by Scott Pratt
After receiving a phone call from Granny Tipton, I’d jogged from my apartment to a public park a couple of miles away, cutting through strip malls, doubling back, heading into and out of residential areas briefly, and then down Neyland Drive toward the restaurant. I had to make sure the cops weren’t following me. After Dr. Nicolas Fraturra, I’d gone back into full paranoid mode. It was an exhausting way to live, but I was already becoming used to it. I got up off the bench I was sitting on and walked toward the car. I went to the passenger side, opened the door, and peered in.
The driver was a woman. She appeared to be about forty, a redhead with a creamy skin tone and barely noticeable freckles. Her eyes were clear and emerald green. Her hair was short and combed back from her forehead, held in place by mousse. Her jawline was taut and her cheekbones high. She had deep dimples in her cheeks. She smelled like a lilac bush and was nearly as pretty. She was wearing a black-and-white-striped silk blouse open at the neck and a tight black skirt that went to midthigh. Coming out of the skirt were legs that were long and slim and covered in dark hose.
“Nice car,” I said as I climbed in and sat down in a plush leather seat.
“You’re sweating on it,” she said.
“Sorry. I’ll wipe it off when I leave.”
I stuck my hand out and she took it.
“Darren Street,” I said.
“Claire Tate.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“My father’s good friend Elizabeth Tipton says you need some political advice and organization.”
“I’m blissfully ignorant of the process of getting oneself elected to public office,” I said. “Never dreamed I’d be doing this.”
Claire pulled out and began to drive. “Well, I’m not blissfully ignorant,” she said. “In fact, you might call me somewhat of an expert.”
“Is that right? How many elections have you been involved in?”
“Close to fifty, I’d say. I’ve been sort of a hired gun at times.”
I was surprised by the number of elections in which she’d been involved, given her age.
“What’s your winning percentage?” I said.
She turned and looked at me with those emerald eyes. Damn, she was pretty.
“Ms. Tipton told me you have a strong personality. She didn’t tell me you’re a smart-ass.”
“Legitimate inquiry,” I said. “Do you at least win more often than you lose?”
“I rarely lose elections that I become involved in,” she said. “When I do, it’s usually because of my candidate. Candidates do stupid things and think nobody will find out, but when you run for a public office, you open yourself up to the microscope. Have you done anything stupid in your past, Mr. Street?”
I nodded vigorously. “I’ve done an incredible amount of stupid things in my past,” I said. “I may be hopeless.”
She gave me a look of disdain and fixed her eyes back on the road.
“At least you’re running in a county that doesn’t care much about local elections,” she said. “Knox County is indifferent, for the most part. There are more than 330,000 adults of voting age, but only 225,000 of them have bothered to register to vote. On average, in a county election that involves the district attorney general, about 60,000 of those will actually cast a vote. So about twenty-five percent, one out of four, registered voters cares enough about the office to participate in the election.”
“That’s almost depressing,” I said.
Claire Tate spoke with a Southern accent, but it was refined, a bit like the high-society Atlanta or Charleston accents I’d heard on occasion during my life. I wasn’t really sure whether I liked it. It was pleasant enough, but it made her sound like a snob.
“It shouldn’t be depressing to you, Mr. Street,” she said, “because it means you only have to get about 30,000 votes to win, and since you missed the qualifying deadline and will be running a write-in campaign, the fewer votes you have to get, the better. I realize that 30,000 may sound like a lot, but like I said, we have 225,000 voters out there. It’s doable.”
She reached out and pressed her finger against the display on the dashboard. The glove compartment opened in front of me.
“There’s a manila envelope in there,” she said. “It’s for you. It’s a packet of materials you need to have filled out and in my hands in two days.”
“What kind of materials?” I said.
“A qualifying petition, a petition to allow you to become a write-in candidate, some personal information needed by the election commission to make sure you qualify as a candidate. My understanding is there might be some things that would disqualify you, but we’re going to keep those to ourselves.”
“What kind of things are you talking about? What would disqualify me?”
“Let’s just say that I wouldn’t suggest you write down anything about harming anyone.”
She was obviously talking about the murders, and I’d never laid eyes on this woman before. She said Granny sent her, but maybe a cop had intercepted a call or gotten lucky somehow. For all I knew, there could be a recorder running in the car or a hidden microphone transmitting what we were saying to cops in a surveillance van.
“Wait,” I said. “Stop the car. I want out.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said.
She was turning onto James B. White Parkway, and she stepped on the gas.
“I’m your friend,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that. I apologize. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.”
She sounded sincere, but I wasn’t going to give her anything at all.
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about when you mention harming people,” I said.
“Of course you don’t,” she said. “Good for you.”
I sat up in the seat and turned toward her. I raised my voice a little, made my tone edgier.
“Who the hell are you?” I said. “Really. Who is your father, and what is his connection to Elizabeth Tipton? Give me some facts I can check.”
“You don’t have to curse at me, Mr. Street,” Claire said. “Nor do you have to take that tone with me. I told you. My name is Claire Tate. I’m a strong and intelligent woman who was fortunate enough to be born the granddaughter of Senator Roger Tate.”
