by Lee Goldberg
They laughed gently until Parks' chuckles waned. "Uh-oh, that oil man married to the movie star with the big tits is looking my way. I'd better go over and schmooze with him. He donated big to my campaign." Parks slapped Macklin's shoulder again. "Hey, Brett, let's not be strangers, okay? I miss those talks we had when we jogged together."
"You have my number," Macklin said, forcing a smile onto his face to hide the despair he feared would creep onto it if he didn't. There would be no more early morning jogs together. Jessica Mordente would see to that tomorrow.
Parks walked towards the oil magnate, and a flash from a camera caught Macklin in its glare and temporarily blinded him. The burning light, though, illuminated something in Macklin's mind that he had overlooked.
He had just ruined Cecil Parks' career.
A shiver coursed through Macklin's body as he realized the implications of his presence in the ballroom. He had been seen with Parks in a friendly embrace, perhaps even photographed together with him. When the news broke that Macklin was Mr. Jury, the ensuing scandal would destroy Parks, too.
Macklin glanced at Shaw, Sunshine, and Jeffries, then at Parks chatting with the fleshy Arab. All he wanted to do now was go, escape into the night until this nightmare was over. Without bothering to stop by the table, he turned and left.
CHAPTER SIX
Sunday, 9:47 p.m.
Bruce Springsteen was singing about Cadillac Ranch on the tape deck as Macklin steered the Batmobile off the southbound Harbor Freeway and into the turbulent neighborhood where his father, an LAPD beat cop, was ambushed and set aflame by a street gang.
The urban, middle-class neighborhoods Macklin spent his life in were always changing, forever young. The people who lived their wore their neighborhoods like bright white, starched dress shirts. Occasionally the shirts got stained, but they could always be washed clean.
These streets were different. People here wore their neighborhoods like dirty work shirts. Decay encircled the buildings like vines.
Macklin's Cadillac glided almost invisibly down the streets, a black breeze moving silently in the dark night.
He had driven here almost unconsciously and didn't know where he was going until now. His eyes traced the contours of the sidewalk gray buildings, read the spray-paint scribbles on the walls, looked into the angry and weary faces, and he wondered how a world so far outside his own could affect his life so much.
In Macklin's middle-class world, this neighborhood could be avoided for a lifetime. It was severed from everyday experience and existed only in the abstract. Never did the two worlds have to meet.
Not true for Brett Macklin. This neighborhood had seeped through some crack in the barrier and was now spilling like a waterfall into his life. It had suddenly swept him up, and now he couldn't escape its treacherous currents.
Macklin turned the car around a corner. He saw the hamburger-shaped restaurant down the block and the revolving, blinking sign that read "BURGER BOB'S" atop the sesame-seed-bun roof.
The river that had swept Macklin up more than a year ago surged forward and carried him over a precipice.
# # # # # #
Burger Bob, his broad belly wrapped in an apron and his balding head capped with a cook's cauliflower-top hat, looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy smoking a cigar.
With the cigar stub clenched in the corner of his mouth, Burger Bob scrawled down the order the two jittery black guys on the other side of the counter had given him.
"What'll ya have on your burgers?" he asked, looking up from his notepad and down the barrel of a Saturday night special. He felt his heart drop like a boulder into his foot.
"All the cash in the register." The black guy in the oil-stained undershirt grinned, waving his gun towards the register for emphasis. "And hold the mayo."
The black guy next to him screeched with laughter, his mouth open wide as if he expected to catch a baseball with it. His missing lower front teeth suggested he might have tried once. Burger Bob didn't notice. Burger Bob's eyes were on the gun shaking in Big Mouth's hand.
There was no one else in the restaurant. The last time Burger Bob was held up, some short guy eating a cheeseburger and fries tried to be a hero and ended up swallowing two bullets for dessert. The Los Angeles Times spread the news over the top of the Metro section, and business slowed for three months.
"Move, fatso, or your brains are gonna be sizzling all over that grill behind you," the guy spoke again.
Burger Bob hesitated, fear cementing him to the floor. Suddenly, the gun bucked in Big Mouth's hand, shaking the restaurant with a tremendous roar. Burger Bob screamed and jumped two feet back, his buttocks slamming into the grill. His hat fell onto the floor. The bullet had scorched a hole through the center of the hat.
