by Ida Smith
“Murder is a serious crime and punishing the guilty party is a serious matter. One must be sure beyond reasonable doubt that the accused is actually guilty. To send an innocent person to prison or the electric chair—”
Sunshine shrieked. Then began weeping profusely and was ushered out by Leonard’s wife.
Leonard grimaced.
The jurors watched her go. Several women in the jury box appeared empathetic.
The judge stared after Sunshine, his gavel raised but never struck. Neil’s head dropped into his hands. Sunshine, sweet Sunshine.
Rubens waited for the courtroom to settle down. “One must be sure beyond reasonable doubt that the accused is actually guilty,” he repeated. “To send an innocent person to prison or the electric chair is a crime as well.” He looked into each juror’s eyes. Several fidgeted.
“May I remind the court that my client wasn’t the only one in the house that evening. Detective Jenson noted there were different footprints and smudged fingerprints leading to the back door. How could my client possibly have made those smaller prints? He couldn’t. They were made by the actual killer.”
A fly buzzed near one of the jurors who swatted it away.
“No, I contend that my client was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Possibly even framed to be there.”
Whispers arose. Rubens waited.
“When Neil Gatlin discovered Harriet Parsons dying he first tried to help her and then call for help. But the real killer had already cut the line. Upon going to the kitchen to wash off the blood he discovered Walter Parsons.”
“Unable to call for help and with his own vehicle not working, Mr. Gatlin found the Parsons’ car and drove to town where he was immediately accused of a crime he was trying to report. Had my client actually committed the crime he would have driven east—away from town and toward freedom.”
Neil thought back to that night, sitting in the Parsons’ drive debating the same thing. He chose to do what he thought was right and what had it gotten him? He pulled on his wrist chains.
“Though a lot of circumstantial evidence points at Mr. Gatlin, there is also a lot of evidence pointing to another killer. Who was it who reported the crime to the police? If they are innocent, why haven’t they come forward since that evening?” Rubens paused, allowing the question to sink in.
“Put yourselves in Neil Gatlin’s shoes. What would you do if you came upon a murder in progress? Would you try to help and unknowingly leave finger and footprints? To help could leave evidence that could be misconstrued, incriminating you. Are you sure beyond reasonable doubt that my client is guilty of murder or only guilty of helping someone in need?”
Harvey Rubens looked again at each juror then returned to his seat.
***
Neil absently tapped the tabletop in the small room where he waited with Rubens.
A court officer peered in. “They’ve reached a decision.”
Neil and Rubens exchanged glances. Less than two hours. That’s all the time it had taken for the jury to determine his fate. Neil forced himself to stand. Forced himself to place one foot in front of the other. In the courtroom he took a long hard look at Sunshine. Oh how he hoped she would soon be in his arms and this whole nightmare would be over.
The jury filed in. Neil studied each face. Several stared right at him while others avoided looking his direction.
“Has the jury reached a decision?” the judge asked.
The large man stood. “We have, Your Honor.”
Neil felt everyone in the room could hear his heart pounding. He glanced back at Sunshine. Her usual beautiful smile was gone. He wondered if it would ever return.
“We find the defendant, Neil Gatlin, guilty of murder in the first degree.”
Sunshine collapsed.
Neil squeezed his lids hard. But the tears refused to stop.
Chapter Three - Deciphered Dilemmas
“Did I hear you killed some old folks with your bare hands?” J.R.’s huge frame blocked Neil’s path as he walked into the bright sunshine of the prison exercise yard at Pontiac Correctional Center.
Neil’s stomach clenched. He looked into the ice blue eyes of prisoner number 1-0-7-3-9. Ever since arriving, Neil had tried to keep a low profile and avoid J.R. and his gang. It was clear to him, and confirmed through whispered advice of other prisoners, that J.R. was in charge, dangerous, and used to getting his own way.
J.R. stared down at Neil. Other prisoners—all adorned with rippled tattoos and scars—flanked J.R. on both sides.
“I didn’t do it.” Neil cringed at how weak and warbled his voice came out. The chirps of a scared jailbird?
