While I visited with Mr. Solomon, a scheduled blog post went live:
BUZZ: HINES CASE TO GO TO TRIAL
Sources inside the courthouse tell the Insider the embezzlement trial of road contractor Bowman Hines is back on track, and the state attorney will be ready for trial in two weeks, despite earlier rumors it would be delayed for Hines to work out a plea agreement.
Assistant State Attorney Spencer wouldn’t be happy. Neither would Hines. I should be in Bo’s head right about now, which was exactly where I wanted to be.
I had left my cell phone in the car and missed another dozen calls from the usual cast: Dare, Gravy, Spencer, Hines’ attorney, and a few numbers I didn’t recognize. Several left voice messages, which I never intended to listen to.
I called Harden about Childs. He said, “My buddy found her early this morning in a coffee shop. When she heard that Hines was blaming her for the missing funds, she agreed to come meet with you. She should be on the road now and will be in Pensacola tonight.”
“Where do I meet her?”
“O’Riley’s on Creighton Road about nine o’clock,” said Harden. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“I’ve got it. Thanks.”
I checked my emails and saw the city clerk had the documents regarding the site work for the maritime park. That would be my next stop after I typed up my notes on meeting with Jacob Solomon.
Finding a table at the Whataburger near the Pensacola Bay Center, I wrote up what I recalled from the conversation. Remembering what I heard was never the issue, but not letting my slow typing skills hamper the flow of words and thoughts was often a problem.
Accessing the diner’s Wi-Fi, I made another post to the blog, one that would further push my insane plan:
WHAT TROUBLED CELESTE DANIELS?
Friends of Celeste Daniels, who has been missing since 1973 and presumed dead, tell the Insider the teen was very upset in the days leading up to her disappearance. Why? No one has come forward with that information . . . yet.
At Pensacola City Hall, my reception was formal but not hostile. Florida had one of the most liberal public records laws in the country. All state, county, and municipal records were open for personal inspection and copying by any person. Some officials, like Sheriff Frost, tried to play games in releasing information, but in the end, they released just about anything you requested.
The bored security guard always enjoyed my visits. I broke up his day of leaning over the desk and flirting with the secretaries.
A secretary escorted me to a conference room where the proposals for the park project were stacked in neat piles, each about two inches thick. The only documents I wanted to read were those concerning Bo Hines’ portion of the original bid. I found the scoring sheet on which the staff had given Hines high marks for his company’s site preparation and infrastructure plan for the park. I reviewed the amendment from the development team dropping Hines Paving Company from their group after his arrest.
Since the maritime park site was on Pensacola Bay where a fuel storage facility once stood, the land had some serious environmental “challenges.” The naysayers also complained about it being in the flood plain where it would be susceptible to hurricanes, so dirt had to be trucked in to raise the site fifteen feet. Those issues meant the site work was worth $9.5 million to Hines.
All the bidders listed their subcontractors. Reading through Hines’ portion of the original proposal, I found $200,000 for JW Safety Consultants. I had never heard of the company. The bid gave a Pensacola post office box as the subcontractor’s address. I paid for copies of the pages referring to Hines Paving Company and went to find a place to hide out until my meeting with Pandora Childs.
It was 3:58 p.m. The state attorney would figure out in a few minutes I was a no-show. He would have sheriff’s deputies look for me downtown. My hideout needed to be in the open but away from the happy hour crowds.
I had a place for this: Five Sisters Blues Café.
Five Sisters sat in the old “colored downtown.” The Jim Crow laws forced African American businesses and customers off Palafox Street to West Hill, which eventually became known as Belmont-DeVilliers.
The neighborhood’s heyday was in the late 1920s and early 1930s during Prohibition when restaurants, stores, and pawnshops lined the streets and hot music thrived alongside the gambling, drinking, and prostitution. Whites mixed with blacks once the sun set, and the cops looked the other way as long as the payoffs were made.
Five Sisters Blues Café opened during the roaring twenties and had survived recessions, depressions, the Klan, Baptist churches, and the new wave of street thugs. The youngest sister’s great grandson, Theodore Ware, had taken over the café around the time when I started the Insider. Theodore was so tall he had to duck through every doorway he entered. His callused hands swallowed up mine when we shook hands. His face always had a smile. When he wasn’t smiling, you ran.
