Gray Mountain (7 page)

“So why do these guys hate your guts?”

“Because they believe strip-mining is a good thing. It provides jobs, and there are few jobs around here. They’re not bad people, they’re just misinformed and misguided. Mountaintop removal is killing our communities. It has single-handedly wiped out tens of thousands of jobs. People are forced to leave their homes because of blasting, dust, sludge, and flooding. The roads aren’t safe because of these massive trucks flying down the mountains. I filed five wrongful death cases in the past five years, folks crushed by trucks carrying ninety tons of coal. Many towns have simply vanished.
The coal companies often buy up surrounding homes and tear them down. Every county in coal country has lost population in the past twenty years. Yet a lot of people, including those three gentlemen over there, think that a few jobs are better than none.”

“If they are gentlemen, then why do you carry a gun?”

“Because certain coal companies have been known to hire thugs. It’s intimidation, or worse, and it’s nothing new. Look, Samantha, I’m a son of the coal country, a hillbilly and a proud one, and I could tell you stories for hours about the bloody history of Big Coal.”

“Do you really fear for your life?”

He paused and looked away for a second. “There were a thousand murders in New York City last year. Did you fear for your life?”

“Not really.”

He smiled and nodded and said, “Same here. We had three murders last year, all related to meth. You just have to be careful.” A phone vibrated in his pocket and he yanked it out. He read the text, then said, “It’s Mattie. She’s out of court, back at the office and ready to see you.”

“Wait, how did she know I would be with you?”

“It’s a small town, Samantha.”

T
hey walked along the sidewalk until they came to his office where they shook hands. She thanked him for his pro bono work as her attorney and complimented him on a job well done. And if she decided to hang around the town for a few months, they promised to do lunch at the Brady Grill someday.

It was almost 5:00 p.m. when she hustled across the street, jaywalking and half expecting to be arrested for it. She glanced to the west, where the mountains were already blocking the late afternoon sun. The shadows consumed the town and gave it the feel of early winter. A bell clinked on the door when she entered the cluttered front room of the legal aid clinic. A busy desk indicated that someone was usually there to answer the phone and greet the clients, but for the moment the reception area was empty. She looked around, waited, took in the surroundings. The office layout was simple—a narrow hall ran straight down the middle of what had been for decades the busy domain of the town’s hardware store. Everything had the look and feel of being old and well used. The walls were whitewashed partitions that did not quite make it all the way to the copper-tiled ceiling. The floors were covered with thin, ragged carpet. The furniture, at least in the reception, was a mismatched collection of flea market leftovers. The walls, though, were exhibiting an interesting collection of oils and pastels by local artists, all for sale at very reasonable prices.

The artwork. The prior year the equity partners at Scully & Pershing had gone to war over a designer’s proposal to spend $2 million on some baffling avant-garde paintings to be hung in the firm’s main foyer. The designer was ultimately fired, the paintings forgotten, and the money split into bonuses.

Halfway down the hall a door opened, and a short, slightly stocky woman in bare feet stepped out. “I take it you’re Samantha,” she said, walking toward her. “I’m Mattie Wyatt. I understand you’ve had a rather rude welcome to Noland County. I’m so sorry.”

“Nice to meet you,” Samantha said as she stared at the bright pink and square reading glasses perched on the end of Mattie’s nose. The pink of her glasses matched the pink tips of her hair, which was short, spiked, and dyed a severe white. It was a look Samantha had never seen before, but one that was working, here at least. Of course, she had seen looks far funkier in Manhattan, but never on a lawyer.

“In here,” Mattie said as she waved at her office. Once inside, she closed the door and said, “I guess that nut Romey will have to hurt someone before the sheriff does anything. I’m very sorry. Have a seat.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine, and now I have a story that I’m sure I’ll tell for many years.”

“Indeed you will, and if you hang around here, you’ll collect a lot of stories. Would you like some coffee?” She fell into a rocking chair behind a desk that seemed perfectly organized.

“No thanks. I just had coffee with your nephew.”

“Yes, of course. I’m so glad you met Donovan. He’s one of the bright spots around here. I practically raised him, you know. Tragic family and all. He’s thoroughly committed to his work and rather pleasant to look at, don’t you think?”

