by Jack Ford
After a moment, he smiled at them gently. “Now, come and tell me your story.”
About an hour later, they left the church and walked to Jeff’s car. Butler had listened carefully as Jeff and Ella described Ricky Earl Graves’s story of the murder of Elijah Hall. He had asked just a few questions and, when they had finished, simply nodded his head and said, “Thank you for coming to me.”
Butler offered his hand, first to Ella and then to Jeff. “What will you do now?” he asked both.
“I think it’s time now for me to talk to the district attorney. Try to convince him that Ricky Earl’s telling the truth and that it’s time to go after Tillman Jessup,” Jeff said.
“That, I believe, shall be quite an interesting meeting,” Butler chuckled.
As she started to climb into the car, Ella suddenly stopped. “Just one last thing,” she said to Butler. “We meant to ask you this earlier. Do you, by any chance, remember the songs being sung in your church the night of the murder?”
“Songs?” Butler asked. “Is that important?”
“Could be,” Ella said. “I realize it’s a long time ago but . . .”
“Miss Garrity,” Butler interrupted. “I remember every moment of that night as if it was yesterday. And I’m sure I will until the day I leave this earth. Of course, I remember. We were singing one of my favorites: ‘Ain’t That Good News.’ Haven’t sung that song since,” he mused. “Rather sad, isn’t it? Singing about good news just minutes before a good man would be murdered.”
Ella shot Jeff a glance, and then said to Butler, “Yes. Very sad.”
CHAPTER 15
“So, why this interest in an old murder? You working on a new book?” asked the man sitting at the head of the large, ornately carved conference table.
Gibb Haynes was the district attorney for the Third Circuit Judicial District, an office he’d held for as long as Jeff could remember. Tall and lanky, with his thinning hair slicked back from a face that was all hard angles, he had been born and raised in Oxford and was proud to claim— as he did each time he stood for re-election—that he never saw any good reason to leave his hometown. An Ole Miss grad, from both the college and the law school, he was that most unusual combination, even now in his late sixties, of both a talented prosecutor and a consummate politician. Equal parts “good ol’ boy” and polished campaigner, he had made it his practice, over the years, to personally handle many of the high-profile cases in his office, while also making it his practice to court all of the publicity he could possibly generate. Friends and foes alike joked that Gibb Haynes had never met a reporter or photographer he didn’t like.
Haynes had given Jeff a job as a prosecutor right out of law school and, even though Jeff knew the job had been a favor to his father, he had worked hard and quickly earned the respect of his boss and his colleagues. In short, Jeff liked the old man and admired his honesty and how he ran his office.
Jeff grinned and shook his head. “Nothing as simple as a new book. I wish it was.”
“So then, what?” asked Haynes, a smile on his face but a glint of hard curiosity in his eyes.
“What if—hypothetically speaking—I had a guy who could give you all the details about the murder of Elijah Hall, including the name of the shooter?”
“That was way back in 1960. Anyone still alive to prosecute?” asked Clayton Poole, the sheriff of Lafayette County, a square-shouldered, square-jawed, crew-cut wearing, big block of a man, who was sitting to the right of Haynes.
Jeff shifted his gaze to Poole. He had worked with the sheriff during his time as a prosecutor and respected him. Despite his gruff demeanor, he was a good cop who always played by the rules. Jeff nodded.
“The killer.”
District Attorney Haynes leaned forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “Well then—hypothetically speaking—I’d be very interested. But how does your guy know about this?”
“He was there. Saw it all go down.”
“So he’s an accomplice?”
“Technically, yes. On a felony murder basis. He was there and roughed the victim up, but says he had no idea anyone was going to get shot.”
“Isn’t that what they all say?” Poole said disdainfully.
“Yeah, but this time I happen to believe him.”
“Okay,” said Haynes, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers together. “Let’s say, hypothetically then, that your boy’s telling the truth. Who’s the shooter?”
