by Scott Pratt
“Where did his political career start?” I asked. “Did he represent Sevier County?”
“No, he was beyond us at that point. He had established a home in Nashville by then, where his business was, so he ran for one of the Nashville district seats. Won big, too. He served three terms in the Tennessee Senate and then ran for the big time, the United States Senate. By that time, he had more money than any of his competitors. He basically bought the seat, which is how it’s done routinely these days, from what I understand.”
“And he’s been in the United States Senate for what, forty years?”
“I suppose that’d be about right.”
“Wow, people think these little local offices are powerful,” I said. “Head of the appropriations committee? Control over the purse strings? That’s real power.”
“It hasn’t gone to his head,” Granny said. “I think you’ll like him.”
“I’ll see you in a couple of days, then,” I said. “What should I wear?”
“Just be yourself,” she said. “Roger doesn’t much care for fancy.”
CHAPTER 16
I spent about an hour filling out the forms for Claire Tate after I hung up the phone. They were routine questions that asked whether I’d ever been convicted of a felony, whether I owed a bunch of money to the government, how old I was, how long I’d been a resident of the state and the city/county, and whether I was a licensed attorney.
When I was finished, I went for a run. I’d found that the running did me a lot of good. It helped me clear my head, and it made me feel better. I talked to Grace a lot during the runs—not out loud but in my head—and I would try to imagine her answering. I hoped she approved of the direction I was headed, and I hoped she thought I’d make a fine district attorney. But Grace hadn’t appeared since she’d stepped through the veil. I had the feeling she’d abandoned me, that she’d moved on to another plane and had put me behind her. I tried talking to my mother, too. I also imagined that she seemed pleased about me going after the district attorney’s job, but like Grace, my mother had faded far off into the distance.
I ran for an hour and got back to the apartment, intending to take a shower and then go get some lunch. Something felt wrong as soon as I entered my apartment. I couldn’t quite grasp what it was, but I felt it the second I walked through the door. I stepped through the foyer, and there, sitting at my kitchen counter, was a large man in a uniform wearing a cowboy hat. I recognized him from television and from the few times I’d seen him in court: Sheriff Clifton “Tree” Corker. I stopped and stared at him.
“I believe it’s a crime to break into people’s homes without their permission,” I said.
“You gonna arrest me?”
“You pick the lock?”
“Never met one I couldn’t.”
I walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. “You want one?” I said.
“Nah. Don’t drink much water. You got a beer in there?”
I grabbed a beer. I walked over and set it down on the counter in front of him while I took a seat across from him. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“I hear you’re considering a run for the district attorney’s office,” he said.
“You heard wrong.”
“That right? How so?”
“I’m not considering it. I’m doing it. Come November, there’ll be a new DA here in Knoxville.”
“Damn, boy, they didn’t tell me you were so cocky.”
“What do you want?” I said.
“This is a nice little place you got here,” the sheriff said as he popped the cap off the beer bottle and took a drink. “Nice and cozy.”
“Either tell me what you want or get out of my apartment. I don’t give a shit who you are or who you think you are, you don’t break into my house without a damned good reason.”
“And if I don’t have a good reason?”
“Let’s just say there could be consequences.”
“Damn!” Corker said. “You are a rooster, ain’t you? What’re you gonna do? Kill me like them other five?”
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course not. So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to give you about ten seconds to tell me what you’re doing here. After ten seconds, I’m going to kick your fat ass all over this apartment. I’ll give you hundred-to-one odds I can get across this counter before you can get one of those pistols out of the holster. If I’m wrong and you kill me, I’m sure you’ll get away with it, but I won’t care, will I? I’ll be dead.”
“Are you telling me you’re not afraid to die, boy?”
“Not in the least, and don’t ever call me ‘boy’ again. Now what’s it going to be?”
I felt my body beginning to tense as I prepared to leap across the counter and commence pummeling the pink-faced bastard. I was looking him straight in the eye, and I saw him give in. I knew right then that at his core, this huge pistol-toting redneck was a coward.
“Take it easy,” he said, holding up both of his hands. “Stephen Morris came to see me and wanted me to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Maybe reconsidering? He’d make it worth your while to stay out of the race.”
“Really? How much?”
“I don’t know exactly. I’m thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty to a hundred grand, I’d imagine.”
“Damn,” I said. “His salary isn’t much more than a hundred grand a year. Why would he want to pay me so much?”
“Let’s just say it’s possible he makes a little on the side.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard,” I said. “I’ve also heard it’s more than a little. Let me see if I’ve got this right: You and your department turn your backs to cockfighting, dogfighting, bare-knuckle fighting, prostitution, gambling in several forms, and drug distribution. In exchange, you get a cut of the action. The district attorney gets a cut, too, because he isn’t up your ass all the time about bringing cases for him to prosecute. You let a select few people operate with impunity, and whenever somebody new and stupid comes along and tries to set up shop, your select few operators—who also double as informants—help you set them up and bust them. You run them through the system, send them off to jail, and look like a real sheriff instead of the corrupt asshole you really are. How am I doing?”
