A Death in Live Oak

by James Grippando

  “Bulldog here is our resident neo-Nazi,” the guard said. “You two should get along just fine, Towson.”

  Mark heard the guards snickering as they walked away. He turned to face his cellmate, who was shirtless. Their eyes locked from opposite ends of a cell. Mark was sharing a cage seven feet wide and twelve feet deep with a man who was built like a football player, and who was covered in enough tattoos for the entire team.

  Bulldog stole the clean pillow from the top bunk, tossed the one he’d been using onto the floor, and climbed into the bottom bunk. “You’re up top.”

  Mark debated whether to stand up for himself and say something about the pillow switch. He didn’t. He picked up the dirty one from the floor and climbed into the top bunk.

  With hands clasped behind his head, he lay staring up at the ceiling. The lights from the corridor were just bright enough for him to discern traces of prison artwork on the wall. Some of it was in black marker, some in pencil. There was a calendar to count down the days, so faded that it could have predated Mark’s birth. Someone with a knack for portraits had sketched out a nude Latina from memory or imagination. There were also gang symbols. And a swastika.

  “So I hear you lynched a nigger,” said Bulldog from below.

  Mark didn’t respond.

  “It’s okay,” said Bulldog. “That’s cool with me.”

  Mark still didn’t answer.

  Bulldog pushed up on Mark’s mattress, nearly knocking Mark out of the top bunk. “What’s wrong with you? Your mama never taught you to speak when spoken to?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” said Mark.

  “Well, that’s too bad,” said Bulldog. “Because if you did it, you and me are gonna be good friends.”

  Mark didn’t say a word.

  “And if you didn’t,” he said, sighing loudly enough for Mark to hear him. “Well, if you didn’t, then to me you’re just another warm fuck-hole.”

  Mark went cold.

  “I’ll ask you once again in the morning, frat boy. You sleep on it and lemme know how it’s gonna be.”

  Mark took a breath. He couldn’t have responded if he’d wanted to.

  “And don’t get any bright ideas about changing cellmates. I heard the Malcolm X wannabes talking at lunch today. You end up with one of them, you’ll beg to come back to me.”

  Mark closed his eyes, not to sleep, but in an effort to cope with his living nightmare.

  “’Night, frat boy,” said Bulldog.

  Mark opened his eyes, still unable to believe where he’d ended up.

  Bulldog delivered another swift kick to the underside of Mark’s mattress, this one even harder than the last. “I said good night.”

  Mark swallowed the lump in his throat. “’Night.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Jack reached Live Oak just after 11:00 p.m. and took a motel room down the hall from Mark’s parents. A phone call to the Suwannee County Jail confirmed that Mark was not in solitary confinement. Jack figured his parents could use a little encouragement.

  Liz was asleep, but Tucker answered Jack’s text and joined him for a nightcap in the lounge—the “Poolside Café,” so named even though the motel had been without a swimming pool since 1973.

  “I’m feeling better about Mark’s defense,” said Jack.

  Tucker added a spot of honey to his bourbon on the rocks, as Jack told him about the Croc recovered from Baine Robinson’s closet at the Theta house.

  “Do you think that will help get Mark out of jail?”

  “Step one is to get him moved to solitary. I’ll know more about his chances on bail once Oliver Boalt turns over the rest of his evidence.”

  “Does Boalt have to show us what he has against Baine, too?”

  “If he charges him he definitely does.”

  Tucker tasted his bourbon, then shook his head. “I don’t understand how the state attorney can go after Baine. Didn’t his lawyer cut a deal for him to testify against Mark?”

  “There are deals, and there are deals,” said Jack.

  “What does that mean?”

  “My guess is that Boalt agreed not to charge Baine with conspiracy. But he left himself the option to bring a murder charge based on evidence other than Baine’s own testimony—like a Croc found at the scene of the crime.”

