by Tom Lowe
Jesse held the cigarette in his right hand, slowing turning the back of the scarred hand around. He smiled. “Remember when you told me to call you Jerry? You said you didn’t know any black kids named Jerry, but a few had the name Jeremiah. You brought me a peanut butter sandwich one night when they kept food from me because I spit in the grass.”
Jeremiah stared at Jesse’s hand, then looked into his eyes. “Yeah, I remember. I was in a tree the night they shot Andy.”
“A tree?”
“The lone oak a little ways past the hog pen. I’d just taken the last of the kitchen scraps to the hogs, and for some reason I just kept walkin’. Then I heard ‘em chasin’ somebody. There was a low-hanging branch on that old tree. Made for easy climbing. I used to jump up, grab it and climb into the tree. It was the only place I could get away without running away. Somehow, man, I felt closer to the stars just bein’ twenty feet off the ground. Andy was running across the field. They were chasin’ him, laughin’, callin’ him names like sissy and faggot. When Andy ran toward the tree…they shot him dead right below me. I was so scared they’d hear me up there. I could smell the whiskey all over them when they lifted up Andy. After they left, I stood on a limb, shaking, hugging the tree and cryin’ like a child.”
Jesse nodded. “You were a child. Who killed him?”
“One of the reasons I’m still alive, still here in Jackson County, is ‘cause I never said anything. They would have kil’t me like they did my brother, Andy and others. If word got out I was gonna testify today, they’d probably hang me.”
“You can get witness protection. Stay out of sight ‘til the trial.”
“How ‘bout after the trial? Who’s gonna keep ‘em away then?”
“Answer me this then…is he still alive?”
Jeremiah said nothing.
“Your mama wants to bring Eli’s body home to a proper resting place. What you say could make that happen.”
“She’s the only reason I stay here.”
“Man, if you follow the picking seasons, once this is over you can keep goin’, never come back.”
“Isn’t that running away? This old bus ain’t much, but I got two deeded acres on this creek bank. One day I plan to build a little house here. It’s funny in a weird way—I follow the pickin’ seasons, workin’ with crops, and all I ever really wanted was to put down roots. Maybe find a wife. But I never stopped lookin’ at shadows on the wall.” He watched a dragonfly hover near the top of the school bus. “Lemme think ‘bout it. I’ll talk to mama, and I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll write down my number. I need to ask you this…is he still alive?”
“He’s above ground.”
SEVENTEEN
When I closed my laptop, I opened a possible door into the Florida School for Boys. Since I walked Max at sunrise, I’d been sitting in Jupiter’s salon researching the former reform school, which closed in 2011 under the name Dozier School for Boys. I knew its history, the names of superintendents through the decades, the complaints of abuse filed against the school, and had a possible glimpse into its future. The Department of Corrections was taking bids from development companies interested in purchasing the land and buildings. There were a few days left before the sales window expired.
I was about to become an interested party.
“Max, hold the fort down while I shower and pack.” She was lying on the salon couch, eyes half closed. She lifted her head and yawned. I shut down my computer and hit the head for a shower. I hadn’t been under the water thirty seconds before I heard my phone ring. I finished, towel dried, put on fresh jeans and a sports shirt. Fine attire, I figured, for inspecting property.
I picked my phone off the bar in the salon. A voice-message was waiting for me. “Hey, I’m trying to reach Sean O’Brien. This is Jesse Taylor—a friend of Caroline Harper. She wanted me to give you a shout. She said you’re good at this investigation stuff. There’s a lot of shit goin’ on up here in Marianna that you need to know about. It goes back to when I was locked up at the school from hell. Maybe I can help you…maybe we can turn over a few rocks and watch the spiders run…right a few wrongs that are long overdue. You got my number. I’ll tell you what I have so far.”
I hit the redial button. After three rings a voice-mail message begin: “This is Jesse. You know what to do at that damn beep.”
