The Secrets on Chicory Lane

by Raymond Benson

  Crane replied, “Your Honor, I’m attempting to establish that a traumatic event in the defendant’s childhood has bearing on who he is today.”

  The judge pursed his mouth and then said, “I’ll allow it. Please continue.”

  Baxter proceeded to tell the story. “On the night of July 4, 1966, my partner, the late Detective Blake Donner—he was my superior officer at the time—and I were called to the home of the Truman family. They were a couple in their late thirties with a daughter about to enter her teens. They’d recently brought a baby boy into the family. He was two months old in July. Unfortunately, he disappeared from his crib while the family was in the backyard watching fireworks. In the course of the investigation, we interviewed everyone on the street, including Eddie—uh, Mr. Newcott. He lived directly across the street and was known to the Truman family. He was never a suspect, of course, but we felt he was an important witness. As I said, he was eleven at the time.”

  “I see. And was the crime solved?”

  “Yes, an arrest was made.”

  “Please tell us about that, Mr. Baxter.”

  The former detective sighed and continued. “His name was Gordon Alpine, a man who lived a few doors down from the Truman family on the same block. Some of you may remember he was the brother of Limite’s mayor at the time. We got … we, uh, we received a tip that he might be a person of interest. Based on the serious nature of the crime, we were able to get a search warrant for Mr. Alpine’s property.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “Evidence that Mr. Alpine was responsible for the abduction.”

  “You recovered the body of the child?”

  “Uh, no. The body was never found. However, we uncovered physical evidence in Mr. Alpine’s home that the child had been there.”

  “But that’s not all you found.”

  “No. We found some other very disturbing material.”

  “Can you please tell the jury what that was?”

  Baxter sighed again. “Mr. Alpine possessed photographic equipment and a cache of child pornography.” There was an audible gasp from some of the jurors. I may have emitted one as well. This was news to me.

  Crane shook his head. “Are you talking about photographs? Movies?”

  “Both. Back then, we didn’t have computers, you know, so that kind of stuff was all tangible, physical material. Photographs, homemade movies. Mr. Alpine apparently belonged to a ring of pedophiles that traded this material through the mail.”

  Shamrock stood again. “Your Honor, this is all very shocking and salacious, but what does it have to do with the defendant?”

  Crane replied, “I’m getting to that, Your Honor.”

  The judge nodded, intrigued. “Proceed.”

  “Please continue, Mr. Baxter.”

  “Well, we arrested Mr. Alpine and locked him in the county jail. The next day, he confessed to abducting the child. He refused to say where the body was hidden, and that maybe he’d tell us next time we talked. But two nights later he managed to hang himself in his cell. He never went to trial. However, over the next few days we were able to examine all of his material and trace some of the other members of the ring. They were scattered all over the country, so the FBI stepped in. Arrests were made, contraband was confiscated, and the ring was successfully closed.”

  “Well, that’s good news. But tell us, how does this involve the defendant?”

  Baxter shook his head. “Among the hundreds of photographs and reels of film footage we found of children in Mr. Alpine’s collection—and in the collections held by other members of the ring—were images of young Mr. Newcott.”

  I felt a spear penetrate my heart. Oh my God, I thought. I wanted to scream. My heart began to palpitate.

  “Can you be more specific about what the pictures portrayed?”

  “The boy was photographed solo and also with Mr. Alpine performing sexual acts.”

  Crane paused to let this news hover over the courtroom. Dead silence. Finally he asked, “And did you determine how long young Mr. Newcott had been abused in this way?”

  “Yes, we did. It had been going on for three years, since the boy was eight years old.” Another pause and more shocked stillness. I wanted to bolt from my seat, run from the courtroom, and scream in the hallway, but I remained frozen in my seat, riveted by the revelations unfolding in front of me.

  Crane: “Can you tell us what happened to the defendant next?”

