Over there was a thicket packed with thorns and vines and certainly hiding snakes. The team put down their shovels and used their machetes, swing blades, and chain saws. For two hours they hacked at saplings and small oaks and dense brush and hauled it away to another corner, where, hopefully, they wouldn’t have to touch it again. When the ground was cleared and scraped they studied the dirt and discussed the lay of the land. In one place there was a slight unevenness that, upon closer examination and expert study, looked somewhat out of place. The shovels went to work. The sandy soil was soft and easy to dig, not necessarily a good thing. If they found human remains, they would most likely be a mess. Moisture led to a more rapid deterioration of a human body and decimated traces of DNA.
Three feet down a shovel hit something solid. It was wood. Four of them dug earnestly, but carefully, and soon found a corner to what they knew was a coffin. It was an old box for sure, and its top was rotted and its sides had caved in. When they had scraped away as much dirt as possible, they began to find bones resting haphazardly.
Leo’s storm surge on Camino Island was measured by experts at twenty-seven feet. Since Dark Isle had no inhabitants, the surge and winds were not measured there. The slight ridge where they were working was about twenty feet above sea level, and they had assumed that the entire island was under water during the storm. Judging from the mounds of rotting trees, it was not difficult to believe that a massive surge had swept through.
Poking through the skeletal remains, the archaeologists agreed that the floodwaters had inundated the casket.
Lovely hovered over the bones, chanted a prayer that was thoroughly indecipherable to the rest, and returned to the shade under the tarp. By noon, they were exhausted and hungry and decided to return to the camp. Lovely needed a nap.
16
The second and third graves were excavated. The caskets were rotted, the bones scattered about inside, and nothing of value or interest had been buried with the bodies. Lovely blessed them, then backed away as the team picked through the bones, scraping gently, examining fragments, searching for clues, filming and photographing everything. When the sun began to fade, they covered their work with more blue tarps and trekked back to camp.
17
The cemetery was an archaeologist’s dream. There was no shortage of graves with old caskets filled with skeletal remains, and it was tempting to lose sight of their mission — to link a bone or two to Lovely’s DNA. After three days of nonstop digging they realized it could go on for weeks.
Lovely was ready to leave. Everyone wanted a shower and a hot meal. When they finally agreed that they had enough clues, Dr. Sargent called for Ronnie and his pontoon.
18
Six days later, Steven took the call from the DNA testing lab in Austin. Of the eight samples — five bones and three teeth — taken from four different caskets, six contained insufficient tissues to compare to Lovely’s blood sample. The bones and teeth had been kept in conditions that were less than desirable and subjected to too much moisture and heat. Even though they had been resting approximately forty inches under the surface for decades, perhaps centuries, they had degraded. For the remaining two bones, both taken from jaws, there was sufficient tissue for a comparison.
The disheartening truth was that they did not match Lovely. If her ancestors were indeed buried on Dark Isle, there was no biological proof to offer in court.
Chapter Ten
The Trial
1
Gifford Knox, still allegedly suffering from headaches and seizures and still in the throes of protracted physical therapy, arrived on Camino Island, by sailboat, three days before the trial with every intention of stirring up trouble. His plan was to meet with black leaders both on the island and in Jacksonville and whip up some racial conflict. In his opinion, the trial was a clear example of a rich white corporation trying to steal hallowed land from a poor black woman. He’d seen it before in the Low Country of South Carolina and had even written a long magazine article about it.
But Steven Mahon was not sure it would help. Public opinion would not affect the outcome of the trial. Chancellor Clifton Burch had not been elected by the people and so far had played no favorites. Protests and press conferences would only irritate him.
Bruce managed to talk Gifford off the ledge and convinced him another blistering op-ed piece in a big newspaper would be more effective. Giff said he was working on one for The New York Times, and it was almost finished.
Gifford, using a cane as a prop when in public, arrived at the courthouse early on Monday, May 18, and took a seat in the front row, next to Mercer and Thomas. Bruce sat behind them. By 9:00 a.m. the courtroom was full.
2
In chambers, Chancellor Burch and the lawyers sat around a table sipping coffee and discussing last-minute matters. He said, “I suppose you want to make opening statements.”
Steven shrugged as if he could go either way. There was no jury to sway and the judge knew as much about the case as anyone. Monty Martin, the lead trial lawyer for Tidal Breeze, said, “I’d like to say a few words, Judge, for the record.”
“Okay. Mr. Killebrew?”
“The same, Your Honor, just for the record.”
Evan Killebrew was an assistant Attorney General representing the state of Florida.
“Very well, but keep it brief.”
The lawyers entered the courtroom from a door behind the bench and took their seats. Three tables had been arranged, each facing His Honor. On the far left was the petitioner’s table, where Ms. Lovely Jackson sat in glorious splendor, adorned in a bright red robe that touched the floor and a red-and-yellow-striped turban that seemed to reach for the ceiling. So far, no one had objected to her headwear in the courtroom. The three bailiffs, the opposing lawyers, the clerks — no one had said a word. Nor would they. Steven had whispered something to Chancellor Burch and he, too, was on board with her attire. Diane Krug sat to her left, like a real attorney, though she had yet to bother with law school.
The center table was manned by the state. Evan Killebrew had two associates and a paralegal as his entourage. To the far right Pete Riddle sat in the middle of the table as the proud agent of Tidal Breeze, Monty Martin on one side, a junior partner on the other, with paralegals and assistants protecting their flanks. Mayes Barrow had his nose buried in a file. The jury box had fourteen chairs, all empty.
A bailiff barked, “All rise for the Court!” The crowd snapped to attention and rose obediently. Judge Burch swept in, his black robe as long as Lovely’s. As he sat down he said, “Please be seated. And good morning.” He paused for a second as everyone sat down almost as fast as they had stood. “Good morning,” he said again, loudly, into his microphone. “This is a title dispute involving land commonly known as Dark Isle. I’ve tried these cases before and never had more than five spectators, so I thank you for your interest. I hope you won’t be bored to death. As you can see, there is no jury. In Florida we don’t use juries for title disputes, same as forty-five other states. I’ve gone over the lineup of witnesses with the lawyers and we’re confident we can wrap things up by late tomorrow afternoon or early Wednesday morning. We have plenty of time and we’re not in a hurry. I will allow each party to take a few minutes for opening remarks. Mr. Mahon.”