Mountain Girls

By Phillip Clemons

Terry Campbell had almost been killed while serving with his Special Forces Group in Afghanistan. He survived, came home, went to college, then to law school, and now he was a successful attorney in a rural southern town. He had an attractive fiance, a solid law practice, and enough money to live on. Life was pretty good, until one day he met a beautiful, brown-eyed mountain girl who totally turned his life upside down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524548827

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Phillip Clemons.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016916432

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-4884-1

                Softcover        978-1-5245-4883-4

                eBook             978-1-5245-4882-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/06/2016

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

CHAPTER 1

The hot, hazy, humid days of summer had turned into the cool, clear days of autumn in middle Tennessee. This particular day had started like so many before: Terry Campbell had to be in court in ten minutes. Today he was thankful his office was only a block from the courthouse. The Warren County Courthouse, like so many in Tennessee, is a two-story structure with courtrooms on the top floor and county offices on the first. And like so many in the South, it stands at the center of town as a point of reference and as the hub of county government. This morning before he left the office, he received a phone call from Melody Crutcher, the Grundy County Juvenile Court clerk asking if he would take an appointment in a Department of Health and Children Services case. Terry hated those cases; they seem to go on forever, and the department is always out to screw the poor parent of the child. He told the clerk he would. She told him she would fax him the paperwork and if he had any questions to just give her a call.

Grundy County, Tennessee, sat on the edge of the Cumberland Plateau. It was carved out of Warren County back in the early 1800s, and Terry Campbell’s ancestors on both sides of the family had signed the petition to make Grundy County a separate county. The majority of the county sits on the mountain, and a small part sits in the valley. The county seat is Altamont. The strange thing about Altamont is there are no lawyers in the town. All the judicial offices are located in Altamont; the jail is located there, but there are no lawyers in Altamont like there are no snakes in Ireland. There are only five lawyers in the entire county. Most of them have their offices in Tracy City or Monteagle. On the other hand, there were twenty-five or so lawyers in McMinnville, the county seat of Warren County.

Today, Terry’s case load was light. He collected some money for the bank and wrapped up a couple of divorce cases that had been lingering for some months then his business with the court was over. After court, Terry went down to the City Café for a cup of coffee and a round of gossip. By the time he arrived, the early morning crowd had long gone, and the midmorning crew were reporting in for duty. After about forty-five minutes of coffee and the daily gossip, Terry left and headed to the post office. Also located on the court square, the post office was another local gathering place. A lawyer in a small town has to make the rounds to places where he could see folks and maybe pick up a client or two or just pass a little time. Years ago, the park surrounding the courthouse was full of vendors selling produce and old men in overalls sitting around under the oak and maple trees whittling, chewing tobacco, and swapping knives and lies. Terry could remember when the cedar shavings would be piled nearly ankle deep around the benches that surrounded the courthouse.

Now, nobody wore overalls, the last of the oaks and maples had been cut down, nobody whittled, nobody chewed tobacco, and if you were going into the courtroom, you couldn’t even carry a pocket knife and the lies were told inside the courthouse. Small-town Tennessee was fading fast; big city ways had crept into small-town Tennessee, and a simpler way of life was passing. The Southern way of life was also passing into history. Today’s Southern way of life could barely be distinguished between that of any other part of the country. Terry thought that the only part of the country that has stayed true to its roots was Appalachia. The majority of the people of Appalachia still lived, worked, talked, and worshiped God the same way their kinfolks did a hundred and fifty years ago. If you go back into the hills of Appalachia, and for that matter the hills of Warren County, you can still find farmers plowing and logging with mules. Women gather at churches and in homes and quilt on quilting frames that their mothers and grandmothers used. Moonshine was still being made from the same recipe the Scots Irish brought over in the 1700s. The reason this part of the country had stayed true to its roots was due to the people who had settled Appalachia. They were the Scots and the Irish. They were simple people. They were set in their ways, and if the ways of their parents and grandparents were good enough for them, then they were good enough for this generation. It was from these people that Terry Campbell was descended, and he was proud of his heritage.

After gathering the latest news at the post office along with the mail, Terry headed back to his office. As he entered his office, his secretary, Dana Holder, handed him the fax from the Grundy County Juvenile Court. She said, You are going to love this one. She was a little huffy at times, but she was good and she also kept him in his place.

As Terry went to his office, he scanned the document. He didn’t notice anything that jumped off the pages about the case. It appeared to be a typical juvenile case. So he went to Dana’s office. What is there to love about this case? It appears to be a typical DHCS case. Dana gave him one of those Well, Mr. Big-Shot Lawyer looks and said, You didn’t read all the pages, did you? Terry said.

