by Ron Levitsky
“You sound like a candidate for G.U.N.”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy. I just want you to see how easy someone like Basehart could get riled up. These Slants have been his new project—I’m having his latest speeches and handouts collated for you. He hates these Vietnamese more than the niggers and Jews put together. It wouldn’t have taken much to give him an excuse to put one of them away permanently. Why, one of his followers was arrested a few weeks ago for breaking a Slant’s store window just a block away from the scene of this crime.”
“Basehart says he’s innocent.”
“That’s for a jury to decide but, knowing his kind, I’d bet he’s guilty as sin.”
Wilkes looked at his watch. “Yes, well, you’ve about convinced me. Saunders should get an easy conviction. I’d better be getting back to the office. I want to finish the canning company file before lunch. You and Florence have a wonderful holiday. You deserve it.” He began to rise, but Simpson grabbed his arm.
“Do I have to feed you the whole pig before you know what you’re eating? Look, boy, I’m assigning this case to you.”
Wilkes sat back in his chair and shook his head. “This type of crime is Saunders’s specialty. I do environmental and insurance cases. You know that.”
“Not this time, Jimmy. It’s your baby.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“A lot of reasons. This is a big case, not just something between a no-account like Basehart and some Slant hooker. You were right before when you said times’ve changed. This is the new South. No more water hoses turned on elderly black mammies. The world’s going to be watching how we handle this—at least the Washington and New York papers will be. We can’t let Basehart get acquitted by a bunch of cracker jurymen. The F.B.I.’d come marching in, snooping around, and set up one of their civil rights violation cases against Basehart with us on the bench holding the towels. No sir. Can’t have that.”
“All the more reason for you to want an experienced man like Saunders to handle it.”
Simpson shook his head. “There’s going to be television and press coverage. Saunders comes off like a used-car salesman. Hell, I’m his boss, and I don’t even trust him. But you, Jimmy, look as clean-cut and dull as one of them Harvard boys. Why, I can just see your face on the late news all pink and clean. This is going to help you a lot. With me stepping down next year, folks’ll be looking for a new Commonwealth’s Attorney. Might as well be you.”
Wilkes slowly straightened in his chair. “Now I understand. You’re doing all this for me. You’re setting me up for the next election.”
“It’s not that. Not entirely, that is. You deserve this opportunity. You’ve earned it.”
“Have I, Edgar? You should see Saunders back in the office. He’s salivating over this case like it’s a two-inch thick steak. He’s more qualified for this type of trial. We both know that.”
“Damn it, Jimmy, stop being so damn . . . good! Think of yourself for once. Think of Ellie and the kids. And what about your daddy?”
“He’s been dead for six years.”
“How do you think he’d feel if he were alive today? Why, you’re doing the same damn job you were doing the day we put him into the ground—God rest his soul. Your daddy and I grew up together. We started with nothing but the dirt under our fingernails.”
“I know, Edgar.”
“Well, you never act like you do. Your daddy was the best fire chief this country ever had, and me . . . I didn’t do so bad either. Don’t know what all these books here mean, but I know how to get things done.”
“Like Saunders.”
“It wouldn’t hurt for you to be a little like Saunders in some ways. He knows what he wants. He’s got the killer instinct. Yeah, like a fighter. With a case like this, he’d make himself a shoe-in for my job. How’d you like to be working for him?”
Wilkes shook his head. “Don’t misunderstand me. I want to do it, and I see where it could lead. It’s just . . . Tell me, Edgar, would you’ve given me this opportunity if the case had been really difficult?”
Slowly lifting himself like a surfacing hippo, Simpson stuffed his handkerchief into a back pocket. “Commonwealth’s Attorneys don’t deal in ‘what if’ questions. All we’re interested in is what’s de facto. This Basehart case is de facto, and so is his ass. Walk me out to the car.”
The rain had stopped, but Wilkes felt the gray mist like a cold hand upon his shoulder. Mrs. Simpson was already in the back seat, as the Commonwealth’s Attorney eased himself beside her.
