17

The day after the world learned of the deaths of Michael and Alex Smith, J. Cary Findlay issued a stern warning to his staff, posted in the hallways: talk to the press about Susan Smith or Tom Findlay, and be fired. To keep curiosity seekers and reporters out, Findlay hired guards at his estate, and to patrol the entrances to Conso. Findlay also hired an attorney for his son, who issued a letter from Tom. It read:

I am devastated by this tragedy. I cooperated and have been cooperating with the legal authorities since last week in the disappearance of Susan Smith’s children. The only reason I am coming forward to issue this statement now is because of the continuing inaccurate reports of my relationship with Smith.

I did have a relationship with Ms. Smith and on October 18 I told her that I was terminating that relationship for a number of reasons and gave her a copy of a letter to that effect, a letter which I gave to the authorities early in this investigation. One of the reasons for my termination of the relationship was that I was not ready to assume the important responsibilities of being a father.

However, that was far from the only reason for terminating the relationship and certainly was not the most important. At no time did I suggest to Ms. Smith that her children were the only obstacle in any potential relationship with her.

I know nothing about what happened that night or why it happened.

I intend to continue cooperating with the law-enforcement authorities in their investigation and I share in the grief of this community in the loss of the two children. I will make no further statements.

Earlier that day, a well-dressed man stood outside of Joyce Flowers & Gifts on Main Street in downtown Union, waiting patiently for it to open.

Shortly after eight A.M., Paul Patrick, Joyce’s husband, arrived. He greeted the stranger, surprised to find him waiting. Patrick fumbled with a sizable collection of keys, and unlocked the door.

The man told him he wanted to send flowers in memory of the Smith children.

“I was coming through town,” he explained to Patrick. “I felt like I had to do something.”

Patrick nodded.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

The man requested a large cross made of blue and white carnations with a banner that read, “We love you.” He filled out a card and paid for his purchase.

“Could you take it down to the lake?” he asked.

Patrick wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“To where?” he said.

“The lake,” the man replied. “I thought that would be appropriate.”

“What do you mean? Whereabouts?”

“Just set it on the ground.”

Patrick told him he would. Later that morning, the first flowers made their way to the edge of John D. Long Lake. Within days, flowers covered the boat ramp and the surrounding grass. The brick-and-concrete plaque at the rim of the parking lot that read “John D. Long Lake. Named by the General Assembly of S.C. for John D. Long, 1901–1967. Senator, Sportsman, Friend,” would ultimately be entirely shrouded with notes and poems, children’s drawings, toys, and balloons.

By mid-morning on Friday November 4, the orders to Joyce florist were coming in rapidly. They arrived from mourners all over the United States, and even from Canada and Mexico. In all, more than 700 callers had flowers sent to the lake, the church or the cemetery in memory of the murdered boys.

Almost none of the callers had ever met Michael or Alex Smith, and most didn’t even know the family. One caller ordered two crosses and requested that they be placed on either side of the casket. Another spent $275 for an arrangement of red flowers shaped like a heart and decorated with two teddy bears.

During the days after the boys’ bodies were discovered, Patrick’s wife, Joyce, often stood by the teletype, watching the orders as they came in. She’d read the messages people had asked to have sent along with their flowers. More than once, Patrick saw his wife cry at the teletype machine.

Every few hours, Patrick and his wife called wholesalers, ordering more flowers, more plants.

Earlier that morning, Lisa Caveny, an FTD representative had called the Patricks to warn them to expect a deluge of orders. The international flower delivery service was channeling requests to them from around the world. “Do you know what you’re in for?” Lisa asked. “It’s going to be like catching five gallons in a coffee cup.”

Patrick told her they could handle it. After all, they’d been in business for thirty years. Nonetheless, they were stunned by the volume. By noon, the couple had called their daughter and niece in to help answer phones.

By 2:00 P.M., Patrick told the women to tell anyone else who called that they could no longer do custom designs—no more teddy bears, hearts, or crosses.

“No more special stuff,” he said. “Tell everybody it’s open orders.”

An hour later, he told reporters to leave the store. They’d been coming in all day, asking questions, poking around. “You can’t talk to them,” he’d say as they continued to try to pester his daughter and niece for details about the orders coming in.

Finally, he kicked them out. “All of you guys got to go,” he said. “Now.”

