Just Cause

by John Katzenbach

  “Cowart? You there, fella?”

  “Hello, Sergeant. Yes?”

  “We’re bringing in Sully. He wants to talk to y’all.”

  “How’re things up there?”

  The sergeant laughed. “Hell, I shoulda known better than to let you in here. This place been buzzing like a damn bee’s nest since your stories. All of a sudden, everybody on Death Row’s calling up every damn reporter in the state, for sure. And every damn reporter is showing up here demanding interviews and tours and every damn thing.” The sergeant’s laugh continued to barrel over the telephone line. “Got this place more excited than the time both the main and the backup generators went out, and all the inmates thought it was the hand of Fate opening the doors for them.”

  “I’m sorry if I caused you some trouble . . .”

  “Oh, hell, I don’t mind. Takes the edge off the sameness, you know. Of course, likely to be a mite difficult around here when things do settle down. Which they will, sooner or later.”

  “How about Ferguson?”

  “Bobby Earl? He’s so busy giving interviews I think they ought to give him his’n own talk show on late-night TV, like Johnny Carson or that Letterman guy.”

  Cowart smiled. “And Sully?”

  There was a pause, then the sergeant spoke softly. “Won’t talk to no one about nothing, no sir. Not just reporters or shrinks. Bobby Earl’s attorney been ’round maybe five, six times. Those two detectives from Pachoula came by, but he just laughed at them and spat in their eyes. Subpoenas, threats, promises, whatever, you name it, don’t do no good. He don’t want to talk, especially about that little gal in Pachoula. He sings some hymns to himself and writes more letters and studies the Bible hard. Keeps asking me what’s happening, so I fill him in as best as possible, bring him the papers and the magazines and such. He watches the television each night, so he can see those two detectives call you every name in the book. And then he just laughs it all off.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he’s having fun. His own kind of fun.”

  “That’s scary.”

  “I told you about that man.”

  “So why does he want to talk to me?”

  “I don’t know. He just up and asks me this morning if’n I’ll put the call through.”

  “So put him on.”

  The sergeant coughed with concern. “Ain’t that easy. You remember, we like a few precautions moving Mr. Sullivan.”

  “Of course. How’s he look?”

  “He don’t look no different from when you saw him, save maybe a bit of excitement about him. Got a little bit of a glow to him, like he’s been putting on weight, which he ain’t, ’cause he don’t eat much at all. Like I said, I think he’s having fun. He’s right lively.”

  “Uh-huh. Hey, Sergeant, you didn’t say what you thought of the story.”

  “No? Well, I thought it real interesting.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Mr. Cowart, I got to say, you hang around prisons long enough, especially Death Row, and you’re likely to hear every damn strange story there is.”

  Before Cowart could ask another question, he heard loud voices in the background and shuffling sounds by the telephone. The sergeant said, “He’s coming in now.”

  “This a private conversation?” Cowart asked.

  “You mean, is this phone bugged? Hell if I know. It’s the line we use mainly for lawyers, so I doubt it, ’cause they’d make a helluva stink. Anyway, here he is, just one second, we got to cuff his hands.”

  There was a momentary silence. Cowart could hear the sergeant speaking in the background. “That too tight, Sully?” And he heard the prisoner reply, “Nah, it’s okay.” Then there were some indistinct noises and the sound of a door closing, and finally Blair Sullivan’s voice.

  “Well, well, well, Mr. Cowart. The world-famous reporter, how yah doing?”

  “Fine, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “Good. Good. So what d’you think, Cowart? Our boy Bobby Earl gonna walk in the air of freedom? Do you think that god of good fortune’s gonna pluck him out from behind these bars, from out of the shadow of death, huh? You think the gears of justice gonna start grinding away on him now?” Sullivan laughed hoarsely.

  “I don’t know. His attorney has filed a motion for a new trial back in the court that convicted him . . .”

  “You think that’s gonna do the trick?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Sullivan coughed. “That’s right, you’re right.”

  Both men were silent.

  After a moment, Cowart asked, “So, why have you called me?”

  “Hang on,” Sullivan replied. “I’m trying to get this damn smoke lit. It’s hard. I got to put the phone down.” There was a clunking sound before Cowart heard his voice again. “Ahh, there we go. You asked?”

  “Why’d you call?”

  “I just wanted to hear how famous you’re getting.”

  “What?”

  “Why, hell, Cowart, I see your story all over the news. Sure got everybody’s attention, didn’t you? Just by sticking your hand under a greasy old culvert, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Pretty easy way to get famous, huh?”

  “That wasn’t all there was to it.”

  Sullivan spat out another laugh. “I suppose not. But you sure looked fine answering all those questions on Nightline. Real confident and sure of yourself.”

  “You wouldn’t talk to them.”

  “Nah. I thought I’d let you and Bobby Earl do the talking.” Sullivan hesitated and then whistled. “Of course, now I noticed that those policemen from Pachoula didn’t want to do much talking neither. I think they don’t believe Bobby Earl. And they don’t believe you. And they sure as hell don’t believe in me.”

