The Dead Hand of Sweeney County

by David L. Bradley

  “Steve,” I said, “we've gotta ride. Fellas, I'll meet up with you at lunchtime. Ma'am? Could we get our coffees to go?”

  Within minutes we were out the door and underway, with Steve behind the wheel of the Mighty Ford and I on the phone, begging for favors.

  22. Halls of Justice

  At ten minutes after ten, Steve hit the Carswell city limits and a speed limit of thirty miles an hour.

  “Damn it, they're all going to leave,” I fretted. “And all this will be for nothing. Wait just a little longer, folks. I'll make it worth your time.” I was weary to the bone. My clothes, clean and dry just two hours earlier, were wet with sweat. My hands were sore from frantic machete work, but there was no time to rest or freshen up. “Drop me at the door before you park, please.”

  “Ten-four. But try to hold off until I get there.”

  “You'd better hurry. I have no idea what I'll find.”

  Steve dropped me at the front door to the county courthouse, and I followed the signs to the Probate Court office of Judge Glenn T. Askew. After taking a deep breath and combing my hair with my fingers, I gently opened the door.

  “Are you Mr. Conley?“ asked a white gentleman seated behind a desk. He had white hair and black-rimmed glasses, and he sported a plaid bow tie under his black robes.

  “No, Your Honor, I am not.”

  “Do you know where this Conley fellow is?”

  “No, Your Honor, I do not.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Addison Kane, surveyor.

  “Please take a seat, Mr. Kane.”

  To my left, I saw Dick Polk sitting next to some guy who looked like a lawyer for the bank, a matched pair of evil smirks. To my right, Sergeant-Major Tyler and Lawyer Frank sat on folding chairs. I found one behind them and sat down.

  “We'll give this gentleman one more minute,” said the judge. He picked up a copy of the Georgia Historical Quarterly from his desk, flipped to the middle, and began reading.

  I nudged Tyler. “Did you bring the books?” I asked.

  “Right here, Kane. What are they for?”

  “Maybe nothing. We'll see.”

  The Turd and his lawyer glared at me and did their best to look intimidating, and if I hadn't been so tired, it might have worked. I tried glaring back, but I probably just stared with my eyes half-shut.

  Steve entered, creating another brief stir, but when he said he wasn't William Conley, either, the judge put down his magazine.

  “Time's up.” He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “Welcome all. I am Judge Glenn Askew, and I will apologize for delaying these proceedings until today, but you all know what a large transaction is involved, and you must understand that as familiar as I am with the Conleys and the land trust, I need to be in complete possession of all available facts. The letter I received said a William Conley would be here at ten. We have given him ample time to arrive, and he has not, so if you gentlemen would like to move forward in the settlement of the estate of Ramon Joseph Burroughs, we may do so.”

  “We are ready, Your Honor,” said the Turd's mouthpiece.

  Frank looked at me. I shrugged.

  Frank turned to the judge. “We are ready, Your Honor.”

  They went over the stipulations of the Conley Land Trust. Three years had passed since the death of the last known heir, and in accordance with the will, it was time for final disposition.

  “With no heir forthcoming and no other evidence submitted--” the judge began.

  “Call me as a witness,” I whispered loud enough for the judge to hear. He stopped talking to be sure of what he'd heard.

  “Call me as a witness,” I whispered again.

  The judge waited. Frank had no choice.

  “Your Honor, I would like to call Addison Kane as a witness.”

  They called me up and swore me in. First, Frank asked me to identify myself and my profession.

  “I'm a surveyor. I'm surveying for the highway expansion between here and Reynoldston. My boss asked me to find a phone number for whoever owned all the Conley properties the new lanes will cross, so I started investigating.”

  “Just so we're clear, Mr. Kane: how much land are we talking about?”

  “Forty properties worth about six million. Almost another million in right-of-way purchases.”

  Polk's lawyer objected. “Your Honor, the subject of today's hearing is an heir, not land values or a highway project. We are here because Robert Conley's last descendent died in Texas. Can we all agree on that?”

  I shrugged. Lawyer Frank continued.

  “Mr. Kane, have you come upon any new information regarding Willie Conley, son of Thornton Conley?”

  “Yes sir, I have.”

  “Could you describe it, please?”

  “I found his suicide note.”

  You could have heard a jaybird fart. I told them about the tree and finding the jar in the dirt and roots. Frank produced the note, and asked me if it was the same one I had found the day before. I confirmed that it was. He entered it into evidence, then he asked me to read the note, which I did. When I finished, I looked up at the judge.

  Judge Askew stared. “Young man, are you saying that Isaac Cooper was lynched and that Thornton Conley's only son committed suicide, both on the so-called 'Lynching Tree'?”

  “That's what the note says. You know what really gets me, Your Honor? The way the note describes how Isaac was never anything but good to Willie and Miss Elizabeth.”

  The judge shook his head slowly. “Such a tragedy, if it's true. She was a very kind woman. I delivered her newspaper for two years when I first got my license,” he recalled.

