A Death in Live Oak

by James Grippando

  He heard the lock turn from the outside. The door creaked open, and the blinding beam of a flashlight hit him squarely in the eyes. He heard the door close. The click of the light switch. The flashlight went off, and Percy was in the yellowish glow of the bulb dangling above him.

  “Be still,” the man said.

  Percy sat in silence, waiting for precisely the right moment. The man came toward him. Percy was at the ready. Hours of work were about to pay off. His ankles were still shackled. The only chain binding him to the wall had been the wrist shackles, which his captors had fed through a neatly drilled hole in the exposed stud. Percy had worked tirelessly since his last meal, using the chain like a cable saw to cut through the two-by-four.

  With wrists chained together, but no longer tethered to the wall, Percy swung the two-foot length of steel chain with all his arm strength, striking his captor across the side of the head.

  “Fuck!” the man shouted, as he fell to the floor.

  It was a punishing blow but not enough to knock him out. His captor tried to squirm away from him, and Percy knew that only one of them was going to leave this shed alive. Percy stretched his body, extending his reach as far as possible, and wrapped the chain around the man’s neck. And then he squeezed.

  The man grunted, clawed, and kicked. But Percy only squeezed with more force. Tighter than he thought possible, as if this were about more than just saving himself.

  The man went limp.

  Percy maintained the tension on the chain for a moment longer, then released. His captor didn’t move. Percy fell back onto the concrete, exhausted. But there was no time to catch his breath. He went to the tool bench, grabbed a hatchet, and sat back down on the floor. He raised the hatchet above his head, took aim at the chain between his ankles, and swung down.

  It barely made a dent in the steel link.

  His captor groaned. The man didn’t move, but he was still alive.

  A part of Percy wanted to walk across the shed and bury that hatchet right in that fucking racist’s head. Another part told him that there was a difference between fighting off an attacker and crushing the skull of an unconscious human being.

  He rummaged through the tools on the bench and found a hacksaw. There was enough slack in the ankle chain for him to shuffle to a safer place where he could stop and cut through the links. He took the hatchet, too. Then he hurried out the door and stepped into the night, realizing that he had no idea where he was—or where he was going.

  CHAPTER 72

  Jack knew every crack in the sidewalks along Ohio Avenue. Too many times he’d walked the same triangle of downtown Live Oak since breakfast—the courthouse, to the jail, to the state attorney’s office. This would be his final visit of the night with his client, but there was so much more to be done before court resumed in the morning.

  “Baine’s not lying,” Mark said softly. “He did tell me about Jamal and Shelly.”

  It was like having the wind knocked out of him. “So when I asked you when you found out about your sister and Jamal, you lied to me.”

  “No. The question you asked was, ‘When did Shelly tell you about her and Jamal?’ I told you: when she came to visit me last week.”

  Jack did all he could to control his anger. “Don’t fuck with me, Mark. You sat there and pretended like you didn’t know a thing until Shelly told you. You deceived me, and you’d better have a good explanation, or we’re done.”

  Mark slumped even deeper in his chair. “It’s—there’s no excuse.”

  “I didn’t ask for an excuse. I need to know why you did this.”

  “Okay. The truth is, I—” He drew a breath, as if trying to start again. “I was trying to tell you. But then you got excited and said the surveillance video of Shelly’s visit could be the break we’re looking for. If we could prove that I didn’t know about Shelly and Jamal until after Jamal was dead, all this might go away.”

  “It can’t make anything go away if it’s not true. How did you not realize that the truth would come out?”

  Mark hung his head, running his fingers through his hair. “Honestly, I never thought Baine would admit that he knew. Doesn’t it make him look guilty?”

  “It makes you look guilty, Mark, because he told you. Damn it. The one thing I told you never to do is lie to me.”

  Mark suddenly seemed much younger than he was, like a schoolboy dressed down by the principal. “It wasn’t that big a lie,” he muttered.

  “You’re charged with a racially motivated lynching. If you knew your sister was sleeping with the victim, you had motive.”

