A Death in Live Oak

by James Grippando

  “God’s love is great,” said Jamal’s mother. It had been her mantra to get through the worst day of a mother’s life.

  “Yes, He is,” said Highsmith.

  There had been no “memorial service” for Jamal, but rather a “homegoing celebration.” The theme was love. God’s love. Love of family. Love from the community. Love from total strangers. More than two thousand people filled the church, and a thousand others watched by closed-circuit television at the middle-school gymnasium across the street, Jamal’s old school. People who didn’t even know Jamal traveled from as far away as Houston and Chicago. Florida’s governor and U.S. senators stayed away, citing their “respect for the family’s privacy”; but dozens of other dignitaries attended, including two members of Congress, state legislators, and a retired Florida supreme court justice. Highsmith’s eulogy had been about love, not hate. The message was the same from so many others, from the mayor of Miami to Jamal’s football coach in high school. It had been perfect, until the procession rolled past the University of Miami campus, where a group of white students proudly displayed their Greek letters and held posters proclaiming ALL LIVES MATTER—which, as a rejoinder to BLACK LIVES MATTER, was like patting black people on the head and saying, “Sure they do, kid. You keep telling yourself that.”

  “Are you ready?” asked Highsmith.

  Edith sighed deeply. The ceremony had lasted almost three hours, but Highsmith had been in this position before, with mothers of other young black men, and he knew it wasn’t exhaustion that kept her from opening the door. It was the thought of placing her twenty-one-year-old son in the ground.

  “God’s love is great,” she said, but this time her voice quaked.

  Highsmith climbed out first and held the door open. As if on cue, dozens of car doors opened in the long line of vehicles behind them. Highsmith and Jamal’s father escorted Edith toward the black hearse ahead of them. Brandon Wall and five other Alpha brothers, as pallbearers, lifted the metal casket and placed it in a carriage drawn by two white horses.

  “Walk on,” the driver said with a gentle shake of the reins.

  The journey to the burial site began on a wide path of pea gravel, and in the solitude, little more could be heard than the rustling of the breeze and the crunching of stone beneath horse hooves and carriage wheels. They passed countless tombs, many adorned with angels, griffins, or cherubs. A few graves were brightened by fresh-cut flowers, but the most impressive splashes of pink, orange, and other flaming colors came from bougainvillea vines and hibiscus bushes that had been planted many years earlier, probably by mourners who had since found permanent rest here. They passed the large circle in honor of Julia Tuttle, but it was the second circle, a memorial to the Confederate dead erected by the United Daughters of the Confederacy, that drew a few sideways glances from the mostly African American mourners. The walk continued along a shaded path until they reached the west section, which was the designated burial place for blacks in the days of strict segregation.

  “Whoa,” said the carriage driver, and the horses stopped. In silence, the pallbearers moved into position, lifted the casket, and carried it toward the open grave.

  Highsmith felt Edith’s hand tighten around his. He and Lamar led her to a seat beneath a canvas canopy at graveside. Uncles, aunts, grandparents, and other family members filled in the remaining seats, while scores of others simply found a place to stand in the sun.

  The pallbearers placed the casket on the lift. Jamal’s cousin placed two dozen red roses on top. The Reverend Elgin Maynard led them in prayer. “The apostle Paul said in I Corinthians 5:8, ‘To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.’ Today, we know Jamal is present with the Lord.”

  The plan was to keep the graveside service short, but that could not stop the tears from flowing. The homegoing celebration had brought Jamal back to life, and Highsmith felt the family’s pain as Jamal’s mother stared down at the hole in the ground and the reality of his death.

  Jamal’s aunt led the mourners in a final hymn. The Reverend Maynard closed in prayer. Jamal’s father thanked everyone for coming. Edith remained seated, seemingly numb, as people started to walk away. They’d reached the end of the program, but Highsmith wasn’t finished. He stood beside the coffin and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Remember his name,” he said. “Remember Jamal Cousin.”

