Just Cause Page 2

  “Hello, Matt.” He heard a hesitation in her voice. “No, it’s just we’re getting ready to go. Tom has to be in court early, so he’s taking her to school, and . . .” She paused, then continued. “No, it’s okay. I have a few things I need to talk over with you anyway. But they’ve got to go, so can you make it quick?”

  He closed his eyes and thought how painful it was not to be involved in the routine of his daughter’s life. He imagined spilling milk at breakfast, reading books at night, holding her hand when she got sick, admiring the pictures she drew in school. He bit back his disappointment. “Sure. I just wanted to say hi.”

  “I’ll get her.”

  The phone clunked on the table and in the silence that followed, Matthew Cowart looked at the words: I DID NOT COMMIT.

  He remembered his wife on the day they’d met, in the newspaper office at the University of Michigan. She’d been small, but her intensity had seemed to contradict her size. She’d been a graphic design student, who worked part-time doing layouts and headlines, poring over page proofs, pushing her dark wavy hair away from her face, concentrating so hard she rarely heard the phone ring or reacted to any of the dirty jokes that flew about in the unbridled newsroom air. She’d been a person of precision and order, with a draftsman’s approach to life. The daughter of a Midwestern-city fire captain who’d died in the line of duty, and a grade-school teacher, she craved possessions, longed for comforts. He’d thought her beautiful, was intimidated by her desire, and was surprised when she’d agreed to go on a date with him; surprised further when, after a dozen dates, she’d slept with him.

  He’d been the sports editor, which she had thought was a silly waste of time. Overmuscled men in bizarre outfits fighting over variously shaped balls, she would say. He had tried to educate her to the romance of the events, but she had been intransigent. After a while, he had switched to covering real news, throwing himself tenaciously after stories, as their relationship had solidified. He’d loved the endless hours, the pursuit of the story, the seduction of writing. She’d thought he would be famous or, if not famous, important. She’d followed him when he got his first job offer on a small Midwestern paper. A half dozen years later, they’d still been together. On the same day that she announced she was pregnant, he got his offer from the Journal. He was to cover criminal courts. She was to have Becky.

  “Daddy?”

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Hi, Daddy. Mommy says I can only talk for a minute. Got to get to school.”

  “Is it cold there, too, honey? You should wear a coat.”

  “I will. Tom got me a coat with a pirate on it that’s all orange for the Bucs. I’m going to wear that. I got to meet some of the players, too. They were at a picnic where we were helping get money for charity.”

  “That’s great,” Matthew replied. Damn, he thought.

  “Are football players important, Daddy?”

  He laughed. “Sort of.”

  “Daddy, is something wrong?”

  “No, honey, why?”

  “Well, you don’t usually call in the morning.”

  “I just woke up missing you and wanted to hear your voice.”

  “I miss you, too, Daddy. Will you take me back to Disney World?”

  “This spring. I promise.”

  “Daddy, I’ve got to go. Tom is waving for me. Oh, Daddy, guess what? We have a special club in second grade called the hundred-book club. You get a prize when you read one hundred books. I just made it!”

  “Fantastic! What do you get?”

  “A special plaque and a party at the end of the year.”

  “That’s great. What was your favorite book?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. The one you sent me: The Reluctant Dragon.” She laughed. “It reminds me of you.”

  He laughed with her.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said again.

  “Okay. I love you and I really miss you.”

  “Me too. Bye-bye.”

  “Bye,” he said, but she had already left the telephone.

  There was another blank moment until his ex-wife picked up the line. He spoke first.

  “A charity picnic with football players?”

  He had always wanted to hate the man who’d replaced him, wanted to hate him for what he did, which was corporate law, how he looked, which was stocky and chesty, with the build of a man who spent lunchtimes lifting weights at an expensive health club, wanted to imagine that he was cruel, a thoughtless lover, a poor stepfather, an inadequate provider, but he was none of those things. Shortly after his ex-wife had announced her impending marriage, Tom had flown to Miami (without telling her) to meet with him. They had had drinks and dinner. The purpose had been murky, but, after the second bottle of wine, the lawyer had told him with direct honesty that he wasn’t trying to replace him in his daughter’s eyes, but because he was going to be there, he was going to do his damnedest to help her love him, too. Cowart had believed him, had felt an odd sort of satisfaction and relief, ordered another bottle of wine and decided he sort of liked his successor.

  “It’s the law firm. They help sponsor some of the United Way stuff in Tampa. That’s how the football players get involved. Becky was pretty impressed, but of course Tom didn’t tell her how many games the Bucs won last year.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I suppose so. They certainly are the biggest men I’ve ever seen.” Sandy laughed.

  There was a momentary pause before she continued. “How are you? How’s Miami?”

  He laughed. “Miami’s cold, which makes everyone crazy. You know how it is, nobody owns a winter coat, nobody has any heat in their homes. Everyone shivers and gets a little insane until it heats up again. I’m okay. I fit right in.”

  “Still having the nightmares?”

