Paper Gods

by Goldie Taylor

  “A servant always finds a way to serve.”

  * * *

  Team Dobbs staked out the Peachtree–Piedmont Road intersection. A second group headed to the north and set up shop on the Buckhead Loop between Lenox Mall and Phipps Plaza. A third went deep into Mitchell territory and situated themselves at the corner of Roswell and Mount Paran Roads above tony Tuxedo Park in far north Buckhead. Sarah Mitchell’s forces fanned out across the near west side and even put a few yard-sign-waving volunteers along Joseph E. Lowery Boulevard near the Atlanta University Center. Tellingly, both campaigns largely ignored southwest Atlanta, the heart of Dobbs Country, leaving the precincts uncontested.

  A fistfight between campaign volunteers made the midday news. Local NBC Atlanta anchor Blayne Alexander was broadcasting live from the scene of a weekend fair, when a shoving match got going outside Antioch Baptist Church North.

  “We can’t afford this right now,” Victoria said. “Get them off the street. Roy, issue a statement. I will call Sarah Mitchell and apologize.”

  “For what?” Roy protested. “Her people popped off first. We’ll look weak.”

  “We will apologize.”

  She personally ordered a campaign aide to identify the volunteers involved in the fight, dismiss them, and fire the precinct captain. Althea, Chip’s girlfriend, delivered his old campaign files. Victoria combed through them. She studied the get-out-the-vote map Chip had drawn up and dispatched her remaining ground teams to major shopping malls, busy cross streets, and key residential neighborhoods Chip identified in his plan.

  On her command, just as Chip had prescribed, they traveled in groups of ten and twenty. The Dobbs campaign doled out cash allotments for sign-wavers. Everything over one hundred dollars was noted on the campaign disclosure report to ward off questions.

  Win this one clean.

  “Momentum is everything,” she told her senior team on an early afternoon conference call. “We’ve got a week to go, and we’re going to deny them every opportunity.”

  Around 2 P.M., Victoria laced up her running shoes, donned a DOBBS FOR CONGRESS T-shirt, and headed out to the streets. With Pelosi behind the wheel, her advance man navigated them from post to post until Victoria was sure that everything was in good order. In three hours flat, she toured Castleberry, Brookwood, Eastlake, Old Ivy, Habersham Valley, Ansley, Peachtree Battle, Ormewood, Cabbagetown, West End, Cascade, Piedmont Heights, and half of Midtown, pausing to greet supporters and give a brief rousing stump speech.

  “You gotta believe!” she shouted.

  Her final destination, just before 6 P.M., was Foundry Park in Atlantic Station. The open lawn, along Seventeenth Street on the west side of the downtown connector, was jam-packed with cheering masses. A sound truck blasted music from speakers, and a wave of volunteers was handing out T-shirts when she arrived. Victoria snapped open a Diet Coke, took a swig, and mounted the stage.

  “You gotta believe!” she shouted from the microphone. “With your help, we’re going to turn this city around!”

  The crowd roared.

  “In recent days, this city has known the fullness of grief,” she said solemnly. “We laid my mentor and friend Congressman Ezra Josiah Hawkins to rest. Then they took my brother from me,” the mayor said. “I prayed. Lord, what hath Thou done? Can this be Your will?”

  The masses fell silent. It was the first time she’d spoken, in public or private, about her brother since the funeral. She missed their late-night strategy calls and the way he laughed from his belly. She still regretted their last fight, but nothing had been more painful than to watch Chip get caught up in a game she knew he would lose. He was in over his head, she told him repeatedly. If she could turn back the clock, she would’ve grabbed him by the collar and shaken some sense into him. She would’ve told him to stay the hell away from Dickey too. Her own relationship with Dickey had already cost her too much, and now her marriage was falling apart. The possibility that he’d had Chip killed still haunted her. She would win this race, but Chip wouldn’t be there at the finish line. Victoria wanted somebody to pay for that. Even and especially if that somebody was Dickey Lester.

  “He answered, I am here to tell you,” she said as the moon rose behind her. “They meant evil against you, but our Lord God meant it for good! They cannot take away what our Father hath provided! Let this rock be your stepping-stone!”

