Most people avoid conflict and turn away from confrontations. Few people ever walk into a room where everyone wants to stone them. I tend to walk into those rooms often.
After Big Boy and I took our Monday morning constitutional, during which he belched continually, much to the delight of the running brigade, I showered, dressed, and headed to Sheriff Frost’s breakfast spot.
Mama’s Kitchen was located two blocks away from the county jail at the edge of a decaying shopping center. Faded stickers on the window promoted pancakes, fresh biscuits, and home-cooked meals. Squad cars filled many of the parking spaces. The sheriff’s silver Tahoe sat right next to the front door in a handicapped parking space.
Frost sat with Peck and two uniformed refrigerators who only spoke in grunts and ate as if they had just learned how to use a fork. Thank goodness the waitress carried away their empty plates as I pulled up a chair to their booth.
“Holmes, we didn’t invite you to breakfast,” sneered Peck, who looked even smaller next to Refrigerator No. 1. The two humongous deputies started to straighten up, but it was taking a while for the brain signals to reach the muscles. Two more regular-sized officers pivoted their seats at the lunch counter in our direction.
“Captain Krager, there’s no need to be rude,” said Sheriff Frost. “I’m sure Mr. Holmes has a few questions for his article.”
Turning to his bodyguards, he said, “I’ve got this. Go wait in the car.”
Again, it took a few minutes for the two giants to disengage from the booth and make it outside. It was like watching two dinosaurs saunter off into the jungle. The lunch counter deputies paid their tabs and exited, too. Peck stayed.
After the waitress brought me coffee, I said, “Sheriff, the records show you’ve given pay raises every year for the last six to your administrators, but nothing to your deputies.”
Peck’s cheeks started to redden. Frost remained calm, not taking his eyes off me.
“And each year you return millions to the county’s general fund,” I continued. “Why haven’t you put some of the money toward increasing the starting salaries for deputies and cut some of your administrative overhead?”
Frost said, “You don’t understand politics, Holmes. The taxpayers like to see budget dollars being put back and not wasted.”
“But your budget keeps increasing.”
Peck interjected, “The people want safe streets, and they’re willing to pay for it.”
Frost silenced Peck with a glare. This fight was between him and me. The hired help was to remain on the sidelines.
“I’ve reviewed some of the personnel files,” I said. “Why aren’t you doing job performance evaluations and tying raises to them?”
“The unions wouldn’t stand for it,” he replied.
“What about your administrators and department heads? They aren’t in the union.”
Frost said, “Well, I can’t start treating my employees differently.”
“But you have. Take Peck. His salary has doubled since you took office.”
“A good leader rewards loyalty,” said the sheriff with a little more tension in his voice. The veins in his neck began to swell. I think he knew what I was going to say next.
“Your brother, Amos, must be exceptionally loyal,” I said. “In four years, he has gone from corporal to sergeant, lieutenant, captain, and then to major. Some might call that nepotism.”
“You smug little pissant,” yelled Frost as he slammed the table, spilling everyone’s coffee. “I’m done. You print one word about my brother, and you will feel my wrath.”
He stood up. “Peck wants to destroy that worthless rag that you call a newspaper, but I’ve kept him off your butt. No more.” Frost poked me in the chest. “If you make this personal, then it will become personal.”
Peck got up, too. “This is going to fun,” he said. “Only a dumbass screws with the sheriff.”
The waitress brought me the check after they left. I paid for the coffee and all their breakfasts. I was a dumbass.
At the Pensacola Insider offices, Mal had reined in all the editorial parts of the issue and only had a few outstanding ads. She had filled the holes caused by the last-minute cancellations with ads for local nonprofits that she kept on file. Maybe those free ads would buy us a little goodwill in the community.
“Did you give Big Boy beer last night? His burps smell awful,” she said as I passed by her desk. The dog was asleep underneath it.
I just smiled. “Let’s move the staff meeting to this afternoon,” I said to no one in particular. Everyone was in his or her own world anyway. I followed up with a group email explaining that I would be attending Sue Hines’ funeral.
At my desk, I posted a teaser on the upcoming Frost cover story to my blog, which I knew would impact his blood pressure. I did one more read through of the article, adding a few remarks about my morning coffee with the sheriff. I kept Amos Frost in the article. Then I emailed it to Roxie for copyediting. After handing off the issue to the team, I went upstairs to dress for the service.
In the rain outside St. Joseph’s Church, I stood with hundreds of others as they filed in for the service. I chose to stand in back when I got inside, surrounded by the drenched street folk that saw the funeral as a chance to get out of the downpour.
When I left my cadre of sinners who pretended to sing the hymns so the ushers wouldn’t remove them, I felt the eyes of the congregation on me as I stood in the communion line. Fittingly, the bishop ran out of hosts as I reached him. He didn’t even offer me a blessing, just a faint nod.
As I walked to the back, unblessed and without grace, I imagined Sue popping up from her casket and asking, “Why, sweetie? All we did was care for you.”
Bo and his grandparents stared straight ahead as I passed them. Nestled in between Hines and his brother-in-law sat Julie Wittman, Jace’s teenage daughter. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was crying into a handkerchief. Her uncle had his arm around her shoulder, comforting her.
Jace Wittman didn’t take his eyes off me. His eyes glinted when the bishop didn’t give me communion. Monte Tatum sat two pews behind Wittman by himself.
