John Hollins and his teenage client got the last word, however, when more than three decades later a convicted sex offender's DNA was perfectly matched to the samples retained from the Girl Scout's 1975 autopsy.3 The real suspect in the Trimble murder was either ignored or unknown to authorities at the time, though he was discovered to have raped several women in the area in the months leading up to Marsha Trimble's slaying.
A few years later, in 2012, Hollins and Womack released a book describing the nightmarish experience of being suspect number one, while knowing he was innocent of killing his young neighbor. Even the former editor and publisher of the Tennessean, John Seigenthaler, took time to write a scathing foreword for the book, describing the shameful conduct of Metro authorities in pursuing the wrong suspect from the start.4
It wasn't long after this victory that I met with Hollins in his office high in the SunTrust Bank Building in downtown Nashville, where his personal career had morphed into a successful stint as a divorce attorney and matrimonial lawyer to the stars.5
When we met, the big man was impeccably dressed and more than eager to review one of the highlight cases of his career. We met in his private office, overlooking the city landscape, a power room filled with leather and wood and walls covered with letters of commendation and photographs of Hollins posing with some of America's famous citizens and politicians.
After shaking hands, but before I could sit down, the esteemed attorney surprised me with his opening statement: “You know, some people thought the mother did it!”
I nearly spilled my portfolio at this surprising comment but managed to position myself in a leather chair across from the attorney, as he sat down at his massive desk.
“I hadn't heard that,” I replied.
Hollins didn't bother to respond but instead chose to begin speaking about his career while slowly turning the pages of a giant album filled with newspaper articles, headlines, and the journalistic record of his achievements. I began taking notes as he spoke and only interrupted with a few questions so as not to impede his free-flowing style.
He began the session by recounting his scholastic achievements at Vanderbilt University, talking about Phi Beta Kappa and mentioning his famous law school classmates by name, as well as regaling me with stories of his older brother's football prowess as an All-American quarterback for the Vanderbilt University Commodores. But moments later, he switched to the 1964 criminal trial:
“You've got to understand the ambience of the time. There was a great interest in the trial from the local people in and around Jackson, Tennessee. Lawyers and judges from all over the area were attending the courtroom sessions, even some appellate judges. And everyone was staying at the New Southern Hotel that week. It was the talk of the south. All of the witnesses, the lawyers, even the jurors were all in the same location. I remember Judge Taylor only had five days on his calendar where he could preside over the trial, and that's exactly how long it took us, five days.”6
I initially interrupted the flow of information to ask how Hollins, and not Harry Nichol, the attorney general, had come to lead the prosecution's charge.
“I guess you could say I was his fair-haired boy. And the press noticed that I didn't lose any cases. We had a strong team with Howard Butler; Al Gore's uncle Whit LaFon from Jackson; and the attorney general from Jackson, David Murray. Judge Taylor ran the trial from nine in the morning until nine o'clock at night, and then, after hours, we interviewed witnesses. You have to understand that everyone in the hotel was involved in the trial.”
“All work and no play?” I quizzed.
Hollins laughed a throaty chuckle. “Well, there was one of Jo Herring's friends, Evelyn Johnson, who tried to put the move on one of our investigators.”
“How so?” I asked.
“As I remember it, someone had put her up to sneaking into the hotel room of George Currey, and then she got into his bed and wasn't wearing much except a negligee when he opened the door. He was definitely surprised and not very happy about it.”
As he spoke, Hollins turned to a photograph in his album of a Tennessee Bureau of Investigation expert, and he chuckled as he remembered that it was the TBI guru who had brought a microscope to the courtroom to show the jurors the perfect match between the bullets pulled out of the den floor on Timberhill Drive and the Christmas Eve bullet dug out of the ground on 18th Avenue.7
“Judge Taylor didn't give Charlie Galbreath much room to present his theatrical skills. Charlie was a skilled actor and he did his best, but he didn't have very credible witnesses.”
