45
Sunday morning, as part of a new weekly series spotlighting local clergy, Ruth stands outside the arched double doors of the First Methodist Church, having a final cigarette before the service begins.
Among those milling around the base of the church steps, one man mentions his disappointment over the past week’s election. A woman chimes in her upset over the school board’s firing of Principal Ed Cantrell. “They say Ed resigned, but that’s a bunch of hogwash,” she declares, hardening red lips.
Plump, henna-haired Patsy Denby, Doc Denby’s wife, nods. “Seems to me Sheriff DeLuth’s on the warpath. Had the Klan out to those Indians, the Dares’ house last night,” she confides, eyes bright beneath pencil-thin brows.
“What?”
Ruth gasps, nearly swallowing the stub of her half-smoked cigarette.
“Why, Patsy, how
on earth
could you know that?” Patsy’s sister, Sandra Moore, married to the local pharmacist, demands.
“Because,” Patsy says, “five of ’em came to our house afterward, rousted Charles outta bed for help with bee stings! Said they were attacked by a whole cloud of bees. Must have had forty, fifty stings apiece! One of ’em, Leroy Russell, bit so bad he couldn’t walk or talk!”
“But why in the world did they bother Charles?” MaryEllen Ranson scrunches her face at the veterinarian’s wife.
Patsy grins. “They were ranch hands mostly, from the Cunningham place. Told him he was the only doctor they knew!”
“But, Patsy,” Deacon Red Phillips interjects, “how’d Charles know they were Klanners? Where they’d been?”
“Well,”—Patsy eyes the circle that had now grown to a dozen or so—“they were still in their robes and all, covered with bees. Most of the bites were on their hands and faces. And Charles made them tell where it happened.”
“Was anybody home? Did they say what they did?” Ruth asks it urgently, knowing full well that Franklin Dare and his brother are away collecting documents for their suit against the school board.
“Said they saw the boy, but then those bees came and they had to get outta there,” Patsy tells her.
George Meyers, owner of the local lumberyard and Will Dare’s employer, scowls mightily. “But both the Dare men are in North Carolina till late Monday.”
“So that poor woman and the children are out there all alone?” His wife lays a pale hand on his brawny forearm.
“It didn’t take long, three minutes flat,” Ruth tells Hugh on the phone, “for those Methodists to organize a forty-eight-hour prayer vigil out at the Dare property, to protect Lu Dare and the children till the men come home. The congregation’s still smarting, you know, from the Baptists turning their kids’ petition into a public prayer list. I’m on my way out there now, to photograph the tire marks, and let Lu and the kids know that the Methodist Cavalry is on its way!”
LATE THAT NIGHT, as Ruth, exhausted, slips into bed, Hugh rolls over and turns on the light.
“Well?” he asks quietly.
“Damnedest thing you ever saw,” she replies. “The women showed up first carting casseroles, carrying coffeepots, pitchers of iced tea. Set up camp in the clearing between the two cabins. George Meyers and the men came afterwards with a couple truckloads of scrap wood from his lumberyard. They parked their cars in a barricade across the drive, then built a huge bonfire, flames initially as high as a house.
“Every hour, on the hour, they pass out pieces of wood— ‘prayer logs,’ they call them—and gather ’round the fire. The minister or one of the deacons begins. Then, round robin, each one adds something—a special thought or appeal—and tosses their prayer log onto the fire. I imagine that sounds corny, or strange. But, I’ll tell you, Hugh, it was something else entirely. In between prayer circles, the women sing—turns out Lu has a lovely voice—and I actually heard them invite her to join the Methodist choir! And the men tell stories to entertain the children. One of them, Red Phillips, has a guitar and is teaching Daniel how to play. Hell, even Lila Hightower showed up. Somehow she knew that ‘Becca, the one with the nose, who never talks, has a favorite kind of cookie—thumbprint, they’re called, round with a dab of strawberry jam in the middle—and Lila shows up with a whole platterful. Had that little girl grinning from ear to ear.
