by J. B. Turner
The man wiped away the last of the foam with his towel. ‘I don’t speak to no press, sister. Nuthin’ personal, y’understand?’
‘Just a few questions for you.’
‘I don’t need no hassle. I just do what I do.’ But he hadn’t slammed the door in her face.
‘You used to work for Senator O’Neill.’
‘Ain’t got nuthin’ to say about him.’
‘Sir, we’re carrying out an investigation into the senator. A man is due to die for killing the senator’s son. You might’ve heard about him.’
‘The old white guy, yeah?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Read in the paper that he’d fought in the war. Some kinda hero. You wrote that story?’
Deborah nodded. ‘I’ve got a couple of questions I’d like to run past you.’ She shrugged and smiled. ‘Maybe you can help, maybe not.’
The old man looked at her long and hard. ‘I’d like to help, but I gotta think about my family.’
‘Sorry—what do you mean?’
‘Look, it all happened a long time ago. Trying to get on with my life—I’m sorry.’ He began to close the door.
‘Mr Brown, I appreciate your reluctance to speak, but you could be of real help to our investigation.’
‘You mind getting off my property? Anyhow, what the hell do I care about your goddamn investigation? Go on, get.’
‘I need your help, Mr Brown. It’s really important. A man’s life is at stake.’
Brown was silent.
‘Can’t you at least think about it?’
‘And what’s old Jimmy gonna get, apart from some bad memories?’
‘I promise I’ll report anything you say with utmost discretion, if you’re reluctant to go on the record. Mr Brown, we think Senator O’Neill’s covering up his son’s crimes.’
‘How do I know you won’t twist my words?’
‘I’ll record what we say.’
Brown glanced left and right at the adjacent trailers, like he was worried his neighbors might overhear him. ‘Guess you better come in.’
Deborah squeezed past Brown’s huge frame into the trailer. It smelled of furniture polish and fresh coffee. The air-conditioning unit growled low in the background.
Beside the window was a white Formica table surrounded by black leather seating. At the front left was a shower room, shielded by a dandelion-patterned plastic curtain. At the front right, a bunk with neatly folded blankets at the end, and a pile of ironed clothes. Between the front and back was a storage area. A dark blue uniform hung from a door, the word ‘security’ in yellow lettering on a lapel. Below it was a pair of newly shined black leather shoes.
Although the space was tight, everything was clean and tidy.
Deborah could see this man took pride in where he lived. This was a man who liked order.
‘Take the weight off,’ Brown said. ‘I’ll put a shirt on.’
She sat down. ‘Hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Naw, I work nights. I’m off for the next three days. Gonna do some fishing.’
Brown pulled across a striped partition curtain near the front of the trailer. ‘Just make yourself comfortable, miss,’ he said from behind the screen.
Deborah didn’t want to admit it, but being in a strange man’s trailer made her feel nervous. The air conditioning continued to splutter in the background. No dishes had been left on the metal draining unit beside the sink and no old clothes nor any rubbish had been dumped on the floor. Back issues of Time magazine were stacked in a tidy pile on a small coffee table outside the bathroom.
Arranged proudly on the windowsill were silver-framed photos of young black people around her age. They looked like his children, maybe even his grandchildren. Beside the picture was a color photo of a younger Brown, laughing with some army buddies in a jungle clearing.
Vietnam vet.
Brown came back in wearing an aqua Dolphins T-shirt and fresh jeans. He sat down opposite the table from her. ‘You wanna soda, water, coffee, something to drink?’
‘Large glass of water would be fine, thank you.’
He fixed them two large glasses of mineral water with ice.
‘I should like you to tell me about Senator O’Neill, your former employer.’
Brown leaned back on the cushioning. His face was leathery as if toughened by years of salty winds and Gulf Coast heat.
‘I don’t know… it all happened a long, long time ago.’ Deborah switched on her tape recorder and thought of Rachel Harvey.
Was she signing Jimmy Brown’s death warrant?
