Chapter Nineteen
EVEN UNDER STUDENT Government’s loose definition of competence, there is a limit. Every once in a while, someone’s inept handling of a controversy could generate its own controversy, worthy of front-page treatment in the campus newspapers.
Gary Smith, a member of the Greek establishment, was not a stranger to the task of leading the Student Senate down a path it did not want to go. His views on the budget and election law were either ahead of his time, and too academically smart for the politically pragmatic bunch on the third floor of the student union. Even so, every now and then he would lead a segment of the Senate down a path that few before him would have ever dared, even among the so-called “independents.”
One night, after repeated incidents of apparent incompetence from the supervisor of elections, he caused a firestorm by calling for the Supervisor’s impeachment. The “I-word” was almost unheard of in SG, but the well-documented failings by this particular official had reached critical mass, and a majority of senators were widely predicted willing to vote “aye” on his removal.
The startling turn in the political landscape had brought back the adrenaline in a tired Ben Burns. “Tonight reminds me of why I got into campus politics,” he exclaimed to a local reporter as he sought to regroup with like-minded senators in a room adjacent to the Senate chambers.
Eventually, Ben would forge a compromise resolution that admonished the Supervisor’s poor judgment and required paper ballots only for that election. It was a rare defeat for the establishment.
One individual that attended the Student Senate meeting remarked on the disorder by comparing the establishment’s inability to “control” their members with the now-characteristic lack of unity present in the independent camp. Except the independents were prone to bitterer, more personal parting of ways…
MIKE WAS SURPRISED by his own ability to stay calm once news got to him that the local police were able to apprehend the one individual who had eluded them all. And like the ominous message said, the identity of the antagonist was certainly something that had, in retrospect, appeared to be in front of him all along. That is why he desperately wanted to confront his aggressor but relented to having a lawyer do it for him.
The Gainesville Police Department’s holding cells were less than perfectly maintained. A gun-metal gray paint job on the walls was clearly chipped and peeling, which was made even less appealing with the dirty, grainy texture added to them over the years. Even the toilet bowls, most metallic, were rusting from lack of proper attention.
Robert F. Graham was followed by a guard as he walked down to his meeting room at the jail. The cell they had the suspect in was at the end of the hall, last one on the left. A newly installed security camera kept close watch on what Time Magazine called in its most recent edition “The Mystery Gator of the Swamp”.
Sixteen years were clearly not kind to this suspect’s soul or physical presence. He was no less skinny – or any more muscular – than he was in college, even with a gut born of good eating, not alcohol. Yet, his complexion had turned ghost-white. Splotches of blackness amounted to bags under his eyes. And wrinkles had begun forming where years of evident anger had built up in his face.
“You thought you could get away with it, eh?” Graham asked, while not necessarily expecting an answer from the individual.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. All I did back there was to defend myself and my garden from hostile trespassers. It was an accident – nothing more, nothing less. And I certainly don’t have to defend my actions to you or any other dried-up has-been,” he said as he tried turning around to avoid the lawyer.
“You don’t have any room to put up this charade with me. We’ve got a full confession from a Miss Blake Watson, who is convinced you are the one. The one that hired her. The one that stole the rifle. The one that got her to stalk Mr. Adams everywhere he went. The one that had Ms. Jones terrorized anytime she got close to figuring you out.”
The suspect was silent. With his back turned, his facial expression was not seen either by the visitor or the security cameras. Nor was it clear from his body language if there were any changes to his facial expression.
“Clearly, your job afforded you access to the kind of equipment needed to carry out this little operation of yours. But why? Why did you turn against your friends, everything you worked for here in Gainesville, and your life since then? That is the one piece of the puzzle I have yet to figure out.”
The suspect refused to turn around anymore to face the onslaught of questioning. Robert wrapped up his confrontation with one last spoken thought, “Well, at least you have learned to control your emotions better than you did in college.”
Robert turned to leave, but noticed out of the corner of his eye that the suspect had lifted his hand to wipe what had to be tears that had come streaming down his face.
