by Glenn Trust
“Good.”
“One thing though, Bob…” George looked over at Andy, hesitating, and then decided, what the hell. He didn’t care what they think. “If you hear anything from Sharon, let me know, would you?”
There, he said it. It was out. George Mackey felt like a school kid, his ears turning red waiting for his buddies to give him a hard time about going soft on a girl. They didn’t.
Andy just nodded at him, the nod saying what they all felt. Good for you, George. Good for you and Sharon. He cared about Sharon Price, maybe a lot. So what? It was a good thing.
“I promise, George,” Bob said gently. It was a tone that others did not usually take with the big deputy. “We’ll let you know, first word we have from the cabin.”
George nodded to the phone. “Thanks, Bob.”
73. Just a Simple Killer
Bob Shaklee watched on the video monitor as Perry Boyd and Freddy Hurst walked into the conference room next door where Terrell Perkins still sat. His hands were cuffed in front and no longer attached to the table leg. Boyd took a seat across from Perkins, Hurst stood behind him, his eyes never leaving Perkins’ face. Even over the video, it was apparent that Terrell avoided Hurst’s intense stare, which, of course, was what the two homicide detectives had intended.
“Who he?” Perkins asked Boyd, jerking his head in Hurst’s direction but not looking at him.
“Terrell, may I introduce Lieutenant Hurst of Atlanta Homicide.”
Perkins looked up briefly and then looked away as quickly. Hurst met his curious look with a stone cold stare, meant to intimidate. It was working.
“So why he lookin’ at me like that? Huh? Why he starin’ at me like that?”
“Lieutenant Hurst is not a friendly sort of person, I guess,” Boyd said with a smile. “He’s not like you and me, Terrell. He has questions and he wants answers. Answers make him happy. Anything else, well…” Boyd shrugged and looked over his shoulder at Hurst. “Like I said. He’s not a friendly sort of person.”
“What? What answers? I told you everything. You got it, man. You got everything I got.”
“You mean this?” Boyd laid a signed copy of Perkins’s statement on the table and flipped through to the signature page. “This your signature, Terrell?”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s me, my name. I signed it.”
“And you are still willing to talk to us right now? You understand that you don’t have to, right? And you can have an attorney if you want, you understand, right?”
Terrell nodded.
“You need to speak, Terrell, for the record.”
“I understand. Yeah, it’s my statement and I’ll talk to you, but about that lawyer, maybe I should wait, and have him here first…I mean, I’ll still talk and all, you know, just maybe have him here with me while I do it, while I talk, you know…?”
Boyd shrugged and stood up. “You want your attorney, no problem, Terrell. I’ll just take this off the table.” He lifted the signed statement and looked at Perkins.
Terrell’s eyes swiveled in his head from Boyd’s ironic smile to Hurst’s eyes boring into his skull. For a second, the lieutenant’s stare seemed to penetrate through his head. Terrell felt like his eyeballs were being pushed through the back of his head by that stare.
“Naw, man,” Perkins said, turning his gaze back to Boyd. “I didn’t say I wasn’t gonna help. I’ll help. Just wondering if I should get my lawyer here, that’s all. I got that right, don’t I?”
“You surely do, Terrell,” Boyd said with a friendly smile. “You can make the call right now. We’ll leave while you do.” He started to turn towards the door holding the statement up in his hand for Perkins to see. “Like I said before, we know what happened. We don’t need this statement. We’ll just move on and book you for the murders…” Boyd emphasized the plural, ‘murders’, to let Perkins know they had him. He looked at Hurst. “Come on, Lieutenant. I’m tired of wasting time here.”
“Wait a minute!” Terrell struggled unsuccessfully to keep the panic from his voice. There was no telling what the others had told them about him. He knew what he would say if he was them and that thought decided it for him. If they were sitting in some other room in this building, they had probably given him up all the way. He was gonna get the needle for them. That’s what he would say in their place. “Just ask the questions. I’m ready.” He turned his head towards the camera and spoke loudly. “I want to talk, and I don’t need a lawyer right now.”
Boyd nodded and sat down again. Hurst remained standing, eyes fixed on Terrell Perkins.
“Tell us about this man, Terrell.”
Fred Hurst took a photo from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and laid it on the table. Eyes wide, Perkins looked from the photo to Boyd and then from the photo to Hurst. They watched his reaction with cold curiosity. The picture of Rodney Puckett had been enlarged from his driver’s license photo to a five by seven image. Hurst had spent the morning tracking through county records to find the name of the owner of the cabin by the little lake that Perkins had described. Once the owner had been identified, it had been easy enough to obtain his driver’s license photograph.
“You got him?” Perkins looked up at Boyd, fear mixed with wonder on his face. “You got Rodney?”
Boyd did not answer the question. He simply said, “Tell us about him.”
In Perkins’ frame of mind, Boyd’s statement meant that they had Puckett and maybe all the others, and he better say something to keep his own ass from going to death row.
“He’s the one, man. That’s the man.”
“The man?”
