The Fabulous Flying Mrs Miller

by Carol Baxter

  ‘Were you not told that two local men, experts, had examined the notes and had pronounced them forgeries?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Then what did you say?’

  ‘I said, “Why not get more experts?”’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was anxious to see somebody and get some advice. I had acted the part of the lie to you in the beginning and I was anxious to put it straight.’

  ‘That is not answering my question. What advice would you be seeking by getting other experts?’

  ‘I wanted to put you off the scent,’ Bill admitted.

  ‘To further deceive me?’

  ‘To further deceive you.’

  Carson had known that the suicide notes were Bill’s ticket to the electric chair. Bill’s action in producing them wasn’t the only problem; equally important was their effect on the jury’s perception of him as a person. His deceitfulness, not only in producing the notes but in lying about them, was torpedoing much of the defence’s efforts to present him as a man of integrity. While the defence had succeeded in weakening many of the state’s other claims, this concrete evidence of Bill’s duplicity—if not his criminality—would not go away. As Carson hid a grimace of frustration, the prosecution continued its interrogation.

  Hawthorne directed Bill’s attention to his gun purchase, asking if he had entered the store three times on the morning he bought it. His question suggested that Bill had been suspiciously hesitant about the purchase.

  Bill explained that he’d gone to the shop the first day to make enquiries and had returned the second day to get the gun’s numbers. After obtaining the necessary permit from the sheriff’s office, he had then purchased the gun and cartridges with money Gentry’s father had lent him.

  Hawthorne questioned him about loading the gun on the night before he reached Miami. Bill repeated his previous response, that Huston had lent him a loaded gun and that he’d wanted to return it in the same condition.

  Carson was relieved that Bill was holding his own again. The purchase and loading of the gun were critical to the state’s premeditation argument and Bill had provided an innocent and adequate explanation for both. While the suicide notes remained a threatening presence, the jury couldn’t convict him based on their existence alone. Unless the prosecution could prove premeditation, the jury couldn’t find him guilty of first-degree murder, the only charge the state had laid against him.

  The prosecutor, having failed to trap Bill into admitting to the physical evidence of premeditation, turned to the subject of Bill’s state of mind at the time of Haden’s death. ‘When you left Tucson, according to your diary you were “suffering the tortures of the damned”.’

  ‘I had a lot on my mind.’

  Hawthorne asked if his primary concern was the affair between Haden and Chubbie. Bill said that he was worried about the affair and whether Haden had taken advantage of her and hurt her; however, he was also worried about finding money to send Chubbie and to pay for food and plane repairs.

  ‘What?’ asked Hawthorne sceptically. ‘Did you believe that Chubbie might have been the victim of a rapist?’

  ‘Mr Hawthorne,’ Bill replied with weary patience, ‘I knew that Chubbie drank.’

  ‘The reason you were so worried about Chubbie was because you loved her better than anything in the world, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Hawthorne turned his attention to the airline, asking Bill why he hadn’t agreed to assist Russell and Tancrel in smuggling dope and Chinese men.

  ‘Because the dope was against my principles. The Chinamen might not have been against my moral principles. I didn’t do it because, first, I had promised Chubbie I wouldn’t and, second, because I would’ve been violating the laws of the land in which I was a guest.’

  ‘Would you do anything for Chubbie?’

  Bill agreed that he would and, under further questioning, admitted that he had lied for her and stolen poultry for her.

  ‘But you said you wouldn’t violate the laws of this country?’

  ‘Well, not the major laws.’

  It was evident to the courtroom that Hawthorne’s intent was to portray Bill as a criminal and a hypocrite, rather than the upright citizen presented by the defence. However, in such difficult economic times, when the government was doing little to help the people, few could blame the struggling aviators for stealing rabbits and chickens to keep themselves alive. Somehow it made them seem more human. Moreover, to hear this handsome man professing such love for his woman that he would do anything for her—including stealing—made him seem chivalrous and romantic.

