The Alibi

by Marilyn Baron

  He dropped me off in the area with the printing press and introduced me to the foreman and his team. The foreman was a big man with a range of tattoos, and he already had my job on the press. I’ll call him Hulk. He tore off the front sheet. The colors were a little off. To me, the publication looked too red, but I wasn’t going to say anything to Hulk. Who knew what would happen if I criticized his work? But he was good at his job and took pride in his product. He could tell I was less than sure of myself, so he made adjustments until he got the color the way he wanted it. I stayed for about four hours to re-proof the job and make sure there were no additional corrections, and until he was satisfied and the job rolled off the press. He would ship the trimmed newsletters back to the Central Office for mailing once they were dried, scored, and trimmed. But I did take some sample sheets with me. I was pretty proud of my first newsletter. And I was grateful to Hulk. Looking back, that was where I learned the art of working with printers. Printers liked me because I rarely complained. If I could work with dangerous inmates, I could work with any printer.

  My first non-emergency assignment was to cover the Quincy Correctional Institution Cooking School graduation. Originally a vocational center, the cooking school was created to teach culinary skills to inmates. These men, who had little or no hope of getting out, who had spent most of their careers murdering or causing disturbances and riots, starting fires, or trying to escape, were trained in cooking to staff the various institutions throughout the state. They learned to make fried chicken, cakes, and various desserts.

  I drove to Quincy, which was only about twenty-five miles away. After I entered the gate and parked near the facility, I walked up to the receptionist.

  “I’m looking for a man named Jack Basin.”

  “Oh, you want the Sink or the Tub,” she said. I didn’t really want to know why they called him that. Did he drown someone in the sink or stab someone in the shower?

  At that moment, a large black man walked toward me. A large black man wielding a bowie knife. The kind of survival knife Crocodile Dundee carried when he exclaimed, “That’s not a knife,” and whipped out his own blade while adding, “That’s a knife.”

  “Um, hello, Mr. Sink, er, Mr. Basin. I’m Merritt Saxe from the Division newspaper. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  I recovered my cool when I learned that he, the graduate, was carrying the knife in preparation for slicing into a large sheet cake for the ceremony.

  Like my mother, you might be curious as to what a PR person for the prison system does. How can you improve the image of the prison system? You’d be surprised. Given the fact that most of the inmates who serve time in prison will eventually be free, the agency focused on equipping its offenders with the tools they would need to become productive citizens when they were released.

  We had a lot to be proud of and many positive stories to tell. We were hiring more women, minorities, and people with disabilities, and improving staff training. The director traveled all over the country looking for innovative ideas to implement in his system. There were the special inmate re-entry programs, such as the inmate beekeeping program, which trained soon-to-be-released inmates to maintain a colony of honey bees and collect honey. The same with the Second Chance Farm, a horse program that trained inmates to rehabilitate thoroughbred racehorses for use by the Division of Corrections and other law enforcement agencies and qualified the graduates to go to work in the industry as groomers and stable managers. Then there was an inmate dog adoption program that was a partnership program between the Division and various community rescue groups and animal service agencies to increase the adoptability of shelter dogs.

  It was up to me to come up with appealing headlines for the programs, such as “Inmate Beekeeping Program: A Honey of an Idea” and “Second Chance Farms: We’re Not Horsing Around” or “Inmate Dog Training Program: Barking up the Right Tree.”

  But the meat and potatoes of my job was cranking out a steady stream of DC assault and escape advisories, issued whenever a correctional officer or probation officer was attacked by an inmate in the line of duty. It typically went like this:

  Dateline—Chipley, Fla., or Clermont, Fla., or Sneads, Fla., (Insert Name of appropriate Florida city).

  On (DATE), a correctional officer was assaulted by an inmate at the (Insert Institution Name).

