Ben was careful to tell plenty of stories as well as ask questions. He didn’t want to appear aloof in any way. He talked about growing up in Michigan, shooting archery competitively, going to Michigan State on a scholarship, lucking into an internship that later became a job at the Free Press, and his experiences there and in Baltimore. He told endless stories about police raids, five-alarm fires, riots, embezzlements, and at least one prison escape. He did it all with a writer’s flair for storytelling and a dry sense of humor fueled by his natural cynicism.
The one topic, however, that Ben consistently dismissed with a casual brush off, was why he left the East Coast. He would simply say, “It was time for a change of pace,” or something equally unpersuasive, and then change the subject and move on. His new Iowa friends were perceptive enough to know there was something more he wasn’t sharing. They also were polite enough to not push it.
Most journalism students at the colleges and universities in Iowa knew Ben Smalley was in Orney. It was like having Eric Clapton playing guitar for a house band in a small town bar. For this reason, Ben received dozens, sometimes hundreds, of résumés every year from students seeking internships or employment. For any student wishing to remain in Iowa, the Town Crier seemed the perfect place to begin a journalism career.
Five-and-a-half years earlier, when Tony was nearing college graduation, Orney was high on his list as well. He decided to make a run at Ben Smalley, and he decided he would go all out in the effort. He had driven to Orney one Tuesday afternoon, and sat in a courtroom to watch the trial of a thirty-something schoolteacher who was fighting a charge of operating a vehicle while intoxicated. Tony hadn’t known if he would find a trial in session or what the trial might be if he did. It would have been easy to be disappointed that it was something as trivial as an OWI, but Tony was glad to see it was a schoolteacher fighting the charge. It didn’t take a genius to understand that if the teacher was convicted, it could cost him his job. Even if he kept his job, it would severely curtail his future opportunities in education. Tony found the testimony more emotional and compelling than he expected.
After leaving the trial and getting some dinner, Tony had gone to City Hall and sat through the semi-weekly meeting of the Orney City Council. Most of the business was routine. Most exciting was a dispute over a request for a zoning variance from a man who wanted to repair cars for money in his residential garage.
When Tony left that meeting, he rushed back to his motel room, pulled out his laptop, and wrote both stories – the trial and the council meeting. He saved them on a thumb drive and carried it to the motel office, asking the clerk to print the two documents. Tony then put the two stories, along with the thumb drive and his résumé, in a manila envelope and drove to the Town Crier.
At 10 p.m. only the newsroom door in the back of the building was open. When Tony walked in, two pairs of eyes had looked up from computer terminals. A dark-haired woman with a streak of gray on one side of her short bangs was at the terminal closest to Tony. Smalley was at a desk in the far corner.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked.
“I have something for Mr. Smalley, if he wouldn’t mind being bothered for just a minute,” Tony said.
“If that’s a résumé, you can leave it with me.” The woman had eyed the envelope, trying to sound firm. “We have a well-established process for reviewing résumés and deciding who gets invited for interviews. I’m sure you understand we can’t take time out for that when we’re on deadline.”
“Actually, it’s more than a résumé. I noticed no one was at the trial today in the courthouse. So I took the liberty of writing it up.”
“You took the…”
Ben interrupted the woman, calling from where he sat, “It’s alright, Eve. Come on back here, young man.”
Tony thanked the woman as he scooted to the back of the room.
“Thank you, Mr. Smalley,” Tony said in a rush. “I readily admit I’m one more graduating journalism student who would love to work for you. So, I took the liberty of writing two stories for you today, one about the trial in the courthouse and one about the city council meeting tonight. I figured even if you had them covered, you might like to see how my reporting abilities compare. And if you didn’t…” He was trying to get it all out in one breath, but Ben stopped him by simply holding up the palm of his hand.
