by Nancy Grace
Eugene had read his mind. The judge had cottonmouth in the worst way.
Or did Eugene simply know for a fact that C.C. never minded a cocktail? If that was the case, what else did Eugene know about him?
He got his answer a moment later.
“Maker’s Mark, two rocks, am I right?”
Damn, Eugene was sharp.
“Yes siree, Floyd Moye, I’m impressed.”
“I assure you, Judge, it’s mutual.” C.C. wondered what he meant by that. Could he be impressed with some of C.C.’s legal opinions?
Or maybe Eugene admired C.C. after reading about him in the papers, one profile after the next. C.C. had even been on television a few times, addressing the State Bar Association on legal ethics. Or maybe he supported C.C.’s stalwart pro-law-and-order stance.
“Lewis, two Maker’s on the rocks, sir,” Eugene said to the elderly waiter in a white jacket standing unobtrusively a few feet away.
“Yes, sir.”
“Judge, how was your drive down?” Eugene turned his focus toward C.C., taking him in from head to toe. Something about Eugene put him on edge.
“About three hours,” he said, “but it’s worth it, Floyd.”
“Played the greens here at Augusta much?”
“Oh yes. Quite a bit. Beautiful course.”
“Really?” Eugene’s eyes locked on him like radar.
The judge felt his face flush.
“Damn! Why did I lie? Save the lies for something important.”
He’d told himself this a million times…it was always the details that bite you in the neck…always.
Could Eugene know? Shit, of course he knew. He was a member here.
Anybody who was anybody played here all the time and knew the place like the back of his hand. C.C. had mostly just seen it from his own den, on TV, a gaping hole in his social pedigree. And that was usually on a Sunday afternoon after a couple of bourbons.
He had to take the obvious route and lie, again.
“Of course, not recently, you know,” he quickly amended, trying to wade out of the muck. “The workload on the bench is very demanding. Very demanding.”
Eugene nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sure it is.”
Had he gotten out of that one? No way to tell. He was relieved when the waiter returned with warmed cashews and Eugene turned his attention away from C.C. for a moment to chat with him.
C.C. raised his glass to his lips and fought the urge to drain it in one mighty gulp as Eugene, thank God in Heaven, paused before turning his attention across the table again.
“How’s your wife?” he asked C.C. “Betty, isn’t it?”
Of course it was. The man was good.
“Betty’s just fine, Floyd.” He considered returning the question, but he was pretty sure he knew how Eugene’s wife was—and that bringing her up might very well sour the conversation.
“How does Betty find life down in Dooley County after time in the big city?”
It was all he could do not to snort at the thought of Betty in Atlanta. She hated it.
“She likes to stay close to home,” he told Eugene.
Home with her family. Even in light of his current position, they loathed him. He could feel it. The pained greetings, formal airs, exchanged glances whenever C.C. talked. He hated the way Betty’s bunch didn’t drink, smoke, or curse, and sat all pinched up on the front row of the First Baptist Church every damn Sunday. He hated the way they guarded the old grandmother’s china at Sunday lunch, like C.C. might just take a big bite out of one of the salad plates.
He guessed they were still mad he got a little drunk at the wedding, but what the hell was wrong with that? C.C. never understood it. His daddy and his daddy’s daddy owned Dooley County. Now Betty was the wife of one of the most powerful men in the state.
“Does she come up to Atlanta much?”
“Not too much, Floyd. She pretty much stays put when court’s in session. She gets lost every time she gets anywhere near I-285.”
“Does she? I don’t blame her.”
“Oh, yes.” C.C. nodded vigorously. A gift from Heaven…they had something else in common to talk about. They both hated traffic.
“Ever since they built that damn perimeter around the city, I swear tourism’s been on the decrease. Once they’re on it, nobody can figure out how to get off the damn thing and get into downtown.”
C.C. knew he was rambling but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“Yep, I wish Betty’d get the hang of it and visit more. Atlanta can be a lonely city, Floyd Moye, a lonely city indeed,” he added. C.C. put on a sad, thoughtful face. Wistful, in fact.
