No Truth Left to Tell

by Michael McAuliffe

  “No clue.” Wilson’s role was to deliver, not educate. “You gotta check with the detective. Jimmy Batiste, works narcotics.”

  “Can you run the name through booking and tell me if he’s still in lockup? I can head over right now.”

  “Hold on, Agent Mercer. Let’s hit pause. I’ll have Jimmy call you.”

  “Just find out whether the defendant’s still in,” Mercer repeated the request, using his slowest, clearest voice. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  “The guy confessed already. Why would you need a repeat performance?”

  “Maybe we don’t, but could you check anyway?”

  “I will, but then I gotta hand it off to Jimmy.”

  Mercer held his breath so he wouldn’t say anything foolish. He didn’t want to argue with someone delivering good—no, great—news.

  “You just made a lot of people very happy.”

  “Figured.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. I really do appreciate it.”

  Mercer almost called Lynwood PD to confirm there was in fact a Lieutenant Wilson, but the agent remembered the name, sort of. He also understood all too well that the break came to the FBI, not from it, and that always complicated matters. The lieutenant’s call had upset the natural pecking order of law enforcement, the one with the FBI on top. The FBI supervisors in their private offices would weave into the public announcement a more prominent bureau role. It was, after all, a bureau investigation.

  Mercer didn’t know whether the Klansman was still talking, or even in custody—a lot of questions remained—but if the information proved true, a federal criminal case about the burning crosses in the night was a near certainty.

  Mercer dialed Rush’s number at Justice in DC.

  14

  JUST A DRINK

  After meeting Nicole DuBose at Lynwood Memorial early in the investigation, Rush had returned to Washington thinking of how he might see her again. He mined her every gesture and remark for a clue as to whether the charged air at the hospital was just his wistful imagination. Friends had long accused Rush of recurring delusions regarding romance. He had commented more than once that he thought a woman passing on the street had thrown fetching glances his way. If it were true, he qualified as a veritable flirtation lodestone; however, these competing versions of Rush—the unrealistic dreamer or the shy romantic—remained a convenient abstraction, because he never spoke to any women he thought beckoned with come-hither looks. Relationships for Rush were possibilities but seldom more.

  In fifteen minutes DuBose’s smooth voice, the rich hue of her cheeks, and her elegant yet gentle way with her grandmother had demolished Rush’s carefully constructed wall. Rush wasn’t capable of describing idealized female perfection, but now he repeated its name with newfound certainty—like a mantra invoked by the earnest disciple. Even if DuBose had no idea who Rush was after they departed the hospital, Rush could not shake the thought of her.

  . . .

  Before leaving DC to travel in a civil rights case, Rush walked from the Justice Department to the Lincoln Memorial and searched its upper facade where the names of all but a few of the states were carved into the marble. He looked for the state where he was next headed to present to a grand jury or try a case or to argue for a long sentence for a defendant. It was a secret ritual—one based solely on personal superstition—but it helped him get on the plane with purpose. In the months after meeting DuBose, when Rush went to the memorial, instead of looking for a state, he fantasized about turning a corner and bumping into her, and she would be waiting for him with a seductive smile. He also imagined more intimate acts but saved those thoughts for late in the night. He had long feared his ineptness around women would keep him from being with anyone, but DuBose—or his fantasies of her—had transformed resignation into nascent hope.

  . . .

  One morning in early September, Rush sat in his office on the seventh floor at DOJ. He stared at his wall of certificates and diplomas, a place devoid of photographs of people that typically announced the relationships of a person, not just the credentials of a prosecutor. The office, a small space off an elbow in a long, wide hallway, in an earlier era could have been a hideaway for illicit encounters but, more probably, had served as a large coat closet. The room had floor-to-ceiling glass doors on the wall opposite the entry door that, if coaxed just right, opened to a tiny patio area—more of a landing than open space. A nine-foot-high exterior wall on the far side of the patio wrapped around the entire seventh floor like it was a rubber band holding the whole place together.

