EDITOR'S NOTE: Ellen Sugarman is a nationally known investigative reporter. She has given KWTN permission to serialize her new book about environmental terrorism in the Florida Keys. It is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed are imaginary. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is coincidental.
In Chapter One, officials from County Code Enforcement, the Sheriff's Office and the Florida Marine Patrol— off duty and in civilian clothes, but armed— pay an unofficial visit to property owners on Little Knockemdown Key. A few days later, the owners were cited, ordering them to tear down unpermitted structures— even though many of those structures had been there prior to the law requiring permitting. In Chapter Two, Sugarman used Fantasy Festas a backdrop to introduce us to her cast of characters. In Chapter Three, an investigative reporter hears about an alleged conspiracy by multiple government agencies to take over private property in the Keys.
To read previous chapters of The Willing Seller, see our website— www.kwtn.com.
Kate faxed the article to her editor, poured herself a cup of coffee and went out to the garden. It as late afternoon, a glorious day. Sunny but not hot, no humidity to speak of, clear blue sky, a gentle breeze loaded with fragrance. Setting the mug on a table, she went over and unrolled the hose, then flipped on the water. Balancing the mug in one hand, she trained a heavy stream over a bed of multicolored Impatiens. Gardening was a Godsend, the perfect counterpoint to the time she spent hunched over a computer or talking on the phone. The same was true of the house itself, she loved looking after it. It was a big old conch house that had been redone, a rambling two-story structure with balconies, porches, French doors across the back opening onto the garden, large airy rooms with high ceilings and Bahama fans. The property covered two lots, with its tropical gardens and a pool.
The place wasn't Kate's, but it might well have been. For over five years she'd occupied it more than the actual owners, Sally and Charles Savoies, wealthy Brits who jet-setted around and had homes in London, Nice and Bermuda. These days the couple hardly ever made it down to the keys. Kate started out as a house sitter when the Savoies were renovating and decorating their new acquisition and had to make a run to the mainland for this or that. After the house was finished, she found herself spending more and more time here while the Savoies traveled. Then came an invitation for her to move in— as Charles put it, "instead of all this ferrying your clothes back and forth, back and forth."
So Kate found herself the virtual occupant of a magnificent home, free of charge— a writer's dream come true. Early on it had been a real Godsend, back in the days when she was living illegally in her studio on the old navy base. Like other artists, she'd rented the place cheap because she was only supposed to work in it and was living like a squatter. Trying not to get caught, careful not to look like the place as a habitation, sneaking in after dark and eschewing lights to avoid detection.
In comparison, the Williams Street house was a palace. By now she'd grown so fond of it she couldn't imagine living anywhere else. As a bonus, along the way, she and Charles and Sally became great friends. On the rare occasions when they did show up it was one big happy house party.
At the moment, the real reason for Kate's good fortune was napping in a buttery pool of sunlight on the deck of the pool. A plump sybaritic Jack Russell, or rat terrier, named Bruiser that fate had brought into her life along with the house. Sally had bought Bruiser on impulse one day when she still harbored the illusion that the Key West house was going to be their `true home' forever. Six months later, at the Savoies went back to their wandering ways, leaving Bruiser and Kate behind. Like the house, over time the dog had become Kate's. She was fond of pointing out that they were both in the business of hunting down rats.
Kate was delighted to have finished the Observer piece ahead of time. That meant she had an entire free day tomorrow to play hooky. Maybe she and Bruiser would go up the Keys to the beach, spend the whole day goofing off. She couldn't remember the last time she'd taken a day off, some R&R would do her good. She'd start by turning the phone off right now and not taking calls.
But, before she did, there was just one last phone call she wanted to make. She dialed county code enforcement, identified herself by name to the woman who answered and asked for the director. After a short delay, Ricky Pinder came on the line. from the sound of his voice she could tell he was on a speaker phone. He had the classic conch accent unique to the Keys.
Kate had never met Mr. Pinder, but she'd heard things about him, not all of them nice. According to rumor, years ago when he was a teacher at the high school, he'd been fired because of some scandal reallyinvolving an eighth grade female student. Ricky being one of THE Pinders, scion of an old wealthy island family, and this being Key West, where all things were possible, the case had been handled in private and the records were sealed. So nobody really knew the details and, again this being Key West, nobody cared. The indiscretion, if that was what it was, hadn't hurt Ricky's reputation or his public career a tad.
"Yes, Mrs. Anderson. What can I do for you?" In the South, they called everyone `Mrs.' It was considered good manners.
Kate cut right to the chase. "I'd like to get copies of the past three years' code enforcement agendas and the minutes from all the board meetings in that same time frame." She did not say anything about being a reporter. She didn't have to, any private citizen could make the request.
