Black Water Rising (17 page)

Same thing happened to a Natalia Greenwood, out of Clarksville, Mississippi. She cut her teeth during Freedom Summer in '64, and went on to Washington with Fannie Lou Hamer and the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party later that year. When they wouldn't let the folks from the MFDP vote at the Democratic convention, Natalia Greenwood turned radical. She started talking about taking up arms 'round about the time the Deacons for Defense were getting going in Bogalusa, Louisiana, long before the Panthers. She was rumored to have an FBI
file two inches thick. She was arrested several times, for crimes as serious as conspiracy to overthrow the United States government and as petty as not paying her phone bill. But she was never actually charged with anything in court. Except in 1978. She followed a girlfriend into the bathroom of a Manhattan disco and was arrested along with half a dozen other women who were doing lines on the countertop. For a cocaine-possession charge, Natalia Greenwood spent two years in lockup and the state took away her kids.

The names and faces come back to him:

Lionel Jessup, Camille Bodelle, Ronnie Powell, M. J. Frank, Carl Petersen.

Men and women who fought on the front lines for what they believed in and were labeled radicals, had their lives threatened on a daily basis, and somehow managed to escape the reach of the federal government in their prime…but who now, in their thirties and forties, suddenly find themselves in trouble with the law again, arrested and locked away in jail.

They were fools back then, Jay thinks. Young and naive to believe they could raise voices and guns against a superpower and get away with it. Weren't they always meant to pay…someday, some way? Hasn't he, deep down, been waiting for this very moment? The day when they would come for him again?

He wakes up hours later, mouth dry, his head a throbbing mess.

In the light of a new day, he tries to rein in his paranoia.

After all, Hoover dropped dead in '72; COINTELPRO had been officially discontinued the year before. Jay had his day in court, and they let him go home. That was the end of it. This is a different time, he tells himself; it's only your mind that can't move out of the prison of its past.

It's all in your head, man.

Nobody was watching him tonight.

The man from the black Ford made sure of it. He had Jay drive out to an abandoned rail yard, didn't he? A place surrounded by empty fields?

But, of course, this does nothing to put Jay at ease.

The facts of this story, the last twenty-four hours of his life, are laid out before him like the disparate pieces of his broken phone, pieces that don't line up neatly or make any sense together: a man hands him a stash of cash to keep his mouth shut about a murder he didn't actually witness. This is dirty, any way you look at it.

 

The strike made the front page, headline news.

Above the fold is a report on the vote last night and speculation about the outcome. An inside spread in the
Post
has a collection of quotes from local business leaders and oil company honchos, all espousing various doomsday scenarios, describing what a devastating blow a strike would be to the local and national economies. AM talk radio is hot on the news too, people calling in panicked. Things have been so good in Houston for so long—oil companies getting rich, setting the tone and pace for the rest of the economy; people coming from all over the country to get in on the action; hell,
New York
magazine did a piece in '80 calling Houston the city to beat—that a lot of people in the city can't remember when things were any different. On 740, there's a woman caller who works in human resources at C & C Petrochemicals, a Cole Oil Industries subsidiary that makes plastics and other synthetic goods from oil waste. She was still in high school during the crisis in '73, she says, but the other girls in her office remember they laid off several hundred people back then.

Jay snaps off the radio when Bernie pads out of the bath
room. She's moving more and more slowly these days. He can't tell if it's the pregnancy or the heat, or both. He tells her not to fool with his breakfast this morning. He wants to get into the office early. The idea is to get there well ahead of Eddie Mae, but he does not tell his wife that. Instead, he offers to fix her something quick on his way out, scrambled eggs or toast. But she's already in bed, halfway back to sleep by the time he gets his shoes on.

Outside, he checks the trunk of his car, checks to make sure the money is still there. Satisfied, he slams the trunk closed, looking both ways up and down the alley behind his building, checking over his shoulder for nosy neighbors. He doesn't want a soul to know what he has in his possession. Finally, he slides into his car and heads for work, watching for a black Ford in his rear window.

