by Jack Ford
“Oh, yes, Reverend Elijah Hall’s killer will be here in this courtroom. All of you will get to look him right in the eye. But that killer is not Senator Tillman Jessup. No, ladies and gentlemen, the man who killed Reverend Hall, the man who knows all the grisly details because he was there, the man who is the real coward who snuffed the promising life out of that young preacher with a shotgun blast forty years ago— that man is Ricky Earl Graves. And that cold-blooded murderer is now grasping at his last straw, trying desperately to save what’s left of his miserable life by yet another cold-blooded slaying—this time it’s the assassination of the good name and character of Senator Tillman Jessup. And the prosecution should be ashamed of itself for aiding and abetting in that assassination.”
Wallace stepped back from the jury box, his fingers steepled, prayer-like, before his face. He took a deep breath and once again looked imploringly at each juror.
“A ‘travesty,’ the prosecutor said? No, ladies and gentlemen, this is much more than a travesty. This is a shameless perversion of our justice system, the worst nightmare for any honest and God-fearing man. His good name slandered, his freedom placed in jeopardy. And all because of the self-serving, desperate lies of the worst kind of criminal. But this travesty, this perversion, stops right now. It stops here in this courtroom. Because you, ladies and gentlemen, will stand up for this good man.” He gestured toward Jessup, who gazed intently at the jury, the ghost of a tear in each eye.
“We have placed our trust in you. We will challenge the testimony of this evil man. We will prove to you that he is lying. And then, Senator Jessup—despite the fact that, as Judge Langston will tell you, he has no obligation whatsoever to testify in this case—will take that stand and will place his hand on that Bible and will swear to you that he had nothing whatsoever to do with this horrible murder.” Wallace paused dramatically. “And then we will trust you, at the end of this trial, to stand up and say: ‘This is not justice—and we will not let this happen to this good man.’”
Wallace turned and walked back to the defense table, placing his hand reassuringly on Jessup’s shoulder as he dropped into his seat. Once again, a murmur of appreciation floated through the courtroom as the spectators absorbed yet another masterful opening statement, much like the crowd at a heavyweight boxing match stands and cheers to express its admiration for both fighters’ skills as they enter the final round of a close and well-fought battle. It was now clear to all inside the courtroom that this would, indeed, be an epic battle fought by two extremely talented and combative heavyweights.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Langston said, after two quick raps of his gavel. “We’ll take our morning break now. Give y’all a chance to stretch your legs a bit. When we return, we’ll get started with the prosecution’s first witness.”
He turned to the district attorney.
“Mr. Haynes, we’ll return in twenty minutes. Please have your first witness ready.” He smacked his gavel once more. “We’re in recess.”
CHAPTER 44
“Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the court officer intoned.
“I do.”
Reverend Calvin Butler, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and dark tie, settled into the chair adjacent to the judge’s bench, the first witness called by the prosecution. Despite his age and wizened frame, his reputation, together with the grace and quiet strength of his demeanor, lent a strong aura of power and respect to his appearance. Most of the jurors seemed to shift in their chairs, sitting up straighter in deference to his presence.
“Reverend Butler,” the district attorney said in his warmest, friendliest drawl, as he rose from his seat and meandered to the front of the courtroom, opposite the witness chair. “Although we all certainly know who you are, I’d ask you, sir, for the record, to please state your profession.”
Reverend Butler nodded.
“Certainly,” he said, his voice deep, rich, and lyrical. “I am a minister, currently the senior pastor of the Morning Star Baptist Church.”
“And how long, sir, have you been employed doing God’s work?”
“Well, Mr. Haynes,” Butler said, smiling. “I’ve never actually considered it ‘employment.’ Always found it to be more of a blessing, actually. Been doin’ it now about fifty years or so.”
“How long have you lived in Lafayette County?”
“Been here all my life. Born here, raised here, ministered here, and hope to leave this good earth from right here.” Another gentle smile.
“Now, Reverend,” Haynes said, his tone becoming more businesslike, “I’d like to take you back to July 21st of 1960. Were you the pastor of the Morning Star Baptist Church at that time?”
“Yes, sir. Been there for about three years or so, after takin’ over for old Reverend Clay.”
“Can you tell us, sir, if Reverend Elijah Hall visited your church on that date?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
“And can you tell us how that visit came about?”
Butler leaned forward in his chair. “Well, sir, it was a troubled time, back then. Some of you,” he nodded toward the jurors and the spectators, “are old enough to remember. Very troubled,” he repeated. “Anyways, I’d received a phone call from a friend of mine—a minister from Atlanta who was workin’ with Dr. King—who was reachin’ out to the local churches to try to convince more black folks to register to vote.”
He turned once again toward the jurors and offered a sad shake of the head.
“Was a bit dangerous ’round here those days to be encouragin’ black folks to vote. But I agreed to allow a minister from up north— that was Reverend Elijah Hall—to come preach at our church and to try to convince more of our flock to register. A whole lot of folks showed up that night. Must say, I was a bit surprised how many turned out. Reverend Hall was a wonderful preacher. Got my folks all excited ’bout voting. Yes, sir, it was a good night.”