  Tucker looked off toward the middle distance, swirling the ice cubes in his glass. “I never liked Baine.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Cooper was okay, I guess. I feel bad saying anything against him now that he’s dead. But most of those boys at Theta—well, they just weren’t like Mark’s buddies in high school.”

  “You can’t always choose your son’s friends.”

  His gaze drifted away again. “Or maybe I don’t know my son as well as I thought I did.”

  Jack knew that Mark’s parents had to be struggling. “I’ve been doing this a long time. Wives wonder about their husbands. Children wonder about their parents. It’s totally normal to have doubts.”

  “Not for a second do I think that Mark has murder in his heart. But every now and then, I wonder—did Liz and I do something wrong as parents? Did I miss something that could have prevented this from happening?”

  “A little of that can be healthy. But too much is self-destructive.”

  Tucker set his glass on the bar. “Liz and I had to shut down our e-mail accounts. You wouldn’t believe the hate mail we were getting. Now people have started sending us letters the old-fashioned way.”

  “Don’t read that stuff. Just box it up and send it to me. If there’s anything to be concerned about I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. Most of it I just put out of my mind. But one thing has stuck with me. That first day you came by our house, when the demonstrators were outside, did you notice that poster that said ‘Racism Is Taught’?”

  “I did.”

  “It’s funny where the mind goes. That sign got me to thinking about one morning I drove Mark to school. He was about ten, maybe eleven. It was one of those days where he couldn’t find his backpack, the dog peed on the rug, traffic was terrible. You know what I’m talking about.”

  Jack thought of Righley. “I’m sure I will.”

  “Anyway, Shelly was one of those kids who couldn’t leave the house on time to save her life. But Mark—oh, my God, if he was five minutes late it was a national disaster. So he’s watching the clock and telling me ‘Dad, hurry up, faster.’ I was probably going five miles per hour over the limit, and a motorcycle cop stopped me for speeding. A black guy.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. He wrote me a ticket and drove away. But Mark felt terrible. He thought I should’ve explained to the cop that it was his fault.”

  “Kind of admirable for a middle-school kid.”

  “Except that Mark wouldn’t let it go. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t try to talk the cop out of it. He was inconsolable, and this went on all the way to school. Finally, I lost it. I stopped the car in the drop-off lane and said, ‘Damn it, Mark. It wasn’t your fault. There is no way on God’s green Earth that a black cop on a motorcycle was going to cut a break to a middle-aged white man in a pickup truck.’”

  Jack searched for a diplomatic response. “You got mad and blew your top. That happens.”

  “I did,” Tucker said, and then he took another swallow of his bourbon. “But it shouldn’t happen in front of your kids.”

  “I agree,” said Jack. “But kids are bombarded with a million different things that shape who they are. I don’t think that one slip you had when Mark was ten made him into a racist.”

  “No,” said Tucker. “But that was my chance to push back against all those bad influences. I didn’t. I showed him it was okay to be racist.”

  He lowered his eyes, staring down into his drink.

  Tucker’s expression was truly pained, and Jack wasn’t sure how to answer. Don’t worry, Tucker, I’m sure that Mark doesn’t even remember it? Or: Shake it off, Tucker
, it’s no worse than some of the things I heard from my old man, and he went on to be governor?

  The bartender returned, and Jack was grateful for the interruption.

  “Another round, gentlemen?”

  “Nah, I think we’re set,” said Jack.

  The bartender glanced at the television behind the bar. The sports segment was wrapping up on the late edition of the local news. “Some good news for Gator Nation today,” said the bartender.

  “I didn’t hear,” said Jack.

  “Devon Claiborne recommitted.”

  Jack recalled his conversation with Leonard Oden about the nation’s number one high-school quarterback who’d threatened to take his talents to another university unless the president of Theta Pi Omega was expelled. The bartender obviously had no idea that he was talking to Mark Towson’s lawyer and father.

  “Devon’s coming to UF?” asked Jack.

  “Yes, sir,” the bartender said with a smile. “That kid is going to be something to watch next fall.” He laid the bill in front of Jack, told them “No rush,” and checked on the couple at the other end of the bar.

