That Night at the Palace

by Watson, L. D.

  “Go,” Brewster ordered.

  Jesse went out the back door and over to the rain gutter he had climbed some five years before. McKinney watched to make sure that the kid made it and then closed the back door and headed to the front of the Police Station.

  #

  As the caravan pulled into Elza, Nathaniel Cockwright watched with a smile on his face while a group of a dozen or more journalists gathered in front of the Police Station. The C.A. was on his way to having the biggest day of his career. Granted, that little incident in the courtroom was a bit embarrassing, but the only ones who witnessed it were Judge Buckner, Primrose, and that dimwitted police chief - and really it was the chief’s fault. That fool should have come to his office the moment he arrived at the courthouse. The County Attorney should not be left in the dark when there was a crime of this magnitude in his county. The number one item on that fool’s agenda should have been to meet with the C.A. about what to do with “The Alligator Killer.”

  But even this clown of a police chief couldn’t stop what was coming. Neither would that Texas Ranger, Nathaniel thought with a smile. That was a stroke of genius. Coleman out-did himself with that one. Nathaniel would like to take the credit for it, but it was all Coleman. As the deputy C.A. pointed out, the Rangers were only there at the request of a police department. When the C.A.’s office took the case, the sheriff’s department could take over the investigation.

  “Let’s face it,” Coleman explained, “the Sheriff is too lazy and too close to retirement to buck us on this. We’ll build the case any way we want.”

  “More importantly,” he continued, “a simple call to the Ranger’s headquarters in Austin, complaining that the Ranger is interfering with the C.A.’s case, will result in the Ranger being sent back to where ever he came from with his tail tucked between his legs.”

  The boys had done their job. By the look of things, every paper in East Texas was represented. Thanks to that alligator, this story might just get picked up by the wire services, and if Nathaniel played it right it would make the headlines again on the day of the arraignment. If all went well, he could probably get headlines again when he met with the deceased family to promise a quick end to this painful ordeal. He’d be out front again, of course, throughout the trial, and he’d surely get to make a speech or two after the conviction and again after the sentencing. Finally, and this part would take some string pulling, but with some luck, he could get a picture of himself holding hands with the victim’s mother right before they threw the switch on the “Alligator Killer.”

  The nickname had been his own idea. Thank God for that alligator. Hitting the boy and leaving him to die would be little more than a run-of-the-mill murder case. But to leave the helpless dying kid to get eaten alive by a vicious reptile was reprehensible. That was the sort of thing that could get picked up in papers all over the country. And that was just the start. The jury would eat this up. Nathaniel had half his opening remarks already written in his head. There was absolutely no possible way they’d give this kid anything short of the chair.

  Nathaniel was all smiles as he stepped out of the car to be greeted by a throng of reporters.

  “Gentlemen, let’s go inside and I’ll answer all of your questions,” the C.A. said as he led what amounted to a small parade to the front door of the Police Station.

  Reaching down, he grabbed the doorknob and simultaneously turned and pushed. Unfortunately for Nathaniel Cockwright, the knob didn’t turn and the door didn’t open and he slammed his face into the glass.

  There was a round of smiles and muffled laughter from the reporters as Nathaniel jiggled the doorknob in a futile attempt to open the locked door.

  Smiling back at the reporters Nathaniel said, “Just a minute, gentlemen. The office seems to be locked.”

  Primrose, a few steps behind him among the reporters, pushed his way through the crowd to the door. “Let me try, sir.”

  He took hold of it and, like Cockwright, tried with no success to open the locked door.

  “Where’s the Police Chief?” Cockwright asked with an obviously counterfeited smile.

  Jefferson, unlike the rest of the caravan, had chosen to park the prowler in a parking spot rather than leave it in the middle of Main Street. Of course, with all of the reporters in town, along with the normal Monday morning business, there were no spots, and he had ended up parking almost all the way down by the domino hall. When he got to the Police Station, Cockwright had been standing there several minutes, fuming but smiling for the reporters.

