by Ronald Kelly
"That's what we came out here to talk to you about, Harvey," Taylor began. "We arrested Hanson and his buddy Claude Darnell tonight for the murders of those three boys. We just wanted to make double sure that you didn't see nor hear anything that might connect them with the killings."
Harvey shook his head firmly. "I told you before, Sheriff, I don't know nothing about what happened out there. I'm just an old man who wants to be left alone. So why don't you just leave me be? It's nearly nine o'clock, about time for me to turn in."
Taylor traded a glance with Clay. "You know very well what we want to know," stated Clay, irritated at the man's stubborn front. "How long are you gonna lie through your teeth for those murdering bastards?"
"Now, see here, Clayburn Biggs! I'll not sit here and be talked to like that!"
"Okay, let's just calm down now," suggested Sheriff White. He regarded the old man wearily. "Harvey, if you're concerned about Bully, don't worry. He's in the county jail now with no chance of bail. You're perfectly safe, if you feel like giving us a statement about what happened."
Harvey was unshakable. "I still don't know what the hell you're talking about. Now, I told you before I can't help you none. When are you gonna believe me and get off my back?" Out of the corner of his eye he watched Cindy Ann. She had left her father's side and now stood near the center porch post. The other two men were oblivious to her activity, but Harvey was painfully aware of every move she made.
"We've gotta have a witness, Brewer!" Clay said, his voice half plea and half demand. "They killed my son, for heaven's sake! We gotta put them away for good."
"I'm sorry about your loss, Clay," grumbled Harvey. "I truly am. But I just can't be any help to you." He watched in mounting agitation as Cindy picked at the splintered post. Her nimble fingers found something there, and abruptly, her eyes grew hard and serious. In the porch light, the elderly man could see the tiny object cradled in her palm. It was a single pellet of double-aught buckshot.
"Come on, Clay," urged Taylor, his voice heavy with disgust. "We're wasting our time here." The constable was starting toward his car, when Clay reached for his arm and stopped him. "Wait a second, Taylor." He followed the farmer's eyes and studied Cindy and Old Man Brewer for a tense moment.
Something was happening. The youthful hazel eyes of the child were glued to the rheumy gray orbs of the elderly gentleman. Harvey had stopped his steady rocking. He simply sat there, stiff as a board, his face taut with gaping fear. The two were engaged in some strange game of mental tug-of-war. Taylor could somehow sense the tension between them. It almost had the invigorating feel of raw power, like the disruption of the ozone when lightning strikes too close to home.
Harvey Brewer was unaware of the two men, for in his mind they no longer existed. He was still at his home, but was no longer surrounded by a cool cloudless night in late September. Heavy sheets of spring rain swept down from a turbulent sky, thunder rumbling in the distance. Oh, no, please! his thoughts pleaded. I can't live through this horrible night again!
A voice answered him. The voice of a child. Then tell the truth.
No.. . I can't do that. They'd kill me for sure if I told them anything. His heart pounded like a trip hammer in his shallow chest.
All right, if you don't think you can . . . The nightmare continued. Strangely enough he was no longer sitting in his rocking chair. Instead, he stood in the kitchen, staring through the pane of the back door. The heavy length of the Remington rifle was once again in his hands. I don't want to be here! cried his thoughts, but he was unable to pull away from the awful scene of déjà vu.
Headlights arched through the driving downpour, heading from the direction of the barn, turning sharply into the backyard. The truck halted just past the outhouse, the engine idling loudly. Shadowy forms watched him from the depths of the cab. Shut off that porch light, old man, grated an all too familiar voice.
Who is it? he yelled, although he knew exactly who it was.
I said to shut it off . . . right now. The cavernous muzzles of the scattergun slid through the window, a beefy hand thumbing back twin hammers.
He did not waste any time. Reaching over, he worked the switch. But something was wrong. Nothing happened. The porch light continued to burn.
I ain't gonna tell you again, you old geezer!
I'm trying! he croaked, frantically snapping the light switch on and off. Something's the matter with it!
Then, from nearby, the voice of the child again. Will you tell now?
