by Rick Outzen
“Rueben, my contract gives me complete control over the editorial content of the paper,” I said, trying not to sound smug. “Tell Sheriff Frost to call me.”
“He said he did, but you wouldn’t answer your phone.”
I said, “I must have been in the shower. I’ll take the next one.”
Crutcher said, “The Hines story already has created enough problems. If Frost piles on, we’re going to have to convene a board meeting.”
“Nothing to worry about, I’ve got it under control.”
“Sure you do,” he snarled. “I got a call from your bank yesterday. You bounced some checks this week.”
“Sales are picking up,” I replied. “Best of the Coast is next month. Only a momentary cash-flow snafu.”
“We’ll see,” said Crutcher as he hung up.
The rain got heavier. Thunder could be heard in the distance. Big Boy slept while the staff wandered in for our meeting.
Roxie said the Best of the Coast sales were ahead of last year. She praised Summer’s help and said they would start billing for the ads next week. Doug gave a report on his Save Our Pensacola article. I didn’t tell them about the suicide note since I hadn’t verified its authenticity.
This was one of those rare meetings when everything clicked. Summer came into the conference room to announce that we had so many hits on our website that the server had crashed. I bought pizza for the staff to celebrate.
During the afternoon, the Frost payroll story went viral. The Pensacola Herald and the local radio and television stations ran stories on the salaries. One or two of the radio reports even mentioned the Insider.
At six, I got a text from Gravy to join him at Hopjacks, a pizza joint a block north of the office. Hopjacks Pizza Kitchen and Taproom attracted a young crowd. Each member of the waitstaff was apparently required to have at least two tattoos or piercings to be hired.
The place was packed. A concert at the music hall next door would open its door in about an hour. At first, I didn’t see Gravy, but I noticed Bree at the bar with a few of her girlfriends. They were laughing and talking with the bartender. She didn’t look in my direction, which was fine. I didn’t have anything to report yet.
Finally I spied Gravy waving from a booth in a dark corner of the bar where he sat with two tanned, blonde thirtysomethings.
“Ladies, this is Pensacola’s Thomas More,” Gravy shouted over the din of the crowd. Empty beer glasses covered the table. It must have been three-for-one happy hour or else Gravy had started early. “He does none harm, says none harm, thinks none harm, but wishes everybody good.”
The paraphrasing of the famous quote from the movie A Man for All Season flew—no, it zoomed—over the girls’ heads. They both said in unison, “Hi, Thomas,” and smiled. I didn’t care enough to correct them. Neither did Gravy.
“These are the Ashleys,” he said as the waitress handed me my beer. “They’re both teachers on vacation.”
“She’s Ashley with a y, and I’m with double e’s,” said the girl sitting on Gravy’s right. She obviously expected a reaction as she leaned across the table to show her freckled cleavage flowing out of her tank top. I never took my eyes off her forehead.
“Ladies, nice to meet you,” I told Ashley and Ashlee. “Would you mind if I take Father Graves away from you for a few minutes? We need to talk about an incident that happened on his last campout with the altar boys.”
Gravy’s lips formed a thin smile. He wanted to kill me. I took a long sip of my beer as the girls found excuses to leave the table and Hopjacks as quickly as possible.
“Holmes, you are an ass,” Gravy said. He was mad but understood we needed to talk. He was wearing black jeans and a pink polo shirt—not a good choice for someone trying to convince two Montgomery, Alabama, elementary school teachers that he wasn’t the Roman Catholic Church’s next lawsuit.
“I thought you asked me here to toast today’s cover story,” I said.
Gravy touched his mug to my Bud Light bottle. “Cheers. Did you ever talk with Sheriff Frost today? He kept calling me and bitching about you. He thinks you’re treating him unfairly and that you could find similar salary structures within the city and county governments. He threatened to put you out of business.”
“Frost will have to get in line,” I said. “What was your reply to him?”
“I finally told him that nobody could do anything with you.”
