Vindication

by H. Terrell Griffin

As we talked, I was watching through the plate-glass windows that fronted the diner, trying to see what kind of car the bearded man was driving. It turned out to be a motorcycle, a big Harley with a very loud engine and inadequate muffler. The license plate was too small for me to see from my vantage point.

  I put a ten-dollar bill on the table for the waitress and left. I had noticed that the man’s beard was attached to his face by spirit gum. When I was standing face-to-face with him, I could see the remnants of the adhesive, and up close the beard’s color didn’t quite match the hair on his head. It was a disguise, and a pretty good one. About all I could see was his nose. His eyes were hidden by the sunglasses and the rest of his face by the fake beard, his head by the ball cap. I wished I’d tried to pull the beard off his face, but the manager was trying to defuse the situation, and I didn’t want to raise the ruckus any higher.

  The weather was so pleasant I decided to drive the cart up to Lake Sumter Landing for a latté at Starbucks. I still had a bit of the newspaper to read, and sitting at an outside table with a latté was a good way to finish the morning. After that, I’d decide how to spend the rest of the day in a place where I knew almost nobody. Too bad I wasn’t a golfer.

  I drove along one of the multi-modal paths that bordered golf courses, small lakes that were really carefully disguised retention ponds, and past the entrance gates to several of the villages. People waved and smiled, and cars exiting the neighborhoods stopped to let the golf carts pass. The air was filled with a sense of happiness, or goodwill, or maybe just well-being. I could understand why Aunt Esther had found her home here.

  The warm weather, the blossoms on the shrubs that lined the path, the flowers at the roundabouts, and the friendly people made for a pleasant ride. But dark thoughts intruded. I had been a bit shaken by the confrontation at Darrell’s Diner. Who was the bearded man and how did he know I would be having breakfast there that morning? What was his stake in all this? Why would he think getting rid of me would change anything? I would have made certain that Esther had a good lawyer if for any reason I couldn’t continue to represent her. Who was he working for, or did he have some direct part in the murder? Did I have to be on my guard, watch out for him? Were there others who might want to do me harm? Musings of a paranoiac? Maybe. But as the old saying goes, even paranoiacs have enemies.

  Lake Sumter Landing is one of the three town squares in The Villages. It was fashioned after a New England village with buildings that looked like they’d been there for a century. There were even plaques attached to many of them that gave a history of the buildings, what they’d been in the nineteenth century, or which historical person had lived there. It was all fantasy. The buildings were only a few years old and the bits of history displayed on the plaques were nothing more than little stories made up by the developer’s advertising agency. It all worked to provide an agreeable setting that was often described as a Disney World for retirees. I liked the place.

  Starbucks was located on a street named Old Mill Run and squeezed between a breezeway and a men’s clothing store. Market Square, the entertainment venue, was directly across the street. I ordered my latté and found a seat at a table on the sidewalk. I sat and sipped and watched the parade of people ambling by, a collection of couples and individuals clad in a variety of dress. Most of them were of retirement age, but there were a few younger couples accompanying them, some with children, all part of the families of the villagers. Many of the men, veterans who had fought the war in Vietnam or manned the line to ensure peace during the Cold War, sported ball caps bearing the logos of a military service or the name of a Navy ship or an Army or Marine regiment or division. It was a justifiable emblem of pride, a testament to a part of their youth that had been consumed by duty. Only about 7 percent of the American people have ever worn the uniform, served in the armed forces, and dedicated a part of their lives to the nation that sustained them. These aging men had well earned the right to wear those hats.

  My thoughts drifted back to the altercation at Darrell’s Diner. How had the bearded man found me? I thought it would be simple enough for somebody to park near Esther’s house and follow me. But who knew I was staying at Esther’s? My car had been parked in her driveway overnight, but finding my car there would be like locating the proverbial needle in a field of haystacks. Even if he knew my car and tag number, he wouldn’t have found my car since the one I was driving was the one I’d rented at the Atlanta airport on Thursday.

  It was not outside the realm of possibility that he just happened to see me in Esther’s cart, recognized me, and followed me to the diner. That seemed a little far-fetched.

  There were three questions that had to be answered to solve the riddle of the bearded man. First, how did he know I was in Darrell’s Diner on a Sunday at midmorning? Secondly, who was he? Thirdly, why threaten me? There was no order to the questions, but once I had the answers to all three, I’d be able to respond and neutralize the threat. And I was pretty sure it was an ongoing threat, not a onetime thing.

  I called Jock. “What’re you doing?” I asked when he answered.

  “Sitting on your patio, drinking your coffee, and enjoying your view. You miss me?”

  “No. I wanted to run something by you.”

  “Shoot.”

  I told him about my encounter at the diner. “Do you have any thoughts?”

  “I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Does Esther have an extra bunk?”

  “No need for you to come up here. I can handle this. I just thought you might have some suggestions.”

  “My suggestion is that I’m on my way.”

  “I’m fine, Jock. I don’t need your help.”

  “Yeah, but J.D. might. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” He hung up.

