Monday morning I decided to take Big Boy on a long walk. My ribs weren’t aching, and the rain had cooled the morning temperature down to the high sixties.
We hiked to Roger Fairley’s grave in St. John’s Cemetery. The Masons had established Pensacola’s second cemetery in 1876. I often teased Roger that his ancestors had helped to fund the purchase of the twenty-six acres only so the Fairleys could have the prime burial plot on the northern slope near a magnolia tree.
Pensacola was predominately a Roman Catholic town prior to the Civil War. As more Protestants began to migrate to the coastal town, tensions mounted between the Spaniards and their descendants and the new arrivals. The Masons, a secret society that the Catholic Church prohibited its faithful from joining, had gained a foothold in Pensacola when the British controlled the settlement in the late 1700s. Fearing the Catholics might refuse to let any more Protestants be buried in St. Michael’s Cemetery, the Masons created their own cemetery.
From the cemetery’s inception in 1876, the Masons were surprisingly more progressive than their Catholic counterparts and opened the cemetery to people of all religions and races, although the groups were separated and the areas for white people had much larger plots.
Roger was on the board of the St. John’s Cemetery Foundation, as each generation of his family had been. He loved to brag about the cemetery’s historical significance.
“St. John’s contains the largest and most diverse number of gravestones and monuments in Northwest Florida,” he would say over martinis, trying to persuade me to write a newspaper article on the cemetery. “It’s where the leaders of Pensacola are buried.”
He regaled me with the names of the more illustrious cemetery occupants. Dick Pace, born 1896, built Pensacola’s first paper mill, Florida Pulp and Paper Company, which later merged with St. Regis Paper Company. He enticed Monsanto and Escambia Bay Chemical to locate plants in the area. I often reminded Roger that the corporations were three of the biggest polluters in Northwest Florida. Pace also founded the Pensacola Country Club, Pensacola Yacht Club, and the Fiesta of Five Flags celebration—three of my least favorite Pensacola society fixtures.
Another historical figure buried there was O. J. Semmes, born in 1876, who was superintendent of the city’s streetcar system, later founded the Semmes Coal and Ice Company, and chaired the Escambia County School Board for thirty-six years from 1921–1957. The board named an elementary school in his honor.
“And he ran one of the most segregated school systems in the country, one that wasn’t integrated until a federal judge ordered it after Semmes’ death,” I would chime in.
Roger would get the point and drop the subject.
Big Boy and I walked into the cemetery through its G Street entrance, a gatehouse constructed in 1908. On one side of the structure was a chapel that hadn’t been used in decades. The other side had storage for lawn equipment.
A fish fountain near the gate had some rainwater in it. Big Boy lapped up a little before we trekked over to the bench by Roger’s grave.
“Hi, Roger,” I said. Big Boy laid down near the stone marker. Clearly he still pined for his former master.
The doctors had allowed the dog to stay in the hospital room with Roger up until he passed. Big Boy attended the graveside service with me. His first week at the loft he had run away a half dozen times. I would find him either on the deck at Roger’s house or at St. John’s Cemetery.
“We miss you, buddy,” I said. “The wagons are circled around me, and all the guns are aimed in my direction. You always said I had a ‘justice gene’ that made me pick fights against impossible odds and that it would be my ruin one day. That day keeps getting closer.”
Big Boy raised his head. Some squirrels were playing on a gate about twenty yards away. He ran over to bother them, bored with my monologue.
I sat and tried to make sense of the thoughts running through my head. I still needed more information. The pieces didn’t quite fit together, but I was pretty sure they should.
As we walked back to the loft, my post on the suicide note went live. I resisted the urge to immediately check the readers’ responses. I powered on my computer only after I showered and fed Big Boy.
The blog already had thirty-five comments on the post about the suicide note—none flattering. It was worse on the Herald website where they had posted a brief blurb about the note. Most hoped Hines would sue me. Some asserted the note was a fake. A few claimed Kettler put me up to it to discredit Wittman. The internet trolls ripped to shreds anyone defending me.
Assistant State Attorney Clark Spencer called. “My boss wants to know who gave you the suicide note.”
“Someone fat,” I said.
“Holmes, this is serious. The cops didn’t find any note at the scene. Then you publish one a week after Bo Hines attacks you in the newspaper and after Sheriff Frost goes after your journalism ethics. You have to admit it looks bad.”
“I know, I know, but even if I knew who gave it to me, I couldn’t tell you without their permission. I will have Gravy drop it off with the handwriting analysis we had done on it. Just check it out, Spencer.”
Spencer said, “Get us the note immediately. We will do our own analysis, but I can tell you unless you can come up with more on how you got the note, you can expect a subpoena, maybe even a search warrant.”
