by W.H. Harrod
Unlike the main east/west highway carrying vehicular traffic into or out of Jonesboro, the road heading north out of town was covered with gravel and topped with a slurry seal. The slurry seal kept the dust down, but the ride was still noisy. The big tires Junior Junior kept on his old pickup didn’t help either. Loose rocks picked up by the wider tire tread bombarded the underside of the vehicle. I foolishly asked myself how Junior Junior could think as he traveled the county back roads in this clattering, gravel-throwing machine. Then I reminded myself that Junior Junior did not normally get any points for his thinking ability, which stood to reason in light of his less than fourteen word vocabulary.
I dismissed these and other thoughts to pay attention to the farm roads marking the beginning and end of the individual sections providing an alert traveler with accurate readings of distances traveled in one-mile increments. My instructions were to go three miles north from the city limits, then two miles west, and finally one half mile north again. At exactly one half-mile distance from the last turn I should see a forty-foot by sixty-foot white metal building with a green roof. Mayor Jennings would be waiting for me there.
Just as the Mayor said, a green roofed building appeared on the horizon. I instinctively looked for the Mayor’s Honda sedan, but all I saw was an old pickup truck in front of the building. The truck looked not to have been washed or cleaned for many years. Beside the vehicle stood none other than his honor the Mayor, and accompanying him were two overly large, floppy-eared hounds. The closer I got, I noticed the dogs taking every advantage of their brief freedom to run loose in the open countryside.
I slowed to make the turn onto the site through a large swinging gate standing wide open which caused the dogs to take an immediate interest in my intrusion onto their private playground. I barely passed through the gate when the two romping critters flanked each side of Junior Junior’s truck. Up close I could see the dogs were Labradors, one yellow and one black. Knowing something about Labs and the fact they are known as friendly and good-natured animals, I felt an immediate sense of relief. I proceeded up the gravel drive accompanied by the two braying hounds leading me to the place where the Mayor awaited my arrival. I parked the truck off to the side of the other vehicle, and after gathering up all the documents given to me earlier by the Mayor, I exited the truck.
“Afternoon Will, don’t worry about the hounds; they don’t bite. They might give you a good smell test though. Best just let them get it over with so they can get back to their romping and looking for varmints.” The Mayor laughed as he finished this last bit of advice.
I did exactly as he suggested, and sure enough, the two critters soon turned their attention back to the more important matter of finding something live to chase. So far it looked as if every suitable prey had departed long ago. No matter, these dogs were optimists and kept looking.
“Why don’t we go up to the front of the barn and take advantage of the late afternoon shade, Will. I have some old chairs and a card table there that I use from time to time. Sometimes I bring my work out here to get some time alone to figure out what to do.” Not waiting for an answer, the Mayor led the way.
Following along behind, I carried with me the documents he’d previously given to me pertaining to both the water privatization scheme and the administrative malfeasance. Once out of the sun and partially undercover of the barn’s roof, I felt glad the Mayor had made the suggestion. A slight breeze coming out of the north for a change gave us instant relief. I laid the pile of documents on the folding table and took a seat.
The Mayor seemed unhurried to join me at the table. He acted as if he dreaded hearing the information I intended to make available to him. I couldn’t blame the guy. He had a real small town mess on his hands. As far as I could determine all kinds of laws were being broken, and this stood apart from the complete lack of ethics involved with the Bufords’ attempt to market the town’s water system to foreign capitalists for their own economic gain.
“Well, what’s your thinking on all this, Will?” The tone in the Mayor’s voice left no doubt he already knew my response.
“I think you know exactly what my response is, Mayor. These guys obviously think of the town of Jonesboro as their personal piggy bank. There looks to be a substantial sum of money involved, and the Bufords are getting as much of it as they can from any source they can. There are the kickbacks for awarding city construction projects, the receipts for gifts and services from contractors in the form of Vegas trips, free labor on projects at their farm, free building materials, free tickets to professional and college sporting events, padded expense accounts, outright over billing for goods and services provided by suppliers who then share the proceeds with the Bufords, and outright threats and intimidation of bidders for city business of every kind. These guys are acting with impunity. I can’t believe they thought they could get away with this. How long have they been doing this kind of stuff?”