“It sure seemed like you had the strongest witnesses in the courtroom,” I offered, while silently noting to myself that attempting to bring up the alternate theory that Paula Herring had been killed by an angry truck stop manager was probably a waste of time in the hallowed halls of this famous former prosecutor.
“Yes, we did. I remember A. J. Meadows Jr. was one of the witnesses. I attended Montgomery Bell Academy as a young boy, and I had gotten to know that jokester when he and I were teenagers and he was at Isaac Litton High School in East Nashville,” he stated.
“No doubt that Clarke was guilty?” I questioned.
“That's right. When it was all said and done, this case was about a group of people who drank beer, and they moved around from tavern to tavern. They'd go from Ruth's Diner and then on to places like Brown's Diner and others. It was a drinking group; it wasn't about sex. They just liked to drink, and this Clarke fellow was one of them and he went out to see the girl's mother, and found the girl home instead.”
“How about Jo Herring? What can you remember about her?” I asked.
“She wasn't unattractive, and she was likable. I think she got laid a lot, and she was certainly a part of the group that liked to drink. I suspect she also may have been an alcoholic.” Hollins stopped turning pages, looked up at me, and then added, “I remember a rumor that the girl had bitten off her attacker's penis.”
“Wherever did you hear that?” I inquired.
“I think I heard it from the grand jury foreman.”
As Hollins continued his storytelling, I couldn't help but wonder how such a rumor could have started? Especially given that the only two people in the house immediately after the murder would have been the deceased victim and her sleepy brother. How would anyone know about a bitten penis? Was it left on the floor? Part of it? Did someone make a late night visit to an emergency room for assistance with what had to be an unusual wound? If the rumor were true, it would seem to create an easy verification process of “did he do it or did he not?”
A few moments later, as I was leaving Hollins's office, the big lawyer suggested that he would like to review the manuscript that might result from my research, prior to publication. It was a request that I politely declined, though I was certainly intrigued at his interest.
Approximately three-and-a-half years after John Randolph Clarke entered the state prison system in Nashville, he became eligible for transfer to the romantic but secluded town of Petros, Tennessee, near Frozen Head State Park and a few miles northwest of Oak Ridge, Tennessee. But Petros was not at all romantic for Clarke, as the little community was also home to a group of buildings referred to by locals as “Brushy.”8
Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary was a notorious maximum security prison that would eventually become the home of James Earl Ray, who was convicted of slaying Martin Luther King Jr.9 Brushy housed the worst of the worst, inmates whose sentences were often described in centuries rather than decades or years. It was not uncommon for a Brushy inmate to carry a prison sentence of two or three hundred years for their heinous crimes.
Clarke earned his transfer to Brushy while teaching in the Nashville prison's adult education program. While away from his cell, guards found that Clarke had hidden twenty-seven “pep pills” and a syringe in his locker. For this sin, he earned ten days in Brushy Mountain's solitary confinement and lost six months of honor time as well.
After ten days in a
cell without light or heat, and nothing but a mattress on the floor and two buckets, one for water and one for bathroom needs, Clarke apparently became a changed man, and he was returned to his former cell in Nashville.
In February 1964, after his indictment by the grand jury for murder and rape, John Randolph Clarke needed money to retain legal counsel. His brother-in-law pledged personal property as collateral for Clarke's bail, but it didn't begin to cover the kind of funds needed to hire a top-notch defense attorney. Within forty-eight hours of being questioned all night by the police, Clarke met with one of the top attorneys in town, Jack Norman Sr., a legend in the Nashville legal community. But having no steady employment, nor the kind of assets needed to pay the best of the best, Clarke had to look for other options.
A review of Nashville's top lawyers in 1964 also would have included John J. Hooker Sr. Hooker and Norman were revered far and wide for holding juries and audiences spellbound with their courtroom oration. If Clarke could have retained either of these legal heavyweights, he might have won his freedom before ever stepping foot inside a courtroom, especially when the evidence against him appeared to be circumstantial. Jack Norman and John Hooker were just that good.
