Authors: Michael Malone
He stopped me with a wide paw across my breastbone. “You’re expecting more?”
“Goddammit, I didn’t expect this! Plus, the press is going to surround the place any minute now. If you already heard about it at the courthouse—” I saw Wes Pendergraph waving me over to the patrol car. “Go on in, will you, Isaac, I’ll be there in a second.”
Wes had changed out of his bloody uniform, but Cooper Hall's death was still in his eyes. He hung up the radio mike, and leaned from the open car door. “Chief, it's bad. About five minutes ago. The truck driver died in O.R. You know, he's just coming over the
hill, and then—he's dead. Lived in Athens, Georgia. Had a wife and three kids. She's already on a plane flying up to the hospital and doesn’t even know it's too late.”
I kicked at the tire. “Okay, Wes, get Nancy White, tell her to go to the airport, meet this woman's plane.”
“Do you want Nancy to tell her, or let the doctors?”
“Oh, Jesus wept…. Maybe we should
all
quit the force…. Look, tell Nancy it's up to her. Either way.” I started to walk off, but Wes called me back.
“Chief, McInnis called from Raleigh. He saw this Willis Tate. Says the guy's out for us; they’d brought him and his three friends in about noon on that harassing incident at the prison last night, and they still haven’t posted bail.” Wes checked his opened notebook. “The names you wanted checked from the Trinity Church arrests; one's in Fort Bragg and the other two got air-tights from employers, all day long.”
“Well, that's seven maniacs down, and a couple hundred buddies of theirs to go. Any word from Dick Cohen on the autopsy?”
“Yes, sir, he's not finished, but Hall was definitely shot through the head, one wound.”
“Rifle or pistol, can he tell?”
“He didn’t say. Lieutenant Foster is still working on the Subaru. He
thinks
there was at least one more bullet fired that missed the victim, exited through the windshield. The search squad left the site, but he went back.”
“Etham's still out there in the woods? It's pitch-dark.”
“I guess so.”
I tried to reach Etham Foster by radio, but he didn’t answer. He often wouldn’t answer in his lab either; you had to go downstairs to root him out, and even then he’d take his time swiveling around from his microscope, his six-and-a-half-foot frame S-curved over a high stool; his black elongated fingers, that had once made a basket-ball look like an orange, tweezing with patient precision a fluff of fabric from a shoe sole, a fleck of blood from a coat sleeve. I told Wes to keep calling him, to tell him to come back to headquarters. “And look here, soon as you can, you go get something to eat.” But
he said he wasn’t hungry, and I knew how he felt.
At seven Isaac was still inside with Mrs. Hall and the others, and by now the news-seekers, professional and amateur, were inching past the edges of the Hall yard, blustering their way to the porch, where two big deputies the county sheriff had sent over, uninvited, blocked the steps. The “Evening Edition” and “Action News” vans arrived almost simultaneously, perhaps drawn by the secret synchronicity that puts the same covers on
Time
and
Newsweek.
Right after them, a crew from Raleigh's CBS affiliate
and an Associated Press stringer drove up in a cab. Carol Cathy Cane spotted me and shoved her bearded cameraman past Bubba Percy. Thrusting her mike at my chin, Carol, a tall young woman who thought she resembled Jane Fonda, looked about as revved as a college cheerleader at the homecoming game. She never took a breath. “This is Carol Cathy Cane for ‘Action News.’ We’re here with Police Chief C.R. Mangum at the home of the slain civil rights activist, Cooper Hall, brother of condemned murderer George Hall whose execution—”
“Evening Edition” and CBS smashed their mikes against hers, while Bubba yelled, “Cuddy, is that confirmed? It wasn’t just a crack-up, he was shot?!”
I said, “Mr. Hall was involved in a head-on collision on I-28. He died at the scene. The driver of the truck struck by Hall's vehicle has now been pronounced dead by Haver University Hospital. There is evidence of—”
Shifting from cheerleading to offensive line tactics, Carol Cane jostled around “Evening Edition.” “Our sources at University Hospital say Hall
was definitely shot!
”
“There is evidence of a bullet wound. We’re waiting for the autopsy report before making any official statement.”
The stringer shoved back at Cane. “Was the killing racially motivated? Do you see a connection between this shooting and the governor's surprise stay of George Hall's execution yesterday?”
More questions piled on before I could answer his. “Wasn’t there a Klan-instigated assault on Hall last night at Dollard State Prison?” “Is the Hall family inside?” “Coop Hall told Channel Seven two months ago that racist threats had been made on his life.
