Lost Man's River (17 page)

“We got us a Edgar but we ain't got no Sam,” the county clerk announced on his return. “It's
D.M.
Tolen, and it's nineteen and oh-eight. That close enough?” From behind his back, as if presenting a bouquet, he whisked a thick file packet stuffed with yellowed papers.

Lucius supposed that some earlier court clerk must have made an error. He sat on the bench, passing the pages to Arbie as he read them. The file included random scraps of testimony from a jury hearing at Lake City on April 27, 1908, and also court orders for changes of venue from Lake City to Jasper and from Jasper to Madison, together with sheriff's expense vouchers and subpoenas. Though Dr. Herlong had specified Sam Tolen, all these documents concerned the murder a year later of his brother Mike. Also, there was a co-defendant, one Frank Reese. Though neither Lucius nor Arbie could recall any such name in any Watson document they had ever come across, Lucius had a dim and uneasy memory of a “Black Frank” at Chatham Bend—could Reese have been “the Negro” mentioned in Bill House's deposition?

On April 27, 1908, in Lake City, Sheriff D. W. Purvis had opened the spring term of the Columbia County Court by proclamation.

Identical charges had been filed against Reese, with Watson as aider and abettor.

Most of the material in the packet concerned court business in the grand jury indictment and the trial—witness selection, depositions from county residents on both sides of the question of whether or not the accused could receive a fair trial in this county, courtroom disputes over lynching threats to the defendants, motions for and against a change of venue. Following the intervention of Governor Broward, who ordered the defendants removed to “a place of safety,” they were taken to Jasper on the night train, and a change of venue to Hamilton County was granted the next day, May 4. The trial at Jasper commenced on July 27 and ended with a hung jury three days later. On October 2, another change of venue moved the trial to Madison.

All courtroom testimony had apparently been sealed, but a few scraps
from an earlier grand jury hearing accompanied the court documents, including a cross-examination of Mr. Jasper Cox, who testified on behalf of the defendants on the day before they were removed to Hamilton County on the night train. Mr. Cox declared that on March 26, three days after the murder of Mike Tolen, he had been approached in front of the courthouse by a member of the grand jury, Mr. Blumer Hunter, who told him “he was helping to get up a mob to get these men and asked if I didn't want to assist them, and I told him it was out of my line of business.”

With this brief exchange—the only mention of Leslie Cox in the thick packet—a vital piece of evidence had come to light. Edgar Watson had never been indicted for Sam Tolen's murder. Cox was charged with it after the arrest of Watson and Reese for the murder of Tolen's brother a year later.

Lucius stifled a small yip of excitement “like a young dog on a rabbit,” Arbie grumped, reaching for the page. Lucius went outside to savor the spring light. When Arbie caught up with him, they crossed the street to the old newspaper in its single-story shop, which provided three contemporary clippings.

Before leaving Madison, Lucius telephoned Watson Dyer, who had asked to be kept posted. He did not seem the least bit curious about Frank Reese.

“The point is, your father was acquitted,” Dyer said. “He was found innocent. ‘Innocent until proven guilty'—that's the American way.”

“Well, I guess so. If the accused is the right color.”

“What I mean is,” Dyer said, impatient, “we can assume for our purposes that E. J. Watson did not kill Samuel Tolen. And if he was proved innocent of one false charge, there might be others. So in our book we can say that—”

Irritated by that “our” without quite knowing what was so objectionable, Lucius said sharply, “Let me repeat. My father was charged with killing D. M. Tolen. Mike. The man indicted for the murder of Sam Tolen was Leslie Cox.”

“Is that a fact?” Mild surprise rose slowly in Dyer's voice like the first thick bubble in a pot of boiling grits.

“It's possible, of course, that both killed both.”

“Or that neither killed either. Don't go forgetting what's-his-name. The nigger.”

Awakened next morning by diesel snorts and air brakes and the howl of tires, Lucius Watson sat up with a start and gazed at Arbie, who looked dead—as flat and scanty as a run-over rabbit on an August highway. His neck was arched and his hair dry and his bloodless lips were stretched on small dry teeth, and the parched hollow of his mouth was too wide open, as if at some moment in the night he had struggled for a breath of air and never found it.