“Hey, man, you don’t gotta prove yourself innocent to us.” J.R. looked over at his buddies. “Ain’t that right, Marv?”
“Yeah, man. The more brutal the better.”
Neil grimaced. How had he ever gotten lumped in with the likes of these guys? He thought back to his high school dreams of becoming an engineer. Where had he made a wrong turn? In reality, he’d made many wrong turns.
“You deaf, boy?”
“Huh?”
“I said, how’d you do it?”
Neil looked at the bulky man. He’d never liked handlebar mustaches and J.R.’s gave him one more reason to hate them. “I didn’t.” His voice sounded stronger—somewhat.
“What’d I tell you, J.R.?” The prisoner to his right sneered. “Told you he didn’t look like the killin’ type.”
J.R. looked Neil up and down then spit on him.
Neil stiffened, but said nothing.
“Boy, looks like you’ve been spit on by the law,” J.R. said. “Now I’m gonna spit on you every day until you prove you’re man enough to be here.”
Other prisoners looked on from a distance as perspiration soaked Neil’s collar.
“Innocent sissy. You’ve tasted the spit of the law, now it’s time you learn to spit back.” J.R. grinned, revealing a chipped tooth filed to a point.
Neil was sure J.R. could sense his fear and allowed the image of his knife-like tooth to plunge deeper into Neil’s mind before wandering off.
Neil glanced down at the thick spittle and rubbed it off with his cuff. Incensed, he glanced at the other prisoners who still watched. After several weeks he felt no more comfortable milling around with other inmates than the day he arrived. It was an odd mixture of emotions. He looked forward to getting out of his cell only to despise his time around the other inmates. He was lonely, but had no desire to make friends.
***
“Look who’s got a telegram.” A burly guard stood outside Neil’s cell. The man’s paunch draped over his belt.
Neil startled and stood from his cot. His attempt at penning a letter to Sunshine spilled to the floor.
“Wonder what’s so urgent to warrant a telegram. It’s not like you’re going anywhere.”
An uneasiness crept into Neil’s gut. He thought of Sunshine and his infant son. Had something terrible happened to them? Maybe Sunshine realized what a mistake she’d made in loving him. Maybe this was her way of saying it was over. He recalled an inmate he met who received a telegram from his father-in-law, telling him to rot in prison and not to come looking for his wife and kids when he got out or he’d find a bullet between his eyes.
The telegram shook in his hands. He thought of the two visits he’d had with Sunshine while here. Leonard and his wife had driven Sunshine and Neil Jr. to the prison. His son had Sunshine’s twinkling eyes and his jaw. He’d never seen the draw to babies—why people thought they were so pretty.
Now he understood. He hadn’t wanted to take his eyes off the handsome little fellow except to look at Sunshine. Neil Jr. was so small, so fragile. He needed a father. Someone to love him and guide him into manhood. He thought of how hard his own dad had been on him. He would be a different father. More loving and understanding. Neil remembered that fateful night when he was eleven years old. Could he forgive and love his son—even if he hurt S
unshine? Even if Neil Jr. accidentally… Neil pushed the memory away. He hoped he would.
He lay the telegram on his cot, walked to the sink, and splashed cold water on his face. The prison air was stale. Neil paced back and forth trying to ignore the telegram. Who says it has to be bad news? People received telegrams for birthdays and weddings. Maybe his brother was getting married, though Neil hadn’t told his family what had happened.
Neil finally flopped onto the thin mattress and opened the telegram.
NEIL ALLEN GATLIN
PONTIAC CORRECTIONAL CENTER, PONTIAC, IL NEIL YOU HAVE DISGRACED ME, YOUR DEAD MOTHER, AND OUR FAMILY FOR THE LAST TIME. AS OF NOW YOU ARE NO LONGER MY SON.
WILLIAM GEORGE GATLIN
Neil stared in shock. The words he’d unconsciously always feared stared back at him. He could hear their sound on the teletype in his head. His dad must have seen a news report. Lord knows he’d been waiting for this day.
