‘Well! Is he here?’ Willy asked.
‘They were very elusive and told him to go see the nurse that worked in the hospital. Without further discussion, and with an uneasy feeling, he left for the hospital. The nurse had never seen him without bruises, so she didn’t recognize him as Billy Jack. It took an hour for her to tell him the story about Billy Jack and all that transpired around the death. Leaving the nurse’s office Willy stumbled blindly out the door of the clinic, enraged at himself for what his foolishness had caused. In his despair he lashed out the only way he knew. Looking for the sheriff, he wandered around Georgetown in a mental fog. Disbelief turned to anger and the only place he could think of was the store he was supposed to have robbed. Walking up, he stood looking through the plate glass window at the clerk. Unsuspecting, Rusty stood behind the counter reading a paper. Stories of the beating and the death of the young boy had cost the sheriff and his deputy their jobs. Rusty had lost his dreams of becoming the sheriff. The sheriff could not get anyone to work for him except Rusty after what he had done to the boy, so there he stood reduced to a clerk in a convenience store.’
‘Feeling uncomfortable, Rusty looked up to see the familiar face of Billy Jack glaring at him through the plate glass window. The half-crazed look on the face of Willy brought a cry of fear from Rusty’s lips. This was the face that kept him awake at night. Suddenly the figure seemed to walk through the plate glass window and float over the counter. Large hands grabbed him, and he was sent sailing over the bar screaming in fear. Rusty had always been a superstitious man and seeing Willy was too much for him. ‘I have come back for you, Rusty!’ Willy wailed. Rusty knew that the demons from hell were after him. Nothing he could do seemed to faze the ghost of Billy Jack. Crying and screaming for help he received a beating, similar to the one he had administered to prisoners that had unfortunately fell into his cruel hands. Willy soon turned his attention to the store, nothing was left unbroken. Liquor ran out the door onto the sidewalk soaking into the cracks. The last thing to leave the building was Rusty as he sailed through the remaining plate glass window. Baker was subdued by the new Sheriff and his deputy. At the trial no one came to his defense. The doctor that had attended John had died of a heart attack, and the nurse was not one to get involved. Willy sat at his trial threatening everyone that got close to him including the judge. His actions helped the jury to give a speedy verdict and he was imprisoned.’
George stood and turned to the jury, “Your Honor and People of the jury, I was not hired to represent Willy Baker, though I am. I was hired by him to clear his brother’s good name. Mr. Baker wanted his brother John to be remembered for the kind of person he was. I believe you can agree that John can be vindicated of any charges the sheriff in Georgetown contrived against him. This also calls into question the honesty of the judge in Georgetown. Your Honor, before we go any further, I may be able to shed some light on many of the unanswered questions. There is something I had forgotten about. It is something that may be of grave importance. In the package sent to me with the letters there was a key. It might be that key could unlock some of this mystery. I put it in my desk drawer and forgot about it,” George said.
A murmur spread among the people sitting in the court room. “Order in the court! People, we are not in recess yet. I think we will end this session for today and reconvene on Friday. The weather is getting bad outside. George, take a ranger and go get the key as soon as this shower is over. You can present your new evidence tomorrow morning. Court is adjourned,” Judge Stewart said.
A strong gust of wind followed by a clap of thunder signaled an approaching evening shower. People scurried across the courthouse lawn seeking shelter and those that could not find shelter crowded into the courthouse.