“The Senator Roger Tate? As in United States Senate?”
“That would be him.”
I shook my head in wonder. Roger Tate was the senior US senator from Tennessee. He was the chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee, one of the most powerful committees in the Senate.
“How does Granny know Roger Tate?”
“My grandfather grew up in the hills of Sevier County, not far from where Elizabeth Tipton grew up. They attended the same church. His family was poor, but he was ambitious, and he wound up getting out and doing some incredible things. He told me he was once very much in love with Ms. Tipton before she became Ms. Tipton, but that she didn’t want to leave her beloved mountains. She wound up marrying another man and staying in the mountains while my grandfather went in another direction. But he remains fond of Ms. Tipton and is more than willing to help her any way he can, anytime he can. He’s also willing to turn a blind eye to some of the things she’s done to provide for herself and her family. She reached out to him on your behalf, and here I am, my grandfather’s emissary and your brand-new campaign manager. I earned a bachelor’s in political science from the University of Tennessee, a master’s from the University of Virginia, and a law degree from Yale, and I’m a veteran of many political wars. If you want to become the next district attorney general of Knox County, you will do what I tell you when I tell you. Are we on the same page, Mr. Street?”
“Call me Darren,” I said. “I hate being called Mr. Street.”
“Maybe later,” she said. “Right now I’d like to keep things on a professional level. You’re Mr. Street and I’m Miss Tate.”
“Okay,” I said. I’d calmed down and decided to mess with her head a little, just for some amusement.
<
br /> “Are you single?” I said.
“Why would you ask that? Didn’t I just say I want to keep this professional?”
“Just curious,” I said. “No offense intended.”
She glanced over at me and sighed. “Single. Never been married.”
“Lipstick lesbian?”
“Why is it that anyone over twenty-five who isn’t married must be a lesbian?”
“I’m guessing you’re mid to late thirties, and you’re extremely attractive. It was just a question. You don’t have to answer.”
“Why would you even care?”
“I don’t. I’m just testing your limits. You’ll find that I enjoy doing that on occasion.”
“I’m not a lesbian. I just don’t like men much. I find them boorish and boring, and you just proved my point.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome. Now, if you’re finished with your inquiries into my sexual preferences, maybe we can get on with some productive discussion.”
“By all means, productively discuss,” I said.
“You need to hold a press conference in the near future.”
“Okay,” I said. “How do I go about getting the press to come?”
“Leave that to me. You will undoubtedly face some questions about certain crimes some people believe you have committed. I’ll coach you how to handle those questions.”
“You don’t have to coach me,” I said. “I may be boorish and boring, but I’m not stupid. I haven’t committed any crimes. I’ll just deny it.”
“Some methods of denial are more effective than others, Mr. Street,” she said.
“Seems pretty simple to me. I didn’t do it. I’ve never committed a crime in my life, and anyone who says I have is a liar.”
“‘Misinformed’ or ‘mistaken’ are better. ‘Liar’ is too combative.”
“Fine.”
“Are you always this prickly?” she said. “You’ll need to be nice to people if you want them to vote for you.”
“I can be nice when I want to,” I said. I was enjoying the back-and-forth. She was bright and quick, and she smelled so damned good. But I didn’t know her from Adam. I’d been burned in the past, so I wasn’t going to trust her blindly.
“Good. Try to want to right now.”
“I get upset when people accuse me of committing crimes I haven’t committed. What made you mention it, anyway?”
“I believe Ms. Tipton may have said something to my grandfather about you having some skeletons in your closet.”
“Granny would never say anything like that about me,” I said.
“My grandfather doesn’t like surprises,” she said. “I’m sure Ms. Tipton knows that. He would want to know everything he could about you before he agreed to something as unusual as what we’re about to do. He’s going to personally endorse you, you know. That in itself will go a long way toward beating Morris. He’s also going to request that some money be discreetly transferred from his treasury to yours.”
“Damn,” I said. “Granny must have something on him that’s pretty embarrassing.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t have anything on him,” Claire said. “There’s still such a thing as loyalty, you know. My grandfather is extremely loyal to his old friends.”
“Whatever,” I said. “But like I said, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about as far as skeletons in my closet. I think I’m ready to go back now. Will you take me back to the park?”
“You’re as ungrateful as you are insolent,” she said.
“Not ungrateful, and I don’t mean to be insolent. I’m just extremely careful.”
She turned the car off I-40 and headed back in the direction of the park where she’d picked me up. We rode in silence for a while before she spoke again. Her tone was gentler, almost kind.
“I know you’ve been through some incredibly difficult things,” she said. “I’m genuinely sorry for your losses, all of them, and so is my grandfather. You’ve seen more than your share of pain.”
I didn’t quite know what to say, so I said nothing for several seconds.
“Why are you really helping me?” I said as she pulled into the parking lot at the park.
