Carolina Skeletons

by David Stout

Judah Brickstone felt the stranger’s presence before he heard him.

  “Ah, Mr. Allison, I presume,” Judah Brickstone said, rising slowly from the chair and extending his hand.

  “Hope I’m not disturbing your lunch,” Willop said.

  “Not at all. Things don’t move too fast around these parts. Have a seat.”

  Judah sized up the stranger: a bit awkward, fairly strong build, though a bit flabby. Accent from up north, someplace. Clothes that did not suggest wealth (though Judah had learned long ago that they often did not). Most interestingly—Judah was almost certain of this—a trace of colored in his blood.

  “I understand you’re interested in land,” Judah Brickstone said. “What kind of land?”

  “You sure have a lot of pictures,” Willop said.

  “That’s what comes from staying in one place for a long time.” Judah smiled pleasantly.

  “I guess so. Seems like you must have been here forever, getting to know all these folks. Politicians and regular people both, I guess.”

  “Plain folks is good folks around here. I draw up their wills, give advice on taxes sometimes, draw up paper for the county when it wants to sell bonds. All that. I been here so long that, more and more in recent years, I’ve tended to specialize in real estate. I know all the agents. Got a license myself, in fact. Been here so long, I practically know the county tax maps by heart.” Again Judah smiled, though it took a shade more effort. He wished this Allison would get down to business.

  “I’m impressed. All those pictures. Lots of well-known politicians. Regular folks. Even some black folks, over there behind that plant.”

  Odd remark, that last, Judah Brickstone thought. Now he was certain that this odd Allison fellow lived far away, and that he was most likely part Negro: Any white person his age who’d lived in Clarendon County all his life would more likely have used the term “colored.”

  “Well, I’ve been active in the state bar. Served on some state commissions, that sort of thing. What sort of land are you interested in?” Judah’s patience had run out.

  Good, Willop thought. Let him get uptight, then surprise him.

  “Actually, I’m most interested in a plot about, oh, three feet wide and six feet long.”

  Judah looked right at Willop with an expression that showed he was baffled to the point of fear.

  “A grave. That’s really the little plot of land that brought me back here. Do you know I couldn’t even find his grave? Maybe you could help.” Let that sink in, Willop thought.

  “I wish to God almighty I knew what you were talking about.…”

  “Oh, you know,” Willop said, standing up and taking off his coat. Play this right, Willop told himself as he took the revolver out of his pocket and wrapped his coat around it so only the muzzle protruded.

  “I don’t, I swear.…” Fear in his voice. Good, Willop thought. He just didn’t want him to die of a heart attack.

  “Look here,” Willop said, sitting down again.

  Judah saw the muzzle, and his eyes bulged with terror. “Gun …?”

  “Right, gun. Now listen. I’m going to ask you some questions about Linus Bragg, and you’re going to answer them. To the best of your recollection, as you lawyers like to say.”

  “Linus … Oh, my God. That colored boy …”

  “You got it.”

  “So long ago …”

  “Ain’t it the truth. Now, how come you never filed a notice of appeal? Just doing that would have postponed the execution.”

  “There were no grounds. I mean, the boy confessed.…”

  “You saw the confession? And he told you he did it? Did he?” Got him good and scared, Willop thought. Just try to keep cool.…

  “Sure, I saw the confession. The paper, I mean. I mean, he didn’t tell me exactly, like in so many words.…” Judah Brickstone was practically stammering. This stranger’s eyes were cold, like he could kill him without a second thought. Maybe if I tell him I’m sick, Judah Brickstone thought. Maybe if I tell him I’ve had a heart attack and cancer. Suddenly, Judah Brickstone imagined how a bullet would feel, tearing into his midsection, through it, and then—God! Just the thought was terrible—ripping through his bag, making his death messy and disgraceful as well as painful and splashing The Governor and Senator Sam …

  “All right. Just listen to my questions. You don’t have a transcript of the trial?”

  “No. None anywhere. No appeal filed.”

  “You didn’t even bother.… Ever study the confession real hard to see if it sounded like a little colored kid?”

