Grass Roots

by Stuart Woods

  “You betcha,” Will said. He took the drink and sank into the sofa, opposite his parents’ matching chairs, before the hearth, where a cheerful fire was crackling away. He loved this room.

  “Good flight down?” his father asked.

  “Real good. It was pretty murky in the D.C. area, but it cleared up as I came south.”

  “That’s as good a metaphor for the state of the union as I’ve heard.” His father laughed.

  “What did Judge Boggs want?” his mother demanded. “I expect he’s stuck you with some case nobody else would take.”

  “Probably,” Will said, “but he made it sound like he wouldn’t trust it to anybody else. He roped in Elton Hunter, the Greenville lawyer, too. He’s prosecuting.” He gave them an account of his meeting with Judge Boggs. “The cagey old reprobate had already spoken with the Senator about my time. There was no way out.”

  “You think this Moody fellow did it?” his mother asked.

  “Hard to say,” Will replied. “The boy comes off well; he’ll be good on the stand, if I use him. I don’t really know what sort of a case they’ve got yet, but they have some sort of a witness—to what, I don’t know. Still, there’s something about Moody that makes me want to believe him—a sort of sweetness. The women on the jury will want to mother him.”

  “Has he got an alibi?” Billy Lee asked.

  “Has he? Wow! He’s got a girlfriend, who, when she gets on the stand, will make everybody doubt that he would have the energy to rape somebody else.”

  “Do you know anything about Sarah Cole?” his father asked.

  “Just that she’s black and a farmer’s daughter from up around Luthersville.”

  “There’s a lot more to her than that,” Billy said. “She’s—she was—smart as a whip. She graduated from high school in Greenville, but she got a scholarship to Bennington, in Vermont, and she apparently excelled there.”

  “You knew her?”

  “No, this has all been in the papers. There’s more, too. She got some sort of foundation grant and was running a counseling service for pregnant teenagers—the only thing like it around here.”

  “Sounds good,” Will said. “There’s a need for that.”

  “Yes, but Sarah Cole wasn’t making any friends in the county, not any white ones, anyway. She was a militant feminist, an avowed atheist, and a general all-round pain in the ass, or so I hear around the courthouse.” Billy got up and retrieved a newspaper from a table and handed it to Will. “She was also real good-looking.”

  Will stared into a strikingly beautiful face: café-au-lait skin, the features perfectly arranged, the hair in a short Afro cut, the eyes intelligent and, he thought, a little angry.

  “She’s said to have had a couple of white grandparents,” Billy said. “I think it annoyed a lot of people that she could be so objectionable and still be so attractive. She didn’t sound black, either. That always drives the white trash nuts.”

  “Well, this case obviously has all sorts of facets that will affect the trial,” Will said. He didn’t like them much, either.

  “It’s that way with every case,” his father replied. “You never know what you’re getting into. Tell me, did Judge Boggs flip a coin to decide who’d prosecute and who’d defend?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “He’s had that fifty-cent piece for thirty years. It’s got heads on both sides.”

  Will winced.

  Billy laughed. “He had already decided he wanted you to defend. No lawyer in the tri-county area would have defended that boy, so the Judge just picked one. You. Take it as a compliment.”

  Henry, Marie’s husband and the Lees’ houseman and factotum, stepped into the library, dressed in his usual uniform of black trousers, white shirt, and black bow tie. “It’s on the table, Miz Lee,” he said to Will’s mother.

  Patricia sighed. “In twenty years, I’ve never been able to get Henry to say, ‘Dinner is served.’ ” They all got to their feet and moved toward the dining room.

  When they were seated and the wine had been poured, Will cleared his throat. “I’ve got some news,” he said.

  His parents and aunt looked at him expectantly.

  “Senator Carr and I had a little talk this morning,” he said. “I’ve agreed to stay on with him through the election and for two years after that.”

  There was silence around the table. Both his parents looked slightly disappointed. His father started to speak, but Will held up a hand.

  “There’s more,” he said. “In exchange for the two years, he’s offered to back me to the hilt against Jim Barnett in four years’ time.

