Emmett lingered for a moment. “Hey, he clipped you a good one, there didn’t he? Well, he ain’t through yet, I can tell you that.”
“Emmett!” his father yelled from the door. “Get your ass out here!”
“Uh, Chief,” said Bartlett, anxious to change the subject, “I came across this while you were at lunch.” He handed Tucker a water-stained manila folder. “I think it might be what you were looking for.”
Tucker opened the folder and quickly leafed through the contents. There were at least two dozen missing-persons bulletins.
“Some of ‘em are women,” Bartlett said. “You only wanted males, but they were all in there together.”
Tucker started for his office, looking through the bulletins.
“And, Chief?” Bartlett held out a single bulletin. “This came in the second mail.”
Tucker looked at the sheet of paper. Fifteen; disappeared from Clearwater, Florida, a week before. Suspected runaway. Tucker walked quickly into his office and shut the door.
Quickly, excitedly, he flipped through the bulletin, weeding out the females and older males. He then read each of the remaining bulletins, underlining the pertinent information on where the person had last been seen and elminating those last seen too far away or seemingly on a route which would not lead through Delano. He was left with eleven sheets of paper stacked before him. He faces in the photographs might have been in the same school class or on the same baseball team. Or, more likely, in the same drama or glee club. There was a softness about them.
The dates ranged from 1948 through i960. Tucker turned to the bulletin which had arrived that morning. That brought things right up to the present. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Now he had enough for a search warrant. He gathered the bulletins into one file folder, along with the papers of Will Henry Lee and of Sonny Butts, stuck them in his brief case, and stood up. He had business in Talbot County.
There were loud voices from the squad room. The door to his office opened, and Skeeter Willis walked in, pointing a pistol at him. “Just keep your hands on the desk, boy.”
Tucker put his hands on the desk. “What’s going on here, Willis?”
“You’re under arrest, that’s what’s going on here.”
“For what?”
Skeeter tossed a paper on the desk. “That’s a felony warrant for assault and battery.” Skeeter clamped a cuff on one wrist and turned Tucker around roughly, cuffing the other hand. “Now, you just come along real quietlike, and you might not get hurt.” Skeeter pushed him out of the office into the squad room. Bartlett was being held at gunpoint by a deputy.
“What’s going on, Chief?” The young officer was wide-eyed.
“You know what to do, Bartlett, and for the record, I think there might be an accident on the way to Greenville, or maybe in the jail. You know what to do about that, too.”
“Yessir.”
“Shut up, both of you,” Skeeter yelled. “And you’re my witness, Buddy; he had that swollen face when I picked him up, right?”
“Yes, Sheriff, but I think you’re making a mistake.”
“You let me worry about that, boy.” He shoved Tucker toward the door.
“Bartlett,” Tucker called back to him, “there’s a file—”
“I told you to shut up!” Skeeter shouted, and hurried him out of the building toward a waiting sheriff’s car.
Chapter 18.
BILLY HUNG UP the phone. He was sitting in a back room of his Atlanta campaign headquarters, in an empty store building on Peachtree Street. In other parts of the building a dozen volunteers were telephoning voters in Fulton County, asking them to be sure and vote on the coming Tuesday. It was now Friday afternoon.
John Howell, who was sitting across the desk, asked, “What is it? Tucker?”
Billy nodded. “That was Holmes. Tucker is in the Greenville jail on a charge of assaulting a fellow named Spence, who’s a big contributer to campaigns of people like Skeeter Willis. Apparently, Tucker stopped Spence for speeding, and there was a scuffle. Tucker arrested the man, and now he’s brought charges against Tucker.”
“Can he do that? Have a policeman arrested who has just arrested him?”
“Yes, he can. It’s not a good system, but any citizen can swear out a warrant against anybody else and have him arrested.”
“You can get him out, can’t you?”
Billy nodded again. “Yes, but anything could happen to him while Skeeter’s got him in that jail.” Billy had an idea and explained it to Howell. “Will you do it?”
“Sure.” Howell dialed the number. “Sheriff Willis, please.”
He waited a moment. “Sheriff? This is John Howell,
New York Times.
