Page 42 of Camino Ghosts

Diane sat alone in the jury box and worked on her laptop. She was tracking yet another old ghost from The Docks, the alleged son of a fisherman who spent his life on the shrimp boats and got his photo on the front page in 1951. She had been through every edition of The Register since it began ninety years earlier, and she knew more about the history of the island’s people, black and white, than the lady who ran the historical society. But she had yet to find the kid called Carp. They had to find either him or another witness who could walk into that very courtroom in a few months and verify Lovely’s story that she routinely visited the island for years. The issue of abandonment was looming larger and larger.

After Judge Salazar had made her rounds she said, “I will be in my office if there is an issue. As agreed, you will go until twelve-thirty, then break for lunch, then resume at two p.m. After that, the deposition will continue as long as Ms. Jackson wants it to. If you do not finish today, we will resume at ten in the morning.”

Steven was being overly cautious because of his client’s age. He had warned the other lawyers that she might tire easily, and that he would not tolerate rough questioning or even badgering. Not that he was worried. Four months into the lawsuit he knew his opponents well enough to know that they were pros who played by the rules.

Finally, when everyone was in place, and the coffee was poured, and the door was secured, and the witness was ready to the point of looking bored, Steven said, “Okay, I guess we can get started.”

Lovely took a deep breath and stared at her audience. Steven Mahon, close by; next to him was Mayes Barrow, then Monty Martin from Miami. Across the table sat three lawyers from the Florida Attorney General’s office. Behind the lawyers were various paralegals and assistants. Miss Naomi sat in the front row. Quite the audience.

The witness was sworn to tell the truth. Steven made a few preliminary comments and turned her over to Mayes Barrow, who began with an earnest smile, “Miss Jackson, when were you born?”

“April the seventh, 1940.”

“And where?”

“On Dark Isle, just over yonder.”

“Do you have a birth certificate?”

“No.”

“May I ask why not?”

“I was a baby. I wasn’t in charge of the paperwork.”

The answer was so beautiful, everyone had to enjoy it. The ice wasn’t just broken—it was thoroughly melted. The enemy lawyers got the first hint that they might have their hands full with this witness.

Mayes, a good sport, collected himself and said, “Okay, who was your mother?”

“Ruth Jackson.”

“How many children did she have?”

“Two. I was the first. Then there was a little brother who died when he was about three years old. I don’t remember him. Name was Malachi.”

“Do you know when your mother was born?”

“I do.”

“When was that?”

“She was born in 1916. The third day of January.”

“Where was she born?”

“Same place the rest of ’em was born.”

“Where?”

“On Dark Isle.”

“When did she die?”

“Nineteen seventy-one, fourteenth of June.”

“You seem pretty certain about these dates.”

“What’s your mama’s birthday?”

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