by Glenn Trust
The questions moved to how Shaklee had chosen his OSI team. Most of the reporters were satisfied and understood.
The governor was hoping that Shaklee would relent and provide a few dramatic details once the cameras flashed in front of him. Jesse Bell had seen the camera effect before, coaxing statements from people who were disinclined to speak. But Bob Shaklee was not other people. As he had promised, he did not comment on the specifics of the undercover operation or the pending investigation into his review and findings in George Mackey’s shooting of the killer in the north Georgia Mountains.
****
Watching Bell’s performance from his office, Colton Swain seethed. He had allowed himself to be drawn in by a know-nothing ex-sheriff from a podunk county in south Georgia. He glared at Klineman seated across from.
“Great. Just fucking great, Dick.”
Blinking his eyes as if he had been slapped, Klineman wondered why people always resorted to calling him by the short name for Richard whenever they were annoyed. He summoned up the courage to speak. “The press attention will die. The ongoing investigation and indictment will continue…for months. It’s better to have this happen now and get it out of the way.”
Swain looked at him. “Yes, well you had better be right about that. Hell, one of your deputies was tied up in the sex slave thing.” He leaned forward. “Jesus, what the fuck kind of operation were you running down there in Pickham County?”
Klineman had known this would come up as soon as it was discovered that Boss Stimes was involved. He had his answer ready.
Swain listened intently, understanding the logic. He knew he had no choice but to use it. “You better be right,” was his only comment.
Their press conference took place later that afternoon. Swain had called it to respond to the governor’s unfair allegations that his motives were political. Richard Klineman stood pale-faced and wide-eyed by his side at the podium.
“It is unfortunate that in conducting a special investigation regarding the violation of the public trust by public officers, something this office is required to do by the Constitution of the State of Georgia, we have stirred up a hornet’s nest of concern in the governor’s office. Why, you can almost hear them buzzing over here.” Swain paused, smiled and allowed the reporters to note his folksy metaphor. “But I promise the citizens of Georgia this. We are conducting a fair and impartial investigation. We have singled no one out for special attention, although the governor seems to have chosen those whom he would protect from scrutiny.”
When a reporter asked why the investigation was focusing on George Mackey, Swain gave the answer he and the reporter had agreed upon earlier.
“It seems that people who come in contact with Chief Deputy Mackey die. Perhaps this is a result of good law enforcement work, but the Attorney General’s office has a duty to investigate suspicious patterns in the activities of public officials.” He paused. Klineman held his breath. “It should be noted that the involvement of one of Chief Deputy Mackey’s own deputies in the human trafficking ring and that deputy’s subsequent death raises a number of...uh…concerns shall we say. This office will resolve those concerns. This is not about politics. It is about justice, for all.”
“What concerns are those?” The question was shouted out as Swain turned from the podium, followed by Klineman.
Walking down the hall towards his office, Swain spoke over his shoulder to the ex-sheriff. “Well, Dick. I have to give you credit. We dropped the bomb, planted the seed. They will be churning it over for days. Mackey, Stimes, one good, one bad…or were they both bad. Did Mackey eliminate Stimes deliberately because they were both involved in the human trafficking business? What is Mackey hiding? Something? Nothing? Everything?” He stopped walking, turned and looked into Klineman’s face. “I have to give you credit, Sheriff. You are one devious bastard.” He shook his head and walked into the anteroom of his office. “I’ll be in touch.” The door closed solidly behind him.
Standing in the empty hallway, Richard Klineman felt very alone.
****
The ride from the South Georgia Medical Center back to Deerton was uneventful. Jake Beery sat beside Jerome Banks, watching the landscape flow by in a green blur, thinking that the days in the past couple of weeks were all blurred in his mind.
“You did real good, Jake.” Jerome looked over at the sheriff of Meacham County, bandages on one side of his face, his left arm and around his torso wrapped tight under his shirt. Doctors had removed twelve of the eighteen 00 buckshot pellets fired by Budroe. The rest had hit the overturned plane or the pavement. Budroe had been in a hurry or he might have done a better job.
