True Crime Fiction

by Michael Lister

  “That may be,” Ida says, “but whether they bad and intentionally doin’ wrong or sloppy or lazy and blind to what’s out of the ordinary . . . comes to the same thing for the poor soul like Qwon whose life is stolen from them.”

  I nod. “Yes it does. There’s no difference for them.”

  “So how can you defend them?” Kathryn says.

  “I wasn’t.”

  “But—”

  “Think about how many lawyers do things that adversely affect their clients. I’m sure you have done it more than you’d like. How many of y’all do it on purpose?”

  She smiles then frowns and nods. “I see what you’re saying.”

  “If Justice killed Angel or helped Jessica do it, it makes sense that his cellphone records would match his testimony, but why would Qwon’s?”

  “I truly can’t answer that,” Kathryn says. “If I could, Qwon probably wouldn’t be in prison right now, but I know that he couldn’t have done it, because like the rest of our group, I saw him when he was supposed to be doing it. And remember not only did he pass three different lie detector tests, but everyone in our group did too.”

  “Y’all were tested too?” Anna says.

  Kathryn nods. “In all this time, the only thing I’ve been able to come up with is coincidence. Maybe it was just an unlucky coincidence that they matched.”

  “That would make Qwon one of the unluckiest people to ever live,” Anna says.

  “Maybe he is,” Ida says. “Maybe he is. Somebody gotta be.”

  170

  “I’m going back to Atlanta tomorrow,” Ida says, “so I’m really glad we doin’ this.”

  This that we’re doing is having a drink at the 22 Bar.

  “Me too,” I say.

  The four of us are seated at one of the small round tables between the bar and the stage sipping on our drinks.

  We’re here because Anna, sensing all four of us could use some fun and Ida and I could benefit from more time together in relaxed setting, suggested it after checking to see if our babysitter was available.

  “I’m gonna miss you,” Kathryn says.

  “I’a be back when they let that boy up out of confinement and we can actually visit him.”

  “Maybe we’ll be closer to getting him out by then,” Kathryn says.

  Anna looks at me and smiles. Kathryn sees her.

  “I know it won’t happen that fast,” Kathryn adds, “but . . . I’m just really encouraged y’all are helpin’ us with it.”

  “We’re happy to be helping,” Anna says.

  The bar, which will always be the 22 bar or simply 22 to us, is actually now the Saltshaker Lounge. Under new ownership and management, it has been remodeled and is one of the nicest and best roadside bars I’ve ever been in—and my favorite since the Fiesta in downtown Panama City closed.

  Nearly every weekend 22 now has entertainment of some sort, mostly the live music of bar bands, but occasionally, like tonight, karaoke, which means we get to hear Kathryn sing.

  “You picked out a song yet?” I ask Kathryn.

  “We just got here.”

  “Yeah,” Anna says, “but if you sing as good as Miss Ida says, we want to hear you a few times.”

  “Do you take requests?” I ask.

  “What song is it you want to hear?” she asks in her best Ronnie Van Zant.

  “One of his favorites is Wrecking Ball by Emmylou Harris,” Anna says.

  “Never seen a karaoke version of that,” she says, “but it shows great taste.”

  “Anything at all Jann Arden,” I say.

  She nods her approval. “But I doubt they’ll have anything.”

  “You’re probably right,” I say.

  “So what’re you gonna do?” Anna asks.

  “Give me a minute,” she says, and begins to look around the bar—both at the people and the decor. “I’ll come up with something that’ll fit this place. Something . . . classic and . . . country.”

  “This is nice,” I say to Anna. “Thanks for suggesting it.”

  “I’ve got it,” Kathryn says, jumping up from her seat and heading toward the stage.

  After a short discussion with the Karaoke DJ, she takes the stage and removes the mic from the stand.

  “I want to dedicate this to my new favorite couple,” she says, “John and Anna.”

  All the regulars who know us look over and clap, a few of the women saying, “That’s so sweet.”

  As soon as it starts, I can’t help but smile. She did it. She picked the perfect song.

