During the Labor Day cookout, I sat on a blanket in a clearing inside a circle of pine trees. I picked at my hamburger, coleslaw, and potato salad, watched the children, and tried to ignore Ben. Will was sitting up next to me with a pillow wedged behind him. Occasionally he fell over without warning, but it didn’t seem to faze him. Hank was inching across the blanket, first by putting his head down and his bottom up, then putting his bottom down and his head up, like a see-saw.
Will toppled over. I reached down to prop him back up and stopped short when our eyes met. Both of the boys’ eyes, blue at birth, had only recently settled into a gray that was clearly Eddie’s. It was spooky. Even when I managed to forget about Eddie for a few minutes, one look at either twin’s eyes brought his image back to mind. I missed Eddie terribly, more as every day passed, yet I refused his calls and made sure I missed his visits out of a combination of guilt, embarrassment, and anger.
Jessie played tag with some of Jolene’s grandchildren in the yard and the nearby woods. I was surprised and happy to see that she was enjoying herself so much. That morning she’d had a horrible temper tantrum, threatening never to go anywhere with me again. She wanted her daddy, she cried. I’d held her tight and rocked her in my rocking chair, fighting my own tears, until she calmed down, a scene we’d repeated several times since Eddie left.
If only Jessie’s magic wand could turn back the clock to April, I would refuse Daddy’s Steak House offer on the spot and stop the chain of events that had brought us to this point.
“How are you?” Ben asked, looming over me and the boys.
I ignored him.
He sat down.
“Why are you here?” I asked in a tired voice.
“I was invited,” he said.
“But you knew I’d be here. You shouldn’t have come. It’s not fair to me.”
“Of course I knew you’d be here. That’s one reason I came. Look at your father. He’s having a great time cooking with Jolene’s husband and playing with the kids. You, on the other hand, are the most anxious person I’ve seen in a long time. You need to stop this one-woman crusade for your own good.”
“Any other criticism you’d like to make about me?”
“I’d hoped you’d stopped blaming me by now,” he said. He sneezed twice and I handed him a Kleenex from the diaper bag.
“You’ve been working hard on ruining my father’s reputation and my life and I should thank you?” I asked.
“I’ve been working on a story, that’s all.”
“Same thing.”
He stood up. “I give up, LuAnn. If you decide you’re going to act like an adult, let me know.” He turned to walk away, then stopped. “Did you hear about your memorial?” he asked.
“What about it?”
“Someone painted it red. I’m afraid it’s a mess.” He sneezed again and walked toward the lake.
After lunch, Jessie and the older kids waited on the dock for their turns riding around the lake in Daddy’s motor boat while the rest of us cleaned up.
“What do you think of Daddy’s trial plan?” I asked Mother when we met at the trashcan, where we scraped food off the plastic picnic dishes.
“I guess it’s a reasonable approach, under the circumstances,” she said. “We’ll have to see.”
“Is Jane going to testify at the trial?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, Mother, you must know. Y’all talk every day. Has Junior said anything about her testifying?”
“I don’t want to get into it today,” Mother said. “It’s been such a fine day so far. Can we just take a break from the soap opera of Newell’s trial?” She walked away and began to pick up more dirty dishes.
I followed. “I’m worried, Mother.”
“Don’t be. Your father always takes care of himself You should be more attentive to yourself, and to your husband and children, and stop worrying about him.”
“You sound like Jolene,” I said.
“Maybe you’ll listen to one of us. Have you seen Eddie lately?” she asked.
“No.”
“He says he’s tried to talk to you several times. He’s very concerned about you. He’d like to talk.”
“I didn’t know the two of you were so close,” I said. “When do you talk about me behind my back?” I asked.
“That’s not fair,” Mother said, frowning. “I’m worried about my grandchildren and my daughter. I have a right and a duty to help. You seem to be consumed with your father’s trial, about which you can do nothing, while your life and your family are falling apart.”
“Eddie and I have nothing to talk about. Is Jane going to testify or not?” I persisted.
“If she has to, she will, yes.”
“What’s she got to say that’s so important that Junior has to put a daughter on the stand to testify against her own father? The FBI can testify about everything she knows.”
“Not all of it,” Mother said.
“What do you mean? What else is there?” I asked, not so sure that I wanted to know the answer to my question.
“Can we please talk after our guests leave?”
“Just tell me now, for God’s sake, Mother. Or I’ll go get Jane to tell me.”
“I wish you wouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Your sister just went home to lie down and she doesn’t need you bothering her. Her blood pressure’s off the charts,” Mother said grimly. She put down the stack of plates she’d just collected. “Let’s go inside.”
We entered through the back door and sat down in the living room. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “I want you to stay calm while I tell you this, please,” she said. “The night of the murders Newell woke Jane up from a nap and asked her to keep an eye on you. I was away. He told her he was going to patrol the road Jimmy and Leon were scheduled to use, to make sure they’d be safe because there had been some threats against them. He came home in the middle of the night. The next day he told her he’d been detoured by a bar brawl, that he’d been too late, and when he got there they were dead.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“None of it’s true, that’s what. Bev Carter was at the bar brawl. Your father wasn’t.” She reached for the cross she wore on a gold chain around her neck and rubbed it with her thumb.
