Mr. Justice (15 page)

The black man jumped, but he couldn’t jump high enough. He lost his balance and crashed to the floor.

The konklave laughed—everyone but Smith, that is.

Burton seemed to pick up on Smith’s sympathy for the black man’s plight. “Kludd Watson, present the klonknife to Kloncilman Smith.”

The klonknife was the antique, pearl-handled blade that had been used at kloncilium initiations for more than 150 years. It had once belonged to Nathan Bedford Forrest, the original Klan’s first imperial wizard. Watson removed the klonknife from its sterling silver sheath, wiped the blade clean with a silk cloth, and handed it to Smith.

By this point, the black man had been delivered to the dais by two members of the kloncilium. His eyes were locked on Smith’s.

“Complete the sacrifice,” Burton said, with an edge to her voice. “Show yourself committed to the cause.”

Earl Smith took a deep breath, glanced briefly at the black man trembling in front of him, and cut the man’s throat.

CHAPTER 52

Clay Smith had been driving all night. He had spent the previous two days holed up in a budget motel on the east side of Charlottesville. He knew it wasn’t smart to stick around for so long, but he wanted to know how Kelsi Shelton was doing and he felt that the best way to find out was by staying within earshot of the local television and radio stations. Unfortunately, the reports he had heard stated that it would be several more days before the doctors could say whether Kelsi was going to make it or not. Clay couldn’t afford to hang around Charlottesville that long. In fact, he noticed a police car pulling into the parking lot of the motel he had been staying at only moments before he had decided to leave.

Clay had driven Interstate 95 many times over the years. But this was the first time he had done so since law school had started in late August. First-year law students barely had time to come up for air. Road trips home were unthinkable—unless, that is, you were fleeing the scene of a homicide.

Clay arrived in Charleston at 9:15
A
.
M
.
Twenty minutes later, he reached his desired destination. He pulled his car off the road and headed for the V-shaped tree that marked the path leading to the moonshiner’s shack. His Uncle Earl didn’t know that he knew about the shack, but he did. He used to follow his uncle from a distance when he was a boy. He always wondered what the shack looked like from the inside. Now he would get to see for himself.

Clay switched off the ignition, yanked the parking brake up, and exited the car. He began the trek to the shack. He hadn’t walked more than a hundred yards before he spotted Billy Joe Collier’s rusty Ford Monte Carlo stuck against a large rock several hundred yards ahead. Clay had never cared much for Collier—he was too moody and unpredictable for Clay’s cerebral tastes—but he knew that Collier was his uncle’s best friend and top lieutenant.

Clay jogged to Collier’s car. Collier wasn’t inside. Clay scanned the area. He didn’t see him. He hurried toward the moonshiner’s shack, figuring that Collier must have been headed there, too. And if he was, that probably meant that Clay’s Uncle Earl was there. Clay certainly hoped that was the case. He needed all the help he could get.

Clay continued his march to the shack. He passed a tall ash tree that marked the spot where he was supposed to turn left. He did. Then, about seventy-five yards in front of him, he spied a man limping down the path. “Billy Joe!” Clay called out. “Wait up!”

Collier flinched. He spun on his heel. He tried to pick up his pace, but his aching knee made it difficult to do.

“Billy Joe!” Clay said again. “It’s me, Clay! Clay Smith!”

Collier stopped. He glanced down the path. It was Clay. He waited while Clay jogged to catch up to him.

“Hey, Billy Joe.” Clay was breathing heavily from the run … and the stress of recent events.

“What the fuck are you doing here, kid?” Collier rubbed his knee to try to ease the pain. It wasn’t working.

“You didn’t hear?”

“About what?”

“About what happened in Charlottesville?”

“No. What happened? Did you flunk outta school?”

“No,” Clay said. “I killed that girl.” His voice caught. “Or at least I tried to.”

“What girl?” Collier leaned on the tire jack he was using as a cane.

“The one Uncle Earl told me to kill. You know, Professor McDonald’s research assistant.”

The blank expression on Collier’s face suggested that Clay had spoken out of turn.

“Shit,” Collier said, shaking his head. “I didn’t know nuthin’ about it. That don’t surprise me, though. Earl’s been freelancin’ a lot lately. That’s what I’m on my way to talk to him about.”