  The Justice Building was designed and constructed during the Great Depression as part of the Works Progress Administration and was one in a row of massive government buildings deposited along Pennsylvania Avenue as permanent monuments to federal governance. The building occupied the entire block from Ninth to Tenth Streets between Constitution and Pennsylvania Avenues roughly midway between the White House and the Capitol. The DOJ building had hosted countless outsized or quirky personalities, from J. Edgar Hoover to Nicholas Katzenbach to Janet Reno, and through the decades, it had kept many of the nation’s domestic secrets within its walls. As a young attorney general, Bobby Kennedy sped in his roadster around the circular driveway of the building’s interior courtyard. On most days, Rush walked across the very same courtyard and closed his eyes to imagine Kennedy careening around with his disheveled hair and toothy grin.

  Rush hadn’t crafted a credible pretext, or summoned the courage, to contact DuBose. He was stuck in the purgatory of longing. So, minutes after Mercer delivered the seismic news that the Klansman had confessed, Rush reached for DuBose’s business card—an item occupying a special spot on his desk—and dialed her number.

  When DuBose mentioned that she was in DC on business that very next day, it was close enough to fate that Rush finally acted. He asked if she might be available to meet at a restaurant at the nearby Market Square complex—to discuss the case, of course.

  DuBose begged off because of a dinner commitment, but she agreed to meet for a drink before. She said she was pleased about the developments in the case and wanted to know more about the confession. In particular, she wanted to understand the reason the Klan had targeted her family’s home.

  Four hours later, Rush stood outside the restaurant like an understudy about to undertake his first big performance. He caught a glimpse of DuBose’s profile as she turned the corner at the intersection of Ninth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. She was resplendent in a tailored Elie Tahari suit and silk scarf. Her walk boldly declared Manhattan confidence to everyone who crossed her path. She was the quintessential professional urban pedestrian as she approached. The Navy Memorial, its water gushing through channels of roughcut stone, provided an ambitious backdrop to the encounter.

  “Hello.” DuBose held out her hand.

  “Rush. I mean Adrien.”

  “Of course.” She smiled.

  “Thanks for taking the time to meet me.”

  “I usually stay at the Willard up the street, so this is close.”

  Once seated, they ordered drinks, a Miller Lite for Rush and a French 75 for DuBose. Rush immediately regretted his choice. The beer wasn’t sophisticated enough for the company or the circumstance. The next round, if there was one, he would do better.

  “How’s Mrs. Wynn?” Rush asked.

  “She doesn’t talk much about herself, so it’s hard to tell.”

  “She’s strong. Anyone could see that.”

  “She is, in her own way,” DuBose said. “I have so many memories of being in her house, with Nettie Ma cooking and directing traffic. She’s no talker, but when she says something, it’s good to listen.”

  “You have other family?”

  “I’m an only. My father is a graduate school dean at UPenn. He’s near retirement now. My mom was a doctor, but she passed when I was young. After we lost her, Nettie Ma swooped in to help Dad and me.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Rush said. “You two
seem very close. That is, your grandmother and you.”

  The drinks arrived. Rush winced as the waiter poured his beer into a glass with exaggerated flair.

  “So, what’s next?” she asked.

  “I could order—”

  “In the case, I mean.”

  “Right,” acknowledged Rush with embarrassment. “The defendant made bond in the local case, so he’s out of jail. I have a federal grand jury investigating the cross burnings, so they’ll hear the confession soon. After that, we’ll hopefully get an indictment.”

  “Will the jurors convict?”

  “They’re grand jurors, not trial jurors,” Rush explained. “Grand jurors make charging decisions. They vote about whether to charge a person with a crime, but they don’t convict.”

  “Sorry, I’m not a lawyer.”

  “Most lawyers probably couldn’t explain the difference.”

  “So, it was the Klan. Did they think they would get away with it?”

  “They came very close to doing just that. Good thing the cop stopped him.”

