Author: Richard L. Fricks

Professor Stallings was sitting at his secretary’s desk facing the hallway when I exited the third-floor stairwell. He was on the phone, and I was ten minutes early. He motioned me inside and through a wooden arched doorway that led to his giant office in the corner.

I nodded and smiled and settled into a leather armchair facing the large metal desk that was at least fifty years old, likely present when he’d become an associate professor in the early seventies.

Bert Stallings, now approaching eighty-seven years old, was the heart and soul of Yale University’s Law School. He’d shared different aspects of his storied life with me ever since I’d arrived in 2000. He and his wife, Mary, now deceased, had frequently dined with Rachel and me at our home. Although he was an excellent teacher, his claim to fame (my phrase, not his) was his work on behalf of women’s rights. His most notable case was Roe v. Wade, the 1973 U.S. Supreme Court decision that gave women the exclusive right over their bodies. The Court held women had the unfettered right to have an abortion if it took place during the first trimester of the pregnancy. That forty-seven-year-old case was a world away from the current religious and political environment.

Recently, the Republican controlled Senate had confirmed a far-right winged woman to replace the heroic Ruth Bader Ginsburg. The new justice adamantly opposed a woman’s right to choose. Thankfully, there was Bert Stallings and his exceptionally talented team, who had the courage and humanism to fight the religious takeover of the highest court in the land. I was excited and honored Professor Stallings had asked me to take part. Although limited, it was an honor to play a small behind-the-scenes role in defending the right of every woman to choose what to do with her own body.

While waiting on Bert to end his phone call, I thought of Rachel and what I’d told her at the cemetery Saturday morning. It was only a tiny fib. “I’ve agreed to help Professor Stallings with the interviewing.” I had already made my decision, but it would be today before I officially agreed. Sometimes I split too many hairs. Rachel would understand what I had meant by “agreed.”

“Good morning, Lee, so nice to see you.” The man had the energy of a forty-year-old. His head full of gray hair declared he was much younger than three years shy of ninety. He patted me on the back and made his way into a chair equally old as his desk.

I smiled. My eyes glinted as the sun rose higher in the eastern sky. Bert always had the bank of windows along the outer wall open, even in the hottest weather. Today, it was in the upper forties with a stiff breeze. Papers fluttered at the right corner of his desk.

“I just talked to Connie Dalton. She’s open to your call. I told her it would be within a week.” Bert held a yellow sticky note across his desk. I leaned forward in my chair and took it. It contained Connie’s name and two phone numbers. The word “Montgomery” was at the bottom.

A week ago, Bert had called me to his office and provided a quick summary of what he was planning. He asked me to locate and interview as many women as I could, and not just any woman. Bert provided a written profile. The women had an abortion in the past ten years with a story that relayed the importance of late term procedures to end the life of their baby. Bert wanted me to assemble a bank of data that supported his position that not only was Roe v. Wade properly decided, in fact, it didn’t go far enough. Somehow, he knew there was a case to be made for certain abortions after the baby was beyond the first trimester in age.

“One question,” I said. Before I could ask, Bert’s secretary walked to his desk and laid a note in front of him.

“Sorry Lee, I need to take this call.” He scribbled something on the back of a card. “Send your reports to this email address.”

I stood, accepted his note, and gave an affirmative nod. Professor Stallings is a busy man.

***

I always feel guilty when I use over thirty minutes of my law school day on personal business. It’s not rational since, while at home, I often think of case or statutory law that applies to upcoming lessons.

Today, I didn’t have but two classes, so I added a heavy dose of guilt to my already gigantic pile. I spent at least four hours researching the current status of Alabama’s law dealing with the doctrine of eminent domain. At 4:30 p.m. Eastern Time, I phoned the Marshall County Circuit Clerk’s office and spoke with a soft-spoken woman named Edith. Of course, she didn’t know me from Eve’s hamster but was cordial, respectful, and eager to answer my questions.

