Chapter Eight Earwigging

On the first Monday of March, Judge Salazar held her quarterly docket call to review pending cases, schedule hearings and trials, and check the status of the many guardianships and conservatorships under her jurisdiction. With everything now fully digitized and available online, the docket call was more a ritual, a throwback to a simpler era when the lawyers enjoyed gathering in their grand courtroom early on a Monday morning to have coffee and pastries, pass along the gossip, and act important. Judge Salazar still expected them to show up, though attendance was no longer mandatory. After each docket call, the lawyers and judges moved down the street to a private dining room in the rear of an upscale restaurant and held their quarterly bar meetings. Some of them would later move on to a saloon across the street for another version of a bar meeting.

When Judge Salazar called the case, “In Re Petition of Lovely Jackson,” Steven Mahon and Mayes Barrow stood. A handful of spectators watched with little interest.

Sid Larramore from TheRegister watched from the front row. At that moment, it was the most interesting case on the island, but he had gathered no new material for the story in a couple months. The letters to the editor had petered out and lost some of their bite. A few people were quietly in favor of Panther Cay because of the economic boost, but Camino Island was still a conservative place where most folks belonged to a church and claimed to attend regularly. Gambling was frowned upon. Could prostitution be far behind? And drugs? The majority, at least in Sid’s opinion, were opposed to more development in the area.

The lawyers agreed that discovery was on track and they could not foresee anything that would interfere or delay the trial, set for May 18.

Judge Salazar thanked them and moved to the next case. The morning dragged on. Steven hung around and planned to attend the bar lunch, something he did only once a year. At 11:30, the judge adjourned court and encouraged the lawyers to regather at the restaurant down the street.

In the buffet line, Steven shadowed the judge and luckily found a seat next to her. With thirty lawyers in a dining room the conversation was guaranteed to be lively. Most of them talked as they were eating, either about their latest exciting cases or college basketball. The guest speaker was a lawyer from Jacksonville who was swamped with immigration cases, and he managed to hold their attention for about ten minutes. Unfortunately, he went on for thirty more. As soon as he finished, his audience virtually stampeded out of the room.

Judge Salazar turned to Steven and said, “Are you in a hurry?”

“No, it’s a pretty slow Monday.”

“Got time for coffee?”

“Sure. I’ll get us some.”

“Black, please.”

“I may have a small slice of the caramel cake. You?”

“Great idea, but very small.”

When the dining room was empty, they turned their chairs to face one another and had dessert. After two bites she said, “I’ve reviewed everything in the Dark Isle case and I find Lovely’s story troubling. I’ve read her book and I’ve studied her deposition. I’m sure you know there are plenty of discrepancies.”

Steven was hoping for a quiet word with Her Honor about the need to visit the island. His idea was to hire experts to search for the cemetery, and, if found, try to secure samples from the human remains that could be used for DNA testing. If the DNA from the old bones matched Lovely’s, there would be no doubt that the important parts of her story were true. Steven still believed her, but Tidal Breeze and its lawyers were casting plenty of doubt. Such an expedition into the jungle would require Her Honor’s cooperation.

This, though, was a curveball he did not see coming. It was virtually unheard of for a judge to want a private chat about a pending case. He’d spent his career in federal courts and had handled only a few cases in the local courthouses. He’d never met a federal judge who would remotely consider talking about a case. Maybe the rules were different on Main Street, but he didn’t think so.

Flabbergasted, and cautious, he wasn’t sure how to respond. He said, “Well, she’s eighty years old and maybe her memory is not so sharp.”

“Do you really believe she lived out there? And all that stuff about her family? What troubles me is that she didn’t claim the island until the developers showed up. She waited over sixty years, if you can believe her story. And how could she possibly have known to hire an environmental lawyer?”

There was little doubt that Her Honor was not buying Lovely’s story. Steven was stunned and scrambled for something harmless to say. He didn’t want to argue but he was curious as to how far the judge might go. He said, “Oh, I believe her. Why else would a woman her age bother with the fight?”

“Money, perhaps.”

“I’m not sure we should be discussing this,” Steven said.

“You’re right. I should not have brought it up. I’m just troubled, that’s all.”

Steven took a large bite of the cake and worked on it slowly as the seconds passed. He couldn’t think of anything fitting to say at the moment, but since she was in such a talkative mood, he wanted to give her some more rope.

“Let’s pretend we never had this conversation,” she said.

“Okay.”

Fat chance of that. Judge Salazar had already decided the case. To make bad matters worse, Steven got the clear and troubling impression that she suspected he and the other tree-huggers were just using Lovely as their first line of defense against Panther Cay.

Rattled and reeling, he excused himself and made a clumsy exit. Hers was just as awkward. He ducked around a corner and disappeared in an alley. When she’d had enough time to walk back to the courthouse, he returned to his office. Diane was at her card-table desk in the kitchen. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said. She missed nothing.

“You look pale,” she replied.

“Let’s go for a long drive.”

