by Betsy Ashton
“He doesn’t want to. We’ll make sure everyone’s safe.” I turned to go. “Hey, weren’t you supposed to be studying algebra?”
“Stupid old Mr. Ducks ratted me out, huh?” Alex thrust his chin out.
“You watch your mouth, young man. Mr. Ducks is neither stupid nor old. As your teacher, he deserves your respect. Got it?”
Alex stared at the computer screen. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
“I liked you better when you were a plain grandmother.”
“Huh?” I hadn’t been a plain anything since my first husband died. Alex lost me in synapses firing along paths I couldn’t follow.
“You used to be fun all the time.”
“Since I’m kinda a parent, I’m no longer a Disney World grandmother?” Being a parent again sucked.
“Yup.”
“Too late.” I ruffled Alex’s hair, earning a shrug of annoyance. He hated having his hair messed up, but I always got his attention when I did it.
“I don’t want you to think we are living in the Wild West. We talked with the highway patrol. They’re monitoring the situation the best they can.”
“But if they don’t have enough men, what happens if someone else gets hurt?” Alex turned worry-darkened eyes upward. I met his with a conviction I wasn’t certain I believed. Unspoken was “what if Charlie gets hurt?”
“We’ll be careful.”
“Uncle Johnny’s carrying his gun. Why can’t Dad carry his?”
“Ask him.”
I left the boys’ dorm and headed back to mine. We needed something goofy to lighten the mood. I ducked into my bedroom, pulled out a Tina Turner T-shirt and a silver wig made from old-fashioned crinkly tinsel. Emilie almost dropped the pitcher of iced tea and glass of wine she was holding.
“When did you start drinking wine, dear child?” I reached for my glass.
“About the time you started wearing goofy wigs. Why should the grownups have all the fun?” Emilie carried the iced tea outside. I followed.
Alex sneaked up behind me. I jumped half out of my skin when he tapped my shoulder. Payback.
“These creeps keep hanging around. I wish they’d go away so I can ride my bike to the park.” Alex blew a large bubble and managed to suck it back into his mouth without popping it on his nose.
“I don’t want any of us to run around scared, but we should all be extra watchful.”
“I bet you could take them all down, Dad.” Alex looked at his father with worshipful eyes. If his father was armed, he could shoot the bad guys if they got close.
“I don’t know about that, Alex. I’m sure as hell not going to run around waving a gun. Doesn’t help.” Whip, the man with a large collection of handguns back in Richmond, was reluctant to go around armed in Mississippi.
“Uncle Johnny carries a gun. Why don’t you?”
“Would you feel better if I did?” Whip sat on the bench beside his son.
Alex nodded.
“I’ll apply for a permit. Okay with you?”
Alex turned to me. “What about you, Mad Max? You’re one hell—oops, heck—of a shot.”
I hadn’t considered applying for a concealed carry permit. “I’ll have to think about it. I’m not sure I want to pack heat.” Other than in my handbag, that is.
“Don’t look at me.” Ducks raised his hands in mock surrender. “I know nothing about handguns, but I could protect you from a rabid skeet.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Mississippi, week of November 17
We were halfway through dinner when Johnny and Charlie returned. Charlie sniffed. “Yum, Cajun.”
“Any of that left?” Rubbing his hands together, Johnny headed first to the drink cooler and snagged a couple of beers. He tossed one to Charlie.
“Plenty of chicken on the grill.”
“Salad’s on the table.” I pointed to the bowl. “Potatoes are keeping warm in the oven in the boys’ dorm.”
Whip leaned on his elbows. “So, what did you learn?”
“Do we know if these guys have guns?” Alex butted in, all excited by the prospect of a real-life shootout at the OK Corral. “So far, all they’ve used is baseball bats.”
“Alex! That’s enough!” My parent-teacher voice came through loud and clear. “Let them eat first.”
“But…”
I raised one finger then folded my hand like a clamshell. Alex shut up. He glared at me and reached for another chicken leg. If he couldn’t talk, he could eat.
