A Death in Live Oak

by James Grippando

  This was the reach—the point at which Jack would use a tried-and-true police interrogation tactic that, ironically, the detective had used on his own client after pulling Mark and his friends out of the Theta party. He would lie. “I already know you did, Bulldog. And don’t think for one second that I won’t find every last victim.”

  “You’re full of shit, Swyteck.”

  “You’re a fool if you think so. See, I’ve represented probably twenty lifers at Raiford—guys who are never getting out of prison. Some of them are alive today because I got them off death row, which makes them especially grateful. I don’t often ask for favors, but they are an amazing source of information.”

  More of Bulldog’s cocky air faded.

  “And these guys are good for much more than just information. It’s not easy for inmates to come forward and say they were raped. They’re afraid of retaliation. That’s where my former clients can really help. They may be off death row, but most of them are still serious badasses. All I have to do is ask them to protect the guys you raped, and I’ll have no problem finding all the witnesses I need.”

  Jack let it sink in, then continued. “Of course, that’s just the beginning of the shit storm for you, Bulldog. I’m sure Oliver Boalt promised you a sweet deal for testifying against my client. But Raiford is in another county, and your deal with Oliver Boalt won’t prevent the Union County state attorney from prosecuting you for rape. It is rape, you know. It doesn’t matter that the victims are male prison inmates. Oral or anal penetration without the victim’s consent is sexual battery.”

  Jack could almost see the wheels turning inside Bulldog’s head.

  “Here’s the kicker, Bulldog. Sexual battery in Florida carries a minimum sentence of nine years, possibly life. So let’s say Boalt gives you no prison time on the robbery charge you’re facing right now. When I’m done with you, and it comes out that you raped even just one inmate at Raiford, you’re looking at more prison time than you would have gotten if you’d just kept your mouth shut and never cut a deal with Oliver Boalt. That’s pretty funny, isn’t it?”

  Jack chuckled insincerely. Bulldog didn’t laugh.

  Jack rose, went to the door, and knocked on it. The guard opened it.

  “Have a great day, Bulldog.”

  Bulldog sat in silence at the table, staring at the wall. Jack turned and walked out, leaving the inmate alone with his predicament.

  CHAPTER 50

  Cynthia Porter left the office of the state attorney with a heart full of disappointment.

  The meeting with Oliver Boalt had not gone as planned. He’d allowed her just five minutes to share all that she wanted to tell. At this point in her life, it took Cynthia five minutes just to organize her thoughts. She couldn’t get the words out. Essentially, she’d managed only to say, “We can’t go back to the way things used to be.” The state attorney agreed wholeheartedly, but each time Cynthia tried to move beyond platitudes and aspirations, he talked over her. “I’m well aware of Suwannee County’s regrettable racial history,” he’d assured her, but he didn’t seem to want to hear her history. He’d thanked her for coming and reminded her to vote.

  “The live oaks are dying,” said Cynthia. She was back at home, seated at the kitchen table. Virginia was standing at the counter, slicing a Vidalia onion on a cutting board.

  “You mean the ones out front of the house?” asked Virginia, flashing concern.

  “I mean all of ’em. Here in Live Oak, across Suwannee County, all around these parts.”

  Virginia smiled the way she always did when Cynthia said something that sounded a bit off the mark. “I don’t think that’s true, Miz Cynthia.”

  “Yes, it is,” Cynthia said, suddenly animated. “When I was a girl, I’d see a mighty live oak on the savanna. So beautiful. Nothing else around it, limbs spread out so far that it looked like a green mountain on the horizon. The live oak needs that space. We’ve been taking it away.”

  “You mean the builders?”

  “Partly. It’s all this reforestation, too. A live oak can’t survive in a forest. Sweet gum, black cherry, and magnolia are some of the culprits. Worst of all is the laurel oak, which looks a lot like a live oak but isn’t nearly as sturdy. An impostor, I call it.”

  “I see.”

  “All this clutter. We put it there. It looks pretty at first. Who doesn’t like a forest? Eventually, though, these impostors smother what was good about the place. The live oak is our soul, Virginia. We named our town after it. Do you understand me?”