“Yeah, you know. The man. The head, the boss of things. He told us what to do, where to go, how to do it. You know, the man.”
Boyd nodded. “So Rodney was the man, not you, right?”
“Right, man, right. I’m not the man. I just do what he says. He says kill somebody, and I do it. He was the man, the boss.” Terrell’s voice rose in a plaintiff whine, begging to be believed that he was a simple killer and not the leader of the gang.
“Is that what Rodney will tell us, Terrell?” Boyd asked the question, dangling the fear in front of Perkins face. The killer could not help but wonder what Puckett had told them. Bob Shaklee watched appreciatively from the next room, admiring Boyd’s skill.
“Look, man. I don’t know what he told you, but he’s the one, the leader, the man. We do what he says.”
Boyd nodded again, pulling the ‘Term Limits’ list of names from his pocket. He spent the next several minutes reviewing the names, confirming where they might be in the order of elimination. From what Perkins knew, it was apparent that the task force had figured that part of the conspiracy out pretty clearly.
Perkins confirmed the descriptions of Sim Lee, Bill Quince, and Bud Thompson that he had provided earlier. They remained consistent, probably indicating that he was telling the truth about the others.
Boyd stood up. “Okay, Terrell. We are going to follow up on this. If everything you say pans out with what we have from the others, we’ll be getting you over to the book-in soon. Just sit tight here.”
“What I said helped, right? It makes a difference, right?” he called at Boyd’s back as he left the room. Turning his eyes to Lieutenant Hurst, he asked pleadingly, “What I said is good, right? It made a difference. We got a deal, right?”
For the first time since the interview began, Freddy Hurst smiled. Then he walked through the conference room door.
74. Sanctioned
“Is there trouble at home?” The voice was mild, almost effeminate, but the speaker’s eyes were intense.
Six men were gathered at the table. Two were from Georgia. The eyes of the others were focused on them.
“No, no trouble. Just some issues we are tending to.” Charles Montgomery spoke easily, his deep voice resonating in the small room.
“The project?”
“Is progressing about as expected,” Clarence Greene responded. “An occasional blip t
hat requires a small course correction, but moving in the right direction.”
There were a couple of nods from some of the others around the table. The man who had asked the questions simply sipped his wine and then returned to his lunch.
The view from the private dining room in which the men sat was much grander than the view from the courthouse square in Georgia. It included the domed capitol of the United States.
The luncheon had been organized so that Montgomery and Greene could provide a status report on matters at home. It was not an unusual meeting. These informal gatherings over meals took place frequently. They provided the leadership with an opportunity to speak privately with the various party delegations about matters of importance without the listening ears of staff or the press wandering the halls of the capitol. The only thing that an outsider might have considered to be slightly out of the ordinary at this gathering was that both parties were represented. But in truth, that was not unheard of either.
That view from the dining room and all that went with it gave the group a natural ascendancy over the men gathered ‘back home’ across from the courthouse in Georgia and across the country. They had something the others back home wanted. Power. These six men were senior members of a very elite group, the Congress of the United States.
Out of a population of over three hundred million, five hundred and thirty-five men and women made up the US Congress. The count consisted of one hundred senators and four hundred thirty-five members of the House of Representatives. This amazingly small percentage of the population, less than two millionths of one percent of the people or about one senator or representative for every six hundred thousand Americans, made up the most powerful deliberative body the world had ever known. There were also five non-voting delegates elected from US territories around the world and one Resident Commissioner from Puerto Rico, but the real power rested with the elected senators and representatives.
With membership in this elite body came a number of benefits including position, status, patronage, and the ability to enrich oneself in subtle, but spectacular, ways.
For some, their entry into the body of the Congress had been a lifelong quest. For others, it had come at a younger age thanks to patronage from above. No matter how they had arrived, none would relinquish their hold on their respective seats willingly.
They were members of an exclusive club, where the rules and laws they made for others did not always apply to them. Seemingly small things, like access to inside information, could reap huge rewards. Knowing the route of the next highway or rail line, or what equipment the military or other government agencies would be purchasing, or the new regulations regarding financial institutions provided enormous opportunities for profit. Using this information for financial gain in a way that would land a normal citizen in prison for insider trading was winked at by members of Congress and considered just one of the perks of membership.
But mostly it was the power. The power was seductive. Entry into the select body, the Congress of the United States, opened the door to power. That power came from the enormous influence the Congress exerted over, what was arguably, the most powerful nation and economy that had ever existed. Playing by the rules of this privileged club brought memberships on Congressional committees and leadership of those committees along with access to, and control over, large sums of public money. With the money came more power. It was addictive. The power was narcotic and aphrodisiac all in one, and as with any narcotic, there were those who would do almost anything to obtain it. Once they had tasted the narcotic of power, they would do everything to keep it. The few who gained entry to the body of the Congress and who did not play by the rules, found themselves ostracized. They were walled out from any effective participation in committees or congressional assignments. They were shut out of any meaningful debate and the ability to change things or move their agendas forward. For two hundred and fifty years, the system had evolved into what it was today. Those who entered it played by its rules or were devoured, swallowed and forgotten.