  As if Hawthorne realised that the mood in the courtroom was heading towards admiration rather than condemnation, he turned the court’s attention to the subject of Bill’s wife. Bill was forced to admit that they were still married, not separated. But when Hawthorne introduced the subject of his daughters, Carson was able to halt the line of questioning.

  Hawthorne now asked, ‘Did you ever tell Gentry Shelton that you had seen hundreds die under machine-gun fire and you wouldn’t mind seeing another dead man?’

  ‘No,’ Bill responded.

  Gentry wasn’t available to confirm or deny the words Hawthorne claimed he had spoken. While he had promised Bill he would testify, he had soon realised that he too would find himself in legal trouble if he went to Florida because of his involvement in Latin American Airways.

  Even so, Hawthorne continued questioning Bill about information Gentry had seemingly provided. ‘Did you say in St Louis that you’d see Haden Clarke dead before he’d marry Chubbie?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Then Bill hesitated and added, ‘When I had that pint of Scotch that night I might have said such a thing. I remember some people told me not to worry. I remember I said that if Haden hurt Chubbie he’d have to answer to me.’

  ‘Would you consider his intimacy with her a hurt?’

  ‘Yes, I think I would,’ Bill admitted. However, he explained that his anger had died away in Miami when he saw how much in love they were.

  When Hawthorne questioned him further about his feelings regarding Chubbie and Haden’s relationship, Bill said, ‘Mr Hawthorne, before I went to sleep that night I knew that Haden Clarke would never marry Chubbie.’

  ‘Why? Because he was going to commit suicide before morning?’ Hawthorne asked sarcastically.

  ‘No, because of the talk we had had. He had agreed to tell Chubbie all about our conversation and in my heart I knew that, if he didn’t, I would tell her. If he or I told her, I knew she wouldn’t marry him.’

  ‘You went to bed with an entirely different picture as a result of that confidential talk with Haden Clarke, didn’t you?’

  Bill agreed that he had.

  Recognising that Bill was still coming across as honest and likeable, Hawthorne focused again on the minutes after the shooting, turning the court’s attention to the most morally questionable of Bill’s admitted actions.

  ‘In your stress and strain after the shooting, you wrote the notes before you called for a doctor?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You recognised he was dying, or thought he was, and wrote the notes before calling a doctor for him?’

  Bill admitted, shame-faced, that he had.

  Hawthorne reminded him that he had served in a war and had seen wounded men and must have known that the wound was dangerous. ‘And you tried to make Haden sit up and write?’

  ‘I didn’t think much about it.’

  ‘How long was it from the time the shot was fired to the time you called Mrs Keith Miller and showed her the notes?’

  ‘Not more than eight minutes.’

  ‘Would you mind rewriting the notes on this typewriter now?’

  Haden’s typewriter was placed on the court reporter’s table and Bill was handed a sheet of paper and the notes. As he slid the paper into the typewriter, the clerk, attorneys and spectators pulled out their watches. The only sound in the room was the clic
king of the typewriter keys as Bill reproduced the notes. As the carriage return zinged and he pulled out the second note, the clerk announced, ‘Two minutes and a half.’

  Bill was handed the ‘death pencil’. Nobody bothered to time how long it took him to sign H to one note and Haden to the other.

  Carson relaxed after Hawthorne had finished with Bill. Although his client had admitted to possibly making a threat against Haden while imbibing an entire bottle of Scotch, anyone who had been drunk themselves, or had witnessed a drunken episode, would likely accept that it was the type of outburst that usually horrified a sober self the next day. Other than that, the state hadn’t been able to materially shake any of Bill’s claims, despite hours of stressful public interrogation.

  Moreover, far from coming across as a slimy weasel like his business partners, he had shown himself to be the decent man the defence had been trying to portray, marred only by the unfortunate suicide notes, for which he had offered a chagrined explanation.

