The Walls of Jericho

by Jack Ford

  “Not your fault. I knew what I was signing up for.”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t know we’d be dealing with a bunch of killer rednecks.”

  She turned her face to his. “They were going to kill us, weren’t they?”

  He nodded.

  She was quiet for a moment. “Nice work in there. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  He shrugged. “Worked as a bouncer in college. It got rowdy sometimes.” He looked down at her. “What about you? You kicked that guy’s ass.”

  She grinned. “Two older brothers. And a self-defense class when I moved to New York. Got my nose broken, but I guess it finally came in handy.”

  “Guess so.” He gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. “I think it’s safe to call now.”

  Jeff held his hand over the face of his phone to shield the light and punched in Terrell Jackson’s number. After a few rings, he whispered quietly, his head bent over and the phone held close to his mouth. He quickly explained what had happened and that he had just a general idea where they were. After listening for a minute, he answered softly, “Will do, but make it fast,” and ended the call.

  Ella looked up at him. “Well?”

  “He said for us to lay low and keep my phone on vibrate. They’d triangulate with the cell towers, get a bead on us, and call when they’re close. He said he’s sending the cavalry so we should hold on.” He smiled at her. “He’ll get us out of here.”

  She nodded and tucked herself closer into him. She began to shake and he held her tightly until the shivering stopped, then leaned over and gently kissed the top of her head.

  “Nice work, Brenda Starr,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER 32

  The first light of dawn etched a soft purple ribbon along the edge of the dark sky. Jeff and Ella had spent the time huddled together, seeking some warmth against the cool night air. They had not spoken much while they waited, content to simply hold on tightly, savoring their escape, each thankful for the presence of the other. Twice they had heard the growl of vehicles on the dirt road but were unable to see anything from their hiding place in the woods. As the curtain on the day rose and the darkness grudgingly gave way to streaks of pewter daylight, they began to stir, anxious for some sights or sounds of rescue. Finally, Jeff’s phone began to vibrate.

  “Yeah?” he whispered into the phone.

  “We’re close,” said Terrell Jackson, on the other end. “You okay?”

  “We’re good. Don’t think anyone’s still around.”

  “We’ll pop the siren and the lights. Y’all c’mon out to the road when you hear us.”

  A moment later, Jeff and Ella heard the wailing of the sirens as two Mississippi Highway Patrol cars, together with Jackson’s unmarked cruiser, came barreling down the roadway. They thrashed their way out of the underbrush and started waving their arms at the approaching vehicles. Terrell Jackson pulled up next to them while the two Highway Patrol cars wheeled into the dirt road and roared off toward the old barn.

  Jackson sprang out of his car, gun in hand, his eyes darting about as he rushed to them.

  “Man, I thought I told you to be careful,” he said, the concern seeping through the feigned anger in his voice.

  “We were careful,” Jeff replied. “But then these guys decided not to play nice.”

  Jackson went straight to Ella and wrapped his big arm around her shoulder.

  “How ’bout you? You okay?” he asked her gently.

  “I’m fine, Terrell. Thanks,” she smiled weakly.

  Jackson looked around again, his weapon still drawn.

  “Once we got a general idea where you were, one of the Highway Patrol boys thought he remembered an old barn out this way. Helped us get here a little quicker.” He nodded toward the dirt road. “They’re checkin’ it out now.” He turned back toward his car. “Jump in. Let’s go see if they found anythin’.”

  As they drove down the dirt road, Jeff quickly filled Jackson in on the details of their capture and escape. When he finished the story, Jackson smiled approvingly at Ella.

  “So this pretty little thing kicked the ever-lovin’ shit outta one a them rednecks? Good for you, little girl! You can play on my team anytime.”

  Ella shrugged and offered a small smile, obviously pleased at the compliment from the big man.

  “So, what kinda shape you leave those boys in?” asked Jackson.