“Because my grandfather asked me to help you,” she said. “Because Ms. Tipton asked my grandfather to help you. And because I think it’ll be fun. I can’t wait to see the look on that weasel Stephen Morris’s face when he finds out Roger Tate is backing you and Claire Tate is your campaign manager.”
“You know Morris?” I said.
“Went to the University of Tennessee at the same time he did. We had a political science class together. One day, he got it into his head that it would somehow be a good idea to kiss my neck and pinch me on the posterior.”
“Really? And how did that go over?”
“He lost a tooth.”
She handed me a card and a prepaid phone as I opened the door to get out.
“My number’s on the back. Always call me from that phone. I have a prepaid, too. The number is already programmed into yours. I’ll return calls and call you from my prepaid. We’ll get new ones every couple of weeks. And get those papers back to me within two days.”
“Will do,” I said, and I climbed out of the car. To my surprise, she climbed out on the other side and walked around the car. It was the first time I’d seen her standing up, and it was an image I knew I wouldn’t ever forget.
“Mr. Street, just one more thing before you go. I think we should get this out of the way right now. I don’t care what you’ve done in the past. I’ve heard the circumstances and the allegations, and if they’re true, I want you to know I don’t judge you. I probably would have done the same things you did. There’s a part of me that admires you, not only for what you did but also for getting away with it.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said. I wondered whether what she’d just said was genuine. If so, I thought I could come to like her very much. If not, well, I’d deal with that when the time came. Still, she seemed genuine, and I’d developed a strong bullshit detector over the years.
“I know,” she said. “I just thought you needed to hear that.”
I stood there watching as the Cadillac drove away.
This woman is different from Grace, I thought to myself. I didn’t know whether that was good or bad.
CHAPTER 15
I called Granny Tipton the morning after I took a ride with Claire Tate. She told me vaguely what it was she knew about Senator Roger Tate that would allow her to get him on the phone and agree to help me win the district attorney general’s election in Knoxville.
I was right about it being something embarrassing. She told me Senator Tate had possessed an affinity for drinking moonshine whiskey and having sex with multiple women at the same time when he was building his wealth and political machine. With a young wife and baby at home, he’d needed a discreet place to indulge those affinities. Granny’s husband just happened to have opened a tavern outside Sevierville that the young senator—he was a state senator then—would drive all the way from Nashville to visit from time to time. It afforded him an opportunity to visit his parents and family and, while doing so, scratch an itch. She mentioned there might have been photographs involved.
Still, she said, their friendship was strong.
“Roger has a genuine affection for me,” she told me over the phone. “And he will have until he knows the photographs can no longer be used against him. Which means he will have a genuine affection for me until the day he dies, because I’ve told him that if I die, I’ll simply pass them along to my grandchildren with very specific instructions on how to use them. They’re in remarkably good condition. We’ve been extremely careful with them over all these years.”
“Have you ever asked him for anything else?” I said.
“I use the leverage very sparingly,” she said.
“Thank you for using it now,” I said.
“It isn’t all for you, Darren. It isn�
�t an act of generosity. We stand to make a great deal of money in Knox County once Roby Penn is gone and we can move in.”
“Is Penn really that bad?”
“A very unpleasant fellow. I’m sure you’ll meet him at some point. In the meantime, Senator Tate wants to meet with you. I haven’t told you this, but he does have some conditions for helping you. I think they’re reasonable, but they could put you in some danger.”
“Danger? What does he want?”
“I think you should discuss it with him.”
“When does he want to meet?”
“He said he can fly in day after tomorrow. We’ll talk here, at my house.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The senator was seventy-one years old, Granny told me, and had grown up about two miles from her house where his family scratched a living out of the mountain on a farm, raising cattle and tobacco. She knew him from both church and the one-room school in which they were educated. He excelled at academics, was charming and personable, and she knew early on that he was destined for things far beyond the Smoky Mountains.
They were also attracted to each other, she said.
“It was physical,” she told me. “The kind of thing that happens when people are young and hormones are raging.”
They’d sneaked off on occasion and spent time together. I would never have been so impolite as to ask Granny whether they ever had sex, and she didn’t volunteer any information on that front. They’d drunk moonshine together, which Granny’s father had made, and “fooled around some.” That was as far as she would go.
Granny’s father had taught her his recipe, and she believed herself to be one of a very small number of young women in or around Sevier County, Tennessee, who’d known how to make corn liquor. When the time came for Roger Tate to go off to the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, he’d proposed to her, but her parents had been in ill health and she hadn’t wanted to leave them or her mountains. She’d turned him down, and he’d left.
“He wrote me letters over the years, and he stopped by to see me a couple of times,” she said. “He worked his way through college in only three years and then went to law school at Vanderbilt in the late 1960s,” she said. “When he graduated, he got a job as general counsel at a medical supply company that was being started by one of his friends. They didn’t have much money, so he took most of his salary in stock options. They built the company steadily, and five years later it went public. Roger became an instant multimillionaire that day. He eventually bought controlling interest in the company and still owns it, I believe. He’s one of the richest men in the United States Senate, if not the richest.”
