Chiefs

by Stuart Woods

  “Can he do that? Can he pull enough votes to throw it into the house?” Howell asked plaintively.

  “In my judgment,” said Holmes emphatically, “he can.”

  “Mr. Holmes,” Billy said, “in your judgment where would we stand in the house?”

  Holmes produced a notebook from a coat pocket and consulted it. “I went through a little theoretical roll call in my head this afternoon,” the banker said. “I reckon that if the election were held today in the House we’d be between fifteen and twenty votes short.”

  There was a stunned silence in the room. Finally, Patricia broke it. “Do you mean that Billy has won the primary, but he’ll lose the governorship?”

  Holmes nodded. “If he didn’t win an absolute majority in the general election, and if the house voted today.”

  Billy stood up and put on his coat. “Fortunately,” he said, with an edge in his voice, “the general election hasn’t taken place yet, and the house isn’t voting tomorrow.” He buttoned his collar and tightened his necktie. “Let’s go talk to the press, and then, Trish, let’s go home. I want to sleep at home tonight.”

  The phone rang, and Billy went back to answer it. He spoke briefly while the others stood at the door, then he hung up and joined them, laughing ruefully. “That was Bob Kennedy,” he said. “He says Lyndon’s people are unpacking.”

  17

  WITH THE EXCEPTIONS of his frustration over the matter of Foxy Funderburke and his fears about Pieback Johnson, Tucker Watts led what he could only consider to be a charmed existence through the first eleven months of his tenure, up until early November. He had improved the personnel, equipment, and operations of the Delano Police Department and had established himself in the community as a reliable man. True, there was a residue of resentment among many people with regard to his color, but he felt he had, at least, reached some sort of truce with that element of the town; that in return for his doing a good job, they would leave him alone. He was wrong.

  In looking back on the incident, he would be able to say honestly to himself that he had done the right, indeed the only thing possible at each stage of its escalation. But it had still gone terribly wrong. Maybe his temper had been too much of a factor; maybe he had for a moment forgotten how to be a black man in a white world.

  He had been home for lunch and was driving back to the station, when he saw the car. They passed each other in front of the school, and the car was doing at least fifty. Although the students were all in class, it particularly offended Tucker that someone would drive more than double the speed limit in a school zone. He whipped the car into a U-turn and pulled over the offender just inside the city limits. As he walked toward the car, pulling out his ticket pad, the driver opened the door and got out. The man was elderly, but large and strong looking. Tucker thought he looked familiar but did not recognize him until he heard the man’s voice.

  “What the hell is this all about?” The voice instantly brought back a flood of memories: of chopping wood until his hands bled; of his mother doing laundry until after dark; of his father returning from work nearly hysterical, soaking wet, his face swollen with mosquito bites. It was the first time since his return to Delano that Tucker had laid eyes on Hoss Spence. He snapped back to the present. “May I see your driver’s license, please?”

  “You’re gonna see this stick upside your head if you don’t answer me.” Spence was carrying a heavy hog cane. “What the hell is this all about?”

  “I clocked you doing fifty-two miles an hour in a twenty-mile-an-hour zone—a school zone. That’s what it’s all about. Now show me your driver’s licence.” Tucker was prepared for a scene, but not for what came next. He had glanced down at his ticket pad to flip over a page when he saw a blur at the corner of his eye and felt a jarring blow across his left cheek and ear. The sound made his ear ring, and the force of the blow sent him reeling sideways. Suddenly occupied with regaining his balance, he failed to ward off the second blow, which caught him on the neck. When the cane swung the third time, he threw up an arm, and it caught him in the armpit. He was able to clamp down on the cane, get another hand on it, and wrench it from Spence’s grasp. He flung it aside and occupied himself with deflecting the man’s fists, which were now raining upon him. Finally, he was able to grab his assailant’s wrist, spin him around, and trip him to the ground. He pinned Spence with a knee and got one wrist handcuffed, but had more of a struggle before he could cuff the other.

