by Steve Brewer
They provided a public defender but Chester never said ‘Boo!’ to the man. He just sat there and listened as the detective badgered the suspect. Toward the end of the second day of questioning when the detective started talking to the public defender about just putting the suspect in jail to await trial, Chester stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking and cleared his throat. “I wanna meet with Mr. Dupree,” he said.
“The district attorney?” his lawyer asked.
The detective smirked. “DA’s kinda busy right now,” he said. “Workin’ on cases that aren’t as easy as this one.”
Chester shook his head like he didn’t care. “He’s-a only one I’m gonna talk to.”
“Is that right? Well, let’s see about that.” The detective thought he’d finally broken Chester, but after three more hours of silence, he put in a call to the DA’s office.
An hour later Mr. Dupree walked in the room. He was a tall, handsome man in a nice gray suit. “Well, hello, mystery killer. I heard you wanted to talk to me.”
“Yes sir, that’s right.”
Mr. Dupree glanced at his watch. “Well, I got thirty seconds, old man.” He leaned onto the table with both hands and copped an attitude. “Whadda you got, other than the deck stacked against you?”
Chester stared him down. “What if you was to find out I was hired to do the killin’?”
Mr. Dupree shrugged indifference. “We might be interested to know who did the hirin’.”
“How interested?”
“Depends.”
“Mr. Dupree, let’s me and you step back and take a look at the bigger picture,” Chester said. “You ain’t exactly had a banner year. First you botched that Garnetts case real bad, then your office was sued for having prosecuted twenty-two defendants with what your office, as far as anybody can tell, knew was planted evidence, and I believe you recently got wind of a federal grand jury investigation about some shenanigans pulled by one of your assistant D-As.”
Mr. Dupree wondered who the hell this guy was and how he knew so much about his office’s track record, let alone a federal grand jury investigation. “What’s your point?”
“Point is, you could use a little somethin’ to prop you up this fall. Somethin’ like the conviction of a high profile individual who’s been known to support the other party.”
Mr. Dupree pulled up a chair and sat down. He was starting to warm up to the suspect’s line of reasoning. “Keep talkin’,” he said.
“Well, sir, how interested would you be if you was to find out the person who hired me to do the killin’ was somebody on that list of Nashville’s most powerful people?”
Mr. Dupree squinted slightly. “Very interested.”
“Very interested?” Chester lit another cigarette. “Could you be more specific?”
Mr. Dupree reached over to turn off the video camera.
“Leave it runnin’,” Chester said. “Just for the record.”
The district attorney folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Well, I think we could look at a reduction of the charges against you in return.”
“I want a sentencing recommendation too. Plus I gotta be free on bail until sentencing so’s I can attend a funeral.”
Mr. Dupree shrugged. “All right. But you’d have to be willing to testify against this person and I’ll need proof. Some evidence, you know? ‘Fraid I can’t just take your word on this sort of thing. I’m sure you understand.”
“All right,” Chester said. “Let’s pretend for a minute there’s some evidence. Hypa-thetically speaking, what kinda deal we talkin’ about?”
“Well,” Mr. Dupree said, “we always like to get at whoever’s behind these kindsa things. Don’t wanna leave ‘em out there where they can do it again.” He paused briefly. “If your evidence proves your claim, and you’re willing to testify, I’d be inclined toward offering you something you can live with.”
“Could you be more specific?”
Mr. Dupree thought about it for a moment. He figured getting the goods on a high profile supporter of his political opponent and securing a conviction in a big conspiracy-to-commit- murder case was exactly the sort of thing that would be useful come campaign time. “You’ll have to do some time,” Mr. Dupree said, “but I can make sure you don’t miss more’n one Christmas.”
“I can live with that,” Chester said. He turned to his public defender. “You oughta write up some kinda document to memorialize all this, doncha think?” The public defender dashed off a quick deal memo based on the conversation and showed it to Mr. Dupree who signed off on it.
“All right,” Mr. Dupree said. “Where’s this evidence?”
