Steven walked to the podium beside the middle table and began with “Thank you, Your Honor. I am the executive director of the Barrier Island Legal Defense Fund and I’m here in that capacity. More important, I have the privilege of representing the petitioner, Lovely Jackson, and I must say it has been one of the highlights of my long career. She is the rightful owner of Dark Isle because it was owned by her ancestors, dating back to the mid-1700s. They were former slaves who knew nothing about land grants from the British crown, or rights of title handed down by other European intruders. Indeed, as former slaves, her people wanted no part of the laws passed by white men. They lived, worked, reproduced, had families, enjoyed life as free people, and died on Dark Isle, where they are now buried. Ms. Jackson is the last known descendant of the freed slaves and free people of Dark Isle. It belongs to her, Your Honor, not some ambitious developer from Miami.”
He sat down and winked at Mercer.
Evan Killebrew stood next to his chair and without notes said, “Your Honor, under Florida law, all deserted and abandoned islands with no owner of record belong to the state. There are over eight hundred of these islands from here to Pensacola down to the Keys, and they have repeatedly been declared the property of Florida. It’s that simple. Over sixty years ago the legislature passed a law making all uninhabited islands property of the state. We do not dispute the fact that people lived on Dark Isle for many years, but the proof will show that no one ever made a legal claim to the property. That is, until now. Now it seems to be in big demand. We expect the proof will also show that the last inhabitant, Ms. Jackson, left the island in 1955, some sixty-five years ago. No one has lived there since. It’s a simple case, Your Honor. The title belongs to the taxpayers of the state of Florida.”
“Thank you, Mr. Killebrew. And for the Tidal Breeze corporation.”
Monty Martin walked to the podium and frowned at Steven Mahon, as if he had been offended by something. “Thank you, Your Honor. My client has a sterling reputation for developing resorts, hotels, luxury apartments, and shopping centers throughout Florida. It is family-owned and has been in business for almost fifty years. It employs six thousand Floridians and last year paid over thirty-one million dollars in corporate income taxes to the state treasury. Tidal Breeze is a solid corporate citizen and it’s been my honor to represent the company for many years.”
Diane scribbled on her legal pad and slid it to Steven: $2000 an hour I’d be honored too!
“Your Honor, there is simply no proof that Ms. Jackson ever lived on the island. In her memoir, her own words, she writes that she was born there but left the island with her mother sixty-five years ago. I assume her memoir will be admitted as evidence. We’ve all read it by now. It’s a nice story, sort of reads like a novel. Has a rather fictional ring to it. But let’s say it’s all true. Even then, she abandoned the property decades ago. The law is clear in Florida. Possession has to be continuous, open, notorious, and exclusive, for at least seven years. She made no claim to the island until my client entered the picture with its plans to develop it into a major resort. Yes, my client has advertised that it will spend at least six hundred million dollars on the island. The state of Florida has tentatively agreed to build a new bridge. It is our position, Your Honor, as an interested third party, that title to this island was vested in the state of Florida when it became a state in 1845.”
Monty took his seat.
“Thanks, Counselors. The petitioner may call her first witness.”
Steven stood and said, “Lovely Jackson.”
3
There had been no requests for cameras in the courtroom. Judge Burch would have said no anyway. The lone sketch artist in the front row was from the Jacksonville daily, and she was having a grand time trying to capture the colorful image of the witness.
To match her red and yellow turban and her robe, Lovely wore a pair of round, red-framed bifocals, which she peered through at the clerk when she swore to tell the truth. She sat down in the witness chair, pulled the mike a bit closer, as Steven had instructed, looked out at the crowd, and smiled at Diane and Mercer. She saw Miss Naomi in the second row and gave her a little nod. She appeared to be anything but nervous. Proud, regal, onstage, and looking forward to telling her story.
Steven slowly walked her through the preliminaries with easy questions. She answered slowly and clearly. She was born on Dark Isle in 1940, left fifteen years later. They went through a series of questions and answers, just as they had rehearsed, that covered those fifteen years. Life on Dark Isle: her family, home, neighbors, village, school, chapel, their religion and daily routines, the fear that white people would take away their island, the fear of death and disease. From the age of seven Lovely went to school every day until noon, then went home and did chores. The women tended the gardens, cooked the meals, cleaned the houses. The men, even the young boys, fished and brought home the seafood, some of which they traded in Santa Rosa and on the mainland. No one had a real job; everyone pitched in. Death was always hanging like a cloud. Most of the men died in their fifties. Many children died. The cemetery was a busy place. Her uncle was a carpenter and built many coffins. The “priest,” as they called him, had a black robe he’d bought somewhere on the mainland, and she was always afraid of it because it meant death. She had vivid memories of watching coffins lowered into graves.
After an hour and a half of nonstop narrative, Judge Burch called for a recess. Diane led Lovely to the ladies’ room while the spectators talked in low voices.
“You’re doing great,” Diane said as they walked down the hall.
“I’m just talking, that’s all.”
Back in session, Steven handed Lovely a copy of her memoir, which she identified. He asked that it be admitted into evidence.
Monty Martin stood and said, “Your Honor, we have no objection as long as it’s understood that we’re not agreeing that everything in that book is actually true. We reserve the right to cross-examine the witness from her own book.”
“Of course,” said Judge Burch.
Steven returned to the podium and asked, “Ms. Jackson, why did you write this book?”
She took a long pause and studied the floor. “Well, I did it so my people will never be forgotten. I wanted to preserve the story of Dark Isle from the time my ancestors arrived from Africa. So many of the slave stories have not been told and have been forgotten. I want people to know and remember how they suffered, and how they survived. Today, we don’t know the real history because it has not been taught, and it’s not been taught because so much has been forgotten. People don’t want to talk about what happened to the slaves.”
He asked her about her writing process. How long did it take to write the book? Off and on, ten years. Did she seek advice? Not really, just read some magazine pieces. She wrote it in longhand and paid a young lady, a schoolteacher, to type it up for her. When it was finished she didn’t know what to do with it. The same lady, the typist, said she should look for a publisher, but she wasn’t sure how to go about it. Some time passed, nothing happened, then someone told her about a company that would print the book for $2,000 and make five hundred copies. That’s how the book got published.