She then turned and walked away and I was utterly and completely alone, the half-living among the full-dead, mourning the small, sweet, pretty monster who had done far more damage to me than if she had put me to sleep, for in this waking sleep of living death, what nightmares may come?
I have no idea how long I stood there alone, but eventually I wasn’t alone any longer. Seeming to simply appear out of nowhere, Frank Morgan was suddenly standing beside me.
Like me, he had no umbrella. Like me, he was soaked through––so I knew he had been waiting a while. Like me, he said nothing.
We stood there like that, raindrops wetly thumping us, the soggy ground, and Jordan’s headstone, the American flag flapping in the breeze, an unseen mourner crying for someone unknown to us close enough to be heard, neither of us uttering a sound.
We stood as stonily still and silent as Saint Mark beside us, and we stood that way for a very long time.
I don’t know how long we stood there that way. I only know that during the entirety of our time together there, Frank never said a single word. There was nothing to say and he knew it. What he probably didn’t know, what he couldn’t possibly have known, was how much his silent presence meant to me, did for me. It was as healing as anything that had happened since I had lost everything––my surrogate wife and son, my joy, my confidence, my calling, my way entire––and I would never forget it or him or our random Thursday in the rain.
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Blood Money Chapter 1
I was happy.
I had been happy before but nothing like this. Never anything remotely resembling this.
Moments, glimpses, flashes, always fleeting, always evanescent, always tinged and diluted before had become something altogether different, something absolute, something abiding.
Of course there was much to be unhappy about—both in the macrocosm of the wide world where the wounded, stunted, and sociopathic wanted war and control and more of everything, and the microcosm of my own small world where my dad and I were about to lose our jobs, my mom was about to lose her life, and Anna’s soon-to-be ex was spreading his misery around like a contact contagion––but Anna and I were together, a grace that not only made me beyond happy but put everything else into perspective.
It was a beautiful mid-September evening, a little after four––several hours before the first body would be discovered and then stolen––and Dad and I were riding out to Potter Farm for a quarterly men-only social gathering of not inconsequential political import.
I wasn’t happy about that.
Being away from Anna at a social and political event with only the male movers and shakers––and wannabe movers and shakers––of Potter County and our part of the Panhandle was a special kind of hell for someone like me.
I had never been part of the good ol’ boy club grasping for power and greasing of deals. The truth was I despised it. No matter how mannerly, no matter how seemingly good-natured and benign, the Old South oligarchy was not just corrupt and counter to democracy, but sexist, racist, greedy, and oppressive––a more invisible and insidious incarnation of Jim Crow.
But Dad was up for reelection and facing a very real threat in the general election after narrowly winning the primary, and it’d be political suicide for him not to attend with his supportive sons in tow.
Potter Farm was a forty-acre spread some five miles outside of town and a mile and a half from the prison, with a small lake, a barn, and a rustic old farmhouse.
Vehicles, mostly large luxury trucks, were parked on either side of the winding dirt road that led into the place––and three and four deep in the pasture beyond them.
The setting sun was mostly an orange-and-purple aura behind the farmhouse and barn and the cypress trees lining the lake, its muted glow magical, beautiful, peaceful.
Between the old house and the barn, which was set some fifty yards beyond it, large event tents had been erected beneath banks of generator-powered halogen lights.
As we searched for a place to park, Dad said, “Anything you can do to help me . . .”
I nodded.
“I know this isn’t exactly your kind of . . . but . . .”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“What the hell?” Dad said.
I turned to see what had caught his attention.
Hugh Glenn.
“Son of a bitch’s got some balls,” Dad added.
Hugh Glenn was the Democratic candidate running against Dad, and though this gathering was open to the public, it was being paid for by the Republican Party of Potter County and the four candidates standing for election––Dad for sheriff, Richard Cox for judge, Don Stockton for county commissioner, and Ralph Long for property appraiser.
It was bad form for Hugh to be here, and I wondered if those running against the other three candidates were too.
By the time we parked and were climbing down out of Dad’s shiny new GMC truck, Hugh Glenn had disappeared into the crowd, but Jake walked out to meet us. “John,” he said.
“Jake,” I said.
Jake and I, like Cain and Abel, were brothers. “How are you?” he asked. “You been able to stop smiling yet?”
I smiled at that and shook my head. “Not yet.”
He was talking about Anna and how happy I was to finally be with her. It was said with more warmth and genuine friendliness that I was accustomed to from Jake—something he had replaced his open hostility for me with since I had helped him out of a jam or two a few weeks back.
“Good crowd,” Dad said. “Is,” Jake said. “Good sign.”
“Maybe. More likely they’re here for the free food and booze.”
Jake had been here for a while––setting up, cleaning, cooking––and not just because this was his crowd, his friends, but because as a deputy and Dad’s son, his livelihood depended on Dad winning too. “Fuckin’ Hugh Glenn is here,” Jake said. “Saw him.”
