Photographs taken from the second-floor landing that day reveal folks of all ages, races, and levels of society. The pressure of this crowd to get inside became so great that the courtroom had to be locked one hour before the hearing started. The eight-foot, wooden, double doors banged and creaked and moaned under the stress of the excited mob.
For the two deputies tasked with escorting Kennamer to court, the only way down from the third floor was the elevator. When the doors opened, the hallways leading to the hearing were so clogged with the morbidly curious that Kennamer had to be rerouted and brought in through the judge’s chamber. When he emerged into the room, reporters were careful to note the time, 9:07 a.m., and the dark blue-grey suit with grey tie he wore. His face was solemn and serious, and he kept his gaze from the crowd.
“As he calmly walked to a chair at the defense table, the murmur of voices from the spectators developed into a crescendo of tongue wagging,” senior World journalist Walter Biscup noted. He shared the jury box with nearly twenty other local, state, and national reporters. No photographers or cameras were allowed, and the visually dynamic scene had to be painted with words. “Kennamer sat upright and had his arms crossed against his chest. His face was expressionless. During the two weeks that he was held in the county jail, the prisoner’s complexion has assumed the ‘prison pallor.’”
In addition to the hundreds of curious spectators observing his every move, Kennamer was scrutinized by the careful gaze of Dr. Felix Adams, who was tasked with discerning any signs of abnormality.
One man noticeably absent was Judge Kennamer, who was in his chambers at the federal building. However, other members of the Kennamer family were present, including the defendant’s older brother, Franklin Jr., a young attorney working in Oklahoma City, and his sisters, Juanita Hayes and Opal.
A few minutes later, thirty-one-year-old Judge Bradford Williams took his seat with a call to order. He wasted no time in getting down to business. “If there are any schoolchildren here, including those of high school age, I want them out of the courtroom and back in their classes,” he ordered.
When Assistant County Attorney Tom Wallace called for the state’s eleven witnesses, only five answered. The other six were trapped on the first floor behind a sea of people. Five deputies were dispatched to escort them to the courtroom. “This they did by means of the old-fashioned wedge formation used in football games two decades ago,” the World reported.
The first witness called to the stand was Dr. Gorrell, who had been seated at the prosecution table next to Dr. Adams.
“Did you know John F. Gorrell Jr.?” County Attorney Anderson asked him.
“Yes.”
“How long did you know him?”
“All my life.”
“Is he living or dead?”
Tears welled in the doctor’s eyes, and he appeared to be struggling with his emotions. “Dead,” he said with a tremor.
The second witness was coroner Dr. Carl Simpson who testified that he saw Gorrell’s body at the Tulsa Undertaking Home, that he had been killed, and that there were two gunshot wounds to his head. He also noted there was a swelling over the right eye and a discoloration of the lips, indicators he’d been punched or struck with an object.
Wesley Cunningham, sleek-haired and serious, took the stand to tell how he had discovered Gorrell dead at five minutes after midnight on the morning of November 30. His testimony closely resembled what he had already told investigators: that he was driving south, coming from downtown Tulsa, and he had discovered Gorrell’s car, which was facing him with the left front wheel over the curb.
Anderson then called his star witness, Floyd Huff, and secretly hoped the agitated man would hold it together on the stand. The story he told that day was similar to what he had first told Chief of Detectives Thomas Higgins in Kansas City and had later told Tulsa investigators. The airplane mechanic and parts dealer was suffering from a cold, and when Anderson led him through his introductory questions, his replies were little more than a whisper. Moss, who had been leaning forward in his chair, struggling to hear the witness, called out to Huff to speak louder.
“Can’t,” a defiant Huff said. “I got a cold.”
“I can’t hear well so we make a bad combination,” Moss countered.
Huff smiled nervously and swung his head back toward Anderson who asked him if he knew Gorrell before November 21.
“I had met him twice before at Fairfax Airport in Kansas City,” Huff answered. He was wringing his hands in a clear sign he was anxious. “Our acquaintance was casual.”
Oblivious to the banging and creaking coming from the lobby outside the courtroom, Anderson continued. “When did you first meet Kennamer?”
“I met him at the Fairfax Airport the morning of November twen—”
BOOOM! The latch bolt and faceplate to the locked wooden doors holding back the horde cracked and broke apart, causing a surging tide of bewildered men and women to flow into the courtroom, crashing forward, screaming, falling over themselves, and sweeping aside two bailiffs who were powerless to stop it all.
Huff, possibly expecting an assassin, jumped several inches out of his chair and stared wild-eyed at the melee. The dam had broken, and one of the doors hung askew, a hinge pulled partially out. Judge Williams pounded his gavel viciously as nine other uniformed lawmen ran forward to force the mob back and restore order. Angered that his proceedings could turn into a circus, the judge threatened to clear out the entire courtroom unless calm prevailed.
Returning to his story, Huff told how Gorrell and Kennamer had arrived that morning, looking to rent an airplane, but were turned away because of bad weather. Then, for reasons not made clear, Huff said he drove the duo to the municipal airport in Kansas City where Kennamer left the return portion of his Braniff Airways ticket for safekeeping.
