Seeing the stricken look on his face, Jean said, “I’m telling you this for your own good.” Without delving into specifics, she said that Dana, originally from Bucharest, had a shady past. “And present, I found out recently,” she added with a frown. “You’re better off without her.”
Charlie despaired. He’d suffered so much to be rich and famous, and here was Dana, screwing the help. Jean was right, of course. Dana was no good for him. Unfortunately, that only made him want her more. He returned to Castlegate and stumbled into La Patisserie to cry on Amy Weller’s shoulder, hoping his favorite baker would take pity on him and relieve his torment. As soon as he walked in, the cinnamon girl shouted out, “Guess what? I’m engaged!”
Charlie went to bed alone again that night, convinced that a curse hung over his head.
* * *
While Charlie bided his time and kept quiet about American Monster, the varmints were being attacked on another front. Clearly, someone smelled blood in the water, and during the last week of April, Forsyth County Commissioner Randolph Dempsey—son of Tom Dempsey, a member of the 1937 mob—qualified to run against Stanley Cutchins in the Republican primary. On April 30, a third GOP candidate plunked down his fee in the House race. (Democrats didn’t bother to qualify a candidate; the district was too white and conservative for them to stand a chance.)
Crenshaw called Charlie and said, “Your uncle has drawn opposition.”
“Like shit draws flies,” said Charlie.
“Come on,” Crenshaw said. “Give me something more diplomatic I can quote.”
“Fuck him if he can’t take a joke.”
“Gotta be civil.”
“Sorry. Can’t think of anything else. The guy’s evil.”
Charlie got off the phone and wrote a check for $2,000 to Jimmy Townsell, the third and least-known candidate. The only thing Charlie knew about Townsell was that, unlike the other two, he didn’t have a lyncher’s last name.
* * *
After refusing a plea deal that included a suspended sentence, Charlie received a summons to appear for trial on May 26 in Forsyth County State Court. He had believed that the varmints would flinch in this game of chicken and the charges would be dropped. They didn’t and they weren’t, however. Consequently, Charlie grew more anxious as the trial date approached, since a book deal worth two million dollars was on the line.
On May 25, Armand Parsons escorted Charlie to the bank to retrieve John Riggins’s finger from the vault. Charlie drove back to the loft with the Mason jar in a velvet cognac bag he’d borrowed from his bodyguard. The writer hemmed and hawed before saying, “Armand, I need you to go up to Forsyth with me for the trial.”
“No way,” said Parsons, even though he wasn’t privy to the bag’s contents.
Charlie wheedled. “You’ll be on TV.”
“I ain’t goin’ up there without an AK-47 and fifty brothers,” Parsons declared, his hands folded across his chest. “Besides, I got a part in Tyler Perry’s new movie, so I can’t do this gig anymore. You’ll have to get a new entourage.”
“Well, it’s been real.”
“Not really,” drawled Parsons, shaking his head as he checked out a young woman on the sidewalk.
When Charlie got back to the loft, he called Cornelius Searles. “I’m bringing the pain. I need bodyguards. Lots of muscle. And not to be racist, but I want my posse black.”
* * *
On the morning of May 26, Searles and his assistant, an attractive young black woman, drove up to Cumming in the attorney’s Lexus. Charlie rode in a Chevy Suburban with four off-duty DeKalb County police officers in ersatz SWAT uniforms, although their client would have rather seen them in suits, bow ties, and white gloves, armed with copies of Final Call.
People stared at the white man in the gray suit and his black storm troopers as they crossed the street from the parking lot to the courthouse. The media was there in force to record their grand entrance, which was carried out with crisp precision. Charlie, his face grim, looked like he’d shown up for a grudge match with Satan.
Oddly enough, Charlie’s satchel containing the metal-lidded jar passed through the courthouse’s X-ray machine unnoticed, but the group was detained at the security checkpoint, anyway. After a brief but loud dispute between Searles and a sheriff’s lieutenant, calls were made and Charlie’s bodyguards were allowed to proceeded to the second floor.