  “This is all so ridiculous. First off, I would have absolutely no problem with Shelly dating Jamal if she wanted to. But even if I was a racist, what Baine told me wouldn’t have even mattered.”

  “How could it not matter?”

  “Because I didn’t believe him!”

  “Why not?”

  Mark looked exhausted, physically and emotionally. But he pushed through it. “Do you remember what Baine told us at that first meeting we had with him and his lawyer?”

  “Told us about what?”

  “That run-in he had with Brandon Wall at the Theta house last spring. Brandon was hired as the bartender for our party. He quit when he found out Baine wanted to serve ‘Strange Fruit’ cocktails.”

  “What does that have to do with this?”

  “When I first heard about Shelly and Jamal, I thought it was just Brandon tweaking Baine. Baine is not the most enlightened Theta brother when it comes to race. Telling Baine that my sister blew him off to sleep with the black president of the Alpha house is a surefire way to piss him off.”

  “Hold it,” said Jack. “It was Brandon who told him? That’s how Baine found out?”

  “That’s what Baine said.”

  “But Brandon testified today that he never told anyone.”

  “Then he lied,” said Mark.

  It wasn’t at all clear why Brandon would’ve lied, but Jack’s head was spinning. “I don’t know the truth anymore. All I can say is that I’m completely disappointed in you.”

  Mark glowered, and his expression changed from utter embarrassment and remorse to one of pure anger. It was more than he could contain. Mark sprang from his chair and started pacing furiously from one side of the small room to the other.

  “Mark, sit down.”

  “Seriously, that’s your reaction?” Mark asked, his anger rising. “You’re disappointed in me?”

  “Mark, get control of yourself.”

  Mark stopped and glared, almost shouting. “My mother is dying, okay? I’ve been expelled from college. My fraternity burned to the ground. One of my closest friends died less than a foot away from me in a car accident, and my own fraternity brother is making shit up about me to save his own ass. I could get the death penalty for lynching the guy my sister couldn’t even tell our mother she was in love with. And even if I’m acquitted—which I should be—I’ll still be known as the worst racist of the twenty-first century. To top it all off, I’m locked up every day in solitary confinement because my Nazi cellmate, who literally has swastikas tattooed onto his balls, tried to shove his cock down my throat.”

  “Mark, calm down.”

  “No, I won’t! For a split second in our meeting I saw a way out of this, and I made a mistake. So fuck you, Jack! Fuck you and your ‘Oh, Mark, how could you lie to me’ bullshit.”

  Mark went to the exit and buzzed for the guard. The door opened, and the guard entered, but Jack told him to leave. When he was gone, Jack allowed Mark the time he needed to cool down. Then he spoke.

  “I have something I want you to look at,” said Jack, as he laid the envelope from the state attorney on the table. “Boalt offered us a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “If you plead guilty to first-degree murder, he’ll recommend life in prison with no parole. You avoid the death penalty.”

  “That’s it?” Mark asked, incredulous. “That’s his offer?”
/>
  “Yes.”

  “And now you think I should take it, right? I lied to you, so I deserve to spend the rest of my life in solitary confinement? Is that where we are now?”

  “No, it’s not,” said Jack, looking his client in the eye. “I’m sorry, all right? Come sit down. My advice is to tell Oliver Boalt that the answer is no. Hell no, in fact.”

  Mark took a second to regain his composure. “Okay. Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  “Good,” Jack said in a warmer tone. “Now try to get some rest tonight. We have a big day tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 73

  Andie and her undercover boyfriend were alone in their tent. The entry flaps and vents were zipped shut for privacy, and inside it was totally dark. A burning lantern or flashlight would have thrown their shadows against the nylon, enabling passersby to see what they were really up to.

  “Can you feel it?” Andie whispered.

  After Steger’s speech, Agent Ferguson had left the campsite to update his field contact. An hour later he’d returned with new instructions. If “something big” was going to happen in the next twenty-four hours, as Steger had promised, then Ferguson and Andie had until morning to find out what it was. It was Andie’s job to wire up and get someone from the Alliance to talk about it.

