City of Grudges

by Rick Outzen

  Having served six years as the Escambia County sheriff, Frost had survived four grand jury investigations and several ethics complaints. His campaign war chest rivaled that of any US senator. No one messed with Sheriff Frost—except for me.

  Frost nodded as I walked in and motioned for me to sit down. The waitress put down her newspaper and brought me a cup of coffee, then moved away from the table as quickly as possible. Firework shows were better seen from a safe distance.

  The sheriff and I had initially gotten off to a bad start when I wrote an April Fools’ article about him using the department’s helicopter for pizza delivery. Little did I know that he had actually done so. Sheriff Frost didn’t like people laughing at him.

  When he came to the Insider to complain, his gun got caught in the arm of the old lawn chair that I had put by my desk. Back then, I used lawn chairs for office furniture. Frost couldn’t get up without dragging the bright orange chair with him. No, Sheriff Frost didn’t like to be made to look ridiculous either.

  Frost had tried several times to put me out of business. Peck and the goon squad picked up papers from the racks and threw them in the nearest dumpster. They visited advertisers and pressured my investors. In the end, nothing worked. We still published every Thursday. I still wrote. He won reelection in 2008. We had reached a stalemate. I couldn’t put Frost out of office, and he couldn’t stop the presses.

  Our latest game involved public record requests. The Florida Public Records Law gave the public access to local and state government records, including all documents, papers, letters, photographs, films, sound recordings, and other records that were made or received in connection with government agency business. The Florida Supreme Court further enforced the law by ruling that public records encompassed all material prepared to “perpetuate, communicate, or formalize knowledge,” which expanded the law to cover emails, text messages and voicemail.

  The law had made it possible for the public and news media to understand how and why elected officials and other government officials made decisions. There were certain exemptions of course, but the deputies’ salaries were public record.

  Though the state statutes were on our side, nothing was straightforward when you dealt with the Escambia County Sheriff’s Office. We sent our requests via email, and Frost always did his best to figure out why we needed the information and dragged out delivering the records for as long as possible.

  When I sat down at his table in the Garden Street Deli, Frost smiled and shoved a folder across the table. He said, “Here is the salary spreadsheet that you requested.”

  “Thank you, this only took four weeks,” I said tapping the folder. “We asked for the information in a digital format.”

  “Our records department will be emailing it to you later this afternoon.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and took another sip of coffee. I waited and drank from my mug, too.

  “Holmes, you are a hard-ass. I don’t know why you and I can’t get along. People tell me you are a reasonable fellow.”

  It was my turn to shrug and take another sip.

  “Word is out that you oppose my request for raises for the deputies,” Frost continued. “I’m losing deputies to higher paying jobs in other counties, to the Florida Highway Patrol, the Pensacola Police Department, and the Florida Department of Corrections.”

  True, the starting salary for deputies was about five thousand dollars less than other law enforcement agencies.

  “The budgeted three-percent average merit increase the commissioners approved meant less than seven hundred dollars a year for my deputies,” Frost said, getting more passionate and sincere with each word. “A rookie deputy in Escambia County with two children is eligible for food stamps.”

  Frost placed both elbows on the table, cradling his cup in his bony hands, and took a big sip.

  “Sheriff, last fiscal year you had two and a half million dollars budgeted for personnel that you didn’t spend on pay increases,” I pointed out. “You spent nearly two million on office furniture and renovations, a helicopter, and computer systems. The rest you returned to the county. You should be able to find money for your pay raises somewhere inside your $80-million-plus budget.”

  Frost’s eyes blazed. “We streamlined our operations and found we didn’t need all the positions in the original budget,” he said. “As a constitutional officer of the county, I had the authority to spend those funds on those items I felt would improve public safety and reduce expenditures in coming years. Didn’t you read the press release?”

  Frost had banned the Pensacola Insider from all ECSO press conferences. We received no press releases from his office.

  He said, “We chose not to use the money on salaries because we couldn’t guarantee that the funds would be there in future years. It would be unfair to the men and women who are risking their lives every day.”

  The injustice of Frost’s situation almost warranted tears, but instead I took a sip of coffee.

  “Frost, what you are not saying is that many deputies are far from being underpaid. A master deputy’s salary averages sixty-two grand a year, while a senior deputy’s annual salary in the mid-fifties. You have twenty-five sergeants making that. All are excellent salaries for this market.”

  I saw that Frost wondered how I knew this. He almost interrupted me but instead drank from his coffee mug. I waited him out.

  “Holmes, I don’t know where you’re getting your numbers, but I’ve got deputies working two jobs to make ends meet.”

  “Yes, but most of those jobs are off-duty security work that Captain Peck assigns.”

  “Listen, I’ve lost forty-two deputies this year. Part of the problem is that people are retiring, but a major reason for the losses is the inadequate pay.”

  We both leaned back in our chairs, and Act II of the drama began.

  “Okay, Sheriff. Your concerns are duly noted.”

  The sheriff had other things on his mind. “My people are wondering about your connections to Sue Hines,” he said. “Can you account for your whereabouts yesterday?”

