Cold Case Killer

by Dorothy Francis

  Randy straightened up and I guessed he wasn’t used to being called “mister.” Without smiling, he nodded in agreement.

  “Let me give you some statistics.” Soto rose and paced, looking almost regal in his clerical trappings. I prepared myself for an information dump. Okay. I needed to know more about ex-cons and how Randy Jackson fit into the picture. Soto smiled into the camera.

  “In our rich nation, only a handful of our fifty states pay reparations to exonerated ex-convicts. New York and West Virginia have set no limits on what they pay, but California caps the total payment at $10,000. And our federal government? Pleas to federal officials might get a freed convict $5,000—if he has a good lawyer.”

  Soto stepped closer to the camera as he continued, and his stentorian voice demanded audience attention. “A statistician crunched some numbers revealing that one hundred ten exonerated inmates freed by DNA evidence had spent, collectively, over one thousand years in prison. But after doing years of jail time, they were freed to make a new life for themselves. Free? Yes. But for many of those men, their freedom brought neither a happy ending to their past imprisonment nor a happy beginning for their future freedom. But I’m going to let Randy Jackson share his feelings with you.

  “Randy, where are you living in Key West?” Soto took his seat at the table.

  Randy scowled. “I can’t afford to live in Key West, so I’m living on Stock Island near Key West in a trailer home with my mother.”

  “Did she take you in willingly?”

  “Yes, sir. She did. If she hadn’t, I’d be a street person today.”

  “You’d like a place of your own?”

  “I appreciate Mom’s taking me in, but sure, I’d like my own place. I’ve got no money to buy a house or rent an apartment.”

  “Where do you work, Randy?”

  Randy shrugged. “I’m unemployed. No job.”

  “Have you applied for work?”

  “Many times. More times than I can count. I’ve scoured the help wanted ads in newspapers from Key West to Key Largo. I’ve appeared for interviews. When an employer learns I’ve once been convicted of rape and murder and that I’ve spent over twenty years in prison…” Randy shook his head and looked at the floor.

  “Raiford. That’s Florida State Prison, right?”

  “Right.” Randy’s scowl deepened. “Florida employers hear the word Raiford and they show me the door. When I argue that I’ve been exonerated, they shake their heads. Seems to me they’re convinced that ‘exonerated’ is a dirty ten-letter word.”

  “Do they give reasons for turning you down?”

  “Sometimes they say they’re afraid I’ve been influenced by the criminals I’ve associated with for twenty years. They’re afraid their men employees will resent working with an ex-con and quit. They’re afraid their women employees will be afraid of me and quit. It might not help me, but I wish accounts of my past arrests could be erased from my record. Wherever I go, that rap sheet follows me.”

  Now the audio control technician began blipping out Randy’s profanity.

  “I wish you could start over with a clean slate, too, and in time it may be so. But for now it’s impossible. I take it that you find few jobs available in the Keys.”

  “Not so. Few jobs are available for ex-cons. Many windows on Duval and Front Street show ‘help wanted’ signs. Employers need waiters, dishwashers, bus boys. It’s always been that way. The (blip, blip) employers don’t pay wages that allow service workers to afford food and housing.”

  “You’re willing to work in an entry-level service job?”

  “Yes. I’ll accept any (blip) job that gives me a paycheck.”

  “How old were you when the court sent you to jail?”

  “Twenty-two. Almost twenty-three.”

  “You graduate high school?”

  “Yes sir. My mom’s still got my framed diploma hanging in her trailer house.”

  “You must have worked for several years between high school graduation and your imprisonment at Raiford.”

  “Right. I worked as a treasure diver for Mel Fisher. He was a big-time salvor searching the sea bottom for sunken Spanish galleons.”

  “You liked that work?”

  “Loved it.”

  “Any dive jobs open now?”

  “None open to ex-cons.”

  “Ever think of writing a book about your diving experiences?”

  Randy shook his head. “No money there. At least not for authors. Oh, I read about a handful of writers making it big. But others work and starve trying to make a living. I’m willing to do honest labor for anyone who’ll hire me.”

