by Rick Outzen
My rush to publish a controversial story had gotten me in trouble before. Frost had tried to shut down my paper over an article regarding him and one of his hunting buddies. In sworn testimony to a Florida Ethics Commission investigator, Frost had downplayed any personal connection with a vendor to whom he had given a five-million-dollar communications contract. The sheriff said he had no close relationship with the company’s owner and spent little time with him outside of the office. The investigator specifically asked about the rumor of hunting trips, which Frost denied.
When the daily newspaper printed a photo of the two standing over a moose they had killed in Wyoming in 2008, another communications vendor filed a complaint with the state attorney’s office, calling for an investigation of Frost for official misconduct, perjury, and false official statements. Clearly, the two were friends and hunting buddies.
We published an article on the investigation. Frost claimed the audiotape of the interview had been doctored and demanded a retraction. I refused. Two weeks later, the court reporter sent out a corrected transcript. After repeatedly listening to an audiotape of Frost’s statement, she determined that the sheriff hadn’t said he had never hunted with the new vendor. She corrected the transcript to say: “I hadn’t hunted with him this year.”
The complaint was withdrawn, the case closed, and no further action was taken against Frost. State Attorney Newton said that errors by court reporters were rare but not unusual. We had to admit that we had never listened to the tape. The newspaper was forced to print a retraction, even though we had only reported on what the complaint had said. Frost publicly threatened to sue us but never did.
Clark Spencer told me, “I’ve used court reporters for years, and this doesn’t happen often. There was no indication that this was anything other than an honest mistake by the court reporter.”
Peck delivered copies of the retraction to our major advertisers, and I spent weeks doing damage control to rebuild our image. Much later, I learned the court reporter’s son had been hired by the sheriff’s office.
“I need to be sure the note was written by Sue,” I said, refilling my coffee cup. “Would you mind if I take your note and have an expert compare it with the one I was given tonight?”
Dare slid both notes across the table to me. She picked up her mug again and drank, her face thoughtful. “Does today’s donation to Save Our Pensacola have anything to do with the note?” she asked. “Is Jace involved in this, too?”
“I don’t know.”
Slamming down her empty mug, Dare said, “Then what the hell do you know, Walker?”
“If the note is Sue’s, I know I have to publish it,” I said.
Then I put down my coffee cup and walked out the back door, heading for home. Big Boy would spend the night with Dare. No reason for both of us to lose sleep.
13
Walking back to the loft, I texted Gravy, my attorney: “Meet me for breakfast at CJ’s Kitchen 7 a.m.”
William “Gravy” Graves Jr. handled most of the newspaper’s legal issues. When local officials didn’t want to comply with a public records request or had any legal issue, I called Gravy.
Gravy was in his early forties, a committed bachelor, devoted ladies’ man, and one helluva trial attorney. Witnesses changed their underwear after he deposed them.
He got his nickname for his daily breakfast regimen of biscuits and gravy at CJ’s. No matter how late he was out the previous night, Gravy could be found every morning in the corner booth of the little diner on the western edge of downtown eating two big, open-faced biscuits smothered in creamy sausage gravy.
Gravy held the record for the shortest term on the county commission, twenty-three days. Fifteen years ago, Commissioner Joe Willis died suddenly of a heart attack on the weekend before the election while watching his beloved Florida Gators lose yet another football game when a last-second field goal veered wide right.
The governor despised the candidate who won the seat and refused to appoint the man to finish the last three weeks of Commissioner Willis’s term. Gravy was dining in the next booth at the Silver Slipper in Tallahassee when he overheard a conversation among the governor’s staff and offered to be a three-week commissioner.
Since then, Gravy and I toast whenever a county commissioner’s tenure hits the twenty-four-day mark. His record would never be broken.
At 7:05 a.m. Gravy sat in his spot, already making headway on his biscuits. He had the daily newspaper spread out in front of him. Dressed in Levi’s and a starched blue buttoned-down shirt, he looked fresh and ready to take on the day. He smiled at me broadly. I, on the other hand, felt and looked like crap.
