Just Cause Page 19

“No reason to leave.”

  “Oh, come on. What if the Times or the Post calls?”

  “We’ll see.”

  They both laughed. After a momentary pause, she said, “I always knew someday you’d find the right story. I always knew someday you’d do it.”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Nothing. I just knew you’d do it.”

  “What about Becky? Did she stay up to watch me on Nightline?”

  Sandy hesitated. “Well, no. It’s much too much past her bedtime . . .”

  “You could have taped it.”

  “And what would she have heard her daddy talk about? About somebody who murdered a little girl? A little girl who got raped and then stabbed, what was it, thirty-six times? And then tossed into a swamp? I didn’t think that was too swift an idea.”

  She was right, he realized, though he hated the thought. “Still, I wish she’d seen.”

  “It’s safe here,” Sandy said.

  “What?”

  “It’s safe here. Tampa isn’t a big city. I mean, it’s big, but not big. It seems to move a little slower. And it’s not at all like Miami. It’s not all drugs and riots and weird, the way Miami is. She doesn’t have to know about little girls that get kidnapped and raped and stabbed to death. Not yet, at least. She can grow up a bit, and be a kid, and not have to worry all the time.”

  “You mean you don’t have to worry all the time.”

  “Well, is that wrong?”

  “No.”

  “You know what I can never understand? It’s why everyone who works at the paper always thinks everything bad just happens to other people.”

  “We don’t think that.”

  “It seems that way.”

  He didn’t want to argue. “Well, maybe.”

  She forced a laugh. “I’m sorry if I’ve rained on your parade. Really, I wanted to call to congratulate you and tell you that I really was proud.”

  “Proud but divorced.”

  She hesitated. “Yes. But amicably, I thought.”

  “I’m sorry. That was unfair.”

  “Okay.”

  There was another pause.

  “When can we talk about Becky’s next visit?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll be hung up on this story until there’s some sort of resolution. But when, I don’t know.”

  “I’ll call you then.”

  “Okay.”

  “And congratulations again.”

  “Thanks.”

  He hung up the telephone and realized that he was sometimes a fool, incapable of saying what he wanted, articulating what he needed. He pounded the desk in frustration. Then he went to the window of his cubicle and looked out over the city. Afternoon traffic was flowing toward the expressway, like so many body nerves pulsating with the desire to head home to family. He felt his solitude surround him. The city seemed baked beneath the hot blue sky, the light-colored buildings reflected the sun’s strength. He watched a tangle of cars in an intersection maneuvering like so many aggressive bugs on the earth. It is dangerous, he thought.

  It is not safe.

  Two motorists had shot it out two days earlier following a fender bender, blazing away in the midst of rush-hour traffic, each armed with nearly identical, expensive nine-millimeter semiautomatics. Neither man had been hurt, but a teenager driving past had taken a ricochet in the lung and remained in critical condition at a local hospital. This was a routine Miami story, a by-product of the heat and conflicting cultures and a populace that seemed to consider handguns an integral part of their couture. He remembered writing almost the same story a half-dozen years earlier. Remembered a dozen more times the story had been written, so frequently that what had been once a front-page story was now six paragraphs on an inside page.

  He thought of his daughter and wondered, Why does she need to know? Why does she need to know anything about evil and the awful desires of some men?

  He did not know the answer to that question.

  There were thick black television cables snaking out the entranceway to the courtroom. Several cameramen were setting up video tape recorders in the hallway, taking their feeds from the single camera allowed in the courtroom. A mix of print and television reporters milled about in the corridor; the television personnel, all slightly sharper dressed, better coiffed, and seemingly cleaner than their newspaper competitors, affected a slightly disheveled appearance to set themselves apart self-righteously.

  “Out in force,” said the photographer who walked beside him, fiddling with the lens on his Leica. “No one wants to miss this dance.”

