Gideon - 04 - Illegal Motion (11 page)

I try to grin at this feeble attempt at humor. Barton wasn’t known as a stand-up comedian and hasn’t improved much. Still, this information is useful. The old man may have mixed emotions about what a trial will do not only to his daughter but to the Razorbacks as well.

“Back in the old days, everybody would have wanted to keep the lid on,” Barton says.

“The girl would have dropped out of school, and it never would have gotten beyond the gossip stage.”

The old days. Barton must be all of thirty. As we are talking, Lila, one of his two secretaries, a girl who must be a student at the university, bursts into his office, and says excitedly, “Dade Cunningham’s still on the team!

Coach Carter’s just announcing it. Turn on your radio!”

Barton reaches behind him to his. stereo and we hear the leathery voice of Dale Carter. “… I realize I take this action against the advice of Chancellor Henry, who has strongly recommended a different course of action. But I am convinced it would be unfair to discipline Dade until he has had a trial. After reviewing this matter, I have to say that I have heard no evidence that leads me to believe that a crime has been committed. It would be improper for me to say more at this time. The young woman has made serious charges against Dade in the criminal courts of this state, but it’s my view that due process of law re quires that Dade be presumed innocent until proven guilty. For this reason I’m not, at this time, suspending him for a violation of team rules. This is not to say that I consider the matter closed, nor am I making any judgment about whether a violation of the law occurred. If in formation is made available that persuades me that Dade is a threat to her safety or anyone’s safety, I will change my decision in a heartbeat. That’s all I’m going to say on this matter. Athletic Director Burke has authorized me to say that he supports my decision at this time.”

“Hot damn!” I exclaim excitedly.

“Carter is one tough son of a gun!”

Barton snaps off the radio.

“God bless him!” Barton laughs.

“He just bought himself a load of trouble. They’re gonna come after him with everything but the kitchen sink.”

I look at Lila, who has remained in the room.

“Why?”

I say.

“Why shouldn’t he be presumed innocent? All Carter did was maintain the status quo until the trial.

What’s wrong with that?”

The girl looks at me coldly, as if I had suggested that this were a case about as significant as a traffic accident.

In her expensive ash-colored cashmere sweater and heels, she could be Barton’s mistress. She turns and flounces out of the room.

Barton closes the door.

“There’s your problem, right there,” he says, frowning.

“Some women will go ape shit over what Carter’s done. There’re a bunch more on the faculty and in administration than there used to be.”

“There’s also a bunch of people,” I remind Barton, “who want to see the Hogs play for the national championship on New Year’s Day in New Orleans. Without Dade, we won’t even make it to the Weedeaters Bowl.

Can I use your phone? I want to call his parents. They can stand some good news. I’ll charge it to my phone.”

Barton graciously exits his own office, and I get Dade’s mother on the second ring. Over background noise in the Cunninghams’ store, I give her the news.

“I

arranged for Dade to see Coach Carter last night,” I say self-importantly.

“I think we persuaded him that Dade was innocent and that he should wait until the trial to see if he should take any action against him.” Actually, I am exaggerating my own role, but perhaps not. All I know is that if I get Dade off, I want her and her husband to know that won’t be the only thing I have accomplished.

“Thank you, Mr. Page,” she replies formally.

“But the main thing we’re concerned about is what happens to him in January.”

“I am too,” I add hastily, “but this was an important step. If Dade continues to play and does well, it can’t help but improve his credibility at the time of the trial. If the season is successful, every juror in Washington County will know it. I’m not saying that things should work that way, but it’s a fact just like it’s a fact that we’ll have to overcome the color of Dade’s skin when the girl testifies at the trial. I don’t have any reason to believe there’s any less racism in the northwest corner of the state than there is in eastern Arkansas.”

I hear the sound of a cash register while she says something to a customer.

“Do you still plan on being in your office tomorrow?” she asks finally.

“I can’t talk right now.”

“I’ll be there,” I say, already having forgotten she is driving over to Blackwell County to visit me.