Normally, a lawsuit isn’t necessary when a city or state invokes its intent to take property from private landowners. Even if they oppose the taking or believe the government agency isn’t offering fair market value, negotiations themselves resolve the issues. It’s only when the property owner refuses to sell that the government makes use of the court system’s power.

This was happening in the City of Boaz vs. Rob and Rosa Kern. My in-law’s adamant opposition (it was mostly Rob) had left the city no choice but to file a civil case: CV—2020—194837. I’d asked Edith to read the Case Action Summary. The city had filed its lawsuit on October 9th. A private investigator by the name of Buddy Hutton had served the Complaint and Summons on my in-laws the morning of the eleventh. Rob, without counsel, had responded less than a week later with a handwritten note adamantly, often rudely, opposing the City’s action. The Circuit Court Judge, Waymon Broadside, had ruled on October 18th that Rob’s filing would serve as the Defendant’s official Answer.

What surprised me was the Judge had set a hearing for a week from today, November the seventeenth. A further surprise came when Edith, acting as though she was my paralegal, relayed the judge had issued a tentative Order. I wasn’t familiar with the details of the Alabama Rules of Civil Procedure, but this act seemed odd.

Edith, at my request, read the tentative Order. Basically, it said unless the Defendants could show cause why the City’s taking was illegal or its offer understated the property’s fair market value, the Court would grant the Plaintiff’s requested relief. In short, it would grant the City of Boaz fee simple ownership in the Thomas Avenue property known as the Hunt House upon payment of $500,000 to the Defendants. It was clear the only way to stop the ownership transfer was for Rob and Rosa to provide a valid reason (“show cause”). If they did, the Court would be in error to grant the City’s request.

With this information in hand, I left the law school at 5:00, skipped takeout from Bella’s, and drove home. I had two things I needed to do. The first was to call my in-laws with an update. Then, focus on the subject I had done my best all day to keep suppressed at the back of my mind: Rachel’s diaries.

Lillian slept until 7:00. After peeing, she slipped on her housecoat and descended the stairs for coffee and a bowl of cereal. She’d forgotten Ray would be home. He had told her yesterday he was going to prepare the prime rib for tonight’s deacon dinner before going to his Main Street office. He was frying bacon when she entered the kitchen.

“Good morning. Want some eggs?” He knew she hated pork. He also knew she didn’t like chatter or any other noise so early.

“Cereal.” A one-word answer was sufficient. Then she changed her mind. “Can I borrow your car?”

“Which one?” The bacon was almost burnt.

“The SUV. You know I can’t drive a stick shift.” Ray’s 1972 Corvette was still in mint condition, stored in the detached garage next to the bay filled with a Honda four-wheeler, a John Deere Mule, and an assortment of other deer-hunting gear. He knew Lillian’s driving limitation but liked to make her talk.

“When will yours be ready?”

“Hopefully Friday.”

“You can. Be careful.” He was being extra generous, probably a little guilty about something. But he was right to caution Lillian. The Suburban was big and wide.

“Thanks. I will.”

Lillian filled a bowl with her favorite cereal, picking out a few raisins to eat while they were dry, and poured a half-glass of milk. She would wait for coffee until after her shower. Since Ray was in the breakfast nook, she retired to the dining room.

The separation didn’t last long. She was pouring her milk over the Raisin Bran when Ray entered carrying a Southwestern Omelet. “Mind if I join you?”

Since Ray pressed, Lillian figured this was as good a time as any. “Sit and let’s talk. I’m moving to the Corbett place.” This was a house and ten acres Ray had purchased after Betty and Tommy Corbett had moved to Nashville to finish out their days, closer to their two daughters and their families. For the past year, Ray’s renters had been prompt and dependable, but that had changed a week ago when he had taken the long route to the mayor’s house and saw a Ryder moving van backed up to the front porch. The law had been on Ray’s side given the eighteen months remaining on the lease, but Ray had chosen not to pursue the matter. He preferred staying out of court.

