                                                                                            CHAPTER 1

                                                                                             The Beach
                                                                                              July 2026                                                                               East Hampton, New York
Edward Wilson stood in front of the large, plate-glass window, fingering his bowtie as ‘Ave-Maria’, a favorite melody from his days at Holy Cross College, resonated over and over in his mind. The refrain often provided Edward with a sense of solace and calm. 
Edward Albert Wilson III had reason to feel unsettled that Saturday morning as he watched a rusty and dented World War II Army pickup truck make its way along the shoreline of the Atlantic Ocean. The truck was loaded with fishing nets and assorted gear, its body roughly covered in hand-painted slogans like ‘NYS Political Prisoner’ and ‘Don’t Tread on Me.’ The old man driving the truck looked directly at Edward, raised his weathered arm, and saluted him with his middle finger. He kept his arm raised for quite a while as he slowly drove his truck past Edwards' window.
Edward didn’t flinch, he didn’t grimace in anger or raise his finger in response. He remained silent, calmly watching as the truck and the old man eventually disappeared from view. 
But that wasn't Edwards' only problem.
“Sixteen, I counted them,” said Rose Mangini, a widow and Edward’s neighbor. “Sixteen trucks on the beach last night. They were all parked around a bonfire, drinking and yelling until two in the morning. I thought we were done with all that, Edward.”
“Last weekend there were more,” said retired dentist Carl Drucker, another neighbor. “All day, trucks racing up and down the beach. I couldn’t sit in a beach chair.” 
“They’re defecating in the dunes,” said Harry Spitz, a neighbor and personal injury lawyer from New York City. 
“That’s awful,” said Lisa Perryman, a young mother and neighbor.
The unhappy group gathered in Edwards' living room consisted of neighbors and members of the Whalepoint Homeowners Association. Edward Wilson is the association president.
“Yeah?” said Monica, Harry Spitz’s wife. “That’s not all they’re doing in the dunes. These local boys and their teenage girlfriends... and I’ve got it all recorded on my phone. Disgusting.”
“A truck almost ran over my dog this morning,” said Jody Wetzel, a spry young city girl sitting cross-legged on the floor.
The complaints persisted. Angry and frustrated, the neighbors are beginning to realize they might have won a battle but lost the war. And they blame Edward Wilson.
Edward did what they asked. An attorney, he filed a lawsuit against the Town of East Hampton on behalf of the 110 members of the homeowners’ association, claiming ownership of a nearby public beach. 
After thirteen years, they won. 
That victory over the beach was a year ago, and, like the dog that finally caught its tail, now the homeowners have to figure out what to do with it.
“Why do we have to pay dues to maintain the beach? It’s just a pile of sand,” said Rose Mangini.
“That’s right,” said Harry Spitz, the attorney. “Town of East Hampton doesn’t have to do anything on the beach now.”
“Is it true our homeowner's insurance is going up?" said Dr. Duhmat Patel, a local physician and part-time real estate investor.
“Why would our insurance go up?" asked Rose Mangini.
“My agent said we’re responsible if there’s a storm,” said Dr. Patel. “We have to pay for any damage now.”
“At least you have insurance,” said Thomas Scates, a real estate agent. “I just got a call from my insurance broker. He said they’re cancelling my coverage. I can’t get insurance. What happens next time we get hit with a hurricane?”
“I was told if a dead whale washes up on the beach, the town won’t remove it,” said Ross Bartel, semi-retired art dealer and owner of a home staging company serving the local real estate market. 
“You know what that’s going to smell like after a couple of days in the hot sun?” said his wife, Betsy, sitting next to Ross, both dressed in their best tennis whites.
“I don’t give a damn about any dead fucking whale,” said Shelly Silverstein, manager of a real estate title company. “We knew what we were getting into when we sued the town. I’ll pay to have the dead fucking whale removed. Problem is those goddam trucks.”
“I don’t know, Edward,” said Ross Bartel. “We paid your firm millions in legal fees. We still have those trucks.”
“Listen to you,” said Janet Wilson, Edward Wilson’s 87-year-old mother. “You were rich before, now you're richer.”
Known locally as ‘The Judge’, Janet Wilson is an elected East Hampton Town Judge, the only Judge in New York State without a law degree or college education. Judge Wilson moved to East Hampton decades ago with her two young sons to start a new life after her husband, a New York City firefighter, died of a stroke. She quickly established an outsized presence in the community as the proprietor of numerous successful businesses, including a real estate agency, a plumbing company, a building firm, a painting business, an electrical service, a landscaping company, a pool business, and a popular local restaurant.
Judge Wilson said, “Thomas, what did that house sell for over on Mariner’s Drive?”
Thomas Wilson is the 23-year-old grandson of Judge Wilson, the son of Edward Wilson. Thomas works with his grandmother as a property manager on some of the wealthy estates.
“Thirteen million,” Thomas said.
“What is that, Thomas, a twenty, thirty percent increase since last summer?” said the Judge.
“That’s right,” said Thomas. “The Weber’s went down to the county clerk and refiled their property deed as soon as we won the beach case. Listed as beachfront, sold well above asking price. It was a bidding war.”
