Chiefs (46 page)

Tucker’s face filled the screen, filmed at the press conference, as Huntley’s voice continued: “Tucker Watts, a Georgia native who recently retired from a thirty-year army career, became the first black chief of police in any town of the Old South. He seemed to think it was pretty routine.”

“I’ve received a courteous welcome from the people of Delano that I’ve met, and I don’t anticipate any special difficulties in doing my job here,” said Tucker, in response to a reporter’s question.

“City-council chairman, and one-time Roosevelt confidant, Hugh Holmes, said that Watts was by no means a last resort.”

“Quite to the contrary,” Holmes said to a reporter, “Mr. Watts was the most highly qualified candidate we could find for the job. We have a very high-quality community in Delano, and we want the best public servants we can attract, just as we want the best new industry we can attract.”

Billy started as his own image filled the screen and Huntley talked on: “This all came about, apparently, because of this man, William H. Lee, the lieutenant governor of Georgia, a likely candidate for governor next year who has a reputation as a moderate and an active peacemaker in racial matters. Delano is his home town, and it was he who suggested that Watts be hired.”

“Chief Watts came highly recommended and was obviously well qualified by his experience in the military police, and I was very pleased to recommend him to the city council/’ Billy heard himself say.

Then there were quick cuts to other faces, shot on Main Street, and their comments.

“I read in the paper that he has a lot of experience, so I guess it’s all right.”

“He has a fine war record, from what I hear, and he was an MP for a long time. I think we ought to be glad to have him.”

“If he can do the job, who cares?”

Then Patrolman Bobby Patrick’s face appeared. Someone had hunted down a cop, after all. His expression was sour. “I don’t have nothing to say about that,” he said, and drove away quickly in his patrol car, the camera catching his hurried departure.

Huntley came back onto the screen. “The White House Press Office issued a statement today commending the Delano City Council for its hiring of a black chief and hoping the town’s action would serve as an example to other communities, both southern and northern, surely the first time the White House has ever taken note of the hiring of a small-town policeman. More news after this.”

Billy turned to Patricia. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “I just don’t believe it. I spent the afternoon with a reporter from
Time,
and with John Howell, the fellow from the
New York Times
who was down here a couple of weeks ago. It was his story that kicked all this off, and he wants to do an article for the
New York Times Magazine,
to run after Tucker has had time to do the job for a while.”

Patricia snuggled up to him on the couch. “All this should be a big help in the governor’s race, shouldn’t it.”

“It seems that way, now, but all this favorable stuff is just going to harden the resistance of the people who are against me, anyway, and make them tougher to beat. I’d sure like to know how this is sitting with the undecided voters.”

“It can’t hurt with the White House, though, can it?”

Billy slumped into the leather cushions. “Not unless it goes sour in some way.”

“In what way?”

“I’m not sure. But the whole situation, as good as it looks, makes me nervous.”

Chapter 9.

TUCKER’S second morning on his new job was quieter. As soon as he had checked the roster and confirmed that all his men were at their assigned duties, he turned to the filing cabinets along the back wall of the squad room. He had planned to wait before going through the files, but he had an unreasonable urge to look through them for a piece of paper with his old name on it. He had no idea if Will Henry Lee had kept records of arrests, but he had to find out. If it existed, such a document would be the only written record anywhere that Willie Smith had ever lived, and for his own peace of mind he must destroy it. Patrolman Wendell Bartlett, known to all as Buddy, was doing his tour as radio operator.

“Chief, was there something special you were looking for?”

Buddy Bartlett was a fair-haired, sunny-faced man in his midtwenties, who looked younger. Of all the patrolmen, he alone had shown something mosi resembling a desire to be helpful to his new boss, and Tucker was grateful for it. Of necessity, though, Tucker felt he must keep some distance until he was sure of all his men.

“No, Bartlett, nothing special. I just want to see how they’re set up.”

Bartlett rose and crossed to the cabinets. “I’m afraid they’re pretty much a mess. There was a fire here six or seven years ago, and stuff just got thrown out the windows, and a lot of it got wet. Whoever rescued it just threw it into the new filing cabinets any which way. The files after about 1950 were in colored folders, so they were easy to find and sort, but everything before that was in plain manila folders, and there it sits, right back to the beginning of the town, I guess. If we ever needed to find something specific we’d have a real hard time doing it.”

Tucker grunted. “I guess we would at that.”

“Everything from 1950 is cross-indexed by name and crime.” Bartlett pulled open a file drawer to demonstrate. “On every arrest we fill out the form in duplicate and file one copy by last name and the other one by the charge. If there’s more than one charge we file it under the most serious one.”

“We really ought to have a copying machine so that we can file multiple charges,” Tucker mused. There was a footstep in the entrance hallway, and he turned. A tall elderly, heavyset man in tan gabardines and a Stetson hat was standing at the counter. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through a thatch of snow-white hair.

“Morning, Buddy.”

“Morning, Sheriff. I don’t reckon you’ve met Chief Watts yet. Chief, this is Sheriff Willis.”

Tucker would have recognized Skeeter Willis anywhere, in spite of his age. He was probably ten years older than he looked. “Nice to meet you, Sheriff,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I would have gotten up to Greenville to see you sooner or later, I expect, but I’m glad you dropped by. Can we get you a cup of coffee?”

Skeeter shook the offered hand as briefly as possible. “No thanks, I’ve got business to tend to.”

“What can we do for you?”

“I hear you got a fellow, Wilkes, in your jail.”

Tucker looked at Bartlett. “Yessir,” the young officer said. He went to a filing cabinet and retrieved a folder.

“I want him on a liquor charge,” said Skeeter. “I found a still on his land, the other side of Warm Springs.”