  “Why’d he confess?”

  “Not clear. All I’m told is that during a traffic stop, the Klansman admitted to burning the crosses,” Rush explained. “It seems strange when I explain it like that, but let’s not question luck. A climber who’s given an extra bottle of oxygen in the death zone on Everest gratefully makes use of it.”

  “Luck’s very powerful,” DuBose agreed, not picking up on Rush’s mountaineering imagery, “but it can’t be forced.”

  If only he could test that theory, thought Rush.

  “Cheers,” he said, raising his beer to meet a slender fluted champagne glass. “To luck or whatever it might be—”

  “And to convicting the Klan bastard.”

  “So what about you?” Rush asked, still pursuing his luck.

  “I’m a classic workaholic. I’m flying or writing, or getting ready to fly or write. My life doesn’t allow for much else,” DuBose offered before expertly switching to questioner.

  “You?”

  “Nothing much to say.”

  “In my work, you learn that everybody’s got a story, and most are worthy in some way.”

  Rush indeed had a story, a complicated one, but he couldn’t tell it, not sitting across from her in that moment. He’d need more than a single drink to do that.

  “Where’s your favorite place to be?” Rush had read somewhere the question was good for keeping a conversation going.

  “Probably Oak Bluffs, where my family’s gone for thirty years, nearly all my life. I still go there. The Vineyard has welcomed people like me for a long time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oak Bluffs is well-known as a summer spot for vacationing black folk, going back decades. It’s a safe place to be what you are.”

  “I didn’t realize—”

  “That I’m black?” DuBose wasn’t making it easy for Rush.

  “No. I mean I didn’t know about Oak Bluffs.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” DuBose said. She was smiling, but she wasn’t finished with the Klan case.

  “Why my grandmother? She’s never hurt another living soul.”

  “Five crosses the same night all across the town. Daniels admitted involvement but then clammed up. Why your home as opposed to a house across the street, I don’t know.”

  “It’s hard to see how my house was a random stop on their hate tour.”

  “Does it make a difference? Either way, she suffered.”

  “She’s tougher than people think.”

  “I’m happy to hear that.”

  “I had an uncle who was a labor organizer. He was always fighting some injustice. One day, police dragged him away because he was organizing protests down at the shop. My grandmother knew they would kill him if they could, so she had most all her church congregation show up at the police station—so many folks, they took over the lobby, including the whites-only section. She suspected the police were less likely to kill him with all the attention, and she was right.”

  “We didn’t know any of this.”

  “She’d never say a word. That’s why I’m telling you.”

  DuBose looked at her watch. She said she was late for her K Street dinner. She also had an early morning meeting before a flight back to New York.

  “Thank you for the drink,” DuBose said, “and for the welcome news about the confession.”

  “Of course,” Rush responded. “I’ll keep you updated if that’s all right.”

  “Yes, please do.”

  They shook hands. Not wanting his chance to evaporate, he hovered in place, straddling the line between enthusiastic and desperate. He watched her, in silhouette, hail a taxi. After she disappeared up Pennsylvania Avenue, he walked alone to the Gallery Place Metro Station.

  15

  THE GRAND JURY &

  THE DETECTIVE

  Rush ordered his diner combo with coffee at the Wooden Spoon and consumed both The New York Times and the meal with his usual devotion. Meal finished, he drove the rental car to the federal courthouse for the October grand jury session. The confession revived the cross burnings investigation, but Rush—like Mercer—knew he hadn’t earned it. He’d received it as one might an unexpected inheritance from a forgotten great aunt: with gratitude and an itch to spend it straight away.

  The grand jurors would hear about the confession directly from Detective Batiste. In a departure from his long-standing practice, Rush hadn’t met with the detective before the session. The detective had been unavailable—working on a case was the word—and Rush wanted to get the new evidence before the grand jury without any delay. He had read the FBI 302 summary of the detective’s account of the traffic stop but would hear from the detective the same as the grand jurors.

