Dead River

by Fredric M. Ham

  “Yeah, but it’s too circumstantial. The paper the letter was written on could have come from McCarthy’s business.”

  “True,” Allison agreed. “You said you had three concerns. What’s the third?”

  “In ’89, a girl was found dead on the bank of a creek in Magee, Mississippi, after the city’s centennial celebration. She had the letters CXJ carved on her forehead. Sikes is from Magee, and Sara Ann Riley had the same letters carved on her forehead.”

  “Were there any suspects in the Magee murder?”

  “Two, but they both had alibis.”

  “Was one of them Sikes?”

  “Nope.”

  Both men sat silent for several moments.

  “So what do you think?” Harley finally asked.

  Allison still didn’t say anything. He stroked his chin, his eyes circling around the room. Then his hand dropped and he stared at Harley. “I think Mr. Slick doesn’t have a case. That’s what I think.”

  A wide grin formed on Harley’s face as he leaned back in his chair. “That’s what I’m thinking too.”

  “The falsified report will be the thing that’ll do him in. You have someone in mind to break the story about the lab report?”

  “I believe I do. He’d be perfect, if he’ll do it.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  Harley paused for several seconds. “Jason Tannenbaum,” he blurted out.

  Allison sat up straight in his chair and slapped the table top with both hands. “The Tan-Man? That little prick? I love it, Harley.”

  Allison had given Tannenbaum the ‘Tan-Man’ moniker two years ago because of the George Hamilton-style deep-bronze tan he wore year-round.

  “I knew you would,” Harley replied, still grinning.

  “Hell yes. That asshole jumps on every bandwagon that’s moving slow enough and loves to see his name in the newspapers. He’ll end up on television, and maybe the national news.”

  “Probably.”

  “Excellent choice to champion the cause.”

  76

  THE FOLLOWING MONDAY Harley called Jason Tannenbaum’s office. Tannenbaum’s law firm consisted of himself, a secretary, and a paralegal. His father started the firm and built a substantial business with three other partners. Jason was brought into the firm out of law school, four years before his father decided to retire. After his father’s retirement, Jason managed to reduce the firm to three people within a year.

  Harley’s secretary, Maureen, keyed in Tannenbaum’s phone number, then turned on the speaker phone.

  “Good morning, Mr. Tannenbaum’s office, Ms. Wormington speaking. How may I help you?”

  “This is Maureen, Mr. Buckwald’s secretary, at Buckwald, Allison, and Crumley. Mr. Buckwald would like to speak to Mr. Tannenbaum.”

  “Please hold. I’m not sure he’s in yet this morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  A few seconds went by before the hold music stopped on the other end of the line. “Okay, he’s in but unavailable. May I have him call Mr. Buckwald back later this morning?”

  “Sure, that will be fine. Can you give me a time?”

  “It will probably be around eleven.”

  “Let me give you Mr. Buckwald’s direct line.”

  “No need, I have it.”

  Harley was standing beside Maureen the entire time. He looked at her and, with a half-smile, walked back to his office shaking his head. This arrogant ass is going to be perfect, Harley thought.

  It was eleven-thirty when Tannenbaum called.

  “Hello, Mr. Tannenbaum. We met last December at a fundraiser for the I Have a Dream Foundation in Tampa.”

  “Yes, I remember. What do you need?”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  “This better be good.”

  Harley ignored Tannenbaum’s contemptuous attitude and explained the situation in detail, emphasizing the potential publicity that could result, maybe even national television exposure.

  “Who knows how long and how many reports Weber’s falsified since he’s been at the FDLE lab in Orlando?” Harley stressed. “So what do you think? Are you interested in getting involved in this?”

  “Yes, but I want to talk to your source, the person who dug this up.”

  “Not possible. You’ll only talk to me. I’ll give you all the information you’ll need.”

  “No deal. I want to do my own questioning, gather information my way. In order to do that, I need a name. Otherwise, we end the discussion on this matter right now.”

