by Tom Lowe
“He’s gotten away with it all these years. What’s gonna change that?”
“Because somebody saw him. The witness saw three men who gunned down a boy named Andy Cope.”
“What witness? What’s his name?”
“I’d rather not say right now.”
Ace nodded. “All right then…why didn’t the witness say something?”
“Because he was afraid they’d hang him. He’s still scared. But I think that’s about to change. Ace can you give me a ride back to my car? It’s at the motel where I’m staying.”
“Sure, but let’s take the back roads. I got a strange feeling that we’re being watched.”
FORTY-THREE
The man’s profile was like an image from a dream. No identity, but it was there—under the surface of memory. It floated there. Vaporous. Just out of bounds for reach and clarity. With the exception of Caroline Harper and Lana Halley, I didn’t know anyone who lived in Marianna or Jackson County. So why did one of the men in the car next to my Jeep at an intersection look like someone I knew? Maybe the car wasn’t from here. Maybe the guy in the back seat wasn’t. I had just a few seconds before the traffic light changed. Who was he? And why did I somehow feel his identity was important?
I could only catch his profile. Sitting in the rear seat on the right side of the black Mercedes S-Class sedan. Silver hair, neatly parted. Custom suit. Designer shirt. I tried to read the monogram on the cuff, near the gold cufflinks. Too far away. He held a phone in his right hand, talking. He was alone in the backseat. A younger man sat on the passenger side, front seat. Dark glasses. Dark suit. The driver looked Hispanic, dressed in a polo shirt.
The light turned green, and I looked again as the Mercedes pulled away. I memorized the tag number. The car was registered in Dade County, Florida, the county seat for Miami, a place I’d spent more than a decade in law enforcement. I drove behind the car for a block, heading toward the Alpine Inn where I’d meet Caroline Harper and Jesse Taylor. My plan was to let Jesse know that Jeremiah Franklin was ready to talk—to probably name the killer, but he was justifiably afraid of possible repercussions. When Jesse met with Jeremiah, I wanted to be there. Not necessarily physical as in the same location, but somewhere within visual contact. I didn’t want them out of my sight. Maybe I was being overly cautious. I didn’t think so.
I picked up my phone to call Dave. I wanted him to run the numbers on the license plate. I wanted to know who was riding in the back seat of a chauffer-driven Mercedes and why he was in Marianna, Florida. I remembered the photo attachment Dave had sent—the picture of the man Dave said was the head of Vista Properties, whose subsidiary is Horizon Inc., the multinational corporation with plans to build a country club development to be called Chattahoochee Estates.
It’s funny how memory is like a card in a deck. Not always in sequence. But when the luck of the draw puts a picture card in your hand, how will you play it? What risks will you take? Do you fold or stay in the game? I punched up the image on my phone. And there he was, staring at me from the screen. Was the same man in the back seat of the Mercedes?
The way to find out was to come knocking. The driver stopped at the next light. Traffic was picking up, and we were still in a four-lane intersection. I pulled up beside the long black car, windows slightly tinted. I tapped the Jeep’s horn and motioned for the man in the back seat to roll down his window. He ignored me. The guy in the front seat didn’t. He pressed a button and the window slid about half way down.
I smiled and asked, “Excuse me, I’m a little lost. I’m looking for I-10. Do you know if we’re close to the highway?”
The guy behind the dark glasses turned his head and spoke with the driver for a few seconds. It gave me time to look behind him, behind his headrest to catch a partial glimpse of the man in the back seat. Bingo. If he wasn’t same face in the picture, then they were twins. Sunglasses turned his head back toward me. He said, “About a half mile on the right. You’ll see the sign leading to the highway.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded, non-smiling, the window sliding back up, the men returning to the cocoon of tinted glass, cool air, leather seats, imported wood, satellite phones, and thick-carpeted floorboards. The Mercedes moved on, and I stayed back letting the big car gain distance. Was the CEO of Vista Properties in Marianna to close the deal? Had the deal been closed? Who was he meeting with, or whom had he already met?
