Chapter Six The Intern

The Tidal Breeze Corporation had been built over fifty years by the Larney family of Miami. Rex Larney got things started in 1970 when he bought at foreclosure a low-end motel in Fort Lauderdale. He was thirty-one years old, selling real estate, and the closing of a couple of nice deals had whetted his desire for money. He wasn’t afraid to borrow money and take chances, and before long he was buying more small lots close to the beaches. His buildings got taller, along with his debts and his ambitions. By 1980 he was one of many high-flying property developers riding the wave of frenetic growth in South Florida.

His son Wilson grew up in the business and happily took over when Rex died of cancer in 1992. He inherited his father’s appetite for risk and serious toys. He bought Thoroughbreds. and racing boats. He loved to gamble at the tracks and shrewdly foresaw the boom in casino gaming. He partnered with the Seminoles and built four splashy resorts around the state. The Feds almost nailed him twice on dodgy deals, but he proved too slick to pin down. His closest friend was his lawyer, J. Dudley Nash, otherwise known simply as Dud, a nickname Wilson stuck him with decades earlier. Dud’s law firm grew almost as fast as Tidal Breeze and became a prominent Miami player in the commercial real estate world.

Tidal Breeze barely survived the Great Recession of 2008. When the dust settled, and the company was still standing, Wilson surveyed the wreckage and rolled up his sleeves. It was time to play the vulture. When the Fed slashed interest rates to almost zero, Tidal Breeze gorged on cheap debt and scooped up shopping centers, hotels, golf courses, and condos by the thousands.

In 2012, Wilson found himself in hot water again with the law after he forced another real estate swinger into bankruptcy. Once again, Dud navigated a deal that required him to pay a fine but nothing else. Wilson got his photo in the newspaper, something he detested. He was fiercely private and never talked to reporters. Tidal Breeze had only one shareholder—himself.

The jewel of his empire was a fifty-story office building in downtown Miami that Rex had snagged from a bankrupt savings-and-loan in 1985 during that crisis. Over the years, Wilson had refinanced it twice to lower rates and squeezed out over $50 million in cash. It was still heavily mortgaged, but then so was everything else the company owned, including its jet.

For Panther Cay, Wilson planned to borrow every dime the banks would loan for the project, though there was the usual concern about rising rates. Wilson never worried about the cost of borrowing. As Rex always said, “The rates go up and the rates come down.”

From his splendid office on the fiftieth floor, Wilson had a view like few others. Looking east, the azure blue Atlantic stretched to eternity beyond the beaches; to the north, to Boca and Fort Lauderdale and even further, the shoreline was packed with clusters of beautiful high-rises, some owned by Tidal Breeze, but not nearly enough.

The view was always there, though Wilson had little time for it. He lived and played hard, and when he wasn’t playing he was working many hours a day with each hour jam-packed with meetings and ideas and schemes to build and develop even more. In his plush, private conference room next to his office he sat at the end of a table covered with papers, plats, and drawings. To his right was Donnie Armano, the VP in charge of Panther Cay. To his left was Pete Riddle, a lawyer from the firm that Dud built, Nash Cortez.

J. Dudley Nash was just as ambitious as Wilson and wanted to build the biggest law firm in Florida. They golfed and fished together and had once tried to buy the Miami Dolphins, but Wilson’s debt-heavy balance sheet had, oddly, frightened the other NFL owners. As the law firm grew and added offices, Dud’s hourly rate also increased impressively. Wilson chirped when it hit $1,000 but Dud said he was worth that and more. Wilson continued to chirp, and two years later when Dud whispered that he was the first lawyer in town to bill at $2,000 an hour, Wilson said, “Okay, you win. Send me a junior partner.”

Pete Riddle was Dud’s replacement. He was saying, “We’re in discovery and not much is happening right now. The judge is expected to give us a schedule any day now.”

“What about settlement?” Wilson asked. “Surely we can buy off this old woman. Hell, she’s never had a dime.”

