by Glenn Trust
“Evening, George, Sharon, Mr. Tobin.” Davies and Darlington stood respectfully at the bottom of the steps. The men with them took a position to the side and slightly behind.
“C’mon up, Sheriff.” Fel waved a bony arm at him. “We got plenty of beer. You too Mike, and them fellas there, whoever they are. C’mon up and we’ll drag some chairs out here on the porch. Have us a little Sunday night party.”
Davies smiled. “Sorry, Mr. Tobin. Can’t do that. Here on official business, tonight.”
“What the hell’s so official about tonight, and what business you got here?” Fel leaned forward looking at the men, concerned.
George and Sharon had remained silent. They suspected what was coming. There would be no other reason for the visit.
Sandy turned to George. “Sorry, to do this, but I don’t have any choice, George.”
“I know.” George sat quietly, watching, waiting for it. It was the moment. It had been coming for a while. Tonight was the night, the beginning, or ending, or both.
Sharon lifted a hand to her eyes, brushing away the tears that had started down her face.
Davies stepped to the side and the men in the suits came forward. One, older and obviously the senior of the two, took a piece of folded paper from his breast pocket, cleared his throat and spoke.
“George Mackey, we have a warrant for your arrest. The charge is murder and violation of the public trust.”
“What!” Fel stood up. “George ain’t murdered nobody. He took care of a bad man that was killin’ folks. He coulda been killed himself.”
Sharon stood up and put her arms around Fel moving him away from the steps and pushing him back onto his chair. “It’s all right Fel. We knew this was coming.”
“You knew?”
She nodded. “We knew.”
“But…it ain’t right. George ain’t done…”
George stood up, walked to Sharon and put his hands on her shoulders turning her around. “I do, you know. Love you.” He smiled. “Not because you said it.” He leaned over and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her.
When he turned away, she held on, clinging to his arm until he had to reach down and gently take it away. “I have to go, darlin’. It’s time we got this over with.” He looked at Fel sitting slumped in his chair, dazed by the sudden upheaval of life that had been so peaceful a few minutes earlier.. “Take care of her, Fel. Take care of each other.”
George turned and walked down the steps to the men in the suits.
The senior man spoke. “I’m sorry about this, Deputy. I have my orders. They came direct from the State Attorney General.”
“I know.” George nodded. “It’s okay. What’s your name?”
“Bill. Bill Twilley.” He looked at the younger man to his side. “This is John Simpson. We’re with the GBI.”
“Well, Bill. What’s the plan?”
Agent Twilley from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation took a deep breath. “We are supposed to…ordered to…handcuff you and take you to the Pickham County jail. In the morning, we transport you to Macon to the Bibb County jail. There will be a preliminary hearing in a few days and you will be able to consult with your attorney and prepare your defense.”
“Handcuff! That’s bullshit!” Mike Darlington stepped forward. “Is that really necessary?”
Agent Simpson tensed, not knowing what to expect. Twilley looked at George and back at Darlington. “No I don’t suppose it is necessary, but those are our orders.”
George smiled, nodding. “It’s all right, Mike.” He turned around and put his hands behind his back.
Twilley stepped forward, under the glares of Davies and Darlington and put the handcuffs on one wrist, then the other. “I’m sorry, Deputy. I read the GBI report. Seems to me like you’re a goddamned hero. I don’t know what to say.” He stepped back from George, and mustered the courage to look him in the eye. “I have my orders.”
5. Empire Building
“Who’s this?” The heavyset, spandex-wearing woman behind the bar eyed the group of men who had just come into Pete’s Place. She knew them all, but one.
“Lonna, let me introduce you to Stu Taggert. We call him Stuie. He works for us now.” Henry Schulls, pickup driver, leaned against the bar and clapped Taggert on the back.
She nodded. “Glad to hear that.” Her eyes met his, seeing the uncertainty there. “Relax Stu. I’m Lonna.” She looked at Schulls. “The other?”
“Won’t hear any more about him…” He picked up the beer Lonna placed in front of him and sipped. “At least not until they start logging that stretch of pines. Probably ruin someone’s lunch when they do.” He chuckled and took another sip.
Henry’s crew sidled up to the bar on both sides of Taggert. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Gathered from around south Georgia and north Florida, they were locals, country toughs who had been in and out of trouble with the law most of their lives. They knew the system, weren’t intimidated by cops and were intent on proving themselves to Henry and Lonna, and their boss, Roy Budroe. Tying in with Budroe’s operation had pulled them into big-time organized crime, and they had every intention of making the most of it and grabbing their slice of Budroe’s ever-expanding money pie.
Lonna MacIntyre, former Atlanta prostitute, sometime drug runner and current manager of Pete’s Place was also one of Budroe’s chief lieutenants. Under his direction, she kept things going, expanded business and made sure the money was deposited into his offshore bank accounts. He kept the lion’s share for himself, but he was generous in sharing profits with her and the others, none of whom had probably made more than twenty thousand legitimate dollars in a year in their lives. Because of the money, Budroe’s people were loyal, tight-lipped and efficient at removing the competition.
