by Diane Capri
Then, maybe satisfied that I accepted her story, Olivia turned to continue her walk.
We were about half way around the island by now. I could no longer see downtown from where we stood; we’d reached the northernmost point of Plant Key and started around the other side. She took almost three steps to every one of mine, but she didn’t seem to rush.
“Not long after Thomas died, Dad sold the plantation. Then he and Mom just seemed to give up.” She continued her story in pieces and I stopped trying to respond every time she took a break. “They’re in a nursing home, their room a shrine to Thomas. Both of them live completely in the past. There’s nothing that can be done. They’re in kind of a living death brought on by grief.”
She stopped walking again, and turned to face me. “I owe the man who killed General Andrews quite a lot. I want him to get the best defense possible.” She wasn’t tall enough to look me in the eye, but she turned up her chin and tried. “If George killed Andrews, I want him to go free, just like General Andrews never answered for killing Thomas.”
By now, I found her account bewildering. What motivates people is never what I think obvious.
She finished her thought. “If George didn’t kill Andrews, I don’t want him convicted just because the public wants to paint this as the murder of an American war hero.” She almost spat out the last few words.
I didn’t know what to say. I walked on toward Minaret and Olivia came along. She was still silent, giving me a chance to digest what she’d told me, I guess.
But I wasn’t thinking about her story.
What I thought about were the strengths and weaknesses of having someone with such an emotional stake in George’s future at the helm of his defense. Retaining Olivia might have been as bad as doing the job myself.
But, Olivia’s personal vendetta would make her more malleable as we went along, and I intended to be sure George never went to trial. I needed the aura of innocence around George that Olivia’s reputation would give him, and there was no one else who could supply that protection.
Right at that moment, I felt confident that I could control her, at least long enough to accomplish my goals.
“I see why you want the job,” I said. It was a good time to test the waters, a little. “But I will be doing whatever I think is necessary to prove George did not kill Andy.”
I’m not sure she understood me. Maybe she thought I meant I would do whatever the wife of a criminal defendant normally does.
“If you can’t live with that, you’ll have to wait and volunteer to represent the real killer, when he’s charged.”
She nodded her agreement, then stated her own conditions.
“I won’t take a fee for my work right now,” she said. “You can make a donation to the Thomas A. Holmes Foundation for the value of my services. I’ll be a volunteer. You can’t fire a volunteer.”
We both laughed at that, even though I caught the veiled threat that she would be on the case whether I wanted her there or not.
Maybe we did understand each other, because that was exactly the message I’d delivered to her.
We returned to the point where she’d left her shoes. She bent down to pick them up and shake out the sand. She forced her bare feet into the pumps. Then I walked her back to her car.
“One more thing, Willa.”
“Yes?” I was cautious now.
“I won’t let you surrender Andrews’s killer to Chief Hathaway. Andrews got what was coming to him. I don’t intend to see anyone punished for it.”
She got into her Ferrari and sped off over the bridge, leaving me to wonder if she wasn’t the one who had killed Andy.
She was certainly capable of it.
Revenge is an excellent motive for murder, especially since she believed a heinous wrong had been dealt her by one truly evil man.
As I watched her car make its way across our bridge, I realized that I might not care whether she’d done it, and that bothered me more than knowing there was a real chance that she had.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Tampa, Florida
Thursday 3:20 p.m.
January 27, 2000
I CLIMBED UNDER THE wing chair and retrieved the journal I’d thrown there in a fit of pique. Not, as Kate suggested, to dialogue with my inner self. If I was going to investigate murder, I needed an easy way to keep track of what I did, to keep the details straight and quickly available. Something I could carry with me.
From long experience I knew there were few people I could rely on in the world. George and Kate.
And me.
I am always more confident when I control my own life. I could do things quickly, and make sure they stayed done.
I see the hidden relationships others don’t see. Many, many times I’ve received a file of seemingly unrelated facts and put the puzzle pieces together when others before me had failed. I’d never needed to use that skill on us, but now was certainly the time.
Job One: get George out of trouble and get our lives back on track. Soon.
We were playing beat the clock, now. Under Florida criminal procedure, a person can be held up to ninety days without a formal indictment. George’s unusual release on bond didn’t alter that rule. Still, after twenty-one days, we could demand that Drake produce his evidence. That meant I had a narrow window of opportunity to convince State Attorney Drake not to indict George. No time to waste.
I grabbed a Café con Leche and my journal and began to list everything I knew so far about General Andrews, Olivia Holmes and George’s recent activities. My thoughts developed slowly and appeared on blue and white, unlined, recycled paper.
Without George to talk to, I carried on a conversation with myself in writing. But some gremlin, or maybe what Kate would call my spirit, was talking back. It was energizing, in a strange way. Is this what it felt like to be schizophrenic? Is the only difference between me and them that my voices don’t talk in my head, but rather write in my penmanship, in my journal pages, in response to my questions?
After a while, I realized I was out of facts and merely musing.