  Virginia pushed the onion slices from the board into the frying pan. They sizzled in the hot oil. “I—I think I do.”

  “If you don’t clear away all that clutter, your soul withers up and dies. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Virginia smiled. “So you want me to buy you a chain saw?”

  They shared a little laugh, and then Cynthia turned serious. “No. I’d like my pen. And a sheet of my fine stationery from Birmingham—the ecru cotton with the pretty magenta border. Could you bring it to me, please?”

  “I know just where it is.” Virginia lowered the flame on the stove, went to the parlor, and returned with Cynthia’s old fountain pen and stationery. She laid them on the table. “Who you writing to?”

  Cynthia considered her response. “Someone who I think will listen,” she said.

  And then she put pen to paper and wrote in her finest script, fighting the tremor in her uncooperative hand.

  “Dear Mr. Swyteck,” she began.

  CHAPTER 51

  Jack called home from Live Oak and spoke to Righley before her bedtime. “Where’s Mommy?”

  “She’s going under the covers.”

  “Beddy-bye?”

  Righley laughed. “No, silly! Under the covers!”

  Jack realized what she was trying to say. Righley’s young mind sometimes confused an overnight trip with Andie going undercover, but she had it right this time. She handed the phone to Andie.

  “Hey, where you headed?” asked Jack.

  “Can’t say.”

  Jack understood what that meant. “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know. I hired Maria for two weeks.”

  Maria was their part-time nanny. Abuela was all the help Jack needed when he was home without Andie. But Jack’s grandmother was getting on in years, so a part-time nanny was needed when they were both away. Abuela wasn’t happy about it, insisting that she could handle “la muñeca” without any help at all from “Maria Poe-pins.”

  “Two weeks sounds about right,” said Jack. That would get him through the Arthur hearing, Mark’s last shot at getting out of jail before trial.

  Jack got a quick reminder of Righley’s daily schedule—breakfast, preschool, nap, soccer, afternoon meeting at the White House with the joint chiefs of staff. Andie had thrown in the last one just to make sure he was listening.

  “I got it,” said Jack.

  “Hey, there’s something else I want to tell you,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “I was the one who brought up the idea of adoption. We haven’t really had a chance to talk more. I didn’t want you to think I just dropped it.”

  “No, I understand. It’s been crazy. We can follow up with the agency when your assignment is over.”

  “Well,” she said, hedging, “we may not want to do that.”

  Jack hesitated. “Did you change your mind?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”

  Leroy Highsmith entered the “Find Percy Donovan” command center and was immediately impressed. Proud, actually. Ask white students what they knew about black fraternities, and they’d probably say something like, “Don’t they still brand their pledges?” The Divine Nine were a community, and this was the community in action.

  Percy’s best friend, Kelso, greeted him at the door. “Mr. Highsmith, thank you, thank you, thank you, sir.”

  “It’s nothing,” said Highsmith, and he meant it. He�
��d merely written the check to rent a ballroom at the University Inn. The hard part was pulling together teams at the grassroots level, both in the virtual world of social media and the real world of old-fashioned legwork. Kelso knew most of Percy’s hangouts—restaurants, coffee shops, gym, and so on. With his input, they’d mapped out a search plan on the whiteboard and assigned teams to check each location. Volunteers were out talking to waitresses, librarians, locker-room attendants, and even random people on the street, all in the hope of finding someone who’d heard or seen something—anything. Inside the center, students lined up to distribute flyers, leaflets, and posters with Percy’s picture. Sisters from the Delta sorority were busily tying yellow ribbons into bows, which students at another table attached to flashlights for volunteer searchers. A dozen other students tapped away on their laptops, tablets, and other devices, spreading the word in the virtual world of social media.

  Kelso had much more to tell him, but Highsmith’s assistant interrupted. “Leroy, President Waterston wants you to call him right away.”

  Highsmith excused himself, stepped out of the ballroom into the hallway, and dialed the university president at his home. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the president got to the point.

