The Last Juror (10 page)

It was hard not to take this personally. She certainly didn’t intend to criticize anyone. I vowed to proofread the copy with much more enthusiasm.

I also left with the feeling that I had entered a new and rewarding friendship.

CHAPTER 9

W
e ran another large photo on the front page. It was Wiley’s shot of the bomb before the police dismantled it. The headline above it screamed: BOMB PLANTED IN
TIMES
OFFICE.

My story began with Piston and his unlikely discovery. It included every detail I could substantiate, and a few I could not. No comment from the chief of police, a few meaningless sentences from Sheriff Coley. It ended with a summary of the findings by the state crime lab, and a prediction that, if detonated, the bomb would have caused “massive” damage to the buildings on the south side of the square.

Wiley would not allow me to use a photo of his badly bruised face, though I pleaded desperately with him to do so. On the bottom half of the front page I ran the headline
TIMES
PHOTOGRAPHER ASSAULTED AT
HOME. Again, my story spared no detail, though Wiley insisted he be allowed to edit it.

In both stories, and with no effort at being subtle, I linked the crimes and implied rather strongly that little was being done by the authorities, especially Sheriff Coley, to prevent further intimidation. I never named the Padgitts. I didn’t have to. Everyone in the county knew they were bullying me and my newspaper.

Spot had been too lazy for editorials. He’d written only one during my stint as an employee. A congressman from Oregon had filed some nutty bill that would somehow affect the cutting of redwood trees—more cutting or maybe less, it really wasn’t clear. This had upset Spot. For two weeks he labored over an editorial and finally ran a two-thousand-word tirade. It was obvious to anyone with a high school education that he wrote with a pen in one hand and a dictionary in the other. The first paragraph was filled with more six-syllable words than anyone had ever seen and was virtually unreadable. Spot was shocked when there was no response from the community. He expected a flood of sympathetic letters. Few of his readers could have survived the flood from Webster’s.

Finally, three weeks later, a hand-scrawled note was slid under the front door of the office. It read:

Dear Editor: I’m sorry you’re so worked up over the redwoods, which we don’t have in Mississippi. If Congress starts messing with pulpwood, would you please let us know?

It was unsigned, but Spot ran it anyway. He was relieved that someone out there was paying attention. Baggy told me later that the note was written by one of his drinking buddies in the courthouse.

My editorial began, “A free and uninhibited press is crucial to sound democratic government.” Without being windy or preachy, I went on for four paragraphs extolling the importance of an energetic and inquisitive newspaper, not only for the country but for every small community as well. I vowed that the
Times
would not be frightened away from reporting local crimes, whether they were rapes and murders or corrupt acts by public officials.

It was bold, gutsy, and downright brilliant. The townsfolk were on my side. It was, after all, the
Times
versus the Padgitts and their Sheriff. We were taking a mighty stand against bad people, and though they were dangerous they were evidently not intimidating me. I kept telling myself to act brave, and I really had no choice. What was my paper supposed to do—ignore the Kassellaw murder? Take it easy on Danny Padgitt?

My staff was elated with the editorial. Margaret said it made her proud to work for the
Times.
Wiley, still nursing his wounds, was now carrying a gun and looking for a fight. “Give ’em hell, rookie,” he said.

Only Baggy was skeptical. “You’re gonna get yourself hurt,” he said.

And Miss Callie once again described me as courageous. Lunch the following Thursday lasted for only two hours and included Esau. I actually began taking
notes about her family. More important, she’d found only three errors in that week’s edition.

______

I
was alone in my office early Friday afternoon when someone made a noisy entrance downstairs, then came clamoring up. He shoved my door open without so much as a “Hello” and stuck both hands in his pants pockets. He looked vaguely familiar; we’d met somewhere around the square.

“You got one of these, boy?” he growled, yanking his right hand out and momentarily freezing my heart and lungs. He slid a shiny pistol across my desk as if it were a set of keys. It spun wildly for a few seconds before resting directly before me, the barrel mercifully pointing toward the windows.

