by Ninie Hammon
“Could I ask you a few questions? I’m trying to understand—”
“I’m due in court in five minutes and you can’t ask me enough questions in five minutes to understand anything you really need to know,” he said, cutting her off before she could go any further. “You going upstairs for circuit court?” District court was for misdemeanors; felonies were tried in circuit court.
“That’s the plan. Drug trials, right?”
“Dope cases. There are three on the docket and I’m only testifying in one of them, the first one. If you’d like to wait, I can talk to you after that.”
His voice was deep and rumbling, but kind, the way she remembered. He’d liked her father, she remembered that, too. And she was willing to bet her father had liked him.
When they got to the top of the stairs, Sonny indicated a door at the end of the hallway, past the big double doors leading into the courtroom. “I have to wait in the witness room until I testify, so I can’t decide what I’m going to say based on what somebody else says on the stand. When I’m finished, I’ll translate for you, explain what’s going on. Sit in the back so Judge Compton doesn’t ask the sheriff to escort us out for talking.” He took a couple of steps, then turned back to her. “Oh, wait. I am the sheriff.” He grinned. “Sit in the back anyway.”
Sarabeth shoved open one of the big oak doors. It moved on its hinge as smooth and silent as skis on fresh snow. The first-floor courtroom had obviously been renovated. It still had tall, recessed windows and a high ceiling, but the rest of the décor was modern. The circuit courtroom was another thing entirely. It looked like it had been shipped to the spot directly from the set of To Kill a Mockingbird.
The historic building had survived the courthouse-burning spree of General John Hunt Morgan’s raiders during the Civil War, and the third floor courtroom sat beneath the building’s dome that rose into shadows at least 50 feet above the cold marble floor. Six 18-foot windows lined each side of the room, forming wide sills in the 2-foot-thick stone walls. The bench towered five steps off the floor, a huge cherry edifice with hand-carved lattice trim. Attached to its side was the witness box, enclosed in the same battlement of shiny cherry. The jury box was on the left behind an ornate 3-foot railing and there was a huge oak door, with a knob in the middle, in the back wall behind it where the jurors could file out into the jury room for deliberation. A matching door on the other side lead to the judge’s chambers.
Two tables, each big enough to seat a dozen people, sat in front of the bench, one for the prosecution, the other for the defense. High above Sarabeth’s head, a gallery stretched in a semicircle around the seating area below it, accessed by an oak staircase with elaborately carved handrails, stained dark like the doors, window casings and crown moldings. The stairs rose along the back wall over the entry doors, but a velvet rope hung across the first step at the bottom, barring access.
Only a handful of people sat on the wooden benches in the audience. Two men were seated at the defense table, one at the prosecution and a stenographer sat at a small desk in front of the bench. They all jumped up when a sheriff’s deputy/bailiff stepped out the door of the judge’s chambers and called out, “All rise. Callison County Circuit Court is now in session. The Honorable Earl S. Compton presiding.”
The words sent Sarabeth’s mind reeling back to Joe Fogerty’s sentencing hearing earlier that month and a shiver ran down her spine. His plea bargain had spared Jim Bingham’s family the ordeal of a trial in this huge courtroom. Hard as that would have been, she suspected there’d have been something profoundly satisfying about it, too. A deeper sense of closure, perhaps.
Jury selection in the dope trial was already complete, so at a nod from the judge, another deputy opened the door behind the jury box and 12 people filed in to sit behind the wooden railing.
“Is the prosecution ready?” the judge asked the white-haired man seated alone at a table on the right side of the room.
Simon Henry rose to his feet. “We are, your Honor.” The Commonwealth’s Attorney was a small, narrow-shouldered man with a surprisingly-loud orator’s voice. Sarabeth liked his air of self-possessed confidence. He didn’t seem cocky, just competent.
