"Yes. I'm embarrassed to say he's friends with my ex-boyfriend." In my mind, I could see that scroungy-looking guy standing on James's front porch and the blue truck idling in the driveway.
"Sandy blonde hair, scraggly, longish, past his ears; a goatee and mustache. Skinny, lanky, dirty. Those are the adjectives Jeffrey used." Sherman never took his eyes off me.
"I saw him a few weeks ago in Jean Ville. He got in an old blue truck that was driven by a Cajun guy with dark curly hair who used to work for Sheriff Guidry." I looked at each of the men around the table and spoke slowly.
"Who's Sheriff Guidry?" Sherman wrote something on his pad and looked up.
"He was Sheriff before Desiré was elected. He ran a suspicious crew. There was talk he and some of his deputies were members of the Klan." I took a deep breath. "I might know the license plate number."
"Of the blue truck?" Sherman poised his pen over his paper.
"Yes. I mean, I didn't see the license plate at the church. But when I saw Thevenot and Rousseau in the truck a few weeks ago, I memorized the plate number." I inhaled and felt afraid they'd ask me where I saw the truck. "It's 37-L-402, if I remember correctly."
"Do you remember if the plate said, 'Sportsman's Paradise,' or 'Bayou State'?" Sherman wrote something down.
"Bayou State." I crossed my ankles under the table and put my hands in my lap to keep from twisting my hair.
"Where did you see the truck?" Robert looked at me and I realized I wasn't in that room to receive information. I was there to give it.
"It was on a road in Jean Ville called, Shortcut Road. Sometimes I take it from Highway One to Jefferson Street." I watched Sherman write everything I said on his pad. I prayed they wouldn't find out that James lived on Shortcut Road. Then I realized they were bound to find out, so I'd better tell them, as though it were meaningless information. "My brother lives on that road, and I sometimes stop by to visit him if he's home."
"Which brother?" Robert was direct, not very friendly.
"James. My oldest brother. He's a…"
"I know. A lawyer and vice president of Confederate Bank and Trust." Robert nodded at Sherman, who wrote something on his pad. "I spoke with James when we were in Jean Ville."
"How'd that go?" I was curious about how James reacted to having the attorney general drop in on him.
"Let's just say he was evasive." Robert looked at Lt. Schiller, and they laughed. "I tried to be friendly, said I'd heard good things about him, wanted to know whether he'd support me for reelection in three years. I intimated I was there on a campaign stop, but he's a smart one." Robert said he left the four uniformed officers outside in the parking lot, but thought James saw them through his window. "He said he didn't know Tucker Thevenot, had never heard of him, had never seen an old blue truck like the one I described. Although I didn't describe it; I just said, 'blue truck.'" Robert laughed.
"Why didn't you tell us about the license plate number before this?" Lt. Schiller looked at me from across the table.
"I'm not sure it's the same truck that was at the church, but it looked similar, which is why I memorized the plate." I tried to speak with confidence so they wouldn't think I was hiding anything. Was I? Hiding something? I felt like I was, but I couldn't figure out what it might be. I think I felt uncomfortable with the discussion about James in the same vein as Tucker Thevenot and the blue truck; as though James had something to do with the shooting. I knew James would never be involved in anything like that, but why would he tell Robert he didn’t know Tucker Thevenot? I saw them talking on James’s front porch.
"Do you think Tucker Thevenot shot Rodney Thibault?" Lt. Schiller was still staring at me.
"I couldn't make that connection even if I wanted to." I took a breath and sat back in my chair, my legs stretched out in front of me under the table. "I didn't see the shooter, only the blue truck. Months later I see a blue truck that looked similar to the one I saw at the church, and you describe a scroungy-looking dude named Tucker Thevenot. The description reminded me of the truck I saw a couple weeks ago. That's what I know."
"We spoke with the police officers who were at the scene: Mike Richard, Joey LeBlanc, and Grady Baudin." Sgt. Montgomery looked at me with a kind expression. "Do you know any of them?"