I read enough to know I represent Luke Jackson, a resident of Grundy County, Tennessee, whom DHCS is trying to take his children away. What else do I need to know?

Page 4 paragraph 3, she said, taking off her glasses. It appears Mr. Jackson is deaf and you can’t communicate with him unless that bunch over at the City Café are teaching a course in sign language along with the BS degree they offer every morning or you are a mind reader, which is it?

Flipping to page 4 and reading paragraph 3, about midway through the paragraph, there it was. Mr. Jackson suffers from hearing loss.

What is this? I don’t know sign language. The only sign language I know is this. He raised the middle finger on his left hand. Dana looked at him, disgusted, and said, Well, maybe you need to call that law school you went to and tell them they need to start teaching a course in sign language because you are going to need it, hotshot.

Yeah, yeah, get me the Grundy County Juvenile Court on the phone. I need to talk to somebody about this, Terry said as he turned and walked back to his office.

Melody Crutcher, the Juvenile Court clerk, was in the know about every juvenile in Grundy County, their parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles; she knew them all, but then again, everyone in Grundy County knew everyone’s kinfolks. Melody, Terry Campbell, tell me what is going on with this Jackson case?

Judge Hancock wanted me to call you and see if you could help us out with this case.

Well, I would be glad to help out any way I can, but the only sign language I know is the universal sign language of extending the middle finger.

Oh, that’s okay, we’ll get Brandie to help you, she replied.

Look, I don’t have time to learn sign language, and I can’t drive up there every time I need to speak with my client and run this Brandie person down.

You won’t have to run her down, she works in the Annex across the street and she is well acquainted with Mr. Jackson.

Okay, give me her number and I’ll get in touch with her as soon as I can. When is the court date for the preliminary hearing?

Well, we had a preliminary hearing two weeks ago. We will be having the adjudicatory hearing in two weeks, Melody said sheepishly.

Was there an interpreter present for that hearing? Terry asked.

No.

What? You have already had a preliminary hearing? And my client was not represented by counsel nor did he have an interpreter? Oh, y’all have outdone yourself on this one! What law book or Supreme Court case says that you can have a preliminary hearing involving a deaf person without the benefit of counsel, at the very least an interpreter? Who is handling this for the State?

Will McDonald. He handles all the DHCS matters in Grundy County.

Thanks, I’ll give Will a call and see what is going on. Have a good day, Terry said as he hung up.

Department of Health and Children’s Services Legal Division, how may I direct your call?

Will McDonald, please. Thank you.

This is Will.

Will, Terry Campbell. How are you doing?

Pretty good for an old man. Terry, you know I haven’t forgotten about the massacre that took place over in Scotland at Glencoe in 1692, don’t you?

Well, if we can’t get this preliminary hearing set aside in the Jackson case up in Grundy County, I’m going to kick your McDonald butt again. What have you been up to, you old Scottish reprobate?

I’ve been busy, you old murderer. Just got back from the Highland Games in Georgia and had a blast. All the bagpipes, the drums, the kilts, the tossing of the caber, the Clans, it was great. We went down on Friday and came back late Sunday night. What can I do for you?

I need to set aside the prelim in the Jackson case. There wasn’t an interpreter nor was Mr. Jackson represented by counsel. I have just taken the appointment, and I need to talk to my client and I need to have that prelim set aside and reschedule another one. What do you say?

I don’t have a problem with it, just file your motion and we’ll get the judge to hear it.

Why can’t we do an agreed order? Terry asked.

Well, the time has run to appeal, and the Honorable Jefferson Davis Hancock doesn’t like his orders nullified just because the lawyers agree to do so. So prepare your motion and get it set, and we’ll hear it on some Thursday.

Thanks, Will. Say, you know I was researching my linage the other day, and I found that some of my ancestors were at Glencoe in 1692. Will, I would like to talk all afternoon, but I have bigger fish to fry, Terry said with a laugh.

To hell with you Campbell and your fish and to hell with your ancestors too. You take care, and I’ll see you in court.

Goodbye, Will. Will McDonald and Terry often talked and joked about their Scottish heritage. Will was into wearing the kilt and going to the games. Terry was a little more reserved, but they were both very proud of their heritage. They teased each other all the time, but they had a great working relationship and respected each other very much.

As soon as Melody hung the phone up with Terry, she walked right over to Brandie Robertson’s office. She and Brandie were good friends. Brandie was at her desk working on one of the many projects she had going on. Hey, what are you up to? Brandie said as Melody walked into her office.

Melody sat down in one of the black padded chairs sitting in front of Brandie’s desk. Well, you are in for a real trip, girl. Brandie looked puzzled. What do you mean?

