Nelson quickly established that Francie was the older sister of the accused. When finished with the preliminaries, he asked, “Miss Wells, do you know why you’re here?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “To testify in my brother’s trial.”
“Do you want to be here?”
“Not really. You told me I had to come.”
Nelson smiled. “Miss Wells, just so everyone understands what the state did or didn’t do, let’s take a moment to clarify what you just said. Did I say you had to come, or did I encourage you to come in order to do the right thing?”
“Well, you said it was up to me, but after talking to you I felt like this was what I had to do.”
“As long as we’re on the subject, let’s be even more clear, shall we? Did I or anyone representing the state threaten you in any way, or promise you anything in return for your testimony today?”
“Well, you said I would sleep better at night.”
At that, the spectators, jurors, and even the judge released a quick chuckle.
Tony admired Nelson’s skillful setting of the stage. With a few apparently harmless questions, he had firmly established Francie as the reluctant witness, only here to do her civic duty. Tony knew whatever was coming was not going to be good for Ralph Wells. He was right.
***
Francie’s direct testimony was, indeed, short and simple. She told the court she heard her brother threaten to kill Jerry Ennis. She said Ralph Wells had said it while visiting Francie’s Viscount, Iowa, home two months before the killings. Francie said Ralph was angry with Ennis for cheating him out of his share of the cash in a methamphetamine sale. Ralph Wells, his sister testified, became increasingly upset as he talked about Ennis. When Francie urged him to calm down, she said, her brother told her, “I will calm down after I kill that SOB.”
Nelson asked other questions but kept it within his promised thirty minutes. None of it mattered. Tony knew the prosecution now had presented the jury with the crucial missing piece – a motive.
Defense counsel Lawrence Pike clearly understood the devastating nature of Francie Wells’ words, and did all he could to mitigate their effect. Cross-examination lasted longer than the direct. At one point, he pressed her about her brother’s character. “So are you saying your brother was a dealer of illegal drugs?” he asked.
Wells replied, “Yes. Not a big one, but I knew he sold some drugs from time to time, mostly to his friends.”
“Are you aware that selling drugs is a crime in Iowa, in some cases a serious crime?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever report to anyone, particularly to law enforcement such as the county sheriff, that your brother was involved in illegal activities?”
“No.”
“So can you explain to the court, Miss Wells, why your sense of civic duty brought you here today, but seemed to be absent previously?”
At that, prosecutor Nelson objected. The judge sustained the objection, so no answer was given.
Near the end of his cross-examination, Pike turned to the topic of the alleged threat. “Miss Wells, if this conversation with your brother really occurred, would you please tell the court to whom you reported it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, Miss Wells, if you heard your brother threaten to kill someone, as you claim, you must have reported it to the authorities, did you not?”
“Well… no, I guess I didn’t.”
“You guess you didn’t?”
She stiffened, looked Pike in the eye and said more firmly, “No, I didn’t.”
“I assume you can explain to the court why you kept this astonishing, perhaps I should say unbelievable, revelation to yourself.”
“Objection!” Nelson had yelled loudly enough that Tony actually jumped in his seat in the gallery. “Your Honor…”
“I apologize, Your Honor,” Pike was quick to interject. “I retract the editorial comment, but the question still stands…Miss Wells, why did you not report this alleged conversation?”
“I, well, I just didn’t think he meant it. After all, he’s my brother and I just didn’t assume he would really do such a thing.”
Pike was quiet for several seconds before turning to the jury, but addressing another question to Wells. “You just said your brother isn’t the type of person to commit a heinous crime such as the one we’re discussing today. Is that right?”
“Well…uh, no, I mean I’m not sure,” Francie Wells stared down at the wooden railing in front of the witness stand.
“You’re not sure he’s the type to kill two people in cold blood?” Pike turned back to face the witness.
“I don’t know. I already told you I didn’t think so.”
At that, Pike had no further questions and Francie Wells was dismissed from the witness stand.
The exchange left Tony an even greater appreciation for Lawrence Pike. He had taken a gamble, but not as big a gamble as it appeared. If the sister had been ready to paint her brother as having the personality of a heartless killer, Pike undoubtedly was prepared to counter that with facts, such as the fact Ralph Wells had never been in trouble for anything and such as the fact Wells didn’t like to hunt. In his reporting of the case, Tony had encountered several of Wells’ friends willing to tell him that Wells was squeamish about killing animals, so he assumed Pike had the same information.
But Francie Wells had backed down, unwilling to push the issue further. Pike had gotten into the trial record a key prosecution witness saying she didn’t believe Ralph Wells was the type of person to commit the crime. Despite this, however, Tony knew the testimony for the prosecution had been far more powerful. He left the courthouse that day thinking it had been a very bad day for Ralph Adam Wells. For some reason, it filled him with a nearly suffocating sense of gloom. He didn’t know why, but he had to admit that deep inside he was pulling for the defendant. The only saving grace regarding today, he thought, was that things couldn’t get any worse. He had no idea how wrong he was.
