Longboat Blues

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “I think the prosecution is winding down,” I said. “I don’t know what else Elizabeth can put on. We have a decision to make, Logan, and it’s your call.”

  I explained to him my plan for the defense, and the fact that I thought this might be the only way to open the way for a prosecution of the real killers. I told him that I thought with the thin case Elizabeth had put on, we could remain moot, not put on any evidence, and argue to the jury that the state had not proved its case and that they had to acquit. I could excuse Logan’s not testifying as I had promised, by the fact that there was no need for him to do so, since there was no case to begin with. I told him that there is always the chance that a plan will go off the rails; that a witness might testify differently than expected; that the prosecution might bring out something in cross examination that we did not know about. There was also the chance that the jury would not buy my argument that the state had not proved its case and convict if we didn’t put on any evidence.

  “If we quit now, what happens to the killers?” Logan asked.

  “In all probability, they’ll walk,” I said.

  “And you think the same people who killed Vivian killed Anne’s brother?”

  “You can bet on it,” Anne said.

  “Then we need to go ahead with the evidence,” he said. “I want the bastards who killed Vivian, and I know Anne wants to see them hang.”

  “You sure?” asked Anne.

  “I’m sure,” said Logan. “Go for it, Matt.”

  Elizabeth rested her case when we came back from lunch. I made a motion for directed verdict of acquittal, which was promptly denied. The judge asked me if I was ready to proceed with my case. When I responded that I was, Elizabeth rose to object.

  “Your Honor,” she said, “Mr. Royal provided me with a witness list on Monday morning. I’ve had investigators interviewing these witnesses since, and most of them wouldn’t talk to us. I object to the late notice of witnesses and ask the court to disallow their testimony.”

  “Denied,” said the judge.

  “But your Honor, how am I supposed to prepare my case if I don’t have access to the witnesses?”

  “Your Honor,” I said, rising to my feet, “Ms. Ferguson gave me nine days lead time to get ready for trial. I asked her for ninety days. She said no. If we had had that time, she could have deposed the witnesses. I think she has hoisted herself on her own petard.”

  “Mr. Royal is the one who wanted the quick trial,” Elizabeth said.

  “Children, children,” said the judge, “I’ve ruled. The motion is denied. Sit down. Deputy, bring in the jury.”

  Things were not going well for Elizabeth, but I knew this trial had a long way to go. She was an able prosecutor, and I was still worried that she had held something back, and would spring it on me at the worst time.

  I called Will Ledbedder. Will had flown in the night before from Chicago, taking vacation time to help me out. I had him state his name, occupation and place of residence. He told the jury about Vivian’s background, her conviction, her incarceration and her rehabilitation. He also told them that she had disappeared from Chicago and that at the time of her death there had been a warrant out for her arrest.

  “Who is Joseph Dean Johnson?” I asked.

  “He was Ms. Pickens’ pimp, known as Golden Joe.”

  “Where is Golden Joe now?”

  “Dead,” said Will.

  “What do you know about his death?”

  “Shortly after he got out of prison, he disappeared. A few days later his body was found in Miami, shot through the head.”

  “What was he in prison for?”

  “Objection,” said Elizabeth. “What possible relevance could this have to the case we’re trying?”

  “I was wondering that myself, Mr. Royal,” said the judge.

  “May we approach the bench?” I asked.

  He waved us forward. Leaning in, whispering, I said, “Judge, I can tie this all up with the next few witnesses. I’m going to show the jury that someone else killed Vivian.”

  “Okay, Mr. Royal, but tread lightly. If you don’t tie this up, you’re going to have to send for a toothbrush, because I will jail you for contempt of court.”

  “But...” said Elizabeth.

  “No buts, Ms. Ferguson. I’ve ruled. Proceed, Mr. Royal.”

  I returned to the podium. “Do your remember my last question?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Will. He then told the jury the facts surrounding the death of Vivian’s co-worker, Vivian’s vicious beating, and Joe’s sentence. He also told the jury that Vivian was the key witness against Joe.

