The Lampkin Brothers: I’m Assaulted in Chambers5
Our office had a considerable history with a family named Lampkin and had every reason to know the family’s propensity for violence. Our acquaintance began when the FBI, the Highway Patrol, and the Oktibbeha County sheriff executed a search warrant on the forty-five-acre farm of the father, John Sharp Williams Lampkin, named for the former congressman of that name. Officers knew the father as “JSW.” He and his sons ran the largest stolen-car chop shop in the district. On September 9, 1976, a federal-state-local team of agents served a search warrant and began collecting stolen engines and transmissions, over sixty of them, not to mention all the stolen vehicles themselves. At first, no one appeared to be home, and brand-new Sheriff Dolph Bryan, who had taken office just one week earlier, placed a copy of the warrant on JSW’s porch as required by law and began searching. Then all hell broke loose. JSW appeared and ordered the officers off his property. Sheriff Bryan tried to explain about the warrant and that the judge said they had to serve it.
Highway patrolman Virgil Luke, a stolen-car specialist, had gone inside the house to search for ownership documents. From outside, officer Dan Davis saw a young Lampkin pointing a rifle at Luke and yelled, “Virgil is in there.” Another brother had just blocked the only exit with a pulpwood truck. JSW had twelve sons, several of whom lived nearby. Sheriff Bryan entered the house followed by other officers. He told the gunman to drop his weapon, but the man kept it pointed at Luke. Bryan boldly grabbed the barrel of the rifle. Leroy Lampkin, who was holding it, stood 6’, 2” tall and weighed 220 pounds to Sheriff Bryan’s 160. Leroy Lampkin pulled up on his rifle, leaving Bryan’s feet dancing in the air while he clung to the rifle barrel with both hands. Lampkin, who had a bandillero of shotgun shells across his shoulders and an ammunition belt of rifle shells around his waist, began swinging Bryan around in a circle, trying to break his grip on the barrel.
Highway patrolman Donald Wood stepped up to Lampkin and put his .357 Magnum revolver to Lampkin’s head and said, “Drop the Sheriff,” three separate times. Bryan then heard a huge explosion right beside him. When he looked around, he saw that half of Leroy Lampkin’s face was blown away. JSW yelled to his wife to “Get my machine gun out of the back, and I’ll slaughter these blood-thirsty SOBs.” When she didn’t move, JSW told them again, “Get off my property,” and yelled at his wife to “Get my shotgun.” She did not, and the officers placed JSW Lampkin and his several sons under arrest, including Cleveland Lampkin.
The case soon reached my desk in two forms: first as a federal stolen car case against the Lampkins and second as a potential criminal civil rights case against Wood and other officers for use of excessive force. There were over a dozen law officer witnesses and nearly that many Lampkins. I sent the stolen car case to the state DA at Sheriff Bryan’s request. I declined prosecution of the officers, finding the force used, while extreme, was reasonable under the circumstances. The Lampkins then filed suit in federal court under the wrongful death statute. The suit was dismissed, but only years later.
In the process of studying all the reports, I discovered that several of the armed Lampkin brothers, including Cleveland, were convicted felons for whom it was a federal crime to possess a firearm. After months of investigation and a study of sketchy records in several states, a report on Cleveland’s case came in from the ATF, and I obtained an indictment on him for possessing firearms illegally in Mississippi and transporting them to Chicago to resell, along with stolen cars and parts.
People have always asked if I was ever afraid of the defendants I sent to prison. I’ve usually said, “No,” because the hushed, church-like atmosphere of a federal courtroom seems to civilize all of us, prosecutors and defendants alike. Winston Churchill once said great public architecture improves people’s behavior, and I believe he was right. The solemnity of federal courtrooms, the black robes, the high benches, the fine leather chairs, and long shining wooden tables seem to put most people on their best behavior. It also doesn’t hurt that there are U.S. Marshals there, who, while formally dressed in blazers and ties, also carry loaded handguns. Under federal security rules, most defendants have always worn not only handcuffs but leg chains. Yet in my experience, the most important element in keeping down the hostility that leads to violence is simple courtesy. Not only the U.S. Marshals but all our court personnel have always referred to defendants as “Mr.” and defendants usually react accordingly. There are, of course, exceptions. The most memorable one was Cleveland Lampkin.
