The Walls of Jericho

by Jack Ford

  She reached out, took his hand, and grinned.

  “Not much chance of that. I remembered why I really like it down here. Guess I’m still a Delta girl at heart. Talked to my editor yesterday and she agreed there’s no reason why I can’t work from down here. It’s not like the old days anymore where you need to be in the newsroom to file a story. You can file from anywhere, now. So, I think I might just stay awhile.”

  CHAPTER 56

  The chambers of Judge Rogers Langston mirrored the life of their occupant. Strong and masculine, with dark wood paneling, heavy carved furniture, and plush leather chairs, the stately men’s club décor reflected the deep traditions of the judiciary of the Old South. The walls held a panoramic vista of the trappings of a successful legal career. Ornately framed degrees from the University of Mississippi and Harvard Law School were surrounded by photos of the judge with a staggering array of local and political figures. Plaques and award citations attesting to his judicial accomplishments were deployed like sentinels at strategic locations, adorning the walls and tabletops. Woven throughout the office were photos of the judge with his wife and children, sharing vacations and other happy family occasions.

  Jeff sat across the vast expanse of the judge’s desk, struck by the order and structure of its contents. Although the desk was covered with papers and law books, all were neatly distributed in a precise and systematic fashion. Again, a reflection of the man.

  Judge Langston rocked back in his swivel chair, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and crimson and blue striped tie, his judicial robes hung regally on a brass hook behind him.

  “So, Jeff,” he began, “I was curious about your request to see me. You sure that the DA and defense lawyers don’t need to be here, too?”

  “No, sir,” Jeff said. “I don’t believe that’s necessary.”

  The judge nodded. “Okay. I trust your judgment. So, what’s this all about?”

  “Well, Your Honor, I wanted to run something by you. I’m looking for some advice.”

  “Happy to help, if I can.”

  Jeff took a deep breath and began hesitantly.

  “Let me give you a hypothetical situation. Then, perhaps, you can give me your thoughts. Okay?”

  “Certainly,” the judge said, leaning forward in his chair.

  “Suppose a possible witness comes to light in the midst of a trial. Neither side knows anything about this witness, but someone who’s peripherally involved with the case receives information that this witness might have direct knowledge of certain important facts.”

  “Is this hypothetical witness available to testify?”

  “That’s the problem. At least, it’s part of the problem.”

  Judge Langston looked at Jeff quizzically.

  “Let me explain,” Jeff said quickly. “This hypothetical individual, if the information is true, is the only person left who may have witnessed certain events. But, because of the person’s medical condition, the facts can’t be confirmed.”

  “What kind of condition?”

  Jeff paused. “Let’s just say that the person’s impaired cognitive functions and inability to communicate would prevent anyone from being able to positively confirm the allegations.”

  The judge looked carefully at Jeff, his focus now sharp and penetrating.

  “So,” he said, his eyes narrowing, “this hypothetical person can’t actually confirm the suggestion that he may be a witness?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And there’s no other available evidence to confirm it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And he’s not capable of communicating? Couldn’t testify under oath?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  Judge Langston stared for a long moment at Jeff, and then leaned back in his chair, his chin tilted toward the ceiling.

  Finally, he grunted and turned to Jeff.

  “Well—hypothetically speaking—it doesn’t seem to me that this should be a real problem. There’s absolutely no independent confirmation of the suggestion that the witness is actually in possession of relevant and material facts. And clearly he would not presently be competent to testify in any event.” The judge leaned forward, his hands folded on the desk, a spark of sympathy in his eyes as he looked knowingly at Jeff.

  “In my opinion—in this hypothetical situation—a person could not then be considered a material and competent witness. And,” he added, “as a result, there’d certainly be no need to bring any of this to the attention of any of the parties.”

  Jeff took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and nodded thankfully to the judge.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I appreciate your time and your thoughts.”

  “Not a problem,” the judge said, rising from his chair. “And since this was just a hypothetical conversation, seems to me we can just assume that this talk never happened.”

  As they got to the door, the judge placed his hand on the polished silver knob and paused.

  “I ever tell you, Jeff,” he said kindly, “how much I’ve respected your father over the years?”

  “No, sir,” Jeff said, his voice faltering with emotion.

  “About time, then, that I did. A truly great man. Send him my regards, will you?”

  “Yes, sir. I surely will.”

  CHAPTER 57

  The prosecution team, including Jeff, was gathered Friday morning in the conference room in the hallway outside of the courtroom. The room was quiet and tense, barely masking a roiling anger over the fact that they were about to lose the most important case brought by the district attorney’s office in decades. Gibb Haynes stood at the head of a small conference table, sullenly shuffling through some notes while his staff sat quietly around the table. Sheriff Poole had parked himself in a chair in the corner, a deep scowl creasing his square face. Jeff sat in the other corner, absently fidgeting with a pen, anxious to get the court session over with, knowing that once Judge Langston was told the prosecution no longer had any witness who could directly tie the defendant to the killing, he would have no choice but to grant the defense motion to dismiss the charges against Tillman Jessup.

  The door flew open and Terrell Jackson burst in, waving a sheaf of papers in his massive hands.