  He yanked the old man to his feet, walked him on his toes to the patrol car, opened a rear door, and shoved him inside. He was not gentle, but he was not nearly as rough as he might justifiably have been, he thought. Throughout the scuffle Spence had kept up a stream of invective, most of it racial, and it did not end when he was in the car. Tucker walked back toward Spence’s car, retrieved the cane, returned to the police car and picked up the microphone.

  “Station, this is mobile one.”

  “Car one, this is station.”

  “I’ve just made an arrest for speeding and assaulting an officer. Send a car and two men out Forty-One. Just inside the city limits on the right there’ll be a blue, ‘61 Cadillac four-door. The keys are in it. Bring it back to the station. Roger?”

  “Roger. You need any other assistance?”

  “Negative, just pick up the car.”

  Spence continued to rave and mutter all the way to the police station. Tucker said nothing at all. He was trying to separate his childhood feelings about Spence from the current incident. By the time they reached the station, he was satisfied that he had done so.

  Bartlett’s face registered amazement when he saw Spence, but he managed to keep his mouth shut.

  “Put this man in a cell,” Tucker said sharply. “If he gives you any trouble, handcuff him to the bars. I’ll make out the complaint.”

  Bartlett returned after a moment. “Jesus, Chief, do you know who that guy is?”

  Tucker had spun a blank form into a typewriter and was rattling away on the machine. “I don’t much care who he is.”

  “His name is Spence. They call him Hoss. He’s a big-time farmer out near your place, peaches and cows and everything else. He’s got a lot of political friends in the county.”

  “Yeah?” Tucker kept typing.

  “Uh, Chief, I let him use the pay phone in the back. He’s entitled to a call. I hope that was okay.”

  “Sure. The man has his rights. I want him to get all his rights before I see him in the county camp.”

  Bartlett tiptoed away and came back with some ice from the soft-drink cooler. “You’d better put some of this on your face. It’s swelling up pretty good.”

  Tucker ripped the paper out of the machine and took the ice. He had a thought. He went to a cupboard and took out a Polaroid camera which they sometimes used for photographing traffic accidents. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at Bartlett. “Take a picture of me.” Bartlett obeyed. “If he’s got as many friends as you say he has, this might come in handy,” Tucker said, watching the image slowly appear on the paper. The phone rang, and Bartlett answered it. He handed it to Tucker.

  “This is Chief Watts.”

  “Tucker, this is Hugh Holmes. I hear you’ve got Hoss Spence down there. What’s the charge?”

  “Fifty-two miles an hour in a school zone, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer.”

  “Did he pull a gun on you?”

  “It was a heavy cane, one of those things they use to move pigs with. He could have killed me with the thing.”

  “Did you provoke him?”

  “I asked him for his driver’s license.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all I had a chance to say to him. Then he hit me with the cane.”

  “All right, Tucker, I’m going to stay out of this. We’ve got a general election day after tomorrow, and I’m up to my ears in it. Let me give you some advice, though, even though it may be gratuitous.”

  “I’d be happy to have any advice you’d care
to give me, sir.” Tucker was cooling off a bit now.

  “Be absolutely correct in your procedure with this thing. Were there any witnesses?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “I’ve got a real nice photograph of my injuries, though.”

  “Good. Now, Hoss’s lawyer in Greenville has already seen the judge, and you’re likely to get a call pretty soon. If I were you, I’d take the call as sufficient to release him. Don’t demand a written order. It’ll just make things more difficult.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “All right, then. Call me if it gets too sticky, hear?”

  “Yes, sir, I will.” He hung up. There was the scuffle of feet in the entrance to the squad room.

  “I hear you got my daddy in here.”

  Tucker turned and saw Emmett Spence, not for the first time in recent months. They often passed each other on the highway, being neighbors. Emmett had never so much as acknowledged his presence. “Who are you?” asked Tucker.

  “I’m Emmett Spence, godammit, and you’ve got my daddy in here!”

  “Yes, I have got your daddy in here, Mr. Spence. If you want him out, call a lawyer. And watch your language in here.”

  “I already called a lawyer, you better believe it!”

  The telephone rang. Tucker answered it himself.

  “Chief, this is Judge Hill in Greenville. I believe you have a Mr. Spence there on a traffic offense?”

  “Yes, sir, Judge, for speeding, resisting arrest, and assault.”

