Brambleman (58 page)

Crenshaw called Charlie and said, “Your uncle
has drawn opposition.”

“Like shit draws flies,” said Charlie.

“Come on,” Crenshaw said. “Give me something
more diplomatic I can quote.”

“Fuck him if he can’t take a joke.”

“Gotta be civil.”

“Sorry. Can’t think of anything else. The
guy’s evil.”

Charlie got off the phone and wrote a check
for $2,000 to Jimmy Townsell, the third and least-known candidate.
The only thing Charlie knew about Townsell was that, unlike the
other two, he didn’t have a lyncher’s last name.

* * *

After refusing a plea deal that included a
suspended sentence, Charlie received a summons to appear for trial
on May 26 in Forsyth County State Court. He had believed that the
varmints would flinch in this game of chicken and the charges would
be dropped. They didn’t and they weren’t, however. Consequently,
Charlie grew more anxious as the trial date approached, since a
book deal worth two million dollars was on the line.

On May 25, Armand Parsons escorted Charlie to
the bank to retrieve John Riggins’s finger from the vault. Charlie
drove back to the loft with the Mason jar in a velvet cognac bag
he’d borrowed from his bodyguard. The writer hemmed and hawed
before saying, “Armand, I need you to go up to Forsyth with me for
the trial.”

“No way,” said Parsons, even though he wasn’t
privy to the bag’s contents.

Charlie wheedled. “You’ll be on TV.”

“I ain’t goin’ up there without an AK-47 and
fifty brothers,” Parsons declared, his hands folded across his
chest. “Besides, I got a part in Tyler Perry’s new movie, so I
can’t do this gig anymore. You’ll have to get a new entourage.”

“Well, it’s been real.”

“Not really,” drawled Parsons, shaking his
head as he checked out a young woman on the sidewalk.

When Charlie got back to the loft, he called
Cornelius Searles. “I’m bringing the pain. I need bodyguards. Lots
of muscle. And not to be racist, but I want my posse black.”

* * *

On the morning of May 26, Searles and his
assistant, an attractive young black woman, drove up to Cumming in
the attorney’s Lexus. Charlie rode in a Chevy Suburban with four
off-duty DeKalb County police officers in ersatz SWAT uniforms,
although their client would have rather seen them in suits, bow
ties, and white gloves, armed with copies of
Final Call
.

People stared at the white man in the gray
suit and his black storm troopers as they crossed the street from
the parking lot to the courthouse. The media was there in force to
record their grand entrance, which was carried out with crisp
precision. Charlie, his face grim, looked like he’d shown up for a
grudge match with Satan.

Oddly enough, Charlie’s satchel containing
the metal-lidded jar passed through the courthouse’s X-ray machine
unnoticed, but the group was detained at the security checkpoint,
anyway. After a brief but loud dispute between Searles and a
sheriff’s lieutenant, calls were made and Charlie’s bodyguards were
allowed to proceeded to the second floor.

While the defense team was waiting in the
hall, Solicitor Paul Armitage showed up waving affidavits and
depositions. He seemed mighty pleased with himself and ready to
present the case of The People against Charles T. Sherman. Searles
warily eyed Armitage. When the two lawyers huddled in the hall,
Charlie heard Searles whisper harshly to the prosecutor, “What the
hell are you trying to pull?”

After that, there was more waiting, since the
court session started late that day. Finally, a deputy told Charlie
and his attorney to go into the court room. They took seats at the
defense table. His bodyguards cooled their heels in the hall.

For the defendant, reality was sinking in.
This was actually happening, and since Pappy didn’t respect truth
or law, he could claim Charlie stole a TV and the family
silverware. What if the jurors believed the varmints and not him?
Charlie could be convicted and sentenced to serve a year in the
Forsyth County Jail. An eternity in hell, in other words.

No, don’t even think that
, he told
himself.
You shall prevail
. Charlie cast a sidelong glance
at his dapper black attorney, who no longer seemed like the ideal
defender of his freedom in such a place. “We’re going to win,
aren’t we?”

“Those affidavits don’t say anything,
really,” Searles assured him. “Just that you and Isaac Cutchins
don’t get along and you’re not a nice person and therefore capable
of anything. It’s bullshit, and I know how to deal with that. Look,
here’s what you need to do: When the jurors come in, watch their
faces. Half of them will give away their vote before they even sit
down.”

