by Tom Wood
Today, he still walks with a slight limp.
Charges against Jackson Stone
The investigation continued well into 2011 as the district attorney’s office filled an entire storage room with evidence of atrocities committed by Delmore Wolfe, as well as mounting evidence against Jackson. The DA listened to Jackson’s explanations, along with Allenby’s pleas, and weighed evidence against Jackson. On October 14, 2011, the district attorney called a press conference to announce formal charges against Jackson Stone. He asked that bail be set at two hundred thousand dollars since Jackson had no prior convictions and did not seem a flight risk. Jackson’s brother posted his bail, set at fifty thousand.
The Judgment of Jackson Stone
The court convened at 9 a.m., on Monday, February 6, 2012, with Judge Morris Wright presiding. District Attorney Logan Trulowicz studied the eight-man, four-woman jury. He would have preferred an all-male jury for this trial, concerned that women would be more sympathetic to Jackson’s cause of trying to avenge his wife. Three of the men were black, as were two women. A third female juror was Hispanic, and the fourth white.
“Justice is why we’re here,” Trulowicz said. “Justice is what Jackson Stone, in his own words, said he did not want when he held his press conference on August thirteen of two thousand and ten. He wanted revenge, ladies and gentlemen. Not justice.
“That, in itself, is a premeditated action, and Mister Stone is fortunate to not have been charged with first degree murder. But he is here on a lesser charge of voluntary manslaughter. Why? The law is not without compassion, and Mister Stone already paid a great price with the loss of his wife, Angela. But that does not . . . that cannot . . . excuse his actions and wanton disregard for the law. You men, you women, today you are the dispensers of justice. Today, you are the defenders of justice.”
The prosecutor explained why they were there, and the stakes.
“The state intends to show that the charge of voluntary manslaughter is the justice that Mister Stone deserves for his actions that morning at Centennial Park. He must be held accountable for the death of another individual, no matter how despicable a monster that other person was. Jackson Stone is on trial here today, not Delmore Remus Wolfe. You must keep that in your thoughts at all times.
“We will prove that Mister Stone knew his actions would be dangerous, and that he acted with reckless disregard, and that his actions resulted in the death of another human being. He plainly stated that desire when he said he wanted revenge for the death of his wife, not justice. He was unwilling to let the police act, to let the court system act, to mete out justice. You must not allow that attitude to prevail. You must cast aside your feelings and your sympathies for the loss of his wife, and act as the impartial arbiters of the law.”
One of four panelists who spoke with the media after the trial ended, Juror number five said he felt troubled by what he perceived as Jackson’s blatant disregard for the law, that he had always instructed his two children daily to abide in the law and practice good citizenship. Now the defense asked the self-employed insurance agent to free a man who stepped outside the law to pursue an admitted course of vengeance. He tried to reconcile those feelings, he said.
Juror number nine, a large black man with an intellectual air, who wore glasses, was a tenured aerospace professor at Tennessee State University. He wanted to hear all the evidence before making up his mind, doing his best to remain impartial.
Junior number twelve, the Hispanic woman, stood tall in the closed deliberations despite her diminutive stature. A forty-year-old, fifth grade schoolteacher in Antioch, she said the turning point came at eleven-thirty last Thursday night, when they broke for the night and returned to their hotel rooms to sleep on it. The next morning, after breakfast together, they returned to deliberations and returned a unanimous verdict within an hour.
“Basically, I just reminded (juror number five) of the defense attorney’s opening remarks,” she said. “He laid his cards on the table and didn’t try to Bee-Ess us none.”
Stan Allenby rose to address the jury, knowing the DA scored some points, but he remained confident that he could sway the panel back toward Jackson. Allenby’s strategy proved effective. The jury seemed impressed with the no-nonsense attorney’s passionate defense of Jackson. Allenby flailed his arms like swatting at flies.
“First, forget any temporary insanity plea. We reject that defense and demand nothing less than twelve verdicts of not guilty.”
He squinted and began his own slow, methodical walk before the jury, looking each member in the eye, sizing them up as he paused in front of each of the twelve.
“Not guilty,” Allenby said righteously to the first one.
“Not guilty,” he indignantly proclaimed to the second and followed with ten more paces and ten more stares.
“Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty.”
When he reached the end of the jury box, he shook a finger at his client, and all eyes followed him.
“We will show why you should set Jackson free, declaring him not guilty to all the world. We are asking a great deal, I understand, and it is not something we ask of you lightly.
“The alternative to finding Jackson Stone not guilty is to do as the district attorney asks and find Jackson Stone guilty of voluntary manslaughter. The alternative is to send Jackson off to jail, to punish him and put him in shackles for the next several years of his life. Jackson does not deserve that fate, but it is all up to you twelve men and women.
“If after weighing all the facts, you can find Jackson guilty of the crimes for which he has been charged, then Jackson is ready to accept his punishment.”
The attorney straightened his backbone and continued. “But Jackson is a strong man, and while he does not wish to lose his freedom, he will not lose his convictions. His faith sustained him throughout this ordeal, and he convinced me that what he did was with the noblest of intentions. It’s my job to convince you, to explain to you, why Jackson does not deserve prison.”
