by R. Jean Reid
Nell was neither fooled nor flattered by it, but the police chief’s openness was a welcome change from the sheriff’s patronizing obtuseness.
There was an intense and ongoing rivalry between the two men, which made their appearance together unusual. The sheriff patrolled Tchula County and managed the county jail. In theory, he ceded jurisdiction to the town police at the city line. But there seemed to be a good deal of misunderstanding about exactly where the town boundaries were, and who ruled what.
The latest scuffle was the recent drunk driving arrests made by Sheriff Hickson. Of course, he’d consulted no one about setting up the roadblocks in town. “I got a right to clamp down on drunken driving wherever and whenever,” he had given as his statement the next day. “’Specially if no one else is doing it.”
Chief Shaun couldn’t publicly go after the sheriff—he couldn’t risk being seen as soft of drunk driving. His official quote was, “We’re always glad for the help of our fellow law enforcement officers, especially when we’re busy with crimes against property and persons. It’s good to have the lesser problems like drinking taken care of.” Behind the scenes, a number of people, the chief included, made grumbling noises about a set-up to embarrass the Pelican Bay Yacht Club and the people who went there.
Nell knew the sheriff well enough to know that he had his own standards—he’d placed his deputies the same distance away from both the yacht club and Ray’s Bar. He’d stopped all the cars and treated everyone the same. It wasn’t his fault that the drive to and from the yacht club followed a leafy, curving roadway, making it impossible for anyone to know the patrol cars were there. Ray’s Bar didn’t have any posh foliage blocking the patrons’ view, which gave them more warning than the denizens of the yacht club had.
More to the point, the police chief never turned down an invitation to one of the yacht club parties, whereas a goodly portion of the sheriff’s corpulent stomach had probably come directly from the taps at Ray’s Bar.
Nell had to admit that although she couldn’t disagree with the chief’s assessment about the sheriff wanting to embarrass the yacht club as much as catch drunk drivers, her sympathies in this case leaned toward the sheriff. A drunk driver was a drunk driver—it didn’t matter how he got there, cheap beer or single malt Scotch.
Admittedly, some of her lack of sympathy for the yacht club’s embarrassment was caused by its commodore’s clumsy attempt to cajole her to his view point.
“What’s the big deal?” Philip Yorst, the commodore, had said, having made a special trip to the newspaper office so Nell could get his side directly from him. “Some of our members are really sacrificing to pay those fines. We party and have a good time. A few drinks isn’t going to hurt anyone. You know that.”
Nell stared at him. She’d never much liked him but was always careful to not show it. She considered Yorst a social climber. He was known for having devised a uniform for the commodore to wear, something “befitting the position,” as he said. If he was going to pull the trigger on the starting pistol for the yacht club regattas, he obviously had to be properly attired to handle a weapon.
“No, I don’t know that. But I do know,” Nell had replied, her voice giving way to a steely anger she rarely showed, “that I’m a widow, Mr. Yorst, because someone had a few drinks.” She’d walked past him and out of her office, forcing him to foolishly stand there.
Nell tried to be a neutral reporter when caught between rivalries, but her editorial on the “sacrifices” of the ticketed drivers had been scathing.
Yet more often than not, Nell found herself leaning towards, for lack of a better description, Chief Shaun’s/the yacht club’s side of things. She had more in common with them than she had with the sheriff and the rough shrimpers who frequented Ray’s Bar. She’d been a journalist long enough to know that perfect objectivity was a myth. She tried to be honest and fair and keep her sympathies well hidden. It usually meant that the liberals thought her a right-wing dupe and the conservatives found her to be a godless Commie. Thom used to say, “Balance is pissing everybody off.”
She suspected she was going to come fairly close to that desired objective today. She doubted the men were rehashing the drunk driving skirmish, so she pressed them on the one other problem that might bring them together: “This conclave wouldn’t have anything to do with the girl’s body that was washed ashore by the harbor?” she asked.
