Mike Addington's Blog - Posts Tagged "crime"

Time will pass. Will you?

Out Late


“This night is made for moonshiners,” Georgia state trooper Edwards muttered as he flipped his headlights to low beam. Mist from the creeks and moist ground drifted through the forest and settled on the road, hanging beneath the canopy of leaves. He squinted looking for old logging trails, hoping to see signs of use: churned earth, packed grass, broken limbs or underbrush. It was almost nine o’clock when he saw freshly trampled weeds.
Edwards drove another half-mile then pulled the patrol cruiser to the roadside. He flung off his hat, jerked the shotgun from its mount, then opened the trunk and put on a green windbreaker, slipping his badge into the pocket. He turned the cruiser around and, lights off, coasted a quarter mile back down the road.
After working his way through the roadside briars and wild plum trees, Edwards moved into the forest. Damp, packed leaves from the old oaks softened the steps of his massive body, and he made it to the trail in thirty minutes. If there were a lookout, he should be around here somewhere.
Edwards sank to the ground, watching for a lit cigarette, a movement, a sound. Ten minutes later, he backed up and crept farther up the trail, watching and listening, hammer back on the shotgun.
A glint of metal caught his eye, and Edwards froze when he saw the silhouette of a car. His gaze moved up the trail, but it was just the one car.
The trooper edged closer until he reached the side of the car. Low moans came from inside.
Edwards eased up and peeked in the window. Teenagers, kissing in the back seat.
The kids leapt from the seat when Edwards banged his fist on the roof. “Get up from there,” he bellowed, then pressed his badge against the window. “Open this door.”
The boy stepped out of the car. He was only a couple of inches shorter than Edwards and powerfully built. Blue eyes stared straight into the trooper’s, but there was a hint of embarrassment. “Hello, Mr. Edwards.”
“Franklin Downey, what are you doing out here?”
Franklin shrugged but his eyes didn’t lower. “You know, Mr. Edwards, just fooling around. Not doing anything bad.”
The trooper held back a smile. This was a bad place to be “fooling around.” He grabbed Franklin’s arm. “Listen to me, son. These are ‘shiner haunts. Wrong bunch catch you out here, it might go bad for that gal there. You too maybe. Don’t you come back out here.”
Franklin’s chest swelled. “Don’t reckon they’d bother me much,” he said with the certainty of a 19 year old.
“I know you think you’re grown, just about are but not quite. Now you do what I tell you and stay out from down here.” Edwards’ meaty hand loosened its grip. “Your daddy know where you are?”
Franklin grinned. “You already know the answer to that.”
“Guess I do. So where are you supposed to be?”
“Wednesday night prayer meeting at Brenda’s church,” Franklin said, motioning to the young woman sitting in the back seat, hands covering her face.
“Close to ten now. That story going to hold up with your daddy? Prayer meeting was over at eight thirty, nine o’clock.”
“Oh, he gives me a little leeway now and then,” Franklin said with a sheepish look.
Edwards grunted. “Never knew Matt Downey to give anybody leeway. I guess you being the oldest, he might be a little soft on you. Anyway, whose car is this?”
“Brenda’s.”
“Well, you tell her to get home. I’ll take you by your place.”
“No need for that; she can drop me off.”
“Oh, no. Y’all might decide to take another break.” Edwards glanced at the young woman still holding her hands over her face. “She looks a little shy,” the trooper said with a grin. “You tell her to drive out. We’ll walk behind her and up to my car.”
In a few minutes, the two men reached the cruiser. Edwards unlocked the door and motioned Franklin inside. “You worried about what your daddy might say when he sees you with me?”
Franklin blew out a deep breath. “I’m hoping he’s in bed already.”
“I bet you do.”
A mile or so further up the highway, Edwards slowed the cruiser. A man wearing a hat pulled low stood outside what was not much more than a shack, set back in a small clearing. The man stared at the car as it passed.
Edwards gave the man a hard look. Their eyes locked as the cruiser crept up the highway.
Franklin couldn’t help noticing the exchange. “Who’s that, Mr. Edwards?”
“Bad man, Franklin, a bad man. Buel Hollins. They ran him out of Kentucky. Claim he killed some people but couldn’t prove it. Didn’t stop them from running him off though. He’s been down here a few months. Nothing I can do about it. Not yet anyway. I hear he’s selling a few drinks now and then in that shack: moonshine.” Edwards sighed. “Sooner or later, he’s gonna be trouble. Mark my words.”
Edwards stopped the cruiser a quarter mile from Franklin’s farm. “I’ll let you out here,” he said with an amused smile. “You can make up your own story.”
Thankfully, Matt had already gone to bed, and Franklin made it inside without having to make one up.
 