  Another round of ovations broke out. The applause escalated as her husband, daughters, and mother stepped underneath the grand Millennium Gate archway and joined her on the platform. The family hugged as Pelosi stood a few paces away, stone-faced and silently surveying the crowd.

  A new tracking poll was in, and with eight days left in active campaigning, Victoria had well over 50 percent. Not even Virgil Loudermilk could stand in her way. He’d been sidelined and was likely still holed up at his Ball Ground, Georgia, estate, and Reclaim Atlanta was about to be shut down by a judge’s injunction. In a few days’ time, Loudermilk would be lucky if he wasn’t staring at a federal warrant. She could thank Hampton Bridges for that, at least in part. His story about Reclaim Atlanta shook the earth like tectonic plates shifting along the Brevard Fault Line.

  Her team of attorneys found the nearest judge and pressed for a hearing on the campaign finance matter. The first was set for the following Monday morning. Loudermilk, Goodwin, and Mitchell would be forced to testify. All of which would make great fodder in a federal indictment. If Loudermilk wanted a fight, she swore he’d do it in a jailhouse jumpsuit, cuffs, and leg shackles.

  “You gotta believe!” she shouted.

  As she exited the stage, Pelosi tugged her elbow. “We have a situation,” he whispered, cupping his hand over her ear.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Victoria glanced around and made eye contact with Marsh, who quickly looked away. That morning, she’d told him bits and pieces about Shaun Haverty and how the detective had been taking payoffs to spy on them. Marsh listened to every syllable of every word. He’d taken her face by both hands, looked her in the eyes, and said nothing.

  “We have to go,” Pelosi said again.

  * * *

  In the darkness, work crews wearing safety vests gathered on a narrow bridge over the Chattahoochee River along Paces Ferry Road. The body, naked and partially encased in black Hefty trash bags, had been spotted floating by in the waters below. Six teenagers, all seniors from the Lovett School, had been out white-water rafting. They were each questioned and released to their parents.

  The cadaver hadn’t been in the river more than six to eight hours, the medical examiner on the scene concluded. The victim’s tongue had been cut out, his knuckles broken, and his face badly bruised, but otherwise, the remains were intact.

  “It’s him,” Pelosi said.

  Still dressed in a pair of jeans and a campaign T-shirt, the mayor watched as the body was loaded into the back of a waiting vehicle.

  “Tell me we didn’t do this,” Victoria whispered.

  “No, ma’am,” Pelosi said. “I can assure you that it wasn’t us.”

  Victoria stepped in front of a scrum of waiting reporters situated at the rise of the bridge beyond the crime scene tape.

  “Our investigators will work tirelessly to make a positive identification and to determine the person or persons responsible,” she said. “To be honest, I am frustrated and angry that someone’s life was taken, and frankly, that this can happen in our community. Unfortunately, we have no further information at this time. We will provide hour-by-hour updates as we have them.”

  She turned and walked away without taking a single question.

  Agent Jason Clearwater cut her off at the pass. “He took a real beating before he was dumped out there,” Clearwater said.

  “It’s an unfortunate tragedy.”

  “I understand you met with him recently.”

  “Whoever told you that is mistaken,” she said dismissively.

  “Then you won’t mind
coming in for questioning.”

  “I’m willing to help in any way that I can.”

  “I understand he was about to be fired from your department.”

  “An internal investigation is under way, but I guess you know that,” Victoria said with a smirk. “Haverty was a decent man. He was tied up with the wrong people.”

  “People like you?”

  “Excuse me?” Victoria said. She could not hide the flash of anger. “Put your cards on the table, Agent Clearwater. Don’t talk about it. Be about it.”

  “Detective Haverty was allegedly involved in a bribery scheme.”

  “So, you read the paper. And?”

  “And you should expect to be questioned about that.”

  “Here’s what you won’t do,” she shot back. “I am perfectly willing to answer all the questions swirling around in your head, but you won’t attempt to interrogate me on an open roadway.”

  “This isn’t an interrogation,” Clearwater said. “Yet.”

  “Don’t play with me, son.”

  “Or what?”

