Prologue—
Bad things happen in an instant. The worse a thing is, the quicker it seems to strike – as if the devil knows full-well it’s best to not let you see it coming. Five-minutes earlier, four teenage boys had made their way into the woods thinking of nothing but getting home and getting fed. But the devil was in one of them, and in an instant he pounced; leaving one dinner forever cold on the plate.
Along a small pathway cutting through the front edge of a local South Carolina woodlands, there is a sudden rash of the color red. Spattered, blotted, and absorbed by the Spanish moss; sprayed and lightly dripping from shiny kudzu leaves; the color radiates outward from a distinctive shape pressed into the foliage. Standing alone over the still body of one of the teenage boys, the biggest of the four dangles a baseball bat from his left hand. Gripped by the handle, the bat isn’t long enough to reach to the ground, and the new color drips from the end of it as well.
“Oh, please Lord,” the big boy cries out in a sobbing voice. “Won’t you please just wipe all this away?”
With tears flowing, he reaches down with his free hand and tries desperately to push back the color gray oozing out of a large crack in the head of the limp figure. Blood covers his hand to the wrist, and as he wipes away tears collecting in his eyes, he is unaware of the effect it has on his appearance.
“God, please!” he shouts, raising the bat to the heavens. “I want to wake up now!”
In his delirium, the big boy doesn’t notice the sound of people running up the path behind him.
“There he is!” one of the original four boys shouts. “I told you he was crazy. He kilt him! He’s kilt him, sure enough!”
Two local deputies jog up the path, guns drawn and keys clanging against ammunition. They freeze at the sight of the larger boy standing with the bat raised, and each assumes the shooter’s position.
“Shoot-im!” the boy shouts. “Shoot-im before he kills someone else.”
The larger boy recognizes the voice and spins around with fire in his eyes. One of the deputies pulls back on the trigger of his pistol.
“Shoot-im, before it’s too late!” the boy screams again.
The moment hangs in the air with the Spanish moss.
“Easy there, Dub,” the older of the two deputies says to his locked-and-loaded partner. “We ain’t-a-gonna shoot nobody just yet.”
The younger deputy slowly eases off the trigger, his hands trembling.
“All right, son,” the older officer says, slowly lowering his weapon to his side. “There’s been enough bad happened here today. Why don’t you put that bat down and lie on your stomach there, so we can see about tending to your friend.”
“God can make this all go away,” the big boy says, his voice tapering as he lowers the bat. “If you give Him just a minute, He can make it all go away.”
“Ain’t nobody wanting to get in the way of God here, son. But I think He’d prefer if it you’d lie down on the ground so we can see to your friend.”
The large boy drops the bat from his hand, but he is determined to press his request to give God a little more time. “I tell you, the Lord can do some mighty powerful things,” he says, starting towards the deputies.
In a panic, the younger deputy fumbles with his gun and drops it from his sweating hands. It goes off with a powerful bang.
“Jesus, Dub! What the hell you trying to do over there?” the older deputy shouts.
The gunshot stops the big boy in his tracks, while the younger deputy quickly falls to his knees to fish for his revolver amongst the Kudzu.
“Leave it!” the older deputy commands. “Just get your handcuffs out.”
As Dub fumbles with the handcuffs hanging from the back of his belt, his more experienced partner turns his attention back to the large boy.
“You see there? Unless you want my partner to find some way to kill himself, we gotta put an end to this.”
“Yes, sir,” the large boy says, lowering his chin to his chest.
“That’s real good. Now, how about we start with you turning around and lying down on your belly for me like I asked?”
The large boy nods, then drops to his knees and flops on his stomach. He hits the ground with a thud.
“What ya doing?” the smaller boy shouts. “He’s a killer. You gotta shoot-im!”
“Shut-up, boy!” the older deputy snaps. “Get on back down that path and wait there with your friend.”
After a pause, the boy shuffles backward down the pathway. “My daddy’s not gonna like this,” he says.
