THIRTY-FOUR
They drove down Sam Otter’s driveway, Billie holding the canning jar in his left hand. O’Brien glanced over at it. “So, what’s in the jar?”
“Only a medicine man like Sam Otter really knows. He told me it is for cleansing. Enlightening.”
“Cleansing? As in prune juice?” O’Brien smiled.
“As in your spirit. If you drink too much, you must vomit it out of your system. But the right dose will open your five senses to a level rarely, if ever, achieved.”
“Is it hallucinogenic?”
“If you mean as in peyote, no. It’s more of an elixir. A lot of Mother Earth’s DNA is in here. The healers, the really good ones, have been experimenting with healing tonics for thousands of years. It is not unlike the chemistry and concepts behind the Philosopher’s Stone. Sam Otter told me that mankind would not, of course, achieve immortality. We failed at that a long time ago. But man can achieve a longevity of age and perception.”
O’Brien said nothing. He stopped at the end of the property, waiting for a raccoon to waddle off the gravel and dirt drive.
Billie looked at the jar as lightning marbled across the Everglades. “The elders, medicine men like Sam, have used earth’s natural powers of healing to raise the evolution of consciousness. If natural properties can cure sickness of the body, why can they not enlighten or transform the spirit to a pure form of being? A human being can start being human when there’s a transformation, a greater level of consciousness by tapping into the still waters of the subconscious. It’s a purification process, removing the toxins of prejudice and fear for a greater level of self-awareness.”
“Have you consumed that elixir at some time in your life?”
“Not this exact one. But I’ve had the black drink at the Green Corn Dance three times. It’s also a form of purification. It is used in combination with sitting in a tent-like enclosure as the elders pour an herbal mixture on hot stones. You sweat profusely. Sometimes you are bled. They use an eagle’s claw or gar teeth, scratching the arms. The whole idea is that a transformation of the spirit begins with a purification of the body.”
“Why’d Sam Otter mix that and give it to you?”
Billie smiled. “It is sort of like picking up a prescription from a healer. I am not sure if it is preventative medicine, or something I should take if my spirit is invaded. There are no instructions on the jar. Maybe Sam assumed that after all of these years of visiting him, I could figure it out.”
When O’Brien stopped at the entrance onto the highway, his phone buzzed. He looked at the caller ID, recognizing the number. Billie watched a storm approach from the west as O’Brien answered. “Sean, this is Wynona Osceola. I’m calling you from my cell in the headquarters parking lot. Are you and Joe still on the rez?”
“Yes.”
“Where, exactly?”
“I’m not sure. We’re leaving Sam Otter’s property. Heading north. Why?”
“Jimmy Stillwater is looking for Joe.”
“What do you mean by looking?”
“Jimmy spoke with detectives from Citrus County. They told him they have physical evidence that places Joe at the crime scene. They want to arrest him. Because of the sovereignty and federal law trumping state law, they can’t come onto the rez to arrest Joe. But they can and have requested that we hold Joe for them to pick him up.”
“Where’s Stillwater now?”
“After he spoke with the chief, he left with another detective, Henry James. They’ve issued a BOLO for Joe. They know that you drive a black Jeep, and that Joe’s in the Jeep with you.”
THIRTY-FIVE
The sky rolled in black clouds, sheets of rain falling over the glades. Joe Billie listened to O’Brien on the phone with Wynona Osceola. He looked down at his hands. A scar across his right hand, still there after a saw blade broke and hit him as he was cutting palmetto fronds years ago.
“Wynona, what are you suggesting that we do?” O’Brien turned on his windshield wipers, rain pelting the Jeep. He watched Billie unscrew the lid on the jar, lifting the glass to his lips. He sipped, closing his eyes and swallowing. He replaced the top, slowly turning the lid. He looked up at the storm, flares of white lightning trapped in his dark eyes like fireflies in a glass jar.
