Florida Key

by Neil Watson

  No one had been following the case in the media more closely than Hannah Baltzwinik-Toporofski. Naturally, she was terribly upset by what had happened to her unfortunate neighbour, but she was ashamed to admit that she had quite enjoyed the attention accorded her, especially by the television news crews who interviewed her on no fewer than five separate occasions. She was filmed outside her own house, outside Sandy’s front door, in Sandy’s back yard, and twice inside Sandy’s kitchen. With each reporter’s interview, she found a new way to describe the same event—the discovery of Sandy’s body.

  When the local stations and newspapers began ramping up their coverage in advance of the upcoming court activity, Hannah became excited that she may have more opportunities to appear on TV. But alas for her, it wasn’t to be. Reporters had now moved on to film outside the courthouse, and only still photographs of Sandy’s house were used. Hannah’s disappointment turned to remorse and some shame at her own selfishness; it dawned on her that while she was being denied the chance of another TV appearance, poor Sandy had been denied her life. Churning over her memories of what had actually happened that horrible day when she’d discovered Sandy’s lifeless body, Hannah drifted into a kind of sub-consciousness.

  As she replayed the events in her mind’s eye, slowly, the fuzzy image came to her of the old pickup truck she’d seen edging along the road on that early morning. Then she gradually realised that she may have seen a similar truck in Sandy’s drive once or twice in the days before she was killed. Maybe it was the same one? “Oh, I’m so useless when it comes to cars, I barely know what my own looks like,” she thought. But as she reflected some more, she quizzed herself; hadn’t she heard some shouting as well? When had that been exactly? Two days before she’d discovered poor Sandy? The day she’d been murdered? It could have been either–or even both. “Oh my, I just can’t be sure. I’m becoming so confused and forgetful these days,” she puzzled. “But oh, my Lord, this could be important.” She wished she could have talked it all over with Daniel, but he was out collecting sewing machines. She ought to make a call. “Now where did I put that policeman’s card? I know it’s here somewhere.” After finding it, she nervously picked up the phone and dialled the number printed on it.

  It was the morning before the trial when Moores was contacted by the woman he found easier to remember as ‘Mrs. Baltop’. She hadn’t been particularly articulate on the phone, but he reluctantly went over to Paris to see her. Now back at his office, he pondered some more. To be blunt, he was annoyed that Baltop had left it this long to call, but anyhow what she’d told him was of not much use anyway. She may have seen a vehicle, and she may well have heard raised voices.

  Investigating this further would undoubtedly lead nowhere, decided Moores. He had nothing firm to go on, it would delay proceedings unnecessarily. “And, besides, we already know who did it,” he justified his inaction to himself. He ran things through in his head, concluding that Mrs. Baltop was probably pissed off that she hadn’t been asked to appear in court—she’s just missing being in the limelight. Moores remembered how she had repeatedly asked him whether he’d seen her on the television news, like she was some goddamn film star! “I bet she’d been going through her wardrobe, picking what to wear outside the courthouse for the reporters.”

  In truth, Moores really wanted to come away from the courtroom at the end of the trial with another conviction under his belt, and today’s interview with Mrs. Baltop was just a distraction he could do without. He gently closed the folder containing his meeting notes, bent down and slipped it in between a stack of other folders piled high on the floor next to his desk.

  The next day, at the courtroom in the town of Decatur, south-central Illinois, on a rainy afternoon, the Prosecution summarised the police evidence to the jury. Yushi’s parents and sister were in the visitors’ gallery, sobbing. The alleged perpetrator stood in the dock, head hung low as the judge finally received the verdict and read it out, passing sentence.

  “Yushi Yakamoto, you have been found guilty of murder, and you will remain at Joliet Correctional Center until such time as when you will be put to death by lethal injection. Take him down.”

  Yushi had already predicted that there would be no fairy godmother coming to aid him in his hour of need, but nevertheless, the judge’s words broke him. It had been his grave misfortune, as had been outlined to him by his lawyer, that although the US Supreme Court had halted all death sentences in 1972, that decision had been reversed in 1974. The Illinois legislature had reinstated the death penalty by lethal injection that same year. Yushi sank to his knees, whispering prayers in Japanese words that his grandfather had taught him, as he was lifted to his feet by the courthouse assistants, and led away.

