Just Cause

by John Katzenbach

  She could sense the man’s presence just inches away, hidden by the slab of brown wood. “Open the door.”

  The two officers stiffened behind her, and each stepped back slightly, out of the direct line. She rapped again on the door.

  “Police,” she repeated. She did not know what she would do if he refused to open.

  “All right.”

  She had no time to feel relief. She thought she heard a catch in his voice, a small hesitation, like the reluctance of a child caught doing something improper. Perhaps, she thought, he’d turned away just before speaking, letting his eyes quickly survey his apartment, trying to guess what it was that she might see. Evidence? Evidence of what?

  There was a sound of dead bolts being thrown and chain locks being removed, and then the door swung open slightly. Andrea Shaeffer stared at Robert Earl Ferguson. He was wearing jeans and sneakers and a baggy, faded maroon sweatshirt that draped around his shoulders, several sizes too large, obscuring his true shape. His hair was cropped close, he was clean-shaven. She almost stepped back in surprise; the force of the man’s anger struck her like a blow. His eyes were fierce, penetrating. They severed the space between them.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “I want to speak with you.”

  “You got a badge?” he demanded.

  She held up her shield for him to inspect.

  “Monroe County? Florida?”

  “That’s right. My name’s Shaeffer. I work homicide.”

  For a moment she thought she saw uncertainty course through Ferguson’s face, as if he were trying hard to remember something elusive.

  “That’s down below Dade, right? Below the edge of the ’Glades?”

  “Right”

  “What do you need me for?”

  “May I step inside?”

  “Not until you tell me why you’re here.”

  Ferguson seemed to look her over in the silence that swept over them. She realized they were almost the same height and that his slight build seemed hardly more substantial than her own. But he was also the sort of man to whom size and strength were irrelevant.

  “You’re a long ways from home,” he said.

  He turned and glared at the two officers hanging just behind her shoulder. “What about them?”

  “They’re local.”

  “Scared to come down here alone?” His eyes narrowed unpleasantly. The two backup officers stepped forward, closing the gap between them. Ferguson remained in the doorway, folding his arms in front of his chest.

  “No,” she replied immediately, but the word only prompted a small grin that raced away rapidly.

  “I haven’t done anything,” he repeated, but with a flat tonality, like a lawyer saying something for a transcript.

  “I didn’t say you had.”

  Ferguson smiled. “But you wouldn’t come all the way from Monroe County, all the way up here to this delightful place just to see me if you didn’t have a good reason, right?” He stepped back. “All right. You can come in. Ask your questions. Got nothing to hide.”

  This last sentence was spoken loudly and directed at the two New Jersey policemen.

  She stepped forward into the apartment. As soon as she was past him, Ferguson moved between her and the two backup officers, blocking their route.

  “I didn’t invite you two goons,” he said abruptly. “Just her. Unless you got a warrant.”

  Shaeffer turned in surprise. She saw both Newark policemen bristle instantly. Like all cops, they were unaccustomed to getting orders from civilians.

  “Move out of the way,” the older policeman said.

  “Forget it. She has a question. She can come in and ask it.”

  The younger officer moved to put his hand on Ferguson’s chest, as if to thrust him aside, then seemed to think better of it. Shaeffer blurted out, “It’s all right. I can handle this.”

  The two policemen wavered.

  “It’s not procedure,” the older one said to her. He turned to Ferguson. “You want to push me, punk?”

  Ferguson didn’t move.

  Shaeffer made a small, sweeping gesture with her hand. There was a momentary pause, then the two backup officers stepped back into the hallway.

  “All right,” the older one said. “We’ll wait here.” He turned toward Ferguson. “I’ve got a good memory for faces, asshole,” he whispered. “And yours just made my list.”

  Ferguson sneered at the man. “And you’ve made mine,” he said.

  He started to close the door, only to have the younger officer shoot an arm out, stiff-arm like a football player, and say, “This stays open, huh? No trouble that way.”

  Ferguson’s hand dropped away from the door. “If that’s the way you like it.” He turned and led Shaeffer into the apartment. As he walked, he said, “I’ve seen them before. Just like half the COs on Death Row. Think they got to be tough. Don’t know what tough really is.”

  “What is tough, Mr. Ferguson?”

  “Tough is knowing a time and date. Knowing you’re perfectly healthy but society has delivered to you a terminal illness. Tough is knowing every breath draws you one breath closer to the last one.”

  He stopped in the center of a small living room. “But what about you, Detective? You think you’re tough, too?”

  “When I have to be,” she replied.

  He didn’t laugh but stared at her with a mixture of distrust and mockery. “Have a seat,” he said. Ferguson slid onto the corner of a well-worn couch.

  “Thanks,” she replied. But she didn’t sit. Instead, she started to walk slowly around the room, inspecting, at the same time keeping an eye on him. It was something she’d been taught. Keep to her feet while the subject sits. It will make almost anyone nervous and makes the questioner seem more powerful. His eyes trailed her closely.