Wynona said, “I’ve known Joe all of my life. He’s sort of the older brother I never had. My father passed when I was ten. Joe taught me how to kick a soccer ball and to catch fish. He helped me understand what the tradition of the Green Corn Dance meant to the Seminole Tribe. I know he had nothing to do with the murder. But I’m fearful that’s not the case with everyone. I have no doubt that Joe could find places on the rez, especially in the area of Sam Otter’s property, where no one would find him. But Joe would never do that. He won’t take advantage of the tribe’s sovereign land to hide any more than he would accept profits from gambling money.”
O’Brien looked in his rearview mirror. Blue and white lights flashing in the rain. A police cruiser was in the lead followed by an unmarked Ford Fusion, blue and red lights blinking in the Ford’s front grill. “Wynona, thanks for the warning, but it looks like the cavalry has arrived.”
“Please, let me speak with Joe.”
O’Brien handed the phone to Billie. “Wynona.”
“Joe, I want you to know that I will do everything in my power on this end to prove your innocence. I believe in you. I’ve believed in you and what you’ve stood for all my life. Jimmy and Henry will only detain you until the detectives from Citrus County arrive. I know how independent you are, but the system is flawed. What the hell does beyond a reasonable doubt mean anyway. I can’t find a dozen people who will agree completely on any subject. You’re going to need a good attorney.”
The staccato blast of a siren interrupted her. “Thank you, Wynona. Please keep checking on Kimi and her mother, Nita. They need a sturdy shoulder right now, and, under the circumstances, I’m not sure I can be there for them.”
“Joe, is there anything you can tell me? Anything? I don’t care how confidential or even how insignificant you feel it might be.”
“No … not yet.” He disconnected and handed the phone to O’Brien. “Pull over, Sean. Jimmy Stillwater is just doing his job.”
O’Brien drove to the shoulder of the road, gravel and grit flying as he slowed and stopped. The officers in the cruiser came to a halt a few feet behind them. Both men got out. They wore raincoats, they’re right hands resting on their pistol grips, rain pouring from their wide-brim hats. The unmarked car pulled in front of O’Brien’s Jeep. Detective Jimmy Stillwater exited the car, first, followed by Detective Henry James, both men holding black umbrellas in the rain.
O’Brien lowered his window halfway down. Stillwater said, “I guess you figured why we pulled you over.” The rain popped off the umbrellas.
O’Brien smiled. “I’ll replace that burned out brake light when I get back.”
“Not funny.” He glanced over to Billie. “Joe, I’m sorry, but I need to take you to the station. The detectives in Citrus County are requesting that we hold you until they can get here.”
Billie looked at him. “Why, Jimmy? You know I didn’t do anything.”
“It’s not about what I do or don’t know. It’s a law enforcement courtesy. Detective Edwards told me the forensics lab got a DNA match with evidence found in your truck matching the blood and DNA from the victim. Man, I wish you luck.”
“That’s impossible unless it was placed there by someone.”
“Edwards said it was almost overlooked. They’d found a feather on the floorboard of your truck in the driver’s side. It was a black feather. They figured the dried blood on the plume was crow’s blood. But after testing, it came back as human blood. And they tell us it is a match to the dead guy’s DNA. Sorry, Joe. But we have to escort you back to the station.”
Detective James, standing next to the Jeep’s passenger side, opened the door, motioning for Joe to exit. “Let’s go, Joe.”
&
nbsp; O’Brien turned to Billie and spoke loud enough for the detectives to hear him, “Hang tight, Joe. I know you’re being set up, and I know who’s behind it. I will prove who wants you to take the fall, and when I do I’ll take him down hard and everyone on his dirty payroll.”
Jimmy Stillwater eyed Billie as he got out of the Jeep. When O’Brien started to raise the window, Stillwater said, “We’re only holding Joe as a reciprocal agreement between one police agency and another. You know how that works. I know you’re Joe’s friend. But you’re a PI and that means absolutely nothing on the rez. Have a good day, Mr. O’Brien.” He walked back to the unmarked car.