“Jesse, looks like I just missed you. This is Sean O’Brien. Caroline and I both appreciate you looking under rocks. You might want to take it easy until I can get up there. I’d like to hear what you’ve found, maybe what you suspect. But it’s probably a good thing to keep a low profile. I’ll call you when I get to Marianna.” I disconnected and scrolled down my contact list until I found the name and private number of an FBI friend of mine in Tampa.
Carly Brown answered on the second ring. “Sean O’Brien. What do I owe the honor of this call? Maybe it’s personal and you have a magnum of champagne and a sailboat for a long weekend.”
“It’s good to hear your voice. How’ve you been, Carly?”
“No complaints. I have twelve years with the bureau now. If they ever reassign me to a field office in North Dakota, that’s when I’ll turn in my badge. Hey, I hear you’re doing some PI work.”
“Off and on. More off than on.”
“It’s always on here. What’s up? Are you in Tampa or are you coming to town. Just want to know what I’ll need to tell my current flame—a flame that’s more like a candle flame.” She laughed and I couldn’t help but smile.
“Carly, I wish I were in Tampa. I’m about to head to the opposite end of the state, a town called Marianna.”
“Sound’s like a town named after some guy’s wife. What’s there?”
“Maybe a lot of bodies—bodies of kids.” I told her most of what I knew and then asked, “How long would it take to do an electrostatic recovery analysis on the shell, the brass head?”
“It depends. So you think there’s a latent and micro-etching that might produce a find?”
“Maybe. Only one way to find out. Can I overnight the casing to you?”
“Sure. If this does turn into a killing field for kids, the bureau will be there anyway.”
“Thanks, Carly. I owe you one.”
“You owe me nothing but three days and nights on blue water. Bye, Sean.”
I dropped the shotgun casing into a Ziploc bag, placed it in a small shipping box and labeled it. I’d stop by the post office and send it next-day delivery to the FBI office in Tampa. I packed a bag, extra rounds for my Glock, locked Jupiter, and hit the dock with Max trotting a few steps ahead of me.
Nick sat in St. Michael’s cockpit taking a large fishing reel apart, a web of fishing line next to his bare feet. He was mumbling, cursing, his monologue cutting from English to Greek and back again. He looked up at us and grinned. “How long you and hot dog been standin’ there lookin’ at me like I was a bear?”
“A grizzly wouldn’t need a rod, reel and two-hundred yards of line to catch a fish dinner.”
Nick lifted a large ceramic mug of coffee, steam spiraling from the top. “And good mornin’ to you, Sean O’Brien. You and Maxie just roll outta the sack, huh? You get into some ouzo last night and didn’t invite me?”
“Actually, when Max and I walked by St. Michael a couple of hours ago, she almost barked when she heard the snoring coming from your salon. Thought it was a hibernating bear.”
“Come here, hot dog. We gotta talk.” Max looked at Nick, snorted, and then headed towards Dave’s boat, a trace of Canadian bacon in the air. Nick shook his head. “You’re a ten-pound traitor.”
“She smells bacon from Dave’s galley. Come on, Nick. Give your thumbs a rest.”
The three of us walked down the narrow boarding dock that led from Gibraltar’s bow to stern, the smell of bacon, Irish cheese and dark coffee greeted us. Dave stood in the galley making breakfast. He looked over his bifocals and shouted, “Come aboard! Thank God I have people and a pooch to help me ea
t this feast. I was about to send an invitation, but you beat me.”
We entered through the open sliding glass doors, Dave coming up two steps from the galley with a platter of omelets, potatoes and onions, and at least three pounds of Canadian bacon stacked like hotcakes. Max almost did a backflip. We took seats around a square table that substituted as a large chessboard on occasion. I glanced over the bar to the wahoo mounted and hanging on the wall. I thought of Curtis Garwood, thought of the scars on the back of his legs.
Dave said, “I have paper plates that look like bone china. Pile it on gents. Maxine, we’ll give you some bacon and eggs.” Dave fixed Max a small plate and set it on the floor of the trawler, Max finished the scoop in seconds. The rest of us took our time.
