“About lynchin’,” McFay said. “Some true. Some weren’t, I suppose. There’s one I’ll always remember, and I believe it’s true, ’cause my daddy told it to me.”
Jack glanced at Theo, who looked on the verge of tearing McFay’s face off.
“Your daddy lynched a man?” Theo asked.
“No, no, no,” said McFay. “He was a loading-dock foreman at the Bond-Howell Lumber Company. One morning these three white men pulled up in a car. They came looking for this black fella who worked in the sawmill. A man named Howard James. No, James Howard.”
“What did they want?”
“They just took him. Put him in the car and drove off. Daddy said he never did come back to work.”
“They lynched him?” asked Theo.
“I can’t say. But this much is for sure. Four days later, the sheriff pulled the body of a fifteen-year-old black boy from the river. People say it was Mr. Howard’s son.”
“Were the three white men arrested?”
McFay looked at Jack as if he had three heads. “This is a long time ago. During the Second World War. There’s no legal case. But here’s the important point. The story goes that the boy was hog-tied. The men tied his hands and feet and threw him in the river.”
“Lynched by drowning,” said Jack.
“Uh-huh,” said McFay. “Maybe like they done to Jamal. Hog-tied him and drowned him in the river.”
Jack considered it. “You think there’s a connection between the two?”
“I dunno. If there is, it’ll take someone a lot smarter than me to figure it out. All I’m tellin’ you is that the one made me think of the other. And I thought you should know.”
“I appreciate that,” said Jack.
“Glad to help.” McFay rose and shook their hands. “Y’all try that catfish. I mean it.”
“We will,” said Jack.
Jack’s cell rang as McFay walked away. It was the state attorney, so he took the call.
“Jack, I know your father was a man of his word,” said Boalt. “Is it safe for me to assume the same about you?”
“It is,” said Jack.
“Good. I need a yes or no answer: Will Mark Towson agree to stay put in Gainesville until I tell you that there is no possibility he will be indicted by a grand jury?”
Jack knew what that meant. The prosecutor already had enough evidence to arrest his client, but he was willing to delay the arrest until the grand jury finished its work, as long as he knew exactly where Mark was.
“You have my word on it,” said Jack.
The prosecutor thanked him. Jack hung up, and Theo immediately sensed that it wasn’t good news.
“What was that about?” asked Theo.
“Looks like we may get to taste that catfish sooner than I thought,” said Jack.
CHAPTER 33
Mark Towson was home for lunch. His mother sat at the kitchen table with him. It was hard to swallow the notion that his next meal might be in a jail cafeteria, sitting across from a drug dealer, a rapist, or worse.
“How do you feel today, Mom?”
His mother had slept almost until noon. Mark had taken the call from Jack while she was asleep. A looming indictment was a significant development, but Mark had decided to tell the family later as a group, when they could support each other. He saw no point in giving his mother more worries. He’d heard her walking the house most of the night—midnight, two o’clock, and again around four Mark was not the only one having trouble sleeping, and she needed the rest more than he did. Her post-mastectomy cancer recurrence was local, but the recommended treatment was systemic. The oncologist wanted her to start chemotherapy before the end of the week.
“I’m doing okay,” she said with a weak smile.
Mark swallowed the last of his ham-and-cheese sandwich, chugged the last of his lemonade, and took the dishes to the sink. There was a knock at the front door—more like a pounding.
“I’ll get it,” said Mark.
He went to the foyer and opened the door. It was his friend Cooper Bartlett. His hair was uncombed, he needed a shave, and his eyes were like falcon slits. His little Mazda Miata was parked in the driveway, but his T-shirt was soaked with sweat, as if he’d just run a 10K.
“I gotta talk to you,” said Cooper, breathless.
“Did you just come from the gym?”
“No, man. I just ran for my life. Barely made it to my car.”
“What?”
“I was at McDonald’s. Some punks recognized me from the pictures of you, me, and Baine that are all over the Internet. They were gonna kick my ass. Dude, we gotta talk.”