"I went to school with Joey. He was a couple years ahead of me, but I knew him." I thought about the one date I had with Joey LeBlanc and how he tried to grope me. I slapped him, and he slapped me back. Hard. The blow bruised my cheek for weeks. I remember getting out of his car to walk home. He followed alongside me saying awful things about my figure and how every boy at Jean Ville High School wanted to get in my pants. I eventually got in the back seat and let him take me home, but I never went out with him again.
I'd heard things about Joey LeBlanc in the years since high school. I'd heard he joined the Klan and that he terrorized young black girls. There was talk that he'd raped a fourteen-year-old girl near the Indian Park. I wasn't sure if it was true. The thing that bothered me most as I sat in that conference room with Robert and the four investigators was that Joey and Warren were good friends, maybe best friends. They'd played football together and went in the woods to hunt squirrels and deer, and other critters. Warren always had stories about Joey, but I would never agree to go to parties if he would be there. I didn't want to be alone with Joey LeBlanc again.
The other thing that bothered me was that I would have noticed if Joey LeBlanc had been one of the cops that showed up at the church. I was sure he wasn't one of them.
"What can you tell us about him?" Sgt. Montgomery asked.
"About Joey?"
"Yes. Joey LeBlanc."
"Well, I had one date with him in high school, but I never went out with him again. He's a creep." I shuddered when I thought of that night.
"Do you know any of his friends?" Sgt. Montgomery looked at me as though he knew that I knew that he knew. I sat still like a cat cornered by a bulldog and thought about how to answer that question.
"Yes, of course. Jean Ville is a small town. Everyone knows everyone. One of his best friends is Warren Morrow, the guy I used to date." I took a deep breath and thought about how they would interrogate Warren, and that made me sad, as though I were ratting him out. But I couldn't lie. Montgomery knew.
"And your relationship with Warren Morrow?" He glared at me.
"I told you, I use to date him. But he's a loser." I stared back at Montgomery, and he started laughing. Everyone around the table joined in, and soon we were all laughing—at me! The atmosphere relaxed after that, and the discussion was more about sharing information and less about interrogation. I wanted to let out a huge sigh of relief, but I was afraid to break the spell and have things turn on me again, so I didn't tell them that Joey wasn't one of the cops at the church.
"Sissy," Robert touched my shoulder, and I turned to look at him. "We believe that Tucker Thevenot did the shooting and that the driver was Keith Rousseau. What do you know about Rousseau?"
"He was the one driving the blue truck the day I saw it on Shortcut Road. Keith used to be Sheriff Guidry's deputy." I felt as though I'd already explained that, and he must have forgotten.
"You told us you recognized the driver as one of Guidry's deputies. You didn't tell us his name." Robert looked at me, then at Detective Sherman, then back at me.
"If I recall our conversation half an hour ago, when I told you about Guidry's deputy, you changed the subject to the license plate number. I didn't mean to withhold his name." I felt my blood start to rise. My chest was hot, and I knew a red rash would begin to climb up my neck onto my face.
"I'm sorry, Sissy. I didn't mean to sound accusatory." Robert's expression became much friendlier.
"Y’all keep jumping from one thing to another. First it's Tucker Thevenot, whom I barely know. Then you talk about my brother, James; then Joey LeBlanc, then Warren, now Keith Rousseau. I'm just trying to keep up." I took a deep breath and folded my arms acr
oss my chest.
"You're right. You must feel like we've ganged up on you."
"Look, I'm the one who asked for this investigation." I raised my voice louder and louder as I talked and realized I was almost screaming at the end. "Why are you making me feel like I did something wrong. I can't help who I know. It doesn't mean I'm aware of what they do in their spare time."
"Not even your brother?" Robert still had a friendly expression, but the others didn't look so amicable.
"Not even my brother."
"Not even your boyfriend?"
"He's not my boyfriend. I told you. He's a loser." I didn't smile, even though the others tried to stifle laughs.
"Not even your dad?" Robert spoke very softly and tried to use his most brotherly expression.
"What's my dad got to do with this?"
