Just Cause (26 page)

Reporters started to shoot questions through the heat.

'Are you going back to Pachoula?'

'Yes. That's my only real home.'

'What are your plans?'

'I want to finish school. Maybe go to law school or study criminology. I've got a real good understanding now of criminal law.'

There was laughter.

'What about the trial?'

'What can I say? They say they want to try me again, but 1 don't know how they can. I think I'll be acquitted. I just want to get on with my life, to get out of the public eye, you know. Get sort of anonymous again. It's not that I don't like you folks, but…

There was more laughter. The crowd of reporters seemed to swallow up the slight man, whose head pivoted with each question, so that he was facing directly at the person who asked it. Cowart noted how comfortable Ferguson appeared, handling the questions at the impromptu news conference with humor and ease, obviously enjoying himself.

'Why do you think they're going to prosecute you again?'

'To save face. I think it's the only way they can keep from acknowledging that they tried to execute an innocent man. An innocent black man. They would rather stick to a lie than face the truth.'

'Right on, Brother!' someone called from the group of demonstrators. 'Tell it!'

Another reporter had told Cowart that these same people showed up for every execution, holding candlelight vigils and singing 'We Shall Overcome' and 'I Shall Be Released' right up to the time the warden emerged to announce that the verdict and judgment of the court had been carried out. There was usually a corresponding group of flag-waving fry-'em-all types in jeans, white I-shirts, and pointy-toed cowboy boots, who hooted and hollered and engaged in occasional shoving matches with the anti-death-penalty bunch. They were not present on this day.

Both groups were generally ignored by the press as much as possible.

'What about Blair Sullivan?' a television reporter shouted, thrusting a microphone at Ferguson.

'What about him? I think he's a dangerous, twisted individual.'

'Do you hate him?'

'No. The good Lord instructs me to turn the other cheek. But I got to admit, sometimes it's hard.'

'Do you think he'll confess and save you from the trial?'

'No. The only confessing I think he's planning on doing is when he goes to meet his Maker.'

'Have you talked with him about the murder?' 'He won't talk to anybody. Especially about what he did in Pachoula.'

'What do you think about those detectives?' He hesitated. 'No comment,' he said. Ferguson grinned. 'My attorney told me that if I couldn't say something nice, or something neutral, to say "no comment." There you go.' There was more laughter from the reporters. He smiled nicely. There was a final blurring as cameramen maneuvered for a final shot and soundmen struggled with boom microphones and portable tape machines. The newspaper photographers bounced and weaved about Ferguson, the motordrives on their cameras making a sound like bugs on a still evening. The press surged toward Ferguson a last time, and he raised his hand, making a V-for-victory sign. He was steered into the backseat of a car, waving one last time through the closed window at the last photographers shooting their final pictures. Then the car pulled out, heading down the long access road, the tires kicking up little puffs of dust that hovered above the sticky black macadam highway. It soared past an inmate work crew, marching single file slowly in the heat, sweat glistening off the dark skin of their arms. Sunlight reflected off the shovels and pickaxes they carried on their shoulders as they headed toward their noontime break. The men were singing a work song. Cowart could not make out the words, but the steady rhythms filled him.

He took his daughter to Disney World the following month. They stayed in a room high in the Contemporary Hotel, overlooking the amusement park. Becky had developed a child's expertise about the place, mapping out each day's assault on the rides with the excitement of a successful general anxious to engage a beaten army. He was content to let her create the flow to the day. If she wanted to ride Space

Mountain or Mr. Toad's Wild Ride four or five times in a row, that was fine. When she wanted to eat, he made no adult pretense of nutrition, allowing her to select a dizzying variety of hot dogs, french fries, and cotton candy.

It was too warm to wait in line for rides during the afternoon, so the two of them spent hours in the pool at the hotel, ducking and cavorting about. He would toss her endlessly in the opaque waters, let her ride on his shoulders, swim between his legs. Then, with the meager cooling that slid into the air as the sun dropped, they would get dressed and head back to the park for the fireworks and light shows.

