Vendetta Stone (1) Read online

  “Nonsense. We loved Angela and—”

  “Don’t take it, Jack,” Mary Keane interrupted. “That’s blood money. You should take to heart what Brother Bob said—Thou shalt not kill. Forget this foolish talk.”

  Joan turned on her sister, saying she could spend her inheritance how she saw fit. Jackson didn’t like being the cause of a squabble, but Wally Blakemore said the sisters wouldn’t be happy if they weren’t arguing over something.

  Their words, the preacher’s words, all the opinions of strangers that he saw on Channel 11’s ten o’clock newscast kept echoing in his brain that night as he lay in bed. Finally, about midnight, he turned to the power of prayer as a sleep aid.

  “Lord, please help me get through the night. I need sleep, God. I need to be able to go to work tomorrow. Oh God, please give me guidance and direction. I’m trying to do the right thing. Please give me a sign. Amen.”

  Jackson finally slept, dreaming of a wild date with Angela at the long-gone Opryland theme park. They were riding the Screaming Delta Demon roller coaster.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 16

  1

  The bedside alarm began screaming at seven sharp. Jackson jumped up fresh and alert, showered and dressed, turned on the coffee pot and put a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, then went to get the newspaper.

  He noticed that both the ad-filled Sunday and the lightweight Monday papers were in the Fletchers’ driveway where their cars were parked.

  There were no lights on inside the house, but Jackson thought nothing of it. Sarah worked second shift, and Herb remained jobless.

  Jackson considered taking the papers to the house and knocking on the door, but he didn’t want to be late for work.

  Jackson poured coffee and sat at the breakfast table to check the headlines, anxious to read the story about him.

  “Oh, Lord.” He hadn’t foreseen this.

  Yes, the veteran advertising executive was both surprised and satisfied with the jaw-dropping coverage he’d generated. It was the “top-trending story” on both TV and the web, and newspaper sales soared.

  Former readers who canceled subscriptions because they didn’t like the paper’s political leanings scrambled to find a copy of Monday’s paper. People who discontinued subscriptions because their companies dropped them from the payroll clambered to find a copy of Monday’s paper. Online readers caused a near meltdown with hit-after-hit and post-after-post on my article.

  Gospel truth: Headline

  inspires pastor’s message

  Reverend Armstrong aims

  his ‘Thou shalt not kill’

  sermon squarely at Stone

  By GERRY HILLIARD

  TenneScene Today

  Taking his cue from a headline in Sunday’s editions of TenneScene Today that referenced the Bible’s “Thou shalt not kill” Commandment, popular Belle Rive Baptist pastor Robert Armstrong’s sermon delivered an impassioned plea to revenge-minded congregation member Jackson Stone that he heed the Good Book’s advice.

  Stone, a 45-year-old Nashville advertising executive, made headlines last week when he called a press conference to vow vengeance for the Aug. 3 murder of his wife Angela, 35. Those comments stirred a firestorm of controversy, with some praising him and others—notably Police Chief Wilson King—offering harsh rebukes.

  King, in fact, went so far as to call his own media conference just hours after Angela Stone’s funeral to denounce Stone’s “premeditated plans” and said Stone could face possible jail time if he tried to take the law into his own hands.

  That comment led inspired copy editors at TenneScene Today to come up with the clever headline—“Police to Stone: Thou shalt not kill.” And that headline prompted Reverend Armstrong to toss aside his planned Sunday sermon in favor of a lecture on the Sixth Commandment.

  “The Sixth Commandment is very clear on this matter: You shall not murder. There is no ambiguity; it’s a straightforward message,” Armstrong told about three hundred church-goers—including Stone—who were attending the 11 a.m. service.

  Armstrong, who among other things told Stone that he “should turn the other cheek,” said he was inspired to switch his sermon because it was a Commandment everyone needs to be reminded of from time to time.

  “This message isn’t directed at just Jackson Stone,” Armstrong said. “I am not singling him out because of his reaction to the tragedy that has befallen his family. It’s a message that all of us in the Christian community must embrace. . . . Terrible things happen to good Christians every day.”