Judge Wilson said, “Everyone in this room knows we didn’t do this so you could lay your ass on a beach towel under an umbrella. Each and every one of you went down and had your deeds changed to beachfront.”
“She’s right,” said Rose Mangini. “I run real estate comparables every week. My three homes are up almost 40% since last summer. Best real estate investment I’ve had in decades.”
“Quit your bitching,” said Judge Wilson. “Edward did a wonderful job.”
“That was last year,” said Ross Bartel. “Before the trucks came back.”
“That’s right,” said Harry Spitz. “No one is going to want beachfront property now that all the trucks are here.”
“It's not just the trucks, it's those people, they're filthy,” said Lisa Perryman. “The women drink beer and smoke cigarettes with the men at seven o’clock in the morning. I mean, what is that?”
“Right?” said Prudence Mathis, a spin teacher and part-time real estate agent. “These people are so unhealthy.”
Finally, Edward turned to face the crowd, and with a gentle, steady voice, he said, “Perhaps…,” pausing for a moment, thoughtfully straightening his bowtie, “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. There is the reservation.”
The reservation, established in 1882 by the Dominican Sisters of Brooklyn, previous owners of the beach and all the land where the homeowners now live, protected the public's right to access the beach for fishing, like whaling and net fishing. Because no one ever expected a group of homeowners might try to privatize the beach, what became known as the ‘fishing reservation’ eventually faded into obscurity. 
That is, until recently, when a local fisherman brought it up at a public hearing held at the Amagansett firehouse. 
The hearing was held to discuss the large boulders placed at each end of the beach by the Whalepoint homeowners, who, for decades, tolerated the hundreds of trucks that ferried thousands of people on most summer weekends. Now that they won their case, the homeowners sought to block access to all vehicles on their beach.
Local residents were outraged. Most were unaware of the lawsuit that had been quietly brewing for over a decade, only learning about it when they saw the boulders blocking the beach.
Local fishing families, known as Bonackers, whose direct ancestors had fished on the beach for more than 350 years, protested, and some were arrested for trespassing. Firemen objected because they could no longer access the large mansions from the beach to respond to fires or emergencies. But mostly, people upset by the boulders were local residents who, for generations, used the beach for recreation, sometimes parking their trucks end to end for up to two miles on summer weekends.
After a heated discussion, local fisherman Stuart King stood up and quietly said, “All you need is a pole, some line, you’re good to go.” Stuart King was a local character of sorts, famous for refusing to obtain any commercial fishing permits from New York State over nearly 7 decades of fishing. He went to the local library and discovered that the reservation created by the Dominican Sisters permitted any town citizen to fish on the beach in perpetuity. 
“The beach is yours,” said Stuart. “Go fish.”
Locals returned to the beach in droves, each with a fishing pole in the back of their truck.
“But they’re not fishing,” said Monica Spitz, as she looked out the large window. 
“That’s right,” said Carl, the dentist. “It’s those same people, trucks driving up and down the beach, the drinking, partying all night long. Every weekend, it's the same. They bring their kids, their barbecue grills, and their beach toys. I don’t see anybody fishing.”
“I know, so low-class, right?” said Betsy Bartel, nodding her head, looking around the room for support.
“Can someone please tell me what fishing has to do with all these trucks anyway?” said Harry Spitz.
“It’s our beach,” said Carl Drucker. “Why don’t the police do anything?" 
“Isn't that trespassing?” said Tom Scates. “Carl is right, shouldn’t the police make an arrest or something?”
They did, right? They arrested those fishermen,” said Monica Spitz.
“It wasn’t a problem until those goddam fishermen got involved,” said Shelly Silverstein.
“Arrested fourteen of them,” said Rose Mangini. “Then Edward said we shouldn’t cooperate, we shouldn’t go to court, the charges were dropped, the whole thing was thrown out.”
“You don’t understand, Rose. Those fishermen wanted a case in the local court. And then what? What if we lost? With one of these local judges?” said Harry Spitz. “No offense to you, Judge.”
“None taken,” said Judge Wilson. “As a homeowner, I’m conflicted out of this case. But Edward has a judge in the County Supreme Court. He’ll handle all of this, isn’t that right, Edward?” 
“We’re right back where we started,” said Jody Wetzel, as she stroked her small lap dog.
Unlike most residents of East Hampton, Edward Wilson was keenly aware of the fishing reservation and the problems it might cause when he filed suit on behalf of the homeowners. He had hoped it might go unnoticed. 
If not for Stuart King, he might have succeeded. 
Still, trucks driving on the beach were not the only obstacle Edward faced. 
“Leave Edward alone,” said neighbor and local tennis instructor Cathy Wood. “Let’s not forget, he has his own problems.”
Indeed, Edward did. 
Everyone in the room knew about the camp. The camp, occupied by homeless people living among filth and garbage and broken cars, patchwork tents, and rusted campers, hidden below a series of rolling sand dunes and tall beachgrass, just outside Edward’s window, directly between his home and the beach he loved so much.
Edward turned to look out at the Atlantic Ocean, waves gently crashing in the distance as ‘Ave-Maria’ continued to echo in his mind. He said calmly and precisely, “No need to worry. We have a plan. Everything will be taken care of."




















