by J. B. Turner
The picture had been taken on their last vacation. Two blissful weeks sailing around the Greek islands, despite his wife’s cancer being at an advanced stage.
What Sam remembered most was her bravery. Her once voluptuous figure had withered away before his eyes. The opiates pumped into her body by a doctor he had hired for the trip made the pain bearable, but she refused to accept that death was inevitable. Even at the end, she wouldn’t give in.
He remembered the expression on her face one evening. She was sitting on deck, eyes closed as the sun set. Mozart played in the background and she held a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon—pure serenity. It was possible that she might even have smiled.
His phone rang, snapping him out of his reverie.
‘Goldberg.’ He expected it to be Deborah Jones giving him an update on her trip to Key West.
But it was Harry Donovan, executive editor of the paper, calling from a newspaper publishers’ conference in New York. ‘Sam, you got a couple of minutes?’
‘Sure. What’s on your mind?’
‘I’m hearing that one of our most inexperienced reporters has just been sent to Raiford. Is that true?’
‘You mean Deborah Jones?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Donovan paused for a moment as if waiting for an answer. He didn’t get one. ‘I’m surprised you sent someone so green.’
‘I thought it sounded like a good story.’
‘At her age, Deborah Jones is on a steep learning curve. She’s ill-equipped to deal with such a job.’
Goldberg groaned inwardly. It was just typical of Donovan to query his decisions, thinking he knew better since he used to do the job. Truth was that the guy was more at home with flip charts and profit-and-loss printouts than with news. ‘Harry, what do you mean, “ill-equipped”? She’s a very competent journalist who’s got a keen eye for a story. What’s so wrong with that?’
‘With all due respect, Sam, I don’t think you’ve thought this through. This paper’s got to think more political, understand that this might rub Senator O’Neill up the wrong way.’
‘I don’t give a damn about Senator O’Neill. I decide, as managing editor, what stories go in, and what stays out. You deal with the business, the politics, right? The link man with the owners.’
‘That’s technically correct, but I’m telling you, as a friend, that this was not a good decision.’
Goldberg felt his blood pressure rise a notch. ‘Meaning?’
‘I don’t want to say it, Sam.’
‘Say what?’
‘People are talking in the newsroom. They say you’ve taken a shine to her.’
‘And they’d be correct. She reminds me of me at that age. Hungry, committed and—’
‘Stunningly beautiful.’
Goldberg felt his cheeks flush. But Donovan had hit a raw nerve. Something about Deborah’s beauty and intelligence had definitely attracted him. He was also intrigued that she was interested in the case of William Craig. It made him smile to think that as a crime reporter he’d tried to get an interview with Craig but had failed. The fact that she’d done it said a lot about her. ‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.’
‘Sam, what you feel for her is your business, but I don’t see how she could’ve been given that assignment.’
‘Because she’s good. Look, Deborah Jones is a journalist, first and foremost. And I like to see reporters carving out stories instead of rewriting AP copy.’
‘She’s not ready.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
A silence opened up between them and Goldberg turned to face the granite skies above the city.
Sam heard Donovan sigh. ‘Let’s hope she proves me wrong. And the next time, I’d appreciate a little forewarning.’ He hung up.
Donovan always seemed to want the last word. The guy had a way of pissing off even the most mild-mannered people. Sam’s late wife had once poured a glass of wine over Donovan for being an ‘idiot par excellence’. Goldberg had laughed so hard that he’d spat his beer inadvertently all over Donovan’s wife, Jackie.
He became lost in his thoughts, wanting to disappear to a bar for a few drinks and some peace and quiet. But he knew there was more chance of Governor Wilkinson announcing the regeneration of Overtown and Liberty City.
There was a knock at his door, and he snapped out of his daydreaming. It was stick-thin Kathleen Klein, the politics reporter, whom he’d been avoiding for months, ever since she’d come on too strong at a bar, late one night after work. She was two years older than Sam—forty-seven—and a good-looking woman. But Goldberg had made it clear that he wasn’t interested. However, it hadn’t stopped the invitations to parties, clubs and functions, not to mention the incessant flirting. And, despite the awkward edge it had given to their working relationship, Klein was an excellent operator. She was an astute commentator on Republican politics, and had stellar contacts.
‘You got a minute, Sam?’ She smiled.
An ice-cold beer seemed like a good idea. ‘Can’t it wait?’
Klein shook her head, mouth turned down. ‘I don’t think so. We’ve got a problem.’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘There ‘s something you need to know… about your new best friend, Deborah Jones.’
7
The following afternoon, after a marathon journey up from Key West—and after phoning ahead to make an—appointment to speak to Craig—Deborah arrived at Raiford, mentally and physically drained, only to find that Warden Erhert had pulled the plug on any interview.
In his office he explained, while slurping a mug of coffee as Deborah sat quietly fuming, that the Florida State Prison was in ‘emergency mode’ after the leader of Neta, the Puerto Rican prison gang, had been fatally stabbed, prompting threats of reprisals from friends of the dead man. In addition, he said, the Florida Department of Corrections was concerned that any article by Deborah Jones might make a celebrity out of William Craig, not to mention the fact that the article could be offensive to the victim’s family.
