Death of the Weed Merchant

by Robert G Rogers

  “Me too.”

  Stan thanked the deputy for his help and outlined what he was going to do to wrap it up, a stipulated restraining order.

  “Good luck,” Delbert said. “If you need a hand, let me know.”

  He would.

  When Delbert stood to leave, on a whim, Stan said, “Say, Delbert, somebody I knew at Ole Miss dropped by a couple of days ago and left me a dozen joints. I don’t generally smoke ‘em, but I have ‘em. Do you guys use ‘em? Otherwise, I’ll throw them away.”

  Stan remembered the Sheriff saying some of his deputies smoked a joint now and then to relieve the pressure they were often under. He’d used Delbert’s name when telling the story.

  He laughed. “Well, now and then not all the evidence gets to court. Sure, I’ll take a handful.”

  So Stan gave him a handful out of the box he kept in his desk.

  “Thank you. We’ll study these things.”

  Stan laughed. After the man had left, he had one himself to get ready for his call to Elmer Bryant.

  After identifying himself as Margo’s attorney, Stan told him why he’d called.

  “You have to stop bothering Margo Dawkins! You understand? You could be arrested and thrown in jail! I’m assuming you don’t want that.”

  “Hell no!” Bryant practically shouted. “Hell no!”

  “We could do it another way,” Stan said. “It’d keep you from being arrested and keep you out of jail. You could sign an agreement I’ll prepare and file that with the court. It’s what I call a friendly restraining order. We could do it that way or Margo could have the sheriff haul you in for assault and battery?”

  Bryant cursed a blue streak but after he’d let off his steam, he settled down and asked, “Whut you talkin’ ‘bout? A friendly … whut’d you call it … restraining order.”

  Stan told him, “You sign an agreement that I’ll file. In the agreement, you’ll agree not to bother her again. If you break your promise, you’ll be arrested and hauled off to jail. It’ll be a restraining order mutually agreed upon by the parties. That’s why it’s called a friendly restraining order. So, what do you want to do? Get arrested by the sheriff or sign an agreement not to bother her. I’ll file it with the court to give it some teeth.”

  “Shit. Ain’t got no choice, do I? I’ll sign the son of a bitchin’ thing. When do you want me to do it?”

  Stan asked him to come in the next day. “It’ll be ready then.”

  Bryant also agreed to come by Stan’s office again after the agreement had been filed to be served with the papers.

  “That’ll save you having to pay a fee for me to send somebody out to serve you with the restraining order.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You got me by the short hair. I ain’t got no choice. I’ll do it the way you say. Damn lawyers, all the same. World ‘ud be better off if all uh you died.”

  Stan laughed. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that. A first year professor at law school told them they’d be hearing that “a lot” when they went into practice. “They hate us until they need us. Then, they’re glad we’re alive,” the professor had said.

  Stan didn’t mind, as long as he was being paid. He knew that lawyers, and the law they enforced, were the discipline that kept the contemporary world in line. And nobody liked discipline or those who charged a fee to force people to embrace it.

  Wild animals could follow their instincts, but humans didn’t have that option, and lawyers often had to remind them of that. For a fee.

  Chapter 3

  Bishop got out of bed that morning to follow the request of his bank client to “work out” the bad Watson loan. That meant he had to find a mutually agreeable way for the borrower to repay the bank’s loan balance. That only happened rarely, but when it did both the borrower and the bank walked away happy.

  He decided to drive by the Watson farm and lay down the law to Welborn, but first, he was going to stop by Mrs. Watson’s home and see what she had to say. Her husband was the one who had taken out the loan, and had put some of his own money into the chicken house project covered by the bank loan.

  As he approached the Watson’s home, the chicken houses were visible in the distance. That was where he had been meeting Welborn, in an office attached to one of the buildings. He noted that the buildings were far enough away so the noise and the smell would not bother the occupants of the home.

  “The old man must have planned it that way,” Bishop said.

