Jack swallowed the news. “Okay. Call me as soon as you know more on Mark. Don’t speak to the media. I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 35
The door opened, and Mark’s father invited Jack into the hospital room.
“Hold it,” said the officer. Two guards were posted in the hallway outside Mark’s room. He was officially under arrest. A metal-detecting wand was run up and down Jack’s body, confirming no weapons.
“You’re good,” said the officer, allowing Jack entry.
Surgery to remove Mark’s ruptured spleen and stop the internal bleeding had lasted almost an hour. He’d spent another hour in recovery before being wheeled on a gurney to a private room. Jack had been waiting in the hallway to give the Towson family time alone. He closed the door behind him, and both Mark’s mother and sister gave him a hug when he entered.
“How’s he doing?” asked Jack.
“Going to be fine. Doctor said a few days in the hospital, and then he can go—” Tucker stopped himself, clearly wishing he could say “home.”
“To jail,” said Mark.
Jack stepped toward the hospital bed. Mark was in an elevated position, midway between sitting up and lying flat on his back. A plastic IV tube connected the vein in his forearm to a plastic bag of fluids that hung from the pole. A bedside machine monitored his vitals, a modest beep with each heartbeat. The red marks and abrasions on his face were due to shattered glass, Jack assumed.
“I’d like to speak with Mark alone,” Jack told the family.
They obliged and filed out. Jack stood at the bed rail. Mark turned his head and gazed out the window.
“Cooper’s dead.”
“I know,” said Jack. “I’m sorry.”
“Are people happy?”
It was the first truly cynical thing Jack had heard Mark say. “I don’t think so.”
Mark’s gaze returned to Jack. “You know how Jamal Cousin’s phone records show that he received a text message from Cooper’s phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Cooper admitted to me that he sent it. Nobody took his phone and pretended to be him.”
“So Baine sent the one from your phone,” said Jack. “But not the one from Cooper’s.”
“That’s what it comes down to.”
“Did Cooper say what he wrote in his text?”
“Nope. And now I guess we’ll never know, will we?”
Jack shook his head. “Not unless someone else was there when he sent it.”
“Like Baine?” asked Cooper.
“A likely choice.”
Mark breathed out his disgust. “Is Baine really going to get away with this?”
“All I can tell you is that he hasn’t been indicted,” said Jack. “Yet.”
Leroy Highsmith did the cable news circuit “live from Miami, Florida.”
Highsmith had spent the day in court-ordered mediation for another African American family. That suit was against the North Miami Police Department, filed after an autistic child ignored an officer’s command to drop his toy, and the officer for some reason—“I don’t know why,” he later told investigators—shot the boy’s psychiatrist, who was just trying to convince the child to come back inside the treatment facility. Highsmith was wearing his lucky “settlement suit,” dark blue with chalk pinstripes, which sent a message to opposing counsel to pay up fast and pay up big. His only adjustment for the television appearance on behalf of the Cousin family was the pancake makeup applied by his publicist to hide a five o’clock shadow. He was seated in front of a green screen that projected Miami’s glittering skyline to millions of television viewers. His five-minute gig with CNN was his third of the evening.
“Mr. Highsmith, what does today’s indictment mean to the Cousin family?”
“It’s only the start,” said Highsmith. “And if you read that indictment, you will appreciate how far black people in this country have come just to get to the starting line. The indictment charges that—quote—‘Mark Towson, with premeditated design, did intentionally and unlawfully kill Jamal Cousin, a human being.’ A human being. That’s standard language in a homicide indictment. But it’s chilling, isn’t it, when you consider how long African Americans were just three-fifths of a human being? I’m here to tell you that we will not accept three-fifths justice. We intend to see this through to the end, until there is justice in the fullest, most complete sense.”
“Mr. Highsmith, sources have told us that Mark Towson in fact knew that the indictment was imminent before the car crash today. Do you believe that he and his fraternity brother, Cooper Bartlett, were fleeing on the interstate in anticipation of their arrest?”
