The Walls of Jericho

by Jack Ford

  After more than two hours of questioning, Haynes tossed his pen onto the conference table and turned his attention away from Ricky Earl and toward Jeff.

  “I think we’ve heard all we need from Mr. Graves. I’m going to send him back to the jail while we all talk a bit,” Haynes said, pressing a button on his phone console which immediately brought the two prison guards back into the conference room.

  Ricky Earl stood, a guard on each arm, and nodded sullenly to the men around the table. “Look, I know y’all don’t like me none and I get that. But in the end, the truth is the truth. No matter who’s tellin’ it.” He grinned. “Been a real pleasure, fellas. Hope we can meet up again real soon.”

  “I’ll be over to talk with you as soon as we’re finished here,” Jeff said to Ricky Earl as he was escorted out of the room.

  When the guards and their prisoner had left, Jeff looked at each of the men around the table.

  “Well? What do you think?”

  The district attorney was the first to speak. “He’s a sleazy old bastard,” he said thoughtfully. “But, God help me, I think I believe him. What about you, Clay?”

  Sheriff Poole had remained quiet throughout the cross-examination, content to pass a number of notes to Haynes, which usually prompted a series of follow-up questions.

  “Well,” Poole began, shaking his head ruefully, “I sure as hell didn’t want to believe that this redneck son of a bitch could be telling the truth. But I got to admit, after listening to him—especially when he talked about where the body ended up—well, goddamn it, I think I believe him, too.”

  Jeff looked at Poole, puzzled. “Why was the location of the body so significant?”

  Poole shot a glance at Haynes, who nodded that he could go ahead and answer.

  “Well, you saw how skimpy the file was, right?” Poole asked.

  Jeff shook his head. “Couldn’t believe it. Even for back then, I figured that there would be more than just two pages of police reports.”

  “Turns out, there was. We found a supplemental file locked away in an old evidence safe. Didn’t look as if it’d been touched since the killing. Guess no one had any occasion to go looking for it until now. Inside were an autopsy report and some police photos of the crime scene that showed the body before the coroner got there. Don’t know why they weren’t ever placed in the main case file. We did some checking up and, apparently, the photos were never made public. Never even showed up in the newspapers. Just kinda disappeared. Just like the so-called investigation,” he added sarcastically. “Guess the authorities really wanted the whole thing to go away as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  “So?” Jeff asked, turning toward Haynes.

  Haynes took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “So, you know how your client knew exactly what song they sang inside the church that night? And, since the pastor doesn’t recall ever telling that to anyone, you argued that means he was actually there?”

  “That made sense to me,” Jeff said. “Plus, he passed the polygraph with flying colors. I know that’s not admissible in court, but to me it means he’s telling the truth.”

  “Could be,” Haynes agreed. “Also, the report had the names of a couple who were out walking their dog that night. Heard what sounded like a gunshot and then saw a car and a truck speeding away. Both matched your boy’s description. Woman’s still alive and can testify. We checked motor vehicle records from back then and a 1960 Buick LeSabre was registered to Jessup’s father. So, that gives us some corroboration.” He paused. “But here’s the clincher for me. Nobody’s ever talked about the shotgun wounds to the back and how the body was found, with the head in the ditch, arms all spread out. It’s not in the police reports or the newspapers, and, as far as we can tell, nobody ever saw the photos. So, the question is—how does your boy know all those details?”

  “Because he was, in fact, there,” Jeff said softly. “And it happened just the way he said.”

  “Right,” said Haynes. “So now it seems like we got ourselves a murder and a witness.”

  “And a killer,” added Jeff.

  “Sure looks that way to me,” answered the district attorney.

  The men sat quietly for a few moments, each mulling the significance of Haynes’s conclusion, before Haynes broke the silence.

  “So, what kind of deal you lookin’ for?”

  “We’ll plead to a conspiracy count. Sentence will be concurrent to the time he’s doing now. We arrange for him to come up for parole in about a year. When he does, you go to bat for him. Big time. In the meantime, while he’s waiting, he gets transferred to a minimum-security facility, with some serious protection.” Jeff paused, looking carefully at Haynes. “Deal?”

  Haynes sat with his hands folded in front of his face, his features contorted as he wrestled with his next step, a step that he knew could have enormous consequences—one way or the other—for him, both personally and professionally.

  “Deal,” Haynes said finally. He then looked around the table. “Gentlemen, I think it’s time that we present what we’ve got to a grand jury and let the good citizens of this county decide if we try the next governor of Mississippi for murder.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “A grand jury? You can’t be serious,” exclaimed Royce Henning when the district attorney had filled him in on what was about to happen to his boss.

  “Afraid so,” said Gibb Haynes, rocking gently in the big armchair behind his desk.

  “Look, Gibb,” said Henning, softening his tone as he leaned forward, his palms on the top of the gleaming desk. “We understand that you can’t just ignore everyone who wanders into your office with a story to tell, no matter how crazy that story may sound. But you’ve got to realize . . .”

  “You see,” Haynes interrupted, in his deepest good ol’ boy drawl, “that’s the problem.”

