By Conley Hawkins—special to The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Silver Bay, Florida—The life of the honorable U.S. Rep. C. Symmes Robinette, seventy-seven, may have ended in a fiery one-car crash in the early-morning hours of last week, but his mysterious death has ignited a smoldering hometown soap opera that seems equal parts Dynasty and Dallas.
Within days of the accident, which is still under investigation, Robinette’s widow, a fifty-six-year-old former congressional aide, whom he met and impregnated 34 years ago while still married to his first wife, and their son and namesake, thirty-four-year-old C. Symmes “Charlie” Robinette Jr., both declared intentions to vie for the congressman’s unexpired term in an upcoming special election.
“Thanksgiving could get a little awkward,” Charlie Robinette quipped at the time, “but we’re a political family.… We’re used to finding ways of compromising.”
And then things got nasty. Local voters, still divided over whether to side with Team Charlie or Team Vanessa, were further stunned this week when Charlie Robinette, who is managing partner in his father’s former law firm, took to the steps of the Griffin County Courthouse at a hastily called press conference to announce that, prior to his father’s death, he’d filed a formal complaint of elder abuse against Vanessa Robinette, alleging that his mother deliberately kept his terminally ill father, who was suffering previously undisclosed non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, a virtual captive in his own home, isolating him from friends and other family members, and depriving him of skilled medical care.
Conley rested her head on her desktop. It was only Friday and she was already tired. Her eyes burned, and her shoulders ached. There was so much more to this story. There always was, because the news never ended; it just paused, hopefully long enough for someone to observe, analyze, and report.
She pushed Send on her keyboard just as Grayson walked up to her desk. She tossed a batch of typewritten copy onto Conley’s desk. “If you’re done with your freelancing gig, maybe you can do some work for the Beacon.”
“Noooo,” Conley groaned as she looked at the byline. “I can’t deal with Rowena today.”
“If I have to, you have to,” Grayson said.
Her cell phone rang. It was Roger Sistrunk. She was being bookended by editors, not a feeling she enjoyed.
“Just read your story,” Sistrunk said. “It’s too long. It’s too wordy, too speculative, too gossipy. And FYI, nobody but livestock breeders use the word impregnate in this century.”
She spent the next thirty minutes making fixes to her AJC story, cutting, pasting, and nitpicking word choices with Sistrunk, whose hatred of adjectives was well documented among the hundreds of reporters who’d worked for the veteran editor over the years.
Finally, he pronounced the story fit to print. “We’re done,” he said abruptly. “Hey, Hawkins, you might have a future in this business.” He chuckled at his own joke and disconnected.
With a heart full of dread, she turned her attention to Rowena’s latest Hello, Summer column.
The Women’s Circle of the Silver Bay Presbyterian Church went into emergency session this week following the tragic death of our favorite local congressman, the honorable U.S. Rep. Symmes Robinette.
Anticipating an overflow crowd at Saturday’s funeral, Women’s Circle president Sylvia Bevin announced that the after-service reception has been moved to the much larger gymnasium at First Baptist Church.
Rumor has it that in addition to Florida governor Roy Padgett, the Florida House Speaker, state attorney general, and a large delegation of other dignitaries from Tallahassee are expected to attend Symmes Robinette’s service.
All eyes will be on young Charlie Robinette, whose announcement this week that he would run for his late father’s seat—as well as his allegations of elder abuse against his mother, the vivacious and popular Vanessa Robinette—has divided the loyalties of family and friends.
Your correspondent has learned that Charlie Robinette had assumed he would succeed his father in Congress, reportedly at his father’s request, until recently, when the thirty-four-year-old attorney began squiring an attractive local divorcée to local social events.
The divorcée, who has a young daughter and has only recently split from her husband, reportedly did not meet with the approval of the younger Robinette’s parents. Vanessa Robinette has told friends that she and her husband recently began having doubts that their son was ready to take the national stage.
Of course, your correspondent will be attending both the after-service reception and the private, invitation-only dinner, which will be hosted by Mrs. Robinette later that evening at her lavish oceanfront home on Sugar Key.
Our sources tell us that one name that won’t be on the invite list for Vanessa’s dinner is retired railroad executive and longtime family friend Miles Schoendienst, who has accepted the role of campaign chairman for Charlie Robinette.
Coordinating floral tributes for the reception will be Agnes Ryan and Babs Tillery.
Conley’s thoughts returned to her own story and Vanessa Robinette’s assertion that “chemo brain” was to blame for her husband’s lack of sleep and out-of-character generosity in giving away the family farm.