“Her lawyer says no.”

“And he’s one of those environmental pricks?”

“Right. He knows the quickest way to protect the island is to win the title dispute. And he says his client will not settle under any circumstances.”

“There’s always a way to settle. Offer half a million.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want.”

“And we’re still on solid ground with the case, the title dispute?”

“Nothing has changed, nothing can change. The plaintiff herself, Miss Jackson, wrote in her own book that she left the island in 1955 and she was the last person there. Everyone else was dead. We’ve searched high and low and found no official record that anyone has lived there since 1955.”

“And her book is admissible in court?”

“That’s up to the judge, but there’s no way to exclude it. And, Miss Jackson has to testify because there’s no one else to support her claim of ownership.”

“When’s the trial?”

“Who knows? My best guess is early spring.”

“And there’s no jury right, just a bench trial?”

“That’s correct.”

“Any clout with the judge?”

“Maybe.” Pete looked at Donnie Armano, who took the handoff and said, “We’re still digging around and might have found something. Judge Salazar has a son in Jacksonville, married with two kids, her only grandkids at the moment. Got a daughter in Pensacola. The son owns a little company that builds cheap government houses and apartments. He does okay but he ain’t getting rich by any means. We can approach him one of two ways, straight-up or behind the back. Straight-up we go through a shell company and get the kid some nicer houses in better parts of town, make sure he’s busy and getting paid. We’ll eventually dangle the carrot, let him know that he might strike gold in the boom on Panther Cay. Or, we can get him a big contract for subsidized apartments, riches galore, but first he has to bribe a federal inspector.”

Wilson wasn’t bothered by either plan. “Let’s start off by giving the boy some business and see how it goes, nothing out of line, nothing to arouse suspicions. God knows we have enough companies to hide behind.”

“Sixty at last count,” Pete said with a grin.

“And I can think of three in the Jacksonville area. Get him sucked in for now and let’s see how it goes. As usual, I’d like to keep the Feds out of it.”

“Please do,” Pete said.

“What about the rest of her family? The judge?”

“Single, divorced a long time ago. Sort of estranged from the daughter in Pensacola, all wrapped up in the two grandkids.”

“How about previous rulings in title cases?”

“We’ve found only one, a few years back. Nothing helpful. She’s been on the bench for six years so there’s not much of a record.”

“Okay,” Wilson said, sticking his pen in a pocket, his way of saying enough of this. “We’ll review it again next week.”

October was Mercer’s favorite month on the island. The suffocating summer heat was gone, as were the tourists, though they seldom got in the way. The beach, ten miles long and rarely crowded, was even more deserted. She loved the long slow walks in the cool mornings. She missed Thomas, but not that much.

About half the beachfront houses were lived in year-round, and she often saw familiar faces as she walked. She even recognized some of the dogs, a friendly bunch as a rule. Stopping for a quick hello and a chat about the weather was not unusual, but Mercer did not want long conversations in the sand. She was there for a purpose, a walk to clear her head and, occasionally, give her inspiration. A story, a name, a place, perhaps even a subplot. As a writer she was always on the prowl for material, which had been sparse lately. Nor did she want to get close to her neighbors, most of whom were retired and usually eager to drop whatever they were doing for some gossip or maybe even a glass of wine. She wasn’t looking for new friends. Her cottage, one that she owned with her sister, was a second home, a getaway and a refuge where she craved quietness and solitude.

But the damned thing was also becoming expensive. Upkeep on a house at the beach was never-ending. Thomas wasn’t much with a hammer or a paintbrush, nor was Connie’s sorry husband. So the two owners split the costs of all repairs and renovations, and the bills were getting bigger. They had never discussed the idea of selling it, though Connie had dropped a few hints. Her husband rarely came to the beach and her family was using the cottage less and less. It had been built by Tessa fifty years earlier and meant far more to Mercer than to Connie.