  Inmate (Insert Name) (Insert Inmate ID Number) attacked the correctional officer (Insert Name) at approximately (Insert Time) with a (Insert Method of assault—shard of PVC pipe or other homemade weapon—kicked an officer in the leg or head-butted said officer in the chest while being escorted from the shower, or bit an officer.) [The options were endless and exponential.] Staff responded and took appropriate action until the inmate became compliant. [I wasn’t sure what that action entailed or what they meant by compliant.] Medical staff examined the officer involved. Inmate X or Y or Z will receive a disciplinary report for this assault. The Office of Inspector General will investigate this incident.

  Not too difficult once I got the formula down.

  Of course, inmates continued to escape, and we continued to churn out Inmate Escape Alerts:

  Dateline. The Florida Division of Corrections is aggressively searching for escaped inmate (Insert Name) (Insert Inmate ID Number) on (Insert Day of the week, date and time). Inmate X was serving a five-year prison sentence for (manufacturing heroin and trafficking in stolen property). We believe the inmate may be in (Insert Name of County). Florida Division of Corrections dog-tracking teams and search teams are working with local law enforcement, but we are also asking for your help in finding this inmate.

  Usually the escapees were minimum custody inmates who worked outside the fence of a prison.

  During my tenure at the Division, the number of inmates increased 127 percent. As a result, the director got the inspired idea to ease the overcrowding by housing the inmates in tents. Tent City was Director Baintree’s brain child, as were most of the innovative ideas. The system was overflowing, and we had no place to put the inmates, so we arranged to house them in tents for months. That was perhaps the most newsworthy event ever reported on. The story took off, and we got media inquiries from reporters from all over the world and frequent visits to the unique temporary housing project.

  The publicity called attention to our plight and caused the legislature to fork over some much-needed dollars to fund new buildings. Just in time, too, because winter was knocking at the door, and the inmates couldn’t have survived the weather conditions outside. The three of us were pumping out press releases about Tent City, and Peggy cut and pasted articles about Tent City in a scrapbook that she kept in a bureau in her office…and proudly showed anybody who walked by.

  When I started with the Division, tents were commonplace, but by the end of my tenure, the courts intervened, claiming that as the weather grew colder and the potential for hurricanes and other storms became a concern, inmates could not be kept in such living conditions. The public wasn’t too happy about the tent cities either, since they were rightly concerned about escapes.

  Stanley and I worked hard but never as hard as Peggy. She worked day and night, it seemed. She never took a vacation. Never took time off even to go to the doctor. The director relied on Peggy to keep his secrets and do his bidding and, many times, be his driver. If I hadn’t witnessed the emotion between the director and his mistress with my own eyes, I might have thought there was something untoward about how close he was with his public affairs manager. The director was having his own public affair, which, as I already pointed out, everyone in the Division (with the possible exception of his wife) seemed to know about. Peggy always needed to be accessible to the director. Until one day she wasn’t, and I had to step up to the plate. That’s when everything went disastrously wrong.

  Peggy’s telephone line was ringing. Last night at the barbecue she had confided to me that she had a gynecology appointment for a minor procedure she’d been putting off for months. She was in so much pa
in that finally she had no choice. She said she’d be back the following morning. She hated to leave the office in our charge. She was an overseer, a real micromanager. Nothing got out or got by without her approval.

  “Now, if the director asks for me, tell him I’m meeting with a reporter. Don’t tell him where I am, for God’s sake.”

  Got it. You wouldn’t want him to know you have female problems, since you’ve done such a great job convincing him you’re one of the boys. She was obviously uncomfortable discussing her female issues with her boss. Men didn’t have excessive vaginal bleeding or cysts on their ovaries, or whatever she was having checked out. It had to be pretty bad for her to leave the office in our care. She was probably advised to stay at home for a week after the procedure, but Peggy was Superwoman. The normal rules of recuperation didn’t apply to her.

  “Nothing is going to happen in one day,” I assured her. I had never been so wrong about anything in my life. In fact, I was dead wrong.

