Nancy Grace - The Eleventh Victim

As he strode toward him, C.C. silently cursed the guard for the delay at the front gate. He’d see their minimum wage asses hauled into their supervisor’s office and fired.

He put on his game face and stuck out his right hand.

“Floyd Moye, how are you? Have I kept you waiting?” C.C. couldn’t possibly smile any wider, giving Eugene a clear view all the way back to the fillings in his wisdom teeth.

When Eugene stood to take C.C.’s hand, his grasp was firm and cool on C.C.’s overheated palm. “No, Judge,” he said, “I’m just early. Bad habit of mine.”

That was a lie, of course. C.C. was late. But in the South, a social faux pas such as arriving late for a tee time would never, ever be pointed out under any circumstances. That would be rude and considered an open act of hostility.

“Judge, would you care for a drink before we hit the fairways?”

“Sure, Floyd, not a bad way to start eighteen.”

Eugene had read his mind. The judge had cottonmouth in the worst way.

Or did Eugene simply know for a fact that C.C. never minded a cocktail? If that was the case, what else did Eugene know about him?

He got his answer a moment later.

“Maker’s Mark, two rocks, am I right?”

Damn, Eugene was sharp.

“Yes siree, Floyd Moye, I’m impressed.”

“I assure you, Judge, it’s mutual.” C.C. wondered what he meant by that. Could he be impressed with some of C.C.’s legal opinions?

Or maybe Eugene admired C.C. after reading about him in the papers, one profile after the next. C.C. had even been on television a few times, addressing the State Bar Association on legal ethics. Or maybe he supported C.C.’s stalwart pro-law-and-order stance.

“Lewis, two Maker’s on the rocks, sir,” Eugene said to the elderly waiter in a white jacket standing unobtrusively a few feet away.

“Yes, sir.”

“Judge, how was your drive down?” Eugene turned his focus toward C.C., taking him in from head to toe. Something about Eugene put him on edge.

“About three hours,” he said, “but it’s worth it, Floyd.”

“Played the greens here at Augusta much?”

“Oh yes. Quite a bit. Beautiful course.”

“Really?” Eugene’s eyes locked on him like radar.

The judge felt his face flush.

“Damn! Why did I lie? Save the lies for something important.”

He’d told himself this a million times…it was always the details that bite you in the neck… always .

Could Eugene know? Shit, of course he knew. He was a member here.

Anybody who was anybody played here all the time and knew the place like the back of his hand. C.C. had mostly just seen it from his own den, on TV, a gaping hole in his social pedigree. And that was usually on a Sunday afternoon after a couple of bourbons.

He had to take the obvious route and lie, again.

“Of course, not recently, you know,” he quickly amended, trying to wade out of the muck. “The workload on the bench is very demanding. Very demanding.”

Eugene nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sure it is.”

Had he gotten out of that one? No way to tell. He was relieved when the waiter returned with warmed cashews and Eugene turned his attention away from C.C. for a moment to chat with him.

C.C. raised his glass to his lips and fought the urge to drain it in one mighty gulp as Eugene, thank God in Heaven, paused before turning his attention across the table again.

“How’s your wife?” he asked C.C. “Betty, isn’t it?”

Of course it was. The man was good.

“Betty’s just fine, Floyd.” He considered returning the question, but he was pretty sure he knew how Eugene’s wife was-and that bringing her up might very well sour the conversation.

“How does Betty find life down in Dooley County after time in the big city?”

It was all he could do not to snort at the thought of Betty in Atlanta. She hated it.

“She likes to stay close to home,” he told Eugene.

Home with her family. Even in light of his current position, they loathed him. He could feel it. The pained greetings, formal airs, exchanged glances whenever C.C. talked. He hated the way Betty’s bunch didn’t drink, smoke, or curse, and sat all pinched up on the front row of the First Baptist Church every damn Sunday. He hated the way they guarded the old grandmother’s china at Sunday lunch, like C.C. might just take a big bite out of one of the salad plates.

He guessed they were still mad he got a little drunk at the wedding, but what the hell was wrong with that? C.C. never understood it. His daddy and his daddy’s daddy owned Dooley County. Now Betty was the wife of one of the most powerful men in the state.

“Does she come up to Atlanta much?”

“Not too much, Floyd. She pretty much stays put when court’s in session. She gets lost every time she gets anywhere near I-285.”

“Does she? I don’t blame her.”

“Oh, yes.” C.C. nodded vigorously. A gift from Heaven…they had something else in common to talk about. They both hated traffic.

“Ever since they built that damn perimeter around the city, I swear tourism’s been on the decrease. Once they’re on it, nobody can figure out how to get off the damn thing and get into downtown.”

C.C. knew he was rambling but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“Yep, I wish Betty’d get the hang of it and visit more. Atlanta can be a lonely city, Floyd Moye, a lonely city indeed,” he added. C.C. put on a sad, thoughtful face. Wistful, in fact.

Actually, he hadn’t thought of Betty in days.

She adored C.C., of course, but whenever Mrs. Clarence E. Carter considered the prospect of a four-and-a-half-hour drive to spend a weekend in Atlanta with her husband, she seemed to develop a sudden and immediate migraine that caused her to take to her bed, sometimes for the entire weekend. Betty was better off down on the farm where she was happy. He was entirely certain that navigating the sprawling behemoth called Interstate 285 was the sole barrier that kept her in Dooley County.

Thank God for Atlanta traffic.

A few more minutes of small talk, a couple of swallows of Maker’s Mark, and the two finally made it out of the clubhouse.

It was none too soon for C.C., who could only hope he’d do better with his hands occupied. No more uncomfortable one-on-one conversation. It was nerve-racking, especially when he couldn’t figure out how to do away with the yak and get to the governorship.

“Why not be honest for once? That’s right…honest and up front. Just put it out there. Wait…Don’t just put it out there…Let things breathe…No need to do anything radical…Play it cool,” C.C. told himself as they headed out to the tee. He could chat all night if he had to.

“Plan on taking a cart, Floyd?” C.C. asked hopefully, blinking in the hot Georgia sun.

“Well, Judge, we use the caddies here. No carts anywhere on the grounds…kind of a tradition.”

Busted again, dammit! Fricking details!

Why didn’t he notice there wasn’t a single cart parked anywhere near the area, just a group of older men standing near the clubhouse? On TV when Tiger won the Masters, there wasn’t any damn cart!

“Right! That’s right! I remember that!” C.C. and Eugene set out walking, two caddies following discreetly behind.

For a while, it was just about golf-and it was all C.C. could do to stay on his game. He tried, but Eugene was better. A lot better.

Was it any surprise?

C.C. couldn’t focus. As the two approached the fourth hole, Eugene asked, “Ready for the Crab Apple, Judge?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Was it some kind of drink? C.C. hoped so.

“Crab Apple…It’s the name of the fourth hole. Each hole is named after a tree or bush here.”