  But there was one more point that needed to be brought to the court’s attention. Under redirect, Carson asked if Clarke had ever discussed the act of suicide with him.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you hear of him discussing suicide with anyone else?’

  ‘I learned after his death that he had.’

  ‘But before the time of his death?’

  ‘No.’

  For the prosecution’s charge of premeditation to stick, Carson knew that the evidence of Bill’s gun purchase had to be backed up by strong evidence of ill-intent. Although he had shown that Bill had a sound reason for purchasing and loading the gun, and although he had undermined the evidence of ill-intent by exposing Bill’s business partners as fools and liars, he needed a trustworthy source to convince the jurors to dismiss it altogether.

  He called United States Marshal, J.P. Moe, the man who had escorted Mark Tancrel from the train station to Miami’s gaol. He asked if Tancrel had mentioned Captain Lancaster during their journey and, if so, what he had said.

  ‘I asked him if he would like to be put in the same cell with Lancaster. He said, “My god, don’t do that. I’d kill him.”’

  ‘What else did Tancrel say?’

  ‘He said that he was glad to get back and that he would do all he could to see Lancaster “burn”.’

  As a final act of witness destruction, Carson called Joseph Ince to the stand. Tancrel had sworn under oath that Ince was present when Bill had said that he’d ‘seen a lot of dead men and one more won’t make any difference’. Ince told the court that he had only spent one night with Bill and that his friend had said nothing of the sort. In fact, far from appearing doubtful or resentful of Haden, Bill had seemed glad that Clarke was in Miami looking after Chubbie.

  Step by step Carson was eating away at the state’s case. Whether it would save Bill from the electric chair, though, was still anyone’s guess.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Carson was surprised that the prosecution hadn’t introduced any witnesses to show Haden as a living breathing person, as a beloved son or loving brother or dear friend, rather than just a dead body. Haden’s mother had been subpoenaed yet hadn’t appeared in court. Haden’s brother, Beverly Clarke, had sat at the prosecutor’s table every day, but hadn’t been called to testify.

  An objective observer could argue that there was no clear evidence that Haden had a particularly volatile and unstable temperament. And while Chubbie had mentioned conversations about suicide, under the circumstances this could hardly be considered proof that such conversations had taken place. As for Haden’s malady, if the medical records of every man in the courtroom were exposed to public view, others would no doubt show evidence of unmentionable afflictions. Indeed, during the Great War, an average of 18,000 American servicemen had been sidelined for venereal diseases every single day.

  Carson was now going to do what the state had failed to do: introduce the jury to the third person in this love triangle. He would do so by inviting some of Haden’s friends to talk about him, people who had nothing to gain or lose by revealing the truth.

  Great War veteran Richard Lavender told the court that he had been a buddy of Haden’s, having met him in New Orleans the previous January while Haden was working there as a journalist. They soon became roommates and spent much of their time imbibing the local hooch. Haden also enjoyed marijuana cigarettes and had smoked a few dozen while they drank in New Orleans. Sometimes he even peddled the drug. Occasionally he got into fights, returning to their residence one night with skinned knuckles and a cut over his eye.

  ‘Did Haden suffer from any disease?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lavender, mentioning a word that none of the nation’s press dared put into print.

  ‘Did he say how long he had had it?’

  ‘He said that it was an old case and that he had taken treatments two or three times.’ Lavender added that Haden had made no effort to protect others, justifying such behaviour by saying, ‘Somebody gave it to me and I don’t care if I give it to somebody else.’

  After Haden lost his job, they had decided to catch freight trains to Miami. At Jacksonville, Lavender collected two $12 cheques, his Veterans’ Bureau payments for war injuries. At Daytona Beach, while he was asleep, Haden stole most of his remaining money and skedaddled.

  Lavender told the court that he had been deeply depressed when he first met Haden, so much so that Haden thought he was going to kill himself. This had led to some memorable conversations on the subject, with Haden telling him the best way to commit suicide.

