The 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 r epresenting 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 fri volous 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
Mc Intyre, owns the land. Mr. Darryl Norwood claims to own the land, having purchased it from
someone other than Miss Mc Intyre. 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
Mc Intyre, 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 inc eption. “Secondly,”
Mr. Yonce continued, “we have hired a genealogist who has proven that Miss Mc Intyre 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 Mc Intyre. 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 Mc Intyre 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 Mc Intyre. 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 r eport, officially pr epared by the fingerprint expert, retired Sarasota detective Dexter W. Stone.”
With a flourish, Mr. Yonce set the r eport 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 socalled nightclub featuring nude dancers in Tampa, where she worked as a stripper. Are we
supposed to believe anything this woman says?” Bunny jumped angrily to her feet. “I was not a
stripper! I was a fan dancer!” “Sit down, please,” the judge scolded. Bunny complied. “Well, the
record shows you were a stripper, or exotic dancer,” Darryl’s lawyer r eplied, looking remarkably
unfazed by the outburst. “Fan dancer!” she hollered. “Silence in the court!” the judge bellowed. Mr.
Yonce waited a beat, then said pleadingly, “Your honor, this is character assassination. My client is
not on trial here. The only thing that matters is ownership of the land. She owns it. What she may have
done in her past has no relevance.” “But it does have relevance, your honor!” Darryl’s attorney said.
“This woman has a history. She is not an upstanding citizen. With all due respect, I believe we need to
examine this issue.” Judge Prentiss took a long sip of water, then set the glass down a little too hard
right next to the microphone. “Let me think about this, boys,” he said. He then removed his glasses,
spit on the lenses, and used the long sleeve of his robe to clean them. Suddenly, Jackie raised her hand
and began waving it like a schoolgirl. “Your honor, may I say something?” she asked. Before he could
answer she had leapt to her feet. He squinted at her. “And you are . . . ?” “Mrs. Jacqueline Hart,” she
said. “And you wish to speak because . . . ?” “I wish to be a character witness for Miss Mc Intyre.”
The judge peered at Jackie. “Aren’t you Miss Dreamsville? The lady who had that radio show?”
“Yes, your honor,” Jackie said sweetly. “Well, I have no objection. Since Mr. Norwood’s attorney has
led us down this path, I will hear what you have to say. Come up here and speak from the witness
stand, though. And ke ep it short.” Jackie sashayed to the chair adjacent to the judge’s bench.
“Shouldn’t I swear on a Bible?” she asked. The judge nodded. A d eputy sauntered over, held the
Bible, and made Jackie r epeat the oath: “I do solemnly swear . . .” Jackie was in her glory. I wouldn’t
have been surprised if she’d been waiting her whole life for a chance to testify in a court of law.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Bailey White and I glanced at each other, and I noticed Mr. Yonce biting his lip. “I
would just like to say that I think it is entirely unfair for this man here”—she pointed theatrically at
Darryl’s lawyer—“to attack Miss Mc Intyre and attempt to embarrass her. Since the beginning of time,
women such as Miss Mc Intyre have been used and abused, and treated with scorn. She has had a
difficult life, was cast out by her parents in her youth, and treated with utter disregard by unscrupulous
men. It is unconscionable, in a civilized society, to make her pay again and again—” Darryl’s attorney
coughed conspicuously and rolled his eyes. Jackie noticed and took a different tack. “Excuse me, but
don’t most of us here—probably all of us—consider ourselves to be Christians?” she cried out. “Miss
Mc Intyre has made mistakes, but haven’t we all? Who among us dares to cast the first stone? I thought
we weren’t supposed to judge others! And what about forgiveness? Miss Mc Intyre left that life of
temptation and wickedness. She is an honorable person. She raised a son, who is an upstanding citizen
. . .” Jackie’s voice trailed off and she dabbed real tears from her eyes. Mrs. Bailey White and I were
openmouthed. For a moment our Jackie sounded like a born-and-bred Southern lady. “Why, Mrs.
Hart, I am greatly moved,” the judge said. “Where is this son? I would like to hear from him, if he is
present.” A voice from the far back of the room called out, “I’m here!” The crowd rumbled with
anticipation. Robbie-Lee, carrying a suitcase, made his way to the front. I was so happy to see him I
almost cried.
“Silence in the court!” the judge bellowed. He used the gavel three times to emphasize his point.
Robbie-Lee looked just the same exc ept maybe a little thinner. He’d always been a good-looking guy
and a swell dresser. As he took Jackie’s place on the witness stand and was sworn in, he seemed out of
breath. The judge coaxed him to speak. “Well,” Robbie-Lee said, “she has always been a wonderful
mother. I could not ask for a better mom. She took such good care of me. I’ll never forget the time I
had the chicken pox and she—” “All right, I think we get the picture,” the judge said. “Sir, I would
just like to add that I don’t think it’s at all nice that these highfalutin lawyers”—he gestured at
Darryl’s attorney—“are saying such evil things about my dear mama.” At his emotional
pronouncement, hankies were removed from purses and vest pockets throughout the courtroom, most
conspicuously along the left front row. Jackie, who had returned to her seat next to me; Mrs. Bailey
White, on my other side; myself, and even Bunny, were crying loudly. “And there’s something else I
would like to say, your honor,” Robbie-Lee said. “I recall as a child visiting my mother’s parents, who
died a long time ago. And they had a family Bible—I surely wish we knew where it is now— but it
had the names of people written into it, each time somebody was born. My mama pointed out her
name—Bunny Ann Mc Intyre—to me, and we wrote my name just below it. And while I don’t know
what happened to that Bible, I swear that this is the truth.” Robbie-Lee st epped down and headed for
an empty seat on our row, pausing to kiss his mama on the cheek. Mr. Yonce looked a little
shell-shocked by the unexpected testimony of Jackie and Robbie-Lee, but Darryl’s lawyer saw an
opportunity. “Your honor,” he said, “this is a pretty scene but I believe we are getting off track here!
These sorts of theatrics do not help us get to the truth. Especially coming from Mrs. Hart, who is a
notorious local personality, a newspaper columnist, and previously, the host of a scandalous radio
show.” The judge grabbed his gavel and slammed it twice. “Good heavens, man, can’t you see that
Miss Dreamsville, er, Mrs. Hart is in mourning clothes?” he scolded. “Have we reached that time and
place where we have abandoned all decency? Were you not raised better than this?”
“Thank you, your honor,” Jackie said, standing briefly. “Sir, you are a true gentleman.” The judge
blushed. Mr. Yonce looked so lost he reminded me of a fish that had leapt out of water and found
itself belly-up on dry land. Our poor young lawyer had completely lost control of his case. “Is there
anyone else who would like to speak?” the judge asked finally. A laborer named Jim Beam, just like
the liquor, spoke about the need for jobs. “We need this project,” he declared. “How am I supposed to
feed my family?” Then one of the brothers from Gun Rack Village—Billy, I think—also chose to
speak, directing his question to Mr. Beam. “Does your need for a job mean you’ve got to destroy what
we have?” he asked. “It may not seem like much to you but it’s our entire way of life.” I was waiting
for someone to bring up Seminole Joe but before that could happen, the proceedings came to an end.
“I’ve heard enough,” the judge said. “I’ve had as much botheration as I can stand. There’s no need to
go further. The rightful owner is Miss Bunny Ann Mc Intyre. All other arguments are moot.” He
brought down the gavel and left the courtroom. If he hurried, he’d be back to his favorite fishing spot
by midday.