by Bob Knapp
“Stop that pacing, Sheriff. You'll give me indigestion.”
Even the rotten prisoners want to tell me what to do. “Shut up! Just concentrate on your groceries. I'm going to tell you what you are going to do. Monday night, at the Council . . .”
“You letting me out?”
“No! Only for the meeting—like a work release. And you are going to vote for the commercial zoning.” Fowlkes stopped and stared at Morella who was balancing his food on his knees, eating with one hand, his other hand still heavily bandaged. “You're a builder. You know it'll be a good thing.”
“Like booze and women?”
“Can't you keep your trap shut? Eat. We've been over that a million times. It'll be a family place.
“Besides, you can be on the ground floor of the construction—expand your business. This thing is going to take off. Or you can rot right here. Why did you think Newsome didn't give you bail? He does what I say. Be stubborn and your family can go on welfare, let your kid skip college. All you got to do is say, 'Aye', and you're back in business-permits and all.”
“I'm out? Go home that night? Get back to my jobs? Charges dropped?”
Fowlkes’ tone softened. “Can't drop the charges, Moose. I'll make sure Newsome sets the sentence as, 'time served.' Later, if you're cooperative, we'll expunge the record.”
Morella dipped a couple of French fries into some ketchup and put them into his mouth. He looked down at his plate and chewed slowly. “Nope.”
“What?” Fowlkes nearly went through the bars. The clang of steel reverberated throughout the lockup.
“Just kidding. It's a deal.”
Fowlkes huffed, but cooled back down. “Okay, Waxter will take you to the meeting.”
“Waxter?” Morella hung his head and shook it.
“You'll be cuffed together,” Fowlkes added, smiling.
“Let me just stay in my cell,” Morella said. “Can't it be someone else?”
“No, León's too messed up, thanks to you. And I'm not sending another deputy. Just stuff cotton up your nose.”
* * *
Fowlkes thought he had never been so happy. Council meetings were closed to the public, but Gates's call for the vote rang in Fowlkes’ head as if he had been there: Gates: How do you vote—Helen? Aye; —Tuckett? Aye; —Hopper? Aye; —Morella? Aye. Plus me.
Were the stars ever this bright before? He drove Morella home. He stopped and bought him a six-pack before dropping him at his house. He'd won, five to two. Only Hanover and Jenkins against him. He'd take care of them later.
But now he had to celebrate with somebody. Becky! No. She was not ready—not yet. She was still too married to Hanover. That was another good reason to get Hanover.
Fowlkes pounded on Helen's door until she answered. She was already getting ready for bed. Fowlkes made her get dressed—something fancy, low-cut, like she liked to wear. Then they were off to Charleston. Two and a half hours, tops. A business trip with his secretary. Then the celebration would begin. There would be plenty of hot spots open in Charleston. They'd stay overnight and the next day he would tell Uncle Don, in person, “Build that exit to Middlebourne and the Jug.” Yahoo!
25
Jealousy
Becky heard Michael's Tahoe slide to a stop on the loose gravel at the back of their driveway, then the slam of the car door. She pulled the kitchen window curtain aside to look. The Tahoe's headlights were still shining on the back of her Chrysler. Fifteen seconds later the SUV's lights went out and the door slammed again. The council meeting had not gone Michael's way.
The back door opened and Michael stepped into the kitchen, his brow furrowed.
“What's the matter?” Becky said. She turned her back to him as a smile crept across her face.
Michael threw his coat at a chair. “From your perspective, everything went just fine. How could those idiots vote for a casino?”
“It was only for the zoning,” she said.
“Yeah, the engine for the freight train that's gonna roar through this burg.”
Becky reached for the kettle and began filling it with water. “You want some chamomile tea?” Maybe it would settle him down.
“But they weren't happy.” Michael grimaced. “Fowlkes got to them, somehow, even Arnold Tuckett. Only one who showed any guts was Tom.”
Becky held up the tea box.
“Yeah, I'll drink some tea.” He eased himself into a chair at the table.
“You think you can have your way all the time. This is for the community, not you.” Becky set the teakettle back on the stove. Terrance must be delirious. I can't wait to see him.
An edge crept into Michael's voice. “Who has to have their own way? Fowlkes. He's against all of us.”
