A Death in Live Oak

by James Grippando

  Jack watched in near disbelief as the bailiff cuffed Brandon on the witness stand. A silenced courtroom watched, riveted, as Brandon was escorted to the prisoner’s exit—the side door that, an hour earlier, Jack’s client had used to enter the courtroom.

  “Mr. Towson, please rise,” the judge said.

  Jack stood beside his trembling client. The judge was looking straight at them, his expression stone-cold serious.

  “The defendant’s request for pretrial release is granted,” Judge Teague said. “The state attorney’s office has until five o’clock tomorrow to explain by written memorandum why the indictment should not be dismissed. By order of this court, Mr. Towson is released on his own recognizance without the requirement of bail. We are adjourned,” he announced, ending the proceedings with a bang of his gavel.

  “All rise!” said the bailiff.

  Jack felt his client leaning on him, almost unable to stand.

  “I’m out of jail?” Mark whispered.

  “Yes,” Jack said.

  Mark was on the verge of tears. Jack shared his client’s relief, but it was hard to feel joy in a situation that remained tragic. On the other side of the courtroom, Jamal’s parents looked numb, clinging to each other, struggling to work through the senselessness of it all. The judge retired to his chambers, and the media rushed to the rail.

  “Mr. Swyteck, do you admit that your client is a racist?”

  Jack didn’t respond. Instead, he let his client have a moment with his parents. But that first question from the media, and a slew of others that followed, was a quick reminder that it would take more than the dismissal of a murder indictment to find justice in this case. Jack had more work to do for his client.

  And for Willie James.

  CHAPTER 83

  Andie was locked in battle as the driverless boat sped down the river. The pistol was in her grip, and with her other hand she tried to shove Colt’s nose into his skull. Colt twisted free and slammed her forearm against the wheel, but before he could gain control, the boat cut left at nearly ninety degrees, tossing them overboard. The gun flew out of Andie’s hand and splashed into the river a split second before she did. The boat slammed into a tree on the riverbank as she popped to the surface and gasped for air.

  Andie looked left and right, scanning the surface for any sign of Colt. He grabbed her from below and pulled her under. Andie kicked herself free, resurfaced, and then dived for her weapon. It was too dark in the depths to see anything, and the current had already carried them fifty yards downriver. The gun was gone.

  Colt surfaced like a breaching great white and came down on Andie. She clawed his face and kicked with her knees. He was on top, sucking air and water. Andie was below, getting water only. The current was taking them faster and faster downriver. Andie was inhaling water by the mouthful as they slammed into a buoy. Andie grabbed the chain that tethered it to the riverbed and kicked herself free.

  Colt continued alone downriver. The current was strong enough to give Andie a fight, but she held on. She saw Colt splashing ahead, his arms flailing. Andie glanced up at the buoy and immediately realized where they were. She’d studied the rivers for this assignment and had been warned about this stretch of the Santa Fe, where the river literally disappeared underground and didn’t resurface for another three miles. A few swimmers and canoers had gone down here. None had ever been known to resurface downstream at River Rise Preserve State Park.

  Andie caught her breath, clinging tightly to the buoy, fighting through a pain in her kidney that was unlike any she’d felt before. She tried to ignore it, focusing her attention downriver. Colt waved his arms in one last act of desperation. Then he disappeared, sucked down into the dark, watery labyrinth of the Florida Aquifer.

  “Good riddance,” Andie said, keeping an ear out for an FBI boat or helicopter, gritting out that pain in her lower left back—which wasn’t getting any better. It was getting worse. Much worse.

  CHAPTER 84

  Jack stopped on the courthouse steps, his client at his side as he delivered a very brief statement for a headline-hungry media.

  “We’re grateful that the truth has come out. Mark Towson is not a murderer, and now the long journey begins to restore his reputation. We express our condolences to the Cousin family and pray for the safe return of Percy Donovan. Thank you very much.”

  “Percy Donovan is alive and well,” a reporter shouted. “Do you have any comment?”