‘Okay, I’ll start with a few basics. Tell me, Mr Brown, when did you start working for Senator O’Neill?’
‘Fall 1972. I was his chauffeur. Paid real well.’
‘So you drove him to functions?’
Brown glanced at the recorder as if suspicious of new technology. ‘Yeah, y’know, Democrat conventions, meetings with advisers, party donors, fundraising people, even the president.’
‘Describe your relationship with him in the early days.’
‘He was a nice guy.’ He sipped some water. ‘Asked after my family. Felt kinda privileged to work for the senator after leaving the army. Y’know, the status. I come from nuthin’. And my family was real proud of me, y’know what I’m saying?’
‘Sure. When did you leave his service?’
Brown scratched his short gray hair. ‘Let’s see now, I guess it must’ve been 1990. March 1990.’
‘That’s a precise recall.’
Brown paused for a few moments. ‘It was the month I was fired.’
Deborah felt the butterflies in her stomach.
‘Said I was drunk on duty.’
‘Were you?’
‘Like hell. I ain’t drank or smoked since Nam. Don’t believe in it. Seen what it can do to a man.’
‘So he got rid of you as his chauffeur for something you didn’t do?’
‘Correct.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘It was bullshit.’
‘Why would he make up this accusation if it wasn’t true? Surely he must’ve had a good reason.’
Brown took a deep breath and let out an elongated sigh. ‘I overheard Joe O’Neill speaking to his father in the back of the limo one night. He broke down crying. He admitted to his father that he was in trouble again. He said police had accused him of raping a girl in a park in South Beach.’
‘You overheard this?’
‘Guess they forgot to switch off the intercom.’
Deborah sat transfixed.
‘Joe said he was sorry for causing all this trouble.’
‘And you heard all this?’
‘The senator said he’d deal with it. Swear to God, that’s what he said. Told Joe to forget about it. Said he had friends who’d help him. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.’
Deborah felt as though time had stopped. Her heart was beating hard and she took a drink of water. ‘Sorry, Mr Brown, can you repeat that so there’s no misunderstanding?’
Brown stared at the mini-recorder. ‘The senator said he’d deal with it. Said he had friends, told his son not to worry about it. Said it was all in hand, or something.’
‘You absolutely positive?’
Brown shot her a mean look. ‘Course I’m sure.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police with this information?’
‘I did. Gave a statement to the Miami Beach police, because that’s where it happened.’ He disappeared behind the curtain and reappeared a few moments later with four pink pieces of paper, Miami Beach PD notepaper. He handed it to Deborah. ‘This is the copy of my statement. Take a look for yourself. It’s dated, ‘n’ all.’
Deborah’s eyes scanned the pieces of paper. The writing on them described the confession that Brown had heard in the back of the car. She looked at the date at the bottom, beside Brown’s scraw
led signature. ‘Six months before Joe’s trial, May fifteenth, eighty-nine.’
‘That’s right. Told them everything like I just told you.’ Brown pointed at the paper. ‘There. It’s all down in black and white.’
Deborah couldn’t believe her eyes. The statement clearly referred to the ‘rape of Jenny Forbes’. ‘So why weren’t you called to give evidence in court?’
‘Who knows? Assumed the police would pass on the information to the DA. Never heard nothing again.’
‘What do you think happened?’
Brown shrugged. ‘What do you think?’
‘And you were sacked after the trial?’
Brown cleared his throat. ‘Fired in March 1990, about four months after Joe was acquitted. Don’t know if they found out about my statement, but there ain’t no other explanation I can find.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘Couldn’t get another job as a chauffeur, that’s for sure. No reference. Ruined my life, the son of a bitch. Wife left me, took the kids. Said I couldn’t provide for them. Had to sell my nice house in Riviera Beach. Didn’t work for a coupla years.’
‘And then?’
‘Got a bullshit security job working nights.’ He finished his iced water. ‘So, now you know, sister. The senator ain’t no regular guy.’
‘Why haven’t you come forward since then?’