MIKE WAS PRIVATELY glad to be making his way back out of that hole in the ground that functioned as a courthouse. And that opinion did not change when the quick flash of digital photography alerted him to the presence of a gaggle of reporters – his very own paparazzi.
The reporters immediately pelted him with new questions, but Mike stopped long enough to throw up an arm and say, “I’m not taking any questions now. You will have to wait for this afternoon’s press conference.”
“But…” a reporter insisted.
“Can you at least comment…” another simultaneously tried asking.
“NO. Like I said, join me at 3pm. You will get your answers then, and only then,” Mike said as he pushed through the crowd to get to his vehicle. His vehicle, parked along the curb of the parking lot, had Bennita in the driver’s seat, waiting to make the getaway on his signal. He nodded, and they took off, away from the galloping reporters.
“WHAT DID HE say?” Bennita asked once they were clear of the parking lot and onto a somewhat quiet road.
Over the hum of the engine, Mike shook his head and said, “Nothing. The district attorney said he insisted the incident at that greenhouse was simply self-defense.”
“Like that’s believable.”
“Right. Well, at least we have that confession from Miss Watson. That basically makes this an open and shut case.”
“We can only hope so,” she said as she made the vehicle take a sharp turn to the left.
DEBORAH HENKLEY AND Adam Ruppesberger were there. Detective Richard Marx, dressed in a black suit, was also there. But Mike was the center of attention.
After Deborah did her publicist duties by thanking the reporters and other audience members for attending the conference, which was being held in the University Plaza, she stepped back and allowed Mike to take over her place behind the podium and in front of all the cameras.
“Thank you all for coming.” A few digital photos were taken.
“I have a number of announcements to make, and then the group of us will field some of your questions. Hopefully we can all be done here quickly enough to salvage the rest of this autumn afternoon.”
Mike paused, and took a sip from the glass of the ice water that sat in front of him. He continued with: “First, Paramount has given us the green light to resume filming of A True Gator Party.”
This piece of news confirmed the press’s suspicions. Nonetheless, he stated for the public record what everyone at the press conference now knew.
“We firmly believe that we have squelched the tragic controversy that has gripped this town, not to mention my closest family and friends. As Detective Marx can verify, the Gainesville Police Department now has in custody two individuals believed to be responsible for these heinous acts of terror. As we speak, members of the FBI and GPD are working to schedule a speedy trial, which will put this torrid affair behind us all.”
After a deep breath, he calmly said, “I am grateful for all the help I had in the investigation, and I look forward to bringing these individuals to justice. And in the interest of time, I will just open the floor for any q
uestions you no doubt have over these late-breaking developments.”
Instantly a dozen hands shot up, each seeking to get their question answered first. Mike called on Timothy Cunningham, from the Gainesville Sun. Timothy asked, “Gainesville has been rocked with news yesterday of an arson that burned down a house off of Archer Road while at least one FBI agent was inside. Do you have any reason to believe that the arson was connected with your case, Mr. Adams?”
“Actually, FBI agents do handle more than one case at any given mo-”
“But, Mr. Adams, the FBI agent in question is the same individual solely assigned to protect you while the investigation is on-going.”
“Timothy, I see no need to add to any such speculation.”
The next reporter was from The Tallahassee Democrat, an important newspaper for state-wide news. “Mr. Adams, is it true that you were aided in your investigation by several mysterious messages left anonymously at opportune instances? If so, have you discovered the identity of those who wrote them?”
“It is true that the main suspect appears to have written several threatening messages that corroborated our suspicions from literally day one of this investigation. And it’s also true that the main suspect is now in custody. So that should answer your questions.”
A lady in dark sunglasses and a big, red hat offered the next inquiry. She lifted her sunglasses off her face as she asked him, “Are you going to incorporate any part of this investigation into the film version of your book? Are you thinking of writing a sequel based on your experiences in the last month?”
“Ah, it’s good to see you still working this story, Ms. Woodard. To answer your questions, Ashley, my answers are no and no. The suspect involved played a very minor role in the book version, and I am not about to inflate his importance by altering the script used for the film. I am also confident that there are many people involved in this incident that will want to write their own memoirs, so I don’t anticipate creating even a fictional account of these experiences. Right now, all my energies are being focused on getting this film finished on schedule. Any talk of sequels or memoirs is purely speculative and premature at this point.”
