This is a chapter of the book I am writing for NaNoWriMo. If you want to read it from the start, click here for the chapter index.
The Byrd Rule
The Byrd Rule is a senate rule allowing senators to block bills that would significantly increase the US budget deficit for a period longer than 10 years. In practice this means any legislation the GAO projects will have a negative impact on the deficit for longer than 10 years is going to get blocked by the senate.
George Bush was elected President in 2000 based, at least in part, on his promise to ease the tax burden on middle-class Americans. In 2001 he signed the first of two bills aimed to deliver on that promise and colloquially known as the “Bush Tax Cuts.” Due to the Byrd rule, these tax cuts expired in early 2010.
In response to public demand, Barack Obama reinstituted the cuts, with minor changes, at the end of 2010 with his “Tax Relief, Unemployment Insurance Reauthorization, and Job Creation Act,” extending them for an additional two years, then made a compromise bill permanent in 2012 with the “American Taxpayer Relief Act.”
Buried in the 1,500 legalise of the Bush cuts were changes to the inheritance tax provisions. These changes expired at the beginning of 2010 and were modified and reinstated again starting January 1, 2011 under Obama.
That left 2010 a particularly unique year where the inheritance tax no longer existed.
Jon Langston was a practical man. While inwardly grieving and unsure of himself contemplating his father’s rapidly approaching death, he still was conscious of the financial consequences. He met with his estate planner, Jeff Albertson, who was graduate of Harvard Law as well as a CPA, to find out how the estate would move forward after Dick’s death.
“Well, while none of us want to see Mr. Langston pass, if any person of means could choose the year of their death, this would be it” the Albertson said.
It was October 15 and Langston was pretty sure his father could not live out the year. He wasn’t sure he could live out the month. But Dick Langston was not to be underestimated. Jon had seen others do that many times before. He had a tenacity allowing him to often beat the odds. Jon mentally noted he might have to call Mr. Black into duty come December, if it came to it.
During their meeting, Langston felt the vibration of the second phone in his pocket. He didn’t bother to check who was calling.
“I need to take this,” he said to Albertson. “Give me the room.”
It was a command, not a request and Albertson felt a bristle of anger shoot through him. He showed no visible emotion as he rose from his desk and exited his office.
“Mr. Black,” Langston answered, trying to sound calm and authoritative. He was anxious. Tab Carter scared him, possibly more than the predicament he currently found himself in with the preacher.
“You need to get Reeves out on bail. Arraignment is this afternoon, Roy White is his attorney.”
Langston started, “Now just a minute….” but Black had already disconnected.
Langston gave himself a second to catch his breath and get his emotions under control. He returned his burner to his pocket, noticing the slight tremble in his hand. He exited the office and through the lobby, not sharing a glance or a word as he passed Albertson.
He climbed in his black Mercedes and pulled out his “legal” phone, telling Siri to call Jack Thorton’s private number.
“Mr. Langston, what can I do for you today?” Thornton had a measured, pleasant tone.
“Tell me how I can get Reeves out on bail today without anyone knowing it’s me.”
“Certainly, Jon. I already looked at the docket. He should be arraigned this afternoon on the charge of murdering a deputy. The bail could be up to $2 million, maybe more.”
“Shit.” That was a lot of money. Langston felt his was already spending far too much on this debacle and this was many times what he was willing to part with. He also didn’t have $2 million laying around he could just access unnoticed.
“Of course,” added Thornton, “if Reeves never made it to trial, any money you put up for bail would be returned to you by the court.”
Langston was processing how he could access that kind of money. He had about $250,000.00 in his secret “rainy day” fund, syphoned off slowly over the years. He was pretty sure Dick didn’t even know about it.
“I’m not sure I can come up with $2 million on short notice without drawing unwanted attention. Attention neither of us wants,” replied Langston.
“Well, he will probably be given cash or bond. You can do a $2 million bond for $200,000.00, but even if there is no trial, the bondsman will keep it for his fee. You’ll never see it again, no matter what.”
Well, fuck, thought Langston.
“Let me make some calls and see what I can put together quietly. I’ll call you back. His attorney is Roy White. Is he someone we can work with?”
