Guilt By Association: Does One-armed Jack's Race Have Anything To Do With It?

Guilt by Association Does One-Armed Jack’s race have anything to do with it?

By Jane Gilgun

One-Armed Jack is the chief suspect in the murder of a young boy whose body was found deep in the Florida Everglades. In this excerpt from the novel Legacy, the county sheriff questions Jack, building up a case based on circumstantial evidence, especially the time that Jack spends with young boys. About the Author Jane Gilgun is a professor, School of Social Work, University of Minnesota, Twin Cities, USA. Legacy is based upon a true story that a prison inmate told her during interviews she did for research on violence. See Professor Gilgun’s related articles, books, and children’s stories on Amazon Kindle, pdfcoke.com/professorjane, and stores.lulu.com/jgilgun.

Guilt by Association Does One-Armed Jack’s race have anything to do with it?

I

t was hot, even for southwest Florida. The heat and humidity were bringing out the worst in people, although the sawgrass and palm trees were thriving. The breezes off the Gulf were puny, not strong enough to chase away the heat. The dogs that hung around Oneyville were

panting. Saliva dropped in beads off the ends of their tongue. Jack filled a tub of water, dumped some ice in, and put it outside for the dogs. He walked over to the pen to see how Sweetcakes was doing. He might have been seeing things, but he thought he saw Sweetcakes panting. Deer don’t pant, Jack mused. They must have sweat glands just like horses and people. Sweetcakes was a fawn he found wounded and alone along the Oneyville Pike a few days before. Her eyes had more life in them now, and she had eaten a little bit of the corn meal he’d left her. Maybe she’ll recover from her wounds. Jack heard a car pull up. Big Art swung himself out the squad car. He strode over to Jack. The paraphernalia on his thick sheriff’s belt jangled. Jack took a step back as Art blasted out a “Yo, Jack.” The man had bad breath. The sweat around Art’s lips formed white beads that must have been sun block. “Where were you yesterday afternoon?” Jack was about to answer when Art said, “About 3:30 or 4 o’clock?” Art stood with his legs apart, as if he didn’t have enough room for his male appendages. “I was right here, Sheriff, weeding the garden.” Jack looked over at a small fenced plot that had plumb straight rows, tomato plants growing in wire cages, and bean vines winding around the teepees of poles. Beyond the garden was a small orchard. The cherries were just turning red, but the lemons, oranges, limes, and apples wouldn’t be ready for a while. “Yup, the weeding looks fresh enough,” Art said. “Look like you just did it.” He took a red bandana out of his back pocket and wiped the sweat off his face. He looked at the bandana before he put it back, but didn’t seem to notice any white stuff coming off his face. “Let’s sit in the shade.” Jack gestured toward the grape arbor that ran along the side of the small house. A bucket of fresh flowers picked from the gardens that bordered Jack’s yard sat

on a round wrought iron table. “It’s cool under there. I’ll get us some water.” Jack left and went into the house. Art placed sat on the cushioned seat of the chair and rested his chin on his hands. Within a few minutes Jack came back with glasses and a pitcher of ice water he carried on a small tray. “You folks getting enough water out here?” “It’s been pretty good lately. We’ve had our problems. Some folks still don’t trust it. Boil it, they do. I do, too, to tell the truth. The drinking water I boil and filter.” Jack handed Jack a glass of water. “Art held the glass up to the light. “Clear as a bell,” he said. He gulped down the water. Jack tried not to stare at the bobbling Adam’s apple. Do white folk’s Adam’s apples stick out more than blacks’? “That’s some good water.” Art poured himself another glassful. “Help yourself.” Jack sipped his own. “I’m going to be straight with you. I got me one big problem.” Art wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Jack handed him a napkin. Art ignored the gesture. “You saw the body. A white boy torn up by vultures and blood on the back of his head. His folks throw a lot of weight around here. I’ve got to find the son of a bitch who did this, and I’ve got to do it fast. Otherwise I’m in deep doo-doo.” “I sympathize, Sheriff. I wouldn’t want your job for nothing. I wouldn’t want to be little Mathew’s folks, either. It must be awful for them.” Art stared at his fists, as if waiting for Jack to finish so he could get on with it. “How’s the boy’s brother?” “Jack would you zip it up? I’m the one that’s supposed to be asking the questions.” “Yes, sir.” Jack sat up straight. He stopped himself from grinning and saying he was sorry. “Some folks down the way said they saw the boy yesterday afternoon on his all-terrain vehicle on the side of the Oneyville Road, coming toward Sandstone. They thought he was heading up toward the Apple River Trailhead. You know it?” “Sure do. It’s right near Big Mama’s. I walk by it every day to work.” “Big Mama’s is how far from here?” “I’d say maybe half a mile.”