No, I can't.... He stared out the window and saw the shotgun directed not at the porch post, but straight at him. And behind that gun glared the evil face of Bully Hanson. I warned you, didn't I, old man?
Harvey tried to reply, but it was too late. The twelve gauge discharged, the boiling of gun smoke and the boom of the shot stretching out, needlessly prolonging his awful terror. He watched, dumbfounded, as a swarm of tiny lead pellets winged their way toward him in slow motion. He tried to pull away, tried to duck to the side, but he could not. His feet were rooted to the spot. Agony gripped his heart as he saw the silver-gray pellets part the dirty screen and shatter the glass pane in a burst of tiny explosions.
"I'll tell!" Brewer screamed, lurching from his rocker and slumping to the dirty boards of the porch. "I'll tell you everything ... just stop it!"
Clay and Taylor rushed up the steps and helped him back into his chair. "Are you all right, Harve?" asked the county sheriff.
The old man ignored the frantic beating of his heart. "You were right, Sheriff. It was Hanson who did it. Claude Darnell was in the truck with him. I heard the shots, the screams, and they pulled up to the house afterward ... threatened to kill me if I told a soul about it. I'm sorry I lied, but I was scared they'd come back for me."
"Then, you'll agree to be a witness for the prosecution?" New hope sparkled in Taylor White's eyes.
"Yes, anything you want."
After making sure the old man was all right, they bid him good night and walked to the car. "You know" grinned Clay, "I believe I'm gonna have me a good night's sleep for the first time in months."
Taylor breathed a sigh of relief. "You ain't the only one."
Cindy Ann lingered by the porch post a moment longer; staring at the feeble man who sat slumped in the hardwood rocker. "I'm sorry I did it, Mr. Brewer," she said in a low voice. "I'm awful sorry."
Harvey's ancient eyes held no malice for the youngster. He smiled tiredly. "Don't be, young lady. It was just something you had to do. And you know something? I'm real glad you did. This thing's been hanging over me for a mighty long time."
"Come on, Cindy," called Clay from the automobile. "Let's get on home."
A look of mutual understanding passed between the girl and the elderly man, then she was running to join her father. Harvey leaned back and rocked for a while longer. All the fear, all the agitation, had been flushed from his system, along with the constriction in his chest. Perhaps, he thought, getting up to go into the house, I might also have a good night's sleep.
And that was what he experienced for the first night in three and a half months: a deep, dreamless slumber ... the sleep of a man finally at peace with himself.
Chapter Twenty-One
The case of the State of Tennessee versus James "Bully" Hanson and Claude Darnell took place the final week of October. "The Coleman Triple Murder Trial" was the label pinned on the proceedings by reporters from neighboring areas. The Nashville Banner, the Tennessean, and even newspapers as far away as Memphis and Chattanooga had presented substantial coverage of the heinous crime committed in Harvey Brewer's curing barn. Although there were plenty of other stories more worthy of column space, most of the local press simply could not resist the gruesome sensationalism sparked by violent death in an otherwise peaceful farming community.
The trial was held two days before Halloween, and it looked as though the entire county had turned out. Most of the shops that lined the main street were closed that day, as well as the e
lementary and high schools. All manner of spit-and-polish sedans and rattletrap pickup trucks lined Coleman's narrow avenues. There was an air of festivity that lingered in the town square, one enhanced by the invigorating coolness of the autumn weather and the russet hues of October leaves. A few jack-o'-lanterns sat perched on residential porches. Their jaggedly carved faces leered insanely at passersby while they patiently awaited the twilight hours of All Hallows Eve.
Inside the red brick courthouse the main chamber was packed with spectators. The hardwood pews located behind the restraining banister were occupied by a swell of townsfolk, dirt farmers, and the curious from a half-dozen adjoining counties. The gathering rumbled and roared with good-natured talk and gossip. Women traded recipes for chess pie and peach preserves, while the men swapped jokes and political opinions. A group of pipe smokers at the courtroom doors listened with amusement as Jake Winters told, for the umpteenth time, how his prized heifer, Maybelle, had been sucked through the cone of a tornado and hurled clear into Galbreth County. There she had been found the following day, sprawled atop the Andersonville water tower, dead, but with nary a broken bone in her lifeless body.