  “Not sure about the one guy,” Jeff said. “I tagged him pretty good with the shovel. But the other one wasn’t too bad. He took some shots at us when we ran out. But nobody followed us, so my guess is they were banged up pretty good.”

  “How ’bout Hollingsly?”

  “Once he left, we never saw him again. We heard some cars later but didn’t see them. Don’t know if he came back or not,” answered Jeff. “These are some serious bad guys, Terrell.”

  “Damn right, they are. Warned you about these backwoods crackers. Some of ’em are worse than the old KKK,” Jackson said, shaking his head. “At least now we can go after the two that roughed you up. Shouldn’t be too hard to track ’em down. We’ll drop kidnapping charges on ’em, squeeze ’em a bit, and see if we can get ’em to roll over and testify against Hollingsly. Then we lean on Hollingsly to give up Jessup.”

  “I don’t know,” Jeff said. “Hollingsly seemed like a tough old bastard.”

  “They all seem tough—until they’re lookin’ at spendin’ the rest of their life in a cell in Parchman. Tends to soften ’em up a bit.” Jackson chuckled. “May be that this little ol’ adventure of yours was just what we needed to bust this case wide open.”

  They pulled to a stop next to the Highway Patrol cars in front of the barn. One of the patrolmen was standing in the doorway, talking on his radio.

  “You two wait here,” Jackson said, climbing out of the car. “Just gonna check on what they found inside.”

  As Jackson reached the doorway, the patrolman glanced quickly back at Jeff and Ella, whispered something to the detective, and followed him into the building.

  “You really think we’ll be able to track those guys down?” Ella asked.

  “Maybe. We can give a pretty good description of them. Plus, they might need some medical care so we can check with any local hospitals and doctors.”

  Jackson came striding out of the barn, a grim look on his face. He leaned into the open car window and looked first at Ella and then at Jeff.

  “Any sign of them?” Jeff asked.

  “Yep,” Jackson said solemnly. “Found ’em both inside.”

  “They’re still there?” said Jeff, surprised.

  “Yep, still there. Problem is they each got a bullet in the head.”

  CHAPTER 33

  It was early afternoon before Jeff and Ella left the district attorney’s office. Terrell Jackson had driven them back to Jeff’s car and then escorted them on the drive back to Oxford. They told their story, from start to finish, at least three different times and, after providing a detailed description to a police sketch artist, they came up with a pretty good rendering of Hollingsly.

  Jackson had been in and out of the conference room, coordinating the details of the new murder investigation. As Jeff and Ella were about to leave, Jackson stuck his head in the door.

  “Got IDs on the two dead guys,” he said.

  “Anything helpful?” asked Jeff.

  Jackson shook his head. “Not much. Both were ex-cons. Drifters. No immediate family around. Having trouble even findin’ someone to claim the bodies.”

  “Hollingsly might be an old redneck bastard—but he’s a smart old redneck bastard,” Ella said. “No evidence to connect him with this. Just our word against him and his poker buddies. And no trail to follow.”

  “We’ll find him,” Jackson said, his jaw set in a hard line. “Now we got the son of a bitch in our sights. We’ll get him. Now,” he said, his voice softe
ning, “you two got to get some rest. Been a hell of a night.”

  They stepped outside, squinting in the midday sunlight.

  “C’mon,” Jeff said, taking Ella’s hand. “I’ll walk you to your hotel. It’s just a couple of blocks past my place.”

  They strolled quietly down the street toward the courthouse, both lost in their own thoughts. What had started out as a simple newspaper article had quickly escalated into a major story—and now had exploded into a multiple murder case. The speed of the journey, and the rising and plunging along the way, had been dizzying. They were both physically and emotionally exhausted.

  “So, where do you live?” Ella asked.

  Jeff nodded toward a condominium complex about a block ahead across the street. “Got a place in there.”

  “Looks nice.”

  “It’s pretty new. Did a nice job on them. Used to be an old cotton warehouse. Somebody was smart enough not to knock it down and turned it into condos, instead.”

