“Good point,” Chip said. “Maybe you should consider law school, LuAnn. Frankly, the only reason to try to move the trial would be to add to the delay.”
There was a quick knock. The door opened before anyone could answer. Franny came in, nodded at us, and put down the coffee on Daddy’s desk pad. She stirred it once, took the spoon, and left.
“Go ahead, Chip,” Daddy said.
“We can also delay the trial some by moving to suppress any physical evidence they have. We don’t know what that is yet, but even if they have the gun or the shells, we’d make the same chain-of-custody arguments we would use to argue you can’t get a fair trial,” he said.
Chip pulled a book of Alabama statutes from his briefcase and opened it to a page marked with a slip of paper. “We could even challenge the grand jury. Maybe one of them was unqualified to serve under the Alabama code or maybe one of them is related to you within the fifth degree. I’ve never tried that argument, but if you want time, motions can give it to you. Probably a year, even two.”
“What if none of that works and he has to go to trial?” I asked.
“We can drag out the jury selection. Finding a panel we can accept could take months. Some people nowadays are even hiring jury consultants to help pick a favorable jury, though I doubt that’s necessary here. Then there’s trial preparation and the like--takes months. One problem with delay, one real big problem, is you are not supposed to get out on bail after your arraignment. These are capital offenses.”
The hair stood up on my arms. Capital offenses.
“Bobby Lee wouldn’t keep me in jail and you know it,” my father said. “Ricky wouldn’t either.” Bobby Lee and Ricky were two county judges.
“Are they the only possible judges for tomorrow?” I asked.
“They sure are,” Chip said. “I went by this morning to check. You’re probably right, Newell, and since nobody tried to rest you after the indictment I doubt they’ll try to lock you now.”
“Doubt?” I repeated, worried that Chip wasn’t absolutely sure.
“I just don’t know what Junior wants to do,” Chip said. “I’m surprised he brought this damn case in the first place. I wouldn’t have, not in a million years.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “He wants to make a big name for himself and run for office or get a federal judgeship. Just indicting Daddy has gotten him more publicity than he could have hoped for otherwise.”
“The boys’ families will be breathing down Junior’s neck, urging him to have you put in jail immediately. And I saw that the NAACP has a few people in town,” Chip said. “I’m sure they’d like you in jail as of yesterday. One of them was outside the courthouse this morning with a petition to have the name changed.”
“Any signatures?” My father smirked. “I’m sure as hell not going to sit in jail for something I didn’t do for some cause. What else do we have to cover today, Chip?”
“Not much,” Chip said.
“If Daddy ever has a trial, what are the chances of conviction?” I asked.
“Zero to none,” Chip said, smiling. “First, as far as anyone can tell, they’ve got a real circumstantial case. Juries don’t like that. And around here, as you just pointed out, your father is a very popular man. It shouldn’t be hard to get an acquittal unless there are blacks on the jury. Even then we’d get a hung jury, not a conviction, and I don’t think Junior would try you twice.”
“Why wouldn’t there be any blacks on the jury?” I asked.
“Not many live in the county, and of those less than forty percent are registered to vote-that’s where we get our jury list. I can probably strike the few who get summonses. It’s a rare day when an Alabama jury convicts a white man for killing a black man. In fact, I read last week that four thousand racially motivated murders occurred in the South between 1886 and 1966. How many whites got in trouble? I can’t name more than a few.”
“As horrible as those numbers are-I mean, what they stand for-they make me feel better about your odds, Daddy,” I said.
My father rolled back his chair, stood up, and put on his suit jacket. We were dismissed. “I want to think about all this and we’ll talk again in the morning, Chip,” he said.
“The arraignment is in the morning,” Chip said.
“I know when it is,” my father said harshly. “Meet me here at eight o’clock.”
“I’m telling everybody to stay away from the arraignment,” he said to me. “I don’t want a big to-do. No need for it.”
“Mother’s not coming?” I asked, surprised.