Theodore and I became friends when a deputy killed his uncle, Jericho Ware, in 2006 during a traffic stop. I refused to let the death go unnoticed. After a few more busted ribs, I exposed the bad guys. The deputy got off, but Theodore appreciated the effort.
I didn’t visit Theodore at Five Sisters much because he wouldn’t let me pay for anything. Today I needed to be in a place outside my regular hangouts that had an electrical outlet for my laptop and wireless internet service. Theodore would take care of me.
Five Sisters was slow on Thursday afternoons. An elderly black couple ate fried chicken, collard greens, black-eyed peas, and cornbread at a table by the door. Two well-dressed young white women drank white wine at the bar and texted on their cell phones more than they talked. Every three minutes they shared their screens with each other, giggled, and sipped their wine. Joan Armatrading’s “Love and Affection” filled the room.
Theodore was out, but his niece Maya put me at a corner table near the bar so I could keep an eye on the room. She brought me a bucket of four longneck Buds in ice and a basket of sweet potato chips.
“Uncle Theo says you don’t pay, and I’m to keep the bucket full until you say otherwise,” she said.
“No, I’ll pay,” I said, pulling a worn twenty out of my khakis.
“Put it away. My uncle won’t even let us take a tip from you, Mr. Holmes.” She spoke matter-of-factly without anger or rudeness. Her nails were painted pink with zebra stripes.
“Let me know if you want to eat,” she added. “Fried chicken is the special.”
Many people stopped by the Five Sisters just to pass the time. They asked Maya about her momma or her aunts. They would see them all in church on Sunday, but life never got so busy they couldn’t inquire as to their daily welfare. It had always been this way in Belmont-DeVilliers.
Firing up my laptop, I checked my blog. The comments had piled up, awaiting moderation. I approved them all, even one from Hines’ attorney stating he planned to file a lawsuit against me for defamation, libel, and anything else he could think up. My cell phone continued to vibrate in my pocket every few minutes. I ignored it.
The flat-screen TV over the bar broadcasted the local news without sound. Nobody paid attention—a good thing since the video showed the Save Our Pensacola protesters marching outside my office.
Assistant State Attorney Spencer was interviewed, too. The station displayed my photo in a small box in the upper right-hand corner. It was an old picture. I don’t think they were announcing I had won a Pulitzer.
When I looked back to my laptop, a shadow crossed my table and Theodore Ware sat down across from me.
“Mr. Walker, did my niece take good care of you?” he inquired in a deep and gravelly voice, folding his huge hands on the table.
“Yes, Maya has given me everything I need,” I said pointing to the half empty bucket of beer. “Please drop the mister and let me pay for the beer.”
He ignored my request. “I saw the news report on the television in the kitchen.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Nothing I haven’t handled before.”
He affected a good-natured laugh, but it was affected. A huge man, with a gray beard and a weather-beaten brow, Theodore didn’t smile. He asked, “Who cracked your skull?”
“Unhappy readers.”
Theodore smiled finally. Shaking his massive head, he said, “You just can’t stay out of trouble.”
“Life isn’t a popularity contest,” I replied. “I’ll be fine, just need some time to collect my thoughts before my next interview.”
“And you need somewhere to hide out for a couple hours,” he said as he waved for Maya to refill my bucket. Then he added to her, “Have the cook fix a big bowl of red beans and rice for Mr. Walker. Bring him a plate of collards and cornbread, too.”
“Maya, I better switch to tea,” I said. “I’ve got an important interview later.”
Theodore nodded his approval. After Maya walked away, he said, “No one will mess with you here. Give me your keys, and I’ll move your ragged-ass jeep behind back.”
He came from a way of life that was good-natured but had to be practical. History had proven that both a laughing nature and prudence were necessary for survival.
“Thanks.” I fished out my keys, more than a little relieved.
“Let’s move you to my office off the kitchen. You can stay there as long as you need.”
