Just Cause

by John Katzenbach

  “I am.”

  “And is it truthful?”

  “It is.”

  Roy Black paced about the podium in sudden exasperation. “Well, which is true?”

  Detective Wilcox leaned back, allowing the smallest of grins to pene­trate his lips. “Both statements are true, sir. It is true that at the outset of the interview, I slapped Mr. Ferguson twice. With an open hand. Not hard. It was after he called me a name, and I couldn’t control my temper for that one moment, sir. But hours passed before he confessed, sir. Almost an entire day. During that time we made jokes and spoke in a friendly fashion. He was given food and rest. He never requested an attorney, nor did he ask to go home. It was my impression, sir, that when he confessed it made him feel much better about what he’d done.”

  Detective Wilcox shot a glance at Ferguson, who was scowling, shaking his head, and scribbling on his legal pad. His eyes caught Cowart’s for an instant, and he smiled.

  Roy Black let fury ride the edges of his questions. “Now, after you slapped him, Detective, what do you think he thought? Do you think he thought he wasn’t under arrest? That he was free to go? Or do you think he thought you were going to beat on him some more?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, how did he act after you slapped him?”

  “He grew more respectful. It didn’t seem like Ferguson thought it was any big deal.”

  “And?”

  “And I apologized at the request of my superior officer.”

  “Well, I’m sure that looking back from Death Row, that apology made all the difference in the world,” the lawyer said sarcastically.

  “Objection!” Boylan stood slowly.

  “I’ll withdraw the remark,” Black replied.

  “Right,” said the judge. “Precisely.” He glared at the defense attorney.

  “No more questions.”

  “The state?”

  “Yes, your honor. Just one or two. Detective Wilcox, have you had occasion to take other statements from people confessing to crimes?”

  “Yes. Many times.”

  “How many have been suppressed?”

  “None.”

  “Objection! Irrelevant!”

  “Objection sustained and stricken. Continue, please.”

  “Now, just so I can be certain, you say Mr. Ferguson finally confessed some twenty-four hours after being asked to give a statement?”

  “Correct.”

  “And the alleged slapping, that took place in . . .”

  “Maybe the first five minutes.”

  “And were there any other physical threats directed toward Mr. Ferguson?”

  “None.”

  “Verbal threats?”

  “None.”

  “Any type of threats?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you.” The prosecutor sat down. Wilcox rose and walked across the courtroom, adopting a fierce look until he maneuvered past the camera, when he broke into a grin.

  Tanny Brown was next to the stand. He sat in the seat quietly, relaxed, with the calm exterior of someone who’d been in the position he occupied many times. Cowart listened carefully as the lieutenant explained the difficulty surrounding the case, and told the judge that the car was the first, and really the only, piece of evidence they had to go on. He described Ferguson as nervous, anxious, evasive when they arrived at his grandmother’s shack. He said that Ferguson’s movements had been abrupt, furtive, and that he had refused to explain why he was so busy washing out his car, or to explain satisfactorily where the missing section of car rug was. He said that this physical nervousness led him to suspect that Ferguson was concealing information. He then conceded that Ferguson was slapped twice. Nothing more.

  His words echoed his partner’s. “Detective Wilcox struck the subject twice, with an open hand. Not hard. He was more respectful afterwards. But I personally apologized to the suspect, and I insisted that Detective Wilcox do the same.”

  “And what was the effect of those apologies?”

  “He seemed to relax. It did not seem that Mr. Ferguson thought being slapped was much of a big deal.”

  “I’m sure. It’s a bigger deal now, right, Lieutenant?”

  Tanny Brown paused before answering the exasperated question. “That is correct, Counselor. It is a much bigger deal now.”

  “And of course, you never pulled a handgun during that interrogation and pointed it at my client?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You never pulled the trigger on an empty cylinder and told him to confess?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You never threatened him with his life?”

  “No, sir.”

  “As far as you’re concerned, the statement he gave was entirely voluntary?”

  “Correct.”

  “Stand up, please, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir?”

  “Stand up and step down.”

  Tanny Brown did what was requested. The defense attorney walked over and seized a chair from behind his table.

  The prosecutor rose. “Your honor, I fail to see the point of this demonstration.”

  The judge leaned over. “Mr. Black?”

  “If your honor will indulge me just this once . . .”

  The judge glanced toward the television camera, which had pivoted, following the detective. “All right. But get on with it.”

  “Stand there, Lieutenant.”

  Tanny Brown stood easily in the center of the room, his hands clasped behind him, waiting.

  Black turned toward Ferguson and nodded.

  The prisoner then stood up and swiftly walked out from behind the defense table. For an instant, he stood next to the lieutenant, just long enough to allow the difference in the sizes between the two men to be seen. Then he sat in the chair. The effect was immediate; it seemed that Tanny Brown dwarfed the smaller man.