  People stopped. There were a few amens and other affirmations from the gathering.

  “The first grave in this cemetery was dug in 1897,” said Highsmith. “It was for a black man. We don’t know his name. His burial was unrecorded. How many names have been forgotten? How many of our young black men?”

  The response was louder and came from all over, the gist of it being “Too many, far too many.”

  Highsmith plucked a rosebud from the bouquet of flowers on Jamal’s casket. More than a dozen bouquets, hundreds of flowers, adorned the setting. “Everyone here loves Jamal,” he said. “But we all know somebody else just like him. Somebody special with so much more life to live. A young black man who was supposed to be somebody, but whose life didn’t matter to those who hate.”

  “Yes, sir,” the crowd responded.

  Highsmith dropped the single rose into the grave. “Trayvon Martin,” he said aloud. Then he plucked another flower bud from the bouquet and dropped it into the grave. “Michael Brown,” he said. And he continued to drop more flowers into the grave, saying the names of others.

  “I want each of you to come forward,” said Highsmith. “Drop a flower the way I just did. Say the name of a young man you remember. Jamal will not be forgotten, and we will remember the names of others, too.”

  A woman dressed in a bright blue skirt suit stepped forward. “Jaden Jones,” she said, as she dropped a flower. Others came forward and did the same, saying more names aloud. Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Soon there were more flowers in the open grave than in the standing arrangements around the coffin. Thirty minutes later, most of the crowd had dispersed. Jamal’s parents and their closest friends remained seated in the first row of folding chairs in the shade of the canopy. Alone at the end of the row was a very old man in a wheelchair. It was Jamal’s great-grandfather. Highsmith went to him and offered to help him forward.

  “Is there someone you want to remember?” asked Highsmith.

  The old man nodded, his eyes clouded with tears and memories.

  Highsmith wheeled him forward. The old man’s hand shook as he reached for a red rose on the casket. He plucked it from the stem and squeezed the blossom in his fist. His head wobbled a bit as he prepared to speak.

  “The rivers have secrets,” he said. “So many secrets. We lost so many of our brothers and sisters in those waters. Nobody said nothin’. No one was ever punished.”

  Highsmith hesitated, not sure what to think. “Say it now, brother. Say his name.”

  The old man leaned forward and reached out as far as he could beyond his wheelchair.

  “Willie James,” he said in a detached voice, one that seemed from long ago.

  And then he dropped the flower into his great-grandson’s grave.

  CHAPTER 28

  Are you sure it was Mark’s sister you saw?” asked Andie.

  It was Saturday night and Jack was with Andie at Cy’s Place. Theo had set them up at a choice table for two, right in front of the small stage where live jazz music would begin at ten o’clock.

  “When I got Shelly on the phone, she denied being there,” Jack said. “But Mark finally called me back and admitted it was her.”

  “So what’s the story?”

  The cocktail waitress brought drinks. They hadn’t ordered yet, but Theo knew it was an IPA for Jack and a vodka tonic in a tall glass with lots of ice and extra lemon—not lime—for Andie.

  “Mark wanted to be there,” said Jack. “He’s slept about two hours in the last two days, so Shelly drove. They left Gainesville at four o’clock this morning.”

  “Yo
u mean they were both at the funeral procession?”

  Jack shook his head. “It ended up being just Shelly. Mark came to his senses and realized that he could literally start a riot if somebody recognized him.”

  “So his sister went as his proxy?”

  “Yeah,” said Jack. “To what end, I don’t know.”

  Andie squeezed the extra lemon into her cocktail. “For some reason Mark felt the need to be there. His sister drove six hours in a car, and then stood on the sidewalk in his place. That’s kind of sweet.”

  “Sweet?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Step outside your work for just one minute. I’m talking purely as a family dynamic. Some siblings can’t even sit in the same room with each other. Mark and his sister must be close. I think that’s pretty great.”

