by Parrish, PJ
And he couldn’t keep warm. The cold, damp air had seeped clean through to his bones.
“‘Morning.”
Louis looked up. Dodie’s face was shadowed by his cattleman’s hat and the bars. Louis rose slowly and went to the bars. “You can’t believe I did this,” he whispered.
Dodie looked down the corridor and back to Louis. “Louis, I don’t know what to believe,” he said wearily. “Hardly anything you told me seems to have panned out. Now this. I jus’ don’t know.”
“Max was killed for the same reason the others were.”
Dodie sighed. “Yeah.”
“Sheriff, listen to me. Max killed George and Earl, and I can prove it.”
“Just like you proved the medallion belonged to Kelly.” Dodie hesitated. “I saw that FBI report. Junior found it in your room. When were you gonna tell me that they didn’t match?”
Louis gripped the bars. “I was wrong about that, but I’m not wrong about this. There is evidence to prove—”
“Where is it?”
“You’ll have it today. It’s coming, from Jackson.”
Dodie’s disappointment was etched deeply in his haggard face. It occurred to Louis that he looked like he hadn’t slept much, either.
“Give it up, Louis,” Dodie said quietly.
“Sheriff…”
“Forget about them damn bones and start worrying about your own skin.” Dodie hesitated then placed a hand on Louis’s. “They want to nail you on this thing and it looks like they have enough to do it.”
“‘They’? Who? Kelly?” Louis asked.
Dodie pulled his hand away. “Get yourself a good lawyer, Louis,” Dodie turned and started back toward the office.
“Sheriff! Wait!” Louis called out. “Listen to me, damn it!”
Dodie turned. “It’s outta my hands, Louis,” he said. “There ain’t nothin’ I can do. It’s outta my hands.”
Louis grabbed his sleeve again. “When are you gonna get a backbone?”
Dodie jerked away this time and disappeared through the door. Louis slapped angrily at the bars, and turned, snatching up the orange jumpsuit. He slumped down in the bunk, turning the suit over in his hands. He read the block letters on the back: GREENSBORO COUNTY JAIL.
Before taking him upstairs to court, they chained him.
Louis had to walk carefully, shuffling his feet no more than five or six inches with each step. His hands were cuffed in front, attached to a short length of chain that circled his waist. The orange jumpsuit was too large and the cuffs dragged on the floor as he walked. He wore the white sneakers Bessie had brought him. He could smell the stench of the cell on his body.
Larry opened the prisoners’ entrance door at the back of the small courtroom and pulled him along a bench. Louis found himself seated next to a man dressed in street clothes who smelled of whiskey. Louis looked around. He had expected more of a crowd; small-town arraignments always attracted a regular pack of local gossips. But his hearing had been scheduled quickly, and the weekly Journal didn’t hit the streets until tomorrow.
Bob Roberts was at his table, shuffling through his briefcase. The last time he had seen the district attorney was when they had discussed arresting Leverette. Louis stared at Roberts, remembering how Dodie had buckled under to Roberts’s pressure then. How much convincing did the district attorney have to do this time to get Louis arrested?
Louis lowered his head, the mix of anger and humiliation coursing through him again. He had to stay focused, try to direct his thoughts back to Earl, Max, and Eugene Graham. It was only through them that he could hope to clear himself. But the weight of his situation had dulled his ability to reason and as long as he was confined, he couldn’t make any progress.
Louis felt someone’s eyes on him and looked up to see Roberts staring at him. The district attorney’s expression remained impassive, with just a hint of contempt. Louis looked away, a knot forming in his stomach. He knew he already had been judged. It was just a matter of going through the motions to make it all look legal.
The bailiff announced the judge s arrival, and Louis looked up to see old Judge Eucher come through the chamber door.
The bailiff called forth the case. “The People versus Louis Washington Kincaid. Case number 67-45790. The charge is murder in the first degree.”
Larry pulled Louis to his feet, and Louis jerked his arm away. He shuffled to the center of the courtroom and faced the judge. Eucher s face was set in a scowl of displeasure.
