“So here we go,” said Tucker. A sea of demonstrators parted for the squad car, and the SUV rolled forward at a snail’s pace, traveling in law enforcement’s wake.
The chants continued. “Lock him up!”
Mark’s mother looked out the window. “There’s not a single person who believes Mark is innocent. Is there, Jack?”
Jack remembered the promise that he’d made to Mark after the first appearance. “That’ll change, Liz. It’ll take time. But it will change.”
The main courtroom in the Suwannee County Courthouse was packed for the one o’clock hearing. The only empty seats were in the twelve-person box for a jury yet to be selected. The prosecutorial team was at the mahogany table to the judge’s left. Directly behind the state attorney, on the other side of the rail, were Jamal’s parents. Leroy Highsmith was with them. Jack and his client were at the defense table to the judge’s right. Behind them was Mark’s family. Members of the media filled the rest of the first row of public seating. The remaining bench seats were for the lucky few who had arrived early enough to snag a spot. Hundreds of demonstrators waited outside the courthouse.
The judge greeted everyone and began without delay. “We are here this afternoon at the request of the defendant, Mark Towson, who seeks pretrial release on bail.”
Circuit Judge Calvin Teague was the oldest judge in Suwannee County. Among local criminal defense lawyers he was euphemistically referred to as “Father Time”—partly because he was a gray old man in a black robe, but mainly because anyone unlucky enough to be sentenced by him went away for a long, long time.
“Mr. Boalt, have you prepared an Arthur package?”
“Arthur” referred to the Florida Supreme Court decision State v. Arthur, which requires the prosecution to present evidence of the accused’s guilt in order to hold him without bail. Typically, much of the evidence was in the form of affidavits, which were part of the “Arthur package.”
Boalt rose and buttoned his suit jacket. “We have a partial package, Your Honor.”
The judge scowled. “Partial? What are you waiting for? The hearing started two minutes ago. You should have filed it this morning.”
“At this time, the State of Florida seeks a continuance of this hearing. We would ask that it be rescheduled two weeks from today.”
Jack rose immediately. “Judge, the defense is ready to proceed. Any delay is extremely prejudicial to my client.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” the judge said. “It’s been less than a week since Mr. Towson’s arrest. In a homicide case it’s not unusual for the accused to sit in jail two or three weeks before he gets an Arthur hearing. Mr. Boalt, what is the reason for the requested continuance?”
“Your Honor, just this morning the sheriff’s department obtained new evidence in this investigation. The extra time is needed for forensic analysis.”
Jack could almost feel the media breathing down his neck in the public seating behind him. It was possible that the prosecutor was bluffing and merely stalling. There was only one way to find out. “Judge, all I’m hearing is a vague claim of newly discovered evidence. The court should demand more specificity before delaying this hearing.”
“That’s a fair point, Mr. Swyteck. How ’bout it, Mr. Boalt? What kind of new evidence are we talking about?”
“As the court knows, the evidence of guilt that the prosecution must present at an Arthur hearing has to be convincing. This new evidence could be the most convincing of all. We have uncovered physical evidence that may place Mr. Towson at the scene of the crime.”
A chorus of whispers traveled through the courtroom, and Jack could only surmise that the gist of it was, “See, I told you he did it!”
Mark leaned closer, speaking softly. “There’s no way.”
Jack wasn’t so certain, but he kept applying the pressure. “Judge, it sounds like this ‘new’ evidence has already been collected and sent to the lab. If that’s the case, the prosecution should just tell us what it is.”
“It’s a Croc,” said Boalt, choosing not to wait for the judge’s command.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Those foam shoes that started out as beachwear but now people wear all the time. Croc is the trade name.”
“Ah, got it,” the judge said. “I thought you meant—well, never mind. Continue, Mr. Boalt.”
“The sheriff’s department sent its dive team back to the river this past weekend for a second look. Again they searched the area where Jamal’s body was found. This time they uncovered a Croc that was buried in the muck.”
An ironic refrain crackled in Jack’s brain like lightning: If the Croc doesn’t fit, you must acquit. “This could be good for us,” he whispered to his client.
Judge Teague leaned back in his leather chair, thinking. “This seems like a significant development. I don’t see it as the end of the world to postpone this hearing as requested.”
Jack was back on his feet. “The defense has no problem with a postponement if Mr. Towson is released on bail until the hearing.”
“We oppose that,” said Boalt.
“On what grounds?” asked the judge.
“Mr. Towson is a serious flight risk. Just a few hours before the grand jury returned its indictment, I called Mr. Swyteck. He gave me his word that his client would surrender if indicted. Two hours later, Mr. Towson and his friend Cooper Bartlett were speeding onto the expressway. The car crashed. Sadly, Mr. Bartlett was killed.”
“They were not in flight,” said Jack. “They were being chased by a group of young men who had threatened Cooper Bartlett at a fast-food restaurant.”
“That’s a nice story,” said the prosecutor. “But I have an affidavit from the state trooper who arrived on the scene of the accident. He found two duffel bags in the trunk of the car. The bags were packed.”
