Grass Roots Page 11

  Will shook Taylor’s hand and left. As he walked toward the elevators, he could still hear the music hammering away through the walls. “Heald, Heald, he’s our man! If Heald can’t do it, nobody can!” He shuddered.

  Driving back toward the Capitol, though, Will felt somehow better prepared, more in the race. Now he had some professionals on his side. Now, too, he was seventy-five thousand dollars in debt.

  16

  Detective Sergeant Charles Pittman sat at his desk at downtown Atlanta police headquarters on Decatur Street. His partner, Mickey Keane, sat facing him across the desk.

  “This is everything we’ve got?” Pittman asked.

  “This is it, Chuck,” Keane replied, ticking information off a list. “We got some slugs and shell casings—Mac Tens and a Beretta handgun; we got some red mud from the shoes of these guys …”

  “Red mud. Swell. The whole state of Georgia is made out of red mud.”

  “Yeah,” Keane said. “We got a tire track that’s used on a dozen General Motors vans and pickups, and some Chryslers, too. That’s it.”

  “We got Manny Pearl,” Pittman said. “He’s worth a lot. He’ll make ol’ Sarge, if he gets a chance.” “Sarge” was their name for the leader of the assassins. “And we got this,” he said, opening a drawer and tossing a thick stack of computer printouts onto the desk. “An answer to my Pentagon inquiry. Just information, no pictures. There’s five hundred and eighteen of them, and the guy I talked to balked at printing five hundred and eighteen photographs. The reason there’s so many is, we’ve got half a dozen major army bases in the state, thank old Senator Ben Carr for that, and a lot of guys who serve in the state like it and retire here. Thank God we’re not Florida; we’d have ten thousand to go through.”

  “What were your parameters for the search?” Keane asked.

  “Army, retired less than ten years, buck sergeant or better, Georgia resident.”

  Keane picked up the stack of sheets, tore off half, and tossed the remainder to Pittman. “How you want to do this?”

  “Pearl says he’s tall and skinny. Pity they don’t keep track of ear size in the army. Let’s look for what—six feet and under a hundred and sixty?”

  “Pearl’s short. Five-ten might look tall to him.”

  “Okay, five-ten.”

  “What if our man weighed two-twenty when he retired, then lost fifty pounds?”

  Pittman laughed. “Nobody loses weight in middle age. I’ll bet our man has been skinny all his life.”

  Both men began going through the sheets, painstakingly reading height and weight on the forms and setting aside the shorter, heavier men. At lunchtime, they ordered a pizza and continued working while they ate. By the end of their shift, they had finished.

  Pittman counted the forms. “Eighty-one more-or-less tall, skinny retired sergeants,” he said. “Why don’t we separate out the Atlanta addresses? I doubt if these guys drove up from south Georgia just to blow away a dirty bookstore.”

  They went through the papers again. “An even dozen,” Pittman counted. “Now we can ask the Pentagon for pictures.” He typed out a telex, left it with the operator, and called it a day.

  *

  It was just after lunch the following day when the photographs came back. Pittman and Keane shuffled through them.

  “Funny how most tall, skinny guys seem to have big ears, ain’t it?” Keane said.

  “Let’s go see Manny Pearl,” Pittman said.

  *

  Manny was sitting up in bed when Pittman and Keane entered the room.

  “How you feeling, Mr. Pearl?” Pittman asked.

  “The kid neurologist says my left side is impaired,” Manny says. “They’re talking therapy now.”

  “You’ll be jogging again in no time,” Pittman said.

  “Hah!” Pearl snorted. “I should get over getting shot in the head so I can wear myself down to nothing, running around?”

  Pittman pulled a chair up to the bed and took the photographs from an envelope. “Mr. Pearl, we’ve got some pictures to show you. Your army idea sounded good to us, so we’ve got twelve pictures here that the Pentagon sent us. Every one of these guys is tall, skinny, retired from the army as a sergeant, and lives in the Atlanta area. I want you to look at each one carefully and tell me if any one of them is the man who shot you. Take your time.”

