The Eleventh Victim (8 page)

A
S C.C. RECLAIMED HIS SEAT ON THE BENCH AFTER AN EXTENDED
visit to the men’s room and tried to look serious-minded, he couldn’t help but feel the heat from Florence Teasley. Giving her a glance sideways, he saw her give him the evil eye.

Old bat.

She was nothing but a do-gooder who had terrorized him ever since she’d made it to the bench.

However he voted, Teasley automatically took the opposite opinion and seemed to relish actually writing the opposing opinion herself, attacking him at every turn.

Damn reformer.

At case conferences, she baited him in front of the other justices, lording her own Harvard-degreed intellectualism over his self-titled “down-home Dooley County common sense.”

But why did
he
need to know the law? That was what law clerks were for.

C.C.’s main worry wasn’t Teasley’s insinuations he was not a deep legal thinker. Instead, he was deeply concerned Teasley knew he occasionally took a “nip” during oral arguments. As an arch death penalty opponent, she never missed a chance to suggest the electric chair was appropriate only for drunk drivers, and she always looked straight at him when she said it. And she always seemed to be able to smell bourbon on him, openly sniffing when he was near.

She could probably do with a drink or two herself. Old-maid-spinster-liberal, but the only thing C.C. had ever seen her drink since she took the bench three years ago was hot water with lemon on the side. She’d sip it like it was a fine wine and damn if she didn’t eat the damn lemon peel behind it, every single time.

He watched her go through her high-tea protocol every Thursday during the Justices’ weekly case review. It nearly made him jump out of his skin but he couldn’t drag his eyes away when she peeled the lemon off the rind with her teeth.

Vegan lunatic.

At last, after grueling hours of sitting on a huge leather easy chair positioned directly next to Florence Teasley and trying his best to chime in with questions occasionally, oral arguments came to a merciful end. Maybe he should just take a cue from U.S. Supreme Court judge Clarence Thomas and just keep his piehole shut. Better to remain silent and let others just suspect he was in over his head than actually speak and confirm their suspicions.

He was pretty sure Lincoln said that.

C.C. shed his black rayon-polyester robe as fast as he could unzip it and hopped the private elevator down to LP, Lower Parking.

Augusta National…here comes the judge!

Then…the governor’s mansion.

He wondered if what was left of the Allman Brothers would play at his inauguration party. Without Duane, would it even be worth it? Poor bastards.

C.C. slipped the keys into the ignition of his midnight-blue Cadillac and cranked the music and the AC both on high.

This was his favorite Allman Brothers CD, and even though he didn’t know all the lyrics it didn’t stop him from singing along all the way to Augusta. There, he tooled around for fifteen minutes looking for the route to the famed Augusta National Golf Course.

At last, he was driving his Caddy down Magnolia Lane. When visitors first entered the sanctity of the world-renowned course, they took a winding route lined by deep-green Southern magnolias. Breathtaking. But C.C. wasn’t here to soak up nature.

He was here to bag Floyd Moye Eugene.

C.C. entered a set of tremendous gates, humming along on “Ramblin’ Man” with Duane Allman. It was virtually impossible to get on the course here, much less obtain a membership, even through bribery. C.C. had tried.

At the guardhouse protecting the entrance, he was met by a uniformed employee who sized him up with a brisk, “Morning, sir. Name, please.”

“Nearly afternoon, son,” C.C. observed, not taking kindly to being treated like an outsider.

“Your name, sir?”

The guard didn’t take the bait. He had seen it all…everybody and their great-grandmother trying to get into Augusta.

“Judge Clarence E. Carter. I’m a guest of a longtime member, Floyd Moye Eugene.”

“Carter…Carter…”

You’d think he’d recognize C.C.’s name or at least the personalized plate on his car, “
GAJUDGE
1.”

Between the name and the plate, he’d never been ticketed after being pulled over on traffic infractions—which happened regularly. Especially around his favorite strip club, the Pink Fuzzy. Didn’t cops have anything better to do than try to trick unsuspecting drunk drivers into an arrest? But at least the Georgia State Patrol usually managed to put two and two together and let him go with a wave and a respectful “You have a good evening now, sir.”