  “Not too much. Every so often. It’s under control.”

  It was a mild falsehood, one he knew she would disbelieve but would accept without further questioning. He shrugged hard, thinking how much he hated the night.

  “You could get some help. The paper would pay.”

  “Waste of time. I haven’t had one in months,” he lied more flagrantly.

  He heard her take a breath.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Well,” she said, “I suppose I should just tell you.”

  “So just tell me.”

  “Tom and I are going to have a baby. Becky’s no longer going to be alone.”

  He felt a bit dizzy, and a dozen different thoughts and feelings ricocheted within him. “Well, well, well. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” his ex-wife said. “But you don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “Becky’s going to be part of a family. Even more than before.”

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t see, do you? What will happen. That you’ll be the one squeezed out. At least, that’s what I’m afraid of. It’s already hard for her, with you being in the other part of the state.”

  He felt as if someone had slapped him across the face. “I’m not the one in the other part of the state. You are. You’re the one that moved out.”

  “That’s old business,” Sandy replied. After a moment, she continued. “Anyway, things are going to change.”

  “I don’t see why . . .” he stammered.

  “Trust me,” she said. Her tone displayed that she had considered her words carefully, far in advance. “Less time for you. I’m sure of it. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

  “But that’s not the agreement.”

  “The agreement can change. We knew that.”

  “I don’t think so,” he replied, the first edge of anger sliding into his voice.

  “Well,” she said abruptly. “I’m not going to all
ow myself to get upset talking about it. We’ll see.”

  “But . . .”

  “Matt, I have to go. I just wanted you to know.”

  “Great,” he said. “Thanks a bunch.”

  “We can discuss this later, if there’s anything to discuss.”

  Sure, he thought, after you’ve talked to attorneys and social workers and edited me out completely. He knew the thought was untrue, but it refused to be dislodged.

  “It’s not your life we’re talking about,” she added. “Not anymore. It’s mine.”

  And then she hung up.

  You’re wrong, he thought. He looked about his work cubicle. Through a small window he could see the sky stretching slate gray over the downtown. Then he looked down at the words in front of him: I DID NOT COMMIT.

  We are all innocent, he thought. It is proving it that is so hard.

  Then, trying to banish the conversation from his mind, he picked up the letter and continued reading:

  On May 4th, 1987, I had just returned home to my grandmother’s house in the town of Pachoula, Escambia County. At the time I was a college student at Rutgers University in New Brunswick, New Jersey, just completing my junior year. I had been visiting her for several days, when I was picked up by the sheriff’s office for questioning in a rape-murder that took place a few miles from my grandmother’s place. The victim was white. I am black. An eyewitness had seen a green Ford sedan similar to one I owned leaving the scene where the girl disappeared. I was held without food or water or sleep and without a chance to talk to counsel for thirty-six hours straight. I was beaten several times by deputies. They used folded telephone books to pound on me, because those don’t make any marks. They told me they would kill me and one held a revolver to my head and kept pulling the trigger. Each time the hammer clicked down on an empty cylinder. At the end of this they told me that if I confessed, everything would be okay. I was scared and exhausted, so I did. Not knowing any details, but letting them lead me through the crime, I confessed. After what they put me through, I would have confessed to anything.

  BUT I DID NOT DO IT!

  I tried to recant my confession within hours, but I was unsuccessful. My public defender attorney only visited me three times before my trial. He also did no investigation, called no witnesses who would have placed me elsewhere at the time of the crime, failed to get the illegally obtained confession suppressed. An all-white jury heard the evidence and convicted me after an hour’s deliberation. It took them another hour to recommend the death penalty. The white judge passed this sentence on. He called me an animal that ought to be taken outside and shot.

  I have now been on Death Row for three years. I have every hope that the courts will overturn my conviction, but that may take many more years. Can you help me? I have learned from other prisoners that you have written editorials condemning the death penalty. I am an innocent man, facing the supreme punishment because of a racist system that was stacked against me. Prejudice, ignorance and evil have put me into this situation. Please help me.

  I have written the names of my new lawyer and witnesses below. I have put your name on my approved visiting list, if you decide to come talk with me.

  There is one other thing. Not only am I innocent of the charges against me, but I can tell you the name of the man who did commit the crime.

  Hoping you will help,

  Robert Earl Ferguson

  #212009

  The Florida State Prison

  Starke, Fla.

  It took Cowart several moments to digest the letter. He read it through several times, trying to sort through his impressions. The man was clearly articulate, educated, and sophisticated, but prisoners who claimed innocence, especially Death Row prisoners, were the norm rather than the exception. He had always wondered why the majority of men, even confronting their own demise, stuck to an image of innocence. It was true of the hardest psychopaths, the mass killers who cared so little for human life that they would as soon kill someone as talk with them—but who, when confronted, would maintain that aura unless persuaded that confession might somehow help them. It was as if the word meant something different to them, as if the compilation of horrors they had suffered somehow wiped the slate clean.