One day in 1979, I was finally prosecuting his gun case, which appeared routine. As explained earlier, Lampkin was buying guns illegally and transporting them back to Chicago to resell, falsely claiming to be a resident of Mississippi. He would deny under oath on federal firearm purchase forms that he was a convicted felon. His conviction was a nonviolent one for possessing stolen autos (the family business), but it was still a federal crime, and in those days we prosecuted them all. When I rested my case, Cleveland Lampkin took the stand. His defense was that he didn’t know he was a convicted felon, thinking he had pled guilty to a misdemeanor. It was not an unbelievable defense, and I cross-examined him on it pretty hard. I had convinced myself that he was not violent. After all, he had not actually used his weapon in the incident where his brother, Leroy, was killed. Besides, we were in federal court. What could go wrong?
My questioning involved Lampkin’s knowledge of firearms laws from several of his brothers also being convicted felons, as was his father. My questions were pretty vigorous, trying to appeal to jurors, who tend to dislike convicted felons, especially entire families of them. To make sure my questions didn’t go too far, Judge Smith ordered us all back to his chambers for a sort of trial run on whether my questioning was too prejudicial. As Mr. Lampkin sat beside the judge in a big dark leather chair, I stood at the conference table about ten feet from him. His attorney, Cornelius Toole of Chicago, the family’s retained counsel in all their multitude of conflicts with the law, objected vehemently to my questions, probably emboldening Mr. Lampkin to be more combative.
Then I asked the famous “one question too many.” Partly from irritation with Toole’s objections, I asked Lampkin rudely, “By the way, other than your brother the preacher, is there even one of your brothers who is not a convicted criminal?” That set him off. Without saying a word, the 5’, 7”, 190-pound Lampkin leaped from his chair like a cat and was upon me like a linebacker before I could move. He grabbed my jacket with both hands, but before he could choke me or pull me down, two burly U.S. Marshals had him on the floor. Neither one struck him. Lampkin let go of his grip and sat back down into his chair. No one hit anyone. No one said anything that I can recall.
Judge Smith, a former defensive tackle for the Ole Miss football team, said sternly to Lampkin, “Now let’s not have any more of that. Mr. Hailman, you may continue your questioning.” I did and nothing else dramatic happened. The jury convicted Lampkin. Despite the incident and his criminal record, federal law at that time pretty much required Judge Smith to set him free on bond pending his appeal. Back in my office, there was no talk of prosecuting Lampkin for the assault. It all happened so fast, it seemed as if it never happened. We figured Judge Smith would take it into account at sentencing on the firearm convictions.
Months later, a news flash came on TV: “Five men killed in bloody Illinois shootout.” Two highway patrolmen and a relative had been shot dead by two gunmen on Interstate 57 near the University of Illinois. Two of the shooters, who had been stopped for speeding while driving in a four-vehicle convoy, had panicked because they were hauling trunks full of illegal guns in their stolen cars. The shooters were dead, both shot by officers responding to radio calls for help. When the announcer gave the names of the shooters who were dead on the scene, it sent a chill through me: Cleveland Lampkin and his brother David. I called Dolph Bryan. He asked me why I was so surprised.
A story in the Starkville Daily News the next day told the events. Wh
en an Illinois trooper blue-lighted the four carloads of Lampkins for speeding around 11:30 P.M. on April 9, 1979, three stopped, but Cleveland Lampkin sped off in a stolen 1978 silver Mustang. When the trooper forced him over a few miles down the road, Cleveland came out shooting and was killed by the trooper. His passenger, David Lampkin, then shot and killed the trooper. A second trooper arrived and killed David. A local police officer who arrived to help the troopers was shot and killed by Monroe Lampkin, as was the brother-in-law of a trooper who was riding with him. The local DA tried and convicted Monroe Lampkin twice for the murders, but both convictions were overturned on appeal by the Illinois Supreme Court on technical grounds. Undeterred, the Illinois DA tried Monroe a third time, finally obtaining a third conviction and life sentence which were upheld on appeal.
