by Martin Clark
“I was only kidding,” Mason said. “Ranting and tilting at windmills and soapboxing isn’t really doing much for the problem at hand. My problem.”
“It pisses me off. Sorry.”
Mason cleared his throat. “For me, the big issue is not jamming you up. I’m here for advice, but this is my mess and I don’t want to take advantage of our friendship or pull you over the cliff with me. I guess we’ve sort of been down this road before, years ago when my family was threatened. I appreciate your help, but you need to take care of Custis first.”
“If my situation changes, I’ll tell you,” he said, the passion ebbing in his voice.
“I mean, you know, tomorrow I’m basically going to mislead the cops.”
Custis nodded. “You’re not under oath, and I’m not plannin’ on sayin’ too awful much. I’ll be there listenin’ and learnin’. In the end, no matter which way you come at this, it seems pointless and wrong for you to be charged and have your life ruined. Who benefits from that? You’re a good man, a good father and a good son. Not to mention a good friend.” Custis sat again. He rubbed his hands over his face. “Whatever punishment is fair, I’d say you’ve served your sentence, carryin’ this cross around as long as you have.”
Mason walked toward him and Custis stood and they met chest to chest and slapped each other on the back, and Mason left without either of them saying anything else, Richard Simmons still counting to the beat and chanting encouragement.
That night, from his table at the seafood restaurant, Mason saw Jasper Griffith’s pickup circle the parking lot and take a space near the end of a row. He had a dog cage in the truck bed, stuffed full of rowdy bluetick coonhounds. Mason and Grace were eating dinner, two popcorn shrimp and whitefish specials, and for reasons that were impossible to pin down or articulate, she was in a good humor, her fickle sulk suspended for the moment, lightning caught in a jar. She was talkative and agreeable, chatting with her dad about school, cheerleading, friends, boys and whatever else struck her fancy, eating one tiny shrimp at a time after spearing it on a fork and twirling it in cocktail sauce. Already dreading his morning appointment with the cops, Mason had no appetite, but he was enjoying his daughter’s generous mood, and he sipped his tea and ate a hush puppy and a few bites of broiled fish. Jasper came through the door, by himself, dressed in Carhartt coveralls and new brown boots, and while the hostess was collecting a menu and scouting out an empty booth for him, he noticed Mason and tramped across the restaurant to where he and Grace were eating.
Jasper was a bossy, opinionated man with a big yap who thought highly of himself and his place in the community. He’d inherited land and a few dollars from his crotchety dad, and he sold used cars and did excavation work and swapped and traded odds and ends, especially antique furniture and Depression glass. He approached Mason’s table, said hello and, remarkably, slid into the empty chair beside Grace without being invited, announcing in a determined voice he wanted to take care of a legal matter that wouldn’t keep.
A large part of Mason’s job was listening to the oafs and dolts who tugged on his sleeve at the high school play or cornered him at the grocery store to tell him their bullshit, convoluted legal woes and ask him to do the impossible, to snap his fingers and settle a decades-old boundary-line dispute, force a landlord to repair a mobile home’s grievous plumbing or persuade a deadbeat dad to ante up his child support. It was the bane of every small-town lawyer, the thoughtless boors who swooped in with no respect for place or privacy and invariably began the intrusion by declaring, “I need to ask you a legal question,” as if they were entitled to put any attorney to work on the spot, wherever and whenever, for free, for as long as they wished. Now here was Jasper Griffith, a grating, self-important man, sitting beside Mason’s daughter, interrupting their meal and the first decent conversation they’d had in weeks.
Mason raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. He’d said a curt hi, but that was the extent of it.
Both elbows on the table, Jasper remarked he’d “thought about visitin’ during business hours but hadn’t had a chance,” then launched into a diatribe about a hundred eighty dollars he was owed by Oneal Pack for a used transmission and set of rims.
Mason interrupted him while he was indignantly rambling on. “Jasper, my daughter and I are in the middle of our food, and I was enjoying our time together.”
“This ain’t gonna take long,” Jasper remarked, oblivious.
