by Jack Ford
“I still don’t think it’s such a good idea for the DA to put all three of them in front of the grand jury,” said Murray. “Why not just do it the usual way and let Terrell Jackson testify about everything? Why make it such a big production and put Ricky Earl in there?”
“That was my thought too, at first,” said Jeff, “but the DA feels like he’s got to be completely up front about everything in this case. Especially if Jessup gets indicted. This way, he can say that Jessup got a better shot than most suspects, because he gave the grand jury the chance to assess Ricky Earl’s credibility rather than just relying on a cop’s testimony. Makes sense, I guess. This way, Jessup can’t claim he was railroaded.”
“So, we’ll know today if he’s gonna be charged?” asked Ricky Earl.
“Probably,” said Jeff. “Once the grand jury’s heard all the testimony, they’ll vote. If at least twelve of them say yes, he gets indicted.”
“What’s the chance of that happenin’?”
“Don’t know,” said Jeff. “But I guess we’ll find out soon.”
Ricky Earl looked at Jeff and cocked his head. “You believe me, Mr. Trannon?”
Jeff locked eyes with him. “Yeah, I believe you,” he said softly. “But let’s get something straight. I don’t think you’re any kind of hero for doing this.”
Ricky Earl nodded his head slowly. “That’s okay. Ain’t tryin’ to be anyone’s hero. Just tryin’ to get outta jail.” He paused and thought a moment. “And maybe do the right thing. For once in my life. But that’s okay. I don’t think I’m no hero, neither.”
There was a knock on the door and a jail guard stepped inside. “They want him over there now,” he said.
“Okay, then,” Jeff said, slapping his palm on the table. “Let’s go do the right thing.”
CHAPTER 24
Jeff and Ella sat on a bench on the Square across from the courthouse. Two hours earlier, the district attorney had announced that a Lafayette County grand jury had voted to indict State Senator Tillman Jessup for the murder of Reverend Elijah Hall. All hell had broken loose. Reporters had scrambled for their phones and their cameras to break the news, and then they had assembled for a raucous press conference on the steps of the old courthouse.
Gibb Haynes had begun the conference by reading a brief statement, indicating that he had been in contact with Jessup’s attorneys, had advised them of the grand jury’s action, and had agreed that the senator would be arraigned the next day. In response to shouted questions, he had refused to disclose what the vote of the grand jurors had been and exactly who had testified, citing laws about grand jury secrecy.
“I want to be completely clear about this, so listen up,” Haynes had said, when asked how the grand jurors had reacted to the case. “These good citizens took their responsibility very seriously. They knew how important this case was to everyone—and that includes both the defendant, Senator Jessup, and the State of Mississippi. My office has been more than fair to the defendant and his attorneys. So I don’t want to hear any nonsense about this being some kind of political witch hunt. Never happened. Now we’ll all just let a jury decide, the same way it’s always been done around here. No special treatment asked for, and none given.”
When asked if the prosecution would seek the death penalty in the event of a conviction, Haynes had been silent for a moment. “Haven’t decided yet. But we’ll have an answer for the court at the time of the arraignment.”
Finally, a young reporter from the rear of the boisterous throng had jostled his way to the front and bellowed, “How can you justify to the people of Mississippi the act of indicting a respected public figure based on the testimony of a lifelong criminal?”
Haynes had raised his hands, signaling for quiet, and glowered at the questioner.
“I’m going to assume, sir,” he replied sternly, “that you’re not from around here. Because if you were, you’d know that I’ve been in this job for about as long as you’ve been alive, and during all that time I’ve always done what was right. Not what was popular. Not what was politically expedient. Just what was right. Understand something, all y’all,” he said, shifting his gaze away from the questioner and taking in the entire gathering. “I take no pleasure in this. I’ve known Senator Jessup and his family for a long time and I realize that a lot of people are going to be very angry about this indictment. But our justice system is bigger than a senator and bigger than a district attorney. The grand jury has spoken, and now it’s my job to present this case to a trial jury. And those good citizens,” he said, shooting one last glare at the questioner, “will decide Senator Jessup’s fate, sir, not me.”