While researching this book, I Googled “Cleveland Lampkin.” A lengthy, dramatic article by reporter Will Brumlee appeared in the Paxton, Illinois, News Gazette for April 6, 2009. Entitled “30th Anniversary of 1979 Shootout Still Haunts Former Officer,” it recounts in gruesome detail the shootout between the Lampkins and the officers, calling it a “bloodbath.” Little did I know when Cleveland Lampkin assaulted me in Judge Smith’s chambers how easily I could have been one of those victims. Looking back, sometimes it’s better not to know.
“Riverboat” Gaines6
One of the most effective undercover agents I’ve known is Randy Corban, the son of C. B. Corban, the ATF agent who covered Marshall County back when it was notorious for corruption. Randy later became chief of police at Ole Miss and still later my office’s law enforcement coordinator, but he first worked for MBN and helped federal agencies in his UC role as an all-around thug which made him welcome in every kind of criminal circle. Randy was lean and athletic and spoke in low tones in a Gary Cooper sort of way that got bad guys’ attention. In this case, he was working undercover from Guntown in Lee County through Pontotoc and down to Chickasaw, hanging out in illegal beer joints and gambling dens, of which there were plenty. At the Corral Club on the Lee-Pontotoc County line, Randy met Bobby Gene “Perk” Gaines, better known to gamblers as “Riverboat” because his main job was repairing diesel engines on towboats.
Having heard of Randy’s reputation as a man who would kill people, Riverboat approached him one night at a game about a “little job.” A man named Ben Prude owed Riverboat $10,000 on an unpaid gambling debt, and people were beginning to laugh at Riverboat because he couldn’t collect. He had already approached local thugs about the job, but they all said it was too high-profile. At the time, Prude ran the famous honkytonk in Marshall County just across the Tallahatchie River bridge from Oxford where Ole Miss students went for their illegal beer and whiskey. The joint has catered to Ole Miss students ever since William Faulkner’s day and later when it was known as Johnny Zanola’s. In addition to underage Ole Miss students buying beer, backroom dice games attracted colorful characters. Randy recalled one guy who had a special tube in his obstructed esophagus to funnel Budweiser straight in without him swallowing. If anything happened to the owner of Johnny’s, the shooter would be in a heap of trouble. The place still operates today, legally, as Betty Davis’s BBQ and has excellent fat and spicy ribs.
Riverboat had not been very discreet in his boasts about having Ben killed, and heard Ben had gotten wind of it and had his son, Todd, standing guard at the joint with a rifle, making a hit on Ben much riskier. Riverboat needed a pro, and Randy sounded like his man. Not knowing Randy was wired for sound, Riverboat handed him a .30 caliber carbine with a big scope and the serial number ground off, saying the gun was “safe” and had already been used in two successful murders. Randy got Riverboat to take him to a site uphill from Ben’s joint and show him the best angle facing the back door. Randy was to shoot Ben late that night when he came out for a smoke.
When caught, Riverboat cried and confessed. He hired former federal prosecutor Will Ford of New Albany to defend him. Will was a bold and confident trial lawyer. The indictment was tricky. At first I had a hard time finding a federal offense to fit the facts. I was, after all, still pretty new. Finally, I found the “extortionate collection of credit” law, which made it a federal crime to threaten someone to collect a debt, even an illegal gambling debt. That was count 1. It was of course also an offense for anyone to use a firearm in any other federal offense, so we had a second count there. The first count carried a penalty of twenty years and the second count ten years consecutive, “stacking” the penalties as federal inmates call it. Count 1 colorfully depicted the violent means Riverboat used to intimidate Ben Prude to collect his illegal gambling debt:
In February defendant telephoned Ben Prude demanding payment of a $10,000 gambling debt, stating if the debt was not paid defendant would have Ben tended to and that defendant “had the boys to do it.” Gaines made similar threatening calls on ten different occasions through June. On one occasion defendant telephoned the minor son of Ben Prude and threatened to kidnap him and blow up his trailer and the adjacent business and kill everyone inside. On July 8 defendant handed undercover agent Randall Corban a rifle and eight rounds of ammunition plus $30 for expenses and directed Corban to take the said rifle and shoot up the trailer, place of business and motor vehicles of Ben Prude, promising Corban that if as a result of the shooting, Ben Prude repaid the $10,000 gambling debt, Gaines would pay Corban $3000 for the shooting. If Prude still failed to pay after the shooting, Gaines agreed to pay Corban another $3,000 to kill Prude.
