A Beautiful Child

by Matt Birkbeck

  Another witness said Floyd admitted he killed the boy and placed him in a drainpipe being prepared for the 1996 Atlanta Olympic Games.

  The FBI and local police searched lakes, streams, and riverbeds throughout the Atlanta area, but found nothing.

  The most disturbing, and believable, story came from Floyd’s sister, Dorothy Leonard.

  She called Joe Fitzpatrick following a telephone conversation with her brother, who had called collect from the Oklahoma County Jail.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I just spoke to Franklin and he told me how he killed that little boy,” said Dorothy.

  “What happened?” said Fitzpatrick.

  “He called me, collect, and he was angry. He said that I told the police he molested my children, and that it was lies. He kept talking, and said he killed Michael. He drowned him.”

  Dorothy paused. She found it difficult to repeat the story.

  “Go ahead, Mrs. Leonard. Take your time,” said Fitzpatrick.

  Dorothy took a deep breath, exhaled, and continued.

  “I was sitting on my couch talking to him on the phone, and he said he had taken Michael places to have a good time. But he said Michael was crying all the time, that he wanted to go home, and said he ‘couldn’t shut the brat up.’ He said they had a motel room and when they went there he wanted to give Michael a bath and told him to take off his clothes. Franklin turned on the water and kept it running when Michael got in the bath. Franklin told him to lie on his stomach. But Michael turned around and saw Franklin taking his clothes off. Michael started to question him, asking Franklin why he was taking his clothes off too. Franklin told me he said they were going to play games together, and got into the tub with Michael, who was hollering for him to get out.”

  Fitzpatrick was transfixed, taking in every word, writing furiously on a yellow pad.

  “Franklin said he stayed in the tub, then started asking Michael if he loved him. He told me he said, ‘Michael, do you love me?’ Michael said ‘No.’ Franklin was upset, and pushed Michael’s head in the water, then let him come up for air. He asked him again if he loved him, and Michael said ‘No’ again, so Franklin put him under again. It happened a third time, with Michael saying ‘No.’ I know Franklin. He must have been so mad at that poor little boy he just held his head under the water until he stopped moving.”

  “Did Franklin tell you that, that he held Michael under the water and drowned him?” said Fitzpatrick, his throat tightening.

  “Yes, that’s what he said. But then he said he took his body and, these are his words, ‘discarded the little son of a bitch.’ Mr. Fitzpatrick, I’m shaking. Franklin said he put him in the trunk of a car and got rid of him. This was too much for me. I started screaming. My husband had to come in and bring me around. I had to hang up the phone.”

  Dorothy was crying, but Fitzpatrick wanted to hear more.

  “Mrs. Leonard, did he say where he put Michael’s body?”

  “No, sir.”

  Fitzpatrick thought about that conversation long and hard and, in the end, believed Dorothy Leonard.

  The story gained more credence on January 14, 1995, when FBI agents in Atlanta recovered the Dodge Shadow Floyd allegedly stole the day before checking himself into Grady Memorial Hospital on September 21. The car was found in a parking lot and cadaver dogs alerted police to the trunk area, where they picked up a high level of distress from scents usually emitted by a dead body. Fitzpatrick believed that Floyd killed Michael, perhaps in the motel, placed his body in the trunk, and either buried it or tossed it into a stream before abandoning the car in the parking lot. Floyd then checked himself into the hospital for a week, before taking a bus to Louisville.

  The news was distressing, but expected.

  Kumiega, Yancey, and Fitzpatrick all knew Michael was gone. Now they just wanted to see Floyd put away for life.

  On January 18, 1995, a federal grand jury returned a seven-count indictment against Franklin Delano Floyd. Included among the charges were kidnapping, carrying a firearm, and stealing a car by force and driving it to another state. If convicted on all counts, Floyd faced life in prison, and would die behind bars.

  The trial was scheduled for March 29, 1995, before Judge Wayne E. Alley, and Kumiega and Yancey had little more than two months to complete their preparations, which included additional interviews with potential witnesses and formulating a coherent strategy.