“I don’t know him, but I checked up on him already. He’s a small town criminal attorney. Pleads out almost all of his cases. He hasn’t been in front of a jury this year. One thing about criminal attorneys, they are all a little bit criminal themselves. I’m sure we can get him to work with us.”
“What about the Judge? Can we get to him?”
“Judge White is up for reelection and this case is making state headlines, maybe national. We’ll have limited influence unless we give him something big.”
“OK, well Jack, play through the angles. I’ll call you back soon once I figure out how to put together some money.”
“Jon, we’ve got this. It’s all just details,” replied Thornton.
“We better” replied Langston, disconnecting.
Jon started the Mercedes and began the drive back to Langston Farms. He drove without thought through the beautiful hills and painted fall trees. His mind was processing how to put together the money he needed. When he arrived, he didn’t respond to Mary’s greeting and retreated to his office, closing the door behind him.
This is a chapter of the book I am writing for NaNoWriMo. If you want to read it from the start, click here for the chapter index.
J.W. was still struggling for breath, his eyes painfully swollen shut, when the CO pulled him to his feet. Tears streamed down his face, both from the spray and from the emotion.
“You shoulda let him have your tray. You got a lot to learn, Fish.” The COs words came out of the sightless darkness. “Still, I gotta give it to ya, you’re scrappy.”
J.W. was pushed along. He heard the sound of a metal door being unlocked. He was pushed inside and stumbled, falling forward. With his hands bound behind his back, his face smashed to the concrete. It hurt more than the one punch Harriman was able to land.
The pain overwhelmed him and he could feel the metallic taste of vomit rise in the back of his mouth. Rolling to his side, he wretched on the floor.
He heard the door clam behind him, the clang of the lock being set and the slot in the door open. “Stand up and back to the door so I can uncuff you.”
J.W. still seared with disorienting pain. He did not move.
“Get up, mother fucker, if I have to come back in there, you’ll regret it.”
J.W. struggled first to his knees and then stood, almost falling again as he backed toward what he thought was the door. His eyes were still unavailable. He backed up to a wall.
“Move to your right, shit head.”
Feeling the wall with his fingers, he moved right until he felt the doorframe and then the slot. He placed his hands through.
“I knew you were trouble, you son’a bitch.” said the faceless CO as he uncuffed him.
As soon as the cuffs were removed, J.W. immediately reached for his eyes. The tears had washed some of the spray away and he was able to breath more easily. He fell to his knees, then to the floor in a fetal huddle. His tears were now more emotion than pepper spray.
“Lord, please God help me.” was the only prayer his mind could form, and he kept repeating it under his breath in the darkness as he sobbed. He spent the next hour in an emotional haze, praying, crying.
After an hour he was spent, he lay there, still motionless on the floor, but quiet. Another hour passed in silence. He eyes stung less and the swelling had subsided. He could see some light under the door, but the room was dark. His head hurt. His hands ached.
The fragment of light at least allowed him to see the toilet and sink. He pulled himself up and moved there. He turned on the cold water and realized just how painful and swollen his hands were. He winced as he turned on the water.
He cleaned off the pepper spray by splashing cold water into his face. The coolness allowed his eyes to finally stop burning. Through the tiny light, he could see the bunk. He moved over to it and sat.
He began to think about all that had transpired over the last several days. Tom. Tom was dead? How could Tom be dead. What will happen to Rachel and the girls. How was this possible?
How could they think he would kill anyone? Is Suze OK? How is Claire?
He wondered what Suze had been told, if she were safe. He wondered what the congregation thought. He bowed his head.
Lord, I know you have a plan for me, but I am completely out of hope. Please Lord, help me see your hand. Give me hope. Show me something to help me get through this. Help Suze. Help Mom and Dad. Protect them all. Please, God, protect me.
Lord, I’m scared. I don’t understand. You promised you would always be with us, protect us. You know I have been wholehearted in my ministry. I would do anything you ask, no matter the personal cost. Please God, give me hope. Somehow let me know you’re in control. Somehow give me some hope.
The pain, the grief, the fear left J.W. without courage. It tested his faith in ways nothing ever had before.
My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? Why so far from saving me?
The opening words of Psalm 22 were heartfelt today as he spoke them. They were words Jesus also spoke from the cross. A plea for understanding, for help, for hope.