  It was some ten weeks since the stories had appeared. Filings and maneuverings had postponed the hearing twice. Outside the Escambia County courthouse the thick Florida sun was energetically baking the earth. It was cool inside the modern building. Voices carried and echoed off high ceilings so that people spoke mainly in whispers, even when they didn’t have to. There was a small sign in gold paint next to the wide brown courtroom doors: CIRCUIT COURT JUDGE HARLEY TRENCH.

  “That the guy that called him a wild animal?” the photographer asked.

  “You got it.”

  “I don’t imagine he’s going to be too pleased to see all this.” The photographer gestured with his camera toward the crowd of reporters and camera technicians.

  “No, wrong. It’s an election year. He’s gonna love the publicity.”

  “But only if he does the right thing.”

  “The popular thing.”

  “I doubt they’re gonna be the same.”

  Cowart nodded. “I don’t think so, either. But you can’t tell. I bet he’s back in chambers right now calling every local politician between here and the Alabama border, trying to figure out what to do.”

  The photographer laughed. “And they’re probably calling every district worker, trying to figure out what to tell him. What d’you think, Matty? You think he’ll cut him loose or not?”

  “No idea.”

  He looked down the corridor and saw a group of jeans-clad young pcople surrounding an older, short black man, who was wearing a suit. “Get a shot of them,” he told the photographer. “They’re from the anti-death-penalty group here to make some noise.”

  “Where’s the Klan?”

  “Probably somewhere. They’re not so organized anymore. They’re probably going to be late. Or maybe they went to the wrong place.”

  “Got the wrong day, maybe. They were probably here yesterday, got bored and confused, and left.”

  The two men laughed.

  “I’ts going to be a zoo,” Cowart said.

  The photographer paused in his step. “Yeah. And there’s the tigers, waiting for your tail.”

  He gestured and Cowart saw Tanny Brown and Bruce Wilcox slumped up against a wall, trying to stay out of the way of the cameramen.

  He hesitated, then said, “Well, might as well see what’s in the tiger’s den.” And he walked briskly toward the two men.

  Bruce Wilcox pivoted, presenting Cowart with the back of his sportcoat. But Tanny Brown moved away from the wall and nodded in meager greeting. “Well, Mr. Cowart. You sure have caused some commotion.”

  “It happens, Lieutenant.”

  “You pleased?”

  “I’m just doing my job. Just like you. Just like Wilcox.”

  Brown looked past Cowart at the photographer. “Hey, you! Next time try to get my right profile. Makes me look ten years younger and makes my kids a lot happier to see it. They think I’m getting too old for all this. Like, who needs the aggravation, hey?”

  Brown smiled, turned slightly to demonstrate for the photographer, and put his finger on his cheek, pointing.

  “See?” he said. “Much better than that old scowling sneak sh
ot you took.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  The policeman shrugged. “Goes with the territory, I guess.”

  “How come you wouldn’t return my phone calls?” Cowart asked.

  “We didn’t have nothing more to talk about.”

  Cowart shook his head. “What about Blair Sullivan?”

  “He didn’t do it,” Brown replied.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I can’t be. Not yet. But it doesn’t feel right. That’s all.”

  “You’re wrong,” Cowart said quietly. “Motive. Opportunity. A well-known predilection. You know the man. You can’t see him doing that crime? What about the knife in the culvert?”

  The lieutenant shrugged again. “I can see him doing it. Sure. But that doesn’t mean jack shit.”

  “Instincts again, Lieutenant?”

  Tanny Brown laughed before continuing. “I am not going to talk to you anymore about the substantive issues of the case,” he said, slipping into the practiced tones of a man who’d testified hundreds of times before hundreds of judges. “We’ll see what goes on in there.” He pointed at the courtroom. “Afterwards, maybe we’ll talk.”

  Detective Wilcox stepped around then, staring at Tanny Brown. “Then you’ll talk! Then! I can’t believe you’re willing to give this bastard the time of day after he hung us out to dry. Made us look like . . .”

