Up Jumps the Devil

13

« ^ » I have seen the inhabitants hunting foxes, bears, and deer, through the woods…“Scotus Americanus,” 1773

I turned and made my voice as cool as his. “Mr. Talbert, I presume?”

We had never formally met, but I’ve seen him on Channel 5 and in the News and Observer enough times over the years. Discussing plans of a new merger, standing behind various governors as they announce the successful luring of yet another rustbelt industry to North Carolina, beaming widely on election night as Jesse Helms or others of his conservative cronies squeak into office, G. Hooks Talbert moves in much more rarefied circles than a district court judge does.

Nevertheless, if he hadn’t pushed my name with the Republican governor who appointed me to replace a judge who died in office, I’d still be practicing law from the attorney’s side of the bench.

Not that supporting me was his choice, of course. Normally, a man of his standing would never waste political pull on a minor local judgeship and certainly not for a Democrat, but he was caught in a Mexican standoff. Behind my back, Daddy had sent him word that if I didn’t get the appointment, Channel 5 would be getting a videotape of the vigorous crop of marijuana which Grayson Hooks Talbert Junior was growing in his greenhouses at the time. I’d been ambivalent when Daddy told me what he’d done, but I couldn’t blame him for savoring his revenge—not after he’d been so roundly snubbed when he offered to buy the Talbert property years ago. (Back then, word was sent to him that, quote, “Mr. Talbert doesn’t care to have any dealings with a known bootlegger,” end quote.)

G. Hooks must have hated having to ask a moderate like Governor Hardison for a personal favor almost as much as I hated getting on the bench that way, so we may not have met, but as we warily faced each other there in the underbrush, yes, each knew who the other was.

He held his squirrel rifle cradled in the crook of his arm with the barrel pointed skyward. Walking toward us around the bend in the lane was a third hunter whose own .22 was slung across one shoulder.

Like G. Hooks Talbert, this man was expensively togged out in brown coveralls and fluorescent orange hunting cap. He had the same well-barbered steel gray hair and moved with the same I-own-the-world aura of self-entitlement as G. Hooks. Another Triangle mover and shaker, no doubt, but I couldn’t put a name to him.

“Well, Hooks, she’s certainly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but is she in season?” he asked, with a warm, crinkly-eyed smile at me to show that he was just kidding.

I gave him a cool nod and didn’t smile back.

Nor did Talbert.

“This is Judge Deborah Knott,” he said.

“Judge?”

His disbelief was probably conditioned reflex. After all, most of the judges in his Old Raleigh circle would be male. They would wear Brooks Brothers suits, play gentlemanly rounds of golf, and sport distinguished touches of gray at their neatly trimmed temples. Although my sky blue sweatshirt is from the Bull’s Head over in Chapel Hill, my jeans and sneakers are both off-brands. My hair, rougher than a haystack at that moment, is almost shoulder length and shows no immediate signs of going gray. (And never will if Ethelene down at the Cut ’n Curl has her way about it.)

“District Eleven-C,” said Talbert. “Judge Knott is one of the few with a D after her name to ride in unopposed last election.”

I had been appointed in the summer and my place on that ballot was mostly pro forma. Because local Republicans hadn’t sensed the potential for such widespread bloodletting, they didn’t bother to run anybody against me for the rest of Perry Byrd’s term. I can only hope the pendulum swings back a little before I have to run again.

“I don’t believe I caught your name, Mr.—?”

His eyes briefly met Talbert’s. “Just call me Tom.”

The wind shook loose another cloud of yellow leaves from the branches above us and he gave an exaggerated shiver. “Hooks, I think I’ll head on back to the car. Reckon there’s any hot coffee left in the thermoses, Bob?”

“Yes, sir,” the younger man answered smartly, which made me think he was either a very junior member of the man’s firm or maybe his chauffeur.

“Coming, Hooks?”

“I’ll be along in a minute.”

“Nice meeting you, Judge,” he said, and then they were gone.

“You didn’t happen to see a half-grown beagle pup, did you?” I asked, ready to keep walking myself.

Talbert’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That’s why you’re poking around out here? Looking for a lost dog?”

I almost asked him if there was anything here he didn’t want me to see, like maybe plants that deviated from the USDA’s list of recommended nursery stock? Somehow, I managed to control my tongue. “I was afraid he might’ve tried to follow me.”

“Over to Stancil’s place? Something going on over there? We heard sirens and horns before.”

“Jasper Stancil’s been killed,” I said. “They’re treating it like a homicide.”

Briefly I described events and it was almost like speaking to a computer. His face didn’t change expression. He didn’t frown or exclaim, but I could sense a realignment of facts and a new set of calculations going on behind his pale blue eyes.

Okay, so the bloodlines were a little attenuated. G. Hooks and Mr. Jap were probably only third cousins twice removed and it wasn’t like the two of them had anything in common beyond some land boundaries. Even so, three generations back, those land divisions were the result of a very real family connection and for him to treat Mr. Jap’s death like a problem in binary logic suddenly made me forget all my self-administered lectures on discipline and discretion.

I heard myself say, “I guess this complicates your plans?”

“Plans?”

“To buy a strip of road frontage from Jasper Stancil.”

It was almost enough to ruffle his composure.

Almost, but not quite. Of course, he’s been practicing control at least twenty years longer than me.

He gave a polite nod, said, “Hope you find your dog,” and turned to follow the others.

Just before he disappeared into the underbrush, he glanced back at me. “You’re up for election again when? Next year, is it?”