  “Chief, I’m issuing an order releasing Mr. Spence on his own recognizance. I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d go ahead and release him now. I’ll see that the order is in today’s mail.” The judge sounded embarrassed.

  “Of course, Your Honor. I’m glad to accommodate you.”

  “Uh, Chief Watts, I understand there was an altercation of some sort. I think it would be in the best interests of everybody concerned if we could settle this out of court.”

  “Your Honor, I’d like to be of help, but the man struck me repeatedly with a heavy cane and without provocation. I could have made the charge assault with a deadly weapon.”

  “Chief, Mr. Spence is an old man, seventy-four, I believe. I hope that in consideration of his age and his standing in the community that we can avoid any further unpleasantness.”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid I can’t do that.” It was time for the son of a bitch to pay the piper. “He can plead guilty as charged, if he likes, and of course, the sentence would be up to you.”

  “Chief, I’m sorry you feel that way. If you’d go ahead and release Mr. Spence, I expect we’ll talk about this again.”

  Tucker hung up. “All right, Bartlett, turn him out.”

  Spence came into the squad room rubbing his wrists and muttering. “Gimme my cane back,” he said to Tucker.

  “No, sir, I’m afraid that’s evidence. Now, may I see your driver’s license, please.”

  Emmett Spence stepped forward. “Ain’t you learned nothing, boy?”

  Tucker turned to Emmett. He remembered what a stupid, senselessly cruel child he had been. “I don’t believe I said anything to you.” He turned back to Hoss Spence. “Mr. Spence, you’re going to have to give me your license right now or go back in the cell.”

  Spence reluctantly produced the license, and Tucker wrote him a traffic ticket. “I would strongly suggest, sir, that in the future you be particularly careful of the way you drive.” Spence snatched back the license and the ticket and stalked out of the station.

  Emmett lingered for a moment. “Hey, he clipped you a good one, there didn’t he? Well, he ain’t’ through yet, I can tell you that.”

  “Emmett!” his father yelled from the door. “Get your ass out here!”

  “Uh, Chief,” said Bartlett, anxious to change the subject, “I came across this while you were at lunch.” He handed Tucker a water-stained manila folder. “I think it might be what you were looking for.”

  Tucker opened the folder and quickly leafed through the contents. There were at least two dozen missing-persons bulletins.

  “Some of ‘em are women,” Bartlett said. “You only wanted males, but they were all in there together.”

  Tucker started for his office, looking through the bulletins.

  “And, Chief?” Bartlett held out a single bulletin. “This came in the second mail.”

  Tucker looked at the sheet of paper. Fifteen; disappeared from Clearwater, Florida, a week before. Suspected runaway. Tucker walked quickly into his office and shut the door.

  Quickly, excitedly, he flipped through the bulletin, weeding out the females and older males. He then read each of the remaining bulletins, underlining the pertinent information on where the person had last been seen and eliminating those last seen too far away or seemingly on a route which would not lead through Delano. He was left with eleven sheets of paper stacked before him. The faces in the photographs might have been in the same school class or on the same baseball team. Or, more likely, in the same drama or glee club. There was a softness about them.

  The dates ranged from 1948 through 1960. Tucker turned to the bulletin which had arrived that morning. That brought things right up to the present. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Now he had enough for a search warrant. He gathered the bulletins into one file folder, along with the papers of Will Henry Lee and of Sonny Butts, stuck them in his brief case, and stood up. He had business in Talbot County.

  There were loud voices from the squad room. The door to his office opened, and Skeeter Willis walked in, pointing a pistol at him. “Just keep your hands on the desk, boy.”

  Tucker put his hands on the desk. “What’s going on here, Willis?”

  “You’re under arrest, that’s what’s going on here.”

  “For what?”

  Skeeter tossed a paper on the desk. “That’s a felony warrant for assault and battery.” Skeeter clamped a cuff on one wrist and turned Tucker around roughly, cuffing the other hand. “Now, you just come along real quietlike, and you might not get hurt.” Skeeter pushed him out of the office into the squad room. Bartlett was being held at gunpoint by a deputy.

  “What’s going on, Chief?” The young officer was wide-eyed.