“So, did you see the boy yesterday? He might have passed right by here on his way to the trailhead.” “I didn’t. I might have heard someone go by, but I was in the garden. If you take a look, the house and the pine trees block my view of the Oneyville Road.” “So you never saw the boy?” “No, sir. I didn’t. I’m not sure I heard his ATV, either.” “That’s funny because I just found his ATV in your stand of pines.” “You did? I don’t know how it got there. I never saw that boy or his vehicle.” “Take it easy, Jack. No one’s accusing you of anything.” Art poured himself another glass of water and gulped it down. “Got anything stronger?” Jack shook his head no. He actually had a couple of bottles of Amos’s white lightening hidden among the rocks in the Lost River. He kept them for medicinal purposes. He wasn’t about to tell Art. Who knows? Art could be playing the good cop just so he could clap Jack in jail for possession of illegal liquor. Art stared at Jack while resting his left hand on his chin. His blue eyes were cold and distant. Those eyes contradicted his sweet smile and gentle manner. “You spend a lot of time with kids, don’t you? Mostly boys, am I right?” “I am a Boy Scout leader at the Sandstone Church. We meet once a week and have outings every couple of months or so. We take the summers off.” “Someone told me you conduct a children’s choir at the church, too.” “Yes, sir, I do. I meet with the kids about an hour a week when we’re preparing for a concert. We have about four concerts a year. So most of the time, the kids have off. My main job there is playing the organ and conducting the adult choir.” “You do the school play. Yeah?” “That’s right. I’m helping Miss Maggie and Miss Delores. I’m working with Yukee Poser, too. He’s playing most of the numbers on the piano.. You know Yukee. He was the boy who was with me last night.” “Kids mean a lot to you, do they?” “Yes, sir, they do. I enjoy kids. Never had any myself. Gives the parents a break when they’re with me.” Jack sat back in his chair. He didn’t like how Art was looking at him. During this exchange, his eyes didn’t move once. Jack wasn’t sure if Art had even blinked.

“I heard that you had a run-in with the Monroe kids. Hearsay has it that you kicked them off your property, told them to never come back. You even called them names.” “That’s not exactly how it went.” “Tell it your way, then.” Art stopped smiling but kept his gaze on Jack. “It was last Saturday. I was in the house heating up some beans and rice for lunch. Isabel had given me a bowl of Hoppin’ John.” “Folks say she’s a good cook. Never ate anything of hers, though.” It was Jack’s turn to wonder why Art wouldn’t zip it up. “I heard kids yelling and laughing. I looked out the door and there were these two white kids chasing Sweetcakes around. She was limping real bad with that cast on her leg. I was afraid she would break it again.” “Who’s Sweetcakes?” “That’s the baby deer I got in the pen over there.” Sweetcakes was curled up in a ball in the shade of the small shed in her pen. “Go on.” “That little baby was so scared. He sides were heaving. He eyes were rolling around in her head. I thought she might die of being scared. She’s just about healed from being hit by a car, but I think her heart is still broke. I was afraid the boys would scare her straight to death.” “So what’d you do?” “I ran out of the house still holding the pan full of hot beans and rice. I tripped and fell. The beans and rice flew all over the place. The boys screamed that I was trying to scald them. They called me the N word. They said they were going to report me to the cops. They said their Mama’s a lawyer, and she was going to make sure I never got out of jail.” “I did get a call. Before I could follow up on it, one of the boys was dead.” Art gazed at Jack. “Now why would I want to hurt that poor boy? He isn’t anything but an ignorant young’un. He paddled his way out of the Glades after his mother took off and his father disappeared. He and his brother lucked out when that lawyer and her husband adopted them. The boy can’t help what he is. I wouldn’t hurt that boy or any child.” Jack took a drink of water. The cool water soothed his aching throat. “What’s your full legal name? I want to do some checking.”

“John Robert Rosenblum.” “How’d you get a Jewish name?” “Didn’t know it was. It’s the name I was born to. It’s the name that got handed down to me.” Jack liked his name. It sounded like “roses in bloom.” “Place and date of birth?” “Eatonville, Florida. July 29, 1946.” “Social Security number?” “I don’t have one. Never got one.” “How have you supported yourself all these years?” “Odd jobs here and there.” “You better be careful, boy. I could charge you with tax evasion.” Jack felt like saying “Do what you got to do,” but knew this wouldn’t do him any good. He’d been living one step from prison for a long time. An actual threat was almost a relief. “You stay put. I don’t want you leaving the area until the investigation is over. If I get one whiff that you even thought of taking off, I’ll slap you in jail so fast you won’t be able to tell anyone to water the garden and feed Sweetcakes.” Jack didn’t say anything. “You hear me, boy?” “Yes, sir. I do.” “You mind what I say.” “Yes, sir.” Art walked out the door and didn’t bother to close it.

A

rt called the Eatonville county record office from his squad car. No record of the birth of Jack Robert Rosenblum, born July 29, 1946. ”The birth might not be registered,” the clerk

said. “There could be church records.” “In 1946?” Art bellowed. “Black folks didn’t register the births of their kids in 1946?” “It’s possible, sheriff,” the clerk answered. “You know black folks. They set their own rules. Back then, they had their own schools. Everyone knew everyone else. That boy could’ve graduated from high school in Eatonville without ever having a birth certificate. Might not even be any school records of Mr. Rosenblum.” Art phoned the secretary of the superintendent of public schools for Eatonville. She called back in an hour and said, “There’s no record of a John Robert Rosenblum ever going to

school in Eatonville. Doesn’t mean much, though. When the schools here got integrated, the records were a mess. Some got lost. Then we had the hurricane in ‘69. That wiped out a lot of our paper records.” Art though this all very convenient for Mr. John Robert Rosenblum of Eatonville, Florida.