  “Now, when he sat there like that, handcuffed and alone, you don’t think he feared for his life?”

  “No.”

  “No? Thank you. Please return to your seat.”

  Cowart smiled. A bit of theater just for the press, he thought. That was the footage that would make all the evening newscasts, the hulking detective perched over the slight, smaller man. It wouldn’t have any impact on the judge’s decision, but he recognized that Roy Black was playing to more audiences than the one.

  “Let’s move on to something else, Lieutenant.”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you recall an occasion where you were presented with a knife that was discovered beneath a rain culvert some three or four miles from the scene of the crime?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get that knife?”

  “Mr. Cowart of the Miami Journal found it.”

  “And what did an examination of that knife reveal?”

  “The blade length matched some of the deep cuts in the deceased.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. A microscopic analysis of the blade and handle showed small particles of blood residue.”

  Cowart sat up straight. This was something new.

  “And what were the results of those examinations?”

  “The blood grouping matched that of the deceased.”

  “Who performed these tests?”

  “The FBI labs.”

  “And what conclusion did you reach?”

  “That the knife may have been the murder weapon.”

  Cowart scribbled frantically. The other reporters did the same.

  “Whose knife was it, Lieutenant?”

  “We cannot tell. There were no fingerprints on it, nor were there any identifying marks.”

  “Well, how
did the reporter know where to locate it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you know a man named Blair Sullivan?”

  “Yes. He’s a mass murderer.”

  “Was he ever a suspect in this case?”

  “No.”

  “Is he now?”

  “No.”

  “But was he in Escambia County at the time of Joanie Shriver’s murder?”

  Tanny Brown hesitated, then replied, “Yes.”

  “Do you know that Mr. Sullivan told Mr. Cowart where to find that knife?”

  “I read that in a newspaper article. But I don’t know that. I have no control over what appears in the press.”

  “Absolutely. Have you attempted to interview Mr. Sullivan, in connection with this case?”

  “Yes. He refuses to cooperate.”

  “Just exactly how did he refuse to cooperate?”

  “He laughed at us and wouldn’t give a statement.”

  “Well, precisely what did he say when he wouldn’t give you a statement? And how did it happen?”

  Tanny Brown gritted his teeth and glared at the attorney.

  “I believe there’s a question pending, Lieutenant.”

  “We confronted him in his cell at the state prison in Starke. We, that’s Detective Wilcox and myself, told him why we were there and we informed him of his rights. He exposed his backside to us, and then he said, ‘I refuse to answer your questions on the grounds that my replies might tend to incriminate me.’”

  “The Fifth Amendment to the Constitution.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many times did he repeat it?”

  “I don’t know. At least a dozen.”

  “And did he say these words in a normal tone of voice?”

  Tanny Brown shifted in the witness seat, displaying discomfort for the first time. Matthew Cowart watched him closely. He could see the detective struggling inwardly.

  “No, sir. Not in a normal tone of voice.”

  “Then how, please, Lieutenant?”

  Tanny Brown scowled. “He was singing. First in a singsong, nursery rhyme kind of tone. Then blasting it out at the top of his lungs as we left the prison.”

  “Singing?”

  “That’s right,” Brown replied slowly, angrily. “And laughing.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  When the large man stepped down from the stand, his hands were clenched and all in the courtroom could see the ridges in his neck muscles made by anger. But the image that remained in the tight air of the hearing was of the killer in his cell, singing his refusal like a caged mockingbird.

  The assistant medical examiner testified swiftly, buttressing the details about the knife that Brown had already outlined. Then it was Ferguson’s turn. Cowart noted the confident way the convicted man walked across the courtroom, taking his seat, hunching over slightly, as if leaning toward the questions from his attorney. Ferguson used a small voice, answering briskly but quietly, as if trying to diminish his presence on the stand. He was unhurried and articulate.

  Well coached, Cowart thought.

  He remembered the description of Ferguson at his trial, eyes shifting about as if searching for a place to hide from the facts that tumbled from the witnesses’ mouths.

  Not this time, Cowart realized. He scribbled a note in his pad to remind himself later to draw the distinction.

  He listened as Black efficiently led Ferguson through the now-­familiar tale of the coerced confession. Ferguson told again of being hit, of being threatened with the gun. Then he described being placed in his cell on Death Row, and of the eventual arrival of Blair Sullivan in the cell next to him.

  “And what did Mr. Sullivan tell you?”

  “Objection. Hearsay.” The prosecutor’s voice was firm and smug. “He can only say what he said or what he did.”

  “Sustained.”

  “All right,” Black answered smoothly. “Did you have a conversation with Mr. Sullivan?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what was the result of that conversation?”