  The thought made him remember the boy’s eyes. The eyes had been prominent in a number of his nightmares.

  It had been late, crawling through the thick heat of Miami summertime night toward morning, when he’d gotten the call, rousing him from sleep, directing him to a house only ten or twelve blocks from his own. A city editor, gruff with the hour, jaded with the job, sending him to a horror show.

  It was when he’d still been cityside, working general assignment, which meant mostly murder stories. He had arrived at the address and spent an hour pacing around outside the police line, waiting for something to happen, staring across the dark at a trim, single-story ranch house with a well-manicured lawn and a new BMW parked in the driveway. It was the middle-class home of a junior executive and his wife. He could see crime-scene technicians and various detectives and medical examiner’s office personnel moving about within the house, but he could not see what had happened. The entire area was lit by pulsating police lights, throwing quick snatches of red or blue across the area. The lights seemed to thicken in the humid air. The few neighbors who’d ventured out had been uniform in their description of the couple who lived in the house: nice, friendly, but kept to themselves. This was a litany known to all reporters. People who have been murdered were always said to have kept to themselves, whether they had or not. It was as if neighbors needed to rapidly disassociate themselves from whatever terror had fallen out of the sky.

  Finally, he’d spotted Vernon Hawkins leaving the house through a side door. The old detective had ducked away from the police strobes and the television cameras and had pushed himself up against a tree, as if in great exhaustion.

  He had known Hawkins for years, through dozens of stories. The veteran detective had always had a special liking for Cowart, had tipped him off frequently, shown him things that were confidential, explained things that were secret, let the reporter in on the inexorably ugly life of the homicide detective. Cowart had surreptitiously slid beneath the yellow police line and approached the detective. The man had frowned, then shrugged and gestured for him to sit.

  The detective lit a cigarette. Then he stared for an instant at the glowing end. “These things are murder,” he said with a rueful laugh. “They’re killing me. Used to be slowly, but I’m getting older, so it’s speeding up.”

  “So why don’t you quit?” Cowart asked.

  “Because they’re the only things I’ve ever found that get the smell of death out of my nostrils.”

  The detective took a long drag and the red glow illuminated the lines in the man’s face.

  After a moment of silence, the detective turned toward Cowart. “So, Matty, what brings you out on a night like this? Ought to be home with that pretty wife of yours.”

  “C’mon, Vernon.”

  The detective smiled quietly and put his head back gently against the tree. “You’re gonna end up like me, with nothing better to do at night except go to crime scenes.”

  “Give me a break, Vernon. What can you tell me about the inside?”

  The detective laughed briefly. “Guy naked and dead. Throat cut while he was in bed. Woman naked and dead. Throat cut while she was in bed. Blood all over the fucking place.”

  “And?”

  “Suspect in custody.”

  “Who?”

  “A teenager. A runaway kid from Des Moines they picked up earlier this evening. Drove all the way to the Fort Lauderdale strip to find him. They were into kinky threesomes. The only trouble was, after having their fun with the lad, he decided that their hundred bucks wasn’t quite all there was to be had. You know, he saw the car, saw the n
ice neighborhood and everything. They argued. He pulled out an old-style straight razor. Those things are still a helluva weapon. First shot got the guy right across the jugular. . . .”

  The detective demonstrated in the night air, abruptly slashing the darkness with a swift chopping motion.

  “. . . The man goes down like he’s been shot. Gurgles a couple of times and that’s it. He’s alive just long enough to realize he’s dying. A tough way to go. The wife starts screaming, of course, tries to run. So the kid grabs her by the hair, pulls her head back, and bingo. Real fast, she only got off one more scream. Tough luck, though. It was enough to alert a neighbor who called us. Some guy with insomnia walking his dog. We got the kid as he came out the front door. He was loading up the car with the stereo, television, clothes, anything he could get his hands on. Covered in blood.”

  He looked out across the yard and said vacantly, “Matty, what’s Hawkins’ First Law of the Street?”

  Cowart smiled through the darkness. Hawkins liked to speak in maxims. “The first law, Vernon, is never look for your trouble, because trouble will always find you when it wants to.”

  The detective nodded. “Real sweet kid. Real sweet psychopathic kid. Says he had nothing to do with it.”

  “Christ.”

  “Not that strange,” the detective continued. “I mean, the kid probably blames Mr. Junior Exec and his wife there for what happened. If they hadn’t tried to stiff him, you know what I mean.”

  “But . . .”

  “No remorse. Not a shred of sympathy or anything human. Just a kid. Tells me everything that happened. Then he says to me, ‘I didn’t do nothing. I’m innocent. I want a lawyer.’ We’re standing there and there’s blood all over and he says he didn’t do nothing. I guess that’s because it didn’t mean anything to him. I guess. Christ . . .”

  He leaned back in defeat and exhaustion. “You know how old this kid is? Fifteen. Just fifteen a month ago. Ought to be home worrying about pimples, dates, and homework. He’ll do juvie time for sure. Bet the house on it.”