by David Stout
Linus did not really understand, but he was afraid to say so.
“Boy?”
“Yes, sir.” Linus was sure the man did not like him very much. Still, Linus wanted to say something. He swallowed, trying to be brave, hoping the man would understand.
“Boy?”
“Didn’t want nothin’ to happen …” Linus whispered.
“What’s that, boy? I can hardly hear you.”
Linus felt a hot tear on his cheek. “… to the shack,” he whispered.
Judah wished he were somewhere else. “Boy,” he said, summoning all his patience and charity. “Are you telling me you were forced to do something?”
“No,” Linus whispered, turning away.
* * *
The office was only slightly less hot than the cell, but Judah Brickstone was still immensely relieved when the deputy came in to escort him out.
“He tell you all about it?” Dexter Cody said in a monotone that was, somehow, challenging.
“Much as I need to know,” Judah said, draping his suit coat over his arm. He did not like the deputy’s manner, not at all. After all, he, Judah Brickstone, had not chosen to have anything to do with this sorrowful case.
“Pathetic little shit, ain’t he? Even for a nigger boy,” Cody said.
“I’ve seen worse,” Judah said. But in fact, he hadn’t, not ever. He was immediately self-conscious, regretting his words, for he knew he was anything but a hardened, savvy criminal lawyer. He thought he saw the deputy smirk. “No money in this for me,” Judah said. “The court—”
“I know,” the deputy interrupted, sliding open a desk drawer as he spoke. “I don’t envy you a bit, Counselor.”
“Well, I just want that understood—” Judah Brickstone stopped, puzzled. The deputy had taken a large brown envelope from the desk drawer; now he stood and handed it to him.
“Sheriff and me, we got feelings like anybody else,” the deputy said. His eyes were bitter and dark, his angry mouth ringed by perspiration. “Be honest about it, I used to feel sorry for him in there. Young and all. Ain’t nobody come and see him, not even his folks, they’s all so scared.”
Judah Brickstone knew, somehow, that he was not to open the envelope until the deputy told him to.
“The sheriff, he’s easy on the niggers,” Cody said. “Go on over by the mill, try and find any of ’em say anything bad about Sheriff Stoker. Bet you can’t. Treats ’em fair, gentle even, long as there’s no trouble.…”
“I’m sure he—”
“Now, the sheriff’s gotta carry a shotgun around, afraid he might have to use it on a friend, just to stop a lynching. Ain’t every sheriff would go that far. This one would, and it tears him up. White and colored around here, got along fine for a long time. Till this.”
The deputy gestured toward the envelope, and Judah Brickstone knew it was time for him to open it.
“Chain gang’s way too good for that nigger,” Cody said.
Judah saw the photographs of the dead girls. At once, he felt weak in his stomach and knees. The girls lying side by side, after being pulled from the ditch; close-ups of each girl, taken from several angles and showing the sickening wounds; the older girl’s eyes wide open, a horrible death glaze on each orb.
He studied them, horrified by what he saw, yet almost unable to look away. His mouth was dry as chalk, his heart heavy with pity.
“Oh, my …” The words came out of Judah Brickstone’s mouth almost involuntarily.
The autopsy pictures, the girls lying naked and innocent, next to a long work sink, heads propped up on blocks. The smaller girl had been still very much a child; the older one had started to develop breasts, had just begun to grow pubic hair. Judah Brickstone felt ashamed for looking.
The deputy took the pictures back. “Chain gang’s too good for him,” the deputy said quietly.
Judah Brickstone turned and went out the door. He closed his eyes and took deep, slow breaths to keep from getting sick.
9
The sheriff had driven only a few yards down the path toward the pond behind the mill when he knew he had made a mistake. The ground was softer than it looked—a sucking ooze of mud barely concealed by the little bit of grass that hadn’t been trampled by horses and mill workers. Stoker stopped, slammed the shift into reverse, and worked the clutch. Backwards the car sped, lurching from one side of the path to the other. Through the rear window, he could see a group of colored workers scampering out of the way. Finally, he made it to a hard, clear area at the head of the path. He stopped, shifted into first, and parked off to the side.
