by Greg Iles
Caitlin holds up the video camera. “Making home movies, sweet cheeks. I don’t think you’re going to like them.”
“That’s it,” says Franklin. “Get out of here, both of you. Go back inside, Ms. Sutter.”
“Your father was trying to destroy evidence, Livy. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Evidence? You mean those old tax records? Daddy told me the day I got back that he needed to clean out his old files. I helped him because of his bad back.”
Is she really trying to convince me that her motives are pure? Or is she using my presence as an opportunity to try to mitigate her culpability in the presence of Judge Franklin?
“I said this meeting is over,” snaps Franklin.
I take Caitlin’s arm above the elbow and lead her away from the house. Soon we’re in darkness, surrounded by the smells of wet grass and decaying leaves. The pulse in her brachial artery is pounding like a tom-tom.
“What do you think?” she asks.
Instead of answering, I turn back and gaze through the dripping trees at Tuscany. What was once a temple of memory is now alien to me. The gallery that once hosted so many lawn parties now creaks under the tramp of police boots, and the sweet air of the grounds carries the tang of gunpowder. After five generations of seclusion, the world outside the gates has crashed through to Tuscany with a vengeance.
My gaze drifts upward, to the third floor, where a solitary light glows in a high window. Framed in that window is an amorphous shape that confuses me at first, but at last resolves into something human. It’s the harridan head of Maude Marston, once a celebrated beauty, now a wreck, ravaged by emotional pain and by the alcohol she uses to blunt it. As Caitlin takes my arm and pulls me along the drive, I remember Dwight Stone’s penchant for quotes, and I think, What havoc hath he wrought in this great house?
CHAPTER 30
The two days after Judge Marston’s attempt to destroy the files pass in a blur of work that reminds me what it is to be a working lawyer. At nine o’clock Friday morning, Judge Franklin and I agree to an unconventional compromise worthy of Solomon. Without giving reasons, she makes it clear that she prefers not to charge Leo with obstruction of justice or contempt of court. Before I can argue this point, she tells me she considered recusing herself from the case but rejected the idea because Marston played as big a part in getting the black circuit judge elected as he did Judge Franklin. We both know I can go to the judicial oversight committee to plead for relief, but I sense that Eunice Franklin intends to offer me something.
What she offers is the boxes Marston tried to destroy, one of which contains three legal files, as Livy indicated. Marston’s blatant attempt to destroy them has convinced Judge Franklin that he was attempting to hide evidence of criminal activity. She feels that a case can be made to the court of appeal that Marston’s act justifies giving me access to these records. Moreover, Leo himself has agreed to this arrangement rather than be charged with obstruction or contempt. This tells me that the files, while probably damaging to Marston’s reputation, will not contain proof of complicity in Del Payton’s murder.
This agreement accomplished, the judge and I spend a few minutes getting to know each other. Eunice Franklin is fifty-six years old, and graduated from the Ole Miss Law School a year before Del Payton was killed. I can only imagine what she must have endured during her three years at that temple of Southern male traditionalism. She is a bit defensive about her court, and my “big-time” experience in Houston seems to be the cause of this. She warns me that she will run her courtroom with at least as much discipline as I am accustomed to in “the big city,” and perhaps more. She will tolerate no antics or theatrics, either from myself or from Marston’s attorney.
Leo will be represented by Blake Sims, the son of Creswell Sims, his partner of forty years. Judge Franklin has already instructed Sims that, considering the early trial date his client requested and got, they should have all discovery materials in my hands by the close of the business day.
She expresses strong misgivings about my intention to represent myself at trial, but says she cannot stop me from sabotaging my case if that is my intent. She defends the trial date along the lines I predicted to Caitlin, and adds that the recent racial tensions and violence played a part in her decision. With the mayoral election only four weeks away, she wants my inflammatory statements about the Payton murder resolved and hopefully forgotten by the time the voters walk into the polling booths on November 3.
