Ford County_ Stories Part 12

"Let's handle this over at the cashier's."

"Great. But I demand cash."

The crowd watched them disappear. In the cashier's office, Sidney produced a fake driver's license that declared him to be a Mr. Jack Ross from Dothan, Alabama. The cashier and the pit boss filled out the required IRS form, and after a heated argument Sidney walked out of the casino with a canvas bank bag filled with $184,000 in $100 bills.

He was back the following night in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie, and looking considerably different. The beard, long hair, rings, tattoos, beret, and goofy gla.s.ses were gone. His head was shaved slick, and he sported a narrow gray mustache and wire-rimmed reading gla.s.ses perched on his nose. He chose a different table with a different dealer. Last night's pit boss was not on duty. He put cash on the table and asked for twenty-four $1,000 chips. He played for thirty minutes, won twelve hands out of fifteen, then asked for a private table. The pit boss led him to a small room near the poker pit. The security boys upstairs were standing at their posts, watching every move.

"I'd like $10,000 chips," Sidney announced. "And a male dealer."

No problem. "Something to drink?"

"A Sprite, with some pretzels."

He pulled some more cash from his pocket and counted the chips after the exchange. There were twenty of them. He played three seats at a time, and fifteen minutes later he owned thirty-two chips. Another pit boss and the manager on duty had joined the occasion and stood behind the dealer, watching grimly.

Sidney munched on pretzels as if he were playing $2 slots. Instead, he was now betting $10,000 at each of four seats. Then $20,000, then back to $10,000. When the shoe was low, he suddenly bet $50,000 at all six seats. The dealer was showing a five, his worst card. Sidney calmly split two sevens and doubled down on a hard ten. The dealer flipped a queen, then very slowly pulled his next card. It was a nine, for a bust of twenty-four. The hand netted Sidney $400,000, and the first pit boss was ready to faint.

"Perhaps we should take a break," the manager said.

"Oh, I say we finish the shoe, then take a break," Sidney said.

"No," the manager said.

"You want the money back, don't you?"

The dealer hesitated and cast a desperate look at the manager. Where was Bobby Carl when they needed him?

"Deal," Sidney said with a grin. "It's just money. h.e.l.l, I've never walked out of a casino with cash in my pocket."

"Could we have your name?"

"Sure. It's Sidney Lewis." He removed his wallet, tossed over his real driver's license, and didn't care if they had his real name. He had no plans to return. The manager and pit bosses studied it, anything to buy some time.

"Have you been here before?" the manager asked.

"I was here a few months ago. Are we gonna play? What kind of casino is this? Now deal the cards."

The manager reluctantly returned the license, and Sidney left it on the table, next to his towering collection of chips. The manager then nodded slowly at the dealer. Sidney had a single $10,000 chip at each of the six seats, then quickly added four more to each. Three hundred thousand dollars was suddenly in play. If he won half of the seats, he planned to keep playing. If he lost, he'd quit and walk out with a two-night net of about $600,000, a pleasant sum of money that would do much to satisfy his hatred of Bobby Carl Leach.

Cards slowly hit the table, and the dealer gave himself a six as his up card. Sidney split two jacks, a gutsy move that most experts warned against, then he waved off further draws. When the dealer flipped his down card and revealed a nine, Sidney showed no expression, but the manager and both pit bosses turned pale. The dealer was required to draw on a fifteen, and he did so with great reluctance. He pulled a seven, for a bust of twenty-two.

The manager jumped forward and said, "That's it. You're counting cards." He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.

Sidney said, "You must be kidding. What kind of dump is this?"

"It's over, buddy," the manager said, then glanced at two thick security guards who had suddenly materialized behind Sidney, who calmly stuck a pretzel in his mouth and crunched it loudly. He grinned at the manager and the pit bosses and decided to call it a night.

"I want cash," he said.

"That might be a problem," the manager said.

They escorted Sidney to the manager's office upstairs, where the entire entourage gathered behind a closed door. No one sat down.

"I demand cash," Sidney said.

"We'll give you a check," the manager said again.

"You don't have the cash, do you?" Sidney said, taunting. "This two-bit casino doesn't have the cash and cannot cover its exposure."

"We have the money," the manager said without conviction. "And we're happy to write a check."

Sidney glared at him, and the two pit bosses, and the two security guards, then said, "The check will bounce, won't it?"

"Of course not, but I'll ask you to hold it for seventy-two hours."

