Chapter Eleven A New Foundation

The first bombshell landed the following day when The New York Times ran a front-page story about the trial. It was below the fold, and the most startling aspect of it was a large color photograph of Lovely Jackson entering the courthouse the day before. She was wearing one of her standard robes, a bright yellow one that trailed to the ground and seemed to glow, and a baby blue striped turban. She offered a winsome smile at the camera.

The story by Thalia Chan made no pretense of being balanced. The headline was “African Burial Site Thwarts Land Grab by Florida Developer.” For Tidal Breeze, it was all downhill after that. The company was portrayed as another slash-and-burn developer hell-bent on cashing in on the casino craze. An unnamed source said Tidal Breeze coveted the Atlanta gambling market and had found the perfect spot just south of the Georgia state line. Another source (no doubt Gifford Knox) said the company had a dreadful record of environmental problems and would destroy the island and the waters around it. Ms. Chan did a passable job of laying out the facts and describing the trial. The bulk of her story, though, was about African burial grounds and the efforts to find and preserve them. She talked to Dr. Sargent of Howard University, who described the cemetery on Dark Isle as “a major find on one of the most unique places in the history of American slavery.” Marlo Wagner of the African Burial Project was thrilled with the discovery and promised her full cooperation in stopping any development. Florida’s three black congressmen promised a federal investigation into the “desecration of hallowed ground.” The longer the story went, the more race became a factor. The executive director of Florida’s NAACP promised swift action. The chairwoman of the Black Caucus in the Florida legislature vowed that if the Court awarded title to the state, the state would never sell Dark Isle to any developer. It must be preserved. The battle lines were clear, with no room for gray areas. A rich white corporation was attempting to take historically significant land once owned by former slaves.

Mercer couldn’t write fast enough. The trial had pushed her into overdrive and she worked through the nights. Now the story was suddenly national, and as she struggled to absorb the flood of new material, she feared getting lost in it. She was also worried that too much exposure might dampen interest in her book, whenever it was published. Thomas reassured her that the publicity would only heighten awareness of Lovely’s story.

Mercer called Miss Naomi and urged her to ask Lovely to avoid talking to anyone. Though reporters could not get her on the phone, they might try and find her in The Docks. Just keep the door locked and avoid strangers.

Late in the afternoon, Mercer and Thomas met Steven, Diane, Bruce, and Gifford at the patio bar of the Ritz-Carlton, away from downtown and prying ears. The story by Thalia Chan had gone viral and they felt like celebrating. Gifford confessed that he had introduced Thalia to the story, and once she realized its potential, he fed her bits and pieces of inside info.

Bruce, ever the bookseller, had already contacted Lovely’s vanity publisher and ordered five hundred more copies. His thin supply sold out before lunch and he was expecting a wave. And he wanted to talk to Lovely about another signing, as soon as possible.

How might the news affect Judge Burch’s decision? Steven had mixed feelings. The case was not complicated and he expected a decision soon enough. The trial had gone their way because of Lovely’s performance on the stand, but the law was not squarely on their side. There was no doubt that neither Lovely nor anyone else had claimed the island in the past seven years.

Steven took a drink and said with a smile, “Regardless, folks, this little brouhaha is over. My phone is still ringing. The African burial folks have gone ballistic. The environmentalists are cheering them on. The politicians and civil rights groups can’t wait to get involved. There’s no way Tidal Breeze can survive the attacks.”

“So we’ve won?” Bruce asked.

“Yes and no. My best guess is that Lovely has a fifty-fifty chance of prevailing. But if she loses, she still wins because the state will either yield to pressure and back down, or sell to Tidal Breeze and then watch from the sidelines as the litigation roils for the next ten years. In the end, no federal court in the country will allow an historic burial ground, especially one filled with the bones of enslaved people, to be tampered with in any way.”

Bruce asked, “Can they protect the cemetery while developing the rest of the island?”

“Doubtful. The cemetery is in the middle of the island, on the highest point. Plus, Lovely said there are other small burial grounds on the island. Friends, I hate to tell you this, but Tidal Breeze is screwed. Lovely has won.”

