A Death in Live Oak

by James Grippando

  Jack averted his eyes as Harry drew him toward the dining room, allowing the Towsons a moment in private. Harry spoke softly.

  “The president isn’t buying it that someone took Mark’s phone at a frat party and sent that text to Jamal.”

  “I suspect there’s more behind this decision than a text message,” said Jack.

  “I agree. I think the state attorney showed more evidence to the university than he’s sharing with the media.” Harry glanced toward the Towson family. “I feel terrible for Tucker and Elizabeth.”

  Jack nodded slowly, saying nothing, but keenly aware that the expression of sympathy had stopped with Mark’s parents.

  The Towsons rejoined Jack and his father in the dining room. “Can they really do this, Jack?” asked Elizabeth. “Just expel our son like this?”

  “A student has a right to a hearing before being expelled,” Jack said. “But Mark needs to steer clear of that circus. In my opinion.”

  “Why?”

  Jack addressed his response to Mark’s parents. “I can only imagine what the two of you are going through. But that’s a discussion I should have alone with Mark.”

  “This is a family decision.”

  “It’s really not,” said Jack. “Mark is my client. It’s important that Mark feels that he can tell his lawyer anything. If he thinks everything he tells me goes straight back to his parents, that’s not good. I hope you understand.”

  Tucker stepped away from his son, perhaps just to create the illusion of respect for the attorney-client relationship. “That’s fine, Jack. Take all the time you need. Say all the things that a lawyer has to say. But remember your client is a Towson,” he said, his gaze shifting toward his son. “We don’t go down without a fight.”

  He’d clearly intended it as a rallying point—words of encouragement for his son—but it had fallen flat. Mark still looked numb.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Jack.

  CHAPTER 6

  The midmorning sun burned brightly over Live Oak. Cynthia Porter stepped out onto the covered front porch of her century-old house and settled into a white wicker chair. A paddle fan wobbled out of plumb above her. An orange cat jumped gently into her lap.

  “Hello, Mrs. Butterscotch,” she said sweetly.

  Cynthia had lived in Live Oak since the FDR presidency, married forty-three years to a stubborn man who died on the hottest day of the twentieth century. The front lawn was half-mowed when Bud Porter dropped to the freshly cut grass. Heart attack. Cynthia still owned the house on Pine Avenue where they’d raised a good son. It was a short walk from their church, and for six decades she’d rarely missed a Sunday service. That all changed with one misstep and an eight-inch fall from the curb, which had left her with a broken kneecap. As her arthritis worsened, she got around less. Since Christmas, church on Sunday had been more like once a month.

  She stroked Mrs. Butterscotch above her misty-gray eyes and listened to the breeze. Live Oak had grown fivefold since Cynthia was a girl, to a population of seven thousand; but the small-town feel endured and, thanks to preservationists, some parts had changed not at all. The old saying—the more north you go in Florida, the more South you are—defined Live Oak. Workdays passed at the graceful pace of the Suwannee and Santa Fe rivers that bound it, and the inner peace of the Bible Belt filled each Sunday. But this was no ordinary Sabbath. Cynthia could hear crowd noises in the distance. She’d watched Mr. Highsmith’s speech on television, and she’d heard him invite the townsfolk to march from their churches to the courthouse. The route from Mission Baptist led right past her house.

  The screen door slapped shut, and her hired caretaker stepped onto the porch. “You comfortable, Miz Cynthia?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, Virginia.”

  Cynthia had hired “a Negro”—she still used the word—to move in and help her recuperate from the fall. The two women hit it off, the temporary arrangement was made permanent, and Virginia became her live-in caretaker and full-time companion.

  Virginia settled into the rocking chair, and then pulled it a little closer to Cynthia. Somehow Virginia had gotten the idea that Cynthia’s left ear was failing, but Cynthia insisted that there was nothing wrong with her hearing, even if the doctor did agree with Virginia.

  “Hear the singing?” asked Virginia.

  To Cynthia, it had been just noise in the distance. “Is that what that is?”