She decided that if Merle Goggins over in Bronson County was interested in what kind of drugs Symmes Robinette was taking, she was interested too.
On a whim, she emailed an old friend from college, Carol Knox, who’d switched majors their sophomore year and had eventually become an oncology nurse. They’d stayed in contact over the years since, mostly through Facebook.
She knew Carol now lived down in St. Pete.
“Hey, gurlll. Can you give me a call? Working on a hot story and could use some research help,” she wrote, adding her phone number.
Conley turned back to Rowena’s column, typing it into the system, editing, refining, and generally trying to make it not so Rowena-ish. For the second time that morning, she pushed the Send button.
When her cell phone rang, and the number on the caller ID had a 727 area code, she grabbed for it.
“Carol? How are you? Thanks for getting back to me so fast.”
“Good to hear from you,” Carol said. “I’m actually sitting at the airport, and I’ve got nothing better to do.”
They exchanged a few pleasantries, catching up on each other’s lives, with Conley promising to get down to St. Pete soon for a visit, and Carol promising to read Conley’s stories online.
“Here’s what I’m working on,” Conley said. “You know who Symmes Robinette is?”
“The congressman, right? From up in the Panhandle. He died recently, right?”
“Yeah. He was killed in a one-car crash, forty-five miles from his house, at three in the morning. And according to his wife, he had end-stage cancer.”
“How old was he?”
“Seventy-seven. He was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma last fall, treated at Walter Reed, but then his wife decided to bring him back home to Silver Bay.”
“That’s a little odd in itself,” Carol said. “But if he was in his late seventies and terminal, yeah, I suppose it could be okay. Was he in hospice?”
“Don’t think so. His wife was keeping him isolated from everybody, including his own son, but that’s another story. Meanwhile, the cops down here have asked the local pharmacy for a list of his medications,” Conley said. “So I’m thinking they’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
“Which is?” Carol asked.
“Maybe he was impaired when he had the wreck? First off, if he was terminally ill, what’s he doing driving around that time of night? His wife told me his meds gave him insomnia, that he’d wake up in the middle of the night and just drive aimlessly around. She called it ‘chemo brain.’ But I thought if you had end-stage cancer, the docs would really dope you up.”
“Hmm,” Carol said. “You can’t quote me on any of this, okay? I’m not a physician, and I don’t know any of the particulars of this case. All I can give you is general observations. That said, my first thought is that if he’s end stage, he’s probably not doing chemo anymore. His docs are doing palliative care, just trying to keep him comfortable.”
“What kind of drugs does that involve?”
“Maybe a transdermal patch, fentanyl, or buprenorphine. They’re both heavy-duty opioids and commonly used for cancer patients.”
“Wouldn’t those dope him up to the gills?”
“Not necessarily,” she said. “Long-term users, especially cancer patients, can metabolize the drugs at a different rate. For instance, a dose of fentanyl that would knock you or me on our asses, maybe even be lethal, might not have that same effect on the cancer patient.”
“Huh,” Conley said. “Would he be on any other meds? Something for sleep, for instance?”
“Maybe. But buprenorphine especially can have pretty serious, negative interactions with other drugs and even alcohol.”
“Like what?”
“Dizziness, wooziness, and the biggie. Death.”
“Would all those drugs show up in his body afterward? Even if he was pretty badly burned in the car fire?” Conley asked.
“They should,” Carol said. “But I’m not a pathologist. That’s a question for the medical examiner.”
“I’ve got lots of questions for the medical examiner,” Conley said. “But he’s not too keen on talking to reporters.”
“Whoops! They’re calling my flight. Good luck,” Carol said. “And come see me.”
After sitting at a desk writing all morning, Conley was anxious to get out of the office. She put in a call to Vanessa Robinette, but her call was immediately rolled over to the widow’s voice mail.
“Hi, Vanessa,” she said, trying to sound friendly, even deferential. “I’m working on a story about some last-minute details about the congressman’s service, and I’d appreciate if you’d give me a call back.”
Probably, she thought, Vanessa would return her call when hell froze over. She decided it was time to start knocking on doors.
She stepped inside Grayson’s office.
Grayson was reading a document on her computer screen and looked up. “Rowena’s column is much better. Almost literate. Thanks.”
“I’m headed out for a while,” Conley said. “Gonna go over to Bronson County to see if I can get your friend Merle Goggins to answer some questions. And I might make a couple of other stops too.”
