by J. B. Turner
He wanted Craig to be held to account, but he didn’t know if he had the stomach for the fight. The stomach to get him executed. Especially now.
He pulled out his laptop, logged on and checked his e-mail. The CIA wanted him to review his security arrangements for the fourth time in the wake of 9/11.
Maybe if they’d done their job in the first place, 9/11 would never have happened.
O’Neill logged off and checked the voicemail on his cell phone.
Damn. Everyone wanted to know what he thought of Craig being a war hero. He remembered what Lomax had said.
His cell phone went off and he picked up, expecting to hear Condoleezza’s nasal drawl. The voice was from Brooklyn. ‘It’s Richmond.’
‘You read the Herald?’
‘I’m sorry, Jack. Listen, I’ve been doing some digging on this Deborah Jones, and—’
‘Forget it. I’ve already had to tell off Hal for the same thing.’
‘Whether you like it or not, you can’t sit on your ass until this gets out of control. You need to get a grip of the situation.’
O’Neill didn’t want to listen to the old man anymore. It was true that he was closer to Richmond than anyone, even Lomax. But the thought of prying into someone’s personal life always left him cold. It wasn’t the America he believed in.
‘I’ve made a couple of calls already. She was born and bred in Jackson, Mississippi. Middle-class black background. Parents still live there.’ Richmond paused for a moment. ‘Did you know what happened to her in San Francisco?’
‘Yes.’
Richmond ignored him. ‘You’ll like this, though. Turns out her father was a big shot in the civil-rights marches. Close friend of Dr King. Leading light in the NAACP.’
O’Neill felt a knot of tension in his back. He doubted whether all this trawling through a person’s life would be helpful. It might even complicate matters if Deborah Jones’s father got the blacks on Craig’s side. He noticed the chauffeur glance in his mirror. He smiled back at O’Neill but looked away immediately as though he knew that he shouldn’t eyeball his boss.
O’Neill said, ‘Have you finished?’
‘She’s got an upscale condo in Miami Beach. Which raises the question, how can she afford that on a reporter’s salary?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not interested.’
‘She settled out of court with the two boys who raped her. A million bucks ended up in her account at a bank in Orlando eighteen months ago. One of the boy’s fathers is a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, and he paid up. So now we know why she was so keen to interview Craig. But it also leaves her vulnerable.’
‘Richmond, do me a favor, and leave all that muckraking to some sleazy private investigators. That’s not the way I do business.’
‘Jack, you need to know everything about her. She has initiated this story, and we need to discredit her. You need to know what she eats for breakfast, about her boyfriends, lovers, her habits, what drugs she takes. Do you know she’s a jigaboo?’
O’Neill ignored the racist jibe. The traffic was moving again and the concrete monstrosity that was the Hart Senate Office Building came into view. Armed guards swarmed all over the place. Another damned security alert. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘It’s got to do with your survival. This girl has somehow opened up the story, after all this time. Do you think she’ll be content with that?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You can bet your ass she won’t.’
O’Neill shook another cigarette out of the packet and lit up.
‘I think this reporter could give us problems.’
O’Neill dragged hard on his cigarette and smoke filled the car again. ‘Look, I’ve got my hands full with the election coming up. Gimme a break, okay?’
‘Jack, we’re keeping an eye on the situation. I just thought you should know.’ Richmond’s tone was ominous.
O’Neill hung up, wishing the whole mess would just go away.
10
Early in the evening—on the day the story made headlines across America—Deborah gazed out of the window beside her desk as a burnt-orange sunset enveloped downtown Miami. She was drained by the excitement of her first real scoop. She imagined William Craig, stuck in his stifling cell. All she could hope for was that her article would give the authorities something to think about. Perhaps they might even move him off death row.
Her mother had called from Jackson just after six to congratulate her. She said that she and Deborah’s father were ‘real proud’ of their daughter. Deborah wanted to talk to her father, but her mother said he was busy, which meant he didn’t want to speak to her.