  I started to call him back and tell him to stay put, but if there was anything I’d learned about Jock Algren over all the years I’d known him, it was that he was single-minded. If he thought either J.D. or I might be in the slightest bit of danger, he’d be on his way to help. And of all the men in the world, the one I’d most want in my corner in the event of trouble was Jock. I really hadn’t meant for him to come rushing up, but to be honest, I already felt better. I also felt a little like a wuss. For God’s sake, I was once an Army ranger and a Green Beret. I knew how to take care of myself. But I was glad Jock was on his way.

  CHAPTER 29

  I CALLED J.D. and told her about my run-in with the bearded man and that Jock was on his way to The Villages. “I’m glad he’s coming,” she said. “He can help us figure out who that guy was this morning. Do you think he might be trying to protect the real murderer?”

  “That crossed my mind. I can’t think of any other reason somebody would want to interfere with Esther’s trial.”

  “We have to figure out who he’s protecting.”

  “I agree. If we do that, we’ll know who the real killer is.”

  “Where is Jock going to stay?”

  “I guess with me at Aunt Esther’s.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s keep him undercover. He can be my boyfriend visiting from Miami. If he’s living with you, he won’t be much good at finding the bearded man.”

  “As much as I love you both, I’m not going to have him sharing a bed with you.”

  “Judy’s got three bedrooms.”

  “He can stay in one of the hotels. He can still be your boyfriend, but it won’t crowd Judy, and you won’t be tempted.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe I won’t be tempted.”

  “Right. I’ll tell him he’s going to be stuck in a hotel for a few days.” I looked at my watch. “It’s not quite eleven yet. Maybe the three of us can get together for lunch.”

  “Where? We have to be very careful, you know.”

  “I’ll think of something and get back to you.”

  I called Jock and told him to meet us in the pa
rking lot of the truck stop on I-75 at the Highway 44 exit at Wildwood. “J.D. and I want to have lunch with you. We’re going to have to put you in a hotel, but the good news is that you get to be J.D.’s boyfriend for a few days.”

  “With privileges?”

  I laughed. “It’s okay by me, but I wouldn’t set my heart on it if I were you.” I hung up.

  The parking lot at the TA truck stop was crowded with eighteen-wheelers bearing logos of companies from all over North America. It was a huge place, offering every service that a long-haul driver could want. It was a little after one o’clock in the afternoon and many of the professional drivers were finishing their lunches and mounting up, pointing their rigs north or south, moving out to deliver their loads to some distant terminal. They were prepared for hours of boredom and moments of terror as unwitting amateurs drove their cars maniacally in hopes of shaving a couple of minutes off their trips. And later, in another truck stop not unlike this one, they would find time to rest, perhaps sleep, have a warm meal and a bit of camaraderie with other members of their fraternity.

  The drivers, mostly men and a few women, were dressed in blue-collar fashion, jeans, boots, and button-up shirts topped by the ubiquitous ball caps with a million different logos. They carried to-go cups of steaming coffee, the elixir meant to heighten their alertness. Among the crowd leaving the restaurant, I spotted a nattily dressed man with a runner’s wiry physique, wearing black trousers, a black silk shirt, tasseled Italian loafers made of expensive leather, and a plain black ball cap. No logo to mar the monochromatic look. He walked with one shoulder lower than the other, eyes alert, a man completely aware of his surroundings. Jock had arrived and he was carrying his own Styrofoam cup of coffee, a grin spreading over his face. “Hey, podna,” he said. “Glad you could make it.”

  “You’re looking very monochromatic today,” I said.

  “Not really. Black is not considered chromatic, mono or otherwise. Actually, I’m achromatic.”

  “Then I must say you’re looking very achromatic today. For an asshole.”

  “Good to see you, too. I can’t say that I’ve missed you while I’ve been enjoying your hospitality on Longboat Key. It’s better when you’re not there.”

  I saw him coming out of the corner of my eye, a short stump of a man, maybe five-six and two hundred pounds of solid gristle. He was moving at a fast walk and carrying an athletic sock in his left hand, the toe filled with weight, rolls of quarters probably. “You bastard,” he said in a low growl. “You broke my brother’s thumb.”

  His left arm was moving up and over his head in preparation for beaning me with whatever was in the sock. I was turning toward the man, readying myself to meet his onslaught and disarm him. About five feet separated us when I saw Jock step between us and with a quick underhanded movement, threw his hot coffee, cup and all, into the man’s face. The squat assailant let out a howl and dropped the sock, putting both hands to his face in a futile attempt to stop the pain triggered by hot coffee meeting facial skin. His momentum was carrying him straight toward Jock, whose right hand was just completing the movement that had loosed the coffee when he swiveled on his left foot and brought his right foot forcibly into the outside of the left knee of the oncoming creep. The chunky man fell to the pavement, one hand grabbing for his knee and the other still trying to wipe the coffee from his face.

  The action took only a second, certainly no more than two or three. Jock’s quickness was legendary and had been a part of his physical repertoire since he quarterbacked our high school football team to a conference championship. “I was handling this,” I said, deadpanning.

  “Sorry I interrupted,” he said, “but I saw J.D. drive in and thought you might be distracted.” He pointed to J.D.’s red Camry just driving into the parking lot.

