by Stuart Woods
“I expect your experience out there has got something to do with your enthusiasm for veterans’ rights.”
“Sure has. I figure that after what those boys went through— and that’s what they were, boys—they’re entitled to the best their country can give them.”
They said good night at a corner and parted.
Annie Parker drove slowly past the police station, then turned around and parked. The police car was there, so she knew, at least, they hadn’t taken Marshall out in the woods someplace and shot him. She tried to think what to do. She had already called everybody she could think of except Marshall’s father, Jim, and she didn’t want to frighten him. What could he do, anyway, that she couldn’t? She decided to go into the station.
There was no one in the station room, and she stood, uncertain what to do. She was afraid to go looking around a jailhouse. Then she saw a button and a sign asking visitors to ring. She pressed the button and heard the bell answer somewhere at the back of the station. There was silence for a minute or two, and as she was about to press the button again, she heard a door slam down a hallway and footsteps approaching.
Charley Ward rounded a corner and stopped as he saw her. He was sweating heavily, and his uniform was wet around the collar and under the arms. “What do you want, Annie?” He was nervous, she thought.
“I came to get Marshall,” she said, her voice trembling.
Charley laughed. “Shoot, Annie, Marshall’s already asleep. We got to talk to him some more in the morning. He ought to be home for Sunday dinner. You go on home, now. We’ll bring him home in the morning.”
“What you have to talk to him tonight for? Why’s it have to be on Saturday night?” She was gaining courage now.
But Charley suddenly turned ugly. “Listen, I told you to get yourself home, didn’t I? Now, unless you want to get locked up for obstructing an officer, you just get on home, right now.”
She nearly took him up on it, insisted on being locked up with Marshall, but if they were both in jail, who would know where they were? Who would help them? She turned and went out of the station.
Back in the car she decided to go home and get on the telephone again. Those folks had to come home sometime. She’d call all night if she had to.
17
DR. TOM MUDTER felt the intense exhaustion that depression brings. The film had brought back too much of his war; he should never have gone to see it, but he had been lonely. He was a bachelor, there was a shortage of women his age in Delano, and there were times when he just could not spend the evening alone in his tiny garage apartment behind his father’s house and clinic. He was about ready to begin building his own clinic, and he looked forward to the activity. His parents were old now, and his father was looking forward to retirement. Dr. Frank had only kept the practice going so that Tom could have it after the war.
Half asleep already, Tom got slowly into his pajamas. He switched off the bedside lamp and stretched out on the bed with a groan of relief. It was a warm night, but a breeze blew through the open windows. As he was about to lapse into unconsciousness, he heard a car door slam, then another, then voices from the street. He held himself back from the brink of sleep and hoped against hope that the voices would go to the house next door or the one across. He did not think he could face a Saturday night cutting or such, not the way he felt.
The loud buzzer brought him immediately upright. It always had that effect on him, even when he was expecting it. He had installed the buzzer in his apartment, led from a button at the clinic door, so that he could take night calls without disturbing his father. He pressed a button beside his bed which lit a small sign at the clinic door saying “doctor coming” and struggled into his clothes. Perhaps three minutes passed before he could dress, let himself in through the back door, walk through the darkened clinic, switch on the front-porch light, and open the door.
The three figures who stood at the door were blacklighted by the porch light, and for a moment he did not recognize any of them. The one in the middle was bent half over and was being supported by the other two. One of the others was dressed in a khaki uniform, without a hat, and for a moment he thought the man was a soldier, but then he recognized Charley Ward.
“Evening, Doc.” The voice belonged to Sonny Butts, who was not in uniform. “We got a customer for you here.”
The man in the middle gave a grunt and threw his head back, and the light fell on the nearly unrecognizable face of Marshall Parker. Both eyes were swollen nearly shut, and there were cuts on his forehead and cheeks. His nose was broken.
“Good God!” The doctor took an involuntary step backward, then recovered himself. “Bring him this way.” He walked rapidly down the dark hallway and switched on the lights in the examination room, thinking ahead. If the man was that badly beaten he probably had internal injuries, as well.
