The Last Matriarch: Bob White

By David L. Simmons

Bob White, a southern politician, is trapped between two social worlds. He is indicted in the murder of Dr. Ray Williams, and the evidence against him is overwhelming. The civil side threatens a racial uproar and pursues the acceptable conduit for justice: the courts. The criminal side pursues their own f

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Oct 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781684865352

David L. Simmons

David L. Simmons was born in High Point, N.C. He's a retired United States Air Force Master Sergeant and a graduate of Southwest Texas State University. Other books he has authored: The Last Matriarch Day of the Robin, The last Matriarch Bob White, The fishbowl, and GIP. He lives with his family in Macon, Georgia.

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The Last Matriarch

Copyright © 2023 by David L. Simmons. All rights reserved.

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The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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Published in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023918142

ISBN 978-1-68486-530-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68486-535-2 (Digital)

19.09.23

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost, I thank my Lord and Savoir, Jesus Christ, who is the author and director of my life.

Critiques: To Dr. Elvin Holt, Texas State University at San Marcos—Thank you for your inspiration, guidance, and your endless devotion to the literary profession by allowing the use of your private resources; also thank you for your inspiration and to William Greenleaf, www.williamGreenleaf.com —for pointing me in the right direction.

Inspiration: To Dr. Naomi Robertson, Macon State College, and family— I want to send a special thank you for your unselfish support and encouragement.

To Dr. Ben Wright, University of Maryland in Europe—for encouraging me to share this work with the world.

To Mel Weathersby, Texas State University at San Marcos—for inspiring the determination needed to accomplish goals.

To Bernice Robertson and family, Montgomery, Alabama—A special thank you for your patience and kind inputs.

To Larry Davis, High Point, N.C. and Xavier Atterberry, X San Antonio, Texas—Thank you for your reviews and comments.

To Perry Barrino-Thanks for contributing in my research of the music industry.

To The Simmons family—a special thanks for your support.

Dedicated to the memory of

James Edward Simmons

1947-1963

Bob White

By mercy and truth, iniquity is purged: and by the fear of the Lord, men depart from evil. Proverbs 16:6

Pete cradled his chin and muttered, After Operation Crackdown, things started to lighten up. You know, settle down. He sat back and went on. But at the same time, things got ill.

Contents

Chapter 1 James McLeod

Chapter 2 Agent Earl Kincaid

Chapter 3 Bob White

Chapter 4 Spunky’s Beef

Chapter 5 Reb’um Edmund Bryant

Chapter 6 The Camp

Chapter 7 Frances Marie

Chapter 8 Country Fried Stakeouts

Chapter 9 Duke Brendan

Chapter 10 The Velvet Philanthropist

Chapter 11 Peccadillo

Chapter 12 The Oracle of Jericho

Chapter 13 A sunset in troubled times

Chapter 14 It happened well into the morning

Chapter 15 The intrepid shall rule

Chapter 16 The Murder

Chapter 17 Confession purges the soul

Chapter 18 Pay Back

Chapter 19 Integrity

Chapter 20 The Last Matriarch’s Will

Chapter 21 The harvest

1

James McLeod

On the last Thursday evening in June 1992, wiper blades of a Cadillac Deville sounded off an unceasing whoop-whoop. It motored briskly down scarcely lit Washington Street in High Point, North Carolina. In time, it turned onto 4th Street and doubled parked in front of Hazlips Funeral Home.

Inside the funeral home, an organ blurred Nearer My God to Thee. The subtle lighting beamed on a once busybody as she slept on satin. Gripped in the clutches of death and the acute balmy smell of formaldehyde, the deceased’s daughter sat curled in her husband arms. Beside her and on the pew behind her were her relatives, mostly Ross Outlaw’s people. On both sides of the aisle, elderly churchgoers sobbed while on the rear pew, elderly Mrs. Brendan and her most beloved daughter watched. Behind them, a White city commissioner stood with his cratered face bowed.

Out of the shadow and into the light, an enormous man clothed in a charcoal suit pushed a wheel chair down the center aisle. He was trailed by a petite woman. Riding in the wheel chair was an elderly woman and, as she passed each pew, mourners whispered, She’s here. In time, she reached the powder blue coffin nestled among easel-ridden wreaths.

Johnnie Mae leaned forward, and then whispered over her shoulder, Mrs. Edina was one nosey heifer.

