by Neil Watson
In attendance will be Siobhan’s maid of honour, Alberta Louise Baudet herself! She certainly has the right organisational qualities to perform such a role. Ursula and John will both give my bride away, and my father has agreed to be my Best Man.
As you can probably tell, Siobhan and I like to do things a little differently.
You may be wondering how Sam took the news when I finally summoned up the courage to tell her. Initially not too well, I have to say. At first, during our FaceTime conversation, I was as nervous as I’d ever been, and her reaction couldn’t have been worse. In fact, I found our line of communication suddenly going dead, and that was the last time we had spoken until I received a call from her only last week.
I’m so pleased to say that Sam has now come round positively to the news. She offered us her congratulations, which I’m so pleased about, and I’m bowled over that she accepted our invitation for her and her parents to attend the wedding. I had no right to expect her blessing, but I had really hoped for it. Actually, she asked if she could bring a guest of her own along—her boyfriend.
I admit that I felt a pang of jealousy when she told me about him, probably because I remember having met him. He was one of the guys we all played volleyball with on the beach at Anna Maria Island. Far too muscular, tanned, and good-looking for his own good was how I remember him from back then, and when Sam sent me a picture of the two of them I could see that not much had changed. I reprimanded myself for being so shallow. I am now very much looking forward to seeing them, as well as Chris and Kerry, on the big day. I believe that Sam and I will be forever soulmates. I do hope so.
Needless to say, I enthusiastically got stuck into writing Florida Key the day after my marriage proposal to Siobhan, and I’d been hard at work on it since then, until last month.
Of course Siobhan was right about the book’s title, and I’m currently waiting to see if the publisher agrees. That’s another thing I’m hoping for.
***
The story you are now reading has been my own account of what happened. I am truly grateful to you for following it this far. I may have spiced up the facts a little for the purposes of my novel (I think they call it ‘artistic licence’), but I did in fact go to Florida on holiday, and I did purchase an old key at a flea market, and it did indeed turn out to originate from Joliet prison, Illinois.
It was the Florida Key that had fuelled my ambition to return to America after the holiday, and investigate what had happened to any one of the inmates of Cell 10 on the 4th floor of the ‘A’ Block, how they came to be there, and what their reason for being there had been. Why had I been attracted to Yushi Yakamoto? Could there have been some parallel force at work guiding me towards him? I like to think so, however bizarre that sounds.
To learn all I could about Yushi and his fate, and turn it into this story, I’ve been on an incredible journey, mentally and physically. Talking of the physical journey that I very nearly didn’t return from, I appreciate absolutely how fortunate I was to survive my shooting. Therefore, as well as one particular person who I will soon be mentioning, I dedicate Florida Key to all those who were involved in getting me to safety and helping me fully recover to good health. You know who you are, and I would like to say a huge and sincere thank you.
And finally, I’ll quickly explain why the book is dedicated to one other important individual. Having assumed that I’d managed to tie up all the loose ends associated with Yushi Yakamoto, I received a package that in effect turned everything I’d come to accept on its head.
On that late July day, I’d gone in to the East Anglian Chronicle’s Colchester office so that I could catch up with submitting my blog, write up a feature for the next Travel Section, and collect my post. Nearly all of my mail came in electronically, but sometimes I would also receive press releases, formal invitations to various black-tie functions, mailshots, and a few hand-written or typed letters from readers. These were few and far between, but by far the most interesting.
On this occasion, there was one particular item that stood out, attracting my attention more than any of the others. Contained in an International Courier pack, I could clearly see it had come from the United States. Closer study revealed that it had been sent by Zac Brightmore, the new recruit who had started his job at the Terre Haute Daily Times shortly before I’d returned to England.
Inside the strong polythene pack was an envelope very neatly handwritten and addressed to me. It was post-marked from months previously, and included a covering note from Zac explaining how the letter had been delayed in the US Mail, and how he’d sent it on to me immediately once it had shown up.
With my curiosity getting the better of me, I quickly tore open the envelope to reveal the letter contained within, and I instinctively turned to the end to discover the identity of the sender. Then I went back to the beginning and started reading, and on doing so I felt ashamed.
Ashamed because during the whole of my adventure I had been so engrossed, obsessed even, in my investigations, my bloggings, newspaper articles, and not to mention radio and TV appearances, that it had completely slipped my mind to consider the feelings of Yushi’s remaining direct family member, Mitori. I’d briefly learned of Yushi’s sister, from Allentown, Pennsylvania, while conducting my research.
In truth, I felt more ashamed that perhaps I’d become convinced of my own self-importance.
I sat back and read the letter comprising three numbered sheets of paper.
(1)
863 Camelot Road, Allentown, Pennsylvania
FAO Mr. Oliver Markland,
Indianapolis Daily Times Group
1/19/18
Dear Mr. Markland,
I understand you have been investigating the circumstances surrounding my late brother’s premature death. Not a day goes by without me weeping because of him. He and I were incredibly close, and although he was my elder sibling, it was I who looked out for him when we were growing up together.
