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.
Leaping Lizards Larry was late for lunch. Kate sat at a shady table in Bayview Park, watching cars come and go, none of them Larry's funky oversize old truck with its hand-painted flora and fauna. Kate figured he must have forgotten, despite her phone message. Or his truck, which was always giving him trouble, had broken down somewhere up the Keys. She was almost ready to give up on him, when he pulled into sight, the old truck huffing and wheezing. Larry parked and rushed over to her, carrying two sacks. He was flushed and out of breath, he'd been hurrying. Framing his cherubic face, his hair had turned to damp ringlets that were plastered to his forehead and stuck to his cheeks. He dropped the food on the table, sat down across from her and began opening bags, sorting out what he called the `vittles': two sacks of dripping Cuban sandwiches, chips, a six-pack of Cokes.
"This one's yours, egg and cheese and bacon. Smells good," he announced, handing Kate the smaller of two sandwiches. Then he hefted out the other, larger one and sighed, " This is mine, a Midnight, all the way. Far out. Don't know about you, but I'm starved." He handed each of them a Coke— popping Kate's open for her like they did in the Cuban take outs— and ripped open the chips, offering her some. Then he set the bag on the table between than and tore into his sandwich. As he chewed, he managed to get out a few words. "Sorry I was late . . . It's those damn oil wells. Broke my mower on one . . . my new mower, too . . . Bummer."
Kate unwrapped her sandwich and began a more ladylike assault on it. "Oil wells? Where've you been, Larry? And what've you been smoking??"
Through a mouth full of coldcuts and cheese, tomato, lettuce, onions, and sauce, Larry grinned and said, "Little Torch. My customer's. They've got two parcels there, one has a house on it, the other's undeveloped. I mow both of `em twice a month, year round." He paused for a big gulp of Coke.
Seeing her quizzical look, he went on. "Oh, I don't mean towers or derricks or anything like that. These just test wells. They drill `em and cap `em and forget `em. Because of the moratorium, I guess. These're set in the ground about two or three inches high, like those headstones you see in some cemeteries. Just high enough to trip over. Or break your mower blade. These were covered over with grass, so I didn't see `em. I knew they were there, but I just spaced it out."
"I bet you were," Kate teased, "spaced out, I mean. But, you could've been hurt." As she ate, she was seeing the scene in her imagination. Larry, stoned and listening to his walkman, as he usually did as he marched the mower around. Enjoying the heat and the pungent smell of newly cut grass. Then wham! A sudden jolt, the sharp clash of metal against metal. "You didn't get cut or anything, did you?"
Larry smiled and shook his head. "Nope, nothing like that. Other than wrecking a good mower, everything's cool." He sat munching away with a blissful expression. Kate could tell he was starting to feel better.
Then he stopped to take a breath and asked how she was doing. "Oh, and I saw your article about the gay couple out on Pirate's Key. Pretty depressing. When I read it, I said to myself, Larry, the Keys' life we all love is history . . ." Then he stopped and seemed to remember something. "Hey, I've got something here for you. One of my customers gave it to me."
He put down his sandwich and reached in his shorts pocket, taking out a folded piece of newspaper and handing it to Kate. "Here, I saved it for you. I thought it was pretty cool, myself."
Kate wiped her fingers on a napkin and unfolded the clipping. It was an article from the Washington Herald about Houseboat Row. Sam O'Brian, the reporter, whoever that was, had done a good thorough job. He must have been down here to get the story, but Kate had never heard the name. Every now and then, a reporter from up North would blow into town and sniff around for a story just to buy a few days in the sun. Hit-and-run reporting was what she called it. Well, at least this one had got the story right, she had to give him that— it was an entirely credible piece.
She had to agree with Larry, the piece was `cool.' O'Brian had probably met up with Jack Anderson, a committee-of-one dedicated to getting the truth about the Keys out to the world. The guy never quit. Which reminded her, she'd have to give Jack a call as soon as she got home, see if he needed her to do anything. After all, tomorrow was the big day.
At that very moment, Jack was on his boat, seated at what he liked to call `Mission Control', faxing press releases all over the country. Prior to that, he'd placed a few calls to make sure certain reporters were coming down from the key Florida papers. Next, he'd call some Miami TV stations, goose them about tomorrow's press conference. From what he could tell so far, the event was going to be very well-attended.
Which didn't surprise Jack. Whatever people thought about the Conch Republic— and opinions varied, thought Jack, with a chuckle— one thing was true. With Jack Anderson at the helm, the Conch Republic always got ink. And plenty of it. The same was sure to happen tomorrow. His latest strategy, declaring war on the Conservation League, was just too good for the press to pass up. It was positively brilliant— if he did say so himself.