“She’s happy to stay home. Your sister is supposed to be in bed anyway, so she’s not coming. And Buck wants to pretend this isn’t happening.”
“Well, I want to come,” I insisted. “I really do. Please.”
“I don’t know why, but I guess I can’t stop you,” he said. “As they used to say in the good old days, you’re free, white, and twenty-one.”
The arraignment was in Courtroom B on the first floor of the new courthouse. When the building was dedicated in April, I’d felt that the grandeur of the marble floors, the carved oak doors, and the high ceilings imparted a sense of justice. Now I saw the same space as cold and heartless, a reminder of just how powerless I was to help my father.
I arrived at court early to avoid the press and the demonstrators I assumed would be on the courthouse steps. After the news stories broke, three fully outfitted Klansmen had stood outside my restaurant a few hours each day for a week in support of their hero, my father. I had done my best to ignore the Klan, and I was just as anxious to avoid the placards and glares of the Birmingham NAACP members who were in town.
The courtroom filled up quickly between eight-forty-five and nine o’clock, primarily with reporters (Ben was in the first row), the extended families of Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson, and a few members of the Coffee Club. The rest of our family had stayed away, as my father had requested.
At five before nine, my father and Chip came in following their morning meeting. Chip didn’t look happy. He walked quickly, his squat frame bobbing up and down with each step. My father, looking relaxed, winked at me when he passed. I wondered what was going on.
Bobby Lee McNabb, the senior judge in Tallagumsa County, entered Courtroom B at exactly nine. Judge McNabb was a small olive-skinned man, with thin black hair and a large beak nose.
The bailiff stood up and ordered us to stand as well.
Bobby Lee McNabb called the court to order and told us to sit down again. “Good morning, everyone, Newell, Chip, Junior. Welcome to you out-of-town folks. Sorry to see y’all under these circumstances, but here we are and we might as well proceed with The State of Alabama v. Newell Hagerdorn.
“I’ll read the indictment,” he continued. He read: “The grand jury of Tallagumsa County charges that on or about August 27, 1963, Newell Hagerdorn did: (1) unlawfully and with malice aforethought kill Jimmy Turnbow by shooting him with a shotgun; (2) unlawfully and with malice aforethought kill Leon Johnson by shooting him with a shotgun; against the peace and dignity of the State of Alabama.”
As Judge McNabb talked, a peroxide-blond woman in a skin-tight knit dress typed every word he said on a little machine that looked more like an adding machine than a typewriter.
“How do you plead, Newell?” the judge asked.
My father stood up. “Not guilty to both charges,” he said. Then he sat down.
“We should talk about our schedule,” Judge McNabb said, balancing a large desk calendar upright in front of him.
Chip and Junior stood up. They made an odd couple: Chip was five foot two inches tall, Junior six foot five inches.
“Today is August the twenty-ninth,” Judge McNabb said. “Junior, you’ll be prosecuting, right?”
“Yes, Judge,” Junior said.
“Let’s hear what you’re thinking about for a trial date,” Judge McNabb said.
“I hoped we could get the trial done in between Thanksgiving and Christmas,” Junior said.
“And motions?”
“One month from today,” Junior said. “If that’s enough time for the defense.”
“Chip, what does the defense say to those proposals?” Judge McNabb asked.
“We’d like to go to trial no later than October second,” Chip said.
A buzz of conversation began among the spectators. Junior looked confused. Judge Bobby Lee McNabb, obviously surprised, pounded his gavel.
“We have only two motions, and we can make them today-right now, in fact,” Chip said. “First, we move to waive a jury trial; and second, we move for discovery of all material we’re entitled to under Rule 16. That’s it. The mayor wants this resolved as quickly as possible so he can get on with his life and the election.”
“The State have any objections, Junior?” Judge McNabb asked. “The court and the prosecutor have to agree before there can be a jury waiver.”
