******
As I made my way through the door, I handed the fresher of the two cups of coffee to him.
“You may be useful yet.” He said, as I imagine was his way to thank me.
“Sit over there.” He gestured toward a comfortable looking arm chair. “We’re going to be a while. You may as well get comfortable.”
I sat down and remembered the book in my back pocket. Sliding forward in the seat, I pulled it out and handed it to him. “It’s a lot different than when I read it in High School.”
“The book is, or you are?”
“I see your point.” I thought he was making a rhetorical statement, not requiring an answer.
“What point? I just asked a question.”
Daunted, I shut up. I realized that any efforts I made to engage him in conversation which I might consider intelligent or intriguing, were wasted. There was little chance of me impressing him and it was a mistake to try to impress him with my intellect, as feeble as I felt at the time.
“Let’s get down to business,” he said as he sat behind his desk and tugging a top drawer open. From within he withdrew a small sterling flask and poured a few drops of amber liquid into the coffee.
I was busy trying to think of ways to politely refuse an offer of liquor in my coffee when he silently replaced it in the drawer. Apparently I didn’t rate the offer.
“Are you going to take notes?” He asked. “There’s a lot to tell.”
“Not right now. I want to focus on listening to you first.”
He glanced at me just like I’ve seen John Wayne do a couple of times in the old westerns. “Smart boy,” He grumbled with hard steely eyes.
He sat back in his chair, resting his hands on the hardwood arms, and let out a breath as if he’d been holding it for an hour. He lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. He became so calm and so silent so quickly that I thought he was about to take a nap or die right there in front of me. I sat silently and waited for either result.
“Sebastian the Peace Maker was a manuscript written by a fellow out of another small Tennessee town, by the name of Jackson.” He said, with his chin still down and his eyes still closed. “He wrote page after page of how his life was mostly good but during the times when he needed intervention the most, Sebastian would show up. “ He shifted slightly.
“He spent every page talking about the timing Sebastian would employ to intervene in his life and make everything as it should be. It perplexed me how one man could have such a profound impact on another and with such insight.”
He rolled his shoulders some, keeping his eyes closed as if picturing a moment as he talked to me. “I know neither of them, but I found myself jealous of him as he talked about Sebastian. I found myself wondering exactly what sort of relationship these two had.”
“You see, this fellow never made it clear at first if he was male or female so it was natural to assume he was a man, which he was, and he also never made mention of this relationship other than expressing his fondness for Sebastian.”
He straightened some and looked at me across the desk, before reclosing his eyes considering his next words. I think he wanted to make sure I was paying attention to him and not dozing as I sat there silently. “I took it for granted throughout the whole manuscript that Sebastian was an empathetic person who seemed to be around Jackson a lot.”
I looked on expectantly, anxious for a point to be made.
“I was wrong.” He pushed back in the chair and put his feet up on the edge of his waste basket, opening his eyes.
“Sebastian was his dog.” Again he looked at me as if sizing me up.
“Can you believe that? All through reading that, I was so busy putting my own ideas and thoughts into the story that I failed to recognize the most basic and successful of all relationships man has ever known on this earth – that of him and his dog.”
He continued. “Sometimes we make assumptions that aren’t bad and they certainly aren’t good either; they just aren’t right. I don’t say right meaning correct either. I say it meaning you get a gut feeling that something isn’t as it’s supposed to be.”
I sat up some. “Are you saying some assumptions have been made that aren’t right regarding this murder case?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all. I told you that to remind you to keep an open mind about me, not the trial or its outcome… about me.”
He taps his middle finger against his temple. “Sometimes we use too much of this, instead of using enough of this.” He moves his hand to his chest and taps over where his heart it.
“I’ve been haunted by this for more years than I care to remember. 1966 was the best and the worst year of my life, outside of my family events and the births of my two children.”
“1966? I don’t understand. This murder took place in 1944. Am I talking about a different case?”