“I have a hearing at nine, but it should be over before ten.” I’m pleading out a drug dealer who is managing to avoid serving time by turning over a thirty-thousand-dollar pimp mobile to the Blackwell County Drug Taskforce.

What they will do with it I wouldn’t want to speculate.

Five minutes later, I get hold of Dade in his room. It sounds as if he is having a party. I hope not. He has practice, and he damn well better have a good one. I congratulate him and tell him to keep his mouth shut. We have dodged one bullet. The next one won’t be so easy. I say that I have called his parents and for him to call me at my office if he hears from the university. I explain that Coach Carter will be taking a lot of heat and to make sure he thanks him.

“What he’s done is controversial. Don’t let him down, and keep your cool when you read or hear something negative. It’s going to happen. Don’t say anything to reporters. This isn’t over yet.”

“I know,” Dade says.

You don’t have a clue, I think, but it will be no good to harp on it. Better that he have a good practice and concentrate on Tennessee.

“It’s my job to worry about what happens next and your job to play football and keep your grades up, okay? I’ll be back up next week, but I’ll be in touch with you before then.”

“Okay,” he says, a little sullenly. I know I am being condescending, but I have trouble doing one thing well at a time much less two. I doubt if Dade is any different.

“Dr. Beekman,” Sarah says shyly, “this is my dad.”

Beekman, a medium-height, sandy-haired guy in his early thirties, smiles easily, as if he has nothing to hide.

“Charlie Beekman,” he says, rising from behind his desk and extending his hand.

“Sarah speaks of you so often that I feel as if I already know you.”

My dad the Neanderthal, probably.

“I was on my way out of town and wanted to come by and see Sarah,” I explain, getting a good grip and squeezing hard. If he’s hitting on my daughter, I want him to remember this handshake.

“I understand you’re interested in the sociology of the Delta.”

He waves his hand for me to have a seat. I look at Sarah, whose expression is rapturous. She smiles at me as if God Himself had invited me to drop by for a chat. I sit down beside Sarah in a straight-backed chair with no arms like some dumb student about to get chewed out for failing his course.

“The Mississippi Delta has so much potential,” Beekman says eagerly.

“But it’s been terribly neglected academically in the last fifty years. Both communities African-American and white, contain some very talented people, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

I shrug, looking around the room for clues to this guy’s testosterone count. Mounted on the wall behind him are familiar photographs of small-town life in the Delta, also rice fields, a cotton gin, the old bridge over the Mississippi connecting Arkansas to Memphis. The pictures don’t hold a clue to the poverty and racial tension.

“We all seemed pretty ordinary at the time I lived over there,” I say, not wanting to give anything to this guy.

“Of course, it was a different world back when I was growing up.” He nods, and I swear I think he winks at Sarah as if to say that, yeah, your old man is the real thing. A Southern cracker still fresh out of the box after all these years.

“The Delta Commission’s goal was to find ways to keep people like you at home to build it up.”

“I don’t think one more lawyer would have made much difference,” I say, trying to keep this conversation from becoming too serious. I haven’t got time to hear him lecture me on the revitalization of the Delta.

“Is Sarah doing a good job for you?” I ask, more interested in Beekman’s present relationships than his academic pursuits. I want to ask the guy if he is married and how many kids he has, but Sarah would go through the roof.

“She’s wonderful!” Beekman says enthusiastically.

“Best student I’ve ever had work for me.” He smiles at her as if she had just agreed to go for a weekend in Cancun.

I turn to Sarah, who is blushing.

“I guess being a clerk in a video store during high school,” I say sardonically, “was more training than I realized.”

“I do a lot of proofreading,” Sarah mumbles, obviously wishing her employer’s delight wasn’t so obvious.

“I

check citations, stuff like that.”

“She’s great on computers, too,” Beekman gushes, “a really bright kid.”

I hope he remembers the “kid” part. Beekman, I have to admit, with his warm brown eyes is a decent-looking guy. Not a hunk, but probably the type who knows how to talk to women. The sensitive kind, who gets half their clothes off before they know what they’re doing.

“She was a good student in high school,” I say, hoping he’s getting the point. Beekman’s not wearing a wedding ring.

