“Run ‘em in,” Billy called back. He turned to Tucker. “I’m sorry we were so long getting you out. We had to find the judge, who was driving north, then we had to get the order dictated and typed and notarized, and this was as quick as we could do it.”
“Governor, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you at all,” Tucker said. “They were taking me out of the jail, and God knows what they would have done with me. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Now, listen, Tucker; you’re going to have to reduce the charges against Hoss Spence to the traffic violation. I’ve talked with Judge Hill about this. You’ll have to trade for the charge against you, which could be very messy in a jury trial. Spence will still lose his license for a while, and you’ll have a good lawsuit against him for having you arrested without cause.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let Spence get away with this, Governor. But I really appreciate your taking the time to come down here.”
“I was glad to do it. Now, there’s somebody waiting over there for you.” He nodded. Elizabeth was waiting for him in the car. She got out, walked over, and embraced him. They got into the car and drove home.
Billy started back to Atlanta. He had a long weekend of campaign work still ahead of him, and he was worried about Tucker’s determination to prosecute Hoss Spence.
Chapter 19.
ON SUNDAY MORNING Billy was awakened by hammering on his Atlanta hotel room door. “Who is it?” he yelled, staying in bed.
“It’s John Howell. Open up.”
Billy stumbled to the door and unlocked it. “What time is it?” he asked sleepily, as Howell hurried into the room, a stack of newspapers under his arm.
“A little after ten. You’re supposed to be at services at eleven. You’re going to Ebenezer Street Baptist Church, remember? You’re running late, but that’s the least of your problems. I’ve been trying to call you, but the operator refused to ring your room.”
“I told her not to put any calls through. I needed the sleep. What’s the matter?”
Howell plunked down the Sunday papers on the bed. “Have a look at that.”
“BLACK CHIEF ARRESTED, CHARGED WITH BEATING ELDERLY MAN,” read a headline which appeared above the newspaper’s masthead, and beneath it a subhead, “Mullins Charges Lee Made Improper Use of Lieutenant Governor’s Office to Obtain Release of Watts.”
“Oh, shit,” said Billy sitting down on the edge of the bed and pulling a blanket around his shoulders. He read on.
The Meriwether County Sheriff’s Department yesterday arrested Delano Chief of Police Tucker Watts, the South’s first black law-enforcement official, and charged him with assault and battery of a prominent Meriwether County farmer, Horace Spence, 74, after Watts stopped Spence’s car, allegedly for speeding. Lieutenant Governor William H. Lee, facing a tough general-election battle on Tuesday in the race for governor, apparently used the influence of his office in ordering the commander of the Georgia State Patrol to locate a judge who would sign release papers for Watts. Lee then personally went to the Meriwether County Jail in Greenville, accompanied by two state-patrol bodyguards, where he obtained the release of Chief Watts, and ordered the arrest of four Meriwether County men in the jail’s parking lot on charges of carrying unlicensed weapons and of having an expired vehicle-inspection sticker on their car. The men claimed they were returning from a hunting trip and had stopped to drop off one of their party who lived in Greenville. They were ordered released the following morning by a La Grange Superior Court judge from the local state-patrol station.
Sheriff John B. (“Skeeter”) Willis said, “This is the second case we’ve had down here of this so-called policeman harassing elderly white citizens, and we’re just not going to put up with it.” His remark apparently referred to a Delano citizen, Francis Funderburke, 79, who, when asked about Sheriff Willis’s comment said, “We wouldn’t be having this problem if this fellow hadn’t been forced on the community by Billy Lee, just so he could get the colored vote to help him get elected.” Funderburke, a noted dog breeder, declined comment on the specifics of his alleged harassment by Chief Watts.
Jackson Mullins, Lee’s independent opponent in the governor’s race, contacted at his south Georgia home, said, “This is just one more example of the arrogant misuse of state office by a candidate who will do anything to win the black-bloc vote in this election.” Mullins has consistently criticized Lee for using his office improperly in the election.
Lieutenant Governor Lee was said to be sequestered in an Atlanta hotel after the incident and was unavailable for comment.
