Natchez Burning (Penn Cage)

by Greg Iles

  CHAPTER 32

  “MR. ROYAL, SNAKE Knox is at the gate.”

  Brody Royal looked up from a set of aerial photos he’d commissioned of the flooded Lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans. “I’ll see him, Hargrove.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brody set aside the flood photos, picked up his glass of whiskey, and got up from the sofa. More and more frequently over the past year, he’d spent his leisure hours in the basement of his home on Lake Concordia. Most of this vast underground floor was occupied by a state-of-the-art firing range, but Brody had also added a display room for his collection of antique weapons. Over the years, this room had taken on the look of a gentlemen’s club, with comfortable furniture occupying the rectangular space between the glass-fronted cypress display cases. Here Brody entertained senators, governors, CEOs, sports stars, and country singers, allowing them to fire weapons they’d only seen in Hollywood movies. He loved watching citified ego-freaks turn into jelly as the BAR came alive in their hands, chewing up a fifty-five-gallon drum placed against the wall of railroad ties at the end of the shooting lanes.

  The staircase leading to the house’s main floor was decorated with photographs that made Shad Johnson’s Wall of Respect look like a bulletin board in a teenage girl’s room. Anyone ascending those stairs saw Brody’s father and Governor Huey P. Long standing behind a balcony rail draped in campaign bunting. After that came Brody Sr. and a grinning young Carlos Marcello sitting in the bed of a tomato truck loaded with slot machines. Signed photos included Brody himself with President Lyndon Johnson, Mercury astronauts Alan Shepard and Gus Grissom, President Richard Nixon, and Ronald Reagan. Candid shots showed Brody playing poker with John Stennis and Big Jim Eastland, eating catfish at Jughead’s with Senator Earl Long, drinking with Ernest Hemingway in the Carousel Bar in the Hotel Monteleone, and singing with Al Hirt on the roof of the Eola Hotel. Brody’s favorite image, shot in 1952, only showed him in the background, while in the glare of a flashbulb General Douglas MacArthur danced with Natchez belle Pythia Nolan, whom Brody had once pursued with all his will but had failed to bring to the altar.

  Hearing an engine upstairs in the driveway, Brody walked over to the fieldstone fireplace, where a large framed display above the mantel held pride of place. The left-hand photograph in the frame showed the levee at Caernarvon, Louisiana, being dynamited in 1927. The photo on the right showed an aerial image of St. Bernard Parish, Brody’s childhood home, flooded from end to end as a result of that levee breach. The two photos bookended a cashier’s check in the amount of twelve dollars and fifty cents. Drawn on a once-renowned New Orleans bank, this sum had been issued in 1928 as “full reparations” for the loss of his family’s land, home, and two mercantile stores. Brody’s father had never cashed this check, which he’d considered absolute proof of the baseness of the human spirit. Brody himself had spent decades working to avenge his father, and now, near the end of his life, God and nature had conspired to grant him his wish.

  “Mr. Royal?” said a familiar voice from the foot of the stairs.

  Brody turned and motioned Snake Knox to come deeper into the room.

  “What can I do for you, Snake?”

  The crop duster beamed with pleasure, his eyes taking in the gleaming weapons behind the glass. He’d only been down here a few times, and he clearly felt awed by his surroundings.

  “Glenn Morehouse has sung his last song,” he said.

  Brody acknowledged the news with a nod. “Any problems?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good work.”

  Randall Regan came down the stairs, nodded to Snake, then poured himself a Stella Artois from a small Viking refrigerator and watched Knox the way a hawk watches a serpent in a field.

  “There’s another problem, though,” Snake said. “Henry Sexton met with Mayor Penn Cage tonight. For a good while, too. Over at the Beacon office.”

  Royal glanced at his son-in-law, whose eyes went cold. “I don’t like that.”

  “I didn’t figure you would,” Snake said. “When Penn Cage gets a burr up his ass about something, he don’t quit. Remember when he put Judge Marston in prison? And that cunt of his with the newspaper . . .”

  “Yes.” Brody sipped his whiskey. “You know, Leo Marston was a friend of mine. Also a business partner. His incarceration caused me considerable difficulty. I always felt like I owed Penn Cage for that.”