  The house had a tile roof and arched windows with shutters. Kind of Spanish styling, he thought. Bishop usually associated that style with homes he’d seen in Arizona and California.

  “So, Mr. Watson must have traveled some and had some pride in how he presented himself to the world.”

  He parked and walked to the front door where he pressed the doorbell. Less than a minute later, a comfortably dressed, gray haired woman with a few too many pounds opened the door. From the wrinkles and sags he saw, Bishop put her age as in the eighties.

  He greeted her with a smile and told her his name and why he was there.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the loan your husband took out to build all those chicken houses.” He waved in the direction of the buildings.

  She blinked and glanced away. With a frown, she said, “I don’t know why you’re here. My son, Welborn, took over responsibility for the loan when my husband passed. He’s down at the barns. You should be talking to him.”

  She made a move as if to close the door, but Bishop stopped her saying,

  “I know, but the loan is badly in default, and the bank asked me to see what I could do to get it back to paying as agreed. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’ve already spoken to your son, Welborn.”

  She shook her head as if confused and invited him in. “I don’t know what I can tell you. I didn’t have anything to do about the loan when Jasper took it out. And I haven’t had anything to do with it since he died.”

  “I won’t take a minute,” Bishop said and followed her into the living room where he sat down after she had.

  He briefly summarized his discussions with Welborn and in particular how he’d promised to bring the loan current but had broken that promise.

  “Frankly, it was suggested to me that he might be taking drugs, at least smoking marijuana. He acted … well, odd the last time I met with him. I’m just trying to avoid recommending a foreclosure, but that’s where I am right now. Can you tell me anything that might help?”

  She stared down at the planked flooring, shaking her head as she did, and sighed.

  “I don’t know what I can tell you, Mr. Bone,” she said, still shaking her head. “To tell the truth, he’s been acting strangely around me too. He was married but got a divorce. No children. Elizabeth, his wife, filed for it. Said he spent more time in New Orleans than he did with her. Still sneaks off down there. Elizabeth figured he had a woman down there. They fought about it. He come to hittin’ her. That’s when she asked for a divorce. Frankly, I don’t know what he does with his money. She says he hasn’t been paying her the alimony he’s supposed to pay. Said she was going to take him to court. I paid her some.”

  “With interest and late fees added, he’s behind about almost thirty thousand dollars. Unless he pays me today, which I doubt, I’ll have to recommend foreclosure. I haven’t checked but I imagine the bank’s mortgage covered your home.” Bishop was fudging when he said “today” but didn’t figure it was important just then. He knew it’d take the bank some time to make a decision. Mostly, he wanted to emphasize the gravity of the situation to her.

  And, from her reaction, he was successful.

  She gasped, and covered her mouth with her hand. “My God! I’ll be on the street. My son’s house too. He built a place on the other side of the chicken houses.”

  Bishop shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Watson. That’s why I came to see you. To let you know. I was hoping you might be able to talk some sense to your son. Maybe he’ll listen to you.
”

  She shook her head. “At one time, maybe. Not anymore. Not anymore. Jasper would be so sorry. He loved that boy. We both did. I still do, but acting the way he’s been acting I don’t know what to do.”

  Bishop had a couple of thoughts, but held off telling her. He was pleased that she seemed to be in full control of her faculties. That fit what he was thinking.

  But he’d first see if Welborn had come to his senses. What a mess. The boy has probably been using money from the sale of the chickens to build his house but he should have had plenty enough to make the loan payment. He was recalling the cash flow projections from the loan file.

  She promised Bishop she’d think about it. “I don’t want to end up on the street.”

  Bishop agreed.

  Before meeting with Welborn, he first drove to another one of the chicken houses to ask whoever was working inside about the so-called improvements Welborn said he’d made.

  It was a short stop. He asked the guy working in the building about the improvements.

  The man said, “I ain’t seen no improvements ‘n I been workin’ here since Mr. Jasper were a runnin’ thangs.”

  He also told Bishop that Welborn was “in his office” and told him which building it was in.