  “I grew enraged and tried to attack him. We were moved to different sections of the prison.”

  “And what action did you take because of that conversation?”

  “I wrote to Mr. Cowart of the Miami Journal.”

  “And what did you ultimately tell him?”

  “I told him that Blair Sullivan killed Joanie Shriver.”

  “Objection!”

  “On what grounds?”

  The judge held up his hand. “I’ll hear this. It’s why we’re here.” He nodded toward the defense attorney.

  Black paused, slightly open-mouthed for an instant, as if assessing the wind currents in the courtroom, almost as if he could sense or smell the way things were going for him.

  “I have no further questions at this time.”

  The young prosecutor jumped to the podium, clearly enraged. “What proof have you that this story took place?”

  “None. I only know that Mr. Cowart talked to Mr. Sullivan and then went and discovered the knife.”

  “Do you expect this court to believe that a man would confess murder to you in a prison cell?”

  “It’s happened many times before.”

  “That’s not responsive.”

  “I don’t expect anything.”

  “When you confessed to the murder of Joanie Shriver, you were telling the truth then, right?”

  “No.”

  “But you were under oath, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re facing the death penalty for that crime, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you would lie to save your skin, wouldn’t you?”

  When this question quivered in the air, Cowart saw Ferguson glance quickly toward Black. He could just see the defense attorney’s face crease into a slight, knowing smile, and see him nod his head imperceptibly toward the man on the stand.

  They knew this was coming, he thought.

  Ferguson took a deep breath on the stand.

  “You would lie, to save your life, wouldn’t you, Mr. Ferguson?” the prosecutor asked sharply, once again.

  “Yes,” Ferguson replied slowly. “I would.”

  “Thank you,” Boylan said, picking up a sheaf of papers.

  “But I’m not,” Ferguson added just as the prosecutor started to turn toward his seat, forcing the man to arrest his motion awkwardly.

  “You’re not lying now?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Even though your life depends upon it?”

  “My life depends upon the truth, Mr. Boylan,” Ferguson replied. The prosecutor started angrily, as if to launch himself at the prisoner, only to catch himself at the last moment. “Sure it does,” he said sarcastically. “No more questions.”

  There was a momentary pause while Ferguson resumed his seat at the defense table.

  “Anything else, Mr. Black?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, sir. One last witness. We would call Mr. Norman Sims to the stand.”

  Within a few moments, a smallish, sandy-haired man, wearing glasses and an ill-fitting brown suit, walked through the court and took the witness stand. Black almost jumped to the podium.

  “Mr. Sims, will you identify yourself for the court, please?”

  “My name is Norman Sims. I’m an assistant superintendent at the state prison at Starke.”

  “And what are your duties there?”

  The man hesitated. He had a slow, mildly accented voice. “You want me to say everything I got to do?”

  Black shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sims. Let me put it to you this way: Does your job include review
ing and censoring the mail that comes to and from Death Row inmates?”

  “I don’t like that word . . .”

  “Censor?”

  “Right. I inspect the mail, sir. Occasionally, we have reason to intercept something. Usually it’s contraband. I don’t stop nobody from writing whatever they want to.”

  “But in the case of Mr. Blair Sullivan . . .”

  “That’s a special case, sir.”

  “What is it he does?”

  “He writes obscene letters to the families of his victims.”

  “What do you do with these letters?”

  “Well, in each case, sir, I have tried to contact the family members they are addressed to. Then I inform them of the letters and ask whether they want to see it or not. I try to let them know what’s in it. Most don’t want to see ’em.”

  “Very good. Admirable, even. Does Mr. Sullivan know you intercept his mail?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. He seems to know just about every damn thing going on in the prison. Sorry, your honor.”

  The judge nodded, and Black continued. “Now, did you have occasion to intercept a letter within the past three weeks?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “To whom was that letter addressed?”

  “To a Mr. and Mrs. George Shriver here in Pachoula.”

  Black bounced across the court and shoved a sheet of paper toward the witness. “Is this the letter?”

  The prison superintendent stared at it for a moment. “Yes, sir. It has my initials at the top, and a stamp. I wrote a note on it, too, that reflects the conversation I had with the Shrivers. They didn’t want to hear none of it, sir, after I told them, general-like, what the letter said.”

  Black took the letter, handed it to the court clerk, who marked it as an exhibit, then handed it back to the witness. Black started to ask a question, then cut himself off. He turned from the judge and witness and walked over to the bar, to where the Shrivers were sitting. Cowart heard him whisper, “Folks, I’m going to have him read the letter. It might be rough. I’m sorry. But if y’all want to leave, then now’s the time to do it. I’ll see you get your seats back when you want ’em.”

  The folksiness of his tone, so alien to the clipped words of his questions, surprised Cowart. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Shriver nod and lean their heads together.