by Stuart Woods
“Who was that?” asked Howell.
“Simpson, commander of the Georgia State Patrol. He’s going to put a radio call out to locate the judge. All we can do now is wait.”
Tucker lay on the hard cot, a single dirty army blanket wrapped around him, and shivered. The cell’s only window was open, and it was too high for him to reach. When he opened his eyes he could see his breath. Now and then something bit him. He scratched at himself and swore.
They had taken his watch, but he reckoned it was nearly midnight. They had put him in what was obviously the worst cell in the county jail. It was thoroughly dirty, and there was no toilet, just a slop jar. They had taken his uniform and shoes, too, and he was clad only in a dirty prison bathrobe. They had said that they had no uniform large enough to fit him.
Tucker was frightened; he had expected someone to have him released by now. He had told Bartlett months ago what to do. But nobody had come, and he had heard Skeeter tell the night man that he would be back around midnight, that there were plans for Tucker. In the car Skeeter had told him that Judge Hill, the only man who could release him, was gone until Monday, but Tucker hadn’t believed him. Now he did. It was late Friday night, and Skeeter had him until Monday morning, it seemed.
He heard a car pull into the parking lot under his window, and he wished he could see who it was, but the window was too high. Then he heard Skeeter’s voice. “Y’all wait here. I’ll go help him escape.” There was answering laughter from more than one man. Tucker broke into a cold sweat. He got up and looked around the cell for something to use as a weapon. There was only the porcelain-covered slop jar and the steel cot, suspended from the wall by chains. He pulled desperately at the chains, but they would not budge from the wall. He would have only his hands; there was nothing else.
He heard the outer door to the lockup scrape open. There were six cells in this the old wing of the jail, and Tucker was the only prisoner in the wing. Skeeter came down the corridor, jangling keys, followed by the night man, who had a pistol in his hand. The night man stuck his weapon through the bars and barked, “Okay, Mr. Chief, up against the wall and spread ‘em.”
Tucker did as the man ordered. Maybe he would have a better chance out of the cell. The two men came into the cell, and while the night man held the pistol at Tucker’s head, Skeeter handcuffed his hands behind him. As they began to move him from the cell, Tucker got a bare toe under the curved edge of the slop jar and flipped it over, splashing against Skeeter’s immaculate tans.
“Don’t!” Skeeter yelled at the night man, as he drew back to hit Tucker with his pistol. “I don’t want a mark on the bastard.” Cursing, he wiped his trousers as best he could with Tucker’s blanket. “I’m gonna see you pay a little extra for that one, boy,” he snarled at Tucker.
They shoved Tucker down the hallway and through the lockup door, the night man prodding him repeatedly in the spine with the pistol. They went down another hallway and through a door into the main office. Skeeter drew his pistol. “All right, I’ll take him out,” he said to the night man. “You stay here. It’s better you don’t see no more than you have to.”
“Where are you taking me?” demanded Tucker. He felt completely vulnerable, clad in only the thin bathrobe, his hands cuffed behind him.
“Where I should have taken you a long time ago, nigger,” Skeeter spat back at him. He spun Tucker around and shoved him toward the outer door. Both men stopped. Billy Lee stood in the doorway; John Howell and two state patrolmen stood behind him.
Billy walked over to Skeeter and handed him a neatly typed document. “That’s a release order for Tucker Watts, signed by Judge Hill and notarized. Take the handcuffs off him.”
Skeeter stood his ground. “Judge Hill is out of town, Billy. I don’t believe that’s no proper order. Watts ain’t going nowhere.”
Billy turned and spoke to one of the patrolmen behind him, “Sergeant”—the man stepped forward—“I’ve served Sheriff Willis with a signed order for the release of Chief Watts. I’m going to inform him of that fact once more. If he hesitates to obey it, arrest him immediately for obstruction of justice. I’ll take the responsibility.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. He turned and looked at Skeeter, waiting.