People passing by Roydon on I-95 had no idea that it and the local bar, Pete’s Place, were the hub of one of the largest criminal networks in the country. It was a dump and showed none of the trappings of financial success. Locals knew that it was the center of unlawful activity in Pickham County, but it was only after the breakup of the sex slave operation the previous year that law enforcement had suspected that Budroe’s illegal businesses covered a much broader territory.
The steel door banged open. Biker Man and the girl in the tank top walked in.
Henry turned, beer in hand. “Everything okay, Lucas?”
The biker, Lucas McCrory, known to most as Big Luke, nodded. “Yeah. Brenda took the car about twenty miles up the road, dumped it behind an old abandoned church we scouted out. Be a while before anyone finds it.”
“I wiped it clean.” Brenda sat across from Big Luke at a table away from the bar. “If they do find it, won’t be anything to find that leads them here.”
“Good.” Henry nodded and sipped his beer.
“So what’s your plan?” Lonna spoke to Schulls.
“Tomorrow, couple of the boys will head north with Stuie in the van, make the delivery, get the cash and meet the contacts.”
“People down south gonna be lookin’ for their money and wonderin’ what happened to the shipment.”
Henry nodded. “Yep. Countin’ on it. Let them get stupid, make the first move. We’ll be watching. In the mean time. Stuie here is gonna tell us everything there is to know about their operation. When we are ready, we take them out, the head guys. The rest come in with us, part of the team.” He looked at Taggert to his side. “Like Stuie here.”
It was not an original technique. The Roman Empire had used it in its conquest of the known world, although it is unlikely that Budroe or his people were aware of that bit of history. Budroe and his team had refined it and made it highly effective. By eliminating the leaders of the competition and absorbing into his network operations that were already functioning and profitable, he eliminated start-up costs and expanded his empire with minimal investment.
Stu Taggert looked around the dim interior of Pete’s Place. This was it? These redneck yokels? Rednecks, bu
t they talked like professionals, calm and sure of themselves and their business. You would have never known it by the dingy surroundings. No one suspected Roydon, or Pete’s Place. He surely had not. The I-95 corridor had been his major route for some time, and he had never suspected what lay beyond the exit sign to Roydon.
“Drink?” Lonna MacIntyre wiped the bar in front of Taggert.
He nodded.
“Something strong?” She smiled. “You look like you could use it.”
He nodded again.
“Okay then. On the house.”
She poured four fingers of bourbon, straight, into a tumbler and sat it in front of Taggert. Lifting the glass with a shaking hand, he looked around, raised it to Lonna and then downed the bourbon. The liquid warmed his insides, calming the shakes and numbing the fear that had been wedged in his gut since leaving the rest area that morning, tied up in the back of the plumber’s van.
He set the glass down with a thump on the bar. “Guess I work for you now.”
6. What Has To Be
“Everyone out.” Sandy Davies walked into the book-in room and nodded at the jail deputy on duty.
“You got it, Sheriff.” The deputy stood and motioned to the prisoner he had been logging in. “Up. Let’s go.”
“But you ain’t fingerprinted me…you ‘sposed to fingerprint me.” The drunk staggered to his feet.
“We’ll do it later, partner. Come on.” The deputy took the prisoner by the arm and led him into the holding lock-up.
Attorney General Swain had notified the press, and papers from Savannah, Macon and Atlanta. Reporters hovered in front of the Sheriff’s Office, cameras at the ready, waiting to capture the image of the fallen hero, in handcuffs. He had ordered Twilley and Simpson to walk their prisoner through the press cluster, happily anticipating the images of the shackled deputy plastered over the Monday morning papers.
The arrest of Mackey, a key member of the OSI, ‘The Hunters’, as they were called in the media, was a major story. Everyone knew that the outcome of the investigation and trial would have a serious impact on the race for the governor’s office in November.
Despite Swain’s orders to the GBI agents, Sheriff Davies had deputies out front, keeping the reporters and their camera’s away from the building. When the two vehicles passed, driving to the sally port at the rear of the building, there was no opportunity to ask questions, take pictures or even get a glimpse of George.
The word was out and the entire Sheriff’s Department knew that George Mackey, former chief deputy, was about to be booked into jail. No one wanted to see it and no one was going to make it any more difficult for him than they had to, orders from the attorney general be damned. This was Pickham County, by God, and George Mackey was a goddamned hero…their hero.
When the book-in room had been cleared, Mike Darlington came in followed by George, hands cuffed behind his back. GBI Agents Twilley and Simpson brought up the rear.
Sheriff Davies sat down at the desk and looked hard at Twilley. “You can remove the cuffs now.”
“Right.” Twilley pulled his keys from his pocket, fumbled for the handcuff key and released George’s wrists.
George sat down in the chair beside the book-in desk, the one the drunk had been in a few minutes before, while Sandy began completing the arrest sheet. He answered questions calmly, provided his identification and showed no emotion.
When the log and sheet were completed, he had Agent Twilley sign it. Davies was seething as he led George into the ID room where he snapped the mug shots and led him to the fingerprint table.
“You know…” Sandy struggled for the words, a mixture of anger and pain boiling inside.