Chapter 7
Tony walked out the glass doors to the top of the courthouse stairs. He broke into a wide smile as he saw Lisa sitting on the bottom step in the late afternoon sun, reading a copy of Bill Bryson’s Thunderbolt Kid. Lisa recently had confessed to Tony that she’d never read it, and Tony had immediately insisted they go to Walker’s Books on the square and buy a copy. “I can just get it from the library,” Lisa protested, but Tony insisted.
“Once you read it, you’re going to want to keep it, or at least pass it along to someone else,” he had assured her.
He was happy to see her reading it now, giggling out loud as she turned a page. He was even happier just to see her. He paused on the stairs just to feast on the sight. She was wearing white capris with a simple navy V-neck sweater. One hand toyed absently with the gold chain around her neck and the other held the book on her lap. Tony reminded himself to breathe and then skipped down the steps to greet her.
“Hey, gorgeous, what brings you to the halls of justice?” he asked as she turned and rose to give him a quick hug.
“Well, I heard some hotshot reporter was here covering a murder trial, so I thought I would ambush him as he left the building. Then I thought I would offer to buy him an early dinner before he headed to the newsroom to write his story.”
“Hmmm,” Tony nodded thoughtfully, and pulled her to him for a second, longer embrace. “If I see a hotshot reporter anywhere, I’ll be sure to let him know. In the meantime, how about dinner with me?”
Lisa laughed. “Well, I don’t like to settle, but I guess I could handle it this one time. How about Panucci’s for a large sausage and mushroom?”
“Sounds great, but what will you eat?” Tony shot back, only half kidding. He knew Lisa would have one piece to complement her trip to the salad bar while he fought the urge to eat all that remained. Regardless, it was a great idea. Panucci’s was his favorite pizza place. Not just his favorite in Orney, but his favorite anywhere, and that was sayi
ng something for a kid from Chicago. It was owned by second-generation Italian immigrants and featured a thin crust pizza he craved. In fact, he craved almost everything Mama Panucci cooked. He gladly would have paid money to stand in the doorway and just inhale the aroma of the place.
Located in one of the oldest buildings on the square, Panucci’s was modest in every respect except flavor. The seating consisted of six booths along one wall and six small tables scattered in the open dining area. Along the wall at the back of the room was one counter where food was ordered and tabs were paid. Mama didn’t wait on you. She stayed in the kitchen, which was just fine with everyone who had tasted her cooking. Her nephew, a young man who was developmentally disabled, worked behind the counter. He could take orders correctly, make change, and run the credit card machine, and that was all Mama needed. Everyone loved Burt who, as far as Tony knew, held the world record for going the most consecutive days with an unbroken smile on his face.
One large plate glass window faced the sidewalk, parking meters, and street. Tony and Lisa sat in the booth nearest the window. Lisa knew it was Tony’s favorite spot and knew he preferred to sit facing the window. She assumed it was the reporter in him – always wanting to know what was going on outside. Tony suspected it had more to do with a scene from one of his dad’s novels in which a man was shot in the back by a bad guy bursting through the front door of a restaurant. Tony had read the novel when he was young, probably too young. The scene had touched something in him that he couldn’t shake. From that point on, whenever the family went to dinner, Tony had insisted on sitting in the seat facing the door. Today, many years later, it was more habit than phobia, but still…
Once settled in, Lisa asked about the trial and Tony related the facts of the day. He confided in her his disappointment at how damaging the testimony had been for Wells.
Lisa listened without interrupting. When Tony finished, she was quiet for a long moment before saying, “Obviously I’ve been able to tell this case is wearing on you, but I have to admit I’m not sure why. The evidence seems clear, and I don’t get the sense that you typically have a lot of sympathy for someone who kills two people in cold blood.”
“Of course not. You’re right. I’m not sure I understand it myself. I can tell you this, though. I keep thinking back to the night of Wells’ arrest. I can see him in my mind like it was yesterday. He seemed so confused, so naive about what was happening, so innocent.” Tony had a pained look. “I just can’t reconcile that scared, dumb kid with my idea of the kind of person who commits premeditated murder.”
“Don’t all criminals proclaim their innocence, and aren’t a lot of them really good actors?”
“Sure, but I was there, six feet away as they dragged him to the squad car. I saw his face. I would bet my house he wasn’t acting. And, at the risk of being truly unkind, I don’t believe Wells is smart enough to know how to act, let alone pull off an Academy Award performance. Something in this case is out of whack. I can feel it.”
“Well, first of all, you don’t own a house.” Lisa smiled. “I wasn’t there so I’m sure not going to disagree with you about what you saw. My only advice is don’t let it drive you crazy. Let the justice system do its job, and you concentrate on putting great prose in the local newspaper.”
“Good advice,” Tony sighed. He didn’t sound like he meant it.
Lisa wasn’t really worried about Tony. She knew he was a good reporter who could manage his emotions and personal biases. He had covered tough stories before, including stories that affected him deeply. Somehow he managed to set it aside when it was done and move on. However, her angst did rise a little when, after nearly an hour of chatting, Tony excused himself to pay the bill. Lisa glanced at the pizza pan and noticed Tony had eaten only a portion of one piece.