  “No,” said Ferguson. His hand was on her back, resting right on the covert body wire transmitter that Andie had planted under her sweater. Andie had worn a wire many times before, and she wasn’t the only agent who claimed she could wire up in her sleep. Now she could add “in a dark tent.”

  “We’re good to go,” said Andie.

  The rumble of motorcycles outside told Andie something was up. She went to see what was going on. About a dozen riders had loaded their gear. Most of them never wore helmets, but in the darkness Andie didn’t recognize any of them. Her friend William walked past her, carrying a cooler.

  “Where’s everybody going?” asked Andie.

  William stopped. “You didn’t hear?”

  Andie’s boyfriend emerged from the tent. “No, we were just—you know.”

  William smiled a little, but it quickly faded. “Somebody tried to kill one of our men in Florida.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Dunno. But whoever did this won’t be. Time to bust some heads. You two coming?”

  “Where to?” asked Andie.

  “Santa Fe River. South of Ichetucknee.”

  “Where, exactly?” asked Andie.

  William gave her a look, and in the darkness Andie couldn’t tell if it was one of annoyance or suspicion. Shit, Henning, why don’t you just ask him to please speak directly into the microphone?

  “Colt knows where,” he said. “Just follow.”

  Andie and her partner exchanged glances. They were on the same page.

  “Sure,” said Andie. “Count us in.”

  CHAPTER 74

  The viewing for Cynthia Porter was at Carter Funeral Home from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. Jack double-checked the time in the obituaries and arrived just minutes before it ended.

  The parking lot was full, and guests were milling about the lobby, but Jack quickly realized that they were there for the other viewing. People came and went from Parlor A, talking and greeting one another with the obligatory, “Good to see you, old friend, so sorry it’s under these sad circumstances.” There was none of that at the Cynthia Porter viewing. The double doors to Parlor B were wide open, welcoming guests, but all was quiet. Such was the memorial for an old woman who had outlived her husband, her friends, her siblings, and even her only child.

  Jack entered and stopped just inside the doorway. He saw the closed metal casket at the head of the room. A mixed flower arrangement stood on a pedestal beside it. In the first row of chairs was the only visitor, an African American woman somewhere between the age of Jack and the deceased. She noticed his arrival, rose, and welcomed him.

  “I’m Virginia. Mrs. Porter’s caretaker.”

  “I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” she said. “Miz Cynthia and I watched the news together every night.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my coming.”

  “Would you like to pay your respects?” she said, gesturing toward the casket.

  “Um, sure,” said Jack.

  He hadn’t planned his every move in advance, but this seemed like his opportunity. He reached inside his coat pocket and removed a printed copy of his letter from Cynthia.

  “I’d be grateful if you would read this,” he said, and he placed it in Virginia’s hands.

  Virginia seemed to recognize it. “I was right there in her kitchen when Ms. Porter wrote this to you.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “No, sir. I put it in the mail for her.”

  “Read it, please,” said Jack.

  She didn’t say she would, and Jack didn’t give her time to say she wouldn’t. He went to the casket and waited with his back to Virginia.

  The framed photograph atop the closed casket was that of a beautiful young woman. In her sweet smile, however, Jack saw a tortured soul. Her heart had been a vault since childhood, holding the secret of her taboo affection for Willie James and then, for the rest of her life, the horrible secret of his murder. It was such a different world then, Jack would have liked to think, but then he thought of Shelly and Jamal, and it seemed that some differences were merely a matter of degree.

  Jack turned, suddenly sensing that Virginia was standing behind him. Her eyes were dark, wet pools. Jack wasn’t sure if the tears were for Willie James or Cynthia. Maybe both.

  “Have you talked to Kelvin Cousin?” she asked.

  Virginia had zeroed in on the issue at hand.

  “No,” said Jack. “I haven’t been able to reach him, and I’m not sure he’d talk to me anyway. I’m the lawyer for the man accused of killing his great-grandson.”