  “Leroy, this campus is on the verge of panic. Parents are pulling black students out of Gainesville like we’re on the verge of Armageddon.”

  “Can you blame them?”

  “Are you representing the Donovan family?”

  “I met with them this morning and offered my assistance. They’ve accepted.”

  “How soon are you planning to address the media?”

  “Less than an hour from now. I’ve scheduled a press conference with the Alachua County Sheriff and Percy’s parents.”

  The president sighed, not with relief but apprehension. “I need a voice of calm,” said Waterston. “I’ve issued a press release, but please reinforce the message that this university is doing everything it can to provide for the safety of all students.”

  All students. It reminded Highsmith of the white establishment’s efforts to trump #BlackLivesMatter with #AllLivesMatter. But he let it go. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

  Highsmith politely ended the call and returned to the ballroom. One of the network affiliates was filming a segment for the local news, showing the command center in action. The reporter nearly tackled Highsmith, begging him to be part of her “on the scene” coverage. He didn’t want to undermine the scheduled press conference, but he agreed to provide a quick comment.

  The cameraman was ready. The reporter fixed her hair and smiled.

  “Not so toothy,” the cameraman said. “The kid may have been lynched.”

  “Sorry,” she said, losing the grin. “Better?”

  “Try to look more worried—like time is running out.”

  It was as if Percy were an abstraction. Typical. In Highsmith’s experience, the spot-on hashtag for TV journalists was #OnlyMyCareerMatters.

  The cameraman raised his fingers—“Three, two, one”—and they were rolling.

  “Good evening,” said the reporter, taking the cue from the anchorwoman in the local studio. “Tonight the search is on for another African American student gone missing at the University of Florida, where . . .”

  The entire spot lasted thirty seconds. The reporter thanked Highsmith and promised to air it on the 11:00 p.m. broadcast.

  Highsmith looked around the command center. Kelso was nowhere to be seen, but Jamal’s fraternity brother, Brandon Wall, was across the ballroom. Brandon had become the de facto leader at the Alpha house, and he’d called Highsmith earlier in the day about an Alpha-led search for Percy along the Ichetucknee River. It was potentially a grim task, but the entire Alpha fraternity had volunteered, and Highsmith had arranged for a bus to leave Gainesville in the morning. Brandon walked over and, like Kelso, thanked Highsmith for funding the search.

  “Do you have everything you need?” asked Highsmith.

  “I thought we did,” said Brandon.

  “What did you forget?”

  “I just heard from a friend in Jacksonville,” said Brandon. “She says Aryan Brotherhood and some other neo-Nazis are planning to be at the river tomorrow morning when we get there.”

  Highsmith wasn’t surprised. “It’s the same old game. They put themselves where they know we’re going to be, and then when trouble starts, they blame us.”

  “I’m not canceling the search,” said Brandon. “The Alpha house doesn’t back down.”

  “Good to hear. But let’s not be foolish.” Highsmith moved a little closer, lowering his voice a bit, as if he had a plan. “I need about a dozen Alpha jerseys or T-shirts by tomorrow morning. Size XXL or bigger. Can you swing that?”

  “Sure. Every brother has extras. Why?”

  “That’s all you need to know,” said Highsmith. Then he excused himself, stepped out of the command center, and found the same quiet spot in the hallway from which he had called the president. He dialed his contact at Colson Security Company.

  Following Percy’s disappearance, Highsmith had taken it upon himself to hire a security guard for each of the black fraternities and sororities on campus. Colson was a full-service operation that provided everything from personal bodyguards to kidnap-and-ransom insurance.

  “I need twelve of your best men ASAP,” Highsmith told his contact. “African Americans only. Young enough to pass for college students.”

  “Any special skills?”

  “Gotta be able to swim,” said Highsmith.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” said Highsmith. “Vets with combat experience are strongly preferred.”

  “Wow. With those parameters, I might have to fly in men from twelve different cities. Could be expensive.”

  “Whatever it costs,” said Highsmith. “Have them here in Gainesville before sunrise.”