The judge asked the defense the same question and then called for opening statements. The prosecutor spoke only briefly to the jury, outlining in simple terms the case against the defendant, James Daniel Puckett, seated in a suit and tie beside his lawyer at the defense table. He said that the prosecution would prove that on the fifth day of May, 1988, Puckett had been arrested while guarding his field of marijuana.
The defense attorney who had risen and faced the jury looked like a college professor addressing his students. She searched for his name on the docket sheet. Anderson Bertrand. “The defense needs no opening statement, your Honor,” he said and smiled at the jury, a predatory smile, Sarabeth thought, that couldn’t possibly have endeared him to anybody. Then the judge instructed the prosecution to call its first witness.
“The prosecution calls Callison County Sheriff Sonny Tackett.” A deputy went to fetch him and the big room was as quiet as a dead rooster until his footsteps clacked down the marble center aisle. He sat in the witness chair, raised his right hand, put his left on the proffered Bible and was sworn in.
“State your full name for the record, please,” Henry said.
“Andrew Jackson Tackett, III.”
“What is your occupation, sir?”
“I am the sheriff of Callison County, Kentucky.”
“And where were you at eight o’clock in the morning on May 5, 1988?”
“I was in the woods in Clark Hollow.”
“Were you alone?”
“No sir. My deputies Ross Parker and Jude Tyler, and Kentucky State Police Detective Darrell Hayes were with me.”
“What were you doing there?”
“We had received an anonymous tip that there was marijuana growing in that location, and we went to check it out.”
“Did you find any marijuana?”
“Objection.” The defense attorney’s voice was raspy, grating, like something metal dragged across creek rock. “Your Honor, we have not yet defined what location we’re talking about here. Clark Hollow is 3 miles long and 2 miles wide.”
“Let me re-phrase the question. Would you just tell the court in your own words, Sheriff Tackett, what you and the other officers observed—”
“Objection. The witness can only testify to what he observed.”
“Sustained.”
“What you observed that morning in the woods.”
The sheriff looked directly at the jury and told his story.
“We were approximately three-quarters of a mile west of the dirt road that hits Fern Creek Lane just south of mile marker 18.” He cast a glance at the defense attorney. “A creek runs through the woods there beside an open meadow about half an acre wide.”
He said he had come upon a campsite on the creek bank, with a fire burning and a pot of hot coffee. There was a 1981 Ford pickup truck parked nearby. A foot trail, worn in the dirt and weeds, led from the campsite to the meadow, 50 yards east, where he found 27 marijuana plants, approximately 8 inches tall, and from the condition of the dirt around them, they appeared to have been recently transplanted.
“Did you see anyone at the campsite?”
“No sir, I did not. I heard what I thought was somebody running in the woods by the creek, but I couldn’t find anybody.”
“Did you take pictures of what you have just described?”
“Yes sir, I did.”
“Do you have those pictures with you today?”
“Yes sir, I do.” Tackett lifted a manila envelope out of his lap and handed it to the prosecutor.
“We’d like to enter these photographs into evidence as people’s exhibits A through J.” Henry handed the envelope to the judge. “We have furnished copies of these photographs to the defense.” The judge glanced at Bertrand, who nodded.
“I hereby enter th
ese into evidence.” The judge gave the envelope to the bailiff, who stamped the back of each of the 10 pictures, stepped up to the jury box and handed the photographs to the jury.
As Tackett continued to testify, the jurors passed the photos from one person to the next.
“I used my radio to call in the registration on the truck just to be sure, but I knew it was Jimmy Dan’s because I—”
“Objection, the sheriff’s history with the defendant is not relevant to these proceedings.”
“Sustained. Confine your testimony to the day in question, Sheriff Tackett.”
So Sonny described sitting at the campsite waiting for whoever had driven the truck to come back for it. And around noon, Puckett had emerged from the woods, was arrested and charged with trafficking in marijuana. The plants had been confiscated, photographed and then destroyed, he said.
“What was the value of the marijuana growing in that field?”
“Somewhere between $90,000 and $320,000.”
“Thank you Sheriff Tackett, no further questions.”