Deborah didn’t buy it. She didn’t want to seem paranoid, but it sounded like the senator’s people had called in some serious favors. And she wasn’t going to be put off. Not at this stage.
She called Sam on his cell phone and explained the development. He asked to speak to the warden directly. Still, Warden Erhert smirked and smiled and patted his ample belly, refusing to budge. The discussion with Sam continued for nearly an hour, but nothing changed.
Erhert sat and eyeballed Deborah, trying to make her feel uncomfortable. ‘Guess you’ve been wasting your time, Miss Jones. Real shame, that.’
Deborah considered her options. She could take it on the chin and head back to the newsroom with her tail between her legs. Or she could fight back.
Erhert leered, as if taunting her. Perhaps he was just waiting to have an excuse to deny her access.
Her heart beat hard and she felt her mouth go dry.
She got up and leaned forward on Erhert’s desk, spreading her palms on its imitation wooden surface, fixing her gaze only a few inches from his oily face. ‘Okay, Warden Erhert,’ she said, ‘if that’s the way you’re going to play it, fine. Let’s cut the crap. I’ve listened to your racist put-downs and flimsy excuses for canceling my interview, but I will not be intimidated. Now, I’ve driven all the way up here from south Florida and I am not leaving this jail until I speak to William Craig. Is that clear?’
The veins at the side of Erhert’s neck bulged. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘No. I’m simply telling you I will not sit back and accept flimsy excuses for not being allowed to see William Craig. Have the senator or his friends put pressure on you? Is that what this is about?’
‘You’re out of line, young lady. I could pick up that phone to the governor right now and he’d personally order you to be picked up and thrown out of my jail for suggesting such things.’
‘You think you know about pulling strings? Let me tell you, my father is on the executive of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. Now, how do you think that’ll play with the black people of Florida, if they find out that you’ve denied an accredited member of the press the right to interview a man on death row because of the color of my skin? You do remember the dimpled-chad fiasco a couple of years ago, Warden, in the 2000 elections? You think there was an outcry over that? Trust me, you ain’t seen nothing yet.’
For the first time Deborah saw real fear in Erhert’s eyes. She was calling his bluff. But he didn’t know it.
She pressed home her point. ‘You want to see thousands of people protesting outside your prison because you don’t afford the same opportunities to black journalists as you do to whites? You wanna go there? Is that what you want?’
Erhert focused on his phone, as if contemplating contacting the governor. Then he wavered, as though he’d realized that calling the governor wasn’t such a good idea. Deborah couldn’t believe it—she had him.
The loud ticking of the clock on the wall accentuated the long silence. When Erhert spoke, he could barely suppress his rage. ‘You got one hour with him. Maximum. A minute longer, and I’ll drag you out myself, y’understand me?’
Deborah took a deep breath. ‘That’s much appreciated, sir. I’m glad we came to that understanding.’ Erhert gave a sickly smile.
• • •
Half an hour later, after more pat-downs and fingerprinting, Deborah was escorted to the same booth as before. She sat down and drummed her fingers against her notepad as Craig was brought in. She smiled at him through the murky plastic, not wanting him to see that she was nearly hyperventilating with anger and anticipation.
Craig waited for the guards to leave him alone. Once they were out of earshot, he picked up his phone, double-handed like the last time.
Finally, Deborah pressed the yellowing paper with the red wax seal against the plastic. She thought her heart was going to burst. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’
‘Where did you get that?’
‘Jenny. You want to answer my question?’ Deborah withdrew the piece of paper. Craig’s eyes were fierce.
‘You’d no right bothering her, you hear me?’
‘I’d no other way of tracing the police officer you told me about.’
‘I never said track her down, did I?’
Deborah could see how much his family meant to him. She wished her parents had showed the same undying love, but it wasn’t their way. She had longed for her mother to put her arm around her and display some affection, but it never happened. Her mother’s tough upbringing in the cotton fields of Tunica County, Mississippi, had left their mark. Love to her was having food on the table. Close family bonds weren’t encouraged for the simple reason that life was so hard. Her brothers, sisters and parents all worked the cotton. Sunup to sunset. Backbreaking, soul-destroying labor. She’d come a long way, but still, displaying affection was a sign of weakness. ‘That wouldn’t help you in no fields,’ she’d say.
‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ Deborah said. ‘I promise.’ Craig nodded as though he had been appeased.
Deborah held up the yellowing paper again. ‘What does this mean?’
‘Can’t you let me be?’
‘Why didn’t this come up in court?’
‘It’s worthless.’
‘It’s a citation.’
Craig closed his eyes and sighed.
‘A citation for bravery. Didn’t you think this was relevant at your trial?’
‘It’s too late for all that.’
‘It’s never too late.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ His breathing sounded labored through the phone.
