Ford County (20 page)

Judge Bradshaw seemed to favor this idea.

And so did the crowd. The spectators included quite a few preachers and their followers, all good registered voters who had always supported Judge Bradshaw, and all bright-eyed and happy at the possibility of shutting down the casino. This was the miracle they had been praying for. And though they silently condemned Sidney Lewis for his sinful ways, they couldn’t help but admire the guy—a local boy—for breaking the casino. Go, Sidney.

As the hearing dragged on, it came to light that the Lucky Jack had cash on hand of about $400,000, and in addition to this there was a $500,000 reserve fund secured with a bond. Also, Bobby Carl admitted on the witness stand that the casino had averaged
about $80,000 a month in profits for the first seven months, and that this number was rising steadily.

After a grueling five-hour hearing, Judge Bradshaw ordered the casino to pay the entire $945,000, immediately, and closed its doors until the debt was satisfied. He also instructed the sheriff to block the entrance off the state highway and to arrest any gambler who tried to enter. Lawyers for the Lucky Jack ran to federal court in Oxford and filed papers to reopen. A hearing would take several days to organize. As promised, Sidney filed suit in both state and federal courts.

Over the next few days, more lawsuits flew back and forth. Sidney sued the insurance company that issued the bond, then sued the bank as well. The bank, suddenly nervous about the $2 million it had loaned the Lucky Jack, soured on the once-exciting gaming business. It called the loan and sued the Yazoo Nation, Chief Larry, and Bobby Carl Leach. They countersued, alleging all sorts of unfair practices. The burst of litigation electrified the local lawyers, most of whom jockeyed for a piece of the action.

When Bobby Carl learned that Stella’s recently divorced husband was in fact Sidney, he accused her of conspiring with him and fired her. She sued. Days passed and the Lucky Jack remained closed. Two dozen unpaid employees filed suit. Federal regulators issued subpoenas. The federal judge wanted no part of the mess, and dismissed the casino’s efforts to reopen.

After a month of frantic legal maneuvering, reality settled in. The casino’s future looked dire. Bobby Carl convinced Chief Larry that they had no choice but to file for bankruptcy protection. Two days later, Bobby Carl reluctantly did the same. After
two decades of wheeling and dealing and operating on the edge, he was finally bankrupt.

Sidney was in Las Vegas when he received a call from his lawyer with the great news that the insurance company would settle for the full amount of its bond—$500,000. In addition, the frozen accounts of the Lucky Jack would be thawed just enough so that another check for $400,000 would be issued in his favor. He immediately hopped in his RV and made a leisurely and triumphant journey back to Ford County, but not before hitting three Indian casinos along the way.

Bobby Carl’s favorite arsonists were a husband-and-wife duo from Arkansas. Contact was made, cash changed hands. A set of building plans and keys were passed along. The nighttime security guards at the casino were fired. Its water supply was cut off. The building had no sprinkler system because no building code required one.

By the time the Springdale Volunteer Fire Brigade arrived on the scene at 3:00 a.m., the Lucky Jack was fully ablaze. Its metal-framed structures were melting. Inspectors later suspected arson but found no trace of gasoline or other incendiaries. A natural gas leak and explosion had started the fire, they decided. During the ensuing litigation, investigators for the insurance company would produce records which revealed that the casino’s natural gas tanks had been mysteriously filled only a week before the fire.

Chief Larry returned to his store and fell into a state of severe depression. Once again, his tribe had been demolished by the
white man’s greed. His Yazoo Nation scattered, never to be seen again.

Sidney hung around Karraway for a while, but grew weary of the attention and gossip. Since he’d quit his job and busted the casino, folks quite naturally referred to him as a professional gambler, a rarity indeed for rural Mississippi. And though Sidney didn’t fit the mold of a high-rolling rogue, the topic of his new lifestyle was irresistible. It was well-known that he was the only man in town with $1 million, and this caused problems. Old friends materialized. Single women of all ages schemed of ways to meet him. All the charities wrote letters and pleaded for money. His daughter in Texas became more involved in his life and was quick to apologize for taking sides during the divorce. When he put a For Sale sign in his front yard, Karraway talked of little else. The heartiest rumor was that he was moving to Las Vegas.

He waited.

He played poker online for hours, and when he got bored, he drove his RV to the casinos in Tunica, or to the Gulf Coast. He won more than he lost, but was careful not to attract too much attention. Two casinos in Biloxi had banned him months earlier. He always returned to Karraway, though he really wanted to leave it forever.

He waited.

The first move was made by his daughter. She called and talked for an hour one night, and toward the end of a rambling conversation let it slip that Stella was lonely and sad and really missed her life with Sidney. According to the daughter, Stella was consumed with remorse and desperate to reconcile with the
only man she would ever love. As Sidney listened to his daughter prattle on, he realized that he needed Stella far more than he disliked her. Still, he made no promises.

The next phone call was more to the point. The daughter began an effort to broker a meeting between her parents, sort of a first step to normalize relations. She was willing to return to Karraway and mediate matters if necessary. All she wanted was for her parents to be together. How odd, thought Sidney, since she expressed no such thoughts before he broke the casino.

After a week or so of shadowboxing, Stella showed up one night for a glass of tea. In a lengthy, emotional meeting, she confessed her sins and begged for forgiveness. She left and returned the next night for another discussion. On the third night, they went to bed and Sidney was in love again.

Without discussing marriage, they loaded up the RV and took off to Florida. Near Ocala, the Seminole tribe was operating a fabulous new casino and Sidney was eager to attack it. He was feeling lucky.