Her phone rang and she heard a familiar drawl. ‘Hi, Deborah. It’s Brett.’
His voice reminded her of the first time she’d met him. He’d been captain of the college football team, she a reporter for the student newspaper. He was tough, tall and funny. He was also very shy. And she’d liked that. ‘What do you want?’
‘I read your story,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to say congratulations. Helluva good job.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So, how do you like the big city?’
‘Suits me fine.’
Brett cleared his throat. ‘I moved to a little place on the Gulf Coast. Beautiful part of the world.’
‘How very nice.’
‘Look, I don’t want to fight.’ He paused. ‘Guess you’re wondering why I’ve waited so long to contact you?’
‘Not really.’
‘Deborah, I just wanted to say I’m real sorry. I’m an asshole, okay?’
‘Amen to that.’
‘I couldn’t handle it. I wanted to forget it happened.’
Deborah’s throat tightened. ‘You left me alone. I needed you. Any idea how that feels?’
‘I can imagine.’
‘No, you can’t.’
A silence opened up between them as Deborah remembered the day she had returned from work at the Orlando Sentinel to see the note from Brett attached by a Mickey Mouse magnet on their fridge. How could he? Did the beautiful walks among the redwoods on the coast not mean anything? The great concerts? The glasses of wine, watching the sunset over the Golden Gate Bridge? The plans for their future. Children.
‘Deborah, you wanna know why I left?’
She stayed quiet.
‘Look, it’s difficult to explain, but these were my so-called friends. I felt responsible. But… but, more than anything, I couldn’t bear to think of anyone, let alone people I trusted as friends, doing such things to you. Bottom line? I couldn’t live with myself because I failed to protect you. But I never stopped loving you.’
‘I’ve moved on, Brett.’
‘So have I. Look, I’m working out of a few places on the Gulf Coast.’
‘Doing what?’
Brett paused for a few moments. ‘I joined the FBI about a year ago. I found I wasn’t interested in just sitting in an office all day, working as a lawyer. I wanted to do something useful.’
‘Is joining the Feds supposed to be cathartic or something?’
‘Gimme a break, Deborah. Look, I know I let you down. I let myself down. Perhaps you’re right, maybe it is cathartic.’
‘Can’t really imagine you carrying a firearm.’
‘Neither could I, until I went to Quantico.’
Deborah leaned back in her seat and wondered if he could be a potential source. She knew it was mercenary. But she was thinking of her job and her future. She tried to sound interested in his new career. ‘Quantico?’
‘The big time. I enrolled as a trainee special agent, and did the standard eighteen-week course—firearms training, physical fitness, defensive strategies, that kind of thing, not to mention law. Guess what? I aced it all. Top of my class. Now I’m a Special Agent of the FBI.’
Deborah couldn’t resist probing. ‘You wanna t
ell me what you’re working on now?’
‘Come on, Deborah, that’s not fair.’
Deborah glanced up at the clock, which now showed 7:15 P.M. She was due for soccer practice in South Miami in under an hour. ‘Brett, you mind telling me what you want?’
‘I’d like to meet up again.’
Deborah drew in a sharp breath. This was what she had feared. Feared and prayed for. ‘I’m real busy.’
Brett went quiet for a few moments. Then he spoke in a gentle voice. ‘I knew you’d do it. I’m real proud of you. Mom and Dad called me to say they’d read your story as well.’
He didn’t have to tell her what nice people they were. Deborah’s throat tightened. ‘Thank you.’
‘Deborah, I’m not gonna push this, but I sure as hell’d like to give us another chance. Guess that’s all I wanted to say.’
She so wanted him to hold her. Just to say he loved her and say it like he meant it. She imagined his muscular arms and his soft lips.
Damn.