  “I’ve got bigger fish to fry than you, Jason Leland Clearwater. Keep going, and you’ll be reassigned to the GBI file room before the sun comes up.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I don’t do threats, young man. You should know that by now.”

  She spun on her heels and walked away, leaving Clearwater standing in the middle of the street.

  Pelosi met her at the southerly base of the bridge. “What was that all about?”

  “That little Yankee bastard had the nerve to imply that I am somehow involved in this. Are you sure the SOC unit didn’t move on Haverty?”

  “We got all we needed out of him. He was better for us alive than dead.”

  “Clearwater knows something.”

  “Don’t let that rattle you. He’s on a fishing expedition.”

  “Then make him cut bait.”

  “No need. We’re clean.”

  “Who would’ve wanted Haverty dead?” Victoria whispered, staring down into the dark embankment.

  “You mean other than Loudermilk? Haverty was playing a dangerous game. He was as dumb as a bag of frog hair, but he knew that much.”

  “A cornered dog is a dangerous thing. And this one has a billion dollars.”

  Pelosi shook his head knowingly. “What now?”

  “We tell the GBI all we know about his dealings with Loudermilk. Spill it all,” Victoria said. “I’ve got to get some rest and get back to the campaign trail in the morning. I’ve got six churches to do tomorrow. Once we get the go-ahead on releasing his name, I’ll have my office issue a statement.”

  “He was still one of ours,” Pelosi said.

  “Indeed. No matter what he did, he was still one of us,” Victoria answered. “We’ll stop the termination papers, and he’ll be buried with full honors. I’ll see to it that his wife gets his pension and the city’s insurance payout. She shouldn’t have to scrape to get by, and I’ll make sure the city council votes my way on that.”

  As she turned toward the waiting SUV, Pelosi stopped her again.

  “Ma’am, the coroner said his mouth was stuffed with paper,” he said.

  “Debris from the river?”

  “Not likely. The detective said it was caught in his windpipe. Looked like a folded airplane. Red construction paper.”

  The mayor stopped and said, “It’s a paper god.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means this isn’t over.”

  “This?”

  “Promise me that you will protect my family.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Get on ’way from me now. Scoot!”

  Virgil leaned against the freshly polished balustrade, overlooking the double-story grand foyer, and examined his options. He’d been forced out of his compound, his expansive estate in north Georgia, to deal with the latest salvo from Victoria Dobbs. The Loudermilk house on Blackland Drive was empty, save for Libby Gail’s cat, who was now yowling and rubbing up against his leg.

  “I said scoot, gawd-damn it!”

  The cat ignored him, as usual, and threw herself belly-up at his feet as if begging for a stroke. The full-white Persian had taken the opportunity to piss all over a mound of dirty clothes. Due vengeance, Virgil figured, for the overflowing litter box and the lack of food in her bowl. He’d caught her licking water out of the commode, which was fine by Virgil, so he left the toilet seat up.

  He went down to the kitchen and scrounged around in the cabinets until he found an old can of tuna. He pried it open with a paring knife, dumped the contents onto a porcelain saucer, and set it on the floor. He lit a cigarillo and blew smoke rings in the air. Libby Gail would pitch a fit about him smoking in the house and feeding her cat table food on her good plates. At that moment, Virgil could think of little that he cared less about. The body in the river had been positively identified, and the name was released that morning.

  They’d first met, he and Haverty, some thirty-odd years back, when the detective was fresh out of the police academy. Virgil always knew Haverty liked his bread toasted and buttered on both sides. In a den of thieves, that kind of greed was to be expected and even admirable, the way Virgil saw it. The plan was to make sure the detective didn’t say any more than he already had and to keep him away from Pelosi and his goons. That didn’t include being fished out of the Chattahoochee wearing nothing but a garbage bag. Now Haverty was as dead as a week-old pastrami sandwich, and Riley Lester hadn’t returned his calls.

  There was an unfortunate paper trail tying Virgil to Haverty, and thanks to Victoria Dobbs, it wasn’t long before the GBI came knocking. He’d declared his innocence, of course. Virgil explained that Haverty had been employed to provide private security, which was the God’s honest truth.