Johnny put away a beer and a couple of pieces of chicken before he took a deep breath. Charlie wiped her fingers on a napkin and reached for an open wine bottle.
“Okay, this is bigger than we realized. We went to four different camps and talked with several men, as well as with the crew supervisors. Each has men who’ve been harassed,” Johnny said. “Several have been beaten.”
Charlie threw her napkin on her plate, her face as red as her Irish hair. “Several groups of black men have been hanging around the work sites and camps. They carry baseball bats, laugh at the men, and talk trash. One even tossed a noose at a bunch of laborers as they finished work.”
I topped off my glass before passing the bottle of wine to Johnny. “Pastor Washington’s sure the sheriff won’t do anything as long as it’s Hispanics being targeted. Driving all of us away suits his grand scheme, whatever the heck that is.”
“The highway patrol will respond to our calls.” Whip shoved his empty plate aside. “They won’t tolerate people getting hurt because of their race.”
“I don’t know, Whip. Racism’s deeply ingrained here,” Johnny said.
People being targeted because of their heritage reminded me of Rose and her bigotry. I couldn’t fix stupid, but I didn’t have to turn a blind eye to people breaking the law. Emilie’s eyes were on my face. I looked up. She nodded. I was right. She nodded again.
Charlie frowned. “I don’t give a shit. I’m going to carry my gun. Let Sheriff Hardy arrest me. Don’t think I won’t use it if someone’s in danger.”
Alex grinned. With both Charlie and his dad armed, the bad guys wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Have you finished your homework?” I looked for any excuse to get the kids away from the table. I didn’t want them overly stimulated.
“We aren’t leaving.” Emilie velcroed her butt to the chair. “You’ll have to chase us away with a cattle prod.”
“Note to self. Buy cattle prod,” I pretended to add to a shopping list.
“So, how many missing men?”
Johnny counted on his fingers. “At least eleven.”
“That we know about. Again, if we went farther along the highway, we’d find others.” Charlie piled her dishes on a tray. “Even the blonds and redheads could be mistaken for Hispanic under hard hats.”
“And bike helmets,” Ducks added.
“We should assume the missing men are dead, shouldn’t we?” Emilie escaped into her secret place.
“Are these hate crimes?” Alex must have been doing a lot of research lately. What did an almost twelve-year-old know about hate crimes?
“Most likely.” Whip looked at his son. “They use racial slurs and target a specific demographic.”
“Men in my family get stopped all the time just because,” Charlie said. “They’re not doing anything wrong, but cops pull them over in Texas and Arizona mostly. Check their IDs, bust their chops. and accuse them of having false driver’s licenses. Anything they want.”
“That is so, like, not fair.”
Ah, to have a crush on an older woman. I met Charlie’s amused look and smiled.
“Don’t worry, Alex. They don’t stop me. My red hair’s too much of a warning to mess with this angry chick.”
“I’d pay good money to see your next run-in with the law.” Johnny swung his legs around and leaned against the table.
“So not going to be one. Sometimes, though, they can be downright funny.” A few years earlier Charlie’d pulled
a muscle in her lower back. The doctor told her to use ice packs several times a day. She’d stopped at a convenience store outside Waco for gas and food. Before she got back in her truck, she tucked an ice pack in the back of her pants. About ten miles down the highway a cop pulled her over and demanded to see her concealed carry permit.
“The idiot thought I’d stuck a gun in my waistband. You can’t imagine how furious he was when I didn’t have a Glock.”
“I love it.” Johnny howled. “A concealed carry permit for an ice pack.”
“His partner will never let him live it down.” Charlie stretched, her back creaking in protest.
“How do we stop this?” I wanted the gang broken up, the ringleaders jailed and the rest sent away where they’d be out of our lives. I didn’t care what happened to them. I wanted them gone.
“The crew leaders will file complaints with the highway patrol.” Johnny twirled his wineglass, the Zinfandel forming delicate spider legs on the sides of his glass.