  Henning cocked his head, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, turns out this here story’s not so crazy after all,” Haynes continued. “I’ll admit I was more than just a little skeptical at first. But after we did some diggin’, turns out this witness just might be tellin’ the truth.”

  “Telling the truth?” Henning echoed, clearly exasperated. “You can’t possibly believe that Tillman Jessup would ever have been involved in something like this—much less actually be the killer.”

  “Why not?”

  Henning was taken aback. “Why not?” he repeated. “For God’s sake, this is a revered public figure we’re talking about. His family’s been leaders of this state for generations. He’s spent twenty years in the state senate, out in front on every major social issue. Jesus Christ, Gibb, just last year he was honored by the NAACP for his work improving the schools. And this is the guy you want to prosecute for a forty-year-old civil rights murder?”

  “This ain’t personal for me, Mr. Henning. Believe me, I wish Ricky Earl Graves had never showed up in my office. But, once he did, I can’t ignore his story and just make him go away. Can’t do that,” he said, shaking his head. “Not for Senator Jessup, not for you, not for anybody.”

  “But don’t you understand the damage that this whole thing will do? Just the fact that you’re actually investigating this preposterous allegation . . . when that gets out it’ll be impossible to stop the flow of rumor and innuendo. You’re talking about the slanderous destruction of a sterling reputation that’s taken a lifetime to build—and you’re prepared to demolish all of that, everything Senator Jessup’s done for this state, based on the word of a career criminal?”

  Haynes stopped rocking and leaned forward. “First of all, it’s not my call. That’s why we have grand juries, so no prosecutor has that kind of unbridled power. The citizens of this county will decide if senator Jessup should be charged, the same way it works for anybody else. Second, we’re not just relying on his word. Give us a little credit for doing our job. We’ve spent a lot of time investigating
this case and, unfortunately for the Senator, we’ve been able to corroborate much of what Graves told us. Does that mean that Senator Jessup’s guilty? Don’t know that for sure yet, but we’re still looking. In the meantime, I’ll just do my job and we’ll let a grand jury make the call.”

  “So that’s it?” said Henning, anger creeping into his voice. “You’re actually going ahead with this nonsense?”

  “Looks that way,” Haynes answered calmly. He paused a beat. “But if the senator’s got anything he’d like to talk to me about, well, I’d be happy to listen. Maybe he’d like to be run on a polygraph, like Ricky Earl Graves was, to get his side of the story out there?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Henning exploded. “There’s no ‘his side of the story’ to be told. There’s no damn story at all. Just this lowlife’s lies. And you’re falling for them!”

  “Sorry you feel that way,” Haynes said smoothly, standing to signal that their conversation was over. “But I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me.”

  Henning glared at the district attorney, then stood and walked to the door. He stopped and turned.

  “This isn’t a battle you want to fight, Gibb,” he hissed. “Because when this is over and you’ve lost—that’s when the damn war will really start. And I promise you, there’s no way you’ll survive that war!”

  Haynes smiled. “You’re not threatening me, are you, Mr. Henning?”

  Henning was silent, merely offering a malevolent smile in return before slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 22

  The media explosion was seismic. Ella broke the story of the investigation, and the fact that Jessup was the target, in a New York Times exclusive a few days before the grand jury was scheduled to take up the case. The local news outlets were not far behind. For days, the story garnered wall-to-wall coverage and captured the attention of television viewers and newspaper readers across the country. The scoop rocketed Ella into the journalism stratosphere, bestowing instant celebrity status, and made her the go-to person for the onslaught of reporters descending upon the town.

  The intersection of the mystery of an unsolved civil rights-era murder with the ascending arc of a popular New South politician provided a delectable recipe for the insatiable appetites of the media hordes—especially the cable news channels. Each night, the cable shout fests would focus on the drama unfolding in Mississippi. Former prosecutors would solemnly, yet loudly, proclaim Tillman Jessup’s guilt and celebrate the triumph of justice delayed, while defense attorneys would stridently bemoan the depravity of relying on the testimony of a career criminal to tarnish the reputation of an outstanding civil servant. In the meantime, political pundits offered wildly differing views of the political future of the “rising star” of Southern politics. As a result of her newly conferred “star journalist” rank, Ella was a frequent guest on the television shows. Although her appearances were a huge boost for the Times and her own career, she struggled in the arena of name-calling and premature conclusions, steadfastly refusing to take sides.

  Tillman Jessup, following his bulldog instincts and ignoring the advice of his team of lawyers and advisors, decided to wage a pitched media battle against the district attorney’s office. His crusade took him to every reporter with a microphone, computer, or pencil. No media outlet or Internet site was too small for his attention. And, in each interview, the theme was the same. “This is an outrageous and illegal attack on me, fueled by my political adversaries and driven by a reckless prosecutor,” he would exclaim. “If these political opportunists can do this to me,” he would shout, like a Sunday evangelist rousing a tentful of worshipers, “then nobody is safe from this type of wild and irresponsible personal assassination. First me, and then they’ll come after you!”

