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And then one day last year they weren't. What was once mere neglect had hardened to abuse. The empty lot was littered with fallen limbs and leaves; only hat-racked trees remained, stripped of their branches, looking naked and bereft. One bright morning this past December, Casey Lee, landscape inspector for the Town of Davie, pulled up in a 1995 Chevy Cavalier to find out why.

The lot was empty. With no one around to take the blame, Lee pulled her digital camera from her white Town of Davie car and snapped photos for evidence. When she heard noise coming from behind the store, she knew what she had to do. Steeling herself, she followed the sound: "I was like, "OK now, be brave, Casey.'"

Rounding the corner Lee saw workers chipping huge pieces of wood. Trimmers had been topping the trees and dragging limbs behind the building, out of sight. "I'm like, "Stop!'" she says, holding her palm out in a "talk-to-the-hand" gesture.

"They were here at 6, 7 a.m.," Lee remembers. She believes such subterfuge is proof workers knew they were breaking the law. "And you know that's scheming," she says, her voice rising in anger at the memory of the assault. "You know he's doing wrong. Why are you scheming?"

Landscape inspectors say the incident is characteristic of the problem. Legions of self-employed tree trimmers roam the county in unmarked trucks, wielding chain saws for clients looking to save a buck. Most are unlicensed, but because obtaining a license doesn't require a test, only a small annual fee ($33 for a self-employed individual), it's a moot point.

Lee rarely turns in unlicensed trimmers. This is Davie, after all, so she takes the Wild West approach instead: "We just try to run 'em out of town."

Now it is six months after the incident and unbearably hot in the lot where a Winn-Dixie once stood. Tiny beads of perspiration form on Lee's forehead, but she's still pert in a pink sleeveless Tommy Hilfiger button-down, dark blue jeans, and delicate silver jewelry. The lot is awash in bluish-black asphalt and dotted with islands of sod bordered by curbs, most of which are planted with a single tree, like the stereotypical desert island.

Lee stands beneath one, but its meager foliage offers only a sliver of shade. "It isn't a tree anymore," she muses. The mother of five-year-old twins, Lee is what kids might call a "cool mom." Pretty, slightly preppy, and deeply tanned, she has a raspy cheerleader's voice (though she wasn't one and seems mildly annoyed at the suggestion).

Lee loves her job. She pokes fun at the macho image of code-enforcement officers, begs her supervisors not to swap her Cavalier for a truck (too masculine), and has picked up some Spanish from the come-ons she gets from landscape crews.

Her nonchalance conceals a certain power. What began as a few hundred dollars' worth of ill-planned labor at the former Winn-Dixie will now cost the commercial real-estate developer $35,000 to $40,000 to fix. (Numerous calls by New Times to Marc Geiserman, president of SouthEast Properties, were not returned.) Lee ordered SouthEast to remove 35 abused trees and replace them based on a ratio established in county law. The Broward ordinance dictates that, if a tree with a trunk 12 inches in diameter is cut down, three four-inch trees must be planted in its place.

But that's not all. The Winn-Dixie site was planted with the cheapest, lowest-grade trees, called culls. Culls have defects that cannot be corrected and are technically illegal to use in landscaping. Each of Geiserman's culls will now have to be replaced with a Florida number one, the grade required for new construction. They cost about $225 to $250 each. In addition Lee is requiring the company to hire a certified arborist to supervise the project.

Like anyone else cited under the Davie law, SouthEast can appeal the order. It hasn't. Most transgressors find it easier and less costly to bring their properties into compliance. If they are found in violation and refuse to comply, they could rack up $250 to $500 a day in fines. "I call myself the big, bad tree wolf," Lee says, hands on hips in mock intimidation.

Like those of other landscape inspectors, Lee's most egregious offenders are strip-mall developers. Although she finds tree abuse in about 20 residential sites per year, many of those require minor corrections; most homeowners are eager to comply with rules once they are aware of them.

Lee also cites about 10 to 15 commercial properties per year, as many as her work schedule will allow. "I'm only one person," she says. "I wear blinders a lot of the time." Like homeowners, commercial developers typically plead ignorance of the ordinance. At this notion Lee flips her shiny auburn mane and smiles sweetly: "I don't buy it every time."

She didn't buy it the day she cited Geiserman. "He said, "I can't believe this is happening to me.' I said, "Sir, you better pinch yourself, because it is.'"About 150 years ago in Massachusetts, on a Monday in what was known as "apple cider time" (September), John Chapman was born. He grew up to be a nonviolent man; despite his long sojourns in the wild, he carried no gun or knife. He lived simply, walked barefoot and alone in the wilderness, and is said to have converted to an obscure religion called Swedenborgian. If he lived today, he might've been a Buddhist.

By most accounts Chapman rarely shaved. He was an earthy sort, but instead of granola he ate wild berries, and instead of Polarfleece, he wore clothes made from burlap sacks. Some say he wore a tin pot on his head when he wasn't cooking supper in it; others insist it was a silver chafing dish.

Chapman planted orchards throughout Pennsylvania, Ohio, Kentucky, Illinois, and Indiana. In his lifetime he planted 100,000 miles of trees, some of which bear fruit to this day. For this he was called Johnny Appleseed. Today he'd be called a freak.

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