She waved her hands helplessly in the air. Charlie waited for her to finish her thought, but she didn’t, so he busied himself pulling the scanner out of its box.
After a minute, Minerva spoke again. “He brought back the money Friday. Most of it, anyway. Said he didn’t get a chance to get to the power company. I hate to think what all he did … I’m lucky I got any of it back. Lucky he’s alive. I’m afraid of him and for him. The people he associates with.” She growled in disgust. “That friend of his he brought by the other night is nothing but bad news. You can see it in his eyes. He got beat up in a fight and talks about getting a gun and killing the other boy. D said he’d help him. They both spend all their time playing the fool.”
“Oh really,” said Charlie, scrutinizing the scanner’s instructions.
“My grandson’s no bigger than me and talks about killing people. Too much anger and hatred inside. It’s all messed up. I don’t want to trouble you with that.” She waved her hand as if she was shooing away her problems, but they hung in the air like thick smoke over a fire in a valley.
Charlie looked up. “Where’s Takira now?”
“I got her back in school. She’ll be doing well if she makes it through this semester. She’ll be showing pretty soon, skinny as she is. But you go ahead and work on your book.”
He set up his scanner in the living room while she cleaned up in the kitchen. He felt guilty about using her precious electricity. When she came out to check on him, he said, “If there’s some way I could, uh, reimburse you—”
She tut-tutted him. “Just give me some copies of your book when it’s published. I don’t want people claiming I made up a story and sold it to you. What’s that called? Checkbook journalism?”
“Yes. No. We don’t want that. I don’t have much of a checkbook, anyway.”
“You do the work. You get paid. That’s the way it should be.”
Minerva went into the kitchen and worked noisily for an hour. Then she came into the living room and started energetically dusting around him, wondering aloud how long he would take, asking why anyone would care about something that happened so long ago. He looked up from a letter he was copying. “You having second thoughts? Don’t you want to know what happened?”
She picked a piece of lint from the sofa arm. “Maybe not. I was just thinking there’s a reason the past should stay buried.”
Unsure how long Minerva would let him stay, Charlie picked up his pace.
Her mood improved after Charlie offered to buy her lunch. They ate in a diner called Café Max near Little Five Points. After they returned, Minerva got a phone call, which she took in her bedroom. She came back into the living room and rolled her eyes. “That was the high school attendance office. Demetrious has gone missing from school again. He was out most of last week. I quit signing excuses for him two years ago. Now he doesn’t even bother. He’s out roaming the streets.”
To Charlie, the boy seemed not so much a troubled teenager as a storm building to critical mass. He glanced at the photo of the truant, gangsta wannabe, and statutory rapist. He didn’t want to deal with Hurricane Demetrious, but he could sense the manchild bulging out of the picture frame, pushing against the fabric of Charlie’s universe.
* * *
Charlie showed up at Minerva’s house the next morning, hoping to finish copying Riggins’s papers. She was in a better mood, cheerfully serving him coffee and cinnamon rolls. He found papers in the bottom of the chest that quickened his pulse—a title deed to a farm in Forsyth County, along with tax records. The Holy Grail, if what Jasper had said was true: John Riggins had been lynched for his land. Charlie recalled the 1987 biracial commission’s report and its white-led disparagement of claims for reparations. Suck on this, biracial commission bitches!
He showed Minerva what he’d found and asked if she’d ever made a claim on the land.
“There was an AME preacher named McDougal who tried to do something back in the 1970s. I gave him my information, and he talked to a lawyer, but nothing ever came of it.”
“Was that in 1972?”
“Yes. I think so. How’d you know?”
“There was a courthouse fire about that time. Some records were conveniently destroyed.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm, indeed. I think I need to take a trip to Forsyth County.”
She bugged her eyes and grunted. “You can go without me. Anyway, they’re not going to give it up. That’s how they are. No offense.” She shrugged. “If you prove the land should belong to me, you know what they’ll do, don’t you? Make me pay seventy years’ taxes, that’s what.”
Charlie couldn’t say they wouldn’t. But still, it was worth fighting for. “The land is worth millions in the current market.”
As he was making a copy of the title, he realized that this may have been what the burglars were looking for back in January at Bayard Terrace. “Do you have a safety deposit box?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You should stash this away for safekeeping.”
“You really think the land’s worth some money?”
“Yes. Definitely.”
Charlie finished copying and gave Minerva a ride to the bank, where she tucked away the records. After that, he returned to her house and dropped her off, then sped away to pick up the kids, thinking about how to proceed with his investigation. Obviously, the land grab was the central part of the story—and most likely the murder motive. He knew Riggins’s farm had been located in northern Forsyth but wasn’t sure exactly where. He needed to find out who owned the land now. He snapped his fingers. Pappy must have known John Riggins! Hell, everyone in Forsyth would have known the only black man who lived within twenty miles. Whenever Riggins went to town, a hundred eyes would have followed him, just waiting for him to lunge at a white woman. Charlie wondered what pretext they’d used to kill the man. Then again, when violent racism was Forsyth County’s official policy, how clever did they need to be?
