Part 3 (1/2)
VANZANT ENGAGED IN one of his famous tirades, except this time Reynolds detected something different in his voice. Usually, his boss would sit in his large taxpayer-financed Brazilian leather chair with the rosewood frame and stale cigar smell and simply flail his arms. Everyone in the office had gotten used to his displays of outrage-usually ignited by a desire to blame others for his miscalculations. The more he knew he was wrong, the louder he yelled; the more p.r.o.nounced his gyrations, the more certain he was that his colleagues knew it as well.
But this time, his unsteady voice and sweeping gestures exposed something much greater than the desire to conceal fault or redirect blame. His agitation couldn't be mistaken for anger. This wasn't indignation rising to the surface-far from it. Fear gripped Vanzant. His level of trepidation couldn't be camouflaged by any amount of profanity.
”The son of a b.i.t.c.h published the entire f.u.c.kin' list in the state's largest black newspaper!” Vanzant waved the newspaper in front of Reynolds. ”Why doesn't he just take out an ad and offer a bounty on every white man over the age of fifty?”
Reynolds suppressed his desire to smile.
Vanzant marched to the window and shoved it open. ”Lauren, I want you to research recent case law. See if we can pursue an indictment against the paper.”
”I already checked,” Sinclair replied. ”They're just reporting what Matheson's teaching and relying on public records to substantiate his claims.”
”What about the university?” Vanzant asked. ”Can't we maintain they're using public funds to incite violence?”
”The university protects academic freedom. The Const.i.tution safeguards freedom of the press.” She waited for the explosion.
”Freedom, my a.s.s!” he snorted. ”This is a death warrant! If he's not directly inciting violent reprisal, he's encouraging it.”
”He's referring to the men on his list as *unpunished alleged murderers and terrorists.'” Sinclair's voice softened. ”That insulates him from civil lawsuits and, for the moment, criminal liability.”
Vanzant tossed the paper on his desk and knocked over a framed picture of his wife and two daughters. The gla.s.s shattered onto the Oriental carpet. ”I want an investigation of each and every student taking Matheson's cla.s.s.” He placed both hands on the edge of his desk and squeezed. ”I want to know who they live with and who they visit overnight. If they've ever been in trouble, I want to be apprised of the date of the problem and the nature and extent of the offense.” He pointed at Sinclair. ”Get me a complete list of every organization they've ever belonged to.” He rubbed his chin and worked his way toward the base of his neck. ”If they've used computers at the campus, I want their E-mail confiscated and a.n.a.lyzed.”
Reynolds wanted to bring this to a halt before any more civil liberties were threatened. ”He teaches more than one hundred sixty registered students in four cla.s.ses. There's another fifty or so who audit.” He studied Vanzant but saw no indication he'd been dissuaded.
”It gets worse,” added Sinclair. ”He offers a cla.s.s that meets in the community two nights a week and is open to anyone who wishes to attend. I'm told it's extremely popular.”
”Does that fool really want to relive the sixties? 'Cause if he does, he just opened up a can of whoop-a.s.s, and I'm just the man who can close it on him. I d.a.m.n well promise you that!” Vanzant swiveled out of his chair and strutted across the room. ”Let's put some pressure on the professor. Interview his colleagues, his friends, neighbors. Let's embarra.s.s him. h.e.l.l, let's treat him like a d.a.m.n suspect. See if that doesn't grab his attention!” Vanzant a.s.sumed a Napoleonic pose.
Winslow entered carrying a police report and chewing an apple. ”Is there a Sherman Banks on the list?” His question caused Vanzant to rub his eyes.
Sinclair flipped through a file. When she stopped, Vanzant had worked his way to his temple, which he ma.s.saged deeply.
”Accused of strangling a black college student,” she said.
Everyone looked at Winslow, waiting for his next question.
”With barbed wire?” he asked.
Sinclair reviewed her file one last time and, without ever glancing up from the paperwork, nodded yes.
Vanzant moved solemnly to his prized chair. He sat with his head bowed, unaware of the word that escaped his lips not once but twice: ”Jesus . . . Jesus.”
CHAPTER 8.
FOR THE PAST twenty years Rachel had owned and operated the Red Bird Cafe. Her father had given it to her after he'd run off with one of his teenage part-time waitresses. Rachel's mother tried for several months to locate the employee who'd stolen her husband, in order to give the girl a handsome gratuity. After all, the poor girl would no doubt one day need the money to escape from her youthful dalliance.
Rachel had long ago given up the possibility of escaping the inheritance bequeathed to her by an adulterous father. She put much of her life and all of her resources into maintaining the small diner. She prided herself on the reasonably priced dinner specials. And unlike some other eateries, her diner offered food that patrons actually favored, such as roast duck in season and pot roast on Thursday.
