Monument Road

by Michael Wiley

  He smiled – uncomfortable – and looked at me as if I had failed to answer his question.

  ‘My reintegration counselor told me to visit the people and places that have given me pleasure. I liked seeing you when you came. I appreciated the cards you sent.’

  ‘That was nothing,’ he said.

  I said, ‘When I was in high school, how well did we know each other?’

  ‘You had talent,’ he said. ‘The first time I saw you run, I thought, This kid is a winner. You had a look I’ve seen only in the fastest boys. When you ran, you seemed almost to leave the ground. It was beautiful to watch.’

  ‘But you kicked me off the team, and I barely talked to you for the next three years. And then you showed up at my trial and came to see me in prison. Why?’

  He looked out across the front yard. A pickup truck, loaded with landscaping equipment, drove by, and then the street was empty, the air still, the midday sunlight glinting on the pavement. ‘I missed a chance with you,’ he said. ‘I thought maybe if I had worked with you instead of kicking you off the team, your life would have turned out different. The things you did to those boys—’

  ‘I did nothing to them,’ I said. ‘I did nothing.’

  ‘I know that now,’ he said.

  ‘What did you think when you testified and visited me?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to think,’ he said.

  We sat for a while, quiet, and then I said, ‘About two years ago, you stopped coming and sending cards. Had you worked out your guilt for kicking me off?’ I wondered why I felt angry. In the early days, he’d stood by me closer than anyone else.

  ‘I hit a rough patch,’ he said. Nervous again.

  I stared at him the way so many others had stared at me during the trial.

  ‘You’re no longer coaching?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You quit?’

  He said nothing. From his nervousness and the stink on him, I imagined a problem with drugs, or some kind of breakdown.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing I care to talk about.’

  I had no reason to harass him, except for my general anger and his infectious unease. ‘There will be a public record,’ I said. ‘I can find it. Or you can tell me.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Everything is accessible now, more or less,’ I said. ‘I can find out about things that didn’t even happen. My name appears in hundreds of databases. You can find all the terrible things the police and prosecutor said I did. You can find details about my childhood that I’d forgotten until I read about them online. I’m good at finding these kinds of things. Give me a computer and an hour or two, and I’ll know all of your secrets.’

  ‘Why would you want to know them?’ he asked. In the still air, I smelled him. ‘It seems mean-spirited.’

  ‘Your visits and cards may have saved me,’ I said, ‘but your interest also always confused me. I wondered why you cared. I want to know what motivated you. If that’s mean-spirited, I’m sorry.’

  He spoke then with a voice that echoed one I’d heard in my own ears as I talked to prison guards, lawyers, and judges – the voice of a man pressed hard against a wall. ‘Look it up on your computer. Do what you’ve got to do.’

  I stood up and said, ‘I’ve also learned that, with all those databases and stories about me, I still can tell my own story. Sometimes that’s all I’ve been able to do. Maybe no one listened. Maybe no one believed me even if they heard. For a long time, that’s the way it was. But telling my own story felt better than listening to others talk about me.’ He held his lips tight, closing against himself. So I said, ‘Good to see you again, Coach,’ and I went to the porch steps.

  ‘They fired me,’ he said.

  I stayed where I was, letting him have distance.

  ‘A few of the kids have posted about it online,’ he said. ‘You can find it. But the only truth you’ll see is that I took the team to Tallahassee, and when the Holiday Inn was overbooked, I shared a room with one of the runners. The rest is lies.’

  I felt a rushing in my head.

  ‘The boy had troubles,’ he said. ‘He shouldn’t have come to the meet.’

  ‘But you let him come. And you roomed with him?’

  ‘Who else would? You think he would’ve made it through the night with the other boys? I tried to help.’

  ‘What exactly happened?’

  ‘I coached for twenty-one years,’ he said. ‘In all that time, only this boy accused me. Why should anyone believe him?’

