“But the totality of the evidence was sufficient to support the expulsion before Mr. Walls even testified. The ‘strange fruit’ cocktail bears only on the collective responsibility of the fraternity and the decision to pull the Theta house’s charter.”
Mark sat bolt upright. “The decision to what?”
“President Waterston called the national office of Theta Pi Omega just a few minutes ago to advise them of his decision. It is effective at midnight.”
Jack reeled in his client with a tug at the elbow. “The death penalty is a pretty drastic measure for the administration to take without a hearing,” said Jack.
“It’s a matter of campus safety that requires immediate emergency action. Bigotry and racism have no place at this university. Zero tolerance is our policy.”
“I have no problem with the policy,” said Jack. “But throwing an entire organization off campus without due process troubles me. If it doesn’t bother you, I need to speak to President Waterston.”
“Are you the attorney for the fraternity?”
“I represent its president.”
“Ex-president. He’s been expelled. But even if you or Mr. Towson were authorized to speak on behalf of the organization—which I don’t believe is the case—President Waterston is not available. He’s traveling to Miami for Jamal Cousin’s funeral.” The dean checked his watch. “I’m planning to attend as well,” he said, rising, as if he were already late. “I hope I have addressed all of your questions and concerns.”
Mark glanced at Jack, making it clear that exactly none of his concerns had been addressed. Jack thanked the dean, and they shook hands. Side by side, Jack and his client left the office suite, saying nothing until they were outside Peabody Hall.
“What now?” asked Mark.
They followed the brick walkway and stopped in the shade of an old live oak. “Mark, have you ever tried to convince someone that a man is innocent when the whole world ‘knows’ he’s guilty?”
“No. Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you succeed?”
“Once.”
“How do you win a case like that?”
“You keep at it,” said Jack, “until you just can’t keep at it anymore. And then you wake up the next morning, and you do it all over again.”
In the twisted limbs above them, long clusters of Spanish moss swayed in the breeze.
“This isn’t going away anytime soon, is it?”
“No, Mark,” Jack said, “it isn’t.”
They started walking. “Did I push it too far with Baine today at the tower?” asked Mark.
“No. Not at all.”
“I think I really pissed him off.”
“I think he deserved it,” said Jack.
“It did feel kinda good, hitting him with both barrels like that.”
“Smashing the glass against the wall was an especially nice punctuation mark.”
They exchanged a little smile. Jack laid a hand on his client’s shoulder as they continued in silence, away from campus.
CHAPTER 21
Friday supper at the Boalt residence meant a fish fry and coleslaw.
Oliver and his three sons used to look forward to the weekly feast, and his wife, Marilyn, never seemed to mind the work or the mess. The boys were grown now, the youngest a sophomore at the University of Georgia. Marilyn continued the Friday family tradition nonetheless, selecting the freshest fish at the market, shredding the cabbage she grew in the backyard, and cooking enough for Oliver and the boys to eat their fill, even if it was just Oliver. Empty-nest syndrome, Oliver called it.
“The moon is full,” said Marilyn, as she cleared her husband’s empty plate. “What do you say I grab a sweater and we head on over to the Dairy Queen?”
“Not tonight,” he said, groaning. “I must have knocked on two hundred doors today. If I walk one more step my feet will explode. Great amberjack, though, honey.”
Something was clearly on her mind as she returned to her seat, reached across the table, and laid her hand atop his. “Oliver, you’re worrying way too much about this election.”
“Come November, it’ll be too late to worry.”
“Buddy Jenkins isn’t even campaigning. I swear his only yard sign in all of Live Oak is the one outside his mother’s house. You’ve had this job for twenty years. He knows he can’t beat you.”
If Oliver had learned anything from five generations of southerners, it was humility. But he’d also learned a thing or two from his phone conversation with Leroy Highsmith. “Any man can be beat,” he said, “if enough folks are voting against him.”
“Now you’re being paranoid,” said Marilyn. “Why would anybody vote against you?”
His campaign polling, though unscientific, put his favorability rating among African Americans down thirty percent since the death of Jamal Cousin. He wasn’t in the mood to talk it out with his wife, and the chime of the doorbell answered his wish to change the subject.
“You expecting someone?” she asked.
He was. Oliver pushed away from the table and went to the foyer, moving with a slight limp. Not since his first campaign for state attorney had he walked so many neighborhoods and knocked on so many doors. He had the blisters on his feet to prove it. He opened the front door and greeted Leonard Oden cordially.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Oden. “But I wanted to go over the details one more time with my client before driving up.”
“That’s fine. If Baine Robinson is going to offer up testimony against his own fraternity brother, I want it to be one hundred percent accurate.”
“It’s accurate,” said Oden. “More accurate than Mark Towson would like it to be.”
The state attorney smiled, but not too widely. “Come on in, Leonard,” he said, leading him toward the den, where they could talk in private. “Let’s see if we can come to an understanding.”
CHAPTER 22
The time was right for Jack to hold a press conference.