"Probably nothing. I was just wondering whether you might know if he's ever been engaged in any behaviors against black folks that could be construed as unlawful and bigoted?" Robert was searching my face for clues that I knew something about my dad that was far from my understanding about who he was.
"If he has, I'd be shocked. My dad raised us to be nondiscriminatory." I sat up in my chair and folded my hands together on the table. My face was inches from Robert's. "I can't believe he'd ever do anything to hurt another person, black or white."
"I believe you." Robert sat back in his chair, indicating that he was finished with his questions.
The suit who had never said a word the entire time identified himself as Detective Craig Comeau, and said he was more interested in discovering why there was a cover-up.
"We know who did it, and they will be arrested soon." Comeau sat forward in his chair and looked around the table to indicate he was not singling me out. "What we don't know is why? And why is everyone in Jean Ville trying to cover up this crime? Everyone but Judge DeYoung seems determined that we hit a dead end. Why? Is there one big cheese behind this? Why would someone want to kill Rodney Thibault unless it was a contract by a big cheese? Was Thibault a threat to one of the politicians? Those are the questions I want answered. Can you help us?"
"Geez. I hadn't thought that someone might be behind it. I mean, I believe Tucker Thevenot is just a mean-ass s-o-b who would want to take down a black guy who had the audacity to marry a white girl." I was still leaning forward on the table; the detective was across from me, but almost at the other end.
"Not just any white girl." He glared at me.
"What does that mean?" I looked from Detective Comeau to Schiller, to Montgomery, to Sherman, then my eyes landed on Robert Morris.
"Certainly you can read between the lines, Sissy," Robert reached forward and patted my hands, which were still folded on the table in front of me. I looked at all the men around the table, questioning: what were they getting at?
Maybe I have a blind spot when it comes to James. But my mind couldn't wrap itself around the insinuations being made. I blew them off, and we all sat in silence for the longest time. I had the distinct feeling they were waiting for me to say something, for a light to go on in my head. But that didn't happen, and eventually, Robert disbanded the meeting.
After everyone left the room but Robert, he reached out and took one of my hands.
"I'm sorry if that was difficult, Sissy. You helped us a lot. You have a great deal of information that you don't realize is important." He was kind and understanding, but I was angry because I'd been ambushed. "That's not uncommon, which is why it takes skilled detectives who ask the right questions, to get you to remember things you stored away."
Robert invited me to go home with him and have dinner with his family, but I declined. He almost begged me and told me Brenda would be livid if I didn't show up, but I stood my ground and drove to the Capital House Hotel. I'd originally planned to drive to Jean Ville after my meeting, but it was seven thirty, and dark, and I was tired and angry.
I went straight to the bar without checking into my room first. I ordered a Martini. I'd never had one, but it was my mom's drink of choice, and it seemed appropriate.
Two Martinis later, I made my way to my room and flopped out on the bed. I wanted to cry, but I was still too angry, and a bit drunk. The phone started ringing, and I ignored it. Who would know where I was, anyway? It had to be a wrong number. I went to the bathroom and when I got back in the room, the red light was blinking on the phone. I punched '0' and listened to the prompts until it played the message. It was Brenda.
"Sissy. Please come over for dinner. Call me." She left her number, but I didn't return the call. I couldn't remember ever being so angry.
The next morning I checked out of the hotel with a headache. When I got to my car in the parking lot across the street, there was a white slip of paper under the windshield wiper. I thought, Geez. All I need is a parking ticket.
I took the ticket off the windshield and stuffed it in my purse, which I slung on the other front seat. I started the car and let it run a minute so the motor could warm up. I reached over and pulled the ticket out of my purse so I could stuff it in my glove compartment. The folded paper opened and I saw bold, red print: Stay out of this investigation, or you'll end up like your sister!
Now, I was really angry!
*
When I got to Jean Ville, I called Marianne to find out how the family barbecue went.
"Warner sort of invited himself over to meet everyone." She sounded tired, and it was only noon. "Lilly followed me to the door when the doorbell rang, and when she saw Don Warner standing there, she thought he'd come to give us bad news, and she became hysterical. Once we explained that he had come as a friend to meet our family, things calmed down.