She'd forgotten the number of big-name chain restaurants that had opened and closed in the past few years, all within quick traveling distance of her establishment. She'd outlasted them by attracting a loyal group of customers. Folks felt at home whether relaxing in one of her eight booths-tastefully decorated in light maroon vinyl upholstery-or spinning comfortably on extra-plush cus.h.i.+ons balanced atop matching silver-and-blue metal stools.
Rachel, now a shade under fifty, had never been married, although she'd known her share of husbands. She often wondered what it might be like to have her own to worry about, but in the end decided she was better off remaining mildly amused at someone else's problem. There was, however, one frequent visitor who could have made her slip into an elaborately embroidered gown and stroll down a church center aisle to take a vow she fully believed they'd both violate. She had no way to explain her attraction other than to admit it had something to do with the way he drank her coffee, tasted her pies, and left her shop with his sparkling silver ponytail trailing behind, beckoning for her to climb his personal ladder to freedom.
”When you gonna finally let a woman take care of ya?” she asked Miller, who'd just sweetened his second cup of coffee.
”The law is my mistress, and I love her even when she's unfaithful.” He took a sip and burned his upper lip.
”You ever want to get even with her, I'm off on Tuesday nights.” She took an ice cube from his gla.s.s of water and ran it across his wounded mouth. She removed a cloth from just inside her freshly ironed ap.r.o.n and dried his chin. Rachel started to say something seductive, when he commented on the increased noise level just outside the cafe.
”What the h.e.l.l's goin' on out there?” He turned toward the commotion.
She released a frustrated groan, then completed the pleasurable task of drying the moisture that had dripped to his neck. ”d.a.m.n students been comin' down here every day for the last week accusin' Arnold Rankin of killin' some black girl thirty years ago. I've known that man half my life and he treats everybody decent, even the Coloreds.”
”*The Coloreds'?” he asked in mock surprise.
”Blacks. Afro-'mericans. Whatever they call themselves. Ought to let sleepin' dogs lie, that's all I know.”
”Just be thankful they're not here protesting your coffee, because I'd march with them.”
”Don't go bitin' the hand that feeds ya. My coffee saved your b.u.t.t many a time.”
”And my b.u.t.t's eternally grateful.” He withdrew his wallet from his rear pocket and placed on the counter some money, which he tantalizingly pushed toward her. ”I look forward to the time when my lips are once again singed in the unending effort to taste and, indeed, savor your deliciously hot nectar.”
Miller left the cafe and hurried down the street to observe a crowd mostly of college students blocking the entrance to Rankin & Son Hardware. They chanted slogans and carried signs that read MURDERER and RACIST along with a sprinkling of poorly scribbled threats.
Arnold Rankin stood in the middle of the crowd, blatantly defying their taunts. Miller remembered Rankin as one of the founding fathers of the movement to resist integration at all costs. He'd called any white man disagreeing with his ambition a ”n.i.g.g.e.r lover.” Miller had forgotten the language Rankin used against anyone brazenly advocating the rights of blacks to seek redress in a court of law; however, he was certain the phrase included a promise of bodily injury.
”You want a piece of me? I ain't hidin' and I sure as h.e.l.l ain't runnin'!” Rankin challenged Brandon Hamilton, the leader of the demonstration. In his early seventies and with a fragile physique, Rankin appeared more ludicrous than dangerous.
”You still selling dynamite to the Klan?” Brandon shouted.
In his youth, Rankin had been nicknamed ”Arnold the Mad Bomber,” and from the way he acted, he seemed to cherish the memories that went with the name. ”I don't need the Klan to rid myself of the likes of you!” Becoming more and more animated, Rankin's arthritic fingers pointed in all directions. Miller had the distinct impression Rankin actually enjoyed all this.
”Dad, go back inside.” Rankin's son attempted to control his father and the crowd at the same time.
”This is my store and I'll decide when I want to go in it!” Rankin shoved his son hard in the chest.
Arnold Jr. appealed to the students. ”Why don't you leave us alone? My father's never done anything to you.”
”He's a murderer,” said Brandon, confronting the two men. ”We're not gonna let anyone in this town forget that.” Brandon encouraged the crowd to become more vocal.
As the atmosphere became increasingly hostile, Miller decided it was time for calmer heads to prevail. He walked directly into the lions' den. ”Mr. Rankin, why don't you listen to your son and go home?” Miller sweetened the logic. ”It's the only way you're gonna get rid of them.”
Rankin studied Miller curiously. Slowly a glimpse of recognition appeared on Rankin's face, followed immediately by an expression of absolute contempt. ”I remember you,” he said with revulsion, as though spitting out something foul. ”This is what you and other white trash like you made possible. Look around; all this is your doin'!” Rankin grabbed Miller and forced him to a.s.sess the crowd. ”You see? You see what you've done?”