Still gripping the handles of the wheel chair, the man’s buffalo head nodded. Great care was taken to cut expenses at her wake. However, her aged friend, Johnnie Mae Dixon deemed better. She commanded her son, Bert and his partner Matty, to cough up $7,000.00 for an impressive home going. It all happened, and the arrangements were more than enough; it pleased her. Teary eyed, Johnnie Mae smiled at Edina’s russet face blossoming from a podgy cream gown. The way Edina’s hands were crossed implied a sacred undertone held for rumormongers—as though she had dutifully swore to report the truth.

Johnnie Mae whispered over her shoulder, It’s time to move on. She spun her wheel chair from the coffin. Martha and Bert turned to face the mourners. He pushed her up the aisle and, as she coasted, she looked into the cold blue eyes of the city commissioner, Bob white. She frowned. He nodded to acknowledge what he had in mind would be improper. She bowed her head, and then looked towards the entrance. In the vestibule, children romped, paused and then watched while the giant pushed her through the foyer and out of the main door.

On the way home, Bert’s Deville glided up Washington Street. The smell of leather testified to the luxury humbled only by the mellow sound of wiper blades.

Johnnie Mae leaned to the front seat. "Although Edina was younger than me, I never snubbed her. She will be missed, not only as a friend, but because her gossip was reliable. It was from her that I had learned to report what was heard cuss word for cuss word."

Bert looked into the rear view mirror and said eye to eye, Just think. It’s only been a couple of months after the four LAPD officers’ verdict in the Rodney King case.

Yea, Johnnie Mae replied as she leaned back. Before Edina gave up her ghost, she boasted; Bob White, James McLeod, and Billy Ray Gardner are going to be tried for the murder of Dr. Ray Williams. How Edina got the information was inconsequential. What did matter was, her words hit as swift as an uppercut. Bob White was considered one of Johnnie Mae’s babies and Mrs. Edina knew it. She spoke up, Where’s Sylvia?

Bert replied, She called and said she is on her way. Don’t cha worry she will be here for the funeral.

Johnnie Mae said subtlety, She better make it. Then she spoke aloud. And by the way, the look on Bob White’s face was strange. I’ve known him all of his life and this indictment is not something that will cause him some concern. He will beat any charge hands down. Something else is brewing. At that moment, she entertained a thought of someone as strong as Pete’s father, Deacon Stone and Saul’s father, Alabaster DeMorah. Her thoughts were drawn to a clothes lover, crafty hoodlum who had now turned to the church. She spoke up, Where’s Matty?

Martha turned half way in the front seat and said in a petite yet sparked tone, He’s on his way. I believe he doesn’t like to show his mushy side.

Johnnie Mae settled, and then huffed, I see. Sylvia is not here and Matty is on his way. It was at that moment she had begun to draw plans to cut off any potential problems forthcoming from Bob White’s predicament. She uttered, I saw Mrs. Brendan and her daughter. So now can you tell me, will Duke show? The coach remained silent. She went on, Saints will and sinners won’t. Saints do and sinners don’t. If only my babies were as faithful. Although fate has its own agenda, everyone must be respectful of others.

A griping silence overcame the coach while wiper blades sounded off; whoop—whoop, whoop—whoop.

The following Monday and outside Salisbury’s city limits, a warm breeze squalled northerly across the Yadkin. It was cooled by the time it ruffled dogwood blossoms speckled in front of spiny pines. From the pines, a frolicsome mockingbird chirped. When a woman’s hurdy-gurdy voice vied with a guitar on a radio, the mockingbird jetted from a branch, glided down and missed old man Ritter’s son, Simon Ritter, riding on his tractor. Fleetwood Mack’s Monday Morning played on.

Trudging unyieldingly, Simon looked over his shoulder and watched the plow curl rich soil. He looked forward and over tobacco plants to the horizon. When he saw the tin roof of his shed rise into view, he knew his break was near. The shed was a refueling point where he always took a full, ten-gallon gas container to replace the one in the shed. However, on this particular day, he had dismissed his routine in favor of loath. He changed his routine by not doing things the way his old man did.

Old man Ritter tended to the fields in the morning. In the afternoon, he sold pork, chicken and cheese from a freezer bolted to the bed of his white Ford pickup. He made his rounds through Jericho, Little Chicago and the Southside in High Point, but times have changed. Food distributors took him off the street by forcing him to sell his farm products to the local groceries for a considerable less, if any profit. Not wanting to be a part of the treachery his father suffered, Simon transferred his financial resources to support the political gold crop, tobacco.

