"I have this tree for 24 years," Maria exclaims. "It's a beautiful tree. It no have no disease." Four women in jeans, sneakers, and white polo shirts -- the uniform of state agriculture inspectors -- stand nearby, speechless. Maria continues: "It's my baby. I fertilized it."
Mark Fagan, a public information officer for the Florida Department of Agriculture's Citrus Canker Eradication Program, tries to explain why her baby and hundreds of thousands of other backyard citrus trees in South Florida must be slaughtered.
"The tree may not look sick to you right now, but in a few months it will start losing its canopy, and the fruit won't mature anymore. It will drop to the ground," Fagan says sternly. "And then the disease will spread another 1900 feet to other trees."
"That is bullshit," fumes Maria, barely stopping to listen. "Do you know how much money I save not buying lemons and grapefruit in the store? I'm so mad I could scream."
Other South Floridians have been so angry they could grab guns. At about 10:30 a.m. on March 27, state workers arrived at the Tamarac home of Nelson Edwards to saw up his 12-foot grapefruit tree.
Agriculture inspector David Benner knocked on the front door and told the wiry 95-year-old the cutting crew was about to begin its labors. But Edwards ordered them off his property and threatened to sue. Benner called Raymond Rogers, one of numerous officers from the Broward County Sheriff's Department who help canker personnel when the going gets gruff. But Rogers was unable to assuage the acrimonious codger.
"I don't care who you are!" Edwards yelled, according to the police report, and disappeared into his house. Moments later he exited a side door. When Rogers walked around the corner, he was staring down the barrel of the rifle Edwards was holding. The old man then started moving the gun's bolt, so Rogers ordered him to disarm.
"Drop it or I will have to shoot you," the cop warned. Then Benner sneaked up from behind and snatched the rifle. Rogers booked Edwards for aggravated assault, and the elderly man was released on $5000 bail. In early May, Edwards pleaded guilty, and Judge Barry Goldstein gave him a year on probation.
The trauma of citrus tree loss has ignited similar outbursts in Miami-Dade. In late May two inspectors knocked at a house west of Sweetwater. After no response they walked into the back yard to look for citrus trees. Soon a middle-aged man holding a .45 automatic was excoriating them.
"He was going, "You better be glad I didn't shoot you!'" recounts 23-year-old Lashonda McHenry, one of the inspectors. She and her coworker, 54-year-old James McVeigh, retreated and radioed their supervisor. Four Miami-Dade police arrived and convinced the man to allow the inspection. "I was scared shitless," confesses McVeigh. In late June, Miami-Dade cops arrested a 54-year-old man who said he would shoot the crew that tried to inspect a citrus tree in his yard. Miami-Dade police booked him for obstruction of justice.
About 1200 state workers are now prowling through neighborhoods of South Florida on a cumbersome seek-and-destroy operation aimed at pulverizing as many as a million citrus trees by early next year. The effort, state officials say, is necessary to protect commercial groves in Central Florida, which form the hub of the state's $8.5 billion citrus trade. To persuade skeptical residents, agriculture inspectors warn that a ravaged grapefruit and orange industry would send less revenue to Tallahassee and thus cause another ill: a tax increase. Tens of thousands of jobs could be lost, they add.