Clay continued his march to the shack. He passed a tall ash tree that marked the spot where he was supposed to turn left. He did. Then, about seventy-five yards in front of him, he spied a man limping down the path. “Billy Joe!” Clay called out. “Wait up!”
Collier flinched. He spun on his heel. He tried to pick up his pace, but his aching knee made it difficult to do.
“Billy Joe!” Clay said again. “It’s me, Clay! Clay Smith!”
Collier stopped. He glanced down the path. It was Clay. He waited while Clay jogged to catch up to him.
“Hey, Billy Joe.” Clay was breathing heavily from the run … and the stress of recent events.
“What the fuck are you doing here, kid?” Collier rubbed his knee to try to ease the pain. It wasn’t working.
“You didn’t hear?”
“About what?”
“About what happened in Charlottesville?”
“No. What happened? Did you flunk outta school?”
“No,” Clay said. “I killed that girl.” His voice caught. “Or at least I tried to.”
“What girl?” Collier leaned on the tire jack he was using as a cane.
“The one Uncle Earl told me to kill. You know, Professor McDonald’s research assistant.”
The blank expression on Collier’s face suggested that Clay had spoken out of turn.
“Shit,” Collier said, shaking his head. “I didn’t know nuthin’ about it. That don’t surprise me, though. Earl’s been freelancin’ a lot lately. That’s what I’m on my way to talk to him about.”
That wasn’t true. Collier was on his way to “talk” to Smith about hooking up with a nigger woman, but the less Clay knew about it the better.
“So he’s at the shack?”
“Yeah, but you don’t wanna go there. Trust me, kid. You’re better off headin’ back to school.”
“School? Did you hear what I said, Billy Joe? I can’t go back to school. I’m running from the cops.”
Collier studied Clay’s face. The kid sure looked scared. He couldn’t afford to have Clay around when he confronted Earl, though. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “Here,” he said as he tossed his keys to Clay. “Wait for us at my place. 544 Crane Road, Apartment 3. It’s across from Lee’s Chicken. I’ll bring your uncle with me.”
In a body bag …
CHAPTER 53
Clay Smith was halfway back to his car when the feeling that his uncle was in trouble rushed over him. It was one of those feelings—a knot in the stomach, neck hairs standing on end, a chill down the spine—that most people experienced at least once in their lives.
Clay stopped walking. The air was thick with humidity, which was typical for Charleston. The wind whistled through the trees. Crows cackled and cawed like a hostile crowd urging an athlete to change direction.
Clay began to walk back toward the moonshiner’s shack. His pace went from a brisk walk to a full-blown sprint as the feeling of concern for his uncle’s safety engulfed him. He thought more about Billy Joe Collier … and about what he knew Collier was capable of. He had heard the stories. He had even witnessed several displays of Collier’s coldhearted brutality.
Clay reached the shack in two and a half minutes. It was the fastest half mile he had ever run.
“Don’t!” he heard from inside. “Don’t, Billy Joe!”
It was his Uncle Earl shouting. His uncle’s daydream about being inducted into the kloncilium had turned into a nightmare.
Next, Clay heard a loud bang. It must have been the tire jack smashing against the wall.
Clay pushed open the door. His eyes met Collier’s. Pure hatred, Clay said to himself. Collier’s eyes were small slits of pure hatred.
Clay said, “Stop, Billy Joe! He’s your friend! He’s your coworker! He’s the grand dragon!”
But Collier wouldn’t stop. He raised the tire jack and took another violent swing at Earl Smith’s head. He missed again.
Clay rushed toward him.
Collier spat, “Stay away, kid! This ain’t got nuthin’ to do with you!” Collier stood over Smith like a large dog over a cornered cat.
“Of course it has something to do with me, Billy Joe. He’s my uncle. He’s my leader. He’s your leader.”