“Olivia, the woman who was gang-raped, will file charges.” I’d stayed in contact with Olivia’s friend Caren. “She wants justice.”
“J’accuse.” Ducks pointed a finger at a phantom only he could see.
“Huh?” Alex said.
“I’ll teach you later. After you finish your algebra homework.”
“Ah, gee.”
“To Alex’s point, if these are hate crimes, we need proof for the highway patrol.”
“Hate crimes are federal, aren’t they?” Alex muttered.
How the heck did he know that?
“Indeed, they are, Alex,” Ducks replied.
Shortly thereafter, an extended silence broke the party up. Emilie and Alex divided the dishes and carried trays into the two dorms to fill the dishwashers. Johnny, Ducks, Charlie, and I retired to the bus to continue our discussion, while Whip roamed over to the cook tent to talk with the men. Ducks produced a bottle of sherry for a nightcap.
We talked late into the night, thinking of ways to compile a portfolio of evidence. When I grew tired, I washed my sherry glass. I needed sleep and quiet time, and not in that order. Johnny walked me to the girls’ dorm. He held me for a few seconds before kissing me good night.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Mississippi, week of November 21
More frequent attacks on the workers, the beating of young Antwan Briggs, Olivia’s rape and the murdered black man renewed our urgency in getting the state highway patrol involved. At dinner the following evening, we discussed how to approach the upcoming appointment with the highway patrol. Whip and Johnny wanted a show of force, so Charlie and I worked the phones. We harped on how important it was for everyone with eyewitness facts to join us in Gulfport.
I badgered Olivia. It was harder for her, because she’d have to tell a room full of men about the attack and gang rape. Charlie and I promised to pick her up, drive her to the meeting and bring her home. She wouldn’t be the only woman present. Ducks would stay behind with Emilie and Alex, even though he’d been challenged early on by the gang.
####
At Olivia’s camp, I used every ounce of persuasion up to and beyond coercion to get her into the Rover. She climbed in the back; her friend, Caren, whom I’d met at the hospital, came along for moral support.
“What’s all this?” The desk sergeant glared over a pair of half glasses at the growing assemblage of men and women in clean work clothes standing in front of his desk.
Whip stepped forward and pulled out a battered business card. “We’d like to see Lieutenant Ellsworth, please.”
“You got an appointment?” The desk sergeant acted like he had a bad case of indigestion and wasn’t in the mood to be hassled. He half-turned away as if to infer we should leave.
“We have an appointment with Officer Kittridge, but I think it would be better if we met with the lieutenant.” Johnny moved up beside Whip.
“I just bet you would. I’ll call Kittridge.” The dyspeptic sergeant picked up a phone and punched in four numbers.
I stood near the back of the group. After an interminable wait, Officer Kittridge opened a door to the left of the desk and stared at us.
“They say they have an appointment with you but want to see the lieutenant. I told them no way.”
Officer Kittridge counted the crowd. The door opened and three more men entered. “You’d better call him. We’ll use the main conference room.”
“He’s busy. Said he didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Disturb him.”
Officer Kittridge led us to a room with a central table and about a dozen chairs. We filed in and settled into chairs or leaned against the wall. I tried to get Olivia to sit, but she preferred to stand next to me. I held one hand and Caren held the other. Olivia trembled. I was afraid she might bolt, but when I shot a glance at her face, her stony expression was adamant. She’d see this through, no matter what.
After a couple of minutes, two men entered the conference room. A tall man with a military haircut led the way, followed by a younger, shorter man in a dark business suit. The tall man looked around, meeting each person’s gaze. He paused at Olivia and later at a man I didn’t know who stood across the room from me. A flicker of recognition passed between the two. Marines. The stark high-and-tight haircuts were an instant giveaway.
“I’m Lieutenant Evan Ellsworth. This gentleman is Special Agent Kevin Pace from the FBI.” The lieutenant turned toward Whip, who stood in the center of the group a little in front of the rest.
