Bluff Walk. Charles R. Crawford

Jack, Jr. proved to be a chip off the old block. Through a combination of money, contacts and utter ruthlessness, he built a business empire that included banking, investments and insurance. His businesses not only survived the Great Depression, but thrived on it as they gobbled up failing competitors. He blew his artery in 1968 when he got overexcited at the news of Dr. King’s assassination. His employees’ celebration was more subdued but no less jubilant than the one when his father died. Mr. Jack would have been proud to know that his son was generally conceded to be the meanest son of a bitch in town at the time of his death.

      Jack Jones III was not a chip off the old block. Upon his father’s death, Jack had immediately quit his job as a loan officer at the same bank where Mr. Little Jack had started out. With the help of astute lawyers and financial advisers, Jack formed the Jones Foundation to preserve enough of the $50 million he had inherited from his father to insure himself an extremely comfortable life while at the same time very publicly donating large sums to charity. Since the Jones Foundation required only three or four hours of his time a week, Jack spent most of his time working on his handicap at the country club, collecting antiques for his Tudor mansion, and traveling. The speculation that he was homosexual was spurred by nothing more than the fact that he had never married or had a serious relationship with a woman until he was in his early fifties. Despite the rumors regarding his sexual orientation, he was always accompanied by a socially appropriate woman to all society events, and was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in town.

      At the age of 52, Jack Jones shocked society by suddenly and unexpectedly marrying his secretary at the Jones Foundation, Betty Jo Talbot. Betty Jo was 30, divorced, and what was known in Jack’s circle as pure white trailer trash. In truth, Betty Jo was a good-hearted country girl who looked a lot like Tanya Tucker. She had not been a debutante, but neither had she always lived off her daddy’s or husband’s money or gotten drunk before two p.m. every day playing bridge at the club.

      Betty Jo and Jack had never dated or had any kind of relationship other than employer and employee. Then one week, he took her to lunch twice. The next week, he asked her to marry him. The week after that, they were married at Jack’s home.

      On their second anniversary, Jack told her it wasn’t working out, and he wanted a divorce. He offered Betty Jo $250,000 and the Mercedes coupe he had bought for her birthday.

      Much to his surprise, Betty Jo told him to stick it up his fat ass. She hadn’t started out as a gold digger, but she knew that she was entitled to a lot more than Jack was offering. Besides, she had been about to tell Jack that she wanted a divorce when he beat her to it. Betty Jo was a healthy, lusty female, and except for two or three times that almost didn’t happen, the marriage could have been annulled for lack of consummation.

      Betty Jo moved in with her momma and momma’s fourth husband and made an appointment with Amanda. Jack controlled the money, so Betty Jo didn’t have the retainer. After hearing her new client’s story, Amanda bent the rules on taking a domestic case on a contingency and agreed to represent Betty Jo for one third of the recovery.

      The grounds for divorce aren’t as important as they used to be in determining a settlement, but they are still legally relevant in Tennessee. Moreover, an adulterous spouse can get hammered more than may be strictly legal if the case is assigned to a judge who takes that kind of thing seriously. Jones v. Jones was assigned to exactly that kind of judge.

      Amanda had a strong suspicion that Jack had married Betty Jo to dispel the rumors that he was gay, and maybe to produce an heir. When it got down to it, though, Jack hadn’t been able to get it up with Betty Jo to pass along the Jones heritage. Amanda had concluded that Jack had planned all along to divorce Betty Jo after a suitable period. He had picked her instead of someone in his own social circle so that word of what marriage to Jack Jones was really like would not get around from an ex-wife who talked to people who mattered. In fact, Amanda heard that Jack was telling his friends that he had married Betty Jo out of physical attraction, but that in the end the differences in their backgrounds were too much for them to sustain a marriage.

      Amanda called and told me my job was to provide physical evidence that Jack was gay.

      “Good grief,” I said, “it’s the twenty-first century, who cares if Jack’s gay?”

      “Obviously, Jack cares, and he cares who knows. And Judge Sanders will care,” Amanda replied.

      “What kind of proof?” I asked.

      “Pictures. Preferably videos. Sanders will roast Jones if I can prove he’s gay, but he’ll roast me if I go in with unsubstantiated charges. Besides, if I can show visual evidence to Jack’s attorney, we’ll settle and never have to go to trial. Jack can keep his secret for all I care if he’ll do right by Betty Jo.”

      “Pictures aren’t easy, Amanda,” I said.

      “Hey, that’s why I’m calling you, John. A picture is worth a thousand words, and in this case a lot more money. See what you can do.”

      Which is why I found myself driving around Jack’s neighborhood that afternoon. A call to the Jones Foundation had confirmed that Jack was in town but not available until tomorrow to discuss a contribution to the Pets Without People Society. I told Betty Jo’s successor that I would call back.

      Jack’s neighborhood was built in the late 1950s at what was then the eastern edge of town on one and two acre lots with houses to match. A private security car drove by me the other way as I cruised past Jack’s estate, but didn’t pay me any particular attention that I could tell.

      A circular driveway curved under a canopy of oaks and past beds of azaleas and annuals. The azaleas were long past blooming, but white, pink and grape-colored crape myrtles thrived in patches of August sun. The grass was the deep green that comes only from constant watering and fertilizing. From the cab of my air-conditioned truck, the yard looked like it was inviting you to sit down under its trees and read a book and drink iced tea. Accept the invitation, though, and the heat and humidity would have you sweating buckets in ten minutes.

      The house was not as big as you would expect, only six or seven thousand square feet, with an attached four-car garage that was designed to look like a stable. The windows were leaded, and the roof was a light blue slate that blended well with the stucco walls and dark brown Tudor accents. Other than the tall pines that could be seen over the roofline, the backyard was hidden by a ten foot tall field stone wall. It was easy to imagine a pool, poolhouse and more landscaping, with maybe a tennis court thrown in. Betty Jo must have thought she had come a long way when she first saw it.

      At ten that night, I parked my white truck by a drainage ditch that bisected Jack’s street three houses down from his yard. The removable utility company logo was affixed to the driver’s door, and a whip antenna completed my vehicle’s disguise. As long as I didn’t leave it there too long, it would not alarm either security or the police. If I had to come back the next night, I would have to arrange a drop off.

      I hopped the wire fence around the ditch and dropped into it. As I picked my way down the ditch without a flashlight, clouds of mosquitoes rose from the shallow puddles left by yesterday’s thunderstorm. I had sprayed myself liberally with insect repellent before setting out, but I had to consciously resist the urge to slap the little bloodsuckers as they whined around my head.

      A black patch suddenly separated itself from a puddle in front of me, causing me to jump sideways against the concrete ditch wall. The world’s biggest water moccasin turned out to be a raccoon, which churred at me and waddled off down the ditch. My heart rate slowly returned to normal, and I continued down the manmade creek until it reached the utility line that marked the boundary between the backyards on Jack’s street and the next street over.

      I slipped off my soft backpack and pulled out cotton gloves and a hat with a roll down mosquito net. Along with my long pants and long-sleeved shirt, I now had head to toe covering that would provide camouflage and protection from bugs and poison ivy, but cost a heavy price in sweat.

      I put my backpack on and scaled the head high wall and then the wire fence, and was in the unlit corner of the backyard of the French provincial home three doors