Billy turned back to Skeeter. “Sheriff Willis, here is an order for the release of that man. Take the handcuffs off him. Now.”
Skeeter looked at Billy, then at the patrolman. The patrolman took a step toward him. “All right, all right,” he said, and fumbled for his keys.
“You,” Billy snapped to the night man. “Get his clothes.” The man went to a locker, retrieved Tucker’s uniform, and tossed it onto the counter.
Tucker, rubbing his wrists, walked immediately behind a counter, opened a desk drawer, and took out his gunbelt. He placed it on the counter next to his clothes, quickly got dressed, checking to see that the gun was loaded, then buckled it on. “All right, Governor,” he said.
“Sergeant,” Billy said to the patrolman. “There are four men in a car outside. I want you and the corporal to go out there and turn them inside out. Check for guns and permits; check driver’s licences, car registration, everything you can think of. If anybody is in violation of anything, arrest him and jail him at the state patrol station in La Grange.”
The two patrolmen left. Billy turned back to the sheriff. “Get him out of here,” he said, indicating the night man. Willis jerked his thumb at the man, and he left. “Skeeter,” Billy said, looking at the sheriff’s soiled trousers, “you don’t smell so good.” Willis glowered at him but said nothing. “But then, you’ve smelled bad for a long time. That’ll be over soon. You’re through. If I win this election I’m going to use every ounce of authority and influence at my disposal to see that you’re run out of office. If it’s possible, I’ll see you in your own county camp, and I don’t give a damn about your age. If I don’t win, I’ll still be not without influence, and I’ll pursue you to hell and back.” He turned to Tucker. “Let’s go.”
They walked out of the office, leaving the sheriff struck dumb. “There’s probably nothing I can do about him,” said Billy, “in spite of my brave talk. I’m sure he’s covered his tracks carefully, but it won’t hurt him to worry about it.” He looked over at the state patrolmen, who had four men spread over their car, searching them. One of the men was Emmett Spence.
“Four pistols, Governor,” the sergeant called out. “No permits. There’s two shotguns and some rope in the car, too.”
“Run ‘em in,” Billy called back. He turned to Tucker. “I’m sorry we were so long getting you out. We had to find the judge, who was driving north, then we had to get the order dictated and typed and notarized, and this was as quick as we could do it.”
“Governor, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you at all,” Tucker said. “They were taking me out of the jail, and God knows what they would have done with me. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Now, listen, Tucker; you’re going to have to reduce the charges against Hoss Spence to the traffic violation. I’ve talked with Judge Hill about this. You’ll have to trade for the charge against you, which could be very messy in a jury trial. Spence will still lose his license for a while, and you’ll have a good lawsuit against him for having you arrested without cause.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let Spence get away with this, Governor. But I really appreciate your taking the time to come down here.”
“I was glad to do it. Now, there’s somebody waiting over there for you.” He nodded. Elizabeth was waiting for him in the car. She got out, walked over, and embraced him. They got into the car and drove home.
Billy started back to Atlanta. He had a long weekend of campaign work still ahead of him, and he was worried about Tucker’s determination to prosecute Hoss Spence.
19
ON SUNDAY MORNING Billy was awakened by a hammering on his Atlanta hotel room door. “Who is it?” he yelled, staying in bed.
“It’s John Howel
l. Open up.”
Billy stumbled to the door and unlocked it. “What time is it?” he asked sleepily, as Howell hurried into the room, a stack of newspapers under his arm.
“A little after ten. You’re supposed to be at services at eleven. You’re going to Ebenezer Street Baptist Church, remember? You’re running late, but that’s the least of your problems. I’ve been trying to call you, but the operator refused to ring your room.”
“I told her not to put any calls through. I needed the sleep. What’s the matter?”
Howell plunked down the Sunday papers on the bed. “Have a look at that.”