“This ain’t a press conference,” Sheriff Hickson said.
“So, you’ve made no progress?” Nell queried.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Buddy, the politician, interjected.
“Was it murder?” Nell asked.
Buddy looked at his compatriots, as if not wanting to give an answer that might hurt his next election. Harold wouldn’t answer for his boss. Sheriff Hickson wasn’t going to answer a blunt question like that from a woman.
That left Chief Shaun. “We’re not sure. The body is badly decomposed, so there’s no clear indication. It’s possible the child drowned.”
“The fishes didn’t leave us much to go on,” Sheriff Hickson said. “You’re welcome to hop over to the morgue and take a look for yourself.”
“I’m very well aware of what seawater can do to human flesh.” Every sexist editor Nell had ever worked for thought it was fun to send the new girl reporter off to look at bodies. “So, are you investigating this as a murder or not?”
“Soon as we got evidence it’s a murder, we’ll treat it like a murder,” the sheriff retorted. “But unless someone confesses, that’s not likely to happen anytime soon.”
“It’s a question of resources,” Chief Shaun said, giving the educated, slick version of the sheriff’s answer. “The local medical examiner can’t find anything to indicate it was a homicide. Most likely a tragic drowning. Can we afford to spend the kind of money it would take to chase this down?”
“Those people don’t seem to much care, why should we?” Sheriff Hickson added.
Buddy Guy rolled his eyes at the sheriff’s remark but didn’t directly contradict him. Harold Reed’s face remained impassive.
“Would the lack of resources apply if this were the child of a white middle-class family instead of a poor black one?” Nell pushed. She’d been a better reporter than Thom. Sometimes she forgot the ways she balanced him out. She would ask the hard questions, push and probe until she got past the polite facade or carefully spun news releases.
“Hell,” Sheriff Hickson spat out, “the dad’s got a dozen check kiting arrests and dear lovin’ mom spent some time on the streets. You arguin’ to spend the taxpayers money on those kinds of people? I’m not a racist, lot of fine, upstanding black folk in this community, but these ain’t them.”
“Is the arrest report public record or can I quote you?” Nell asked him.
The sheriff didn’t answer, and to make clear that that was all he had to say, he turned on his heel and left the building.
“It’s a tough call, Nell,” Buddy said, trying to undo the damage. “Oh, hell, Harold, you explain it, I got a meeting to get to.” Buddy did a much more decorous exit than the sheriff. He clearly was avoiding the possibility that a quote from him about not doing an investigation would end up in the paper. Harold was on his own. If he said something that reflected badly on his boss, Buddy could deny it.
“We investigate all cases thoroughly,” Chief Shaun said. “It comes down to the evidence, not the class or color of the person.” Clearly a quote designed for attribution. With that, he slapped his braided cap on his head and also left the building.
All those familiar with the inner workings of the Tchula County Courthouse knew that Buddy Guy was a very good politician and a not-very-good lawyer. His enviable record was the result of the man standing before Nell. She knew Harold only in a professional role. As always, he was impeccably dressed, in a conservative charcoal-gray suit with a sedate burgundy tie.
Camouflage or armor, Nell wondered. Or both?
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t quote you on anything that will have Buddy worried about losing a few votes.”
Harold gave her a slight smile. “I wish we could go after justice, no matter what it takes. I wish we weren’t bound by rules and money and always weighing, what will it cost? Can we prove it? But, I’m sure you’ve covered enough cases to know how fragile the search for justice can be.”
“I know, we settle for the rules of law and hope that they come close.”
“We investigate and what do we find? An imperfect family, but nothing to indicate that either the mother or father are the kind of monsters who would kill their own daughter. As Sheriff Hickson so bluntly pointed out, we’ve got a suspicious body, but no evidence proving murder or abuse. We could make some phone calls, ship her to New Orleans or maybe even Atlanta and get a second opinion. And probably end up exactly where we are now. A girl dead and we don’t know how or why. Some deaths you have to let God take care of,” he finished with a sad smile.