  “Looking for something?”

  “No.”

  “Then tell me what you want.”

  She went to a window and glanced out. She could see the pimp’s red car and up and down the block, which was empty of life.

  “Not much to look at,” she said. “Why would anyone live here? Especially if they didn’t have to.”

  He did not answer her question.

  “Whores on the corner. A crack house half a block away. What else? Thieves. Street gangs. Addicts . . .” She looked hard at him. “Killers. And you.”

  “That’s right”

  “What are you, Mr. Ferguson?”

  “I’m a student.”

  “Any others down here?”

  “None that I’ve met.”

  “So why do you live here?”

  “It suits me.”

  “You fit in?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then why?”

  “It’s safe!” He laughed slightly. “Safest place on earth.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  He shrugged. “You live within yourself. Not in that world. Inside. That’s the first lesson you learn on Death Row. First of many. You think you forget what you learn there just because you’re out? Now, tell me what you want.”

  Instead of answering, she continued to move through the small apartment. She looked in at a bedroom. There was a narrow single bed and a solitary scarred brown wooden chest of drawers. She could see some clothes hung in a meager closet recessed into a black wall. The kitchen had a small refrigerator, stove, and a sink. A stack of chipped, utilitarian plates and cups drained next to the sink.

  Back in the living room, she noticed a small table in the corner with a portable typewriter sitting on it and papers strewn about. Next to the table was a bookcase made from cinder blocks and cheap unpainted pine boards. She approached the
desk and inspected the books on the shelves, immediately recognizing several of the titles: a book on forensic medicine by a former New York City medical examiner, one on FBI identification techniques put out by the government, a third book on media and crime, written by a professor at Columbia University. She had read them in her own course work at the police academy. There were many others, all relating to crime and detection, all well worn, clearly purchased secondhand. She pulled one from a shelf and flipped it open. Certain passages were highlighted in yellow marker.

  “These your markings?”

  “No. Tell me what you want.”

  She put the book down and let her eyes sweep over the papers on the desk. She noticed on one sheet a series of addresses, including Matthew Cowart’s. There were several listings from Pachoula, and a lawyer in Tampa that she didn’t recognize. She picked it up and gestured toward him.

  “Who are these people?” she asked.

  He seemed to hesitate, then replied, “I owe letters. People who supported me in my fight to get out of prison.”

  She put the paper down. Next to the desk was a stack of newspapers. She bent down and flipped through them. There were local sections and front pages. Some of the newspapers were from New Jersey, others from Florida. She saw issues of the Miami Journal, the Tampa Tribune, the St. Petersburg Times, and others. She took out an issue of the Newark Star-Ledger and saw a headline that read: FAMILY OFFERS REWARD IN MISSING DAUGHTER CASE.

  “This sort of thing interest you?” she asked.

  “Same as it does you,” Ferguson answered. “Isn’t that true, Detective? When you pick up a newspaper, what’s the first story you read?”

  She did not reply but glanced down at the newspapers again. She noticed there was a crime story on each page. Other headlines leapt out at her: POLICE PROBE EVIDENCE IN ASSAULT AND NO LEAD IN ABDUCTION, POLICE SAY.

  “Where’d you get these papers?”

  He glared at her. “I go back to Florida with some frequency. Give speeches at churches, to civic groups.” His eyes locked onto her own. “Black churches, black civic groups. The sort of people who understand how an innocent man gets sent to Death Row. The sort of people who don’t think it’s so damn unusual for a black man to get harassed by the cops. Who wouldn’t think it so damn strange that every cheap homicide cop in the state who can’t get anywhere on some damn case would roust an innocent black man.”

  He continued to stare at her, and she dropped the newspaper she was holding back onto the pile.

  “I study criminology. ‘Media and Crime.’ Wednesdays, five-thirty P.M. to seven-thirty P.M. It’s an elective. Criminology 307. Professor Morin. That’s why I collect newspapers.”

  She let her eyes sweep over the desk again.

  “I’m getting an A,” he added. He restored the mocking tone to his voice. “Now, tell me what you want,” he insisted.

  “All right,” she said. The force of his gaze was making her uncomfortable. She stepped away from his desk and returned to face him directly.

  “When were you last in the Florida Keys? Upper Keys. Islamorada. Marathon. Key Largo. When did you go down there to talk to some civic group?” She made no attempt to conceal her sarcasm.

  “I’ve never been in the Keys,” he replied.

  “No?”

  “Never.”

  “Of course, if I had someone telling me the contrary, that would say something, wouldn’t it?” She lied easily, but the implicit threat seemed to wash off him.

  “It would say someone was feeding you false information.”

  “You know a street called Tarpon Drive?”

  “No.”

  “A house. Number thirteen. Ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “Your friend Cowart’s been there.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “You know what he found there?”

  “No.”

  “Two dead bodies.”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  “No,” she lied. “I’m here because I don’t understand something.”

