by Diane Capri
My advice would have been different. The family should be told that their loved one hadn’t killed himself, in my view. But I wasn’t a licensed psychologist.
I checked the date on this letter and Dr. Andrews’s response. She’d written the column more than three weeks before her father was murdered.
Could the man’s letter have prompted Robbie Andrews to kill her father? At least I could prove she knew it was feasible to murder someone, create the appearance of suicide, and get away with it. I printed the column and folded it into my journal.
As I was about to log off the site, another idea occurred to me. Robbie’s service required a credit card to access the encryption software before submitting to online therapy.
I made a note to figure out a way around this and also to ask Olivia whether we could subpoena the files Robbie had been working on the morning of the murder. Robbie’s files would likely be protected by the psychotherapist/patient privilege, but we might be able to get them if we agreed to allow her to redact the names of the clients.
It took me a few minutes to decide what I wanted to say. My letter was somewhat true and I kept it short:
Dear Dr. Andrews,
My husband has been accused of a crime he didn’t commit. This is causing a huge problem in my marriage. What should I do?
Faithful Wife
I jotted down the date and time that I hit the send button. And I saved the letter in a special file.
I’d check for the answer tomorrow, see how long it took her to respond. Then, I’d know just how long she’d been aware of the suicide/murder letter. The knowledge might not help me, but it was an easy thing to do and seemed to carry little to no risk.
Then, I logged off, stuffed my journal into my tote bag, picked up my keys and my tiny purse and left to visit Dr. Andrews, face to face.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Tampa, Florida
Friday 2:15 p.m.
January 28, 2000
ROBBIE ANDREWS AND JOHN Williamson lived in the section of South Tampa called New Suburb Beautiful. It was not as new or as tony as Beach Park, but the residents were mostly upper middle class professionals in John and Robbie’s age group, early thirties.
Young children played in the yards in numbers large enough to justify calling this a baby boomlet haven. It was a neighborhood Kate would thrive in and I would never consider.
I consulted my notes from the police file for the Andrews/Williamson address and pulled up in front of an out-of-place, Midwestern-looking, ranch-style house.
The house resembled a red brick shoebox turned long ways on the lot. It had white trim and black shutters on either side of each window. A two-car garage at one end opened onto a driveway that went straight in from the street. The garage door was closed.
The police file interview notes said Dr. Andrews worked at home every weekday from five o’clock in the morning until at least six in the evening. Her absence might prove she’d lied to Ben Hathaway. If Robbie wasn’t home when she was supposed to be today, maybe she wasn’t here the Saturday morning her father died, either.
Alas, when I rang the bell, an attractive, young Latino woman with dark, curly hair dressed in jeans and an Outback Bowl jersey that hung below her knees, answered the door.
“Hi. I’m Willa Carson. Is Dr. Andrews home?” I tried friendly. I’d counted on the element of surprise to get Robbie to talk to me.
The woman did let me inside the front door. So far, so good. But only so far.
“Dr. Andrews is working with a patient right now. She’s booked until six o’clock. Would you like to make an appointment?”
“I’ll just stop by some other time. It’s a social call, really.”
I tried to look around and past this gorgeous gargoyle at the gate, but I couldn’t see much. The house was one of the older ones in the area and it lacked the vaulted ceilings and open feel of the newer Florida ranch-style homes built in and around Tampa.
The consuming silence proved that online therapy is quiet. No one could know for sure if Robbie was working or not.
“Well, Dr. Andrews is booked every weekday until six and Saturday mornings with standing appointments. I can tell her you called and have her call you, if you’d like,” Gorgeous Gargoyle said.
It would probably be awkward for me to tell her I wanted to startle Robbie into talking to me. When all else fails, try the truth. Most of it.
“I wanted to surprise her. I’ll just come back later. Please don’t spoil the surprise.”
The woman got into the spirit of the supposed spontaneity. “Oh. Okay. Sure. Just come back around six-thirty. She’ll be here then.”
It’s a wonder there aren’t more home invasions, I thought. People will tell you almost anything if you look friendly and harmless. I thanked her and left with smiles and waves. Then, I walked out to Greta like a disappointed sorority sister unable to share the secret handshake with an old college chum after all these years.
Planning my return.
That much was true.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Tampa, Florida
Friday 3:30 p.m.
January 28, 2000
GEORGE HAD CONSENTED TO meet with Olivia Holmes. We all gathered at Minaret. After pleasantries were exchanged and George gave his tacit approval of her, Olivia took charge of the meeting.
She began with the few things she’d learned.
“Drake wanted to arrest George in front of the television reporters, but Ben Hathaway refused,” she said.
I tamped down my ire at Drake and kept quiet.
“Your prompt release on a mere $100,000 cash bond was primarily a professional courtesy from the sitting judge toward Willa, one of his colleagues on the bench,” she looked over at me, then at George. “That George is a prominent citizen was also a factor. And Drake didn’t object after George surrendered his passport.”
“Really?” I asked, somewhat surprised.