“Can you tell us some more about Reverend Hall’s visit and what he had to say?” Haynes said.
Butler looked off into the distance for a moment, his eyes narrowed, his lips pursed in thought. Finally, he turned back to the jury.
“It was like some sort of magic had taken over inside my church. At first, everyone was sort of quiet, not really sure what to expect. Not really sure if it was even okay for them to be there listenin’ to this man they didn’t know talk to them about somethin’ that seemed so distant, so unobtainable in their lives. He talked about Dr. King. He talked about the law and the Supreme Court. He talked about our journey from slaves to free men and women. He told them that standin’ up and voting was the next step in that journey. And slowly he got them to understand, to trust him, to trust his message. Then, one by one, led by some of the oldest folks, they began to stand, and to clap, and to sing.”
He shook his head, a bemused look creeping across his face, as if now, forty years later, he still couldn’t believe what had taken place inside his church that night.
“They believed that night,” he said softly, almost to himself. “They believed that it was time. Their time. To stand up and vote just like any other man. They all left there that night believin’ in Reverend Hall, believin’ in themselves. Yes, indeed, they did.” He paused. “And then, the next morning, when his body was found lyin’ out on that road, all blown to pieces—well, it seemed that it was all just torn away from them again.”
The district attorney let the heavy silence linger for a moment before he asked his next question.
“Now, Reverend, you mentioned some singing that night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you remember what song y’all were singing?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Would you tell us what song that was?”
“We were singin’ an ol’-time spiritual called ‘Ain’t That Good News.’”
�
��As you sit here today, some forty years later, are you sure that’s the song?”
“Yes, sir, I most certainly am. Was always one of my favorite songs,” he said, a sad smile seeping through. “Haven’t sung it since.”
“Reverend,” the district attorney said, twisting his face in thought, signaling to the jurors that the next question was important, “do you recall if you ever told anyone—anyone at all—the name of that song y’all were singing?”
“No, sir,” Butler said firmly. “Nobody ever asked.”
“So, you never mentioned it to the police?”
“No, sir.”
“The newspaper reporters?”
“No, sir.”
“Anybody at all?”
“No, sir. Never. Not until recently when this investigation got started.”
“So, would you agree with me, Reverend, that if someone knew exactly what song was sung that night, chances are that person was actually there?”
Reverend Butler nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir. I believe that’s a fair statement.”
“Well, Reverend, I thank you,” Haynes said respectfully, and then turned toward Judge Langston. “Your Honor, I have no further questions for this witness.”
CHAPTER 45
Channing Wallace rose from his seat, a concerned and sympathetic look etched across his face as he approached the witness.
“Reverend Butler, we also thank you for being here today. And I want to assure you that I don’t intend to make you relive that terrible day, in any great detail, yet again.”
Wallace paused for a brief moment, and then continued. “But I do have just a few questions for you, sir, if you don’t mind?”
“Certainly,” Butler answered.
“Thank you, Reverend. First, about that song. Now, you’ve told us that you don’t believe you ever talked about what song was being sung inside your church until recently, correct?”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”
“But, there were others in addition to you at your church that night, were there not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“As a matter of fact, as you yourself have stated, there were dozens of people—men, women, and children—there that night, correct?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“And you would agree with me, Reverend, that you couldn’t possibly know, during all these years, whether or not someone else who was there ever talked about the songs you sang that night, could you?”
“No, sir, I couldn’t know that,” Butler said.
Wallace nodded in agreement.
“Just a few other questions then, Reverend. After the murder, there were several attacks upon your church, were there not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Two instances of a cross being burned on the property?”
“Three, actually. The third one didn’t really burn very much.”
“All right, three cross burnings. And a firebombing, correct?”
“Yes, sir. Fortunately, my wife and I were able to put the fire out before any real damage was done.”
“So, then, you would agree with me that, apparently, there were still people out there—racist, ignorant, and very dangerous people— who were angry about what you and Reverend Hall had been doing at your church that night?”
“Yes, sir, I believe that’s true.”
“People who were very angry—angry enough to burn crosses on your lawn?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Angry enough to try to burn down your church?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Perhaps angry enough,” Wallace said, lowering his voice, “that some of them had actually been the ones who murdered Reverend Hall, correct?”
“Objection,” the district attorney challenged, leaping to his feet. “That would be complete speculation and it’s unfair to ask that question of this witness.”
“Sustained,” Judge Langston said. “Mr. Wallace, this witness couldn’t possibly know the answer to that question.”
Wallace simply dipped his head in deference to the judge.
“Your Honor, I agree entirely,” Wallace said, and then turned back toward the witness. “Thank you, once again, Reverend Butler. I have no other questions.”