While the defense team was waiting in the hall, Solicitor Paul Armitage showed up waving affidavits and depositions. He seemed mighty pleased with himself and ready to present the case of The People against Charles T. Sherman. Searles warily eyed Armitage. When the two lawyers huddled in the hall, Charlie heard Searles whisper harshly to the prosecutor, “What the hell are you trying to pull?”
After that, there was more waiting, since the court session started late that day. Finally, a deputy told Charlie and his attorney to go into the court room. They took seats at the defense table. His bodyguards cooled their heels in the hall.
For the defendant, reality was sinking in. This was actually happening, and since Pappy didn’t respect truth or law, he could claim Charlie stole a TV and the family silverware. What if the jurors believed the varmints and not him? Charlie could be convicted and sentenced to serve a year in the Forsyth County Jail. An eternity in hell, in other words.
No, don’t even think that, he told himself. You shall prevail. Charlie cast a sidelong glance at his dapper black attorney, who no longer seemed like the ideal defender of his freedom in such a place. “We’re going to win, aren’t we?”
“Those affidavits don’t say anything, really,” Searles assured him. “Just that you and Isaac Cutchins don’t get along and you’re not a nice person and therefore capable of anything. It’s bullshit, and I know how to deal with that. Look, here’s what you need to do: When the jurors come in, watch their faces. Half of them will give away their vote before they even sit down.”
None of what Searles had just said was particularly reassuring to Charlie.
A few minutes later, in came the jury pool, thirty people of all shapes and sizes but only one color. Charlie looked over the men and women and decided that none of them liked him.
At twelve-thirty, the jury of seven women and five men had been picked and seated. Charlie’s throat was dry as he stood and Judge Robert Bascom read the charges. Searles entered a plea of not guilty on his behalf. Bascom, an older, heavyset man, declared a lunch recess. Charlie, now genuinely nervous, threw himself back in his chair and ran his hands along his temples.
“Don’t do that,” Searles whispered harshly behind his yellow legal pad. “It doesn’t look good.”
“This is un-fucking believable,” Charlie whispered back, shaking his head.
“You wanted a trial, you got it. Be careful what you wish for.” And then Searles gave him a wicked smile. “Although I can’t wait to see their faces when you whip out the jar.”
Bring the pain. The thought cheered Charlie. “I can’t believe they’re pushing their luck this way. Murder will out, but this is really poetic. If I don’t go to the slammer, that is. I wish there was a plea for Not Guilty by reason of Check It Out!”
Searles chuckled. “Just remember, it’s not a felony. No more than a year in jail. Probably get you a suspended sentence, although they might want to teach Smartass White Boy a lesson for not taking the deal.” Searles adjusted his tie. “You know a good place to eat?” He surveyed the courtroom. Several men on the back bench were staring at him. “Correction: a safe place?”
“McDonald’s had a black assistant manager last time I was there. It’s just a few blocks away.”
Searles sighed. “All right. If all else fails, lower your standards.”
The defense team ate Big Macs, Charlie’s treat. People stared at the black SWAT team members, who joked and laughed. While some people may have resented their presence, the locals kept their comments to themselves. After all, it wasn’t as if they didn’t know what black people
looked like. Most of them had seen too many; that’s why they’d moved to Forsyth County.
Charlie and his team returned to the courthouse, where Searles gave an impromptu news conference for a dozen reporters covering the trial. Crenshaw caught Charlie’s attention and mock-hanged himself by his tie. What did he know?
Shortly after two o’clock in a packed courtroom, the bailiff called out, “All rise.”
The judge entered. “Be seated,” Bascom said. He called counsel to approach the bench, and a moment later, both lawyers returned to their tables.
“Call your first witness, please.”
