Grass Roots

by Stuart Woods

  Will was staring at the carpet. This was astonishing. Ben Carr was well-known for not supporting candidates in primaries.

  “I’ll raise two million dollars for you,” Carr said.

  Will looked at him, amazed, but still said nothing.

  The Senator bored into him. “Listen to me, son. I’ll let it be known in the right quarters that if I die in office, I want you to be appointed to succeed me. I know that’s no guarantee, but the Governor owes me more than a few favors, and I think he might just abide by my wishes in such an event.”

  Will took a deep breath and started to speak, but the Senator interrupted him.

  “Oh, hell, you know damn good and well that I’d do all that for you anyway, whether you stay on with me or not, but goddammit, boy, I need you.” He stopped talking, finally, and waited.

  Will looked at the old man, who had become a second father to him during the past eight years. Ben Carr was a lifelong bachelor, and Will knew as well as he knew anything that he was the closest thing to a son the man would ever have. Their relationship was like that of many Southern men—even father and son: open affection was an embarrassment, to be shown only in a word, a gesture, a warm handshake. It was taken for granted that each of them knew how the other felt, and in this case, neither man was wrong.

  He had joined the Senator’s staff as a junior administrative assistant, had progressed quickly to chief legislative assistant, then chief administrative assistant, and, finally, to what amounted to chief of staff. During the first four years, he had reorganized the office, vastly improving constituent services. For two years after that, as a legislative assistant, he had expanded the Senator’s research network and had personally written every formal statement Carr had made in committee or to the press. As counsel to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, which Carr chaired, Will had become an acknowledged expert on the United States intelligence community, with an intimate working knowledge of budgets and operations. And, finally, in the past two years, as chief of staff, he had devoted himself to assembling for the Senator what knowledgeable members of the press called the best staff on the Hill. He had thought his work was done, but now he knew it was not.

  “Of course I’ll stay on, Senator,” Will said, then smiled. “And thank you for making it so easy for me.”

  Ben Carr stood up and offered his hand. “Thank you, Will. I’ll do my best to see you don’t regret it.” He placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and guided him to the door. “I don’t think it’s too early for you to start planning your campaign, and you surely ought to be seen a lot at home. You can have as much time off as you want to dig in down there.”

  Will stopped at his office door. “Thank you, sir, I appreciate that.” He cocked his head to one side. “Can I give you a lift to Atlanta? It’s right on my way. No trouble at all.”

  Carr grabbed Will’s shoulder and shook him slightly. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not getting me in one of those little airplanes. I’ll stick to the airlines. If I die on one, at least I’ll have a lot of company on the way down.”

  “You don’t seem to mind a chopper ride every now and then.” Will grinned. He knew the Senator would be met by a wealthy friend’s helicopter at the Atlanta airport and flown to his farm in south Georgia.

  “That’s different,” the Senator replied gravely. “That has a bar on it.”

  “Whatever you say,” Will laughed.

  But Ben Carr had not let go of Will’s shoulder. He squeezed it again, and for a moment Will thought the Senator, normally undemonstrative, was going to embrace him. Instead, Carr gave him a crooked smile, pushed him through the door, and closed it behind him.

  *

  Will drove the Porsche down Capitol Hill and, instead of heading for the airport at College Park, Maryland, turned back toward Georgetown. He felt a little numb, but elated. First of all, he had not been looking forward all that much to returning to Delano, Georgia, to a country law practice, to the hard work of assembling a political campaign against formidable odds. His father, who had been a governor, would help, of course, but it was hard for someone who had never run for office to put together a credible candidacy for the United States Senate. Now he wouldn’t have to do that, not yet, anyway, and when he did, he’d have Ben Carr paving the way.

  In Georgetown, he turned into P Street with the assurance of a man who had just had the course of his life plotted and ensured. He was going to get everything he wanted, and part of what he wanted was in P Street, a couple of blocks past his own town house. He found a parking place, got out, and raced up the steps, quietly letting himself in with his key. Before he closed the front door, he rang the bell three times, their usual signal; then he punched in the alarm code and trotted up the stairs to her bedroom.