  “Beautiful,” said Tucker with a dose of sarcasm. “A thousand people demonstrated outside the courthouse today, my son was hauled off to jail two blocks from here, and the most important news of the day to Joe Bartender is that Devon Claiborne recommitted.”

  Jack wondered how many “Joe Bartenders” might end up on the panel of twelve Suwannee County residents selected as jurors at Mark’s trial.

  Tucker’s cell rang and he checked the number. “It’s Shelly,” he said, and took the call.

  Jack finished his drink, hearing just one side of the short conversation.

  “Don’t leave your dorm,” Tucker said into his cell. “Just stay where you are, sweetie. I love you.”

  He hung up and laid his phone beside his bourbon. “Major shit in Gainesville tonight.”

  “What kind of shit?”

  “Huge crowd outside Robinson Tower. Baine is under arrest.”

  CHAPTER 42

  It was almost midnight at the Kappa house, and Percy Donovan was alone in his room trying to study. Most of the Kappa brothers were already heading across the UF campus to Robinson Tower. The door flew open, and his friend Kelso rushed inside.

  “Let’s go, man!”

  Percy looked up from his laptop. “I can’t. I have a finance midterm first period.”

  “Fuck that. I got a test, too. Biology.”

  There was only one honors student in the room, but this was not the time to compare GPAs. “You go without me.”

  A Kappa pledge burst into the room. He was holding a poster that he’d made for the demonstration. “How’s this?” he asked, seeking Kelso’s approval.

  “‘Death Row,’” Kelso read aloud. “‘It’s for Rich White Frat Boys Too.’ Love it! What do you think, Percy?”

  Percy shrugged. “I’m not really pro–death penalty.”

  “Dumb shit,” said Kelso. “This is not about the death penalty. It’s about equality.”

  “Then it’s perfect,” Percy said without enthusiasm.

  Kelso gave him a friendly shove. “Come on, man. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I have to study.”

  “Study,” said Kelso, mocking him. “You’re afraid to join the crowd over at Robinson Tower, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Scared shitless—cuz last time the big, bad skinhead got in your face and knocked you down. Boo-hoo.”

  “Fuck you, Kelso.”

  Another Kappa brother appeared in the doorway. “Time’s up. The whole house is heading over. You coming or not, Kelso?”

  Kelso looked at Percy, but Percy didn’t budge. “I’m out. Go.”

  “Pussy,” said Kelso.

  The fraternity brothers filed out of the room, leaving Percy alone at his desk. He heard the back door slam on their way out of the house, and the group of voices faded outside his window as they headed toward campus. Percy tried to refocus on his study guide. But his mind was elsewhere.

  Scared shitless, cuz the big, bad skinhead knocked you down.

  Not really. The Kappa house had a long national tradition of civil rights activism, and the University of Florida chapter was a proud part of it. Percy had been verbally abused, shoved, and knocked to the ground plenty of times in the past. He’d always picked himself up, more determined than before. If there was something different about him of late, as Kelso seemed to think, it had nothing to do with what had happened at the last demonstration. What kept him awake at night, what tormented him when he was alone, were the images in his head.

  Percy had never talked it out with a counselor or anyone, but being the first person to lay eyes on Jamal’s body was not without a psychological toll. Every night, he could see Jamal’s face—the elongated neck, the rope burns at the jaw. He saw Emmett Till’s face, too—the chilling photograph that Emmett’s mother had allowed at the open-casket memorial service, so that the world never forget the playful fourteen-year-old boy from Chicago who was kidnapped, tortured, mutilated, and shot in the head for whistling at a white woman in Mississippi. And Percy also saw the immortalized but anonymous seven-year-old white girl in Fort Lauderdale, caught by a photographer as she looked up with the bemused curiosity of a child examining a side of beef on display in the butcher shop, her gaze fixated on the strange fruit hanging from the giant oak tree.

  Percy looked up from his computer. He heard a noise from behind the house.

