I went back to my condo, and popped a cold Miller Lite. I was restless, not sure what to do. In a fit of little boy pique at that idiot Banion, I had announced that I would take Logan’s case. I guess I could back down, but I hated to lose face in front of Banion. As if it really mattered. I’d probably go the rest of my life and never see him again, and Bill Lester would certainly understand that I was retired and the reasons why I didn’t want to represent Logan. And yet, the juices were flowing. They hadn’t done that in a long time. I was starting to plot trial strategy, thinking about how to get bail set, whose depositions to take, where to hire a DNA expert for the defense. I didn’t want to do this. Should I move for a change of venue? No, I wasn’t his lawyer. A lot of people on the mainland do not like Longboaters, thinking we are all as snobbish as some of the denizens of the high rises on the south end of the key. Would Logan be better off with say, an Orlando jury? Not my call. I was retired. I’d better bone up on the Florida Rules of Criminal Procedure. Why? I wasn’t taking the damn case. The phone rang.
“Hey, Matt.” It was Logan, his voice strained.
“Logan. Have they arrested you yet?”
“You know, then. How?”
“Bill Lester called about an hour ago and asked me to go to your condo with them. Where are you?”
“That’s not important, Matt. I need to know if you are going to represent me.”
“What’s going on Logan? Talk to me.”
“If you’re my lawyer I can tell you anything and it will be privileged, right? You can’t tell anybody.”
“That’s right, Logan, unless you tell me you’re going to commit a crime. In that case the privilege goes out the door.”
“Tell me you’re my lawyer, Matt, and I’ll talk to you.”
“Okay. I’ll be your lawyer. But only for now. As soon as we can get things sorted out, we’ll hire you a lawyer.”
“Good enough, for now. I’m in Boston. I called my answering machine this morning, and there was a message on it telling me I had been indicted. I think it was Mary White, but I can’t be sure.”
Mary White was a long time friend of almost everyone on the key. She had come down from Tennessee more than forty years ago, and had been married to a Manatee County cop all that time. He was near retirement, and did not go on patrol anymore. He had some sort of desk job, maybe warrants. He must have mentioned it to Mary, and she felt it was her duty to alert Logan.
“What’s going on, Matt?”
“I don’t know much. Bill Lester said that the medical examiner found that Connie had been raped, and the DNA in the semen matched the DNA from some hair taken from your comb. They just got the test results back. When are you coming in?”
“I’m not, Matt.”
“You’ve got to Logan.” I was alarmed. The worst thing Logan could do was become a fugitive.
“There’s no bail for first degree murder, is there Matt?”
“No, but maybe we can talk the judge into making an exception.”
“I’m not willing to bet on that, Matt. I’ll keep in touch. I didn’t do this, Matt.”
“Logan, I want to believe you, but the DNA is a killer.”
“The semen was mine. We had sex that evening, rough sex. She liked it like that sometimes. But it wasn’t rape, and I didn’t kill her.”
“You told me you hadn’t seen Connie that night after she left Moore’s.
“I know,” he said. “That was a stupid thing to do, but once it was out of my mouth I was embarrassed to tell you I had lied. I’m sorry, Matt.”
“Alright. I accept that, Logan. Give me the name of your Army buddy, the one you were with that night, and I’ll see about getting a statement that will give you a ready alibi. If we can show that the state’s case is weak, we’ll have a better chance at bail.”
“I don’t know his name, Matt.”
“Come on, Logan. An army buddy you spent an evening with and you don’t know his name?”
“I’ll be in touch, Matt. Soon. I’ll call your cell phone at eight A.M. sharp, when I call. If you’re not there, I’ll call back every other hour on the hour until I get you. If you need me, call Fred.” He gave me his brother Fred’s number and hung up.