  Harley expected Tannenbaum wouldn’t ask why Harley’s firm didn’t go forward with the information, but he didn’t anticipate him getting pushy about wanting to talk to Mark Master’s informant. Harley understood the game he was playing. It was simple. Try to gain access to Master’s informant and then use him as his own source of information. Harley had to give in on something. Tannenbaum could actually turn down the offer. However, under no circumstances could he reveal Master’s informant.

  “Hold on there, son. I already told you the essential information. But you drive a hard bargain. I’ll tell you what; you can talk to Garrett Townsend. That’s the best I can do.”

  Several seconds passed by in silence.

  “Okay, but if I don’t have the information I need to take this forward, I’ll bow out of it. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. I really appreciate your help, son. Let’s talk in the morning. I’ll be able to let you know when Garrett Townsend’s available.”

  Harley hung the phone up, and a smile formed on his face.

  77

  FOUR DAYS AFTER Harley first spoke to Jason Tannenbaum on the phone, Tannenbaum’s picture appeared in the Orlando Sentinel, Florida Today, the Miami Herald and several other Florida newspapers. The Tan-Man had showed up for the press conference in a three-button, navy-blue Carlo Palazzi that appeared to have been worn the previous evening on an all-night bender. His four-in-hand-knotted necktie hung loose around his neck. Apparently Tannenbaum was unaware of the utility of collar stays for his white Savile Row dress shirt, because the tips of his collar curled upward, accentuating the “I Don’t Give a Shit” aspect of his appearance, which contrasted with his dark, even suntan.

  Local TV news shot out the story of the scandal with fervor. It was hard-hitting. Tannenbaum exposed every detail of Sam Weber’s practices at the FDLE lab, taking full credit for the discovery. That was part of the deal Harley made with him: leave Harley’s firm completely out of it and tell the media he uncovered the entire scandal himself.

  Owen Jacobson read the story in the Sentinel and later watched the Tannenbaum interview on Channel 6. He liked having a TV in his office to follow important breaking news, mostly when the news was about him. This time, he wished he didn’t own a TV.

  Jacobson knew what the scandal meant, and the media was giving their own take on the ramifications of Weber’s falsified report. The news analysis specifically mentioned David Allen Sikes’s case, and the possibility of the murder charges against him being dropped.

  Jacobson was infuriated. He snapped off the TV with the remote control and slammed it down hard on his desk. He sat for a few moments, staring at the bronze statue of a Rottweiler on the floor next to his office door.

  How can I recover from this? He had no solutions. The DNA results were negative, and Harley Buckwald would certainly file a motion for suppression of evidence. The voice analysis wasn’t working out, and the rest of the evidence was circumstantial.

  The audio tapes were being analyzed at the University of Florida, with no success. They desperately needed a recording of Sikes’s voice, but Jacobson’s team had been unsuccessful in obtaining one. The judge was still reviewing Harley’s objections to the recording of his client’s voice. Vetter had yet to make a decision on the matter. Jacobson was confident the judge would rule in his favor, but time was running out.

  If Judge Vetter didn’t allow Sikes’s voice to be recorded, the testimony of the McCarthys would be weak, very wea
k. Jacobson knew that Harley Buckwald could easily discredit their testimony in court and convince a jury that it is difficult, if not impossible, to state with a high degree of confidence that Sikes’s voice is the one on the tapes. And if there was a trial, Jacobson also knew that Harley would never allow his client to testify and run the risk of the jury matching up Sikes’s voice with the one on the tapes, in spite of the distortion.

  So that left the letter written by Sara Ann Riley, her Last Will and Testament. Deep inside, Jacobson was coming to grips with the reality of the situation. The two-pager wouldn’t be enough to give him a murder conviction. There would be vast uncertainty, too much doubt for any juror. Reasonable doubt. Right now Jacobson despised those fucking words.

  But he wouldn’t give up or give in, not to Harley Buckwald.

