nutrients. The only one of them who began to know as much as Tomas was Barb, only she wasn’t being sued.
Tomas cleared his throat. “We’re acquaculturists, actually, but it would properly be considered a form of commercial fishing, sir. My research says that fishing is exempted under the Colonial ordinance of 1641. Isn’t that correct?”
The three of them had agreed. They would pay for a joint defense. Tomas would speak for them with this Barnstable lawyer who’d agreed to take their case. Now Rid and Mario glanced at each other, tacitly congratulating each other on their wisdom. Tomas had book smarts. What they knew was that they had been raised always to stay below the high water mark when driving to and from their grants as a legal bow to the rights of the private beach owners. Once in the shallows, actually on the tidal flats, they were on their own grants. Neither of them understood—nor particularly wanted to—how something that had functioned so simply and so well for so long was suddenly the focus of litigation. Tomas, on the other hand, would make it his business to understand and fix it.
The attorney sighed. “Yeah. It’s correct. And there’s a loophole the size of your harbor in it. See, the Colonial ordinance of 1641 was designed to encourage commerce—to get settlers to build wharves and the like. To do this, the lawmakers extended waterfront land ownership all the way out to mean low water—which, as you three well know, is a huge distance—what? five football fields?—rather than just to mean high water like practically every other coastal state in the country. And yes, you’re right, they did provide that commercial fishing and navigation could go on in the water above the land—hell, even swimming, if you can believe that, as long as the swimmer’s feet don’t touch bottom, for God’s sake.”
“So, there’s our defense,” Tomas said. “And the town’s.”
“Except…,” said the attorney. He leaned back in his swivel chair. It wasn’t a fancy office, but decent enough. Framed diplomas. Boston University. A wooden desk, not too scratched up. A second floor office, an abandoned reception desk just now. David Lorenz, Esquire himself: balding, wearing an open-necked Oxford shirt, khakis, steel-rimmed glasses. A habit of twirling the end of his mustache. Bitten fingernails.
“…Except that your pea-brained state Supreme Judicial Court of 1993 affirmed a definition of aquaculture as farming. Not fishing. Therefore the grants are not a protected use. Therefore Pissario’s claim that you are on private property may well be valid. The town may not have the right to issue these grants at all.”
“What position is the town taking?” Tomas still sounded measured and matter-of-fact, which was the only thing preventing Rid from grabbing the lawyer’s throat and demanding to know what the hell he was going to do about this. He didn’t dare even look at Mario now. The guy had been in the Marines; at least that’s what his tattoo claimed, but Rid figured him to have been tossed out of boot camp for sniffing Agent Orange or for putting his drill sergeant in a headlock. Mario was a good-hearted, hotheaded moron. Rid would rather have been sued with anybody else on the flats.
“I couldn’t tell you. The town attorney seems rather befuddled. As does the shellfish warden. I realize that there’s … er … expense involved for you, but my best advice is not to rely on the town to resolve this for you.”
Mario erupted onto his feet, his hand onto the lawyer’s desk. “That’s my grant, my father put my name on it, and I’ll fucking kill the bas—”
David Lorenz drew back. In the same motion in which the attorney moved, Tomas was on his feet, his bulk equal to Mario’s but easily five or six inches taller. Still, the fluid grace of a fish. He slid himself between Mario and the desk, a hand on Mario’s shoulder, Mario then abruptly back in his chair. Rid sensed, rather
Tomas cleared his throat. “We’re acquaculturists, actually, but it would properly be considered a form of commercial fishing, sir. My research says that fishing is exempted under the Colonial ordinance of 1641. Isn’t that correct?”
The three of them had agreed. They would pay for a joint defense. Tomas would speak for them with this Barnstable lawyer who’d agreed to take their case. Now Rid and Mario glanced at each other, tacitly congratulating each other on their wisdom. Tomas had book smarts. What they knew was that they had been raised always to stay below the high water mark when driving to and from their grants as a legal bow to the rights of the private beach owners. Once in the shallows, actually on the tidal flats, they were on their own grants. Neither of them understood—nor particularly wanted to—how something that had functioned so simply and so well for so long was suddenly the focus of litigation. Tomas, on the other hand, would make it his business to understand and fix it.
The attorney sighed. “Yeah. It’s correct. And there’s a loophole the size of your harbor in it. See, the Colonial ordinance of 1641 was designed to encourage commerce—to get settlers to build wharves and the like. To do this, the lawmakers extended waterfront land ownership all the way out to mean low water—which, as you three well know, is a huge distance—what? five football fields?—rather than just to mean high water like practically every other coastal state in the country. And yes, you’re right, they did provide that commercial fishing and navigation could go on in the water above the land—hell, even swimming, if you can believe that, as long as the swimmer’s feet don’t touch bottom, for God’s sake.”
“So, there’s our defense,” Tomas said. “And the town’s.”
“Except…,” said the attorney. He leaned back in his swivel chair. It wasn’t a fancy office, but decent enough. Framed diplomas. Boston University. A wooden desk, not too scratched up. A second floor office, an abandoned reception desk just now. David Lorenz, Esquire himself: balding, wearing an open-necked Oxford shirt, khakis, steel-rimmed glasses. A habit of twirling the end of his mustache. Bitten fingernails.
“…Except that your pea-brained state Supreme Judicial Court of 1993 affirmed a definition of aquaculture as farming. Not fishing. Therefore the grants are not a protected use. Therefore Pissario’s claim that you are on private property may well be valid. The town may not have the right to issue these grants at all.”
“What position is the town taking?” Tomas still sounded measured and matter-of-fact, which was the only thing preventing Rid from grabbing the lawyer’s throat and demanding to know what the hell he was going to do about this. He didn’t dare even look at Mario now. The guy had been in the Marines; at least that’s what his tattoo claimed, but Rid figured him to have been tossed out of boot camp for sniffing Agent Orange or for putting his drill sergeant in a headlock. Mario was a good-hearted, hotheaded moron. Rid would rather have been sued with anybody else on the flats.
“I couldn’t tell you. The town attorney seems rather befuddled. As does the shellfish warden. I realize that there’s … er … expense involved for you, but my best advice is not to rely on the town to resolve this for you.”
Mario erupted onto his feet, his hand onto the lawyer’s desk. “That’s my grant, my father put my name on it, and I’ll fucking kill the bas—”
David Lorenz drew back. In the same motion in which the attorney moved, Tomas was on his feet, his bulk equal to Mario’s but easily five or six inches taller. Still, the fluid grace of a fish. He slid himself between Mario and the desk, a hand on Mario’s shoulder, Mario then abruptly back in his chair. Rid sensed, rather
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