Fifty years of salt air and storms were eating away at the wood, tiles, and paint.

Mercer was on the back porch, ignoring the blank screen of her laptop, sipping green tea, and instead of writing she was staring at the ocean and listening to the waves, her favorite sound. In October she left the windows open at night and fell asleep to the sounds of the sea. The happiest moments of her childhood had been at the cottage with Tessa, who regardless of the heat didn’t like air-conditioning. When the humidity was down, Tessa opened all the windows and they listened to the waves in the dark as they talked in bed.

Once again, a memory of Tessa came and went. She smiled, tried to shake it off, and looked at the blank screen. She had written the first chapter twice and tossed both drafts. She needed more time with Lovely, whom she would meet with tomorrow, at Bay Books, of course.

The paint was peeling. Everywhere she looked around the porch, the deck, the doors and windows, even the pine flooring, there was old paint either peeling or fading. Larry, her part-time landscaper and handyman, got an estimate from a lower-end painting contractor. The thief wanted $20,000 to repaint and seal the exterior, but Larry said that was about right. Mercer had to giggle at the thought of asking Thomas for his entire check from The Atlantic to spruce up the beach cottage. She thought of her sister and the smile went away. Not too many years ago Connie and her husband were flying high with his company and buying whatever they wanted. Then something happened. Mercer had no idea what, and she would never know because Connie would never tell, but the business wasn’t booming anymore and they were tightening their belts. The sisters had never been close and it was too late to make the effort now.

She forgot about her laptop, and her unwritten manuscript, and walked around the cottage. A fresh coat of paint was desperately needed, so she made a decision. A firm one. An unpopular one. She and Thomas would spend their Christmas break on Camino painting the cottage. If he couldn’t figure out a paintbrush and a roller, then she would be more than happy to give lessons.

Her phone was ringing on the porch. She was expecting a call from Thomas but instead got one from Bruce Cable. “Hello, dear,” he began in his usual hyper, chipper way. “When did you get on the island?”

“Yesterday, Bruce, and how are you?”

“Swell. Books are selling. Someone saw your car in the driveway. Guess you drove down.”

She was always amazed at how little he missed on the island. He had spies everywhere. “Yes, got in last night.”

“How’s Thomas?”

“He’s not here.”

“Left him already?”

“He’s in Australia these days, on assignment for The Atlantic.”

“Awesome. Finally got the boy to work. Look, Noelle’s up for a light dinner, on the early side. Just the three of us. Catch up on the gossip, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce, but I’m tucking in. Got a good book. Give me a rain check.”

A long pause on the other end, because no one said no to dinner with Bruce and Noelle. “Okay. Fair enough. See you tomorrow.”

The following morning at ten, the team gathered at Bay Books and enjoyed doughnuts and coffee in Bruce’s office. Lovely was adorned in her usual African splendor—an orange robe, matching turban, with an assortment of bangles and baubles rattling whenever she took a sip of coffee. As always, Miss Naomi was by her side. Steven Mahon flipped through paperwork as they listened to Bruce talk about an upcoming autograph party for a hot new mystery writer. After a few minutes of greetings and chitchat, Bruce left his office and closed the door.

Steven held a document and said, “This is fairly straightforward.” He looked at Lovely. “It’s called a ‘collaboration agreement’ between you and Mercer that gives her and her publisher the exclusive right to your story. For your cooperation you are to receive twenty-five percent of the total advance, minus the agent’s commission.”

Lovely smiled and said, “I’ve read it. Looks good to me. When do I get a check?”

Mercer smiled and slid another document across the table to Steven, who examined it and removed a check. “Right now. The contract with Viking provides one hundred thousand dollars upon signing, which Mercer has already done, and one hundred thousand upon delivery of the manuscript, which I understand has not been done.”

Mercer laughed and said, “I haven’t finished the first chapter.” Everyone enjoyed the moment.

