Authors: H. Terrell Griffin
“Sit down and have a beer with me,” I said.
“Well, I’ll sit for a minute, but I’ve still got to take care of the book work for last night and lunch.”
Molly asked Glenda to pour her a Coke, and asked, “So, Matt. What about Logan?”
“You heard right, Molly. A grand jury indicted him yesterday for first degree murder.”
“Logan didn’t kill her Matt. He doesn’t have it in him to hurt anybody.”
“I know, Molly. But he doesn’t have much of an alibi. He was drinking with an old Army buddy, but I don’t have a clue as to where to find the buddy.”
“Are you going to represent Logan?”
“For now. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to try this case. I’m too close to Logan. And to Connie for that matter.”
“You know, there was a guy in here one night at the bar asking about Logan. Said he and Logan had been in the Army together. Wanted to know if I knew Logan.”
“When was this?”
“About a month ago. Probably just before Connie’s murder.”
“Do you remember anything about the guy?”
“Not really. I only talked to him for a couple of minutes. He wanted to know if I knew where Logan lived. I lied and told him no, and he left.”
“Have you ever seen the guy again?” I asked.
“Not that I remember, Matt. Is it important?”
“Probably not, but if you see him again, ask him to call me.”
“Sure Matt. Gotta get back to the books. See you later.”
I finished my meal amid small talk with Glenda, and headed home.
Monday arrived, hot and humid. I did my four miles on the beach, and was glad to return to my air conditioned condo. There was no lounging on the balcony this time of the year. It was just too hot.
I made myself a bowl of cereal and a pot of coffee and settled down with the morning Sarasota paper. The headline shouted that a local man had been indicted for murder. The story was about Logan and Connie and had information that I didn’t think would have been given to the press in the normal course of things.
I picked up the phone and called Chief Lester. “Bill,” I said when he came on the line, “How did Logan end up on the front page?”
“I don’t know, Matt. But it didn’t come from here.”
“I’ll bet Banion knows somebody at the paper. What is his problem, Bill?”
“Banion is maybe the best detective I’ve ever seen. He hates lawyers because he’s seen too many bad guys get off because they had good legal counsel. His wife died two years ago, and I think the stress of the job and of losing her turned him into a real problem drinker. But I promise you, Matt, he’s a better detective drunk than most of them are sober.”
“Why would he leak something like this to the press? What does he gain by it?”
“He probably thinks a bad press will make it tougher for a jury to give Logan a break when he’s tried. Have you heard from him, Matt?”
“Banion?”
“You know who I mean, Matt.”
“Bill, you’re my friend, and I hope when this thing is over you’ll still be my friend. But I’m Logan’s lawyer, and I can’t discuss this with you.”
“I understand, Matt. No sweat. But you know it’s going to go a lot easier if he turns himself in. If he’s caught, it’s going to be bad.”
“Have they decided who the prosecutor is going to be yet?”
“Elizabeth Ferguson. Know her?”
“I’ve seen her name in the paper. She does only capital felonies, right?”
“Yeah. And she’s beautiful and a real ball buster. Every cop and lawyer in the twelfth circuit has hit on her. Nobody gets anywhere. They call her the ice queen. And her name is Elizabeth; never Beth or Liz or Betty. You’ll do well to remember that.”
“Thanks, Bill. I’ll be talking to you.”
I had met Logan’s brother Fred on one of his visits to our key. I called him in Boston. He did not know where Logan was but told me that Logan had called. He would be checking in regularly with Fred, but wanted to keep Fred ignorant of his whereabouts.
“Logan says you’re going to represent him,” said Fred.
“For now. Until we can get a real lawyer for him.”
“Logan doesn’t have any money. He’s afraid he’ll end up with a public defender.”
“Come on, Fred. Logan has been doing good. He’s probably got more money stashed away than most of us.”
“Not really. He lost a bunch in a bad investment that he doesn’t like to talk about, and he spent a lot sending our dead brother’s daughter through college. I think he’s about broke. I know he took out a large second mortgage on his condo last year.”
“What about your folks? They’ve got money.”
“No they don’t. My father was a commercial fisherman. Worked the boats out of Gloucester and barely made enough to keep us in food and clothes. Logan just made up all that malarkey about having wealthy parents.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Yeah.”