Boalt approached the bench and handed up the affidavit to the judge, providing a copy to Jack on his way back to his seat. Jack read it quickly and then conferred with his client, who had the answer. Jack provided it to the court.
“Judge, the duffel bags were packed with Mr. Bartlett’s belongings. The Theta house was burned down in a riot. The bags contained everything that Mr. Bartlett managed to salvage after the fire.”
“Now the defense is just making things up,” said Boalt. “Mr. Bartlett is obviously unavailable to tell us the real reason why those bags were packed.”
Jack was about to respond, but the judge stopped him, raising his hand like a traffic cop. “I’ve heard enough. The State of Florida’s request for a two-week continuance is granted. The request for temporary release before the hearing is denied. Mr. Towson, you are hereby remanded into custody at the Suwannee County Jail in Live Oak. We are adjourned,” he said, ending the proceedings with a bang of his gavel.
“All rise!”
The bumps and thuds of a packed gallery filled the courtroom as Judge Teague stepped down from the bench and walked to the side door. Jack glanced at Mark and saw nothing but terror in his eyes.
“I’m going to jail?” Mark whispered, incredulous.
The side door opened and the judge disappeared into his chambers. The media dashed to the rail like sprinters out of the blocks. Others in the crowd applauded as the law enforcement officers approached the defense table and cuffed Mark’s hands behind his back.
Mark’s family was standing behind the rail. He glanced in their direction, then back at Jack. “I’m going to jail,” he said, as the certainty of it finally hit him.
Jack faced him squarely, looking him right in the eye. “I’ll push to get you in solitary confinement. You’ll feel safer there, but it probably won’t happen the first night. It all depends on space available.”
“Okay.”
“If you talk to anyone in jail, you talk only about things like the food, the weather, or Florida football. This is very important. Do you understand me?”
Mark nodded.
“Let’s go,” said one of the officers.
Mark stopped to get a hug from his mother, which was the shot of the day for at least a dozen photographers and cameramen.
“If you have pain, baby, you ask for a doctor to check your incision,” Elizabeth Towson told him. “And call us whenever you can.”
Jack watched as the officers led his client away, ignoring the flurry of questions from the media. Then his gaze shifted to the other side of the courtroom, to the rail behind the prosecutor’s table, where the state attorney was offering consolation to Jamal’s mother. Leroy Highsmith put himself between Jamal’s mother and the media, forcing the news gatherers to respect a ring of privacy around Edith Cousin.
“Full and complete justice,” Jack heard the family’s lawyer tell the reporters. “That’s all we seek.”
CHAPTER 39
Jack drove the SUV back to Gainesville.
Mark’s parents wanted to be near their son in case of an overnight emergency and so took a motel room in Live Oak. Mark’s sister needed to get back to UF for classes. Jack agreed to drive her, promising to have the SUV back the next morning for visitation hour at Suwannee County Jail.
“I’m really worried about Mark,” said Shelly. Those were her first words of the trip, breaking twenty minutes of pensive silence from the passenger seat.
“There’s no reason for anyone to worry,” Jack said, trying to sound believable.
“His surgeon said it will take six weeks for him to fully heal.”
“I’ve already arranged for Mark to have regular doctor visits.”
“What if someone punches him in the stomach?”
“That won’t happen.”
“How do you know?”
He didn’t. “If something bad happens, Live Oak Regional Medical Center is just five minutes away. It’s a surgical hospital.” It was the best Jack could do to allay her concerns, but five minutes was an eternity for someone locked in a jail cell with internal bleeding.
They reached the campus around four thirty. On the way to Shelly’s class, they passed the Theta house—or what was left of it. The redbrick building hadn’t completely burned to the ground. The rear had suffered only smoke damage, but the front was a charred shell. A pair of plantation-style columns had failed in the fire, causing a section of the roof to collapse. The nearby oak trees would survive, but the largest one was scorched and leafless on one side. Blackened debris was scattered across the lawn, including the Greek letters that had once identified the house as Theta Pi Omega. A temporary chain-link fence surrounded the property, and posted signs warned would-be trespassers.
“What are the cops doing there?” asked Shelly.
Jack hadn’t noticed any squad cars as they passed. He glanced back through the rear window and spotted three of them behind the house. Shelly had a little time before her class, so Jack turned at the next street and drove around to the back of the house. In addition to the squad cars, a forensics truck from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement was on the scene. Up the hill behind the house were several media vans from local news outlets. Jack parked, and Shelly waited in the SUV as he walked down the pathway to the sheriff’s deputy who was posted at the chain-link fence.
“No entry,” he told Jack.
Jack identified himself as Mark Towson’s lawyer. It was immediately clear that another search was under way. “Do you have a warrant?”
“You own this property?” asked the officer.
“I want to see the warrant,” said Jack.
“No can do.”
Jack was in no mood for games. He dialed the state attorney, who took his call. “Oliver, I’m at the Theta house. What are you searching for?”
“Nothing—at least not anymore. I just spoke to the search team leader. They found it.”
Jack looked beyond the fence. Several investigators were standing at the rear entrance and talking in a group. “Found what?” Jack asked.
“The other Croc,” said Boalt.
