“I don’t like this lawsuit business.”
Steven offered a smile, one that was not returned. “I don’t blame you, Lovely. Lawsuits are unpleasant business, but they are necessary. If you want to prove ownership of the island, then you have no choice but to go to court.”
She absorbed this without seeming to accept it. After a pause she asked, “Are those lawyers going to be in court?”
“Sure, that’s their job.”
“Don’t expect me to be nice to them.”
“You don’t have to, but they’re not bad people. They’re just doing their job.”
“And lying’s part of their job?”
Steven took a deep breath and let it pass. “I need to ask you about records, notes, memos, stuff like that. Paperwork. The other side is asking for all of our paperwork, especially any and all notes you relied on when you wrote your book.”
Lovely gazed at a shelf of Bruce’s first editions and seemed to get lost in them. A long minute passed, then another. Steven was learning that huge gaps in the conversation did not bother her at all. She talked and moved at her own pace.
Finally, “Who says I have papers and notes?”
“Well, do you have papers and notes?”
“If I say yes, then those bad lawyers get to look at them, right? If I say no, then there’s nothing for them to see. Right?”
“I suppose that’s correct. Do you have notes?”
“I did, but I lost them.”
She was not convincing, but Steven knew better than to push. In her world survival was more important than honesty. There would be ample time and many opportunities to discuss her source materials later. He said, “You must have an amazing memory.”
“I do. So did my parents and grandparents. We told stories, Mr. Steven. You see, way back in the early days most of my people could not read or write. A few could and they tried to teach the others. I got lucky because my grandparents could read. I clearly recall my grandmother teaching me to write my name. It was very important to them, but not to all the others. There was even a little school on our island and I went there as a child. Some of the other children did not go. We relied on stories, long colorful stories told by my parents and grandparents, the same stories they had been told by their parents and grandparents. The stories were important and they were kept like gifts to be passed down. Not everybody could read but everybody could tell a story. And the stories were true and accurate because if you told one and got something wrong, then there was always somebody to correct you. That’s how I heard the story of Nalla, the slave girl, my great-grandmother six times over. She landed on the island in 1760 and died there in 1801.”
“How do you know it was 1801?”
“Because every story happened in a certain year. That’s how we kept up with the time and the history. We always knew the year.”
“But how do you know it was accurate?”
“How do you know it wasn’t?”
“I’m just asking because the lawyers on the other side will ask you.”
“I don’t care. They can ask all they want. I know my history, Mr. Steven. They don’t.”
“Did you ever see any part of the history written down? Anywhere?”
She frowned at him as if he were an idiot. “No, didn’t need to write it down. We kept it all up here.” She tapped her left temple. “That’s what I’m telling you. The stories were kept alive by the telling because we couldn’t write them down. Long before I was born they didn’t have pencils and papers and books and such. But they had words and stories and imaginations. When I was a girl and heard stories about Nalla, I could just see her in my visions. I could feel her suffering, her pain of being led away in chains, taken from her family, her little boy, her village, and sold to the slave traders. I knew all of Nalla’s life’s story when I was ten years old, Mr. Steven.”
The lawyer smiled at the thought of his client taking the witness stand and giving her testimony. No lawyer in the country could cross-examine her, because she alone knew the stories and owned the facts.
However, the case was far from over. The law preferred hard evidence, such as birth and death certificates, marriage licenses, land surveys, deeds, and property tax rolls. Tidal Breeze and its horde of lawyers would have a fine time poking holes in evidence based on old stories, legends, and folklore.
Later that afternoon, Steven met a friend, Mayes Barrow, for coffee at a café on the waterfront. Mayes was one of two Santa Rosa lawyers hired by Tidal Breeze. He was a popular young lawyer with a growing practice and a well-earned reputation as a fine courtroom advocate. Since money was no object, the company used many lawyers and always associated a few local ones to help navigate politics and curry favor with the judges.
Mayes said, “The company has asked me to explore the possibility of a settlement.”
