Judge Blackmond had reluctantly left the comfortable confines of his Perry chambers to assume duties spanning seven large counties. And duty called this frigid morning. Another norther rattled the windows badly set in these new accomodations. The belligerents were ranged for dispute. State Attorney Roland Reed had a table to himself, flanked on one side by Sheriff Sessions. Thurman Shaw represented defendants Gary and Linton Loyd across the aisle.
Barrett Raines and Cricket Bonet attempted to find neutral ground toward the rear of the room. Jarold Pearson sandwiched in between, his olive-and-tan uniform spotlessly pressed and creased, his tan Stetson resting in his lap. He perched on the edge of his padded seat like a good bird dog waiting to point, the Boy Scout knife diligently applied to his cuticles.
* * *
They heard arguments for a good half hour. Roland and Thurman wrangled acrimoniously for the entire duration, a period of time and mode of demeanor not usually granted before the man known as the hanging judge. Barrett was trying to read Judge Blackmond’s always calm and never perturbed face. He was a hard man to figure, a judge of liberal sentiment who had sent men to the death chamber, a champion of the little man who had ruled against unions as often as against corporate interests. A passionate defender of speech who believed firmly in law and order.
He’ll have to be Solomon this morning, Barrett thought to himself, and as if reading Bear’s mind, the judge looked up to offer the state’s advocate a wan smile.
“Mr. Reed, it seems you are determined to prosecute the Loyd family for their alleged battery of the county’s sheriff.”
“And agents of the FDLE, your honor.”
“Yes, yes. Must have been some donnybrook.”
Roland aka “Fountain Pen” Reed had scrambled to be assigned this case, and Barrett was not surprised. Any dispute promising headlines got Roland’s attention, no matter the merits. The prosecutor dressed for Channel Seven’s ever-present camera, tailored suits and vests completely impractical for the climate.
Thurman “The Rooster” Shaw was unkempt by comparison, his own baggy suit and frayed shirt making him appear even scrawnier than was usual.
The only person who looked completely at home in the visiting judge’s chambers was Lou Sessions. The sheriff lounged unconcerned in his khakis alongside the state’s attorney. Barrett and Cricket had their shirts cleaned and ties knotted in anticipation of being called as witnesses.
Felony charges had been filed against Linton Loyd and his son. You punch a civilian in the nose or spit Red Man on an umpire, you got charged with a misdemeanor. But similar actions when directed at any law-enforcement officer put you up with the big boys.
So there was that business. Not to mention disputes related to murder.
“Seems we have two issues here.” Judge Blackmond had a way of looking you in the eye that made you think he was talking to you, and you alone. “The first issue relates to battery. The facts are not disputed in that case. Only, perhaps, the degree of provocation alleged in Sheriff Session’s conduct and a history, which I am inclined to consider, of enmity between Sheriff Sessions and Mr. Linton Loyd. On this issue I have first to say, nothing, short of unlawful threat to life or limb, gives anyone the right to batter a sheriff, deputy, or FDLE investigator. Having so stated, I do acknowledge a degree of provocation from the sheriff that was extremely unprofessional. And then there’s the history.” The judge shook his head. “Worse than Agamemnon and Clytemnestra.”
“Sir?” Roland was perplexed.
The judge waved him off.
“The second issue relates to the impoundment of a vehicle alleged to be connected with a homicide. I have no intention of minimizing the importance of this case. I recognize that Sheriff Sessions was investigating a particularly brutal and apparently calculated slaughter. I am willing to believe that the heinous nature of the crime, the length of the day, any number of factors may have led the sheriff, while acting in good faith, to nevertheless commit errors in judgment or comportment. The most serious consequence of those errors relates to the seizure of Gary Loyd’s unique vehicle.”
“It was linked to the crime scene, your honor,” Roland reminded the judge unnecessarily.
“A half-mile hardly constitutes a ‘link,’ your honor.” Thurman Shaw bristled like a hedgehog beside his clients. “Especially in the middle of hunting season. Especially when, by the sheriff’s own account, there were other tracks of other vehicles reported by the game warden to have on more than one occasion come directly to the site of the homicide.”
