Chapter Thirty-Eight

Bastard!

Bill

Sean called me Wednesday night. He and Joel had met with the Ocala Police Chief, Captain Richard Thompson, who told us Claude Jordan had been a model citizen of the community for many years. He had served on the city council and the board of education. Jordan’s son, Craig, was currently a member of the city council. The captain was surprised at the allegations. Sean told him they’d verify the evidence before arresting Jordan.

Here’s how the sting went down: Sean and Joel had arranged to obtain Jordan’s DNA at the monthly city council meeting. Captain Thompson had told them Jordan usually attended the meeting even though he was no longer a councilman. The captain, who also attended the meeting, identified Jordan for them. At a table in the back of the meeting room, coffee was served in paper cups. Before the meeting, Jordan got his coffee and talked to various people. When the mayor called the meeting to order, Jordan left his coffee cup on the serving table. After the meeting ended and everyone had exited the room, Joel picked up the cup with an ink pen and put it in a paper bag. It’ll take forensic about a week to get the DNA results. As soon as they’re in, they think Captain Graham will want to formally charge Clay Jackson for the murders of my family.

After Sean’s phone call, I was in an edgy state of mind. Sean and Joel had seen the devil! They had been in the same room with him, mere feet away. They said he was a pompous ass. Even though he was no longer a councilman, he had something to say about every topic discussed. But here lies the clincher. They said everyone else had the courtesy to throw their used paper coffee cup in the trash. Not Jackson. He left his on the serving table. It was a minor transgression, but it showed his arrogance, too good to throw his own cup in the trash. Well, that selfish action would be his ruination.

Sean had described Jackson. “He was trim and well dressed, but even the expensive tailored suit, the silk shirt, and the Italian leather shoes couldn’t hide his true character. I personally think it was the pure evilness showing through. He was tall like you, Bill, but there the resemblance ended. He had wide nostrils at the end of a narrow, long nose. His beady, round eyes were deeply set in a clean shaven, angular face. His hair was thin but trimmed neatly and probably tinted a light brown. His Southern drawl was very prominent.”

That wasn’t a surprise. I remember his accent from when he was still Edgar Fitzsimmons.

When Joel came over that evening, he commented, “Bill, what really surprised me at that meeting was how much Craig Jordan, Jackson’s son, looked like you. He was tall, like both you and Jackson, with dark brown hair, deep brown eyes, and facial features very similar to yours. If I had a picture of you when you were his age, the two of you would look like brothers. What impressed me about him was he didn’t seem at all like his father. In fact, a few times I noticed him rolling his eyes when the man interrupted one of the speakers for some inconsequential comment. Craig Jordon seemed to be a bit annoyed with Claude Jordan.”

****

On the following Tuesday afternoon, Sean called me again. “The DNA is a positive match. We’ve got him, Bill.”

The euphoria I felt at that moment was indescribable. At last! The monster who killed my family, who destroyed my life had been found. No, he wouldn’t have enough years left of his life to suffer as much as he should for his despicable acts, but at least he’ll be brought to justice.

Sean told me Captain Graham had contacted the Ocala police captain to arrange a joint arrest. Sean, Joel, and two other Nawinah detectives would drive to Ocala in two official police vehicles. Andrew and I would follow in Andrew’s SUV.

Early Friday morning, Andrew and I drove to the Nawinah Police Headquarters to meet up with Sean, Joel, and the other two detectives, Brian Headley and Rick Gomez. The captain briefly described his plan and gave Sean the warrant for the arrest. Andrew and I were to stay at a safe distance until the situation was completely under control.

We arrived at the Ocala Police Headquarters at eight a.m. They had been monitoring Jackson’s movements since Tuesday. He didn’t leave his house until at least nine a.m. each morning. The plan was to arrest him in his home, keeping any endangerment to innocent bystanders to a minimum. They didn’t know if Jackson would be carrying a weapon. However, since he’d be unaware of their presence until they knocked on his door, it was doubtful he’d even think to grab one.

Our caravan of five vehicles drove to Jackson’s quiet, tree lined street, first the two Ocala police cars, then the two Nawinah police cars, then Andrew’s vehicle. A few cars were pulling out of their long driveways heading for their morning destinations. Otherwise, no activity occurred outside nearby houses. No one doing yardwork. No pedestrians walking the street.

