by Don Bullis
―Who do you want me to get?‖
―I don't know. Jimmy would'a been the best. Get ahold of Lyle Bromer. See what he can do. Him and me was tight eight, ten, months back. Before I pulled the jewelry store job down in Louisiana. See if he remembers.‖
―Lyle is a little dim-witted, honey, with that metal plate in his head, and all.‖
―I know it, but except for you, he's about all I got.‖
―I'll find him, honey. Don't you worry about it.‖
As a teenager, Lyle Bromer much admired actors Vic Morrow and the role he played in The Blackboard Jungle and James Dean and the role he played in Rebel Without A Cause. Before he turned sixteen— and became legally licensed to drive—he tooled around St. Louis in hot-rod automobiles, usually accessorized with stolen parts. Girls liked his cars, his ducktail haircut, and the money he spent.
In the summer of 1965, Lyle‘d just turned eighteen, St. Louis police officers found the garage behind his parent's house stacked from floor to ceiling with stolen auto parts: Ford fender skirts, Oldsmobile hubcaps, Chevrolet short-blocks and Buick four-barrel carburetors. The judge offered Lyle a choice. He could join the army while his criminal record remained clear, or he could face grand theft charges. Lyle enlisted.
He did eight weeks of boot camp at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. Because of his mechanical aptitude, he underwent advanced training with the First Cavalry Division at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Six months after his arrest, he arrived in Viet Nam, just in time to be a part of the Masher/White Wing search and destroy operation in the Mekong Delta during the first week of 1966.
On January 15, blind-stoned on Maui-wowie, he walked into the lowered barrel of a Sherman tank and cracked his skull open. In a coma, and after a series of flights, first by helicopter and then a half dozen fixed-wing aircraft, medics delivered him to the military hospital at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. Doctors removed pieces of his broken skull and installed a stainless steel plate. A week later, Lyle regained consciousness. Tests revealed that his motor functions seemed fine except the involuntary muscles that controlled his eyelids worked overtime. He blinked rapidly, and constantly. His attention span was quite short, but his long-term memory seemed intact.
Awarded the Purple Heart and Good Conduct medals, and assigned a ninety percent disability pension, the army discharged Lyle and sent him home. He found minimum-wage work in a filling station where he did little but pump gas and wash windshields. When not working, Lyle spent a lot time drinking whiskey with the girls at the Dago Rose whorehouse in East St. Louis.
The August 25 edition of the St. Louis Post Dispatch carried a United Press story that reported the discovery of a nude body near the Chain of Rocks Bridge. Official reports described the body as that of a male, 25 to 35 years of age, five feet, two inches tall, weighing 125 pounds. Officers said the cause of death was a blow to the head. The man had also been emasculated. Police officials asked for assistance from the public in identifying the victim.
Things didn‘t work out the way Billy Ray planned. A blandfaced contract public defender wearing an ill-fitting blue suit stopped by the Madison County jail one day in early September. He spent five minutes consulting with his court-designated client.
―Here's the way the old cookie crumbles, Mr. Kendrick,‖ he said. ―We reviewed your case and we decline to demand an extradition hearing. You're goin' back to New Mexico one way or the other. It might as well be in a way that saves the people of Illinois as much money as possible. We suggest that you not waive extradition. Make ‗em jump through all the hoops. We'll review the paperwork and make sure they do it right. As an attorney, it‘s my opinion that your interests are best served by returning to New Mexico under the circumstances I have described to stand trial.‖
―I got witnesses to prove I was here last November. In Illinois, not
New Mexico. Don‘t that matter?‖
―Not much. Witnesses are good in a trial. Not in an extradition
hearing, which you‘re not getting one of anyway.‖
After that, the extradition proceeded from a formal request by
New Mexico Governor Dave Cargo to Illinois Governor Otto Kearner.