For the past fifteen years or so, Noelle had sold French Provincial antique furniture and furnishings to Aurelia Snow, a delightful lady and friend who lived four blocks away in one of the many handsome Victorians in central Santa Rosa. Her home was the only one Noelle coveted, and though it would soon go on the market, Bruce had made it clear that he was not moving. Virtually every rug, lamp, chandelier, and piece of furniture had come from Provence by way of Noelle’s Antiques on Main Street, next door to Bay Books. The house was packed with armoires, wine-tasting tables, daybeds, poster beds, cabinets, buffets, vanities, and much more, all selected by Noelle for every room and corner of the house. The project had been challenging and rewarding, and Noelle and Aurelia had made several trips to France over the years searching for the right pieces.

Aurelia, sadly, was now slowing down. She’d lost a step or two because three years earlier, at the age of seventy-seven, she purchased a new hip. A year later, a new knee. Now, an ankle was stiff. Arthritis was getting worse. She avoided the stairs and, frankly, was tired of taking care of so much stuff. She had been living alone for over a year, since she socked her wealthy husband into assisted living. When she decided to sell her Victorian, Noelle was the first person she called. Most of the French stuff she’d bought, well, now she wanted to sell it back, and Noelle was willing to trade.

Aurelia was buying a new condo, one without stairs, and she wanted Noelle to oversee its interior design and decoration. She would use as much of her furniture as possible, but most of her collection simply wouldn’t fit.

When the roof was up and the walls were roughed in, Aurelia decided it was time to start decorating. Noelle drove her across the river to a new development called Old Dunes to have the first look. As they entered the main gates and crept along the busy streets, they were startled at the beehive of construction.

“Are you sure you want to live here?” Noelle asked, obviously turned off by the sprawl.

“Yes, I’ve made up my mind. It’ll be okay once everything is finished, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. It’ll be a drastic change.”

They found the streets with new homes going up. A gaudy sign advertised: Luxury Condos Starting at Only $950,000.

Bruce was of the opinion that the Snows’ Victorian would hit the market for at least $4 million. Aurelia was looking at a windfall and she knew it. She had said to Noelle more than once, “All this money and nothing to spend it on. Barry’s lost his marbles and can’t go anywhere.”

“Find a younger man,” Noelle had said, only half serious.

A paint crew was busy with the exterior of Unit 416, Aurelia’s. They got out and walked carefully around the ladders and drop cloths. They stepped through the front door and were met by a pleasant young man who introduced himself as Lenny Salazar, the contractor. For an hour, they looked at plans, measured walls, stared at windows. Lenny was a busy man, taking several phone calls, barking at his subs, even disappearing once for fifteen minutes. But he was thoroughly accommodating and willing to move walls and doors and tweak the floor plans. He even took a half-bath and said he could remove a corner and install a small sauna next to the laundry room.

The challenge was obvious. Aurelia was downsizing from a three-story home with 12,000 square feet to a one-level condo with 2,500. Nevertheless, she was excited about it. The more she walked across the bare floors, the more antiques she jettisoned. Noelle was only too happy to purchase and resell what she didn’t want.

When they were finished, Lenny walked them outside, handed each a business card, and said the closing would take place whenever Aurelia was ready. The condo would be finished in sixty days and she could move in at her convenience. As she looked around and took in the noise—cement trucks roaring by, hammers pounding away, saws screaming, workers yelling—she decided she was not in such a hurry.

She asked, “I might wait a few months before I move in. It’s awfully busy out here.”

Lenny laughed and said, “Yes ma’am, it is. There are sixteen condos on this street, then we move to the next.”

“How many of these are sold?”

“About half.”

Aurelia laughed and asked, “Do I have the right to approve of my new neighbors?”

Lenny laughed too and said, “I assure you they’re all nice people.”

“Whatever. I’m in no hurry. It’ll take a year to sell my house anyway.”

Steven’s favorite escape from the office was a long walk along Main Street to a coffee shop. He usually dropped in to Bay Books and said hello to the staff. If Bruce was in, which he usually was, they might gossip for a few minutes.

He found him in his office, poring over an old book with a magnifying glass.

Steven said, “I got some dirt.” Code for We need to have a quiet lunch.

Bruce smiled and said, “What a coincidence. So do I.”

They met at noon the following day in a pizza joint around the corner. It was early March and the wind was blowing. No one was eating outdoors. The wine list left much to be desired, so they ordered sparkling water.

Once confidentiality was established, and Bruce could be discreet when necessary, Steven replayed the troubling conversation he’d had the previous week with Judge Salazar.

He said, “She was completely out of line. No judge, regardless of how big or small the job is, should ever discuss a case with one of the lawyers without the opposing lawyers present. Most states have laws on the books prohibiting attorneys from trying to hustle or influence or curry favor with a judge. In the common law, which we inherited from England, there was even a term for it. ‘Earwigging.’ It was illegal and certainly unethical to earwig a judge.”

“But you weren’t the one doing the earwigging,” Bruce said.

