by Jack Ford
Ricky Earl lunged for the man, managing to grasp him by the throat for a split second before the guard yanked him away.
“You fuckin’ little son of a bitch,” he screamed.
“Keep him away from me,” the trustee begged, trying to hide behind the other guard.
“Back off,” the guard barked, wrestling Ricky Earl back toward the wall. “We’ll take care of this.”
Ricky Earl pulled away from the guard, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and stepped back, still glaring at the trustee who was now huddling in fear behind a table.
“Don’t nobody touch nothin’ till we find out what the fuck’s goin’ on here,” one guard ordered, directing the trustee to sit in a chair in the corner of the room, while the other guard radioed for assistance.
CHAPTER 41
It was nearing midnight when Jeff hung up the telephone. He looked over at Ella who was tucked into the couch in the living room of his apartment, her computer in her lap as she worked on her story for the next day.
“So,” she said, a puzzled look on her face. “Who was that? And what was it all about?”
“Sheriff Poole,” Jeff answered, his face twisted in thought.
“And . . . ?” Ella asked again.
“Someone tried to kill Ricky Earl.”
She sat up, shocked. “Is he okay?”
“Yeah, he’s fine.”
“What happened?”
“Caught someone trying to poison his food.”
“Who?”
“Another inmate. A trustee from the kitchen. Fortunately, Ricky Earl spotted the guy before he ate anything.”
“How could that happen? I thought he was in some kind of safe wing.”
“Sheriff just spent the last two hours grilling the guy,” Jeff said, shaking his head slowly. “Sounds like our friend A. J. Hollingsly has a pretty long reach.”
“Hollingsly? How could he get into the jail to do something like this?”
“Well, after Poole scared the shit out of the trustee, he confessed. Seems that someone—Poole’s convinced it was Hollingsly, or else somebody doing his dirty work—reached out to the trustee’s wife. First, left an envelope with ten thousand bucks in cash under her door. Then called a few days later and warned her that if her husband didn’t do what they asked, they’d both be the victims of unfortunate accidents. He claims they promised another ten thousand if he did the job right. Poole said the trustee was scared to death—still is—and was afraid not to follow the orders.”
“But where did he get the poison?” Ella asked.
“He said he found it under the pillow in his cell, in a small bag tucked into a pack of cigarettes. His instructions were to find a way to get the stuff into Ricky Earl’s food. Fortunately, he didn’t want to hurt anybody else so he waited for a time when he was sure that only Ricky Earl would eat the poison.” Jeff shrugged. “Just lucky that Ricky Earl caught him in time.”
“But how did they get it into the jail and then into his cell?”
“That’s the problem,” Jeff said gravely. “Poole believes that somebody inside the jail is dirty. Must be a guard. That’s the only possible way that someone could’ve gotten the stuff to him.”
“So if somebody inside is working for Hollingsly, how do they keep Ricky Earl safe?”
“Poole’s investigating, trying to figure out who the inside guy is. In the meantime, he’s assigned a special group of guards—guys he knows and trusts—to protect Ricky Earl. And all of his food is being brought in separately by sheriff’s officers.”
“Jesus,” Ella muttered. “These guys really play for keeps.”
“Does that surprise you? Given our experience with Mr. Hollingsly and his friends?”
Ella was quiet for a moment. “No, I guess it shouldn’t,” she said softly. “I’m just a little surprised how easy it was for them to almost get their hands on Ricky Earl.”
Jeff sighed. “Well, we’ve got the opening statements tomorrow and the trial should be over in about a week or so. Hopefully, Poole and his boys can keep him safe until then.”
“But what about after the trial? Won’t they still try to get to him?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Might depend on what happens. Guess we’ll just have to deal with that when we get there.”
Jeff stood, walked over to the couch, and took Ella’s hand.
“Meantime, we need to get some sleep. Busy day tomorrow. For all of us.”
CHAPTER 42
A criminal trial is, in many ways, like a Broadway show. The opening statements by the lawyers are the overture, soaring sounds full of anticipation and promise, at a time when the audience—the jury—is on the edge of their seats, anxious to be entertained. What follows— usually two acts on stage, but often many more in the courtroom— tells the story, an intellectual rollercoaster ride complete with the tension and uncertainty that marks great drama. And it all wraps up with the grand finale. On stage, it’s the foot-stomping, show-stopping final number, a rousing song that reverberates within the minds of the audience all the way home; in court, it’s the closing arguments— passionate appeals to the jurors that reverberate within the walls of the jury room throughout their deliberations. Now, a Broadway show was coming to the courthouse in Oxford.
The sun rose swiftly on the morning of the opening statements, the startlingly blue sky promising a bright, clear Mississippi day. The majestic old courtroom was packed once again. The first row held family and friends of the accused and the legal teams, while the next three rows were reserved for the media. The remaining seats were jammed full of spectators. An overflow room was set up on the first floor of the courthouse, complete with a closed circuit video feed, for those who were not able to find places in the main chamber.
At precisely nine o’clock, Judge Langston took the bench. The twelve jurors and the two alternates—some farmers, some Ole Miss employees, some local business folks, some government workers, all dressed in their Sunday best—were ushered into their seats in the jury box. An electric, anxious silence fell like a heavy curtain across the entire room. It was time for the lawyers to make some music.