Tom went immediately to the sink and started to scrub his hands. The two white men struggled into the room with their charge. “Put him on that table,” the doctor called over his shoulder. “What happened?”
“We were questioning him, and he started fighting with us,” Sonny said quickly. “Then he tried to grab a knife that we had taken off another prisoner, and Charlie had to shoot him.”
Tom whirled around. “Shoot him?” He walked quickly to the table and ripped open Marshall’s shirt. “Jesus Christ in heaven.”
“Hell, Doc, I had to do it,” Charley Ward whined. “He woulda killed Sonny.”
“Yeah,” said Sonny, “he was fighting like hell.” He pulled up his shirt to reveal a large bruise over a kidney. “Look what he did to me. He kicked me in the nuts, too. You wanta see the damage?”
“I’ve got all the damage I can handle right here. Now both of you get the hell out of here.” He turned back to his patient, who was unconscious, and felt for a pulse. Weak and thready. Profuse sweating. He cranked on the table to elevate the lower body. The man was clearly already in shock.
Sonny came and looked over his shoulder. “How bad is he hurt?”
Tom turned and shoved him backwards with his elbows, trying to keep his hands clean. “I told you to get out of here you stupid son of a bitch, now move it! Get all the way out of my clinic, goddam you, and shut the door behind you! This is out of your hands now.” As he pushed them into the hallway and shut the door, he caught a strong whiff of alcohol.
He went back to the table and began checking for wounds. One small, neat entry wound, midline, upper abdomen. He got a grip on Marshall and turned him onto one side. Large exit wound, left flank, near the kidney. Not much blood from either wound. He rolled him onto his back again and felt the abdomen. Massive internal bleeding. The bullet, judging from the placement of the entry and exit wounds, had hit and probably nicked the aorta. Tom looked helplessly around the little room, wishing for a trained army surgical team. Even if he woke his father he would have too little help and too little time.
Marshall suddenly groaned loudly and sat up, clutching his middle. Tom turned and quickly drew morphine into a syringe, found a vein in the man’s arm and injected it. Almost immediately Marshall began to relax and Tom was able to make him recline again. He bent low over Marshall and looked into his face.
“Open your eyes, Marshall, open your eyes and listen to me.” Marshall slowly opened his eyes. Swollen as they were, Tom could hardly see them. “Don’t fall asleep, Marshall, listen to me. Can you hear me? Can you talk?”
Marshall nodded and swallowed. “Yeah.”
“Marshall, there’s nothing I can do for you, except give you morphine, and I’ve already done that. You’re going to die, Marshall, you’ve only got a few minutes. I wish I could help you, but I can’t. Do you understand me?”
After a pause Marhall nodded again. “Yes.”
“Listen, Marshall, I can’t save you, but if you’ll tell me what happened—tell me the truth—I promise you I’ll see that the right thing is done. Tell me what happened, Marshall.”
Marshall began to speak.
His breathing was shallow, but his words were intelligible. Tom held his head and listened, trying to memorize every word. “Me and Annie was at Mr. Fowler’s …bought her a dress… Butts and Ward stopped me on the street… want me to come to the station… something about the moonshine… next thing, I’m in the jail, handcuffs… Butts beat me… beat me bad… I said take off the handcuffs … I’d fight him… Ward took them off, held a gun on me… I knew they was going to kill me… I grabbed a knife… not my knife… they shot me… Annie… where’s Annie at?”
“She’s not here yet, Marshall, she’ll be here, don’t worry. Did you ever hit Butts or Ward?”
“No, sir… never once… my hands were behind me.”
“Did you do anything that might make Butts and Ward have to arrest you? Tell me the absolute truth, now, Marshall.”
“No, sir… bought Annie a dress, that’s all…ask Mr. Fowler. My hands was behind my back, and they beat me…. He’s crazy, Butts is crazy. Annie…” Marshall drifted off, and Tom let him go. He sat by him for a few minutes more, monitoring his pulse, until Marshall’s breathing became irregular, then stopped. No pulse. Tom pulled back a swollen eyelid. No pupil contraction. He listened for a moment with his stethoscope. Marshall Parker was dead. He noted the time, then began looking for pen and paper.