  “Screw you, Frost.” I barely held back my anger.

  “No need to raise your voice, Holmes,” said Frost. “The state attorney wants to know if you have an alibi just in case it comes up.”

  “I haven’t seen or spoken with Mrs. Hines for weeks. We worked late last night getting the paper out and grabbed a beer at Intermission afterward. Besides if the state attorney wanted to ask me a question, he would have called me himself.”

  “We may need names of people who saw you at the bar.”

  “Screw you, Frost,” I repeated with a little more volume and edge to my voice.

  The sheriff raised his deep baritone voice. “Don’t give me that crap, Holmes, or I will take you into Investigations in handcuffs.”

  Frost’s temper was legendary. Things happened when he lost it. None of them good. When he divorced his first wife, they had a bitter fight over a lake house in north Santa Rosa County. The house burned to the ground days after he signed divorce papers and before his ex could insure the structure. The cause was never determined.

  Frost caught himself. He took a deep breath and another sip of coffee.

  “You really get my goat, Holmes. I promised my chief deputy that I would try to work this out with you. You aren’t good for my blood pressure.”

  “Sheriff, if you want a statement from me, call my attorney. Otherwise, look elsewhere for your scapegoats.”

  Frost sat his cup down, pushed back from the table, and stood up. The grim look on his face indicated the conversation hadn’t gone as he had wanted. Again, I made a mental note not to drive my car outside the city limits.

  “Remember I tried to work with you,” he said as he headed for the door. Mal wasn’t going to be happy. Frost clearly had no intention of emailing us digital files of his payroll.

  My cell phone vibrated as Frost walked out of the deli. Summer had perfect timing. I delivered the loan payment t
o the bank and prayed that tomorrow’s bank deposit would be a good one.

  Only half a block from my office, Intermission sat across from the Escambia County Courthouse, which made it an excellent place to eavesdrop. Narrow like most of the bars and restaurants along Palafox Street, the bar itself stretched the length of the front room. Small tables with two or three chairs were arranged on the tiled floor in no particular pattern in the space between the bar and the dartboard, Golden Tee, and other video games on the opposite wall. Pool tables sat in the back by the restrooms.

  The menu was limited—pretzels and, if you were lucky, peanuts. Nothing on tap, but every bottled beer imaginable stocked the coolers behind the bar. It was Wednesday happy hour, so there was no live music, but Journey played on the jukebox as I walked in wearing my fourth white button-down of the day.

  Maybe I should cut back on my walking and use my Jeep more so that I didn’t go through so many shirts in a day. I did a quick calculation and decided my laundry bill was still cheaper than a tank of gas.

  The bartender handed me a Bud Light and brought me a basket of pretzels and nuts. I smiled. Things might be looking up.

  Bree Kress walked in, and the bartender sucked in his gut and rushed to take her drink order—Bud Light. She had left her cover-up in her car, and the tattoo sleeve on her right arm almost took my eyes off her athletic frame. She had muscles and curves, and everyone in the bar noted her arrival.

  Ignoring the attention, Bree smiled and gave me a hug.

  “That was quite a show you put on at the cafe this morning,” she said with a half smile. “How’s your head?”

  “Throbbing but this should help,” I said as I took a swig of my Bud Light. “Thank you for your help. I’ll get the shirt back to you after I do laundry.”

  “Keep it. The owner has no idea how many shirts we have in inventory. She’ll get a kick out of seeing you wear it when you walk Big Boy.”

  Everybody on Palafox knew Big Boy. Bree had even taken him a few times on her daily runs. The dog thought the crowd stopped to look at him when they ran. Bree acted like that was why, too.

  Bree had interned with the newspaper when she was in college, filling in for Mal when she took off for her annual summer concert tour, Bonnaroo, Summerfest, and Essence. She had finished at the top of her graphic design class at Pensacola State College. Now 32, she was one of the most sought after freelance graphic artists in the area.

  She had some financial success designing logos for bands that were inspired by their music. Her posters for their concert tours sold well, and she had also designed our last two Best of the Coast award posters. She wanted to get into the corporate world and help with branding, but the companies in Northwest Florida weren’t willing to pay much. I knew that she was interviewing with agencies in New Orleans and Atlanta.

  “How’s the job search going?” I asked her.

  “Walker, that’s why I wanted to talk with you,” she said. “I think I’m going to get a job offer from one of the top firms in New Orleans. It’s my dream job.”

  “Great! You have a gift for design,” I said. “If you need a reference or anything, I’m in your corner.”

  She said, “I’ve already given them your name and number, but that’s not the problem.”

  Bree paused and gathered herself. “I was so stupid and probably blew it and any future good job outside of this shithole.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “Nothing can be that bad. You’re too talented to stay here.”

  She looked at me, fighting back the tears in her eyes. “I was so stupid.”

  “What? Did they throw something at you during the interviews that you weren’t prepared for?”

  “No, the interviews went well . . . but the background check worries me, and they are not done with that.”

  “If there’s a post on Facebook or somewhere else on social media, I’ve got friends that can take care of it,” I assured her.

