Cross Justice (19 page)

“You identify her?” Drummond asked.

“Francie Letourneau. She’s from Belle Glade. Haitian immigrant. You know her?”

Drummond shook his head. “I don’t know the Glade like I used to.”

“Nice lady, for the most part. Worked over in Palm, cleaning castles.”

Johnson said, “You were professionally acquainted with the deceased?”

“We got Francie on drunk-and-disorderly a few times, but really, she was just blowing off steam.”

“You got an address for Ms. Francie here?” Drummond asked.

“I can get it,” Holland said.

“Please,” the sergeant said. “We’ll go down and take a look.”

“You might want your boots,” the deputy said as she climbed into the cruiser.

Drummond went to the rear of the unmarked and got out a pair of knee-high green rubber boots. The sergeant glanced at Johnson’s shiny black shoes, said, “You’re gonna need a pair of these for working the west side of the county.”

“Where do you get them?” Johnson asked.

“Best price is that Cabela’s catalog,” the sergeant said as he put them on. “But you can pick up something local at the Bass Pro Shops in Dania Beach.”

Drummond led the way around the cruiser, behind the coroner’s van, and over the bank of an irrigation ditch. Holland had taped off a muddy path that led down to the water.

“That’s the blackest mud I’ve ever seen,” Johnson said.

“Some of the richest soil in the world,” Drummond told him, skirting the tape through thigh-high swamp grass.

Johnson followed. Three steps in, he sank in the mud and lost his shoe.

“Cabela’s,” Drummond called over his shoulder.

The young detective cursed, dug out his shoe, and wiped it on the grass before joining the sergeant down by the ditch. Francie Letourneau’s body lay faceup in the muck, head at the water’s edge, feet oriented uphill. Her eyes were open and bulging. Her face looked particularly swollen. And her feet were bare and muddy.

“Cause of death? Time of death?” Drummond called to the assistant medical examiner, a young guy named Kraft who also wore green rubber boots and stood on a folded blue plastic tarp next to the body.

Kraft pushed back sunglasses, said, “She was strangled thirty-six to forty hours ago. Ligature is deep, and looks like there’s fibers in the wound.”

“She’s been here in this heat the whole time?” Johnson said.

“I don’t think so,” Kraft replied. “She was killed somewhere else and dropped here, probably last night. A fisherman found her at dawn.”

The sergeant nodded. “She got a phone on her?”

“No,” the medical examiner said.

Drummond looked around before crouching to study the body from six feet back. Then he walked up the bank along the tape and looked at the path and the marks in the mud and the footprints, most of which were filled with murky water.

The sergeant gestured to shallow grooves in the mud.

“Her heels made those marks,” he said. “He drags her downhill, holding her under the armpits. Right there, where the grooves get smaller, her shoes come off. Killer dumps the body and goes back for the shoes. So why doesn’t he push the body into the water?”

Johnson said, “Maybe he meant to but something spooked him. A car out on the main road. But why take her shoes? A fetish or something?”

“He didn’t take them,” Drummond said, gesturing across the ditch. “He tossed them. There’s one of them hanging on a branch over there.”

Johnson frowned, saw the shoe, and said, “How’d you see that?”

The sergeant said, “I looked, Detective. They taught you how to do that down in Dade, right?”

AN HOUR LATER,
Drummond and Johnson were back in Belle Glade and parking in front of the Big O bar, which, according to Deputy Holland, was where Francie Letourneau liked to party.

The Big O was a dive fallen on hard times. The cement floor was cracked and irregular. The blue paint was peeling and chipped. Most of the chairs, barstools, and tables had been carved on. The only part of the place that looked remotely cared for was behind the bar. Hundreds of photographs of happy anglers holding up largemouth bass looked down on the four patrons dressed for fishing and the bartender.

“Cecil,” the sergeant said.

The bartender, an older man with a big potbelly, started laughing. “Drummond. You want a drink?”

“I think you enjoy being my temptation.”

“Hell, yeah,” Cecil said, coming over to shake the sergeant’s hand. “Everyone’s got a job, right?”

“Amen, brother,” Drummond said. “Cecil Jones, meet my partner, Detective Richard Johnson. Miami boy.”

