In fact, there was no way Mrs. Barnes could understand why two federal agents were visiting her house after midnight, though she obviously had an idea, and that idea seemed not to trouble her. Jennie squeezed my leg, a gesture I understood to mean, Don't spook this lady.
Jennie withdrew a tape recorder from her pocketbook and held it up for Mrs. Barnes to observe. She explained, 'I'm required to inform you that I'll be recording our conversation.'
'I… is that necessary?'
'I'm afraid it is.' She smiled reassuringly and added, 'You're not suspected of any crimes, Mrs. Barnes. It's just a procedural formality.'
Mrs. Barnes smiled at me. 'I suppose as long as I'm not a suspect
…'
I smiled back. 'Completely harmless.' A tape recorder in the hands of a federal agent is never harmless, incidentally
After a moment, she said, 'Goodness… my manners! Would either of you care for a drink? I know it's late… maybe an aperitif?'
I love the way southern women handle these common courtesies like a careless afterthought. I mean, they know it's phony, you know it's phony, and that just makes it more charming.
Margaret Barnes's accent, incidentally, like so much in this house, was a relic, what used to be called a plantation accent- a concoction of squashed vowels and expressive little midsen-tence bounces. I was sure a ton of Daddy's money went into finishing schools and Sweetbriar College perfecting her sugary tumble of intonations.
But in response to her kind offer, Jennie glanced at me and replied to Mrs. Barnes, 'Thank you, we'll have to pass.' She added, emphatically, 'Hoover's law-federal officers never drink on duty.'
I smiled at Mrs. Barnes. 'Scotch, if you have it.'
Jennie coughed into her hand.
Mrs. Barnes laughed. ''Course. My husband, Calhoun, adored a good scotch. Perhaps you'd be so good as to pour me a sherry as well?'
I got up and walked to the built-in bar across the room. Incidentally, the coda of southern gentility is hospitality, and I was a little surprised that she sent me to fetch the drinks, but happily, hospitality also means a well-stocked bar, and Judge Barnes was a thoughtful host. I poured myself a glass of Calhoun's Glenfiddich, and for Margaret I poured a glass of sherry I was sure Calhoun wouldn't be caught dead drinking.
I walked back and held her sherry slightly beyond her grasp, until it was apparent she could not slide forward and grab it, and it was apparent why Margaret Barnes was a cripple. I said, 'Excuse me,' and placed the drink in her hands.
'That's quite all right.' But I think she was a little peeved, because she diverted her eyes from me and toward Jennie. She said, 'Well! So, to what do I owe this late-night visit… Jennifer? Or do you prefer Jennie?'
'I prefer Jennie. Could we begin with a few questions about your husband?'
'Oh… then this does concern Calhoun?'
'I'd like to begin there, yes.'
Margaret Barnes did not bat an eye. She leaned back and her eyes shifted around the room, bringing transparency to why she had chosen to meet us here, in the back study, instead of the living room, or the front parlor, which probably was her custom.
Large and expansive walls surrounded us, and upon them hung the full and impressive regalia of Calhoun Barnes's long career and many accomplishments: his undergraduate and law degrees from the University of Virginia, framed documents ordaining him a city magistrate and then as a federal judge, an array of local awards, and a huge menagerie of photographs of the judge with famous personages.
I immediately ruled out self-esteem issues, frustrated narcissism, or excessive modesty as motives for Calhoun's suicide.
From the rogues' gallery, I picked out three former United States Presidents, a slew of Virginia governors and senators, and in the middle of this menagerie, where it could not be overlooked, a younger Judge Barnes sharing brandy and cigars with Saint J. Edgar Hoover, in this very same room, actually on the very same couch upon which Jennie and I sat. So there we were, so to speak, cheek-to-cheek with greatness.
Also, in the far left upper corner was an old black-and-white photograph of a very young Calhoun Barnes in fishing waders and a plaid shirt, with his arm around an equally young and considerably tinier Justice Phillip Fineberg, also in fishing gear. Interesting.
I met Margaret Barnes's eyes. I noted the obvious. 'Your husband was very… successful.'
'I suppose he was.' She added, 'I believe all men should have their private enclaves where they can view their triumphs. Don't you think that's so, Mr. Drummond?'
I nodded. 'My many accomplishments hang on the wall over my toilet.'
She forced a smile. I think my northern charm was wearing thin.
We were supposed to recognize, and we did recognize, that Calhoun Barnes had formed powerful alliances and connections, that his widow wasn't without resources, and that a federal power dance was out of the question. Jennie commented, 'Your husband obviously had an extraordinarily successful career. Why did he… well-'
'Kill himself? I know what Calhoun did, Jennifer. He put a gun in his mouth, and he slipped a noose around his neck.'
'All right. Why?'
But she appeared not to want to address this question yet. It was her intention to control this session, and she suggested, 'Would I bore you if I went back a bit in time, to when Calhoun and I met?'
Beyond words. I replied, 'Not at all, ma'am.'
She took a long sip of sherry. She said, 'I think it's important for you to know the Barneses are a venerable name in this city. Calhoun's great-grandfather owned a large and prosperous plantation in the tidewater area. His grandfather was an officer under Stonewall Jackson and was not without accomplishment on the battlefield. He turned to law after the war, moved the family here, and lawyering became their family vocation. In fact, Calhoun's daddy was also an attorney and became a highly regarded judge himself. There was even talk of his daddy ending up on the Supreme Court. I think, had not the Negro issue become so divisive and inflammatory, it likely would have happened.'
Nobody spoke for a few moments as we sat and absorbed this tale. With southern aristocracy, family histories are like shadowboxing in a darkroom; you have to fine-tune a bit. In a nutshell, I understood her to say, Caihoun's family once owned a huge spread, big bucks, and mucho slaves, the Civil War came, the slaves hightailed it, the money dried up, the carpetbaggers elbowed in, the Barneses fled, became city folk, became professional, became successful, remained bigots, and history caught up with them. No wonder Faulkner had such a ball with these people.
That's the problem with the whole southern notion of family tradition and lineage; if the past is lily-white, it's okay, I guess-otherwise it's like being born with ten tons of shit on your back. The past is never the past with these people. Somehow this shaped Calhoun Barnes, and somehow this also shaped Jason Barnes.
Mrs. Barnes continued, 'My family had a fine pedigree as well. Many thought Calhoun and I would make a good match.'
Jennie commented, 'He was a handsome man.'
'Yes. Calhoun was many things, Jennifer. He played football at the University… Later, he became quite accomplished at tennis and golf. And brainy? At law school, he received a slew of offers from prestigious judges and firms from Atlanta to New York.' She looked at Jennie and asked, 'Are you a lawyer? I know many FBI agents are.'
'No. I trained in psychiatry.'
She sort of shrugged dismissively 'An interesting field also, I suppose.'
Jennie nodded, and I wondered what was going through her mind.
Mrs. Barnes said, 'A week after Calhoun passed the bar, he and I walked together down the aisle in the chapel at St. Christopher's, his prep school. This was 1965. He was regarded as quite the catch, and I was regarded as a very lucky woman. But Calhoun didn't want to work for an important judge, or at a big firm.'
I asked, 'Why not?'
