr. Sargent, the archaeologist from Howard University. They went through the usual back-and-forth establishing his expertise—education, training, writings, experience, and so on. Of particular interest was his work with various African burial projects, beginning in Manhattan decades earlier and continuing to the present. On a large screen mounted in front of the jury box, Dr. Sargent started with a less-than-detailed map of Dark Isle, with most of the details given by Lovely. They included the approximate area of the settlement, the rows of houses, and the cemetery. He showed color photos taken during their recent expedition. Photos of the damage and debris caused by Hurricane Leo; photos of their team clearing the brush and foliage from the burial sites; photos of the actual dig. He said they found remnants of about eighty graves, some with wooden caskets, some without. He had photos of the badly deteriorated caskets. The cemetery was about twenty feet above sea level at its highest point. Leo’s storm surge on Dark Isle had never been determined, but the National Weather Service had decided that on the north end of Camino Island it had risen to twenty-seven feet. The eye then passed directly over Dark Isle, so it was reasonable to assume that the entire island had been under water. Even the most recent graves showed signs of severe water damage. Dr. Sargent said that, in his opinion, the graves and caskets were soaked with seawater for several hours, thus seriously degrading the samples needed for DNA testing.

None of the bones and teeth matched Lovely’s sample.

Dr. Sargent estimated that there were probably about two hundred graves in the one site they found. According to Lovely’s history, there were other burial sites scattered around the island.

After two hours on the stand, Dr. Sargent had said enough. Judge Burch needed some coffee.

Diane had chatted several times by phone with Loyd Landry, Herschel’s son. She had visited them months earlier in New Bern, North Carolina. She had left the visit certain that Herschel, at ninety-three, had lost too much of his memory to be involved in litigation. She had also emailed Loyd a number of times, just to keep him apprised of the case. He knew the trial date, and the previous Sunday he had called with the startling news that his father wanted to return to Camino Island.

According to Loyd, after meeting Diane at his nursing home, Herschel began quizzing his son about her and her visit. He remembered Lovely and Dark Isle, and the more they talked the more he recalled. On the good days. On the bad days, he didn’t know where he was.

On Monday morning, an hour before the trial started, Loyd texted Diane that they were in the car, their road trip had begun, the old guy was thrilled to be out of the nursing home, and they would get there as soon as they could. They were about ten hours away but several pit stops were likely.

And pray for a good day.

At three-thirty Tuesday afternoon, Judge Burch tapped his gavel and said court was in session. Mr. Mahon, please call your next witness. The main door opened, and Herschel came rolling down the aisle with Loyd pushing his wheelchair. For some reason he held a cane across his lap. When they approached the witness stand, Steven explained to the court that Mr. Landry could not sit anywhere but in his wheelchair and that he would need a portable mike. Loyd would be allowed to hold it and sit next to him. Without much of a struggle, the court reporter administered the oath and the direct examination began.

Herschel looked around the courtroom and couldn’t see much. However, when his eyes met Lovely’s, he smiled and nodded and mumbled something. Steven asked him his name, age, address, and a few other basics, and he gave the right answers in a slow, soft, hoarse voice, but with the mike at his lips every word was clear enough.

“Many years ago, did you know Lovely Jackson, the lady sitting over there?”

Another smile. “Yes I did. I liked her. She liked me.”

Lovely kept smiling at him. She didn’t care what he said about their relationship sixty years ago. All she wanted was the truth.

“And you were a fisherman on Camino Island and had a boat?”

Monty Martin stood and said, “Your Honor, I realize these are unusual circumstances, but how much can Mr. Mahon be allowed to lead the witness?”

“I understand, Mr. Martin. You have a valid objection, but I’m going to allow this gentleman to tell his story. Please.”

“You owned a boat near the canneries in Santa Rosa, right?”

“That’s right. I was a fisherman.”

“Did you ever take Lovely Jackson over to Dark Isle to visit the cemetery?”

It took a while for the question to register, but then he began nodding. “Yes, that’s right. We went over there all the time.”

“And what did you do over there?”

“Cut the grass, pulled weeds around the graves. Her people.”

“Did you go alone?”

The question vexed him and he didn’t answer.

“Did a boy named Carp go with you?”

“Oh yes, Carp. Good boy.”

