Mr. Justice (9 page)

The young black man began to cough and wheeze. He was regaining consciousness. He wished that he wasn’t. His eyes opened to the sight of more than a dozen white men in white sheets glowering at him as if he had done something wrong… . The only thing he had done “wrong” was be born black.

But that was more than enough for Billy Joe Collier. “Give me a knife,” Collier said. “Give me a fuckin’ knife!”

The same hydra who had splashed water into the young black man’s face reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. He slapped the knife into Collier’s palm like a nurse handing a surgeon a scalpel.

Collier snapped open the blade.
Thpp.
“Give me your hand, nigger. Give me your fuckin’ hand.”

The young black man was strong—he moved furniture for a living—but he couldn’t overpower a dozen men, especially when he was tied to a tree. He tried, but it was pointless.

The hydra grabbed the young black man’s hand and pried open his fingers.

The young black man knew what was coming. “Don’t,” he said. “
Please
, don’t.”

But a plea for mercy from a black man simply inspired Collier to press forward more vigorously. He kissed the blade for luck and began to saw off the young black man’s forefinger.

Howls of pain echoed through the woods.

Collier smiled.

The konklave cheered and applauded.

Blood poured from the young black man’s hand like water from a broken faucet.

Collier kept sawing.

The finger fell to the ground.

The young black man continued to scream and beg for mercy.

None was forthcoming.

Collier bent down to pick up the finger. The young black man kicked him in the head as he did. Collier grabbed the finger and then punched the young black man hard in the face.

“Fuck you, nigger,” Collier said. He held up the severed finger so that the konklave could see it.

More cheers and applause rang out.

“Here,” Collier said as he tossed the finger to the hydra who had lent him the knife.

The hydra pulled out a handkerchief, wrapped the bloody finger in it, and said, “Thanks, Billy Joe.” He smiled. “I’ll add it to my collection.”

That drew laughter from the konklave.

One of the other klansmen said, “I’ve got dibbs on the next one.”

Collier proceeded to saw off the young black man’s middle finger. By this point, the young black man was in too much shock to feel the pain. When he began to pass out again, another canteen of water was splashed in his face.

Earl Smith approached the konklave. “What’s going on here?”

Collier said, “Just cuttin’ up another nigger, Earl.”

Smith stared at the bloody young black man. “Can I see you for a minute, Billy Joe?”

“Give me a second, Earl. I’ve only got two fingers to go.”

“Now, Billy Joe.
Now
.”

Earl Smith and Billy Joe Collier walked to a large oak tree about twenty-five yards from the rest of the konklave. The tree’s branches hung long and loose from a thick trunk.

Smith said, “I thought we agreed to hold off on any more lynchings until after we’d done our favor for Senator Burton?”

Collier said, “‘We’? … ‘Our’? …
You’re
the only one who gets to have any fun.”

Smith glanced over at the young black man tied to the tree. Members of the konklave had started throwing rocks at him again. “We’ve had this conversation already, Billy Joe. This is a really, really big favor we’ve been asked to do. We gotta do it right. And as the grand dragon of South Carolina, I get to decide what right is. You know that.”

Collier shook his head. “I know ya do, Earl. I know it. But it’s tough to hold back. There are so many niggers that need killin’. Shit, you shoulda seen what I done to that white whore we saw in the bar the other night. You know, the one with the nigger boyfriend. I opened their skulls with a golf club.”

“What?!” Smith said. “Why’d you go and do that?”

“Because there ain’t nuthin’ more agin the Klan way than fuckin’ a nigger.”

Smith stared at Collier. He had hung around with him for so many years that he had become numb to the hatred that Collier had inside him. Then he thought about Cat … about
him
and Cat.

CHAPTER 30

“What are you doin’ here, suga? I thought you’d be in D.C. by now.” Cat Wilson opened the door to her double-wide. She lived at the back end of a mobile home park on the west side of Charleston.

Earl Smith stepped over the threshold. He maneuvered passed a stack of ragged
People
magazines. His eyes surveyed the place. “This is nice,” he said.

