“Building what?”
“Condos, two to three thousand square feet. Lots of them.”
Lenny was all ears. “Can you get me in?”
“Maybe I know the guy to talk to. Here’s his card.” Root handed over a business card for Donnie Armano, Project Manager, Old Dunes. Address in Jacksonville. A phone number.
Root said, “Let me know and I’ll put in a good word for you. They’re building like crazy and it’s not the run-of-the-mill crap like you got here.”
The conversation quickly shifted to college football. Lenny was a proud graduate of UF. Root was an FSU man. Both teams were struggling but would meet in the season finale. Neither liked the teams at Georgia or Alabama so they trashed both schools for a while.
After Root drove off, Lenny called Donnie Armano with Old Dunes. He threw in Joe Root’s name and Donnie could not have been nicer. That afternoon, Lenny left the subdivision early, drove thirty minutes to Old Dunes, and had an off-duty beer with Armano in his comfortable trailer office. They shook hands on a deal. A week later they signed contracts. Two weeks later Lenny’s foundation crew arrived on-site to prepare the first slab.
He worked hard to temper his excitement and enthusiasm. His little company was taking a huge leap upward and he was not about to screw up the opportunity. With a bit of luck to go along with his formidable work ethic, he just might be developing his own projects in a few years.
3
Mercer and her twelve students were enjoying a class outdoors in The Grove at Ole Miss, under the shade of two-hundred-year-old oaks, on a perfect fall day. The temperature was in the sixties. The golden leaves were falling. Scattered about were other classes with professors who had also succumbed to the weather and abandoned the buildings. They took over picnic tables, gazebos, stages, a pavilion, and lounged about under the old trees. The Grove was bracing for another football weekend when 20,000 fans would crowd into it for another epic party. Ole Miss might lose on the scoreboard but it never lost the pregame tailgate.
The literary challenge of the day was to look around at the setting, as peaceful and lovely as it was, and create a plot with serious conflict in less than 1,000 words. A beginning and an ending were required. Mercer wanted serious drama, perhaps even some violence. She was tired of the boring navel-gazing and self-pity that dominated their fiction.
As they pecked away on their laptops, Mercer studied hers. Diane was in the courtroom in Santa Rosa, preparing for Lovely’s deposition. Mercer wanted to be there. And Thomas was home from his submarine-hunting adventures and wanted to spend time with his bride. He had not found the Russian sub but was getting closer, in his opinion.
Mercer was at 18,000 words, stalled again, and seriously considering deleting everything she had already written. Thomas was reading it that morning and she did not look forward to his comments.
At ten o’clock, eleven in Santa Rosa, Diane emailed: “Lovely’s here and we’re getting ready. So long for now. Will check in when it’s over.”
4
She walked into the courtroom smiling, adorned from neck to toe in a bright red flowing robe. The mandatory turban was lime green and somehow wrapped into a tight cone that spiraled upward from the top of her head.
No judge in Florida allowed hats or caps in courtrooms, and Steven Mahon was already thinking about the trial. He planned to discuss her attire with Judge Salazar long before it started. What could be the harm in allowing Lovely to wear one of her many turbans during the trial? In his forty-plus years as a bare-knuckle litigator he had never had a fight over headwear.
He’d worry about that later.
He directed Lovely to a chair at a long table that had been arranged in front of the bench. Normally, he would have introduced his client to the opposing attorneys, but she had made it clear she did not want to meet them. They had told lies about her and her island and she would not be nice. She assumed her seat at the end of the table, nodded politely at the court reporter next to her, and glared at the enemy lawyers. A court clerk offered coffee from a large pot. Judge Salazar entered, without a robe, and said hello to everyone.
Beyond the bar and seated in the front row was Sid Larramore of The Register. Depositions are not usually open to the public, and Judge Salazar did not approve of his presence. They knew each other well and spent a few moments in whispered conversation. Sid smiled and nodded and reluctantly left the courtroom. A deputy was posted in the hallway outside to keep away unwanted visitors.
Diane sat alone in the jury box and worked on her laptop. She was tracking yet another old ghost from The Docks, the alleged son of a fisherman who spent his life on the shrimp boats and got his photo on the front page in 1951. She had been through every edition of The Register since it began ninety years earlier, and she knew more about the history of the island’s people, black and white, than the lady who ran the historical society. But she had yet to find the kid called Carp. They had to find either him or another witness who could walk into that very courtroom in a few months and verify Lovely’s story that she routinely visited the island for years. The issue of abandonment was looming larger and larger.
After Judge Salazar had made her rounds she said, “I will be in my office if there is an issue. As agreed, you will go until twelve-thirty, then break for lunch, then resume at two p.m. After that, the deposition will continue as long as Ms. Jackson wants it to. If you do not finish today, we will resume at ten in the morning.”
Steven was being overly cautious because of his client’s age. He had warned the other lawyers that she might tire easily, and that he would not tolerate rough questioning or even badgering. Not that he was worried. Four months into the lawsuit he knew his opponents well enough to know that they were pros who played by the rules.
Finally, when everyone was in place, and the coffee was poured, and the door was secured, and the witness was ready to the point of looking bored, Steven said, “Okay, I guess we can get started.”
Lovely took a deep breath and stared at her audience. Steven Mahon, close by; next to him was Mayes Barrow, then Monty Martin from Miami. Across the table sat three lawyers from the Florida Attorney General’s office. Behind the lawyers were various paralegals and assistants. Miss Naomi sat in the front row. Quite the audience.
The witness was sworn to tell the truth. Steven made a few preliminary comments and turned her over to Mayes Barrow, who began with an earnest smile, “Miss Jackson, when were you born?”
“April the seventh, 1940.”
“And where?”
“On Dark Isle, just over yonder.”
“Do you have a birth certificate?”
“No.”
“May I ask why not?”
“I was a baby. I wasn’t in charge of the paperwork.”
The answer was so beautiful, everyone had to enjoy it. The ice wasn’t just broken — it was thoroughly melted. The enemy lawyers got the first hint that they might have their hands full with this witness.
Mayes, a good sport, collected himself and said, “Okay, who was your mother?”
“Ruth Jackson.”
“How many children did she have?”
“Two. I was the first. Then there was a little brother who died when he was about three years old. I don’t remember him. Name was Malachi.”
“Do you know when your mother was born?”
“I do.”
“When was that?”
“She was born in 1916. The third day of January.”