Senator Burton’s op-ed had drawn more letters to the editor than any other article in the long history of the
Charleston Post and Courier
. All of the letters expressed sympathy for the family’s loss, and the vast majority—nearly eighty percent—supported the family’s decision to appeal the trial court’s ruling.
Give ‘em hell, Senator,
a particularly ebullient letter writer said.
Show those pinkos at the university that you mean business.
And the senator did mean business. She had a plan. Two plans, actually.
The first plan was to request an expedited appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court, a maneuver that would bypass the hopelessly Left-leaning U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fourth Circuit. Although the Supreme Court tended to frown upon such requests, the close vote in
Grutter v. Bollinger
(five to four) coupled with the high profile nature of the dispute (
the
hot button issue of American civil rights law), gave Burton hope—especially when one of the justices who had voted in favor of affirmative action had recently retired from the bench.
Burton’s second plan required the assistance of a particular constituency who was considerably more reliable than the prima donnas with whom she worked in Washington. That constituency wasn’t comprised of high-priced lawyers, corporate honchos, or opinion makers. No, it was made up of a group of men who were far more powerful.
CHAPTER 3
His name was Lincoln Jefferson. He was seventeen, and he was black. His parents had named him after the two U.S. presidents who had done the most for African Americans: Abraham Lincoln, who had helped to free the slaves by winning the Civil War; and Thomas Jefferson, who had written in the Declaration of Independence that “all men are created equal.”
Lincoln Jefferson’s “crime”? Sleeping with a high school classmate who happened to be white.
He had been pulled from his bed in the middle of the night, stripped naked, and dragged kicking and screaming deep into the woods on the outskirts of Charleston. The large bonfire was already ablaze underneath a tall oak tree when he arrived. He was immersed in coal oil, hoisted up onto the tree, and slowly lowered into the fire. Some of the spectators cut off fingers and toes from his corpse as souvenirs. Others punched and spat at his disfigured body. His remains were dumped into a burlap bag and hung from the tree while many in the crowd cheered.
Earl Smith drained a bottle of Budweiser in one long gulp. He shattered the empty bottle against the tree. Shards of glass scattered into the fire. “‘King of beers,’” he said to his brother. He belched. “Ain’t nuthin’ like it.”
“Amen to that,” Billy Joe Collier said. He threw a log onto the fire. He tossed his brother another beer and grabbed one for himself.
Earl Smith and Billy Joe Collier weren’t blood brothers. They were, however, brothers in the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, a self-proclaimed “fraternal organization” that grew out of the Civil War to protect and preserve the white race and ensure voluntary separation of the races and even extinction of blacks, Catholics, and Jews. Smith, the grand dragon of the Klan’s South Carolina chapter, liked to joke, “We don’t burn crosses; we light ‘em. It’s just a religious ceremony.”
Of course no one believed him. The Justice Department certainly didn’t. The FBI had tried to keep Smith and company under close surveillance ever since Charles Jackson had become the first African American president of the United States. Prior to that watershed event the Klan had essentially disappeared from view, and the Feds’ attention had been dominated by Al-Qaeda, the Taliban, and other foreign terrorist groups. But it was amazing how quickly the Klan had sprung back to life after President Jackson’s victory. Indeed, the Feds had named their reconstituted Klan watch unit
Phoenix
, after the mythical bird that rose from the ashes.
Chief among Earl Smith’s cohorts was Billy Joe Collier. Collier was the second highest ranking official—the klaliff—in the South Carolina Realm. Smith had asked him to call a konklave—a meeting—of the Charleston den.
The konklave was being held in a location nearly impossible to access. The Klan was like the Mafia: everyone knew it was there, but no one knew how to find it. Secrecy was the Klan’s cardinal rule—secrecy and the destruction of anyone who threatened the supremacy of the white race. The rationale for the Klan’s most visible characteristic—the uniform of long white robes and tall white pasteboard hats—was secrecy.
“Akia. Kigy,” Smith said. That was Klan nomenclature for “A klansman I am” and “Klansmen, I greet you.”
“Akia. Kigy,” the konklave replied.
Smith said, “Kludd Bates will now read from the Kloran.”