Now, with Lillian, he was defenseless, dependent solely on his charm. He chuckled to himself, realizing that card didn’t have a hand to play. Maybe the facts would work. “You know you lose everything if you file for divorce.”

“Ray, I know the prenup by heart.”

“It’s no different if you lure in a cohabitant.” That was an odd way to put it.

“We can negotiate some more. You owe me for what, three or is it now four affairs?” Ray’s weakness for the opposite sex was Lillian’s ACE. She’d played that hand perfectly in the middle of selling the pharmacy chain. She’d threatened to go public with Ray’s philandering. That wouldn’t have caused the sale to fail, but it would have caused a big hit to Ray’s reputation. He valued it nearly as much as his girlfriends. That’s when Lillian had insisted she receive $50,000 every time he had an affair. He’d quickly agreed, even suggesting an amendment to their prenup. In addition, Ray had promised to stop his philandering and swore to be truthful if, by chance, he ever strayed again.

“It’s three. I’ll pay you by the weekend.” Ray stood and as he returned with plate and cold food to the breakfast nook mumbled to himself, “there’s a point Lillian’s not worth the bother.”

Lillian knew it was four. She’d followed the old Reagan saw, ‘trust but verify.’ Thanks to local PI Connor Ford, she had the philanderer dead to rights, inclusive of audio, video, and stills, not to mention the receipts she’d found scattered about in Ray’s favorite hidey-holes.

***

By 10:00 AM, the weekly women’s Bible study had ended. Lillian attended every Tuesday morning, not for spiritual guidance but to get out of the house and to hear the local gossip.

She and Jane walked together to their cars. It was Jane’s way to check in, private and in person, on the reserved Lillian.

“Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?” Jane asked, reaching inside her purse for keys.

“Sorry, I have some errands to run, but thanks anyway.” Lillian fibbed. She loved the smart and sometime sassy old maid who knew the Bible better than the pastor. It was true Jane had never married, but she wasn’t old. In fact, she was the same age as Lillian, 66, and that was still young by today’s definition. Jane was tall and thin with piercing green eyes. She always wore a cross-cropped dark red wig that came a few years ago after two rounds of chemo. The two had been best friends from first grade through middle school, but it hadn’t always been smooth sailing. Lillian had never fully forgiven Jane for being disloyal when Rachel Kern moved to Boaz during the summer before ninth grade. Jane’s excuse for favoring Rachel during that eighteen-month period was God, or more accurately, God’s will. Nearly as important was Jane’s desire to please her Master.

“You know you can talk to me. When you’re not taking part, then you’re troubled.” Jane said, confusing Lillian. She rarely said anything during the Bible study. If she was going to talk fiction, she preferred the John Grisham type. “Oh, I forgot. I saw you and Ray last night in Guntersville.”

“Uh?” Lillian knew this wasn’t true and almost asked questions.

“I was driving south and had just crossed the bridge into downtown. You two were headed north. Huntsville? A late dinner?” Jane opened her Impala’s door and turned to Lillian, expecting an answer.

“Cotton Row.” Again, Lillian fibbed. “Have you ever been?” Jane would never eat at a place that served alcohol. “Later,” Lillian said with a smile, and walked to Ray’s Suburban.

***

Lillian dropped by Y-Mart for coffee. After showering and dressing, she’d chosen to ignore coffee and avoid another encounter with Ray, who was cleaning the kitchen when she exited the Lodge.

Two older teenage boys nearly ran her over as she entered the convenience store. They gawked at her from head to toe. Before the door closed behind her, she heard one of them say, “damn, now that’s a hot old lady.”

Lillian headed for the coffee station with mixed feelings. She knew she hadn’t aged as rapidly as many of her friends. Take Jane, for instance. Lillian’s dark brown hair was silky as ever. And the new bras she had found at Victoria’s Secret gave her boobs that younger look, lifted tight, firm in the imagination, from a distance. But pretty and sexy was vacuous, just thoughtless lust, not anything like genuine romance. Not that she knew anything about that, other than from the clues she picked up from her constant novel reading.