“I got shot, Jerome. That’s all.”
“Nope. Not that simple. You’re a hero, whether you think so or not. Those were bad men and you faced them.”
“I got shot, Jerome. The bad man got away.”
Banks made the turn off the main highway towards Deerton. “Well, we’ll see about that.”
Jake just watched the scenery, familiar now, home. He remembered how unfamiliar it had looked from the air, riding spotter with Rince. He wondered how they were, Rince, Sharon, big George Mackey. Most of all he wondered about Andy, what it would have been like alone in the shed, beaten, dying. Would he have talked? Could he have been as strong as Andy. No, Andy Barnes was the hero. Beery wondered if he shouldn’t find some other line of work for his retirement.
Twenty minutes later Jerome steered the car through the outskirts of Deerton. The town was quiet, deserted, no traffic.
“Just drop me at the house, Jerome. I want to rest.” Rest and write up his letter of resignation, he thought. That’s what he should do, what he would do.
“I will. Got to show you something first.”
Jerome steered through the quiet streets of Deerton to the courthouse square. Making the turn into the square, he stopped. Jake stared through the windshield, confused.
The crowd must have included every person in the county. The street was packed. The courthouse lawn was packed. People shouted. Welcome home, Jake! Banners around the square proclaimed Sheriff Jake Beery Day.
Leading the bandaged sheriff slowly through the crowd, Jerome guided the dazed man to the small stage that had been erected by the courthouse steps. Jake mounted to the platform and stood in front of the members of the county commission and the mayor of Deerton.
“Welcome home, Sheriff.” The chairman of the county commission shook his hand.
The mayor and the chairman gave short speeches, recounting Jake Beery’s courage in facing the crime boss, Roy Budroe, thanking him for his dedication to duty and service to the community and reminding everyone that they had a hero in their midst. Jake Beery listened, stunned, accepted the plaque they handed him, shook everyone’s hands and walked down the steps.
A local country group, The Dillo Land Band, started playing Lee Greenwood’s “Proud To Be An American”. People in the crowd commented on how they sounded almost as good as Greenwood. A few, drinking beer since the morning on the courthouse lawn, said Greenwood couldn’t hold a candle to Dillo Land.
Jake Beery wandered through the crowd, accepting handshakes and the gingerly pats on the back from people who didn’t want to cause him pain, but who felt compelled to offer some more intimate sign of appreciation. He made his way to the outskirts of the crowd, just wanting to go home.
At the edge of the square, he faded into the background, hoping not to be noticed. The band had the crowd going. Jake Beery Day was turning into a hell of a party. He moved around to a street that fed into the square and led to his small frame house, five blocks off the square. For a moment, he stood alone, watching the festivities.
“’Scuse us…Sheriff.”
Jake turned. Sonya and Bandy and the other girls were gathered around, close enough to speak, but keeping their distance.
He smiled. “Ladies. How are you?”
“We good, Sheriff. We just want you to know…we just want to say…” Sonya
took a breath not sure how to say what was in their hearts. “I guess thank you is what we want to say.” She jerked her head toward the festivities in the square. “No, never mind what they all say. Those are just words. We want to say thank you for saving us.”
“Saving you?” Beery’s brows furrowed, confused.
Sonya nodded. “You saved us.” She stepped closer and put her hand on his arm, the one not bandaged. Those were bad men. What they were doing was more than bad. It was…” Sonya searched for the right word. “It was evil…like the devil.” She smiled, explaining. “We bad girls. We know that. But we are not evil. Those men were evil. What they were doin’ to those girls…what they were gonna do to us…it was evil.” She nodded emphatically, ending any discussion of the matter. “You saved us. You faced up to them. You brought in the law. You was the law. You. No one else around here did that. You are a hero, no matter what you think.”