“We’ll all have us a chat with your daddy soon enough. Now git!”
The boy takes off running, as the younger deputy struggles to get the handcuffs around the bigger boy’s wrists.
“For Pete’s sake, Dub, can’t you do nothing right?” the older deputy says, holstering his gun and bending down to help his partner. He notices something as he come in closer. “My God … did you wet your britches?”
Dub looks down with shame while his partner finally clicks the handcuffs onto the boy. “Come here,” he says, pulling Dub back down the path a few steps. “You better rub some dirt on that spot or something. I will not be embarrassed by such a thing, and I’m telling you right now—”
As the older deputy applies a stern lecture to his partner, the larger boy raises his head out of the Kudzu and looks back in the direction of the body. “I’m so sorry, Marcus. There weren’t nothing I could do,” he whispers.
On the brink of full tears, suddenly his eyes light up, and a happy, satisfied smile breaks out across his face.
Chapter One—
Of all the people to work for in the newspaper business, Carl Odette is one of the very best. As an editor, he may lack a few of the characteristics assumed essential for the job; but as a human being there is none finer. As it turned out, this was a very good thing for me. If he was even one scintilla less than the man he is, these days I would not only be unemployed, but very likely locked away in a mental ward somewhere. Another flame-out quietly added to the list of synonyms for unfulfilled potential. For being the single most tolerant and understanding person I have ever come across, Carl will forever have my personal loyalty and sincere gratitude. My biggest hope is that someday he and I might even be able to speak again.
When Carl first took over the national news desk at The New York Times, most of us grunts cranking out copy saw it as a chance to finally be out from under the thumb of a tyrant. Carl’s predecessor had been a desk-thumping, vein-popping, shout-at-you kind of a guy; which was the main reason that when Carl became our editor, every single one of us prima donnas in the national newsroom was determined to do whatever it took to make him successful. I think we all wanted desperately to prove that yelling wasn’t the only way to get good copy in on time. And while in the beginning we kept ourselves in line, it could never have lasted if Carl hadn't earned our respect and admiration.
I may have flip-flopped a couple of times over how I felt about Carl, but deep-down I know he’s a good man all the way to the core. And though I’m fairly certain he would not be so kind in his words about me, I’ll never let anything cause me to question the character of my former boss again. We did hundreds of stories together over the years, very few with any measurable degree of conflict between us. But sadly, I let the last one wreck our relationship altogether. I allowed conflict to devolve into outright warfare between us, and in the end I must accept that our friendship was the biggest casualty – and that it was my fault. It wasn’t the only bad-ending I brought down on myself with that story, but in many ways it had the most impact.
It was just about this same time one year ago that Carl first introduced me to the folder on the proposed re-trial of a convicted murderer – some sixteen years after the crime – and from the very start my world was slightly off kilter. Over the past year, I have been convinced that my involvement in what was to become a three-part series entitled “Hate and Racism are Alive and Well in the New South,” was an assignment I would forever curse Carl for laying at my feet. There were a lot of good things that flowed from my work on the “Hate” story, such as sharing a Pulitzer Prize; which by itself should have been the ultimate highpoint in my life as a newspaperman. That it wasn't even close is the best evidence to show how drastically I have changed; how totally upside-down my short list of priorities has become. There is literally not one single value-judgment I could make today that would match the answer I would have given before doing that story – which is something I now believe may just be one of those good things.
It's taken a while for me to come to that conclusion, as the better part of the past year ground by before I was able to allow myself to even think about the whole affair again. And while for me, it was by far the worst year ever, now that it's all behind me I'm glad to have gone through it. I understand now that all the questioning, soul searching, and nearly manic bouts of depression I suffered through as a result of that original story were for a purpose. I have been truly blessed. Not by the members of the Pulitzer committee, but by the simple act of getting to know an even simpler man – a man that will one-day whisper the quiet words of an angel.