“I can’t say for sure,” said Highsmith. “But I have been told by someone close to the investigation that two suitcases packed with clothes were found in the trunk of Mr. Bartlett’s car.”
“That could be very telling.”
“You bet it could,” said Highsmith.
“Leroy Highsmith, civil rights activist and attorney for the Cousin family, thank you very much for your time.”
“You are most welcome.”
The video connection ended, and Highsmith’s publicist stepped forward to check his makeup. He brushed away her hand, having had enough primping.
“Leroy, come on, now,” she said. “We have MSNBC in eleven minutes.”
His cell rang, and he was glad for the reprieve. The fact that it was Oliver Boalt confirmed that his intended message had gotten through to the prosecutor.
“Saw you on CNN,” said Boalt. “What do you mean by ‘three-fifths justice’?”
“I’m sorry,” said Highsmith. “I should have been more precise. What I meant to say is that we will not accept two-thirds justice.”
The state attorney was silent. Highsmith had no doubt that his position was already crystal clear, but he spelled it out anyway. “You got Mark Towson. Cooper Bartlett is in hell, where he belongs. Now I want Baine Robinson.”
“Baine Robinson is my star witness.”
“That’s your problem, Oliver. Not mine.”
Highsmith ended the call and returned to his publicist, ready for his next cable news interview.
CHAPTER 36
Wednesday morning marked a career first for Jack: a “court” appearance from a hospital room.
Every person arrested in Florida must be brought before a judicial officer within twenty-four hours of arrest. It wasn’t unusual for that first appearance to occur via live video feed from a lockup facility. Jack was willing to postpone his client’s initial appearance until Mark’s release from the hospital. Oliver Boalt wasn’t taking any chances. Or perhaps he wanted another media blast. He arranged for a live video feed from the hospital. On the right side of the split screen was Circuit Judge Kelly Simon. Somewhere in the courtroom but offscreen was the prosecutorial team. On the left side of the screen was defendant Mark Towson, sitting up in bed. Jack had debated whether to dress his client in street clothes and sit him in a chair, but that probably would have unleashed a string of public accusations that Mark was faking or exaggerating a medical condition to stay out of jail. A hospital gown in a hospital bed was the way to go.
Jack stood at the rail and spoke first. “Your Honor, we waive the reading of the Miranda rights,” he said.
“Very well. Mr. Towson, the charges against you are as follows.”
Mark sat in silence, his head resting on the pillow, as the judge recited all three counts in the indictment. In addition to first degree murder and conspiracy to commit murder, Mark faced an additional charge for threatening serious bodily injury to Jamal via text message—normally a misdemeanor, but because it was racially motivated, a felony under Florida’s hate-crime statute.
“Mr. Towson, how do you plead?”
“I’m innocent.”
“The plea will be recorded as ‘not guilty,’” the judge said. “Count one is a capital offense for which there is no bond. My understanding is that the defendant is currently under ar
med guard in his hospital room.”
“That’s correct,” said the state attorney.
“Upon release from the hospital, the defendant shall be immediately transported to the Suwannee County Jail, where he shall be detained through trial.”
“Your Honor, the defense will be filing a motion for pretrial release,” said Jack.
“In a capital case?” asked the state attorney. “Your Honor, I’ve been doing this a long time, and I can’t recall a single case in Suwannee County in which a capital defendant has been released on bail.”
Jack knew the odds were against them. “We want a hearing.”
Judge Simon checked with his clerk. The duty judge at a first appearance didn’t typically stay with the case, and Simon was checking on the assignment. “Chief Judge Calvin Teague will hear the defense’s motion in his courtroom immediately upon Mr. Towson’s release from the hospital. When will that be, Mr. Swyteck?”
“Monday.”
“Got it. Y’all should coordinate with Judge Teague’s chambers for a time on Monday. Mr. Boalt, send all grand jury materials to the defense before the end of the day. Is there anything further?”