“Kennamer said he might get drunk and lose it,” Huff told the prosecutor. “He then sent two telegrams. I didn’t get to see them.”
He paused for a moment to blow his nose. Smiling sheepishly, he put the white handkerchief back in his pocket. Huff then told the court how their car ride to Tulsa had been arranged, and how Kennamer’s return ticket was sold to Gorrell’s friend, Everett Gartner.
When Huff and Kennamer left Gorrell at Gartner’s apartment, it was the last time Huff ever saw the young dental student. He then told how he and Kennamer first stopped at his house, and then at a Kansas City hotel where Kennamer bought a quart of whisky, a fact that did not surprise many Tulsans who were now aware the judge’s son had a drinking problem.
“During the ride, do you remember any startling conversation?” Anderson asked.
“Yes, he told me he was going to kill Gorrell,” Huff answered before correcting himself. “Well, he asked me if I knew why he came to Kansas City and I said I didn’t. He said he’d come up to kill Gorrell.
“‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he said.”
“‘Well,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’
“Then he reached back into his bag and brought out a dagger about eight or nine inches long and said he planned to kill Gorrell with it. He showed me, too, some rubber gloves and said he brought them with a view to not showing fingerprints.”
“What other conversation was there?” Anderson inquired.
“Well, he told me he thought a lot of this Wilcox girl, Miss Virginia Wilcox, daughter of Homer F. Wilcox, head of the Wilcox Oil and Gas Company, and that he was going to kill Gorrell because of a note.
“He said he went to Kansas City to get him, but that he missed connections and didn’t meet him until midnight the night before, which was too late. He told me then he had a plan to rent an airplane and to hit him on the head when they were above the clouds.”
“On the trip from Pittsburg to Tulsa, did Kennamer say anything else concerning Gorrell?” Anderson asked.
“He said that Gorrell was going to Tulsa the following week and that he’d get him then. Kennamer told me he would leave his car in so
me isolated spot and have Gorrell drive him out there. Then, he said, he would get out of the car and let him have it and drive away in his own machine.”
“Did he show you anything else besides the dagger and gloves?”
“I never saw the gloves,” Huff replied.
“Did he show you anything else?”
“Yes, it was an extortion note as he called it. He said he and Gorrell were in on it but he wasn’t going to mail it. It was addressed to Wilcox.”
Before he dropped Kennamer off at the Philtower Building in downtown Tulsa, Huff said he asked for Kennamer’s name and number in order to continue their acquaintance. The scrap of paper Kennamer wrote on was introduced as state’s exhibit one.
“When did you first learn Gorrell was killed?” Anderson asked.
“I think a week to the day that I left Kennamer here,” Huff answered.
“And then you related the facts to authorities?”
“Yes.”
“I have no more questions for this witness.”
Now, it was Moss’s turn, and as he carefully cross-examined the state’s star witness against his client, he zeroed in on how intoxicated everyone was, and the alleged threats against Gorrell.
“When you first saw these boys, they were drinking?” Moss asked.
“Evidently,” Huff said as he held up three fingers pressed together. “They had this much liquor in a bottle.”
“When did Kennamer first tell you about Gorrell?”
“About two hours after we left Kansas City.”
“What sort of liquor did Kennamer buy?”
“Pretty good liquor,” Huff replied, while the crowd laughed with him and Kennamer grinned. “It cost $4.50 a quart. A Canadian Scotch.”
“How many drinks did he have before the first statement was about Gorrell?”
“About three or four.”
“Was he tight [inebriated]?”
“Oh no.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“There had not been an unpleasant act or word between Kennamer and Gorrell, had there?” Moss queried.
“No.”
“They gave you to understand they were acquainted and friends?”
“I didn’t know they were anything but friends until Kennamer made those statements,” Huff said.
“Of course, you were surprised to hear such violent talk?”
“Sure, wouldn’t you have been?”
“Yes, I would,” Moss chuckled. He could sense Huff was getting agitated, and he wanted to encourage that to discredit him.
“Did you ever before hear of any such scheme for murder as this airplane plan?”
“I never did,” Huff said.
Although his questions, at first, seemed only to reinforce the prosecution’s line of inquiry, when broken down, they served to reinforce the defense attorney’s theory that his client was insane. After all, what sane person would clobber a man and then jump out of an airplane?
“Did Kennamer ever tell you that he had bailed out of a plane in a parachute before?”
“No.”
“How long did it take Kennamer to tell you this story?”
“Twenty or thirty minutes.”
“Quite naturally, you didn’t talk. He just talked constantly?”
“I didn’t know what to think,” Huff said with a bit of cockiness. Moss’s questions were taking longer than he imagined, and they seemed focused on the mundane.
“At Pittsburg that night, there was no further conversation on this topic?”
“No.”
“The next morning, did he talk of it again?” Moss pressed.
“Yes sir, he told it to me all over again except that last part.”
After a long discussion that seemed to go in circles, Huff clarified several times for Moss “that last part” referred to Kennamer’s plan to get Gorrell to a lonely spot and kill him there.