When he reached the shed, he stepped from his tractor, removed his straw hat and wiped sweat. He inhaled deeply. His hard work attitude eased the discomfort of his soaked tee shirt and bib overalls. He walked to the shed and pulled on a Masterlock. It was secure. No ruffian, thief, or freeloader had tried to break in. It was common knowledge in Davidson County that the shed belonged to him, so leave it alone.

Simon got the gas can, stuck the sprout into the tank, and poured until gas gushed from it. He twisted the cap back onto the sprout and placed the can back into the shed. He started to wipe his neck, but he had to abort. His neck was scorched red. An army canteen he had brought back from Nam sat in the cab. He grabbed it, gulped and climbed back onto his tractor. The engine churned before it changed to a steady rumble. It was then when he heard hoof beats at a distance.

Two hours earlier and a few miles away from old man Ritter’s field, convicted men had toiled from the bank of the Yadkin heading north on Interstate 85. Along both sides of the highway was a screen of trees hidden under a ghostly sheet of kudzu. In front of the foliage, the glistening blue steel of Remington shotguns protruded beyond straw hats. Clear from the view of the Correction Officer’s watchful eyes, shotguns were cradled with the breechloader close to the ammo belt strapped across their sweat stained shirts. Their baggy pants offered some protection from menacing vermin whilst they watched shameful men toil.

One Correction Officer said to another officer, Look at him.

Look at who?

James McLeod. He’s not trailer park trash, but he’s close."

Middle-aged James McLeod’s pride was doused with anger. Cloaked in a sweaty denim shirt and chlorine faded jeans, he dabbed sweat and weighed his surroundings. He looked at the pale calluses on his palm.

I bet he’s cursing the judge who put him here.

What’s he in for?

He’s in for nearly beating a black man to death in Davidson County, claiming the victim insulted him by flashing a twenty in front of his love mate, Kate. His parole board is coming up in spite of the fact he shanked an inmate two weeks ago.

When Alan Berg was gunned down in Denver on June 18,1984, no one expected anyone would react so violently to rhetoric. McLeod was from that brutal stock. The other night in James’ cell, his feet itched, which according to his mother meant, he was going on a trip. He had gotten a tip from an inmate that a state agent was on his way to take custody of a suspected murderer. He thought the note Mr. White gave Judge Priestly was enough to keep things quiet. At this point, his gut feeling led him to believe someone must have shoot off at the mouth. If Bob White testified before a grand jury, McLeod could be tired and receive a life sentence. He had to get to him first.

While picking up trash trapped among weeds, McLeod noticed a hack yawn, and then look at his watch. When the hack opened his mouth to release another yawn, McLeod reached down, picked up a stone, and concealed it with his fist. Eager to finish his shift, the hack turned his back to him to calculate the distance to the bus. At that instant, McLeod made a viscous leap and slammed his fist against the man’s temple. The hack wobbled before he leaned lifelessly. As he was falling, McLeod grabbed the shotgun from his arms and snatched the ammo belt from his chest. He slung the belt onto his shoulder and pumped the shotgun once. On a weed-carpeted slope, another hack left his position drawing down. McLeod fired, the hack’s shirt shredded with a pink mist.

A shotgun blast echoed from the top of a slope. McLeod ducked as pellets whizzed by. A third hack charged him from the bottom of the slope, pumping and firing while inmates scrambled for the trees. McLeod cradled his rifle, went prone, and crawled out of the cross fire into the heavy foliage. When he reached the trunk of some pines, he sprang to his feet and ran deeper into the woods. He raced towards the river.

News about the escape spread from farms to trailer parks throughout the county. While one CO pressed both palms on the chest of the wounded CO, he heard over the radio, P-1 to C-1 over.

This is C-1, go ahead.

A posse of peace officers and vigilantes are formed. Are there any casualties?

There are two casualties. I say again two casualties. One is in need of immediate medical attention.

We’re on our way.

Time was of the essence. If the prisoners reached the Yadkin, their chance of recovering them in a few hours would lengthen. The terrain was too hilly for any vehicle to make up any lost time, so the posse mounted up on horseback and rode with bloodhounds zigzagging at point.

Briars snagged McLeod’s jeans as he dodged pines. He jumped over a fallen trunk, ran out of the gloominess of the pines, and then stopped at the perimeter of a tobacco field. He thought for a second, scanned the terrain, and saw a double tree line in the horizon. He knew it would be there, beyond the first set of trees, where the Yadkin flowed. As he scrambled between waist high tobacco, he saw a tractor at the other end of the field traveling away from him. On the contrary behind him, faint but increasing, bloodhounds yelped and horses sound as thunder. His eyes searched the field and spotted a shed about 100 yards away.

