The Walls of Jericho

by Jack Ford

  Haynes nodded his agreement and Jeff left the office and found his way to the small conference room, where Ricky Earl and Terrell Jackson were seated at a small table. Ricky Earl was dressed in khaki pants, a white shirt, and an ill-fitting blue blazer.

  “You okay?” Jeff asked, noticing immediately that Ricky Earl looked terrible. Sweat was dripping from his face and pooling around his shirt collar, his complexion was a worrisome shade of grayish-yellow, and his eyes seemed to have been sucked back into their sockets.

  “Shit, yeah,” Ricky Earl mumbled. “Just nervous, I guess. Ain’t got any sleep for two nights. Stomach’s off, ain’t had much to eat. Just wanna get this shit over with.”

  “Terrell,” Jeff said, gesturing toward the door, “can you give us a couple of minutes?”

  “Sure,” Jackson said, lifting his bulk out of the chair and heading toward the door. “Be right outside if y’all need me. When you’re done I’ll bring him over to the courthouse.”

  As the door closed, Jeff looked over at Ricky Earl, concern etched across his face.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, man. I told you, I’m fine. Just nervous—scared shitless, actually. Be better for sure once this damn thing’s over and done with.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Jeff assured him. “Just remember what I told you. Listen carefully and only answer the question that’s asked. Don’t go volunteering anything. If the lawyers want more, they’ll ask you. And listen up—here’s the most important thing: Whatever happens, don’t let the defense attorney get to you. Don’t let Wallace get you angry. He’s going to call you a whole lot of things, all of them bad. Just take a deep breath and answer honestly and calmly. Got it?”

  “Yeah, man, I got it,” Ricky Earl said wearily. “I got it. Trust me. I know how to handle any bullshit he can throw at me. Let’s just finish this fuckin’ thing, once and for all.” He paused and looked searchingly at Jeff. “You really think these jurors gonna believe me?” he said softly. “You really think we got a chance?”

  Jeff nodded. “Yeah, I really do. Just be honest with them. Just tell the truth.”

  Ricky Earl chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Jeff asked.

  “‘And the truth will set me free,’” Ricky Earl smirked. “Sorta ironic, ain’t it?”

  CHAPTER 48

  “Your Honor, the prosecution would call Ricky Earl Graves,” District Attorney Haynes said.

  “Mr. Graves,” Judge Langston said solemnly, looking toward Ricky Earl, who was seated between Terrell Jackson and a jail guard in the row immediately behind the prosecution team, “please come forward and be sworn.”

  Ricky Earl stood, shot a quick glance at Jeff, who nodded reassuringly, and walked to the witness stand. After being sworn in, he settled into the chair, took a brief, curious glimpse at the gathered crowd, and then turned his attention back to Gibb Haynes.

  “Mr. Graves,” Haynes began, “are you nervous this morning?”

  “Yes, sir, I surely am,” Ricky Earl answered, using a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  “Can you tell us why?”

  “Ain’t never been in a courtroom before. As a witness, I mean,” he added hastily. “Been in one for sentencin’ plenty of times, unfortunately. But ain’t never testified.”

  “Well, Mr. Graves, since you mentioned those sentencings, we might as well talk about them now. Get it all up front and out of the way. I’m sure Mr. Wallace will have some questions about your record, so let’s just let these good folks,” Haynes drawled, gesturing to the jurors, “hear about all the bad stuff you’ve done in the past.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Haynes grabbed a sheaf of papers from the prosecution table and began leafing through them, pausing to question Ricky Earl about each of the convictions that were listed. Constantly shifting around in his chair, repeatedly wiping the perspiration from his face with shaking hands, Ricky Earl seemed progressively more uncomfortable as he recited the details of the litany of crimes that had littered his life’s journey.

  Dismayed by Ricky Earl’s appearance, and puzzled by his demeanor since they had rehearsed this part of the testimony a number of times, Jeff turned slightly toward the media section behind him and caught Ella’s eye. She raised an eyebrow and shot him a questioning glance but all Jeff could do was offer a slight, perplexed shake of his head in return.