I just got off the phone with Terry Campbell, a lawyer from McMinnville, and he has been appointed to represent Mr. Luke Jackson, a man who suffers from loss of hearing, and I told him that we could use you to interpret.

So why is that going to be such a trip? Brandie asked.

Well, for one thing, he is from the valley and for another, his ego will not fit in this building, she said with a sweep of her hand.

Well, he can get over his ego, and I guess we will have to overlook the other disability, Brandie said with a slight smile. They chitchatted for a few more minutes; then as Melody got up to leave, she said, Oh yeah, there is one more thing.

What’s that? asked Brandie.

Mr. Campbell said he knew sign language, Melody said, smiling.

That’s great, an attorney with some intelligence. How much does he know? asked Brandie.

He told me he knew this, Melody said as she extended her middle finger on her right hand. Brandie’s brown eyes danced with fire as she said, Oh no, he didn’t. I guess I’ll have to teach him a thing or two.

CHAPTER 2

Terry had started practicing law working for one of the best lawyers in the state, Phil Johnson. He didn’t actually work for Phil; Phil had taken him under his wing and helped him get started. Phil was an old-school lawyer—no computers; he, in fact, used an old manual typewriter when Terry first came to work. In his day, Phil Johnson was a shrewd and clever trial lawyer. But by the time Terry came to work with him, Phil was all but washed up as a lawyer. He still had the intelligence, but the drive and the fire were gone. He could tell you how to do something and advise a young lawyer what to look for and what to do in any situation, but he had let fifteen-year-old scotch, pills, and numerous other problems ruin a great law practice. Phil had been married, but his wife died young and he never remarried. He thought that he had found the love of his life, and after her, there was no one who could take her place. He would go out with friends and they would try to fix him up with women, but he never showed much interest in women after his wife died. He threw himself into his work. He would take cases from one end of the state to the other, and he took a wide variety of cases. He didn’t have time to date or to give to a woman. That is, until one day, years before Terry came to work for him, he fell head over heels in love with a woman from Grundy County. That was all he would ever tell Terry, just that she was from up on the mountain.

On days when it was slow or Phil wanted to drink and talk, which was almost every day, he would call Terry into his office and he would pour them a double scotch, and Phil would tell Terry about the mystery woman. She worked for the school system, and she was a good-looking woman. She had graduated from the University of Alabama and was in Phil’s words just a good ole down-to-earth country girl. She was friendly, energetic, a good cook, loving, kind, considerate, and Phil absolutely adored her. He couldn’t spend enough time with her. He was totally devoted to her. She loved the attention he gave her, and she liked to be with him. They would talk about children and about things they wanted out of life. The only thing Phil wanted was her. He would have walked away from everything and moved to Grundy County and become a farmer, coal miner, logger, or moonshiner if she would have said the word. She was his world, and he enjoyed being with her and talking with her. They made each other smile and laugh. They would go for long drives and talk for hours on the phone, or he would drive up to see her just so they could be together. They would take long walks and just spend the afternoon together. He said she was the only person who could make him change his mind about anything. According to him, she put the color into his otherwise dark world. Phil’s eyes would shine, and excitement would come into his voice when he would speak of her.

There was one small obstacle in their relationship. She was married, howbeit they had been separated for over a year, and she had a little boy. Her husband was a self-centered bastard who only thought of what he needed, and he was very critical of her. She was not the center of his world. She was just the mother of his son and someone he had to tolerate. She might as well have been a single parent for all the help he gave her in raising their son. The little boy noticed it too even though he was only four years old. Phil had tried to get her to leave her husband and marry him, but she would not. She said she had to consider her son and how that would affect him. Phil told her she would have everything she ever wanted or needed—houses, vacations anywhere in the world; whatever it took for them to be together, Phil was willing to do. But most of all, Phil promised he would love her and cherish her for as long as he lived. He wanted to take care of her. Phil had even developed a relationship with the little boy. He promised her he would treat her son as if he were his own. He told her he would send her son to the finest university in the country, or if he wanted to study overseas, he would send him there. Phil wanted to be a part of both their lives. He loved them both very much. He wanted to be the dad the little boy had never had. Her son would ask his mama about Mr. Phil, and Phil would send the boy small gifts. When they were together, Phil and the little boy would play and roughhouse, just like they were father and son. About a year and a half after she met Phil, she divorced the bum, and Phil thought that now they could be together.

