First Kill All the Lawyers Read online

  “Hoke, did you know that Billy Gene Chandler from Raritan County used to lock up women so he could have sex with them?”

  “You want to trade stories, woman?” Hoke leaned back in his chair and exhaled a plume of smoke. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’ll tell you one: Sheriff Nelson over in Cleveland County personally killed a white Yankee reporter lady who came around asking questions about the Klan.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe. He did it. ’Course, he made it look like an accident. He’s also murdered a couple of traveling salesmen and I don’t know how many nameless vagrants.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Hoke shook his head. “’Cause he has a taste for it. He likes it. It makes him feel good. Plus, in the case of the reporter, Nelson rides with the Klan himself sometimes and didn’t want her jerking on his bedsheets. Now, if you want more, there are the badge-toting boys who still sell moonshine up in north Georgia, though not so many of ’em these days ’cause there’s lots more money in drugs. I guess they got to supplement that 25 thou they’re dragging down somehow. And simple graft just ain’t as profitable as it used to be.”

  “What else?”

  “What else you want? Want to hear about the gambling, the cockfights, the dog racing, the prostitution, the little girls they auction off to the richest dirty old man? You just imagine any old pot full of shit you can think of, and you’re going to find a sheriff with his finger in it.”

  “So why doesn’t somebody do something about it?” Sam demanded.

  “Sister-baby, that’s what I love about you California liberals.”

  “I was born in this very city, Hoke. In Emory Hospital.”

  “Thanks for reminding me. Reckon I’ll call ’em up when you leave and see on exactly which date. ‘Thirty-five to forty,’” he muttered under his breath. “Give me a frigging break.”

  She’d fed him that line months ago, and he was chewing on it still. But that was okay. That was why he was a good editor. He never forgot a single thing, never missed a trick. “You didn’t answer my question. Why doesn’t somebody do something about these bastards?”

  “You think all you have to do is get a bunch of folks together and smoke some dope and march around holding your fingers in a V chanting ‘Love and peace,’ and everything is going to change. Your question is stupid.”

  “I don’t think it’s still the sixties,” she said calmly, ignoring the insult. She’d been called names by better men than Hoke, and she knew they resorted to the tactic because she made them nervous. For just about the time their eyes fell to her breasts or her legs and their fantasies began, which made them antsy enough, she’d start with her never-ending questions, which made some of them visibly twitch.

  “No, maybe you don’t,” Hoke said. “But even after you’ve seen all those corpses, all those pieces of corpses”—Sam could tell she’d really pushed his buttons now—“and mushy things that used to be corpses, after all the violence you’ve witnessed supposed human beings wreak on one another, you can stand there like you’re wearing white gloves on your way to a DAR tea, and ask me why? You still think you can change basically rotten, no-good sons-of-bitches?”

  “No,” said Sam, smiling. “But I think we can catch ’em.”

  That cut off his water for a minute. But only for a minute.

  “They’re gonna love it when you bust your pretty ass.” He hooked a thumb toward his office door.

  Samantha knew he was speaking the truth. Her privileges had stirred up resentment among the other reporters who had to work within the system, answering to the assistant city editor, coming into the office every day, taking assignments rather than playing it by ear and sniffing out their own stories, then following them to ground. If she were on their side of the fence, she’d hate her guts, too.

  “They’re just waiting for you to belly-up,” Hoke said.

  “I know that. They want it bad enough to break out the champagne if I get myself shot?”

  “Might.” He nodded. “Just might.” And then he dropped the banter. “If you insist on going further with this, Miz Adams, you do your research in the morgue”—he pointed a finger in the direction of the paper’s files—“and the library.” Then he aimed his cigarette at her. “And before you do any nosing around, we’ll talk.”

  Samantha smiled.

  “You hear me?” he said.

  She was already halfway out the door. “I hear you.” She paused. “Now, remember, darlin’, don’t drink, and do go to meetings. But not with lust in your heart.”

  She’d heard the two words he flung back at her before.

