by J. B. Turner
It was the priest.
Deborah’s heart thumped and she wondered where he was going. Perhaps he’d finished confession and was going to visit friends. But his demeanor suggested someone who wasn’t about to wind down. Quite the opposite.
He walked further down 111th Street, then took a sharp left.
Deborah waited a moment before she started up her car. She eased off slowly, careful not to rev the engine. At a safe distance, she took a left.
Father Bruskewitz was walking fast down 6th Street North. There was front-yard parking here, paint peeled from some houses in need of repair, and she passed a couple of wrecked phone booths. This was a world away from the Ritz-Carlton.
Further down 6th and then the priest turned on 99th Avenue North. Deborah squinted into the darkness. There was very little street lighting here.
She pulled up beside the curb and noticed a placard tied to a broken street light. It advertised a public meeting of the Naples Park Coalition for Community Involvement.
The priest had stopped. He opened a gate to the front yard of a prim house.
Deborah edged off, again slowly, and parked diagonally opposite the house, shaded by a huge oak, as she watched the priest knock on the screen door.
She slunk down low in her seat and peered out of the window. A few moments passed before the door opened. Smiling at the priest was a plump woman, perhaps in her fifties. It was Maria Gonzalez. She opened the door wide and Father Bruskewitz was ushered inside. Was he about to tell Maria about the young black woman—a supposed friend of her sister—who’d attended all five Masses?
Deborah glanced in her rearview mirror and was blinded as a police car turned the corner. She sank deep into her seat as the lights got stronger.
Please drive on.
The brakes squeaked as the police car came to a halt. Deborah’s stomach knotted. She started thinking of the red Chevy and Richmond’s threats. Were people following her?
She closed her eyes and prayed that the police wouldn’t get out. As if on cue, she heard one of the doors slam shut. The sound of heavy footsteps approached. Immediately, the beam from a flashlight temporarily blinded her.
She squinted into the light.
A patrolman said, ‘Get out of the car, ma’am.’ He took a step back.
Deborah did as she was told. Florida was not the sort of place to enter into discussions with the cops.
‘Can I see you driver’s license, ma’am?’ he said.
Deborah reached over into the glove compartment and handed it over. He scrutinized the details and the photos.
‘Can I ask why you were sitting crouched in your car‘
‘I’m sorry, officer, but I was just taking a nap. I’m conducting an investigation for the Miami Herald.’
‘ID?’
Deborah flashed her press card. At the same time, the patrolman’s colleague, a woman, stepped out. She spoke into her radio. ‘I want some plates given the once-over,’ she said.
The patrol officer scanned the press card before he looked up at Deborah. ‘Is this how you conduct your business, hiding like some peeping Tom?’
Deborah stole a glance at the house. No one was looking out of the front window, which was a relief. ‘I wasn’t hiding, sir. I was resting.’
‘You really expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s true. I need to interview the lady in the house opposite. But she has visitors. So I decided to take forty winks. I’ve been working since early morning.’
The policeman arched his eyebrows as if he’d heard it all before. ‘You been drinking, ma’am?’
‘Absolutely not.’
He leaned closer and sniffed around her chin. ‘Don’t smell of liquor.’
‘I can assure you, sir, I don’t drink.’
The policewoman’s radio crackled into life. ‘Plates are clean. Vehicle belongs to Deborah Jones of Collins Avenue, Miami Beach. No violations outstanding.’
The policeman’s expression didn’t change. ‘You mind if we check your car, miss?’
Deborah shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’
The next ten minutes seemed like an hour as the policeman peered into the trunk, shone the flashlight into the passenger seat, driver’s seat, and finally the ashtrays, perhaps for any signs of reefer. He probably assumed that because Deborah was young and black she’d done drugs. It was a lazy and outdated assumption, not to mention racist.
Eventually, after much muttering and groaning as he examined her convertible in minute detail, the patrolman left, along with his female colleague, having apologized for the intrusion.
