The Eleventh Victim (9 page)

“Plan on taking a cart, Floyd?” C.C. asked hopefully, blinking in the hot Georgia sun.

“Well, Judge, we use the caddies here. No carts anywhere on the grounds…kind of a tradition.”

Busted again, dammit! Fricking details!

Why didn’t he notice there wasn’t a single cart parked anywhere near the area, just a group of older men standing near the clubhouse? On TV when Tiger won the Masters, there wasn’t any damn cart!

“Right! That’s right! I remember that!” C.C. and Eugene set out walking, two caddies following discreetly behind.

For a while, it was just about golf—and it was all C.C. could do to stay on his game. He tried, but Eugene was better. A lot better.

Was it any surprise?

C.C. couldn’t focus. As the two approached the fourth hole, Eugene asked, “Ready for the Crab Apple, Judge?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Was it some kind of drink?
C.C. hoped so.

“Crab Apple…It’s the name of the fourth hole. Each hole is named after a tree or bush here.”

“Yes…very unique, very unique. I’ve always thought that.”

Damn him to hell. Was Eugene torturing him on purpose?

Then, out of the blue, Eugene said casually, “You know, Judge, I admire your work on the bench. Have for years.”

Suddenly, he no longer hated Eugene. He was now elated.

Maybe he should seize the moment and plow ahead with his offer.

But before he could speak, Eugene went on. “But I can’t help but think a man of your caliber, from such a fine family with politics in the blood, fine education at the University, who’s been doing his duty to the State of Georgia on the bench for all these years now…”

Uh-oh. Where was this going? It couldn’t be good.
C.C. felt sick.

“You could be doing something even greater, Judge. Such a waste of talent.”

What? What did he just say? A waste of talent? Did he say that?

“Well, Floyd, I’m flattered but…”

No one had ever called him talented before. Not even the newspaper profiles, the TV interviews, not even that sorry bunch of suck-up law clerks had ever accused C.C. of being talented.

Even his girls, the strippers he picked up at the Pink Fuzzy on weekends, normally full of compliments, had never suggested such a thing as talent.

His head was swimming. Where would it lead?

He needed a drink, but this was not the kind of place where you brought along your thermos, and he knew better than to pull out a flask in front of Eugene.

“Have you ever thought of a run for governor?” C.C. didn’t miss a beat. “Well, Floyd, you’re not the first who has proposed just that.”

Giddy with his success, he could hardly keep walking without jumping up in the air.

He hadn’t even had to push it, no bargaining back and forth.

Obviously Eugene wasn’t the operator he was cracked up to be.

Whatever, it was clearly meant to be.

Eugene was on his side.

God was on his side.

The way things were going, he might not have to offer Eugene a bribe after all.

Walking eighteen holes was no easy feat for a Supreme Court Justice who, at most, walked from his car to an enclosed underground elevator, just nearly fifteen feet, twice a day. And even that was air-conditioned. Nobody wanted the judges breaking a sweat.

Thank God they weren’t lugging their own clubs.

Speaking of clubs, C.C. had asked the pro at his country club to outfit him with the most expensive clubs the store carried. He dropped a load of money on Pings in hopes Floyd Moye would
notice. If he had noticed, he hadn’t mentioned it…yet. C.C. made a point to swing with great flourish and flash the Ping markings whenever he could.

Somehow, though, C.C. managed to keep up with Floyd Moye, the two walking side by side, casually crushing beneath cleated soles the prized Bermuda grass that was somebody’s life’s work.

C.C. noticed little of his surroundings. Not the grass, the heat, the botanical beauty around them, not even his shrieking calf muscles. He just kept walking, listening, enthralled as Eugene laid it all out for him, describing the inner workings of the State party machinery and how it would all play out. C.C. was mesmerized.

The rest was all details as far as C.C. was concerned. He’d been to the mountaintop and he could see the Promised Land.

With each approaching tee, Eugene spun a gubernatorial web around C.C. He touched on power bases here, weaknesses of possible opponents there, and solutions as to how the party could work it all to their advantage.