  Standing, I reach out and take Anna’s hand. “May I?”

  We’re the first couple on the dance floor, but in no time at all we’re surrounded by other couples.

  “Wow,” Anna says. “She can really sing.”

  “She’s got some pipes,” I say, and pull her even closer to me. “Have I mentioned how much I love dancing with you?”

  She smiles and nods. “A time or two.”

  “At the risk of being redundant, let me just say I love dancing with you.”

  “I love how sweet you are to me,” she says, and kisses me.

  The perfect song Kathryn selected, the one we’re dancing to right now—along with nearly every other couple in the bar—is I Will Always Love You, and she performs it with the sweetness and sincerity of Dolly and the quality and range of Whitney, closing her eyes as she does.

  When she finishes she receives the most enthusiastic ovation I’ve ever witnessed out here, and as she sits her eyes are moist.

  “That was incredible,” Anna says.

  “Told y’all the girl could sing, didn’t I?” Ida says.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Kathryn.

  She nods. “Just a little emotional. It’s always there, just under the surface. Comes out if I sing the right song.”

  “It was certainly that,” Anna says. “Great choice. And thanks for dedicating it to us. So sweet.”

  She nods and gives her a small smile, but her eyes are sad.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Anna asks.

  She nods again. “Just feel a little guilty. It’s hard to ever really relax or enjoy myself knowing Qwon is locked in a box.”

  Ida nods. “Know what you mean,” she says. “I get it. I truly do, but . . . you got to live while you’re working on freeing him. Got to. He would. And he’d want you to. Trust me. I struggle with the same feelings about my little Lamarcus.”

  “You’re right. I know you are. I’m not usually this . . . maudlin. I think it’s . . . I honestly think it’s because for the first time I . . . I’m allowing myself to be, to feel . . . a little hope.”

  “Speaking of my boy,” Ida says, looking at me. “It’s time you let all that go. No tellin’ how many lives you saved by what you did. You didn’t cost me or anybody else anything. You freed us. Helped us when nobody else would. I owe you more than I can ever repay, so I better not hear anything about you feelin’ guilty or sad or owin’ anything where I’m concerned, you hear? Anna’s gonna let me know, aren’t you sugar?”

  “I am,” Anna says.

  “That bad business on Memorial Drive,” Ida says. “Out in Conyers. You . . . you . . . what you did . . . We all owe you. You don’t owe me or anybody else in Atlanta nothin’.”

  “If you really think you owe me,” I say, “you can repay it all right now.”

  “Name it, boy.”

  “Dance with me.”

  She smiles. “I’d be honored to, son.” She then looks over at Kathryn. “Sing somethin’ good we can dance to.”

  “I know just the thing.”

  A few moments later, Ida Williams and I are dancing to Kathryn’s inspired version of Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World, in Wewahitchka over thirty years after we met in Atlanta. Wayne Williams is still alive. Lamarcus and all the other child victims of Atlanta are still dead. Somehow we’re still here. And in spite of it all it really is a wonderful world, a wonderful, beautiful life—even more so now that she has lift
ed some of the unseen burden of guilt and regret I’ve borne all this time. There’s still loss and pain and always will be, but even that has been eased a bit, too.

  “Listen to me, boy,” she says. “Acqwon ain’t your responsibility. You work it, don’t work it, don’t matter. Solve it, don’t solve it, don’t matter. Understand?”

  I nod.

  “I mean it. I asked a lot of you back when you’s a kid. Didn’t realize how much at the time—how much I was asking or how much a kid you was. Didn’t act like a kid, that’s for sure. Never intended to ask you for anything again. Never figured we’d cross paths again, ’specially not in some tiny town in the middle of nowhere Florida, so when I saw you, saw that you’s the chaplain where Qwon was, I thought it was a sign, an answer to my prayers. Didn’t stop to think about what I was askin’ of you again. Guess who ain’t changed in thirty years? Thing is . . . you need to know, you don’t have to look into it any further, but if you do and you find out that somehow Qwon really did it, it’s okay. It’s all okay. Everything is okay. Okay?”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  She smiles. It’s a great smile. And this time a hint of it reaches her eyes.

