"Barr-neee!"
"That's right!" She clapped her hands. "Barney! Very good, MJ!"
But almost immediately her face showed a mix of emotions. Joy and sorrow. The immovable knowledge that she couldn’t share this moment with her husband.
I looked away.
On the television, the fake dinosaur walked across the set. I found his walk disturbing, like an obese man with hemorrhoids. But his advice wasn’t bad. He admonished the children to keep germs off their hands. "Always wash your hands before you eat," he said. "Always wash after you use the restroom."
"Would you look at this?" she said.
I hesitated. My experience with parents was that they found every single thing about their children interesting—including scatological details that most adults didn't want to discuss with their doctor. Tonight the boy’s open nakedness had only confirmed that perception. But I didn’t want to seem rude so I turned, all the while feeling a sense of foreboding.
The boy lay on his back, his neck craned to keep watch on the television. His mother held his tender feet in the air, offering me a full view of his bare behind. An angry diaper rash inflamed both cheeks.
"That’s quite a rash," I acknowledged.
I quickly looked away. Barney was now saying he loved me and I loved him, and we were one big happy family. I wondered if this was why the boy liked the program. It was family.
"It’s not the rash," she said. “It’s these things. Look."
I didn't want to. But I had to.
Still holding his ankles in one hand, she wiped a disposable cloth over his blistered bottom then scooted over to me, brandishing the cloth.
"I mean, what are these things?"
She held the wipe directly under my face. There were hundreds -- no, thousands -- of tiny clear gelatinous beads. Like clear coarse sand. They seemed to roll across the white cloth.
"Every time I take off MJ's diaper these things are all over his bottom. I wipe and wipe, but I can't get them all off. And with that horrible rash of his, it’s just awful. The pediatrician says—"
I stood up and walked over to the blanket. His dirty diaper rested on the edge, looking like a bloated clamshell. I picked it up, feeling the surprising weight. It was holding copious amounts of the boy's water but the outside paper was dry. My palm was dry. I pulled one of the disposable cloths from the plastic dispenser and brushed it across the diaper’s interior. Tens of thousands of the gelatinous beads came with it.
She taped a clean diaper over his bottom. The clean diapers were stacked in a small basket beside her. They were as thin and flat as my notebook. She patted his leg, giving him back to Barney, then began folding the blanket.
I lifted the dirty diaper. "Would you mind if I take this?"
She laughed. The dark smudges beneath her green eyes softened. Her teeth were straight and white. She was pretty once again.
"No problem,” she said. “I got a whole trash can full. You want to take those too?"
Chapter 36
Standing on the front lawn at Weyanoke, I listened to the cicadas shimmering the night air. The moonlight made the clipped grass appear gray, stretching toward the river like slate. But golden beams fired from the windows.
They were home.
Jillian answered the doorbell.
“Raleigh–” Her lovely face looked surprised. "Are you -- are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Is your father home?"
She hesitated, and I wondered whether DeMott had told her about his note revealing the connection. Finally, with a nod, she walked me down the wide gallery, glancing twice over her shoulder trying to gauge my expression.
In the sunroom Harrison Fielding, Mac, and DeMott were playing cards and having drinks. The scene stopped me cold. Once again time seemed to stand still inside this manor house. While the world outside raged, the Fieldings luxuriated for a summer evening of bridge.
"Raleigh.” DeMott stood up. “What's wrong?"
Harrison Fielding only stared at me, his bloodshot eyes filled with knowledge. With a sigh, he fanned his cards across table's supple leather.
"How unfortunate," he said wearily. "Those were good cards."
"Daddy." Mac's voice quavered. “What’s going on?”
"It is unlike our friend Raleigh to arrive at our home without calling."
In other words, I was rude. But I pushed back all the well-bred Virginia manners, all that southern etiquette. No apologies were necessary. Not after I watched Janine Falcon's family night. Not after I knew what Harrison Fielding did.
"How long was Detective Falcon providing security for your garbage dump?"
“Garbage?” He frowned.
“Oh, that’s right,” I said. “You call it a landfill. How long?”
He glanced at DeMott.
“Answer the question, sir.”
He picked up his drink. "In hindsight, Raleigh, perhaps I should have explained that security arrangement to you. It is true that Detective Falcon watched over my properties. But only when off-duty. As you'll recall, he died in the line of duty. Naturally, I was concerned for his widow. That’s why I didn’t mention it." He paused. "But perhaps you're not as concerned about the man’s family."
"How long did Detective Falcon watch over the landfill?"
He gathered the cards from the table, stacking them neatly. "Forgive me, Raleigh, but if my memory serves, your investigation concerns some sordid civil rights violations. Perhaps even committed by the detective on the factory roof. That factory, then, is your area of investigation. Do try to stay in bounds."
Translation: Don't try to rise above your station, you silly adopted child.
"Mr. Fielding, do you know what the penalty is for lying to an FBI agent?"
"Lying?" He placed a hand on his chest, appalled. "Lying? Are you calling me a liar?"
"Daddy," Mac looked ashen. "What is going on!"
"I will need to inspect that landfill.”