Westward the sky was black and moved over the city. Thunder and lightning lit up the Huntsville sky. George found Cage standing at a window watching people on the square run for cover. Suddenly, great drops of rain hit the roof tops and ground with a resounding thud. Rain fell in sheets as the courthouse lost power. The two stood among the packed crowds that had been able to enter the courthouse. On every floor groups of people stood in the dark discussing the weather and the lack of power. Standing by the second-floor window, people watched as sheets of rain battered the building and rivers of rain water coursed down the hillside. No one noticed the rain coat clad figure as he hurried across the courtyard and down the street that led to George’s office. Patting the big hound’s head, the gloved hand stepped around the dog to get to the back door. The door to the office was not locked and in a matter of seconds the intruder had opened the desk drawer. In one motion he took the key and retraced his steps out into the rain. Rufus shook the rain off violently and looked around the office for the best place to rest. The newest edition to George’s office had been the new red leather sofa accenting George’s waiting room. Jumping up on the sofa, Rufus circled twice before curling his wet body up in a ball and licking his wet fur. The odor of wet dog permeated the small building as rain blew through the open door. The only thing visible were two sets of wet footprints on the floor...those of Rufus and the thief.
Rita O’Neal had worked in the Trail Ways Bus Terminal for a few months, cleaning floors and emptying trash containers. This routine had become her life. From the penthouse to the outhouse in one swift move. Grumbling to herself, she went about her duties. Rita had jumped at the chance to get this very special assignment. Now she just wanted to get back to Austin and her old desk job. Rainy days always brought a mess in the terminal. Just keeping the floors dry under the pressure of heavy foot traffic was a full-time job. Her shift was about over. Rita was mopping in front of the main doors and the ticket counter when a set of boots walked right across her work. Water ran off the slicker as the man made his way across the terminal.
“Hey! You could have hung that rain coat outside and walked around my mopped space just as easy,” she yelled. All she got for her complaint was a cold stare from a set of dull grey eyes. Suddenly her heart leaped with joy and she spun around carrying her bucket and mop back to the store room. The man in the wet boots had just finished her exit requirements. This job was officially over. Never again would she volunteer for an exciting special assignment. Rita stepped into a small room where four rangers sat playing cards. She announced that locker number sixteen had just been opened by a man in a black rain coat. Jumping back against the wall she watched as the four left in four different directions. Outside the man lifted the rain coat hood over his head and stepped into the driving rain. He was being observed by four men waiting at locations from which they could follow him. The key fit locker sixteen in the Greyhound Bus Terminal. Inside he found a letter was the only inhabitance. Cramming the letter in his pocket he made his way down the rain-swept alley to the back door of Ed’s mechanic shop. Standing inside the poorly lit room the two faced each other.
“Were you followed?” Ed asked.
“How could I know? The rain is not letting up and I’m soaked. I got the key to a locker in the bus station. There was a letter in the locker,” he said tearing at the edge of the envelope.
“Read it, Man! Then put it in the stove and get rid of the evidence,” Ed said as he took out his cigarette lighter.
Standing in the dimly lit garage Bart opened the letter. With water dripping from his hat he held the letter out so it would not get wet as he began to read.
To Whom It May Concern:
The night Thomas Taylor died he told me that Bart Wells had killed Jake Walker in his presence and had taken”…A knock on the door brought their heads up.
Whispering, Ed looked at Bart and said, "You idiot! Why did you keep that? Don't answer that! It will put you in the electric chair! Whatever it is you better get it disposed of and now! Burn it in the stove quick!” Ed said.
As soon as they had destroyed the letter Ed went to the door.
“What do you want?” Ed shouted.
“Ed, my car is running rough! Looks like something got
wet. Can you take a look?” Franks yelled back.
“I will be right out, Mr. Franks.”
“I wish I knew what the rest of that letter said! I better go help old man Franks with his car.” In the back of his mind he had decided to close early and leave. The old van was ready, and things were getting too hot around Huntsville. “Stay in here until I get Franks’ car running smooth,” Ed said.
In a few minutes Ed walked back in the shop and settled down by the old stove. He stated, “Bart, I think it’s time to run. You go take care of your problem and meet me back here after dark. Everything we are taking is already loaded and I put a new battery in the van yesterday.”
C39 - Ghost from the Past
Bart stood on the back porch of the old house where he had lived all his life. From this very porch he had listened to his father make deals and watched as money changed hands. He had not been as smart and crafty as his father. Nothing but pure luck had saved him from getting caught up in this mess so far. His nerves were shot, and he had taken to drinking more and more. His nights were filled with dreams of walking the long hallway on death row in the local prison.
