The Walls of Jericho

by Jack Ford

  “I am entering a plea,” Wallace exploded. “I’m entering a plea on behalf of an innocent man who’s been unfairly subjected—”

  “That will do, gentlemen,” interrupted the judge. “Thank you, Mr. Wallace.” He turned back to the district attorney. “Mr. Haynes, before I consider the question of bail, I need to know the prosecution’s position on possible sentences. Although this case is more than forty years old, it qualifies as a capital case, given the state of the law at the time, which could bring into question the death penalty. Have you made a decision whether, in the event of a conviction, you would seek the death penalty?”

  “Your Honor,” Haynes said in his most prosecutorial tone, “I have advised counsel for the defendant this morning that, after careful consideration, we will not be seeking the death penalty if the jury returns a conviction.”

  There was a murmur throughout the courtroom which Judge Langston silenced with a swift glance.

  “All right, then, since this will not be a capital case, I’ll consider the question of bail. What’s your pleasure, Mr. Haynes?”

  “The prosecution would ask, Your Honor, that bail be set in the amount of one million dollars.”

  “Mr. Wallace?”

  “Well, Your Honor,” Wallace began, shaking his head sadly, “I can certainly understand why the district attorney should decline to seek the death penalty—especially in this case—but I most certainly can’t understand why he’d be looking for bail in that amount—”

  “Mr. Wallace,” the judge interrupted once again, “this is, after all, a murder case. And, although I appreciate your able protestations on behalf of your client, you don’t really expect me not to require some type of bail in a murder case, do you?”

  “Your Honor,” Wallace answered, his tone of indignation rising, “my client is not some hardened criminal with no roots in this community. I’m sure that the court will recognize Senator Jessup’s long and distinguished service on behalf of this state, together with his family’s extensive historical role in the cultural and charitable well-being of this society. If this entire episode was not such a travesty of justice, it might actually be humorous to have the district attorney seeking one million dollars in bail to guarantee that Senator Jessup will, in fact, appear at trial.” He turned theatrically toward Haynes. “I’m rather curious about where the district attorney thinks the senator might be going?”

  “Your Honor,” Haynes replied, “of course we recognize the defendant’s roots in the community and no one is suggesting he should be treated like a career criminal. But the fact remains that this is, nevertheless, a murder charge and some reasonable bail should be required.”

  “But, Your Honor,” a now even angrier Wallace blurted, “to even suggest—”

  Judge Langston raised both hands to silence the lawyers.

  “Gentlemen, I understand your positions. Here’s what I’m going to do. Mr. Wallace, although I don’t have any great fear that your client will abscond before trial, this is, after all, a murder charge, so I’m going to set bail at five hundred thousand dollars. However, I will order that your client may post property to satisfy the bail. I’m also going to require that your client surrender his passport while this case is pending. Now,” the judge said, scribbling some notes on the case file, “let’s talk about scheduling.”

  “Your Honor, the defense, relying on our right to a speedy trial, will insist that this matter be brought to trial immediately,” Wallace trumpeted. “Senator Jessup has been forced to unfairly live his life under the cloud of these despicable lies for too long now, and we are adamant about having our day in court as soon as possible so that the good jurors of this county can restore his name and reputation.”

  Judge Langston cocked an eyebrow quizzically. “Are you sure that’s your preference? To go to trial immediately?”

  “Absolutely, Your Honor.”

  The judge turned toward Haynes. “Mr. District Attorney? Are you prepared to proceed quickly?”

  “We are, Your Honor. If that’s the request of the defense, we’re prepared to accommodate them.”

  “Well, then,” the judge said, slightly perplexed. “I must say that I’m somewhat taken aback. Usually, I’m besieged by requests for more time before trial. And often from both sides. But I certainly understand your position, Mr. Wallace, and given these circumstances, I will agree to your demand.”

  He motioned for his clerk to approach the bench and engaged in a whispered discussion while she paged through a calendar. Finally, he nodded his agreement to the clerk and directed his attention back to the lawyers.