"Which bank?"

"Merchants, in Clanton."

At nine o'clock the next morning, Sidney and his lawyer walked into the Merchants Bank on the square in Clanton and demanded to see the president. When they were in his office, Sidney pulled out a check from the Lucky Jack Casino in the amount of $945,000, postdated three days. The president examined it, wiped his face, then said in a cracking voice, "I'm sorry, but we can't honor this check."

"And in three days?" the lawyer asked.

"I seriously doubt it."

"Have you talked to the casino?"

"Yes, several times."

An hour later, Sidney and his lawyer walked into the Ford County Courthouse, to the office of the chancery clerk, and filed a pet.i.tion for a temporary restraining order seeking an immediate closing of the Lucky Jack and the payment of the debt. The judge, the Honorable Willis Bradshaw, set an emergency hearing for 9:00 the following morning.

Bobby Carl jumped ship in Puerto Rico and scrambled to find flights back to Memphis. He arrived in Ford County late that evening and drove, in a rented Hertz subcompact, straight to the casino, where he found few gamblers, and even fewer employees who knew anything about what had happened the previous night. The manager had quit and could not be found. One of the pit bosses who'd dealt with Sidney was likewise rumored to have fled the county. Bobby Carl threatened to fire everyone else, except for Chief Larry, who was overwhelmed by the chaos. At midnight, Bobby Carl was meeting with the bank president and a team of lawyers, and the anxiety level was through the roof.

Stella was still on the cruise ship, but unable to enjoy herself. In the midst of the chaos, when Bobby Carl was screaming into the phones and throwing things, she had heard him yell, "Sidney Lewis! Who the h.e.l.l is Sidney Lewis?"

She said nothing, at least nothing about the Sidney Lewis she knew, and found it impossible to believe that her ex-husband had been capable of breaking a casino. Still, she was very uncomfortable, and when the ship docked at George Town on Grand Cayman, she took a cab to the airport and headed home.

Judge Bradshaw welcomed the throng of spectators to his courtroom. He thanked them for coming and invited them back in the future. Then he asked if the lawyers were ready to proceed.

Bobby Carl, red eyed and haggard and unshaven, was seated at one table with three of his lawyers and Chief Larry, who'd never been near a courtroom and was so nervous that he simply closed his eyes and appeared to be meditating. Bobby Carl, who'd seen many courtrooms, was nonetheless just as stressed. Everything he owned had been mortgaged for the bank loan, and now the future of his casino, as well as all his other a.s.sets, was in great jeopardy.

One of his lawyers stood quickly and said, "Yes, Judge, we are ready, but we have filed a motion to dismiss this proceeding because of a lack of jurisdiction. This matter belongs in federal court, not state."

"I've read your motion," Judge Bradshaw said, and it was obvious he did not like what he had read. "I'm keeping jurisdiction."

"Then we'll file in federal court later this morning," the lawyer shot back.

"I can't stop you from filing anything."

Judge Bradshaw had spent most of his career trying to sort out ugly disputes between feuding couples, and over the years he had developed an intense dislike for the causes of divorce. Alcohol, drugs, adultery, gambling-his involvement with the major vices was never ending. He taught Sunday school in the Methodist church and had strict beliefs about right and wrong. Gambling was an abomination, in his opinion, and he was delighted to have a crack at it.

Sidney's lawyer argued loud and hard that the casino was undercapitalized and maintained insufficient cash reserves; thus, it was an ongoing threat to other gamblers. He announced he was filing a full-blown lawsuit at 5:00 that afternoon if the casino did not honor its debt to his client. In the meantime, though, the casino should be closed.

Judge Bradshaw seemed to favor this idea.

And so did the crowd. The spectators included quite a few preachers and their followers, all good registered voters who had always supported Judge Bradshaw, and all bright-eyed and happy at the possibility of shutting down the casino. This was the miracle they had been praying for. And though they silently condemned Sidney Lewis for his sinful ways, they couldn't help but admire the guy-a local boy-for breaking the casino. Go, Sidney.

As the hearing dragged on, it came to light that the Lucky Jack had cash on hand of about $400,000, and in addition to this there was a $500,000 reserve fund secured with a bond. Also, Bobby Carl admitted on the witness stand that the casino had averaged about $80,000 a month in profits for the first seven months, and that this number was rising steadily.