  Sullivan burst out with a mocking bray. “Now, ain’t that some pigheadedness! Just goes to show some folks be blind to anything, huh?”

  Cowart didn’t reply.

  “Ain’t that a question, Cowart? Didn’t I ask you something?” Blair Sullivan whispered harshly.

  “Yes,” Cowart replied quickly. “Some folks are blind to anything.”

  The prisoner paused. “Well, we ought to help the shingles to drop from their eyes, oughtn’t we, Mr. Famous Reporter Man? Lead them to the path of enlightenment, what you say?”

  “How?” Cowart pitched forward at his desk. He could feel sweat streaking down under his arms, tickling his ribs.

  “Now suppose I were to tell you something else. Something real interesting.”

  Cowart’s hand seized a pencil and he grabbed a stack of blank paper to take notes. “Like what?”

  “I’m thinking. Don’t push me.”

  “Okay. Take your time.” Here it comes, he thought.

  “It would be interesting to know, wouldn’t it, how that little girl got into that car, huh? That would pique your interest, wouldn’t it, Cowart?”

  “Yes. How?”

  “Not so fast. I’m still thinking. You got to be cautious with your words these days. Don’t want anything misunderstood, if you follow my meaning. Say, do you know it was a lovely day that that poor gal died, wasn’t it, Cowart? Did you find out that it was hot but sort of dry at the same time, with a little breeze blowing that cooled things off a bit and with like a great wide big blue sky up above and lots of flowers blooming all about. A real pretty day to die. And imagine how cool and comfortable it must have felt back there in that swamp under all that shade. You think that maybe the man who killed little Joanie—ain’t that a sweet name—just lay back afterwards and enjoyed what a fine day it was for just a few minutes? And let the cool shade bring a nice calm to him?”

  “How cool was it?”

  Blair Sullivan laughed sharply.
“Now how would I know that, Cowart? Really?”

  He wheezed in air, whistling on the phone line. “Think of all the things those two pig cops would like to know. Like clothes and bloodstains and why there warn’t no fingerprints and hair and dirt samples and all that stuff.”

  “Why?”

  “Well,” Sullivan replied breezily, “I suspect that the killer of little Joanie knew enough to have two sets of clothes with him. So he could take the one set off—that one set that’s all covered with blood and shit—and ditch them somewhere. He probably had the sense to keep a couple of extra-big old plastic garbage bags in his car as well, so he could wrap up that bloody clothing so’s no one would notice it.”

  Cowart’s stomach clenched. He remembered a Miami detective telling him of finding spare clothes and a roll of garbage bags in the trunk of Blair Sullivan’s car the night he was arrested. He closed his eyes for an instant and asked, “Where would the killer dump the stuff?”

  “Oh, someplace like a Salvation Army depository. You know, there’s one at the shopping mall right outside Pensacola. But that’s only if it weren’t too messy, you know. Or if he really wanted to be careful, he’d maybe toss it in a big old Dempsey Dumpster, like the types they have at the rest areas on the interstate. Like at the Willow Creek exchange. That big one. Gets picked up every week and all that stuff just chucked right in a landfill. Nobody ever looks at what they’re throwing out. Buried away under tons of garbage, yes sir. Never find that stuff again.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  He didn’t reply. Instead, Sullivan continued, saying, “I bet those cops, and you, too, Cowart, and maybe that little girl’s grieving momma and poppa, would especially like to know why at all that little girl gets into that car, huh? Isn’t that something, after all? Why does it happen, right?”

  “Tell me why.”

  He hissed over the line. “God’s will, Cowart.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Or maybe the Devil’s. You think of that, Cowart? Maybe God was just having a bad day that day, so he let his former number-one executive officer make a bit of mischief, huh?”

  Cowart didn’t reply. He listened to the whispered words that slid across the phone line, landing heavily in his ear.

  “Well, Cowart, I bet that whoever it was talked that little girl into his car, said something like, ‘Honey, can you give me some directions, please? I’m lost and need to find my way.’ Now ain’t that the Lord’s own truth, Cowart? That man there in that car, why I can see him as clear as the hand in front of me. Why he was lost, Cowart. Lost in so many ways. But he found himself that day, didn’t he?”

  Sullivan inhaled sharply before continuing. “And when he’s got that little gal’s attention, what’s he gonna say? Maybe he said, ‘Honey, I’ll just give you a lift down to the corner, huh?’ Just as easy and natural as you like.”

  Sullivan hesitated again. “Easy and natural, yes sir. Just exactly like a nightmare. No different than exactly what those good folks try to tell those children to look out for and stay clear from.”

  He paused, then added breezily, “Except she didn’t, did she?”

  “Is that what you said to her?” Cowart asked unsteadily.

  “Did I say that’s what I said to her? Did I now? No, I only said that’s probably what somebody said to her. Somebody who was feeling kind of mean and murderous on that day and was just lucky enough to spot that little gal.”

  He laughed again. Then he sneezed.

  “Why’d you do it?” Cowart asked abruptly.

  “Did I say I did?” Sullivan replied, giggling.

  “No. You just tease me with . . .”