“I haven’t thought much about trying this without a jury,” Junior said slowly. “I just don’t know. The trial date too, that’s awful early. We may have difficulty getting all the evidence together in time for an October trial.”
“Your Honor, if I may, the State shouldn’t bring an indictment if the State’s not ready to proceed with a case immediately,” Chip said.
“Could we take a break?” Junior asked.
Court was adjourned. The buzz that had begun when Chip dropped his bombshell erupted into a cacophony of voices. Several reporters, including Ben, rushed out of the room. I assumed they were placing calls to their legal experts to see what this could mean. I wished I knew. The day before we’d talked in Daddy’s office about delay and more delay, and now he was asking for a trial date in just over a month. What about all the motions Chip could make? What about a jury that would surely acquit? What was going on? The families of Jimmy and Leon looked suspiciously in my father’s direction, no doubt wondering what sort of trickery he was up to.
In the hallway outside the courtroom, I grabbed my father’s arm and pulled him down the hall, away from the reporters. “You come too, Chip,” I ordered. I yanked open the door to Courtroom D. It was empty. The three of us went inside. The door swung slowly shut behind us.
“What was all that about?” I asked. “What are you doing, Daddy?”
“I told you not to come, remember? Last night, after looking at the whole thing, I realized that what I want is as quick and quiet a trial as possible,” he said. “If we use all the means of delay Chip says are available, I’ll delay myself right out of the gubernatorial election.”
“Not if you get the case dismissed,” I said. I could hear how whiny I sounded, but I couldn’t help it. The situation seemed to grow more ludicrous by the day.
“But then everyone will say I won by playing technical legal games,” he said. “A dismissal would just give the press and my opponents too much ammunition and increase the chances that the FBI and the Justice Department will look into the murders again, dragging everything out even longer. The whole affair will be never ending. I need-!want-a speedy resolution and a final one.”
“But why not take the jury, then, and be sure of getting off?” I asked. “If a jury acquits, how can anyone complain?”
Chip patted my shoulder. “I think we’re taking a big risk,” he said. “But your father has the final say. I’ve advised him of the risks and benefits of every approach. That’s all I can do.”
“This is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had,” I said.
“No, the smartest,” my father said. “Listen, the government can’t prove I killed anyone because I didn’t; the people will see there’s no truth to the charges. I’m going to win the case, end this bullshit once and for all, and win the election too.”
“Do you think I should admire you for avoiding the easy way out, for holding the government to its burden of proof? I might agree with your approach if you were going to testify, if you’d finally explain all this. Will you?” I asked. I didn’t bother to look at him as I spoke. I figured I knew what his answer would be.
“No,” he said.
I wanted to hit him. “Chip! This is ridiculous!” I said. “Make him listen.”
Chip shrugged. “Once Newell Hagerdom makes up his mind, I don’t know any way to change it. If you do, LuAnn, let me in on the secret.”
“I give up,” I said quietly.
I got up and walked to the doors, where I caught sight of several reporters who’d been watching us through the small glass windows in the doors. When they saw me, they moved quickly out of sight, trying to hide their prying eyes.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
My family traditionally had a Labor Day cookout at Clark Lake with Jolene and her family. Since the arraignment had been less than a week before Labor Day, I’d assumed we’d just skip it this year. I was wrong.
The day was pleasant, with the temperature in the high eighties and low humidity. My father was in a great mood-happy, he said, that the trial would be over soon and everything would be back to normal.
Before Jolene and her family arrived at my parents’, I helped Mother carry out bowls of salads and trays of hot dogs and hamburgers to the picnic table. She didn’t seem at all concerned about the events of the last month or the upcoming trial. All her energy was focused on making the picnic a success, taking care of my sister, and planning for the church bazaar.
On my last trip to the kitchen for mustard and ketchup, I caught sight of Ben walking up the path from the direction of his rental house. He carried his steno pad in one hand and wore his camera around his neck. My father smiled and shook Ben’s hand. Ben looked around, saw me, and waved. I stared at him, then ran inside the house to find out what was going on.