Olivia shrugged. “If Michael Drake turns out to be wrong, they’ll all have enough egg on their faces politically without looking like uncivilized jerks, too.”
I swallowed my retort and George merely said “hmmph.”
Olivia seemed pensive for a couple of seconds, and then continued. “The next step is for George to be formally indicted. Capital murder can only be charged by grand jury indictment in Florida.”
George smiled a little at this. “There, just as I thought. No grand jury will indict me and this will all be over.”
She shook her head, negative. “While it is theoretically possible that the Grand jury won’t return an indictment, it’s almost sure to happen.”
“Why?” he asked, indignant now.
“If Drake wants an indictment, they’ll give him one. He could indict a baboon, if he wanted to,” she told him, revealing one of the many hard truths of the process.
I said nothing. I hadn’t told Olivia about the police file and I didn’t mention it now. George would flip a gasket if he knew I’d already stuck my nose into this business and Olivia’s reaction would be only slightly more ballistic.
From reading the file, I’d concluded that the probable cause they’d used to support his arrest was the usual triad: means, opportunity, and motive. Drake thought George’s desire to keep Andy off the bench would be enough to support the indictment. While we theoretically had twenty-one days before Drake had to convene the grand jury, I expected him to do so quickly, while public outrage was still on his side.
George’s mouth fell open. “Do you mean to say that he can railroad me?”
Olivia looked chagrinned while she answered his question, one she must have answered at least a hundred times. “Don’t you watch television?”
George was not amused. In truth, neither was I. It’s amazing how your sense of humor vanishes when your life is threatened by forces over which you have no control.
“As a practical matter, Drake isn’t going to take a case to trial that he can’t win. I’ve known Drake for most of my l
ife. He’s tried over 250 capital murder cases and he’s won every single one of them,” she said.
George whistled under his breath and Olivia nodded. “It’s an impressive record, but all it means is that he pleads out the cases he can’t prove. If he has an agenda, it’s to keep his winning streak intact so he can someday run for Governor.”
George’s response was automatic, “Over my dead body will that ignoramus be Governor.”
I relaxed a little, because that was exactly what I’d have expected him to say.
Olivia was not amused. “Careful, George. That kind of comment is one of the things that landed you in this mess.”
He looked over at me pointedly, smug, as if to say he was right all along and we were being overly dramatic. “Drake can’t convict me. I didn’t kill Andrews. We shouldn’t worry about the indictment because he won’t take my case to trial if he can’t win. Just as I thought.”
Olivia didn’t let him off the hook so easily. “Not exactly. If Drake thinks he can get a conviction on this case, he will go for it. This has been front page, lead story on every available media. You are not a sympathetic defendant. The victim was prominent. It’s the kind of case that can make or break a prosecutor’s entire career. He doesn’t want egg on his face, but he’s not going to just go away, either. All he wants is victory. He’ll do whatever he can to make that happen. Underestimating him is a mistake.”
Here, she placed another of what I recognized now as her strategic pauses. “Believing he won’t get a conviction is the only reason Drake might not try. He hates to lose. And he won’t lose this case.”
While George thought this through, she added, “And don’t forget, the decision may not be solely Drake’s. Everybody’s got a boss. He has people he reports to. He’s up for re-election next year.”
I understood exactly what she meant, and so did George.
Winning a big case against George, a prominent member of the other party, for the cold-blooded murder of a Democratic leader would assure Drake another four-year term as State Attorney and maybe even set him up for the Governor’s mansion, or more powerful, national political office. Those career goals were exactly what Michael Drake was after and everyone who knew anything about him was aware of his single-minded obsession with power.
Olivia continued, “Make no mistake. This kind of opportunity rarely comes along. Drake and the mayor and everyone else will all want to get the greatest possible mileage out of it.”
George let out a long breath and asked, “So, how long will all these shenanigans take? I have a restaurant to run, a life to live here.”
His impatience with what he viewed as the ridiculousness of all this was obvious, even to Olivia.
She leaned forward, crossed her wrists, “Both of you need to understand something. This is a long process. I don’t know when you’ll be indicted. It could be as much as another two weeks.” When George started to sputter, she held up her hand for him to wait. “But I think Drake will move quickly to indict. After that, you’ll be arraigned and then we can begin the formal discovery process.”
Olivia delivered the bad news, straight up. “It will take at least nine months to get this case to trial, and we’ll be working like crazy between now and then to be ready.”
George exploded. “Nine months!” he shouted as he jumped to his feet. “I’m not going to be consumed by Drake for nine months! This is outrageous!”
He paced our small den like a caged beast. Which is exactly what he had become. Used to roaming around at will, moving in powerful circles, George would not flourish while being watched under a microscope.
Olivia explained things patiently, but firmly and without any particular optimism. “Yes, George, it is outrageous. But there is not one thing you can do to rush it.”
She began gathering her documents and stuffing them back into her file. “What we have to do is to try to end the process long before trial. We have to persuade Drake that they’ve got the wrong man. Our best shot is to do that before the indictment,” she said, echoing my own thoughts two days ago.
