Final Justice

by Patricia Hagan

  Hardy related Ozzie's story about how the rescue squad said his pulse was weak and things didn't look good.

  "Well, maybe he won't make it," Buddy said hopefully. "I'm going to call his office and see what I can find out."

  Burch was quick to protest, "Maybe we shouldn't act concerned. It might look suspicious."

  "Don't be an idiot," Buddy scoffed. "I'm the richest and most prominent man in the whole damn county. It's only natural I'd inquire when the sheriff's been shot."

  He reached for the phone just as the intercom buzzer sounded, followed by Murline saying, "Wilma from the sheriff's office is on the phone, Mr. Hampton. She says it's important."

  "This may be it," Buddy said, excited. "It's only natural I'd be notified if he's dead." He punched a button to take the call. "Cleve Hampton here, Wilma. What can I do for you?"

  He listened, brow creasing, eyes falling on Hardy as he confirmed, "Yes, he's here. Just a minute. But let me ask you—is it true what I've heard about Sheriff Ballard?" He grimaced with disappointment to hear Luke was still alive but managed to sound properly concerned. "I am so sorry to hear this, and I want you to keep me informed and let me know if there's anything I can do."

  Covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he quickly whispered to Burch, "They've been trying to reach you. They finally went to the funeral home and saw the note you left on the door. Now be calm and act natural."

  Hardy took the phone. "Yeah, Wilma, what's going on?" His eyes went wide. "Well, I'll be damned. Sure. Sure. I'll get over there right now. I just need to call the preacher and tell him he'll have to do the Petrie funeral alone."

  He hung up with a grin. "I've got a body to pick up, all right—Rudy Veazey. Looks like his old lady killed him."

  He started for the door but turned to ask Buddy, "What did Wilma say about Luke?"

  "That he's in critical condition, and they're moving him to Birmingham."

  Burch, for the moment, wasn't thinking about Luke. "They're saying Emma Jean did it?"

  "Yeah. But I don't know any of the details."

  Burch leaped to his feet. "I'll go with you. She's going to need a lawyer." Even if she couldn't afford one, he knew he would represent her anyway. He had nothing to lose except time and sure as hell had plenty of that lately, thanks to Luke. God, he hoped the bastard died before they could get him to Birmingham.

  Buddy stared after them.

  So far, Luke had only put his plans to ruin him in motion, but it hadn't actually happened. And if he didn't make it, then it never would.

  "Die," Buddy whispered, tears stinging his eyes. "Please, you bastard, die."

  * * *

  News spreads fast in a small town, and Hampton was no exception. By the time Matt and Alma arrived at the hospital, the waiting room was crowded with people anxious to hear details of what had happened to their sheriff. So far, no one else knew about Rudy Veazey's murder. Wilma had called Kirby and got him to take over for Matt so he could get Alma to the hospital. Everyone assumed he had gone to her house to pick her up.

  Matt watched as members of Alma's church flocked around her. The minister, Daniel Conley—everyone called him "Preacher Dan"—was praying out loud, beseeching God to forgive Luke's sins and not send him to roast in hell. Since he wasn't bothering to ask that Luke survive, it appeared to be a foregone conclusion—to Preacher Dan anyway—that Luke was a goner.

  Matt swallowed against the lump in his throat. He had known Luke his whole life, and while most people thought Luke was cold-hearted and didn't give a damn about anybody or anything, Matt knew differently. Sure, Luke had been a hellraiser back in high school, but he'd been treated like dirt for being born a bastard. It was only natural he'd fight back. Maybe he did have a chip on his shoulder since he'd come back from the war, and maybe he had made a few people eat shit. So what? Matt figured they must have had it coming.

  All in all, Luke was a good man and had done a fine job of cleaning up the town since he got elected sheriff and if he did die, Matt would never rest until he found out who was responsible and saw to it that they paid. Maybe he wouldn't even bother going by the law. Maybe he would just take the murdering skunk out on some back road, put a bullet in his head, then tie a sack of rocks around his ankles, and toss him in the Coosa River to feed the catfish.

  The doors to the ambulance bay swung open and Sue Watson, Alma's neighbor, rushed in with Tammy. Tammy, face white as a sheet, spotted Alma and ran to throw herself in her arms. Some of the folks down on their knees started to get up to make room for her, but a scathing look from Preacher Dan kept them where they were as he continued to intone, "Cleanse his soul, Lord, and spare him from the fires of hell. Don't let his Christian loved ones suffer to know he'll spend eternity in Satan's furnace."