Everybody has enemies. As peaceful as I am, there are at least a few people who cross the street to avoid me. On any given day, the CJ and I might actually come to blows. And Michael Drake would gleefully lock George in a cell and throw away the key.
Everybody loves somebody sometime, but no one is loved by everyone all the time.
Thomas Holmes’s family couldn’t be the only personal enemies General Andrews had made in the past sixty-five years.
The list of Andrews’s enemies had to be a long one, even if I discounted all of the faceless, nameless multitudes that attended Andrews’s confirmation hearings. Those people were the best and most desirable choices for Andrews’s killer because I didn’t know any of them.
But what if there were countless others, too? Some of whom I did know?
One way to get George out of this mess was to find other likely suspects, creating reasonable doubt of George’s guilt and assuring he’d never be convicted.
Drake, being the political animal he was, would not want to fail. No certain conviction would mean no indictment. That was my goal. I put a dark blue box around it.
But how to get there?
If I could look at the police file, find out what they had, where they’d been, then I’d know what to do next.
It would have been helpful to discuss this with Olivia. But as long as she was on my list of suspects, I couldn’t really do that. Besides, she’d tell me to leave the investigating to her and the police, something I would not do.
For a few minutes, I considered using Frank Bennett. He’d have a lot of information to share. But working with him would be like trying to ride a tiger. He’d want the story, and he’d want to air it as soon as the news happened.
Maybe I could make a deal with him that wouldn’t come back to bite me. It was a decision I couldn’t make yet, but I’d think about it.
I looked at the plan I’d
so carefully thought out and written down in the past few hours. Some revisions were in order and I made them.
Then I left for Ben Hathaway’s office. He’d be there. The man had no life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Tampa, Florida
Thursday 6:05 p.m.
January 27, 2000
BEN, WHO HAD BEEN sort of a friend of mine until he’d arrested my husband, was at his desk when his secretary ushered me into his messy office. You’d think the Tampa Chief of Police would have better quarters. His office was in the exceedingly ugly blue building on Madison and Franklin, right in the heart of downtown Tampa, where the Tampa Police Department had moved a couple of years ago. Local reporters called it the Cop Shop.
Ben stood up as I entered and came around the desk to greet me. I tried not to physically recoil and sat down before he got the chance to touch me, making it awkward for both of us. He nodded and leaned up against his desk.
“What can I do for you, Willa?” He asked me gently, sounding like the friend I once believed he was.
“I’ll come right to the point, Chief.” His eyebrows went up a little at my tone. He crossed his arms over his chest. His pure physical bulk was foreboding, and the power he now held over George’s life was more intimidating. I began to feel sorry, just a little, for some of Tampa’s more sensitive criminals, if that’s not an oxymoron.
I drew in my breath and phrased my outrageous opening request as a demand. “I want to see your file on the Andrews murder investigation.”
Ben stood up a little straighter and walked back around to his chair, putting as much official distance between us as the cramped quarters would allow. “I’d like to help you. You know George is one of my favorite people. But I can’t break the rules, even for George. Or for you.”
“I’m not asking you to break the rules, Ben. I’m only asking you to bend them. You know we’ll get the file eventually.”
We both knew that once George was indicted, Drake would be required to turn over anything that’s exculpatory.
I said, “The evidence against George was on the six o’clock news. So where’s the harm?”
This last part came out a little more sarcastically than I’d intended. It still pissed me off that Ben Hathaway had come to our home to get George instead of allowing him to come downtown for questioning. It was one of the many things I’d never forgive him for, when this was all over.
But I couldn’t let that influence me now.
“That may be,” he said. “But whether or not to release the file is not my call. That one will be made by Drake, when and if it comes to that.” He gave me the official line. “This office doesn’t open its investigative files to the families of accused murderers. And the Florida Supreme Court will back me up on that.”
I returned his steely look. Ben Hathaway and I had played the power game before. Usually, he only asserted the power he had. He played strictly and professionally by the rules, which wasn’t hard to do because the rules and the resources were stacked in his favor.
For every task there’s the easy way and the hard way. The easy way is, well, easier, but the hard way works just as well.
“You could give me the file if you wanted to, Ben. It’s within your discretion,” I reminded him. “We’ll get it eventually anyway. There’s no harm in your handing it over to me now.”
He gazed at me with an expression I interpreted as consideration, which encouraged me to continue.
“Ben, how much of your department’s resources are directed at finding General Andrews’s killer? Not yesterday, or two days ago, but right now?”
“As much as we need to devote to it.” He sounded a little defensive.
“In other words, nothing. Am I right? You think you have a suspect in custody, arraigned and turned over to Drake’s office.” I tried, unsuccessfully, to control my belligerence. “You have other crimes to solve and you don’t have that much manpower.”
I looked him straight in the eye now, showing him that we both knew the score.
“You’re not even looking for the real killer, are you?”
Ben looked down at his big paws clasped on the government-issue imitation walnut desk. His ears grew more than a little crimson at their tips.
When he raised his head, he answered me slowly, as if addressing someone with poor hearing or less than full mental acuity. Or, maybe, as if he was being watched through the glass walls that surrounded us and his voice was being broadcast directly to his supervisors.