  “I could see that at the student conduct hearing when Shelly tried to testify. They’re two years apart in school, but the difference in age is more like eighteen months.”

  The musicians climbed onstage to set up for their gig. Uncle Cy wasn’t playing tonight, but his spirit could still be felt. Jack signaled their waitress for a food menu.

  “Maybe Righley should have a brother,” said Andie.

  Jack froze, his index finger still in the air. “Really?”

  “Maybe an older brother.”

  It had been a tough pregnancy with Righley. Until that moment, all indications were that she would be an only child. Jack reached across the table and held Andie’s hand.

  “An older—” he started to stay, and then he realized what she was saying. “You want to adopt?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Jack smiled, savoring a moment in a place filled with memories. The grand opening of Cy’s Place was where sparks had first started to fly for Jack and an FBI agent who’d sworn she’d never date a criminal defense lawyer. It was at Cy’s Place, on what Andie dubbed “the second anniversary of Jack’s thirty-ninth birthday,” that Jack had put a ring on her finger.

  Jack raised his glass. “Here’s to one bigger, happy family.”

  Andie smiled back. “I’ll let you break the news to Max.”

  CHAPTER 29

  At nine o’clock Monday morning, Oliver Boalt and his senior trial counsel entered the grand jury room in the Live Oak courthouse. Eighteen grand jurors were sworn to secrecy and ready to hear the evidence. It was their job to decide whether “probable cause” existed to elevate a homicide investigation to a criminal prosecution.

  “Good morning,” said Boalt, greeting his captive audience.

  The state attorney’s polite smile couldn’t hide the pressure he was feeling. Public clamor for “justice” had reached a crescendo over the weekend, starting with the stabbing of three demonstrators on Friday night and continuing through the funeral service on Saturday. By Sunday night media vans and cable news teams had staked out positions around the courthouse in anticipation of an indictment—or a revolt. Boalt and his team worked nonstop with the Suwannee County Sheriff’s Department and other agencies. On Monday he was ready to go.

  Boalt took the entire morning to explain his theory of the case and the evidence, including the medical examiner’s report. Step one in any grand jury proceeding was to give the jurors a reasonable basis to conclude that a crime had been committed—easy enough in this case. Step two was more difficult: connect the would-be defendant to the crime.

  Immediately after lunch the star witness was on the stand, sworn and ready to testify. Senior trial counsel Marsha Weller did the honors.

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Baine Robinson.”

  The witness shifted nervously. Apart from the prosecutors, jurors, and court reporter, Baine was alone in the room. A grand jury witness has no right to have his attorney present. With just a few quick questions, the prosecutor established him as a fraternity brother and close friend of Mark Towson, someone the jurors could believe. A proper degree of reluctance and hesitation preceded each blow delivered to his “friend.”

  “Mr. Robinson, are you aware of any text messages between Mark Towson and Jamal Cousin?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Weller stopped him. With no judge in a grand jury proceeding, a prosecutor could in effect hit “pause” and explain things at her discretion. She presented a copy of the “strange fruit” text to the jurors and allowed them a minute to absorb it. Boalt had referenced the text in his morning presentation, and most jurors had admitted to having seen it earlier in the media and on the Internet. Nonetheless, several jurors winced at the larger-than-life image on the projection screen. Weller continued her examination of the witness.

  “Mr. Robinson, have you ever seen this text from Mark Towson to Jamal Cousin?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “When did you first see it?”

  “A few minutes after Mark sent it.”

  “Were you with him when he sent it?”

  “No, but I was at the same party. We were both at the Theta house. Mark showed it to me after he sent it.”

  “Did Mr. Towson tell you that he sent it, or did he tell you that someone else used his phone to send it?”

  “He said he sent it.”

  “What was your reaction, Mr. Robinson?”

  “I told Mark that it was a really stupid thing to do and that he should delete it from his cell phone.”

  “Did he delete it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened next?”

  “We both went back to the party and talked to our friends—that kind of thing.”

