The Legal Limit

by Martin Clark

  “Thanks,” Mason said humbly. “I love you. Lucky for me, I got your genes and grit, huh?”

  Sadie Grace was too wily to alert Mason, but she left soon after their conversation, before lunch, and she showed up at the prison wearing tennis shoes and old-lady dungarees, her thick hair pulled tight into a ponytail, a dab of lipstick her only preparation, and since she’d been coming for years and years and knew the guards, they allowed her to see her son, bent the rules when she told them she had an emergency. Gates sauntered into the visitation area—empty and cavernous on a Monday—and he spread his arms and smiled and said how happy he was to see his mother, but underneath the goodwill Sadie Grace could sense, almost immediately, that he realized why she was there and his great welcome was a sham, fake as fake could be.

  She never took a chair. She marched directly to Gates and asked him if he’d told the police Mason had killed the Thompson boy in 1984. For whatever reason, she recited the year. He began his answer, hedging and dissembling, Cheshire cat grinning the whole time, like he was talking to some damn fool instead of his mother, but she soon cut him off—“You are disowned by me,” she snapped—and busted him in the face with a fistful of rings she’d added before leaving Stuart. The blow wasn’t a slap, wasn’t symbolic or a maternal correction, but was thrown with bad intentions, calculated to do as much damage as possible, most of it meant for Gates, maybe a little left over for Curt. Gates yelped and ducked and jumped to the side, and when he looked up his mother was walking toward the exit. He shouted, “Wait, Mama!” and even though it pained her to no end, she kept right on going, holding her tears until she reached her car, where she sat weeping with the engine running for so long that a kindly guard came to check on her and offered his handkerchief.

  Realizing his mother was done with him, Gates touched the jagged cuts on his mouth and jaw, then aimed his middle finger at the room’s locked door and laughed through the ache, a lunatic’s cackle, pronounced and malicious, like Vincent Price or Idi Amin, and the noise tangled up in itself, echoing off the cement and metal.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Mason glanced at the photograph he’d been handed. “Uhggg…nasty. Why the hell are you showing me this trash? Huh? What’s the matter with you?” Disgusted, he quickly tossed the picture onto a polished, rectangular table and went through a pantomime with his fingers, vigorously wiping them on his suit coat to remove an imaginary taint. “Today of all days, why’re you plaguing me with this? You know I don’t have any stomach for homo porn.” He and Custis were tucked away in Art Anthony’s law library, under the radar and safe from possible police eavesdropping, killing several hours, waiting for the grand jury to return and Mason’s life to be recast. Custis had delivered 116 indictments for the jury, stayed until the four men and three women were sequestered and then left, on standby across the street if he was needed. Special prosecutor Leonard Stallings was there with a single count to present, dressed to the hilt, his secretary along for the momentous event.

  “Look closer,” Custis said solemnly. He was crammed into a wobbly metal chair, diagonal to Mason, at an angle that allowed him to see only Mason’s profile.

  “No, thanks,” Mason replied. “Gay sex isn’t my bag. I’m not a fan of costumed queers caught in the act. Butt pirates, my neighbor calls them.”

  Custis took the photo and held it toward Mason. “You should look closer.”

  “Is this about a case? Or some stupid Internet gag? I’m not in the mood, Cus, okay? I have bigger fish to fry. Maybe it slipped your mind, but I’m being indicted for murder as we sit here twiddling our thumbs and passing around your faggot nonsense.”

  “Humor me,” Custis said, his tone constrained, purposeful.

  Mason was frazzled, pins-and-needles restless. He snatched the photo and gave it a longer inspection. “Oh damn.” Squinting and befuddled, he drew the picture so near that his nose almost touched the glossy paper. “This shit is libelous, Custis.” He positioned his chair so they were able to see each other full on. “You realize that, don’t you? What—is someone circulating this? I’d be pissed off, too. Bastards used a computer to superimpose your head on a porn guy’s body. Pretty respectable job, but you can tell it’s a gimmick. Who did this? Where’d you find it?”

  “I found it in my mail.”

  “Say what?”

  “It ain’t no mistake or trick, no Photoshop, no cut-and-paste.” Custis hurried, speaking rapidly. “That would be me in the picture, boss. Sorry to be the one droppin’ the bomb on you.”

  “Huh?” Mason shook his head like he’d been roused from a nap, trying to compose himself. “You?”