My second book, "The Home Place," had been perculating for many years. When I was ~7 years old, my mom received a phone call that her brother and brother-in-law were missing but their car had been found under several feet of water in Lake Lanier in north Georgia. Eventually, the bodies were found, and the deaths were ruled "accidental drowning," although the bodies were outside the car and the windows were too small for men that size to have floated out. Hearing stories from my many aunts and uncles and other relatives, I wrote a fictional account based on real events as told to me by eyewitnesses or people involved in those events. Hoping to preserve the culture and society of the period from ~1930 to 1956, the story stretches from the childhood of children growing up poor on a farm in northeast Georgia to their escape from the harsh life on the farm to jobs in nearby small towns and the appearance of a ruthless criminal, who was eventually arrested by the Georgia Bureau of Investigation for selling drug and who the arresting officer told me in a years-later interview about the man: "there's no telling how many dead bodies there are in wells up that way that he is responsible for."

"The Home Place" was selected by the PBS/NPR station in Atlanta for their 2007 Suggested Reading List, which is a very big honor, and gave me validation that I had some skill and encouraged me to continue writing. Of course, I would have anyway, but it's nice to know that what you're putting on paper is getting through to the readers you hope to reach.

Jessie, his wife, Marie, and Caroline sat in their usual seats halfway down the middle section of pews in the First Methodist Church of Benton, Georgia, 45 miles southeast of Atlanta, Jessie sitting next to the isle where he could make his getaway as soon as the sermon was over. They arrived about ten minutes before the sermon began, Marie’s revenge for Jessie waking her up at three-thirty in the morning when he finally came to bed. Since he was too hung over to think straight and bother checking the clock, she had fussed all morning that they were running late.
The preacher made a beeline from the front and stood over Jessie, his grin stretched from ear to ear. “Jessie, Jessie, how are you?” he said as he grabbed Jessie’s hand and began pumping. One look at Jessie’s bloodshot eyes, and the preacher’s eyes went to Marie and Caroline. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it Marie? Caroline, how are you?”
Caroline nodded and smiled.
“Yes, a fine spring day, Reverend Holcomb. It’s good to see you.”
The preacher gathered his courage and leaned down. “Jessie, could you come by the office one day this week? Anytime would be fine.”
Jessie scowled. “You want to see me or Tom?” he said referring to Tom Chambers, his accountant.
Marie overheard the exchange and jabbed Jessie with her elbow.
“Never mind. Yeah, I’ll give you a call,” Jessie said.
Reverend Holcomb stepped back relieved, blessing Marie under his breath.
Marie liked her status in the church and community and would make sure Jessie came by. Jessie always came through with the “special” gifts that the reverend asked of him from time to time—except for the one time the reverend had approached him without Marie present. Holcomb made sure not to repeat that mistake again.
“Will y’all be here for the concert tonight?” the reverend asked, still grasping Jessie’s hand.
Jessie pulled his hand away and grumbled something unintelligible.
“We sure will. Caroline and I enjoy them, but I don’t think Jessie appreciates the cultural events that much,” Marie said, finishing the last part of the sentence with a dour look at Jessie. She made the most of his hangovers. It was the only time he wasn’t belittling her.
To Jessie, her voice was just a drone, and he paid little attention to what she said, and cared even less.
A group walked through the doorway to the left of the pulpit, most coming from Sunday school.
An attractive woman in her late thirties came through and caught Jessie’s attention, then the athletically built young man who held open the door followed her, with an expression on his face like he’d just stolen from the collection plate and everyone knew it. Part of it was the lip. He had a cleft palate on the right side of his face, and he tucked his chin low as he walked up the isle.
Jessie saw Caroline wave out of the corner of his eye and the young man look their way. The self-conscious expression dropped away as he grinned from ear to ear, blushing as he did.
Jessie leaned up and stared across his wife at Caroline. He’d never hit her, but right now, he sure wanted to. He furiously jabbed a pointed finger at her. “You, you, . . .” he sputtered.
Caroline lowered her eyes.
Jessie jerked his head back around to glare at the young man, but he had already seen what happened and turned away, following his mother up the aisle. The only reason he was here was because it was her birthday and he’d promised, which was something he swore never to do again.
“That son of a, . . .” Jessie jerked to his feet and crossed the three-aisle difference between the preacher and himself in one step. He grabbed the preacher by the arm and almost dragged him to the foyer.
The preacher was too startled to speak.
Hand trembling, Jessie pointed to Danny. “I want that boy out of here, and I mean right now.”
Holcomb looked and saw that “the boy” was Belinda’s son, whom he’d met when visiting Belinda. His face blanched. “Jessie, I can’t ask anyone to leave the Lord’s house, to leave a church service. Belinda’s been a member here for years.” His face regained some of its color. “What has the boy done to make you—?”
