“Sounds like you loved your son a lot.”

  “I did,” she sobbed, “and no matter what folks say, I didn’t desert him. It just became impossible for me to stay there watching him grow up and become just like his father and grandfather. And there was nothing I could do about it.”

  Coop leaned closer and in a soft tone asked, “If Travis meant so much to you, why did you give up?”

  She shook her head while tightly folding her hands in her lap. “I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror anymore. John David never beat me, he never laid a hand on me, but his family still broke my spirit. He was always having affairs and loved parading his mistresses in front of me. I know he got remarried to a gal from Gulfport who is young enough to be his daughter. Maybe money soothes her spirit a lot more than it soothed mine, or maybe she’s as mean as John David and can dish out as much as he can, but I wasn’t that way and had to get out.”

  “Molly,” Coop asked, “how old is Travis now?”

  “He’s twenty. He’s a junior at Mississippi State. You ever see him?”

  Coop shook his head. “I’ve only been back for a short while. He would have been away at school.”

  “If you ever do see him,” she almost whispered, “please tell him his mother loves him. I want him to know.”

  “I sure will,” he assured her. “And thanks for your time.”

  She looked up as if disappointed he was leaving and asked, “Is that all you needed?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You have given me exactly what I was looking for.”

  Chapter 29

  29

  Coop stopped and grabbed a bite at a Dairy Frost Drive-In before turning the Studebaker toward Justice. As he navigated the two-lane blacktop, he considered what he’d learned. John David had been a womanizer and likely still was one, but how did it tie to this case? And more importantly, how would it serve to help the lawyer spring his client?

  As he hit a long, open stretch of highway with no other cars in sight, Coop pushed down on the accelerator and watched the car easily climb to sixty. For the next five minutes as Coop pondered what he just found out and tried to match it with what he already knew, the Studebaker effortlessly drifted along through the rural, wooded countryside. Then the road took the lawyer to a stretch of hills demanding his full attention. The first was an easy adjustment to the right and could easily be navigated without braking, but the second required a much sharper turn to the left. When he pushed down on the brake to slow his speed, the pedal dropped to the floor and didn’t come back up.

  It was just minutes before dusk and the car was now hitting seventy with a curve meant for half the speed looming just ahead. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, Coop eased it to the left and prayed the already squealing tires would somehow hold the road. As the back end slid toward the ditch, he fully expected the Studebaker to go airborne and roll across the ground and into forest, but somehow he safely exited the curve and onto a long, downhill straight patch of asphalt. As the car’s lights flashed down the highway, he noted a sign for what amounted to two consecutive U-turns at the base of the hill. The first went left and the next right. Locals called this a severe S curve, but as the Studebaker climbed to eighty, Coop sensed the moniker was about to change and this stretch of road would soon be named for the popular Jan and Dean song “Dead Man’s Curve.”

  Reaching down to the dash, he switched the engine off, and as the motor died, all he heard was the sound of the air rushing by and his tires trying to keep a grip on the road. As he approached the first of the turns, he was greeted by an even larger problem. Just ahead in the oncoming lane was a logging truck beginning to chug up the hill.

  As his speed was still climbing, Coop figured he only had one chance to avoid disaster. Saying a quick prayer, he reached down and yanked the emergency brake. As it grabbed, the car pulled hard to the left directly into the path of the huge truck. Letting go of the brake, Coop jerked the steering wheel to the right just in time to miss the big rig. One danger avoided, but an even more foreboding one loomed directly ahead.

  The emergency brake slowed the car to about fifty before burning out. The curve sign said twenty-five. Could those Goodyear tires hold the road and guide him through the final half of the S curve?

  Yanking back to the left and then quickly to the right, trying to stay in the middle of the highway, he somehow made it through the first part of the challenge, but the car simply couldn’t move quickly enough to hold the road for the sharp bend that followed. Even while Coop pushed the wheel right, his passenger side tires lost the blacktop and found the shoulder, and there was no coming back. Hitting a pothole, the Studebaker dipped into the ditch causing the driver’s side wheels to leave the ground. A split-second later the car was spinning like a ballerina. With Coop tightly gripping the steering wheel, the vehicle continued its wild dance until it crashed into a barbwire fence at the edge of the woods. It came to rest on its passenger doors with the driver’s side tires reaching for the sky. Coop was lying against the passenger front door, his head in the floorboard, when everything stopped moving. Though physically sound, it took him a few moments to clear his mind enough to assess what had happened. He was still fighting mental fog when he pushed off the dashboard, managed to get to his feet, and came to a crouching position in the cramped quarters. Gaining a few more of his faculties, he checked for blood and found none. His legs and arms felt good, too. So with his body intact and his brain starting to come up to speed, it was time to pull himself out of what was left of the car.

  Though it was sunset, there was still enough light for him to see that the windshield had popped out. At last, a break. It was a way to exit the crumbled, twisted mess once labeled with the grand moniker of President. Ducking his head, he stepped through where the glass had been and climbed over the fence into the woods. On unsteady legs, he made his way along the wire property boundary until he got to the car’s nose and then crawled back over the fence and into the ditch. Just as his feet hit the ground, a car drove up and man climbed out of a ’62 Thunderbird.