“No, it’s not. If you have a problem, call Sheila, set up an appointment and we’ll discuss it.”
“No need to get snotty about it, Mason.”
“I’m not. I’m simply telling you I don’t appreciate you busting in on us.”
“Really?” Jasper was a short, wiry man with ruddy skin, always clean-shaven and fussily neat. He usually smelled of sweet hair tonic.
“I’m simply asking for a little common courtesy.”
“Unlike all you hotshots up there in Stuart with bankers’ hours, I have to actually work, so it ain’t always real convenient for me to call your secretary and sacrifice my entire day so I can suit your schedule.”
“Then your problem must not be too urgent. Certainly not urgent enough to warrant discussing now. My daughter and I are going to finish our supper. By ourselves.”
Jasper smirked. He jerked his chair away from the table and shot to his feet in a huff. “You need an attitude adjustment, Mason. I’ve known you and your family all your life, and you’re gettin’ too big for your britches. You’re Curt Hunt’s boy, not some king. On top of that, you’re a public servant, son. You work for us, not the other way around. It’s a shame when a taxpayer, the man payin’ your salary, can’t have two minutes of your precious time. You better hope nobody runs against you next election, I can promise you that much. I can swing a bunch of votes.”
Mason set his fork on the table, took hold of the napkin in his lap. Already frazzled and close to the margins because of his police stress, he considered whether he ought to stand and put his finger in Jasper’s stupid face and light into him. Very quickly, he was thinking “why the hell not,” even though he ordinarily would’ve dismissed the likes of Jasper Griffith with silence and a stern stare and returned to his seafood and tea, aware that a public spat with an imbecile was the worst kind of quicksand.
Before he could speak or act, Grace twisted forty-five degrees and said to the man who’d challenged her father, “It wouldn’t make any difference who ran against my dad. My dad would win.” She sounded mad, defensive and slightly scared. She glared at Griffith. “I think you are a rude idiot. You suck.”
Mason glanced at Griffith, then switched to his daughter. “Grace, I don’t…” He hesitated, felt his shoulders go soft, his breathing decline. “You know, come to think of it, you’re right, Grace. I agree.” He reached into his hip pocket, took out his billfold, removed a five-dollar bill and held it in Griffith’s direction. “Here’s fair reimbursement for your part of my salary, your share of all the whopping taxes I’m sure you pay.” He waved the five in the air. “Go on, take it, Jasper. Take it so I can be rid of you and won’t have to listen to your nonsense from now on.”
Several other diners were watching, and a waitress with a tray of refill pitchers and extra hush puppies had halted her path to the Hunts’ table.
“This little display is gonna cost you more than any five dollars, you mark my words.” Jasper didn’t lower his voice. “And if I was you, I’d think about teachin’ my youngun a lesson on respect.” He looked sideways at Grace.
“Good-bye, Jasper,” Mason said coolly. “Tell Mr. Griffith good-bye, you uncouth heathen girl,” he said to his daughter. “And please don’t tell him he’s an idiot or that he sucks.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Griffith,” she singsonged through a huge, insincere smile.
“Comb your hair next time you leave home so you’ll look like somebody,” Griffith said to Mason before he turned to walk away, one of his four or five stock lines and his attempt at a pa
rting shot. He stomped toward the metal and glass double doors at the front of the restaurant, waving off the teenage hostess and her single menu as he passed her on his way to his truck.
When the waitress arrived with more water and tea, she congratulated Mason and Grace for laying into Jasper. “He talks and talks and talks and just worries you to death. The same old dumb sayings again and again about ‘comb your hair so you’ll look like somebody’ and how he’s always ‘fine as frog hair split three ways.’ Ugggghhh. He was achin’ for a comeuppance, Mr. Hunt—good for you. And you too, sweetie,” she said as she was tending to Grace’s glass. “He runs us to death and tips you two quarters or some pocket change, which ain’t even worth the effort. I’m glad he’s gone.”
After the waitress moved to the next table, Mason addressed Grace in his paternal voice. He leaned closer to her as he spoke. “I appreciate your pluck, and I’m tickled you wanted to defend me, yes I am, but let’s not make that kind of language a habit.”
