Devil's Claw

by Valerie Davisson

  The amount of oil sitting under lot 429 was enough for Ester to risk the bad publicity of disturbing a few sea otters. If Solange lost the title dispute, Scott and Felix would build their luxury residential development. All Ester would have to do then was purchase a neighboring lot, drill down, and go in sideways, right under the feet of the wealthy residents of Pacific Shores.

  Gary didn’t much care. He was getting paid either way. He got back to work.

  Title searches were unglamorous. He’d been at it for hours now, holed up in this basement, painstakingly documenting the chain of title. Other than his left eye twitching from fatigue, he didn’t mind the drab task.

  In fact, he was beginning to enjoy it. He’d picked up the scent. Something was not quite right—there was an unexplained gap. Gary’s heart beat a little faster.

  He had always enjoyed the hunt. The elusive detail, the one illuminating fact or unknown court case that would strengthen his argument. The law, after all, was all about arguments. Whoever had the better lawyer. Justice had nothing to do with it.

  In the last few years, Felix had so much work for him, he’d become something of a specialist in land law. Not only had this proved lucrative, but this narrow field of practice suited his solitary nature.

  Gary held the ignorant masses in distinct disdain. Few members of the general public appreciated the nuanced layers and precise definitions in the law. They were too trusting. If the title was recorded in the courthouse, they assumed all was well. Fee simple absolute. Sounded like absolute ownership.

  How little they knew.

  People bought a piece of land in good faith and assumed they owned it all the way down to magma. They assumed it has a fee simple absolute title.

  But what most landowners don’t realize is that, according to the law, surface land can be separated from the land underneath. You can own the top, but not the bottom. Or you can own the bottom, but not be entitled to any profit earned by mining for whatever was down there.

  There were mineral rights and royalties and many other obscure kinds of rights—each of which can be sold separately, lost in divorce, and may or may not be remembered or recorded accurately with the title over the years.

  That’s what Gary was hunting for.

  In his search through the various layers of documentation for this particular lot, he’d noticed a gap in the title. He kept digging.

  An hour later, his left eye started to bother him, but he didn’t stop. He was close. He blinked a few times to clear his vision. Another hour . . .

  Two hours later, he looked up at the clock. 4:23. Just a few more minutes. He had a feeling . . .

  It took two more trips and a visit to a private abstract office near the courthouse, but three days later, he struck gold.

  He quickly perused the salient points of his find:

  Mineral rights . . . 1858 . . . Mr. Martin J. Codweil . . . State of California . . . eight acres western coast, north of Devil’s Claw, south of Bigsby Stream . . .”

  Yep, it was all there.

  And no one else knew about it.

  Not the do-gooder building a sea otter center, not a naive young land developer building his dream, not the opportunistic investor, and definitely not the rapacious oil company wanting to suckle at Mother Nature’s tit.

  Only Gary had what they all needed.

  Three of these players had the means to pay up. He was going to get those mineral rights and sell them to the highest bidder.

  All he had to do now was find the descendants of one Mr. Martin J. Codweil and talk them into selling the mineral rights beneath several acres of prime California coastal real estate.

  22

  Monday, July 13, 2015

  Since the public session of the city council meeting wouldn’t start until 7:00 p.m., Ben would meet everyone at Logan’s, walk down to Tava’e’s, then drive them all to city hall in time to get good seats. Amy and Liam were going to try to snag three-minute speaking slots. Tava’e had insisted they stop by for a small meal before the meeting.

  “Warriors don’t go into battle on fast food,” she sniffed when Logan said they were planning on grabbing something on the way.

  Ben’s work truck pull in around 4:00 p.m. He was showered, changed, and at her door in less than thirty minutes, knocking first, then letting himself in.

  “You about ready?” Ben called up the stairs.

  Logan was just getting out of the shower.

  Towel drying her hair with one hand, grabbing her jeans off the bed with the other, she yelled down the stairs, “There’s wine on the counter. I’ll be right down!”

  She wasn’t speaking tonight, so her usual uniform of jeans and a T-shirt would be fine. Southern California had only two barely discernible seasons, so the only difference between her winter and summer wardrobes was changing boots to sandals.

  By the time she got downstairs, Ben had the wine poured and on the coffee table. She joined him on the couch.

  “Is Amy nervous about speaking tonight?” he asked.

  “No, she’s good. She’s absolutely fearless when she’s passionate about something,” Logan said.

  She took the glass Ben offered her and savored the aroma before taking a sip. Mmmm . . . 2010 Paso Robles cabernet. Even in the summer, a good red was a good red.

  “What have you heard?” asked Logan. “You know a few of those guys on the council.”

  “Not much,” Ben said. “Samson’s OK. He’s a Sierra Club guy from way back, and I think Vonagan is on Solange’s side. Inglehart’s been pretty vocal in the press. He’s leading the charge for the local business owners and real estate people.”

  “What about Gable?”

  “Don’t know,” Ben said, looking at his watch.

  Logan looked at her phone: 4:55 and still no sign of Amy and Liam. Her daughter was many wonderful things, but prompt wasn’t one of them. Just as she picked up her phone to call, they heard the crunch of gravel. They’d have to get a move on, but hopefully they’d still get to Tava’e’s within an acceptable tardy range.

