Just Cause

by John Katzenbach

  “I’ll kill you,” he repeated.

  Ferguson shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know if you know enough about death and dying to do something like that. But I’ll say this for you now, Mr. Cowart.”

  “What?”

  “Now you’re beginning to know a bit of what it’s like living on Death Row.”

  Ferguson rose, leaned over and opened the cassette door on the recorder. He removed the cassette and slipped it in his pocket. Then he picked up the tape recorder from the table. With a single, abrupt motion, he threw it at the reporter, who caught it before it smashed to the floor.

  “This interview,” Ferguson said coldly. “It never happened.”

  He pointed toward the door. “Those words? They never got spoke.” Ferguson eyed the reporter, whispering, “What story you got to write, Mr. Cowart?”

  Cowart shook his head.

  “What story, Mr. Cowart?”

  “No story,” he replied, his voice cracked and brittle.

  “I didn’t think so,” Ferguson replied.

  Cowart, head reeling, stumbled into the hallway. He was only vaguely aware of the door closing behind him, of the sound of the locks being thrown. Stale, damp air trapped him in the dark space, and he clawed at his collar, trying to loosen it so he could breathe. He fought his way down the stairs, tore at the front door, slamming it open and battling his way to the street. The rain had started up; droplets scarred his coat and face. He did not look back up toward the apartment, but instead started to run, as if the wind in his face could eradicate the fear and nausea he felt within. He saw Tanny Brown exit from the driver’s side door of their rental car, staring at him expectantly. Breathing hard, Cowart waved at him, trying to get him to return to the vehicle. Then he seized the car door handle and jerked it, leaping into the car, jamming himself into the warm, moist interior.

  “Get me out of here,” he whispered.

  “What happened?” Brown asked.

  “Get me the hell out of here!” Cowart shouted. He reached across and grabbed the ignition, grinding it. The engine fired up. “Go, goddammit! Go!”

  Tanny Brown, eyes wide in surprise, but face marked with a sense of understanding, shifted the car in gear. He pulled out into the street, stopping only at the north end, pulling across from where Wilcox and Shaeffer had parked. He rolled down his window.

  “Bruce, you two stay here. Watch Ferguson’s place.”

  “How long?”

  “Just watch it.”

  “Where are you . . .”

  “Just don’t let Ferguson get out of your sight.”

  Wilcox nodded.

  Cowart pounded on the dashboard. “Go! Goddammit! Get me out of here!”

  Tanny Brown punched the gas, and they pulled away, leaving the two other detectives behind in some confusion.

  23

  DETECTIVE SHAEFFER’S NEGLIGENCE

  The two detectives spent most of the day parked a half block from the doorway to Ferguson’s apartment house. Their surveillance had no subtlety; within the first hour after Brown and Cowart’s departure, everyone living within a two-city-block radius, not merely those criminal in nature or inclination, was aware of their presence.

  For the most part, they were ignored.

  A minor-league crack dealer, accustomed to using an alleyway adjacent to their position, cursed them loudly as he bustled about, searching for a suitable replacement location; two members of a local street gang, wearing embossed jackets and headbands, sporting the preferred expensive hightop basketball shoes favored in the inner city, paused next to their rental car and mocked them with obscene gestures. When Wilcox rolled down the window and shouted at them to leave, they merely laughed in his face, imitating his southern accent with rancorous delight and only mildly concealed menace. Two prostitutes, wearing red high heels and sequined hot pants beneath slick black raincoats, flaunted their business at the detectives, as if sensing they would not budge for the likes of them. At least a half dozen homeless, decrepit folk, pushing the ubiquitous shopping carts filled with urban flotsam and jetsam, or merely staggering through the wet day, knocked on their windows, requesting money. A couple went away with whatever spare change the two detectives could muster. Others simply marched past, oblivious to anything save the demands of whatever unseen individual it was with whom they conversed so steadily.