He lunged across the desk, thrust out a massive hand, and said, “Harry Rex Vonner, a pleasure.” I was too stunned to speak or move, but eventually honored him with an embarrassingly weak handshake. I was still watching the gun.

“It’s a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight, six-shooter, damned fine firearm. You carry one?”

I shook my head no. The name alone sent chills to my feet.

Harry Rex kept a nasty black cigar tucked into the left side of his mouth. It gave the impression of having spent most of the day there, slowly disintegrating like a plug of chewing tobacco. No smoke because it wasn’t
lit. He dropped his massive body into a leather chair as if he might stay for a couple of hours.

“You a crazy sumbitch, you know that?” He didn’t speak as much as he growled. Then I caught the name. He was a local lawyer, once described by Baggy as the meanest divorce attorney in the county. He had a large fleshy face with short hair that shot in all directions like windblown straw. His ancient khaki suit was wrinkled and stained and said to the world that Harry Rex didn’t give a damn about anything.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked, pointing at the gun.

“First you load it, I’ll give you some bullets, then you stick it in your pocket and carry it with you everywhere you go, and when one of them Padgitt thugs jumps out from behind the bushes you blast him right between the eyes.” To help convey his message, he moved his index finger through the air like a bullet and poked himself between the eyes.

“It’s not loaded?”

“Hell no. Don’t you know anything about guns?”

“Afraid not.”

“Well, you’d better learn, boy, at the rate you’re goin’.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I did a divorce one time, ten years ago I guess, for a man whose young wife liked to sneak over to the brothel and make a few bucks. The guy worked offshore, stayed gone all the time, had no idea what she was up to. He finally found out. The Padgitts owned the whorehouse
and one of them had taken a shine to the young lady.” Somehow the cigar stayed in place, bobbing up and down with the narrative. “My client was heartbroken and he wanted blood. He got it. They caught him out one night and beat him senseless.”

“They?”

“The Padgitts I’m sure, or some of their operatives.”

“Operatives?”

“Yeah, they got all sorts of thugs who work for them. Leg breakers, bomb throwers, car stealers, hit men.”

He allowed the “hit men” to hang in the air while he watched me flinch. He gave the impression of one who could tell stories forever without being unduly burdened by veracity. Harry Rex had a nasty grin and a twinkle in his eyes, and I strongly suspected some embellishment was under way.

“And of course they were never caught,” I said.

“Padgitts never get caught.”

“What happened to your client?”

“He spent a few months in the hospital. The brain damage was pretty severe. In and out of institutions, really sad. Broke his family. He drifted to the Gulf Coast where they elected him to the state senate.”

I smiled and nodded at what I hoped was a lie, but I didn’t pursue it. Without touching the cigar with his hands, he flicked his tongue somehow and cocked his head, and it slid to the right side of his mouth.

“You ever eat goat?” he asked.

“Say what?”

“Goat?”

“No. I didn’t know it was edible.”

“We’re roastin’ one this afternoon. The first Friday of each month I throw a goat party at my cabin in the woods. Some music, cold beer, fun and games, about fifty folks, all carefully selected by me, the cream of society. No doctors, no bankers, no country club assholes. A classy bunch. Why don’t you stop by? I got a firin’ range out behind the pond. I’ll take the pistol and we’ll figure out how to use the damned thing.”

______

H
arry Rex’s ten-minute drive into the country took almost half an hour, and that was on the paved county road. When I crossed the “third creek past Heck’s old Union 76 station,” I left the asphalt and turned onto gravel. For a while it was a nice gravel road with mailboxes indicating some hope of civilization, but after three miles the mail route stopped and so did the gravel. When I saw a “rusted-out Massey Ferguson tractor with no tires,” I turned left onto a dirt road. His crude map referred to it as a pig trail, though I had never seen one of those. After the pig trail disappeared into a dense forest, I gave serious thought to turning back. My Spitfire wasn’t designed for the terrain. By the time I saw the roof of his cabin, I’d been driving for forty-five minutes.

There was a barbed-wire fence with an open metal gate, and I stopped there because the young man with the shotgun wanted me to. He kept it on his shoulder as he looked scornfully at my car. “What kind is it?” he grunted.