Simpson said, “I already told Lt. Canary that you’re in charge of the case. He expects you down at the scene of the crime . . . pronto. How’s my Spanish? I’ll be back in a week. I know you won’t let your daddy down. Adios, boy.”
Wilkes watched the car move down the driveway and quickly lose itself among the magnolia trees. He went back to sit on the front steps and looked down to the knot stuck in the middle of the second step. When they were kids, Tad had said the knot was really a fingerprint of a would-be murderer creeping up the stairs and only scared away at the last minute by his father yelling inside the house.
It had gone all wrong. Tad should’ve been the one following his father’s footsteps; he was the one who was tough, who had all the plans. Wilkes wanted to lean against the railing and remember his friend but thought he heard Simpson yelling, from down the highway, for him to get moving and meet Canary. Sighing, he stood and walked slowly to his car. Just as he reached for the door, raindrops big as tears splattered against his hand.
Chapter Two – MONDAY MORNING
The last great bump in the road woke Nate Rosen with a start, tossing the birthday card from his lap. He tried looking out the bus window to see where he was going (being on the road so much, he had forgotten), but his neck had grown stiff, allowing him only to bend down and retrieve the card. It was for his daughter, and as usual he had begun, “Dear Sarah,” and stopped, waiting for the right words to come. Sometimes it took days. Words were precious when he saw her so infrequently; as the Talmud stated, words were like bees—they had honey or they could sting. And Sarah had already been stung enough by the divorce.
Pulling the briefcase onto his lap, Rosen put away the card and opened the top folder, remembering that he was on his way to some Godforsaken town called Muskrat . . . no, Musket Shoals. He glanced over the notes from the lecture he had given last night and read the name “Edison Basehart” scribbled on the top sheet. Yawning, he remembered the phone call from his office that woke him before his alarm. “Your vacation’s been put on hold. Go to this . . . Musket Shoals and see about an accused murderer, Edison Basehart.”
Putting his briefcase on the empty seat beside him, he looked out the window into a countryside filled with rolling meadows interrupted by an occasional paddock and grazing horses. The sun suddenly broke through the dark clouds, and after three days of rain every color was brilliant, like a Van Gogh, so that his eyes blinked several times before growing accustomed to the light. Horses had always fascinated Rosen—their strength tempered by gentleness, endurance by service, beauty by humility—the very qualities God required of man and so seldom found. For an instant he thought of getting off the bus there and then, leaving his briefcase behind to take that long walk among the horses, but he sighed (so loudly the people across the aisle turned their heads), supposing he had done enough running away in his life. Or maybe he was simply tired from the long ride.
Rubbing his eyes and wondering if it was worth trying to get more sleep, he asked the people across the aisle, an elderly couple, “Is it much longer until we reach”—he had forgotten the name again—“before we reach town?”
The old man shook his head and smiled. “We’re here. That sawmill we just passed, that was the beginning of the city limits. Downtown’s just up ahead. You’re a stranger, huh? Business or pleasure?”
The old man was getting ready for a conversation, but Rosen was in no mood. He preferred getting back to t
he horses, and so he replied, “Business,” and turned to the window.
It was too late. The pastures had given way to a straggling of frame houses which in turn organized themselves into rows of streets with larger homes, stores, and cute little colonial shops—the kind spelled “shoppe” and found on picture postcards. Rosen saw a sign brightly painted with the words “Ye Are Welcome” written in colonial script, and a moment later the bus wheezed to a halt directly in front of the station’s doorway. He waited for everyone to exit; in passing the friendly old man smiled a good-bye. After all the other passengers had departed, the bus driver lifted himself from his seat and, seeing Rosen still on board, hesitated like a ship’s captain waiting for his last charge to disembark safely.
“Need any help?” the driver asked, looking at his watch.
“You really don’t want to know,” Rosen replied softly while he pulled down his suitcase from the luggage rack, grabbed his briefcase, and stepped out into Musket Shoals. Once again it was drizzling.