“No, we’re talking about the Blakely murder.”
He no doubt saw the look of utter confusion on my face. I know I could see it on his, but what I took for confusion quickly looked to be replaced by some really strong emotion. His hawk-like gaze softened.
“I wasn’t the original defense attorney on the case, thank God. I may have gotten him acquitted and justice would never have been done. It wouldn’t have been done on so many levels.” The elder attorney took a deep breath, truly engaged in a memory.
“As a matter of fact, when the case was prosecuted in 1944, I was barely a teenager. Oh I do remember it well though. We saw things in people during those times that would make a nation proud. We were wrapped up in WWII at the time, but that didn’t have anything to do with the case.”
I interrupt him, “That’s even better for my purposes. I can learn about it from a community point of view as well as from that of a learned attorney.”
“Nonsense. Look son, don’t patronize me. I’m too old for niceties but I’m still sharper than most people.”
I nod mutely.
“This is just a hobby or a school assignment for you. I’m talking about peoples’ lives.” He put great emphasis on the word lives, sounding much like a preacher. “The whole world was changing so quickly in those days. People didn’t know what to expect from moment to moment.”
Again, I begin to apologize and realize that it would only make things worse, so I sit silently and wait.
He softened again, physically and in his voice, like someone was pushing a button, turning him on and off. “You don’t even know the right questions to ask.”
He paused and again seemed to be appraising me. It must have been a mannerism he had with everyone. Maybe it was a tactic to intimidate a rival in court, but it was unnerving! “I’m going to go ahead and give you all of the answers and you can figure out your questions later.”
Another long pause, “You’ll suffice since there isn’t anyone else my daughter wants me to tell.”
Is he settling for me because there’s no one else to talk to or simply because I’m the only one to ever ask and pass his flying paperback book test? I get the feeling he’s found me lacking in some way but is going ahead regardless.
“Try not to interrupt me.” He points a finger in warning, “I’m going to share this with you because my secretary, bless her heart and my daughter, bless her heart too, think that this would be a good outlet for me.”
“I don’t care if you quote me; I’m not so much ashamed by what I did as I am regretful of the reasons.”
I had no idea what he was talking about and at this point he had taken over control of this whole adventure. Maybe I was kidding myself to think that after I was sent to the hotel with a reading assignment, that I had any semblance of leadership in this interview. Questions were popping into my min
d to ask at a rate too fast to count. I just knew that if I were to ask them, he’d realize I didn’t know anything about what he was revealing and may very well kick me out for not being better prepared. Why did this old man intimidate me so much?
“I always tell my doctor when I get my prostate examined that I’m too old to care what people think of such an old A-hole and I suppose that when revealing aspects of my youth to you, I’m just not caring what they think of this particular old A-hole either.”
Thankfully the coffee that was just in my mouth got swallowed; otherwise I would have blown it all over his desk with the spontaneous laugh that erupted from me. Seemingly embarrassed, the old lawyer started laughing too.
“I love telling that joke. It’s as close as I’ll ever get to cussing. People don’t respect you if you have a foul mouth too much.” I agreed with him, regaining my composure.
“You did get the A-hole reference didn’t you? The real one compared to the one people see me as being sometimes?”
“Yes sir, I gathered.”
“Ok, let’s continue.”
With the ice completely broken, us both sipping coffee, the old gentleman leaned back in his chair and began his story.
“You could say this whole story started back in 1898 or 1900, no one is exactly sure of which year it was, but that was the time frame that the good Doctor Blakely was born, in South Carolina.”
I lean forward resting my chin on my fist in rapt attention.
“I called him the ‘good Doctor’ because that’s exactly what he was. He was a good community Doctor for everyone, black and some white alike. My, was he popular, but anyway I’m getting ahead of myself. Theodore was born to a poor family in South Carolina as most Black families in the South were in those days. You have to realize that the emancipation was still very fresh in the minds of many people at that time and those times were very hard on people, especially the Blacks. Yes, they’d been granted their freedoms, but there was little else. For most, life was, in many ways, more difficult as a free person.”