  The steady drizzle that kept the street-life parade down to a damp minimum kept most of the other residents of the block indoors, behind their barred windows and triple-locked doors. The rain and gray skies darkened the day, driving the gloom deeper.

  More than once, each detective had asked, “What the hell happened to Cowart?” But in the isolation of their car, they could not reach an answer. Wilcox had walked to a corner pay phone and tried reaching the two absent men at the motel, but without success. Lacking any information, knowing only what Brown had ordered as he drove off, they remained on the street, letting the hours pass in stultifying frustration.

  They ate fast food purchased from a take-out joint, drank coffee that had grown cold from Styrofoam cups, wiped humid moisture from the windshield endlessly so they could see ahead. Twice, each had walked two blocks to an oil-stained gas station to use bathrooms that stank with a pungent mixture of disinfectant battling excrement. Their conversation had been limited, a few halfhearted attempts at finding some commonality, lapsing into long silences. They had spoken a bit of technique, of the difference in crimes between the Panhandle and the Keys, knowing that differences were merely superficial. Shaeffer had asked questions about Brown and Cowart, but discovered that Wilcox merely idolized the first and despised the latter, though he was unable to say precisely why he felt either emotion. They had speculated about Ferguson, Wilcox filling the other detective in on his experiences with the onetime convicted man. She had asked him about the confession, and he’d replied that every time he’d hit Ferguson, he’d felt as if he was shaking loose another piece of the truth, the way someone would shake fruit from a tree. He said it without regret or guilt, but with an underlying anger that surprised her. Wilcox was a volatile man, she thought, far more explosive than the immense lieutenant he was partnered to. His rage would be sudden and dramatic. Tanny Brown’s would be colder, more processed. No wonder he couldn’t forgive himself for indulging in the luxury of having his partner beat a confession out of the man. It must have been an aberration, a window on a part of him that he must hate.

  They saw no signs of Ferguson, though they expected he knew they were there.

  “How long are we going to stay?” Shaeffer asked. Streetlights did little to slice the evening darkness. “He hasn’t shown all day, unless there’s a backdoor exit. Which there probably is, and he’s probably off somewhere laughing at us.”

  “Little longer,” Wilcox replied. “Long enough.”

  “What are we doing?” Shaeffer continued. “I mean, what’s the point?”

  “The point is to let him know someone’s thinking about him. The point is, Tanny told us to watch Ferguson.”

  “Right,” she replied. She wanted to add, But not forever. Time seemed to slip away from her. She knew that Michael Weiss at the state prison would be wondering where she was. Knew, as well, that she had to come up with a good reason for still being there. A good, solid, official-sounding reason.

  Shaeffer stretched her arms wide and pushed her legs against the fire wall of the car, feeling the muscles ache with the stiffness of inactivity.

  “I hate this,” she said.

  “What? Watching?”

  “Right. Just waiting. Not my style.”

  “What is your style?”

  She didn’t reply. “It’ll be dark in another ten minutes. Too dark.”

  “It’s dark now.”

  Wilcox motioned up at the apartment entrance, but did not con
nect a comment to the gesture.

  Shaeffer glanced about the outside of the car. She thought the street had the same appearance as the raincoats that the two prostitutes who’d accosted them earlier had; a sort of slick, glistening, synthetic sense. It was almost like being caught on a Hollywood set, real and unreal all at the same moment. She felt a sudden shiver run down her spine.

  “Something wrong?” Wilcox asked. He’d caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

  “No,” she replied hastily. “Just a little bit of the creeps, you know. This place is awful enough in the daylight.”

  He let his eyes sweep up and down the street.

  “Sure ain’t like anything at home,” he said. “Makes you feel like you’re living in a cave.”

  “Or a cell,” she added.