"As I said, Raleigh, you should--"
"If you choose not to cooperate, I will have no choice but to ask the United States attorney's office for a court order. That order will catch the attention of several federal agencies, including the EPA.” I paused. “Or, you could give me access without the need for attorneys. It's your call, Mr. Fielding."
"What does my landfill have to do with any of this?"
"All right. U.S. attorney. Good night." I turned to leave.
Jillian stepped in front of me, blocking my path.
"Now hold on. For heaven's sake, where is this hostility coming from? Daddy?”
“Jill, she came to our home unannounced. That should tell you something.”
I turned around. Mac stood behind her father’s chair, her hands on his shoulders. "And she's an FBI agent. She might be recording our every word."
“Oh, Mac.” DeMott rolled his eyes. "Grow up."
"Me -- grow up?” She glared at him. “How about you grow up and get over this schoolboy crush? Wake up. See what she's really like."
"Shut your mouth." He clenched his teeth. “Shut up.”
"Oh? Raleigh doesn't know?" She threw me the glance, like a cat about to destroy the curtains. "Maybe it is a good thing she’s here. Now you can see her true colors. But Daddy needs to make her go away."
Harrison Fielding reached up, patting her hand. "Sugar, that's not up to me. That's up to our...guest."
Ordinarily his masterful digs would have drawn some blood. But my life had been cratered with incoming meteors. And Harrison Fielding was responsible for some of that damage. The synthetic mineral acrylamide had put me on a wild goose chase, and nearly got me raped, if not killed. My mistake was assuming the acrylamide was in the soil. But it came from diapers. And the largest collection of diapers was in landfills.
I glanced at DeMott. His face was flushed from Mac's words.
He turned to his father. "When I was in custody, do you remember what you told me?”
“‘Watch your back?’”
“You sa
id, 'Do everything you can to help them.’ Those were your exact words. Please, right now. Don't be a hypocrite."
The sudden guffaw startled everyone.
I turned around. Peery Fielding stood in the doorway that led back to the gallery. She floated forward, her curves swaddled in peach silk. The skin on her face was tight as a drum. She came up beside me.
"DeMott," she said, "your father maintains standards for other people, not himself. Harrison Fielding is king." She took my hand, squeezing it once. "Raleigh, so nice to see you. I would have preferred different circumstances, but I'm not surprised. Life continually ignores my wishes."
I wasn't sure whether to feel encouraged or afraid. Her husband stared at her with open hatred.
"Harrison,” she said. “Tell Raleigh what she needs to know. And you will tell her now."
He lowered his chin, glowering.
"Harrison. Now. Or else."
"My dear wife does enjoy ultimatums."
"So does the FBI," I said.
Peery laughed and squeezed my hand. "I do like this girl, DeMott. Hurry up and marry her."
DeMott dropped his face in his hands.
Harrison Fielding rattled the ice in his drink. "Since lawyers complicate the obvious, I don't see that we need them involved at this stage. You agree, Raleigh?"
My knees almost buckled with the relief. The Fieldings were playing bridge tonight, but I was playing poker, with only bluffs. I had no power to get subpoenas from the U.S. attorneys. Not even Charles Reynolds could help me now.
"I'd like to see the landfill tomorrow," I said.
“Tomorrow? It’s the weekend.” He looked shocked. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
"Tomorrow it is." Peery said. "Thank you for stopping by, Raleigh. I’ll walk you to the door."
Harrison Fielding was calling out my name as we left the room. Demanding to know why I wanted to see the landfill. Demanding we do this Monday.
But I had already broken every other rule of southern etiquette tonight, so I left without replying.
And Peery Fielding was still smiling.
Chapter 37
The next morning, my mother wore her new straw hat to work in the garden. From the carriage house window I watched her working through the overgrown beds. Wielding a bread knife, she ran the serrated bread knife across the dandelion stalks, throwing each decapitation over her shoulder. The yellow blossoms scattered across the slate where Madame was snoozing.
I walked down to the courtyard, feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt.
"May I borrow your car again?" I asked.
She pushed back the hat, smiling. "What is wrong with your car?”
“They’re not sure. It’s still in the shop.”
“Well, I’m not using it. Madame and I are determined to get this yard in order. Aren't we, Madame?"
The dog opened an eye, staring at me. She seemed to read my mind.
I was getting too comfortable with lying.
===============
The records office at Richmond City Hall was located on the eleventh floor, a drab room controlled by a taciturn clerk who logged me into a public computer and then walked away.
Twenty minutes later I had found a proposal for something called "the P Street Landfill Project.” It outlined a plan for picking up twenty percent of the city's garbage and depositing it in an abandoned lot in a residential neighborhood just below Church Hill. The proposal provoked nineteen complaints. All anonymous. The complaints ranged from potential problems with "stench, contamination, and rodents” to “commercial traffic on narrow streets."
And yet, at the public hearing held before the city council, no one testified against the landfill. Or the company behind the project: Weyanoke Enterprises.
A spokesperson for Weyanoke Enterprises did, however, remind the council that the "waste management corporation" had filed "all necessary permits with the city" and that the two-acre operation would provide citizens with abundant tax revenue for a neighborhood with declining commercial businesses and sparse home ownership. They also claimed the “minor facility” was not a full-fledged landfill for the entire city.
