AHMM, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I think my brow furrowed. She sat and propped the purse in her lap. “I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Caye."

  "Lucien.” I sat.

  "The gungirl wants to sell her story but can't, of course. There's that pesky law against making profit from crime, but the Chronicle will pay you, since little Miss Judith Wells will only talk to you."

  "I don't think so."

  "Hear me out.” She sat straighter. “You don't get the money. It goes to the lawyers we'll hire to help her lawyer because there's a good chance the D.A. may get his way and she will be the first woman in Louisiana history to be executed."

  I tried not to stare at that perfectly made-up face, her crimson lips, those bright blue eyes. This was supposed to be business. I had to ask, “How do you know Judy wants to sell her story?"

  "My husband. He's an assistant warden at the House of Detention.” Where they put women prisoners, instead of parish prison.

  "Jesus, lady. He's with the sheriff's office. Carries a gun and you fool around on him?"

  She sat up even straighter. “I've never cheated on him!"

  "Yeah? And what was that—'you can call me anytime?’”

  "If I was going to fool around,” she spoke in a grade-school teacher's voice, “it would be with you. And that's a big if."

  "Don't do me any favors, all right? We'll keep this professional."

  I hoped the twinkle in her eye was from our business proposition. “You'll do it?"

  I scooped up the phone and dialed Jim Long's number. His secretary made me wait only four minutes before he came on. I ran the proposition by him.

  "Might be the only way I'll get paid, too, not that it matters,” he said.

  "Of course not. You wanna come along?"

  I told Evelyn he'd meet us there. I drove, the scent of My Sin stronger in the confines of my DeSoto.

  "How'd y'all come up with ‘gungirl'?"

  "You know reporters. Love to tack on labels.” She looked angry. “Another reason for me to break through with this exclusive. Shut up the bastards."

  I waited, knowing more was coming.

  "Men I work with are so damn annoying. Always hitting on me. Insulting remarks like ‘move your meal ticket’ when they need the chair I'm sitting in, calling me ‘baby’ and ‘honey.'” She poked my shoulder with a knuckle. “I'm going to show them I can outwrite all of them."

  Damn knuckle hurt.

  * * * *

  Judy had her hair in a ponytail, with her face devoid of makeup; her eyes seemed smaller without eyeliner, but there was no hiding the woman's natural beauty. She even managed a smile when Evelyn, Jim, and I walked into the interview room. She wore baggy dungarees and sandals. The matron with her looked bored.

  "Hello there,” Judy said as I sat in the folding chair next to her. She looked a little frightened, much like she had on Highway 90.

  Evelyn sat across the Formica table with Jim and waited for Judy to look at her before saying, “My husband James told you about me. I'm Evelyn Woodard. Whatever you want to tell us. We want your side of the story."

  Judy put her hands up on the table. “Where do you want me to start?"

  "Childhood,” Evelyn said, pulling a reporter's narrow notepad from her purse. “If you don't mind."

  "I don't. Should I start when I was born or the first time my uncle molested me or the first time my father beat me because my uncle molested me?” The eyes stared at me and she reminded me of Bambi, from the Disney movie. Again, the slow blink.

  Evelyn recovered, leaning forward, her eyes narrowed. “What uncle?"

  His name was Jethro. I didn't know we even had Jethros in Louisiana. Seemed like a hillbilly name, and we didn't have hills. He was her father's younger brother. He started in on Judy when she was twelve and didn't let up until she ran away from home at fifteen. Her father used a belt on her when he found out what was going on and used it again each time Jethro went after Judy, like some sadistic relay team.

  Judy looked at Evelyn. “You'll probably find out I turned a couple tricks when I got to the big city. Opelousas. I didn't get caught because my first and best customer was a police captain."

  Evelyn wrote furiously.

  Judy turned to me. “I was never a pro. Only did it a few times.” She said it without guile, without shame, just matter of factly, but her eyes kept searching mine as if she wanted me to respond. I was trying to control my anger about her uncle and father. I hoped she could read in my eyes what I couldn't say.