Annoyed, he got out, slammed the door, and took a deep breath. He knew they were watching him, fear and curiosity in their hearts, and he wanted to break that fear down, fast.
“All right, goddamn it! Which one of you boys tried to trap the sheriff like that, plantin’ that mud where you knew I was gonna drive?”
White teeth flashed in joyous, relieved smiles. Laughter from deep in their chests rolled like barrels.
“Weren’t me, Sheriff. Weren’t me …”
“Tell you what, you damn lucky, that’s what,” Stoker said. “Only way I coulda got out was by you boys hitchin’ some chains to my axle and pulling with a team of horses, truth to tell.”
“Weren’t me, Sheriff. It was Tyrone. He soak the ground to make that mud.…”
“Shit, I ain’t plant no mud,” said a large, powerfully built young colored man with soft, vulnerable eyes. “Don’t you go gettin’ me in no trouble.…”
The man called Tyrone was now the butt of waves of good-natured laughter with a touch of cruelty. He smiled, even managed to laugh, but his shyness almost stripped him naked. He was the one Stoker would single out.
“Rest of you boys, you get along with your business,” the sheriff said. “Tyrone, he gonna help me with my car. Gonna clean off the mud underneath. Ain’t that right, Tyrone?”
The big colored man slumped with dismay, his face gone gloomy from the anticipated humiliation. More than that: The sheriff knew Tyler’s mill workers didn’t earn enough to buy extra clothes.
“Yes, sir, Sheriff. I help.…”
“That’s mighty fine. Rest of you boys, you be moving along. Git about your chores. Wouldn’t do to have Mr. Tyler see you loafin’ …”
Smiles gone, the colored shuffled off, casting sympathetic glances at Tyrone.
The sheriff and Tyrone walked to the car. Stoker knew they were alone. The only sounds were from birds, the distant shouts of workers, and the muffled roar of the mill.
“Sit yourself on the running board a spell, Tyrone.”
Tyrone did as he was told.
“You go to the Green Hill Church, Tyrone?”
“Sometimes, I do. When I ain’t too tired …”
“Believe in God?”
“Yes, sir. I do, for sure.…”
“You swear to God right now that you and me are having a secret talk, and that you’ll never tell another soul in the world what we say? You do that?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I swear.…”
“And you swear to God that you’re gonna tell me the truth when I ask you some things? You do that?”
“I swear, I swear.…”
“Good. Now, you hear any talk about them little girls, the ones that got killed down the way there?”
“We all heard that mean little boy, he do it.…”
“Sure, sure. But you know, it’s my job to kind of tidy up loose ends. Now, do you remember where you were that day?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I do, Sheriff. Honest. I was down on the pond back there. Mr. T.J., he can vouch. Honest …”
There. The sheriff looked into the big brown eyes and saw fear—the natural fear of authority—but no guile, no lies. Stoker felt satisfied he was getting the truth. And that’s what he needed, to be absolutely sure none of the mill workers were involved, white or colored. Or even …
“Mr. T.J., he had his eye on us the whole time. We be there at the pond, work
ing hard. That the truth …”
“You remember T.J. watchin’ over you boys. That right? Think there’s any need for me to talk to Mr. T.J.?”
“No, Sheriff. No need, no need …”
Eyes wide, without guile, only fear. Telling the truth.
“T.J., he with us whole time,” Tyrone went on. “I remember, he give his horse a good sock when the horse misbehave. That right.”
The sheriff remembered T. J. Campbell’s sneer in the dark.
“Tyrone,” the sheriff whispered with a wink, “you think T.J. does about as good with horses as he does with the girls?”
The colored man’s laughter exploded like a thunderclap. He tried not to laugh, then laughed harder. Stoker got a kick out of it.
The sheriff felt good. A man, a law man, had to decide for himself where the loose ends were. A good one always tried to tie them up. He could sleep easy.
“Tyrone, do me a favor and knock that big clump of mud off the back there. You best get a little mud on your hands and knees so them other boys won’t suspect we had a little talk. And thanks for your trouble.” The sheriff stuffed a dollar bill into Tyrone’s shirt pocket.
