She pauses again, but only for a moment.
“If John could take this accident back he would,” she says. “He’d take it back before anything else in his life. And there’s someone else who I’m certain would say the same thing. If, as could have easily been the case, Derek’s round had hit John in the head and chest instead of barely missing, and John had died and Derek was on trial today, he would take it back if he could. He would still be a brave young man trying to help and do a good thing, who just accidentally shot a police officer because he thought he was the school shooter he was out there to defend his classmates against. It would have been an accident. And if I were here today as John’s widow instead of his wife and attorney, and Derek was on trial for killing him, I stand before you and say that . . . even though Derek shouldn’t have had a gun in his vehicle and even though he shouldn’t have disobeyed his teacher and broken out of the school and gotten it, and even though he should not have gone out into that hallway and started firing at police officers, I’d say he didn’t mean to kill John, he didn’t knowingly kill a cop. It was a tragic accident and he would take it back if he could.”
One final, brief pause and she continues.
“This reminds me of a dear, dear friend of mine,” she says. “A truly good woman who has never knowingly hurt anyone, who is kind and caring and compassionate. A woman who had dedicated her life not just to taking care of her own kids, but educating the children of others. A woman who rises early to cook breakfast and check backpacks and fill lunch boxes not just with delicious and nutritious food but with nothing short of love itself—often expressed by a little note that reminds her children that no matter how difficult a day they are having, no matter how unkind or even cruel other kids can be, they are loved unconditionally and unreservedly, and in a few short hours they will be back in the arms of the source of that love in the warmth and safety of their own home. And on this particular morning that I’m thinking about, not only does my friend, this amazing mom and teacher, do all the early morning rituals that she does every morning but also, like every morning, she loads her kids into her minivan with all their stuff, and after dropping her son at kindergarten and her daughter at fourth grade, she goes to her own school and as she does every day, gives all she has to the kids in her classroom—some of whom don’t have a mom at home like her. And it’s not until the end of the long, hot North Florida day as she’s about to climb back into her van that she remembers that her husband had a dentist appointment this morning, and instead of taking their baby to daycare like he normally does—since it’s on his way to work—it had been her job to do this morning. But because she never does it and because her precious little baby fell asleep in the back of her van, this amazing, loving mom had forgotten she was back there—there where she still was and had been during the entire hot North Florida day. Her sweet little baby, her third child and the last she planned to have had roasted alive in the back of her van while she was inside her air-conditioned room taking care of other people’s children. It was just an accident. A terrible, tragic accident that she would give anything in this world to take back if she could, but she can’t. Like John, she can’t. And like John, an investigation cleared her of any wrong doing, concluding that it was just a terrible, horrible, tragic, unimaginable accident. But unlike John, after that her husband didn’t sue her for the wrongful death of his daughter. No one in her circle of family, friends, and community did anything but give her all the compassion they could come up with, knowing it was just a crushing tragic accident she would take back if she could.”
55
By the time Anna has finished her closing argument, tears are streaming down my cheeks.
And even without looking around the courtroom, I can tell that I am not the only one moved by her masterful, poignant, and persuasive presentation.
Even Judge Wheata Pearl takes extra time sipping from her rattlesnake mug and is careful to clear her throat before speaking.
When she does finally speak, she reads detailed jury instructions about the law that applies to this case.
“Members of the jury, you have now heard all the evidence, my instructions on the law that you must apply in reaching your verdict, and the closing arguments of the attorneys. You will shortly retire to the jury room to decide this case. But before you do, your eccentric old grandmother has a few last instructions for you. These are important so listen carefully. During deliberations, jurors must communicate about the case only with one another and only when all jurors are present in the jury room. You will have in the jury room all of the evidence that was received during the trial. In reaching your decision, do not do any research on your own or as a group. Do not use dictionaries, the internet, or any other reference materials. Do not investigate the case or conduct any experiments. Do not visit or view the scene of any event involved in this case or look at maps or pictures on the internet. If you happen to pass by the scene, do not stop or investigate. All jurors must see or hear the same evidence at the same time. Do not read, listen to, or watch any news accounts of this trial. Understand?”
The jurors nod, but they’re not the only ones. Nearly everyone in the crowded courtroom does.
“You are not to communicate with any person outside the jury about this case. Until you have reached a verdict, you must not talk about this case in person or through the telephone, writing, or electronic communication, such as a blog, twitter, e-mail, text message, or any other means. Do not contact anyone to assist you, such as a family accountant, doctor, or lawyer. These communications rules apply until I discharge you at the end of the case. If you become aware of any violation of these instructions or any other instruction I have given in this case, you must tell me by giving a note to the bailiff.