That wasn’t true. Collier was on his way to “talk” to Smith about hooking up with a nigger woman, but the less Clay knew about it the better.

“So he’s at the shack?”

“Yeah, but you don’t wanna go there. Trust me, kid. You’re better off headin’ back to school.”

“School? Did you hear what I said, Billy Joe? I can’t go back to school. I’m running from the cops.”

Collier studied Clay’s face. The kid sure looked scared. He couldn’t afford to have Clay around when he confronted Earl, though. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “Here,” he said as he tossed his keys to Clay. “Wait for us at my place. 544 Crane Road, Apartment 3. It’s across from Lee’s Chicken. I’ll bring your uncle with me.”

In a body bag …

CHAPTER 53

Clay Smith was halfway back to his car when the feeling that his uncle was in trouble rushed over him. It was one of those feelings—a knot in the stomach, neck hairs standing on end, a chill down the spine—that most people experienced at least once in their lives.

Clay stopped walking. The air was thick with humidity, which was typical for Charleston. The wind whistled through the trees. Crows cackled and cawed like a hostile crowd urging an athlete to change direction.

Clay began to walk back toward the moonshiner’s shack. His pace went from a brisk walk to a full-blown sprint as the feeling of concern for his uncle’s safety engulfed him. He thought more about Billy Joe Collier … and about what he knew Collier was capable of. He had heard the stories. He had even witnessed several displays of Collier’s coldhearted brutality.

Clay reached the shack in two and a half minutes. It was the fastest half mile he had ever run.

“Don’t!” he heard from inside. “Don’t, Billy Joe!”

It was his Uncle Earl shouting. His uncle’s daydream about being inducted into the kloncilium had turned into a nightmare.

Next, Clay heard a loud bang. It must have been the tire jack smashing against the wall.

Clay pushed open the door. His eyes met Collier’s. Pure hatred, Clay said to himself. Collier’s eyes were small slits of pure hatred.

Clay said, “Stop, Billy Joe! He’s your friend! He’s your coworker! He’s the grand dragon!”

But Collier wouldn’t stop. He raised the tire jack and took another violent swing at Earl Smith’s head. He missed again.

Clay rushed toward him.

Collier spat, “Stay away, kid! This ain’t got nuthin’ to do with you!” Collier stood over Smith like a large dog over a cornered cat.

“Of course it has something to do with me, Billy Joe. He’s my uncle. He’s my leader. He’s
your
leader.”

Clay hoped that he had learned enough about the art of persuasion after only one and a half semesters at UVA law school to help his uncle. He had won the 1L moot court competition, so that was a good sign. But the situation unfolding before him with Collier wasn’t an academic competition. It was real life—his uncle’s
life
… and perhaps his own.

Clay inched forward, hoping that Collier wouldn’t notice.

He did. “I said stay away! I’ve always liked you, kid. But I’ll kill you, too, if I have to. This is Klan business.”

“Come on, Billy Joe,” Clay said. “You’re acting crazy. What on earth could my uncle have done to justify trying to treat his head like a baseball at a batting cage?”

“He violated a fundamental tenet of the brotherhood.”

At least Billy Joe had stopped swinging the tire jack for a moment, Clay said to himself. He said to Collier, “What are you talking about? Uncle Earl’s the grand dragon of the South Carolina Realm and a member of the kloncilium. He would never violate a fundamental tenet.” Clay’s attention switched from Collier to his uncle. The expression on the older Smith’s face—shame? guilt? sorrow?—wasn’t reassuring. “Which tenet?” Clay asked softly. “Which?”

“The one about sleepin’ with a nigger woman,” Collier answered.

Conventional wisdom notwithstanding, there wasn’t actually a formal tenet against having sex with a black woman. But given that the Klan was dedicated to the supremacy and purity of the white race, Clay knew that Collier was on solid ground if his uncle had in fact done so.
If
…

Clay looked at his uncle again. “Is it true, Uncle Earl? Are you having sex with a nigger woman?”

Earl Smith still had his arms in front of his face in case Collier decided to start swinging the tire jack again. He dropped them long enough to look his nephew in the eyes. He said, “I … I can explain.”

