by Scott Pratt
Clancy: “What happened to that money, Mr. Tipton?”
Tipton: “I turned it over to you all when you came around accusing me of killing Jalen Jordan.”
Clancy: (Showing the witness a stack of bills.) “Does this appear to be the money Mr. Street paid you?”
Tipton: “I can’t say that’s it for sure, but it looks like it.”
Clancy: “So let’s get this all straight for the jury, all right? You initially purchased the rifle from a friend of yours named Bill Miller. Mr. Street came to you in April. He was upset and told you this story, then he asked you if you would sell him a rifle. You agreed, and he paid you five thousand dollars. He left, and you didn’t see the rifle again until a week later when you were picked up and questioned by FBI agents after Jalen Jordan was murdered. At that time, you admitted that you’d bought the rifle from Bill Miller, told the agents you’d sold it to Darren Street, and turned over the money he paid you for the rifle. Is that correct?”
Tipton: “That’s about it, yes, sir.”
Clancy: “Had you used the rifle recently, Mr. Tipton?”
Tipton: “Not since hunting season, back in December.”
Clancy: “Do you know whether the scope was aligned properly? Was it zeroed-in, as they say?”
Tipton: “The scope was zeroed. I keep all my weapons in perfect shape.”
Clancy: “Thank you, Mr. Tipton.”
Grace didn’t even pick up her notes. She went straight to the lectern and stared at Tipton for a long minute.
“You committed this murder, didn’t you, Mr. Tipton?” she said.
James’s shoulders dropped and he folded his hands in his lap. I didn’t know what he’d expected when he walked into the courtroom, but Grace’s posture and the tone of her voice very quickly told him it wasn’t going to be pleasant.
“No, ma’am,” James said.
“Mr. Street came to you and originally offered you fifty thousand dollars to kill Mr. Jordan, didn’t he?”
“No.”
“He gave you the money, too. He didn’t give you five thousand, he gave you fifty thousand. Where is the other forty-five thousand dollars, Mr. Tipton?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. Street came to you originally because he knew you had violent tendencies. You’ve been known to cut people up with knives, haven’t you?”
“I was acquitted of that charge.”
“But you still cut a man so badly that almost three hundred stitches were required to close the knife wounds, isn’t that right?”
“It was self-defense.”
“How many other people have you cut up, Mr. Tipton?”
“I haven’t been charged with anything else.”
“How many others have you cut up? How many others, besides Jalen Jordan, have you killed?”
“None. I haven’t killed or cut up anybody. And I didn’t kill Jalen Jordan.”
“Mr. Street knew you were capable of violence, he was frightened for his son, so he came to you and asked you to commit a killing. It was a mistake, and he realized that quickly and came back first thing the next morning, didn’t he? He came back to your trailer and he told you he didn’t want you to harm anyone. He told you to forget what he said the night before and he said you could keep the money he’d already given you.”
“Today is the first time I’ve seen him since I sold him the rifle.”
“Did you plant the tree stand in his garage?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Did you toss the rifle in a place where it would be easy for the FBI to find it and then plant the tree stand in Mr. Street’s garage so the FBI would find it, too?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You set him up. You’re taking part in framing Mr. Street. Why are you doing this, Mr. Tipton?”
“I’m not.”
“Do you sell drugs, Mr. Tipton?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Does anyone in your family sell drugs?”
“No.”
“Do you use drugs?”
“No.”
It went on like that for another forty-five minutes. Grace hammered away and Tipton denied. She accused him of committing the murder. She accused him of killing two men in Sevier County. She accused him of being a drug dealer and a pimp and a burglar and now a lying snitch, but Tipton was like Teflon. Everything she said just sort of slid off him. He stayed calm and didn’t allow himself to be baited. She asked him three times whether he’d been promised anything by the government in exchange for his testimony, and he said no. He was there, he said, only because he’d been accused early on. He was there only because he’d sold me a gun, which I’d apparently used to commit a murder and then had been stupid enough to hide poorly.
I knew he was lying and Grace knew he was lying and Clancy knew he was lying, but he was good enough at it that I didn’t think there was anything the jury could really lock on to and say, “This guy isn’t telling the truth.” Clancy had coached him effectively and he’d coached him thoroughly.
In the end, Tipton walked out of the courtroom like an automaton, staring straight ahead. He hadn’t looked at me a single time during his testimony, and I could only wonder what Clancy had done to coerce him into lying.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Once Tipton was finished, I checked out mentally for a little while. His testimony was almost completely false, but with the other witnesses Clancy had called and the way he had framed the narrative of the trial, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was doomed. It was as though the people around me were moving and speaking in a thick mist. I could hear them, but the things they said didn’t completely register and I didn’t fully comprehend what was going on. I was aware that Clancy called a fingerprint expert who testified that my fingerprints were on the money James Tipton had turned over to the FBI. He then called the property manager of the chalet Mom, Sean, and I stayed in and used credit card receipts to prove that I was near Tipton’s home that night. His final witness was Hillbilly, who told the jury that I told him I’d murdered Jalen Jordan because he had threatened to harm my son. He said I told him I enjoyed seeing the bullet tear into Jalen’s chest and that I would do the same thing again under the same circumstances. Again, Grace was a valiant warrior. She completely discredited Hillbilly as a jailhouse snitch, but things had gone so badly I almost felt sorry for her.