“Are you represented by counsel?” Eucher asked.
“No sir,” Louis said firmly.
“You need a court-appointed attorney?”
“No, sir.”
Louis heard the doors of the courtroom open and some mumbling behind him. He did not turn. Eucher paused and his eyes followed the commotion. When it was quiet, he resumed speaking to Louis in his raspy voice. “Do you wish to enter a plea at this time?”
“Yes.”
“The charge against you is murder in the first degree. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, your Honor.”
Eucher looked at Bob Roberts. “Bail?”
“We oppose bail, your Honor, due to the nature of the charge, the defendant’s familiarity with the legal system, and the fact we feel he is a flight risk. He is not a long-term resident of Greensboro County and has no ties to the community. The offense is so heinous in nature, the crime so brutal—to cut down one of Black Pool’s most notable citizens—we cannot find it within our prudence to recommend bail of any amount, Your Honor.”
Louis shot the district attorney an angry look. “Think you made your point there, Bob?” he muttered.
Eucher pounded his gavel. “Defendant is held without bail. Preliminary hearing is set for February 25.”
Larry came forward and pulled Louis back away from the judge. “I jus’ thought of something, Kincaid,” Larry whispered.
“This here state has the death penalty. But hell, you won’t have to wait for that. You know how long cops live in prison.”
“You got to be guilty first, asshole.”
“Not if you’re black,” Larry said softly.
Louis locked eyes with Roberts. A trickle of fear traveled up his spine as Roberts’s eyes began to waver. The D.A. finally looked away, stuffing papers in his briefcase. As Larry led him back across the courtroom, Louis looked toward the gallery. He knew she was there; he could feel her presence.
Larry tugged on the chain but Louis resisted. Then he saw her.
Abby stared back at him from the third row. Her face was a pale blur against the black of her dress. It was shadowed by a brimmed hat, but he could see the tears in her eyes.
Chapter 26
Mike stopped in front of Louis’s cell, holding a tray, a newspaper tucked under his arm.
“Want some food, Louis?”
Louis didn’t look at him. He lay still on the bed, hands folded behind his head, staring at the wire supports on the upper bunk.
“It’s chicken-fried steak,” Mike said.
When he still didn’t answer, Mike set the tray on the floor, then stood up. “I got the paper here. You made the front page. Wanna read it?”
Louis slid off the bunk and took the paper from Mike. The entire front page had been given over to Max’s murder and Louis’s arrest. A bold two-inch headline was stripped across the top.
COP HELD IN LILLIHOUSE MURDER
Interracial Affair Alleged as Motive
There was a picture of him being escorted into the jail, flanked by Larry and Junior. He hadn’t even noticed the photographer. He didn’t want to read the story but knew he had to. He got his glasses off the top mattress and put them on.
Louis Kincaid, a black investigator with the Greensboro County Sheriff’s Office, was arrested Tuesday afternoon for the murder of Maxwell E. Lillihouse of Route 8, Box 123, Black Pool Police believe Mr. Lillihouse was shot in the head in his car at approximately 2:30 a.m. Monday. Sheriff’s officials say the body
had been there only minutes before being reported by Kincaid.
Kincaid, twenty-four, was arrested at the home of Bessie Lloyd, 314 Water Street, where he was a boarder. He was arrested when it was found that Kincaid was romantically involved with Mr. Lillihouse’s daughter, Abigail Elizabeth, nineteen, a student at the University of Florida.
Said Greensboro County District Attorney Bob Roberts, “We have good reason to believe this was a crime of passion.”
Unnamed sources at the sheriff’s department have told the Journal that Kincaid threatened to kill Mr. Lillihouse only days before, and that Kincaid had recently been suspended from the department for insubordination.
Louis folded the paper. Sweet Jesus.
“Louis,”
He lifted his eyes to see Mike.
“You going to eat something? You ain’t eaten all day.”
Louis didn’t feel like eating. The newspaper article had made him sick.
“Well, I’ll leave it, if you want it,” Mike said, walking away.
