No Defense

by Rangeley Wallace

  “Back on August 30, 1963, did you tell your boss, thensheriff Hagerdorn, that the FBI had his gun?”

  “Soon as the agents left I radioed him and told him what had happened.”

  “What, if anything, did he say?” Chip asked.

  “He said, ‘Goddamnit! What is going on here?’ I asked him, ‘What do you mean?’ but he didn’t say.”

  “You testified on direct that he was very disturbed when he got to the scene of the Turnbow-Johnson murders,” Chip said. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes, he was,” Bev said gravely.

  “Can you explain that further?”

  “As soon as he saw the boys’ bodies, he threw up in the field next to us.” Bev grimaced. “He organized the gathering of evidence and all, but he wasn’t himself He was pale and shaking all over. I’d never seen him so upset, and I never have since.”

  “How long have you known Mayor Hagerdorn?”

  “All my life.”

  “No further questions,” Chip said.

  “I have a few follow-up questions,” Junior said.

  “Certainly,” Judge McNabb said.

  Junior approached the witness stand. “You indicated that the defendant told you he lost his Winchester shotgun two days before the FBI agents brought it to your office for you to identify. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “What was the date on which the defendant told you the gun was missing?” Junior asked.

  “That would make it the twenty-eighth of August, 1963.”

  “And what was the date of the murders of Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson?”

  “August 27, 1963.”

  “No further questions,” Junior said.

  Bev left the stand and stopped briefly at the defense table, only to be sent on his way by Chip.

  Tim Hogan, the FBI fingerprint expert, was on and off the stand quickly. As in the case of the gun expert, Chip stipulated as to his qualifications. With a few questions, Junior established that at Agent Dorr’s request Tim Hogan had examined the Winchester Model 21 Custom shotgun and found on it three sets of fingerprints: my father’s, Dean Reese’s, and Agent Dorr’s.

  Chip’s cross-examination was similarly brief.

  “From your study of the Winchester, can you tell us when the fingerprints were made?” Chip asked.

  “No.”

  “You can’t tell us the date on which they were made?”

  “No “

  “So you don’t know when Mayor Hagerdom handled the gun, do you?”

  “No.”

  “And you don’t know under what circumstances he handled it, do you?”

  “No.”

  “The last time he touched the gun could have been months before the murders, isn’t that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you be surprised to find a man’s fingerprints on his own gun?”

  “Of course not,” Hogan said.

  “There’s nothing suspicious about that, is there?”

  “No.”

  “No further questions,” Chip said. “Your Honor, I move to strike the testimony given by Mr. Hogan,” he said. “It has been held to be reversible error to admit fingerprint evidence where there is no proof as to when the defendant handled the gun where the defendant had legitimate access to the gun. I have the cites here, if Your Honor would consider my motion.”

  “I’m familiar with those cases, Mr. Tuckahoe,” Judge McNabb said. “I am also aware of the line of cases in the State that allow this evidence. You may argue the issue as a question of fact at the appropriate time. Your motion is denied.”

  The last witness before the lunch break was escorted into the courtroom by the bailiff Washington Jackson, who appeared to be eighty or more, walked slowly, leaning on a wooden cane for support. He was a small, stooped black man in a shiny navy-blue suit a size too big for him. Completely bald, he carried a hat in his hand. His eyes bugged out behind his glasses, and he never seemed to blink.

  “Where did you live in 1963?”Junior asked Jackson after the preliminaries.

  “Out on Old Highway 49,” Jackson answered.

  “What was the address?”

  “Wasn’t one. I lived with my daughter and her kids in a shack out at Buddy Sheppard’s farm.”

  “Why did you live there?”

  “It didn’t cost nothing if we helped with the farming.”

  “Were you employed in August 1963?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What was your employment and where was it?”

  “The cemetery over to the edge of town. I dug graves.”

  “Do you recall whether you worked on August 27, 1963?”

  “Yes, sir. I worked every day. If I didn’t work, I didn’t get paid.”

  “How did you usually get home from work?”

  “Walk or get a ride.”

  “Did you walk home on August 27, 1963?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long did it take you to walk from the cemetery to your home?”

  “Two hours.”

  “What time did you leave work?”

  “Six; every day, six.”

  “What, if anything, did you see on that walk?”

  “I was just ‘bout home when I heard sirens. I turned around and looked. Way down the road I seen a sheriff’s car with the lights going. It pulled up to another car, then there was these shots, the other car hit a tree, and the sheriff’s car pulled over. A man get out with a gun. He looked in the wrecked car and then walked around it and shot at a man trying to run away.”

  “Could you identify the man you saw get out of the sheriff’s car?”

  “No, I was too far away. He was white. The man who got out of the other car was a Negro. The white man shot him.”

  “Was anyone else in the sheriff’s car?” Junior asked.

  “I couldn’t tell,” Jackson said.

  “What did you do?”

  “I got home fast and waited there for a few hours. Then I went back up the road after everybody had done left and there was the car crashed into the tree. Nothing else.”