“Okay, I get it,” Ben said. “Very ambitious of you. You accomplished your goal of convincing me you’re willing to take a risk and you work fast. Now, two things. One, I trust you don’t mean ‘stories.’ I trust these are articles, written to reflect the facts. And two, please get the hell out of here and let me get my newspaper put to bed.”
Tony had mumbled a thank you and slunk away, red-faced. As he drove back to his hotel, he was heartsick. It wasn’t exactly the level of admiration or even appreciation he had been seeking. He couldn’t be sure Smalley would even read his stuff, let alone offer him a job. He agonized and debated over what he could have done better or differently as he finally fell asleep on the too-stiff mattress of the Iowa Motor Inn next to U.S. Highway 26 south of town.
The next morning Tony had taken advantage of the free coffee and donuts in the lobby of the motel. As he sat at a small Formica table sipping the surprisingly good, strong coffee, he pulled the Town Crier from a newspaper rack and scanned the front page. There was a story, article, about the city council meeting. “By Eve Cramer, Staff Writer,” it said. There next to it, wrapped around a file photo of the schoolteacher, was the article: “Teacher Disputes Results of Alcohol Test in OWI Trial, by Tony Harrington, Special to the Town Crier.” His hands were shaking as he ran to his SUV to find a convenience store that sold papers.
A week later Tony had received his manila envelope back via the U.S. Postal Service. In it was a copy of his article, as if he hadn’t purchased ten of them before leaving town, a check for $100, and a job offer.
***
Nearly six years later, Tony was still churning articles for Ben. He loved the work. The variety of experiences, the opportunity to learn something new every day, and the freedom to be creative in how he told a story – all kept him energized. His admiration of Ben and his affection for the characters with whom he shared the newsroom kept him devoted to the Town Crier.
The people who worked in small town newspapers, Tony observed, usually fell into one of two categories: the very young and the very old. The very young were there because the paper primarily hired new graduates. Once they honed their skills, they usually sought, and found, career opportunities at larger newspapers or in other businesses seeking good writers. The Town Crier could not compete with the salaries or the glamour of jobs in larger cities.
The very old were those rare exceptions who stayed in Orney because of longstanding family ties or a spouse’s job or, occasionally, a general lack of interest in climbing the career ladder.
As a result, Tony’s co-workers ranged from the newest reporter, a woman younger than Tony who had just graduated from Coe College in Cedar Rapids, to the 78-year-old sports editor, who still trudged out night and day to cover everything from high school sports to Little League tournaments to the Chamber of Commerce-sponsored half marathon. The young graduate, Madeline, was cute, talented, and not at all interested in small talk. Tony was still trying hard to get a read on her. He doubted she would be in Orney for long. The sports editor, Jim, had a voice loud enough to announce sports events without a public address system and cussed continuously. Tony had found his ranting distracting at first, but he grew accustomed to it over time. Now, when Tony sat at his keyboard in the newsroom to write, he didn’t even hear the hubbub around him. Well, the occasional holler from the sports desk of “Well fuck me!” could still break his concentration. But it only caused him to smile. The fact was, Jim could make a game come to life on a newspaper page. He still worked as hard as any twenty-something, and he almost never made mistakes. Any editor would put up with a lot to keep those qualities on his staff.
>
As Tony surveyed the room over the top of his computer screen, he took a deep breath and basked in the aromas and sounds of the room. Like a great stew, the final taste relied on an array of different ingredients. Tony was deeply happy to be one of them. But he couldn’t bring himself to be very happy about the article he had just finished writing about the Wells trial.
Sister Testifies Wells Threatened to Kill Shooting Victim
Methamphetamines Found in Victims’ Home
Tony Harrington, Staff Writer
ORNEY, Iowa – Francie Wells, sister of accused murderer Ralph Adam Wells, 29, of rural Orney, testified on Wednesday that she heard her brother threaten to kill Jerry Ennis, one of the victims of a double homicide in a rural Quincy County farmhouse in January.
