by J. B. Turner
Wilkinson cleared his throat before speaking, an affectation that his media minders had advised him to persevere with, as it made him seem vulnerable and hence likeable to women.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the media,’ he said. His voice boomed out over the ghost-like faces of the journalists. ‘Appreciate you turning up at such short notice. I’m here speaking not only to the people of Florida, but indeed to the people of America about a case which has attracted a lot of publicity in recent weeks.’
O’Neill felt his insides burn and longed for the humiliation of his situation to be over, for his son to be avenged.
Wilkinson paused and cleared his throat again.
‘It is, of course, concerning William Craig,’ Wilkinson said. ‘Now, as you all know, I am zero tolerance when it comes to crime. I was elected on a mandate to keep the streets of Florida safe. Recently I’ve been inundated with requests to move this man off death row. It is worth remembering that this man killed the only son of Senator Jack O’Neill in cold blood in South Beach nearly a dozen years ago.’
Out of the corner of his eye, O’Neill noticed Alonzo watching him. Probably wanting to see a reaction. Well, he wouldn’t be getting one.
Wilkinson continued, ‘The senator has been at the center of newspaper allegations which I cannot comment on as they are subject to legal action. However, I believe that the serious allegations in the press against the senator’s son, Joe O’Neill, naming him as a serial sex attacker, merit further investigation.’
O’Neill’s throat felt dry.
‘My job is not to take the easy option. My job is to uphold the great traditions of men who have held this post in the past. Men who have fought for democracy and had the courage to stand against those who try to wreck our society. As a Christian, my own faith has been tested to the limit. “Thou Shalt Not Kill” is something I learned as a child.’
Wilkinson paused and gazed around at the cameras and journalists, milking the situation for all it was worth.
‘However, as a Christian, I was also taught “an eye for an eye”. Ultimately, I listen to the wishes of the victims of crime. The people who don’t make the headlines. The ordinary people. The good people of the world who have e-mailed and written in their thousands to my office, demanding clemency.’
O’Neill fiddled with the American flag pin on his lapel.
‘The good people of Florida put me where I am today because of my views on crime, criminals and criminality. And their unanimity of voice can’t be ignored.’ His left eye twitched and he gazed straight at the camera. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about this case. I would, undoubtedly, be well within my rights to give the go-ahead to this execution, ignoring all protests to the contrary.’
A shiver ran down the senator’s spine. The bastard was caving in.
‘But it would be remiss of me to ignore the persuasive and passionate arguments any longer. What has become apparent is that there are huge doubts about the integrity of Joe O’Neill’s original trial. In addition, the Miami Herald has campaigned tirelessly on this issue. They have discovered that William Craig served with distinction in the Second World War. In fact, his bravery was deemed worthy of the UK’s highest military honor, the Victoria Cross. After more than a decade on death row, I believe this man has suffered enough.’
Wilkinson made intimate eye contact with the camera. ‘I’m sorry I left it so late in the day, but such a momentous decision could not be taken lightly. It required a lot of prayer and soul-searching on my part.’
O’Neill felt unable to breathe.
‘I believe the suffering has gone on too long,’ Wilkinson said. ‘That’s why I have some important news for the world. Let it be known that within the last fifteen minutes, I have contacted the Department of Corrections and the Florida State Prison. With immediate effect, William Craig is a free man.’
As his mind struggled to come to terms with the double-cross, O’Neill knew Richmond would make sure that someone would pay for this. There would be no warning. And no reprieves.
This time someone would die.
45
Sam Goldberg wondered if he was dreaming. Outside his office, he heard the cheers and whoops of joy from the reporters in the newsroom. On the TV, as dawn broke in northern Florida, there were scenes of bizarre celebration among gum-chewing kluckers, anti-death-penalty activists and Christians holding candles outside Raiford.
Never in his life had he witnessed anything like that.
‘You believe this shit?’ he asked Callaghan.
