The maintenance man climbed to the country club roof at dawn. A guard threw him in solitary confinement for raising his voice. These days, DuBoise walks carpeted hallways in orthopedic work boots, carrying his ladder. Members of Ardea Country Club in Oldsmar see a sweet year-old with puffy eyes and a grin. When he walked free, much lay ahead: his bid for compensation, a search for the true killers, a political power struggle β and the question of how to salvage what was left of his life.
Home after a long workday last year, DuBoise leaned back on his faux-leather loveseat. He gazed off, seemingly beyond the bounds of his one-room efficiency with its twin bed against the wall, positioned just like in prison. People kept telling him his story mattered. If that were so, he wanted it told in its entirety. An year-old Robert DuBoise pedaled his speed across the city at twilight.
His long, dark hair blew in the warm wind and auto exhaust. DuBoise saw possibilities. Even as a kid he dreamed of a wife and children.
He had a brother and four sisters. From 14 on, he did the driving, with everyone piling in for errands. While his mother shopped for bologna and instant mashed potatoes, his dad and grandma read the Tampa Tribune in the car. Sometimes, they ate rice from the church pantry. When the rent went up, they moved. It was a modest life. He counted on little more. She ran away at 15, alleging abuse by an uncle and violent discipline at the hands of her grandmother.
A hose dangled from the gas tank of a Ranchero, with gasoline siphoning into a bucket. A stolen toolbox and extension cord sat nearby. DuBoise fessed up. She knew they killed time at a sleazy motel on Hillsborough Avenue and a service station in a rough stretch of town.
