A Death in Live Oak

by James Grippando

  Highsmith ended the call and tossed the phone onto the leather seat next to him. His associate brought him a scotch on the rocks and placed it on the armrest. Highsmith raised an eyebrow, which sent Quinton running for a napkin.

  “So sorry,” he said upon his quick return.

  Highsmith sipped his scotch, as his associate wiped the beads of condensation from the gold-plated trim on the armrest.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jack moved quickly through the Theta house. The officer at the bottom of the main staircase produced a second warrant for the search already under way upstairs. Jack read it and immediately called Tucker.

  “I need you to make a list of every store between here and the Ichetucknee River that sells eight-cord, three-quarter inch, yellow nylon rope.”

  “Is that what they’re searching the house for?” asked Tucker.

  “Just Mark’s car. The house warrant is limited to computers—Mark’s, Baine’s, and Cooper’s.”

  “Why not the rope?”

  “Because we’re obviously dealing with a savvy prosecutor. If they find rope in Mark’s car and it matches the murder weapon, it’s a home run. But if they search the entire house and find nothing, that would give the defense something to crow about. It’s a calculated risk on the part of the state attorney.”

  A young man called to him—“Mr Swyteck?”—from the top stair. Jack ended the call with Tucker and headed up. It was Mark’s friend Cooper Bartlett.

  “They just finished in my room,” he told Jack.

  “Is your lawyer here?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “You need one.”

  “I know,” said Cooper. “My parents are divorced, and my dad says if I need money for a lawyer, I should sell my car. You don’t happen to know an attorney who wants an eight-year-old Miata with eighty thousand miles, do you?”

  What kind of father . . . Jack began to wonder, then stopped. He’d seen even bigger deadbeats. “Cooper, you need a lawyer right away.”

  “My mom’s working on it.”

  “Where is Baine?”

  “In his room. With his lawyer.”

  Jack had called Leonard Oden on the drive back from Live Oak but received no reply. He was eager to meet him—and not just to get some clarity as to his position on Baine’s polygraph examination. He continued down the hallway, where another officer was posted outside the open door to Baine’s room. Jack introduced himself to the officer, which drew Baine and his attorney out of the room. Jack’s mouth opened, but his words were on a several-second delay.

  “Leonard Oden,” the lawyer said, as he handed Jack a business card. “And yeah, dude: I’m black.”

  Jack felt a tinge of embarrassment, but Oden seemed to have anticipated his surprise. Jack hoped he had a sense of humor. “Jack Swyteck. And no, dude: I’m not.”

  That drew a hint of a smile.

  A hallway, in the presence of a Gainesville police officer, was no place to talk further. Oden ducked back into his client’s room to oversee the search. Fifteen minutes later, Jack did the same in his client’s room. By then, Cooper Bartlett’s lawyer had shown up. The three attorneys met in the study, which—if cleanliness was any indicator—was the least used room in the fraternity.

  Oden struck Jack as more than capable, a former public defender whose practice was entirely criminal defense. Cooper’s lawyer, however, gave Jack concern. Edward Post called himself a “trial lawyer,” which in the legal lexicon could mean anything from Clarence Darrow to “the parking ticket repairman.” Two minutes into the meeting, Jack was leaning toward the latter.

  “You need to fight this expulsion,” said Post. “The university can’t make it stick.”

  Jack would have liked to focus the discussion on the lynching, but the lawyers were still in the getting-to-know-each-other stage. Talking about the text from Mark’s phone was like dipping the big toe into cold river water, testing things out.

  “It’s a preponderance of the evidence standard,” said Jack. “If the conduct committee finds it more likely than not that Mark sent the text, the expulsion stands.”

  Post looked at Jack as if the guy from Miami just didn’t get it. “It’s constitutional law one-oh-one.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Let me give you a little history,” said Post. “September twenty-six, two thousand thirteen. Around one-thirty a.m., a black female student walks past UF’s oldest and biggest fraternity. One of the frat boys sitting on the front porch yells out racial, sexually charged insults. What punishment do you think the university handed down?”