‘What’s the point? No one’s listening to black folks like me. You educated, sister, so you can try, but remember this here is Florida. O’Neill’s not the kind of guy you wanna mess with.’
‘Are you under protection from the police, or the Feds?’
‘Never been offered any protection. Guess that tells you all you have to know. I reckon that, because my statement was buried somewhere, the senator and the people who protect him are happy. They’ve probably forgotten all about old Jimmy.’
Deborah’s mind was racing. ‘If I get this in the paper, the senator will know that you’ve spoken to me. You could be in danger.’
‘Don’t matter to me. In a week, I’m heading out west to stay with my brother in California. I’ll take my chances. Had my fill of Florida.’ Jimmy Brown dropped his gaze and shook his head. ‘Had my fill.’
• • •
Deborah got back to her hotel room and wrote up the story in a couple of hours. She e-mailed it to Sam Goldberg and wondered how he’d respond. She didn’t have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later, he called back.
‘He could’ve nailed the senator’s son with his confession,’ he said.
‘You think we can run with this?’
‘Oh yeah, tomorrow for this baby. Donovan can’t ignore this. You got a copy of Brown’s police statement?’
‘Right in front of me.’
‘Scan it and send it. Assuming we can stand this story up, our line is simple. “The Intercom Confession”, we’ll call it. Was information withheld in the trial of Joe O’Neill? We might not be able to get out the Rachel Harvey story just now, but this is going to make a real stir. Wonder what the DA’s office will say?’
Deborah felt mixed emotions.
‘I think this’ll give credence to our calls for Craig to be moved off “the row”,’ Goldberg added.
Deborah walked onto her balcony and gazed out at the turquoise waters of the Gulf. A young man beside the pool laughed and he suddenly reminded her of Brett.
‘Just be careful. Oh, and stay another night on us. I think you’ve earned it.’ That was strange. First, he tells me to check into the Ritz, puts me up at the paper’s expense. And now he’s letting me stay another night. Is there something he’s not telling me?
‘I appreciate that.’
Goldberg hung up and Deborah put down her phone. Almost immediately, she was annoyed at herself for doubting Sam Goldberg’s loyalty.
She looked back down beside the pool. The young man with the laugh like Brett’s was arm in arm with a beautiful blonde girl. They walked out to the beach and she wondered if she would ever find a man she could love. If she did, would he disown her when he found out what had happened to her? Would he leave, like Brett? Her feelings for Brett were still unresolved. She made a mental note to schedule an appointment with her therapist.
Deborah watched the couple as they paddled in the water and laughed like they’d be together forever. Why couldn’t she have that in her life?
Her cell phone rang. A man’s voice spoke.
‘Deborah Jones?’ he asked.
‘Speaking. Who’s this?’
‘John Richmond’s waiting for you downstairs in the private dining room. He’s looking forward to meeting you.’
17
The mahogany-paneled dining room seemed like an elegant gentlemen’s club from a bygone era. Chandeliers, white tablecloths and fine silver laid out as if awaiting diners at an anniversary dinner. An old man wearing sunglasses was eating alone at the far end of the room. That had to be him.
He sat beside floor-to-ceiling French windows that were framed by silk draperies. At the next table a group of four burly men sat in silence, their stares crawling all over Deborah like insects.
The old man was picking at a salad. His hair was gray and wispy, his complexion weathered, Mediterranean. His cheeks were pinched, though, as if he was ill. He wore a white shirt, chinos and white sneakers. He didn’t look up as she walked over to his table.
‘How ya doin’, Miss Jones?’ he asked, in a streetwise New York accent.
Deborah stared down, hands on hips, her legs feeling like jelly. ‘What do you want?’
Richmond cocked his head in the direction of his men. ‘Check if she’s wired.’
Before Deborah knew what had happened, a pair of huge hands frisked the inside of her legs, the lapels of her jacket and her waist. ‘Get the hell off me!’ She pulled away, shuddering. The man just grinned back at her, dead-eyed.