  CONTINUED ON PAGE 10A

  Stone put down the toast and flipped to the jump. He paid attention to the quotes, trying to remember exactly what he said.

  “I loved the headline, but I sure didn’t see that (sermon) coming,” Stone said in an exclusive interview with TenneScene Today after services ended. “But I’m even more determined than ever to find Angela’s killer. I anticipated some harsh reaction, that not everyone would agree with or condone what I am trying to do.”

  Jackson’s watch beeped. Time to leave for work. He needed to get his mind off Angela, to regain some semblance of normal, though deep down he knew nothing would ever be normal again.

  He turned off the coffee pot after refilling his mug and left the paper on the table. He would finish reading it when he got home.

  2

  I learned at a young age, on the ballfields of Atlanta, that life is all about competition. Nothing thrilled more than staring down the pitcher and then lining a shot over his head through the gap between the shortstop and second baseman into centerfield to drive in the winning run. And in high school, nothing to this day stung more than seeing East Douglas tailback Robbie Wilcox bolt through our defensive line just out of my reach, break two tackles and sprint into the end zone for the winning touchdown in the Class 3-A championship game. That game still haunts my dreams from time to time.

  When I went to Georgia, wanting to be a sports writer since I wasn’t a good enough athlete to play at the collegiate level, I discovered how the competition intensity ramped up in the classrooms and within myself. My first two submissions to the student newspaper for my Introduction to Journalism 101 class were so bad that I didn’t even recognize them after they were rewritten. I thought of changing majors. I soon improved to the point that I joined the Red and Black sports staff.

  It’s curious how your life can be headed in one direction and change in an instant, or in my case, two instances. That happened for me the first time during my sophomore year during summer sessions. Junior cross-country runner Marcus Dean Jones, whom I got to know through several stories I wrote on his award-winning career, was driving home late one summer night near mountainous Dahlonega, Georgia.

  Sadly, he fell asleep at the wheel and bounced down an embankment. M.D.’s death wasn’t front-page news, but I wanted readers to know what a terrific young man we’d lost. The profile got great reader reaction and soon even more non-sports features came my way.

  The second piece, the one that turned me away from sports journalism for good, occurred in my senior year. I’d crashed at my high-rise dorm that cold December night when fire alarms began screaming for us to all get out. False alarm, we thought, until somebody yelled “Fire!” and we all emptied onto the snow-covered lawn. Smoke poured out of a window three floors above my first-floor dorm room. While we stood around and froze, awaiting the arrival of the fire trucks, a window burst out and two coeds shrieked for help. I’d grabbed my notebook and a pen on the way out of my room, but I cast them aside, ran back to my room, yanked the thick bedspread, and scurried outside. Other students grabbed hold, we pulled it tight, we got as close to the building as possible, and shouted for the two scared girls to jump. My first-person account of that harrowing night won first place in the collegiate division of the Georgia Press Awards, and I knew I’d spend my career writing hard news.

  The competition I faced growing up barely prepared me for the cutthroat world of modern American jou
rnalism, which reached fever pitch with the advent of the Internet and other social networking tools. It put more pressure on old media to get news out faster—but a greater responsibility to first get it right. When you accomplish both, as I did that Monday morning, it’s a great rush—nothing like it in the world. After losing so many recent scoops to the electronic media, I slammed a winner, and all the television stations tied for second place. The euphoria wouldn’t last long, but I enjoyed it while I could.

  I got a round of applause from editors at the nine-thirty news meeting, led by Carrie Sullivan raising her arm for a high-five, which I delivered.

  “Ger-reee,” she said, grinning. “Man of the hour. Everybody is talking about your story this morning. Did you hear the radio? You’re getting a lot of buzz.”

  I tried to act nonchalant, but I glowed, and it showed.

  “Yeah. Some of the calls were pretty funny, the posts, too. Did you see the one about—”

  The phone interrupted and Sports Editor Biff Nelson answered, then looked panicked.