  “All right, gentlemen. Get your witnesses ready. We’ll begin picking our jury two weeks from today. Agreed?”

  There was a chorus of “Yes, Your Honor” from both sides, as Wallace placed a reassuring hand on the shoulder of a smiling Senator Jessup.

  “I would like to meet with the lawyers in my chambers in fifteen minutes so that we can set an expedited schedule for any pre-trial issues, including any jury selection questions. Anything else?” Both Haynes and Wallace shook their heads. “In that case, we are adjourned.”

  As soon as Judge Langston had left the bench, there was a rush of media to the rail, all shouting questions at once. Haynes waved his arms and firmly declared, “We’ll have no further comment until the trial begins,” as he packed up his bags and worked his way through the crowd, followed by his team.

  On the other side of the courtroom, Wallace and Senator Jessup, both smiling broadly, began to patiently answer every question offered by the press, as the ever-present Royce Henning hovered, eagle-eyed, on the fringe of the gathering.

  Jeff and Travis Murray stood in the back of the courtroom, while Ella waded into the media scrum, her notebook and pen in hand.

  “This isn’t going to be easy, Jeff,” Murray said glumly.

  “Nobody ever said it would be.”

  CHAPTER 26

  The whip-like slap sent Kendra Leigh Jessup stumbling backwards over a coffee table and sprawling across the floor. Her husband kicked the table to the side and stood menacingly over her as she tried to scramble away on her hands and knees.

  “If you ever question me like that again, you’ll be damn-sure black and blue for a month! You hear me?” Tillman Jessup screamed.

  She backed herself, cowering, into the nearest corner of the room. “I only meant . . .”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what you meant,” he hissed, his lowered voice even more threatening than his screams had been. “It’s enough that I got to answer questions about that damn preacher’s death to the fucking press. I’m sure as hell not going to answer to you, too!”

  “I’m your wife, for God’s sake,” she sobbed, her hand to her face where her right eye was already red and swollen. “I have a right to ask . . .”

  “You don’t have a right to ask shit,” he snarled. “Only right you got is to do what I tell you. Just go to your little parties and wear your pretty clothes, and keep your damn mouth shut. Unless I tell you to open it. You got that?”

  She glared at him, her fear changing to flaring anger. “Why can’t you just look me in the eye, one time, and tell me that you had nothing to do with that man’s murder? Why won’t you just say that?”

  “‘Cause I don’t have to answer to you, goddamn it!” he said, balling his fist as he stepped closer to her huddled figure.

  “Go ahead, hit me again,” she taunted him. “And then just how’re you going to explain to your adoring fans—and the damn press—why your wife’s all beat up?”

  Jessup stopped and glowered at her. Finally, he backed away. “Why don’t you just take a handful of your pills and your damn vodka bottle and get the fuck outta my sight.”

  Kendra Leigh struggled to her feet and, still slightly wobbly, started to walk past him toward the door. Jessup stepped back to let her pass.

  “And make sure you’re sober b
y next Monday. We got to pick a jury and it wouldn’t do for the public to catch a glimpse of the real you. The drunken, pill-popping, pathetic former homecoming queen.”

  “Fuck you,” she muttered as she stumbled out of the room.

  CHAPTER 27

  “Any luck?” Jeff asked.

  “Nope,” said Terrell Jackson.

  Jeff, Jackson, and Ella were gathered around a conference table in the district attorney’s office, comparing notes on their quest to locate A. J. Hollingsly.

  “Came up empty on any gas, electric, or telephone accounts. Only one bank account and it was opened up with a post office box as an address. This guy’s buried himself real deep and apparently don’t want to be found. Ever. How ’bout you?”

  “I was able to track his pension payments,” Ella said. “Not much money involved. It’s a direct deposit into an account at a Jackson bank. No activity at all on the account other than some occasional cash withdrawals—but always from different branches and always from ATM machines. And the address they have for him also turned out to be a post office box. Somebody pays cash for the box and renews it each year. No phone number or address.”