  *

  Sam stood on the sidewalk in front of the newspaper’s building on Marietta Street. In San Francisco, the Chronicle’s offices were right downtown also, close to the old heart of the city. Two blocks along Marietta was Five Points, where all the power—business, banking, government—and traffic converged. George’s offices, until his retirement a few years earlier, had been in a new, tall, cold white tower at that hub. It wasn’t San Francisco’s Union Square, but then, what was?

  To Sam’s eye, downtown Atlanta, despite some recent construction including the highly touted but architecturally misbegotten Portman complex, was frumpy. And despite the best efforts of the police and the chamber of commerce, it was still dangerous after dark. It didn’t have San Francisco’s sea breezes, sophistication, foghorns, or Victorian charm. But, especially on a clear spring morning like this one, Atlanta had a lot going for it. The air was absolutely heady with the smell of spring flowers, which made bright splashes of color everywhere. Despite the surface slowness, there was a sense of hustle here, not the fist in the face that was New York, but an energy that hadn’t been seen in San Francisco since the Gold Rush. This New Atlanta was a city on the move. And its magnolia-mellowed moxie made Sam happy, because it generated news.

  She wheeled her silvery blue BMW out of a parking garage and headed north on Peachtree Street toward Queen Ridley’s house.

  How did she let George get her into these things?

  What she really wanted was to drop by her gym for an exercise class or maybe a swim. What she didn’t want was an Atlanta ladies’ lunch, an over-mayonnaised chicken salad on iceberg lettuce and a glass of presweetened iced tea. She bet herself five bucks that’s what Queen’s menu would be. Nor was she particularly looking forward to meeting the lady. Another Atlanta powermonger’s wife was hardly going to be a novelty.

  Well, at least the drive was pleasant. Sam loved Peachtree Street, the parade of old hotels and churches, the onion domes and minarets of the Fox Theater mixed in with the towers of Coca-Cola, Life of Georgia, Southern Bell. She never drove down the street that she didn’t think of Margaret Mitchell, who had lived all her life on or near it and who had been killed by a taxicab while crossing Peachtree at Fourteenth. It was at that very intersection that Colony Square now stood—a tall, handsome complex of hotel space, residences, and offices, mostly for advertising agencies, a proud standard-bearer of Atlanta on the move. Mitchell’s girlhood home, three blocks farther north, had been replaced by an office building, too. What would Scarlett have thought of all this? It was Sam’s considered opinion that that hot-tempered scrapper, who had never been shy about going after what she wanted, in this day and age would probably be the president of one of those Colony Square ad agencies, delivering the competition their balls on power breakfast plates.

  Scarlett sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting at home in one of the mansions that made up the winding neighborhood of Ansley Park just behind Colony Square—not like Queen Ridley. Scarlett wouldn’t have been a typical debutante, brought up to smile, acquiesce, marry well, and then hold on tooth and nail for the rest of her life to the money and power of the man she’d snagged. No, Ms. O’Hara would be out there on her own mixing it up—well, as much as the good old boys would let her. For Scarlett would have learned—the hard way probably, as Sam was learning d
ay by day—that no matter how strong, how competent the woman, in Atlanta men still called the shots.

  *

  The Ridleys’ wide-porched white mansion was set well back from the winding street. Lona, the housekeeper who answered the chiming doorbell, was a tall, long-necked black woman who carried herself as if her willowy neck were ringed with silver bangles. Sam found herself straightening her shoulders as she followed the regal woman into the living room.

  Queen Ridley rose to greet Samantha from one of three identical white silk sofas in the all-white room. A short, sleek blond woman, she looked as if she’d been enameled. She was exactly what Sam had expected, the quintessence of her name and station at the top of Atlanta society. She was all of a piece, Queen. Every single surface was absolute shining perfection—her nails, her hair, her trousers and shirt of taupe polished cotton, the sculpted ivory and gold jewelry at her ears and wrists. Her engagement ring was a ten-carat marquise canary diamond. Her careful but heavy makeup was flawless. Mid-thirties was what she looked, but Sam thought she was probably on the shady side of forty-five.