“Exactly. I can’t understand why she felt the need to inform me that she thinks my case is weak. What did she gain? I’m really baffled. I’ve been here only six years and I rarely appear in her court. I’ve talked to a couple of local guys who do a lot of chancery work and it seems as though she has a reputation for loose lips. She’s well regarded and there are few complaints, but she drops comments from time to time when she doesn’t like a lawsuit or the testimony of a witness. I guess that doesn’t matter. What matters is that she tipped her hand in favor of Panther Cay.”

“And if you called her out?”

“It would only make things worse. As you know, there’s no jury. She is the sole decision-maker. The verdict belongs to her. We can always appeal, but the Florida appellate courts rarely overturn a Chancellor in matters like these. She has enormous power and her verdict will be given great deference on appeal.”

“Hard to believe she would bring this up at a bar lunch.”

“Well, the lunch was over and we were alone. Still, it was strange. And I got the clear impression that she sort of wished she hadn’t said anything.”

“Lucky she did. At least you know where you stand. Can’t you ask her to step aside?”

“That rarely works. In fact, it usually backfires. When you ask a judge to recuse herself, guess who makes the decision. The judge. And if she says no, then you’re stuck with a judge who’s really pissed off at you.”

The pizza arrived and they had a bite.

Steven said, “And your dirt?”

“Nothing compared to this. Just a bit of gossip, which, oddly enough, is related to Her Honor. Do you know Aurelia Snow, lives in that big blue Victorian on Elm Street?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Nice lady. Husband’s in memory care or one of those places and she’s downsizing, selling the big house and moving into a new condo. She wanted Noelle to buy back a boatload of French antiques she’s collected over the years. Anyway, Noelle drove her over to see the new place yesterday. It’s in Old Dunes, the latest planned development on the back bay.”

“I know all about it. We thought about stepping in, filing suit, trying to fight it, but found nothing to hang our hat on. Just another development, one of too many, and we decided to keep our powder dry.”

“For Panther Cay.”

“For Panther Cay, and after Panther Cay there will be another one. This is Florida.”

“I love it. More books are sold per capita in Florida than any other state. Don’t forget that. The population is a bit older and folks like to read.”

“I bought a hundred books from you last year. Hardbacks, no discount.”

“God bless you. And I’ll bet your bookshelves are beautiful.”

“Indeed they are. And the dirt?”

“Well, small world. The guy building Ms. Snow’s fancy new condo is none other than Lenny Salazar, son of the judge.”

“Didn’t know she had a son. She’s divorced, right?”

“Yes, a long time ago. She doesn’t live on the island so I don’t know much about her.”

“What’s your angle?”

“I don’t have one. That’s your world. I’m just a small-town bookseller.” He took a bite and chewed. “But I wonder who owns Old Dunes.”

“I thought it was some Texas swinger.”

“Maybe, maybe not. The first newspaper story said it was a Houston company with an office in Tallahassee. I called Sid at TheRegister and he knew little. Might be worth digging into.”

“Wait a minute. You’re not thinking it might be Tidal Breeze?”

Bruce was nodding.

At four that afternoon, Steven returned to the bookstore and brought Diane with him. They found Bruce in the rear stockroom, boxing up unsold books to return to the warehouse, an unpleasant task that he refused to delegate. He still opened every box of new books and placed them on display with great confidence that they would be sold, read, and enjoyed. Six months later, he sadly sent some back in defeat.

Steven and Diane collected espressos at the upstairs coffee bar and waited for Bruce at a quiet corner table. When he climbed the stairs, he ordered a latte and sat down. “This must be serious,” he said with a smile.

“Diane’s on the trail,” Steven replied.

“It’s not much of a trail, yet,” Diane said. “The land for Old Dunes was purchased five years ago by a Houston company that set up a new corporation in Florida. It has done business here before, primarily in the Naples area. It leased an office in Orlando and went to work, got all the permits and approvals, promised to be good boys and productive citizens. So far, no complaints. The Texas guys have a nice reputation for building quality resorts, hotels, golf courses, the works. It’s a private corporation so not much in the way of public records, though I did track down some of their other developments and learned that they prefer to build, then hold and manage themselves. Not in the habit of flipping. However, in September of last year, they sold Old Dunes to a company registered in the Bahamas. Proper paperwork was filed here by the new owner, Hibiscus Partners. Couldn’t find a thing about them. Like a lot of offshore havens, the Bahamians keep things private, for a nice fee, of course. Then, in early October Hibiscus sold Old Dunes to Rio Glendale, and the weeds get thicker. Rio Glendale is registered on the tiny Caribbean island of Montserrat, a rather notorious haven for shady corporations and tax evaders.”

“I’ve never heard of Montserrat,” Bruce said.

“They advertise in travel magazines and that’s about it.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s a British territory, down the road from Nevis and St. Kitts.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“Most of it was destroyed by a volcano a few years back.”

“And they call it a haven?”

“Anyway, it’s impossible to penetrate the record-keeping on the island, same as the other Caribbean fronts.”