Mark didn’t want his mother to see Cooper in this state. He stepped out onto the front porch and closed the door, but he soon realized that the porch wasn’t a good place to talk. The demonstrators in the cul-de-sac had been marching silently all morning, but whenever someone stepped outside the house, the chant resumed.
“What do we want?”
“Justice!”
“When do we want it?”
“Now!”
Cooper’s expression tightened. “Mark, we really gotta talk someplace private.”
The front door opened, and Mark’s mother stood in the doorway. “Oh, hello, Cooper.”
“Hello, Mrs. Towson.”
The chant from the crowd grew louder.
“Boys, please come inside so the neighbors don’t have to hear that.”
“We were just leaving, Mrs. Towson.”
Apparently, Cooper didn’t want to have their conversation within earshot of Mark’s mother. Neither did Mark. “That’s right,” said Mark.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Thankfully, Cooper had an answer. “I found a place to live. Mark said he’d help me move in. Right, Mark?”
“Right,” said Mark, playing along. “We’ll be quick about it.”
She didn’t seem pleased about him going anywhere, but it was hard to say no to relocating a friend after his fraternity house had been burned down. “Okay. Take your new cell phone with you.”
Mark’s cell was still in police custody, and its replacement had come with a free upgrade. Woohoo. “I will,” he said.
“And come straight home when you finish.”
Mark promised he would, kissed her good-bye, and followed Cooper to his car.
“What do we want? Justice!”
Mark slammed the passenger door shut, and Cooper got behind the wheel. The keys jingled on the ring, and Mark noticed that his friend’s hand was shaking as he turned the ignition on.
“Coop, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, as they backed out of the driveway. The group of demonstrators parted to let the car pass, but apparently not fast enough for Cooper. One had to jump out of the way, shouting angrily as Cooper slammed the transmission into gear and burned rubber on the way out. Only then, in the confined car, did Mark smell the alcohol from Cooper’s sweaty T-shirt.
“Have you been drinking, dude?”
“Just listen,” he said, as they continued down the street. “You and me are fucked!” At the stop sign he slowed down, but didn’t stop, rolling through it in his hurry to get away from Mark’s house. “Baine testified to the grand jury.”
“I know. It was on the news last night.” Although grand jury proceedings were secret, it was standard procedure for reporters to stand outside the grand jury room to see who entered to testify.
“Do you know what he said?” asked Cooper.
“No. Jack told me that all grand jury testimony is under seal until the court releases the transcript.”
“I bet he told them.”
“Told them what?”
“What I wrote in my text.”
Mark froze. “You texted Jamal?”
“You knew that. My phone number was in Jamal’s phone records.”
“So was mine, Cooper! But I never texted him!”
Cooper punched the steering wheel in anger. As for the text,
it clearly had not been his intention to tell Mark something he didn’t already know. “Fuck!”
“Cooper, take me back home.”
“No, there’s more.”
“Take me home.”
“Oliver Boalt talked to me. He wanted me to testify against you.”
Mark was torn, not sure whether to listen or not.
“He’s real heavy-handed,” said Cooper. “He says to me, ‘You know what happens to guys like you and Mark Towson in prison? Two white frat boys accused of lynching a black guy?’”
The thought had kept Mark awake most of the night. He’d been trying very hard not to let his mind go there.
Cooper glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening with fear. “It’s them again!”
“Who?”
“The guys from McDonald’s. They followed me!” Cooper floored it, and his Mazda seemed to spring to life, lunging forward with so much thrust that Mark’s head slammed against the headrest.
“Coop, stop!”
He wasn’t listening. The Mazda was gaining speed, flying past every other car in the three westbound lanes on Newberry Road. A slow-moving truck turned in front of them to enter the gas station. Cooper maneuvered around it at seventy miles per hour, tires squealing.
“Cooper!”
“They’re still on us!” he said with a quick glance in the mirror.
