Just Cause

Not this time, Cowart realized. He scribbled a note in his pad to remind himself later to draw the distinction.

He listened as Black efficiently led Ferguson through the now-familiar tale of the coerced confession. Ferguson told again of being hit, of being threatened with the gun. Then he described being placed in his cell on Death Row, and of the eventual arrival of Blair Sullivan in the cell next to him.

'And what did Mr. Sullivan tell you?'

'Objection. Hearsay.' The prosecutor's voice was firm and smug. 'He can only say what he said or what he did.'

'Sustained.'

'All right,' Black answered smoothly. 'Did you have a conversation with Mr. Sullivan?'

'Yes.'

'And what was the result of that conversation?'

I grew enraged and tried to attack him. We were moved to different sections of the prison.'

'And what action did you take because of that conversation?'

I wrote to Mr. Cowart of the Miami Journal'

'And what did you ultimately tell him?'

'I told him that Blair Sullivan killed Joanie Shriver.'

'Objection!'

'On what grounds?'

The judge held up his hand. 'I'll hear this. It's why we're here.' He nodded toward the defense attorney.

Black paused, slightly openmouthed for an instant, as if assessing the wind currents in the courtroom, almost as if he could sense or smell the way things were going for him.

I have no further questions at this time.'

The young prosecutor jumped to the podium, clearly enraged. 'What proof have you that this story took place?'

'None. I only know that Mr. Cowart talked to Mr. Sullivan and then went and discovered the knife.'

'Do you expect this court to believe that a man would confess murder to you in a prison cell?'

'It's happened many times before.'

'That's not responsive.'

'I don't expect anything.'

'When you confessed to the murder of Joanie Shriver, you were telling the truth then, right?'

'No.'

'But you were under oath, correct?'

'Yes.'

'And you're facing the death penalty for that crime, right?'

'Yes.'

'And you would lie to save your skin, wouldn't you?'

When this question quivered in the air, Cowart saw Ferguson glance quickly toward Black. He could just see the defense attorney's face crease into a slight, knowing smile, and see him nod his head imperceptibly toward the man on the stand.

They knew this was coming, he thought.

Ferguson took a deep breath on the stand.

'You would lie, to save your life, wouldn't you, Mr. Ferguson?' the prosecutor asked sharply, once again.

'Yes,' Ferguson replied slowly. 'I would.'

'Thank you,' Boylan said, picking up a sheaf of papers.

'But I'm not' Ferguson added just as the prosecutor started to turn toward his seat, forcing the man to arrest his motion awkwardly.

'You're not lying now?'

That's correct.'

'Even though your life depends upon it?'

'My life depends upon the truth, Mr. Boylan, Ferguson replied. The prosecutor started angrily, as if to launch himself at the prisoner, only to catch himself at the last moment. 'Sure it does,' he said sarcastically. 'No more questions.'

There was a momentary pause while Ferguson resumed his seat at the defense table.

'Anything else, Mr. Black?' the judge asked.

'Yes, sir. One last witness. We would call Mr. Norman Sims to the stand.'

Within a few moments, a smallish, sandy-haired man, wearing glasses and an ill-fitting brown suit, walked through the court and took the witness stand. Black almost jumped to the podium.

'Mr. Sims, will you identify yourself for the court, please?'

'My name is Norman Sims. I'm an assistant superintendent at the state prison at Starke.'

'And what are your duties there?'

The man hesitated. He had a slow, mildly accented voice. 'You want me to say everything I got to do?'

Black shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Sims. Let me put it to you this way: does your job include reviewing and censoring the mail that comes to and from Death Row inmates?'

'I don't like that word…'

'Censor?'

'Right. I inspect the mail, sir. Occasionally, we have reason to intercept something. Usually it's contraband. I don't stop nobody from writing whatever they want to.'

'But in the case of Mr. Blair Sullivan…'

'That's a special case, sir.'

'What is it he does?'

'He writes obscene letters to the families of his victims.'

'What do you do with these letters?'

'Well, in each case, sir, I have tried to contact the family members they are addressed to. Then I inform them of the letters and ask whether they want to see it or not. I try to let them know what's in it. Most don't want to see 'em.'

'Very good. Admirable, even. Does Mr. Sullivan know you intercept his mail?'

'I don't know. Probably. He seems to know just about every damn thing going on in the prison. Sorry, your honor.'

The judge nodded, and Black continued. 'Now, did you have occasion to intercept a letter within the past three weeks?'

'I did, sir.'

'To whom was that letter addressed?'

'To a Mr. and Mrs. George Shriver here in Pachoula.'

Black bounced across the court and shoved a sheet of paper toward the witness. Ts this the letter?'

The prison superintendent stared at it for a moment. 'Yes, sir. It has my initials at the top, and a stamp. I wrote a note on it, too, that reflects the conversation I had with the Shrivers. They didn't want to hear none of it, sir, after I told them, general-like, what the letter said.'

Black took the letter, handed it to the court clerk, who marked it as an exhibit, then handed it back to the witness. Black started to ask a question, then cut himself off. He turned from the judge and witness and walked over to the bar, to where the Shrivers were sitting. Cowart heard him whisper, 'Folks, I'm going to have him read the letter. It might be rough. I'm sorry. But if y'all want to leave, then now's the time to do it. I'll see you get your seats back when you want 'em.'