Mr. Justice (11 page)

Kludd Johnny Bates opened the ritual book and said, “The sacred altar of the Klan is prepared; the fiery cross illumines the konklave.”

The konklave said, “We serve and sacrifice for the right.”

Collier said, “Klansmen all: you will gather for our opening devotions.”

Those words were usually spoken by Smith, but Collier had heard them often enough that he knew them by heart.

The konklave sang the Klan’s sacred song. The chorus rang out:

Home, home, country and home,

Klansmen we’ll live and die

For our country and home.

Kludd Bates read more from the Kloran.

When Bates had finished, Collier said, “Amen.” He rubbed his hand across his whiskered face. He almost always sported a three-day beard, and this day was no exception. Being well groomed wasn’t a prerequisite for working on the assembly line at the tire factory.

Earl Smith stood straight, like a soldier. He knew what was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to take. Being romantically linked to a black woman was tantamount to treason in the Ku Klux Klan. In fact, it was listed among the offenses against the order in the original Ku-Klux Prescript of Reconstruction, the Klan’s original constitution.

Collier said, “Hydra Cain, please bring Grand Dragon Smith to the front of the konklave.”

Cain did.

Collier said next, “Nighthawk Wallace, are you ready to proceed?”

A nighthawk was a sort of investigator and watchdog who checked the character of prospective Klan members and their later conduct. Each local unit of the Klan had one.

Wallace said, “Yes, Klaliff Collier.” Wallace stepped away from Smith and faced the konklave—the jury for all intents and purposes.

“Proceed.” Collier was serving as the de facto judge.

“Kigy.” Wallace nodded to the konklave. “My report’ll be brief and to the point. Grand Dragon Smith stands accused of datin’ a nigger woman.”

“What’s the name of this nigger woman?” a member of the konklave shouted out.

Unlike courthouse juries, the members of a konklave were permitted to ask questions about the defendant.

“Cat Wilson,” Wallace said. “She works at the Waffle House down by exit 39.”

Smith flinched when he heard Cat’s name uttered in public. He had known all along that his relationship with her would probably come back to haunt him, but he was too hooked on her to end it. She was like a drug—intoxicating but potentially lethal.

“How do you know that Earl’s datin’ her?” another member of the konklave asked.

“Because I’ve seen them together.”

“Why? When?” These particular questions were phrased skeptically. Smith had a lot of friends in the konklave. He had been an effective leader for years.

“‘Why?’ Because it’s my job to investigate problems like this. I am the den’s nighthawk. ‘When?’ On several occasions over the past couple of weeks. I started watching Earl after the incident involving him and Buck.”

Wallace was referring to the fight that had broken out at the Waffle House when Buck Jansen had accused Smith of sticking up for Cat.

“Where did you see them together?” The questioner remained skeptical.

“Out at the Interstate 26 Motor Inn.”

“They were at the motel together?”

“Yep.”

A gasp from the konklave.

“I still don’t believe it,” the skeptical klansman said. “Earl’s too loyal to the cause.”

“Believe it,” Collier interrupted, with an edge to his voice. “I saw Earl fuckin’ the nigger woman with my own two eyes.”

“Nigger lover!” a member of the konklave shouted out.

Smith’s eyes danced with fear.

Collier held up his hand to calm the crowd. “Quiet, brothers. Quiet.” It worked. “Why would Earl do it, Nighthawk Wallace?” Collier might have seen it with his own two eyes, but he didn’t want to believe it was true. Earl Smith was his best friend.

Wallace said, “I didn’t know why at first. I mean, I
suspected
why, but I didn’t
know
why.”

Collier asked next, “So what did you do?”

“I followed them. I couldn’t follow them for long, though.”

“Why not?”

“Because they went into a motel room and closed the shades.”

“String him up!” a member of the konklave said.

About a dozen klansmen rushed at Smith. Collier tried to calm the crowd again, but this time it was to no avail. The klansman who had called Smith a “nigger lover” took two wild swipes at him. But before anyone else could take a swing, another member of the konklave called out, “Sanbog! Sanbog!” It was a warning between klansmen. It meant, Strangers are near. Be on guard.