“So, another dead end?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Diane was in her element, slowly peeling the onion. “You might not be surprised to learn that Tidal Breeze has a history of tax troubles. I’ve found two newspaper articles about dust-ups with the IRS, and both led to investigations in the Bahamas and Cayman Islands.”

Steven said, “It’s possible that Tidal Breeze bought Old Dunes through Rio Glendale and is keeping it offshore.”

“And does this little conspiracy have a motive?” Bruce asked as he tried to keep up.

“Ever heard the word ‘earwigging’?”

“Not since lunch.”

“We’re dreaming here, Bruce, speculating. Playing a game of what-ifs. Panther Cay will be far more profitable to Tidal Breeze than Old Dunes, so what if Tidal Breeze figures it can have both? It uses Old Dunes to snag Lenny Salazar, who just might be able to influence his mother.”

“You’re really throwing darts here, Steven.”

“True. But as I said, we’re just playing a game, for now anyway.” Steven nodded to Diane, who said, “I’ve spent the past two hours studying building permits, something I don’t recommend, both in Camino and Duval counties. For the past three years Lenny Salazar has built fourteen duplexes in Duval, federal government housing, average value about two hundred thousand. He also built a small apartment complex and a strip mall. He’s a hustler, stays busy, good reputation with the trades. Last September he appeared at Old Dunes and started building condos worth a lot more. I called his office, said I was looking for a builder, and was told Mr. Salazar was too busy to call me back.”

Bruce sipped his latte, looked at Steven, shrugged at Diane, and said, “Okay. I’ve read a million mysteries and I love a good plot. This one wouldn’t make it to chapter three, but it has just enough suspicion to turn a few more pages. What’s next?”

Diane said, “Well the plot does thicken a little. Of course every foreign corporation, as well as every out-of-state one, must have a registered agent here in Florida. Virtually every other state reciprocates. There are dozens of companies who do nothing but serve as registered agents, shuffle the paperwork, and provide an address. It’s especially big business in Miami with so many South American companies doing business in the state. Rio Glendale is using a registered agency in Coral Gables. So far I’ve found two other offshore companies owned by Tidal Breeze who register at the same address. So Tidal Breeze knows them well. Again, there are literally tens of thousands of entities and it could be purely coincidental, but I’m still digging. It does look a little suspicious.”

“Okay. That turns a few more pages. What’s next?”

Steven said, “Not sure. The only way to know who owns Old Dunes is to sue the company, get ’em in court, and make ’em divulge their ownership.”

“I can think of several lawyers around here who specialize in bogus lawsuits,” Bruce said.

All three laughed. Then Bruce stopped laughing and asked, “What kind of lawsuit would it be?”

Steven said, “I really don’t know. Not my area of expertise. I’ve thought of snooping around out there and trying to find an EPA violation somewhere, run to federal court and harass them for a while. But I really don’t have the stomach for it, nor the time. And it would be a long shot at best.”

Diane said, “I’ve checked all the dockets and no lawsuits have been filed against Old Dunes so far.”

Steven said, “It’s a matter of time. Every large construction site is good for a few lawsuits. Unpaid bills. Liens by subs. Workers get hurt every day.”

“Is it that simple? You sue ’em and find out the real owners?”

“Usually. It’s not always easy, but the rules of discovery are flexible and allow the parties to ask all sorts of questions. Real ownership is on the table and courts want to know the true identities of the litigants. We just need a plaintiff.”

Gifford Knox was no stranger to litigation. For more than twenty years, ever since his books began selling in impressive numbers, he had been involved in many environmental fights up and down the East Coast. The more he sold, the more money he donated to his favorite conservationists. He had testified in two trials involving fights to stop developers in his beloved Low Country. His testimony had been neither crucial nor revealing, but it had been good for front-page stories.

Nor was he opposed to pulling a stunt to thwart a development or harass a polluter. The stunt was Bruce’s idea. He waited two days until the temperature in Santa Rosa was twenty degrees warmer than dreary Charleston, and he called Gifford with the invitation to come visit for a week or so. The timing was perfect. Gifford and his current wife, Maddy, were bored on the sailboat in Charleston Harbor. The early March weather was windy and raw, and a few days in the sun sounded wonderful.

The stunt sounded even better. Bruce was careful to keep Steven away from it. If it blew up, he didn’t want the lawyer to have his ethics questioned. There was nothing illegal about their little plot; nonetheless, Steven did not need the state bar poking around with some pesky ethical questions. Bruce would take full responsibility. As a bookseller, he really had no code of ethics. As a writer, Gifford certainly did not.

The salesman, Arnold, met them at the Model Home! and showed them a slick video that revealed the breadth and beauty of Old Dunes. Everything a person could possibly want, and just thirty minutes from the Jacksonville International Airport. They looked at house plans, with a keen eye on the McMansions along the waterfront. Gifford, who was using the name Giff—not that it mattered, because he might have been one of the top-ten bestselling writers in the country but lived in near total obscurity, like the other nine—had questions about the final cost per square foot, and so on. He and Maddy had scoped the development and knew that three of the huge homes were under construction. Arnold said two had been sold. The third was a spec house that quickly became Maddy’s favorite, the one they just had to see.