Allenby smiled and patted his chest.
“Me? I think Jackson deserves a medal and a ticker-tape parade down Broadway. If you want to see insane, let’s focus on the killer this trial is really about. Delmore Remus Wolfe. District Attorney Trulowicz wants you to see this case in black and white, following the letter of the law. He doesn’t want you to think about the devil, Wolfe, no longer on this earth. He doesn’t want you to see the faces of Wolfe’s fifty-plus victims, including Angela Stone, Sarah Fletcher, and Herb Fletcher here in Nashville.
“But I say to you, remember each and every victim. Don’t you dare forget them, and don’t let Jackson Stone become the final victim of Delmore Remus Wolfe. Here’s why Jackson Stone should be allowed to go free.”
For effect, Allenby counted off the reasons for “not guilty” votes on each finger.
“One, Jackson Stone did not stalk Delmore Wolfe. Jackson didn’t even know the killer’s identity when Delmore Wolfe tracked him to the Parthenon that morning.
“Two, Jackson Stone acted in a responsible manner, invoking his right to make a citizen’s arrest when no police were around. Delmore Wolfe had attacked another innocent woman inside the Parthenon, and only Jackson Stone could prevent his escape.
“Three, the gun with Jackson’s fingerprints on it was a war relic he brought along for protection. His wife and neighbors had been murdered, so it seemed reasonable to think his life might be in danger. And that gun, in fact, saved Jackson’s life when used to block the killing knife blow that Wolfe aimed for Jackson’s midsection.
“Four, Jackson Stone did not kill Delmore Wolfe. Wolfe did that to himself atop the Parthenon while trying to crush Jackson’s head with his steel-toed boot. He missed and broke the sunroof, causing Jackson to plunge seventy feet, dislocate his hip, and break his leg in three places. The exhibit, Athena’s spear, broke Delmore Wolfe’s fall, and he died—a shame for those
of us seeking justice, because he’s the one who should be on trial here, not Jackson Stone.”
The emotional lawyer wound it down, bringing his knees together and putting his hands together as if praying, speaking quietly.
“I humbly ask you for an acquittal of Jackson Stone. Let him try to rebuild his life the way doctors rebuilt his shattered leg. Send him home with his family and friends. Stand up, and strike a blow for justice. Thank you.”
District Attorney Trulowicz called Chief King, Sergeant Whitfield, and several other material witnesses to the stand. On cross-examination, Allenby would hammer at his own strategy, suggesting self-defense without calling it such. The last exchange with Chief King proved another turning point.
“Chief King, would you call Jackson Stone’s behavior criminal?” Allenby asked.
“Yes sir . . . and no sir,” the large policeman said, squirming in the tight witness box. The answer made the DA squirm, too. He had counted on Chief King to help nail down a conviction.
“I find that a bit confusing, sir. Can you clarify your answer for us?”
“Jackson Stone’s words were inflammatory, divisive, and threatening on several levels,” King said. “I warned him personally, and at my own press conference that the law is the law, and that he must obey it like anyone else. I warned that any actions on his part could result in charges like the ones he is facing. It concerned me that his actions would impel others to follow his lead, and the streets of Nashville would become a bigger shooting gallery than they already are.”
In this shrewd game of high-stakes poker with Jackson’s life on the line, Allenby played his ace in the hole. “Chief King, would you call Jackson Stone a criminal?”
“No sir,” the police chief answered, refusing to look at the glaring district attorney.
Allenby did not visibly smile, but his eyes sparkled as he faced the jury.
“What, Chief King, would you call Jack?”
This time the police chief spoke to the glaring prosecutor, matching him stare for stare.
“I would call him a hero.”
If Trulowicz felt concerned, he didn’t show it as the prosecution rested its case.
The defense attorney took over, and called a number of character witnesses, including Doctor Erica Karnoff, Reverend Armstrong, Jimmy (Big Red) Boyle, Patrick and Sheila Stone, and Louie the bartender.
They all testified to the mental state of Jackson Stone during that period, that nothing they did or said could sway Jackson from pursuing the course of action that he did, and how much they loved, admired, and respected him for what he’d done.
Then, to the surprise of many, Allenby called Jackson Stone to the stand.
Allenby breezed through his portion, asking Jackson to clarify several points about how he wrestled with his faith when he decided to go down that road, and whether he ever intended to carry out his stated goal of vengeance.
“That’s a tough one to answer, but I’ll try to explain. It wasn’t that I thought the police couldn’t find Angela’s killer, or that I could do their job better. I just wanted to make something happen. She deserved that much, if I wanted to live with myself.”
“How did you try to lure Angela’s murderer out into the open, Jack?”
Jackson fidgeted like Chief King in the witness box, knowing he must make the DA, the judge, the jury, and fellow Nashvillians understand his going public with a professed vendetta.
“Simply, I made myself a target,” Jackson said. “The murderer had killed and gone into hiding, and I just tried to flush him out.”
He went on to explain hunting trips with his father and the lessons his father taught him.