It made me feel a little sick that the conclusions I’d reached on my own were valid; I’d have preferred to be wrong.
George digested Olivia’s comments for a little while, and then said, “What if we can’t persuade him? Drake is not my number one fan.” He looked over at me then. “Or Willa’s.”
Olivia nodded. “Then we’ll just have to keep trying.”
She stood up to leave, and when the two of them were side by side, George looked like a giant. “You’re in trouble. We might be able to get you out of this mess with an airtight alibi.”
She looked at him pointedly, but he said nothing. “Just as I thought. I’ll do the best I can. I’m hopeful that this will all be put behind you eventually and you’ll be able to go on with your lives. No promises.”
Lest we took comfort from her prediction, Olivia was quick to add, “But it won’t happen quickly and it won’t be painless. You two are just going to have to suck it up and show the world what you’re made of.”
George and I walked her toward the door.
She delivered final instructions. “The last time I checked, you both had responsibilities. Keep going. Behave as normally as possible. Let me do my job and,” this last part was directed at me, “stay out of the way.”
George and I talked briefly after she left. I tried not to let him see how totally befuddled I was. Not over the process. I was all too familiar with that. No, what upset me was the sheer absurdity of it all.
How could this possibly have happened? I am a good person. A public servant. My husband is as honest, kind, and traditional as any man anywhere.
The idea that we were involved in murder was a very, very bad joke. Right?
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Tampa, Florida
Friday 5:30 p.m.
January 28, 2000
THE TAMPA GUN CLUB and Shooting Range was about fifteen miles from downtown, out on Tampa’s all purpose commercial highway, Dale Mabry, named after a popular local son. The club was quite a distance from Plant Key and it took me over forty minutes to travel ten miles in the early afternoon traffic.
George had learned to enjoy shooting handguns during his army days. He said shooting released tension and sharpened his reaction times. When we lived in Detroit, where the weak are killed and eaten, he used to keep guns in the house. No matter how much I insisted that I would never, ever use one to shoot an intruder or anyone else, George remained confident that I would if I had no choice. So far, neither opinion had been tested.
Years ago, George kept handguns around the restaurant, just because, he said, “you never know.” Our home was open to the public and at least once a week or so, some diner wandered up toward the flat, out of curiosity, to look at the house. We’d never, knock on wood, had any kind of trouble with George’s guns. Until now.
Greta and I continued north on Dale Mabry, where homogeneity flourished. If it’s true that every American lives within three miles of a McDonald’s restaurant, metro Tampa is beating the national averages soundly.
I passed franchise after franchise, home improvement, furniture and discount stores, hotels and motels gathered near the airport, and the relative newcomer’s book superstores with coffee shops and live entertainment, that had become the gathering places for Tampans after dark.
These days, every city in America contained the same. It was hard to distinguish Los Angeles from Boston anymore. Nervous travelers who once felt uncomfortable leaving home, concerned about bad food and worse sleeping conditions, now worry needlessly. Whatever they have back on the farm, we have everywhere. But for me, all the individualism of the country’s regions has been destroyed. There seemed to be no reason to leave home.
Eventually, I passed most of our driveway-to-driveway civilization and ended up on the very north end of Dale Mabry Highway. The gun club was on the right. I turned in.
Maybe there wasn’t a lot of money in running a
gun club because the driveway wasn’t paved and neither was the parking lot. Dry and dusty now, the lot must have been a river of mud every summer afternoon when the skies opened up and flooded everything without copious manmade drainage.
Fortunately, I wore washable clothes and hadn’t put Greta’s top down this morning. When I got out of the car, a cloud of dust settled over us. A small breeze moved the dust imperceptibly.
About ten similarly dusty vehicles, mostly old, beat-up trucks, resided in the parking lot. I couldn’t really visualize George’s Bentley parked out here. I walked the few yards to the door holding my breath.
The inside lighting was dim and the noise deafening. Unlike other gun ranges George had dragged me to over the years, this one did not have a soundproof wall between the shooting area and the front door. Here, I looked through clear glass to an area where the shooters were standing. They all wore ear-muffs. I tried lifting my palms to cover each ear, but that only improved the situation marginally.
At the counter, a middle-aged, over-weight man with a shaved head and a day’s growth of beard stood, also wearing ear protection. I walked over and introduced myself. He didn’t move. I touched his arm and he glanced up, apparently used to being touched to get his attention.
The guy looked me over and gestured to a door at one side of the counter. I went through it into what must have been a soundproof room. He followed me in and closed out the noise with the door. The quiet was startling.
Now, I stood in a soundproof room where various shooting equipment and ammunition were sold, with a gun nut I’d never met and no one knew where I was. I’m generally not given to paranoia, but this situation made me wildly uncomfortable. I decided to take care of my business and get out of there as quickly as I could.
“Can I help you?” He asked me again.
I held out my hand. “I’m George Carson’s wife, Willa.”
He took my hand in one big, hairy paw and covered it with his other paw. On one hairy forearm was tattooed: Semper Fi. He looked so sorrowful, and held my hand so gently, I was ashamed of my earlier paranoia.
