Chaneysville Incident

by David Bradley

  There he hung up a shingle that he whittled himself, and set about getting a meager living and a prodigious reputation by successfully defending the poorest, orneriest, and guiltiest-looking defendants he could find, North County poachers and South County chicken stealers and renegades from every point of the compass, and by bringing suit against the powers-that-were on behalf of any small farmer of businessman who could make him believe in the rightness of the case. At the same time he was winning the love of the local church groups by telling the story of his miraculous conversion and by staunchly and publicly embracing the cause of temperance and Prohibition. By 1926 he had forged a political coalition composed of conservative church congregations, yeoman farmers, and small businessmen, and backed by the muscles of some of the most violent rascals in the Alleghenies. He threatened to upset the reigning Republican order at the ballot box, and to make it stick, if it came to that, in the street. The powers-that-be were worried. Not just about farmers and chicken stealers and a scrawny Irishman who quoted Blackstone, Shakespeare, and Moses with equal facility; news had reached them of goings on in the backwoods of Louisiana, of a man named Huey Pierce Long. Popular revolt seemed to be all the rage.

  But the local powers had never desired to be fashionable, and so, long before the elections, they went to the Judge and sat down to haggle. According to Old Jack—who had been privy to much of the informal chawing over of policy—they hadn’t expected the negotiations to take long. The Judge held all the cards, they knew that. All they wanted to know was, what did he want?

  In the end, the Judge surprised everybody. He could have taken de facto control of the Town and most of the County, and gotten God knows how much financial leverage, and, if he had wanted that, been well on his way to the governor’s chair. But he settled for a few insignificant-seeming reforms in the local tax structure, and some minor adjustments in the zoning ordinances, and a few actual zoning changes in remote regions, including Mount Dallas, and the right to appoint a few unimportant men to a few unimportant patronage jobs. The price was so cheap the powers-that-were fell all over themselves giving in. They went away talking about what a fool he was, and once the word of the bargain got out, the general opinion was that he was worse than that. Then, a few months later, it was announced that the Judge was engaged to a cousin of the Hartley family, one noted more for her crazy liberal notions and her literary pretensions than for her congeniality, and the wiser heads nodded sagely. Probably, so the speculation ran, the betrothal was part of the political agreement; it was hard to imagine that the Hartleys would have permitted such a mésalliance otherwise. (The opinion was confirmed when the Hartleys gave the Scotts a fairly substantial plot of land east of the Narrows as a wedding present, and defused the explosion that was almost triggered by the Scotts’ purchase of a house on the Heights.)

  But while the wags called it politics and the romantics called it love, the people whose cause the Judge had championed—the farmers and the poachers and the two-bit rednecks from Helixville and Chaneysville and Artemis and Yellow Creek—called it a betrayal, and they turned away from him. One story had it that an old farmer had passed the Judge on the street and spat at his feet.

  But the Judge did not seem to mind. On the contrary, he seemed to thrive on the sudden isolation. He devoted his time to supervising the planting of his land and making other land deals here and there, always for property that nobody much could see the use of. He accepted and diligently pursued the cases of those who were humble enough to come to him. He made more speeches to church groups. He supervised the restoration of his house. He doted on his wife and dandled his newborn son on his knee. His opponents called it acknowledging defeat. His former supporters called it quitting. Those few who still supported him said he was only resting before pursuing the fight. None of them understood that he had won.

  The victory became apparent when the WPA began to bring sewerage and water and roads and bridges to areas that had been previously known only to the most desperate of farmers and the most enterprising of hunters—and perhaps a moonshiner or two. “Useless” lands became prime building sites, and the Judge’s insignificant-seeming concessions gave him the power to zone and control. He even had some say as to setting the priorities of the WPA. In a few short years more than one farmer had discovered that his back woodlot or worst cornfield had virtually turned into gold—or would have, if anybody had had any money. A few speculators did, and the land was bought at prices then thought to be outrageous.