“The prosecution calls Isaac Cutchins to the stand.” A deputy left the courtroom. Charlie pivoted in his seat and braced himself for his first face-to-face confrontation with the ancient villain since Pappy shot out his rear window.
The deputy returned and whispered to a superior officer sitting on a back bench. The deputy again left and returned. Charlie turned in his chair and raised his eyebrows, giving the reporters a quizzical smile.
A growing buzz filled the room. Jurors exchanged puzzled looks. The ranking deputy rose and went to the railing. Armitage leaned back in his chair to listen; a look of unhappy surprise spread across his face.
“Your honor,” the solicitor said a few seconds later, “Mr. Cutchins was here this morning, but apparently, he’s suffering a bout of ill health. We ask for a postponement until tomorrow morning—”
“Who’s your next witness?” the judge asked, glancing at a sheet.
“We plan to call Representative Stanley Cutchins—”
“Objection, your honor,” Searles said, rising. “Without the alleged victim’s testimony, this proceeding is nothing more than a character assassination the prosecution has planned and laid out—”
“Objection!” Armitage shouted out.
Searles did a double-take at the objection to his objection, then continued. “—that serves no purpose other than to damage my client’s reputation. It would cloud, rather than clear, the issues surrounding the case.”
“Is Mr. Cutchins in the hospital?” Bascom asked.
Armitage looked around helplessly.
“Ten-minute recess,” the judge continued. “Please ascertain your witness’s whereabouts.”
Armitage scurried off. He was back in five minutes, ashen-faced. The bailiff retrieved the judge. Armitage and Searles approached the bench. Bascom grew angrier as the solicitor talked. He threw down the papers he was holding and grabbed his gavel.
“Case dismissed!” the judge roared. “My apologies to the ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Mr. Sherman, you are free to go.” He bowed his head to the defendant.
Searles returned to the table, suppressing a grin.
“What just happened?” Charlie asked.
“Seems the victim told the solicitor, the judge, and everybody in Forsyth County to go fuck themselves.” Searles took in a deep breath. “Kind of anticlimactic, but what the hey. I just won a trial in Forsyth County, Georgia before an all-white jury. You can damn well bet I’m putting that on my résumé!” He punctuated his statement with hearty laughter.
And so Charles T. Sherman walked out of the courtroom a free man. His guards joined him in the hall and with rare precision, the group quick-stepped down the stairs and outside. They waited for Searles, who followed with his assistant a few minutes later, then they all crossed the courthouse square rapidly on the way to their vehicles. There would be no post-trial interviews, not until they were out of town. The media could cover the aborted trial any way they pleased. Charlie just wanted out of Forsyth alive.
Most amazingly, the secret of American Monster had been preserved.
Charlie made a phone call before his Suburban even cleared the Cumming city limits.
“Barbara Asher here.”
“Tell Spence Greene to cut me a check,” Charlie said, savoring each word. “And I’m writing a new ending.”
Seconds after he finished that call, Charlie’s phone buzzed. It was Crenshaw. “I just heard something strange,” the reporter said.
“What’s that?”
“That Isaac Cutchins is missing a finger.”
“Do what?”
“How many fingers does Isaac Cutchins have?”
“Don’t recall,” Charlie drawled. “I usually see just the one.”
“There’s another book coming, isn’t there? That’s what all the trouble is about! I’ve talked to three people saying you’re working on a lynching. A man named Riggins. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Not time yet. Thought it might happen today, but no dice. Have to wait.”
“Screw you. You got some bad karma, dude.”
“Have a nice day,” Charlie said.
Crenshaw got even. The headline in the next day’s paper said, “Victim a No-Show, Sherman Case Dismissed.” In the article, Crenshaw quoted Evangeline: “It’s terrible when the guilty walk free.”