  Chapter Five

  Not ten minutes after Peggy walked out the door, her line began ringing insistently, and it wouldn’t stop. I was the only one in the office, so I answered it, in case it was important. I hoped it wasn’t a reporter. Worse, it was the director. I wasn’t completely comfortable dealing with him yet. He was larger than life. The truth was, he frightened me.

  He was short and gruff. “I need Peggy.”

  I blew out a breath. Okay, let’s just dispense with the niceties.

  “Uh, um,” I sputtered. What a wuss. I was acting like a complete idiot. I needed to handle this like a professional. My boss was counting on me.

  “Peggy isn’t here at the moment.” How’s that for professional?

  “Where the hell is she? Dammit, I need her!”

  Whoa, Nelly! What the heck was wrong?

  “I-Is there anything I c-can d-do for you?” I offered. It was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. In fact, I wanted to be anywhere but in this office, answering my boss’s phone. I prayed that he’d call back tomorrow when Peggy returned.

  “Can I take a message?”

  “I don’t need a receptionist,” he said abruptly. “I need Peggy. Who is this?”

  “It’s Merritt Saxe, sir.”

  “Peggy’s new girl,” he said.

  Actually, I’m an Information Specialist I, thank you very much. Crap, he wasn’t asking for my title.

  “Okay. Listen to me, Miss Saxe. I need you to get on over here right away.”

  I held my stomach. “W-where is here, sir?” I asked.

  “To Miss Braddock’s. You and Peggy were here to pick me up, remember? It’s, uh, 393 Magnolia Lane in the, uh, Creekside Apartments. Apartment 201. How fast can you get here?”

  “I’ll get in the car right now and—”

  “Don’t take a fleet car, ya hear? This has nothing to do with company business.”

  “Do you want me to bring anything?”

  “Bring anything? This ain’t a picnic, Miss Saxe. Just bring yourself and get the hell over here as fast as you can. And don’t tell anybody where you’re going.”

  Yowser! From his angry tone, I could tell something was seriously wrong. What was he going to ask me to do? I would usually bring a pad of paper or a notebook to a meeting. Did he want me to cover a story? And what did Savannah Braddock have to do with it?

  I switched the office phones over to the answering machine. Why did Stanley and Jean have to take lunch at the same time? Peggy would kill us if she knew the Public Affairs office was uncovered. I had to bet she was safely under anesthesia and wouldn’t call in.

  My stomach was cramping, but I’d better be up to the task, whatever it was.

  I drove as fast as I could, within the speed limit, trying to recall where the Creekside Apartments were. Not far from the office, just a few blocks, and I was there. Which apartment did he say? Was it 201? Or 102? I hoped I’d recognize it from my last visit, but they all looked alike. I was trying to figure out what to say to the director. I didn’t want to appear a tongue-tied amateur.

  I got out of the car and walked up the stairs to Number 201. Hesitating, to collect my thoughts and catch my breath, I knocked once, lightly, and then again more forcefully. The director opened the door and pulled me in without ceremony.

  Tear tracks stained his face. Blood stained his white T-shirt. His eyes were glazed over. He appeared to be in shock. He looked like hell.

  “Director, are you all right?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Director Baintree,” I shouted, “are you hurt?” My raised voice blew him out of his stupor and back into battle mode.

  “What the hell does it look like? No, I’m not all right. I need you to take me home.”

  “Where’s Miss Braddock? Does she need a ride somewhere?”

  “Miss Braddock?” The director appeared confused.

  “Savannah Braddock. The woman who lives here.”

  “She’s gone,” he said simply, deflated, his face crumpling.

  I don’t know what prompted me to do this, but I walked around him and ran from room to room. There weren’t many places to look in that tiny apartment. Apparently, all it needed were the basic necessities—a kitchenette, a bathroom, and of course, a bedroom. That’s where I found her, half naked, sprawled out on the bedspread, a pool of blood soaking the white eyelet duvet cover. And the handle of an oversized kitchen knife sticking out of her abdomen.

