Alexandra Rutledge Burton—direct descendent of John Rutledge, the first governor of South Carolina and a signatory of the U.S. Constitution—sat back in her chair. That’ll be me giving that speech one day, she said to herself. That’ll be me speaking from the Oval Office. She rocked forward and punched her intercom button. “Tell Jeff Oates I need to see him right away,” she told her secretary.
Jeffrey Oates stepped into the senator’s office.
Burton said, “Why are you wet?”
After a brief silence, Oates said, “I … I walked to work this morning.” He patted his head dry with a clump of paper towels that he had retrieved from the break room.
“From Georgetown? That’s four or five miles from the Capitol.”
Oates stayed silent.
Burton said, “Close the door.”
Oates did. He returned to the spot in front of the senator’s desk where he so often stood waiting for the day’s instructions.
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Oates pitched the paper towels into the wastebasket next to the senator’s desk.
Burton smiled and shook her head. “You’ve got a lotta guts. No one can deny that.” She sat back in her chair.
“I wanted to show you that what happened in Charlottesville was just bad luck.” Oates brushed his hands through his hair. It was still wet, albeit not as wet as when he had first entered the senator’s office. “I wanted to show you that I could do the job … that I can do any job.”
Both Oates and Burton knew that Oates was talking about the job—White House chief of staff. Oates always talked about that job. He was obsessed with it. Almost as obsessed as Burton was about becoming president… .
“Do you think you killed him this time?” the senator asked next.
“Yeah.”
CHAPTER 19
The parking lot of the Waffle House at exit 39 off of Interstate 26 in Charleston, South Carolina, was jammed with aging sedans and rusty pickups. All were American made. It was tantamount to treason in the blue-collar haunts of the old Confederacy to drive a foreign car.
Earl Smith spun his Ford flatbed onto the concrete island next to the restaurant’s fifty-foot-tall highway sign. He switched off the ignition, dropped his keys into his pocket, and snapped the door shut with a firm elbow.
He would need to be careful, he said to himself as he headed toward the entrance. It looked as if a lot of the guys from the tire plant were inside. He recognized their vehicles.
He and Cat were always careful. They were never seen in public together, and he had certainly never visited her at work after they had started sleeping together. The startled look on her face when he pushed open the door testified to that fact. Apparently, there really was a first time for everything.
But Cat Wilson was a pro. She regained her composure before anyone knew she had lost it.
“Hey, if it ain’t old Earl,” a middle-aged man called out from the booth closest to the door. The man was wearing a Taylor Tires cap, a grease-stained sweatshirt, and a pair of Wrangler jeans. He made Brett Favre seem well groomed by comparison. “I didn’t think you worked the graveyard no more.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the soiled plate in front of him.
“Hey, Dex,” Smith said to the man. “How ya doin’?”
“Aces, Earl. Frickin’ aces.”
Smith grabbed a stool at the far end of the counter.
Another coworker who was seated on the stool next to the one that Smith had selected leaned in and said, “Back on the graveyard, huh?” He soaked up the egg yolk on his plate with a piece of whole wheat toast.
Smith said, “Nah. Just hungry’s all.”
“But don’t you live clear across town?” The man had moved on to his grits. He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth. “There’s dozens of places to eat closer than this dive.”
Smith smiled. “I know. But I like the hash browns here. Speaking of which,” he said, shifting his attention from his seatmate to his soul mate, “could I get a number five, girlie?”
Cat glanced up from the cash register. “Sure.” There wasn’t a hint in her voice that she knew Smith, let alone that she was sleeping with him.
The guy seated next to Smith elbowed Smith in the ribs. “Make sure you get some brown sugar with that.” He cackled and then inhaled another spoonful of grits.
Cat Wilson placed Earl Smith’s order on the counter in front of him. The number five was Smith’s favorite: two eggs over easy, two link sausages, a double side of hash browns, and two of the Waffle House’s eponymic waffles.
Again, not a hint of recognition came from the waitress. “Enjoy” was all she said. She returned to the cash register.
The guy seated next to Smith nudged him again and said, “I know I would.” He was leering at Cat’s fabulous ass. It put Beyonce’s to shame.
Smith didn’t say a word. He couldn’t take his eyes off Cat, though. He never could.
The guy seated next to him picked up on it. “I didn’t think the Klan got hot for nigger women.” Food crumbs dotted the guy’s whiskered face.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Hey. Mellow out, Earl. I’m just messin’ with ya.” The guy spun on his stool and announced to his coworkers scattered around the diner, “Earl here don’t like it when you say he’s got the hots for the nigger waitress.”
“I said shut the fuck up!” Smith sprang from his stool. He grabbed the guy by the collar and shook him like a bottle of ketchup.
The guy broke free from Smith’s grip and lurched to his feet. He was a full six inches taller than Smith, which suggested that Smith was thinking with his heart rather than his head at the moment. “You stickin’ up for niggers now, Earl?” The guy shoved Smith hard into the counter.
Smith stumbled back a bit but quickly regained his balance. His eyes danced around the room. He counted four klansmen in attendance. He reminded himself that he needed to be careful. Even grand dragons had been killed for less than what he was being accused of. He said, “Of course I ain’t stickin’ up for no nigger. Niggers ain’t nuthin’ but trash.”