Buck sat at the dining-room table stamping fundraising envelopes for Daddy’s gubernatorial race. Buck’s enthusiasm for the election had waned briefly after the newscast accused Daddy of being involved in the murders and then again after the indictment, but he was still the campaign manager. If he felt any anxiety, he never let on publicly.
“Buck! Why is Ben Gainey here?” I demanded.
Buck stopped writing, but didn’t put down his pen or look at me. “Your father wanted him,” he said.
“I thought he hated him,” I said. “I thought he couldn’t stand to be near him. I thought he wanted to shoot him, for God’s sake.”
“Newell doesn’t like or dislike Ben particularly, but he’s decided that Ben should be with him regularly from now through the trial. His view is that Ben broke the story, and Ben should write the happy ending as well. Besides, Ben will be fairer than any of the other Yankees covering the case. As for why he’s here today, the publicity will be great. You know, with Jolene’s family here. We need some good press.” He counted the number of envelopes in the pile he’d just made.
“I don’t want him here!” I said.
“Go tell your father,” Buck said, smiling. He stood up and patted me on the back, well aware that I wouldn’t say a word to Daddy.
“Fine, but I’m not going to be nice to Ben.”
“You sound just like a four-year-old,” Buck said.
While we were arguing in the house, I heard cars pulling up. I looked out. Jolene, her husband, two daughters, and seven grandchildren (ages one month to fifteen) arrived in the two old cars my father had given them over the years. Only Jolene’s son, Darrell, was missing.
I went out and greeted our guests. Jolene had on shorts and a T-shirt commemorating the family reunion she and her family had attended in the hills of Tennessee the year before, where they’d met hundreds of other members of the Wilson clan.
“Hi. Where’s Darrell?” I asked Jolene.
She frowned. “He couldn’t come,” she said, looking past me toward the shoreline.
“He couldn’t or wouldn’t?” I said.
She didn’t answer.
“Come on,” I urged her. “Just tell me.”
“Don’t you tell your daddy, but Darrell called us Uncle Toms for coming, say we betrayed our rac
e and all this like that. ‘Mr. Newell didn’t do nothing,’ I told him. But he wouldn’t listen. Lordy, I never seen him like that.”
“Don’t worry, Jolene,” I said. “I understand.”
“Don’t say nothing,” she said.
“I won’t. I swear.”
Jolene hugged me. “I wish it’d all be over with.”
“You and me both,” I said.
I had told Jolene about the allegations against my father a few days after I first saw the FBI documents.
I had been in the carport, about to get in my car and return to the restaurant after my afternoon break, when she’d come out carrying Will and Hank.
“I need to tell you something,” she said.
I shut the car door and leaned on it. “I’m all ears.”
Jolene put Hank and Will in the double stroller and as she strapped them in, said, “I be calling Eddie today, tell him you miserable and that he best come back home now.”
“You will not!” I said.
“Watch,” she said. “You been crying for days now, I know it’s bad for you, girl. You try to hide, but I know.”
“It’s not just Eddie, Jolene. I wish it were so simple.”
“What is it? Somebody dying?”
“It’s Daddy.”
“He sick?”
“No. But some people are saying he was involved in something real bad a long time ago.” I paused. Might as well tell her. She’d hear about it from someone sooner or later. “They say he killed Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson.”
“Pooh! Why you take that serious?” Will began to fuss in the stroller, anxious to get on with his walk. Jolene stuck his pacifier in his mouth.
“I can’t help it. It is serious.”
“Bless your heart. You should be worrying more ’bout Eddie than about something like that. People say anything. Don’t matter. Mr. Newell will be just fine. You got your life, your own family now. Take care of what’s yours, baby girl. If you don’t, Jolene’ll take care of it for you.”
“I was worried you’d be mad with Daddy or me when you heard.”
“You know me better than that.”
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