Nancy Grace - The Eleventh Victim

For eight years now, Virginia had laid low, operating just under the radar of the County Commission.

Only one close call…but so what if they suspected she was responsible for hacking down the first and only parking meter at the Pier? It happened in the middle of the night, when the St. Simons police were always on “shift change” at the Donut Hole. A squad car happened along just as she was finishing up, and she dove into a thick hedge of dwarf palmettos just in time. Those suckers’ leaves were like swords !

Then there was her greatest coup of all: blackmailing the new Commission chairman, Toby McKissick, just before the last vote on constructing a major bridge connecting the Island to the mainland.

From that moment on, Gunn knew she had found her calling. She was a guerrilla. A counter-terrorist fighting the Commission and all other forces seeking to destroy the Island’s natural beauty.

Hence, the chips and dip now laid out neatly on Virginia’s bar.

A new assault on the scarce Island Sea Turtle was in motion.

Euphemistically referred to as “beach replenishing,” it consisted of pumping sand from the ocean bottom onto the Island’s beaches, to build them up for tourists. Doing so would all but destroy the turtles’ mating grounds. Moreover, there was no guarantee where the sand would come from, and a likely location was just off an industrial point near the mainland. The sludge there was replete with toxic buildup, thanks to dumping from a paper mill. To have that dumped on the Island under the disguise of “replenishing” would be a crime. But now it was in the works.

Something must be done.

Something on par with-or perhaps, even greater than-what she had done to McKissick.

She’d tell her new friends all about it later tonight, Virginia decided, and clenched another cigarette in her smiling lips as she went to let the dogs in.

Back Roads One Hundred Miles Southeast of Atlanta, Georgia

THE SPEEDOMETER READ NINETY-EIGHT, THE BEST OF THE ALLMAN Brothers CD was turned up, and C.C.’s flask was empty.

He’d already pulled off the interstate to search his trunk for reinforcements, but it was dry. Damn! He needed to think!

How the hell was he going to explain to the Court that he was reversing his decision on the serial murders?

He’d already given the law clerk his orders-the opinion had been written in rough draft and circulated to the other judges weeks ago. He was writing the Court’s opinion, leading the majority of five against the other four weak sisters who always dissented, on principle, to the death penalty. If those pansy-asses had had the chance to fry Jim Jones in his own damn Kool-Aid, down in Guyana, they’d still vote against it.

After twenty-eight more miles of nothing but asphalt, C.C. pulled off the highway to a Bar-b-que stop. Beside it was a thin neon sign, thank God, for a liquor store. It even had a drive-through window tacked onto the side, he saw, and steered toward it. God bless America.

“Bottle of Maker’s to go, partner. Would you throw in a plastic cup for me?”

Yes, sir, his partner in the drive-through window sure would.

God bless America , C.C. thought again as he paid up through the window and scratched off.

He took a big swallow of the bourbon. Damn, that was good.

Now all he needed was some boiled peanuts. That should be easy enough to find. Roadside stands selling boiled peanuts and fresh-picked fruits and vegetables were everywhere along the back roads off the Georgia interstate, mostly to lure the Yankees headed to Florida.

C.C. cut away from the interstate to begin a search-and-recover mission for boiled peanuts.

And it couldn’t be just boiled peanuts, it had to be fresh-boiled green peanuts. They had more of a kick, anybody’d know that.

After churning up nearly twenty more miles of narrow two-lane back road, C.C.’s dreams came true just outside the Georgia-South Carolina border. Three bucks, and now…he could think.

Washing down a handful of peanuts with a gulp of bourbon, he told himself it wasn’t as if he cared about some idiot convicted and sentenced by a jury; somebody who was getting what he deserved…the chair.

And he sure as hell couldn’t care less about the idiot’s mother crying into a TV microphone or a bunch of tofu-eating liberals holding votive candles outside the penitentiary the night Old Sparky lit him up.

The reality was…he had his own reputation to maintain. How the hell could he vote no on a penalty case?

With another swallow of Maker’s Mark, genius struck.

Just recently, C.C.’s little suck-up law clerk had come in sniveling about a moratorium on the death penalty somewhere up north. Claimed it was based on a series of so-called “faulty” convictions where innocent men landed on the Illinois death row.

C.C. knew in his right mind that it was all bullshit, of course, probably just political maneuvering trying to throw focus off someone’s own sorry career.

But…

What if, based on that, C.C. claimed his vote change wasn’t anti-death penalty…it was pro-justice by God!

Yeah, and he’d say he wanted the “real killer” punished! Like in O.J. Well maybe not O.J. He’d make his law clerk think of another example.

The more he drank the more it made sense.

He could actually do this thing. The bourbon was settling in and the tingle was fine. Back on the interstate, he set the cruise control to eighty-nine. No need to speed in excess and get caught. Plus, he was protected by his “GAJUDGE1” plate. No state trooper who wanted to keep his job would pull him over.

Taking his right hand off the steering wheel, he uncorked the Maker’s, just to top it off. The plastic cup was now filled to the very rim but amazingly, he didn’t lose a drop. The peanut shells were piling up on the floorboard of the passenger’s side.

Flicking a soggy peanut shell off his car-installed cell phone, landing it on the passenger’s leather-upholstered door, he hit the speed dial to Jim Talley.

After four rings, it transferred into the law clerk’s voice mail.

“Talley. It’s the Judge, here. I’m working on a weekend, son. Long hours are just part of the job description. Nobody said the bench was easy, son. Remember that.”

He flicked away another soggy shell. This one landed on his shoe and stuck. C.C. paid no attention.

“I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching, boy. I think our colleagues on the Bench are right about this one. The constitutionality of it all is disturbing me, Jim, disturbing me greatly. I’m very torn, Jim.”

Yeah, he could do this. It was perfect. He did care about the Constitution…deeply.

“That Atlanta death penalty case? I’ve changed my mind, boy. No man is too great and should never be too proud to change his mind for the right. That includes even me, son…and I now firmly believe that boy was wrongly sent to the death chamber. If we’re wrong…he’ll do it again. You’ve seen enough of these cases, son, he’ll go right back to his old habits and then the State can string him up good. No sense to rush a case. Let it mature …like a fine wine.”

He rambled on in a hazy, bourbon-laced attempt to justify the about-face. “I mean, son, we’ve got to administer the law in a realistic manner, a manner in which the people of the state of Georgia are protected. We can’t waste the State’s money keeping him up on death row for twenty years of appeals. It’s the taxpayers’ money. We’ve got to keep their best interests in mind, too. Don’t forget the little people, Jim. And above all else, son, we’ve got to be fair. Justice is blind, son, don’t forget that. Justice is blind.”