Louis set the newspaper on the bunk, went to the bars and crouched, lifting the lid of the to-go container. He stared at the greasy food, then reached between the bars and grabbed a roll. He had to eat; he had to keep up his energy. Crossing his legs, he sat down on the concrete floor and scooped up some mashed potatoes. He tasted them cautiously; cold, but no weird taste this time.
As he chewed, he thought about the attorney Bessie had found. The moment he had set eyes on Linus Grimm this morning, he knew his fate was in the hands of the wrong man. Grimm was a cipher of a man. A nondescript suit hung on his sticklike frame. His bleached-blue eyes were devoid of any passion, and his voice had an annoying way of trailing off at the end of every sentence. To Louis, he was the quintessential deep-rooted Southern man who did not want to make waves.
Mike returned with a tray for Leverette. On his way back, Louis called to him. Mike stopped, squatting down so he was even with Louis. Mike’s bland young face was colored by a gloominess that made him look older.
“Mike, tell the sheriff I want to see him.”
“Sheriff’s with Mayor Kelly.”
“Figures,” Louis sighed. Any last hope he had that Dodie would suddenly grow a spine was fast dissipating.
“Can I get you something?”
“I need a phone,” Louis said.
“Junior says you get a phone in the morning and you get one call, and you used that one already today.”
“Mike, you know I used it to call Bessie to bring my glasses. C’mon. I need to call someone.”
“I'll call them for you,” Mike said. “But I ain’t callin’ Abby, Louis. I just can’t.”
“Jesus, I don’t want you to call Abby. Give me your pen.”
“Can’t do it, man.”
“For chrissakes, Mike. If I wanted to stab you with something, I could use this damn plastic fork. Give me your pen, please.”
Mike shrugged helplessly.
Louis sighed. “All right, write this number down, then.”
Mike took a pen from his shirt pocket and spread his palm to use as paper. In between bites of the chicken steak, Louis gave him Winston Gibbons’s name and office number.
Louis thought about Gibbons’s trip to Atlanta. “If he’s there, tell him where I am.”
“Who is this?”
“A friend.”
“You want I should hand you that tray through the hole?” Mike asked.
Louis dropped the fork. “I’m done.”
Mike nodded and looked at Louis sadly. He seemed to want to say something, but he didn’t. Louis stood up and Mike followed suit, picking up the tray.
“Thanks, Mike,” Louis said.
Mike nodded again, and left the cell area.
Back in the office, Mike eyed the other deputies and slid over to Louis’s desk. He sat down, started to push a large FedEx envelope aside, then hesitated. He stared at the envelope. It was addressed to Louis, from the Mississippi Crime Lab in Jackson.
Mike glanced over at Larry. He didn’t trust Larry anymore. Max had been Larry’s friend, and ever since Max was killed, Larry had kind of gone berserk over this whole thing. Besides, no one deserved to have piss put in their food. Mike poked at the envelope with his finger, debating whether to open it. No, he couldn’t do that. But this letter could be something important, maybe even something that could help Louis. Mike looked back at Larry. He’d best hide it for now, and show it to the sheriff when he got back.
He went to open Louis’s drawer but it stuck. Larry heard the rattling and looked up. “What are you doing?”
“Uh, just sitting here.”
Larry came over. He saw the return address on the FedEx envelope and snatched it up. “I’ll be damned,” he said. He took the envelope to his desk and ripped it open. After several seconds, Larry bolted from his chair and hurried over to Junior, a paper in hand. After some intense whispering, the two of them got up and disappeared into the men’s room.
Mike looked at the telephone number in his palm. His hand was sweaty, and the ink was starting to blur. He dialed the number.
A female answered the phone. “Federal Bureau of Investigation, Winston Gibbons’s office.”
Mike slammed down the phone. Jesus, what the hell was Louis involved in?
“Man, it stinks in here.”
Larry pushed open both stall doors and finding them empty, turned back to Junior. “Look at this,” he said.
Junior unfolded the report from the crime lab. Larry drummed his fingers on the top of the urinal while Junior read.
Junior looked up with a frown. “I don’t get it.”