Leaning forward, Sonya gave him a quick kiss on the cheek then turned quickly away. One by one the other girls stepped forward and gently kissed his cheek. As Bandy lowered herself from her tiptoes after brushing his cheek with her lips, she handed him a plate.
“I baked these for you, peanut butter chocolate chip. I hope you like them.”
Jake nodded, searching for something to say. “Thank you,” were the only words he could find.
Sitting that evening in his small house, five blocks off the square, Jake Beery stared at the plate of cookies. He had decided not to write his letter of resignation, today at least. Sipping the beer he had been nursing for an hour, he reached toward the plate. He wondered how peanut butter chocolate chip cookies tasted with beer. Not bad, actually.
****
The fog lifted as he forced his eyes open. It was a painful process. Still swollen from the beating, Andy found that his eyelids seemed stuck closed, held by some special gummy glue that would not let him see the world clearly. He wanted to see the world clearly. He couldn’t remember why, but he wanted to.
A hand reached out with a warm damp washcloth and dabbed around his eyes, loosening the gum that held them shut. Gently wiping, the hand with the cloth freed his eyelids. He opened his eyes completely, for the first time in days.
Deirdre’s face hovered over him. Her hand held the warm damp cloth that continued to wipe gently around his eyes.
“How you feelin’, babe?” She smiled, leaning close. He could smell her hair; feel her breath on his cheek.
“Terrible.”
She kissed his swollen lips gently. “You’ll get better. It’ll take some time, but you’ll get better.”
Andy nodded. It was all he had the strength to do. “Where am I? How long?”
“You’re in the hospital, Crawford Long, in Atlanta. You’ve been here three days. They’ve kept you sedated trying to get the swelling down in your brain. The doctor said you might be waking up today.” She smiled. “They don’t know what a thick head my husband has.”
He moved his hand slightly to pat her leg resting beside him on the bed and gave a weak smile. “Sorry, babe. I should have been more careful.”
“You wouldn’t be Andrew Barnes if you had.” Looking into his eyes, Deirdre fought back the tears. Andy raised his hand slowly and touched the wet drop making its way down her cheek. “You’re back now though. You’re ours.” She looked over her shoulder. “You have some people waiting to see you.”
“Hi, Dad.” Cayla came close to the bed, Tanya standing in front of her. Both stood wide-eyed looking at their father’s swollen and mangled face.
“What’s the matter,” he said softly. “I’m not pretty anymore?”
Putting her face close to his, Tanya, whispered, “You look all lumpy, Dad.”
Andy laughed and then stopped abruptly, wincing at the pain piercing through his chest as his broken ribs tried to expand and contract.
Cayla pushed her little sister aside. “He looks handsome, just like always.” Cayla leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, baby girl.” He smiled at the grin on his daughter’s face. She always liked him to use his pet name for her. “Where’s Carlton?”
“Here, Dad.”
Turning his head, Andy saw his son standing on the opposite side of the bed, a look of reverence on his face. The look made Andy uncomfortable. He reached out his hand and motioned Carlton closer.
“What’s the matter, son? I look that bad?”
Standing beside the bed, Carlton kept his hands folded in front, not touching his father. Andy reached out and took his hand. “It’s good to see you, Carl.”
Nodding, Carlton wiped a tear from his eyes and looked at the floor. Andy squeezed his hand. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Tears flowed freely now down his son’s face. “Nothing.” He shook his head slowly side to side. “Nothing,” he said, wiping the tears with his hand again. “I just never knew…”
“Knew what, Carl?”
“I guess I never knew what you did, really? They said you could have died.”
“I didn’t die. I’m not going to die.” He held tightly to his son’s hand.
Nodding, Carlton took a deep breath and pushed the tears away. “Ms. Connor in school said you’re a hero.”
Andy shook his head. “Not a hero.”
Surrounded by his family, Andy Barnes slowly healed. Whether he thought so or not, the press painted him as a hero, and subsequently the vast majority of the people of Georgia agreed. Andrew Barnes and the rest of the OSI team had ended the sale and exploitation of human beings, slavery by any definition.