Gravy ignored the circles under my eyes and waved to the waitress to bring me a cup of coffee.
“Before you tell me your latest crisis, did Sheriff Frost hand over the payroll records you needed?” he asked.
When I nodded in the affirmative, Gravy said, “Do you have any idea what I went through to get them?”
He said he had a client in his office last week when his cell phone kept vibrating.
“I didn’t have time to look at it, and it would have been rude.”
The phone would rest every few minutes and then start vibrating again until he finally turned it off. A few minutes later his secretary knocked on the door and handed him a fax with a four-word message: “Call me! Sheriff Frost.”
Gravy said, “I excused myself and called Frost’s office. They patched me straight to his cell phone.”
Frost told him that he would hand over the records I requested not because he gave a rat’s ass about Walker Holmes or his rag newspaper, but because he respected Gravy. And officers of the law should respect each other.
“He wanted me to know I owed him a favor,” said Gravy. “And he would hold me liable for how you used those records.”
I asked, “What did you say?”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” said Gravy, laughing.
He finished his last bite, threw his napkin on top of the plate, and pushed it away. He asked, “What’s your latest crisis?”
I handed him the note.
“Who is S E H?” Gravy asked.
When I told him, he whistled.
“It was delivered anonymously to me last night,” I said between sips of coffee. “Dare confirmed it’s Sue’s handwriting.”
Gravy’s smile disappeared. “Well, you need to hand it over to the state attorney.”
“I’m going to let you give it to them but not until I verify the handwriting,” I said. “Do you know someone who can do the analysis if I give them another sample of her writing?”
He said, “There’s a retired forensic tech in Mobile I’ve used before. My paralegal can drive it over to him, and we’ll probably get a reply in a few days, depending on how busy he is.” Gravy looked me in the eyes, “Once it’s analyzed, what will you do?”
“I’ll publish it,” I said. “Then, you can deliver it to the state attorney’s office.”
Gravy said, “The state attorney won’t be happy that you publish it before handing it over to his office, but as long as it’s Sue’s handwriting they can’t do much more than complain.”
“It’s Sue’s handwriting.”
“If it’s not, you might have to deal with an obstruction of justice charge, but it will be more bluff than reality,” said the attorney. “No one believes this is a homicide. There is no active investigation.”
Gravy pointed to the front page of the daily newspaper spread out on the table. The headline read “Hines Honors Wife, Opposes Park.”
He said, “However, anything you write will look like you’re attacking Bo Hines to clear your name. You’ll be playing into his argument that that you’re a tabloid publisher out for big headlines to attract readers and that you’re trying to sell ads at his expense. Is that wise?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll use words like ‘appears to be,’ ‘possibly,’ and ‘awaiting confirmation by experts’ to cover my ass.”
&
nbsp; Gravy just nodded and stared ahead while the harried waitress brought me the omelet I had ordered. After she had walked away, he asked, “What else do you want from me, other than being your errand boy?”
I told him about Bree and Monte Tatum. Gravy and Tatum graduated from Pensacola Catholic High, though Tatum was about six years older. I knew there was some bad blood between them, but not quite sure why.
“He’s an asshole,” Gravy said. “That sounds exactly like something he would do. He could never get a date like a normal person.”
As I tried to stomach the omelet, Gravy continued, “Tatum liked to hang around good-looking younger guys with pretty girlfriends. He came over to FSU when I was in school and hung around the fraternity house, even though he was in his mid-twenties. He partied with the young couples, bought them drinks, and got them drunk. Then he’d start feeding the girl cocaine on the side. The girl got hooked and would do anything with Tatum for more.”
He took a sip of his Tab. Who still drank Tab, especially for breakfast? I wondered.