The klansmen who were present said, “Akia. Kigy.”
Smith nodded to each of them. His eyes met Cat’s.
Her eyes weren’t locked on his for long, but it was long enough to let Smith know how hurt she was.
CHAPTER 20
Billy Joe Collier tossed his lunch pail and thermos onto the table in the break room. He was halfway through his shift at the Taylor Tires plant on the west side of Charleston. He snatched the copy of the Charleston Post and Courier that one of his coworkers had left behind. He couldn’t read well, but the pictures told the story: gruesome front-page photographs of the black man and white woman he had murdered for simply being in love. Most of the black man’s face was gone, smashed with a golf club like a discarded jack-o’-lantern. The white woman hadn’t fared much better.
Collier smiled. He always got a kick out of seeing the results of his handiwork. He snapped open his lunch pail and pulled out a bologna and cheese sandwich. He unscrewed the lid on his thermos and poured a cup of Dr. Pepper. He settled in to read the story. He was careful not to spill food or soda on it. He planned on adding it to his scrapbook.
The racism of men like Billy Joe Collier was crude. Its most overpowering element was the conviction that blacks and whites were utterly distinct. A person was a black or a white, just as a truck was a truck and a pencil was a pencil. Race was an absolute category and the presumed characteristics of a member of the racial group were taken as God-given and unalterable. Blacks, diehard klansmen such as Collier believed, were people who did not want to work, who gained money through bullying or cheating, who robbed, and who were violent. Blacks wanted to hurt whites … to steal jobs from white males, to rape white females.
It was this latter issue of race mixing that upset Collier the most. He had recently been told by one of his brothers in the Charleston den about a new scientific discovery. A scientist had found out that
certain substances in semen could be transmitted into the blood supply of a man’s sexual partner and create long-lasting effects. The scientist reported that a white woman who had sex even one time with a black man might well find herself permanently altered as a result: she herself might change in her features and she might well find herself three years later giving birth to a black child.
So, Collier said to himself as he took another look at the newspaper photographs, he had done the white woman a favor by killing her. The rape was for him.
CHAPTER 21
President Charles Jackson’s eyes were locked on a squirrel trying to pry an acorn loose from underneath one of the White House’s famous rosebushes. The squirrel was scratching the dirt around the bush like a bulldozer reconfiguring the foundation of a dilapidated house. The president admired the squirrel’s persistence; the acorn was as large as the squirrel’s head and yet the squirrel “refused to give up on the dream,” as the president’s teenage son liked to say.
Charles Jackson had never given up on his dream. He was currently living it. Ever since the day his high school history teacher had played a videotape of one of John F. Kennedy’s legendary press conferences, Jackson had wanted to be president. Now he was … the first African American elected to the most powerful office in the world.
Jackson shifted his attention from the squirrel in the rose garden to the guard dog in the Oval Office. “What’s the news from the hospital, Jim?”
Jim Westfall was the president’s chief of staff. He had served Jackson in the same capacity when Jackson was governor of Connecticut. He had quickly acquired the reputation around Washington for being a highly skilled spokesman for the president and highly protective of him. Hence, he was often described as Jackson’s “guard dog.”
Westfall said, “Professor McDonald made it through surgery, so that’s good news. Unfortunately, the bullet ruptured his spleen, and he’s lost a tremendous amount of blood. Bottom line: we still don’t know whether he’s going to make it.”
“Shit,” the president said. “Hasn’t this poor man been through enough? He lost his wife and daughter because of me.” Jackson again stared out the window at the squirrel.
Westfall rose from his seat and walked over to the president. “You need to stop blaming yourself for that, Mr. President. Professor McDonald doesn’t hold you responsible for what happened in Charlottesville.”
The president continued to watch the squirrel try to pry the acorn loose. “But if I hadn’t asked him to serve, his family wouldn’t have been put at risk. Everybody knew that anyone nominated for Crandall’s seat might be in jeopardy. I certainly did. I saw the Secret Service report. People feel very strongly about affirmative action, especially during tough economic times. Folks who can’t find work often try to go back to school. If they’re white, especially if they’re white and male, it’s tough to get into the best institutions.”
Edwin Crandall was the Supreme Court justice whose seat Peter McDonald had been nominated to fill. Crandall was eighty-nine years old, and he had retired from the bench because he could no longer keep pace with the Court’s workload. When asked by a reporter at the news conference announcing his retirement about why he was leaving the Court, Crandall had quipped, “Because I’m old and falling apart.” It was a classic line from the sharp-tongued jurist. But the real interest around the nation was in how Crandall’s replacement would vote in Tucker v. University of South Carolina, the most highly anticipated civil rights case in a generation.
Westfall returned to his chair. “So you were only allowed to nominate a bachelor? Please, Mr. President, you’re blaming yourself for nothing.”
“I guess you’re right.” Jackson rubbed his tired eyes. “I guess risk just comes with the territory. But that doesn’t make me worry any less about Professor McDonald’s health.”