Chester leaned over and whispered something to his lawyer. The man stood up. “Mr. Dupree, if we can meet back here tomorrow afternoon, I’ll have everything you need.”
98.
The next day they gathered in the interrogation room. A microcassette player was sitting in front of the public defender. The videotape was recording. Mr. Dupree looked at Chester. “All right, mystery man, time for the chin music. Who hired you to do the killin’?”
“Big Bill Herron.”
Mr. Dupree cocked his head like he was hard of hearing. He spoke slowly. “Big Bill hired you to kill him?”
“No sir. I wouldn’t say that.”
Mr. Dupree’s face tensed. “What exactly are you sayin’ then?”
Chester’s attorney raised an index finger. “Why don’t we listen to the evidence,” he said as he put a tape in a cassette player. “My client recorded this at Owen Bradley Park,” he said. “It’s a conversation between my client and Big Bill Herron.” He pushed the ‘play’ button.
“Thanks for coming.” It was Big Bill’s voice.
“No problem,” Chester replied. “I understand you wanna take out a—”
“A contract,” Big Bill said. “And in a hurry.” A car alarm began sounding in the distance.
“Fine with me,” Chester replied. The alarm stopped. “Just tell me when and where.”
“The awards show,” Big Bill said.
“All right, and who’s the lucky winner?” Chester asked.
“That damn Megan Taylor.”
There was a short pause before Chester continued. “And what’s in it for me?”
“A prosperous future.”
“You mind bein’ a bit more specific?”
“Fifty thousand,”Big Bill said in a clipped voice. “I don’t care how you do it, just kill the bitch.”
“All right,” Chester said, “here’s what I’m thinkin’.”
“No, no, no,” Big Bill said. “I don’t want to know a thing about it. Just do the hit.”
Chester’s lawyer hit the ‘stop’ button and smiled. He produced a document and handed it to Mr. Dupree. “This is an independent expert’s affidavit authenticating Big Bill’s voice against recordings of him in the studio during the recording of Eddie Long’s album.”
Mr. Dupree looked at Chester. “Sounds to me like Big Bill wanted you to kill Eddie’s girlfriend,” he said. “Not him.”
“Yes sir,” Chester said. “That’s right. He hired me to kill that girl.” There was a long pause during which everyone ended up staring at Chester. Chester took a final drag off his cigarette then stubbed it out. “I guess I missed,” he shrugged.
Mr. Dupree started waving a hand. “Wait, wait, wait. You said somebody hired you to kill Big Bill.”
“No sir, I said somebody hired me to do the killin’.” He pointed at the video tape. “See for yourself. You just assumed the rest. I can’t help that.” He stood up from the table. “Of course, like I said, I’m still willing to testify against him. You can count on that.” Chester walked to the door and paused. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said somberly. “I gotta go bury somebody.”
99.
Due in large part to his spectacular death on national television, Big Bill’s funeral was a certified media event. TNN covered it from visitation to burial. There were s
o many people dressed in black a passerby might’ve mistaken it for a Johnny Cash fan club convention. Everybody who was anybody in country music was there. Just about everyone who had worked with Big Bill during the past thirty years stood side by side with those who had never met the man but were compelled to come say farewell to the legend. It all went to prove the old Hollywood adage that if you give the people what they want to see, they’ll come out for it.
Of course people said respectful things as they talked about Big Bill’s long and storied career and about how he had represented and produced some of country music’s biggest stars. In an attempt to inject some humor into the otherwise somber proceedings a few people told funny stories about how Big Bill had been known to stray on occasion from the Rotary Club notion of good faith and fair dealing. Others went so far as to make up stories about all the time he had given to charitable causes. Out of respect for the newly departed no one mentioned Big Bill’s posthumous conviction on charges of solicitation of murder. However a reporter for one of the networks did ask an attorney attending the funeral about the conviction. “Well it’s highly unusual,” the attorney said, “since Due Process guarantees the accused the right to be present to participate in the proceedings and help with his own defense. But the way I understand it, the district attorney was adamant they try Big Bill in absentia. Damndest thing I ever heard of,” he said with a rueful shake of the head. “Probably solid grounds for appeal, though I understand no one from the Herron estate is particularly interested in pursuing it.”