  Ben corked the wine, and Logan lifted her jacket off the back of one of the bar stools. They met the kids on the walkway as Logan locked up.

  “Hi, Ben! Hi, Mom!” Amy said, hugging each in turn as Liam locked up the rental car. “Sorry we’re late!”

  Amy’s eyes sparkled with excitement. Long strawberry-blond curls hugged her shoulders, lightly kissed by the sun. What a change from the pale, weak girl that stepped gingerly off the plane a few weeks ago from Africa. Amy radiated. Logan suspected being in love had something to do with her daughter’s new glow, as well as working with Otter 1. It made her feel happy and sad, all at the same time.

  “If we hustle, we’ll still get there in time,” Logan said.

  “Yeah, I do not want to see Tava’e mad!” Amy said, eyes wide.

  Navigating Killer Hill’s narrow, buckled sidewalks took concentration, so conversation was limited until they got there.

  When Liam opened the door, they were surprised to see the place was packed. Earnest and ebullient conversations swirled all around them. A delicious smell of roast meat made Logan salivate.

  She didn’t know everyone but recognized Solange Sauvage, Gina, and Dennis at one table and several people from Friends of the Sea Otter at another. They’d come by the center one morning to drop off some brochures. Tava’e, holding court from the back of the room, acknowledged their arrival with a wave and, once they were seated at what looked like the one remaining table, came over to administer crushing hugs.

  “Talofa!”

  “Wow!” Amy said, returning her hug, looking around. “It looks like everyone is here!”

  Tava’e laughed. “Go get some food—eat first, talk later!”

  She didn’t have to tell them twice. Logan made a beeline for the buffet. The women in Logan’s family, i
f not award-winning cooks, were definitely gold-medal eaters.

  Three long tables were set up in front of the coffee counter, loaded with big bowls of coleslaw and fruit salads, platters of prosciutto-wrapped asparagus and rosemary baby potatoes, and steaming trays of roast pork and chicken that made everyone realize how hungry they were. At the end of the spread was the biggest rice cooker Logan had ever seen—even in a Chinese restaurant—and, of course, Jean’s contribution to the meal, fresh baguettes. Dominating a small, round table sat a sheet cake with “Otter 1” arched across the top in loopy script over a picture of the little pup’s smiling whiskered face.

  Tava’e’s idea of a “small meal.”

  Epiphany was in charge of coffee and made sure everyone knew Danny made the cake. Later, he proudly manned the dessert table, carefully scooping either vanilla bean or chocolate espresso ice cream to accompany generous servings of a dense, creamy, chocolate-ganache creation of his own design.

  Blessed with the McKenna metabolism, Amy gleefully loaded up her plate at least as high as Ben’s. Liam, it turned out, was the light eater of the group. He spent most of the time going over his notes.

  A little after 6:00 p.m., as people were enjoying coffee and cake, Tava’e walked to the front of the room. She didn’t need to get anyone’s attention; her presence quietly commanded it.

  “My friend would like to say a few words,” she said.

  A slight, self-possessed woman rose from her chair and faced the group. Minimal makeup and simple, neutral clothing drew your attention to an arresting face. Fierce black eyes shone out from softly creased skin framed by a cap of white hair.

  Having worked with Solange on several of her sculpture projects, Ben knew her as well as anyone. Logan had only met the sculptress briefly. She never heard her say more than a few words. Gina was the daily presence at the center and the one quoted in the local paper.

  In heavily accented English, Solange said, “First, I want to thank Tava’e for this beautiful and generous meal. It was delicious, and nourishing in so many ways. But even more, I want to thank her for supporting the foundation by providing a place for us to gather, talk, plan, and simply rest when we are tired. And of course, eat!” she added. She led a round of applause, which Tava’e acknowledged with a broad smile. “As many of you know, Tava’e does more for this community than any of us will ever realize.”

  Solange continued, “Tonight—c’est très importante! I know Gina will represent us well, as will those of you who will get to share your thoughts. But even if you can’t speak, your presence at the meeting will send a message. A message that we value all life on this planet and are willing to fight for it.

  “When I lost Mustafa, my husband, and, shortly after, my father, I thought my life was over. I returned home to find the sea otters, too, had gone. I accepted that as just another loss to bear. But otters are courageous adventurers. In spite of many efforts to keep them contained, a few brave ones managed to make it this far south. Every time one was spotted, it made me happy. But multiple barriers remained, and I had little hope they would ever return in numbers large enough to establish colonies here again.

  “All of you, many organizations and individuals, give me hope and inspire me to do what I can. I am not a scientist or an environmental law expert. I sculpt. I do not have children, but if I did, I would want them to inherit a strong, healthy world—one with sea otters in it! I know you understand. I know I am, as you say, preaching to the choir.”

  Smiles and quiet laughter rippled around the room.

  “I want to thank you—all of you. No matter what happens at this meeting tonight, or in the lawyers’ offices tomorrow or in the coming months, I want you to know I will not give up. The center is essential and worth fighting for. We cannot do everything, but we can do this one thing.”