  “You okay?” He yelled as he sprinted over to the accident scene.

  “Yeah,” Coop shouted back, “I think so. Maybe a little bit bruised, but nothing more.”

  As he got closer, Coop noted the man was built like linebacker, sporting a crew-cut and a hard, big jaw. He also wore blue jeans and a gray shirt proudly proclaiming Jim’s Garage above the pocket. After visually checking out Coop, the man took a look at the Studebaker’s now easy-to-view undercarriage.

  “My name’s Jim O’Banyon,” he announced as he surveyed the wreck in the fading light. “What happened? Did you take the curve too fast?”

  After brushing himself off, Coop replied, “Not intentionally. I pushed down and had no brakes.”

  O’Banyon was nearing the back of the car when he stopped, pulled a screwdriver from his pocket, and poked at something. After shaking his head, he glanced back to the lawyer. “You were lucky. Come back here and look at this.”

  As the still-shaking lawyer approached, O’Banyon pointed to a rubber line that appeared to have literally melted. “Do you see that?”

  “Yes, but what is it?”

  The mechanic smiled and then grimly noted, “Some fool bent your exhaust in such a way that it was blowing on your brake line. I don’t know who worked on your car recently, but whoever he is, if I were you, I’d give him a piece of my mind. You were lucky he didn’t kill you. It might have taken days, but at some point, your brakes were going to fail.”

  Coop shook his head. Maltose had probably only come to his office to give one of his boys time to rig the car. But once more, the lawyer had somehow cheated death and lived to continue to shake up a man who usually couldn’t be shaken.

  Chapter 30

  30

  Tuesday, July 7, 1964

  John David Maltose slept little. Waking up at dawn, he dressed and made his way to the kitchen where one of his maids rustled up eggs and toast for his breakfast. After knocking down the food with two cups of coffee, he made his way into his office to fume.

  Sitting in a chair beside the French doors overlooking the garden area of his estate, he looked out over a carefully manicured rose bush but never saw it. In fact, he was blind to everything at this moment other than his rage. He was the chess player; he moved the pieces at will and controlled the outcome of every game he played, but over the last few days, others had stepped into the picture, and the millionaire not only didn’t know who they were, but he couldn’t figure out what they wanted.

  Drumming his fingers on the chair’s arm, he considered those who might be horning in on his territory. Fields was too old, Lindsay was too noble, and Fredrick too stupid. So who was left?

  Smoothing his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, he considered others who might want to become players. Yes, there were folks in the capital, and even in Chicago and New York, who would love to have some of his action, but they had no connections to Justice, and obviously whoever was pulling these strings knew something about the case. Maltose was so consumed by a mystery he couldn’t come close to solving, he didn’t even hear the door open or notice the beautiful woman walk into his private lair.

  “What’s on your mind?” Linda Maltose asked.

  He glanced across the room to his second wife. Though it seemed out of place in the hills of Mississippi, she defined Hollywood beauty. She was five-and-a-half feet tall, a store-bought blonde, with huge blue eyes and a perfect body. She didn’t as much walk as glide through a room. The lilt in her voice often hung in the air like perfume, tempting any who heard it to follow the woman wherever she went. He’d still been married when he first gave in to her voice and the temptation it offered. But she made sure he wasn’t married for long. And when the first marriage officially died, Linda sunk her claws in so deep, he knew he wouldn’t be free for long.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Is that the nightgown and robe set you bought on your trip to Atlanta a few weeks back?”

  “No.” She smiled. “This came from my last trip to New York.”

  She didn’t seem to care much for spending time in Justice. At least once a month, she’d find an excuse to take off and go somewhere, and as she’d gotten older those trips had become even more frequent. Thus, she was hardly a mother to either their eight-year-old son or four-year-old daughter, but they had people for those duties anyway and those caretakers were likely much better role models and parents than he or Linda.

  She frowned and waltzed over to where he sat. “You haven’t been paying much attention to me lately. You found a new filly?”

  “I’ve had things on my mind,” he snapped. “Besides, you’re the one who is never here.” His eyes caught hers before adding, “It has just been a bit crazy the last few days.”

  “Are you caught up in the mess with the colored boy and Becky Booth?” she asked.

  “Everybody’s been thinking about it,” he replied in an off-handed manner.

  “Figured it might just be eating you up.” She laughed. “I think you knew her pretty well, didn’t you? I mean she had been to our house more than just a few times over the past few months.”

  Maltose looked back out the window, as he chewed on her words. As he thought, she rattled on, “And you need to do something about Travis. He is partying hard and not doing his work at school. He is becoming worthless. And he doesn’t need to come home so much. He is a bad influence on Michael and Jodi.”

  She was baiting him. She always did. She didn’t like Travis and was constantly trying to find a way to expose his flaws. And it wasn’t hard. After all, she was spot on with her remarks. The kid drank too much, was a skirt chaser, and barely scraped by in his schoolwork. Plus, he was lazy and had a surly attitude. In other words, he was just like his old man.

