2 MORE OUTTAKES FROM A NEW PROSPECT

Mar 16, 2014 by Wayne Zurl

These two scenes were deleted from A NEW PROSPECT because my “Book Doctor” thought a first time novel shouldn’t shift from the prevalent first person POV to a third person narration. But he said they were very well written. So, for any fans of the 1st Sam Jenkins full-length novel, here are a couple of outtakes:

Sunday July 23, 2006

U.S. Congressman Jimmy Dillworth sat in the living room of his Washington D.C. townhouse on a warm Sunday afternoon, reading a copy of the Knoxville News-Sentinel, one already several days old. He liked to keep abreast of current events back in his congressional district of East Tennessee. After finishing an article projecting the chances of the U.T. football team in the upcoming season, Jimmy stopped reading, folded the paper and took off his glasses. He needed to think about a few things.

In less than two weeks he would close up his D.C. shop for the August break. He was looking forward to this vacation. Too many Iraq War debates, too much for a good Republican to do: support the President and the party and still make public decisions that would please a disgruntled constituency. He hoped the weather back home in the Smokies would not be as warm as in Washington, both literally and figuratively.

A telephone rang in another part of the house. Moments later, his wife walked into the living room holding the cordless receiver. She told him Minas Tipton was calling from their home town of Maryville and handed him the phone.

“Jimmy? Minas Tipton. You doin’ all right today?”

“Hello, Judge,” The congressman said, affording the older gentleman the courtesy of using his former title. “How’s everything back in Blount County?”

“Well, son, it’s a local matter I’m callin’ about, an important matter, important indeed. I’m afraid I’ll need a favor from you, Jimmy. Can you handle that?”

“Of course I can, sir. I’m sure you know what I’d be capable of doing, so tell me what you need.”

“Now, I know you keep up with the news from down here, son. You heard that my daughter’s husband was murdered yesterday?”

Dillworth thought, how did my staff miss that one? “Cecil was murdered? No, I hadn’t heard. I’m a little behind with my newspapers right now. I’m terribly sorry, Minas. Please give Miss Pearl and her children my condolences. Do the police know who killed him?”

“That’s what I’m callin’ you about, Jimmy, the murder investigation. That’s what I need in the way of a favor.”

Dillworth began to see the favor as nothing more than a phone call or two to get the cops on the stick. “Are you unhappy with the local investigation so far?”

“Let me explain this to you and bear with me now, cause I need to start at the beginnin’, the very beginnin’. The murder happened in Prospect, you know where that is.”

“Of course.”

“The former police chief, the one who got himself jammed up, Buck Webbster—useless windbag—he’s no longer there. The new chief, feller name o’ Jenkins, an ex-New York hot shot, he’s takin’ charge of the investigation. Now, Jimmy, I don’t know this Jenkins from a hole in the wall. Supposedly a good cop, but I have no idea if I can trust him. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

Jimmy Dillworth said, “Perhaps.” In reality, he had no idea what Minas Tipton was leading up to.

“Jimmy, my late son-in-law was a decadent, no account son-of-a-bitch. You know that. He lived a life any good Christian would be ashamed of. He treated my daughter with no respect. You understand?”

Dillworth said, “I’m not sure I do,” and began to fear what Tipton might tell him.

“Honestly, Jimmy, I’m not overly concerned about findin’ Cecil’s killer.”

That statement shocked Dillworth more than a little.

“Actually, son, I’m glad the bastard’s finally dead. And you’d think his demise would end Pearl’s problems, wouldn’t ya?”

Dillworth took a brief moment to consider the worst he might hear from the old man. But Minas Tipton wasn’t looking for an answer to his last question.

“But I am very concerned that word of the way Cecil lived his goddamned life may become public knowledge, Jimmy. If this Jenkins finds the killer and learns that Cecil’s drinkin’ and perversions were motives for the crime, my daughter and her children and grandchildren will be the laughin’ stock of the county.”

Jimmy breathed an audible sigh and said, “I’m sure that would be terribly embarrassing for Pearl if what you say happens in open court. I’m sorry for her, I truly am. What I don’t see, is how I can help you.” Dillworth knew more than half of Blount County already recognized Cecil Lovejoy as an oversexed, nasty old reprobate.

“Stick with me, now, Jimmy. This man Jenkins has opted to investigate this himself,” Tipton said. “He didn’t want county detectives and didn’t want the state TBI boys. Must be a cocky Yankee who thinks he’s a better cop than we got right here. If Jenkins finds the killer, and from what I’ve heard about him—back when they were interviewin’ people for that chief’s job—he probably will, Pearl will indeed be embarrassed to death.”

“Yes, sir, I understand.” Then he asked a leading question. “Do you have any idea who killed Cecil?”

Tipton must have sensed Dillworth’s apprehension and answered curtly. “I do not. My big concern is not only for Pearl’s reputation, but for her well-bein’.”

“Has she been unhealthy?”