  “Did you tell anyone about the text from Mr. Towson to Jamal?”

  “No. But I kept thinking about it.”

  “Did you do anything about it?”

  “Yes. About thirty minutes later, I texted Jamal.”

  The prosecutor paused for another explanation to the grand jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, phone records confirm a text message from Baine Robinson to Jamal Cousin. However, the actual text was deleted from Mr. Cousin’s phone. So, Mr. Robinson, if you please: Can you tell us what you said in your message?”

  “I don’t remember the exact words. But it was an apology.”

  “An apology for what?”

  “On behalf of the Theta Pi Omega fraternity, I apologized for the offensive message sent earlier by our president, Mark Towson.”

  An elderly woman seated in the front row raised her hand. Unlike trial jurors, grand jurors were permitted to ask questions. The prosecutor recognized her.

  “Excuse me, but is this witness related to the Baine Robinson whose name is on the College of Agriculture at the University of Florida?”

  The prosecutor allowed the witness to answer.

  “That’s my grandfather,” said Baine.

  “Well,” the old woman said with approval. “Your granddaddy would be right proud of you, young man.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The prosecutor smiled—nothing like a friendly question to move things right along. “Mr. Robinson, let’s jump ahead six days on the timeline to the following Friday night. The night that Jamal Cousin went missing.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Jack and Theo were on a midnight ride in an old wooden rowboat, propelled upriver by the quiet hum of an electric trolling motor.

  Grand jury proceedings were supposed to be “secret” by law, and while the state attorney wasn’t officially talking, the media was already reporting that Baine Robinson had cut a deal and that Mark Towson was the lone target. Jack had no access to the evidence at this stage, so he decided to re-create it, at least in his mind. He wanted to visit the scene of the crime.

  Their guide was Owen McFay, a local gator hunter who knew the local rivers after dark better than anyone. He rarely smiled, and when he did, his crooked teeth showed the stains of chewed tobacco. He reminded Jack of the redneck version of Captain Ahab. No peg leg, but his left ring finger was missing, lost to the snap of a bull gator’s mammoth jaw and three thousand pounds of pressure per square inch. McFay was th
e undisputed go-to guy for night trips on the river. Theo went along, in his words, to make sure Jack didn’t “end up like the cast in Deliverance.” Having stood beside him at that funeral procession, Jack knew the reason ran deeper.

  “How much farther?” asked Jack.

  “Just a bit,” said McFay. “Got it full throttle.”

  Headed upriver, even with a gentle current, “full throttle” on this rig meant throwing a wake that was little more than a V-shaped ripple. They were on the Santa Fe, a true black-water river that received the cooler waters of the spring-fed Ichetucknee. The river was about seventy-five feet wide in these parts, with willow-swept banks that sloped to depths better suited to canoes and kayaks than motorboats. Somewhere in the darkness were egrets and alligators. The tall cypress trees were mere silhouettes, their moss-clad limbs barely visible against the starlit sky.

  “There’s the boat launch I told y’all about,” said McFay, as he steered toward the riverbank. “This is probably where they would’ve pulled up in their car.”

  “They must have left tracks in the sand,” said Jack. “Crime scene investigators took an impression from Mark’s tires.”

  “Did they get a match?” asked Theo.

  “I guess only the grand jury knows for now.”

  The boat continued its crawl toward a wooden pier that jutted out into the river. A small cottage was visible in the clearing along the bank. “Yonder is where the boat was stole from,” said McFay.

  Fastened to the pilings at the end of the pier was a fourteen-foot aluminum fishing boat. Beside it was a larger fiberglass flats boat with a small Johnson outboard.

  “That little one without the motor is like the one reported stolen on the night Jamal was lynched,” said McFay.

  Theo glanced back toward the launch and then at the pier. “So they drove here with Jamal in the trunk of the car, stole a rowboat from this pier, and took him upriver on the Santa Fe and then into the Ichetucknee.”