  Her pocketbook was on the floor, between her feet. It was a large, loose leather bag, almost a knapsack. She nudged it with her toe, just pulling open the top, revealing the contents and reassuring herself that all the essentials it contained were still in place: notebook, tape recorder, spare tapes, wallet, badge, a small makeup case, nine-­millimeter semiautomatic pistol with two extra clips, loaded with soft-nosed wadcutters.

  Wilcox caught the motion as well. “Me,” he smiled, “I still like a three-fifty-seven short-nose. Fits up under the jacket nice. Put in a Magnum load, bring down a bear.”

  He glanced around at the darkness crawling over their car. “Plenty of bear around here, too,” he added. He patted his coat, on top of his left side.

  In the distance a siren started up, like some cat in heat. It grew louder, closer, then just as swiftly faded away. They never saw the lights of whatever it was.

  Wilcox put his hand up and rubbed his eyes for an instant. “What do you think they’ve been doing?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she replied quickly. “Why don’t we get the hell out of here and find out? Place is starting to make me nervous.”

  “Starting?”

  “You know what I mean.” Unsettled anger marched briskly in her voice. “Jesus, look at this place. I feel like it could eat us up. Just gulp and swallow. Those two city cops that brought me down here the other day weren’t none too pleased to be here, either, and it was daytime. And one of them was black.”

  Wilcox grunted in assent.

  It was clear to both of them, though unsaid throughout the day, that their position was precarious: a pair of white southern cops, out of their jurisdiction, out of their element, in an unfamiliar world.

  “Okay,” Wilcox drawled slowly. His eyes swept up the street again. “You know what gets to me?” he asked.

  “No. What?”

  “Everything looks so damn old. Old and used up.” He pointed through the windshield, down the street toward nothing. “Dying,” he said. “It’s like it’s all dying.”

  He did not amplify the statement. He remained rigid in his seat, staring out at the world surrounding them.

  “I don’t know how, but I think he’s got all this figured out somehow. I think he’s just a step or two ahead of us. Had us made from the start.” His voice was whispered, angry.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying,” Shaeffer replied. “Made what? Figured what?”

  “I’d like to get just one more shot at him,” he went on, ignoring her questions. “One more bite at the apple. I wouldn’t let him screw with me this time.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re driving at,” she said, alarmed at the coldness in his voice.

  “I’d like to get my face in his one more time. Like to get us alone again in some small room, see if he walks away this time.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “That’s right. Crazy mad. You got it.”

  She shrank back in her seat again. “Lieutenant Brown had orders.”

  “Sure. And we’ve followed them.”

  “So, let’s get out of here. Find out what he wants to do next.”

  Wilcox shook his head. “Not until I see the bastard. Not until he knows it’s me out here.”

  Shaeffer put her hand up and waved it back and forth rapidly. “That’s not how to play him,” she said swiftly. “You don’t want him to take off.”

  “You haven’t got this figured out yet, have you?” Wilcox replied, his teeth set. “Have you lost one yet? How long you been doing homicides? Not damn long enough. You ain’t had somebody do a job on you like Ferguson.”

  “No,” she said. “And I don’t mean to.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Yeah, but I still know enough not to make one mistake into two.”

  Wilcox started to reply angrily, but then nodded. “That’s right,” he said. He took a deep breath. “That’s right.”

  He settled back in his seat, as if the wave of anger and memory that had beat on his shore was slowly receding. “Right, right, right,” he said slowly. “Don’t want to play the hand before we see all the cards.”

  Shaeffer expected him to reach out and start the car. She saw Wilcox’s hand lift toward the ignition. But as his fingers closed on the protruding key, he stopped, suddenly rigid, eyes burning straight ahead.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said softly.

  She looked up wildly.

  “There he is,” Wilcox whispered.

  For an instant her view was obscured by the moisture on the windshield, but then, like a camera coming into focus, she, too, spotted Ferguson. He had hesitated just for an instant on the top landing, pausing as almost everyone does before forcing themselves to step into the damp, dark, cold night air. She saw he was wearing jeans and a long blue coat, carrying a satchel over his shoulder. Hunched against the drizzle, he rapidly stepped down from the apartment building and, without even glancing in their direction, headed off swiftly away from them.