Franklin spoke last, remaining stoic as he made a short, heartfelt speech about his partner. “I learned a lot from Bill over the years,” Franklin said, “about life, about music, about business, and about the importance of seizing every opportunity that presents itself, no matter what the arena.” Franklin paused and looked out at the sea of familiar faces, most of which were smiling at him like he’d brought good news. “Big Bill leaves behind a legacy that won’t soon be forgotten,” Franklin said. “And I betcha dolla that’s exactly the way that old rascal would’ve wanted it.”
As the crowd gathered around the open grave, they sang beautiful songs — splendid and stirring renditions of ‘What a Friend We Have In Jesus,’ ‘Walk in the Garden,’ and ‘The Old Rugged Cross.’ Their voices were strong and the harmony was a thing to behold.
The songs brought tears to everyone’s eyes. Big Bill’s ex-wives cried the most. The alimony train wouldn’t be pulling into their stations any more. Still, they wondered, as they wiped their eyes, if they’d been included in his will.
100.
Estella’s funeral was less of an event. There was no press coverage. There was no throng of mourners. It was just Otis, Doreen, Maurice, and Chester, along with a dozen other old friends gathered in a small cemetary in the countryside on the outskirts of Nashville. There was a warm breeze and the clouds were floating past like soft memories against a blue sky.
Otis listened to what the preacher had to say and then rose to say a few words himself, struggling against his emotions. “She had a voice like two angels singing,” Otis said. “And a laugh bright as sunshine. And she loved to dance.” A tender smile crossed his face as Otis saw Estella in his mind’s eye dancing to Slim Harpo. “She just loved to,” he said.
“That’s right,” Doreen said softly. “She sho did.”
Otis nodded slowly. “Everybody who heard her sing knew she could’ve gone a long way on her own, a lot farther’n I ever got. And she had the chance too,” Otis said, “but she stayed with me instead and blessed my life.” He wanted to say more but he couldn’t manage another sound except to cry.
Maurice put his arm around Otis and started to sing an old song.
I know moonlight, I know starlight, I lay this body down.
The others joined in, one by one.
I walk in the graveyard, I walk through the graveyard to lay this body down.
I lay in the grave an’ stretch out my arms, I lay this body down.
I go to the judgment in the evenin’ of the day when I lay this body down.
An’ my soul an’ yo’ soul will meet the day I lay this body down.
When the song was over, Otis leaned over and gently kissed Estella’s casket before they lowered it into the ground. Then he picked up a handful of dirt and gently sprinkled it on top. “Goodbye sweet baby,” he said quietly.
101.
With the press corps camped at the gate of his Belle Meade estate Eddie holed up inside waiting for the chaos to pass. Except for Big Bill’s funeral, Eddie hadn’t been out for a few weeks and rumors were starting to get weird. Local TV news vans with microwave transmitters lined one side of the street while network trucks with their huge satellite transmitter dishes were on the other. Radio station reporters mingled with writers and photographers from magazines and newspapers from around the world. At its peak the crowd was nearly five hundred people but in the past few days it had dwindled to about a hundred hard-core reporters, most of whom were still pressing at the gates of the driveway hoping for a glimpse of the reclusive artist.
Suddenly there was a small commotion at the back of the crowd. “Excuse me,” a man said. “Trying to get through here. Pardon me.” The man’s progress was slow until the crowd realized who he was. Then they stepped aside and made a path to the gate which was manned by a beefy security guard. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Long,” the man said. The crowd closed in behind the man anticipating the guard’s reaction.
The security guard smirked. “You don’t say.”
“Seriously.”
“Mr. Long doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Tell him Jimmy Rogers is here to see him.”