Little was said during the remainder of the luncheon. The china and silver clinked. The servers moved quietly in and out of the room. The men engaged in small talk about their families, mutual acquaintances and their golf handicaps.
Once the dishes were cleared, the coffee had been served, and the group was alone again, the senior member of the group cleared his throat and prepared to speak. He regarded Montgomery and Greene thoughtfully over his coffee.
“You know that we cannot officially sanction your project, and do not want to know the details, but there has been some bleed over. There are rumblings in surrounding states, Alabama, the Carolinas, and Florida.”
“We know,” Montgomery and Greene responded somberly and in unison.
“This…” He searched for a word before continuing. “This movement,” he said, the distaste evident on his face. “It must be contained before it expands beyond our ability to affect it, before it changes everything.”
Montgomery answered simply. “We know.”
The senior member pulled the trump card that politicians often use. “The very security of the country may depend upon stopping the spread of this…this, electoral virus now.” He looked around the table at the heads that nodded in serious agreement with the statement. “We all know the consequences if what is happening in Georgia becomes a mainstream movement spreading to other states.” Looking around the table at the heads nodding, he gave one of the soft smiles that were his trademark. “We would not want that to happen. I don’t think any of us would like that to happen.” He turned the soft smile and steely gaze to Montgomery and Greene, seated across from him. “This is a matter of deep concern and national security.” The trump card had now been played twice in one minute. It was a message to the group. “Control it now.”
There was nothing else to say. The two men from Georgia nodded their understanding.
The black car that took them from the luncheon to Reagan National Airport moved smoothly through the early afternoon Washington traffic. Senator Charles Montgomery and Representative Clarence Greene sat quietly in the back.
It may have surprised their respective constituents in Georgia, but a strong cordiality and air of southern civility existed between the two, fed by their mutual reliance on each other for the propagation of the system that had rewarded them so well.
One served in the Senate, had a huge power base in the rural counties, and only stood for election every six years. The other served in the House of Representatives, had an equally impressive power base, not just through his district, but also through his representation of minority interests statewide, and stood for election every two years. The elections were mere formalities, as there was never any real opposition, until now. And while they were often outwardly on opposite sides of issues, they were united privately by common interests.
“The other members of the delegation?” The senator’s question was spoken softly and amiably, but with a definite edge of curiosity.
“All but two.”
“Seriously? You’ve been a good deal more successful than I had hoped.” He nodded and smiled appreciatively at his associate.
“Yes, well there is a good deal at stake. It was an easy sell.” The representative’s melodious voice and modulated tones had the evangelical lilt of a southern preacher. In fact, that had been his calling as a young man. His care for, and leadership of, his flock had led him into active participation in community issues and the civil rights movement. He was a natural leader. That passionate, evangelical voice and his sincere fight for the rights of the disenfranchised had moved him to the forefront of local politics. His first run at the House of Representatives had resulted in his election by an overwhelming majority. The poor, district he represented had reelected him eight times since, and he had no expectation of retiring soon, although the search for an appropriate successor was underway. Edward Paschal, his personal representative to the group in Georgia, was one of the leading candi
dates to succeed Greene to his seat in the House when he finally retired. But whoever was selected, the representative would groom that successor. There was too much at stake to take chances on things getting out of control. He would ensure that certain interests were protected before stepping down.
“Yes, a good deal at stake, indeed.” The senator’s deep, stentorian voice was thoughtful and softened by the relaxed, drawling, confident tones of the old southern aristocracy. For him, it was a learned manner of speaking. The senator had come from much humbler surroundings than the representative had. Growing up poor in rural Georgia, he was the first of his family to graduate high school. The locals called him a young man with drive. What he was, in truth, was determined to escape the hard poverty and sweating, calloused existence of his childhood. It was a life that had bent and mangled his parents before they were fifty years old. Having attained the milestone of a high school diploma, he went to Atlanta and put himself through a night-study law school that prepared students to take the Georgia Bar Examination. Then, returning home, he started a small practice in a small town. Success came slowly, but when it did come, he had won the patronage of his predecessor who had opened the door to the US Senate. That patronage had cost him much in late nights, dirty jobs, promises and self-respect, and he would not lose what he had fought so hard to attain. His possible successor had also been in the office in Georgia. PT Somerhill was the natural choice. He had proven his willingness to do whatever was necessary. More than proven it, Montgomery thought uncomfortably. Willing to sacrifice his father, the senator wondered what else and whom else he might be willing to sacrifice. He would bear watching.
Arriving at the airport, the two members of the Georgia congressional delegation moved quickly through the VIP lines. The short flight back to Atlanta on a commercial jet would not give them an opportunity to speak openly. No matter. They had already made their plans. They would spend a day setting things straight, bolstering the Georgia team and making whatever adjustments were necessary to keep the project moving forward. Two days from now, they would be back in Washington, at home amidst the seat of power.