Someone called, “Mr. Rosen?”
He looked carefully at the other man before answering, a habit formed by over a decade of journeying to small towns like this, the stranger in town seeing everyone else as a stranger. The other man smiled good-naturedly and, despite his massive shoulders and arms, seemed harmless enough. “You are Mr. Rosen?”
“Yes. And you must be Basehart’s attorney, Mr. . . . ah . . .”
“Collinsby. Yes sir, Lester Collinsby.” He came forward with a slight limp and shook hands firmly.
“Of course. Can we start off by me calling you Lester and you calling me Nate? If that’s o.k.”
“That’ll do just fine.”
“Unless you’ve got one of those colorful regional names—like Lester Joe, or Lester Lee, or Lester Sue. . . .”
Collinsby laughed. “You don’t want to know what they call me. Lester’ll be just fine, Mr. Rosen . . . Nate. Any more luggage?”
“No, I’m used to traveling light. Thanks for meeting me. I know you weren’t given much notice.”
“Telegram came first thing this morning to the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office, and they forwarded it to me.” He pulled the piece of paper from his pocket as proof. “It’s kind of confusing, to tell the truth.”
“Is there a place to eat? I didn’t have a chance to get breakfast before leaving Charlottesville.”
“Sure. There’s a coffee shop right across the street. Here, let me take your suitcase. I made a reservation next door at the Custis Hotel. It’s clean and reasonable.”
As they left the bus station, Rosen saw a squad car parked down the street. The officer behind the wheel was staring at him while talking into his radio. Putting down the speaker, the policeman continued to watch the two men walk into the coffee shop.
It was almost nine thirty; the restaurant was nearly empty. They took a table near the window and, despite Collinsby’s suggestion of the “house special”—country ham with red eye gravy and grits, Rosen ordered scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast.
The waitress asked Collinsby, “Can I get you something, Cowpie?”
Blushing, Collinsby looked down at the table. “Just coffee.”
“Cowpie?” Rosen said.
“I . . . played football in high school and college. One day a bunch of the team got drunk and scrimmaged in a pasture. I took the ball, plowed through the line, and fell square onto a pile of . . . Well, it’s a small town. The name kinda stuck, though if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you called me Lester.”
Biting his lip, Rosen nodded. “All right, Lester. Tell me about the Basehart case.”
“Wait a minute,” Collinsby said. “You’ve got some explaining to do first.”
Rosen shrugged. “O.K.”
“Well . . .” He scratched his head. “Maybe it’d be best if you just told me what you’re doing here.”
“In other words, why I’ve poked my nose into other people’s business. That’s all right—I’m used to this kind of reaction. You’ve heard of my organization, the C.D.C.?”
“Uh . . .”
“The Committee for the Defense of the Constitution. We’re based in Washington.”
“Sure. Well, sort of.”
“I don’t blame you. We’re not as big as the A.C.L.U., but we get around. Last year in Texas one of our attorneys helped a group of Mexican aliens get the minimum working wage while fighting for naturalization. You might say we’re like Basehart’s G.U.N., only pointed in the opposite direction. One of our directors heard about this case, and Basehart’s political leanings, on the radio early this morning. I was close by—I’ve been attending a conference on Jefferson and the Bill of Rights at the University of Virginia. So he called and ordered me on a bus to your fair city. C.D.C. is offering your client me as your associate, free of charge. That is, of course, if you and he agree.”
Looking down at his plate, Collinsby folded his napkin into a small square then began tearing the edges. “Look, Mr. Rosen, it’s not like I don’t appreciate the offer and I’m not usually one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but maybe you don’t understand about this organization of Basehart’s—this G.U.N. It’s the kind of thing your group’s fighting.”
“Yeah, it does sound crazy. But some people, like my bosses, really believe all this Constitution crap about free speech. Even the slightest hint that Basehart might be tried because he has some unusual political beliefs . . . well, it sends them up the wall. They lose sleep. Their ears get raw from talking to each other about it on the telephone. They’d tear their clothes and heap ashes on their heads for this guy if it’d do any good.”