“Jane doesn’t have to testify! She could refuse. I would.”
“And go to jail?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought. You know, dear, you could support your father without giving up everything else. It’s not a war.”
“It is a war, and Jane’s a traitor and a liar.”
“Oh, LuAnn. Why don’t you believe Jane? She has no reason to lie.”
“She hated Daddy then, she told me. I think she still does. She wants to hurt him. Does he know? Does he know what his own child is going to testify to?”
Mother shrugged. She put her glasses back on and looked at me curiously.
I jumped up, hurried out of the house, and ran down the hill to the dock. When Daddy docked the boat and several of Jolene’s grandchildren got off, I rushed on.
“It’s our turn, Mom,” Jessie whined on behalf of herself and the other children waiting their turn.
“I need to talk to your grandfather, Jes. We’ll be right back.” I pushed the boat away from the dock with my foot, then restarted the motor. I was shaking my head in dismay as I approached my father.
“You look a little upset,” he said.
“Do you know what Jane says happened, what she said to the grand jury?” I yelled over the sound of the motor.
“What did you hear?”
I told him. He just smiled.
“Daddy! You have to tell her not to testify.”
“That wouldn’t be a real smart thing to do. If anyone found out I’d have another scandal on my hands. She’ll change her mind, though,” he said. “She’ll never testify at trial against me. Never.” He smiled confidentl
y.
I wished I could share in his faith.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
By the first day of my father’s trial, I’d managed to alienate just about everyone I loved. I had trouble believing that Jane wouldn’t testify, and in my self-appointed job as Daddy’s protector had rushed to her house after the Labor Day picnic and accused her of lying to the grand jury. I’d tried to convince Jane not to testify, sure that anything she had to say was not true, only to upset her so much that Buck ushered me out the door.
Mother, furious when she heard I’d argued with Jane, who was under doctor’s orders to control her blood pressure, told me she’d given up on me. “I hope,” Mother said, “that we’ll be able to make amends after the trial. But I must admit it won’t be easy. You’re making this so much harder than it needs to be, LuAnn.” So the first day of the trial, I wasn’t surprised to find Mother, Buck, Jane, Eddie, and Barbara Cox all seated on the prosecutor’s side of the courtroom. Maybe I was reading too much into the seating arrangement, but I didn’t think so.
The trial began on a Thursday. Because there would be no jury to pick, no jury to posture and argue to, Chip and Junior thought the proceeding would last only three days.
“Will Bobby Lee decide the case Monday afternoon as soon as the trial is over?” I had asked Chip one day over coffee at the Steak House with him and my father.
“Unlikely,” Chip said. “Judge McNabb will avoid issuing an opinion while the courtroom is full of so many fanatics, and he may need to do some research of his own and write something up. Unless he dismisses the charges after Junior’s case.”
“That’s my plan,” Daddy said.
“Don’t count on it,” Chip said. “After the government’s case, I’ll make a motion for judgment of acquittal-an MJOA it’s called. That’s a hard motion to win, though.”
“If the judge doesn’t dismiss the indictment and your client still stubbornly refuses to testify, what can you do for the defense part of the case?” I asked.
“We’ve got character witnesses. That’s about it. But who knows?” Chip said. “Maybe you’ll change your mind, Newell. Maybe when the time comes you’ll take the stand and let us all in on whatever it is you aren’t telling.”
“Don’t count on it,” my father said.
Not long after I took my seat in Courtroom G that first day, Bobby Lee McNabb entered through a door in the back of the courtroom wearing his judge’s robe.
The bailiff, John Barrett, called the courtroom to order: “All rise for the Honorable Judge McNabb.”
Because I’d known Bobby Lee McNabb all my life, I had trouble thinking of him as “The Honorable” anything. I knew him when he was bald. I watched his slow transformation when he got hair transplants. I knew his daughter, Miriam, the class slut when we were in junior high school; she was plagued by an even larger beak nose than her father’s. I knew Bobby Lee went to AA meetings in Cullman. I knew his olive skin was darker than usual on the day the trial began because he had been to a conference in Bermuda a week earlier. I knew all that, and more, but the information didn’t give me a clue as to what Bobby Lee McNabb’s verdict would be.
In contrast to his style at the arraignment, Judge McNabb called Junior “Mr. Fuller” and Chip “Mr. Tuckahoe” once the trial began. After several negative press comments about the familiarity of all the parties at that first court session, Judge McNabb met in his chambers with Junior and Chip and told them that he would conduct the trial with a little more formality. There would be no first names used-and, he added as they were leaving, he didn’t want to hear any lawyer or witness using the word “nigger.”
After a few preliminaries, Judge McNabb asked that Junior call the prosecution witnesses together to be sworn.