The judge nodded solemnly toward the district attorney. Gibb Haynes, dressed in a shapeless blue suit, white button-down shirt, and Ole Miss blue and crimson tie, stood and sauntered over toward the jurors, instantly assuming his most charmingly down-home “I’m-just-one-of-y’all-from-Oxford, please-pass-the-barbeque” personality.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Haynes began, in his soft, easy drawl. “I want to thank y’all for being so kind as to give up your precious time to come here and fulfill that most important of public duties. To serve as a juror. And not just any juror, mind you. No, sir. And no, ma’am,” he added, making a point to smile at each of the female jurors, who politely nodded in return. “Y’all have agreed to serve as jurors in, let’s face it, the biggest case this town has seen in decades.” He paused thoughtfully. “Maybe ever. But, you see, the fact that this case has gotten so darn much attention really shouldn’t mean anything to all y’all. I know it probably sounds a bit silly, especially after all the questions we asked you, but we need you to just treat this like any other case called to trial. Don’t matter who the defendant is. Don’t matter who the lawyers are. Don’t even matter who all these good folks from the press are, or why they’ve traveled all this way to come visit with us,” he said, gesturing toward the media gathered in the room. He shook his head. “Don’t make no difference at all. That’s because,” he continued, his voice rising, “justice is blind. Y’all have seen the statue of the blindfolded goddess holding the hanging scales of justice, haven’t you?” The jurors all nodded. “Well, what that shows you is justice just doesn’t care who’s on trial: rich man, poor man; white man, black man; young man, old man. All the same. The law is the law. But,” he paused dramatically, drawing the moment out, “justice might be blind, but she most definitely is not
stupid.”
Pursing his lips, he let his gaze slide up toward the magnificent chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling, which were catching the dazzling early morning light and reflecting it back in a thousand shimmering arcs. He remained silent for a moment, and then turned his lanky frame back toward the jury.
“There was an ugly time in our history, a time that we wish we could just wash away and forget about.” He scanned the faces of the jurors. “But we can’t. And we shouldn’t. Some awful things happened ’round here back in the fifties and sixties. Things we’re not proud of. Racism at its worst and its most violent. We’ve tried hard to move past those times, to somehow make up for the terrible things that were done. And we’ve done a pretty good job. Y’all only need to take a stroll through the Ole Miss campus to witness the strides we’ve made in real, meaningful integration. Black and white students taking classes together, tailgating together before football games. Black athletes and white athletes competing as teammates. Heck, just look at y’all here in the jury box. Wasn’t that long ago that this box would’ve been full of only white males. Nobody else.” He nodded his head vigorously. “Now that’s progress. But,” he said, dropping his voice, “sometimes the sins of the past rear their ugly heads. And when they do—if we ever want to truly move on—we need to deal with them. Honestly and fairly. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why we’re here.”
Haynes stepped back from the jury box and turned to face Tillman Jessup, who sat stoically, appearing almost uninterested, facing the front of the courtroom.
“Late at night on July 21st, back in 1960,” he said, his booming voice now filling every inch of the sprawling courtroom, “this defendant murdered the Reverend Elijah Hall. He cowardly gunned him down—a double-barreled shotgun blast to the back—and left him to die in a ditch by the side of the road. And what was Reverend Hall’s crime? What had he done to deserve such a horrible fate?”
Haynes let the question hang in the air as he stepped closer to Jessup.
“I’ll tell y’all what he’d done. He had the nerve to come here to Lafayette County to encourage black people, young and old, to register to vote. To stand up for their rights. For their freedom. And for that, this man,” he paused, pointing directly at Jessup, who refused to make any eye contact with the district attorney, “this man sentenced Reverend Hall to die. This man became his judge, his jury . . . and his executioner.”
Over the next hour, Haynes wove his story of hatred and violence for the jurors, prowling about the courtroom, his voice rising and falling like the crash and retreat of waves breaking on a rocky shore, as the drama unfolded. Finally, emotionally spent from the power of his monologue, his deep drawl raspy from the effort, he approached the jury box and leaned on the railing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this case will test your courage. It will test your sense of decency. It will test your sense of justice. I’m sure y’all will hear a great deal in just a few minutes from my friend, Mr. Wallace, about this case being a travesty. About the prosecution relying on the testimony of a lifelong felon in order to try to take down a great man, a pillar of this community,” he said, in a tone slathered with sarcasm. “Well, here’s the truth for y’all to consider: Only two people still alive on this earth know what happened the night that Reverend Hall was murdered. Tillman Jessup and Ricky Earl Graves. Yes, Ricky Earl Graves is a career convict. Yes, you should weigh very carefully everything he says and compare it to the other evidence we present to you. And, yes, you should think long and hard before you believe him.”
Haynes leaned closer to the jurors.