“Speaking of cops, I need you to stop by the Silver Bay PD and pick up the police reports,” Grayson said. “Be good if you could put that together in the morning, since you’ll probably be busy covering the funeral on Saturday.”
“Ugh,” she said. “Can’t Mike cover cops this week? I’m kind of covered up.”
“He’s covered up too,” Grayson said. “No whining, okay?”
The front desk at the Silver Bay Police Department was manned by a light-skinned black woman named Claudette, who had deep dimples and a fondness for nail art. Every time Conley stopped by to pick up copies of incident reports, her nails were different. Today, each nail was painted a bright blue, with tiny yellow smiling sunrays emanating out from each tip.
“Hey, Claudette,” Conley said, bellying up to the front counter. “Love your nails.”
“Oh, hey, Conley,” Claudette said. She fanned her fingers out, admiring them herself. “My girl Sue really outdid herself this week, didn’t she?” Without being asked, she plucked a file folder from a tray on her desk and handed it over. “There’s your reports. I made copies for you.”
“How come you’re so nice to me?”
Claudette grinned, showcasing her dimples. “All us single ladies got to stick together,” she said, laughing.
“Anything good in here?” Conley asked, riffling through the reports.
“No murders or bank robberies,” Claudette replied. “Same shit, different day.”
After leaving the cop shop, Conley stopped by the bakery next to the hardware store and picked up a pound cake. “Could you wrap up the box with some ribbon?” she asked the salesclerk. “It’s for a gift.”
Afterward, she took the causeway toward the beach until she spotted the discreet green-and-white signs to Sugar Key. As she grew closer to the development, the landscape transitioned from scrub pines and palmettos to emerald swaths of bermuda grass, sabal palms, ferns, and oleanders. A wide median strip divided the road in two and was landscaped with a riot of pink, blue, and white annuals. Hard to believe that twenty years ago, this area had been a sandspur-studded, mosquito-infested swamp known to every teenager in the county as “the Goonies,” the preferred location for dope smoking, underage drinking, and sweaty, back seat shenanigans.
Half a mile down what was now Sugar Key Boulevard, she spotted a red-tile-roofed guard shack that had been built in the center of the road. To the right was the entrance, a two-lane road, each lane protected by a high, wrought iron gate. Arrows directed Residents to one side and Visitors to the other.
Conley slowed the Subaru and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. A pickup truck loaded with landscape equipment passed her on the left, and she watched as it slowed and then stopped at the visitor’s gate. A uniformed security guard stepped out of the shack and approached the truck. She saw the driver stick his head out of the open window and converse with the guard, who held a clipboard, which she now consulted. After a moment, she handed the driver a white-and-green pass and waved him through.
Five minutes later, she watched as an Audi convertible zoomed past, barely slowing as it approached the Residents gate, which swung open on the Audi’s approach.
“Might as well give it a shot,” she muttered to herself.
She stopped at the Visitors entrance and waited. The same security guard walked over to her car at a smart pace. She was petite, with military bearing, and wore her white-blond hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her uniform was spotless—sharply creased navy slacks, shiny lace-up black oxfords, white tailored shirt with faux gold epaulets, hash marks on the sleeve, even a shiny tin security badge pinned over her breast.
“Yes, ma’am?” the guard said, peering into the car and scrutinizing her closely, probably checking for concealed nuclear weapons, Conley thought.
“Hi! I’m Conley Hawkins, and I’m here to visit Mrs. Robinette,” she said.
The guard frowned. “Is she expecting you? Did she leave you a visitor’s pass?”
“Uh, well, not exactly. I go to her church, and I wanted to drop off a cake.”
“A cake?” This appeared to be a foreign concept.
“Yeah. You know, like a bereavement gesture, to show my condolences. I figure she probably has enough chicken casseroles.”
The guard did not laugh at Conley’s little joke, nor did she smile. She held up her clipboard for Conley to see. “Mrs. Robinette isn’t expecting guests. And she’s not accepting any kind of condolence cakes.”
“Oh.”
The guard pointed to a narrow, curving drive just inside the gate. “You can turn around here and go through the exit.” She did not offer a bye-bye wave, but stood stiffly, watching as Conley pulled the Subaru around and out of the subdivision.
Conley drove a few hundred yards, then pulled onto the shoulder again, turning around to examine the guard shack. As she did, she noticed a tall metal utility pole, bristling with cameras. She also noticed the blond guard, who came out of the shack and stood in the road, staring at the Subaru. Conley gave her a backward wave, then drove on.