  Manny took his time. With his half-glasses perched on his prominent nose, he gazed solemnly at each photograph, running his eyes over the face and ears. When he had finished, he handed the photographs back to Pittman. “Nope,” he said emphatically, “he’s not among them.”

  “Why don’t you look at them again, Mr. Pearl,” Keane said. “Let’s be absolutely certain about this.”

  “All right,” Manny said. He repeated his performance, taking even more time. “Sorry, you haven’t found him yet, gentlemen.” He handed back the photographs.

  Pittman stood wearily. “Okay, Mr. Pearl. Thanks for your time. We’ll keep looking.”

  “Sergeant,” Manny said, “when you find him, I’ll know. Believe me.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Pearl,” Pittman said.

  “What next?” Keane said, when they were in the hallway.

  “We’ll talk the Pentagon out of shots of the other sixty-nine in the tall/skinny group. If that doesn’t work, we’ll start on the Marines.” Pittman sighed. “What the hell, it’s all we’ve got to go on.”

  17

  Will stood before Judge Boggs. His arguments for bail were pretty much as they had been in Larry Moody’s preliminary hearing: no previous record, roots in the community, gainfully employed, necessary to the conduct of his employer’s business. John Morgan sat in the front of the courtroom, ready to make bail. Charlene Joiner sat next to him.

  Elton Hunter then had his say. “Your Honor, the defendant has been indicted for a capital crime, that of first-degree murder. The circumstances justifying bail on such a charge would have to be extraordinary, and they are not extraordinary. To release the defendant on bail at this time would constitute a danger to every woman in the county. The prosecution requests that application for bail be denied.”

  The Judge shuffled papers for a moment, scribbled something, then looked up. “Bail is denied. The defendant is bound over to the sheriff until trial. Is there any objection to setting a trial date at this time?”

  Will stood. “Your Honor, the defense requests a meeting in chambers.”

  The Judge looked at him blankly. “Why? I’m prepared to set a date now.”

  “If Your Honor please, I would be grateful for a meeting in chambers.”

  The Judge looked at Elton Hunter, who shrugged. Boggs sighed. “All right. We’ll meet in chambers in ten minutes. I got a call of nature to answer.”

  Will took Larry to the rail to speak with Charlene and John Morgan. “Folks, I’m afraid this is as expected. There was never much chance of bail, not on this charge.”

  “Larry,” John Morgan said, “I’m going to service Greenville out of the La Grange office until you’re out. I know you didn’t do this, and I’m not going to replace you. I’m going to keep you on salary, too.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Morgan,” Larry said. “That’s awful nice of you.”

  Morgan shook Larry’s and Will’s hands and left. Charlene lingered at the rail. “I’ll bring the bills to the jail, and you can sign checks,” she said to Larry, stroking his arm.

  “Naw, that would be a lot of trouble,” Larry said. “Just get one of those cards from the bank, and I’ll sign it so you can sign on my account.”

  Charlene nodded.

  “Larry,” Will said, “I’ve got to meet with the Judge now. I’ll come over to the jail when I’m finished.”

  “Why didn’t you want the Judge to set a trial date a minute ago?” Charlene asked.

  “I’ve got something I need to talk to him about first,” Will replied, avoiding her steady gaze. “We’ll only be a few minutes.”

  A deputy walked over. “I
’ll have to return him to his cell now, Mr. Lee.” Larry left with him, and Will made to leave, too.

  “Wait a minute,” Charlene said, placing her hand on his arm. “What’s going on?”

  “Hang around,” Will said. “I’ll see you here in a few minutes. We’ll go see Larry together.” He left her and went to the Judge’s chambers, where Elton Hunter was waiting for him.

  “What’s up, Will?” Elton asked.

  “Let’s wait for the Judge; it’ll save me repeating it.”

  The Judge strode in and settled himself behind the huge desk. “All right, Will. What can I do for you?”

  Will took a deep breath. “Judge, a lot has happened since the preliminary hearing. The Senator has improved enough to make it known that he doesn’t intend to run for reelection.” He paused. He had the same feeling about this that he had had about the bail hearing. “He has suggested that I run in his place.” He stopped and waited.

