Jack said nothing. It depended on the answer to one simple question that Jack had yet to ask his client, that another criminal defense lawyer might never have asked Mark, and that Jack still wasn’t sure he should ask.
Is that other shoe yours?
CHAPTER 59
It’s not mine,” said Mark.
The Suwannee County Jail was right next door to the courthouse, but nothing happens quickly in any jail system. It was late afternoon before Jack was able to meet face-to-face with his client privately in the attorney-client visitation room.
“I didn’t ask you a question,” said Jack.
“Yeah, I noticed,” said Mark. “It’s been the elephant in the room since they found that third Croc. Do you think I’m guilty? Is that why you haven’t asked me if that’s my shoe?”
Jack paused, taking a figurative step back. “Mark, our relationship can’t work if I put you on the defensive. I’ve seen it happen with other clients. No matter how many times I promise that your guilt or innocence has no bearing on whether I can represent you, it’s human nature to fear that I might quit if you give the wrong answer. If I had come right out and asked you if the shoe was yours, you would have given me the answer that you think I want to hear.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing now? Telling you what you want to hear?”
“I hope not, but here’s the reality. You have no alibi. No one can account for your whereabouts from the time you say you went to bed on Friday night until ten a.m. Saturday. If there are things you want me to know, you can tell me. Just don’t lie to me.”
Mark leaned closer, looking Jack in the eye. “It’s not my shoe.”
“Then we will build your defense on that foundation. But do you see how important it is that you not lie to me? If that foundation is no good, your defense will crumble.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Okay, then. We’ll go from there.”
Mark looked away. “Do you think the police planted that burned Croc in Baine’s closet?”
Jack didn’t answer right away. He was no fan of conspiracy theories. “I don’t know. But it makes absolutely no sense for Baine to kill Jamal Cousin, lose a shoe in the process, and then go home and put the other shoe in his own closet. That would make Baine the stupidest person in the world.”
“So you do think they planted it,” said Mark.
Jack leveled his gaze. “I think someone planted it, Mark.”
Guilty. That’s how Andie felt. She’d taken too much risk challenging Colt to a knife fight. More risk than a mother—and an expecting mother—should take. Maybe his words—“I’ll see that ass, bitch”—hadn’t actually been a threat of sexual assault. Or maybe he never would have followed through, had she just let it go.
That was one way to look at it. Andie’s assessment at the time had been simple. The man was drunk, stupid, and had no clue who he was actually up against. Crossing the street in downtown Miami was a riskier proposition than taking down Colt the dolt. Still, Andie had been second-guessing herself, questioning her own judgment—and her line of work.
“You coming to the meeting?” asked William, poking his head into her tent.
Andie was on her knees, sweeping out the sand. She’d grown up camping in the Cascade Mountains, which was nothing like camping in Florida. In the Sunshine State, there was always a nice flat spot to pitch a tent, and there was no end to the dirty sand that got everywhere, from your sleeping bag to your underwear.
“Should I?”
“I hear Steger is going to be there.”
The news made Andie’s day. “Let’s go.”
The meeting was a ten-minute walk from Andie’s tent, held in a picnic area beneath a tin-roofed shelter that had a concrete floor but no walls. A crowd had already gathered. Alliance members had been arriving from out of state all day. The start of court proceedings against Mark Towson was a rallying point for the organization, and the number of tents, trucks, and motorcycles had at least tripled since Andie’s showdown with Colt.
Andie and William squeezed in next to other members at an already crowded picnic table. They sat on the tabletop with their feet on the bench seats. A man holding a wireless microphone entered the shelter, and the crowd erupted in applause.
“That’s Steger!” William said, flashing a huge smile.
The ovation continued as Steger took his position before the group. “Hello, hello, my Aryan Nation friends.”
It was part of her job to smile and clap her hands, so Andie did. The crowd settled at Steger’s beckoning, and then he began.
“Let me see a show of hands, folks. How many white men here own slaves?”
No hands went up.
“I thought so. Now, another show of hands. How many of you are made to feel guilty every day of your life, just for being white?”