A sweat stained trail coiled through trees. Bloodhounds sniffed through kudzu, whisked through poison ivy until the gloominess of the pines dissolved. The posse galloped not far behind on a trail that led to a farmer’s field. With their minds on the most dangerous escapee McLeod, they whipped their bridle straps across the neck and galloped out of the gloom of the trees. The bloodhounds veered in front of them as they entered the tobacco field.

McLeod’s stock shattered the padlock. He entered and noticed a hoe, rake, and ax hung on a wall. At the opposite wall were stacks of fertilizer. A supply box was placed on top of an anvil, which sat in the middle of the shed with a workbench pushed to it. Hoping there was something to mask his scent; he tore recklessly through the supply box. He found nothing. He spotted a ten-gallon gasoline can and placed it at the door. He threw sacks of fertilizer over the can and against the door, then propped the garden hoe to jam it. He scrambled to a loose plank on the wall, butted it away, laid the barrel on a crossbeam, and set his sights on the crest of the field.

Stetsons bobbed at the crest of the field and, when thrusting horse heads were visible, he fired. One rider veered from the posse. To cover him, the posse’s rifles sparked with uncertainty, puncturing walls and ripping through sacks of fertilizer. Splinters from the impact of bullets exploded throughout the shed and sparks flew from the ax blade.

The posse stopped firing and the bloodhounds’ yelp was soon joined by the horses’ thunder, each of which increased in volume. McLeod sprang from a squat and slammed his barrel on the beam. From his flank, a tracer round followed the crest of the field and pierced the bottom of the door.

An explosion slapped the earth, bloodhounds scattered, and a sweeping shockwave shook the birds from the trees, knocked the men from their horses, and lifted Simon Ritter from his tractor. The fireball was so intense; it showered the pines on the perimeter, ignited, and then dropped to the undergrowth.

The posse climbed back onto their horses, rounded up the dogs and trotted to the flaming rubble that was once a shed. Rising from the flames was a black bellow of smoke that reached high in the sky until the wind forced a portion of it down to hover over the field. When they were close enough, they knew it was going to be a while. The heat dried sweat as fast as it oozed from their pores.

Their eyes began to burn and with their lungs fighting fumes with a cough, a deputy reasoned with a southern whine, Now all we have to worry about is nicotine.

Another man said aloud, Light them up if you got them. All and all, they stood and watched crackling flames.

2

Agent Earl Kincaid

A volunteer fire fighter soaked charred rubble under the watchful eye of his freckled face spotter. NCBI agents sifted through the torched terrain mindful not to stain their bland suits. A freckled face fire fighter looked to the perimeter and took notice of a dusty vapor trail flaring from the wheel wells of a midnight blue Crown Vick. The car rocked and bounced until it stopped abruptly. A white man in a gray suit climbed out and straightened to six feet one. His snowy blonde hair was slicked all the way from his Buddy Lee pompadour to his razor edged neckline. He fanned smoke with a mauve western Stetson and put it on as he walked to the front of his car. After which, he stood with his hands on his hips. The lead investigator, Earl Kincaid thought he had seen it all in the 30 years he had in, but the man with sunken jaws on a wrinkled face who once intimidated the socially weak, seemed frustrated. He knew what he was up against; the piedmont region.

That territory fell under the protection of Mr. Arthur White. Even though Arthur was the major fence and steered the underworld in minor activities such as strong-arming Negroes, no one dared to challenge him based on hearsay. He was a stern supporter of blue laws. He fought not because he was a moral man. He fought because he was paid under the table by violators. He made a fortune. He made enough money to make him untouchable. Moreover, to seal his high social position, he was an Imperial Wizard of a secret society known to retaliate with ferocity.

Ms. Johnnie Mae Dixon was Mr. Arthur White’s maid. It was from him she got a phrase she used frequently: Why not make hay when the sun shines. His wife, Myrtle and Johnnie Mae were as close as sisters. Everyone remembered the day when Johnnie Mae was sentenced in the courtroom. Myrtle’s beehive flashed upward followed by horn frame glasses on a ferret face. She shouted defiantly in Johnnie Mae’s defense. Her actions sealed their alliance. And from that day, their social endeavors went challenged.