Bruce quipped, “I guess I need to order even more books.”

Mercer said, “And I guess I need to finish mine.”

The second bombshell arrived by email at exactly 9:00 a.m. the following Monday. Diane saw it first, in the office kitchen, at her cluttered card-table desk, sagging now under too much junk. It was an opinion from Judge Burch.

Both thoughtful and terse, the first five pages covered the facts, both contested and uncontested; then he spent two pages on the law of adverse possession.

His final paragraph read: “It is the opinion of the court that the Petitioner, Ms. Lovely Jackson, has met the burden of proving her claim of ownership of Dark Isle under the Florida statutes referenced above. It is therefore ordered and decreed that the title to Dark Isle shall be confirmed in her name, as the sole owner, and that the claims of the state of Florida are hereby dismissed. It is so ordered. Signed, Clifton R. Burch, Special Master.”

Within minutes, the opinion was zipping around the island. Then it went viral and the little Barrier Island Legal Defense Fund was bombarded with phone calls and emails.

By noon, Bruce had Bay Books ready for a party. A table near his office was covered with hors d’oeuvres, finger sandwiches, and wine bottles. And, of course, a stack of Lovely’s book. Sniffing free wine, and after being hazed by Bruce, the writers showed up. Myra and Leigh, Amy Slater, Bob Cobb. Sid Larramore from the newspaper. Several of Diane’s friends. Mercer and Thomas and two of their friends. A dozen or so loyal customers who never missed a gathering arrived in fine spirits. When Lovely entered behind Miss Naomi, she was greeted with a loud ovation. She preened and bowed and kept saying, “Oh thank you. Oh thank you.”

She declined a glass of wine but took a soda. When it was time for words, Steven tapped his glass and offered a toast to the best client he’d ever had the privilege of representing.

Bruce announced there would be a book signing on Friday. He asked Lovely to pose with her book for a round of photos, and within minutes they were posted on Bay Books’s social media.

Tuesday morning, Monty Martin issued a statement saying he was obviously disappointed with the Court’s ruling but had great respect for Judge Burch. He would appeal immediately on behalf of his client and was optimistic about their chances. Tidal Breeze had no intention of walking away from Panther Cay, a “futuristic project” that would provide jobs for thousands of Floridians.

Wilson Larney read the statement and shook his head. He was sitting on the sofa in his splendid office, looking at the Atlantic, having coffee with Dud Nash. No one else was present.

“How would you rate Monty’s work in the trial?” Wilson asked.

“Good. We had a bad set of facts, Wilson. Plain and simple. We didn’t know about the burial site.”

“It was in her book.”

“Yes, but we didn’t really believe her book, did we? We paid Harmon a ton of money to check out the island. They found nothing.”

“And those four guys died?”

“Yep, later. In four different places.”

“And Harmon hid this from us?”

“Yep. The truth is that once the cemetery was discovered, we were flat out of luck.”

“You know we’re getting hammered. I just got a call from our PR people. The blacks in Dade County are threatening to boycott our casinos. That’s about twenty percent of the traffic. We’re getting calls from black activists everywhere.”

“I know, I know.”

“And the chances on appeal are slim?”

“Eighty percent of the time the Supremes stick with the local judges in these types of cases. It’s a real long shot. And if we get lucky and win on appeal, then we have even bigger problems on the island. The litigation could take years.”

“How much have we spent on legal fees so far?”

“About a million.”

Wilson grimaced, as always, when discussing fees paid to Dud’s firm. “Ballpark, how much would the federal litigation cost us?”

“Twenty-five million over eight to ten years, with a good chance of losing.”

“Why are your fees so high?”

“Gee, you haven’t asked that question in, what, a week now? We charge that much because we’re worth it.”

“I don’t feel so great right now. It’s a PR nightmare and you know how I hate publicity.”

“My advice is to let things cool off. We have thirty days to file a notice of appeal.”

“Things aren’t going to cool off, Dud. We’ve kicked a hornet’s nest and they’ll eat us alive.”