  Alma was worn out with Preacher Dan and turned her attention to Tammy. "We don't know anything, yet, honey."

  Tammy was feeling guilty to think how she'd dreaded going to Birmingham with her daddy that morning. They had never been close, and she really hadn't thought much about him until she realized she didn't want him to die. "Miss Sue said somebody shot him. Do they know who it was?"

  Matt thought how he could name half a dozen people who could have pulled the trigger. Maybe more. He wished he had gone to the crime scene but wanted to be at the hospital to get first-hand information about Luke. At least he had thought to radio back to Wilma and have her get hold of Wendell Wheat, a part-time deputy, to help Kirby out at the Veazey place. Emma Jean was acting downright spooky, and the ambulance hadn't left yet to go get her. It was still parked outside. Matt knew that the doctors did not know yet if it would be needed to transfer Luke to Birmingham.

  God, he wished he knew what had happened. He just couldn't picture Emma Jean going loco and killing Rudy. He remembered the time he and Luke had gone out there when Rudy had beat her. She hadn't said a word, just cowered in a corner with her hands over her face, refusing to sign a warrant. So it was hard to imagine her slashing him to death, much less getting mad enough to take a bite out of his dick.

  He was thinking about calling Wilma to see if she'd heard anymore from Kirby when all of a sudden a ripple of gasps went through the room like a shower of pebbles thrown in water. Kirby and Wendell were walking in with Emma Jean. A blanket was wrapped around her, and they were having to hold her up.

  Alma shot a look at Matt. She had followed his orders to keep quiet about Rudy, but now she worried what people were going to think with Emma Jean being brought in looking like she did.

  Then it happened. Myrtle Letchworth, thinking that maybe Emma Jean had shown up out of concern for Luke shrieked, "You trashy hussy. How dare you embarrass Luke's family this way? Have you no shame?"

  Preacher Dan was quick to admonish, "Judge not lest ye be judged, sister. You can tell she's sick. Look at her." He was staring at Emma Jean's bloody feet and legs. "She's hurt."

  Myrtle screamed, "No, she ain't. She ain't hurt a'tall. Maybe that's Luke's blood. Maybe she's the one who shot him."

  Preacher Dan had heard the gossip about Luke and Emma Jean's adulterous affair and quickly realized things were about to get out of hand. He tried to restrain Myrtle, who was trying to get closer to Emma Jean, but she was beyond control.

  "She's the one. She did it because he wouldn't leave Alma for her. Whore of Babylon. We ought to stone her."

  Alma was suddenly goaded by the realization that Myrtle's theory matched her own. Emma Jean, she figured, had gone crazy after she realized what she'd done and rushed home, only to find Rudy waiting. Naturally, when he discovered she wasn't there in the middle of the night, he figured she was off somewhere with Luke. They got into a fight, and Emma Jean had killed him.

  Alma pushed Tammy from her arms and started through the crowd toward Emma Jean. "You murdering bitch. You shot my husband and then killed yours."

  Matt quickly moved to grab her as Emma Jean, still supported by Kirby and Wendell, raised her head long enough to look at Alma blankly, then lowered it again,
still in shock.

  "What did you say?" someone shouted. "Did you say she killed Rudy? Rudy's dead?"

  Alma screamed back, "She stabbed him. I saw her with the bloody knife in her hand, only Matt told me not to say anything. We just came from there, and I know what I'm talking about. She shot Luke because he wouldn't leave me for a whore like her."

  Kirby yelled, "Matt, get her out of here now."

  Matt gave her a shake. "Alma, shut up."

  Wrenching from Matt's hold, Alma managed to rake her nails down Emma Jean's face, then grabbed her by her neck and started choking her. Emma Jean, in her stupor, made no effort to defend herself. Alma was quickly pulled away, but, by then, bedlam had erupted as everyone in the waiting room began to surge forward, yelling and screaming all at once.

  Matt jerked Alma's arms behind her back at the same time Tammy came running to kick him in his shins and tell him to get his hands off her mother. Preacher Dan tried to help and got clobbered in the eye with Myrtle Letchworth's handbag and turned away in a yelp of pain.