  Cynthia sat up straighter to look out over the porch rail as the crowd came into focus. Peaceful demonstrators, blacks and whites, approached from the south end of Pine Avenue. They marched several rows deep, arms locked in a show of unity that stretched from sidewalk to sidewalk. They walked past the bakery that made the best red velvet cake Cynthia had ever tasted, the salon where Cynthia had her hair done once a week, and the diner that, for the first half of Cynthia’s life, was “whites only.”

  “We shall overcome,” Virginia sang softly, and only then did Cynthia realize what the demonstrators were singing.

  Cynthia drew a breath. “Sad,” was all she could say.

  Virginia rose from the rocker and stepped to the rail. The crowd was just a block away and closing. “That’s Mr. Leroy Highsmith there in the front. That must be Jamal Cousin’s parents with him.”

  “They’re here in Live Oak? I thought the boy’s family was from Miami.”

  “Probably come up for the body,” said Virginia. “Poor mother. I don’t know how she can even stand up, let alone walk. Bless her heart.”

  Cynthia stared blankly into the middle distance. “Sad. Just makes me so sad.”

  The singing grew louder. Virginia returned to the rocker and pulled it even closer to Cynthia.

  “I can hear ya’ just fine,” said Cynthia.

  Virginia smiled sadly, then joined in song as the demonstrators passed. It seemed prophetic that the verse had just rolled over to the promise of walking hand in hand “someday.” Virginia reached over the white wicker armrest and clasped Cynthia’s hand. It wasn’t the first time the women had held hands, but this felt different. A complicated mix of emotions coursed through her ninety-year-old veins as the chorus of unity marched on toward the Suwannee County Courthouse, as Cynthia’s mind clouded with memories.

  Cindy hurried inside the house, and the ornaments rattled on the Christmas tree as the front door slammed behind her.

  “Cindy?” her mother called from the kitchen.

  “I’m home!” she announced, and then she ran upstairs as fast as her fifteen-year-old legs would carry her. She went straight to her room, locked the door, and jumped onto her bed.

  School was out ’til January, but Cindy’s father had her take a job over the break to help Mrs. Dott at the dime store. Mr. Dott was overseas with the Army for the second consecutive Christmas. Cynthia’s younger cousins were counting the days ’til Santa’s arrival—just two more—but for most of Live Oak it was a subdued holiday season, tempered by the war effort. The employee gift exchange had been especially understated. “Cards only,” Mrs. Dott had insisted. The employees had gathered in the front of the store for about fifteen minutes after closing. Mrs. Dott served cookies and eggnog, and Cindy gave a card to each of her coworkers. All but one had reciprocated at the party; all but one had been welcome at the party.

  Willie James was the only black employee at Van Priest’s. It would have been a terrible breach of Southern code for him to attend. He would have been equally out of line to give a holiday card to the daughter of a white man of status, a former state legislator who ran the local post office. What surprised her, however, wasn’t that he’d been so presumptuous. The surprise was her own feelings when he’d come up to her afterward, away from the others, and slipped the envelope into her hand.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said in that velvet voice.

  She smiled again as she reopened the envelope and read once again—a fifth time—the way he’d signed it.

  “With L,” was what he’d written.

  With love, was wha
t he’d meant.

  “Cynthia!”

  Her father was in the hallway, right outside her bedroom. To him she was always “Cynthia,” especially if she was in trouble. The crystal doorknob jiggled, but the lock kept him out.

  “Cynthia, open this door!”

  Miz Cynthia?”

  She felt Virginia squeeze her hand, which cleared away the memories.

  “You was asleep with your eyes open, Miz Cynthia. You okay?”

  Cynthia’s gaze drifted up Pine Avenue, where the crowd continued on toward the courthouse. “Yes,” she said, softly. “I’ll be fine.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Jack borrowed Tucker Towson’s pickup truck, dropped his father at the Gainesville airport, and continued on to Live Oak alone.