“She’s not been well for a long time, Jimmy, a very long time indeed. Somethin’ like this could have serious effects on her. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“Let me bottom line it for you, Jimmy. I need you to exercise a little pressure for me. Make a few calls. Jenkins had the option to ask for help with the investigation—from people who we know and can trust, so to speak. He didn’t do that. Now, I need you to convince the Mayor of Prospect, Ronnie Shields, you know him?”

“I’ve met him.”

“Convince this Shields that he should turn the responsibility for this case over to the TBI—for the good of the investigation, in the interest of justice, whatever the hell you want to call it. You know, bigger agency, more resources, a better chance to find the killer. He’s the damn mayor. He can override Jenkins.”

Tipton paused for a breath. His voice had sounded strained and Dillworth wondered how the judge would handle the long-term stress of the situation.

“In reality, Jimmy, I want the state agents—the people on our side—to be damn sure that word of Cecil’s perversions never become public knowledge. I don’t care how they do it. God forgive me, but I would prefer they never found the killer. That person should get a medal for ridding me and the world of the likes of Cecil Lovejoy. Can you make that happen, Jimmy?” Tipton never gave the congressman a chance to respond. “You’re a smart boy. You’ll know just what you have to do and who you need to get to. I believe, for old time’s sake you owe me that much, don’t you, son?”

Jimmy Dillworth hesitated in answering. It was one of those times, one of those requests that he feared. But it was something that went with the territory. For many years, since he was a young attorney back in Blount County, he had been under the wing of Judge Minas Tipton. In reality, he owed the judge for the political position he now occupied. The retired judge still had more de facto power than anyone else he knew in Tennessee. Jimmy liked his job as congressman and he wanted to get reelected.

“Judge, I’ll do everything in my power to preserve your daughter’s dignity. I appreciate you trusting me to handle this for you. It’s still early. I’ll get on the phone right away and take care of this for you.” He emphasized the last two words. “Then I’ll call you back.”

“Jimmy, you’re a good friend. I will not forget this. No, indeed, I will not forget. Thank you, thank you very much. God bless you, Jimmy.”

Monday July 24, 2006

The day after Judge Minas Tipton worked his magic on Congressman Jimmy Dillworth, Dooley Barlow, the director of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation sat at his desk staring out the window at the parking lot below. It was early on a Monday morning and he had yet to look at the morning newspaper. He thought about the phone call received on Sunday evening and said to himself, “This shit’s gonna blow up in my face.”

Barlow was a former Tennessee state trooper. He served as a sergeant for less than two years when the director’s job at TBI opened up. It was almost as if Dooley ran unopposed for the position and just breezed on in. For years, he patrolled the highways of central Tennessee doing what his supervisors and the radio dispatcher told him. He wrote traffic tickets, helped stranded motorists, and handled motor vehicle accidents. The consensus was Dooley managed to be a good cop. He wrote a good report. He was a team player, caused no trouble. And his father was a very popular state assemblyman—one endorsed by all the police unions and associations. There was another consensus, one thought by some of the people in power, but not made public, that Dooley wasn’t a crusader for truth and justice. He knew what side of his bread had the butter and as far as a detective—well, he’d never set the world on fire. Dooley knew all that, too.

Two TBI agents, one man in his mid-fifties and the other in his late-forties, walked in and took seats in front of their director’s desk. These men worked directly for the boss, no others in their chain of command. Both had been agents for a long time. They were officially known as senior investigators. Years ago they would have been referred to as a “flying squad”. Today some of their co-workers simply called them, “Dooley’s goon squad”. They did what their boss wanted and needed. They enjoyed the diversity of the work, the autonomy, and the inevitable overtime.

“Boys,” Dooley Barlow said, “I got a phone call yesterday . . . ”

The director went on to explain the situation in Blount County and how they would assume responsibility for the Lovejoy murder case. One of the agents made a few notes. He would call Prospect P.D. and ask to have all the reports faxed to them at TBI headquarters.

“I don’t need to tell y’all how much we need to keep this investigation just between the three of us,” Barlow said.

The agents nodded.

“I do need to impress upon y’all that a conviction here isn’t the prime motivator. We’re not gonna be violatin’ any laws either. What we’re gonna do, is be sure the reputations of some important, and I emphasize the word important, people do not get ruined needlessly. We need to give the appearance of a good effort—do what needs to be done. Y’all are both good, smart boys. Y’all know what I mean? Work it out and make it work.” Dooley smiled at them. “Unnerstand?”

They nodded again. One cracked a brief smile.

“Thank ya, boys. Call me if y’all need anythin’, and keep me informed.”

After the senior agents left, Dooley thought back to his comment, “Work it out and make it work.” He loved to say that. He couldn’t remember where he had originally heard it, but he just loved to use it. He thought it gave him a military sound. Dooley had never been in the service but he respected those who had been or were still serving. He even had a recruiter’s sticker, “Army of One”, on the bumper of his unmarked TBI sedan. He thought perhaps people would infer that he was a veteran.

Dooley Barlow picked up his phone and called the person with whom he spoke on Sunday, the one who had given him the assignment in Prospect. He told that person he was taking care of the situation and all would be well. Dooley wished he could believe his own rhetoric.