The pews at the foremost end of the gallery were the quietest. No conversation buzzed among their occupants, no idle chatter, only silent waiting. On the right side sat Clayburn Biggs and his family. Clay was decked out in his Sunday finest, as were Maudie and the children. Stella Longcreek sat there with them. She was a pale, shrunken shadow of the feisty woman she had been before the horrible discovery in Brewer's barn.
On the front pew to the left sat Ransom Potts and his wife, Betsy. The banker, too, had experienced the weathering effects of grief. His normally full suit coat now hung on him loosely, for he had lost nearly fifty pounds that summer. His face seemed older and paler, the robust fire of arrogance having left his features, and his hairline had receded dramatically. Physically, Potts had deteriorated more than any other member of the three sorrowful families.
It was nearing nine o'clock that morning when Taylor White introduced the Bedloe County district attorney to the Biggs family. "Folks, this here's Willard Shaw from Nashville. He'll be the man prosecuting this case."
Clay shook the man's hand and was pleased by the firm grasp. The tobacco farmer usually disliked lawyers about as much as he did bankers and politicians, but Willard Shaw was different. He was a large man with a rawboned ruggedness that transcended his double-breasted suit and brown wingtips. There was a genuine touch of Will Rogers in Shaw's wry smile and the haphazard cowlick that protruded past his neatly cut hair.
Shaw shook hands with each and every member of the Biggs clan, then with Mrs. Longcreek. Afterward, Clay asked a question of the attorney. "What are our chances of seeing those two get the electric chair, Mr. Shaw?"
The prosecutor cast an appraising glance at Bully and Claude, who sat with their lawyer, A.J. Branchworth, at the opposite table. Both defendants were dressed in ill-fitting suits, starched white shirts, and ties. Darnell sat stiff and uneasy, his tight collar making his Adam's apple stand out even more. Bully on the other hand seemed more at ease. He reared back in his chair, hands clasped across his beer belly. He looked more like a man relaxing at a church picnic than one on trial for the brutal slayings of three young men.
"I think we have an excellent chance," replied Shaw. His voice had the crisp, resounding quality of an auctioneer. "Considering the amount of evidence Sheriff White has compiled and the valuable testimony of our witnesses, Mr. Brewer in particular, I'm fairly sure we've got it in the bag. And you've got my assurance that I will do everything in my power to see justice done."
His promise lifted their spirits and gave them new hope. "God bless you, Mr. Shaw," said Stella, placing a frail hand on the man's arm. He clasped the woman's hand warmly and then returned to the prosecutor's table with the sheriff.
At nine-fifteen, Fred Ezell, who was acting as bailiff, took his place beside the judge's oaken bench. "Will you all please rise," he requested loudly. All idle chatter broke off, and the gathering stood as one. The last to get to his feet was Bully Hanson, who grunted lazily and acted as if the whole thing was one big joke.
"The Honorable Lester T. Mullen presiding," announced Deputy Ezell as the chamber door opened and a small, black-robed man approached the bench. Mullen was a balding man in his early sixties, his eyes pleasantly neutral and his upper lip sporting an enormous handlebar mustache of iron gray.
He took his time mounting the platform and taking his place at the huge podium that sat between the American and Tennessee flags. Gavel in hand, he rapped sharply, calling the court to order. "You may be seated."
A great rumbling of folks taking their places, along with a few stray coughs and throat clearings, filled the courtroom, then faded into expectant silence. The men in the back put away their pipes and ground their cigarette butts underfoot, settling against the ancient wallpaper of the back wall for the duration of the trial.
Judge Mullen turned his attention toward the twelve man jury. They sat on cane-backed chairs at the right side of the courtroom, having been selected earlier that morning. All were well-known men in the community, businessmen and farmers mostly. Out of the twelve, Clay knew only two personally. One was Woody Sadler from the general store. The other was Andy Grissom, the man Clay had helped butcher hogs only a couple of weeks earlier.