  They walked in silence until they were adjacent to the condo complex.

  “Jeff,” Ella said softly. “I’m still a little shaken up by last night. Not sure I want to be by myself in a hotel. Would you mind . . . ?”

  Jeff squeezed her hand. “I was trying to figure out a way to ask if you’d rather stay at my place—without seeming like I was trying to hit on you at an awkward moment,” Jeff said sheepishly.

  Ella smiled. “So this is what I have to go through—get kidnapped, shot at, and nearly killed—to get you to hit on me?”

  “Sorry. Afraid my social skills are a bit rusty. C’mon.”

  They turned in to the courtyard, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and entered the unit on the corner. Inside, the condo was big and airy, with exposed brick walls and floor-to-ceiling windows, salvaged and refurbished from the old warehouse, and a balcony that looked out over the Square. The interior decorating was spare. A leather couch and two large armchairs were grouped in front of a big-screen television in the living room, and a marble island separated the living space from a modern kitchen. There were a few generic prints on the walls. Books seemed to be scattered everywhere.

  “Very nice,” Ella said, glancing around. “Definitely a bachelor’s place—but, still, very nice.”

  “You sound surprised,” Jeff said.

  “Actually, pleasantly surprised.”

  “What’d you expect?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I kind of thought your place would resemble a frat house,” she said. “You know—ex-jock, single.”

  She shrugged apologetically.

  “Glad you like it. Can I get you something to eat? Not sure what I’ve got,” he said, turning toward the kitchen.

  Ella grabbed his arm and turned him toward her.

  “Boy, I guess you are a dumb jock.”

  He looked at her, an eyebrow raised, a smile creeping across his face.

  “Not hungry?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Well, then, maybe I should show you the rest of the place.”

  She smiled as he took her hand and led her into the bedroom. Inside, a king-size bed presided over a corner room punctuated by an armoire, a small writing desk, and a blizzard of clothes strewn haphazardly about.

  “Definitely single, ex-jock décor,” Ella chuckled.

  Jeff turned her around to face him, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her close to him.

  “You okay?” he asked tenderly.

  “I am now.”

  He leaned down and kissed her gently, first on her forehead, and then on her neck.

  She tilted her head back, gazed into his eyes, and touched his face with her fingertips. Her lips touched his, first softly, searching, then they erupted with passion, their mouths hungrily probing, hands grasping.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon alternately making love and collapsing in exhaustion. Their first time was explosive, as if all the fears and violence of the night before needed to be exorcised from their spirits. Afterward, their lovemaking was gentle and inquisitive, two new lovers seeking the enveloping ecstasy found in the intertwining of their bodies and souls.

  They sat up for hours, eating reheated pizza and drinking cold beers, talking about Hollingsly and their near-death experience, about Jessup and the upcoming trial, about Mississippi and the parallels and differences in their lives. Finally, they made love once more and then slept soundly until the sun rose on a new day.

  CHAPTER 34

  “Well, if there was ever any doubt that Jessup was the killer,” Jeff said, “we’ve certainly put that question to rest.”

  The entire prosecution team was seated around a conference table in the district attorney’s office. Gibb Haynes sat at the head of the table, flanked by Sheriff Clayton Poole, Terrell Jackson, and two young assistant prosecutors. Jeff and Travis Murray were seated at the far end.

  “We all sure as hell know that,” the district attorney said, gesturing at those around the table. “Unfortunately, the jury’ll never hear about your adventure and Hollingsly’s statements about Jessup. Can’t figure out, for the life of me, any way we could make that kind of testimony admissible without getting him on the stand.”

  Jeff nodded his agreement. “Anything new on the search for Hollingsly?”

  “Nothing yet,” answered Haynes.

  “Now that he’s the subject of an official murder investigation, I thought we might have some luck. But he’s apparently gone to ground and ain’t nobody talking,” said Sheriff Poole.