Clay hoped that he had learned enough about the art of persuasion after only one and a half semesters at UVA law school to help his uncle. He had won the 1L moot court competition, so that was a good sign. But the situation unfolding before him with Collier wasn’t an academic competition. It was real life—his uncle’s life … and perhaps his own.
Clay inched forward, hoping that Collier wouldn’t notice.
He did. “I said stay away! I’ve always liked you, kid. But I’ll kill you, too, if I have to. This is Klan business.”
“Come on, Billy Joe,” Clay said. “You’re acting crazy. What on earth could my uncle have done to justify trying to treat his head like a baseball at a batting cage?”
“He violated a fundamental tenet of the brotherhood.”
At least Billy Joe had stopped swinging the tire jack for a moment, Clay said to himself. He said to Collier, “What are you talking about? Uncle Earl’s the grand dragon of the South Carolina Realm and a member of the kloncilium. He would never violate a fundamental tenet.” Clay’s attention switched from Collier to his uncle. The expression on the older Smith’s face—shame? guilt? sorrow?—wasn’t reassuring. “Which tenet?” Clay asked softly. “Which?”
“The one about sleepin’ with a nigger woman,” Collier answered.
Conventional wisdom notwithstanding, there wasn’t actually a formal tenet against having sex with a black woman. But given that the Klan was dedicated to the supremacy and purity of the white race, Clay knew that Collier was on solid ground if his uncle had in fact done so. If …
Clay looked at his uncle again. “Is it true, Uncle Earl? Are you having sex with a nigger woman?”
Earl Smith still had his arms in front of his face in case Collier decided to start swinging the tire jack again. He dropped them long enough to look his nephew in the eyes. He said, “I … I can explain.”
Clay held up his hand to signal for his uncle to say nothing more. He walked over to Collier and snatched the tire jack from Collier’s grasp. He turned back to his uncle and smashed the tire jack against his uncle’s skull. Pieces of brain splattered against the wall of the moonshiner’s shack.
CHAPTER 54
Senator Alexandra Burton pulled her cell phone from her pocketbook. It was one of two cell phones that she owned. One was for official government business. Although that cell phone’s number wasn’t listed in the Congressional Directory, the number was well known by her Senate colleagues and by her personal Senate staff. The second of the cell phones was for her Klan business. Only members of the kloncilium had access to that number. It was the second of the cell phones that Burton had retrieved from her pocketbook.
She scanned the cell phone’s contacts list of preprogrammed numbers. She had entered the cell phone numbers of all the members of the kloncilium. She stopped when she reached SC. SC was short for South Carolina. South Carolina meant Earl Smith.
There was a knock on the senator’s door. She tucked the cell phone back into her pocketbook. “Yes?” she said, in her most senatorial tone.
Jeffrey Oates pushed open the door. “Sorry to disturb you, Senator. But I thought I should remind you that you’ve got a Judiciary Committee meeting at ten.”
Burton glanced at the antique grandfather clock in the west corner of her office. The clock had been a gift from a grateful constituent. It read 9:44. “I remember,” Burton said. “I called the meeting. As I mentioned to you earlier, we’ve got to do something about the McDonald confirmation process. We’ve already given the nominee one lengthy delay when his family died. The nation can’t afford another one. The Supreme Court is too important not to be operating at full strength.”
The grandfather clock chimed on the three-quarter hour.
Oates said, “I’ll see you in a few minutes then, ma’am.”
“Ass-kisser,” Burton muttered as she watched Oates disappear behind the closing door. The senator retrieved her cell phone from her pocketbook. She highlighted Earl Smith’s phone number—SC—on the contacts list and punched the send button with the top of a well-manicured thumb. The phone rang and rang and rang.
Finally, she heard, “Hello?”
“Who is this?” Burton said. She knew the sound of Earl Smith’s voice, and what she heard emanating from the other end of her cell phone wasn’t it.
“Who’s calling?” Clay Smith said.
Billy Joe Collier said, “Who is it, kid?”
Clay cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of his uncle’s cell phone. “I don’t know.”
