by John Grisham
The girls wrapped themselves around Stella like a tight cocoon and shielded her from intrusions and negativity. They found it hard to believe that someone as pretty and sweet as Stella could be in the midst of such a tragic family drama, but it certainly wasn’t her fault. No one at Hollins had ever been to Clanton. A few knew her father was a war hero, but to most girls that mattered little. No one had met her parents, though her brother, Joel, had made quite a splash during a recent visit for alumni weekend.
In the days and weeks after the killing, Stella was never alone. Her two roommates stayed with her during the nights when she often awoke with nightmares and bursts of emotion. During the days, she was surrounded by friends who kept her busy. Her professors understood her fragility and she was allowed to miss class and postpone homework and papers. Counselors checked on her daily. The president monitored her situation and was briefed by a provost twice a week. It was soon known that she would not be going home for the Thanksgiving holiday. Her father had ordered her to stay away. This prompted a flood of invitations, some from friends and professors, some from girls she hardly knew.
Stella was touched almost to tears and thanked them all, then left Roanoke on the train with Ginger Reed, perhaps her best friend, and headed to Alexandria, Virginia, for a week of partying in D.C. She had been once before, with Ginger, and she was enthralled by the big city. Though she had not told her parents, nor Joel, she planned to graduate as soon as possible and follow the bright lights. New York was her first choice, D.C. her second. New Orleans was a distant third. Long before the killing, she knew she would never again live in Ford County. After the killing, she wanted to stay as far away from the place as possible.
Though her dreams had been interrupted, she was still determined to become a writer. She adored the short fiction of Eudora Welty and the bizarre and colorful characters of Carson McCullers. Both were strong southern women writing in authentic voices about families, conflicts, soil, and the tortured history of the South, and they were successfully publishing in a time when men dominated American fiction. Stella read them all, men and women, and she was convinced there was room for her. She might start with stories about her own family, she often thought to herself, now more than before, but knew that would not happen.
She would land a job with a magazine in New York, and live in a cheap apartment in Brooklyn with friends, and she would begin her first novel as soon as she settled in and inspiration hit. She was reasonably certain that her parents and her aunt Florry would support her if necessary. Being a Banning, she had been raised with the unspoken belief that the land would always remain in the family and provide support.
Enjoy life in New York, work for a magazine, start a novel, and do it all with the knowledge that there was money back home. The dream was exciting and it was real, until the murder. Now home was far away and nothing was certain.
Ginger’s family lived in Old Town, in an eighteenth-century mansion on Duke Street. Her parents and younger sister had been briefed on the details of the Banning family nightmare and it was never mentioned. Stella was treated to a week of cocktail parties, long dinners, walks along the Potomac, and a string of clubs frequented by students where they smoked cigarettes, drank too much, listened to swing bands, and danced through the night.
On Thanksgiving Day, she called Aunt Florry, and for ten minutes they talked as if there was nothing out of order. Joel was the guest of a fraternity brother’s family in Kentucky, and Florry reported that he was hunting nonstop and enjoying the break. They would be together for Christmas, she promised.
* * *
—
Later in the afternoon, Florry loaded up a small tub containing two roasted turkeys, with potatoes, carrots, beets, and turnips, along with a pan of dressing, giblet gravy, yeast rolls, and two pecan pies. She drove the feast to the jail, where she supervised the carving of the turkeys by her brother. The meal was for all prisoners, and for Mr. Tick Poley, the ancient part-time jailhouse guard who worked nights and most holidays so Nix and his men could take the day off. Florry and Pete dined alone in Nix’s office, with his unlocked gun case in plain view. An unsecured door opened to the gravel lot. Tick was content to eat by himself in the jail’s lobby as he guarded the front door.
Pete took a few bites, then lit a cigarette. In spite of his sister’s efforts, he was still eating little and looked thin, and because he never went outside his skin was pale. As usual, she had commented on this. As usual, he ignored her. He did manage to perk up when she replayed the calls from Stella and Joel. In Florry’s version, they were doing quite well and enjoying the season. Pete smiled as he smoked, his eyes drifting to the ceiling and beyond.
Chapter 10
By Thanksgiving, the cotton had been picked for the third and final time and Pete was pleased with the harvest. He watched the markets and reviewed the books each week when Buford came to the jail. He signed checks, paid bills, reviewed deposits and accounts, and directed the selling of his cotton through the Memphis exchange. He ordered the reopening of the colored school on his property, and approved pay raises for the teachers and the installation of new stoves for winter heat. Buford was itching to buy the latest model John Deere tractor. Many of the larger farmers now owned them, but Pete said not now, maybe later. Facing such an uncertain future, he was reluctant to spend a lot of money.
The price of cotton was also being watched closely by Errol McLeish. Georgia produced almost as much cotton as Mississippi, so he was no stranger to its economics. As the spot price on the Memphis Cotton Exchange rose, so did his commitment to the welfare of Jackie Bell.