  “So, then, Mr. Graves,” Haynes said, his tone a delicate balance between conveying just the right amount of scorn for his witness’s criminal past while still embracing his truthfulness. “Have we about covered all your criminal transgressions?”

  “Yes, sir, best of my recollection, that’d be all of ’em.”

  “And, as you sit here today, you are presently incarcerated, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir. Drew twenty to forty years for attempted armed robbery. That’d be the last charge you mentioned. Doin’ my time up in Parchman, now.”

  Haynes flipped the papers back onto the table and edged his way toward the defense table.

  “Mr. Graves,” Haynes said, raising his voice dramatically, “do you know the defendant, Tillman Jessup?”

  “Yes, sir, I do,” Ricky Earl said, turning his gaze toward Jessup.

  For a moment, Ricky Earl seemed to regain his composure as he and Jessup locked eyes, an angry, wordless tug-of-war between the two, with neither man apparently willing to be the first to break off the hostile staring contest. Swiftly, not wanting Ricky Earl to show any weakness by being the first to blink, Haynes stepped between the two men and reeled his witness back in.

  “Tell us, Mr. Graves,” Haynes asked as he ambled back toward the jury box, “how is it that you know the defendant?”

  “Well, sir, I grew up right outside of Oxford. We all went to the same high school, couple years apart. Didn’t much run in the same social circles, if y’all know what I mean,” Ricky Earl added, with a small, self-deprecating grin. “I was just a redneck cowboy and he was one a them rich college kids. But we’d bump into each other once or twice. Was a pretty small town back then.”

  “Were the two of you friends?”

  “No, sir, not really. Just kinda knew each other to say ‘hey’ when we passed.”

  “Now, Mr. Graves, I want to direct your attention back to the night of July 21st of 1960. Do you remember where you were during the course of that night?”

  “I sure do.”

  “And do you remember who you were with?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, then. Let me first direct your attention to around eleven p.m. that night. Could you tell us where you were at that time?”

  “Yes, sir. We were parked in a field outside of town . . . right near the old colored Baptist church,” Ricky Earl answered, his voice faltering toward the end.

  “Would that be the Morning Star Baptist Church?”

  Ricky Earl stared at the district attorney, almost as if he had not heard the question.

  “Mr. Graves? Would that be the old Morning Star Baptist Church?” Haynes repeated.

  Ricky Earl glanced frantically around the courtroom, a look of unfocused puzzlement on his face. His right hand snaked up to the collar of his shirt, tugging on it as he opened his mouth wide and gasped for air.

  “Mr. Graves . . . are you okay?” a concerned Haynes asked as he stepped closer to the witness box.

  Rocking forward in his chair, Ricky Earl wrapped his arms around his chest, as a low, strangled moan barely escaped from his lips. He turned his head, his eyes wild, his chest heaving, and looked directly at Tillman Jessup.

  “He . . . killed . . . him,” he sputtered, pointing a trembling finger toward the defendant.

  Ricky Earl tumbled to the floor, rolling onto his back. His hands clenched at his throat, desperately struggling to draw a breath.

  There was a rush of sound through the courtroom, like
the whoosh of a passing train. Some spectators gasped in astonishment, a few let out shrieks, while many jumped to their feet to try to catch a better view of the drama playing out near the witness box.

  “Objection, Your Honor!” roared Channing Wallace, springing to his feet.

  Jeff also leapt up and dashed toward the writhing figure of Ricky Earl, as Judge Langston ordered the nearest court officer to call for an ambulance. At the same time that Jeff reached his client, another officer dropped to the floor and quickly checked Ricky Earl’s pulse.

  “Think it’s a heart attack. Grab the med kit,” he yelled, as he immediately started chest compressions. “And tell the ambulance to hustle!”

  Judge Langston pounded his gavel. “Take the jury out—right away,” he ordered.

  A third officer immediately ushered the jurors toward the door to the jury room, all of them straining to see what was happening as they were hastily jostled out.

