by John Grisham
At eight o’clock, he stepped from the front door of the jail in a white shirt and khaki pants. His sleeves were rolled up because the air was hot, the humidity stifling. With Roy Lester on one side and Red Arnett on the other, he followed Nix Gridley through the crowd that parted to make way. The only sounds were cameras flashing and clicking. There were no banal questions lobbed by the reporters, no shouts of encouragement, no threats of condemnation. At Wesley Avenue, they turned and headed for the square, walking down the middle of the street as the curious fell in behind. As they approached, the soldiers lining the street snapped to attention and saluted. Pete saw them, looked surprised for a second or two, then nodded grimly. He walked slowly, certainly in no hurry, but determined to get on with it.
On the square, a hush fell over the crowd as the prisoner and his guards came into view. Nix growled at some to stand back and give way and everyone complied. He turned onto Madison Street in front of the Tea Shoppe and the procession followed.
Ahead, the courthouse loomed, fully lit and waiting. It was the most important building in the county, the place where justice was preserved and dispensed, rights were protected, disputes settled peacefully and fairly. Pete Banning himself had served on a jury as a much younger man, and had been impressed with the experience. He and his fellow jurors had followed the law and delivered a just verdict. Justice had been served, and now justice awaited him.
The extra police had cordoned off the main sidewalk of the courthouse. Beside it ran the cables carrying the current. The generator in the silver truck hummed as they walked past, though Pete did not seem to notice. Following Nix, he stepped over the cables as they turned toward the building. He was surprised at the crowd, especially at the number of soldiers, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, careful not to see someone he might know.
They slowly made their way to the courthouse and stepped inside. It was empty now, the police having locked all doors and banned the curious. Nix was determined to avoid a spectacle, and he vowed to arrest anyone found inside without permission. They climbed the main stairway and stopped at the courtroom doors. A guard opened them and they entered. Cables ran down the aisle, past the bar, and to the chair.
Old Sparky sat ominously next to the jury box, facing the rows of empty benches where the spectators normally sat. But there were no spectators, only a handful of witnesses. Pete had approved none. There was no one from the family of Dexter Bell. Nix had banned all photographers, much to the dismay of Jimmy Thompson, who was eagerly waiting at the switchboard next to his beloved chair. Tables had been moved and a row of seats near the bench had been arranged for the witnesses. Miles Truitt, the prosecutor, sat next to Judge Rafe Oswalt. Next to him was Governor Wright, who had never seen an execution and had decided to stay in town for this one. He felt it was his duty to witness a capital punishment since his people were so passionately in favor of it. Beside the governor were four reporters, handpicked by Nix Gridley, and including Hardy Capley of the Memphis Press-Scimitar.
John Wilbanks was absent because he chose to be. Pete would have approved him as a witness, but John wanted no part of the proceedings. The case was over and he was hopeful the Banning mess was behind him. He doubted it, though, and strongly anticipated more legal fallout from the murder. At the moment, he and Russell were sitting on their office balcony watching the crowd and the courthouse and sipping bourbon.
Inside, Pete was led to a wooden chair next to Old Sparky and took a seat. Jimmy Thompson said, “Mr. Banning, this is the part of my job that I dislike.”
Nix said, “Why don’t you just shut up and do what you have to do?” Nix was fed up with Thompson and his theatrics.
Nothing else was said as Thompson took a set of surplus army clippers and cut Pete’s hair as close to the scalp as possible. The dark brown and gray clippings fell in bunches onto his shirt and arms and Thompson deftly brushed them to the floor. He rolled up the khakis on Pete’s left leg and skinned his calf. As he quickly went about his business the only sound in the courtroom was the buzzing of the clippers. None of the men watching had ever been near an execution and knew almost nothing about the procedures. Thompson, though, was a pro and went about his duties with efficiency. When he turned off the clippers he nodded at Old Sparky and said, “Please have a seat.”