  “Well,” said Haynes, “I think we just got to assume we’re going to trial on Monday with what we got. In the meantime, we keep looking for Hollingsly and, if we find him, we squeeze the hell outta him to get him to testify. A murder charge might make him look at things a little differently. If not,” Haynes looked directly at Jeff and Travis Murray, “it looks like ol’ Ricky Earl’s gonna be carryin’ the ball for us all by himself. Can he handle it?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Jeff said reassuringly. “Let’s just hope we can find a jury that’ll be willing to listen.”

  Terrell Jackson snorted. “Yeah, right. Like a jury from ’round here’s gonna take some ol’ nasty redneck convict’s word over that of Tillman Jessup, with all his money and family name and army of expensive lawyers.” He snorted again.

  “Listen here,” Gibb Haynes said. “I know we got an uphill battle. And I’m not stupid enough to bet the farm on this one. But I’m not willing to surrender, either. This is a whole different place from back when Elijah Hall was murdered. No more all-white racist juries. No more of the KKK and Sovereignty folks runnin’ around interferin’ with the justice system. Hell, who would’ve thought a Mississippi jury— whites and blacks—would finally convict Byron De La Beckwith of killing Medgar Evers back in ’63? Took more than thirty years and two hung juries, but it finally happened. Lord knows it’s not going to be easy. But, if I didn’t think we had a shot, I wouldn’t be sitting here with all y’all gettin’ ready to go to trial.”

  “Yeah,” Travis Murray smiled ruefully. “Except De La Beckwith left his rifle, fingerprints and all, at the murder scene. And he boasted over the years to a lot of people that he was the killer. Not quite our case. Too bad Jessup wasn’t as accommodating.”

  “Look,” Jeff said. “Gibb’s right. It’s not going to be easy. And we all knew that before we started. But, if nothing else, De La Beckwith’s conviction made it clear we’ve turned the corner on these old civil rights cases and at least now they’ll be taken seriously. So now it’s our job to find us a jury that’ll listen. Maybe we win and maybe we don’t. But at least this murder—and this victim—will finally see the light of day. And that’s a damn sight better than what happened here forty years ago.”

  The district attorney looked around the table. “Okay, then. So maybe we’re the few Spartans taking on the Pers
ian hordes at Thermopylae. But when this is over, they’ll damn sure know they were in a battle.”

  “You do know the Spartans all died, right?” Jeff asked with a bemused grin.

  The district attorney grinned back at all of them. “No need for y’all to get hung up on those little details.” He pulled out a legal pad and tossed it on the desk in front of him. “Now, let’s get to work deciding what our jury should look like.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The defense team was gathered in the expansive library of Jessup’s sprawling mansion. Located on a lake on the outskirts of Oxford, the house was a near replica of Scarlett O’Hara’s Tara, all white columns, wrap-around porches, and symmetrical wings flanking the central three-story structure. The library—which had been transformed into the defense “war room”—looked out onto manicured gardens that sloped gently down to the shore of the lake. Inside, a large conference table was strewn with documents and law books. Two young lawyers were busily stuffing papers into various binders while Channing Wallace, Tillman Jessup, and Royce Henning huddled around a coffee table.

  “The good news,” Wallace was saying, “is that the jury selection procedure here in Mississippi gives us an awful lot of opportunity to get all our arguments out there to these people even before the final jury panel is chosen. So, hopefully, we’ll be able to get a pretty good read on them before we have to start choosing.”

  “What about the prosecution?” asked Henning.

  Wallace nodded. “They get the same chance to talk with them. But,” he added, looking at Jessup, “we’ve got a more compelling story. And we’ve got a genuine folk hero sitting next to us at counsel table— while they’ve got to convince the jury to believe a man who’s so scary that, if the jurors saw him on the street, they’d cross to the other side to avoid him. Not really a fair fight,” he sniffed.

  “So, how much of our defense do you tell them about before the jury’s picked?” asked Henning.