The Ballad of Frankie Silver

by Sharyn McCrumb

  “I think so,” said the sheriff.

  “And then they can play ‘The Green, Green Grass of Home.’ That’s a real tearjerker.”

  “I didn’t really come here to talk about music.”

  “Yeah, I know. You came for the show, didn’t you? You want to make sure they kill me. You’re the one who put me here. You think I don’t remember that? A man don’t forget much in twenty years if there’s nothing to look at but cinder block.”

  “I came because I finally figured out the Harkryder case,” said Spencer. “Thanks to Frankie Silver. For a hundred and sixty-four years, people have been wondering what Frankie’s father meant when he stopped her gallows speech by saying:Die with it in you, Frankie. When I figured that out, I knew what was bothering me about your situation.”

  “Am I supposed to care what you think?”

  “Well, I think you should get clemency.”

  Fate Harkryder shrugged. “Sign a petition then. There are dozens of them. The Pope sent a nice letter to the governor on my behalf, and the anti-death penalty people are staging a vigil tonight, I hear. Candles and everything. A couple of movie stars have sent faxes to me pledging their support, only they’re not exactly sure what it was I’m supposed to have done. Seems like all of a sudden nobody wants me to die. I wonder if that’s because they’re all pretty sure it’s going to happen.”

  “It doesn’t have to happen,” said Spencer. “Not if you tell them what really happened that night on the mountain.”

  “I thought you knew that, Mr. Arrowood. You seemed mighty sure of yourself at the trial.”

  “I was sure. But I was a kid then. So were you.”

  “And now you know different?”

  “Now I do.”

  “So you came charging up here to save my life, did you?”

  “I’m willing to try. Tell the truth about the Trail Murders. You can stop this.”

  Fate Harkryder smiled. “Oh, we’re already trying to stop it, Sheriff. That’s what lawyers are for. Allan is at the governor’s office right now, trying to get in to see him to plead for a stay. I forget the grounds. Doesn’t matter. Whatever comes into his head, I guess. And the other one, that would be Justin, I believe-hell, they’re both kids-Justin got on a plane this morning and flew to Washington to talk to the Supreme Court. I’m famous, Mr. Arrowood. Everybody has heard of me.”

  “Right. But nobody has heard of Tom and Ewell, have they?”

  Fate Harkryder stared up at him for one frozen moment. Then he shrugged and turned away. “I guess they haven’t,” he said casually. “The black sheep of the family gets all the attention.”

  “Not this time. I’ve been doing some checking. At the time of the Trail Murders, you were a minor. Your brothers were both over eighteen. You had no criminal record. They did. So-what did they tell you when you got arrested for the killings?Take the rap, Lafayette. You’re underage. You’ll do a couple of years at the most. Just don’t implicate your brothers. You can save us. Just don’t ever tell. Was it something like that?”

  Fate Harkryder shrugged. “It’s your story, mister.”

  Spencer nodded. “Die with it in you, Frankie.It’s the same old story. Mountain families stick together, no matter what. You were willing to die to keep from betraying them.”

  Fate Harkryder said nothing.

  “That’s why the blood at the crime scene matched yours. Same family. Nowadays, with DNA, we could have got a closer match, but back then the results were less exact. We were close, but not close enough.”

  Silence.

  “Tom and Ewell did it, but they gave you the jewelry to sell. All the evidence that linked you to the crime scene would also link them. Brothers. Same blood type. All secretors. There are just two things I don’t know: Why did your brothers kill those two kids with such violence, and why didn’t you ever tell the truth about what happened-especially after you were sentenced to death?”

  Fate Harkryder was staring at a blank wall, where a window ought to have been but wasn’t. Somewhere beyond the cinder block was the river and an elm-covered hill. The hill would be deep green now, a canopy of trees leading you on from ridge to ridge, as if the green wave of forest would carry you home. He sighed. “Who’d believe me, Sheriff?”

  “I would. I ran a records check on your two brothers. I wanted to see what had become of them in the last twenty years.”