The bartender shook Johnson’s hand, said, “You coming up in the world.”

The young detective smiled, said, “I like to think so.”

Jones looked to Drummond and said, “You gonna set him straight?”

“I’m trying,” the sergeant said.

“I heard they found a body out on the island,” the bartender said.

“Why I’m here,” Drummond said. “Francie Letourneau.”

Jones’s face fell. “Shit. That right? Shit.”

“She’s a regular, then?”

“Not a full-time subscriber, but often enough.”

“She been in recently?”

“Sunday, around noon,” he said, glancing up at the clock. “Had herself an eye-opener, Bloody Mary, double vodka, and then another for courage.”

“Courage?”

“She was heading over to Palm,” Jones said. “Said she had an interview for a new job that was gonna pay her four times what her old one did. I asked her what she needed a job for after hitting the Lotto twice in a month.”

“That right?” Drummond asked.

“Five grand on a scratcher, seven on her weekly play,” Jones said.

“Twelve K’s a lot of money,” Johnson said.

“It is,” the bartender said. “But she said she still needed the work. She’d lost two or three of her regular clients recently. No fault of her own. One got electrocuted in her bathtub.”

Drummond said, “Let me guess: another was murdered.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Jones said. “Wife of that plastic surgeon you see advertising on television all the time. You know, the Boob King.”

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of Francie Letourneau’s small apartment with renewed purpose. The now-dead maid had worked for two now-dead wealthy women from Ocean Boulevard. Ruth Abrams’s death was clearly a murder by strangulation. Now Drummond and Johnson were questioning whether Lisa Martin really had accidentally dropped the Bose radio in her bathtub. Had she been killed too?

They got the landlord to open the maid’s apartment, stepped inside. Johnson gagged at the smell coming from a makeshift altar in the corner.

A rooster’s severed head had been placed upright in the dead center of a tin pie plate. Two inches of chicken blood congealed and rotted around the head. The bird’s feet were there too, set with their talons facing a doll made of bound reeds, stuffed burlap, and cornhusks.

A long thorn of some sort jutted out of the doll’s groin. There were two more thorns in the heart. A fourth one penetrated the top of the head.

“Santeria.” Drummond grunted. “She must not have left it behind in Port-au-Prince.”

“Who’s the doll supposed to be?” Johnson said.

“Let’s figure it out,” the sergeant said.

They searched for almost an hour.

In a manila envelope on a small desk, Johnson found receipts from the prior month for a new couch, television, and Cuisinart food processor. In the top drawer, he found the receipt for the Apple MacBook Pro that was still in the box
on the floor, next to the filing cabinet. Everything had been bought with cash.

The lower filing cabinet drawer was partially open. One file had been shoved in hastily and it jutted above the rest. Johnson pulled it and saw that the day before Letourneau died, she’d bought a brand-new phone and upgraded her plan through Verizon.

Johnson called the number, heard it go straight to voice mail. He made a note to pull her phone records.

Drummond returned after searching the bedroom.

“Anything?” he asked.

“She spent a lot the past month,” Johnson said. “All cash. I figure close to four thousand. I looked at her bank accounts. There’s no eight grand, and no record of a safe-deposit box.”

“Well, she wasn’t keeping it under her mattress,” Drummond said. “I’ve been over every inch of this place, both bedrooms, kitchen, all of it, and—”

Johnson looked at the sergeant. He had stopped talking and was fixated on the altar and the doll.

“Maybe Ms. Francie was craftier than we thought,” Drummond said, walking over. “Maybe she left that chicken blood there knowing it would reek and the voodoo stuff knowing it would freak out anyone who might break into her house looking for cash.”

He lifted the maroon cloth, revealing the legs of a folding card table, the carpet, and nothing more.

“Good thought, though,” Johnson said.

Drummond got down on his knees, reached under the card table, and said, “You give up too easy, Miami.”

The sergeant worked his fingers into the carpet and ripped up a one-by-two-foot section that had been held in place with
Velcro strips. He got out a jackknife and pried up an edge of the floor.

Drummond reached in, came up with a black leather purse, and eased out from under the voodoo altar. He stood up, brought the purse over to the desk, and opened it.

The sergeant whistled, shook his head, said, “Francie, Francie, what did you get yourself into?”