  As the lead attorney, or “first chair,” Kumiega had ultimate authority on tactical decision making. But he and Yancey agreed on virtually everything. They enjoyed an easy and constructive rapport, often challenging each other intellectually while remaining huddled in their downtown offices well into the night, ordering dinner in and reading through hundreds of reports.

  They knew they would have to focus on proving the kidnapping charges since none of the evidence alluding to the murder of Michael Hughes was admissible. Judge Alley did not want to turn this into a murder trial. It was a kidnapping case, period.

  By the time the grand jury handed up the indictment, there was little the two attorneys didn’t know about Franklin Floyd.

  Sharon was another matter. She was, simply, an enigma. With no positive identification and little information coming from the various cities where she and Floyd had lived, it was difficult for Kumiega and Yancey to formulate any opinion other than that she was a stripper and, allegedly, a prostitute while working in Tulsa. She also apparently danced nude in Florida when they lived in Tampa.

  There was some information circulating that Sharon was something of a student during her high school years in Georgia, but the report from the FBI’s Atlanta field office was devoid of any useful background information. The prosecutors decided they would have to learn more about Sharon Marshall and reached out to the one person who knew her best.

  CHAPTER 18

  The biting cold and howling wind outside the Will Rogers Airport was a bitter change for Jennifer Fisher Tanner, who just hours earlier had left her home under the golden sun of southern California.

  Leaving her young son and flying to the country’s midsection in the middle of January was not something Jennifer would have opted for. But she did just that, flying to Oklahoma City, courtesy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation after receiving a call from Joe Fitzpatrick.

  They first spoke the day after she called the FBI hotline in November. He asked a few questions and quickly determined that Jennifer was genuine. He suggested they meet and talk. Jennifer agreed and waited for his call. Two months later, she stepped off the plane and walked outside to a waiting car that would take her downtown to meet with Fitzpatrick, Ed Kumiega, and Mark Yancey.

  The tragic news about Sharon and her son, and the shocking revelations about Floyd, had devastated Jennifer and her family.

  They talked by phone nearly every day, asking over and over, “Why didn’t we see anything?” They suffered through rolling waves of guilt and sadness and, above all, overwhelming heartbreak. They were also confused, unable to understand why Sharon never said anything.

  Sharon loved being at the Fisher home. Jennifer was her best friend and she embraced Sue and Joel. They were her family. They were her friends. The Fishers could have, and would have, protected Sharon, taken her in and called the police. If only she’d told them something. Even during that last visit in 1986, when Sharon asked if she could stay. Why didn’t she say why? they asked. She was telling us something, but just couldn’t tell us exactly what was wrong. If she’d only said something.

  Remembering that day at the airport, the Fishers now felt as if they had sent Sharon back to the devil, and the guilt was overwhelming.

  Jennifer was understandably nervous when she arrived for her meeting, the events of the past two months taking a severe emotional toll. She had been admitted to the Balboa Naval Hospital for observation. She spoke with the base chaplain and told him that her best friend had died and her boy was gone. Jennifer could see that even the chaplain was startled by the hor
rible story, and he suggested that Jennifer begin intense weekly therapy sessions. Doctors also prescribed anxiety medicine, which helped, but it didn’t stop those moments when Jennifer would cry uncontrollably.

  Yancey explained that they still did not know the real identity of her friend, but they would use the name “Sharon” since it appeared to be the name she used throughout most of her life. He began with an overview of what they knew: that Sharon had apparently been kidnapped at a young age and traveled with Floyd, a convicted pedophile who claimed to be her father. As each unbelievable detail was explained to Jennifer, she could only close her eyes and shake her head, thinking, This couldn’t have happened to my friend.

  “Did she ever tell you or give you any indication that Floyd was not her real father?” said Yancey.