"Gentlemen," began the judge. "You have been selected for the duty of jurors in this session of the Bedloe County criminal court. For the next few days you will be presented with a great amount of evidence and testimony relating to the case at hand. Two men are being tried for the murders of three teenaged boys. I want you to absorb the evidence carefully, listen to what each witness has to say, and, at the proper time, discuss the case with your fellow jurors. After a sufficient amount of deliberation, you will return to this courtroom with a verdict of guilty or not guilty. In the former case, you will also provide an appropriate sentence pertaining to the severity of the crime these men are charged with. Now, are there any questions before we proceed?"
The jury indicated that they fully understood all that had been said. "Very well," Mullen said with a nod. "Bailiff, we shall flip a coin to see who starts the opening statements."
Fred Ezell dug a quarter from his trouser pocket. "Gentlemen?"
"Heads," requested the public defender.
"Then its tails for me," District attorney Shaw accepted graciously.
The coin was tossed. It came up on the Washington side. "You may begin, Mr. Branchworth."
"Thank you, Your Honor." The defense attorney was of average build, with wavy brown hair and droopy eyes that seemed to regard everything with an expression of weary disdain and suspicion. If Willard Shaw had the crisp report of an auctioneer, then Branchworth's delivery was more like the boisterous callings of a sideshow barker. He began his statement in a rolling baritone voice that caught the attention of everyone within earshot.
"Gentlemen of the jury, we have in this court today a case that should never have been brought before you. At this table here we have two men—two innocent men who have been wrongfully charged with the horrid murders of three young men. Why do I believe they have been wrongfully accused? Well, I shall, during the course of this trial, show you irrefutable evidence, as well as solid testimony that will, beyond a shadow of a doubt, prove my clients innocent. These two men, James Hanson and Claude Darnell, are indeed newcomers to this fine community. But just because they are strangers to you all should not cast them as instant suspects in your eyes. True, they are prone to drink and fisticuffs occasionally, but for the most part they are hard working and trustworthy gentlemen who have never had the slightest intention of doing grave harm to their fellow man." That remark brought a few low chuckles from somewhere in the back. The attorney directed a withering glare in that general direction, then turned his eyes back on the twelve jurors.
"You gentlemen may very well have come to this court today with your minds already set on the final outco
me. But all I ask of you is a little objectivity, a little unbiased understanding on the part of my clients. Remember that sometimes things are not quite what they appear to be. During the course of this trial, I shall prove this to be the rule, rather than the exception."
After A.J. Branchworth had had his say, it was Willard Shaw's turn to present his case.
"How are you gentlemen doing today?" he greeted with an easygoing smile. After receiving a few nods, he went on. "You know, Mr. Branchworth over there, he has a mighty eloquent way of speaking. I heard tell he studied law up in Boston, and I reckon that's commendable enough. These Harvard fellows, they like to use those ten-dollar words out of the Webster dictionary and make their statements awful flowery. Kind of spellbounds you just to listen to them sometimes.
"But, you know, no matter how much poetry and polish they put into it, no matter how many big words they use to throw you off course, they just can't hide the truth of the matter. It just sticks right out like a sore thumb. And that's the case here today. The truth, plain and simple."
Willard Shaw stood before the attentive jurors, his easy smile suddenly giving way to a solemn frown. "You've got a hard job ahead of you. But don't despair, because I'm going to do my best to make your task easier. I am going to present enough evidence to you, along with testimony from several men you have come to respect in this community. Enough cold hard facts to erase any lingering doubt about these two men on trial. Before this is all over, every one of you will know deep down in his soul that Bully Hanson and Claude Darnell did, in fact, brutally murder and dismember three fine young men. Johnny Biggs, William Longcreek, and Clarence Judson Potts were led to an abandoned barn on the property of Harvey Brewer, lured there by the promise of a simple drink of moonshine whiskey. But upon arriving there, they were horribly murdered, all because of greed—all because of a handful of greenback dollars, a little pocket money for a weekend of drinking and carousing in Nashville.
