A Death in Live Oak

by James Grippando

  “I’m hoping for the best,” said Jack.

  The metal door at the end of the room opened, and a corrections officer entered the waiting area. “Mr. Swyteck?”

  It was agreed that Jack would meet with Mark first, on an attorney-client basis, separate from his parents. Jack excused himself from the Towsons and went with the guard. A private room at the end of the cell block was for attorney visits. The electronic lock buzzed, the door opened, and the officer directed Jack inside.

  Mark was in the center of the room, seated at a small rectangular table, and flanked by a pair of stone-faced guards. He wore the same blue pants that were standard issue at the jail, but his V-neck T-shirt was the bright orange color that distinguished inmates who’d been charged with a capital crime.

  “Get up,” said the guard.

  The chains rattled as the prisoner rose. The correctional officers removed the shackles from his hands and ankles, and Mark returned to his seat.

  “I’ll be right outside the door,” the guard told Jack. “Buzz if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” said Jack.

  The guards left the room, and the door closed behind them. Jack took a seat in the hard wooden chair across the table from his client.

  “How you holding up?” asked Jack.

  Mark just stared. He looked exhausted. It was clear that he’d slept little, if it all, but his eyes told an even darker story. It had been a night to forget, but one that he would always remember.

  “Do you feel unsafe?”

  No response.

  “I checked out your cellmate,” said Jack. “He’s no stranger to the prison system. Served eleven years at Raiford for sexual assault. Here now awaiting trial on a robbery charge.”

  Still, Mark said nothing.

  “It’s no surprise that your cellmate has a violent past. You’re charged with murder, so it wouldn’t be protocol to lock you in a cell with someone serving, say, a thirty-day sentence on a misdemeanor charge for trespassing. That’s one of the reasons I requested solitary confinement.”

  Jack waited, but it remained a one-way dialogue. Jack continued.

  “The sheriff obviously ignored my request. If he won’t move you to solitary, I’ll get into court this afternoon on an emergency basis. That is, if you tell me it’s an emergency.”

  Mark lowered his eyes.

  “Is it?” Jack asked gently. “An emergency?”

  Mark was silent for another minute. Then he slowly nodded his head.

  “I’ll need facts,” said Jack. “I have to explain to the judge why you feel unsafe.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said in a weak voice.

  Jack paused. His client was charged with an offense that could land him on death row, but Jack needed no reminder that more Florida inmates died each year by their own hand than by lethal injection.

  “Tell me what happened, Mark.”

  Mark closed his eyes, as if summoning the power to speak. It took a minute. His eyes opened. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  And then he told Jack.

  CHAPTER 44

  Andie took the Red Line into Washington, D.C., exited the Metro at the Judiciary Square station, and walked three blocks to the J. Edgar Hoover Building. She was alone. Jack would be in Live Oak for at least another day, so Abuela was in charge of Righley until Andie flew back to Miami—hopefully in time to tuck Righley into bed.

  Andie was the Miami representative at a team meeting that included agents from field offices in eleven southern states from Texas to Florida. All had been summoned for an emergency update on Operation 777. Andie arrived an hour early for a private meeting with the divisional director, Stan Smith, and the operation’s coordinator, Anthony Douglas. Smith was a graduate of Georgetown Law School and had started his legal career in the Civil Rights Division of the Justice Department. To Andie, he still looked and spoke like a lawyer. Douglas was a Gulf War veteran and former Marine officer, the quintessential team leader. Andie had been part of Operation 777 for months. The issue at hand was whether she would remain part of the team.

  “What does your husband know about your involvement in the operation?” asked Smith. He was seated behind his desk. Andie and Douglas were in the pair of tufted-leather armchairs, facing him.

  “Jack knows nothing,” said Andie.

  “You didn’t say anything to him when he signed on to become Mark Towson’s attorney?”

  “At first I tried to discourage him. But that had nothing to do with my involvement in this operation. It was simply a personal preference that my husband not be the lawyer for an accused racist.” She didn’t mention the swastika on their front door.