“Might I point out that the truck was taken in conjunction with the battery, your honor? And that it may have held a device or weapon posing imminent threat to the interviewing lawmen?”
“‘Interview’ is an interesting choice of description,” Judge Blackmond replied drily. “The weapons of choice, in this case, were an overzealous son and a wad of chewing tobacco. Were there a contemplated use of the arsenal in the Humvee, I am sure Mr. Loyd and his son would not have resorted to blindside tackles and Red Man.”
“Your honor—!”
“Tend your notes, Roland. Now. Sheriff Sessions. It seems to me, Sheriff, that your judgment in this investigation is badly compromised by the obvious and ongoing contempt that you make no offer to conceal for the defendants.
“Add to that bias a more compelling problem: You simply have not demonstrated probable cause sufficient to accuse Gary Loyd of any crime whatever. Mr. Reed’s insistence that you needed a warrant to inspect Mr. Loyd’s property or his vehicle is incorrect. You did not. What you did need was clear, direct, and probable cause that would substantiate an arrest or even investigation of Gary Loyd for the murder of Jane Doe. You do not have such cause.”
Gary Loyd, Barrett noticed, bowed his head with that pronouncement. Linton did not.
“Furthermore, Sheriff,” the judge continued, “by impounding Mr. Loyd’s Humvee without probable cause to search or seize, and by subjecting that vehicle to forensic examination, you have deprived yourself of the benefit of any evidence so derived. If the tree cannot be allowed, neither can the fruit of the tree.
“It is therefore my ruling that in the absence of independent corroboration or potential for discovery, any evidence derived from this truck or its examination must be suppressed and may not be used in this case.”
“State will appeal,” Roland Reed declared.
“You have that right. Before you do, however, we need a private conversation. Mr. Shaw, do you have any questions before me?”
“Like to know when my client can get his vehicle back, your honor. Along with everything that was in it.”
“Immediately.”
“Then we’re good for now.” Thurman nodded, taking the judge’s hint and shepherding Gary Linton and his tighter-wrapped father toward the door.
Linton paused as he passed Barrett.
“I read your statement.”
“Yes.”
“Looked pretty much up the middle to me.”
“I just told the truth, Linton.”
The elder Loyd smiled tightly. “Man expects to be sheriff, Bear, he has to be willing to make some hard decisions.”
“The hell is that exactly supposed to mean, Linton?”
“Means you were fair and impartial, Agent Raines.” Thurman addressed his neighbor as though he were a stranger. “Linton, we’re out of here.”
Thurman bustled Linton Loyd and his son into the hallway. When the door sighed to a close, Sheriff Sessions exploded.
“You let a goddamn killer walk out of here!”
“Sheriff, you are before a judge.”
“I don’t give a damn who I’m in front of!”
“Clearly.”
“There’s hair on that truck! Stains of semen. He had that girl, judge! He took her out there, he raped her, he strung her up, and he put that dog on her. Sure as shit stinks!”
“Sheriff Sessions.” The judge’s voice suddenly turned to flint. “If you do not recuse yourself
from the investigation of this case—immediately—I shall inform the state’s attorney general that you are abusing your authority and must be replaced.”
“The hell?” Lou Sessions’ cratered face went white.
Roland Reed lurched from prosecution to defense.
“Your honor, that’s outrageous! It’s a breach of authority! It’s—it’s—the sheriff is the backbone of this county! You can’t do this!”
“Of course I can, Roland. Now sit down. Unless you’d like me to hold you in contempt.”
Roland sank to his chair. Judge Blackmond waited patiently for the sheriff to follow suit.
“Better. Now, gentlemen. I don’t want to undermine the Sheriff’s authority. The problem is, the sheriff has managed that on his own. And it is not my goal in life to displace any man or woman from duly elected office. I can refrain from going to the attorney general. But there will be some quid required pro that quo.”
“Such as?” Lou growled.
