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:
“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.”
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.”