  “He’s in town for the trial, you know. The whole Cousin family is.”

  “That’s what I understand.” Jack didn’t tell her about the nonverbal exchange between Kelvin and Shelly in the courtroom.

  “I’m sure Miz Cynthia would not have mentioned Kelvin by name in her letter if it wasn’t important to her.”

  “That’s why I came to you. I was hoping—”

  “That I would speak to Kelvin?”

  Jack knew it was a lot to ask—to ask anyone to contact a member of the victim’s family on his behalf—but he’d run out of viable alternatives. “Yes. Would you?”

  Virginia looked toward the casket. “Miz Cynthia didn’t really have a last wish. I guess this was it. So yes,” she said, her gaze shifting back to Jack. “I will help you. If I can.”

  CHAPTER 75

  Percy was near the river—which river, he had no idea. Moonlight glistened off black water made blacker by cover of night. He was deep in the wilderness, surrounded by scrub pine and cypress trees. No roads in sight. Not even a footpath. The shed in which he’d been held captive was adjacent to a small boathouse, accessible only by boat or off-road vehicle, though he’d seen neither since his escape. He walked as far as he could with his ankles shackled. When he reached what felt like a safe distance from the shed, he stopped along the riverbank to cut through the chain.

  This river looked wider than what he remembered of the Ichetucknee, but maybe that was because he was farther downriver. Or maybe it was another river entirely. Maybe he wasn’t even in Florida anymore. Who knew? He had to break the chain, or he might well die in the middle of nowhere. He decided that one cut in the middle would be easier than two at each ankle, even if it did mean dragging around a length of rattling chain from each foot. He worked furiously. Cutting through the wood stud in the shed had been easier than this. He worried that the scrape of the hacksaw might carry all the way back to the shed. What if hatchet-head regained consciousness and came looking for him?

  Should’ve killed him. Percy should have just split that fucking head in half when he’d had the chance. But that wasn’t who Percy was.r />
  Percy sawed faster. After twenty minutes of constant work, he was only halfway through the steel link. Sweat pasted his shirt to his body, and every muscle in his arm was burning. He fell back in the weeds, exhausted, and then in the moonlight spotted a large rock by the river. He tossed the hacksaw aside and crawled on hands and knees to the rock. Taking the hatchet from the shed had been a good idea. With one well-placed chop—a direct hit to the weakened link—he was free.

  Yes!

  He was a new man. Chains still dangled from his ankles and wrists, but he could run now, if he had to—had he known where he was going. Heading back in the direction of the shed wasn’t an option. He continued downriver along the bank. His eyes were well adjusted to the night, but even so he walked straight into low-hanging branches. Several jabbed him hard enough to break the skin and draw blood. He soldiered on, but he was growing weaker. He’d burned more calories in the last two hours than he’d consumed in the last—how long was it? Five days? More?

  Hatchet-head had told him that the FBI was in the area. He was tempted to call out for help, but again he worried that a gang of racists might answer him. What he needed was perspective—a view from above to get the lay of the land. A poplar tree ahead looked suitable. He pulled himself up and climbed until the limbs were no longer big enough to support his weight. The forest was overgrown, so he didn’t get much of a view, but he swore he saw a light burning a few hundred yards ahead.

  A campsite, maybe?

  Percy climbed down from the tree. At ground level he could no longer see the light through the forest, but he had his general bearings. He would approach with caution, but the rattle of his chains would make it hard to go unnoticed. He started through the brush, walking in what he thought was the right direction. Just ahead, he saw the light again, but it wasn’t a campsite. It was a shack in a clearing, and the window was aglow. His pulse quickened as he moved toward it. He reached the clearing and stopped about twenty yards from the house. It was made of old, unpainted pine and had a sagging tin roof. There couldn’t have been more than two or three rooms inside. The light in the window flickered, which told him that it was probably from a kerosene lamp. There were no power lines connected to the house, so if it had electricity, it was from a generator, which definitely wasn’t running at the moment. The night was completely still, quiet enough for Percy to hear the whoosh of the flowing river.