  “Yes, sir. Is there anything you want me to do?”

  “Do Forrest and Billy know that Sexton spoke to the mayor tonight?”

  Snake nodded. “Billy’s pretty worried about it, actually. But Forrest don’t seem too concerned.”

  “So you came to me.”

  “I figured you’d want to know.”

  For the first time, Randall spoke. “You figured right.”

  “I’ll take this under advisement and get back to you tomorrow,” Brody said. “Keep me apprised of any developments.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brody smiled. “That’s all.”

  Contrary to expectations, Snake didn’t turn to go. The crop duster was staring into the display cases behind Brody, as though looking for something in particular. Brody had a feeling he knew what it was.

  “Can I help you, Snake?”

  “Is my rifle still down here?”

  Brody smiled and pointed to the display case closest to the shooting stations of the firing range. Every case in this room featured polycarbonate glass for security, but the last case was unique in that it could be sealed with a wooden insert that concealed it altogether. Broader than the others, it held two scoped rifles mounted horizontally at chest height, and below them a German Flammenwerfer 41, the most advanced flamethrower of World War II.

  Snake walked over to the cabinet and gazed at the rifles. As Brody stepped up behind him, Snake shook his head and whistled long and low.

  “What you figure these beauties would fetch on eBay?” he asked.

  The top rifle was a 1959 Remington 700, chambered for a .243 cartridge and mounted with a 7x Kahles scope. Beneath it was a 1962 Winchester Model 70, chambered for .30-06 Springfield and mounting a 5x Leupold scope. The Winchester was “Snake’s rifle.”

  “Two million apiece?” Brody guessed. “Hell, maybe five. But we’d never see the money.” He chuckled at the thought. “Our kids would be spending it while we rotted in jail.”

  Snake shook his head again. “You’ve got balls, Mr. Royal. Damn . . . I’ll give you that.”

  Brody’s chest swelled. Before he turned back to the sofa, he read the engraved brass plaques mounted beneath the rifles. Each was decorated with a small, full-color American flag. The plaque beneath the Remington read: November 22, 1963. The one beneath Snake’s Winchester read: April 4, 1968.

  OUT ON THE NARROW lane outside Brody Royal’s house, a sixty-seven-year-old black man wearing a Detroit Tigers baseball cap drove his pickup truck along the shore of Lake Concordia. He saw a guard with a rifle slung over his shoulder standing a few yards down the driveway. Sleepy Johnston waved happily with his right hand, playing the part of an elderly fool, and kept driving with his knee. His right hand held a Glock .40-caliber pistol. He’d have to go around the lake now, and drive out the other way. But at least he’d gotten a look at the pickup truck parked before Brody Royal’s garage door.

  It belonged to Snake Knox. One of Albert’s killers . . .

  Sleepy had made his usual rounds tonight, which was how he’d recently gotten reacquainted with the characters from the bad old days of his youth. It was also how he’d discovered the Audi S4 parked outside the Concordia Beacon. While he waited to see who would come out and claim that car, a sheriff’s cruiser had pulled up and scared him off. By pulling around to Main Street and waiting a couple of minutes, Sleepy had managed to follow the Audi back to Natchez, to a town house on Washington Street. There the car’s owner had gotten into some kind of confrontation with a black man in a white pickup truck with Illinois plates. By rolling down his window a
t the nearest intersection, Sleepy had heard the truck’s driver refer to the white man as “Mayor.”

  Then he’d understood. Henry Sexton had been meeting with the mayor of Natchez, the son of a doctor who had sewed up Sleepy’s right knee when he was a little boy. Rumors were already circulating that Dr. Cage had killed his old nurse as part of some suicide pact, but most folks seemed to think that she had been ready to die. All Sleepy knew was that Viola had been the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, before or after he left the South. And her brother Jimmy had been one hell of a musician—far better than Sleepy or Pooky would ever be.