The moment that was said, a dozen FBI agents came bursting from the bushes. The klansmen scattered as they had been trained to do since they were kids. This wasn’t the first time the authorities had come after the Charleston den, although it was the first time the Feds had done so.

“Stop!” the FBI agent in charge shouted. “Federal officers!”

The command caused the klansmen to run faster. They rushed through the brush like escaped convicts in a low-budget prison movie.

Earl Smith stood frozen in place, though. He didn’t know why, but he did. Perhaps it was because he knew he had violated one of the cardinal tenets of the brotherhood and felt he deserved to be punished. Then he heard, “Run, Earl! Run!”

It was Billy Joe Collier who was shouting his name—the same man who had convened the trial in the first place.

So Earl Smith ran … and ran … and ran.

CHAPTER 38

Clay Smith made himself comfortable on the couch. Well, not
comfortable…
. He knew he wouldn’t enjoy what he was about to do. He should have done it when they were in the kitchen. He was still half asleep then, and he would have been acting on instinct.

Kelsi Shelton entered the room. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt and nothing else. She made her way to the stereo and put on the new James Taylor CD. “He’s an old fart, but he’s dreamy,” she said.

“He’s frickin’ bald, girl. Are you nuts?” Clay’s eyes were locked on Kelsi’s.

Kelsi smiled. “His voice is like maple syrup.” She sat on the couch. “Oh. I forgot. You’re from South Carolina. You use molasses down there.” She leaned over and kissed Clay on the cheek.

Shit, Clay said to himself. This is going to be even more difficult than I thought.

The first cut was the deepest. Sheryl Crow had sung that line in a pop hit once, but she surely had something else in mind when she did.

Kelsi was too stunned to scream. Instead, she gasped and slid off the couch. Blood spotted the rug like a bug against a trucker’s windshield.

Clay said, “Sorry” and raced from the room. So much for earning a law degree from UVA, he said to himself. But his loyalty to the Klan came first. “Akia,” he said as he slammed shut the door to Kelsi’s apartment. A klansman I am.

Minutes passed like hours as Kelsi Shelton struggled for her life. She now knew what Professor McDonald must have felt like. Professor McDonald …

She should have been dead already. Clay certainly thought she was. Why would he do it? Why would he stab her?

Kelsi had known ever since the first time she had met Clay at a 1L orientation that he had a crush on her. She had finally given him what he wanted—herself—and this was how he responded? It didn’t make sense. Yes, she had heard the rumors about Clay and the Ku Klux Klan, but she had never believed them. Nobody did. But were they true? Could Clay Smith really be a member of the most hate-filled organization in U.S. history?

Kelsi knew she would never know the answer. She knew she would never know anything ever again.

She closed her eyes. For forever, she thought.

CHAPTER 39

The Ku Klux Klan had entered the twenty-first century; most klansmen now carried cell phones or Blackberries. Earl Smith certainly did, and he had forgotten to turn his off. It started ringing—an old Hank Williams Jr. hit served as the ring tone—and that stopped the FBI agents who were chasing him dead in their tracks.

“What’s that?” one of the agents asked.

“It sounds like a cell phone,” another one answered. “Is it yours?”

“No,” the first agent said. “It’s coming from over there.” He pointed to a large oak tree a hundred feet to the left of where the agents were standing.

But Earl Smith was already gone.

“Answer the phone, Uncle Earl,” Clay Smith said. “Answer your goddamn cell phone.”

Clay was driving down Emmet Street on his way to who knew where. He passed several of the local haunts he had grown to know and love: John Paul Jones Arena, where the men’s and women’s basketball teams played to capacity crowds; China Dragon, the best Chinese buffet in town; and the Emmet Street Apartments, where he shared a room with a graduate student in the American history department. Clay wondered how long it would be before his roommate—a quiet, socially awkward guy from Vermont—would notice he was missing.

He turned onto University Avenue and headed toward the Corner, the part of town where his day with Kelsi Shelton had begun. His stomach felt as if it were being attacked by fire ants as he realized that Kelsi had probably bled to death by now.

He pressed the speed dial on his cell phone again. This time, all he got was his uncle’s voicemail.