Diane had dug through the records and knew that all the lots in the development were still owned by Old Dunes; thus, the company would be a defendant in any lawsuit.

Giff and Maddy followed Arnold’s car to the waterfront and parked at the curb. They entered the house, which was framed and roofed and even had brick going up one exterior wall. Giff and Maddy had plenty of questions about how much they might be able to change the design. Could they move walls at this point? And windows and doors? And the patio was just too narrow. At times they had to yell over the banging, hammering, and sawing. The stairway to the second level was temporary construction steps, barely firm and solid enough to handle the traffic up and down. They climbed the stairs carefully. Gifford shook the handrail and saw that it wobbled a bit. They inspected the three large bedrooms upstairs, found problems with the layout of the master bath, and didn’t like a bay window. With each minor problem, Arnold assured them that everything could be adjusted. With a $3 million price tag, he could almost taste his commission.

When they were finished with the upstairs, they headed down. Arnold first, then Maddy, then Giff. He took a deep breath, yanked hard on the handrail, broke it, and tumbled forward, screaming as he fell. Maddy yelled too and managed to stop his fall at the bottom of the stairway. In the fall, Giff managed to bang his head without really hurting himself. Sprawled across the bottom step, he was covered in sawdust and apparently unconscious. Arnold bounced around, yelling at the workers. Someone dialed 911. Maddy leaned over her husband, who was not responsive.

They hauled him away in an ambulance. His vital signs were normal. The two medics found no broken bones but there was a knot over his left ear. Obvious head injury. Obvious because he was unconscious.

When he finally woke up an hour later his skull was throbbing with a massive headache. His vision was blurred. The doctor said his scans were fine and give him pain pills. No, he did not want to go home. Maddy insisted he stay for further observation. The following day he was observed some more and seemed okay, except for the complaints about headaches, blurred vision, and a strange ringing in his ears. Arnold came by twice to check on him and to apologize. Maddy said she’d been worried about the unstable stairway. Odd, thought Arnold, none of the workmen had noticed or complained.

After two days he was finally evicted from the hospital and returned to Bruce’s home where they had a fine lunch on the veranda with two bottles of wine. At times, Gifford had trouble eating because he was laughing so hard. Maddy thought he was a terrible actor. They howled when describing poor Arnold darting around with his cell phone trying to get an ambulance out there, downright frantic about losing his commission.

Late in the day, an insurance adjuster for the company that covered Old Dunes called to check on Gifford. He reported ongoing headaches, bouts of blindness, even a minor seizure or two, and so on. He promised to give the guy a call after he saw a specialist in Charleston.

A week later he filed suit in federal court in Tallahassee. His lawyer was a buddy from Charleston who had stood by his side through many of his exploits and been to court with him several times. The lawyer did not know of the stunt, but was suspicious of the mounting medical bills. His client seemed perfectly normal, or as normal as usual, the alleged migraines and seizures notwithstanding. Gifford did admit that the primary purpose of the lawsuit was to smoke out the true owners of Old Dunes. Attached to the lawsuit were standard interrogatories and requests for documents that would provide some interesting information.

Two days after the lawsuit was filed, Bruce met Steven and Diane for a late afternoon drink at the Pirate’s Saloon. He handed them both a copy of the lawsuit, which was a mere three pages long, and watched their amused faces as they read.

Steven was smiling when he finished. “And what was Gifford Knox doing looking at a new home in Old Dunes?”

“He was looking at a new home in Old Dunes. Same as other folks.”

“Did he buy one?”

“Still pondering, but doubtful. Really not his scene.”

Diane said, “I thought he lived on a sailboat.”

“He does. But there will be a nice marina out there and a place for him to dock. He’s very curious about these new developments.”

“I smell a rat,” Steven said, still smiling.

“You should.”

“And how is he recuperating?”

“He’s coming along. Maddy says there should be no additional brain damage.”

Steven tossed his copy on an empty chair and laughed. “You did this, didn’t you?”

“Did what?” Bruce protested with a grin. “It takes very little to get Gifford involved in a good fight. You said yourself that the only way to ‘pierce the corporate veil’ as they say, was to sue the company and get their documents. Well, here’s the lawsuit, and Gifford’s lawyer is hot on the trail.”

“Beautiful.”

“I thought you’d like it. If Tidal Breeze does indeed own Old Dunes, then what?”

“Then we have a chat with Judge Salazar and explain that she has a rather serious conflict of interest. Her son is in business with one of the litigants. We’ll press her to recuse herself. If she refuses, then we’ll consider going to the state bar association. That would be very embarrassing for her.”

“Do you think she knows who owns Old Dunes?” Diane asked.

Steven shook his head. “Highly unlikely, at least at this point. How many corporate names have you traced back to Tidal Breeze?”

“Dozens.”

“Right. These guys are slick, sly, and very secretive. They have plenty of lawyers and tax advisors and operate in many places here and offshore. No, she doesn’t have a clue. But, there might come a time when Tidal Breeze feels the need to apply some pressure.”

