Steven stepped over and handed her two sheets of paper. “The one marked ‘Exhibit Seven,’ can you describe that?”
“It’s a copy of my check to the tax assessor, dated January fourth, 2005. Below it, right here, is a copy of my note, saying: ‘Dear Miss Henry, Here is my check for one hundred dollars for the property taxes on Dark Isle.’ ”
“And Exhibit Eight, what is that?”
“It’s a letter from Miss Henry, says: ‘Dear Ms. Jackson, Thank you once again for your check for the taxes on Dark Isle, but, once again, I cannot accept your money. Dark Isle is not on the county’s tax roll, so no taxes are due.’ ”
“And when did you send in the first check for the taxes?”
“Nineteen sixty-four.”
“And why did you do that?”
“Because I thought the owner of the property had to pay the taxes. My husband told me so, said if I didn’t pay taxes then the county would foreclose on the property and I’d lose it. I saved my money and sent what I could.”
“And how long did you do this?”
“Did it last January.”
“Every year from 1964?”
“Yes, sir. Never missed a single year. I’d send the check, Miss Henry, or the lady before her, would send it back.”
Steven picked up a thick file and said, “Your Honor, I have copies of the checks and the correspondence between my client and the county’s tax assessors.”
“Since 1964?” Judge Burch asked, obviously not eager to review the contents of the file.
“Yes, sir. Every year.”
“And they’re all the same? One hundred dollars every year?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. And you want them entered into evidence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any objections?”
Neither Evan Killebrew nor Monty Martin objected, because they knew it would do no good. Judge Burch was admitting everything to review later.
Steven said, “Your Honor, I have Blanche Henry under subpoena to testify if needed. She’s just across the street. Do you or counsel opposite wish to hear her testimony?”
Judge Burch looked at the two lawyers. Monty Martin stood and said, “I believe the point has been made, Your Honor. The evidence is in the record.” Killebrew nodded his agreement.
In his glory days as the top litigator for the Sierra Club, Steven had been known for his meticulous pre-trial preparation. For him, as for all great trial lawyers, it was the key to winning. Every phase of every trial was planned, then rehearsed over and over. Witnesses were given scripts, then coached by the trial team. Psychologists, even drama coaches, were sometimes hired to help witnesses. Phantom juries were paid to hear and evaluate the evidence. Of course, Steven had bigger budgets in those days. The Barrier Island Legal Defense Fund operated on a shoestring and couldn’t afford the experts. What it could do, though, was put in the hours.
The Friday before the trial, with the courthouse practically deserted, Steven and Diane ushered Lovely into the empty courtroom, put her on the witness stand, and walked her through her testimony. Steven then turned the tables, playing the role of an opposing lawyer, and tried to confuse her on cross-examination. The following day, Saturday, Lovely and Miss Naomi spent hours in Steven’s office polishing her testimony, cutting unnecessary dialogue, working on the soft spots. She would be by far the most important witness and she had to be believable. At the end of the day, both Steven and Diane were convinced she could go toe-to-toe with the “bad lawyers,” as she called them.
When Steven tendered the witness early Tuesday morning, Monty Martin stepped confidently to the podium and said hello. Lovely glared at him and did not return the greeting.
“Ms. Jackson, when did you decide to file this petition to clear the title to Dark Isle?”
Diane hid a smile. The question had been put to Lovely at least three different ways over the weekend.
“Last summer,” she answered.
“And what prompted you to file this petition?”
“A casino.”
“A casino?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Would you care to explain?”
“I don’t understand your question.”
“Okay. Why did a casino force you to file this petition?”
“Nobody forced me to. I did it because I wanted to. It’s the right thing to do.”
“And why is that?”
“Because the island doesn’t belong to a casino. It belongs to me and my people, the ones buried on it.”
Monty picked up a copy of her memoir and said, “According to your book, and also your deposition, you left Dark Isle in 1955. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“But you filed nothing in court until last summer, 2020.”
“What’s your question?”
“Why did you wait sixty-five years before trying to clear the title?”
Word for word, the exact question Diane had written weeks ago. She could also recite Lovely’s answer.
“Because the island belongs to me and my people and it always has. No one else had ever tried to claim it, not until last summer when your client showed up. I filed my petition because somebody, namely your client, was trying to take my property.”
“Who suggested to you that you file your petition?”
“Some friends.”
“And who are these friends?”