“The whole day and into the night—the men are taking shifts tonight, the women will be back tomorrow—standing ‘round that fire felt—I don’t know, Hugh—instead of corny, it felt . . . communal, a community of good people gathered to do the right thing. And, instead of strange, it was somehow . . .” Ruth stops, searches for the exact word, which, when she finds it, comes out surprised, in a whisper. “. . . true.” She shakes her head, reaches over him, turns out the light. “Damnedest thing you ever saw,” she says softly, settling next to him in the dark.
TUESDAY MORNING, Ruth drives eagerly to the courthouse. Rumor has it that Judge Winston K. Woods, a Methodist, is fit to be tied. According to Paine Marsh, the Judge has cleared his docket and summoned all parties involved in the
Dares
v.
the Clark County School Board
suit to his courtroom for an immediate preliminary hearing.
In the hallway, Ruth greets an amused Lila Hightower. “Isn’t this a
bee
-yootiful day?” Lila demands. And together they find seats in the back.
Up front, Ruth spots the row of defendants in their suits: Superintendent Bateman, Chairman Zeke Roberts, and the rest of the all-male school board. Their attorneys, one old, one young, stand and face them, answering softly spoken queries, nodding reassurance.
Opposite them, the Dares seem dwarfed by the Victorian furniture, the high ceilings, the calculated grandeur of the courtroom: Pigtailed Minna and snaggle-toothed SaraFaye stare goggle-eyed up at Will; rail-thin Lu cuddles baby June in her lap, whispers to a somber ’Becca by her side; and the two stoics, Daniel and Franklin, sit ramrod straight on the aisle. In front of them is the quiet, dignified, silver-haired figure of attorney Paine Marsh, studying a thick, open book. Behind them is a rather large contingent of people from the prayer vigil.
Although identical in design, the Fifth Circuit courtroom, where Judge Woods presides, lacks the highly polished luster of Judge How-High’s Number Two next door.
Judge How-High was a stickler for appearances,
Ruth recalls. While Judge Woods, also called The Whittlin’ Judge, is known to arrive at his bench with a handful of sticks. At preliminary hearings, he announces to attorneys on both sides that he has deemed the case a two-stick, four-stick, anywhere up to a six-stick case. Which means he will listen patiently for the time it takes him to whittle down the designated number of sticks—curled shavings piling up in front of him, occasionally brushed off onto the floor—and at the very end of the last stick, he will rule.
Veteran attorneys know to match the length of their arguments to the length of the sticks. And that Judge Woods looks harshly on those who attempt to eat up more than their fair share of shavings. Ruth wonders if the school board’s attorneys understand this and privately hopes for their ignorance.
Two minutes before ten, there’s a brief, sharp exchange at the back of the courtroom. Sheriff K. A. DeLuth has arrived, and the Bailiff is requesting he surrender his firearm.
“No guns in the courtroom,” the Bailiff, a thin man with thick glasses, says.
“C’mon, Henry, I’m not about to shoot somebody in front of all these witnesses,” DeLuth jokes.
“Please, Sheriff. Judge’s orders.”
“No deal,” DeLuth says, abruptly serious, and brushes past the Bailiff, his ivory-handled pistol still in place. Ruth watches the big man sweep down the aisle, solicitously tipping his hat to the school-board wives seated behind their husbands, seizing the empty seat next to Zeke Roberts. Beside her, Ruth feels Lila bristle with contempt.
At precisely ten, the Honorable Winston K. Woods enters his courtroom, carrying one stick. He has the look of his name: tan, rough-hewn features, a shock of unruly hair falling over his forehead, and a rawboned build that moves with the unexpected grace of a born hunter.
As the Bailiff announces the case, Judge Woods scans the courtroom and catches sight of DeLuth’s pistol. “Bailiff,” he says sharply, obviously rankled, “did you or did you not request that the Sheriff surrender his firearm?”
“I did, sir.”
Woods turns an angry eye onto DeLuth. “Sheriff, you will surrender said firearm this instant or be found in contempt of court. And I will personally see that you serve time in your own jail!”
DeLuth stands, bowing his head, pouting his lips like a penitent schoolboy. Then, with a flourish, he unholsters his gun and presents it to the Bailiff.
Judge Woods, not pleased with the Sheriff’s showboating, turns a vicious glare onto the school board’s attorneys.