  “We don’t keep in touch.”

  Spencer felt the sweat prickle on his neck.I’m more nervous than he is,he thought.Maybe it’s because he’s been fighting this for twenty years, and I’ve just begun.

  He said: “I ran the records check through the TBI. At the time of the Trail Murders, both your brothers had two felony convictions apiece. One for shoplifting, and one for robbing a convenience store.”

  “Shoplifting?” The prisoner’s smile was ironic.

  “Petty larceny was a felony in Tennessee at that time. We had another funny little law back then, too. The Career Criminal Act. Remember that? Three felony convictions, and you’re ineligible for parole. Forever. The law was repealed a few years later, but at the time of those murders, your brothers knew that if they were convicted of that crime, they would get either the death penalty or life in prison with no hope of release.”

  Fate Harkryder sighed and looked away. Spencer wondered if he was remembering with regret a long-ago conversation with his brothers, or if he was just tired of talking about it. Twenty years of prison coupled with twenty years of legal battles would make a man weary of life.

  “It must have seemed like a reasonable request at the time,” the sheriff said. “Your brothers can’t afford a conviction. You have no criminal record, and you’re only seventeen. When you get caught with the jewelry, they tell you to say nothing about what really happened. Take the rap if you have to. You’re a kid. It’ll only be a few years. You can do it. But to everyone’s surprise, you got the death penalty. And then you were stuck, weren’t you?”

  “I said I wasn’t guilty.”

  “All prisoners say they’re not guilty. We caught you with the victim’s personal effects. You must have known that if you didn’t explain that, you’d be convicted.” Spencer found himself thinking of Frankie Silver.We caught you in a lie. Why didn’t you tell us what really happened?Fate Harkryder didn’t tell, for the same reason Frankie Silver had kept silent.Because we’re Celts and mountain people,he thought.We don’t trust authority figures, and we haven’t since the Romans landed in Britain and started calling the shots. We never think the law is going to be on our side, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred, we’re right. Who am I to change that today?

  “So you took the blame for your brothers’ crime, and you’ve spent your entire adult life in prison,” he said. “What a waste.”

  “Yeah, well, I was seventeen years old. What the hell did I know?”

  “You learned fast, though, didn’t you? The first time you got raped in your cell, I bet you were real sorry you had been so noble.”

  The condemned man shrugged. “You get used to anything. I survived.”

  “They weren’t worth it, you know. Those brothers of yours. I ran a records check on them before I came here. You may not want to know what happened to them, but I did.”

  “Found out, did you? That must have been a thrill.”

  “I don’t know what I was hoping for: whether I wanted them to turn out to be notorious serial killers or missionaries to China. I guess I wanted them to be entirely better than you are or utterly worse. They were neither, of course. Tom is on parole in Kentucky for kidnapping and armed robbery, which makes me wonder what else he’s done that he hasn’t been caught at. And Ewell wasn’t on the computer, but we found him through Motor Vehicles. Your brother Ewell is a drunk who lives on welfare and odd jobs in Knoxville. I doubt his liver will last much longer.”

  “Tom and Ewell,” said Fate Harkryder thoughtfully. “I haven’t really paid them much mind in years. In my head, they’re still twenty-something. T
he letters from home don’t mention them.”

  “Didn’t you care what became of them? You gave up your life for them.”

  “I cared at first, but… hell: Prison is another country. It’s like my old life was another incarnation-that it was me back in those days, and yet not me, so none of the people and places from before are real somehow. Tom and Ewell are no more real to me now than people I saw in movies when I was a kid. Maybe they’re less real. I still see John Wayne every now and then.”

  “You don’t have to keep on lying,” said Spencer. “Let’s just call a press conference and tell what really happened.”

  For one moment something flickered in the prisoner’s eyes. He took a deep breath. “Have you got any new evidence? DNA?”

  “No. All the physical evidence is gone. All we have is crime scene photos and witness interviews, but they haven’t changed since the trial.”

