by Jack Ford
Ricky Earl leaned back and sighed. “Never been much of a prayin’ man,” he said softly. “Don’t think anybody’d be listenin’ given what I done with my life.”
Jeff leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “Are we good, then?”
“Yep. We’re good.” He shrugged. “Might as well sell my soul— whatever the hell’s left of it—to the devil we know.”
“Okay,” Jeff said. He stood and knocked on the door. “We start picking the jury today. Not sure how long that’ll take. Best guess is you’ll be testifying at the end of the week.”
The door swung open and Sheriff Poole stuck his head inside. He looked first to Jeff, and then to Ricky Earl.
“You still good to go?” he said, looking hard at Ricky Earl.
“Yeah, man. Good to go,” Ricky Earl answered.
“Okay, then,” the sheriff said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t be a good idea for you to start fuckin’ with us now.”
“I’ll stop back later today and let you know how the jury selection’s going,” Jeff said.
Ricky Earl gave him a nod as he and Sheriff Poole left the room.
A few minutes later, they arrived back at the jail. Entering the medical wing, a more secure area where Ricky Earl had been housed since he had been brought in from Parchman State Prison, Poole escorted him to his small private cell. Inside the six-by-nine-foot cubicle were a metal bunk attached to the wall, a metal toilet, and a small desk, also attached to a wall.
“You doin’ okay?” the sheriff asked, not unkindly.
Ricky Earl shrugged. “Not too bad. Gettin’ a little antsy now the trial’s actually startin’.”
“You’ll be fine,” Poole assured him. “Jeff’s a good man. He’ll look out for you. And the DA’s a straight shooter.” He glanced around and then stepped into the cell, closer to Ricky Earl. “Here.” He pulled something out of his jacket pocket and placed it quickly into Ricky Earl’s hands.
Ricky Earl looked down. He was holding a pint bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey.
“Had it in my office,” the sheriff said quietly. “Thought you might need it. Settle your nerves a bit.”
Ricky Earl gave him a wolfish grin. “Sure as hell will. Appreciate it.”
“You just try to relax, then. See you a bit later,” the Sheriff said as he slammed the cell door shut.
CHAPTER 39
On the Monday the trial began, the Square resembled a fall Saturday hours before an Ole Miss football game. Crowds of noisy people milled about outside the courthouse, some ardent supporters of Tillman Jessup there to show the flag on his behalf, others simply curious and fascinated by the unfolding of this unlikely drama.
Inside the courthouse, the teams of lawyers filled the well of the court, busily organizing files and girding for battle, while potential jurors, most visibly anxious and clearly unhappy over being thrust into this high-profile arena, packed the spectator benches. Hordes of media members were arrayed along the walls, casting inquisitive glances at the combatants and the nervous jury panel, scribbling notes and exchanging muted comments to their colleagues.
Jeff and Travis Murray sat in the first row directly behind the prosecution table, along with a number of assistants from the district attorney’s office. Ella was stationed in the rear, within the ranks of journalists waiting for seats to open once the jury had been selected.
While she waited for the court session to begin, Ella found her focus once again drawn to Kendra Leigh Jessup, perched immediately behind her husband on the defense side of the courtroom. Although she was surrounded by friends and supporters, Mrs. Jessup seemed somehow removed from the proceedings, her gaze strangely vacant, her attention wandering. She appeared even more slight and fragile than the last time they had all been in court, her long-sleeve blue dress hanging off of her slender frame, her face slathered in makeup in an attempt to preserve her fading glamour. Once again, Ella wished that she could speak with her, to seek out her reactions to the claims against her husband, and to talk intimately about her feelings and the private repercussions of the case. Her reporter’s intuition told her that, in some ways, the most compelling story might be found within the emotional barricades constructed by Kendra Leigh.
Suddenly, the door to the judge’s chambers flew open and a court attendant emerged.
“Please rise,” the attendant announced. “Court is in session. The Honorable Rogers Langston presiding.”
Behind the attendant, Judge Langston appeared, robes flowing, clutching an assortment of files and law books. He took his place on the bench, arranged his files and books before him, adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and, finally, looked up, acknowledging the presence of the crowded courtroom. Taking a long moment to glance around magisterially, first nodding at the lawyers and then in the direction of the gathered potential jurors, he quickly and decisively established in the minds of all that this was unquestionably his fiefdom and he was most definitely in charge. With a small, regal wave of his hand, he directed all in the courtroom to be seated. It was now his theater, his stage, and time for his performance to commence.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began solemnly, “I want to begin by welcoming y’all to this courtroom. This courthouse has a long and venerable history, something all of you, as residents of Lafayette County, should be proud of. It is here, since 1840—with a brief period of interruption thanks to our Yankee friends,” he said, with a slight, ironic smile, “that the rule of law has prevailed for generations of citizens such as you. Indeed, our own esteemed neighbor, the Nobel Prize-winning William Faulkner, describing in his book, Requiem for a Nun, a fictional courthouse that we all proudly know was a reflection of this magnificent building, wrote about the importance of what happens within these walls. I want to take a moment, as I do before all trials, to read to you Mr. Faulkner’s words.”