  “Me. Custis Norman. ‘The faggot nonsense,’ as you so diplomatically labeled it, occurred at a private residence in D.C., couple years ago.”

  “So that’s you in the picture having sex with another guy? You wearing a cowboy hat and vest and a hard-on?”

  “Head ’em up, move ’em out, rawhide,” Custis said dryly. “I’m not necessarily proud of it. It’s not representative of how I conduct my personal life.”

  “Damn…I’ll be damned. So…?”

  “Yeah,” Custis answered.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Gay?” Mason still wasn’t convinced. “No shit?”

  “Yes,” Custis replied, and he was deliberately formal, no retreat in the word, no shame, no quibble. “You got it.”

  “Like, gay gay? How long…I mean, how long have you known? How long has it been?”

  Custis chuckled, but there was a bitterness to it. “Quite a while, Mace. I didn’t simply sample the buffet, study my options and decide before the deadline came and went. You don’t read the brochures, list the pros and cons and select the gold lamé package.”

  “I mean, hey, whatever. Your business, not mine. Live and let live, right?”

  “Even faggots and butt pirates?” Custis pressed.

  “I’m not going to lie, okay? This is a shock, not really a revelation I was expecting, especially today, of all days. And yeah, the thought of two men kissing and having sex, well, it’s not my cup of tea. Viscerally, it’s awfully tough for me to accept. I can’t help it.” Mason couldn’t keep his eyes trained on Custis. “And Inez,” he blurted. “You’ve been dating her for years.”

  “For years. There you go, Mr. Wizard, a big whoppin’ signpost for you. Make no mistake, Inez Rucker is one of the finest, most remarkable women to ever leave the Good Lord’s mansion, and I love her dearly. But she’s devoted to her dead husband and is waiting for the day they’ll be together in heaven—you can laugh and joke and make fun of her, but she believes she’s still married. When her Harrison died, she was finished. She has no interest in sex; hell, she sees it as adultery. To her credit, I don’t think she’s ever tempted, either. It’s not like she’s fightin’ the urge to get laid and have a man in her bed. There are folks who’re like whoopin’ cranes—one and done.”

  “So she knows?”

  “Duh, Mason. Yeah, she does. It’s been a blessin’ for us both, a perfect relationship for her and for me. Our interests match like gin and juice, we keep each other from bein’ lonely, and our friendship prevents people such as you from pesterin’ us about our personal affairs.”

  “All these years, she’s protected your secret?”

  “Yeah. She has, despite hatin’ the gay lifestyle on principle. Her religion, you know. Your churchgoin’ sisters take a dim view of sodomites. She’s forever prayin’ up a storm for me, but unlike a lot of your hypocrites recitin’ scripture, her heart’s pure. She truly does love the sinner, just doesn’t care for the sin.”

  “Why’re you telling me this now? No offense—I’m happy to listen—but I’d say we already have a full plate. Sort of odd timing.” Mason rubbed his temples. “Wow.”

  “Two reasons,” Custis said, sounding rehearsed and prepared, like he was presenting a closing argument. “First, misery loves company, and though that proverb doesn’t exactly hit the nail,
I thought you might be more understandin’, more sympathetic in light of your present circumstances and troubles. Struck me you’d have a good idea how it feels to be up against it. There’s—”

  “I’m sorry,” Mason interrupted, smirking, “but virtually everything you say seems Broadway funny now, like gay double entendre.”

  “If you’re fifteen in the locker room, it probably does.”

  Mason flickered a smile. He felt slightly less uncomfortable.

  “Anyway, here’s reason number two. The payoff. I wanted to come completely clean with you. See, I gotta figure maybe you’re still questionin’ my bona fides, what with this Richmond sighting, me leavin’ so soon after you’re popped by the grand jury, me cutting a shine with you and Sheila, this whole streak of weirdness we’ve had lately. You need a clear mind to take care of your predicament, and you deserve to have the entire picture—so to speak—and I’m gonna do my damnedest to be an ally you can count on one hundred percent. Truth is, I was in Richmond like the pervert Wiggington claims, and I was with a cop.”

  “You lied to me?” Mason exclaimed.

  “Not really. As we say in court, check the transcript, my man, recall exactly what I represented. I’ve never had any sneaky dealings with Ed Hoffman, and I didn’t meet with him in Richmond. I gave you the barebones facts on the subject. ’Course, you never asked me if I was visitin’ with our mutual friend Ian Hudgens.”