  “Well,” Baxter said, “as I said, we had questioned the boy during the investigation. We took him to the police station and questioned him all day. About Mr. Alpine and his relationship with him. Eddie was very frightened. But I believe he was more afraid of his father than of us.”

  “His father? Could you elaborate?”

  “It was my personal opinion that his father was possibly guilty of domestic violence. To his son—and to his wife.”

  “How would you know this?”

  “It was only a perception. I had no proof. I was still a fairly young man then, but I had seen enough domestic violence in the previous decade to be able to recognize certain signs. I believed that Mr. Newcott’s father was physically and emotionally abusive to his son. I reported my thoughts to Social Services.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Nothing. After we revealed what we found to the defendant’s parents, Mr. Newcott’s father sent the boy away to a psychiatric hospital for a year.”

  “A psychiatric hospital? Why?”

  “The elder Mr. Newcott thought that his son was a ‘pervert,’ a homosexual, or that he would grow up to be one. That, of course, wasn’t true—he was a victim. What happened to him wasn’t going to ‘make him gay,’ but his father didn’t believe that. So Eddie was sent to an institution in Wichita Falls where the poor boy underwent shock therapy and other inhumane treatments. He continued his school work as a patient. I believe he was more of a prisoner. The elder Mr. Newcott had some extreme views about the situation. In those days, homosexuality wasn’t understood like it is today. It was thought that homosexuality could be ‘cured’ or ‘prevented.’ Eddie—young Mr. Newcott—went through a nightmare at the behest of his father.”

  It was all coming to light. So that’s where Eddie had been when he vanished for a year—he’d spent his sixth grade being a lab rat for sadistic doctors. No wonder he hated his father. No wonder Eddie had killed him. Christ, I didn’t blame him. I didn’t blame him at all.

  “Mr. Baxter, in your professional opinion, how do you think young Eddie became a victim of this Mr. Alpine?”

  “It was the opinion of Social Services—and me, too—that Eddie had such an abusive and unloving situation at his own home that he was vulnerable and primed to be a victim. Mr. Alpine was kind to him. The man gave the boy presents. The man showed him affection. Before Eddie was old enough to know better, he probably thought that the kind of attention he got from Mr. Alpine was better than what he received at home.”

  The courtroom remained hushed.

  “Mr. Baxter, it was well known at the time that Mr. Alpine confessed to abducting the Truman child and committed suicide in his cell. Why were the revelations about the child pornography kept from the public?”

  “That part of the case was suppressed. People with higher pay grades than mine made the decisions. Let’s just say that the late Mayor Alpine did some negotiating with the Chief of Police and Detective Donner. The mayor’s brother was already going down for kidnapping and murder. He didn’t want his brother’s name tarnished any more than it was. We were sworn to secrecy. They’re all dead now, so I figured it was time to tell it.”

  Everyone in the courtroom started murmuring. Some of the reporters ran out of the room to make the scoop with their media outlet. I sat there, dumbfounded, my stomach in knots.

  The judge banged the gavel and called for order. After the room quieted down, Crane continued. “Mr. Baxter, you stated earlier that you kept in touch with the defendant through the eighties. Why?”
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  “I felt sorry for him. I hoped he might look up to me as a kinder male authority figure than what he was used to, so I checked in on him every now and then to see how he was doing. He was responsive to me, for a while, anyway.”

  “Then what?”

  “Once he grew up, went into the army, and returned, he was a changed man. He avoided talking to me. But we saw each other in town every once in a while. It was friendly, a ‘Hello, how are you’ kind of thing.”

  “Isn’t it true that the defendant witnessed the death of his own father?”

  “That’s correct. The elder Mr. Newcott was in a drilling accident and fell from the top of an oil rig. This was after the defendant had returned from Vietnam and was working for his father in the oil fields.”

  “And are you aware of the activities the defendant became involved with in the last decade?”

  “Yes.”

  “And may I ask your opinion of the way the defendant has become something of a public figure in Limite? The Satanism. The black house.”