  The Judge looked at him, interested. “Yes, go on.”

  “Judge, it must be clear to you that I cannot conduct the defense in a capital case and run for the Senate at the same time. If the man were to be convicted, he would have every right to ask for the verdict to be set aside on grounds of a less than competent defense.”

  “Well, you might be right, Will,” the Judge said amiably. “I’m real sorry about your ambitions for the Senate.”

  “What?” Will said, momentarily baffled by the response.

  “If you can’t conduct a proper defense and run for the Senate at the same time, well, I guess you’ll have to run for the Senate another time.”

  In spite of his expectations, Will was stunned. “Now listen here, Judge,” he began.

  “No!” said the Judge, pounding on the desk and rising to his feet. “I told you when you signed on for this that you were in it for the duration, and now you’ve come to me twice and tried to beg off!”

  “And with damned good reason!” Will shouted back, standing up to face the old man.

  Elton Hunter leapt to his feet, his hands out before him. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, there’s no need for this. Let’s talk about this sensibly.”

  “You shut up!” the Judge roared at him, then turned back to Will and shouted, “You’re in this to the finish, do you understand me?”

  “Hell no, I don’t understand you!” Will shouted back. “I’m giving you notice right now, before you set a trial date—I’m out of it!”

  “In that case, goddammit, you can run for the Senate from a jail cell!” The Judge turned toward the door. “Bailiff!” he shouted. “Get in here this minute!” He turned back to Will. “I’ll hold you in contempt and postpone the trial until such time as you decide to continue!”

  “Shut up!”

  Both Will and the Judge turned and stared at Elton Hunter, who was beet-red. “Get out of here!” Elton shouted at the bailiff, who had just run into the room. The astonished bailiff stood and stared at the three men. Elton banged his palm flat on the desk, making a noise like a bass drum. “Now both of you sit down and get hold of yourselves” he demanded. “I said, get out of here!” he shouted at the bailiff. The bailiff turned and fled, closing the door behind him. “Now,” Elton said, more quietly, “let’s all sit down and discuss this calmly.”

  Will and the Judge, both surprised at the ordinarily mild Elton’s outburst, sat down. “Judge, this is completely unreasonable,” Will said.

  “It may be unreasonable, but that’s the way it is, and you’re going to have to live with it,” the Judge said, clearly trying to maintain control of himself. “I’ve arranged this trial so that both the prosecution and the defense are conducted by the best lawyers available. If either one of you should drop out and I replaced you with anybody else, then we’d have a lopsided trial, and I intend to see that both the defendant and the people get a fair trial. Now,” he said, opening his desk calendar, “Will, if you want some more time to prepare, I’ll give it to you. How about the sixteenth of February?”

  “The sixteenth is fine with me, Judge,” Elton said.

  “Mr. Lee?” the Judge asked, an edge in his voice.

  Will gritted his teeth and nodded. “All right. I apologize for my outburst.”

  “Good,” the Judge said. “Now this meeting is adjourned. I will see you both on February sixteenth at ten o’clock sharp.

  *

  Will found Charlene waiting for him in the courtroom. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go see Larry.” Five minutes later, he was seated in the interview room with the two of them.

  “I may as well tell you,” Will began, “I’ve just tried to get out of representing you again.”

  “Why?” asked Larry, looking hurt.

  “It’s nothing against you or your case, Larry. It’s just that my boss, Senator Carr, is ill and is not going to run for reelection, and I’m going to run for his seat. I really don’t see how I can represent you properly and run for the Senate at the same time.”

  “What did the Judge say about this?” Charlene asked.

  “He refused to let me resign from the case. That’s why I wanted to talk with you two. Larry, I know we’ve been over this before, but I think you should tell the Judge you want another lawyer.”

  “But why? I don’t understand.” Larry looked like a little boy who had been told he couldn’t go to Disneyland.

  “I’ve just explained it to you, Larry.” He turned to Charlene. “Help me here, will you? Surely you can see that this is not good for Larry’s case. If he asks the Judge for a new lawyer, then the Judge will have to give him one.”