The telephone rang, and Billy picked it up. “Governor,” the operator said, “there’s a Mr. Holmes on the line who insists that I put his call through. I know you left instructions not to be disturbed, sir, but—”
“That’s all right, put him on. Mr. Holmes? … Yes, sir, I’ve just seen the papers… . That’s right, I’ve got to be at Ebenezer Street church in forty-five minutes. … I have to go, sir; we’ve had this scheduled for days. It would look as though I’m backing down if I cancel. In fact, I think a black church might be the best place for me to reply to these charges, especially Dr. King’s church… . Look, we know that what’s going to happen if these charges come to court—Tucker will be vindicated… . Yes, it could be too late by then, but I can’t change course now; I’m just going to have to ride it out… . Thank you, sir, I’d appreciate that. I’m running late, as it is, and I don’t really have time to make the call.”
He hung up. “Mr. Holmes thinks I ought to cancel at Ebenezer Street, but I can’t do that. He’s going to see that the telephone volunteers try and get some feel about how this might affect the voting on Tuesday.”
“Billy,” Howell said, “I think you ought to hold an impromptu press conference on the steps of the church and refute all this in the strongest possible manner. There’ll be a lot of press there, anyway. This is on your official schedule.”
“You’re right,” Billy replied.
“My story is in this morning’s
Times
, and that gives the whole picture. That’ll get picked up by the wire services and should help, too.”
“Good. Well, I’d better get a move on.” Billy headed for the shower.
Tucker was surprised at how shaken he was by his experience in jail. He woke Saturday morning feeling exhausted, and when the calls from the press began to come in, he checked in briefly at the station and then spent Saturday and Sunday at his mother’s house, with instructions to Bartlett that he was to be called only in an emergency.
He scrubbed himself repeatedly with a medicated shampoo to rid himself of the lice and crabs he had picked up in the cell. The feeling of uncleanliness made things even worse for him. He resolved to see that his own jail was fumigated regularly, and he thought he would never again feel the same about locking up someone.
He saw Billy on the Sunday-night news, trying to put things right, but it seemed to him an unsuccessful effort. On Holmes’s advice he issued a short written statement, saying that he had made a proper arrest after having himself been assaulted and that he believed subsequent court action would prove he acted responsibly. He hoped it would help.
He spent little time in the station Monday and Tuesday, election day; instead, he drove aimlessly about the town, depressed, wondering whether he would be able to continue in the job.
Billy had a sense of
deja vu
on election night, keeping another campaign vigil he had hoped would be unnecessary. By midnight it was clear he would not have a majority. Mullins did even better than they had expected. Billy ended up nearly four percentage points short of the majority necessary to keep the election out of the Georgia House of Representatives.
“Where do you think we stand in the house as of this moment?” he asked Holmes.
The banker produced his notebook. “I’ve been on the phone all weekend,” he said. “We’re better off than we were at the time of the primary, I reckon, but there are still a dozen or so votes uncommitted. If I had to give you a hard figure right now, I’d say we were four or five votes short. You’ve got a lot of telephoning to do the next week.”
“I think we’d better do more than that,” Billy said. “I think we’d better get hold of a light plane and go see some people around the state.”
“Good idea.”
“What do you think our chances are, Mr. Holmes? Really.” Billy thought he had never seen the banker look as tired, as old.
Holmes shook his head. “There’s so much riding on this for you, son. I think Kennedy’s serious about the vice-presidency thing, I honestly do. I wish I could tell you we can do it, but I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Billy realized, now, that he had been allowing himself to think not just about the vice-presidency, but about the job as a stepping stone to the presidency itself. If he lost in the house, it was all over. He felt a fool for letting himself aim so high.
Chapter 20.
BY WEDNESDAY MORNING Tucker had recovered himself enough to take hold of his job again. He was at the station early and went through the mail and messages that had gathered in his absence. He was relieved to find there was nothing of importance in the papers piled on his desk, but when he reached the bottom of the pile his relief vanished. The file on the missing boys was waiting for him. What’s more, there was a Teletype from state-patrol headquarters placing the young man in the most recent of the bulletins in Buena Vista, forty miles south of Delano. The date was the third, two days before.