  “I am so glad to see you,” Queen gushed in that honeyed, r-dropping accent that belongs to ladies of substance in the Deep South. The intonation is also heard in women’s voices in Southampton, in Newport, and on Park Avenue, for it is money that makes that sound. “I said to Forrest that I was going to beat him with a stick if he didn’t have you and George over to dinner soon. It’s just scandalous that you’ve been back in town this long and we haven’t had a party for you.”

  Samantha knew that all this palaver, all this assumed coziness, was Queen’s way of saying that George had been rude in not having them over to take a look at the prodigal niece who’d come back home.

  “Why, that’s so kind of you,” Sam murmured. She was rapidly remembering how to play these particular games, how to say without a note of irony, “Isn’t that sweet?” “Isn’t that interesting?” and “I’m so sorry I missed you.” It was like shooting. Once you’d developed the skill to hit bull’s-eyes, you never forgot. “George has, of course, had wonderful things to say about you both. I’m afraid I don’t remember…did you know my parents?”

  “Why, no, I didn’t, though I think my mother was in school with yours.”

  Sam nodded and murmured, “Of course.” Then she let it go. No percentage in pushing the point.

  But obviously Queen didn’t think so. “Forrest knew your mother, of course. He’s a good bit older than I.”

  Of course. There was no use looking that much younger than your age if you couldn’t push it.

  “So how are you liking it back in Atlanta? I’m sure you must find us all a bit provincial.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, you know how it is. Most people get away, why, they never come back.” Queen sniffed and brushed at the hard, shiny surface of her slacks.

  “Though I never could understand why anybody would want to leave in the first place, go off somewhere with a bunch of strangers—you don’t even know who their people are.”

  No, you don’t, Sam thought. And you don’t worry about it, either. You don’t worry about how long their family’s belonged to the Driving Club, or how long they’ve had their money, or whether or not the silver they’re pouring your coffee from has the distinction of having been buried in the garden to keep it out of the hands of the bloody Yankees. You don’t worry about any of that at all.

  “Well, some of those strangers can be pretty interesting,” she said.

  “I’m sure.” Queen smiled politely, then called to Lona as if to save Sam the embarrassment of elaborating on that remark.

  Who were those strangers of whom Queen was so contemptuous? Blacks. That was number one on her list for sure. Communists. Atheists. Dykes. Thanks for the drink, Queen. Say, have you ever screwed a colored communist atheist dyke?

  “I’ll have a glass of water, or soda, or iced tea, whatever’s convenient,” Sam said to Lona, who inclined her long neck in answer. The clank of the imaginary silver bangles was distinct.

  “Yes’m,” she said, but the m was very soft.

  “Well,” Queen laughed with raised eyebrows, “I’m not afraid of a little tiddly before noon. Make that a vodka and tonic for me, Lona.”

  The black woman dipped her head and disappeared from the room.

  “George hasn’t brought you to anything at the Driving Club, or at least we haven’t seen you. Of course, we haven’t seen George there in ages either. What have you two been doing?”

  Samantha had once, when she was very young, accompanied Uncle George to the Piedmont Driving Club—that bastion of conservatism, wealth, power, dry-cheeked social kisses, and tuna sandwiches on white bread—perched on the edge of Piedmont Park. And even then, once was enough. When George had offered her the chance to make her debut there, she’d said, “I’ll pass.” He’d laughed and instead bought her the Triumph sports car in British racing green she’d been lusting after.

  “Well, you know Uncle George doesn’t go out as much as he used to, with his vision,” Sam began.

  “Oh, yes, poor thing, but you know, dear, you shouldn’t let that keep you in. A beautiful woman like you, new blood in Atlanta, why, we could have you matched up with someone at the club in no time.”

  “Yes, but I do have a career, and—”

  Queen waved a hand in dismissal and charged on. “I just don’t know what’s gotten into the heads of women these days, pretending they don’t need men. Why, what I wish for every woman in the world is that she could be as happy as Forrest and I have been. Now, that may sound a bit like I’m tooting my own horn, but I mean it. You just don’t know what bliss is until you’ve been married to a man like Forrest.”