  Katharine Rule turned over, brushing the auburn hair from her sleepy eyes. “What are you doing back?” she mumbled. “You just left, didn’t you?” She smiled as he sat on the bed.

  He bent over and nuzzled the warm-with-sleep hollow of her neck. “I had to come back and tell you what’s happened.”

  “What could happen at this hour on a Saturday morning?” she asked, puzzled. She was awake now.

  “The Senator was in his office when I got there.” He related their conversation.

  She placed a hand on his cheek. “You’ll be here, then, where I can get my hands on you.”

  “You betcha,” he said. “I’ll have to go back to Georgia, of course, just like I’d planned, but not for another couple of years.”

  She pulled his head down to her and kissed him. “So I don’t have to come to Georgia as the candidate’s wife yet? I’ve got a reprieve?”

  “Not unless you want a reprieve. I’ll marry you today, if you like.”

  She kissed him again. “Listen, sport, there’s plenty of time for that.” She looked a little embarrassed. “I didn’t want to tell you just yet, but Beken took me aside yesterday and told me he’s behind me for ADDI. He’s willing to recommend me. That means, if I want it, it’s mine.” The look she gave him now begged for his indulgence.

  “Assistant Deputy Director for Intelligence?”

  “Right. I was going to pass, but if I’ve got another couple of years, well …”

  “The first woman in the job?”

  A smile spread across her face. “The very first.” Now her guard was down. “Oh, Will, I’ve dreamed about having a shot at this. I’ve wanted it so much, and I had begun to think I’d never get it.”

  “I’m glad there’s time for you to have a shot at it.”

  “We’ll have to keep things as they are, though,” she said. It was a question; she was looking at him worriedly. “You do understand? If Beken or the Director got wind of our relationship, it could cut the ground right from under me at a time when I’m about to get everything I really want at the Agency.”

  He grinned. “Things are pretty good. I’m satisfied. Two years from next November, though, and we’re off to Georgia?”

  “You’ve got a deal.”

  He kissed her. “Did I ever mention that I like kissing you when you’ve been asleep? Your mouth is so warm.”

  “Mmmmm,” she said. “Come back to bed.”

  *

  As he left the house and got back into the Porsche, Will was glad he’d come back to tell Kate the news. Still, he was a little apprehensive about her promotion. She liked her work, and she was brilliant at it. She had been head of the Soviet Office at the Central Intelligence Agency, but two years before, in what seemed to be a lateral move, after most of the hierarchy had resigned after a scandal, she had been shuffled into a special assistant’s job, Liaison to the Operations Directorate, with no real authority. Seemingly at a dead end, her enthusiasm had waned to the point where she had promised to leave the Agency and marry him when he returned to Georgia to prepare his campaign for the Senate.

  Now, she was up for an important promotion, to one of the top half-dozen jobs in the Agency. He wondered whether, in only a coup
le of years’ time, she would be ready to leave it.

  He turned up the car’s heater. It had suddenly become colder.

  2

  Will drove to the little airport at College Park, Maryland. It was the only general aviation airport in the Washington, D.C., area, founded by the Wright Brothers. He drove the car out to the tie-down and loaded his luggage and two briefcases into the Cessna 182RG, then parked the car in the lot and left the keys at the office. The car would be collected and garaged at a local gas station.

  After a thorough preflight inspection of the single-engine airplane, he phoned air-traffic control for his clearance, then took off, following the airport’s mandated departure procedure. The little field was surrounded by the University of Maryland and a heavily built-up area that was allergic to aircraft noise. He contacted Washington Departure and was cleared to ascend to his cruising altitude of eight thousand feet.