Pete took two steps and lowered himself into the clunky wooden throne. Thompson secured his wrists with heavy leather straps, then did the same at his waist and ankles. From a bucket, he took two wet sponges and stuck them to his calves, then secured them with a bulky strap holding an electrode. The sponges were necessary to aid the rapid flow of electricity.
Pete closed his eyes and began breathing heavily.
Thompson placed four wet sponges on Pete’s head. Water dripped and ran down his face and Thompson apologized for this. Pete did not respond. The headpiece was a metal contraption, not unlike a football helmet, and when Thompson adjusted it into place, Pete grimaced, his only negative reaction so far. When the sponges were set under the headpiece, Thompson tightened it. He attached wires and fiddled with straps and seemed to be taking too much time. However, since neither Nix nor anyone else knew anything about the protocol, they waited and watched in silence. The humid courtroom grew even stickier and everyone was sweating. Because of the heat, someone had partially opened four of the tall windows on each side, and, unfortunately, someone had forgotten to close them.
Thompson felt the pressure of such a high-profile job. Most of his victims were poor black criminals, and few people cared if their executions had a flaw or two. Not a single one had ever walked away. But the execution of a prominent white man was unheard of, and Thompson was determined to pull off a clean killing, one that would not be criticized.
He picked up a black shroud and asked Pete, “Would you like a blindfold?”
“No.”
“Very well.” Thompson nodded at Judge Oswalt, who stood and took a few steps toward the condemned. Holding a sheet of paper, he cleared his nervous throat and said, “Mr. Banning, I am required by law to read your death warrant. ‘By order of the circuit court of the Twenty-Second Judicial District for the State of Mississippi, and after having been found guilty of first-degree murder and sentenced to death by electrocution, said verdict having been affirmed by the supreme court of this state, I, Judge Rafe Oswalt, do hereby order the immediate execution of the defendant, Mr. Pete Banning.’ May God have mercy on your soul.” The paper was shaking as he read it without looking at Pete, and he sat down as quickly as possible.
From the darkened balcony, three colored men watched the show in disbelief. Ernie Dowdle, who worked the courthouse basement, and Penrod, its custodian, and Hop Purdue, the church’s janitor, all lay flat on their stomachs and peeked through the railing. They were too frightened to breathe because if they were seen Nix would almost certainly throw them in jail for years to come.
Thompson nodded at Nix Gridley, who stepped nearer the chair and asked, “Pete, do you have anything you want to say?”
“No.”
Nix backed away and stood near the witnesses with Roy Lester and Red Arnett. The county coroner stood behind them. Jimmy Thompson stepped to his switchboard, studied it for a second, and asked Nix, “Is there any reason this execution should not go forward?”
Nix shook his head and said, “None.”
Thompson turned a dial. The generator out in the silver truck whined louder as its gasoline engine increased the current. Those standing near it realized what was happening and backed away. The hot current shot through the cables and arrived in seconds at Old Sparky. A five-inch metal switch with a red plastic cover protruded from the switchboard. Jimmy took it and slammed it down. Two thousand volts of current hit Pete and every muscle in his body contracted and shot up and forward and he tore against the bindings. He screamed, a loud, mighty roar of unmitigated pain and agony that shocked the witnesses. The scream shrieked around the
courtroom and continued for seconds as his body gyrated with a sickening fury. The scream escaped the courtroom through the open windows and reverberated through the night.
Later, those standing near the silver truck and its generator, on the south side of the courthouse near its front, would claim that they did not hear the scream, but those standing on the east and west ends, and especially those near the rear, heard it and would never forget it. John Wilbanks heard it as clear as thunder and said, “Oh my God.” He stood and took a step closer and looked at the frightened faces of those nearest the courtroom. The scream lasted for seconds, but for many it would last forever.