Traffic is heavier than normal at this hour. Every gas station he passes has at least three cars waiting at each pump, some lines spilling into the street. One man at a Gulf station on Almeda is filling up gas cans, loading them into the back of his truck. It's a sight Jay hasn't seen in years, people hoarding oil, scared there won't be enough. He cannot believe all the hubbub over a small number of men asking for a better wage, the way this thing is reverberating across the city, like an echo across a valley, where a small whistle can make a very big noise.

 

Jay keeps a lockbox for petty cash underneath his desk. Only $23,400 fits inside. Until he can think of something better, he pockets the rest of it. Eight hundred rolled up in each of his pants pockets, held tight by two rubber bands from his desk drawer. He secures the lockbox with a key, then hides the money in the bottom of a filing cabinet. Then he picks up the telephone on his
desk, purposely not thinking this through, not even completely sure he can go through with it. He cradles the receiver against his shoulder and dials the mayor's office. And just as calm as if he does it every day, he asks to speak to Cindy.

The name gets him past the mayor's secretary. She puts him on hold for what seems like an hour but by his desk clock is really only four and a half minutes. When the mayor comes on the line, her voice is so abrupt, so coarse and loud, that it actually startles him. “I can't do this right now, Jay. I have a meeting at eight o'clock. The port commissioners, Pat Bodine from the ILA, some of the OCAW boys, the stevedores…they're all coming
here,”
she says, sounding very much like a harried housewife who's still got curlers in her hair and dirty dishes in the sink less than an hour before her guests are set to arrive.

“Thomas and Patrick Cole just walked over here from across the street,” she says. “They've been waiting outside my door
for the last twenty minutes. And now OPA's saying they want in on this meeting.” The Oil Producers Alliance, a group of local refinery owners, is one more lobbying group pulling at the mayor's attention. “They sent the Cole brothers as their representation. The
Cole
brothers, Jay,” she says, drawing out what is universally considered the most powerful name in the city of Houston. The Cole brothers—Patrick, John, and Thomas—run the largest industrial complex in the city and one of the largest corporations in the entire country. “This whole thing has blown way out of control,” Cynthia says. “This is between the stevedores and dockworkers, nobody else. I don't know what the hell everybody expects me to do about it.”

All of this is beside the point. Jay doesn't give a shit about the strike.

“Cynthia,” he breaks in.

“Look,” she says quickly. “I know I said I'd help you with this thing, that boy getting beat up and all, but this just isn't the time to be pointing fingers. Let's stop this walkout before it starts, and then we'll get on the other matter.”

“I need a favor,” he says, stopping her. “No questions asked.”

There is a long, flat silence on the other end.

“I'm cashing in my chip,” Jay says. “After this, we're even.”

Cynthia is silent, her breath completely still. She's bracing herself, it seems, as if she's been expecting this moment for a long, long time. Finally, she speaks, softly, almost timidly. “Jay,” she says. “There's something I need to say to you.”

“Not now.” He's not prepared to hear a confession now. “Just do this for me,” he says.

“What is it?”

“On the right-hand corner of your desk, there's a stack of papers.” He waits for her to find it. On the other end of the line, he hears a rustling of papers, then stillness. He imagines her
with the pages in her hand, trying to follow him, to guess what this is all about. “Okay,” she says. “I think I've got it.”

“The police briefings. Yes?”

“Jay, what is this about?”

“August third,” he says. “It was a Monday. Whatever you got from the chief's office that morning would have made mention of activity over the weekend. I'm looking for a homicide. White male, gunshots. They found a body in an open field by the bayou, on the south edge of Fifth Ward.”

“I remember that one.”

“Okay, then,” Jay says. “I want you to tell me everything they told you.”

There is no reply, no shuffling of papers, no searching for the right page, nothing to suggest an easy and immediate granting of his request.

“Cynthia?” he says.

“Kip, could you step out for just a second?” Her voice is muted, as if she's got her hand over the receiver. Jay had no idea she wasn't alone. “Tell them we'll get started in a minute,” she says to her assistant. Then, waiting until Kip is well out of earshot, she says to Jay, “What the hell is going on?”

“Just tell me what they told you.”

“Why?”

“No questions, remember?”

“Are
you
representing the girl?”

He assumes she means the woman from the boat.

