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. Chapter 5: Officials "raid" Little Torch Key. Chapter 6: The government raids a residence on Sugarloaf. To read previous chapters of The Willing Seller, see our website— www.kwtn.com.
It had all started the first month they lived here, when Paul finally satisfied himself that the house was basically livable and turned his attention to the beach. There, probably for years while the place had stood empty, an accumulation of trash had washed up from the sea. In particular, the hills of rotting vegetation worried Paul. A city boy, he imagined snakes, scorpions, poisonous spiders— anything might be lurking under all that debris posing a danger to the kids. So he hired a couple of Cubans with a dump truck from Stock Island, rented a tractor, armed them with shovels and pickaxes and rakes and a weed-wacker, and a couple of six packs to keep them mellow, and set them to work.
In three or four days, the change in the yard was simply astounding. Paul breathed a sigh of relief and set the boys loose. That was when he first got an inkling something was amiss.
His housekeeper told him the next door neighbor had strolled by a couple of times to watch the workers. Paul expected the man shared his delight at seeing the place cleaned up, since their property abutted. So, when he got home from the hospital one evening and found the neighbor standing on the beach, surveying the work, Paul went down and introduced himself. The man, Robert Haimes, was ex-military, retired from the Navy like a lot of people around here. They shook hands and Paul invited Haimes in for a cocktail, pointing out that it was almost time, for the glowing orb was poised on the horizon, ready for its daily dip in the ocean. The man shrugged off the invite— heck, he had the very same view from his own deck not 1000 feet away, maybe even a superior brand of scotch— and said he had to be getting home. He'd just come over to see what was going on with the work crew. That's what he'd called the Cubans, the "work crew", a generous accolade, Paul noted, for a couple of drunks with muscles. And that was it. At the time, Paul didn't think much about Haimes' visit. But it was going to come back to haunt him.
The very next morning, that was a Thursday, for some reason Paul remembered that insignificant detail, Paul received another visit. This one was from the State Department of Environmental Protection in the person of one Dick Conners. Conners was young, not more than a healthy, good-looking boy, someone who obviously spent a lot of time on the water, a serious lad who loved the Keys and loved his job. He was short and stocky, wavy blonde hair and a dark mustache, unusual green eyes. He had a smile that worked independent of the eyes, which remained steely as he ID'd himself formally and began to instruct Paul on the error of his ways.
"Well, for one thing, we got some real substantial mangrove alteration here," Dick Conners began. "Plus, a number of other plants have been removed that shouldn't have." Dick was standing at the back of the beach, looking around at what Paul had considered, up to then, a damn good job for under seventy bucks. He was frowning and he had a way of clicking his pen that was beginning to grate on Paul's nerves.
He had taken the pen out and was making notes in a little notebook as he spoke. He reminded Paul of a contractor specing out a job.
Being a civilized man of some wealth, Dr. Williams wasn't exactly hanging onto this defender of the environment's every word. The point of all this partly escaped him as Dick droned on. Meanwhile, he cast his eyes around the yard and managed an interested expression, nodding occasionally and mumbling, "I see." As Dick continued reciting the litany of errors Paul had made, Paul figured, best case scenario this Dick would run out of steam and, satisfied that Paul was properly chastened, simply chalk this visit up to education. Worst case, Dr. Williams would have to write out a check.
In fact, Dick left that day without giving him a ticket or making an arrest, as Paul put it jokingly when he talked to his sister on the phone that night. So Paul assumed the incident had been more or less a warning and filed it under the heading "new life in the Keys, official jargon, environmental regulations." As an amusing story to tell his friends who'd never been here.
Only he couldn't have been more wrong.
The next morning before Paul left for the hospital, Conners was back with a cop, a Marine Patrol officer. The two men did not crack a smile when Paul answered the door, just handed him a citation for `violating mangroves' and another charge called `land fill'— meaning moving yard trash into a pile without the proper permitting. It was true, Paul had the men dump some of the stuff into some ruts in his access road in an effort to protect the shocks on his Jag. Turned out this was a crime.
Paul's recollections were interrupted by a shout from the movers, who had parked the van, hauled in some boxes, and were fanning out around the house. They wanted to know whether the enormous mahogany table in the dining area was going or staying. Paul walked over and told them it was staying. Although the ninety-foot high cathedral ceiling and the entire glass wall opening on an unobstructed ocean view tended to dwarf the table, in scale it was much too massive for most dining rooms, certainly the little dining-el in the cigar maker's cottage Paul had rented in Key West.
Paul strolled out onto the second floor deck to escape the frenzy of the movers as they worked in the rooms behind him. As he gazed out at the sea, his mind kept replaying the past year's events.
After receiving the citations, Paul decided it was time to consult an attorney. A friend at the hospital recommended Jack "Bubba" Mason, a good-ole-boy he said specialized in property rights cases. Paul called and got an appointment for the following day.
The waiting room in Bubba's downtown Key West office was large enough to accommodate a regulation size pool table, a holdover from the days when Bubba ran a redneck bar on Front Street and owned most of the commercial property on the block. The walls were covered with fishing trophies, generic Keys' photographs, old treasure maps, samples of treasure and various clients' cards. Bubba was also an expert in maritime law.
A secretary in a tight miniskirt and heavy boots led Paul into Bubba's inner sanctum. Here the walls were covered with more personal photos: his stunning blond wife and their toddlers, the grown children from an earlier marriage, a variety of boats with Bubba on them, usually displaying a trophy fish. There were also photos of Bubba posed with pols and celebrities.