“BLACK Chief ARRESTED, CHARGED WITH BEATING ELDERLY MAN,” read a headline which appeared above the newspaper’s masthead, and beneath it a subhead, “Mullins Charges Lee Made Improper Use of Lieutenant Governor’s Office to Obtain Release of Watts.”
“Oh, shit,” said Billy, sitting down on the edge of the bed and pulling a blanket around his shoulders. He read on.
The Meriwether County Sheriff’s Department yesterday arrested Delano Chief of Police Tucker Watts, the South’s first black law-enforcement official, and charged him with assault and battery of a prominent Meriwether County farmer, Horace Spence, 74, after Watts stopped Spence’s car, allegedly for speeding. Lieutenant Governor William H. Lee, facing a tough general-election battle on Tuesday in the race for governor, apparently used the influence of his office in ordering the commander of the Georgia State Patrol to locate a judge who would sign release papers for Watts. Lee then personally went to the Meriwether County Jail in Greenville, accompanied by two state-patrol bodyguards, where he obtained the release of Chief Watts, and ordered the arrest of four Meriwether County men in the jail’s parking lot on charges of carrying unlicensed weapons and of having an expired vehicle-inspection sticker on their car. The men claimed they were returning from a hunting trip and had stopped to drop off one of their party who lived in Greenville. They were ordered released the following morning by a La Grange Superior Court judge from the local state-patrol station.
Sheriff John B. (“Skeeter”) Willis said, “This is the second case we’ve had down here of this so-called policeman harassing elderly white citizens, and we’re just not going to put up with it.” His remark apparently referred to a Delano citizen, Francis Funderburke, 79, who, when asked about Sheriff Willis’s comment said, “We wouldn’t be having this problem if this fellow hadn’t been forced on the community by Billy Lee, just so he could get the colored vote to help him get elected.” Funderburke, a noted dog breeder, declined comment on the specifics of his alleged harassment by Chief Watts.
Jackson Mullins, Lee’s independent opponent in the governor’s race, contacted at his south Georgia home, said, “This is just one more example of the arrogant misuse of state office by a candidate who will do anything to win the black-bloc vote in this election.” Mullins has consistently criticized Lee for using his office improperly in the election.
Lieutenant Governor Lee was said to be sequestered in an Atlanta hotel after the incident and was unavailable for comment.
The telephone rang, and Billy picked it up. “Governor,” the operator said, “there’s a Mr. Holmes on the line who insists that I put his call through. I know you left instructions not to be disturbed, sir, but—”
“That’s all right, put him on. Mr. Holmes?… Yes, sir, I’ve just seen the papers…. That’s right, I’ve got to be at Ebenezer Street church in forty-five minutes…. I have to go, sir; we’ve had this scheduled for days. It would look as though I’m backing down if I cancel. In fact, I think a black church might be the best place for me to reply to these charges, especially Dr. King’s church…. Look, we know that what’s going to happen if these charges come to court—Tucker will be vindicated…. Yes, it could be too late by then, but I can’t change course now; I’m just going to have to ride it out…. Thank you, sir, I’d appreciate that. I’m running late, as it is, and I don’t really have time to make the call.”
He hung up. “Mr. Holmes thinks I ought to cancel at Ebenezer Street, but I can’t do that. He’s going to see that the telephone volunteers try and get some feel about how this might affect the voting on Tuesday.”
“Billy,” Howell said, “I think you ought to hold an impromptu press conference on the steps of the church and refute all this in the strongest possible manner. There’ll be a lot of press there, anyway. This is on your official schedule.”
“You’re right,” Billy replied.
“My story is in this morning’s Times, and that gives the whole picture. That’ll get picked up by the wire services and should help, too.”
“Good. Well, I’d better get a move on.” Billy headed for the shower.
Tucker was surprised at how shaken he was by his experience in jail. He woke Saturday morning feeling exhausted, and when the calls from the press began to come in, he checked in briefly at the station and then spent Saturday and Sunday at his mother’s house, with instructions to Bartlett that he was to be called only in an emergency.