“There’s nothing to say.” George shook his head, and raised his hand. “It has to be this way. It’s been coming for a while, since that day in the mountains.” His voice was quiet.
Hands resting on the fingerprint table, Sandy stood motionless, fighting back the emotions raging inside. “I don’t know…I can’t…George it’s just…”
“Sheriff, do your job.” George nodded.
With that, Sandy Davies fingerprinted George Mackey and completed the booking, noting the charges, murder and violation of the public trust, on the log-in sheet.
Accompanied by young Agent Simpson, Bill Twilley left the jail, feeling like shit. He went to his room at the Colonial Hotel in Everett. Threw open the window, turned the air conditioning up as high as he could and lit the first cigarette he had smoked in three months. It was his emergency stash, his, ‘I could have one, if I want one’ pack of cigarettes. Tonight he wanted one. Out of all the agents in the GBI, he and Simpson had been the ones selected to arrest George Mackey. That was going to look fucking great on their resumes.
Shit, George Mackey was a fucking hero. Everyone knew it. Agent Twilley had read the GBI report. He knew it too. Remembering Mackey’s demeanor while being booked into jail, he thought that maybe the only who didn’t know it was George Mackey.
He pulled the bottle of Jack Daniels, Old No. 7 out of his suitcase. It too was part of his emergency stash. Unwrapping a plastic cup from the bathroom, he sat by the open window letting the cigarette smoke drift outside, sipping the three fingers of Jack he had poured into the cup.
There were times, he thought, when this was a shitty job. He lit another cigarette and sipped some Jack from the cup.
Sandy Davies and Mike Darlington led George to an isolation cell, away from other prisoners. They brought chairs in to sit with him. No one really knew what to say, so they didn’t say anything.
George lay back on the small bunk and put his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Of all of them, he seemed the most at peace. The waiting and wondering was over.
“It isn’t right.” Sandy shook his head, leaned forward on the plastic chair, eyes focused on the floor.
“Not about right or wrong.” George turned his head and looked at the sheriff. “It’s what has to be.”
7. The Lions’ Den
“It’s done.” Former Pickham County Sheriff, Richard Klineman, swallowed hard, waiting for the response.
“What’s done? Speak fucking English, Dick.” Roy Budroe loved using the short ‘Dick’ for Richard whenever he spoke to Klineman.
“Mackey, he’s been arrested.”
“Good, that’s very good.” Seated in the garden of his hacienda, listening to the surf through the trees, Budroe took a long puff from his cigar, tilted his head back and blew the smoke high into the night air. “So, what’s next?”
“There will be a preliminary hearing in a few days. The case will be tried in Macon, Bibb County. It’s about as neutral a location as we can find.”
“Neutral? There ain’t no fucking place that’s neutral. You read the papers, Dick. Mackey’s a hero. The governor will make sure everyone knows it.” He looked up into the stars blazing in the night sky. “Doesn’t matter though. We cause Mackey as much grief as we can, get him out of Pickham County for a while. It all fits into my plans.”
“Oh…well. All right then.” Klineman didn’t know what to say.
Doesn’t matter? Doesn’t fucking matter? He had laid everything on the line, tied himself and his future up with a fugitive crime boss and gets told that what he had been working on, doesn’t matter. Why you arrogant fucking, prick.
Those were the thoughts that came to Richard Klineman’s mind. What he said was, “When do you want me to check back with you?” Never, he hoped silently
“Call me in a couple of days. Let me know how the prelim is going.”
The line disconnected abruptly. It was a Budroe trademark, his way of showing who was in control, who was boss. Klineman didn’t care. He could breathe again, for the moment.
He had the eerie feeling that he was playing in a lions’ den and that the lions were tolerating him for the moment. He didn’t want to think about what would happen when they stopped tolerating him.
The two head lions were Roy Budroe and Attorney General Colto
n Swain. Klineman had approached both with the idea of prosecuting Mackey for the killing of a murder suspect, a serial killer he had tracked to the north Georgia mountains.
He had urged Swain to investigate as a way to discredit Governor Jesse Bell in his run for the executive office. Mackey was part of the governor’s Office of Special Investigations. The Director of the OSI, appointed by Bell, Bob Shaklee, had been the GBI agent who had helped track the killer and had investigated the shooting.
Klineman’s reward for all of this would be support for his run against Sandy Davies in Pickham County to win back the sheriff’s office in the next election. Mackey had been Davies’ chief Deputy.
The problem was that most people considered Mackey a hero, execution or not. The man he had killed was not a very sympathetic victim. In fact, he was a sadistic murderer.
Still, going after Mackey, and then Shaklee, was the best they had. If they prevailed, they might be able to muddy the waters and have a chance in the elections.
Klineman wanted to be sheriff again, needed to be sheriff. Swain wanted to be governor, but defeating the popular Jesse Bell would be difficult. Both needed all the ammunition they could gather. The trial of Mackey and then Shaklee hopefully would carry negative press right up to the ballot box.
Budroe had come into the picture because Klineman had a small problem. Money. Roy had lots of it. Klineman did not. He needed money to run for office and no one was going to back him. In return for money, Klineman would take the heat off and look the other way in Pickham County, in Roydon, Budroe’s base of operations.