After a grueling five-hour hearing, Judge Bradshaw ordered the casino to pay the entire $945,000, immediately, and closed its doors until the debt was satisfied. He also instructed the sheriff to block the entrance off the state highway and to arrest any gambler who tried to enter. Lawyers for the Lucky Jack ran to federal court in Oxford and filed papers to reopen. A hearing would take several days to organize. As promised, Sidney filed suit in both state and federal courts.

Over the next few days, more lawsuits flew back and forth. Sidney sued the insurance company that issued the bond, then sued the bank as well. The bank, suddenly nervous about the $2 million it had loaned the Lucky Jack, soured on the once-exciting gaming business. It called the loan and sued the Yazoo Nation, Chief Larry, and Bobby Carl Leach. They countersued, alleging all sorts of unfair practices. The burst of litigation electrified the local lawyers, most of whom jockeyed for a piece of the action.

When Bobby Carl learned that Stella's recently divorced husband was in fact Sidney, he accused her of conspiring with him and fired her. She sued. Days pa.s.sed and the Lucky Jack remained closed. Two dozen unpaid employees filed suit. Federal regulators issued subpoenas. The federal judge wanted no part of the mess, and dismissed the casino's efforts to reopen.

After a month of frantic legal maneuvering, reality settled in. The casino's future looked dire. Bobby Carl convinced Chief Larry that they had no choice but to file for bankruptcy protection. Two days later, Bobby Carl reluctantly did the same. After two decades of wheeling and dealing and operating on the edge, he was finally bankrupt.

Sidney was in Las Vegas when he received a call from his lawyer with the great news that the insurance company would settle for the full amount of its bond-$500,000. In addition, the frozen accounts of the Lucky Jack would be thawed just enough so that another check for $400,000 would be issued in his favor. He immediately hopped in his RV and made a leisurely and triumphant journey back to Ford County, but not before hitting three Indian casinos along the way.

Bobby Carl's favorite arsonists were a husband-and-wife duo from Arkansas. Contact was made, cash changed hands. A set of building plans and keys were pa.s.sed along. The nighttime security guards at the casino were fired. Its water supply was cut off. The building had no sprinkler system because no building code required one.

By the time the Springdale Volunteer Fire Brigade arrived on the scene at 3:00 a.m., the Lucky Jack was fully ablaze. Its metal-framed structures were melting. Inspectors later suspected arson but found no trace of gasoline or other incendiaries. A natural gas leak and explosion had started the fire, they decided. During the ensuing litigation, investigators for the insurance company would produce records which revealed that the casino's natural gas tanks had been mysteriously filled only a week before the fire.

Chief Larry returned to his store and fell into a state of severe depression. Once again, his tribe had been demolished by the white man's greed. His Yazoo Nation scattered, never to be seen again.

Sidney hung around Karraway for a while, but grew weary of the attention and gossip. Since he'd quit his job and busted the casino, folks quite naturally referred to him as a professional gambler, a rarity indeed for rural Mississippi. And though Sidney didn't fit the mold of a high-rolling rogue, the topic of his new lifestyle was irresistible. It was well-known that he was the only man in town with $1 million, and this caused problems. Old friends materialized. Single women of all ages schemed of ways to meet him. All the charities wrote letters and pleaded for money. His daughter in Texas became more involved in his life and was quick to apologize for taking sides during the divorce. When he put a For Sale sign in his front yard, Karraway talked of little else. The heartiest rumor was that he was moving to Las Vegas.

He waited.

He played poker online for hours, and when he got bored, he drove his RV to the casinos in Tunica, or to the Gulf Coast. He won more than he lost, but was careful not to attract too much attention. Two casinos in Biloxi had banned him months earlier. He always returned to Karraway, though he really wanted to leave it forever.

He waited.

The first move was made by his daughter. She called and talked for an hour one night, and toward the end of a rambling conversation let it slip that Stella was lonely and sad and really missed her life with Sidney. According to the daughter, Stella was consumed with remorse and desperate to reconcile with the only man she would ever love. As Sidney listened to his daughter prattle on, he realized that he needed Stella far more than he disliked her. Still, he made no promises.

The next phone call was more to the point. The daughter began an effort to broker a meeting between her parents, sort of a first step to normalize relations. She was willing to return to Karraway and mediate matters if necessary. All she wanted was for her parents to be together. How odd, thought Sidney, since she expressed no such thoughts before he broke the casino.

