Steven was not about to ask if the five hundred copies had sold. He knew they had not and he wasn’t about to embarrass his client. Instead, he switched gears and asked about the decision to leave (never “abandon”) Dark Isle. Lovely took a deep breath and looked down. She and her mother were the only two left. The village was sad and depressing, and all their family and friends were gone. They had little to eat and some days ate nothing at all. A friend came to get them and finally convinced them it was time to go. They moved in with another friend on Camino Island and went to work in the canneries. After her mother died in 1971, Lovely got married to a man with a good job. She moved up a notch and worked in the hotels. She longed for the island and wanted to see it, but her husband had no interest. She paid a man named Herschel Landry, a fisherman with a boat, to take her out several times a year so she could tend to her family’s graves in the cemetery. She did this for many years, until Herschel sold his boat and moved away. By then her husband had left her.
Lovely was suddenly tired and removed her glasses. It was almost noon and everyone needed a break. Judge Burch recessed until 2:00 p.m.
4
The nearest diner was across the street from the courthouse. Since the weather was nice, Bruce reserved a table on the patio and welcomed Mercer and Thomas, Steven and Diane, and Lovely and Miss Naomi to his little corner. He ordered iced tea and coffee. Gifford Knox arrived a few minutes later, on a cane, and ordered a whiskey sour.
Lovely had performed brilliantly on direct examination, and, so far, there was nothing to worry about. She was a bit fatigued but thought a good lunch would get her ready for the afternoon.
Steven and Diane had spent hours with her, crafting her testimony, deciding what was important and what could be left out, anticipating attacks from the other side. Steven had even tried some old courtroom tricks to trip her, but they had not worked. She had been unflappable, both in rehearsal and this morning onstage.
Their discussion was about how long to keep Lovely on the witness stand. Telling her entire story would consume hours and hours and, at some point, become monotonous. Steven knew from experience that good witnesses were often destroyed because they said too much. On the other hand, a great witness needed to be heard. The truth was that Lovely’s memoir was in evidence and had already been studied by Judge Burch and all the lawyers. The challenge was deciding how much to go over again and how much to leave alone.
Everyone at the table had an opinion about Judge Burch. Since he was the sole juror, his demeanor, body language, and reactions were of the utmost interest. So far, he was proving to be remarkably poker-faced. He absorbed every word, took a few notes, ruled on objections quickly, and gave away nothing. He appeared to be involved in the case and eager to hear the testimony.
5
At 2:00 p.m., Lovely settled back into the witness chair and smiled at His Honor. Steven asked her if she had been to the island lately. She said yes, about three weeks ago, with the archaeologists. He asked her to describe the island now, and she took a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice cracked for the first time. She took a sip of water, straightened her back, and began talking. Steven interrupted a few times to keep her on course. Monty Martin politely objected twice when her narrative rambled on, but Judge Burch waved him off. They were going to hear everything Lovely Jackson wanted to tell them.
“And did you find the graves of your father and grandparents?”
“Well, we’re not sure. We found a lot of graves but they were never marked. There were no stones or anything like that. Most of the caskets were rotted. The scientists did the testing with DNA but they found nothing. So, no, I can’t say for sure that we found the graves of my blood kin.”
On a large screen set up in the jury box, Diane flashed a color photo taken by Dr. Pennington when the team was at work in the cemetery. Tight string on stakes marked the graves. Neat piles of dirt stretched along one end of the cemetery. Two of the archaeologists were on their knees working with trowels.
“Does this photo look familiar?” Steven asked.
“Yes, sir. It does. We were right there just a few days ago.”
“And do you know who was buried in the graves that were being excavated?”
“No, not exactly. But I came to believe that it was my folks in that corner of the cemetery. My Daddy and all my grandparents. But, as I said, the tests don’t prove that.”
“What did the cemetery look like years ago, back when you went out there with Herschel?”
“Oh, it was much nicer. Wasn’t all grown up. There were some weeds and all because nobody lived there, we’d been gone a long time. Me and Herschel and a boy named Carp would cut some of the weeds around my family’s graves, but it was not as nice as when I was a little girl.”
“Why did you keep going back to the island?”
“Because Dark Isle belongs to my people, to my family, to me. I was the only one left. If I didn’t go take care of things, or at least try to, there was nobody else.”
6
In 1990, Lovely read a story in The Register about a new state park that had just opened between Jacksonville and Tallahassee. Officials from the Florida Park Service were on hand for a ceremony and one of them claimed that the state had the finest system in the country, with over 160 state parks and growing. Lovely wrote a letter to the person quoted in the article, and suggested that Dark Isle, with its truly unique history, would be ideal for a park, sort of a memorial to the former slaves who lived and died there. Her first letter was not answered, but her second drew a response from a Mr. Williford, who, in polite and official language, said they were not interested at that time. She waited six months and wrote him back. There was no response. She paid the same schoolteacher a few bucks to type her letters and make copies.
Steven handed her the first letter and asked her to read it. She adjusted her red glasses and said, “Dear Mr. Williford. My name is Lovely Jackson and I am the last descendant of former slaves who lived on Dark Isle, near Camino Island. Dark Isle was the home of my people for over two hundred years. No one has lived there since 1955, when my mother and I had to leave. As the last descendant, I guess I am the owner of Dark Isle, and I would like to talk to you about turning it into another state park, to honor my people. I visit it often to care for the cemetery. Most of the old houses and buildings are falling in. But the island is very historic and I think people would enjoy visiting it, if it was fixed up somewhat. Please contact me at your convenience. Thank you for your time. Sincerely, Lovely Jackson.”
She said there was no response. Her second letter was virtually identical to the first. When Mr. Williford did write back, he said, “Dear Ms. Jackson, Thanks for your kind letter of March 30, 1990. Your request for consideration is certainly interesting. The state of Florida currently has six proposed new parks. Unfortunately there is funding for only four of them. I will place your request in the proper file, to be considered in the future. Sincerely, Robert Williford.”
Her third letter, six months later, was similar to the first two. Steven presented all the letters and asked that they be admitted into evidence. There was no objection.
“Now, Ms. Jackson, is it true that you tried to pay the property taxes on Dark Isle?”
“It’s true. I’ve tried for many years.”
“And how did you go about doing this?”
“Well, once a year I sent a check for one hundred dollars to the tax office across the street. Been doing that for a long time.”