“Nearly good enough to get yourself killed,” the sheriff said.
“Relax,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about me. I don’t have any intention of getting in the middle of your business. I’ll have some minor demands, but I don’t think you’ll have a problem with them. If I win, you can keep going, business as usual, with a couple of small changes.”
“What kind of changes?”
“Like I said, minor changes. There may be someone I want you to let in, which means someone will have to go. Is that going to be a problem?”
“Probably not. Depends on who’s coming in and what they want to do.”
“It’ll be someone experienced. Somebody who knows what they’re doing. They’ll agree to the terms that are already in place, whatever they are.”
“Who’s gonna have to go?” Corker said.
“I think I’ll keep that to myself for now,” I said. “But we can work something out. We’re reasonable men, right? We can find mutually beneficial solutions to problems, can’t we?”
“Don’t know if I can trust you yet,” Corker said. “If you ain’t with us, you’re against us.”
“The truth is I don’t give a shit about you and what you do or don’t do. The sheriff’s real job is supposed to consist of three things if I’m correct. One is to maintain the jail, and I know from firsthand experience that you do a lousy job of that. The second is courthouse security. Last is law enforcement, and for you guys that’s mostly domestic violence and meth heads. Your guys don’t even write speeding tickets because it costs you votes when they do.”
“We enforce the law,” Corker said.
“No, you don’t. You get in front of a television camera every chance you get to give the appearance you’re enforcing the law. But that’s okay with me. I don’t care. Keep faking it. My office will crack down on homicides, armed robberies, gangs, home invasions, things like that, most of which happen in the city. I’ll concentrate on making the city and the county—where I can—safer. Now if you let things get out of hand and the drug trade gets violent or people start pulling out guns at the cockfights, things will change. You and I will have a problem. But as long as you and your operators keep a low profile, see no evil, hear no evil.”
The sheriff rocked back and forth in the stool he was sitting on for a few seconds, sizing me up.
“I don’t like Morris,” he said. “He’s like a damned whiny child, and he lives like a king. He might as well put a sign out front of his house that says, ‘Screw you, FBI. I’m on the take, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ You, I maybe could get to like, but I’m not sure. You’ve got that look in your eye, that I-don’t-give-a-damn look.”
“I don’t,” I said.
“A man who doesn’t give a damn is dangerous.”
“Maybe Morris will beat me and you won’t have to worry about anything.”
Corker shook his head slowly. “Somehow I just don’t see that happening. I’ve seen you do some pretty incredible things in the past. If you want this badly enough, and it appears as though you do, it’ll happen. And when it does, I’m afraid you and me are gonna butt heads somewhere down the road.”
“I hope we don’t,” I said. “But if we do, it’d probably be best if you wear a helmet. Now if there isn’t anything else, get out of my apartment. You can take the beer with you.”
CHAPTER 17
I have to admit I was a little nervous as I drove through the switchbacks on the steady climb up the mountain to Granny Tipton’s to meet Senator Roger Tate. The plan, I’d been told, was to have lunch and later discuss the things that needed discussing. I could ask whatever I wanted—except I was forbidden to mention the dalliances of the senator’s youth—and he could ask whatever he wanted. If he brought up the people I’d killed, Granny told me to deny it. No sense giving him any leverage he didn’t need to have. If he asked about Ben Clancy specifically, she said she’d handle that one herself.
It was a hot and humid day as I moved slowly past the rhododendrons and mountain laurels, stands of old oak and elms, and skirted the creeks that rushed down the mountain, swollen from the unusual amount of rain we’d had that summer. When I got to Granny’s, I was shocked to see a helicopter in the field between her driveway and the creek. The senator obviously traveled in style. Two men I assumed were a pilot and maybe a security guy were walking near the chopper.
When I walked into Granny’s house, the first person I saw, after Granny, was Claire Tate. She was standing in the living room looking at photographs on the wall, pictures I’d looked at several times. She was wearing tight black jeans and a pale-blue silk shirt. She was incredibly striking. Granny led me through the house and into the kitchen, and there, looking out the kitchen window above the sink, was the senior senator from Tennessee and one of the most powerful men in the country.
He turned as he heard us walk in and smiled broadly, revealing perfect white teeth. Senator Tate was a little over six feet tall with silver hair and bright-sky-blue eyes. He was fit and trim and looked like he could run a marathon. He may have had some bad habits in his younger days, but the man standing before me took excellent care of himself. His skin was as smooth as any seventy-year-old I’d ever seen, and his grip when he shook my hand was like a vise.
“I’ve heard much about you, Mr. Street,” he said, looking me squarely in the eye. “Some of it was good.”
He smiled and released my hand. It was a Thursday afternoon, but the smell of fried chicken filled the house. Fried chicken was usually reserved for Sundays in the mountains.
