Redneck Mafia
Not everyone emerged unscathed. The great barbershop in the sky called for Ronnie Meacham, the owner, that day. The Cadillac hit him from behind, knocked him down, and ran over him with its front tires.
Archie Roberts, one of the two other people there, told the police, “His foot must’ve slipped from the brake and onto the accelerator.”
Never one to mince words, Earl Slick said, “You know there’s that business of Kelton’s unpaid taxes.” Earl tapped his right pointer finger to the side of his head. “He’s not all there.”
When he arrived on the scene, Officer Charles Dixon thought Kelton made a mistake. He’d seen it happen before, although feet tended to slip more in the winter during snow than on dry summer days. First impressions could change, though.
Roberts’s seemingly innocuous comment got him thinking. Officer Dixon recalled the story about the once distinguished lawyer, Kelton O’Brien, failing to file and pay taxes for a few years. If he had been anyone else, Kelton O’Brien would’ve gone to prison. Instead, he got deferred prosecution. He didn’t even lose his law license.
Dixon saw him sitting on a bench outside on the other side of the shop. He hunched over and held his hands between his legs. He gave a little bit of a jump when Dixon sat down beside him. “Sorry about that there, Kelton. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
He reached in his front pocket and pulled out a Camel unfiltered. “Want one? Nasty habit. It calms the nerves though.” He couldn’t tell if he seemed remorseful or just in shock.
O’Brien nodded his head but didn’t speak.
“I’m going to need to ask you some questions about what happened. I can do it here or down at the station.”
O’Brien looked up. “Here’s fine. There’s not a lot to say.”
Dixon let the statement sit. He’d found listening was the key to learning what really happened and why.
“You been feeling okay?”
“I’ve been good. Wife and I’ve been traveling some.” He hung his head when he spoke and didn’t make eye contact.
“Can you tell me what happened today?”
O’Brien let out a breath. “My foot slipped on the brake. I shouldn’t have worn these new loafers.” He pointed to black slip-on leather shoes. He didn’t wear socks. “See the bottoms aren’t scuffed enough yet. Freaking Italian shoes.” Dixon thought it odd he didn’t make any statements about being sorry for killing Ronnie. But the shoes made it seem possible his foot just slipped.
Dixon let out a whistle. “Aren’t those Bruno Magli shoes?”
“What?”
He laughed at the statement. “Kelton, don’t you remember the OJ trial?”
“Oh yeah. He wore those shoes.” He laughed. “He called them ugly. I suppose they are.”
Dixon noticed O’Brien’s white polo shirt with a Moravia Country Club logo hung on his gaunt frame. His legs were too thin and too white for someone in golf attire, who presumably spent a lot of time on the course. His face was also pale, and why would a guy who couldn’t pay his taxes travel and buy expensive shoes?
“I hate to bring this up, but how have you been doing after, you know…”
O’Brien sat up straight. His once pale face now flashed red with fury. “What does that have to do with anything?” Dixon had never said what, but he supposed the incident was at the top of O’Brien’s mind and perhaps always would be.
He’d hit a nerve. Dixon decided to go with it. “I’m sorry, Kelton, but I have to ask you about it.”
The red went out of his face. He hunched over again. He seemed like an odd mixture of strength and weakness.
“The newspaper sure worked me over. So did the State Bar. I got to keep my license. My firm kicked me out. I started that damn firm.” He sat up again, his cheeks flushed. Dixon noticed he’d dug his fingernails into his palms resulting in a few drops of blood.
Dixon held up his hands in mock surrender and puffed in with his cigarette. Then he held it with his right hand, drew in, and began talking again, “Are you sorry about what happened today?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m sorry. I didn’t have any problem with Ronnie.”
“Just asking.” Dixon paused again.
O’Brien still sat up. He had the look like he wanted to say something. Dixon had seen it thousands of times. If people would just not talk, they’d be a lot better off. By talking they incriminated themselves regardless of actual guilt or innocence. “Aren’t you supposed to ask me if I need a lawyer?”
“Do you need one?”
“Of course I don’t. I haven’t done anything. Besides, I’m a lawyer!” He shouted this last statement causing the crime scene people marking various points on the floor of the shop to turn around. Dixon recalled the old adage, ‘A person who has himself for a lawyer has a fool for a client.’
One of the crime scene guys slipped Dixon a piece of paper. “Ronnie was holding this when he died,” the officer said. It had the line on various baseball games. On the other side were dollar amounts besides various names; many of them were prominent in the Moravia community.
“What are you looking at?” said O’Brien. “Aren’t you supposed to be talking to me?” Then he hunched over again and started rocking back and forth.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything.”
“What do you mean everything?”
O’Brien blew our this breath and sat back against the bench. He leaned back and put his hand up to his nose and took off his glasses. “Just what I said. My career is over. I’m out of money. This isn’t where I wanted to be at this stage in my life.”
Before he could stop himself, Dixon said, “You mean in the later stages of your life.”
Dixon nodded his head up and down quickly without saying a word.
“But what does this have to do with why you crashed your car into the plate glass window and killed Ronnie Meacham?”
Again, his face flushed. Dixon wondered where the anger came from. What drove it? He’d seen a lot of things over the years, but he usually saw remorse after an accidental killing. Not here, though, because it seemed O’Brien was more upset about his own reputation and standing. It appeared Ronnie Meacham was just another negative occurrence in Kelton O’Brien’s bad string of years.
“Nothing. What are you holding in your hand?”
Dixon leaned over in his face. “Tell me why you care so much.”
O’Brien waved him off with both hands. “I don’t. I’m just curious.”