  The newspapers were euphoric in their headlines. ‘BIKE RADIO KILLER IS SWITCHED OFF’, was one. ‘CAUGHT BIKE-RADIO HANDED’, read another. But ‘JUDGE TURNS DOWN THE RADIO KILLER’, was Moores’ favourite.

  The papers were spread neatly upon his desk like trophies. Leaning back in his chair and with a wry smile, he clasped his hands behind his head, anticipating the promotion that would surely follow.

  How It All Ended

  A s often as they possibly could, Yushi’s family visited him at Joliet, although the journey from their home in Allentown was a tiring 1,500 mile round trip and took days to travel by car. It was easier to take a domestic flight, but as one year went in to the next, whatever means of transport had been chosen, the stress and strain for his father was becoming intolerable, and failing health eventually prevented him from visiting his son. Yushi’s mother, although with physical strength greater than her husband’s, found the visits terribly traumatic, and eventually had to pass the duty to Mitori—Yushi’s younger sister by five years.

  Yushi continued protesting his innocence to anyone who might be prepared to listen. Finally, he came to the conclusion that it wasn’t doing much good. “Everybody’s innocent in here,” remarked one of his fellow inmates nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders when Yushi tried to engage him in conversation.

  Birthdays, Thanksgivings and Christmases continued to pass by without celebration. Even his sister Mitori’s wedding to her fiancé Jerry had to be missed. Another milestone in Yushi’s life came and went, when he was informed of the passing of his parents within months of each other, seven years following his incarceration. Now there was only one living soul who truly believed him to be innocent of murdering Sandy Beach. And that was Mitori, now 23 years old.

  In the confines of prison, Yushi did his best to make the most of the life he had while remaining on so-called Death Row, cruelly never knowing when his time was going to be up. As the years went by, he began to believe that this would remain his fate forever, and that his execution date may never come. That would at least be something, he thought, remembering his beloved grandfather’s teachings about respecting the value of all life.

  Taking advantage of the prison facilities that were available to those who behaved well, Yushi did his best to conform to the rules so that he could enjoy using the gym, the library, the games room and the television room. Remaining always a loner, he had only one inmate who he considered to be anyone more than just an enforced acquaintance, his cellmate M.J. Emanuele, who liked to call himself ‘The Assassin’.

  Yushi developed an interest in politics and current affairs, and one afternoon, while in the Television Room watching the regional news, he recognised a face on the screen. Bolting upright to pay greater attention, he saw that the bulletin was about Governor John Moores. The same Moores who had been his arresting police chief ten years previous. Although the sound on the TV set was turned down too low for Yushi to catch every word of the commentary, the images showed Moores being led away by a number of other men. Underneath the TV pictures, the words scrolling along the bottom read ‘GOVERNOR ARRESTED IN CORRUPTION AND RACISM SCANDAL . . . SOME PREVIOUS CONVICTIONS TO BE REVIEWED’.

  The next time he had a visit from his sister he told her what he’d seen o
n the news that day, and asked her to find out all she could so that he might argue that he’d been a victim of Moores’s racist bias against him. Yushi knew all along for a fact that there had been another man at Sandy’s house when she was killed. And it was his bet that Moores probably knew it as well.

  Unfortunately for Yushi, Mitori’s attempts to link Moores’s anti-Japanese behaviour with Yushi’s conviction were fruitless. The state authorities, many of who were in office during Moores’s heyday, wanted no further embarrassing miscarriages of justice to come to the fore. The Review Board decided there was insufficient evidence to warrant re-opening the notorious ‘Bike Radio Murder’ case. Without him knowing it, time for Yushi was beginning to run out.

  Seven months later, on Friday, 14th June, 1996, as he helplessly watched the lethal concoction of drugs being injected into his arm, Yushi Yakamoto reflected on whether his decision to keep his Japanese name had perhaps been an unfortunate one. Perhaps, if he’d changed it to the all-American-sounding Stephen Josh Mote, just as he’d contemplated doing when he was younger, his fate may have had a different outcome.