Anybody with a lick of sense would see that Logan had put me in a tough position. I knew he wasn’t coming back to be arrested, but if I told the cops that, they would get real antsy and issue all kinds of bulletins. The police would know that Logan was from Boston and would alert the department there. They would find his brother, and maybe Logan. But I was a lawyer, and my duties went only to my client. I had no duty to tell the cops anything, and would probably violate my oath as an attorney if I did say anything. It was a no-brainer. Let the cops find him.
I locked up and headed to mid-key for lunch at a bar and restaurant called O’Sullivans’. It was a pleasant Irish country inn sort of place owned by two sisters from County Cork, Molly and Irene O’Sullivan. They were about a year apart in age, both in their early forties. They had worked as barmaids and waitresses in several places on the island for ten years, often working two jobs each and saving their money. About ten years before, they were able to make a down payment on a place that had housed several different restaurants over the years, all unsuccessful. An Irish country inn setting on a beach may seem a little incongruous, but it worked. Because they were well known to the locals, and because the locals appreciated their spunk, O’Sullivans’ was well patronized. The girls, as they were universally called on the island, were doing well, but they were working sixteen hour days to make it go. I had gotten to know the sisters when I was living part-time on the island, and ate at their place as often as possible.
I arrived about two o’clock, still early enough for lunch, but late for the crowd. Glenda, the elegant blond hostess, was behind the bar. I was the only customer. I took a seat at the bar, and ordered the cottage pie, which is beef stew without the vegetables, cooked in a deep dish with a thick crust of mashed potatoes, browned on the top, covering the beef. I ordered a Harp, an Irish beer on tap.
Molly saw me and came over. “Hey, Matt. How are you? I heard they indicted Logan.” Her years in Florida had robbed her of most of her Irish brogue, and all those hours working were taking their toll on what was left of her youth.
“Sit down and have a beer with me,” I said.
“Well, I’ll sit for a minute, but I’ve still got to take care of the book work for last night and lunch.”
Molly asked Glenda to pour her a Coke, and asked, “So, Matt. What about Logan?”
“You heard right, Molly. A grand jury indicted him yesterday for first degree murder.”
“Logan didn’t kill her Matt. He doesn’t have it in him to hurt anybody.”
“I know, Molly. But he doesn’t have much of an alibi. He was drinking with an old Army buddy, but I don’t have a clue as to where to find the buddy.”
“Are you going to represent Logan?”
“For now. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to try this case. I’m too close to Logan. And to Connie for that matter.”
“You know, there was a guy in here one night at the bar asking about Logan. Said he and Logan had been in the Army together. Wanted to know if I knew Logan.”
“When was this?”
“About a month ago. Probably just before Connie’s murder.”
“Do you remember anything about the guy?”
“Not really. I only talked to him for a couple of minutes. He wanted to know if I knew where Logan lived. I lied and told him no, and he left.”
“Have you ever seen the guy again?” I asked.
“Not that I remember, Matt. Is it important?”
“Probably not, but if you see him again, ask him to call me.”
“Sure Matt. Gotta get back to the books. See you later.”
I finished my meal amid small talk with Glenda, and headed home.
Monday arrived, hot and humid. I did my four miles on the beach, and was glad to return to my air
conditioned condo. There was no lounging on the balcony this time of the year. It was just too hot.
I made myself a bowl of cereal and a pot of coffee and settled down with the morning Sarasota paper. The headline shouted that a local man had been indicted for murder. The story was about Logan and Connie and had information that I didn’t think would have been given to the press in the normal course of things.
I picked up the phone and called Chief Lester. “Bill,” I said when he came on the line, “How did Logan end up on the front page?”
“I don’t know, Matt. But it didn’t come from here.”
“I’ll bet Banion knows somebody at the paper. What is his problem, Bill?”
“Banion is maybe the best detective I’ve ever seen. He hates lawyers because he’s seen too many bad guys get off because they had good legal counsel. His wife died two years ago, and I think the stress of the job and of losing her turned him into a real problem drinker. But I promise you, Matt, he’s a better detective drunk than most of them are sober.”