“Curious about a scrap of paper from a man you killed?”
This time O’Brien stood to his full height. He wagged his finger back and forth in Dixon’s face. “Don’t you talk to me that way as if I’m some common thug. It was an accident.”
Dixon shook his head and smiled. This guy is unreal, he thought. He killed a man, and now he’s offended I’m treating him like a criminal. What a double standard.
“But you did kill him. You may not have meant to, but you did. Surely you know your actions have…consequences.”
O’Brien fired back, “Am I under arrest?”
“No, not yet at least. Why would we arrest you at this point?”
“Because you said I killed Ronnie.”
“But you did.”
Now O’Brien paced back and forth. “I’m not a criminal lawyer, but I suppose you want to charge me with something.”
Dixon blew out his breath. “I’m just gathering facts.”
“And making accusations.”
“I’m following the evidence.” He opened up the paper. “You know anything about this?”
O’Brien put back on his glasses and examined the paper. “It looks like the line on some of the baseball games.”
“Do you know if Ronnie ever bet?”
“I don’t know what he does––did–– in his spare time.”
Dixon knew Ronnie ran a small bookmaking business out of the barbershop. Some of the officers in Skylar County, two counties up where Ronnie lived, joked he was don of the ‘Redneck Mafia.’ Rumors swirled about protection rackets, gambling, drugs, and possible prostitution. Nothing had ever been verified, but he did only take cash at the barbershop. Cash businesses were always a little suspect in Dixon’s mind.
“Did you ever place bets with him?”
He didn’t respond at first. Then he sat down and took off his glasses again. He began to polish them. “From time to time.”
Dixon wondered what that meant. There’s that vague lawyer language, he thought. What was he hiding?
“What exactly does that mean?”
O’Brien held up his hands in the ‘I surrender’ gesture. “You got me. You forced a confession. I placed bets with the guy.”
“What sports did you bet on?”
O’Brien furrowed his brow. He appeared to ponder it. “College basketball. I started betting on Duke and UNC games probably twenty years ago. Only games I bet on.”
Dixon laughed. Then O’Brien laughed. “Those are the games to bet on, aren’t they?”
The tension went out of O’Brien’s shoulders. “Yeah, they are. I always enjoy the games except when I lose.”
“I get that. Didn’t you go to Duke?”
“I bleed Duke blue.”
Dixon shook his head. “I’m more of a UVA man myself. I’m from near Charlottesville.”
Before either could say anymore, an engine with no muffler assaulted their ears. A black truck on five-foot tires pulled up. Its tires squeaked when it parked in front of the store. Ronnie, Junior jumped out of the cab. He sported a foot long Duck Dynasty beard and an American flag headband.
Junior walked right up to O’Brien and stood in his personal space. “You killed my dad. I know the Bible says I’m supposed to forgive you, but I’m not there yet.”
Dixon got between them and put his hand on Junior’s shoulder. He slapped it off. “I was just leaving. I’ve got to go make funeral arrangements. Can you all get this wrapped up? I need to get to work.”
“You could take the day off,” Dixon said. He didn’t understand why the whole place didn’t close.
Junior smiled and shook his head. “Dad wouldn’t have wanted it. He got to work at 4 a.m. every day but Sunday.”
“I’m sorry about your dad,” said O’Brien. “I really am.”
Ronnie swung his right fist and punched O’Brien in the mouth. “You killed him. Everyone knows you owed him a lot of money.” Then he stormed off and jumped into his pickup; he had to climb a ladder up to the cab.
Dixon pulled out a handkerchief. “Dab the right on the side of your mouth.”
O’Brien slapped his hand away. “Get away from me. That no-good bastard. He’s just like his dad.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
O’Brien quaked as he leaned over on the bench again and rocked back and forth again. “Just what I said.”
Dixon knew he needed to charge O’Brien with something, likely criminally negligent homicide, but something told him he needed to push a little further.
“Do you still owe him money?”
“I do. I owe him about $40,000. I did own him $80,000.”
Dixon whistled out. “That’s a lot.” Then he thought about the missed tax payments.
“How much did you owe in back taxes?”
O’Brien jumped up again. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Maybe nothing.”
“It was around $40,000.”
“And you paid that?”
“Yes, but after I was charged.”
“So, they let you keep your license.”
Dixon had a hunch. “Did you get a haircut today?”
“Why else would I be here?”
Dixon held out his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “You tell me.”
“Ronnie cut my hair.”
He still couldn’t believe O’Brien hadn’t stopped talking and gotten a lawyer. “Did you talk about anything?”
O’Brien dug his fingernails into his hands again. “Yes.” He gritted his teeth. “He started asking me about my law license. He had this smirk on his face.”
“And that made you mad?”
O’Brien swung around and face him, palms bleeding. “Of course it did. That asshole wrecked me legal career, my life. He’s why I couldn’t pay the taxes.”
“But you could have filed and owed back taxes. Then you wouldn’t have gotten in so much trouble.”
“It was too humiliating. I avoided it. My wife likes the finer things. She doesn’t know. She lives in la-la land. She’s part of that Mothers Who Lunch group.”
Dixon reached back for his handcuffs. “So, you killed Ronnie?”
“He had it coming to him.”
Dixon stood up. “I think you know what we have to do now.”
“I do,” said O’Brien without any apparent remorse.
Before he could get the handcuffs out, he heard the engine again. He looked up and saw Junior’s truck driving straight for Kelton O’Brien. “Kelton, get out of the way!” But O’Brien pushed him aside right before Ronnie’s truck ran him over and smashed into the other plate glass window.
THE END
Comments
Post a Comment