I drove slowly, staying well behind the Mercedes. I looked at the data Dave had sent, and then I punched the phone number to Vista Properties. A woman with a slight Hispanic accent said, “Horizon International.”
“James Winston, please.”
“My pleasure.” She made the transfer. I listened to soft jazz playing through my phone. Less than thirty seconds later, another woman picked up. “Boardroom, this is Rhonda, may I help you?”
“Yes, hi Rhonda, this is William Brackston, with the Jackson County Planning Committee way up in Marianna. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“I had a scribbled note, left by my secretary, she was in a hurry to make a doctor’s appointment, it’s her first baby. Anyway, it looks like James Winston may or may not be meeting with the committee while he’s in Marianna. Is a planning committee meeting on his agenda this time?”
“Hold just a minute, Mr. Brackston, I’ll pull up his schedule.”
“No hurry.” I could hear her fingernails tapping the keyboard.
“It looks like Mr. Winston is meeting with the county manager, some people with a real estate firm, and a one o’clock appointment. His schedule doesn’t indicate all the names of those with whom he’s meeting.”
“Maybe it’s me. Maybe not.” I chuckled.
“I can contact his assistant to find out for you.”
“That’s not necessary. I have a one o’clock at the courthouse. Is that, by chance, his one o’clock too?”
“No, Mr. Winston’s one o’clock is a luncheon at the Jackson Country Club.”
“I’d rather be there than at the courthouse. Maybe next visit. Thank you, Rhonda.” I disconnected, looked at my phone and keyed in driving directions to the Jackson County Club.”
FORTY-FOUR
Jesse Taylor sipped from a cup of coffee, glancing at the front door to the coffee shop, the caffeine entering his bloodstream. He looked across the small wooden table to Caroline Harper and said, “I hope O’Brien shows up.”
Caroline smiled. “He will. He’s like you, Jesse. He’s a good man. Dedicated to doing what’s right.”
Jesse grinned. “I don’t know how good of a man I’ve been. I’m tryin’ to make amends, to make up for time I pissed away, hustling, drifting from job to job. Thanks, again, for makin’ my bail.”
“Sean told me he thinks the charges will be dropped because they didn’t read your rights to you. He’ll testify to that. Plus, you have the witness, the other gentleman who helped keep them off of you.”
“Ace, the guy you’re talking about, has to get through this kangaroo court, too. He refused the prosecutor’s offer to drop charges if he’d testify against me.” Jesse’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. He let it ring.
Caroline said, “You can go on and answer it.”
“Don’t know whose callin’ me. I don’t answer if I don’t know who’s knockin’ on my door. It’ll go to voice-mail, and if it’s important, they’ll leave a message.”
“Maybe it’s Sean calling you.”
“I programmed his number. It’s not him.” There was a soft bong. Jesse said, “Let’s see who’s my anonymous caller.” He pressed the message button, the caller’s soft voice on speakerphone. “Jesse…this is Sonia Acker. I met you that day in the sheriff’s office. You were talkin’ to the police, the detective. I’m Jeremiah Franklin’s niece. I was over at my granny’s house last night. Uncle Jeremiah was there, too. Something happened. I need to show you. Call me back, okay. And please hurry.”
Caroline looked up at
Jesse. “You’d better call that girl. She doesn’t sound good.”
Jesse nodded and hit the return call button. “Sonia, it’s Jesse.”
“I need to see you.”
“Sure, what’s it about?”
“I’ll show you when I see you. Where you at?”
“Ruby’s Coffee Shop.”
“Is that next door to the flower store?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Is Jeremiah okay?”
“For now he is. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
The Jackson Country Club smelled of old money. I drove through a stately ivy-trimmed, brick entranceway; flickering yellow flames in the center of nineteenth century coach lamps were perched atop the brick pillars. A sprawling golf course was to my left, tennis courts and a massive swimming pool to my right in the distance. The clubhouse beyond the pool and tennis courts was Old World brick, French chateau styling and pitched roofs. Camellias blossomed in fist-sized white blooms. Azaleas popped in flowers of pink and blood red. The scent of the flora mixed with the smells of fresh cut grass and wealth.