“Why would he leak something like this to the press? What does he gain by it?”
“He probably thinks a bad press will make it tougher for a jury to give Logan a break when he’s tried. Have you heard from him, Matt?”
“Banion?”
“You know who I mean, Matt.”
“Bill, you’re my friend, and I hope when this thing is over you’ll still be my friend. But I’m Logan’s lawyer, and I can’t discuss this with you.”
“I understand, Matt. No sweat. But you know it’s going to go a lot easier if he turns himself in. If he’s caught, it’s going to be bad.”
“Have they decided who the prosecutor is going to be yet?”
“Elizabeth Ferguson. Know her?”
“I’ve seen her name in the paper. She does only capital felonies, right?”
“Yeah. And she’s beautiful and a real ball buster. Every cop and lawyer in the twelfth circuit has hit on her. Nobody gets anywhere. They call her the ice queen. And her name is Elizabeth; never Beth or Liz or Betty. You’ll do well to remember that.”
“Thanks, Bill. I’ll be talking to you.”
I had met Logan’s brother Fred on one of his visits to our key. I called him in Boston. He did not know where Logan was but told me that Logan had called. He would be checking in regularly with Fred, but wanted to keep Fred ignorant of his whereabouts.
“Logan says you’re going to represent him,” said Fred.
“For now. Until we can get a real lawyer for him.”
“Logan doesn’t have any money. He’s afraid he’ll end up with a public defender.”
“Come on, Fred. Logan has been doing good. He’s probably got more money stashed away than most of us.”
“Not really. He lost a bunch in a bad investment that he doesn’t like to talk about, and he spent a lot sending our dead brother’s daughter through college. I think he’s about broke. I know he took out a large second mortgage on his condo last year.”
“What about your folks? They’ve got money.”
“No they don’t. My father was a commercial fisherman. Worked the boats out of Gloucester and barely made enough to keep us in food and clothes. Logan just made up all that malarkey about having wealthy parents.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Yeah.”
That afternoon I cranked up my computer and went onto the internet to find Elizabeth Ferguson. One of the first things a trial lawyer learns is to know the opposition. In the internet version of the national legal directory I found the bare bones information on the prosecutor. She was born in Statesboro, Georgia, graduated from Georgia Southern University with a bachelors degree and three years later from Mercer University School of Law in Macon, Georgia. She had been admitted to the Florida Bar ten years before, and she was thirty-five years old.
I searched the archives of the Sarasota newspaper and found several articles about Ms. Ferguson. She had tried a number of high profile death penalty cases in the last three years, and had lost none. Before that she would occasionally show up in the paper while prosecuting other felons. One article was a personality piece about her that was published soon after she won her first death penalty case.
I learned that she had been born into a large family and had had to work her way through college in her hometown. She excelled academically and was awarded a full scholarship to study law at Mercer. When she graduated she married a fellow student from Sarasota, and the couple set up housekeeping in a condo on Siesta Key. He went to work for a prestigious firm in Sarasota, and she followed her instincts and applied for a job at the State Attorney’s office. Elizabeth had graduated near the top of her class and edited the Law Review, a job held only by the most academically gifted students each year. With those credentials she had no trouble getting the job.
Over the years she had worked hard, tried a lot of cases and honed her courtroom skills. She hardly ever lost. After seven years of marriage she had divorced her husband and moved to a small house near the waterfront in Sarasota. She did not appear to have much of a social life.
While I was on the computer, I figured I might as well bone up on the Florida Rules of Criminal Procedure. I surfed into the Florida Supreme Court’s web site and read for an hour or so. Nothing much had changed.
About six that evening there was a knock on my door. It was the delivery guy from Oma’s Pizza on Anna Maria Island. I had gotten to know him casually over the years, given my penchant for ordering pizza rather than cooking.
“Got your pizza, Mr. Royal.”