The bums must have held a conference while I was gone because they gave me a wide berth when I returned to my place. They probably were worried that I would hurt their reputations and future handouts if anyone in the church saw me with them.
I didn’t walk over to the parish hall after the service. Martyrdom didn’t suit my personality. Neither did three bean casseroles. Instead, I strolled across Government Street to the state attorney’s office to meet with Clark Spencer. I needed to be sure they stayed with the prosecution.
Spencer specialized in white-collar crimes and loved wearing sweater vests, even in the summer. Humor wasn’t one of his strong suits. His breath smelled of chili and onions, which meant he had eaten lunch at the Dog House Deli. The mustard stain on his tie confirmed my deduction.
He said, “Bowman Hines’ attorneys want to cut a deal. Their client says the Arts Council executive director stole the funds. For immunity, he will testify against her.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Clark. He’s had ample opportunity to share that explanation before.”
I listed the opportunities on the fingers of my right hand. “When I tried to interview him for my article, when the auditors reviewed the Arts Council’s financial records, and when your investigators tried to question him. He’s guilty.”
“The death of Mrs. Hines has made the defense attorneys more creative,” said Spencer. “I think they fear her death points to his guilt, and they’re scrambling.”
“Wait a second,” I said holding up my hand. “The daily newspaper and others have been not too subtly blaming me for Sue’s mental state. Bo Hines and her brother have fed that rumor. Now, you’re saying it works against Hines.”
“Walker, not everything is about you,” said Spencer, as he scraped off the dried mustard he had just noticed on his tie. “None of us know what jurors may think about Sue Hines’ sudden death, but I agree with his attorneys. It’s a bigger problem for them than our side.”
“I thought your boss was having second thoughts about prosecuting,” I remarked.
Spencer shook his head. “I spent an hour this morning with Mr. Newton walking through the case. He is considering the immunity deal, but I think he will give me the green light to proceed.”
“This is bullshit. Bo is the big fish. He’s not this saint that everyone in the community believes he is. He is the mastermind behind the embezzlement scheme. Besides, no one knows where the executive director is. I haven’t talked to Pandora Childs in weeks.”
Clark kept his cool. “Mr. Newton is up for reelection in two years. Sheriff Frost is in his ear, denouncing you every chance he gets.”
He continued, “The judge will delay the trial for a week to allow Hines to deal with his wife’s death, which actually helps me. Hines’ request for a speedy trial had cut short our trial preparation, but the judge’s postponement has also given his attorneys time to negotiate with my boss. I will push to go to trial, but Hines may have the clout to pull off an immunity deal.”
“Dammit, Clark. The press is vilifying me. The trial is how to prove what we reported is the truth.”
“Yelling at me, Walker, does no good. Grow up. Your bad press isn’t my problem.”
“Screw you,” I said, then walked back into the rain to my office. I had to find Childs. She had last been seen when investigators confiscated her computer and all the checkbooks. The twenty-six-year-old Emory University graduate had only been the executive director for fifteen months. She had no roots in the community and few friends.
Childs had let me interview her for the Hines article, but I hadn’t connected the dots at the time. Later when my questions began to turn aggressive and pointed, “no comment” was her only reply. Attractive in a bookworm sort of way, she dressed well, liked apple martinis and an occasional joint. She had no visible tattoos, although I suspected she had either a rose or butterfly somewhere on her body.
Back at my office, I wrote “Pandora Childs” on a yellow Post-it Note and stuck it on my computer screen.
At the staff meeting, we went around the conference table. Mal proudly reported all the editorial was in, even Doug’s. Roxie had a few questions about my cover story before she could finish copyediting it.
“Sheriff Frost and his deputies aren’t going to be happy,” she said. “But the readers will love it.”
Teddy showed us sketches of his cover ideas. We chose a caricature of Frost sitting on top of a pile of money. We might as well go all the way.
“When can we have an A&E story on the cover?” asked Jeremy.
Mal said, “When you write one worth a shit.”
Jeremy stuck out his tongue but didn’t take the bait. Doug begged for another week on his cover story on the park petition. Mal voted against it, and I agreed with her. We needed to move on it before the petition drive gained any momentum.
When we adjourned, Summer pulled me back into the conference room.
“Today’s deposit was anemic,” she whispered. “We don’t have the money to pay the second installment on the loan that you promised to bring to the bank.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We’ll have the money in a week or so to get caught up.”
“We have to pay the print bill tomorrow or they won’t put us on the press.”
“Did we have enough money to cover all the paychecks we cut on Friday?” I asked.
“Only because Mal, Teddy, and I agreed to hold ours until today,” she said.
Dammit. I said, “Thank you, Summer. We need to hold out a little longer. This will pass.”
I hoped.
Summer handed me a handful of phone messages and a press release that had been faxed to us. Who the hell still used fax machines?
The press release read:
Open Meeting – Save Our Pensacola Tonight
6:00 p.m. New World Landing
We can stop the $100M maritime park.
Refreshments served.
Jace Wittman wasn’t wasting any time. He buried his sister in the morning and was holding a public meeting hours later. He obviously wanted to capitalize on the attention Sue’s death had received.
“Open” meant open, so I set out to crash Wittman’s little naysayer meeting. My mood was foul enough already. Why not walk straight into a den of snakes?
Besides, who could resist the allure of free refreshments?