The Reckoning

by John Grisham

  “How long have you known Pete Banning?” Truitt asked.

  “A long time. He’s a member of the church.”

  “Would you point to the man who was holding the gun?”

  “If you say so.” Hop pointed at the defendant. He described how Mista Banning pointed the gun at his head, how he fell to his knees pleading, and how Mista Banning said he was a good man. Now go tell the sheriff.

  Hop watched him walk away, then slipped into the office, though he didn’t really want to. Reverend Bell was in his chair, bleeding in the head and chest, eyes closed. Hop wasn’t sure how long he stood there; he was too terrified to think straight. Finally, he backed away without touching a thing and ran to get the sheriff.

  No lawyer could score points by impeaching Hop or casting doubts about his veracity. There was nothing to impeach. What reason did Hop have to cut corners with the truth? He saw what he saw and he had embellished not a word. John Wilbanks stood and quietly said that he did not wish to cross-examine the witness. Indeed, he had nothing to throw at any of the State’s witnesses.

  As he sat and listened, and seethed, John asked himself, and not for the first time, why he had been so quick to rush to Pete’s defense. The man was guilty and had no desire to appear otherwise. Why couldn’t some other lawyer sit benignly at the defense table and captain this sinking ship? From the perspective of an accomplished trial lawyer, it was unsettling, almost embarrassing.

  The next witness for the State was a man everybody knew. Slim Fargason had been the elected chancery clerk for decades, and one of his duties was the recording and preservation of all of the county’s land records. In short order, he looked at a certified copy of a deed and explained to the jury that on September 16 of the previous year Mr. Pete Banning had transferred by quitclaim deed a section of land, 640 acres, to his two children, Joel and Stella Banning. The land had been owned by Pete since 1932 when his mother died and bequeathed it to him by her last will and testament.

  On cross-examination, John Wilbanks fleshed out the chain of title and made much of the fact that the land had been owned by the Banning family for well over a hundred years. Wasn’t it common knowledge in Ford County that the Bannings kept their land? Slim confessed that he couldn’t attest to what was common knowledge, could only speak for himself, but, yes, he figured the land would eventually be owned by the next generation.

  When the questions were over, Slim hustled off the stand and returned to his office.

  Deputy Roy Lester was called to testify. Following Mississippi law, he removed his service revolver, holster, and belt before stepping into the witness stand. As Truitt lobbed questions, Lester picked up Hop’s narrative and described the scene when they arrived. First, they tried to subdue Mrs. Bell, who was hysterical, and rightly so. He was with her when Sheriff Gridley arrived on the scene, and he walked her across the street to Mrs. Vanlandingham’s porch. He later went to the church and helped with the investigation.

  John Wilbanks had nothing on cross.

  Miles Truitt had the facts on his side, which was usually the case with prosecutors, and for that reason he was deliberate and plodding. Creativity was not necessary. He would slowly piece together the narrative and walk the jurors step by step through the crime and its aftermath. His next witness was Sheriff Nix Gridley, who unlatched his weaponry and took the stand.

  Nix laid out the crime scene, and through a series of enlarged color photos the jurors finally saw the dead body, and all the blood. The photos were gruesome, inflammatory, and prejudicial, but trial judges in Mississippi always allowed them. The truth was that murders were messy, and the triers of fact had the right to see the damage wrought by the defendant. Fortunately, the photos were not large enough to be seen from the gallery or the balcony. Jackie Bell was spared the sight of her dead husband, but she was still troubled to learn that such evidence existed. No one had told her Dexter had been photographed as his blood crept across the floor. What would happen to the photographs after the trial?

  As they were passed around the jury box, several of the jurors glared at Pete, who was flipping through a thick law book. He rarely looked up, never looked around, and most of the time seemed detached from his own trial.

  Nix told of his conversation with Hop, who identified the murderer. He, Roy Lester, and Red Arnett drove out to arrest Pete Banning, who was waiting on the porch. He told them the gun was in his truck and they took it. He said nothing as they drove to the jail, where John Wilbanks was waiting. Mr. Wilbanks insisted that there was to be no interrogation without him present, so Nix never got the chance to talk to the defendant, who, to this day, has never said a word as to why he killed the preacher.

  “So you have no idea as to motive?” Truitt asked.

  John Wilbanks was itching to do something lawyerly. He jumped to his feet and said, “Objection. Calls for speculation. This witness is in no position to give his ‘idea’ or opinion as to motive.”

  “Sustained.”

  Unfazed, Truitt walked to a small table in front of the bench, reached into a cardboard box, removed a pistol, and handed it to Nix. “Is this the gun you removed from Pete Banning’s pickup truck?”

  Nix held it with both hands and nodded. Yes.

  “Would you describe it for the jury?”

  “Sure. It’s made by Colt for the army, a .45 caliber, a single-action revolver, with six rounds in the cylinder. Five-and-a-half-inch barrel. A very nice gun. I’d say a legend in the business.”

  “Do you know where the defendant purchased this gun?”

  “I do not. Again, I’ve never talked to the defendant about the shooting.”

  “Do you know how many rounds were fired by the defendant at the deceased?”