Jackson’s spacious, two story home, similar to others on the street, was in the middle of the block set back about forty yards. It was the typical architecture of a Florida home—sand colored exterior and terra-cotta tile roof. The shrubbery was clipped to perfection, and the Saint Augustine lawn was pristine and well maintained. A large bay window covered with closed, dark drapery faced the cement walkway leading to the rustic, oak front door. Andrew would park on the street until Sean called him from inside the house. The other four vehicles pulled into the long driveway minus sirens and lights. The two Ocala detectives from the second automobile walked around the house to station themselves outside the back door. The chief detective from Ocala, the other officer in his vehicle, Sean, and Joel walked up the walkway two abreast to the front door. Headley and Gomez waited at the bottom of the stairs. Ocala’s chief detective lifted the brass door knocker and let it bang against its brass plate three times. Like soldiers, they stood upright and rigid, awaiting the door to open.

Soon a gray-haired woman dressed in a crisp, blue uniform appeared in the doorway. I couldn’t hear what was said, but I saw the woman’s facial features change to one of surprise when she noticed the four men standing before her. The chief detective said something to cause her to open the door wider, allowing the men entrance into the house. Then the door was closed.

Andrew and I sat quietly in his vehicle, awaiting the telephone call from Sean. My insides were turning somersaults. My heart was fluttering a mile a minute despite my medication. I had to pull in my emotions.

“Are you okay, Bill?”

“Yes. I’m just so worried about this whole situation. After all these years…”

They were in the house a total of fourteen minutes when Andrew’s telephone rang. He put it on speaker, and Sean’s voice roared, “We’re coming out. He’s in handcuffs.”

I exited Andrew’s automobile faster than a ten-year-old kid running to first base and rushed up the driveway.

“Bill, I’ll drive us.”

I was already halfway up the drive when Andrew parked his car behind the others. I suddenly stopped at the beginning of the walkway as Sean and Joel exited the house followed by the two Ocala detectives. The devil was between them, his hands cuffed behind his back and the detectives firmly grasping his upper arms on each side. He had his head down as he descended the stairs, focusing on the walkway and shuffling between the two detectives.

Since I blocked the area where the walkway met the driveway, Sean and Joel walked around me. However, the Ocala detectives abruptly stopped in front of me. Jackson, still looking at the ground, was unaware of the reason for the sudden halt. He raised his head coming face to face with me no more than a foot away. I said nothing. My entire body shook with rage and hostility. My eyes felt on fire as I stared at this vile creature. I didn’t know I could feel so much hatred for one human being. He looked back at me with bewildered and vacant eyes. He had no idea who I was.

Within a few seconds his empty eyes seemed to change from confusion to recognition. Then the fear and dread in his stare appeared to take over his entire face. His mouth gaped open in complete surprise. He backed away from me, causing the detectives to grasp him more firmly. He let out a strange whimper like an injured, trapped animal. He tried to free himself, but the detectives held more tightly to his arms. Those not gripping him pulled their weapons and pointed them at him.

Someone yelled, “Jackson, stop resisting! Now!” He looked around like a frightened deer surrounded by wolves. All the while I sneered at him as I felt the venom fill my eyes. His body trembled when he tried to avoid coming any closer to me, but it was not his decision to make.

At the house’s doorway, an elderly woman dressed in a soft, pink robe wiped her tears away with a lace handkerchief, her wispy, white hair uncombed and escaping like feathers from her scalp. The woman in the blue uniform had an arm around the other woman’s shoulders, comforting her. For a moment I felt compassion for that sad, crying woman. But then I looked again at the devil and all thoughts of any type of empathy left me immediately.

His voice frantic, Jackson called out to the woman, “Arna, git in touch with Gary Palmer. Tell’m what’s happenin’ and to git to the Nawinah Poleece Station right away.”

As the detectives dragged him forward again, I moved to let them pass. Jackson wouldn’t look my way while they dragged him mere inches from me. They walked him to the first Ocala patrol car. I followed closely behind. When they assisted him into the back seat of the vehicle, pushing his head down, I yelled his name, “Clay Jackson!”

The sound of my gruff voice startled him, and he jerked his head around. I propped myself a few inches from his face, and I spat on him. I watched the surprised look in his eyes as the spittle ran down his cheek unable to be wiped away.