  “I understand it’s okay if I don’t investigate the case, but if it’s okay with you I’m going to. I’m going to find out who killed Angel and why—even if it’s Qwon. But especially if it’s not. If he didn’t do it, I’m gonna find who has let him sit in prison his entire adult life and see about getting them to swap places with him.”

  171

  The next morning, I drive to Panama City to meet with Qwon and Angel’s parents. On my way I take Johanna to meet Susan.

  “How was your weekend?” I ask.

  “Best I’ve had in a long time,” she says.

  Her appearance corroborates her statement. She looks far more relaxed and rested, her mood is lighter, her eyes brighter, her countenance happier, not as harsh and hard.

  “I wound up going to the songwriters festival,” she adds. “It was incredible. Heard some great music, made some new friends, met someone.”

  She is wearing a new sundress and sandals and looks like she’s on vacation.

  “That’s great,” I say. “I’m so glad it was so good.”

  Since she’s taking Highway 231 home, we meet at Coram’s in Bayou George for breakfast—the same diner Justice Witney claims he and Qwon came to after they cremated Angel’s body.

  “How was this little angel’s weekend?” Susan asks, looking from me to Johanna, who sits beside me in the booth. “Did you have a good time, honey?”

  Johanna nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What all’d you do?”

  “Played . . . and cooked . . . and painted . . . and colored . . . and went camping.”

  “Camping?” Susan asks.

  I smile. “We had a picnic at the campground.”

  “Sounds like we all had a good weekend,” she says.

  I nod.

  As Johanna eats her pancakes, Susan and I mostly pick at our food.

  “I’ve been a bit lost lately,” Susan says. “Nothin’ . . . major . . . just sad and out of sorts. I really needed to get away and regain some perspective. This weekend helped me do that. Life is . . . so, so short. I really haven’t been living, just . . . sort of surviving. And I don’t want to live like that. Thing is . . . and don’t get your hopes up too much, ’cause it’d take a lot of doin’ . . . but . . . I miss Florida. Like the pace and size and lifestyle here. But I’ve been limiting myself to Tallahassee and, well, I don’t want to live in the same town as my parents. Anyway, I’m gonna look into maybe relocating to 30A or Panama City Beach. Like I say don’t get your hopes up.”

  “How could I not?” I say. “That would be . . . so great.”

  I hope this isn’t just because of meeting someone this weekend or the false sense of utopian feelings a visit to a great place can give you, but no matter the reason, the thought of having Johanna closer is causing my heart to do backflips and cartwheels.

  “Anything I can do to help or . . . anything, just let me know,” I say.

  “I love Atlanta,” she says. “I do, but . . . there’s just something about . . . this area that . . .”

  “It’s home,” I say.

  Her eyes and mouth narrow and she nods slowly, contemplatively. “Yes it is. Always will be. And it would make a better home for our little pancake-eating angel than where we are now. It’s safer . . .”

  I know she’s right, but given where we are and what she calls out daughter, I can’t help but think of Angel Diaz and what happened to her—or Justin Menge and what Susan’s own father had done to him. But she’s right. It is safer and the thought of having Johanna closer has energy jangling through my body.

  “I know 30A would be astronomical,” Susan says, “but don’t worry. I know you can’t possibly pay any more child support than you already are. The thing is . . . my Aunt Margaret is dying and she’s leaving everything to me, which is . . . will be quite a bit, so . . .”

  At one time I was closer to Margaret than I was Susan. For a dark, difficult time in my life, Margaret had been the bartender who heard my confessions and kept me anesthetized. She had also been the one to set me up with Susan. She stopped speaking to me after our first divorce. After our second I was dead to her.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” I say. “So sorry. I’ve missed Margaret for so long now. Seems like I’ve already mourned the loss of her a long time ago, but . . . this . . .”

  “I know. Thank you.”

  “She won’t want it,” I say, “but please give her my love. And let me know if I can do anything for you.”