10
A few days later, Hiram Stoker stopped at Leon Winkler’s station, halfway between Manning and Alcolu on the road past the swamp, to gas up.
“How you be, Leon. Won’t take but a buck’s worth, if that.”
“’Day to you, Sheriff.”
The sheriff got out of his car, stretched, and tried to be casual. Normally, Winkler was an easygoing sort, not a deep thinker and not the least bit moody. This day, he had avoided the sheriff’s eyes and had not even faked a smile.
“Get a chance, appreciate you be checkin’ the oil,” the sheriff said, knowing the oil was full.
Looking around, the sheriff saw four young men working on a jalopy in a corner of Winkler’s lot. The jalopy’s parts were laid out on a tarp next to the car, along with assorted wrenches and greasy rags, but the men were, for the moment, ignoring their work and staring at Hiram Stoker.
Something didn’t fit. The men looked familiar to Stoker, particularly the one who was staring most intently, but he had not seen them at Winkler’s station before. Nor, the sheriff was sure, had he ever arrested any of them.
“They from close by?” the sheriff asked Winkler, nodding toward the men.
“Sumter,” Leon Winkler said, his face behind the raised hood of the sheriff’s car. “Oil be right up there.”
“What they be doing around here?”
“They say they’re looking for engine parts. These days, I let just about anybody work on their cars here, they pay me a little and return my tools proper-like. Ask me, they’s stirring up shit more’n lookin’ for car parts.”
“What kinda shit?”
“’Bout them girls. How they was raped, before and after they died. They be talkin’ about how a jury’s too good for that nigger, how he deserves the same chance he gave them girls. Same treatment before he dies, maybe.”
“That what you think, Leon?” Stoker had put steel into his voice.
“Normally, no. But if he did—”
“Listen here, Leon. The truth is ugly enough, so don’t let’s be making things worse. Truth to tell, neither of them girls was raped, before or after, near as the autopsies could show. That’s the God’s truth.”
Winkler looked surprised, relieved, sullen all at once. He said nothing.
The sheriff spoke more quietly, like a friend. “Lot of people come by here, Leon. I be counting on you to not give them any false rumors, hear? Don’t let’s stir up any shit.”
Hiram Stoker was about to ask Leon Winkler if he had talked to many people about the murders, if he had passed on any information that he knew now to be untrue. Just when he was about to ask the question, the shadow of guilt on Winkler’s face told him the answer.
“I better be having a talk with these master mechanics,” Stoker said. “Check the tires, willya, Leon?”
The four stood facing Sheriff Hiram Stoker, not threatening, stopping just short of being disrespectful, but with slightly challenging scowls. Damn, where the hell did he know them from?
“How you all be today?” the sheriff said, hands on hips.
“Fine, Sheriff,” the one who had been staring the hardest said.
“Good, good. Understand you know a whole lot about the murder of them girls.”
Sullen silence.
“Funny, ’cause I’m the sheriff hereabouts, and there’s a whole lot I don’t know. How come you folks know so much?”
“Luke here found the bodies,” one of the four said, pointing to the one with the hard stare.
Of course. They looked familiar because they were Guardsmen, had taken part in the search; Hiram Stoker hadn’t recognized them without their fatigues.
“Never forget it,” Luke Reddy said. He tried to sound confident, but the sheriff smelled fear. He thought he knew why.
“You know them girls had all their clothes on,” the sheriff said.
“He coulda put ’em back on. Afterwards,” Luke Reddy said. This time, his voice was unmistakably shaky.
Sheriff Hiram Stoker drew a deep breath. He knew what had happened, plain as jam on toast. Luke the Guardsman liked being the center of attention, liked being asked about finding the bodies, which is why he had found it easy to add details that weren’t true. Once he’d done that, he was stuck with his own story.
What Hiram Stoker dearly wanted to do—what he had done before with other hard cases, and always with good results—was talk to Luke the Guardsman in private. Slap his face and take him down two notches, truth to tell. But now, he must not embarrass Luke the Guardsman too much in front of his buddies. More to the point, he would just shoot off his mouth all the more about the murders.
