Brambleman (53 page)

While the place was crowded, it didn’t take
many people to fill a bakery with four tables inside. Charlie took
his cup of Mocha Java and a raspberry croissant outside and sat at
a black wrought-iron table in the shade, reading Crenshaw’s
article. By this time, he’d lost track of the media coverage he’d
received. Had he really been on the front page six days in a row?
Inside the paper’s first section was the book excerpt from
Flight
, which filled Page A-6. The paper also ran a
laudatory review. Plenty of blurb material there.

Despite his time constraint on the interview,
Charlie had been a relative chatterbox compared to lawmen, all of
whom had refused to comment. While Charlie’s willingness to talk
put him at an advantage in the main article, the locals fought back
in a sidebar story: “Forsyth County’s resident historian Cecil
Montgomery said, ‘No one wants him dead, of course, but we would
like him to cover some other poor, unsuspecting county if he’s
going to do things that way.’”

“You wish,” Charlie muttered. “And somebody
does want me dead, asshole.”

He finished reading and folded up the paper.
He had something else to think about: Angela’s request to
renegotiate the deal on
Flight from Forsyth
. Charlie was
willing to go back to the original contract. Sure, he’d lose half
the royalties, but the old deal had called for an editing fee, so
she’d have to cough up some cash, which Charlie desperately needed
following his purchase of a bike, a car, and all that stuff for
Tawny and her kids. It would be a long time before he saw another
check from Fortress. It would take six months at least, even if it
was a bestseller.

He also had something up his sleeve. He’d
decided that, as part of the deal, Angela would be barred from
making a claim against any and all other works. That way, he would
keep everything from
American Monster
, the existence of
which would remain …
understated
during negotiations, of
course.

He called Angela. This time, she surprised
him by answering. Charlie thanked her for getting Sandra to
represent him (though he was still pissed she’d taken so long) and
gave her a brief account of his adventure. Then he proposed the
deal, reading talking points from his napkin. “You want half the
royalties, I’ll give you half the royalties, but only if we go back
to the original deal. And that pays me twenty bucks an hour.”

“Twenty bucks an hour?” She sounded
stressed.

“I’m willing to cut you some major slack.
Let’s round it off to twenty grand.”

“I’m supposed to pay you twenty grand up
front?” Angela asked, her voice rising even higher.

“Hell, I worked two thousand hours on it.” He
was guessing, but that number sounded about right. “That’s worth
forty thousand, less the money I got paid already, and deducting
half of the advance, which Kathleen would have been entitled to,
that was ten thousand, so that’s fairly close to thirty, but I’ll
settle for twenty. For you, a bargain. You’ll get a five hundred
percent return, easy.”

“Hmm. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about
it.”

“You’ve got a bestseller on your hands. One
you claimed was unpublishable before I started working on it. In
your professional opinion.” He couldn’t resist the dig.

“You’ll never let me forget that, will
you?”

“Never and a day. It’s sold out all over town
and already in a second printing. Plus rights sales …”

“Wait a minute. Why are you so eager to offer
the deal?”

“Full disclosure: Because it avoids a
lawsuit, you being so litigious. Plus I need money right now.”

“Hmm. That sounds pretty
straightforward.”

“One other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You can’t make any other claims on any other
works.”

“Why would that matter?”

“It shouldn’t. I was just thinking about
magazine articles and such. Never know where the road leads.
Anyway, think about it. But don’t delay,” he said, sounding like a
late-night infomercial announcer. On that note, he hung up.

Before he’d finished his coffee, Angela
called back to say she’d accept his offer and agreed to write him a
check. He assured her it would be the best deal she’d ever
make.

* * *

Monday, Charlie called Susan at work.
“Charlie. My God, is that you? I’ve been so worried.”

“What, you don’t recognize me? Guess it’s
been awhile.”

“You never gave me your number,” Susan said,
adopting an injured tone.

“You threatened to have me arrested,
remember? Now maybe you understand why I was reluctant to let that
happen.”

“And now you’re getting even.”