* * *
—
After weeks of discussion and research, John Wilbanks and his brother Russell finally decided the trial of Pete Banning should not take place in Clanton. They would seek a change of venue and try to have it moved somewhere far away.
Initially, they had been encouraged by the courthouse rumors that Miles Truitt came close to a mutiny with his grand jury. Evidently, their client had some friends and admirers who were sympathetic, and the vote to indict barely passed. Only rumors, of course, and since grand jury proceedings were not recorded in any fashion, and supposedly confidential, they could not be sure about what really happened. With time, though, they grew skeptical about the impartiality of a trial jury. They and their employees talked to countless friends around the county in an effort to judge public sentiment. They consulted a few of the other lawyers in town, and two retired judges, and a handful of former deputies, and a couple of old sheriffs. Since the jury would consist of white men only, and virtually all would claim membership in a church, they chatted with preachers they knew, men from all denominations. Their wives talked to other wives, at other churches, and at garden clubs and bridge clubs, and almost anywhere the conversation could be initiated without being awkward.
It became clear, at least to John Wilbanks, that sentiment was running strongly against his client. Time and again, he and his staff and his friends heard folks say something to the effect of “Whatever conflict those two had, it could have been settled without bloodshed.” And the fact that Pete Banning was saying nothing to defend himself made it even easier to convict him. He would always be a legendary war hero, but no one had the right to kill without a good reason.
Under John’s guidance, his firm conducted thorough research of every venue change case in American law, and he wrote a masterful fifty-page brief supporting his request. The endeavor took hours and hours, and eventually led to a heated discussion between John and Russell regarding the pressing matter of their fees. Since Pete’s arrest, John had been reluctant to broach the matter. Now, though, it was inevitable.
Also eating up the clock was the not insignificant matter of mounting a defense. Pete had not minced words when John mentioned a claim of insanity, but there was nothing else to argue before the jury. Obviously, a perfectly normal human who shoots another three times at point-b
lank range cannot be in possession of his full mental faculties, but to build such a case required the defense to inform the court with a notice and a brief. John wrote one, along with supporting case law, and was prepared to file it at the same time he filed the motion for a change of venue.
Before doing so, however, he needed his client’s approval. He haggled with Nix Gridley until he got his way, and late one afternoon a week before Christmas, Nix and Roy Lester left the jail with Pete Banning and drove him to the square. If he enjoyed his first breath of fresh air, he did not show it. He did not take in the festive decorations on the storefronts, did not seem at all interested in what the town was doing, did not even seem appreciative that he was being allowed to meet his lawyer in his office, as opposed to the jail. He sat low in the rear seat wearing a hat and bound by handcuffs, and stared at his feet during the brief ride. Nix parked behind the Wilbanks Building, and no one saw Pete enter with a cop at each elbow. Inside, the handcuffs were removed and he followed John Wilbanks to his office upstairs. Wilbanks’s secretary served Nix and Roy black coffee with a pastry in the downstairs foyer.
Russell sat in one chair, John the other, with Pete on a leather sofa across a coffee table. They attempted small talk, but it was awkward. How do you chat about the weather and the holidays with a man who’s sitting in jail accused of murder?
“How are things at the jail?” John asked.
“Fine,” Pete said, stone-faced. “I’ve seen worse.”
“I hear you’re pretty much running things over there.”
A slight grin, nothing more. “Nix made me a trusty, so I’m not always confined.”
Russell smiled and said, “I hear the prisoners are getting fat, thanks to Florry.”
“The food has improved,” Pete said as he reached for a cigarette.
John and Russell exchanged glances. Russell got busy lighting his own cigarette, leaving John alone with the unpleasant business. He cleared his throat and said, “Yes, well, look, Pete, we’ve never had a conversation about attorneys’ fees. Our firm is putting in a lot of hours. The trial is three weeks away and between now and then we’ll work on little else. We need to get paid, Pete.”
Pete shrugged and asked, “Have you ever sent me a bill that didn’t get paid?”
“No, but then you’ve never been charged with murder.”
“How much are you talking about?”
“We need $5,000, Pete, and that’s on the low side.”
He filled his lungs, exhaled a cloud, looked at the ceiling. “I’d hate to see the high side. Why is it so expensive?”
Russell decided to enter the ring. “Hours, Pete, hours and hours. Time is all we have to sell, and we’re not making money here. Your family’s been with this firm forever, we’re old friends, and we are here to protect you. But we have office expenses and bills to pay too.”
Pete flicked his ashes into a tray and took a quick puff. He wasn’t angry or surprised. His expressions conveyed nothing. Finally, he said, “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
Well, what you can do is write us a damned check, John wanted to say, but let it go. The issue had been addressed and Pete would not forget it. They would discuss it later.
Russell reached for some papers and said, “We have some stuff for you to read, Pete. They’re preliminary motions for your trial, and before we file them you need to read them and sign off.”
Pete took the papers, and after glancing at them said, “There’s a lot of stuff here. Why don’t you just summarize, preferably in layman’s terms?”