“Today we visit Grover Kinard,” Lucius told him quietly.

The cadaver sucked up breath and coughed, and one eye sagged open, contemplating Lucius. The dry mouth closed and opened up again with sounds of sticking, as a spavined hand went palpitating toward the cigarette pack on the bedside table. Finally he growled in phlegmy tones that he had better things to do than waste a day with some gabby old-timer.

Lucius was concerned because the Royal Alligator was way out here near the interstate and Arbie had no transportation and no driver's license—nor social security, medical insurance, or ID of any kind, as it turned out, since he did not believe in government meddling, state or federal, far less paying taxes. There was no record of him anywhere, he often boasted.

“How will you spend the day, then?”

“Hitch a ride in to the billiard hall. Good whorehouse, maybe. None of your damn business.” Annoyed that Sally Brown had joined their party, Arbie wished to be courted with more ardor, or selected in place of Sally for this outing, but having already invited her the night before, Lucius merely shrugged. “See you later, then,” he said, accepting a day alone with Sally as
compensation for Arbie's evil temper later on. However, Sally was not up, and he did not wake her.

Lucius drove south from Lake City on I-75, turning off on the old road to Fort White and working around past the 7-Eleven store to the new Honey-dew Subdivision, where dust-filmed woods—“alive with redskins,” according to an 1838 report—drew back aghast from the raw scraped wounds of new development.

At the specified “ranchette,” he was shown inside by Grover G. Kinard, retired deacon of the First Florida Baptist Church, attired in sports jacket and open-collared shirt. Mr. Kinard did not greet his visitor nor did he present him to his wife, a pretty-pink old party propped like a doll on the front room sofa, in a bower of pale plastic flowers, hand-tinted photographs of smiling children, and a small TV. “Oriole,” Kinard said in a flat tone, without a glance at either of them. In timid whimsy, Oriole Kinard fluttered fingers at their visitor as the Deacon marched him past her sofa into her spotless kitchen. He offered no coffee, just sat him at the kitchen table while he hammered out on its linoleum just what was what.

“Yessir,” the Deacon said, drumming his fingers, “I knew all them people, just about the only one still living that really knew 'em all to say hello to. There may be details I won't call to mind, but I'll tell you as best as I can remember. I can show you where Edgar Watson lived, and the Tolens and Coxes, and I can tell all about the killing down in those old woods.” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of the pink person on the other side of the pasteboard wall. “She ain't a Cox but she's related,” her husband said. Over the loud whoop-de-do of a TV game show, a sweet old voice from the other room cried out, “No, I ain't never! Leslie's grandmother's daddy was my granddaddy's cousin, but I wouldn't know him if I met him in church!”

“It looks to me like you only know about one killing.” Mr. Kinard held up one hand, spreading the fingers. “Well, five was killed down around that section “fore them fellers got done.” Lucius got out his notebook, the sight of which made the old man suck his teeth. “My information must be worth a lot to you,” he said. When Lucius enthusiastically agreed, the Deacon coughed, then got it over with. “How much?” he said. “Two hundred dollars?”

“Well, to be honest, I never thought of it that way,” said Lucius, taken aback. “I mean, most folks
like
to talk about old times. I guess you're the first I've come across who wanted money.”

Thinking that over, the Deacon squinted, not shamefaced in the least but ready to dicker. “One hundred fifty, then,” he said.

Admiring his style, Lucius forked over the money. The Deacon counted the bills minutely before getting up and going somewhere to squirrel them away. Returning, he said, “Guess we can go then, lest you want coffee.”

The Deacon introduced Oriole briefly on the way out. Her TV show had a patriotic theme, and its glad light spangled her snowy head with stars. “Be back later,” her husband informed her. “Next year, maybe.” Lucius grinned but the Deacon did not. He marched outside and climbed into Lucius's car. “Better take your auto,” he said, once he was settled. “That old rattler of mine don't run too good.” The Deacon's harsh cough and painful hacking were as close as he would come all day to honest mirth. He had a certain grim mean humor, Lucius decided, but his days of open laughter were long since behind him.