“Where is Carp now?”

“Don’t know.”

“Do you remember his last name?”

“No,” he mumbled.

“How old were you when you took Lovely to her island?”

“Thirty, I guess.”

“And how long did this go on?”

“Oh, a long time. Many years. I liked her. She liked me. We liked to go over there together, alone.”

The rebuttal began Wednesday morning when the Attorney General himself was sworn in as a witness. His presence was certainly not necessary but spoke volumes to the influence Tidal Breeze had in the state, or at least over the AG. The company, the Larney family, and its many employees, investors, and affiliated businesses were heavy contributors to his campaigns.

The gist of his brief testimony was that in Florida the law was clear, and had been on the books for over sixty years now. Because of nature and occasionally because of man-made projects, shorelines, reefs, even streams and tributaries change with time. Small islands disappear. Others are created. Still others merge and split. There were currently about eight hundred deserted islands in the waters off the coasts of Florida, and all of them were deemed, by law, to be property of the state.

In his learned opinion, Dark Isle belonged to the state of Florida.

When offered the chance to cross-examine such an important person, Steven toyed with the idea of exploring his closeness to Tidal Breeze. They could discuss the company’s behind-the-scenes efforts to secure the island before the Court ruled. While such questioning would be a lot of fun, it would be a sideshow, not productive, so Steven waved off the opportunity as if the AG didn’t matter at all.

If the appearance of the AG was designed to impress Judge Burch, there was no indication that it did. For the first time, His Honor seemed slightly impatient.

The next five witnesses added some color to the proceedings. All were working men who earned their money from the sea in various ways. All were natives of the area or had lived there for many years. All were middle-aged and white, and none of them really wanted to be there.

Skip Purdy went first. He was forty-five, a shrimper whose father had been a shrimper. He’d been fishing, for money and for pleasure, the waters around Camino Island and the Camino River since he was a kid. He knew all the islands well, including Dark Isle. No, he had never set foot on it, had no reason to, and knew no one who had. He had never seen any sign of life there—no human, no animal, nothing.

On cross-examination, Steven asked, “Mr. Purdy, you still run a shrimp boat, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you should be out there today, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Instead, you’re here in this courtroom, correct?”

“Pretty obvious.”

“Are you being paid to testify?”

Monty had prepped his witnesses well and the question was expected. “Yes, sir, I’m being paid, same as you.”

“How much?”

Monty stood with a smile and said, “Your Honor, please.”

“Objection sustained. Do not answer.”

“No further questions.”

“You are excused, Mr. Purdy.”

Donnie Bohannon owned a charter service and specialized in catching sailfish in the Atlantic. He was forty-one, with the lined, bronze face and bleached hair of a man who spent his life in the sun. He had never been to Dark Isle but passed by almost every day, to and from the central marina in Santa Rosa. In the past eighteen years, he had seen nothing on the beaches. Hurricane Leo hit it hard and destroyed many trees, but there was no sign of life.

Roger Sullivan was a fishing guide who worked the bay side in smaller craft. The one-mile gap between Dark Isle and the mainland was a prime breeding pool for grouper, wahoo, and flounder. He passed close to the island every day and had seen no signs of life in many years. There was once a herd of deer, but they disappeared after Leo.

Ozzie Winston was a retired harbormaster at the Santa Rosa marina and a native of Camino Island. Brad Shore ran a scuba operation. Their testimony was more of the same: a knowledge of Dark Isle based on years of passing by it, familiarity with its legends and stories, and certainty that there had been zero human activity on the island in their lifetimes.

Monty’s point was simple and effective: Even if Lovely visited her island for years, as she claimed, those visits had stopped long ago.

As the lunch hour approached, he made the decision to rest his case. In preparation for the trial, his strategy had been to attack the credibility of Lovely’s case by casting doubts about her story. However, she had done a marvelous job in holding her own, and Monty was convinced Judge Burch was sympathetic to her.

What else could Tidal Breeze and the state of Florida prove? Dark Isle had in fact been inhabited by former slaves, both before and after statehood. Lovely claimed to be the last of their descendants and her testimony was believable. How could they prove otherwise? The archaeologists had found a real cemetery.

Judge Burch was always ready for lunch, but when he realized the lawyers were winding down he said, “I’ll allow each party to take a few minutes for a recap. But I don’t need to hear much. Mr. Mahon.”

