[Deborah Jones 01.0] Miami Requiem

by J. B. Turner

  ‘He‘s been compromised. He needs to be told.’

  The phone on O’Neill’s study desk rang. ‘Listen, I’ll catch you later and we can talk some more about this…’

  He ended the cell-phone conversation and reached over to take the landline call. It was Hal Lomax. ‘Guess what, Jack?’

  O’Neill groaned. ‘You know what time it is?’

  ‘Listen, I might be able to make the Craig story go away.’

  ‘Hal, can’t this wait?’

  ‘Jack, I might have information which we can use to our advantage, to derail this story.’

  O’Neill stared into the darkness of the bay, unwilling to enter into discussions in his state of mind. ‘Hal, pull a few strings if you have to, but just keep the story out of the papers. Look, I’m dog-tired. I’ll see you in Washington.’

  He hung up, his mind craving sleep, but hoping that Hal could work his magic‌—‌whether by cajoling or browbeating editors‌—‌to make sure the story didn’t see the light of day.

  5

  The small wooden conch house was painted indigo and could’ve come from a Key West brochure. It was located on a quiet street‌—‌lined by palms‌—‌five blocks from Duval in the city’s Old Town. Azaleas and bougainvilleas in neat flower beds fringed a tiny lawn. The sun was low, sky burnt orange.

  Deborah climbed the two steps onto a creaky porch, knocked on the door, and waited. It seemed strange to be standing outside Jenny Forbes’s home, if indeed it was her home. She’d researched the case thoroughly but didn’t know what Jenny looked like: her face had been electronically obscured during the trial on TV.

  Often, when she was walking through Flamingo Park, she thought of Jenny Forbes, anesthetized by Rohypnol‌—‌a drug used to treat sleep disorders‌—‌on that notorious December night in 1988. Alone, drugged and at the mercy of a psychotic frat boy. It was just bad luck that he’d picked her. It could’ve been any woman in that bar. How she’d managed to rebuild her life and cope with her grandfather’s incarceration on death row was beyond Deborah.

  A minute passed, and still no answer. She knocked again, harder this time, and heard padding footsteps on the other side.

  The door opened and an attractive woman in her late thirties, with straggly mousy brown hair and a gentle face, stood before her. She was barefoot, wore a white tight-fitting T-shirt, and faded jeans.

  ‘Jenny Forbes?’

  The woman nodded, eyes wary. ‘Yes.’

  Deborah smiled. ‘I need to speak to you.’ She flashed her ID. ‘I’m a reporter with the Miami Herald.’

  There was no response.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry for dropping in on you like this, but I’m investigating your grandfather’s case. I spoke to him yesterday.’

  Jenny Forbes folded her arms in a defensive pose. ‘You’ve got some nerve.’

  ‘Jenny, I’m new to the paper. I’m the first journalist who’s interviewed him. Bottom line? I need your help.’

  ‘I don’t give interviews. My life’s not public property.’

  ‘Jenny, I hope‌—‌’

  ‘Are you for real? I’ve been trying to highlight his case for years. Now you turn up on my doorstep when it’s too late.’

  ‘I’m not here to interview you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe you.’

  ‘This is not about you. It’s about your grandfather. I want to try and help him, that’s all.’ Deborah’s voice was edgier than she wanted.

  ‘I don’t know. This doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘Jenny, I spoke to your grandfather. I know all about his case. And I know that he did this because Joe O’Neill wouldn’t leave you alone after the trial. Your grandfather told me how he followed Joe from a nightclub. He’s only got weeks to live. I beg you, I’ve just got a few questions, and then I’ll be on my way.’

  Tears filled Jenny’s eyes as she shook her head. ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s a tough old man, all right. But he was complaining of heart murmurs and insomnia. And that’s why I need to speak.’

  Jenny sighed. ‘I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I need your assurance that you won’t use this as a pretext to interview me.’

  Deborah lifted up her right hand. ‘You have my word, Jenny. Just need a few more details about the police officer who kept in touch with you in Miami after the trial.’

  Jenny’s face softened like she understood what Deborah was talking about. She opened the door wide. ‘You better come in.’