Praying the words, however, reminded J.W. the Psalm doesn’t end there. It goes on. He had memorized it years before and it came back to him now:
1 My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me,
so far from my cries of anguish?
2 My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer,
by night, but I find no rest.
3 Yet you are enthroned as the Holy One;
you are the one Israel praises.
4 In you our ancestors put their trust;
they trusted and you delivered them.
5 To you they cried out and were saved;
in you they trusted and were not put to shame.
J.W. found this comforting. If Jesus felt this way yet God was still in control, still had a plan, then God still had a plan for him as well. It gave him a tinge of hope as he prayed.
Lord, thank you for bringing this to mind. You are enthroned as the Holy One and I put my trust in you. You have not denied me nor my loved ones. When Moses, David, Paul put their trust in you, they were never put to shame.
I can rely on you. Thank you Lord for being with me.
The prayer brought him comfort, despite the pain and grief.
J.W. spread himself on the bed and collapsed into an exhausted sleep.
This is a chapter of the book I am writing for NaNoWriMo. If you want to read it from the start, click here for the chapter index.
5 Trays, 5 Days
Sunday night lights out were at 10pm. For J.W. it couldn’t come soon enough. It took all of his emotional strength just to keep from becoming a wailing, crying mess. He spread out his matt on the floor, pulled his single blanket over his orange jumpsuit and closed his eyes. Tater could hear him sobbing in the darkness. They all did the first night.
At night, jail is loud. Even without his anxiety and despair, J.W. wouldn’t have been able to sleep. Tonight the White County Jail housed 23 inmates, J.W. was sure all 23 either snored. Or talked and laughed. Most of them played cards or chess all night.
By 4am the talking had stopped and, though the snoring continued, J.W. finally collapsed into a dreamless sleep. The lights came on one hour later, with the sound of an air horn.
J.W. stirred, but wasn’t quick to sit up. He was exhausted and his body hurt from sleeping on the concrete, his matt not withstanding. Tater and the others in his cell sat up on their cots. A corrections officer came by and unlocked the cell.
“Better get your ass up, ‘Preacher’, head count and breakfast in 10 minutes. You miss it, you don’t eat.” His voice was snide.
J.W. willed himself to sit up. He was just again realizing this wasn’t all a dream, he was in jail.
“Come on,” encouraged Tater, pulling on his jumpsuit. “We gots to line up.” Tater appeared to be the only one of the four who even noticed J.W.
J.W. craned himself up from the floor, almost trampled by the other four in the attempt. A line formed at the heavy metal door. He hadn’t noticed last night the wide, three inch tall slot at the bottom where trays of food were pushed through as each inmate bent to retrieve in turn. J.W. was fifth to last in line.
As each tray was dispensed the inmate would then go to one of the metal picnic tables in the common room to eat. There were three, each able to accommodate six.
J.W. still in shock, shuffled forward, head down, as the line moved.
When his turn came, he bent and retrieved his tray, then looked for a table with an empty space to sit. The tables were full and J.W. was a bit relieved. He didn’t want to deal with anyone anyway. He picked a spot against the wall, and sat, “indian-style”, feeling the cold concrete block against his back. He balanced the tray on his lap.
The meal was simple. There were two pieces of bread, glued together with a thin layer of peanut butter and jelly, warm oatmeal and a child-sized carton of milk. It also boasted a tiny plastic spoon.
As J.W. looked at the tray, his shock left him motionless. The confusion of fear and disbelief caused his mind to race while it struggled to even complete the simple task of reaching for the sandwich, opening his milk or even lifting the spoon for his oats. He just stared at the heavy plastic tray.
People often talk about “fight or flight,” but there is another response to being in a position where true, deadly fear grips men’s minds: Freeze. J.W. was frozen in the catatonic grip of his fear.
As he sat there motionless, expressionless, one of the larger inmates, approached. J.W. didn’t notice him until he spoke.
“Five days, five trays, Fish.” Dakota Harriman was a full six-feet three inches tall and his steroid enhanced physique weighed in over 250 pounds. Though J.W. was a full six feet himself, huddled on the floor Dakota loomed over him.
“What?” muttered J.W., looking up at the hulking figure.
“Five trays, five days. You give me five of your trays over the next five days. Damn, Fish, you retarded or somethin’?” Harriman’s frame required far more calories than the jail provided. He “supplemented” his meals by intimidating other inmates.