“I recommend that you drop all charges of battery against the Loyds,” the judge restated firmly. “I also order, order, that you turn over the day-to-day investigation of Jane Doe’s homicide to the FDLE. The Live Oak field office will assume those responsibilities.
“I am not taking the case out of your jurisdiction, Sheriff, but I am limiting your ability to participate. With luck you can save face and preserve your authority in this matter. But you have to understand, Sheriff, that you are incapable of an objective evaluation of the evidence in this case. So it is strict injunction that you subordinate your efforts in the investigation of Jane Doe’s homicide to the FDLE.”
“Play by these rules and we’ll be fine. But if you go, within a mile and a half of either Linton or Gary Loyd, Sheriff, I shall visit the state’s wrath on you like white on rice.”
Judge Blackmond leaned back.
“You have a badge and a gun, sir. I hope to be reassured that you retain the judgment and common sense necessary to use them.”
* * *
Later that day Thurman Shaw was informed through a clerk of the court that State’s Attorney Reed had dropped all charges of assault against Linton and Gary Loyd. Thurman was also informed that the Florida Department of Law Enforcement would assume primary responsiblity for gathering evidence in the case, coordinating that effort day to day with the sheriff’s office.
Like a true Solomon, Judge Blackmond left no one happy.
“Son of a bitch!” The sheriff corralled Barrett before he could leave the courthouse. “Your buddy took care of you up there, didn’t he, Bear?”
“What are you talking about, Lou?”
“Blackmond’s always been in your corner. Even when you was pounding tar in Deacon Beach. So now—he’s settin’ you up for sheriff.”
“Pretty hard for him to do that, Lou, when I haven’t even decided whether to run.”
“You’ll run, all right.” The sheriff’s holster squeaked with the grip of his hand. “You’ll piss around and make noise but when it’s all over and done Gary Loyd’s gonna walk free, and Linton’s gonna give you credit. Ain’t that what you want?”
“No,” Barrett answered steadily. “And goddammit, Lou, by now you should know me better than to think I would.”
Eight
The hearing got Barrett home early. Time to throw the boys some football. Tyndall took naturally to the ball’s odd shape and spiral. Ben competed gamely. Barrett hustled his boys off to schoolwork after their short recreation, spilled some coals onto the backyard grill, and rummaged with a pocket knife into the well-tended garden. Laura Anne came home to find hamburgers and fresh tomatoes waiting.
“How was school?” Barrett asked.
“I’m scratchin’ that itch,” she admitted.
“It’s doin’ you good.” Barrett pulled her over for a sailor’s kiss and the boys giggled at their mother’s embarassment.
Barrett and Laura Anne made love that night. It started in the shower.
“Come here,” she invited him in. Took him in her hand.
They coupled like adulterers against the fiberglass shell of the shower. Then Barrett picked her up in a store’s worth of cotton towel and took her to bed. That was the night’s reward. Rising early the next morning gave Barrett a chance to tell his boys they’d be getting a puppy for birthdays well anticipated. The squeals of excitement greeting that guarantee and the hugs around his neck sent Barrett Raines off to work.
“Have a good one.” He tugged on the seat belt that snugged Laura Anne into their Dodge Caravan.
“I will!” She backed out to the blacktop with the boys waving in concert, two little hands like windshield wipers, back and forth.
Barrett wiped the arm of his blazer briefly across the hood of his Malibu before climbing into his cruiser. Work, this morning, meant a drive to Gainesville, and promised to be interesting, for this morning Bear would rendezvous with Cricket and Midge at the C. A. Pound Human Identification Lab, located in Gator country at the University of Florida.
Barrett took a left at the light in Mayo, put his vehicle on cruise control, and headed down Highway 27. Twenty minutes later he saw the Branford bridge. The Suwannee River swept majestically beneath the bridge, its high cliffs looking over bass boats and jet skis and a chocolate swath of water. The river was low, very low. A telephone pole mounted near a spring on the south side of the bridge was marked to indicate floodlines from the late ’30s to 1998. The yellow or whitewashed stripes with their crudely lettered histories reminded Barrett how mercurial this wild river could be. As late as ’98, the Suwannee had risen from its slow torpor sixty feet below the bridge to overflow the banks high above and flood thousands of acres around.
