That morning the two deputy C.A.’s made the appropriate calls, and thus the press had arrived, this time in far greater numbers than before. There were easily fifty or more reporters and photographers out front when Nathaniel arrived. As he predicted, the wire services had picked up the story of the “Alligator Killer.” By Tuesday evening Vivian and Anita were fielding calls from as far away as Atlanta and Denver. Everyone wanted to see this evil kid go down.
The funeral director’s other job, which he had failed at miserably, was to make sure to arrange the seating so that County Attorney Cockwright would sit next to Cliff’s mother. Nothing would look better on the cover of the papers than for the next Texas Attorney General, or possibly even Governor, to be at the funeral consoling the grieving mother. Unfortunately, the idiot running the funeral couldn’t even get that simple task correct.
Since he couldn’t get into the parents’ house, Nathaniel’s backup plan was to stand out in front of the church to greet the family when they arrived. He would open the car door for the mother, give her a consoling hug, all before the cameras, and then escort her and the senseless father into the church where he would continue to hold the mother’s hand throughout the service. As arranged with the funeral director, a few photographers, chosen by the two deputy County Attorneys, would be allowed to come around to the front for a few minutes, take a few pictures, and then leave, all as discretely as possible to avoid disrupting the service any more than absolutely necessary.
Apparently, even though the funeral director and this Reverend Anderson had both sat through the planning session and had seemingly understood the importance to the citizens of Cherokee County to see the pain this family was experiencing and see how their elected officials were making sure justice was being served, both men deliberately went to great lengths to ensure that the press was not allowed inside the building. In hindsight, Nathaniel thought he should have put his own people in charge of managing the funeral. The hillbilly preacher and funeral director probably played pinochle with the dimwitted police chief who had his own deputies at the door keeping the press out.
Of course, none of this mattered, anyway. First, the family, in another display of the mindless mentality of the uneducated, chose not to take advantage of the limousines that Nathaniel had so graciously sent, opting instead to attend their son’s funeral in their own pickup trucks. By the time the C.A. realized that the people getting out of the dirty old farm truck was the deceased’s family, the press had rushed in before Nathaniel could get anywhere near the door to console the mother and escort her into the church. As Nathaniel was fighting his way past the press, some kid got out of the first truck, holding his arm around the mother, and walked into the building with her and the father and their two younger children behind. Once inside the church, this same unknown kid and some teenaged girl took the seats that should have been reserved for Nathaniel. The C.A. still tried to work his way in the pew, but thanks to that kid and the girl there was no room. Nathaniel then tried to get a seat in the back of the church, but by that point the place was so packed with dirt farmers that there was simply no room. As a result, to his utter humiliation, the Attorney for Cherokee County had to spend the funeral standing outside with the reporters, who naturally wanted to know why he wasn’t attending the service.
When the funeral was over, the entire church full of people proceeded to their cars and drove over to the Elza Cemetery for the graveside service. This time, Nathaniel was better prepared. He had made sure that his county car would be at the head of the prerecession, right behind the family. He also made sure that the press had maps and plenty of lead-time to allow them to be waiting, cameras in hand, when he got out of his car and met the family before any of the rest of the mourners got in the way. Again, this would have made for great pictures had it not been for the idiotic behavior of the police chief.
When the hearse carrying the deceased and the two vehicles with immediate family (and that unknown kid and his girlfriend) arrived, the police chief sent them along a service road up the back of the cemetery, well away from the awaiting journalists. When Nathaniel’s car got to the turnoff, he rolled down his window and insisted on being allowed to join the immediate family, but that stupid police chief steadfastly refused the County official entrance, claiming that the family wanted it that way. So Nathaniel, like everyone else, parked out in front of the cemetery. Then when he got to the gate, two police deputies refused to allow the press and county officials in, again claiming to do so at the family’s request. Nathaniel tried to explain that such exclusion couldn’t possibly apply to the County Attorney, only to have one of the two irrational hillbilly halfwit cops, one of whom curiously had no neck and looked somewhat like a toad, insist that it applied to him specifically.
