Just Cause (25 page)

'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 reviewing 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. Ts 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.

He saw the large man rise then and take his wife by the hand. The courtroom was silent as they walked out. Their footsteps echoed slightly, and the doors creaked shut behind them. Black paused, watching them, then delayed another second or so as the doors swung closed. He nodded his head slightly.

'Mr. Sims, please read the letter.'

The witness coughed and turned toward the judge. 'It's a bit filthy, your honor. I don't know that…'

The judge interrupted. 'Read the letter.'

The witness bent his head slightly and peered down through his glasses. He read in a quick, hurried voice filled with embarrassment, stumbling on the obscenities.

'… Dear Mr. and Mrs. Shriver: I have been wrong not to write you before this, but I have been real busy getting ready to die. I just wanted you to know what a sweet little piece of fuck your little baby was. Dipping a prick in and out of her snatch was like picking cherries on a summer morning. It was just the tastiest bit of fresh new pussy imaginable. The only thing better than fucking her was killing her. Sticking a knife into her ripe skin was kinda like carving up a melon. That's what she was, all right. Like a bit of fruit. Too bad she's all rotten and used up now. She'd be an awful cold and dirty fuck now, right? All green and maggoty from being underground. Too bad. But she sure was tasty while she lasted…' He looked up at the defense attorney. 'It was signed: Your good friend, Blair Sullivan.'

Black looked up at the ceiling, letting the impact of the letter filter through the air. Then he asked, 'He's written to other victims' families?'

'Yes, sir. To just about all the folks of all the people he confessed killing.'

'Does he write regularly?'

'No, sir. Just when he seems to get the urge. Most of the letters are even worse'n this one. He gets even more specific, sometimes.'

I imagine.'

'Yes, sir.'

'No further questions.'

The prosecutor rose slowly. Boylan was shaking his head. 'Now, Mr. Sims, he doesn't say specifically in that letter that he killed Joanie Shriver?'

'No, sir. He says what I read. He says she was tasty, sir. But he doesn't say he killed her, no sir, but it sure seems like that's what he was saying.'

The prosecutor seemed deflated. He started to ask another question, then stopped. 'Nothing further,' he said.

Mr. Sims picked himself up from the witness stand and walked quickly out of the courtroom. There was a minute or two before the Shrivers returned. Cowart saw their eyes were red with tears.

'I'll hear arguments now,' Judge Trench said.

The two attorneys were blissfully brief, which surprised Cowart. They were predictable as well. He tried to take notes, but stared instead at the man and woman fighting tears in the front row. He saw they would not turn and look at Ferguson. Instead, their eyes were locked forward, up on the judge, their backs rigid, their shoulders set, leaning slightly toward him, as if they were fighting the strong winds of a gale.

When the lawyers finished, the judge spoke sharply. 'I'll want to see citations for each position. I'll rule after I review the law. Set this down for a week from now.'

Then he stood abruptly and disappeared through a door toward his chambers.

There was a moment of confusion as the crowd rose. Cowart saw Ferguson shake hands with the attorney and follow the guards through a door in the back of the courtroom leading to a holding cell. Cowart turned and saw the Shrivers surrounded by reporters, struggling to extricate themselves from the narrow aisle of the courtroom, and exit. In the same instant, he saw Roy Black motion to the prosecutor, gesturing at the trouble the couple were having. Mrs. Shriver was holding up her arm, as if she could fend off the questions raining down on her like so many droplets from the sky. He saw George Shriver drape an arm around his wife, his face reddening as he struggled to get past. Boylan reached them after a moment and managed to get them steered around, like a ship changing direction in the high seas, and he led them the other way, heading through the door to the judge's chambers. Cowart heard the photographer at his elbow say, 'I got a shot, don't worry.' Black caught his eye then and surreptitiously made a thumbs-up sign. But Cowart felt first an odd emptiness, followed by a nervousness that contradicted the excitement of the moment.

He heard voices around him: Black was being interviewed by one camera crew, the lawyer bathed in the glare of the minicam. He was saying, '… Of course we thought we made our point there. You can't help but see there's all sorts of questions still floating about this case. I don't know why the state won't understand that…'

At the same moment, a few feet away, Boylan was replying to another camera, glowing with the same intensity in the same light. 'It's our position that the right man is sitting on Death Row for a terrible crime. We intend to adhere to that position. Even if the judge were to grant Mr. Ferguson a new trial, we believe there's more than sufficient evidence to convict him once again.'