None of what Searles had just said was
particularly reassuring to Charlie.

A few minutes later, in came the jury pool,
thirty people of all shapes and sizes but only one color. Charlie
looked over the men and women and decided that none of them liked
him.

At twelve-thirty, the jury of seven women and
five men had been picked and seated. Charlie’s throat was dry as he
stood and Judge Robert Bascom read the charges. Searles entered a
plea of not guilty on his behalf. Bascom, an older, heavyset man,
declared a lunch recess. Charlie, now genuinely nervous, threw
himself back in his chair and ran his hands along his temples.

“Don’t do that,” Searles whispered harshly
behind his yellow legal pad. “It doesn’t look good.”

“This is un-fucking believable,” Charlie
whispered back, shaking his head.

“You wanted a trial, you got it. Be careful
what you wish for.” And then Searles gave him a wicked smile.
“Although I can’t wait to see their faces when you whip out the
jar.”

Bring the pain
. The thought cheered
Charlie. “I can’t believe they’re pushing their luck this way.
Murder will out, but this is really poetic. If I don’t go to the
slammer, that is. I wish there was a plea for Not Guilty by reason
of Check It Out!”

Searles chuckled. “Just remember, it’s not a
felony. No more than a year in jail. Probably get you a suspended
sentence, although they might want to teach Smartass White Boy a
lesson for not taking the deal.” Searles adjusted his tie. “You
know a good place to eat?” He surveyed the courtroom. Several men
on the back bench were staring at him. “Correction: a safe
place?”

“McDonald’s had a black assistant manager
last time I was there. It’s just a few blocks away.”

Searles sighed. “All right. If all else
fails, lower your standards.”

The defense team ate Big Macs, Charlie’s
treat. People stared at the black SWAT team members, who joked and
laughed. While some people may have resented their presence, the
locals kept their comments to themselves. After all, it wasn’t as
if they didn’t know what black people looked like. Most of them had
seen too many; that’s why they’d moved to Forsyth County.

Charlie and his team returned to the
courthouse, where Searles gave an impromptu news conference for a
dozen reporters covering the trial. Crenshaw caught Charlie’s
attention and mock-hanged himself by his tie.
What did he
know
?

Shortly after two o’clock in a packed
courtroom, the bailiff called out, “All rise.”

The judge entered. “Be seated,” Bascom said.
He called counsel to approach the bench, and a moment later, both
lawyers returned to their tables.

“Call your first witness, please.”

“The prosecution calls Isaac Cutchins to the
stand.” A deputy left the courtroom. Charlie pivoted in his seat
and braced himself for his first face-to-face confrontation with
the ancient villain since Pappy shot out his rear window.

The deputy returned and whispered to a
superior officer sitting on a back bench. The deputy again left and
returned. Charlie turned in his chair and raised his eyebrows,
giving the reporters a quizzical smile.

A growing buzz filled the room. Jurors
exchanged puzzled looks. The ranking deputy rose and went to the
railing. Armitage leaned back in his chair to listen; a look of
unhappy surprise spread across his face.

“Your honor,” the solicitor said a few
seconds later, “Mr. Cutchins was here this morning, but apparently,
he’s suffering a bout of ill health. We ask for a postponement
until tomorrow morning—”

“Who’s your next witness?” the judge asked,
glancing at a sheet.

“We plan to call Representative Stanley
Cutchins—”

“Objection, your honor,” Searles said,
rising. “Without the alleged victim’s testimony, this proceeding is
nothing more than a character assassination the prosecution has
planned and laid out—”

“Objection!” Armitage shouted out.

Searles did a double-take at the objection to
his objection, then continued. “—that serves no purpose other than
to damage my client’s reputation. It would cloud, rather than
clear, the issues surrounding the case.”

“Is Mr. Cutchins in the hospital?” Bascom
asked.

Armitage looked around helplessly.

“Ten-minute recess,” the judge continued.
“Please ascertain your witness’s whereabouts.”

Armitage scurried off. He was back in five
minutes, ashen-faced. The bailiff retrieved the judge. Armitage and
Searles approached the bench. Bascom grew angrier as the solicitor
talked. He threw down the papers he was holding and grabbed his
gavel.

