Nancy Grace - The Eleventh Victim

She hoped and prayed Hayden was wrong because she had a whole lot of life ahead of her. When Hayden smiled or laughed, which was rare, she lit up the room.

They were making progress.

Atlanta, Georgia

AS C.C. RECLAIMED HIS SEAT ON THE BENCH AFTER AN EXTENDED visit to the men’s room and tried to look serious-minded, he couldn’t help but feel the heat from Florence Teasley. Giving her a glance sideways, he saw her give him the evil eye.

Old bat.

She was nothing but a do-gooder who had terrorized him ever since she’d made it to the bench.

However he voted, Teasley automatically took the opposite opinion and seemed to relish actually writing the opposing opinion herself, attacking him at every turn.

Damn reformer.

At case conferences, she baited him in front of the other justices, lording her own Harvard-degreed intellectualism over his self-titled “down-home Dooley County common sense.”

But why did he need to know the law? That was what law clerks were for.

C.C.’s main worry wasn’t Teasley’s insinuations he was not a deep legal thinker. Instead, he was deeply concerned Teasley knew he occasionally took a “nip” during oral arguments. As an arch death penalty opponent, she never missed a chance to suggest the electric chair was appropriate only for drunk drivers, and she always looked straight at him when she said it. And she always seemed to be able to smell bourbon on him, openly sniffing when he was near.

She could probably do with a drink or two herself. Old-maid-spinster-liberal, but the only thing C.C. had ever seen her drink since she took the bench three years ago was hot water with lemon on the side. She’d sip it like it was a fine wine and damn if she didn’t eat the damn lemon peel behind it, every single time.

He watched her go through her high-tea protocol every Thursday during the Justices’ weekly case review. It nearly made him jump out of his skin but he couldn’t drag his eyes away when she peeled the lemon off the rind with her teeth.

Vegan lunatic.

At last, after grueling hours of sitting on a huge leather easy chair positioned directly next to Florence Teasley and trying his best to chime in with questions occasionally, oral arguments came to a merciful end. Maybe he should just take a cue from U.S. Supreme Court judge Clarence Thomas and just keep his piehole shut. Better to remain silent and let others just suspect he was in over his head than actually speak and confirm their suspicions.

He was pretty sure Lincoln said that.

C.C. shed his black rayon-polyester robe as fast as he could unzip it and hopped the private elevator down to LP, Lower Parking.

Augusta National…here comes the judge!

Then…the governor’s mansion.

He wondered if what was left of the Allman Brothers would play at his inauguration party. Without Duane, would it even be worth it? Poor bastards.

C.C. slipped the keys into the ignition of his midnight-blue Cadillac and cranked the music and the AC both on high.

This was his favorite Allman Brothers CD, and even though he didn’t know all the lyrics it didn’t stop him from singing along all the way to Augusta. There, he tooled around for fifteen minutes looking for the route to the famed Augusta National Golf Course.

At last, he was driving his Caddy down Magnolia Lane. When visitors first entered the sanctity of the world-renowned course, they took a winding route lined by deep-green Southern magnolias. Breathtaking. But C.C. wasn’t here to soak up nature.

He was here to bag Floyd Moye Eugene.

C.C. entered a set of tremendous gates, humming along on “Ramblin’ Man” with Duane Allman. It was virtually impossible to get on the course here, much less obtain a membership, even through bribery. C.C. had tried.

At the guardhouse protecting the entrance, he was met by a uniformed employee who sized him up with a brisk, “Morning, sir. Name, please.”

“Nearly afternoon, son,” C.C. observed, not taking kindly to being treated like an outsider.

“Your name, sir?”

The guard didn’t take the bait. He had seen it all…everybody and their great-grandmother trying to get into Augusta.

“Judge Clarence E. Carter. I’m a guest of a longtime member, Floyd Moye Eugene.”

“Carter…Carter…”

You’d think he’d recognize C.C.’s name or at least the personalized plate on his car, “GAJUDGE1.”

Between the name and the plate, he’d never been ticketed after being pulled over on traffic infractions-which happened regularly. Especially around his favorite strip club, the Pink Fuzzy. Didn’t cops have anything better to do than try to trick unsuspecting drunk drivers into an arrest? But at least the Georgia State Patrol usually managed to put two and two together and let him go with a wave and a respectful “You have a good evening now, sir.”

But no, not the deputy dogs here at Augusta. Here, they were treating a State Supreme Court Justice just like anybody else, keeping him waiting expectantly while they took their time checking his name against a list of expected guests.

Never mind, they’d beg him to play a few rounds here when he was Governor Clarence Carter.

Once he made it past the gestapo Checkpoint Charlie, he continued his trip through perfectly manicured grounds.

Time to reset his sights and wipe the sweat off his neck. With the backing of the head of the State Democratic Party, the single most powerful body in the region, the rest of the state would fall in line. Challengers would back off or be kicked to the curb without the party’s support.

In exchange for Eugene’s support all the way to the mansion, C.C. was prepared to offer anything Eugene wanted. Thanks to a fruitless investigation of all things remotely connected to Eugene, C.C. had no idea what exactly that might be. But whatever it was, he’d get it.

He knew he had to be subtle at first, lead him up to it. He couldn’t hit the man over the head with an offer.

Floyd Moye Eugene was the kingmaker, and C.C. would be king.

After parking his car, he was met by a pale, stooped, older man, slightly balding and wearing a crisp white uniform bearing the Augusta crest.

“Nice to meet you. I’m George, and I’ll be ushering you to the clubhouse.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can make it on over myself,” C.C. said quickly, not wanting to stand out as a mere visitor.

“I’ll escort you,” the attendant said again, kindly, but leaving no wiggle room for C.C. to roam free.

But as they made their way, C.C. realized that without George at his side, he wouldn’t know where the hell to go and would really stick out as one of those who made it in riding somebody else’s coattails.

Good thing he was perfectly decked out in the most expensive golf clothing available in the resort wear department of Saks Fifth Avenue at Phipps Plaza.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it, sir?” the man asked.

“Perfect for eighteen holes.”

“So I take it you play a lot…Ever been here before, sir?”

“Oh yes…yes…many times,” C.C. lied, embarrassed that a man of his standing in the Georgia legal community had never before been invited to Augusta National-much less invited to join.

The man chatted him up as they headed toward the clubhouse. Damn, this place was swank.

Once inside the clubhouse, the guide discreetly disappeared.

When C.C.’s eyes adjusted to the dark room, he scanned the whole place and could finally make out Eugene, still wearing darkened aviator sunglasses and sitting alone at a table in one of the far corners of the paneled bar.

Damn, was C.C. that late? Eugene was nearly through with his drink.