“I had this girl I was seeing when I first moved back to Pensacola. Joy was a bank teller, a sweet girl, beautiful. We were in bed one night. I got up to go the bathroom, and she was gone when I returned. Joy left in such a hurry she forgot her phone on the nightstand. The phone log showed she had just received a call from Tatum. When I confronted her about it, Joy told me he had coke for her.”
I said, “I thought Tatum had cleaned up his act and was all respectable now.”
“Maybe but a guy like that doesn’t ever change,” Gravy said. “Tatum dumped Joy two weeks after I ended our relationship. She couldn’t give up the coke and went to jail for writing bad checks. I worked out a plea agreement and she eventually moved to Orlando.”
“Could you put out a few feelers and see if any other women have stories like Bree’s?” I asked.
“Sure, but others may be too embarrassed to talk.”
“Give it a shot. I will ask Harden to do the same,” I said.
Gravy nodded and started to gather up his newspaper.
“Anything else you need from me?” he asked.
“What do you think will be the fallout from the suicide note?”
“Like I said, the state attorney will be pissed if you go public with the note before giving it to him. If his wife wrote it, Bo Hines looks guilty as hell. The prosecutors will have to take him to trial. Hell, the public will demand it.”
Gravy took another sip of his Tab. “Part of the town will applaud your investigative skills. The others will hate you for it. It definitely will help you sell papers.”
“My papers are free.”
“Then you’re a dumb ass.”
“I know.”
“You never cease to amaze me,” Gravy said, folding up the wrinkled papers. “I’ve never seen someone so focused on self-destruction, but I’m glad you’re here. I will try to smooth things over with the state attorney.”
“Gravy, all this is somehow linked. Posting the note on the blog will be how we fish for more leads. Maybe someone will want to talk once they read it.”
“And the nuts will crucify you,” Gravy said as he got up to pay the bill. “But you’re used to that.”
I gave him the suicide note and the sample of Sue’s writing Dare had given me. I didn’t mention that the cover story on Sheriff Frost’s payroll would be on the newsstands Thursday morning. Gravy might have wanted to have me committed to a psychiatric ward.
When I got back to the office, Big Boy was lying at the backdoor. Dare had tied his leash to a nearby lamppost and a note was attached to his collar.
“I fed him two spicy burritos for breakfast. Have fun!—Dare.”
Big Boy passed gas all the way up the stairs. He didn’t even acknowledge that I was walking behind him. After a shower, I felt better. The dog demanded I take him for a walk. Considering his breakfast, I agreed. Fortunately, a cool breeze blew off the bay.
I picked up a copy of the Pensacola Herald as we walked and read about Hines and his brother-in-law’s performance at the Save Our Pensacola meeting during Big Boy’s many pit stops. The two lavishly praised Sue and were quoted saying their efforts to stop the park were to create an environment-friendly park to honor her memory. One section would be kept completely natural and off-limits to even the public. They weren’t going to let a carpetbagger ruin the people’s waterfront. A. J. Kettler could build his ballpark elsewhere.
Hines hinted his “legal troubles” were behind him, and his attorneys had indicated all charges against him might be dropped.
“It was a witch hunt perpetrated by someone trying to make a name for himself, someone I thought was a friend,” Hines told the reporter, who was more than happy to include it in the article. “We have cooperated fully with the authorities, and they agree I’m innocent.”
My old friend aimed one solid shot at me. “And once all the charges are dropped I plan to sue Walker Holmes and the Pensacola Insider for libel and defamation, and I will win. It’s time we end the negative influence that they have had on Pensacola. I can’t bring back Sue, but I can avenge her death.”
14
The paper ran smoothly for a change. Mal had received the last outstanding ad, and she had printed me the pages for one last read through. No matter how many times you looked at the pages, there was always something you missed. Roxie took a break from working on the Best of the Coast sales and looked over the pages, too. The only one missing was Doug. Mal and Roxie made sure I noticed his absence.
“You’ve got to quit babying him,” said Mal, in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear.
“He’s fine and still growing into the job,” I said.
“But he isn’t getting better at making deadlines.”