Upon completion of the paperwork it only remained for New Mexico
officers to remove the suspect from Illinois. The paper shuffling took
five weeks. On Monday, September 23, Governor Kearner approved
extradition. A day later, Sheriff Jack Elkins and State Police Sgt. Al
North departed Albuquerque for Illinois. Billy Ray White returned to New Mexico in chains on Friday, September 27. The trip both ways was uneventful. ―Damn boring,‖ Jack Elkins called it. At Don Wilcoxson‘s request, Elkins locked Billy Ray in the solitary confinement cell of the Bernalillo County Jail. The ADA didn‘t consider the Valencia
County Jail adequate for the likes of the accused killer.
On Monday the 30th, District Court Judge Paul Tackett appointed
Attorney Parker Pratt to represent Billy Ray White.
CHAPTER VI
Max Atkins worked hard at becoming the Badman of Budville. Flossie Rice leased Dixie‘s Place to Joe Garcia in the summer of 1968 after Katherine and Karen McBride moved back to Albuquerque. Garcia hired old man Ted Tafoya to run the place. Nearly eighty, stoop-shouldered and gray, old Ted walked in a slow shuffle. He kept the place as spotless for Garcia as he had for Jess Ross. Ted liked having something to do, people to talk to, although he took a good deal of ribbing from regular customers about not having gran chichi's like Karen McBride.
Max Atkins showed up late one afternoon, half drunk and with his pistol stuck down in his belt. The old cacique from Acoma was Tafoya‘s only other customer just then.
―I ain't drinkin' alone,‖ Max announced to SeñorTafoya. ―I want me a bottle of Coors Beer and a double shot of Cuervo Gold tequila and I want the same thing for that old redskin.‖ Tafoya, in his slow and steady way, poured for Max. The Indian stood up as if to leave. ―Hold on Chief. You drinkin' with me or I'll by-god know the reason why not.‖ Max banged on the bar with the butt of his pistol. The old Indian resumed his seat as Tafoya poured him a shot of tequila. The cacique drank.
―You put that on a tab for me, Tafoya. I‘ll get it later.‖
―Joe Garcia said I should not run tabs,‖ Old Ted said.
Max leaned across the bar. ―You listen to me, old man, Garcia might lease this place, but Flossie and me still own it. You run the fuckin‘ tab and I‘ll take care of Garcia. You understand me?‖
Ted didn‘t want any trouble with Max. ―Sí. Yo comprende.‖
―Talk English when you talk to me, beaner,‖ Max bellowed. ―I want every son-of-a-bitch that comes in that door to get a shot and a beer on me and I don't want to see that old dog-eater's glass empty, neither.‖ He tossed off the remains of a shot of tequila and old Ted refilled the glass. ―And you better not cheat me, neither, greaser. I can count how much booze you pourin'.‖
Customers came and went. Late afternoon became evening and tequila flowed. One bottle emptied, another opened and it nearly gone, a third stood ready on the backbar. By full dark, a half dozen regular drinkers leaned on the bar sharing Max's largesse and the old Indian moved unsteadily to a booth. Soon enough Max noticed the old man passed out and laying face down on the red plastic-covered seat. Max tossed back his drink and banged his shot glass down on the bar.
―Fill'er up again Toyota. I'll be right back.‖
Max trotted across the road to the trading post and returned shortly carrying a small paper bag the contents of which he placed on the table in front of the oblivious Indian: a pair of scissors, a straight razor and an aerosol can of shaving cream. He turned and bowed to the other drinkers and then he went to work. With the scissors, ceremoniously, he snipped off each of the Indian's long braids and held them before him like trophies for all to see. Then he sprayed shaving foam all over the Indian's head and with the straight razor he began removing hai
r by the handful. He made a bad job of it, but succeeded in shaving the cacique's head. Only a few copses of hair remained, along with several small cuts oozing capillary blood. The old man slept through it all.
Max wiped the razor and his hands, both covered with blood-pink shaving cream and swatches of hair, on his pants leg. ―Plain to see who does the scalpin' around here, ain't it?‖ He laced the long, iron gray, braids together using the bits of flannel cloth tied around the ends of each. He threaded them through the trigger guard on his pistol. ―Keep that cactus juice comin' old man,‖ he said, but most of his audience left anyway. The show was too much. Even for them.