Bruce said, “It’s still so speculative.”

“It is. But we’re getting there, thanks to Gifford Knox and his clumsiness.”

“What? Didn’t you read the lawsuit? He’s not clumsy. The stairs were shoddy, defective, and part of an unsafe work environment.”

“Beautiful,” Steven said again.

“Why are we attracting lawsuits up there?” Wilson Larney asked as he stared out the window and gazed at the ocean. “This was supposed to be easier. Roll in, throw some cash around, buy off everyone, and start building. I can’t believe it’s almost April and we’re still bogged down in court.”

One lawyer, Pete Riddle, said, “It’s a simple slip-and-fall in one of our new homes. The guy had some injuries but nothing serious. I’ve told the insurance company to settle it, and quick. The plaintiff’s lawyers are poking around offshore.”

“And the injured guy’s some kind of big writer or something?”

Dud Nash, the other lawyer, said, “Oh yes, name’s Gifford Knox. Good crime writer. I’ve read him.”

“Never heard of him,” Wilson said.

That’s because you haven’t cracked a novel since high school, Dud thought.

Wilson was frustrated but never angry. His father, Rex, the founder, had been a hothead who cursed and threw things at subordinates. Wilson was far more professional, and far richer, and believed in keeping his cool. However, it was apparent that he was losing patience with the slow progress at Panther Cay. He wanted the largest casino in North Florida and was convinced it would mop up with Atlanta traffic.

“When’s the trial?” he asked.

Riddle replied, “Same. Still May eighteenth. Nothing should delay it.”

“And we offered the old lady half a mil, right?”

“Right,” replied Dud. “And she said no.”

“She’s never had a dime, lives on Social Security, and she turned down half a million in cash?”

“She did.”

“Okay. Offer her one million dollars to go away. Got it?”

Jeff smiled and said, “Yes, sir, boss. We’ll get it done.”

“The boys in Tallahassee have the funding for the bridge. A hundred and sixty million dollars. The banks have approved our first series of construction loans, two hundred million. What the hell are we waiting for?”

After six months on the island, Diane had met far more people than Steven had met in six years, not that he was trying to compete. She had a knack for remembering names, so people remembered her. She stopped by the bookstore almost every day, said hello to Bruce and to every other person who worked there, and took the time to chat for a few minutes. She knew the baristas in the coffee shops, the waitresses in the restaurants, the clerks in the dress shops. She visited Sid Larramore at The Register at least once a week and traded gossip. She also spent time in the vaults reading past issues. She jotted down every name that she might one day come across. She flirted with the beat cops, the deputies, and the charter boat captains at the harbor. She watched the court dockets and kept up with cases. She got fresh with some of the lawyers but never went too far.

And she had spent so much time with Lovely that they had become close friends. Diane coaxed her, and Miss Naomi, to a new café downtown, one that was not around back in the day. They had a long lunch and had so much fun they did it again. Lovely invited her to come sit on the front porch and have iced tea. Lovely had so many stories, and Diane would stop her and say, “That’s a new one. Mind if I tell Mercer?”

Mercer was always a topic of discussion. Diane told her everything, regardless of whether she had cleared it with Lovely. Occasionally, the topic of money was mixed into the conversation, and Lovely had little to say. Over time, though, Diane began to suspect that she wasn’t exactly dependent on a Social Security check. Her life was simple and there was little to spend money on. She had purchased the house fifteen years earlier and there was no mortgage. Her only extravagance was clothing, her colorful robes and turbans and scarves. Lovely, always reticent, finally admitted that she ordered her wardrobe from a store in Queens. She produced a catalog—Kazari’s African Boutique—and allowed Diane to flip through it. Pages and pages of colorful dresses and robes, and the clothing wasn’t cheap.

“You must have quite a wardrobe,” Diane said, practically begging for a look.

“It’s nice,” Lovely said. Her front door remained closed.

Once, on the porch, Diane was taking notes as they worked through Lovely’s employment history. She was quick with the dates, but, as Diane had already learned, the dates were proving to be flexible. After she left Dark Isle at the age of fifteen, she moved to Santa Rosa and went to school. She and her mother were practically starving and both worked wherever they could, primarily around the canneries. When Lovely was in her early twenties, she began working as a housekeeper in various hotels along the beach. This was not unusual; many black women worked in the resorts, hotels, apartments, and fine homes. When she was about fifty-five, she landed a nicer job working in a large home, one of the Victorians, in central Santa Rosa. The owner was Mrs. Rooney, the widow of an older man who had passed years earlier. Mrs. Rooney was from “up north” and had a different view of race relations. She and Lovely became close friends and relied on each other. Lovely was still required to wear her housekeeper’s uniform each day, and Mrs. Rooney would never think of having dinner with her in a restaurant, but things were slowly changing.

When Mrs. Rooney died, she left Lovely some money. She had never told anyone how much and wasn’t about to tell Diane, regardless of how cleverly she prodded. Miss Naomi said she had never heard the story.

