Part 8 (1/2)
I met Connie Zide's eyes; she was nodding her head up and down in what I knew was relief. Toba nodded at me too, and smiled. I looked across the table at Darryl Morgan.
There was pure hatred in his gaze. I had tried to kill him, he seemed to be thinking. Tried and failed.
Judge Bill Eglin tapped the pen again. ”I want to remind you,” he declared-his voice penetrated and instantly stilled the light murmur that had swept through the courtroom-”that I have the right to uphold or override the jury's recommendation. This provision is a safeguard built into the law of our state, so that if a judge feels a jury has given too much weight to either aggravating or mitigating circ.u.mstances, that judge can rectify what he perceives as an error.”
He leaned forward, a pockmarked man in his late forties, and turned toward the jurors. ”I suspect y'all have cast your verdict on the basis of the defendant's youth, although I want you to realize that by the current laws of our nation he's considered old enough to vote. But in addition, I'm moved by Mr. Jaffe's final argument. Prosecutor for the state correctly points out that this defendant was responsible for the acts of his accomplice, now deceased. That accomplice, Smith, attacked and might have killed Mrs. Zide. Now I ask you, is the convicted man penitent? Does he apologize for the scarring of a beautiful woman? Does he show remorse for taking the life of a beloved husband and a benefactor of this community? Does he say those simple words we all want to hear: 'I'm sorry'? You heard his outbursts! He does not!”
The judge was grimly quiet for a few moments.
”I have to tell you, I find this a reprehensible crime. And I'm going to override the jury's recommendation of a life sentence. Darryl Morgan, I sentence you to death. I order that you be taken by the proper authorities to the Florida State Prison and there be kept in close confinement until the date your execution is set. That on such day you be put to death by electrical currents pa.s.sed through your body in such amounts and frequency until you are rendered dead. And may G.o.d have mercy on your soul.”
I couldn't believe what I had heard. Connie Zide, her face gone white, looked at me. There was nothing I could say, nothing I could do.
Twelve years would pa.s.s before I would see her again.
I stared dully at Judge Bill Eglin, and then at the defendant, whose lips twisted in fury.
The judge tapped his pen. The two deputy sheriffs standing behind Darryl Morgan swiftly clicked handcuffs on his wrists. ”All rise!” the bailiff cried.
The judge in his black robes swept from the courtroom.
Chapter 9.
MY COLLEGE FRIEND Kenny Buckram was a short, thickchested man with the curly hair and friendly appearance of a teddy bear. In 1990 his third and most recent ex-wife had a b.u.mper sticker made, which she glued to the rear of his Lincoln Town Car. It said: HONK IF YOU'VE BEEN MARRIED TO KENNY BUCKRAM.
Having taken a sabbatical now from marriage, Kenny told me that he had fewer affairs; instead, two or three times a year he flew to Rio or Bangkok, where he would hire a hotel suite for a long weekend and install a pair or even a trio of young hookers. ”Simplifies my life,” he explained, ”and in the long run it saves me money. As well as vital bodily fluids.”
Vital bodily fluids. Straight out of Dr. Strangelove, our favorite film back in the days when we thought we could save the world. Or even change it.
At forty-seven, Kenny Buckram was now the elected public defender for the Fourth Circuit of Florida. After Ruby had told me that Darryl Morgan was still alive and on death row, I asked her to put in a call to Kenny at his Jacksonville office.
”You can't stay in a hotel,” Kenny said. ”That's crazy, Ted. I haven't seen you in years! I've got a house out by the beach, with plenty of room. I'm between wives.”
I flew to Jacksonville on Wednesday. At half past six that evening, carrying cold bottles of Pilsner Urquell, Kenny and I walked past the surf shop and Silver's Drugs and the Sun Dog, and onto Jacksonville Beach. Seagulls screeched in the cool evening air. I finally got around to telling Kenny what I had learned from Jerry Lee Elroy in Sarasota.
”But you were a prosecutor,” Kenny said. ”You're not telling me you didn't know there were people out there who'd sell their souls to get out of jail. Hey, put me behind bars, I might be one of them...
We pa.s.sed a sign: CITY OF ATLANTIC BEACH. Please no picnicking, no littering, no alcoholic beverages, no gla.s.s containers, no motorized vehicles, no surfboards without tether lines, no dogs unless leashed and having Atlantic Beach City tags. All animal droppings must be disposed of. Strictly enforced. Thank you.