“Well, that’s where this all gets really interesting.” Jeff paused and looked hard at the district attorney. “Suppose I told you that the killer was Tillman Jessup. Hypothetically.”
Haynes said nothing for a long moment and simply stared at Jeff. Finally, he shook his head slowly. “C’mon, Jeff. You serious?”
“As a heart attack,” Jeff said solemnly.
“Our Tillman Jessup?” Haynes said incredulously. “The next damn governor?”
“One and the same.”
“What the hell? You got to be kiddin’ me, right?”
“I wish I was, Gibb. But my guy seems to be legit. He’s got all the details. I pushed him hard looking for holes, but his story never changes. Even volunteered to take a lie detector.”
“Jesus Christ . . . ,” Haynes muttered, his voice trailing away into silence.
“I know,” Jeff said softly. “That’s what I thought, too.”
Haynes took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Okay, so before we go any further in this hypothetical conversation, who’s your guy and what’s he looking for to tell his story?”
“Name’s Ricky Earl Graves. A big-time loser, lots of convictions, mostly drugs and burglaries. Took what’s essentially a life hit as a multiple offender on an attempted armed robbery of a liquor store.” Jeff shrugged. “Wants a shot at parole so he doesn’t have to die in prison. Maybe do a few more years, then get over the wall.”
“Okay, first question. What’s a lowlife like him doing hanging around with someone like Tillman Jessup? Even forty years ago?” Poole asked.
“Both grew up here in Oxford. Didn’t run with the same crowds back in high school but he says they kind of knew each other from around town.”
“Any other witnesses?” asked Haynes.
“Nope. He says there were two others with them when the murder took place but they’re both dead now.”
“So, no corroboration? Just this guy’s word? Jesus Christ, Jeff. You expect me to try to take down the next governor on a forty-year-old murder charge, based on nothing more than some shitbird swearing that he was there and Jessup did the shooting?” said an exasperated Haynes.
Jeff nodded. “I know it sounds bizarre. But if this guy’s telling the truth—and I think he is—our next governor would be a cold-blooded murderer. You going to let that happen without at least looking into it?”
“Jesus Christ,” Haynes repeated softly, sagging back into his chair. He was quiet for a moment, and then turned to look at Sheriff Poole. “What do you think, Clay?”
Poole looked at Jeff, his eyes narrowed to slits, then grunted. “Hell, sounds like the most damn fool thing I ever heard. But if Jeff here believes this particular shitbird, seems to me it can’t do no harm to at least have a little chat with him.”
Jeff raised both hands palms up and looked first to Poole, then to Haynes. “That’s all I’m asking. Talk with him. Check out his story. Seems to me he’s got some details that only someone who was there would know. Run him on the box to see if he’s telling the truth, if you want. Then decide.”
“Jesus Christ,” Haynes said yet again. “You know what kind of shit storm you could be cranking up?” he asked Jeff. “Damn, Jessup’s the most popular politician we’ve had in Mississippi in a long time.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t wish I never heard of Ricky Earl Graves?” Jeff answered sadly.
Haynes stare
d off into the distance for a while, then looked back at Jeff and sighed deeply. “What the hell. Never been much of a fan of Jessup and don’t owe him a damn thing. We’ll talk to your boy, but no promises.” He turned to Poole. “Clay, let’s us have that little chat with Mr. Ricky Earl Graves. You set it up. Let Jeff know when and where. And let’s bring Terrell Jackson in on this.” Then he turned back to Jeff. “You okay with Terrell runnin’ the investigation?”
Jeff nodded.
“I hope you know what you’re gettin’ yourself into, boy. I’ll be stepping down soon, no matter what, so it don’t matter much to me. But you’re still going to be around for a long time. And if we take on Tillman Jessup but don’t end up taking him down, my guess is he ain’t going to be in a very forgiving mood. Ever.”