  “You know what to do, Bartlett, and for the record, I think there might be an accident on the way to Greenville, or maybe in the jail. You know what to do about that, too.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Shut up, both of you,” Skeeter yelled. “And you’re my witness, Buddy; he had that swollen face when I picked him up, right?”

  “Yes, Sheriff, but I think you’re making a mistake.”

  “You let me worry about that, boy.” He shoved Tucker toward the door.

  “Bartlett,” Tucker called back to him, “there’s a file—”

  “I told you to shut up!” Skeeter shouted, and hurried him out of the building toward a waiting sheriff’s car.

  18

  BILLY HUNG UP the phone. He was sitting in a back room of his Atlanta campaign headquarters, in an empty store building on Peachtree Street. In other parts of the building a dozen volunteers were telephoning voters in Fulton County, asking them to be sure and vote on the coming Tuesday. It was now Friday afternoon.

  John Howell, who was sitting across the desk, asked, “What is it? Tucker?”

  Billy nodded. “That was Holmes. Tucker is in the Greenville jail on a charge of assaulting a fellow named Spence, who’s a big contributer to campaigns of people like Skeeter Willis. Apparently, Tucker stopped Spence for speeding, and there was a scuffle. Tucker arrested the man, and now he’s brought charges against Tucker.”

  “Can he do that? Have a policeman arrested who has just arrested him?”

  “Yes, he can. It’s not a good system, but any citizen can swear out a warrant against anybody else and have him arrested.”

  “You can get him out, can’t you?”

  Billy nodded again. “Yes, but anything cou
ld happen to him while Skeeter’s got him in that jail.” Billy had an idea and explained it to Howell. “Will you do it?”

  “Sure.” Howell dialed the number. “Sheriff Willis, please.” He waited a moment. “Sheriff? This is John Howell, New York Times. I interviewed you a few weeks ago? Right. I understand you have the Delano Chief of police in your jail. Is that correct? I see…. assaulted an old man… Spence, right. Is Mr. Spence a white man, Sheriff?… No, I just wondered. Tell me, Sheriff, is Chief Watts in good health at this moment? I mean, was he injured or anything when you arrested him?… Did he put up a struggle of any kind or resist in any way?… Could I speak to Chief Watts?” Howell covered the phone. “He’s stalling. Says he’s not sure if they’ve finished processing Tucker.” He listened at the phone again. “I see. Could I speak to him when you’ve finished?” He shook his head at Billy. “Could I come down there and visit him?… Ten to two and two to four?… Tomorrow, then?… Right, Sheriff, thank you for the information.” Howell hung up.

  “Well?” Billy asked, anxious.

  “Willis says Tucker is just fine. I can’t visit him today, visiting hours would be over before I got down there. Tomorrow, he says.”

  “I’ve got to get him out of there before tomorrow.” Billy said. He picked up the phone, consulted his address book, and dialed. “Hello, Frances? This is Billy Lee, how are you?… Just fine, thanks. Can I speak to Judge Hill, please?… Where?… How long ago?… Do you know the name of the people?… All right, Frances, thanks very much.” He hung up. “Bert Hill, the superior court judge down there, has left for the day. He’s on his way up to Lake Lanier to spend the weekend with some friends.”

  “Is he the only man who can release Tucker?”

  “We could go for a federal order, but that would be overkill. Hill is the only person who can do it quickly.” Billy had another idea. He consulted the address book again and dialed. “May I speak to Colonel Simpson, please?… Jim, this is Billy Lee, how are you?… Fine. Listen, Jim, I hate to trouble you, but I urgently need to contact Judge Bert Hill of Meriwether County, and he’s on the road somewhere between Greenville and Gainesville, headed for Lake Lanier. I wonder if you could issue some sort of bulletin to your men on that route, ask them to stop him and ask him to call me? It really is urgent…. No, it’s not state business, exactly, but it’s connected with a law-enforcement problem that I can’t go into right now…. That’s great, Jim…. I think he drives a green Ford. I don’t know the license number, but you can get that from motor vehicle registration, can’t you?… Thanks again, Jim.” Billy gave him his telephone number and hung up.