  “Thank you for your input, Randy.”

  The Reverend Soto looked into the camera. “What do you think, viewers? Do you agree with me that our justice system has failed society by imprisoning the innocent? Do you agree that although exonerated, these men remain silently condemned for life?”

  Soto rose and stood behind Randy’s chair for a moment before he spoke again. “Of course the court’s mistakes are horrific, but, as the saying goes, help’s on the way.” The minister took his seat again. “During the past several years, concerned people have worked to establish innocence projects to free prisoners wrongly convicted. Today, concerned citizens are trying to help the exonerated ease back into society.”

  “Who are these people?” Randy asked.

  “Organizers of the DNA Identification Technology and Human Rights Center are frontrunners in helping the exonerated. Their projects require funding, but we’ll discuss that at another time. Right now, I want you viewers to hear more from Randy Jackson.”

  Soto turned once more to Randy who again had slumped in his chair. He straightened up. I held my breath wondering what he’d say next.

  “Mr. Jackson, will you tell us of some of your experiences in prison? No sob story, please. Just your feelings about your false incarceration. I want our listeners to try to imagine their own lives, had they had the bad luck to have been in your shoes.”

  Randy leaned forward in his chair.

  “To start at the beginning, I went one night to pick up my girlfriend, Dyanne Darby. She’d the night off from waitressing at Sloppy’s and I’d promised her dinner at Pier House. We were celebrating the first month’s anniversary of our first date. But that dinner never happened. I knocked at her door. No answer. I tried the knob and the door opened. When I stepped inside, Dyanne lay on the floor in a puddle of blood.”

  Randy looked at his feet. “Hate thinking about that time. It never entered my head to run. I approached Dyanne and checked for a pulse, finding none. I called the police. First thing I knew, I was being accused of a rape and murder I didn’t do.

  “I’ll be first to admit I went to prison with a rap sheet that told of my head-ins with the law. But I’d never been in serious trouble. I had no street gang connections. I hung out with Mel Fisher’s dive crew—my working buddies. But I did have an arrest for shoplifting. That was a big thing for kids to do during my senior year in high school. Police caught me lifting a dive mask at Boog Powell’s marina. Later, I had a few arrests for underage drinking and traffic violations. But I’d faced no felony charges.”

  “Who was your attorney?” Soto asked.

  “Attorney Ralph Mason—court-appointed since I had no money for a lawyer.”

  “Did you like this man? Did you feel he did his best for you?”

  “No and no. I didn’t like him or his superior nose-in-the-air attitude. He’d visit me reeking of beer. I think he even came in tipsy to the courtroom on one occasion. Anyway, the judge called a recess that day without saying why. But that’s getting ahead of the story. Before my case went to trial, the police questioned me endlessly.

  “I didn’t change my story. I declared my innocence to lawyers and prosecuting attorneys and judges. Later, in the courtroom, people came forward and spoke against me—some of them I didn’t know, people I’d never seen before. One woman I did know—Nicole Nichols, a friend
of Dyanne’s, testified that she saw me go into Dyanne’s apartment and come out with blood on my hands. When I heard that, I shouted and caused a commotion, but nobody listened. The judge banged his gavel and ordered quiet in the courtroom, and the bailiff came to stand by my side.

  “Nobody but my mom believed in me. Nobody. After the trial, the jury foreman said ‘guilty,’ and the judge sentenced me for a rape and a murder I didn’t do.”

  Soto spoke again. “Tell our viewers about day by day prison life.”

  Randy leaned a bit farther forward. “I hated sharing space with lifers. Kidnappers. Child abusers. Rapists. Murderers. Those weren’t my kind of people. I hated them. They hated me. The daily life-or-death need of having to get along with those (blip) turned me into a hard man at age twenty-three. I knew immediately that I must protect myself. The inmates were like wolves eyeing me, sniffing my scent.”

  Suddenly Randy stood and began pacing. At first I thought Soto would try to calm him or ask him to sit down again. But no. And Randy continued talking and pacing, stepping closer and closer to the camera. Even Maxine stood and approached the TV as if she wanted to reach out and touch her son’s arm.