Michael’s Room

T
he encounter was probably inevitable in a town of ten thousand people. Sooner or later, you’re bound to bump into almost everyone, including those whose names are long forgotten and whose faces are barely familiar. Some names and faces are registered and remembered and withstand the erosion of time. Others are almost instantly discarded, and most for good reason.

For Stanley Wade, the encounter was caused in part by his wife’s lingering flu and in part by their need for sustenance, along with other reasons. After a long day at the office, he called home to check on her and to inquire about dinner. She rather abruptly informed him that she had no desire to cook and little desire to eat, and that if he was hungry, he’d better stop by the store. When was he not hungry at dinnertime? After a few more sentences, they agreed on frozen pizza, about the only dish Stanley could
prepare and, oddly, the only thing she might possibly want to nibble on. Preferably sausage and cheese. Please enter through the kitchen and keep the dogs quiet, she instructed. She might be asleep on the sofa.

The nearest food store was the Rite Price, an old discount house a few blocks off the square, with dirty aisles and low prices and cheap giveaways that attracted the lower classes. Most uppity whites used the new Kroger south of town, far out of Stanley’s way. But it was only a frozen pizza. What difference did it make? He wasn’t shopping for the freshest organic produce on this occasion. He was hungry and looking for junk and just wanted to get home.

He ignored the shopping carts and baskets and went straight to the frozen section, where he selected a fourteen-inch creation with an Italian name and freshness guaranteed. He was closing the icy glass door when he became aware of someone standing very near him, someone who’d seen him, followed him, and was now practically breathing on him. Someone much larger than Stanley. Someone who had no interest in frozen foods, at least not at that moment. Stanley turned to his right and locked eyes with a smirking and unhappy face he’d seen somewhere before. The man was about forty, roughly ten years younger than Stanley, at least four inches taller, and much thicker through the chest. Stanley was slight, almost fragile, not the least bit athletic.

“You’re Lawyer Wade, ain’t you?” the man said, but it was far more an accusation than a question. Even the voice was vaguely familiar—unusually high-pitched for such a hulking figure,
rural but not ignorant. A voice from the past, no doubt about that.

Stanley correctly assumed that their previous meeting, whenever and wherever, concerned a lawsuit of some variety, and it didn’t take a genius to surmise that they had not been on the same side. Coming face-to-face with old courtroom adversaries long after trial is a hazard for many small-town lawyers. As much as he was tempted, Stanley could not bring himself to deny who he was. “That’s right,” he said, clutching his pizza. “And you are?”

With that, the man suddenly moved past Stanley and, in doing so, lowered his shoulder slightly and landed a solid hit against Lawyer Wade, who was knocked against the icy door he’d just closed. The pizza fell to the floor, and as Stanley balanced himself and reached for his dinner, he turned and saw the man head down the aisle and disappear around a corner in the direction of the breakfast foods and coffee. Stanley caught his breath, glanced around, started to yell something provocative, but quickly thought better of it, then stood for a moment and tried to analyze the only harsh physical contact he could remember during his adult life. He’d never been a fighter, athlete, drinker, hell-raiser. Not Stanley. He’d been the thinker, the scholar, top third of his law class.

It was an assault, pure and simple. The least touching of another in anger. But there were no witnesses, and Stanley wisely decided to forget about it, or at least try. Given the disparity in their sizes and dispositions, it certainly could have been much worse.

And it would be, very shortly.

For the next ten minutes he tried to collect himself as he moved cautiously around the grocery store, peeking around corners, reading labels, inspecting meats, watching the other shoppers for signs of his assailant or perhaps another one. When he was somewhat convinced the man was gone, he hurried to the lone open cashier, quickly paid for his pizza, and left the store. He strolled to his car, eyes darting in all directions, and was safely locked inside with the engine on when he realized there would be more trouble.

A pickup had wheeled to a stop behind Stanley’s Volvo, blocking it. A parked van faced it and prevented a forward escape. This angered Stanley. He turned off the ignition, yanked open his driver’s door, and was climbing out when he saw the man approaching quickly from the pickup. Then he saw the gun, a large black pistol.

Stanley managed to offer a weak “What the hell” before the hand without the gun slapped him across the face and knocked him against the driver’s door. For a moment he saw nothing, but was aware of being grabbed, then dragged and thrown into the pickup, and slid across the vinyl front seat. The hand around the back of his neck was thick, strong, violent. Stanley’s neck was skinny and weak, and for some reason, in the horror of the moment, he admitted to himself that this man could easily snap his neck, and with only one hand.

Another man was driving, a very young man, probably just a kid. A door slammed. Stanley’s head was stuffed down near the
floorboard, cold steel jammed into the base of his skull. “Go,” the man said, and the pickup jerked forward.

“Don’t move and don’t say a word or I’ll blow your brains out,” the man said, his high voice quite agitated.

“Okay, okay,” Stanley managed to say. His left arm was pinned behind his back, and for good measure the man jerked it up until Stanley flinched in pain. The pain continued for a minute or so, then suddenly the man let go. The pistol was taken away from Stanley’s head. “Sit up,” the man said, and Stanley raised himself, shook his head, adjusted his glasses, and tried to focus. They were on the outskirts of town, headed west. A few seconds passed and nothing was said. To his left was the kid driving, a teenager of no more than sixteen, a slight boy with bangs and pimples and eyes that revealed an equal amount of surprise and bewilderment. His youth and innocence were oddly comforting—surely this thug wouldn’t shoot him in front of a boy! To his right, with their legs touching, was the man with the gun, which was temporarily resting on his beefy right knee and aimed at no one in particular.