  “There’s our good Police Chief. Chief, the door to your office seems to be locked,” Cockwright said, still smiling broadly.

  Jefferson had had about all he could take from the C.A. He wished that he could have talked with Corporal McKinney before turning Jesse over. Jefferson had no experience with this sort of thing and, frankly, had no idea if any of this was legal. Normally when he had an arrest, he took it before Judge Buckner and the judge took it from there. This was the first time he had ever even spoken to the County Attorney. He’d come across Primrose and Coleman a few times, but only because they happened to be in the courtroom, not because he had any business with them.

  “I lock it when I’m out of the office,” Jefferson commented as he worked his way through the crowd of reporters to the door.

  Cockwright continued his simulated smile but managed to give an aggravated glare at the chief.

  “Well, it wouldn’t do to have the police station robbed, now would it?” Cockwright said with a broad smile.

  There was again a little laughter, but much less than when the County Attorney slammed his head into the door.

  Jefferson unlocked the door and let the C.A., his two deputies, and a mob of reporters into the office. Just as they came in, Brewster McKinney came down the hall.

  “I thought I heard someone at the door,” McKinney said as the approached the chief.

  “Corporal,” Jefferson began, “this is the C.A., Nathan Cock-”

  Jefferson paused, trying to remember the C.A.’s last name. All he could think was Cockfight, but he knew that wasn’t right.

  “Nathaniel Cockwright,” Nathaniel said with a glare to the chief and a broad, fake smile, “I assume you’re the famous Texas Ranger I’ve been hearing about.”

  Brewster shook hands with the C.A., “Well, I don’t know about being famous, but yes sir, I am a Texas Ranger. Brewster McKinney.”

  Suddenly everyone with a camera began taking pictures of McKinney, and Nathaniel seized that opportunity, smiling broadly for the photographs.

  “Well, Mr. Ranger,” Cockwright began, “we’re here to take the ‘Alligator Killer’ off your hands.”

  “I’m sorry, what killer?”

  “The ‘Alligator Killer.’ The young man you arrested last night.”

  Brewster looked at Jefferson, “Someone killed an alligator?”

  There were a few muffled laughs from the reporters.

  “They’re here to take Jesse,” the Chief answered.

  “Oh, the kid. I let him go this morning.”

  Nathaniel’s eyes flared, “You what?”

  “I sent him home.”

  “You sent a murderer home?”

  “Well, we didn’t have a case, and there’s no real reason to think he did it.”

  Stunned, Cockwright looked around at the reporters who were all jotting down notes.

  “Ah, perhaps you two should brief me on the status of the investigation, and then I can fill in our friends in the press,” Nathaniel said in effort to save face. “Gentlemen, would all of you mind stepping outside a moment? When I get an update I’ll fill all of you in.”

  Naturally the journalists were reluctant to leave and asked a barrage of questions, none of which Cockwright was capable of answering. The most notable and obvious question was, “Does this mean that the ‘Alli
gator Killer’ is still on the loose?”

  To Primrose’s amusement, Nathaniel had to do a lot of sidestepping on that one. He was quite proud of the label he’d put on the killer and insisted that Primrose and Coleman reference the moniker to every newspaper they called. Now it had quite ironically, come back to bite him. Still, ever the politician, Cockwright managed to get everyone out the door, including his two deputies to help manage the ever-growing disaster.

  Once all of the reporters were safely out, Cockwright turned to Jefferson and Brewster and demanded, “What are the two of you doing to me?”

  Jefferson looked at Brewster and the Ranger simply shrugged and said, “The kid’s daddy has a lawyer on the way here, and with what we’ve got on the boy, the case would be tossed out in no time anyway.”

  “That is for me to decide, not you,” the now fuming C.A. shouted.

  Brewster glanced over Nathaniel’s shoulder through the wide glass front window at the reporters. Sensing he was being watched, the C.A. regained his composure and glanced back at the reporters with his broadest smile.