  By 1936 the Judge had regained all the power and prestige that he had ever had, and the powers-that-were suddenly realized that what they had thought was a cheap victory was in fact a very expensive defeat. There were talks of a new compromise, and it was desperate talk, for now the Judge not only had power, he had money. There would be no compromise. And if anybody thought there might have been, the publication of Mrs. Scott’s novel, a thinly disguised roman à clef which aired the dirty linen of half the County’s aristocracy and made only slightly vague reference to the dinginess of the long johns of the other half, corrected the impression. In the 1938 elections the Judge backed two candidates. Both won. After that his hand was never seen; he endorsed nobody, contributed to no campaign, gave no speeches except the perennial ones to church groups, attended no dinners. He simply ran the County. The aristocracy had to be content with still owning most of it.

  By 1946 even that was slipping away from them. The G’s were coming home, the ambitious young sons of farmers armed with the confidence that comes from years of war and ultimate survival. They had educational opportunities and financial leverage courtesy of the GI Bill, and the potential gold in all those woodlots and cornfields became real. The farmers who had had the foresight and the liquidity not to sell out early made money. The speculators made money. Anybody in the County who had clear title to an acre made money.

  The Judge, it seemed, owned three parcels that just accidentally lay to the south, west, and east of town. Exactly where the money to buy two of them had come from, no one knew. It was certain that the cash had not come from his in-laws (although the third parcel, the one to the east, had been his wife’s dowry). Perhaps the money came from the sales of Mrs. Scott’s novel. At any rate, the Judge went into the housing business, providing land and capital to erect three large “editions.” He invested the profits outside the County. By 1955 he owned nothing but common shares of GM, Ford, and AT&T, and preferred shares in two little-known companies, Sperry Gyroscope and Xerox.

  But the population boom that had made him rich had eroded his base of power; the newcomers owed their allegiance to new industries—trucking companies, a shoe factory, a metalworking plant. Now it was the old power structure that bided its time, forging an alliance with the new industrial middle class just as the Judge had once forged his with an agrarian one. They waited for the Judge’s inevitable decline, waited to drag him down and chew him up and spit him out and nail what was left of his hide to the barn door. But they had underestimated him. After delivering a record number of votes to the gubernatorial campaign of David Lawrence, votes that no Democrat had any right to expect from that county, the Judge went to work and parlayed the rest of his power into state jobs for his most loyal supporters and a seat on the State Superior Court for himself, thereby achieving immunity to the local vicissitudes.

  Once on the bench, he had shown himself to be more than just another country lawyer. His decisions were rarely questioned, and never overturned on points of law. His opinions were cogently expressed, written in the kind of language that had once distinguished the writing of law as a genre of literature. He had more than once been mentioned for a seat on the Supreme Court. But he had had no love for Richard Nixon, had given what support he could to Nelson Rockefeller. By the time that could be rewarded, it was too late for him. Still, even without the final achievement, the Judge’s career was something people write books about, certainly something that was repeated, time and time again, in Sunday schools and in elementary scho
ol rooms, albeit in a slightly edited version.

  The man I saw before me seemed likewise an edited version. He had always been a thin man, but one of solid, imposing physical presence. Now he was an old man. Frail. Slight. With watery blue eyes and limp hair so white it was nearly blue, and liver-spotted skin drawn tight over thin bones. He wore a venerable three-piece suit of black wool gone shiny and a little green, a white shirt with a narrow collar, a faintly clocked four-in-hand. The only things about him that could have been called a hint of color were those watery eyes and the gleaming gold of the watch chain that drooped over his nonexistent belly, supporting an old half hunter and the Phi Beta Kappa key.

