“That’s the story being leaked to the media,” said Jack.
McFay steered back toward the middle of the river. “Wanna see where they took him?”
Theo gazed out over the bow. “That’s what we’re here for,” he said in a tentative voice.
They rode in silence for another mile. Private piers and cottages on the banks disappeared as they entered the state park. The forest thickened, and the perfume-like scent of surrounding water lilies sweetened the night. The boat stopped, the electric motor went quiet, and all was still. Eerily still. The surest signs of life were the chorus of sounds from unseen creatures of the night. The rhythmic belch of bullfrogs. The midnight squawk of egrets and ospreys. At any moment, however, that peaceful pulse of nature could spike into tachycardia. Or so McFay had warned them. He switched on his spotlight, and Jack immediately understood.
Sleek and dark saurian bodies lay perfectly still, concealed in flat water that was black as ink. They looked dead—except for the countless sets of eyes lurking just above the waterline on the flooded banks—primeval red dots caught in the sweep of McFay’s handheld spotlight. There was hunger in that eerie, ruby shine.
“Some folks say the Ichetucknee is too cold for gators,” said McFay. “I say you need to know where to look. It’s the young ’uns, especially, who swim upriver from the Santa Fe, where the big bulls eat anything under six feet. Better to be a chilly little gator on the Ichetucknee than a warm dinner on the Santa Fe, I reckon.”
“Six feet is little?” asked Theo.
“Compared to a twelve-foot bull, it is,” said McFay. “There’s some males in these parts bigger than this boat.”
Jack and Theo exchanged uneasy glances.
McFay looked up to the glowing half-moon in the clear night sky. “We’re just about high tide. River’s up enough for us to float right up next to the tree, if you want.”
There was no mistaking what he meant by the tree. “Yeah,” said Jack. “Closer.”
McFay switched on the trolling motor and they eased toward the bank. “I’d never be motorin’ like this if we was huntin’ gator,” he said.
The electric motor was quiet enough not to scare away the wildlife—but only to a point. They were ten feet from the flooded banks when a bull gator spooked. It triggered a chain reaction of splashing and thrashing, which made McFay grumble.
“This is what your amateur hunters do,” he said. “Those gators will stay down for hours.”
“Hours?”
“Sure. They can stay down all night if they have to.”
Jack watched the waters go still, smooth as black ice again, no sign of alligators. “Not to be gruesome, but is it possible that a body could be left hanging here overnight and not be attacked by a gator?”
“Sure, if you spook these gators the way I just did. Now, you leave the body here more than twenty-four hours—well, that wouldn’t be a pretty sight.”
The hull bumped up against the massive trunk of a fallen cypress tree. McFay roped up and steadied the boat. Directly above, through the limbs of trees not fallen, the moon shone down on them.
“This is the spot,” said McFay.
Jack felt chills. It was like a scene out of a horror movie, and he could only imagine what Theo was thinking as the image flashed through his mind. The tying of Jamal’s hands and feet. The placement of the noose. The tossing of the rope up around one of these sturdy limbs. And then—
“How much did Jamal weigh?” asked Theo.
Jack wasn’t sure, but he’d seen photographs of Jamal. “I’d say one-eighty, maybe a little more.”
“Was it high tide, like this, the night this happened?”
That much Jack had confirmed. “Yeah. What are you getting at, Theo?”
“Let’s all three of us stand up in this boat. Come on,” said Theo, rising. “Get up.”
Jack and McFay complied, but the boat immediately started to wobble and Jack felt like he might go overboard. They quickly returned to the safety of their seats.
“Now,” said Theo, “imagine Mark Towson and his fraternity brothers standing up in this boat, trying to string up Jamal, who, I’m guessing, was kicking and fighting.”
“Unless they knocked him out,” said Jack.
“Or drowned him first,” said McFay.
Jack latched onto McFay’s thought. “The charts I saw say it was low tide when the body was found hanging from the tree. What’s the difference between high tide and low tide on this river?”
