CHAPTER 28

The sheriff's office looks like an armed camp when we arrive. It's a modern, fortress-like building, with a state-of-the-art jail occupying its upper floors. Uniformed deputies swagger through the halls like cowboys in a western, stoked by the air of incipient violence blowing through the city. Ike disappears for a few moments, leaving Kelly and me in the entrance hall.

Five minutes later, he returns and escorts us into the sheriff's office. I sense immediately that we're going to benefit from the jurisdictional rivalry that exists between the police department and the sheriff's office. Had we reported the levee shootings to the police, the chief would have kept Kelly and me all night, mercilessly grilling me as payback for the constitutional lesson I gave him earlier in the day.

The sheriff is tan and fit-looking, with the watchful eyes of a hunter. He seems to view the death of the youngest Hanratty as a fortuitous event, though the timing could have been better.

"When those black kids shot Billy Earl Whitestone," he says, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his neck, "they turned this town into a powder keg. The Sports Center sold out of ammunition at four o'clock. They sold mostly to whites. Wal-Mart sold out of everything but paintball rounds. They sold mostly to blacks. We may have a world of trouble coming down on our heads tonight. And all because of that newspaper story." He looks at me like a wise poker player. "You think going after Leo Marston is worth all this trouble?"

"The built-up resentment in this town is none of my doing, Sheriff. What's happening now would have happened eventually, whatever the cause."

"Maybe," he allows. "I sure hope you've got some evidence, though. Messing with Judge Leo ain't generally good for your health."

"Any leads on the Whitestone shooters?" Ike asks.

"The P.D. has an informer working it. They're not telling me squat, of course, but the word is, it's some kids from the Concord Apartments. Nobody's been arrested yet, though. And we need an arrest. Jailing those two might go a long way toward calming people down. Maybe you ought to take a ride over to those apartments, Ike. See if you can shake something loose."

"I'll do it."

The sheriff smooths his thinning hair. "Think you can give me some overtime tonight?"

"Glad to get it."

"I want you to stick to the north side, try to keep everybody indoors."

The sheriff is telling Ike to keep the black population inside their houses.

"I've given the white deputies the same orders for their parts of town," he adds for my benefit. "It's fear that drives all this nonsense. If we can get through this first night, we might just make it okay."

The sheriff's phone starts ringing, and he leans forward to shake our hands. "You boys try not to shoot anybody else, okay?"

Ike leads us out to the front steps of the building, where he takes a pack of Kool Menthols from the pocket of his uniform. He offers Kelly one, but Kelly declines. As Ike holds his lighter flame to the tip of his cigarette, his hand trembles, and Kelly shoots me a quick glance.

"You sleep with this boy if you have to," Ike tells Kelly, exhaling a long stream of smoke. "He's doing some good, even if he is doing it the hard way."

Kelly winks at Ike. "No sweat, Sergeant."

"How'd you know I was a sergeant?"

"It's like a sign around your neck, brother."

Ike's laugh is good to hear, but as we move down the steps toward our cars, Kelly leans toward me and says, "He's speeding like a racehorse, with bourbon underneath. Something's eating him. Bad. None of my business, of course."

I slap him on the shoulder. "You say whatever pops into your head, Kelly."

"Will do."

Since my mother's computer was destroyed in the fire, I planned to draft my answer to Marston's suit at the offices of the Examiner. They occupy an entire building in an old section of downtown, a long one-story structure with inadequate parking.

Even at this late hour the door is open, and we find Caitlin in the newsroom, sitting before a twenty-one-inch monitor, commanding her staff with a cell phone in one hand and a computer trackball in the other. She's dressed in jeans and a teal pinpoint button-down, which gives her the look of a college yearbook editor. She waves when she sees me but continues her phone conversation. The newsroom is forty feet long and twenty wide, with a half dozen computer workstations-all in use-and photos of distinguished Natchezians decorating the walls.

"Who's this?" Caitlin asks, sliding her cell phone into a belt holster as we approach.

"Daniel Kelly. Part of the security from Houston. Kelly, this is Caitlin Masters, fledgling muckraker."

Caitlin sizes Kelly up as she leads us down a hall, noting his average size and easy demeanor. Falling back beside me, she whispers, "Is he qualified? "

Kelly chuckles softly.

"He just saved my life," I say in a normal voice. "I'm sold. Have you put tomorrow's issue to bed?"

Her eyes flash with excitement. "Are you kidding? This town's about to pop."

She pushes us into a glass-walled conference room screened with Venetian blinds for privacy. "We're pushing back the deadline as far as we can. Two in the morning if we have to."

"Can you do that?"

"With computers we can reformat the whole paper and go to plate in thirty minutes. There's a rumor that the police are close to an arrest in the White-stone killing. And we must have gotten a dozen calls about people carrying guns in and out of their houses. They're saying it's just like it was before the riot in sixty-eight."

"That wasn't much of a riot. Everybody was scared to death, but nobody got killed. Just a bunch of broken store windows."

"Let's hope that's all that happens this time."

"I'm glad to hear you say that."

She gives me an icy look. "You think I want the town to explode so I can sell papers?"

"No."

She doesn't look convinced. "Three hours ago a CNN crew yelled a question at John Portman as he was leaving the Hoover Building. He walked over and told them on camera that the Del Payton case involved matters of national security, and that the FBI was looking into the question of whether you or I had violated any laws in our pursuit of the case."

"The best defense is a good offense, I guess. Anything else I should know?"

"Leo Marston's attorney gave me a phone interview. He said your charges are ridiculous and they're going to cost both of us seven figures. I'm running it tomorrow."

"I expected that."

Caitlin smiles like a child hiding a cookie. "I also have some good news. My father called back and told me that if I was sticking by my story, there must be something to it. He's going to help."

"How?"

"By committing the full resources of the media group to investigating Marston and Portman. He's already spoken to Senator Harris from Virginia. Tomorrow, Harris is going to the Senate Intelligence Committee to ask for a special resolution authorizing the opening of the Payton file. Failing that, he'll ask that it be moved from FBI custody to a place where it can't be tampered with, at least until Director Portman's involvement in the case can be clarified. If that doesn't work, he'll stand up on the Senate floor and ask the same things on C-Span."

I feel the relief of a man trying to push a car uphill when four strong backs join him in his effort. But the feeling vanishes quickly. "Asking that the file be opened is good. But if he can't get that, it's best that the file stay where it is. At least until Sunday."

For a moment Caitlin looks confused. Then she grabs my wrist. "Lutjens is going to try for the file?"

"Sunday."

"I'll tell my dad to call the senator back."

"It's nice to have powerful friends."