He scrubbed himself repeatedly with a medicated shampoo to rid himself of the lice and crabs he had picked up in the cell. The feeling of uncleanliness made things even worse for him. He resolved to see that his own jail was fumigated regularly, and he thought he would never again feel the same about locking up someone.
He saw Billy on the Sunday night news, trying to put things right, but it seemed to him an unsuccessful effort. On Holmes’s advice he issued a short written statement, saying that he had made a proper arrest after having himself been assaulted and that he believed subsequent court action would prove he acted responsibly. He hoped it would help.
He spent little time in the station Monday and Tuesday, election day; instead, he drove aimlessly about the town, depressed, wondering whether he would be able to continue in the job.
Billy had a sense of déjà vu on election night, keeping another campaign vigil he had hoped would be unnecessary. By midnight it was clear he would not have a majority. Mullins did even better than they had expected. Billy ended up nearly four percentage points short of the majority necessary to keep the election out of the Georgia House of Representatives.
“Where do you think we stand in the house as of this moment?” he asked Holmes.
The banker produced his notebook. “I’ve been on the phone all weekend,” he said. “We’re better off than we were at the time of the primary, I reckon, but there are still a dozen or so votes uncommitted. If I had to give you a hard figure right now, I’d say we were four or five votes short. You’ve got a lot of telephoning to do the next week.”
“I think we’d better do more than that,” Billy said. “I think we’d better get hold of a light plane and go see some people around the state.”
“Good idea.”
“What do you think our chances are, Mr. Holmes? Really.” Billy thought he had never seen the banker look as tired, as old.
Holmes shook his head. “There’s so much riding on this for you, son. I think Kennedy’s serious about the vice-presidency thing, I honestly do. I wish I could tell you we can do it, but I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Billy realized, now, that he had been allowing himself to think not just about the vice-presidency, but about the job as a stepping stone to the presidency itself. If he lost in the house, it was all over. He felt a fool for letting himself aim so high.
20
BY WEDNESDAY MORNING Tucker had recovered himself enough to take hold of his job again. He was at the station early and went through the mail and messages that had gathered in his absence. He was relieved to find there was nothing of importance in the papers piled on his desk, but when he reached the bottom of the pile his relief vanished. The file on the missing boys was waiting for him. What’s more, there was a Teletype from state-patrol headquarters placing the young man in the most recent of the bulletins in Buena Vista, forty miles south of Delano. The date was the third, two days before.
Because he had, as much as
possible, emptied his mind of everything to do with his work, he had banished Foxy Funderburke from his thoughts, as well. But now the file was there; the boys were staring back at him again. He considered visiting Foxy, but immediately dismissed the idea. Holmes had warned him off, and somehow Foxy had become a part of the Hoss Spence-Skeeter Willis problem, too. His only course was to follow Holmes’s advice and go through the established channels, and that meant Sheriff Bobby Patrick of Talbot County.
Even the appearance of asking Patrick for help repelled him, and, after his experience in Skeeter’s jail, he felt a deep-seated anxiety about approaching Patrick in his. But there was no other way to go, and he knew it. He stuck the file in a manila envelope and walked into the squad room. Bartlett was eating a slice of sweet potato pie and drinking a cup of coffee at his desk.
“Buddy, I’m going down to Talbotton to see Bobby Patrick about something. I’ll be back as soon as I can. If you need me call me at the Talbot County Sheriff’s Office, and if I’m not there, send a car to the top of the mountain and have me radioed from there. The station antenna would never clear the mountain on line of sight.”
“This something to do with that missing-persons stuff, Chief?” Tucker had not shared his theory with Bartlett.
Tucker nodded. “Yeah, and I can’t touch it. It’s in Patrick’s jurisdiction.”
Bartlett looked troubled. “Watch yourself, Chief, okay?”