A media alert went out just twenty minutes before the event, allowing demonstrators no time to organize outside the Gainesville Holiday Inn. By 6:00 p.m. the ballroom was packed with members of the local and national media, and they continued to trickle in as Jack stepped to the lectern. Mark Towson, his parents, and his sister stood to Jack’s side. The room was silent, and cameras were rolling.
“I’m Jack Swyteck—”
“Can you spell that, please?” a reporter shouted from the front row.
It was a clear sign that media interest had spilled way beyond Florida, where any journalist would know the surname of the former governor. Jack spelled it and continued.
“On behalf of my client, Mark Towson, and his entire family, we express our heartfelt condolences to the family and friends of Jamal Cousin. This is more than tragic. It is an unspeakable atrocity. The Towson family offers its thoughts and prayers to the Cousin family, and we fully support the efforts of law enforcement to find justice.”
Jack paused. Photographers moved in for the perfect shot, a few crawling on the floor in front of the first row of seating, their lenses aimed at Jack’s client.
“True justice is not a race,” Jack continued. “Nor is it about race. It takes time. And it is color blind. Over the past thirty-six hours, you have heard some fantastic stories and unhelpful speculation. The facts will only become known as the investigation plays out. Tonight, however, these are the simple facts I would like you to know.
“Mark Towson did not text the hateful message that has been quoted in the media. Mark never in his life sent a text message to Jamal Cousin. Mark had nothing to do with the disappearance or death of Jamal Cousin.”
Jack paused again, making sure that the media absorbed the heart of his announcement.
“At a time like this, it’s normal for a community to feel everything from sorrow to outrage. It’s good to express those feelings. It’s not good to express them in a hateful way.”
Jack was thinking of his
wife, his daughter, and the pink paint over the swastika on his front door. He could have easily spoken longer, but he wasn’t sure how long his client and his family could keep this up. Mark’s mother had barely been able to pull herself together in time for the press conference. Jack decided to wrap it up.
“There will be an appropriate time to address your questions. Tonight, on the eve of Jamal’s funeral, is not that time. In the meantime, I ask you not to prejudge anyone. Please be thoughtful in your words. Please be peaceful in your actions. Thank you.”
Jack stepped away from the lectern. Journalists jumped from their seats and jockeyed for position as Jack escorted the Towson family toward the side exit. Reporters called Jack’s name and shot questions at his client. The noise ran together, except for one question that caught Jack’s ear.
“Is it true that Baine Robinson has agreed to testify against your client?”
Jack didn’t respond. He just kept walking, steadily picking up the pace as he directed the Towson family to the exit.
“Mr. Swyteck!” the same reporter shouted.
Jack herded Mark and his family away from the onslaught. Jack was the last one through the doorway and closed the door behind him. Candace Holder was on the other side to meet them.
“It went well enough,” she said.
“What about that last question?” asked Mark, his voice laden with concern. “The one about Baine.”
“Baine wouldn’t turn against you,” his mother said. “He’s your friend.”
Jack hadn’t told Mrs. Towson about her son’s angry exchange at Robinson Tower, and apparently no one else had, either. “I’ll call Leonard,” said Jack.
“What if it’s true?” asked Mark.
“I think it would only confirm what we already know,” said Jack.
“Meaning what?” asked Mark.
“Baine Robinson sent that text to Jamal. And he is not your friend.”
CHAPTER 23
Oliver Boalt led Oden through his living room to the den, where the two men could talk in private. They sat on opposite sides of the coffee table in a matching pair of leather armchairs.
“All right, where do we stand?” asked Boalt.
Oden opened his briefcase, removed a legal pad, and checked his handwritten notes. “First, everything Brandon Wall said at this morning’s disciplinary hearing about the party at the Theta house and the ‘strange fruit’ cocktail is true. Baine Robinson will confirm it.”
The state attorney shook his head. “Brandon is already a highly credible witness. I don’t need anyone to confirm that he’s telling the truth. I told you that on the phone.”
“Understood,” said Oden. “So I went back to Baine. We went over this multiple times. He searched every corner of his memory. Baine now recalls very clearly that he told Theta president Mark Towson about the ‘strange fruit’ cocktail.”
“When?”
“Long before the ‘strange fruit’ text message was sent to Jamal Cousin. This proves that Towson is lying when he says he couldn’t have sent the text because he never heard the term ‘strange fruit.’”
As was his style in these negotiations, the state attorney was characteristically underwhelmed. “It’s somewhat helpful.”
“What more do you want?”
“Jamal Cousin received three text messages on the night of September twenty-ninth. The one from Mark Towson wasn’t deleted, so we know exactly what it says. The others, from Baine Robinson and Cooper Bartlett, were deleted. I want to know what was said.”
“And if I am able to provide that information to you—then we have a deal?”
“It depends. If Baine’s message was just as hateful as Mark Towson’s, there’s no deal.”
“You realize that there is no way to prove what was in Baine’s message, other than his own recollection. Text messages don’t float around in cyberspace the way e-mails do.”
“Understood.”
