There are different schools of thought on jumping. One is that each horse has his own jumping speed and pace, and the rider should interfere with the horse as little as possible. The other is that the rider should regulate the horse’s stride and pace as well as choose the takeoff spot. To do this, the horse has to be slowed between jumps to a slow canter. Like most people I’d ridden with, I preferred the first approach. My father preferred the second.
As we came up on the first jump, Glory lowered her head, measuring the height and distance of the obstacle. She shortened her stride as she positioned herself for takeoff. I leaned forward, pressed my heels down, and held the reins with my thumb and index finger. Her neck flexed as her front legs left the ground and her hind legs pushed off, pushing me up off her back and farther forward. My hands advanced along her neck. We went over the jump, her head and neck stretching out as her front legs reached for the landing. On landing, her head raised but her neck extended even farther, her hind legs touched the ground, and her front legs started the new stride, a canter to the next Jump.
My heart raced as we cleared each jump and cantered to the next. I adapted myself to the rhythm of Glory’s every movement. At the next-to-the-last jump, the first of the two four-foot jumps, I looked out and over it, toward Miss Edwina’s magnolia trees. Looking at an obstacle sometimes causes involuntary tensing before takeoff, and I couldn’t risk confusing Glory on our first four-foot jump together. I felt her hind legs extend and her body reach up and forward. I followed. Together we soared over the jump. After the last jump, we cantered off into the field, then returned to take the course several more times. Maybe jumping was better than falling in love, I thought, especially considering my recent experiences.
When I got off Glory’s back, my legs were shaking and my back was sore. Despite predictions of an early fall, the October evening was warm and muggy. A rainstorm earlier in the day had lasted just long enough to raise the humidity to ninety-five percent. My shirt was drenched with sweat. I took off my hard hat and ran my fingers through my wet, matted hair.
I pulled up the stirrups, loosened the girth, and walked Glory in the field to cool her off When she stopped sweating, we went into the barn, where I hung her saddle and bridle on their pegs. I dried her with one of the old linen cloths I kept in her tack box, smoothed her coat with the dandy brush, and combed out her mane and tail with a metal comb.
By the time I finished grooming and feeding Glory, it was growing dark outside. I left the barn and walked toward the car. A slight breeze had driven off the clouds and the humidity. I looked up. The sky was filling rapidly with stars. I dropped the clothes I’d worn to court and lay down on the grass where I watched the stars pop out, one after the other, until the sky was lit from horizon to horizon.
At the house, I took off my boots in the kitchen and tiptoed into the living room. Jolene was asleep on the couch. I apologized for my lateness. She was understanding as always.
I peeked into Jessie’s room. “Mom,” her sweet voice said. “You still up?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
“It’s late,” I said.
“I wanted you to lie down with me,” she said.
I went in. There was no need to feel my way in the dark, I’d been in the room so many times. I lay down in bed next to her. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see that she had on Eddie’s Star Wars T-shirt again.
“Sorry I was so late,” I said.
“Were you at the Steak House?”
“No. I went to ride Glory. I needed some exercise. What did y’all do?”
“Jolene and I bathed Will and Hank.”
“You’re a big help, to Jolene and me.”
“Then we watched ‘Mork and Mindy’ and ‘One Day at a Time.’”
Shit. I’d forgotten to tell Jolene not to let Jessie watch “One Day at a Time.” Lately Jessie had managed to control her distress about Eddie’s absence by viewing it as temporary, but whenever she watched “One Day at a Time,” where a single mother struggled to raise her children alone, she’d worry anew that her father would never, ever return.
“Do you think Daddy will move back soon?” she asked.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” I said. “I hope so, but sometimes things don’t work out the way I want. Not lately, anyway.”
“Daddy came by today,” she said.
“He loves you very much.”
“I know.”
“We all love you,” I said. “Don’t you forget that.”
We lay there quietly, and in a few minutes she was asleep. I kissed her cheek and lightly touched her hair.
The boys were sound asleep in their cribs. Will lay on his back, his arms and legs wide open, his pacifier tight in his mouth. Hank was on his side. His right hand gripped a fuzzy little gray, black, and white whale that Eddie had given him.
Until midnight, I puttered around the house, successfully avoiding thinking about what had happened in the courtroom that day. Once I went to bed and closed my eyes, though, Jane kept coming back to me: that look of complete betrayal, her flushed, bloated face, her sobs.
I dreamed about a pretty young woman who had been poisoned. I didn’t know who the woman was, but hundreds of people were busy trying to figure out what to do about the poisoning. One of the men in the dream decided he had to operate. He put the woman on the dining-room table, where he cut her in half as if she were an avocado, cleaned her out, and sewed her back up. “Good as new,” he said. “Otherwise she would rot from the inside out.” He explained to her and to his assistants that the procedure had to be concealed at all costs, that no one could ever know. When the woman on the table sat up, I recognized her: it was me.
Saturday morning I called Jane, anxious to talk to her about everything that had happened in court.
My mother answered. “Your sister is in the hospital,” she said, her voice shaking. “She might lose the baby.”