Callaghan clenched a fist and grinned. ‘Who cares, Sam? We did it.’ He reached across the desk to shake Goldberg’s hand. ‘They’ll talk about this day in journalism schools across America for generations. This is a great day for the Miami Herald. We did this.’
‘First things first. We have a new special edition to get ready.’
‘You got it, Sam.’
Deborah sat on her sofa, knees tucked up to her chin, and hugged her legs. The curtains were drawn against the morning light in her ocean-front condo. How could she live with what she’d done? It was the pinnacle of her career in journalism, yet she felt like a criminal.
Her phone rang but she did not feel like answering. After eight rings it switched over to her answering machine.
‘Hope you’re okay, Deborah.’ It was Sam. ‘Gimme a call ASAP. I’m gonna need a thousand words from the reporter who started the whole thing. You did it, kid. Gotta go.’
On her TV screen she scanned the joyous crowds outside the huge Raiford fence. They were ecstatic that a war hero wasn’t going to be put to death in their name. Just then, a face appeared among the throng. An old black face, creased with delight. She scrunched up her eyes as her father’s twisted mouth sang. I was lost, but now I’m found. I was blind, but now I see.
His eyes sparkled like they used to before his stroke. Beside her father stood her brother. Both supporting the freedom of an old white man.
The fire was back, just like the old days.
‘I love you, Daddy,’ Deborah said out loud.
Within ten minutes, a reporter was talking in excited tones. ‘I think we have him, folks,’ he said. The TV pictures from Raiford showed a gray-haired old man walk out in a gray suit. His back was straight, his head held high. He was surrounded by guards, reporters and well-wishers. And was that the large frame of Warden Erhert, looking smug and self-satisfied as if he had made the decision himself?
‘God bless you, Mr Craig. God bless you, sir.’ The reporter could not get near enough with his microphone, and the cameraman was clearly being jostled by the crowd.
William Craig’s eyes shone clear blue, and his face was alabaster white. He seemed frail as he walked slowly towards the archway. Then he smiled.
‘I don’t think I can ever remember this many people celebrating a man walking off death row,’ the TV reporter said, his voice husky with emotion. ‘Never in my life.’
46
Just after nine A.M. Deborah, drained of emotion, scanned through the words on her computer screen. Thirty minutes earlier, she’d e-mailed the copy—a thousand-word piece giving vent to her feelings about the case—to Sam Goldberg. She explained for the first time how her father’s heart attack after a visit from unidentified goons had nearly derailed her investigation. She reiterated that her investigation had come at a high price. Lives had been lost and ruined because the legal system, the Miami Beach police, and the DA’s office hadn’t done their job. And she ended her article by saying that Craig’s release was the right thing for the governor to do, but she didn’t think an old man should have had to resort to the law of the jungle to ensure his granddaughter’s safety.
Goldberg had just got off the phone. He sounded like he was speeding as he babbled his congratulations. They meant a lot to Deborah. Champagne corks were popping in the background. He asked why she wasn’t in the newsroom enjoying her finest hour. She mumbled about being exhausted and n
eeding time to recover. But she said that if he needed to contact her she’d be hanging out at the beach.
Family and colleagues had called to say how wonderful it was about Craig’s release. Klein even invited her out for lunch at a fashionable new South Beach restaurant, part-owned by Ricky Martin. She respectfully declined.
Deborah leaned back in her seat, arms outstretched, and gave a huge yawn. She needed to get out of her condo. She craved fresh air, the sun on her skin. Her mind was buzzing too fast for sleep.
She changed into some faded Levis, a blue Berkeley T-shirt, black leather sandals and shades.
Grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler, she put on a Dolphins baseball cap, stuck her cell phone in her back pocket and stepped out into the hazy morning sunshine, desperate for some solitude. On the coral-pink sands the heat and humidity hit her, like a Turkish bath.
The beach was nearly deserted as Deborah headed towards the huge condos away in the distance. Seagulls swooped low for scraps left by revelers or tourists who’d dropped the odd burger or half-eaten pizza. She never did understand what possessed some people to litter, but those minor misdemeanors paled into insignificance compared with her crime.