Earl Smith pushed through the brush. Vines and branches snapped against his face like switches to the bottom of a spoiled child. If he hadn’t traversed the terrain hundreds of times during his youth, he never would have made it. He knew that the Feds were probably having all sorts of difficulty keeping pace with him.

He made his way toward an abandoned moonshiner’s shack. He had frequented the shack many times over the years. He used to play hooky there as a kid. More recently, the shack had served as a hideout for when the local cops decided to make their annual raid on one of his Klan meetings. Billy Joe Collier was the only other member of the Charleston den who knew about the place. Smith could only hope that Collier hadn’t decided to make his escape there, too.

Clay Smith flipped on the radio. He tuned the dial to 93.7. He figured that the college station would be the best place to learn whether the cops had discovered Kelsi’s body.

Clay’s car sounded older than the DJ did. She said, “This is Annie Paulsen, and you’re listening to WUVA in Charlottesville. I’d like to send a shout out to the brothers at Kappa Sig. That was a slammin’ rave last night, fellas. I sure hope that Kenny Watts managed to pull his head out of the toilet!” She giggled like the sorority girl she undoubtedly was. Then, she paused. Her tone changed 180 degrees. “I’ve just been handed a bulletin,” she said, her voice cracking. “Campus police are reporting that Kelsi Shelton, a third-year law student, has been stabbed.”

“But is she dead?!” Clay shouted. “Is she
dead?!
” He was confused about what he wanted the answer to be.

The student DJ continued, “She’s being rushed to UVA hospital. No word yet on whether her injuries are life-threatening. No word on who her attacker was, either.” After another pause, she said, “Please say a prayer for Kelsi, people. And please be careful out there.”

Earl Smith struck a match. He lit the kerosene lamp he kept behind the door. He was pleased to see that the cabin was just as he had left it. A week’s supply of canned food, crackers, and bottled water was stacked in the corner. A tattered but functional army cot—Smith had done a tour in Iraq during the second Gulf War—looked particularly inviting at the rear of the room. Most important of all, there was no sign of Billy Joe Collier … or of anyone else.

Smith removed his left boot and shook a stone loose. It had been irritating his foot for a good quarter mile, but he couldn’t risk slowing down to get rid of it. He wiped his face dry with the blanket that covered the cot, grabbed a bottle of water from the stack in the corner, and took a long drink. He had forgotten how good water could taste.

He remembered his voicemail. He plopped down on the cot and checked it. There was a message from Clay. His nephew sounded frantic. Smith could understand why: It was the first time that Clay had been asked to kill a white person.

Clay said, “It’s me, Uncle Earl. I did it. I killed Kelsi Shelton… . At least I think I did.”

Shit, Smith said to himself. Clay “thinks” he killed her? He better have succeeded. Smith was in enough trouble as it was with the Klan. He didn’t need to piss off Senator Burton, too.

Earl Smith had never understood why Senator Burton had wanted Kelsi Shelton dead. Burton had said that it was to throw people off track. “Folks’ll think it was some love triangle gone bad,” Burton had told Smith over a secure phone line. “Everybody already thinks that McDonald is sleeping with the girl. This’ll just add more fuel to the fire. Especially if that pretty boy nephew of yours is involved.”

Of course Smith had never told his nephew that he was just a pawn in Senator Burton’s chess game. He should have told him, but he didn’t. Some things were thicker than blood.

CHAPTER 40

Senator Alexandra Burton rushed into her suite of offices.

“Good morning, Senator,” one of her legislative aides said. The aide pushed aside some draft legislation and stood to his feet.

The senator kept walking.

“Coffee?” Burton’s secretary asked. She smiled politely at her boss.

“No,” Burton answered. “And no interruptions.”

The senator entered her private office and closed the door. She flipped on all four of the television sets, which filled a space formerly occupied by books. Burton’s books—thousands of them—had been relocated to her home library.

Unlike most Americans living in the age of digital this and electronic that, Alexandra Burton still read books. But her literary sensibilities weren’t dictated by Oprah Winfrey,
The Today Show
, or the
New York Times
. She had never read a James Patterson suspense novel, let alone a self-help book by Dr. Phil. She didn’t have a clue who Stephanie Meyer was. No, Burton preferred the great works of political philosophy. Her favorite—her bible—was
The Prince
by Niccolo Machiavelli.