Blue Bloods of Bois D’Arc

by Brown,Dick

  “Just a few minutes of your time that’s all. I have a couple of questions for you.”

  “Fire away, G-Man. I got nothin’ to hide.”

  “Thank you. Several months ago, Rusty said he asked you to drive this man home. He was too drunk to drive. Do you remember him?” Garza held up Jones’s photo.

  “That’s him, but he ain’t local. I checked his wallet and his driver’s license said his name was Homer C. Jones from Bois D’Arc, about ten miles from here. I didn’t want to do it because it was late and I had to get up early to drive my route. Then I seen he had a wallet stuffed with twenty-dollar bills. So I got Buck here”—he nodded toward a short man with his belly hanging over his belt at the other end of the pool table— “to follow us in my car and took a couple of twenties each to cover our time and expenses. I think that was fair since I didn’t even know the guy. We were doin’ him a big favor by drivin’ him home in that wreck he called a pickup. We coulda rolled him for all that wad of money, but I just drove him home, that’s all. Man, his wife was really pissed. Me ’n Buck carried him in the house and dumped him on his bed and got the hell outta’ there. Does that answer your question, Mr. G-Man?”

  “Yes it does. I thank you for your time, gentlemen. Enjoy your game and have a good evening.”

  Early the next morning, Special Agent Garza was on his way to the Dallas County Courthouse to get a search warrant for Homer Jones’s house. A half hour later, he was traveling north on his way to Bois D’Arc.

  Chapter 66

  Campaign season begins

  Not only had the weather warmed up, the primary election campaign had, too. TJ’s campaign manager from Dallas had put him through a program to polish him up for the rigorous campaign ahead. The person his hometown knew as Junior, or his professional football moniker TJ, was now Earl Jefferson. Thomas was discarded because Thomas Jefferson was a slaveholder and because people tended to use the shortened nickname Tom as in Uncle Tom. His middle name was a better fit and there was no nickname for Earl. His jive and slang language was cleaned up to a crisp verbal presentation without any Texas accent. He was coached on how to anticipate and respond to reporters’ questions. And most important, he was drilled to stay on message and work his point of view into every answer, no matter what the question was.

  Earl had come home to take a break from his strict programming regimen and steady diet of politics. He looked up his old friend and set up a lunch date at the country club. The man Rod met for lunch wasn’t the same person he’d known just six months ago. Earl was already seated and looking at the new menu when Rod entered the dining room. He stood and met Rod with a firm handshake, as he was trained to do from now on—not their traditional handshake that looked more like arm wrestling.

  “Good to see you,” Rod said. “It seems like ages ago we had the launch luncheon here.”

  “Yeah, they’ve been working me pretty hard. It was easier to learn a new defensive set every week with the Rams than all the issues and stuff they’re feeding me. I had no idea politics could be so hard. But let’s not talk shop. I came home to get away from it for a while.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. I have a hard time not taking my work home. Cass gets out of sorts about it, and keeps me on a short leash when I get home.”

  “How’s she doing these days? Still having morning sickness?”

  “No, she finally got through that. Actually, she’s doing pretty well now. Her attitude has improved a hundred percent without the morning sickness. She had a rough few months and wasn’t sure she liked this baby idea. But she’s fine now. What about you? Got any prospects in the wings?”

  “I’m too busy to have a social life. Actually, I think things will be less stressful once I get more involved in the campaign which we need to do ASAP. I’m really looking forward to it. I know this sounds corny or like political rhetoric, but I really want to win and make a difference. I’ve never felt this motivated about anything before . . . not even football.”

  “Not corny at all,” Rod said. “A candidate has to be sincere and put his heart into it, otherwise the voters will see through it and be turned off.” Changing the subject, Rod asked, “How’s your dad doing? I miss seeing him and especially his great steaks. The food here just doesn’t taste the same since he retired.”

  “You know Pop, he always wants to be busy. He doesn’t have much to do around the new house. He’s having some health issues. His hip is causing him a lot of pain and it’s making it harder for him to get around these days. The doctor told him he needed a hip replacement, but he won’t go back to the doctor or admit that he’s just getting old.” Earl chuckled. “Some days I think Momma’s going to kick him out of the house. Those two are like a TV sitcom some days, but they still love each other at the end of the day. Thanks for asking.”

  Looking concerned, Earl leaned in toward Rod and spoke softly as a precaution in the crowded dining room. “What I really want to talk to you about is this organization that’s running my campaign.

  “What happened to not talking shop?”

  “Sorry about that, I can’t seem to get this out of my mind and you’re the only one I trust to talk to about it. These people just came out of nowhere and recruited me as a candidate. They know my life history, but I don’t know anything about them and that bothers me. Anytime I ask about who they represent or where the money’s coming from, they tell me not to worry about that, just concentrate on the campaign. But I do worry. I don’t think they are being straight with me. One of the soldiers, that’s what they like to call themselves, left his briefcase open one day and I checked out some of the material in it. I was shocked. It was Black Panther literature.”