With that, declaring that there would be no further statements from his office until they arrived in court the next day for the arraignment, Haynes had swept off the courthouse steps and retreated to his office.
After that, the media circus had, except for a few stragglers, withdrawn until the following day’s court date, leaving the Square cast in a sudden and overwhelming silence. After Ella had filed her sotry, she sought out Jeff, who had just met with Ricky Earl to break the news about the indictment.
“So,” she said, “how’d Ricky Earl react to the news?”
“It’s funny,” Jeff said thoughtfully, “it wasn’t what I expected.”
“Why?”
“Well, I thought he’d be excited, but he actually seemed a little sad. Maybe not sad, exactly.” He paused a moment. “But certainly not happy. I think the thing he was most pleased about was that he was going to be staying here for a while and not sent back to Parchman. Anyway, I imagine the folks up at the Times are happy.”
She nodded. “This story’s really got legs now. At first, it just looked to the national media like some Southern curiosity, a bizarre allegation that had flared up but would probably die down just as quickly. But now it’s become a drama worthy of Faulkner, a story of race, politics, and murder. Pretty powerful recipe.”
Jeff sighed. “We surely do know how to do drama down here.”
They were both quiet for a few minutes.
“So?” she asked.
“So . . . what?”
“So, what do you think? Are you happy that he’s been indicted?”
“Honestly? No. I mean, I’m certainly pleased as Ricky Earl’s lawyer. That’s my job. And I do believe Jessup killed Elijah Hall. But there’s a part of me that wishes that it wasn’t true. This trial’s going to tear this place apart. Not just Oxford,” he said, gesturing around the Square, “but this whole state. And I’m just not sure what’s going to come from it.”
After a moment, Ella said softly, “I think he’d be proud of you.”
“What?” asked Jeff, puzzled. “Who?”
“Your father.” She paused a moment, then continued. “I know about the Alzheimer’s. But if he was still well, still himself, I think he’d be proud of you. Of what you’re doing here.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. The funny thing is we never really used to talk much about the law and his cases. Talked a lot about sports, but not so much about other things.”
“Too bad you can’t talk to him about this case.”
Jeff turned and looked at her directly. “Remember at the diner the other night? When you told me that you hadn’t been completely honest with me?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Well, I haven’t been completely honest with you, either.”
“About what?”
“About me and my father.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we first met, you asked me about being William Trannon’s son and trying to follow in his footsteps. And I told you that it wasn’t that bad and that, in some ways, it was helpful.”
“I remember,” she nodded.
“That wasn’t really the truth. At least, not the whole truth.” He looked off into the distance and was silent for a time.
“The truth is,” he said, turning back to her, “it was never easy. You can’t begin to imagine how big a star he is. Or was. The greatest football player ever. The greatest lawyer ever. The greatest judge ever. I mean, I was always proud of him and proud to be his son.” He sighed. “But I could just never be him, you know what I mean? I was a good football player, but I’d never be ‘Fast Willie.’ I knew it and everybody in the stadium knew it. And I was a pretty good lawyer, but whenever I walked into a courtroom I was always ‘Justice Trannon’s son.’ I tried to fight it—to make a name for myself. I stayed here at Ole Miss to play football and to go to law school, and I did pretty well. Then I became a prosecutor, and a good one, too. But finally,” he said, his voice etched in deep sadness, “I realized that things were never going to change. That no matter what I ever did, I was always going to be ‘William Trannon’s son.’” His voice trailed off.
“I still think he’d be proud of you,” Ella said. “From what I’ve learned, his life was all about justice. And that’s what this is all about, too.” She placed her hand over his. “He’d be proud that you are his son.”
“Maybe,” he said wistfully. “I guess I’ll never know.”