“He’s nice,” Samantha said cautiously, unwilling to comment on his looks and determined to stay away from his family’s tragedy.

“Anyway, here’s where we are. I’m supposed to meet another castaway from Wall Street tomorrow and that’s it. I don’t have a lot of time to spend interviewing, you know. I got four more e-mails today and I’ve stopped answering them. I’ll check out
this guy tomorrow and then our board will meet and pick the winner.”

“Okay. Who’s on the board?”

“It’s basically just Donovan and me. Annette is another lawyer here and she would be invited to the interviews but she’s out of town. We work pretty quick, not a lot of red tape. If we decide to go with you, when can you start?”

“I don’t know. Things are happening pretty fast.”

“I thought you weren’t that busy these days.”

“True. I guess I could start sooner rather than later, but I would like a day or two to think about it,” Samantha said, trying to relax in a stiff wooden chair that tilted when she breathed. “I’m just not sure—”

“Okay, that’s fine. It’s not like a new intern will make a big difference around here. We’ve had them before, you know. In fact, we had a full-blown fellow for two years a while back, a kid from the coalfields who went to law school at Stanford then hired on with a big firm in Philadelphia.”

“What did he do here?”

“She. Evelyn, and she worked with black lung and mine safety. A hard worker, and very bright, but then she was gone after two years and left us with a bunch of open files. Wonder if she’s on the streets these days. Must be awful up there.”

“It is. Pardon me for saying so, Ms. Wyatt, but—”

“It’s Mattie.”

“Okay, Mattie, but you don’t seem too thrilled at the idea of an intern.”

“Oh, forgive me. I’m sorry. No, actually we need all the help we can get. As I told you on the phone, there’s no shortage of poor folks with legal problems around here. These people can’t afford lawyers. Unemployment is high, meth use is even higher, and the coal companies are brilliant when it comes to finding new ways to screw people. Believe me, dear, we need all the help we can get.”

“What will I be doing?”

“Everything from answering the phone to opening the mail
to filing federal lawsuits. Your résumé says you’re licensed in both Virginia and New York.”

“I clerked for a judge in D.C. after law school and passed the Virginia bar exam.”

“Have you seen the inside of a courtroom in the past three years?”

“No.”

Mattie hesitated for a second, as if this might be a deal breaker. “Well, I guess you’re lucky in one sense. Don’t suppose you’ve been to jail either?”

“Not since this afternoon.”

“Oh, right. Again, sorry about that. You’ll catch on quick. What type of work were you doing in New York?”

Samantha took a deep breath and thought of ways to truthfully duck the question. Invention failed her and she said, “I was in commercial real estate, pretty boring stuff actually. Incredibly boring. We represented a bunch of unpleasant rich guys who build tall buildings up and down the East Coast, primarily in New York. As a mid-level associate I normally spent my time reviewing financing agreements with banks, thick contracts that had to be prepared and proofread by someone.”

Just above the pink and square frames, Mattie’s eyes offered a look of pure pity. “Sounds awful.”

“It was, still is, I guess.”

“Are you relieved to be away from that?”

“I don’t know how I feel, Mattie, to be honest. A month ago I was scrambling along in the rat race, elbowing others and getting elbowed myself, racing toward something, I can’t even remember what it was. There were dark clouds out there but we were too busy to notice. Then Lehman went under, and for two weeks I was afraid of my shadow. We worked even harder, hoping that someone might notice, hoping that a hundred hours a week might save us where ninety hours would not. Suddenly it was over, and we were tossed into the street. No severance, nothing. Nothing but a few promises that I doubt anyone can keep.”

Mattie looked as if she might cry. “Would you go back?”

“I don’t know right now. I don’t think so. I didn’t like the work, didn’t like most of the people in the firm, and certainly didn’t like the clients. Sadly, most of the lawyers I know feel the same way.”

“Well, dear, here at the Mountain Legal Aid Clinic, we love our clients and they love us.”

“I’m sure they’re much nicer than the ones I dealt with.”

Mattie glanced at her watch, a bright yellow dial strapped to her wrist with green vinyl, and said, “What are your plans for the evening?”