  A cold rigidity rode his voice. “What don’t you understand, Detective?”

  “You, Blair Sullivan, and Matthew Cowart.”

  There was a momentary silence in the room.

  “I can’t help you,” he said.

  “No?” Ferguson had the ability to make someone uncomfortable simply by remaining still, she thought. “All right. Tell me what you were doing in the days before your old buddy Blair Sullivan got juiced.”

  For an instant, a look of surprise sliced across his face. Then Ferguson answered, “I was here. Studying. Going to classes. My course list is on the wall there.”

  “Right before Sullivan went to the chair. Did you take one of your little trips?”

  “No.”

  He pointed at the wall. She turned and saw a list taped to the faded paint. She went over and wrote down the times and places and professors’ names. Professor Morin and ‘Media and Crime’ were on the list.

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then maybe I can.”

  Shaeffer heard a siren sweep by in the distance, its sound penetrating into the small room.

  “. . . And he was never my buddy,” Ferguson said. “In fact, he hated me. I hated him.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you know about the murders of his stepfather and mother?”

  “Is that your case?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Nothing.” He smiled at her, then added, “No. I know what I read and saw on television. I know they were killed a few days before his execution and that he told Mr. Cowart that he managed to arrange the deaths. That was in the papers. Even made the New York Times, Detective. But that’s all.” Ferguson seemed to relax. His voice abruptly took on the tone of someone who enjoyed verbal fencing.

  “Tell me how he could arrange those killings,” she asked. “You’re the Death Row expert.”

  “That’s right, I am.” Ferguson paused, thinking. “There are a couple of different ways. . . .” He grinned at her unpleasantly. “First thing I’d do is pull the visitor lists. They log every visitor onto the Row. Every lawyer, reporter, friend, and family member. I’d go back to the day Sullivan arrived on the Row and I’d check every single person who came to see him. There were quite a bunch, you know. Shrinks and producers and FBI specialists. And of course, eventually, Mr. Cowart . . .” Ferguson’s voice had a slightly animated edge to it. “. . . And then I’d talk to the guards. You know what it takes to be a guard on Death Row? You’ve got to have a bit of the killer in you, you know, because you’re always aware that one day it could be you strapping some poor sucker into the chair. You’ve got to want to be that man.” He held up his hand. “Oh, hell, they’ll tell you that it’s just a job and nothing personal and nothing different from any other part of the prison, but that ain’t true. You got to volunteer for Q, R, and S wings. And you got to like what you’re doing. And like what you might have to do.”

  He looked up at her, eyes alert. “. . . And I don’t suppose if you don’t think it’s such a damn hard thing to strap somebody into a chair and fry their ass it’d be such a damn hard thing to go tie somebody in a chair and cut their throat.”

  “I didn’t say they had their throats cut.”

  “It was in all the papers.”

  “Who?” she asked. “Give me a name or two.”

  “You’re asking me to help you?”

  “Names. Who on the Row would you talk to?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. But they were there. You could tell, you know. The Row is a society of killers. It didn’t take too long to figure out that some
of the jailers belonged on the other side.”

  He continued to grin at her. “Go and see for yourself,” he said. “Shouldn’t take a sharp detective like yourself too long to figure out who’s bent and who’s not.”

  “A society of killers,” she said. “Where did you fit in, Mr. Ferguson?”

  “I didn’t. I was on the fringe.”

  “How much would you have to pay?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. A lot? A little? Currency is a hard thing to estimate, Detective, because the right person will do the wrong thing for a lot of different reasons.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Blair Sullivan, for example. He’d likely kill you for no reason at all. With no other payment than the sheer pleasure of it all, huh, Detective? You ever meet anybody like that? I don’t bet so. You look a bit young and inexperienced for that.”

  His eyes followed her as she shifted position. “And you know, Detective, there’s some men on the Row hate the police so bad, they’d kill a cop for free. And enjoy every second of it. Especially if they could, you know, draw it out. Make it last.”

  He mocked her with lilting tones. “And they’d take a special pleasure in killing a lady cop, don’t you think, Detective? A special, unique, and very terrible pleasure.”

  She didn’t reply, simply letting the harsh words flow over her like cold water.

  “. . . Or Mr. Cowart. Seems to me he’d do just about anything for a good story. What do you think, Detective?”

  She felt a surge within her. “What about you, Mr. Ferguson? What payment would you ask to kill somebody?”

  His smile slid away. “Never killed anybody. Never will.”

  “That’s not the question, Mr. Ferguson. What payment would you ask for?”

  “It would depend,” he replied, with ice quiet riding his voice.

  “Depend on what?” she demanded.

  “Depend on who it was I was going to kill.” He stared across the room at her. “Isn’t that true for everybody, Detective? There are some killings that would require big money, right? Other’s you’d do for nothing.”

  “What would you do for nothing, Mr. Ferguson?”

  He smiled again. “Can’t really say. Never thought about it.”