  Morning sickness was a misnomer. For Andie it came any time of day.

  She emerged from the bathroom in her motel room in time to catch the latest “Find Percy Donovan” news conference on television. Easy viewing it wasn’t. Percy’s father spoke first, reading from a prepared script, which was the only way to get through it.

  “Percy’s family and friends are pleading with anyone who may know anything about his disappearance, his whereabouts, or”—he paused, his voice quaking—“or his fate. Please call the Alachua County Sheriff’s Department at the number on your television screen, or leave information at the ‘Find Percy Donovan’ website. A reward of one hundred thousand dollars is being offered for information leading to his safe return.”

  Highsmith was at Mr. Donovan’s side, and Andie assumed that the reward was the lawyer’s doing.

  On-screen, the microphone passed from Percy’s father to the Alachua County sheriff, but the camera view was wide enough for Andie to see Mrs. Donovan standing off to the side. The sheriff said exactly the right thing, but Andie hardly processed a word of it. Her entire focus was on that poor mother at the edge of her TV screen. Andie could almost feel the fear, the exhaustion, the worry, the dwindling sense of hope pressing down on her shoulders. Her heart was not merely broken. It was shredded, the pieces falling away live and on camera for the entire world to see, the sadness gathering in pools of despair around her, bottomless pools that could drown the most robust spirit.

  Andie had dealt with the families of many victims, but nothing compared with a parent’s anguish over a missing child.

  Another wave of nausea came over her. She prepared for a second bolt to the bathroom, but the sensation passed. She crawled into bed and set the alarm for 2:00 a.m. In just a few hours, Paulette Stevens—her undercover name—needed to be at the designated gathering spot in the wilderness. The campgrounds at Ichetucknee Springs State Park were open to the public, but she’d have no trouble spotting her friends.

  Nearly everyone in the group was blond, like her.

  CHAPTER 52

  Percy woke to the frightening
reality that he was still a prisoner, still chained to a wall. And he was no longer alone.

  It wasn’t easy to tell. He was no longer blindfolded, but the toolshed was without windows, and the lone lightbulb had remained off since his captor’s last visit, when he’d given Percy a soggy sandwich, a few sips of water, and a bucket in which to do his business. The bucket. Percy was trying to get used to the stench, but that point had yet to arrive. He blinked, trying to focus. The swelling in his battered eye had improved, and he was slowly adjusting to the darkness. A sliver of moonlight or sunlight—he wasn’t sure which—shone through a tiny crack between boards in the wall. It was just bright enough to reveal a set of red, beady eyes at the other end of the shed, beneath the tool bench.

  It was staring at him, whatever it was. Percy listened for a growl or hiss but heard nothing. The eyes were fixed, motionless. Surely they were inside the head of a living creature, but it was too dark to see any part of the body. If the frozen gaze was any indication, however, the animal was locked in some unshakable pose. Stiffened with fright, perhaps, or poised for an attack. A primitive thought crossed Percy’s mind, as if he were suddenly inside the small brain of his visitor, sizing up his helpless self in the darkness.

  Food.

  The piercing eyes glowed brighter, and finally they blinked. A chill ran through Percy.

  Do pythons have eyelids?

  He suddenly heard breathing—his own, as he sucked air through his nostrils. His mouth was still taped shut, so he couldn’t speak. But silently he was talking himself out of his worst nightmare, assuring himself that it couldn’t possibly be one of those monstrous Burmese pythons that had taken over the Everglades and asserted themselves as the new top of the food chain in South Florida. Surely it was too cold in Suwannee County for pythons.

  Unless those racist bastards turned one loose on me.

  It would be the ultimate modern lynching—a black man trapped like an animal by men who personified the evil that Malcolm X had labeled the “white devil,” forcing Percy to battle an eighteen-foot predator that crawled on its belly like Lucifer. It would be an hour or more of utter terror, as the monster coiled around his body and squeezed the life out of him, its massive jaws locked on to Percy’s head in an effort to swallow him the way snakes always swallowed their prey—headfirst.