Grayson called when Conley was half a block from the Beacon office.
“Hey,” her sister said. “Charlie Robinette is having a press conference at the courthouse, starting in ten minutes. Get over there right away.”
“What’s it about?” Conley asked.
“Don’t know,” Grayson said. “We just got an email from his communications director promising that it was a breaking news event.”
A small but growing crowd was already gathering on the courthouse lawn. Conley counted two television vans parked on the sidewalk, one from Pensacola and one from Tallahassee, and of course, she spotted Buddy Bright’s gleaming white Corvette with a homemade Working Press vanity plate on the front. The normally quiet streets around the square were lined with cars. She pulled into a vacant spot in front of Kelly’s Drugs, hopped out, and hurried across the street.
A small wooden platform had been erected near the Confederate war monument. Draped with American flags, it held a podium and a microphone. The television reporters, with tripod-mounted cameras, were set up directly in front of the podium, and a couple of dozen people milled around. Half of them, Conley noticed, were wearing bright red T-shirts and baseball caps emblazoned with I’M WITH CHARLIE—ROBINETTE FOR CONGRESS 2020.
Always a cynic, she wondered how recently the campaign gear had been ordered and distributed.
The heavy plate glass doors to the courthouse lobby were open, and Conley could see employees with lanyard IDs around their necks, standing inside, craning their necks to get a view of the action.
Conley wove her way through the crowd and managed to wedge herself in between the dueling television reporters. “Hi,” she said breathlessly to the tall male Latino reporter manning a camera with the CBS logo. “Any idea what’s going on?”
He shrugged. “No idea. We were shooting a story about beach erosion, and the producer called and told us to swing by to shoot a press conference. Who is this guy, anyway?”
Before Conley could answer, a cute blonde in a navy-blue pantsuit and tall spike heels walked onto the platform, followed by Charlie Robinette, in his campaign casual dress shirt with the rolled-up sleeves and loosened tie. Conley recognized the blonde. It was Kennedy McFall, from the funeral home. She tapped the microphone and began speaking.
Conley whipped out her cell phone, swiped through to her camera, and began recording video.
“Hi, everyone, and thanks for being here on short notice. I’m Kennedy McFall, communications director for your next U.S. representative, Charlie Robinette. Charlie has a brief statement to make, and then he’ll take questions.”
Charlie put his arm around Kennedy’s waist briefly and nodded at the small press contingent.
“I should tell y’all that Kennedy is also my fiancée. Anyway, that’s not what I came here to talk about today. What I do want to talk about is transparency, which I think is vital for a public servant.” He gulped and ran a hand through his immaculately coiffed hair. “This isn’t a move I make lightly. And it’s something that I’ve been reluctant to address, but I believe that recent events have made my actions unavoidable. As you may know, last week, we lost my father, a decorated Vietnam War vet and your dedicated congressman of over thirty years.”
“Rest in peace, Symmes,” a man’s deep voice called from behind Conley.
“Yes, definitely,” Charlie said, his face solemn. “What most of you don’t know is that Dad had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma last year. He received treatment at Walter Reed, but the prognosis was dire. It was Dad’s wish that we keep his condition a private, family matter. His intent was to continue working for the great Thirty-fifth District and his treasured constituents as long as his health allowed. In the meantime, after many heart-to-heart conversations, Dad impressed upon me that his deepest wish was for me to succeed him in office, and after some consideration, I was honored to accept the challenge. Of course, we all hoped that time would come after his retirement from the term to which he was recently elected, but per my dad’s request, I began to assemble a campaign committee.”
Kennedy nodded sympathetically, touching his arm lightly.
“Although Dad continued to fulfill the obligations of his office in Washington, in recent months, his condition worsened. Three months ago, against the advice of his specialists in Washington, my mother insisted that Dad return home to Silver Bay for treatment.”
Charlie tugged at the knot of his tie. “Since that time, my mother slowly managed to isolate Dad from his closest associates and from the rest of his family. She resisted my suggestion that he return to Walter Reed for treatment from the doctors there who routinely work with cancer patients, saying he was too ill to travel. Eventually, she forbade me to visit Dad, saying that his immune system was too weakened from chemo to allow visitors. Since my parents reside in a gated community, she was able to instruct security guards not to allow me entrance. She also confiscated Dad’s cell phone, cutting off my only other means of communication with him.” He paused. “In effect, my father became a prisoner in his own home.”
“That’s terrible,” a woman behind Conley murmured.
“Tragic,” her friend agreed.
“Still,” Charlie continued, “through admittedly devious means, which I won’t go into here, I managed to see my father, despite my mother’s best efforts. Two weeks before his death, I was shocked by my father’s appearance. He looked emaciated and seemed … somewhat confused. When I confronted my mother with my impressions of Dad’s rapid decline, she flew into a rage, accused me of disloyalty and dishonesty, and informed me that as a result of what she called my ‘disobedience,’ I would not see or hear from my father again. After that, my mother stopped speaking to me. At all.”
He stared off into space for a moment, blinking back tears. “After consulting some of my father’s oldest, most trusted advisers, I came to a very difficult decision. Two weeks ago, I filed a complaint with the Adult Protective Services division of the Florida Department of Children and Families, due to my concerns that my father was the victim of elder abuse, being perpetrated by his wife, Vanessa Robinette.”
