Dare started to sob. I held her for a few minutes until the wave of tears passed. Then I walked into the kitchen and poured us both cups of coffee. Good old Dare, she always had a pot of coffee brewed. She followed me, and we sat around the large island in the middle of the kitchen.
“I still can’t believe it,” she said. “What lies is she talking about? What has Bo done? Sue worshiped him. Is it about the Arts Council money?”
“I don’t know,” I said between sips. “It could be the missing funds. It could be something far worse. The state attorney’s office is debating whether to prosecute Bo. His lawyers are trying to get an immunity deal in exchange for him testifying against the council’s executive director. Bo could walk away from this with a slap on the wrist. Nothing to die for.”
Dare started to tear up. “You are an asshole. You’re talking about my best friend’s death.”
“I’m sorry. Really I am, but help me figure this out. Did you hear that Bo is now supporting Jace Wittman’s petition drive? He gave it ten grand tonight.”
“What?” She looked up and set down her cup. “That makes no sense. Sue told me that Bo’s company could get some subcontractor work at the park.”
Dare stood and looked at a framed photograph on the counter. It was her, Rory, Bo, and Sue on Hines’ yacht, all wearing huge smiles.
She turned to me. “Those men should be thinking about Julie. That poor girl has lost her mother and her aunt. Sue told me her niece had become sullen and withdrawn lately.”
Dare refilled her cup. “She quit the swim team. Her grades fell. Sue was struggling with how to connect with the girl.”
I said, “Would Jace or Bo listen to you?”
She shook her head. “No, Bo is too heartbroken, and Jace is too full of himself as always. Maybe I will reach out to Julie.”
We sat and drank coffee, each caught up in our own thoughts. Big Boy continued to snore in the next room. Before I did anything with the suicide note, I needed to have an expert verify the handwriting.
My rush to publish a controversial story had gotten me in trouble before. Frost had tried to shut down my paper over an article regarding him and one of his hunting buddies. In sworn testimony to a Florida Ethics Commission investigator, Frost had downplayed any personal connection with a vendor to whom he had given a five-million-dollar communications contract. The sheriff said he had no close relationship with the company’s owner and spent little time with him outside of the office. The investigator specifically asked about the rumor of hunting trips, which Frost denied.
When the daily newspaper printed a photo of the two standing over a moose they had killed in Wyoming in 2008, another communications vendor filed a complaint with the state attorney’s office, calling for an investigation of Frost for official misconduct, perjury, and false official statements. Clearly, the two were friends and hunting buddies.
We published an article on the investigation. Frost claimed the audiotape of the interview had been doctored and demanded a retraction. I refused. Two weeks later, the court reporter sent out a corrected transcript. After repeatedly listening to an audiotape of Frost’s statement, she determined that the sheriff hadn’t said he had never hunted with the new vendor. She corrected the transcript to say: “I hadn’t hunted with him this year.”
The complaint was withdrawn, the case closed, and no further action was taken against Frost. State Attorney Newton said that errors by court reporters were rare but not unusual. We had to admit that we had never listened to the tape. The newspaper was forced to print a retraction, even though we had only reported on what the complaint had said. Frost publicly threatened to sue us but never did.
Clark Spencer told me, “I’ve used court reporters for years, and this doesn’t happen often. There was no indication that this was anything other than an honest mistake by the court reporter.”
Peck delivered copies of the retraction to our major advertisers, and I spent weeks doing damage control to rebuild our image. Much later, I learned the court reporter’s son had been hired by the sheriff’s office.
“I need to be sure the note was written by Sue,” I said, refilling my coffee cup. “Would you mind if I take your note and have an expert compare it with the one I was given tonight?”
Dare slid both notes across the table to me. She picked up her mug again and drank, her face thoughtful. “Does today’s donation to Save Our Pensacola have anything to do with the note?” she asked. “Is Jace involved in this, too?”
“I don’t know.”
Slamming down her empty mug, Dare said, “Then what the hell do you know, Walker?”
“If the note is Sue’s, I know I have to publish it,” I said.
Then I put down my coffee cup and walked out the back door, heading for home. Big Boy would spend the night with Dare. No reason for both of us to lose sleep.
13
Walking back to the loft, I texted Gravy, my attorney: “Meet me for breakfast at CJ’s Kitchen 7 a.m.”
William “Gravy” Graves Jr. handled most of the newspaper’s legal issues. When local officials didn’t want to comply with a public records request or had any legal issue, I called Gravy.
Gravy was in his early forties, a committed bachelor, devoted ladies’ man, and one helluva trial attorney. Witnesses changed their underwear after he deposed them.
He got his nickname for his daily breakfast regimen of biscuits and gravy at CJ’s. No matter how late he was out the previous night, Gravy could be found every morning in the corner booth of the little diner on the western edge of downtown eating two big, open-faced biscuits smothered in creamy sausage gravy.
Gravy held the record for the shortest term on the county commission, twenty-three days. Fifteen years ago, Commissioner Joe Willis died suddenly
