by Nancy Grace
“Oh, no. It’ll always be C.C. for you, Floyd Moye.”
Before C.C.’s Cadillac could turn the bend much less disappear out of view, Floyd Moye let out a single snort—a silent laugh through his nose, not taking the effort required to make a sound—half in amusement, half in disgust.
Eugene flipped out his cell phone. Waiting for the connection, he walked coolly away from the valet, well out of earshot. Cell phones and pagers were banned at Augusta and this was one call that didn’t need a witness.
Glancing around, he spoke. “The rabbit’s in the hole. How’s the view on the beach?”
“Temp is warm and sunny. Slight breeze on the island. Sand white as sugar and not a soul on the beach. Just two island sea turtles.”
“Not for much longer,” Eugene responded.
In a few hours, the fate of an island would begin to change. Pristine and protected, St. Simons Island was the jewel in the crown of the Georgia coast. Not since 1862, when Confederates ripped apart the Island’s lighthouse to thwart Yankee troops, had the Island been faced with such upheaval, nor come closer to another invasion, this time with tourists.
“Okay,” Eugene said into the phone, “he got his. Now I want a call after they meet tonight. I can’t wait another twenty-four hours. Things are heating up. We knew at the beginning timing was the key.”
“It’s a done deal. Count on it.”
Eugene nodded and clicked off.
14
St. Simons Island, Georgia
THREE BLOCKS BEHIND GLYNN COUNTY MIDDLE SCHOOL, A QUARTER mile from the beachfront pier on St. Simons Island, Virginia Gunn took the last sip of her Amaretto and crushed one cigarette into a green ashtray shaped like a seahorse after lighting her next off its smoldering butt-end. It was always the best sip, having been down at the bottom of the ice the longest.
But she had to be sharp tonight.
“I’m coming, little babies, wait for Mommy!” she called to her dogs, barking out on the deck. “I know you’re hungry, but these aren’t for you! You don’t want chips! Remember what they did to you last time? All that poopy all over the house? You don’t like Ranch-Flavored Doritos, so stop asking!”
She laid out chips and dip on the bar between her kitchen and den, filled another ice bucket, and lit candles scattered artfully around the house.
The dogs kept barking, but for once, she made them wait. Everything had to be just right.
This evening, she had a feeling, was going to be another one of those turning points in her life.
Tonight might be right up there with when she resigned as chief county commissioner of the Island after a vote of no confidence by the Commission eight years ago.
The other commissioners sold her out over the construction of a secluded but still highly offensive goofy-golf course near the United Methodist Center. Naturally, she opposed goofy-golf in all its forms, not only because it would encroach upon nearby marshland, but how could Virginia Gunn, in her right mind and with a straight face, represent to the taxpayers that goofy-golf was anything but tacky?
Virginia had to pour herself another Amaretto on the rocks, getting all worked up again just thinking about it.
She’d simply had no choice but to draw a line in the sand when it came to the Island’s beaches and marshland. Next thing she knew, there’d be Seashell Shacks, mini-marts, beach towel emporiums, and roadside stands peddling brushed-velvet portraits of Elvis and the Last Supper.
Well, of course, the measure had passed anyway. But fate intervened. Before the concrete could be poured and covered with Astroturf, the goofy-golf investors had gone broke and the thing never happened.
By then, though, Virginia had written a scathing letter to the editor of the St. Simons Herald in which she blasted the other Commission members, exposing them for what they were…crass materialists.
At which point, the vote of no confidence went down. She’d stormed out of the middle-school auditorium after claiming that the St. Simons establishment was hell-bent on developing every square inch of the Island.
For eight years now, Virginia had laid low, operating just under the radar of the County Commission.
Only one close call…but so what if they suspected she was responsible for hacking down the first and only parking meter at the Pier? It happened in the middle of the night, when the St. Simons police were always on “shift change” at the Donut Hole. A squad car happened along just as she was finishing up, and she dove into a thick hedge of dwarf palmettos just in time. Those suckers’ leaves were like swords!