Johnny Bates, the den chaplain, opened the ritual book and said, “Your Excellency, the sacred altar of the Klan is prepared; the fiery cross illumines the konklave.”
Smith said, “Faithful kludd, why the fiery cross?”
Bates said, “Sir, it is the emblem of that sincere, unselfish devotedness of all klansmen to the sacred purpose and principles we have espoused.”
Smith said, “My terrors and klansmen, what means the fiery cross?”
The konklave said, “We serve and sacrifice for the right.”
Smith said, “Klansmen all: You will gather for our opening devotions.”
The konklave sang the Klan’s sacred song. The chorus rang out:
Home, home, country and home,
Klansmen we’ll live and die
For our country and home.
Kludd Bates read more from the Kloran.
When Bates had finished, Smith said, “Amen.” Then Smith said, “I’ve called this konklave because our good friend Senator Burton needs our help.”
“Name it, and we’ll do it,” one of the hydras said. “Anything for Senator Burton.”
A hydra was an assistant to the grand dragon. This particular hydra worked at Wal-Mart during the day.
“Akia! Akia!” the konklave cried out.
Alexandra Burton had been a good friend to South Carolina klansmen over the years. She always made sure they had enough money to keep their organization afloat, and she always did her best to keep federal authorities from investigating them when black men were found hanging from ropes on trees. Black men such as Lincoln Jefferson …
“That’s what I told the senator,” Smith said.
“What does she need for us to do?” the same hydra asked. He threw a rock at the burlap bag that contained Lincoln Jefferson’s disfigured body.
“She needs us to scare off some nigger lovin’ law professor,” Smith answered.
“Why would Senator Burton give a shit about some goddamn egghead?” the hydra asked next. He picked up another rock.
Smith answered, “Because he might become a judge on the Supreme Court. If he does, the senator said he can make more nigger-friendly laws.”
“Death to the nigger lover!” the konklave shouted.
CHAPTER 4
Jeffrey Oates handed Senator Burton the folder that contained the list of questions the senator planned to ask Peter McDonald during the confirmation hearing. Oates, Burton’s top legislative assistant, was hoping for an acknowledgment—a “Thank you” ideally, although an audible grunt would have sufficed—but he didn’t receive one. He never did anymore. The pleasantries had stopped when Oates had failed to kill McDonald six months earlier, shortly after the professor’s nomination to the Supreme Court had been announced by the president. Frankly, Oates was surprised that Burton hadn’t fired him. The only reason that Oates could think of for why he still had a job was that the senator knew Oates could tie her to the plot. Consequently, Burton could only go
so
far in expressing her displeasure with her chief aide because he had gone
too
far when his careless mistakes left their target unscathed, killing his wife and child instead.
Oates would never forget that day. He had driven from Washington to Charlottesville in order to get a feel for McDonald’s movements … for a typical day in the life of one of America’s most celebrated law professors. Oates actually enjoyed some of his trip. Most of the one-hundred-mile drive between the nation’s capital and the University of Virginia wended through rolling hills and pastoral farmlands at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the headwaters of the Rivanna River. Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s magnificent home, was visible on the horizon about ten miles outside of town. Charlottesville, a city of approximately forty thousand people, looked like a postcard of a college town. The university itself—locals, in fact, referred to UVA as “
the
university”—was one of the most scenic campuses in the nation. The Lawn, a/k/a “Mr. Jefferson’s Academical Village,” was the heart of the university. The Rotunda, a scale replica of the Roman Pantheon, sat at the top of the Lawn, and rows of student rooms and professors’ residences proceeded down it. The Lawn was a beautiful sight on a good day. During a 1993 visit to the university, Mikhail Gorbachev, the former president of the Soviet Union, had said, “You people live in paradise.”
The law school was located about a mile from the Lawn, in a part of the campus known as the North Grounds. And it was on the North Grounds where Jeffrey Oates found Jenny and Megan McDonald waiting for the man that Oates had been told to kill.
Peter McDonald’s wife and daughter looked like they had just finished posing for a Hallmark card. Jenny, McDonald’s wife, was wearing an emerald green Laura Ashley dress spotted with yellow daises. It was a striking choice for a woman of her porcelain complexion and chestnut hair color. Megan, the little girl, had on an identical outfit. She was carrying a heart-shaped box of chocolates in her tiny hand.