Becky rolled her eyes.
“Oh, yeah, except you.” He shook his head in disgust. “Okay, ninety percent of Madison doesn't want it. Seventy five percent, anyhow.”
“Stop drumming your fingers on the table.”
Michael jumped from his chair and headed for the living room. “You're right—it's just zoning. It's only a shovel of coal for that freight.” He called, “We can still put on the brakes.” Strains of “I've Been Working on the Railroad” drifted into the kitchen.
Becky frowned. “Don't you want your tea?”
“There are some things I want to look up. Maybe make some calls. I'll drink it in here.”
* * *
In spite of the morning chill and overcast sky, Becky's spirits soared. She emerged from her car and entered the courthouse building with a flat foil covered package from which seeped the aroma of a freshly baked cinnamon sheet-cake, complete with peanuts baked into the top—Fowlkes’ recipe. They would celebrate. She didn't notice that only a few lights were lit until she saw Helen's vacant desk. Maybe Helen was sick.
Becky crossed to Fowlkes’ office and knocked on his door. No answer. Probably out on a call. Disappointed, Becky resolved to come back later and headed for the glass doors. Her heart did a double beat as she saw the Sheriff's cruiser pull to the curb. A woman sat in the front passenger seat. It was Helen. Her car probably wouldn't start. It was thoughtful of Fowlkes to give her a lift.
They didn't get out. His arm encircled Helen's shoulders as she leaned toward him. They kissed—long and hard. Becky gawked. He got out first, then helped Helen from the car. They approached the entrance holding hands and laughing while Helen gazed into his face.
Tears stung Becky's eyes. The tramp! Becky retreated into the shadows, but it was too late.
Fowlkes ushered Helen in, his arm around her waist. They chatted and meandered across the floor in the direction of his office. Becky crushed the cake to her bosom, speechless. The pair stopped at his door. Fowlkes turned, his nose searching. He blinked with surprise.
His arm slipped from Helen's waist. “Becky, what are… Can I help you?” Fowlkes said.
“I…I…” Becky croaked, the words caught in her throat. “I brought some coffeecake. I thought we . . .”
Helen clung to Fowlkes’ arm and pressed her lips into a thin smile. A hot pain seared Becky's stomach.
Fowlkes slipped from Helen's grasp and reached for the package that Becky extended to him. “Ahh,” he said, putting it to his nose. He lifted the aluminum foil wrapping the cake and sniffed. “Come in, come in, we'll share some,” he said, his eyes focused on Becky. “Helen, make us some coffee.”
Helen's eyes were like saucers. She stood staring at the pair, then threw her head erect and abruptly walked away. “Get it yourself!” She stomped down the hall toward the restroom but did not quite reach the door before a sob escaped her lips. Fowlkes gave a little shrug and smiled.
“Maybe I should see . . .” Becky began.
Fowlkes waved her off and walked out his office door. “She's like that sometimes—for no reason. I'll get the coffee.”
“The cake kinda got smashed,” Becky said. “You surprised me.”
Becky heard the banging of cabinet doors, then the running of water into the c
offee pot from the water cooler.
“You two were kind of late today,” Becky called.
“We went to Charleston to let Uncle Don—Governor Kirkpatrick—know the zoning passed. The deadline for the bypass was today, you know. That's why we're back so late this morning.”
“We? We? You and Helen went to Charleston? Overnight?”
“I wanted to tell him in person. If I had gone today, most of the day would have been wasted.”
Becky opened her mouth, but snapped it shut. The question was about Helen, you dumb ox, she had wanted to say. She sighed. Why am I so upset? I'm married. They can do what they want.
“I better go,” she said, but made no effort to move.
“Don't you want to see how the cake turned out?” He entered his office and began unwrapping the package. “Ahh.” He chuckled. “Peanuts baked into the top. You cut the cake. I'll get some paper plates and cups from Helen's desk drawer and bring the coffee.”
With plates and cups in one hand and the steaming coffeepot in the other, Fowlkes entered his office and then, with his foot, pushed the door shut. Immediately, the phone in the outer office began ringing. “Helen, answer the phone!” He grimaced at his mistake, then set aside his load and snatched his own phone from its cradle. He listened a few seconds then said, “Judge, I'm busy. Call back in half an hour,” and hung up.