Non-Indian folks around Budville and Cubero never saw the old cacique after that night and only a few ever knew—and Max was not one of them—that the old man died less than a month later while he rested on a black lava rock near a small piñon tree festooned with eagle feathers high above town in Mt. Taylor's Vítores Cañon. The Acoma Indian people knew. They all wondered why white people acted the way they did.
CHAPTER VII
Parker Pratt phoned Don Wilcoxson on the morning of Tuesday, October 1st.
―Good to hear from you, Parker,‖ Wilcoxson lied. ―I hear Tackett appointed you to defend White. I just wonder why you accepted it.‖
―If for no other reason than I don't want to be on the wrong side of Judge Tackett. He may well have a seat on the Supreme Court right after the first of the year.‖
―Good reason, but I'll goddamn guarantee that you'll lose this one, Park. We got this asshole seven ways from Sunday.‖
―At this point I'm in no position to argue the merits of the case, Don. I just got the appointment yesterday morning. I spoke briefly with the defendant in the afternoon. He swears he's innocent.‖
―He's about as goddamn innocent as Charlie Starkweather. What in particular can I do for you?‖
―For one thing, you can arrange for me to have a private consultation with my client. They made me talk to him through an opening in a steel cell door, with a jail guard standing there.‖
―No.‖
―No, what? You mean to tell me that I can't have a private meeting with my client?‖
―Not as long as I have anything to say about it. The man is a killer and he's been a fugitive for almost a year. I‘m not cuttin‘ him any slack at all. You want a private meeting, get a court order.‖
―I'll do that very thing. Now, my client tells me that he's expected to appear in a lineup. I object to it.‖
―On what grounds, might I ask?‖
―Come on, Don. You know that I haven't had a chance to even begin formulating a defense. I haven't seen a scrap of paper from your office. I don‘t even have the arrest warrant affidavit. How can I represent the needs of my client? There could be half a dozen reasons to object to a lineup.‖
―The State has the right to take every damn step possible to positively identify the suspect. That's what we'll be doing.‖
―No it isn't. If you haven't already positively identified Billy Ray as your suspect, you are in deep trouble for having the man arrested in far-off Illinois, for killing his friend and for holding him without bond here in New Mexico. I suspect you‘re taking this opportunity to begin prepping your witnesses for the trial.‖
―And just how in hell would I go about doing that?‖
―I assume that the lineup will be viewed by Flossie Rice and Nettie Buckley. I can't imagine that you'd want all those other mistaken witnesses to have the opportunity to be mistaken again. I think you just want Flossie and Nettie to get comfortable with Billy Ray's appearance so that when you ask them in court to identify the man who shot and killed Bud Rice and Blanche Brown, they'll point at Billy Ray without hesitation. Besides, you know as well as I do that Flossie and Nettie have both seen photographs of Billy Ray, so any identification made from the lineup could scarcely be objective.‖
―I never will understand you, Park. You bein‘ a good Mormon and all, I'd think you'd favor an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth and want trash like White removed from the society of law abiding men. That's what I intend to accomplish here.‖
―Does that mean you're going for the death penalty?‖
―You bet your ass it does. The gas chamber hasn't been used for seven or eight years. Billy Ray White's got a date with it.‖
―I see. As far as being a Mormon, Don, there is not one thing about due process of law that is at odds with my religious convictions and I'd appreciate it if you'd not make reference to it again. It has no relevance here. I renew my objection to your hurry-up lineup. It violates my client's Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination.‖
―Tell you what you do, Park. You draw up a Motion for Injunction to stop me and you submit the son-of-a-bitch to Paul Tackett. Him signing off on it is the only goddamn way you'll stop the lineup. Otherwise it's at nine o'clock in the morning.‖
―I'll have a motion on his desk this afternoon.‖
―You do that Park. You do that.‖ The Chief Assistant District Attorney slammed the phone into its cradle. Next thing, Wilcoxson thought, he'll start challenging judges just to see how long he can delay the trial.
