Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County (27 page)

Besides—and this made me flush with shame to think it—having Priscilla with us would hurt our case, despite her talent for making a good impression. There were judges who would rule against us simply because we were seen with a black person.

And so it was just the four of us—Jackie, Mrs. Bailey White, me, and also, of course, Bunny. Our attorney, Mr. Yonce, was
to meet us there; he had borrowed a car and was staying at the Naples Beach Club Hotel.

As for Robbie-Lee, we had no idea where he was. Maybe he would arrive on the Trailways bus in time to get himself over to the courthouse. If not, he would miss all the fireworks.
But
, I thought privately,
at least he will be here to help pick up the pieces if we lose.

When we arrived at the courthouse we discovered the building wasn't open. Fortunately, it wasn't hideously hot yet. Jackie kept the convertible top up for shade or we would have roasted even at that early hour of the day.

Mrs. Bailey White broke the silence. “I know this is a modern building and all, but frankly I'm nostalgic for the old days when the courthouse was down in Everglades City,” she announced. “Now
that
was a grand old building, with the columns and all up front. I have many memories—”

“It's still there,” I interrupted, hoping to derail her from talking about her trial. I'd always wanted to hear all the details, but this was not the time. “They're going to fix it up and turn it into offices or some kind of museum, I think.”

“Well, that's good, because that place is
filled
with rich history,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “Including my trial. Or, I might say,
especially
my trial. I was the most famous defendant they ever had, you know. Oh, those were the days.”

Jackie and I glanced at each other. We were sitting up front, with Mrs. Bailey White and Bunny sharing the backseat.

“Oh, yeah,” Bunny said to Mrs. Bailey White cheerfully, as if they were exchanging a recipe for fried catfish. “I do remember hearing about that . . . mess. Back when I was a child.”

“Oh, indeed, a mess it was! I can still hear the jury foreman
saying, ‘Guilty on one count of murder.' They sent me off to Lowell. Never mind that my lawyer said we had a good chance of proving self-defense. But not in Florida, not in my day. Not for a woman.”

“No surprise there,” Bunny said sympathetically. “It was a man's world. Still is.”

“Yes-siree,” Mrs. Bailey White said.

“Can I ask you a question?” Bunny asked. “How come they didn't hang you?”

“I suspect it was on account of my coming from an affluent family,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “But I don't honestly know.”

“Why'd they let you out early?” Bunny persisted.

“Good behavior,” Mrs. Bailey White said.

“This is fascinating, ladies, but I'm a nervous wreck at the moment,” Jackie said irritably. “Let's focus on
today
, please. I want to go over the particulars again. Now, remember, this is a hearing. If we're lucky, we won't have to go to trial. I mean, if the judge decides in our favor.”

“I sure hope I don't have to talk,” Bunny said.

“I don't think we're supposed to say anything,” Jackie said. “Last night Ted called me long distance from Tallahassee to wish us luck, and he said, ‘Let your lawyer do the talking,' and I think he's right. It fits with what Mr. Yonce advised, too. He said that's what we're paying him for.”

“Okay,” Bunny said. “We let the lawyer do the talking. How do I look?”

“You look as good as Mrs. Astor's pet mule!” Mrs. Bailey White said, and at first I thought it was an insult.

“Why, thank you!” Bunny replied playfully.

Jackie and I exchanged glances. Neither of us knew what
they were talking about. “Would anyone mind if I put the radio on?” Jackie asked suddenly. Without waiting for an answer, she switched it on. The wailing sound of Eric Burdon singing the Animals' rendition of “The House of the Rising Sun” wafted through the air.

“Gee!” Jackie exclaimed. “What a depressing song! How did that get to be a hit?”

“Oh, I know that song!” Bunny said, surprising us. “It's a folk song. Heard it a long time ago.”

“Me, too,” said Mrs. Bailey White.

The song finished and the next up was “Everybody Loves Somebody,” a Dean Martin hit that Jackie seemed to find more palatable. “Now that's more like it,” she said. “At least that man can
sing
.”

“That's for sure,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “Sounds kind of sexy.”

