Page 39 of Camino Ghosts

“Did he go with you out to Dark Isle?”

“To where? He rode with me, yes. He cleaned fish and cleaned boats. A good boy.”

Diane took a deep breath and asked, “Do you remember his full name?”

“Carp.”

“And his last name?”

“One of Marvin’s boys.”

“And who was Marvin?”

A long expectant pause, then “Marvin Fizbee. A buddy of mine. Now I remember.”

Somewhere in the depths of the historical records Diane had dug through, she had seen the unusual last name of Fizbee. She scribbled it down, as if she might forget it, and asked, “This Carp kid was a son of Marvin’s?”

“Who’s Marvin?”

Oh boy. This poor old guy would never get near a deposition. “You said Marvin Fizbee was a buddy of yours.”

“Yes, he was. And he had a several boys. Carp was one of them.”

“And Carp sometimes worked on your boat?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you remember Carp’s full name?” A wasted question but one she had to ask.

He shook his head and fell asleep.

5.

On the flight back to Jacksonville, Diane worked the internet and found a nest of Fizbees in Lake City, Florida, an hour to the west of Camino Island. There were no records of anyone with that surname closer. None were named Marvin, and, not surprisingly, none went by Carp. After landing, she drove straight to Lake City, found the nearest Fizbee, and knocked on the front door. The neighborhood appeared to be white. So was the Mrs. Fizbee who answered the door. Diane fed her a line about working for a lawyer and looking for a witness in a case, and with her smile and charm she talked her way inside for a glass of tea. Mrs. Fizbee led her through the family tree, at least as far as the living relatives were concerned, but the friendly chat yielded nothing. Quite diplomatically, Diane explained that there were some black Fizbees around Camino Island who went back for decades. Mrs. Fizbee wasn’t surprised but claimed she had never met one.

In the days that followed, Diane doggedly chased every possible lead in her search for black folks named Fizbee. She found some near Columbus, Georgia, but there was no connection to Camino Island. She was also quickly learning that black folks did not warm to the idea of talking to a white person working for a white lawyer, regardless of the circumstances.

The trail led to another family near Huntsville, Alabama, but they were just as disinterested.

If there had once been a kid called Carp, he was now at least seventy years old and it would take a miracle to find him.

6.

After giving plenty of notice, Judge Lydia Salazar convened the lawyers for what she described as an “informal status meeting.” It was the first time the lawyers had met in the same room. So far, all communications had been cordial, which was usually the case when Judge Salazar was in charge. Steven Mahon was old-school, and though he had slugged it out with some of the largest corporations in the country in tough lawsuits, he took great pride in playing by the rules and treating his opponents with respect. He’d seen enough bad behavior by other lawyers. Mayes Barrow was the local lawyer for Tidal Breeze and had good manners. He also knew Judge Salazar frowned on bad ones. His co-counsel from Miami, Monty Martin, was surprisingly down-to-earth for a big-firm type and seemed to enjoy the bucolic setting of the old courtroom. The Attorney General’s office sent three lawyers, though only one was needed. They appeared confident, primarily because they felt as though the state’s claim of ownership was the strongest.

Seated behind all the lawyers were their associates and clerks. Diane Krug had already ingratiated herself with Judge Salazar, and came and went as she pleased. She took a ringside seat in the jury box, a move no other underling would dare to try. Beyond the bar, several spectators waited. Sid Larramore of The Register was in the front row flipping through a newspaper, not his. A bailiff napped in one corner. The court reporter’s desk was empty because no official record of the proceedings was necessary.

Because it would be a bench trial with no jury, the atmosphere was more relaxed. Scheduling would be far less complicated. Judge Salazar entered from behind the bench, without a robe, and greeted everyone. She asked each lawyer, all six of them, to remain seated, turn off their phones, and introduce themselves. She welcomed them and made them feel at home.

The first matter was a discussion of discovery and how it was progressing. There were no complaints, so far. The usual pile of interrogatories and requests for documents were making the rounds. Depositions had yet to start. Mayes Barrow said, “Your Honor, we would like to begin with the deposition of the plaintiff, Lovely Jackson. It seems only fitting that she goes first.”

“I agree. Mr. Mahon?”

“Sure, Judge. May I suggest next Thursday at nine a.m.?”

Everyone lurched for their calendars. Busy people. Soon they were all nodding, primarily because a quick resolution to the title fight was wanted all around. If Tidal Breeze was getting sued, which happened all the time, its lawyers wrote the book on stalling and delaying. Monty Martin, though, was under strict orders from Wilson Larney to push hard for a trial.

Steven watched them for a moment and said, “And Your Honor, I’d like to borrow the courtroom for Ms. Jackson’s deposition. My office is on the second floor and not that, shall I say, spacious.”

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