  PART TWO

  OLIVER GOES TO AMERICA

  CHAPTER 15

  (MONDAY, 6TH APRIL, 2015)

  WIVENHOE, ESSEX, UK

  Island Vacation

  A merica. Oliver couldn’t believe it. So far, the furthest he’d ever been on holiday was to Spain. And that trip hardly counted because it was with school when he was 13, and he didn’t enjoy it at all, thanks to a grotty overnight stop near Dover and a 20-hour coach journey, with the ferry crossing so rough it made him sick the whole way. And then there was the one family trip to France a year later but, at that time, they were such a dysfunctional unit, it was more like an endurance test than a holiday.

  Nowadays, his family life was more settled, and Oliver’s father was trying to make up for his son’s unhappy childhood. After demonstratively clicking the final keys on his laptop computer, he announced with a big grin that he’d booked them a two-week summer holiday in Florida.

  Thoughts of sunshine, beaches, palm trees and swimming filled Oliver’s head. He couldn’t concentrate on much else as he counted down the days towards the time when they’d be setting off on their British Airways flight to Tampa. He’d methodically Googled everything he could, and spent further hours viewing YouTube films of Anna Maria Island—the place off the west coast where his dad had arranged to rent a house, complete with its own private swimming pool, no less. He enthusiastically imagined in his mind’s eye all the oversized, overpowered cars that were commonplace in the videos. To say he was excited was an understatement.

  He hoped that he’d be able to indulge in his passion there—cycling—an activity that he could proudly claim to be very good at. After all, he’d been practising a lot around his home town of Wivenhoe, near Colchester in Essex. If he went out early enough in the mornings, before the dog-walkers were about, he’d power himself along the river path to Alresford Creek, reaching some impressively high speeds, according to the Garmin tracker fitted on his bike. Oliver liked his gadgets.

  Oliver, by now a 17-year old student, was enjoying living in Essex. Primarily, his life was wrapped up in his academic work, as he had studied hard at school for his exams in a number of subjects, managing to pass several GCSEs. His dad had encouraged him to continue his education with A level studies at college, which he was now doing. He had chosen English Literature and Sociology, and liked them both, but not equally. English was by far his favourite.

  Perhaps this was on account of his father. Just a few years previously, his dad had indulged his own passion for writing when his autobiographical book Muddy Water was published. Maybe, because of Muddy Water and the exposure to the literary world, Oliver now harboured a desire to become a journalist. He even dreamed of one day having his own newspaper column, perhaps editing a magazine, maybe even writing his own book. Very often, when in an everyday situation, his mind would conjure up some fictitious tale to fit the reality; he relished developing the characters and plots, weaving his ideas into a number of short stories.

  He began submitting various essays and stories to newspapers and magazines, local and national. From most of them, he heard nothing, but occasionally he would get a reply from a features editor here, or a publisher’s secretary there. Usually, the letter or email contained a polite ‘thanks but no thanks’, suggesting that he contact them again in the future after having gained some further practical experience. “Very helpful. Not!” thought a frustrated Oliver. But he did receive a couple of much more encouraging replies, with one even enquiring whether he had any other work that could be submitted. “Your work is ‘quite promising’,” was the exact phrase used in the email he received. Of course, Oliver did enthusiastically send more, and waited patiently for an answer that unfortunately never came.

  Oliver maturely told himself that he had his whole life ahead of him. He philosophically reasoned that he’d be receiving many more rejections before getting that one lucky break that mattered. Meanwhile, he would concentrate on his studies, and with his holiday to Florida looming, for now he would look forward to enjoying his 2015 summer break from college, while continuing to research the cycle-ways of Anna Maria Island.

  During this extensive Florida research, he discovered to his delight that, yes, he’d be able to hire a bike, and not just any old bike at that. As he scrolled the pages on his iPhone, he found there were a number of bike shops situated along the Anna Maria Island coast road. For only $35 a day, Oliver could rent a Cannondale, one of the best bikes he knew of. He pictured himself riding along that very road, and had to pinch himself that it would soon all be a reality.