  “There were three. Hop said he heard three rounds, and, as you’ve heard, Mrs. Bell testified that she heard three sounds. According to the autopsy, the deceased was hit twice in the chest and once in the face.”

  “Were you able to recover any of the slugs?”

  “Yes, two of them. One passed through the head and lodged in the foam padding of the chair in which the deceased was sitting. Another passed through the torso and lodged lower in the chair. The third was removed by the pathologist during the autopsy.”

  Jackie Bell burst into tears and began sobbing. Errol McLeish stood and helped her to her feet. She left the courtroom with her hands over her face as everyone watched and waited. When the door closed behind her, Miles Truitt looked at Judge Oswalt, who nodded as if to say, “Get on with it.”

  Truitt walked to the table, took a small package from the box, and handed it to the witness. “Can you describe these?”

  “Sure. These are the three slugs that killed the preacher.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Well, I sent the gun and the slugs to the crime lab. They ran the ballistics tests and sent me a report.” Truitt stepped to his table, picked up some papers, and sort of waved them at Judge Oswalt. “Your Honor, I have their two reports. The first is from the ballistics expert; the second is from the doctor who performed the autopsy. I move that these be admitted into evidence.”

  “Any objections, Mr. Wilbanks?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, the same objections I raised last week. I prefer to have these two experts here in the courtroom so I can cross-examine them. I cannot cross-examine written reports. There is no good reason why these two men were not subpoenaed here to testify. This is unfair to the defense.”

  “Overruled. The reports are admitted into evidence. Proceed, Mr. Truitt.”

  “Now, Sheriff Gridley, the jury will be able to review both reports, but can you summarize what the ballistics expert said?”

  “Sure. The three spent cartridges were still in the chamber, so the analysis was easy. The expert examined them, along with the three slugs, and he test fired the weapon. In his opinion, there is no doubt th
at the Colt revolver we took from the defendant’s truck fired the three fatal shots. No doubt.”

  “And can you summarize the findings of the doctor who performed the autopsy?”

  “No surprise there. The three bullets fired from Pete Banning’s revolver entered the body of the deceased and caused his death. It’s all right here in the report.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. I tender the witness.”

  John Wilbanks stood and glared at Gridley as if he might throw a rock at him. He stepped to the podium and pondered his first question. For weeks now, every living soul in Ford County had known that Pete Banning shot and killed Dexter Bell. If Wilbanks dared to suggest otherwise, he risked losing whatever credibility he had. He also risked outright ridicule, something his pride couldn’t tolerate. He decided to poke and prod a bit, perhaps raise a little suspicion, but above all maintain his elevated status.

  “Sheriff, who is your ballistics expert?”

  “A man named Doug Cranwell, works down in Jackson.”

  “And you think he’s a qualified expert in his field?”

  “Seems to be. He’s used by a lot of folks in law enforcement.”

  “Well, forgive me for asking, but I can’t quiz him on his qualifications, because he’s not here. Why is he not here to testify live before this jury?”

  “I guess you’ll have to ask Mr. Truitt. I’m not in charge of trials.” Nix smiled at the jurors and enjoyed his moment of levity.

  “I see. And which doctor did you use for the autopsy?”

  “Dr. Fred Briley, also down in Jackson. He’s used by a lot of sheriffs.”

  “And why is he not here to testify before this jury?”

  “I think he charges too much money.”

  “I see. Is this a low-budget investigation? A crime that’s not too important?”

  “It comes out of Mr. Truitt’s budget, not mine. So you’ll have to ask him.”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd, Sheriff, that neither of these experts would show up here and subject himself to a rigorous cross-examination by the defense?”

  Truitt stood and said, “Objection, Your Honor. This witness does not control the prosecution of this case.”

  “Sustained.”

  Nix, who was enjoying his brief visit to the witness stand, kept talking. “It’s really an open-and-shut case and I guess Mr. Truitt didn’t see the need for a lot of experts.”

  “That’s enough, Sheriff,” Oswalt growled.

  Wilbanks bristled and asked, “So, how many murders have you investigated, Sheriff?”

  “Not many. I run a tight ship around here. We don’t see a lot of crime.”

  “How many murders?”

  When it became apparent an answer was required, Gridley shifted weight, thought for a second, and asked, “Black or white?”

  Wilbanks glanced away in frustration and asked, “Do you investigate them differently?”

  “No, I guess not. I’ve seen three or four stabbings in Lowtown, and that Dulaney boy got hanged out from Box Hill. Other than that, on our side of town, we found Jesse Green floating in the river but could never tell if he’d been murdered. Body was decomposed too much. So I guess just one other murder before now.”

  “And how long have you been the sheriff?”

  “Goin’ on eight years.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” Wilbanks said and returned to his table.

  Judge Oswalt was shaking from a lack of nicotine. He rapped his gavel and said, “We’ll adjourn for lunch and reconvene at 2:00 p.m.”