Pinder was smooth. He slickly refused her request without missing a beat, keeping his voice agreeable as he did. "Golly, Mrs. Anderson. I'd really like to accommodate you, but I'm afraid I can't. You see, those files are scattered all over the county right now, one office or another. Number of them are at our attorney's up in Marathon, he's doin' something with them."
This may have worked for him in the past, but it was not going to work this time. "I see your problem, Mr. Pinder. But let me explain," Kate replied. "I'm sitting here with my copy of the Florida Government In The Sunshine Act, opened to page 84, paragraph three. According to this, you are required by statute to have someone prepare these copies and have them waiting for me in your office within 24-hours of my request. I'll drop by tomorrow afternoon, I assume that'll give you ample time. Thank you."
Kate replaced the receiver gently, so as not to give the impression she was hanging up in his ear. Sometimes being in the know was just too much fun.
The drive to Bahia Honda State park was lovely. Having gotten off to a nice early start, Kate was rewarded with the changing view of the morning fog burning off the water as she drove the forty-five miles up the Overseas Highway. The road at that hour was practically clear of cars and Bahia Honda— a five-mile stretch of shoreline, tidal pools, patches of marsh grass and a narrow undeveloped beach— was deserted.
Kate spent an hour or so walking, wading in the surf, which was already tepid, basking in the lovely calm scene. The waves lapping quietly over her feet caressed her body; the salt air seemed to purify her thoughts. Bruiser was overcome with frantic activity, running as fast as his short legs would carry him and yapping wildly at sea birds wheeling silently overhead, then plunging his nose in the water to chase marine life he discovered there.
When she was worn out, Kate returned to the car for a large towel, a bag of food and a novel she was reading. She chose a sheltered spot under a palm tree and spread the towel, plopped down on it after stripping down to her bikini. For the next few hours she barely moved except to turn pages, unwrap a sandwich or pop open a coke.
Headed home, Kate stopped for a beer at the Purple Porpoise, a decrepit bar frequented by locals who cared more about the casual ambiance, the OW tunes on the jukebox, mismatched chairs and general lack of orderliness. She sat up front at the bar, gazing out the windows but not seeing much because they were covered with salt and grime. A little later, she was back on the road.
Just north of Key West, she swung off onto College Drive and drove to the squat wooden building that housed most of the county offices. She passed it and parked two doors down, it being her habit to take precautions— like not making it easy for people who didn't know her to I.D. her car. Then she doubled back and walked in, following the signs marked `CODE.' The code enforcement office was empty except for a plump black woman with corner. The clerk informed her that Mr. Pinder had gone for the day. Kate wasn't surprised. No self-respecting county official would be caught dead in his office past noon on a Friday. She gave the woman her name and said Mr. Pinder had left some papers for her, wondering if he had. The clerk grunted with a practiced air of disinterest, then disappeared into a back office. She returned carrying a cardboard box full of legal sized papers with Kate's name scrawled on it. Kate struggled them out to the car, dumped them in the trunk, and went home.
There they sat on the sideboard in the dining room until late that evening, when curiosity overcame Kate and she started flipping through them, stopping now and then to read agenda items at random. The name `Little Knockemdown Key' jumped off the paper at her; otherwise it was dozens of obscure Keys and subdivisions, most of which she didn't know existed. If there was a story here, it was going to take some effort for her to crack the code.
In the morning she and Bruiser walked over to the Ship's Chandlery on Fleming. The store wasn't usually on her beat since Kate wasn't a sailor, but it certainly had its fascination, from the elaborate windows with their seafaring themes to its actual wares. Kate wandered around the shop a bit, then bought what the owner assured her was the best chart of the Keys— a huge map that showed all the islands, plus tidal information, ocean depth, reefs and such. When she left the store with the rolled-up map under her arm, she felt stimulated, eager to dig in. On Monday, she'd pick up a copy of Preservation 2000 from the county, see what that was all about.
To be continued next week.
Ellen Sugarman's writing has appeared in publications such as Newsday, Time, Vogue, Ms., Penthouse, New York Times Magazine, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Chicago Sun Times, and the Miami Herald's Tropic Magazine.
As a freelance television producer, she has worked with ABC, Fox News, A&E and the BBC. Several years ago, she produced a segment on environmental terrorism in the Florida Keys for ABC's 20/20. Although scheduled to run several times, the show was ultimately killed, reportedly because of pressure from the Nature Conservancy.
The program did air in the Keys, however, after activist Peter Anderson was able to obtain a videotape of the show and paid for time to run it on local cable television.
Among a number of shocking revelations, the program documents that State Attorney Kirk Zuelch, while a member of the local Nature Conservancy board, offered to drop charges against property owners accused of environmental crimes if they would sell or give their land to the Nature Conservancy. Zuelch quickly resigned from the Nature Conservancy board after he was interviewed by 20/20.
Anderson encouraged viewers to tape the show when it ran on local TV. If you want to see this show, KWTN has a couple of loaner copies. Info: 292-2108.