  Oliver Boalt had agreed to a 1:30 p.m. meeting with Jack at his office. Jack would have liked to confer with the lawyers for Cooper Bartlett and Baine Robinson beforehand, but neither family had decided on a lawyer. Denial. Jack spoke to Baine’s father and Cooper’s mother by phone, assured them that this was not going to blow over, and even recommended attorneys to contact. But Mark was already facing expulsion, and Jack couldn’t wait for the others to get their acts together. Although the crisis was a little more than twelve hours old, it was impossible to overstate the importance of opening a dialogue with the prosecutor before the high-speed train of public opinion left the station.

  The drive was just over an hour, mostly on the interstate, with not much to see. Jack de-stressed by counting billboards. The unofficial tally: LIFE BEGINS AT CONCEPTION, 22; WE BARE ALL, 21. As Jack exited I-75 and crossed the city limits, the billboards gave way to red-white-and-blue yard signs along quiet residential streets, RE-ELECT OLIVER BOALT—YOUR STATE ATTORNEY. A twenty-first-century lynching was explosive by definition. A state attorney up for reelection was like gasoline on the fire.

  The office of the state attorney was in a generic bank building on Court Street, directly across from one of the most beautifully restored courthouses in Florida. Built in 1904, the Suwannee County Courthouse was a piece of history and an architectural gem that commanded passersby to stop and admire. Perhaps Jack was just missing his family, or perhaps it was the scourge of one too many “Righley road trips” to Disney World, but Jack couldn’t help thinking that the old courthouse would have fit perfectly on the theme park’s faux turn-of-the-century Main Street. It was tempting to label Live Oak a time capsule but, walking from his car, Jack immediately noted a sign of change—a law-office marquee that read, ATTORNEYS/ABOGADOS.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Swyteck,” said Boalt. Jack was in the state attorney’s corner office. With them was senior trial counsel Marsha Weller. “Marsha will be the lead prosecutor on this case,” Boalt added.

  Boalt was at least ten years older than he appeared in his campaign posters. His face was fuller, his hair was thinner, the creases in his brow were more pronounced, and his teeth were not as white. Weller was about Jack’s age, which meant that this was far from her first murder case, though everyone in the room understood that this was a case like no other.

  “How can we help you?” asked Weller.

  Jack told them what they already knew—that his client was facing expulsion from the university for sending a racist text message to Jamal Cousin—and then added what they needed to know. “My client didn’t send it.”

  “The university seems to disagree,” said Boalt.

  “There’s been no hearing yet.”

  “Is your client planning to testify at the hearing?” asked Boalt.

  “That depends,” said Jack. “I don’t know of many lawyers who would advise a client to testify at a school disciplinary proceeding while he is the target of an active homicide investigation.”

  Boalt paused to measure his response. “No one is saying that your client is a target, Mr. Swyteck.”

  “And no one is saying that he’s not,” Weller added.

  “Well, pardon my confusion,” said Jack. “But I drove up here to look you in the eye and get a direct answer to a direct question: Is Mark Towson a target?”

  The prosecutors exchanged glances, and then Boalt answered. “We’re not at liberty to discuss the status of an active investigation.”

  “Let’s go at this a different way,” said Jack. “Whether you admit it or not, the university is following your lead. So tell me. What do I need to do to convince you that Mark Towson didn’t send that text?”

  Boalt leaned back in his desk chair, considering his response. “An interview would be a good start.”

  “You already questioned Mark in Gainesville.”

  “He terminated the interview before Detective Proctor was finished.”

  “It was one o’clock in the morning, and he had no lawyer. And even then, Mark told you he didn’t send it.”

  “Well,” said Boalt, stretching a single syllable into a deeply southern weh-eh-ell. “The boy wasn’t under oath.”

  “If my client swore on a stack of Bibles that he didn’t send that text, would it make a difference to you?”

  Boalt glanced at his lead prosecutor once more, as if conferring in silence.

  Weller took the cue. “There’s one thing that might make a difference, Mr. Swyteck,” she said. “Would your client sit for a polygraph?”

  Boalt followed up, seeming to like his chief prosecutor’s suggestion. “We could limit it to one question: ‘Did you send the text to Jamal Cousin?’”

