The Willing Seller is about environmental terrorism by our government. It is fiction based on truth. Here's how to access previous chapters on line: Visit www.kwtn.com/news/fiction. That will take you to our fiction index. Double click on "Willing Seller." That will take you to the index of chapters. Click on the chapter you want to read. To get back to the chapter index, click on your "back" arrow.
Houseboat Row was just what its name conveyed, a three block long marina at the top of the island that was completely occupied by small one and two-story houseboats. The boats were very picturesque, generally tidy, attractive, and colorful. Some even had gardens, planted in containers set out on their decks. Many had original art decorating them. They all seemed extremely domestic and comfortable. Jack Peterson's houseboat was called the Marcia, named for Jack's teen-age daughter, the light of her father's eye.
Jack Peterson himself was larger than life, a real life character. A reporter's dream. First of all, he was wildly articulate and also funny. Every sentence out of his mouth was a genuine sound byte. And he never stopped talking. An interview with Peterson would never threaten to break down into one of those languishing silences that are a tv producer's bane. He was smart, witty, erudite. Crazy, but credible.
Secondly, and this was important, he looked the part. Blazing blue eyes, a mischievous grin, silver curls, dimples. He dressed neatly, but colorfully. For occasions he deemed historical, he apparently went in costume— or so it seemed from the pictures covering his walls. The entire boat was an archive, the walls were covered with photos of Peterson in full regalia of the Conch Republic Admiral. Tri-cornered hat, old French naval officer's uniform complete with the chevrons and plumes, high boots, a zany sword fashioned from a stale loaf of Cuban bread. Jesus, the guy was gold!
Sam had no doubt that Peterson was the one behind the Conch Republic myth, particularly its claim to fame, secession from the Union back in 1989. Beginning at the beginning, as Peterson put it, in his effort to bring Sam up to speed.
Back when the Keys was still a wide open smuggling operation and the Feds, in an attempt to clamp down on the drug trade, set up roadblocks at the entrance to Key West, where it abutted little Stock Island. So, the Conch Republic was born and, in short order, it seceded— in a well-orchestrated media frenzy— from what Peterson called the U.S. of A.
So far as Sam could tell— after all, he'd just met the guy— Peterson still considered the Keys a foreign country.
"You have to picture this," Jack Peterson told him, with a grin. "Try to imagine. The Feds came down and actually threw up a roadblock right across U.S. 1. Then they started checking vehicles for drugs. Every single vehicle going in either direction. You have to understand, at the time, drug smuggling was the Keys' business as usual. In those days, every vehicle going North on U.S. 1, be it passenger car, RV or, whatever, wrecker. Every single vehicle headed for Miami was packed to the gills with illegal contraband. Marijuana.
"They called it `square grouper' in those days. I mean, in the heyday, they were off-loading square grouper right on the public beaches, in full light of day. The entire island economy was built on this trade. Everybody down here was getting rich."
He chuckled, thinking about it, a deep throaty merry sound that made his eyes light up and revealed his dimples. The gentle demeanor belied the fact that Jack Peterson, if you believed what people had told him, was a real in-your-face kind of guy.
"I love it," Sam said, urging him to continue.
"Anyhow. Since then, we're a sovereign nation. We even have our own Conch Republic passport, remind me to give you one. We're recognized as such. I've had mine stamped by officials all over the world."
Sam didn't doubt it for a moment. He made a mental note to remember to make Peterson cough up a passport. If there actually was such a document, it would be a real collector's item when he returned to D.C.
Then, taking advantage of a lull in Peterson's monologue, he mentioned something about the Conch Republic declaring war on the Conservation League. "What's that all about?"
Jack's grin broadened. "Yeah. Well, that highly confidential."
"Hey, your secret's safe with me," Sam assured him, feeling an urge to give him the Boy Scout's signal or cross his heart. "I just want the story, when you're ready."
Jack nodded. "Great. So, the deal is. Confidentially. We're poised to declare war. Understand, they're the ones who started it. They committed the first actions . . ."
"Which were?"
"What is war but taking of the property of people through force?" Peterson said, standing up— they were sitting on two large couches that took up one third of the living area and looked like they probably did service as beds when necessary— and went over to a large rolltop desk and riffled through a pile of folders.
"Here we are, here's a couple articles that'll give you some idea of what I'm talking about," he said, when he found what he was looking for. He handed some papers to Sam. "They were in the Miami News. They're recent."
They were both articles written by Kate Anderson. One of them was the same piece Sam had seen on his first day on Big Pine. In fact, he had a copy of it in a folder on the back seat of his car. The other was an earlier piece about some victims of the same kind of overzealous land conservation.
"This writer," Sam asked, "is she local?"
"If you mean, does she live here? She does. Most of the time, that is. She's lived here, on an off, for years. But, she's not what you'd call a local writer. She writes for a lot of the nationals. Kate's good people. You should meet her."
"People do seem to like her."
"She's a very good writer. Thorough, hard-working, honest. Credible as hell."