After Hillbilly was excused, Clancy stood up and said, “The United States rests, Your Honor.”
My mom took the stand and told the truth, and sitting there listening to her after all that I’d heard over the previous three days, I knew the story Ben Clancy was putting forth was far more compelling than the one we were telling. When Grace finished with her direct examination of my mother, Clancy stood up and asked her three questions: “Do you love your son, Mrs. Royston?” “Would you do anything for him?” “Would you lie?”
Looking back on it, I was a terrible witness. Six months in what amounted to solitary confinement may have allowed Grace and me to talk privately, but it certainly hadn’t sharpened my social skills. I was stiff and unsure of myself on the witness stand. I was embarrassed and humiliated that I was there in the first place. And the things I had to say were almost unbelievable, even to me. I blurted out the information that during my interview of Jalen Jordan, he had admitted to me that he had already killed two boys and that he was totally unreasonable—almost delusional—about what the outcome of his assault case would be. After being sternly chastised by the judge, I went on to explain that he had threatened Sean, that he knew personal information about him, and that, yes, I was highly upset. Did I say all of those things to Rachel and Katie and Olivia Denton and Bob Ridge and Richie Fels? Yes, unfortunately, but I didn’t really intend to kill Jalen. I was terrified for my son. Jalen followed my mo
ther home, for God’s sake. Did I attempt to hire James Tipton? Yes. Did I give him $50,000? Yes. I gave him fifty, not five. He was lying about that, along with nearly everything else.
Because I called it off the next morning.
I swear I called it off the next morning.
I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t have killed him. I didn’t own a rifle and had very, very limited experience with shooting. Yes, I had Jalen’s address, but no, I didn’t stalk him. There was simply no way I could have known he was going to be on the trail that day. No, I didn’t own a tree stand. I’d never been deer hunting.
I didn’t kill him.
Ben Clancy’s cross-examination of me was surprisingly brief. He acted as though nothing I’d said held any importance at all, that I was simply another murderer lying through his teeth to save his own ass. He did stumble once, though, when he said, “Why would James Tipton come in here and lie to this jury?”
“Because you have something on him and you’ve threatened him,” I said.
I saw just a hint of surprise on his face, and I knew I was right. Clancy had coerced James somehow. But he recovered quickly, wrapped up his cross-examination, and before I knew it, the trial was over. Clancy and Grace delivered their closing arguments, the judge instructed the jury, and three hours later the marshals came to the holding cell and took me back to the courtroom.
The jury had reached a verdict.
As I walked in from the holding area, I took a look around the courtroom. It was packed, not a single seat open, with people standing against the walls. Most of them, I knew, were reporters. I saw Richie Fels and Rachel, my secretary. My mother had managed to get a seat right behind me. There was no sign of James Tipton or Katie. Marion Jordan wasn’t there, which surprised me a little, but there had been very little mention of the man I’d been accused of killing. Clancy hadn’t introduced photos of him and nobody had taken the stand to tell the jury what a great guy he was. I started thinking at that moment that a better strategy for me from the beginning would have been to lie and say, “Yeah, I killed the son of a bitch. He deserved it.” I would have had a better chance of walking out the door.
I walked over next to Grace and we stood while the jury, seven men and five women, filed in. The foreman was a man named Israel Gillette, who was in his midfifties and worked as a mechanical engineer for Eastman Chemical Company in Kingsport.
“Mr. Street, will you and your counsel please rise?” Judge Geer said.
I stood, but it was difficult. My thighs were like jelly and my heart was beating so hard I could hear it. My hands were shaking so badly that I folded them in front of me, hoping no one would notice.
“Have you reached a verdict?” the judge said.
“We have,” Gillette said.
“On the sole count of the indictment, murder in the first degree, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant, Darren Street, guilty.”
My throat constricted, and I found it difficult to breathe. I fell back into the chair, slumped forward, and leaned on the table while the judge thanked the jury for their service and people whispered loudly behind me. I heard my mother sobbing.
A couple of minutes later, the judge asked me to stand again. Grace put her hands on my arm and helped me up. I looked toward the judge, but I couldn’t really see him.
“Mr. Street, as I’m sure you’re aware, the only sentences for first-degree murder in federal court are life and death. Mr. Clancy didn’t file a death notice, and based on the evidence I heard, with the threat to your son, I can see why. But the jury has found you guilty of first-degree murder, and it is my duty to sentence you accordingly. Therefore, you are hereby sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. The Bureau of Prisons will determine where you serve the sentence. Marshals, take him away.”