The Mayor rubbed his forehead with both hands while I cited the list of offenses. “There is evidence it’s been going on for a long time, Will. I believe my predecessors were aware of this but were too afraid to say anything. Matter of fact, there has been a lot of turnover in the Mayor’s job position in the last twenty years. Now I know why. No one wanted to buck heads with the Bufords. I also suspect one of the earlier city fathers secretly sent me the information that got me started investigating the whole matter. For the last year, I have spent a lot of time in my office after hours gathering the information you see here. During this period, I’ve received additional information and clues as to where to look for the proof of wrongdoing, but still, not a single individual has come forward to help me in person. People around here are scared, Will. Most likely for good reason, and that includes me.”
What the Mayor said did not surprise me. I agreed with him about being scared, and I had to admit I too felt intimidated with the Bufords lurking nearby. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough sense to run away. All my life I’d stood up when more intelligent people sat down. That’s why I displayed so many scars. It did not surprise me when I realized as the Mayor spoke, that if asked to help, I did not intend to sit down and shut up this time either. I empathized with many of these down-to-earth prairie denizens, and if they chose to stand up and do what’s right, I would stand with them.
“Mayor, you would not have brought me into this if you intended to do nothing. Maybe you are intimidated, but surely, you don’t intend to do nothing. These clowns can’t be allowed to get away with this. Everywhere I look in this country I see people in positions of power and influence taking advantage of the little guy, the average Joe. We have to stand up! Otherwise, we will deserve what’s going to happen to us. There have always been tyrants and thugs and phony messiahs taking advantage of the workingman and woman. Things are no different today. Hell, with the advent of government-sponsored free-market corporate style capitalism making theft easier, there are more crooks today then ever before. They don’t even have to carry guns to get the cash. All they need is a white shirt and tie and a management position in a financial institution that is supposed to take care of the average guy’s hard-earned money. Or better yet, get elected to public office. Present company excluded, of course.” I stopped talking then knowing that any action against these criminals needed to be initiated by members of the community, not by some drifter. Maybe I didn’t have the good sense to walk away from a fight that wasn’t mine, but I, at least, did not intend to lead the charge to exact justice. As if he were reading my thoughts, the Mayor looked up shaking his head.
“Does this stuff happen everywhere you go, Will? Why is it people get excited and do things out of the ordinary when you come around? The Preacher thinks you’ve been sent by God. You’ve turned Junior Junior’s diner into the hottest eatery in the county. Mary June is actually smiling and talking to people since she met you. Everybody is waiting to hear how your date with our hippie lady turns out Wednesday when you two go to the Democratic rally in Salina. And just this aftern
oon, you helped the young couple that was afraid that the IRS might put them in jail. Most importantly, you’ve stood up to Big Bob Buford! I’ve been told that Mr. Buford is not at all pleased with your presence in the community, which impresses the hell out of me. Otherwise, I doubt I would be sitting here making plans to raise a real ruckus in this small community. But I need someone I can trust, who won’t cut and run when things get mean and nasty as I believe they will. Can I count on your help, Will? I realize I have no right to impose on you, but truthfully, I don’t know if I have the nerve otherwise. These guys scare me.”
Sitting there listening to the Mayor, I became aware of a weird sensation starting to spread from my chest into other parts of my body. One of those warm and tingly feelings occurring when you realize you are about to stand up and be counted. It actually surprised me. For a long while I’d considered myself too disinterested to care about such trivial community matters, but not this time. I wanted in this fight for some reason. This was pretty heavy stuff. These crooks, in all likelihood, were going to jail if the Mayor got the evidence into the right hands. And that begged the question, why hadn’t he done that?
“Mayor, for what it’s worth you can count on me, but why haven’t you made contact with higher authorities before? What are you waiting for? Put these guys in jail! Obviously you are not alone in wanting them gone or you would not be getting help from those unknown sources. Don’t you have a City Attorney or a County Attorney? What about the Police Chief or Sheriff Slaybaugh?”
The Mayor looked pleased when he heard me say I would help, but as to why he had not made contact with higher authorities yet, he seemed unsure.