“And there’s a lot of drinking already goin’ on. I’s you, I’d make the rounds, shake the hands, eat the food, make your speech, then leave before it gets late. No way the after-party ain’t gettin’ out of hand.”
Dad nodded. “Here to do a job. Will leave as soon as it’s done.”
“Well, then,” Jake said, “let’s get to it.”
Blood Money Chapter 2
Later, I would think back on every interaction, every observation, attempting to recall every encounter and the thoughts and reactions they elicited, but as I moved through the throng of white men in pressed jeans, Roper Apache boots, and Brushpopper button downs, I had no way of knowing one among them would commit murder later in the night.
The first man I encountered was the head of the Potter County Republican Party, Felix Maxwell.
A largish, colorless man with gray hair and glasses, he had become the head of the party after failing several times to secure a seat in public office––either by election or appointment. He wasn’t particular.
“John Jordan,” he said as he squeezed and pumped my hand. “How the hell are you ol’ son? Whatta you think your dad’s chances are? Pretty good, huh? He could stand to be a little more social, little more friendly, but . . . I’m glad you’re here with him. Means a lot to us.”
“How’d this liberal get in?” someone said as he came up behind me and patted me on the back.
I turned to see Ralph Long smiling at me.
We had been friends in high school but had rarely seen each other since.
He was tall and slim with a bit of a potbelly, in khaki slacks and a navy sport shirt with his name and property appraiser embroidered on it.
“No way he’s a registered Republican,” he said to Felix.
“Actually, ironically, I am,” I said. “Had to switch from Independent to Republican to vote for Dad in the primary.”
“And your good old friend and great property appraiser Ralph Long,” he said.
“I started to, I really did, but then a little voice that sounded like him said he wouldn’t
want some old bleeding-heart convict-minister voting for him.”
He laughed. So did Felix. “How are you, man?” he said. “Good. You?”
“Great. Never been better. It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” I said.
“You were just kidding, weren’t you?” he said. “I need every vote I can get.”
I nodded. “I filled in the little circle beside your name.”
“Thanks man. Please do it again in the general election.”
“Plan to.”
Felix said, “You let me know if there’s anything I can do to convince you to stay registered for the right side.”
And with that they were both gone, on to greet their several other best friends.
I looked around.
In between the two large event tents, an open bar had been set up. Small farm tractors on either side of it held iced-down bottled water and canned soft drinks in their upturned buckets.
I walked toward the tractor on the left in search of a Cherry Dr. Pepper.
On the back side of the house, several enormous charcoal grills on trailers were filled with the best steaks the Potter County Republican party could afford, the smell from them carried by the smoke wafting through the evening air making me salivate.
Negotiating my way through the swarms of men, many with drinks and cigars in their hands, was challenging––particularly while attempting to smile and nod at each one and shake the hand of more than a few.
It would be a while before the steaks and baked potatoes were served, but folding tables with white table clothes held hearty appetizers of fried catfish, oysters on the half shell, venison link sausage, and peel-and-eat boiled shrimp.
The smell of it all made me hungry and I realized I had forgotten to eat lunch. Stopping by one of the tables on my way to the bar, I tossed a couple of catfish filets on a paper plate and kept moving.
I had only taken a few steps when I saw the warden walking directly toward me.
Bat Matson, Potter Correctional Institution’s new warden, had been the warden of the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola, the largest maximum-security prison in the country, just a few months ago.
Known as “the farm,” Angola was named after the home of African slaves who used to work its plantation. The site of a prison since the end of the Civil War, Angola’s eighteen thousand acres houses over five thousand men, three-quarters of whom are black, 85 percent of whom will die within its fences.
A fleshy man in his early sixties with prominent jowls and thick gray hair swooped to one side, Matson had come to Florida and to PCI with the new secretary of the department, who had been appointed by the new governor. He was authoritative, totalitarian, and fundamentalist, and not in any way fond of me.
I turned to my left to avoid him and came face to face with Anna’s soon-to-be ex-husband Chris Taunton.
“Just the man I’ve been wanting to see,” he said. “You been duckin’ me?”
I reached back and dropped the plate of catfish in the large plastic garbage can behind me and turned to face him, bracing for anything he might do.
“What can I do for you, Chris?”
“Well, for starters, John, you could stop fuckin’ my wife,” he said.
His breath smelled strongly of whiskey, but I wasn’t sure if that or his desire to embarrass me was behind his excessive volume.
Several of the men in our vicinity turned toward us. “Your marriage being over has nothing to do with me,” I said, “but it is over. I know you regret your affairs and other desperate acts and not treating that amazing woman like she deserves. Just make sure you direct that anger and disappointment in the right direction.”
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talkin’ to?” he said.
“Chris,” I said, “you’ve made some mistakes. Don’t make others. Stop calling. Stop riding by the house. Stop––”
“It’s not a house,” he said. “It’s a fuckin’ old tin box.
You’re trailer trash. You’re––”
“Stop the harassment. Stop making everything more difficult than it has to be.”
Clinching his fists at his sides and bowing out his chest, he took another step toward me.