Leaving her chambers, I feel a little better about the situation than I did walking in. Judge Franklin owes Marston some favors, but Leo’s attempt to destroy evidence has made her angry. Under the blaze of scrutiny this trial will draw, Eunice may stiffen her backbone and run a relatively impartial court.
The media frenzy is already underway. Tying men like John Portman and Leo Marston to a dead black man is like waving a red cape in front of a herd of bulls. Twenty-four hours after my accusations hit the paper, Mississippi resumed its role as whipping boy for the nation on race. Celebrated authors and academics weighed in with windy and self-righteous op-ed pieces in every major paper from New York to Los Angeles. At the close of last night’s newscast, a somber-faced Dan Rather recalled his days covering civil rights in Mississippi. Black media stars roundly condemned the state, speaking as though the lynchings of the distant past were still daily occurrences.
Contrary opinions were few, and the battle was becoming embarrassingly one-sided until this morning, when into the fray charged my old friend Sam Jacobs, the self-styled Mississippi Jew, who in a half-humorous letter to the New York Times pointed out that while Mississippi might seem behind the times to outsiders, it actually had its collective finger on the pulse of America. The Magnolia State, Sam opined, had given the world William Faulkner, Elvis Presley, and Tennessee Williams. And while that holy trinity of American culture ought to be enough for anybody, for skeptics there were also Robert Johnson, Richard Wright, Jimmy Rodgers, and Muddy Waters; Leontyne Price, Charley Pride, Tammy Wynette, and John Grisham; Howlin’ Wolf, B.B. King, four Miss Americas, and Oprah Winfrey. And while boneheaded nuisances like the Ku Klux Klan had committed atrocities to shame the South Africans, and slavery had come near to breaking an entire people, you couldn’t by God refine gold without a fire. The state of Israel was created from the ashes of the Holocaust, and Mississippi was on its way to redemption. Why, the legacy of blues music alone, declared Sam, which was jazz and rock ’n’ roll, had done more to end the Cold War than all the thin-blooded diplomats ever minted at Harvard and Yale.
How the Times selected Sam’s letter I’ll never know, but it prompted my editor to telephone and read it aloud to me over breakfast, claiming that the list of artists only bolstered his theory that great suffering produces great art, and since I’d had my share of the former, I should now move north to more civilized environs. I declared myself a loyal Southerner to the last and headed out for Judge Franklin’s office. I forgot the article during our conference, but after I loaded Marston’s charred file boxes into my trunk, I heard a Jackson disc jockey reading Sam’s letter on the air as I drove to the Natchez Examiner building. Sam Jacobs will be a household name throughout the South by nightfall.
Caitlin has offered me her glass-walled conference room as a work space, plus staff volunteers to help me wade through the files. After I lug Marston’s boxes into the conference room, she gathers her reporters, photographers, and interns for a brief orientation. The Examiner is used as a training ground for the Masters media group; thus the staff hails from all points of the compass. Not one among them is over thirty, and all are rabid liberals. I view this as a positive, for when the Marston camp discovers I’m using these kids against them, they’ll almost certainly try to bribe a few for inside information. Youth and left-wing politics may give my team an immunity to filthy lucre that I couldn’t hope to find elsewhere.
Caitlin’s speech is modeled on those given by army officers requesting volunteers for particularly di
rty missions. She succinctly summarizes my reasons for provoking the slander suit, then in broad strokes describes what we’ll be looking for in the mountain of paper that will arrive later in the day.
“This is an unusual situation,” she concludes. “Some of you may think I’m stepping over an ethical line by involving the paper in a legal proceeding that we’ll be reporting on. That’s true enough. But I stepped over a harder line when I printed Mr. Cage’s charges. We’ll be reporting this story the way papers reported stories in the good old bad old days. We’re throwing the full weight of our media group behind a cause.”
A buzz of approval runs through her audience.
“We are seeking the truth about a terrible crime, and I’ll publish the truth as I find it, whether it conforms to my preconceptions or not. I think that lives up to the truest spirit of objectivity.”
