This was the worst night in a long time. There was no way to stop my whirling thoughts about Mari. Again and again I went through my ritual punishment of reliving how she died because of me. I watched myself covering the voters’ rights rally in Holly Springs, losing track of the time, and failing to pick her up from the crisis center—and making the horrifying discovery that she never made it back to her dorm.
I thought about standing behind her family in the cemetery in Eunice as her casket was placed in her grave, her parents sobbing. I didn’t have the courage to admit to them that Mari’s death was my fault. No amount of rationalization would ever let me escape the guilt. If only I had not been so focused on writing the next big story and arrived at the crisis center when she finished her shift, Mari might still be alive. We would be married with three kids. But I was a self-absorbed coward who never owned up to her family about my role in Mari’s death.
I finally drifted off into a troubled sleep and woke up forty minutes before my alarm clock was set to go off. My cell phone was vibrating and Harden was on the other end.
He said, “Officer down at Walnut Hill Holiness Church. This one will be bad. It’s Sheriff Frost’s brother, Amos.”
When I arrived at the church, the rising sun reflected off the stained glass windows. Green and white Tahoes circled the site. Yellow tape shut off the parking lot. Sheriff Frost, Peck, and State Attorney Hiram Newton huddled next to the side door of the little white church.
I parked my car next to the railroad tracks and walked over to the crowd standing by the crime scene tape. Tyndall stood by a group of deputies away from Frost and Newton. He looked my way and gave a slight nod.
The deputies on guard didn’t know anything. When the TV crew arrived, Newton walked over to the edge of the parking lot and addressed them. The state attorney wore a freshly pressed black suit and a maroon tie. He spoke with a deep voice that commanded respect. It wasn’t difficult imagining that same voice putting the fear of God in the suspects he questioned.
“At approximately 4:20 a.m. a driver on Highway 99 noticed the blue lights flashing on what turned out to be an unmarked sheriff’s office cruiser parked in a cemetery behind this church. The victim is Lieutenant Amos Frost, brother of Sheriff Ron Frost, which is why the sheriff isn’t addressing you this morning.”
He added, “No foul play is expected. We will have more after the medical examiner’s report comes in. Our condolences go out to Sheriff Frost and his brother’s family. That’s all for now.”
Thirty yards behind Newton, Sheriff Frost and Peck stood staring at me. They weren’t thinking happy thoughts.
I talked to a few bystanders, but they hadn’t seen or heard anything. They had rushed to the church when patrol cars with sirens blasting passed their homes. I walked back to my car, thinking about how I would write this up.
As I crossed the tracks to my car, someone shouted, “Halt, asshole. Put your hands on your head.”
I turned around, and two deputies had their Tasers drawn and were standing in position ready to fire them.
“What?”
“Put your hands on your head. Down on your knees.”
The deputy shouted his orders again. Others were getting in their cars a few yards away closer to the church, oblivious to my predicament. Frost and Peck did notice and stood by Peck’s Tahoe nodding with approval.
I put my hands on my head and dropped to my knees in the mud. “What’s the problem, Officer?”
A third deputy came up behind me and cuffed my right arm, and pulled it behind me. Pressed his knee into my back and pushed me flat on the ground. He pulled my left arm behind my back and cuffed it tightly, too. My ribs begged for relief. I grunted but held back a scream.
I started to protest. “What the—”
The deputy, who smelled of Axe body spray, leaned into me, putting his full weight on my back, which amped up my agony. “It’s illegal to trespass on railroad property, Mr. Holmes. We’re taking you in.”
I tried to turn my head and face him. “This is ridicu—”
“Shut up, cocksucker,” he said pushing me further into the mud. The pain shot from my ribs out to all parts of my body. I lifted my head and stretched my neck to avoid swallowing mud.
I heard a familiar voice. “That’s enough.”
The deputy eased the pressure, but remained standing over me. I wiped my face on my sleeve and tried to catch my breath without looking pathetic.
Alphonse Tyndall flashed his attorney general identification. “This man is here because I asked him to come.”
“We’re taking him to the station,” said the deputy. “You can talk with our bosses about it there.”
I had the feeling any ride to county jail wouldn’t be swift or safe.
“Officer, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and the FBI are standing behind the church,” said Tyndall as he pulled out his cell phone. “Do I need to call them over here?”
Peck yelled, “Muncie, Gordon, Smitty! Uncuff the man. This isn’t the time or place.”
They removed the cuffs. I had trouble getting up. Razor helped me stand.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You didn’t land on the ground that hard.”
I said, “I got in a fight last night. Busted some ribs. Let’s act like we’re talking for a few minutes while I catch my breath. I don’t want Frost to see I’m in pain.”
“What was the fight about?” Razor asked.
“A Pensacola ass-kicking, and my ass took the brunt of it,” I said as I tried to stand erect without wincing.
“I can’t stay here with you