  78

  SLOUCHED IN HIS CHAIR, Sikes stared mindlessly at the glow of the TV picture tube. He was drifting off into another dimension. The torrid air in the inmate’s TV lounge hung thick with cigarette smoke, mixed with the heavy, cutting odor of sweat. The wall-mounted thirty-two-inch RCA that angled downward toward the rows of metal chairs blasted the noon news. An overweight blonde anchorwoman stammered through her script like it was her debut in high school speech class. And then it came, bringing the yelping, chattering and grab-assing to a sudden stop.

  Sikes snapped out of his trance and slowly rose out of his chair. He gazed around the room, capturing the glimpses of steely-eyed low-lifes, their leers boring into him like a hundred drill bits. He shifted his attention to the newscast and heard Tannenbaum finishing up his spiel on the FDLE scandal. Then the camera panned to the reporter standing nearby, who proceeded to speculate on the possibility of Sikes’s release. The excitement quivering inside him quickly gave way to a string of fear that threaded through his entire body. That was when all hell broke loose.

  An inmate sitting in the metal folding chair directly in front of Sikes shot to his feet and turned toward him but said nothing. The man had closely cropped gray hair, a matching beard, and prison tattoos covering both arms and the circumference of his neck. After staring down at Sikes for several moments, the man suddenly snatched up his chair and cracked it down hard on top of Sikes’s head. The impact sent Sikes reeling, and as he fell he took several folding chairs with him. Sikes was face down, and there he stayed, covering his throbbing head with both hands. Bolts of pain shot down his neck, and he wavered in and out of consciousness. Another blow came, this time landing square on his shoulders.

  “You motherfucker,” the man said. “You piece a fuckin’ shit.”

  Sikes moaned and then muttered something into the smooth concrete floor.

  “What’d you say? What the fuck did you say to me?”

  By now all of the inmates in close proximity began forming a circle around the two.

  “I’m not goin’ to ask you again, motherfucker. What’d you say? You hear me, fat fuck?”

  Sikes slightly cocked his head to the side and cautiously lifted his eyes. His head was beginning to clear. He watched the man toss the chair to his side, clinching both fists in front of him. With astounding swiftness Sikes jumped to his feet and charged the man. He lowered his head, and with one more leaping step he made contact at the man’s waist. The two went down hard, Sikes landing on top. He pinned the man’s arms to the floor with his knees, then he grabbed him by the throat with both hands.

  “I said I’ll kill you,” Sikes hissed, staring into the man’s bulging eyes.

  The other inmates were in a frenzy, whooping and hooting, egging them on to continue fighting.

  “Kick the shit outta him, fat man,” one hollered.

  “Roll his ass over, you weak fuck,” another yelled.

  No one really took sides, they just wanted to see a fight. Within seconds, four guards were pulling the two men apart, and two others broke up the onlookers. The herd obeyed and backed away. A group of five hulking black men with wave caps gathered in a huddle underneath the suspended TV, quietly but zealously arguing over who would have won.

  Sikes was immediately taken to his cell by two guards and locked down. A decision was made quickly to place him in solitary confinement for his own protection, into a considerably smaller single cell with a solid metal door. The door had a small slot, the bean chute that was only large enough to pass a tray of food through.

  He slumped on the edge of the metal bed, massaging the top of his head. He felt the raised lump and exhaled a groan, but it was his back that hurt the most. In spite of his aching back and the pulsating pain in his head, Sikes managed to regain the triumph he felt for that split second just before the attack. But he wanted out of here now.

  At two Friday afternoon, Harley assembled his team in the main conference room to discuss strategy. As previously planned, two briefs would be prepared by his paralegal: one, a motion to suppress the evidence relating to the falsified report for the hair sample analysis submitted by Sam Weber, and two, a motion to dismiss both charges against David Allen Sikes. The latter would have its basis in the first motion to suppress evidence and the fact that the State no longer had a case against his client. He wanted both filed with the clerk of courts first thing Monday morning. Harley was elated. He was going to stick it to Mr. Slick.

  As everyone filed out of the conference room, Harley motioned in George Allison’s direction.