“His father, I never knew his name, was a preacher. I’d heard the Doctor talk about him once or twice as a child, but that was so long ago I don’t remember the particulars.”
“Something happened that set Theodore apart from the other people around him. There was no question he was a brilliant man, but he was so…I don’t know…upright, I suppose. Sure he had vices like the rest of us, but his were minor compared to some. Speaking of which…”
He withdrew the small flask again and freshened up his coffee, still not offering any to me to refuse.
“By the grace of the Almighty, despite the poverty of his area and the absolute depression that was set heavy on the shoulders of the Negro community back then, he managed to get to go through school and made it to college. He did very well in college too. He was popular among the ladies and was a man of high esteem among his peers. He never turned his back on anyone, even when he should have been out living it up like the rest of the college boys.”
I interrupted him at this point, drawing a scowl. “I’m sorry but you’ve called him Black and a Negro. Those terms aren’t politically correct.”
“Politically correct, Ha! I’ll tell you about politically correct. Twenty years after the good Doctor was killed, Blacks were still being lynched on back roads. Political correctness didn’t come around until sometime in the 1980’s best as I can recall. Besides, I pay him respect when I refer to him in every way. He earned it.”
“Somewhere about 1920 he was in Medical School in Nashville, Tennessee at a small college called Meharry Medical College. It was an all-Black school and it gave young Black scholars a chance to learn a profession, not a job, but an honest to goodness profession. Theodore became a Medical Doctor.”
“I understand that he traveled around a little bit and worked here and there but eventually settled back here where he set up his practice, and made a home for his wife.”
“How in the world do you know all of this, if you weren’t his attorney, and were just a child when it all happened?” I broke the rule and interrupted.
“Did you read that book I gave you?”
“I did.”
“So, what did you think when you read it?”
“It was interesting.”
“Did you happen to think about the characters as real people or was it just a story to you?
“Well, I did really consider the qualities of many of the characters. I liked the curious innocence Scout had and the guardian like tones implied about Boo Radley.”
“Was there anyone else? Leave off the book store character reviews. Tell me about what you really thought about.”
“My dad.”
“What do you mean, your dad?”
“My dad was a lot like Atticus Finch. He was a good and decent man who stood up for what was right.”
At that, the old lawyer turned his chair with his back to me and looked at a bookshelf behind him.
“Did my daughter talk to you last night?”
Startled by the unusual and sudden change of direction I bleated like a stricken calf, “No sir! I didn’t see her last night!” Thinking he was going to imply something else.
“Are you sure she didn’t say anything to you about me or the book?”
“No sir, she didn’t.” I relax some.
“Since that book came out in 1960 and the movie with Gregory Peck a few years later, I’ll bet you that I’ve read the whole story more than a hundred and fifty times. That exact book.” He said, jabbing his finger at the book on his desk.
“Many people refer to scholarly journals written about ethics and many people turn to the Good Book, which I do myself. As for me being a lawyer, that story about Atticus Finch defending the man Tom Robinson, is the kind of lawyer I always tried to be.”
He turned his chair back around to face me, as if by doing so he was admitting to a great crime and anxious to receive his judgment and punishment. “He was always trying to be the best role model he could be for his daughter and at the same time standing up straight and proud in his love of his community and all who lived in it -- even those considered to be a lowly Negro.”
“Like Don Quixote jousting with windmills, he was jousting with oppression, depression, injustice, and hatred. It was a large wad of all of the things that I detest rolled into one great big antagonist in the character of Bob Ewell who levied the false rape charges against the innocent black man.”
I was beginning to understand this wizened old lawyer. He really was, one of the “good guys.”
“Let me go back to the beginning of what I know and tell you about this Doctor.”
Turnbull: Based on a True Story Page 2