“Gentlemen, I have summoned your clients, as well as the plaintiffs, to inform you that this is hardly even a one-stick case, let alone two. The law is exceedingly clear. If the children in question are one-eighth or more Negro, your clients may refuse them entry to the white school system. If they are not, your clients are, by law, bound to provide them free, unfettered access to their education.
“Now, as I understand it, the plaintiffs claim to have legal proof that these four children are white. And the defendants claim proof they are not. One week from today, both sides will present said proof and I will rule. And, for the record, if you intend to clutter up my desk with any sort of Motion or Stay or any other such nonsense that might delay a swift and final decree on this case, I will find you in contempt. Further, if you are considering a Writ of Certiorari and Motion to Vacate, I can save you the trouble by informing you that the head of the Supreme Court of Florida has, this very morning, advised me it will be denied.
“Finally, Sheriff DeLuth,”—Judge Woods sets his cross-hairs on the big man whose grin hasn’t faltered—“I charge you with the responsibility of providing round-the-clock protection, against all unruly elements, to the plaintiffs in this case. In days past, I understand, residents of the community have been forced to do what is clearly your elected duty. You are to mount a twenty-four-hour roadblock at the entrance to the Dare property, denying access to all persons not appearing on a list provided you by their attorney. And, make no mistake, Sheriff,”—the Judge grates, stabbing a bony finger at DeLuth—“if, between this moment and next Tuesday, anyone harms so much as a single hair on one of the heads of these four children,
or
their parents’ property, this court will hold
you
personally accountable. And, I assure you, Sheriff, I will
not
be kind.”
Judge Woods pauses to survey his courtroom and, Ruth suspects, catch his breath. After a moment, he returns his gaze to the three attorneys up front.
“Gentlemen,” he nods, picking up his gavel in one hand, his stick in the other. With one smooth stroke, he strikes the sound block, stands, and, in five long strides, returns to his chambers.
46
Paine Marsh’s secretary, Bea Marquette, greets Lila with a sly grin. “Heard tell Judge Woods gave ’em both barrels at the Courthouse this mornin’.”
“Oh, he was in full bore all right,” Lila tells her. “And rightly so, I’d say.”
“Paine said the same thing. But, Lila? One thing bothers me.” Bea knits her penciled brows. “After Paine wins their claim, do you think those children are going to
want
to return to Lake Esther Elementary?”
“One thing at time, Bea,” Lila says, shaking her head. “One thing at a time. He ready for me?”
“Oh, sure, honey, go right on in.”
THOMAS PAINE MARSH rises from his big leather chair and warmly clasps her hand. After both are seated, on opposite sides of his desk, he observes, “Saw you in the back this morning.”
“Wouldn’t’ve missed it for the world. Any chance we’ll lose?”
“Not hardly.”
“Good,” she says, buoyed with relief and gratitude. And something else, something rare—
trust
. “Thanks again for taking this on, Paine,” she tells him impulsively.
“Simple thing, really,” he replies. “Now.” He lays his hand on the thick envelope on the desktop. “Want to see what showed up over the weekend?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
Marsh turns the envelope over, undoes the little string wrapped in a figure-eight closure on the flap, and slips out the stack of official-looking forms. Turning them ’round, top to bottom, he slides them across the desk to her.
Lila takes a minute to look them over. All are similar, in format, to the Receipt of Sale forms she’d found in her father’s files. But these are titled Livestock Transfer. They bear similar information as to each bull’s or cow’s description, original breeder, pedigree, and so forth. But at the bottom of each form is one glaring difference.
“They’re forged,” Lila says.
“What do you mean?”
“This is not my father’s signature.”
“Lila, I’ve seen the Judge’s signature hundreds of times. Looks like it to me.”
“Looks like it, yes. But, tell me, Paine: In any of those hundreds of times, did he ever once sign anything with a ballpoint pen?”
“Can’t say as I ever noticed.”
“When we were kids,” Lila tells him, “he read somewhere that J. P. Morgan always used a fountain pen. He ordered his special-made in ebony with fourteen-carat gold trim. From the day it arrived, he never used anything else.”
“Well, now that you mention it . . .”
