The Stones Cry Out (28 page)

Later that afternoon I stood on the east side of Church Hill, staring at the taupe-colored bluff whose soil was used to bury the garbage. Somewhere above it a dog was barking. It was a hoarse and monotonous warning, the distress signal of an animal facing constant threat. When I stepped to the chain link fence surrounding the landfill, a sickly sweet scent wafted through the humid air. Seagulls perched on the waste, pecking open plastic trash bags.

Minutes later Harrison Fielding zoomed down P Street in a black BMW. He parked two feet from the crumbling curb, careful to keep his alloy wheels from the broken glass that sprayed across the pavement like petrified tears. DeMott drove up behind him in a rattletrap Ford truck, climbing out as his father walked to the locked gate, flicking keys from a leather pouch. He popped the chambers of three massive Schlage padlocks and turned to his son.

"DeMott.”

Pulling the heavy chains through the diamond-shaped fencing, DeMott lifted the gate and slid it open. The steel wheels chattered across the pebbly concrete. The texture told me the cement was poured quickly and had set improperly.

Rather than step into the yard, Fielding waited for the cargo van coming down the road. It needed a muffler and rumbled as it made a difficult turn around the Beemer, parking in the landfill entrance. A large black man climbed out.

"This is Al Gibson," Fielding said, finally acknowledging my presence. "Al manages the landfill."

I shook the man’s hand. His palm was like a chunk of riprap rock.

"Are you out here often?" I asked.

He pointed to a wooden shack just inside the gate. “Right there. Every day.”

The shed-like building was painted blaze orange, perhaps so it didn’t get buried in the garbage forming a mound beyond it. One window looked out at the refuse and the bluff.

"Do you happen to keep track of the deliveries?" I asked.

Al Gibson glanced at his boss. Fielding nodded, giving permission.

"I got notes on who comes in and out,” he said.

“I’d like to see that,” I said.

Fielding said, “I still don’t see the point, Raleigh.”

I kept my eyes on Gibson. "When the landfill is closed, like it was earlier today, how do people get in?"

"They don't," Fielding snapped. “You must be blind not to see the gate was locked."

"Mr. Gibson?" I said.

He glanced once more at his boss and shifted his substantial weight from foot to foot.

"Answer her," Fielding said.

"We got some homeless folks living on the bluff.” He pointed to the top, where the dog was still barking. "I think they come down at night. I called the police about it, Mister Fielding. I did."

But Harrison Fielding was already walking away, striding toward his sports car. "I can find better ways to waste my time. DeMott, Al, you can take care of this.”

As Fielding sped away, Al Gibson headed for the shack, unlocking the door. Behind him the seagulls swooped and cawed, carrying debris in their talons.

I had borrowed Wally's apple green Duster – no way would I expose the Benz to this stench -- and when I walked over to it, DeMott followed me. The trunk was so rusted the street was visible through the bottom. I took my equipment from the Rubbermaid bin, too large to fall through the hole, stuffing film canisters into a hip pouch, strapping a Nikon around my neck.

“What’s all that for?” DeMott asked.

“Soil samples.”

“Why do you need soil?”

“I can’t say.”

"I told him to open this dump.”

I nodded. But right now I was skating on paper-thin ice, working while suspended. DeMott’s presence would only make things worse later. If they could get worse.

“Don’t take it personally. Please.”

I closed the trunk. DeMott followed me to the wooden shack. A sign on the door said, "Wipe Your Feet." Inside the tiny space Al Gibson sat on a stool, staring out the window. The scavenging birds circled the heaps, calling out.

"When I’m finished, I'd like to look at that log of deliveries.”

He nodded.

Closing the door, I watched the seagulls swooping and swirling through the moist stench. They seemed to enjoy the filth.

“What now?” DeMott asked.

"I’m fine,” I said. “Really. You can go now.”

"That's all right.” He shrugged. “I'll just hang around, in case you need something."

"Your father told you to stick to me?"

He nodded. "Like glue.”

===============

After taking some soil samples and photographing both the landfill and the log book – knowing that Harrison Fielding would never release the records to me – I drove Wally’s Duster to the opposite end of town.

While Monument Avenue was considered a prestigious address, Windsor Farms topped it. Named after the British royal family, Windsor Farms was launched in 1926 as an exclusive enclave for Richmond’s wealthiest families. To anchor its reputation, the developer imported two historic English manors, Agecroft Hall and Virginia House. The centuries-old homes were tugged across the Atlantic board-by-board and rebuilt along the neighborhood’s curving roads. I passed Canterbury and Dover and came to a stop at a Tudor house on Berkshire. The Duster made it look like I’d come for some breaking-and-entering.

But I came to see Martin Thalborough.

I was introducing myself to the elderly woman who answered the door when an equally old man appeared behind her. He was taller by a foot with long white hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the curved back of a dedicated book reader.

"What's that she’s saying?" he asked her loudly.

"She wants to talk to you," the woman said, even louder. "Something to do with city council."

He lifted his chin, gazing at me through his trifocals. He then dropped his chin taking in the long-distance view over my shoulder.

The Duster.

"It's a loaner," I said.

"Looks more like a burden,” he said. “What's your business, young lady?"

"I wanted to talk to you about your vote on the P Street Landfill."

Now his gaze was dead-straight. "Who you work for?"

Oh, boy.

"Right now I'm working for a private enterprise," I said, “but I’m concerned about how quickly that landfill was pushed through council. Frankly, sir, something just doesn't seem right."