In a second development, Quincy County Sheriff George Mackey testified he found a bag of what later proved to be methamphetamines in the kitchen of the Ennis home during a routine search after Jerry and Anne Ennis were found shot to death in the bedroom of the house.
The information provided by the two witnesses Wednesday appeared to relate to a potential motive for the crime.
Francie Wells said her brother came to visit her in neighboring Viscount, Iowa, two months before the killings, expressing his anger at Ennis for cheating him out of his share of the cash in a drug deal involving a large amount of methamphetamines. Ralph Wells, his sister testified Wednesday, “…became more and more upset as he talked about it. I kept asking him to calm down but then he said, ‘I will calm down after I kill that SOB.’”
Prosecuting attorney W. Rodney Nelson asked Francie Wells to repeat for the jury…
Chapter 8
Tony slept an extra half hour the next morning, enjoying the much-needed rest, but not enjoying the required rush that followed. He skipped breakfast and got a donut and coffee to go from Willie’s, leaving his SUV at the parking meter as he hurried down the street to the courthouse. He knew it would cost him at least one ticket by the time the trial broke for lunch, but he preferred the fine over Judge Schroeder’s wrath. After pushing through the doors into the courthouse, he paused to take one more gulp of coffee, then dropped the cup and its remaining contents into the shiny aluminum trash bin in the hallway before nodding to the deputy at the door to the courtroom and pulling on the big iron handle.
Nick of time, he thought, as everyone was just rising to respect the judge’s entry. Tony scooted to the front and slid into the wooden seat reserved for the press just as the judge said, “Please be seated.”
After the preliminaries, the judge once more called on the prosecutor, who rose to announce, “The state calls Alissa Ennis.”
The doors at the back of the room opened as necks craned to see a tall man, perhaps retirement age, in a simple gray suit enter the room. At his side, and holding his hand, was a little girl with short blonde hair and surprisingly dark eyes. She wore a simple white and green print dress, brown shoes, and a dark green plastic hairband.
As the man and the girl reached the front, the man dropped to one knee and looked the girl in the eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked gently. The girl nodded, and the man stood holding open the gate in the bar, allowing her to approach the witness stand.
Tony swallowed hard and began writing furiously. He knew Alissa was the older of the two girls left orphaned by the murders. She would be about ten now. He assumed the elderly escort was the girls’ grandfather.
The girl seemed remarkably well-composed, considering all she had been through and considering all eyes in the room were focused on her.
When Judge Schroeder spoke, Tony couldn’t help looking up quickly from his notepad. The judge’s voice had changed completely. He sounded kind…almost human.
“Alissa,” the judge said. “I need you to swear to me and to God that you will tell the truth today. Do you swear that?”
“Yes sir,” the girl said without hesitation.
“That’s great, Alissa. Now I want you to do one other thing for me, okay?” The girl nodded. “I want you to pretend there’s no one here in this room but you, me, Mr. Nelson, and Mr. Pike. Can you try to do that for me?”
“I’ll try,” the girl responded.
“Good. Just answer the gentlemen’s questions clearly and honestly, and then we’ll get you back to school lickety-split.”
Lickety-split? Tony thought. Good grief. Who are you and what have you done with the judge?
Then it began. With Nelson’s help, the girl described that terrible night. Waking in the dark, not sure what had interrupted her sleep. Seeing a man emerge from the stairway to the upstairs and watching him walk to the kitchen and out the door into the winter night. Calling after him and not getting an answer. Then calling for her parents, and still not getting an answer. Then climbing out of the bed, walking up the stairs, and discovering what no child should ever have to see.
By that point in her testimony, Alissa had tears running down her face. So did every other person in the room, including the judge, the attorneys, and Tony. Tony understood all too well it didn’t matter what evidence the girl had to share or not share. After seeing this, there was no way a jury was going to acquit anyone.
Tony tuned back in to the proceedings as Nelson asked the girl, “Can you describe the man you saw walk through the house that night?”