The threat caused J.W. to break through the haze of his mind. Holding the tray, he stood slowly to his feet.
To Harriman, J.W. didn’t appear too threatening. He had a slim build and Harriman sized him up as someone who didn’t pose a threat. As J.W. stood, Harriman crossed his arms in front of his massive chest. He expected J.W. to simply hand him the tray. They all did.
J.W. said nothing, and held the tray in front of himself with both hands. He looked at Harriman.
Harriman, unfolded his right arm and reached out to take hold of the tray.
J.W. felt a surge of rage and adrenaline. Before Harriman touched the tray, J.W. snatched it back and swung it at the big man’s face, the edge hitting him on the bridge of his nose, breaking both.
The big man stumbled back, dazed by the impact. Before he could react, J.W. tackled him and they both fell to the concrete floor, J.W. landing on top of Harriman.
J.W.’s rage-fueled attack was not strategic, it was embodied anger. He straddled Harriman’s abdomen and kept hitting him in the face, while Harriman alternately struggled to cover his face with one hand while trying to push J.W. off him.
The original strike had opened a significant gash across his nose, and now his eyes were a mess of blood and oats.
The other inmates, always hoping for the entertainment of a fight, rushed over. The COs were less speedy. They also enjoyed watching the fights, at least as long as there wasn’t serious injury. If an inmate had to be transported to the hospital, that meant more paperwork. They did everything they could to avoid paperwork.
Within a minute, which in a fight seems a long time, the guards sounded a siren, and three COs rushed into the common area to break up the fight. The inmates all dropped to the floor, lying face down, fingers threaded behind their heads.
J.W. was still swinging wildly, but Harriman had managed to sit up, parrying the blows and pushing J.W. off him. Harriman returned one punch, an overhand right, that knocked the kneeling J.W. to the floor. It was fortunate for J.W. Harriman was still seated when he swung and not able to hit him properly – Harriman could easily punch a man unconscious.
Harriman climbed on top of J.W. now, “I’m gonna kill you you fuckin’ son of a bitch. You’re a dead man.” He pulled back his massive right fist to deliver another blow.
That’s when both men were hit with the pepper spray from the guards. Harriman had experienced this before. The guards feared him. His size and strength were intimidating, and the COs didn’t carry guns. The plan with Harriman was always to spray him first, then subdue him.
Harriman reached up to rub his burning eyes, compounding his pain. He struggled for breath. While he was disoriented, two of the officers threw him to the concrete and cuffed his massive arms behind his back.
A third officer sprayed J.W. directly in the face before roughly rolling him over on his face, straddling his back as he cuffed him. J.W.’s eyes seared with pain while his lungs struggled to take breaths.
“Guess the new fish was tougher than Biggun thought,” chuckled one of the guards.
The Most Reverend Harry Reynolds
Bishop Harry Reynolds had grow up in Burlington, Vermont. He attended Asbury in the 70s and had been placed in a key church in Lexington upon his own ordination. His goal had been, from the start, not to be a pastor, but to be Bishop. After 35 years working his way from Associate Pastor, to Pastor, to District Superintendent, he finally achieved his goal.
Rev. Reynolds was a large man with a small heart. He knew how to use people for his own ends and did so deftly. It often took one of his victims years to find they were pawns all along. Being in “ministry” gave him ample opportunity to find the naive who were innocent enough not to question his motives.
“Aggie,” barked Reynolds from the doorway, his 6’2″ 300 pound frame filling the space.
In the United Methodist church, newly ordained ministers in Kentucky are typically assigned to one of two career tracks, though they are never referred to by that term formally. The Bishop and District Superintendents would each take time to meet those to be ordained, supposedly a spiritual examination, but in reality it was more of a personality quiz.
Those initial meetings would give the leaders a good idea of who was fit for the Leadership Track or the Chaplain Track.
If a candidate showed great people skills, spoke well, was intelligent and ambitious, they were selected for the Leadership Track. If a candidate was slower, possibly having poor people skills, he would be subjugated to the Chaplain track.
The chaplain track meant a new minister would be sent to a smaller, rural congregation where he could do baptisms, confirmation classes, weddings, funerals and visit the sick. If one were placed on the chaplain track it meant they put you where you could do the least damage. Chaplains were not “spiritual leaders.”
