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“Are you with the police?” the man asked in a voice well used to obedience.
Jack said, “No, I’m not. But Mr. Battle is inside with some deputies.”
“I’m Gordon Hanover. This is my wife, Christine Hanover.”
Damn, thought Jack. The Randolphs’ youngest child, Christine. He knew there had been four children. The oldest was Sam Randolph. The two middle children had died decades ago, he recalled. He hadn’t seen Christine in nearly fifteen years.
She focused on him with a pair of light gray eyes that matched a bundle of somber clouds directly overhead. A sense of revelation spread over her features. “Jack Lee, is that really you?”
“Yes, it is.” He looked at her husband. “My brother, Jeff, used to... date Christine. In high school,” he quickly added.
Christine had attended a private school, but that had not stopped her from asking out Jeff Lee after a football game where the Lee brothers had led Jeb Stuart High School to a thorough trouncing of the team from her elite institution. They had dated until Jeff had joined the Army and Christine headed off to a women’s college.
“It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I... I was just meeting with Mr. Battle and seeing things. I’m a lawyer now.”
“Oh, that’s right. I knew that.”
“I’m so very sorry for your loss, Christine,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He stood aside so they could pass by.
Gordon looked at him and said in a low voice. “Is... is it as bad as...”
“No need to let her into the room where it happened.”
He gave Jack an appreciative pat on the shoulder, and they headed into the house.
Jack was heading back to his Fiat when a brand-new four-door Lincoln Continental pulled up at the gate. The capped and uniformed Black driver got out and held open the door for the sole passenger: a tall, pale man wearing an expensive suit and fingering a half-smoked chunky cigar. He was around fifty with graying hair, a long, full face, and a pair of dark, analytical eyes. Unlike Gordon Hanover, there was no concern in his features, only reams of confidence.
As Jack watched, the TV anchor and the other reporters hurried over and began assaulting the man with questions. He started talking animatedly, seemingly taking control of the media with a well-rehearsed performance. The clearly engaged photographer snapped away and the cameraman did likewise on film.
Jack noted that the man’s driver stood next to the Lincoln staring off at a bird fluttering around.
He heard the crunch of gravel and turned to see Battle striding up to him.
“Who is that man?” Jack asked, pointing at the gate.
Battle took a look and came away obviously impressed. “That is Howard Pickett. Heard he might show up today.”
“And who is Howard Pickett?”
“You don’t follow politics?”
“Not if I can help it,” replied Jack.
“Howard Pickett is a millionaire many times over. He built up a highly successful coal mining business over in West Virginia.”
“Okay, but what is he doing here?”
“He is one of George Wallace’s principal backers. Been raising support and dollars for him all over the country. Flies him around on his private plane. Badly wants to see him in the White House.”
“Lord help us if George Wallace ever sees the inside of that place,” said Jack.
“I disagree. He’s a man of the people, of the working class. They get a raw deal from all those high-and-mighty elites with all their fancy education.”