  “What does that mean, ‘to the hilt’?” his father asked.

  “It means he’ll support me publicly; he’ll call in every political debt owed him.” Will grinned. “And he’ll raise two million dollars for me.”

  “Hurrah!” his mother shouted.

  “You’re damn right, hurrah!” his father said. “If Ben Carr will really get behind you, you’re as good as elected!”

  “That’s wonderful, Will,” his aunt Ellie said. “I really didn’t think Ben Carr would ever commit himself like that. He’s always just stood aside and smiled a secret smile in every campaign I can remember.”

  Will’s father slapped his palm on the table and drew himself up into a semblance of Benjamin Carr’s posture. “I will vote for the nominee of my party!” he aped. “That’s the only endorsement I’ve heard him give since he campaigned for Franklin Roosevelt!” Billy picked up his glass. “I propose a toast,” he said. “To the future junior senator from Georgia!” They all drank to Will.

  Out in the hall, the telephone rang. Henry could be heard clomping toward it.

  “Well, that might be just a little premature,” Will said. “I mean, anything could happen in four years.”

  Henry stepped through the door from the hall. “Mr. Will,” he said. “Telephone for you.”

  “Henry,” Patricia said, “I’ve told you a hundred times that nobody in this family takes a phone call during dinner. Take a message.”

  “Yes’m,” Henry said, and retreated to the hall. A moment later, he was back. “It’s a Mr. Wendell from the Atlanta Constitution. He says it’s real important.”

  “Henry!” Patricia Lee growled.

  “No, it’s all right, Mother,” Will said. “Dudley Wendell is the assistant managing editor for news. He wouldn’t normally call; a reporter would. I’d better talk to him.” Will got up and followed Henry into the hall. He picked up the phone. “Hello, Dudley?”

  “Hey, Will. I’m sorry to bother you this time of night, but I need a comment on this story.” He stopped talking and waited.

  Will was baffled. Could the paper have already heard that he was defending Larry Moody? And was it important enough for an editor to call, instead of a reporter? “What story is that?” Will asked.

  Wendell still didn’t speak for a moment. “Do you mean you haven’t heard?” He sounded incredulous.

  “Heard what?”

  “Jesus, Will, I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you.”

  “Break what, Dudley? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Wendell could be heard drawing a deep breath. “Ben Carr has had a stroke. A bad one.”

  6

  Will switched on the autopilot, poured himself a cup of coffee from the thermos, and opened the roast-beef sandwich Marie had made for him. He managed a few bites, but his appetite had left him. He put the sandwich aside and contented himself with the coffee as he stared out into the night around him. The lights of small towns and occasional farmhouses passed beneath him, pinpoints in the darkness. He felt hollow. He was afraid.

  He was forty-one years old, and the past eight years of his life had revolved around the career of Ben Carr; now the man might be dying. The doctor Will had spoken to at the hospital in Newport, Georgia, the nearest to the Senator’s Flat Rock Farm, had not been optimistic. It was a bad stroke, as the newspaper editor
had said, and the outcome was in doubt.

  Normally, in an emergency, Will’s mind would focus on what had to be done to fix things or minimize the damage—what to say to the press. Now all he could do was think about his first meeting with Benjamin Carr.

  *

  “Your daddy says you need a job,” the Senator said dryly.

  “I guess that’s right,” Will admitted. He was tired of practicing law. The idea of working for a powerful senator appealed to him.

  Carr clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “What can you do?” he asked, as if he didn’t expect much of an answer.

  “Let’s see,” Will said, trying to think of a clever answer and failing. “I can draw a will; I can write a pretty good final-demand letter; I can defend a felon, or at least plea-bargain for him. I can negotiate a settlement, if the parties aren’t too far apart. I can build a boat and sail it; I can fly an airplane, as long as it doesn’t have more than one engine.”

  The Senator remained expressionless. “Are you any good at detail?” he asked. “I mean petty, boring detail.”

  Will nodded. “Pretty good, as long as it’s not all I have to do, or if I don’t have to do it for too long.”