"Bufus don't tell a man nothin' twice, asshole," Big Mouth said. "You want to inhale the next bullet? Get us the cash."
"To go." Bufus grinned.
Burger Bob saw a flash of red behind Big Mouth, and everything became a slow-motion nightmare. A blast thundered in Burger Bob's ear, and then Big Mouth was flying over the counter, his arms reaching out for him, his eyes wide and white. Burger Bob flung himself sideways, felt Big Mouth sail past him, and then heard the dull thud as the black man collided into the wall and dropped onto the grill.
As Burger Bob rose, the dream state dissipated and the world returned to normal speed. Big Mouth lay crumpled facedown on the grill, tiny curls of smoke rising from his body as he sizzled like raw hamburger in his own blood. The gun slipped from Big Mouth's lifeless fingers and clattered to the floor.
"You're a real comic genius, nigger."
Burger Bob turned to see who had spoken and saw a man in a red jumpsuit standing behind Bufus, who stood as still as a statue, his eyes to the floor.
"Drop the gun," the stranger said, his .357 Magnum held steady in his right hand.
Bufus dropped his Saturday night special, which landed heavily on his foot. He forced back an agonized wail, his face wrinkling in pain.
The stranger laughed with sputtering dry heaves akin to gagging. Bufus wasn't laughing. He was wincing. "That was funny," the stranger said. "A joker like you should appreciate that." He walked around to face Bufus and grinned. "We're gonna have some more laughs, aren't we Bufus?"
The stranger jammed his gun into Bufus' groin. Bufus doubled over, a guttural cry of pain escaping from his throat. The stranger pushed the gun into his testicles. "Move back and lie down on the table," the stranger said, forcing Bufus back by digging his gun into him.
Bufus hit the table with his buttocks and then laid flat on his back atop it, knocking a napkin container and a salt shaker to the floor.
"Close your eyes and open your mouth wide," the stranger hissed, his gun still pressed into Bufus' groin. "You so much as breathe funny and I'll decorate the wall with your balls."
The stranger turned his head toward Burger Bob. "Bring me a ladle of French fry oil."
"Please, mister—," Bufus pleaded. The stranger jabbed his gun into his testicles, choking back Bufus' words.
"Keep quiet, nigger."
Burger Bob, a ladle of boiling oil in one hand and Big Mouth's gun held unsteadily in the other, shuffled nervously up to the stranger.
"Thanks, friend," the stranger said, taking the ladle from Burger Bob and flashing an amiable smile. "Now please step aside where it's safe."
The stranger looked down at Bufus, who jerked as though an electrical current was running through him. He tipped the ladle over Bufus' gaping mouth. "Eat hot death, nigger."
"Hold it!"
A drop of boiling grease dropped onto Bufus' cheek as the stranger turned to face the voice. A tuxedo-clad Brett Macklin stood poised in the doorway, his .357 Magnum trained on the man in red. Heavy, sludge brown smoke billowed out of the kitchen, blanketing the room in the thick odor of charred meat.
To Burger Bob, it was beginning to look like a grisly costume party.
The stranger's lips curled into a smile. "Hey, it'
s okay, I'm Mr. Jury." He kept the tipped ladle poised over Bufus' mouth.
Bufus whimpered, tears streaming from his closed eyes and trickling onto the table.
"No, it's not okay," Macklin hissed, stepping into the center of the dining room. "And you're not Mr. Jury."
He could see the stranger's face tighten and his makeup-shrouded eyes narrow on Macklin's .357 Magnum. Macklin saw the stranger's eyebrows arch in realization and noticed him nodding his head slightly.
Then Macklin sensed a motion behind him. Before he could turn, an explosion of pain burst in his head and he felt himself tumbling forward into a swirling, murky gray cloud.
His eyes were open, but it was like looking at the world through wax paper. Macklin was aware of Burger Bob standing over him, holding Big Mouth's gun by the barrel. Burger Bob had smacked him a good one with the butt of the gun.