  “And clear the courtroom! Everyone out! Now!” the judge shouted, slamming his gavel repeatedly on the bench.

  CHAPTER 49

  The waiting room was nearly empty. Jeff and Ella sat huddled together on a small, vinyl-covered couch, while Terrell Jackson was camped out in an oversized armchair directly across from them. It had been more than an hour since Ricky Earl Graves had been rushed to the hospital, emergency medical technicians working frantically to keep him alive on the way to the emergency room.

  Jeff looked up as the door separating the waiting room from the medical treatment areas slid open. A doctor, dressed in green hospital scrubs and a flowered surgical cap, spotted them in the corner.

  “You folks here for Mr. Graves?” she asked, approaching them.

  “Yes. How is he?” Jeff asked, as the three of them jumped up.

  The doctor offered a weary shake of her head. “I’m very sorry. Afraid we couldn’t save him. His heart just gave out. We tried to shock him back, but he was too far gone by the time he got here.”

  “Aw, Jesus Christ,” Jackson mumbled, dropping back into his chair. “Jesus Christ,” he repeated, shaking his head slowly.

  “God damn it,” Jeff said angrily. “This is my fault. I could tell he wasn’t well. I should’ve done something.”

  Ella reached out and gently touched Jeff’s arm. “You can’t blame yourself for something like this,” she said soothingly. “You couldn’t have known.”

  Jeff shook his head. “He kept saying he was just nervous. But he looked awful.”

  “She’s right,” the doctor interrupted. “You couldn’t have known what was coming. With a case like this—someone with such a bad heart condition—there’s no way to tell when the heart is just going to fail.”

  Jeff looked at the doctor, obviously puzzled. “A heart condition?”

  “Pretty serious one. Must’ve had it for some time,” the doctor answered.

  Jeff looked first to Ella, then to Jackson. “Ricky Earl ever mention a heart problem?”

  “Nope. Not to me,” Jackson said.

  “I don’t remember him ever saying anything about it,” Ella added.

  “Why do you say he had a heart condition?” Jeff asked, turning back to the doctor. “How do you know that?”

  The doctor flipped open the chart she was carrying and scanned the documents inside.

  “Well, first you’ve got the history we received from the EMS folks—chest pains, breathing problems, excessive sweating, vomiting, decreased consciousness. His heart was in an arrhythmia, racing uncontrollably when he arrived. All classic symptoms.” She peered at another note in the file. “Then, of course, you have the medication he was taking.”

  “Wait,” exclaimed Jeff. “What medication?”

  “Digitalis,” answered the doctor.

  “Digitalis?” asked Ella.

  “Right. It’s a medication prescribed to certain heart patients as an antiarrhythmic agent to control the heart rate. It’s used often for patients diagnosed with congestive heart failure.”

  “So, you need a prescription for it?” Ella asked. “Not over-the-counter?”

  “Absolutely. And the levels need to be carefully monitored.”

  Terrell Jackson, who had been listening to the conversation, nodded at Jeff as he grabbed his cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll check it out,” he said, moving off into another corner of the room.

  “How do you know he was actually taking this digitalis?” Jeff asked.

  “Right here.” The doctor tapped her finger on a page in the chart. “We run blood tests immediately when the patient arrives. Helps with the diagnosis and treatment. Shows here that Mr. Graves had digitalis in his blood when he got here. Must’ve taken his meds fairly recently.”

  The doctor paused as she looked at the test results. “Hmm,” she mumbled, almost to herself. Something had obviously caught her attention.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Ella.

  “The numbers,” she answered, frowning, “seem awfully high.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Jeff.

  “The digitalis level. Didn’t have the numbers while we were working on him. But now that I see them, they’re way higher than you’d expect. Actually,” she added, scanning the page, “they’re dangerously high.”

  “But how can a medication meant to control your heart rate be dangerous?” asked Ella.

  “It’s called ‘digitalis toxicity.’ If a patient takes too much—either from chronic overmedication or a single exposure—it can cause a whole host of problems.”

  “Such as?” asked Jeff.