During the very intense two weeks we spent together last spring, I became one of the world’s leading authorities on Bosephus Buckminster of Chases Corner, South Carolina. From his highest hopes, his deepest fears, to all the stories behind the enigma that is Bo, I believe I have come to know him as well as anyone can – and that's the real blessing I'm talking about. It’s the one thing that makes all the emotional garbage I've had to wallow through since then worth something.
In the process of coming to that fresh outlook on things, after an absence of nearly a year, the writer in me is back at his craft. The new Mark Daniels has another story to tell about his time in Chases Corner, South Carolina. And while ultimately I have Bo to thank for that, it is to Carl Odette that credit must be given for getting us together in the first place. For some reason, Carl fixed on me to do the story and wouldn’t let go.
The day Carl first brought Bo my way, it was a rainy Sunday afternoon, and I was in the office just killing time while my fiancée spent the day with her parents. Carl came in shortly after I did, and although he waved across the newsroom, he went straight into his office without so much as a hello. Later, as I was sitting at my desk listening to a tape of a disgruntled lobbyist named Hodges throwing his former benefactors under the bus, over my right shoulder came a thick, tattered manila folder. It was wrapped with rubber bands at the top and bottom and there was enough material crammed into it for the file to bounce the other items on my desk when it hit.
Turning in my chair, I asked, “Did you just drop that on my desk, Carl?” There was no one else around, but the question was asked out of a sense of incredulity rather than a need to know.
“I did,” Carl said in a matter-of-fact fashion. “It’s a story I need you to cover, and it’s not something I want to debate.”
That was not the way Carl passed out stories. His normal method was to send an email asking politely if you could stop by his office, followed by a mandatory chit-chat about things at home or the Yankees ridiculously bloated payroll. Eventually, Carl would gently slide a folder across his desk and say something like, “Tell me what you think about this one.”
It may have something to do with his football-player frame or his near movie-star good looks - a thing he seems to downplay with five-dollar haircuts and a Walmart wardrobe - but Carl is one of the few people I’ve met who possesses enough quiet confidence to give anyone speaking the upper hand in a conversation. When he handed you a story, he always gave you plenty of time to peruse the material, and sat patiently while you read. If you asked a question too soon, he’d say something to the effect of, “Go ahead and finish looking over the whole thing, and then we'll talk.” Then he’d lean back in his chair, waiting like an umpire between innings, until he was sure you were done. At that point he’d sit up straight and throw out a handful of open-ended questions, like “Tell me what’s going through your head.” He was brilliant that way.
That’s why the day Carl assigned me to Bo’s story, I was more than just a little taken aback by how he did it. No small talk; no sagacious guidance – just a big fat folder tossed over my shoulder, followed by an un-Carl like pronouncement.
“Mark, I know you’re getting married in two months and that’s probably got most of your attention right now,” he said with an out-of-place determination written across his brow. “But this one has to be you.”
With a closer look, the puffy bags under Carl’s eyes hinted that the decision was harder on him than it should have been. “Can I ask why?”
“No. I can’t get into that right now.”
I considered a stiffer resistance, but was knocked so far off-track by his demeanor that I couldn’t get the words out. The one thing Carl had gotten right was that I had other things on my mind. Getting married had been keeping me preoccupied for some time, and with the day fast approaching cold feet were getting most of my attention.
“Carl, do you expect me to cover these proceedings in person?” I asked.
“Yes. You’ll have to be there.”
“Boss, there’s no way I can just pack up and head off to chuck-a-luck, South Carolina,” I said, anxiety ratcheting up the frustration in my voice. “Damn it, Carl, when Karen hears that I’m going a thousand miles away ...”
“I know. She’s going to be pissed. But, Mark, I swear to you, if you do this one right, I’ll nominate you for the Pulitzer myself.”
I’d seen a couple of the original story summaries coming over the wire, and there wasn’t a shred of evidence to suggest the file in front of me was good enough to win an award.
“What exactly do you see in this thing that makes you think a Pulitzer is even remotely possible?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. You’ll have to trust my instincts on this one. There’s something there. Something big.”