“My dad and I were out one fall Saturday hunting in northwest Davidson County when I was ten or eleven,” Jackson recounted. “We heard a couple of shots, and a few minutes later we came across two hunters standing over a big buck that one bagged with his rifle. My dad saw the salt block used to lure the deer into the open.”
Jackson shifted slightly, talking to the jurors. “Deer love salt and real hunters hate it,” he said. “My dad cussed the two hunters and told them to get outta there before he called the game warden. They left without the deer. I’d never seen my dad that mad. Walking to the truck, he explained his actions toward the hunters.”
Jackson’s voice dropped an octave, mimicking his late father’s inflections.
“ ‘That ain’t sport, son; that’s killin.’ That’s what he said and I never forgot it or how easy it was to lure an animal out of hiding with a baited field. I just made myself the murderer’s next target. I believed if I did or said something outrageous to infuriate him, he would come after me. Then either I or the police would stop him.”
The attorney started to ask another question, but Jackson interrupted.
“A minute ago, you asked whether I intended to carry out my vengeance. I’d like to answer that. Talking about my dad reminded me of something,” he said, folding his hands. “Those two guys I mentioned? There’s a difference between hunting and killing. I’m a hunter.”
Jackson paused, waiting for the final question. “And do you feel any remorse how it all played out?”
A deep, whooshing sigh and the curled shoulders told the true weight he bore. “Every day. For Angela, for Sarah, for Herb. Not for their murderer.”
“Thank you. That’s all, your honor.”
District attorney Trulowicz fired off plenty of questions, but just one mattered. It was the question so many of us asked since the first day, one that until then went unanswered. Why?
“Angela was pregnant when she died.” Jack’s voice cracked as he tried to stare down the unflinching district attorney. “I think she wanted to tell me the night before she died, but I asked if she could wait until I got back home from a business trip.”
His whole body slumped as he spoke.
“She never got the chance to tell me, and I’ll always be haunted by the fact that I denied her the opportunity to share her joyous news with me. I’ll always feel guilt that I should have protected my wife and my child.”
The courtroom made a collective gasping noise at the revelation, and the muted lawyers summed up their cases.
Every heart in the courtroom ached for Jackson, and the case went to the jury at six p.m.
After a working dinner, the jurors discussed the finer points of the laws, reviewed evidence, and called it a night. At nine the next morning, they met, took a poll, and returned to the courtroom at ten a.m.
At ten fifteen, Jackson walked out of the courtroom a free man.
The hunt was over. Justice had been served.
And I’m getting back to work. I’ve got a book to write.
AFTERWORD
A PERSONAL NOTE FROM JACKSON STONE
I wasn’t sure I wanted to participate in this project when Gerry Hilliard approached me after the trial, feeling it was a chapter of my life that I was ready to . . . never truly close, but at least put some distance behind me. I wanted to focus on the future, and not dwell on Angela’s senseless murder.
But I put off a decision for a week, and prayed on the right thing to do. Ultimately, it became clear that I should give Gerry my input and support. He seemed determined to write this book, so this way you will get the unvarnished truth, at least from my perspective. Gerry did not surrender editorial control, and we agreed to disagree over some of his conclusions and observations.
I wish this book didn’t need to be written, that Angela and I could have grown old together, but it wasn’t meant to be. Even as I move forward, not a day goes by that I don’t think of her. That will never change, but I have much to accomplish in this world before I am with Angela again. Gerry agreed to contribute a portion from the sale of each book to the foundation I started in Angela’s memory. There are many worthwhile victim’s rights organizations out there; please consider supporting one.
May God bless Angela’s spirit . . . and you.
—Jackson Stone, August 3, 2012
&n
bsp; ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not have been possible without Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior, in my life. He has opened so many doors to me and led me down a path that resulted in this book. Many thanks to my wife Bennie Wood, my late father Tom Sr., and family including Brian Chumney, Tracey Carroll, Jennifer and Michael Darling, Ray Hylton, Stephanie Lowe, Kristy Oldham, Larry Riley and Cheri Sanders. I appreciate editor Kathy Rhodes, cover designer Katherine Campbell and photographer Nora Canfield. Several former colleagues at The Tennessean offered critical feedback, including John Seigenthaler, the former editor and publisher and now chairman emeritus, as well as Sandy Campbell, Nick Sullivan and Larry Woody. Information, inspiration or support came from former Middle Tennessee State mass communications professor Jerry Hilliard; authors Jaden Terrell and Clay Stafford; the Killer Nashville and Sisters In Crime organizations; my Franklin critique group (Sandy Ward Bell, Suzanne Brunson, John Davis, Micki Fuhrman, Ruth Lebovitz and Michael J. Tucker); Nashville Writers Meetup members, including Kathleen Cosgrove, Lily Wilson and Robert Mangeot; Steve Brodsky, Michelle Honick, Rachel Joiner, Woody Murray, Carolyn Sullivan; East Nashville police officer Chris Jones; Dr. Mike Shelton, my pastor at Bellevue Baptist Church; psychologist Dr. Charles Ihrig; the late Stan Allen, an attorney, boxer, manager and friend; and late Tennessean columnists John Bibb and Jerry Thompson. I hope I’ve made you all proud.
—Tom Wood, August 2013