A burst of applause follows this. Two of the male reporters, whose goatees make them look like anarchists in a Sergei Eisenstein film, pump their fists in the air.
Caitlin brushes an errant strand of hair from her eyes and goes on. “Anyone who feels uncomfortable about this, see me in my office. You’ll be excused with no questions asked and no negative consequences.”
A blond guy in the back says, “And go back to covering board of supervisors meetings?”
“At least there’s comedy at the supervisor meetings,” squawks a dark-haired girl with a Brooklyn accent. “Try covering the flower shows.”
Caitlin holds up her hands. “Before we disperse, I want Mr. Cage to say a few words.”
Facing the ring of expectant young faces, I feel as I did addressing new assistant district attorneys in Houston, smart kids who concealed their idealism behind shells of aggressive cynicism. “First of all, everyone here calls me Penn. No exceptions. Second, when I made those charges against Leo Marston, I had no intention of setting foot in a courtroom. But Marston is a powerful man, and there is going to be a trial. That trial is five days from now. I have five days to prove Leo Marston guilty of murder.”
Skeptical sighs blow through the conference room.
“The good news is, he’s guilty. The bad news is, the people who know that won’t testify. Your job is to wade through documentary evidence. You’re looking for several things. First, illegal activity. You’re not lawyers, but if it looks or smells dirty to you, it probably is. Second, any correspondence mentioning Ray Presley or the Triton Battery Company. Third, any reference to or correspondence with the federal government, particularly with FBI Director John Portman or former director J. Edgar Hoover.”
“Whoa,” says one of the anarchists. “This is like X-Files, man.”
A ripple of laughter sweeps through the group.
“This case may be more like the X-Files than any of us wants to believe,” I tell him. “Just remember that none of you are Fox Mulder or Agent Scully, okay? People are dying in this town, and they’re dying because of this case. I don’t want anybody in this room trying to win a Pulitzer by going after Ray Presley. He’s killed before, and he probably set the fire that killed Ruby Flowers. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill any of you if he felt you were a threat to him. Is that clear?”
Grim nods around the room.
“Are there any questions?”
One of the goateed reporters raises his hand. “This murder happened thirty years ago. It’s gone unsolved all that time. Do we have a hope in hell of solving it in a week?”
“You’re assuming that someone has been trying to solve it. This is a small town. In small towns there are sometimes truths that everyone knows but no one mentions. Open secrets, if you will. No one really wants to probe the details, because it forces us to face too many uncomfortable realities. We’d rather turn away than acknowledge the primitive forces working beneath the surface of society.”
“Amen,” someone murmurs.
“In the case of Del Payton, no one knew exactly who planted the bomb that killed him, but everyone believed they understood what had happened. An uppity nigger got out of line, so somebody stepped in and reminded the rest of them where the line was. Unpleasant but inevitable.” My easy use of the “N-word” obviously shocks some members of the audience. “I believe this crime was misunderstood from the beginning. Del Payton’s death may have had nothing to do with civil rights. Or only peripherally to do with it. His death may be old-fashioned murder masquerading as a race crime. And understanding that could be the key to solving this case.”
Caitlin steps up beside me. “Any other questions? We’ve got work to do.”
No more hands go up.
She sends everyone back to work with a two-handed “scoot” gesture. After they’ve gone, she sits at the head of the conference table, a skeptical look on her face.
“Penn, do we have any hope of tying Marston to Ray Presley or the crime scene in time for the trial?”
“That depends on what we find in the discovery material.”
“Do you really believe Marston would send you anything incriminating?”
“I’ve found some pretty big surprises during discovery in my career. People make blunders.” I motion toward the boxes the police saved from the fireplace at Tuscany last night. “And then there’s that stuff. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Caitlin nods, but she doesn’t look hopeful. “Do you realize that almost every witness who knows anything you need to tell the jury would have to embarrass themselves terribly by testifying? Frank Jones . . . Betty Lou Jackson. Not only that, they’ll be putting themselves in the killers’ sights. Your ATF pal will testify, and maybe Lester Hinson, if you pay him enough. But the rest? No way.”