“In reaching your verdict, do not let bias, sympathy, prejudice, public opinion, or any other sentiment for or against any party to influence your decision. Your verdict must be based on the evidence that has been received and the law on which I have instructed you. Reaching a verdict is exclusively your job. I cannot participate in that decision in any way and you should not guess what I think your verdict should be from something I may have said or done. When you go to the jury room, the first thing you should do is choose a presiding juror to act as a foreperson during your deliberations. The foreperson should see to it that your discussions are orderly and that everyone has a fair chance to be heard. Each of you must decide the case for yourself, but only after you have considered the evidence with the other members of the jury. Feel free to change your mind if you are convinced that your position should be different.
“I will give you a verdict form with questions you must answer. I have already instructed you on the law that you are to use in answering these questions. You must follow my instructions and the form carefully. You must consider each question separately. Please answer the questions in the order they appear. After you answer a question, the form tells you what to do next. If any of you need to communicate with me for any reason, write me a note and give it to the bailiff. In your note, do not disclose any vote or split or the reason for the communication. You may now retire to decide your verdict.”
And with that the jury rises and files out to go determine my fate.
56
Later that afternoon, as the jury deliberates and FDLE moves in and begins to investigate, Anna and I go to our bank to finalize the second mortgage of our home in preparation for the verdict.
That evening, after the jury has adjourned for the day and we know that no verdict will be coming, Anna, Taylor, Johanna, who has just come into town to stay with us for a few days, and I have dinner together. We then take a walk along Main Street, negotiating the piles of debris along the sides of the road, some of which block the sidewalks, and the additional heavy traffic that roars up and down the once quiet and mostly empty streets of our little town. Following our walk, we have ice cream and return home for games, baths, a book, then bed.
That night, after Anna, who is e
xhausted, and the girls are fast asleep, I drive down to Port St. Joe to the sheriff’s department to put in a little time with the whiteboard in the conference room and to see what all I’ve missed today.
It’s late and the building is mostly empty—apart from dispatch, patrol, and a few random officers from other agencies here for a few more days to assist us—but I find both Arnie and Darlene in the conference room.
Neither of them look like they’ve slept or eaten or even bathed in a while.
“How’d it go today?” Darlene asks.
“I’m married to a truly brilliant woman and regardless of the verdict I can’t feel anything other than being the luckiest man on the planet. What did I miss down here?”
They spend a few minutes taking me through the day’s activities, including the arrival of FDLE and its integration into the investigation and the progress the two of them have made with the research they’re continuing to do even at this late hour.
“While I’m trying to figure out which first responders were at every disaster where killings took place—” Arnie says.
“I’m searching for additional disasters he may have killed at,” Darlene adds. “Not coming up with much. A series of wildfires in 2013 is it so far.”
“And as far as which agencies or organizations were in first at all or nearly all disasters where he killed . . .” Arnie says. “There are not a lot. FEMA is never in particularly fast, and a few of these tropical storms were small enough that FEMA wasn’t involved at all. And that’s true of a lot of other national groups and federal organizations. It makes sense, but the most consistent early response around the state comes from local and state agencies in the state. The fire department in Orlando always sends volunteers. Police department in Sarasota. Marion County Sheriff’s Department. There are exceptions—like the Red Cross, Salvation Army, and Cajun Navy—but otherwise . . . Oh, and the Samaritan’s Purse organization. I’ll tell you . . . I got emotional going through this, thinking about all the help we’ve received and what it has meant to us. Some of these amazing groups go out every single time.”
And mixed in among them is an evil madman who comes to kill and destroy.
“Great work,” I say. “Both of you.”
“We’ve got a lot more to go through,” Darlene says. “But . . . we’re getting there.”
“It’s possible the killer isn’t coming with a group, but on his own,” I say.
“Or her,” Darlene says.
“Or her,” I say. “Statistically, it’s most likely to be a man—and given the postmortem bone breaking . . .”
“The thing is,” she says. “It could just as easily be a woman—if not more so in terms of gaining the trust of the victims and surprising them when she attacked—and when it comes to the breaking of the bones, it doesn’t have much to do with strength. It’s not like even a very strong man could snap someone’s arm or especially a leg bone. The killer is having to use leverage to do it—something a woman could do the same as a man.”
“Excellent point,” I say. “You’re right. It could be either. But if he or she is coming on his or her own it’s going to be a lot more difficult to identify him or her.”
For fraction of a second I get a glimpse of the killer, but then it’s gone and I can’t get it back.
And then another idea occurs to me.
“Once you finish examining disasters, it might be even more telling to see if we can find any victims whose deaths look like accidents and have the chaos mark that are not part of a disaster.”
“Why’s that?” she asks.