“Don’t you remember, he almost always had a black ink stain on his writing finger, from that damn fountain pen?”
“Yes, I do remember that.”
“I challenge you to go through every document of his that you have, and anything filed down at the Courthouse, or anywhere else, and find one thing not signed with that fountain pen. You won’t. He was a fanatic about it.”
Marsh picks up his own pen, and makes a note.
“Another thing,” Lila says. “These are in blue ink. Daddy hated blue ink. Refused to use it. One time, he found an essay Louis had written in blue ink. Made him copy the whole thing over in black.”
Marsh shakes his head sympathetically. “He was tough on you two.”
Lila pushes away the memory of Louis, tears streaming down his face, writing and rewriting his eight-page essay, for no good reason other than their father’s whim.
“The last thing, Paine, is the date on these things. By this date, Daddy was bedridden downstairs, in the office. Had his phone, his typewriter, his stationery, everything, including his precious ebony fountain pen, by his side. There is no way in hell that on this date, he would have signed anything with something else. Most particularly, a blue ballpoint pen!”
“If we can
prove
all this,” Marsh says, level-eyed, “we’re talking forgery, material alteration, legal efficacy, and out-and-out fraud—felonies all.”
Lila, arms criss-crossed on top of the stack, meets his gaze. “Daddy didn’t sign these, Paine. No way, no how.”
He frowns in thought. “I won’t file anything till next week, after the Dares’ hearing. In the meantime, I’ll request a document search from the Clerk of the Court. And, at some point, I’ll need to depose Sissy, and probably your mamma.”
Lila makes a face. “Well, make sure you talk to Mamma in the mornin’. She’s not what you’d call reliable after noon.”
Marsh stares at her, troubled. “How you holdin’ up?” he asks gently.
“Oh, Paine, you know . . .”
“What I know is—your daddy left you with a terrible burden, but not without the resources to see it through.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—many’s the time he sat right there where you are, bragging about you being Top Brass, setting the Allies straight, giving the Russians, the Koreans what for. To hear him tell it, you practically ran the Berlin Airlift single-handed!”
“But, Paine—” Lila sits straight up, openmouthed. “Daddy and I parted on the worst of terms. I didn’t call, never wrote— except occasionally to Sissy and she was sworn to secrecy. How could he . . .”
“Your daddy”—Marsh shoots her a knowing look—“had ways of finding things out. A Congressman here, a Senator there, someone in Defense, the Armed Services Committee. He got regular reports. ‘That Lila,’ he’d sit right there and crow, ‘she has got what it takes!’ ”
“To do what?” She’s surprised to hear the words in her head come out of her mouth.
“I always took it to mean: Anything you want to, girl. Anything you want.”
Lila sits back, shaken. For weeks now, she’d endured one disaster after another—Jazz’s betrayal, the Jacksons’ barbecue, young Tom in the WigWam, Kyle’s reelection. And, of course,
Mamma’s check in Daddy’s files.
The cumulative effect had become a paralysis of guilt, shame, and uncertainty—
I’ve been walking
around for days waiting for the next awful thing, the other shoe to drop.
But not once had she expected this:
He knew!
Her father, whom she’d ignored, rejected, come home to bury without reconciliation,
knew
that one day she’d uncover the truth. The Judge, whom she’d bitterly blamed for Louis’s death and sentenced to ten years of silence, had refused to judge or reject her.
He even contrived, through his files, to show me the proof of his
innocence. And, through kind old Paine Marsh here, to send me his
blessing.
The extent of his faith in her, his uninterrupted pride in his only, unloving daughter, overwhelms her.
In spite of
everything, he forgave me my shortcomings, and continued to believe
I’ve “got what it takes.”
Something inside her turns, clicks, sharpens; a memory from her tenth summer. The Judge had bought a new boat, and decided it was high time that she and Louis learned how to water ski behind it in a glassy cove off Lake Marjorie. Louis, the athlete, got up on his first try. But Lila struggled. Time after time, she faltered, fell, came up sputtering, feeling like a waterlogged failure. For nearly an hour, she tried, the Judge and Louis patiently circling back, calling encouragement over the side. Finally, she’d had enough.