Then there was her greatest coup of all: blackmailing the new Commission chairman, Toby McKissick, just before the last vote on constructing a major bridge connecting the Island to the mainland.
From that moment on, Gunn knew she had found her calling. She was a guerrilla. A counter-terrorist fighting the Commission and all other forces seeking to destroy the Island’s natural beauty.
Hence, the chips and dip now laid out neatly on Virginia’s bar.
A new assault on the scarce Island Sea Turtle was in motion.
Euphemistically referred to as “beach replenishing,” it consisted of pumping sand from the ocean bottom onto the Island’s beaches, to build them up for tourists. Doing so would all but destroy the turtles’ mating grounds. Moreover, there was no guarantee where the sand would come from, and a likely location was just off an industrial point near the mainland. The sludge there was replete with toxic buildup, thanks to dumping from a paper mill. To have that dumped on the Island under the disguise of “replenishing” would be a crime. But now it was in the works.
Something must be done.
Something on par with—or perhaps, even greater than—what she had done to McKissick.
She’d tell her new friends all about it later tonight, Virginia decided, and clenched another cigarette in her smiling lips as she went to let the dogs in.
15
Back Roads One Hundred Miles Southeast of Atlanta, Georgia
THE SPEEDOMETER READ NINETY-EIGHT, THE BEST OF THE ALLMAN Brothers CD was turned up, and C.C.’s flask was empty.
He’d already pulled off the interstate to search his trunk for reinforcements, but it was dry. Damn! He needed to think!
How the hell was he going to explain to the Court that he was reversing his decision on the serial murders?
He’d already given the law clerk his orders—the opinion had been written in rough draft and circulated to the other judges weeks ago. He was writing the Court’s opinion, leading the majority of five against the other four weak sisters who always dissented, on principle, to the death penalty. If those pansy-asses had had the chance to fry Jim Jones in his own damn Kool-Aid, down in Guyana, they’d still vote against it.
After twenty-eight more miles of nothing but asphalt, C.C. pulled off the highway to a Bar-b-que stop. Beside it was a thin neon sign, thank God, for a liquor store. It even had a drive-through window tacked onto the side, he saw, and steered toward it. God bless America.
“Bottle of Maker’s to go, partner. Would you throw in a plastic cup for me?”
Yes, sir, his partner in the drive-through window sure would.
God bless America, C.C. thought again as he paid up through the window and scratched off.
He took a big swallow of the bourbon. Damn, that was good.
Now all he needed was some boiled peanuts. That should be easy enough to find. Roadside stands selling boiled peanuts and fresh-picked fruits and vegetables were everywhere along the back roads off the Georgia interstate, mostly to lure the Yankees headed to Florida.
C.C. cut away from the interstate to begin a search-and-recover mission for boiled peanuts.
And it couldn’t be just boiled peanuts, it had to be fresh-boiled green peanuts. They had more of a kick, anybody’d know that.
After churning up nearly twenty more miles of narrow two-lane back road, C.C.’s dreams came true just outside the Georgia–South Carolina border. Three bucks, and now…he could think.
Washing down a handful of peanuts with a gulp of bourbon, he told himself it wasn’t as if he cared about some idiot convicted and sentenced by a jury; somebody who was getting what he deserved…the chair.
And he sure as hell couldn’t care less about the idiot’s mother crying into a TV microphone or a bunch of tofu-eating liberals holding votive candles outside the penitentiary the night Old Sparky lit him up.
The reality was…he had his own reputation to maintain. How the hell could he vote no on a penalty case?
With another swallow of Maker’s Mark, genius struck.
Just recently, C.C.’s little suck-up law clerk had come in sniveling about a moratorium on the death penalty somewhere up north. Claimed it was based on a series of so-called “faulty” convictions where innocent men landed on the Illinois death row.