Sensing Huff’s frustration growing, Moss pressed him again. “What part did he tell you?”
“I’ve told you for the fourth time, Kennamer told me he was going to get Gorrell in a car and let him have it.”
“Did he say what he was going to let him have it with, was it the knife or a gun or what?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was he going to use—knife or gun?”
“He didn’t say,” Huff answered.
“Now, just a minute ago, you said—” Moss began.
“Look at the record,” Huff shouted, while pointing his finger at the court reporter. Moss tried to reply, and Huff interrupted him again. “Retrace your statement and you’ll see what I said.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t come down here to get mixed up,” the ex-convict said as he glared at Moss. “I want to tell what Kennamer said. I’m not going to answer to you.”
Judge Williams called him to order and told him to be more mindful of the duties of a witness.
“Now please, for God’s sake, don’t get mad,” Moss teased. It was a comment that broke the tension, sparking nervous laughter throughout the courtroom, where even the judge smiled broadly.
“You didn’t believe any of the stuff Kennamer told you?”
“No.”
“Where did he show you the note?”
“We were driving, at night. Kennamer turned on the dome light.”
“Did he tell you what was in the note?”
“He said it was a demand for $20,000 to be left in twenties, tens and five dollar bills.”
“Did he tell you what would occur to the Wilcox family if the money wasn’t delivered?”
“He didn’t go that far into detail,” Huff answered.
“Did he tell you what he intended to do with the letter?”
“No, but I advised him to turn it over to the police,” Huff answered. “He did say something in regards to the letter. He said he thought an awful lot of the Wilcox girl, and would keep the letter on her behalf.”
“Did he tell you he was going to disrupt the plot?” Moss asked.
“Yes, he did say something to that general effect.”
Moss concluded his cross-examination, and Huff was dismissed. His testimony had the crowd sitting at the edge of their seats, straining to hear every word. One more witness was called, and if they were hoping for confirmation of scandalous rumors, they were disappointed. Deputy Sheriff Nathan Martin merely recalled the moment that Saturday afternoon when Kennamer surrendered and said, “I shot Gorrell.”
State Attorney General King was right. Besides Huff’s testimony, there were no sensational discoveries. No new names mentioned. No rumors put to rest.
Almost immediately, Judge Williams rendered his judgment. “I order the defendant, Phil Kennamer, bound over for jury trial on a charge of first-degree murder, at the January term of district court.”
There was a surge of the crowd toward the door and deputies had difficulty pressing Kennamer through the massive crowd to get him to the elevator that returned him to the matron’s quarters. During the slow procession, he managed to remain quiet and answered no questions.
Judge Thurman Hurst of district four was slated to receive the case. Court watchers predicted the trial would start on January 28. Tulsa would have to wait six weeks until all the wild rumors they knew to be true were finally confirmed as factual. And in that moment, filled with both disappointment over the bland hearing and eagerness to learn more, it seemed as though hundreds of city residents would wait those six weeks right there in the courthouse.
“The hundreds of spectators who could not obtain access to the courtroom refused to leave the building,” the Tulsa World reported. “They believed that a recess had been called and bailiffs were attempting to trick them into leaving the building in order to lessen the number of spectators.”
It took another three to four hours for the most obstinate of the crowd to admit defeat and go home.
Chapter Twelve
FOR THE FIRST THREE CENTURIES after Columb
us “discovered” America, not much had happened in the region that would later become Oklahoma. The area was largely occupied by Indians of the Caddo, Wichita, and Pawnee tribes, and later, the Kiowa and Apache. With the Louisiana Purchase of 1803, America acquired 828,000 acres of territory from France at three cents an acre, for a total cost of $15 million. This area would eventually yield fifteen states and a small portion of two Canadian provinces.
Three territories, Missouri, Orleans, and Arkansas, were named from this purchase by the time the Indian Removal Act was approved in 1830. This act paved the way for the federal government to forcibly relocate Indians from the Five Civilized Tribes of the Chickasaw, Choctaw, Muscogee-Creek, Seminole, and Cherokee Nations from their homes in the Southeastern United States to what would become known as Indian Territory. Tens of thousands of Indians were marched halfway across the country in a forced mass migration that would eventually be called the “Trail of Tears,” a reference to the thousands of Indians who died along the way.
At their destination, the five tribes received large allotments of land, formed their own governments, and were encouraged to become farmers, trappers, and ranchers. But over the next five decades, numerous acts and treaties reduced their holdings and made generous allowances for white settlers.
When the Muscogee-Creek Indians from Alabama moved into their new lands, the Turtle Clan settled down underneath a large oak tree near the corner of what is now Cheyenne Avenue and 18th Street in Tulsa.[21] They named their new settlement “Tulasi,” which meant “old town” in their language. The Civil War largely postponed economic development in the region, while the Reconstruction era contributed only slightly to the area’s growth. The first post office for a village that now called itself “Tulsa” wasn’t built until 1879.
Deadly Hero: The High Society Murder that Created Hysteria in the Heartland Page 11