As he worked, Patrick thought back to the times he’d spoken to Susan Smith on the phone. Ever since she had begun working at Conso in 1993, she’d frequently called in company orders, buying elaborate arrangements to display in the Conso lobby or to decorate tables at special events. He remembered how polite and soft spoken she sounded, that light Southern drawl.

During the week the search was on, Patrick had fielded several calls from people who wanted to send flowers to Susan and the Russell family. The requests had made him uncomfortable, and he’d told the callers so.

“I think it’s a little premature,” he’d always say.

But the customers always insisted. They said they were friends of Susan’s or co-workers. They wanted to show their concern, and to tell the family their prayers were with them.

Patrick learned of the children’s death from patrons at a Rock Hill mall where he had been shopping with his daughter and grandson. Once a week, when his wife went to visit her mother, Patrick drove about twenty minutes to his daughter’s house to spend the evening with her.

Although Susan’s confession stunned Patrick, he reminded his family that he’d always said her story wasn’t true. He’d grown up in a house near the corner of Monarch School Drive and Highway 149. He knew the Monarch red light. He knew the area. He just couldn’t picture how a man could jump in anybody’s car, unseen.

As the days passed he’d watched Shirley McCloud on television, describing Susan’s demeanor that night, how nobody could have faked that, but it still didn’t convince him.

*   *   *

Toward the end of the day on Friday, an older woman called in a $20 order to Joyce’s florists. Patrick took her information.

The woman said she wanted the arrangement sent to the church. Then, there was a pause.

“How do I know you’ll actually send it there?” she asked.

Patrick’s temper rose. “Lady, I got two kids, two grandkids. I couldn’t sleep at night if I did that. Look, why don’t we forget it. Let’s just forget the order.”

“No, no,” the woman interrupted. “It’s fine.”

But it was too late. “Well, no,” Patrick said brusquely. “I’m cancelling your order.”

And he did.

*   *   *

By 10 P.M. that night, Patrick was exhausted. His wife, Joyce, and their daughter and niece had joined him in the back of the shop, designing and making flower arrangements for the next day’s deliveries. At last the phones had stopped ringing, the teletype machine was quiet.

But the women had been talking nonstop for hours, and it was starting to get to him. He’d been trying to ignore them but it grew harder as time passed.

The women spoke wistfully of the children, those innocent little faces they’d seen in the newspaper and on TV. They wondered aloud about the boys’ last moments, about the fateful car trip and the cold water in the lake.

Patrick kept warning them to stop. “Listen, I can’t take no more of this,” he snapped. “Please, please stop talking about that.”

For a few minutes the women would fall silent, wrapping flowers and attaching bows. But then someone would start again. How horrible, how unforgiveable, what she did. Imagine. A mother, blessed with children. Anyone would have taken those little boys. Anyone.

Finally, Patrick tossed his work aside.

“Hell, I’m getting out of here,” he barked.

His wife, Joyce, reached for his hand, concerned. She knew how much the deaths of those children hurt.

“You go on, then,” she said kindly. “Go home.”

Patrick drove through the deserted streets of Union. At home, he reached for a bottle of Chivas. He rarely drank, but that night, Paul Patrick poured a half glass and downed it. He went to bed and lay there for hours, unable to sleep.

At three A.M., he threw off the covers, got dressed and returned to the store.

At six o’clock Saturday morning, Patrick stepped outside the store to meet the first truck-load of extra flowers he’d ordered from the wholesaler. By nine, a steady stream of out-of-town visitors had begun dropping by the shop to pick up bouquets of flowers to bring to the lake. All day, Patrick’s wife stopped working when visitors asked for directions to John D. Long Lake. She’d pull out paper and pen, and painstakingly draw a map: Take East Main Street straight out until it becomes Highway 49. Pass the red light at the intersection of Highway 49 and Monarch School Drive and in a few miles, go over Meng Creek. Pass over Big Brown’s Creek and Little Brown’s Creek and a few miles out, turn left at the John D. Long Lake sign.

It was really quite simple, she’d explain.

Joyce Patrick also promised a handful of callers that she would mail them newspaper clippings about the children’s funeral, and agreed to send photographs of several callers’ flower arrangements once things had settled down. She told the callers to call back if they hadn’t received their pictures soon. “Now I might forget,” she warned them. “So be sure and call me to remind me.”

That day, her husband took a break and looked around at all the activity in his shop.

It’s like a big holiday but nobody’s happy, he thought sadly.