  “No further questions,” Junior said.

  I peered over Daddy’s shoulder. He was doodling on Chip’s yellow pad again. This time he’d drawn a sheriff’s car with the star on the door and the light on top. A figure sat at the wheel. Next to the car was a large shotgun and a row of bullets streaming from the gun toward the driver of the car.

  “Mr. Jackson,” Chip said, standing up for cross-examination, “when did you first tell this story you’ve just told us?”

  “A few months ago.”

  “Who did you tell it to?”

  “Mr. Fuller.” The witness pointed at Junior.

  “You’d never told the story to anyone before this year, had you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So for fifteen years you’ve kept this vision you had a secret?”

  “Objection,” Junior said. “There’s no evidence that Mr. Jackson had a vision.”

  “Fine,” Chip said. “For fifteen years you’ve kept everything you just testified about a secret. Is that correct?”

  “Not a secret, ’xactly.”

  “Well, why then didn’t you tell someone?”

  “Nobody asked me.”

  “You don’t think a citizen has an obligation to report a crime he witnesses at or near the time of the crime? You believe you should wait until you’re contacted?”

  “If you a Negro, ’specially back then, yes, sir.”

  “Do you know anyone in either Jimmy Turnbow’s or Leon Johnson’s family?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who do you know?”

  “I knows their mamas and most of their brothers and sisters. We go to the same church.”

  “It’s fair to say you are good friends with both families isn’t it?” ‘

  “We be friends.”

  “They’re pretty happy about your testimony here, aren’t they, Mr. Jackson?” Chip asked.

>   “I don’t know.”

  “Haven’t you discussed your testimony with members of their families over the last months?”

  “No.”

  “Haven’t you been in Jimmy Turnbow’s mother’s house in the last two months?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in Leon Johnson’s mother’s house in the last two months?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you claim never to have discussed your testimony with them.”

  “We didn’t.”

  “Hard to believe,” Chip said.

  “Objection,” Junior said.

  “No further questions,” Chip said.

  Washington Jackson stood up slowly and looked out around the courtroom with unblinking eyes. If my father hadn’t been on trial, I would have believed every word he said.

  At the lunch break, I watched Mother leave the courtroom and go down the hallway. She stopped at the witness-room door and knocked. Jane came out; they hugged and walked back in my direction toward one of the exit doors. I ducked into the ladies’ room and waited until they and most of the other spectators had time to leave for lunch. Jane was scheduled to take the stand after the break. I knew I was the last person either of them wanted to see at that moment.

  The night before, after the first full day of trial, Jessie and I had been reading Runaway Bunny for the zillionth time when my mother called on the phone.

  “Bad day, huh?” I said.

  “I don’t want to think about that right now,” Mother said. “I called to talk about your sister. She is very nervous about her testimony tomorrow, her blood pressure is far too high, and I’m worried,” she said. “Please, LuAnn. I’m asking you to support her on this. It would mean so much to her.”

  “She shouldn’t testify,” I said firmly.

  “Oh, don’t start that again,” she said. “She’s six months pregnant, and if she gets too upset she could lose the baby, LuAnn. Don’t you care? After all she’s been through, try to think of her. You know, she needs you a lot more now than he does.”

  “I just know what’s right, Mother.”

  “I don’t think you have the slightest idea,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  When Jane walked into the courtroom following the lunch break I felt a flash of anger over what she was about to do, as well as concern about how she looked. Her face was so bloated that her eyes, always her best feature, appeared to be no more than slits. She wasn’t wearing any of the rings she usually wore; her fingers were too swollen. Her fingernails were gnawed to the quick. She reminded me of the old farm women who came to town for lunch now and again, women who had grown so obese that they couldn’t stand without assistance from their husbands or sons.

  Jane testified about as I expected, based on what Mother had told me at the Labor Day picnic. She said that Daddy woke her up on the evening of August 27, 1963, and asked her to keep an eye on me, her then-twelve-year-old sister, while he made sure Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson made it safely to the university. He was worried about them, he told her, because of several anonymous threats.

  “When did he get home that night?”Junior asked.

  “I was asleep, so I’m not sure, “Jane said. “Late.”

  “Did he say anything to you the next day?”

  “He said that something terrible had happened, someone had killed the boys. That he’d been at a bar brawl and missed them by minutes. He was pale and upset.”

  “Were you home on the night of September 4, 1963?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell us what happened.”

  “Two men came to the door, identified themselves as FBI agents, and asked to speak to my father.”

  “Did you get your father?”

  “Yes. I called to him. He came in the room, shook their hands, and told me to go on. I went to the kitchen.”

  “What did you hear after that?”

  “I heard the agents say something, and then I heard my father laughing.”

  “Did you ever discuss that FBI visit with him?”

  “Yes. I asked what was going on after they left. He said everything was fine, not to worry. He wouldn’t talk about it other than to say that.”

  “I don’t have any further questions,” Junior said.

  Chip stood up. “You said your father woke you on the night of August 27, 1963, before he went out. Is that correct, Mrs. Newton?” he asked.

