“You’re a great reporter because you have the instincts and experience to go after your own suppositions, to prove them true.”
“I’m still doing that!” Nick snapped, getting defensive.
Deirdre raised her palms. “I know. I know you are, Nick. But you’re not putting it in the paper.”
“When I nail it, it’ll go in the paper,” he said.
“It makes us sound unsure, like we’re waiting for someone else to get the good stuff first. It makes us look like we’re afraid to pull the trigger.”
The heat was up in Nick’s face now. He could feel the flush in his neck, the hot tingle on the edges of his ears.
“Is that why we never called Robert Walker a drunk driver in print, Deirdre?” Nick said through his teeth. “Were we waiting for someone else to get the goods on that guy after he killed my family? Why didn’t somebody go and dig up that guy’s background and pull the goddamn trigger in print?”
Now she couldn’t hold his eyes. She knew the arguments he’d had with the paper’s management after the accident that killed his wife and daughter. She knew Nick had tried to get the editorial writers to paint Walker as a drunken killer. But they had refused, citing journalistic standards and telling him to wait until after the trial. She knew it had hurt him.
“That situation was different, Nick. That was personal. You’re an employee. It would have looked prejudicial.”
“But you want me to call this guy a sniper on the front page before we know who or what he is,” Nick said, trying to make the statement sound smug, but that emotion was no longer in him.
Deirdre just looked down at her desktop.
“I’ll keep chasing what happens next,” Nick said, getting up. “You’ll get the truth in my story at eight.”
As he turned to go, Deirdre couldn’t help herself, as if her comeback were so ingrained in her psyche that it was like an involuntary muscle response:
“The truth is in the—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Nick interrupted. “The eye of the beholder.”
He didn’t turn around, just kept walking out the door.
Chapter 11
When he got back to his desk, Nick started to call up the list from research but only got back to Dr. Chambliss’s name when his phone rang.
“Mr. Mullins? This is Brian Dempsey. I’m a lawyer representing Margaria Cotton, the woman whose children were killed by Mr. Ferris four years ago that you wrote about in the paper today.”
Nick was instantly wary. Lawyers, by profession, are not impartial. They do what they need to do to help their clients. A reporter never talks to an attorney without thinking, Wha’s his motive?
“Yes, Mr. Dempsey. What can I do for you, sir?”
“Well, Mr. Mullins, against my advice, Ms. Cotton would like to meet with you.”
“Great,” Nick said and then quickly toned down his exuberance. “I’d lost touch with her, Mr. Dempsey, and didn’t have a contact number or I certainly would have interviewed her for today’s story.”
Nick could hear the lawyer’s hesitation in the beat of silence.
“Ms. Cotton has tried very hard to keep her life private after her tragedy, Mr. Mullins. But I felt duty-bound to pass on your request to speak with her and again, against my advice, she would like to meet with you first.”
“First?”
“Yes, Mr. Mullins. Investigators from the Sheriff’s Office are also interviewing Ms. Cotton today in my office, at one o’clock this afternoon. She would like to speak with you first.”
Nick looked at the huge clock on the wall, omnipresent in the newsroom to remind everyone of their daily deadlines. It was nearly eleven.
“OK. At your office, then, Mr. Dempsey?”
“No. Ms. Cotton would like you to come to her home. She’s awaiting your arrival. When you’re through, I hope you could give her a ride to the Sheriff’s Office in time for the detectives, if you would.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
The attorney gave Nick the addresses of both Cotton’s home and his law office.
“And please, Mr. Mullins,” he said before hanging up, “I hope you can appreciate the delicacy of this matter.”
Nick could not come up with an answer to the statement before the line went quiet. He looked up again at the clock. Cotton’s address was less than twenty minutes from the newsroom, thirty even if traffic was bad. He closed the research file in front of him, stuck his reporter’s notebook in his pocket and told the assistant city editor that he was going out on an interview and could be reached on his cell phone if they needed him.