  In a routine federal investigation like a bank robbery or a drug case, the federal prosecutor asked the agent assigned to a matter—the case agent, in bureau parlance—to testify before the grand jury. Unlike a trial, hearsay was permitted; that is, one witness could, in essence, summarize most or all of the evidence obtained in a federal investigation. After the summary testimony, the federal prosecutor submitted an indictment drafted by the prosecutor to the grand jurors for an up or down vote.

  But Rush didn’t work routine cases. He and his Criminal Section colleagues used the grand jury as a powerful instrument of choice. The grand jurors listened to live witnesses in secret, and prosecutors assessed the evidence in part by the jurors’ reactions. The investigative grand jury was a way to test the case prior to putting it before the jury, the judge, and the public.

  Rush and the grand jurors addressed one another with familiarity, reflecting the close bonds prosecutors and grand jurors developed over many months of meeting in secret.

  “Good morning, Ms. Fletcher. How are you?”

  “I’m good, Adrien. It’s nice to see you,” Fletcher replied. “You look too thin.”

  Fletcher, a retired teacher, was the typical grand juror, someone who looked forward to her service and welcomed the camaraderie. As she told anyone who asked, she considered grand jury service her part-time job, with her modest per diem allowance accepted as proof of that fact. She unfailingly called the clerk’s office every two weeks at the appointed time to find out whether the next scheduled session was going forward and was disappointed if it was not. She looked forward to her time in court as much as anything else.

  “Hey, Rush,” Darren Fish called out as he walked by. Fish was an army veteran and general contractor, someone who arrived promptly for all his appointments in life, grand jury service included. His short, erect stature matched his demeanor, and he didn’t hesitate to point out when a witness’s testimony ran over its allotted time.

  Rush and the court reporter lingered in the reception area for the remaining grand jurors, twenty-three in total, to check in. The jurors sauntered by in twos and threes, some in business attire while others looked like they were headed to the gym.

&nbs
p; The grand jurors retrieved their personal spiral notebooks at the start of a session and returned them at its conclusion. A designated employee at the US Attorney’s Office collected all written materials used in a session, notebooks included. While the US District Court impaneled a grand jury, which meant the grand jury was formally an arm of the court, the grand jury was more an appendage of the federal prosecutor’s office than an independent body. It was all very clubby and secret.

  The grand jury sessions in the Klan case were held within the federal courthouse building in a paneled room with six curved rows of faux wood tables in tiers like a lecture hall. Jurors in the first row looked out roughly eye-level at the witness, while the jurors in the back row could nap without interrupting anyone or anything. The witness box in the room occupied the center well, and a six-foot-long table for the prosecutors was to the left. A court reporter sat on the far side of the witness box and opposite the prosecutor’s table. Because grand jury sessions were by law secret, the main room and the several adjoining spaces were all ensconced within a soundproofed and locked suite. The grand jury room looked like a secluded theater, with the drama of a feature film but without the popcorn.

  Rush and Mercer rambled about the grand jury room before the session started. Two cartons of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and some pastries (including a dozen made-from-scratch muffins brought in by one of the grand jurors) were just beyond the sign-in sheets, notepads, and pens. The muffins were gone by the time the first twelve jurors passed by.

  The grand jury consisted of twenty-three sworn members; Rush needed at least sixteen jurors present to conduct business but just twelve to vote in favor of a proposed indictment. In deference to the jurors who had called to confirm they’d be there, Rush waited until everyone arrived.

  Rush had heard the cliché a hundred times: a grand jury would indict a ham sandwich if the prosecutor asked. While ham sandwiches were likely safe, the saying had its essential truth. The symbiotic relationship between grand jurors and prosecutors was the natural and, to some, damning consequence of working on matters together for months and exercising the delegated powers of the court to compel people to testify and to obtain evidence. Rush relied on his carefully cultivated rapport to get to where he wanted to go in a case. They became a team.