“Case dismissed!” the judge roared. “My
apologies to the ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Mr. Sherman, you
are free to go.” He bowed his head to the defendant.

Searles returned to the table, suppressing a
grin.

“What just happened?” Charlie asked.

“Seems the victim told the solicitor, the
judge, and everybody in Forsyth County to go fuck themselves.”
Searles took in a deep breath. “Kind of anticlimactic, but what the
hey. I just won a trial in Forsyth County, Georgia before an
all-white jury. You can damn well bet I’m putting that on my
résumé!” He punctuated his statement with hearty laughter.

And so Charles T. Sherman walked out of the
courtroom a free man. His guards joined him in the hall and with
rare precision, the group quick-stepped down the stairs and
outside. They waited for Searles, who followed with his assistant a
few minutes later, then they all crossed the courthouse square
rapidly on the way to their vehicles. There would be no post-trial
interviews, not until they were out of town. The media could cover
the aborted trial any way they pleased. Charlie just wanted out of
Forsyth alive.

Most amazingly, the secret of
American
Monster
had been preserved.

Charlie made a phone call before his Suburban
even cleared the Cumming city limits.

“Barbara Asher here.”

“Tell Spence Greene to cut me a check,”
Charlie said, savoring each word. “And I’m writing a new
ending.”

Seconds after he finished that call,
Charlie’s phone buzzed. It was Crenshaw. “I just heard something
strange,” the reporter said.

“What’s that?”

“That Isaac Cutchins is missing a
finger.”

“Do what?”

“How many fingers does Isaac Cutchins
have?”

“Don’t recall,” Charlie drawled. “I usually
see just the one.”

“There’s another book coming, isn’t there?
That’s what all the trouble is about! I’ve talked to three people
saying you’re working on a lynching. A man named Riggins. Why
didn’t you tell me?”

“Not time yet. Thought it might happen today,
but no dice. Have to wait.”

“Screw you. You got some bad karma,
dude.”

“Have a nice day,” Charlie said.

Crenshaw got even. The headline in the next
day’s paper said, “Victim a No-Show, Sherman Case Dismissed.” In
the article, Crenshaw quoted Evangeline: “It’s terrible when the
guilty walk free.”

To which Charlie said
Amen
.

The sunny June morning promised a hot
afternoon. Charlie left Muncie’s office grumbling about Susan’s
hostility. He had just finished—endured, rather—a conference call
between both parties, their attorneys, and the judge in his divorce
proceeding. Tempers had flared, especially Susan’s. In the end,
Judge Belinda Jackson lifted the restraining order after lecturing
Susan and her lawyer about their winner-take-all tactics. Charlie
would have Beck and Ben for a full day that weekend—his first time
alone with them in seven months.

Charlie wore his wedding ring that morning to
fortify his position. Muncie had chided him: “I don’t know who
you’re trying to impress. Nobody else can see it.”

“Nobody else needs to see it,” Charlie
countered. “I know what the deal is. I’m still married.”

Muncie shook his gleaming head and chuckled.
“Hate to break it to you, but it’s the terms we’re haggling over,
not what’s going to happen.”

“Well, I don’t want a divorce,” Charlie
declared. “Not when she’s acting this way.”

“I’ve noticed that there’s just one thing you
two won’t give each other,” Muncie said.

“What’s that?”

“Whatever the other one wants.”

“Well, can you blame me? Look at what she
wants. She’s dead set on cutting me off from the kids.”

“Look on the bright side. You’re going to be
a millionaire. And chicks dig millionaires.” Muncie gave him a
wicked grin.

“Alas, I fear I’m cursed in that regard.”

“See a doctor, then.”

That wasn’t what Charlie meant, of course.
His fear was that his sexual mojo was being controlled from beyond,
to no good end. Or more precisely, no end at all.

Afterward, Charlie stood in the parking lot
beside his new space-gray metallic BMW 328i and tugged until his
knuckle ached, but the ring remained stuck firmly on his
finger.

At the loft, Charlie squirted Ivory Liquid on
his hand to ease off his symbol of lost love and unrelenting
torment. He was tugging away at the band when he heard a
whump
in the hall followed by a knock on the door. He wiped
off the soap and sauntered to the peephole. A black man in a brown
uniform stood in the hall. Charlie opened the door and saw a box
with a Brubaker Publishing Company label. The deliveryman was
already gone.