After a week or so of shadowboxing, Stella showed up one night for a gla.s.s of tea. In a lengthy, emotional meeting, she confessed her sins and begged for forgiveness. She left and returned the next night for another discussion. On the third night, they went to bed and Sidney was in love again.

Without discussing marriage, they loaded up the RV and took off to Florida. Near Ocala, the Seminole tribe was operating a fabulous new casino and Sidney was eager to attack it. He was feeling lucky.

Michael's Room

The encounter was probably inevitable in a town of ten thousand people. Sooner or later, you're bound to b.u.mp into almost everyone, including those whose names are long forgotten and whose faces are barely familiar. Some names and faces are registered and remembered and withstand the erosion of time. Others are almost instantly discarded, and most for good reason.

For Stanley Wade, the encounter was caused in part by his wife's lingering flu and in part by their need for sustenance, along with other reasons. After a long day at the office, he called home to check on her and to inquire about dinner. She rather abruptly informed him that she had no desire to cook and little desire to eat, and that if he was hungry, he'd better stop by the store. When was he not hungry at dinnertime? After a few more sentences, they agreed on frozen pizza, about the only dish Stanley could prepare and, oddly, the only thing she might possibly want to nibble on. Preferably sausage and cheese. Please enter through the kitchen and keep the dogs quiet, she instructed. She might be asleep on the sofa.

The nearest food store was the Rite Price, an old discount house a few blocks off the square, with dirty aisles and low prices and cheap giveaways that attracted the lower cla.s.ses. Most uppity whites used the new Kroger south of town, far out of Stanley's way. But it was only a frozen pizza. What difference did it make? He wasn't shopping for the freshest organic produce on this occasion. He was hungry and looking for junk and just wanted to get home.

He ignored the shopping carts and baskets and went straight to the frozen section, where he selected a fourteen-inch creation with an Italian name and freshness guaranteed. He was closing the icy gla.s.s door when he became aware of someone standing very near him, someone who'd seen him, followed him, and was now practically breathing on him. Someone much larger than Stanley. Someone who had no interest in frozen foods, at least not at that moment. Stanley turned to his right and locked eyes with a smirking and unhappy face he'd seen somewhere before. The man was about forty, roughly ten years younger than Stanley, at least four inches taller, and much thicker through the chest. Stanley was slight, almost fragile, not the least bit athletic.

"You're Lawyer Wade, ain't you?" the man said, but it was far more an accusation than a question. Even the voice was vaguely familiar-unusually high-pitched for such a hulking figure, rural but not ignorant. A voice from the past, no doubt about that.

Stanley correctly a.s.sumed that their previous meeting, whenever and wherever, concerned a lawsuit of some variety, and it didn't take a genius to surmise that they had not been on the same side. Coming face-to-face with old courtroom adversaries long after trial is a hazard for many small-town lawyers. As much as he was tempted, Stanley could not bring himself to deny who he was. "That's right," he said, clutching his pizza. "And you are?"

With that, the man suddenly moved past Stanley and, in doing so, lowered his shoulder slightly and landed a solid hit against Lawyer Wade, who was knocked against the icy door he'd just closed. The pizza fell to the floor, and as Stanley balanced himself and reached for his dinner, he turned and saw the man head down the aisle and disappear around a corner in the direction of the breakfast foods and coffee. Stanley caught his breath, glanced around, started to yell something provocative, but quickly thought better of it, then stood for a moment and tried to a.n.a.lyze the only harsh physical contact he could remember during his adult life. He'd never been a fighter, athlete, drinker, h.e.l.l-raiser. Not Stanley. He'd been the thinker, the scholar, top third of his law cla.s.s.

It was an a.s.sault, pure and simple. The least touching of another in anger. But there were no witnesses, and Stanley wisely decided to forget about it, or at least try. Given the disparity in their sizes and dispositions, it certainly could have been much worse.

And it would be, very shortly.

For the next ten minutes he tried to collect himself as he moved cautiously around the grocery store, peeking around corners, reading labels, inspecting meats, watching the other shoppers for signs of his a.s.sailant or perhaps another one. When he was somewhat convinced the man was gone, he hurried to the lone open cashier, quickly paid for his pizza, and left the store. He strolled to his car, eyes darting in all directions, and was safely locked inside with the engine on when he realized there would be more trouble.