Special agent, huh? Guess we wouldn’t have to ask the FBI to get involved. Special Agent Pace could tell us if this was a hate crime. If it was, jurisdiction would pass to the Feds.
“Do you have a spokesman, or should I go around the room?”
“I’ll start,” Whip began, “since two of my men have been murdered. One is unaccounted for.”
“One of my men is dead, three missing.”
“Two and two of mine.”
“Two and four of mine.”
Voices raised around the room. The final count was fourteen dead, nine missing.
“And one gang rape.” Olivia’s voice cut through the silence like a hot blade through whipped cream.
Whip introduced himself, Johnny, and the general contractor before describing the missing men and the gang responsible for the attacks. He mentioned Antwan’s beating and the dead black man. When he finished, Lieutenant Ellsworth looked at Special Agent Pace then back at the group.
“You called Sheriff Hardy first?” The lieutenant asked.
“Fat lot of good that did,” said the marine who was standing ramrod straight next to Johnny. “He’s glad greasers are getting the hell out of Dodge one way or another.”
“Did Sheriff Hardy do anything?” Lieutenant Ellsworth asked.
“Said the men’s deaths were accidental, even though their heads had been bashed in. They’d been beaten, too, before being dumped out in the bayou.” Johnny supplied details of finding some of the bodies. “I haven’t spoken to him since we discovered the second pile of bodies. He left one guy to bleed out after a savage beating out by the ATM.”
Other supervisors added more information. The sheriff told all of them to take their dead greasers away before he threw them out for the crows. Two guys in the truck with the rotten muffler threatened several workers.
“The truck belongs to the widow of our first dead worker,” Johnny said. “No plates on it, but I guarantee the vehicle identification number will leave no doubt about ownership.”
“If these guys are killing your men, they could be dumping bodies anywhere. Hell, we have swamps, bayous, gators, piles of rubble—about every way you can think of to dump a body.” Lieutenant Ellsworth said. “All of the missing haven’t been found, have they? Why do you presume they’ve been killed?”
“Plenty of work and good pay. No reason for them to leave without telling us.” The marine spoke with a voice full of authority.
“Can you identify them?” S
pecial Agent Pace spoke for the first time. His voice was deeper than I expected because he looked like a round-faced Charlie Brown. “The men in the gang, I mean.”
Whip turned to me. “She can.”
“Who are you?”
“Maxine Davies, Whip’s mother-in-law. They’ve been hanging around our camp, following us when we go out, and tried to run our teacher off the road.”
“Your teacher?”
“My children are with us,” Whip said. “Our homeschool teacher was out riding his bike. They asked if he’s Mexican and told him to go home. Funny thing is, they left him alone when they found out he was a Brit.”
“How did you identify them?” Lieutenant Ellsworth shot a glance to Special Agent Pace.
“Two local ministers, Roland Washington and Hodge Taylor, recognized the leader, a bald black man, with lots of tattoos, as LeRoy Biggs. The older man is J’Marquis Baptiste. Two white boys, Jake Montgomery and Danny Ray, are followers.”
“I knew Baptiste was back.” Lieutenant Ellsworth shook his head. “He’s plain bad news.”
“In what way?” Special Agent Pace asked.
“Involved in just about every type of petty crime as a juvie. No sense of right and wrong. Takes whatever he wants from whoever has it. Usually calls the shots, but lets a dupe like Biggs think he’s the leader.” Lieutenant Ellsworth walked back and forth at the front of the room for a few moments. “A real piece of work is our J’Marquis Baptiste.”
“LeRoy beat the crap out of his younger brother Antwan when he refused to take part in an attack and killing.” I told the law enforcement officers about driving Biggs to the hospital, where he identified his attackers as his brother and J’Marquis.
“Where’s the kid?” asked Lieutenant Ellsworth.
“He’s staying with Pastor Taylor until we can find a safe place.” I edged forward. “We’re certain his brother’ll come looking for him. No way can he go home.”
“Right now, it’s your word—or rather, multiple words—against theirs.”