Actually, he hadn’t thought of Betty in days.
She adored C.C., of course, but whenever Mrs. Clarence E. Carter considered the prospect of a four-and-a-half-hour drive to spend a weekend in Atlanta with her husband, she seemed to develop a sudden and immediate migraine that caused her to take to her bed, sometimes for the entire weekend. Betty was better off down on the farm where she was happy. He was entirely certain that navigating the sprawling behemoth called Interstate 285 was the sole barrier that kept her in Dooley County.
Thank God for Atlanta traffic.
A few more minutes of small talk, a couple of swallows of Maker’s Mark, and the two finally made it out of the clubhouse.
It was none too soon for C.C., who could only hope he’d do better with his hands occupied. No more uncomfortable one-on-one conversation. It was nerve-racking, especially when he couldn’t figure out how to do away with the yak and get to the governorship.
“Why not be honest for once? That’s right…honest and up front. Just put it out there. Wait…Don’t just put it out there…Let things breathe…No need to do anything radical…Play it cool,” C.C. told himself as they headed out to the tee. He could chat all night if he had to.
“Plan on taking a cart, Floyd?” C.C. asked hopefully, blinking in the hot Georgia sun.
“Well, Judge, we use the caddies here. No carts anywhere on the grounds…kind of a tradition.”
Busted again, dammit! Fricking details!
Why didn’t he notice there wasn’t a single cart parked anywhere near the area, just a group of older men standing near the clubhouse? On TV when Tiger won the Masters, there wasn’t any damn cart!
“Right! That’s right! I remember that!” C.C. and Eugene set out walking, two caddies following discreetly behind.
For a while, it was just about golf—and it was all C.C. could do to stay on his game. He tried, but Eugene was better. A lot better.
Was it any surprise?
C.C. couldn’t focus. As the two approached the fourth hole, Eugene asked, “Ready for the Crab Apple, Judge?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Was it some kind of drink? C.C. hoped so.
“Crab Apple…It’s the name of the fourth hole. Each hole is named after a tree or bush here.”
“Yes…very unique, very unique. I’ve always thought that.”
Damn him to hell. Was Eugene torturing him on purpose?
Then, out of the blue, Eugene said casually, “You know, Judge, I admire your work on the bench. Have for years.”
Suddenly, he no longer hated Eugene. He was now elated.
Maybe he should seize the moment and plow ahead with his offer.
But before he could speak, Eugene went on. “But I can’t help but think a man of your caliber, from such a fine family with politics in the blood, fine education at the University, who’s been doing his duty to the State of Georgia on the bench for all these years now…”
Uh-oh. Where was this going? It couldn’t be good. C.C. felt sick.
“You could be doing something even greater, Judge. Such a waste of talent.”
What? What did he just say? A waste of talent? Did he say that?
“Well, Floyd, I’m flattered but…”
No one had ever called him talented before. Not even the newspaper profiles, the TV interviews, not even that sorry bunch of suck-up l
aw clerks had ever accused C.C. of being talented.
Even his girls, the strippers he picked up at the Pink Fuzzy on weekends, normally full of compliments, had never suggested such a thing as talent.
His head was swimming. Where would it lead?
He needed a drink, but this was not the kind of place where you brought along your thermos, and he knew better than to pull out a flask in front of Eugene.
“Have you ever thought of a run for governor?” C.C. didn’t miss a beat. “Well, Floyd, you’re not the first who has proposed just that.”
Giddy with his success, he could hardly keep walking without jumping up in the air.
He hadn’t even had to push it, no bargaining back and forth.
Obviously Eugene wasn’t the operator he was cracked up to be.
Whatever, it was clearly meant to be.
Eugene was on his side.
God was on his side.
The way things were going, he might not have to offer Eugene a bribe after all.
Walking eighteen holes was no easy feat for a Supreme Court Justice who, at most, walked from his car to an enclosed underground elevator, just nearly fifteen feet, twice a day. And even that was air-conditioned. Nobody wanted the judges breaking a sweat.