That afternoon I cranked up my computer and went onto the internet to find Elizabeth Ferguson. One of the first things a trial lawyer learns is to know the opposition. In the internet version of the national legal directory I found the bare bones information on the prosecutor. She was born in Statesboro, Georgia, graduated from Georgia Southern University with a bachelors degree and three years later from Mercer University School of Law in Macon, Georgia. She had been admitted to the Florida Bar ten years before, and she was thirty-five years old.
I searched the archives of the Sarasota newspaper and found several articles about Ms. Ferguson. She had tried a number of high profile death penalty cases in the last three years, and had lost none. Before that she would occasionally show up in the paper while prosecuting other felons. One article was a personality piece about her that was published soon after she won her first death penalty case.
I learned that she had been born into a large family and had had to work her way through college in her hometown. She excelled academically and was awarded a full scholarship to study law at Mercer. When she graduated she married a fellow student from Sarasota, and the couple set up housekeeping in a condo on Siesta Key. He went to work for a prestigious firm in Sarasota, and she followed her instincts and applied for a job at the State Attorney’s office. Elizabeth had graduated near the top of her class and edited the Law Review, a job held only by the most academically gifted students each year. With those credentials she had no trouble getting the job.
Over the years she had worked hard, tried a lot of cases and honed her courtroom skills. She hardly ever lost. After seven years of marriage she had divorced her husband and moved to a small house near the waterfront in Sarasota. She did not appear to have much of a social life.
While I was on the computer, I figured I might as well bone up on the Florida Rules of Criminal Procedure. I surfed into the Florida Supreme Court’s web site and read for an hour or so. Nothing much had changed.
About six that evening there was a knock on my door. It was the delivery guy from Oma’s Pizza on Anna Maria Island. I had gotten to know him casually over the years, given my penchant for ordering pizza rather than cooking.
“Got your pizza, Mr. Royal.”
“I didn’t order a pizza.”
“Mr. Hamilton ordered it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He called the order in, paid with his credit card and said to tell you to enjoy.”
“Did he order anchovies on it?”
“No, sir. Everything but anchovies.”
God, I hate anchovies. I took the pizza, tipped the boy, and dug in. I wasn’t sure what Logan was up to, but I enjoyed the pizza.
After my jog and a cup of coffee the next morning, I showered, shaved and put on the only suit I had left from a rather extensive wardrobe from my former life. It was navy blue with a subtle chalk pinstripe. I added a blue and yellow striped tie, the colors of the Seventh Cavalry, according to the salesman, and a light blue oxford button down shirt. All this finery sat atop a pair of highly shined wingtip loafers with tassels, wrapped around a six foot body, still lean and with most of its dark hair intact. I thought I looked pretty spiffy in the full length mirror, and God help me, I looked like a lawyer.
The Twelfth Judicial Circuit of Florida covers Sarasota, Manatee and Desoto counties. The State Attorney and Public Defender are housed in a nine story modern building adjacent to the old courthouse in Sarasota. From there they fan out over the three county area to do justice. It was to this building that I went on that bright hot late May morning.
I took the elevator to the seventh floor and announced to the receptionist that I was Matt Royal and that I had a 9:00 o’clock appointment with Ms. Ferguson. I was told to have a seat.
I had barely touched my rump to the battered sofa that took up one wall of the small reception room, when a woman entered, her hand out, saying, “Mr. Royal? I’m Elizabeth Ferguson. Come on back.”
She was dressed in a gray suit, a navy blouse open at the neck and dark shoes with medium heels. Her blonde hair was cut above her shoulders, and set off lovely face, punctuated by large sky-blue eyes. She was tanned, but not leathery as so many of the Florida sun worshipers become. She had a trim body, small waisted with breasts that could not quite hide behind the suit jacket. Her legs were long, and I guessed her to be about five seven.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asked.
“I would love one.”
“Lets stop by the kitchen and you can fix it like you want it.”
We turned into a small room with a sink, a refrigerator, a microwave and a commercial drip coffee pot. She got two Styrofoam cups from the overhead cabinet and poured them both full. “There’s cream and sugar on the counter,” she said.
“Thanks. Black will be fine.”
She reached into her coat side pocket, extracted two quarters and dropped them into a mason jar with a coin slot in the lid. “My treat,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“My office is this way.”
We went down a corridor with offices opening off either side. At the end we turned right into a secretarial area in which sat a black woman working on a computer.