The attorney was seated behind a large, highly polished desk. He was a middle-aged man with a steel grey pony tail, cherubic good looks, and a captains' tan, red nose and the outline of sunglasses. He wore a flame red and white Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans. The desk was all business, papers and legal files, and an impressive array of technology— computers, phones and faxes, a shortwave radio, tape recorder, a portable TV with a VCR.
Bubba stood and leaned over the desk to clasp Paul's hand warmly, greeting him and pointing to a chair. Then he asked the doctor to go over the problem again, having already heard a synopsis of it on the phone. When Paul finished, Bubba took the citation and looked it over slowly. "Yep, just what I expected."
Despite the easy going Southern manner he practiced, Bubba was a major player whose connections extended to the halls of Congress and the federal courts. His peers considered him a worthy opponent and he certainly knew his way around the political arena. Only, as he explained to Paul, he didn't know if he could be of much help with "the environmental boys."
"They get you by the balls, they gonna squeeze you," he explained. "I got clients who've been pistol whipped. I mean it Dr. Williams, pistol whipped! A number of them. For these so-called environmental crimes, just like you have here. What I mean is, you best take these boys VERY seriously. They gener'ly are holdin' all the cards."
Paul was having some difficulty reaching the proper level of seriousness and Bubba had spotted it. For one thing, still a recent arrival to the Keys he'd bought the myth about it being one of the last frontiers, an outpost with an outrageous outlaw mentality. Heck. Hadn't it declared itself the Conch Republic not too long ago and actually seceded from the union over the feds' drug enforcement tactics, which the locals did not appreciate?
"What I probably can do," Bubba offered, "is get you on pretrial intervention. That'll mean you'll never have to actually face the criminal charges."
Paul could hardly believe his ears. Criminal charges? For clearing his yard? Bubba got him the intervention like he promised. The deal required Paul to report to a probation officer once a week for 10 months. Paul found this extremely humiliating.
Standing on the deck with the ruckus from the movers in his ears, Paul recalled another phone conversation with Linda. "Yeah, that's what I said. On probation for cleaning my yard."
By then, there was nothing humorous in it. The law barred him from ever cleaning up his yard again, at least not the way he thought he should. But, that was the least of it. Conners showed up at his door again and told him there was a way he could make restitution for his crimes. He could give 75-percent of his property to the state, some five acres. With no compensation. Conners called it a `conservation easement.' Bubba Wilson called it extortion.
"It's extortion plain and simple. Trouble is, they always get away with it. I suggest you take the offer, else they'll soon hold the deed to your entire property. Like I said, I seen it happen time and again."
Seeing the look on his client's face, Bubba went on to elaborate. "The state has a real track record with this extortion scheme. People get cited, projects get halted, whatever. State moves in with all manner of so-called restitution schemes. Say, you purchase a couple lots and donate `em to the county. You can turn around and go on with your work. Worried about some criminal citations? You know, a whole new class of crime has been poppin' up in the Keys. Environmental felonies, as they call `em.
"Anyway, you get charged with one, best case scenario is, you set aside a chunk of your property for what they call a conservation easement. Like the plan you have here, Dr. Williams. And the boys will get off your ass."
But, instead of complying, Dr. Paul Allan Williams finally blew. "No way are you getting five free acres of my six-acre property," he announced the day he threw Dick Conners off his property. "The way I see it, you're nothing but a goddamn crook!"
Before he left, Conners made it clear that wasn't the last Paul would hear from him, he intended to make Dr. Williams' life a living hell. He didn't exactly articulate it, but the look he gave Paul said it clear as could be. When Paul called Bubba to report the incident, the attorney told him he'd made a big mistake. What he needed to understand was, this was a no-win situation he found himself in.
"Now, hear me, Paul. I'm talkin' t'you like a friend. You-can't-win! This way, you force the man t'make an example of you."
The next week, when Paul was at work and the boys were in school, according to the housekeeper, a surveyor arrived. That didn't look good. When Paul got home later, he found little red flags all around the house, marking his new property line. The government had actually taken his property. They'd asked, he'd said NO— so they'd taken it anyway. (Two days later, Paul received a $1,000 bill from the surveyor.)
A few days later, Conners dropped by with some new charges. Dr. Williams was now guilty of planting St. Augustine grass where local grass could be growing and guilty of `illegal landfill' because a storm had dumped more sand on his beach. Bubba said he could defend Paul on the basis that a storm was "an act of God." So far as the grass he'd have to look into it. It sounded like it might hold.
But by then, Paul had more pressing problems.
Because he was now considered a criminal, and his property had government liens on it, he was being turned down for what should have been an easy second mortgage. He'd applied for it to pay off the balloon loan he currently held on his property. Without the second, he was likely to find himself in foreclosure.
Which is what happened, the bank did foreclose. This forced the good doctor into bankruptcy. The house had been sold at auction two weeks ago. The bank holding the paper on it had purchased it for $100 over the standing mortgage. Paul couldn't find a private buyer who would touch the place with the controversy surrounding it.
A breeze came up, carrying on it all the sea smells Paul had come to love. He leaned on the railing, looking out at the ocean, then lowered his gaze to sweep the scene of his crimes. A little patch of lawn, St. Augustine grass that he'd planted for the boys. The area he'd cleared, also for the boys. The place had a look of abandonment, the sea had reclaimed it. The beach was now cluttered with debris, rotting seaweed, old planks, pieces of glass, dead creatures. Everything Paul had opted to avoid.
A burly mover appeared in the yard below him and shouted up to Paul. "Dr. Williams. You wanna look around? Make sure we got it all?" Paul nodded and turned to go inside. He stopped for a moment to wipe the fine spray from his glasses and found that his vision had been blurred by tears.
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.