Deborah had been lucky. A patrolman who hadn’t liked the look of her might’ve easily taken her downtown on a number of trumped-up charges. Thankfully, this police officer was just being diligent.
Suddenly, the screen door across the road opened and Father Bruskewitz emerged. He shut the door quietly behind him…
Deborah crouched low again as the priest hurried down the narrow path. She watched him disappear into the distance and finally felt safe when he turned back onto 111th Avenue.
24
When the coast was clear, Deborah got out of her car, briefcase in hand, and walked up to the door. The muggy air was filled with hundreds of lightning bugs flickering in the dark.
She knocked twice, stood back and waited. Eventually, the door creaked open. Maria Gonzalez’s face was rounder than in her picture, eyes heavy as if she’d been crying.
‘Good evening, ma’am, sorry to bother you,’ Deborah said. The woman looked frightened. ‘My name is Deborah Jones of the Miami Herald, and I was asked by a member of your family if—’
‘What are you doing here?’ The woman’s tone was sharp.
‘That’s what I was about to explain. I’d like to speak to you… You’re Maria Gonzalez, the maid for Senator Jack O’Neill, right?’
She shook her head. ‘I am sorry you waste your time, but I have nothing to say.’
The door was slammed in Deborah’s face. She stood for a few moments, feeling foolish. She felt beads of sweat on her brow. She turned around and noticed the police car circling once more.
Damn.
Deborah knocked on the screen door again.
Maria Gonzalez opened the door again, this time wider, her face red with anger, a silver crucifix round her neck. ‘I tell you already, I have nothing to say.’
‘Please . ..’
‘I call the police.’
Deborah pointed to the patrol car, which had slowed to a crawl. ‘Go right ahead. I spoke to them ten minutes ago.’
Deborah fixed her gaze on Maria’s black eyes. ‘I’m here to talk about the threats. Made yesterday morning.’
Maria looked away. She held on to the screen door, her plump frame blocking the entrance. Her black hair was tied up in an old-fashioned bun.
‘Can I please come in?’
‘Who spoke to you?’
‘A member of your family.’
‘My sister, wasn’t it? Carla. I might have known it would be her.’
The sadness in her eyes made Deborah look away for a split second.
‘Ms Gonzalez, a few minutes of your time, that’s all I ask.’
‘I don’t want to talk. Can’t you understand that?’
‘Look, if in five minutes you don’t want the conversation to go any further, I’ll leave and that’ll be the end of it. Your sister cares very much about you. She is worried.’
‘I am very scared. People could hurt me.’
‘Then let me come in.’
A long silence ensued. Then she spoke in a quiet voice. ‘Very well.’
Deborah followed Maria through a narrow hall that was festooned with wooden crosses and pictures of an Aryan Jesus into a small living room. The sky-blue sofas clashed with the lime-green wallpaper. A large metal crucifix was above the mantelpiece.
Deborah sat down and placed her briefcase on the floor bes
ide her.
Maria took the sofa opposite.
‘First of all,’ Deborah said, ‘I won’t record anything or write anything down unless you want me too, okay?’
Maria Gonzalez eyed her briefcase. ‘Sure.’
‘Yesterday the Miami Herald carried the story of Jimmy Brown, the senator’s chauffeur, who reported a conversation he overheard to the Miami Beach police, with Joe O’Neill saying he had raped a woman in a park in South Beach.’
‘I read that.’ Maria went over to the windows, pulled the drapes shut and switched on a large table lamp that rested on a huge TV.
‘Your sister told me you’d been threatened. Who by? What are you so afraid of?’
‘You don’t know what these people are like.’
‘What people?’
‘The senator, his family, his friends. They can do anything. Anything at all. They are untouchable.’
‘I’m listening.’
Maria shook her head. ‘I can’t say any more.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘They said they would kill me if I spoke about what I knew. They said Jimmy Brown was going to die. I am simple woman. I am scared. And I don’t want trouble. I rely on the senator’s money.’