“Mavis, this is Matt Royal,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Royal, my secretary, Mavis Jackson.”
“How do you do, Ms. Jackson.”
“I understand we’ll be working together soon, Mr. Royal.”
“How’s that, Ms. Jackson.”
“The Hamilton case.”
“I’m not sure for how long. Pretty soon, he’s going to need a real lawyer.”
“I hear you, Counselor. I hear you.” Mavis said, chuckling.
Elizabeth Ferguson’s office was small and crowded with a scarred old mahogany desk, two legal size file cabinets and two chairs for guests. Hanging on the wall behind her desk were her diplomas from Georgia Southern and Mercer. Her executive chair looked new and expensive. Her windows looked out over downtown Sarasota, the bay and out to the Gulf.
“It took me ten years of hard work to get that view,” she said. “I had to buy my own chair. The state is not a generous employer.”
The vestige of a Southern accent wrapped her words in a softness that attested to her heritage. The Southern background and education would explain her easy charm that at first seemed to be at odds with her reputation as a hard nosed prosecutor who gave no quarter in the courtroom.
“Why don’t you leave? Go into private practice,” I asked.
“I like to put the bad guys in jail. I think I’d get bored doing whatever civil lawyers do.”
“I see you went to Mercer. So did I.”
“You must have been before my time,” she said, with a wry smile.
“By several years.”
“Why is the beachbum lawyer coming out of retirement to take a loser of a case like this?”
“Beachbum?”
“We have mutual friends.”
“Oh?”
“The girls.”
“Ah.”
“They speak highly of you.”
“I live on the bay. I hardly ever go to the beach.”
“Well, you know what I mean.”
“For now,” I said.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m representing him for now. He has no money, and I’m afraid a public defender would not give his defense the time it deserves.”
“I thought he came from money.”
“Apparently not. I understand from his brother that he’s broke. He can’t get a lawyer without money, and he’s afraid that the public defender wouldn’t get too serious about defending him. He’s in kind of a bad situation.”
“Bad situation? Matt, may I call you Matt?”
“Certainly.”
“Matt, he’s been indicted for first degree murder. That’s more than a bad situation.”
“He didn’t do it, and I don’t think you’ll be able to prove a case.”
“He’s not helping himself by remaining a fugitive. Are you going to bring him in?” The mood had shifted in a hurry. We were down to business.
“I don’t have that kind of control.”
“Have you actually been retained to represent Logan?”
“Yes.”
“If he’s broke, how has he paid you?”
“He bought me a pizza.”
“A pizza? For a capital murder case? That’s not much.”
“It was a supreme. Had everything on it.”
“How can we get this thing moving, Matt? I want him in custody.”
“Let me see your evidence.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“You’ll have to give it to me sooner or later.”
“I don’t have to do anything until he’s arraigned, and we can’t arraign him until we arrest him.”
“Look, Elizabeth. You’ve had more than a month to investigate this thing. You’re not likely to get any more evidence than you have now. Why not give me what you’ve got, and let’s see if I can talk you into dropping the case.”
She looked at me with incredulity. She started to say something, thought better of it, and closed her mouth. Then, “No can do, Matt. Bring him in, and I’ll show you my cards.”
The Sarasota Memorial Hospital takes up a lot of space on the Tamiami Trail south of town. It has grown over the years and has developed a reputation as a first class institution. Tucked away on the back side of the campus is a small two story office building that seems out of place among the gleaming white buildings of the hospital. The building houses some of the junior executives of the hospital and Bert Hawkins, the Chief Medical Examiner for the Twelfth Judicial Circuit.
I had met Dr. Hawkins on several occasions. He was a golfing buddy of Tom Bishop, the former Longboat Key police chief. and had once joined us on a fishing trip on a large boat owned by one of the winter visitors who had more money that God. I hoped that he would remember me.
I went into the office and told the receptionist that I didn’t have an appointment, but that I had been in the neighborhood and thought I would take the chance that Dr. Hawkins was free for lunch. She took my name, asked me to wait a minute and disappeared behind a closed door. Within a couple of minutes Bert Hawkins came striding through the same door.
“Matt, good to see you. I was asking Tom Bishop about you just the other day.” He was a large man, about my height but built like a linebacker. He probably weighed 250 pounds, but there was no fat. He had a full head of iron gray hair that he wore over his ears. You got the impression that he was not being fashionable, but just didn’t get to a barber shop regularly.
