Just Cause

'Okay.'

'And congratulations again.'

'Thanks.'

He hung up the telephone and realized that he was sometimes a fool, incapable of saying what he wanted, articulating what he needed. He pounded the desk in frustration. Then he went to the window of his cubicle and looked out over the city. Afternoon traffic was flowing toward the expressway, like so many body nerves pulsating with the desire to head home to family. He felt his solitude surround him. The city seemed baked beneath the hot blue sky, the light-colored buildings reflected the sun's strength. He watched a tangle of cars in an intersection maneuvering like so many aggressive bugs on the earth. It is dangerous, he thought.

It is not safe.

Two motorists had shot it out two days earlier following a fender bender, blazing away in the midst of rush-hour traffic, each armed with nearly identical, expensive nine-millimeter semiautomatics. Neither man had been hurt, but a teenager driving past had taken a ricochet in the lung and remained in critical condition at a local hospital. This was a routine Miami story, a by-product of the heat and conflicting cultures and a populace that seemed to consider handguns an integral part of their culture. He remembered writing almost the same story a half-dozen years earlier. Remembered a dozen more times the story had been written, so frequently that what had been once a front-page story was now six paragraphs on an inside page.

He thought of his daughter and wondered, Why does she need to know? Why does she need to know anything about evil and the awful desires of some men?

He did not know the answer to that question.

There were thick black television cables snaking out the entranceway to the courtroom. Several cameramen were setting up video tape recorders in the hallway, taking their feeds from the single camera allowed in the courtroom. A mix of print and television reporters milled about in the corridor; the television personnel all slightly sharper dressed, better coiffed, and seemingly cleaner than their newspaper competitors, who affected a slightly disheveled appearance to set themselves apart self-righteously.

'Out in force,' said the photographer who walked beside him, fiddling with the lens on his Leica. 'No one wants to miss this dance.'

It was some ten weeks since the stories had appeared. Filings and maneuverings had postponed the hearing twice. Outside the Escambia County courthouse the thick Florida sun was energetically baking the earth. It was cool inside the modern building. Voices carried and echoed off high ceilings so that people spoke mainly in whispers, even when they didn't have to. There was a small sign in gold paint next to the wide brown courtroom doors: CIRCUIT COURT JUDGE HARLEY TRENCH.

'That the guy that called him a wild animal?' the photographer asked.

'You got it.'

'I don't imagine he's going to be too pleased to see all this.' The photographer gestured with his camera toward the crowd of reporters and camera technicians.

'No, wrong. It's an election year. He's gonna love the publicity.'

'But only if he does the right thing.'

'The popular thing.'

'I doubt they're gonna be the same.'

Cowart nodded. I don't think so, either. But you can't tell. I bet he's back in chambers right now calling every local politician between here and the Alabama border, trying to figure out what to do.'

The photographer laughed. 'And they're probably calling every district worker, trying to figure out what to tell him. What d'you think, Matty? You think he'll cut him loose or not?'

'No idea.'

He looked down the corridor and saw a group of jeans-clad young people surrounding an older, short black man, who was wearing a suit. 'Get a shot of them,' he told the photographer. 'They're from the anti-death-penalty group here to make some noise.'

'Where's the Man?'

'Probably somewhere. They're not so organized anymore. They're probably going to be late. Or maybe they went to the wrong place.'

'Got the wrong day, maybe. They were probably here yesterday, got bored and confused, and left.'

The two men laughed.

'It's going to be a zoo,' Cowart said.

The photographer paused in his step. 'Yeah. And there's the tigers, waiting for your tail.'

He gestured and Cowart saw Tanny Brown and Bruce Wilcox slumped up against a wall, trying to stay out of the way of the cameramen.

He hesitated, then said, 'Well, might as well see what's in the tiger's den.' And he walked briskly toward the two men.

Bruce Wilcox pivoted, presenting Cowart with the back of his sportcoat. But Tanny Brown moved away from the wall and nodded in meager greeting. 'Well, Mr. Cowart. You sure have caused some commotion.'

'It happens, Lieutenant.'

'You pleased?'

'I'm just doing my job. Just like you. Just like Wilcox.'

Brown looked past Cowart at the photographer. 'Hey, you! Next time try to get my right profile. Makes me look ten years younger and makes my kids a lot happier to see it. They think I'm getting too old for all this. Like, who needs the aggravation, hey?'

Brown smiled, turned slightly to demonstrate for the photographer, and put his finger on his cheek, pointing.

'See?' he said. 'Much better than that old scowling sneak shot you took.'

'Sorry about that.'

The policeman shrugged. 'Goes with the territory, I guess.'

'How come you wouldn't return my phone calls?' Cowart asked.

'We didn't have nothing more to talk about.'

Cowart shook his head. 'What about Blair Sullivan?'

'He didn't do it' Brown replied.

'How can you be so sure?'

I can't be. Not yet. But it doesn't feel right. That's all.'

'You're wrong,' Cowart said quietly. 'Motive. Opportunity. A well-known predilection. You know the man. You can't see him doing that crime? What about the knife in the culvert?'

The lieutenant shrugged again. 'I can see him doing it. Sure. But that doesn't mean jack shit.'

'Instincts again, Lieutenant?'

Tanny Brown laughed before continuing. 'I am not going to talk to you anymore about the substantive issues of the case,' he said, slipping into the practiced tones of a man who'd testified hundreds of times before hundreds of judges. 'We'll see what goes on in there.' He pointed at the courtroom. 'Afterwards, maybe we'll talk.'

Detective Wilcox stepped around then, staring at Tanny Brown. 'Then you'll talk! Then! I can't believe you're willing to give this bastard the time of day after he hung us out to dry. Made us look like…'