He’d gone and done it to her again. It was as if he expected she’d be at her most vulnerable. Truth was, she wasn’t. The past forty-eight hours had been a nightmare now that the fact of her rape was no longer a deeply private thing. The knowledge had plunged her back into those terrible memories. She wasn’t sleeping. Even the enthusiastic feedback throughout the day about her story from her colleagues and friends didn’t lift her spirits.
Why wasn’t she more angry with Brett? By rights, she should tell him to go to hell. Deborah had suffered the agonies of intensive therapy sessions and bleak loneliness as she’d struggled to cope, without his support. Her girlfriends in Orlando had told her that she was better off without him, but that wasn’t true. They were just trying to make her feel better. You’ll find another man, they’d said. She wasn’t interested in another. She’d had one. He’d left.
But the sound of his voice had revived all the sadness within her. The memories.
She remembered the look of anguish when Brett saw her in the hospital in San Francisco after her rape. The hurt in his eyes made her cry. She never wanted to see hurt like that again. And that’s what she could never understand. How could he leave her, a few months later, in Orlando? How could the handsome young man she loved turn away from her, leaving a note for her to read after work? He knew how she was struggling to cope with the nightmares, pills and flashbacks.
‘Brett, I gotta go.’
‘I understand. Can I phone you again?’ There was a tension in his voice.
‘I don’t know, I’m kind of mixed up and swamped with work and phone calls…’ She was silent for a few seconds, wishing he’d say something to keep her on the line. Instead, she hung up.
Deborah buried her head in her hands and felt the ache of all the desperate months she’d endured rise to the surface. The emotion started deep down in her stomach. It made its way up through her chest, and then her throat, until she sobbed like a little girl, alone at her desk.
11
Thirty minutes later, after a short, tearful drive across the city, Deborah had swapped mental turmoil for physical pain. Her heart pounded and sweat poured down her face as she and thirteen other girls weaved in and out of traffic cones under the floodlights of the soccer field at Palmer Park. Everyone’s expressions were etched with pain as they gasped for breath, but skipping training was not an option.
On the sidelines, wearing a red Adidas tracksuit and matching sneakers, was Deborah’s best friend in the city, Faith King. She was a small black woman who coached them. ‘Let’s pick it up, girls,’ she bawled, hands on hips. ‘You’ve got to love the pain, y’hear?’
Deborah had joined the Overtown Women’s Soccer Team—a motley collection of former hookers, junkies and other hard-luck stories—about four months ago after she had written an uplifting article on the team. Faith invited her to fill the vacant center-forward role until someone suitable turned up, but no one had. And so was born Deborah’s friendship with the girls who’d grown up in Miami’s crime-ridden Overtown, some of them in the notorious housing projects, now demolished, around NW 3rd Avenue.
Deborah sucked in the air hard as she underwent another weaving sprint among the cones, but felt good that Faith was so near at hand. In the past, she’d confided in her about work, her family back in Jackson whom she missed and, most of all, about the recurring nightmares. She even told Faith that she kept the bedroom lights on, scared of going to sleep.
On the surface they had nothing in common, but Faith became a great shoulder to cry on, as did Deborah for her. Faith let her into a horrible secret she kept from most people. She’d been raped as well. Not at some fancy college, but in her grandmother’s bathroom by her uncle. That link brought them even closer together. Like sisters.
Deborah saw that through the team and soccer, Faith—like a lot of the girls—could work out her simmering anger and sense of hopelessness. More importantly, it was also an environment in which she didn’t feel threatened by men.
Faith’s husband had deserted her. To feed and clothe her five children, the easy thing to do would have been to start turning tricks—like many of the women around her—in the sleazy Miami Beach hotels. But she wouldn’t sink that low.
Faith wanted her children to respect her and be proud that their mother worked for a living. So she endured double shifts waiting tables at two different restaurants, one for breakfast/lunch and the other for dinner, and juggled the two jobs for years. It wasn’t easy, but at least she slept well at night knowing her kids were growing up with the same values her own mother had instilled in her. Work hard, respect yourself, respect others, and never, ever turn your back on the needy.