“What we need around here is another radio station,” I said, trying to be pleasant and conversational.

“You are
not kidding
!” Jackie snapped. “Even a country radio station would be better than having just old WNOG!”

“Why, Jackie, you are a Yankee snob,” I said, trying to joke.

“What—just because I don't love country music? I like some of it,” she said defensively. “I like Loretta Lynn and Johnny Cash.”

“Maybe you should go back to doing your own show on WNOG and then you can pick your own music again,” Mrs. Bailey White said, trying to be helpful.

“I've told you, it wasn't as much fun once everyone found out who I am,” Jackie said. “The fun part was doing it incognito.” She started to say more but the next song distracted her. “Oh,
there's that song my daughters were talking about! ‘You Don't Own Me.' ”

“That's Lesley Gore,” I said.

We listened to the words. “Sounds like that gal is standing up for herself,” Bunny said approvingly. “Tellin' her man to back off.”

“Now this is the message young girls need to hear!” Jackie exclaimed. “Your boyfriend or husband doesn't ‘own' you! You are free to make your own choices!”

A deputy sheriff pulled into the parking lot, ending our conversation. He opened his car door with a swift, furious kick of his left foot, treating us to a flash of spit-polished cowboy boot reflected in the morning sun. Whether this was intended to impress or intimidate, I had no idea. Or maybe he was a show-off all the time. My nerves were so jittery I was probably reading into it.

Without looking at us, he sauntered to the courthouse door and unlocked it. Just when I thought he was avoiding eye contact with us, he turned and grinned menacingly and made a mock bow of welcome. Then he went inside.

“What in the world was that all about,” Jackie complained.

“I don't know,” I said, “but let's get out of this heat and go into the courthouse.”

Jackie agreed. “Yes, and it would
behoove
us to figure out where we're supposed to sit,” she said.

“And locate the ladies' room,” Mrs. Bailey White added.

Jackie smiled despite herself. “Yes,” she said, “and that, too.”

“I wish Mr. Yonce was here already,” I said, my voice bordering on whiny. I could no longer disguise my anxiety. Unlike Jackie and the others, I also had to contend with the fact that
Darryl was likely to be attending. He might even be testifying. Of course, he might just send his attorneys on his behalf. But I had no way of knowing in advance.

•  •  •

THE COURTROOM WAS DIVIDED IN
half by an aisle, a bit like a church. Jackie insisted we settle into the first row on the left side. Darryl and his lawyers could sit on the front row on the right. “That's the way they do it on
Perry Mason,”
she said.

“Well, where are the lawyers going to sit?” I asked, confused.

“I think they'll be standing,” Jackie replied. “There's no defendant, per se, and no jury. So they'll be arguing before the judge.”

About twenty minutes later, Mr. Yonce arrived, nervously mopping his brow with a handkerchief despite the arctic blast coming from the central air conditioner. But when he saw us, he grinned and gave us a thumbs-up. He darted over to us and whispered, “Everything is under control.” Hopefully this meant the fingerprints had been a match. Then he and Jackie discussed the seating arrangements. “I need to sit on the aisle,” he said, “and y'all can sit right here. But save a seat or two.”

Save a seat or two? I wondered why. The courtroom was empty except for us. As if reading my mind Mr. Yonce said, “A huge crowd has started gathering outside. They're making them wait to come in until after the judge arrives.”

My heart fluttered.
A huge crowd.
This was surprising, considering that there had been little in the newspaper—despite Jackie's best efforts—about the hearing. But I had underestimated the power of the grapevine and the determination of both sides.

This wasn't a fight about one development. It was a fight
over dreams. Darryl and his supporters longed for buildings and roads, for new jobs, and fat bank accounts. People like me wanted just the opposite; our dream was for the land and river to stay the same, the way God made it. As for Bunny, she was protecting something she had fought for her entire life: a place where she could be left alone, which was the only dream she'd ever had.

At least Bunny and I were on the same side. To us, it had always been Dreamsville.

