Carolina Skeletons

by David Stout

  He had met Burger and Hornsmith only once, at a bar association meeting in Columbia. He had thought that they enjoyed his company. More important, they had seemed impressed by some of his ideas for streamlining future association conventions.

  “Mr. Brickstone? Mr. Hornsmith asked me to tell you to come directly to the old oak room.” The hostess was smiling but acted as if she was conveying an order.

  “Gentlemen, a pleasure indeed!” Judah said after entering the room.

  “Ah, Judah …”

  “Pleasure’s mine, Judah …”

  There were three men, which surprised Judah. Burger, tall and angular, seemed to take half a minute to get out of his chair and offer his hand, though he moved with more grace than the potato-shaped Hornsmith.

  “We’d like you to meet a friend,” Burger said.

  “I’m Richard Kraft, Mr. Brickstone. Executive assistant to Governor Olin Johnston.”

  “Ah! Soon to be United States Senator Johnston, perhaps,” Judah said cheerfully, glad that he kept up with politics.

  Kraft was a much younger man, perhaps even younger than Judah. His smile was thin, his hand stiff.

  “I’m working eighteen hours a day to help that happen,” Kraft said. He had pale blue eyes, like ice behind rimless glasses. Measuring him, Judah knew.

  A colored waiter appeared with four brandies, bowed, and closed the door silently behind him.

  “Richard is here with our blessing,” Burger said. Hornsmith nodded.

  “Eighteen hours a day,” Kraft said. “Because I believe in my heart that Olin Johnston should be Senator. He can help F.D.R. do more for the state of South Carolina than that relic we have now.”

  “Ed Smith was fine for his time,” Burger said. “But it’s time he was retired.”

  Judah Brickstone tried to keep his face free of dismay. He hadn’t the time, interest, or energy to be anybody’s campaign worker. God, not now! His estate work would suffer irreparably. He sniffed his brandy deeply, felt the bite on his tongue.

  “We can win this primary,” Kraft said. “Uphill, but we can do it. Olin is strong in the cities. With the right issues and speeches, he can cut into Smith’s strength in the center of Carolina. Right here, and Sumter, Calhoun …”

  Bewildered, Judah took a long sip. The old oak room—a sanctuary of warm man-to-man talk the last time, with the judge—was getting to be a most uncomfortable place indeed.

  “It’s unfair,” Kraft went on, “unfair to Olin that he should have a problem because of the colored. But Smith could paint him into a corner, if anyone could …”

  “Rumor is, he’s got a Confederate uniform and a white sheet for each day of the week,” Hornsmith said, his first and last attempt at humor.

  “Which would get him a lot of votes, if it could be proved,” Kraft said mirthlessly. Not a man at ease with levity, Brickstone reflected. He remained baffled.

  “Unfair,” Kraft went on. “Unfair, because Olin is still a traditional Southerner, New Deal or not. I know; I’ve had to write letters to the families of servicemen, letters for his signature, to the effect that even though the war makes it temporarily necessary for the colored to exist more closely than desirable in the military, things aren’t going to change back home.”

  “Hmmm.” Judah felt like he was dreaming.

  “Sometimes the most unlikely event can become a damaging political issue.…”

  “We’re talking about the young nigger you represent,” Burger said.

  “I’m the counsel appointed by the court,” Judah said. “I would never—”

  “Judah, we understand completely that no lawyer ever is entirely free to pick his clients,” Hornsmith said soothingly.

  “What we don’t want …” For the first time, Kraft seemed embarrassed, hesitant.

  “Gentlemen,” Burger said. “Let me try to help. We can all take an oath, over brandy, that what’s said in this room stays here.”

  “Yes,” Hornsmith said quietly. “In fact, this conversation is not even taking place.”

  “I would like to know if you are going to seek a change of venue for that boy,” Kraft said.

  “I—why, I’m still undecided,” Judah said, truthfully.

  “Because if a venue change were granted,” Kraft said, “the case might be tried in Columbia.”

  “I realize that,” Judah said.