“But here’s the real truth for you,” he said solemnly, his voice now barely a whisper. “The real truth is that in order to catch the devil, sometimes you need to go straight to hell to find your witnesses. And make no mistake about it, this man,” he pointed toward Jessup, “despite everything y’all will hear about his fine family and his charitable works, and about all his political contributions to this state—this man, back on July 21st of 1960 was, in fact, the devil. He gunned that young man of God down in cold blood. And all the charitable donations in the world don’t give you a free pass on murder.”
Haynes took a deep breath and stepped back from the railing, his gaze slowly sweeping past all of the jurors, locking eyes, for a fleeting moment, with each of them.
“We’re counting on your courage, on your willingness to do the right thing. We’re counting on you, all these years later, to tell this defendant—and everyone else who is watching and listening—that it’s not too late for justice in the state of Mississippi.”
CHAPTER 43
The district attorney remained standing, facing the jurors, as still and silent as the statue of the Confederate soldier that stood guard outside the entrance to the courthouse. Finally, he nodded once, solemnly, and returned to his seat.
There was immediately a low, thrumming murmur that rippled through the courtroom. Reporters continued their frantic scribbling in their notepads, while spectators whispered and shook their heads in affirmation of the marvelous performance by Gibb Haynes.
Judge Langston rapped his gavel twice to demand quiet and then, satisfied with the restoration of order, turned toward the defense table.
“Mr. Wallace?”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Channing Wallace, resplendently attired in a finely tailored charcoal-gray, vested suit, white shirt, shimmering blue tie, and white silk pocket square, rose from his seat and strolled to the jury box. Elegant and languid, he seemed almost royal in his carriage as he smiled and half-bowed in welcome to the jurors.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you’d agree that we were just treated to a magnificent presentation by my good friend, Mr. Haynes,” he said, smoothly and sincerely. “And, if you had any doubt as to why he has been the district attorney here for so many years, well, I think now you most certainly should understand.”
Wallace took a moment to turn and offer a slight smile and brief nod of appreciation to Gibb Haynes.
“But, you see,” he continued thoughtfully, “there is much more to a criminal trial than just the drama of the lawyers’ arguments. And that’s because we are not the stars in this courtroom.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “As much as we, with our egos, like to think we are. No, ladies and gentlemen, you are the stars here. You are the ones entrusted by the law with the fate of all who enter the confines of this spectacular temple of justice,” he said, gesturing at the chamber surrounding them. “You are the ones—not the district attorney, not the defense attorney, not even Judge Langston, in all his wisdom—you are the ones who decide if someone charged with a violation of the law is actually guilty.
“This is an enormous obligation we place upon you,” he said, as he promenaded from one end of the jury box to the other. “You act, in reality, as the conscience of our community. And, as our conscience, we ask you to decide if a defendant—in this case, Senator Tillman Jessup—should be convicted and punished.”
Wallace shook his head slowly. “To make this decision is an enormous obligation,” he repeated. “But,” he said, his voice now rising, “we ask you to do that because we trust you. We trust each and every one of you to withstand any pressure you might feel—for instance, Mr. Haynes’s inappropriate and unfortunate suggestion that, somehow, you folks are the ones who should be responsible for rectifying the racist conduct of others in the past—and to follow the law when it tells you that no person shall ever be convicted of a crime unless and until the prosecution has proven their guilt to you, beyond any reasonable doubt,” he said, emphasizing the last words with a rhythmic pounding of his fist on the rail of the jury box. “Beyond any reasonable doubt,” he repeated, waving his arm above him to accentuate the burden on the prosecution. “And that means that you must demand from this prosecution not just suspicions or conjectures—or in this case, absolute lies—but good, solid, believable, truthful testimony. Beyond any reasonable doubt.”
/> Wallace took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly as he stepped away from the jury box and turned toward the prosecution table.
“Sometimes, even the best of us can get hoodwinked. Sold a bill of goods by a charlatan, a flim-flam man who knows little of the concepts of honesty and integrity and cares less. And that’s exactly what you’ll see has happened here. Ricky Earl Graves,” he nearly spit the words from his mouth in contempt, “is as low and corrupt a career criminal as you’ll ever meet. As despicable a creature as, I’ll venture to say, has ever placed his hand on a Bible and sworn to tell the truth. As if he even knows what it’s like to tell the truth,” he said scornfully.
“And yet,” Wallace continued, pausing to make eye contact with each and every juror, as if he was sharing some deeply personal secret with them, “this is the man the prosecution will rely upon to attempt to prove their case. In fact, this man is their entire case. He’s all they’ve got.”
Wallace paced back and forth, silent, shaking his head, seeming to wrestle with some profound internal struggle. Finally, he stopped pacing and faced the jury, his face distorted in what appeared to be a kind of anguish.
“Look around this courtroom. What is wrong with this picture?” He paused a moment. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Sitting right over there,” he said, pointing to Tillman Jessup, “is one of the great men in the history of this state. A man who has devoted his entire life to helping others. A man who has given extraordinary amounts of both his time and his fortune to improve the lives of all people—black and white—here in Mississippi.
“And, now, this good man finds himself sitting here as a defendant in a murder trial, forced to try to prove his innocence, to defend himself from a detestable pack of lies.”
The anguish in Wallace’s face morphed swiftly into anger, as his voice rose, thundering off the walls of the immense chamber.