No Defence
Rangeley Wallace
NO DEFENSE
by Rangeley Wallace
Published by Bev Editions at Smashwords
Lines from “The Ballad of the White Horse” by G. K. Chesterton appear courtesy of Ignatius Press.
Lines from the “Sesame Street Theme” appear courtesy of Sesame Street, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-9878146-5-4
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Wallace, Rangeley.
No defense / Rangeley Wallace.
p. em.
“A Wyatt book for St. Martin’s Press.”
ISBN 0-312-13571-8
1. Fathers and daughters-Alabama-Fiction. 2. Trials (Murder)-Alabama-Fiction. 3. Alabama-Race relations-Fiction. 4. Family-Alabama-Fiction. I. Title.
First edition: November 1995
For Jim
The thing on the blind side of the heart,
On the wrong side of the door,
The green plant groweth, menacing
Almighty lovers in the spring;
There is always a forgotten thing,
And love is not secure.
–G. K. CHESTERTON
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am especially grateful to my editor, Bob Wyatt, for his belief in my work and his invaluable contributions to this book, and my friend and agent, Leslie Breed, for her loyalty and tireless efforts on my behalf I am also indebted to Joyce Renwick for her insightful suggestions and guidance, and Ruth Noble Groom for her help and encouragement. Special thanks to Holly Wallace and William Nealy for their moral and technical support. Finally, thanks to my husband, Jim Denvir, whose patience and hard work have made this book possible and whose comments have made it better, and my children, Daniel, Jamie, and Emma for teaching me to take risks and for their love.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sample Chapter of Things are Going to Slide by Rangeley Wallace
PROLOGUE
I hurried down the wide marble hallway of the new county courthouse planned by and named after my father; the clicking of my high heels on the marble floor echoed behind me, skipping a beat when I hesitated in front of the massive wooden doors to Courtroom G. I took a deep breath, bracing myself, then I firmly grasped the brass handle on the right and pulled the door open.
Once inside the spacious courtroom, I tried to stare straight ahead and ignore the blur of people watching me. I willed myself not to bite my lip, a nervous habit I’d had as long as I could remember, one that had been mentioned by some reporter in one of the articles about my family after my father, Newell Hagerdorn, the mayor of Tallagumsa, Alabama, and the leading candidate for governor, was indicted for murder.
The courtroom spectators seemed to be seated according to their sympathies, reminding me suddenly and absurdly of a wedding celebration where the bride’s family and friends take the left section and the groom’s family and friends the right. The organizing principles here, however, were my father and the crime with which he was charged.
The first three rows on the right side behind the prosecutor’s table were occupied by the dead boys’ mothers and their supporters, a rectangle of black in a sea of white.
Members of my own family-my mother, Gladys, my sister, Jane, and her husband, Buck, as well as my husband, Eddie-sat just one row back from that group.
As far as I could tell, the rest of that section was filled with reporters, many of whom I could now identify by name. Ben Gainey, from the Washington Star, was there, of course. This was, after all, his news story, his coup, the kind of story young reporters dream about. Since reopening the fifteen-year-old unsolved civil rights murders and marshaling piece by piece the evidence that ultimately led to my father’s indictment, Ben Gainey had ascended to the now familiar role of reporter as hero.
It was not enough that Ben had rooted around in the past that had been buried with our town’s infamous crime and come up with my father. Far worse-as more than a few news articles had pointed out-was that my relationship with Ben, my involvement in his work, and my participation in his investigation had been critical to his success.
And so I suffered under the unbearable weight of my own guilt as I approached the defense table, kissed my father good morning, and wished him good luck. Ever calm and cool, he reached for and patted my trembling hand. The sharp contrast between his composure and my distress suggested I was the one on trial here, not him.
I sat down in the first row of seats behind the railing separating my father and his lawyer from the crowd.
A few people reached over the back of the pewlike bench and patted my shoulder, offering comfort.
Someone behind me whispered, “We’re with you, LuAnn. Don’t worry, hon.”
I turned around and forced a small smile. Members of the sheriff’s department, the mayor’s office, and our many other champions and friends filled the rows on the defense side of the courtroom.
To my disgust, Lucas Terry, the imperial wizard of the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, and some of his deputies sat in the back row. At Terry’s wave, I felt my face redden and I quickly turned away.
The night before, after finally getting my six-month-old twin boys to sleep-no easy task, as they were teething—I’d fallen into bed exhausted but sleepless at the prospect of what the next day might bring. I started to cry. I’d cried plenty lately but had tried hard not to fall apart in front of my four-year-old daughter, Jessie. She must have heard me, though, because she appeared in the bedroom doorway wearing the Star Wars T-shirt my husband, Eddie, had forgotten when he moved out.
The T-shirt was a ridiculous fit, so long the hem dragged the ground with each step and so wide the short sleeves reached her wrists. Still she’d insisted on sleeping in the shirt every night since her father left.