  District Attorney Haynes, on the other hand, remained uncharacteristically quiet. When asked about the case, he would simply declare that he would have no comment until the case was presented to a grand jury. Desperate for any hard facts, reporters camped outside the district attorney’s office and peppered any and all employees with a futile barrage of questions. But Haynes had made it clear that he wanted absolutely no information to be leaked and that a violation of his edict would be a firing offense.

  The day before the grand jury was scheduled to meet to consider the case, Tillman Jessup conducted what was billed as a press conference, but what was, in reality, a pep rally. In a fairly heavy-handed act of symbolism, Jessup invited the members of the media to join him behind the Lyceum, next to the James Meredith memorial, on the Ole Miss campus.

  Flanked by his wife, who appeared both distracted and distressed by the turmoil, Jessup provided, in response to a few softball questions, a fiery and confrontational attack upon what he termed “this rogue and irresponsible prosecutor.” When he was asked, specifically, if he had any involvement in the killing of Elijah Hall, he offered a dramatic pause and then launched into a barely-controlled tirade.

  “How do you prove that you’re innocent of an outlandish charge of a murder that occurred more than forty years ago?” he boomed, staring down the questioner. “Could you tell me where you were on a particular day, even ten years ago? Of course not! Nobody can! And yet, despite all I’ve done as a dedicated public servant of this state—despite all that my family has done over the years—despite all that, this rogue prosecutor, relying on only the statements of some despicable career criminal, is attempting to destroy me. And that, ladies and gentlemen, should frighten all of you. Because if he can attempt to do this to me, what protection would any of you ever have? The answer is—none!”

  With the cameras still rolling and the audience now mesmerized by his performance, Jessup smoothly shifted gears from outrage to what appeared to be deep and passionate sincerity.

  “Anyone who knows me, who has spent even a small amount of time with me, will know that I could never, ever, commit any crime, much less the brutal murder involved here. To think that I could be the kind of racist killer . . .” Jessup choked up a moment, wiping at his eyes, and struggled to gain control of his emotions. “Well, I’d just tell you to ask any of the thousands of constituents—black and white— who I’ve helped over the years. Go ahead,” he said, ratcheting his voice up again in anger. “Go ahead and ask them! And when you do, you’ll hear what they all have to say about me!”

  He looked out defiantly over the crowd. “I will win this fight! I guarantee it! Because I am an innocent man and, as a great man told us decades ago, the truth will, indeed, set you free!”

  With that, Jessup turned, took his wife by the arm and, followed by his entourage and a wave of applause, stormed off.

  CHAPTER 23

  Television satellite trucks had been parked in the Oxford Square since dawn. Reporters had quickly staked out territory for their stand-up shots, jockeying for the most impressive courthouse backdrops. The grand jury was scheduled to hear testimony that morning about the killing of Elijah Hall, and each of the media members was hell-bent on being the first to disclose to the anxiously waiting world whether Tillman Jessup would actually be charged with murder.

  Inside the district attorney’s office, the sense of expectation hung like the lingering moment between a jagged lightning slash and the subsequent crash of thunder. Gibb Haynes had decided that he would handle this case, from start to whatever finish might be involved, by himself. Although he claimed that he didn’t want any members of his staff left “to hang and twist in the wind” in the event that the grand jury refused to indict Jessup, who would surely come looking for revenge, most were certain that “the old man” was really looking for his own personal Armageddon—his last great battle between good and evil before he rode off into the Mississippi retirement sunset.

  Jeff, having navigated his way through the roiling sea of media outside, now sat beside Travis Murray in a room with a clearly nervous Ricky Earl Graves, who had swapped his jail jumpsuit for a pair of khaki pants and a blue b
utton-down shirt. Ricky Earl’s nicotine-stained fingers fiddled with his handcuffs as his eyes darted about.

  “You sure I can’t have just one quick smoke?” he pleaded.

  “Nope,” said Jeff, leafing through his notes. “No smoking anymore in government buildings.”

  “Whole damn country’s gone to hell when a man can’t even grab a smoke when he wants,” Ricky Earl grumbled.

  “So, how’re the accommodations over in the jail?” asked Murray.

  “Shitload better’n up in Parchman,” Ricky Earl answered, referring to the infamous Mississippi state prison.

  “If Jessup gets indicted, the DA said he’ll keep you here until the trial. Safer for you and easier for them,” Murray said.

  “Suits me fine.”

  “Let’s go over this whole thing one more time, okay?” Jeff said.

  “Sure,” said Ricky Earl. “Ain’t got nothin’ better to do.”

  “So, remember, this isn’t the same as testifying at a trial. It’s just you and the DA in a room full of grand jurors. Couple dozen people. No defense attorneys, no cross-examination, and no Jessup. The DA will take you through your testimony. Answer him carefully and make sure you just answer the question he asks. Don’t go rambling on. If he wants more from you, he’ll ask you. When he’s finished, if some of the grand jurors have questions, just answer what they ask. Don’t go offering anything more. Got it?”

  “Yup. No problem.”

  “You’ll be the second witness. Reverend Butler will go in before you to testify about everything that happened that night before the killing. Then you. Then Investigator Jackson will wrap it up with all of the investigation details.”

  Ricky Earl nodded, still fidgeting with his handcuffs.