  Deborah followed her along the polished wooden floors of the hallway into a bright yellow living room. Jenny’s scent was like a rose.

  Dozens of candles cast a soft glow around the small room, like in a monastic retreat. Wooden blinds were drawn down, aqua drapes pulled nearly shut. There were two small sofas with what looked like a terracotta Indian design on them, and a blue rug lay on the floor.

  At the far end of the room, beside the window, sat a small stereo‌—‌its dials illuminated by a lime-green LCD‌—‌and large Bose speakers. In the background, Deborah recognized Johnny Cash’s melancholy The Man Comes Around album playing low. She had bought it herself downtown on the day it came out and the song sparked fond memories of Brett’s parents.

  Jenny Forbes motioned for Deborah to take a seat. ‘Something to drink or eat?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m good.’ Deborah sat down on one of the sofas. She smelled spicy home cooking and looked across at the other woman. ‘Hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘I don’t do visitors.’ Jenny sat down. ‘Thomas, my husband, has the children down at Mallory for the sunset. They love it.’ She seemed edgy although she tried to appear laid-back. ‘It’s a great place.’

  Jenny dropped her gaze.

  ‘You’ve never spoken to the press, have you, Jenny?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I guess I spooked you, turning up out of the blue.’

  ‘A bit. Brought it all back‌—‌reporters on my doorstep in South Beach, creeping about my yard, peering through my windows, night and day. It was like I was under siege.’ Deborah had read that Jenny’s identity had inadvertently been revealed by the trial judge, thus alerting the media.

  ‘That why you moved down here?’

  ‘Yeah, I just wanted to try and forget my old life. Everything.’ Jenny ran a hand through her hair as if she was nervous. ‘So, you wanna know about this officer who kept in touch, right?’

  Deborah smiled and nodded.

  Was Jenny on Prozac to help her cope? Deborah had interviewed San Francisco rape victims for the Berkeley college newspaper, and many of them had been reliant on drugs, at least temporarily. She thought Jenny Forbes showed the same low-level signs of anxiety, despite years having elapsed since the attack. Hardly surprising. Being drugged in a busy bar and then dragged out by O’Neill as if she was drunk was every woman’s worst nightmare.

  ‘Does he still keep in touch?’

  ‘To this day.’

  Deborah nodded, glad that she’d finally connected. ‘You mind me asking why?’

  ‘Thought the trial was deliberately botched.’

  ‘Look, Jenny, we don’t have a whole lotta time, as you can imagine. Basically, I need to speak to this detective.’

  Jenny winced as if that might be difficult.

  ‘When’s the next time you’ll see him?’

  ‘Around a fortnight, but I can’t make promises. He comes down here once a month to see how I’m getting on.’

  ‘What exactly is the detective’s take on Joe O’Neill’s trial?’

  ‘Thinks it’s something to do with the senator, plain and simple.’

  ‘Senator O’Neill?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Said he had some influential friends, people who knew how to play the system.’ Goldberg had alluded to the same thing. ‘Said it was impossible to prove.’

  Deborah’s heart thumped.

  Had the senator or his associates got to the ju
dge or jury? Maybe to both? The story might not have caught fire, but the embers were certainly aglow.

  ‘Jenny, those are serious allegations. Why didn’t this detective do something about it? I mean, if it was me I’d kick up a storm.’

  Jenny shrugged. ‘He tried, but he was warned off. Got death threats at his home from some guy saying they’d kill him, his wife, their four children, and the goddamned dog.’

  Deborah’s stomach knotted.

  If this was true, it confirmed that there’d been a conspiracy to mess up the trial of the senator’s son. Was all this done just to let him off the hook? Was that what it boiled down to? Was that what her boss and Mr Craig had alluded to when they’d told her to be careful?

  ‘Jenny, are you sure about that?’

  ‘Positive. He was the lead investigator. He knew that bastard did it. I knew who did it, but he had to back off when he saw how things were going. From what he said, Joe O’Neill was put on trial just to appease rank-and-file officers… but things were going wrong all over the place.’

  ‘Going wrong? Like what?’