John smiled and nodded and took the lead. “Sure, Pete. The first motion is a request to the court to change the venue of the trial, move it somewhere else, as far away as possible. We’ve come to believe that public sentiment is fairly strong against you, and we know it will be difficult to find sympathetic jurors.”
“Where do you want the trial?”
“The judge has complete discretion in that matter, according to the case law. Knowing Judge Oswalt, he’ll want to retain control over the trial without having to travel too far. So, if he grants our motion, which, by the way, Pete, is a long shot on a good day, he’ll probably keep it somewhere in this judicial district. We’ll argue to the contrary, but, frankly, any place will be better than here.”
“And why do you believe that?”
“Because Dexter Bell was a popular preacher with a large congregation, and there are eight other Methodist churches in this county. In numbers, it’s the second-largest denomination behind the Baptists, which present another problem. Baptists and Methodists are first cousins, Pete, and they often stick together on tough issues. Politics, whiskey, school boards. You can always count on those two clans to march to the same drum.”
“I know that. But I’m a Methodist too.”
“Right, and you have some supporters, old friends and such. But most people view you as a cold-blooded murderer. I’m not sure you realize that. The people in this county think of Pete Banning as a war hero who, for reasons known only to himself, walked into the church and murdered an unarmed preacher.”
Russell added for emphasis, “Pete, you don’t have a dog’s chance in hell.”
Pete shrugged as if that was okay with him. He did what he had to do; damn the consequences. He took a long drag as smoke swirled around the room. “What makes you think things will be different in another county?”
John asked, “Do you know the preachers at the Methodist churches in Polk, Tyler, or Milburn Counties? Of course not. Those counties are right next door yet we know very few folks who live there. They will know neither you nor Dexter Bell personally.”
Russell said, “We’re trying to avoid the personal relationships, Pete. I’m sure a lot of those folks have read the newspapers, but they’ve never met you or Dexter Bell. Without the personal knowledge, we stand a better chance of getting by the raw feelings and planting doubt.”
“Doubt? Tell me about this doubt,” Pete said, gently surprised.
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” John said. “Do you agree that we need to ask for a change of venue?”
“No. If I have to do it, I want my trial to be right here.”
“Oh, you have to, Pete. The only way to avoid a trial is to plead guilty.”
“Are you asking me to plead guilty?”
“No.”
“Good, because I’m not, and I will not ask for a change of venue. This is my home, always has been, same for my ancestors, and if the people of Ford County want to convict me, then it’ll happen across the street in the courthouse.”
John and Russell looked at each other in frustration. Pete laid the papers on the coffee table without having read the first word. He lit another cigarette, casually crossed his legs as if he had all the time in the world, and looked at John as if to say, “What’s next?”
John took his copy of the brief and dropped it loudly on the coffee table. “Well, there goes a month of fine legal research and writing.”
Pete replied, “And I guess I’m supposed to pay for that. If you’d asked me up front I could’ve saved you all that work. No wonder your fees are so high.”
John seethed as Russell fumed and Pete puffed away. After a pause, Pete continued, “Look, boys, I don’t mind paying legal fees, especially since I’m in a jam like this, but $5,000? I mean, I farm almost a thousand acres that require backbreaking work for eight months by thirty field hands, and if I’m lucky and the weather cooperates and the spot price stays high and the fertilizer works and the boll weevils stay away and enough labor shows up to pick, then every three or four years I get a decent crop and maybe I’ll clear, after all bills, $20,000. Half goes to Florry. That leaves me with ten and you want half of that.”
“Your numbers are low,” John said without hesitation. His family raised more cotton than the Bannings. “Our cousin had a very good crop and so d
id you.”
Russell said, “If you object to our fees, Pete, you can always hire someone else. There are other lawyers in town. We’re just doing our best to protect you.”
“Come on, boys,” Pete said. “You’ve always taken care of me and my family. I have no gripe with what you want, but it may take some time to round up the money.”
Both John and Russell strongly suspected that Pete could write the check with ease, but he was, after all, a farmer, and as a breed they enjoyed squeezing a nickel. And the lawyers were sympathetic too, because in all likelihood he would never farm again and would either die soon in the electric chair or much later in some awful prison hospital. His future was worse than bleak, and they couldn’t blame him for trying to save all the money possible.
A secretary tapped on the door and entered with an elegant coffee service. She filled three porcelain cups and offered cream and sugar. Pete deliberately mixed his blend, took a sip, and stubbed out a cigarette.
When she was gone, John said, “Okay, moving right along. We have another motion we need to discuss. Our only possible defense is one based on temporary insanity. If you’re found not guilty, and that’s highly unlikely, it will be because we can convince the jury that you were not thinking rationally when you pulled the trigger.”
“I’ve already told you that I don’t want that.”
“And I heard you, Pete, but it’s not just about what you want. It’s more of what’s available to us at trial. Insanity is all we have. Period. Take away insanity, and all we can do is sit in the courtroom and listen like spectators while the prosecutor strings you up. Is that what you want?”