He ignored her comment. “How are the kids? I
want to see them.”

And she ignored what he’d just said. “An
Atlanta police detective called and asked about the bombing and
shooting,” she said. “I couldn’t believe it was your van that got
blown up by drug dealers.”

“Drug dealers? Did he say that?”

“Well, no.”

“Where’d you hear that, then? Never mind. I
know where. The evildoers.”

“You told him my family is involved. Uncle
Stanley is really upset. That detective made it sound like I was a
suspect! Charlie, I’d never do anything to harm you. I mean, I …
I—”

“Yeah, right. Are you telling me you don’t
have any idea what’s going on?”

“I know you’ve been running around with meth
dealers, that’s all.”

Charlie was incredulous. “Cut it out. You
don’t actually believe that.”

After an awkward silence, she said, “I saw
where your book is the number-one bestseller.”

“Pretty good for an abject failure, eh?”

“Now you can pay me the eight thousand
dollars child support you owe me.”

“D’oh.” He hung up.

* * *

Under a gray sky that threatened rain,
reporters crowded the sidewalk and spilled into the street in front
of La Patisserie, waiting for the start of Charlie’s Tuesday
afternoon news conference. Some leaned against TV trucks; a few
lounged on parked cars, holding digital recorders above their
heads. Charlie saw Detective Sanders (who had been staying in touch
with him, to no effect) in middle of the crowd. To the far right
stood some suspicious-looking straight-laced characters who
probably had Finch’s and Drew’s numbers on speed dial. In the rear,
Crenshaw lurked, wearing a rumpled trench coat.

Charlie stood in front of the bakery’s newly
painted display window to address the assembled media. In exchange
for the exposure, Amy Weller donated coffee and muffins for the
event and furnished a wooden podium she’d borrowed from a cousin
who belonged to Toastmasters. Having doffed her Braves cap and
slipped on a blue blazer to go with her jeans, Amy handed out her
favorite writer’s news releases and background sheets.

“This is better than facing a gunman,”
Charlie joked as he began. “But I’m not sure by how much.”

He spoke for ten minutes, first talking about
Thurwood Talton, then mentioning his own role in publishing the
book. He gave a chronology of events in Forsyth County and referred
journalists to the background sheet he’d worked up. However,
reporters weren’t there for a history lesson, so he talked about
the shooting. Then, to the delight of TV crews, he reenacted it. He
was properly remorseful over the fact that two men had died, but
grateful no one else had perished.

Characterizing his arrest and subsequent
ordeal as “something out of Kafka,” Charlie confidently declared,
“I will be cleared of these ridiculous charges.” He dismissed the
warrants with a wave of his hand, like they were gnats. “The
people
behind my arrest refuse to say what I allegedly
stole. You should ask them what I took.”

“What did you take?” several reporters
shouted.

“Ask
them
!” Charlie reiterated
loudly.

When he finished his remarks, hands shot up
and reporters yelled for his attention. After fending off some easy
questions, he called on Channel Six political reporter Arch
Bano.

“You think there’s a conspiracy in all this?”
Bano asked.

Charlie’s abused face was grim, his tone
somber. “There are powerful people in this state who do not want
what I write to be published.”

“Isn’t it too late to worry about?”

“They didn’t know the book was out. Or what
was in it, for that matter. Again, ask them what they’re worrying
about.”

“A follow-up,” Bano said. “Do you support
House Resolution Three-Ninety?”

“Sorry,” Charlie said, shaking his head in
puzzlement. “I’m not familiar with that legislation.”

“It was introduced by Representative
Bannister today. He said it was
not
in response to your
book. Just a coincidence, one he intends to take full advantage of.
Have you talked with him?”

“No,” Charlie said. He only knew State Rep.
Tyrus Bannister by reputation. An old ally of Redeemer’s, Bannister
was a civil rights veteran with a reputation (among whites, at
least) as a shakedown artist, with a history of organizing protests
against corporate and government misbehavior and proclaiming the
miscreants cured after money changed hands. Charlie knew that
Bannister was currently leading a boycott of Pancake Hut.