“You don’t want to do this here,” I said.
“That’s where you’re wrong, you self-righteous piece of shit.”
Just before he took a swing, Don Stockton, the forty-something corrupt county commissioner, stepped between us and put his arms around Chris.
“This is not the place,” he said. “Not the time. Come on, let’s go out to my truck. There’s somethin’ I wanna show you.”
Chris seemed to be thinking about it.
“Come on,” Stockton said again. “I promise you’ll like it. It’ll take your mind off all this bullshit. John’s not goin’ anywhere. If you still want words with him later, y’all can go behind the barn when the place clears out. Okay?”
Chris shrugged Stockton’s hands off but didn’t make a move toward me.
“It’s me,” Stockton said. “You know if I say I’ve got something good for you then I do. Come on.”
“Okay,” Chris said, “but when he runs like the little pussy he is, you have to promise me you’ll help me catch him.”
“I promise.”
“What’s goin’ on here, Chaplain?” Bat Matson said as he stepped up beside me.
“I’ll tell you,” Chris said. “Your chaplain’s fuckin’ a married woman. That’s what.”
Matson looked at me with contempt, shook his head, and kept walking.
He had only gone a short distance when he turned back and said, “My office. First thing in the morning.” When I finally reached the bar area, I found Hugh Glenn sloshing his vodka and cranberry as he spouted his qualifications and vision for the sheriff ’s department.
There were several men around him but only because they were in line for the bar. Still, he spoke with the conviction that his captive audience was there for him.
After I found an ice-cold Dr. Pepper in the tractor bucket, I got in the bar line for some grenadine.
“Here’s Jack Jordan’s secret weapon right here,” Glenn said.
A few of the men turned and looked at me.
“John, what is your unofficial role in your dad’s department?”
“I have no role. Unofficial or otherwise.”
“How many cases do you solve for him each year?” he asked. “What percentage?”
I didn’t respond.
“First thing I’m gonna do when I’m sheriff is offer you a job,” he said. “How would you like to be my lead investigator?”
I still didn’t respond. “I’m serious,” he said.
“Did you have anything to do with that meth lab bust last night?” a youngish strawberry-blond-haired guy I only vaguely recognized said.
I shook my head.
“Notice how drug busts go up right before an election?” Glenn said.
“You have to admit that’s true,” the young guy said to me.
“It’s bullshit,” another guy said.
He was a short, dark-haired, dark-complected guy in his late twenties.
“Don’t listen to him,” the guy in line behind him said to me. “His sister was one of the ones that got busted.”
“Stepsister,” the dark guy corrected. “Got nothin’ to do with it. I’m glad her sorry ass is in jail, but if the sheriff was doin’ his damn job, her loser boyfriend would’ve been in there years ago and last night never would’ve happened.”
Thankfully, I reached the front of the line, got my grenadine, and was able to slip away.
“You guys enjoy your evening,” I said.
I found Jake over near the barn helping fry the fish and boil the shrimp.
He was standing in front of a large outdoor deep fryer hooked to a propane bottle, stirring the boiling shrimp with a wooden boat paddle.
He wore an apron with an American flag and the words HOME OF THE FREE BECAUSE OF THE BRAVE wr
itten on it. Beneath the words was the silhouette of soldiers before a red, white, and blue background.
“Last batch,” he said. “Want some fresh, hot shrimp?”
“Thanks,” I said, not wanting to reject any offer of civility he made toward me and searching desperately for something to do.
“Coming up.”
I thought about how much I had always loved fresh Gulf shrimp, and how the Deepwater Horizon oil spill had changed that for me. I couldn’t eat anything from the Gulf without thinking of and even sometimes tasting 4.9 million barrels of oil and 1.84 million gallons of Corexit dispersant in every bite––all of which still remained under the surface of the beautiful blue-green waters, and would continue to long after we who were doing so much damage were dead and gone.
“I can take over if you want to go mingle,” I said. “Mingle?”
“What would you call it?”
“Not something gay like mingle,” he said. “Thanks, but I’m done after this. I’ll go get my mingle on then.”
He knew how much using gay as a pejorative bothered me, but seemed to be saying it more out of habit than aggression.
Given the fragile nature of our new relationship, I let it go.
“How are the Jordan boys tonight?” Judge Richard Cox said as he walked up.
Richard Cox was a tall, trim man in his early sixties with bright blue eyes and a calm, confident manner.
He had been a judge in the county for as long as I could remember. He was respected and liked, but lacked the warmth and personableness to be loved. To the right of the most rightwing conservative, he was rigidly religious and punitive in his sentencing, but his approach to the law and life emanated from genuine conviction and he applied his judgements both in and out of the courtroom with equal severity for all.
“Just fine, Judge Cox,” Jake said. “How are you?”
“Be better if I could trouble you for a few of those fresh shrimp.”
“You got it.”
“They’ve run out over there and I didn’t get to try any. They’re my favorite. ’Specially in that spicy cajun seasoning.”
“Have all you like, Judge. We got plenty.”
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