Amen Corner (12 page)

There were a few laughs from the reporters, and Sam continued.

“I worked my way up to 18 holes a day, and then 36 every other day. By the time my knee felt strong enough to go back to light duty, I was playing the best golf of my life. And to tell you the truth, I didn't want to go back to the job. Any cop will tell you that when you don't want to go into work in the morning, you shouldn't be there. So I took an extended leave of absence to figure out what I wanted to do.”

There was sympathetic silence for a while, finally broken by a reporter with a British accent: “Are you going to remain an amateur, or are you thinking of turning professional?”

Sam laughed, relieved that the subject had changed.

“Pro? No way. I can't make a living doing this. I'd need to practice non-stop for at least a year to even get to the second round of qualifying school, and I don't have that kind of time or money. I need to earn a living.”

“So you're going back to the police force after the Masters?” Daly asked.

“I don't know yet,” Sam said. “I have until Monday to make up my mind.”

“Any theories about what happened to Harmon Ashby yesterday?” Daly asked. “I mean, from a cop's perspective?”

“I'll leave that one to the locals,” Sam said. “They don't need my help.”

“Are you staying in the Crow's Nest this week?” a reporter asked.

“Yes. All week, I hope.”

“If that's it, ladies and gentlemen, we'll wrap this up,” said the moderator. “Thank you, Sam.”

“Thank you,” Sam replied, rising from his chair.

As he was leaving the interview room, Russ Daly sidled up to him.

“I took your advice,” he said.

Sam looked perplexed.

“About talking to the grounds crew. They've already run tests on the herbicide used to write the message on the 12th green.”

Daly pulled out his notebook and flipped through the pages until he came to the passage he was looking for.

“It was something called glyphosate.”

“Do they use that here?”

“They use it everywhere. It's the basic ingredient in RoundUp. It kills grass, weeds—everything.”

“I guess we're not going to solve this one,” Sam said. “What's your column for tomorrow?”

“The protest out on Washington Road this afternoon,” Daly said. “Rachel Drucker is promising there will be a thousand sign-waving crazies. I'm betting it's closer to 50.”

“I don't know,” Sam said. “Looks like this murder has given her cause new life.”

Chapter Eleven

Augusta National had reached a compromise with the Richmond County Sheriff's office: Rachel Drucker and the WOFF would be allowed to stage their protests at a park across Washington Road, a mile east of the National's main gate. David Porter had argued that the public was inconvenienced enough by the snarled traffic past Magnolia Lane during Masters Week. Why increase the odds of accidents and injuries by letting a group of protesters picket their entrance?

Richmond County Sheriff Leonard Garver saw the wisdom in Porter's position, as he usually did. If the club had a reasonable request, or even an unreasonable one, Garver tried to see things their way. The Masters inconvenienced his city once a year, but it also brought in millions of dollars. The area's hotels and eateries and souvenir shops depended on the income from the free-spending golf fans, and Garver had an obligation to see that they didn't take a financial hit to accommodate a pack of screaming gals at the gates.

Besides, Garver thought the protesters were nitwits. He saw nothing wrong with a men's club. Didn't these women have anything better to complain about?

With Garver's encouragement, the Augusta city council had passed a law requiring prior approval for any public gathering of five or more people. When the WOFF made it known they planned to picket in front of Magnolia Lane, Leonard Garver made it known they'd be arrested, pursuant to the new law. Rachel Drucker reluctantly accepted an alternative gathering spot away from the course.

“The networks and the newspapers will cover this goddamned protest all out of proportion, no matter where it's held,” Porter said to Garver Tuesday afternoon in the chairman's office. “It's not like we're stuffing a gag in their mouths. But we're not going to roll out the red carpet for them either.”

Leonard nodded, letting Porter lead the discussion, as usual.

“Have your boys figured out how the intruder got onto our property?” Porter asked.

“Now, David, don't go jumpin' to conclusions,” Garver said. “This is a wide-open investigation. Dennis Harwell is a thorough investigator, and he's lookin' at all possibilities. You say it wasn't a member or an employee, but we don't know that yet. If somebody came over your fence and killed Ashby, we'll find him. You might think about adding more guards.”

“We think our security is adequate, but I appreciate the suggestion.”

“It ain't adequate if somebody can sneak around the course and kill a person.”

Porter and Garver locked eyes for a moment. Then Garver got up to go check on the protest.