Judge Paul Tackett‘s office received the Motion for Injunction at four o'clock Tuesday afternoon but politics and running for New Mexico Supreme Court occupied the jurist all afternoon and evening. At eight-thirty Wednesday morning, Pratt called the Judge's office.
―What can I do for you on this fine fall morning, Parker?‖
―Morning Judge. I sent over a Motion for Injunction yesterday afternoon. I was wondering if you'd had a chance to look it over.‖
―Expecting a lot there aren't you? Service one day to the next.‖
―The problem is, your honor, the injunctive relief I seek is meant to stop a lineup scheduled for about thirty minutes from now.‖
―You hold on to the line, Parker. Let me see if I can find the thing here.‖ Pratt heard a CLUNK as the judge laid the phone on the desk and then the shuffling of papers and conversation between Tackett and his secretary. ―I found it, Park.‖ A solid minute of silence on the line. ―Your motion looks like a good job to me but I need more than five minutes to rule on it. You say the lineup is scheduled for this morning?‖
―Nine o'clock, your honor.‖
―I'll grant your motion for twenty-four hours and rule on making it permanent this afternoon. I'll call Wilcoxson and tell him.‖
―I appreciate it, Judge. While I have you on the line, your honor, I was wondering if you've given any thought as to whether you'll preside in this case, or not.‖
―It does not appear, Parker, that you have a great deal of faith in me and my future prospects. I fully expect that exactly five weeks from today I will be elected to the highest court in the State of New Mexico. I haven‘t lost an election in twenty years, and I don't expect to start now. That being the case, I will surely not preside at trial in this case.‖
―I certainly wish you the best, your honor.‖
―I know you do, Parker. I know you do. In any event, I'd recuse myself. I expect Swope, Fowlie and MacPherson will too.‖
―That doesn't leave anyone in the Second District but Judge McManus.‖
―Most of us, you know, had Bud Rice in our courtrooms at one time or another over the years while he fought with the State Highway Department over Interstate 40. I can't say I liked the man, liked anything about him, but the fact that he and I were acquainted would pretty well disqualify me.‖
―So that leaves Judge McManus?‖ Pratt repeated.
―I talked to John just before I appointed you to the case. He said he wouldn‘t recuse himself if it fell to him to hear the case. Given your experience in local jurisprudence, Parker, it wouldn't surprise me a bit if you—that is, your client—disqualified him.‖
―If my client were to do that, would you have any suggestion about how to best proceed?‖
―My suggestion is that you and Don get together and agree on a judge and ask the Supreme C
ourt to make the designation. As far as a particular judge is concerned, it's my opinion that Frank Ziram of Gallup is one of the best men on the New Mexico bench and I doubt he ever had Bud Rice in his court.‖
―Thank you, Judge. Am I correct that I'll get a ruling on my motion this afternoon?‖
―You are. Call here at four o'clock and I'll have it for you.‖
CHAPTER VIII
Doc Spurlock sold his mobile home to a Navajo Reservation schoolteacher. He moved into a single rented room in an old motel among the Indian pawnshops and bars along the Old Road east of downtown Gallup. He‘d slept poorly since Patsy moved back to Roswell so he had no trouble getting up early to drive to Budville on Wednesday morning, October 2. He left early enough to have coffee with Flossie and Nettie before driving them on into Albuquerque for Wilcoxson‘s lineup. He hoped he wouldn't see Max Atkins. He had no use for the ex-con after Troy McGee told him the story about the old cacique. McGee said he wanted to arrest Max for aggravated battery, but the Indian disappeared before the officer could get him to sign a criminal complaint. Fortunately, Max didn‘t put in an appearance that morning. Flossie said he'd worked late the night before. Nettie rolled her eyes toward heaven.
―You know,‖ Flossie said as they drove toward Albuquerque, ―I never got Bud‘s money. You remember: what he had in his pocket when he was killed. You got any idea what ever happened to it?‖
―Yes ma‘am. I turned it in as evidence and requested that they cut a check for you. Then I followed up on it after you and me talked about it last winter. Durin‘ the big storm. You never got it, huh?‖
―No, I didn‘t, and it is mine.‖