Not many hours after meeting with Jack Norman, Clarke retained Metro government's public defender, Charles Galbreath, as his criminal defense attorney.10 But in March of 1964, Galbreath had other plans, and he gave up his public defender's role in order to represent Clarke as his private attorney for the princely sum of $10,000.11 It was a fee roughly equivalent to two years’ worth of salary for the average worker in 1964, and Clarke's family provided the funds.
What Clarke may not have realized was that, because of the sensational aspect of the trial, Charles Galbreath was going to make out like a king. Galbreath not only would be paid $10,000 from his client, but he also would be on the receiving end of more newspaper and television coverage than he could purchase in a lifetime. There would be no end to the number of reporters and journalists writing stories and seeking comment from the attorney representing such a cold-blooded killer as John Randolph Clarke. And for Galbreath, the press coverage would be completely free, though possibly at the expense of his client's reputation.
What Charles Galbreath may have lacked in oratory skills, at least in comparison to Jack Norman or John J. Hooker, he made up for in sheer flamboyance. As a trained actor who participated in local theater productions, Galbreath was a shrewd self-promoter; at times he more resembled a carnival barker and street corner huckster than a criminal defense attorney. Still, he was an effective counselor for his clients.
Galbreath, born and raised in Nashville during the Great Depression, graduated from East High School, served in the United States Marine Corps, and then attended Cumberland School of Law in Lebanon, Tennessee.
Through the decades, he had been a member of the Tennessee legislature, the first Metro public defender, an appellate judge, and host of numerous radio programs where callers could pose questions on the air related to matters of business and law. He also had seen more than one contempt of court citation, along with an arrest and jailing for arguing too vigorously with a local judge.
At one point during his tenure as a criminal court appeals judge, Galbreath had used his official State of Tennessee letterhead to send a much publicized and very risqué letter to Hustler Magazine's Larry Flynt, applauding the publisher's work and offering his admiration for the magazine's content.12 Not surprisingly, Larry Flynt published Galbreath's letter, and the conservative residents of Music City were less than impressed with Galbreath's antics. But Charles Galbreath was not concerned in the least. His letter writing was just another way to get free publicity and keep his name in the public eye.
In the summer of 1998, after the session with Hollins, I telephoned Charles Galbreath with a request to meet and discuss his former client, John Randolph Clarke. Galbreath agreed to the meeting and as follow up sent me a letter in reply. Using the formal stationery of his Capitol Hill office on Polk Avenue in Nashville and also his still-active law practice in the Stahlman Building downtown, the letter simply stated that the retired judge would attempt to find his files related to John Randolph Clarke. It was Galbreath's opinion that the research into the babysitter story was important work, and he would gladly hand over the files in an attempt to exonerate his deceased client.
The final paragraph of the letter mentioned that it was Galbreath's belief that the bloody man had taken refuge at the York Motel after the crime, and that appellate judge Thomas Shriver's opinion in the civil trial detailed “clear evidence establishing beyond a preponderance, that the truck stop manager was the bloody-faced man seen at the Krystal restaurant soon after the murder.”13
Approximately two weeks later, I met Charles Galbreath at his ninth-floor office in the Stahlman Building in downtown Nashville. Until the Life and Casualty Tower was erected in 1957, the Stahlman Building held the record as Nashville's tallest skyscraper for almost fifty years. Skyscraper is a relative term, as the Stahlman had just twelve floors of office space on Union Street. The current towers dotting the landscape in downtown Nashville are more than triple its height.