  23

  Monday, July 13, 2015

  Even with Solange’s inspiring comments to fuel them, trudging back up Killer Hill was tougher than cruising down. Still, they were piled into Ben’s car and on the road by six thirty. Traffic was light for a change, so they made it in time for the meeting, but just barely.

  “I’ll save you a seat,” Logan said as she got out of the car and began walking in.

  “OK—just make sure it’s near a bathroom. I drank a gallon of coffee,” Ben warned.

  “Will do, big guy,” Logan said.

  Once inside, Logan, Amy, and Liam followed the other stragglers through the heavy double doors, searching for seats while Ben parked.

  Someone opened a back door to create a cross breeze, which helped, but it was still stuffy with so many people crammed together. The fire code plaque on the wall set the seating capacity at 350. Looked like they were going to meet or exceed that limit by the time everyone was in.

  Ben was in luck. A man seated in the last row of folding chairs, near the hall with the restrooms, got up to take a phone call. He and his wife gave their seats to Logan on their way out, before the meeting was called to order. Liam spotted two more seats up front. He sat down in one and put his notes down on the other, while Amy went to see if there were any speaking slots left.

  “All full,” Amy whispered to her mom a few minutes later, as she made her way past and up the crowded aisle.

  Liam would be disappointed. He’d worked hard on his speech.

  Logan leaned over to Ben, who had just joined her, handing him an agenda. “Gina’s up first, then Scott, but not till the end of the meeting. I think they’re hoping we all go home by then.”

  Council members were coming in from their closed session, taking their seats on the dais, so Ben just nodded and squeezed her hand.

  All remaining seats were taken, with about a dozen people out in the overflow area. Logan couldn’t help but notice how similar this room was to the school boardroom at the district office.

  They must have been designed by the same architect. While the hoi polloi sat crowded together in the lowlands, the five council members were spaciously arranged around a curved, raised dais, topped with microphones arched to their mouths. The majority of the floor space was filled with two sections of folding chairs. Padded folding chairs, but still.

  Legal counsel and assorted clerks and accountants sat at a side table, perpendicular to the dais, within easy reach should their services be required, while tonight’s scheduled speakers sat below in the front row.

  Gina’s broad shoulders, height, and steel-gray curls made her easily identifiable. Dennis, still sporting the white bandage on the side of his head, sat on her right. He only came up to Gina’s chin. Mutt and Jeff.

  On the other side of a two-empty-seat, ersatz-Switzerland area sat the man Logan assumed was Scott Dekker.

  Crisp. That was the overall impression. Dark hair neatly trimmed, clad for battle in a nice suit, shirt open at the collar. He sat still, looking straight ahead, elbows resting on his thighs. Laptop on the seat next to him. Ready.

  When he turned his head a little to the left, Logan could see a prominent but not overly large nose, and delicate, rounded, seashell-shaped ears, just like Solange’s. Her hair was white, while his was still dark, but the family resemblance was definitely there.

  Not good.

  Neither Solange nor Scott acknowledged the other’s presence, although they must be acutely aware. Logan wondered if they had spoken in person yet or only through their attorneys.

  The mayor, Carl Gable, took his place front and center and called the meeting to order. A former marine retired out of El Toro years ago, Carl owned both gas stations in Jasper, one on either end of town. When people got pissed off at one, they took their business to the other, not realizing he owned both. He always got a kick out of that.

  While the mayor took care of opening business and the reading of the minutes from the last meeting, Logan surveyed the room. Rick had to work, but Paula was there. She sat a few rows up, with the Earthj
ustice people. The rest of Tava’e’s dinner guests were scattered, most surrounding Solange protectively, who looked, but probably felt anything but, calm.

  At seven forty, Carl introduced the first speaker.

  “As most of you know, and from the minutes of our last meeting that were just read, the planning commission approved the construction of the Sea Otter Sanctuary and Education Center for lot 429.”

  He cleared his throat and continued.

  “But as everyone who hasn’t been a coma or on the space station in recent months knows, another party, Mr. Scott Dekker,” he said, gesturing to Scott in the front row, “has since come forward and laid claim to lot 429. He has filed a request with the planning commission to build a residential development on this property.”

  Another pause.

  He looked directly out to his audience. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call a royal FUBAR.”

  Former military personnel in the audience grinned at the term.

  “Fortunately, it’s not a FUBAR we, the Jasper City Council, or the planning commission, will be responsible for fixing. We have been advised by counsel to let the court decide this matter before any further action is taken. In spite of the fact that no formal action can or will be taken by this council until the title dispute is resolved, we recognize the unusual circumstances and importance of this issue to our community.

  “Since the two parties are representing issues critical to Jasper and its future, and in the interest of correcting the rumors that have been circulating”—at this he glowered at the audience—“the council has decided to let both sides speak their piece. And in the event Mr. Dekker is determined to be the rightful owner, the planning commission will again consider his request to build his development.

  “You’re all talking about it anyway—maybe someone will talk some sense tonight and this can be resolved between the two parties out of court, hopefully sometime before hell freezes over.”