“That’s what subpoenas are for.”
“You’re not that naive. Portman, Marston, and Presley know about all these people, or soon will. And they’ll try everything from bribes to murder to keep them quiet.”
“That’s why we have to crack Marston’s nerve between now and next Wednesday.”
“And if you can’t?”
“Then we pray our long shots come through.”
“And those are?”
“Peter Lutjens, for one. He’s going for the Payton file in two days.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. What exactly is he going to try to do? The file is forty-four volumes long. He can’t walk out with it under his coat. He can’t even photocopy it unless he has all night.”
“He won’t have to. Remember what Stone told us in Colorado? The file is forty-three volumes of nothing and his final report. That’s all we need. Stone’s final report.”
“Lutjens knows that?”
“I talked to him this morning.”
“What’s the other long shot?”
“Stone himself.”
She shakes her head. “Never happen. He’s too scared. They’ve got something on that guy. Stone’s not going to talk.”
“I disagree. Whatever dirt Portman has on Stone is a two-edged sword. And Stone’s conscience is working on him. It’s been working on him for thirty years. Guilt is a powerful thing, Caitlin. Stone needs to unburden himself, and I think he’ll come through for us. Or for himself, rather.”
“What about Ike Ransom? What’s his story?”
“I think Ike’s got a personal grudge against Marston that has nothing to do with Payton. He knew I’d go after Marston if I had any kind of weapon, so he gave me the Payton case.”
“But has he given you any real information? Any idea of Marston’s motive for the crime?”
“Not really.”
She drums her fingers on the table. “Motive, means, and opportunity, right? The means and opportunity are Ray Presley, but we’re stuck on motive. Marston actually made public statements supporting civil rights in the sixties. I found them in the morgue here.”
“I think it’s money. Somehow Payton’s death increased Marston’s fortune or power.”
“I can’t see that. Financially, Payton was a nonentity.”
“Maybe he was an obstacle to something. Some deal.”<
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“What about sex?” suggests Caitlin. “Sexual jealousy. That’s a common motive for murder.”
The photo shrine in Althea Payton’s house flits through my mind, followed by images of Del Payton huddled over his dinner table with Medgar Evers, talking about changing the white man’s heart. “That’s not it. Payton was a family man all the way.”
“That’s what they all say until they’re caught with their wee-wees in the wrong cookie jar.”
“It’s not sex, Caitlin. It’s money or power. That’s what Marston lives for.”
She sighs and gets up, then drops her left hand on the charred box of files. “I hope there’s something in here.”
“You’ve got to remember one thing. I’m treating this like a murder case, but it’s not. It’s a civil case.”
“So?”
“So the standard of proof is lower. I don’t have to prove Marston’s guilt to twelve people beyond a reasonable doubt. I have to convince nine jurors that it was more likely than not that Marston was involved in the Payton murder. That means a fifty-one percent certainty. And the jury won’t have to agonize over their decision the way a criminal jury would. Because their verdict won’t send Marston to jail or to a gurney for lethal injection. Another jury will get that job.”
Caitlin moves toward the door. “I think you’re going to have a hell of a job convincing those nine people unless you figure out why Marston would want Payton dead. And prove it.”
When she opens the door, the goateed anarchists pop through it with their sleeves rolled up and smirks on their faces.
“Mulder and Scully reporting for duty,” says one.
Caitlin shakes her head and walks out, leaving me to deal with my new assistants.
In the forty hours between the end of my lecture on Friday and dawn on Sunday, we built a circumstantial case against Leo Marston. The only sleep I got was brief naps on the couch in Caitlin’s office, taken while reporters, photographers, and interns worked in shifts over the boxes of Marston papers that arrived in desultory waves from storage rooms unknown. Only my anarchists—who did have actual names, Peter and Ed, prosaically enough—kept pace with me during this marathon. They seemed to see it as a holy mission, one in which iconoclasts could cheerfully take part.