Page 100 of Brighton

ELIAS

The first Monday in January is blustery and wet. Dreary is the best word to describe it. Low cloud cover hangs like an omen in the sky as I walk into Commissioner’s Court. Kimpton and Brighton flank me. Braxton and Emberleigh are directly behind us. Willa is with us, Colt on her hip. He tugs at her long hair and traces the ink on her skin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the session will come to order.” The Judge calls Commissioner’s Court to order. “There is a quorum present. Mr. Reyes, we thank you for your service to this county and this Court. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.” Judge Johnson shakes Jose Reyes’ hand. The act is perfunctory and holds no warmth. “Mr. Crane, please step forward to be sworn in as Commissioner of Precinct Two.”

The man in question looks around cautiously. His suit jacket is one size too small, and he’s obviously not comfortable in it. He steps forward, clearing his throat, trying and failing to button his sports coat.

“Mr. Crane, please raise your right hand and repeat after me.” The Judge swears in this first-time politician who’s about to learn a lesson from the school of hard knocks. He takes his seat, and the Judge addresses the meeting participants and Court.

“Before the Court this morning is the proposal of Enterprise Land Development who is contesting what we thought to be the Veramendi Conservancy. They’ve performed multiple studies on the creation of the transference of deed with the covenant clauses and can attest that it was not created lawfully, thereby making it open for development consideration. Mr. Smythe, can you please come forward and explain to the court what you’ve discovered?”

A man, who looks to be fresh from a day spa in a hipster-cut suit walks forward. Red socks poke out from beneath his short navy trousers. He sets a coffee and a laptop on the podium and proceeds to use the computer to cast a presentation onto the wall to the right of the galley. All eyes are fixed on his high-dollar presentation.

I shift in my seat.

Jon, on the other side of the room with the development team, never makes eye contact. He’s stoic, almost bored, and I wonder what winning means for him and, more so, what losing does.

The developer’s spokesperson begins. “Gentlemen of the court, Judge Johnson, thank you for this opportunity. As we considered the county for potential development, we discovered some interesting information concerning this parcel of land.” He uses a laser pointer to indicate a highlighted tract on the wall. “While it’s always been thought to be an established conservation district, it is, in fact, not.”

He pauses for dramatic effect and takes a sip of his coffee, as the murmurs in the galley tangle with gasps from the crowd.

The Judge, however, and the commissioners are not surprised. This is not news to them.

“We’ve discovered, and certified with the State of Texas, that the tract was deeded with a covenant restriction but the two parties who entered into such agreement no longer have hold on the land. Mr. Veramendi’s wishes for the continuous protection of this parcel of land are just that—a wish. Having no descendants of his own, there is no chain of custody to the land, and, much to our surprise, is owned by the state of Texas. We’ve applied to purchase the land and, in honor of the man, plan to name part of the housing development after him.” He stuffs both hands in his pockets. His arrogant chin lifts. “I’m open for questions.”

The Judge surveys the Court. “Any questions?”

All four shake their heads in dissent.

“Any comments from the gallery?”

I stand, button my suit jacket, and wait to be acknowledged.

“Yes? Please state your name for the record.”

“Elias Finchley.”

“Yes, Mr. Finchley.”

“I have questions for Mr. Smythe and the Court… if I may.”

“The floor is yours.”

“Is it Enterprise Land Development’s understanding that Mr. Veramendi deeded the land with a restrictive covenant so the land would be safeguarded for animal and vegetation conservation and preservation?”

I await his answer. He looks to the developers but returns his gaze to me, saying nothing.

I continue, “Is there anything in the preliminary documents that makes you believe Mr. Veramendi wanted the land developed?”

Again, no answer.

“Let’s leave the premise that Mr. Veramendi was precise in his wishes and that his intent for the land was clearly articulated for one moment.”

“It wasn’t legal,” one of the developer’s team says and crosses his arms.

I turn to face the court. “If the state owns the land and this county does not view that Mr. Veramendi was clear in word and deed with his desires—legally written as well as verbally arranged—for conservation of the land he owned, does it fall to the county to grant or withhold permission for its use?”

“We reserve that right, yes,” the Judge replies. His face demonstrates fake solemnity.

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