  “I might have something,” Jeff said. “Just got a call this morning from an old friend who worked for years on the Highway Patrol. Didn’t have anything definite, but had heard from a couple of contacts that Hollingsly was living up northeast in the hill country.”

  “Any address?” asked Jackson.

  Jeff shook his head. “Just the general area. Thought he’d become something of a hermit, hiding out and avoiding any contact with just about anyone. Here’s the interesting part: It seems that he’s become a kind of cult figure up there, a hero to the small lunatic fringe that’re still fighting for the Old South and segregation. Apparently, they’re very protective of him and his privacy.”

  “So what’s our next step?” asked Ella.

  “I think I need to take a ride up there,” said Jeff.

  “You mean we need to take a ride up there,” Ella said.

  Jeff shook his head. “Listen, after what happened—”

  “No, you listen,” Ella said firmly. “This is my story, maybe the biggest damn story I’ll ever work on. It’s got Pulitzer Prize written all over it! So, don’t go talking about it being dangerous. I’m a big girl. I know what I’m doing. And I’m coming with you.”

  Jeff was quiet for a moment and then nodded. “Okay.”

  “You plannin’ on sending him an invitation to join you for tea?” asked Jackson, rolling his eyes.

  Jeff smiled. “Don’t think that would work. I just figure if we rattle his cage a little bit, show up and start asking around, maybe we’ll get lucky and get to talk with him. Even if it’s just for him to tell us to get lost. At least we’d get face-to-face to make our pitch to him.”

  Jackson shrugged his massive shoulders. “I think that plan’s a little bit crazy, but I ain’t got any other suggestions, so go ahead and give it a try.”

  “You riding with us?” Jeff asked.

  “Would love to, but the DA’s got me runnin’ around gettin’ witnesses ready for the trial. Can you wait a day or two?”

  Jeff shook his head. “Don’t think so. The sooner we take a shot at him the better. Especially with jury selection starting next week. Probably just as well that we go alone. Don’t take this personally, but I don’t think having a big ol’ black man along would really help us get an audience with Mr. Hollingsly.”

  Jackson grinned. “Okay, but be careful. You know how ornery those old rednecks can be.” He turned serious. “Make sure you call me right away if there’s any problem.”

  “Will do. But hopefully there won’t be any more trouble. Why don’t you grab a subpoena for me to give to him if we find him? That way, even if he refuses to talk to us, we can at least jerk him around a little bit, arrest him if he refuses to show up. Maybe put some pressure on him, convince him to tell his story. Who knows?”

  “Good idea. I’ll go get a subpoena issued,” Jackson said, raising his big frame out of the chair and heading for the door. He stopped in the doorway. “Jeff,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “No kiddin’ around, man. You be careful.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Three hours later, Jeff and Ella were driving through the gently rolling hills and pine forests of northeast Mississippi, armed with a subpoena and nothing more than a vague idea of where they were heading.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Ella asked, dressed in jeans and a sweater, her flowing hair pulled back in a thick ponytail.

  “Good question,” Jeff said. “I thought maybe we’d look for a place where the local folks hang out—maybe a gas station, grocery store, or a bar—and start asking around for our boy.”

  “That’s it? That’s the plan?”

  “Yep. That’s pretty much it. Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

  Ella smiled and shrugged. “I guess that’s as good as any. Might as well give it a shot.”

  It was a pleasant drive. They spent the time talking easily about their childhoods, their college experiences, and their families. Jeff found himself looking forward more and more to the time they were spending together. Ella was smart and clever. And Lord knows she was easy on the eyes. His last romantic involvement had ended badly. After a turbulent three-year relationship with a gorgeous but needy, self-absorbed, drama queen of a girlfriend, he hadn’t been terribly interested in starting up another one any time soon. But Ella seemed different. Independent and self-confident, with a sense of humor, she had a grand life goal and precise plans on how to get there, and Jeff felt himself being inextricably pulled into her orbit. And he enjoyed the feeling.

