Florida Key

by Neil Watson

  The revamped section had certainly helped to boost the general appearance of the magazine, and Edward was indeed very pleased with the way things looked. It should even help to pull in some ad revenue from tour operators if he played his cards right, he thought.

  He even found himself looking forward himself to reading Oliver’s next piece—this ‘Florida Key’ of his sounded quite intriguing. But because he wouldn’t be able to devote a great deal of attention to his new employee, what Edward really hoped was for Oliver to get on with his project under his own steam. That would be so much easier and less time-consuming than watching over him every step of the way. He hoped Oliver would be able to pick up the metaphorical baton and run with it, and use his own initiative most of the time. In truth, it was a tough job being an editor. There were never enough hours in the day, always with unrealistic deadlines to meet, and never-ending aggravation with advertisers and sponsors.

  ***

  With his natural enthusiasm for writing now back on track, Oliver’s excitement about researching Joliet prison and his Florida Key had thankfully returned. As a result, it didn’t take too long before he began to reminisce about his first love, although admittedly there had been more loves won and lost since—Wivenhoe was full of young ladies who had taken a shine to him.

  It had been several months since Sam and he had last connected on FaceTime, and he wanted to make contact again. “No time like the present,” he reasoned, late one night, clutching his precious iPhone. He pressed the menu button twice and spoke into it: “What time is it in Indianapolis?” The phone then informed him it was six o’clock there. Oliver smiled at how perfectly his gadget worked. He tapped a couple more times, a few seconds elapsed, and then Sam’s broad smile was all over the screen. “Hi!!! What a great surprise! How are you?” answered one very excited girl in Plainfield, Indiana.

  Happy, and also very relieved, that Sam had taken his unplanned call so positively, he exchanged some small talk before updating her on all his latest general news, while diplomatically leaving out any mention of his currently healthy love life. He saved his most exciting news about his new job until last. “That’s totally awesome,” Sam exclaimed encouragingly. “Well, don’t forget my parents’ offer for you to come over and stay with us whenever you want. That invitation still stands, you know.” How could he have forgotten? With wild dreams of maybe returning to America and conducting research for his magazine column, it was exactly the confirmation he was hoping to get.

  “Have you heard of the Indianapolis Daily Times?” he asked. “I came across it while searching online.”

  “Sure,” replied Sam. “We get it delivered. It’s mostly full of ads, but all the local announcements and news are in it too. Why do you ask?” she questioned curiously.

  “I can’t say yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as I know. I’m working on something.” Deciding to hold back from saying any more for now, in case nothing came of his plan, he dropped that particular subject and went on to ask what Sam had been up to since they’d last talked, which had been quite a while ago. Now it was her turn to diplomatically leave out any mention of other relations she’d had with the opposite sex. Promising each other that they’d stay in more regular contact, after hanging up, they both happily vowed to themselves that they definitely would.

  CHAPTER 21

  WEDNESDAY, 3RD JANUARY, 2018

  Prison List

  W ith Christmas and the New Year celebrations over, this was now the time when the British public looked ahead to sunny holiday destinations, and of escaping the UK’s miserable winter weather. The East Anglian Chronicle’s fresh new travel section certainly hit home with its readers, and advertising revenues were showing a positive upturn as well.

  The results coming in would have far exceeded the editor’s business plans, had he actually had the time to formulate any. Nevertheless, he was extremely pleased with the way Oliver was working and, following the success of his articles, he was very glad that his old pal Bob had persuaded him to “give the boy a chance”, as he’d put it. His decision to hire Oliver had definitely been a good one, and he felt happily vindicated. His young new writer had a good style and, judging by the many emails and letters being received, readers wanted more of the same. Oliver’s mentioning of the so-called ‘Florida Key Mystery’ in his second month’s article seemed to have particularly captured the readers’ interest.