“Those murders may be a lot closer to home—let us know where he’s from. Help us narrow our search even more and find him—or her—faster.”
“Will do,” she says. “That’s . . . Maybe I should pull off the disasters and go ahead and do that now.”
“Just whatever you think,” I say. “Both will help. Both are just fields to use for comparison to narrow down our lists until we just have one name on it—and right now we don’t have any names on it yet, so . . .”
“Cool,” she says. “Should go faster tomorrow when we have more investigators from FDLE to help.”
“Yes, it will,” I say, and then something floats up from my subconscious.
Triggered by Darlene saying or her, it hits me that Randa went missing in 2005, so she was out there unaccounted for during the time of the killings. And now that she’s out of jail, the killings are happening again here where she happens to have decided to stay. I’ll have to check to see if any of the murders were committed during the time she was incarcerated.
“Can I get either of you anything?” I say.
They both say they’re good.
“I thought I saw Reggie’s vehicle when I pulled up. Is she in her office?”
“Was earlier,” Arnie says.
“I’m gonna go check in with her. I’ll be back to help in a few.”
As I’m walking to Reggie’s office, my phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out. It’s a text from Merrill, and I try to read and respond to his text while I’m walking through the dim hallway.
Can’t find Randa tonight. You seen her?
I haven’t.
Holla if you do. I’ll do the same.
10-4.
When I reach Reggie’s office I find it empty, but I see that her phone is lying on her desk and it’s lit up.
Finding it strange that she has left her phone—something I’ve never seen her do before, I walk over toward it.
Things get even stranger when I see that her service pistol is also on her desk.
I pick up her phone and take a look at it.
The screen is still unlocked and texts between Randa and Reggie are still being displayed.
Sheriff Reg, this is Randa Raffield. Do exactly what I say or someone you care very deeply for is going to have a fatal ‘accident’ tonight. Do I have your attention?
Yes.
Will you do exactly as I say? And nothing else?
Yes.
Make sure you do or the next time you see Merrick he won’t have a pulse. Understand?
I do.
First thing. Don’t tell anyone about this. If you involve anyone else, he’s dead and your kid is next.
I won’t. I promise.
Second, share your location with me so I can see exactly where you are.
Okay. Just did it. Do you see it?
You’re in your office?
I am.
Can you see where I am?
The El Governor.
If you’d like to negotiate for Merrick’s life, join us here at what’s left of the El Governor. But do 3 things and only these 3 things. Come alone. Come unarmed. Leave your gun and phone there on your desk. Will you do as I say?
I will. You have my word.
You think you can take me, anyway, right? So you don’t need a gun or backup anyway, do you? See you in 20.
57
I’m racing down 98 toward Mexico Beach.
Beneath the starless sky and the pale half-moon, the night is dark, the beams of my headlights surrounded by an inky blackness my blue flashers bounce off of.
I am alone in my car, alone on the road. I alone am aware of what Reggie is doing.
I have no idea how far I am behind her, but given the fact that her vehicle was in the parking lot of the sheriff’s station when I first arrived and her phone was still unlocked when I entered her office, I can’t imagine it’s much.
Progress on the curfew-empty road is fast and easy and in less than ten minutes I am entering what’s left of the decimated coastal town of Mexico Beach—the very same place I had spent the most intense hours of the hurricane.
Cutting my flashers and dimming my brights, I slow down some even though I am still a few miles from the hotel.
Eventually, I turn off my lights completely, driving only by the dim yellow glow of my parking lights. Soon I cut even them, and when I’m within a half a mile or so of the El Governor I park
my car near the rubble of a stilted beach house and run the rest of the way.
All but completely wiped off the map, what remains of Mexico Beach is in lifeless pieces.
No electricity. No people. No signs of life. The once chill, charming seaside town now resembles the propped-up pieces of a fake town in an atomic bomb test site in the middle of the desert.
With no traffic and no human activity to compete with it, the tide crashing ashore is thunderingly loud tonight, every wave hitting the shore a mortar explosion.
The five-story El Governor Motel, which has been the biggest, tallest landmark on Mexico Beach for as long as I can remember, stands on the Gulf side of the street and has 120 rooms—each with a back view of the beach and the Gulf of Mexico beyond.
Before Hurricane Michael it had a heated pool on the side, a tiki bar along the back, and a gift shop filled with supplies and souvenirs off the lobby.
Now the beachside behemoth lies in tatters, its windows blown out, its railings missing or so pretzeled as to be unrecognizable, chunks of concrete lying around it like boulders around the base of a mountain.
On the side of the structure, all that is left of the huge black letters that once spelled El Governor Motel is Gover or.
The Blood-Dimmed Tide (John Joran Mysteries Book 22) Page 24