So Hiram Stoker swallowed hard and got ready to flatter.
“Well, now,” the sheriff said quietly, stretching his words to sound as casual as he could. “Lotsa things coulda happened. I tell you this, the autopsies don’t show no sign them girls was violated. God’s truth.”
The sheriff saw Luke the Guardsman’s face pale, saw his friends look at him with doubt. A delicate moment. The sheriff must not shame him. Must not.
“Don’t get me wrong, now,” Hiram Stoker said. “I ain’t saying you’re wrong to be goddamn mad about what them poor girls went through”—there, blur the truth and go on—“but all I can work with is what the docs tell me.”
Silence. Everyone was uncomfortable.
“I owe you folks in the Guard, ’specially Luke here, for finding them poor things. Best maybe now we don’t say too much about it, else we stir things up. You folks help me on that score, I be much obliged.”
Face burning, the sheriff nonetheless smiled. Then he paid Leon Winkler for the gas and drove off.
“Goddamn, Hiram,” the sheriff said to himself in the privacy of his car. “You wiser or just older? Was a time you woulda kicked that kid’s ass. Today, you did everything but rub peach jelly on his balls.…”
The sheriff was still annoyed when he got back to his office. Dexter Cody was sitting at the sheriff’s desk, doing paperwork and drinking coffee.
“How’s our boy?” Hiram Stoker asked.
“Appetite’s fine. Funny what confession’ll do. He sure as hell ain’t no Catholic either.”
Stoker smiled. “How can you tell?”
“Today’s Friday, and he ain’t asked for fish.”
Stoker sat at his desk after Cody respectfully yielded the chair. The sheriff picked up an envelope lying on the desk.
“Prosecutor’s office sent that over while you was out,” Cody said.
The sheriff read a one-paragraph, handwritten note from an assistant prosecutor he knew well:
Just to assure you that the confession of Linus Bragg looks to be in order, especially as he has some reading and writing and there is a birth certificate on file to show he turned fourteen in December, putting him comfortably above th
e State of South Carolina’s age of reason, which is seven. A conviction will be assured. God willing, it will be in another county, assuming his lawyer routinely asks for a venue change.
Best,
J. Donaldson.
“Can’t come quick enough,” the sheriff said.
“What’s that?”
“Change of venue. Boy’s sure to get it, once his lawyer asks. Can’t get a jury in Clarendon that don’t know the girls’ families and hate that boy in the cell. Meantime, word’s goin’ around that he had sex with them girls.…”
“Before and after,” Cody said.
“So. You heard the talk too. Means trouble.”
Sheriff Hiram Stoker had the same feelings as any other decent man. He had the same wish for revenge (almost an animal need, it burned so hard sometimes) any other man might have, and never mind that “turn the other cheek” shit from the Bible, which his wife read more than he did anyhow.
Sometimes he thought the hardest thing about being the sheriff was trampling down, within himself, that urge for revenge. Part of him inside, and not so deep, would gladly have turned Linus Bragg over to a couple of strong men. Fetch a rope from the hardware store and head for the nearest tree. Wouldn’t even need a thick limb, Linus being so small. But he was the sheriff, goddammit. First thing, he was running the law in Clarendon County; anybody think otherwise, he wasn’t doing his job tough enough. Law says you do something by the letter, you do it. Works out better in the long run, he knew that much. And maybe some of it was stubbornness: If a mob came and took Linus away, it would mean that Hiram Stoker wasn’t really the sheriff, that he just had the title.
The sheriff went to the door between the office and cell block and opened it quietly. He saw Linus Bragg lying on his bunk, eyes closed. The prisoner looked laughable, pathetic, in his jail clothes. Stoker had told Cody to give him the smallest set he could find; they were still several sizes too big.
“Sleeps a lot,” the sheriff said.
“Sad and bored. He be needing his energy the next fifty or sixty years,” Cody said.
The sheriff shut the door as quietly as he could. Not for the first time, or the last, he wondered how such terrible things could happen. Some people thought he should know, because he was the sheriff. If anything, the more he saw, the less he knew.