  “Something less than expulsion, if I take your drift,” said Jack.

  “Cultural education,” said Post. “The dean of students told the Gainesville Sun that as reprehensible as the behavior was, it is protected by the First Amendment as free speech, so it would be illegal to punish him.”

  “That’s different,” said Jack. “Threatening to kill someone is never protected speech. Threatening to lynch a man because he’s black is even worse. It’s a hate crime under Florida law—a first-degree felony. We’re talking mandatory prison time. Mark’s defense is that he didn’t send the text. Not that it was his constitutional right to send it.”

  Oden agreed. “And Mark also has the football factor working against him.”

  “The football factor?” asked Jack.

  “President Waterston announced the expulsion less than thirty minutes after Devon Claiborne tweeted that his father wants him to de-commit from UF.”

  “Who’s Devon Claiborne?” asked Jack.

  “Senior at Booker T. high school. Number one quarterback in the nation.”

  “What does that have to do with the expulsion hearing?”

  “Everything,” said Oden. “If you win that hearing, UF loses a future Heisman candidate who can deliver this university its first national championship since Urban Meyer was head coach. I don’t care how many constitutional rights you try to wrap around your client. There’s only one top recruit in the nation. Only one Devon.”

  “So, you’re saying—”

  “I’m saying Mark Towson doesn’t have a prayer.”

  It sounded too cynical, but it had Jack thinking. “I hope you’re wrong.”

  The discussion turned to the search warrants. Seizure of the computers was not unexpected, and they agreed that virtually anybody could have yellow nylon rope in his car or garage—or his fraternity. Still, it wouldn’t be a good thing if the search turned up rope that matched the one used in the lynching. The situation was still too fluid for Jack to talk freely, however, and each lawyer was understandably guarded in his remarks, except to say that his client had nothing to do with the murder of Jamal Cousin. Cooper’s lawyer checked his watch repeatedly and left the meeting precisely at the top of the hour. Jack surmised that Cooper’s deadbeat dad had agreed to pay for one hour of attorney time, not a minute more. The door closed, and Jack turned the conversation to something he’d been waiting since his meeting with the state attorney to discuss alone with Baine’s lawyer.

  “Oliver Boalt wanted Mark to submit to a polygraph,” said Jack. “I told him no, but he said you and Baine were considering it.”

  Oden burst into laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Jack.

  “Jack, I never said anything to Oliver Boalt about a polygraph. That never even came up.”

  The chant of demonstrators outside the house grew louder—TPO must go! Jack spoke over it. “So Boalt lied to me?”

  “Why are you so surprised? This can’t be your first rodeo with a country lawyer.”

  “Far from it.”

  “Boalt took a big bite out of your big-city attitude, chewed that shit up, and spit in your face. Politely, of course. It’s the ‘aw-shucks’ good ol’ boy style. They’re all the same.”

  “No, they’re not,” said Jack.

  Oden removed his eyeglasses, as if Jack needed a better look at his face. “They are if you look like me.”r />
  Jack didn’t have an immediate response, and Oden didn’t wait for one. He rose and shook Jack’s hand. “Looking forward to working beside you, Jack. This is gonna be . . . interesting.”

  “Yeah,” said Jack. “Good word for it.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Jack expected a funereal atmosphere inside the Towson home. Instead, he found Mark’s father almost bouncing off the walls with renewed energy.

  “Jack, so glad you’re back,” Tucker said, as he took him by the arm and led him inside. “I want you to meet Candace.”

  “Candace who?” asked Jack.

  “Candace Holder,” she said, as she emerged from the kitchen. Holder was a tall, well-dressed African American woman who looked like she’d just stepped off a news set. “President and founder of Holder Images and Media Relations.”

  “You hired a PR firm?” asked Jack.

  “Course not,” Tucker said with a chuckle. “I could never afford Candace.”

  “I’m here to give Tucker a few tips,” she said. “Tucker and I worked together in the governor’s office. I was communications director for your father during his first term.”