The lawyers were caught off guard, but none had an advantage. Steven stood, without notes, and said, “Sure, Judge. We began this dispute with Tidal Breeze denying everything, the usual tactic. Tidal Breeze denied humans ever inhabited Dark Isle and denied my client ever lived there. We know now that those denials were hogwash. It’s so refreshing to see the state of Florida suddenly have a keen interest in the island. For almost two hundred years the state had nothing to do with it. No schools, no roads, no bridges, no clinics, no electricity, no phone service. Nothing, absolutely nothing, Your Honor. Lovely Jackson and her people lived in poverty on their island. Health care didn’t exist. Diseases were common. The life expectancy was at least twenty years lower than average. But they survived because they had to and because they were proud and treasured their freedom. Now, the state has crawled into bed with a big-time developer, Tidal Breeze, and the state is in this courtroom right now fighting for ownership of Dark Isle.

“And something else to think about, Judge. The state and Tidal Breeze make much of their allegation that Lovely abandoned the island when she was fifteen years old. But did she? Did she really relinquish control? Most of us educated white men scoff at the notion of a curse hexed upon the island over two hundred years ago by a young African witch doctor, or voodoo priestess. We might snicker and whisper that it’s a fantasy no reasonable person could really believe. We’re much too sophisticated for such silliness. Well, if that’s so, then I challenge any of my colleagues on the other side of the courtroom to take a shot. Go down to the marina, rent a boat, take a ride across the bay, and have a stroll around Dark Isle.”

Evan Killebrew had said little during the trial. He wasn’t expected to, not with such high-powered talent in the room. He stepped to the podium and said, “Well, Your Honor, putting aside the rather colorful history that we have enjoyed so far this week, I urge the Court to turn its attention back to the law, the black-and-white language of the statute that clearly says all deserted and abandoned islands in our waters belong to the state of Florida. Beyond that, what the state does with its property is not relevant in this lawsuit. If the state wants to sell the island to Tidal Breeze, or to anyone else, then that is simply not relevant today.”

Killebrew sat down as Monty stepped to the podium. “I’ll be brief.”

“I know you will.”

“Thank you. For sixty-five years, Ms. Jackson did nothing to enforce her legal rights as the owner of the island.”

Judge Burch startled them with “Excuse me, Mr. Martin, but she tried to pay the property taxes for about fifty years.”

“Yes, but since she didn’t own the property, then no taxes were due, Your Honor. No one owed taxes on the island because there was no owner.”

Judge Burch looked away, unconvinced.

“A year ago, the local paper, The Register, ran a front-page story about a proposed development called Panther Cay. Suddenly, after sixty-five years of silence, Ms. Jackson hires a lawyer, Mr. Mahon, a noted environmental litigator, to represent her in a title action. Mr. Mahon, by his own admission, does not do property or title work. In the same newspaper, he was quoted and was, shall we say, rather disdainful of Panther Cay. He promised legal action by his nonprofit.”

“What are you saying, Mr. Martin?” Judge Burch interrupted again.

“I’m saying it looks suspicious.”

“You’re saying Mr. Mahon tracked down Ms. Jackson, solicited her case, and filed it to stop the development?”

“That’s close enough.”

“Big deal. Half the bar now solicits cases. Haven’t you seen the billboards? Please move along.”

Monty kept smiling and said, “Sure, Judge. I agree with Mr. Killebrew that we need to get back to the law, and it’s very simple. To prevail on the grounds of adverse possession, a person must possess the property openly, actually, notoriously, exclusively, and continually for seven uninterrupted years before filing suit to confirm title. Seven years ago was 2014. There’s not one shred of evidence, not even from Ms. Jackson herself, that she has been to Dark Isle, for any reason, in at least ten years. Maybe twenty. Maybe thirty.

“The island has a fascinating history, Your Honor, but it’s just that—history. With a lot of gaps in it. We urge you to stick to the law and award title to the state of Florida.”

Judge Burch closed his notebook and said, “Anything else, gentlemen?”

Nothing.

“All right. Congratulations on a case well tried. As an old judge who’s refereed many cases, I always appreciate good lawyers. Thank you for your professionalism. I’ll have a decision within thirty days.”