Just Cause

That's what's always bothering me,' Amy Kaplan continued. I mean, in a way, if she'd been grabbed and struggled or called for help or something…' The woman's voice was broken with remembered emotion, '… I might have done something. I'd have screamed and maybe run after her. Maybe I could have fought or done something. I don't know. Something. But it was just a regular May afternoon. And it was so hot, I wanted to get back inside, so I didn't really look.'

Cowart stared down the street, measuring distances. 'It was in the shadows?'

'Yes.'

'But you're sure it was green. Dark green?'

'Yes.'

'Not black?'

'You sound like the detectives and the attorneys. Sure, it could have been black. But my heart and my memory say dark green.'

'You didn't see a hand, pushing open the door from inside?'

She hesitated. 'That's a good question. They didn't ask that. They asked me if I saw the driver. He would have had to lean across to open the door. I couldn't see him…' She strained with recall. 'No. No hand. Just the door swinging open.'

'And the license plates?'

'Well, you know, Florida plates have that orange outline of the state on a white background. All I really noticed was that these were darker and from somewhere else.'

'When did they show you Robert Earl Ferguson's car?'

'They just showed me a picture, a couple of days later.'

'You never saw the car itself?'

'Not that I recall. Except on the day she disappeared.'

'Tell me about the picture.'

'There were a couple, like taken by an instant camera.'

'What view?'

1 beg your pardon?'

'What angle did they take the pictures from?'

'Oh, I see. Well, they were from the side.'

'But you saw the car from the back.'

'That's right. But the color was right. And the shape was the same. And…'

'And what?'

'Nothing.'

'You would have seen the brake lights when the car took off. When the driver put it into gear, the brake lights would have flashed. Would you remember what shape they were?'

I don't know. They didn't ask me that.'

'What did they ask?'

'There wasn't a lot. Not by the police. Not at the trial. I was so nervous, getting up there to testify, but it was all over in a few seconds.'

'What about the cross-examination?'

'He just asked me whether I was sure about the color, like you did. And I said I could be wrong, but I didn't think so. That seemed to please him real well, and that was it.'

Cowart looked down the roadway again, then at the young woman. She seemed resolved to the memories, her eyes staring off away from him. 'Do you think he did it?'

She breathed in and thought for an instant. 'He was convicted.'

'But what do you think?' She took a deep breath. 'The thing that always bothered me was that she just got into the car. Didn't seem to hesitate for an instant. If she didn't know him, why, I can't see why she'd do that. We try to teach the kids to be safe kids and smart kids, Mr. Cowart. We have classes in safety. In never trusting a stranger. Even here in Pachoula, though you might not believe it. We aren't so backwoods backwards as you probably think. A lot of people come here from the city, like I did. There's people here, too, professional people who commute down to Pensacola or over to Mobile, because this is a safe, friendly place. But the kids are taught to be safe. They learn. So I never understood that. It never made sense to me that she just got into that car.'

He nodded. 'That's a question I have, too,' he said.

She turned angrily toward him. 'Well, the first damn person I'd ask is Robert Earl Ferguson.'

He didn't reply, and in a moment she softened. 'I'm sorry for snapping at you. We all blame ourselves. Everyone at the school. You don't know what it was like, with the other children. Kids were afraid to come to school. When they got here, they were too afraid to listen. At home they couldn't sleep. And when they did sleep, they had nightmares. Tantrums. Bed-wettings. Sudden bursts of anger or tears. The kids with discipline problems got worse. The kids who were withdrawn and moody got worse. The normal, everyday, ordinary kids had trouble. We had school meetings. Psychologists from the university came down to help the kids. It was awful. It will always be awful.'

She looked around her. 'I don't know, but it was like something broke here that day, and no one really knows if it can ever be fixed.'

They remained silent for an instant. Finally, she asked, 'Have I helped?'

'Sure. Do you mind just one more question?' he replied. 'And I might have to get back to you after I talk with some of the other people involved. Like the cops.'

That'd be okay' she said. 'You know where to find me. Shoot.'

He smiled. 'Just tell me what it was that went through your mind a couple of minutes ago, when we were talking about the pictures of the car, and you cut it off.'

She stopped and frowned. 'Nothing' she replied.

He looked at her.

'Oh, well, there was something.'

'Yes?'

'When the police showed me the pictures, they told me that they had the killer. That he'd confessed and everything. My identifying the car was just a formality, they said. I didn't realize that it was so important until months later, just before the trial. That always bugged me, you know. They showed me pictures, said, Here's the killer's car, right? And I looked at them and said, Sure. I don't know, it always bothered me they did it that way.'

Cowart didn't say anything but thought, It bothers me, too.

A newspaper story is a compilation of moments, accumulated in quotations, in the shift of a person's eyes, in the cut of their clothes. It adds in words the tiny observations of the reporter, what he sees, how he hears. It is buttressed by the past, by a sturdy foundation of detail. Cowart knew that he needed to acquire more substance, and he spent the afternoon reading newspaper clippings in the library of the Pensacola News. It helped him to understand the unique frenzy that had overtaken the town when the little girl's mother had called the police to say that her daughter hadn't come home from school. There had been a small-town explosion of concern. In Miami, the police would have told the mother that they couldn't do anything for twenty-four hours. And they would have assumed that the girl was a runaway, fleeing from a beating, from a stepfather's sexual advances, or into the arms of some boyfriend, hanging out by the high school in a new black Pontiac Firebird.