Will Ford pled Gaines guilty and with the help of several prominent citizens of Union County as character witnesses somehow persuaded the probation officer and the judge that Riverboat was not really serious, and he received a sentence of just a couple of years. Perhaps the judge was right. We never had any more trouble with Riverboat Gaines.
Jerry and Terry, the Hit Man Twins7
FBI agent Newson Summerlin brought us a murder-for-hire case in 1994 that was unlike anything I’d ever heard. The first part was not unusual: A wife tried to hire a hit man to kill her husband and accidentally asked an informant to do the job. She claimed she had tried other people, but her husband seemed to be hard to kill. The wife, Teresa Hutcheson, first offered to pay Terry Wilbanks $30,000 to take her husband, Jimmy Dean Hutcheson, hunting and kill him and make it look like an accident. Although not a bad price, Terry reported the offer to his friend, Jimmy Dean, the husband, who thought the whole thing was a joke. Teresa then decided to do it herself, but her husband wisely declined to go hunting with her.
The plot thickened. On May 24, Teresa told her husband the electricity had been off all day while he was at work. Like a good husband he crawled under the house and found a main electric wire had been cut. He told Teresa to turn off the current. While Jimmy Dean was splicing the wire back together, Teresa turned the juice back on full force. Jimmy Dean screamed and writhed in pain but finally managed to pull his hands off the live wires. Terry Wilbanks visited Jimmy Dean at the hospital and commiserated with him over his badly burned hands.
In early November, Teresa again tried to persuade Terry Wilbanks to kill her husband, this time on the first day of deer season. This time he’d heard enough and went to the sheriff, who went to the FBI. As they pondered whether to believe it, Teresa’s grandfather, William Hinson, approached Jerry Wilbanks, twin brother of Terry, about killing his granddaughter Teresa’s husband, Jimmy Dean. Jerry was noncommittal. In early December 1994, the grandfather bought a .30-.30 deer rifle and a box of ammunition and took them to Jerry Wilbanks and again asked him to kill Jimmy Dean. This time Hinson offered Jerry $25,000 from the life insurance of Jimmy Dean, saying he and Teresa both wanted it done. He didn’t say why.
This time Jerry Wilbanks went to authorities and agreed to help them catch Hinson and his granddaughter. He taped a phone call that same day and agreed to meet Hinson and discuss the killing. They met at a Wal-Mart, where Hinson gave Jerry a measly $40 to seal the deal, promising he and Teresa would have plenty of money for him once the i
nsurance company paid off for Jimmy Dean’s accidental death in a “hunting accident.”
A week later, Jerry arranged to meet jointly with Teresa and her grandfather to finalize the details, again wearing a hidden tape recorder and transmitter for agents to listen in. Teresa told Jerry it would be about two weeks before the insurance check arrived and that she had just remembered they also had a second life policy through the bank on which she could immediately collect $1,000 while waiting for the rest. She said she would pick up Jimmy Dean from work and have him in the woods the next day by 4:30 P.M. After discussing where in the woods she wanted her husband shot so Jerry could get away before Teresa “discovered” the body, the cold-hearted woman made her intentions perfectly clear: “Shoot him in the head or heart. I don’t want to have to look after a cripple.”
Jerry asked why she wanted him killed. “For a different life,” she said. She told Jerry if anyone asked about the thousand dollars, he should say it was payment for a new transmission for her truck. She said she’d give the money to “gramps” to give to Jerry. At the conclusion of the conversation, federal and state agents emerged from hiding and arrested Teresa Hutcheson. Other agents then arrested her grandfather William Hinson.
Up to this point, the case was depressingly familiar to the agents, but nothing unusual. One spouse having another killed is not just a staple of modern life and country songs, but has a long and undistinguished history back to Henry VIII and before. Teresa and her grandfather were indicted by the federal grand jury on attempted murder-for-hire charges. Their attorneys agreed for them both to plead guilty. During pre-sentence interviews, Teresa and gramps finally confessed the real reason for the murder: Jimmy Dean Hutcheson was “in the way.” He had married Teresa after she had already given birth to three children by another unnamed man while still in her teens. Jimmy Dean was helping raise those children. But Teresa wanted to be with their father, not Jimmy Dean Hutcheson.
From Midnight to Guntown Page 36