  ‘Like in the DA’s office important witness statements went missing, but it was all hushed up. A sample of DNA from Joe O’Neill mysteriously disappeared. The detective also got strange calls in the middle of the night, telling him not to push it. People were also following him. He came close to having a nervous breakdown. Eventually, they transferred him to another case.’

  Deborah remembered the red Chevy the previous night, which had tailed her until Fort Lauderdale. Was this related? Was she just being paranoid? No matter. The story, if true, would be political dynamite.

  Deborah shook her head and sighed. ‘I don’t understand. So this officer couldn’t do anything about it? Why didn’t he go higher up?’

  ‘Reckoned that was where the problem lay.’

  ‘Any proof of that?’

  ‘No.’ Jenny picked at the cuticles on her right hand. ‘At grass roots, he said every police officer wanted the O’Neill boy to go down for a long, long time. The best evidence was messed up at the police labs with the DNA debacle. Weird things going on.’

  ‘This detective, you say he’s a regular down here?’

  ‘Yeah, does some marlin fishin’, and enjoys a few drinks, stays the night, and goes back to Miami. Like I said, he likes to know how I’m doing. He’s coming round mid-October, but I’ll need to speak with him first. If he agrees, I’ll give him your number.’

  ‘That could be too late,’ Deborah said. ‘I need to speak to him now‌—‌or at least in the next couple of days. Time’s running out.’

  ‘I can’t contact him. He says the calls can be traced. He comes down here or phones me from a friend’s cell phone. He’s paranoid, as you can imagine.’

  Goldberg would want something more concrete than Deborah waiting for this detective for a chat, but it seemed pointless to press Jenny Forbes harder.

  Deborah pulled out her card from inside her jacket and handed it over. ‘That’s got my cell phone and office numbers. If he wants, he can speak in confidence.’

  Jenny glanced at the card, then at Deborah, her eyes heavy. ‘This detective, by coincidence, was present when my grandfather confessed. He knew how fucked-up the Joe O’Neill case was.’

  It was pointless getting quotes from Jenny Forbes. Who would believe her? She had a vested interest and no proof about any cover-up. But this detective’s evidence would carry weight. Still, time was not on Deborah’s side.

  ‘How is he?’ Jenny asked suddenly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My grandfather. Did he ask about me?’

  ‘I don’t think he wanted to talk about you. He’s very protective of your privacy.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How often do you make it up to Raiford to see him?’ Jenny bowed her head. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry‌—‌I don’t follow.’

  There was a long silence. When Jenny did speak, her voice was low. ‘I’ve not visited him for more than five years. That come as a shock to you?’

  It crashed through Deborah’s head like a sledgehammer.

  ‘Thomas visits once a month. I don’t even know what Grandfather looks like now I’ve never written. Doesn’t sound too good, does it?’

  ‘I guess it must be difficult for you, Jenny.’

  ‘I couldn’t take seeing an old man like that, treated like an animal. Every time I saw him, he looked paler and paler. I couldn’t take it any longer.’

  Jenny’s eyes filled up with tears. Deborah went over and put an arm around her and pulled her close. She felt her tense up.

  How was it possible to imagine the depths of despair and isolation that she’d experienced? Of course, it wasn’t just a matter of pulling yourself together. Time did not necessarily heal.

  Jenny’s body shook. ‘I can’t face the journey. The look on his face when I see him. Can’t bear to look at him behind glass. His face.’ She broke down and sobbed like a little girl, head in hands. ‘I’ve let him down most terribly.’

  Deborah squeezed her shoulder. ‘He’s smart enough to know what you’re going through. He’ll understand.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so.’

  Jenny dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It’s not because I don’t love him, but it’s the only way I can cope. I’ve cut myself off from everything just to deal with life.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘Y’know, I’ve never once told him I was glad he killed Joe O’Neill.’

  ‘I’m sure his lawyers still have something up their sleeve to get a stay.’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s all out of stays.’

  Deborah thought it was a good time to make tracks. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Jenny. And I hope you manage to find the strength to get through the next few weeks. And maybe that detective can throw your grandfather a lifeline.’