Valentine’s Day! Oates said to himself after taking in the scene. He had forgotten all about it. Why wouldn’t he? He had no one to share it with. He had spent his entire adult life serving Senator Alexandra Burton, one of the most powerful women in the country and, someday, perhaps the first female president of the United States. Oates didn’t know why the senator wanted him to kill Professor McDonald, but it wasn’t his job to ask why. It was his job to do it.
CHAPTER 5
Peter McDonald exited the law school’s back entrance and spotted his wife and daughter standing in the faculty parking lot next to the family’s new Volvo station wagon. A huge smile spread across his handsome face. He waved hello to his wife and then called out to his daughter. “Hiya, June Bug,” he said. Megan had been a June baby. “Are you ready for lunch?”
“Yeth!” Megan bubbled. The recent loss of her two front teeth had turned her s’s into th’s. It had made her even more adorable than she already was. “Pitha!”
Jenny McDonald said, “I thought we decided to take Daddy someplace special for Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.” She stroked her daughter’s chestnut hair.
“Pitha ith thpethal, Mommy.” Megan decided that now would be a good time to start spinning like a top. “Pitha! Pitha! Pitha!”
Peter McDonald said, still smiling, “Pizza it is, June Bug.”
Jenny said, “But I’ve got reservations at the C&O, Peter. I wanted today to be special. You’ve been so busy since the nomination was announced.”
The C&O was the most expensive restaurant in Charlottesville. It specialized in French cuisine. Julia Child had called it the finest French restaurant south of the Mason-Dixon line in her classic book,
Mastering the Art of French Cooking
.
McDonald took his wife by the hand. He looked directly into her sparkling green eyes. “Any day with you and Megan is special, hon. It doesn’t matter where we eat.”
Jenny’s eyes misted. “‘Pitha,’ here we come.” She kissed her husband on the cheek and hugged him like there was no tomorrow.
“Pitha! Pitha! Pitha!” Megan sang as the happy family headed for the car.
The McDonalds meandered down Route 250 on their way to Crozet Pizza, one of the hidden gems of the area. UVA students in the know understood that a trip to Crozet for a hand-tossed pie was as sacred as a naked sprint across the Lawn.
Fortunately for Jeffrey Oates, Route 250 was a back road and wasn’t heavily trafficked. He followed closely behind the McDonalds’ Volvo, but not so close as to be conspicuous. He had borrowed a colleague’s car with Virginia license plates for the same reason. It was a late-model Mustang, and unlike his ten-year-old Taurus, it had speed to burn. That was crucial because Oates would need to make a quick getaway.
Oates followed the McDonalds for the better part of ten miles. Where the heck were they going? he said to himself more than once. He wasn’t from Charlottesville, but he knew that a college town of its size and significance must have a number of quality restaurants.
Finally, the Volvo turned into a gravel parking lot about a quarter of a mile west of a small wooden sign that read
C
ROZET
at the top and
I
NCORPORATED 1791
at the bottom. In a way, Oates thought, it was good that the McDonalds had decided to celebrate Valentine’s Day outside of town. There would be fewer witnesses this way. He knew it took only
one
witness, though. One person who could identify him. He needed to be careful.
Jenny McDonald was the first to exit the car. She placed her purse on the roof, tucked her hair behind her ears, and opened the back door. She leaned over and unbuckled the child safety seat that held her slumbering daughter. Megan never stayed awake for more than five minutes in the car. Jenny and Peter had discovered that when Megan was a baby and wouldn’t sleep through the night. One evening, at about half past eleven, Peter decided to drive his crying daughter around the block. Five minutes later, she was sleeping as soundly as a senior citizen after a Wheel of Fortune marathon on the Game Show Network.
“Come on, Professor,” Oates muttered. He bit his lip. He had picked the wrong time to try to quit smoking. “Get out of the car. Get out of the goddamn car.”
Oates felt more than a little guilty about the prospect of shooting McDonald in front of his wife and daughter, but he had no choice. Senator Burton had insisted that the deed be done ASAP. And what the senator wanted, the senator got. Everyone on the senator’s staff knew that. Jeffrey Oates certainly did.