Larry grabbed the paper from Junior. “Can’t you fuckin’ read?”
“Yeah, I can fuckin’ read. But what does it say?”
“It says,” Larry started. “It says…this is saying Max killed Earl and George.”
Junior shrugged. “Why would he do that?”
“How the hell do I know?”
Larry looked back at the paper in disbelief. Then his eyes glazed over. “Shit…”
“What?” Junior asked. “What?”
“We fucked up, man.”
“How?”
Larry gaped at Junior. “Leverette. Leverette. We arrested the wrong guy. We arrested the wrong guy twice! Shit, shit, shit.”
“If Leverette didn’t kill Earl, and Max did…” Junior hesitated. “Do you think this has anything to do with Louis?”
Larry’s eyes darted to Junior. “No. That fucker killed Max and I know it. This is something else.” Larry walked a small circle. “This can’t be right. No way Max would kill anyone.”
“Larry, that report can’t be wrong. I mean, these guys are experts, for chrissakes.”
“I’m tellin’ you, it’s wrong.”
Junior leaned against the sink. “Maybe we better ask the sheriff.”
“No way.”
“Why not?”
“I bet he doesn’t know about this. You know, last week when the sheriff suspended Kincaid, it was cuz he was mad at something Kincaid was doin’…something like this.” Larry started pacing in front of the urinal. “I think Kincaid wanted to use this against the sheriff.”
“Why would Louis—”
Larry spun around. “Do you know what would happen if this got out?”
Junior shook his head.
“It would look like the sheriff suppressed evidence to protect Max, and all the while lettin’ Leverette rot in jail.”
“Sheriff wouldn’t do that.”
“Dammit, Junior, stay with me on this! Do you know what arrestin’ a man like Max for murder would look like?”
“But if he was guilty…”
“It’s an election year, idiot!”
The color rose in Junior’s cheeks. “Larry, don’t go callin’—”
“Shut up. I’m thinkin’.” Larry resumed his pacing. ‘If the sheriff didn’t do something with this information, he must’ve had a good reason. And we need to respect that.”
“No way. ’Cuz if he knew that we knew he was coverin’ something up, then he would be embarrassed to have us know that. We can’t let the sheriff look like a fool to his own men.”
Junior ran a hand through his hair. “I guess,” he said softly. “I sure wouldn’t wanna do nothin’ to hurt Uncle Dodie.”
“No, you sure wouldn’t,” Larry said.
Ethel Mulcahey started the engine of her pristine 1972 Chevrolet Impala, turning on the headlights. She sighed heavily, looking down at the spiral notebook laying on the passenger seat.
She had found it in his office, in a bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, buried far beneath some old tax returns. At first she had resisted opening it; she felt bad enough just for having unearthed it from his hiding place. And it was hidden. She knew that. Earl hadn’t meant for anyone to see what he had written in it.
She didn’t know why she resumed her search. Maybe it was because Leverette had looked so sad during her last visit to the jail. All she knew was that she wanted her son to come home, and that if Detective Kincaid could use what was in this notebook to help, then so be it.
She glanced down at the faded blue notebook. Last night she had read it, beginning to end. First, it had horrified her. Then it had made her sad; how could she have not known the depth of her husband’s pain? But finally it had left her feeling only confused. This was not Earl, this man who poured out his agony on page after page.
But it was Earl. It was his handwriting there in the notebook, the same cramped, straight up-down handwriting he used to write checks and greetings on the kids’ birthday cards. It was Earl…her husband, a stranger.
Ethel closed her eyes, leaning her head against the wheel. If she took the notebook to Detective Kincaid, Earl’s crime would become public, casting shame on her and her children. Earl had been a good man, respected and admired. How could she destroy that?
But if she did not, this poor man named Eugene would never rest in peace, and evil people would go unpunished.
Ethel turned off the ignition and sat hunched over the wheel. Maybe, just maybe, if the sheriff read the journal he would understand that Leverette did not kill his own father. Maybe Detective Kincaid was right. Maybe they did kill Earl out of fear he would reveal their secret.