  Jenny nodded, but looked unconvinced. She stood up. ‘Oh, before you go, there’s something I’d like to show you. Remember I said I’d been trying to highlight my grandfather’s case for years?’

  Deborah nodded.

  ‘Well, I went round every major paper in Florida showing them something I thought would make a good story for them. You know, show another side to my grandfather.’

  ‘I see.’ This was news to her. ‘Did you try the Miami Herald?’

  ‘I spoke to a guy called Harry Donovan.’

  ‘Ah. He’s the executive editor now. What was it you had for them?’

  ‘Stay right there.’

  Jenny left the room. A couple of minutes later, she returned with a dusty green box. ‘I took custody of my mother’s estate. Included in it were my grandad’s papers, all about his involvement in the war. I think it shows the real man, not the “Butcher of South Beach” as some of the press dubbed him.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Letters home to his mother, pictures of him in uniform.’ Deborah felt her pulse quicken. ‘Do you mind if I take a look?’

  ‘There’s one thing I want you to see before anything else.’ Jenny put the box on the floor and lifted the lid. She pulled out a yellowing piece of paper and handed it to Deborah. A red wax seal was at the bottom right-hand corner. It was heavily frayed at the edges. ‘Take a look at that.’

  Deborah scanned the typewritten words on the nicotine-hued paper in silence. Her throat tightened.

  Buried among Craig’s war papers was a dramatic insight into his past… A past that had been kept hidden for more than sixty years.

  6

  Sam Goldberg stared out of the huge windows in his office, hands thrust deep into his pockets. Dark gray clouds hung over the skyscrapers of downtown Miami. It never ceased to amaze him how much the city had changed since his parents had moved from Philadelphia in the early 1960s when he’d been a young boy, setting up home in affluent, sedate Coral Gables. They had expected it to be a world of white picket fences, blue skies, and cocktails at ar
t-deco hotels on South Beach.

  Slowly, the cityscape began changing before their eyes, faster than they or anyone else realized. All of a sudden it seemed to become rough around the edges‌—‌graffiti, boarded-up shops, homeless people begging in the street. His parents saw the massive immigration from Cuba and Haiti as contributing to social tensions. That was only partly correct. What was indisputable was that the city had become a staging post to major US cities for international drug traffickers from South America.

  Drug turf wars, murders and power struggles started, as the Colombians moved in big time. Social unrest and disaffection with Miami’s crumbling infrastructure followed. The city was no longer a sunny retirement home for snowbirds like his parents. He remembered the darkest moment in the city’s history: the riots of 1980, which started after an all-white jury in Tampa acquitted four Miami police officers of fatally beating black insurance executive Arthur McDuffie. The fallout claimed eighteen lives and caused one hundred million dollars’ worth of damage. Sam, a twenty-three-year-old political science student at the University of Miami at the time, watched appalled from his backyard as the smoke rose above Liberty City and Overtown.

  Goldberg remembered watching the TV footage as the orgy of violence and mayhem gathered pace, spreading from block to block downtown. In the weeks and months that followed, the money which had poured into the city, earmarked for Overtown’s regeneration, didn’t find its way there. To this day, the inner-city areas remained dreadfully poor.

  Elsewhere, Miami underwent a rapid regeneration, as if Overtown had never existed. South Beach was transformed. Now, for visitors and those with a good job, Miami was a cosmopolitan city: chic restaurants, bars, nightclubs, a magnet for the beautiful people. Residential towers were coming out of the ground all over downtown.

  Goldberg wondered if one day Miami would regret not learning the hard lessons of the past and ignoring sections of the poorest in society, their voices unheard above the noise of the huge cranes and other building work that was creating condos and lofts for affluent incomers.

  He sat down behind his desk, thinking how much the city was evolving before reflecting that his wife wasn’t there any longer to share it with him. He gazed at the picture of her. Sometimes he didn’t want to look forward too far. He knew he wasn’t over her. And the sadness lingered, occasionally threatening to swamp him with grief. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d covered up his black moods with bourbon and beer. He so badly wanted to move on, but her ghost always seemed to be following his every move. Her presence was everywhere. Her perfume still lingered in his home.