  The finance men at the publisher’s head office in London had also noticed the change, but were still constantly pushing for more digital activity. “Online presence is where the future lies,” was a phrase that Edward was often being told by his seniors, but the poor man simply never had the time to even look at ‘online presence’. Lack of time was his excuse. In truth, there was another reason: he barely knew what ‘online presence’ meant, let alone knowing how to execute it. Although the 62-year old had managed to keep up with the changes in printing technology, this new world of social media marketing was so alien to him that it went clean over his head. It was as foreign as the Mandarin language.

  Edward Wright also knew only too well that the powers that be in their ivory tower headquarters weren’t too happy with the status quo—and they were keen to see social media being used as a marketing tool. But as far as Edward was concerned, it was far too late in the day to start learning how to do tweetings and bloggings and all that. He just wanted to hang on to his job for long enough to get his full pension when he retired.

  So when Oliver approached him at the start of the year with an idea, it was music to his ears. His new recruit wanted to write a blog relating to his column, including his ‘Florida Key’ research that readers could interact with, as well as linking it with Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. Oliver was certainly tech-savvy, far more than he was himself, so Edward readily agreed. That should keep the bosses satisfied, he thought. With only two years and eight months until pension day, Oliver had approached him not a moment too soon. His glory days of being Editor in the old-fashioned way were now over, and gone forever, and he felt too mentally worn out to learn new tricks. Oliver Markland might just be the saviour who would carry him through to his finishing post.

  He welcomed Oliver’s suggestion. However, when Oliver also proposed to actually go all the way to America for three weeks to do research, and write the blog, tweets and travel section from there, initially Edward couldn’t see how he could possibly sanction that. “I’m sorry, boy, but I simply don’t have the budget for that kind of expenditure. Return flights, accommodation, car hire, meals…it’ll all mount up, you know. As much as I’d like to say yes, if I signed off that sort of cost I’d get my goolies cut off by the City boys, and then they’d serve them up back on a plate to me! You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  Oliver certainly wouldn’t, but having already anticipated his boss’s potential objection, he had come to the meeting well prepared. “But you see, Edward,” he began, to the man who had recently instructed him to call him by his first name instead of Mr. Wright, “you’ve no need to be concerned with accommodation costs—I’ve got that covered. And I doubt that a hire car will be necessary either—my girlfriend’s family have hinted that I could use one of theirs. Also, I’ll pay for my meals myself, just as I would if I were here. So really it would only be the flights I’d need financial help with, and I’ve already found a really great deal. Look!” he continued, shoving his iPad right in front of Edward’s nose at the relevant website.

  Well aware of the pressure from above to increase the publication’s digital presence sooner rather than later, Edward leaned back in his office swivel chair, arms stretched behind his head. The only sound he uttered for the next two minutes while Oliver waited with bated breath was a contemplative, “Hmm,” followed by another minute’s silence. He guessed that would be excruciating for Oliver. Edward took great pleasure from slowly and softly delivering his verdict so he could watch Oliver’s reaction. His new recruit’s enthusiasm reminded him of himself from half a centu
ry ago when he had begun his own career in Fleet Street. “Well, boy,” he began, followed by another long pause, “this ‘Florida Key’ business had better be worth it. And you’ll need to do a heck of a lot more blogging about local East Anglian stories to win me over completely…so get your tickets booked before I think better of it. Now get out of my office!” he said with a broad smile.

  With a swift, “Thanks, Edward,” Oliver quickly went out of the door. It was all he could do to refrain from punching the air as he ran to the little cubbyhole at the end of the corridor that had become his own workspace. Straight away, he began designing how his new blog pages would look. He also wanted to share his great news, but it would be too early in her time zone for Sam to receive a FaceTime call, so instead he sent her an email that she’d find in her Inbox when she awoke that morning.

  Re: Guess what?

  Hi Sam. Guess what?! My boss is letting me do more on ‘Florida Key’. I’m coming out to research and write! Will tell you more tomorrow.

  Oli x

  That email was easy. Then, he attempted to compose a second, more involved and elaborate one to someone else. This proved to be much harder, as he struggled with the best way to approach the editor at the Indianapolis Daily Times. After the fifth unsuccessful attempt to find the right words, he gave up and decided to return to that task later.