For the next two hours, we worked on the cutlines and pull quotes, and Mal loaded the pages up on the printer’s FTP site. Mal and Teddy’s friend Kyle completed the database with all the salary information so that readers could search online for the pay of their “favorite” deputies. We tested the web page, and it worked splendidly.
“Frost’s head will explode when the issue hits the stands tomorrow and he realizes how easily voters can check out his payroll,” I said to Mal and Teddy.
“It could make for some uncomfortable nights for you,” said Teddy.
“I’ll do more walking than driving,” I replied. “This is a nice change of direction from all the Hines reporting.”
“But how many chainsaws can you juggle?” chimed Mal. “One slip and you lose a limb.”
We all laughed, but Mal did have a point.
Summer pulled me aside and asked to talk with me in the conference room.
“My paycheck bounced,” she whispered.
“How? Everything looked fine yesterday.”
She said, “The bank put a hold on the McGliney check for some reason and didn’t give us credit for it. They returned my check and the Gulf Power payment NSF.”
“Give me some time,” I told her. “I’ll take care of it.”
After thirty minutes working my way up the food chain at the bank, a vice president agreed to release the deposit. Unfortunately, the amount wouldn’t show up until after midnight. Meanwhile, Summer had to worry about her rent check and car note payment.
“I’m sorry,” Summer said after we had gotten the bank to release the deposit. “I should have held my paycheck until I knew the funds were available.”
“No, this is my problem,” I said. I had some cash in my savings account and withdrew enough to cover her check.
Handing her the cash, I said, “Go ahead and take off the rest of the afternoon. Give your landlord and the finance company cash for your payments, explaining that there was a screw up with your bank account.”
“You don’t have to do this,” she said.
“Yes, I do. I’ll also cover any bank charges.”
Summer looked relieved. I said, “Let me buy you dinner today.”
“Okay,” she said as she
went back to her desk to get her purse and keys. “Remember I’m vegan,” she added.
Of course, I thought. “What do vegans eat?” I texted Gravy. He replied, “Try oysters. They don’t have a central nervous system.”
“Huh?”
Gravy answered, “They don’t feel pain like other animals so you may get away with it. I’m not sure that the strict vegans buy that explanation, but living on the Gulf with all our seafood has some of the local ones willing to make an exception.”
After spending a good part of her afternoon covering her bad checks, Summer had a friend drop her off at the office at six o’clock. She wore a bright orange sundress, make-up, and looked spectacular. I asked if she would like to eat at the Atlas Oyster House.
“Sure, I love oysters,” she said.
We sat on the Atlas deck that overlooked Pitts Slip, a marina outside the Port of Pensacola that opened to Pensacola Bay. In the distance, the traffic had backed up on the Three-Mile Bridge. Flashing lights signaled an accident at about the midpoint.
A light breeze came off the water, and the temperature had dropped to the high seventies. The place wasn’t crowded but had a respectable number of patrons.
Summer pulled at her brunette hair as she talked, twirling it around her finger. I couldn’t tell if it was a nervous habit or just a habit. She had originally moved to Pensacola from Michigan with her Navy aviator boyfriend. When I asked where in Michigan, she held up her palm, which resembled the state, and pointed to a spot a half-inch below her index finger. Summer said, “I grew up here.”
Her boyfriend had earned his wings and was transferred to Corpus Christi. Summer decided to stay. “I wasn’t cut out to be a Navy wife. Playing second to his naval career wasn’t for me.”
She had a soft voice and a wicked smile. The waiter immediately became infatuated with her, which meant we had no trouble with service. Our beer mugs were never empty.
Summer had worked for the newspaper since mid-April. The first time I met her, she walked into the office and said she loved the paper and wanted to join the staff. Mal and Roxie liked her, so I hired her for twelve dollars an hour. If those two didn’t like her, Summer wouldn’t have had a chance. Yoste, on the other hand, was my hire, which somewhat explained his difficulties.
