Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (19 page)

“Your Honor,” she said in an annoyed tone. “This is not a criminal trial. It’s purely a first appearance where the defendant is apprised of his charges.”

The judge grunted. “I’m aware of how a first appearance hearing works.”

Lana smiled. “The arresting detective, who’s in this courtroom, told me that most of the questioning was done, or attempted to be done at the sheriff’s office. But Mr. Taylor demanded his lawyer, and so we’re here today with his attorney and the fact that when someone comes into this town, he doesn’t get a pass to attack people and fire a pistol in a crowded bar. The defense is correct, Mr. Taylor served in Vietnam, and according to Mr. Taylor, he still suffers from PTSD today.”

Jesse started to come out of his seat. His attorney motioned for him to sit.

Lana seized the moment. “The state contends that he’s not stable, and he’s a man who has proven he will fire a live round in a crowded indoor area. Maybe the next place will be a crowded theater. We argue bond, if offered, should be set at the maximum under Florida law.”

Jesse shouted, “My PTSD didn’t come from Nam! It came from the hands of men beating and abusing me at the school. They were supposed to help us. And the state of Florida let the bastard’s do it! That’s my fucking PTSD!”

The judge pounded his gavel. “Order! No more outbursts in my court! Bond is set at twenty-thousand dollars. Bailiff, escort Mr. Taylor out. Next case.” Two bailiff’s moved toward Jesse.

Lana was impassive, lifting another case folder.

Caroline held one hand to her mouth for a second, “That’s not fair. Jesse is a victim here, too.”

As a husky bailiff escorted Jesse from the table to an exit door, he turned, looking our way, his face hurt, filled with anger. He stared at Lana Halley for a moment, her concentration
already shifting to the next case as they led Jesse around the judicial Monopoly board of power and politics, going directly to jail.

THIRTY-FIVE

C
ooter Johnson led the parade across the marble floor of the old courthouse. His family, laughing and swapping stories, snaked out of the building. They stopped on the top steps, some of the adults lighting cigarettes, celebrating their win over Jesse Taylor. One man, his salt and pepper beard full, grinned, slapping Johnson on his shoulder. I watched their interactions, their unabashed revelry. I assumed Jesse was probably locked away, inside the county jail, wondering how he’d make bond.

Caroline Harper came out from the restroom waiting for her attorney to appear in the hallway. As she walked in my direction, I watched the reporter interview Lana Halley near a far side of the foyer. They stood next to a large painting of seventeenth century Spanish explorers coming ashore on a Florida Gulf coast.

I wondered what questions the reporter was asking. And what was Lana telling him? Why would a reporter cover a first appearance hearing in a case that wasn’t a capital offence? No murder. No massive embezzlement schemes. Maybe it was a slow news day in Marianna. When Caroline approached, I asked, “Did you know that Jesse had gone to the state attorney’s office before the meltdown in the bar?”

“He mentioned three places he’d gone, and this was after I asked him to wait for you. He met with a sheriff’s detective, someone in the state attorney’s office and a reporter. He told them about Curtis’ letter. I’m not sure who in all he met with, though.”

“I am. The detective was in the courtroom. He sat in the last row. Just listening. He was the same guy that arrested Jesse in the Shorty’s parking lot. And now I’m sure that the person in the SA’s office is Lana Halley, and the reporter interviewing her now was probably the guy Jesse went to see. Do you know what Jesse told the state attorney?”

“He said he told her about Andy’s death…about Curtis Garwood’s letter. What can we do?”

“I can do some form of damage control, where necessary.”

“I’ll bail Jesse out of jail. I feel it’s the least I can do. His heart is in the right place. Too bad it can’t control his anger. But I can’t fault him for that either. Not after the life he’s lived.”

“Don’t bail Jesse out immediately. I want to look around, and I’d prefer it if he wasn’t in the near vicinity. Give me a day.”

Caroline’s attorney approached. She said, “Daniel, I want you to meet Sean O’Brien. I mentioned a little about Sean to you earlier. He’s helping me look into the disappearance and death of Andy. Sean, this is Daniel Grady.”

Daniel extended his hand. I shook it, and he said, “Looks like you already got a good start. Your observation of the violation of the Miranda rights will go a long way if this ever goes to trial.”

“Maybe the alleged victim will come to reality and drop charges.”