                                             

CHAPTER 1

The Beach July 2026

East Hampton, New York

Edward Wilson stood in front of the large, plate-glass window, fingering his bowtie as ‘Ave-Maria’, a favorite melody from his days at Holy Cross College, resonated over and over in his mind. The refrain often provided Edward with a sense of solace and calm.

Edward didn’t flinch, he didn’t grimace in anger or raise his finger in response. He remained silent, calmly watching as the truck and the old man eventually disappeared from view.

But that wasn't Edwards' only problem.

“Sixteen, I counted them,” said Rose Mangini, a widow and Edward’s neighbor. “Sixteen trucks on the beach last night. They were all parked around a bonfire, drinking and yelling until two in the morning. I thought we were done with all that, Edward.”

“Last weekend there were more,” said retired dentist Carl Drucker, another neighbor. “All day, trucks racing up and down the beach. I couldn’t sit in a beach chair.”

“They’re defecating in the dunes,” said Harry Spitz, a neighbor and personal injury lawyer from New York City.

“That’s awful,” said Lisa Perryman, a young mother and neighbor.

The unhappy group gathered in Edwards' living room consisted of neighbors and members of the Whalepoint Homeowners Association. Edward Wilson is the association president.

“Yeah?” said Monica, Harry Spitz’s wife. “That’s not all they’re doing in the dunes. These local boys and their teenage girlfriends... and I’ve got it all recorded on my phone. Disgusting.”

“A truck almost ran over my dog this morning,” said Jody Wetzel, a spry young city girl sitting cross-legged on the floor.

The complaints persisted. Angry and frustrated, the neighbors are beginning to realize they might have won a battle but lost the war. And they blame Edward Wilson.

Edward did what they asked. An attorney, he filed a lawsuit against the Town of East Hampton on behalf of the 110 members of the homeowners’ association, claiming ownership of a nearby public beach.

After thirteen years, they won.

That victory over the beach was a year ago, and, like the dog that finally caught its tail, now the homeowners have to figure out what to do with it.

“Why do we have to pay dues to maintain the beach? It’s just a pile of sand,” said Rose Mangini.

“That’s right,” said Harry Spitz, the attorney. “Town of East Hampton doesn’t have to do anything on the beach now.”

“Is it true our homeowner's insurance is going up?" said Dr. Duhmat Patel, a local physician and part-time real estate investor.

“Why would our insurance go up?" asked Rose Mangini.

“My agent said we’re responsible if there’s a storm,” said Dr. Patel. “We have to pay for any damage now.”

“At least you have insurance,” said Thomas Scates, a real estate agent. “I just got a call from my insurance broker. He said they’re cancelling my coverage. I can’t get insurance. What happens next time we get hit with a hurricane?”

“I was told if a dead whale washes up on the beach, the town won’t remove it,” said Ross Bartel, semi-retired art dealer and owner of a home staging company serving the local real estate market.

“You know what that’s going to smell like after a couple of days in the hot sun?” said his wife, Betsy, sitting next to Ross, both dressed in their best tennis whites.

“I don’t give a damn about any dead fucking whale,” said Shelly Silverstein, manager of a real estate title company. “We knew what we were getting into when we sued the town. I’ll pay to have the dead fucking whale removed. Problem is those goddam trucks.”