To which Charlie said Amen.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The sunny June morning promised a hot afternoon. Charlie left Muncie’s office grumbling about Susan’s hostility. He had just finished—endured, rather—a conference call between both parties, their attorneys, and the judge in his divorce proceeding. Tempers had flared, especially Susan’s. In the end, Judge Belinda Jackson lifted the restraining order after lecturing Susan and her lawyer about their winner-take-all tactics. Charlie would have Beck and Ben for a full day that weekend—his first time alone with them in seven months.
Charlie wore his wedding ring that morning to fortify his position. Muncie had chided him: “I don’t know who you’re trying to impress. Nobody else can see it.”
“Nobody else needs to see it,” Charlie countered. “I know what the deal is. I’m still married.”
Muncie shook his gleaming head and chuckled. “Hate to break it to you, but it’s the terms we’re haggling over, not what’s going to happen.”
“Well, I don’t want a divorce,” Charlie declared. “Not when she’s acting this way.”
“I’ve noticed that there’s just one thing you two won’t give each other,” Muncie said.
“What’s that?”
“Whatever the other one wants.”
“Well, can you blame me? Look at what she wants. She’s dead set on cutting me off from the kids.”
“Look on the bright side. You’re going to be a millionaire. And chicks dig millionaires.” Muncie gave him a wicked grin.
“Alas, I fear I’m cursed in that regard.”
“See a doctor, then.”
That wasn’t what Charlie meant, of course. His fear was that his sexual mojo was being controlled from beyond, to no good end. Or more precisely, no end at all.
Afterward, Charlie stood in the parking lot beside his new space-gray metallic BMW 328i and tugged until his knuckle ached, but the ring remained stuck firmly on his finger.
At the loft, Charlie squirted Ivory Liquid on his hand to ease off his symbol of lost love and unrelenting torment. He was tugging away at the band when he heard a whump in the hall followed by a knock on the door. He wiped off the soap and sauntered to the peephole. A black man in a brown uniform stood in the hall. Charlie opened the door and saw a box with a Brubaker Publishing Company label. The deliveryman was already gone.
He threw out his arms and laughed maniacally before dragging the box inside. With a knife from the kitchen, he sliced the tape, feeling like he was exhuming a corpse and on the verge of bringing it back to life. Inside were twenty-four jacketed author’s copies of American Monster. Though he’d seen a mock-up and knew it was coming, the cover was a shock: grim and humorless, with stark black type on the gray background, drawing the eye to the old, grainy photo of John Riggins hanging from that limb.
“That ought to get their attention,” Charlie growled appreciatively.
On the back jacket flap: front and side profile photos of the author’s scarred face. His staged mug shots made a powerful statement, although
the orange jumpsuit’s effect was lost in the black-and-white format. And now he worried that readers might be confused and think he was the monster.
No. That would be terrible. They couldn’t. He shook his head to rid himself of the thought.
An instant later, his wedding band hit the floor with a ping. Charlie pocketed it and read the back-cover blurbs from prominent authors who loved his Monster. They really, really loved it. In exchange for their adoration, their books were listed on the cover of a book that was sure to be a bestseller, because it had been written by Charles Sherman. If anyone could appreciate the irony inherent in that concept, Charlie could, although perhaps not at the moment.
* * *
A grim and awkward task lay ahead. Charlie knew Minerva wouldn’t like American Monster, but he’d promised her a copy and figured she should have it before the book hit the stores.
She was outside when Charlie, wearing old shipping department clothes and driving the Volvo instead of his new BMW, parked at the curb by her house for the first time in five months. Wearing a faded old blue dress and a floppy straw hat, she was pulling weeds from around the red, white, and purple petunias in her flowerbed.
“I like your flowers.” he said as he approached. “They’re rowdy.”
She turned and regarded him warily. “I’m trying to make them a little less so.” She stepped onto the sidewalk. “Haven’t seen you in a while. They quit tryin’ to kill you?”
“So far. Though they might step up their efforts now.”
Takira appeared at the screen door. Hugely pregnant, her body shape resembled a basketball taped to a broom. “Hey,” she said, smiling at Charlie.
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