  “There!” Ella exclaimed, pointing at a building up ahead. “Stop there!”

  Peering through the Jeep’s dusty windshield, Jeff saw the roadside sign for “Ike’s Hunting & Fishing.” He quickly yanked on the wheel and turned into the dirt and gravel parking lot. The store was a one-story wood and shingle structure with a sagging corrugated steel roof and a porch that ran the length of the front of the building.

  “Looks like as good a place to start as any,” said Jeff.

  “You stay here. I’ll go in and ask around.”

  Jeff shot her a questioning glance. “Why you?”

  “I just think they might be more inclined to talk to a woman, that’s all. Don’t take it personally,” she added, with a small, apologetic smile.

  “Okay,” he said, not entirely convinced. “Let’s see if you have any luck. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

  Ella tugged on a baseball cap, her ponytail popping out of the back, climbed out of the Jeep, and entered the store. It appeared empty except for a thin, middle-aged man perched on a stool at the register reading a newspaper. He was dressed in worn overalls and a camouflage hunting shirt with a “Bassmaster” cap tilted back on the crown of his head.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled amiably, obviously happy to have his boredom interrupted by such an attractive woman. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well,” Ella said, flashing a megawatt smile. “I’m not from these parts. From down in the Delta, actually. And I’m trying to find someone who I believe lives around here.”

  “Maybe I can help,” he said, returning her smile.

  “You see, I’m a writer—name is Ella Garrity—and I’m researching a story on Mississippi’s past. You know,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “the good old days, before everything changed. If you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I surely do,” he said, nodding earnestly.

  “Good. Well then, maybe you can help me. The man I’m looking for is kind of an old-fashioned patriot and I’d love to talk to him about how things have changed.” She smiled again. “I believe his name is A. J. Hollingsly. Do you know him, by any chance?”

  A shadow passed swiftly across the man’s face, replaced by another smile
, this one seeming more forced and less warm. “Don’t think I do,” he said, shaking his head. “Nope, doesn’t sound familiar. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” said Ella pleasantly. “I’ll just ask around some other places and see if I have any luck. Thanks anyway.”

  “Okay, then. Nice talking to you,” he said, as she turned and left the store.

  “How’d it go?” asked Jeff as she climbed back into the Jeep.

  “Claims he never heard of Hollingsly. But I’m pretty sure he wasn’t telling the truth. Or at least he knows something about him. His whole attitude changed when I mentioned the name.”

  “Not a surprise. Didn’t figure anybody would actually jump to help us.”

  “So, let’s head up the road a bit and see if we can find some other good folks who can help us rattle his cage a little more,” she said with a grin.

  “You’re actually having fun, aren’t you?” Jeff said.

  “Beats doing research in a library. I’m starting to feel like Brenda Starr.” She arched an eyebrow. “You do know who Brenda Starr is, right?”

  “You think I’m a cultural illiterate?” he asked, feigning hurt feelings. “Famous comic-strip reporter, always getting in and out of trouble. And quite a babe, by the way.”

  “Okay, you passed that test. So let’s go see if we can find our redneck friend.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Jeff and Ella sat in a booth at the rear of an old roadhouse tavern, finishing up their dinner of cheeseburgers and French fries. They had spent the better part of three hours driving up and down the narrow county road, stopping at every gas station, convenience store, and bar they found. At each, Ella reprised her role, first charming the men she came across, and then trolling for any information about Hollingsly. Although most of the men questioned seemed genuine when they denied recognizing the name, two—a man at a gas station and another at a liquor store—offered claims of ignorance that seemed suspect. Both had reactions similar to the first man she had confronted—a cheerfulness that altered abruptly once Hollingsly’s name came up, swiftly morphing into suspicion masked by the stiff semblance of a smile. Finally, they decided that they had scattered all of the bait that they could. Now, they needed to wait to see if they got any nibbles.