“We want a winner. Come next January,” Eugene said, just before teeing off at the eighteenth hole, “Governor Carter will run the State Capitol. What do you think about that?”

C.C.’s hand was burning not to whip out his flask and have a congratulatory shot of bourbon. It seemed wrong not to.

“I…I’m ecstatic,” he finally managed to say.

After the eighteenth hole, the two headed back to the clubhouse.

“Let’s have a drink and celebrate, Judge. What’ll you have? Another Maker’s Mark?”

“You know it, and the drinks are on me.”

It was the least he could do. All that walking and talking, Eugene laying it all out for him, and the man had never once asked a thing in return.

“Don’t be silly, you’re my guest. Lewis!” He waved at the waiter.

A real class act, Floyd Moye Eugene. Peculiar, but classy.

“My associate here will have another Maker’s, two rocks,” Eugene told Lewis, and C.C. glowed.

“I’ll have ice water with lime, Lewis.”

“I thought we were celebrating,” C.C. protested, dismayed at Eugene’s teetotaling.

“We are. You go ahead and enjoy your drink, and I’ll enjoy my ice water.”

C.C., who didn’t have to be asked twice, knocked back another drink, and then one more, as Eugene drank water and added up a majority of Georgia counties they could count on.

“I have to say, you’ve got me feeling mighty optimistic, Floyd,” C.C. said as they walked to his car.

“Good, good. You should.”

The valet already had the Caddy waiting, with the AC and radio on high for him. It had been tuned to an Allman Brothers CD, as C.C. recalled, upon his arrival. Not anymore.

Now Motown was on the radio. Diana Ross belting out “I’m Comin’ Up.”

It was a sign. The stars were aligned.

He got behind the wheel and reached for the electric adjuster to move the seat back. It’d be one hell of a joy ride back.

Eugene stood between the car door and the seat, still talking.

“Thanks again, Floyd Moye, for golf, the drinks, the fine conversation, and—”

“One last thing, Judge.” C.C. looked up, and Floyd Eugene’s expression gave him pause.

A tiny bit of the effusive warmth seemed to have dribbled away.

“Anything, Floyd Moye.”

“Before we begin working the campaign seriously, there’s one matter I need cleared up. It ought to be routine for a man of your standing.”

“Sure, Floyd.”

Routine…Eugene probably wanted a spot in the new regime. Completely understandable.

“What can I do for you?”

“I have a friend, a very dear friend indeed, who has a concern about the legality of a conviction of a young man, a talented man by the name of Cruise.”

“Oh…?”

“We both think, my friend and I, that there is a very strong possibility this young man was wrongly convicted. We certainly wouldn’t want that type of thing clouding your candidacy.”

“Oh, no, Floyd, absolutely not,” C.C. was quick to agree. “Not at this, let me say, critical juncture.”

“Exactly. The poor soul is facing death row on something to do with some hookers in Atlanta a couple years back. It’s a real mess. Anyone could have committed the crime—God only knows who those women had been with. You know they’ll do anything for a hit of crack.”

“Don’t I know it,” C.C. murmured, briefly glancing away from Floyd and toward his steering wheel, then caught himself. “Not that I know anything about hookers
personally
…but my
work
…You know, I’ve read about it….”

“No, no, of course you wouldn’t. Anyway, Judge, it’s just terrible…and just a
hell
of a mess for an innocent young man to be trapped like that. Don’t you think so?”

“I surely do.”

“A reversal should do the trick.” C.C. sat there like a lump, not getting it.

Did he say reversal?

Eugene went on. “Justice can be so blind. Thank God there are men like you, C.C., to rise up and do the right thing.”

Mistaking his lack of grasp on the situation for squeamishness, Floyd Moye forged ahead. “It was all a damn setup…Some angry as hell gal behind it all…One of those
liberated
female prosecutors had it in for him…. You know what I mean, Judge.”

C.C. wasn’t sure that he did. He was trying to take it all in, but he just couldn’t. What the hell was Eugene talking about? Who had talent and was wrongfully convicted? Who got liberated?