Burton said, “This is a friend of Earl Smith’s.” She obviously wasn’t going to tell a total stranger that she was the chairwoman of the Senate Judiciary Committee and the imperial wizard of the Ku Klux Klan.
Clay glanced at the cell phone’s display and saw a number with the area code 202. The call was coming from Washington, he said to himself. Clay knew that his uncle knew Alexandra Burton—that the senator sometimes helped the Charleston den raise cash for local Klan activities. He took a shot: “Senator Burton?”
“Er … Yes. Who’s this?” It was the first time in years that Burton could remember being surprised. Successful politicians—and Burton was certainly that—didn’t get surprised often.
“It’s Clay Smith, ma’am. Earl Smith’s nephew.”
Collier said, “Is it Burton?”
Clay nodded.
Burton said, “Where’s Earl? I’m calling for Earl.”
Silence came from Clay’s end of the line. Then he said, “He’s dead, ma’am. My uncle is dead.”
“Dead?! … How?! When?!”
“I don’t know how he died, ma’am. And I don’t know when. I just found out myself.” Clay was lying, of course. He was the one who had killed him. His cause was just, though. Any klansman would agree. But Clay didn’t know that Burton was in the Klan, let alone that the senator was the imperial wizard.
“Can you find out for me, son? Your uncle was a friend of mine. I need to know how he died. I need to know why he died.”
There was another knock on the senator’s door.
Jeffrey Oates pushed open the door again.
The grandfather clock chimed ten times.
Burton said into the cell phone, “I’m late for a meeting. But please get me that information. I’ll be in your debt if you do.” She pressed the END button.
“What information, ma’am? I … I can get you any information you need. That’s my job.”
Burton ignored Oates’s question, not to mention the anguished expression on Oates’s face. “Where’s the meeting?” she said.
Clay Smith switched off his uncle’s cell phone and rolled it between his fingers. He was smiling for the first time in weeks—for the first time since his uncle had asked him to kill Kelsi Shelton.
Billy Joe Collier asked, “What did Senator Burton say?”
Clay answered, “That we need to dispose of Uncle Earl’s body. And that we need to do so ASAP.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
Clay knew. But he didn’t want to tell Collier.
CHAPTER 55
Alexandra Burton burst through the committee room door. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “My AA forgot to remind me about the meeting.”
Jeffrey Oates, who, as usual, was walking three paces behind his boss, reddened when she faulted him for her own tardiness. He was used to taking the blame, however. Politicians never liked to admit they were wrong. Their egos wouldn’t permit it.
“I’m surprised that you needed reminding, Alexandra. Professor McDonald’s fate seems to be about all that you think about these days.” Jonathan Wells sat back in his leather captain’s chair and chuckled. Wells was the senior Democrat on the Judiciary Committee. His job was to see to it that Peter McDonald got confirmed to the Supreme Court. Burton, of course, had other ideas.
Burton snapped, “Some of us have to work for a living, Jonathan… . How is Kate, by the way?”
Kate Wennington Wells was Jonathan Wells’s wife of two years. She was his third wife, and by far the wealthiest of the three. Her father had made a fortune on the commodities market during the height of the stock market run-up in the mid-1990s.
Wells said, “She’s fine, Alexandra. She’ll be pleased to know that you were asking about her. Now, can we get to the business at hand? I’ve got an Armed Services meeting at eleven.”
Burton took her seat at the head of the conference table. She reached for a pitcher of ice water and poured herself a glass. She took a long sip and then said, “I’m concerned about how long Professor McDonald’s confirmation hearing is taking. As members well know, the Court’s docket is chock-full of important cases this term.”
Wells interjected, “Including one in which you’ve got a particular interest. Right, Alexandra?”
Of course Senator Wells was referring to Tucker v. University of South Carolina.