  “No. No. Oh, God …”

  “Just listen. What did Linus tell you? About the killing?”

  “He said, I think he said, he didn’t mean it.”

  “Mean what?”

  “To kill the girls. He didn’t mean to—”

  “No, I want his exact words. To the best of your recollection.”

  “He said, ‘I didn’t mean to … to …’”

  “To look,” Willop said.

  “Uh, to look. Yes.” There was surprise on Brickstone’s face, surprise at the memory.

  “So he didn’t tell you he killed them?”

  “Well, I figured he meant … I mean …”

  “Little colored boys used to be told not to even look at white girls. You know that, Brickstone?”

  Brickstone’s face was white.

  “All right,” Willop said. “You never appealed. How come you never asked for a change of venue?”

  “Why, I thought … I mean, there was no need.…”

  “No need. You just figured a little nigger boy accused of killing two white girls could get a fair trial right in the town where the killings took place. Right?”

  “Standards were different then. I mean … Oh, my God …”

  “Never mind God. Just listen to me. Anybody ever offer you money not to seek a change of venue?”

  “No! And if they had, I would have flat turned them down. And that’s the truth.”

  Judah surprised himself with his courage. Well, if he was going to die, it would be with the truth on his lips. He remembered, too well, the long-ago conversation in the Calhoun House. But he had never been offered money, and he damn well wouldn’t have taken it, and the whole thing had damn well caused him more grief than he deserved.

  “All right. No money. How about political pressure? Any of that?”

  “Yes. Sure. Look, emotions were very hot. It was an election year. Now, please, don’t ask for a South Carolina political history, but—”

  “Never mind that shit. Just listen. And answer.” But first Willop had to throw him a good question. “Did you ever try to raise any reasonable doubt by asking how come two girls, one eleven years old, couldn’t fight off a boy who weighed ninety-five pounds and stood five foot one inch tall?”

  “Well …”

  “I figured not. Ever ask how come this colored boy didn’t have scratches on his face from the girls’ struggling?”

  “No.”

  “Think maybe a defense lawyer, a decent defense lawyer, would ask those questions today?”

  “It’s different today.” Judah was gaining composure.

  “You’re not going to tell me,” Willop said, “you’re not going to tell me you were never pressured by anybody not to seek a change of venue. By anybody?”

  “Well, yes, there were some. But I might not have anyhow. I mean …”

  A light in Willop’s head. “Anybody who sought you out on this, anybody at all, were they a friend of Tyler, the guy who owned the mill?”

  Almost as fascinated as he was afraid, Judah searched his memory. Yes, Cyril Hornsmith and old Mr. Tyler had been fairly thick back then. “I suppose,” he answered finally. “There was one well-known lawyer. He had some connection with the Governor or something. Made his wishes known to me, this lawyer did, that he would prefer the trial not be moved. And he did know Tyler, yes. But Mr. Tyler knew a lot of people.…”

  “I understan
d that.” Nevertheless, Brickstone’s answer left Willop almost breathless. “And nobody ever promised you anything for not getting the trial moved?”

  “No, and that’s the God’s truth.”

  “This T. J. Campbell,” Willop said, “Tyler’s nephew. You know him?”

  “Sure, I know him. Knew Mr. Tyler, handled his will, in fact. So I knew T.J., sure.”

  “His will? You handled it? Tell me, did Tyler arrange for T.J. to be set for life, or just enough to keep him starving and a little better? Seeing as how T.J. seems to the world’s biggest asshole.”

  Brickstone was silent.

  “Tyler ever arrange for an old black, Tyrone, to live for the rest of his life near the mill? Maybe even have a little extra, enough to keep him in licorice?”

  Brickstone was silent. His face was resolute.

  “You hard of hearing?” Willop said, wiggling the revolver. “Oh, yeah. You are, aren’t you? I asked you about the will.”

  “That’s confidential. Between my client and me, even if my client’s dead,” Brickstone said at last. He was resigned to his fate and he would keep his oaths.