“That’s just it, Will, I don’t know who to trust. The City Attorney is a part-time position, and I suspect he must be somewhat aware of what’s going on. I don’t know that he’s in with them, but he is obviously reluctant to come forward. I don’t know that he wouldn’t turn everything over to the Bufords if I presented him with all my information. Same thing goes for the County Attorney. I haven’t had an hour’s worth of conversation with the man in my life. I have no reason to believe he is anything but honest, but as I said, I don’t know whom to trust. Except for you and Preacher Roy, and my wife, that is. I even thought about contacting that crazy County Judge who comes off as a paranoid nut when he catches people looking at him at the diner. But that guy scares the crap out of me.”
As the Mayor talked, an idea began to form in my suspicious brain. I agreed with him about not opening up to just anyone in this very tight knit community. Hell, all I had to do was step out onto the stairway landing that provided access to my little apartment and the whole town knew about it in a matter of minutes. The Mayor was right. This deal needed to be handled delicately. Maybe my idea might offer a solution.
“You know what? Maybe I have a solution. I know someone who lives in the Topeka area who could help us out. Are you interested in going off shore?” I asked the Mayor.
The Mayor’s expression gave his answer away long before he opened his mouth to respond. “Hell yes, I’m interested! What’s your idea?”
“Well, it’s simple really. I have an old friend in Topeka who is an attorney or was the last time I talked to him several years ago. This guy is brilliant but a little unorthodox. He might have been a wealthy man many times over except he always had a soft place in his heart for those folks who were getting run over by the judicial system or big business for lack of money. Most of his clients paid little if anything for his help. He often ended up with old cars, golf clubs, antiques, and sometimes nothing more than his client’s heartfelt thanks along with a promise to pay when he or she could. The guy wore the same suit daily until it practically fell off him. He had a well-deserved reputation for being honest and loyal to his clients. If he is still alive and living in eastern Kansas, he is the person to ask for help. The guy knows every attorney in the state, and more importantly, he knows if they are honest. I could contact him if you think it would help.”
I’m not positive, but I suspected the Mayor mouthed a quick prayer of thanks before responding to my offer.
“If we could be assured that any and all contact,” replied the Mayor in a tone of voice that implied both caution and relief, “would be conducted in complete privacy, I would very much like for you to contact this friend of yours. I have to tell you, Will, this whole mess is starting to weigh heavy on me, and this idea of yours has given me the first glimmer of hope I’ve experienced since I began the investigation. Regardless of how it turns out, I appreciate your help. I’m starting to wonder if the Preacher might be onto something about you?”
We dedicated ourselves to outlining a hurriedly contrived plan for me to contact my lawyer friend in Topeka. We also decided to initially keep the Mayor out of the loop. Only if we determined that my friend could be of help would we set up a face-to-face meeting somewhere outside of Jonesboro. Having agreed upon a plan, we said goodbye, and I headed back to town.
I went back over the entire meeting in my mind as I got Junior Junior’s truck headed back to town, and strangely, about the only thing that stood out in my mind pertained to the Mayor’s comment about the Preacher being “onto something.” The last thing I needed was for a bunch of farmers to start thinking I ended up in Jonesboro because God willed it. This is not the thirteenth century! Even if a God exists, I hoped he would dedicate his time to more important things, like maybe stopping wars or even wiping out a few of the many plagues currently ravaging various parts of the world. And of course, there were always the old standbys: hunger, racial prejudice, homelessness, genocide, global warming, and cancer just to mention a few topics that one might hope would carry a little more weight on the big guy’s cosmic to-do list.
Good sense prevailed, and I got back to the plan we agreed to. First, I needed to determine if one Carlton Prescott, Esq. yet lived and breathed in Topeka. If he did, I needed to go talk with him as soon as possible. The quickest that I saw this coming together, I decided, was the coming Wednesday. But that begged the question of what to do about Mary June and the trip to Salina. And what about the diner while I’m out of town for the day? The answer came so quickly it surprised me. I’d explain that I have emergency business back east and ask Mary June to sub for me at the diner. Are you crazy? Was the next thought that occurred to me. You propose to stand a lady up and then calmly ask her to work your shift at the diner with Flo? Why, they might kill each other!
