by Tom Wood
Larry turned and winked to Jacky, then picked up the knife. “C’mon, son, let’s get to work. We’ve got maybe an hour. The food bank is going to love us.”
Thirty-five years later, Jackson still remembered how easy those two guys had lured their prey with a baited field. What bait might lure Angela’s killer into the open? What bait would be impossible for the murderer to ignore? The answer came in a burst of clarity, he’d mapped out his plans based on it, and he had just voiced it to all of Nashville.
Himself.
He’d put the target squarely on his back.
7
Almost before any of us journalists reacted, Patrick Stone’s car sped around the back of the building, went through the opened gate, turned left, and emerged on the far side of the precinct beside the adjoining railroad tracks. Jackson took a right, drove under the train trestles, and disappeared. The car switch baffled the media. When we learned of the ruse much later, it struck me as pretty clever. Jackson whipped the station wagon behind the by-then closed Public Health Building, stuck the ignition keys under the front seat, got into his Honda, and pulled away. The getaway plan worked perfect as we all watched for the wrong vehicle.
Channel 11’s Dan Clarkston, with his cameraman hot on his heels, headed for the front door, knowing the route of the police lot’s only exit. I watched a couple of the other TV people go out the same side exit as Jackson, then reverse course and head for the front door. The precinct commander, Reynolds, tried to gain control of the confusion, but gave up and retreated to his office, recognizing a disaster when he saw one. Disgusted, the lawyer Allenby berated Patrick Stone. I jotted down all this to spice up what I now considered a Page 1A story. First, I needed to find my photographer.
Clarkston’s bolt out the front door made him the lone reporter to see Jackson’s vehicle and the direction it took. A recreational runner, Clarkston still couldn’t get to the street quick enough to see what other maneuvers Jackson made after dropping out of sight.
But he spotted a couple of teenagers walking along the road in the same direction and hoped they remembered seeing a white wagon. Clarkston caught up to them just before the train underpass. So focused on the young couple, he failed to notice the royal blue Honda Accord that drove in the opposite direction past the police station and turned left on Ellington Parkway to head toward the city. Flabbergasted, Patrick Stone recognized his brother’s car, but he wasn’t tattling.
“Did you kids notice the station wagon that just drove up that way,” Dan Clarkston asked the teens, “or which way it turned?”
The vacant-eyed girl didn’t respond at first, and then recognized Clarkston, the most popular electronic journalist in the mid-major market. In his late thirties, Dan’s lean, angular face fit his runner’s body. Known around the media for an inflated ego, occasional outbursts of temper, and bouts of vanity, Clarkston wore a light gray summer suit, with a striped red tie to play off the teal shirt.
“Hey, you’re that guy on TV that my parents still watch,” the girl said.
“Yeah. So did you see a car like that?”
“Nah,” the slacker boyfriend said, flicking his cigarette. “What’d the guy do, rob a bank? Police station’s right back there if yawanna report it.”
Clarkston grinned.
“Tune in at ten to find out.”
“Stuff it, old man.”
The teens went on their way as Clarkston turned back to Greg Pittard, the cameraman he was teamed with. He moved around Pittard so the background shot included the police station.
“Ready to roll?”
Clarkston gathered himself, smoothing down a few stray gray hairs.
“On three . . . two . . . one.”
Clarkston spoke with an air of authority while also trying to show a degree of compassion. He’d practiced this “signature style” thousands of times and nailed it again.
“You’ve just heard the shocking first public statement from an angry Jackson Stone, whose wife Angela was brutally murdered ten days ago in East Nashville. A senseless crime like so many others, it sent shockwaves through this community and put pressure on police across the city to find the murderer who committed such a heinous act. But Jackson Stone just upped the ante and gave Metro police a new mandate—find a killer before he does. How will police react to this unprecedented—and most public—challenge? Is Jackson Stone the kind of man who can carry out such an act of vengeance? We’ll try to answer some of those questions on our ten o’clock report.”