“I hope you brought an appetite,” Granny said. “These Washington folks said they usually eat salad, but this is Tennessee, I’m entertaining, and I’m putting on the dog.”
“Smells great,” I said.
The senator, Claire, Granny, and I sat down to a meal of fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, fried okra, fresh tomatoes and onion slices, couscous, and chocolate pie. We washed it down with sweet tea. Claire, who looked like she’d prefer raw tuna, took it in stride. She didn’t eat much, but she ate. The senator let it rip, and so did I. It was delicious.
When we were finished, the four of us walked outside, and Granny led us down the path to the small clearing where she and I had talked once before. She was carrying a small cooler, and I took it from her hand and carried it until we sat down. She opened the cooler and produced a pitcher of iced lemonade and four plastic cups.
“This is beautiful,” Senator Tate said, looking at the surrounding mountains, the creek, and the meadow beyond. “Brings back a lot of fond memories of being outdoors. My understanding is that you were raised in the city, Mr. Street.”
“Sort of the outskirts of the city, over by Farragut before it developed the way it has now.”
“Do you like to get outdoors? Hunt or fish?”
“Love to camp, and I’ve done a lot of fishing in my day. Not to say that I’m any good at it, but it clears my head. I used to take my son a lot.”
“Yes, your son. That would be Sean, correct?”
“I see you’ve done your homework.”
“Your first wife cheated on you, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, with an older man. Very rich man. She moved with him to Hawaii and took your son with her.”
I didn’t really see what my ex-wife, Katie, screwing an older man had to do with anything. The senator mentioning it stung a bit, but I let it go.
“That’s right,” I said.
“Do you have any contact with him?”
“He comes every summer. I stay in touch by calling, but it’s difficult to get past his mother sometimes. She’s not exactly what I would describe as a kind person.”
“I want to extend my condolences for the death of your mother and for what happened recently with Miss Alexander and your daughter. That was a terrible thing, from what I understand.”
“Thank you, and, yes, it was terrible. The doctor had some serious substance-abuse issues that people were aware of prior to that day. He had no business practicing medicine.”
“I’ve been told that he’s gone. Nobody has heard from him in a couple of weeks.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“What’s your theory on his disappearance?” Senator Tate said.
“My theory? I don’t really have one, but if I did, it would probably be along the lines of he knew a huge lawsuit would be coming down the pike and that the medical licensing board would be taking a close look at him, so he ran away to avoid the beating he knew he was about to take.”
“So you don’t think any harm has come to him?”
“I don’t know, Senator, but if harm did come to him, it couldn’t have come to a more deserving person.”
“So Elizabeth tells me you’d like to be the next district attorney general in Knoxville,” Senator Tate said. “Tell me, if you don’t mind, why you would want such a dirty job.”
He spoke with a slow mountain drawl, a baritone that was almost mesmerizing. It was the kind of voice that could hypnotize an unsuspecting person into believing damned near anything he said. I was certain that his voice had played a major role in his political success. It was a voice of persuasion.
I wondered briefly whether I should give him some flowery bullshit answer to the question he’d just asked me or just tell him the truth. Then I thought about how many times he’d probably asked people questions just like the one he’d asked me. Thousands, I guessed. No point in trying to dress it up. I looked him in the eye.
“Because I can’t stand Stephen Morris. He’s gutless, and he doesn’t deserve the job. Because I think I can help
Granny and her family in certain ways. Because the system has let me down more than once, and I’m hoping maybe I can do better. And maybe I think I might be able to atone for some things I’ve done in the past, set some things right, at least in my own mind.”
“You’re trying to forgive yourself for the killings you’ve done,” he said.
“If I ever killed anyone, sir, and I’m not saying I have, they deserved it.”
“Sometimes the system fails us,” Senator Tate said. “It failed you by allowing you to be locked up for a crime you didn’t commit and subjected you to things I can’t even begin to imagine, and it failed you when your mother was killed. Although, to be perfectly frank, I don’t believe you gave the system much of a chance when your mother was killed. You acted hastily.”
“I don’t really remember how I acted, sir,” I said. “I have very little recollection of that time in my life.”
“You were far more methodical with Ben Clancy,” he said.
“With all due respect, sir, I’d rather not discuss Ben Clancy.”
“I’ll discuss him,” Granny said. “He was a psychopath in a suit with the power of the federal government behind him. We did the world a favor when we got rid of him.”
“We?” Senator Tate said.
“I’ve never lied to you, Roger. We’re old enough now that there isn’t really any point in starting. We hanged him in my barn and fed him to my pigs. Darren was there. He played a major role in Clancy’s death, as he should have. There isn’t a trace left of Clancy, and I’m not the least bit ashamed of it.”
I felt a sudden wave of nausea run over me as I listened to the words coming out of Granny’s mouth. I couldn’t believe she’d just admitted murdering a former assistant US attorney to a US senator. I looked at Senator Tate. He just smiled and shook his head.