Standing at the elevator door, Nick could feel an electricity in his blood. You’re not supposed to get giddy when you’re going to talk with a woman whose children were raped and murdered. But he still gave up on waiting for the elevator and took the six flights of stairs to the parking level, two steps at a time.
Nick looked at the address on the page of his notebook one more time and then slowly rolled up Northwest Tenth Avenue. The houses were single-story and all seemed to be painted a dusty color—pale yellow, powder blue—and even the white ones gave off a hue of bone. The yards were mottled with patches of dirt and the green grass seemed to have been robbed of its chlorophyll. The macadam road surface had been bleached a soft gray by the sun. Nick always wondered at the ability of poor and neglected neighborhoods to dull even the effects of the bright Florida sunshine. Postcard photos were never taken here.
The number he was looking for was not visible on the house where it should have been. He drove past two more before spotting an address painted above a doorway and then put the car in reverse and backed up, subtracting by lot. He pulled into the two-strip concrete drive in front of a dull beige clapboard home that must have been built in the early 1960s. But the roof was newly shingled. There was a potted red geranium on the front step and the porch had been swept clean. When Nick raised his hand to knock, the inside door opened before his knuckles touched wood.
“Good morning, Mr. Mullins,” the woman’s voice said.
“Ms. Cotton?” Nick said, though he still could only see her dark figure in the shadows of the room.
“Please,” she said, pushing open the screen door for him to enter. Nick took note of the thin forearm, mottled as much as the grass yard, with patches of pink marring the naturally dark skin.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Nick said, taking two steps into a darkened living room where the odor of medicine and potpourri battled one another.
When his eyes adjusted he could see the features of Margaria Cotton’s face and small figure. They had changed over the years, pulled perhaps by the gravity of grief, as if every bone and every centimeter of skin had been attached to a weight. Her shoulders were slumped, her back, which had been proudly stiff when she sat in the courtroom for Ferris’s sentencing, was bowed forward. Her cheekbones were sharp, but in the way of malnutrition versus some role of fashion. Nick, as was his way, preferred to watch her eyes, which still held the intelligence and strength that he had noted three years ago. She did the same, meeting his gaze, not with defiance, but more as a way of showing her confidence and lack of pretension.
“Can I get you something, Mr. Mullins? Coffee? Water?” she said while extending her hand to show him a seat.
“No. Thank you. I’m fine, ma’am.”
The woman nodded and took a seat opposite him on a sofa. A low, glass-topped table separated them. Nick noted the stack of newspapers on one end, the Daily News and, he could tell by the style of the type, the Herald, and at least one out-of-town publication.
“I was hoping to get in touch with you, Ms. Cotton,” he began. “I assume that you have heard of the shooting death of Mr. Ferris.”
“Yes,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “Mr. Dempsey called me yesterday. And I read it in the newspapers this morning.” She too looked over at the papers.
“I read the news every day, Mr. Mullins. I suppose it isn’t always healthy to let all that ugliness ins
ide my house,” she said, but did not look around herself when she made the comment. Nick, however, took the opportunity to take in the small wooden cross mounted on the wall behind her. It was flanked by the elementary school photos of what he recognized as her daughters. They were the same photos that his newspaper had used during the coverage of their killing. The same computer-stored photos had run in this morning’s edition.
“I know it might sound kind of, you know, sick,” she said, bringing his attention back to her eyes. “But there is something about the tragedies of others, Mr. Mullins, that helps remind me that I am not the only one suffering.”
Nick nodded his head.
“I am sorry about your children, Ms. Cotton,” he said, motioning slightly to the photos behind her with his eyes.
“You were very kind to us in your stories, Mr. Mullins. There was a word my minister used for it, I forget …” She closed her eyes for a moment, searching. “Compassion. That was it. He said your writing had compassion in it.”