*

Sam had lunch in the men's grill. He'd read that when Jack Nicklaus played in the Masters as an amateur, he had filled up on the National's shrimp cocktail and New York strips, each costing just a dollar at the time. Sam treated himself to the same meal—though the price had certainly kept up with inflation—complemented by a glass of Kenwood cabernet, recommended by the club's wine steward. It was a far better meal than the traditional Masters lunch, sold at the concession tents and served in the press building: pimento cheese sandwiches, consisting of a slice of cheese slathered in mayonnaise between pieces of white bread, wrapped in a green paper baggie. Sam had tried one on Monday. One was enough.

Sam had the afternoon free to get in some extra practice, but at this point he knew it would be nerves, not technique, that would determine how well he played in the tournament. He recalled what Russ Daly had said about covering the WOFF protest, and decided to take a walk in that direction. He was curious to know if Ashby's death would draw more protesters to the demonstration, and what kind of impact that might have on the Masters. It was all part of the show this year, his one year at the Masters. Might as well take it all in.

He left the grounds through the gate near the players' parking lot and walked east on Washington Road. Within ten minutes he heard the sound of chanting: “Hey hey! Ho ho! Sexist Porter, time to go!”

Several police cars and satellite trucks were parked along the street and on the grass of a public park. A large pink inflated pig was tethered to the ground as a backdrop to a speaker's podium, from which Rachel Drucker was addressing a gathering of several hundred protesters carrying anti-Augusta National signs. Drucker was dressed in a blue pants suit and wore her hair in a short razor cut. Sam thought: She looks more like a cop than I do.

A half-dozen video crews were shooting while Drucker worked herself into a pique. There were many more protesters than Russ Daly had predicted—mostly younger women, college age or slightly older, many wearing green T-shirts with the WOFF logo. A woman with a nearly shaved head wore a long white sweatshirt on which she'd written “men only” in a red circle with a line through it. Hand-made protest signs read, “Fair Play on the Fair-way,” “dignity respect fairness,” “Sexism is a Handicap,” and “College: $80,000. Law School: $124,000. Busting up the Old Boy's Club: Priceless.”

Sam had worked crowd control at many protests. Before Ashby was killed, the WOFF rallies he'd seen on TV had an air of mock earnestness about them, as though the protesters knew they weren't going to change anything, but enjoyed embarrassing the CEOs with a little street theater. For the first time, the WOFF was beginning to attract and generate real anger.

“You can't silence us like you silenced Harmon Ashby!” Drucker yelled into her microphone.

Somebody must have taught her Ashby's name.

“No more, Mr. Porter!” Drucker yelled. “No more discrimination! No more secrecy! No more lies! No more sacrificing your own members to protect your precious boys club from the outside world! Your time is up, Mr. Porter! Come out from behind your gates, and let your sisters inside!”

Sam scanned the park. Despite the police presence, it wouldn't have been hard for a sniper to get a clear shot at Drucker. Given what happened to Ashby, it took guts for the WOFF leader to stand out in public now.

Among the several dozen cops and reporters on the periphery of the protest, one old man stood under the shade of a sycamore tree, holding a sign over his head that said, “make my dinner.” Sam laughed when he saw the sign.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” he heard someone say.

Sam turned to see Deborah Scanlon standing a few feet away from him.

“Yeah, if you've got a sense of humor,” Sam said.

“It's not funny—it's pathetic. Rachel is right, you know.”

They listened to Drucker repeat the same accusations again and again, varying only the order. She paused for chanting whenever she began to lose momentum.

Sam's interest level rose sharply when Drucker demanded that the players refuse to participate in this year's Masters.

“Yes!” Scanlon responded, raising a fist in the air, and turning to give Sam an accusatory look.

“It wouldn't mean squat to David Porter if I pulled out of the tournament,” Sam said to Scanlon. “Or if half the field pulled out, for that matter. What we do won't change this club.”

“Maybe not, but it's the right thing to do. This tournament has gone from an embarrassment to an abomination since Ashby was murdered.”

“Should the members quit, too?”

“They never should have joined in the first place.”

“Not many men are going to turn down an invitation to Augusta National.”

“You'd really want to be a member of a club that excludes half the world's population because they don't have dicks?” Scanlon replied.

“Augusta National excludes almost all of the world's population, not just half. I've got the same chance to join that you do: none.”

“That's not true,” she said. “You're a man.”

“That wouldn't matter to the membership committee.”

Scanlon shook her head in disgust, as if to suggest she was speaking to a moral pygmy. Then she lifted her chin and a smug grin spread across her face.