“Three feet,” said McFay.
“So Jamal’s body could have been at least partly in the water at midnight, but hanging entirely above the water by eleven o’clock the next morning. Is that right?” Jack asked.
“That’s possible,” said McFay.
“Is that good or bad for you, Jack?” asked Theo.
Jack thought about it. “I don’t know. Could be good.”
“Or it could be bad,” said Theo.
“How?”
“If Jamal was drowned and just left here floating in the water with a rope around his neck, Mark coulda’ done this all by himself. Didn’t need nobody to help him get Jamal under control. Didn’t need another set of hands to hoist him up in the air while standing in a wobbly little rowboat. It’s an easy one-man job. That would be bad, right?”
Jack was thinking of the media reports that Mark alone was the target of the grand jury. “Yeah,” he said. “That would definitely be bad.”
CHAPTER 31
Just after sunrise, Percy Donovan left his fraternity house for Live Oak. Brandon Wall rode with him.
The grand jury had subpoenaed two witnesses from the black fraternities, Percy from Kappa and Brandon from Alpha. They were scheduled to testify back-to-back on Tuesday morning starting at 9:00 a.m. The state attorney and his senior trial counsel wanted to meet with them an hour before the start of the grand jury proceedings. Their testimony would “not take long,” he’d promised. The goal was to have them back in Gainesville in time for afternoon classes. Missing class was the least of Percy’s worries.
“I’m kind of nervous,” said Percy.
They were having breakfast at Denny’s just off the Live Oak exit on I-75. With them in the booth was Ted “T.C.” Calloway, an attorney retained by the National Pan-Hellenic Council, the body that coordinated activities between and among the many local chapters of the five fraternities and four sororities that made up the “Divine Nine” historically black Greek-letter organizations founded between 1906 and 1963.
“Yeah, I was nervous, too, before Towson’s expulsion hearing,” said Brandon.
Calloway poured a little sugar into his coffee mug. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Then why do we need a lawyer?” asked Percy.
“Nobody should go before a grand jury without talking to a lawyer. When I heard you boys were subpoenaed, I called National and volunteered my time. We’re just being smart. Percy, how’s the Kappa brother who got stabbed Friday night?”
“He’s fine. Took sixteen stitches to sew up his arm.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Calloway. “I saw the photos that got posted online. His shirt was covered in blood.”
“We were scared,” said Percy.
Calloway stirred his coffee. “You know what else I noticed on his shirt?”
Percy blinked. It was the lawyer’s change in tone more than the question that puzzled him. “No, I don’t.”
“I noticed that he was wearing Jamal’s Greek letters.”
“Yeah. Some of the brothers in our house did that to show support.”
“You know that’s against the rules—to wear the letters of another house.”
“We weren’t pretending to be from Alpha. Just showing unity.”
“I’m sure his intentions were good,” said Calloway. “But when someone sees that photo online, they just assume that an Alpha brother got in a knife fight.”
“He wasn’t in a knife fight. He got attacked by a skinhead.”
> “Well, let’s be fair, Percy. One of the three people stabbed was white. So somewhere in the crowd there was a brotha’ with a knife.”
“It wasn’t us.”
“I understand. But unfortunately the caption beneath the photo doesn’t say that your fraternity brother wasn’t in a knife fight, and it doesn’t say that he’s not actually a member of the Alpha house. So, going forward, let’s all have an agreement that each house wears its own letters. Can you send that message back to your Kappa brothers, Percy?”
Percy glanced at Brandon, who looked away.
“By any chance are you an Alpha, Mr. Calloway?” asked Percy.
“I am. Cornell. Nineteen eighty-one.”
Suddenly the business card that Calloway had shared with Percy at the start of the meeting made its impression. Calloway was a partner at the largest law firm in Washington, D.C. Alpha boasted plenty of alumni like him. The most famous alum from Percy’s house was Huey P. Newton, cofounder of the Black Panther Party in the 1960s.
“Sure thing,” said Percy. “We’ll wear our own letters.”