The Oval Office became surprisingly quiet. Usually there was a constant hum of activity in the nation’s most important room. Now it felt like a church on a Monday.
Finally, Westfall said, “I don’t mean to sound insensitive, Mr. President, but have you thought about a replacement for Professor McDonald … you know, in case he doesn’t make it?”
Jackson’s jaw tightened like that of the squirrel who had managed to pry the acorn free. “I refuse to think about that, Jim. Professor McDonald will pull through. I know he will. I just know it… .”
CHAPTER 22
Kelsi Shelton could barely concentrate on the lecture. She never had cared much for Corporate Tax, but that wasn’t the reason she was having trouble paying attention on this particular morning. She was worried about Professor McDonald.
Kelsi still would have been waiting at the hospital if it hadn’t been for her mother. Brian Neal, the Secret Service agent assigned to protect McDonald, hadn’t been able to convince the strong-willed young woman to make the two-hour drive back to Charlottesville, and the doctors and nurses hadn’t been able to convince her, either. But after a tear-filled conversation with her mother in the wee hours of the morning, Kelsi had decided to return to school. “It’ll help take your mind off him for a while,” Kelsi’s mother had said. “Besides, there’s nothing you can do for him at the hospital. You’re a lawyer, not a doctor, and it’s up to the doctors and nurses now.”
Kelsi wasn’t a lawyer yet, but she understood her mother’s point. She drove back to Charlottesville and arrived just in time for her nine o’clock Corporate Tax class.
“We’ll pick up here next time,” the tax professor said.
Kelsi had no idea where “here” was. The entire class had passed in a blur.
Sue Plant, Kelsi’s best friend since their first year at law school, realized that Kelsi was lost. She said, “He wants us to re-read the double taxation of dividends material.”
Kelsi blushed. “Thanks, Sue.” She tossed her casebook and statutory supplement into the daypack that seemed to accompany her everywhere she went. “I’m a bit out of it this morning. I didn’t get enough sleep. Who am I kidding? I didn’t get any sleep.”
Sue switched off her laptop. She snapped the screen shut and returned the computer to its carrying case. “Any more news about Professor McDonald?”
The assassination attempt on the life of Professor Peter McDonald was about all anyone could talk about at UVA law school at the moment. After all, Professor McDonald was one of UVA’s own. In fact, the dean had considered canceling classes for the day, and perhaps for the week, but he had decided against it because he wanted to try to maintain as much of a sense of normalcy in the law building as he possibly could. However, he had scheduled a meeting with the faculty, staff, and students for 10:00 A.M. Kelsi and Sue were on their way to the meeting now that Corporate Tax was done for the day.
CHAPTER 23
“No drinks in the library.”
Clay Smith twisted in his seat, and his eyes met the eyes of an elderly woman pushing a cart full of law books. “Sorry,” he said to her. He got out of his chair, walked to the end of the row of library carrels, drained the remnants of a Sprite, and tossed the soda can into the wastebasket.
He stopped for a minute and glanced out the window toward the Blue Ridge Mountains on the horizon. The morning fog blanketed the peaks like mist on a Scottish moor.
Clay Smith had mixed emotions about what he had been asked to do. On the one hand, his future looked bright. No other member of the Smith family had attended college, let alone law school. He also had a summer job lined up with the Charleston office of the largest law firm in South Carolina. On the other hand, his Uncle Earl had served as a surrogate father to him ever since his real father—Earl Smith’s younger brother—had been shot and killed in a barroom brawl when Clay was seven. There also was the undeniable fact that the Smith men had always been active in the Ku Klux Klan. Always. Clay himself had been initiated into the brotherhood during his sophomore year of high school, and he attended Klan meetings whenever he was home on break. He might have been an honors student at a top-ranked law school,
but he knew that niggers had to be kept in their place. His Uncle Earl had reminded him of that at six o’clock this very morning.
One of Clay’s classmates walked by and tapped him on the shoulder. She said, “Stop daydreaming, Mr. Dershowitz.” Alan Dershowitz was the most famous lawyer in the country. “It’s time to get your butt out of the library for a change. The dean has called a meeting in the auditorium. It starts in five minutes.” She smiled and added, “Kelsi will be there.”
“I know,” Clay said, blushing. “I know.”
The law school was like high school as far as gossip was concerned, and seemingly every law student in the building knew that Clay had a crush on Kelsi Shelton. Unfortunately, Kelsi was now Clay’s responsibility. That was what his uncle had called to tell him.
CHAPTER 24
Kelsi Shelton and Sue Plant spotted two seats in the rear of the auditorium. Almost everyone in the law school knew that Kelsi was Professor McDonald’s research assistant. Consequently, words, looks, and hugs of support were in ample supply as she and Sue squeezed through the crowd. But just as Kelsi was about to take her seat, the assistant dean for student affairs asked her to step back out into the aisle for a moment.
Kelsi felt a knot in her stomach. The assistant dean was almost never the bearer of good news. Kelsi tripped over more than a few stray feet as she scrambled to the aisle. “Wh … what is it?” she said. “Wh … what’s wrong? Is it about Professor McDonald?”
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