Bertrand fairly leapt to his feet.
“Do you expect this court to believe that two dozen marijuana seedlings would sell for $320,000?”
“He didn’t ask me what they’d sell for.” Tackett was calm, like he’d expected the question. “He asked me what they were worth. Now you could go out anywhere in Callison County and buy a newborn colt for a couple hundred dollars. But you’d pay $500,000, maybe more, for a thoroughbred colt, and the difference is potential. That little horse’s bloodlines, what it’s going to grow up to be someday makes it worth—”
“We’re not interested in you equine analogies, Sheriff Tackett,” Bertrand cut in. “Your Honor, please instruct the witness to confine his testimony to—”
“Objection! It has been established that the value of marijuana growing in—”
“Gentlemen!” Both attorneys fell silent. The judge turned to Sonny. “Sheriff Tackett, how much marijuana could you get from a mature sensemilla plant?”
“Two, two-and-a-half pounds.”
“What’s the street value of a pound of marijuana—as far as you know?”
“An ounce bag’ll sell for $75 on up to $350. Depends on the quality. That’s $1,200 to $5,600 a pound.”
“So the marijuana from 27 mature sensemilla plants would sell for … do the math for me, Sheriff.”
“At two-and-a-half pounds a plant, that comes out roughly $80,000 to $320,000.”
“And seedlings? What do they sell for?”
“I don’t know … The cost of the seeds, maybe $250. Could be a lot more, though. Again, depends on the quality.” Sonny smiled. “The bloodlines.”
The judge turned back to the attorneys, who both stood fuming. “Now, we’ll let the jury decide for themselves the value of the marijuana in question. Mr. Bertrand, you may continue your cross-examination.”
“The truth is, you were not totally forthcoming with this jury when you described the arrest of my client, now were you, Sheriff Tackett?” He didn’t wait for Sonny to respond. “You left out part of the story, didn’t you?”
The sheriff said nothing, just looked at the defense attorney with barely disguised contempt.
“Sheriff, will you tell these fine people,” he gestured toward the 12 jurors, “what my client was carrying with him when he walked out of the woods the day you and your posse arrested him?”
“Turtles,” the sheriff said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, could you speak a little louder, please.”
“I said, turtles.”
“How many turtles?”
“Three.”
“What kind of turtles were they?”
“Regular snapping turtles.”
“The kind you make turtle soup out of?”
“I can’t answer that question, sir. I’ve never made turtle soup.”
“And how was Mr. Puckett carrying the turtles?”
“They were tied by their heads to the end of a stick with a length of fishing line.”
“Excuse me, with what?”
“With fishing line.”
“Thank you Sheriff Tackett, you’ve been most helpful. No further questions.”
The sheriff stepped down out of the witness box and walked up the center aisle toward the back of the courtroom, passing Deputy Jude Tyler, who had been called to take the stand next.
Slipping in beside Sarabeth, the sheriff whispered, “You might as well leave now. It’s over.”
“Over?” She looked at him quizzically.
“We lost. He walks. But no, stay. Sit here and watch. It’ll be educational.”
All the police officers who had been at the scene of the crime testified and all said the same thing. They’d come on the campsite with an abandoned truck, a fire and a coffee pot, there was a trail leading from the site to a field where they found 27 marijuana plants. And Jimmy Dan Puckett had come walking out of the woods two hours later, carrying three turtles.
The prosecution rested; Bertrand called his only witness.
“I call the defendant, James Daniel Puckett.” After he was sworn in, the small, wiry young man with his hair freshly cut in a McGiver mullet gave his version of what had happened on the morning of May 5, 1988.
“Will you tell the jury, Mr. Puckett, why you were camped out in Clark’s Hollow that day.”
“I was goin’ turtle fishing.” Jimmy Dan reached up unconsciously and pulled on the square knot holding his pin-striped tie too tight around his skinny neck. “I went out and made me a camp the night before, so I could get out right after dawn. Turtles is easiest to catch early in the morning, ’cause when it gets up in the heat of the day, they stay hid out under rocks and logs where it’s cool and you can’t get at ’em.”