Of course, it could be on a shelf in his closet. It would be tempting for a visiting professor not to bring a lot of bag gage. I stand up, knowing Sarah would have been more than happy for me to have confined this visit to a hand shake.

“I’ve gotta get on the road,” I say.

“Nice to have met you. Dr. Beekman. Hope to see you again. I’ll be back up several times this fall, I’m sure.”

“Looking forward to it,” Beekman says, smiling easily.

Sarah precedes me into the hall.

“You didn’t have to come by,” she says, blushing again.

“I couldn’t leave town without seeing one of the Seven Wonders of the World.”

Sarah rolls her eyes.

“You sound jealous!”

“That’s ridiculous! It’s just that I’ve never liked professors much,” I say.

“They’ve got too much time to think.”

It is time to change the subject.

“You heard about Dade, I guess.”

“It’s all anybody’s talking about, except Dr. Beekman.

He doesn’t care about anything but his research.”

Sure, sure. My poor, naive daughter.

“What are they saying?”

She pleads, “Daddy, don’t try to use me, please!”

“I’m not,” I say, a little disappointed in her unwillingness to help me out. I should understand, but I don’t. I tell her that I will be back up early next week. She gives me a quick hug, glad to be rid of me. Parents, like children, should be seen but not heard.

“Do you think Coach Carter was wrong to leave Dade on the team?” I ask.

“He’s innocent until proven guilty, isn’t he?” If she won’t serve as an informer, she can at least act as a sounding board.

“I don’t know how I feel,” she answers stubbornly.

“I’ve already heard there’s going to be a meeting of some women tonight to discuss it. I may go.”

“That’s fine,” I say neutrally. She may eventually give me some details of campus gossip if I can resist pumping her so much.

Driving home through the glorious fall foliage I wonder if I am guilty of projecting my feelings onto guys like Beekman. What do young women see in us old guys? It sure isn’t looks or staying power. And, in my case, it isn’t money either. Maybe women really are looking for their fathers. God help Sarah if that’s true.

on returning to my office from my plea hearing in circuit court I spot through the glass doors a woman I assume is Lucy Cunningham standing at Julia’s desk. Dade has her identical copper coloring, her handsome face. I see Julia’s lips move, and the woman turns to look at me as I push open the glass. She nods, unsmiling, before I can call her name. Not exactly pretty (though she may have been as a girl), she is a tall, striking woman with a full, sorrowful face. Whom does she remind me of?

Coretta Scott King, the widow of the slain civil rights leader, whom, I realize, I’ve never observed to smile in all the years of seeing her on television.

“Mr. Page,” she says quietly, with more dignity than usually heard in our waiting room, “I’m Mrs. Cunningham, Dade’s mother.”

She offers her hand. My immediate impression is that this sophisticated woman is not a likely candidate for wife of a black store owner in the rural Delta. She’s wearing a red-and-white-striped knit tunic over a matching red skirt and four-inch heels. She is my height and looks to be about my age. Her hand, soft to the touch, offsets some of her severity, and yet, such is her presence, that even Julia, unoccupied behind her desk, falls silent as I greet my client’s mother and escort her back to my office.

“Would you like some coffee?” I ask as she sits down across from me.

“No, thank you,” she says, studying my diplomas be hind my head.

“What else have you learned about Dade’s case?”

So much for small talk. I pull out my notes and for a solid hour we discuss her son. She questions me closely about what I have learned about Robin Perry. Women, if Lucy Cunningham is any guide, are ruthlessly cynical about each other. We men only think that we pursue women. Judging by her manner and questions, Mrs. Cunningham knows better, or perhaps she simply knows how the female sex reacts to her son. Are black women, I wonder, more suspicious than their white counterparts?

Rosa, I remember now, thought so. Black women were “in the bottom of the barrel,” my wife uttered once in that quaint way she had of translating English into Spanish and then rendering it back into the American idiom.

“I wonder if Dade sat down by her in that communications class,” she muses, in a soft bottom-land accent that is rich as the silt from the Mississippi River, “or whether she picked him out.”

I make some notes of my own.