The Bird That Stole Our Innocence

By Edward Clark

The fourth book in the Rod Gentry series. Ninety million dollars is at stake in Brevard County, Florida. The “good folks” trying to save a beautiful bird from extinction say that’s what it will cost to save it. To stop the bird’s habitat from being destroyed by development, buy up the land with tax money, or confiscate it through regulation. Who cares about the little landowners who worked the land for a lifetime? And why should we care about the people who will never come to our state because housing is too expensive? The new Florida resident unashamedly says, “I’ve got mine! To Hell with the rest of them!”, or the one born here who says “We don’t have room for any more people!” When did we get to the point of denying to our fellow Americans the opportunity of home ownership that we hold so dear for ourselves? Rod Gentry sets out to find the facts. Is the bird endangered? And where will the ninety million dollars come from? And where will it end up?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781329904712

Book preview

The Bird That Stole Our Innocence

The Bird That Stole Our Innocence

By Edward S. Clark

Chapter One

The phone had been ringing like an Italian tenor’s voice in my real estate office.  At 3 o’clock the secretary went home with a headache, and the two old gals who handled sales were out with customers.  I had just hung up when the silly thing started again. Hello! I snapped.

Don’t you tell the caller the name of your firm? a familiar voice said. It was Reggie Stanton, a friend and competitor.

You’ve reached Rod Gentry’s real estate office, and this is a recorded message, I parroted.  If you have anything important to say, please start at the end.

This’ll be of interest to you. The whole county is about to be shut down. All development.  He paused.  And I need you to show up at the commissioners’ meeting at six o’clock tonight to speak against it.  I waited.  Reggie waited.

Reggie, are you in a bar?

Hell, no. I’m telling you the truth. Margie Roth and a whole bunch of ecofreaks are trying to shut down development in the county.  And they’ve got the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service behind them. I groaned and looked at my desk full of paperwork and the stack of unanswered telephone calls.

Can’t do it tonight, Reggie, I said. What are Margie and her mob trying to pull now? Everybody likes nature, but this crowd uses environmentalism as an excuse to confiscate private property.

You know that forty acres you think you sold to Appleton Development? They aren’t going to buy it.

The hell you say! We’ve got a contract. Who told you that, anyway?

Nobody.  Nobody had to. They’ve got a weasel clause in their contract, right? The old ‘due diligence’ thing. Let me ask you, bright eyes, how much is that contract worth if Appleton can’t clear the land? I think my heart stopped. I was suddenly listening closely. Appleton was my only big sale of the year.

How could that be? Who would stop them? There’s not a square foot of wetland on that property. Wetlands protection was the excuse for confiscating rights to use thousands of acres of land people in our county had lived on, paid taxes on, and farmed, for years. 

The nature lovers are riding a new horse. This one is called endangered species. Reggie paused. Have you ever heard of something called a Florida scrub jay? I waited, dreading what I might hear next. No, I thought not, and neither has anybody else that I’ve run into. But the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service says it’s endangered, or threatened, or something. Anyway, they wrote the County Commission a letter. I haven’t seen it yet, but presumably it puts the county on notice that they can no longer issue land clearing permits for fear of wiping out the Scrub jays.

Which shuts down what little development we have, I said. If I lose my Appleton deal, I won’t pay any more income taxes this year than the bag boy down at Publix.  I agonized for half a minute. The other two lines in the office were ringing off the hook. Six o’clock, huh? Then, reluctantly, I’ll be there.

After I hung up, I sat dazed for a minute. Four years before, in 1986, new federal income tax law changes went into effect, and were slowly strangling the real estate business. Almost half the brokers in Brevard County had folded their offices. To shut down the little remaining development was nothing short of criminal. The no-growth proponents were ecstatic. They seemed to want a wall built north of Jacksonville, allowing new residents only with their permission. Most of them had been in the state less than five years, and they didn’t mind telling you right up front, I’ve got mine, the hell with the rest of them.  I looked at my watch. It was already nearly 5 o’clock. I dreaded what I had to do next, but I picked up the phone. I was about to face the fury of an enraged woman.