For those on the “Leadership Track,” there was a different procedure. After seminary, those pastors would be moved into an Associate Pastor position at a larger church. The place the District Superintendent and Bishop agreed new pastors would “learn the ropes” under a successful Senior Pastor.
When it came to J.W., they saw he was an intelligent, driven young man. A man who himself would make a good replacement at a large church for a retiring senior. They had his career all mapped out for him. He was young, good looking, great family, great personal skills and they knew any church he pastored would grow.
They assigned him to Christ United Methodist in Lexington. The Senior Pastor, Walt Campbell, was due to retire in six years. Walt was a dynamic speaker and well known for his humorous stories. Not only had the church swollen during his 20 year tenure, with two large building expansions as well, they had started televising the services and he was now well known all over the state as “Kentucky’s Pastor.”
Replacing him would mean finding the right candidate and giving him several years to become a part of the community, learn to speak well, get to know the congregation. J.W. and his young wife would be welcomed and in just a few years would certainly be a wonderful replacement for Walt.
Once the assignments were made, the group of newly ordained ministers, the District Superintendents and the Bishop would then gather together for a day of prayer and fasting over the assignments. This traditional time was meant to confirm in their own hearts the decisions they made were consistent with the leading for the Holy Spirit.
Reynolds thought the tradition a bit dated and trusted more in his own plans than a “move of the Spirit,” but he paid it lip service nonetheless.
J.W. fasted and prayed over his assignment, as did the other newly ordained pastors. During that 24 hours, he became more and more convinced he wanted to work with the poor, the needy, the people he had seen struggling just to survive in White County. He was reminded of John 14:12 where just before his crucifixion Jesus said:
“…whoever believes in me will do the works I have been doing…”
Christ UMC was the path for J.W. to become an “executive pastor.” Someone who primarily prepares sermons, leads the church through example as well as administration. A public face for a large church. Executive pastors, J.W. knew, weren’t too involved with the individuals. They weren’t out touching the poor one to one. They weren’t involved in the messy lives of the needy. Those tasks were left to associate pastors and paid staff beneath him.
J.W. wanted to do the things Jesus had done, not run a television ministry. He felt a call, much like he had at the Student Union those years ago, to go to a small church. A church where he could do the things Jesus did.
When the day of fasting and prayer was over, each ordinant had a private meeting with all the district superintendents as well as the Bishop. Typically this was more of a “rubber stamp” where the ordinant simply came in and confirmed the decisions already made.
When it came time for J.W. to meet, he was completely convinced Christ UMC is not where the Holy Spirit was leading him.
His voice trembled a bit as he explained. “I believe God is calling me to a smaller, rural church.”
Reynolds was the first to speak. He had experienced this before, a young pastor, maybe lacking confidence, being fearful of going to a “prime” church.
“Now J.W., we believe you can do incredible ministry at Christ. The Lord needs you there.” It was somewhat interesting how Reynold’s desires and God’s always seemed to be the same.
“With all due respect Bishop Reynolds, I know I ‘can’ do good things for the Lord there, but there are many who are willing and able to go to an established church like that and make a difference. I want to go to a place where I can truly work with the people. Get my hands dirty. Do the things, deal with the people, that Jesus did. The poor, the needy. Not everyone is willing to throw themselves into that kind of work.”
Reynolds didn’t feel respected. Who did this young kid think he was speaking to? The men around this table had over 100 years of combined experience. They were Godly men who made this decision. Who was he to question their judgment?
Before the Bishop could answer, DS Carl Willcox, D.Min. spoke up. “We don’t want to hide you under a bushel, J.W. We believe you have tremendous potential for the Lord and that’s the reason we want to send you to Christ.”
Willcox would be J.W.’s DS.
“I don’t know how much potential I have, or don’t have. But sir, if you’re correct, shouldn’t those with the greatest need receive the best possible care?” J.W. was rapidly painting himself into a corner.
Reynolds had enough of this insolence. He seethed inside, though through years of practice he had learned to hide that fact. He spoke in measured tones. “You believe so strongly you need to be at a small rural church you’re willing to stake your ministry career on it? We only want the best for you and for your wife as well as for the church.”