  “Yes, I was asleep.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Seven or seven-thirty.”

  “Did you usually go to bed that early?”

  “I’d just gotten home from summer school, exams and all, and I was exhausted.” Jane’s cheeks were starting to turn a little pink even though the courtroom wasn’t warm.

  “School?” Chip asked. “What school was that?”

  Jane’s face flushed bright red. She looked startled. The corners of her mouth dropped, and she began to cry softly.

  Someone from the other side of the aisle said, “Goddamn you, Newell.” It sounded like my mother, but it couldn’t be. She never cursed.

  I turned to look. Mother’s hands were clenched around the top back of the seat in front of her and her face was contorted in anger.

  “What school, Mrs. Newton? What courses did you take? What dorm did you live in? Were you in a sorority?” Chip asked Jane.

  “Objection,” Junior said. “Let the witness answer one question at a time.”

  “Will you tell us why you were asleep, please?” Chip asked.

  “I was exhausted,” she said. She stopped crying and got a stubborn look on her face that I knew well from growing up with her. “I was sick with a virus.”

  “Isn’t it true that you never went to college that year?”

  “No, that’s not true.”

  “Fine, maybe you went, but didn’t you drop out before the year ended and move out of the state? Remember, you’re under oath, Mrs. Newton.”

  Jane turned her attention to Daddy for the first time since taking the stand. On her face was a look of sheer disbelief mixed with absolute fury.

  He stared right back, the muscles in his neck tightening as they engaged in a silent battle of wills. His fingers drummed an incessant beat on the defense table.

  Jane sat there for what seemed a long time, then slowly turned to Judge McNabb. “Do I have to answer?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said.

  Jane’s breath grew shallow as she became even more distraught than she’d been after her last miscarriage. What on earth was this about?

  She slumped down and began to talk in a whiny, pitiful voice. I had to strain to hear her. “I’d just gotten home from Mississippi where I’d spent seven months at a cousin’s,” she said. “I had a baby, gave it away before I ever even saw it, and came home to recover. I wasn’t doing very well and was on some kind of tranquilizer. That’s why I was asleep. Is that what you wanted to know?” she asked, looking up defiantly at Chip. “Now you do.”

  “And you wanted to keep your child, didn’t you?” Chip asked.

  “Yes, I did, more than anything in the world.”

  “Who made the decision about what to do with the child?”

  “My father. He made all the decisions then, just like he does now.” She looked sharply at Daddy.

  He looked down and began to doodle on Chip’s yellow pad.

  “And at that time you would have done anything to hurt him, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I would have.”

  “And isn’t that still true? Don’t you still blame him for the loss of that child?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you hold him responsible for your having so much trouble bearing children?”

  “Yes, I do. The doctor there was a quack. He did something to me, something dreadful. I blamed my father. I hated him!” She began to sob. “I’m sorry, Buck!” she cried, and as her cries steadily grew louder and wilder, Buck rushed up the aisle to Jane.

  “No fur
ther questions,” Chip said.

  Buck avoided looking at my father as he wrapped his arms around Jane and helped her walk out of the courtroom.

  I was horrified by the news of this baby, my niece or nephew, who was no longer a baby but a child somewhere, aged fifteen, and shocked that Chip would force Jane to testify about her sad experience. Had that cross-examination really been necessary?

  I asked my father that question as we walked out after court was adjourned for the day, not long after Jane left the courtroom in tears.

  “She shouldn’t have testified against me,” he said. “You said so yourself, remember?”

  “Yes, but ...” I didn’t know where to start.

  I kept jeans and a T-shirt, riding hat, boots, and a box of sugar cubes in the trunk of my car for times when I craved a ride on Glory. For a time like this.

  I drove out to Miss Edwina’s farm, changed clothes in the middle of the barn, and went out to set up the jumps. For over a year I’d hardly jumped at all, certainly nothing over two feet; I decided to try four feet.

  Jumping a difficult course requires total focus and in return gives the rider a thrill, a high that is something akin to the exhilaration and intensity of falling in love, just the sort of distraction I so desperately needed at that moment.

  Eddie hated my jumping Glory. “It’s a stupid way to try to kill yourself,” he’d said once. “You could end up crippled. Must be a better way if you’re so anxious to end it all.” He’d only been half joking. But I wasn’t going to die. I’d only fallen a few times in my whole life while taking jumps, and the worst injury had been a broken arm when I was ten.

  I set up a course of eight jumps, six at three and a half feet, the last two at four feet. Glory had jumped that high with her trainer, but never with me. I was ready, though. After Jane’s testimony, I was ready for anything.

  I got Glory from the field. I didn’t bother with grooming her, just put on her bridle and saddle and shortened the stirrups three holes. I walked her around the course once, letting her get familiar with it. At the first four-foot fence, she turned and looked at me, as if she wondered what I thought I was doing. “Don’t worry about me. I won’t interfere,” I said, stroking her neck. I hopped on her back.