“Judge, the State of Florida will be issuing a superseding indictment to eliminate the charges against Cooper Bartlett, who is deceased.”
“That’s fine. Anything else?” A no came from each end of the video feed. “Then we are adjourned,” the judge said. “Thank you.”
The television screen went black. Mark looked at Jack, his expression sullen.
“So if we don’t win the hearing on Monday, I’m stuck in jail even though I haven’t been convicted of anything. That’s how this works?”
“Getting out of jail before trial on a first-degree murder charge is extremely difficult.”
“How long could it be?”
“It will be several months, at least, until we have a trial date.”
“At least? How long could it really be—worst case?”
Jack didn’t want to dampen his client’s spirits further, but he had to be honest. “A year. Possibly longer.”
“More than a year,” Mark said, shaking his head. “That means even if we go on to win at trial, my mother’s last image of her son could be me behind bars in a jail uniform. Did you know that, Jack?”
“Your father told me the cancer was back. No one told me the prognosis.”
Mark glanced at the monitor at his bedside, as if checking his own pulse. “Do me a favor, will you?”
“What?”
“If Mom asks for my prognosis, lie to her. It could be bad. It might be both good and bad. Maybe you have no idea. No matter how terrible things look, lie to her. And make it believable. You can do that, right?”
Jack had never considered himself a very good liar. But sometimes it was worth the effort. “No problem, Mark. I can do that.”
CHAPTER 37
Leroy Highsmith was back on campus at the University of Florida.
That morning he’d received notice from law enforcement that the forensic team no longer needed to restrict access to Jamal Cousin’s room. By noon he was aboard the Legal Eagle, flying to Gainesville with Jamal’s mother. Lamar Cousin was traveling for work, and it fell to the family lawyer to help Edith through a task that she wasn’t sure she could summon the emotional strength to finish. It was time to collect her son’s belongings.
“Thank you for coming with me,” said Edith. She and Highsmith were alone in the TV room of the Alpha house. Most of the twenty-six brothers were in the cafeteria eating lunch. Brandon Wall, the Alpha brother who’d testified at Mark Towson’s disciplinary hearing, had stepped away to get the key to Jamal’s room.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Highsmith told her.
Structurally, the Alpha house was modest by Fraternity Row standards. Just one story, the simple stucco-on-frame construction was in the unremarkable architectural style of Florida circa 1975. But nobody pledged Alpha for the building. The Florida chapter was one of the smallest nationwide, but it still logged more community service hours than any other Greek organization on campus.
Brandon entered the room, key in hand. “I can walk you back.”
They followed him down the hallway, passing several rooms until they stopped at a door marked “President.” On the wall, right outside the door, was a traditional Divine Nine poem that Highsmith had recited at least a hundred times, mostly at funerals; lately, for his aging fraternity brothers. “Success is failure turned inside out / the silver tint of the clouds of doubt / so stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit / It’s when things seem worst that you mustn’t quit.” The author was anonymous—like so many brothers, thought Highsmith, who were taken down to the river and never returned.
“This was my room last year, when I was president,” said Brandon. “None of us has been inside since Jamal passed. I made sure of it.” He inserted the key and turned the lock, leaving the door closed.
“We can take it from here, Brandon,” said Highsmith.
“Okay, I’ll be in the dining room if you need anything.” Brandon retraced their steps down the hallway, leaving them alone outside Jamal’s room.
“Take your time, Edith,” said Highsmith. “Go through that door when you’re good and ready.”
“Can you open it, please?”
Highsmith turned the knob and pushed the door slowly. They stood in the doorway for a moment, and then Edith reached inside and switched on the light. She took a tentative step forward, and then another. Slowly, she made it to the center of the room. Highsmith remained in the doorway, watching in silence as Jamal’s mother absorbed every detail of her son’s room. She walked to his desk and touched the books he’d been reading. She ran her finger along his chair. She knelt at the footlocker where he kept his basketball shoes, and she laid her hand on the Alpha jersey that was neatly folded on the shelf. The framed photograph on the wall held her attention longest. Jamal was dead center in a team of five black men dressed all in black, from boots to berets, bright stage lights shining down on them.