Daniel scanned out the front door, some members of the Johnson family were still smoking cigarettes on the outside steps. He said, “Somehow I don’t think they’d do that.” He cut his eyes to Caroline. “Jesse’s bond is fairly low. It could have been higher. Judge Rollins likes to make an example out of a defendant who has an outburst in his courtroom. I maintain Jesse was standing his ground in what was about to become a mob mindset. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a permit to carry the pistol. I’ll speak with Jesse to see if we can offer a plea bargain with the state. No jail time. But he’d possibly wind up with doing some community service; maybe pay for the repair to the ceiling in the bar.”

I looked across the hallway, Lana Halley was finishing her interview with the reporter and said, “Somehow I don’t think she’ll do that.”

Daniel nodded. “You could be correct. She’s fairly new to the Second District. However, her reputation precedes her. I hear she’s a ballbuster. Sorry, Caroline.”

Caroline smiled. “Daniel we’ve know each other far too long to make apologies for gutter talk. Sometimes it’s the best way to make a point. I just want to help Jesse. As a little kid, I remember how he played with Andy. When I see Jesse, somehow I see the innocence he shared with Andy…and now I see the pain. Finding Andy’s body, I think, is as important for Jesse as it is for me.”

Daniel dipped his head slightly, lips tight. “I’d try to get a court order to excavate if I had something tangible to leverage in front of a judge.”

“Maybe, now that Sean is here, we’ll find something tangible. Let’s get coffee. Daniel, I need to know the procedure for bailing Jesse out of jail. Sean, can you join us?”

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I looked at the incoming call, remembered it was the number of the real estate agent. “I need to take this. I’ll catch up with you.”

THIRTY-SIX

W
hen I looked up and saw Lana Halley walking in my direction, I didn’t want to take the call. I’d make it quick. I answered. “Hey, Sean, it’s Ben Douglas. Hope things are going well. I wanted to catch up with you. One of the security guards at Dozier is saying some crazy stuff about you. We need to talk.”

Lana Halley was less than twenty-five feet away. Unsmiling.

“Are you there, Sean? Look, Mr. Farnsworth’s not returning my calls.”

“I’ll call you.” I disconnected as Lana Halley broke into a wide smile, briefcase in one hand, purse in the other. “Hello, Lana.”

“Sean O’Brien. It’s been awhile. I’m trying to remember if I ever thanked you for testifying in the Pablo Gonzalez murder trial.”

“No thanks needed. You did your job. In the end, that’s what counts.”

“And you did your thing too. In the end, the body count saved the taxpayers a lot of money—the OK Corral in the Ocala National Forest. That alone took the argument of self-defense to a whole new perspective.”

I said nothing.

She smiled, gazed out the door for a moment, and then looked up at me. “What brings you to our little hamlet? Marianna doesn’t seem like the kind of place a former Miami homicide investigator would find very fun.”

I smiled. “Sometimes the most fun is found where you least expect it. Often in quiet places. Occasionally the quiet is indicative of the mystery and secrets some people want buried.”

She studied me for a few seconds, the daylight coming through the large windows lustrous in her deep blue eyes. “You think there are hidden secrets in Marianna?”

“Every town has them. Some more than others.”

“So let me understand this…were you there when Detective Lee or his arresting officer allegedly failed to read rights to Taylor?”

“Yep. No alleged. It happened. ”

“Why are you here, Sean? Why stick your nose into what amounts to a bar fight? I’m here because it’s my job. You…I’m not really sure who you are. Maybe a wayward knight with a rusty Achilles heel and some personal mission to fix it by fixing others.”

“Is that what you think?”

“I’m not sure what to think, at least not yet. But if you stay, I will know soon enough.”

“If I stay, you will because I’ll let you know.”

She held her eyes on mine, smiled and tilted her head, the light gleaming off one pearl earring. “Not that it’s not nice to see a handsome face like yours, but I’d really like to know what
mysteries and secrets you think are in Marianna, Jackson County or the whole Second District. Maybe I could be of help.”

“You can help by cutting Jesse Taylor some slack.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because he went to you. He confided in you, telling you about the murder of a boy, Andy Cope, killed when Jesse was in the school for boys. And you’re asking for maximum bail in what you just said was a bar fight?”

“What are you insinuating?”

“How much does the sale of that property have to do with keeping Jesse Taylor quiet?”