  The Senator nodded back, the first encouragement he had given Will. “Can you hold your liquor?”

  “I’m better at not drinking too much of it than I am at holding it,” Will replied honestly.

  The Senator nodded again. “Can you keep your mouth shut?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’d be surprised how hard it is to find young fellows who can do that.” The Senator leaned forward, placed his elbows on his desk, and cradled his chin in his hands. “You ever draw any legislation?”

  “Yes, sir, twice, both times for clients who wanted something done in the state legislature.”

  “Were they signed into law?”

  “The first one didn’t make it out of committee; the second passed with enough amendments to make it ineffective.”

  The Senator grinned. “You were learning, anyhow,” he said. “You got any money of your own?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How much?”

  Will started to tell him it was none of his business, then checked himself. Instead, he said nothing, just returned the Senator’s gaze.

  “Let me put it this way,” the Senator said. “Can you get by on fifteen thousand dollars a year? That’s what I’m paying.”

  “Yes, sir,” Will replied without hesitation.

  The Senator fished a gold watch out of his vest pocket and consulted it. “Well, I’ve got a committee meeting in three minutes.” He stood up. “Come on, you might as well see what we’re up against around here.” He strode from the office with Will at his heels.

  In the hallway, Will caught up with him. “Excuse me, Senator,” he panted. “Am I hired?”

  “Son,” the Senator replied without looking at him, “you’ve already started.”

  *

  The wink of an airport beacon interrupted Will’s reverie, first white, then green. He reduced power and began his descent. On the ground, he spun the airplane around at a tie-down and cut the engine. As he did so, another racket filled his ears, and, fifty feet in front of him, a helicopter descended, its landing lights blinding him. As he got out of the airplane, he saw a Georgia State Patrol car speeding across the tarmac toward the copter, blue lights flashing. As Will watched, the Governor of Georgia, Mack Dean, hopped out of the helicopter and strode toward the waiting car, followed by a younger man and a state patrolman. Dean caught sight of Will and shouted over the whine of the dying copter engine, “Come on, Will, I’ll give you a lift!”

  Will piled into the state patrol car and found himself sandwiched between the Governor and the younger man.

  “You know Rob Cutts from the Constitution?” the Governor asked.

  Will shook the young man’s hand.

  “How is the Senator?” Cutts asked.

  “Now, Rob,” the Governor interjected. “Will can’t know any more than we do. He just got here, too. We’ll be at the hospital in a minute.” He turned to Will. “I just talked to him late this afternoon. He sounded fine.”

  Will nodded. “I know.”

  “He’s always been strong as a mule,” the Governor said. “You know, all he talked about this afternoon was you.”

  Will froze, remembering the Senator’s promise that morning to recommend to the Governor that he be appointed to succeed his boss if he died in office. He hadn’t wasted any time. They all sat quietly until the patrol car pulled up at the emergency entrance to the small hospital.

  The Governor led the way in, speaking or waving to the nurses and every other person he passed. He seemed disappointed that at this time of the night there weren’t more people to charm. A state patrolman stood guard outside the Senator’s room, and as they approached, a doctor came out of the room.

  “Governor,” he said, extending his hand, “I’m Ralph Daniels.”

  “Hey, Ralph,” the Governor replied, pumping the man’s hand, “how you doing? Or, more important, how’s the Senator doing?”

  The doctor shook his head. “It doesn’t look good, I’m afraid. I can’t guarantee he’ll make it through the night.”

  Rob Cutts, the reporter, trotted off in search of a phone.

  Will spoke up. “Dr. Daniels, I’m Will Lee, the Senator’s chief assistant.”

  “Oh, we’ve been waiting for you,” the doctor replied. “Miss Emmy wants to see you. She’s with the Senator.”

  “Just a minute,” Will said. “First, please tell me exactly what happened and what treatment he’s had.”

  “Oh, of course,” the doctor said. “His driver and his sister brought him in about six. He had been vomiting and had had numbness in his arms and legs, classic stroke symptoms. We got him started on IV fluids and oxygen; then I ordered a CAT scan—fortunately, we have the equipment; not many small-town hospitals do.”