The second article from the Times was prominently featured on page eight, under the headline “Florida Court Rules Against Resort Developer.” Thalia Chan recapped the opinion from Judge Burch and included a statement from Lovely that read, “I am relieved that the Court has chosen to protect the sacred property of my ancestors. This is a great day for the descendants of enslaved Africans.” In response to a question written and submitted by Thalia through Diane, Lovely said, “I hope the state of Florida will take some of the money it planned to spend on a bridge and create a memorial to my people.” Steven Mahon was quoted: “The court did what was right and just and in doing so averted an environmental disaster.” The story was accompanied by an aerial photo, taken by a drone, of Dark Isle.

Neither Tidal Breeze nor the Attorney General’s office could be reached for comment.

Two days before the deadline for filing a notice of appeal, Tidal Breeze issued a statement that read: “In honor and memory of the enslaved people who lived and died on Dark Isle, the Tidal Breeze Corporation of Miami is withdrawing its plans to develop Panther Cay. The company respects the Court’s decision and will not appeal it to the Supreme Court of Florida.”

Steven Mahon and Diane whooped it up in their cramped offices and danced a jig. Diane then called Miss Naomi with the news and drove to The Docks to share the moment with Lovely. They wept with her on her front porch and savored the victory. It was such a magical moment, one still difficult to believe.

“You did it, Lovely,” Diane said more than once. “You held your ground, fought for your people, took a mighty developer to court, and kicked his ass. You did it.”

“I had plenty of help, my dear. Plenty of help.”

Mercer called her agent, Etta Shuttleworth, in New York with the news, then spoke to her editor, Lana Gallagher, at Viking. “How many words have you written?” she asked. Typical editor.

“I don’t know, maybe a hundred thousand. I’m throwing away pages almost as fast I write them.”

“Then stop throwing them out and finish the book. I’ll give you a deadline if you want one.”

“Have you ever had a writer ask for a deadline?”

“No, of course not. But if I see the first draft by the first of October we can publish next spring.”

“Sounds like a deadline.”

Not surprisingly, Bruce called within half an hour of the news and informed Mercer that a celebratory dinner had been planned for that night. He was rounding up guests, but it would be the usual suspects, minus Gifford, who had sailed back to Charleston.

“Do you think Lovely would come?” he asked.

“I doubt it but let’s try. It can’t be a long night, Bruce. Thomas is kicking me out of bed at six every morning to write.”

“Mercer, dear, who in their right mind would ever kick you out of bed?”

“You’re hopeless.”

Not long after she began her takeover of the BILDF, Diane realized that if she wanted to be paid at least a minimum wage, not to mention wrangling a desk or even a nicer card table, she would have to raise the money herself. Steven loathed fundraising and couldn’t be bothered. The roughly $200,000 that trickled in each year was almost by accident. The Sierra Club was a legendary, A-list nonprofit with a big budget, and while there he had been free to sue and litigate at will, without worrying about the overhead. Old habits die hard and now he almost refused to worry about money. The secretary, Pauline, was part-time, rather lazy, and content with her meager paycheck. Diane wasn’t driven by money but she had an eye on law school. She convinced Steven to let her overhaul their lame website and expand their social media profile. He approved her initial changes, and she gradually brought their little nonprofit into the 2020s.

The Dark Isle case gave Diane something to write about almost nonstop. Their following slowly increased, as did their donor base. When she arrived in town the nonprofit’s donations had averaged $19,000 a month, barely enough to cover their modest salaries and fund its low-budget style of litigation. Seven months later, it grossed $31,000 for the month of May, with Diane cranking out trial updates late every night. Thalia Chan’s stories in the Times had led to a serious uptick in BILDF’s profile.

Inspired by this success, Diane became intrigued with online marketing and its seemingly endless possibilities. Immediately after the trial was over, she raised the idea of a separate nonprofit to raise money for a memorial on Dark Isle. The story was still big news and there was plenty of interest. She discussed it with Steven, of course, then Mercer and Thomas, Gifford, and Bruce. The most challenging conversation was with Lovely herself, who still wasn’t sure what a website actually was.