  “Fair enough.” Willop had underestimated Brickstone. Now, he had new respect for him. And he was satisfied, at least from what he could see in his face, that he knew no dark secret about T. J. Campbell.

  “What do you want from me?” Judah said. “I don’t claim to be the bravest man in the world, but I’ve been close to death before. I wish you’d end the suspense and tell me why you’re here.”

  “I promised someone a long time ago that I’d look into the case. Investigate it. Which is a lot more than anyone else seems to have done.”

  “You’re not going to shoot me?”

  “Shit, no,” Willop said, standing up. “Gun’s not even loaded. Reason I wrapped my coat around it is so you couldn’t see the empty cylinders.”

  “You tricked me.”

  “Sure did. Had to do it. Look at it this way, they tricked Linus. Only difference is, you get to live.”

  Satisfied, Willop turned to go. No, he had to leave Brickstone with something more. “Brickstone, I know you weren’t much of a defense lawyer, but you don’t lack for balls.”

  Alone, Judah Brickstone sat still for a long time, listening to the clock tick.

  Willop drove a short distance from Brickstone’s office before he pulled over and turned off the engine. He closed his eyes and breathed as deeply and slowly as he could. He had seen the fear in Brickstone’s face, but he doubted that the lawyer had been any more frightened than he himself was.

  It was not like the movies, when you pulled a gun on somebody and had total control. Not like that at all … Christ, what would he have done if Brickstone had pulled a gun out of his desk drawer?

  Nothing. I would have done nothing. So maybe I just should have played it straight in the first place.… Oh, a fine time to wonder about that …

  Slowly, his composure returned. He would have to get a look at that will. What the hell, must be a public document …

  Willop had the same feeling he had often had years before while fumbling with an algebra problem. He had pieces of information, but he didn’t know how to string them together in an equation.

  No, the feeling was stronger than that. What the hell was it? Something from the old case file? Or the old newspaper? Maybe something that Reddy had said, or Tyrone … Jesus, poor old Tyrone …

  Or something Brickstone had said?

  Something …

  29

  As Willop stood at the counter in the Clarendon County clerk’s office, he was apprehensive. Two middle-aged women, wearing loose dresses, their skin like parchment, worked at typewriters a few feet apart. They ignored Willop for a minute or more, as did the thin, gray-faced man of sixty or so seated at a nearby table. He wore gray striped suit trousers that would have been stylish in the 1940s. Faded suspenders ran over humped shoulders, bunching up his faded blue shirt in the back.

  God, Willop thought. These people look like they live here. Am I being uncharitable? Probably. Easier in a big city, he thought. Court clerks there were used to people coming in every day by the carload, asking for this and that, and they didn’t give a damn.…

  “Yes?” one of the women said at long last, rising slowly and not smiling.

  “Good afternoon,” Willop said. “I’d like to see a will that I believe is filed here.”

  “Well, who is the deceased?” the woman asked.

  “Name’s Tyler,” Willop said, trying to sound casual and blowing it. “Used to own a big mill hereabouts, I believe.”

  It seemed to Willop that the woman’s eyes instantly turned frightened and suspicious. Without a word, she turned and walked over to the other woman, bent over, and whispered to her. The listener’s parchment skin wrinkled and, Willop thought, her shoulders shrugged. Willop was apprehensive. This was still the South, after all.

  “Just have a seat,” the first woman said to him.

  Willop sat in a metal chair by the door, a few feet from the counter. Keep your head, he told himself. The worst they can say is no, but do not, do not, do not show anger. Unless you want a disorderly conduct charge and a jailhouse beating.

  Willop tried to be comfortable in the metal chair, which he found impossible, and tried to look nonchalant, which he imagined was also impossible. There were several other clerks, bent over typewriters and index cards and tray-size metal baskets. They were all older than he, Willop thought; old enough to be set in their ways, their Southern ways. He did not belong.…

  “Here you are,” a voice said at length. It was the woman; she had returned from somewhere, silently, and dropped a document, folded in thirds to the size of a business envelope and protected by a light blue cover.

