A fish fountain near the gate had some rainwater in it. Big Boy lapped up a little before we trekked over to the bench by Roger’s grave.
“Hi, Roger,” I said. Big Boy laid down near the stone marker. Clearly he still pined for his former master.
The doctors had allowed the dog to stay in the hospital room with Roger up until he passed. Big Boy attended the graveside service with me. His first week at the loft he had run away a half dozen times. I would find him either on the deck at Roger’s house or at St. John’s Cemetery.
“We miss you, buddy,” I said. “The wagons are circled around me, and all the guns are aimed in my direction. You always said I had a ‘justice gene’ that made me pick fights against impossible odds and that it would be my ruin one day. That day keeps getting closer.”
Big Boy raised his head. Some squirrels were playing on a gate about twenty yards away. He ran over to bother them, bored with my monologue.
I sat and tried to make sense of the thoughts running through my head. I still needed more information. The pieces didn’t quite fit together, but I was pretty sure they should.
As we walked back to the loft, my post on the suicide note went live. I resisted the urge to immediately check the readers’ responses. I powered on my computer only after I showered and fed Big Boy.
The blog already had thirty-five comments on the post about the suicide note—none flattering. It was worse on the Herald website where they had posted a brief blurb about the note. Most hoped Hines would sue me. Some asserted the note was a fake. A few claimed Kettler put me up to it to discredit Wittman. The internet trolls ripped to shreds anyone defending me.
Assistant State Attorney Clark Spencer called. “My boss wants to know who gave you the suicide note.”
“Someone fat,” I said.
“Holmes, this is serious. The cops didn’t find any note at the scene. Then you publish one a week after Bo Hines attacks you in the newspaper and after Sheriff Frost goes after your journalism ethics. You have to admit it looks bad.”
“I know, I know, but even if I knew who gave it to me, I couldn’t tell you without their permission. I will have Gravy drop it off with the handwriting analysis we had done on it. Just check it out, Spencer.”
Spencer said, “Get us the note immediately. We will do our own analysis, but I can tell you unless you can come up with more on how you got the note, you can expect a subpoena, maybe even a search warrant.”
“Do whatever you have to do.”
Gravy didn’t pick up his cell phone when I called. I tried his office and was told that he was in court, but he would return my call when he got out.
We held the Insider staff meeting. The excitement of last Thursday had evaporated. The talk they heard over the weekend hadn’t been positive.
“I’m dreading the phone today,” said Roxie. “Sheriff Frost has gotten people riled against us. The last phone call businesses want to receive is one from us asking for money.”
“This will die down,” I said. “There are some things in the works that will undermine Frost’s venom. Our readers trust us to find the truth.”
Roxie stared back but didn’t say a word. I hadn’t convinced her, but she was willing to wait a day or so.
I added, “It’s probably a good idea to take a break from sales calls the next few days. But I promise people’s attitudes towards us are going to change.”
Jeremy said, “Tell us about the suicide note. Why did you hide it from us?”
I told them how I had obtained the note. “Before I did anything with it or got you all excited about it, I wanted to verify the handwriting. I didn’t get verification until Sunday morning.”
Mal said, “What does ‘no more lies’ mean? How does it change anything?”
“That’s where good investigative journalism comes in. We have to find Pandora Childs. We need more information about the pasts of both Hines and Wittman.”
I looked directly at Doug. “You need to nail your Save Our Pensacola story to set up my follow-up that will run next week and tie it all together.”
He said, “I’ll have my final draft to Roxie by noon.”
Mal snickered and mumbled, “Sure you will. Last staff meeting you said it would be finished by 10:00 a.m. that day.”
“Doug, make it happen,” I said. “I need you to do some legwork for the follow-up story. Also, there may be a big police bust this week. You need to be ready to pounce on it.”
Jeremy quipped, “We aren’t the ones being busted, are we?”
I laughed and so did everyone else. Then we headed back to our desks to take on the world.
Gravy called. “What kind of shit storm have you started?” he asked. “The state attorney’s office has called three times demanding the suicide note and handwriting analysis. I assume you told them I had them.”
“Guilty,” I said. “Deliver the information to them, but drag your feet. Maybe have a carrier make it her last drop of the day.”
Gravy said, “Walker, I don’t need the state attorney on my ass. You already have Frost watching me closely. Don’t bring me into your shit.”
“You’re already in my shit,” I replied, keeping my voice calm. “I’m the client. Just do as I ask, please.”
“A pro bono client,” he said. “What will I say if Spencer calls again?”
“Tell him I have the documents and you’re waiting on them.”
Gravy said, “I need better clients.” Then he hung up.
My cell phone vibrated. A reporter from a Mobile television station wanted to know if I would be going to the press conference that afternoon and if I’d be