“I can’t take any more of this,” he said to himself. Stepping from the back porch he made his way through the wet grass and waist high weeds. Taking a deep breath, he stepped around the corroded old car. Once the fastest car in Walker County, it stood a rusty witness to the night he had stepped over the line. Alcohol had always been his courage and after that night it had become his constant companion. For years he had refused to look out the kitchen window into the backyard where he had parked the car that fateful night. He remembered the smirk on the face of the gangster from Chicago. The taste of blood still came to his mouth when he remembered the river of blood on the highway that night. Stepping around the car, the smell of rotten and mildewed upholstery came to him and the ground made a sucking sound as his boots sunk in the soft wet earth. Looking around the back yard to assure himself he was alone, he inserted a key in the trunk and heard the sound of the trunk pop open. How many times had he thought about doing this very thing? Through the years he had become paranoid of being near this car. Now danger of being found out brought him new courage. He must be rid of the evidence that lay beneath the trunk of this car.
Bart removed the spare tire and pulled back the rubber mat in the trunk. Reaching inside he removed the top of a small hidden compartment his father had installed to carry large amounts of money. The old leather billfold lay beneath the silver shield. A cold fear gripped his soul as he removed them and stepped back from the car to close the trunk. The rushing sound of boots in wet grass brought him around fast.
“I’ll take that sheriff and do not make a move!” one ranger shouted.
“Put your hands over your head and keep them there! You are under arrest!” a tall lanky ranger said. Weak and shaken Bart stood as cuffs were placed on his wrists.
“Sheriff, tonight you will spend time in your own jail,” another ranger said.
Ed Weeks stepped around the corner of his garage and poured a bucket of used motor oil in his waste oil drum and lit a cigarette. The stress was overwhelming, and he hadn’t slept in weeks. The lighter tumbled to the ground followed by the cigarette. From his vantage point he watched as four rangers marched a cuffed sheriff to his own jailhouse. Slinking back inside he quickly locked the front doors and slid the deadbolt on the rear. Looking through a crack in the tin wall he watched the activity around the jailhouse. It wasn’t long until the captain of the Texas Rangers was standing in front of the jail giving orders. It was obvious they had set Bart up and now two were headed his way. Quickly he eased himself out a small side window and made his way down a side street. Bart had been followed to his shop and that implicated him. It was dark now and thankfully there were no streetlights along these backstreets. Climbing in the van he lay on the floor completely drained from fright and the adrenalin rush. ‘So, what do they have on me?’ he thought. ‘I could be implicated in the stealing of the trucks. No one knew of what I did at the cemetery. That was it…nothing could be linked to me. So, they followed Bart to the garage, so what? What could Bart say against me…nothing but the truck heist. He would deny it and it would be my word against Bart’s. Tomorrow I will show up for work in my shop and do business as usual. What I need is a good lawyer,’ Drifting off, Ed fell into a fretful slumber.
C40 - Court Day 8---To Whom It May Concern
The night Thomas Taylor died; he told me that a gangster from Chicago, Walter McDonald, and Bart Wells had killed Jake Walker and my brother, John Baker. Had they known Thomas was not passed out in the back he would have been killed, too. The mobster, Walter McDonald, shot through the back window of the car and killed Jake Walker. The ranger had turned and was walking back to his cruiser. Bart took the ranger’s wallet and badge. Thomas confided in Ed Weeks this information. Ed Weeks blackmailed Taylor into driving one of the trucks the night Thomas Taylor was killed. Thomas revealed this to me while he was dying. I promised I would make sure it came to light. The key to this locker will be mailed to the lawyer that I hired to clear my brother’s name. This will help explain and expose my involvement in what happened to Thomas.