Hands went up all around Andie, and she played along. Steger’s “white guilt” speech was one that she’d studied in preparation for this undercover role, and she wondered what variation of the theme he would tie to the lynching of Jamal Cousin.
“I just came here from Alabama,” said Steger. “You know the liberal establishment has built a monument there. A monument to white guilt.”
A chorus of booing and hisses carried through the crowd.
“Of course they don’t call it that,” said Steger. “They call it a museum. It’s in Montgomery. It’s a museum about lynching in America.”
More than a few in the audience snickered.
“I’m dead serious,” said Steger. “It’s called the Memorial to Peace and Justice. Now, I wouldn’t set foot in that place, but I’m sure they have a prominent tribute to Emmett Till. You heard of Emmett, right? How many of y’all heard of him?”
About half the hands went up.
“Emmett was an innocent little black boy from Chicago,” Steger said, the word innocent laden with sarcasm. “Emmett got lynched in 1955. The story goes that all poor Emmett did was whistle at a white woman,” he added, following up with a whistle into the microphone like a construction worker, just for effect.
“That’s the story,” said Steger, his voice turning very serious. “But here’s the part about Emmett that they leave out of the museums. His daddy was a rapist.”
He paused again, then dropped the bomb. “It’s true. Emmett Till’s black father raped three white women after Emmett was born. And he killed one of those women.”
Even the Aryan audience seemed stunned.
“It’s a fact,” said Steger. “Mr. Till was in the Army, serving in Italy. He was court-martialed and hanged near Pisa in July 1945. The Army suppressed that information until after Emmett Till’s murder trial was over. It took two good, hardworking senators from Mississippi to break through the secrecy. Now, why do you think it was so hard for that information to become public? I’ll tell you why. Because the liberal establishment didn’t want the people of Mississippi to know about Emmett Till’s genetic predisposition to rape and murder white women.”
The crowd applauded.
“If you don’t believe me,” said Steger, “then listen to what Malcolm X said.”
Angry booing came from every corner.
“Now, settle down,” said Steger. “Say what you want about Malcolm, but he was spot-on when it came to certain things. Right about the time Emmett Till’s daddy was over in Europe raping white women, Malcolm was bedding down with the blond wife of an American serviceman who was overseas fighting for our country. You know what Malcolm had to say about that? It’s right here in his autobiography.” He thrust the book over his head for all to see. Then he opened it.
“Chapter six,” said Steger. “Malcolm X wrote, ‘what the white racist said, and still says, was right in those days! All you had to do was put a white girl anywhere close to the average black man, and he would respond.’
“‘Respond,’” Steger said in disgust, lifting his eyes from the page. “By that, folks, he didn’t mean talk!”
An empty beer bottle sa
iled overhead, smashing to pieces against a steel pole.
“Calm down,” said Steger, as he laid the book aside. “I feel your anger. But my point is this. Take Malcolm X at his word. We had it right back then. And it’s no different today. I’m here to tell you tonight,” he said, his voice rising, “and the Aryan National Alliance is uniting to tell the whole world: White guilt is OVER!”
He said it again, and then again, until the entire crowd was chanting, “White guilt is over!”
Andie reached deep inside herself to stay in role, slapping William a high five as the new voice of “intellectual white nationalism” whipped his followers into a frenzy. And with each pump of the fist, and as the chant grew louder, Andie wondered what Steger might have done had he known that the woman with the green eyes and blond dye job was an FBI agent—born to a Native American mother from the Yakama tribe and a very white father.
CHAPTER 60
Princess Righley was on the evening flight from Miami. Jack picked her up at Tallahassee International Airport, about an hour west of Live Oak. “Uncle” Theo brought the car seat, her pillow, her favorite stuffed animal, her favorite stuffed animal’s favorite stuffed animal, and about forty pounds of other stuff that Righley couldn’t live without.
As they left the terminal, Theo made sure that Righley was wearing the noise-proof headphones he’d bought her for the trip.
“Fuckin’ A, dude,” he said for Jack’s ears only. “You know what it’s like for a black man to fly into this town with a four-year-old white girl? I’d get less suspicious looks if I was carryin’ a bazooka.”