  I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. I began hyperventilating. I was going to be sick—I knew I wouldn’t make it into the bathroom.

  “For God’s sake, stop.” The director walked into the bedroom. He rounded on me, and my breathing calmed, but I continued to stand there, immobilized, staring at the once perfect, now bloody and lifeless body of Savannah Braddock.

  “We’ve got to get out of here, now,” he ordered.

  I took a deep breath to stave off my sickness.

  “D-did you c-call 9-1-1?” I asked.

  “No. I can’t be seen here. Someone will find her. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Are you sure she’s—” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word. But I knew, just from looking at her, her pale face and the stiffness of her body, that she was. And I was just as sure that the director had killed her. He certainly had the strength to overpower her and stab her with enough force to kill her. It hadn’t been an easy death. She had bled out. The director had had an assignation with her after the barbecue last night and had undoubtedly slept over, which Peggy admitted he often did. So he had opportunity. But what was his motive? Had she been threatening to go public or to go to his wife? Was she having an affair? Who else would find her? She was pretty much off limits to anyone but the director. Did she even have any female friends who were concerned about her? A family? I guess they’d miss her in court. But was this her permanent residence or just an illicit meeting place? Did anybody else but Peggy and me know about this little hideaway?

  I looked around the room. A picture of Savannah and the director lay under smashed glass on the floor. Shaking out the jagged glass cautiously, I grabbed the frame and the picture and tucked it into my purse.

  The director looked at the picture and nodded. Suddenly he surfaced from shock and went into control mode. He grabbed my arm and started pulling me out of the bedroom.

  “Merritt, we need to go, now. That’s an order.” And just like that, I was inducted into the director’s cadre of people who lived to do his bidding and to protect him. I was doing what I was certain Peggy would have done, what she would have wanted me to do.

  I wanted to ask the most obvious question, but if he could kill the woman he loved with such brute force, what could he do to me? This was the man everyone revered as someone who upheld the law. And he had broken it in the worst way imaginable.

  Trembling, I grabbed a white terrycloth robe from the vanity chair on the way out. It was a woman’s robe, Savannah’s robe. But she wouldn’t be needing it anymore. The director couldn’t wa
lk out of the apartment in a blood-soaked T-shirt.

  I thrust the robe toward him. “Here, put this on.” He obeyed. And that was the first of many steps I took in aiding and abetting a murderer. Apparently, protecting a killer was part of my job description now. I wondered how many crimes Peggy had covered up for him.

  I helped the director slip into the front passenger seat, his hands folded as if he were already strapped into a straightjacket or the electric chair. I wondered how long he would last in the general prison population. Not even a day. Would he eventually go to Florida State Prison for a date with Old Sparky? And how would he feel to be incarcerated in his own prison system?

  I emptied my stomach on the grass next to my new car and wiped off the vomit with my shirtsleeve. I started the engine. “Are you sure you want to go home? What about your wife?”

  I was talking to him like I was in his inner circle, which I wasn’t. I hardly knew him. I was talking to him like I was calm and collected, but I was definitely not.

  “My wife and daughters have gone to visit her mother in Jacksonville. No one’s home. I appreciate you doing this. That was smart thinking back there, picking up that picture.”

  A day ago, kudos from the director might have had me walking on air. Today, I didn’t know how to feel. Did he expect me to tell Peggy? Did he want me to? I had to tell someone. How could I keep a secret like this?

  “What about your car? We can’t just leave it here.”

  “Good thinking. I’ll get one of the boys to come pick it up. Just get me home.”

  As I got closer to the director’s ranch, he began talking but kept his eyes on the road.

  “Is there anything you want to ask me?”

  I gave him a sidelong glance. Yeah, there were a million questions going through my head. I had my opening, but I couldn’t form the words.

  “If you want to know if I killed her, I didn’t. I loved her.”