  “Where it would get a lot more attention,” Kraft said. “And place Olin Johnston in a terrible position. I’m not even sure the Governor’s thought this through the way I have. The same compassion that impels him to run for the Senate would, I think, cause him to agonize over this boy’s fate. Colored, but only fourteen. I promise you, the Governor will have some soul-searching nights for this case, no matter where it’s tried. He reads his Bible.”

  “Do you see, Judah?” Burger prodded gently.

  “I’m not sure I do,” Judah said. An understatement.

  “I do not want the Governor to be put in a position where he has to say ‘Yes, I hereby spare this boy’ in Columbia, where the papers will blow it up bigger than the war. If that happens, Ed Smith wins the primary without saying a word.”

  “Also,” Burger said, “if that happened, the Governor’s chances in Clarendon, Sumter, and Calhoun would go down the drain. People around here would be furious. Denied their justice first by a change of venue, second by the Governor’s clemency.”

  “But would the Governor grant it?” Judah asked.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Kraft said. “I don’t. I swear, I haven’t talked to him about it. All I would like is for the Governor to be able to make his decision without a glare of publicity. I have some influence with him …”

  “Would it go against your ethics not to seek a change of venue?” Hornsmith asked. There, the point of all this. Finally.

  “Don’t answer yet, Judah,” Burger interrupted. “If I may, Cyril. You may know, Judah, that I’ve served several terms on the state bar’s ethics committee. I know a little about difficult questions. Hell, I’ve faced them myself. It’s my deeply felt, personal conviction that you would be doing nothing wrong ethically, that you’d be on perfectly solid ground, to not seek a change of venue. To let the boy be tried here, close to his home.”

  Close to his home. Odd phrase, that, Judah thought. Linus Bragg’s home was the niggertown by the mill. If he was tried in Clarendon, the jurors would be the very men who would gladly put a rope around his neck. Judah Brickstone knew that much. No, not a rope. There were men who, if they had a chance, would nail Linus Bragg’s hands to a tree, cut away his privates, and light a fire at his feet. And if any of them got a look at what he had seen, the autopsy pictures …

  “Judah?” Burger was waiting for an answer.

  “He’ll get just as good a trial here, close to home,” Kraft said. “It will foster a much more sensible atmosphere, much quieter, for the Governor to consider—”

  “Hell, Judah,” Hornsmith said. “Let’s talk plain. The boy did it, didn’t he?”

  Judah thought of the pictures. He took a long gulp of brandy. “Uh, yes. He confessed.”

  “So, then,” Kraft said. “I say let justice be done right here.”

  “So much rides on Olin’s election,” Burger said. “So much good can come to the state. Economic recovery. Good, honest men in high places, from statehouse clerks all the way up to judgeships—”

  An almost palpable embarrassment filled the old oak room.

  Judah finished his brandy. He did not know what to say.

  “Enough speeches for now,” Burger said. “Just consider it, Judah. Now let’s get some lunch.”

  14

  Sheriff Hiram Stoker made a big project out of unbuckling his gun belt and hanging it up, and he hoped his deputy would not notice.

  The sheriff felt that his mind was being pulled in several directions, and he was sure it showed in his face. So he turned his back to Cody as he pretended to take extra care in arranging his gun belt.

&nbs
p; “What’s eatin’ you?” Cody asked.

  Goddamn. Sometimes Dex had more intuition than he gave him credit for.…

  “Pour me a cup, will you?” Stoker said.

  He sat down, nodded his thanks to his deputy as he accepted the cup.

  “Don’t know if I got many reasons to feel happy, truth to tell,” the sheriff said. “Just ran into the prosecutor. Over at the barbershop. It’s his understanding that Judah Brickstone’s not asking for a change of venue for Linus.”

  “Sounds fair and square,” Cody said. “He did the crime here. Let him get convicted here.”

  “Right. And the jury won’t take five minutes—”

  “Two ought to suffice.”

  “—to not only convict but to send his ass to the chair. I didn’t quite figure on that.”

  “That bothers you?” Cody sounded surprised.