“You don’t worry about that. If you want anymore donations from me, or my family,” he added with raised eyebrows, “you’ll get that hair-lipped boy out’a here. I don’t care about the woman—”
“No need referring to the young man that way, Jessie. And that’s his mother, formerly Belinda Hathaway, lawyer Ben Hathaway’s daughter, you’re talking about,” the reverend said, assuming that the name would impress Jessie and soften his demands.”
“I don’t care if she’s Queen Elizabeth; get the boy out’a here.” Jessie came toward Reverend Holcomb until he was almost nose to nose. Holcomb could smell the stale whiskey. “I ain’t tellin’ you again.”
Jessie strode back to his pew and glared at Belinda and Caroline.
Reverend Holcomb ignored the condemning eyes of the greeting committee, who passed out service programs in the foyer. He paced while he thought and tried to swallow, but he had no saliva. Rising anger and pride fought with ambition and duty, the latter two somewhat dependent on Jessie’s donations.
An irreverent curse crossed Reverend Holcomb’s mind, then he walked halfway down the outer isle to where Belinda and Danny were sitting, oblivious to the fact that a third of the congregation was looking at him because of the grotesque expression on his face, caused by him trying to contain the turmoil in his brain.
He leaned over the couple sitting next to the aisle, and, spoke as low as possible and still be heard, “Belinda, would you and your son come with me?”
Belinda hesitated, but the reverend had such a strange expression on his face that she was concerned about him and didn’t want to draw any more attention than she was sure had already been drawn.
A bewildered expression on her face, she turned to Danny, who glared at Reverend Holcomb.
Belinda patted Danny’s hand. “Come on. I hope something hasn’t happened to your father.”
Holcomb stood aside to usher them out, and, in gentlemanly fashion, gestured back down the aisle to the entrance foyer.
“Belinda, I don’t know what to say,” Reverend Holcomb said obviously flustered. He glanced at Danny, then back to Belinda. He sighed gravely.
“I’m late for the service as is, and all I can really say at the present is that one of the, um, um, more influential members who the church depends on heavily for contributions has, well, there’s no other way to put it, I suppose, but, anyway, has objected to the young man’s presence and demanded that he leave. I find it tremendously objectionable myself. The request that is, and, if there were more time, I’d get to the bottom of it. But would you do me the huge favor of . . .” Holcomb could not bring himself to asking someone to leave church.
“Come on, mother. You’re too good for this bunch anyway,” Danny said, glaring at Holcomb with a murderous expression.
The shock was too much for Belinda. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor.
Danny grabbed his mother before her head hit the floor and lowered her down.
The men passing out programs rushed over. “Call 911,” Tommy Lake told his colleague.
Members of the congregation sitting in the back pews saw Belinda collapse and came out to see what was happening. The rest of the congregation followed like sheep.
Jessie jumped up. He slapped Caroline’s hand away as she grabbed at his coat. He bulled his way through the crowd until he was standing next to Reverend Holcomb, looking down at Belinda, still unconscious.
“What’s the matter with her?” he said coarsely. “Stay out too late last night,” he added with a sneer and a contemptuous look at Danny.
Danny dropped the damp cloth Tommy Lake had given him and stepped over Belinda’s body. His blue eyes turned icy, and his fingers closed around a handful of Jessie’s shirt collar. “You’re the cause of this,” he said, then drew back his other hand.
The shock in Jessie’s eyes made Danny pause, just enough time to think. He shoved Jessie backwards, then dropped both hands.
“You’re a lucky man. My mother wouldn’t want me fighting in church; otherwise, you’d—”
Jessie regained his composure. “You’d better stay away from my daughter is what you’d better do, buster. Lucky man, lucky man, my ass. I’ve had it with you. Told you for the last time to stay away from Caroline. But you’re not going to listen, are you tough guy? Somebody needs to teach you some respect. Don’t look like your mother’s doin’ to good a job.” Jessie sneered as he said the last part.
Big Tommy Lake was ready and grabbed Danny in a bear hug. “Ignore the idiot,” Tommy whispered. “Just worry about your mother.”
Danny’s eyes blazed, and he struggled to get free, but Tommy had a firm grip.
“C’mon, kid, that’s what he wants,” Tommy said.
The words took a moment to work their way through Danny’s rage, but then his head cleared. He looked at Tommy appreciatively and nodded. Tommy let him go, and Danny knelt beside Reverend Holcomb, who was keeping a cold wet cloth to Belinda’s forehead while wiping her face with another.
The paramedics arrived and cleared the foyer, and, after they worked on her for a few minutes, Belinda awoke from her faint.

Greetings to all: There are quite a few newspaper articles, book reviews, and other information related to the actual events that inspired "The Home Place" on a Facebook page I created.

I think it can be accessed without being a FB member. I copied the link then signed out of FB and pasted the link in my browser window and it allowed me access. As we all know, these things can be tricky. It may have allowed me access because of a cookie in my PC.

If interested, try the link and hopefully it will work for you. Thanks for your interest.
Sincerely
Mike A
https://www.facebook.com/search/resul...