"I'm sorry, Ms. Cotton. I don't want to sound simple here, but in your position, these years later, I was calling to find out what your reaction to Mr. Ferris's death might be."
The woman went quiet for several moments, but Nick had learned long ago not to give up on any interviewees other than politicians when he could see in their eyes that they were forming an answer to his questions, testing a reply in their mind.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mullins," she finally said. "I guess I wanted to say relief, or maybe some kind of feel of justice. But I can't say I have that. I have long given judgment up to the Lord Himself, and that man is meeting his Maker this very morning on his own terms," she said with a certainty that Nick was always befuddled by with people of faith.
"No, sir, I would have to tell you, Mr. Mullins, that I don't believe that any kind of vision of Mr. Ferris has entered my mind for some time. I believe he was already gone in my mind."
"But you still wanted to see me," Nick said. "Is there something that you wanted to say about the shooting?"
"Only that I was bothered by some things in the newspapers, not yours, of course, that said maybe I or my people might have done something to get revenge for my girls."
"OK," Nick said, without taking his eyes off hers.
"And we did not do anything. I did not," she said, bringing the strength back into her voice that had been there during Ferris's trial.
Nick nodded and wrote on the pad, a nonsensical squiggle that the woman could not see, just to make her know she was being heard.
"Revenge is not in my blood, or my family's blood, Mr. Mullins," she said. "And I cannot think of anyone I know who would have been wanting to kill Mr. Ferris."
"I think the detectives will have to look at any and all possibilities, Ms. Cotton," Nick said. "I would think that's why they want to interview you, ma'am, not because of anything that was put into the newspaper."
He stopped. Wondering why he was defending himself.
"But since I am here, has anyone contacted you, Ms. Cotton? Anyone, say, on the phone? Or anonymously written you, someone who might have sounded like they were doing this on your behalf? You know, like taking action because they felt you deserved closure or something?"
Nick hated even using the word. There was no such thing. Closure. It was a buzzword someone came up with and then it spread like kudzu into the vernacular.
"No, sir," she said, then hesitated, not speaking as she held up the fingers of her right hand, as though stopping time.
"Mr. Dempsey did give me a whole bunch of letters after the trial from folks sending me sympathy," she said after gathering her memories. "Sometimes he still does. I put them all in a box, and I think it's very kind."
"Has he brought you anything recently?" Nick said. The mention of paper piqued his interest. Something written and verified, especially with a postage mark, was manna for a journalist. It was the fuel for a paper trail.
"I can't say I recall the last time," Cotton said. "Might have been in the fall. I am not much for keepin' track of time anymore, Mr. Mullins."
"Any names in the box that were familiar, Ms. Cotton?" Nick pressed, envisioning a list of names, something he could use, something solid he could trace.
"Well, I don't really pay much attention to the names, sir. I read the ones from the mothers mostly," she said and a wistful look came into her face, making Nick feel a twinge of guilt at his grilling. But not too guilty.
"Could I perhaps take a look at the letters, Ms. Cotton? Just sort of go through the names, I mean. I don't want to pry," Nick said, lying. Of course he wanted to pry. It's what reporters did.
"I would have to look up in my closets to find them. I believe that's where I might have stored that box away."
Nick looked at his watch. It was late. They would have to leave soon for her to make her appointment with the detectives. But he didn't know what to ask.
"Ms. Cotton, has anyone related to Mr. Ferris, or even someone who said they knew him, ever come to speak to you or even introduce themselves?"
Nick watched her close her eyes, searching again for a picture of the past.
"His brother," she said, her eyes still closed. Then she opened them. "His brother seen me in the hall outside the court and walked up to me on that day when the jury found him guilty."
"And he talked with you?" Nick said, prodding her.
"He said he was sorry about what happened. I could see it in his eyes, Mr. Mullins, that he was hurtin'."
"You do seem to have that ability, Ms. Cotton," Nick said, making a guess as to why he was here. "To pick up on people's pain."
This time she looked straight into Nick's face, studying it, the creases in his brow, the lines at the corners of his eyes.
"I read about your family, Mr. Mullins. I recognized your name right off and remembered the way you had with your words, that compassion. It was your wife and daughter, so you know how it is when somebody needs that," she said. "Maybe someone else is going to need that now."
Nick looked down at his open notebook. He had yet to enter a word with any meaning or usefulness in his "exclusive" interview.
"Is that why I'm here, Ms. Cotton?" he finally said, not wanting to look in her eyes, not wanting her to see his. "Is that why you asked to see me? Because of my compassion?"
He felt her nod more than saw it.
"I read the newspapers a lot, Mr. Mullins," she said. "Sometimes I can feel people in there, in the words. I learned that by readin' what happened to me, to my family. And like I said, you had that feeling in your words before."
"But not now?" Nick said, wanting her to continue.
"I watched the paper to see when you got back to your job. I have seen your stories now and compared them with before. And if you don't mind my saying so, sir… you changed," she said without taking her eyes off him. "The pain changed you."
Nick stared at her, this small black woman, telling him about his heart with a plain open face that did not show sympathy or judgment, or assess fault.
"Compassion," she said. "I believe you are losin' that, Mr. Mullins. And I believe that would be a terrible thing in the end, sir."
Chapter 12
Nick was still rolling Margaria Cotton's words around in his head when he got back to the office. While he'd been dropping her off in front of the Broward Sheriff's Office, Detective Hargrave and his partner, the big sergeant, had been just getting out of their unmarked Crown Vic. Detectives being what they are, Nick knew they'd check out the driver who was bringing Cotton to see them. Even the stone-faced Hargrave could not cover the look of consternation on his face. The big man had turned around just as they were entering a side door for employees and officers only and given him a sorry shake of his head.
Now, as Nick was making his way to his desk, a sports editor grinned at him and said, "Hi, Nick. How you doing?"
The greeting snapped his concentration at first, and then piled onto Cotton's observation.
"Hey, Stevie. Alright," Nick answered.
Few people in the place bothered to talk to him these days. The sports guy, Steve Bryant, had told him it was because they didn't know what to say after Nick returned to work following the accident. The first few weeks, there were the quiet condolences. He'd nodded, thanked them. But he'd never been a gregarious sort. He'd have an occasional beer with the other reporters after a late shift, would toss a good-natured barb across the desk like the one he'd received from Hirschman about the roof photo. But Steve had confided that if Nick was already intimidating with his intensity before the tragedy, he was downright scary when he'd returned.