I said, “Speaking of Max, if you guys can keep an eye on her for a few days, I’d appreciate it. Her leash is on the nail in Jupiter’s galley next to her dog food.”
Nick shook his head, lifting Max to his lap. “Hot dog won’t be eating that stuff. Between Dave and me, she’ll eat like the dachshund duchess of the docks.”
Dave sipped black coffee for a second and then said, “From what I’ve been able to discover, just doing a little research, is the state—at least the Department of Corrections, has no real interest or anything to gain by investigating decades of alleged impropriety, abuse and maybe even murder. When they closed that institution in 2011, they pretty much dusted off their hands of any culpable liability. And now they want to sell it and let some developer sweep a century of dirt under the rug. You will be the camel sticking his nose under a closed tent.”
Nick swallowed a mouthful of omelet. “Where can you even start, Sean? It’ll be like stepping into Mayberry—a place where nobody even jaywalks. Hear no evil and all that shit.”
Dave nodded. “Nick’s got a point. The philosophy behind the archetypal three wise monkeys, from the Buddist viewpoint, is to stay away from trouble by not listening to it or not repeating it. In the western world, it’s more about turning a blind eye. In Marianna, the old reform school was probably one of the largest employers. Generations worked there. If someone were ever brought to trial, a change of venue may be the first move a prosecutor would request. You’d have to find irrefutable evidence.” He glanced at the small box. “Is it there?”
“It’s the shotgun shell casing. I’m sending it to a friend of mine, and FBI agent. She’s going to see if an electrostatic charge can reveal a print.”
Nick used a paper towel to wipe coffee from his bushy moustache. “Shit, after fifty years, the genie might stick his redneck head outta the bottle, or in this case, the shotgun shell.”
I removed a folded sheet of paper from my pocket and handed it to Dave. “Here are some names and numbers. I found the name of the listing real estate broker the state is using to show the property. He’s a broker with a good batting average. There’s strong interest from a corporation called Vista Properties. Maybe you can find who’s the decision maker, and who’re his or her allies in Jackson County. Call the listing agent and tell him you’re interested in the property, ask him if the local airport can accommodate a Gulfstream G650 jet—but before you fly in for an inspection, you will have your representative go by for the pre-inspection.”
Dave smiled. “And you, Sean, no doubt, are my representative.”
“Yes. I pulled satellite images of the property and buildings. I have a good feel for the logistics. But the place is locked and guarded. Admittance is by invitation only. Thanks for the breakfast. I need to be hitting the road.”
Dave poured more coffee into his cup, looking up at me through the steam. “Be damn careful, Sean. This one has layers of bureaucratic complicity all over it, very dangerous because of where the dotted lines may lead. Maybe that little box in your hand will open the Pandora’s box. If not, after so many years, you’re looking for a needle under a hill of hay.”
“But if you set fire to the hay, the rats will run. After the hay has burned, the needle will be there. It might be charred and blackened, but in some form, it’ll be there. I just have to use a magnet to draw it out—to find it.” I petted Max on her head, turned to leave, looked at the glass eye of the wahoo on the wall and remembered the expression in Curtis Garwood’s eyes when he released his wahoo back to the sea.
EIGHTEEN
He’d seen her name in the local newspaper, and now he needed to find her. Jesse Taylor used a red pen to circle her name in the Jackson County Patriot. The story was about how she’d managed to get convictions in difficult cases up and down the Second Judicial Circuit in the state of Florida, a district encompassing six counties from the Gulf Coast to the Alabama/Georgia state lines. She’d been in her current job less than two years. Previous to that, assistant state attorney, Lana Halley, worked as a prosecutor in the Ninth District, the Orlando area. Not only did Jesse circle her name, he underlined the reporter’s name, Cory Wilson.