“Okay, let's have at it.” Fowlkes smiled and bit into the still warm cake. The phone rang again. He would have cursed the phone and Helen had his mouth not been full. He let it ring until he could talk. “What is it?” he demanded. A spasm of irritation crossed his face. His eye twitched. He slammed down the phone.
“Sorry,” Fowlkes said, forcing a smile, “but Judge Newsome said it's urgent for me to come to his chambers. It probably won't take long. Can you wait a few minutes?”
* * *
Becky nursed the coffee in her cup until it was cold. She fingered the side of the coffee pot. It was barely warm. No steamy aroma floated from the cake. Becky, her lips turned down, slipped out of Fowlkes’ room. There was Helen, back at her desk.
“You okay?” Becky choked out. Helen nodded and turned to gloat. Becky scurried from the building.
26
Judge's Chamber
Until Fowlkes came to Madison, Judge Newsome's chamber always engendered the respect he believed due him. The room's splendor surpassed that of the courthouse itself. Its floor of veined brown polished marble, covered with Persian rugs, encompassed three hundred square feet. Judge Newsome's dark cherry desk sprawled across a dais in the center of the room and faced the oak entrance doors. U.S. and West Virginia flags on poles flanked his desk.
A wainscot wall of square oak panels reached twelve feet to an ornate cornice. Joining the cornice was an embossed tin ceiling of gilded antique white from which were suspended three crystal chandeliers. Two tall arched windows with dark-blue velvet drapes divided the wall behind the desk into thirds and bathed the room in light. High in the end walls were majestic circles of stained glass. Each depicted a balance scale containing the Ten Commandments.
Bookcases matching the desk and burdened by volumes of legal documents and books lined the two side walls and the outside wall. The wall facing the desk was hung with the portraits of previous judges of Madison County. A larger portrait of a young Judge Newsome, hair then greying at the sideburns but with the same blue eyes that read minds, hung in the middle of the other portraits.
Few people had ever been invited into the judge's chambers, especially during Judge Newsome's long tenure. A small quarter circle of round wooden chairs for visitors faced the dais, the arrangement obvious in its intent to put the chairs' occupants at a disadvantage. Hanover now squirmed in one of those chairs and watched Judge Newsome, his grey hair pulled back into a ponytail, shuffle papers.
Fowlkes burst through the door of the Judge's Chamber, his attention drawn to the man seated in the first of the six chairs. “Hanover, what are you doing here? Minding somebody else's business?”
“Please take a seat, Sheriff Fowlkes,” Judge Newsome said.
Fowlkes ignored the request. Instead, with his head and shoulders erect, he stepped onto the platform. It was his practice to storm into Newsome's chambers, often unbidden and with the intent to make demands or to threaten. With this intrusion and company present, Judge Newsome's owlish eyes widened and his cheeks reddened.
“What's he doing here?” Fowlkes pressed, giving a nod in Hanover's direction.
Hanover stood up. “Among other things, I'm filing for an injunction against your illegal casino.”
“Please, gentlemen, won't you both be seated,” Judge Newsome said. Fowlkes didn't budge. Hanover, taking the cue, followed suit.
“Sheriff Fowlkes,” Judge Newsome continued, “I called you because I knew you'd want to know of Mr. Hanover's request. Besides, I think we can settle this and avoid any court proceedings.” A slight smile accompanied his sideways glance at Fowlkes.
Fowlkes’ face, set like flint, turned to Hanover. “It's a resort, not a casino. While you're making your case in court, the resort will be built. Your injunction doesn't stand a chance. The people have spoken—through the town hall meeting and the Council.”
Judge Newsome was nodding. “You can file, but Sheriff Fowlkes is right. If you're serious, I advise you to hire an attorney.” Again he glanced at Fowlkes. “Mr. Hanover, you can expect to pay a fee of several hundreds of dollars, thousands maybe—but I'd save my money if I were you.” The judge sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his vest. “You said there were other things.”
Hanover, his eyes intense, leaned closer to Newsome and spoke with measured words. “Your Honor, its true—it'll be a casino, but that fact pales with what else I have to say.”
“I hope it's worth my time.” Judge Newsome made a display of looking at his watch. “Do you wish to speak with me privately?”