Again, all Nick could do was nod. He noted the diction in her conversation. A poor black woman, but one who was educated, maybe even well read. She went out of her way to choose her words in the presence of someone like Nick, only letting an occasional slip of slang enter her sentences. It was perhaps an unconscious habit she fell into when she wanted her listener to be comfortable. Nick did the same thing when he was with southerners, slipping into a minor drawl that did not belong to him. His daughters always noticed and would tell him later that he had embarrassed them. He shook off the recollection and reached into his back pocket. He took out the notebook and drew a pen from his shirt, a signal that he was here to work.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Cotton. I don’t want to sound simple here, but in your position, these years later, I was calling to find out what your reaction to Mr. Ferris’s death might be.”
The woman went quiet for several moments, but Nick had learned long ago not to give up on any interviewees other than politicians when he could see in their eyes that they were forming an answer to his questions, testing a reply in their mind.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mullins,” she finally said. “I guess I wanted to say relief, or maybe some kind of feel of justice. But I can’t say I have that. I have long given judgment up to the Lord Himself, and that man is meeting his Maker this very morning on his own terms,” she said with a certainty that Nick was always befuddled by with people of faith.
“No, sir, I would have to tell you, Mr. Mullins, that I don’t believe that any kind of vision of Mr. Ferris has entered my mind for some time. I believe he was already gone in my mind.”
“But you still wanted to see me,” Nick said. “Is there something that you wanted to say about the shooting?”
“Only that I was bothered by some things in the newspapers, not yours, of course, that said maybe I or my people might have done something to get revenge for my girls.”
“OK,” Nick said, without taking his eyes off hers.
“And we did not do anything. I did not,” she said, bringing the strength back into her voice that had been there during Ferris’s trial.
Nick nodded and wrote on the pad, a nonsensical squiggle that the woman could not see, just to make her know she was being heard.
“Revenge is not in my blood, or my family’s blood, Mr. Mullins,” she said. “And I cannot think of anyone I know who would have been wanting to kill Mr. Ferris.”
“I think the detectives will have to look at any and all possibilities, Ms. Cotton,” Nick said. “I would think that’s why they want to interview you, ma’am, not because of anything that was put into the newspaper.”
He stopped. Wondering why he was defending himself.
“But since I am here, has anyone contacted you, Ms. Cotton? Anyone, say, on the phone? Or anonymously written you, someone who might have sounded like they were doing this on your behalf? You know, like taking action because they felt you deserved closure or something?”
Nick hated even using the word. There was no such thing. Closure. It was a buzzword someone came up with and then it spread like kudzu into the vernacular.
“No, sir,” she said, then hesitated, not speaking as she held up the fingers of her right hand, as though stopping time.
“Mr. Dempsey did give me a whole bunch of letters after the trial from folks sending me sympathy,” she said after gathering her memories. “Sometimes he still does. I put them all in a box, and I think it’s very kind.”
“Has he brought you anything recently?” Nick said. The mention of paper piqued his interest. Something written and verified, especially with a postage mark, was manna for a journalist. It was the fuel for a paper trail.
“I can’t say I recall the last time,” Cotton said. “Might have been in the fall. I am not much for keepin’ track of time anymore, Mr. Mullins.”
“Any names in the box that were familiar, Ms. Cotton?” Nick pressed, envisioning a list of names, something he could use, something solid he could trace.
“Well, I don’t really pay much attention to the names, sir. I read the ones from the mothers mostly,” she said and a wistful look came into her face, making Nick feel a twinge of guilt at his grilling. But not too guilty.
“Could I perhaps take a look at the letters, Ms. Cotton? Just sort of go through the names, I mean. I don’t want to pry,” Nick said, lying. Of course he wanted to pry. It’s what reporters did.
“I would have to look up in my closets to find them. I believe that’s where I might have stored that box away.”
Nick looked at his watch. It was late. They would have to leave soon for her to make her appointment with the detectives. But he didn’t know what to ask.
“Ms. Cotton, has anyone related to Mr. Ferris, or even someone who said they knew him, ever come to speak to you or even introduce themselves?”
