She told me about her freelance design work. Pulling her tablet from her bag, Bree showed me some of the posters and brochures she had designed. She was very talented, and I told her so.
The beers piled up. The trivia nuts staked out their territories in the bar. The decision time approached. Would we continue drinking elsewhere or end the night here?
“Where did you park?” I asked.
“I’m behind Jackson Tower.”
We walked together down Palafox, delaying the decision a couple of blocks. Bree held my hand. I squeezed, she squeezed back. I debated asking her to grab one more drink at Intermission when I heard glass break, tires squeal, and Big Boy barking. I ran toward the office, worried someone had harmed the dog.
A brick had shattered an office window. He had to have a pretty strong arm to reach the second story. Big Boy barked and peered out the broken window. A crowd from Blazzues gathered in the street pointing at the window.
Bree came up behind me. She ran a little slower in her heels.
“Angry reader?” she asked.
“Must have missed my fan club meeting.”
Bree waited with me for the police. She took Big Boy for a walk while I dealt with the officers. Then she later helped me clean up and place a sheet over the window.
“Well, thank you for a wonderful evening,” she said as the clock at the courthouse struck eleven o’clock. “I’m opening the café in the morning, so I better get to bed.”
I said, “I really enjoyed the conversation.”
“Me, too,” she said and kissed me deeply before she left.
28
The next day’s headline of the Pensacola Herald read, “Sheriff Calls Out Tabloid.” While I was dining with Bree, Sheriff Frost had attended a Save Our Pensacola rally. While he didn’t come out and fully endorse the petition drive, the sheriff did target me.
“Walker Holmes, the Insider, and his blog are cancers in this community, dragging people through the mud for the publisher’s twisted pleasure,” said Frost. “He claims that he cares about this community while he destroys families like Mr. Hines’ and my brother’s.”
According to the article, the sheriff asked Bo Hines to stand with him. He continued, “Mr. Hines has shared with me today that Holmes had told him that the Insider’s reports on his alleged theft of Arts Council funds never would have been published if Hines had agreed to buy ads in the paper.”
Bullshit, I thought.
Frost said, “That might not fit the legal definition of extortion, but it shows what kind of snake we have in this community. No more. No more fake news. No more deaths. No more Insider.”
The Herald reported that the crowd picked up the chant and repeated the “no more” mantra with Frost, Hines, and Wittman leading them. Wittman reportedly urged people to boycott businesses that advertise in our paper.
“The publisher of the Insider is an outsider,” said Wittman. “He has no roots here. It’s time he left. I’ll pay for the moving van.”
The person who threw the brick through my window last night was probably someone who attended that rally, I thought as I poured myself another cup of coffee. Big Boy had slept in.
But the Herald wasn’t finished with me. The daily newspaper’s editorial blasted me for being unprofessional and biased in my coverage of Sheriff Ron Frost, Sue Hines’ death, the upcoming trial of her husband, and the Save Our Pensacola petition drive. They said I had falsely claimed Sue Hines’ note was a suicide note. They blamed my irresponsible reporting for the death of Lieutenant Amos Frost and alleged our newspaper had nearly blown Operation Cherry Bomb by staking out Central Booking and reporting on the sweep before the press conference.
“Clearly Walker Holmes has personal grudges against Bowman Hines, Jace Wittman, and Sheriff Ron Frost, and he hasn’t hesitated to use his tabloid and blog to torment and punish his foes.”
Someone began banging on the door at the foot of the stairs. It was Tiny.
“Mr. Holmes, I heard you had some trouble last night,” he said, walking past me and up the stairs. He petted Big Boy, who had finally climbed out of bed to see what was happening. “Let me clean up for you.”
“Thanks, but I took care of it,” I said following him up the stairs.
He laughed. “Your cleaning and my cleaning are different things. Let the professional do the job. Where’s your broom?”
Tiny spent the next twenty minutes carefully removing every last pieces of glass. He swept the floor, humming to himself the entire time. Big Boy and I stayed out of his way and sat on the couch.
“There,” he said. “Now you can walk with bare feet and not worry about anything.”
I fished for a twenty in my pocket. “Tiny, thank you . . .”
He said, “Put your money away. I’ll take the dog for a walk while you write.”
Big Boy heard the word “walk” and ran to get his leash. The pair left. I could hear Tiny whistling as they traveled down Palafox.
The morning heat and humidity seeped through the open window into the room. When placed in a fight or flight situation, I’d always fought. I would fight this, but I needed to change my strategy. Waiting for the trial to redeem me wasn’t working.
I was tired of the beatings, threats, and broken windows. A man like me, destined to lose everything—and on the verge of doing so before we published the next issue—could be a dangerous man. I needed to stop being reactive and become more proactive. If this was the end of Walker Holmes, how many bad guys could I take down with me?
We needed the Hines trial to happen. Locating Pandora Childs and maybe finding others who might talk would ensure the state attorney followed through on the prosecution. Sitting on the windowsill from which