Each night he ended up carrying her, exhausted and fast asleep, back on the monorail to the hotel, up to the room, where he would gently slip her under the covers of her bed and listen to her regular, easy breathing, the child sound blocking all thoughts from his head and giving him a sort of peace.

He had but one nightmare during the time there: A sudden dream-vision of Ferguson and Sullivan forcing him onto a roller coaster ride and seizing his daughter away from him.

He awoke gasping and heard Becky say, 'Daddy?'

'I'm all right, honey. Everything's all right.'

She sighed and rolled over once in bed before tumbling back into sleep.

He remained in the bed, feeling the clammy sheets surround him.

The week had passed with a child's urgency, all rolled together into nonstop activity. When it came time to take her home, he did it slowly, stopping at Water World for a ride on the slide, then pulling off the thruway for hamburgers. He stopped again for ice cream and finally, a fourth time, to find a toy store and buy yet another gift. By the time they reached the expensive Tampa suburb where his ex-wife and her new husband lived, he was barely pushing the car down the streets, his reluctance to part with her lost in the rapid-fire, boundless excitement of his daughter, who pointed out all her friends' houses en route.

There was a long, circular drive in front of his daughter's home. An elderly black man was pushing a lawn mower across the expanse of vivid green lawn. His old truck, a red faded to a rusty brown, was parked to the side. He saw the words NED'S LAWN SERVICE COMPLETE handwritten on the side in white paint. The old man paused just for a moment to wipe his forehead and wave at Becky, who waved eagerly in return. Cowart saw the old man hunch over, bending to the task of trimming the grass to a uniform height. His shirt collar was stained a darker color than his skin.

Cowart looked up at the front door. It was a double width, carved wood. The house itself was a single-story ranch design that seemed to spread out over a small rise. He could see the black screen of an enclosed pool just above the roof line. There was a row of plants in front, trimmed meticulously like makeup carefully applied to a face. Becky bounded from the car and raced through the front door.

He stood for a moment, waiting until Sandy appeared.

She was swollen with pregnancy, moving carefully against the heat and discomfort. She had her arm wrapped around her daughter. 'So, was it a success?'

'We did it all.'

'I expect so. Are you exhausted?'

'A bit.'

'How are things otherwise?'

'Okay.'

'You know, I still worry about you.'

'Well, thanks, but I'm okay. You don't have to.'

'I wish we could talk. Can you come in? Have a cup of coffee? A cold drink?' She smiled. 'I'd like to hear about everything. There's a lot to talk about.'

'Becky can fill you in.'

'That's not what I mean,' she said.

He shook his head. 'Got to get back. I'm late as it is.'

'Tom'll be home in a half hour or so. He'd like to see you. He thought you did a helluva job on those stories.'

He continued to shake his head. 'Tell him thanks. But I've really got to get on the road. It'll be nearly midnight by the time I get back to Miami.'

'I wish -' she started. Then she stopped and said, 'Okay. I'll speak with you soon.'

He nodded. 'Give me a hug, honey.' He got down on his knees and gave his daughter a squeeze. He could feel her energy flow through him for just an instant, all endless enthusiasm. Then she pulled away. 'Bye-bye, Daddy,' she said. Her voice had a small crease in it. He reached out, stroked her cheek once and said, 'Now, don't tell your mother what you've been eating…' He lowered his voice into a stage whisper.'… And don't tell her about all the presents you got. She might be jealous.' Becky smiled and nodded her head up and down vigorously.

Before sliding behind the wheel, he turned and waved in false gaiety at the two of them. He told himself, You play the divorced father well. You've got all the moves down pat.

His fury with himself did not subside for hours.

At the paper, Will Martin tried to get him interested in several editorial crusades, with little success. He found himself daydreaming, anticipating Ferguson's upcoming trial, although he did not expect it ever to occur. As the Florida summer dragged relentlessly into fall with no change in atmosphere or temperature, he decided to go back up to Pachoula and write some sort of story about how the town was reacting to Ferguson's release.