Deborah smiled and tried to engage with him again. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I read it. It transforms everything. We have a story. You want me to read it out?’
Craig just stared at her.
‘Well, I’m gonna anyway.’ Deborah held the citation in front of her. ‘It says that despite being injured you fought off more than thirty paratroopers in a place called Máleme in Crete which you were trying to regain. You were part of a small group of reinforcements from the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders sent by the British Army to fight alongside the Australians and New Zealanders.’
‘Please stop.’
‘It says you were bleeding from a shoulder wound, but you stormed enemy positions. It also says you rescued an officer from New Zealand’s Second Division, Colonel James Beacon, who lay injured, and carried him to safety, on your back, after an ambush on German soldiers. Mr Craig, people need to know this. This is a citation to be proud of.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘It’s a citation for a Victoria Cross, Mr Craig. You’re a Second World War hero.’
Craig leaned forward, almost touching the Plexiglas. His eyes were cold; his face flushed purple as if it was ready to explode. ‘I’m no hero, Miss Jones. I’ve seen real heroes. You want to know what they look like? You ever seen a young man screaming for his wife, just before he died? Have you?’ Deborah shook her head.
‘I’m thankful. I knew many men like that. They were real heroes, all alone, thousands of miles from their homes.’ Craig closed his eyes. ‘Christ, I was just doing what I did. I was lucky, if you can call it that.’
‘You were given a Victoria Cross.’
‘Be precise, Miss Jones.’ His tone was harsh, like her father’s could be. ‘A citation for a VC is what I was given. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Let me get this straight. You got a citation for outstanding bravery, and nothing else? What about your medal?’
‘There is no medal. I turned it down.’
‘Why?’
‘I had my reasons.’
Craig’s obstinacy reminded Deborah again of her father. If she suggested he should stay inside as it was too hot, he’d go and sit in the Mississippi sun for hours. Infuriating. ‘Look, I’m trying to help you. Don’t keep me in the dark.’
He went quiet for several awkward moments, weighing up what he wanted to say. ‘Hundreds, maybe thousands of us many injured—were left behind on Crete. The officers, all upper-class Englishmen, made sure they got the hell off the island, back to Alexandria in Egypt.’
‘I’d no idea.’
‘Well, now you do. They boarded the ships before injured men… it was my understanding that no officer should ever leave an injured man to fend for himself, but that was what happened.’
‘You were just left to your own devices?’
Craig nodded. ‘Every day we’d look out at the sea hoping to spot British boats coming for us. They never did. We survived up there for years. Should’ve starved, by rights.’
Deborah scribbled down his comments with a rising sense of excitement. ‘So, how did you survive?’
‘Bully-beef army rations, handouts from the Cretans. They were the real heroes. Bravest people I ever met. Men, women and children. All the guys I fought with would say the same thing.’
‘So you refused the medal because you were abandoned on Crete?’
Deborah noticed a tremor in Craig’s left hand.
‘You’re holding out on me again, aren’t you? Please give me the full story.’
‘I saw things I don’t want to think about, okay?’
‘Mr Craig, please look at me.’
His piercing blue eyes had never looked sadder.
‘I want to know,’ Deborah said.
‘I didn’t even tell my wife, damn it.’
Deborah nodded and waited for him to continue. She’d read from court transcripts that he’d married his childhood sweetheart, Mary, in Belhaven Parish Church, Dunbar, in 1946, after being discharged from the army. They’d had three children, whom he had now outlived. Tragically, his wife had died in a car accident in June 1972.
‘We had no secrets. But I didn’t tell h
er what I saw.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I felt ashamed.’
‘Mr Craig, I want to write your story. I want to tell them what you did during the war.’
‘What use is it now? My life’s over.’
Deborah banged on the plastic. ‘No, it damn well isn’t!’
‘I’ve had enough of this.’ Craig got up to leave.
‘Please sit down, Mr Craig.’
He paused for a few moments, about to hang up. His eyes seethed with anger. Then he sat down slowly and readjusted his double grip on the phone.
‘Thanks. Did you know that your granddaughter tried to persuade newspaper editors in Florida to let people know about this? About your heroism? No one was interested.’
‘So what’s so different now?’
‘I’m interested. I care what happens to you. This guy that kept in touch with Jenny, I’m planning on speaking to him. If Joe O’Neill’s trial was a sham, it would put you in a strong position to be moved off the row. So, you wanna try and help me help you?’
‘How?’
‘Mr Craig, if you were the governor, would you send a war hero to his death around election time? So, tell me, what were you so ashamed of?’
Craig grimaced. ‘We watched a massacre, okay? Cretans mown down in cold blood. People who had baked us bread. Machine-gunned. It was payback for an attack we’d launched on the Germans. We couldn’t reach the village in time.’
Craig gritted his teeth, tears welling in his eyes. ‘It goes through my head every day. Why didn’t we intervene? Why didn’t we stand up and take some of them out?’
‘Would you have saved the village?’
Craig shook his head. ‘No. And after all that, they wanted to give me a medal. Would you have accepted one?’