Steven continued, “And a final payment of fifty thousand upon hardback publication, whenever that might be. So, here’s a check for twenty-one thousand two hundred and fifty dollars.”

He handed it to Lovely who took it gently and smiled. After a thorough examination, she held it so Miss Naomi could have a look. She approved too.

Miss Lovely said, “I’m going to use this to fix up the island, you know. I think I’ll start with the cemetery where my people are buried. What do you think about that, Steven?”

“I think you should wait until this lawsuit is over. As I have explained, there is always the chance that we might lose, and if so the entire island will be changed completely.”

She was shaking her head. “That’s not going to happen.”

“No, I don’t think so either, but let’s go slow.”

“All right, all right. Do you want some more money?”

Steven chuckled at this and shook his head. “No, Lovely, you’ve paid me a five-dollar retainer and that’s what we agreed on. I’m paid through my nonprofit.”

Mercer said, “I’m making a donation to your foundation, Steven.”

“Well, thanks.”

“I’ll make one too then,” Lovely said. “How much do I give?”

Steven held up his hands and said, “Let’s postpone that too. We can talk about it later. There is another money matter we need to discuss. Mercer, this is confidential, for now anyway, and I’m not sure I want it written about.”

“Shall I leave the room?”

“No, just keep it confidential. Miss Lovely, Tidal Breeze is offering you more money to dismiss your lawsuit and give up all claims of title in the island.”

She absorbed it slowly. “I don’t care how much they offer. It’s my island, belongs to me and my people.”

“Do you want to know how much?”

“Don’t matter. I ain’t giving up.”

“Okay. As your lawyer, I have to tell you that Tidal Breeze will pay you half a million dollars to walk away.”

It could have been five or five million, it didn’t matter. The only reaction was a slight nodding of the head to acknowledge the amount and let it pass. Steven was delighted with the non-response.

“I take it your answer is no.”

“Already said no.”

“Good. As I understand things, now that the contract is signed and all, you and Mercer will want to spend a couple of hours going through the past. If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit in on the session and take some notes myself. I need to know as much as possible. Discovery will start soon.”

“Fine with me,” Mercer said.

Lovely shrugged and said, “You’re my lawyer. Got you for five dollars.”

The Barrier Island Legal Defense Fund’s budget was so thin that Steven Mahon preferred to avoid interns. Fortunately, there was never a shortage of young, bright, idealistic college grads planning to go to law school, to be followed by a career in the trenches saving the environment. He received letters and résumés every week, and dutifully answered all of them, but rarely took the next step. The office “suite” he and his secretary occupied was barely large enough for the two of them. He had tried interns over the years but they were usually more trouble than they were worth.

Diane Krug, though, would not take no for an answer. Two years earlier, she had driven from Knoxville to Camino Island with her bags packed and ready to go to work, for no salary if necessary. She was fresh out of college, reeling from a bad romance, and had just inherited an unexpected $15,000 from an aunt she had neglected but suddenly wished she’d spent more time with. Like most folks, Steven was charmed before he could say no, and Diane entered his world. After two weeks, he began to wonder if she would ever leave it. She commandeered the small, cheap card table in the kitchen and began squatting there. If she needed real privacy, she went to the county library. The secretary was divorced and lived alone in a small home with an extra bedroom. Diane moved in there too and immediately began washing dishes and windows.

As a legendary litigator, Steven had no time and little patience with the drudgery of investigating. He happily dumped those chores upon Diane, who relished the challenge and volunteered for more. Late at night she read Steven’s briefs and began editing them. After six months she knew more environmental law than most of the attorneys Steven had partnered with over the years.

After she dissected Lovely’s memoir for the third time, Diane had a list of potential witnesses, a short one. Given Lovely’s age, and especially considering the time frame of her story, real witnesses were scarce. An important one could be a man named Herschel Landry, a native of the area who had moved away. According to the final chapter of The Dark History of Dark Isle, Lovely was forced to leave her home in 1955 with her mother, who died not long thereafter. There was no one left on the island. All of her kinfolks had scattered and most of them were dead. When she was in her twenties, she began returning to the island periodically to tend to the cemetery, primarily the graves of her father and grandparents.