  “And what about Tom and Ewell? Will they back you up?”

  Spencer looked away. “No. I called them last night. Ewell swears he’s innocent, and Tom hung up on me. You’re on your own.”

  “So it would just be my word and your hunch against a twenty-year-old murder conviction that has withstood decades of appeals?”

  “Yes.”

  Fate Harkryder shook his head with amused disbelief. “So you call your press conference and announce all this, and then what, Mr. Arrowood? You and me go out for a few beers? It won’t work like that. Nobody will pay us any mind. Mydeath is news, not my legal arguments. Stanton will shout us down. The journalists will assume it’s a stunt of some kind. People will think I’m a coward, and they’ll sure as hell wonder whatyour problem is.” The spark in his eyes was gone. He looked away again, barely interested in the conversation anymore, barely listening.

  “But you have to try,” said the sheriff. “You can’t let yourself be executed for a crime just to protect your brothers.”

  “It isn’t about them anymore. Don’t you see that? It doesn’t matter why I came here, or whether I deserved it. Twenty years are gone. Who I was is gone. All that’s left is a tired old man who doesn’t want to be in here another day.”

  “But we could get you a good lawyer and ask for a pardon.”

  “I wouldn’t get one. I’m a poor, dumb hillbilly, Sheriff. Why should anybody bother to keep me alive? They’d just change the sentence to life and let me stay in here and rot. I had the jewelry on me, remember? I’m not just an innocent bystander. Charles Stanton is never going to let anyone forget that.”

  “At least you wouldn’t die.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? I’ve been dead for twenty years. I just want to get out of here and be done with it. Tonight.”

  “In a pine box?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Well, if you won’t try, at least I can. I don’t want you on my conscience. I have seven hours. I can go and see the governor-”

  Fate Harkryder shook his head. “I want it to be over, Sheriff. It’s too late. I’m tired of this life. Just let it happen, will you? Consider this a dying man’s last wish.Just let it happen.”

  “But-”

  Fate Harkryder tapped on the bars. “Visitor’s leaving!” He called out to the guard. In a loud, cheerful voice meant to be overheard, he said, “Thanks for coming by, Sheriff. Wish me luck tonight, okay?”

  Spencer Arrowood turned to go.

  “Mr. Arrowood! There is something you can do for me.” Fate Harkryder flashed his mocking smile, but his eyes shone. “I got nobody else to ask. But it’s my last wish, and I hope you’ll oblige me.”

  “What is it?”

  “When it’s over, I want you to take me home.”

  Chapter Ten

  SPENCER ARROWOOD left the prison a little after three in the afternoon. He had talked to the warden about the final arrangements in case a stay of execution did not come through. There was paperwork to sign, but it didn’t take long. Now he had six hours to kill-an idle afternoon for him, but for Fate Harkryder all the time in the world. He could still contact the newspaper or a local television station to reveal his theory about the murders, but he knew that he would accomplish nothing with such theatrics except to brand himself as a crackpot who balked at seeing a man executed. If he made any allegations about the Trail Murders, Charles Stanton would be asked to comment on them, of course, and Spencer had no doubt that the colonel would shred him with a few regretful, carefully chosen words. Stanton would not be cheated out of his long-awaited execution.

  He could hear the colonel’s snide voice now.A few days ago, the sheriff was willing to believe that a recent homicide was committed by this mysterious killer. Now he wants to free a legally convicted man on the basis of this mythical evidence. I have every concern for the sheriff, who is a man injured in the line of duty, but I think the people of Wake County should ask themselves if he is still fit for the duties of his office.

  No, he couldn’t fight Stanton, the master of the press conference. If Fate Harkryder had wanted him to oppose the execution, he would have tried, but he couldn’t fight both sides at once.

  Spencer knew that he could expect no corroboration from the prisoner himself. Fate Harkryder had made it clear that he would say nothing on his own behalf, and he was right: a statement from a convicted killer would make no difference to the authorities. Even if the death penalty were set aside, Harkryder would not go free. He might not be a murderer, but he was not blameless. At best, he was an accessory after the fact, and Stanton would see to it that he never left Riverbend. If bringing the real killers to justice would have won him his freedom, he might have done it, but it wouldn’t-so, what was the point?