It wasn’t. The thin metal walls were rusting, the carpet was stained, and only about half the light fixtures seemed to work. But the trailer had been in far worse condition when Cat had moved in. She had done her best to make it look like a home for her young daughter.

“I thought you said it weren’t safe for you to come to my house—that that was why we kept meetin’ at the motel?”

“It ain’t safe, Cat. But … but I needed to see you.” Smith’s eyes locked on Cat’s.

“Why’d ya need to see me, suga?” Cat smiled. “You just can’t get enough of your sweet chocolate, can ya?” She ran the tips of her fingers across Smith’s chest.

His entire body tingled when she did. “That ain’t it.”

“Why, then? Why did ya need to see your Cat?”

Smith blushed. He was one of the toughest guys in Charleston, but Cat Wilson had made him blush. “I … I just did, is all. I felt bad about what I said at the diner.”

Cat smiled again. She took Smith by the hand and led him to the bedroom in the rear of the trailer.

“Where’s your daughter?” Smith asked.

“Sleepin’ at the neighbor’s,” Cat answered. She pushed Smith to the bed. She began to unbutton her shirt. It was just an old work shirt, but she filled it out nicely. She unbuttoned one button at a time.

Smith sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. He couldn’t take his eyes off Cat. He knew Cat was right about why he had come; he needed to be with her one last time before he left for D.C.

Cat finished unbuttoning her shirt and began working on her jeans. She slithered out of them like an exotic dancer at a downtown gentlemen’s club.

Smith took another deep breath. His eyes remained transfixed on Cat’s fabulous body. Her skin glistened in the moonlight shining through the window.

Cat leaned over and pulled Smith’s face to her breast. He began to suckle like a baby thirsting for his mother. He moved to the other breast.

Cat joined him on the bed. “You gonna miss your Cat, ain’t ya? You’re gonna miss me when you’re gone.”

Earl Smith didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. His answer was revealed in the heat of the moment.

CHAPTER 31

Billy Joe Collier dropped his beer in disgust. “I can’t fuckin’ believe it,” he muttered. He drew closer to the window to make sure that his eyes weren’t deceiving him. They weren’t; Earl Smith, the grand dragon of the South Carolina Realm of the Ku Klux Klan, was having sex with a nigger woman.

Collier had decided to tail Smith after the evening’s konklave had adjourned. The work of a klansman was almost always conducted in secret, and Collier had tailed many people over the years. But he had never tailed Smith before. He had never imagined that he would need to.

Billy Joe Collier and Earl Smith used to have a terrific relationship. They used to hunt and fish together almost every weekend, and best of all, they used to lynch a lot of what were, as far as Collier was concerned, worthless niggers.

But Smith had changed over the past several months. He kept canceling their hunting and fishing trips, and he seemed less enthusiastic about putting niggers in their place than a loyal klansman should be. Now Collier knew why: Smith was doing the horizontal mambo with a piece of nigger ass.

Collier would have kept watching Smith and his whore have sex—Collier was a big fan of porno movies—but the sight of a member of the brotherhood rolling around in the sheets with a nigger woman was too much for his stomach to take. Consequently, he stepped away from the window. He couldn’t just leave, though. Instead, he searched the ground for some sticks. He found two sturdy ones. He tied them together with a thick weed that he had pulled from the side of the trailer. He had learned how to build a makeshift cross at a Klan Youth Corps meeting when he was a kid. It was at that meeting nearly forty years before where he had first met Earl Smith.

Collier stuck the cross into the ground. It stood about two feet high. He reached into his pocket for a pack of matches. Every good klansman carried matches. He had learned that at the junior Klan meeting, too. He struck a match against the metal trailer and lit the cross. He jogged toward his car. He stopped for a moment and picked up a rock. Every good klansman could hit a target with a rock from at least twenty-five yards away. Collier was no exception to this rule. He took dead aim at the trailer’s bedroom window. He hurled the rock like the baseball pitcher he had wanted to be in high school.

Crssh
. Bull’s-eye! The glass shattered, sending shards falling to the ground and to the floor inside the trailer.

Earl Smith shot up from the bed in time to see Billy Joe Collier’s Ford Monte Carlo speed off into the distance.