  “He was murdered!” he exclaimed.

  Everyone looked up.

  “What?” asked Haynes.

  “Ricky Earl! He was murdered!”

  There was an odd, puzzled silence for a moment, and then everyone began shouting questions at the same time.

  “Hold it! Quiet down!” Haynes hollered. He turned toward Jackson. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Ricky Earl didn’t have a heart attack,” Jackson said, nearly breathless. “He was murdered!”

  “Murdered? How?” asked Sheriff Poole, his face tight with anger.

  Jackson threw the papers down on the table.

  “It’s all right here. Just got off the phone with the medical examiner. The cause of death was digitalis toxicity.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” growled the sheriff.

  “It means he was poisoned!” said Jackson.

  “Slow down a minute,” Haynes ordered. “Gimme the details.”

  Jackson took a deep breath and looked toward Jeff. “Remember when the ER doc at the hospital told us that digitalis showed up in Ricky Earl’s blood test? A lot of it?”

  Jeff nodded.

  “Well, the medical examiner says the amount was more—a whole helluva lot more—than would ever be prescribed. Said it must’ve been either chronic overdosing or a single massive ingestion. I checked all the jail records. Ricky Earl had been behind bars for almost a year. No prescriptions! No digitalis! No heart problems! No nothin’!”

  “So, how . . . ?” Haynes began.

  “Don’t know for sure,” Jackson interrupted. “Medical examiner said it can be ingested a lot of ways. In food.
In somethin’ he drank.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Gibb Haynes muttered through clenched teeth. “How the fuck did they get to him?”

  “I ordered everythin’ from his cell boxed up for testing. Gonna take a look at all the security tapes from the jail, too. Hope to get some kinda answers back quick,” Jackson said.

  The room became silent once again, the earlier frustration now replaced by a seething rage.

  “Any way we can use this to keep the case from being dismissed?” asked one of the young staff members.

  Gibb Haynes shook his head somberly. “Afraid not. Not for the murder charge. Without Ricky Earl, we’re done.”

  “But what if Jessup, or someone on his team, was responsible?” asked the same staffer.

  “First, we’d have to be able to prove it,” said Haynes. “Even then, yeah, we could charge them with Ricky Earl’s murder, but this case against Jessup is still gonna go away.”

  Haynes picked up the report that had been faxed by the medical examiner and rapidly scanned it. Disgusted, he tossed the pages back, scattering them across the table and onto the floor.

  “Might as well go get this fuckin’ circus over with,” he said. “Then,” he added, shooting a hard glance at both Sheriff Poole and Terrell Jackson, “y’all get out there and find me a damn murderer!”

  CHAPTER 58

  Inside the courtroom, every available seat had been claimed for more than an hour, most of them by restless members of the media. Ella was in her usual seat in the front of the chamber, her attention once again drawn to the powerful magnet of Kendra Leigh Jessup. While other friends and supporters seemed relaxed, some practically jubilant, she appeared somber and withdrawn, almost uninterested in her husband’s fate.

  At the defense table, Tillman Jessup and Channing Wallace were locked in whispered conversation, while Jessup’s aide, Royce Henning, was leaning over the railing, amiably chatting up a gaggle of reporters.

  The courtroom doors swung open and the prosecution team marched in, District Attorney Gibb Haynes and Sheriff Clayton Poole in the vanguard, faces hard as chiseled stone. Jeff, bringing up the rear, glanced in Ella’s direction, raising an eyebrow and inclining his head as a signal that something very interesting was about to play out.

  A moment later, Judge Rogers Langston took the bench. He carefully arranged the case file and a number of legal texts before him and then rapped his gavel.

  “All right, folks. Y’all can settle down,” he intoned, peering out at the crowd gathered in the courtroom before turning toward the lawyers.

  “We’ve got some matters to resolve before I bring the jury in. Following our last session two days ago, and the unfortunate death of the prosecution’s witness, Ricky Earl Graves, I had granted the prosecution’s request for a two-day adjournment. Mr. Haynes, you had asked for the time to assess whether you were still in a position to proceed with your case. In the meantime, the defense has filed a motion seeking the dismissal of all charges, contending that, without the testimony of Mr. Graves, there is an insufficient factual basis for this prosecution to continue. So, Mr. Haynes,” the judge said, focusing his attention on the district attorney, “let’s start with you. Do you have any other testimony that, in some fashion, could link this defendant to the murder?”

  Gibb Haynes rose deliberately from his chair. “Your Honor,” he began, his voice soaked in angry, righteous indignation. “First of all, I’d like to advise the court that our witness, Ricky Earl Graves—the one person who has directly identified this defendant as the man who killed Reverend Elijah Hall—did not just ‘unfortunately’ pass away.” Haynes paused dramatically, and then continued. “He was, in fact, murdered!”

  There was a detonation of gasps and surprised cries as the seismic shockwave of the district attorney’s accusation rolled through the courtroom. Judge Langston flailed his gavel once, twice, and then a third time before order was restored.

  “That is a serious allegation, Mr. Haynes,” the judge said.