Even locals disagreed as to whether Tallahassee was part of the Florida Panhandle, but it was indisputably closer to Mobile than to Miami. “Sorry, man,” was all Jack could say.
Jack’s plan was to spend the weekend in Live Oak, where he could meet with his client and prepare for Monday’s hearing. It would be a working weekend, but at least he would have Righley with him. Shelly had agreed to babysit as needed.
“Sit here!” said Righley, as Jack strapped her into the car seat.
She wanted Daddy to ride in back with her from the airport, so Theo drove. He said he didn’t mind sitting in front alone, but it took him nearly forty-five minutes to knock off the Morgan Freeman impersonation and stop calling Righley “Miss Daisy.”
They reached the motel after nine o’clock, which was past Righley’s bedtime. She was barely awake as Jack carried her to the room, dressed her in a pair of Hello Kitty pajamas, and laid her in the bed. Righley was out like a light when Shelly arrived around ten o’clock.
“Oh, she’s so cute!” Shelly said, trying to whisper.
Jack smiled proudly. “You sure you don’t mind playing nanny?” he asked.
“Not at all,” she said, and then she unzipped her bag. “I brought Legos, I have my iPad she can play with—all kinds of toys in my bag of goodies. We’ll have a girls’ weekend.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem. Honestly, I’m glad to have someone to help take my mind off things.”
Jack understood. He opened the side door that led to the adjoining room. Shelly would sleep there. Jack and Righley had the other room.
There was a knock on the door, and Jack hurried to open it before Righley woke. It was Theo. “Wanna get some dinner?” he asked.
The chances of Righley waking in the next hour were slim, and Shelly was willing to watch her, so Jack and Theo went downstairs. The motel’s restaurant was closed, so they went to the lounge and ordered appetizers from the bar menu. Jack didn’t necessarily feel like talking shop, but the mystery of three Crocs had been all over the news, and Theo wanted the scoop on the “three-legged killer.” Jack told him what he thought—that the shoe in Baine’s closet was planted by someone.
“So what?” said Theo, and then he took a bite out of his cheeseburger slider.
“What do you mean ‘so what?’”
“Look, Jack. It could have been the police who planted it. It could have been Mark. It could have been that kid who died in the car crash.”
“Cooper Bartlett.”
“Or it could have been any one of two hundred other frat brothers who can’t stand Baine Robinson. Hell, maybe Baine planted it himself to make it look like he’s being set up. What I’m saying is this: Just because the shoe was planted doesn’t mean that Baine didn’t lynch Jamal Cousin.”
Theo’s fresh insight set Jack to thinking. “Back up a second. You just said something smart.”
“Sliders are brain food,” Theo said, reaching for another.
“Earlier this week, Baine’s father called me. He was reaching out about a joint defense arrangement between Baine and Mark.”
Theo chewed, thinking, then swallowed. “Even an old jailhouse lawyer can see that’s a bad idea. Why would anybody want to team up with Mark Towson, the one and only guy who is looking at the death penalty if he loses?”
“It only makes sense if Baine’s father knows—or strongly believes—that his son is guilty,” said Jack. “If Baine’s daddy can get me and Leonard Oden on the same team, he knows that I won’t try to get Mark acquitted by proving what the prosecutor might not be able to prove: Baine did it. Alone.”
The cocktail waitress brought a couple more draft beers, then left.
“So what do you do?” asked Theo.
“I could go hard after Baine. Show that he sent the ‘strange fruit’ text message. Prove he lied to the grand jury when he said Mark bragged to him about lynching Jamal.”
“Is that enough?”
“Maybe. If it’s not, I could escalate to nuclear warfare,” said Jack, getting caught up in his own excitement. “Hell, I could drop the biggest stink bomb that’s ever been dropped in the Suwannee County Courthouse.”
“Which is what?”
Jack shook his head. “You’ll think it’s crazy.”
“Better for you to run it by me than have the judge cut your balls off.”
“All right, here goes.” Jack drank from his beer, then leaned forward. “Percy Donovan was kidnapped to make it look like someone other than Baine Robinson lynched Jamal Cousin.”