But no, not the deputy dogs here at Augusta. Here, they were treating a State Supreme Court Justice just like anybody else, keeping him waiting expectantly while they took their time checking his name against a list of expected guests.

Never mind, they’d beg him to play a few rounds here when he was
Governor
Clarence Carter.

Once he made it past the gestapo Checkpoint Charlie, he continued his trip through perfectly manicured grounds.

Time to reset his sights and wipe the sweat off his neck. With the backing of the head of the State Democratic Party, the single most powerful body in the region, the rest of the state would fall in line. Challengers would back off or be kicked to the curb without the party’s support.

In exchange for Eugene’s support all the way to the mansion, C.C. was prepared to offer anything Eugene wanted. Thanks to a fruitless investigation of all things remotely connected to Eugene, C.C. had no idea what exactly that might be. But whatever it was, he’d get it.

He knew he had to be subtle at first, lead him up to it. He couldn’t hit the man over the head with an offer.

Floyd Moye Eugene was the kingmaker, and C.C. would be king.

After parking his car, he was met by a pale, stooped, older man, slightly balding and wearing a crisp white uniform bearing the Augusta crest.

“Nice to meet you. I’m George, and I’ll be ushering you to the clubhouse.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can make it on over myself,” C.C. said quickly, not wanting to stand out as a mere visitor.

“I’ll escort you,” the attendant said again, kindly, but leaving no wiggle room for C.C. to roam free.

But as they made their way, C.C. realized that without George at his side, he wouldn’t know where the hell to go and would
really
stick out as one of those who made it in riding somebody else’s coattails.

Good thing he was perfectly decked out in the most expensive golf clothing available in the resort wear department of Saks Fifth Avenue at Phipps Plaza.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it, sir?” the man asked.

“Perfect for eighteen holes.”

“So I take it you play a lot…Ever been here before, sir?”

“Oh yes…yes…many times,” C.C. lied, embarrassed that a man of his standing in the Georgia legal community had never before been invited to Augusta National—much less invited to join.

The man chatted him up as they headed toward the clubhouse. Damn, this place was swank.

Once inside the clubhouse, the guide discreetly disappeared.

When C.C.’s eyes adjusted to the dark room, he scanned the whole place and could finally make out Eugene, still wearing darkened aviator sunglasses and sitting alone at a table in one of the far corners of the paneled bar.

Damn, was C.C. that late? Eugene was nearly through with his drink.

As he strode toward him, C.C. silently cursed the guard for the delay at the front gate. He’d see their minimum wage asses hauled into their supervisor’s office and fired.

He put on his game face and stuck out his right hand.

“Floyd Moye, how are you? Have I kept you waiting?” C.C. couldn’t possibly smile any wider, giving Eugene a clear view all the way back to the fillings in his wisdom teeth.

When Eugene stood to take C.C.’s hand, his grasp was firm and cool on C.C.’s overheated palm. “No, Judge,” he said, “I’m just early. Bad habit of mine.”

That was a lie, of course. C.C. was late. But in the South, a social faux pas such as arriving late for a tee time would never, ever be pointed out under any circumstances. That would be rude and considered an open act of hostility.

“Judge, would you care for a drink before we hit the fairways?”

“Sure, Floyd, not a bad way to start eighteen.”

Eugene had read his mind. The judge had cottonmouth in the worst way.

Or did Eugene simply know for a fact that C.C. never minded a cocktail? If that was the case, what else did Eugene know about him?

He got his answer a moment later.

“Maker’s Mark, two rocks, am I right?”

Damn, Eugene was sharp.

“Yes siree, Floyd Moye, I’m impressed.”

“I assure you, Judge, it’s mutual.” C.C. wondered what he meant by that. Could he be impressed with some of C.C.’s legal opinions?

Or maybe Eugene admired C.C. after reading about him in the papers, one profile after the next. C.C. had even been on television a few times, addressing the State Bar Association on legal ethics. Or maybe he supported C.C.’s stalwart pro-law-and-order stance.

“Lewis, two Maker’s on the rocks, sir,” Eugene said to the elderly waiter in a white jacket standing unobtrusively a few feet away.

“Yes, sir.”