“It isn’t over, Darren,” Grace said as the marshals flanked me and started guiding me out. I could barely manage to put one foot in front of another, but I also didn’t want to break down completely in front of all of those people. For a couple of minutes, I withdrew so deeply into myself that I imagined I was an embryo, safe inside my mother’s womb, but the embryonic sac was quickly pierced when we walked around a corner and Ben Clancy suddenly appeared.
“Do you remember what you said in front of the press that day they let your uncle out of jail?” he said. “I wasn’t there, but I was told immediately. You said, ‘Fuck Ben Clancy. He isn’t going to be around much longer.’ Well, fuck you, my friend. I’m still here, and you’re going to a federal max for the rest of your meaningless life.”
I stood there staring back at him. I would have spit in his face if I’d been able to muster the strength. He pushed a pudgy finger into my chest.
“And guess what?” he said. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Clancy was right. With the jury’s finding, my life had become meaningless. I can’t even begin to adequately describe the feelings of hollowness and despair I experienced during the few remaining weeks I was in the Knox County Jail. I fell into a deep depression, slept most of the time, and rarely ate. I didn’t call my mother when they forced me to go to the rec cage, and the one time she tried to visit me I refused to go to the visiting room. I was simply too ashamed to face her.
Grace came to see me the day after the trial, but I could barely look at her and don’t remember much of what she said. I didn’t think she’d done a poor job of representing me at trial; as a matter of fact, I thought she was excellent. But I was in shock, literally, from the reality that now faced me. She told me I would be transferred eventually to the federal penitentiary in Atlanta, where I would be processed and then sent on to Oklahoma, where I would be processed further before being assigned to my final destination. The last thing she said to me was, “I’ll handle the appeal. We’ll keep working. We won’t quit, I promise.”
And as for Sean, that, too, was over. The only way I would ever see him again was if my mother somehow was able to obtain visitation rights and then bring him to whatever federal maximum security prison I was going to be shipped to. Clancy had been right about that, too. I knew the feds classified prisoners based on a point system, and I knew that a first-degree murder conviction would run my point total high enough to get me sent to maximum security prison. They wouldn’t send me to Florence or Marion—the so-called “super max” prisons—but wherever they wound up sending me, it was going to be an ongoing nightmare.
And then early one morning, Belcher showed up outside my cell door and started banging.
“Get your ass up, faggot,” he yelled through the door. “Time for you to stop breathing the air in my block and move on down the road.”
He and another guard hooked me up and shackled me, and I shuffled along the hallways to a holding cell near booking and the sally port. A clock on the wall in booking said it was 4:00 a.m. Two federal marshals, wearing gray uniforms, black caps, and black combat boots, came into the cell about an hour later. They replaced my handcuffs and shackles and chained everything together. They attached a “black box” between my hands that covered the lock on the handcuffs. The box also forced my hands into an extremely uncomfortable position. They pulled the chains so they were extremely tight and then moved me to another holding area—they called them bullpens—where there were about twenty other inmates, similarly cuffed and shackled. During that short walk, I realized it wouldn’t be long before my wrists and ankles would be raw and my hands and feet would be numb. I noticed that only a couple of inmates had black boxes on their cuffs, and I found out later that the boxes were used only on maximum-security guys.
About half an hour later, a group of six marshals came in. A county deputy unlocked the cell door. “Let’s go,” one of the marshals said, and I shuffled out to the sally port, bent slightly at the waist because the chain that connected my cuffs and shackles was so tight. Waiting in th
e sally port was a black-and-white unmarked bus. It looked like a generic Greyhound. Standing outside the bus were four more marshals holding assault rifles. The windows were tinted so darkly I couldn’t see inside.
There was a marshal standing near the door of the bus gazing down at a clipboard. As we approached, he looked up and said, “Which one of you is Darren Street?”
I was about six men back, about ten feet from the door. I didn’t say a word.
“Did you hear me?” he yelled. “Which one of you worthless maggots is Darren Street?”
“I’m Street,” I said, surprised my voice worked.
He walked straight to where I was standing. He was a big guy, maybe six feet four, and he towered over me. He leaned down and put his nose about an inch from mine.
“You ever heard of diesel therapy, boy?” he said.
“No.” I tried to look through him, past him, anything but at him.
“You’re about to get you a dose,” he said. “A mighty big dose.”
He backed away from me and said, “On the bus!” The line started moving slowly as the inmates in front of me shuffled to the door and awkwardly climbed on board.
“Back to front,” I heard a voice say from midway down the aisle after I got on. “You, sit right there. You, right there.”
The back of the bus was full of inmates, about 80 percent of them black. I followed the herd and plopped into a small metal seat next to an extremely overweight black guy with dreads that hung to his shoulders. He reminded me of Medusa. The rest of the inmates filed onto the bus and sat down. There were steel mesh dividers at both the front and the back of the bus. The marshals sat on the other side of the dividers, four of them facing us. Their seats looked much more comfortable than ours. Just before we pulled out of the sally port, the big marshal stood in the front and faced us.
“Anybody that gets up out of the seat is going to get hurt,” he said. “There ain’t no potty breaks on this bus. You can talk, but you best keep it down. Chow in four hours.”