Chapter Two

Hello Rod, Lili answered. Her voice sounded tired, but her words tumbled out in a breathless stream.  I think I should have had these two hellions in my 20s instead of my 30s.

Are the boys misbehaving?

Oh, not really. They’re just mischievous. And competitive. If I sound whipped out, it’s because I am. Thank God we’re going out to eat tonight. I need the relief. And I was able to sign up Beth to baby sit. She paused. Rod? Are you there?

That’s why I’m calling, Lili. Something serious has come up. Catastrophic, really, and I’ve got to be at the County Commission meeting at six o’clock. Long silence. I’m sorry. I have to be there. It concerns the Appleton deal. But we could go out after I get home.

And when will that be? she said. 

Well I don’t really know, I hedged. There is an effort to shut down development in the county. Reggie told me about it a few minutes ago, I finished lamely.

Who is going to be there?

All I know is, Reggie is calling all the Realtors and trying to build support to block any County Commission action. I’m guessing on this hot an issue, they will have a full house, maybe 200 people.

Which means it could be 11 o’clock before you even get a chance to speak.

I’m afraid so.

Just don’t wake me up when you come home. Her voice had the feel of wind off a glacier.

I was hoping maybe for a couple of cold Heinekens and a little conversation. There was a pause, and then I heard the click. Lili never screams. She doesn’t have to.

I sat thinking in the midst of the ringing phones. It had been a rough year all around. The savings banks were going broke right and left, drying up mortgage money. Commercial properties, designed and appraised in a 1985 market, were either empty or turning over for 40 cents on the dollar. Brokers were going broke. And I was barely hanging on, mainly because of the property management accounts, which ran anti-cyclical to sales, and paid the office expenses. So far as my personal deals were concerned, there was no market. Only my few property management accounts and the 12 unit apartment house had kept me afloat.

And then there was Lili. In struggling to hold my head above water, I had neglected her. Or, I felt I had. Or, she made me feel like I had. I didn’t know which. I loved my two boys, ages four and two, but an hour with them and I was shot for the day. And Lili, I reflected, had them 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Sure, we could afford unlimited babysitting, but she wasn’t comfortable leaving them too long.

She had looked forward to going out tonight.

I got up and locked the office with the telephones still ringing. The answering service would catch those calls and they would be waiting for me in the morning.

When I stepped out of the office the heat hit like a steaming blanket. It was mid-September, and Florida’s summer was still with us. I made it to the Thunderbird and turned on the air conditioning before the sweat drenched my shirt.

Damn the Florida scrub jay, whatever it was.

Chapter Three

The commissioners’ chambers were almost full by the time I got there. Reggie was at the door and handed me a copy of a letter. Don’t forget to sign up to speak, he said. I paused at the door and looked over the crowd. I could see Margie Roth surrounded by her usual sycophants down front near the middle. It looked like there were about 20. Half a dozen Realtors and some property owners that I knew were sprinkled over the audience. The commissioners had not yet come in, but I could see the County manager, a clerk, and the County Attorney already seated at the dais. I walked down and took a seat by myself. Public statements seemed to be more effective if they didn’t come from an organized group, and I would probably have to speak.

The letter from U.S. Fish and Wildlife was written in pure bureaucratese, and it took a few minutes to decipher what the hell they were talking about. It cited several regulations of the Service and the Latin name of something or other. That, I assumed, was the bird that was threatened. Couple lines further down it gave the common name Florida scrub jay.

The letter was unequivocal. The county was prohibited from giving land clearing permits without the landowner first getting a permit from USF&WS. So it didn’t exactly say that the county was shut down; only that you had to get a permit from Fish and Wildlife before the county could give you a land clearing permit. Still, it made the third permit that a developer had to obtain in order just to clear the trees from his property. The burden probably amounted to a six-month delay and the cost of perhaps five thousand dollars. No small thing, but surmountable. Unless, of course, the agency found their protected scrub jay. What would happen then I was unable to imagine.

It was 6:15 when the five commissioners finally got seated and the meeting called to order. It was a Time Certain meeting, which meant that there was only one subject to be discussed.