‘Ms Gonzalez, a man is about to be executed. The man who killed the senator’s son for raping his granddaughter. What about justice?’
‘What about justice? My family needs to survive. What happens if I speak out? I will lose job, will be deported to Mexico.’
‘Who says?’
‘Senator. My priest. He say it is better to be quiet and dignified.’
Deborah’s blood ran cold. ‘The priest said that? What does he want you to be quiet about?’
‘He said I a good woman, but should not bring shame on good man like Senator O’Neill.’
‘I’m sorry—you’ve lost me.’
‘He says God wants me to be good. Good for my family and good for my employer.’
Deborah reached across and held her hand. ‘Maria, look at me. What is it you know?’
‘It is difficult to talk about.’
‘Maria, your sister loves you very much.’
‘I love her.’
‘So why don’t you visit? Why only call? What is it you’re afraid of?’
Maria shook her head and scrunched up her face as the tears fell.
‘You must speak to me.’
‘Please, please, you are making it very difficult. My priest says—
‘Your priest?’
‘He is friends with Senator O’Neill. Senator O’Neill gives money to Catholic charities. He is a generous man. I am just cleaning lady who runs around, picking up the mess in the house, carrying out trash. That’s me.’
Deborah clutched Maria’s hand. ‘You know something, don’t you? Something about the senator? Something about his son, maybe?’
Gonzalez’s hand trembled slightly. ‘What will my priest say?’
‘He is most definitely not your friend.’
Maria dabbed at her eyes with a small pink hankie with her initials on it. ‘I don’t know where to begin.’
‘Okay, let’s take this nice and easy. If you wanna stop at any time, just say. This is an initial interview only, for the Miami Herald.’
Gonzalez blinked away the tears and blew her nose.
‘Whenever you’re ready, Maria.’ Deborah switched on the recorder.
Maria took a deep breath as if she’d waited a long time to divulge her information. ‘I work in house of Senator Jack O’Neill. I have kept secret for many years. I have been sending money home illegally.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I was given money by Senator O’Neill to keep quiet. One thousand dollars a month.’
‘Maria, what was the money for?’
‘To keep quiet about Joe O’Neill.’
‘Maria, what do you know? What do you know about Joe O’Neill?’
Maria Gonzalez closed her eyes tightly as if in pain. ‘He… he rape me, too.’
Deborah felt like she’d been thrown in a freezing cold bath.
‘He rape me when senator and his wife were at function.’
Deborah said nothing for a few moments, trying to regain her composure, her mind working overtime. ‘When exactly did this happen, Maria?’
Gonzalez touched the crucifix around her neck. ‘March 1986. Joe O’Neill was around sixteen or seventeen.’ Nearly three years before Jenny Forbes, Deborah thought.
‘Tell me about it.’
Gonzalez looked at her nails. ‘He spike my Coke with something and I wake up bleeding all over. He rape me with bottles as well. I think he drug me.’ The maid averted her tear-stained gaze. ‘It is horrible to tell you. I am so ashamed.’
Deborah leaned over and patted Maria Gonzalez on the knee. ‘I think you’ve done a brave thing by telling me this. This happened at the family home?’
‘Yes, in West Palm Beach where he stay at time.’
‘Why didn’t you report this?’
Maria’s bottom lip quivered. ‘Senator O’Neill threaten to have me deported.’
‘This might sound like an obvious question, Ms Gonzalez, but why do you think the senator would want to cover up such things?’
‘So he be American senator. No?’
‘Tell me about the money you received.’
‘He give me money in cash. I think about my mother and father and the things I could buy for them. Same with my children. My man blame me. Say I was dirty. And he go away.’
Brett didn’t even take the time to pack. He just left Deborah wrestling with the demons inside her head. ‘Ms Gonzalez,’ she said. ‘I need to know if you are willing to be identified in any article?’
Maria looked up, her gaze steady. ‘Yes… that’s what my sister want.’
‘But what do you want?’