  Sleepy turned on the radio and searched for an R&B station. The sound of rap drove him crazy. He finally settled on Sly and the Family Stone playing “If You Want Me to Stay,” circa 1973. As the bass guitar pumped sinuously around him in the closed cab, Sleepy lit a Salem and wondered at the tragedy that, of Jimmy, Pooky, and himself, only one had survived to hear this song on the radio.

  If God has a plan, he thought, it’s a piss-poor one.

  TUESDAY

  CHAPTER 33

  SHERIFF BILLY BYRD personally arrested my father at 8:45 A.M. Dad was sitting at the breakfast table when the law arrived. Mom sat opposite him with a cup of coffee and a Dopp kit filled with prescription drugs in front of her, while I talked to her on the telephone, reassuring her that I would be waiting at the sheriff’s department. A strangled sob came over the line.

  As I sped toward the sheriff’s department, my mother called my cell phone and told me that a deputy had handcuffed Dad before they put him in the backseat of the cruiser, with all the neighbors watching. She was terrified that he would develop chest pain on the way to the station; his nitro tablets were sitting in a Ziploc bag on the passenger seat of her car. Surely, I thought, Dad kept a couple of tablets in his pocket for the ride downtown.

  To my relief, Shad Johnson had arranged things with Sheriff Byrd so that, after being booked, Dad would be taken directly before the Justice Court judge, and not spend any time in a cell. Shad apparently remains intimidated enough by my possible exposure of the dogfighting photo not to push too hard. Still, being photographed and fingerprinted like a common criminal always takes a toll on a man of my father’s integrity. When Dad finally emerged from the bowels of the station, his face already looked haggard. What, I wondered, would a month in a cell do to him? Or six months while awaiting trial?

  It would kill him.

  THE ADAMS COUNTY JUSTICE Court stands across the street and half a block down from the sheriff’s department. It’s housed in the same one-story building as the county coroner and the sheriff’s department’s investigators. The low structure is fronted with squat, cream-colored Doric columns that look like a giant compressed them to half their intended height.

  Judge Charles Noyes has obviously been awaiting my father’s arrival. A man of sixty-plus who spent most of his life selling insurance, Charlie Noyes made the transition to this new career about ten years ago. In Mississippi, Justice Court judges aren’t required to be lawyers, a strange reality that isn’t as rare in America as one might think. The same rule applies in New York State and several other supposedly enlightened jurisdictions. Law enforcement officers tend to resent this state of affairs, and often blame the legal ignorance of Justice Court judges for lowering charges against defendants, thus sabotaging prosecutions before a “competent” judge even becomes aware of the case. At least Charlie Noyes has a hardwood desk, a secretary, and a court reporter. In some Mississippi counties, Justice Court consists of a card table in the storeroom of the judge’s house.

  Few defendants in this court are represented by lawyers, since most appear to contest traffic tickets and DUIs—the minor league of the legal system. But Justice Court judges sometimes handle initial appearances in criminal felonies, which is why today I stand at my father’s side, ready to deal with the issues of bond and whatever other surprises Shad Johnson might have in store. I never believed Shad’s claim that he wouldn’t be here today, and Shad quickly validates my skepticism by walking into the modest courtroom at one minute before nine.

  Plainly saddened to see my father standing before his desk in handcuffs, Judge Noyes looks surprised to find the district attorney exhibiting the body language of a lawyer about to argue a major case. My mother’s outfit gives the proceeding an even more formal air. She’s dressed for a ladies’ bridge party in 1962, and Judge Noyes seems flustered by her presence. After running his hand over his balding pate, he begins the hearing with an unexpected comment.

  “I see no reason that this defendant should be handcuffed. Everybody knows Dr. Cage has terrible arthritis. Look at his hands. Take those restraints off, Wilbur.”

  The deputy standing behind my father instantly complies. Dad’s wrists look red and inflamed after only a short time in the chafing cuffs. That’s what psoriatic arthritis will do to you.

  Taking refuge in routine, Judge Noyes reads the charge against my father and asks if he understands it. When Dad answers in the affirmative, the judge recites his rights, concluding with the promise that if he can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed for him. At this point, I state that I’m representing my father in this matter, at least for the time being. Judge Noyes gives me a smile of appreciation, as if this is only as it should be.