Macklin could barely make out the outline of the phony Mr. Jury as he poured the hot oil into Bufus' mouth. The black man thrashed wildly, his back slapping against the table becoming an incessant, agonizing beat that echoed in Macklin's head. Macklin willed his limbs to move, but they wouldn't obey him. He felt as though he was paralyzed from the neck down.
"Thanks, Mr. Jury," he heard Burger Bob say. "Those black animals have been terrorizing me for years."
A man's shadow fell over Macklin and, through the foggy haze of semiconsciousness, he saw the phony Mr. Jury point his gun at him.
"It's all right," the gunman said. "Us white people have to stick together. It's the White Wash way."
"It's the American way," Burger Bob replied.
Inky blackness dropped like a curtain over Macklin's eyes and he felt himself plunging into a bottomless abyss. He saw some light ahead and suddenly he felt himself fall into through the ice of a frozen lake, the chilly water enveloping him.
Macklin coughed and his eyes sputtered open. Burger Bob stood over him, holding a pitcher of water. He splashed some more water on Macklin, who sputtered and held his hands up in surrender.
Burger Bob held a hand out to Macklin. He grabbed Burger Bob's outstretched hand and pulled himself up to a standing position. The restaurant felt like boat on stormy seas. The floor seemed to roll on unseen swells.
"Get out of here, you dumbfuck." Burger Bob handed Macklin his .357 Magnum and jerked his head towards the door. Macklin massaged the back of his head and glanced at Bufus. The black man's limp arms and legs dangled off the edges of the table like the corners of a large, wrinkled tablecloth. Steam escaped from his wide mouth and clouded his open, dead eyes.
"Get out of here," Burger Bob insisted, poking Macklin in the stomach with the barrel of Big Mouth's Saturday night special. Macklin acquiesced, his stomach churning with nausea. He turned slowly and dragged himself weakly to the door.
"What the hell were you doing, anyway?" Burger Bob shouted at him. "Mr. Jury is a godsend!"
# # # # # #
Midnight
"It was that gun, and the way he said it." The caller's panicky voice was shrill and irritating. "We've got trouble."
Anton Damon sighed and absently arranged the peanuts on the table in front of him into two large Ws. "You think he may have been the real Mr. Jury."
"Yeah," the caller replied. "I mean, you shoulda heard the way he said 'You're not Mr. Jury.' He knew, man, he really knew."
"That does complicate things," Damon said. "It means Mr. Jury was never killed. It means that people, perhaps even the police, have mounted an organized effort to cover for him and we have endangered that."
"So what do we do?"
"Nothing," Damon said flatly. "Absolutely nothing. We sit tight for now and see what happens. Mr. Jury's unexpected resurrection may help our cause."
"And if it doesn't, what then?"
"We find him and kill him."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday, May 21, 8:30 a.m.
Brett Macklin was awake, but he didn't want to move. This, he knew, was his day of reckoning. He wanted to lie in bed forever.
The sheets were twisted into heavy ropes that were coiled around his perspiring, naked body. The side of his head was nuzzled comfortably in a warm pocket formed by his pillow. He could see sunlight spilling in through the window curtains, which were billowed by gentle puffs of lukewarm morning air.
Every time he began to move, someone pounded a wooden stake into his skull. Macklin had Burger Bob to thank for that. The pain was a tangible reminder of his dismal failure during the confrontation with the phony Mr. Jury.
Macklin cursed himself for not killing the sadistic madman when he had the chance. After Macklin left the restaurant, he called Shaw to warn him about the two murders and learned about the death of the black prostitute. The phony Mr. Jury, Macklin discovered, was even sicker than he had imagined.
But now there was nothing Macklin could do about that. Tomorrow, he would be in jail, his life destroyed. Macklin rolled over onto his back and took a deep breath. The circulation returned to his paralyzed arms and legs, making them feel like sacks filled with scurrying ants.
As the paralysis waned, Macklin untangled himself from the sheets and sat up.
His sinuses were clogged up and his eyes burned. He combed a hand through his slumber-matted brown hair, coughed, and stood up. The wooden stake drove deeper into his skull and he could feel his heart pulsing behind his forehead.
Macklin stepped into a pair of jogging shorts on the floor and pulled them up around his waist before he left the bedroom. Holding the handrail, Macklin trudged down the stairs to the front door, opened it, and brought in the morning Los Angeles Times. This, he assumed, was his last morning of freedom, and he wanted to spend it in the routine, pleasant way he always had.