Jesse sat in the lobby of the state attorney’s office in the courthouse, the folded newspaper in one hand, feeling a touch of familiarity, been there and sort of done it, he thought when he’d met with Detective Larry Lee. The lobby floor was old marble, highly polished, an afghan rug near the reception desk. A large painting of former president Andrew Jackson sitting in a saddle on a white horse, hung on the wall above two walnut doors leading into the offices. Jesse shifted the newspaper to his other hand, staring up at the painting; Jackson’s eyes seemed to look through him—a nonverbal invitation to leave the county that bore his name.
The double doors opened wide and a woman walked out into the lobby, dark blue suit, high heels that sounded like taps on the marble floor. Jesse recognized her from the black and white picture in the paper that accompanied the article. She almost took his breath away, black hair to her shoulders, emerald green eyes, and dark eyebrows against radiant skin. She had a winning smile, one that could probably open the minds of any jury. Jesse suddenly wished he were thirty-five years younger. She walked across the lobby, extending her hand. “Hi, I’m Lana Halley. You must be Mr. Taylor. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. I appreciate you taking the time to see me on short notice.”
“You told my assistant it was urgent, time sensitive and could have implications to multiple, unnatural deaths. You hit all my buttons.”
Jesse reflexively licked his dry lips. He lifted the folded paper. “I’d done my homework. Read the story about you, how you’re a victim’s rights kind of lawyer. The article said how you’d come from nothin’, a broken home to put yourself through law school and try to turn things around for others. I think that’s a noble thing to do, Miss Halley.”
She smiled. “Please, call me Lana. You can’t believe everything you read in the news. That reporter included more than he really had to. I understand this has to do with the old reform school. Let’s go to my office. I only have a few minutes, but I’m an excellent listener.”
“That’s always a good start.”
He followed her across the lobby, before walking through the open doors. Jesse glanced up at Jackson on the horse, the president’s eyes narrow, following him into the halls of justice. They walked through a maze of corridors, paralegals in cubicles tapping on keyboards, sorting through files and staring into computer screens and case histories. She led him into a small office, took her seat behind a desk that was free from clutter, one file folder in the center, an American flag on a wooden pole behind her, a picture of her in a graduate’s cap and gown, an older woman resembling Lana, standing next to her. No father.
“Please, have a seat.” She gestured to one of two vacant chairs in front of her desk. Jesse sat in the chair next to the window, overlooking the courthouse square. He held the newspaper on his lap, his hands sweaty. She glanced at his scarred hands and then looked up at him. “What’s this about multiple unnatural deaths, you mean murder?”
“Yes. I don’t know how many. What do you know about the Florida Home for Boys?”
“Not a lot. I came here after it was close
d.”
“I spent almost a year in there for taking my pop’s old car on a ride for half an hour one night when I snuck outta the house to meet a girl I was sweet on.”
“Sounds like your father went to an extreme.”
“That’s putting it mildly. I’ll be brief. The men in charge of us were as brutal as Nazi guards, maybe worse ‘cause they got to administer punishment. By this I mean boys, some young as nine, forced to lie on their stomachs in a small building. The men would take turns beating us. A kid would get at least thirty hits from a long leather strap with a small shard of metal in it. Blood would fly like a damn slaughterhouse.” She listened, swallowing dryly, jotting an occasional note on a clean legal pad. He told her about Andy Cope, the letter from Curtis Garwood. Then he added, “I have an eyewitness to Andy’s murder.”
“Who is that?”
“He’s name’s Jeremiah Franklin. His brother, Elijah, never made it out of there alive.”
“Do we know if the perpetrator is still alive?”
“Jeremiah says he is.”
“What’s this man’s name and what role did he play at the school?”
“Jeremiah wouldn’t give me his real name.”
“Why?”
“He’s afraid. He’s a black man living in the country in Jackson County. When we were kids, many of us were locked up due to petty stuff like truancy, maybe stealing a candy bar from a five ‘n dime. We called the meanest of the staff, the Preacher. He’d try to justify his bloody punishment from Old Testament Bible verses. He always talked about the wrath of God and Sodom and Gomorrah.”