  “Look, you two nincompoops, this is my case. I want every detail.” He looked at Jefferson. “Get me your report.”

  Jefferson went over to his filing cabinet. He had spent two hours the night before typing the thing up. This was, by far, the longest, most detailed, and most difficult report he’d ever written.

  “And you,” Cockwright said to Brewster, “you’re no longer on this case. The sheriff’s department is taking over. Your captain should be calling. I spoke to the director this morning.”

  Jefferson handed the report to Cockwright, which amounted to one single spaced typewritten page, “That’s it. Not much to it.”

  Cockwright took the paper and began reading.

  “My captain,” Brewster began, “called just before you got here. I was waiting for the chief to return before heading back to Dallas.”

  Cockwright glared at Brewster and then looked back down at the page. He knew McKinney was being sly.

  After a moment Cockwright said, “Let me get this straight. He threatened the victim at the movie and then attacked him over something to do with a girl. Then the two were together at the bridge at the time the murder took place?”

  Brewster crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter behind the chief’s desk.

  “Well, yes,” Jefferson replied, “but there’s more to it.”

  “What?”

  Jefferson thought and then answered, “Well, there was this killing a few years back.”

  “The murder was the night before last!”

  “I know, but…” Jefferson looked over at Brewster for help.

  Brewster smiled, “I think what the Chief is trying to say is that the kid didn’t do it.”

  “How can you say that?” Cockwright demanded again in a voice loud enough to be heard outside.

  Brewster smiled at the reporters who were straining to hear and then replied in a calmer, more even voice, “We know because we are professional law enforcement officers, and we know when we’ve got our man. That kid is not our man.”

  Cockwright almost blew his top. “Professionals? You two couldn’t solve this case if the killer walked in here and confessed. In this county I can get a conviction in five minutes with what I have right here in my hand.

  “Now see here,” he said to Brewster, “you’re off the case and I want you out of this town today.”

  Then he turned to Jefferson. “Right now, you’re going to take me to this kid’s house where we’re going to arrest him for the murder of,” he looked back at the report, “Cliff Tidwell.”

  Jefferson looked at Brewster, having gained a little nerve from working with the Ranger and then looked at Cockwright. “I don’t work for you. If you want to arrest him, go do it yourself.”

  The C.A.’s eyes lit up again, but then he glanced over his shoulder and smiled at the reporters. He then looked back at Jefferson and Brewster and said calmly, “You two mark my words. By the time I’m finished with this case I’ll have both of your badges. Now, where does this kid live?”

  “Go a block up Main, turn right to Red Oak. It’s 301, on the corner. You can’t miss it.”

  The County Attorney glared at the two and turned to head out the door.

  “My report, Mr. Cockfight?” Jefferson asked.

  Cockwright stopped at the door, took a deep breath, and looked back at Jefferson.

  “My report. I need it for my files. I’ll make you a copy and get it to you later today.”

  The C.A.’s eyes were red with anger as he handed the paper to Jefferson, and then he put his smile back on and headed out the door.

  Jefferson felt some pride as the turned to look at Brewster.

  “Well, Chief,” Brewster offered, “I believe that between the two of us we have a pretty good enemy in that C.A.”

  They watched out the window as Cockwright, along with his deputies and the sheriff’s deputies, got into their cars and pulled away, followed by the throng of reporters.

  “Poor Jesse,” the chief commented.

  “Yeah, we should probably go get him.”

  Jefferson looked at Brewster, “You didn’t send him home?”

  “He’s on the roof waiting for us to get him down.”

  A few moments later Jefferson and Brewster were standing at the base of the storm drain as Jesse shimmied down from the roof of the police station.

  “Now, what do we do?” Jefferson asked Brewster.