Our cavalcade returned to the Ocala Police Headquarters. Sean presented the extradition paperwork to transfer Jackson to Orange County, where he’d be charged. Still securely handcuffed, he was moved to Sean and Joel’s vehicle. Headley and Gomez’s car pulled out of the parking lot immediately after Sean’s vehicle. Andrew followed.

After the drive to Nawinah, our vehicles pulled into the police parking lot. Sean, Joel, Headley, and Gomez exited their vehicles while Jackson remained in the confined back seat of Sean’s cruiser. Then Headley and Gomez assisted Jackson out of his seat. I stood very close by, staring at him. He sheepishly avoided looking at me.

Much to my surprise, reporters and cameras were waiting in the parking lot. Somehow, the press had become aware of a newsworthy event. Sean told everyone not to speak to any of the reporters. Captain Graham would give a statement in time for the nightly news. I wouldn’t have talked to them, anyhow. My focus was completely on the monster being led into the station.

I watched as Jackson was fingerprinted and asked a series of questions, including his name and his birth date. He gave his name as Claude Hiram Jordan, born on June 15, 1931, and currently living on SW Eighth Street in Ocala, Florida. The only truth in his statements was his current address.

Jackson had been searched for weapons and read his Miranda rights at his home. All his personal property was now confiscated, including his rich leather wallet containing hundreds of dollars in cash and several credit cards, his Rolex watch, and his sleek clothing. He was ordered to take off his tailored pants and crisp, white shirt and to put on the orange jail jumpsuit. He was then photographed, both a front view and a profile with his criminal number plaque in front of him. Joel remarked, “He no longer looks like the arrogant bastard we had seen at the council meeting. In his jail cell garb and his hair no longer neatly coiffed, but wild and uncontrolled, he looks like a broken, old man.”

Later that night in front of several television cameras and radio and newspaper reporters, Captain Graham gave a press conference. “Ladies and gentlemen, Claude Hiram Jordan, an Ocala businessman, has been arrested for the 1971 murders of the Cunningham family. Jordan will have his first appearance before the judge tomorrow morning. You’ll be made aware of any further developments as they unfold. I’ll take no questions at this time.”

On Saturday morning, Andrew drove us to the Orange County Court House for Jackson’s first appearance. I planned to be in the courtroom every time he was brought before a judge or a jury. He’d see my face in his nightmares before I was through with him. When the bailiff called his case, the guards brought a handcuffed Jackson into the courtroom. He still had that frightened, wrongly accused look on his face. He wasn’t fooling anybody. The bastard!

He was led in front of the judge and joined by his attorney. Andrew whispered, “I don’t want to scare you, Bill, but Gary Palmer is a well-known defense attorney who has represented many high profile criminals and won most of his cases.”

“That may be, Andrew, but he will lose this time. Mark my word.” Was I trying to convince Andrew or myself?

The judge called Sean and asked for the affidavit on the case. After looking it over, the judge spoke, “Claude Jordan, I find probable cause for the crime of murder in the first degree. Because this is a capital offense, I am holding you at no bond. Do you have an attorney or does one need to be appointed for you?”

Gary Palmer interjected, “Your Honor. I am representing Mr. Jordan.”

“Then, Claude Hiram Jordan, you are remanded to the Orange County Jail to await your arraignment, where you will present your plea regarding these charges.”

The judge banged his gavel. “Next case.”

As Jackson was led from the courtroom, his eyes darted around the room. Our eyes locked when he saw me. I’m sure my hatred for him was spewing from my eyes. His eyes only showed defeat. We watched each other for several seconds before he was led away.

Jackson was incarcerated in the county jail while the district attorney set the wheels rolling for the grand jury to file a capital murder charge against him. We had to wait patiently for the grand jury to convene. Captain Graham arranged for me to see Jackson in the county jail every day. A deputy would bring a handcuffed Jackson into a secured interrogation room and stand directly behind him. I sat across from him and stared for at least an hour, not speaking, just staring. Each day Jackson appeared more unnerved, sweating profusely, his body jerking involuntarily as I stared. He tried to have conversations with me. “I’m a sick, ol’ man. You know I got diabetes. My ticker ain’t so good no more either, and I got high blood pressure.”

Blah, blah, blah. I said nothing in return. Just the sound of his voice made me cringe. His attorney tried to put a stop to my visits. However, whatever arrangement Captain Graham had with the county sheriff, I was still permitted to see Jackson until his arraignment.