  Smith folded his hands atop his desk. “Operation 777 is the bureau’s most important investigation into the growth of hate groups in this country since the Oklahoma City bombing.”

  “And I’m proud to be part of it,” said Andie.

  “We can’t carve out the lynching of Jamal Cousin and now the disappearance of Percy Donovan from a federal investigation into hate groups.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to,” said Andie.

  “Either one or both could impact your husband’s case in Live Oak,” said Smith.

  “Jack and I have an understanding that there are things he can’t tell me about his work and vice versa. It’s the only way our marriage works, and we take that very seriously.”

  “No one is suggesting that you would intentionally disclose confidential details of an FBI investigation. But as the saying goes, ‘Shit happens.’”

  “Sir, I’ve performed more than a dozen successful undercover roles. I infiltrated a cult in Washington’s Yakima Valley. I ‘worked’ on Wall Street to root out one of the biggest financial scams in history. I earned the trust of Turkic-speaking Uighurs from Xinjiang Province in China who targeted the Florida Keys for environmental terrorism. I think I can handle keeping my mouth shut with my husband.”

  Smith was thinking, silent.

  “Let’s be practical about this,” said Douglas. “Henning is irreplaceable. It would take months for a new agent to reestablish the contacts she’s made within the target organizations. Not only would that put the operation way over budget, but it would completely disrupt our timetable.”

  Smith mulled it over for another minute, though it seemed much longer to Andie.

  “There’s only one way this can work,” he said. “And that’s to elevate your status to Level IV.”

  Andie hesitated. Level IV meant complete immersion and separation—no contact with family or friends. The last time she’d gone Level IV was before Righley was born.

  “For how long?”

  “At least a month. Perhaps longer.”

  Andie breathed deeply. She’d known this day would come and in fact wanted the career she’d had before motherhood. But that didn’t stop her from considering how much Righley would change while she was away.

  “I’d like to fly home first and say good-bye to my daughter.”

  “That’s up to your coordinator,” said Smith.

  “Sure,” said Douglas. “But I need you in Live Oak first thing tomorrow.”

  Andie agreed and thanked the assistant director. They shook hands, and Smith dismissed them. Andie rode the elevator down with Douglas to the meeting room for the Operation 777 update. They were thirty minutes early, but Douglas’ assistant had already queued up the A/V equipment for his presentation. He gave Andie a sneak preview.

  “Tech finally made it through the thousand-plus photos we collected from the riot outside the Theta house,” he said. “It took some enhancement, but we have a nice shot of the guy who launched the Molotov cocktail from the street.”

  A click of the remote brought up the first slide. It was a split image. The one on the left was pre-enhancement. The one on the right was a close-up.

  “He’s white,” Andie said.

  “I’m ninety-nine-point-nine-percent sure he’d say ‘Aryan,’” said Douglas.

>   Andie studied the images for another moment. The blond hair was hardly a distinguishing feature on this assignment, but the small tattoo of a lightning bolt at the corner of his right eye was a gift to law enforcement.

  “Commit it to memory,” said Douglas. “You’ll be looking for him tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Jack and his client were in front of Judge Teague before lunch.

  Less than an hour after the jailhouse meeting, Jack had filed an emergency request for a court order directing that Mark be placed in administrative segregation “for his own safety.” Judge Simon scheduled an immediate hearing on the motion. In the interest of efficiency, he combined it with Baine Robinson’s request for immediate pretrial release.

  Jack and Mark were at the defense table with Baine Robinson and his lawyer, Leonard Oden. Oliver Boalt and two assistant state attorneys were at the table for the prosecution. Most of the seats in the gallery behind them were empty, since the general public received virtually no advance notice of the hearing. The media filled the first row, bookended by Mark’s parents on one end and Baine’s parents on the other. The families were keeping their distance from one another. Jack’s opening remarks explained why.