Senator Gregory Carpenter rocked forward in his chair and pounded his fist on the table. “I resent that remark, Senator Wells! The entire committee should resent it! It’s the chairwoman’s responsibility to see to it that these hearings proceed in an expeditious fashion!” Carpenter glanced at the senior senator from South Carolina … at the woman to whom he owed his own Senate seat. “The honorable chairwoman should be commended for her concern, not criticized for it.”
Wells said, “What a load of horse manure, Gregory. Don’t you think it’s about time you removed your nose from Alexandra’s butt?”
Burton struck her gavel. It sounded like machine gun fire in a Hollywood war epic. “Enough! Enough! We’re United States senators, for God’s sake, not high school bullies!” She struck her gavel again. The committee room grew as quiet as a classroom during final exams. “Believe me, I know that many members of this committee think that I’m only interested in helping my daughter and son-in-law win their case, but that’s not true. It’s simply not true. Sure, I want them to win. Alexander was my grandson—my namesake. Any grandparent would feel the same. But this process is about more than my family. It’s about more than any of us. It’s about making sure that the Supreme Court—the nation’s highest court; the most powerful court in the world—is operating at full capacity. It’s about making sure that the justice system in this country isn’t shortchanged because one man is either too sad or too sick to go through the confirmation process. I know this seems harsh, but it’s time to put the nation’s interests ahead of Peter McDonald’s. The Court got along fine without him in the past, and it’ll get along fine without him in the future.”
Wells said, “What are you suggesting, Alexandra? That the president withdraw Professor McDonald’s nomination?”
“I’m afraid that might be best, Jonathan.”
“Best for you, maybe. But not best for the American people.”
Carpenter again came to Burton’s defense. “I agree with Alexandra. Professor McDonald is a very smart man; there’s no question about that. He’s also been through a lot recently, what with his wife and daughter getting murdered and a second attempt on his own life. But this process is bigger than he is. Shoot, this process is bigger than any of us in this room. It’s even bigger than the president himself. We can’t wait anymore, Jonathan. I wish we could, but we can’t. I know you don’t believe me. I know you think I’m saying what I’m saying because it’s what Alexandra wants to hear. I’m not, though. I’ve sworn an oath to protect the Constitution. I take that oath seriously. And at this point, that oath requires me to think that the committee should recommend to the president that he find someone who is physically able to serve. Unfortunately, Professor McDonald doesn’t appear to be that person.”
Wells rocked back in his chair.
Print journalists scribbled feve
rishly in their notepads. One of them said to another, “I didn’t think Carpenter had it in him. I didn’t think Carpenter could make so much sense.”
“Have you discussed this with the president?” Wells finally said. He wasn’t addressing his question to anyone in particular, but everyone knew who was supposed to answer it.
Burton said, “Not yet. I wanted to get the sense of the committee first. What does everybody think?”
A Republican senator from New Mexico said, “I think the president needs to find another nominee. Professor McDonald impresses the hell out of me, but Alexandra and Greg are right. The Supreme Court is too important not to be operating at full strength.”
A Democratic senator from Iowa said, “I hate to say it, but I agree with my colleagues from the other side of the aisle. It pains me to say that—it pains me more than you can ever know—but the committee has been more than generous in accommodating Professor McDonald during this process. Don’t get me wrong; we did the right thing—the moral thing—in delaying the hearing both times the White House asked us to. But, as others have already said, the nation can’t afford to let this process drag out forever … . I think it’s time the chair notify the president to that effect.”
Burton tried her best to suppress a smile. It was difficult for her to do. Her plan was progressing better than she could have anticipated.
Then …
“Why can’t we question Professor McDonald via video hookup?” the senior senator from Virginia said. He was a Republican, but he clearly felt territorial about a Supreme Court nominee from his home state. He knew that his constituents would accept nothing less than a full-throated defense of the nominee.
“That’s a terrific idea!” Wells said. “I knew all this newfangled technology was good for something. I can’t figure out how to send an e-mail, but I’ve got to believe that someone in the building can make a video hookup happen. If they can’t, I’ll ask my granddaughter. She knows more about computers than Bill Gates does.”
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