The golf pro shop was to the left near the end of the big circular drive. Two men in their fifties, smoking cigars, stood next to a new Cadillac, trunk open, a teenager in shorts and a polo shirt, nametag pinned to his shirt, unloaded golf clubs from the men’s car. Another tall, skinny kid in his late teens, red-faced and perspiring, ran to fetch a golf cart as two other men waited.
Fifty yards to the right was the main clubhouse. Ancient live oaks draped in Spanish moss stood on both ends of the massive structure. The verdant St. Augustine grass, much of it cast in deep shade from the oaks, resembled a thick, green carpet bordered with azaleas and yellow and white impatiens.
I spotted the Mercedes moving through the parking lot, which was peppered with a few dozen luxury cars and upscale SUV’s. The driver in the Mercedes tapped his brakes, lights flashing on as he pulled up near the front entrance. The driver smiled, waving away the valet guy who trotted up to the car. The driver parked close to the grand chateau. I parked between a Jaguar and an Audi, turned the Jeep’s engine off and watched.
James Winston and the man in the front seat of the Mercedes got out, Winston glancing at the gold watch on his wrist. The driver stayed in the car, windows down, and sunglasses on. From somewhere in the cavernous shadows of the Porte-cochere, came a man I recognized. He stepped into the sunlight and grinned, shaking the hands of his newly arrived guests. He wore a light gray suit, deep red tie.
State Attorney, Jeff Carson, slapped James Winston on the back and led his party into the affluent and insular sanctity of the members-only fortress. I remembered what Jesse had told me about one of the reporters at the local newspaper, Cory Wilson. ‘He said he really wanted to write a story, but didn’t have enough to go on, so he wanted me to let him know if I found something else.’ Maybe I’d just discovered the something else. I called the number to the newspaper and asked to speak with Cory Wilson. When he answered I said, “You told Jesse Taylor you wanted to write a story about the corruption and political graft going on surrounding the sale of the old reform school property, but you didn’t have enough to go on. You might now.”
“Who’s this?”
“That’s not important. What’s important is the CEO of Horizon Properties, James Winston, is having a private meeting with the state attorney, Jeff Carson. They’re at the Jackson Country Club. And, if you leave now, they’ll probably be having dessert when you get here.”
I disconnected.
Sonia Acker entered Ruby’s Coffee Shop, hesitated at the front door, spotted Jesse and Caroline at a back table and walked towards them. Jesse looked up and smiled. He watched her approach, wondering what she was carrying in the paper grocery sack. She stepped up to the table and Jesse said, “Good to see you, Sonia. This is Caroline Harper. It was her brother, Andy Cope, who got shot in the reform school that night. Your uncle, Jeremiah, saw who did it. Please, sit down. You want some coffee, somethin’ to eat?”
“No thank you. I can’t be stayin’ long.”
Jesse smiled. “Your eye sure looks better than the last time I saw you.”
She was embarrassed, self-consciously touching her eyebrow with two fingers. She looked over her shoulders, glancing around the coffee shop. “What I want to show you is in this bag. My Uncle Jeremiah cut it down early this morning when he saw it hangin’ from a cottonwood tree in the middle of granny’s front yard.” She reached in the bag and retrieved a short piece of quarter-inch rope. The rope had been fastened into a hangman’s noose. She set the noose down in the middle of the table.
Caroline sat straighter. “Dear God. This is inexcusable.”
Jesse said, “It’s got to be one of those assholes in the Johnson family.”
Sonia moistened her dry lower lip. She said, “But why now? My uncle ain’t never said who done it. He tol’ my grandma last night that you’d visited wit’ him, and your friend, a tall man, was there. But Uncle Jeremiah said he didn’t tell ya’ll who was responsible for the boy’s death. So why would somebody hang this from my grandma’s tree?”
Jesse blew out a long breath. “It’s on account of me.”
“You? If you don’t know who did it, you can’t tell anybody.”
“And that’s why the noose was there. Somebody related to the killer obviously wants the secret to remain a secret. I was stupid in telling the prosecutor and detectives that Jeremiah knew who did it, thinking they’d talk with him and arrest or file charges against the people responsible, assuming some are still living. Apparently, some are still kicking or this never would have happened.”