  ‘What did you do?’ Now I heard Higby’s voice in my head, saying, You did it.

  ‘They asked me to resign,’ he said. ‘I told them I wouldn’t. They threatened to go to the police. The boy’s family ruled that out. Instead, they fired me.’ He gazed at me as if asking for something – forgiveness maybe, or sympathy.

  But I still heard only Higby’s You did it. I wondered what desire or guilt drew Kagen to come to my trial, visit me behind bars, and send cards. Maybe the charges against me sparked something that had kindled low and whatever happened in the Holiday Inn six years later flamed inevitably after he watched me and wondered what it would be like. Or maybe he already knew what it would be like.

  I tried to stop that train of thought. Maybe he’d taken the runner into his hotel room to help a child in need – and he’d visited and written to me following the same impulse – and then the boy accused him falsely. I knew plenty about getting punished for good deeds.

  But his nervousness and the sour stink made me think a nightmare became flesh in that Tallahassee hotel room.

  I realized he was staring at me. He said, ‘If anyone can understand, you should.’

  But the rushing still came in my head, and I wondered if Higby heard the same wind as he grabbed me by the throat and held me against the wall of the interview room.

  I managed to say, ‘Sure, Coach,’ but then I fled down the porch steps to my car.

  Behind me, he said, ‘You’ve got to understand.’

  I drove to the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office – a concrete slab of a building with slit windows, sunlight baking the gray walls. The last time I’d come to the building, Higby breathed fire in my face until I told him I killed the Bronson brothers. Exhausted, frightened, broken, I’d half believed I did it.

  People and places that gave me pleasure? Visiting the Sheriff’s Office felt like a blade in the belly.

  I went up the steps anyway, my insides turning liquid. At the information desk by the security checkpoint, I asked for Higby’s partner, Detective Deborah Holt.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ the deskman said.

  ‘My name’s Franky Dast,’ I said. ‘She knows who I am.’

  The man’s eyes lit up at my name. ‘Yeah, we all know who you are.’ He dialed his phone. Then he pointed at a concrete pillar by a garbage can and a table covered with street-safety brochures. ‘Wait over there.’

  That’s where Deborah Holt found me five minutes later.

  ‘What the hell?’ she said.

  ‘Can we talk?’ I asked.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Inside?’

  ‘No. What do you want?’

  I already sensed I was wasting my time, but I asked, ‘What do you know about a man named Ernie Kagen? Used to coach track at Sandalwood High School.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’ She turned as if we’d finished.

  ‘He was fired two years ago for getting too close to one of the boys who ran on the team.’

  ‘Sounds like a friend of yours,’ she said.

  ‘That’s the thing. After Higby arrested me, Kagen started showing up. I ran track for a year at Sandalwood, but I thought Kagen had forgotten me until he came to my trial. Then he visited me in prison. For a while, he was my friend. My only friend. But I just found out about the thing with the runner.’

  ‘Congratulations. Now you have something to bond over.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ I said.
>
  She looked at me with low rage and, without another word, walked away.

  I called after her, ‘Did you know about him before? Did Higby? Where was Kagen when the Bronson boys died?’

  Holt turned and came back. ‘Shut up,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re out of prison. Be happy with that. But now you’re real close to getting back into something that you want to stay far away from. You understand that? Be grateful you’re out. Let that be enough.’

  That night, I saw Cynthia for only a half hour. My stomach was churning and felt as sour as the smell that came off Coach Kagen. She and I sat in my car in the Cineplex parking lot, and she rested her hand on my thigh.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  ‘I wish I could,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know. I don’t.’

  ‘Tell me anyway,’ she said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Over the next week, with LaFlora’s execution ticking closer, Jane and Hank had me hunt for records that would prove that, along with receiving reduced or dropped charges, Kim Jenkins and the other witnesses were paid to testify against an innocent man.