“Do whatever you have to do.”
Gravy didn’t pick up his cell phone when I called. I tried his office and was told that he was in court, but he would return my call when he got out.
We held the Insider staff meeting. The excitement of last Thursday had evaporated. The talk they heard over the weekend hadn’t been positive.
“I’m dreading the phone today,” said Roxie. “Sheriff Frost has gotten people riled against us. The last phone call businesses want to receive is one from us asking for money.”
“This will die down,” I said. “There are some things in the works that will undermine Frost’s venom. Our readers trust us to find the truth.”
Roxie stared back but didn’t say a word. I hadn’t convinced her, but she was willing to wait a day or so.
I added, “It’s probably a good idea to take a break from sales calls the next few days. But I promise people’s attitudes towards us are going to change.”
Jeremy said, “Tell us about the suicide note. Why did you hide it from us?”
I told them how I had obtained the note. “Before I did anything with it or got you all excited about it, I wanted to verify the handwriting. I didn’t get verification until Sunday morning.”
Mal said, “What does ‘no more lies’ mean? How does it change anything?”
“That’s where good investigative journalism comes in. We have to find Pandora Childs. We need more information about the pasts of both Hines and Wittman.”
I looked directly at Doug. “You need to nail your Save Our Pensacola story to set up my follow-up that will run next week and tie it all together.”
He said, “I’ll have my final draft to Roxie by noon.”
Mal snickered and mumbled, “Sure you will. Last staff meeting you said it would be finished by 10:00 a.m. that day.”
“Doug, make it happen,” I said. “I need you to do some legwork for the follow-up story. Also, there may be a big police bust this week. You need to be ready to pounce on it.”
Jeremy quipped, “We aren’t the ones being busted, are we?”
I laughed and so did everyone else. Then we headed back to our desks to take on the world.
Gravy called. “What kind of shit storm have you started?” he asked. “The state attorney’s office has called three times demanding the suicide note and handwriting analysis. I assume you told them I had them.”
“Guilty,” I said. “Deliver the information to them, but drag your feet. Maybe have a carrier make it her last drop of the day.”
Gravy said, “Walker, I don’t need the state attorney on my ass. You already have Frost watching me closely. Don’t bring me into your shit.”
“You’re already in my shit,” I replied, keeping my voice calm. “I’m the client. Just do as I ask, please.”
“A pro bono client,” he said. “What will I say if Spencer calls again?”
“Tell him I have the documents and you’re waiting on them.”
Gravy said, “I need better clients.” Then he hung up.
My cell phone vibrated. A reporter from a Mobile television station wanted to know if I would be going to the press conference that afternoon and if I’d be available for comments afterward.
“What press conference? Why would I want to comment?”
The reporter said, “Bowman Hines and Jake Wittman are holding a press conference today at 4:00 p.m. on the courthouse steps. They tell us their attorneys will attend, and they will expose you for the tabloid hack writer that you are.”
I told Doug to finish his story on time so that he could cover the press conference. I played briefly with the idea of sitting it out but knew I wouldn’t.
My cell phone vibrated again.
“I’ve never known a man so determined to get his butt kicked,” Dare said when I answered. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or teasing. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Dare, stay with me on this,” I replied. “You’ve got to trust me. We will find the truth.”
“I’m in your corner, regardless of how difficult you make it at times,” she said. “I know you had to publish the note. What’s the feedback so far?”
I walked out to the stairwell so the staff couldn’t hear how bad it was.
“Spencer demands to know how I got the note. Jace and Bo have called a press conference this afternoon to blast me. I’m sure his attorneys are fired up to come after me. My checking account has $104 in it. And my dog smells like the bathroom of a truck stop.”
“What will you do?”
“Take them all down. What other choice do I have?” I added, feeling my cockiness didn’t ring true.
I checked my email when I walked back into the office. There was one from Clark Spencer that contained the official statement from the state attorney’s office on the suicide note. It stated they would analyze the handwritten document and release a report as soon as it was available, probably in two days.
My name wasn’t mentioned in the press release.
Roxie yelled at me, “The marketing director for Evans Land just called. They bought eight full-page ads. The first one will run next week.”
I smiled.
Roxie said, “They’re prepaying and will drop off the check before 2:00 p.m.”
Dare had come to my rescue yet again.
I needed to work, but if I sat in the office, all I would do was check comments on the blog and worry about the upcoming press conference. I decided to drive my 1995 Jeep Grand Cherokee to The Green Olive. Maybe Tatum would be around.
As I walked out the door, Roxie said, “The marketing director also said Dare would have a package for you to pick up later this afternoon. Do you want me to get it?”
“No, I’ll handle it.”