O’Brien glanced down the passenger seat. The canning jar, with its dark liquid prepared by Sam Otter, was in the center of the seat. O’Brien watched as the tall detective lowered his umbrella to place handcuffs on Billie. They stood in the falling rain, Billie looking back at O’Brien, the throb of the blue and red lights from the cruiser shimmering off Billie’s wet face, rain dripping from his nose and chin. He nodded at O’Brien, Detective James escorting him around the car, opening the door to the rear seats, placing a wide hand on Billie’s damp head and guiding him into the car.
Within a few seconds, the detectives drove onto the road. Veins of lightning streaked through the dark sky in the horizon over the Everglades, Billie’s profile a silhouette in the backseat. O’Brien could see Billie looking toward Sam Otter’s property across the road. The two officers in the cruiser pulled away, following the detectives.
O’Brien sat there. Thinking. Playing back bits and pieces of conversations, trying to arrange the shards in some kind of whole picture. ‘They figured the dried blood on the plume was crow’s blood. But after testing, it came back as human blood.’
O’Brien reached for the canning jar. He lifted it from the seat, started to place it in the center console, but stopped. He unscrewed the lid and held the jar to his nose, inhaling. The liquid had some of the scents from the smoke that Sam Otter had blown into his face. But it was much more pungent, the primal broth of earth’s DNA, the ingredients mysterious and perhaps inherently linked to the roots of plants spawned in Eden.
A burst of lightning illuminated the tallest tree in the glades. As it had done for three thousand years, the ancient bald cypress stood solid in the rain and wind. There was a second crack of lightning at the top of the massive tree. In the blinding strobes of white light, O’Brien saw something fly from the tree toward him. Was it a bat?
As it came closer, under the veins of lightning, he could tell it was a crow darker than the inky sky. In the rumbling thunder he heard Billie’s voice. ‘When we looked up, we’d see an eagle, sometimes a crow. The bird would fly over our heads.’
O’Brien started the motor and pulled back onto the road, the force of the wind across the glades shaking the Jeep. Lightning snaked over the horizon, and in the glow O’Brien could see the river of grass becoming an angry sea.
THIRTY-SIX
O’Brien lifted Detective Wynona Osceola’s card from his shirt pocket and dialed her number. “Wynona, it’s Sean O’Brien. Have they arrived with Joe?”
“They radioed in that they’re almost back to headquarters. Should be in a couple minutes.”
“Tell Joe to say nothing. I don’t care if you have to whisper it in his ear. He can trust no one. I’m getting an attorney for him.”
“Okay. But Joe isn’t a man to say much of anything unless it is something that needs to be said. I simply can’t believe this is happening to him and here on the rez. He was born here. It’s here he grew up. His parents and brother were killed when a tornado came through Big Cypress many years ago. Somehow, Joe and Nita survived. They found Joe bruised and bleeding, wandering in the glades. Nita was located in a drainage ditch, barely alive. Members of the tribe helped to raise them. And Joe spent a lot of time with the man you two visited, Sam Otter. He’s like a grandfather to Joe.”
“Who wants to take Joe down?”
She lowered her voice. “I don’t know, but I do have my suspicions. Sean, they’re here, and they’ve got Joe.”
O’Brien listened closely for any hit of deception in her voice. He couldn’t detect any. “If the Citrus County investigators are flying down in a helicopter, they’ll be there soon. Tell Joe I’ll have an attorney at the Citrus County jail when he arrives.”
“Can I meet with you after I talk to Joe?”
“Where would you like to meet?”
“Let’s have coffee at the Gator Café. It’s off Josie Billie Boulevard. Let’s say in an hour.”
“Okay.” O’Brien disconnected. He drove slowly through the rain, thinking about his conversation with Wynona. He’s like a grandfather to Joe. The wipers could barely handle the deluge of rain. O’Brien played back the part of Joe’s quick conversation he had with Wynona before Joe was picked up by the detectives. ‘No … not yet.’
Then when, Joe? O’Brien used his phone to find the address for the Gator Café. He scrolled through his contacts and hit the link to the number of the best attorney he knew.
Lana Halley answered and said, “Caller ID is a wonderful thing. Hi, Sean. Is this business or pleasure?”
“Hi, Lana, I wish it were pleasure. Unfortunately, it’s not only business but serious business, as in life and death.”