C.C. knew in his right mind that it was all bullshit, of course, probably just political maneuvering trying to throw focus off someone’s own sorry career.
But…
What if, based on that, C.C. claimed his vote change wasn’t anti–death penalty…it was pro-justice by God!
Yeah, and he’d say he wanted the “real killer” punished! Like in O.J. Well maybe not O.J. He’d make his law clerk think of another example.
The more he drank the more it made sense.
He could actually do this thing. The bourbon was settling in and the tingle was fine. Back on the interstate, he set the cruise control to eighty-nine. No need to speed in excess and get caught. Plus, he was protected by his “GAJUDGE1” plate. No state trooper who wanted to keep his job would pull him over.
Taking his right hand off the steering wheel, he uncorked the Maker’s, just to top it off. The plastic cup was now filled to the very rim but amazingly, he didn’t lose a drop. The peanut shells were piling up on the floorboard of the passenger’s side.
Flicking a soggy peanut shell off his car-installed cell phone, landing it on the passenger’s leather-upholstered door, he hit the speed dial to Jim Talley.
After four rings, it transferred into the law clerk’s voice mail.
“Talley. It’s the Judge, here. I’m working on a weekend, son. Long hours are just part of the job description. Nobody said the bench was easy, son. Remember that.”
He flicked away another soggy shell. This one landed on his shoe and stuck. C.C. paid no attention.
“I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching, boy. I think our colleagues on the Bench are right about this one. The constitutionality of it all is disturbing me, Jim, disturbing me greatly. I’m very torn, Jim.”
Yeah, he could do this. It was perfect. He did care about the Constitution…deeply.
“That Atlanta death penalty case? I’ve changed my mind, boy. No man is too great and should never be too proud to change his mind for the right. That includes even me, son…and I now firmly believe that boy was wrongly sent to the death chamber. If we’re wrong…he’ll do it again. You’ve seen enough of these cases, son, he’ll go right back to his old habits and then the State can string him up good. No sense to rush a case. Let it mature…like a fine wine.”
He rambled on in a hazy, bourbon-laced attempt to justify the about-face. “I mean, son, we’ve got to administer the law in a realistic manner, a manner in which the people of the state of Georgia are protected. We can’t waste the State’s money keeping him up on death row for twenty years of appeals. It’s the taxpayers’ money. We’ve got to keep their best interests in mind, too. Don’t forget the little people, Jim. And above all else, son, we’ve got to be fair. Justice is blind, son, don’t forget that. Justice is blind.”
He pressed the “End” button and cranked up “Lord I Was Born a Rambling Man.” The keyboards were pure inspiration. One more hour and he’d hit Atlanta.
It was Saturday night, he was the governor-to-be, and he was feeling fine.
It was definitely a Pink Fuzzy night. Nothing like a good strip club to calm him down.
Duane Allman was in a serious groove.
God, C.C. loved Duane Allman.
Why did Duane have to die?
Duane held a screeching high note on his Gibson.
Nirvana.
16
New York City
“I’M SO GLAD YOU CHANGED YOUR MIND, HAILEY,” DANA SAID OVER the rim of her wineglass—her third in less than an hour. It was stained with pinkle. “Should I have one more?”
Dana cased the bar area again, pausing at each potential future husband. “But who’s counting?” she’d asked with a shrug as she ordered another glass of her favorite wine. “It’s not as if I’ve got to drive.”
Maybe not, the subway was a block from the Bleecker Street bar where they sat, and it could have Dana back to her place in minutes. There were plenty of cabs, too, at this time of night. But Hailey never enjoyed witnessing Dana after too many drinks.
“I really can’t stay much longer,” Hailey told her—again.
“Yeah, yeah, I know…you’ve got to get home.” Dana shook her head. “I don’t know why you won’t come out dancing with me. I told you, I know the doorman at—”
“The last thing I want tonight is to be packed like a sardine in a club.”
“Hailey, just answer me one thing. When was the last time you had any fun?”
“I have fun all the time!”