But did his dad really think he was capable of something so horrific as murder? He reread the small sheet of paper, his hands shaking. Of course his dad did. He’d always believed Neil was capable of killing someone, ever since he was eleven.
He crumpled the telegram in his hand. Maybe he was a killer. Maybe he deserved this. Maybe this was his punishment.
Neil’s body quaked. In his mind he could hear Johnny Cash sing, “Folsom Prison Blues.” Why couldn’t anyone believe that he hadn’t killed a man—let alone to watch him die?
***
At the sound of his brother’s voice on the prisoner phone Neil’s emotions battled within him. Was Ken going to disown him too? Why not?
“Dad just slipped me the news,” Ken said.
“Are you going to disown me too?”
Ken paused. “He didn’t?”
“Via telegram.”
Ken sighed. “I’m sorry Neil. He’s never been the same since Mom died.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. I’m the one who felt it every day.”
“What happened there in Illinois?”
“Do you really want to know?” Neil glared at the prison wall. Why was he so hard on Ken? It wasn’t his fault.
“I’d like to help if I can.”
Neil’s body relaxed. “Either I was in the wrong place at the wrong time or I got framed. I’m beginning to suspect the latter.”
“So you’re telling me you didn’t do it?”
Neil almost slammed the receiver down. “What do you think?”
Ken was quiet. “Why didn’t you call me? You know I would have defended you.”
In his mind Neil ran through the list of excuses he’d told himself for the last several months. “I don’t know. I keep asking myself that. Guess I’m tired of always needing my little brother to bail me out of the messes I get in.”
“You picked a good time to hang onto your pride.”
“I know. Just add it to the pile. My innocence seemed so obvious to me that I didn’t think I could possibly be convicted until things started falling apart in the courtroom.”
“That’s what you get for using a public defender,” his brother countered.
“I don’t know. Rubens tried to show them there was another killer.” He paused. “But they had their minds set that it was me.”
“Got any idea who might have framed you?”
“Possibly several guys I played pool with. But I can’t be sure.”
“Give me their names and I’ll have one of my guys look into it.”
“Charley Parsons, Willis, and Scotty. I don’t know the other guys’ last names. I’m sure if you find one you’ll find the others.”
“Is there anything from the trial that stands out to you? Something that might be of help?”
Neil picked at a fleck of loose, gray paint on the concrete wall. His mind snagged on the point where it seemed things really started falling apart. “I think the switchboard operator knows more than she’s telling.”
“Is she married or single?”
Neil pulled the receiver from his ear and stared at it. “What? How would I know?”
“How old is she?”
“I don’t know. Mid-thirties, early forties. Why, you looking for a wife?”
“Oh, maybe one of my men can get some information from her.”
A guard appeared and tapped his watch. “One minute.”
Neil nodded. He now understood why his brother was so successful at what he did. Unlike Neil, Ken wasn’t afraid to waste time going the indirect route.
“Ken, do you think you can help me?”
“Murder is a pretty big secret to keep—especially if more than one person is involved. Someone’s liable to talk. I’ll see what I can dig up and get back to you. I’ll also go over the transcripts and see what mistakes were made. Maybe we can appeal on a technicality.”
As Neil returned to his cell he felt a glimmer of hope. The first in several months. He remembered Leonard’s comment that he was praying for him. Maybe there was a god out there after all. In his cell Neil saw the crumpled telegram. Who was he fooling? It was a small town. Like his lawyer had pointed out, small town folk didn’t trust outsiders. Ken’s investigator was an outsider.
***
Neil tossed on his cot. Did his dad really think he was so evil he would kill a couple just for their money? He remembered the fear on the woman’s face when she came to the door. Her soft, plump, make-up powdered cheeks pale. Her eyes wild—desperate for help.
Did she trust him? Did it occur to her that maybe he was an accomplice? Would he have thought the same in her situation? No, he had trusted. Trusted the guys in the pool hall. The more he thought back on that night the more he suspected they were behind the murder. They had to be. He remembered Willis leaving. Had Willis removed the fan belt? Had he been the one to kill that couple?