So understandably, Nathaniel Cockwright was in an ill mood when he approached the Tidwell family home after the graveside service. Not only had every opportunity of a quality cover photograph already been lost, all of the press had already left town to submit their stories without a single photograph of County Attorney Nathaniel Cockwright. However, knowing that they had purposely kept him out of the funeral, he still felt obligated to pay his respects because there was no way he could prosecute the killer without several more encounters with these daft farmers.
There were at least twenty-five or thirty cars parked around the house. Many of the men, all wearing their Sunday best, were standing out front smoking cigarettes and eating anything from fried chicken to pork chops. Among those standing out front holding a plate of chicken was Police Chief Jefferson Hightower and the two impudent deputies who had refused to allow Cockwright into the cemetery.
Nathaniel nodded his head as he passed the chief and the other farm folk hanging around the front of the house. He preferred not to have to speak to the illiterates of Cherokee County. That was partly due to the fact that he hated the way these dumb East Texans abused the English language, but the real truth was that he always felt like these cow herders and chicken farmers were laughing at him behind his back. He didn’t fit in with these people, and he knew it as well as they did.
When County Attorney Nathaniel Cockwright got to the porch steps, the two police deputies stepped off the porch and blocked his way. Nathaniel stopped before them and then looked back at the chief, expecting the empty-headed law officer to at least have the aptitude if not the courtesy to tell his deputies to get out of the way.
“We’ve been asked not to allow you into the house, Mr. Cockwright. If you’d like something to eat, one of my boys will be happy to go make you a plate,” the chief explained.
“I’d like to at least show my respects to the mother,” Cockwright protested, partly angry and partly bewildered.
“Please, out of respect for the family, do us this one favor.”
Suddenly the screen door opened. The father stepped out, followed by his wife and the young man who had sat next to them at the funeral, along with the teenage girl. The man, unashamedly in tears, shook the boy’s hand and then gave him a big bear hug. Next the wife hugged the boy and kissed him on the cheek. She then hugged and kissed the girl. After that the boy turned to face Nathaniel with the girl holding onto his arm. The two brainless deputies stepped out of the way, and the boy and girl came down the steps.
Reaching out to shake Cockwright’s hand Jesse said, “Hello, Mr. Cockwright. I’m Jesse Rose. I’d like to surrender.”
#
FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH
ELZA TEXAS
2:00 p.m. November 19, 1941
Cherokee-One-Leg climbed gingerly out of his Model-AA pickup truck. He was wearing his only suit, and rather than his old dusty cavalry hat he wore a black fedora. He’d ordered the hat and the suit years before from the Montgomery Ward Company at the insistence of his wife. The suit was black with narrow pinstripes, with pleated and cuffed pants and a kerchief in the front pocket. He had to admit that it was dapper.
This was the second time he’d worn it. The other time was for his wife’s funeral. She had spent hours studying the Ward’s catalogue picking it out. It was a shame that she had never seen him in it. He had just never found the right time. The old soldier felt a tear come to his eye as he thought about her.
He parked near the back of the large red brick church, knowing his place. A person of color wouldn’t walk through the front door. Normally he’d never walk into that church at all. There were churches for the colored folks. But even in Elza, funerals were different. Everyone knew the Tidwells. Paying respects was expected. Cherokee would not be the only colored person there that day, though they all would enter though the back, climb the narrow staircase, and sit in the balcony.
The old church building was a result of the oil boom when there had been a lot of money in the little town. There was probably a time when it was almost full on Sunday mornings, but nowadays the balcony was only opened on Easter, and the occasional funeral.
The church was long and narrow with a stage, for lack of better word, holding the pulpit and choir loft, and an indoor baptism pool behind the choir. There were about a dozen rows of pews with an aisle down the middle, making actually twenty-four pews, all capable of seating about ten people comfortably. The balcony was “U” shaped. In the back it sat over the last five rows of the lower sanctuary. On the sides the balcony continued with two rows.