  He saw me and rose; Scott moved to help him. But the Judge was not as frail as he looked—at any rate, he was too agile and quick for Scott, and was around the desk and holding my hand in a firm grip and my eyes with clear gaze before Scott could clamp the protective and restraining hand on his elbow. “Dad,” Scott said, “this is Dr.—”

  “I know who he is, Randall,” the Judge snapped, without taking his eyes from mine. He looked at me hard, pumped my hand hard, released it, and stepped away. The effort made him puff a little, and his breath came to me, carrying the sweet smell of bourbon. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said. “Will you sit?”

  “Dad, John and I—”

  “Will you sit, sir?” the Judge repeated.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The Judge indicated one of two high-backed leather chairs that sat before the desk, then returned to his own chair, with Scott, a hand still clutching his elbow, trying to keep up. The Judge paid no attention until Scott caught his thigh on the corner of the desk and gasped in pain. “Be careful, Randall,” the Judge said mildly. Scott let go of the elbow and went to a chair in a corner, hobbling slightly.

  The Judge looked at me, not saying anything for a few moments, letting his eyes rove over me. “You bear a great resemblance to your father,” he said. “Did you know that?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, you do. Consider that a judicial opinion.” He smiled slightly, but he did not really mean the joke—his eyes did not smile. “When he was young, of course; maybe thirty. And you’re about that…”

  “I’m thirty-one,” I said.

  “Yes. And your brother…”

  “My brother would have been twenty-nine.”

  “If he hadn’t been killed,” the Judge said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “A sad thing.”

  “A wonderful thing,” I said. “Greater love hath no man than he lay down his life for his friends. He was privileged not only to save his comrades, but to die in the service of his country, and in the cause of freedom.”

  “That’s absolutely right,” Scott said.

  “Don’t be an ass, Randall,” the Judge said. “He was quoting the speech you made at the boy’s funeral.” He looked at me. “You don’t feel that way at all, do you?”

  “No,” I said.

  He smiled slightly. “I thought not. You’re a historian, they tell me.” He looked at me, but I gave him no confirmation. “I’ve delved into history,” he said. “I never studied it, but I delved into it. Enough to know that it was not a subject that appealed to me. There were too many differences of opinion, too many gaps, too many hidden motivations, too many coincidences. And no rules. I found it frustrating. Don’t you?”

  “At times,” I said.

  “But you keep on.”

  “Yes.”

  “Searching for truth?”

  “Trying to find out where the lies are.”

  The judge smiled, for real this time. “A worthy ambition,” he said. “I imagine you’ve found this region a treasure trove of material. The history of this County alone…”

  “I don’t do regional history,” I said.

  He looked at me sharply.

  “I specialize in the study of atrocities.”

  “I don’t quite understand.”

  “History is just one long string of atrocities,” I said. “You could say history is atrocious. The best way to find out what they did is to find out where they hid the bodies.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “The best part,” I said, “is that I don’t have to worry about finding material. Bodies are always turning up.”

  The Judge sighed heavily. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose they are.” He paused. “Well, it’s not like that in this County. We mark our graves with great care. It’s the skeletons we try to hide.”

  “Dad…” Scott said.

  “What? Yes, of course. Randall, I know you’re busy. If you need to get back to something, you just go ahead.”

  “Thanks, Dad. John and I were discussing paying for John Crawley’s funeral; there are a few more arrangement to be made.”

  “Well, fine, Randall. John… May I call you John?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Fine. You’ll want us to spare no ex—”

  “Dad, we’ve already straightened all of this out.”

  “Then go take care of it, Randall. You can make the arrangements. That’s what you’re paid for. But there’s more to it, and it’s past time we attended to it.”

  “Dad…” Scott stood up and looked at me uneasily, while he shifted nervously from foot to foot, looking for all the world like a little boy who has to go to the bathroom but is embarrassed to say so. “Dad…I think we’d better talk about this.”

  “We shall, Randall,” the Judge said. He reached out with one liver-spotted hand and picked up his phone. “Mrs. Washington? Yes. Would you step in here, please?” He put the phone down, looked up at Scott. “What is it, Randall?”