  Mark stepped forward. “Thank God,” he said.

  “Thank you all,” said Jack.

  He could have said more, but he was content to let the media—every vestige of the media—grill the state attorney. Jack and his client caught a snippet as they struggled to make their way down the crowded courthouse steps.

  “Mr. Boalt,” a reporter shouted, “does this mean that the third Croc—the burned one found in Baine Robinson’s closet—was planted evidence?”

  “Not at all,” said the state attorney. “It turns out that the UF bookstore has sold over ten thousand pairs of ‘Gator Blue’ Crocs. So the fact that the charred remains of Mr. Robinson’s Crocs were the same color as the ones found on the river is no big coincidence. Funny, I know, but true.”

  Yeah, funny, thought Jack, as they kept walking. Fucking hilarious.

  The media followed him all the way to the curb. Mark’s parents were in the front seat of the family car, waiting. He and Mark climbed into the back seat and closed the doors without another word. Oliver Boalt was still running his mouth on the courthouse steps, desperately trying to salvage his reelection, as the Towson car pulled away from the curb. No one said anything at first, as if Mark and his parents were still absorbing what had just happened. Then Mark had a question.

  “What will happen to Brandon?” he asked.

  Jack likened it to a hazing prank gone horribly wrong. “Involuntary manslaughter, I would think. A year in prison, at worst. Probation if he’s lucky. Same for any of the Alpha brothers who helped him.”

  Jack’s cell rang as they reached the intersection. It was Virginia.

  “Mr. Swyteck? Would you have time to stop by Miz Porter’s house today?”

  “Sure,” said Jack. “What’s this about?”

  “I’ve been sorting through Miz Porter’s things. I found something you might want to see. It has to do with Willie James.”

  Pine Avenue was a quiet, tree-lined street right around the corner from the courthouse. The houses were from a bygone era of porch swings and flower-filled window boxes. Boalt had clearly worked the neighborhood, with yard signs aplenty calling for the reelection of the state attorney. The Towson family waited on the porch as Virginia took Jack into the parlor. He took a seat at Cynthia’s antique secretary. Virginia laid an old file folder on the desktop in front of him.

  “Where did you find this?” asked Jack.

  “Upstairs,” she said. “It was in a box in Miz Porter’s closet with some other legal things.”

  Jack opened the file. Inside was a one-page document, typewritten. The “e” key bled too much ink, so holes blotted the paper like pips on a die. But the document was plainly legible. It was a sworn statement, including witness attestations. The signatory was A. Phillip Goff.

  “That’s Miz Cynthia’s father,” said Virginia. “Goff was her maiden name.”

  Jack noted the date at the top—January 2, 1944—and then read it.

  “On this day at eleven o’clock, two of my friends and myself went to the home of James Howard, where we found a colored boy by the name of Willie James Howard.”

  It read very much like the letter Jack had received from Cynthia. Jack wasn’t skimming, but the words seemed to float before his eyes, as if it were the resurrection of a terrible nightmare: . . . took Willie James in the car with us . . . drove to a place near Suwannee River . . . tied the boy’s feet and hands to keep him from running so his father could whip him . . .

  Jack stopped. It wasn’t the first time he’d read about it, but seein
g it in this format, an old sworn statement, made it almost unbearable: . . . the boy making the statement that he would die before he would take punishment from his father or anyone else made his way to the river where he jumped in and drowned himself.

  Jack gathered himself, then struggled through the next sentence. His father stood by and viewed the son without preventing this happening.

  “They made him watch,” said Jack, barely able to say it. “They took his father to the river and made him watch them drown his fifteen-year-old son.”

  Virginia stood in silence.

  “This document,” said Jack, disgusted, “this despicable lie that Willie James jumped in the river was clearly concocted by a lawyer. I’d like to know who—”

  Virginia stopped him by placing another document in front of him. “This was the cover letter that was in the file with the sworn statement.”