  “It’s Reverend Armstrong,” he said, extending the telephone.

  I winced and hoped to avoid bad news. I felt certain the preacher wasn’t seeking a correction or clarification.

  “I enjoyed your article this morning except for one small issue,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I know I didn’t misquote you. I recorded the sermon.”

  Sensing my displeasure, Reverend Armstrong tried to mollify me.

  “No, but I would call it a mischaracterization to say your paper’s headline inspired me. The Lord inspires; the newspaper just reminded me that it would be a well-timed message.”

  “I see your point, Reverend.”

  The mood lightened as Armstrong continued. “Like Jack, I also enjoyed the headline. And I thought your article hit just the right tone.”

  That gave me the opening I needed to steer the conversation in another direction.

  “Let’s talk about Jack. Is he going all the way on this?”

  “Is this on the record?”

  “Preferably, but I’d like your insight either way.”

  “I believe I’ve said enough for public consumption. It’s pretty clear where I stand on this matter. They say revenge is sweet, but Jack is bitter right now. He’s not acting like the man I’ve known the last five years I’ve been at Belle Rive.”

  Wow! Ka-ching! Jackpot! What a great quote, if he’d let me use it.

  “I think not, Mister Hilliard. I don’t want to alienate Jack, just guide him to follow the Lord’s teachings as he’s always done until now.”

  “Well, if you change your mind.” As I hung up, I hoped no more surprises were in store.

  3

  Channel 11 editors, writers, directors, and producers squirmed as they awaited Ellie Bligh’s arrival for the morning news meeting. At nine o’clock, the feisty station manager burst through the door, and stormed to her seat.

  A rolled-up copy of TenneScene Today held in her right hand slapped against her left palm with each short stride. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Eyes averted as she stared from person to person, and the newspaper unfurled when she tossed it on the large oak table.

  “Did everybody see what we missed? Why wasn’t our crew at church Sunday morning? On Friday, didn’t we talk about staying on top of this story? Then I pick up this rag to see we got beat on our story. Where was Clarkston? Why were we at Centennial Park?”

  “Sally’s piece wasn’t that bad, and you know it,” six o’clock news director Sam White said. “Everybody’s talking about Stone, but the only public reaction came on blogs and radio talk shows. The paper didn’t run that story, did they? Okay, Clarkston took his regular day off. You know corporate’s cracking down on us to stick to forty-hour work weeks. He left Sally a list of contacts, and nobody called back, so she went out and dug up something fresh.”

  “Yeah, but the story was in church and we got our butts kicked,” Bligh said. “We should anticipate that story . . . every story. How do we keep it from happening again?”

  Reading between the lines of the morning paper, Clarkston had anticipated a ton of grief from Ellie.

  His eleven-thirty swing shift began with Sam White again stomping out of Bligh’s office, shaking his head.

  “Someday,” White said, settling into his office chair as Clarkston closed the door and took a seat across from him. “I swear, she’s gonna give me a heart attack.”

  “Good story either way. Film at ten,” Clarkston grinned.

  “She’s not happy with you either. Keep your distance.” In his best high-pitched imitation, White squealed, “Why wasn’t Clarkston in church?” They shared a brief laugh and turned to business. “Seriously, Dan, what’s next?”

  “I’ll call Stone to find out what kind of reaction he’s gotten, but it may be a nothing story. Maybe he’ll say something about starting up his website. Not sexy stuff.”

  Clarkston went back to his office, logged on to his computer, and opened his email. The first one to pop up told him the direction of his next Stone story.

  Sent by: Victoria Highsmith. On: 08/16/10 at 7:15 AM

  To: Dan Clarkston

  I am a producer for the Ed and Tara show, which airs on your station. We’re always looking at hot topics for future shows and at our production meeting, Mr. Warren mentioned a clip on your segment concerning Jackson Stone. After seeing it, Ms. Bradley concurred that Stone’s story was the type of story we want to bring to our audience. We hope to get Mr. Stone up to New York for a live appearance with you as the local point man. Getting the first national interview with Mr. Stone would be a feather in our cap. We look forward to working with you.