Then one day, Phil receives a letter from her, stating that she no longer wished to have any relationship, association, or connection with him. He was not to contact her in any way. Phil was devastated. He attempted to call her, but she would not answer nor would she return his calls if he left a message. His world came to an abrupt end right then and there. He was just physically alive; his spirit and soul died when he got that letter. He couldn’t figure out what he had done or what he hadn’t done for that matter. They had had their misunderstandings before, but it was nothing they couldn’t talk over and work out. One day they were talking and having a good time, the next day it was all over and she didn’t want to see or hear from him. As he put it on that day, all the color went out of his world, and he just didn’t care about anything anymore. He didn’t care if the sun came up, if he ate, if he slept, or if he lived or died. He would sit for hours looking at a photograph of her and her son just trying to figure out what he had done. He often thought he should call her or try to contact her just to see if she had changed her mind or if time had healed whatever wound he had caused.

He started drinking more, and later on, he started mixing alcohol and prescription drugs. He just didn’t care about his law practice or his health. He was sanctioned by the Board of Professional Responsibility for not taking care of a client’s case and for missing a filing date. He just went to hell in a hand basket after the lady from the mountain told him she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Terry had asked him her name, but out of respect for her and her son, he never told him. He would just say, Makes no difference, she wanted her privacy, and I’ll honor that because she means the world to me, and I don’t want to intentionally or unintentionally hurt her or he would say, She is just some woman who constantly walks through my mind. He loved that woman, and nothing she or anyone else could say or do would ever change that. Phil told Terry that there hadn’t been a day since the first day they met that she hadn’t crossed his mind. He went so far as to say he would even sell his soul to the devil if he could spend the rest of his life with her. He said all the money, all the land, the practice didn’t mean anything if he couldn’t have the love of his life. He would have picked up where they left off, never have mentioned the letter, the tears or the pain and heartache if she would have just come back. He loved her and her son more than anything on this earth. Even after she told him she didn’t want anything to do with him, he still loved her, and he did until the day he died.

Phil Johnson died in a plane crash. The twin-engine plane had lost power shortly after taking off from Kansas City, Missouri. The pilot and Phil were killed upon impact. It was estimated that the plane was traveling over two hundred miles per hour when it hit the ground just west of Kansas City. Phil was going to Wyoming to look at some real estate. He and the pilot had been good friends for years, and Phil wanted to take his time and fly out to Wyoming, stopping in different cities and just bumming around. He had always wanted to live in Wyoming. He loved the wide-open spaces and the clean air. He had slowed down on his drinking, but it had taken its toll. He had aged forty years in the years since he had received that letter. He had lost weight, and his cold steel blue eyes sank deeper and deeper into his head. If you looked into his eyes, there was nothing there; they were dead. His face was wrinkled, and his eyebrows were all bushy and gray. His face had that leathery look that could be seen on men twice his age. And his once-brown hair had turned to silver. You could look on his face and see nothing but pure pain. He never smiled, and the only time he showed any emotion was when he was talking about the woman he longed to be with. His clothes hung on him like a scarecrow. It was a pitiful sight, to see a great legal mind go to waste and see a strong healthy man waste away like he had cancer or some incurable disease. Terry remembered that he would often pass Phil’s office on the way down the hall and see Phil holding that yellowed letter, his hands trembling and the red eyes and the traces of tears that had streamed down that pain-filled face.

On the day of his funeral, lawyers and judges came from every county in the state. The governor, the Speaker of the House, and the lieutenant governor all showed up. Phil had dealings with them all, either working to get them elected or trying to twist their arms to get some piece of legislation he thought beneficial passed. The funeral was one of the largest in McMinnville’s history. The flower arrangements numbered in the hundreds. There were bagpipes and church singers. The old standard hymns were sung and three preachers from three religious denominations said words over him. Phil had left specific instructions as to which three preachers he wanted to speak over him. He told Terry he wanted those three because they owed him money and it was his way of collecting. Then the members of the local bar carried him out of the church as the bagpipes played Amazing Grace. He was buried on a lonely hill in Grundy County near Tracy City, not by his wife who was buried in McMinnville. No one could figure that out, but that was what Phil wanted, and everyone knew that he usually got what he wanted. Terry always figured that Phil wanted to be near the one true love of his life. Terry missed his old mentor.