Alissa said, “Not really. His face looked really dark, even when the light was on it. I think he was wearing one of those caps like we wear when we do chores on a really cold day.”
“You mean a ski mask?” Nelson prompted.
“Yeah, like that.”
“Can you tell us what clothes the man was wearing?”
“Yeah. That was easy to see because his coat was bright yellow.”
Nelson interjected, “By coat, do you mean a long coat, like a rain coat, or more of a jacket?”
“It was a jacket.”
“And did it have writing on the back?”
At this point, the prosecutor was clearly leading the witness, and Tony knew that Pike must be coming out of his skin, wanting to object. Tony also knew there was no way in hell Pike was going to say a word. If he interrupted this, the jury would despise him for it.
Alissa responded to Nelson’s question, “Yes. Big letters. I couldn’t see it all, but it started with an ‘N.’”
“You’re sure about the first letter being an ‘N’,” Nelson asked.
“Yes sir. I’m positive. He had a yellow jacket with big letters, starting with an ‘N’.”
Tony started to sense this testimony was a little too rehearsed. Nelson must have sensed it too, because he quickly moved on.
“Anything else you remember?” he asked.
“Yes. He had on big brown boots, like the work boots we wear outside in the barnyard. I remember seeing his boots as he went into the kitchen because my mom doesn’t…uh…didn’t let us wear boots in the house. I thought I should warn him that Mom would be mad if she caught him in the house with boots on.”
At this several spectators began weeping openly, and two elderly women sitting near the back actually got up and quietly left the room.
The judge stepped in and asked in a soft voice, “Are you nearly finished, counselor, or do I need to gavel a quick break here?”
Nelson gave a wan smile and said, “Actually, Your Honor, I’m completely finished. I have no further questions of this fine young woman.” He mouthed a “good job” to Alissa and then turned and took his seat.
The judge turned to Pike. “Does the defense have any questions of the witness?”
Pike rose. “No questions, Your Honor. Thank you.”
No shit, thought Tony, and then joined the throng headed for the doors to get some air.
***
Tony wondered if Nelson would rest at this point, but wasn’t overly surprised that he spent the rest of the morning extracting small snippets of testimony from DCI agents and sheriff’s deputies regarding the physical evidence and other details, closing any loopholes and ensuring
everything tied together nicely.
Right before lunchtime, Nelson called Denny Peters to the stand. Peters was a redheaded, middle-aged deputy whom Tony barely knew. Peters had been a deputy long enough that he rarely worked the night shifts, when most of the newsworthy incidents occurred. Tony’s cynicism reared its head again as he thought of Peters as one of those public servants who is essentially “retired in place.” He didn’t actually know if this was fair or not. He did know the deputy had grown a bit of a stomach as he aged. While he wore the weight well on his six-foot, three-inch frame, he clearly needed to invest in a new uniform at least one size bigger than the one currently stretched tightly across his middle.
Peters testified he had been in charge of the search of the defendant’s home, property, and car. He painted in great detail, and all too accurately, the poor condition of all three. By the time he was finished, jurors were shaking their heads. Tony could imagine these Iowa farmers, teachers, bankers, and nurses saying to themselves, “What kind of man lives like that?”
And then, the punch line.
“Deputy Peters, in searching the trunk of Mr. Wells’ car, did you find anything of relevance to this case?” Nelson asked. “In addition to the rifle, I mean, which testimony has already established was previously turned in to authorities.”
“Yes sir.”
“And what did you find that you believed to be relevant?”
“I found a jacket and a pair of boots.”
Nelson lifted two clear plastic bags from the floor and asked, “Are these the items you found in Mr. Wells’ car trunk? You may examine them if you like.”
Peters turned the bags over in his hands, peering through the plastic of each one and reading the labels affixed to them. He then said, “Yes sir, these are the items.”
Burying the Lede Page 7