  172

  After getting Susan and Johanna on the road, I drive back into town, down 23rd Street to Airport Road, to the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Bay County.

  Sunday in the South means church for a huge swath of the population. Ironically, it has never really meant that for me. I say ironically because as a chaplain, a spiritual person and student of religion, I’ve never been a churchgoer or had much use for organized religion. But that’s just another way in which I’m out of step with the culture I’m surrounded by—the culture of God, Guns, and Guts, of Chic-Fil-A being closed on what the Baptist founder of the company considers the Sabbath, of church being the primary social outlet, organizer, and moral and political center.

  Both Acqwon and Angel’s parents attend UU and have agreed to meet me here following their service.

  UU comes from the historical affirmation of the unity of God (Unitarian) and the belief in the universal salvation of all souls (Universalist). It’s an open and open-minded group of unity within diversity which affirms the supreme worth of all persons. As a religion, it is bound by neither creed nor dogma, and attempts to honor and celebrate the right of individual thought, joined in shared concern and respect for everyone as they seek their own spiritual path wherever it may lead.

  The UU of Bay County meets in a small converted house on a beautiful wooded lot with a pond not far from the old Panama City airport.

  In the Deep Red State Conservative Republican South, a liberal religion like UU is going to inevitably be small—smaller even than the popup storefront fringe Pentecostal churches that dot the strip mall landscape and, in an area like this, aren’t actually fringe at all.

  The five of us—me, Henry and Mary Elizabeth Lewis, and Buck and Kay Diaz—sit at a wooden picnic table between the small house church and the small pond beneath the shade of oak and pine trees.

  The couples are dressed casually and seem very comfortable with themselves and each other.

  “I’m Kathryn’s mom and Qwon’s stepmom,” Mary Elizabeth says. “This is my husband and Qwon’s father, Henry.”

  I shake hands with them.

  Henry Aaron Lewis is a tall, thick black man with huge hands and an implacable face. His wife, Mary Elizabeth, is an attractive older white woman with long gray-blond hair and kind blue eyes.

  “We’re Angel’s
folks,” Buck Diaz says. “I’m Buck and this is my wife Kay.”

  Buck has dark hair going gray, a dark orangish complexion and mustache. His wife, Kay, has pale white skin, green eyes, and bottle black hair.

  The four broken but resilient people appear to be in their late fifties to mid sixties with Kay being the youngest among them.

  “We’re meeting with you together,” Kay says, “to present a united front. We, all four of us, believe that Qwon is innocent and that whatever really happened to our daughter and whoever really did it is unknown.”

  I nod.

  “Kathryn says you’re our best hope of finding that out,” Mary Elizabeth says.

  “A lot of smart people are working on it,” I say. “We’re all gonna do all we can.”

  “My son wouldn’t kill anyone,” Henry says, “and he’s never hurt Angel in any way whatsoever.”

  “We believe that too,” Buck says. “He was a very fine boy and now he’s a good man.”

  “We never believed it was him,” Kay adds, “not for a second. Even before he passed all the polygraphs and we learned what a bad guy the witness against him was. Just never did.”

  “And we appreciate that more than you’ll ever know,” Mary Elizabeth says.

  “We know that sorry ass Justice Witney is lying,” Henry says. “We just hoping somebody will be able to finally be able to tell us why the cellphone evidence lines up with what his lying ass said.”

  “We get why he knew where the car was,” Kay says. “Only one explanation. He was involved, but the cellphone evidence . . . that’s more . . . problematic.”

  “I heard recently of another case,” Mary Elizabeth says, “where all the cellphone evidence was thrown out because it was no good. Think it was outgoing calls are unreliable, only incoming calls can be used to determine a location. Something like that. Maybe that’s what happened here.”

  “We’ll certainly look into that,” I say.

  “You should also look into all the evidence the police ignored or conveniently lost,” Kay says. “They took Angel’s computer, but we never heard of anything they found on it that might be helpful. They never really properly processed her car or its contents. Found fingerprints that didn’t match Qwon or Angel, but never found out who they did belong to.”