Jessie stood still and watched me cry. Her golden brown hair fell around her shoulders, and her green eyes were open wide, filled not so much with fear as curiosity.
“Take a deep breath,” my daughter ordered, mimicking my advice whenever her emotions got away from her. “Breathe in slowly, Mommy. Slowly.”
I did as I was told, caught my breath, and somehow controlled my crying. Then I patted the bed, and Jessie ran across the room and jumped up next to me. I gathered her into my lap and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
“Are you sad?” she asked. She spread her father’s T-shirt over her toes.
“Just a little. Now that you’re here, I’m fine.” I wiped the last tears from under my eyes and smiled.
“Why were you crying?” She ran a finger along my cheek.
“Tell me.”
“It’s late.”
“Please,” she begged. She tugged at my nightgown.
“Let’s see,” I said. I set her on the bed, stood up, and crossed the room to the bookshelves. A sudden wind heralding the predicted early fall burst through the open window as I passed. I slammed it shut, shivering slightly.
On tiptoes, I reached up to the top bookshelf, pulled out the blue and gold photo album that contained bits and pieces of our lives over the last year, and brought it back to the bed.
Jessie and I lay on our stomachs over the photographs. She opened the album, which looked heavy and large in her small hand, then I flipped past the pictures taken during the winter months of 1978. When I reached the April 1978 photos from the dedication of the Newell Hagerdom County Courthouse, I stopped.
I pointed to a picture of Jessie. “Oh, look at you in your sailor dress. I bet you’ve grown an inch in just six months.”
“I look like a little kid there,” she said in her most mature four-year-old voice.
“Remember that day, Jessie?” I asked her. “We were celebrating the opening of your granddaddy’s new courthouse. I guess I’d say all of this mess started that day.”
“You mean the twins?” she asked profoundly, pointing in the picture to my bulging eight-and-a-half-months pregnant belly.
“No.” I laughed. “Hank and Will are messy, but we love them. Right?”
Jessie made a face and stuck out her tongue. As many times as I’d explained it to her, I had no doubt that she held the twins accountable for our move from Atlanta, Georgia, to Tallagumsa, Alabama, and for her father’s leaving us not long thereafter.
I turned the album page and stared at the photograph that had been printed in all the Alabama newspapers the day following the courthouse-dedication ceremony. Mother and Daddy, my sister and her husband, and Eddie, Jessie, and I were standing on the top steps of the courthouse, the water from the fountain arcing in the background, all of us smiling-even Eddie, who hadn’t been thrilled to be in Tallagumsa that day.
Although the ceremony dedicating the courthouse hadn’t been nearly as happy as it looked in these pictures, if I had known what was to come in the months ahead I would have savored those hours. Perhaps then I would not have been so willing to turn all our lives upside down.
CHAPTER ONE
Just hold the scissors right there by that pretty red ribbon, Mayor,” Scotty Scott said. “A little higher. Right there. Good.”
Scotty, the photographer for every official Tallagumsa event over the last fifty years and the skinniest man in town, moved his tripod and camera a few feet, balanced his sunglasses on top of his crew cut, and squinted into the viewfinder.
“Now smile, Newell,” he said. He snapped a picture of my father standing next to the dedicatory ribbon strung between two of the courthouse pillars and tied in a huge bow.
“Open the scissors,” Scotty said. He took another picture.
“Now cut that sucker! Sure hope the courthouse don’t fall down.” He laughed at his own joke.
Daddy laughed too, somehow managing to look dignified and fun-loving at the same time. His dark hair was gray just around the temples. His green eyes sparkled. Ever the politician, for the dedication of the courthouse he’d worn a navy-blue suit, red suspenders, and a white dress shirt. Thin red and white diagonal lines striped his yellow tie.
While Scotty completed my father’s individual photographs, the rest of the family waited its turn to join him. Eddie, Jessie, and I were on the east side of the steps, where Jessie had ample room to run and play without getting in the way. I w ted sitting down: Eight and a half months pregnant with twins, no one dared begrudge me this breach of etiquette. My sister, her husband, and my mother stood talking among themselves not far from Scotty.
Most of the people who’d attended the morning dedication had gone ahead to the reception at the Tallagumsa Steak House, two blocks down First Avenue. A dozen or so people lingered on the steps, talking with each other and watching Scotty in action.
“Stand next to your name over there on the wall, Mayor,” Scotty said as he carried his camera across the courthouse landing. He took three pictures of Daddy standing under the brass letters that read: “Newell Hagerdorn County Courthouse.”
“I don’t know if I can take much more of this!” Eddie complained to me. “The way everyone’s acting you’d think we were in the White House Rose Garden with Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter and not at some podunk county courthouse affair.”
