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 Fest as 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 and, in Chapter 4, she starts to look into it. To read previous chapters of The Willing Seller, see our website— www.kwtn.com.
Billy Ray Johnson got home late after a night of drinking and carousing at the Green Parrot in downtown Key West. He negotiated the forty-minute drive up the Keys in a blissful stupor that law enforcement would have frowned on, but made it home to Little Torch Key all in one piece. From the highway, he knew the way onto his property by rote, over winding dirt roads, around boulders and pot holes and trees.
He stopped the pickup at the gate, careful to leave the motor running, and in the light of the headlights, he fumbled with the combination lock that was his bow to security and finally got it right. Then he climbed back into the truck and drove another half mile further until he came to the old trailer he thought of as home.
He parked and killed the engine, managed to overcome another bicycle lock on the front door and fell in, collapsing fully on the bed.
Next morning, real early, he awoke and didn't understand why. He peeked out the dirty window beside his head and squinted at the sky. By his calculation it was about nine. Billy Ray listened for a moment, then groaned and turned over. The motion caused a noticeable wave of nausea and recalled the past night's partying. He closed his eyes and lay still until the room stopped rotating, then tried to go back to sleep.
Moments later, when he had just barely drifted off, there was a loud knock on his door. At the sound, Billy Ray sat bolt upright. Nobody, NOBODY, ever arrived out here at this trailer on Little Torch unannounced. So the knock made him nervous. The knocking came again, this time followed by a voice calling him by name. "Billy Ray Johnson, we know you're in there. Open the goddamn door."
He did not recognize the voice, but it sounded impatient. Billy Ray threw his legs over the side of the bed, stood up slowly, went over and opened the door.
There were four of them. Three men and a lady. He made out the uniforms first. Sheriff's Deputy. Marine Patrol. Billy Ray frowned and stood there, wondering what he'd done now. His mind started flashing images he'd rather have forgot. The sheriff's deputy said something which Billy Ray missed. Doing his best to focus, Billy said, "Hey?"
The man repeated himself. It sounded like he said, "Where'd you get a black hoe, Billy Ray?" Billy Ray perked up and informed the officer that he did not traffic in whores.
Then the little guy, a scruffy skinny dude with thinning dirty blond hair, spoke up, repeating the question. From the accent it was clear the man was local but Billy Ray wasn't sure about the others. Well, the Marine Patrol was a Cuban obviously. The sheriff's guy might've been an up-north gypsy cop, the Keys were crawling with them. And the lady?
"We said, where'd you get a back hoe? Unnerstand?" the little man repeated.
Billy Ray shrugged and frowned, still finding it difficult to compute. Why would these people be standing there in front of his trailer, looking serious and asking him weird questions? Like, a backhoe? Then he remembered. He'd rented some heavy equipment couple of weeks back to clear some trash.
"We see you tore up some acreage. Took out a buncha indigenous trees and shrubs. Cleared some o' your land," the man went on. This little guy was dressed in khakis— obviously he had them pressed and laundered, a nice plaid short-sleeved sport shirt open at the neck so the gold chains would show. Expensive shoes. And he had his hair plastered back so the wind wouldn't muss it. Must be some sort of official.
Billy's mind was racing as the man continued. " . . . two varieties of mangroves . . . "
"Black and white mangroves," the lady spoke up, finishing his sentence. She had fluffy blonde hair cut about chin length, wavy and big blue eyes. She looked, well, healthy. In her prime, early thirties. A navy blue skirt and top, flowered blouse, Nikes. Dressed up but ready for action. Or at least, ready for this sort of terrain. She had the air of a school teacher, Billy Ray thought, as she went on filling in details. Talked like one, too.
"According to our cursory examination, you've taken out any number of protected indigenous plants. Buttonwood, mangroves, some swamp lilies, possibly lignum vitae. All protected. We'll have to do some extensive inventory, you understand," she added, speaking now to her cronies.
"But I thought . . . " Billy Ray began, but the skinny guy cut him off. He had wanted to say he thought there were no mangroves on his property. No wetlands at all, far as he knew.
Now the skinny guy piped up about unpermitted wanton destruction of the environment. The word "unpermitted" caught Billy Ray's attention and continued to buzz around in his head. This was sounding more and more like real trouble.
He noticed the guy was holding a clipboard, jotting something down. Which was when Billy Ray decided it was probably time to ask a few questions, sound like a property owner. A serious person. He struggled mightily to clear his head.
"Uh, would someone mind tellin' me? Who y'all are? What's this about?"
This raised some dander. A smile broke out on the skinny dude's face, a tight unpleasant smile that stretched his thin lips revealing two rows of yellowish small teeth. The man's eyes narrowed as he peered at Billy Ray. "I'm afraid you haven't been listenin', boy. You been listenin' to us, Billy Ray? Huh?"
Bill Ray nodded. He was squinting now. They had their backs to the sun, which had risen just enough in the sky to be shining right into Billy Ray's eyes. Another distraction. He could feel himself beginning to sweat.
Then it was the deputy's turn to speak. Billy Ray had been wrong, the man was a local. "You in big trouble, is what we been tellin' you. We ain't come all this way to pass the time o'day, you heah what I'm sayin'? You can count on it."
As if on cue, his skinny pal whipped out a paper from his shirt pocket and held it under Billy Ray's nose. "See you in court, Mister Johnson. And you better be there. If you know what's good f' you."
Billy took the paper. It was a Code Enforcement citation. As he started glancing over it, the party turned and began to move away. The lady opened the big purse she was carrying and took out a camera. She took the lead, heading away from the trailer in the direction of the beach, stopping every now and then to snap a picture. Documenting some crime, like as not, Billy Ray figured. The three men trailed after her.
When the little cadre disappeared from view, Billy sank down on the rusty steps of the trailer— it was an ancient vehicle he'd found abandoned on the property, useless for anything but a roof— and stared at the paper in his hands. Performing dredge and fill. Altering mangroves. Destroying indigenous plants. (There was a blank space here, apparently someone meant to fill in exactly what plants.) Causing pollution. the phrase "without a permit" appeared here and three also. Shit.
The charges, for that's what they were, didn't mean much to him. But Billy Ray had a clear sense he was in for it now. He sat a long time right there on the steps, his head cradled in his hands.
About a half hour later, they reappeared, walking along the periphery of his vision on the path that led back to where he parked his truck. They were just strolling, talking in low voices, laughing occasionally. Like folks out on a picnic or a nature walk, taking their good ole time. A few minutes later, Billy Ray heard two cars start up and drive away.
When he was certain they were gone, he got up and traced their path to the beach, which was nearly a half-mile from the trailer. He walked slowly, trying not to think. He still had the citation in his hand.
When he got to the very edge of the water, he stopped and stared at the ocean and the clear grey blue sky. It was such a calm day you could hardly tell where one blended into the other. He drew in a lungful of fresh salty air and swept his gaze along the horizon, as far as he could see. Savoring every streak and glimmer of bright morning sunlight that was enhancing the scene. Listening to the birds.
He took another big gulp of sea air, but he didn't quite get the usual rush. So he tried something that usually worked. Reminding himself what a lucky SOB he was, to have come out of Nam with a gimpy leg and a chronic backache, a disability that had made it possible for him to tap into the ultimate American dream— buy some land, maybe build a dream house for him and his mother.
Trying to feel like a King. The way he usually did when he was out here alone with nothing to bother him and he was thinking that, as far as he could see, all this land was his. And he did his best to stop feeling like someone was about to take it away.