It helped explain why Lovely was not impressed with money. When Steven and Diane met her in Bruce’s office and told her that there was a million dollars on the table, she scoffed at it. Her only reaction was “I wish they’d stop offering money. I ain’t for sale.”

It was exactly what Steven wanted to hear.

In anticipation of spring break, Mercer began dropping hints that she wanted to return to the island and paint the inside of the cottage. Now that the outside was pristine, they should work on the interior. The walls had not been painted in decades. They owned the necessary supplies—brushes, ladders, pans, rollers, drop cloths, everything but the paint—and they were somewhat experienced now that they had painted the outside. The interior would be much easier, she thought.

Thomas wanted to go skiing in Utah. He mentioned this a couple times but it apparently went unheard. A mysterious phone call from his editor at The Atlantic got his attention. He was needed in New York to review the final edits for his lost submarine article. Away he went, and Mercer drove ten hours to the beach with only the dog. The little family was happy. She needed some quiet time to write and work on her book. Thomas, who had shown little talent with the brushes, had avoided manual labor. The dog would get to sleep on his side of the bed.

Mercer and Diane talked by phone at least an hour a day. They emailed and texted constantly and couldn’t wait to hang out on the island. Even as a paralegal, or office assistant, or whatever she was supposed to be at her card-table desk in the cramped kitchen at the Barrier Island Legal Defense Fund, she was supposed to keep the firm’s work confidential. She did not. At least not when she wanted to talk to Mercer about the Dark Isle litigation. Steven Mahon sort of gave her the green light. They reasoned that Mercer was writing an in-depth book about the case and would find out everything sooner or later. She could be trusted. Lovely had given her approval for the two women to discuss her life and the lawsuit.

The first night on the island, Diane arrived at the cottage with a pizza and a bottle of inexpensive red wine. They talked nonstop for three hours and watched a movie. Diane slept on the sofa. The following morning, she was up early with a pot of coffee and reading Mercer’s first draft.

Noelle cooked dinner for Mercer the following night and they ate on the veranda with Steven and Diane. With surprisingly little embellishment, Bruce told Mercer the story of Noelle sniffing out Lenny Salazar as she examined the new condo for her client. If Lenny had a direct financial connection to Tidal Breeze, and one had certainly not been proven, Steven said he planned to go after the judge.

Mercer listened as if enthralled, though Diane had already covered all the details. Bruce was a gifted raconteur, especially after some wine. He liked nothing better than a long dinner “on the porch” with writer friends and other admirers. As always, Noelle said little. She was content to listen to the others and speak only when she had something to add.

Mercer was delighted with the new twists and turns. She had written 51,000 words, which she judged to be about half the book. And, most important, she had stopped thinking of tossing it. She liked her narrative so far and knew the best was yet to come. Not only would it be long enough but the subplots were spinning. Diane had blitzed through the draft in three hours and said it read like a crime thriller.

“When can I take a look at it?” Bruce asked.

“How about when it’s finished?” Mercer replied.

“Come on. I’m intrigued by your first effort at nonfiction, which is one of my strong suits.”

“Along with everything else.”

“No, not true. I don’t read much poetry. I think I should read the first half and do so with a red pen.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Which is a nice way of saying no.”

“I’ll think about it. The first half is still pretty rough.”

“I disagree,” Diane said. “I devoured it this morning before breakfast. It’s amazing. The stuff about the ex-slaves on Dark Isle is so compelling.”

“Thank you.”

Bruce poured some more wine and said, “Come on, Mercer. If you want me to sell this book I need to read it.”

“And you will, as soon as I finish.”

“Which will be?”

“Depends on the story. If the Barrier Island Legal Defense Fund wins Lovely’s title dispute, then there will be a happy ending this summer. Right, Steven?”

“I suppose. However, there is always the possibility of an appeal. That’ll eat up a year, maybe a year and a half.”

Diane said, “The average appeal from chancery court takes fourteen months in Florida.”

“My ace paralegal,” Steven said with a nod across the table.

Bruce said, “Well, I can’t wait that long.”

“You’ll have other books to read while you wait,” Mercer said.

“Are you kidding?” Noelle said. “He’s reading three a week now.”

“Just part of my job,” Bruce said with a smile. “Reading great books, drinking great wine.”

There was no shortage of London-based law firms that specialized in Caribbean tax schemes and offshore maneuvering. Gifford’s lawyer in Charleston found one with a tiny branch office on Montserrat. For a fee, and it was never clear whether the fee was aboveboard or below, the lawyer accessed the government’s register of foreign companies and individuals claiming to be domiciled on the island. Rio Glendale was one of 8,700. Its Articles of Incorporation, which were treated as highly confidential under the island’s laws, were signed by Nate Gooch, a junior partner under Pete Riddle. Half of Rio Glendale’s stock was owned by Delmonte Land; the other half by Sandman Ventures. Both companies were owned by a Boca Raton–based subsidiary of Tidal Breeze. All of the entities were privately held and under the thumb of Wilson Larney and his family.