  “I’ll crack down on Travis when he needs it,” Maltose finally replied. “And you have no business worrying about him anyway. Travis isn’t your kid. But I think it would be a fine idea if you spent more time with Jodi and Michael. Why don’t you go see if Millie needs any help getting them ready for school?”

  “You don’t want me around?” It was more a dare than a question.

  “Not now,” he replied. “I have things I have to do.”

  “You always do,” she shot back. She then smiled, “I heard a rumor going around, and you aren’t going to like it.”

  He glanced back into the catty smile he had grown to hate. “I suppose you’re going to tell me what it is.”

  She shook her head, spun, and headed back toward the door. Yet just before walking out, she looked back at her husband. “They say you’re trying to make a deal to keep the colored boy out of the chair.”

  “Where did you hear that?” he demanded.

  “It’s all around,” she assured him. “Folks are dreaming up all kinds of reasons for your soft heart, but there is one I’ve come up with that no one has guessed yet.”

  “Linda!” His calling of her name demanded an explanation.

  She glared at him for several seconds and then announced, “They say you’re going soft on coloreds, but I don’t buy it for a moment. I think you’re trying to keep this from going to trial because you think Travis did it.” She took two steps forward and pointed a finger toward Maltose. “John David, you’re protecting your son and you believe Cooper Lindsay might be able to figure things out in a court of law. Your son is going to bring your world down on top of you, and it might just cost Jodi and Michael their inheritance. Whatever it takes, you best never let it happen, or you won’t live long enough to grow old.”

  She was gone before he had a chance to respond, but if there were rumors going around, he had no doubt she was at least partially responsible for them. Linda loved to stir things up and was always trying to find a way to exert some kind of control over him. Setting anyone and everyone against Travis was her favorite tactic.

  Chapter 31

  31

  Linda’s words were still on his mind when Maltose picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number. It rang four times before the man he needed to speak with picked up.

  “Main office.”

  “Melvin,” Maltose said, “you still driving your blue pickup truck?”

  “Sure, I love my old Chevy.”

  The millionaire took a deep breath. “I hear you’ve been using it as a weapon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You tried to run down Coop Lindsay in front of the Methodist church.”

  There was no hesitation in the reply. “The steering is a bit loose, and when I looked down to change the radio station, I lost it a bit. He jumped out of the way, so it was no big deal.”

  “So,” Maltose said, “you didn’t try to kill the lawyer?”

  “Listen, John David, I’ve worked for you for a long time. I’ve done what you asked when you asked it. And over the past week, I’ve heard you complain about what Lindsay is doing on this case. So if the truck accidentally crossed a lane, and if it had managed to take the guy out of the case, I don’t think you would have complained.”

  Maltose shook his head. Which way was it? Was it an accident, or was it one of his workers reacting too strongly to one of his rants and taking matters into his own hands? With the scruffy but powerful hired hand, he had no idea, so until he had something more concrete, he would let it go.

  “Listen, Melvin,” Maltose explained, “if Cooper Lindsay is taken down, I will make it happen. Don’t jump the gun and try to anticipate what I want. Do you understand that?”

  “Boss,” the man replied, “I promise I won’t take anyone for a last ride unless I have orders and am paid well for my work.”

  “Glad we got it cleared up,” the millionaire quipped. “Now, what is this I hear about you evicting Hattie Ross from her home?”

  This time there was a much longer pause before the explanation came. “Listen, Boss, it was time to collect the rent, and I just figured I might be able to get her to give the testimony needed to get the case decided in the fashion the town wanted. But when I pushed the buttons, she didn’t cave in.”

  “Hattie’s not going to cave,” Maltose assured his hired man. “She has more character than either one of us.”

  “I didn’t know,” Melvin replied.

  “Listen, boy,” the millionaire shot back, “I run this business, you work for me, and unless I give you a direct order, you don’t do anything. Don’t try to help me by thinking, because you’re not very good at it. You’ve made two big mistakes, and the next one will be your last. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Maltose didn’t bother with a good-bye before slamming the phone down. Melvin was walking on thin ice. If he kept taking matters into his own hands, he’d soon be washing someone else’s dirty laundry.

  Chapter 32

  32

  After taking a final look at what had been his mother’s pride and glory, Coop caught a ride back to town with the state trooper who had investigated the wreck. The final cause was chalked up to equipment failure, and thus, there would be no further investigation regarding who actually reworked the exhaust to slowly burn out the brake line. Nevertheless, Coop had a guess as to who was behind it, and it was the reason he actually made a trip to the place he had avoided for his entire life.

  The Maltose mansion was anything but quaint. With its two-story columns, stained-glass windows, and twenty-foot-deep by fifty-foot-wide porch, it shouted Old South. The main part of the house was more than a hundred years old, and with the additions added since the structure’s original construction, it likely was now in excess of fifteen thousand square feet. Yet Coop had little interest in studying the architecture or questioning if some of the more modern additions blended with the original work; he was here to face off against the man who seemed intent on killing him.