Clay held up his hand to signal for his uncle to say nothing more. He walked over to Collier and snatched the tire jack from Collier’s grasp. He turned back to his uncle and smashed the tire jack against his uncle’s skull. Pieces of brain splattered against the wall of the moonshiner’s shack.

CHAPTER 54

Senator Alexandra Burton pulled her cell phone from her pocketbook. It was one of two cell phones that she owned. One was for official government business. Although that cell phone’s number wasn’t listed in the Congressional Directory, the number was well known by her Senate colleagues and by her personal Senate staff. The second of the cell phones was for her Klan business. Only members of the kloncilium had access to that number. It was the second of the cell phones that Burton had retrieved from her pocketbook.

She scanned the cell phone’s contacts list of preprogrammed numbers. She had entered the cell phone numbers of all the members of the kloncilium. She stopped when she reached
SC
.
SC
was short for
South Carolina
.
South Carolina
meant
Earl Smith
.

There was a knock on the senator’s door. She tucked the cell phone back into her pocketbook. “Yes?” she said, in her most senatorial tone.

Jeffrey Oates pushed open the door. “Sorry to disturb you, Senator. But I thought I should remind you that you’ve got a Judiciary Committee meeting at ten.”

Burton glanced at the antique grandfather clock in the west corner of her office. The clock had been a gift from a grateful constituent. It read 9:44. “I remember,” Burton said. “I called the meeting. As I mentioned to you earlier, we’ve got to do something about the McDonald confirmation process. We’ve already given the nominee one lengthy delay when his family died. The nation can’t afford another one. The Supreme Court is too important not to be operating at full strength.”

The grandfather clock chimed on the three-quarter hour.

Oates said, “I’ll see you in a few minutes then, ma’am.”

“Ass-kisser,” Burton muttered as she watched Oates disappear behind the closing door. The senator retrieved her cell phone from her pocketbook. She highlighted Earl Smith’s phone number—SC—on the contacts list and punched the send button with the top of a well-manicured thumb. The phone rang and rang and rang.

Finally, she heard, “Hello?”

“Who is this?” Burton said. She knew the sound of Earl Smith’s voice, and what she heard emanating from the other end of her cell phone wasn’t it.

“Who’s calling?” Clay Smith said.

Billy Joe Collier said, “Who is it, kid?”

Clay cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of his uncle’s cell phone. “I don’t know.”

Burton said, “This is a friend of Earl Smith’s.” She obviously wasn’t going to tell a total stranger that she was the chairwoman of the Senate Judiciary Committee and the imperial wizard of the Ku Klux Klan.

Clay glanced at the cell phone’s display and saw a number with the area code 202. The call was coming from Washington, he said to himself. Clay knew that his uncle knew Alexandra Burton—that the senator sometimes helped the Charleston den raise cash for local Klan activities. He took a shot: “Senator Burton?”

“Er … Yes. Who’s this?” It was the first time in years that Burton could remember being surprised. Successful politicians—and Burton was certainly that—didn’t get surprised often.

“It’s Clay Smith, ma’am. Earl Smith’s nephew.”

Collier said, “Is it Burton?”

Clay nodded.

Burton said, “Where’s Earl? I’m calling for Earl.”

Silence came from Clay’s end of the line. Then he said, “He’s dead, ma’am. My uncle is dead.”

“
Dead?!
… How?! When?!”

“I don’t know how he died, ma’am. And I don’t know when. I just found out myself.” Clay was lying, of course. He was the one who had killed him. His cause was just, though. Any klansman would agree. But Clay didn’t know that Burton was in the Klan, let alone that the senator was the imperial wizard.

“Can you find out for me, son? Your uncle was a friend of mine. I need to know how he died. I need to know
why
he died.”

There was another knock on the senator’s door.

Jeffrey Oates pushed open the door again.

The grandfather clock chimed ten times.

Burton said into the cell phone, “I’m late for a meeting. But please get me that information. I’ll be in your debt if you do.” She pressed the
END
button.

“What information, ma’am? I … I can get you any information you need. That’s my job.”

Burton ignored Oates’s question, not to mention the anguished expression on Oates’s face. “Where’s the meeting?” she said.

Clay Smith switched off his uncle’s cell phone and rolled it between his fingers. He was smiling for the first time in weeks—for the first time since his uncle had asked him to kill Kelsi Shelton.