  Jack stared down at cream-colored stationery. It was from the same typewriter, the blotted e apparent in almost every other word. The engraved letterhead was in Old English. Jack read the masthead aloud:

  “Law Office of Oliver Boalt.”

  “His daddy,” said Virginia.

  It was suddenly crystal-clear why Oliver Boalt Jr. wanted Willie James Howard to be no part of Mark Towson’s hearing—why he’d even gone so far as to tell the judge that there was “no evidence that a Willie James Howard ever existed, let alone was lynched.”

  “Did Cynthia show this to the state attorney?”

  “I believe she did. I took her to his office. They talked in private.”

  “How did that go?”

  “She was pretty upset when she came out.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a week before she died.”

  Before she threw herself in the river.

  Jack was the last person to hold someone accountable for the sins of the father. But the cover-up—years and years of cover-up—was as bad as the crime.

  “Looks like the state attorney has even more explaining to do,” said Jack.

  Jack told the Towsons to head back to Gainesville without him. The state attorney’s office was just a couple of blocks away, and it took Jack less time to walk there than to ride the old Otis elevator from the lobby to the second floor.

  “Mr. Boalt is on the telephone,” his secretary told Jack. She said it again as Jack blew past her, and she repeated it several more times as she chased him down the hallway, too slow to stop Jack from entering unannounced.

  Boalt was at his desk, and he truly was on the phone. Jack dropped the file on his desk and flipped it open to reveal the letter from Oliver Boalt Sr.

  “Your father wrote this?” Jack said, more of a statement than a question.

  The state attorney stopped talking, still holding the phone as he examined Jack’s personal delivery. “I’ll call you back,” he said, and then he laid the phone in the cradle. His secretary was standing in the doorway, horrified. “It’s all right, Janice,” said Boalt. “Hold my calls.”

  “Yes, sir.” She closed the door on her way out, leaving the two men alone in the office.

  “How long have you known?” Jack asked in a tone that was less than cordial.

  Boalt glanced at his father’s letter. “Too long.”

  “This isn’t the first lynching to go unpunished,” said Jack. “But there have been hundreds of atonement trials in this country. They’re not just ceremonial. It’s important to recognize the victim as a person and to call out the names of the murderers. Willie James Howard deserves that much.”

  Boalt didn’t respond.

  Jack retrieved the file and tucked it under his arm. “I’m taking this to the Southern Poverty Law Center in Montgomery,” said Jack, “along with my request that they initiate an atonement trial.”

  Boalt stared down at his empty desktop a moment longer, then looked up. “Are you planning to do that before or after next Tuesday?”

  The question nearly set Jack back on his heels. The election was on Tuesday.

  “Rot in hell, Mr. Boalt.” Jack headed for the door.

  “Swyteck,” said the state attorney.

  Jack stopped and turned.

  “I’m dismissing all charges against your client. Not only murder, but everything, including the text message. But I’m still charging Baine Robinson for sending that text. I think that’s the just thing to do.”

  Jack tapped the file and said, “I’m still taking this to Montgomery before Tuesday. I think that’s the just thing to do.”

  Jack let himself out, leaving as quickly as he arrived. The noisy elevator took him to the lobby, and his cell rang as he exited the building. Jack continued down the sidewalk as he took the call.

  “Is this Jack Swyteck?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “I’m Special Agent Ferguson with the FBI.”

  Jack stopped. It was something he heard in Ferguson’s voice.

  “I’m calling about your wife, Agent Henning.”

  CHAPTER 85

  Andie is in surgery.”

  The words registered, but everything else Jack heard from Agent Ferguson was a blur. Not until he hung up and started breathing again could he begin to think straight.

  I need a car.

  Andie had been airlifted by helicopter from the river to Shands Hospital in Gainesville, seventy miles from Live Oak. The Towson family was long gone, and renting a vehicle would take precious time, but Jack recalled seeing a Cadillac in Cynthia Porter’s driveway. He ran back to Pine Avenue and banged on the front door. Virginia was surprised to see him again so soon, sweating and breathless as he was, but she didn’t hesitate.