About the time Tidal Breeze threw in the towel, Diane created the Nalla Foundation. Its mission was “to preserve and honor the memories of the freed Africans who settled on Dark Isle and who could never go home.” The goals were to: (1) locate and renovate the burial sites; (2) build a memorial to the dead; (3) rebuild some of the settlement for tourism; and (4) seek funding from individuals, foundations, corporations, and governments, all for the preservation of Dark Isle and its history. Bruce and Noelle donated the first $10,000 as seed money, and Diane harangued Steven into a “loan” of another $10,000 from BILDF. She took most of the money and hired an online marketing firm. She anointed herself as the executive director, primarily because the IRS required one and there were no other prospects. A salary was also required, so she signed on, initially, for a hundred dollars a month, slightly less than she was earning as a full-time intern at Barrier Island.

With Lovely’s lawsuit out of the way, Steven got busy elsewhere. Its rather sudden completion freed up hundreds of hours and he fell into a more relaxed schedule. Diane hazed him into renting nicer office space, and she was finally able to give away the damned card table. They hired a full-time secretary who had no legal training but could handle the front desk. She was also about to spend half her time with the Nalla Foundation, though she had not been informed of that.

Diane worked tirelessly establishing her new foundation. She wrote grant proposals by the dozen, solicited donors, gave interviews, and played the social media game. After a slow start, the money began coming in, small checks at first from individuals, then bigger ones from other foundations. In July, the African Burial Project sent a check for $50,000. More importantly, it agreed to share its donor list on a confidential basis. Diane went after the donors with a slick direct-mail attack and raised $120,000. She gave herself a reasonable pay raise and informed Steven that she was taking a ninety-day leave of absence from Barrier Island. She did not request one. She just took it.

She had tea on the porch with Lovely and Miss Naomi each afternoon and lunch every Wednesday at a barbecue place in The Docks. In the weeks after the trial there were dozens of requests to interview Lovely, all of which were directed to Diane, who distrusted journalists almost as much as Lovely. However, she had learned that her client and friend was a powerful fundraiser. Her story was irresistible and she was fun to talk to. Each interview, in print or on camera, generated more interest in the Nalla Foundation, and more income.

Bay Books had sold over six thousand copies of her book.

It was during tea one hot afternoon when Diane first noticed the hesitation. Lovely was talking about her latest visit with Mercer the day before when she got stuck on the “water.” The “w” sound would not come through. Her lips quivered and she closed her eyes. Diane shot a look at Miss Naomi, who looked away. It happened again moments later. Then she complained of a sudden headache and wanted to take a nap. Walking back to Miss Naomi’s, Diane asked, “Has that happened before?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. It started last week, at least that’s the first I noticed it.”

“Has she seen a doctor?”

“She doesn’t like doctors, says she trusts the spirits.”

“Please call me if it happens again. There’s definitely something going on.”

“I know, I know. I’m so worried about her.”

Mercer passed 110,000 words in mid-August. The trial, and the ending, was in sight. She wrote for four hours each morning, took a long hot walk on the beach with Thomas, then lunch and a nap. By two she was back at her desk. She was worried about writing too much, always a concern for her because she believed, and taught her students, that most books were too long. No one can tell a writer when to quit or what to cut. A strong editor can make changes or even reject a book for its length, but generally speaking, a writer is on her own with few limits.

Thomas had become quite the consultant. With his submarine story finished and due to appear in the October issue, he devoted his time to Mercer and her work. He read and edited every page, offered no shortage of editorial comments, and listened to her worries and complaints. Because he had lived so much of the story during the past year, he knew the material and still found the history of Dark Isle remarkably compelling.

Two days before they packed for their return to Ole Miss, Mercer invited Diane to lunch and an afternoon of reading. They dined on salads and avoided the wine, and when they finished Mercer handed over the manuscript.

“Are you finally finished?” Diane asked.

“Almost. I’ll polish it up next month and turn it in October first. You’ve read the first half. Here’s the rest.”

“I can’t wait.”

“We’re going into town. Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“Make yourself at home. Here’s a red pen, the one Thomas loves, so don’t be shy about your comments.”