“Okay,” she said, intuitively understanding he couldn’t let on how pleased he was with her, how gratified. “But he did suck,” she said.
“Enough. Hush.” He raised a finger across his mouth. Her hair was as light as her mother’s and she was already tall and blessed with Allison’s slender, elegant hands, but she favored him, too, most noticeably through the mouth and chin, and he loved her fully, adored how he and her spectacular mom were etched into her in so many ways. “Finish your plate,” he said gently, gesturing with his fork. He prayed he wouldn’t soon shame her, leave her with scars and clipped wings, and for the first time since his travails began, he considered the possibility of jail and the prospect of his unlucky mother raising another kid.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning, Mason made Ray Bass wait in the lobby for thirty minutes, and when Sheila knocked on the door and showed him into Mason’s office, not only was Minter with him, but to Mason’s surprise his friend Ed Hoffman was there as well, the last of the three to enter the room. Hoffman had been employed by the state police for over two decades, and he was a perfect cop—honest, fair, deliberate, smart and reliable. He and Mason had worked together on several cases in the past, and Hoffman had invited Mason to his car on the last occasion he’d been in Stuart for a trial and they’d sipped top-shelf bourbon from paper cups to celebrate a favorable verdict. Hoffman was paunchy and bald but utterly average in every other physical regard, an ordinary guy given to plain dress and brief, direct sentences.
Mason was sad to see him there, hated to disappoint a man he respected. He spoke to Hoffman first, striding out from behind his desk to greet him. “Well, well, what a fine surprise,” he said. “A visit from Kojak himself.” He was nervous, juiced, struggling not to muff his lines. He shook Hoffman’s hand. “Hope you’re okay.”
“I’m good,” Hoffman said unenthusiastically.
Mason welcomed the other policemen and returned to his desk. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I apologize. We’re swamped today.”
“No problem,” Minter told him. They were all silent while he and the other officers took their seats. Something metal—a ring or watchband—dinged a chair arm. Coins jangled in a pocket.
“What’s on the agenda, gentlemen? I assume you’re here about Allen Roberts. The old murder from eighty-four?”
“You could say that,” Bass replied.
Mason pretended not to pick up on the pointed answer. “I think Custis told you we were prepared to go. Last I heard, you guys wanted us to hold off, so we did. It seemed like a solid case to me—what happened? I was planning to track you down and go over things again, and Sheila told me you gents were coming today. Thanks for making the trip.”
Minter was fingering a gold button on his blazer. “Mr. Hunt, we, uh, we’re here because we have information we need to discuss with you. You personally. Believe me, we don’t take any pleasure in this. No sir.”
“I’m not following you,” Mason said. “You’ve already told me the facts and given me the evidence we have for trial. I’m satisfied and ready to indict, but obviously there’s some sudden reluctance on your end. How about you guys just tell me what’s on your minds? I’m lost.”
Minter buttoned his jacket. “Mr. Hunt, we have a report—credible—that you was heavily involved in this shooting.”
“Huh?” All at once, the lines and creases in Mason’s face deepened. “Pardon me? Involved? Involved how?”
“The truth is you’re a suspect,” Bass said somberly. “We’re here to question you based on everything we’ve learned. I’m sorry.”
“Question me? Question me about what? You’re telling me you think I know something about Wayne Thompson’s shooting?” Mason glowered at Bass. “You can’t be serious.”
“Serious as a heart attack,” Bass answered, holding his ground.
“So you’re a part of this?” Mason asked Hoffman. “You’re here with these two because you believe I’m involved in a murder? Am I understanding this right?”
“You’re my friend, Mason,” Hoffman said sincerely. “I go where my job takes me.”
“That’s helpful,” Mason snorted. “So what is it—this is fucking insane—what is it I’m accused of doing? And who the hell is accusing me?”
“Your brother,” Bass said.
“Beautiful. There you go.” Mason rocked back in his chair. “You’re here in my office, all full-tilt Dragnet, because my dumb-ass, drug-dealing brother said I somehow had a hand in a twenty-year-old unsolved murder? Come on.” He sat forward and brought his heels down hard. “That’s rich, guys. You should be embarrassed. Credible? Gates Hunt?”