  “I made a shiv from a spoon—a spoon they gave me with a meal. The guard never noticed anything missing when he picked up my tray. I hid the spoon in my mattress. At night I fashioned that spoon into a make-shift knife. The next day I stabbed a guy who propositioned and threatened me during recreation time. Didn’t hurt him much. He never complained to the guards. But after that incident, I got more respect from those (blip) thugs I had to live with. A lot more respect.”

  “Did you feel that one of them might retaliate? If you had a knife of sorts, maybe one of them did, too.”

  “I watched my back,” Randy said. “Every minute of every day and even at night I kept on guard. Back home I’d slept like ten dead elephants. No more. The least sound or unusual movement startled me awake. I hadn’t been there long before someone would blame me for attacking them whenever I tried to defend myself. The guards tried to break my spirit. I spent lots of time in solitary. As I look back on it now, those days in solitary were some of my easiest days in prison. I could relax. I didn’t have to worry about someone attacking or stabbing me while I slept. On the outside, I’d been an avid reader, and that past reading saved my life. Many hours I’d lie there in cold and damp and darkness recalling passages from Dickens and Shakespeare—even passages from Zane Grey and the Bible. The twenty-third psalm sustained me many times.”

  Now Soto rose again and stood beside Randy. “I’m afraid we have to draw this program to a close, Mr. Jackson. There are people and organizations trying to help you and others like you who have been exonerated of crimes. And I’m one of those people. We want a few necessary things for you—job training, for instance. We want affordable housing. We want you to have access to both physical and mental health checkups. But I have one more question for you, Mr. Jackson. Right now at this point in your life, what is the one thing you want most for yourself?”

  Randy rose and stepped so close to the camera that his face filled our screen. The scar on his cheek flushed red as he scowled and screamed, “I…want…revenge.”

  The technician blipped some words, missed others he should have blipped, and Soto tried to ease Randy from front and center, but Randy held firm. “I intend to find the guy who murdered Dyanne Darby. I intend to find the (blip, blip, blip, blip, blip) and make him pay. Big time.”

  The cameraman cut Randy from the picture and focused on Soto, but it was too late. Everyone had seen the naked hatred on Randy’s face and heard the rage in his voice. In that moment I agreed with Maxine. Randy Jackson could be a threat to society.

  SEVEN

  I waited for Maxine to say something following Randy’s outburst, but she stood silent as a stone. So did I. She felt protective toward “her Randy,” and I wasn’t ready to share my feelings with her yet. Randy Jackson wanted revenge. His anger put me on guard, but his sad story prompted me to identify with him. Me identifying with an ex-convict! How could that be! We both were well acquainted with the status of underdog. We’d both known extreme mistreatment and the ensuing hopelessness.

  Randy and I had met, not in person, but through this TV show, and I have a strong belief that people never meet accidentally. Somewhere there’s a master plan. People meet when there’s a need for them to know each other. What was the need here? Randy was in an almost hopeless situation—a situation similar to my own when Jude Cardell controlled my life and I could see no way out. Now, Maxine was asking for my help. I locked my thoughts deep inside myself as we prepared to return to my office.

  Snapping off the TV, Maxine picked up the leavings from Lavonna’s snack and tossed them into a trash basket. She grunted a bit when she stooped to coax Lavonna to her and then grasped her collar. Her knuckles whitened from the effort of grabbing the countertop and hoisting herself upright. I wondered how she managed to clean houses when stooping and rising again were such a struggle. She needed to lose some weight? Easy for me to say. Not easy for Maxine to do. I wondered if she’d ever tried going on a diet. Weight loss might do her body more good than foot reflexology.

  “Out you go, Lavonna.” Maxine pulled the iguana toward the door and coaxed her outside with a tomato. Lavonna ate the tomato and then strolled to the palm tree that supported one end of a hammock. With little effort, she climbed the smooth trunk before disappearing into the greenery. I wondered if Randy ever slept in that hammock unaware that Lavonna might be watching from above. Lavonna the watch iguana.

  “Aren’t you afraid she’ll run away? Is she safe outside?”

