John Katzenbach - Just Cause

Cowart watched as Ferguson coiled himself on the seat, rage spreading like gasoline fire across his face. He saw the man's hand edge toward the hunting knife and felt himself freeze with instant fear.

I'm dead, he thought.

He wanted to search around, try to find something to protect himself with, but he could not remove his eyes from Ferguson. For an instant, he remembered: I needed a word. A word that would summon Tanny Brown. But he had none.

Ferguson half rose from his seat, then stopped. Cowart felt his hand close on a sheaf of papers. Then Ferguson sat back down slowly.

'No,' he said. 'I don't think you'll write that story.'

'Why?'

Ferguson looked down on the table in front of him, where Cowart had placed his tape recorder. For a moment, Ferguson seemed to watch as the tape absorbed silence. Then he said, in a firm, distinct voice, leaning toward the machine, 'Because not a word of it would be true.' After another second or two passed, he reached over and punched off the Record button.

'You know why you won't write that story? I'll tell you why. There are a lot of good reasons, but first off, because you know what you don't have? You don't have any facts. You don't have any evidence. All you have is a crazy combination of events and lies, and I know some editor'll look at all that and think it has no place in the paper. And you know what else you don't have, Mr. Cowart? All newspaper stories are all made up of "according to's" and "police said's" and "spokesmen confirmed's" and all sorts of other folks contributing documents and reports, and that's where you get the bones for your story. The rest of the flesh is just the detail that you've seen and the detail that you've heard, and you haven't seen or heard anything important enough to build a story.'

'And that's one reason why you don't scare me, Mr. Cowart. Tell me,' he said. 'Do I scare you?'

Cowart nodded.

'Well, that's good. Do you suppose I scare your friend Tanny Brown, as well?'

'Yes and no.'

'Now that's a strange answer for a man who aspires toward precision. What do you mean?'

'I think he fears what you're doing. But I don't think he's scared of you.'

Ferguson shook his head. 'Tell me something, will you? Why is it that people always fear something happening to them? Personal fear. Like you right now. Scared that maybe I'll pick up this hunting knife and come over there and cut your heart out. Isn't that right? Just walk right over there and slice you from balls to throat and take out what I want. What do you think? You think I'm such an expert killer that I could do that? Then maybe stick your bloody remains someplace special, make it look like you stumbled around down here, got caught up with some of the locals, you know. Some of the folks down here aren't too partial to white people wandering around. Think I could make it seem like some gang maybe had a little fun carving up a white reporter who got lost looking for an address? Think I could pull that off, Mr. Cowart?'

'No.'

'You don't think so9 Why not, if I'm such an expert?'

'I don't…'

'Why not!' Ferguson demanded sharply. His hand closed on the knife handle.

'Blood,' Cowart answered rapidly. 'The bloodstains. You couldn't hope to get them sufficiently cleaned up.'

'Good. Keep going.'

'Maybe somebody saw me come in. A witness.'

'That's good, Mr. Cowart. There's an old landlady here who keeps a watch on such things. She might have seen you come in. Maybe one of the derelicts outside would remember seeing you. That's possible as well, but they'd make a poor witness. Keep going.'

'Maybe I told somebody where I was going.'

'No,' Ferguson grinned. 'That wouldn't amount to anything. No proof you ever got here.'

'Prints. I've left prints in here.'

'Didn't take the cup of coffee you were offered. That might have left prints and saliva. What else you touched? The desk. The papers there. I could clean those.'

'You couldn't be sure.'

Ferguson smiled again. 'That's right.'

'Other things. Hair. Skin. I might fight back. Cut you. That'd put some of your blood on me. They'd find it.'

'Maybe. At least now you're thinking, Mr. Cowart.'

Ferguson leaned, back. He gestured at the hunting knife. 'Too many variables. You're right about that. Too many angles to cover. Any student of criminology would know that.' Ferguson continued to stare at him. 'But I still don't think you'll write that story, Mr. Cowart.'

'I'll write the story,' Cowart insisted softly.

'You know something? You know there are other ways of cutting out somebody's heart? Don't always have to use a big hunting knife…'

Ferguson reached over and grasped the blade. He held it up, twisting it in his hand so that it caught a small bit of gray light that forced its way through the window.

'… No, sir. Not at all. I mean, you'd think this was the easiest way to cut out your heart, Mr. Cowart, but it really isn't.'

Ferguson continued to hold the knife up in front of him. 'Who lives at 1215 Wildflower Drive, Mr. Cowart?'

Cowart felt a surge of dizzying heat.

'In that nice Tampa suburb. Rides that yellow school bus every day. Plays down in the park a couple of blocks distant. Likes to help her mother in with the groceries and watch her new baby brother. Of course, you wouldn't care much about that little baby now, would you? And I don't know how much you'd care about the mother, either. Divorce sometimes makes people just fill up with hate and so I can't really tell your feelings about her one way or the other. But that little girl? Now, that's a whole different matter.'

'How do you know about…'

'They were in the newspaper. After you won that prize.' Ferguson smiled at him. 'And I like to do a bit of research every now and then. Finding out about them wasn't too hard.'

Cowart's fear was complete. Ferguson continued to eye the reporter. 'No, Mr. Cowart. I don't think you're going to write that story. I don't think you've got the facts. I don't think you've got the evidence. Isn't that right, Mr. Cowart?'

'I'll kill you,' Cowart croaked.

'Kill me? Whatever for?'

'You go near

'And what?'

'I'm saying I'll kill you.'

'That'd do you a lot of good, wouldn't it, Mr. Cowart? After the fact? Ain't nothing matter much after something's done, does it? You see, you'd still have that memory, wouldn't you? It'd be there first thing in the morning, last thing at night. It'd be in every dream you had while you slept. Every thought you had while awake. It'd never leave you alone, would it, Mr. Cowart?'

'I'll kill you,' he repeated.

Ferguson shook his head. 'I don't know. I don't know if you know enough about death and dying to do something like that. But I'll say this for you now, Mr. Cowart.'

'What?'

'Now you're beginning to know a bit of what it's like living on Death Row.'

Ferguson rose, leaned over and opened the cassette door on the recorder. He removed the cassette and slipped it in his pocket. Then he picked up the tape recorder from the table. With a single, abrupt motion, he threw it at the reporter, who caught it before it smashed to the floor.

'This interview,' Ferguson said coldly. 'It never happened.'

He pointed toward the door. 'Those words? They never got spoke.' Ferguson eyed the reporter, whispering, 'What story you got to write, Mr. Cowart?'

Cowart shook his head.

'What story, Mr. Cowart?'

'No story,' he replied, his voice cracked and brittle.

'I didn't think so,' Ferguson replied.

Cowart, head reeling, stumbled into the hallway. He was only vaguely aware of the door closing behind him, of the sound of the locks being thrown. Stale, damp air trapped him in the dark space, and he clawed at his collar, trying to loosen it so he could breathe. He fought his way down the stairs, tore at the front door, slamming it open and battling his way to the street. The rain had started up; droplets scarred his coat and face. He did not look back up toward the apartment, but instead started to run, as if the wind in his face could eradicate the fear and nausea he felt within. He saw Tanny Brown exit from the driver's side door of their rental car, staring at him expectantly. Breathing hard, Cowart waved at him, trying to get him to return to the vehicle. Then he seized the car door handle and jerked it, leaping into the car, slamming himself into the warm, moist interior.