Terry Lee Campbell was born in Warren County, went to school there, and knew a lot of the people in the county. His grandma on his daddy’s side had been from Grundy County. On his mother’s side, her parents and grandparents were also from Grundy County. Terry had grown up living next door to his grandma so he had learned the mountain ways from her, and what his grandma didn’t teach him, his mother filled in the gaps. He descended from Scottish ancestry on his daddy’s side and from Irish ancestors on his mother’s side. Both sides of his family had come to Tennessee from Virginia. Both had been in America since before America was a nation. His ancestors had been in Tennessee long before it had become a state, and his ancestors had owned most of the valley that lay below Beersheba Springs, Tennessee. His ancestors had fought in every war waged on this continent and both world wars, Korea, and Vietnam; Terry had served with the Fifth Special Forces Group in countries that were at war with the United States and in some countries that didn’t even know he was there. He had a temper that rarely boiled over, but when it did, it wasn’t advisable to get too close to him. He also could be a kind, compassionate, caring individual when he needed to be. Some of his fellow attorneys would argue he never had the need. In the courtroom, he was ruthless, but no one would or could say he was unethical or dishonest. He grew up hard and poor. With the help of his GI benefits, he worked his way through college and law school at Vanderbilt. Then he went to work for a firm in Kansas City, Kansas. He missed the hills of Tennessee, so after about a year in Kansas, he came home and opened up his law practice with Phil.

Dana Holder was the best secretary Terry Campbell had ever had. She was always on time, and when she was at work, she was totally devoted to Terry and her job. She was a good Christian woman who was raising a daughter after her husband left her. Dana and Terry had a good relationship; she could point things out to him, and he would listen and he could do the same with her. They respected each other, but Dana knew who the boss was and Terry did too—it was Dana. His office was a two-story building in the heart of McMinnville. There had been a law office on that spot since the 1950s. His office smelled of old books, cigar smoke, and coffee. Every day, each morining Dana would make coffee and have it ready for Terry when he came in at eight thirty sharp. He was a creature of habit. If he were going to court today, his files for those cases had to be on his desk yesterday before 3:00 p.m. He never ate the morning before a jury trial; he claimed it made him sleepy. And every Friday afternoon, he always smoked at least one cigar and had a shot or two of very old scotch before going home, where he would continue smoking and drinking. Some Fridays, if it had been a stressful week, Dana would sit and join him before she went home. She never partook of the scotch or the cigars, but would just sit and talk with Terry about the week and the week ahead if it too looked busy. This Friday would be different; he was going to leave the office early and travel to Altamont to meet with his client Mr. Luke Jackson and the translator Brandie whatever her last name was. Then he was leaving town for the weekend with his fiancée, Susanne Brown. They were going to Gatlinburg.

Brandie Robertson had grown up in Grundy County. She attended Grundy County schools and then went to the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. Her family, like Terry’s, came to Grundy County from Virginia. And like Terry, she descended from farmers, loggers, coal miners, and moonshiners. She had always been interested in helping others. It was just her nature to help people. She was also from Scots Irish ancestors with some Cherokee Indian thrown in for good measure and added temper. She had thick Chesnutt brown hair and beautiful brown eyes. She was a very determined, headstrong individual. She said what she meant and meant what she said. Brandie had taught at the Virginia School for the Blind and Deaf and had worked in the Grundy County school system for a while before going to work for the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

Terry thought it strange that a county so small in Tennessee would have a representative from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. But later, he would understand why; with a large percentage of the families in Grundy County having an Indian heritage and the fact that Brandie was a distant relative of one of the US senators from Tennessee and that she had been roommates with one of the daughters of the secretary of the Interior while at the University of Virginia, it all became clear. Brandie believed that everyone deserved a fair shake in life no matter what the color of their skin or their background. Brandie had Cherokee blood in her veins, and she believed that they were one of the most forgotten groups of people in society. She also had a problem with lawyers who did not zealously represent their clients, especially those clients who were disabled. Brandie knew she didn’t like Terry Campbell just from what she had been told. She would make sure Luke Jackson had the best legal representation, or she would report Mr. Campbell to the Board of Professional Responsibility. And she would also take him down a buttonhole or two; no egotistical jerk was going to flip her off and get by with calling it sign language.

Terry left his office and drove southeast through the Warren County countryside. He traveled through Bonner, Brookside, over Hickory Creek, through Viola, Wesley’s Chapel, and Hubbards Cove. As he started up the mountain, he couldn’t help but feel at home; this was the county where his ancestors had settled. His roots ran deep in the hills and hollows of Grundy County. He had never lived here, but there was something deep down in his bones that told him somehow this was his home, he belonged here. His greatgrandfather was a blacksmith in Altamont. Another great-grandfather had been killed between Beersheba Springs and Altamont in a knife fight. He knew how these people thought, how they lived, and how proudly independent they were. That same pride flowed through his veins. He also knew how clannish they could be, and he also knew how Klannish certain folks up here could be. He had never been able to prove it, but he was almost sure one or two of his ancestors had ridden with the Klan. He wondered what they would think of one of their kin being a lawyer. He had