  “Hudgens? You mean Herman Dylan’s minion?”

  “Yep.”

  “Huh. He’s a nondescript bald guy? I imagined him very differently.”

  “He’s a bald weasel,” Custis said. “An average Joe with a serious facial tic. Probably the stress and long hours.”

  “Okay. I assume he was chewing your ear about Chip-Tech, but you’ll have to help me with the particulars. Why are you and Hudgens eating steak in Richmond?”

  “Simple. They’re aware you and I are ultra-tight. He and his taskmaster Dylan wanted me to lean on you.”

  “To vote for their grant?”

  “Aren’t you clever,” Custis said, stretching every syllable. “We’re Perry Mason today, aren’t we?” He grinned. The sarcasm was genial. “And guess what he used as a stick, once I didn’t do the carrot dance?”

  “It’s starting to make sense,” Mason said. He was finally able to settle his eyes on his friend. “The faggot nonsense. They’re blackmailing you. You didn’t want me to find out.” There was a peculiar enthusiasm in Mason’s voice, a skip in his cadence. “So you really don’t want to leave, do you? Your whole big-city-Black-Panther speech was bullshit.”

  “They prefer the term quid pro quo. A bit slicker, don’t you think? I can’t stand for my personal details to be broadcast all over our fine Victorian county. I can’t. Hell, you’re supposed to be my friend, and you’re actin’ like I’m a leper. Can you imagine everybody else’s reaction? The shitstorm I’d suffer?” Custis shot Mason a frank look. “It’s a comprehensive slash and burn, too. See, Hudgens had gotten wind of your jam as well and threatened to release the photos right before your trial, thinking—at worst—maybe some of the gay will rub off on you and influence the jury and—at best—we’ll have another distraction, two fronts to defend. A bit of lagniappe, as the Cajuns say, a bonus to make me more inclined to persuade you.”

  “I’m not treating you like a leper. This is sudden—sky-falling sudden—and I grew up fishing, hunting, playing baseball and listening to my mom’s Old Testament piety in rural Patrick County, Virginia, the unreconstructed South, and I’m sorry, it’s just ingrained, the…the distaste I have. I can separate our friendship, and I will, I swear I will, but seeing the photo gives me the heebie-jeebies. It’s no different than getting the heaves from rancid meat or retching at the dead-mouse-in-a-heat-duct smell. It’s hardwired. Instinct. You know I’m as libertarian as they come, and it’s fine with me, do whatever the hell you want, and intellectually I can accept it, but if I saw you cuddling with some man I’d probably puke. I value our friendship, I’m not making moral judgments, but I can’t change how I am.”

  “The term faggot is as offensive as the term nigger.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “It’s great to know you’re so tolerant and broad-minded,” Custis said. “Magnanimous of you to overlook the rat stench, or at least hold your nose for me.”

  “Actually it is, if you think about it. My friendship with you, my respect and affection, trump everything else. I don’t care who you sleep with; I’m just giving you fair warning how it affects me.”

  “Ah. I’m grateful, too.”

  “I’ll try to do better with my language,” Mason said. “But how about a grace period if I forget? Maybe for the first three months you don’t take away rainbow points or report me to Queer Nation?”

  “It’s wonderful you can be so glib,” Custis remarked. “I’m delighted you’re friggin’ Richard Pryor when I have to leave my home and my world’s toiletized because I refuse to trade on our friendship and compromise my values by dragging you into Herman Dylan’s mud. You have any clue how difficult this has been for me? Do you? I didn’t have to tell you any of this. I could’ve packed my bags and left your homophobic cracker ass in a sling, wonderin’ which direction was up.”

  “I apologize. I’m just trying to…to…lighten the conversation. Jeez. So I can fuck with you about being black, but gay pride is off limits?”

  Custis was growing irate. “Problem bein’ the gay stuff is serious and true, the race stuff is just for sport.”

  “It’s not my fault you’re gay and embarrassed to tell anyone. Nor is it a shortcoming I’m not keen on humping other men.”

  “Kiss my black ass, Mason.”