When the news of your research reached Pennsylvania, I read all your on-line blogs thoroughly. To begin with I was upset by the way you appeared to ‘sensationalize’ my brother’s life and sad death, with ‘The Bike Radio Murder’ story and your ‘Young Sherlock’ persona. I’m afraid that, at first, I didn’t much care for your popular style of writing. But I guess you wanted as many readers as possible, and that was your way of getting them.
However, you appeared to genuinely care about Yushi, and for that I thank and applaud you. The more you wrote, the more I concluded that you were ‘on Yushi’s side’, and that you very much wanted to clear his name.
Towards the end of your writings I sensed your disappointment at not being able to do that, when you reluctantly concluded that my brother was guilty after all.
(2)
I am absolutely certain that he was not. He could not deliberately kill even a small insect, let alone a human being. The importance of all life had been instilled in him by his beloved grandfather, whose wise words Yushi worshipped. I am absolutely certain that my brother’s only crime was to be on a bicycle ride that he thought would remove the demons from his unusual and perhaps immature mind, and that he found himself to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was all he had been guilty of.
You see, Mr. Markland, when we were growing up, my brother would always falsely confess to anything and everything that I myself had done wrong—and he was like that with everyone else we knew as well. He would make up such elaborate stories so convincingly in order to take the blame for others’ wrong-doings.
I used to warn him not to but still he continued, creating intricate tales so that anyone, including our parents, would believe him. I never could work out why he did that—perhaps it gave him some strange satisfaction to shift attention towards himself. Perhaps it was something to do with his condition. It’s now recognised more commonly as bipolar disorder, but back then less was known of the condition. Only my parents and I (and of course he) were aware of it. We shall never know what
his true motivation was for making up these tales—and I can only guess it. I so wish he were still with us today so that I could ask him.
For years, Yushi had had the good sense to recognise the seriousness of this crime and that he should not falsely confess to it. We had been so close that I am certain that, during my visits to the prison, if he had been guilty, he would have told me.
Thankfully he had so strenuously maintained his innocence, which I am certain to have been the truth, and this may have contributed to the postponement of his execution, prolonging his life for a few extra years. But, unfortunately, in the end and when he knew of his imminent fate, he gave up and defaulted to his normal way of behaviour. Doing that must have somehow made the inevitable outcome more bearable for him—and so he thought for me, too.
I’m sure that Yushi had been trying to make me feel better by his concoction of a hoax story, just like he always had done in the past. He thought that if I could be convinced that his death was in fact lawful and justified, then I would be more able to cope. Unfortunately, he was wrong, and I have not coped. Since his death, I have merely existed.
I was invited by the prison Governor to attend and witness his execution in June, 1996, and to have one last visit with Yushi the hour before.
How could I possibly do that with my heart already broken? The thought of going there to watch him die was so abhorrent that I could not possibly go. But I cannot express how much I now regret not having visited him.
I took a moment’s break from reading, my heart going out to this poor woman. It was a very difficult letter for me to stomach, but I continued to the last page.
(3)
I am one-hundred per cent certain that my brother was not guilty of killing Sandy Beach. I couldn’t have hoped for anyone else to comprehend my reasoning—until I learned about you.
You were the only person intent on discovering the truth about Yushi, and you nearly got there. Unfortunately, because of his false confession, the true culprit will soon be a free man again, going on to enjoy the rest of his life. Yushi no longer has that luxury.
When I first discovered your work, I had hoped so much that you would be able to restore Yushi’s good name. It is impossible to turn back time, but at least I am able to share this information about my brother with you. You are the one person in the world who I hope will believe me.
I think Yushi’s confession note that you described, was intended for me. When I didn’t go to see him that last time, he instead gave it to his cell-mate Mr. Emanuele, and I only learned of some of its contents from reading your blog. I would so dearly love to have that document, the last thing he ever wrote, but I doubt if that would ever be possible. Unless you could somehow get it for me? If so, I would be eternally grateful.
Sincerely,
MJ
Mitori Jarvis—née Yakamoto
I read the letter yet again—three times in all. But as well as focussing on the contents, something else engaged me: Mitori’s full name—Mitori Jarvis.
Of course! ‘MJ’!
All along, I’d been assuming that Yushi’s scratching I’d discovered on the prison cell wall at Joliet—that day when I’d sneaked in past the guards—meant ‘M.J. Emanuele’. But ‘ASK MJ. YY. 6.14.96’ didn’t mean ‘ask M.J. Emanuele’. It meant ‘ask Mitori Jarvis’—his sister! Yushi had thought and expected that Mitori would be visiting him that day, the day of his execution. Once he learned that Mitori wouldn’t be coming, he must have left his confession note to the one and only person he could—M.J. Emanuele.
Emanuele must have been elsewhere in the prison, perhaps working in the kitchen or the library, when Yushi hurriedly wrote out the note. The poor guy, knowing that he had only a short time left, must have been unable to think straight, and left the note somewhere in the cell for Emanuele to find, maybe on his bunk. On returning to his cell, Emanuele would have assumed the note was for him, and kept it folded up in his Bible all that time, not realising the note was actually meant for Yushi’s sister.