“I need her name,” he says. He wants to know who he's dealing with.

“Why?” She sounds worried now, or just plain confused.

“I can't answer that question.”

“Well, I can't
give
you this report, Jay. It's sensitive information.”

“Not asking you to give it to me. Just tell me what's in it.”

She lets out a sigh. “I can't do that.”

“No one will hear a word from me about it. I won't tell a soul we talked.”

“It's an ongoing investigation. The police let me in on it just as a courtesy. This is not my information to share. Not even the press have this—”

“I'm asking you for a favor, Cynthia. This is between me and you.” He plays the one card he's got. “I think you know you can trust me.”

For a moment, he hears nothing on the other end.

When Cynthia's voice returns, it's cold and flat.

“Her name is Elise Linsey.”

Jay reaches for a slip of paper on his desk. “Who is she?”

“I don't know anything but her name.”

“You have an address?” he asks.

“No.”

“Date of birth?”

“No.”

“They arrest her?”

“I don't know,” she says. “But I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Evidence was light.”

“What'd they have?”

“A body,” she says. “And fingerprints in his car. That's it.”

“
Her
fingerprints?” Jay asks.

“That's what it says.”

“What about the body, the dead guy? You got a name for him?”

“They're not releasing it, not even to me.”

“So that's all you have?”

“White male, shot twice,” she says bluntly. “They found two
bullets, one outside the car, the other in his skull, both twenty-two caliber.”

“Let me guess,” he says. “They haven't found a gun.”

“No.”

The murder weapon is a .22, just like his missing gun.

“Oh, God.”

“Jay,” Cynthia says. “Do I want to know what this is about?”

He has a moment's thought of telling her about Jimmy's cousin and the car accident that killed him, what Jay now knows was probably murder. She could take the information to the police, start an investigation for the man's family. But he's afraid of what leaking the information would do to him or his wife, so he keeps it to himself. He underlines the name
elise linsey
on the paper in front of him, pressing so hard that the pencil lead snaps. “I appreciate this, Cynthia.”

“Jay?”

He hangs up the phone.

 

There's an E. Liddie in the phone book.

An E. Linney.

An E. Linnwood.

And at the bottom of the page, his finger practically pressed on top of it, there's an E. Linsey: 14475 Oakwood Glen, phone number not listed. Jay writes the address on the back of a cease-and-desist order he's been drafting. There's a street map on top of the phone books Eddie Mae keeps under her desk. Using the index, he tries to find Oakwood Glen. By the name, it's no surprise that it's located on the west side of town, home to dozens of new housing developments and subdivisions, each one full of Oaks and Glens and Hills and Estates.

The front door opens, and Eddie Mae blows into the office,
bringing a warm gust of August air behind her, thick and moist and laced with the burnt smell of engine exhaust from the parking lot. Her wig is a caramel-colored number full of ringlets that don't suit her face or age. And it's crooked on one side. She's wearing sunglasses and no makeup and blowing hot air about her current boyfriend and his long list of shortcomings, starting with a fight they had at six o'clock this morning, carried over from the night before. From what Jay can gather, it had something to do with a dominoes game and a missing six-pack of beer. Jay butts into her rant long enough to tell her he's stepping out for a while and doesn't know when he'll be back. She waves him off, still running down her boyfriend, muttering on about his crusty feet and tuna fish breath.

 

Jay takes his time heading west, circling the streets around his office building until he feels certain he's not being followed. Then he makes his way to Memorial Drive, watching the landscape change before his eyes with every westward mile. He drives past furriers and diamond retailers in the Galleria shopping district and four-star restaurants off Post Oak Boulevard, into a plush residential community of newly constructed homes. One hundred years ago, this would have been logging territory. Developers have since tamed the area into a forest of subdivisions and planned communities. Memorial Drive is dotted with large, elaborately decorated signs, each enshrined in lush landscaping, announcing the entrance to one private housing community after another: Plantation Oaks and Pecan Grove Estates and Briar Meadows and Maplewood Glens.