Boutique garbage, I thought.
Perfect for Harrison Fielding.
I scrolled through the documents. Two weeks later, the Richmond City Council voted to approve what was now called the “P Street Receptacle.” The incriminating words "garbage" and "landfill” had been removed.
I checked the city's land use permits and found one city planner who noted that the two acres of land had been empty for decades, “infertile in terms of farming.” The incoming waste would be buried, covered with extra soil that would be scraped from an overhanging bluff.
I scrolled back to the city council meeting. The vote was 8 in favor, 1 opposed.
Eight to one.
In a city like Richmond, the city council rarely saw that kind of agreement. The last time I could remember it happening was for a statue of Arthur Ashe, the late tennis star who grew up on Richmond's segregated courts. Otherwise the council reflected the city that was half white, half black.
The landfill's lone dissenter was Councilman Morton Thalbrough.
Behind the clerk’s desk a city map showed the boundary lines for the nine council seats. The map showed numbers for the districts, but no names. Probably because the seats came up for re-election every two years.
"Excuse me," I said to the clerk.
She looked up; she looked bored. Saturday in City Hall.
"Which district is represented by Morton Thalbrough?"
"The First. The West End." Lifting her hand, she pointed to the area west of downtown, right around my old high school. It was the wealthiest neighborhood in Richmond.
But that didn’t make sense. The landfill was located on the opposite side of town.
I walked over to get a better look. The map was heavily detailed with streets, highways, and natural geographic barriers such as creeks and watersheds. And it showed how Main Street ran east into Williamsburg Road and followed the altitude rise to Fulton Hill, right below Church Hill. But the road abruptly ended at P Street. That would be the sandy bluff, I guessed.
And that would be where the two acres waited for garbage.
A large number “6” marked that district.
"Who runs the Sixth District?"
She looked up again. But now she was smiling. "Not from Richmond, are you?"
"Why do you say that?"
"Because everybody knows who runs the Sixth."
"I don't."
She pointed to the map again, tracing her finger around the district lines. "Right there? That’s what we call LuLu Country."
“The mayor?”
Chapter 38
Later that afternoon I stood on the east side of Church Hill, staring at the taupe-colored bluff whose soil was used to bury the garbage. Somewhere above it a dog was barking. It was a hoarse and monotonous warning, the distress signal of an animal facing constant threat. When I stepped to the chain link fence surrounding the landfill, a sickly sweet scent wafted through the humid air. Seagulls perched on the waste, pecking open plastic trash bags.
Minutes later Harrison Fielding zoomed down P Street in a black BMW. He parked two feet from the crumbling curb, careful to keep his alloy wheels from the broken glass that sprayed across the pavement like petrified tears. DeMott drove up behind him in a rattletrap Ford truck, climbing out as his father walked to the locked gate, flicking keys from a leather pouch. He popped the chambers of three massive Schlage padlocks and turned to his son.
"DeMott.”
Pulling the heavy chains through the diamond-shaped fencing, DeMott lifted the gate and slid it open. The steel wheels chattered across the pebbly concrete. The texture told me the cement was poured quickly and had set improperly.
Rather than step into the yard, Fielding waited for the cargo van coming down the road. It needed a muffler and rumbled as it made a difficult turn around the Beemer, parking in the lan
dfill entrance. A large black man climbed out.
"This is Al Gibson," Fielding said, finally acknowledging my presence. "Al manages the landfill."
I shook the man’s hand. His palm was like a chunk of riprap rock.
"Are you out here often?" I asked.
He pointed to a wooden shack just inside the gate. “Right there. Every day.”
The shed-like building was painted blaze orange, perhaps so it didn’t get buried in the garbage forming a mound beyond it. One window looked out at the refuse and the bluff.
"Do you happen to keep track of the deliveries?" I asked.
Al Gibson glanced at his boss. Fielding nodded, giving permission.
"I got notes on who comes in and out,” he said.
“I’d like to see that,” I said.
Fielding said, “I still don’t see the point, Raleigh.”
I kept my eyes on Gibson. "When the landfill is closed, like it was earlier today, how do people get in?"
"They don't," Fielding snapped. “You must be blind not to see the gate was locked."
"Mr. Gibson?" I said.
He glanced once more at his boss and shifted his substantial weight from foot to foot.
"Answer her," Fielding said.
"We got some homeless folks living on the bluff.” He pointed to the top, where the dog was still barking. "I think they come down at night. I called the police about it, Mister Fielding. I did."
But Harrison Fielding was already walking away, striding toward his sports car. "I can find better ways to waste my time. DeMott, Al, you can take care of this.”
As Fielding sped away, Al Gibson headed for the shack, unlocking the door. Behind him the seagulls swooped and cawed, carrying debris in their talons.
I had borrowed Wally's apple green Duster – no way would I expose the Benz to this stench -- and when I walked over to it, DeMott followed me. The trunk was so rusted the street was visible through the bottom. I took my equipment from the Rubbermaid bin, too large to fall through the hole, stuffing film canisters into a hip pouch, strapping a Nikon around my neck.
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