  Charlene looked at him evenly for a moment, then shook her head. “This is between you and Larry,” she said.

  “I want you, Mr. Lee,” Larry said earnestly. “I don’t care about you running for anything.” He folded his arms. “I won’t have anybody else,” he said stubbornly.

  Will rested his elbows on the metal table and massaged his temples. This was insane. This case was a tar baby, and he was Br’er Fox. Neither Larry nor Charlene said anything. “Larry, do you know what the maximum penalty for first-degree murder is in this state?” he asked wearily. There was no reply. “It’s death,” Will said. “It’s the electric chair in this state. That’s what you get if I lose this for you. You’re gambling with your life. Do you understand that?”

  Larry Moody nodded his head. “I’ll take my chances with you.”

  18

  On Saturday morning, as he waited for Jack Buchanan and Kitty Conroy to arrive from Washington, Will sat at the computer in the lake cottage and tried to write a campaign plan. It wasn’t coming very quickly, because he had never done it before. Running a campaign for the reelection of Benjamin Carr, which he had done, was an entirely different thing from running a campaign for the election of a little-known Senate assistant, and as he labored, it became increasingly clear to Will how difficult his position was. He was contemplating withdrawing from a race he had not yet entered when he heard a car pulling into the gravel parking area a few yards from the cottage. Will looked at his watch. It was too early for Jack and Kitty, who were driving down from the Atlanta airport. He got up and went out onto the front porch.

  Two men and a woman were getting out of a station wagon. Led by the shorter of the men, they walked up the gravel path to the cottage. The second man and the woman were carrying camera equipment. The short man, who seemed to be in his early twenties, reached the porch and stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Tom Black, from Hank Taylor’s office,” he said.

  Will shook his hand. “Hello, I wasn’t expecting you until next week.”

  “I wanted to get an early start,” Black said. “This is Jim and Betty—they’re freelancers out of Atlanta. I want to get some footage of you and how you live down here.”

  “Well, sure. I guess it’s a good time for you to come. My first two staffers will be here in an hour or so, so you can sit in on our very first campaign meeting.”

  “Good,” Black said. “I’d like that.” He looked
around him at the cottage and the lake. “This is nice,” he said. “It’ll look good on film. Can I see the inside of the house?”

  “Oh, sure, come in,” Will said. “There’s coffee or tea, if you’d like.” He led the people into the cottage.

  Jim and Betty immediately started shooting pictures, the man with a video camera, the woman with a 35 mm flash camera. Black wandered into the kitchen and out again.

  “I’m sorry it’s a bit messy,” Will said.

  “No matter,” Black said, strolling into the bedroom. “You mind if I take a look at your clothes?” Without waiting for an answer, he began pulling suits out of the closet and rummaging in the shirt drawers. “Uh-huh,” he was muttering to himself. He came out of the bedroom and flopped down in an easy chair.

  “I was just working on a campaign plan,” Will said, indicating the computer.

  “We’ll talk about that later,” Black said, surreptitiously nodding at the two camera people. “Have a seat at the computer; let’s get some shots of you working. Roll up your shirtsleeves, will you?”

  Will did as he was asked, while the photographers circled him.

  “Jim, Betty, get some shots of the house from across the lake, will you?” Black asked. When they had gone, the young man went back to the easy chair.

  Will looked him over. He had sandy hair and a smooth face and was dressed in a bush jacket and desert boots, like something out of a Banana Republic catalog. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five, Will thought. This was one of Hank Taylor’s best people?

  Black seemed to read Will’s mind. “Just so we’ll get off on the right foot,” he said, “I’m thirty-one; I know I don’t look it. I got my start in national politics with Jimmy Carter’s campaign in ’76 as an advance man. I was nineteen. In the ’80 campaign I was in charge of all the advance people in the eastern half of the country. In between I was a press assistant in the White House. After Carter lost, I followed Hank into the political consultancy business, and since then I’ve done eleven campaigns and won eight.”