Herschel Landry had been one of the few black men on Camino Island who owned a boat. Decades earlier, there were many black fishermen, but they, too, had scattered. Herschel was married with children. Lovely was separated from her husband and still grieving the death of her only child. In her book she vaguely suggested a bit of a romance with Herschel, but regardless of how he was compensated he volunteered to ferry Lovely to Dark Isle for a few hours once or twice a year. Occasionally, a kid called Carp went too. Lovely paid him a dollar to help pull weeds in the cemetery.

Carp, whose last name was not mentioned in the book, and was still forgotten to Lovely, could not be found. Herschel, though, was ninety-three years old and living in a nursing home in New Bern, North Carolina. Diane found him there with an arduous internet search. According to his son Loyd, who also lived in New Bern, he was in a wheelchair and, typical for a person of his age, had good days and bad ones. The son had left Camino Island as a child when his parents divorced, and he had no recollection of his father’s days on the water.

The defendants would hit hard at Lovely’s assertion that she had never abandoned the island. Her book admitted that she did leave, at least as a resident. Her lawsuit claims she never left, but instead maintained close contact with the past, her people, and her heritage. Other than her own testimony, though, that would be difficult to prove, and the other side would label it completely self-serving.

Diane flew to Raleigh and rented a car for the two-hour drive to New Bern, on the Neuse River Sound. She met Loyd at the front door of the nursing home and they had a cup of coffee while waiting for a nurse to roll Herschel to the front lobby. He was napping when he arrived and looked every bit of his ninety-three years. The nurse hurried away and they spoke in hushed tones as they waited for him to come to life. Loyd said, gravely, that as of late his bad days were outnumbering his good ones.

Diane had low expectations for this potential star witness and her first impression was deflating. She and Steven never expected Herschel to be able to travel to Santa Rosa to testify. The best they could hope for was a video deposition at the nursing home, with poor Herschel surrounded by a dozen lawyers, that could be replayed in court for the judge. As they watched him snooze peacefully, though, she doubted such a deposition would ever take place.

Loyd gently shook Herschel’s leg and he woke up. Loyd chatted with him, got his mind to work, and he became somewhat conversational. He did not know what day or month it was and could not remember what he did the day before, though in all fairness it was safe to assume one day in a nursing home was the same as the others.

Diane asked about his youth, those long-ago days on Camino Island, when he fished with his father and hung around the shrimp boats. The old man came to life. He smiled more, flashed his dentures, and had a sparkle to his eye. She asked if he remembered a young woman named Lovely Jackson and he thought about it for a long time. Then he nodded off.

Not exactly ready to be deposed, Diane thought as she waited patiently.

When his eyes opened she quizzed him again and got nothing. Digging through the island’s historical registers, church rolls, and cemetery records, Diane had a list of African Americans who had lived on Camino Island during Herschel’s lifetime. She mentioned a name, got a blank stare, gave a bit of background if she had it, and waited for something to register. He tried but just shook his head.

Loyd leaned over and whispered, “Not a good day.”

After a long hour, Diane was ready to surrender and Herschel was ready for another nap. Her last question was, “Do you remember a kid everybody called Carp?”

He scratched his chin and nodded and finally smiled. “Oh yes, I remember that boy,” he said softly. “Carp, yes.”

“And he worked on your boat?”

“He hung around the docks, like a lot of the boys. A good boy.”

“Did he go with you out to Dark Isle?”

“To where? He rode with me, yes. He cleaned fish and cleaned boats. A good boy.”

Diane took a deep breath and asked, “Do you remember his full name?”

“Carp.”

“And his last name?”

“One of Marvin’s boys.”

“And who was Marvin?”