Too bad there wasn’t some way to save that water, Bear thought.
He saw a man and woman in wetsuits loading their tanks onto a pontoon boat. Cave divers. They came from all over, California, New Jersey, crazy folks with scuba gear, to dive the springs on the banks of the Suwannee, squirming with a pair of tanks and a light through narrow chutes to explore the spectacular limestone caves that were secreted beneath the cold, cold water. Barrett shivered. He could never do that.
It was not yet nine o’clock. Bear rolled past Branford and through High Springs and never saw a chain restaurant or a golden arch. This was the Florida Barrett loved, a place still roughed out, its small towns offering a single red light, a pair of cafes, its forests and lowlands not yet gridded off into Holiday Inns or theme parks and not overrun with tourists. Fishermen came here in reasonable numbers to share with local sportsmen. Hunters. Those crazy divers. That was about it. That was about all anybody wanted. This region, like the Suwanee that flowed like an artery through its heart, needed to remain untamed. It needed to be wild. But not savage.
The crime he had witnessed in his home county bothered Barrett more than the usual homicide for a variety of reasons. There was a racial component that could not be ignored. Latin workers were already experiencing in the year 2001 the sort of prejudice that African Americans had endured since Reconstruction. Was this crime in any way a result of racial hatred? That bothered Barrett greatly. But what bothered him even more was the feeling that this elaborate homicide was somehow another indicator that the culture he knew and respected as a child was being subsumed into something much more amorphous and alien.
The crime provided one more indicator to Bear that his rural haunt was no longer immune from the influence of the culture at large, the same culture digested in Miami or Jacksonville or Daytona. Young people, particularly, took their cues for life off satellite dishes, not front porches. The old vices, bad as they were, had always been constrained in this region by a powerful consensus about what was right and what was wrong. And folks didn’t hesitate to tell you when you stepped out of line. But that consensus was disappearing, and as it did Barrett wondered how long he could claim that his special part of northern Florida was different from the rest of the state.
“Your culture will be assimilated.” Ben and Tyndal
l mocked the Star Trek fantasy. “Resistance is fu-tile.”
Past High Springs, Bear turned to catch the interstate. Forty minutes later he was in Gainesville. The C. A. Pound Lab, though part of the University of Florida complex, was located northeast of the main campus, off Radio Road. Alice Lake steamed nearby, home to alligators and future mascots. The lab was constructed without a lot of money and no pretense at grandeur, a single-story Butler building, green and metal and prefabricated. Set on a slab in a virtual forest of bamboo. You had to come looking to find the place. Even if you knew where you were going, the facility was easily missed.
Barrett turned hard into the narrow drive that led to a scattering of parking slots. He got out of the car in a hurry, eager to get inside. The Pound Lab, as it was commonly called, boasted some of the most accomplished forensic experts in the state, though many of those associated with the university’s faculty rarely referred to their research as forensic in nature. A fair number of these academic types were tenured in departments like anthropology, zoology, or botany. Their curiosity regarding hominids or insects or plants just “happened” to find a forensic application.
Dr. William Maples had made the lab famous throughout the southeast, combining theoretic pursuits in spectroscopy and biologic sciences with a passion for forensic application. His Dead Men Do Tell Tales was a book Barrett had thumbed to death. The doctor’s death saddened many at the university, and in law enforcement, but his down-to-earth manner still reigned at the Pound Lab, and legions of academics inherited his passion for science and criminal investigation.
There were some odd ducks at the lab. It was interesting to Barrett that the same professor who might on a Wednesday morning lecture to a group of budding anthropologists comparing mitochondrial DNA in populations of ancient Neanderthals with those in modern chimpanzees, would that afternoon complete a similar analysis that could convict a killer in Jacksonville, or exonerate a man facing death in Raiford.
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