“I don’t know, Edward,” said Ross Bartel. “We paid your firm millions in legal fees. We still have those trucks.”

“Listen to you,” said Janet Wilson, Edward Wilson’s 87-year-old mother. “You were rich before, now you're richer.”

Judge Wilson said, “Thomas, what did that house sell for over on Mariner’s Drive?”

Thomas Wilson is the 23-year-old grandson of Judge Wilson, the son of Edward Wilson. Thomas works with his grandmother as a property manager on some of the wealthy estates.

“Thirteen million,” Thomas said.

“What is that, Thomas, a twenty, thirty percent increase since last summer?” said the Judge.

“That’s right,” said Thomas. “The Weber’s went down to the county clerk and refiled their property deed as soon as we won the beach case. Listed as beachfront, sold well above asking price. It was a bidding war.”

Judge Wilson said, “Everyone in this room knows we didn’t do this so you could lay your ass on a beach towel under an umbrella. Each and every one of you went down and had your deeds changed to beachfront.”

“She’s right,” said Rose Mangini. “I run real estate comparables every week. My three homes are up almost 40% since last summer. Best real estate investment I’ve had in decades.”

“Quit your bitching,” said Judge Wilson. “Edward did a wonderful job.”

“That was last year,” said Ross Bartel. “Before the trucks came back.”

“That’s right,” said Harry Spitz. “No one is going to want beachfront property now that all the trucks are here.”

“It's not just the trucks, it's those people, they're filthy,” said Lisa Perryman. “The women drink beer and smoke cigarettes with the men at seven o’clock in the morning. I mean, what is that?”

“Right?” said Prudence Mathis, a spin teacher and part-time real estate agent. “These people are so unhealthy.”

Finally, Edward turned to face the crowd, and with a gentle, steady voice, he said, “Perhaps…,” pausing for a moment, thoughtfully straightening his bowtie, “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. There is the reservation.”

That is, until recently, when a local fisherman brought it up at a public hearing held at the Amagansett firehouse.

Local residents were outraged. Most were unaware of the lawsuit that had been quietly brewing for over a decade, only learning about it when they saw the boulders blocking the beach.

“The beach is yours,” said Stuart. “Go fish.”

Locals returned to the beach in droves, each with a fishing pole in the back of their truck.

“But they’re not fishing,” said Monica Spitz, as she looked out the large window.

“That’s right,” said Carl, the dentist. “It’s those same people, trucks driving up and down the beach, the drinking, partying all night long. Every weekend, it's the same. They bring their kids, their barbecue grills, and their beach toys. I don’t see anybody fishing.”

“I know, so low-class, right?” said Betsy Bartel, nodding her head, looking around the room for support.

“Can someone please tell me what fishing has to do with all these trucks anyway?” said Harry Spitz.

“It’s our beach,” said Carl Drucker. “Why don’t the police do anything?"

“Isn't that trespassing?” said Tom Scates. “Carl is right, shouldn’t the police make an arrest or something?”

They did, right? They arrested those fishermen,” said Monica Spitz.

“It wasn’t a problem until those goddam fishermen got involved,” said Shelly Silverstein.

“Arrested fourteen of them,” said Rose Mangini. “Then Edward said we shouldn’t cooperate, we shouldn’t go to court, the charges were dropped, the whole thing was thrown out.”

“You don’t understand, Rose. Those fishermen wanted a case in the local court. And then what? What if we lost? With one of these local judges?” said Harry Spitz. “No offense to you, Judge.”

“None taken,” said Judge Wilson. “As a homeowner, I’m conflicted out of this case. But Edward has a judge in the County Supreme Court. He’ll handle all of this, isn’t that right, Edward?”

“We’re right back where we started,” said Jody Wetzel, as she stroked her small lap dog.

Unlike most residents of East Hampton, Edward Wilson was keenly aware of the fishing reservation and the problems it might cause when he filed suit on behalf of the homeowners. He had hoped it might go unnoticed.

If not for Stuart King, he might have succeeded.

Still, trucks driving on the beach were not the only obstacle Edward faced.

“Leave Edward alone,” said neighbor and local tennis instructor Cathy Wood. “Let’s not forget, he has his own problems.”

Indeed, Edward did.

Edward turned to look out at the Atlantic Ocean, waves gently crashing in the distance as ‘Ave-Maria’ continued to echo in his mind. He said calmly and precisely, “No need to worry. We have a plan. Everything will be taken care of."