The first call he made from his motel room was to Tanny Brown.

'Lieutenant? Matthew Cowart here. I just wanted to save you the trouble of having to rely on your spies and sources. I'm in town for a couple of days.'

'Can I ask what for?'

'Just to do an update on the Ferguson case. Are you still planning to prosecute?'

The detective laughed. 'That's a decision for the state attorney, not me.'

'Yeah, but he makes the decision with the information you provide him. Has anything new come up?'

'You expect me to tell you if it has?'

'I'm asking.'

'Well, seeing as how Roy Black would tell you anyway, no, nothing new.'

'What about Ferguson. What's he been doing?'

'Why don't you ask him?'

'I'm going to.'

'Well, why don't you go out to his place, then give me a call back.'

Cowart hung up the phone, vaguely impressed with the thought the detective was mocking him. He drove through the pine trees and shadows down the dirt road to Ferguson's grandmother's house, pulling in amidst the few chickens and standing on the packed dirt for a moment. He saw no signs of activity, so he mounted the steps and knocked hard on the wood frame of the door. After a moment, he heard shuffling feet, and the door pitched open a few inches.

'Mrs. Ferguson? It's me, Matthew Cowart, from the Journal'.

The door opened a little wider.

'Whatcha want now?'

'Where's Bobby Earl? I'd like to talk to him.'

'He went back north.'

'What?'

'He went back up to that school in New Jersey.'

'When did he leave?'

'Last week. There warn't nothing here for him, white boy. You know that as well as I do.'

'But what about his trial?'

'He didn't seem too concerned.'

'How can I get in touch with him?'

'He said he'd write when he got settled. That ain't happened yet.'

'Did anything happen here, in Pachoula? Before he left?'

'Not that he talked about. You got any more questions, Mr. Reporter?'

'No.'

Cowart stepped down from the porch and stared up at the house.

That afternoon, he called Roy Black.

'Where's Ferguson?' he demanded.

'In New Jersey. I got an address and phone, if y'all want it.'

'But how can he leave the state? What about the trial, his bail?'

'Judge gave him permission. No big deal. I told him it was better to get back on with his life, and he wanted to go on up and finish school. What's so strange about that? The state has to provide us with any new discovery material, and so far they haven't sent over anything. I don't know what they're gonna do, but I'm not expecting big things from them.'

'You think it's just going to slide?'

'Maybe. Go ask the detectives.'

Twill.'

'You got to understand, Mr. Cowart, how little those prosecutors want to get up and have their heads bashed in at trial. Public humiliation ain't high on the list for elected officials, you know. I suspect they'd find it a lot easier just to let a little bit of time flow by, so's people's memories get a bit hazy about the whole thing. Then get up and drop the charges at some cozy, little old conference back in the judge's chambers. Blame the whole failure on him for suppressing that statement. He'll turn right around and say it was the state's fault. And mostly the whole thing will dump on those two cops. Simple as that. End of story. That ain't so surprising now, is it? You've seen things just float on out of the criminal justice system before with nary a whimper?'

'From Death Row to zero?'

'You got it. Happens. Not too frequent, of course, but happens. Nothing here that I haven't seen or heard before.'

'Just pick up life, after a three-year hiatus?'

'Right again. Everything back to nice and quiet normal. Excepting of course one thing.'

'What's that?'

'That little girl is still dead.'

He called Tanny Brown.

'Ferguson's gone back to New Jersey. Did you know that?'

'It wasn't too much of a secret. The local paper did a story on his leaving. Said he wanted to continue his education. Told the paper he didn't think he could get a job here in Pachoula because of the way people looked at him. I don't know about that. I don't know if he even tried. Anyway, he left. I think he just wanted to get out of town before somebody did something to him.'

'Like who?'

'I don't really know. Some people were upset when he was released. Of course, some others weren't. Small town, you know. People divided. Most folks were pretty confused.'