  “Lavonna stick close by. She knows who feeds her.”

  Maxine didn’t speak again until we were in the car and back on Highway One headed for Key West. Nor did I.

  “Now you see why I need your help?” Maxine sighed and relaxed for the first time since turning off the TV.

  “I can see Randy’s having a hard time adjusting to his new world. His situation has changed a lot in twenty years.”

  “My Randy. He’s like a firecracker with a sizzling fuse. This morning I think his ready-to-fight attitude scared Reverend Soto and likely the TV people, too—the very people who are trying to help him.”

  “You’re right. His attitude could scare people.” I almost blurted that I was one of those people, but I bit my tongue and swallowed the words. I had a lot of thinking to do.

  “I’m worrying that one day all his bottled anger will explode unlessen he find Dyanne Darby’s killer. Once the true killer’s convicted and put behind bars, people will have to admit my Randy’s innocent. Only then will they be sure.”

  Maybe. I said the word in my mind, remembering the long hair, the ear stud, the Hog’s Breath Saloon T-shirt. “Finding the guilty one might help. I agree. I didn’t realize people were giving Randy such a bad time. I understand his anger and depression.”

  “And hopelessness. That’s the worst thing. He’s lost hope for a better life.”

  The driver of an RV trailing both a pick-up truck and a twenty-foot cabin cruiser gave a blast on his horn when Maxine cut ahead of him and turned onto North Roosevelt. Maxine flipped him the bird and eased into the right lane. I looked the other way.

  “When will Randy return from New York?”

  “On a seven-fifteen flight tonight. I’ll meet him at the airport.” I smiled at the thought of Randy passing through airport security. People traveling in and out of the Keys usually face extra scrutiny including a thorough baggage mauling and a body-wanding that can reach the point of embarrassment. Then I scowled; guards might be just as likely to pass Randy through quickly, thinking nobody carrying drugs or weapons would appear dressed so obviously like a crown prince of the underworld. Instead, they’d scrutinize some white-haired grandmother type and give her the treatment with their wands and X-ray machines. But since 9/11 I never complained about extra security. The guards can’t guess which granny might carry a bomb tucked un
der her garter.

  I gazed across the bay where sunlight made the water surface look like crumpled aluminum foil. A slim jogger pounded along on the sidewalk between the street and the bay, leading his Great Dane on a leash while a woman wearing headphones power-walked, nodding to a rhythm only she could hear. Gulls screamed and wheeled overhead. Pelicans perched like icons on dark coral rocks that studded the shallows. In the distance three sailboats caught the salt-scented breeze and skimmed across the water, their white sails taut. I seldom tired of the sea scene and I kept my eyes averted from the string of fast food cafés, auto repair shops, and hotels on my left, pretending they didn’t exist.

  When we reached Garrison Bight, only one fishing boat remained in its slip. I could hardly wait to get my own boat in the water.

  “Hopeless.” Maxine said the word with a sigh. “That’s how my Randy feels.”

  “Maybe Punt can help. I know you’ve had no time to get Randy’s permission to talk to Punt, but surely you can persuade him to agree. You heard me call Punt before Randy’s TV appearance. Punt’s a wealthy guy from a wealthy family, but he knows firsthand what it’s like to be down and out on booze and hard drugs. He knows how it feels to have society against him. Punt can identify with the underdog, and after hearing Randy’s story, I think he’ll be willing to try to help him. And if Randy’s smart, he’ll accept all the help he can get.” I still couldn’t admit my own feelings of identification with Randy. Maybe it was enough just to put him in touch with Punt.

  Maxine inched the Ford down Duval, honking and narrowly missing three girls wobbling on rented mopeds. Tourists seldom read news about tourists’ moped accidents. They never make the front page. Stopping in front of my office, Maxine double-parked long enough to let me out. Motorists behind us honked and shouted.

  “I’ll call you this evening, Maxine. I’ll try to make us an appointment with Punt. You try to get Randy to talk with him. Okay?”

  “I’ll try, but I’m making no promise.” Maxine drove away as if oblivious to the traffic snarl she had caused.