  “No. Sharon rarely talked about her father or her past. It was just something she wouldn’t discuss. I just figured it was too painful for Sharon to discuss because it reminded her of her mother, so I let it go. And my parents weren’t the kind of people to push or pry. It just wasn’t anything we ever questioned,” said Jennifer.

  “What did you and your family think of Floyd? Was there a lot of contact with him?”

  “We all thought he was weird, but never suspected anything like this. He’d drop Sharon off at my house and ramble on about things to my parents. He always complained he had a bad back and tried to borrow money from my father, who always said no.”

  “Did he work?”

  “He was a painter. He was running around trying to get painting jobs. Even in my neighborhood. He claimed he was very good, but we didn’t know for sure.”

  Jennifer paused for a moment.

  “You know, even though we thought he was a little off the wall, we all thought he was a good dad given how Sharon turned out.”

  “What does that mean?” said Kumiega quizzically. “She was a stripper, a prostitute, dancing at clubs in Tulsa and in Florida and having children out of wedlock.”

  Jennifer snapped backward.

  “Stripper? What are you talking about? Sharon wasn’t a stripper or prostitute. The Sharon I knew, the one I was best friends with, was an honor student. She was in the ROTC. She received a scholarship to Georgia Tech University.”

  The two prosecutors and the FBI agent had received little information concerning Sharon Marshall’s high school background. They knew she attended school and graduated, but never heard any details about honors or scholarships. They were surprised and, for a moment, unbelieving.

  “Jennifer, we believe that Floyd had been sexually abusing Sharon for a very long time, probably from the day when he got her,” said Yancey. “When she was older, in her late teens and early twenties, she was working as an exotic dancer and, from what we understand, a prostitute. She had numerous cosmetic surgeries, including breast enlargement, as well as several pregnancies. In addition, he was beating her, and she lived in absolute fear of him. She apparently died while planning to get away from him. Given what little we know about child abuse and the horrible conditions under which your friend was living, it’s hard to understand, or accept, that she could possibly have been what you say she was in school, this all-American girl.”

  “But she was!” said Jennifer, her voice rising in anger. “Everything you’re telling me doesn’t sound anything like the Sharon I knew or my family knew. Stripping? Prostitution? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Can you tell us if that’s anything you’re personally familiar with?” said Yancey.

  “What? A prostitute? Dancing?” said Jennifer, visibly insulted and upset with the question. “I’m a married mother. A college graduate. My husband is in the Navy. Are you kidding? I was never into anything like that. I was just a kid who liked to chase boys. The Sharon I knew was the same, a normal, functioning teenager. Only she was better. She was smart and she was pretty. She read Shakespeare. She was a Who’s Who in high school! She was going to college! She had a scholarship! When I knew her she was an everyday teenager. What you’re telling me I can’t even comprehend. I knew her dad was weird but I had no idea to what extent.”

  Jennifer’s eyes watered and Kumiega handed her a tissue box, exchanging glances with Yancey and Fitzpatrick, all shaking their heads in disbelief. Shakespeare, a college scholarship, a Who’s Who? This was all news to them.

  Kumiega asked Jennifer about Sharon’s plans for college and the scholarship, keeping his voice at a soothing, comfortable level.

  Jennifer could only stare at the floor.

  “Georgia Tech. That was her dream, to go to Georgia Tech. It was all she ever talked about, from the moment we met at a student camp. She wanted to be an aerospace engineer. She wanted to work for NASA. She took the SATs twice, just so she was sure to score high enough to get in, and she did. The day she got that acceptance letter was the happiest I ever heard her sound. She was screaming, ‘Jenny, I made it!’ over and over again. She had her whole future ahead of her. It’s funny, though. Now that we’re talking about this. One second she was screaming that she made it, the next she was worrying about what her father would say. She didn’t think that bastard would let her go. I didn’t understand it at the time, but now we know why.”

  Jennifer’s passionate defense of her friend warmed Kumiega, Yancey, and Fitzpatrick, their preconceived notions of Sharon melting away. Jennifer remained there for the balance of the day, answering dozens of questions about Sharon and Floyd and prodded to remember anything, no matter how small.