  “Are you serious? Those guys are really radical.”

  “I’m dead serious. We had some problems with them when I was in California. I started a foundation, Kidbackers of America, for kids in Los Angeles. The Rams organization helped promote it. That’s where I really got interested in working with underprivileged kids. The ghettos in California are really bad. Most kids don’t have half a chance to make it out of there. The Black Panthers worked their way into the neighborhoods, claiming they were protecting them against the white racist police. Parents bought into it and let them recruit their teenagers into their organization.

  “They brainwashed the young recruits to hate all white people and the government and preached black power and revolution. They wouldn’t let us in to try and help the kids with sports clinics and football camps. Even though most of the volunteer team members were black, they said we were Uncle Toms, like puppets for the racist government. In Oakland, they convinced the people they were the good guys by handing out some free groceries from their headquarters. They gained control of black communities so they could preach their radical black revolution philosophy. We grew up under segregation. It wasn’t easy, but I don’t hate white people and I don’t want to start a race war.”

  “So, what are you saying? You think they’re using you and your campaign to promote their cause if you get elected?”

  “I don’t know. I just found this out and need to know more about them. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I need your help. Will you do some investigating for me?”

  “Sure, anything I can do to help.”

  “You have the resources to check these guys out. I can’t do it without raising suspicion. I need to know exactly what I’m dealing with and if I can trust them. Right now they’re preparing me with the typical political candidate line—better schools, more jobs, that kind of thing politicians say every election. I need to trust them to support my campaign for real change, not revolution. I won’t be their puppet.”

  “We have pretty good relations with an FBI agent in Dallas. He would be interested in knowing their agenda and I think he will do some checking for us. Give me a week to see what we can come up with. If you find out anyth
ing else, call me.”

  “Thanks, man. I knew I could depend on you. And for the record, I’m serious about the issues. I want to help clean up the ghettos and give those kids a chance to get out of there and get a better education and a job so they can have a normal life without drugs and gangs ruling the streets. Just not the way the Black Panthers are doing it.”

  The two friends relaxed and ate their meals, making small talk about the good old days growing up together without noticing the color of each other’s skin. When they finished dinner and made it as far as the parking lot, Earl dropped the political decorum and gave Rod a big bear hug.

  “This has been great, just what I needed,” Earl confided as he released his hug. “My best to Cass. I hope it’s a boy.”

  “Thanks. Be careful, and tell your dad I asked about him.” Rod waved and assured his friend he’d be in touch soon.

  Chapter 67

  Special Agent Garza’s visit

  It was an overcast day with thundershowers predicted. Special Agent Garza held an umbrella in his left hand as he punched the doorbell. He waited for several minutes and punched it again. Mrs. Jones limped to the door.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to answer the door,” Mrs. Jones said. “This change in the weather’s got my arthritis acting up again. I don’t believe we’ve met. Can I help you?”

  “I’m FBI Special Agent Manuel Garza,” he said and showed her his badge. “I’m sorry for your loss and hate to bother you, Mrs. Jones, but I’m investigating your husband’s death and would like to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”

  “Yes, sir, come right in. Would you like some coffee? I just put the pot on, should be ready by now.”

  “No thanks, I won’t take up much of your time.”

  “Suit yourself. Have a seat on the divan and make yourself comfortable, Mr. Garza. I’m going to pour me a cup of coffee if you don’t mind.”

  “Certainly, go right ahead.” When she left for the kitchen to get her coffee, Garza walked around the living room looking at family pictures. One picture sitting on a bookcase captured his undivided attention. In that particular photo Homer Jones, Bobby Peters, Woody Henshaw, and Chavez Gutierrez were gathered around a horseshoe stake, arm in arm, holding up their Lone Star beer bottles in a salute. When Mrs. Jones came back, he asked about the photo.

  “I see Mr. Jones liked to play horseshoes. Who are his friends?” He already knew who the men were but wanted verification.

  “That one on Homer’s left is Woody Henshaw and the two on the right are Bobby Peters and Chavez Gutierrez. Those men world rather play horseshoes than eat when they’re hungry. They would get out in the backyard on Sunday afternoons and grill hamburgers, drink beer, and play horseshoes all day. Me and the wives cooked up black beans and made slaw and potato salad to go with the hamburgers. After we ate, the men played horseshoes. The ladies caught up on all the gossip in town. They truly loved their beer, burgers, and horseshoes.”

  Garza politely let her talk and get comfortable with him. “I’m sure they did. Mrs. Jones, seeing as your husband liked his beer, did he ever go out drinking with his friends late in the evening on occasions?”

  “He did a few times. One night he came home so drunk he couldn’t walk. A couple of fellows brought him in. I’d never met them before and I really raked him over the coals that night. He had a whale of a hangover the next morning, but I made him get up and go to work. Served him right. He never did that again.

  “How about phone calls, did he get late-night calls? Calls where he would leave the room to talk in private?”

  “Yes, he did, he got a few calls like that. He wouldn’t tell me who it was. Like I said, he was acting real funny the last few months before the accident.”