  That’s what Bishop thought. Welborn was siphoning off the money for some other reason. And Welborn was Bishop’s next stop.

  He drove to the building with the office and parked outside.

  When he opened the office door, he was greeted by a cloud of smoke. He’d smelled it before. It was marijuana. The boy’s hooked. He stepped back to let the room clear out some.

  Welborn was inside, sitting at a desk, hurriedly twisting out his “joint.” “Ever heard about knocking?” he said belligerently and stood.

  “I have. Have you ever heard about keeping your promises and bringing your father’s loan current? You’re on the verge of getting your mother kicked out of her home. I know you haven’t made any improvements. You lied. You’ve been -”

  “You son of a bitch!” he shouted to interrupt what Bishop was about to accuse him of – being on drugs and siphoning off money. “I’m gonna kick your ass!”

  “I don’t see any friends. You’re gonna need ‘em,” Bishop said. But he wasn’t sure. The boy was young and looked tough.

  Welborn scoffed, clinched his fists and charged Bishop. His face contorted with rage. Bishop backed into the open area in front of the office but when the boy came through the door, he lowered his shoulder and charged him. His shoulder hit Welborn in the stomach. He reached down and grabbed a leg to bring the boy down. Something any decent linebacker did in every football game to bring down a fullback bursting through the line.

  Bishop let him fall and when he rolled over to get up, he hit him with a right hand that knocked him back down, half conscious.

  “If I were you, I’d stay there,” Bishop said.

  Welborn began to get to his knees but apparently thought better of it and didn’t go any further. “Caught me with a sucker shot,” he mumbled. “I’ll get you next time.”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell you this. I’m going to recommend foreclosure. The bank will take these chicken houses, your mother’s house and yours. You’d better think about it. I’d say you have about a week. I know you’re on drugs. Marijuana for sure, probably cocaine as well. It might kill you, but that’s not why I’m here. I just want the loan brought current. Your poor dad is probably turning over in his grave,” Bishop said, using a local phrase.

  Welborn just stared at Bishop. Like his mother, his face was a picture of confusion.

  Bishop left to go home and type a report to the bank. He’d recommend foreclosure but would also recommend that Mrs. Watson’s home be excluded if the value of the chicken houses and the land would be enough to cover the loan.

  He emailed a copy to the loan officer.

  While he was waiting for the loan officer to call him, Mrs. Watson called. He’d given her one of his cards.

  “Mr. Bone, Welborn came up here to see me after you told him the bank was going to take Jasper’s farm. He was crying. We both cried. I held him in my arms. He told me he was hooked on drugs. Running the farm, the chicken houses, was too much for him. He took to drugs to help him get through it. And he got hooked.”

  “I figured as much,” Bishop said. “It happens.”

  “He’s sorry he acted like he did. He asked me to tell you. He called a rehab center in Jackson. I’m going to take him up there in the morning, maybe this afternoon. He says he just can’t take the pressure of running Jasper’s business. Can you tell me anyway I can save it? Save the farm?”

  Bishop gave her the thought he’d had when they talked. That thought ended up in his report.

  She had two options, he figured. The first option would be to somehow bring the loan current and hire somebody to run things.

  “Hilton Farms can probably recommend somebody you could hire. It’s in their best interest. You’d have to pay him, but I think your chicken business makes enough to cover the salary of a manager.”

  “You think the bank will accept that?”

  “If the loan is current, they wouldn’t have much to say about it. I doubt they would anyway. I’m sure they’d rather have a loan paying as agreed than the alternative. The alternative, assuming you can’t bring the loan current, would be for you to file for bankruptcy protection. I shouldn’t tell you that, but if you talked to an attorney, he’d tell you the same thing.”

  “Uh, well, I think I can sell some of the investments Jasper left me and catch up on the loan payments. I’m pretty sure Jasper would rather I do that than filing bankruptcy.”

  “No doubt,” Bishop said.

