Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (21 page)

“Maybe you can think of a way to stall the public announcement of a Vista Properties sale while I scramble for evidence.”

“How’s it going?”

I told Dave and then I gave him the tag number I saw on the back of the pickup truck. “The passenger in that truck was the old man with the Southern Cross tattoo. See if you can find an address.”

“I can do that. Where are you headed now?”

“I’m en route to Jeremiah Frankin’s place. It’s an old school bus in a pecan grove. Maybe he’ll tell me what he saw. I’m hoping he’ll give me the ID of the guy who shot Andy Cope in the back.”

“After that, the challenge will be to keep him safe while the wheels of justice turn ever so slowly in the county. You think Lana Halley’s leaning on Jesse because someone’s leaning on her?”

“She’s not the type to succumb to pressure. But all that depends on who’s applying it and the circumstances around it.”

“With the Internet, these days things like career-killing compromising photos or other such humiliating materials can be pictures with a thousand words leading to two words…you’re fired.”

“I’d suspect she’s more careful than that. Maybe it’s something else.”

“Maybe it’s just the way she does her job, but the issue, based on what you told me, is this: why is she pursuing Jesse so aggressively after he first came to her looking for an open door to a grand jury?”

“Dave, see what you can find on her boss, state attorney Jeff Carson. I briefly met him. He’s continuing a strategy, apparently set by the previous state attorney, of ignoring assertions because all this happened in the dark ages and none of it matters today. This is coming after a state investigation into purported abuse, and even after a class action suit was filed by a small group of men who were held there as kids.”

“Give me a little time and I’ll give you a dossier on his life.”

“I’m sure you can. Since I’m driving, a short version will work for now.” I could hear Dave’s fingers moving across the keyboard in his boat.

After a few seconds, Dave grunted and said, “He’s got the old Hollywood definition of movie star looks. Reminds me of the actor John Forsythe. Of course, I’m dating myself. So that’s the guy Lana Halley reports to. Looks like Carson graduated from Florida State University with a law degree. Clerked for Justice Bergman. Carson’s worked in three judicial districts in the state, the Second District, his home, is where he became state attorney.”

“What other districts did he work?”

“The first, which includes Tallahassee, and the eleventh, Miami-Dade.”

“When in Miami-Dade?”

“He was there for three years…looks like he left five years ago. Why?”

“Because, when Lana introduced me to him, she told him that I’d worked homicide in Miami-Dade. You’d think a former prosecutor who worked cases there would have mentioned that coincidence. I never heard of him, and I was there at that time.”

“I don’t have to tell you it’s a big district. Lots of crime. Lots of prosecutors. Maybe your ships never came into the same port. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

“Dave, I saw him again, a few minutes later in the courthouse. He was sitting in the back of a coffee shop talking with the detective that arrested Jesse Taylor.”

“It’s not out of the norm that a detective would meet with a state attorney.”

“No, but this comes right after Jesse’s first appearance. The SA was nowhere to be seen in the courtroom. So why isn’t the detective talking with Lana Halley instead of her boss? And why meet in a coffee shop rather than the SA’s office?”

“I can’t answer that, but I can tell you who that truck is registered to. I just pulled it up. Someone named Loretta Johnson owns the truck. Her physical address is 1352 South Bayou Road…Jackson County.”

I thought about Mohawk man getting in the 1950’s model yellow Ford pickup truck. I reached in the Jeep’s console, lifting out the paper I’d used to jot down the truck’s tag number in the parking lot of Shorty’s Billiards. I read the number to Dave. “Run this one too. I have a hunch it might be registered to the same person.”

I heard Dave tapping the keyboard. “Why’s that?”

“They appear to be a tight clan. The patriarch probably had them put their assets, cars, homes, in the name of a trusted family member in the event of trouble.”

“Name as in one person?”

“Most likely the matriarch. Probably someone who’s survived through the years by a learned helpless dependence.”

“Ah…yes…that tag number reveals the following: the truck, a 1957 model Ford pickup is registered in the name of Loretta Johnson…the same address. Bingo. Give me a second, Sean.” Dave worked the keyboard, whistling softly. He said, “I’ve pulled the satellite images of the location. Looks like some kind of compound back in the swamps. Lots of fencing. Some wetland. In the dry area, I’m counting five trailers…something that resembles an old farmhouse, a couple of barn-like structures. I see six pickup trucks and six cars. No neighbors within almost a mile. If you’re thinking about going in there to question some of the clan, as you call the lineage, you’d better find some backup.”