  Lawyer Frank nodded. To me he asked, “Is that the only document of interest in this case?”

  “No sir, there is Ms. Burroughs' diary, in which she describes her grandfather Findlay's desire to discover the fate of Isaac Cooper.”

  Polk's lawyer exploded. “Objection! I fail to see the relevance in any of this, Your Honor. We are here to establish the title to property, not the fate of some Negro who disappeared over a hundred years ago.”

  The judge looked at me. “That's exactly why I'm here, “ I replied, “to establish title.”

  “How?” screamed the shyster.

  “Yes, how?” asked the judge.

  “By proving that Isaac Cooper was Fin Conley's son.” The bank's lawyer began to speak, but the judge just held up his hand for silence.

  “Overruled. Explain yourself, Mr. Kane.”

  “Isn't it obvious? Fin Conley came home from the War to find two sons, which probably didn't make his wife too happy. Still, the boy was his, and he was a man of honor, so he made sure that Isaac was placed in a good home with a man who could teach him a trade.

  “Your Honor, everyone knows Fin Conley angered the whole county after the War by leasing land to black people, paying off their debts, starting a store, encouraging them to vote... am I right? This is Sweeney County history, is it not?”

  “That's the history I learned,” said Judge Askew. “Not in school, of course, but yes, what you just described qualifies as common knowledge.”

  “And since his father and son were both Klansmen, didn't it make anyone wonder why he was so kind?Another thing: if Thornton wanted to lynch Isaac, so what? Why pretend he hadn't? Why hide his body? Then it hit me, Your Honor. Thornton Conley was covering up the crime of Cain.”

  “Objection!”

  “Overruled. Continue.”

  “I've learned a lot in your county, Your Honor. I've learned the difference between history, tall tales, family stories, and outright lies. You talk about common knowledge, and there's another kind of history, too, the kind told in a whisper. Gossip gets passed down, too. What if someone passed down a rumor in the Polk family that there was a will, some piece of paper proving Thornton wasn't Findlay's only boy? It sure would explain a lot, wouldn't it?”

  “Objection! Your Honor, where is the physical evidence to back up these ridiculous clai
ms?”

  The judge held up his hand again and looked at me. “Mr. Kane?”

  I looked over at Polk to make sure I had his full attention, then looked back at the judge. “Would the court like me to produce the bodies, or will a map of where to find them suffice?”

  Frank handed me a roll of paper he'd had printed that morning at a blueprint shop halfway to Augusta. It was a map of the Conley place I had cleaned up a bit by deleting unnecessary layers and color-coding the old road and driveway, the house foundation, the cemetery wall, and other features, to make them easier to see. On the wall behind Dick and his overpriced ambulance chaser was a cork bulletin board. I grabbed a couple of push pins and pinned the map to it. Dick and lawyer had to get up for a look, and the judge came out from behind his desk to study it.

  “Okay, Your Honor can see this is a map of the Conley place with Thornton's Ferry Road running east to west here. It has all changed, though, from what it was. Up here is where the old Roberts-Thornton Ferry Road ran, and here was the family cemetery on the other side of the road from the house. Right here, Your Honor, is where the Lynching Tree fell over, exposing the jar with the suicide note. Here was the house, and here, behind the house, is this large flat area. It has a few roses still growing on it, and it seems to be what's left of Ms Burroughs' rose garden. Please note that I have marked its outlines with four points identified as A,B,C, and D.”

  The judge nodded. “She had the finest roses in the county.”

  “I asked friends of mine, licensed county utility contractors, to roll their ground-penetrating radar over this area, rectangle ABCD. They did that first thing this morning, and before they left, they provided me with this printout of their work, and you can see the crew foreman's signature right here.”

  Lawyer Frank pinned the printout on top of the first map.

  “They discovered two anomalies, here, and here, one four feet, one three feet underground. One is about six feet long, and the other is just under five feet long, as indicated by the grid. If I'm right, these are your missing Isaac Cooper and Willie Conley. If my other hypothesis is correct, these two will carry the same Y chromosome, because they are the son and grandson of Findlay Conley. We could go digging up old Fin for a DNA sample-- we could dig up his dad Robert, for that matter--, but I have another idea that might be acceptable to the court. Frank?”

  Frank brought out Elizabeth's oldest photo album, entered it as evidence, and brought it to me. Polk began shifting from one foot to the other, but neither he nor his lawyer said a word. The silence was glorious.

  “Your Honor, Ms. Burroughs' photo album has two pages dedicated to her grandfather, Findlay Conley, including what she indicated is a lock of his hair. All we have to do is order a DNA test.”

  “And then what?” roared Polk himself. “So what if Isaac Cooper was Fin Conley's bastard? Son, in case nobody ever told you, all the best families left a nigger in the woodpile somewhere. You just said the man was lynched.”

  “That lynched man had a son, Moses. Isaac's wife remarried, and the boy became Moses Robinson. His son was Fred Robinson. Has anyone eaten at Robinson's Barbecue? The pulled pork sandwiches just melt in your mouth.”