  The first term—when Jack was at the Freedom Institute and Harry Swyteck was signing more death warrants than any governor in Florida history. The dark days when Jack and his father weren’t speaking.

  Elizabeth stepped out of the master bedroom, then stopped and turned like an awkward runway model. Holder raised an eyebrow in disapproval.

  “I’m sorry, honey. That dress and those pearls are way too Paula Deen. Negative association. The last thing we need is for folks to look at you and be reminded of a woman who went down in flames for using the N-word. If there’s nothing else in that closet, we’re going shopping.”

  Elizabeth sighed, clearly exasperated. Jack was tired, but Elizabeth looked beyond exhausted, almost ill. “I haven’t slept since Mark called and woke Tucker and me up last night,” she said. “Can I just go to bed, please?”

  “A few more minutes and we’re done,” said Candace. “We have to get this right. Think of the media as your partner in a Viennese waltz. I’m the choreographer who will make sure that you’re the one leading.”

  Tucker smiled. “Isn’t she great, Jack? You know, it was Candace who handled that PR nightmare when the media accused your father of executing an innocent man.”

  Tucker had apparently forgotten that the “innocent man” was Jack’s client.

  “Elizabeth, get some sleep,” said Jack.

  “Thank you, Jack.” There was still no color in her face, but her eyes smiled in appreciation as she retreated into the bedroom and closed the door.

  Candace looked at Tucker and said, “I was just trying to help.”

  “You’re right,” said Jack. “I’m sorry. But let’s talk about this. I’ve seen clients go down the highly choreographed road before. It can backfire.”

  “Jack, did you not see that pompous ass Leroy Highsmith on TV?” asked Tucker.

  “I heard him on the radio on my drive back to Gainesville,” said Jack.

  “He called my son a terrorist. A terrorist!”

  “That was a reference to the men who lynched Jamal Cousin. Whoever they are.”

  “He all but called out Mark and his friends by name. Am I right, Candace?”

  “Leroy walked a fine line, but yes, I agree with you, Tucker.”

  “I’m all for a strong and simple denial of any wrongdoing by Mark,” said Jack. “But Jamal has been dead less than two days. Launching a full-scale PR makeover of the Towson family before the Cousin family has even had a chance to grieve is a serious mistake, in my opinion.”

  “You underestimate who and what you are up against,” said Candace. “Job one is to beat back this perception of a privileged white frat boy.”

  “Mark is a privileged white frat boy,” said Jack. “We can’t change that, and we’re not going to win by trying to change it.”

  “CNN is back in Live Oak!” Mark shouted from the TV room.

  They hurried toward the flat screen. The TV news coverage switched from international to “College Lynching.” Jack recognized the beautiful Suwannee County Courthouse behind the reporter. Tucker snatched the remote from the coffee table and raised the audio. The reporter spoke quickly, eager to announce the breaking news ahead of other networks, but the bold, black headline on the white banner said it all.

  SOURCE: LYNCHING SUSPECT REFUSES LIE DETECTOR TEST.

  “What is she talking about?” asked Tucker. “Jack, that retired FBI examiner you asked me to hire won’t even be here for another hour.”

  The segment ended, and CNN shifted to other news. Jack felt his anger rising but calmly explained the dirty trick that Oliver Boalt had played with the polygraph exam, making an offer that Jack had to refuse, then using it against him in the media.

  “We need to punch back,” said Tucker. “Mark, as soon as the retired FBI agent gets here, you’re sitting for a polygraph.”

  Jack glanced at his client, who looked overwhelmed.

  “I need to get outta here,” said Mark. He stepped away quickly and went to the living room.

  “Mark sits for the examination,” said Tucker. “Period.”

  “Not tonight,” said Jack. “Better tomorrow morning, after a good night’s sleep. If he passes, Candace gets it out to the media far and wide.”

  “He’ll pass,” said Tucker.

  “That’s step one,” said Candace. “Tucker, you should call President Waterston at home right now and demand that Mark’s disciplinary hearing be held as soon as possible.”