“I don’t have an immediate reason to go in there. But that might change after I speak with the man who, according to Jesse, witnessed Andy Cope’s murder.”

FORTY

T
he brake lights were the first thing that caught my eye. The pickup truck, moving slowly forty yards in front of my Jeep, tipped me off to the sign. It was a black truck, gun in the center of a rack visible through the back window. The driver tapped his brakes, red lights on for a few seconds, off and on again. I could see the driver looking toward a locked cattle gate. A man in the passenger side stared through the back window, scrutinizing the entrance to the property and the massive grove of pecan trees. The pickup gained speed, moving on down the country road.

I passed a faded weather-beaten board from an old barn, the sign hanging from the fence by a rusted coat-hanger wire. Hand-written letters in white paint signaled that pecans were for sale a half mile ahead. It was the same sign Jesse had made reference to in the note he’d written. And on the cattle gate was another sign:
No Trespassing
. Who were the guys in the truck and why are they doing a drive-by, checking out the entrance to the property? I decided to pass the gate and turn around in a half-mile or so.

I placed a call to Lana Halley. Her assistant put me on hold long enough to ask Lana if she wanted to take my call. I made a U-turn. The recorded voice on the line was that of state attorney, Jeff Carson, his baritone voice reading the script, telling callers how the crime rate has been reduced in the district since he took office.

Lana picked up. “What’s new, Sean? You still holding on to the Miranda card?”

“There’s no need to use it. You know that. Jesse was surrounded by a pack of wolves in that bar. If he hadn’t pulled a pistol, he’d have wound up in intensive care, assuming he lived.”

“You make our little town sound like Dodge City.”

I looked in my rearview mirror and saw the pickup truck cresting the horizon. “When Jesse came to you—when he told you about the death of Andy Cope in the mid-sixties, he told you about an eyewitness, a man named Jeremiah Franklin. Did you share that information with anyone?”

“That’s really none of your business.”

“Lana, right now it’s very much my business. I have a couple of good ol’ boys coming in my direction. It may be in reference to Jeremiah Franklin. If you shared the information with anyone, I need to know before the next thirty seconds expire.”

I heard her exhale into the phone. “What do you mean?”

“What you tell me will help direct my next few moves.” The truck came closer, moving through a pulsating shimmer of heat reflecting from the hot pavement.

“I warned you about any vigilante approaches in this county.”

“Lana, did you share the eyewitness’s name with anyone?” The truck was less than two hundred feet behind me, slowing.

“I’m only talking with you about this because of our symbiotic history together, but not much of what I’d call a professional working relationship.”

“Did you share the name with the state attorney?”

“That’s confidential.” She hung up

Decision time.

I pulled off the road right before the cattle gate, rolled my window down and waited. I reached into the Jeep’s console and set my Glock next to my right leg. The driver pulled up parallel with my Jeep, the passenger window down. The man on the passenger side wore a white stained tank top, arm filled with ink, a black onyx earring in the earlobe, his heavy face filled with scraggly reddish whiskers. The guy behind the wheel was a big boy, probably going close to 280 on what appeared to be a large frame. Fur and ink on his forearms. His shaved head almost touched the truck’s headliner.

I recognized them from the courtroom, maybe part of the extended family or friends with the Johnsons. The man nearest to me nodded. No smile. His mouth turned down. He glanced toward the pecan grove and then leveled his eyes at me. “You need help, bud? You lost?”

I smiled. “I appreciate you fellas stopping. I’m fine. Just pulled over to return some text messages. You know how unsafe it is to drive and text.”

He shook his head. “Nah, I don’t. Ain’t never text. If I got somethin’ to say to a feller, I just find him and say it.”

The driver removed what appeared to be a hand-rolled cigarette behind his ear. He lit it with a Zippo lighter, inhaling a lungful of marijuana smoke. He squinted, staring at me, trying to recall where he’d seen me, blowing smoke from his nostrils. He held the joint between two
stubby fingers, pointing at me. “You’re the dude who stood up in court and said that shit about Miranda crap. Bad move. Real bad move. We know how to handle crap.”

