SHERIFF BRIAN CORNETT hadn’t changed much since I’d last seen him. He was a tall, raw-boned guy with a shock of copper hair that was going to gray. He met me in the reception area, holding his big paw out for a shake. I reciprocated.
“Good to see you, Matt. I heard you were coming up to see Ms. Higgins.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“I didn’t think it was bad. I thought it was a good thing that she was going to have good representation.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, Sheriff. I was afraid our last encounter might have left some hard feelings.”
“We had a good case, Matt. There’re not half a dozen lawyers in the state who could have gotten an acquittal. You did your job. I did mine.”
“How’s the doc?”
“He’s still practicing medicine. I see him regularly. You haven’t kept in touch?”
“No. I think I’m sort of a bad recollection for my criminal defense clients. Even if they were acquitted, I tend to bring back the memories of the worst time in their lives.”
“I heard you were retired. Living down on Longboat Key.”
“Yep. Living the dream.”
“You’re kind of young for that, aren’t you?”
“Probably, but I just wore out earlier than most.”
“What brings you up here? I’m surprised you’d be suiting up again. I’d think the beach beats the courtroom every time. May I ask how you got involved in this?”
“Esther Higgins is a friend of the family.”
“Close enough friend to get you out of retirement?”
“Afraid so. What can you tell me about the evidence you’ve got?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. I wish I could, but I’d better leave that to the state attorney.”
That wasn’t unexpected. The state attorney always controls the action leading to trial. I was entitled to all the evidence the state had, but it would have to come to me through the discovery process. Sometimes the prosecutor just hands it over without any argument. We’d see. “Can you at least tell me whether the victim was killed in Paddock Square or somewhere else?” I asked.
“I don’t see why not. We’re pretty sure she was not killed in the square. We think it was a body dump.”
“And no idea where she might have been killed?”
“Not yet. We’re working on that.”
“Has a judge been assigned?” I asked.
“Ms. Higgins will have a first appearance this afternoon. The county judge will hear the bail motion and bind it over to the circuit court. The only circuit judge who sits regularly in Bushnell is Bill Gallagher. I’m sure he’ll get the assignment.”
“I remember him well.”
The sheriff laughed. “Me, too.”
“Isn’t Brownwood actually in the city limits of Wildwood?”
He nodded.
“I was a little surprised to hear that your department was handling this rather that Wildwood PD.”
“We usually take over on big cases. We have a lot more resources than the city does.”
“Makes sense,” I said. We shook hands and I left.
I drove two miles out of downtown Bushnell and stopped at a McDonald’s drive-thru for a Big Mac and a Diet Coke. I eschewed the fries and congratulated myself for my healthy approach to eating. I merged onto I-75 for the twenty-five-minute drive to The Villages, my thoughts meandering through my brain, jumping from one subject to another. I knew we wouldn’t get much out of the county judge in the way of bail. On a case this serious, the first appearance judge would usually leave it to the circuit judge to whom the case had been assigned to set bail. I’d try for a bail hearing as soon as possible, but I didn’t hold out much hope that we’d be successful.
I was a bit confused by Sheriff Cornett’s friendliness. I knew he hadn’t been happy with me when he left the witness stand in the doctor’s trial, and it had been my experience that self-righteous pricks like the sheriff carried grudges for a long time. Was he trying to sandbag me in some way? I’d have to be careful.
I wondered which prosecutor would be assigned to the case. The fifth judicial circuit of Florida was comprised of five counties including Sumter. Generally, the prosecutors who were assigned to the county where the case was to be tried would represent the state. But that rule wasn’t written in stone, and the state attorney could assign any of his assistants to try a case anywhere in the circuit. I was pretty sure that only the most experienced prosecutors would be assigned to a murder case. I would not find out who it was at the first appearance hearing since the youngest prosecutors were sent to court for those kinds of pro forma hearings. The judge would read the charging documents to the accused and make sure she understood them. If the accused had a private lawyer representing him or her, that part of the process would likely be waived. If the accused did not have a lawyer and could not afford one, a public defender, who would be present in the courtroom, would be appointed. Like a lot of things in the court system, it seemed to me that it was a waste of resources, but there were good reasons for doing it this way. The American justice system is creaky and slow and often frustrating, but it usually cranked out justice, and in truth, was the envy of the civilized world. And rightly so.
The Villages is divided into ninety-one neighborhoods called villages, spelled with a lower case “v,” I guess to distinguish it from The Villages, spelled with two upper case letters, which denoted the overall development. With a lot of help from the map on my GPS system and the directions Esther had given me, I found Ruth Bergstrom’s house in the Village of Hillsborough. I took Highway 44A into The Villages, turned left onto Buena Vista Boulevard, and at the fourth roundabout, turned onto Hillsborough Trail. As I entered the neighborhood, I came to an unmanned gatehouse with a bar that blocked the road. There was a lane for residents and one marked for visitors. Residents had a device similar to an electric garage door opener that raised the barrier and gave them access. A non-resident had to pull up to a post on which sat an apparatus that housed a camera, a button that would raise the swing-arm guarding the street entrance, and a speaker that connected directly to a security post somewhere in the vastness of The Villages. I pushed the button and the bar went up and the camera probably took a picture of me. I didn’t need the speaker, but I figured it had some function that was beyond my simple understanding of security matters.
As I went through the gate, I noticed another camera facing inward and at about the height to get a good picture of the license plate of any car entering the neighborhood. It was a fairly sophisticated security system and there would be no reason for it unless the security people kept a record of everyone who entered and left each of the villages.
The Bergstrom home sat on a small cul-de-sac, one of four similar houses placed close to each other on small lots. The houses were only three or four years old, each one sporting stucco and fresh paint. They all had garages that would hold two cars and a golf cart. It was a pleasant neighborhood with manicured landscaping and a generous number of streetlights. A small sign in the front yard assured me I was at the home of James McNeil and Ruth Bergstrom.
I parked on the street and walked to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. I gave it a beat or two and knocked. Still no answer. I was walking back to my car when a woman who appeared to be in her sixties pulled up in a golf cart, turned into the driveway, and stopped. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I hope so. Are you Ruth Bergstrom?”
“I am.”
“Ms. Bergstrom, my name is Matt Royal. I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”
“About what?”
“You may know that Esther Higgins was arrested this morning. I’m her lawyer and would like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“About what?” Her tone was confrontational.
“I’d like to find out who killed Olivia Lathom. I understand you were friends.”
“I’ll tell you who killed Liv. Esther Higgins did it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Esther told me she was going to kill her.”
“When did she tell you that?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“Was that after she found out that you had given her manuscript to Ms. Lathom and Lathom published it as her own work?”
“That’s a foul lie.”
This wasn’t going too well, but this lady was lying to me. She had stiffened herself into a defensive posture, her hands still gripping the cart’s steering wheel so hard that her knuckles were turning white.
“What’s a lie?” I asked. “That you gave Ms. Lathom the manuscript or that she sent it to her publisher claiming it was her own work?”
“You’d better leave now.”
“Which was it, Ms. Bergstrom? I know you gave her the manuscript. Where else would she have gotten it?”
She climbed out of the cart without another word and walked toward her front door. I called to her. “I’ll be back with a subpoena and you can answer my questions under oath.”
“You do what you have to do, but you’ll still get the same answer.”
She stepped into the house and slammed the door shut.