A long expectant pause, then “Marvin Fizbee. A buddy of mine. Now I remember.”

Somewhere in the depths of the historical records Diane had dug through, she had seen the unusual last name of Fizbee. She scribbled it down, as if she might forget it, and asked, “This Carp kid was a son of Marvin’s?”

“Who’s Marvin?”

Oh boy. This poor old guy would never get near a deposition. “You said Marvin Fizbee was a buddy of yours.”

“Yes, he was. And he had a several boys. Carp was one of them.”

“And Carp sometimes worked on your boat?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you remember Carp’s full name?” A wasted question but one she had to ask.

He shook his head and fell asleep.

On the flight back to Jacksonville, Diane worked the internet and found a nest of Fizbees in Lake City, Florida, an hour to the west of Camino Island. There were no records of anyone with that surname closer. None were named Marvin, and, not surprisingly, none went by Carp. After landing, she drove straight to Lake City, found the nearest Fizbee, and knocked on the front door. The neighborhood appeared to be white. So was the Mrs. Fizbee who answered the door. Diane fed her a line about working for a lawyer and looking for a witness in a case, and with her smile and charm she talked her way inside for a glass of tea. Mrs. Fizbee led her through the family tree, at least as far as the living relatives were concerned, but the friendly chat yielded nothing. Quite diplomatically, Diane explained that there were some black Fizbees around Camino Island who went back for decades. Mrs. Fizbee wasn’t surprised but claimed she had never met one.

In the days that followed, Diane doggedly chased every possible lead in her search for black folks named Fizbee. She found some near Columbus, Georgia, but there was no connection to Camino Island. She was also quickly learning that black folks did not warm to the idea of talking to a white person working for a white lawyer, regardless of the circumstances.

The trail led to another family near Huntsville, Alabama, but they were just as disinterested.

If there had once been a kid called Carp, he was now at least seventy years old and it would take a miracle to find him.

After giving plenty of notice, Judge Lydia Salazar convened the lawyers for what she described as an “informal status meeting.” It was the first time the lawyers had met in the same room. So far, all communications had been cordial, which was usually the case when Judge Salazar was in charge. Steven Mahon was old-school, and though he had slugged it out with some of the largest corporations in the country in tough lawsuits, he took great pride in playing by the rules and treating his opponents with respect. He’d seen enough bad behavior by other lawyers. Mayes Barrow was the local lawyer for Tidal Breeze and had good manners. He also knew Judge Salazar frowned on bad ones. His co-counsel from Miami, Monty Martin, was surprisingly down-to-earth for a big-firm type and seemed to enjoy the bucolic setting of the old courtroom. The Attorney General’s office sent three lawyers, though only one was needed. They appeared confident, primarily because they felt as though the state’s claim of ownership was the strongest.

Seated behind all the lawyers were their associates and clerks. Diane Krug had already ingratiated herself with Judge Salazar, and came and went as she pleased. She took a ringside seat in the jury box, a move no other underling would dare to try. Beyond the bar, several spectators waited. Sid Larramore of TheRegister was in the front row flipping through a newspaper, not his. A bailiff napped in one corner. The court reporter’s desk was empty because no official record of the proceedings was necessary.

Because it would be a bench trial with no jury, the atmosphere was more relaxed. Scheduling would be far less complicated. Judge Salazar entered from behind the bench, without a robe, and greeted everyone. She asked each lawyer, all six of them, to remain seated, turn off their phones, and introduce themselves. She welcomed them and made them feel at home.

The first matter was a discussion of discovery and how it was progressing. There were no complaints, so far. The usual pile of interrogatories and requests for documents were making the rounds. Depositions had yet to start. Mayes Barrow said, “Your Honor, we would like to begin with the deposition of the plaintiff, Lovely Jackson. It seems only fitting that she goes first.”

“I agree. Mr. Mahon?”

“Sure, Judge. May I suggest next Thursday at nine a.m.?”