  “I’m sure…”

  “Well, of course, not that I’m going to let you have him.” Queen’s laughter was well oiled, rehearsed, mechanical. She was as cool, Sam thought, as the drink Lona had just handed her. “It was love at first sight for me and Forrest twenty-five years ago. I shouldn’t say that.” She dimpled. “It gives my age away.”

  Only a woman who looked as good as Queen, Sam thought, could deliver that line so silkily.

  “We ought to get your membership in the Junior League transferred, too. There are so many girls who have heard about you and are dying to meet you.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never belonged.” Neither had Sam picked up her membership in the other societies to which her accident of birth entitled her—though she had arrived at Stanford in time to join the SDS. For a few years there, she’d joined anything that would give her license to smoke dope and drink Southern Comfort, yell at the police and throw smoke bombs.

  “Well, my goodness! I find that hard to believe, Samantha. But never mind.” Queen reached over and patted her on the knee. “We can take care of that.”

  Sam started to protest, but then she reminded herself that she needn’t worry. It was all politesse. The moment she was gone, Queen would forget all about her.

  “Now, where shall we have our lunch? In the little dining room or in the sunroom? Or we could eat out on the back veranda. Come.” Queen stood.

  How could the woman sit in polished cotton without creating creases? But then, Queen was not a woman to brook any kind of wrinkles.

  “I’ll show you the house.”

  This was an old Atlanta tradition, the obligatory house tours that went up and down, on forever through room after room of impeccable decorator decor, floors you could eat from. Queen Ridley’s palace was no exception.

  Her decorator had carried the all-white theme everywhere. There was white in every luxurious fabric imaginable, and even the old wide-planked floors had been bleached to bone. Glints of brass and the dark cherry of English antiques provided contrast to the acres of powdery white.

  They passed Lona in the kitchen arranging a salad of fancy greens—endive, watercress, arugula—and goat cheese. Not a bite of chicken in sight. Nouvelle cuisine had hit the Old South. Sam was relieved to be wrong fo
r a change.

  “You can serve us out back,” said Queen.

  Again, that elided “Yes’m.”

  Settled into wicker chairs at a table covered in white-on-white checks, they sipped fresh drinks, and Samantha complimented Queen on her beautiful yard. Azaleas abounded.

  “Forrest spoils me so,” Queen was saying. “In addition to Lona full-time, I have a gardener in every day and a houseman three times a week. I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

  What do you do with them? Sam wondered. But she knew the answer to that—the same things beautifully useless women had always done to fill their days: endless rounds of hair appointments and fittings and luncheons, teas and parties, club and tennis dates, all of which didn’t amount to a hill of beans.

  “I do wish I could meet Forrest. He’s not home, is he?”

  “Ah-ha!” Queen laughed. “I’d almost forgotten, dear, that George said Liza had called him about her ‘missing-in-action’ father.” Sam could hear the implied quotes. “She is the most headstrong girl sometimes. I must apologize for her. But”—and she gave Sam a dazzling smile—“if she hadn’t called George, he probably wouldn’t have called me, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to extend an invitation to you, and we wouldn’t be having lunch today.” Her laughter tinkled like the ice in her second drink. “So, maybe I should thank Liza.”

  Lona slid the salad plates and a basket of tiny biscuits onto the table.

  “I’m curious about why she would be so upset at not hearing from her father.” Samantha bit into a biscuit light as air. “Didn’t George say something about a family tradition of betting on ball games?”

  Lona moved to a side table and stood there rearranging some already perfectly arranged flowers.

  “Oh, they’ve been doing that since she was practically a baby,” Queen answered. “You know how men are, always want their firstborn to be a boy.” She lowered her voice the way Southern women always do when they talk about childbirth, one of their favorite topics. “And when it turned out that Liza was to be our only child, such a difficult delivery, I think Forrest encouraged her to be interested in boyish things.”