It was a decent effort at hide-and-seek, but not terribly creative. However, Wilson and the boys never thought they’d be sued over Old Dunes. The real pros in the business went through Singapore and Panama and left no trail whatsoever.

In mid-April, one month before the trial, Steven arranged a meeting with Judge Salazar in her office down the hall from the courtroom. The purpose was to discuss the trial and decide who would testify and in what order. Before they got around to it, though, Steven startled her with “Judge, I have some rather troubling news for you.”

She responded with a confused look. “Okay.”

“It has come to our attention that your son, Lenny, is building condos at Old Dunes.”

“And doing quite well.”

“Yes. The problem is that Old Dunes is secretly owned by the Tidal Breeze Corporation of Miami.”

Her reaction was one of genuine shock. She sighed and exhaled and seemed poised to say something in response, but nothing came out. Her instinct told her to believe it, because Steven Mahon would never say such a thing without concrete proof. He placed a file on her desk and said, “Here’s the paper trail. It sails around the Caribbean a few times, which is not unusual for Tidal Breeze. The corporation is privately owned and very secretive.”

“My son is doing quite well and I’m proud of him.”

“And you should be. There is nothing in that file that is in any way critical of your son. I assume he doesn’t know the identity of the owner.”

“I seriously doubt he does. We’ve never discussed it. I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t. Tidal Breeze went to great lengths to hide behind a few of its offshore shell companies, a game it has played before.”

She removed her reading glasses and massaged her temples. Steven let her suffer. She said, “It was the bar lunch, wasn’t it? Last month. I said too much after the bar lunch.”

“Not at all, Your Honor.” Of course it was the bar lunch. Of course she said too much and caused them to panic and conspire to find a way to get her off the case. It was a needless, careless moment for a respected judge to comment on an important pending matter. What had she gained by tipping her hand? Nothing. Unless she secretly wanted to help Tidal Breeze, which Steven did not believe for a moment. She had no idea the company had maneuvered itself into the ownership of Old Dunes.

“Well, I said too much and I’ve regretted it ever since. Not like me at all, you know?”

“I know.”

She regained her composure and said, “I have an open mind, Steven, and am prepared to hear the case.”

Your mind is definitely not open.“Well, Judge, we think that’s a bad idea. You said what you said and left little doubt where you stand. It’s best if you step aside.”

“Are you suggesting I recuse myself?”

“Exactly. You do not believe the testimony of our client and star witness. Ma’am, you’ve already made up your mind.”

“I have not.”

“I won’t argue with you, Your Honor. If you refuse to step aside by your own motion, then we’ll file a proper one in court. The best way out for you is to quietly recuse yourself now. In doing so, you will not be required to give a reason. File a one-page order and ask the Supreme Court to appoint a special master for this case.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll run the risk of being embarrassed. We’ll file the recusal motion claiming that you have a substantial conflict of interest, though we won’t specify what it is, not initially. The news will make the front page. If you deny the motion, then we’ll file an expedited appeal. And, Your Honor, with all due respect, we’ll file a complaint with the Board on Judicial Conduct. Potentially also front-page news.”

Her cheeks flashed red with anger and she almost fired back. Instead she took a deep breath, and she said, “This is pretty aggressive hardball, Steven. I’m surprised.”

“And I was surprised too when I realized you had already decided the case.”

“I was wrong. And you’re wrong to try to force me off the case.”

“I’m protecting my client, that’s all. And I learned hardball suing Exxon and DuPont. Quit now, Your Honor, before this story becomes something much larger. You can handle the damage now, but maybe not tomorrow. You’re up for reelection next year.”

“Don’t you dare bring politics into this, Steven. I don’t count votes before I decide a case.”

“Of course not. But the voters may take a dim view of a judge with a substantial conflict of interest. And an ethics complaint. Panther Cay is unpopular around here. You enjoy a sterling reputation. Why risk it?”

She removed her reading glasses and wiped her tired eyes with a tissue. She gave up, and asked, “Was Tidal Breeze the original developer of Old Dunes?”

“No. The company wormed its way in back in September. It was a trap, Your Honor. An elaborate scheme to use your son to put pressure on you. Panther Cay will be worth a lot more to Tidal Breeze than Old Dunes. Why not have both of them?”

“My son has done nothing wrong.”

“I have not said nor have I implied that he has.”

“I want him protected.”

“Then recuse yourself.”

“Let me think about this. It’s all rather sudden.”

“I’ll wait twenty-four hours, Your Honor, then file a recusal motion.”

“You’re being quite heavy-handed, Steven.”

“I learned in the trenches.”

“I won’t forget this.”

“Neither will I.”

At noon the following day, Judge Salazar filed a notice with the clerk and sent copies to all of the attorneys. Without stating a reason, she was recusing herself from the case and asking the Supreme Court to appoint a special master to hear it. Since the filing was a public record, she did not bother to notify the press. By the time Sid Larramore at The Register got wind of it two days later, Judge Salazar was out of town on a short vacation.