  “Your Honor, although the court has scheduled a joint hearing, it’s important to understand that there is no joint defense or common interest arrangement between these two defendants. It is my client’s position that Mr. Robinson’s testimony to the grand jury is false. Mr. Towson never sent a racist text message to Jamal Cousin, and he certainly did not brag to Baine Robinson about the lynching of Jamal Cousin.”

  Oden rose to speak, but the judge cut him off.

  “We’re not getting into that today,” the judge said. “Let’s stick to the issue at hand. Mr. Swyteck, I understand from your written submission that you believe administrative segregation is necessary for your client’s personal safety. Let me hear from the state attorney. Mr. Boalt, how do you feel about this court getting into the business of operating a jail?”

  It wasn’t how Jack would have framed the issue, but it was a pretty clear indicator of which way the judge was leaning. The state attorney ran with it.

  “Judge, this request is completely disingenuous. Mr. Towson admitted to his cellmate that he planned and carried out the murder of Jamal Cousin. Mr. Swyteck seeks administrative segregation for only one reason: to create the impression that Mr. Towson feared for his personal safety and that his confession was therefore involuntary.”

  “Judge, my client was placed in a cell with a convicted sex offender known as Bulldog,” said Jack. “He threatened sexual violence against Mr. Towson unless he admitted his involvement in the lynching of Jamal Cousin.”

  “Was Mr. Towson the victim of sexual assault?” asked the judge.

  Jack was all too aware that Mark’s parents were seated directly behind him. He’d asked Mark the same question at the jail, and he gave the judge the answer his client had given.

  “No, thankfully. But he was able to avoid it only by making false statements to his cellmate.”

  “We-e-e-ell,” said Boalt, turning on his gentlemanly sarcasm. “Judge, if the Suwannee County Jail placed a first-timer into administrative segregation every time another inmate messed with his head, we’d have to double the size of our jail. This request is beyond silly.”

  “I agree,” said the judge. “The request is denied.”

  “Judge, if I could—”

  “I said the request is denied, Mr. Swyteck. Next issue. Mr. Boalt, what is the state’s position on the pretrial release of the defendant Baine Robinson?”

  Baine’s lawyer rose and moved to the center of the courtroom, standing physically closer to the prosecution than to Jack. It was clear to Jack where this was headed, and the state attorney made the announcement.

  “It is the state’s position that Mr. Robinson is not a flight risk,” said the prosecutor. “Only Mr. Towson and his now-deceased accomplice, Cooper Bartlett, fled in anticipation of the indictment. In stark contrast, Mr. Robinson cooperated with the prosecution and testified before the grand jury.”

  “You agree to Mr. Robinson’s release?” asked the judge.

  “Yes,” said Boalt. “We have agreed to his release pending our decision whether to bring formal charges against Mr. Robinson by information or by indictment.”

  Jack did the translation in his head: whether or not to seek the death penalty. A capital crime could be charged only by a grand jury indictment, not by a simple written “information” prepared by the prosecutor.

  “Does the state have a recommended bond in mind?” asked the judge.

  “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

  There wasn’t a soul in the courtroom who didn’t know that a quarter million was pocket change to the Robinson family.

  “So ordered. That concludes our business for today. We are adjourned,” said the judge, ending it with the pistol-shot crack of his gavel.

  All rose on the bailiff’s command, and Judge Teague stepped down from the bench. The silence ended the instant he disappeared behind the door to his chambers. Baine Robinson turned and rushed to the rail to embrace his relieved parents. A group of reporters swamped them, but most of the media attention was directed toward Mark, who remained seated beside Jack, their backs to the gallery.

  “I have to stay in a cell with that guy?” he asked, but it wasn’t really a question.

  “I’m not giving up on this,” said Jack.

  A pair of armed deputies arrived to escort Mark back to jail. He rose, struggling to keep his composure as he glanced in the direction of his parents. Their display of emotion could not have contrasted more sharply with the obvious joy of the Robinsons.