  Oliver’s head was spinning with excitement, and he found it very difficult to concentrate on any single thing for more than a few minutes.

  He went back to his Joliet prison research, hoping to fathom out what the ‘410A’ markings on his key might mean. This time, Oliver approached the puzzle from a different perspective. Instead of scrutinising the many websites directly relating to Joliet prison itself, now he tried a different tack, delving deeper into the actual manufacturer of the key, the Folger Adam Company, ‘Makers of the Finest Detention Equipment’, according to what he read.

  Whenever he held his key, Oliver was sure he felt a sensation compelling him to learn all he could about it. He shuddered. Although it was merely an inanimate chunk of cold metal, it was as if it possessed some peculiar power over him. Certainly, it was true that since beginning this quest for information, he had become somewhat obsessed with the key’s history, feeling an uncontrollable urge to discover where and when it had been used, and who it was used to lock behind bars. Get a grip, Oliver told himself. It was he who was in control of the key, not the other way round.

  As he continued, trancelike, browsing the internet, he stumbled upon a site specialising in the buying and selling of such penitentiary keys from all across the United States. He learned that the location of each prison was identified by the wording on the key’s bow, and enthralled, he read on, eventually coming across an article written by a Folger Adam key collector, offering tips on how to spot a fake in this clearly booming market of prison memorabilia.

  Basically, if there were tiny letters or numbers engraved on the key’s blade, such as this one’s ‘410A’, it was likely to be the genuine article. Reassured, Oliver read on, becoming increasingly engrossed in the information he was gleaning. And then there it was, what he’d been looking for; the meaning of ‘410A’ on his Joliet prison key. According to the website, this particular key was used to open Cell 10 on the 4th floor of ‘A’ Block. Bingo!

  Oliver checked the time. Eager to still present a rough layout of his new blog pages to Edward before the end of the day, he was about to return to his design work. But before exiting the screen he was currently on, he’d just click on one last link; the one that the Folger Adam key collector had included at the bottom of his article.

  As the new page gradually opened up, Oliver gasped. Judging by how long it was taking to fully load, this must be a huge file, he concluded. His hand began to shake as it hovered over the laptop’s keyboard. Could this be the Holy Grail he’d been searching for? The simple heading at the top of the page indicated that it might very well be: ‘JOLIET CORRECTIONAL CENTER: INMATES HELD 1950-1986. A STUDY by Dr. E. J. GOLD’.

  Doing a quick search on the author of the report, Oliver learned that Gold had been an historian who had died in 1987 at the age of 98. Clearly, judging by the amount of information compiled, he must have been completely obsessed with his chosen subject. What an unusual obsession to have, Oliver thought, as he held his Florida Key very tightly in his hand, realising that perhaps he was also suffering a similar affliction.

  Oliver began daydreaming yet again, fantasising about his key having some strange force over him, compelling him to continue this research–as if he were being willed to discover something. But what?

  A cold chill ran through him. He literally shivered. As quickly as he could, he put his key down upon the desk, telling himself to pull himself together.

  He focussed back on the historian’s website. There were so many pages to digest. There were hundreds of entries, maybe even thousands. Inmates’ names, ages, their crimes, cell numbers in which they were held, year of incarceration, year of release, parole, or death—and sometimes even further notes, underlined in blue, presumably because they linked to more material elsewhere. Logic told him that analysing all this information was certainly not going to be quick and easy, and would take an awful lot of studying before he’d have any chance of finding what he was looking for, if indeed he ever would.

  Some of the pages had been compiled in date order, alphabetically, or in number order in some cases that included cell numbers. And to make matters even more arduous and intricate, some of the groups of pages themselves were out of order. It was as if poor E.J. Gold had died before he had been able to finish his life’s work.