  “Lots of things bother me. It’ll be the first time I ever presided over somebody that young being put to death. White or colored. Ain’t the prettiest thing, watching that electric go through a man. Or a boy …”

  “Ain’t your doin’.”

  “Hell it ain’t. I’m the sheriff, ain’t I? Actually, I ought to be thankful. Know why? I was worried about a lynch mob before. Now I don’t have to fret. The lynch mob’s gonna be swore in, all twelve of ’em, legal and honest. Maybe that’s it. I feel like I gave in to somethin’.…”

  “Still ain’t your doin’.”

  “You know, coming out of the barber’s, I ran into a couple of guys, two of the ones met me and Junior down at the lake. Told ’em not to worry, that the boy was gonna be tried right here, by twelve good men and true, and that they could all come and watch him burn if they had the stomach.”

  “Why you so hostile to that?”

  “And they said that was fine. They’d come and watch the burning if they could. Like they was arranging rides already …”

  The deputy said nothing. Stoker could tell he was puzzled. Good old Dex. There were advantages to thinking in a straight line.…

  “Politics,” the sheriff said. “That venue thing. Way the prosecutor told me, confidential-like, is that Brickstone’s got himself connected.”

  “Who to?”

  “Hitched his wagon to some big lawyer types, and they and Olin Johnston’s people are talking to each other. Long and short of it, they’d just as soon not have a big trial over in Columbia. Right here is fine, they think. Nice and quiet-like …”

  “Can’t figure you out sometimes. The way things bother you.”

  “Can’t always figure myself out, truth to tell.”

  The sheriff sipped his coffee slowly, letting his deputy know by the way he put his feet on his desk and swung halfway around in his chair that he didn’t want to talk anymore about it just then.

  In his youth, the sheriff had worked one summer in a slaughterhouse. One summer only. He had never gotten used to it, the smell of blood and how the animals went wild with fear as soon as they figured it out, how they screamed and bellowed. No one to argue for the animals’ point of view …

  “Oh, almost forgot. There’s a letter for you,” Cody said, nodding toward the sheriff’s desk.

  The sheriff saw that the letter was from the state prison. His feet still on his desk, he leaned far back in his chair and read.

  Dear Sheriff Stoker,

  I am writing as one law man to another, and not to tell you your business. Plain and simple, I am watching the prisoner Linus Bragg extra close, and I urge you to do the same when he is in your hands for the trial.

  The guards have seen him acting like he is not really there, if you get my meaning. I have seen this kind of thing before, what with there not being a whole lot to do for a fellow except to reflect on what he did to get himself behind bars, but in your boy’s case it could be more serious.

  Unofficially, I obtained something from the people in charge of the insane asylum. They say it will calm him down some. He gets a little in his food every day, though in small amounts he can’t taste it. Just as well. It might make the world a little fuzzier for him, but then, that’s the point.

  I think he is more than a little homesick and cuckoo. He is not really a hard case, never mind what he did. Maybe the weight is too much for him. I have seen it before in strong men. Their mind does tricks on them, and before you know it they don’t know what’s happening and what isn’t.

  They even believe their own lies sometimes. With the colored, especially, they believe their own fairy tales and get to feeling low. That’s when you have to watch them, so they don’t make a sheet into a noose and save the state some trouble.

  I remind you of this, as if you weren’t busy enough, because that colored group with alphabet soup for a name is holding a convention in Columbia a short time from now. I tell you between you and me that I have been asked from high up in state government to be sure nothing happens to this boy outside the law. Read between the lines.

  My own opinion is, this Linus Bragg does not entirely understand yet how he got himself in the mess he is in. I advise caution in handling him, and I promise to exercise the same.

  Sincerely,

  Bertram I. Painter,

  Captain of Corrections

  P.S. Get here early enough when you pick him up for the trial and we can have some coffee and swap lies about fishing.

  15

  On this, the day of Linus Bragg’s trial, Judah Brickstone was grateful to God and Sheriff Hiram Stoker, and not necessarily in that order.