“It’s a resolution calling for the state to
pay reparations to African-Americans for slavery.”

A black radio reporter corrected him: “To
explore the concept
of reparations for slavery and
discrimination in the years since emancipation.”

Interesting
. Although Charlie doubted
it would pass, this might help him sell books. He decided to
endorse the idea of exploring the concept. It seemed like the least
he could do. “Certainly,” he said. “So much wrong has been done,
especially in places like Forsyth County. I believe we need to look
into these issues. When I edited Dr. Talton’s book, I found many
things that needed repairing.”
Not to mention the book
itself
.

Suddenly, he had a queasy feeling.
No
,
he told himself.
It won’t go that far
.

“So, would you be willing to testify in favor
of the resolution?”

Shit. It
was
going that far. Charlie
blanched, but he recovered quickly. “Uh, yeah. Of course. If I’m
not being shot at or arrested at the time.” The crowd’s laughter
gave him a good note to end on, so Charlie closed the news
conference, amazed that the Christmas Eve bombing hadn’t been
mentioned. But if the cops weren’t leaking his identity as the
victim, he sure as hell wasn’t going to, either.

Afterward, Crenshaw and a few other reporters
hung around with follow-ups. Charlie let his guard down, connecting
the Cutchins farm sale to the Outer Perimeter Highway project,
Department of Transportation, and governor’s office, then drawing a
line back to State Rep. Cutchins, of course. He hinted at a
nefarious conspiracy without going into detail or mentioning the
murder/lynching of John Riggins. Let them sniff it out on their own
and report the facts, thereby paving the way for
American
Monster
to become his next blockbuster.

* * *

Charlie thought he’d made it clear that his
after-event musings were off the record. Instead, his attacks on
high-ranking officials received prominent play on the evening news.
Before he even had time to worry about their reactions, he received
a phone call.

“Charles Sherman, Tyrus Bannister here,”
boomed a hearty voice.

“Representative Bannister. How are you
tonight?”

“Wonderful! This is great, what you’ve done,
resurrecting Professor Talton’s work! I met him back in
eighty-seven, you know, during the first march. Fine man. A pity
his work was lost in the wilderness for so long. I commend you for
seeing it through.”

Charlie knew Bannister hadn’t been at the
first march, but he’d been right in the middle of the front row in
the second one, posing for the cameras. “Thank you.”

“Anyway,” Bannister continued, “I saw the
article about land records. Names, dates—the stuff we needed back
in 1987, after Redeemer’s march. But it’s never too late—”

“For reparations.”
Ka-ching
!

“Heh-heh. Straight to the point. I like that.
You’ve heard of HR Three-Ninety, my resolution on this issue. We
tried before. No luck. Now, thanks to you, we have records to back
up our claims.”

The fake records. Charlie recalled those 4:00
a.m. sessions and the artificially aged papers in his safety
deposit box. But if the burglars knew genuine copies existed, how
would they know he hadn’t made spares? All part of a grand and
cosmic plan, right? Then again, maybe not. He gulped. This was
treacherous territory.

“You and I have a synergy, a symbiosis,”
Bannister continued. “When this resolution comes up for a hearing,
the victims of injustice need you to speak, since you’re the
documenter of the misdeeds we seek to rectify.” Not hearing an
objection, Bannister forged ahead. “This goes beyond Forsyth
County, of course. But Forsyth is the epicenter, the epitome, the …
worst-case scenario
, if you will, of so many of the evils
that have befallen us on our road to equality. So, may I count on
your testimony at the hearings? It would give you an excellent
opportunity to promote your book, of course.”

What choice did Charlie have? “Of
course.”

“Excellent. I have a good feeling about this.
I think your work, and your presence—after all the trials and
tribulations you’ve gone through, will be … nothing short of
providential. Very well, Mr. Sherman—Charles. Do you have any
questions?”

The questions Charlie had were ones he
couldn’t ask:
Will I have to testify under oath? And what is the
penalty for perjury
? “No.”

“So you’ll be there with those records.”