The first jolt was supposed to stop his heart and render him unconscious, but there was no way to know. Pete convulsed violently for about ten seconds, though time was impossible to measure. When Thompson pulled the switch and cut the current, Pete’s head slumped to his right and he was still. Then he twitched. Thompson waited for thirty seconds, as always, and lowered the switch for the second dose. Pete jerked as the current hit again, but his body resisted less and was clearly shutting down. During the second jolt, the temperature inside his body hit two hundred degrees Fahrenheit and his organs began to melt. Blood rushed from his eye sockets.
Thompson cut the current and instructed the coroner to see if Pete was dead. The coroner didn’t move, but instead stood with his mouth open and stared at the ghoulish face of Pete Banning. Nix Gridley finally managed to look away and felt nauseated. Miles Truitt, who six months earlier had stood in the exact spot where Old Sparky now sat and begged the jury for the death penalty, had now witnessed his first execution and would never be the same. Nor would the governor. For political reasons he would continue to support the death penalty while silently wishing it would go away, at least for white defendants.
In the balcony, Hop Purdue closed his eyes and began crying. As the star witness, he had testified against Mista Banning and felt responsible.
After the initial shock, the reporters recovered and began scribbling with a fury.
“Please, sir, if you don’t mind,” Thompson said with irritation as he motioned for the coroner, who was finally able to move. Holding a stethoscope he’d borrowed from a doctor, a fine physician who had flatly refused to get near the execution, he stepped to the body and checked Pete’s heart. Blood and other fluids were pouring from his eye sockets and his white cotton shirt was rapidly changing colors. The coroner was not certain if he heard anything or if he actually used the stethoscope correctly because at that moment he wanted Pete dead. He had seen enough. And, if Pete wasn’t dead, then he would be very soon. So the coroner backed away and said, “There is no heartbeat. This man is dead.”
Thompson was relieved that the execution had gone so smoothly. Other than the excruciating scream that seemed to rattle the windows, and perhaps the melting eyeballs, there was nothing he had not seen before. Pete’s was his thirty-eighth execution, and the reality was that no two were the same. Thompson thought he had seen it all, from charred skin to bones broken as the bodies flailed, but there was always a new wrinkle. All in all, though, this was a good night for the State. He quickly unlatched the headpiece, removed it, and placed the shroud over Pete’s face to hide some of the gore. He began unplugging wires and releasing bindings. As he went about his work, Miles Truitt excused himself, as did the governor. The reporters, though, remained transfixed as they tried to record every detail.
Nix pulled Roy Lester aside and said, “Look, I’m gonna finish up here and get the body to the funeral home. I promised Florry we’d let her know when it’s over. She’s at her place, that pink cottage, with the kids, and I want you to ride out there and deliver the news.”
Roy’s eyes were moist and he was obviously rattled. He managed to say, “Sure, Boss.”
* * *
—
For over a hundred years, the Bannings had buried their dead in a family cemetery on the side of a rolling hill not far from the pink cottage. The simple tombstones were arranged neatly under the limbs of an ancient sycamore, a stately old tree that had been around as long as the Bannings. Long before Pete was born, the name Old Sycamore was given to the cemetery and became part of the family vernacular. A dead relative wasn’t always dead. He or she had simply gone “home” to Old Sycamore.
At precisely 8:00 a.m. on Friday, July 11, a small crowd gathered at Old Sycamore and watched as a simple wooden casket was lowered by ropes into the grave. Four of the Bannings’ field hands had dug the grave the day before, and now they managed the casket. The tombstone was already in place, complete with the name and dates: Peter Joshua Banning III Born May 2, 1903, Died July 10, 1947. Inscribed at the bottom were the words “God’s Faithful Soldier.”
Fifteen white people stood around the grave in their Sunday best. The burial was by invitation only, and Pete had made the list, along with detailed instructions as to starting time, scripture verses, and the construction of the casket. The guests included Nix Gridley, John Wilbanks and his wife, some other friends, and of course Florry, Stella, and Joel. Behind them were Nineva, Amos, and Marietta, the domestic help. Behind them and farther away were about forty Negroes of various ages, all Banning dependents, all dressed in the best clothing they owned. While the white folks at first tried to remain stoic and unemotional, the Negroes made no such efforts. They were crying as soon as they saw the casket being pulled from the hearse. Mista Pete was their boss and a good and decent man, and they couldn’t believe he was gone.