Jack’s pulse quickened. “You found a Croc that matches the one you mentioned in court—is that what you’re telling me?”
“I’ll let you know about the match just as soon as the lab confirms it.”
“Where exactly was it found?”
“Upstairs,” said the state attorney. “In Baine Robinson’s closet.”
Not in Mark’s room—Jack could breathe again. “When are you dropping the charges against my client?”
“Ha! Right. Just because Mark Towson had an accomplice doesn’t make him any less guilty.”
“I’ve reviewed the grand jury materials,” said Jack. “Baine Robinson testified that Mark bragged to him about lynching Jamal. That’s a lie, and that’s the best evidence you’ve got against Mark.”
“Wrong. That’s the best evidence I presented to the grand jury.”
“If you have more, I want to see it.”
“You will,” said Boalt. “I have to be socially responsible. If I backed up the dump truck and unloaded my entire case against Mark Towson in one shot, we’d have a full-blown race riot.”
“Bullshit. If you released everything, we’d know you rushed to an indictment.”
“You will receive all the materials that the defense is entitled to. I promise you that.”
“I want it before the bail hearing.”
“Sure,” said Boalt. “That won’t be a problem.”
It was a more reasonable response than expected. Jack would be sure to confirm it in writing. “Are you going back to the grand jury to indict Baine?”
“Do you represent Mr. Robinson?”
“You know the answer to that question.”
“Then you know I can’t answer.”
“Should I ask Leroy Highsmith?”
There was silence on the line, but somehow the state attorney’s anger came through. “What kind of question is that, Swyteck?”
“Let me ask it another way,” said Jack. “Look at the last twenty-four hours. Highsmith publicly demands ‘full and complete justice.’ Divers suddenly pull a Croc out of the river muck. The other Croc rises from the ashes of the Theta house and—voilà!—Baine Robinson is Mark’s accomplice, even though it’s been less than a week since he told a grand jury that Mark acted alone. You tell me, Oliver. What the hell is going on?”
“I never said Baine Robinson is a perfect witness. He’s a rat who ratted out another rat. I’ve been telling jurors this for years: when you look in the sewer, you don’t see swans.”
“Nice metaphor. Just one problem, Oliver.”
“Yeah, what?”
“You’re so eager to throw Mark into the sewer, you’re willing to ignore the fact that he’s never been near the river.”
Silence again, but without the anger. “Good night, Swyteck. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Yes,” said Jack, “you will.”
CHAPTER 40
Mark Towson’s life behind bars started in a holding pen with seven other inmates, each waiting for assignment to one of 150 beds in shared cells.
Suwannee County Jail was as secure as any maximum-security state prison, suitable for inmates awaiting trial for the most violent crimes—rape, robbery, even capital murder. Cameras and electronic detention operated throughout the facility. Fencing was topped with razor wire. Correctional officers were armed with Mace and trained to use physical force to protect themselves and other inmates from violence.
“Dinnertime,” the correctional officer announced.
It was a soggy bologna-and-cheese sandwich that smelled too awful to eat. Mark wished he wasn’t so hungry. Over a period of hours, he’d climbed up and down stairs, been shackled, unshackled, and shackled again. The jail nurse applied a waterproof bandage to his incision so that he could take the required delousing shower. A body search by a male correction officer followed, which wasn’t pleasant at all. Fingerprinting took another hour. The mug shot was the final indignity—a deer-in-the-headlights classic that was sure to end up all over the Internet. Mark spent the dinner hour watching a cellmat
e tear his bologna sandwich into pieces, roll them into balls, and one by one pitch them into the community toilet from behind the imaginary three-point line. Around eight o’clock, the guard returned.
“Got a bed for you, Towson.”
Mark went to the door of the holding pen, but it didn’t open. The guard’s radio crackled and he walked away without explanation. Mark waited. And waited. An hour passed. Ninety minutes. Finally, a different guard returned.
“Let’s go, Towson.”
The metal door opened, and the guard led Mark down the corridor. Another buzzer sounded, and the iron door slid open. It was 10:00 p.m., and the jail was in lockdown for the night.
“Am I in solitary?” asked Mark.
“Nope.”
“My lawyer said I might be. For safety reasons.”
“This ain’t the Holiday Inn, pal. We’re at full capacity.”
Another guard joined them, and the pair of correctional officers led Mark down the long corridor, iron bars on either side. A catcall from one of the inmates triggered Mark’s darkest fears. The whistler was deep within one of the blackened cells, unidentifiable.
They stopped at the third door from the end of the cellblock. The jail cells that Mark had seen on television usually had solid metal doors, but this one had old-fashioned steel bars. Enough light shone from the corridor to reveal a man in the lower bunk. The top bunk was empty. The guard rattled the bars with his nightstick. The bright-white beam of his flashlight hit the sleeping inmate in the eyes.
“Up against the wall, Bulldog,” he said.
Bulldog?
The inmate rolled out of the bunk and did as he was told. The lead guard radioed the door-control booth. A buzzer sounded. The cell door slid open automatically. Mark entered the cell in silence. Another buzz, and the door closed with the clank of metal echoing off concrete floors and walls of painted cinder block.
A Death in Live Oak Page 16
