Page 63 of Camino Ghosts

There had been no requests for cameras in the courtroom. Judge Burch would have said no anyway. The lone sketch artist in the front row was from the Jacksonville daily, and she was having a grand time trying to capture the colorful image of the witness.

To match her red and yellow turban and her robe, Lovely wore a pair of round, red-framed bifocals, which she peered through at the clerk when she swore to tell the truth. She sat down in the witness chair, pulled the mike a bit closer, as Steven had instructed, looked out at the crowd, and smiled at Diane and Mercer. She saw Miss Naomi in the second row and gave her a little nod. She appeared to be anything but nervous. Proud, regal, onstage, and looking forward to telling her story.

Steven slowly walked her through the preliminaries with easy questions. She answered slowly and clearly. She was born on Dark Isle in 1940, left fifteen years later. They went through a series of questions and answers, just as they had rehearsed, that covered those fifteen years. Life on Dark Isle: her family, home, neighbors, village, school, chapel, their religion and daily routines, the fear that white people would take away their island, the fear of death and disease. From the age of seven Lovely went to school every day until noon, then went home and did chores. The women tended the gardens, cooked the meals, cleaned the houses. The men, even the young boys, fished and brought home the seafood, some of which they traded in Santa Rosa and on the mainland. No one had a real job; everyone pitched in. Death was always hanging like a cloud. Most of the men died in their fifties. Many children died. The cemetery was a busy place. Her uncle was a carpenter and built many coffins. The “priest,” as they called him, had a black robe he’d bought somewhere on the mainland, and she was always afraid of it because it meant death. She had vivid memories of watching coffins lowered into graves.

After an hour and a half of nonstop narrative, Judge Burch called for a recess. Diane led Lovely to the ladies’ room while the spectators talked in low voices.

“You’re doing great,” Diane said as they walked down the hall.

“I’m just talking, that’s all.”

Back in session, Steven handed Lovely a copy of her memoir, which she identified. He asked that it be admitted into evidence.

Monty Martin stood and said, “Your Honor, we have no objection as long as it’s understood that we’re not agreeing that everything in that book is actually true. We reserve the right to cross-examine the witness from her own book.”

“Of course,” said Judge Burch.

Steven returned to the podium and asked, “Ms. Jackson, why did you write this book?”

She took a long pause and studied the floor. “Well, I did it so my people will never be forgotten. I wanted to preserve the story of Dark Isle from the time my ancestors arrived from Africa. So many of the slave stories have not been told and have been forgotten. I want people to know and remember how they suffered, and how they survived. Today, we don’t know the real history because it has not been taught, and it’s not been taught because so much has been forgotten. People don’t want to talk about what happened to the slaves.”

He asked her about her writing process. How long did it take to write the book? Off and on, ten years. Did she seek advice? Not really, just read some magazine pieces. She wrote it in longhand and paid a young lady, a schoolteacher, to type it up for her. When it was finished she didn’t know what to do with it. The same lady, the typist, said she should look for a publisher, but she wasn’t sure how to go about it. Some time passed, nothing happened, then someone told her about a company that would print the book for $2,000 and make five hundred copies. That’s how the book got published.

Steven was not about to ask if the five hundred copies had sold. He knew they had not and he wasn’t about to embarrass his client. Instead, he switched gears and asked about the decision to leave (never “abandon”) Dark Isle. Lovely took a deep breath and looked down. She and her mother were the only two left. The village was sad and depressing, and all their family and friends were gone. They had little to eat and some days ate nothing at all. A friend came to get them and finally convinced them it was time to go. They moved in with another friend on Camino Island and went to work in the canneries. After her mother died in 1971, Lovely got married to a man with a good job. She moved up a notch and worked in the hotels. She longed for the island and wanted to see it, but her husband had no interest. She paid a man named Herschel Landry, a fisherman with a boat, to take her out several times a year so she could tend to her family’s graves in the cemetery. She did this for many years, until Herschel sold his boat and moved away. By then her husband had left her.

Lovely was suddenly tired and removed her glasses. It was almost noon and everyone needed a break. Judge Burch recessed until 2:00 p.m.

4.

The nearest diner was across the street from the courthouse. Since the weather was nice, Bruce reserved a table on the patio and welcomed Mercer and Thomas, Steven and Diane, and Lovely and Miss Naomi to his little corner. He ordered iced tea and coffee. Gifford Knox arrived a few minutes later, on a cane, and ordered a whiskey sour.

Lovely had performed brilliantly on direct examination, and, so far, there was nothing to worry about. She was a bit fatigued but thought a good lunch would get her ready for the afternoon.

Steven and Diane had spent hours with her, crafting her testimony, deciding what was important and what could be left out, anticipating attacks from the other side. Steven had even tried some old courtroom tricks to trip her, but they had not worked. She had been unflappable, both in rehearsal and this morning onstage.

Their discussion was about how long to keep Lovely on the witness stand. Telling her entire story would consume hours and hours and, at some point, become monotonous. Steven knew from experience that good witnesses were often destroyed because they said too much. On the other hand, a great witness needed to be heard. The truth was that Lovely’s memoir was in evidence and had already been studied by Judge Burch and all the lawyers. The challenge was deciding how much to go over again and how much to leave alone.

Everyone at the table had an opinion about Judge Burch. Since he was the sole juror, his demeanor, body language, and reactions were of the utmost interest. So far, he was proving to be remarkably poker-faced. He absorbed every word, took a few notes, ruled on objections quickly, and gave away nothing. He appeared to be involved in the case and eager to hear the testimony.

5.

At 2:00 p.m., Lovely settled back into the witness chair and smiled at His Honor. Steven asked her if she had been to the island lately. She said yes, about three weeks ago, with the archaeologists. He asked her to describe the island now, and she took a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice cracked for the first time. She took a sip of water, straightened her back, and began talking. Steven interrupted a few times to keep her on course. Monty Martin politely objected twice when her narrative rambled on, but Judge Burch waved him off. They were going to hear everything Lovely Jackson wanted to tell them.

“And did you find the graves of your father and grandparents?”

“Well, we’re not sure. We found a lot of graves but they were never marked. There were no stones or anything like that. Most of the caskets were rotted. The scientists did the testing with DNA but they found nothing. So, no, I can’t say for sure that we found the graves of my blood kin.”

On a large screen set up in the jury box, Diane flashed a color photo taken by Dr. Pennington when the team was at work in the cemetery. Tight string on stakes marked the graves. Neat piles of dirt stretched along one end of the cemetery. Two of the archaeologists were on their knees working with trowels.

“Does this photo look familiar?” Steven asked.

“Yes, sir. It does. We were right there just a few days ago.”

“And do you know who was buried in the graves that were being excavated?”

“No, not exactly. But I came to believe that it was my folks in that corner of the cemetery. My Daddy and all my grandparents. But, as I said, the tests don’t prove that.”

“What did the cemetery look like years ago, back when you went out there with Herschel?”

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