  I pulled out my cell phone and hit the J.D. speed-dial button. She picked up. “Keep driving,” I said. “Park on the other side of the lot and wait in the restaurant.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t quibble. She knew I wouldn’t have used a certain tone of voice and ordered her to do something if it weren’t important.

  “She’s driving her own car,” Jock said. “Aren’t you afraid somebody will check up on her tag number?”

  “She borrowed a plate from the LBKPD. They jiggered the Department of Motor Vehicle’s database to show that tag belonging to a woman named Jade Conway at a nonexistent address in Miami. It’d take some real digging to get past that.”

  “What’re we going to do with this jerk?” Jock asked.

  The man was lying on the pavement, groaning. Usually a small crowd would have gathered after somebody got the crap beat out of him, but these truck drivers had schedules to meet and didn’t have time to hang around talking to cops. The air was full of cranking diesels as Jock and I stood over the poor guy curled into a fetal position.

  “Should we call an ambulance?” I asked.

  Jock bent down and pulled the man’s hand from his face, took a quick look, and moved to his knee. He wiggled it, drawing a moan from its owner. Jock stood. “He’s okay. I pulled the kick so it didn’t destroy the knee. He’ll be limping for a few days, but nothing serious. His face looks like he got a pretty good sunburn. No big deal. I think we ought to kill him.”

  “Here?”

  “You never know who’s looking out a window. Let’s put him in my trunk and find some woods. You got your pistol?”

  “In the car,” I said.

  “Is it traceable?”

  “Nah. I took it off that cop we killed last month.”

  “Hold it, man,” the man on the ground said. “I didn’t mean no harm. Why you want to kill me?”

  “You tried to hit me with that sock,” I said.

  “Just a little tap. That’s all.” The man sat up, a pleading look on his face. “It wasn’t nothing personal. You hurt my brother, that’s all.”

  “Why was your brother bothering me this morning?”

  “That’s a secret, man. I can’t talk about that.”

  “Let’s kill him,” Jock said.

  “If you kill me, you won’t find out why my brother came to see you this morning.”

  “Man has a point,” Jock said.

  “We could torture him some before we kill him,” I said. “That’d probably get him in the mood to tell us what we want to know.”

  Jock looked down at the man. “I think my buddy’s right. Let’s get you in my trunk. Can you walk?”

  “Hold on now. There’s an old lady involved here. You don’t wanna be causing her any harm.”

  “Wouldn’t be my first old lady,” Jock said. “What about you, buddy?”

  “Nah,” I said. “Wouldn’t bother me a bit. She probably hasn’t got long, anyway. We’d be doing her a favor.”

  “That’s my grandma,” the man on the ground said. “You shouldn’t be talking about her that way.”

  “I have a suggestion,” I said. “If we take you to the woods, you’ll tell us her name and where she lives. Sooner or later, you’ll be wanting to tell us everything you know. Probably about the time we get the branding iron heated up. But maybe we can compromise.”

  “I don’t see why not,” the man said. “What’s the deal?”

  “Tell us what’s going on, why you and your brother are bothering the hell out of me, and we’ll just have a little talk with your grandma. Warn her, you know. We won’t hurt her.”

  “What about me?”

  “Oh,” I said. “We’re still going to kill you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a pusillanimous pissant.”

  “I don’t know what that is. Is it an insult?”

  “Can the truth be considered an insult?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Okay,” he said. “No offense taken. Look, I got a little farm up in Georgia I could give you if you let me go.”

  “Where in Georgia?”

  “Up near Homerville. Can I stand up?”


  I nodded. He rose and we looked like three guys standing on a parking lot passing the time of day. “Homerville’s in wiregrass country,” I said.

  “Yessir. You’d like that farm. Enough room for you and your friend here.”

  “If we let you go, where will you go?”

  “Home, man.”

  “I’d have to have your contact information in case I need to find you.”

  “Why would you need to find me?”

  “If anything you tell me proves not to be true, I’ll have to come find you. Or if you or any other member of your annoying family ever bothers me or my friend again, you and I’ll have to have a discussion.”

  “Just talk?”

  “Yep. Then I’ll kill you.”

  “And I can go home today?”

  “Yep.”

  “Can I take my brother?”

  “Sure.”

  “And if I never talk about nothing again, we’ll be okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then we have a deal?”

  “We have a deal,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Lionel Steerman. People call me Chunk.”

  “And your brother?”

  “Nope. Just me. We call him Biggun.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “Buford Steerman.”

  “And where does he live?”

  “Kinda next door to me. He has a hog farm down the road.”

  “What’s your grandmother’s name?”

  “Sally Steerman.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “In The Villages.”

  “What’s her address?”

  “I don’t know, man. I could show you her place, but I can’t tell you how to get there.”

  “We’ll find her.”

  “You’re not going to hurt her, are you?”

  “Not if you cooperate.”

  “I’ll cooperate. I am cooperating, ain’t I?”

  “You got a phone up there at your hog farm?”

  “Well, I don’t have a hog farm. I raise chickens.”

  “Phone?”

  “Yep.” He gave me the number. “You going to call me?”