I laughed. “The web server crashed. Papers flew off the rack. The other media started asking big, bad Sheriff Frost questions. Hell, we even picked up a couple of new advertisers. Life is good.”
Gravy’s expression showed he had doubts about how I would survive another round with the sheriff. He said, “Please keep me out of this one. I’ve got several clients in the county jail and don’t need them to have any problems.”
“Problems?”
He said, “I’m trying to get them placed in pretrial diversion and avoid trials. Sheriff Frost could block it with one word to the judges.”
“You worry, too much,” I said. “Frost wouldn’t take out his frustrations with me on you. He likes you.”
Gravy drained his beer. “You messed with his family when you wrote about his brother . . .”
“But his brother works at the sheriff’s office and holds a high-ranking position. It’s fair—”
“You don’t get it,” Gravy interrupted. “You made it personal, and—”
“I didn’t. This is—”
“Stop, Walker,” said Gravy holding up his hand. “It’s not your intentions that matter. It’s how Sheriff Frost has taken the article. I need to lay low with the sheriff’s office for my other clients’ sakes and for you to switch to some other coverage to get Frost off my ass. Do a pet issue or something.”
He waved to the waitress to bring us another round. I passed on the pizza since one was enough for the day.
Gravy said, “The rest of the town may love reading about Frost’s payroll, but you understand how this works. Just as soon as you think you’re winning, Pensacola kicks your legs right out from under you.”
“I’m enjoying this while I can. We needed a break from the Hines and Wittman bullshit, and I’ve been trying to do the Frost story for over a month. We’ll move away from the sheriff’s office for a few weeks until his troops screw up something again.”
Gravy ordered some hummus and pita chips, figuring I would need something in my stomach. I made a mental note to eat healthier—not any time soon, but one day . . . maybe.
“Speaking of Hines, my guy in Mobile said he would send me the handwriting analysis by Sunday,” he said as he noticed another blonde walk into the bar. I wasn’t going to have his attention much longer. Gravy asked, “If it checks out, what’s your next move?”
“I will open the blog with it on Monday.”
“Shouldn’t you give it to the state attorney first? Spencer won’t be happy, and his boss will forget you two coached ball once upon a time. You could score some points with them by showing you’re cooperating.”
“I don’t want the state attorney’s office to drag out its analysis of the writing,” I said. “We need to shoot a hole in Hines’ story lines that the charges are bogus and there might not even be a trial. Plus, I want public pressure on Spencer and Newton to prosecute.”
Gravy said, “I really wish you would reconsider this strategy.”
“No,” I said, “we will break it and see how the cockroaches scramble.”
Gravy finished his beer and ordered two Irish car bombs, a concoction of a Guinness stout, Baileys Irish Cream, and Jameson Irish whiskey. “You might be able to survive combat with the sheriff or state attorney, but not both at the same time.”
“Harmony and peace are overrated,” I declared.
He laughed, “Well, hell. Let’s toast your victory while it lasts.”
We downed the drinks and ordered two more Irish Car Bombs. I finished off the rest of my Bud Light. Gravy gave me time to let it all s
oak in. He finally asked, “Did you see Bree at the bar?”
“Yes, I didn’t speak to her,” I said. “Have you had any luck with Tatum?”
“His former bookkeeper has filed a sexual harassment complaint with the EEOC and a breach of contract lawsuit against him,” Gravy said. “The harassment complaint probably won’t go anywhere, but the lawsuit has legs. Tatum will probably settle before it goes to court.”
“Will she meet with me?” I asked. “It can be off the record, at least initially. If she has any useful information, I can ask her later for quotes.”
Gravy said, “Her attorney thinks she might talk with you, but it most definitely needs to be for background purposes. Nothing gets published without his permission.”
“Okay, when and where?”
“I should have an answer in the morning,” he replied.
The bar began to clear out as the concert hall opened its doors. Bar tabs were paid, tables cleared. Bree and her friends gathered their purses and headed to the concert hall. She saw us and waved. A few guys hung around the bar and the foosball table near the bathrooms.