Cherokee, with the help of his crutch, made his way up the narrow staircase and found a seat along with the other people of color on the right-side balcony. The back balcony would be reserved for the overflow white folks.
The seat on the side balcony was exactly what Cherokee wanted. He was toward the front of the church and could easily look back and see the entire congregation. So far the plan was working as expected. Jesse was sitting with Cliff’s family at the front, almost right below Cherokee. From where he sat, the old black man could easily spot anything out of the normal, or in this case, anyone who was not mourning Clifford Tidwell besides that silly C.A. Cockwright.
He spotted the man almost immediately. The Indian fighter’s eyes might not be what they once were, but picking out this man didn’t require an eagle’s sight. Everyone else in the church was with family, but this man was alone. His suit was different. These people were farmers and small town folk. They all wore old, unstylish suits that were bought straight out of a catalog like Cherokee’s. This man’s suit was freshly pressed and fitted by a tailor.
The man also kept looking at Jesse. Everyone else had their eyes on Reverend Anderson or the choir as they sang, but this guy never took his eyes off Jesse. It was him. He looked just like his brother. It had been five years, but Cherokee had not forgotten the face. There was now no reason to question what had happened to Clifford. The past had, in fact, come back to haunt them.
The plan, so far, was playing out as Cherokee had hoped. Finally, just as expected, the man stopped looking at Jesse and glanced up at the balcony. The two men locked eyes.
#
When the funeral ended, Cherokee worked his way down the stairs and outside as quickly as he could under the circumstances. Even with only one leg, he was still out before most of the mourners. He made his way around to the front and watched as the man walked out of the sanctuary. Again, he was alone. Cherokee kept his distance but didn’t let the man out of his sight. It seemed strange, a tall black man with a peg leg and a crutch should have stood out in the sea of white faces, but the old warrior had long since learned that in a crowd like this he was almost invisible. That invisibility didn’t bother him. He’d grown accustomed to it, and more importantly, at times like this, it was useful.
The stranger lingered under a sycamore smoking a cigarette while everyone filtered out of the church. He tended to stay somewhat behind the tree, almost as if he was hiding.
Then the man straightened up and watched the steps to the church. Cherokee looked around and saw a young woman coming out. She was the Stoker girl.
She walked out into the parking lot, looking as if she were searching for someone. The man continued to hide behind the tree, watching the girl as she came toward him.
While Cherokee was watching the man, Chief Hightower walked up to the old Indian.
“Thanks for looking after Jesse, Cherokee.”
“You knew?” Cherokee answered, while not taking his eyes off the man behind the tree.
“I figured it out. The boys always liked being around you. I drove out by your place yesterday and saw Gemma Crawford’s car.”
When Jewel got close to the tree, the man jumped out from behind it, surprising her. Startled, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. They laughed as he led her to a car.
Cherokee, leaning on his crutch, looked at Jefferson and nodded his head over toward the man and the Stoker girl.
“Do you know that man?” Cherokee asked.
Jefferson watched the man as he held the door of a red 1940 Chevrolet Special Deluxe Coupe convertible open for Jewel.
“No. The girl’s Jewel Stoker. I don’t know who the man is. Jesse said that she had a boyfriend in Jacksonville. That must be him.”
“He’s your killer.”
Jefferson looked at the old Indian. “How do you know?”
“I just know,” Cherokee answered.
As the man got into his car, he briefly glanced back at Cherokee and Jefferson.
Jefferson pulled a notepad out of his pocket and began taking down the man’s license tag number. All the other cars began lining up behind the family in the hearse. The man and Jewel pulled out of the parking lot and drove away in the opposite direction.
Jefferson looked up at the line of cars forming up.
“I’ve got to get over to the cemetery,” the chief said.