I rubbed my forehead between two fingers. By the way he was hanging around, it looked like Carl meant to have an answer right away and saying no didn’t seem to be a possibility. “Even if I say yes, it’ll have to be a tentative answer. I have to talk this over with Karen.”
“I understand.”
“No. I don’t think you do. Things have been rocky enough between us lately.”
What followed were the first truly uncomfortable moments Carl Odette and I had had in nearly six years of working together. After a couple of minutes of looking down at his shoes, Carl just turned around and headed back in the direction of his office.
As he settled into his seat behind his desk, I could see him through the glass partition. He was just staring straight ahead. It was like he’d fallen into a trance, and I remember feeling worried for him.
I sat alone with the file for a while, struggling without precedent to know what the next step is after Carl forces a story on you. The first of the clippings inside was a small Times story. The headline read: “Retarded Black Athlete Killed in Scuffle.”
The article reported on the death of one Marcus Brown of Pixley, South Carolina, killed by multiple blows to the head with a baseball bat. The incident had taken place following a practice session for a Dixie Youth Baseball team, when a fight reportedly broke out between teammates. I suppose that’s how the story made it into The Times in the first place. A fight among teammates has a slightly different angle to it, especially when one of them winds up dead. Still, it must have been a slow news day to make it all the way north and into The Times.
The local paper had a few more details. Three boys were being interviewed regarding the incident. One, the son of a local politician, was a pitcher; the second was the team’s catcher; and the third boy a reserve outfielder. Their stories differed widely as to exactly what had happened, and the local police captain confessed to the reporter that “one of the boys is a little slow in the head, and it’s hard to match up what he thinks he saw with the others.” The third boy, I would come to learn, was Bosephus Buckminster; but the paper hadn’t reported the names of any of those involved yet. The sheriff would only say that his officers would get to the bottom of things in a day or two, and that he fully expected charges would be filed against one or more of the boys.
Three days later, charges were filed. The local headline read: “Buckminster Boy Charged with Killing Friend.” The story claimed the motive for the killing was simple jealousy. The sheriff spelled it out in a short quote:
“We don’t think the boy meant to kill his friend, Marcus. He was the one who talked Marcus into joining the team in the first place. Seems like the Buckminster boy just snapped.”
The official statements taken from the other two boys told their side of the story.
Official Statement of Trey Hunter:
On Thursday, September the thirteenth, Corey Aycock and me was cutting through the woods after practice on our way home. We saw Marcus Brown walking ahead of us, and we ran to catch up to him so we could all walk together. We was walking along like that when all of a sudden Bo Buckminster come running up on us, hollering and cussing at Marcus. He was saying things like, “Why you walking with them? Ain’t I good enough for you no more?” Marcus told him he was welcome to walk with us. That we was teammates and we could all walk together. That’s when Bo called him a cuss word and hit him hard on the back of his head with his baseball bat. Marcus fell to his knees and Bo hit him another lick. That’s when me and Corey took off back out of them woods to get some help. A couple of deputies was hanging out by the ball field when we left, so we went on back to fetch ’em. When we got back, old Bo had killed that black boy dead as nails. He was just standing over him with that bat in his hand, looking crazy enough to do it again.
Trey Hunter was the politician’s son. The statement from Corey Aycock matched Trey’s almost to the word, with the exception that Corey did not mention Bo using the cuss-word before hitting Marcus. The odd part of the official record was that no statement was recorded for Bo’s version of the story. The sheriff himself had admitted there were discrepancies between the three boys as to what happened, yet the official record had just the one version, told by two separate witnesses.
I made an entry in my notebook about finding what the other story was, official or otherwise. It was the first of many notes I made that day, and it was just about all that was needed to hook me. Had Carl just let me read the file first, I’m sure I would have jumped at the chance to get off the Hodges story and move on to one that actually required notes. I was fairly certain Carl would have known that too, which made the question of why he didn’t all the more mysterious.