CHAPTER 16
The only light in the darkened room came from a log fire crackling in the cavernous stone fireplace. A man sat quietly in an old, deeply creased leather armchair, the firelight flickering and dancing around him. At first, he seemed not to hear the ringing of a cell phone sitting on the small table next to his chair. Then, he slowly placed the empty glass in his hand on the table, next to a nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam bourbon, and reached for the phone.
“Yeah,” he rasped, his whiskey-soaked, cigarette-stoked voice bearing witness to nearly eighty years of hard drinking and hard living.
“Heard from a few friends that some people been askin’ ’bout you,” said the voice on the other end.
The old man grunted. “What kind of people?”
“The kind of people you ain’t gonna want to talk to.”
“Like who?”
“Like a newspaper reporter and some professor from Ole Miss.”
“What’re they lookin’ for me for?”
“Don’t know. All’s I know is that they been asking around. Wonderin’ if anybody knows where they can find you.”
A. J. Hollingsly sat silently for a moment, contemplating the news. He had spent the last fifteen years of his life holed up in this log cabin tucked in the hill country of northeast Mississippi, avoiding the searching spotlight of an inquisitive few—mostly journalists—seeking to plumb the depths of one of the last of the old-time segregationist crusaders. Protected by a small but rabid network of like-minded friends, he usually managed to discourage any attempts at engaging him in conversation. Most times, a simple warning attached to a stern “no thanks” was enough. But sometimes that simple warning wasn’t quite sufficient to dampen the curiosity of those seeking to find him. In those cases, a more pronounced form of discouragement was required. After that, none had continued to search.
He sighed heavily. “Why don’t you tell some of the boys to let ’em know that I ain’t interested in having no conversations with them. Not now or never. Just a little bit of persuadin’, mind you. Don’t wanna create no problems if we don’t have to. But make sure they get the message loud and clear.”
“I’ll get it done.”
“Good,” Hollingsly said, ending the call and flipping the phone back onto the table. “Damn,” he muttered, reaching for the bottle of Jim Beam.
CHAPTER 17
“This is where the body was found,” said Jeff.
Forty years later, there was no evidence that the drainage ditch alongside the narrow, winding county road had been the scene of a brutal murder. No plaque marked the site to educate any curious passersby. No flowers from friends or relatives reminded travelers that this quiet, pastoral vista once witnessed the vicious shotgun execution of a young man whose only crime had been trying to help others.
Jeff and Ella stood silently beside the ditch, each contemplating the night of the murder. After reviewing the police report of the shooting death—which, they were dismayed to find, consisted of barely two typewritten pages—they had decided to visit the scene themselves. Although they clearly never expected that their visit would yield any clues to the killing, they both shared some emotional need to stand on the spot where Elijah Hall’s life had been cruelly extinguished.
After a moment, Jeff glanced around.
“Must’ve been awfully dark,” he murmured.
“What?” asked Ella, who had been lost in her own thoughts.
Jeff turned toward her. “It must’ve been awfully dark out here that night. No streetlights, hardly any houses around—even now.” He paused. “I wonder if he knew,” he said softly.
“Knew what?” Ella asked.
“Knew that he was going to die. When they pulled him over, did he know that his life was about to end?”
Ella didn’t answer.
Suddenly, they both noticed a car racing down the road toward them. The dark sedan skidded to a gravel-spewing stop just a few feet in front of them. The driver’s door flew open and a mountainous, dark-suited black man sprang from the car. Shaved head shining in the afternoon sun, a scowl creased his square face.
“Who the hell taught you how to drive?” Jeff yelled.
“Shit,” the man growled. “Even with my damn eyes shut, I’m a better driver than you.”
Ella looked from one man to the other, puzzled. She felt a shred of fear creeping in, wondering who the big man was, and where this confrontation was heading.
The men stared at each other for a moment and then Jeff’s face lit up in a smile.
“How you been, Terrell?”
“Been pretty good, Jeff. How ’bout you?” the big man said, his voice a deep, syrupy drawl, as he wrapped Jeff in a smothering hug.