According to the street map, he's to turn right on Wilcrest, a few miles past Town & Country mall, then make another right on a street called Autumn Oaks Lane. Here he finds the entrance
to Oakwood Estates. Oakwood Glen runs down the center of the subdivision, lined on both sides with town houses made up to look like stately French Tudors. The street is wide and freshly paved, and there are newly planted pin oak trees in each yard; they are tiny and childlike, like something borrowed from a toy train depot. There's not a stitch of shade to be found in the whole subdivision. Jay squints against the sun, checking house numbers through his windshield.

The fourth town house on the right-hand side is 14475.

From the car, Jay studies the front windows of Elise Linsey's home, looking for some sign of activity. He has no idea if anyone is home or what exactly he'll say when the door opens, when he sees her face again. He checks his side mirrors before getting out of the car. There are few vehicles on the street at this hour. Oakwood Estates is quiet and still. Jay climbs out of the Skylark.

At the front door, he rings the bell twice. But there's no answer.

He waits a good five minutes before trying again.

There are four or five newspapers, Jay notices, still wrapped in plastic, stacked neatly inside the door frame, along with grocery store circulars and an advertisement for something called “cable television,” all neat and tidy, as if someone left them there on purpose—either the occupant of the town house or a neighbor who knows she's been away for a while. Jay pokes through the contents of the mailbox, which is overflowing with dozens of envelopes that haven't been touched. It seems that Elise Linsey hasn't been here for days.

Jay tries the doorknob. It's locked.

He tries the bell a third time.

He crosses the front lawn next and kneels in front of one of the windows, behind a low-lying bush of jasmine, making himself less visible from the street. With the glare of the sun behind
him, Jay can't make out much inside the town house beyond a vague sense of disarray. It appears that some of the furniture has been turned upside down. The sight gives him a start. He backs away from the window suddenly, almost losing his balance in the tangle of jasmine at his feet. He walks back to Elise's front door, not sure of his next move. It's only when he turns, deciding finally to head back to his car, that his left foot skids across a piece of paper he didn't notice before, sticking out of the welcome mat.

The paper is folded in half with Elise's name scripted across one side, just above Jay's shoeprint. The note isn't sealed, nor does it bear a federal postmark, which makes him feel better about what he's about to do. Looking both ways up and down Oakwood Glen, he scoops up the piece of paper and unfolds it.

The note inside is handwritten, the penmanship flat and simple:

The paper was peeled off a preprinted notepad.

The words
Houston Chronicle
are engraved across the bottom of the page.

Jay folds the note in half, returning it to its spot beneath the welcome mat. He turns and stumbles back toward his car. The sun has hiked a few more miles into the sky. The day is moving into its worst hours, the midday boil. Jay slides behind the wheel of his car, thinking about the note from Lon Philips. If a reporter is getting this close, Jay thinks, then surely the cops are too. He thinks of the disarray inside the woman's town house—a possible break-in, yes, but just as likely a sign that police detec
tives have been through with a warrant; picking through every inch of the woman's home. The cops are looking for a .22, he remembers. And somewhere, out of Jay's control, there's a .22 with his fingerprints on it. He thinks of how incredibly easy it would be to plant
his
gun inside 14475 Oakwood Glen. He has a criminal arrest record, for God's sake.

He's sweating now, shirt clinging to his back, his legs on fire under the cheap poly blend of his suit. That he's an innocent man, as he was back then, all those years ago, is no real comfort. He knows cops and prosecutors have a natural talent for bending evidence, twisting the truth this way and that, all in the name of putting
somebody
behind bars.

Jay starts his car, keeping the AC as high as he can stand it, then he turns the car around, heading back the way he came, out of Oakwood Estates. He takes Memorial Drive into downtown, running through his phone call with Cynthia Maddox the whole way.

 

They found her fingerprints in the car. That's what she told him.

Fingerprints mean Elise Linsey has a criminal history. An arrest certainly, maybe even a trial. The county keeps a record of every criminal case before a judge, going back a hundred years, on file in a basement warehouse in the Criminal Courts Building. The clerks make you fill out an information request form with a case number if you have it, or at least the person's name, then they feed it into a computer terminal in the back office. A printout tells them the location of every trial transcript, sentencing order, or brief ever filed in relation to the case. It's all public information for those who know it's there.