In a state with Georgia’s antebellum past, the OSI’s success in breaking up Budroe’s human trafficking ring was powerful medicine. Governor Jesse Bell and his Organizer-in-Chief, Pamela Towers, made certain that Andy Barnes and the significance of the OSI operation was not lost in the media buzz. With the ongoing investigation and possible prosecution of Bob Shaklee and George Mackey, and an election coming, they would wield the operation’s success as a sword, slicing apart the opposition.
When it was pointed out in one of the many press conferences that Bell held on the subject that, in fact, they had not ended human trafficking, but had merely broken up a small local criminal enterprise profiting from the enslavement and sale of women into the sex trade, Bell reacted with righteous indignation. He took every opportunity to make sure the press and public knew that, 'The governor’s specially appointed Office of Special Investigations was instrumental in ending a major component of the trafficking of human beings in the State of Georgia, if not in the entire United States. To say that they had accomplished anything less, according to Bell, was an offense to the courage of the men and women of the OSI and the sacrifices they had made to free those enslaved by the traffickers'…and so on, and so on. A great deal of political hay was made of the successful operation, despite the escape of its ringleader, Roy Budroe.
George and Sharon, accompanied by a bandaged Sheriff Jake Beery, made the journey from south Georgia to visit Andy. After making the trek twice by car, Bob Shaklee secured permission from the governor to have Rince fly them. Governor Bell was only too happy to demonstrate his commitment to the team that had risked so much for the people of the State of Georgia. His lower arm in a small cast, but his hands free, Rince was given another plane, a loaner from the Department of Public Safety. They protested, mildly, but realized quickly that it was in their best interest to cooperate with the OSI. Besides, the governor promised to include new planes for the OSI and the DPS in the next budget appropriations. Everyone was happy.
Rince and Shaklee were frequent visitors during Andy’s convalescence, spending time with him almost daily. Eventually, Bob was pulled away to prepare briefs defending his actions in the inquiry into George’s shooting of the killer in the mountains. The governor wanted no slip-ups. According to Pamela Towers, he was going to shove the investigation up Colton Swain’s ass. No one doubted that those were, in fact, the governor’s very words.
/> Dropping by the Barnes’ home one day shortly after Andy’s release from the hospital, Rince found him on the patio. Wearing sweats, and running shoes, he looked almost normal. The swelling was nearly gone from his face although some of the discoloration from the bruises received at the hand of Boss Stimes remained.
“You seen this?” He dropped the day’s edition of the Atlanta Journal – Constitution on the glass table beside Andy. “Front page.”
Picking the paper up, Andy scanned the story. It was indeed on the front page, but below the fold. There was a photo of the team standing around Andy, still in the hospital seated in a wheelchair. The headline read ‘The Hunters – Office of Special Investigations’. The story gave a brief bio of each team member and went on to say that the organization of the team and appointment of Robert Shaklee, former senior agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, may be Governor Bell’s best decision yet. No mention was made of Swain’s investigation and possible prosecution of Shaklee and Mackey.
“Interesting,” Andy said laying the paper on the table. “The Hunters, huh.” He smiled up at Rince. “I feel more like a punching bag.”
“I don’t know. I kind of like it.” Rince grinned. “The Hunters.” He said, slowly rolling the words around his mouth as if tasting them. “Yeah, I like it.”
So did the media. Within days, the governor’s Office of Special Investigations was being referred to as the team of hunters, or the governor’s hunters, or just ‘The Hunters’. Like it or not, the name had captured the public’s imagination.
****
They sat quietly, listening, not wanting to interrupt. It came soft and mellow as it always did. The whippoorwill called from the woods across the road as the twilight darkened.
“Ever see one? A whippoorwill?” Fel Tobin turned his head in the dusk to Sharon seated as usual between Fel and George on the front porch of the old farmhouse.