CHAPTER 32

Jim Westfall poured himself a cup of coffee while Cheryl Richards pulled a single sheet of paper from her briefcase.

Richards was White House counsel, which meant she was the president’s lawyer. The sheet of paper was the list of potential candidates her office had compiled to replace Peter McDonald as the president’s nominee to the Supreme Court of the United States.

Westfall returned to his seat at his cluttered desk in his tiny office. Space was at a premium in the West Wing. Only the president’s office—the Oval Office—was large. As a result, the desks and offices of the president’s staff—even the senior staff—became overwhelmed in a hurry. Westfall pushed aside a stack of memos and placed his coffee cup on a coaster emblazoned with the White House seal. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup?”

Richards said, “I’m sure, Jim. But thanks.”

“You used to drink this stuff like it was water when we were in law school.” Westfall took a slow sip from his steaming cup. It, too, was emblazoned with the White House seal.

Richards smiled. “That was a long time ago, Jim. My nerves can’t handle the caffeine like they used to.”

“Mine, either. But mine are already shot… . What a week.” Westfall reached for his coffee again. He took another sip. “How does the list look?”

Richards focused her eyes on the sheet of paper she was clutching in her hand like a sacred scroll. “I think the staff came up with three excellent possibilities.”

“Who are they?”

“Judge Joseph Saltzman, Judge Thomas Woodward, and Professor Barbara DeCew.”

“Saltzman from the Ninth Circuit?”

“Yes.”

“Woodward from the Fifth?”

“Yes.”

“DeCew from Yale Law School?”

“Yes.”

Westfall rocked forward in his seat. He braced himself against his desk. He looked like a lion about to leap. “Where’s Richards from the White House counsel’s office?”

Richards shook her head. “I’ve already said no, Jim. It wouldn’t look good for the president to nominate someone from his own staff.”

“Why the hell not?” Westfall got up from his seat and walked toward the window overlooking the presidential putting green. The president’s teenage son was working on his short game. The young man was a scratch golfer. He hoped to play for Stanford after he graduated from high school. “Nixon nominated Rehnquist, and Rehnquist eventually became chief justice. And don’t forget about the greatest chief justice of them all: John Marshall. He was secretary of state when John Adams nominated him to be chief. Besides, Cheryl, you’re more than qualified for the job. You graduated at the top of our law school class, you clerked at the Court for Justice Ginsburg, you made partner at the most prestigious law firm in the city, and now you’ve got some government service under your belt.”

Richards was watching Westfall watch the president’s son practice putting. “Ten months, Jim. I’ve only been working at the White House for ten months.”

Westfall turned from the window and met Richards’s eyes. “But you’ve been
effective
, Cheryl. Shoot, you’ve been effective in every job you’ve ever had. And despite what Senator Burton might be telling the press, effectiveness—talent, competence, work ethic—is what the president cares most about.”

Richards shifted in her seat. She smoothed the crease on her designer skirt. “What about Peter McDonald?” she asked uncomfortably. “I thought the president hadn’t given up hope for his recovery. I thought
you
hadn’t.”

“He hasn’t. And I haven’t, either.” Westfall returned his attention to the putting green. The president’s son continued to hole putt after putt. “But the attending physician told me that the prospects aren’t good. Given who that doctor is—Morris Tanenbaum, the president’s personal physician—I’m inclined to take his word for it. The president knows the facts. And he also knows that he owes it to the country to name a replacement if Professor McDonald doesn’t take a turn for the better. A quick turn, I might add.”

A long silence filled the room. The sound of golf balls popping off the president’s son’s putter seeped in through the windowpane.

“All right,” Richards finally said. “You can add my name to the list.”

CHAPTER 33

Jim Westfall entered the Oval Office as he had done virtually every day since Charles Jackson had taken the presidential oath. One of the perks of being White House chief of staff was that Westfall didn’t need an appointment to see the president. He and the president’s wife and children were the only people who didn’t.

President Jackson was seated behind a desk that had once belonged to William Howard Taft. Jackson, like Taft, was a large man, although in Jackson’s case his size was attributable to hours in the weight room rather than at the dinner table. The president said, “What’s up?” He closed the CIA report he was reading.