“How do you stand it?” Nell suddenly asked, a question that pushed past the polite professional roles they’d always presented to each other. “Hickson’s ‘I’m not a racist’ racism? That a slick good ole boy like Buddy gets elected, but …”
“But I never will?” he finished for her. “Not while Tchula County is sixty-four percent white? Twenty years ago Buddy would never have hired me, no matter how many cases I won. It’s progress.”
“Is it enough?”
“No,” Harold answered quickly, a hint of carefully controlled anger seeping out. “No, of course it’s not enough. It probably won’t be enough in our lifetimes. I teach my children what the word nigger means. They’ll probably teach their children.”
Nell suddenly felt the hot flash of a parent, at not just having to explain to your child that the world is an unfair place, but at knowing your child will inevitably run into a brutal wall of hatred. “What a horrid thing for a child to understand!”
“But they will run into it,” he said softly. “We have to prepare them.”
Nell thought of all the things she worried about and scrambled to keep her children safe from—from something resembling good nutrition to whether she should be talking to Lizzie about condoms and HIV. Maybe even Josh. It was such a balancing act. What would it be like to add the burden of racial hatred to the life of a young child? “How do you teach them to stand it?” she asked.
For a moment, Harold was silent. Nell wondered if he was weighing his words, looking for the careful ones that wouldn’t sound too angry or strident to a white person.
“I tell them it’s possible that every day of their life, they will run into injustice, some slight, some moment when they’ll wonder, would I be treated this way if I weren’t black? They can fight every single battle and be angry every single day. And live an angry life. Or they can learn to pick the few important ones and let the rest go.”
“A hard lesson to learn. Thank you for answering my impertinent question,” Nell said.
“Most white people don’t thank black folks for being up front,” he said with a wry smile.
“You were honest. I’m a journalist. I like getting at least one honest answer a day.” Nell returned his wry smile. Then she became a reporter again and said, “I’d like to follow up on the girl’s death.”
“Why? Will it do any good?” Harold Reed asked, but it was an honest question, not a challenge.
“If she was murdered, it might remind the killer that murder has no statute of limitations. At least give him a few more sleepless nights. Maybe a story in the paper will jog someone’s memory. And if it was a senseless drowning, it might remind a few parents to watch over their children.”
“And maybe the killer will be so overcome with remorse at seeing it in the paper, he’ll confess,” Harold said with a small, sad smile. “But you’re right, we shouldn’t forget our dead so easily. Best person to talk to is her grandmother. She was more or less raising Tasha. Ella Jackson, on Rail Street. Should be in the phone book.”
“Thanks, Harold,” Nell said. There were rules—often overlooked—about giving out information. Letting her look up the phone number kept them just barely inside the lines. But Nell knew Harold Reed wouldn’t have given her the tip if he didn’t think she’d do the right kind of story. She took it as a compliment.
“Time to get back to the piled-high desk.”
“Please call me if there are any further developments,” Nell said.
“Of course. I’ll even call you and let you know if nothing can be done. Just don’t quote me on it.”
Nell gave him a nod to indicate she’d honor his request. He did have to work for Buddy Guy, after all.
As soon as Harold had disappeared through the outer door, Nell pulled a small notebook from her purse and jotted down the gist of the encounter. She wouldn’t take a story directly from this hallway meeting, although it was tempting to splash some of Sheriff Hickson’s quotes across the front page. But the notes could be useful.
She was glad that she’d been able to get at least a little bit beyond Harold’s careful mask. On a personal level, she knew he was a very intelligent man and his honesty was a compliment to her. On a professional level, she’d formed a connection with a man who could give her better information and stories than anyone else in the DA’s office. Nell had a feeling that they could use each other, in the good sense of the word. Harold would have information she wanted, and she had the power to get out stories that would otherwise be shuffled away.
Nell put the notebook back in her purse. Not a bad twenty minutes, she thought. She headed out along the walkway toward the library.
