Turning to all the picketers, I added, “If you need a bathroom, our office is on the second floor. Don’t pet the dog. He has fleas.”
Big Boy quit smiling. He was no longer amused. We went upstairs. I texted the staff to stay away and work from home. None of them needed to become targets, too. Then I called the window company to replace the glass.
After my shower, I listened to my voice messages and read my emails. Based on them, I was either a fool or a jackass. Jackass appeared to be in the lead. The unidentified number on my cell phone was one of Bo Hines’ attorneys demanding I remove the blog post. I didn’t return any of the calls and didn’t delete any posts.
Instead, I turned on the coffee pot, got into comfortable khaki shorts, and gingerly sat in my worn leather chair with my laptop. My ribs weren’t doing too well. I debated whether to take a pain pill and decided against it. I took a couple of aspirin.
I wrote up my interview with Stan Daniels and posted a teaser to the blog:
COLD CASE: CELESTE DANIELS
On May 14, 1973, Celeste Daniels, age fifteen, was seen leaving Catholic High School. Her family and friends never saw her again. The Insider reported on her disappearance in a 2008 cover story on cold cases. We believe that someone in Pensacola knows what happened to this high school freshman, and we are asking for them to come forward with any information they might have. Please email me at [email protected].
After two more cups of coffee, my head calmed down. My ribs were tender when I turned my torso, but otherwise I wasn’t hurting too badly.
Outside, reporters interviewed the picketers. A TV camera crew taped them. Every negative story about me gave an opening to their sales reps to steal one of our advertisers. Dollars, not journalism, drove their Walker Holmes stories.
I took a photo of the protestors being interviewed and posted it on the blog to let readers know we were being picketed. Might as well get ahead of the other news outlets.
The office phone rang. Of course, it was Gravy.
“You won’t answer your damn cell so I figured at least someone would pick up this line,” he said. “You’ve really stepped into it this time. The attorney general wants you. The state attorney himself called. I think I’ve got both of them to hold off until tomorrow. Attorney general at 9:00 a.m. State attorney right after lunch.”
“I’m not going.”
“Walker, they will issue a warrant and have you arrested.”
“Screw ’em. I have a plan,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Buy me some time.”
“I have nothing to offer them. Your best bet is to make yourself hard to find. I’ll play dumb and try to get them to delay issuing any warrants.” He added, “When you miss the appointments, they probably won’t get one of the judges to issue a warrant until Monday, but a judge might make an exception for you.”
Looking out my window, I saw the reporters and TV camera crews drive away. The picketers packed up, too. It must be time for Matlock or Murder She Wrote back at the retirement home. Crew-cut drove away in his lime green 1998 Lincoln Continental. It had a bumper sticker: “Fight Crime: Shoot Back!”
“Okay, that should work,” I told Gravy. “They won’t know I’m not cooperating until it’s too late to stop me.”
“Stop you from what?” Gravy sounded like he honestly wanted to know.
“It’s best you not know.”
My blog posts attracted dozens of comments. Not all of them attacked me. Hines was taking a few licks, too. The item about the “secret” mentioned in Sue’s note drew several negative comments against Hines. Readers posted rumors of affairs, shady business dealings, and the Arts Council theft. Ever so slowly, Pensacola was beginning to call him out on the blog, something Hines and his attorneys wouldn’t like.
The photo of the picket line drew more teasing of Save Our Pensacola than support, though a few readers agreed with Frost’s comments published in the Herald.
In contrast to those comments, classmates of Celeste Daniels relished the opportunity to write about her. People still remembered her wit and laugh. No new revelations popped up, but readers loved adding comments to that post.
I added my own comment: “The yearbooks from Catholic and Washington show Celeste Daniels went to the junior-senior proms at both schools. Does anybody remember those dances? Please email me, [email protected].”
Thirty minutes later, my next scheduled blog post went live:
FRIEND CONFIRMS HANDWRITING
Dare Evans, a close friend of Sue Hines, confirmed the handwriting of the apparent suicide note matched the handwriting on letters she had received from the late Mrs. Hines, as does the stationery. State attorney expected to issue their report on Friday.
I knew Dare would be pissed that I’d dragged her into this, but she didn’t hold grudges against me, at least not for long.
Summer came into the office. “Boss, I went by the post office and picked up the mail. We still need every deposit we can get.”
Good old Summer. She wore an A-ha T-shirt with “Take On Me” across her chest.
“Thanks, Summer, but I told you to stay home.”
“Yeah, I know, but someone must oversee the window being replaced. You aren’t going to do it.”
Okay, she had me.
“Summer, go home as soon as the window’s replaced,” I said and went upstairs to work. The heat from outside made my work area unbearable. Big Boy stayed with Summer, protecting her from any more flying bricks.
I found Jacob Solomon’s phone number in an online directory. I called, and he agreed to see me. He invited me to have lunch at his house the next day. He sounded excited to have company.
I tried to put together an outline of next week’s story. The article needed to explain the suicide note. Dammit, it was a suicide note. It must push the state attorney to prosecute Hines and derail the Hines-Wittman petition drive.
The problem was I still had