  The lieutenant held up his hand. “Don’t say what he made us look like. I’m tired of that.” He turned toward Cowart “When this dog and pony show is all over, you get in touch. We’ll talk again. But one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You remember the last thing I told you?”

  “Sure,” Cowart said. “You told me to go fuck myself.”

  Tanny Brown smiled. “Well,” he said quietly, “keep at it.”

  The big detective paused, then added, “Walked right into that one, Mr. Cowart.”

  Wilcox snorted a laugh and clapped the bigger man on the back. He made a pistol figure with his forefinger and fist and pointed it at Cowart, firing it slowly, dramatically. “Zap!” he said. The two detectives then wandered toward the courtroom, leaving Cowart and the photographer hanging in the corridor.

  Robert Earl Ferguson strode into the courtroom, flanked by a pair of gray-suited jail guards, wearing a new blue pinstripe suit and carrying a yellow legal pad. Cowart heard another reporter murmur, “Looks like he’s ready for law school,” and watched as Ferguson shook hands with Roy Black and his young assistant, glared once in the direction of Brown and Wilcox, nodded toward Cowart, and then turned and waited for the judge to arrive.

  Within moments, the courtroom was summoned to its feet.

  Judge Harley Trench was a short, rotund man with silver-gtay hair and a monklike bald spot on the crown of his head. He had an instant officiousness to him, a clipped orderliness as he arranged papers swiftly on the bench before him, then looked up at the attorneys, slowly removing a set of wire-rimmed glasses from inside his robes and adjusting them on his nose, giving him the appearance of a fat crow on a high wire.

  “All right. Y’all want to get this going?” he said swiftly, gesturing at Roy Black.

  The defense attorney rose. He was tall and thin, with hair that curled long over the collar of his shirt. He moved slowly, with exaggerated, theatrical style, gesturing with his arms as he made his points. Cowart thought he would not be likely to get much slack from the short man on the bench, whose frown deepened with each word.

  “We’re here, your honor, on a motion for a new trial. This motion takes several forms: We contend that there is new exculpatory evidence in the case; we contend that if this new evidence were presented to a jury, they would have no alternative but to return a verdict of not guilty, finding reasonable doubt that Mr. Ferguson killed Joanie Shriver. We also contend that the court erred in its prior ruling on the admissibility of the confession Mr. Ferguson allegedly made.”

  The attorney pivoted toward the detectives when he spoke the word “allegedly,” drawing it out, labeling it with sarcasm.

  “Isn’t that an issue for the court of appeals?” the judge asked briskly.

  “No, sir. Under Rivkind, 320 Florida twelve, 1978, and State of Florida versus Stark, 211 Florida thirteen, 1982, and others, sir, we respectfully submit that it was your honor who was prevented from having all the evidence when you made your ruling . . .”

  “Objection!”

  Cowart saw that the assistant state attorney had jumped up. He was a young man, in his late twenties, probably no more than a few years out of law school. He was wearing a three-piece tan suit and spoke in choppy, abrupt sentences. There had been considerable speculation about the fact that he’d been assigned to the case. Given the widespread publicity and interest, it had been assumed that the Escambia County state attorney would argue the matter himself, to give weight to the state’s position through prestige. When the young attorney had shown up alone, the veteran reporters had nodded their heads in understanding. His name was Boylan, and he had refused to give Cowart even the time the hearing was supposed to begin.

  “Mr. Black implies that the state withheld information. That is cate­gorically untrue. Your honor, this is a matter for the appellate courts to decide.”

  “Your honor, if I may finish?”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Black. The objection is overruled.”

  Boylan sat and Black continued.

  “We contend, sir, that the outcome of that hearing would have been different, and that the state, without Mr. Ferguson’s alleged confession, would not have been able to continue with their prosecution of the case. At worst, your honor, if the truth had been presented to the jury, Mr. Ferguson’s trial attorney would have been able to make a powerful argument to those folks.”

