mobile homes. These were hovels, tin shacks, most still on rubber tires, trailers with dented and gapped aluminum siding. He rented many of them from week to week—sometimes for cash, sometimes for drugs or stolen property, and sometimes for sex.
The more money he made, the more he wanted. The more power he acquired, the more he sought. His father-in-law was impressed with his holdings and entrepreneurship, his innate friendship with capitalism. James Luke knew this by the way he carried on and on about his Louisiana son-in-law, bragging about his many acquisitions and profitable exploits.
Recently, James Luke had become the freshman member of the board of directors of the Planter Class Bank in Natchez, the first non-native Mississippian to hold the post in anyone’s memory. He was also on the board of the Natchez Adams County Republican Party. In fact, the Party of Lincoln was rare in Natchez, but James Luke could see the future turning toward the GOP like a crystal ball, and he believed Mississippi whites were within a decade of going Republican en masse.
He drove a 1973 Chevrolet Suburban four-wheel drive, a long-bodied truck that was can-like in its capacity, a panel truck that he used to carry workers who cut grass and did maintenance on his rental houses. Much of his work in rentals was done while on the clock for the Army Corps. As a field supervisor with the Vicksburg District, James Luke had the freedom to come and go as he pleased, simply needing to tell the secretary that he was “in the field,” which could be anywhere in the large district. A low profile in the towns up and down the river was essential. When he wanted to do something truly nefarious, however, he had to be wary of onlookers and witnesses. He knew that in time his identity as a businessman and a Corps employee would cause public exposure. He was becoming more and more recognizable, and he knew it was a potential problem.
During the afternoon following the fishing trip, once he’d put away his boat at his house, he drove across the big river bridge to a Louisiana duck hunting camp. It was a swampy area known only as “The Wash,” a lawless region of derelict Cajuns and poor blacks south of Vidalia that seemed stuck in some kind of historical malaise. The Wash was beginning to receive some of the South’s first shipments of cocaine, and James Luke was one of the chief financiers of its distribution along the Mississippi River. Likewise, he was setting up pot growers with seed and even lamps to raise it behind closed doors, such places as hay barns and homes and hot houses. One of his “associates,” as he often called the men he worked with in the drug trade, had put out over one thousand marijuana plants on a secluded Corps property across the river from Natchez. James Luke was just beginning his ascent as a drug lord, but he liked to think of himself as an entrepreneur and a business pioneer. He worked on the drug project like it was a full-time job, and he was getting ready to expand his business to other states.
He drove his Suburban out to The Wash, the land as flat as the bottom of a raccoon’s foot. He’d gotten overheated while fishing and was running the air conditioner in the vehicle, nursing an ice cold beer in his lap. The Wash passed beside his window like a bad memory, all darkness and poverty maintained by government welfare, monthly checks and benefits, which could only be received if the residents remained in poverty. Crippling poverty was a tool used to keep the labor cheap, usually day wages paid in cash, and men like James Luke enjoyed the status quo of their social class as if it was established natural law.
Local governments refused to tax the landowners enough to provide adequate schools or services, keeping the structure of poverty and wealth as rigid as a corpse, so fixed and immutable that it rivaled the Divine Right of Kings. However, the local taxpayers were always obliged to build prisons to house the
The more money he made, the more he wanted. The more power he acquired, the more he sought. His father-in-law was impressed with his holdings and entrepreneurship, his innate friendship with capitalism. James Luke knew this by the way he carried on and on about his Louisiana son-in-law, bragging about his many acquisitions and profitable exploits.
Recently, James Luke had become the freshman member of the board of directors of the Planter Class Bank in Natchez, the first non-native Mississippian to hold the post in anyone’s memory. He was also on the board of the Natchez Adams County Republican Party. In fact, the Party of Lincoln was rare in Natchez, but James Luke could see the future turning toward the GOP like a crystal ball, and he believed Mississippi whites were within a decade of going Republican en masse.
He drove a 1973 Chevrolet Suburban four-wheel drive, a long-bodied truck that was can-like in its capacity, a panel truck that he used to carry workers who cut grass and did maintenance on his rental houses. Much of his work in rentals was done while on the clock for the Army Corps. As a field supervisor with the Vicksburg District, James Luke had the freedom to come and go as he pleased, simply needing to tell the secretary that he was “in the field,” which could be anywhere in the large district. A low profile in the towns up and down the river was essential. When he wanted to do something truly nefarious, however, he had to be wary of onlookers and witnesses. He knew that in time his identity as a businessman and a Corps employee would cause public exposure. He was becoming more and more recognizable, and he knew it was a potential problem.
During the afternoon following the fishing trip, once he’d put away his boat at his house, he drove across the big river bridge to a Louisiana duck hunting camp. It was a swampy area known only as “The Wash,” a lawless region of derelict Cajuns and poor blacks south of Vidalia that seemed stuck in some kind of historical malaise. The Wash was beginning to receive some of the South’s first shipments of cocaine, and James Luke was one of the chief financiers of its distribution along the Mississippi River. Likewise, he was setting up pot growers with seed and even lamps to raise it behind closed doors, such places as hay barns and homes and hot houses. One of his “associates,” as he often called the men he worked with in the drug trade, had put out over one thousand marijuana plants on a secluded Corps property across the river from Natchez. James Luke was just beginning his ascent as a drug lord, but he liked to think of himself as an entrepreneur and a business pioneer. He worked on the drug project like it was a full-time job, and he was getting ready to expand his business to other states.
He drove his Suburban out to The Wash, the land as flat as the bottom of a raccoon’s foot. He’d gotten overheated while fishing and was running the air conditioner in the vehicle, nursing an ice cold beer in his lap. The Wash passed beside his window like a bad memory, all darkness and poverty maintained by government welfare, monthly checks and benefits, which could only be received if the residents remained in poverty. Crippling poverty was a tool used to keep the labor cheap, usually day wages paid in cash, and men like James Luke enjoyed the status quo of their social class as if it was established natural law.
Local governments refused to tax the landowners enough to provide adequate schools or services, keeping the structure of poverty and wealth as rigid as a corpse, so fixed and immutable that it rivaled the Divine Right of Kings. However, the local taxpayers were always obliged to build prisons to house the
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