They left and Diane made a nest on the patio, under a ceiling fan, with the ocean in the distance, and was once again soon lost in Lovely’s world.

In September, Gifford Knox settled his bogus personal injury suit against Old Dunes for $35,000. He gave one-third to his lawyer, spent $4,000 on uninsured medical bills for nonexistent injuries, and walked away with about $20,000. He sent half of it to the Nalla Foundation and kept the rest as compensation for his troubles.

Also on the legal front, at Diane’s urging Lovely finally agreed to sign a simple will. She had trusted Steven for a long time and was happy for him to prepare one. With no blood heirs, she left her home and personal property to her dearest friend, Naomi Reed. As for her “money,” the cash in her two bank accounts, she gave half to Naomi and the other half to the Nalla Foundation.

She also signed a warranty deed giving her beloved Dark Isle to the Nalla Foundation, to be held in trust forever and preserved in sacred memory of her ancestors.

With the deed in hand, Diane flew to Washington to meet with some important people. Now that she had the benefit of an expense account, she stayed at the famous Willard Hotel, down the street from the White House. Her first appointment was with a black-owned architectural firm that specialized in restoring historical sites deemed important to African American history. The architects were excited about the Dark Isle project and signed on. Almost as important, they had innumerable contacts in the preservation field. They promised to start making calls, and planned to visit the island in October. They were confident money could be raised.

Diane met with the National Trust, National Park Service, African-American Historical Trust, African-American Preservation Society, Lilly Foundation, DeWist Foundation, and two of Florida’s black congressmen. She had been unable to arrange meetings with its two senators.

Late on Diane’s fourth night in D.C., Miss Naomi called with the urgent news that Lovely was in the hospital with what appeared to be a stroke. Diane canceled her meetings the following day and flew home. She hurried from Jacksonville to Camino Island and met Miss Naomi at the hospital, where Lovely was resting comfortably.

The doctor said there were several mini-strokes, all of which were worrisome but none of which caused permanent damage. However, there was a greater likelihood of a serious stroke around the corner. Lovely was able to walk just fine and insisted on going home. The doctor finally discharged her. Back on her porch and sipping lemonade, she seemed as spunky as ever.

The Passage,by Mercer Mann, was well received in New York. After a few tweaks by Lana Gallagher, her editor, and the usual misunderstandings with the folks in copyediting, the manuscript was put on the fast track for publication in late spring. Viking felt an urgency in getting it into the stores because of the timeliness of the story. The trial was now five months in the past, a lifetime in the twenty-four-hour news cycle, and interest in the story seemed to be waning. For Mercer, and every other writer, sooner was better.

Bruce insisted on reading the manuscript before Mercer submitted it to Viking. He saw no structural problems but had a few editorial comments, all of which she ignored. They could quarrel later. He loved the book, but admittedly was probably not a fair critic. He felt like he had lived the story, plus he was, and always would be, smitten with Mercer.

During her Christmas break, Mercer and Thomas flew to New York for a brief victory lap. The trip was primarily about food and drink. They had a long lunch with Lana Gallagher and the president of Viking. They had an even longer dinner with Etta Shuttleworth and her husband. They shopped a little, went to a concert, and enjoyed a light snowfall as they walked in Central Park.

From New York they flew to Jacksonville, then drove to Camino Island, where they would celebrate Christmas. Bay Books was decorated to the max and teeming with customers. When Bruce saw them he dropped whatever he was doing and waved them into his office where he hugged Mercer a bit too long and smacked a kiss on her cheek. He bear-hugged Thomas as if he hadn’t seen him in years. “I talked to Lana Gallagher this morning,” he said, as if he routinely chatted with senior editors at the major publishing houses. On second thought, he probably did. “She adores the book, as you know, and thinks the first printing will be a hundred thousand.”

That was news to Mercer.

“I said no way, Lana, this thing is going well north of two hundred thousand. Get the printing presses all greased up. You bought it too cheap.”

Mercer and Thomas exchanged amused grins.

“Now, we need to start planning your book tour, beginning with a killer launch party here on the pub date.”

Mercer couldn’t stifle a laugh.

So Bruce. He just couldn’t help himself.