  Jack wasn’t a believer in polygraphs. He’d seen too many guilty men pass and too many innocents fail. But a flat refusal would only raise suspicions.

  “Who conducts the examination?” asked Jack.

  “The Suwannee County Sheriff’s office,” said Weller.

  “That won’t work,” said Jack. “It would have to be someone we both agree on.”

  “How about the Florida Department of Law Enforcement?”

  “It can’t be anyone currently working in law enforcement,” said Jack. “I need some assurance of objectivity. Someone in private security.”

  “We won’t agree to that,” said Boalt.

  “Why not?”

  “Because our examiners are fully qualified and fair. What are you afraid of?”

  “Let’s not do this dance,” said Jack. “Even if we could agree on an examiner, neither one of us will accept the results if they don’t go our way.”

  “That’s pretty cynical,” said Boalt.

  “There’s a reason no court in the history of American jurisprudence has ever found the results of a lie detector test to be admissible at trial.”

  “We-eh-ell,” Boalt said again, “if your client won’t consent to an interview or a polygraph examination, there’s not much for us to talk about.”

  “I said I wouldn’t agree to a polygraph on your terms. No lawyer would.”

  “Baine Robinson’s lawyer might.”

  Last Jack had heard, Baine Robinson had yet to hire a lawyer. “Are you bluffing me, Mr. Boalt? I spoke to Baine’s father less than an hour ago, and he said Baine doesn’t have a lawyer yet.”

  “He does now. I just got off the phone with him five minutes ago. Leonard Oden. One of the finest lawyers in all these parts. I’d expect no less. The Robinson family is quite well-to-do.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Jack.

  The state attorney checked his watch. “Tell you what, Mr. Swyteck. Why don’t you and Mr. Oden confer and get back to us. Maybe we can line up both your clients for that lie detector.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” said Jack.

  “Then it’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Swyteck,” Boalt said. On his lead, they rose and ended the meeting with a handshake.

  Weller walked Jack to the lobby and shifted the conversation to Jack’s father, whom she claimed to have voted for some twenty years earlier.

  “Stressful time around here, I would imagine,” said Jack. “Just a few weeks to the election.”

  “Oliver said it in his press conference this m
orning, and he meant it. There will be no rush to justice.”

  The prosecutor wished him well as she unlocked the door and let him out of the building. Jack was walking to his car, cell phone to his ear, when Tucker Towson answered his call.

  “How did the meeting with the state attorney go?” asked Tucker.

  Jack wished he could say “great.” He went with “fine.” But he wasn’t out of ideas. “I know a retired FBI agent in Miami who works in private security. She specializes in polygraph examinations, and I trust her. Would you be willing to fly her up to Gainesville to test Mark? I could probably get her to do it for around five hundred bucks, plus the plane ticket.”

  “You want to give Mark a lie detector test?”

  “I haven’t decided. I might.”

  “But . . . what if he fails?”

  It was a predicament that Jack had faced before. “Then we don’t make the results public.”

  “I guess that makes sense. Go ahead, then. Line her up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And, oh, Jack.”

  “Yeah?”

  “When I asked ‘what if Mark fails,’ I wasn’t implying—well, I just don’t want you to get the impression that I have reason to think he wouldn’t pass.”

  “I understand. But let me ask you a question, Tucker. And I want an honest answer.”

  “Sure.”

  Jack stopped at his car, standing at the parking meter. “Do you have reason to think that Mark won’t pass?”

  There was brief silence on the line, and Jack wasn’t sure if Tucker was simply taken aback by the question, or if he actually needed the time to consider his response. “No,” he said finally, adding a little chuckle, as if the answer was obvious. “None whatsoever.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Jack, as he unlocked the car door. “Tell Mark I’ll call him from the interstate.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Leroy Highsmith reached across the kitchen table, joined hands with Edith and Lamar Cousin, and led them in prayer. He prayed for their son Jamal. For the family. And for an end to racism. “In Jesus’ name, amen.”