On Tuesday morning I give a brief lecture and participate in a talkback on the American criminal justice system and the need for reform, with an emphasis on the prison system.
Both the talk and the Q&A seem well received. The questions are thoughtful and the discussion good. The most surprising thing about any of it is Anna’s decision not to attend. She informed me last night that she and Taylor would sleep in, then go to the beach, grab some lunch, and see me back at the room later in the day. But when I was getting ready this morning Taylor let her mama know she wanted to go with me.
So I get the pleasure of Taylor’s company and Anna gets a day to herself.
Following the talkback I am introduced to several people—including Keith’s mom Derinda Dacosta and Scott Haskew, executive director of the Sandcastle Foundation, the not-for-profit group that supports educational and charitable events in Sandcastle and Walton County. He’s one of two people that I haven’t met yet who were at the solstice party the night Magdalene was taken. The other, Jodi North, is also present and I am introduced to her too. An overly dramatic aging actress, North is the creative director of the Sandcastle Repertory Theater.
I also meet Magdalene’s former foster parents Brent and Charis Tremblay, and the adoption agent who was so helpful to Christopher and Keith, Demi Gonzalez.
The crowd for my second talk is far larger than my first because every Tuesday for the past several months, Keith and Christopher’s family, friends, and a group of so-called citizen sleuths descend on Sandcastle to join locals in a methodical search for Magdalene.
Many of the shopkeepers close early on Tuesday afternoons to also join the search. The well-organized and motivated group has created a grid that extends out from the Florida House and each week are combing through another quadrant, looking not only for Magdalene but also for clues to her disappearance.
“Do you two participate in the searches for Magdalene on Tuesdays?” I ask Scott Haskew and Jodi North, who happen to be standing near me as people mill about in the chapel after the talkback.
“I wish I could,” Haskew says, “but . . . these days I’m largely a staff of one, and I can never seem to get caught up.”
“Same here, darling,” Jodi says. “Nobody seems to understand what it takes to operate such a fine regional repertory theater as ours.”
As I talk to people about the lecture I’ve just given and look for opportunities to interview the suspects in Magdalene’s disappearance, Derinda Dacosta sits next to Taylor on the front row, interacting animatedly and assisting her in the activities book she brought for entertainment.
“But you were there at the party the night Magdalene was taken?” I say.
Haskew nods.
“Disappeared,” Jodi North corrects. “The night the poor dear disappeared. We don’t know for certain she was taken.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Only that as I understand it there’s no evidence she was abducted,” she says. “That’s all. All we know for sure is that she’s gone.”
“Well, if she wasn’t taken, how did she disappear?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she says. “But I do know there are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“Meaning something inexplicable?” I ask. “Spiritual perhaps?”
She shrugs, and she does it like she does everything—dramatically. “Perhaps. Sandcastle is built on top of an ancient temple mound. There’s much that goes on here that we can’t explain. But I wasn’t referring to that as much as the possibility that she wasn’t taken so much as hidden.”
Haskew gives her a slight shake of the head and roll of his eyes.
“Hidden?” I ask.
“That house is so big and has so many rooms—many of them hidden. So many passageways—some of them secret. Isn’t it at least possible that the poor dear never left the house?”
Haskew says, “Sandcastle is not built on an ancient temple mound. That’s been proven to be much farther inland. And that house has been searched more than a Muslim air traveler since 9-11. Y’all excuse me, please. I need to have a word with the Samuelsons about our foundation luncheon.”
As he moves away, Wren Melody, the British bookstore owner, and Brooke Wakefield, the thin, platinum-blond boutique owner, drift over.
“Oh, Jodi, did you get my message?” Wren says. “I left it on your mobile when I didn’t get you.”
Jodi shakes her head.
“The book of Harold Pinter plays you ordered arrived today,” Wren says. “I should’ve brought it with me this morning, but I came straight ’round here instead of popping into the bookstore first, didn’t I?”
“Marvelous,” Jodi says. “I’ll stop by this afternoon and pick it up.”
“I have to say,” Wren says, “I’m absolutely delighted you’re considering going with a Brit for your next production.”
“Two, actually,” Jodi says. “Shakespeare and Pinter. We’re thinking Much Ado about Nothing and The Birthday Party.”
“Oh, excellent,” Wren says. “Well done, you. Cheers. Speaking of well done . . .” She turns toward me. “Another great talk, dear boy.”
