HENRY SAMPSON: FINDER OF WRONGDOING by Howard Feigenbaum (aka H.F. Jefferson)

Chapter 1

Magistrate Fitzroy Samson made his way down the courthouse steps. A balmy Montego Bay breeze enveloped him, lifting his spirits. The five years he’d presided over the Gun Court calendar had taken a toll on his psyche. No matter how many he sentenced, shootings persisted. The government’s efforts to stem the tide with special courts and harsh punishment appeared to have little effect. Nevertheless, he remained committed to doing his part in restoring peace to Jamaica.

     Ahead of him, at the intersection of St. James Street and Howard Cook Boulevard, stood a man charged with killing two police officers. He waited for the traffic signal to change.

     Fifteen minutes ago Fitzroy Samson had extended his bail until the next hearing date. The judge slowed his pace to avoid further interaction.

     Two motor cars stopped at the crossing. Men holding high-powered weapons emerged and opened fire.

     The judge watched the defendant and a pedestrian behind him fall to the ground. A searing pain filled Magistrate Samson’s chest. Consciousness faded. His last thought was of his love for his dear wife, Matilda. Death took him.   

***

     Your Uncle Fitzroy is dead. Call right away. Henry Samson saved the text message and, without hesitation, called his Aunt Tildy in Kingston, Jamaica. “Auntie, it’s me, Henry. Tell me what happened.”

     “I’m so sorry to bring you this terrible news, nephew.” Her voice quavered. “Fitzroy was shot as he walked from the Gun Court in Montego Bay. A bullet from a gang shooting near the courthouse struck him. He died instantly.” She let out a wail. “I’m in pain, Henry. I can’t help myself.” She sobbed. “I didn’t like him being a magistrate in that court.” Her tone rose in a crescendo of anger. “Too many rough characters with hateful intentions coming and going. I wanted him to transfer to a civil court. He said it was his duty to help the country.”

     “When is the funeral, Auntie?”

     “It hasn’t been scheduled yet. His body is in the morgue. We’re awaiting the results of an inquest.”

     “I assume there’s suspicion of wrongdoing.”

     “The authorities want an investigation. The target of the shooting was a young man accused of killing police officers. This violence never stops, Henry.”

     “I’m coming back to Kingston. Do you still live in that big house in Grosvenor Heights?”

     “We—I mean, I do. It would be wonderful to have you stay with me.

You can use Fitzroy’s BMW to get about town.”

     “Thank you, Auntie. I’ve some business to take care of before I leave. I’ll be there in about three days.”

     Her voice became calm. “It’s been a while since we talked, Henry. Where are you living and what’s your profession? Are you married yet?”

     Henry suppressed a laugh. “You haven’t changed, Auntie. I’ll give you the details when we’re together. “I’m a forensic accountant. I have a business in southern Chile, where I’m living.” He thought about her last question and guessed it would prey on her mind. “I’m not married. I’ve been seeing someone special. No commitments yet.”

     “I knew it! The ladies were always after you, you handsome devil. I thought you’d be taken already.”

     “It’s not for lack of trying.”

     “Well, you come on home. We need to be together right now.”

     “You have my condolences and love. See you soon, Auntie.”

***

     The flight left Benitez Airport in Santiago at ten in the evening and arrived in Miami at six-thirty in the morning. Henry checked into the Intercontinental Hotel. Waiting a couple of days before taking the two-hour flight to Jamaica would allow time to gather information before jumping into the lion’s den.

     “Your room is ready, Mr. Samson.” The attractive, dark-eyed Latina

spoke warmly. Her hotel badge bore the name Alicia. “I hope you enjoy

your stay with us. Will you need anything?”

     “I’d like copies of two Jamaican newspapers for the last week: The Gleaner and The Observer. Is that possible?”

     “Our concierge is one of the best. If he can’t do it, it can’t be done. I’ll let him know. Shall I have them delivered?”

     “I’d appreciate that, Alicia.”

     She handed the card key to the bellman. “Devan will show you to your room.” Her eyes followed Henry as he disappeared around the corner to the elevators.

     The porter opened the door to an executive suite and waited for Henry to enter first. He set the suitcase on a stand by the closet. The brown-skinned, young man, barely out of his teens, pulled open the drapes, revealing a panoramic picture window. “You have a beautiful view of Biscayne Bay, sir.”

     Henry’s ear immediately picked up the boy’s Jamaican inflection. “Kingston?”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “What part?”

     “Tivoli Gardens.”

     “That says it all. Did your mama send you here?”

     “Uh, huh. She didn’t want me to get caught up in the nasty business there.”

     “Your mama must love you a lot.”

     Devan grinned. “She does.”

     “I grew up in Grants Pen. My mama sent me away, too.” Henry lifted

a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. Without a thought, pidgin street jargon, the dialect of his youth, took over. “Any Jamaican big heads, dem stayin’ here, little brotha?”

     “You see dem at the Paradise Club on 23rd Street.”

     Henry handed the cash to Devan. “You send some of dat to your mama, okay?”

     “Yes, sir.”

     Henry raised his palm for a high five.

     The bellhop, on his way out, slapped Henry’s palm. “Lata, mi brudda.”

     Henry showered before taking a two-hour nap. Hungry when he woke, he dressed and stood by the picture window to check out the bay. He crossed the room to answer a knock on the door.

     A chambermaid held out copies of the newspapers he requested.   

     Henry motioned toward the desk.

     On her way out, she accepted a gratuity. “Thank you, sir.”

     From the top of the pile, he grabbed a copy of the most recent Observer before riding the elevator to the hotel’s Toro Toro Restaurant.

     A brown-eyed, silver-haired waiter stood ready to take his order.

     “I’ll have the chicken and chorizo croquettes with the truffle fries.”

     “To drink?”

     “Quinine water with a slice.”

     “Very good, sir.”

     When the waiter departed, Henry picked up The Observer and read in the News section:

     Jerome Abernathy, charged with killing two police officers, was shot down and killed as he left the Gun Court in Montego Bay. He was free on bail, which had been extended for one month. Magistrate Fitzroy Samson, who presided over the case, died in the gunfire. It is not clear whether his death was intended or whether he was merely a bystander. The assailants are at large.”

     Henry laid down the paper and stared at the colors reflecting off the brightly-lit bottles lined up against the mirror in the bar. He’d been away from Jamaica for fifteen years. The violence that plagued his native land had faded in his memory. The report refreshed the reality of life in the poverty-stricken district where he grew up. Long-forgotten emotions from the past surfaced. He swallowed hard. Going home had a bittersweet taste.