“Oh, no!” I started to cry.
“It’s not surprising. Her health before what she was put through yesterday was bad enough.”
“I don’t understand why Jane would take the stand when she knew she might have to testify about all that other stuff,” I said.
“She was subpoenaed, LuAnn.”
“I know, but to risk being cross-examined like that ...”
“She never, ever, thought your father would do that to her,” Mother interrupted.
“He didn’t do it, Mother. Chip did.”
“You absolutely refuse to see what’s right in front of your nose,” she said in a weary voice.
“You sound exhausted,” I said.
“I am.”
“I had no idea, Mother. I mean, Jane had a baby! Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“We didn’t tell anyone. Even Buck didn’t know about that baby.”
“Buck! I assumed he knew.”
“Now he does. So does everyone else in the world.”
“Should I go see Jane?” I asked.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mother said. “I’m going over to the hospital in a bit. I’ll be sleeping over here at Jane’s awhile.”
“You left Daddy?” I asked, astounded that she would have that much gumption.
“We’ll see,” she said. “Whether I do that or not, he’ll be very sorry for what he did to Jane. I can promise you that.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I’d never heard her sound so resolute.
“Just wait,” she said. “Buck’s expecting me at the hospital now. I need to go.”
“Call me as soon as you know anything about Jane. Please.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Trial reconvened at nine on Monday morning. I had faced the full gamut of emotions since the day I saw the FBI documents at the Steak House. On this last day of the trial, I felt only sadness and fatigue. No matter what happened, my sister was lying in a hospital bed fighting to keep her baby, my husband was living with another woman, my mother had lost all faith in me, a
nd I could not fathom why my father wouldn’t tell his story. Was anything worth the price we were all paying?
Judge McNabb entered the courtroom and took his seat. I turned my attention to the man who held my father’s fate in his hands.
“Good morning. Our plans have changed for today, ladies and gentlemen. Last night Mr. Fuller, on behalf of the State, paid me a visit. He has moved to dismiss the charges that were brought in the case,” the judge said.
The courtroom erupted. From across the aisle came shouts of anger. One black man stood up and screamed, “White mother fucker, you’ll die!” He was wrestled to the floor and out of the room by two deputies. Some members of the boys’ families cried. Behind me, a few people clapped, others embraced. Several reporters ran out of the room. The rest were writing furiously. My father looked at Chip. Chip looked at my father. Clearly they, like the rest of us, had no idea what was going on.
The gavel came down several times until peace was restored. Judge McNabb continued, “I heard the reasons behind the State’s motion and decided to withhold my decision on the motion until you, the public and the press, and I had a chance to hear live the testimony I heard in a summary fashion last night. I think it’s only fair to everyone that the record fully reflect all the facts relating to this sad episode in our State’s history. This conclusion has been a long time coming, but I believe we will finally be able to close the book on the murders of Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson. Mr. Fuller, you may bring in your witness.”
Junior met my eyes as he walked past me out of the courtroom. Seconds later he opened the door to come back in. All eyes were on him as he held the door for someone. In came a woman, a breathtakingly beautiful, self-assured woman in her mid-thirties. She was tall, at least five eleven, with dark brown hair, light makeup, and a glowing tan. Everything about her hair, makeup, silk dress, even her shoes and purse made of exotic leather-subtly announced style, fashion, and money. No one like her lived anywhere within one hundred miles of Tallagumsa.
“What’s the meaning of this?” my father shouted. He jumped up. “I will not have this.”
“Mayor Hagerdom, please sit down,” Judge McNabb said.
Ben caught my eye. “Who is that?” he mouthed.
I shrugged. I had no idea, although she did look somewhat familiar. I racked my brain, searching for where I’d seen her before.
When the woman approached my father he grabbed her arm. “You don’t have to do this.”
She stood for a minute in front of his table. The way they looked at each other took my breath away. There was something deep-seated and strong between them. “Yes, I do,” she said firmly. “This has gone on too long. Don’t try to stop me, Newell.”
She turned and walked to the witness stand. I heard Chip ask my father, “What the fuck is going on?”
“You’ll see,” my father said, shaking his head in dismay.
“State your name,” the bailiff said to the woman.
“Elizabeth Ross Kenney,” she said.
She was sworn in and then she sat down.
Junior stood to question her. “What is your address?” he asked.
“434 Lakeview Drive, Chicago, Illinois.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Miss Kenney,” Junior asked, “were you once married?”
“Yes, I was.”
“What was your married name?”
“Reese. Everybody back then knew me as Liz Reese.”
“Your husband was Dean Reese?”
“Yes.”
“How long were you married?”
“Two years.”
“Until he died?”
“That’s right.”
“What is your occupation?”
“I am president and CEO of Miss Reese’s Pies. My company bakes pies, cakes, and cookies and sells them internationally.”
“Do you know the defendant?” Junior asked.
“Yes.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Since January of 1963.” With the exception of occasional glances at Junior or the judge by Liz Reese (I couldn’t think of her as Miss Kenney), she and my father stared at each other as she answered Junior’s questions.
“Please describe your relationship.”