“Okay,” said Theo. “But it also makes it look like someone other than Mark Towson lynched Jamal Cousin. So who’s to say it’s not your client who’s behind the diversion?”
“The Towson family could never pull it off. Baine Robinson’s father is a multimillionaire.”
Theo made a face. “Sounds far-fetched.”
“Baine Robinson’s arrest warrant was issued Monday morning. Percy Donovan disappeared Monday night. The media and everyone else immediately asks, ‘Is this Jamal Cousin all over again?’ That makes both Mark and Baine look innocent. The next morning, Baine’s father calls me about Mark and Baine teaming up on a joint defense arrangement. And he tells me that the budget for Baine’s defense is unlimited.”
Theo didn’t answer, but he looked less skeptical than before. “I’m not saying I agree with you, Jack. But how the hell do you prove that?”
Jack sat back in his chair, breathing out. “I don’t know.”
“You want me to help?”
Jack smiled. “I didn’t fly you up here to babysit.”
CHAPTER 61
Cynthia Porter woke before dawn, which wasn’t unusual. She’d always been an early riser, especially when something important was on her mind.
She switched on the lamp on her nightstand and climbed out of bed. She did her morning routine but spent a little more time in front of the mirror than usual. This was no ordinary day. She wanted her makeup right and her hair just so, but an unsteady hand didn’t make it easy. Then she went to the closet. Dark slacks and her pastel blouse would do. A pair of comfortable pumps. Mid-autumn nights were cool in Live Oak, and a sweater would be a good idea until the sun warmed things up. She chose the purple one. People had always said that Cynthia was pretty in purple.
Willie James had always taken notice when she wore purple.
A simple strand
of pearls with matching stud earrings was the finishing touch. Then Cynthia stepped into the hallway. Virginia was outside her bedroom, waiting.
“Well, look at you,” Virginia said, smiling. “Like a model in a magazine.”
Cynthia blushed. “Thank you.”
“Would you like me to fix breakfast before we go?”
“No, no. I don’t have time.”
Virginia guided her toward the lift at the top of the stairs. “You gonna tell me where we’re headed, Miz Cynthia?”
Cynthia lowered herself into the chairlift and rested her pocketbook in her lap. “It’s a secret,” she said coyly.
Andie woke at 5:00 a.m. Her “boyfriend” was scheduled to return to the Okefenokee campsite before sunrise.
Agent Ferguson had made his first appearance the previous night, after Steger’s speech. Andie had immediately filled him in—not only about the speech, but also about the gunshot she’d heard along the river, as well as her “friend” William’s theory that the Alliance had cleared out of Florida because something was in store for Percy Donovan. Ferguson hadn’t planned to come and go, but Andie’s intelligence was important enough to put him back on the road to update their Operation 777 contacts in the field. He’d promised to be back by daybreak, before a single member of the Aryan National Alliance had even noticed he was gone.
“Welcome,” said Andie, as he climbed off his motorcycle. He’d parked away from the campsite so as not to wake the others. Andie helped carry his gear and provisions back to her—their—tent.
Jack probably wouldn’t have liked Special Agent Brian Ferguson. Or at least he wouldn’t have liked him playing the role of Andie’s boyfriend. Ferguson was probably the most handsome agent in the Atlanta field office, if blond hair and blue eyes were your type. While Andie could have infiltrated the Alliance alone, they worked well as a couple. It was especially useful for one of them to keep a foothold in the group while the other left to relay information to their undercover contacts.
They stored the perishables in the cooler and left everything else in the tent. The rest of the unpacking could wait for daylight. Snoring was all around them, pouring from blackened tents, but it was possible that someone nearby was lying awake in a sleeping bag and able to overhear them. They took a walk down to the lake to talk in private, away from the other campers. They stopped at the shoreline and took a seat on the bright yellow hull of an overturned canoe. Andie gazed up at the stars. Had she been up there in orbit, somewhere in outer space, she could have looked down and seen that the Okefenokee wildlife refuge was a black hole in a sea of light pollution that flooded virtually the entire southeastern United States. It was impossible for any earthling not to be awestruck on a clear night.
A Death in Live Oak Page 24