“It was all a setup from the start,” Eugene went on. “She was probably just trying to advance her own career…. You know the type…right, Judge?”

“Oh, yeah…I know the type all right…. But I don’t get it. Where do I fit in?” C.C. asked at last, not wanting to appear stupid, but finally breaking down. He knew that whatever Eugene was talking about, the most C.C. had done was read about it over a cup of coffee.

“As I said, he goes free, and chances are, he’s innocent. He could go on and cure cancer, for all we know.”

“He’s a doctor?”

“A chef. He’s a chef, Judge.” Eugene was starting to look impatient. “That’s not the point. The point is, he needs to go live his life. Do some good in the world. He’s an innocent man.”

C.C. tried to digest it all…A chef that might have the cure for cancer?

Eugene leaned in, his arm resting on the top of the open door.

“After all, they
were
just hookers. Nobody’ll
miss
them. Now, isn’t that right, Judge? They were hookers, every last one of them, and the city’s better off without a used-up fleet of hookers. Am I right about
that
, Judge?”

Eugene was so close to C.C.’s face he could feel the heat of his body and smell the lime on his breath.

C.C. was still in the dark and couldn’t figure out quite what to say or exactly what it was that Floyd wanted him to do.

“Well, the city
is
a mess…That part
is
true, Floyd.”

Floyd continued on, his voice lowered. “I mean, if you look at it realistically, why waste the State’s money keeping him up on death row for ten…more like twenty years of appeals? It’s the taxpayers’ money. We’ve got to keep their best interests in mind, too. Especially come re-election time…right, Judge?”

All at once, it dawned on him.

C.C. went pale. It was all coming up…up his throat. He could taste Kentucky bourbon and the Monte Cristo sandwich he’d had back on the ninth hole at the back of his throat.

He couldn’t puke right here. Not in front of Floyd Moye Eugene. Not at Augusta National.

Cruise was sitting in jail after the jury convicted; the case was up on appeal at that very moment. A reversal would set him free…let him walk right out of his prison cell and onto the streets with decent, normal people…including C.C.

C.C. swallowed it down.

“I’ll take a look at the case, Floyd.”

“Well, Judge, let me know as soon as you can see fit to. We’ll need that taken care of before we can move forward on the campaign.”

The dirty work clearly behind him, Floyd quickly shifted gears again. He straightened and all but brushed his hands against each other. “So, I believe Dooley would be just the place to announce. It
is
your home jurisdiction, your
symbolic
headquarters at the outset, correct?”

“Correct.” C.C. got it out, still fighting back the Monte Cristo.

“Of course, then we’ll have to move you to Fulton County. Although Macon
is
technically the geographic center of the state, and we do need to appeal to more than just Fulton and metro Atlanta this time, but it’s just easier to work out of Atlanta. You know what I mean. We’ll get started as soon as you can take care of that legal problem. Right?”

“Right.”

“Good, good, good. It’s been a pleasure, Judge, or should I say Governor?” With that, Floyd Moye’s face melted into a smile.

“Oh, no. It’ll always be C.C. for you, Floyd Moye.”

Before C.C.’s Cadillac could turn the bend much less disappear out of view, Floyd Moye let out a single snort—a silent laugh through his nose, not taking the effort required to make a sound—half in amusement, half in disgust.

Eugene flipped out his cell phone. Waiting for the connection, he walked coolly away from the valet, well out of earshot. Cell phones and pagers were banned at Augusta and this was one call that didn’t need a witness.

Glancing around, he spoke. “The rabbit’s in the hole. How’s the view on the beach?”

“Temp is warm and sunny. Slight breeze on the island. Sand white as sugar and not a soul on the beach. Just two island sea turtles.”

“Not for much longer,” Eugene responded.

In a few hours, the fate of an island would begin to change. Pristine and protected, St. Simons Island was the jewel in the crown of the Georgia coast. Not since 1862, when Confederates ripped apart the Island’s lighthouse to thwart Yankee troops, had the Island been faced with such upheaval, nor come closer to another invasion, this time with tourists.