  But a bank long ago destroyed any records that would show even a small deposit into the account owned by the first of the witnesses. The second witness never had an account. And we would need a court order to see the financial records of the newly dead Kim Jenkins – impossible without the consent of her husband.

  Each morning, Jane came in grimacing. Hank stared blankly at the poster of LaFlora. Thelma danced her fingers across the computer keyboard to a fast-forwarded soundtrack only she could hear. I drove back to Callahan three times, but Kim Jenkins’s house remained empty and the employees at Aardo Auto Parts said Randall Haussen had stayed in Georgia even after the coroner released his wife’s body and a dozen friends and neighbors sat in pews at her funeral.

  When I wasn’t looking into the police handling of LaFlora’s case, I tried to find out more about Coach Kagen and his night at the Holiday Inn. I searched a dozen social media sites and found two mentions of him and a kid named Jacob. Contradicting what Kagen told me, the first postings said the Tallahassee police went to the Holiday Inn on the night of the track meet after one of Jacob’s teammates called 911.

  So I searched for a list of sexual predators on the city website. Two lived within a quarter mile of Kagen’s house, but his street and the streets on both sides of it were clean. Next, I looked at the house where I grew up. Again, no red flag appeared. Then I looked at the section of Philips Highway where I’d lived since getting out of prison. ‘Goddamn it,’ I said.

  Thelma’s fingers stopped dancing on the keyboard.

  ‘They’ve got me down as a predator at the Cardinal Motel.’

  ‘Let it go for now,’ Jane said.

  Hank said, ‘Once you’ve got your apology and money from the state, you can sue to get off the list.’

  In the evenings, Cynthia and I went to my room or watched movies at the Cineplex. One night, we went back to Cardice Cold Storage, and when the watchman left us alone, Cynthia unzipped her pants and I unzipped mine in the shivering cold.

  Then Bill Higby hit the news again. As one of the conditions of his release, he’d signed an agreement to stay away from the Skooners, but according to the morning news, he crossed the property line, pounded on the Skooners’ door, and confronted the judge. One report said that he punched the judge’s son, Andrew, though the Sheriff’s Office spokesman confirmed only that an altercation occurred shortly after midnight and the police now had one of their own in custody.

  Whatever happened, Higby was back in jail.

  A thrill passed down my back as the anchorman and reporter mulled over the dangers of rogue officers.

  In a live interview on Channel 4, Higby’s lawyer said, ‘The circumstances of this incident have been misrepresented,’ but when asked to explain, said only, ‘The time will come for explanations.’

  As for the Skooners, the judge said, ‘We’re installing a new security system at my house this afternoon. I would be sorry to lose confidence in our city’s law enforcement.’

  I floated – like a running boy – from my room out to my car and gripped the steering wheel with both hands so I would stay on the road while driving to the JNI office.

  Thelma had just come in and was waiting for her computer to boot up. Hank had pulled his chair to the side of Jane’s desk, and they were reviewing pretrial depositions from Kim Jenkins and the other two witnesses. Hank said, ‘The lawyer asked straight out, “What incentives did you receive for agreeing to testify?” and the witness said, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He evaded the question.’

  Jane shook her head. ‘Maybe he didn’t know the word “incentive.”’

  Hank jabbed the deposition. ‘They goddamned did it.’ It was just eight, but Hank already had a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘I hear it,’ Jane said, ‘but where does he say it?’

  I turned on my laptop and said, ‘It’s too little. You know that.’

  Hank glared at me. But when he turned back to Jane, he all but admitted it. ‘I’m sinking,’ he said. ‘Give me something.’

  She looked at another page of the deposition. ‘The lawyer asked, “Why are you testifying?” And he said, “I’ve got kids to take care of.” It’s suggestive.’

  ‘Still sinking,’ Hank said.

  ‘Who bailed them out?’ I asked.

