“Yeah, yeah, Jack, now throw in the towel, and let’s get it over with,” said Howell.
“—and I want you to know that, as far as I am concerned, the battle is not over.”
Billy sat up. “What the hell is he talking about?”
Across the room, Hugh Holmes removed his glasses and began massaging the bridge of his nose. “I knew it,” muttered Holmes, almost to himself, “I knew it.”
“Knew what?” asked Patricia.
“Shhh,” said Billy.
Mullins continued. “I want the word to go out to every supporter, to every contributor, to every working man and woman who voted for me in this primary, that
I will continue.”
“What’s happening?” asked Howell, bewildered.
“He’s going to try to throw it to the house,” said Holmes wearily. “I was afraid he might.”
“I want each of you to know that on November fourth my name will be on the ballot as an independent candidate. This battle is far from lost, and with your continued help we can win it!” Mullins folded his notes and walked quickly from the podium. There was pandemonium at the Dinkier.
“What is he doing?” asked Howell, astonished. “He’s lost! How can he throw it to the house?”
Holmes slumped in his chair. “In Georgia there is no runoff in the election for governor. A candidate has to win an absolute majority in the general election, or the house elects the governor, one week after the election.”
“Are you telling me that—”
“I’m telling you that if the Republicans take twenty percent of the vote and Mullins can pull a fraction more than thirty percent, then Billy will not have an absolute majority in the general election, and one week after that the Georgia House of Representatives will meet and choose between the two leading candidates.”
“Can he do that? Can he pull enough votes to throw it into the house?” Howell asked plaintively.
“In my judgment,” said Holmes emphatically, “he can.”
“Mr. Holmes,” Billy said, “in your judgment where would we stand in the house?”
Holmes produced a notebook from a coat pocket and consulted it. “I went through a little theoretical roll call in my head this afternoon,” the banker said. “I reckon that if the election were held today in the House we’d be between fifteen and twenty votes short.”
There was a stunned silence in the room. Finally, Patricia broke it. “Do you mean that Billy has won the primary, but he’ll lose the governorship?”
Holmes nodded. “If he didn’t win an absolute majority in the general election, and if the house voted today.”
Billy stood up and put on his coat. “Fortunately,” he said, with an edge in his voice, “the general election hasn’t taken place yet, and the house isn’t voting tomorrow.” He buttoned his collar and tightened his necktie. “Let’s go talk to the press, and then, Trish, let’s go home. I want to sleep at home tonight.”
The phone rang, and Billy went back to answer it. He spoke briefly while the others stood at the door, then he hung up and joined them, laughing ruefully. “That was Bob Kennedy,” he said. “He says Lyndon’s people are unpacking.”
Chapter 17.
WITH THE EXCEPTIONS of his frustration over the matter of Foxy Funderburke and his fears about Pieback Johnson, Tucker Watts led what he could only consider to be a charmed existence through the first eleven months of his tenure, up until early November. He had improved the personnel, equipment, and operations of the Delano Police Department and had established himself in the community as a reliable man. True, there was a residue of resentment among many people with regard to his color, but he felt he had, at least, reached some sort of truce with that element of the town; that in return for his doing a good job, they would leave him alone. He was wrong.
In looking back on the incident, he would be able to say honestly to himself that he had done the right, indeed the only think possible at each stage of its escalation. But it had still gone terribly wrong. Maybe his temper had been too much of a factor; maybe he had for a moment forgotten how to be a black man in a white world.
He had been home for lunch and was driving back to the station, when he saw the car. They passed each other in front of the school, and the car was doing at least fifty. Although the students were all in class, it particularly offended Tucker that someone would drive more than double the speed limit in a school zone.
He whipped the car into a U-turn and pulled over the offender just inside the city limits. As he walked toward the car, pulling out his ticket pad, the driver opened the door and got out. The man was elderly, but large and strong looking. Tucker thought he looked familiar but did not recognize him until he heard the man’s voice.
“What the hell is this all about?” The voice instantly brought back a flood of memories: of chopping wood until his hands bled; of his mother doing laundry until after dark; of his father returning from work nearly hysterical, soaking wet, his face swollen with mosquito bites. It was the first time since his return to Delano that Tucker had laid eyes on Hoss Spence. He snapped back to the present. “May I see your driver’s license, please?”
“You’re gonna see this stick upside your head if you don’t answer me.” Spence was carrying a heavy hog cane. “What the hell is this all about?”
“I clocked you doing fifty-two miles an hour in a twenty-mile-an-hour zone—a school zone. That’s what it’s all about. Now show me your driver’s licence.” Tucker was prepared for a scene, but not for what came next. He had glanced down at his ticket pad to flip over a page when he saw a blur at the corner of his eye and felt a jarring blow across his left cheek and ear. The sound made his ear ring, and the force of the blow sent him reeling sideways. Suddenly occupied with regaining his balance, he failed to ward off the second blow, which caught him on the neck. When the cane swung the third time, he threw up an arm, and it caught him in the armpit. He was able to clamp down on the cane, get another hand on it, and wrench it from Spence’s grasp. He flung it aside and occupied himself with deflecting the man’s fists, which were now raining upon him. Finally, he was able to grab his assailant’s wrist, spin him around, and trip him to the ground. He pinned Spence with a knee and got one wrist handcuffed, but had more of a struggle before he could cuff the other.
He yanked the old man to his feet, walked him on his toes to the patrol car, opened a rear door, and shoved him inside. He was not gentle, but he was not nearly as rough as he might justifiably have been, he thought. Throughout the scuffle Spence had kept up a stream of invective, most of it racial, and it did not end when he was in the car. Tucker walked back toward Spence’s car, retrieved the cane, returned to the police car and picked up the microphone.
