That Night at the Palace

by Watson, L. D.

  Nathaniel’s jaw dropped. He had never imagined such a thing. Buckner was an old crotchety judge, but the C.A. never thought the man incompetent. A first year law student could get this sentence overthrown on appeal.

  “Judge, you can’t tell me that you’re seriously going to handle a murder case this haphazardly.”

  Judge Buckner looked up at Cockwright, fighting the temptation to laugh, and then looked at Chief Hightower. “This is a murder case, Chief? I don’t see anything about a murder in my case notes.”

  Jefferson’s eyes widened. Up to that moment he was just wondering why the County Attorney was interested in Irwin Stoker getting drunk and firing a shotgun off in the Palace, but suddenly he didn’t know what to think.

  “No, sir. He threatened a kid, but he was stopped before anyone was shot.”

  Nathaniel had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “This isn’t the man who murdered that boy in Elza Saturday night?” He asked the chief.

  “No.”

  The judge held his notes up, pretending to be looking at them as he fought the urge to smile.

  “You said he threatened someone. How do you know he didn’t commit that murder down there?”

  “Because he was sitting in my jail sleeping off a drunk, sir,” the chief answered, still not realizing that the judge was playing with the C.A.

  Nathan suddenly realized that the judge had let him make an ass of himself. He glanced at Primrose, wishing there was a way he could blame this mess on him, but there was just no escaping it.

  “Your, Honor, I seem to have made a mistake. Please continue.”

  The judge, feeling like he deserved an award for his acting performance looked at Stoker. “Mr. Stoker, I sentence you to six weeks on the farm. If you’re back in my court again because you fired a gun while drunk, you’ll be there for a year. Is that understood?”

  Jefferson nudged Stoker to answer.

  “Ah, yes, sir.”

  “Bailiff.”

  The bailiff put handcuffs on Stoker and led him away.

  The judge slammed his gavel. “Court adjourned.”

  Cockwright stood there humiliated as Judge Buckner rose, glared at him, and walked out of the room.

  County Attorney Nathaniel Cockwright was fuming when the judge left, but he still had business to do. His office had a career-changing murder to prosecute, and this dimwitted police chief had his ticket to the Governor’s mansion sitting in his jail.

  “Chief,” he said while trying to control the anger that he now was directing at Jefferson, “tell me about this murder investigation. I understand you’ve made an arrest. Why haven’t you contacted my office?”

  Jefferson was dumbfounded, wondering just how the C.A. knew that they had picked up Jesse and asked, “How do you know we made an arrest?”

  “That’s not the point! Why haven’t you contacted my office?”

  Primrose stepped back. He felt for the police chief. He’d been on the receiving end of more than one of Nathaniel Cockwright’s tirades and could see a world-class example on the way. Primrose was less than two years out of law school and knew almost nothing about being a C.A., but he felt sure that he knew more than Cockwright. This was no way to talk to a police chief, especially one with a major crime on his hands. If justice was the sole objective then the two departments should be working together to make sure that they presented a case that put the culprit behind bars.

  “Look, Mr. Cockwright...”

  “County Attorney Cockwright.”

  Jefferson rolled his eyes. He’d never had any encounters with Cockwright, but he’d heard a few stories from the sheriff and other police chiefs. “We picked up someone, but we’re not finished with the investigation.”

  “I’m the one who will decide when you’ve finished your investigation. As I understand it, you’re holding a young man who threatened the victim in front of witnesses only hours before the murder?”

  “Well, yeah, but there’s more to it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, these kids were friends, and I’ve known them all their lives, and I don’t think this kid did it.”

  “You don’t think he did it?” Cockwright began sarcastically. “Well, then, let’s go find someone you haven’t known, Chief. Why did he threaten the victim?”

  “It was about a girl, but I don’t think it was a serious threat.”

  “Okay, you have motive. Where was this kid when the murder took place?”

  “Well, we think he was home asleep, but he’d been with Cliff, the victim, a little before the murder.”

  “Good god, Chief. What are you waiting for? You have your man.”

  “I brought in a Texas Ranger to help with the investigation, and we think that there’s more to this.”

  “Why is everyone impressed with the damn Texas Rangers? You two are making this case harder than it needs to be. You have your man. Clearly, you and this Ranger can’t handle this, so my office is taking over.”

  “Primrose,” Cockwright ordered.

  Primrose rolled his eyes behind Cockwright’s back, a move not missed by Jefferson.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go tell the Sheriff that we require two of his deputies immediately to go to Elza and pick up this prisoner.”

  Primrose froze; the last thing he wanted to do was speak to the sheriff. “Me, sir?”

  “Yes, you. Is there anyone else named Primrose around here?”

  Primrose debated with himself for a moment. Did he want to take a lashing from Cockwright or one from the sheriff? Finally he decided on the sheriff. He didn’t have to work for him every day. “Yes, sir,” he said and headed off to the sheriff’s office.

  “We’ll be leaving within the hour. I want you with us.” Cockwright ordered the chief.