“Okay,” Eugene said into the phone, “he got his. Now I want a call after they meet tonight. I can’t wait another twenty-four hours. Things are heating up. We knew at the beginning timing was the key.”

“It’s a done deal. Count on it.”

Eugene nodded and clicked off.

T
HREE BLOCKS BEHIND GLYNN COUNTY MIDDLE SCHOOL, A QUARTER
mile from the beachfront pier on St. Simons Island, Virginia Gunn took the last sip of her Amaretto and crushed one cigarette into a green ashtray shaped like a seahorse after lighting her next off its smoldering butt-end. It was always the best sip, having been down at the bottom of the ice the longest.

But she had to be sharp tonight.

“I’m coming, little babies, wait for Mommy!” she called to her dogs, barking out on the deck. “I know you’re hungry, but these aren’t for you! You don’t want chips! Remember what they did to you last time? All that poopy all over the house? You don’t like Ranch-Flavored Doritos, so stop asking!”

She laid out chips and dip on the bar between her kitchen and den, filled another ice bucket, and lit candles scattered artfully around the house.

The dogs kept barking, but for once, she made them wait. Everything had to be just right.

This evening, she had a feeling, was going to be another one of those turning points in her life.

Tonight might be right up there with when she resigned as chief county commissioner of the Island after a vote of no confidence by the Commission eight years ago.

The other commissioners sold her out over the construction of a secluded but still highly offensive goofy-golf course near the United Methodist Center. Naturally, she opposed goofy-golf in all its forms, not only because it would encroach upon nearby marshland, but how could Virginia Gunn, in her right mind and with a straight face, represent to the taxpayers that goofy-golf was anything but tacky?

Virginia had to pour herself another Amaretto on the rocks, getting all worked up again just thinking about it.

She’d simply had no choice but to draw a line in the sand when it came to the Island’s beaches and marshland. Next thing she knew, there’d be Seashell Shacks, mini-marts, beach towel emporiums, and roadside stands peddling brushed-velvet portraits of Elvis and the Last Supper.

Well, of course, the measure had passed anyway. But fate intervened. Before the concrete could be poured and covered with Astroturf, the goofy-golf investors had gone broke and the thing never happened.

By then, though, Virginia had written a scathing letter to the editor of the
St. Simons Herald
in which she blasted the other Commission members, exposing them for what they were…crass materialists.

At which point, the vote of no confidence went down. She’d stormed out of the middle-school auditorium after claiming that the St. Simons establishment was hell-bent on developing every square inch of the Island.

For eight years now, Virginia had laid low, operating just under the radar of the County Commission.

Only one close call…but so what if they suspected
she
was responsible for hacking down the first and only parking meter at the Pier? It happened in the middle of the night, when the St. Simons police were always on “shift change” at the Donut Hole. A squad car happened along just as she was finishing up, and she dove into a thick hedge of dwarf palmettos just in time. Those suckers’ leaves were like
swords
!

Then there was her greatest coup of all: blackmailing the new Commission chairman, Toby McKissick, just before the last vote on constructing a major bridge connecting the Island to the mainland.

From that moment on, Gunn knew she had found her calling. She was a guerrilla. A counter-terrorist fighting the Commission and all other forces seeking to destroy the Island’s natural beauty.

Hence, the chips and dip now laid out neatly on Virginia’s bar.

A new assault on the scarce Island Sea Turtle was in motion.

Euphemistically referred to as “beach replenishing,” it consisted of pumping sand from the ocean bottom onto the Island’s beaches, to build them up for tourists. Doing so would all but destroy the turtles’ mating grounds. Moreover, there was no guarantee where the sand would come from, and a likely location was just off an industrial point near the mainland. The sludge there was replete with toxic buildup, thanks to dumping from a paper mill. To have that dumped on the Island under the disguise of “replenishing” would be a crime. But now it was in the works.

Something must be done.

Something on par with—or perhaps, even greater than—what she had done to McKissick.

She’d tell her new friends all about it later tonight, Virginia decided, and clenched another cigarette in her smiling lips as she went to let the dogs in.