  “Who was the customer who killed Vivian’s friend?” I asked.

  “Nobody knows,” said Will. “The investigation hit a dead end.”

  “Nothing further, your Honor.”

  Elizabeth rose and walked to the podium, reviewing her notes. “Mr. Ledbetter, are you here under subpoena?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “You came down voluntarily from Chicago to help Mr. Hamilton?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Then how did you come to be here?”

  “Oh, I came voluntarily, but I came to tell the truth, not help anybody.”

  This was not going well for Elizabeth, and she wisely sat down, announcing that she had no further questions.

  Next up on the stand was Maria Cox. Anne had gone to Miami on Sunday, with the hope of getting Maria to open up about Cox. She had called J.J. Jimenez on her way to Miami, and met him at the restaurant. She asked him if he thought Maria Cox would be mixed up in murder plots. J.J. didn’t think so. She had been raised right, as they said in the old South, and even kids who stray from their family’s values are in some sense tethered to those ideals forever. J.J. also thought Maria had been beaten, and showed Anne the pictures he had taken of her and Cox when we had been in the restaurant. J.J.’s camera was high resolution, and he had used his computer to manipulate the pictures of Maria, so that Anne could see the bruising on her right cheek, beneath the makeup she had applied.

  “Who would she go to for help?” asked Anne.

  “I don’t know. She cut herself off from her family, and there is some bad blood there, but she is still family, and her brothers would take her in,” said J.J.

  “Cox is in Longboat Key this weekend,” Anne said. “Would you go with me to visit Maria?”

  “If we can figure out where she lives.”

  “I know where,” said Anne.

  “Let me make a call,” answered J.J.

  Hernando Domingo, Maria’s eldest brother, had been twelve when Maria was born. He had doted on his little sister, and was devastated by the way her life had turned out. He had taken over the family business after his father’s death, and with the help of his younger brother, had overseen its continued growth.

  He arrived at the restaurant thirty minutes later and hugged J.J., who introduced him to Anne. He was a large man, tall and muscular, the result of years of hard work. He had a head of dark hair, olive skin, black eyes and the facial features that advertised his Cuban heritage.

  J.J. explained that Maria might be in trouble, and he thought it a good idea for the three of them to go see her. He told Hernando that Anne was a lawyer working on a case that would likely put Maria’s husband in jail for years, and that he had reason to believe that Cox had beaten Maria.

  That was all Hernando needed to hear. They took his vehicle, a big Chevrolet Tahoe that he used in his work, and headed for Brickell Ave. At the door, they told the same Brooklyn born security guard that J.J. Jimenez was there to see Maria Cox. And no, she wasn’t expecting him. After phoning upstairs, the guard directed them to an elevator.

  At the door to the penthouse, the only one opening off the elevator lobby, Hernando knocked on the door. Maria opened it, wearing a flowing caftan decorated with palm trees, and a Rolex watch. She was barefoot. She was expecting J.J., and here he was with a big Cuban she had not seen in years. It took her a mom
ent of puzzlement, but then her face took on a look of shock, and perhaps wonder. Anne wasn’t sure.

  “Hernando?” Maria said in Spanish. “Oh my God! What’s wrong?”

  “Hello, little one,” Hernando answered in English. “Everything is fine. May we come in?”

  “Of course.” She opened the door, and Hernando grabbed her in a bear hug. Letting her go, he introduced her to Anne.

  The living room was enclosed on one side in glass walls, giving the visitor a view of lower Biscayne Bay that only the wealthy usually enjoyed. They sat in furniture upholstered in silk fabric that must have cost a fortune. J.J. looked at Maria, and said, “Who hurt you?”

  “Nobody hurt me.”

  “Take the makeup off and we’ll see bruises,” said Hernando.

  “Is this what this is about? Big brother come to the rescue?” Maria was loud.

  “No, little one, it’s more than that. We think you’re in trouble, and I’m your family, and I’m here to help, and take you home if you want.”