  “George, stay a minute if you would.”

  “Sure.”

  The two sat down again at the conference table.

  “Owen Jacobson may give up on this one,” Harley said, wearing a thin smile.

  “I know,” Allison replied. “If he’s going to run for state attorney general, he won’t try to fight a battle that he has little chance of winning.”

  “Exactly. If he aggressively challenges our motion for dismissal it could cost him too much negative publicity. Potentially nix his chances of getting elected.”

  “I agree.”

  “Wait here a second.”

  Harley sauntered out of the room. He was gone less than a minute and returned with two fat Cuban robustos. He offered one to his partner.

  “Hey, look at this,” Allison said, moistening his lips. “Where the hell did you get these?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  Harley tipped the two cigars and reached into his pocket for a lighter. The two lit up and puffed, billowing large clouds of light gray smoke toward the ceiling.

  “Think we’re celebrating too soon?” Allison asked.

  “Naw, were not celebrating,” Harley grinned. “Think of this as a ‘fuck you, Mr. Slick’ smokeout. That’s all.”

  Allison ran his tongue over the end of the robusto then puffed heavily, sending undulating waves of smoke across the table. “Yeah, but I think we got him this time.”

  Harley’s smile widened. “I believe we do, George. I believe we do.”

  79

  ADAM CAUGHT THE NEWS on the radio while driving back to work from lunch. His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel as he pulled into the company parking lot. How could this be happening? He felt as though he’d just slipped into a bad dream, a very bad dream, and was freefalling in an abyss. He jerked his Volvo between the white lines and thumped the curb with the front tires. The car jolted, rocked back, and settled to a stop. He shoved the shifter into park, shut the engine off, and sat thoughtfully for several moments. He glared through the windshield, his eyes not locked on anything in particular. His breathing began to ramp up.

  He tromped by the receptionist at the front entrance without a word and proceeded to his office, past the labyrinth of cubicles. He caught glimpses of several engineers sipping coffee and discussing the challenges of their various projects.

  “You all right, Adam?” Eugene Tanner asked.

  He ignored the query, staring straight ahead as he made a beeline for his office.

  “Jesus, he looks pissed,” Tony Kosovic said, watching Adam fly by.

  Once inside his office, Adam slammed the door
and jerked his billfold out of the back pocket of his dark-green Dockers. He had to act quickly.

  David Sikes sat wearily on the edge of his rock-hard jail bed. He estimated it was about ten-thirty. He’d been in solitary confinement for about eight hours, but it seemed like days.

  He eased off the side of the bed and stepped to the center of the cell. Extending his arms straight out from his sides, he could almost touch both walls. He peered upward toward a single incandescent bulb recessed in the ceiling, casting its soft light downward in a shallow cone. He gauged it couldn’t have been more than a twenty-five-watter. His eyes shifted to the chalky, light-green paint on the concrete-block walls. It was flaky and moldy, seemingly thickening the stench coming from the toilet that had no lid or seat.

  He stood motionless facing the metal door for several minutes, then finally squatting to gaze through the narrow slot when he heard the sound of heavy footsteps. The light outside went to darkness then light again. A guard passing by.

  “You can’t keep me in here!” he shouted.

  Only the thud of the guard’s boots could be heard, moving away from him.

  “I want to go back to my cell!” he shrieked.

  The trudging down the corridor stopped momentarily then picked up again.

  “Get me out of here!”

  Sikes felt the blood pulsate in his temples. His head was whirling. The clumping and clomping of the guard’s boots got louder, then there was silence. The light in the thin door slot disappeared.

  Three deafening raps rattled the metal door. “You shut the fuck up in there, or I’ll throw your ass in the hole.”

  Light streamed through the narrow slit, and the pounding of boots resumed.

  Sikes stood in the middle of the crate-like cell. His two hands met at the palms, and he pulled them in close to his chest. His head lowered, touching his fingertips to his lips.

  “This shall be no more,” he whispered. “There is much to be done, skotono aftous olio.”