  Almost too anxious to begin reading down the various columns of data, in case he met with another dead-end blank, Oliver decided to break away for a short while. He reasoned that by walking away from his desk for a few minutes, somehow any results for ‘410A’ would show up more positively. Yes, he knew it didn’t make sense, but nevertheless he did something out of the ordinary. Usually grabbing a quick Pepsi from the vending machine just outside his room, this time he went and made himself a cup of tea in the small staff kitchen half way along the corridor. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he prepared his mug with tea, milk and sugar. Such was his feeling of excitement, he spilled half the spoon of sugar on the worktop, and spent further seconds that seemed more like minutes clearing up the mess. Finally, carrying his mug of sweet tea back to his desk, he reopened his computer and started reading. There were potentially 273 pages to get through.

  He scrolled and clicked along, speed-reading each page, one by one. By the time he’d reached page 150 of 273, his eyes were straining to the point of soreness. But then—Eureka! He finally came to a list of inmates held over the years in the cells of Block A, 4th Floor.

  Oliver rubbed his eyes and carried on, now almost hysterical with anticipation. Page 150 began with ‘Cell 3’, went on to ‘Cell 15’, back to ‘Cell 42’, and then various other numbers over the next several pages. “Come on!” shouted Oliver, exasperated at his computer. He looked up, embarrassed, hoping no one was walking past his open door at the time.

  Then, as if the computer had heard him, it presented what Oliver had spent so long searching for. “Yes!!!” he cried. There, on his screen on page 157 of the document, were the details of eight different individuals. These were the eight inmates who had spent time locked in Cell 10, 4th Floor, Block A of Joliet prison between 1950 and 1986.

  “At last!” exclaimed Oliver out loud, this time not caring whether anyone caught him talking to himself. He sank back into his office chair on castors, clasped his hands behind his neck and used his feet to push himself away from the desk, spinning himself round and round until he felt dizzy and needed to stop before he felt sick.

  CHAPTER 22

  (WEDNESDAY, 3RD JANUARY, 2018)

  Cell Pairing

  A t the outset, as far as Oliver had been concerned, the information displayed on the computer screen in front of him merely consisted
of a list of names—a list of individuals with whom he had no personal connection. But as he thought more about his fascinating internet discovery, he reminded himself that they were names of human beings who had spent years literally only a few feet away from the very door to which his key locked them in or let them out. Oliver began to feel a real connection with them.

  Sure, he thought, these people may have done terrible things, committed awful crimes but, to him, the names were more than just statistics. As his computer’s cursor moved up and down the screen, Oliver studied the surnames in the year order that they had been jailed. While staring at the screen, he also picked up the key and held it tightly. All of a sudden, he felt a surge of energy compelling him to comprehend as much as possible about at least one of the inmates—and to find out why he had been imprisoned and where he was now. He reread the list so he could decide to whom he should give his special attention:

  1950 - Hoffman

  1954 - Ryan // 1958 - O’Flannagan

  1965 - Trudeau

  1972 - Peters

  1976 - Flynn

  1977 - Emanuele // 1981 - Yakamoto

  As Gold’s completed study only went up to 1986, one year before he’d died, Oliver wondered whether any other inmates had since been housed in this cell after Emanuele and Yakamoto. It was perhaps by no means a complete and thorough list, but it was the best source of information that Oliver could have hoped for, and he marvelled at the man’s dedication in compiling such comprehensive detail. Oliver chuckled to himself. He’d struck gold thanks to Mr. Gold.

  Oliver looked across to the additional information that appeared next to each name, and could see that Hoffman and O’Flannagan had been found guilty of armed robbery and had been released in 1980 and 1982 respectively. Ryan, who had committed manslaughter, had died of natural causes in 1985. Flynn had been found guilty of rape, but there was no further information about what had happened to him. Peters and Trudeau’s crimes weren’t listed, although Peters’s notes simply said ‘released’, and Trudeau’s said ‘moved’. The last two people on the list had been jailed for homicide–Emanuele’s name also had the word ‘ASSASSIN’ against it, and he and Yakamoto both had the word ‘LIFE’ written down.