“No, you don’t.”
“Not if ‘fun’ means clubbing around the city with a bunch of twenty-year-olds!”
“Plenty of people our age go to clubs.”
“Maybe. But not people who have to get up and go to work first thing in the morning, and Dana, seriously, that’s both of us.”
“I can get by on very little sleep.”
So could Hailey. She did it every night. But she wasn’t going to get into it with Dana, who knew only that she lost her fiancé years ago, was an attorney in Atlanta once upon a time, and didn’t like talking about either of those things.
Lucky for her, Dana was always much more interested in her own future than Hailey’s past. But truthfully, who could blame her?
“Do you think I should get my hair cut tomorrow?”
“You mean, short?”
“Are you kidding? Never short short. Just a trim, but maybe with layers. Men like women with long hair. Look around the room.”
Hailey took a look. Stark decor, flickering white candles centered on small tables for two, beautiful waitstaff clad in black. Places like this were a dime a dozen in this neighborhood.
“What am I looking at?” she asked Dana.
“You’re looking at all the cozy couples. And how the women all have long hair.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“We’re just as hot as any of these women, Hailey. How come they’re all with dates and we aren’t? Should I cut my hair into a new style?”
“Definitely. You’d look even more gorgeous with layers. It would frame your face.”
“So you don’t like it the way I wear it now, then?”
“No! I didn’t say that! You look great and you know it…. You know, though, I really do have to go.”
Hailey looked around for their waiter, a bored-looking theatrical type. He had already told them he wanted to act on Broadway, as if they knew of a job opening and would whip out their cells and hook him up right there on the spot. He just spilled it out during the drink order.
“Maybe I’ll go out to a club by myself. I can’t stand the thought of going home alone again to that depressing little apartment,” Dana said glumly.
“Oh, come on. It’s not depressing. It’s cozy.”
“It’s depressing. Believe me. I need to get a life, or I’m going to grow old all by myself and get a bunch of cats and eat their food and then one day the super will get a complaint that a funny smell is coming from seven-B, and you know what the smell is going to be, Hailey?”
Hailey knew what was coming, but she asked anyway. “What?”
“Me. Dead. For days. Weeks.”
Hailey burst out
laughing for the first time that day.
“Seriously! Stop laughing! The way things are going now, I’ll wind up one of those lonely, miserable old recluses you hear about on the news, where no one even misses them. Just some rotting corpse.”
Rotting corpse. Hailey’s laughter died away and she looked at Dana over the flickering candle.
Even after all this time, Hailey envisioned hundreds of crime scene photos back in Atlanta, victims’ faces frozen in horror in their last shocking moments on earth. She’d never forget…just an occupational hazard. You never get over it…it’s always in your blood, there just beneath your skin. But at least Hailey put the bad guys away or sent them to The Row. They’d never get out.
17
St. Simons Island, Georgia
WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG, ALL EIGHT OF VIRGINIA GUNN’S wiener dogs ran toward the front door, barking viciously at the thought of a possible intruder.
“Shut up!” she yelled, wading through them, stooping to pet and pat as she went.
They ignored her and kept barking their heads off.
“Sidney!” she shouted. “Sidney, go! Sit! Everyone, sit!” She pointed at eight individual wiener-dog cushions that shared prime locations around the living room, on sofas and easy chairs near a huge fireplace.
The pack mentality of the tiny but hostile group egged them on, but after several minutes of Gunn shouting them down, Sidney, their leader, offered up a few more barks, then trotted toward his cushion. The rest followed.
Virginia opened the door. Renee and Dottie stood on the doorstep, accompanied by a woman with braids, wearing a long, flowered dress, and an overweight guy with a beard.
They all looked a little rattled by the audibly hostile welcome, but nobody was backing away. Virginia, who rejected all those who rejected her dogs, was relieved. She needed these people.
“They’re harmless,” Virginia assured them, waving a dismissive hand at the dogs. “I’m so glad you could all come.”