  #

  ELZA, TEXAS

  November 17, 1941

  Reporter David Roberson had been taking calls all morning from other papers about the murder. He’d done the same thing a dozen times over the years. In the big cities, helping a competitor is unheard of, but these papers weren’t really competitors. Some of these cities were forty to sixty miles away. This murder in Elza was front-page news on his paper because Elza was just a few miles down the road, but over in Nacogdoches or Palestine or Henderson, this was page-three stuff. The same was true when something of interest happened over in their cities. He could make a few phone calls and basically repeat the other guy’s story, giving him a contributor credit.

  After his little conversation with the County Attorney, Roberson found himself in a bit of a pickle. On one side, he had a Texas Ranger who threatened him. On the other he had a C.A. who did exactly the same thing.

  Then, while talking to a reporter from down in Crockett, a thought came to Roberson’s head.

  There’s safety in numbers.

  So, Roberson happened to casually mention that the murder was considerably more vicious than he’d previously thought. Apparently, Roberson explained, the killer had fed the poor kid alive to an alligator. Also, there had been an arrest, and the C.A. himself was headed down to Elza to pick up this brutal killer. It was probably the part about the alligator that had gotten the ball rolling.

  He made six calls in fifteen minutes. Anyone who could be in Elza by ten got the word.

  Sure enough, Roberson wasn’t able to park anywhere near the Elza Police station. There were reporters around that he hadn’t even called. There was even a guy from Natchitoches, Louisiana. He must have broken a land speed record getting to Elza. Roberson arrived as late as he possibly could. The last thing he wanted to do was run into Brewster McKinney. The way he saw it, he could just stay in the background and let the other reporters do the work.

  The little town was alive. All the good old boys were out to see what was going on. They weren’t used to so many strange
rs all at once. Roberson could see many of his various competitors interviewing the locals. Everyone wanted to get the facts on this killing. What kind of person would feed a dying man to animals?

  Roberson suddenly had a sinking feeling. That would be the headline on some of these papers tomorrow. From what he could tell, the kid in jail was not a bad kid and may not have done it, but when the evening papers came out, thanks partly to Roberson, this young man’s picture would be on every front page as the monster who fed his friend to an alligator. Roberson knew that he was partly to blame. But, it was this C.A. who pushed him into it. The fact was that the C.A. would hang this kid regardless. It didn’t matter if there was a real killer out there walking free. This story was big enough to hit wires and would probably be all over the state by the evening editions, which, of course was exactly what Cockwright wanted.

  The reporter had grown to hate politicians like Cockwright. Those types insisted on nothing short of total integrity from the press but would lie right to your face and demand that it be printed without challenge. It was an end-justifies-the-means world to those people. Politicians like Cockwright seemed to think that their personal agenda was all that mattered. Cockwright probably hadn’t even given a thought to guilt or innocence.

  Roberson was stewing on that thought as a small caravan of cars turned off the highway onto Main Street. The lead car was a county sheriff’s Ford, followed by two other county Fords, with the Elza Police prowler in the rear. The three county cars all stopped in a line stretching from the Police Station to midway past the movie theater. All the reporters suddenly came running. Roberson saw that a few of his fellow journalists had photographers with them, a luxury the Statesman couldn’t afford. Roberson was shocked to see just how many reporters had made the trip to Elza. It occurred to him that he wasn’t the only one who had made phone calls.

  That arrogant priss had his staff working the phones making sure their boss got his headlines.

  Then the back door of the second car opened and out stepped, smiling for the cameras, Nathaniel Cockwright.

  Roberson watched with disdain as Cockwright made his grandiose performance for his colleagues and then walked to the front door of the Police Station. This was all backwards. These journalists, himself specifically, were doing the bidding of an ambitious, incompetent, and borderline corrupt politician for the sheer purpose of helping him further his political aspirations. A journalist’s job was to be the voice of the oppressed, the vanguard of the people. They should be holding politician’s feet to the fire, exposing corruption, and demanding justice for the masses. Cockwright may have won this round, but he wouldn’t win the match. This journalist would not be used, at least not by the likes of Nathaniel Cockwright. McKinney was right. That kid’s family needn’t read the details in the papers. The kid in jail may yet be innocent, but Cockwright was perfectly willing to send him to the chair to springboard himself into the Governor’s mansion.

  #

  Brewster McKinney was on his sixth cup of coffee. After Chief Hightower had left Brewster went upstairs two more times to question the boy. Obviously he had struck a nerve. The kid, who had shown a few signs of fear the night before, was now seriously frightened. He tried to conceal his feelings, but he showed the signs - avoiding eye contact, fidgeting, sweating. It was only a matter of time before he broke, if Brewster had a couple of days to wear him down. But he didn’t have a couple of days. The kid’s daddy would be in with some big-city lawyer, and Brewster wouldn’t have another minute with the boy.