He found a pen, but no paper, and went to the reception area to look for a pad in his secretary’s desk. Sonny and Charley were sitting in the waiting area. Sonny was idly flipping through a magazine. “Hey, Doc, how’s he doing?” he asked.
“I thought I told you to get out of here.”
“Listen, now, I got a prisoner in there, you know.”
“Yeah? What’s the charge?”
“Resisting arrest,” Sonny said easily.
“That’s only a secondary charge. What was the charge you arrested him on?”
Sonny froze for a moment. “Now, listen, Doc—”
“Come on, Butts, let’s hear the charge. What was it?”
Sonny was clearly in a corner and thinking as fast as he could. His face hardened. “I don’t have to discuss official police business with you. It’ll all be in my report.”
“Yeah, I thought you’d say something like that. Now, go on, get out of here.”
“What about my prisoner?”
“You don’t have a prisoner anymore. He died a couple of minutes ago.”
“Gee, that’s too bad.”
“You said he kicked you in the crotch. Show me.” Tom switched on a desk lamp on his secretary’s desk and swiveled it toward Sonny. “Come on, drop your pants.”
Sonny unbuttoned his jeans, held his penis aside and stepped close to the light to display his bruised scrotum.
“Okay, let’s see the kidney area again, in the light.”
Sonny buttoned his jeans and pulled up his shirt.
“What time did this happen?”
Sonny looked at his watch. “Oh, not long before we brought him in here. Say, half an hour, forty-five minutes.”
“You’re lying, Butts. Those bruises are hours old. I don’t know where you got them, but Marshall Parker didn’t give them to you half an hour or forty-five minutes ago.”
Charley Ward spoke. “Jesus, Sonny, what’s going to—”
“Shut up, Charley,” Sonny said. “You just keep your mouth shut. He don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“We’ll see about that,” Tom said. “Now the two of you get out of here. I’ve got a postmortem to do, and you’ve got a story to make up. And it would be really stupid of you to try and leave town.” He turned on his heel and left them standing in the waiting room. He had phone calls to make and work to do.
18
THE PHONE was ringing as Billy got out of the car, the loud, outdoor bell echoing over the farmland and the nearly finished house. He caught it, somewhat breathlessly, on the fifth ring.
“Hello.”
“Colonel Lee, this is Annie Parker. They got Marshall down to the jail.” The words rushed out.
“Annie? What was that again?”
“That policeman Butts and that other one got Marshall down at the jail, and I’m afraid what they might be doing to him. Can you go down there, Colonel? I sure would appreciate it.”
“Of course, I’ll go down there, Annie. Tell me what happened.”
She told him as quickly as she could of Marshall’s arrest and her visit to the police station.
“I’ll go right now, Annie, and I’ll call you as soon as I find out what’s happened. Now, don’t you worry, I’m sure Marshall’s all right. He’s probably asleep, just like Charley Ward said.” He hung up and turned to Patricia. “I’ve got to go down to the police station. Sonny Butts has arrested Marshall Parker, and Annie’s frantic. I’ll be as quick as I can.” The phone rang again.
“I’ll get it,” Patricia said. “You go ahead.”
He was already in the car when she ran out.
“That was Tom Mudter. Don’t go to the jail. Go to the clinic. Marshall’s there. Sonny Butts and Charley Ward brought him there with a gunshot wound.”
“Is he all right?”
“He died a few minutes ago.”
Billy rested his forehead on the steering wheel. “Oh, my God in heaven, Trish. Marshall wanted me to meet with his veterans’ group tonight, and I wouldn’t. If I had been there this wouldn’t have happened.”
She opened the car door and took his head in her hands. “Now, you listen to me,” she said. “This isn’t your fault. You did what you could to protect Marshall, and this just isn’t your fault. What you’ve got to do now is find out what happened and do something about it. You go on to the clinic, and I’ll go to Annie. Go on, now.”
