“Has he brought you anything recently?” Nick said. The mention of paper piqued his interest. Something written and verified, especially with a postage mark, was manna for a journalist. It was the fuel for a paper trail.
“I can’t say I recall the last time,” Cotton said. “Might have been in the fall. I am not much for keepin’ track of time anymore, Mr. Mullins.”
“Any names in the box that were familiar, Ms. Cotton?” Nick pressed, envisioning a list of names, something he could use, something solid he could trace.
“Well, I don’t really pay much attention to the names, sir. I read the ones from the mothers mostly,” she said and a wistful look came into her face, making Nick feel a twinge of guilt at his grilling. But not too guilty.
“Could I perhaps take a look at the letters, Ms. Cotton? Just sort of go through the names, I mean. I don’t want to pry,” Nick said, lying. Of course he wanted to pry. It’s what reporters did.
“I would have to look up in my closets to find them. I believe that’s where I might have stored that box away.”
Nick looked at his watch. It was late. They would have to leave soon for her to make her appointment with the detectives. But he didn’t know what to ask.
“Ms. Cotton, has anyone related to Mr. Ferris, or even someone who said they knew him, ever come to speak to you or even introduce themselves?”
Nick watched her close her eyes, searching again for a picture of the past.
“His brother,” she said, her eyes still closed. Then she opened them. “His brother seen me in the hall outside the court and walked up to me on that day when the jury found him guilty.”
“And he talked with you?” Nick said, prodding her.
“He said he was sorry about what happened. I could see it in his eyes, Mr. Mullins, that he was hurtin’.”
“You do seem to have that ability, Ms. Cotton,” Nick said, making a guess as to why he was here. “To pick up on people’s pain.”
This time she looked straight into Nick’s face, studying it, the creases in his brow, the lines at the corners of his eyes.
“I read about your family, Mr. Mullins. I recognized your name right off and remembered the way you had with your words, that compassion. It was your wife and daughter, so you know how it is when somebody needs that,” she said. “Maybe someone else is going to need that now.”
Nick looked down at his open notebook. He had yet to enter a word with any meaning or usefulness in his “exclusive” interview.
“Is that why I’m here, Ms. Cotton?” he finally said, not wanting to look in her eyes, not wanting her to see his. “Is that why you asked to see me? Because of my compassion?”
He felt her nod more than saw it.
“I read the newspapers a lot, Mr. Mullins,” she said. “Sometimes I can feel people in there, in the words. I learned that by readin’ what happened to me, to my family. And like I said, you had that feeling in your words before.”
“But not now?” Nick said, wanting her to continue.
“I watched the paper to see when you got back to your job. I have seen your stories now and compared them with before. And if you don’t mind my saying so, sir … you changed,” she said without taking her eyes off him. “The pain changed you.”
Nick stared at her, this small black woman, telling him about his heart with a plain open face that did not show sympathy or judgment, or assess fault.
“Compassion,” she said. “I believe you are losin’ that, Mr. Mullins. And I believe that would be a terrible thing in the end, sir.”
Chapter 12
Nick was still rolling Margaria Cotton’s words around in his head when he got back to the office. While he’d been dropping her off in front of the Broward Sheriff’s Office, Detective Hargrave and his partner, the big sergeant, had been just getting out of their unmarked Crown Vic. Detectives being what they are, Nick knew they’d check out the driver who was bringing Cotton to see them. Even the stone-faced Hargrave could not cover the look of consternation on his face. The big man had turned around just as they were entering a side door for employees and officers only and given him a sorry shake of his head.