“Triumph Spitfire. It’s British.” I was smiling, trying not to offend him. Why did a goat party need armed security? He had the rustic look of someone who’d never seen a car made in another country.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Willie Traynor.”

I think the “Willie” made him feel better, so he nodded at the gate. “Nice car,” he said as I drove through.

The pickup trucks outnumbered the cars. Parking was haphazard in a field in front of the cabin. Merle Haggard was wailing from two speakers placed in the windows. One group of guests huddled over a pit where smoke was rising and the goat was roasting. Another group was tossing horseshoes beside the cabin. Three well-dressed ladies were on the porch, sipping something that was certainly not beer. Harry Rex appeared and greetly me warmly.

“Who’s the boy with the shotgun?” I asked.

“Oh him. That’s Duffy, my first wife’s nephew.”

“Why is he out there?” If the goat party included something illegal, I at least wanted some notice.

“Don’t worry. Duffy ain’t all there, and the gun ain’t loaded. He’s been guardin’ nothin’ for years.”

I smiled as if this made perfect sense. He guided me to the pit where I saw my first goat, dead or alive. With the exception of head and hide, it appeared to be intact. I was introduced to the many chefs. With each name I got an occupation—a lawyer, a bail bondsman, a car dealer, a farmer. As I watched the goat spin slowly on a spit, I soon learned that there were many competing
theories on how to properly barbecue one. Harry Rex handed me a beer and we moved on to the cabin, speaking to anyone we bumped into. A secretary, a “crooked real estate agent,” the current wife of Harry Rex. Each seemed pleased to meet the new owner of the
Times.

The cabin sat on the edge of a muddy pond, the kind snakes find attractive. A deck protruded over the water, and there we worked the crowd. Harry Rex took great delight in introducing me to his friends. “He’s a good boy, not your typical Ivy League asshole,” he said more than once. I didn’t like to be referred to as a “boy,” but then I was getting used to it.

I settled into a small group that included two ladies who looked as though they’d spent years in the local honky-tonks. Heavy eye makeup, teased hair, tight clothing, and they immediately took an interest in me. The conversation began with the bomb and the assault on Wiley Meek and the prevailing cloud of fear the Padgitts had spread over the county. I acted as if it was just another routine episode in my long and colorful career in journalism. They drilled me with questions and I did more talking than I wanted to.

Harry Rex rejoined us and handed me a suspicious-looking jar of clear liquid. “Sip it slowly,” he said, much like a father.

“What is it?” I asked. I noticed that others were watching.

“Peach brandy.”

“Why is it in a fruit jar?” I asked.

“That’s the way they make it,” he said.

“It’s moonshine,” one of the painted ladies said. The voice of experience.

Not often would these rural folks see an “Ivy Leaguer” take his first drink of moonshine, so the crowd drew closer. I was certain I had consumed more alcohol in the prior five years at Syracuse than anyone else present, so I threw caution to the wind. I lifted the jar, said, “Cheers,” and took a very small sip. I smacked my lips, said, “Not bad.” And tried to smile like a freshman at a fraternity party.

The burning began at the lips, the point of initial contact, and spread rapidly across the tongue and gums and by the time it hit the back of my throat I thought I was on fire. Everyone was watching. Harry Rex took a sip from his jar.

“Where does it come from?” I asked, as nonchalantly as possible, flames escaping through my teeth.

“Not far from here,” someone said.

Scorched and numb, I took another sip, quite anxious for the crowd to ignore me for a while. Oddly enough, the third sip revealed a hint of peach flavoring, as if the taste buds had to be shocked before they could work. When it was apparent that I was not going to breathe fire, vomit, or scream, the conversation resumed. Harry Rex, ever anxious to speed along my education, thrust forward a plate of fried something. “Have one of these,” he said.

“What is it?” I asked, suspicious.

Both of my painted ladies curled up their noses and
turned away, as if the smell might make them ill. “Chitlins,” one of them said.

“What’s that?”

Harry Rex popped one in his mouth to prove they weren’t poison, then shoved the plate closer to me. “Go ahead,” he said, chomping away at this delicacy.