Tucker took the folder from Bartlett and glanced quickly at the record. “He got ten days from city court for reckless driving and damage to city property. He’s only done six. Have you got a warrant with you?”

“Does that matter?” Skeeter was looking impatient.

“Well, if you can show the justice of the peace a warrant, he might reduce the sentence to time served. Then I can release him, and you can arrest him.”

“Look, why don’t you just turn him out here, and I’ll take him off your hands. I don’t want to have to make another trip down here to get him.”

“Sheriff, I’d like to help you, but I can’t release him without the JP’s okay. That would be illegal. And if you took him without a warrant and got a conviction, he’d have a basis to overturn it on appeal—improper arrest. I think everybody’d be a lot better off if you got a warrant and then saw the JP.”

Skeeter was now red in the face. He leaned forward and rested his palms on the counter. “Now, listen, boy, I don’t care how long you was a MP, you’re doing business in
my
county now, and if you don’t watch out how you talk to me you’re gonna find out just what that means.”

Tucker said nothing for a moment; then he spoke quietly, and his voice dropped to a dark rumble. “Sheriff Willis, you’re welcome to a cup of coffee and a place to take the load off your feet. Any time. But if you want somebody in my jail, you’re going to have to show me some paperwork: That’s the way business gets done in
my
jurisdiction.”

Skeeter’s face turned a darker shade of red. He turned on his heel and walked out without a word.

“Whew!” whistled Bartlett. “I’ve never seen old Skeeter that mad before.”

“He made an unreasonable demand. I couldn’t accommodate him.”

“I know it, Chief, but that man’s been sheriff in this county longer than anybody can remember, and he’s somebody you want to get along with.

“I’ll meet him halfway.”

“Well, sir, I hope you get the chance. You can believe me when I tell you that he’s not gonna let that pass.”

“I appreciate the advice, Buddy, I really do.” Tucker was impressed by the boy’s concern and found his statement easy to believe. Just to cover himself he telephoned the justice of the peace and casually informed him of Skeeter’s request, his own refusal and his advice to the sheriff. Then, after thinking carefully for a moment, he called Billy Lee and explained the incident.

Billy heard him out, then said, “Buddy Bartlett is right, Tucker. You watch yourself. I think you were right to call me rather than Mr. Holmes about this. If you have any problem with Skeeter, you call me right away, whether I’m at a home or in Atlanta, hear?”

“I’ll do that, Governor, and I appreciate your concern.”

Foxy Funderburke didn’t know what to do about the Kudzu. He had tried everything. Like many southerners, he had looked upon the broad-leafed, ivylike vine as an ideal, almost miraculous, ground cover. It had been imported from the Philippines in the twenties and touted as an agricultural cure-all. The state had planted it along roadsides to cover the bare red-clay banks where roads had been cut through, for both beautification and erosion control. The trouble with kudzu was that it didn’t know where to stop. It climbed the banks and took over adjacent fields, choked out crops, and covered trees, utility poles, and eventually houses. It was said that the home of the Alabama man who had first brought the vine into the country had finally been eaten by kudzu. Poetic justice, Foxy thought.

Foxy had desperately needed ground cover on the clearing behind his house. He had hauled in topsoil, even gravel, and still the rain fan down the mountainside and took the soil with it. He had had nightmares about what might be uncovered there. So he had turned to kudzu, and now he regretted it bitterly. He had hacked away at the stuff for two years now, barely saving his garage, and although it looked dead in the wintertime, he knew it would resurrect itself in the spring and threaten the house. Foxy was nearly eighty now, and although he was remarkably healthy and strong, he was weary of his annual physical contest with the kudzu. Burning it out seemed the only answer. He poured the gasoline into a three-gallon insecticide spreader, slung the tank over his shoulder, walked up the incline, and began spraying.

Tucker took a quick turn up and down Main Street after lunch, noting the number of nonworking parking meters. He had already heard from a couple of merchants about the problem— people were parking in the same spot all day, some of them store employees, taking parking space from shoppers. He would have to move on that one quickly.

At the corner of Main and Broad he flagged down Tub Murray, patrolling in a squad car, and got in. “Show me the town, Newton,” he said. They drove around for half an hour, and Tucker started to try and program some proper police procedure into the fat patrolman’s work. As they stopped at the intersection of Fifth Street and Broad, a tan Cadillac passed, headed up the mountain. “Notice anything about that car?” Tucker asked.

Murray looked perplexed. “Well, he ain’t speeding.”

Tucker reached above the driver’s sun visor and took down a Telex list of stolen cars, received that morning from the Georgia State Patrol. “Tan ‘62 Caddy, stolen in Atlanta yesterday. Hang a right, and let’s look at him.”

Murray turned up the mountain and accelerated.

“Easy, now, let’s don’t scare him just yet.” Tucker peered at the car as they began to catch up and consulted the list. “Right color, wrong license plates. Well, he could have swapped with somebody along the way. Okay, Newton, let’s see you handle this like I told you. I’ll back you up.”

Murray switched on the squad car’s flashing lights and gave the siren switch a quick on and off. The driver’s head jerked as he looked into the rearview mirror. He pulled over and Murray pulled in behind him. The patrolman got out and walked to the driver’s window. Tucker got out and stood by the squad car, his hand near his pistol. He could hear Murray politely asking for the driver’s license and registration. Some papers were passed through the window. Murray looked at them, comparing the description on the license with the driver, then walked to the rear of the car and checked the license number against the registration. He handed the papers back and walked back to the squad car. The Cadillac moved away and continued up the mountainside.

“College kid from Columbus, on the way home for the weekend. His daddy’s car. He matched the license description and the plates matched the registration.”

“That’s just fine, Newton. Now you see how easy that was? Nobody got rousted, nobody got mad. Your blood pressure’s okay, and the citizen is on his way, right?”