  Matt shouted to Kirby, "Get Emma Jean out of here."

  Preacher Dan, one hand covering his rapidly swelling eye, urged, "Take her on back in the emergency room. I think Myrtle has gone to tell the Veazey family about Rudy, and there's no telling what will happen when they get here." Then he turned to Alma, who was struggling against Matt, who had grabbed hold of her again. "You need to calm down, sister. Your child needs you."

  Alma reached out for Tammy, and Matt let her go as he saw Dr. Ben Campbell coming out from the back. Dr. Campbell glanced about with a frown, annoyed by all the commotion. "Is Mrs. Ballard here?" Alma stumbled forward, and he motioned her to go with him. Matt was right behind them, and so was Kirby, still holding Emma Jean.

  Once the doors to the waiting room were closed, Dr. Campbell demanded, exasperated, "What are all of you doing back here? I only asked for Mrs. Ballard." Then he noticed the blood on Emma Jean. "What happened to her?"

  "We aren't sure," Matt said. "And it's not her blood. She isn't hurt. Not physically anyway." He quickly explained how she was apparently in shock and also under arrest for the murder of her husband. Either he or Kirby would have to stay with her. "And we needed to get her out of sight," he was quick to add, "or else we were going to have a riot on our hands when the Veazey family gets here."

  Dr. Campbell motioned to a nurse. "Get this woman to a room. I'll be in to check her over as soon as I can." He put his hand on Alma's shoulder. "Come with me."

  Matt trailed after them, leaving Kirby with Emma Jean.

  Once inside an empty cubicle, Dr. Campbell gently told Alma, "Luke is in critical condition. We're moving him to Birmingham." He described Luke's wounds, how he had been shot three times, probably with a .22 rifle. "The bullets that hit his shoulder and thigh didn't do much damage. They went through clean without shattering bone. It's the one still in his head I'm worried about. It struck the top of his head at an acute angle of, I'd say, between twenty to thirty degrees, probably as he was falling from his other wounds. Had he been standing erect, he'd have been killed instantly."

  Matt snatched at the hope, "Will the doctors in Birmingham be able to get it out?"

  "I can't answer that. I only know we don't have a surgeon to do it here." He thought about what the x-rays had shown, how the bullet had gone through the left side of the cerebrum, hit the inside of the skull, then slid down into the temporal lobe. So far, there was no sign of a subdural or extradural hemorrhage and no sinus laceration. The bullet might also eventually shift around and damage pulmonary arteries. If not removed, Luke would die. But it was also possible that surgery might dislodge the bullet and cause instant death. Lord, he was glad it was all being taken out of his hands.

  "Is he awake?" Matt asked. "I'd like to find out if he can tell me anything about who did it."

  "He's in a coma." Dr. Campbell turned to Alma. "We'll be loading him in the ambulance in a few minutes. You'll need to get someone to drive you to Birmingham because it's best you don't ride with him."

  Alma, who had remained composed throughout the conversation, quietly said, "I'm sure I can find somebody." She walked out.

  When they were alone, Matt looked Dr. Campbell straight in the eye. "Okay. Give it to me straight. What are his chances?"

  Grim-faced, Dr. Campbell replied, "Frankly, Matt, I'll be surprised if he makes it to Birmingham."

  Chapter 5

  August 1965

  Luke stared out the window of the bus at the rolling Alabama hills. He always hated coming home and hadn't been there in quite a while. He and Alma had never gotten along and never would. Tammy was spoiled rotten and acted like she couldn't stand him. He couldn't wait to get away, despite his mother's wanting him to stay. She was the only reason he came back anyway. She was after him not to reenlist when his time was up in a few more months, but his life was the army.

  Alma didn't care, but his mother argued Tammy needed a father. His defense was that it was Alma's choice not to move to California to be with him. Not that he wanted her. He liked his life just fine like it was.

  A sniper's bullet to his left thigh had bought him a ticket back to the states, and now he was a drill sergeant, whipping new recruits into shape. He was stationed at Camp Pendleton, assigned to the Marines, and loved California. He lived off base in a shack on the beach with a little Mexican gal hotter than a chili pepper who knew a zillion ways to take him around the world.

