Tomlinson said, “Roughly, what that law says is, Indian tribes have the exclusive right to regulate gaming activity on Indian lands. The state can’t say crap unless all forms of gambling are prohibited statewide. For instance, here in Florida, we’ve got a bunch of state lotteries to generate income because we’ve got no state income tax. So IGRA says it’s hypocritical and illegal for the state to interfere with gambling on sovereign Indian territory.”
I said, “That’s how the ’Glades Indians got into the gambling business. I didn’t know.”
“The Seminoles, man. Yeah, they were the first. Their chief at the time, James Billie, he was a genius. An old Vietnam combat vet, and he didn’t take any shit. But, in Florida, the Skins have always had to fight.”
As an example, Tomlinson told us that, for more than two hundred years, the state and federal government refused to officially recognize the Florida Miccosukee as a tribe.
Every twelve months, Miccosukee leaders filed petitions with the Bureau of Indian Affairs for “tribal confirmation.” Every twelve months, their petition was denied.
In the 1960s, the Miccosukee came up with a brilliant finesse. They sent a tribal delegation to Cuba where Fidel Castro signed documents recognizing the tribe as “a duly constituted government and a sovereign nation.” It assured them of international legal status.
Embarrassed, the U.S. government had no choice but to finally “confirm” the Miccosukee as a tribe.
“Florida hasn’t made it easy for any of them,” Tomlinson told us. “Back in ninety-one, the Seminoles had to sue the state in federal court because Florida refused to abide by IGRA statutes. The state insists it has the right to regulate gaming, so the Skins were all pissed off-Miccosukee and Seminole-and it’s still in the courts.”
Tomlinson tapped the car window, indicating the casino. “So the kind of gambling you can do in there is low-stakes stuff-compared to other casinos, anyway.”
DeAntoni said, “Too bad. Up at Foxwood, the Pequot Indians, they got thirty-some crap tables going day and night. I love to play those double-thunder slots, too. Or get a vodka on the rocks and play baccarat. Man, that’s recreation. ”
Parroting DeAntoni’s earlier sarcasm, Tomlinson replied, “You love to drink hard liquor and gamble, huh? A big-city guy like you. That’s a hell of a surprise.”
At the gatehouse, a guard dressed in tropical whites-including pith helmet-told us that he was sorry, but, unless we were accompanied by an owner, or on a member’s list, or unless we had an appointment with a Sawgrass real estate representative, he couldn’t allow us to enter.
In Florida, most gated communities hire security people who look like retired wallpaper salesmen. Minimum-wage guys killing time between visits from the grandchildren.
This one was different. He looked like he spent his off-hours in the gym. Had that hard cop formality which is a form of controlled hostility.
DeAntoni opened his billfold, showing his badge. “I’m here on business.”
The guard looked at the badge; shrugged like it was invisible. “No, sir, you’re not here on business. Not unless someone from management notifies me.”
“Then call someone in management. It’s about one of your deceased members, Geoff Minster. I’m here representing his wife. I can have her call if you want.”
The guard thought for a moment, then said, “Back up and pull over. I don’t want you blocking the gate if a member needs to drive through.”
The gatehouse was sided by high stone walls and an acre or so of landscaped garden, hibiscus, travelers palms, and a life-sized Indian elephant carved of tropical wood next to a fountain. The elephant stood frozen, trunk down as if watering. In front of the elephant, a carved sign read: SAWGRASS A PRIVATE MEMBERSHIP SPORTING COMMUNITY
There was a much smaller sign on the gatehouse walclass="underline" OUR SECURITY STAFF IS AUTHORIZED TO CARRY FIREARMS AND AIR TASERS, AND MAY USE LAWFUL FORCE TO INTERCEPT OR DETAIN TRESPASSERS.
As we waited, a new Mercedes convertible pulled up, two middle-aged men in the front. The guard took the phone from his ear long enough to salute, smile and say, “’Morn ing, Mr. Terwilliger!” then touched a button to open the gate.
“Friendly little place,” DeAntoni said, watching. “The guy in the white jungle beanie-I wouldn’t mind slapping him around some. Him and his asshole attitude. What you think, Ford? He looks like a bleeder to me. The kind who stands in front of the mirror with his weight-lifter muscles, but starts to bawl if he gets smacked a couple of times.”
I said, “You’re not smacking anybody and neither am I. That’s not going to get us inside those gates, and it’s not going to help Sally.”
Tomlinson told him, “Doc’s embraced a policy of total nonviolence, which is a major spiritual breakthrough. We’ve discussed it. He’s trying to grow as a human being.”
Watching the guard walk toward us, DeAntoni said, “Oh yeah? Then explain why my beezer’s the size of a turnip,” touching his swollen nose gingerly.
The guard came out, leaned toward the window and handed DeAntoni a card. “Send a fax to this number, stating exactly who you want to interview-we need specific names to make a request-and your reasons for visiting Sawgrass. The office will get back with you within a week to ten days. You know, on whether we can provide assistance.”
In a flat voice, DeAntoni said, “‘A week to ten days.’”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Look, Mac, all I want to do is go to the restaurant, talk to a few people, maybe find someone who knew the late Geoff Minster. It’s not like we’re gonna filch the fucking silver-ware-”
I put my hand on DeAntoni’s arm, leaning across, and said to the guard, “Thanks. We’re leaving now.”
The guard said, “That’s right, sir. You are. ”
Tomlinson said, “Very, very cool. I don’t just like the idea, I love it.”
He said it in reply to DeAntoni’s suggestion that we park the Lincoln down one of the old logging roads, and sneak onto the property on foot.
DeAntoni said, “Except for Mister Tight-Ass, nobody in there’s gonna know we’re not friends of members, or maybe just scoping out real estate. Rent-a-cops, Mac. They really bust my balls.”
He sounded insulted.
I wasn’t as enthusiastic. I’ve spent a significant portion of my life working in places I was not supposed to be; places where I would have been shot-or worse-if discovered. Breaching security, compromising security systems, is demanding work.
I was once competent. No longer. Techniques change along with technology. You don’t probe a guarded position on impulse. It’s something to be researched and planned. Trespassing, like pyromania, is a word I associate with amateurs.
On the other hand, there wasn’t much risk. If we got caught poking around, asking questions about a dead member-and we almost certainly would get caught if we starting asking questions-what’s the worst they could do? Call the police?
More likely, they’d just tell us to get the hell off the grounds, and that’d be that. In the meantime, we might find a friend or two of the missing man. Having a member agree to talk to us would certainly mitigate matters with local security.
So I told DeAntoni, okay, pull up the road, and we’d work our way back on foot.
It was an instructive decision.
Sawgrass, the exclusive community, was a shaded garden of cypress, bromeliads and swamp maple. The wall that cosseted it was almost always hidden by trees. It followed the roadway for another mile or so before angling back into the shadows of its western boundary.
That’s where the wall ended. It is also where the tree line ended, and a new development project began.
Sally’d told us about it. Bhagwan Shiva’s theme community for gamblers: a self-contained city that adjoined Indian reservation land where he wanted to build casinos. Several thousand housing units plus a city center, restaurants, recreation centers, all designed to attract people from middle-income brackets; people with enough money to gamble, but not wealthy enough to buy property in Sawgrass.