For the next few hours, I wrote, monitored the blog, and ignored my cell phone that vibrated repeatedly. Of course, the food was fantastic. I even sampled the fried chicken and apple cobbler. To keep myself from falling asleep, I reread the bid Hines gave the city for the maritime park.
I started searching on the internet for JW Safety Consultants. Nothing. None of the other proposals had listed a safety consultant. I googled the post office box and zip code. They were the same as the post office box used by Jace Wittman’s real estate company. “JW” stood for Jace Wittman.
In Theodore’s kitchen office, another huge flat-screen monitor hung on the wall. The screen displayed six boxes that showed different views of inside and outside of Five Sisters taken from the video surveillance system. While working on my laptop, I found myself occasionally glancing at the screen, checking on the parking lot, kitchen, dining area, the bar, hostess station, and cash register.
There was no sound. My phone vibrated. Gravy’s number appeared on the screen. I didn’t answer it. A few minutes later, Gravy texted.
“The state attorney has a warrant for your arrest,” he wrote. “Where are you? I can come get you and maybe avoid you being booked if you come clean with them.”
I replied, “I need until the morning. Tell Spencer I will call him later tonight.”
“Too late for negotiations. Frost has the warrant and has men out looking for you. Being inside the city limits won’t deter him.”
Shit.
Gravy wrote, “Only if I can take you to Spencer within the hour do you have any chance.”
I wrote, “I got this but thx.”
I looked up to see two deputies walking into the restaurant. They appeared to be demanding to see Theodore. Their stances were combative and confrontational, which meant they must have found my car hidden behind the restaurant.
Outside, I saw another patrol car pull up, cutting off any chance of slipping out the back door. As I started to pack up my laptop, Maya rushed into the office.
“We need to get you in the tunnel,” she said while pulling back a throw rug on the floor and opening a trapdoor that fit seamlessly into the wood floor. “Here’s a flashlight. This leads to Miss Bonnie’s house across the street. Uncle Theo wanted you to talk with her anyway about your story. She will let you use her car.”
I didn’t have any quips to fire back. All I could manage was a real “thank you” as she slammed the trapdoor behind me and I climbed down the ladder to the tunnel. I heard her moving chairs on top of the rug.
The tunnel was narrow, only about five feet wide. The floor was dirt and the walls cinder block. The flashlight shone just bright enough to see five yards in front of me. I expected a rat to run in front of me any minute. None did.
I had heard stories about how the Prohibition raids of Five Sisters seldom had any arrests of politicians. There were rumors of a tunnel, but I could never get Theo to admit to anything. He would only smile, grab me a beer, and ignore me like he never heard the question. I thought the tale was another Pensacola urban legend.
When I climbed up the ladder at the end of the tunnel and opened the trapdoor, I was in a food pantry. A little boy wearing a Lakers jersey sat at an island in the middle of the kitchen. He looked up from his bowl of tomato soup. Not saying a word, he motioned his head towards the living room.
A little woman sat on the edge of a worn couch. She wore a thin paisley robe over a white nightgown. Her skin was nearly translucent.
“Miss Bonnie, I’m Walker Holmes,” I said awkwardly, as any man would do who had just walked out of a pantry. “Thank you for letting me use your tunnel.”
“I know you.” Waving a bony hand at me. “You’re that crazy white man who owns that little paper that stirs up all that trouble,” said Miss Bonnie. She gasped to catch her breath as she completed the sentence. “Don’t ever smoke. I used my inhaler an hour ago and can’t use it again for another two hours.”
“Can I get you some water or anything?”
“You got a cigarette?” she cackled, coughed, and pointed for me to sit down in a worn armchair. “Nah! I’m just pulling your leg. That’s Theo’s grandson in the kitchen. His job is to make sure I don’t smoke and only drink one glass of sherry before I go to bed. I pay the little hustler a dollar to get a second glass without him telling his grandfather. I think that boy has mo’ money than any of us.”
She sighed as she tried to get comfortable on the couch. “Don’t ever get old, Mr. Holmes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. Out her window, I saw the cruisers down the street. Checking my watch, I had a little less than an hour before I had to meet Pandora Childs.