  He was happy, Alma seemed content with the way things were, and his mother had stayed so drunk the past few years she didn't know whether she was coming or going most of the time anyway. But now she was going, according to what the doctor told Alma. At forty-two, her liver was giving out, her heart was acting up, and there just wasn't anything anybody could do. She had lived a hard life, and that, plus the whiskey, had taken its toll. He knew it was time for him and Alma to have a serious talk because, once his mother died, it made sense they should get a divorce since he didn't plan on ever coming back.

  He smelled the odor of rotten eggs—sulphur from the paper mill. That meant he was getting real close to Hampton. Seeing familiar landmarks triggered memories like reading lines in a diary. Sadly, few were pleasant.

  The bus lumbered past the football stadium where, in his senior year as quarterback, he was leading the team to a second 2-A division championship when the coach called him into his office one day to tell him there had been a change concerning homecoming weekend. As captain, Luke was supposed to escort Julie Faircloth, who was the team's candidate for queen, onto the field for the pre-game ceremony. But Coach Martin said Tim Speight would take her instead.

  Luke wanted an explanation, and Coach Martin said he hated to be blunt, but the fact was that Julie's father was the mayor. He wanted someone from a prominent family to escort his daughter since there would be pictures in the paper, the school annual, and so forth. Luke understood then because he had put up with snubs all his life. Mayor Faircloth did not want his daughter escorted and photographed with Orlena Ballard's bastard son.

  Luke had said it didn't matter to him, then took out the rage boiling inside by playing his guts out at the homecoming game.

  He hogged the ball, even running when the play called for him to pass. He got tackled a lot and fumbled a few times. Some of his teammates got annoyed and accused him of show-boating, but the final score shut them up. The Hampton High Bulldogs won 49-0, and Luke had scored every touchdown.

  Vengeance had been sweet. So many pictures of Luke were plastered on the front page of the Hampton Herald that coverage of the homecoming ceremonies was reduced to one paragraph announcing Julie had been crowned queen with no room for a photo.

  The bus rolled by the Bulldog Cafe, and Luke imagined he could still see the blood on the sidewalk from that summer night in '56. He had taken Judy Turnage to the movies and had enough money left over from his week's pay as a bag boy at the A&P to buy her a burger and a Coke. But when they got to the cafe, Rudy Veazey was there, mad
as hell to see Judy out with Luke, because he had been dating her.

  Just then Rudy spotted Luke's mother riding by with Junior Kearney in his pickup truck and yelled to ask Luke how come his last name wasn't Kearney since everybody in town figured Junior was his daddy. Luke was furious but ignored Rudy's insults and steered Judy on inside. Then, just before the door closed after them, Rudy laughed to his buddies that maybe Luke should be called Luke Heinz instead, like in Heinz-57, since his whore-momma probably screwed fifty-seven guys the night she got knocked up.

  Luke had whirled about so fast his hand missed the doorknob and went through the glass instead. A lot of the blood spilled on the sidewalk that night was probably his, but most of it had to have been Rudy's by the time Luke finished with him. They were both arrested for fighting but let off with a stern lecture. They had hated each other's guts ever since.

  Luke didn't look for trouble, but he didn't run from a fight either. Yeah, he had worn his hair long back then. A "DA" it was called. Duck's ass slicked back and plastered with Vitalis. But he was no punk. And his mother was no whore.

  Sure, she had been Junior's woman for a long time. What other choice did she have when her folks kicked her out, pregnant, with no place to go? But when Junior tossed her aside after she lost her looks because of heavy drinking and hard work, he had let her keep on working at the motor court. She cleaned cabins, and she also worked as a waitress in the cafe. She didn't mess with other men, no matter what folks said.

  Passing the park, Luke was reminded of another slight, the Easter he was nine years old when his mother dyed a basket of eggs and took him there for the annual egg hunt. The ladies in charge had turned as many colors as the eggs scattered in the grass when they saw Orlena and her bastard kid in tow. It had been Ramona Hampton—Mrs. Cleve Hampton, herself—who had curtly told Orlena that they had way too many children, and, goodness, she was so sorry.

  Luke remembered how his mother had blinked back humiliated tears as she squeezed his hand and whispered to him that it didn't matter and turned to lead him away. But Luke had hung back just long enough to snatch an egg out of the basket and sail it through the air to smash on the back of Mrs. Hampton's head. Then he and his mother had took off running, laughing all the while. Later she scolded him and said he shouldn't have done it, but he knew she was secretly glad.