  Willop began reading: “I, Harrison Baines Tyler, being of sound body and mind, do on this twenty-fourth of May, in the Year of Our Lord One Thousand Nine-Hundred and Fifty-Two, hereby …”

  Tyler directed, in the virtually universal language of last wills and testaments, that his funeral expenses be paid (he wanted a plain casket as part of a plain service), that all his debts be paid, that all liens against his estate be satisfied. Willop noticed, as he read, that the paper was cleaned, unwrinkled, the folds of the paper apparently having been disturbed seldom, if ever.

  Since Tyler’s wife, Willop knew, had died before him, it might be interesting to see who got the money.… There was a bequest to the University of South Carolina, “my beloved Alma Mater,” of five thousand dollars—not hay back then, or even now for that matter, Willop reflected. The South Carolina Chamber of Commerce was left one thousand dollars, as was the South Carolina Manufacturers Association. Easy to see where his heart was. And his politics …

  A sister in Raleigh was left ten thousand dollars, and a brother in Columbia an identical amount. Willop was not that good with numbers, but he thought those sums indicated no small wealth in 1952 in the middle of South Carolina. Now, how much did old T. J. Campbell get …

  “… and to my nephew, T. J. Campbell, who often sought to take the place of the son I never had, I leave the sum of fifteen thousand dollars …”

  Willop’s skin almost tingled with fascination as he read the passage over and over. No matter how many times he read the words “who often sought to take the place of the son I never had,” they did not come across as warm and loving. Oh, they could be interpreted that way, if the reader was expecting to find those sentiments on paper, but to Willop the words suggested something wonderfully, ingeniously ambiguous. And the amount wasn’t much, not when compared to the brother and sister, not when you considered that Tyler had no son.…

  And the amount certainly wasn’t much when you looked at the bequests to charity, Willop thought. There they were, the Cancer Foundation, the Red Cross, and—

  Oh, my God. Willop stopped reading, in astonishment. He blinked and read again, and the words were the same. Man, the guy had a sense of humor, if nothing else.…

  Slumped i
n the car across the street from the courthouse, Willop tried to sort things out. He wondered if he was losing it all: He had used a fake name when he saw Brickstone, but he had blown whatever cover he had by asking to see Tyler’s will. No, wait a minute … No one in the courthouse had asked for his name.… Yeah, but there aren’t that many strangers come into town and ask to see—

  Shit. Tired and frustrated, he slapped the dashboard with his hand, so hard that his palm stung. He needed to get back to the motel for a rest. Maybe take some time off, treat himself to a nice dinner, like Moira had said …

  On his way to the motel, he drove past the newspaper offices. He thought of the stories he had read. Then he thought of the pictures of the little girls, smiling.

  And that made him turn around.

  * * *

  Willop was out of breath and trying not to show it when he asked the friendly young man if he would mind terribly getting out the 1944 bound file once again, just for a minute, so he could double-check something. No trouble, the young man said, showing Willop to a corner table.

  Willop smiled, trying to appear casual, as the file was placed in front of him. Turn the pages … farther back … no, not this far … there!

  Willop stared again at the pictures of the girls. Smiling. God love you, Cindy Lou.… You’d be older than me today, wouldn’t you? Tell you what, kiddo: There’s not a damn thing wrong with your smile.

  Willop drove past the sheriff’s office. Good. The parking spaces for Stoker and for the sheriff himself were empty. He turned around and pulled into the lot.

  Bestwick was there, alone. She smiled, though Willop thought she was a bit more wary than the time before. He told her he needed one last favor: Could he see the file on that old murder case just once more? Just one little thing he had to check, and it was pretty important.…

  Again, Willop locked himself into the room at the end of the corridor. This time, he ignored almost everything, except for the pictures of Cindy Lou Ellerby.

  There, there, child … I see, I do see, at long last.… You didn’t have a bad tooth before the attack, did you? And since there aren’t any cuts around your mouth, I’m figuring you broke your tooth biting your killer, even though whoever did the autopsy didn’t pick that up.