“Judge, how was your drive down?” Eugene turned his focus toward C.C., taking him in from head to toe. Something about Eugene put him on edge.

“About three hours,” he said, “but it’s worth it, Floyd.”

“Played the greens here at Augusta much?”

“Oh yes. Quite a bit. Beautiful course.”

“Really?” Eugene’s eyes locked on him like radar.

The judge felt his face flush.

“Damn! Why did I lie? Save the lies for something important.”

He’d told himself this a million times…it was always the details that bite you in the neck…
always
.

Could Eugene know? Shit, of course he knew. He was a member here.

Anybody who was anybody played here all the time and knew the place like the back of his hand. C.C. had mostly just seen it
from his own den, on TV, a gaping hole in his social pedigree. And that was usually on a Sunday afternoon after a couple of bourbons.

He had to take the obvious route and lie, again.

“Of course, not recently, you know,” he quickly amended, trying to wade out of the muck. “The workload on the bench is very demanding.
Very
demanding.”

Eugene nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sure it is.”

Had he gotten out of that one? No way to tell. He was relieved when the waiter returned with warmed cashews and Eugene turned his attention away from C.C. for a moment to chat with him.

C.C. raised his glass to his lips and fought the urge to drain it in one mighty gulp as Eugene, thank God in Heaven, paused before turning his attention across the table again.

“How’s your wife?” he asked C.C. “Betty, isn’t it?”

Of course it was. The man was good.

“Betty’s just fine, Floyd.” He considered returning the question, but he was pretty sure he knew how Eugene’s wife was—and that bringing her up might very well sour the conversation.

“How does Betty find life down in Dooley County after time in the big city?”

It was all he could do not to snort at the thought of Betty in Atlanta. She hated it.

“She likes to stay close to home,” he told Eugene.

Home with her family. Even in light of his current position, they loathed him. He could feel it. The pained greetings, formal airs, exchanged glances whenever C.C. talked. He hated the way Betty’s bunch didn’t drink, smoke, or curse, and sat all pinched up on the front row of the First Baptist Church every damn Sunday. He hated the way they guarded the old grandmother’s china at Sunday lunch, like C.C. might just take a big bite out of one of the salad plates.

He guessed they were still mad he got a little drunk at the wedding, but what the hell was wrong with that? C.C. never understood it. His daddy and his daddy’s daddy owned Dooley County. Now Betty was the wife of one of the most powerful men in the state.

“Does she come up to Atlanta much?”

“Not too much, Floyd. She pretty much stays put when court’s in session. She gets lost every time she gets anywhere near I-285.”

“Does she? I don’t blame her.”

“Oh, yes.” C.C. nodded vigorously. A gift from Heaven…they had something else in common to talk about. They both hated traffic.

“Ever since they built that damn perimeter around the city, I swear tourism’s been on the decrease. Once they’re on it, nobody can figure out how to get off the damn thing and get into downtown.”

C.C. knew he was rambling but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“Yep, I wish Betty’d get the hang of it and visit more. Atlanta can be a lonely city, Floyd Moye, a lonely city indeed,” he added. C.C. put on a sad, thoughtful face. Wistful, in fact.

Actually, he hadn’t thought of Betty in days.

She adored C.C., of course, but whenever Mrs. Clarence E. Carter considered the prospect of a four-and-a-half-hour drive to spend a weekend in Atlanta with her husband, she seemed to develop a sudden and immediate migraine that caused her to take to her bed, sometimes for the entire weekend. Betty was better off down on the farm where she was happy. He was entirely certain that navigating the sprawling behemoth called Interstate 285 was the sole barrier that kept her in Dooley County.

Thank God for Atlanta traffic.

A few more minutes of small talk, a couple of swallows of Maker’s Mark, and the two finally made it out of the clubhouse.

It was none too soon for C.C., who could only hope he’d do better with his hands occupied. No more uncomfortable one-on-one conversation. It was nerve-racking, especially when he couldn’t figure out how to do away with the yak and get to the governorship.

“Why not be honest for once? That’s right…honest and up front. Just put it out there. Wait…Don’t just put it out there…Let things breathe…No need to do anything radical…Play it cool,”
C.C. told himself as they headed out to the tee. He could chat all night if he had to.