“Hi, Bert. Glad to see you. I just dropped in to see if you had time for lunch.”
“Sure do. I’m buried under paper work back there and was looking for an excuse for a break.”
“How’s Marina Jack suit you?”
“Great. I like their grouper fritters.”
We took my Explorer and headed back north on Tamiami Trail, making small talk about fishing and the doctor’s golf game. We pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant overlooking the municipal marina and the bay. The sun was high and hot, and by the time we parked and walked to the restaurant we were both sweating.
We were taken to a small table overlooking the bay. There was a little wind and the bay rippled slightly as the breeze crossed its face. A small schooner, sails furled, motored under the Ringling Causeway bridge. A couple of jet skies cut across its bow, and I could see the captain give the finger to the drivers.
We both ordered iced tea and grouper fritters. When the tea came, Bert looked at me and smiled. “Okay, what do you want to know?”
“About what?” I asked, all genuine surprise.
“Deductive reasoning, Matt,” he laughed. “You’re Logan’s buddy, you’re a lawyer, and I’m the state’s witness to the rape of a dead girl.”
“Well, I’ve been meaning to call you for lunch anyway. I figured I might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
“Are you representing Logan?”
“Yes.” There. It was done. I was now back in harness. I would have to see this thing through. Logan was my client, like it or not.
“Have you talked to the SA’s office?”
“Yes. I met with Elizabeth Ferguson this morning. She won’t give me anything.”
“I can’t tell you a lot, Matt, and it’ll probably piss Elizabeth off if I tell you anything. But you’ll have a right to know what I know sooner or later, so why not sooner.”
“I won’t be telling anyone we talked Bert, if that bothers you.”
“Hell, no. I’m going to tell you everything I know, and then I’m going to call Elizabeth and tell her what I told you. You lawyers play too many games for me. Let’s throw up the evidence and let the chips fall where they may, is what I say in mixed metaphors.”
“Was strangulation the cause of death?”
“Yes, without question.”
“Was she raped?”
“I don’t know. There was bruising around the opening of the vagina, but there was no tearing of the tissue inside. Usually in rapes we see both. The woman is scared out of her mind and is certainly not secreting the fluids that lubricate the vagina for intercourse. When she is penetrated there is tearing of the fragile tissue just inside the opening. I didn’t find that in this case, but I did find semen in the vagina, and DNA tells us that it belonged to Logan.”
“What led you to conclude that she had been raped?”
“Nothing. I didn’t conclude that. I gave my report to Banion, and he took it from there.”
“Do you think the bruising is enough evidence to make a rape charge stick?”
“If I were asked to assume that a woman of Connie Sanborne’s age had said she had been raped, and the examination findings were what I found here, I would have to say that in all likelihood a rape did occur. But here, we have a dead woman. She can’t tell us what happened. I would testify to the facts as I found them without reaching any conclusions.”
“Would rough sex cause the kind of bruising you saw?”
“I guess it could, but it would have to be pretty rough.”
“Did you find anything else?”
“Nothing of any real significance. She had had a lot of broken bones at some time in her life, but that was years ago.”
“How could you tell?”
“When I opened her up I noticed that several of her ribs on either side had been broken and healed back together. There was also a thin scar behind her right ear, as if a plastic surgeon had done a face lift. Only, when a face lift is done, the scars are on both sides. I decided to x-ray the face and found that her right cheek bone had been shattered. It looked as if a pretty good plastic man went in and put her back together. I also found a bruise on her brain, indicating that she had had a bad concussion at some point in her life. All this was years old though, and really of no consequence in terms of her murder. It just piqued my scientific curiosity.”
“She was married to a guy who used to beat the hell out of her on a regular basis.”
“That would explain the fractures.”
“Were you able to determine a time of death?”
“Not exactly. But based on the temperature of the body when my tech got to the scene and the amount of rigor, I’d estimate that she was killed between eleven p.m. and one a.m. We wouldn’t be off more than an hour either way.”
“Anything else?”
“No, that was about it. I can get you a copy of the report when we get back to the office.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
We ate our meal and chatted about mutual friends and the plight of the Buccaneers, deciding that they would probably end the season at the bottom of the heap again. I drove the ME back to his office, got a copy of his report, and went home to Longboat.