  Baxter shook his head. “He’s a very disturbed individual.”

  “Mr. Baxter, do you believe the sexual abuse and physical abuse the defendant suffered as a child had an impact on his emotional and mental growth?”

  “How could it not?”

  Shamrock stood and objected, stating that the witness was not an expert in psychiatry. The judge rubbed his chin and, shockingly, sustained. But the jury had heard the opinion, and I couldn’t see how any reasonable person in the courtroom could argue with it.

  “Thank you, Mr. Baxter,” Crane said, and then nodded to Shamrock. “Your witness.”

  “No questions.”

  The former detective stepped down and left the courtroom. The judge called for a recess. I remained in my seat, stunned. As other spectators left the room, I watched Eddie. For the first time since the trial began, he turned and looked at me.

  The sadness—the damage—in his eyes was heartbreaking.

  25

  Crane did the best he could with his closing argument. He said the defense wasn’t denying that Eddie had killed Dora Walton and her unborn child. The issue was whether or not the defendant knew what he was doing—whether he was “insane” or not. The jury had heard testimony that Eddie was diagnosed with depression and a severe anxiety disorder, and that he had gone off his meds. They heard how he had been abused as a child, not only by his sadistic father but by a pedophilic neighbor. Was it any wonder that Eddie would grow up to have “unusual” views about the world, hence, his interest in Satanism? All of this contributed to the commitment of the crime. Crane asked the jury to “do the right thing” and find the defendant not guilty by reason of insanity.

  Prosecutor Shamrock went into his closing argument with guns blazing. He reiterated the grotesque and salacious physical description of the crime itself. He hammered home how Eddie was a “devil-worshipping Satanist” who performed blasphemous rituals in his home located in the otherwise “clean, respectable neighborhood” of Limite. Shamrock refuted the defense’s claims of insanity by illustrating how Eddie had planned the murder in advance—the procurement of Rohypnol, the grinding of the pills, and the spiking of the drink. It was “willful and premeditated with malice aforethought,” and thus first degree murder. The word “heinous” was used a lot.

  “Don’t let the blank look on the defendant’s face fool you,” Shamrock said. “The defendant knew very well what he was doing that night. He committed murder in the name of the devil. It is your duty to find him guilty.”

  But was it capital murder—deserving of the death penalty? Technically, the crime didn’t meet the conditions of capital murder. “Crimes of passion”—usually domestic-oriented violence—were not considered capital murder. However, Eddie’s offense lay in a gray area because he had taken the life of an unborn child along with his conjugal partner.

  When I left the courtroom to wait for the verdict, I already knew the outcome. You could feel it in the air. The presence of the Rohypnol at the crime scene sealed Eddie’s fate.

  It was very depressing, and I didn’t want to stay. I felt as if I’d done my duty and supported Eddie throughout the trial, but I had no desire to sit there and watch him be found guilty. I went back to my father’s apartment, called the attorney handling his estate, and left all the loose ends in his capable hands. He would sell the car and the apartment, and settle outstanding issues without my presence. I returned to Chicago.

  The flight home was uneventful, but my townhouse in the city seemed very foreign to me when I walked in the door. I was a bit shell-shocked. It was good to see Billy, who had dutifully held down the fort in my absence.

  “Are you all right, Shelby?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “You’ve heard, then?”

  “Heard what?”

  “The verdict?”

  “Oh. No, I haven’t.”

  “It was just announced on the news. The jury must have come back while you were in the air.”

  “And?”

  “Guilty on all counts.”

  I nodded. “I thought that would be the case.”

  “He stood and cursed the jury.”

  “What?”

  “He pointed at them and told them that Satan would take them all to hell. Caused quite a furor. The bailiffs had to drag him out. He went nuts in the courtroom.”

  “Oh my God. Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Christ.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I am too.”