  Will remembered pushing through the grant for the CAT scanner, at the Senator’s behest.

  “He became aphasic and more and more lethargic, and by the time we got him into bed, he was unconscious.”

  “What’s aphasic?” the Governor asked.

  “Unable to respond or communicate,” the doctor replied.

  “What did the CAT scan show?” Will asked.

  “He’s got a massive clot in what’s called Broca’s area of the brain, the part that controls speech and communication.”

  “Thank you,” Will said. “Let’s go in now.” He followed the doctor into the Senator’s room, with the Governor bringing up the rear. Benjamin Carr lay in bed, unconscious and breathing rapidly, attached to a container of clear fluid and to nasal cannulae for oxygen. The sight of him struck Will like a physical blow. Less than twenty-four hours before, the Senator had been his usual, strong self; now, instead of exuding vitality, the stuff of life came from bottles, dripping from tubes, seeping from hoses into his helpless body. Will was suddenly numb with pity and grief.

  Emma Carr, the Senator’s sister and only living relative, sat by the bed, holding his hand. She looked up and saw Will, and her face contorted. “You!” she spat. “You did this to him, him working the way he did. I guess you’re glad now, doing this to him! I wanted to see you so I could tell you to your face!”

  Will stood speechless, staring at the tiny bird-like creature, her hair white and her skin wrinkled and leathered from the south Georgia sun. What the hell was she talking about? The woman had always been something of an eccentric, and it had often occurred to Will that her presence in Ben Carr’s house was as much for him to keep an eye on her as for her to keep house for him. The black servants ran the place, anyway, with little help but much interference from Miss Emmy, as everyone called her.

  The doctor went to her side. “Please, Miss Emmy,” he said firmly, “we must keep it quiet in here.”

  Ben Carr suddenly drew a deep and noisy breath, then let it out. Everyone tur
ned and looked at him. Will waited for him to inhale again, but he did not. The seconds ticked away, and Ben Carr lay perfectly still, not breathing.

  “Doctor?” Will managed to say, “Is he …”

  The doctor was about to speak when he was interrupted by another sudden, loud inhaling from Ben Carr.

  “He’s in Cheyne-Stokes syndrome,” the doctor said. “I know it’s disturbing, but he’s breathing. Don’t worry, he won’t die of that.”

  Will became aware that Jasper, the Senator’s driver and factotum, was sitting quietly in a corner, crying softly. He went to the man. “Jasper,” he said. “Try not to worry. He’s doing all right.”

  Jasper looked up at him with wide, shining eyes. “I done what I could, Mr. Will,” he said. “I got him down here just as fast as the car would take me.”

  “I know you did,” Will replied soothingly. “You did exactly right. You probably saved his life.”

  “Oh, I hope so,” Jasper said. “I’m not ready to let go of that man.”

  The group stood silently for another ten minutes as Ben Carr struggled on. Once, Will counted thirty seconds after the Senator exhaled before he inhaled again. Miss Emmy still sat, holding her brother’s hand, now oblivious to the others.

  Finally, the doctor motioned Will and the Governor from the room. In the hallway he turned to Will. “She’s a handful, you know.” He nodded toward the room.

  “I know,” Will said.

  “Don’t you pay no attention to that old woman,” the Governor said. “She’s crazy as a bat.”

  “I’m not sure she’s competent to make judgments about his treatment,” the doctor said.

  “I don’t think she is,” Will agreed. “Humor her as best you can, but please consult me if any decisions have to be made.”

  “I’ve never treated the Senator,” the doctor said, “so, of course, I haven’t been able to get a history. Who is his regular physician?”

  “The Senate doctor and Walter Reed Hospital have taken care of him for years,” Will said. “He had a physical only yesterday, so you can get an up-to-date history from the hospital. I know that his blood pressure was up, but I don’t know how much. They had prescribed some medication, but I don’t think he would even have had time to have the prescription filled.”