You all have copies of the letter from Fish and Wildlife, the chairman, Robert Wenz said. Members of the audience who do not have a copy will find a stack of them at the rear. This letter, as I understand it, prohibits the county from issuing land clearing permits under threat of fines from the federal government. These fines are substantial. He paused. What are the commissioners’ thoughts on this?

No commissioner seemed to want to speak up. Finally, one of them said, I don’t think we want trouble with the federal government. Another said, Isn’t this going to shut down development in the county?

According to our county attorney, this letter means what it says, and we can be fined if we issue a permit for the clearing of land where there are scrub jays, where there could be scrub jays, or where there might be scrub jays someday.

How can they do that? If a man owns his property— another commissioner offered. I’ve heard of this crazy stuff in California, but we haven’t had it here before.

Mr. Black is our counsel. Would you like to explain this? Wenz said. The lawyer sitting at the end shuffled some papers, cleared his throat, and began.

The Fish and Wildlife Service is acting under the provisions of the Endangered Species Act. About five years ago the Service determined that the species known as the Florida scrub jay was in decline and in danger of becoming extinct due to changes in its habitat caused by the expansion of communities and housing into the normal territories where it typically breeds and lives. The intention is to stop development on any land where they deem it likely that such development will contribute to reduction in the number of the threatened species.

His words were met with a stunned silence.

You mean, a commissioner exclaimed, that if I’ve got one of these whatchamacallits on my 5 acres, that I can’t clear my own land?

Not without a permit from Fish and Wildlife. Nor can you clear a city lot, 40 acres, or a thousand acres. Without looking at fines in the $10,000 range for each violation. And each day is a violation. Each scrub jay is a violation. A murmur of anger rolled through the audience. Two or three people tried to make themselves heard. The chairman rapped his gavel for order. His meeting was in danger of erupting into chaos.

I think it’s time to hear some comments from the audience, he said. The first speaker signed up is Alice Jenkins. I didn’t know the name, but a young woman three seats away from Margie Roth walked to the speaker’s podium. She seemed nervous. I knew from previous experience that the ecofreaks would start out low-key, work through their series of speakers, and probably finish it off with Margie herself.

Chapter Four

Alice Jenkins had her notes-- or rather her written speech. She started with a squeak and was interrupted by the chair. You need to speak up and into the microphone. Alice started again.

We all know how vitally important it is to save our endangered species. They’re endangered because of man. Every day, bulldozers clear land where the scrub jays live. Where are these birds to go? Where will they live and breed? We’re sacrificing our natural heritage, and for what? So that developers from out of town can make a fortune destroying our natural woodlands. Is this right? No. It’s deplorable. I, for one, am glad to see some action taken to preserve our natural creatures. I thank Fish and Wildlife for taking this action, and I hope our County commission will do its part and stop those bulldozers in their tracks! Margie Roth’s section of the audience applauded. Right on schedule, I thought. Alice retired to her seat.

The next two speakers were from Margie’s mob too, and had much the same message. One wanted to remind the commission that if all the birds died, then everything else would die, the land would die, the oceans would die, and then we ourselves would die. The other one stated that she believed that animals had as many rights as people, and killing a scrub jay should be considered murder.

I looked at my watch. It was nearly 7 o’clock and only three people had managed to speak. There had been at least a dozen signed in before me. It was obvious that it was going to be a long night. Should I stay? I looked around the room. Nobody had left. I caught Reggie’s eye and gave him a quizzical look. Reggie shrugged and shook his head. Then my attention was attracted to the next speaker, just walking to the podium. He was clearly not one of Margie’s mob.

I’m Fred Conley, the tall man said. "I’m 50 years old, and a farmer. I was born in this county and bought my land 25 years ago. It took me 15 of those years to pay for it. I’ve got 40 acres and I farm 20 of it. The other 20 acres is on a paved road and I always thought that I would sell it some day to somebody who would build houses on it. That land is supposed to be my retirement. What’s gonna happen to it, and me, and my wife, if it can’t be cleared?