  “I understand,” the judge replied, holding up a hand to cut off any further talk by the defense lawyer. “Mr. Boylan?”

  “Your honor, the state contends this is a matter for the appellate courts. As far as new evidence is concerned, sir, statements in a newspaper do not constitute bona fide evidence that a court of law should consider.”

  “Why not?” asked the judge abruptly, scowling at the prosecutor. “What makes those statements any less relevant, if the defense can prove they took place? I don’t know how they are going to do that, of course, but why shouldn’t they have the opportunity?”

  “We contend they are hearsay, your honor, and should be excluded.”

  The judge shook his head. “There are all sorts of exceptions to the hearsay rules, Mr. Boylan. You know that. You were in this court a week ago arguing the opposite.” The judge looked out at the audience. “I’ll hear the matter,” he said abruptly. “Call your first witness.”

  “That’s it,” Cowart whispered to the photographer.

  “What?”

  “If he hears it, he’s made up his mind.”

  The photographer shrugged his shoulders. The court bailiff rose and intoned, “Detective Bruce Wilcox.”

  As Wilcox was being sworn in, the assistant state attorney rose and said, “Your honor, I see several witnesses present in the courtroom. I believe the witness rule should be invoked.”

  The judge nodded and said, “All witnesses to wait outside.”

  Cowart saw Tanny Brown rise and exit the courtroom. His eyes followed the slow path the detective made as he paced down the aisle. He was followed by a smaller man Cowart recognized as an assistant medical examiner. He spotted, to his surprise, an official from the state prison as well, a man he’d seen on visits to Death Row. When he turned back, he saw the prosecutor pointing at him.

  “Isn’t Mr. Cowart a witness?”

  “Not at this time,” Roy Black replied with a slight smile.

  The prosecutor started to say something, then stopped.<
br />
  The judge leaned forward, his tone brisk and slightly disbelieving. “You don’t intend to call Mr. Cowart to the stand?”

  “Not at this time, your honor. Nor do we intend to call Mr. and Mrs. Shriver.”

  He gestured toward the front row where the murdered girl’s parents sat stoically, trying to look straight ahead, trying to ignore the television cameras that swept in their direction, along with the eyes of each spectator.

  The judge shrugged. “Proceed,” he said.

  The defense lawyer walked to a speaking podium and paused before addressing Detective Wilcox, who had settled into the witness chair, pitching forward slightly, hands on the railing, like a man waiting for the start of a stakes race.

  For the first few moments, the lawyer merely set the scene. He made the detective describe the circumstances surrounding the arrest of Ferguson. He made the detective concede that Ferguson had gone along without a whimper. He made the detective acknowledge that the only link, initially, to Ferguson was the similarity of the automobile. Then, he finally asked, “So, he was arrested because of the car?”

  “No, sir. He wasn’t actually placed under arrest until he confessed to the crime.”

  “But that was some time after he was taken into custody? More than twenty-four hours, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And do you think he thought he could leave at any time during that interrogation?”

  “He never asked to leave.”

  “Do you think he thought he could?”

  “I don’t know what he was thinking.”

  “Let’s talk about that interrogation. Do you remember testifying in this courtroom in a hearing such as this three years ago?”

  “I do.’’

  “Do you remember being asked by Mr. Burns: Question: ‘Did you strike Mr. Ferguson at the time of the confession?’ and your reply, ‘I did not.’ Now, is that a truthful statement, sir?”

  “It is.”

  “Are you familiar with a series of articles which appeared in the Miami Journal some weeks back pertaining to this case?”

  “I am.”

  “Let me read you a paragraph. Quote: ‘Detectives denied that Ferguson was beaten in order to obtain a confession. But they did concede that he was “slapped” by Detective Wilcox at the beginning of the questioning.’ Are you familiar with that statement, sir, in the newspaper?”