I had seen Roxie’s potential in sales and enticed her to join the paper after the beach’s summer season ended and her tips fell off. Roxie was ambitious, liked fine things, and loved the challenge of making the sale.
She kept her five-seven frame slim by doing Pilates four times a week. As her sales commissions at the Insider rose, she swapped her TJ Maxx wardrobe for Of Mercer, ordering their dresses, suits and blazers online. She kept her hair blond and her nails and toenails manicured and painted.
The only thing that took away from her polished, professional look was a starfish tattoo on her right ankle, which she refused to discuss no matter how many times Mal and I asked her about it. Brad didn’t know the story behind it either.
Roxie put her head in her hands. I placed my hand on her shoulder to comfort her.
“There will be a trial, justice will prevail, and this fickle town will thank us for exposing a criminal.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“The facts are on our side.”
“I hope you’re right.”
So do I, I thought.
When I got to my desk, I dealt with phone messages, and then I logged on to my computer and checked my email. Looking out the window, I saw it had gotten too hot for people to be moving. Only a few cars were driving on the streets. I had thirty minutes before I met with Sheriff Frost.
My mail was unremarkable—a few hate messages and a dozen or so press releases. Hate email usually started with “Holmes, you liberal puke,” and then told me how this person or that organization had bought me. They often challenged my manhood, intelligence, religious faith, or patriotism. I counted on four or five such messages after every issue. On slow days, I responded to them. Today was not a slow day.
I went upstairs, put on a fresh shirt, and headed out the office door with my notepad and cell phone. I told Summer to call me in thirty minutes. “If I don’t answer, send Ted to the Garden Street Deli.”
Summer nodded. I wasn’t afraid of Frost, but our relationship had never been good.
Over the past six years, Frost had invited me several times to tour his offices and the county jail. I had refused each time. The last thing I needed was to be “accidentally” locked in a room with a serial killer. About once a month I would get a call from a mutual acquaintance who offered to serve as an intermediary and help Frost and me “patch things up.”
The standard line was, “Please stop mocking the sheriff. He’s doing the best he can under the conditions.” I never quite knew what they meant by “under the conditions,” but somehow Frost always made himself out as the victim.
My standard response was: “I have no personal issues with the sheriff. I don’t like pregnant women being tasered in Walmart parking lots, but that’s just how I am.”
Summer handed me the check for the loan payment. “Please don’t forget to drop this off.”
She would make someone a good wife, if he liked Culture Club.
I began my four-block walk to the Garden Street Deli. This would be fun, I thought.
6
When I entered the Garden Street Deli, Sheriff Ron Frost was sitting at a table for four in the middle of the room, sipping black coffee and staring straight ahead. It was thirty minutes before closing, and the restaurant had no other customers.
Turned over chairs were set on top of all the other tables. A black teenager mopped the checkerboard floors. He wore black slacks and a Bob Marley T-shirt. I immediately smiled and thought of the Marley anthem, “I Shot the Sheriff.” The teen looked up and winked. He got the joke without me even saying a word.
Frost was oblivious to his surroundings. He was cadaverously thin and hunched over like a vulture as he sipped his coffee. He wore his signature brown suit with a cream-colored shirt and string tie. His Stetson matched the color of the shirt and had been place in one of the chairs at the table. He had a small badge on the lapel of his jacket.
Having served six years as the Escambia County sheriff, Frost had survived four grand jury investigations and several ethics complaints. His campaign war chest rivaled that of any US senator. No one messed with Sheriff Frost—except for me.
Frost nodded as I walked in and motioned for me to sit down. The waitress put down her newspaper and brought me a cup of coffee, then moved away from the table as quickly as possible. Firework shows were better seen from a safe distance.
The sheriff and I had initially gotten off to a bad start when I wrote an April Fools’ article about him using the department’s helicopter for pizza delivery. Little did I know that he had actually done so. Sheriff Frost didn’t like people laughing at him.
When he came to the Insider to complain, his gun got caught in the arm of the old lawn chair that I had put by my desk. Back then, I used lawn chairs for office furniture. Frost couldn’t get up without dragging the bright orange chair with him. No, Sheriff Frost didn’t like to be made to look ridiculous either.
Frost had tried several times to put me out of business. Peck and the goon squad picked up papers from the racks and threw them in the nearest dumpster. They visited advertisers and pressured my investors. In the end, nothing worked. We still published every Thursday. I still wrote. He won reelection in 2008. We had reached a stalemate. I couldn’t put Frost out of office, and he couldn’t stop the presses.
Our latest game involved public record requests. The Florida Public Records Law gave the public access to local and state government records, including