“When’s that Ranger coming back?”
“I don’t know. A few days, maybe a week.”
“You’re gonna need ‘im.”
#
CHEROKEE COUNTY COURTHOUSE
RUSK, TEXAS
8:38 a.m. November 21, 1941
Cherokee County Attorney Nathaniel Elbridge Cockwright had just delivered the most compelling oratory of his life. In just under forty minutes he had given an address that was eloquent, deliberate, detailed, and quite frankly, an unarguably persuasive discourse. Everyone in the courtroom was brought to tears as he described the inhumane details of the murder. He even garnered a couple of “you tell ‘ems” from the audience. Judge Buckner, of course, put a quick stop to the outbursts, but it still served to prove to Nathaniel that he was making his point.
An arraignment in Judge Nehemiah Buckner’s court was usually limited to the accused and the arresting officer, but Nathaniel and his staff had made sure that everyone in the county knew what was happening that morning, ensuring that the courtroom was packed with reporters, spectators, and even the C.A. from Anderson county, who just wanted to watch.
Up to this point, everything, again, had gone terribly wrong. The punk kid had waited until late in the day to surrender. By then the reporters had all gone home to file their stories. Had he done it as soon as the funeral was over or even at the graveside ceremony, their picture would have been on the cover of every paper between Houston and Dallas.
As unimaginably perplexing as it sounds, the killer had been sitting right there next to the family through the entire funeral and graveside service, right in front of the entire town, and not a single soul bothered to mention it to the authorities. Even the dumb-cluck police chief knew the murderer was there and didn’t say a word.
When he got Jesse back to Rusk, Nathaniel put his deputies to work on the phones, making sure that every paper in the state knew about the arrest. But most of the papers missed getting the story out in the evening editions. He did get it mentioned on WBAP radio out of Fort Worth, though. The result of that was beautiful. The courthouse was packed with spe
ctators for. Even the balcony was full. Nathaniel had hoped for a good turnout, and in fact he had prepared his arrival for it. Normally he would have parked around back in the spot designated for the County Attorney and entered through the small door next to the back staircase. But he anticipated some press, so he’d had Primrose pick him up at home and drop him off on the square in front of the courthouse. He’d climbed the steps, briefcase in hand, as throngs of reporters crowded around him, snapping pictures and asking questions. When he got to the top, he stopped before going in to deliver a few brief comments about justice being served and the safety of the good people of Cherokee County and of course, answer a some questions. He then posed for a few pictures before walking into the courthouse.
#
The courtroom was already crowded when Cockwright arrived, and by the time Judge Buckner walked in, it was standing room only. The defendant was seated to Nathaniel’s right, surrounded by a bevy of attorneys, of course. That would play into Nathaniel’s hands. He had already planned to play up the fact that this killer had come from one of the wealthiest families in the County. The fact that he had a half-dozen expensive lawyers was not going to play well with these small-town bumpkins.
Nathaniel had just about had it up to his ears with the kid’s legal team. No less than four were waiting at the sheriff’s office when they arrived back from the funeral with the defendant. They made all sorts of demands, most of which the C.A. felt unobligated to comply to. Most notably, they insisted on seeing their client before the arraignment. That wasn’t about to happen. Nathaniel’s plan, which he had come up with the moment he’d made the arrest, was to spend the night questioning the punk, hoping to break him down in the wee hours when the kid was exhausted. He had started the questioning as they drove in from Elza, but the dumb brat never said a single word. So when he got him to the jail, he intended to continue the interrogation, and made a good effort, but again, this arrogant little delinquent never so much as opened his mouth. Then one of these overpaid ambulance chasers marched into the sheriff’s office with no less than Judge Buckner in tow, ordering Nathaniel to allow the self-important barristers to be present during questioning. On top of that, the judge released the kid without a bail hearing. He set bail and the lawyer posted it standing right there in Sheriff Cadwalder’s office.
That Night at the Palace Page 23