Deborah took a deep breath, feeling waves of anxiety sweep over her. Ordinarily, she’d be loving the exercise, but her mood didn’t match the blue skies and brilliant sun, which had just broken through the clouds.
Up ahead, maybe a couple of hundred yards, some Hispanic kids were using their T-shirts as goal posts. The laughs and fun they were having, slapping high-fives after a goal, was what the game meant to her. It seemed like she’d forgotten what a good time was.
‘Hey, miss,’ one shouted as the ball crossed her path.
They all looked surprised at the accuracy of her kick. She walked down to the ocean’s edge, skirting their game, and wondered what William Craig was doing now
Deborah passed by a few families on the beach, laughing and joking, exhibitionists playing volleyball, everyone smiling, just getting on with their lives. Kids were building sand castles, carefully digging moats, happily filling them with plastic buckets of water scooped from the crashing surf.
She thought of her own childhood, visiting Biloxi to play in the sand, and those great picnics at Bienville, paddling in the tannin waters that ran through the forest.
Innocent times. So long ago.
An attractive young girl wearing a blue bikini ran towards her alongside an equally attractive young man. She handed Deborah a camera. ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ she said, half apologetically. ‘Do you mind taking a picture of us? We’re from Salt Lake City. We’re on our honeymoon.’
Deborah smiled and took the camera. ‘Sure.’
The couple kissed each other, and beamed as Deborah clicked the shutter.
‘Well, thank you,’ the girl said, and the couple ran off again, hand in hand.
They seemed so relaxed and natural with each other. The way it had been with Deborah and Brett, before the rape. Now she was like ice when a man even held her hand, or pecked her on the cheek, no matter how innocently. Except for Sam. He had been there for her all down the line. Was there more to it than that?
For the next couple of hours Deborah walked. Further and further away from the place she now called home, the citadel in the sky where no one ever visited, where there was no laughter anymore. Despite the fact that her condo had been swept regularly for bugs, she still couldn’t get it out of her head that someone was watching her.
Was someone maybe watching her now? Photographing her every move, ready to take her out. Since she’d got back from Quantico, she’d never felt so uneasy.
Innocent smiles from bystanders on the street indicated possible traps. Men crossing the street, headed in her direction, brought on cold sweats.
Deborah got off the beach, hailed a cab and headed back to her condo. She made herself a coffee and switched on the TV. Political commentators were still trying to understand what had changed the governor’s mind at the last minute. He was being hailed by both liberal and conservatives as ‘visionary’, ‘compassionate’ and—what really annoyed her—’a man of total integrity’.
Deborah could not sit still and went out to enjoy some brunch in the sun. She hadn’t realized how starving she was after the crazy last twenty-four hours.
She gazed at the pastel pinks, yellows and turquoises of the art-deco hotels and bars along Ocean Drive. Latin music pulsated from a neighboring café. She enjoyed a Brie sandwich and some sparkling water. Absent-mindedly, she paid her check and wandered off to the beach. Suddenly she felt absolutely exhausted and lay down on the sand. Huge gulls squawked overhead, but Deborah did not hear them. As soon as she closed her eyes she fell asleep.
She heard a woman’s voice call her. Was she dreaming?
A woman, her face partly hidden in the shadows of the late afternoon, gazed down at her. It was Jenny Forbes.
Deborah thought that her heart would explode. She jumped to her feet immediately and hugged the other woman as tight as she could. A small girl appeared from around the back of Jenny Forbes’s legs. She had long wheat-colored hair and blue eyes, and she wore a pink dress. A yellow ribbon was tied in her hair. She looked around seven, maybe eight, and she seemed excited.
‘Thank you, Miss Jones.’ She spoke in a sing-song voice, as if she were reciting a nursery rhyme.
Deborah kneeled down and held her tiny soft hands. ‘My, you’re pretty.’ She smiled and brushed her hand against the girl’s soft cheek. ‘What’s your name?’
The child seemed coy. ‘Annie. My mom named me after one of great-granddaddy’s sisters. She lives in Scotland. Do you know where that is?’