Samantha shrugged and shook her head. “Haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Well, you certainly can’t drive back to Washington tonight.”

“Does Romey work the night shift? Are the roads safe?”

Mattie chuckled and said, “The roads are treacherous. You can’t go. Let’s start with dinner and then we’ll go from there.”

“No, seriously, I can’t—”

“Nonsense. Samantha, you’re in Appalachia now, deep in the mountains, and we do not turn visitors away at dinnertime. My house is just around the corner and my husband is an excellent cook. Let’s have a drink on the porch and talk about stuff. I’ll tell you everything you need to know about Brady.”

Mattie found her shoes and locked up the office. She said the Prius was safe where it was parked, on Main Street. “I walk to work,” Mattie said. “About my only exercise.” The shops and offices were closed. The two cafés were serving an early dinner to thin crowds. They trudged up the side of a hill, passing kids on the sidewalk and neighbors on porches. After two blocks they turned onto Third Street, a leafy row of turn-of-the-century, neat, redbrick homes, almost all identical with white porches and gabled roofs. Samantha wanted to hit the road, to hurry back toward Abingdon where she had noticed several chain motels at the interchange. But there was no way to gracefully say no to Mattie’s hospitality.

Chester Wyatt was in a rocking chair reading a newspaper
when he was introduced to Samantha. “I told her you are an excellent cook,” Mattie said.

“I guess that means I’m cooking dinner,” he said with a grin. “Welcome.”

“And she’s starving,” Mattie said.

“What would you like?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Samantha said.

Mattie said, “What about baked chicken with Spanish rice?”

“Just what I was thinking,” Chester said. “A glass of wine first?”

They drank red wine for an hour as darkness settled around them. Samantha sipped slowly, careful not to have too much because she was worrying about her drive out of Noland County. There appeared to be no hotels or motels in Brady, and given the town’s declining appearance she doubted there was a suitable room anywhere. As they talked, she politely probed here and there, and learned that the Wyatts had two adult children who had fled the area after college. There were three grandchildren they rarely saw. Donovan was like a son. Chester was a retired postal worker who had delivered rural mail for decades and knew everyone. Now he volunteered for an environmental group that monitored strip-mining and filed complaints with a dozen bureaucracies. His father and grandfather had been coal miners. Mattie’s father had worked the deep mines for almost thirty years before dying of black lung at the age of sixty-one. “I’m sixty-one now,” she said. “It was horrible.”

While the women sat and talked, Chester eased back and forth to the kitchen, checking on the chicken and pouring wine. Once, when he was gone, Mattie said, “Don’t worry, dear, we have an extra bedroom.”

“No, really, I—”

“Please, I insist. There’s not a decent room in town, believe me. A couple of hot-sheets joints that charge by the hour, but even they’re about to close. A sad commentary, I suppose. Folks used to sneak off to the motel for illicit sex; now they just move in together and play house.”

“So there is sex around here?” Samantha asked.

“I should hope so. My mother had seven kids, Chester’s had six. There’s not much else to do. And this time of the year, September and October, they’re popping out like rabbits.”

“Why?”

“Big storm just after Christmas.”

Chester stepped through the screen door and asked, “What are we talking about?”

“Sex,” Mattie said. “Samantha’s surprised that folks have sex around here.”

“Some of them do,” he said.

“So I’ve heard,” Mattie shot back with a grin.

“I didn’t bring up sex,” Samantha said defensively. “Mattie mentioned an extra bedroom for the night.”

“Yes, and it’s all yours. Just keep your door locked and we’ll stay out of trouble,” Chester said as he disappeared into the house.

“He’s harmless, believe me,” Mattie whispered.

Donovan arrived to say hello and thankfully missed that part of the conversation. He lived “on a mountain out in the country” and was on his way home from the office. He declined an offer of wine and left after fifteen minutes. He seemed distracted and said he was tired.

“Poor thing,” Mattie said when he was gone. “He and his wife have separated. She moved back to Roanoke with their daughter, a five-year-old who’s about the cutest thing you’ll ever see. His wife, Judy, never adjusted to life here in the mountains and just got fed up. I don’t feel good about them, do you Chester?”