“Station, this is mobile one.”
“Car one, this is station.”
“I’ve just made an arrest for speeding and assaulting an officer. Send a car and two men out forty-one. Just inside the city limits on the right there’ll be a blue, ‘61 Cadillac four-door. The keys are in it. Bring it back to the station. Roger?”
“Roger. You need any other assistance?”
“Negative, just pick up the car.”
Spence continued to rave and mutter all the way to the police station. Tucker said nothing at all. He was trying to separate his childhood feelings about Spence from the current incident. By the time they reached the station, he was satisfied that he had done so.
Bartlett’s face registered amazement when he saw Spence, but he managed to keep his mouth shut.
“Put this man in a cell,” Tucker said sharply. “If he gives you any trouble, handcuff him to the bars. I’ll make out the complaint.”
Bartlett returned after a moment. “Jesus, Chief, do you know who that guy is?”
Tucker had spun a blank form into a typewriter and was rattling away on the machine. “I don’t much care who he is.”
“His name is Spence. They call him Hoss. He’s a big-time farmer out near your place, peaches and cows and everything else. He’s got a lot of political friends in the county.”
“Yeah?” Tucker kept typing.
“Uh, Chief, I let him use the pay phone in the back. He’s entitled to a call. I hope that was okay.”
“Sure. The man has his rights. I want him to get all his rights before I see him in the county camp.”
Bartlett tiptoed away and came back with some ice from the soft-drink cooler. “You’d better put some of this on your face. It’s swelling up pretty good.”
Tucker ripped the paper out of the machine and took the ice. He had a thought. He went to a cupboard and took out a Polaroid camera which they sometimes used for photographing traffic accidents. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at Bartlett. “Take a picture of me.” Bartlett obeyed. “If he’s got as many friends as you say he has, this might come in handy,” Tucker said, watching the image slowly appear on the paper. The phone rang, and Bartlett answered it. He handed it to Tucker.
“This is Chief Watts.”
“Tucker, this is Hugh Holmes. I hear you’ve got Hoss Spence down there. What’s the charge?”
“Fifty-two miles an hour in a school zone, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer.”
“Did he pull a gun on you?”
“It was a heavy cane, one of those things they use to move pigs with. He could have killed me with the thing.”
“Did you provoke him?”
“I asked him for his driver’s license.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all I had a chance to say to him. Then he hit me with the cane.”
“All right, Tucker, I’m going to stay out of this. We’ve got a general election day after tomorrow, and I’m up to my ears in it. Let me give you some advice, though, even though it may be gratuitous.”
“I’d be happy to have any advice you’d care to give me, sir.” Tucker was cooling off a bit now.
“Be absolutely correct in your procedure with this thing. Were there any witnesses?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s a pity.”
“I’ve got a real nice photograph of my injuries, though.”
“Good. Now, Hoss’s lawyer in Greenville has already seen the judge, and you’re likely to get a call pretty soon. If I were you, I’d take the call as sufficient to release him. Don’t demand a written order. It’ll just make things more difficult.”
“I understand, sir.”
“All right, then. Call me if it gets too sticky, hear?”
“Yes, sir, I will.” He hung up. There was the scuffle of feet in the entrance to the squad room.
“I hear you got my daddy in here.”
Tucker turned and saw Emmett Spence, not for the first time in recent months. They often passed each other on the highway, being neighbors. Emmett had never so much as acknowledged his presence. “Who are you?” asked Tucker.
“I’m Emmett Spence, godammit, and you’ve got my daddy in here!”
“Yes, I have got your daddy in here, Mr. Spence. If you want him out, call a lawyer. And watch your language in here.”
“I already called a lawyer, you better believe it!”
The telephone rang. Tucker answered it himself.
“Chief, this is Judge Hill in Greenville. I believe you have a Mr. Spence there on a traffic offense?”
“Yes, sir, Judge, for speeding, resisting arrest, and assault.”
“Chief, I’m issuing an order releasing Mr. Spence on his own recognizance. I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d go ahead and release him now. I’ll see that the order is in today’s mail.” The judge sounded embarrassed.
“Of course, Your Honor. I’m glad to accommodate you.”
“Uh, Chief Watts, I understand there was an altercation of some sort. I think it would be in the best interests of everybody concerned if we could settle this out of court.”
“Your Honor, I’d like to be of help, but the man struck me repeatedly with a heavy cane and without provocation. I could have made the charge assault with a deadly weapon.”
“Chief, Mr. Spence is an old man, seventy-four, I believe. I hope that in consideration of his age and his standing in the community that we can avoid any further unnleasantness.”
“No, sir, I’m afraid I can’t do that.” It was time for the son of a bitch to pay the piper. “He can plead guilty as charged, if he likes, and of course, the sentence would be up to you.”
“Chief, I’m sorry you feel that way. If you’d go ahead and release Mr. Spence, I expect we’ll talk about this again.”
Tucker hung up. “All right, Bartlett, turn him out.”
Spence came into the squad room rubbing his wrists and muttering. “Gimme my cane back,” he said to Tucker.
“No, sir, I’m afraid that’s evidence. Now, may I see your driver’s license, please.”
Emmett Spence stepped forward. “Ain’t you learned nothing, boy?”
Tucker turned to Emmett. He remembered what a stupid, senselessly cruel child he had been. “I don’t believe I said anything to you.” He turned back to Hoss Spence. “Mr. Spence, you’re going to have to give me your license right now or go back in the cell.”
Spence reclutantly produced the license, and Tucker wrote him a traffic ticket. “I would strongly suggest, sir, that in the future you be particularly careful of the way you drive.” Spence snatched back the license and the ticket and stalked out of the station.