  The former had seen to it that, although it was early June, it was not oppressively hot. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with a dripping colored boy for the better part of a day was not what Judah Brickstone had had in mind when he became a lawyer.

  The sheriff had scrounged up a fresh set of coveralls and a clean shirt for Linus to wear in court. How to describe the smell Judah had been nauseated by the day before, when the boy arrived from Columbia in the sheriff’s car …

  “All rise …”

  Feet shuffled, chairs squeaked, a door opened at the front of the oak-paneled room.

  “All persons having business before the court …”

  Judah Brickstone wished he was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  “… the Honorable Circuit Judge Byron Bolt presiding. Be seated, please.”

  Feet scuffled, chairs squeaked, throats cleared. Judah sat with his client at a square wood table. Several yards away, toward the other side of the room, the prosecutor sat at a somewhat larger table on which rested a formidable stack of law books and manila folders and envelopes.

  “Proceed.” The prosecutor had tipped Judah, in a discreet, friendly way, that Judge Bolt considered this case simple in the extreme and would likely brook no unnecessary delays.

  “Good morning, Your Honor. The People of the State of South Carolina are ready to proceed at once, sir.”

  Judah thought the prosecutor, who was standing now, looked absolutely in control. Self-assured. In friendly territory. With the truth on his side. He wore a well-pressed suit and his hair was held down with copious amounts of brilliantine.

  “Very well,” the judge said. His honor was a short, thin, stern-looking man with glasses, gray hair, and a cruel, narrow upper lip.

  The fans whirred overhead. Moments passed. Judah became aware that there was an air of expectation. The prosecutor was looking at him, his eyebrows raised condescendingly. He, Judah, was supposed to do something!

  “Is the defense ready?” Judge Bolt asked, peering over his glasses.

  “Ready, Your Honor,” Judah Brickstone said, rising awkwardly.

  “Are there any motions?” the judge asked.

  “We have no motions at this time, Your Honor,” Judah said.

  “Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, “we believe we have an adequate panel of jurors to try this case, and we are prepared, with the cooperation of the defense, to seat a jury before lunch and get started on the evidence.”

  “Let’s proceed, then,”
the judge said.

  Linus felt better than he had in some time.

  To be away from the prison, to see faces besides prison faces—these people didn’t know how lucky they were! And to be able to come and go whenever they wanted …

  He turned in his seat a little, so that, over Mr. Brickstone’s shoulders and through a window, he could see a tree. The leaves moved hardly at all, but they did move. If you watched one leaf long enough, sooner or later you would see it move a little.

  He saw himself back at the catfish pond, wondered if anyone else had caught that big fish. He hoped not. Maybe it would still be there when he got back.

  “Your Honor, at this time the people would like to call Mrs. Penelope Vine.”

  Linus was bewildered. He had no idea who she was, the middle-aged, plainly dressed woman who walked to the big chair on a platform and put her hand on a Bible. She mumbled some words Linus could not hear, smiled, and sat down. Linus turned to Mr. Brickstone and thought he saw, in his eyes, that he did not understand either. Linus was afraid.

  “Mrs. Vine, you are clerk of the Clarendon County Bureau of Records. Is that correct, ma’am?”

  “Yes, sir. For fourteen years.” The woman smiled in a friendly way and Linus was no longer afraid.

  “Now, Mrs. Vine, not to take up too much of the court’s time, or yours, I am going to show you a document, which I will first have marked for identification …”

  At first, Linus had thought that the man, who must also be a lawyer, was working with Mr. Brickstone. But after some time passed, and they still sat at different tables and didn’t talk to each other, Linus figured they were on opposite sides. The man smelled of hair oil and lotion when he went by.

  “Now, Mrs. Vine, I ask you, please, to tell us what this document is.”

  “Yes. This is a birth certificate for a Linus Bragg, colored, and it shows that he was born December twenty-ninth, 1929, in Alcolu. Over at the mill shantytown.”

  “So that he was fourteen, turned fourteen, the end of last year. Thank you. That’s all, ma’am, assuming Mr. Brickstone has no questions.”