I interviewed you a few weeks ago? Right. I understand you have the Delano chief of police in your jail. Is that correct? I see… . assaulted an old man … Spence, right. Is Mr. Spence a white man, Sheriff? … No, I just wondered. Tell me, Sheriff, is Chief Watts in good health at this moment? I mean, was he injured or anything when you arrested him? … Did he put up a struggle of any kind or resist in any way? … Could I speak to Chief Watts?” Howell covered the phone. “He’s stalling. Says he’s not sure if they’ve finished processing Tucker.” He listened at the phone again. “I see. Could I speak to him when you’ve finished?” He shook his head at Billy. “Could I come down there and visit him? … Ten to two and two to four? … Tomorrow, then? … Right, Sheriff, thank you for the information.” Howell hung up.
“Well?” Billy asked, anxious.
“Willis says Tucker is just fine. I can’t visit him today, visiting hours would be over before I got down there. Tomorrow, he says.”
“I’ve got to get him out of there before tomorrow.” Billy said. He picked up the phone, consulted his address book, and dialed. “Hello, Frances? This is Billy Lee, how are you? … Just fine, thanks. Can I speak to Judge Hill, please? … Where? … How long ago? … Do you know the name of the people? … All right, Frances, thanks very much.” He hung up. “Bert Hill, the superior court judge down there, has left for the day. He’s on his way up to Lake Lanier to spend the weekend with some friends.”
“Is he the only man who can release Tucker?”
“We could go for a federal order, but that would be overkill. Hill is the only person who can do it quickly.” Billy had another idea. He consulted the address book again and dialed. “May I speak to Colonel Simpson, please? … Jim, this is Billy Lee, how are you? … Fine. Listen, Jim, I hate to trouble you, but I urgently need to contact Judge Bert Hill of Meriwether County, and he’s on the road somewhere between Greenville and Gainesville, headed for Lake Lanier. I wonder if you could issue some sort of bulletin to your men on that route, ask them to stop him and ask him to call me? It really is urgent… . No, it’s not state business, exactly, but it’s connected with a law-enforcement problem that I can’t go into right now… . That’s great, Jim. … I think he drives a green Ford. I don’t know the license number, but you can get that from motor-vehicle registration, can’t you? … Thanks again, Jim.” Billy gave him his telephone number and hung up.
“Who was that?” asked Howell.
“Simpson, commander of the Georgia State Patrol. He’s going to put a radio call out to locate the judge. All we can do now is wait.”
Tucker lay on the hard cot, a single dirty army blanket wrapped around him, and shivered. The cell’s only window was open, and it was too high for him to reach. When he opened his eyes he could see his breath. Now and then something bit him. He scratched at himself and swore.
They had taken his watch, but he reckoned it was nearly midnight. They had put him in what was obviously the worst cell in the county jail. It was thoroughly dirty, and there was no toilet, just a slop jar. They had taken his uniform and shoes, too, and he was clad only in a dirty prison bathrobe. They had said that they had no uniform large enough to fit him.
Tucker was frightened; he had expected someone to have him released by now. He had told Bartlett months ago what to do. But nobody had come, and he had heard Skeeter tell the night man that he would be back around midnight, that there were plans for Tucker. In the car Skeeter had told him that Judge Hill, the only man who could release him, was gone until Monday, but Tucker hadn’t believed him. Now he did. It was late Friday night, and Skeeter had him until Monday morning, it seemed.
He heard a car pull into the parking lot under his window, and he wished he could see who it was, but the window was too high. Then he heard Skeeter’s voice. “Y’all wait here. I’ll go help him escape.” There was answering laughter from more than one man. Tucker broke into a cold sweat. He got up and looked around the cell for something to use as a weapon. There was only the porcelain-covered slop jar and the steel cot, suspended from the wall by chains. He pulled desperately at the chains, but they would not budge from the wall. He would have only his hands; there was nothing else.
He heard the outer door to the lockup scrape open. There were six cells in this the old wing of the jail, and Tucker was the only prisoner in the wing. Skeeter came down the corridor, jangling keys, followed by the night man, who had a pistol in his hand. The night man stuck his weapon through the bars and barked, “Okay, Mr. Chief, up against the wall and spread ‘em.”