A moment later Jimmy was hiking up the driveway, halfway surprised Eddie was willing to meet. Jimmy didn’t know what to expect. He’d read some lurid stories in the past few weeks about his old friend, most of which portrayed Eddie as a country version of Phil Spector wandering through his mansion late at night. The glow of candlelight roving from window to window. Had he snapped, they wondered. Was he a madman? Jimmy stopped for a moment and considered what he’d do if Eddie had bloomed into full-fledged psychopath. He wasn’t worried that Eddie would gun him down in the driveway since he obviously preferred the use of poison but he figured anything was possible. After a minute Jimmy realized there was no solid plan for dealing with a lunatic so he just moved toward the house hoping for the best.
To his surprise Eddie met him at a side door wearing his best smile. “Hey man, c’mon in,” he said. “It’s good to see you.” His tone was warm and welcoming. The same guy Jimmy had always known. Eddie showed him into the kitchen and gestured at the table. “Take a load off.” He poured two cups of coffee from a fresh pot.
“I take it black,” Jimmy said, watching to see if Eddie slipped anything into his cup. There was an awkward silence before Jimmy asked. “So, how’s Megan? Is she here?”
“Hell no,” Eddie said with a grim chuckle. “She’s long gone. Tell the truth, I figured she went crawling back to you.” His right hand mimicked a spider crossing the table top.
Jimmy shook his head. “I haven’t seen her since your show down in Jackson.”
Eddie nodded slightly and slipped into good old boy mode. “Well, I tell you, if I was you and she showed up after all this, I’d take her in for a grudge cut then show her the door.” He winked but noticed Jimmy wasn’t amused. “Of course, that’s just me,” Eddie said. “You might just wanna take her back, I dunno.” He sipped his coffee.
“Why’d she leave? I thought she was an integral part of ‘Team Long Shot.’”
“Who knows?” Eddie shrugged. “I guess she figured the upside of being with me just wasn’t worth the trouble. Not that she left empty handed. Last thing she said was she figured she could sell the rights to her story for a couple hundred thousand bucks.” He chuckled slightly. “Is that just like her or what? I told her not to let the door hit her ass on the way out.” Eddie suddenly slapped the table top.
“Hey! I almost forgot.” He jumped up and left the kitchen, returning a moment later holding up a copy of Jimmy’s best seller. “Congratulations on the book,” Eddie said. “Could I get you to sign my copy?”
Jimmy looked at Eddie like he’d just asked him to tell knock-knock jokes at a funeral. Then, after a moment, “What the hell, why not?” Jimmy took the book from Eddie then pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote: For Eddie — I guess you pulled it off. Jimmy. He slid the book back across the table.
“Thanks, man.” Eddie laughed a little when he read the inscription but he didn’t comment on it any further. “Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry Big Bill cut you off the way he did. I never knew about it until it was too late. I’da liked to’ve worked on it with you but, hell, I guess it don’t really matter, does it?” He leaned on the table and smiled. “Me and you made out like banditos on the deal, didn’t we?” Eddie laughed. “I believe it’s what they call a win-win situation.” He arched his eyebrows.
“Unless you count Tammy and Big Bill and the others who died.”
“Well yeah, a’course there’s that,” Eddie said. “But that wasn’t our fault, was it? That was just a weird coincidence, fortuitous even, given how things worked out. I mean without all those funerals, I bet your book wouldn’t’ve sold half as good as it has. And it hadn’t exactly hurt record sales either. Ka-ching!” Eddie was relishing the self-congratulatory nature of the chat and wanted Jimmy to join in.
Jimmy just stared at him. “So you’re sticking with that story?”
“What, that I’m not guilty? Got to, don’t you think?” Eddie cocked his head to the side and pointed at Jimmy. “But I’ll say this. That book of your’s damn near convinced me that I was guilty. It really is a good read. Nice pacing, all those fine details and some damn keen speculation. All that MSG stuff, compound 1080, the deaths in Terrebonne Parish and Gulfport and Lee County all tied to my old touring schedule. Man I was impressed.” He put his hand on the book. “That’s a good piece of work.”