‘Yes, I do.’
Jenny Forbes smiled and hugged herself as if in shock. She seemed like a different woman. ‘She was born while he was inside,’ Jenny said. ‘If it weren’t for my grandfather, she wouldn’t be here.’
‘Has he met her?’
‘Earlier this morning. We flew up to Gainesville. I still feel in a complete daze. All those people, the press—’
‘How did you manage to escape?’
‘Your paper kindly laid on a helicopter which brought us straight here. Got a doctor to examine my grandfather first, and here we are.’
‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘Blame Mr Goldberg. Said you were chilling out on the beach. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘It’s a big beach,’ Deborah said.
Jenny Forbes motioned for Deborah to turn around. Walking towards her was a tall man, silhouetted against the towering condos.
Tears spilled down Deborah’s face as he leaned forward and kissed the side of her cheek. ‘How can I ever thank you, Miss Jones?’ His Scots accent was as crisp as ever, but he seemed formal, as if he was unsure of his surroundings.
‘I’m not the only one,’ she said. ‘There were a lot of people at the Herald who worked real hard on your behalf.’
He smiled and looked down at Annie, then ruffled her hair with a huge hand. ‘Thanks to this young lady, Annie, I’ve met you. We’ve got a lot of catching-up to do.’
Tears in her eyes, Jenny Forbes hugged her grandfather, who wrapped his huge arms around her and held her close.
‘That’s all in the past, my dear.’ Gently, he disengaged himself and then walked slowly down to the ocean’s edge as the breakers crashed onto the sand.
He took off his shoes and socks and paddled ankle-deep like a child would. He looked out across the waters and tilted his white face back, enjoying the last remnants of the crimson sun.
• • •
An hour later, as Deborah, Craig, Forbes and little Annie sat together chatting in the gathering gloom, the silhouettes of two men appeared. They were wearing chinos, sandals and loose-fitting shirts.
A familiar New York accent croaked, ‘Well, ain’t this something. It’s the hotshot reporter and her tough-guy friend.’
Jo
hn Richmond was wearing his shades—even though it was getting dark. He had been on the run since Deborah’s kidnapping.
Craig moved towards the two men as if to stop their advance. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The sidekick pulled a gun and Craig froze.
The little girl let out a terrible cry, hiding behind her mother and clinging to her skirt. Richmond was grinning like a mental patient.
Deborah stood up. Jenny and her daughter followed suit.
Richmond’s face was thinner than Deborah remembered it. His cheekbones poked through his scaly skin like those of a famine victim. He ignored Deborah completely and fixed Craig with a long stare.
Craig didn’t flinch. ‘What do you want?’
‘You.’ He turned to Deborah. ‘And you.’
Deborah didn’t know what to do. Should she grab Annie and try and run for her condo? Should she scream for help? No one would come. Screams were heard all the time around here from revelers, drunks and college kids having a good time.
‘Why did you let me go in Naples?’ Deborah asked.
Richmond gave a dark chuckle. ‘That’s because the senator was so kind-hearted.’ So it was O’Neill who’d entered that basement where she had been held. It had been his silhouette. ‘He’s a gentle man. Me, well, I just whack anyone who gets in my way.’
Without warning, Craig lunged at Richmond, his huge hands gripping his throat. But with surprising speed the goon stepped forward and smashed the barrel of his gun into the side of Craig’s face.
Craig fell to the ground, blood pouring from the side of his head.
Jenny dropped to her knees beside her grandfather and held a white handkerchief against the wound. She looked up beseechingly at Richmond. ‘He needs a doctor.’
Richmond grimaced as he tried to swallow, holding his throat, obviously still struggling to breathe. Then he started laughing, the sound carrying down the beach. It was the sound of the asylum. ‘He needs a doctor!’ he rasped.
The goon laughed too, before launching a vicious kick into Jenny’s stomach. She squealed and curled into the fetal position. Annie ran to her side. The goon then leaned over and pressed his gun against Craig’s bleeding temple.