  Bishop told her that when he talked to the bank officer in charge of the loan, he’d tell him “her plan” to go forward.

  “While I’m doing that, why don’t you call Hilton Farms and see if they have anybody they can recommend.”

  She would do just that, and within an hour after talking with Bishop, Hilton Farms had given her three names.

  So Bishop revised his report and recommendation, and emailed it to the loan officer. In it, he reported that Mrs. Watson was taking charge of the business using a manager recommended by Hilton Farms. And, she’d be bringing the loan current within a week.

  The bank accepted his recommendation and that was how Bishop worked out that loan. Welborn stayed in rehab long enough to break the drug habit. Once he did that, he went back to school to get his degree.

  And, as far as Bishop heard, Jasper’s chicken business flourished and the loan stayed current.

  Chapter 4

  Elmer Bryant came by Stan’s office one afternoon to sign the “restraining” agreement Stan had prepared in which Bryant agreed not to bother Margo Dawkins ever again. The day after Bryant had signed it, Stan filed the complaint with the court. And the day after it was filed, Stan called Bryant to come by his office to be legally served with the complaint to which was attached his agreement.

  When Bryant came in a few days later to be served with the complaint, Stan asked him what he was going to do, since he’d been fired from his job. He was following up on the thought he’d had while talking to Margo but he didn’t tell Bryant that.

  “I guess you shouldn’t have attacked your boss. That was a mistake. He could have had you arrested,” Stan said after he’d asked what the man planned to do.

  “Yeah. I reckon he could ‘uv fired me instead. Should’nah lost my temper. ‘Times I ain’t got the sense God give a billy goat. I don’t know whut the hell I’m gonna do. Tell people I can do handyman work, I reckon. Help widows, I guess. They always ‘a need’n somebody to do something now that their man’s gone.”

  “That’s all you have then, handyman work?” Stan asked.

  “I reckon. I was selling a bit of weed on the side when I was working for Mr. Arnold. He didn’t know. I sure as hell thought he was dickin’ June, my wife. She was just jerking my string but I didn’t pick up on i
t. Brain’s dying, I guess. Too much beer and whiskey. Got me to think’n like Parker’s dog.”

  Stan recalled his grandfather using that expression. From what he remembered, it meant that Parker’s old dog thought he was quick enough to get in and out of the chicken house with an egg in his mouth before the farmer’s wife could pepper his behind with her shotgun. He wasn’t.

  “You had people buying that shit?” Stan asked. “The pot.”

  Bryant shook his head. “Did. Act like they can’t live without it. I enjoy it myself. Not half bad. Guy selling it to me, Dalton, got hisself killed. He was selling the powder too … coke. Had people askin’ fer some. I never got into it. “Bout to when he turned up dead. Nobody else’s been around with anything I could sell since. People still call me for some.”

  “Too bad. I hadn’t heard there was much pot being sold around here,” Stan said.

  “Well I had some customers for it. Regular buyers. People needin’ some way to get high. Hard sometimes. Doctors won’t give ‘em shit.”

  “Might be against the law.”

  “Might be. I reckon it is, the way they all carry on ‘bout it,” Elmer said. “Some talk ‘bout legalizing it. If they ever do, I’m gonna have me uh store.”

  Well, good luck,” Stan said.

  “Gonna need some. Shits hittin’ my fan big time. Ever’body’s kicking my ass,” Bryant said and left.

  *****

  After Stan sent the papers to the court for filing, he let Margo know she had a restraining order against Bryant. He’d mail her a validated copy of the order and his final bill.

  He’d bill her another four hundred dollars with instructions that she could pay it in installments. He assumed she’d know what he meant by “installments.” He had her phone number. He assumed she wouldn’t have that much extra cash floating around. In fact, he called her when he assumed the mail had been delivered to collect her first installment.

  He sat down to do some thinking. Growing marijuana to sell was on his mind, and he had Garcia and his wife to help. “And, they can’t say shit about it to anybody or they get sent back to Mexico or where ever they came from.”