Chapter Twelve
Two weeks after finishing Flight from Forsyth—and two days shy of the seventieth anniversary of John Riggins’s lynching—Charlie was compelled to return to Cumming. On a sunny day that seemed more summer than fall, he parked his van downtown in a large lot near a poultry plant (where Hispanics now flocked for jobs). Huge cooling units droned as he crossed Main Street to the square and glanced at the modern red-brick City Hall before turning his gaze back to the courthouse.
The brick courthouse had white-trimmed windows that Charlie found irritatingly small, front and back porticos with tall, spindly white columns, third-story dormer windows, and a white phallic clock tower topped by a spike. It replaced the old courthouse, which had burned down in November 1973—at the hands of a varmint, or the spouse of one, according to family rumors. But he knew from working on Flight from Forsyth that there had been several other suspects, and this had always been a county of arsonists. (In the early 1970s, the state fire marshal for North Georgia had declared that eighty percent of his work was in Forsyth.)
Inside the courthouse, Charlie passed through security and took the stairs down to the records room. Once there, he watched as several white folks searched land records. They moved quickly, plopping big red log books on counters and taking notes. Charlie found the books covering 1917 to 1950. He suspected the records he was looking for may have been destroyed for the same reason Talton’s documents had been stolen from Bayard Terrace. Therefore, he was both shocked and relieved to find two entries under the Riggins name. One index item listed Thomas Riggins as grantor on February 18, 1935 and (illegible) Riggins as grantee. This was the transfer from father to son that Charlie already knew about. He needed to find a later transfer. Then he’d trace the title to the current landowner. His pulse quickened when he saw that the information he sought was in Deed Book 12, on page 123.
Charlie pulled out the big book and flopped its frayed cover open on the slanted tabletop. He took a deep breath and leafed through pages, marveling at the per
manence of fountain pen ink. There it was, the description of the property in Land District Three, in the northwest portion of the county. Sold to—
“Fuck me,” Charlie said softly. Bam. It was right there.
A man standing nearby chuckled. “Not what you were looking for?”
“This … has been looking for me,” Charlie mumbled, feeling dizzy.
—Isaac Cutchins for $500.
Right out there in public. Damn, Momo’s daddy missed a spot. Then again, everything had been duly noted and endorsed by the county clerk on October 17, 1937. All neat, tidy … and bogus. John Riggins’s signature didn’t match the signature on a letter Charlie had brought for comparison. The date of death was October 12, 1937, according to the marking on the photo and Riggins family recollections, but there was no official record. Riggins had simply ceased to exist on that day. Charlie lugged the book over to the Xerox machine and made a copy of the transaction. Then he got the hell out of there.
Feeling that doom was his destiny, Charlie trudged back to the van. The photo, which he had never examined closely, waited for him there. On the verge of tears, he slid into the driver’s seat and groped around behind him until his hand found the manila envelope. His head hung as he pulled out the picture. It had been there all along, of course. Something had simply prevented Charlie from seeing the truth until now. But there was twenty-five-year-old Isaac Cutchins, pointing to a lump of human charcoal and claiming credit for the catch. The glint in his eyes said, Lookie here! Look what I caught!
So this is why I’ve been chosen, Charlie thought. He threw his head back against the seat and stared at the photo with melancholy eyes. It was all so clear: God wanted him to destroy his world.
Then again, why did he think he’d been working for God? God wouldn’t trick him into signing a deal like the one that kept mutating on him, would It? No. Charlie feared he was a pawn working the back end of an infernal contract—nothing more than some kind of debt collector, with his own signature the bloodiest of all. Whether he was working for God to punish the wicked, the devil to close a deal, the ghost of John Riggins to seek justice, or a stinky old trickster to settle a score, the boiling blood gave him little choice.
But of course there was a choice. There is always a choice.
Should he go to the Forsyth County sheriff with this information? No. The idea was ludicrous even without throwing Trouble’s admonition about cops into the equation. And maybe this is why he’d said No Cops.
With grim resolve, he recommitted himself to the task assigned, even if it meant doing the devil’s work. He would make the same decision another Missouri boy once made on his way down the river: “I was a-trembling because I’d got to decide forever betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied for a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself, ‘All right, then, I’ll go to hell.’”
* * *
Now that he knew who he was up against, Charlie rented a safe deposit box. No way would he allow a second set of documents to be stolen. Then, after a few days spinning his wheels and brooding, he returned to Cumming the next Monday.
“There you are,” said Lillian as he stood at the library’s reference desk. “I haven’t seen you in months.” She wrinkled her eyebrows. “Did you finish the book?”
“I did,” he said with a short nod.
“Congratulations!”
“Thanks. Now it’s on to something else.”
“So … you didn’t need to look at my great-grandfather’s journal, after all.” She smiled sheepishly. “I’m glad you didn’t depend on it. I was looking through it after we talked about it, and there are pages missing—on 1912. I think Mom cut them out with a razor. Probably in 1987. People were really uptight back then, you know. Other than that, it looks complete up to his death. He died in 1950.”