”Lucky they still allow you to f.u.c.king breathe,” Kenny muttered, taking a pull from the bottle of beer.
”Tell me what you know about Floyd Nickerson.”
”I don't know anything. In Homicide they're wh.o.r.es, they'll sleep with anyone. You got some good ones, and some you have a hard time believing if they tell you, 'I had tuna on rye for lunch.' Nickerson's supposed to have got a confession out of Morgan? Okay, a.s.sume that's true. It's a big case for the detective who's on it. Years later they'll say, 'Floyd Nickerson? Oh, yeah! Dude who nailed down the Zide murder.' So he thinks: I'll hammer in an extra nail to make sure. No big deal to convince a sc.u.mbag like Elroy to lie. And it paid off, didn't it?”
”Why is it,” I asked gloomily, ”that I never smelled it?”
A blind young musician pa.s.sed by, strumming a guitar. He was followed by a tall, good-looking blond woman in a bikini, wheeling a bicycle. Kenny and I both turned for a moment to look.
”Because,” Kenny said, ”you had your head up your a.s.s in a plastic bag, trying to pretend you had a clean job. What I hear, Ted, a lot of things went on, you just said, 'No, that can't be, so I won't look.' And you marched merrily onward until it suited you to cop out for Sarasota.”
”You heard that? Are you bulls.h.i.+tting me?”
”Listen, it's nothing new. Ambition is the fuel of the justice system, denial is the grease. Why should you be different?”
”You make it so personal,” I said.
”So do you. You came up here looking for Nickerson's b.a.l.l.s. All he did was what half the guys in his shoes do all the time. And you should have known. Talk about snitches, listen to this. We investigated a complaint a few years ago-you remember Bongiorno, our local organized crime boss? This Homicide detective was accused of planting a story in order to get Bongiorno on a murder one conspiracy rap. Detective goes to a professional snitch and says, 'What we heard is, So-and-so provided the murder weapon, and they made the drop over there.' And the snitch goes, 'Yeah, that's exactly what this dude admitted to me!' ”
”What happened to that detective?”
”Bongiorno had political connections in Tallaha.s.see and he put a lot of heat out. The snitch changed his mind. They needed a fall guy -come to think of it, it was a fall gal-so they suspended the detective from JSO, and eventually she got married and quit.”
”Kenny, never mind that. I need to find out what happened. Who lied, and why. Do you know where Nickerson is?”
”Long gone, and the sheriff's office isn't that buddy-buddy with me these days. You'll have to go through Beldon. Are you still friends?”
”I send him a card for Christmas, he sends me one for Hanukkah. Sure we're friends. Why shouldn't we be?”
In the deepening twilight the tourists headed for their efficiency units. Somebody in the parking lot was yelling about sand in the new Hyundai and wet bathing suits on the upholstery. Kenny craned his neck in several directions, but the tall blonde in the bikini had vanished.
”With all this AIDS s.h.i.+t,” he said, ”I was thinking of giving up my trips to Rio and getting married again. That tall blonde would have been fine ... if she was rich. I love tall women. But I love rich women too. I know this terrific rich widow down in St. Augustine. But she's only five feet tall.”
”So marry her,” I said, ”and she can stand on her money.”
Kenny threw an arm around me affectionately. ”My practical friend. And how's your marriage?”
”Fine.”
”I'm your oldest pal, you're supposed to confide in me.”
”Do I sound like I'm lying?”
”I'm an experienced cross-examiner. You don't sound like a credible witness.”
”I have a lot on my mind. All right... it's something I just say, but actually it is fine. It's not all that exciting anymore, but it's something to depend on. Does that answer your question?”
”Yeah, but it doesn't make me envy you. So what is it you have on your mind?” ”This business about Darryl Morgan. For Christ's sake, that's why I'm here.”
”You're making too much of it. A snitch perjured himself. So what else is new?”
”But if Nickerson got Jerry Lee Elroy to lie, maybe Nickerson lied too. Did that ever occur to you? It does to me.”
”But how are you gonna find out? Hunt him down and ask him? And even if he said, 'Yeah, I made it up, so f.u.c.king what?'-what would you do?”