***
Tony parked his SUV in the small lot off the alley behind the Town Crier building, actually called the Sanderson Building if you read the etched granite cornerstone, and walked in the back door to the newsroom. He never failed to notice, or appreciate, the scent that greeted him. One hundred years of ink, glue, paper, chemicals, and most likely sweat combined to create a unique smell that lingered in the background of all old newspaper buildings, never letting you forget you were someplace special.
Tony pulled the small spiral reporter’s pad from his sport coat pocket, dropped it on his desk, and plopped into his chair, letting out a sigh. After a few moments of staring at the florescent lights in the ceiling, he spun a half turn, glanced at his mail slot to see how much had accumulated, and then turned back to his computer.
“You’ve got great stuff for tomorrow morning I trust?” Benjamin “Ben” Smalley had sidled up next to his desk. Tony hadn’t seen him coming, so he must have been up front at the reception/ad sales desk, or perhaps in the darkroom.
“Actually, I do,” Tony said, always pleased to give his boss good news. “Wells’ sister testified against him. It was pretty damning stuff.”
“His sister… really? Well, I’ll be interested to see it.” Ben was a good boss and a great editor, which meant he was smart enough not to ask any more questions. He didn’t want his reporters relating the news verbally and losing enthusiasm for the story. He knew an article always flowed from the reporters’ fingers faster and read with more intensity when the written version was its first telling.
Ben Smalley was the reason Tony was here. Ben had worked in major newspapers for nearly two decades, first in Detroit and later in Baltimore. He had won two Pulitzer Prizes as an investigative journalist and was one of the most respected print journalists on the East Coast. Then about ten years ago, without warning, he quit. Five months later, he bought the Town Crier in Orney, Iowa. His colleagues in Baltimore were surprised. The residents of Orney were shocked.
While Iowans pride themselves on being nice and rarely hesitate to welcome a stranger into their communities or even their homes, control of a local newspaper was a serious matter. Some people feared that the “hot shot reporter from New York” – they couldn’t seem to get the city right – would try to use the paper for daily exposés of whatever private business they had. In Orney, of course, this was close to laughable. Others feared Ben would trivialize life in Orney, and in effect use the paper to perpetuate outdated stereotypes of farmers or outright make fun of the people and events it covered. Some hoped Ben would use the newspaper to shake things up and change whatever they had been griping about for years. No one expected what actually happened.
Ben Smalley loved Orney, Iowa. He found the people surprisingly well educated and deeply interested in all kinds of news and information. He found them willing to discuss, debate, and even argue about issues, but then stand side-by-side to serve pancakes at the fire department’s annual fundraiser or harvest a neighbor’s crops when misfortune kept the neighbor out of the fields. He found them to be intensely passionate about preserving and improving their community as they fought to stem the natural shrinkage in population. Ben knew they were up against an irreversible trend. The simple truth was that fewer people were needed to work the ever-larger farms. Fewer farm families meant fewer shoppers in town and fewer kids in the schools. Struggling businesses and consolidating schools had become the norm in rural Iowa.
Ben also found Iowans to be an odd mix of conservative and liberal. Regardless of party affiliation, most Iowa conservatives were relatively progressive on social issues, and most Iowa liberals were relatively strong on the need for individual responsibility and well-controlled government spending.
What many people didn’t know about Ben was that he had first become intrigued by Iowa twenty years earlier, when he came to the state as a journalist to cover the first-in-the-nation presidential caucuses. The whole process fascinated him. The campaigning in coffee shops and town squares, the debates in local colleges featuring six or eight different candidates from one party, and the caucuses themselves were like nothing else in American politics. The caucus night process was remarkably informal
. The word “quaint” might have described it if it didn’t have such incredible impact on the future of the nation, and therefore the world. People gathered in church basements, school gymnasiums, and even people’s homes. They didn’t use secret ballots. They “voted” by a variety of means, but often by visibly and literally standing in their preferred candidate’s corner of the room. Even the head counts, which formed the basis for the rise or fall of potential future leaders of the free world, were relatively informal. After spending most of two winter months – December and January – in Iowa that year, Ben had come to appreciate and respect Iowans. However, it wasn’t until he actually moved to Orney that he realized how much he loved them.
Ben had done a lot of things right. From the first day in town, he spent every morning at Willie’s or one of the other local establishments drinking coffee with the local farmers and others. Each morning he would ask a table of strangers if he could join them. He would assure them he wasn’t gathering news, and would proceed to simply get to know them and to help them know him. Word quickly spread that the new guy in town was “darn nice” and simply interested in producing a good newspaper. Within months, there were no longer tables of strangers to join. He was greeted by name and urged to join whatever tables had empty seats.
Of course the owner/editor of a small town paper can’t be friends with everyone all the time. Regrettably, sometimes the difficult article had to be published; the friend from the coffee shop had to be told, “I’m sorry, but I have to run the article about your son’s arrest.” The small size of the paper, which limited the funds available and the size of the staff, also prevented the paper from covering every little league game, every school concert, and every blue ribbon at the county fair. These sins of omission often raised the most ire. But Ben had thick skin, and regardless of what scathing phone call or letter he received, he was always back in the coffee shop the next morning, trading fish tales with the natives.
Burying the Lede Page 6