Looking quite satisfied with himself for that response, Mike glanced out into the gaggle of reporters and asked quite simply, “Any more questions?”
RICK ROBERTS WAITED for the press conference to break apart before moving from his seat. His athletic build, along a slightly short frame, was still tanned from many-a-vacation under the Florida sun. A member of the Florida state Senate, Rick has known Mike Adams for nearly seventeen years, when they shared a year together in their University Student Government.
Like Mike, Rick allowed himself to ease out of SG, to focus on other avenues for remaining a student leader. To many people’s surprise, he used his charisma to find a place on the Academic Council, and to leadership of the Student Bar Association. While also a member of the Greek system and an inductee into the controversial leadership honorary, he also used his own merits and abilities to get through college life.
After he went to Law School and left Student Government for good, Rick became a passionate advocate for those that lack such an advocate. Nine years ago, people in his hometown of Lake City, Florida, urged him to run for the state Senate against an out-of-touch incumbent. He won.
While his accomplishments to date have been numerous and helpful to his constituents, Rick almost felt his work today was far more important. He was to turn the tables on his old SG buddy. So, once all the press people departed on to their separate ways, he finally had his chance to pull Mike aside for a private conversation.
“Mike!” he exclaimed as he stepped onto the stage where Mike was, chatting with Adam about nothing in particular.
“Yes?” Mike asked earnestly, not sure what to expect from a random request for his time. When he turned, however, he instantly recognized him. “Rick! Wow, it’s been a long time!”
After shaking hands, Rick asked, “Can we talk alone?”
“Sure,” Mike said willingly and began following Rick off to an obscure corner of the University plaza. “What’s going on?”
“As much as I would like to chit-chat, I know we are all busy today, so let me just bypass all that,” Rick pleaded.
“Okay,” Mike allowed with a hard swallow.
Rick reached into a deep pocket of his khaki pants, and handed Mike a sheet of paper. With a wide smile, Rick said, “Look, man! That is some good news.”
The sheet of paper had the results of a recent poll commissioned by Rick’s law firm. While some of the results made it clear this had been a general poll, there was one question that was circled in red that caught his attention:
15A) IF THE ELECTION FOR THE U.S. SENATE WAS HELD TODAY, WOULD YOU VOTE FOR THE REPUBLICAN, JACK WILSON, OR DEMOCRAT MIKE ADAMS?
WILSON (R) – 46%ADAMS (D) – 32%
15B) JACK WILSON, THE REPUBLICAN, HAS BEEN IN THE SENATE FOR 11 YEARS NOW, AND IS CHAIRMAN OF THE VETERANS AFFAIRS COMMITTEE. MIKE ADAMS, THE DEMOCRAT, IS A FORMER CONGRESSMAN, AND A BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF A PARODY ON CAMPUS STUDENT GOVERNMENTS. KNOWING THIS, WHO WOULD YOU VOTE FOR IF THE ELECTION WAS HELD TODAY?
WILSON (R) – 42%ADAMS (D) – 40%
After reading the poll, Mike looked up at Rick. “What are you trying to say?”
Rick gave that grin again, and insisted, “Oh, you know what this means. You should run. You have urged everyone else you know to run – you even got your Republican sister to run for Mayor of Portland. It’s time you get back on the ballot.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I have too enemies, and I’ve got this film to work on. And I left the U.S. House for a reason – I didn’t like the political games and the fund-raising. Man, the fund-raising! I couldn’t ask for a job that I might do half-heartedly.”
“Just promise me one thing, then.”
“What’s that?”
“That you’ll think about it.”
“Maybe. Ask me again some other time.”
And with that, for the first time in a long time, Rick was left in defeat. He had failed, miserably in his quest.
Rick called out to Mike as he was slowly walking back to Adam, Bennita, and the others that waited for him. Rick said, “Politics is in your blood. You can’t escape it!”
And he thought, No matter how much you deny it.