“Been okay,” Jeff managed to gasp as he freed himself from the big man’s grasp.
“Man, I’m not so sure you gonna be okay for long if you really plan on tryin’ to take down the next governor. What the hell you thinkin’ ’bout, boy? Didn’t I teach you better after all these years?”
Jeff shrugged. “So, how much do you know about all this?”
The big man stepped back and looked at Ella. “Man, ain’t you got no manners? When you gonna introduce me to this pretty young lady?”
“Sorry,” Jeff said somewhat sheepishly. “Ella Garrity, Terrell Jackson. Ella writes for the New York Times. Terrell and I go back a ways,” he said, nodding toward Jackson.
“It is a pleasure, Miss Garrity,” Jackson said, the down-home drawl suddenly replaced by a proper, professional delivery worthy of an accomplished thespian.
“Nice to meet you,” Ella said, her hand disappearing inside the big man’s grip as they shook hands. “So just how far back do you two go?”
“Shit, we known each other since we was babies,” Jackson said, shifting back into his street mien. “And I was the one made him famous back in high school. Without me throwin’ all those blocks for him, his skinny little white ass would’ve never made it into the end zone all those times.”
Jeff chuckled. “Can’t remember a time I didn’t know this guy,” he said to Ella. “Although there were some times growing up that I wish I hadn’t known him.”
“Now, now, Counselor. Some things are better off not bein’ mentioned again. Plus, I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations has run on all that old shit, anyway.”
“Be careful,” Ella smiled at Jackson. “I’m a reporter. And we don’t pay much attention to those legal niceties. Especially if it’s a good story.”
“What have I told you about talking to reporters?” Jeff said to Jackson.
“Yeah, I know,” Jackson drawled. “But that don’t apply to the pretty ones. Especially if they’re on your side. Right, Miss Garrity?”
“Right, Terrell. And it’s Ella. Especially if I’m on your side,” she answered playfully.
“I’m likin’ this girl already,” Jackson laughed.
“Speaking of being on our side,” Jeff said, his tone now serious, “just how much did the sheriff tell you about all this?” Jeff said.
“Well,” Jackson said, matching Jeff’s tone. “He told me enough to know we�
�re playin’ with fire and probably gonna get good an’ burned.”
“You sure you’re okay with that? I don’t want to get you into something that might hurt your career.”
“Shit, man. I’m a cop. If Tillman Jessup—or anybody, for that matter—killed someone, he should go down for it. Don’t matter who he is or who he killed. It’s the right thing to do. And,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, “this could end up being the biggest case of my career. Even if it ends it.”
“Okay, then. Glad you’re in this with us,” Jeff said. “Always nice to know somebody you can trust has your back.”
“Same as always,” Jackson grinned.
“I feel like I’m in a scene from Lethal Weapon and you guys are doing your best Mel Gibson and Danny Glover impersonations,” Ella said, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, now that we’ve got all that settled, where do we go from here?”
“I’m backtracking on the original investigation—if you can call it that—to see if there’s anyone still around who could help,” Jackson said. “Not much luck so far. The two guys from the Highway Patrol who found the body and wrote up the report been dead for a while. Planning on talkin’ to Reverend Butler while I’m out this way.”
“We talked to him the other day,” Ella said.
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Any help?”
“Afraid not,” Ella answered. “At least, not in the sense that he knew anything more than we do about how it happened or who might have been involved.”
“But he can offer some details that only someone who was there that night would know,” Jeff added.
Jackson nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I guess that’s better than nothin’.”
“There is something else. It’s a long shot, but worth trying,” said Ella, looking at Jeff.
“What’s that?” asked Jackson.
“Long shot’s probably an understatement,” Jeff answered. “Ricky Earl—my client—claims that he was visited by an investigator for the Mississippi Sovereignty Commission after the killing. Says the guy already knew all the details of the murder, including who was involved.”