  “Well, I’ve got to go back to my headquarters in Dallas, but the case is still yours as far as the Rangers are concerned. If you want me back, you just need to call my HQ, but it’ll probably be a good idea for me to stay out of town a few days while that Cockwright fellow cools down.”

  Jesse came to the ground between the two men.

  “What about Jesse? I can’t take him home.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “What do you mean, I can’t go home?” Jesse asked.

  “The C.A. wants to make a name for himself by puttin’ you in jail for killing Cliff. They’re at your house right now, so we got to get you out of here as soon as we can.”

  Jesse’s face showed the fear he felt.

  “Can they do that?”

  “They’re going to try, but we know you didn’t do it,” Brewster explained. “You know more than you’re tellin’, but you’re not a murderer. But they’re going to give you the chair if you don’t open up.”

  Jesse looked him in the eye. He fought the urge to cry but just shook his head.

  “Okay. We’ve got to take you somewhere to keep you out of their hands. Is there a friend who you can stay with? Someone out of town?”

  Jesse just shook his head.

  “Chief?”

  “Nothin’ comes to mind.”

  “Wait. I know where I can go,” Jesse replied.

  Just as Jesse started to say where, Jefferson stopped him. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to have to lie to the C.A.”

  “Okay, I’ll take you,” Brewster offered. “Chief, I suspect you need to get ready. That C.A.’s gonna be back here screaming at you in a minute.”

  Jefferson smile. “I’m beginning to enjoy rufflin’ his feathers’.”

  #

  Police Chief Thomas Jefferson Hightower had just enough time to make some fresh coffee and sit down behind his desk before his eminence, County Attorney Nathaniel Cockwright, came barging into his office demanding to know exactly where Jesse was hiding. The C.A., of course, didn’t believe him when he said that he had no idea.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doin’, Chief Hightower, but this isn’t over. I’m going to get that kid.”

  “Anything I can do to help,” replied Hightower with a smile as the C.A. stormed out the door and go
t into one of the cars and drove away.

  #

  About ten minutes later Brewster, with Jesse beside him, drove his coupe through a small community of about a hundred homes. The streets were all reddish dirt, and most of the homes needed some repair. There were lots of kids about playing, and most of the homes had large porches with one or two adults sitting on rocking chairs, shucking peas and carving potatoes. Every face Brewster saw was black.

  At Jesse’s direction Brewster turned down a long narrow road that went on for about a quarter of a mile and ended at a single house. On the porch sat an old black man, alone in a rocking chair. The man had a stern face and the cold look of someone who had experienced a hard life. Brewster had seen such men many times. Most were criminals, but a few were Rangers. It struck him that there was often a fine line between bandit and lawman.

  As the car approached, the old man stood. Brewster noted that he had only one leg.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “I’m sure,” Jesse replied.

  “You’re not going to be able to hide out long. That C.A.’s not going to give up. He’ll be here looking for you.”

  “I suspect they’ll get me at the funeral,” Jesse replied drily.

  “Funeral?”

  “I’m going to Cliff’s funeral.”

  “I’m sorry, I hadn’t thought about that. I’d hoped we could keep you out of their hands until I got back.”

  Jesse shrugged. “I can’t miss the funeral. He was my best friend.”

  “No, of course not,” Brewster replied. “Your dad’s lawyer will be in town soon. I’ll call Chief Hightower and have him get in touch with this lawyer and fill him in on everything. I’ll have Hightower come get you Wednesday morning and take you home. You can see your parents and meet with the lawyer. He’ll probably have you turn yourself in after the funeral.”

  “Okay.”

  Brewster looked at the stern-faced old man on the porch. “Are you sure you’ll be alright here?”

  Jesse smiled, “Cherokee’s my friend. I’ll be okay.”

  “Cherokee?”

  “Folks call him Cherokee-One-Leg because he’s half Indian. His real name’s Julius Caeser Bradford. His mom was Arapaho. People around here don’t know the difference, so they’ve been callin’ him Cherokee since he was a kid.”