  In a moment, he was into the two-thousand-foot overcast, and at four thousand feet, he broke out into sunshine and clear skies. He had picked up a little ice in the clouds, but now the sun melted it away. Shortly, he was over Virginia and headed south by southwest. The sun streamed into the airplane, warming the air and washing away the cares of the capital city, and he began to unwind as he could only at the end of a congressional session. He felt a tug of regret at leaving Kate behind, but she was spending Christmas with her son and her parents.

  As he flew on toward Georgia, the clouds beneath him became broken, then scattered, then gave way entirely to give the earthbound a sparkling day. The green fields of North Carolina rolled out before him, and the blue of the Appalachian chain rose to his right. Again, he allowed himself to feel the wave of satisfaction that had come with Benjamin Carr’s promise to help him be elected to the Senate. There was a long road yet to travel, of course, but he already had the most important vote of all. The Senator’s stature was such that he had not even run a reelection campaign for the past three terms. He had simply sat on his south Georgia front porch and made a few dozen telephone calls to the faithful around the state. Now the Senator was going to be making those calls for Will Lee.

  How many of the faithful would Carr be able to move behind Will? Not all of them, he thought; some would have their own favorite for the seat. But most of them would do as they were asked. Few Georgia Democrats could hold out against the persuasive powers of Ben Carr. His friends were everywhere in the state, from the capitol to the smallest farm, and his enemies had long since run for cover.

  As the airplane crossed the South Carolina border into Georgia, Will reflected that, after the Senator was reelected to a sixth term, he would have to start putting out feelers to some other Capitol Hill staffers, to form the nucleus of, first, a campaign organization, and, later, a senator’s staff. But, more important, Will thought, he had to start being a Georgian again.

  After law school, he had joined his father in the firm of Lee & Lee, and, with his father’s connections from his days as governor, they had built a solid practice, both in their home town of Delano and in Atlanta. Will had become known around the state as a good lawyer and the bearer of an important political name. But in the eight years since he had joined Ben Carr’s staff, his practice of law in Georgia had been desultory, squeezed in between congressional sessions, while his father and a few associates had maintained the practice. Billy Lee had had a heart attack the previous year, and though it had not been a bad one, he had slowed down somewhat, hanging on to the practice for a time when Will might want to return to it.

  The airplane flew directly over downtown Atlanta now, and then over Hartsfield International Airport. The Senator would have already landed and taken off again in the helicopter. Air Traffic Control cleared Will directly to Roosevelt Memorial Field, at Warm Springs, a few miles from his home town of Delano, in Meriwether County. He began his descent from eight thousand feet.

  He would have to sit down with his father and talk about spending larger chunks of time at home over the next couple of years. The Senator had promised him time off, and Will would want to choose the work from their caseload that would give him some exposure, both locally and statewide.

  Soon, Will had the airfield in sight, a three-thousand-foot strip of asphalt with half a dozen light airplanes tied down on a paved ramp next to it. Will canceled his instrument flight plan, changed to the local Common Traffic Advisory Frequency, and announced his position and intentions to traffic in the Warm Springs airport area. Then he turned into a standard left traffic pattern and set the airplane down gently on the tarmac. As he taxied to the ramp, he saw that the Wagoneer had been left in the car-park for him.

  The airplane secured and refueled and his luggage in the back of the car, Will unlocked the door and started to get in. He was stopped by the sight of a note on the driver’s seat. He tore open the envelope and read:

  Dear Will,

  Judge Boggs called at lunchtime to inquire when you would be home. I told him you were expected in the early afternoon, and he asked that you come to see him at the courthouse, directly from the airport, on “a matter of some importance,” as he put it. He wanted you, specifically, not your father. I told him you would come. I hope you don’t mind.

  We’ll all be out Christmas shopping this afternoon, so we’ll see you at the big house around seven for drinks and dinner.

  Love,

  Your Ma

  What would the Judge want with him on a Saturday afternoon? He hadn’t seen the old man for more than a year, when he tried a personal-injury case in his court. Will sighed and turned the car away from Delano toward Greenville, the seat of Meriwether County.