“That sounds serious. I’m in my condo about to pour a glass of wine. Let me put the genie back in the bottle and give you my undivided attention. Where are you?”
“One of the Seminole reservations, Big Cypress in Hendry County.”
“What are you doing down there?”
“It’s about Joe Billie.”
“I remember Joe well from the case I prosecuted against drug lord Pablo Gonzales and the carnage in the Ocala National Forest. As I recall, Joe Billie saved your life before you could bleed out.”
“And now I’m trying to save his life. Lana, you were one of the best of the best prosecutors I’ve ever seen in a courtroom. Now that you’re working as a defense attorney, can you help Joe?”
“Sean, what’s happened? From the beginning, I need to hear it all.”
O’Brien told her everything he knew, adding his suspicions concerning organized crime penetrating or attempting to infiltrate the gambling operations run by the tribe. “I have no doubt that the bloody feather was a plant. Joe told me his truck was parked maybe a hundred yards or so from the mound that day he was cutting palmetto. Did someone happen to stumble across the truck and drop the false evidence onto the floorboard, or was the murder of Barton planned to occur when Joe was there on a Wednesday, like he usually was? Unless someone in the tribe knew that, the only people who did know Joe’s usual location on Wednesdays were Lloyd Hawkins and his son, Bobby.”
“And Bobby is employed by the tribe’s casino near Tampa.”
“Yeah, quite an interesting chain of dynamic forces.”
“Sounds like a collusion of some kind. Did Bobby commit the murder, and if so, was he hired by the mob or someone within the tribe … someone like Charlie Tiger?”
“I’m meeting with a Seminole PD detective in a few minutes, someone who’s known Joe a long time, and someone who believes he’s being railroaded. I’ll let you know what I find.”
“And I’ll meet with Joe as soon as he arrives at the sheriff’s department or the jail. Living in Tampa, I’m close. They’ll do a first appearance hearing in the morning. It’s quick, as you know. The judge will read him the charges. I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Lana.”
She said nothing for a moment. “Hey, it’s pay-it-forward time. You helped convince me that defending truly innocent people is better than prosecuting those who may or may not be guilty.”
“But, unless the hard evidence is there, even a defense attorney can never really know if his client is innocent or guilty.”
“That’s true, however, at least I have the option to pick and choose clients. If I feel the potential client is guilty, I don’t have to take his or her case. Tha
t’s not the case working in the DA’s office. Pun intended.” She chuckled, exhaling into the phone. “I’ve missed you, Sean. It’s amazing how sailing, relying primarily on the wind, the slow pace, can give you a much greater perspective of the world and your place in it.”
“I’ve read that racecar drivers often say that time slows at high speeds, or at least their perception of time. When you’re sailing in blue water, the only pendulum swings of time are sunrises and sunsets, everything between is called living.”
“That sailing trip was the inoculation I needed to get off the grid. I’ll be forever grateful to you for kidnapping me.”
“Maybe it’s the pirate in me.”
“I believe you’re more of a knight-errant, wandering the lands looking for opportunities to prove your noble, chivalric virtues. It’s quite romantic, Sean, but it’s only a fairy tale.” She laughed softly. “I’ll do what I can to help Joe. Bye.” She disconnected.
O’Brien listened to the white noise in his phone for a second, slowly removing it from his ear. He drove toward the restaurant. A text message arrived. It was from Dave Collins. News media are reporting a major development in the ‘murder at the mound’ case. Call me.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Detective Robert Edwards and Detective Kevin Stinson entered the Seminole Police Department and were greeted by the Chief of Police, Myer Tokoda. His gray hair was cut short, round face, power forearms, thick around the waist and neck. He greeted them, made introductions, and shook hands. “Ya’ll got here quick.”
Detective Edwards, sports coat wrinkled, tie loosened, said, “We took the department’s chopper. It’s getting gassed up at the Big Cypress Airport. And, as you know, that’s real close to your department. Detective Stillwater had a car and officer waiting for us.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Where’s Joe Billie?”
“In the CID area. They’re waiting for you guys.”
“He ought to be in a holding cell.”
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