  “Home?” Tears began to well in her eyes and run over, making little rivulets in her makeup.

  “Yes, little one. Home. Do you want to tell us what is going on?”

  “Oh Hernando, it’s such a long story, and so bad. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Maria,” Hernando said, “Anne is a lawyer and is here to help you out of this mess. Will you talk to her?”

  “Yes.” said Maria, relief in her voice.

  Anne explained to Maria her involvement in the matter; the fact of her brother’s death, Vivian’s and Joe’s deaths and how Cox and Rundel appeared to be involved. “Does your husband have a gun?” Anne asked.

  “Yes. A big one.”

  “May I see it?” asked Anne.

  Maria left the room, and returned in a couple of minutes, carrying a nine millimeter semi automatic pistol wrapped in an oil cloth. “Sam keeps this in the safe in the bedroom.” She handed it to Anne.

  “May I keep this?” Anne asked.

  “Yes, please. Get it out of the house. When Sam gets drunk, I’m always afraid he’ll use it on me.”

  “He’s been beating you, then,” said Hernando.

  “Yes, not often, but more, lately.”

  “Get packed,” said Hernando. “We’re going home.”

  Maria left the room, and Hernando asked Anne what she was going to do with the pistol. She said she was going to give it to a detective friend of hers for analysis. Hernando was worried about his sister’s involvement, but Anne assured him that if this turned out to be the murder weapon, Maria would not have any involvement. In fact, since she was the one who turned it over to the police, Maria could count on the authorities to see her as another victim.

  Anne went to see Carl Merritt, and told him she thought she might know where the murder weapon used on Golden Joe could be found She would only tell him if he agreed not to arrest the gun’s owner until he could testify in court in Manatee County. After that, he could shoot the bastard, for all Anne cared.

  Merritt agreed to the deal, got the gun, and his ballistics department matched it to the gun that had killed Golden Joe.

  Maria’s brother had taken her back into the family, and she had agreed to testify at this trial. She and Hernando had been sequestered alone in a witness room since lunch.

  After getting her name and address, I asked, “Who is your husband?”

  “Sam Cox.”

  “Does he own a gun?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Where is that gun now?”

  “I gave it to Miami-Dade Detective Merritt.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Cox. I have nothing further.”

  Elizabeth had no questions, and I called Carl Merritt to the stand. He testified that he had had the gun tested by the ballistics lab, and was sure that it was the same gun used to kill Golden Joe. I had no further questions, and neither did Elizabeth. Carl was excused by the judge and sat down in the back of the courtroom.

  My next witness was Sam Cox, who had spent the week in the Sarasota County jail. That had worked out better than I had anticipated.

  On Sunday I had asked Dick Bellinger to serve some subpoenas for me. He had agreed, and gone to the Colony Beach to find his quarry. Cox was in the bar when Dick approached him with the subpoena, and told him that he had to appear in Manatee County Circuit Court the following week. Cox ripped up the subpoena without looking at it, and walked out of the bar.

  Dick then called the Sarasota County Sheriff’s department and explained that he was a licensed process server, told the dispatcher what had happened, and asked that a deputy be sent to the Colony. By the time the deputy arrived, Cox was by the pool drinking vodka. He had apparently been at it for most of the afternoon, and was drunk. The uniformed deputy explained that the subpoena had been served, and that he would be glad to give Cox another copy of it, but he had to agree to abide by it. Cox cold-cocked the deputy, knocking him into the pool. Dick grabbed Cox in a full nelson and held him, sputtering and cursing, until the deputy got out of the pool and handcuffed him. The deputy took Cox to jail while Dick raced for the airport.

  In southwest Florida, it is considered bad form to attack uniformed deputy sheriffs, and Cox was thrown into jail. Somehow, his paperwork got lost by the jailers, and he was not brought before a judge as required by law. No matter how much Cox screamed about constitutional rights, he was kept in solitary confinement, with his meals brought to his cell. I thought the jailers would have a hard time explaining the lack of prompt first appearance to a judge, but since trial judges are elected in Florida, I thought it would not make much difference in whether he was charged with battery on a law enforcement officer.