  “I’ll pray for her,” she said, as she pressed the car keys into his hand.

  Jack made the necessary phone calls while speeding south on I-75. First to Theo, who would fly up with Righley. Then to Andie’s parents in Seattle.

  “Should we get on a plane?” her mother asked.

  Jack flashed forward thirty years, imagining Righley in Andie’s place. “I would.”

  Jack made good time to Gainesville, though it seemed to take forever. Another call to Ferguson yielded no further information. Jack left Cynthia’s Cadillac with the hospital valet attendant and ran inside. His photo and personal info were already in the system from his previous visits to Mark and Liz, so he breezed through Reception and hurried to the waiting room outside the surgery suite. Agent Ferguson introduced himself—the first time Jack had ever met one of Andie’s undercover partners.

  “How is she?” asked Jack.

  “She’s been in surgery for about an hour. We’ll know soon.”

  “What happened?”

  “Her weapon discharged in close combat. Contact shot to the perp was fatal, but the bullet passed right through. Andie was hit on the ricochet. I had a chance to talk to her for a couple seconds before the airlift. She didn’t even know she was shot until we caught up with her.”

  “Where was she hit?”

  “Left kidney.”

  The pneumatic doors to the surgical suite opened, a doctor emerged, and a nurse pointed her to Jack.

  “Mr. Swyteck?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Coleman. Your wife is one strong woman. She’s going to be fine.”

  Jack wanted to hug her.

  “She was sufficiently stable for us to do reconstruction, so we were able to salvage the kidney with pledgeted sutures and wrapping. We’ll monitor that over the next few days, but she should have no need for further surgery.”

  “Thank God. You know she was pregnant, right?”

  “Yes. Now, your wife did lose a lot of blood before medics were able to reach her.”

  “But everything is okay?”

  “When a pregnant woman loses that much blood so suddenly, it’s a shock to the entire system.”

  Jack understood what she was saying. “So—”

  “I performed a D and C.”

  Dilation and curettage. It was a term Jack remembered from A
ndie’s first miscarriage, before Righley.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “She did lose the baby.”

  There was suddenly a hole in Jack’s heart, but he didn’t let himself fall into it. He was more worried about how Andie would handle the loss.

  “Does she know yet?”

  “No.”

  Jack took a breath. “How long until the anesthesia wears off?” he asked.

  “Another forty-five minutes or so. You can sit with her in Recovery if you like. Be there when she wakes.”

  “Thank you,” said Jack. “I’d like that.”

  The doctor pointed him in the right direction, and Jack entered the recovery room. It was a large, open area with a nurses’ station in the center, surrounded on all four walls by patient bays with privacy curtains. Andie was alone in Bay No. 3. The curtain was peeled back so that the nursing staff could keep an eye on her. She was sound asleep and—Jack had almost forgotten—a dyed blonde.

  He went to the rail, squeezed her hand, and gave her a kiss. She didn’t stir, and her eyes remained closed, but the warmth from her lips was response enough.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he whispered, still holding her hand.

  Jack stayed there, standing at the rail, watching Andie sleep. He thought about how he would break the sad news to her. There was no easy way. It’s no one’s fault? We can try again?

  He watched her for another minute, and then his gaze drifted away. His thoughts went from what had happened to Andie in the last few hours, to what had happened in the last three weeks, to what had happened in Live Oak three-quarters of a century ago. He was thinking, especially, of James Howard coming back from the river. Going home to his wife. Maybe sitting down next to her and holding Lula’s hand the way Jack was holding Andie’s. And then telling his wife what those men had forced him to watch them do to their only child.

  Jack leaned over the rail, slipped his arms gently around Andie’s shoulders, and pressed his cheek lightly against hers. Then he did something he hadn’t done in a long time—something that he’d almost forgotten he could do.

  He let the tears come.