  Hank and Jane looked at me. I said, ‘The dealer got killed while the witnesses were smoking crack. Even with the reduced charges, they had to pay a lot to stay out of jail before the trial. Who paid the bail? Crackheads are poor, and most poor people have poor friends and family. Maybe the payoff went to them.’

  Hank still looked as if he was sinking, but he said, ‘Check it out.’

  I spent an hour trying to identify Kim Jenkins’s family members and the families of the other witnesses, but, like a lot of addicts, they’d cut themselves off from their loved ones or their loved ones had done the cutting. I had no doubt that I would find names if I searched long enough, but after another ten minutes with no hits, I checked the latest news on Higby.

  Now, three stories said he’d punched Andrew Skooner, cutting him badly enough for stitches. The Skooner family lawyer was demanding that the District Attorney charge Higby with assault. Higby’s lawyer now said no quarrel occurred.

  I closed the internet connection, slapped the laptop shut, and got up.

  ‘What?’ Hank said.

  ‘No luck,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’ I headed for the stairs.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m trying another approach. Maybe faster.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m going to talk to LaFlora’s prosecutor.’

  ‘Eric Skooner? You can’t do that.’

  ‘Watch me,’ I said.

  Hank got up and followed me down the stairs. ‘You can’t afford to stick a wrench into this right now,’ he said. ‘Thomas LaFlora can’t afford it. The JNI can’t. Eric Skooner is feared on the bench, and—’

  He was still talking as I got into my car and pulled from the curb.

  When I rang the bell at the judge’s house, Andrew Skooner opened the door. Behind him in the hallway, as the judge promised, security technicians were mounting a video camera near the ceiling.

  Andrew Skooner stared at me. He was big and square and muscled. Under normal circumstances, people would have called him handsome. But along with old scars on his nose and forehead, he had a stitched-up cut over his upper lip. Dry blood crusted the bottom of his nostrils. His left cheek was swollen.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, ‘I work for the Justice Now Initiative.’

  He started to close the door.

  ‘Higby did a job on your face,’ I said.

  He closed the door the rest of the way, and a lock clicked into place.

  I talked to the closed door. ‘He did a job on me too – eight years ago. You can’t see the st
itches, but inside I’m sewed up like a rag doll. Higby seemed brutal when I first met him, but I’ve met others like him since then. It seems like their hands are made of scissors and knives—’

  The door swung open again. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘When he cut me, he was incredibly precise,’ I said. ‘It was like brain surgery, or open heart. He knew what he wanted, and he went inside and got it. If you saw me then, you would have said he was a professional – top of his field. But look at you. He swung wildly, didn’t he? From all I’ve seen, you and your family bring out the beast in him.’

  The security techs stopped working and listened.

  Andrew Skooner said, ‘Who are you and what are you talking about?’

  ‘My name’s Franky Dast. He sent me away for eight years for—’

  ‘Yeah, I know about you,’ he said.

  ‘Then you know how he carved me up. Or if you still think I did the things he said I did, he carved me up even better than you know.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ he said.

  ‘What happened last night?’ I asked. ‘What made him go after you like that?’

  ‘Why would I tell you?’

  ‘Shared experiences?’ I said.

  From somewhere in the house behind him, a man said, ‘Who is it, Andy?’ I recognized Judge Skooner’s voice from the TV interviews after Joshua died.

  His son stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him. ‘You should leave,’ he said.

  ‘Why did Higby hit you?’ I asked.

  ‘Why does anyone hit someone?’ he said. ‘We argued. He got mad.’

  ‘What did you argue about?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ he said. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘It’s never over,’ I said. ‘Why won’t you tell me what happened?’

  He stared at me, as if gauging my strength as a man he might need to fight. ‘I know you’ve had it hard,’ he said. ‘I get that. But, believe it or not, I’ve had it harder. I might not look it, but I have.’

  The door opened, and Judge Skooner peered out and said, ‘Andy, what are you doing?’ Then he stared at me and added, ‘I know who you are.’