Because he had, as much as possible, emptied his mind of everything to do with his work, he had banished Foxy Funderburke from his thoughts, as well. But now the file was there; the boys were staring back at him again. He considered visiting Foxy, but immediately dismissed the idea. Holmes had warned him off, and somehow Foxy had become a part of the Hoss Spence-Skeeter Willis problem, too. His only course was to follow Holmes’s advice and go through the established channels, and that meant Sheriff Bobby Patrick of Talbot County.
Even the appearance of asking Patrick for help repelled him, and, after his experience in Skeeter’s jail, he felt a deep-seated anxiety about approaching Patrick in his. But there was no other way to go, and he knew it. He stuck the file in a manila envelope and walked into the squad room. Bartlett was eating a slice of sweet-potato pie and drinking a cup of coffee at his desk.
“Buddy, I’m going down to Talbotton to see Bobby Patrick about something. I’ll be back as soon as I can. If you need me call me at the Talbot County Sheriff’s Office, and if I’m not there, send a car to the top of the mountain and have me radioed from there. The station antenna would never clear the mountain on line of sight.”
“This something to do with that missing-persons stuff, Chief?” Tucker had not shared his theory with Bartlett.
Tucker nodded. “Yeah, and I can’t touch it. It’s in Patrick’s jurisdiction.”
Bartlett looked troubled. “Watch yourself, Chief, okay?”
“Sure,” Tucker said, and left. As he drove the twenty miles to Talbotton, his apprehension lifted a little. He had finally committed himself to a course of action, and he felt better for it. It occurred to him that he should call John Howell and bring him up to date, as he had promised he would.
He parked in front of the courthouse at a parking meter instead of in one of the official slots, realizing he had unconsciously avoided even that chance of conflict. In the sheriff’s department he was received politely, but cooly, by the clerk, who obviously knew who he was. Patrick had somebody in his office, and he would have to wait.
He waited for nearly an hour, growing increasingly restive. He read old copies of
Signposts
and the
Ford Times
and avoided drinking from the water cooler, because he didn’t want to have to go to the bathroom, not wanting to create an incident by going to what might be a white facility, and not wanting to ask. Finally, Patrick emerged, shook hands with his departing visitor, and saw Tucker.
Patrick grinned widely. “Well, if it ain’t old Tucker. What brings you down here, boy?”
Tucker did not blink at the “boy,” knowing that white southerners used it liberally among themselves and that it wasn’t necessarily a racial slur, although it might be, coming from Patrick. “I’ve got some business for you, Bobby.”
Patrick waved him into the office and offered him a chair. Tucker noticed that Bobby was wearing every piece of brass available from the police equipment catalogue—badge, collar pins, tie clasp, and a gold eagle on each epaulet of his tan gabardine uniform. A powdery-white Stetson hung on a hat rack in the corner.
“Well. now, Tucker, boy,” he practically crowed, “what can I do for you?”
Tucker laid the file before him and opened it. Carefully, he took him through the disappearances, pointed out the geographical distribution of the last sightings, then gave Patrick his conclusions. When he had finished, Patrick said nothing for a moment, simply smiled slightly. He closed the file and handed it back to Tucker.
“Tell you what, Tucker,” he said. “Let’s go down the hall and see Judge Greene. You tell him all about it. He’s the man who’ll have to issue a search warrant, anyway. Okay?”
“Fine,” Tucker replied, relieved. He had not known quite what to expect, but he had not anticipated such quick cooperation.
They were received immediately and cordially in the judge’s chambers. The judge was a grandfatherly man who listened closely to what Tucker had to say, nodding sagely now and then. When Tucker had completed his presentation, the judge looked at Bobby Patrick and chuckled slightly. Patrick chuckled back. Then the judge laughed aloud and Patrick laughed back. Then the two of them laughed until neither could speak. Tucker got up and left the office.