‘Gotta check,’ Richmond said. ‘Can never be too careful. Take a load off, kid.’
‘Is that how you greet everyone you meet?’
Richmond shrugged his bony shoulders and adjusted his dark-brown-tinted sunglasses.
Against her better judgment, Deborah sat down, arms folded on the starched tablecloth. The expensive aftershave that wafted off Richmond made her feel vaguely queasy.
‘Believe you been snoopin’ around,’ he said, chewing slowly.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard.’ Richmond put down his knife and fork, and then took off his shades. His rheumy eyes looked stagnant. ‘The senator,’ he said. ‘You been asking a lot of questions. It’s annoyed him.’
‘I’m a journalist. It’s my job to ask awkward questions.’ Deborah’s shaky voice betrayed her bravado.
‘If you annoy him, honey, you annoy me—y’understand?’ Deborah wondered if he knew about her trip to see Jimmy Brown.
He pointed a bony finger at her. ‘We know more about you than you’ll ever know.’
‘You threatening me? Want me to contact the police?’
Richmond smiled as the men at the next table snickered. He opened the palm of his right hand as if to say, ‘What can we do with this girl?’ Lowering his voice to a steely whisper, he said, ‘We’re far more powerful than the Naples police, believe me. You go to them with accusations that an old man—enjoying his retirement years in Florida—is threatening a pretty little black girl while he enjoys a meal at the Ritz. Who’s gonna believe that? And I’ve got witnesses. Go back to Miami and forget about the senator. Never bother him again, y’understand? And forget your heroics on Craig. He’s dead meat. Whatever you do or dredge up’s gonna make no fucking difference. Trust me.’
Deborah stood up to leave. Richmond grabbed her by the wrist.
‘Don’t fuck with us. We know everything about you. We know that you were raped, and who raped you. You wanna know how much Steven Cartwright earns as a broker in Dallas?’
Deborah felt her insides go cold. Her mind flashed a
picture of his longish hair, leering smile and horn-rimmed glasses.
‘Then there’s Ben Hamilton. Turns out he didn’t like Texas too much. Last year he headed back to his family mansion in Beverly Hills. But according to my sources he’s just landed a job as a pediatrician in Miami. Isn’t that cozy? You wanna know where he lives? I can tell you if you want. If you left it with me, I could arrange for him to take you out for the night. I’m told by those who know about these things that he still has a voracious sexual appetite.’
Richmond smiled at her and she wanted to die.
Deborah pulled her wrist away. ‘In case you didn’t know, Mr Richmond, this is America. Some of us still believe in free speech. And no hoodlum friend of Senator O’Neill is going to dissuade my paper from unearthing the whole damn story.’
She turned on her heel and walked out, chin up. Just like Momma told her.
As Deborah passed him, one of Richmond’s men sniffed her. Like a dog.
18
Back in her room, Deborah locked the door. Her heart was racing and her mind was in meltdown. She called Faith. She knew that her friend would be putting the kids from a local middle-school soccer team through their paces. When Faith answered, Deborah heard the excited shouts from children in the background.
‘Can we speak for a second, Faith?’ Her voice cracked with emotion as she paced the room.
‘Of course, honey. What’s going on?’
‘I’m scared. I’m really scared, Faith. I don’t know what I’m—’
‘Hey, slow down, honey. Now, what’s the problem?’
‘You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve just been threatened by the Mob. I know it sounds nuts. But I’m in Naples, in my hotel room, and I’m terrified to leave in case something happens to me.’
‘Hold on one second, honey.’ Deborah heard Faith shout at one of the parents to take charge for five minutes. A few moments later, she was back on the phone. ‘Okay—first of all, who threatened you?’
‘It doesn’t matter, but he’s bad. And I’m scared.’
‘Shit.’
‘I feel like I’m losing my mind. I’m wondering if my boss, Sam Goldberg, could have set this up. It was his idea for me to stay at the Ritz, after all.’