I went over all the possibilities I could imagine during the return trip to Jonesboro. As wild as the idea was to ask Mary June to sub for me after telling her I couldn’t go to Salina, it still seemed the most logical solution. But first I needed to verify that my old friend Carlton still lived and breathed. I recalled seeing a Topeka phone book lying under the front counter in the diner. That’s where I headed.
Our meeting hadn’t taken more than an hour leaving me with a couple of hours of daylight to finalize my plan. Turning towards the west, I arrived at the town’s main intersection, then proceeded down the main drag past the post office, past the volunteer fire station, plus all the other usual places of business and public activities. As I came abreast of the town hall, I was met with the glaring countenance of Big Bob Buford. I’ll have to admit that the man’s half-evil, half-stupid glare unsettled me. Is that all the guy does all day long— drive around giving folks the evil eye? He wasn’t alone this time. I saw him turn and say something to another passenger sitting shotgun in his truck. I had never actually seen Big Bob’s brother, the one who sat on the city commission and most likely assisted Big Bob with his schemes, but I instantly detected a resemblance between them. Namely, both their faces displayed looks that could only be described as contemptuous, full of animosity, and displaying an air of arrogance borne of a sense of entitlement, fully supported by an obvious disregard for the well-being of their fellow humans. If someone asked me, I’d have to say from the looks I got, those guys didn’t like me.
I watched closely in my rear view mi
rror to see if the Bufords followed me, and to my surprise, nothing happened. Still not convinced they wouldn’t show up later, I turned into the diner parking lot and parked the truck close to the front entrance.
Exiting the truck, I hurried to unlock the diner door and get inside. I headed straight to the front checkout counter searching for the Topeka directory. Finding it where I expected, I flipped through the yellow pages until I came to the section listing attorneys. With my eyes following my forefinger down the pages, it surprised and excited me to find the name I searched for. Right there in bold letters was the name, Carlton Prescott, Attorney.
I looked at my watch and saw the time, 7:15 p.m. Surely, the man wouldn’t be at his office at this late hour. Then recalling how my old friend rarely conformed to usual customs and often spent the entire night at his office, I dialed the number. I looked at my watch again while waiting for the phone to ring on the other end. I heard a ring, then another, then another, and right as I decided the whole idea amounted to a waste of time, I heard a rattling noise on the other end. An image came to mind of a receiver being drug across a rough, uneven surface. The dragging noise stopped and I heard nothing, but I also didn’t hear the loud hum indicating a dead line. I waited for a voice. I had no idea what to do. Did someone answer the phone? I decided to take the initiative.
“Hello…Carlton? Carlton, are you there?” Still no answer, so I tried again. “Hello, Carlton. Carlton, are you there?” Hearing nothing again I decided to wait until the next morning and try again.
“Huuumph, Huuumph,” came the unintelligible noise through the receiver.
Right then I knew I had my man. “Hello, Carlton. Can you hear me?”
“What? Who the hell is this? Of course I can hear you! I answered the damn phone, didn’t I? Is this that chicken shit Burt Buggersmith or whatever the hell your name is? I told you to take that counter offer and shove it up your fat ass! That weasel little prick you represent is gonna pay for the grave injustice he’s perpetrated against my poor client. I—”
I knew I had to interrupt before he told me way more than I wanted to know about one of his eccentric clients.
“Carlton! Carlton! Hold on a second! This is your old buddy, Will Clayton. You remember me, don’t you? We used to play golf together at your club. I was riding with you the day you ran over Herb Wilson’s clubs after he accused you of lying about your ball not being out of bounds after bouncing back into the short rough following you hitting the portable crapper behind the seventh hole at the club. You remember me, don’t you?”
“Will Clayton? Bullshit! He’s dead! Good man, too. Heard he got sideways with some Mexican fellows for showing his pecker to a pretty senorita down in South Texas. Good man, that Will Clayton.”
I had to stifle myself as I tried unsuccessfully to block the images coming to my mind while I listened to my old friend Carlton’s ranting. This was the same Carlton Prescott, outwardly appearing and sounding completely insane but, in practice, a tireless and talented champion of the average man and woman. I looked forward to meeting with my old friend again.
Chapter Fourteen