  ‘What did Haden say?’

  ‘He said the best method was to shoot yourself in the head as death came instantly and painlessly.’

  Under cross-examination, Hawthorne asked if he had thought that Haden had suicidal tendencies.

  ‘No. He thought I had.’

  ‘Did he say he would ever commit suicide?’ Hawthorne asked, instantly regretting the question when he heard the answer.

  ‘He said if he ever got in a jam he would.’

  ‘Was he very drunk at the time?’

  ‘No, just normally so.’

  Playwright Richard Richardson informed the court that he had known Haden for about a year and had seen him multiple times a week. They had often drunk together when they could obtain alcohol. Haden had also smoked marijuana and had mentioned where he obtained it in Miami.

  ‘Did you ever hear him discuss methods of suicide?’ Carson asked.

  ‘Yes, on two occasions.’ He told the court that on the most recent occasion they had been discussing a play he was writing and he had mentioned to Haden that his character was proving difficult to kill.

  ‘Did Clarke explain an easy and sure method?’

  ‘Yes, he said the best way was to shoot yourself in the head about here’—and he pointed to a spot above and a little behind the right ear.

  ‘How long was that before he killed himself?’

  ‘About three weeks.’

  Restaurant proprietor Alma Throop testified that Haden was always depressed when she saw him earlier in the year, even when he was living with Mrs Miller. The cause was mainly his financial difficulties.

  Other witnesses attested to his economic woes, including Harry Antrobus, credit manager for the South Florida Motor Sales Company. He had encountered Clarke at 1.30 pm on the afternoon of Tuesday, 19 April, and had told him that his car’s repayments were overdue and that, unless he could make the necessary payment, it would be repossessed.

  ‘What did Clarke say?’

  ‘He said that he didn’t know where to get the money and that he couldn’t pay for the automobile. He said that there was nowhere for him to turn and he didn’t know what to do. He was in a distressed state of mind.’

  Carson then turned the court’s attention to the subject of Haden’s love life. The wife Haden had been trying to divorce, Kathryn Korn, had returned to her parents in California some years previously; however, Haden’s files included letters from two othe
r women who had written to him in the months before his death. One letter was from his Miami lover, Peggy Brown, saying that she had talked to her husband and that he wouldn’t give her a divorce. The other three were from ‘Virginia’ in New York, who had sent him money and said, ‘I know that you love me and we were made to be one.’

  By the time Carson had finished with the subject, it was obvious to everyone that Clarke was a serial libertine with a wife in California—admittedly estranged—and simultaneous lovers in Florida and New York. And, after his Florida relationship had cooled, he had turned his charms on Chubbie, creating the love triangle that was responsible, one way or another, for his own death.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Having devoted his attention to the living Haden, Carson turned to the dead man. It was time to explore the forensic evidence. Of course, the only reason they had any forensic evidence in the first place was because Bill had asked Carson to apply for a court order for the body to be exhumed and autopsied.

  Carson asked Lathero to read the commission’s report on the autopsy. Hawthorne objected, telling the judge that the report was part of the court record only and was not evidence that should be admitted to the jury.

  Judge Atkinson overruled his objection.

  When Lathero read out the report, it was clear that it didn’t reach any conclusion as to how Clarke met his death, except for the obvious: that he was shot in the head. It provided no easy answer to the question ‘Who killed Haden Clarke?’ So why hadn’t Hawthorne wanted the jurors to hear the contents of the autopsy commission’s report?

  Carson called Dr M.H. Tallman, who had served as chairman of the commission of surgeons and physicians that examined Haden’s exhumed body. He began by establishing Tallman’s medical credentials and then asked if he had brought with him any exhibits from the autopsy.

  Tallman turned towards the square pasteboard box he had carried into the courtroom and lifted out a shiny ivory-yellow object. It took a moment for the audience to realise what it was. Then a collective gasp broke the silence. It was the upper half of a skull. Haden Clarke’s skull.