  “It is, indeed, Your Honor. But it is also true. The medical examiner has concluded that Mr. Graves did not die of natural causes—he was poisoned. We’re talking about murder, obstruction of justice, tampering with a witness. And I assure Your Honor—and the good citizens of this county—that we intend to throw all of our resources into this investigation. We will find the killer—or killers—and I promise that justice will be swift and harsh.”

  “Your Honor,” Channing Wallace cried, leaping to his feet. “This is an outrage! We object to any implication that this witness might have been killed—if, indeed, he was killed—because of his involvement with my client and this case. And I would demand a retraction of that statement by the district attorney.”

  Haynes first glared at Wallace and Tillman Jessup, and then turned toward the judge.

  “A retraction, Your Honor?” the DA said cynically. “Does Mr. Wallace think this is the Old South of long ago and that, somehow, I’ve slighted his honor? What’s next? A duel? Pistols at twenty paces?”

  Haynes shifted his gaze back to the defense table.

  “Seems to me,” he added ironically, “the defense ‘doth protest too much,’ if I can borrow a line from Mr. Shakespeare. I’m not sure why they should be so upset. I haven’t accused anyone. I wonder if Mr. Wallace—or, perhaps, his client—knows something that I don’t know about Mr. Graves’s poisoning?”

  “This is completely improper,” Wallace roared, “and Mr. Haynes should know better.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Judge Langston interrupted sternly. “That’s enough. From both of you. Now y’all settle down. And sit down. Now!”

  The judge waited for a moment until both lawyers—Wallace still fuming and Haynes still indignant—reluctantly took their seats.

  “Now, then, Mr. Haynes,” the judge began, “I certainly understand your concern over the medical examiner’s findings. And your intention to pursue a murder investigation. But I’m concerned right now with this case—and this case alone. So, let me ask you this: Do you have any additional witnesses who can, either directly or circumstantially, link this defendant to the killing of Elijah Hall?”

  Gibb Haynes stood, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. He looked first at Tillman Jessup and then at Judge Langston.

  “No, Your Honor. I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Am I correct, then, that you would have no additional facts to present to this jury?”

  “That is correct, Your Honor.”

  “Well, then, in that case, since I am satisfied that there are no additional witnesses who would be competent to add any material evidence to the prosecution’s case,” the judge said solemnly, catching Jeff’s eyes for a barely perceptible instant, “I must now render a decision on the defense motion to dismiss the case. You see, Mr. Wallace has taken the position that, without the testimony of Ricky Earl Graves, there is, as a matter of law, an insufficient factual basis to allow this case to go to a jury.”

  Judge Langston paused and rocked back in his chair, deep in thought. Finally, he looked to the district attorney. “Mr. Haynes, I’m afraid that, under the circumstances, I must agree with Mr. Wallace. Y’all have certainly proved that Reverend Hall was murdered, but, as we know, that fact was never an issue. Unfortunately, your other witnesses have merely served to provide some circumstantial corroboration for the testimony that you expected to elicit from Ricky Earl Graves. But without his testimony—regardless of how Mr. Graves died—there is no link to this defendant for them to corroborate. The essence of your case no longer exists.”

  Judge Langston took a moment to scribble something on his notepad, and then looked sympathetically toward Haynes, who was staring stoically at the Great Seal of the State of Mississippi, hanging majestically above the judge’s bench.

  “As a result, I am constrained to grant the defense motion. Accordingly, the indictment against the defendant is hereby dismissed, the bail order
is vacated, any property pledged shall be released to the defendant forthwith, and the jury will be discharged.”

  The judge turned to face the defense table.

  “Mr. Jessup,” he said, “you, sir, are free to go.”

  The courtroom erupted in applause as Jessup’s supporters leaped to their feet, clapping and shouting, pushing toward the former defendant, extending hands in congratulations.

  In the midst of the celebration, Judge Langston quietly gathered up his books and papers and retired to his chambers. On the other side of the bench, Channing Wallace beamed as he embraced his client and then thrust a clenched fist into the air in celebration. Around the counsel table, the remainder of the defense team grasped hands and pounded backs as if they had just won the national championship in the Sugar Bowl.

  Meanwhile, Gibb Haynes angrily tossed his files into his briefcase and led the prosecution team on a forced march through the surging crowd, spitting out a terse “No comment right now” each time a reporter asked for a reaction.

  Jeff remained in his seat, watching the celebration unfold, as the media members struggled to get close enough to fire questions at Jessup. He saw Ella shouldering her way toward the railing opposite the defense table.

  “Senator Jessup,” a voice from the back of the room shouted. “How does it feel to have the charges against you dismissed?”

  Tillman Jessup stopped shaking hands and turned toward the crowd, his arms raised like a triumphant boxer in the ring.

  “I’ve said from the beginning that I was an innocent man,” he said, offering his best and broadest campaign smile. “And this certainly proves it.”

  A roar of approval came from the throng of well-wishers.

  “Senator? Senator?” Ella called out, raising her hand as she burst through the scrum and reached the railing. “What about the allegation that Ricky Earl Graves was murdered? What’s your reaction to that charge?”