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To cover the killing from several years back, I had an ad hoc staff of one young woman from the local college out there in Belle Glade, Florida, a quiet thing named Maria Maciel, a mother, married, twenty-one, who knew her way around town. From the moment I met her, I wanted to whisk her away on a golden carpet.
I really did think there might be a book in the project, too. I was married, while Maria was more vulnerable: rouged cheeks, Mexican with Chicano, a little like a geisha with her almond eyes. That week, up in Starke, they were putting to death a young man named Alfonso Armstrong, who had walked into a family-owned grocery store in town—a store that had thrived for fifty years—and shot the beloved white owner of the place, a genuinely nice guy named Jimmy Kline.
The whole community, black, white, Latin, Arab, had come out to turn in Alfonso. It was his own father who drove him to the police station three days after the murder. The gunman was fleeing, rushing out the door, stiff-arming past a man on the walkway who must have gasped, certain he was done for. At the time, I still had my voice. I was losing it, but I still had my cadence, inflection, and diction in symphony, a luxury, a misfortune.
I got moving around out there, and it was an extraordinary place, with tall sugar cane on every sliver of open land I could find, vast fields of it as far as the eye could see. And trailers with laundry hanging on lines. And churches everywhere, wealthy, long established productions built like fortresses, and new affairs, squat one-room or two-room rectangles. I peeked in a few to watch the silent prayer. Called me Dennis Boaz, after the Gary Gilmore shyster, said I was trying to profit, as was the Post , from their pain.