  “You’re my best friend, Custis. I can’t put it any plainer. I doubt we’ll be roomies again in San Juan, but other than that, you and I are still good to go. Still Custis and Mason, all right? Seriously, I want to put this aside and not dwell on it. I try to take people as I find them, and I try to treat them exactly like they treat me. By that standard, nothing’s changed—we’ve got too deep a history, too much goodwill, and you’ve done so much for me I could never repay the debt.”

  “It’ll be different, believe me. Your attitude’s already adjusted.”

  “Don’t be stupid and paranoid,” Mason said.

  “Answer me this: What do Elton John, George Michael and Boy George have in common?”

  “They’re all gay.” Mason caught himself. Chagrined, he exhaled and stared down and traced his thumb along a scratch on the table. “And British…and musicians, very good ones. Whose friends and fans have stuck by them and made them successful and don’t notice their sexual orientation.”

  “Proves my point, doesn’t it? Grammys, Oscars, gold records, knighthood. Hell, Elton could discover a cure for sickle cell and it wouldn’t matter—the first thought everyone has is they’re homosexual. Nothing can overshadow it. Your whole identity is tied to bein’ queer. Everything kicks off there, and it will with you and me from this minute forward. Used to be, if you heard my name, you’d think, ‘my best friend, my law partner, my six-foot-seven wingman,’ and now it’ll be ‘the butt pirate.’”

  “You may be right in some sense, Custis. It was a very effective parlor trick and I took the bait, but I swear to you I will do everything I can to be a reliable and admirable friend, just like I always have. At least I’m honest about how it affects me.”

  “I appreciate it, too,” Custis answered in a hopeful tone that left room for compromise. “You’ve certainly been good as gold up till now. Treated me like kin. I hope we can stay solid.”

  “Thanks. You are kin.”

  “So we’re cool, you and me? Cool as can be expected with your affliction?”

  “We are.”

  Mason turned the picture facedown and slid it toward Custis. He waited for Custis to collect it before speaking. “So Dylan threatens to let the cat out of the bag unless you persuade me to vote for his grant. How’d they discover th
e photo? Your, uh, stint as Roy Rogers?”

  “Hudgens came up with LeRoy Rogers when he was tryin’ to humiliate me. You’re a beat behind the rest of the orchestra. Need to keep your material fresher.”

  “Not a bad line, I have to admit.”

  “I’ve been around the gay scene in D.C. forever,” Custis said. “A few whispers here, even.”

  “No kidding? I’ve never heard a peep.”

  “Best bet is they followed me for a week or two, and I led them where they needed to go. Herman Dylan is rich and powerful, and this is pretty basic detective work. I want you to understand I’ve been with the same partner for almost a decade, Mason. Monogamous except for an unfortunate split a few years ago. While we were apart, I fell in with some unsavory people, didn’t protect my interests like I should’ve, and this guy I was with for maybe a month—a mistake—took some shots while we were together. I’m responsible for my own idiocy—it was a time in the wilderness for yours truly, too much alcohol, too many clubs.”

  “Happens,” Mason said sympathetically, battling to keep the visuals suppressed.

  “After Hudgens threatened me, I called my D.C. friend and he’s basically a crack whore these days, blubberin’ how sorry he is, sniffin’ and cryin’ like a schoolgirl. Sold ’em for five hundred pathetic dollars. Who knew, huh? I never thought the pics would surface like this. Never. Hudgens blindsided my ass.”

  “So that’s why you were so hateful around here?”

  “Yeah, I was mad at myself for the compromisin’ mess I’d cooked up. Mad ’cause I was in a spot and resigning seemed the only option. Rather than come beggin’ you to save me and vote against your best judgment, rather than attemptin’ to persuade you for the wrong reasons, I called my boy Hudgens’s bluff and told him to let it rip, make ’em into posters and billboards for all I care, won’t hurt me ’cause I’m leavin’ anyhow. And, yeah, sure, it wasn’t totally noble. Part of it was I didn’t want you or anybody else to discover my adventures in other venues. ’Course, bein’ the prince he is, Hudgens says he’ll send his package to Atlanta and embarrass me here for good measure—Godfather shit—so the next Herman Dylan extortion victim will understand they play for keeps. ‘Have to follow through,’ Hudgens tells me, ‘unless we receive our grant.’ Leaves me in a bad way, huh? Shit outta luck both comin’ and goin’. I’m Peewee Herman if I stay in Stuart, and I’ll be rollin’ into snicker-city wherever I go, assuming my new employer doesn’t fire me the second he opens the morning mail.”