“Well, we think he—”
“Hold on a minute—I’m going to bring Custis in here. I want him to hear this, so when everybody has to account for themselves down the road, there’ll be no mistaking who said what.”
“We’d prefer you—”
“I don’t give a damn what you’d prefer, Mr. Bass,” Mason snapped. “If you don’t like it, you can pack up and leave for all I care.”
None of the three police officers responded. Mason used the phone to summon Custis, who rolled into the room a few seconds later and playfully punched Hoffman on the shoulder as soon as he recognized him. “It’s my boy Ed Hoffman, fashion-plate and slickster extraordinaire—the hip quotient in Stuart just went off the charts.” The razzing was harmless; Custis also admired Hoffman. “Nice to see you.” He approached Bass and Minter and shook hands, calling them both by their first names. “What’s cookin’?” he asked. “Everyone seems a little grim.” He was standing beside Minter, facing Mason.
“You know, Custis, I think I’ll let Officer Minter tell you. Or his partner. I’m not sure I can actually spit the words out of my mouth.”
Minter peered up at Custis, who was big enough and near enough that the cop had difficulty fitting all of him into his vision. “Well, to be blunt, to, uh, not sugarcoat nothin’, and I don’t take any joy in doing this, well, we have information Mr. Hunt, Mason, was involved in the death of Wayne Thompson. The 1984 shootin’.” He quit straining to see Custis and refocused on Mason.
“You’re shittin’ me,” Custis whooped. “Say what?”
“Nosir,” Bass said gravely. “This is for real.”
“You tryin’ to tell me you think Mace is mixed up in a crime, this deal you two were so hot to trot on a week ago? Wanted me to indict Allen Roberts?” Custis smiled. “You’re pullin’ my chain, aren’t you? Let me guess—it’s practical joke week down at the station house and you get bonus points for dupin’ a lawyer.”
“They’re serious, Custis,” Mason said. “They think I’m complicit in this murder because none other than the oracle of truth himself, my righteous, holy brother, has evidently told them something or other.”
“Ya’ll ever spent any time with Gates?” Custis asked. “Huh? Everybody in this town can tell you he ain’t to be believed. Good Lord. Hell, I was workin’ with Tony Black when we prosecuted him—you shoulda hea
rd his version of events on the stand. This is crazy.” Custis was very convincing. Several of the words were squeaky high; he expanded the a in “crazy.”
“It’s not just Gates,” Minter said.
Custis walked behind Mason’s desk and sat on the corner of the credenza, close to Mason, opposite the three policemen across the room. “So what else could it possibly be?” he demanded.
“This makes perfect sense,” Mason interjected before anyone could answer. “Now I see. Sunday, when I visited Gates, he was raving about how people were trying to blame us for the Thompson murder. He was loony. Berserk. Hell, I called the prison doc the next day to have him examined. I thought he was losing his mind. But you geniuses put him up to that, didn’t you? You wired him and had him try to snake his own damn brother.”
“Gates was wired,” Ed Hoffman said. “Sounded like maybe you were speechifying right smart when you were talkin’ to him. Making your argument.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Ed?” Mason asked.
“Funny you’d all a sudden decide to drive to the pen for a visit,” Bass said. “How long was it between trips? Months?” There was no deference left in his tone. “You two been on the outs for who knows how long and then—snap, crackle, pop—there you are about the time you get wind of this investigation.”
“My mother asked me to drive her. Why don’t you check with her? While you’re at it, ask her if she has even a jot of faith in her older son’s word.”
Bass theatrically scratched his head. “Strange how the logs show she went regular as you please every other week till you and her made your trip last Sunday. She hadn’t been back-to-back since the Pilgrims landed. Maybe things had started to click and you needed a chance to eyeball your brother.”
“This is some powerful evidence you guys have. I drove my mom to see my brother. Shit, Ray, you got me. Wow. I surrender.” He extended his arms. “I’m done. Cuff me now.”