Thank God they weren’t lugging their own clubs.
Speaking of clubs, C.C. had asked the pro at his country club to outfit him with the most expensive clubs the store carried. He dropped a load of money on Pings in hopes Floyd Moye would notice. If he had noticed, he hadn’t mentioned it…yet. C.C. made a point to swing with great flourish and flash the Ping markings whenever he could.
Somehow, though, C.C. managed to keep up with Floyd Moye, the two walking side by side, casually crushing beneath cleated soles the prized Bermuda grass that was somebody’s life’s work.
C.C. noticed little of his surroundings. Not the grass, the heat, the botanical beauty around them, not even his shrieking calf muscles. He just kept walking, listening, enthralled as Eugene laid it all out for him, describing the inner workings of the State party machinery and how it would all play out. C.C. was mesmerized.
The rest was all details as far as C.C. was concerned. He’d been to the mountaintop and he could see the Promised Land.
With each approaching tee, Eugene spun a gubernatorial web around C.C. He touched on power bases here, weaknesses of possible opponents there, and solutions as to how the party could work it all to their advantage.
“We want a winner. Come next January,” Eugene said, just before teeing off at the eighteenth hole, “Governor Carter will run the State Capitol. What do you think about that?”
C.C.’s hand was burning not to whip out his flask and have a congratulatory shot of bourbon. It seemed wrong not to.
“I…I’m ecstatic,” he finally managed to say.
After the eighteenth hole, the two headed back to the clubhouse.
“Let’s have a drink and celebrate, Judge. What’ll you have? Another Maker’s Mark?”
“You know it, and the drinks are on me.”
It was the least he could do. All that walking and talking, Eugene laying it all out for him, and the man had never once asked a thing in return.
“Don’t be silly, you’re my guest. Lewis!” He waved at the waiter.
A real class act, Floyd Moye Eugene. Peculiar, but classy.
“My associate here will have another Maker’s, two rocks,” Eugene told Lewis, and C.C. glowed.
“I’ll have ice water with lime, Lewis.”
“I thought we were celebrating,” C.C. protested, dismayed at Eugene’s teetotaling.
“We are. You go ahead and enjoy your drink, and I’ll enjoy my ice water.”
C.C., who didn’t have to be asked twice, knocked back another drink, and then one more, as Eugene drank water and added up a majority of Georgia counties they could count on.
“I have to say, you’ve got me feeling mighty optimistic, Floyd,” C.C. said as they walked to his car.
“Good, good. You should.”
The valet already had the Caddy waiting, with the AC and radio on high for him. It had been tuned to an Allman Brothers CD, as C.C. recalled, upon his arrival. Not anymore.
Now Motown was on the radio. Diana Ross belting out “I’m Comin’ Up.”
It was a sign. The stars were aligned.
He got behind the wheel and reached for the electric adjuster to move the seat back. It’d be one hell of a joy ride back.
Eugene stood between the car door and the seat, still talking.
“Thanks again, Floyd Moye, for golf, the drinks, the fine conversation, and—”
“One last thing, Judge.” C.C. looked up, and Floyd Eugene’s expression gave him pause.
A tiny bit of the effusive warmth seemed to have dribbled away.
“Anything, Floyd Moye.”
“Before we begin working the campaign seriously, there’s one matter I need cleared up. It ought to be routine for a man of your standing.”
“Sure, Floyd.”
Routine…Eugene probably wanted a spot in the new regime. Completely understandable.
“What can I do for you?”
“I have a friend, a very dear friend indeed, who has a concern about the legality of a conviction of a young man, a talented man by the name of Cruise.”
“Oh…?”
“We both think, my friend and I, that there is a very strong possibility this young man was wrongly convicted. We certainly wouldn’t want that type of thing clouding your candidacy.”
“Oh, no, Floyd, absolutely not,” C.C. was quick to agree. “Not at this, let me say, critical juncture.”
“Exactly. The poor soul is facing death row on something to do with some hookers in Atlanta a couple years back. It’s a real mess. Anyone could have committed the crime—God only knows who those women had been with. You know they’ll do anything for a hit of crack.”