“I didn’t order a pizza.”
“Mr. Hamilton ordered it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He called the order in, paid with his credit card and said to tell you to enjoy.”
“Did he order anchovies on it?”
“No, sir. Everything but anchovies.”
God, I hate anchovies. I took the pizza, tipped the boy, and dug in. I wasn’t sure what Logan was up to, but I enjoyed the pizza.
Chapter 6
After my jog and a cup of coffee the next morning, I showered, shaved and put on the only suit I had left from a rather extensive wardrobe from my former life. It was navy blue with a subtle chalk pinstripe. I added a blue and yellow striped tie, the colors of the Seventh Cavalry, according to the salesman, and a light blue oxford button down shirt. All this finery sat atop a pair of highly shined wingtip loafers with tassels, wrapped around a six foot body, still lean and with most of its dark hair intact. I thought I looked pretty spiffy in the full length mirror, and God help me, I looked like a lawyer.
The Twelfth Judicial Circuit of Florida covers Sarasota, Manatee and Desoto counties. The State Attorney and Public Defender are housed in a nine story modern building adjacent to the old courthouse in Sarasota. From there they fan out over the three county area to do justice. It was to this building that I went on that bright hot late May morning.
I took the elevator to the seventh floor and announced to the receptionist that I was Matt Royal and that I had a 9:00 o’clock appointment with Ms. Ferguson. I was told to have a seat.
I had barely touched my rump to the battered sofa that took up one wall of the small reception room, when a woman entered, her hand out, saying, “Mr. Royal? I’m Elizabeth Ferguson. Come on back.”
She was dressed in a gray suit, a navy blouse open at the neck and dark shoes with medium heels. Her blonde hair was cut above her shoulders, and set off lovely face, punctuated by large sky-blue eyes. She was tanned, but not leathery as so many of the Florida sun worshipers become. She had a trim body, small waisted with breasts that could not quite hide behind the suit jacket. Her legs were long, and I guessed her to be about five seven.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asked.
“I would love one.”
“Lets stop by the kitchen and you can fix it like you want it.”
We turned into a small room with a sink, a refrigerator, a microwave and a commer
cial drip coffee pot. She got two Styrofoam cups from the overhead cabinet and poured them both full. “There’s cream and sugar on the counter,” she said.
“Thanks. Black will be fine.”
She reached into her coat side pocket, extracted two quarters and dropped them into a mason jar with a coin slot in the lid. “My treat,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“My office is this way.”
We went down a corridor with offices opening off either side. At the end we turned right into a secretarial area in which sat a black woman working on a computer.
“Mavis, this is Matt Royal,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Royal, my secretary, Mavis Jackson.”
“How do you do, Ms. Jackson.”
“I understand we’ll be working together soon, Mr. Royal.”
“How’s that, Ms. Jackson.”
“The Hamilton case.”
“I’m not sure for how long. Pretty soon, he’s going to need a real lawyer.”
“I hear you, Counselor. I hear you.” Mavis said, chuckling.
Elizabeth Ferguson’s office was small and crowded with a scarred old mahogany desk, two legal size file cabinets and two chairs for guests. Hanging on the wall behind her desk were her diplomas from Georgia Southern and Mercer. Her executive chair looked new and expensive. Her windows looked out over downtown Sarasota, the bay and out to the Gulf.
“It took me ten years of hard work to get that view,” she said. “I had to buy my own chair. The state is not a generous employer.”
The vestige of a Southern accent wrapped her words in a softness that attested to her heritage. The Southern background and education would explain her easy charm that at first seemed to be at odds with her reputation as a hard nosed prosecutor who gave no quarter in the courtroom.
“Why don’t you leave? Go into private practice,” I asked.
“I like to put the bad guys in jail. I think I’d get bored doing whatever civil lawyers do.”
“I see you went to Mercer. So did I.”
“You must have been before my time,” she said, with a wry smile.
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