Mark looked back and saw a Chevy. He pulled his cell from his pocket. “Stop driving crazy. I’m dialing nine-one-one.”
“No!” He swung at Mark, knocking the cell from his hand. It disappeared somewhere between the passenger seat and the console.
“Damn it, Coop!”
Cooper steered to the left lane, as if heading for the mall. The Chevy followed, almost on their bumper. Cooper steered hard right. Horns blasted as the Mazda cut across three lanes and sped onto the interstate on-ramp. Mark’s heart was in his throat. The speedometer was pushing ninety. The Chevy was right on them.
“Fuck!” shouted Cooper.
The entry ramp circled around a man-made pond, a typical hole in the ground that fills with spring water after construction crews remove the earth to build an interstate exchange. Cooper was rounding the big, sweeping curve at more than double the speed limit. So was the Chevy behind them. Cooper sped up and then hit the brake, trying to teach the tailgaters a lesson.
“Cooper!”
The stunt was more than Cooper could handle. His Mazda went into a tailspin, and Cooper’s overcorrection sent them skidding in circles, completely out of control. In the blur, Mark saw the Chevy speed past them a split second before the Mazda hit the guardrail.
The airbag exploded in Mark’s face and then collapsed, but the car kept skidding to the opposite side of the ramp. It was like peering out from the center of a spiraling tornado—spinning, swirling. The front end slammed into the opposite guardrail, but momentum carried the car right over the top. The car nearly rolled over but righted itself and continued down the embankment. Mark’s arms flailed and his whole body jerked, his head slamming forward and back against the headrest. The passenger-side window exploded into glass pellets that bloodied Mark’s face like buckshot. The skidding stopped with an ominous thud, but the impact seemed cushioned, as if the battered Mazda had somehow made a soft landing, as if they were drifting in slow motion. A wet sensation enveloped his feet and ankles—not the hot, wet feeling of blood on his face, but a cooler, almost cold wetness. Water was suddenly everywhere.
The pond!
Mark splashed his face to clear away the blood. The water was already knee-deep, and still more poured in from every crevice. It had a ghoulish crimson tint of blood—his and his friend’s.
“Coop!”
He didn’t respond. Mark unbuckled the driver’s-side seat belt and shook him. “Cooper, are you okay?”
Mark tried his door handle, but the door was stuck. He reached across and tried the driver’s side—no go. The only way out was through the broken passenger-side window. He tried to pull Cooper toward him, but Cooper’s leg was pinned below the twisted steering wheel. Mark pulled harder. More blood trickled into his eyes, effectively blinding him. The water was rising. The car was sinking. His mind was a fog, but he fought with every ounce of strength to loosen Cooper’s trapped foot. The water inched upward over his waist. He felt weak, almost numb. He called for help—“Somebody, please!”—but it was barely audible. Mark felt himself slipping away, trying to say his friend’s name.
Then he slumped over the console.
CHAPTER 34
Jack was in Live Oak for the state attorney’s announcement of the criminal indictment.
Shortly after 1:00 p.m., Oliver Boalt appeared on the courthouse steps with his senior trial counsel at his side. Media swarmed around them. Jack and Theo were packed shoulder to shoulder with dozens of other onlookers. Microphones, cameras, and eager reporters captured the state attorney’s remarks, which he read from a prepared statement.
“Today, a Suwannee County grand jury has heard sworn testimony relating to the death of Jamal Cousin, and it has returned an indictment against Mark Towson and Cooper Bartlett.”
The crowd cheered, with demonstrators thrusting posters and fists triumphantly into the warm afternoon air. Some had been holding vigil outside the courthouse since the start of the grand jury proceedings, most notably the “Dream Defenders,” an organization started after the acquittal of private security guard George Zimmerman in the fatal shooting of a seventeen-year-old black teenager. Posters proclaiming I AM TRAYVON MARTIN had been part of a historic twenty-one-day sit-in at the state capitol, and some of those seasoned participants had resurrected the old signs, adding I AM JAMAL COUSIN.