As she stepped through the door, she heard someone behind her say, “Rayburn, look out for that lady.”
But Rayburn, newly six, wasn’t looking for a woman standing on the far side of the door he was slingshotting around. He caromed into Nell, then spun away with aplomb, as if running into the legs of strange women was an everyday occurrence.
“Rayburn, you slow down now,” his mother called after him as he sped into the library.
His mother apologized to Nell. “Sorry, ’bout that. He’s just got so much energy,” she said in a way that told Nell she was proud of her energetic boy.
Velma Gautier. Nell knew her name—the births and deaths of Pelican Bay were with her every day. Velma had had Rayburn when she was forty-two, the last of eight children and five years younger than the previous sibling. Velma’s voice held a touch of pride that an old lady like her could produce such a robust young son. Six of her other children were girls and the only other son had very bad asthma.
“It’s okay,” Nell said as she diverted her thoughts from the tragedy of a young girl whose death had only questions and no answers. “He’s certainly an active young man.”
“Oh, yes, that he is. Keeps me hoppin’,” Velma answered.
Nell found herself wondering how she would write Velma’s story. It was something she often did with people, made them into newspaper stories. Sometimes she wondered if it was a way to control and encapsulate people, or if it was just habit and the way her brain worked and not something she should worry about.
Wind and water had aged Velma and roughened her; she looked more like Rayburn’s grandmother than his mother. She worked at the seafood store located at the mouth of the harbor, sorting and peeling the shrimp and crabs that the boats brought to the docks. Her husband, Ray—was it shortened to “Ray” or had his son been named for him?—used to be a shrimper until an accident had taken off most of his left arm. Then he’d rented the unused cement block building on the harbor’s edge and turned it into Ray’s Bar, the name in hot pink neon, with beer signs in all four windows.
Ray and his bar had occasionally demanded Nell’s attention because at least once a year, the yacht clu
b would try to get Ray’s Bar zoned out of existence. The club had come so close to getting the unused building torn down that they felt cheated when Ray had revived it and turned it into a bar. Located on the other side of the harbor, the yacht club didn’t want its sea-front vista to contain pink neon bar signs and advertisements for Miller, Dixie, and Bud.
Last month, Philip Yorst had written a letter to the editor complaining about drunk drivers in the harbor vicinity, which had been the match that lit the drunk driver fire. Sheriff Clureman Hickson had set up his spot checks for the following Saturday night. His men (and one woman—things were progressing a bit) arrested one drunk driver on Ray’s side of the harbor and ten coming out of a yacht club party.
The town alderman (no women there, yet) had mouthed the usual platitudes and, as usual, when the votes were taken, no one wanted to go on record for rezoning Ray’s Bar, with its one-armed father of eight, out of existence while allowing the yacht club to continue its well-lubricated events.
Velma often worked in the bar after her day in the seafood place (it had a name, but everyone referred to it as the seafood place and that was how Nell thought of it). The older kids were left to take care of the younger ones.
It was a life that had produced the woman in front of Nell—Velma’s face etched in lines, her hair course and gray, the body lumpy and sagging.
“How’s Miz Thomas doing? Haven’t seen her in the shop of late,” Velma asked Nell now. Miz Thomas was Mrs. Thomas Upton McGraw, Sr., Thom’s mother.
“She’s fine,” Nell replied. “I talked to her just yesterday.”
“Good to hear. Sometimes you just wonder when you don’t see people around. Well, let me go find Rayburn ’fore he runs all over.”
Nell held the door for Velma to enter the library, then stopped at the water fountain to avoid tagging silently behind the slower woman.
Thom would have been bantering with Velma Gautier, offering to carry her stack of books, asking about her other kids and Ray and what had just gotten off the boat, was the red snapper or the speckled trout good today? He had been the charmer, the one who could move from the yacht club to Ray’s Bar with a patter of small talk and jokes that opened people up. He’d sometimes referred to himself as the beauty and Nell the brains of the operation.