Collinsby stared at him for a long time. Finally he said, “There’s something else you’d better know. I guess you don’t understand. I hope you won’t be offended, but Rosen—that’s a Jewish name.”
Rosen nodded.
“And you’re of the Jewish persuasion?”
Laughing, the other man nodded.
“Well, Mr. Rosen, your people are exactly who Basehart gives his speeches about—you and Negroes and Slants . . . Vietnamese. He calls you . . . your people, that is . . .” He paused to swallow hard. “All sorts of names.”
“I’m sure I’ve heard them all. I appreciate your concern for my feelings, Lester, but my skin’s about as thick as an elephant’s. I’ve dealt for and against a dozen Edison Baseharts.”
“He might not want you representing him. I don’t want you expecting too much.”
Just then the policeman who had been watching them outside entered the restaurant. He looked the same as the thousand other small town cops Rosen had seen in his career. The only difference was the policeman’s eyes; set so closely together, they continually blinked as if making sure both were seeing the same thing. He stopped at their booth. “Hello, Cowpie. Damn if it ain’t raining again.”
“Hi, Landon. I heard there could be a break in the weather sometime middle of the week. It’d be nice to see the sun for a change.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Well, I’m just gonna grab myself a cup of . . .”
“Nice bit of police work,” Rosen said, “finding that suspect Basehart so quickly.”
The policeman blinked hard, as he looked the attorney up and down.
“The news said you found the murder weapon in a trash bin right outside the victim’s apartment. Talk about a lucky break. Then to find the prime suspect sleeping in his house, just waiting for you to pick him up. Yeah, I’d say that was lucky. A little like lightning striking twice in the same place.”
“Meaning what?”
Sipping his second cup of coffee, Rosen said, “Meaning I can’t wait to find out what else your department has found. Should be quite a lesson in law enforcement procedure.”
Again the policeman blinked. He was about to say something but stopped, sauntered down the aisle, and sat in a corner booth, his nervous eyes still staring at Rosen.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Collinsby said. “I’ve got to work
with those people.”
“Why was he leaning on me?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been watching me ever since I got off the bus. Why am I so interesting to him?”
Collinsby shook his head. “Landon came in for a coffee break. So he stops to say hello to me. You’re just imagining things, Nate.”
“Maybe.” Rosen rubbed his eyes. “Didn’t get much sleep, and I wasn’t expecting another assignment so soon. Been on the road a lot. Too much.”
“Sure, I understand. To be honest, I think you’ve made this trip for nothing. I don’t think Edison Basehart’ll take you on as co-counsel. Your . . . religion and all.”
“Let Basehart stew in jail today. Let him think about facing a murder charge and the electric chair. Tomorrow we’ll see how he feels about being represented by a member of the Jewish persuasion. If you’re right, fine with me. I can start my vacation like I’d planned. Have you visited the murder scene yet?”
“Uh, no. I hadn’t really planned on . . .”
“Let’s go.”
“You mean now?”
When Rosen nodded, Collinsby pushed back his chair. “All right. Let me call the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office and get the visit cleared.” He hesitated. “Nate, excuse me for saying so, but you don’t seem so keen on doing this job. Are you?”
Rosen shrugged. When Collinsby stood, however, he said, “Wait a minute, Lester. Since we may be working together, you’ve got the right to have that question answered, though I don’t know if you’ll understand.” He played with his fork upon the plate. “No matter what my feelings are concerning Basehart, I know how to do my job. It is written that the righteous man doesn’t merely read and speak the word of God, he lives it through his actions. He follows the Law. Not the inconsequential law of man, which may deprive Basehart only of his life. I’m talking about the six hundred and thirteen commandments, the disobedience of which threatens your very soul. I’m talking about the Supreme Hanging Judge Who only needs an excuse, Who stands over me, like you are right now, every moment of my life. No, Lester, I know how to do my job. Make the call.” His fork scraped against the plate, making sounds like claws.