Did the police make any attempt at all to investigate those charges?”
“Carol, every effort will be made—and has been made—to pursue all leads regarding racist threats against Mr. Hall, or anybody else in Hillston.” I heard a motorcycle approach. One of the mikes hit the side of my mouth when I pulled my head up to see over the cameras. While I was talking, I watched Jack Molina park the cycle, then get stopped at the curb by Wes Pendergraph. “And I urge anyone with
any
information about this tragedy—now, however insignificant it may seem to you—especially anybody who was traveling from the direction of Raleigh into Hillston on I-28 this afternoon, to
please
come forward.
“This is a sad, horrible loss of two lives here today. You can believe that whoever is responsible is going to be caught. That's all I have to say now. Except I want to ask you media folks to let Mrs. Hall alone; she's with her family and her minister. I know you can imagine how she's feeling.”
Bubba Percy had slid around behind me, and was running toward the back of the house, when Eli Johnson, a 280-pound sheriff's deputy, leaned over the porch rail and grabbed him by the back of his Burberry. I motioned to Wes to let Molina through, then helped shoulder a way for him up the steps. It was thirty degrees, Molina's breath fogged his round wireless spectacles, but he wasn’t wearing a coat over his sports jacket, so at first I thought he was trembling from cold; one look at his eyes showed me it was rage. It burned like sparks out of his face, even his hair looked electric. He said, “I just heard. The goddamn Nazis.”
Carol Cane swung her cameraman to face us. “You’re Jack Molina, aren’t you?” When he nodded, she twirled her finger to signal the video to start taping. “This is Professor Jack Molina, Andrew Brookside's campaign manager—”
“I’m not his campaign manager—” Molina began.
“—And, am I right, Dr. Molina, you’re a member of the Save George Hall Committee started by his brother Cooper? What's your response to today's tragedy?”
I’d thought Molina would brush by her, but instead, his glittering huge eyes stared straight into the lens atop the young
cameraman's shoulder. “Yes, this is a tragedy.” His voice was sharp and slow, not at all like his conversational voice, so reverberant that everyone turned to look. “A tragedy for the Halls, and a tragedy for Hillston. A tragedy that's happened too many times for too many years in this country, and made too many martyrs. Martyrs to the white hate of groups like the Klan and Brodie Cheek's Constitution Club. Martyrs to the white indifference of powerful political interests that allow that hate to go unpunished!”
CBS started taping too, and Molina turned his face to the new camera. “Cooper Hall was killed today because he stood up against prejudice and against injustice, because he fought for his brother George, and for all black victims of our racist society.
George Hall
was sentenced to die because he was black. And Coop Hall is dead because he was black!
”
A murmur swelled from the small neighborhood crowd stirring on the sidewalk.
He had everybody's attention. Like I said, I’d heard Jack Molina give speeches even back when he was in college. He was good. He was also dangerous—maybe mostly to himself. Linking the right-wing radio preacher Brodie Cheek with the Constitution Club, a conservative fund-raising association to which some of the most important political figures in the state belonged, and equating either one with the Klan, was about as far left of the most radical remark Andy Brookside had ever made as Che Guevara was to J.F.K. And trust Bubba Percy to dive right for the bottom line. He asked Molina, “Are you speaking for Andy Brookside?”
Molina answered the cameras. “I’ve come here to offer Mrs. Hall the personal condolences of President Brookside, who shares the horror and outrage we all feel tonight. Shares it more fully because the same ugly elements responsible for the Halls’ tragedy are the ones who have from the beginning of his campaign opposed, slandered, and threatened Andy Brookside.”
Bubba looked puzzled, an unfamiliar expression on his satisfied face. “Wait a minute, are you implying that your candidate's political opponents are in any way connected with what's happened to Coop Hall?”
Molina shook his head, but the pause he took first was long
enough for anybody who wanted to, to think that's exactly what he meant. Then he raised his arm, and spoke over the tops of the cameras to the growing cluster of blacks in the yard and street. “I’m saying racist fear and hate don’t want Andy Brookside to be governor!
I’m saying racist fear and hate killed Coop Hall!
”
“That's right!!” yelled a man's voice from the crowd, and another shouted, “Yeah!”
The Associated Press stringer muttered to Bubba Percy, “What's this guy doing, a campaign kickoff or what?”