Deborah, despite coming from a more affluent and stable background—private school, loving parents, the works—tapped into the dignity and determination of the team, especially Faith, who was now a full-time community soccer coach. The rest of the girls had cleaned up their acts, ridding themselves of drugs and the prostitution rings that had ensnared them for so many wasted years. That was one of the team’s hard and fast rules—no drugs, no vice, just soccer and Bud Ice.
Some of the players had gotten educations, some had started small businesses, one had even entered Miami politics, but they all found the camaraderie and spirit of their soccer team an inspiration.
Initially, there were some reservations from a couple of the girls about Deborah’s suitability. One said that she didn’t meet the criteria for the team—namely, being from Overtown while another thought she was ‘slumming it’ to look cool.
Faith, being so respected, won them over and Deborah stayed. Since then, she’d become the star player and turned up religiously every Tuesday night for training and every Saturday morning for the game. She even babysat Faith’s kids when Faith needed a few hours to herself.
After the sweat-drenched training session, Faith shook Deborah’s hand, patting her on the back. ‘Good work, girl,’ she said. ‘Surprised you managed to drag your bony ass down to see us tonight, especially after the big licks that story of yours got.’
‘Gimme a break, Faith,’ Deborah said, turning to give her a playful kick up the backside. ‘And less of the bony.’
Faith laughed, but she seemed to sense that Deborah was more preoccupied than usual.
Half an hour later, the girls knocked back the beers as they watched English soccer on the big screen.
Deborah sat beside Faith in a quiet corner. The rest of the team crowded round Big Marcia who was cheering on her favorite team, Liverpool. Deborah pretended to watch the match, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Her story on Craig, Brett’s call, the rape being water-cooler fodder.
Faith, as if sensing how she felt, turned to her. ‘You gonna tell me what’s on your mind?’
Deborah sipped her drink and smiled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know, you seem kinda edgy tonight. Thought you’d be on top
of the world after that article of yours about that old white guy on death row.’
‘I am.’
‘So?’
Deborah sighed and bit her lower lip. ‘I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’
Faith wasn’t stupid. She leaned closer and Deborah smelled a new perfume. ‘Hello? Deborah, it’s Faith you’re talking to. If you can’t confide in me, who can you confide in?’
Deborah stared into her drink, not wishing to go into details.
‘Don’t keep it in. It’s not good for you. Just let old Faith know what’s the problem.’
‘My boss knows about me being raped.’
Faith closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, honey. How did that happen?’
‘He just mentioned it out of the blue a couple of days ago. I’d rather have cut off my arms than have him know. I feel like I’ve been violated all over again.’
‘You have. So how did he find out?’
‘Senator O’Neill’s media adviser dropped it into a conversation with one of my colleagues, during a lunch. She reported back to my boss.’
‘Shit. How did O’Neill find out?’
Deborah took a sip of her drink. ‘Who knows? He’s a very powerful guy. Many connections. Probably pissed that I found out something positive about the guy who killed his son. Maybe he feels threatened, and wants to undermine me or my confidence.’
‘And has it?’
‘What do you think? Faith, I never thought people would stoop so low.’
A great roar erupted from Marcia and the rest of the girls as Liverpool scored.
Faith leaned closer. ‘Listen to me. You’re a great reporter and a great person. Don’t let those bastards get you down.’
Deborah looked at Faith. ‘It’s brought everything back. Not only that, I’m imagining that people are following me again.’
‘Girl, you need to get some counseling, you hear me?’
‘I thought I’d got over it all. Damn. Miami was supposed to be the new start for me. Now look at me.’
Faith touched her hand, which held a glass of Diet Coke. ‘How many times have I told you? You’ve got to open up. I’m here for you. Any time you want to speak about that or anything, you’ve got my number. Night or day, honey. You understand?’