  Chapter 15

  After cigarettes and sandwiches, the judge met privately with the lawyers. Truitt said he had no other witnesses and felt as though he had proven his case sufficiently. Oswalt agreed. Wilbanks couldn’t deny it either and complimented the DA on how well his evidence had been presented. As for the defense, there was still doubt as to whether Pete Banning would take the stand. One day he wanted to testify and plead his case to the jury. The next day he would barely speak to his own lawyer. Wilbanks confided that he now believed Pete was mentally unbalanced, but there would be no insanity plea. Pete was still staunchly opposed to it, and the filing deadline had long since passed.

  “Who’s your first witness?” Judge Oswalt asked.

  “Major Rusconi, U.S. Army.”

  “And the gist of his testimony?”

  “I want to establish that my client, while on active duty and fighting the Japanese in the Philippines, was taken captive and presumed dead. This was the message sent to his family in May of 1942.”

  “I don’t see the relevance to this crime, John,” Truitt said.

  “And I’m not surprised to hear that. I will attempt to lay the foundation for my client’s testimony, in the event he takes the stand.”

  “I’m not so sure either, John,” Judge Oswalt said skeptically. “You’ll prove he was dead or missing or both, and this was what the family believed, and therefore the minister, in the course of doing his duties, somehow stepped out of line, thus giving the defendant an excuse. Is this what you’re thinking?”

  Truitt was shaking his head in disapproval.

  Wilbanks said, “Judge, I don’t have anything else, maybe other than the defendant himself. You must allow me to mount a defense, shaky as it sounds.”

  “Put him on. Miles, make your objection. I’ll let him go for a few minutes and see where he takes us, but I am skeptical.”

  “Thanks, Judge,” Wilbanks said.

  When the jurors were seated after a leisurely lunch break, Judge Oswalt informed them that the State had rested and the defense was waiving its right to make an opening statement. Major Anthony Rusconi was called to the stand, and he marched right in, garbed in full military regalia. He was from New Orleans, with that thick, unmistakable accent and easy smile. He was a career officer who had served in the Pacific.

  After a few preliminaries, Miles Truitt rose and politely said, “Your Honor, with all due respect to the witness, his testimony is and will continue to be of no relevance to the facts and issues involved in this case. Therefore, I would like to enter a continuing objection to his testimony.”

  “So noted. Continue, Mr. Wilbanks.”

  Before the war, Rusconi was stationed in Manila and worked in the headquarters of General Douglas MacArthur, the commander of the U.S. forces in the Philippines. The day after Pearl Harbor, the Japanese bombed the American air bases in the Philippines and the war was on.

  At that time, Lieutenant Pete Banning was an officer in the Twenty-Sixth Cavalry and stationed at Fort Stotsenburg near Clark Field, sixty miles north of Manila.

  The Japanese quickly destroyed the American air and naval forces and invaded with fifty thousand battle-hardened and well-supplied troops. The Americans and their allies, the Filipino Scouts and the regular Philippine Army, mounted a heroic defense, but as the Japanese reinforced and tightened their noose around the islands, food, medicine, fuel, and ammunition disappeared. With no air support for protection and no navy to provide supplies and possible escape, the Americans were forced to retreat to the Bataan Peninsula, a forbidding and jungle-infested stretch of terrain jutting into the South China Sea.

  Rusconi was quite the storyteller and seemed to enjoy the opportunity to talk about the war. Miles Truitt shook his head and tried to make eye contact with Judge Oswalt, who avoided him. The jurors were spellbound. The spectators were riveted and virtually motionless.

  The siege lasted four months, and when the Americans were forced to surrender to a vastly superior force, it was the biggest defeat in the history of the U.S. Army. But the men had no choice. They were starving, sick, emaciated, and dying so fast burials were not possible. Malaria, dengue fever, dysentery, scurvy, and beriberi were rampant, along with tropical diseases the American doctors had never heard of. And things were about to get worse.

 
Rusconi himself surrendered in Manila in February of 1942. General MacArthur left in March and set up his command in Australia. Rusconi and his staff were thrown in a prison camp near Manila, but were allowed to maintain many of the records the Japanese did not deem important. They were reasonably well treated but always hungry. Things were to be far different on Bataan.

  According to the scant records Rusconi was able to keep and piece together, Lieutenant Banning surrendered with his unit on April 10, 1942, on the southern tip of the Bataan Peninsula. He was one of approximately seventy thousand prisoners of war who were forced to march for days with no food and water. Thousands collapsed and died in the blistering sun and their bodies were simply tossed in roadside ditches.

  Among the captured were hundreds of officers, and, as awful as the conditions were, some semblance of command was attempted. Word spread through the march that the names of those who died were to be remembered and later recorded so the families could be notified. Under the dire circumstances, it was a task that proved to be difficult. Rusconi digressed and explained to the jury that as of today, January 7, 1947, the U.S. Army was still in the grim business of finding and attempting to identify dead soldiers in the Philippines.

  Miles Truitt stood, raised both hands, and said, “Your Honor, please, this is a murder trial. This story is tragic and compelling, but it has nothing to do with our business here.”

  Judge Oswalt was obviously struggling. The testimony was clearly irrelevant. He looked at John Wilbanks and said, “Where are you going, Counselor?”

  Wilbanks managed to give the impression that he knew exactly what he was doing. He said, “Please, Your Honor, bear with me for a little longer. I think I can tie things together.”