“And cut,” Pittard said. “If we hurry, we can make the six o’clock newscast.”
“You drop it off, then get back over here for some police reaction. And then we’re going to try to find this nut-job for an exclusive.”
Spotting my photographer, Casey Leiber, I waved her over and speed-dialed city editor Carrie Sullivan.
“Newsroom. This is Carrie.”
“Got a big one, boss. Can you take some dictation and get this posted ASAP?”
“Go,” she said, opening a new Word document on her note-covered, coffee-stained computer.
This called for old-school journalism, not at all the normal procedure these days. But Carrie, twenty years younger than me and just five years out of journalism school, lived for moments like this. In the Internet era, print remained a passion for the fast-tracking daughter and granddaughter of two of Nashville’s finest newsmen of the previous generation.
I’d known Carrie all of her life, dating back to when I began working for her dad as a young reporter. Harry Sullivan took me under his wing, seeing a fire in me, I guess, that matched his own. We broke some great stories and I spent many a weekend at my boss’s house playing cards and watching ballgames like a surrogate son since Carrie was an only child. After Harry retired, I tried my hand at editing when the time came, but soon returned to reporting.
So Carrie trusted me enough that when I called in with “a major breaking news story,” she believed me.
“Hang on,” I said, then lowered the phone.
“What’d you get?” I asked Casey. “Something good, I hope.”
“I like this one.” She thrust the digital camera at me.
“Me, too. Okay, get something to the paper as quick as you can and then we’re going hunting.”
I paused to collect my thoughts while Casey went inside to transmit her photos.
“I’m back, Carrie, with a wild one here. Seems our Mister Stone has gone off the deep end. Casey’s about to send some art from his press conference. Get this up as quick as you can, and I’ll start writing as soon as I get a police statement.”
“I’m ready,” Carrie said, having already typed in my byline.
“Open paragraph. Grieving husband Jackson Stone swore revenge Friday against the man who brutally murdered his wife Angela ten days ago. Period. New paragraph.”
A sucking gasp. “Oh, wow. Okay, go.”
“In making his first public statement since this crime sent shockwaves through an outraged community comma Stone’s vow for vengeance at the East Nashville precinct appeared to shock police officials comma his lawyer and family members. Period. New paragraph. Quote. I don’t want justice comma I want revenge comma close quote said Stone comma who then described in detail how he would kill the perpetrator if he found him before the police could. Period. New paragraph. Stone then abruptly left without taking questions. Period. Close.”
It had been years since I last dictated a story, and it felt good. And I deemed the effort well worth it if we posted our story online before the TV guys hit the air at six p.m. I glanced at my digital sports watch. Five-forty.
“Great job, Gerry. Try to find a friend, family member, or someone who can reach him, get some police reaction, not just the official line but the guys on the street, if possible. Then we’ll update online and come back with the print version. I need everything by eight o’clock.”
I sprinted toward the parking lot and Patrick Stone.
8
Back at the offi
ce, Carrie Sullivan’s brain cranked into overdrive as she looked over my dictation one last time before sending it to the online editor to post. In the next-to-last sentence, she inserted the word “graphic” between “in” and “detail” to give it more oomph, then wrote the headline that she wanted used by the online people. After a couple of tries, she settled on “Stone-cold killer? Husband says he’ll hunt down wife’s killer” and then deleted it. She’d used “killer” twice and dismissed “Stone-cold killer” as too trite for a news flash of this magnitude. She rewrote it to say “Husband Jackson Stone vows to avenge wife’s death” then deleted it, and wrote “Angela Stone’s husband vows vengeance,” saved it, and forwarded it to online to post.
Sullivan punched in Online Editor Alan Moore’s number while also emailing copies to Managing Editor Ken McGuire and Executive Editor Judy Flint.
“Suze, take over that school funding story. I’ve got my hands full,” Sullivan yelled over her shoulder.
“Online. This is Alan,” Carrie heard in her earpiece and turned to the computer screen, looking at her version of my story.