  The back door?

  He checked the clock on his computer. Kelso and the others had been gone for less than a half hour. It was too soon for them to return. Maybe they’d forgotten something. Percy rose from his desk, went to the door, and opened it. The hallway was clear.

  “Kelso?”

  There was no response, not from Kelso or anyone else. Percy stepped out and started down the hall. The Kappa house had ten rooms on either side, each shared by two upperclassmen or three underclassmen. Most of the doors had been left wide open, but each room Percy passed was unoccupied. Kelso hadn’t exaggerated; Percy was the only one left behind. He continued all the way to the end of the hall to the back door. The house rule was to lock the door after midnight. Either Kelso had left at 11:59 p.m. or he’d violated the rule. Percy turned the dead bolt, locking it.

  “Hope you took your key with you,” he said, as if Kelso could hear him.

  Percy started back to his room, but another noise stopped him. It came from the other end of the hallway. His pulse quickened, but he kept perfectly still, listening. He heard nothing. Then a half smile came to his face. This was the classic Kelso-style prank, not unlike the goofball who’d launched underwater sneak attacks on the unsuspecting sorors floating down the river on the tubing trip.

  “All right, Kelso. You messing with me?”

  Percy continued toward his room, but he didn’t get beyond the first open door. In a blur, his attacker launched himself into the hallway and blindsided him. Before Percy could speak he was facedown on the floor, pinned beneath a man who mounted him like a roped steer, yanked his hands behind his back, and cinched up his wrists with plastic handcuffs. Percy wanted to call out for help, but the steel blade at his throat silenced him.

  “Not a word!”

  The command was from a second man, not the behemoth on top of him. Next was the sound of tearing duct tape, and a silver-gray strip covered his mouth. Then the lights went out, figuratively, as a burlap sack covered his head, and the man tied a cord around his neck just tightly enough to hold the sack in place. Percy’s heart pounded, his attacker’s breath filtered through the sack to his ear, and Percy heard that voice again. It wasn’t the guy who’d just put the knife to his throat and threatened him into silence. It was the earlier voice he’d heard on the street outside the burning Theta house—the skinhead who’d shoved him against the brick wall and gotten right up in his face.

  “I warned you, boy,” the man whispered
through the burlap. “I said you was next.”

  Percy struggled to breathe as each man grabbed an ankle and dragged him along the carpet to the end of the hall. He heard the dead bolt turn and the door open, and they pulled him into the alley behind the house, where Percy could smell the Dumpster. A vehicle pulled up—it sounded more like a car than a truck. The men grabbed him and lifted him to his feet. Percy heard a hatch pop open—no, a trunk—and they shoved him inside. Percy fell into a fetal position, his head resting on the wheel well and his back pressed against the spare tire. The trunk slammed shut, a car door opened and closed, and Percy could hear his kidnappers in the back seat, less than a body’s length in front of him.

  “Go, go, go!”

  The rear tires squealed, flying gravel pelted the car’s underside like machine-gun fire, and Percy prayed to God that he wouldn’t be “next.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Jack rode with Mark’s parents to the Suwannee County Jail the next morning. They registered with the corrections officer at the window and then waited in the reception area with about a dozen visitors who had come to see other inmates. A small television in the corner was tuned to an ancient episode of Law & Order, but there was no sound. At the other end of the room, a man was banging on a vending machine that had stolen his dollar.

  “Do you think Mark knows about Percy Donovan?” asked Elizabeth.

  The apparent kidnapping from the Kappa house had been the lead story all morning. There had been no mention of a body. A search was under way, however, and the Alachua County Sheriff was planning a news conference at 10:00 a.m. with an update.

  “Probably not,” said Jack.

  “Do you think Percy’s still alive?” she asked.

  Percy’s parents had already taken to the airwaves and expressed the “firm belief” that their son was alive and would return unharmed. The fear of law enforcement, the media, and everyone else, however, was the same—that Percy Donovan was the next Jamal Cousin.