Three containers of Hazelnut creamer and four Splendas. Perfect. Lillian paid her bill and walked outside. The two boys were at the gas pumps. The hood raised on their old Chevrolet pickup. One was pouring in a quart of oil. That one, average height but lean and muscular, cocked his head at her and smiled. His dark hair, red and yellow flannel shirt, and work boots reminded Lillian of Lee Harding. Oh, to go back, to know what she knows now.

Lillian turned to suppress her imagination. She dug seventy-five cents from her pocketbook and bought today’s Sand Mountain Reporter. She walked to Ray’s Suburban, crawled in, almost spilling her coffee in the driver’s seat, and locked the door. An old habit.

She took a long draw on her sweet and nutty coffee before placing it in one of two cup holders behind the gear shifter. She unfolded the newspaper. On the front page, below the fold, was a color photo of Kyle Bennett with a related article titled “Reward Doubled.” Lillian knew it was Kyle’s tenth-grade class picture and not his ninth. She could tell by the red football jersey he was wearing. Red and not crimson. She remembered like it was yesterday. All the new football jerseys had arrived late, just days before the opening game with Guntersville. The delivery had caused quite a stir since the jerseys were red and not crimson and gray. With little choice, Coach Hicks had kept the red jerseys and created quite a stir, more so as the season went by with no change. A year later, Hicks redeemed himself at a preseason pep rally and bonfire by tossing the god-awful reds into the flames.

Lillian first scanned the article. She knew the story well. The city had never forgotten the missing teenager. Neither had his twin brother Kent, who now was offering half a million dollars for information that led to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for Kyle’s disappearance and death. Even though the police didn’t have a shred of evidence that someone murdered Kyle, what other conclusion could a reasonable person draw?

The article summarized the story. Lee and Kyla Harding and their mother had seen Kyle just after the December 12th, 1969, Christmas parade. The police questioned all three, raising no suspicion. Lee and Kyla had said Kyle was going to the Young Supply Warehouse at the corner of Thomas Avenue and Brown Street to help dismantle the tenth graders’ float and to help Ray Archer return a borrowed PA system to First Baptist Church of Christ.

Ray had admitted Kyle and Lee Harding had promised to meet him at the warehouse and help with the PA system, but neither had shown up. Rachel Kern had alibied Ray’s whereabouts the entire evening until shortly before midnight. She helped him remove the PA System, including delivering it to the church in his pickup. Afterwards, the two drove to a secluded spot-on Cox Gap Road, a property owned by Ray’s father. There, they’d built a campfire and roasted some marshmallows, and spent two hours staring at the stars and the full moon.

Kent now lived in Houston and was a multi-millionaire. After receiving an aeronautical engineering degree from Auburn University in 1976, he spent ten years at NASA. Next was twenty years with Boeing in Seattle. In 2006, he had formed K2, Inc., a high-tech firm that manufactured satellites and drones for the U.S. military.

Lillian refolded the newspaper, took another draw of the still-steaming coffee, and headed east on Mill Avenue. She wanted to see Kyla. At the McVille and Beulah Road intersection, Lillian remembered that night. Lee, Kyle, and she had watched the parade through the windows upstairs at Fred Kings. Kyle was always quiet, but that night he was preoccupied. She and Lee had teased him, accused him of having a secret girlfriend, suggesting she was so ugly he didn’t have the courage to expose her. Now, Lillian pondered Kyle’s response to an off-color question Lee had asked while the Albertville High School cheerleaders and majorettes danced and twirled on the street below. “Courage can be deadly. Sometimes stupid and scared is the wiser path.”

Turning left into Kyla’s long driveway, Lillian pondered whether Kyle’s words had been his feeble attempt to ask for help.