  She went on how she got a job at a Mullet's Drugstore and how Mr. and Mrs. Mullet sort of adopted her, found her a place to stay, but then she met Steve and things changed. Somewhat. Judy Wells was so honest, even to herself, she admitted things weren't perfect with Steve.

  Our time was up and Judy agreed to meet again, after her official arraignment. Evelyn would bring a photographer. As we started to leave, a smallish, thin man with thick glasses stopped us in the doorway to hand Judy a piece of official-looking paper. He was Evelyn's husband and the paper was from the grand jury, who had returned a true bill of indictment, charging Steve Swindon and Judith Wells with murder. In Louisiana, with our Napoleonic Code, murder came in no degrees. And with murder came the likelihood of the death penalty.

  "Do you know how many women have gotten the death penalty in Louisiana?” Evelyn asked on our way back to my office.

  "You told me none."

  "That's right.” She shifted in her seat. “But I have a bad feeling about this case."

  "Why?"

  "The good doctor."

  * * * *

  There were dueling articles in the newspapers the following days. The New Orleans Item ran feature articles about “the good doctor.” Dr. Lucas Waddell, the founder of the Eye-Ear-Nose-and-Throat Clinic on North Claiborne Avenue, was a Tulane University graduate who had spent twenty-two years in Africa working with Albert Schweitzer, the medical missionary whose selfless sacrifice was almost saintly. Waddell's work with Schweitzer was interrupted, however, during the war when he served in the navy at Guadalcanal with the Marines. A member of the Knights of Columbus, St. Aloysius Chapter, Waddell had risen to the highest rank, the fourth degree, and was actually addressed as Sir Knight. I didn't realize until I read the account that the primary purpose of the knights was to foster patriotism and Catholic citizenship. Not really sure what that meant.

  The New Orleans Chronicle ran Evelyn Woodard's eloquent study of “the Gungirl,” how Judith Wells evolved from abused child to abused adult to her involvement in the murder of the doctor. Evelyn was right. She could write circles around the boys. I jotted some notes to ask Judy about the night of the murder. How did the doctor try to pick her up? What did he say, exactly?

  Before we could get back with Judy, Evelyn called with details of Steve Swindon's confession. “He said Judy shot the doctor."

  "No kidding."

  "It was her gun. He says the good doctor picked up Judy, and he went along to make sure she was okay."

  "He drove."

  "I didn't say his confession was credible,” she snapped back at me. “I'm just telling you we got a copy from a source, and I'd like you to confirm if it's genuine."

  I didn't want any cheese, so why was I in this mousetrap?

  Frenchy confirmed the confession was genuine when he yelled over the phone, “How the hell'd you get it?"

  I tried to explain I hadn't, but he slammed the receiver down.

  * * * *

  The trial came quickly, right before Christmas, which was probably some sort of record. From my seat in the wide, marble-floored hall of the criminal courts building—witnesses in Louisiana were sequestered and not allowed in the courtroom during the trial—I watched Dr. Waddell's family march in with the D.A., who tried the case personally. The Waddells—mother, two sons, and two daughters, with accompanying spouses—seemed quietly dignified, dressed in conservative suits, with determined looks in their eyes. They were from “old money” and everyone knew it.


  Evelyn wore another skirt-suit, this one charcoal gray, and had her hair up again as she carried her reporter's notepad into the courtroom. She gave me a little wave on the way in. I didn't get to see Judy until they called me to testify.

  The room was filled, some standing along the walls. Judy watched me come up the center aisle. She looked pale in a black dress, her hair combed out at least, but no makeup. Steve Swindon was thinner, his hair close cropped, and he wore an ill-fitting tan suit. It was eerie with all the Christmas decorations on the walls and a Christmas tree with presents in the far corner.

  "Do you swear to the tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” With my right hand on a Bible I said yes. (I've always wanted to say something like, “Sure, why the hell not?".)

  District Attorney Shamus O'Toole was in his seventies, a soft-spoken man with a thick mane of white hair and sharp green eyes that seem to bore into the witnesses’ eyes, even a witness for his side, like me. He asked direct questions and watched the jury as he worked them. I watched Judy.