  When the judge moves his gaze to Shad Johnson, he looks like an artilleryman bringing a cannon to bear. “On the matter of bond,” he says, a note of challenge in his voice. “Does the district attorney have anything to say?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Shad steps forward, compensating for his diminutive height with hidden insoles, a bespoke suit, and his naturally powerful voice. “I realize that Dr. Cage is a long-standing resident of this county. But this was a particularly heinous murder, and life imprisonment is a possibility. The defendant is wealthy by local standards, he has a passport, and he could easily flee the jurisdiction if he so chose. To ensure that he appears at trial, I respectfully ask that bail be denied in this case.”

  Shad’s request stuns me speechless. Granted, the charge is murder, but he could easily have covered his ass with his primary constituency by asking for a one- or two-million-dollar bond.

  Judge Noyes’s gaze hardens into a basilisk stare. “Mr. District Attorney, are you suggesting that Dr. Cage be held in the county jail for up to nine months while he awaits trial in the Circuit Court?”

  Under Mississippi’s laughable “speedy trial” rule, the state is allowed to wait 270 days before a defendant must be given his day in court. This long delay pleases most defendants, who are in no hurry to accelerate the wheels of justice. But this case is different.

  “The charge is first-degree murder, Judge,” Shad says with quiet insistence.

  “It is, indeed,” says Noyes. “And here’s my thinking on that. Tom Cage has been practicing medicine in this town for . . . how long?”

  “Forty-two years,” my mother says softly.

  “Forty-two years!” the judge exclaims. “Forty-two years taking care of the people of this county. And so far as I know, Dr. Cage has never even spit on the sidewalk, much less broken a law. Now, Mr. District Attorney, you surely know that this town has a serious shortage of primary-care physicians. And I see no reason why a doctor of Tom Cage’s exemplary reputation should languish in jail when he could be providing desperately needed health care to the citizens of Adams County.”

  In an almost apologetic tone, Shad says, “Judge, if I may? I understand your logic. But if—and I say if—this defendant were to flee this jurisdiction prior to his trial, we would all find ourselves with a great deal of egg on our faces.”

  Judge Noyes nods slowly. “Of course, of course. The political argument. Let’s all be sure to cover our behinds. Mr. District Attorney, I seem to recall you once telling me how you and a friend spent the year between high school and college traveling around Europe on a Eurailpass. Do you recall that?”

  Shads blinks in confusion. “Yes, but—”

  “Wh
en Tom Cage got out of high school, he didn’t take a year off to go gallivanting around Europe. He spent a year fighting Chinese communists in North Korea, repelling human-wave attacks in weather that would freeze the hooves off a bighorn sheep. Machine-gun barrels melted from firing for hours without a break. Can you wrap your steel-trap mind around that, Counselor?”

  Shad is still blinking like a man who finds himself unexpectedly staring into a blazing spotlight.

  “Dr. Cage was taken prisoner in that war, Mr. Johnson, and only by exceptional personal fortitude did he escape with his life.”

  This statement leaves me flabbergasted. Never in my life have I heard that my father was a POW. But one glance at his solemn profile tells me it’s true. When I look back at my mother, she nods once.

  “So—here’s my thinking on the matter of bond,” Judge Noyes concludes. “If Tom Cage didn’t run then, he won’t run now. Do you have any further argument, sir?”

  Shad controls his notorious temper with difficulty. I can only imagine what kind of restraint it must take for a black graduate of the Harvard Law School to stand silent while a white man who never attended any law school lectures him from the bench.

  “Your Honor, the defendant’s military record has no bearing on—”

  “Hush,” says Judge Noyes, using what could only loosely be described as local courtroom argot.

  Shad is quite right in his argument, but as every attorney knows, it’s the judge’s courtroom, whether that judge ever passed a bar exam or not.

  “Your Honor,” Shad says in a rigidly controlled voice, “I ask that bond be set at an amount commensurate with the seriousness of the crime, and one sufficient to assuage the community’s choler.”

  Confusion distorts the judge’s smooth face. “Color? Just what color community are you talking about assuaging here?”

  “Cho-ler,” Shad says, trying to clarify his intent. “Displeasure.”