  I had discussed this with the chief jailer earlier in the week, and told him I would still need Cox to testify. The jailer agreed and arranged for Cox to make his first appearance before a Sarasota County judge that morning. Bail had been set, but again the paper work got rerouted in some manner, so that Cox was still in custody when he was brought to the Manatee County courthouse.

  Cox was led into the courtroom by the court deputy. He looked a little hollow eyed, and a faint stubble covered his chin. He seemed docile enough, and I thought that sometimes a few days in jail can do a man some good.

  “State your name and address, please,” I said, after Cox took the stand.

  “Samuel Cox, Brickell Avenue, Miami, Florida.”

  “Why did you kill Golden Joe Johnson?”

  Elizabeth was on her feet. “Assuming facts not in evidence and irrelevant.”

  There was a slight buzz from the audience, mostly made up of local reporters. This trial was a pretty big deal for the sleepy town of Bradenton, so the local newspapers had reporters sitting through the proceedings. There was one reporter from the only T.V. station in the circuit, but the big boys in Tampa had not thought a local murder trial was worth their valuable time. Certainly not when there were gory traffic accidents to put on the six o’clock news.

  “Overruled,” said the judge, motioning Elizabeth to sit down.

  Cox was sputtering. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “Mr. Cox,” said the judge, leaning over the bench to look directly at the witness, “There will be no profanity in this courtroom. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, Judge.” Cox was calming a bit, his rage dissipating like mist in the sunshine. “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “But you know who Golden Joe Johnson is, or was, don’t you?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Then explain to the jury why a bullet from your pistol was found in his head?”

  The anger flashed again. This was a guy with a short fuse, and I was setting it off with every other question.

  “I don’t have any idea,” Cox said.

  “If I told you that your wife had given the gun to the police, and that Detective Merritt of the Miami-Dade police department had testified here today that your gun was used in the murder of Joe Johnson, would you think them
liars?”

  That question was borderline objectionable, but Elizabeth did not rise. I think it was about this time that Elizabeth figured out where I was going with my case. Prosecutors are sworn to get to the truth, not just convict the accused. A few, the really good ones, take that oath seriously and will hesitate to keep out evidence that may prove the innocense of the accused. Besides, Elizabeth had been shot down so much that I didn’t think she wanted to test the judge’s patience any more.

  Cox sat silent. “Did you not hear my question, Mr. Cox?”

  “Please repeat it.”

  I repeated the question, and when I mentioned Merritt’s name, I pointed to him in the back of the courtroom. I wanted Cox to know that the detective was there.

  “I can’t explain it,” he said. Then he did exactly what I expected him to do, because he was a clever guy who had operated on the margins of the law for many years. He said, “I’m not going to answer any more questions. I’m invoking my Fifth amendment rights.”

  The Fifth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States provides that no one can be forced to testify to matters that might incriminate him in a violation of the law. It is the criminal’s best friend, but it is part of a package of Amendments that limits the government’s rights. I think they are some of the most important thoughts ever devised by man. And sometimes, the criminal mind, hiding behind a constitutional right, can be a force of good for the defense lawyer.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. Cox?” asked the judge, leaning again over the bench and pinning Cox with those piercing blue eyes.

  “Yes,” said Cox.

  “Okay,” said the judge with a sigh. “I need to instruct the jury.”

  He then told the jury that everyone has the right not to incriminate themselves, and that the jury should not think Mr. Cox guilty of anything on account of him exercising a right given him by our constitution. Right, I thought. The jury knows to a man that Cox is guilty as hell, or he wouldn’t have taken the Fifth. Just because Cox refused to answer did not mean I couldn’t ask my questions, and that was a very big part of my game plan.

  “Did you arrange for Golden Joe Johnson to come to Miami?” I asked.