I thought about Yushi’s confession note yet again. Remembering his scrawled handwriting, I knew it looked like it had been written in a great hurry, and although it was guesswork on my part, I was convinced that my summation of the situation was likely to be correct.
I felt numb with mental exhaustion and anguish—and it was only half past nine in the morning. I had no idea what I should do for the best. I felt a huge sense of sorrow for Mitori.
I considered my options. Did I have the energy to return to America and somehow attempt to convince the police to bring some sort of fresh challenge against Ozborn? Could I retrieve Yushi’s original handwritten confession note from Emanuele? I understood completely why Mitori would like to have it, and I remembered that Siobhan had asked him for it, and her request was declined, but maybe I’d have better luck. I could at least try, and I decided to write to Stateville Prison and request a meeting with Emanuele on the occasion of my next trip to the States, when I go there to marry Siobhan next year.
I certainly didn’t want anything to do with Marc Ozborn. Even after nine months, I’d still suffer anxiety attacks when recollecting being chased by him. But receiving Mitori’s letter had definitely made me consider whether I had done enough to make sure of the right and proper outcome of the whole affair.
Had I fought hard enough, for the sake of Yushi’s memory, and now for the sake of Mitori’s wellbeing, whose remarks I believed wholeheartedly—perhaps naively, perhaps foolishly—but I believed them nonetheless?
I had come to the conclusion that I should reply to Mitori, but not until Florida Key had been published. I weighed up the fact that when I had received her letter it had already been mislaid in the post for five months, so I reasoned that a further delay wouldn’t make any significant difference. Besides, nothing I could do would alter the sad history regarding her late brother.
But there was something I thought I could do to help ease Mitori’s pain a little, after all she had suffered over the loss of her brother. So, in addition to the emergency services personnel who saved my life, I had an idea that I might also dedicate Florida Key to her.
Just to be sure I was doing the right thing; I decided to retrieve the computer file containing the digital image of Yushi’s confession note one more time. Although it was only a photograph that Siobhan had taken when she was in Emanuele’s cell, and Yushi’s handwriting had been atrocious, I was able to decipher every single word after stringent and thorough examination. I read it carefully, trying hard to visualise the scene that he had been attempting to describe:
MJ
I did it. I killed Sandy Beach. Sandy ridiculed me when I returned to her house for the barbecue, and I watched her making out with that guy. I finally got a girl to show me love, or so I thought. How could she have been so cruel as to lead me on? I heard her call him by name—something like Mike, Mart or Mark, I couldn’t be sure. She saw me come back in the kitchen while the guy’s back was to me. Sandy beckoned me over for me to join them. No way!
The guy didn’t know what he was doing, clearly out of it. One minute he was violently hitting her, the next he was calm. He was wearing nothing and must have been on drugs or something. I just stood there watching him slapping and striking her but, rather than try to move away, Sandy just stood there and seemed to like it.
CFNM-DOM is what they call it, I’ve since learned. She was egging him on, and he was slapping her harder—but then after she fell to the ground, he suddenly stopped and staggered off outside, not noticing I was there. Sandy was concussed but still conscious. She looked at me and asked me to finish off what he’d started, and she teased me when I refused, saying I “wasn’t a real man like Mark”. I heard his name better that time. “Is that what ‘real’ men do?” I asked. That was so cruel of her, especially as she must have known my feelings for her. It was so disgusting what they were doing, so she deserved what she got, wouldn’t you say?
This guy must have been the one who stole my bike radio from o
utside the diner. How else could it have got there, in Sandy’s house? I wanted out. But not before that woman got what was coming to her. It’s ironic that I smashed her head with the thing that I’d just been into town to try and replace. After I’d finished with it, it was in pieces that were scattered all over the place, and with his fingerprints everywhere. I guessed he’d be caught and would take the rap, while I was well away from there.
You know what I was like, but you see, they had the right man all along. So, weep for me no more. I finally got what I deserved for the crime I committed.
Yushi Yakamoto
Having previously been certain that Yushi Yakamoto hadn’t been guilty of killing Sandy Beach and that Marc Ozborn had, directly after receiving Mitori’s letter I had been even more convinced that my hunch had been right.
Of course, I doubted I would ever be able to prove it, and as I was writing these words I could have only hoped that you, the reader, would come to the same conclusion.
But something was now puzzling me. In my mind I’d re-enacted, time and time again, what I’d imagined had occurred that night when Sandy Beach had been murdered. But there was something that simply didn’t add up if Mitori were to be believed about her brother’s confession being false. All along, I’d hoped that Yushi had been the innocent party; wrongly accused, convicted and executed, and I guess I’d enthusiastically clung to the notion that her letter collaborated my theory.
According to Yushi’s confession note, the one that Mitori was convinced was false, Yushi had described how Ozborn—high on cocaine and alcohol—had left the kitchen. But, if that were to be the case, how could Ozborn have smashed Sandy on the head with the bike radio? I read the relevant part of Yushi’s note again: ‘I guessed he’d be caught and would take the rap, while I was well away from there.’ If Yushi had concocted the whole scenario, he hadn’t reasoned that it would have been impossible for Ozborn to smash Sandy’s head with the radio if he were already out cold on the patio.