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
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.
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.”
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.