With the impeccable timing of a seasoned actor, the judge paused, briefly scanned the crowd, and then picked up a small, leather-covered book and began to read, his deep Mississippi drawl propelling the words across the packed courtroom.
“Talking about his courthouse, Faulkner wrote: ‘But above all, the courthouse: the center, the focus, the hub; sitting looming in the center of the county’s circumference like a single cloud in its ring of horizon, laying its vast shadow to the uttermost rim of horizon; musing, brooding, symbolic and ponderable, tall as a cloud, solid as a rock, dominating all: protector of the weak, judicate and curb of the passions and lusts, repository and guardian of the aspirations and the hopes . . . . ’” He looked up. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is a description of this courthouse. That is Faulkner talking about the sense of justice and fairness and duty to the law that resides right here, in this very room, where y’all are sitting today.” He offered a paternal smile. “Matter of fact, you may have noticed those very words written on a plaque right outside the front doors.”
The potential jurors—a clearly anxious collection of men and women, white and black—sat still as statues, mesmerized by Judge Langston’s performance, as were many of the out-of-town media members, who seemed enthralled by the theatricality of justice in the Deep South. Meanwhile, the lawyers and local journalists, who had heard this Faulkner symposium frequently—Judge Langston fancied himself as something of a Faulkner scholar and began each of his trials with the same lecture—busied themselves scanning the faces of the gathered jury pool, looking for any early clues of allegiance to either side.
“Now,” the judge continued, directing his comments toward the jurors, this time in a more courtly manner, “I want to take a moment to thank y’all for taking time from your busy lives to exercise your duty as citizens and join us here today. Although only fourteen of you—twelve regulars and two alternates—will actually serve as jurors in this case, we certainly appreciate all of you appearing today. In a moment, we will start the process of choosing the jury that will hear this case. But, before we begin, a
few additional thoughts about your presence here. I suspect that y’all know by now what case this is. No sense trying to make believe you don’t. Been all over the news lately.” His tone became stern and he gave them a hard look, one eyebrow raised. “But understand something. This case is certainly important to the parties involved. But it is no more or less important than any other case—and will be tried as any other case would. No difference at all.”
When he was certain that he had made his point, he turned to the lawyers. “Mr. Haynes, is the prosecution ready to proceed?”
The district attorney stood. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Wallace, is the defense ready?” the judge asked.
Channing Wallace also stood. “Yes, Your Honor. Indeed, we are.”
“All right, then. Let’s get started.” The judge turned back toward the jury panel. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to ask y’all a few questions to get started. Then each of the lawyers—Mr. Haynes for the prosecution and Mr. Wallace for the defense—will talk a little bit about the case and also ask you some questions. Now, I need y’all to be absolutely honest with us. There are no right answers or wrong answers here—just your own answers. And we really need you to be up front with us about anything we ask. Understood?”
There was a collective nod from the panel.
“Good. Now, to begin, I need to ask a question that has been asked in Mississippi courtrooms probably for more than a century. It may sound a bit quaint, even strange, but it’s something our law requires. So, here goes: Are any of you either habitual drunks or gamblers?”
The judge scanned the courtroom as a few giggles and snickers worked their way through the crowd.
“Well, I don’t see or hear any responses.” A small smile curled the corners of his mouth. “That’s certainly reassuring. Now, is anyone not capable of reading and writing?” He paused a moment. Again, no response. “Good. Then, let us proceed to some specific questions about this matter. First, I want to read to you the indictment in this case. Now, it’s important that you realize that an indictment is merely the document that describes the nature of the charge against a defendant. It is not evidence and should not be viewed by you as such.”
The judge held the indictment in the air.
“Just a piece of paper. Nothing more. I’m going to take a moment to read it to y’all. It sounds a little complicated, but we’ll take some time to explain it better later in the case. So,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “the indictment reads that ‘the defendant, Tillman Jessup, did, on July 21, 1960, feloniously, willfully, and of his malice aforethought, kill and murder Elijah Hall.’” He placed the indictment down and looked up again at the jury panel. “Now, make yourselves comfortable for a spell. The lawyers and I have some questions for all y’all.”
For the rest of the morning, the group was peppered with a series of questions, focusing first on their backgrounds, then on their familiarity with the case, and, ultimately, any opinions that they may have formed based upon what they had read or heard. Both District Attorney Haynes and Channing Wallace talked with the panel, offering previews of their cases, and inquiring about the backgrounds and beliefs of the potential jurors, each infusing his questions with his own personal charm, looking to connect with them at the outset, jockeying for position even at this early stage of the trial.
Following a lunch break, they all assembled again and the process continued. Not surprisingly, almost all acknowledged having either heard or read about the case. Many also admitted that they had formed opinions based upon what they had learned. And some of those proclaimed, some rather adamantly, that they just could not imagine that Tillman Jessup could ever have done such a thing.
Judge Langston, with the deftness of a skilled surgeon, gently probed, questioning whether they might be capable of putting aside these early opinions and impartially judging the case based on the evidence they would hear in the courtroom. Some indicated that they would certainly be willing to try. Others were not so sure they could, while a small number were unwavering in their belief in Jessup’s innocence and declared that absolutely nothing would change their minds.