“The fuck I know,” admitted Bubba. “Looks like he picked up about ten votes out there in the yard.”
Behind us, a shadow moved from the front door, and the news crews leapt forward to see who it was. Isaac Rosethorn squeezed toward the steps, motioning for me. Carol Cane got her mike as close as she could. “Sir! Is Mrs. Hall in there? Can you give us a statement? Could we speak with her?”
Isaac's fat fingers closed around the microphone, lifting it right out of Carol's hand, as if he thought it were connected to a P.A. system. His rumbling baritone made the “Action News” cameraman jerk his headphones away from his ears. “Folks! My name is Isaac Rosethorn, and I’m the Halls’ attorney.” He rubbed his fleece of white hair for a while. “Mrs. Hall thanks you for your sympathy and your concern for her family's grief. She's in bed now, under her physician's care. Nobody will be making any other statements tonight. Except this. Nothing is going to deter our struggle to win a new trial for George Hall, the new trial his slain brother was fighting for.”
The stringer asked, “What did George Hall say when he was told about his brother's murder?”
Isaac sighed. “If you want to ask him that, well, you’ll have to go to Dollard Prison and do it.”
With a terrible shriek, Cadmean's factory whistles pierced the air again. I gestured at the two deputies as I pushed to the top step to shout over the noise. “Okay, everybody, that's all! Any further reports, you’ll get them as soon as we have them. No more questions.” Eli Johnson and his partner began helping our force move the news people back through the yard, and five minutes later, they
were all gone, either because they had all they wanted, or didn’t figure they could get more, or just couldn’t hear over the C&W whistles. The crowd faded back into the shadows of Mill Street.
Isaac Rosethorn, swaying bearlike on the top step of the Hall's porch, reached for Molina on the step below him, pulling him back by a wad of his jacket. “What did you think you were doing just now, Jack?” The mildness of his tone was incongruous with his tight grip on the much smaller man. “This isn’t a political platform, this is a woman's home. She just lost her son.”
Twisting around, Molina jerked free. “I was saying exactly what her son would have wanted me to say.”
Rosethorn dropped his hands to his sides, then put them in his pockets. “Possibly. But I’m not so sure Coop would have wanted you to say it for Andy Brookside.”
Molina stepped around the old lawyer without replying.
“Just a second,” I said to him. “Couple of questions, Professor.” His pale long face twitched impatiently as he listened. “First off, did you know who it was Coop Hall planned to meet this afternoon in Hillston?”
“No idea. Ask Jordan.”
I said she’d told us she didn’t know, and he said if Jordan didn’t know, then nobody knew. He kept trying to move into the house. He was so keyed up, I felt like I was speaking across static wires. I asked if he had any knowledge of any written threats against Coop Hall.
He said no. “But I’ve got plenty of firsthand knowledge of, okay, mud clumps and bottles, okay, thrown in our faces, and fires set in our office, and hecklers at our vigils, okay?! Curses, taunts, spit—do they count? I’ve got a lot of knowledge of
threats!
Shit, man, Cooper's been
threatened
on the lousy radio!”
I leaned against the front door, which he was trying to open. “But not written threats? I’m asking because, see, I understand you do have some knowledge of written threats against Andy Brookside, and so I’m wondering if there's a connection.”
My question surprised him; his eyes widened as he ran his fingers over the stems of his round, wired glasses, pressing the loops behind his ears. “Andy told you that?”
I said, “No. He should have. You should have too. His wife told me. Have you seen any of these letters? Do you or Brookside
have
any of them?”
“Yeah, Andy showed me a few. I don’t know if he kept them or not”
“
Death
threats?”
“Yeah. Typical redneck ravings.”
I tilted my head to look at him. “Well now, how ’bout clarifying that a little bit? I’m a redneck myself.”
Molina balled his fists under his arms. “Lay off me, all right? I’m talking about run-of-the-mill Klan-type garbage. Rabid right-wing racist stuff. Look, politicians attract psychos. You can’t freak every time you get a poison-pen letter. Anyhow, Andy's got good security.”
“Right. Cooper Hall was just killed driving down an interstate highway at four in the afternoon.
Nobody's
got good security. I want to see you and Mr. Brookside about this. Try to find some of those letters. I’ll be in touch.” I stepped away from the door. “One last question. Do you know of anyone with any
personal
reason to want to kill Coop Hall—grudge, rivalry, anything like that? Somebody that hated him, that he hated?”