"What else?" I took a long swallow of water.
"They all loved him, and he seemed to enjoy himself."
"Is that all? I have a feeling you aren't telling me something." I took another long swallow of water and refilled my glass.
"Well, I spent the night at his house."
"You what?" I stood up, and the phone cord got all tangled around me, but I held onto the receiver.
"Well, there were so many people at the house on Jules Avenue, and he said he needed to convince me he wasn't a scumbag." She took a deep breath, and I heard her take a sip of something, probably coffee. I needed some caffeine. "We started talking, and he asked me why I'd never had a boyfriend. I told him that I'd been abused when I was young."
"Is that all you told him?"
"Yes, because I started to cry and couldn't stop, and ended up falling asleep in his arms." She took a deep breath and sounded like she was about to cry again. "I woke up this morning in the guest room. He didn't touch me."
"That means a lot."
"Are you sure? I'm confused."
"You're confused because you aren't being totally honest with him, and it seems like he's been transparent with you."
Chapter Eight
***
Arrested
SUSIE WAS DISCHARGED from the hospital at the end of the week, and we girls went out to dinner to celebrate. We called it "Girls' Night Out," and Marianne said Dr. Warner was jealous. Susie said Rodney was, too. Lilly and I looked at each other as if to say, "Maybe we're lucky not to have men who want to control our lives," but neither of us said anything until we got home later that night, and we sat up and giggled for an hour.
I told the girls about my experience at the attorney general's office, but I didn't mention the note on my car because I didn't want to worry Susie. She said Rodney thought he recognized Tucker Thevenot the day of the shooting because he remembered that Tucker had been one of the members of the posse who had chased Rodney in Jackson, Mississippi in the '70s when he tried to take a train to DC to marry Susie.
"He said Tucker Thevenot was on the train to Memphis," Susie told us. "The one Rodney jumped from because he recognized four white men from Jean Ville and knew they were there to get him."
The whole plan had been for Rodney and
Susie to get married in DC in 1974, but that plan went down the tubes because of the posse. He and Susie gave up on their dream to be together—too dangerous—and Rodney returned to Jean Ville.
Fast forward ten years and lots of water had flowed upstream: Rodney went to Vietnam, got married and divorced, and spent ten years in the Army. Susie found Lilly when she was four years old but didn't tell Rodney—or anyone, for that matter—about the baby Susie had at eighteen. She eventually married the doctor who had delivered Lilly.
Both Susie and Rodney had been through a lot, and they'd finally come back together with Lilly as the crown on their relationship. Their biggest mistake was having their wedding in Jean Ville, Louisiana. They were paying the price for that.
Rodney tried to tell the detectives from Robert Morris's Morris' office that Tucker Thevenot had also been part of the group of men he called a "posse" who'd hung Jeffrey in a tree in Jean Ville. This had been a few days before they tracked Rodney to Jackson, Mississippi.
Susie said that Rodney still couldn't speak clearly and struggled with consonants, so the Detectives didn't understand everything he tried to tell them. Susie said she tried to help fill in the blanks, but lots of what Rodney knew, he'd never told Susie.
"I sat there and listened while the Detectives asked him questions," Susie told us when we four girls sat at a table in a restaurant called, Brennan's on Royal Street in the French Quarters. "The detectives asked Rod why all those men wanted to kill him. Rodney said it was because he had the nerve to love a white girl. 'Not any white girl,' he said, struggling to get the sounds out so that they understood. 'Senator Bob Burton's daughter.'"
"What are you saying, Susie?" I watched Susie's face, and the look on it made me think that something important had been implied.
"Well, I'm pretty sure Daddy was behind what happened to Rodney ten years ago. And that makes me wonder…" She didn't elaborate.
Daddy would never do anything like that. The bullets that hit Rodney were inches from Susie's head. If Rod hadn't shielded her and pulled her to the ground, taking the bullets himself, she could have been killed, something my daddy would never be a part of.
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