T
he judge was an old-timer named Henry “Hang 'Em Harry” Prentiss, a dignified no-nonsense kind of fellow who looked remarkably like Confederate General Robert E. Lee in the classic Civil War portrait that held a place of honor in many Florida homes.

Darryl and his three lawyers walked in at the last second, just before Judge Prentiss called the courtroom to order. I was expecting to get the evil eye from Darryl, but he didn't even glance at our side. Mrs. Bailey White snuck a peek behind us, just to ascertain if there was indeed a full house, and whispered a little too loudly that it was a “gallows crowd,” meaning a lot of people, many of them spittin' mad.

Had Darryl filled the place with folks hungry for jobs? Or were they on our side, eager to see the development halted in its tracks?

Judge Prentiss began the proceedings by banging the gavel and complaining heartily about the microphone and the air-conditioning.
After we were treated to his tirade on new-fangled machinery, he made the following statement:

“I have been brought out of retirement to adjudicate this case, and frankly I would rather be fishing, but I am here and I will fulfill my duties to the court. Both of the justices normally serving this court have a conflict of interest in the case and have recused themselves. Justice Donald D. Battle owns land adjacent to the disputed property. Justice John Ed Jones has made a financial investment in Mr. Darryl Norwood's company.

“Remember, this is a preliminary hearing,” he continued. “I have read the supporting materials but I have not made a decision. I wish to hear what the attorneys representing each side have to say.”

Darryl's lead lawyer and our Mr. Yonce stood up and approached the bench. Like two awkward dancers at a cotillion, they faced each other uneasily.

Darryl's lawyer spoke first. “Your honor, my client is being prevented from his right to develop the property,” he said, his tone indignant. “This frivolous claim is causing needless delay. It is causing financial harm to my client, and it is detrimental to the community. Hundreds of jobs are at stake.”

Now it was Mr. Yonce's turn. “Your honor, this case has nothing whatsoever to do with the creation of new jobs, or what may—or may not—be good for the community,” he said. “It is, quite simply, a dispute over the ownership of land which we can settle here easily today. My client, Miss Bunny Ann McIntyre, owns the land. Mr. Darryl Norwood
claims
to own the land, having purchased it from someone other than Miss McIntyre. The fact that he was misled or defrauded is not our concern. The fact is he does
not
own the property. It's the oldest story in the world, when one human being covets that which belongs
to another, essentially saying,
I want what you have.
The deed belongs to Miss McIntyre, the eldest living direct descendant of the original property owner, and the papers have been authenticated.”

“And how have they been authenticated?” the judge asked. “I have most of the papers here in front of me but I want it said aloud for the gallery.”

“Well, the first document is the deed in trust,” Mr. Yonce said. “It has been authenticated by a bank in Pensacola. The bank is in possession of a copy, and it is from that bank that the trust has been administered since its inception.

“Secondly,” Mr. Yonce continued, “we have hired a genealogist who has proven that Miss McIntyre is the eldest living direct descendant of Confederate General John Stuart Williams and that, under the trust which he created long ago, she is the rightful owner of the land.”

Darryl's lawyer burst out laughing and covered his mouth in a way that seemed rehearsed. “Your honor, excuse me!” he said. “The fact is we don't know if this woman”—he turned and pointed at Bunny—“is in fact Bunny Ann McIntyre. She has been calling herself Dolores Simpson for at least the last twenty-four years, according to our research. It seems rather convenient that she has begun calling herself Bunny Ann McIntyre just in time to claim an inheritance under that name. How do we know who she is?”

“Your honor,” Mr. Yonce countered, “we have a court record from 1939 that proves she is Bunny Ann McIntyre. The document includes her name, photograph, and—most significantly, your honor—her fingerprints. Those fingerprints match those of the woman you see sitting here today. Here is a report, officially prepared by the fingerprint expert, retired Sarasota detective
Dexter W. Stone.” With a flourish, Mr. Yonce set the report before the judge.

Darryl's lawyer scoffed. “What is that court record, counselor? Let's be honest here! It's for
disorderly conduct.
The arrest took place outside a so-called nightclub featuring nude dancers in Tampa, where she worked as a stripper. Are we supposed to believe anything this woman says?”