CHAPTER 25
On the day of the arraignment, Jeff felt like a salmon swimming upstream as he picked his way through the crowds milling about in the Square. A large group of spectators was camped out early near the courthouse entrance, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous defendant as he made his first court appearance. Marveling at the collection of television satellite trucks circling the Square, Jeff had chuckled to himself, reminded of old lithographs of Western frontier prairie schooners circling a campsite.
Inside, every seat had been claimed hours before the hearing was scheduled to start. The grand old courtroom was an architectural marvel. After entering the courthouse on the ground floor, a gracefully turned staircase led to the second-floor main chamber. Two colossal wooden doors provided passage into the room. Inside, eight gently curving rows of benches afforded seating for the press and public, while large conference tables inside the railing housed two small armies of lawyers, each armed with arsenals of thick files, scores of law books, and piles of notepads.
Above, a quaint balcony, reached by a small back staircase, held the overflow crowd. The panoramic view from this vantage point was striking. Beneath the soaring ceiling dotted with six strikingly elegant chandeliers, each side wall was marked by a set of exquisite double doors that opened onto small columned balconies, together with two towering windows in each corner, all offering any visitors expansive views of the Square and North and South Lamar Boulevards. The walls were painted a soothingly elegant pale blue, setting off the precise architectural details of the stylish white ceiling moldings. Along the right wall was the jury box, holding fourteen soft-leather swivel chairs, walled off from the rest of the courtroom by a waist-high wooden balustrade. Behind the jury box was a single door that opened into the jury deliberation room. Standing sentinel in the front of the chamber was an impressive, raised, ornately carved wooden bench, home to the judge who would preside over the trial.
Jeff, Ella, and Travis Murray were seated in the first row on the right side, directly behind the prosecution table. Across the aisle, in the first row behind the defense table, sat Kendra Leigh Jessup, flanked by a score of political aides and supporters.
While scribbling observations in her notebook, Ella alternated curious glances between Senator Jessup, deep in huddled conversation with his legal team, and Kendra Leigh. The former beauty queen sat silent and stoic, appearing pale and drawn, dressed in a severe black skirt and jacket, her attention seemingly fixed on the emblazoned seal of the state of Mississippi on the wall high above the judge’s bench.
“Wonder what she’s thinking,” she murmured to Jeff.
“Who?” said Jeff, who had been staring intently at the defense assembly.
“Mrs. Jessup,” answered Ella, nodding toward the group across the aisle. “I wonder what she’s thinking about. Her perfect life on the verge of collapsing. I kind of feel sorry for her.”
“Don’t know,” said Jeff. “But I don’t think I’d want to be one of Jessup’s lawyers. Just look at him, bossing them around. Not your typical client, I guess.”
“Who’s the new guy?” Ella asked, nodding toward one of the lawyers, who had detached himself from Jessup and the sycophantic cluster and was standing to the side, reviewing some notes.
“Channing Wallace,” answered Jeff, shifting his gaze toward the new lawyer. He was a tall, graceful man, with carefully styled, swept-back silvery hair, a narrow, handsome face marked by a long aquiline nose and dark, intense eyes. Dressed in an impeccable English vested pinstriped suit, his patrician bearing and easy confidence made it clear that he was accustomed to being in charge.
“Something of a legend here in Mississippi,” Jeff continued. “Big-time trial lawyer from up in Jackson. Made a fortune suing the tobacco companies a few years back. Now just picks and chooses some high-profile cases to handle when he’s not hanging out with politicians and Hollywood types.”
“Is he as good as he looks?” Ella asked, obviously impressed by the man’s appearance.
“Yep. He’s definitely a heavyweight. But don’t worry,” Jeff said, shooting her a grin. “Gibb Haynes can handle him. Wallace is smooth, all right, and smart. But Old Gibb can charm the rattles off a rattlesnake. The jurors around here just love him.” Before Ella could respond, there was a rustling in the courtroom as the clerk took her seat in front of the bench indicating that the court session was about to begin. People scrambled for their seats and, a moment later, the door behind the bench opened and Circuit Court Judge Rogers Langston entered the chamber to a call of “All rise!” from the bailiff.
