The folksiness of his tone, so alien to the clipped words of his questions, surprised Cowart. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Shriver nod and lean their heads together.
He saw the large man rise then and take his wife by the hand. The courtroom was silent as they walked out. Their footsteps echoed slightly, and the doors creaked shut behind them. Black paused, watching them, then delayed another second or so as the doors swung closed. He nodded his head slightly.
'Mr. Sims, please read the letter.'
The witness coughed and turned toward the judge. 'It's a bit filthy, your honor. I don't know that…'
The judge interrupted. 'Read the letter.'
The witness bent his head slightly and peered down through his glasses. He read in a quick, hurried voice filled with embarrassment, stumbling on the obscenities.
'… Dear Mr. and Mrs. Shriver: I have been wrong not to write you before this, but I have been real busy getting ready to die. I just wanted you to know what a sweet little piece of fuck your little baby was. Dipping a prick in and out of her snatch was like picking cherries on a summer morning. It was just the tastiest bit of fresh new pussy imaginable. The only thing better than fucking her was killing her. Sticking a knife into her ripe skin was kinda like carving up a melon. That's what she was, all right. Like a bit of fruit. Too bad she's all rotten and used up now. She'd be an awful cold and dirty fuck now, right? All green and maggoty from being underground. Too bad. But she sure was tasty while she lasted…' He looked up at the defense attorney. 'It was signed: Your good friend, Blair Sullivan.'
Black looked up at the ceiling, letting the impact of the letter filter through the air. Then he asked, 'He's written to other victims' families?'
'Yes, sir. To just about all the folks of all the people he confessed killing.'
'Does he write regularly?'
'No, sir. Just when he seems to get the urge. Most of the letters are even worse'n this one. He gets even more specific, sometimes.'
I imagine.'
'Yes, sir.'
'No further questions.'
The prosecutor rose slowly. Boylan was shaking his head. 'Now, Mr. Sims, he doesn't say specifically in that letter that he killed Joanie Shriver?'
'No, sir. He says what I read. He says she was tasty, sir. But he doesn't say he killed her, no sir, but it sure seems like that's what he was saying.'
The prosecutor seemed deflated. He started to ask another question, then stopped. 'Nothing further,' he said.
Mr. Sims picked himself up from the witness stand and walked quickly out of the courtroom. There was a minute or two before the Shrivers returned. Cowart saw their eyes were red with tears.
'I'll hear arguments now,' Judge Trench said.
The two attorneys were blissfully brief, which surprised Cowart. They were predictable as well. He tried to take notes, but stared instead at the man and woman fighting tears in the front row. He saw they would not turn and look at Ferguson. Instead, their eyes were locked forward, up on the judge, their backs rigid, their shoulders set, leaning slightly toward him, as if they were fighting the strong winds of a gale.
When the lawyers finished, the judge spoke sharply. 'I'll want to see citations for each position. I'll rule after I review the law. Set this down for a week from now.'
Then he stood abruptly and disappeared through a door toward his chambers.
There was a moment of confusion as the crowd rose. Cowart saw Ferguson shake hands with the attorney and follow the guards through a door in the back of the courtroom leading to a holding cell. Cowart turned and saw the Shrivers surrounded by reporters, struggling to extricate themselves from the narrow aisle of the courtroom, and exit. In the same instant, he saw Roy Black motion to the prosecutor, gesturing at the trouble the couple were having. Mrs. Shriver was holding up her arm, as if she could fend off the questions raining down on her like so many droplets from the sky. He saw George Shriver drape an arm around his wife, his face reddening as he struggled to get past. Boylan reached them after a moment and managed to get them steered around, like a ship changing direction in the high seas, and he led them the other way, heading through the door to the judge's chambers. Cowart heard the photographer at his elbow say, 'I got a shot, don't worry.' Black caught his eye then and surreptitiously made a thumbs-up sign. But Cowart felt first an odd emptiness, followed by a nervousness that contradicted the excitement of the moment.
He heard voices around him: Black was being interviewed by one camera crew, the lawyer bathed in the glare of the minicam. He was saying, '… Of course we thought we made our point there. You can't help but see there's all sorts of questions still floating about this case. I don't know why the state won't understand that…'
At the same moment, a few feet away, Boylan was replying to another camera, glowing with the same intensity in the same light. 'It's our position that the right man is sitting on Death Row for a terrible crime. We intend to adhere to that position. Even if the judge were to grant Mr. Ferguson a new trial, we believe there's more than sufficient evidence to convict him once again.'
A reporter's voice called out, 'Even without a confession?'
'Absolutely,' the lawyer replied. Someone laughed, but as Boylan pivoted, glaring, they stopped.
'How come your boss didn't come down and argue this motion? How come they sent you? You weren't on the original prosecuting team. How come you?' 'It just fell to me,' he explained without explaining. Roy Black answered the same question ten feet away. 'Because elected officials don't like coming into courtrooms and getting their heads beat in. They could smell it was a loser right from the start. And, boys, you can quote me.' Suddenly a camera with its unyielding light swung at Cowart, and he heard a question thrust his way. 'Cowart? This was your story. What did you think of the hearing? How about that letter?'
He stumbled for something clever or glib to say, finally shaking his head. 'Come on, Matt,' someone shouted. 'Give us a break.' But he pushed past. 'Touchy,' someone said.
Cowart paced down the corridor and rode an escalator to the vestibule. He hurried through the doors to the courthouse and stopped on the steps. He could feel the heat surrounding him. There was a solid breeze and above him the wind tugged at a triptych of flags: county, state, and national. They made a snapping sound, cracking like gunshots with each renewed blow from the air. He saw Tanny Brown standing across the street staring at him. The detective simply frowned, then slid behind the wheel of a car. Cowart watched him pull slowly into traffic and disappear.
One week later, the judge issued a written statement ordering a new trial for Robert Earl Ferguson. There was nothing in it describing him as 'a wild animal.' Nor did it acknowledge the dozens of newspaper editorials that had suggested Ferguson be granted a new trial -including those papers circulating in Escambia County. The judge also ordered that the statement that Ferguson had made to detectives be suppressed. In an in-chambers motion, Roy Black requested Ferguson be released on bail. This was granted. A coalition of anti-death-penalty groups provided the money. Cowart learned later that it was fronted to them by a movie producer who'd purchased the dramatic rights to Robert Earl Ferguson's life story.