“Alpha took first place last spring at the soul-steppin’ contest,” said Edith.
Step dancing has a long-standing tradition among black fraternities, though percussive dance was becoming mainstream enough to find its way into everything from presidential inaugurations to Olympic ceremonies. Teams spent hours rehearsing for annual competitions, perfecting choreographies in which the entire body is an instrument of footsteps, spoken word, and hand claps. Highsmith loved tradition as much as anybody, but his personal preference would have been less steppin’ and more of what the Divine Nine were really about.
Edith walked to the bed, peeled back the comforter, and took Jamal’s pillow in her arms. She held it the way a mother might embrace a newborn, almost inhaling it. She placed it back on the bed and then did the same with the other pillow. Her eyes brightened with a hint of a smile.
“Flower Bomb,” she said in a voice loud enough for Highsmith to hear.
“I’m sorry. What did you say, Edith?”
“It’s a perfume. I’m one of those dreaded spritzers at the mall that you run away from during the Christmas shopping season. I do it every year for a little extra money around the holidays.”
Her third job, thought Highsmith.
“I can name every perfume on the planet just by scent.” Edith inhaled the pillow once again. “Definitely Flower Bomb. Some pretty young thing left her scent on Jamal’s pillow. That stinker,” she said with a sad smile. “I didn’t”—she stopped, her sadness slipping into grief—“I didn’t even know my baby had a girlfriend.”
She was on the verge of breaking down in a big way, and Highsmith went to her. “Hey, hey, now. It’s okay.”
Edith sniffed back tears, speaking in a raw voice. “People expect me to be happy, I suppose, now that there’s an indictment. I’m not. I’m not at all happy.”
“I understand.”
She breathed out, collecting herself. “You know, I never had a father
growing up. I was just a baby when he got killed in Vietnam. Five years later, when Mama died, people called me an orphan. They have a name for a child who loses her parents.”
Highsmith just listened.
“But there’s no word for a parent who loses her only child. Not in English. Not in any language. Did you know that?”
“I did not.”
“Neither did I,” she said. “’Til this happened. But there’s a reason, I think, there’s no such word.”
Highsmith waited, letting her finish the thought.
Her eyes welled as she looked straight at him. “It’s too horrible a thing to pack into a single word. That’s what I think, Leroy. Too horrible.”
He moved closer and held her in his arms, gently trying to stop her from shaking. “I believe you’re right, Edith. You are absolutely right.”
CHAPTER 38
The Monday morning journey from Gainesville to Live Oak was nothing short of harrowing. It wasn’t technically a “first appearance,” but it would be Jack’s first time in an actual courtroom with the most reviled accused criminal in the state of Florida.
The ordeal started outside the hospital. Mark was able to walk with minimal discomfort, but a wheelchair was required for discharge of a surgery patient. Mark was seated, dressed in the clothes that the state attorney had sent for his court appearance: a Suwannee County Jail uniform. Mark’s hands were cuffed behind his back, forcing him to sit awkwardly in the chair in a forward position—“with his head lowered in shame,” the media would later observe. Two police officers, one on each side of the wheelchair, escorted them through the main lobby and into the morning sun. The crowd outside the hospital, mostly students, extended well beyond the main entry area and into the parking lot. Jack estimated the turnout to be at least double what he’d seen at the courthouse for the state attorney’s announcement of the indictment. The chant was louder, and the message had changed.
“Lock him up! Lock him up! Lock him up!”
Media swarmed and demonstrators howled as the wheelchair stopped at the squad car. The officers put the prisoner in the back seat. Jack assured Mark that they would meet up in the courtroom, and the door slammed shut. Jack ignored the media’s requests for comment as the squad car pulled away. He walked quickly to the Towsons’ SUV and climbed in the front passenger seat. Mark’s father was at the wheel. His mother and sister were in the back seat.
A Death in Live Oak Page 15