  It was around nine-thirty when the first reporter showed. Brewster”s been dealing with reporters his entire career. Many of his fellow Rangers hated journalists. Conversely, a few loved the limelight. Brewster neither liked nor hated them. He simply saw them as a necessary evil. They had a job to do just like he did. The only problem as far as he was concerned was that they tended to be annoying, and they often wanted to over-play his personal role in the investigation. The simple way to deal with journalists, he had long since learned, was to give them a story. The trick was keeping from becoming part of the story. By nature of being a Texas Ranger, he tended to get mentioned in the papers. Reporters loved to get quotes from Rangers, especially when it was a small town case like this. So, Brewster had a simple method of dealing with newspaper mosquitoes. He’d give them a story - the story he wanted them to print. The story would be true, and they would get a quote from a Texas Ranger, but they wouldn’t get the whole story. Brewster always kept a few cards in his hand.

  So when the reporter burst into the Elza Police Headquarters, Corporal Brewster McKinney of the Texas Rangers was prepared to hand out the same basic facts he had given the reporter who showed up at the bridge the night before.

  Then the reporter told him, “I understand you have the murderer in custody.”

  Brewster was explaining that the investigation was still in progress when another reporter came into the office and asked, “Is this where the press conference is being held?”

  Before the second reporter got his question out, another reporter, followed by his photographer, entered the little office. They were all tossing out questions, but from the clatter Brewster managed to get that the county C.A. was on his way and was going to hold a press conference to announce that the “Alligator Killer” had been apprehended.

  Brewster told the reporters that he didn’t know anything about any press conference and that they should leave. Getting them to go was easy. He stood and casually revealed the Colt Commander concealed in a shoulder holster under his jacket and told the reporters that they needed to go. It didn’t hurt that he was larger than all of the journalists, and showing the Colt certainly helped, but he knew that it was the Ranger’s badge on his belt that sent the mosquitoes scurrying. There was an intimidation factor with being a Texas Ranger. He was a member of a no-nonsense fraternity. The very last thing Brewster McKinney would ever do is draw his weapon on a journalist, but those fellows didn’t know that.

  They weren’t out the door thirty seconds when the telephone rang. Brewster took the call thinking he was helping out the chief, but to his surprise the caller was his immediate superior, Company B Commander, Captain “Little Bigfoot” McCullough. Contrary to what one would expect, Captain McCullough didn’t have large feet. As a young ranger the Captain was partnered with a much older Corporal who took to calling him “Little Bigfoot” because he claimed that McCullough reminded him of legendary Texas Ranger, William “Bigfoot” Wallace. Captain McCullough hated being called “Little Bigfoot” but the nickname stuck, as these things tend to do and, as he once said, “There’s worse things in life than being named after a Texas legend.”

  Initially Captain McCullough wanted to know how the case was going, to which McKinney answered, “A dead end, for now.”

  Captain McCullough then informed McKinney that he was being temporarily pulled off the case. Apparently the local County Attorney had called the Ranger headquarters in Austin complaining that McKinney was interfering with the prosecution in a major murder case and demanded the Ranger be immediately removed. Texas Rangers Director Calvin Anthony then called Company B Commander McCullough and “suggested” that Corporal McKinney take a few days off but, and this part was an order, “Keep an eye on the case.”

  McKinney took that to mean that both Captain McCullough and Director Anthony felt that the reputation of the Rangers for getting their man was much more important than soothing the ego of an overly zealous County Attorney.

  Brewster McKinney had long since come to the conclusion that if the only battles a law enforcement officer had to fight were with criminals, then the job would be a piece of cake. Unfortunately, politicians were the biggest enemy of the crime fighter. A perfect example was back in ’33 when Governor “Ma” Ferguson shut down the entire Ranger organization. Almost immediately afterward Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow went on their shooting spree all over the state, and there was nobody the
Governor could send to chase them down. Eventually a laid-off Ranger, Frank Hamer, had to put a stop to it.

  This time the problem was a small town C.A. trying to make a name for himself. Brewster had run across such before, but they tended to let him do his job. They just wanted the glory. Brewster cared nothing about the glory, but he did want to make sure that he put the right man behind bars. The only thing he knew for sure about this case was that the kid upstairs wasn’t the killer.

  When he had finished talking to Captain McCullough, he walked to the front door of the Police Station and locked it. He looked out the front window and saw that there were several men standing around. None of them looked like they were locals. Among them, just getting out of his car, was the reporter from the bridge the night before.

  This C.A. called more people than just Director Anthony.

  Brewster then walked down the hall to the back of the station and up the stairs to Jesse’s cell.

  Jesse was sitting on his cot with his shoes off.

  “Come on kid, get your shoes on,” McKinney said.

  “I’m going?”

  “Yeah, but hurry.”

  Jesse put on his shoes and followed Brewster down the stairs to the back door.

  “What’s going on, Corporal?”

  “I’m not sure but we need to get you out of here. Don’t go home. Go to that girl’s house. No, wait. Last night the chief told me that you and that other boy once got in some trouble for climbing up on the roof.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Do you think you can do it again?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Climb up there and wait until me or the chief come for you.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Your lawyer’s not here yet and some idiot C.A. wants to make a big show of arresting you. We’re not gonna let that happen.”

  Jesse hesitated, not knowing what to do. Then they heard the front door rattling. Someone was trying to get in.