“Count one is against Mr. Towson only,” said the prosecutor, looking straight at the cameras. “The charge is murder in the first degree.”
The crowd cheered even louder.
“Count two charges Mr. Towson and Mr. Bartlett with conspiracy to commit murder.”
Still more cheering, which morphed into a unified chant of “Justice for Jamal, justice for Jamal!” It continued for another minute, drowning out the state attorney’s reference to the lesser included charges in the indictment. Jack tried to show no reaction. After “murder one,” there was only one way to make things worse, and Jack sensed that the state attorney was headed in that direction.
“In today’s world I should not have to stand before you and condemn lynching. If we are to stop this backslide to the darkest chapter in our nation’s history, we must learn from history. Some say that the death penalty is not a deterrent to crime. History shows, however, that the death penalty is a proven deterrent to lynching.”
Here it comes, thought Jack.
“The historical evidence is that lynching stopped only when the use of capital punishment increased,” Boalt added. “Therefore, in accordance with the findings of the grand jury, the charge against Mr. Towson is capital murder, for which the State of Florida will seek the death penalty.”
It was the proverbial showstopper—the Fourth of July and New Year’s Eve on the courthouse steps. The state attorney stepped aside to allow his senior trial counsel a moment in the spotlight, but the crowd wasn’t listening, and even the reporters on the front line had trouble hearing. Marsha Weller’s remarks were boilerplate anyway, the obligatory promise that “the defendants are cloaked with the presumption of innocence” and have “the right to trial by jury, not by news conference.”
Boalt had the final word. “We will not comment further on the process and will certainly not comment on the evidence. Thank you for being here.”
The prosecutors turned and walked back toward the courthouse. The crowd gave them an ovation worthy of Super Bowl champs, and the media followed them all the way up the stairs to the courthouse entrance, peppering them with questions that went unanswered.
“Let’s go,” said Jack.
“You don’t want to say anything?” asked Theo.
“Later. I’m not going to hol
d a press conference with a thousand people booing me.”
Jack hurried down the steps, and only then did he notice the pickup truck parked directly across the street. It was wedged between media vans, and in the bed of the pickup was a big red-white-and-blue campaign sign: RE-ELECT OLIVER BOALT—YOUR STATE ATTORNEY.
“No offense,” said Theo. “But if I lived here, I’d vote for him.”
Jack stopped on the sidewalk at the base of the steps. “That’s not cool.”
“Neither is lynching.”
Jack looked away, then back, but he couldn’t quell all the anger in his tone. “Boalt is rewriting history, Theo. Lynching didn’t stop in this country because white people feared the death penalty. Lynching disappeared because judges started ordering the swift execution of black men. Capital punishment didn’t deter lynch mobs. It replaced them. Why do you think I spent four years of my life trying to get you off death row?”
“Mr. Swyteck!”
Jack turned and saw a reporter running toward him. The media’s fixation on the prosecution had ended, and he’d been spotted. Jack started walking toward his car, but the reporter caught up and shoved her microphone toward him. The cameraman jostled with Theo for space on the sidewalk as Jack quickened the pace.
“Is there any news on Mark Towson’s accident?” the reporter asked.
“What accident?”
“I just heard that Mark Towson was in a serious car crash. Is it true?”
Jack stopped at his car. “I don’t know anything about that. But thank you for telling me.”
She continued to fire questions as Jack climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. Theo drove off. Jack immediately called his client’s cell but got no answer. He tried Mark’s father and got through.
“I was just about to call you,” said Tucker, his voice laden with concern. “I’m at Shands Hospital now.”
“So it’s true? Mark was in an accident?”
“Yes. Bad one. He’s in surgery right now, and we think he’ll be okay. He was with Cooper Bartlett.”
“Is Cooper there at the same hospital?”
Tucker paused long enough for Jack to know what he was going to say. “Cooper is dead.”
A Death in Live Oak Page 14
