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. Here is a synopsis of previous chapters. For complete chapters, see our website: www.kwtn.com.
In Chapter 1, 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 2, Sugarman used Fantasy Fest as a backdrop to introduce us to her cast of characters. In Chapter 3, investigative reporter Kate Anderson hears about an allegfed conspiracy by multiple government agencies to take over private property in the Keys. In Chapter 4, she starts to look into it.
Chapter 5: Officials "raid" Little Torch Key. Chapter 6: Government officials charge a Sugarloaf resident with environmental infractions and, in Chapter 7, they take his house. Chapters 8 and 9: Kate's review of Code Enforcement records seem to reveal a pattern of deceit. Chapter 10: A lawyer tells a property owner, in jail on seemingly trumped up environmental charges, that he can get him off if he will sell his property cheap to the Conservation League.
In Chapter 11, Kate shares her suspicians with the editor of a local newspaper . Chapter 12: The editor suggests that she take a close look at Rev. Clive Farrell and the Conservation League. Kate and a freind head down to Bahama Village to hear Farrell address a meeting of Last Chance. Chapter 13: The meeting. Chapter 14: Kate meets Clive Farrell and asks for an interview. Chapters 15 and 16: The interview.
Chapter 17
Yellowfin Key was one of dozens of little privately owned islands in the Florida Keys. This one was three miles long and barely a mile wide. Bisected by the two-lane Overseas Highway, the two halves of Yellowfin could not have been more different. One side as a de facto nature preserve. Florida swamp—'wetlands' as they were now called— mangroves, wistful looking pine trees, buttonwoods, hardwood hammock. All generally untouched by human hands, except for the occasional picnickers or partiers who pulled over to mellow out or get high, often leaving behind cans and trash. The other part of Yellowfin was a typical Florida development, an RV/Trailer Park that had been there for decades, but been upgraded by its current owner, Ben Morris.
Morris had purchased Getaway Park some six years earlier as a considered move into a more relaxing business when he divorced wife number three and decided to drop out of the New York dog-eat-dog corporate world. He took early retirement and put his buyout parachute into Getaway. He had been coming down to the Keys to fish and hang out for two decades, so the place wasn't a complete unknown. When he heard the Park was on the market, his idea, fantasy, as it were, was to get into the up close and personal hospitality vector— Ben liked people, loved the sun and the sea, had a good head for business and didn't mind putting in an honest day's work—and leave the stress behind. Ha! he should be so lucky. Almost from the get-go he'd had nothing but aggravation.
His problems dated back to the year the Monroe County Land Use Plan came into effect and the enviro-Nazis— as Ben called them, perhaps too loudly and too publically— led a bloodless coup of the Keys. Since then, Ben couldn't make a logical business move without filling out reams of paperwork, meeting with three or four agencies, going before a couple of boards, crossing a bunch of officials' palms with silver.
After years of these hassles, Ben would have liked to walk away from it all, but he couldn't afford to. He had his assets and his health sunk into the damn place, plus his youth— or what might have passed for it. Ben was 58 and felt 85. His manhood, too. Many's the time he thought they were out to strip him of it.
Right now, the county wanted the undeveloped half of his property for a preserve. Only the bastards didn't seem familiar with the Constitutional concept of `just compensation', at least not as Ben and his attorney, Justin Grebe, understood it. If you happened to mention `fair market value', their eyes glazed over, they stared out into the middle distance and stifled a yawn. They wanted to get it for nothing.
What they had in mind was a donation. They called it a `conservation easement'—Ben called it extortion. The formula was simple: give them the land and they'd leave him alone.
Being an up-North businessman who was still producing testosterone, Ben Morris had a problem with that. He had simply refused to play their game, he wasn't interested. But, the fact was, they had him by the COHONES, and they were squeezing. Privately, Ben didn't know how much longer he and his partners were going to be able to hold out.
Trying to maintain the Park, for instance, he felt himself trapped in a Catch-22. He had some piers that needed repairs, for example. No way, Jose, the County told him. Piers of that length were no longer allowed. Let them rot. Forget grandfathering. In his particular case, it didn't apply.
He also had a couple of derelict old trailers he'd been ordered to move out— with one caveat. It wasn't clear what hoops he'd have to jump through, outside of donating half his property, for permits to move them. Meanwhile, they'd slapped him with a $250-a day fines for keeping them around. It was a nightmare.
And on it went, ulcer causing detail by detail. They held all the cards.
Suffice it to say, Ben Morris thought he'd just about seen everything by now. But, on this particular morning, he discovered he was wrong.
They rolled in like gangbusters. Monroe County storm troopers, enviro-cops he later called them in a phone call to a partner in New York City.
It was a little after eight in the morning, most of his residents, either vacationers or retirees, were still in bed. Ben, an early riser, was in the office drinking black coffee and working on a spread sheet. The sound of vehicles drew him to a window and what he saw made him drop the papers and rush out the door.
About 10 county vehicles—Code Enforcement, Sheriff's Department, and Marine Patrol— were racing down the entrance road, some with sirens screaming. They roared to a stop at the office parking lot, just about where Ben was standing. Out of the cars burst dozens of agents. An environmental SWAT team, Ben characterized it. He continued to stand there, gaping, as they lay siege to his RV Park.
They fanned out all over the property writing citations as fast as they could, with no explanation, absolutely no discussion. Ticketing everything they could see that constituted, in their eyes, at least, a violation. Garbage. Torn awnings on some of the trailers. Picnic tables, a swing some of the RV people had hung in a tree—turned out the tree was protected. Hook-ups they considered permanent, therefore illegal, and the Park considered temporary. Landscaping, some tree-trimming work one of the gardeners had done, some rocks Ben's crew had dumped to fill the ruts in the road.
The last three, which his attorney called environmental felonies, were handed directly to Ben— still no discussion—on their way out of the Park. The raid had lasted nearly an hour and scared the residents silly. The thing that stuck in Ben's mind was that, from what he could tell, Code Enforcement was leading the attack.
"PLain and simple, they want my property," Ben told Justin Grebe, in his office that afternoon. The office was in Tavernier, a nice stilt building on the water Grebe shared with two other attorneys. "And this is all selective enforcement. They're not citing any of the other Key's RV Parks, you know that." Justin knew this. Lucky for the others, they didn't have anything the County wanted.
Yellowfin Key was on P-2000's Tropical Flyways acquisition area. They wanted his land for a bird sanctuary. Which, in a way, it already was. Only they wanted it to be theirs.
"They want to tie my hands, so I can't do anything here. They want Getaway Park to become wild and overgrown and unattractive. So I'll lose my business."
"Or they'll bankrupt you with fines, court costs, permitting and legal fees," Grebe added, thinking perhaps of his own mounting bills. "There's a hearing next week, we'll be there. Meantime, try not to worry overmuch."
"Yeah, right," Ben thought. Sometimes his own attorney got on his nerves.
To be continued next week.
Willing Seller is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed are imaginary. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is coincidental.
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 former 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.