Quickly taking his seat, Judge Langston took a moment to carefully arrange a collection of files and law books on his desk, then looked up and, with a slight, imperious wave of his hand, indicated that all should be seated. When everyone had settled into their seats, he adjusted the wire-rim glasses perched on the end of his nose and looked out over the audience.
Judge Rogers Langston was most at home in his courtroom. A careful and studious man, a graduate of Ole Miss and Harvard Law School, he had a well-earned reputation as a demanding and precise jurist, with the capacity to be charming at one moment and excoriating the next. Despite his occasionally harsh treatment of lawyers who failed to adhere to his lofty standards, he was unfailingly courteous to his jurors, all of whom tended to leave his presence with a deep respect for him and how he ran his courtroom. A slender, wiry man in his early sixties, with a wispy, receding hairline, an oval face with sharp features and deep-set, intelligent eyes, he rarely raised his voice, since his reputation was so profound that he was capable of controlling unruly lawyers and reluctant witnesses with just a single steely glare. Yet, despite his training and demeanor, he was something of a maverick in court—given to deciding cases based not so much on the letter of the law but rather on what he believed was the right thing to do. As the lawyers who appeared before him often said, you were never entirely sure what result you would get in Judge Langston’s court, but you were always sure that you would get what he felt was justice.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a deep, honeyed, Mississippi-native drawl, “I realize that this case has garnered a great deal of attention,” he nodded pointedly toward the collection of reporters crammed into the first three rows, “but I want you to be assured that this case will be handled no differently from any other. And I also want all y’all to be equally assured that I will tolerate no outbursts whatsoever in my courtroom. Do I make myself clear?”
He took a moment to let his admonition sink in and then turned his attention to the squads of lawyers now spread out along the two vast counsel tables. District Attorney Gibb Haynes sat in the first seat, nearest to the center podium, flanked by two assistants, with Sheriff Clayton Poole and Investigator Terrell Ja
ckson located in chairs directly behind him. At the adjoining table, Channing Wallace was in the first chair, Senator Jessup parked very closely next to him, with his chief of staff, Royce Henning, directly behind him, and a phalanx of assistants, young and old, male and female, stretched out along the perimeter of the defense table.
“And you, ladies and gentlemen, are certainly welcome to my courtroom,” Judge Langston said in his most courtly tone. “I must say,” he added with a twinkle in his eyes, “that I can’t seem to ever recollect such an impressive array of legal minds gathering for a simple arraignment. Be that as it may, let’s all get down to business, shall we? Mr. District Attorney, will you be handling this matter?”
“I will, Your Honor,” Haynes answered, rising from his seat and moving to the podium.
“Please proceed, then.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Haynes cleared his throat dramatically. “This is the matter of the State of Mississippi versus Tillman Jessup,” he continued, his voice now booming throughout the recesses of the grand courtroom. “A grand jury of this county has charged Mr. Jessup with the crime of murder and he is here now, with counsel, to be arraigned.”
“Thank you, Mr. Haynes,” Judge Langston said, shifting his gaze to the defense table. “Mr. Wallace, will you be acting as lead counsel for the defendant?” he asked.
Channing Wallace rose majestically from his seat. “I will, Your Honor. And it’s nice to see you again, sir.”
“Always a pleasure to have you come visit with us,” the judge said smoothly. “So then, how does your client plead to the charge?”
Wallace nodded to Jessup, who also rose from his seat and looked directly at the judge.
“Your Honor,” Wallace answered, his voice rising, “my client, Senator Tillman Jessup, is absolutely and unequivocally innocent of this scandalous charge and, as a result, will of course plead not guilty.”
“Your Honor,” Haynes said angrily, “perhaps Mr. Wallace could save his speeches for the jury and simply enter a plea—”