The witnesses for the State came forward. My sister, Jane, six months pregnant, pale, puffy, and at least fifty pounds heavier than her prepregnancy weight, stood and joined six men in front of Judge McNabb.
The group took the oath to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.
“You must wait in the witness room until the bailiff comes to get you,” Judge McNabb explained to the seven prosecution witnesses. “You may not communicate with each other or anyone other than the attorneys in the case regarding your testimony until all witnesses are released. Follow Mr. Barrett, the bailiff, to the witness room,” he directed.
The seven witnesses turned and followed John Barrett out of the courtroom.
Junior’s first witness was the coroner, Phil Vogel. Phil was close to retirement age, almost sixty-five. He and my father were not friends. They weren’t really enemies either, but they’d never gotten along. Phil was a deacon in the Southern Baptist Church who on more than one occasion had lectured my father about committing his life to Christ. Phil wore a large cross tie tack, and his white hair was slicked back with Vitalis. His hands and head shook from the Parkinson’s disease he’d had for a few years.
“Please state your full name,” Junior said. Junior had never been able to keep still, and he walked back and forth in front of Phil as he questioned him, his hands clasped behind his back most of the time. Junior’s deep voice resonated throughout the room.
“Philip Cable Vogel.”
“Your address?”
“Box 67, Route 9, Tallagumsa.”
“What is your line of work?”
“I’m the county coroner,” Vogel said.
“How long have you held that position?”
“Sixteen years,” Vogel answered. “Before that I was the deputy coroner for twenty years.”
“What are your responsibilities as county coroner?”
“I am required to ascertain the cause of death for anyone who dies in this county.” As he talked he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together over and over. I had trouble taking my eyes off his hands.
“How do you determine cause of death?” Junior asked.
“Depends on the circumstances.”
“Well, Mr. Vogel, let’s say I was walking down the road and I came upon a dead body somewhere in the county. After I let you know, what would you do in such a case? What would be your routine?”
“I would go to the scene and try to figure out the cause of death, like I said. I’d look at the bodies, take pictures, study the area. If I can’t tell by just looking, then Dr. Stuart would do an external exam or if necessary an autopsy and report his findings in writing to me.”
“What would happen next?”
“I’d take statements from any witnesses, and if it looks like the cause of death was some unlawful means or other I’d summon a panel of six jurors and they’d look into the cause of death.”
“And that’s called?”
“An inquest.”
“How does the jury proceed with an inquest?”
“They subpoena witnesses, take testimony, and decide whether or not the victim died naturally. If not, they render a verdict on who they think killed him and how. Then I can issue an arrest warrant for that person.”
“Were you coroner on August 27, 1963?” Junior asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you have occasion to investigate two deaths that night?”
“Yes.”
“How did you learn of the deaths?”
“The sheriff”
“Who was the sheriff then?”
“Mayor Hagerdorn.”
“The defendant?” Junior asked.
“Yes,” Vogel answered. “He called me at home and told me I better get out there, about six miles after the turn-off onto Old Highway 49, and take a look.”
“Did you go?”
“Yes. I drove over there. A car was all smashed up against a pine tree. One of the dead boys was in the car, slumped over the steering wheel. The other was on the ground, about twenty yards away, sprawled on his stomach.”
“What were the names of the dead men?”
“Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson.”
“Could you ascertain from looking at them what the causes of death w
ere?”
“Yep. From looking and because the sheriff showed me some of the shells he’d found around the car. Shotgun. Blew off Leon Johnson’s face. Jimmy Turnbow left the car alive. He got shot and died right where I found him.” Vogel shook his hand very hard, as if it had fallen asleep. The finger rubbing abated.
“How do you know that Jimmy Turnbow wasn’t shot in the car and then died where you found him?” Junior asked.
“No blood in the car other than Johnson’s, the one driving, and none trailing from the car to where Mr. Turnbow was found lying on the ground. There would have been some if he’d got shot in the car, there would have been some on the ground too. There was plenty where we found him.”
A soft moan, then crying came from the other side of the courtroom.
“Who else was at the scene, Mr. Vogel?” Junior asked.
“The sheriff, three deputies, an ambulance,” Phil Vogel answered.
“What were the names of the deputies?”
“Bev Carter, the sheriff now, he was one of them. I don’t remember who the other two were.”
“What were they doing?”
“The deputies and the sheriff were walking around, looking all over the ground and in the car for evidence, and the ambulance was waiting for me to take a look so they could take the bodies away.”
“Did you form an opinion as to whether Mr. Turnbow and Mr. Johnson met their deaths as a result of unlawful means?”
“Yes. They did.”
“Did you take any statements in connection with your investigation?”
“No.”
“Did you issue a report?”
“No.”
“Did you ever convene a jury?”
“No.”
“Did you arrest anyone for the crime?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you say those were things you would normally do in the course of your duties as county coroner if you believed a death was by unlawful means?”
“Yes.”
“Why weren’t they done in this case, Mr. Vogel?”
“The sheriff told me not to worry with it.”
“Sheriff Hagerdorn?”
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