John Katzenbach - Just Cause

'Whores on the corner. A crack house half a block away. What else? Thieves. Street gangs. Addicts She looked hard at him. 'Killers. And you.'

That's right.'

'What are you, Mr. Ferguson?'

'I'm a student.'

'Any others down here?'

'None that I've met.'

'So why do you live here?'

'It suits me.'

'You fit in?'

I didn't say that.'

'Then why?'

'It's safe.' He laughed slightly. 'Safest place on earth.'

'That's not an answer.'

He shrugged. 'You live within yourself. Not in that world. Inside. That's the first lesson you learn on Death Row. First of many. You think you forget what you learn there just because you're out? Now, tell me what you want.'

Instead of answering, she continued to move through the small apartment. She looked in at a bedroom. There was a narrow single bed and a solitary scarred brown wooden chest of drawers. She could see some clothes hung in a meager closet recessed into a black wall. The kitchen had a small refrigerator, stove, and a sink. A stack of chipped, utilitarian plates and cups drained next to the sink.

Back in the living room, she noticed a small table in the corner with a portable typewriter sitting on it and papers strewn about. Next to the table was a bookcase made from cinder blocks and cheap unpainted pine boards. She approached the desk and inspected the books on the shelves, immediately recognizing several of the titles: a book on forensic medicine by a former New York City medical examiner, one on FBI identification techniques put out by the government, a third book on media and crime, written by a professor at Columbia University. She had read them in her own course work at the police academy. There were many others, all relating to crime and detection, all well worn, clearly purchased secondhand. She pulled one from a shelf and flipped it open. Certain passages were highlighted in yellow marker.

'These your markings?'

'No. Tell me what you want.'

She put the book down and let her eyes sweep over the papers on the desk. She noticed on one sheet a series of addresses, including Matthew Cowart's. There were several listings from Pachoula, and a lawyer in Tampa that she didn't recognize. She picked it up and gestured toward him.

'Who are these people?' she asked.

He seemed to hesitate, then replied, 'I owe letters. People who supported me in my fight to get out of prison.'

She put the paper down. Next to the desk was a stack of newspapers. She bent down and flipped through them. There were local sections and front pages. Some of the newspapers were from New Jersey, others from Florida. She saw issues of the Miami Journal, the Tampa Tribune, the St. Petersburg Times, and others. She took out an issue of the Newark Star-Ledger and saw a headline that read: FAMILY OFFERS REWARD IN MISSING DAUGHTER CASE.

'This sort of thing interest you?' she asked.

'Same as it does you,' Ferguson answered. 'Isn't that true, Detective? When you pick up a newspaper, what's the first story you read?'

She did not reply but glanced down at the newspapers again. She noticed there was a crime story on each page. Other headlines leapt out at her: POLICE PROBE EVIDENCE IN ASSAULT and NO LEAD IN ABDUCTION, POLICE SAY.

'Where'd you get these papers?'

He glared at her. 'I go back to Florida with some frequency. Give speeches at churches, to civic groups.' His eyes locked onto her own. 'Black churches, black civic groups. The sort of people who understand how an innocent man gets sent to Death Row. The sort of people who don't think it's so damn unusual for a black man to get harassed by the cops. Who wouldn't think it so damn strange that every cheap homicide cop in the state who can't get anywhere on some damn case would roust an innocent black man.'

He continued to stare at her, and she dropped the newspaper she was holding back onto the pile.

I study criminology. "Media and Crime." Wednesdays, five-thirty P.M. to seven-thirty P.M. It's an elective. Criminology 307. Professor Morin. That's why I collect newspapers.'

She let her eyes sweep over the desk again.

'I'm getting an A,' he added. He restored the mocking tone to his voice. 'Now, tell me what you want, he insisted.

'All right,' she said. The force of his gaze was making her uncomfortable. She stepped away from his desk and returned to face him directly.

'When were you last in the Florida Keys? Upper Keys. Islamorada. Marathon. Key Largo. When did you go down there to talk to some civic group?' She made no attempt to conceal her sarcasm.

'I've never been in the Keys,' he replied.

'No?'

'Never.'

'Of course, if I had someone telling me the contrary, that would say something, wouldn't it?' She lied easily, but the implicit threat seemed to wash off him.

'It would say someone was feeding you false information.'

'You know a street called Tarpon Drive?'

'No.'

'Your friend Cowart's been there.'

He didn't reply.

'You know what he found there?'

'No.'

'Two dead bodies.'

'Is that why you're here?'

'No,' she lied. 'I'm here because I don't understand something.'

A cold rigidity rode his voice. 'What don't you understand, Detective?'

'You, Blair Sullivan, and Matthew Cowart.'

There was a momentary silence in the room.

'I can't help you,' he said.

'No?' Ferguson had the ability to make someone uncomfortable simply by remaining still, she thought. 'All right. Tell me what you were doing in the days before your old buddy Blair Sullivan got juiced.'

For an instant, a look of surprise sliced across his face. Then Ferguson answered, I was here. Studying. Going to classes. My course list is on the wall there.'

'Right before Sullivan went to the chair. Did you take one of your little trips?'

'No.'

He pointed at the wall. She turned and saw a list taped to the faded paint. She went over and wrote down the times and places and professors' names. Professor Morin and 'Media and Crime' were on the list.

'Can you prove it?'

'Do I have to?'

'Maybe.'

'Then maybe I can.'

Shaeffer heard a siren sweep by in the distance, its sound penetrating into the small room.

'… And he was never my buddy,' Ferguson said. 'In fact, he hated me. I hated him.'

'Is that right?'

'Yes.'

'What do you know about the murders of his stepfather and mother?'

Ts that your case?'

'Answer the question.'

'Nothing.' He smiled at her, then added, 'No. I know what I read and saw on television. I know they were killed a few days before his execution and that he told Mr. Cowart that he managed to arrange the deaths. That was in the papers. Even made the New York Times, Detective. But that's all.' Ferguson seemed to relax. His voice abruptly took on the tone of someone who enjoyed verbal fencing.

'Tell me how he could arrange those killings,' she asked. 'You're the Death Row expert.'

'That's right, I am.' Ferguson paused, thinking. 'There are a couple of different ways…' He grinned at her unpleasantly. 'First thing I'd do is pull the visitor lists. They log every visitor onto the Row. Every lawyer, reporter, friend, and family member. I'd go back to the day Sullivan arrived on the Row and I'd check every single person who came to see him. There were quite a bunch, you know. Shrinks and producers and FBI specialists. And of course, eventually, Mr. Cowart…' Ferguson's voice had a slightly animated edge to it '… And then I'd talk to the guards. You know what it takes to be a guard on Death Row? You've got to have a bit of the killer in you, you know, because you're always aware that one day it could be you strapping some poor sucker into the chair. You've got to want to be that man.' He held up his hand. 'Oh, hell, they'll tell you that it's just a job and nothing personal and nothing different from any other part of the prison, but that ain't true. You got to volunteer for Q, R, and S wings. And you got to like what you're doing. And like what you might have to do.'