  Scott looked at me, closed his eyes, and sat down again. “Nothing,” he said.

  We waited a moment in silence, Scott seeming to shrink into himself, the Judge looking stern, while I tried desperately to figure out what was happening. In a moment the door opened and my mother came in, moving briskly and efficiently. She held a steno book in one hand and three perfectly sharpened pencils in the other. She came quickly across the room, slipped gracefully onto a straight-backed chair at the corner of the Judge’s desk, crossed her legs, opened her book, and waited. Her eyes were on the Judge; she did not even glance at Scott. And she had not seen me.

  “It’s time we made the final disposition of your husband’s will,” the Judge said.

  I could not see her face, but I saw her back stiffen, saw her head turn ever so slightly as she gave Scott a quick glance.

  “Dad—” Scott began again.

  The Judge raised his hand. “I know, Randall, I know; under the terms of the will the trusteeship can be passed on. But I’m the executor. And I don’t know how long I’m going to last. And…circumstances have affected a good many of the provisions. The younger son is dead. Jack Crawley is dead, And John”—he nodded at me—“is here.”

  She turned then, and saw me. The expression on her face shocked me. I had never seen my mother look guilty or ashamed or afraid. And now she looked all three at once. “John,” she said.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. It sounded stupid. But it was all I could think of to say. Things were beyond anything that I understood. Scott was desperately uneasy and my mother was guilty and ashamed and the Judge seemed…unerring.

  “We are all here now, at last,” the Judge said. His voice was low, clear but somehow rhythmic, almost as if he were reading some ritualized form from a judicial bench. I looked at him. His eyes were clear and bright. He, at least, seemed at ease, seemed to know what was happening.

  “In the last Will of Moses Washington, deceased, the power was given to the executor of the estate to relinquish his control of all trusts and settle them on the parties designated in the document in the manner therein prescribed. The executor, who is I, was charged with following a particular form in exercising that option. One condition of that form was that all parties concerned be either present or deceased. A second condition was that those
present be under no duress. If either of you wishes to leave, you may do so.” He paused, looked at me, then at my mother.

  “I want to leave,” Scott said. “This is wrong, the time isn’t—”

  “Be quiet, Randall,” the Judge said. “You are not a principal.” He looked at the two of us once again. “I take it you choose to remain.”

  “Yvette,” Scott said.

  The Judge glanced at him, then looked at my mother. “Mrs. Washington,” he said, “will you stay?”

  “What the hell is going on here?” I said.

  “Will you stay, Mrs. Washington?” the Judge said.

  Her head was down. “Yes,” she said, mumbling. Then she brought her head up. “Yes.” Clear this time. Almost harsh. She looked at Scott. “Yes.” She twisted in her chair and looked at me. “I’m sorry, Johnny,” she said. And then she turned back and opened her steno book. She raised a pencil and began to move it across the page in staccato jerks, taking dictation although not a word was being said. Eventually she stopped, looked at the Judge expectantly.

  “You have all that, Mrs. Washington?” the Judge said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Excellent,” the Judge said. He cleared his throat. “The conditions of the form having been met, we may proceed with the reading of the Will.” He paused. “Off the record, please, Mrs. Washington. John, I think you should understand that wills are not usually ‘read.’ That’s the stuff of murder mysteries. But your father specified that his be read in the hearing of all heirs and principals at such time as the trusts were to be ended. Now, I have it in my mind that he didn’t know what he was letting you in for—letting everybody in for. Your father was the kind of man who said what he wanted done and expected it to be done, but he didn’t understand the complexities of the law. He didn’t hold with complexities. He was a Gordian knot man. I suspect he’d approve of what I’m going to suggest: you can have a copy of the Will and the trust instruments and read them when you want, and if you have any questions, I’ll be glad to answer them, and for now I’ll just give you the outline in laymen’s prose. But if you insist, I’ll read the damned thing.” He looked at me.