It was a threat not lost on J.W. nor the other district superintendents. Most of the DSs have experienced Reynolds threats before. They may fear God, but many feared Reynolds more.
“I do, Bishop.”
“Fine,” Reynolds responded, “you’re from Silerville and Silerville First is open. we were going to send Harrington, but we can shuffle things around. Be blessed in your ministry there.”
Reynolds managed to say the last without sounding sarcastic, though he certainly was. Sending J.W. to his home town meant he would likely fail. “No prophet has honor.” He would be seen as the kid who grew up there by the older members and as the kid they went to school with by the younger. They would never treat him as a spiritual leader.
Reynolds decided in that moment he would do whatever he could to see J.W. fail.
Early Monday morning, Chief Dalton set out, subpoena in hand, for the Baptist Children’s Home main office in London. He retrieved copies of all the adoption documents then went to the Shoney’s to see what he could find out about J.W.’s mother.
Her name was Romona Farmer, he read, and she had twin boys when she was just 16, no father listed.
As he read, he talked to his coffee.
“Twins, that’s what I thought.”
“Kept one. Need to find out what the name is.”
“Wonder if she still lives in Inez.”
He dialed his cell, calling the White County Clerk.
“Vicky, this is the Chief. Can you look up a DMV record for me? I’m looking for…” and he rattled off Romona’s details.
Vicky called it up from the Commonwealth database, giving the chief her current address and car registration.
“Thanks, Vicky. Tell your mother ‘hey’ for me.” Vicky’s mother and Dalton had gone to school together.
“I will Chief.”
Dalton disconnected, finished his coffee, gathered his papers and set out on the two hour drive to Inez.
Inez, Kentucky has been through many incarnations over the last 200 years.
James Ward first explored the fertile, wooded area surrounding Rockcastle Creek, making it his home, in 1810.* In the 19th century the valleys carved by the snaking waters of the Eastern Kentucky hills were called “bottoms,” so Ward decided the name the area Arminta Ward’s Bottom, as a joke poked at his, Arminta.
In the 19th century Martin County had few opportunities. The land was rugged and roads, if one could call them that, were sparse. The nearby Tug Fork, leading to the Big Sandy River could take supplies and out, otherwise there was isolation. The people survived by ringing every last measure of food from the rocky soil, raising hogs and using the common coal outcrops as fuel for heat and cooking.
In the mid 1800s John Warfield established the Warfield Salt Works and began mining the salt from the limestone caves surrounding the area. He also began to market the plentiful coal in the area, mining it and moving it down the Tug and Big Sandy. He eventually renamed the business the Warfield Salt and Coal Works.
The civil war ended Warfield’s ambitions as well as his Salt and Coal Works.
In 1873, the area around Arminta Ward’s Bottom was added to the newly created Martin County. Because it is a beautiful, lush valley, it was renamed on the occasion Eden, Kentucky until a year later when the postmaster found an Eden, Kentucky post office already existed. He changed the name to Inez after Inez Frank, the daughter of the postmaster of Louisa, Kentucky. He hoped to marry her and what better way to woo his love than to name the city after her.
While coal mining brought jobs over the years, they were subsistence jobs in mining camps where the men worked hard in the dark, risking their lives, to survive.
Poverty was always a heavy millstone around the neck of the people of Martin County. The area was always rugged and isolated, survival difficult. The poverty there is so extreme Lyndon Johnson used Inez as the visual representation of poverty in Appalachia, visiting Inez in 1964 to launch his “War on Poverty.” At the time 60 percent of the residents lived far below the poverty level.
Today Inez “boasts” less than 500 residents. Most of the available jobs were in coal, natural gas or oil. Some work at the Big Sandy Corrections Center just outside the town. Still about a third of the population still simply subsists.
People who grew up in the ease of the middle class have trouble understanding the way people who have lived in poverty their whole lives think. Outwardly, they are exactly the same as those who have never experienced it. Internally, they are far different.
Hardship is accepted as the norm. They have all experienced hunger. They have all experienced an illness they did not have the resources to care for adequately. Every day the minor inconveniences easily dealt with by those of greater means often meant temporary or even permanent disaster. An unusually high electric bill, a car repair, a case of the flu could jeopardize the financial house of cards they live in daily.
The constant fear means vigilance. Looking for both opportunity and threat.