He described getting up, making coffee and then going off into the woods. And how he’d been surprised when he returned to find “the whole place broke out with cops.”
“They said I was under arrest for growing dope, that there was a trail through the woods to the place where the dope was planted. Shoot, I didn’t see no trail. I got there after dark and went out fishing just after sunrise. How was I s’posed to see a trail? I was just there to go turtle fishin’.”
Sarabeth sat back in her chair with a sigh. The sheriff was right. The accused was going to walk. The sheriff noticed that she had disengaged, leaned over and whispered. “Want a cup of coffee?”
“Might as well. This guy’s so sincere, I believe him.”
They filed quietly out of the courtroom as James Daniel Puckett recited for the jury his favorite recipe for turtle soup.
• • • • •
The Sheriff’s Department was at the other end of the courthouse on the second floor. Sonny spoke to a handful of people—one of whom addressed him “Yo, Preach”—as he led Sarabeth through the outer office to his private, inner sanctum overlooking Main Street.
He gestured toward an overstuffed armchair beside his desk. “Have a seat,” then pointed toward a pot filled with a dark, sinister-looking substance. “Coffee?”
Sarabeth eased down into the chair. Her whole right foot felt tingly. Tiny needles were stabbing it like she’d been sitting on it and it had been “asleep.” Only she hadn’t been sitting on it.
“You sure that’s coffee? Looks more like slime from the wreck of the Exxon Valdez.”
He really looked at the pot then and smiled. “Right. You could trot a mouse across the top of that stuff. I’ll get Jana to make a fresh pot.” He stepped to the door and spoke to his secretary seated at a desk just outside.
His office was small, but neat as a pin. Spit and polish, military neat, Sarabeth thought. Other than three phone message notes—which managed to look urgent because they were so bright pink—the desktop was empty. A picture rested on the adjoining credenza of a younger Sonny with a pretty blond woman and a little girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old, with Down Syndrome.
“Your family?”
Sonny follo
wed her gaze and smiled. “Yeah, that’s Gracie and me, and my late wife, Mary. I’m a widower. You married? Got any kids?”
The sheriff’s openness was disarming, but Sarabeth couldn’t go there. Ok, wouldn’t go there. It amounted to the same thing. “My brother, Ben, lives with me. His parents were killed. My mother … our mother, different fathers … it’s a little complicated. Ben’s 16.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not flirting with you,” Sonny said.
“I didn’t think you were—” Heat flooded her face and colored her cheeks.
“That’s not to say I won’t someday.” He grinned. “But not today. Today’s a day to make things clear, not muddy the water. You look like a woman who needs some clarity. Like a woman with lots of questions.” He sat down in the big leather chair behind the desk and swiveled to face her. “Fire away.”
Sarabeth struggled for composure. She pointed at the ceiling, toward the third floor where the trial was still going on. “Was what happened up there typical?”
“Well, the verdict will be typical, but the defense … ” He offered a tired smile. “I gotta hand it to Jimmy Dan, credit where credit’s due. Coming out of the woods with those turtles, that was pure genius. I knew as soon as I saw him that we’d lost, but I don’t get paid to decide who goes to trial. I get paid to bust dopers.”
“What’s your conviction rate on dope busts?”
When he looked surprised, she was thrown totally off her game. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked that. She’d taught her students to be direct, to ask the “hard questions,” but it had never occurred to her that the hard part was the asking. She instantly tried to backpedal.
“Oh, I know you probably don’t keep exact statistics. But generally speaking, a ballpark guess.”
“Ten percent. On a good day. When the jury’s full of Baptists.”
Sarabeth was so caught off guard she burst into a coughing fit.
“You Ok? Can I get you a drink of—?”
“You’re joking!” she sputtered. “You are joking, aren’t you? It can’t be one out of 10!”