“Mama,” he told the woman. “We'll be in the study. Bring tea."

===============

Norman Thalbrough's study was paneled in dark oak. Book-burdened shelves ran from the sloping ceiling to the floor covered with worn Persian rugs. Two reading chairs with footstools were set next to the windows that looked out at the back garden. A literary cave. It made me want to curl up for a decade and read every word.

"You're not with the newspaper, are you?" He gestured for me to take the other arm chair.

"No, sir, not with the newspaper."

"Good. Because I probably wouldn't talk to you. When this whole mess started I called that newsroom. I told them this landfill stunk -- pun intended. But something’s wrong with journalism these days. The reporters don’t investigate anymore. They have their minds made up and then go find the facts that fit. They don’t listen to me because I represent ‘rich folks.’ Bunch of confused Bolsheviks down there."

His wife shuffled through the curved doorway, carrying glasses of iced tea. Fresh mint sprigs poked from the glasses.

He thanked her and snapped the green sprig, chewing it before settling back in his chair. “Your serve, young lady.”

I told him about my visit to city hall and the landfill this afternoon. "I read the records. Lots of anonymous complaints. But nobody showed up to speak against it."

"Right."

"And it went through council fast."

"Also right." He sipped his tea. He had long fingers with big knuckles. "It went fast because nobody showed up to complain. So the proposal sailed through to a vote."

"But you voted against it.”

"Sure did. And in the beginning of this, the black votes on the council agreed with me. It wasn't like they were putting in a manufacturing plant, employing people. Just the opposite. Nobody wants to work or live near a garbage dump, do they?”

He waited, as if that wasn’t a rhetorical question. Maybe because of the Duster.

“No,” I said. “The stench alone would drive them away."

"You know who runs that district?"

"LuLu Mendant. The mayor."

"Another thing that needs changing. Soon.”

“You want Mendant out?”

“Yes, but it won’t happen.” He waved his big hand, as if saying good-bye. “The man will die in office. They won’t vote him out. What we need to change is a mayor who's also a city council member. He’s got too much power. We don’t have enough checks and balances on him. Not unless we’re talking about the bank’s checks and balances."

“Are you implying something?”

He sipped his iced tea, watching me over the rim. But he didn’t reply.

“You said the black votes were with you, initially. What happened?”

"What else? The mayor got a hold of them. Every last one of them. The mayor gave his marching orders. Told them how much money would come into the city each year. And best of all, the money came from raising taxes on the West End. Class envy. Charge the rich white folks for picking up their garbage. I kept saying they’re still dumping it on land where black people live. But the Mayor’s parrots lined up. And the newspaper squawked just like them. Said I was just mad about higher taxes on the West End. Bunch of malarkey. The whole thing stinks, stinks like parrot poop, you don’t mind my saying."

I liked him. I liked him a lot. But I hesitated to say the next thing. He didn’t seem like someone who wanted words put in his mouth. “Sir, back to the checks and balances comment. Are you suggesting that payments were made, beyond the usual permitting fees?"

He waited. “Like what?”

“Like bribes.”

"I'm not suggesting that.”

"Oh."

"I'm flat-out telling you. Same as I told the newspaper. Somebody’s greasing palms on this thing. There's no other explanation."

"The entire council was paid off?"

“No. Didn’t need to.”

“How so?”

“Simple, really. The mayor showed them how much money they could pump into their districts. Fund all their pet programs with the revenues. They’d look like heroes.”

“That’s it?”

“You’re talking about politicians. It doesn’t need to be complicated. In fact, most politicians aren’t that different from spoiled brats. They wait until nobody’s watching then rob the candy store.”

That night seagulls flew into my dreams. The birds gusted up drafts of warm air, hovering over my head. Their feathers were dirty and gray. Plunging into the piles of garbage, they tore open the plastic bags and rose again. I raised a hand, shielding my eyes from the blinding sun. Somebody began knocking, knocking on a door.

I turned around, searching for the sound. The wooden shack was there and through the window I saw a man standing inside. It wasn’t Al Gibson. This man was white. Older. Yet somehow familiar. And he was pointing at the sky. Through the glass I could see his mouth moving, saying something I couldn’t hear.

Look
.

Look,
he said.
Look at the birds
.

I stepped closer, trying to see his face. His eyes. They were blue. Like tourmaline.

"Dad?" I said. "What are you doing here?"

But he only pointed at the sky.
Raleigh, look at the birds!

I turned around. The seagulls swarmed the garbage and needled their sharp beaks into the torn bags like savages. Then one by one the birds flew away and in a split second the sun dropped. I could see each seagull clearly now. And I could see the things clutched in their greedy beaks. Things gripped tightly in their filthy talons.

Things I did not want to see.

I turned around, gagging, but my father shook his head.

He pointed at the sky.

Look
.

The birds kept circling, turning an endless loop of gray against the lapis sky. One bird following another and another, circling back, tracing out the shape of a figure eight that was laid on its side. It was the symbol for infinity. Eternity.

"Raleigh."

I turned around. The shack was empty. "Dad?"

"Raleigh Ann, it's me."

"Dad, where are you?"

Standing outside the shack, I was turning my own circle, searching for him. But all that remained was the garbage, and the peculiar taupe soil in the bluff. And the birds marking out infinity over my head.

"Raleigh Ann, wake up."

I opened my eyes.

My mother was leaning over me, her face so close that her necklace dangled near my eyes.