  When Spencer reached the prison parking lot, television mobile units were already setting up their equipment in preparation for their coverage of the execution. The governor’s speech was probably already written, with neatly laser-printed copies in distribution to all the media people. Spencer could feel the tension in the prison, and the controlled excitement among the scrambling technicians in the parking lot.It’s going to happen, he thought.It has been gathering momentum for a long time, and nothing can stop it now. Not even the truth. The truth will be what they broadcast from this parking lot, not what happened on the mountain twenty years ago.

  Knowing is one thing; changing is another.Nora Bonesteel was right about that.

  He drove out of Cockrill Bend, right on Centennial, right on Briley Parkway, over I-40, and along White Bridge Road. He slowed down at Nashville Tech, thinking for one confused moment that he had reached another prison, but then he realized that it was a college. The prisons were all in his mind.

  He saw a billboard for Opryland. Emblazoned across a picture of the amusement park’s roller coaster were the wordsRIDE THE HANGMAN! Spencer looked away. The hangman. Death had even staked out the billboards.

  Spencer had intended to drive around Nashville for a while, but the humid, stale air of the flatlands oppressed him, and when he saw the entrance to the Lion’s Head Mall on White Bridge Road, he turned in to the parking lot, finding a parking space near the theater. The movies were as good a place as any to kill the rest of the day. There was nothing he wanted to see, but at least the building was air-conditioned, and no one would expect him to make conversation. In the cool darkness of the theater, the sheriff stared up at the screen, registering color and noises, but afterward he could not say what film it was that he had seen. A comedy of some sort, he thought, or an action-adventure movie aimed at teenage boys. The screen could not compete with his own thoughts. He kept running the possibilities through his mind as if they were alternate moves in a chess game.If I did this, then the governor would say that… He could devise no scenario that would give him so much as a stalemate. Every hypothesis ended with the death of Fate Harkryder. Spencer began to wonder why he cared so much, in defiance even of the condemned man’s own intentions. Was it the condemned man who concerned him, or was he indulging his own desire to be blameless?

  He remembered what
Nelse Miller had told him long ago.You could have looked into Fate Harkryder’s cradle and told that he was going to end up in prison. If it wasn’t one thing, it’d be another.

  He sat through that movie and two others before it was time to return to the prison. By then the sun had set, but it was still July in middle Tennessee, a breathless, shimmering heat unlike the cool evenings on the mountain up home. As he turned onto Cockrill Bend, he could see the lights of the prison, augmented now by the blaze of the broadcasters’ lights in the parking lot. As Spencer got out of the car, he took the visitor’s pass out of his pocket, but he didn’t put it on. He didn’t want the reporters to know who he was. A gaggle of protesters with picket signs and candles stood in the far corner of the parking lot, but they did not call out to him as he made his way toward the building. One of the reporters had approached them with a cameraman trailing after him, and their attention was focused on their few minutes of fame. At one of the mobile television units, Charles Wythe Stanton stood in a spotlight, speaking into the interviewer’s microphone. “This is not about revenge,” he was saying. “It’s about closure. The final chapter of the Trail Murders takes place tonight. My thoughts are with my daughter.”

  It was a few minutes past ten o’clock. The execution was scheduled for 11 P.M., more to discourage demonstrators than to afford the prisoner every possible minute of his last day on earth. In the administration building, Spencer went through the same check-in procedure as before, and when the wordowl was illuminated in his hand, he was ushered through the sally port in the wake of the others attending the execution.

  The witnesses walked through the empty visitors’ hall, to the door against the back wall. They were silent and walked alone, except for two young men, who seemed to know each other, and who spoke together in a low undertone. Spencer realized that they must be reporters sent to cover the execution. Colonel Stanton, fresh from his interview, was the last to enter. He had come alone.