  Judge Askew turned to me. “Have you tried their fried pies?”

  Polk's lawyer started objecting to everything he could think of, but it was no use. The honorable judge decided to hold off on signing any property over to anyone, and instead started ordering exhumations and DNA tests. The only permission needed was the Sergeant-Major's, and he was happy to oblige.

  The judge sat down to do his thing, the Turd and his lawyer sat down and began whispering angrily to each other, and I sat down to enjoy the moment. A cup of coffee with two sugars and a touch of real cream would have been greatly appreciated. Now that everything seemed to be on track, I was extremely tired again. Like the old folks used to say, though, it was a good tired. A really good tired.

  Suddenly the door opened, and the sheriff entered. All conversation stopped. “Mr. Kane,” he said, “I've been looking for you. Our friend woke up this morning. He had no idea why you tried to run him off the road. As a matter of fact, he had no memory of anything at all except you trying to kill him.”

  Everyone stared. Judge Askew looked at me, then to the sheriff. “What is this about?” he asked.

  “A little traffic incident last night. Killed one man and damned near killed another. I'm here to make an arrest.”

  “Do your duty, Sheriff.” Judge Askew looked very disappointed.

  “Thanks, Your Honor, I will. The man who barely survived couldn't remember his own name this morning, until I told him I knew all about Texas. Then he started talking, and good Lord above, I don't think he's stopped yet. Richard Polk, you are under arrest for manslaughter, conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to commit arson, conspiracy to commit grand larceny, and if being the biggest asshole in Sweeney County were a crime, I'd charge you with that, too.”

  “What? What the hell do you think you're doing?” Polk screamed, but the sheriff was already putting cuffs on him.

  “You might as well come now, Counselor,” the sheriff told the lawyer. “The Feds are on their way, and the state bank examiners, too. Your boy's troubles are just getting started. Mr. Kane, I can't thank you enough. Sweeney County thanks you.”

  “You're welcome, Sheriff. And you can tell that boy in the hospital that all is forgiven, and I won't press charges, if he testifies for your prosecutor.”

  “I'll do it. Good day, all.”

  He left with his prisoner and the prisoner's attorney. Lawyer Frank sat grinning, his eyes welling with tears.

  “God, how I hate that bastard,” he said. “Did I ever tell you he stole my girlfriend?”

  Judge Askew declared the hearing adjourned, to reconvene at the Conley place just as soon as he could round up the necessary participants. Steve and I beat the lunch rush and grabbed some barbecue sandwiches, then drove out to the property to enjoy them. We smoked a joint, and I fell asleep. Around one o'clock, Steve interrupted my dreams with a gentle shove.

  “You gotta see this,” he said. I exited the cab and stretched, and we sat on the tailgate to watch.

  The sheriff and his deputy arrived first, parking on both shoulders of the road. Judge Askew arrived in a county sedan with his court recorder, driven by a bailiff. The county coroner arrived in his own car, followed by a truck from the morgue. A truck from Sweeney County Roads and Drainage brought up the rear. Next came Tyler and Frank in Tyler's Mercedes, sans teardrop, of course, followed by twenty cars filled with curious citizens, including Wild Bill's Model A hot rod. The curious citizens left their vehicles and crowded together to find out which among them knew anything, while the official group gathered in front of me.

  Judge Askew spoke to the crowd. “This Probate Court proceeding is officially declared to be back in session, its purpose being to determine an heir, if there is one, to the Conley estate prior to its final disposition. While the results of these proceedings are a matter of public record, the property on which this is taking place is private, and so I am not going to allow any unnecessary persons to follow us or trespass on the property during this time (this brought a general groan of disappointment). Am I understood? Your vehicles are fine where they are, on county right-of-way, and you are welcome to stay, but you must stay out here at the road, and please, do not impede traffic, of course. You will be informed of the outcome of this hearing. Now let us proceed. Mr. Kane, if you would lead the way?”

  I stood up just as a large white cargo van passed me and slowed down. The van parked in front of the sheriff's car, and Kevin Robinson stepped out, still wearing a barbecue-stained apron. He pulled it over his head and tossed it into the van before closing the door.

  “We can wait for this gentleman,” I said. “He's family.”

  The anomalies were marked where they began and ended with wooden stakes, their tips spray-painted black, a delightfully morbid touch that was entirely Steve's idea. They
were about twenty-five feet apart from each other on the west side of the pine thicket, which Steve and I had seriously denuded with a bush ax and a machete that morning so the GPR unit could roll into place. The judge ordered two black gentlemen from Roads and Drainage to investigate the smaller anomaly first. They put their shovels to the soil, then one of them asked me a question.

  “What do I do about the vine?”

  “It's a Cherokee Rose,” I said. “It's the state flower, but don't worry about it. We can plant another one.”

  “Careful,” Kevin reminded them. “You're not looking for some drain pipe.”

  They found bones three feet down, and the coroner took over, making sure that all of the remains were gathered up and placed into a body bag.