CHAPTER 46
The first witness following the lunch break was to be the medical examiner. Since the doctor who had actually conducted Elijah Hall’s autopsy had passed away some time earlier, the current medical examiner would rely upon the official autopsy records from July of 1960 to testify about the cause and manner of Hall’s death.
Before the jury returned and the doctor took the stand, Channing Wallace cleverly attempted to circumvent the powerful emotional impact that a discussion of the shotgun wounds would have upon the jurors. The attorney indicated to Judge Langston that, since the defense was only contesting the identity of the killer and not the fact that it was a murder, they were willing to stipulate to both the cause and manner of Reverend Hall’s death, thus eliminating the need for any testimony by the medical examiner.
Gibb Haynes, recognizing the tactical ploy, graciously thanked Wallace for his consideration, but nevertheless declined the offer, advising the court that he felt it was incumbent upon him, as the prosecutor, to provide the jurors with the opportunity to review and consider all of the facts surrounding the case, including the details of the killing. Judge Langston agreed, explaining to a frustrated Wallace that he could not compel the prosecution to accept the defense’s offer.
Wallace, like a boxer attempting to deflect powerful blows as he danced around the ring, next urged that the autopsy photographs should not be shown to the jury, arguing that the prejudicial impact of the gruesome photos would far outweigh any evidentiary value, especially since the defense was not challenging the cause of death. This time, despite vehement opposition by the prosecution, Judge Langston sided with Wallace, agreeing that the photographs were so vivid in their depiction of the wounds—wounds that were not the subject of dispute—that the potential to improperly sway the jury mandated their exclusion. However, in Solomon-esque fashion, the judge then provided an important victory to the prosecutor by ordering that, even though the jurors would not see the autopsy photos, they would be allowed to view the crime-scene photos, since the location of the body following the shooting was a significant element of the prosecution’s case.
Following the legal sparring, the jury was brought back to the courtroom and the medical examiner finally took the stand. In a fairly brief, yet emotionally arresting, dissertation, he described the devastating shotgun wounds suffered by Elijah Hall, finally offering his conclusion that the wounds, although ultimately fatal, would not have caused death instantaneously. The message was clear: Elijah Hall would have suffered extraordinary pain from his wounds before he died.
There was no cross–examination by Channing Wallace. The next prosecution witness was the woman who had seen two vehicles speeding down the road around the time of the killing. Using a walker as she gingerly navigated a path through the crowded courtroom and up to the witness box, the nearly ninety-year-old woman was surprisingly alert and assertive as she began her testimony. Displaying a friendly and unexpectedly relaxed attitude, especially in light of the enormous tension radiating throughout the chamber, the woman described how she and her husband had taken their dog out for his walk somewhat later than usual that night, when they heard what sounded like a gunshot. Minutes later, two vehicles went speeding by, the first, “one of those new-fangled, two-color sedans”; and the second, “a beat-up old pickup truck.” She indicated that they thought it was just some teenagers “cuttin’ up” so they “didn’t think nothin’ of it” at the time. A few days later, after hearing about the murder, they contacted the police and told them about the gunshot and the vehicles. And that was the last involvement they’d had with the case—“No questions from the police, no interviews, no nothin’ for forty y
ears”—until just recently, when she was contacted by members of the sheriff’s office.
Channing Wallace did his charming and amiable best to suggest that the darkness that night and the passage of time might have dimmed her recollections, but the witness was adamant in her testimony.
“I know what I saw, Mr. Wallace. And I’m not too old to remember!” she said, seeming more than a little upset at his suggestions.
Following the conclusion of her testimony, Judge Langston excused the jury for the day. Once the jurors had been escorted out, the judge asked the district attorney about the witness schedule for the next day. When Gibb Haynes responded that his first witness would be Ricky Earl Graves, there was an audible murmur throughout the courtroom. The stage had been set for real drama.
CHAPTER 47
The next morning, the blue skies and mild temperatures gave way to a sky smeared by slate-gray, roiling clouds and constant drizzle. But the dreary weather did nothing to dampen the intense interest in the trial—or the enthusiasm of those members of the public hoping to witness the explosive theater guaranteed to occur inside the courtroom that day. The line began forming before dawn, starting at the doors on the South Lamar Boulevard side of the building and twisting like a wriggling serpent around the courthouse grounds.
Across the street, inside the district attorney’s office, the tension was as thick as the dank, heavy air of an August night down in the Delta. Gibb Haynes was in his office, along with Sheriff Poole and Jeff Trannon. They were once again trying to predict just how Channing Wallace would try to attack Ricky Earl Graves, when his assistant poked her head in the door and announced that Ricky Earl had been brought over from the jail and was waiting in a conference room down the hall.
Jeff stood and announced that he would go speak with his client alone one last time to review his testimony and how the day would proceed.
“This way,” Jeff said, “the defense can’t argue that the DA was prepping him for his testimony as recently as this morning. Ricky Earl can say he talked to me but, since I’m his lawyer, they can’t ask what we talked about.”