Maria closed her eyes and touched her crucifix again. Then she looked straight at Deborah. ‘I cannot live with this any longer. I want to tell people what happen.’
‘It can’t be easy working in the house, after what happened.’
‘I pray every day. I glad to be alive. I provide for my children.’ She bowed her head. ‘But now I want to help the man who kill that animal. I want to help him.’
• • •
Just before dawn, Deborah—after a sleepless night—was in Sam Goldberg’s office. His feet were on his desk. She had phoned Goldberg immediately after the interview ended, just after ten P.M. Initially, he was furious that she’d gone back to Naples. But when she told him the story his tone changed.
The sun rose and streamed through the blinds, suffusing the room with a yellow tint.
Goldberg punched a number into his phone. ‘Harry, it’s Sam here. Sorry to disturb you. Need to see you ASAP. We’ve got a major development in the O’Neill story.’ A brief pause as he nodded, listening to Donovan. ‘See you then.’
He hung up and looked at Deborah, determination in his eyes. ‘I want you to go out there and write up this story. Harry says he’ll be in by nine. This is your baby, but I want it written straight. Senator covers up son’s rapes, okay? That’s the angle. Use extensive quotes from Rachel Harvey and what we’ve got off Maria Gonzalez. Also add in a couple of paragraphs from the chauffeur.’ He was wired, his eyes like pinpricks. ‘You must also link in the mysterious John Richmond and speak to our FBI contacts. They’ll give you the inside beef on the Mob aspects. In addition, we should have clippings of Paulie Fachetti somewhere in our files. Make the quotes watertight. I don’t want some smart-ass lawyer catching us out on a technicality. Send over your story to me personally. I’ll let Harry see what we’ve got, and then we’ll get it vetted and laid out. We’re gonna get that son of a bitch O’Neill.’
‘What about Mr Craig?’
‘We’re gonna be asking for him to be freed and moved off death row.’
25
In the dead of night, t
he lights were on in the tenth-floor boardroom of the Washington law firm of Stone, Finkelstein & Black in the impressive Willard Office Building, downtown on Pennsylvania Avenue. Senator O’Neill sat in silence as the senior partner, Anthony Stone, speed-read an early edition of the Miami Herald.
O’Neill watched as Tony Stone—an old friend from college—adjusted his metal-rimmed glasses and took notes. He knew that the revelations spelled trouble. For as long as he could remember, he’d sailed close to the wind. Even in the Senate, the number of times he tried to railroad legislation amazed his colleagues, but that was just his way. Perhaps a more sophisticated approach was sometimes required. Stroke a few cheeks, massage a few egos. But that wasn’t his style. Better to be blunt.
O’Neill sighed as Stone repositioned the huge green reading lamp in front of him and highlighted a crucial passage in yellow marker pen. Proof from Maria Gonzalez that one thousand dollars in cash had been paid into an account in Mexico every month.
Talk about dumb, Jack.
O’Neill was glad he had such an excellent lawyer. Stone headed up the feared litigation practice department. He had twenty-eight years’ experience and had appeared before federal and state courts and administrative agencies. His reputation for aggressive courtroom tactics and hardball cross-examinations had resulted in billions of dollars in out-of-court settlements over the years. His specialties included antitrust, government contracts and international trade. But he was best known for white-collar criminal proceedings and congressional inquiries.
Was the FBI already on to him? The sound of a police siren outside startled him and he looked up. Another shooting in the projects, no doubt. Parts of America’s capital city were no-go areas after dark.
O’Neill’s mind flashed back to the time when he and Stone had first met, in the late 1960s. It had been over a few beers at Charlie’s Kitchen bar on Harvard Square. The start of an unlikely friendship. Stone, the Connecticut boy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, educated at the best of schools, with impeccable manners and singled out for Ivy League at an early age. O’Neill, by contrast, was a smart but foul-mouthed boy from the backstreets of Bensonhurst, but they hit it off right away. He remembered the drinking competitions in the frat house and their ‘work hard, play hard’ mindset.