“No. Let Fowlkes hear. He knows more about this than anyone.” Hanover turned his head to glare at Fowlkes. “See his reactions for yourself.”
The judge lifted a brow. Fowlkes smiled contemptuously.
Hanover glued his eyes to those of the judge's and pulled his lips back to enunciate each word. “That man,” he pointed at Fowlkes, “is a murderer.”
Fowlkes glared at Hanover and pounded his fist on Newsome's desk. “What?” Fowlkes said. “You're out of your mind. I'll throw your-”
Wham! Judge Newsome hammered his bronze Clarence Darrow paperweight on his desk. He scowled at Fowlkes. “Sheriff Fowlkes! Don't you ever pound my desk. I'll do the pounding. Now, let Mr. Hanover speak.”
Although Fowlkes’ face and neck reddened, he resumed his militaristic posture. “Pardon me, Judge Newsome, but no one is going to call me a murderer. I don't care who or where they are.” He sneered at Hanover and thrust his jaw at the judge.
Judge Newsome recoiled and directed his gaze at Hanover. “Your accusation is serious and better be backed up with facts, Mr. Hanover. Now whose death are you talking about?”
“Not one. Two, at least: Uncle Andy's and Howie Crabapple's. Uncle Andy had refused to sell Fowlkes his property. So Fowlkes killed him to get it. Howie Crabapple was a witness.”
A shaft of light from the window behind the judge caught the flicker of Fowlkes’ eye beneath his blue sunglasses. His voice rose. “You can't just stand there and slander me. What's your proof, Hanover?”
Fowlkes didn't pause for an answer. “You're the murderer and are looking for a fall guy! You sucked up to your Uncle Andy, bringing him supplies, doing his chores. Everybody knows that. And you kept quiet about the old oil well up there. You thought he put you in his Will. You couldn't wait for him to die, could you?”
“You mean,” he thrust a forefinger at Fowlkes, “you couldn't wait for him to die!” Hanover said.
Fowlkes turned to Judge Newsome. “We found the car he used to kill Andy Mehrhaus. It belonged to some guy in Middlebourne. Hanover stole it, ran his uncle down in the ro
ad, and let the blame fall on some innocent. He tried to cover up by calling for help himself.”
Fowlkes sneered at Hanover. “Mighty disappointed your cousin Jake got all the property, weren't you? You tried your level best to stop Jake from selling the Jug to me. I didn't see it before, but now I understand why you're trying to stop me from building the resort.
“Judge Newsome, he thought he could discourage me, get that property back and reopen that well.
“And Crabapple's death. You want us to think it was an accident. You were there, weren't you, Hanover? If you were so worried about him, why didn't you fix his porch rail?” Fowlkes’ voice returned to normal.
“Mr. Hanover?” Judge Newsome asked.
“That tale is about Fowlkes himself, Your Honor. Yes, I am sorry I didn't fix 'Ol Crabapple's porch, but I've never had a personal interest in the Jug other than what it meant to Uncle Andy and his friends. Judge Newsome, I've got something I think will show that Fowlkes is Uncle Andy's murderer and explain why Howie Crabapple died.”
“You're bluffing,” Fowlkes said. “You thought you could see Judge Newsome first and set me up, and now it's backfired.”
“Sheriff Fowlkes’ explanation is very reasonable,” Judge Newsome said. “He raised a lot of questions you need to answer. If you have evidence, where is it? Why didn't you submit it before? You know it's a crime to withhold evidence, don't you, Mr. Hanover?”
“I had come to see if it would be feasible for me to present my concrete proof, but now I know it would be used against me. We all know who's withholding evidence and distorting the truth. Ask Fowlkes for his evidence.”
“We heard his report, Mr. Hanover.”
“Only words. I shouldn't have come here,” Hanover said. “You two decided long ago the casino would be built. Judge Newsome, be careful when you agree with Fowlkes. Nothing—nobody stands in his way.”
Newsome frowned at Hanover. “Nothing stops justice here.”
Hanover turned toward the door and bumped into the chair behind him, tipping it to the floor. He ignored the fallen chair and strode to the door where he turned and pointed at the pair. “There'll be a trial, and you'll get my proof, but it won't be in this kangaroo court.” He slammed the door behind him.