"She's a friend of yours?"
Jack nodded with a grin Sam took to mean Kate was more than just a friend. It was a guy thing, he knew the look.
Jack changed the subject. "Are you interested in adding your byline to some reports on the aberration that's been going on down here? I'll be glad to give you all the help you need."
"Very interested," Sam said. "That's why I'm here."
Now it was his turn to produce some clips and he did, the stories he'd written about Suiteland and Stiltsville. Jack started reading the Suiteland article with a serious look on his face.
"Can I keep this?" he asked, without looking up.
"Absolutely. I brought them for you."
"Thanks. This is very good. I'm impressed. You're certainly on the right side, that isn't usual you know. We don't usually get the press on our side."
"So I've been hearing."
When he got to the Stiltsville piece, Jack grew quiet and read it straight through, nodding in agreement as he went along.
He finished, put the two articles down on the couch beside him and sat there thinking. Then he said, "You may not be aware of this, Sam. But we've got our own little Stiltsville going on right here on Houseboat Row. The City's about to run us out. They've been trying to get rid of us for years. It's the same thing as this," he said, tapping the article with the back of his hand. "Except, of course, these houseboats are our only homes.
"We've been here since the sixties. But, the marina has become too damn valuable to let a bunch of hippies continue to live here. Someone's got their eye on it for development, someone connected. So they just keep quiet and let the City do their dirty work for them. Then, when we're gone, they'll suddenly appear. I'd bet you on it. And everyone makes out. Everyone but us."
"How are they engineering your departure?"
"Oh, the usual. They came up with a bunch of rationales. Health stuff, complaints about us dumping raw sewage into the water. All of a sudden our boats are destroying the marine environment. And, here," he said, standing and gesturing for Sam to follow him over to the sliding glass doors that looked out on the water. "See those derelict boats out yonder?"
Sam looked where Jack was pointing and saw a handful of small scruffy boats that barely looked seaworthy on the horizon. "Well, they're lumping them in with us, just to up the ante. To make people think we're a hazard and an eyesore."
"Who do they belong to? Are they actually live-aboards?" Sam asked. The boats looked a lot too fragile for that.
Jack Peterson shrugged and turned away. "Some, maybe. But, mostly they're abandoned wrecks. A few have homeless squatters on them. The point is, they're not on the Row and they're not our problem. It's all B.S. anyhow. It's the same old shit they'd use to get rid of any sort of property owners. All we can do is try some delaying tactics. I'm afraid our days here are numbered."
"What about the community? Doesn't anyone care about Houseboat Row?"
"Actually, lots of people do. We have a lot of support in Key West. The tourists like our funky little enclave, so the T.D.C.— that's the Tourist Development Council— has stood up for us now and then. Also, the papers have pointed out that this is one of the last bastions of affordable housing in Key West, which is something everyone agrees
"We tried to fight it. Early on, we pooled out resources to get an attorney. But, we're not rich, and no one here can afford a long drawn out legal defense. Besides, most of the people who live here are pretty much `drop outs'. They aren't exactly cut out to be in the spotlight fighting City Hall. The City understands this, of course. They know we'll cave, they're counting on it."
"That's really too bad . . ."
"When they do start hauling us outta the water, maybe you'll still be around to write the sad story. Not that it'll be any help to us at that point, but I for one would certainly like the world to know," Jack Peterson said, entirely comfortable with the hyperbole.
Sam was thinking it was a real shame, Jack's place was great— and he told him so. Two stories, a big open space downstairs with the living/dining room, a state-of-the-art office and a well equipped kitchen. Upstairs there were two bedrooms, a large bath and a sundeck. The bathroom had a jacuzzi and a skylight, and both rooms had sliding doors all around that could open them up to the outdoors.
That must be real nice at night, Sam thought, picturing the moonlight. Seeing it as a perfect setting to play out some real private fantasies.
"Anyhow, right now, the story you came for is right around the corner. I'm glad you dropped by," Jack said, bringing Sam back to the present.
"We've scheduled a press conference next Tuesday. Before you leave today, I'll give you a press kit. With that and what I've told you, your story should write itself." He stood and walked over to the desk to get a press kit.
"Just remember, please keep it under wraps, until I give you a green light," he told Sam, handing him a navy blue folder with the Conch Republic insignia. "I'm notifying every media person in the state, some of the nationals as well. But I'm waiting until the very last moment. You I'm giving a lead. Because I like you. And you showed initiative." His words were serious, but his face wasn't.
"Plus, you can count on having direct access to me." He opened a Cuban cigar box on the table and took out a card. Scribbling a telephone number on the back, he gave it to Sam.
"Here, keep this with you. It's got the Conch Republic `800'-line. And on the back is my private number, which rings right here on the boat. You can call me any time you want. And, Sam, let's get together again. Maybe early next week." He grinned at Sam and chuckled. "It's been good."
Jack Peterson's laugh followed Sam out to the car.
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 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.