  That was all we could say. I went on with my life and work and did my best to forget about Eddie. The penalty phase came a little later; I couldn’t help but pay attention. I offered to be a character witness, but Mr. Crane told me that Eddie rejected my offer. Admittedly, I was surprised he received the death penalty. I thought that surely the judge would have a little sense and compassion to see that Eddie was a sick man. But it wasn’t to be. I phoned Mr. Crane’s office, and we spoke for a short time. He said there would be appeals and that nothing was set in stone. It would be a long process.

  That was 2006, and it is now 2015. Eddie has given up and told his lawyer to stop the appeal process and let him die. Crane didn’t stop, though. He filed the appeals on his client’s behalf anyway. Several advocacy groups got into the act to protest the death penalty and, specifically, Eddie’s case. I donated money to the National Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty—NCADP. When they figured out who I was, the organization asked if I would officially endorse them with my name. Two years ago, I did so.

  Nothing worked. And now the appeals have run their course. Unless the governor steps in at the last minute—and there is no reason to think he will—Eddie will receive the lethal injection in a little over forty-eight hours.

  The sun is rising on Livingston, Texas. I didn’t sleep a wink in my little room at the Best Western hotel. What the hell. I get up, shower, dress in a conservative blue pantsuit, and go downstairs for the free continental breakfast. And coffee, loads of coffee.

  I hop in my rental car and follow the directions Crane gave me—onto Highway 190, and then, shortly after leaving Livingston city limits, a left turn onto Route 350 to the prison. I’d read a little about the Polunsky Unit before traveling to Texas. It sits on the eastern shore of Lake Livingston, which happens to be a man-made body of water. On the other side of the lake, a little bit inland, is Huntsville, the location of another maximum security prison where the actual execution takes place, from what I understand. Death row, however, is located only at Polunsky. The prisoner remains there, alone and isolated, until the day of his execution, when he is transported to Huntsville. Normally, an inmate at Polunsky can have one regular or special visit each week, unless they are a “level one” prisoner—someone who is in trouble for some infraction of the rules. At each visit, up to two adults (children are an exception) can visit, providing they are on the inmate’s approved visitor list. A regular visit lasts two hours, whi
le a “special visit” consists of up to four hours and can be on contiguous days. These are reserved for visitors traveling more than 250 miles to the prison, like me. Death row inmates are allowed only one special visit per month. During the week the execution is scheduled, the inmate is allowed two full days of visits, then four hours on the morning of it. Up to ten people on the approved list can visit then, but that is a moot point in Eddie’s case. I’m the only person, other than Mr. Crane, on his approved list.

  I come to the turnoff into the prison grounds, pull in, and approach a checkpoint gate. A corrections officer asks me what my business is. He asks to see my ID and tells me to step out of the car. Crane had warned me that the guard might want to look in the trunk or under the hood, but all he does is glance at the inside of the car.

  “It’s a rental,” I tell him.

  He nods and asks me for the name and number of the prisoner. I sign his form, get back in the car, and drive to the visitor parking lot. On Crane’s advice, I’ve brought along a baggie full of quarters. I leave my cell phone in the car, along with my purse, and carry only the car keys, change, and my ID into the facility.

  The butterflies in my stomach are going berserk. I am scared. The foreboding appearance of the buildings that make up Polunsky would send shivers down anyone’s spine. I have no doubt that I am about to glimpse into hell. The place emanates a powerfully cold, oppressive vibe. It’s a world of pain, fear, and despair. I can almost hear the voices warning me: Stay away. Do not enter. Abandon all hope.

  Inside the entrance, I walk through an x-ray metal detector, like the one at the airport. I have to place my belongings in a tray on the belt and also receive a pat down by a female corrections officer. She asks if I have a cell phone, dollar bills, or weapons, and I’m glad I anticipated that.

  Mr. Crane is sitting in the reception area when I walk in. He stands and shakes my hand. “Hi, Shelby. How are you this morning?”

  “Awful. I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

  “I’m sorry. Yeah, the prospect of a visit here can do that to people.”