He flipped through the sections of the paper as he shuffled into the kitchen. Jessica Mordente's interview with Anton Damon covered the front of the Metro section. Macklin dumped the paper onto his butcher-block table, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a carton of orange juice and half a cantaloupe. He took a spoon out of a drawer and brought his breakfast to the table.
Taking a big gulp of juice from the carton, he began reading Mordente's story. He hadn't read her work before and he thought he might as well see if he was going to be exposed by a good writer. Macklin found himself paying less and less attention to the writing and more and more to Damon himself. Damon's racist views hadn't changed, though his low-key delivery was a sharp contrast to his outspoken pre-prison days. Macklin remembered when Damon came to UCLA and caused a riot by rallying the students to urinate on the administration building to protest the increased minority enrollment.
Damon was no longer the counterculture radical. Macklin thought Damon came off now like a right-wing, conservative politician. Although Damon danced around the issue of whether or not he was still the leader of the White Wash, it seemed clear he was working hard to give the group some mainstream legitimacy.
It's like the Hells Angels trying to convince people they're really the Mickey Mouse Club, Macklin thought.
He found the new, politically aware Damon a far greater threat than the revolutionary youth he once was. Damon, according the article, had even hired a media consultant to further hone his mainstream image.
Macklin turned the page and felt anxiety grab his guts and squeeze them. MR. JURY KILLS TWO BLACKS IN SADISTIC BLOODBATH, the headline screamed, followed by a subhead reading LOCAL LEADERS FEAR RACE WAR BREWING.
His morning routine was shattered. Reality leaped from the page and slapped him in the face. The phony Mr. Jury had struck again. By tomorrow, he knew, Mordente would expose him as Mr. Jury and the sadistic killer would remain free. Macklin brought the paper close to his face with trembling hands and scanned the story.
"He said he would protect innocent people from black lawlessness," said Robert Roberts, owner and operator of Burger Bob's restaurant. "He said us white people have to stick together."
Several random quotes from people on the street praised the phony Mr. Jury and supp
orted his remarks about blacks. Community leaders, the article said, feared that Mr. Jury's racist views, because of the vigilante's popular appeal and media attention, could heighten racial tension and spark a race war.
Macklin reread Burger Bob's quote again and again. There was something missing.
He said us white people have to stick together.
He lowered the paper, feeling a hot flush sweep over his body. A raspy voice whispered to Macklin through hazy memories.
It's all right. Us white people have to stick together. It's the White Wash way.
The phony Mr. Jury worked for Anton Damon. Macklin grimaced. It was diabolical but brilliant. Damon didn't really have to gain public trust to get people to listen to his racist doctrine. He'd let Mr. Jury, someone the public already supported, someone the public saw as a hero, do it for him. The phony Mr. Jury, Macklin realized, was a White Wash power play paving the way for the emergence of Anton Damon as a right-wing political force.
He bolted from his seat, grabbed the phone receiver off the wall, and punched out Jessica Mordente's home phone number with his index finger. He had to make her understand.
The phone rang twice.
"Hello?" Mordente snapped.
Macklin's hand tightened on the receiver. "This is Brett Macklin. I made you a promise and I'm ready to honor it."
"What you made was a stalling tactic so you could indulge yourself in one last kill," Mordente yelled, her voice quivering as she held back her tears of fury.
"Listen to me, I—"
"People end up dying when I listen to you," she broke in. "You're inhuman, Macklin, a monster."
"It's Anton Damon, Jessie, he's the one behind all this. The phony Mr. Jury is Damon's stooge," Macklin said. "Don't you see? Mr. Jury is already part of the public's collective cognition as a good guy, a positive force. Damon is using that to propagate his racist drivel. He's going to get a lot of people killed."
"Fuck off, Macklin. Save it for your trial," Mordente barked.
Macklin exhaled slowly. She wasn't going to listen. There was no use trying to convince her. Face it, Macklin told himself, it's over for you. There's nothing you can say to her to stop it. "Okay, Jessie, how do you want to play this? I can come over to your place. I could be there in Brentwood in fifteen minutes."