In the 1940s, in rural Mississippi, the fate of a black family depended upon the goodness or evil of the white man who owned the land, and the Bannings had always been protective and fair. The Negroes could not grasp the logic of the white man’s law. Why would they kill one of their own? It made no sense.
Nineva, who had assisted the doctor in birthing Pete forty-four years earlier, was overcome and could barely stand. Amos clutched and consoled her.
The minister was a young Presbyterian divinity student from Tupelo, the friend of a friend with almost no connections to Ford County. How Pete found him they would never know. He offered an opening prayer, and was quite eloquent. By the time he finished, Stella was once again in tears. She stood between her aunt and her brother, both with arms over her shoulders for support. After the prayer, the minister read Psalm 23, then talked briefly about the life of Pete Banning. He did not dwell on the war but said only that Pete was decorated. He said nothing about the murder conviction and its aftermath but talked for ten minutes about grace, forgiveness, justice, and a few other concepts that he couldn’t quite link with the facts at hand. When he finished, he said another prayer. Marietta stepped closer to the tombstone and sang a cappella the first two stanzas of “Amazing Grace.” She had a beautiful voice and often sang along with the opera albums in the pink cottage.
When the minister said the service was over, the mourners slowly backed away to allow the gravediggers room to shovel in the dirt. The three Bannings had no desire to watch the grave filled. They spoke to a few of the friends as they headed for the car.
Nix Gridley stopped Joel and explained that many of the soldiers were still in town and wanted to stop by the grave and pay their respects. Joel discussed it with Florry and they agreed that Pete would approve.
An hour later they began arriving, and they came throughout the day. They came alone, solitary figures with lots of memories. They came in small groups and spoke to each other in whispers. They came quietly, somberly, proudly. They touched the tombstone, studied the freshly piled dirt, said their prayers or whatever they wanted to say, and they left with great sadness for a man few of them had ever met.
Part Two
The Boneyard
Chapter 21
The Peabody hotel was built in downtown Memphis in 1869 and immediately became the center of high society. It was designed in an elaborate Italian Renaissance style with no expense spared. Its sweeping lobby featured soaring
balconies and an ornate water fountain filled with live ducks. The hotel was without a doubt the most spectacular in Memphis and had no competition for hundreds of miles. It was instantly profitable as Memphians with money flocked to the Peabody for drinks and dinners, balls, galas, parties, concerts, and meetings.
Around the turn of the century, as the once wealthy cotton plantations in the Delta regions of Arkansas and Mississippi regained their footing, the Peabody became the preferred destination for big farmers looking for fun in the city. On weekends and holidays they took over the hotel, throwing lavish parties and mingling in fine style with their upper-class Memphis friends. Oftentimes they brought their wives for shopping. Other times they came alone for business and to spend romantic weekends with their mistresses.
It was said that if you parked yourself in the lobby of the Peabody hotel and stayed long enough you would see everyone who was someone from the Delta.
Pete Banning was not from the Delta and made no pretension of being so. He was from the hills of northeast Mississippi, and though his family owned land and was considered prominent, he was far from wealthy. In the social order, hill people ranked several notches below the planter class a hundred miles away. His first trip to the Peabody was at the invitation of a Memphis friend he met as a cadet at the U.S. Military Academy. The event was a debutante ball of some sort, but the real attraction, at least for Pete, was a weekend in Memphis.
He was twenty-two years old and had just graduated from the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. He was spending a few weeks on the farm near Clanton while waiting to report to Fort Riley in Kansas. He was already bored with the farm and ready for bright lights, though he was far from a hick going to town. He had been to New York City many times, for many occasions, and could hold his own in any social setting. A few Memphis snobs were not about to intimidate him.