When Johnnie Mae retired, and to supplement her livelihood, Myrtle persuaded Arthur to let Johnnie Mae’s son, Bert and his partner Matty operate in Jericho. During the Jim Crow late fifties and early sixties, money made underhandedly in the Baptist bottom was considered colored loot. Taxes were tolerable to those who paid them, so why bother with those folks who were considered of no account. That guiding principle made it easy for him to knuckle under and grant his wife’s request.

Earl had heard about an elderly black woman with influences as far as Washington. He knew he would have to step lightly. By proxy, Johnnie Mae had raised Arthur’s son, Robert Bob White. Because of Arthur passing in early May and Myrtle joining him weeks later, headquarters decided it was time to move on his son.

The prison escape brought Earl to one perplexing question, who tipped off McLeod? His Ostrich skin Dingo’s pointed in one direction and then the other as he stepped over charred ruins. He worked his way to the freckled face firefighter on the other side. Have you seen Dr. Ronald Evans, the team Pathologist, a Black man in his early forties? His eyes followed the firefighter’s freckled arm down to his pointed finger. He walked up to a slim, Morehouse graduate and tapped his shoulder.

Dr. Evans spoke without facing him, We have a tremendous task ahead of us. He removed a smoldering plank and, when his eyes became fixed on a severed forearm, he placed a handkerchief over his nose. His careful examination of the severed forearm brought into view a scar on the wrist. He shouted, Hot damn we got him!

Earl nodded. The scar was the identification mark for James McLeod. He jerked his neck and uttered, I’ll be damn. Not long afterwards, they left to flush out Billy Ray.

That night a middle-aged White man sipped Jack Daniels while his money disappeared. Billy Ray was drinking heavy as usual at Don’s Tavern. The rustic saloon was established in 1906 and sat one block up from Main at the corner of Kivett and Emory in downtown High Point. Hawaiian sounds oozed from a jukebox in the corner next to the door, filling the joint with classic songs like the one playing now, Dire Straits’ So Far Away From Me. It also played newly released country Western from over the hump in Nashville. The long wooden bar was made from left over planks from the furniture factories with logos from the past slapped on the bartender’s mirror. Across from the bar were a couple of pool tables that got plenty of action. Maple tables and chairs were situated against the walls.

After getting his fill, Billy Ray decided to drive to Thomasville to see a woman he had met the weekend before. To any woman, he was bad news. When he was not locked up, he was sloppy drunk. He slid from the stool, staggered out of the bar, fumbled for his keys, and then fell into the driver’s seat of his Buick. By sheer habit, he started it. He drove south on a deserted four lane Kivett Drive where before long, the four lanes merged into two. It was just outside of High Point’s city limits when his droopy eyelids intensified the luminosity of the streetlights. His vision smeared the centerline and with his retarded coordination, he steered the car back and forth across it. About two miles outside Thomasville’s city limit, a sharp curve came into view. It was at that point he became comatose. His car split a telephone pole and he was flung from the mass of crumpled metal. His body cart wheeled, and then tumbled twenty feet. He was dead by the time his jelly bulk rolled to a stop.

The following day, Tuesday, on top of a cemetery hill and with an unobstructed view of Business I-85, bagpipes whined a melancholic tune. After he squeezed his last note, he slid the pipes to his side and with his Scottish kilt waving over sturdy calves planted in Clydesdale spats he stood at attention. At the foot of the hill, seven honor guards popped off three quick bursts. Mourners huddled where Chief of Police Carter was being laid to rest. He had managed to hold on for a while, but the wound he received during Operation Crackdown repossessed his soul.

The only African American present was retired Chief Haymaker. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the coffin bearers. He searched the mourners and his attention was drawn to a man in his mid-forties standing with his head bowed as though he had a sadden heart. Mayor Priestly, a thin swashbuckling lad, like the rest of local politicians, appearance at the funeral weighed whether he was paying respect to a fallen service worker or the man. He decided to put Mayor Priestly on the spot. He left his position.

Haymaker whispered, Now with an officer dead, a stronger offensive must to take place, after which, we should sit back and wait. If the underworld was involved, they will take care of their own. Bodies should start surfacing. If the dealers were free lancing scavengers, they should scatter. In either case, criminals must understand this city belongs to the citizens.

With his head bowed, Priestly nodded. Haymaker looked around and noticed out of the lamented few, one man was absent. Bob White.

3

Bob White

The June heat kept him from getting a decent night sleep. His alarm clock had sounded off at 8:30 but he had been dressed for a good hour and a half. A devout Quaker, Robert Theodore White called Bob White, looked into a walnut framed dresser mirror and slicked his frosted blond hair with his palm. His acne-cratered profile drew little attention from the