She took a deep breath and smiled slightly. “We were lovers. I was very young and we were in love. You know how it is when you’re young? You think no one ever felt the way you feel, that you’ll die without each other. Well, that’s how we were.”
Like Eddie and I used to be, I thought. “How old were you at the time?”
“I was twenty-two.”
“Do you have any children?”
“One, Camille.”
“How old is Camille now?”
“Sixteen.”
“Was your marriage to Dean Reese a happy one?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“My husband was a drunk, a hateful, mean man. He was violent. I despised him.”
“And yet you married him?”
“He hadn’t seemed what he turned out to be when we first met. After the first few months of marriage, though, I wanted out.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“I got pregnant and I didn’t know what else to do or where to go.” She shrugged. “My parents were dead, and my brother lived in Alaska. When Dean moved from Mississippi to Tallagumsa, the baby and I came along.”
“Did he ever hit you?”
“Many times.”
“When did that begin?”
“A few months after we married. He’d drink, accuse me of things I hadn’t done, and hit me.”
“Where were you on the evening of August 27, 1963?”
“At the house we rented in Tallagumsa, 209 Third Avenue.”
“Was Dean Reese with you?”
“Yes, but he left about seven. He told me he’d be off working all night. I didn’t even know where he said he was going. He had a lot of odd jobs, and by then I didn’t listen to him anymore. When he left I called Newell, and Newell came over.”
“Do you know what car Mayor Hagerdorn drove to your house?”
“His sheriff’s car. He always drove it everywhere.”
“What happened after he got there?”
“We checked on Camille. She was asleep, then we went into the bedroom, and I was closing the curtains when I heard a loud noise outside. I looked out. Dean had just closed the hood of Newell’s car. He drove the squad car away. There wasn’t anything we could do. We watched and waited and eventually Dean came driving up with the car, parked it right back where it had been, and got in his own car and drove away. He had something in his hands, but I couldn’t tell what.”
“Why didn’t you report the car stolen?”
“It was a rather awkward situation. We thought we should wait and see what happened. The car came back in one piece, so we figured no harm was done. He was just harassing me and Newell a little.”
“When did you learn that Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson had been murdered?”
“Later that night. Newell called me and told me about the boys’ murders. Then the next day I heard Dean talking on the phone to someone about it.”
“Describe that conversation, please.”
“He told someone over the phone that he knew who’d killed Turnbow and Johnson, that he’d been there when it happened, and he wanted to meet with whoever it was on the phone. He left the house, and I called Newell and told him that Dean was up to something. He said I should keep an eye on him. Dean came back that afternoon, drunk, and finally passed out. I went to his car and looked all over to see if I could find what he’d put in it. There was a shotgun in the trunk that wasn’t his. He had plenty of guns, but none of them were as nice as the one in the trunk. The next chance I got I called Newell and told him about it. He told me to try to get the gun from Dean’s car, that it was his, but the next time I looked the gun was gone. So we waited for whatever happened next.”
“What did happen?” Junior asked.
“First, Bev Carter told Newell that the FBI agents had the gun and wouldn’t give it back. Then the FBI agents went to Newell’s house, I guess it was a week later, and basically accused him of murder. That’s when we figured out what Dean was up to. It was the most ridiculous thing. We both laughed at first because Dean was so pathetic, and we couldn’t imagine that anyone, especially the FBI, would actually believe a word he said. The idea was absurd. Then we realized that if the gun had been used that night, as one of the agents told Newell, it meant Dean had killed the boys and it wasn’t funny at all. It was terrible. He’d been a mean man and a drunk, but I didn’t think he was capable of cold-blooded murder.” Liz Reese shook her head sadly. “I was so ashamed to even know him.”
“Did you talk to your husband about your fears?”
“Yes. Newell didn’t want me to say anything to Dean, but I couldn’t stand it. I confronted him. First, though, I took Camille to our neighbors so Dean couldn’t hurt her. He never had, but I was worried now that I suspected him of murder. I told him I knew what he was doing, trying to blame Newell for a crime he’d committed, and he wouldn’t get away with it. I told him I hated him more than ever.”
“What did Dean Reese do?”
“He accused me of being in love with a murderer, and asked what I would do when my boyfriend went to jail. Who would take care of me and the baby? Dean told me he worked for the FBI and had for a year, and they respected him. He kept saying that I was in love with a murderer and soon everyone would know my lover was a murderer.”
For the first time in the course of her testimony she began to grow agitated. Her words came faster, and the sure look I’d been so impressed with when she came into the courtroom was replaced by one of fear. She pressed herself toward the back of the stand, as if backing off from something. My father closed his eyes as Liz Reese continued to talk.
“Then Dean punched me in the face. I didn’t even care what he did anymore. When I told him he couldn’t hurt me, he knocked me across the room into the dining-room wall, I guess to prove me wrong. The wall was a horrible green. I remember it so well because I hated the color from the day we moved in. And there I was, thrown up against that disgusting wall. I sort of slid down it, and he kicked me. When I see that color today you know, some government offices use it, it must be very cheap-I get sick to my stomach.” She forced a smile.
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