  “Irregular pulse, loss of appetite, nausea and vomiting, difficulty breathing,” the doctor rattled off, without a second thought.

  “Is that the worst that can happen?” said Ella.

  The doctor shook her head as she looked back at her charts. “Worst case,” she said, ominously, “it can actually cause arrhythmias, even heart failure.”

  “Isn’t that exactly what you’re saying happened to Ricky Earl?” asked Ella.

  Before the doctor could answer, Jackson rushed over, cell phone in hand.

  “No prescriptions,” he said, straining to control his anger. “No digitalis, no nothin’. Ricky Earl’s been in the joint—first Parchman and now here—for more than six months now and there ain’t no record anywhere of him havin’ any prescriptions or gettin’ any kind of medications that whole time. Nothin’!”

  CHAPTER 50

  Jeff and Ella sat in the back booth of a small café on the Square, trying unsuccessfully to force down a late dinner. Following the news of Ricky Earl’s death and the discovery of the digitalis in his system, Terrell Jackson had rushed from the hospital to make arrangements for an immediate autopsy by the medical examiner. In the meantime, Jeff had spoken to District Attorney Haynes and had filled him in on the suspicious findings. Haynes then told Jeff that Judge Langston had agreed, despite the vehement objection by the defense, to adjourn the trial for two days while the prosecution determined if it was possible to continue the case without the testimony of their chief witness.

  “So?” said Ella.

  Jeff stopped picking at the food on his plate and looked up at her.

  “‘So’ . . . what?”

  “So . . . what happens now?” she asked.

  Shaking his head, Jeff took a deep breath and let it escape slowly.

  “I just don’t know. Can’t imagine that the prosecution can continue without Ricky Earl’s testimony . . .”

  “But what about the other evidence?” Ella interrupted. “The woman who saw the cars. The details about the gathering at the church that night and the song they were singing. The location of the body. Doesn’t that all help?”

  “Yeah, it helps,” he said, his voice laced with frustration. “But only to corroborate Ricky Earl’s testimony. Without him, there’s nothing to directly implicate Tillman Jessup. And since the defense didn
’t get to cross-examine him, nothing that he said on the stand—including accusing Jessup of the murder just before he collapsed—can be considered by the jury. It’s like it never happened. I can’t think of any way the judge could let the case continue without Ricky Earl.” He sighed. “Afraid we’re done,” he said bitterly.

  “So, that’s it? A killer gets to walk away? Just like that? Case closed?”

  “Yup. Case closed.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Ella reached across the table and took his hand.

  “Nothing we can do right now. Let’s go home and try to get some sleep. What’s the famous Scarlett O’Hara line from Gone with the Wind?”

  “‘Tomorrow is another day!’” Jeff answered. “A good little Southern belle like you should know that line by heart,” he added, a small, sad smile creeping across his face. They stood and Jeff threw some money on the table. They left the café, Ella’s arm looped through Jeff’s, her head touching his shoulder. They strolled slowly across the Square, down the street, and up the stairs to his apartment. Jeff dug around in his pockets until he found his keys, unlocked the door, and flipped the light switch as they stepped inside, closing the door behind them.

  “Well, by tomorrow—Jesus Christ!” Ella blurted, a flash of fear in her voice.

  Instinctively, Jeff swept Ella behind him as he whirled toward the shadow seated in the armchair on the other side of the living room.

  “Whoa! Easy there, cowboy,” said the dark figure, in a deep, raspy drawl. “Don’t go doin’ nothin’ stupid,” he added, raising a long-barreled Smith & Wesson .357 revolver and pointing it directly at Jeff’s chest. The shadowy figure reached over and flicked on a lamp perched on a small table next to the armchair.

  Jeff glared at A. J. Hollingsly.

  “What the hell’re you doing here?” Jeff snarled.

  “Just thought it was time we had ourselves another little chat. Last one didn’t really go too damn well. Thought it’d be better if I just waited in here awhile instead of hangin’ out in the hallway. Didn’t think y’all would mind.” Hollingsly shrugged.