  “Slow down,” said Jack. “We shouldn’t rush into a disciplinary hearing. If it doesn’t go well, the student conduct committee could decide that Mark is a racist and a liar. Then where will we be?”

  “No worse off than we are now,” said Candace. “Tucker, it’s your call. Let the media drag the family through the mud from now ’til doomsday. Or pick up the phone, tell President Waterston that you want an immediate hearing, and stop playing defense. That’s my professional opinion. You two talk it over.”

  Candace walked away and went to the kitchen. The men stood in silence, and then Tucker spoke. “Jack, I like you.”

  “That’s not important,” said Jack. “This is about your son. Mark is not going to be ready for a disciplinary hearing tomorrow, the next day, or even next week.”

  “Then get him ready.”

  “We have to keep our priorities straight. Mark has not officially been named a suspect in the murder of Jamal Cousin, but those search warrants send a strong message that Mark is at the top of the unofficial list. You’re kidding yourself if you don’t think the disciplinary hearing will be used in some way to build the criminal case against him.”

  “So what would you do?”

  “I admit I’m not a specialist in college disciplinary hearings. But as a criminal defense lawyer, I do know that Mark has the right to postpone the hearing until after the police investigation has run its course. That’s my recommendation. It’s what I would do for my son.”

  Tucker breathed deeply. “What if I go in with him?”

  “What?”

  “As Mark’s father—what if I go into the hearing with him?”

  “I know you mean well, but I’m not sure that would help.”

  “Jack, I love this university. My wife and I met on campus and sent our children here. How can it not help?”

  How? Jack thought. Let me count the ways.

  Tucker winked, as if he knew something Jack didn’t, and then headed to the kitchen to deliver the “good news” to Candace. Jack went to the living room and, through the front window, spotted his client alone on the front porch. Jack stepped outside and joined him at the rail. The group of demonstrators—RACISM IS TAUGHT—had doubled in size. They were peaceful but still marching in a circle in the quiet cul-de-sac. Jack and Mark watched from thirty yards away, and then Mark broke the silence.

  “What did the police take from
my car?” he asked.

  “There was no rope, thankfully,” said Jack. “They collected specimens from the trunk, which they’ll compare to Jamal’s clothing and hair, and to the nylon rope that was used to kill him.”

  “This is nuts,” Mark said in a hollow voice. “I could hardly believe it when they accused me of sending that text. I sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with a lynching. But—”

  Jack waited for him to finish, but there was only silence. “But what?” asked Jack.

  “How reliable are lie detector tests?”

  “Somewhat reliable, if the test is given under ideal circumstances. Not very reliable, I’d say, for someone under your kind of stress. We’ll see how you feel in the morning.”

  “So I could fail, even if I’m telling the truth?”

  “Yes. But this is private. No one will know if you fail.”

  “My parents will know, right?”

  “Your father will. I suppose he could tell your mother.”

  “And then I would have to go to her and say, ‘Hey, just forget about that test, Mom. It’s totally bogus. I’m not really guilty.’”

  “That’s between you and your mother, I suppose.”

  Mark looked away, then drew a breath. “I don’t want to take a lie detector test.”

  Their eyes met, and Jack could see his pain. “Then you don’t have to, Mark.”

  Jack laid a hand on his client’s shoulder. Together, and in silence, their gazes drifted back toward the demonstrators, the streetlights blinking on as darkness fell on day one of protest.

  CHAPTER 13

  On Monday morning, Oliver Boalt drove to Jacksonville, east of Live Oak. Florida’s sixty-seven counties were served by twenty-four medical examiner offices, and Suwannee fell under the Jacksonville office. The state attorney and the homicide detective Josh Proctor had a ten o’clock appointment with the chief medical examiner, Elena Ross, M.D., ME.

  “VapoRub?” Dr. Ross asked.

  She was offering the familiar blue jar. A little dab above the upper lip could be a lifesaver for anyone who wasn’t accustomed to the stench of an autopsy. Boalt normally didn’t need it, but he remembered the last time a body had been pulled from the river.