He started the car. “You’re right, I’ve got to do what I can now. Call Marshall’s father, it’s Jim Parker, should be in the phone book. Tell him as much as you know, and ask him to meet you at Annie’s. Tell him I’ll come out there and tell them everything as soon as I’ve seen Tom. Don’t let them come to the clinic. Tell them to wait there for me.” She nodded. He pulled away from the trailer and started for Delano, driving fast.
Billy sat with Brooks Peters and Tom Mudter in the waiting room of the clinic. Tom had told them everything, reading from the notes he had written. He had confirmed the severed aorta and the cause of death as massive loss of blood and shock.
“Have you told anybody else about this?” Billy asked.
“I reported it to Skeeter Willis.”
“What did our good sheriff have to say?”
“Sonny had already called him about it. He said he’d look into it tomorrow, but it sounded pretty straightforward to him.”
“Sounds like we’re not going to be able to depend on Skeeter to do a serious investigation.”
“Maybe we ought to go to the state police or the Georgia Bureau of Investigation,” suggested Brooks.
Billy shook his head. “We can’t expect any help from them until we can demonstrate that local and county authorities are mishandling the investigation. Even then, they’re going to do their best to stay out of it, you can depend on that.”
“One more thing,” Tom said. “I’ve taken a sample of Marshall’s blood. I’ll send it to a lab in Atlanta in Monday morning’s mail, and we’ll know for sure if he had been drinking.”
“Good idea,” said Billy. “I have a feeling we’re going to need all the evidence we can get if we’re going to do anything about this.”
Brooks Peters looked up, surprised. “I would have thought that the deathbed statement would be all we needed.”
Billy shook his head. “In some circumstances it might be enough, but what we’ve got here is a Negro prisoner killed by a white policeman who claims he did it in the line of duty. Marshall’s statement is a start, but we’re going to have to back it up with everything we can find.”
“Do you mean you think that Butts and Ward might get away with this?”
“That’s exactly what could happen, Brooks. I think we can get an in
dictment easy enough, if the blood test and other evidence back up Marshall’s story. I mean, the county prosecutor, Bert Hill, is a good enough fellow, and if there’s evidence, he’ll present it to a grand jury. There’s one meeting now. But we’re going to have a mighty hard time getting a conviction. It’s hard to say whether Bert’s heart is going to be in a trial like that, and a smart lawyer on Sonny’s side will play hard to a white jury on the black-white thing. A trial is going to be touch and go.”
“So what do we do?” asked Tom.
“I think we start by letting Skeeter Willis and the prosecutor know that we’re not going to let this thing dry up and blow away, that we expect a thorough investigation and a strong presentation to a grand jury. The first step is an indictment.”
“Well, I can give them medical evidence about the nature of his injuries, apart from the gunshot wound. He’d clearly been beaten badly, and he’d been handcuffed. And we’ll have the lab test, assuming he was sober.”
Billy nodded. “That’s fine. In fact, why don’t you put the whole thing in writing as soon as possible.”
Peters spoke up. “I’ll call a meeting early tomorrow morning of the ministerial association. We’ve got nine ministers, and I might be able to get them stirred up.”
“That’s the sort of thing we need,” said Billy. “I’ll talk to Mr. Holmes, too, and see what he can do quietly behind the scenes. We should fill in Bob Blankenship tomorrow, so he can have as full a story as possible in Thursday’s paper. That might help stir up public opinion. Anything else?”
Tom and Brooks shook their heads.
“Well, I guess we’ve done all we can here. All that’s left is to break the news to Annie and Jim Parker. I’m not looking forward to that. Brooks, will you come with me?”
“Of course, but I think I ought to call Preacher Wright, too. They’re going to want their own minister.”
Brooks made the call, and they broke up, agreeing to meet the following afternoon to compare notes on their various efforts.
At the Parker home everyone knew the moment Billy and Brooks walked in that Marshall was dead. Billy told them, as gently as he could, what had happened and what he, Peters, and Mudter hoped to do about it.