“I’ll let you use my car,” she said. She’d caught her breath. Her voice steadied. “Theo thinks you’re some kind of hero. Heroes are destroyed in this town. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She spoke her mind. She had earned the right. She shuffled on the sofa, looking around at first for something and then faced me.
“Why did they kill my baby?” she asked. I saw tears had run down her cheeks.
“Ma’am?”
“Why did they kill Sue, my baby?”
“Miss Bonnie, are you talking about Sue Hines?” I asked stunned.
She pulled out a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her robe and nodded her head as she wiped the tears.
“No one killed her, Miss Bonnie,” I said, trying to be comforting.
“Those boys did it. As sure as you and I are sitting here, those boys killed my baby. I raised her from the crib until she married. Those boys might not have done the deed, but they drove her to it.”
The “little hustler” peeked in from the kitchen. He brought her a box of Kleenex and some sherry in a juice glass.
I gave him a dollar as Miss Bonnie wanted me to do. He took it silently, expecting the bribe. I heard him turn on the television, the squeak of shoes and cheers from an NBA game came from the kitchen.
“My baby never forgot her Momma Bonnie. Bought me that TV in the other room. My Sue loved me.”
“What boys are you talking about?” I tried not to sound too urgent. “Bo and Jace?”
She took a dainty sip of her sherry and savored it before she nodded her head.
“She was disgusted with both and that young girl. She didn’t like Mr. Jace and Miss Julie moving into her home. The daddy ignored the girl, and she spent too much time with Mr. Bo,” said Miss Bonnie.
After another sip, she said, “I’m thinking my Sue uncovered something, and the burden was too much for her to bear.”
“What kind of something, Miss Bonnie?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “My baby tried to love on the girl, but she wouldn’t have none of it. Not healthy having a young girl running around the house dressed like they do now days.”
“Ever see Mr. Hines do anything inappropriate?”
She shook her head. “I don’t spend that much time in their house anymore. Mostly my Sue would stop by here every now and then.”
“What do you know about Celeste Daniel?” I asked.
“White girl that died when them boys were in high school?”
It was my turn to nod.
“Oh. That was a bad time. Jace went off to live with some relative for the summer before he started college. Bo went to Europe with his grandparents. Germany, France, Spain, and other places I can’t remember. Nobody ever wanted to talk about the Daniels girl.”
Miss Bonnie finished her sherry. “It’s time for me to sleep. The keys are by the back door. Don’t race the engine. My fool nephew did that and flooded it. It’s an old girl too, you know.”
And with that, Miss Bonnie shut her eyes. I’d been dismissed.
When I got to O’Riley’s Pub, Navy and Marine pilots packed the place, attracting an assortment of women trying to attract their attention. Half a dozen or so University of West Florida coeds were celebrating a friend’s acceptance into graduate school. Their designated driver, a freshman in their sorority, sipped a coke through a straw. Two Marines were begging them to try Fireball shots.
A few older women, most likely nurses from nearby West Florida Hospital, were dressed in jeans and tight tops and drank bourbon and cokes at the bar. They toasted their babysitters and shouted to the Marines that they liked Fireballs.
It was karaoke night and a DJ was passing out black binders to the tables. I already knew what to expect. Most of the guys would pick country songs because they could kind of talk their way through them. I knew I would hear Garth Brooks’ “The Dance” at least seven times in the next two hours if I hung around the place. The women would choose Pink or Miranda Lambert. When they got really drunk, it would be “Wild Thang.”
I ordered a Bud Light to be sociable, kept an eye on the door, and fought off the urge to drive my pen through my eardrums. While nursing my beer and listening to a sailor do Johnny Cash’s “I Walked the Line,” a text came across my phone: “This is Pandora. Come out to the parking lot.”
She must have been spooked. Either that or she hated Garth Brooks. When I walked out, a set of car lights flashed near the edge of the parking lot. I saw her silhouette in the front seat. This was getting a little ridiculous, I thought as I headed her way.
My cell vibrated again. This time Jim Harden texted, “Childs found dead this morning in Tenn. Condo owned by Hines.”
I felt a thud on my skull. As I passed out, I thought, There went my stitches.