The meeting with Oliver Boalt and Marsha Weller was in a conference room at the office of the state attorney. Percy assumed correctly that the focus of his testimony would be on the discovery of Jamal’s body while tubing down the Ichetucknee River. The state attorney, however, was working another angle that Percy had not anticipated.
“It’s my understanding that you were in charge of organizing the trip down the river,” Boalt said. “Is that right, Percy?”
“On the fraternity side I was. There was a sister at Delta Sigma Theta who reached out to sororities.”
“Did you invite any white fraternities?” asked Boalt.
“No. This was an event for black Greek-letter organizations at UF and FSU.”
“Okay. But it wasn’t a secret event, right?”
Percy wasn’t sure what he meant. “Secret? No.”
“You sent out e-mails, posted the event on Facebook—that sort of thing?”
“Uh-huh. And there were flyers posted in all the black Greek-letter organizations at UF and FSU. I assume they all mentioned it at chapter meetings, too.”
“That’s what I’m getting at,” said Boalt. “The goal was to get the word out far and wide. Right?”
“Right.”
“So later this morning, when you testify before the grand jury, if Ms. Weller was to ask you if it was possible that Mark Towson knew that dozens of black college students would be floating down the Ichetucknee River on that Saturday morning, what would your answer be, Percy?”
It was obvious what the prosecutor wanted to hear, but Percy gave him the truth. “Honestly, I’d have to say I don’t know if he did or didn’t.”
“I’m just asking if it’s possible,” said Boalt.
“Anything’s possible,” said Percy.
“Exactly,” said Boalt. “It is possible. That’s your answer.”
“No, like I said. My answer is that I have no idea whether—”
“Percy,” said Calloway in a firm voice. “Mr. Boalt is simply trying to be helpful here. It is possible.”
Percy didn’t like anyone putting words in his mouth. “It’s also possible that Mark Towson didn’t do it.”
“Whoa,” said the state attorney.
“This is not a time to be flip,” said Calloway.
“I’m just saying,” said Percy. “Right before that riot started on Friday night, I saw him come walking out of the Theta house. One of the cops—he was black—was interviewed on TV and said that Towson was just coming out to talk with the guy with the loudspeaker, which was me. That doesn’t sound like a racist who just lynched the president of the Alpha house.”
“Maybe he was coming out to kick your ass,” said Brandon.
“I doubt it,” said Percy. “That would be suicide. Over the last few days I’ve been thinking a lot about that night. One thing that sticks out clearly in my mind is the skinhead who shoved me up against the wall—shoved me so hard that it actually knocked me out for about thirty seconds. You know what he said to me? He said, ‘Strange fruit, motherfucker. You’re next.’”
It was a chilling statement, and neither Calloway nor the prosecutors had an immediate response.
Brandon spoke up. “Hope you got a good look at him before you went out.”
“It’s what I heard that’s important,” said Percy. “And I don’t mean just the words. It was the way he said it. At first I thought he was just a drunk skinhead trying to scare me. But I keep hearing it over and over in my head. It’s like he was telling me, ‘I got Jamal. I’m coming for you next.’”
The state attorney said, “I’m sorry you had that experience. But your first instinct was probably right. Most likely it was a drunken skinhead trying to scare you.”
“But it’s possible it wasn’t,” said Percy, turning the state attorney’s tactic against him. “Right?”
That drew a look of disapproval from Calloway. “Percy, I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish here, but if you really feel threatened, fill out a police report.”
“Yes,” said the state attorney, “but do it on a confidential basis.”
“You want me to keep this quiet?” asked Percy, incredulous.
“I want all of us to act responsibly,” said Boalt. “History is our teacher. You’re nowhere near old enough to remember when Ted Bundy snuck into the Chi Omega house at FSU one night and bludgeoned two young women to death. Twelve years later Danny Rolling went on a killing spree at the University of Florida and killed five students, decapitating one girl. It was absolute terror. Parents pulled students out of those schools by the hundreds.”