  “This is bigger than that,” Bree said. “I got drunk a month or so ago and did something I regret.”

  “What?” I asked, signaling the bartender to bring us another round.

  She pushed back her brown bangs, and said, “This town is so difficult for women like me. Single, in my thirties, intelligent. All the good guys are married. Those who aren’t have so many issues—they are sadistic misogynists or mommy’s boys or focused on their careers or Peter Pans that never grew up.”

  I hoped she didn’t include me in that group of misfits.

  Bree took a sip of her beer and seemed to be gathering her emotions before saying, “A woman has to have her defenses up at all times.”

  I nodded in agreement. “What happened?”

  “I was celebrating how well my job interviews had gone with my girlfriends,” she began. “We had dinner and drinks. Somebody suggested we end our night with shots at The Green Olive. Have you ever been there?”

  “No,” I said.

  “It’s a dive, but sort of cool, I guess. One of my friends wanted to meet her boyfriend there, and another said she knew the owner and could get us free shots of Fireball. I didn’t have my car so I was at the mercy of the group.”

  I didn’t interrupt her, knowing that she needed to tell this at her own pace.

  She continued, “The owner, Monte Tatum, came over to our table. When he found out what we were celebrating, he bought us a round.”

  “He’s a little old for your crowd, isn’t he?” I asked.

  Monte Tatum was a Pensacola rich boy—a fortysomething hipster wannabe who was a few years older than me. During his twenties and early thirties he bounced around from job to job until his dad died, leaving him a chain of dry cleaners in Escambia and Santa Rosa counties. To everyone’s surprise, he didn’t piss the money away.

  Tatum bought out his sisters, cleaned up his act, and ran for District 4 seat on the Escambia County Commission and lost a tight race. The Insider had endorsed his opponent, which didn’t make Tatum a fan of mine. After the election he sold off the dry cleaning company and purchased The Green Olive, where it was rumored that he may have returned to his earlier ways.

  Bree’s story wasn’t one I wanted to hear. I tried to only show empathy in my expression.

  “I was already pretty drunk by then,” Bree said. “He’s pretty good-looking and was dressed professionally and smelled nice. And he had good manners, never too pushy or forward.”

  Bree took another sip of her beer. She kept pulling back her bangs and playing with her bracelets. This wasn’t easy for her. This woman read F. Scott Fitzgerald, E. M. Forster, and Flannery O’Conner. She volunteered at the Pensacola Humane Society and took care of rescue dogs.

  Bree continued, “Gradually my girlfriends began to peel off. I was left with Tatum who kept buying me drinks. I remember kissing him, but little else. I woke up the next morning in his bedroom.”

  That son-of-bitch, Tatum, I thought. I had heard he had a way of breaking down women’s defenses by appearing to be a little dopey and harmless. He spent a great deal of money on his looks and clothing to pass as being younger than he was. He splurged on his dates by dining at Jackson’s and other expensive restaurants, but he was careful never to come on too strong at first.

  When the women began to relax and settle into what they thought might be a nice relationship, he’d pounce. His conversation would get crude and sexual. His hands would be all over them.

  If a woman was offended, Tatum backed off. He’d say she had either misunderstood his actions or he had misinterpreted her interest in him. The next day he would send her flowers, or maybe an expensive gift, but would cross the line again in a few days. The cycle of aggressive behavior would continue until the woman realized Tatum wasn’t capable of any meaningful long-term relationship. There was a reason the 48-year-old man had never been married. She would stop taking his calls. If she was lucky, he’d get bored with her and moved on to other targets. I had heard some dark stories about his “breakups” that had not ende
d smoothly.

  Bree said, “I know, I know. I see it in your eyes. You think I was stupid to hang around Tatum and not just leave when my girlfriends disappeared.”

  “Stupidity has nothing to do with this. I’m holding back my anger,” I said. “Do you think you were drugged?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “But there’s a bigger problem than regretting a one-night stand or being taken advantage of by this nasty guy.”

  “What?”

  “I found evidence that morning that he’d videotaped us having sex. When I confronted him later, he even bragged about how good I looked in it,” she said. “I’ve begged and threatened him, and even offered to buy the damn video, but he refuses to destroy it, saying it’s part of his private conquest collection.”

  I set down my beer and clenched my fists. I wanted to punch someone, something.

  Bree continued, “If the video ends up on some sleazy website, I’m ruined. I can’t stop thinking about him and his buddies getting high and watching it every night.”

  I stilled my temper and tried to reassure her. “The chances of your new employer finding out about this are slim. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t live having this over my head. Tatum’s cruel enough to send it to them.”

  Bree was right. Tatum might not be the brightest candle on the cake—after all, it took him seven years to graduate from the University of Southern Mississippi where coloring was his major—but Tatum relished singling out people to harass and bedevil, and he was very good at it. He always had to have an enemy to defeat. He had spent thousands of dollars trying to discredit the man who beat him in the commission race. He had his bartenders create a blog that regularly attacked anyone Tatum believed had slighted him. I had been mentioned several times on the site.