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.
Halfway through his jail time, Billy Ray caved. He couldn't take it, sixty days was too long. He put in an urgent call to Winston and told him he was ready to make a deal. His back was killing him, the jail food was giving him the runs, he'd lost weight and he just wasn't sleeping. As one of the trustees, a decent older black guy who'd been around one or another prison most of his life, put it, doing time is not as easy as the average person thinks. Many guys, he'd seen a lot of them hisself, just can't take it. They crack under the strain of lock up. Billy Ray seemed to be one of them. He felt nervous like a wild animal in a cage.
By nature, Billy Ray tended to be claustrophobic. In fact, that was one of the reasons he loved living in the Keys— the endless sky, the sea, the epic sense of space. He longed for that right now, some open space on Little Torch. Plus, fresh air. He'd give anything for a breath of fresh sea air. He couldn't stand the reek of jail. The sweaty unwashed guys, the smell of urine and disinfectant. He just wanted out.
Winston appreciated the situation immediately, seeing a chance for him to score some points with some people who counted. He came by the same day his client phoned him, showed up around four with the obligatory Con Leches in a paper bag, clutching his briefcase under his arm. He handed Billy Ray a styrofoam cup and set the other one on his side of the table. Then he opened the briefcase and pulled out the option agreement he'd showed Billy Ray on one of their very first meetings. "If they're still interested, we'll try to get you a pretty fair price for the property," he said, sounding a lot more like a realtor than a lawyer.
Billy Ray nodded, staring dumbly. "Just get me outta here, understand?" he mumbled, taking the pen Winston held out to him and signing.
Winston promised to do his best and tossed Billy Ray a pack of Marlboros on his way out. Afterwards, lying on his cot and smoking, Billy Ray wondered if it really mattered that there'd been no discussion of money. He hadn't seen a figure on the one-page option agreement. He decided he was probably getting screwed, told hisself not to dwell on it.
"Just get me out, just get me out." The words had become a mantra, going round and round in his head. He repeated them constantly in the next two days while he waited to hear from Winston.
On the morning of the third day, he was taken in his orange jumpsuit and leg irons to the judge's chamber. There, details were arrived at without Billy Ray's actual input, details about the option he'd signed and his upcoming release.
"Just keep your eye on the ball," Winston had instructed. "You're getting what you want, just don't screw up." What he got, what he wanted, was out. Period. Billy Ray concentrated on that. Five years probation. $500 fine. They washed the felony conviction and left the misdemeanors. In exchange for a donation of his land.
They'd beaten him. So what? He was too down to hassle about the terms.
On the ride home with Dixie, Billy Ray was silent. He stared out at the scenery, but he wasn't seeing much. The worst had happened, the worst was over. He was out, he was free, free to go on with the rest of his life.
Ever vigilant, Dixie worried about him when she left him. She cried all the way home. As he insisted— she'd wanted to take him to her trailer and feed him a home cooked meal— she let him out at the gate to his property, but she didn't like it. He said he wanted to walk around alone a bit, to decompress. Well, she couldn't argue with that, it was a natural enough request. It was just, as she told Kate later when they talked about it, that he seemed so down. So unlike the Billy Ray she knew.
After his mother drove away, Billy Ray did walk around. He walked and drew deep breaths of clean fresh air and looked at the sky and the scenery. And before long, he felt a little better. His thoughts weren't coming any clearer, but his spirit felt right. The further onto his property he went, the faster he walked and the taller he stood. It was a pure organic reaction. He began to allow himself to rejoice that he was home, that he was free.
When he got to the trailer, he discovered someone had busted in and removed a lot of his papers. That brought him back down with a rush, but he just let it go. Told hisself, what the fuck, it really didn't matter. And he turned and walked out to the beach.
He plopped down on the warm sand and felt his whole body relax. Then he remembered something Dixie had told him, something that nice lady reporter who wrote the article about him had said. "When you arrest people for felonies that don't even exist, you are stealing their land." Well, she certainly got that right.
It was always a pleasure to be a guest of Virginia Allen's. The lady was a consummate hostess, it was something in her Southern blood, her genes. She greeted Kate warmly with a hug, settled her down on a comfortable settee out on the veranda— as she called it— with a lovely serene view of the garden. It was that time of evening when the plants were undergoing a twilight sprinkling, which added to the charm.
Virginia poured her guest a "nice glass of bourbon", meaning a double, and one for herself, then sat down on a white rattan chair across from Kate. Moments later, Hattie, Virginia's `woman', an old Conch who had been with her forever, appeared with a silver tray of what Virginia called "finger food". Tiny crisp conch fritters, warm salted pecans, and cheese wafers, each of them deliciously prepared by Hattie.
How very ladylike, how Southern, Kate thought appreciatively, helping herself to a small china plate Virginia handed her and filling it with food.
Always the perfect hostess, Virginia allowed some quiet time to pass before she sat a little straighter, assuming a more businesslike posture, and addressed the purpose of the meeting.
"Tell me what I should know," was how she put it.
Kate told her, going into some detail. Listening to Kate's recitation, Virginia wore a serious expression on her face. At times, she nodded, unsmiling. Occasionally, she shook her head in disbelief. She asked a couple of questions, requested some clarification, but was otherwise quiet until Kate finished. Then she sat silently, gazing out at a bed of white hibiscus, thinking. When she finally turned back to Kate, she thanked her, but did not reveal her thoughts.
Walking home through a gathering darkness redolent with jasmine and night blooming cereus, Kate felt certain, as she always did after sharing information with Virginia, that something useful would probably come from it.
The phone was ringing as Kate let herself in the front door. By the time she reached her office, the answering machine had already kicked in. Relaxed by the bourbon at Virginia's, she was foolhardy enough to pick up the receiver and say Hello, overriding the system. For a moment, there was silence on the line. Kate thought the caller had hung up. Then, a woman's voice said, hesitantly, "Kate? Is that you?"
"This is Kate," Kate replied, recognizing the voice and glad she had picked up the phone. She felt a rising excitement. Her instincts told her this woman had something important for her, something she needed. "Yes, it's me. Up close and personal." She laughed and the woman laughed with her.
Continuing the note of joviality, the caller said, "Kate Anderson? In the flesh?"
Then there was a small silence. Kate was the one who broke it. "Yeah. It's me. So, how're you doing?"
"Oh, as well as could be expected. I told you I was going to call you back. Is this a good time or, uh, am I disturbing you? Are you busy?" Still the hesitation.
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 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.