After twenty-eight more miles of nothing but asphalt, C.C. pulled off the highway to a Bar-b-que stop. Beside it was a thin neon sign, thank God, for a liquor store. It even had a drive-through window tacked onto the side, he saw, and steered toward it. God bless America.
“Bottle of Maker’s to go, partner. Would you throw in a plastic cup for me?”
Yes, sir, his partner in the drive-through window sure would.
God bless America, C.C. thought again as he paid up through the window and scratched off.
He took a big swallow of the bourbon. Damn, that was good.
Now all he needed was some boiled peanuts. That should be easy enough to find. Roadside stands selling boiled peanuts and fresh-picked fruits and vegetables were everywhere along the back roads off the Georgia interstate, mostly to lure the Yankees headed to Florida.
C.C. cut away from the interstate to begin a search-and-recover mission for boiled peanuts.
And it couldn’t be just boiled peanuts, it had to be fresh-boiled green peanuts. They had more of a kick, anybody’d know that.
After churning up nearly twenty more miles of narrow two-lane back road, C.C.’s dreams came true just outside the Georgia-South Carolina border. Three bucks, and now…he could think.
Washing down a handful of peanuts with a gulp of bourbon, he told himself it wasn’t as if he cared about some idiot convicted and sentenced by a jury; somebody who was getting what he deserved…the chair.
And he sure as hell couldn’t care less about the idiot’s mother crying into a TV microphone or a bunch of tofu-eating liberals holding votive candles outside the penitentiary the night Old Sparky lit him up.
The reality was…he had his own reputation to maintain. How the hell could he vote no on a penalty case?
With another swallow of Maker’s Mark, genius struck.
Just recently, C.C.’s little suck-up law clerk had come in sniveling about a moratorium on the death penalty somewhere up north. Claimed it was based on a series of so-called “faulty” convictions where innocent men landed on the Illinois death row.
C.C. knew in his right mind that it was all bullshit, of course, probably just political maneuvering trying to throw focus off someone’s own sorry career.
But…
What if, based on that, C.C. claimed his vote change wasn’t anti-death penalty…it was pro-justice by God!
Yeah, and he’d say he wanted the “real killer” punished! Like in O.J. Well maybe not O.J. He’d make his law clerk think of another example.
The more he drank the more it made sense.
He could actually do this thing. The bourbon was settling in and the tingle was fine. Back on the interstate, he set the cruise control to eighty-nine. No need to speed in excess and get caught. Plus, he was protected by his “GAJUDGE1” plate. No state trooper who wanted to keep his job would pull him over.
Taking his right hand off the steering wheel, he uncorked the Maker’s, just to top it off. The plastic cup was now filled to the very rim but amazingly, he didn’t lose a drop. The peanut shells were piling up on the floorboard of the passenger’s side.
Flicking a soggy peanut shell off his car-installed cell phone, landing it on the passenger’s leather-upholstered door, he hit the speed dial to Jim Talley.
After four rings, it transferred into the law clerk’s voice mail.
“Talley. It’s the Judge, here. I’m working on a weekend, son. Long hours are just part of the job description. Nobody said the bench was easy, son. Remember that.”
He flicked away another soggy shell. This one landed on his shoe and stuck. C.C. paid no attention.
“I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching, boy. I think our colleagues on the Bench are right about this one. The constitutionality of it all is disturbing me, Jim, disturbing me greatly. I’m very torn, Jim.”
Yeah, he could do this. It was perfect. He did care about the Constitution…deeply.
“That Atlanta death penalty case? I’ve changed my mind, boy. No man is too great and should never be too proud to change his mind for the right. That includes even me, son…and I now firmly believe that boy was wrongly sent to the death chamber. If we’re wrong…he’ll do it again. You’ve seen enough of these cases, son, he’ll go right back to his old habits and then the State can string him up good. No sense to rush a case. Let it mature…like a fine wine.”
He rambled on in a hazy, bourbon-laced attempt to justify the about-face. “I mean, son, we’ve got to administer the law in a realistic manner, a manner in which the people of the state of Georgia are protected. We can’t waste the State’s money keeping him up on death row for twenty years of appeals. It’s the taxpayers’ money. We’ve got to keep their best interests in mind, too. Don’t forget the little people, Jim. And above all else, son, we’ve got to be fair. Justice is blind, son, don’t forget that. Justice is blind.”
He pressed the “End” button and cranked up “Lord I Was Born a Rambling Man.” The keyboards were pure inspiration. One more hour and he’d hit Atlanta.
It was Saturday night, he was the governor-to-be, and he was feeling fine.
It was definitely a Pink Fuzzy night. Nothing like a good strip club to calm him down.
Duane Allman was in a serious groove.
God, C.C. loved Duane Allman.
Why did Duane have to die?
Duane held a screeching high note on his Gibson.
Nirvana.
16
New York City
“I’M SO GLAD YOU CHANGED YOUR MIND, HAILEY,” DANA SAID OVER the rim of her wineglass-her third in less than an hour. It was stained with pinkle. “Should I have one more?”
Dana cased the bar area again, pausing at each potential future husband. “But who’s counting?” she’d asked with a shrug as she ordered another glass of her favorite wine. “It’s not as if I’ve got to drive.”
Maybe not, the subway was a block from the Bleecker Street bar where they sat, and it could have Dana back to her place in minutes. There were plenty of cabs, too, at this time of night. But Hailey never enjoyed witnessing Dana after too many drinks.
“I really can’t stay much longer,” Hailey told her-again.
“Yeah, yeah, I know…you’ve got to get home.” Dana shook her head. “I don’t know why you won’t come out dancing with me. I told you, I know the doorman at-”
“The last thing I want tonight is to be packed like a sardine in a club.”
“Hailey, just answer me one thing. When was the last time you had any fun?”
“I have fun all the time!”
“No, you don’t.”
“Not if ‘fun’ means clubbing around the city with a bunch of twenty-year-olds!”
“Plenty of people our age go to clubs.”
“Maybe. But not people who have to get up and go to work first thing in the morning, and Dana, seriously, that’s both of us.”
“I can get by on very little sleep.”
So could Hailey. She did it every night. But she wasn’t going to get into it with Dana, who knew only that she lost her fiancé years ago, was an attorney in Atlanta once upon a time, and didn’t like talking about either of those things.
Lucky for her, Dana was always much more interested in her own future than Hailey’s past. But truthfully, who could blame her?
“Do you think I should get my hair cut tomorrow?”
“You mean, short?”