A pickup had wheeled to a stop behind Stanley's Volvo, blocking it. A parked van faced it and prevented a forward escape. This angered Stanley. He turned off the ignition, yanked open his driver's door, and was climbing out when he saw the man approaching quickly from the pickup. Then he saw the gun, a large black pistol.

Stanley managed to offer a weak "What the h.e.l.l" before the hand without the gun slapped him across the face and knocked him against the driver's door. For a moment he saw nothing, but was aware of being grabbed, then dragged and thrown into the pickup, and slid across the vinyl front seat. The hand around the back of his neck was thick, strong, violent. Stanley's neck was skinny and weak, and for some reason, in the horror of the moment, he admitted to himself that this man could easily snap his neck, and with only one hand.

Another man was driving, a very young man, probably just a kid. A door slammed. Stanley's head was stuffed down near the floorboard, cold steel jammed into the base of his skull. "Go," the man said, and the pickup jerked forward.

"Don't move and don't say a word or I'll blow your brains out," the man said, his high voice quite agitated.

"Okay, okay," Stanley managed to say. His left arm was pinned behind his back, and for good measure the man jerked it up until Stanley flinched in pain. The pain continued for a minute or so, then suddenly the man let go. The pistol was taken away from Stanley's head. "Sit up," the man said, and Stanley raised himself, shook his head, adjusted his gla.s.ses, and tried to focus. They were on the outskirts of town, headed west. A few seconds pa.s.sed and nothing was said. To his left was the kid driving, a teenager of no more than sixteen, a slight boy with bangs and pimples and eyes that revealed an equal amount of surprise and bewilderment. His youth and innocence were oddly comforting-surely this thug wouldn't shoot him in front of a boy! To his right, with their legs touching, was the man with the gun, which was temporarily resting on his beefy right knee and aimed at no one in particular.

More silence as they left Clanton behind. Lawyer Wade took deep, quiet breaths and managed to calm himself somewhat as he tried to arrange his thoughts and address the scenario of being abducted. Okay, Lawyer Wade, what have you done in twenty-three years of practicing law to deserve this? Whom did you sue? Who got left out of a will? Maybe a bad divorce? Who was on the losing side of a lawsuit?

When the boy turned off the highway and onto a paved county road, Stanley finally said, "Mind if I ask where we're going?"

Ignoring the question, the man said, "Name's Cranwell. Jim Cranwell. That's my son Doyle."

That lawsuit. Stanley swallowed hard and noticed, for the first time, the dampness around his neck and collar. He was still wearing his dark gray suit, white cotton shirt, drab maroon tie, and the entire outfit suddenly made him hot. He was sweating, and his heart thumped like a jackhammer. Cranwell v. Trane Cranwell v. Trane, eight or nine years ago. Stanley defended Dr. Trane in a nasty, contentious, emotional, and ultimately successful trial. A bitter loss for the Cranwell family. A great win for Dr. Trane and his lawyer, but Stanley didn't feel so victorious now.

The fact that Mr. Cranwell so freely divulged his name, and that of his son, meant only one thing, at least to Stanley. Mr. Cranwell had no fear of being identified because his victim would not be able to talk. That black pistol over there would find some action after all. A wave of nausea vibrated through Stanley's midsection, and for a second he considered where to unload his vomit. Not to the right and not to the left. Straight down, between his feet. He clenched his teeth and swallowed rapidly, and the moment pa.s.sed.

"I asked where we're going," he said, a rather feeble effort to show some resistance. But his words were hollow and scratchy. His mouth was very dry.

"It's best if you just shut up," Jim Cranwell said. Being in no position to argue, or press his inquiries, Stanley decided to shut up. Minutes pa.s.sed as they drove deeper into the county along Route 32, a busy road during the day but deserted at night. Stanley knew the area well. He'd lived in Ford County for twenty-five years and it was a small place. His breathing slowed again, as did his heart rate, and he concentrated on absorbing the details around him. The truck, a late-1980s Ford, half ton, metallic gray on the outside, he thought, and some shade of dark blue on the inside. The dash was standard, nothing remarkable. On the sun visor above the driver there was a thick rubber band holding papers and receipts. A hundred and ninety-four thousand miles on the odometer, not unusual for this part of the world. The kid was driving a steady fifty miles an hour. He turned off Route 32 and onto Wiser Lane, a smaller paved road that snaked through the western part of the county and eventually crossed the Tallahatchie River at the Polk County line. The roads were getting narrower, the woods thicker, Stanley's options fewer, his chances slimmer.