A reporter's voice called out, 'Even without a confession?'

'Absolutely,' the lawyer replied. Someone laughed, but as Boylan pivoted, glaring, they stopped.

'How come your boss didn't come down and argue this motion? How come they sent you? You weren't on the original prosecuting team. How come you?' 'It just fell to me,' he explained without explaining. Roy Black answered the same question ten feet away. 'Because elected officials don't like coming into courtrooms and getting their heads beat in. They could smell it was a loser right from the start. And, boys, you can quote me.' Suddenly a camera with its unyielding light swung at Cowart, and he heard a question thrust his way. 'Cowart? This was your story. What did you think of the hearing? How about that letter?'

He stumbled for something clever or glib to say, finally shaking his head. 'Come on, Matt,' someone shouted. 'Give us a break.' But he pushed past. 'Touchy,' someone said.

Cowart paced down the corridor and rode an escalator to the vestibule. He hurried through the doors to the courthouse and stopped on the steps. He could feel the heat surrounding him. There was a solid breeze and above him the wind tugged at a triptych of flags: county, state, and national. They made a snapping sound, cracking like gunshots with each renewed blow from the air. He saw Tanny Brown standing across the street staring at him. The detective simply frowned, then slid behind the wheel of a car. Cowart watched him pull slowly into traffic and disappear.

One week later, the judge issued a written statement ordering a new trial for Robert Earl Ferguson. There was nothing in it describing him as 'a wild animal.' Nor did it acknowledge the dozens of newspaper editorials that had suggested Ferguson be granted a new trial -including those papers circulating in Escambia County. The judge also ordered that the statement that Ferguson had made to detectives be suppressed. In an in-chambers motion, Roy Black requested Ferguson be released on bail. This was granted. A coalition of anti-death-penalty groups provided the money. Cowart learned later that it was fronted to them by a movie producer who'd purchased the dramatic rights to Robert Earl Ferguson's life story.

Restless time flooded him.

He felt as if his life had become compartmentalized into a series of moments awaiting a signal to return to its normal continuity. He felt an annoying sense of anticipation, a nervous sort of expectation, but of precisely what he could not tell. He went to the prison on the day that Robert Earl Ferguson was released from Death Row in advance of his new trial, postponed by the judge until December. It was the first week in July, and the road to the prison sported makeshift stands selling fireworks, sparklers, flags, and red, white, and blue bunting, which hung limply from the whitewashed board walls. The Florida spring had fiercely fused into summer, the heat pounding on the earth with an endlessly patient fury, drying the dirt into a hard, cracked cement beneath his feet. Sheets of warmth wavered above the ground like hallucinations, surrounding him with a presence as strong as a New England blizzard in winter, and just as hard to maneuver in; the heat seemed to sap energy, ambition, and desire. It was almost as if the soaring temperatures slowed the entire rotation of the world.

A fitful crowd of sweating press waited for Ferguson outside the prison doors. The numbers of people gathered were thickened by members of anti-death-penalty groups, some of whom carried placards welcoming his release, and who had been chanting, 'One, two, three, End the Death Pen-al-ty. Seven, eight nine, End It for All Time' before the prisoner emerged from the prison. They broke into cheers and a smattering of applause when he came through the doors. Ferguson looked up briefly into the pale blue sky before stopping. He stood, flanked by his lanky attorney and his brittle, gray-haired grandmother. She glared at the reporters and cameramen who surged toward them, clinging with both arms to her grandson's elbow. Ferguson made a short speech, perched on the steps of the prison, so that he looked down at the crowd, saying that he believed his case showed both how the system didn't work and how it did. He said he was glad to be free. He said he was going to get a real meal first, fried chicken and greens with an ice-cream sundae with extra chocolate for dessert. He said he had no bitterness, which no one believed. He ended his speech by saying, I just want to thank the Lord for helping to show me the way, thank my attorney, and thank the Miami Journal and Mr. Cowart, because he listened when it seemed no one else would. I wouldn't be standing here before you today if it weren't for him.'

Cowart doubted that this final bit of speechmaking would make any of the nightly newscasts or show up in any of the other newspapers' stories. He smiled.