Gravy said, “I can go with you to the state attorney when you’re ready to deliver the note.”
“I don’t know. Let me think about it,” I told him as I got up and went to unload the Irish car bombs and beers.
The bathrooms at Hopjacks were far from luxurious—a urinal, a sink, and a stall with a broken door.
The door to the restroom opened as I finished and headed to the sink. In men’s restrooms the cardinal rule is to never look up, especially in small ones. I stepped toward the sink, and a large man, one of the foosball players, blocked my path.
“Excuse me,” I said as I looked up. I moved my head just in time to dodge a punch, but he bull-rushed me back into the stall.
The quarters were too tight, and I couldn’t fight worth a damn. I protected my face with my arms but left my midsection open, of which he took full advantage. Fortunately, my assailant was also hampered by the small space and couldn’t step into his punches.
My attacker was built like an NFL defensive lineman. I couldn’t push him back. If I fell, he would kick the crap out of me. One punch knocked the breath out of me. I doubled over for the second time since Sue’s death. When I went to protect my stomach, two quick jabs hit the side of my head above my left ear. Another glanced my nose, not connecting fully but hard enough to start it bleeding. A left punch hit me in the mouth. He rammed me deeper into the stall.
Instead of falling to the floor, I rose quickly, pushing off the commode and somehow the back of my head connected with his jaw. The behemoth stumbled back dazed. I pushed him into the urinal. Water splashed on the floor and soaked his clothes. He slipped as he tried to get up. I broke for the door where I surprised his buddy, who I guess was the lookout.
The guy was short, more fat than muscle, and shocked to see me. He grabbed for me and grasped the collar of my button-down. I shoved him hard against the hallway wall. The shirt ripped as I pulled away and headed for Gravy and help.
The waitstaff surrounded me as soon as they saw me. My shirt was torn open, and I was bleeding from my mouth, nose, and ears. As I fell to the floor, I saw my attackers running out the back door—then I passed out.
I spent most of the evening at the emergency room at Sacred Heart Hospital. The doctor gave me five stitches above my ear and wrapped my chest to secure my bruised ribs. My lower lip and nose were swollen, but the nurse said ice packs would lower the swelling by morning. I had no black eyes, cuts, or bruises to my face. No one would need to know about the attack. I talked the ER into not reporting the incident.
I remembered one thing about my attacker. He wore a Hines Paving Company work shirt.
18
My head pounded. My ribs ached and made it difficult to breathe. Big Boy sighed and laid on the foot of my bed. I couldn’t tell if he was worried or just disgusted with my constantly getting beaten up.
Sleep eluded me, even though I’d compartmentalized the fears of losing the paper, being penniless and forced to live in a jail cell with someone who thought I had “purdy hair.”
Even on my best nights, the first few minutes after I climbed into bed were the worst, but somehow I could always place my anxieties in a nice little box in the corner of my mind, near the much larger crate of regrets and broken dreams, and nod off.
This was the worst night in a long time. There was no way to stop my whirling thoughts about Mari. Again and again I went through my ritual punishment of reliving how she died because of me. I watched myself covering the voters’ rights rally in Holly Springs, losing track of the time, and failing to pick her up from the crisis center—and making the horrifying discovery that she never made it back to her dorm.
I thought about standing behind her family in the cemetery in Eunice as her casket was placed in her grave, her parents sobbing. I didn’t have the courage to admit to them that Mari’s death was my fault. No amount of rationalization would ever let me escape the guilt. If only I had not been so focused on writing the next big story and arrived at the crisis center when she finished her shift, Mari might still be alive. We would be married with three kids. But I was a self-absorbed coward who never owned up to her family about my role in Mari’s death.
I finally drifted off into a troubled sleep and woke up forty minutes before my alarm clock was set to go off. My cell phone was vibrating and Harden was on the other end.