I smiled, my hand wrapping around the pistol grip. “Just trying to be a good citizen.”

The driver turned a little behind the wheel. He wedged the joint in the corner of his mouth, left hand on the steering wheel, his right hand propped on his seat near the headrest—closer to the shotgun. “First, we see your ass in court and now out here. Why you out here?”

“Last time I checked a passport wasn’t required.”

His hand moved a little closer to the shotgun. The passenger grinned and said, “You got a mouth on you. I could tell it from the courthouse, and I damn sure see it now. We can see from your tag that you’re far from home. Volusia County is at least a five-hour drive from here. Now would be a real good time for you to go on back to whatever shit hole you crawled out from.”

“I hear there’s a lot of history in Jackson County, back to the Civil War and even the Spanish Conquistadors. I’m very interested in local history. So I think I’ll stick around to learn more about the past. I’m sure you fellas can appreciate that.”

The driver’s right hand was on the stock of the shotgun. He tossed the joint out the window, bouncing off the side of my Jeep. The man on the passenger’s side said, “Nah, we don’t have much interest in history ‘cause it’s all in the past. Cain’t change nothin’ about it. We believe in changin’ the future.”

I nodded, looking past the passenger and toward the driver. “You tossed a hot marijuana cigarette out. That’s the way to start fires. Most folks are a little more careful.”

He grinned. Chuckled. “Earl, go smother the smoke.”

“Sure, brother.”

He opened the door, stepping out. I knew what was about to happen. As soon as the passenger had cleared the trajectory, the driver was going to lift the shotgun. Maybe it would be a warning. Maybe he’d pull the trigger. I wasn’t going to find out. I moved the Glock to my left hand, holding it out of their line of sight.

The passenger closed the truck door, looking at me a second before searching the ground. He picked up the smoldering joint, taking a hit off of it. He stepped closer to my open window, turning to his friend. “No use wastin’ good shit, big brother.”

He turned back to me, tossing the joint in my face. The hot ash hit me above my left eye. I didn’t give him time to pull his hand back. I grabbed his arm, keeping him in the line of sight. Blocking a potential shot from the driver. I slammed his elbow on the edge of the door, crashing my upper body weight into his wrist. The sound was as if an egg was dropped on a tile floor. The bone snapped completely through at the wrist. The man’s hand flopping like a fish out of water.

He screamed, turning around. “Shoot the motherfucker!”

The driver tried to aim the shotgun. I grabbed the man with the broken wrist, my left hand gripping his thick neck. I held the Glock next to his round head, pointing the pistol at the driver’s chest. “Drop the shotgun! Now!”

He stared down his barrel at me, his brother’s head directly in the line of fire. I could see the guy in my grip turning pale. His head jerked back then forward, vomiting down his chest.

I stared at the driver and said, “He’s going into shock. It’d be a good idea to get him to a hospital. Once shock sets in, he just got a little closer to his date in hell. Put the shotgun down!” The opening at the bore was wide—a 12-gauge. Double barrel.

He set the gun back in the rack, sliding across the seat. He came out the door and helped his brother into the passenger side of the truck. Then he slammed the door and ran around to the driver’s side, climbing back inside the truck. He looked over his brother to me, the brother’s head propped up against the headrest, his face bone white. The driver shouted, “Asshole, you broke my brother’s arm! You’re a fuckin’ dead man!”

“And you’re on video.” I lifted my phone. “Got everything you said and did right here. The 4G quality of video in these phones is amazing. So if you try to file charges, it won’t fly.”

He lifted the middle finger on his right hand and started the truck. The sunlight shining through the front windshield cast the gun in the back window into a silhouette. Two triggers. He pulled away, peeling rubber, the truck fishtailing and gaining speed. When someone pulls a gun on me, especially a 12-gauge shotgun, time slows into slices of still life because violent death is imminent. The brain processes surroundings so fast they’re seen in images of still life. I imagine for a suicide jumper, it’s the freeze-frame views between the bridge and the river—the graffiti on a girder, a bird flying at the same altitude, sun reflecting off the water.