Nick watched her close her eyes, searching again for a picture of the past.
“His brother,” she said, her eyes still closed. Then she opened them. “His brother seen me in the hall outside the court and walked up to me on that day when the jury found him guilty.”
“And he talked with you?” Nick said, prodding her.
“He said he was sorry about what happened. I could see it in his eyes, Mr. Mullins, that he was hurtin’.”
“You do seem to have that ability, Ms. Cotton,” Nick said, making a guess as to why he was here. “To pick up on people’s pain.”
This time she looked straight into Nick’s face, studying it, the creases in his brow, the lines at the corners of his eyes.
“I read about your family, Mr. Mullins. I recognized your name right off and remembered the way you had with your words, that compassion. It was your wife and daughter, so you know how it is when somebody needs that,” she said. “Maybe someone else is going to need that now.”
Nick looked down at his open notebook. He had yet to enter a word with any meaning or usefulness in his “exclusive” interview.
“Is that why I’m here, Ms. Cotton?” he finally said, not wanting to look in her eyes, not wanting her to see his. “Is that why you asked to see me? Because of my compassion?”
He felt her nod more than saw it.
“I read the newspapers a lot, Mr. Mullins,” she said. “Sometimes I can feel people in there, in the words. I learned that by readin’ what happened to me, to my family. And like I said, you had that feeling in your words before.”
“But not now?” Nick said, wanting her to continue.
“I watched the paper to see when you got back to your job. I have seen your stories now and compared them with before. And if you don’t mind my saying so, sir … you changed,” she said without taking her eyes off him. “The pain changed you.”
Nick stared at her, this small black woman, telling him about his heart with a plain open face that did not show sympathy or judgment, or assess fault.
“Compassion,” she said. “I believe you are losin’ that, Mr. Mullins. And I believe that would be a terrible thing i
n the end, sir.”
Chapter 12
Nick was still rolling Margaria Cotton’s words around in his head when he got back to the office. While he’d been dropping her off in front of the Broward Sheriff’s Office, Detective Hargrave and his partner, the big sergeant, had been just getting out of their unmarked Crown Vic. Detectives being what they are, Nick knew they’d check out the driver who was bringing Cotton to see them. Even the stone-faced Hargrave could not cover the look of consternation on his face. The big man had turned around just as they were entering a side door for employees and officers only and given him a sorry shake of his head.
Now, as Nick was making his way to his desk, a sports editor grinned at him and said, “Hi, Nick. How you doing?”
The greeting snapped his concentration at first, and then piled onto Cotton’s observation.
“Hey, Stevie. Alright,” Nick answered.
Few people in the place bothered to talk to him these days. The sports guy, Steve Bryant, had told him it was because they didn’t know what to say after Nick returned to work following the accident. The first few weeks, there were the quiet condolences. He’d nodded, thanked them. But he’d never been a gregarious sort. He’d have an occasional beer with the other reporters after a late shift, would toss a good-natured barb across the desk like the one he’d received from Hirschman about the roof photo. But Steve had confided that if Nick was already intimidating with his intensity before the tragedy, he was downright scary when he’d returned.
Loss of compassion? Like Ms. Cotton had said? A scene from an old movie flashed into Nick’s head. A hard-core mercenary is told during a firefight that he’s bleeding. The guy’s rebuttal: I ain’t got time to bleed.
When he got to his desk there was a press release lying in the middle, a one-sheet write-up that had been faxed by the Sheriff’s Office as it had been to every news organization in three counties. Cameron had given everyone all the updated information that Nick had already put in his story for this morning’s edition, including the caliber of the bullet. While his computer was coming up, Nick answered the blinking light on his phone. Three of four messages were from readers who wanted him to know how glad they were that Ferris had been shot, saving them the cost of another trial “for that animal.” None left a name. The fourth call was from Cameron. There was a distinct edge in his voice:
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