“Don’t I know it,” C.C. murmured, briefly glancing away from Floyd and toward his steering wheel, then caught himself. “Not that I know anything about hookers personally…but my work…You know, I’ve read about it….”
“No, no, of course you wouldn’t. Anyway, Judge, it’s just terrible…and just a hell of a mess for an innocent young man to be trapped like that. Don’t you think so?”
“I surely do.”
“A reversal should do the trick.” C.C. sat there like a lump, not getting it.
Did he say reversal?
Eugene went on. “Justice can be so blind. Thank God there are men like you, C.C., to rise up and do the right thing.”
Mistaking his lack of grasp on the situation for squeamishness, Floyd Moye forged ahead. “It was all a damn setup…Some angry as hell gal behind it all…One of those liberated female prosecutors had it in for him…. You know what I mean, Judge.”
C.C. wasn’t sure that he did. He was trying to take it all in, but he just couldn’t. What the hell was Eugene talking about? Who had talent and was wrongfully convicted? Who got liberated?
“It was all a setup from the start,” Eugene went on. “She was probably just trying to advance her own career…. You know the type…right, Judge?”
“Oh, yeah…I know the type all right…. But I don’t get it. Where do I fit in?” C.C. asked at last, not wanting to appear stupid, but finally breaking down. He knew that whatever Eugene was talking about, the most C.C. had done was read about it over a cup of coffee.
“As I said, he goes free, and chances are, he’s innocent. He could go on and cure cancer, for all we know.”
“He’s a doctor?”
“A chef. He’s a chef, Judge.” Eugene was starting to look impatient. “That’s not the point. The point is, he needs to go live his life. Do some good in the world. He’s an innocent man.”
C.C. tried to digest it all…A chef that might have the cure for cancer?
Eugene leaned in, his arm resting on the top of the open door.
“After all, they were just hookers. Nobody�
��ll miss them. Now, isn’t that right, Judge? They were hookers, every last one of them, and the city’s better off without a used-up fleet of hookers. Am I right about that, Judge?”
Eugene was so close to C.C.’s face he could feel the heat of his body and smell the lime on his breath.
C.C. was still in the dark and couldn’t figure out quite what to say or exactly what it was that Floyd wanted him to do.
“Well, the city is a mess…That part is true, Floyd.”
Floyd continued on, his voice lowered. “I mean, if you look at it realistically, why waste the State’s money keeping him up on death row for ten…more like twenty years of appeals? It’s the taxpayers’ money. We’ve got to keep their best interests in mind, too. Especially come re-election time…right, Judge?”
All at once, it dawned on him.
C.C. went pale. It was all coming up…up his throat. He could taste Kentucky bourbon and the Monte Cristo sandwich he’d had back on the ninth hole at the back of his throat.
He couldn’t puke right here. Not in front of Floyd Moye Eugene. Not at Augusta National.
Cruise was sitting in jail after the jury convicted; the case was up on appeal at that very moment. A reversal would set him free…let him walk right out of his prison cell and onto the streets with decent, normal people…including C.C.
C.C. swallowed it down.
“I’ll take a look at the case, Floyd.”
“Well, Judge, let me know as soon as you can see fit to. We’ll need that taken care of before we can move forward on the campaign.”
The dirty work clearly behind him, Floyd quickly shifted gears again. He straightened and all but brushed his hands against each other. “So, I believe Dooley would be just the place to announce. It is your home jurisdiction, your symbolic headquarters at the outset, correct?”
“Correct.” C.C. got it out, still fighting back the Monte Cristo.
“Of course, then we’ll have to move you to Fulton County. Although Macon is technically the geographic center of the state, and we do need to appeal to more than just Fulton and metro Atlanta this time, but it’s just easier to work out of Atlanta. You know what I mean. We’ll get started as soon as you can take care of that legal problem. Right?”
“Right.”
“Good, good, good. It’s been a pleasure, Judge, or should I say Governor?” With that, Floyd Moye’s face melted into a smile.