This is where Romona Farmer was raised. Threats were everywhere. Opportunities were sparse. When she saw Chief Dalton’s Explorer drive up to her trailer, her heart jumped.
Dalton approached the trailer. The skirt was missing over half of it’s length. The sidings were covered with the dirt from years of neglect. As he climbed the wooden steps to the door, he felt as if they might give way.
When she heard Dalton’s knock, she almost didn’t answer. Romona did an inventory of the petty crimes she might have committed, wondering if there might be an arrest warrant out there someplace and this policeman was here to collect.
But it could also be about Ricky.
She willed herself to the door.
“Can I he’p you?” She asked, leaving Dalton on the porch.
“Are you Romona Farmer?” Dalton asked with some authority. He had found being commanding was almost always the best choice.
“Yes, I am. What’s this about?”
“Ma’am, can I come in please? I need to ask you some questions.” Dalton didn’t intend to tell her about the body yet, too soon to even know if it was her son.
Romona let him in and offered him a seat on the couch. At one time it had been a light brown, but now the armrests were black and the tops of the rear cushions were the same. The trailer had the stale smell of cigarettes and mold. He was sure the roof leaked.
“Mind if I smoke?” asked Dalton, hoping the smell would be overcome.
“Sure,” said Romona, pushing a butt filled ashtray he direction. “Can I get one too?”
Dalton handed her a cigarette.
“Ms. Farmer…” Dalton began.
“You can call me ‘Ro’, everyone does.”
“OK, ‘Ro,’ I’m from Silerville and I’m investigating some occurrences there. In my investigation I came across some information. Is it correct that you gave up a child for adoption?”
Romona’s eyes began to tear. “Yes, yes I did. I’m so sorry.”
Dalton ignored her emotion.
“Do you know what became of that child?”
“No,” she lied, “I have no idea.” Romona, despite her flaws, was a convincing liar.
“And it’s my understanding you kept one of the twins, is that correct?”
“Yes, my Ricky. He’s my pride and joy. Mamaw Eddie wanted me to give him up as well, but I kept him.”
“I see, and where is Ricky now? Do you know?”
“He’s got hisself a girl and they lives over at Cabin Creek. I don’t know if they’s home, though. I ain’t heard from them in a week. That’s not unusual or nothin’, we isn’t close like we was.”
“Ro, now I need to ask you a difficult question.” Romona stiffened. “The birth certificate doesn’t mention the father’s name. Do you know who the father was?”
Romona’s eyes became a flood and her chin puckered and quivered. Dalton took that as a yes.
“I need to find him, it’s important. I need you to tell me his name.”
“I guess it ain’t matter now,” replied Romona, trying to talk through her tears, “he ain’t got a wife or youngun any more. He’s an important man, and all those years ago having babies with me, well, would have ruined his life.”
“Who is he, Romona?”
“His name is Richard Langston.”
* Kentucky’s Last Frontier, Henry P. Scalf, 1966, p. 142ff
It was two hours before the officer returned to retrieve J.W. for his phone call. He had been too dazed by the events to even notice the guard’s name plate during the intake, but now he noted his name was Mealor.
“C’mon Reeves.” Ordered Mealor.
Reeves got up and followed Mealor. Mealor sat him at a desk in the room behind the bulletproof reception window. There was a landline phone on the desk.
“Who can I call?” asked Reeves sheepishly.
“You can call whoever the hell you want, just make it count. You only get one.” This wasn’t true, people arrested in Kentucky are allowed to make a reasonable number of calls, typically to family and attorney. Reeves was now law enforcement’s special project. He wasn’t going to get preferential treatment or even typical treatment, they were planning to make it as hard on him as possible.
He wanted to call Suzanna. He needed to. He had no clue what her parent’s number was, not having to remember numbers was both the blessing and curse of cell phones.
“Can I get my cell phone so I can look up a number?” Reeves asked Mealor.
Mealor just threw down the tiny Silerville phone book. “There ya go.”
J.W. considered protest then thought better of it. He called him parent’s phone.
“Oh, John, we have been so worried about you. We came down to the jail to see you as soon as we heard, but they refused. Said it wasn’t ‘visiting hours.'” Magnolia was supportive, but J.W. could hear the fear in her voice.