“Thank you.”
Brooke Wakefield nods enthusiastically, her straight-haired, platinum-blond head bobbing up and down, her large earrings making tiny tinkling sounds as she does. “Really good,” she says.
I start to thank her, but she steps forward into the small circle the four of us have formed, lowers her voice and says, “I’d prefer this to stay between us, but my brother’s in prison, and I know firsthand how difficult, inhumane, and unjust it all can be.”
She doesn’t look like someone who has a brother in prison. Not that there’s a look, but if there were, she wouldn’t have it. From the tip of her platinum-blond hair to the tips of her manicured toes she appears to have been put together for a high-end fashion shoot.
I had been told she comes from money—that, in fact, her wealthy family had not only set her up in the boutique business here in Sandcastle but also supplements her income so she can continue to live in the manner they raised her to be accustomed to.
“No system is perfect, of course,” Wren says, “but as good in theory as America’s is, it’s not nearly as good as most Americans think it is.”
“I can guarantee that the Americans who think it’s the best haven’t had any dealings with it,” Brooke says. “As a victim or someone accused of a crime.”
“Or,” Wren says, nodding toward me, “someone who has worked within it.”
Jodi leans in and starts to say something but stops as Keith and his mom walk up.
“John, did you meet my mom, Derinda?” Keith asks.
“We met a few minutes ago, honey,” Derinda says. “But you’ve met so many new people in the last few days it’s got to be hard to remember. I’m Derinda Dacosta. Keith and Christopher’s mom and Magdalene’s grandmother. And your daughter is delightful.”
Though you can still see the beauty she must have been, Derinda Dacosta now has the roundish, matronly look of a middle-aged woman with a pampered, sedentary lifestyle. Covering her overly ample bosom and the other round shapes beneath it are the middle-aged clothes of a schoolmarm who when she updates her wardrobe at all it’s in favor of comfortable bargains instead of stylish elegance. None of which would stand out so extremely if she weren’t standing next to Brooke.
“Of course I remember you,” I say. “Good to see you again. And thank you,” I add, glancing at Taylor who is being very patient but is clearly ready to go.
Keith motions over Brent and Charis Tremblay and Demi Gonzalez.
“Will you be able to join us in the search this afternoon?” Derinda asks me.
“I plan to,” I say. “But I’ve promised my wife some extra family time and I have to pick up my other daughter this evening, so I’m not sure how long I can stay.”
“Every little bit helps,” she says. “Here’s the two ladies who we have to thank for these weekly searches right here.”
As Brent and Charis and Demi join our expanding circle, I notice that without saying anything Jodi has eased out of it.
“Don’t forget Brent,” Charis says. “He helped organize it too.”
“Helped, hell,” Demi says. “He was the organization. Wouldn’t have any if it weren’t for him.”
Brent extended his hand and I shook it. “Just wanted to let you know I enjoyed your talk,” he says. “I’m afraid I have a meeting in Mobile this afternoon so I’m about to have to leave.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate that.”
He’s a short, slight man with soft hands and a Caucasian fro.
“It was so good of y’all to start the weekly search,” I say.
“We had to do something,” Charis says. “Like everyone else, including poor Keith and Christopher, we felt so helpless.”
Demi says, “We were thinking about what we might do to help—even in some small way—and Charis said how about a search.”
“I didn’t think a completely thorough search of the area had ever been done,” Charis says. “And in every crime show I’ve ever seen they always do a careful and methodical search for . . . clues.”
“The woods behind Keith and Christopher’s house is so big,” Derinda says. “And it had never been properly searched.”
“So,” Demi says, “we decided to do one ourselves. We studied how to do it and Brent helped us create a grid and a system for searching it.”
“It’s taking us a while to work our way through it,” Charis says, “but we’re getting there, and we didn’t feel like we could ask our volunteers for more than one afternoon a week.”
“Since we started,” Demi says, “our number keeps growing. Friends and family. Citizen sleuths. And people who live here in Sandcastle. Several of the stores close early on Tuesdays so their owners and employees can help us.”
“We may be wasting our time,” Charis says, “but we don’t know what else to do. And we’re not just looking for Magdalene. We’re searching for clues—anything that might tell us what happened to her that night, who took her, which direction they may have gone, anything at all that might help us find her. Plus if nothing else we’re keeping attention focused on her disappearance.”