  Regards, Victoria

  Clarkston read it a third time. He’d clear it with Ellie, but if it didn’t pan out, it would be good cross-promotion. Another thought unnerved him.

  “I bet every show’s trying to book Stone. I’ve got to get to him first.”

  4

  At ten o’clock, Sergeant Mike Whitfield grew impatient outside Chief King’s door. He’d arrived at nine-thirty with all his case files. At last, the chief’s aide buzzed him in.

  “Sergeant, thank you for coming,” King said without looking up as he signed documents.

  Whitfield surveyed the chief’s private office. One wall was covered with photographs of the chief at several stages of his career and with various Music City celebrities, notably George Jones and Garth Brooks. He smiled at the numerous plaques, awards, and commendations King had received.

  Whitfield noted that King’s desk was as messy as his own, covered with various case reports and paraphernalia. He scanned to his left, and the smile vanished.

  Sitting front and center on the desk was a copy of the paper, with the “Gospel truth” headline facing Whitfield. Chief King pointed.

  “You saw this?”

  “Yes sir. Quite a story. It sounds like the pastor failed to reach him any more than you did. Mister Stone seems very determined.”

  The chief stared out his window across the Cumberland River toward the Tennessee Titans’ football stadium.

  “Did you know Stone before this case?”

  “Just by reputation. He did some pro bono ad campaigns for the precinct’s annual youth league fund-raisers,” Whitfield said, uncertain where the interview was headed. The chief didn’t call him in to gossip. “I met his wife once. They seemed well suited.”

  The chief mulled this. The silence made Whitfield twiddle and pick at his nails. When King finally leaned forward on his desk, a sly smile crossed his face.

  “So how would you like to be . . . Lieutenant Whitfield? Here’s my plan . . . .”

  5

  Jackson turned on his radio as he backed the car out of the driveway, on his way to work and an eleven o’clock meeting with his boss and old friend, Matthew “Marty” Martin. Preset to NewsTalk 990-AM, the radio blared. Right-wing radio host George Dunkirk hit his stride, taking pot-shots at politicians and brea
king down breaking-news topics.

  “And I applaud Jackson Stone, who has suffered an immense tragedy, in trying to find his wife’s killer,” Dunkirk said. “That’s what’s wrong with this great country. Not enough people out there are willing to do whatever it takes to get these scumbags off the street permanently. Pushed too far, he’s pushing back.”

  Jackson switched to the more liberal-minded Howard Baldwin on Hot 100-FM.

  “And what I can’t figure out is why Chief King doesn’t just go ahead and throw this Stone in jail and throw away the key. He’s a menace to society, if you ask me. I sure don’t feel safe with him on the streets gunning for who knows who. Do you feel safe, Nashville? Let me know at six one five four two—”

  Jackson switched to Golden Oldies 58-FM, dismayed to hear more of the same.

  “And I’d like to dedicate the 5th Dimension’s ‘Stoned Soul Picnic’ to Jackson Stone, a great American,” the caller said.

  “Okay, cat,” drive-time deejay Howlin’ Bob Smith screamed in his trademark raspy cigarette voice. “Stony, this one’s for youuuuu!”

  Jackson cut off the radio and drove to work in silence.

  Everyone acted sympathetic when Jackson arrived at the office just before nine a.m., but they yammered all day about the controversy he’d stirred. His secretary brought in a pile of mail and messages, not to mention he had backlog of emails to go through after his two-week absence. An hour later, he sighed and returned another call.

  “Good morning. The Ellen DeGeneres Show. This is Michelle Albright.”

  “This is Jackson Stone. I’m returning a call.”

  The perky voice took on a pleased, but urgent tone.

  “Thank you so much for calling, Mister Stone. I’m a producer for Ellen, and we’ve all been reading about your wife’s tragic death and your bold stance. We would love to schedule you this week.”