Her eyes narrowed. “After prosecuting Gonzales, you should know me better than that.”

“Then why don’t you level with me? Jesse told you about the letter Curtis Garwood sent to me. So you know exactly why I’m here. You didn’t have to ask. The question you could have asked is how you, as a prosecutor, can bring closure to people like Caroline Harper, Jesse Taylor and other families—people who’ve seen and lived with a lifetime of the psychological effects of child abuse. Those scars don’t disappear. What else did Jesse tell you?”

“Any information I receive from a—”

“Victim? Because that’s what he was.”

“Sean, we worked together once. I overlooked your vigilante methods then. But I won’t do it again. If you take the law into your own hands, if you violate someone’s rights, I’ll vigorously prosecute you. Are we clear?” Her eyes bored into mine, nostrils just flaring. Then
she turned to walk away when a man approached. He wore a thousand dollar, slate charcoal gray suit, almost my height. His platinum hair was perfectly combed. Lean face tanned.

He nodded at me, smiled at Lana and said, “Good job on the prelims. I’ve had to move Robert to the Jefferson case. I’m trying to avoid a bottleneck. Judge Reynolds seems to be more about a defendants right to a speedy trial than ever before.” He looked back at me and extended his hand. “I’m Jeff Carson. I don’t think we’ve met.”

I shook his hand. “No we haven’t. I’m Sean O’Brien.”

Lana said, “Sean’s a former Miami-Dade homicide detective. He helped bring down Mexican drug lord Pablo Gonzales when he was caught in the states.”

Carson crossed his arms. “I remember that one. Impressive. What brings you to Marianna?”

“A friend wrote to me, suggested I come visit.”

Carson smiled. Perfect teeth. “Who’s your friend? We might have a mutual acquaintance.”

“He’s dead.”

Carson stared at me. “His name was Curtis Garwood.” I didn’t blink and said, “He was a survivor of the Florida School for Boys. Now it’s referred to as the Dozier School. You can change the name but you can’t change the history of abuse.”

He looked directly at me for three seconds, his pupils closing a touch. “Indeed,” he nodded, lifting his right hand near the cleft in his chin. “All that was way before my time. Even my predecessor in this office, Charles Perry, said there wasn’t enough evidence to prove or
disprove any allegations of wrongdoing. Unfortunately, the statute of limitations of long ago expired.”

“Not for murder.”

He angled his head, glanced toward the main entrance to the courthouse, and then looked at me. “Is that why you, a former homicide detective, is here…to investigate a murder?”

“Probably murders, plural. Caroline Harper has tried to speak with your office. She believes her brother, Andy Cope, was murdered and buried on that property.”

He smiled. “We always encourage the sheriff’s staff to investigate cold cases. It’s up to them to prioritize and bring their findings to this office.”

“You can call for a grand jury investigation. And you can get a court order to dig around the property to see if there’s evidence of bodies.”

“Mr. O’Brien, you just heard me speak to Lana about a district judge’s mandate for quicker turnaround times from arrest to trial. We don’t have the time nor manpower to begin archeological digs on state property. Perhaps you can ask the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, to poke around. Nice meeting you.” He turned on his Brooks Brothers lace-up shoes, gestured for Lana to follow him and walked down the hall, turning around a corner.

I saw a man standing to the far right of the corridor—the reporter. He lowered his camera and left the building.

I called Dave Collins, got his voice mail and said, “Dave, give me a call. There are some shadows on the wall here in Marianna. Maybe you can shine a light into some dark places for me.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

I
t’s the unscheduled stops that sometime lead to a destination. But you often don’t know it until you go back and remember where you were at the milepost of an investigation. I was about to leave the courthouse when I smelled fresh roasted coffee. I walked around an alcove, the scent of brewed coffee leading me.

People moved in small herds up and down the halls in search of courtrooms and, for some, justice. Two baristas worked behind the counter in the coffee shop, grinding beans and pouring coffee. There were at least a dozen small tables and chairs scattered in the nooks of the shop. I ordered a large black coffee to go.

As I waited for the barista to fill the order, I glanced around the shop. People, most dressed in professional attire, sat at a few of the tables engrossed in hushed conversations. At a table tucked in the far reaches of the shop, I spotted the detective sitting with state attorney Jeff Carson. They were drinking coffee from paper cups, talking quietly. Carson doing more talking than listening.