“Really?” Charlie said, trying not to sound too interested. “I’d like to see it. I’m thinking about writing more about Forsyth. It’s … an interesting place.”
“That would be good. We shouldn’t have our reputation based on just one bad thing.”
“I agree,” Charlie said, wide-eyed. “People should see there’s more to Forsyth County. Have you read through it, by any chance?”
“No, I just looked to see if it was readable. It’s at my house. I’m off Thursday. You should come by.” She gave him a promising smile.
“Really?” he gushed. “That would be great.”
She wrote her address and phone number on a slip of paper and slid it across the desk. “It’s near here. Call me first.”
Charlie pocketed the paper and glanced around. He wanted to look at some 1937 newspapers, but a recent edition of the Forsyth Sentinel lying on a table caught his eye, and a front-page headline jumped out at him:
Investors Take Option on Cutchins Land
Southland Associates, a Memphis-based shopping mall developer, paid a $1 million option on the purchase of the 200-acre farm in Forsyth County belonging to Isaac Cutchins, father of State Rep. Stanley Cutchins.
Richard Davis, a partner in Southland, declined to discuss plans for the site, though he noted that its proximity to the proposed Outer Perimeter “will make it increasingly valuable in the years to come.”
Negotiations began late last fall, Davis said. The option is good for a year …
Late last fall. The varmints had huddled around Pappy after Christmas dinner at Thornbriar, and a hush had fallen over the room when Charlie entered. They must have been talking about the money coming their way. Susan had been sitting there, soaking it all in. Whaddya know, the next night, he was out on his ass. And he’d been bouncing on the pavement ever since.
There are no coincidences.
“A year, eh?” Charlie muttered to himself. “Let’s see what comes up between now and then.”
* * *
Lillian Scott lived near downtown Cumming, on a side street just off Main, not far from the library. Her small white frame house was freshly painted, with black shutters, neatly trimmed shrubs, and a concrete driveway that looked like it had been recently poured. In deference to its pristine condition, Charlie parked on the street. Holding the scanner under his left arm and his computer satchel in his right hand, he hit the doorbell button with his left pinkie. Lillian answered the door in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, her brown hair cascading to her shoulders. She looked cute. He smelled potpourri and sensed a trap. He warned himself to be careful. Lillian’s great-grandmother had attempted a liaison in the courthouse with that hapless attorney back in 1912, so there was a possibility that horniness ran in the family.
“Come on in,” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the living room, which had landscape paintings on the wall and a blue sofa with white lace arm covers. She pointed to the dining room. “You can work in here.” Two cats—one black, one black and white—entwined themselves around her legs. “You want coffee?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“I’ve got some old letters, too, but I haven’t read through them. If you see anything you can use, you’re welcome to make copies.”
“Okie-doke.”
She poured Charlie a cup of coffee, and he sat down with it at an antique table, where family papers had been carefully laid out. He debated telling Lillian what he was looking for, then decided against it. After all, he didn’t know if he could trust her. Anyway, she didn’t seem that interested, since she hadn’t read either journal or letters.
While Charlie worked, Lillian curled up with a book in a living room chair. He pored over old correspondence and soon hit pay dirt, becoming entranced by the story that unfolded. This was the stuff of dreams (his kind of dreams, at that).
The dispute between Ike Cutchins and John Riggins had been going on since 1935, when Riggins returned to farm the family land, which had lain fallow since 1912. The feud was a constant source of entertainment to the men who ran the county. The letters from local justice of the peace Lucious Fervil to wealthy landowner Horton Anderson, Lillian’s great-gr
andfather, born in 1886, would fill a chapter. (Talton had heard of this mother lode of information and written about it in his notes, although without any mention of Riggins.) Needless to say, Charlie was overjoyed to stumble across it. The stuff was rich and gossipy, rife with strife, as the feud escalated:
June 12, 1936
Dear Horton,
Here is the latest news on Ike Cutchins. He wanted to swear out a warrant against John Riggins for cussing him. He said Riggins called him a damn Cracker and told him to get off his land. I asked him why would John-Boy do that? He’s a sensible nigger. Ike must have given him cause.
He said it wasn’t my business. Ike always has been a hothead and can’t stand that John runs a better farm than him. “It ain’t right,” he says, “for a nigger to own land when I don’t.”
Envy is the root of Ike’s troubles.
I refused to draw up a warrant. I looked him in the eye and told him he’d have to handle this himself. That is all for now. Keep your eyes wide open.
Yours truly,
Lucious
Charlie stared at the meticulous handwriting and thought: Everyone knew the little bastard was up to something. He put the letter in the flatbed scanner and made a copy on his hard drive.
There was much more. He felt a spike of nervous energy when he found some letters from local historian Cecil Montgomery to Lillian’s mother, his “dearest cousin.” Montgomery would not be pleased to know that Charlie Sherman was looking at his letters. Indeed, Charlie was tremendously surprised to find them. Apparently, Cecil hadn’t covered this base and collected them from Lillian back in January when he’d warned the townsfolk to beware the strange invader. Maybe Cecil was getting old and forgetful—or didn’t think these papers mattered.
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