Neil wondered if any of those partial fingerprints matched Willis’ or even Scotty’s or Charley’s. What about the size of the other footprints? He’d forgotten to tell Ken about that. Surely the police had made a mistake by not looking into the different sizes of footprints.
The guys in the pool hall directed him down that particular road. Charley had even encouraged him to stay with his aunt and uncle then made the scene in court. Who would benefit from their deaths? Quite possibly Charley. If they were responsible for the murders, it’s probable one of them called the police.
He had to share these ideas with his brother. Could Ken get the answers? Neil wanted desperately to get out so he could prove his innocence. Not just to the courts—but now to his dad—once and for all.
Neil drifted to sleep, thoughts of freedom weaving through his mind. When he awoke several hours later it was with the idea of joining J.R.’s gang, attacking the guards, and making a break.
He shook his head. Where had that idea come from? Was this place getting to him? He plumped his pillow and rolled onto his side. Yeah, I’ll certainly prove I’m not a killer by attacking guards and setting beds on fire. He shook his head again. What a strange dream—a combination of the past several months and memories of playing cold war spies with his brother.
He pulled the sheet over himself and tried to push the dream out of his thoughts. He was just drifting off to sleep when he heard it—tapping interspersed with scratching sounds. It came from the cell next to him, J.R.’s buddy, Marv, occupied that cell. What was he doing?
Awake now, he lay listening in the darkness. Scratch, silence. Tap, scratch, scratch, pause, tap, tap, pause, scratch… The sounds continued with a regularity and pattern Neil recognized. Scratch, pause, tap, scratch…
Neil shuddered. He could hear the message scratching and tapping out several cells down. He listened carefully, hoping he could catch the whole thing, though his hands were already cold.
***
Neil’s head hurt and his stomach churned. Part of him felt the guards had it coming. He was, in fact, an innocent man unfairly incarcerated. Let the judicial system pay for what they’d taken from him.
> Keys rattled in the lock. “Time for breakfast.”
Neil looked at the muscular guard, not much older than himself.
“You feeling alright there, Neil?”
Neil’s stomach did a flop. “Didn’t sleep well.” Why had he said that? The last thing he needed was for Marv to know he was awake and heard the message.
“You look kind of pale.”
“I’ll be fine.” Neil made eye contact with the guard. Hugh seemed like a fair, goodhearted guy. In different circumstances Neil could envision he and Hugh as friends. His stomach squeezed tight as though it was a rag wrung dry.
All morning Neil thought about the message he’d heard and the dream he’d had. How much of that dream was simply his imagination and how much was the Morse code filtering in? It had happened before. As kids he and Ken would tap out messages to each other at night. Sometimes Neil fell asleep and when he’d tell his brother about a particularly interesting dream Ken would always say, “You didn’t dream that, dummy, that was part of the message I sent you.” As he’d gotten older Neil suspected Ken had simply been messing with his mind. Maybe not.
Neil stepped out onto the catwalk outside his cell followed by Marv and made his way to the stairs and the dining hall.
“So you didn’t sleep well last night?” Marv whispered.
Neil’s hair prickled.
“Did you hear anything—unusual?”
Neil swallowed. Morse code was not unusual to him. “No. Should I have?” He glanced over his shoulder at Marv.
Marv fixed his beady dark eyes on him. “No.”
Why did he say that? Couldn’t he have just said, “No.” If prison was going to do anything for Neil, it would teach him to keep his mouth shut.
In the dining hall Neil ate his biscuits and gravy in silence, avoiding eye contact with those around him. Most others did the same. He was nearly done when someone fell into him from behind, causing him to knock over his coffee.
“Watch it, man,” the prisoner in front of him said moving to avoid the hot liquid.
Neil turned to see who shoved him and met J.R.’s glare. His breakfast hardened in his gut.
“What’s wrong, sissy boy? Need a bib and a bottle?”
Several others chuckled around him. J.R. moved on but Neil was bumped from behind several more times.
***