  “Damn!” Wilcox said. His hand had dropped away from the ignition. He seized the car door. “I’m gonna follow him.”

  Before she could protest, wild impulse filled him. He thrust himself out the door, feet hitting like shots against the pavement. Slamming the door behind him, he started up the street.

  Shaeffer reached across the front seat, grabbing first at Wilcox’s coattails, then at car keys. She saw him moving away and tried to extricate herself from the car. Her door was locked; the first pull on the handle produced nothing. Her handbag caught on the seat adjustment lever between her feet. It seemed leaden with weight. The seat belt grabbed at her clothes. Her shoes slipped on the slick pavement. When she finally got herself out, she saw she would have to run to catch up with Wilcox, who was already twenty yards down the street and moving fast.

  She cursed and ran, holding her bag in one hand, the car keys in the other. It took her another ten yards to reach him.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, seizing his arm.

  He pulled away. “I’m just gonna follow the bastard a bit! Let go!”

  He continued his quick march after Ferguson.

  She stopped, stealing a breath of air, and watched as he kept going. Again she put her head down and ran to catch up. She pulled alongside him, struggling to keep pace. She could see Ferguson a half block distant and moving swiftly himself, not looking back, just plowing through the darkness, apparently oblivious to their presence.

  She grasped Wilcox’s arm a second time.

  “Let go, goddammit!” he said, angrily snatching his arm from her hold. “I’ll lose him.”

  “We’re not supposed . . .”

  He turned, briefly, furiously. “Get the damn car! Keep up! Come with me! Just don’t get in my goddamn way!”

  “But he . . .”

  “I don’t care if he knows I’m back here! Now get out of my goddamn way!”

  “What the hell are you doing?” she half shouted.

&nbs
p; He waved furiously in her direction as if dismissing the question contemptuously. He spun away from her and, half running, tried to close the distance between Ferguson and himself.

  Shaeffer hesitated, unsure. She saw Wilcox’s back, pushing through the night, looked farther and saw Ferguson disappear around a corner. Wilcox increased his pace at the same moment.

  She mumbled expletives to herself, turned, and ran fast back to the car. Two ancient street people, both women bundled in thick wads of coats with knit wool caps jammed on top of their heads, had materialized out of the gloom, blocking her path. One was pushing a shopping cart, cackling, while the other was gesturing wildly. They screeched at her as she pushed toward them. One of the old women reached out and tried to grab her as she went past, and for an instant they collided. The old woman spun and fell to the sidewalk, her voice wailing with anger and shock. Shaeffer stumbled, righted herself and, tossing an apology to the woman, ran to the car. The woman’s shrieks followed after her. Two men had come out onto a front stoop despite the rain, and one of them called at her, “Hey! Whatcha doin’ lady? Big rush, hey?” She ignored them and threw herself into the driver’s seat.

  She ground the ignition and stalled the car.

  Swearing continuously in a torrent of expletives, caught up in half panic and confusion, completely uncertain what Wilcox was doing, she stabbed at the engine again, pumping her foot on the gas pedal and twisting the ignition key. The engine caught and she slammed the car into gear, pulling out into the street without even glancing backward. The tires spun on the wet pavement and the car fishtailed sickeningly for an instant before shooting ahead.

  Accelerating hard down the block, she rammed the car around the corner. She spotted Wilcox halfway down the block, catching sight of him as he swept into the weak light of a streetlight. She strained her eyes but could not see Ferguson.

  Again she punched the car, and the engine responded sluggishly, complaining. She cursed the underpowered rental vehicle and felt a momentary longing for her own squad car back in the Keys. She came abreast of Wilcox just before the end of the block. He was turning down a one-way street, heading against the traffic. She rolled down her window as fast as she could, feeling the drizzle on her forehead.