Everyone lurched for their calendars. Busy people. Soon they were all nodding, primarily because a quick resolution to the title fight was wanted all around. If Tidal Breeze was getting sued, which happened all the time, its lawyers wrote the book on stalling and delaying. Monty Martin, though, was under strict orders from Wilson Larney to push hard for a trial.

Steven watched them for a moment and said, “And Your Honor, I’d like to borrow the courtroom for Ms. Jackson’s deposition. My office is on the second floor and not that, shall I say, spacious.”

“I see no problem, Mr. Mahon. The courtroom has been used before for depositions. There’s plenty of room and I’ll arrange security. Any objections?”

There were none.

Judge Salazar surprised them with the idea of a trial date. Discovery was just beginning. A trial seemed too distant. However, she had a one-week opening beginning on Monday, May18, and set aside three days. Since they had plenty of time, she would not tolerate delays and requests for more time. In other words, get busy and let’s get it over with.

After the hearing, Diane drove to The Docks and parked on the street in front of Miss Naomi’s. She and Lovely were waiting on the porch, enjoying a beautiful day and a gentle breeze. It was time for tea.

From a brown bag, Diane removed a plastic bottle of herbal tea, with sugar, and three large coconut cookies from a downtown bakery. She cracked the seal and poured it into three tin cups, the same ones every time. Lovely really liked coconut cookies, and the bigger the better.

Lovely knew the lawyers were meeting with the judge that morning and was eager to hear what happened. Diane covered the status meeting from top to bottom, said things went well, and that her deposition was set for Thursday next week. Diane had already explained the purpose, formality, and importance of depositions—sworn testimony from potential witnesses that allowed the lawyers to learn more about the case. They could, and would, ask almost anything, regardless of the relevance. Depositions were often fishing expeditions, but they were nothing to worry about. Preparation was important, and Lovely would be ready. Steven would be there by her side. He’d sat through a thousand of them and would keep the opposing lawyers in line.

“Can we talk some more?” Diane asked.

“We’re talking now,” Lovely said with a smile.

“With the recorder on?”

“I suppose. You do ask a lot of questions.”

“That’s my job. We’re preparing you for the deposition and all those lawyers. That in turn will prepare you for the trial, which Judge Salazar wants to have next May.”

Lovely bit her cookie and kept smiling. She nodded and said, “Go ahead, dear.”

Diane pulled out a slim digital recorder and placed it on the small round table. “Now, last time, we were discussing your grandparents. You remember all four of them.”

“Oh yes. My father’s parents were Odell and Mavis Jackson. My mother’s were Yulie and Essie Monroe. Their people came from a big farm in Georgia called the Monroe plantation.”

“And they were slaves who’d escaped?”

Her shoulders sagged a bit as she frowned, as if they had already covered this territory. “You see, Diane, all the people who ever lived on Dark Isle were slaves or their descendants. Nobody ever moved there because they wanted to live there, and my people didn’t want anybody new. There was not always enough food to go around as it was. Life was hard on the island. The women took care of the kids and raised vegetables and cleaned and such, and the men fished the water and watched for trouble. They was always watching. From the time a boy was ten years old he was trained to watch the water. They lived with the fear that the white men would return one day and cause trouble.”

“Did that change after slavery ended?”

“Took a long time. News was slow getting out there to the island. Some of the men traded with black men down at the docks on Camino and also on the other side at Wolf Harbor, on the mainland, but there wasn’t much contact.”

“Why not?”

“Why not. Because they were afraid of disease. White people got all sorts of diseases that black folk don’t need and can’t handle. There was always the fear of catching something.”

“Even when you were a child?”

“Not so much by then, in the forties and fifties. But around the turn of the century smallpox got to the island and killed half the people. The population went from a hundred to about fifty. Everybody lost somebody. I remember my parents and grandparents talking about it.”

Diane scribbled some notes. Not for the first time, she wondered how much had been forgotten, and how much had been fabricated.