  “Hey, Towson, did you suck?”

  Mark glared, the camera clicked, and Jack cringed. It was a time-honored paparazzi tactic, and with perfect execution a sleazy photographer had captured the image that would lead on the evening news—Mark Towson shooting the angry look of a man who could kill.

  Jack stepped between his client and the media, serving as a human shield as the deputies led Mark to the prisoners’ exit at the side door of the courtroom.

  CHAPTER 46

  Percy’s eyes blinked open, but the pain made him squint. It hurt too much to open his right eye, so he used only his left. The burlap sack was gone, no longer suffocating him, but the right eye had taken a crushing blow from his attacker. Percy had made the mistake of looking straight into those steely blue dots in the black ski mask. “Don’t look at me, boy!”

  The glowing light above him was annoying, but slowly the strange room came into focus.

  Percy was on his back, lying on a floor of cool, unfinished concrete. A bulb hung by a wire from the ceiling. He pushed himself up and wanted to stand, but he could rise only to a seated position. His wrists and ankles were chained to a metal ring set in the exposed studs in the wall. The shackles were in front, which was better than being hog-tied, but there was only enough slack to move a couple of feet in any direction—left, right, or upright. The chains rattled as he lowered himself back to the floor.

  Whoa, head rush.

  That simple up-and-down motion stirred the fog in his brain, reminding him why his right eye hurt so much. It wasn’t just the punch in the face. The punishment after he’d gone down had done the real damage. Percy could almost feel that boot again, the steel-toed battering ram that had rearranged his face. His pleas for mercy—Stop, stop, I’m begging you!—had been useless.

  The night was coming back to him. The tackle in the hallway, the burlap sack, and the quick binding of his wrists. The men—there were definitely two of them—dragging him out of the Kappa house. A car pulled up—a third guy?—and the men shoved him into the trunk. Percy would have offered money, any amount, but he knew in his heart that this was no kidnapping for ransom. The lid slammed shut, and off they went. He was wedged between the spare tire and a container of some sort that smelled like gasoline, which had sent fear racing through
his mind: Are they going to burn me alive? He’d read enough about Jim Crow to know that “lynching” went far beyond a rope around the neck. Drownings, burnings, mutilations—many of them public events—were all part of the racist legacy.

  Percy took a deep breath, which came easy, and he thanked God for that one small improvement in his predicament. It would have been hard enough to breathe in a locked trunk. The sack over his head had made it nearly impossible. He’d almost drowned in his own sweat, and at some point he’d blacked out. The next thing he remembered, he was on the floor with his face pressed against the concrete. A garage? Yeah, must be. His kidnappers must have pulled him out of the trunk, dropped him on the floor, and chained him to the stud in the wall.

  Percy opened his left eye as wide as he could, and his gaze swept his surroundings in monovision. Four walls with exposed studs, like the interior of an unfinished garage, but it was too small to hold a car, and there was no roll-up door. He spotted the tool bench along the wall—a toolshed—and his right thumb and index finger began to throb. The cause of the pain was rushing back to him. His memory was becoming clearer. He remembered the vise-grip pliers, the angry voice of one sadistic bastard, and the laughter from his buddies who were looking on. “Good luck pickin’ cotton now, homeboy,” one of them had joked.

  It made Percy sick to think about it, but he couldn’t stop the sound of his own screams from replaying in his mind. He tried to sit up again, then stopped. He heard footsteps outside. Someone was coming. He listened carefully. Just one set of footsteps was all he could discern.

  Please, God, not the maniac with the pliers.

  The door opened. Percy caught his breath and sat up. A man entered the room, his face covered by a ski mask. Percy smelled food. The man walked toward him and laid a paper plate on the floor in front of him. Then he grabbed the tape that covered Percy’s mouth.

  “Scream, and I’ll give you something to really scream about,” the man said. “Understand?”

  Percy nodded. The man ripped off the tape, which stung.