Like I said, I was born in this state, and in fact, in this very county. I don’t know what this scrub jay is at all. I’ve never seen one. Never even heard of one. All we’ve got around my place are Blue Jays, and I never thought they were worth bragging about. They’re usually up to eating the eggs of other birds. A startled gasp and groan went up from Margie’s mob.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I don’t think any bird is worth me giving my property to. I don’t know what I’m going to do about it, but I’m sure not in favor of it. He walked away from the podium followed by cheers and clapping.

I looked at my watch again. I could reasonably predict what was going to happen. The meeting will hold until 10 o’clock, when everybody has had a say. Then the commission would appoint a committee to study what could be done. The committee would meet every week or so for a few months, and then conclude that nothing could be done. In the meantime, the commission was off the hook.

To hell with it, I thought. We’re not the first community to have this problem. Development still goes on, for the simple reason that people have to have roofs over their heads. I got up and left.

Halfway home I had a pleasant thought. The experts in dealing with this kind of problem had to be the developers themselves. And that’s what Appleton was.

Chapter Five

On the causeway to Cocoa Beach dusk had fallen. I felt guilty about leaving the meeting early, but I had sat through so many boring hours of commission meetings just in order to put in my three minutes worth, I was jaded with the whole process. Besides, this wasn’t an issue that was going to be determined locally. And it was obvious that the County commission was not up to fighting a federal agency. Besides, there was Margie Roth. She visited the local newspaper on a weekly basis, and had cultivated many friends there. The editors would be all for saving the scrub jays if it sold a few more copies of their newspaper. Their motto had always been good news is no news. And scrub jays, with the threat to private property, were a hot topic.

I reached the end of the causeway where it intersected with A1A in Cocoa Beach. The light was red and I stopped, intending to turn south. The smell of seaweed and saltwater was strong here. It would be even stronger at my apartment on the ocean. The traffic cleared and I was about to make a right turn when I caught a glimpse of someone running toward the car. Before I could react, the passenger door jerked open and a woman jumped into the seat.

Go! Go! Go! she screamed. He’s after me and he’s got a gun! I could see a figure on the sidewalk 100 feet away, advancing at a fast walk, his right hand held close to his leg. If I turned south the car would pass within 20 feet of the figure on the sidewalk. Close enough to get shot, I thought. I took another look at the oncoming traffic on A1A, and looked again at the figure, now drawing closer. Then I hit the gas and charged across the intersection. Tires screamed as the cross traffic tried to miss me. The woman looked back and yelled, He’s going to shoot! as she dove for the floorboard.

I heard the safety glass shatter in the rear window before I heard the shot. Then I was through the intersection and knew the shooter would have no more clear shots. Yet my foot seemed to have a mind of its own, and I was two blocks away and doing 60 miles an hour before I could get it off the accelerator. I screeched around a right turn and into the last street before the beach. For once I was hoping to see a cop, but all I saw were pedestrians walking home from the beach. I finally slowed the car to a nonlethal speed.

The girl had sat back up in her seat. She was shaking all over and working hard to keep from looking at me. My first thought was, What has she done that made somebody want to kill her?

About 25 years old, I judged. Her long blonde hair fell untrimmed, hippie style. She was wearing nondescript short shorts that barely covered her hips, and for the first time I noticed that all the buttons had been ripped off the front of her shirt. She saw me looking at her, and tried to pull what was left of the shirt over her breasts. Her hands still shook.

Don’t worry, I said. You’re safe enough now. It crossed my mind to ask her what the hell was going on, but decided instantly I did not want to know. I rented stores in Cocoa Beach. There were a few of them I never visited after dark. And there were questions you didn’t ask, and a few people who were always around, but never discussed.

I took the back streets as far as I could, then cut back onto A1A south. The girl still hadn’t said anything. She looked at me sharply when she realized we were back on the main drag. Where we going? Her voice was still shaky but it had lost the edge of panic.

I don’t know about you, I said, but I’m going straight to the police station. I heard her suck in her breath.

I can’t go there, she said.

You can get out any time, lady. She shook her head violently.

"No.