The next day around 11, Jack gathered his entourage and headed downtown. Since what he had in mind was really theater, albeit `guerrilla theater', he was holding the event at the Waterfront Playhouse in Mallory Square. What better place? Betting on a large turnout, he'd paid a bundle for the large space with its campy atmosphere instead of a more formal setting. More in keeping with the Conch Republic theme.
And sure enough, way before noon, the appointed time, the hall began to fill. People were turning out in for "the Most Important Public Gathering of the Century", as the event had been billed by a man given to hyperbole. Politicians, people on both sides of the issue, friends— and enemies— of the Conch Republic, the idle and the merely curious and, of course, ladies and gentlemen of the press. Television cameras were set up in the back.
When it was time for Jack and his sidekick, Harry Powers, Colonel of the Conch Republic Militia, to make their appearance, the hall was crowded and raucous. Just the way Jack liked it. There was a festive air generally associated with fairs and galas, not public meetings, even quasi-serious ones.
Jack and Harry marched on stage in full regalia. Jack wore an ancient French Naval Officer's uniform, complete with the plumed tri-corner hat; Colonel Harry was decked out in a lace-trimmed 18th century gentleman's outfit, a powdered wig that had seen better days, threadbare white stockings and buckled patent leather shoes. Each of them carried the signature Conch Republic prop— a sword fashioned from a polyurethane-coated loaf of Cuban bread— which they brandished theatrically.
As a final touch, Harry had an attache case containing the Declaration of War handcuffed to one arm. Jack signaled to two musicians standing in the back of the stage, dressed in generic old-time costumes that looked like they's spent a good deal of time in trunks at East Martello. At the sign, they piped up on their instruments— an oboe and a French horn— to produce a bracing military march.
Scanning the crowd and satisfied with the turnout, Jack stepped to the podium and issued a greeting in flowery language befitting royalty— Dear Friends, We-this and We-that. Thanks for coming to hear this extremely urgent agenda. Grinning broadly, he extended a special thanks to the local politicians and `members of the Fourth Estate'.
Spotting Kate in the second row, he acknowledged her with a wink. She smiled back and gave him a high sign. Then his expression turned serious and he got right to the point.
"As most of you remember, the Conch Republic was born out of an extremely serious situation back in 1982. Treating the Keys like a foreign country, the U.S. Border Patrol had effectively sealed us off in an effort to stop ALLEGED drug trafficking . . ."
He stopped to get a laugh, then continued. "At the time, our only choice was to rebel and to secede, which we did in short order. We seceded from the U.S. and formed our own sovereign state, the Conch Republic. Which, by the way, is still recognized under international law. The world— and the Feds— soon got the point and the blockade was lifted. But, the Conch Republic survived and, from that time forward, the anniversary of our independence has occasioned some of the best parties this town has ever known."
He chuckled and the audience joined him. There was a rustling sound as people began to move restlessly in their seats. Jack waited for the laughter to die down, then made one of his signature segues from the frivolous to the extremely frivolous. "I'm here in my legal capacity as Secretary General of the Conch Republic in a matter of extreme national importance. In defense of the Republic. Whether or not you're aware of it, dear friends, the Republic is under seige. In point of fact, we're again faced with horrific infringement on our freedoms.
Our fundamental freedoms and property rights are being trampled underfoot by government powers. This time in the service of a clandestine private agenda."
He peered out at the audience to make sure he had their attention. He did.
"In the past few months, my office has received a number of serious allegations and we were able to corroborate all of them. Every one. Leading us to draw the conclusion that our legal and regulatory processes are being systematically abused by a conspiracy of private and governmental agencies— eco-terrorists— intent on stealing people's land. I'm talking about outright stealing, folks. The taking of property without offering compensation. Through the use of force."
He paused, savoring the silence that had fallen in the room.
"We found collusion . . . Selective enforcement. The shameless abuse of power. There's a heinous scheme afoot to acquire every square inch — that's right, I said every last square inch— of undeveloped land in the Keys. These are extremely powerful people, multinational, international groups who will stop at nothing. Their agents have been systematically harassing landowners out of their property, even imprisoning some of our fine citizens— you'll hear more about this a little later on— all with the goal of getting their land. Now comes the shocker . . . " He paused meaningfully.
"We found out that this scheme is being driven by the Conservation League . . . I can see most of you are surprised by this. I expected you to be. I admit, I was myself at first. I couldn't believe it anymore than you can. Then I did some research, and, well. See for yourself."
Jack stopped to take a drink of bottled water, peered out over the audience and waited. Then he put down the bottle and strolled over to a large television set that sat in the center of the stage. He used the remote control to switch it on and popped in a tape.
"I'm going to share with you some of the horror stories we've heard. From the victims themselves."
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.