Finally, following a full day of exhaustive questioning, the lawyers gathered in Judge Langston’s chambers and the wrangling began. After the district attorney offered his list of twelve acceptable jurors, they entered into a complex and curious dance, with the lawyers striking certain names from the list and those names being replaced by others until, at last, both sides took a deep breath, exhaled, and announced that they were satisfied with the panel. Tillman Jessup’s fate would be decided by a jury of seven women and five men. Four of the jury members were black—two women and two men.
Judge Langston took the final list and handed it to the court clerk.
“Let’s bring the folks in and give them the news,” he said, standing and donning his robes. “I’ll tell them that we’ll start with opening statements first thing tomorrow morning.” His gaze swept the lawyers in the room. “I suggest that y’all be ready.”
CHAPTER 40
The medical wing of the county jail was nothing like the rest of the facility. A large, open space, it had a common room with chairs and small tables scattered throughout, surrounded by a number of additional rooms, some providing medical treatment while others offered sleeping space for the inmates who were residing there. It resembled a college dormitory far more than a jail. Some of the prisoners were there for treatment of medical conditions while others, including Ricky Earl, were being isolated—for a variety of reasons— from the general jail population.
Ricky Earl was sprawled in a ratty old armchair, parked in front of the television, spellbound as he watched a murder trial unfold on Court TV. There was a buzz as the corridor door opened and a jail trustee from the kitchen wheeled in a trolley carrying dinner trays and individual milk and juice containers. The five other inmates currently residing in what was referred to, in jailhouse vernacular, as “The Penthouse” scurried over to the trolley and quickly laid claim to the plates of broiled chicken and mashed potatoes, rolls, and some mysterious-looking pudding.
Despite the dinnertime commotion, Ricky Earl’s attention seemed to remain riveted on the television while the other inmates had retreated with their stashes of food to the small tables. The trustee shot a quick, furtive glance around the room, and then turned his back to the others, who were busily diving into their dinners, while he slipped a small, clear glassine bag from his pocket. He swiftly slid the top open and sprinkled a white powder across the mound of potatoes on the last platter of food.
A hand appeared like a flash of lightning and seized the trustee’s arm in an iron grip.
“Whatcha doin’ there, bud?” Ricky Earl said angrily, yanking the man’s arm away and spinning him around.
“Ain’t doin’ nothin’,” the man stammered. “Just puttin’ a little salt on them potatoes. Everybody been complainin’ ’bout ’em.”
The trustee was a slight, stooped white man with a pockmarked face and a few strands of steel gray, greasy hair combed over from his ear. Beads of sweat began to pop out on his forehead as he looked anxiously around the room and tried to free his arm from Ricky Earl’s vise-like grip.
“Don’t really need no extra salt,” Ricky Earl snarled, pulling the man closer to him. “How come you only spicin’ up my food?”
The other inmates, noticing the confrontation, stopped eating mid-bite and turned toward the drama that seemed to be building, hopeful for some entertaining diversion from their mundane jailhouse existence. Drawn by the raised voices, two jail guards stationed near the door began to walk toward the struggling men, as the trustee tried again to squirm out of Ricky Earl’s grip.
“Answer me! Why you fuckin’ with my food?” Ricky Earl yelled.
“Hey, man,” the trustee pleaded, “leave me alone. I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”
“Okay, then,” Ricky Earl said, his lips curled in a
cruel sneer, as he grabbed the trustee by the neck and pushed his face down toward the plate. “If you weren’t doin’ nothin’, then why don’t you go on and eat a little of that shit you dumped on my food?”
With his other hand, Ricky Earl grabbed a fistful of potatoes and tried to stuff it into the trustee’s mouth. The man tried futilely to wrestle himself free, clamping his mouth shut, twisting his face away, a low, plaintive wail escaping from his clenched lips.
The two jail guards moved quickly now, grabbing Ricky Earl and pulling him away from the shrieking trustee, who, once free, had snatched a napkin and was frantically wiping the food from his face.
“The motherfucker tried to poison me,” Ricky Earl screamed, as the guards forced him back against the nearest wall.
“What’re you talkin’ about?” the guard asked angrily.
“I caught him puttin’ shit on my food,” Ricky Earl said, gesturing toward the trolley. “Go ahead, make him take a bite.”
“What the fuck’s this all about?” one of the guards demanded, now facing the trustee.
“This is bullshit. I don’t know what the fuck he’s talkin’ ’bout,” the trustee muttered, still swabbing his face with the napkin.
The guard looked suspiciously at the trustee and then turned toward the plate of food perched precariously on the edge of the trolley.
“Well then,” he said coldly, “if there ain’t no problem, why don’t you just take a little nibble of them potatoes and let’s see how they go down.”
The trustee looked around desperately, his eyes now wide with fear, as he tried to back away toward the door. The other guard released Ricky Earl and blocked the trustee’s path.
“Well?” said the first guard, bending to grab a spoonful of the food.
“I ain’t eatin’ nothin’,” the trustee said, now seized by panic. “And I ain’t sayin’ no more. I want my damn lawyer.”