  He drove slowly into the quiet antebellum town, remembering that the sheriff didn’t like speeders. He parked in the courthouse square, in a space reserved for lawyers, and another car pulled into the spot next to him. As he got out of the Wagoneer, someone called out to him.

  “Hello, Will, it’s Elton Hunter,” the man said, sticking out his hand.

  Will took the hand. Hunter was dressed in a dark business suit, severe for a Saturday afternoon, Will thought. “Hello, Elton, how are you?” He didn’t know the young lawyer well. Hunter was from Columbus, had married the banker’s daughter in Greenville, and set up a practice four or five years before, with the bank as his first client. He was prospering, from all accounts. The two men exchanged small talk as they entered the courthouse together. The old courthouse, built in the 1840s, looked fresh and new, having recently been restored after a disastrous fire.

  Inside the door, Will stopped. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to see Judge Boggs,” he said.

  “Yeah? Me, too,” Hunter said, frowning. “What could he want with both of us?”

  “Let’s find out,” Will said, steering him through the courtroom and to the door of the Judge’s chambers.

  “Come in!” a voice rumbled.

  Will ushered Hunter ahead of him into the office, which had been restored to its original condition after the fire. Dark oak paneling and bookcases rose to a considerable height above the massive desk. The Judge, a short, stout man in his late sixties, with thick, white hair and a florid complexion, stood to meet them. He beamed at the two younger men. “Elton, how’s Ginny? The children? Good.” He turned to Will. “How’s the view from the Hill these days, boy?”

  Will grinned. “Pretty murky, as usual. The Senator’s humming on all cylinders, got a clean bill of health from Walter Reed yesterday, looking forward to running again.”

  “I know,” the Judge said, sinking into an enormous leather chair that nearly swallowed him. “I just talked to him.”

  “Where?” Will asked, surprised.

  “I reached him at home, down at Flat Rock Farm, fresh from the airport.”

  Will took a chair, wondering what was going on, but not asking.

  Judge Boggs brushed aside a strand of snowy hair and looked at the two younger men for a moment. “Gentlemen,” he said finally, “I need your help.”

  “Of co
urse, Judge,” Will said.

  “Surely,” Hunter replied.

  “We had a pretty bad murder around here this past week.”

  “The Cole girl?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t heard about it,” Will said.

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” the Judge replied. “Bad one. Rape, strangulation. Her daddy’s a farmer, right prosperous.” He paused. “Colored fellow.”

  “I know him,” Hunter said. “Drew his will. I’ve seen her around the square.”

  “I don’t know them,” Will said. He waited to find out why he was here.

  “Sheriff made an arrest this morning,” the Judge said. “One Larry Eugene Moody, fixes furnaces for a living. Works for Morgan and Morgan, over in La Grange.”

  “They do my work,” Hunter said. “Don’t know whether this Moody was ever at the house, though.”

  “Just as well you don’t know him,” the Judge said. “Will?”

  “Nope. Manchester Heating Supply does our work.”

  “Larry Eugene Moody is white,” the Judge said, rather suddenly.

  Neither Will nor Hunter said anything. Everyone seemed to have stopped breathing.

  “He’s asked for a public defender,” the Judge said.

  Will started to breathe again. He glanced at Hunter, who seemed to be thinking very hard.

  “That’s one of my problems,” the Judge said. “The other one is, J. C. Roberts had prostate surgery yesterday over at Callaway Hospital in La Grange.” J. C. Roberts was the county prosecutor. “J. C.’s only got one assistant, and with his boss flat on his back, the fellow’s got his hands full.”

  Hunter exhaled.

  “Now this case is going to get a lot of attention around the state, maybe beyond,” the Judge said, “and I want it tried well. I don’t want the goddamned Atlanta newspapers and TV talking about us down here like we’re a bunch of rednecks. That’s why I wouldn’t want J. C.’s assistant to prosecute, even if he had the time, and I wouldn’t want most of the lawyers in the county to defend it. What I want is two first-class lawyers, one to prosecute, one to defend.”