The killings that occurred at the cemetery, I believe were committed by Ed Weeks, the owner of the auto repair shop. It was dark and I did not see the men below my window, and I have no evidence to prove it was Weeks. I believe Weeks thought Smith was trying to cheat him out of his share of the money. The full story of what I think happened the morning of the cemetery murders is in a safety deposit box. Upon hearing the plans made below my bedroom window, I pulled a fast one on the Smith man that cost him his life. I had no idea of the consequences of my practical joke. Just another of the many failures that have plagued my life. It would have been better had I had never been born.”
Willy Baker
Stepping over to the jury box George stood looking at the faces of the jury members. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, the Bible says we will answer for every idle word spoken. After today that should be an eye opener for all of us. The idea that I would someday answer for all my life’s work started me to thinking. Why not present the evidence as clearly as possible and give you, the jury, something to decide on besides clouded issues and sleight of hand moves on which to make a judgment. You have not heard much discussion and arguments between the prosecutor and me. We both want the same thing…justice tempered with mercy. I ask you today to dig deep in your souls and determine what should be the judgment of this court. Be wise and consider what the punishment, if any, should be,” George Ford said.
The next morning Judge Stewart stood with the newly appointed lawyer who would represent Bart Wells. The judge stated, “Boxcar, the only thing that may keep your client out of the electric chair is his complete cooperation. You better be a miracle worker. He is going down and none of your shenanigans will help. His trial will be a high-profile case and the only way to get these blasted reporters out of Huntsville is to get it over with. I will arraign him as soon as you have decided on a plea. So, you and your new client need to get your defense ready quick. You just got a heads up on what the prosecution will enter as Exhibit A. Go counsel your client as to a plea.” Boxcar stepped over to the table and laid the letter back down. After reading the letter his face had taken on an ashen look as all the blood drained out.
As he leaned over the bench Judge Stewart said, “We’ve been watching a locker for weeks at the bus station here in Huntsville. I had the rangers remove the contents of the locker and setup a letter to trap the killer and your new client. Our new sheriff took the bait.”
Standing beside his newest client, Boxcar was somewhat perplexed. He had found no problems with the prosecution’s handling of the evidence and stated, “We will be ready for trial in a week, Your Honor.”
Directing every ounce of energy looking at Boxcar, Judge StewartJudge said, “Listen, Boxcar! We have an iron clad case. Your client’s fate will be at the mercy of the jury. We have sh
ells linked to his murder weapon with his finger prints on them. Now I need to know where Ed Weeks has gotten off to. See what Bart might know of his where-abouts.”
Bart sat bewildered, he hadn’t slept since his arrest knowing he had little chance of missing the death penalty even after rolling over on McDonald. Boxcar knew this case was hopeless, but he would do what he could and get some good exposure for himself. The newspapers were carrying the story daily and his name was always included. Dragging this along for a few weeks would not hurt his image.
Bart Wells knew he was doomed and saw no reason to rollover on Ed. He had resigned himself to his fate and hoped that Ed enjoyed the money he had left in the old van. The new sheriff escorted him back to the jail where Bart had spent the last two weeks. Sighing deeply, he turned to the wall and stared at the peeling paint on the old concrete wall. There was no life left in him. Reflecting back over his life and especially that fateful night, it had all been downhill ever since. He especially dreaded the stares he received each time he had been taken out of this cell.
Deputy Walt Tyson had been appointed acting sheriff until an election could be held. Walt walked back into the office and threw the cell block keys on the desk and said, “Deputy Clover, I’m going by Piggly Wiggly and get a list of groceries for my wife. Then…my able-bodied assistant, I’m going home for lunch with my new bride. Make sure you keep the office door locked,” he instructed.
“Walt, you know I have a dental appointment. This tooth is killing me!” Deputy Clover pleaded.
“That’s okay, just lock the door as you leave. Bart will be alright for a couple of hours. I think he could use some peace and quiet. Boy, am I ever glad I’m not him,” Walt said.
Doing Time In Texas, Book 3 Page 20