  There were only a few short weeks to go. Oliver counted down the days.

  ***

  (SATURDAY, 6TH JUNE, 2015)

  ANNA MARIA ISLAND, FLORIDA, USA

  The day Oliver had been waiting impatiently for finally came on the first Saturday of June. For Oliver, who had never flown previously, the sheer size of the British Airways 747 was overwhelming. He understood the basic theory of aircraft thrust and lift, but was still astounded that something so huge could possibly remain above the clouds, transporting hundreds of passengers so smoothly, and in complete comfort, to a destination on the other side of the world.

  Relaxing into his seat, he watched three whole movies back to back. Godzilla kept him amused, Snakes on a Plane kept him looking across the aisle, and The Blues Brothers kept him laughing all the way through. Then he flicked through the various in-flight music channels that were on offer. A self-imposed country-music initiation came via the songs of Dwight Yoakham and Tim McGraw, and he concluded that he didn’t much care for either. Nevertheless, viewing the accompanying pictures, he figured that as he would soon be in the land of the Stetson hat, he’d better grow to like it.

  En-route from Tampa airport in the very cool, yellow, open-topped Mustang his dad had rented, more country sounds blared from every station on the stereo, and this time Oliver got what the American way was all about—a sense of freedom. They cruised along Freeway 75 towards the massive bridge that would carry them onto the island, with the sun shining brightly behind them. The cloud-free sky was clear blue, the car’s air-conditioning blasted out cold air—and the whole experience of seeing this country for the first time was truly exhilarating for the impressionable young Oliver.

  One hour later, their built-in satnav had guided them to the front door of the large house that would become their home for the next 14 days. “Wow! Is this where we’ll be staying?” Oliver asked, not quite believing his eyes, being more used to the density of the small houses packed into the narrow streets of his Wivenhoe home town. He tried to hold back his elation as his dad turned the key in the front door. Once inside the large hallway leading to a massive open-plan kitchen and lounge, Oliver gazed at the TV screen, larger than any he’d ever seen. As he walked around the room, taking in his surroundings, he pressed a button on the wall. First there was a click, th
en the low hum of a motor, as the ceiling-to-floor vertical blind swished slowly to the right, revealing a window the width and height of the whole room.

  Having seen pictures of the house on the internet, he already knew that there was a swimming pool, but the photos didn’t do it justice. Oliver’s jaw dropped at what he saw. The garden was surrounded by palm trees, and there was a barbecue and outdoor kitchen at one end, with the pool at the other. There were steps leading down into the clear water, past a fountain constantly cascading a gentle trickle into the pool. Surrounding the pool were chairs, tables and more sun-loungers than he could count at first sight—and all this was for just the two of them! He reckoned this was going to be some holiday, as he stepped outside to immerse himself in the sounds, the humid heat and the ambiance.

  “Right,” said his father. “Let’s go and see the sea!” Oliver nodded his approval, especially as he recalled that the local bike rental shop was just across the street from the house, near the entrance to Holmes Beach.

  Less than ten minutes later, Oliver was standing among at least twenty bicycles; drop-handlebar lightweight racers, tough fat-tyred mountain bikes, and hybrids with their upright seating position and medium-sized wheels. He decided on a hybrid, and made arrangements with the proprietor to return the following morning to collect it. Being reminded that he should also bring his passport “for the paperwork,” he loved the man’s deep American drawl. Of course he’d heard the accent plenty of times in films and TV shows at home, but somehow this was different. It was real.

  On exiting the shop, having been instructed by the man to “have a good day now,” Oliver and his dad wandered slowly in the heat towards the beach entrance, past a café-bar built of bamboo selling ‘HOT-DOG AND COLA FOR $5’, according to the placard outside, which they both settled on having while staring out towards the ocean. The sea was a light blue, and the soft sand pure white. And with a 17-year-old’s hormones rushing around his body, it was impossible for Oliver not to notice the many beautiful, bikini-clad, golden-tanned beach babes that could be observed in every direction. Was he in paradise? He wondered whether cycling and swimming mightn’t be his only holiday activities.