“Those were serial killers,” said Percy.
“That’s my point,” said Boalt. “One thing you can be sure of with a serial killer: there will be a next victim. Right now, law enforcement has absolutely no reason to believe that anyone else is in danger. Your story—a threat that ‘you’re next’—will create panic. Black students will disenroll and head home by the busload.”
“People should know what’s happening,” said Percy.
The state attorney glanced at Calloway. “Can I speak to you in the hallway for a minute?” asked Boalt.
“Absolutely.” Calloway rose and the two men stepped out. The state attorney’s senior trial counsel went with them, closing the door behind her, leaving Percy and Brandon alone in the conference room.
“Is it just me,” said Percy, “or is everyone more concerned about keeping people calm than keeping people safe?”
“Fuck Boalt,” said Brandon. “Go public. If you don’t, I will.”
“Cool.”
“And fuck Calloway, too,” said Brandon. “If the Kappa brothers want to wear armbands with Alpha letters to show unity with Jamal, you wear ’em.”
“Thanks, man.”
“We cool, homie?”
They fist-bumped to seal it. “Yeah, man,” said Percy. “We cool.”
CHAPTER 32
Jack and Theo stopped for breakfast before the trip back to Miami.
The Dixie Grill in the historic section of Live Oak had been family run since Florida’s Dixiecrats helped elect Eisenhower president. The chef liked to call the cuisine “new South,” but the service was pure “old South”—friendly from the moment you walked through the door, quick to refill your coffee mug, and no rush on your meal. Jack had cheese grits and biscuits. Theo ordered the pork chops ’n’ eggs special with a side of hotcakes, bacon, sausage, and potatoes. Jack watched in amazement as the waitress unloaded the line of plates from her arms and laid out the breakfast spread before them.
“Anything else I can bring you?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” said Theo.
“Good thing,” she said with a smile. “We’re almost outta food.”
She stepped away, and Theo dug in. Jack ate slowly, allowing time for the pat of butter to melt into his biscuit, instinctively looking up and taking notice each time a
customer entered the restaurant. A truck driver. An elderly couple, probably retirees. A postal worker in uniform. It was a slice of Suwannee County, its makeup as random as the grand jury that had been summoned to the courthouse to weigh the evidence against Jack’s client.
“You in the mob or the CIA?” asked Theo. “You’re checking out every person who walks through the door.”
Busted. It was a trial lawyer’s compulsion to get a feel for the jury pool in any town in which he might soon try a case.
The door opened again, but this time it wasn’t a stranger. “Hey, there’s our river guide,” said Jack.
“Am I wrong, or are those the same clothes he had on last night?” asked Theo.
Owen McFay was wearing blue denim coveralls and a flannel shirt. “I think he changed his cap,” said Jack. This one was camouflage in color and said “Duck Dynasty.”
The hostess greeted McFay like a regular, and as she led him toward a small table by the window he spotted Jack and Theo. A smile came to his face, and he walked over to say hello.
“Well, two points for the city boys. Y’all found the best breakfast joint in Live Oak.”
“We’re learning,” said Jack.
“Y’all like catfish?”
The way he’d asked, Jack thought he might actually have one on him.
“I do,” said Theo.
“Come back for supper then. Try Chef Robbie’s ‘Squirrel Fishin’,’ which is a fancy name for fried catfish in pecan breading. Comes with tomato gravy, grits, and two hush puppies. Man, that’s good eatin’.”
“Next time for sure,” said Jack.
McFay lowered himself into a crouch and rested his sun-leathered forearms on the tabletop, as if he had a secret to share, eye to eye. “Can I tell y’all something?”
“Sure,” said Jack.
He checked over his shoulder, making sure no one was listening. “There are certain things folks ’round here don’t talk about much. But when we was out on the river last night, talkin’ ’bout what happened to Jamal Cousin, it got me to thinkin’ about stories I used to hear as a boy.”
Jack set his coffee mug aside. “You mean stories—”
A Death in Live Oak Page 13