Tucker did as the man ordered. Maybe he would have a better chance out of the cell. The two men came into the cell, and while the night man held the pistol at Tucker’s head, Skeeter handcuffed his hands behind him. As they began to move him from the cell, Tucker got a bare toe under the curved edge of the slop jar and flipped it over, splashing against Skeeter’s immaculate tans.
“Don’t!” Skeeter yelled at the night man, as he drew back to hit Tucker with his pistol. “I don’t want a mark on the bastard.” Cursing, he wiped his trousers as best he could with Tucker’s blanket. “I’m gonna see you pay a little extra for that one, boy,” he snarled at Tucker.
They shoved Tucker down the hallway and through the lockup door, the night man prodding him repeatedly in the spine with the pistol. They went down another hallway and through a door into the main office. Skeeter drew his pistol. “All right, I’ll take him out,” he said to the night man. “You stay here. It’s better you don’t see no more than you have to.”
“Where are you taking me?” demanded Tucker. He felt completely vulnerable, clad in only the thin bathrobe, his hands cuffed behind him.
“Where I should have taken you a long time ago, nigger,” Skeeter spat back at him. He spun Tucker around and shoved him toward the outer door. Both men stopped. Billy Lee stood in the doorway; John Howell and two state patrolmen stood behind him.
Billy walked over to Skeeter and handed him a neatly typed document. “That’s a release order for Tucker Watts, signed by Judge Hill and notarized. Take the handcuffs off him.”
Skeeter stood his ground. “Judge Hill is out of town, Billy. I don’t believe that’s no proper order. Watts ain’t going nowhere.”
Billy turned and spoke to one of the patrolmen behind him, “Sergeant”—the man stepped forward—“I’ve served Sheriff Willis with a signed order for the release of Chief Watts. I’m going to inform him of that fact once more. If he hesitates to obey it, arrest him immmediately for obstruction of justice. I’ll take the responsibility.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. He turned and looked at Skeeter, waiting.
Billy turned back to Skeeter. “Sheriff Willis, here is an order for the release of that man. Take the handcuffs off him. Now.”
Skeeter looked at Billy, then at the patrolman. The patrolman took a step toward him. “All right, all right,” he said, and fumbled for his keys.
“You,” Billy snapped to the night man. “Get his clothes.” The man went to a locker, retrieved Tucker’s uniform, and tossed it onto the counter.
Tucker, rubbing his wrists, walked immediately behind a counter, opened a desk drawer, and took out his gunbelt. He placed it on the counter next to his clothes, quickly got dressed, checking to see that the gun was loaded, then buckled it on. “All right, Governor,” he said.
“Sergeant,” Billy said to the patrolman. “There are four men in a car outside. I want you and the corporal to go out there and turn them inside out. Check for guns and permits; check driver’s licences, car registration, everything you can think of. If anybody is in violation of anything, arrest him and jail him at the state patrol station in La Grange.”
The two patrolmen left. Billy turned back to the sheriff. “Get him out of here,” he said, indicating the night man. Willis jerked his thumb at the man, and he left. “Skeeter,” Billy said, looking at the sheriff’s soiled trousers, “you don’t smell so good.” Willis glowered at him but said nothing. “But then, you’ve smelled bad for a long time. That’ll be over soon. You’re through. If I win this election I’m going to use every ounce of authority and influence at my disposal to see that you’re run out of office. If it’s possible, I’ll see you in your own country camp, and I don’t give a damn about your age. If I don’t win, I’ll still be not without influence, and I’ll pursue you to hell and back.” He turned to Tucker. “Let’s go.”
They walked out of the office, leaving the sheriff struck dumb. “There’s probably nothing I can do about him,” said Billy, “in spite of my brave talk. I’m sure he’s covered his tracks carefully, but it won’t hurt him to worry about it.” He looked over at the state patrolmen, who had four men spread over their car, searching them. One of the men was Emmett Spence.
“Four pistols, Governor,” the sergeant called out. “No permits. There’s two shotguns and some rope in the car, too.”