“I can’t do it,” she’d cried.
“Sure you can,” her brother insisted.
“No, I can’t! These skis are too long, and the rope’s too short. I’m wearing the wrong bathing suit. I need to go home and change it.”
The Judge had removed his sunglasses and given her the same eagle eye he gave repeat offenders or ill-prepared attorneys in his courtroom. “Only thing you need to change, Miss Priss,” he’d said quietly, “is your mind.”
Angry, determined, intent, she’d gotten up on her next try.
He knew.
An hour later, Lila steps briskly out of Marsh’s office. The sky overhead is a clear, see-forever blue, rimmed by a range of white clouds that high winds have whipped into snowy bright peaks.
Wheeling her pickup into the noontime traffic, bound for the Pine Forest Cemetery, she decides to stop by the Courthouse near the center of town. She’ll be leaving soon. And this time Hamp, most especially Hamp, deserves to know when. And why.
His secretary’s desk is empty.
Out to lunch,
she thinks, and raps softly on his door.
“Come in,” he calls, and looks up expectantly from the stacks of books and files blanketing his desk. “Lila!?” He shoots to his feet, comes around the desk, makes a show of settling her in one of his chairs. He doesn’t return to his desk, but sits down beside her, collapsing the space between them.
They’d spoken only casually, on the phone and in the Courthouse, since the Jacksons’ barbecue. He’d called to apologize for Charlie’s ridiculous comment about rekindling old flames. She’d disagreed. “You’d didn’t do anything. I was the one who bolted like a colt out of the barn.”
His expression is pleased, eager, with a shy smile that betrays the guarded hope she wished he didn’t have. “Quite a show this morning, huh?” he asks, opening on shared ground.
“Judge Woods’s or Kyle’s?”
“Pick your player. Either one was a vintage performance.”
“I’ve just come from Paine Marsh who says next week’s hearing should be a piece of cake,” Lila says.
“Piece of cake and, no doubt, a fine piece of courtroom theater. We could probably sell tickets—make a few bucks on the side.”
She eyes him with mock disgust.
He recoils in exaggerated self-righteousness. “For deposit to the Dare kids’ college fund, of course!”
Lila feels an inner twinge. This kind of playful repartee had always been the best part of being with Hamp. He had a child’s heart really: light, loving, and—
Oh, God
—so easily hurt. There was no getting ’round it. Nervous, she clears her throat. “What I meant was—Paine says next week is it. This business should be over and done with—”
“Ahead of schedule. The Governor-elect will be happy.”
“—and with his kids back in school, Franklin will be free to focus on the groves—”
“Just in time for high picking season.”
She can see in his eyes what he’s doing. “Hamp, this is hard enough without you interrupting. With Franklin in charge—”
“You’re leaving,” he says flatly.
God, there it went.
The child’s light was gone. Hurt and disappointment took its place.
“Hamp, I’m sorry. But aside from Paine, you’re the first to know.”
“Well, there’s that, isn’t there?” he says, rising, returning to his side of the desk. He opens his drawer, looks up. “A toast to old times?” His face is carefully composed, his smile that of Clark County’s tough-as-nails District Attorney. Lila attempts a dry swallow against the rising cotton in her throat. “I—”
“—have not a thing in the world to feel bad about, Lila. A fool and his heart are soon parted,” he says, pouring whiskey in both glasses. “Or is it luck, a fool and his luck?” he asks, handing over hers.
“It’s money, Hamp. The expression is ‘A fool and his
money
are soon parted’—”
“Oh, money. I never gave a rat’s ass about that.”
“—And you are not a fool, Hamp.”
God, this is awful.
“I beg to differ, Judge. I am most certainly”—he leans over the desk, clinks her glass—“a fool for you.”
Worse, worse than I ever imagined.
“I won’t drink to that, Hamp.”
“You don’t have to, my dear.” He lifts his glass. “This particular fool has learned, two times over, the excruciating pleasure of drinking alone.” He tosses back the entire amount in a single gulp. Then, smiling his guarded man’s smile, his prosecutor’s no-deal-on-copping-a-plea smile, he asks, “Mind if I have another?”