  On top of that, he’d been served with a subpoena to appear in state court for alleged campaign finance violations. The process server, escorted by no fewer than eight sheriff’s deputies, had come all the way up to Ball Ground to find him. Virgil could surely think of better things to do with his Sunday than spend it reviewing his testimony with a pack of lawyers who billed in fifteen-minute increments. He couldn’t find it in himself to give half a damn about an injunction against Reclaim Atlanta, seeing as how Goodwin had already quit the race and Virgil would rather eat a flame-broiled bullfrog swimming in cream sauce than put a dime behind Sarah Mitchell. Dobbs wanted his testimony on the record, under oath, so she could use it later, he figured.

  He’d known Sarah for years. After all, Virgil was the best man when she married Lucky back in ’89. Virgil knew the union wouldn’t last. He also knew Sarah was a wily creature who wouldn’t let a sack of bad poll numbers sway her. A few years back, she won a comeback election for the statehouse against a sitting incumbent when conventional wisdom said her goose was fried. Last night, the Mitchell campaign posted reams of financial disclosures on her website, along with a press release tallying all the money she’d gotten from Virgil and his friends over the years.

  Sarah had enough moxie to choke the life out of a grizzly, but she was still no match for the Great Torie Dobbs. The press release didn’t even get a response.

  The injunction against him and the League, which he fully expected to be ordered, wasn’t worth a pot of dry pinto beans, now that Goodwin had quit. Getting a temporary sanction was a tactical move, just as her tirade at the editorial meeting had been. However, with her law school classmate Darius Highsmith leading the team, the mayor was clearly angling to extract a pound of his flesh by putting him on the witness stand. Highsmith was a Southerner by birth and a real firebrand when it came to courtroom theatrics. A fourth-generation Missionary Baptist preacher, when he wasn’t chasing skirts up the courthouse steps, Highsmith could sing the ABC’s and a jury would swoon and swear he was quoting Shakespeare. His petition to the court, which Virgil had the displeasure of reading, sounded like a Twain novel.

  Mayor Dobbs specialized in warn
ing shots, the kind that whizzed over your head, coming close enough to split your hair right down the middle. But this wasn’t that. Behind all that pretty talk about uniting Atlanta, Dobbs was a shrewd operator. Long on charm and heavy on guile. Virgil liked her better when they were on the same side.

  She had outgrown her satin britches long ago, and he’d warned Whit more than once about giving her too much rope. If Virgil had his druthers, she’d be hocking watermelon slices out of a pushcart on Peachtree Street. To his chagrin, she was now likely headed to Congress in a landslide.

  The most recent public polling had her at over 50 percent, but the internal numbers were even uglier. By J. T. King’s math, independents were breaking in her favor, and she was now hovering around 62 percent. She was clearing all the milk and bread off the shelves like a snowstorm was coming. Mitchell was stuck with the crumbs. Where the election was concerned, the proverbial fat lady was warming up in the wings, preparing for an encore performance.

  The mere thought of throwing all that money behind Goodwin made his belly ache. King and Bertram DuBose took the news in stride. Neither of them had quite so much skin in the game. And now, there was a preliminary hearing and various in limine motions to deal with. It was likely the last rodeo for the League and their PAC. Loudermilk was preparing to shut down the whole shebang.

  The petition had been filed on behalf of Dobbs for Congress, and a second complaint was submitted to the state board of ethics. That meant the legal fees were coming out of her campaign account, which Virgil knew to be a hefty sum. In the end, he’d pay a civil fine and be done with it.

  Virgil looked down at the cat, who was circling him again like a vulture in heat.

  “What in the hell do you want now? I swear, you eat better than I do.”

  Virgil was stuck with the cat, whose name he did not care to know. His wife was off in South Carolina, staying with her stepsister and her do-nothing governor husband, and their son was still off seeing the world with his bride. He hadn’t seen Libby Gail that mad since he forgot their twentieth wedding anniversary.

  “How dare you embarrass this family like this!” she’d shouted. “Hell, I can’t even take tea at the St. Regis without folks stopping by my table to tell me how sorry they are. The damn clerk at Dior turned her nose up at me, and Juanita Milner asked me to step down as cochair of the Crescendo Ball. And Harold quit, you know? Didn’t even give me any notice. Just up and quit.”