“What you gonna do now? What’s my uncle gonna do now? He doesn’t want to move away the rest of his life. He’s gettin’ older. And he’s not travelin’ too far away no more to pick. And his mama is old. She needs him.”
Caroline reached out and touched the young woman’s arm. “Sonia, I’m so sorry that some racist did this. Maybe you should report it to the police. At least they’ll have a record of it. Maybe there’s some DNA there in the knot of the rope. Something physical they’d have to go on.”
“With all due respect, Miss Harper, you know they won’t do anything. That’s the way it is. In some ways, the area has changed a lot for the better. In other ways, it’s the same as it was a long time ago.”
Jesse stared at the noose and lifted his eyes up to Sonia. “I need to talk with Jeremiah.”
“I doubt he got nothin’ more to say.”
“I couldn’t blame him. I need to make it up to Jeremiah, to take the heat off him. If I know who did it…I can go after them, or they can come after me. At this point, I don’t much care.”
FORTY-FIVE
On the way into town from the country club, I thought about Lana Halley. Not Lana Halley of late, but rather the fearless prosecutor I’d witnessed in the Pablo Gonzalez murder trial. Her tenacity and courtroom savvy was only topped by her adamant judicial moral code. For her, especially in a case as black and white as the Gonzalez trial, there was no gray area. No room for compromise. No pleading to lesser charges. She was textbook. Beyond concession or reproach.
Then why was she willing to drop charges against Ace Anders to nail Jesse Taylor? Maybe what I’d just witnessed at the country club was part of the answer. Maybe Lana had succumbed to at least one of the seven deadly sins. Greed. Was she so power-hungry she would compromise her integrity to get Jeff Carson’s job should he be tapped to become the next U.S. Attorney General? And that’s assuming Governor Burnett would come out on top in the primaries and go on to win the presidential election.
I needed to talk to her. Not on the phone. Away from her office. Somewhere private. Someplace I could get an accurate reading as to what was or wasn’t motivating her. Before that, I had to meet with Jesse and Caroline. I called Jesse’s number en route to the Alpine Inn. No answer. Voice-mail. I disconnected and called Caroline. She said, “Sean, w
here are you?”
I never like conversations opening like that. “I’m headed your way.”
“Jesse’s gone.”
“What do you mean by gone?”
“I believe he’s gone to find Jeremiah Franklin. Jeremiah’s niece was just here. She brought something in a paper bag that was frightening. And she left it here.”
“I’m almost there. Stay at the coffee shop, and I’ll meet you in a minute.”
I was doing fifty-seven miles-per-hour in a fifty-five stretch of county road. I wanted to push the Jeep beyond the speed limit, but I didn’t want to take a chance. I had no doubt that the brothers Grimm had called family members and connections within the justice system. Since I’d captured their aggression and language on camera, it wasn’t my word against theirs. I doubted charges had been filed.
When I hit the Marianna city limits, I got an insight—a feeling that I often sensed when something ominous was just beyond my peripheral vision. Beyond the blind spots and tucked in dark corners. I slowed to a speed below the posted limit. I checked all three mirrors. There was nothing but sporadic traffic. A minivan with a mother and two children coming in my direction. A semi-truck slowing at a traffic light, the driver on his cell phone, trying to spot landmarks. A beer distributing truck behind me.
And then, like a yellow canary in the wind, a flash of color came up quickly behind the delivery truck. When I checked my side-view mirrors a second time, the yellow was not visible. I assumed it was the 1950’s model pickup and the driver was following close behind the beer truck. When the distributing truck changed lanes for a left-hand turn, the yellow pickup was about ten car lengths behind me. I could see the Mohawk haircut, saw Cooter Johnson adverting his head from my immediate direction.
Another person sat in the front seat. I recognized him, too. He was the man with the beard, the guy who held court with his clan outside the courthouse when Jesse was sent to jail. And now his beard was gone, his face hard as stone. And he was the same man who’d debriefed the old man who’d remained in the car while the family attended Jesse’s hearing.