Oden settled back into his chair, thinking. “I’ll have to speak to my client.”
“You do that.”
“But let’s not get hyper-focused on the text messages,” said Oden. “What I’m looking for is your assurance that Baine will not be blindsided down the road and charged with conspiracy to commit murder.”
The state attorney leveled his gaze, making sure that his guest got the message. “Let me be clear, Leonard. I am offering no immunity to anyone who planned or carried out the lynching of Jamal Cousin. If your client was part of that, he will be indicted.”
“But suppose Baine found out about it after it happened—then what?”
“Then we can talk.”
“Fair enough.”
Boalt rose to end the meeting, and the defense lawyer took his cue. Boalt led him to the foyer, pushed open the screen door, and escorted him out to the front porch. They shook hands in the annoying yellow glow of a bug light.
“Good luck to you, Leonard. And stay safe.”
“Safe? Why wouldn’t I be?”
Boalt hesitated, fearful that Oden may have misunderstood his remark. “Didn’t mean anything by it. I just assumed you’re getting heat for taking this case.”
“Since when can’t a black lawyer represent a white client?”
“Leonard, your client is from Apopka. Do you know anything about the racial history of Apopka?”
“Should I?”
“Used to be a Klan stronghold. Folks who lived there back in the fifties and early sixties say that probably three-quarters of the white men were members. Even Apopka’s chief of police belonged.”
“You’re talking long before my client was even born.”
“Nobody’s born a racist, Leonard. It’s taught, passed on from one generation to the next. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“What are you implying? That Baine Robinson comes from a long line of Klansmen?” Oden added a little chuckle, but it came across as forced.
“I have it on good authority that the Robinson family had such ties,” the state attorney said in a serious tone. “So don’t say I didn’t warn you if and when the black community reacts to that news.”
Oden bristled. “If that’s a threat, you surprise me. I didn’t expect you to be so afraid to go up against an African American lawyer in this case.”
“I wouldn’t call it a threat.”
“You’re trying to scare me out of representing a white college student.”
“A privileged white frat boy with family ties to the Klan. That’s the headline, Leonard. I’m giving you a heads-up so that you can do what you will with that information. Call it professional courtesy.”
There was no appreciation in Oden’s eyes—no sign that he viewed it as a courtesy. “Good night, Mr. Boalt.”
“You’re welcome,” said the state attorney.
Oden stepped down and walked to his car. Boalt remained on the porch, and the screen door opened behind him. His wife handed him a light sweater for their walk to the DQ. Boalt put his arm around her as the defense lawyer’s car backed out of the driveway.
“Who was that, sweetie?” Marilyn asked.
Boalt watched as the car pulled away and the taillights faded in the distance. “That, my love, is a damn fool. And my new best friend.”
CHAPTER 24
Jack drove himself from the press conference to the Gainesville Regional Airport. His plan was to fly home that night and spend the weekend with his family. A phone call from Tucker Towson changed all that.
“Mark went to the Theta house,” said Tucker.
Jack was behind the wheel, just entering the rental car return lane. “I specifically told him not to. This division between him and Baine is real, and not everyone in that house is going to side with Mark. Anything he says will be twisted and used against him.”
“The rep from TPO national met with the whole fraternity and announced that the house is being shut down. They’ve already started moving out. Mark feels like he needs to be there as president.”
Ex-presid
ent, thought Jack, recalling the dean’s clarification. “Where are you?”
“At home. He won’t listen to me on this, Jack. Maybe you can get through to him.”
“I’m on my way.”
Jack steered toward the airport exit and ignored the speed limit all the way back to the university. It was smooth sailing until he hit the crowds of student demonstrators and the police roadblock at the end of Fraternity Row. It was exactly like his last visit, though the procession of demonstrators and crowd noises in the distance seemed a bit more ominous after nightfall. The posters had taken on a sharper edge as well. FRY THE FRAT BOYS caught Jack’s attention as he flashed his ID to the traffic cop at the barricade.
“I’m the attorney for Mark—”
“I know who you are,” the officer said. The University Police Department had apparently educated its force as to the relevant players since Jack’s last visit.
Fraternity Row was closed to traffic, and more than a thousand demonstrators had gathered on the street in front of the Theta house. The police presence was easily double that of Jack’s previous visit, while media vans and TV crews had increased by a factor of four or five. Jack avoided the crowd, drove around to the parking lot behind the fraternity houses, and took the first open space. A sandy footpath through a stand of towering pine trees led to the rear entrance of the Theta house. Someone—presumably TPO national—had the foresight to post a security guard at the door. The guy was as big as an oak, and he was stone-cold serious about the “brothers only” entry rule. Jack was pleading his case when the door opened and a young man stepped out carrying a box of his belongings. Jack seized the opportunity, slipped past the guard, and ran inside.
“Hey!” the guard shouted, but the big oak of a man ran like one, too. In just a few quick steps Jack was safely beyond him. As he hurried past two more brothers in the hallway, Jack caught a snippet of their conversation.
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