He said, “Officer down at Walnut Hill Holiness Church. This one will be bad. It’s Sheriff Frost’s brother, Amos.”
When I arrived at the church, the rising sun reflected off the stained glass windows. Green and white Tahoes circled the site. Yellow tape shut off the parking lot. Sheriff Frost, Peck, and State Attorney Hiram Newton huddled next to the side door of the little white church.
I parked my car next to the railroad tracks and walked over to the crowd standing by the crime scene tape. Tyndall stood by a group of deputies away from Frost and Newton. He looked my way and gave a slight nod.
The deputies on guard didn’t know anything. When the TV crew arrived, Newton walked over to the edge of the parking lot and addressed them. The state attorney wore a freshly pressed black suit and a maroon tie. He spoke with a deep voice that commanded respect. It wasn’t difficult imagining that same voice putting the fear of God in the suspects he questioned.
“At approximately 4:20 a.m. a driver on Highway 99 noticed the blue lights flashing on what turned out to be an unmarked sheriff’s office cruiser parked in a cemetery behind this church. The victim is Lieutenant Amos Frost, brother of Sheriff Ron Frost, which is why the sheriff isn’t addressing you this morning.”
He added, “No foul play is expected. We will have more after the medical examiner’s report comes in. Our condolences go out to Sheriff Frost and his brother’s family. That’s all for now.”
Thirty yards behind Newton, Sheriff Frost and Peck stood staring at me. They weren’t thinking happy thoughts.
I talked to a few bystanders, but they hadn’t seen or heard anything. They had rushed to the church when patrol cars with sirens blasting passed their homes. I walked back to my car, thinking about how I would write this up.
As I crossed the tracks to my car, someone shouted, “Halt, asshole. Put your hands on your head.”
I turned around, and two deputies had their Tasers drawn and were standing in position ready to fire them.
“What?”
“Put your hands on your head. Down on your knees.”
The deputy shouted his orders again. Others were getting in their cars a few yards away closer to the church, oblivious to my predicament. Frost and Peck did notice and stood by Peck’s Tahoe nodding with approval.
I put my hands on my head and dropped to my knees in the mud. “What’s the problem, Officer?”
A third deputy came up behind me and cuffed my right arm, and pulled it behind me. Pressed his knee into my back and pushed me flat on the ground. He pulled my
left arm behind my back and cuffed it tightly, too. My ribs begged for relief. I grunted but held back a scream.
I started to protest. “What the—”
The deputy, who smelled of Axe body spray, leaned into me, putting his full weight on my back, which amped up my agony. “It’s illegal to trespass on railroad property, Mr. Holmes. We’re taking you in.”
I tried to turn my head and face him. “This is ridicu—”
“Shut up, cocksucker,” he said pushing me further into the mud. The pain shot from my ribs out to all parts of my body. I lifted my head and stretched my neck to avoid swallowing mud.
I heard a familiar voice. “That’s enough.”
The deputy eased the pressure, but remained standing over me. I wiped my face on my sleeve and tried to catch my breath without looking pathetic.
Alphonse Tyndall flashed his attorney general identification. “This man is here because I asked him to come.”
“We’re taking him to the station,” said the deputy. “You can talk with our bosses about it there.”
I had the feeling any ride to county jail wouldn’t be swift or safe.
“Officer, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and the FBI are standing behind the church,” said Tyndall as he pulled out his cell phone. “Do I need to call them over here?”
Peck yelled, “Muncie, Gordon, Smitty! Uncuff the man. This isn’t the time or place.”
They removed the cuffs. I had trouble getting up. Razor helped me stand.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You didn’t land on the ground that hard.”
I said, “I got in a fight last night. Busted some ribs. Let’s act like we’re talking for a few minutes while I catch my breath. I don’t want Frost to see I’m in pain.”
“What was the fight about?” Razor asked.
“A Pensacola ass-kicking, and my ass took the brunt of it,” I said as I tried to stand erect without wincing.