The hope Bobby Joe had felt plunged to the pit of his stomach. “I guess it’s a bad idea,” he said.
There was quiet on the other end of the line.
“I just remembered it, and how she acted about it when she told me.” Back then there had been no question in Bobby’s Joe’s mind that Darlene was already sleeping with that cop. He had known it as soon as she mentioned him. It was just her way of bragging about how much other men wanted her. She couldn’t seem to help herself when it came to that.
“No, it’s not a bad idea.”
His father’s voice jolted him, brought him back to reality. “It’s not?”
“No, in fact it’s a fine idea. We do it and we can take the accusations this detective is makin’ about our church, and we can turn it right back on him. Put this Harry Doyle on the defensive for a change. What do you think, Walter?”
“I think it’s an excellent idea, John. We can pressure the sheriff, demand to know why his detectives aren’t investigating one of their own with the same vigor they’re expending on a minister of the church.”
“Exactly,” Reverend Waldo said. His voice had a hiss to it that was almost serpent-like, and Bobby Joe could practically feel the look of satisfaction spreading across his daddy’s face.
“I’ll do it today,” Bobby Joe said. “I’ll call this Harry Doyle and I’ll tell him straight away.” He waited for his father or Middlebrooks to respond, knowing neither of them would trust him to do it right.
“No, you let me call him,” Middlebrooks said. “He’s going to have to earn the right to talk to you now.”
“You listen to Walter, boy,” his father said. “Always let a lawyer front for you when there’s trouble. It’s always the smart play.”
The call came in from Jocko Doyle at four p.m.
“How long will it take you to get to St. Pete Beach?” he asked without preamble.
“Twenty, thirty minutes,” Harry said. “Why, what’s up?”
“An assistant state’s attorney named Calvin Morris is going to meet us to talk about your mother’s parole hearing. He wants to hook up at a joint called the Sea Hag. It’s on Blind Pass Road at the marina where he keeps his boat.”
“I know the place,” Harry said. “What time?”
“Five. I suggest you get there about fifteen minutes early so we can talk.”
“You got it. I’ll leave in about ten minutes.”
Except for the occasional high-rise condo, and the increased winter migration of elderly snowbirds from the north, St. Pete Beach was still the “traditional Florida” Harry had known as a child-wide, sandy beaches dotted with bars and restaurants, and a strictly laid-back lifestyle. It was a place where shoes gave way to sandals, shopping in bathing suits became commonplace, and the only mandatory activities involved sunsets or gathering for the weekly drum circle on Treasure Island, where hundreds of people celebrated the end of the day by dancing at the water’s edge to the incessant beating of every imaginable manner of drum.
The Sea Hag fit its surroundings perfectly, a waterfront joint with a wide deck overlooking the Blind Pass Marina, with its complement of nearly 200 boats lining its docks, and attractive young waitresses dressed in short shorts and tight T-shirts, each one looking as though she had just wandered in from the beach, which several undoubtedly had, and a clientele that gave off a studied beach bum air.
Given that, Calvin Morris looked like a man from another time when he walked up to their table still dressed in a tan suit, white shirt, and a powder-blue power necktie. Jocko and Harry were wearing shorts and jeans, respectively, flowered shirts worn out to conceal their weapons, and boat shoes without socks.
Jocko gave the assistant state’s attorney a long once-over. “You got a church meeting tonight, Cal?”
“No time to change,” Morris said, ignoring the jab. He was a tall, slender black man with a neatly trimmed mustache and hard brown eyes, a seasoned prosecutor with ten years experience in the criminal courts, who knew how to use his wardrobe to intimidate adversaries.
As soon as he walked in Jocko and Harry knew they were just that- adversaries. Had Morris taken the time to go to his boat and change, or had he invited them out for a drink near his office in a roomful of suits, it would have been different. Here, in the laid-back atmosphere of a beach bar, his wardrobe let everyone know that he was the man in charge and there would be no arguments, thank you very much.
“So tell us about the parole hearing for Lucy Santos, Cal,” Jocko began. “Is your office going to oppose the parole, or just let it slide on by?”
Morris’s eyes narrowed, a display of annoyance he tried to mask with a tight smile. He was a handsome man with a caramel complexion, strong jaw, and the firm, slender body of a former athlete who still kept himself fit. “We don’t let any parole slide on by,” he said in a mildly pompous voice. “We don’t oppose them all, either. We review each one and decide which ones should be challenged.”
“And my mother’s parole?” Harry asked. “What decision has been made about that?”
Morris sighed heavily. He obviously knew the history of the case even though it was well before his tenure with the state’s attorney began. “Look, what your mother did to your brother, and to you, is nothing less than a heinous act. But she’s done twenty years of hard time and she’s eligible for parole. Life without parole was never part of the sentencing deal. It should have been, but it wasn’t. According to her case file, her attorney back then threatened to go to the mat if we pushed for it. And, frankly, if the case had gone to trial she probably would have been found innocent by reason of insanity, committed to the loony bin, and been back on the streets ten years ago. The state psychiatrists who have reviewed her case say she’s sane and not a danger to anyone, so our office opposing her parole wouldn’t do a damn bit of good.” He began ticking off other reasons on his fingers. “She’s also been a model prisoner, according to corrections officials. And s he’s become a spiritual leader for other women in the prison. And her former church has agreed to help her get ordained and then hire her as a lay minister.” He stared into Harry’s eyes, his own softening for the first time. “What have you got that will beat back the testimony of two state-appointed shrinks, the corrections department, and her minister?”
“He’s got letters that show she’s still a fucking fruitcake,” Jocko said before Harry could answer.
Morris lowered his eyes and nodded slowly. “Then go to the hearing and present them to the board.”
“You don’t want to see them,” Harry said.
Morris studied his hands, clearly embarrassed. “It wouldn’t do any good. The decision has been made that we are not going expend the time and staff and expense to fight this one. I’m sorry. If she’s granted parole you can ask that it be on condition that she has no contact with you, if that’s what you want. If she does, they’ll violate her and put her back inside. But I think that’s the best you can hope for.”
“That really sucks,” Jocko said.
“Yes, it does.” He turned his attention back to Harry. “I’m sorry. If I were in your shoes I’d feel exactly the same way.”
Harry stared at him for several moments. “You have no idea how it feels to be in my shoes.”
Out in the parking lot Jocko slipped his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, kid. But I gotta admit I’m not surprised.” He tightened his grip momentarily then let his arm fall to his side. “There’s just not enough good ink in it. You know how much those assholes like to see their names in the newspapers; the bigger the headline the better. This case, it’s just too old to get more than a couple of inches on an inside page. To spend the kind of time and money and effort it would take, they want a bigger payback than that.”
“Yeah, I know,” Harry said. “I was just hoping they’d get on it so I wouldn’t have to do that much myself, other than show up.”
“Yeah, well, now you gotta do a little bit more. You gotta show the board those wacky letters and tell them they’ll be putting you in danger if they let her out. And we can try to get some of our newspaper friends to call the board members and ask some pointed questions about turning loose a child killer. One thing about the parole board: they don’t like any ink about anything they do. They like to operate strictly under the radar.”