A small, collective gasp ran through the crowd.
“This is an incredibly painful, agonizing action for any child to take,” Charlie said. “Believe me, I take no joy in any of this. But what kind of a son would I be if I allowed my father’s suffering to go unreported? What kind of citizen would I be if I merely looked the other way at an instance of abuse? Sad to say, elder abuse is on the rise in the state of Florida, with over two thousand reports of elder abuse just in our region of the state in recent years. An even sadder statistic is that nearly sixty percent of alleged abuse cases are perpetrated by family members of the elderly victims.”
Conley turned and panned with her phone to capture the reactions on the faces of the mostly middle-aged crowd, as did the broadcasters standing on either side of her.
“Following my report, a caseworker began investigating my allegations,” Charlie said. “I haven’t yet been made privy to their findings, because less than two weeks later, my father was killed in a one-car wreck, the cause of which is still under investigation by local authorities.”
“Holy shit,” the CBS cameraman whispered under his breath.
“Damn,” the pretty blond Fox reporter muttered.
“In light of this tragedy, it would be easy for me to stay silent about my concerns, if only for the sake of keeping the family peace. But I can’t in good conscience do that. Not when the welfare of our elderly neighbors, people like my ailing seventy-seven-year-old dad, is at stake.”
Charlie clasped his hands in front of him. “This is the last, best thing I can do for my dad. Thank you all for coming.” He took a half step back from the podium, and Kennedy hugged him briefly.
“Charlie will take a few questions now,” she announced.
“Charlie!” A high-pitched voice called out from the far-right side of the podium.
Heads turned, and the crowd cleared a path for a wizened man dressed in all black. Conley groaned. Buddy Bright.
“Charlie, are you saying you suspect that your mother had something to do with your father’s death?”
“Not at all,” Robinette said firmly. “I thought it was my duty to report my concerns about my father’s welfare to state authorities. I will leave it to them and to related law enforcement authorities to carry out their investigations.”
Conley opened her mouth to ask her own question, but Buddy Bright beat her to the punch. “Why do you think your mother was keeping your father a prisoner in his own house?”
“I have no idea,” Charlie said. “You’d have to ask her that question.”
Conley waved her hand over her head. “When was the last time you saw your father? And what were the circumstances, since you say Vanessa blocked you from entering Sugar Key?”
Robinette’s faced flushed slightly. “I’m not going to talk about that right now.”
She plunged on with her next question. “Yesterday, Vanessa told The Silver Bay Beacon that your father had decided you weren’t mature enough to run for Congress and that he’d urged her to run for his seat. Did your dad tell you that he’d changed his mind and was supporting her as a candidate?”
“My father never told me any such thing,” Charlie shot back.
“So if your mother says that, she’s lying?” the CBS reporter called.
“No comment,” Charlie said.
Kennedy tugged at Charlie’s sleeve and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and cleared his throat as she stepped back to the microphone.
Sensing it was her last chance, Conley called out a final question.
“What’s this mean for your father’s memorial service in Washington? Shouldn’t you be on your way there right now?”
Charlie and his fiancée had another whispered exchange.
“Out of respect for my father’s memory and a desire to maintain a dignified atmosphere at this memorial of my father’s legacy of service to our country, I made the decision not to attend the ceremony in the Capitol Rotunda today. Of course, I’ll be paying my respects at the service to be held here in his hometown this weekend, with the rest of our extended family.”
“That’s it for today,” Kennedy announced. “But you can expect to hear more from Charlie in the coming weeks and months as we launch his campaign for the U.S. House of Representatives. We’d like to thank y’all for coming out today.”
She quickly hustled Robinette toward the steps at the rear of the platform. Conley tried to follow, but her progress was slowed by the two broadcasters, who stepped in front of her to start disassembling their gear.
“Move, damn it,” she growled at the CBS cameraman.
He turned around, startled. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m from the local paper, and you’re in my way,” she replied, whipping around him to see which way Robinette had gone.
Just as she reached the edge of the square, she spotted her quarry standing on the passenger side of a white SUV. “Hey, Charlie,” she called. He looked up, but when he saw her, he shrugged, got into the car, and closed the door. The SUV drove off.
Conley raced back to her Subaru and called Grayson from the car.
“Anything good?” Grayson asked anxiously.
“Charlie Robinette just stood up on the courthouse square, with his fiancée-slash–press secretary, who also happens to be Kennedy McFall, and announced that two weeks before Symmes died, he filed a claim of elder abuse against his mom with the state.”
“Say again?”
“He said Vanessa had been holding his dad hostage in his own home, isolating him from all his colleagues, friends, and family. Took away his cell phone and ordered the security guards at Sugar Key not to allow Charlie onto the property.”
“Tell me you’ve got that on tape,” Grayson said.
“I videoed the whole thing,” Conley assured her. “Charlie claimed Vanessa brought Symmes home three months ago, against the advice of his doctors at Walter Reed.”
“Oh my god. This is so great,” Grayson said.
“There’s plenty more,” she promised. “I’ll tell you the rest when I get there.”