  “Did he ever confide in you that something was bothering him?”

  “Not Homer Jones, he didn’t tell me nothin’. He was a good man and a good husband. He loved our only daughter and granddaughter more than anything. But he never shared anything with me. He was just that way, a private man, and a proud man.”

  “Did he say anything unusual or buy anything that cost a lot before his accident?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact he did. He bought a new color TV set.”

  “Was it for any special occasion?”

  “No, he just said it was time we got a new TV and went down to Bois D’Arc Entertainment Company and bought one.”

  “Did he buy anything else that seemed out of the ordinary?”

  “Let me see . . . yes, he did. He bought our grandbaby a big swing set and a playhouse for our daughter’s backyard,” she laughed, “and she’s only eighteen months old! When I asked him why he did that, all he said was she would grow into it. He said he wanted to give her something our daughter couldn’t afford while he could. Her sorry husband left after the baby came. I don’t know, maybe that was it, he just felt sorry for her.

  “He wouldn’t tell me where he was getting the money to pay for all those things. He said he was working some overtime and getting things ready for when he retired. The thing was, he had another seven years before he could retire and I’m not sure we could have afforded for him to retire. I had to quit work when my arthritis got so bad I could hardly walk. I don’t draw much Social Security, because I didn’t pay in very long. I get his reduced pension from RJ Systems and his little Social Security check. I get by.”

  “I hate to ask you this, but it’s necessary for the investigation. Do you still have any of his records, notes or anything that might help me understand his movements the last few months before the accident? I would like to see them if you do. I have a search warrant.” Garza pulled the search warrant from his inside coat pocket to show her.

  “You don’t need no search warrant; I ain’t got nothin’ to hide. I haven’t touched a thing. His clothes are still hanging in the closet and his dresser is just like he left it the last day he went to work. He kept a lot of stuff in his top dresser drawer. Help yourself. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

  Agent Garza opened Homer’s closet door and went through all of his shirt and pants pockets. Nothing out of the ordinary—a grocery receipt in a shirt pocket and fifty cents in change in his pants pocket. His wallet and truck keys were on top of the dresser. He carefully examined the wallet that still had several twenty-dollar bills in it. Satisfied with his search, he started to leave. Then remembering she mentioned the top dresser drawer, he decided to check it out.

  The drawer was stuck because of the damp weather. A couple of pulls with both hands finally worked the drawer open enough to get to its contents. It was crammed with a variety of items, including a loaded .38 caliber revolver. There were old birthday cards, snapshots of his daughter and granddaughter and an old pair of broken sunglasses. A worn jewelry box in the back corner contained several pairs of cufflinks, an American flag lapel pen, and a spare house key. He dug around in the junk-filled drawer and fished out a small pocketsize address book. It contained the names, addresses, and phone numbers of his friends, a car repair garage, the post office, bank, and various other businesses in Bois D’Arc. On the last page there was the phone number, 437-4992, with no name or address. There were greasy fingerprints smudged on the page, indicating it was frequently used.

  Mrs. Jones came in unannounced. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, but there’s a box on the closet floor that he kept his papers and stuff in. He took care of the bills. I never knew how much money we had or who we owed it to. He was old-fashioned that way. It was his job to work and take care of the family. It was my job to keep the house clean and put meals on the table. I had to fight him tooth and nail to let me go to work after our daughter got married.”

  “Thank you, I’ll take a look at it in a moment.” But first he showed her the little address book and asked, “Do you know whose phone number this is?”


  She studied it for a minute and shook her head. “No, sir, I sure don’t.”

  “Do you mind if I borrow it for a few days?”

  “No, sir, not at all. It’s just going into the trash like most of the stuff in that drawer.”

  “Thank you, I’ll take a look at that box in the closet now if you don’t mind.”

  “Go right ahead, I’ll still be in the kitchen. I’m cooking up some collard greens, black beans, and sausage for lunch. You’re welcome to stay.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll be on my way soon.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Special Agent Garza sat the box on their bed and opened it up. There were file folders marked for the house payment, electric bills, appliances, grocery expenses, truck repairs, and several other expense categories. He flipped through those and their regular purchases, and the ones Mrs. Jones had already mentioned that were out of the ordinary.

  The last file had no label on it. When he opened it, he zeroed in on a stack of receipts bound by a rubber band. They were monthly cash bank deposit receipts in the amount of two thousand dollars each. In the bottom of the file folder, he found a crumpled piece of paper and a ballpoint pen lying next to it. He registered surprise when he read the name printed on it: Winthrop, Biggs, and Bartholomew, Attorneys at Law. Written on the crumpled piece of paper was the number 437-4992, the same number on the blank page in the address book. The phone number on the pen also matched the number in his little address book and on the piece of paper.

  Garza pulled a Ziploc bag from his pocket and placed the pen, crumpled paper, and address book in it. Into a second bag, he placed the stack of deposit slips and pocketed both evidence bags. He returned the cardboard file box back to the closet.