  “Well, forgive me for having my fun.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me the truth? Why don’t you just come forward and tell the truth?”

  “What, and wreck all my enjoyment? Cowart, you don’t know how a man gets his pleasures on Death Row.”

  “Will allowing an innocent man to fry . . .”

  “Am I doing that? Why, don’t we have a mighty system of criminal justice to take care of those things? Make damn certain no innocent man gets a hot squat?”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “Yes I do,” Sullivan replied softly, menacingly. “And I don’t give a damn.”

  “So why have you called me?”

  Sullivan paused on the phone line. When his voice returned, it was quiet and deadly. “Because I wanted you to know how interested I have become in your career, Cowart.”

  “That’s . . .”

  “Don’t interrupt me!” Sullivan bit off his words. “I have told you that before! When I speak, you damn listen, Mr. Reporter Man. Got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I wanted to tell you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I wanted to tell you it isn’t over. It’s just beginning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You figure it out.”

  Cowart waited. After a moment, Sullivan said, “I think we’ll talk again someday. I do enjoy our little chats. So much seems to happen after we talk. Oh, one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Did you hear, Florida high court’s got my automatic appeal set for their fall term. They sure do like to keep a man waiting. I guess they’re thinking maybe I’ll change my mind or something. Decide to start playing out my appeals and all. Maybe hire some hotshot like Bobby Earl did and start questioning whether it’s constitutional to fry my old sorry tail. I like that. I like their concern for old Sully.”

  He paused. “But we do know one thing, don’t we, Mr. Reporter?”

  “What’s that?”

  “That they’re damn wrong. I wouldn’t change my mind about things if Jesus Hisself came down and asked me nice and personal to.”

  Then he hung the telephone up abruptly.

  Cowart rose then from his seat. He decided to go to the men’s room, where he spent several minutes running cold water over his wrists, trying to control the sudden heat that had overtaken him, and to slow his racing heart.

  His ex-wife called him, too, one evening as he was getting ready to leave work, the day after he had appeared on Nightline.

  “Matty?” Sandy said. “We saw you on the tube.”

  Her voice had a sort of girlish excitement about it, which reminded him of the better times, when they’d been young, and their relationship hadn’t been burdened. He was surprised to hear from her and pleased at the same time. He felt a sort of false modest delight.

  “Hello, Sandy. How’re you doing?”

  “Oh, fine. Getting fat. Tired all the time. You remember how it was.”

  Not really, he thought. He remembered he’d spent most of her pregnancy working fourteen-hour days on the city desk.

  “What did you think?”

  “It must have been exciting for you. It was a hell of a story.”

  “Still is.”

  “What’s going to happen to those two men?”

  “I don’t know. I think Ferguson will get a new trial. The other . . .”

  She interrupted. “He scared me.”

  “He’s a pretty twisted man.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “If he doesn’t start filing appeals, the governor will sign a death warrant for him as soon as the state Supreme Court upholds his conviction. There’s not much doubt they’ll do that.”

  “When will that happen?”

  “I don’t know. The court usually announces its decisions at several times, right up to the New Year. There’ll be just a single little line in the sheaf of decisions: In Re: The State of Florida versus Blair Sullivan. The judgment and sentence of the trial court is affirmed. It’s all pretty bloodless un
til the governor’s order arrives at the prison. You know, lots of papers and signatures and official seals and that sort of stuff, until it falls on somebody actually to have to juice the guy. The guards there call it doing the deathwork.”

  “I don’t think the world will be a lesser place when he’s gone,” Sandy said with a small shudder in her voice.

  Cowart didn’t reply.

  “But if he never owns up to what he did, what will happen to Ferguson?”

  “I don’t know. The state could try him again. He could get pardoned. He could sit on Death Row. All sorts of strange things can happen.”

  “If they execute Sullivan, will anyone ever really know the truth?”

  “Know the truth? Hell, I think we know the truth now. The truth is that Ferguson shouldn’t be on Death Row. But prove the truth? That’s a whole other thing. Real hard.”

  “And what will happen to you now?”

  “Same old stuff. I’ll follow this story to the end. Then write some more editorials until I get old and my teeth fall out and they decide to turn me into glue. That’s what they do to old racehorses and editorial writers, you know.”

  She laughed. “Come on. You’re going to win a Pulitzer.”

  He smiled. “I doubt it,” he lied.

  “Yeah, you will. I can feel it. Then they’ll probably put you out to stud.”

  “I should be so lucky.”

  “You will be. You’re going to win one. You deserve to. It was a hell of a story. Just like Pitts and Lee.”

  She, too, remembered that story, he realized. “Yeah. You know what happened to those guys after they got the judge to order up a new trial? They got convicted again, by a racist jury just as damn stupid as the first. It wasn’t until the governor pardoned them that they got off Death Row. People forget that. Twelve years it took them.”

  “But they got off and that guy won the Pulitzer.”

  He laughed. “Well, that’s right.”

  “You will, too. Won’t take twelve years, either.”

  “Well, we’ll see.”

  “Will you stay with the Journal?”