I looked up at Eddie from my seat on the sun-warmed granite steps. He was leaning on one of the courthouse pillars, smoking a Salem and staring wearily at my father and Scotty. Tall and good-looking, with straight black hair and gunmetal eyes, he was still in good shape from his years on the college track team.
Eddie had tried to abort this trip, arguing for the last few days that he couldn’t possibly take a day off with his workload as political cartoonist for Atlanta’s City Paper. After I made it clear to him that Jessie and I would come whether or not he did, he stayed up until three in the morning to meet a newspaper deadline, then grudgingly accompanied us on the two-hour early-morning drive west to Tallagumsa for the ceremony.
The new Greek Revival courthouse, built to serve a population of almost one hundred thousand people, took up a full city block of the small town of Tallagumsa. It could be reached on any side by climbing two steep flights of stairs to the massive landing, which led to the entrances. On the west end of the landing was a large square fountain in which the water rose up out of the mouth of a bronze fish hovering above a sparkling pool of water. A bronze statue of Confederate veteran Elijah Ellis bore a sword skyward, guarding the east end of the landing.
Jessie hopped over to where Eddie and I waited. With each hop, the pleats of her sailor dress flew up, then floated back to cover her tiny thighs.
“I’m hungry,” she announced, pulling on my sleeve.
“As soon as the pictures are taken we’ll eat at the Steak House. Come here, sweetie.” I kissed her cheek and handed her a penny from my pants pocket. “Throw that in the fountain and make a wish, but be careful not to get in Scotty’s and Granddaddy’s way.” She hopped off.
“I have a wish,” Eddie said. “That this will be over and we can go home.”
“You never like being here, do you, Eddie?” I asked.
“Nope.” He looked down at me. His intense gray eyes blamed me for having dragged him here. “Especially when it’s some trumped-up celebration in honor of your father.”
He took a final draw on his Salem, dropped the butt, then stepped on it, grinding it into the granite, where it left a dark smudge on the pristine stonework.
“It’s not just for him,” I said. “It’s for the whole county.” At Eddie’s skeptical grin, I laughed despite myself “I know you think that’s pompous and stupid sounding, but that’s the point of Daddy’s whole career-to better this county and this state.”
“That’s why the courthouse is named for him and why we’re waiting for his pictures and why we’ll go listen to his speech. Not for the good of Newell Hagerdom-no, of course not-but for the good of us all. You just can’t see past his act, can you?” He sat down next to me and kissed my neck. “But I love you anyway.”
“I love you too,” I said.
I looked around for Jessie, who’d thrown her penny into the fountain and then disappeared around that side of the building. “Jessie,” I called.
She reappeared, walking slowly, as if each step were too much for her to bear. “Can we go now?” she asked. The diversion offered by the penny toss had lasted about two minutes.
“Sorry,” I said, as sympathetically as I could.
Her face flushed bright red and she began to cry. “But I’m hungry and I’m tired!”
“At least it isn’t hot,” I said.
Although it was barely April, in Alabama we’d had our share of April scorcher
s. In fact it was a perfect spring day, the temperature in the midseventies, the blue sky dotted here and there with innocuous white puffs. A mild breeze carried only the suggestion of warmer days to come.
“Why don’t I take her over to the park?” Eddie stood up and wiped off the back of his jeans.
The dogwood trees, azaleas, tulips, and daffodils in the park, nourished by two weeks of rain in early March, were in full bloom. Built at the same time as the courthouse with private Garden Club funds raised largely by my mother, Gladys, and my sister, Jane, the oasis of green had beckoned to Jessie all morning. “That’ll take too long,” I said. “We all need to wait here, Jessie-Scotty said so. I know it’s hard to get up so early and then just hang out here doing nothing. I have a great idea! How about this? As soon as we finish, you can get a candy bar at the Steak House-any kind you want and before your lunch.” I crossed my heart. “Only a little bit longer. I promise.”
I tried to sound soothing as I pulled her toward me and hugged her, but she pushed away from me, ran around the legs of the Confederate soldier, and sat down at the base of the statue’s marble pedestal.
“Next time we come here, LuAnn, you’re going to have to bribe me too,” Eddie said.
“LuAnn, y’all can come on over,” Scotty called a few minutes later. “Gladys, Jane, Buck-everybody who’s family right here, on the top steps of the courthouse with the mayor.”
“At last,” Eddie mumbled under his breath. “Jessie,” he called. “Show time.”
She walked over to us.
“See?” I said. “I told you it wouldn’t be long.” Before getting up I wiped Jessie’s tear-smudged face with a Kleenex from my pocket. “One of these pictures will be in the newspaper, so try to look happy. Both of you.”
“Let’s go, let’s go, Annie Hall,” my brother-in-law, Buck Newton, hollered as he bounded toward us in his slightly rumpled suit. He wiped the sweat from his wrinkled forehead, pushing a handkerchief back across his balding head.
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