“We don’t need to look for the general’s killer. We found him. We arrested him.” Quietly, he finished, “If you want to see the file, ask Drake.”
I stood to leave. “Chief, you and I both know that George Carson did not kill General Andrews. If Drake wants to take George to trial for this, he certainly can. But if he does, he’ll lose.”
Next, I delivered the truth he tried to ignore. “And Drake will take you down with him. You’ll be the laughing stock not only of Tampa, but the entire country.”
I turned toward the door. “Everyone is watching this, Ben. Everyone.”
“What do you want me to do, Willa? My hands are tied. Drake wanted a quick arrest. He got one. George is on the wrong side of Drake’s ambition.” He held his hands out, palms up, to demonstrate his point. “They’ve done battle before and it’s Drake’s turn to hold the winning cards. It’s out of my hands.”
Now that he’d been softened up, he was ready to hear my real proposal. “I want you to let me look at the file. I’ll make you an offer, just once, right now.”
I waited until he nodded, almost involuntarily. “Here it is: You let me look at the file, help me unofficially and I’ll tell you first when I’ve figured out who killed Andrews.”
His eyes widened but he didn’t laugh. He considered my proposal seriously because he knew me, and he knew how determined I can be.
Still, I sensed he was about to refuse again. “I intend to prove that George did not kill Andrews. When I succeed, Ben, you know how foolish you’ll look? No one will trust you to run your department. You know what a small town Tampa is. You might have to move.”
Watched him thinking it through.
Eventually, he would realize he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by helping me. I was promising not to embarrass him, not to let the situation get out of control if George wasn’t Andrews’s killer. He wanted to believe me.
To give him a little credit, Ben Hathaway does like George. He likes me, too, for that matter. He wanted the killer to be someone else, but he had no reason to believe he’d arrested the wrong man.
Unlike me, Ben was not his own boss. Someone higher up called the shots and that someone wanted a quick solution to this incredibly thorny issue. Bringing down a powerful member of the opposite political party was, for Drake, a bonus that would give him the career boost he’d been seeking for years.
Ben looked past me through the glass partition on the top of his wall, and shook his head, negative. “I can’t do it, Willa. I’m sorry. If President Benson himself asked me, I’d have to say no. I want to help you. But you can’t just march in here, let God and everybody see you, and demand special treatment. I’ve got no discretion in this. The answer is no.”
He did look sorry. He looked like a sorry S.O.B.
I tortured him with my best venomous stare. No impact.
“Ben, you disappoint me. I thought you had some integrity. I’d never have believed you’d be part of a plan to ruin my husband just for politics,” I told him sorrowfully. Before I walked out, I said, “If you change your mind and develop some backbone, you know where to find me.”
The doorknob turned in my hand and the door was forced open, making me lose my footing. I’d been facing Ben, turned away from the door. When I glanced back, I looked right into a hard brown glare from Michael Drake, State Attorney.
Drake was tall and wrinkled. His face resembled a Sharpei but his temperament was strictly Rotweiller. Drake had gotten where he was
by tenacity and deference to those who could put him in office and keep him there. He was a party puppet, and everyone around here knew it. Michael Drake was motivated by one thing, and one thing only: shameless self-promotion.
“Hello, Judge Carson,” he said to me, without an ounce of warmth.
The man was repulsive. Standing toe to toe, his eyes revealed the naked ambition that propelled him, a consuming fire that would burn everyone in his path.
“Michael,” I said, refusing to give him the respect of his title or turn away from his searing gaze.
He stared me down a few moments longer with no effect before he gave up and turned to Hathaway.
“Why are you in closed session with the wife of an accused killer, Ben?”
Although there might have been legitimate reasons for me to be here, Drake made it sound like I was illegally or unethically in cahoots with Ben Hathaway.
The accusation stung, more so because I had, in fact, come here to ask Ben to do me a favor. I could feel the uncontrollable flush of embarrassment as it crept up my neck and into my cheeks.
But Ben’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. A different flush warmed his face, an angry one. Ben had refused my request for the file, not because he wanted to, but because he’d done Drake’s bidding. Now, he was being falsely and openly accused of treachery. Drake’s fire would burn Hathaway, and me, too, if that’s what it took to move Drake ahead.
Drake had intentionally left the door open and Ben’s outer office was stuffed with eavesdroppers. The exchange would be common gossip before the next hour had passed. Ben was seething; he clutched his fists by his side.
I cursed myself for coming here. Although I’d never thought I’d run into Drake at this hour, in retrospect, it had been a foolish risk.
Ben said nothing in answer to Drake’s question, but the tension in the room jumped up several notches. No biting retort sprung to my lips.
I gathered all of my judicial dignity and left the junkyard dogs to fight among themselves. All eyes in Ben’s outer office were on me as I exited the room. Walking down the hallway, waiting for the elevator, I heard Ben’s office door slam closed and the two men shouting at each other, until the elevator doors closed behind me.