“Mom, I don’t know what to do. I need an attorney. They think I killed a police officer. I need you to call Suze, I don’t have her parent’s number with me and they won’t let me use my cell.”
“Oh, honey, I already called her. She wanted to come home right away, but with everything going on your daddy and I thought it best if she stayed there until we knew more. You might have been killed. She’s worried sick about you, we all are. What happened? How can they think you killed someone?”
“I have no idea. Mom, can you and Dad help me get an attorney?”
“Your father already called Ray White,” Ray White was a prominent criminal attorney in Silerville, and Judge White’s cousin. “He said he would be out to talk with you shortly.”
“I have no idea how I can pay him.”
“Now, your father and I have some money set back. We’ll make sure he gets paid.”
“Can you tell Suze that I’m alright and that I love her and Claire? This has got to be torture for them.”
“I will, I’ll call her right now.”
Mealor was looking over at Reeves, tapping his finger to the non-existent watch on his wrist.
“Mom, I have to go, they want me to get off the phone. I love you, tell Dad I love him.”
“I will honey, be careful. We’ll get you out of there as soon as we can. We love you.”
J.W. was trying not to cry and Mealor led him back to his cell.
Small town “justice” is not the way it is often pictured in cop dramas. On television and in the movies, there is a judge on call who handles arraignments and bond hearings twenty-four-seven. In the small towns dotting Eastern Kentucky, no such luxury exists. There is one judge, elected by the people, who presides over all the criminal activity. He does not work evenings nor weekends.
If a person gets arrested on a Friday night, they will sit in the White County Jail until at least Monday morning, unless the judge is busy that day. If he is, they’ll be there until he has opportunity to preside over the arraignment.
Justice is also not blind nor impartial. Possibly it is not anywhere, but it is certainly not in Eastern Kentucky. “Justice” is meated out according to the status of the victim and the status of the accused. This was certainly true in J.W.’s case. He was not going to get any favor from the judge, who would be facing election next year.
It was another hour before Mealor summoned J.W. again. “Your attorney’s here.”
He led J.W. to a small room, similar in almost every way to the interrogation room at the police station, down to the acoustic tile walls and ceiling. Mealor sat J.W. down and could hear Roy White in the hall outside, joking with the guards.
White came into the room smiling. “Preacher, I never thought I’d see you in here.”
White and J.W. were acquainted. They both were regulars at the Thursday lunch Kiwanis meeting. The ran in different crowds otherwise. White wasn’t a church going man.
“Well, me either, Ray.”
“OK, let me tell you what I know,” said White, sitting across from J.W. “First, though, has anyone talked to you about Doc?”
“About Doc? No, what’s going on with Doc?”
“J.W., I hate to be the one to break this to you, but he’s been shot as well. It’s not in the news yet, but it will be tomorrow.”
“Someone shot Doc?” This terrible week had just gotten much worse. “Are you sure? He might just be missing. He was up on…”
“Queen Mountain, yeah, I know. They found him up there this morning. He’d been killed, driving your SUV. I’m sorry J.W.”
J.W. felt like he had just been kicked in the stomach for the seventh time today. He grabbed his stomach and doubled over. He began to wretch. It was good he hadn’t had anything to eat.
“You OK preacher?” Asked Ray, putting his hand on J.W.’s back. J.W. didn’t answer. The room was spinning.
Sunday evening, Jon Langston was worried. He had seen on the news the shooting of the police officer in Silerville, and how Reeves had been taken in for questioning. He hadn’t heard from Mr. Black for a couple days and it looked to Langston like everything was going to hell.
And he wanted MORE money. A “bonus” Black had called it. He already arranged to have the money wired in the morning, but this all seemed like a sinkhole opening beneath him.
Dick was not doing well. His color was off, he was losing weight. He could barely carry on a conversation he was so tired. He had even quit trying to get dressed and go to his desk. He would just sit in his bedroom in a robe.
If Dick dies while Reeves is still alive, it will cost him millions.
“Fuck,” he said out loud to his empty office.
Jon, like his father, needed to be in control. In their business they both maintained control by giving people specific responsibilities and guidelines, then reaming them out when they messed up. Jon felt he had no control here.
Hell, he couldn’t even call Mr. Black or get a message to him. He had to wait on Black to call him.