“It’s Carrie. Take down the Titans practice as your top story and put up what I just sent you. I forgot to add a tagline ‘Check back at TenneSceneToday.com for details’ at the end of the story. Also give it a ‘news alert’ keyword. There’s art coming, and I should be able to file an update within an hour or so. But get this up pronto. We want to beat the six o’clock newscasts with this one.”
“Sure, but replace the topper? You know how many hits Titans stories get.”
“That’s an editorial decision, not online’s. And unless I’m way off base, this story will get more hits than anything in a long time. Gotta go,” she said as her other line buzzed.
“Newsroom. This is Carrie.”
“Start tearing up the front page. Heard back from Hilliard?” Ken McGuire said, his baritone voice causing her to lower the headset volume.
“Not yet. I talked to him about ten minutes ago, and he’s getting some reaction and then going looking for Stone. Where, I don’t know.”
“What else?”
“Stone’s brother called and told Gerry to be at the East Precinct at five p.m. Casey’s shooting and supposed to get something here ASAP. We’ll re-post and add a photo, and then I’m meeting with the page designers.”
“I’ll be down in five minutes. Judy’s at a seminar, but I’ll text her. I’ll inform the publisher, too, for this one. Tell Hilliard he’s got as much space as he needs.”
“The six o’clock news is about to start. Let’s see how they handle it.”
On the other side of town, Channel 11 news videographer Greg Pittard weaved in and out of rush-hour traffic to get to the station located just off Interstate 65 South and Harding Place. Clarkston called, and gave the news editor the gist of the footage.
“So where is Pittard? We go on the air in fifteen minutes, and we sure don’t want to wait until ten o’clock for video,” said a frustrated Sam White, the fiftyish, pot-bellied director of the six o’clock newscast. He tried to keep up with producer Ellie Bligh, a former weekend anchor often referred to as “Captain Bligh” for her take-no-prisoners news judgment and a snappish attitude toward her staff.
Bligh glanced out a window as they walked toward the set. “That’s him now. Is the intro ready?”
“Everything’s good. We’re just waiting on the tape,” White said. “I’ll go over it with Julia.”
Pittard rolled halfway out the door before the news van’s brakes screeched.
“About time,” Bligh snapped as Pittard went straight to his editing bay. He hooked in to the machine and started punching buttons as the raw footage fed into the playback unit. Editors huddled with news writers around the screen, then scurried to edit what he’d shot. The producer and director came over to offer input.
“Five minutes,” Pittard heard Bligh say as he concentrated on his final cuts.
Getting a newscast on the air is in many ways like putting out a newspaper, except they produce five to six “editions” a day. The Internet has given us a chance to compete with their immediacy, without the chaos and equipment failures that sometimes accompany a live broadcast. Their jobs must be handled with precision both in front of the camera and in the control room, ready to deal with any glitches. In a frantic setting, most everybody stays cool. But not Ellie. For this story, she bounced from one task to the next, understanding all the ramifications after they hit the air.
Ratings had slipped for the six o’clock newscast in the past quarter, falling two percentage points farther behind Channel 7, even though Bligh’s team consistently performed well and remained locked in a dead heat for ten o’clock viewers. She expected this story to put them back on top in the ratings, translating into more advertising revenue, and assuring her of a contract renewal for at least another two years. But she realized all the things that might go wrong if she didn’t crack the whip, explaining her frenetic leadership style.
Coming out of commercial, the six o’clock theme cued the teleprompter’s start. The red light on camera one flashed.
“Good evening and here’s what’s happening,” said Karen O’Day, the feisty, red-headed counterpart to graying, homespun co-anchor Cameron Knight. They worked well off each other and talked about syndicating their weekly gab-fest, “O’Day and Knight.” Bligh and other station officials saw the potential. “Our top story is an anguished husband’s emotional and angry reaction to his wife’s violent murder.”
In the control room, White’s directions were precise. “Camera two, cut to Knight, get ready to cut to video one,” White said. Camera two’s red light flashed. Knight spoke in grim tones.