“Not every golfer worships at the shrine of Augusta National,” Scanlon said.

“I don't know one who doesn't,” Sam said.

“I'll bet you do,” she said. “Danny Milligan.”

Since his firing by CBS a decade earlier for making wisecracks about the Masters, Sam had heard and read Milligan's many jabs at the Lords of Augusta.

“My guess is he's still bitter about getting canned,” Sam said. “He didn't seem to hate the place all those years he was covering the tournament.”

“We'll see. I'm going to his house in Beech Island tomorrow to interview him. He promised me he'd really unload on David and the boys.”

“I read your column this morning,” Sam said. “You don't need to quote Milligan to get off a cheap shot at Augusta National.”

Scanlon's eyes narrowed. She took a step closer to Sam.

“You golfers always stick up for each other, don't you? Your buddies at Augusta National just couldn't have had anything to do with Ashby's murder.”

“I didn't say that,” Sam said. “I have no idea who killed Ashby. Neither do you. But that didn't stop you from pointing the finger at them this morning.”

“I'm a columnist. I get to express my opinion.”

“They treat you well here, don't they? Give you the run of the course, keep you comfortable in a nice air-conditioned press building, serve you five-star meals in their dining room. These are monsters?”

“No. I think only one of them is a monster. The rest are just cavemen.”

“So why accept their hospitality?”

“Tell me this, Skarda,” Scanlon said. “Have you ever had the braised lamb shanks at Augusta National?”

“No.”

“Well, I have, and I'm not passing them up no matter who serves them.”

“Now that's why you and I get along so well, Debbie,” said Russ Daly, who'd been jotting down notes from Rachel Drucker's speech until he spotted Sam and Scanlon and ambled over to join in. “You don't let your scruples get in the way of a good meal, either.”

“Oh, lick me, Daly,” Scanlon said. “Life's too short to waste it swapping insults with an unarmed man.”

“I just wanted to tell you I loved your column today,” Daly said to her, mopping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. “Seriously. Even I couldn't have strung David Porter up by the privates the way you did. You dispensed with the trial and went straight to the execution. Any anonymous death threats today?”

Scanlon actually smiled at Daly's question.

“I haven't checked my messages for a few hours,” she said. “I'll let you know.”

Scanlon turned and made her way through the assembled protesters toward the podium. She was dressed in tight black slacks and a black blazer, dramatically setting off her short, white-blond hair. The total effect made her stand out in the crowd like a rock star at a church social.

“What a piece of work,” Daly said, shaking his head. “She almost gives us cheap-shot artists a bad name.”

“What do you think of the turnout?” Sam asked.

“I'm stunned,” Daly said. “There's a few hundred more misguided souls here than I thought there'd be. I guess a murder is good for ratings in the protest business, too.”

A sustained chant of “What do we want? Membership!! When do we want it? Now!!” died away, and then Rachel Drucker revved up again

“Sisters and brothers, did you read the New York Times today?” she shouted. Some applauded and yelled their approval. “Their wonderful columnist, Deborah Scanlon, wrote a brilliant piece in today's paper that told it like it is. My good friend Deborah is with us today, and I'd like her permission to quote from her column.”

As the crowd cheered, Scanlon's blonde head nodded consent near the podium. Drucker put on a pair of glasses and began to read:

“‘…anyone who speaks out against the virulent sexism of Augusta National will pay dearly for the indiscretion…The world is finally closing in on these throwbacks to the antebellum South days; the noose—if you will forgive the use of that term in this context—is tightening around the club…There is still time for this club to redeem itself. If, as so many suspect, the killer can be found in the club's directory, David Porter must do all he can to help bring him to justice. Then, the next step is clear: Begin to remove this stain by admitting not just one woman, but many. And not next week, or next year. Now!'”

The crowed roared.

A few minutes later, Drucker left the podium and the crowd began to disperse. Sam took another look at the perimeter of the field. If someone had wanted to take a shot at Drucker, they'd had their chance.

Chapter Twelve

Deborah Scanlon returned to the Augusta National media center after the WOFF rally, gratified to have heard her own words echoing from the loudspeakers. She watched the coverage at her work station, and was pleased to see that every newscast was devoting several minutes to the protest. What the WOFF lacked in numbers, it was making up for in air time. Scanlon was also pleased to see that her own face was included in most of the reports, as a cut-in when Rachel Drucker was quoting from her column. Maybe there's a book deal in this, she thought as she flipped through the channels.