Johnson peered into the purse. “If those are real, Sarge, there’s a lot more than eight grand in there.”

SHARON LAWRENCE HELD
up well under Naomi’s initial cross-examination. She stuck to her story about Stefan drugging and raping her and being so afraid of him she didn’t report it until after he was under arrest for Rashawn Turnbull’s murder.

“You have a lot of girlfriends, Sharon?” Naomi asked.

The girl nodded. “Enough.”

“Best friends forever?”

“A couple. Sure.”

“You tell any of them you were going to Coach Tate’s house that afternoon you say he raped you?”

“No. It was supposed to be a secret.”

“Anyone see you around his house?”

“I don’t think so,” Lawrence said. “He had me sneak in through the basement from the alley bulkhead door.”

Sitting behind Naomi with Bree holding my hand, I tried to stay focused on the testimony and listen for discrepancies, but
my ribs hurt and my mind kept drifting to the evening before. Jannie and my grandmother had already gone to bed by the time Pinkie dropped me off.

Bree and I are tight. She knew in an instant that something was wrong with me beyond a couple of cracked ribs. I’d repeated Pinkie’s story, and she was as shocked as I was.

“Are you going to tell Nana Mama?” Bree asked.

That question had kept me up most of the night. It was still bothering me in court that next morning. So was the fact that Patty Converse had not shown up, and I think several of the jury members had noticed.

Then Naomi said, “Ms. Lawrence, did you see Rashawn Turnbull at Coach Tate’s house that afternoon?”

I forgot about the night before and Stefan’s fiancée, and focused. It was the first I’d heard about the victim being at the alleged rape scene. I glanced over at Cece, who was sitting beside a pretty blond woman in her late thirties. Two rows behind Cece sat her parents and a young woman I didn’t recognize. But they all seemed as interested as I was.

Lawrence said, “No, I did not see Rashawn there. Why?”

“Because Coach Tate says the only person at his home after school that day was Rashawn Turnbull.”

The high school senior looked doubtful. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“What time did you leave?”

Lawrence shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. Four? Maybe five? I was still kind of groggy.”

“Went out through the basement to the alley?”

“That’s right.”

“Strange,” Naomi said, looking at a couple of pieces of paper. “I have a sworn statement here from Sydney Fox that says
she remembers Rashawn Turnbull knocking on Coach Tate’s door around four that afternoon. She remembers Rashawn going inside.”

Delilah Strong jumped up. “Objection, Your Honor. Sydney Fox is dead and cannot be questioned. I’d like to move that her statement be inadmissible.”

“This goes to the witness’s credibility, Judge,” Naomi said.

Varney thought about that for a moment and then said, “Overruled.”

“Your Honor!” Strong cried.

“I said overruled. Ms. Cross, can you rephrase as a question?”

Naomi nodded, said, “Are you sure you didn’t see Rashawn?”

Lawrence frowned, looked around, seemed to seek someone out in the courtroom, and said, “I don’t remember. I was groggy. Maybe he was there.”

“Or maybe you weren’t there at all,” Naomi said.

“That’s not true! Why would I lie about something like this?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” Naomi said. “Your parents here today, Sharon?”

Lawrence looked into the courtroom again, said, “My mom. My father’s not around anymore.”

The pretty blond woman sitting with Cece Turnbull craned her head to see better.

“And who is your mom?”

“Ann Lawrence.”

“What was her maiden name?”

“Objection,” Strong said. “Where’s the relevance?”

Naomi said, “I’m about to show relevance, Your Honor.”

Varney nodded, but I noticed that he had gone pale since he entered the courtroom.

“Your mother’s maiden name?”

“King,” she said. “Ann King.”

“She have a sister?”

Lawrence looked uncomfortable, said, “I don’t see …”

“Yes or no.”

“Yes, Louise was her sister. She’s dead.”

“And who was Louise married to at the time of her death?”

The girl’s jaw seemed to tense a bit before she said, “Marvin Bell.”

That got my attention, and I sat up straighter. So did Bree.

“So Marvin Bell is your uncle?” Naomi asked.

“Yes.”

“Has your uncle provided you and your mother with financial support since your father left?” Naomi asked.