“It’s been almost two weeks since Angela Stone disappeared from her East Nashville home and seventy-two hours since searchers found her body across town in the Warner Park area. Less than an hour ago, husband Jackson Stone finally talked about her mysterious death. And it was a reaction no one expected. Our Dan Clarkston filed this report.”
Cut to video one. Jackson Stone’s disheveled image and rage-filled message beamed across the Midstate. Cut to video two. Clarkston, professional but clearly sympathetic.
“You’ve just heard the shocking first public statement from an angry Jackson Stone, whose wife Angela . . . .”
9
Jackson Stone moved swiftly after his disappearing act from the precinct. Nearly six p.m., as he pulled off Ellington Parkway, his thoughts turned to Angela’s funeral set for Saturday at noon, to be preceded by a ten o’clock visitation. So little time, so much left to accomplish.
His first stop at Eddie Paul’s Pub had retraced one part of his life with Angela. Now, after his very public bounty on her killer, a much harder trip became necessary. He needed to return to the scene of the crime. He must return to his home in East Nashville.
Navigating the final leg of the journey to his neighborhood, Lockeland Springs, the surrealism of the short drive home hit Jackson as he passed rows and rows of hundred-year-old Victorian, craftsman, and bungalow homes that came in all shapes, sizes and colors.
The Stones’ home stood out, one of three brick homes on their entire street. Neighbors took care to keep their lush lawns neat and well-watered so the August heat wouldn’t burn the grass. The shade trees and full-bloom flowers were wonderful and eye-catching, but the people made it a great place to live. Jackson, who with Angela served on the board of directors for the Lockeland Springs Neighborhood Association and helped coordinate annual block parties, couldn’t think of a single person in the area who might be capable of such a terrible crime.
Most viewed the neighborhood as a Nashville melting pot, drawing people of every age, color, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and financial bracket.
A Korean family moved in two years ago next to the widow Edmonds, who was spending her golden years raising her granddaughter. The Waldens, a young black couple with their own insurance company, boasted four kids, two of each. They lived across
the street from the Stones. A gay couple, Joe and Bob, both in their mid-thirties, lived in the purple bungalow on the corner. The Fletchers owned the corner home next to Jackson and Angela, a tasteful, peach-colored Victorian with gingerbread carvings. The Fletchers were in their mid-forties and childless, just like the Stones, so the couples spent lots of time together. The young, single teacher down the street moved from Orlando to be closer to her musician boyfriend.
Friends and neighbors like that were why this crime seemed so unreal. Sure, violent crimes still took place in 2010, but nothing like Nashville’s soaring murder rate when they moved there in 1996. And now, the unthinkable had happened. How in God’s name did Angela wind up way out at Percy Warner Park on the other side of town? Jackson prayed for an answer.
Wishing to attract as little attention as possible, he ducked under the yellow police tape roping off the entrance to his home and slid his key into the lock. Taking a deep breath, Jackson steeled himself and entered. Something important needed retrieval from the upstairs attic.
Angela’s presence, her touch, could be felt everywhere. Almost too much to bear, it forced him to plop into the antique oak rocker. Besides Jackson, Angela’s passion was antiques. She loved trolling the antique district off Eighth Avenue South and filled her house with finds. The primitive yellow pine den displayed her showcase. Against one wall stood a pine doughboy chest and atop it an original Tiffany lamp Jackson presented to Angela for their tenth wedding anniversary. They found the gold-plated andirons for their marble fireplace two years ago at the “World’s Longest Yard Sale,” which ran through four states from Alabama to Ohio. Before her death, an excited Angela talked about returning to the annual mid-August event that very week.
Jackson headed up the steps to their bedroom. On the staircase landing, a half-circle, maple-stained accent table held an ornate silver-framed picture of Angela in her wedding gown. He turned and continued up to the master bedroom. The closed bedroom door ahead of him stood guard like a towering castle drawbridge. “You made it this far,” he said as he fought tears, and then pushed the door hard enough that it banged the wall.