During our session, Galbreath, with a full head of gray hair and a feisty demeanor, recounted his career as the first public defender in Metro Nashville history and how his office, which had consisted of a single attorney—himself—had been a former restroom in the Stahlman Building. When I inquired as to how he had been relegated to a restroom, his response was enlightening: “Mayor Briley hated me. He never wanted the office of public defender created in the first place,” he said.14
When I inquired about his career in the Tennessee legislature, Galbreath described having seen the play Inherit the Wind in New York City. The play, a loose take on the Scopes Monkey Trial of the 1920s, had so moved Charles Galbreath that he worked to overturn the Tennessee law that had been used as a test case in the little town of Dayton. The actual case was State of Tennessee v. John Thomas Scopes. Scopes was a teacher and had offered to be arrested for promoting evolution instead of creation in the classroom in order to bring the issue to trial. The event was of such importance that it was the first trial in a United States courtroom to be broadcast over radio.
“I couldn't believe those stupid people and their belief in literal creation. When Scopes came to lecture at Vanderbilt in the late 1960s, I took him a framed copy of the bill that I had successfully sponsored to overturn the statute that had been used to convict him in 1925,” Galbreath said.
On the topic of his former client John Clarke, Galbreath said that he had gotten to know Clarke through his work in local theater productions and that he had felt compelled to aid with John's defense. After Clarke's conviction in the criminal trial, Galbreath worked tirelessly—and some would also say profitably—to overturn the conviction.
“I only had two clients that were convicted that I knew were absolutely innocent of their charges. And I mean ‘innocent,’ as in they didn't do the crime. One was John Randolph Clarke and the other was a pharmacist here in Nashville,” Galbreath recounted.
“I told everybody who would listen to me that I'd serve Clarke's time if he killed again, and I meant it, too. I never thought John hurt that girl. Never. He didn't have any scratches on him. I know that for a fact,” he said.
“Mr. Galbreath, there was a rumor going around that the killer had been bitten by Paula Herring. And it was enough of a bite to leave a significant wound to his genitals. Did you hear that as well?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. W. B. Hogan and I had John drop his drawers down at the old Maxwell House Hotel, in the restroom, just to see if he was still intact. And he was. He didn't kill that Herring girl. I'd bet my house on that.”
On a hot day in June 1998, I met for lunch at a Captain D's restaurant in West Nashville with attorney W. B. Hogan, and was surprised to learn how helpful and energetic a retired seventy-six-year-old could be on the topic of law and order during the early days of Metro Nashville. Hogan, a for
mer Marine and a World War II veteran, had served his military time in the South Pacific for six years. He was balding, with only a little white hair. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, was tall and physically fit, and offered a strong handshake as we sat down to lunch. After offering the reason for my interest in the babysitter case, I quickly moved to the question of Sam Carlton's potential involvement in the Paula Herring murder. Hogan didn't hesitate to put things in perspective for me:
“I think his own wife may have thought he was guilty. Just my opinion of it. During the trial over the reward money, Carlton's wife sat in the back of the courtroom with another woman, and then later during a recess, there was a commotion out in the hallway and she was reading him the riot act. I was there. I remember it happening.”15
With this startling bit of news being delivered before I could even take my first bite of food, I felt the painful realization that, once again, another insider was completely convinced that someone other than John Randolph Clarke had killed Paula Herring. W. B. Hogan had my attention. When asked how Henry King's involvement had come into play for the reward money, Hogan said that Henry had called him up and said that he saw Sam Carlton at the restaurant on the night of Paula Herring's murder. He thought Henry was going to come forward anyway, no matter the reward incentive.
“So you interviewed Sam Carlton before you ever put him on the witness stand?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Charlie Galbreath and I went down to First Avenue, to the Red Ace truck stop where Sam worked, and interviewed him in the back of the shop, in a storage room. Me and Charlie were both former Marines, but Carlton was a big sucker. He had these big, rough hands, and he sat there on a crate and rubbed them together a lot while we interviewed him. I knew there was something wrong with him, but we couldn't get the district attorney to move on it at all. They didn't want to hear about it. In their minds, since the jury said Clarke was guilty, they didn't want to hear about anyone else.”
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