  She recalled the story about the strange phone call from Sharon from South Carolina.

  “It was weird. She was crying and begging me to come, but at the same time her voice was so monotone. It was like she was saying to me, ‘Please don’t come.’ Then Warren, or Floyd or whatever you call him, gets on the phone and demands that I visit. Then he hangs up. I never understood that call,” said Jennifer.

  Fitzpatrick knew the answer.

  “Jennifer, I believe if you had gone to South Carolina, you’d have been killed. It sounds like he forced Sharon to make that call, and in her way she was telling you not to come. I think she saved your life,” said Fitzpatrick. “It was the same thing with Greg Higgs. If he’d taken Michael, Floyd would have gone back to him after he got out of jail in 1993 and no doubt would have killed Higgs to get the boy back.”

  It was all surreal to Jennifer, who by late afternoon was exhausted and emotionally spent. She didn’t want to talk anymore, and slowly rose from her chair, offering a parting thought.

  “I think about Sharon, and what I remember most is that she wanted so badly to be at our house. And right now that’s the only comfort I have; in that I gave her an escape.”

  Jennifer returned to her hotel and flopped on the bed without undressing and fell into a deep sleep.

  Kumiega, Yancey, and Fitzpatrick remained behind, discussing the day-long interview with Jennifer. She painted a profoundly different picture of Sharon Marshall, a mosaic that only compounded the human tragedy and heartbreak.

  All believed that Jennifer would make a superb witness for the prosecution. She was passionate in her defense of her friend, and forcefully and clearly spoke of Sharon’s accomplishments, her dreams, and her future, all of which were taken away by a predator.

  Sharon never had a chance, and Jennifer’s vivid memories of their time together won them over. By the end of the night as they walked out into the cold, all agreed that Sharon Marshall was, quite simply, remarkable.

  CHAPTER 19

  Franklin Delano Floyd wore a wrinkled blue suit as he entered the vast courtroom of U.S. District Judge Wayne E. Alley on Wednesday, March 29, 1995, the clanking shackles around his ankles sounding a warning bell that his trial was about to begin.

  Ed Kumiega and Mark Yancey sat at the prosecution table on the right side of the courtroom, closest to the jury box. They were joined by Joe Fitzpatrick, since federal prosecutions allowed for the case agent in charge to sit with the attorneys.

  The jury box was empty an
d would remain so because Floyd asked for and received a nonjury trial after his motion for a change of venue was denied. He unsuccessfully argued that the publicity surrounding the kidnapping tainted the jury pool. Judge Alley disagreed, though he did give Floyd one request: approving his motion to act as his own attorney.

  Floyd claimed he did not feel comfortable with a public defender, yet couldn’t hire an attorney since he’d spent all of the insurance money he’d received following Sharon’s death.

  No one could argue his case better, he said, than himself. Floyd explained that he studied law in prison and even helped several friends, writing legal briefs in their defense. Judge Alley indulged Floyd’s fancy, but decided that Floyd required legal help anyway, and Susan Otto from the federal public defenders office was appointed to serve as co-counsel.

  Kumiega and Yancey were privately ecstatic when they heard the news about the “hybrid” defense team, even more so when they learned that Alley himself would decide Floyd’s fate.

  Juries were fickle. Judges like Alley were not. He was a former U.S. Army general, dean of the Oklahoma University Law School, and the chief appellate judge who denied the appeal of Lieutenant William Calley, the Army officer convicted of massacring hundreds in the Vietnam village of My Lai. An appointee of President Ronald Reagan, Alley was considered one of the best trial judges in the state. The prosecutors believed he would see this case for what it was, with the evidence presented before him, and render swift justice.

  Floyd believed Judge Alley would be his savior.

  He was seated at the defense table on the left side of the room with Otto. Behind the attorneys and the accused, the public pews were filled mostly with reporters. Members of the Choctaw Police Department attended along with Dorothy Leonard, who arrived dressed in black from head to toe.