  O'Toole started with my background, how I was a Holy Cross graduate, a New Orleans police officer for five years before I became a private eye. He went into my war record in more detail than I'd expected, starting with how I was one of the first soldiers to became a ranger, about my stint with the First Infantry Division in North Africa in Operation Torch, and then to Sicily, Salerno, Anzio, all the way to Monte Cassino, where a German sniper ended my military career.

  "During the early morning hours of October first, did you come upon a green Packard automobile alongside Highway 90?"

  It went on from there, step by step, how I stopped to help, about the flat tire, and then, melodramatically, O'Toole asked if the two people who were alongside Highway 90 with the Packard were in the courtroom. Yes, of course. He had me point them out.

  He followed that by another piece of showmanship, holding up the gun I'd taken from Judy's purse. I identified it. The drawings came next. Then how I'd witnessed Judy's confession. He tendered the witness, and Jim Long had a few questions for me.

  "Miss Wells came to your office to turn herself in, is that correct?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "She gave you the gun without resistance?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How did she look?"

  "Frightened."

  "Objection. Calls for an opinion, a conclusion."

  The judge sustained the objection and told the jury to disregard, which they never did.

  Jim Long had hired two assistants with the money provided by the Chronicle. (Afterward I learned that two true-crime magazines also paid royalties to Evelyn and Long for the Gungirl stories.) Both were former Justice Department lawyers, but they didn't look all that sharp to me. He'd hired investigators up in Pointe Coupee Parish to run down Judy's father and uncle, but the father had died in a car wreck and the uncle had drifted away.

  Later I read in Evelyn's reports how Frenchy Capdeville read the confessions into evidence, how the neighbor witness was actually able to identify Judy as the woman in the yellow dress, and how Shamus O'Toole played out that Dr. Waddell was a kind man, duped by conniving criminals, one a former prostitute.

  The trial lasted three days, including jury deliberation. Witnesses were allowed to hear the verdict, so I watched Judy's shoulders slump as it was read. Guilty. Both. The two were turned around by deputies and Judy searched me out as they were handcuffed behind their backs and led away. Evelyn and her husband followed me out.

  "They didn't nail down who fired the gun exactly,” she said.

  "They don't have to. In Louisiana, principal participants to a crime are equally guilty."

  She shook her head.

  "However,” I added, “traditionally, the one who pulled the trigger gets the death penalty and the other a life sentence."

  Two weeks later, just after New Year's, the sentences came through.

  Steven Edward Swindon and Judith Cathleen Wells were sentenced to death in the electric chair. Dr. Waddell's family released a statement through the family lawyer thanking the jury, the judge, and especially D.A. Shamus O'Toole. They eagerly awaited the end of their ordeal when the sentences were carried out. Eagerly. I called Evelyn, and she said that was the exact word in the press release.

  Appeals were made, of course.

  Before Valentine's Day, Evelyn called to say Judy Wells wanted to give another exclusive before she went to San Gabriel State Penitentiary for Women to await execution.

  "She still won't talk without you,” Evelyn explained as we were ushered into the same interview room at the House of Detention. Judy had lost weight, looked even paler, but her eyes were just as bright. She smiled at me and took my hand, drawing a rebuke from the matron.

  "No touching!"

  Evelyn asked how she was doing and Judy said as best as could be expected. Sitting up straight, Judy announced, “I want to tell the complete truth now."

  "We should wait for Jim Long."

  "No. I want it in the newspaper.” She pointed to Evelyn's notepad. “I pulled the trigger."

  She looked at me with those big eyes for a moment before asking Evelyn for a piece of paper and pen. I watched Judy write, in small, neat letters “I, Judith Cathleen Wells, fired the three bullets that killed Dr. Waddell. I hope Steve Swindon does not have to suffer the death penalty because of my act."

  She passed it to Evelyn.

  "That it?” I asked.

  Judy smiled weakly, that lower lip quivering, and I saw it there, fleetingly, in her eyes.

  "Judy,” I lowered my voice. “It isn't going to work."

  She wouldn't budge.

  "She's doing it because women aren't executed in Louisiana,” Evelyn said as we walked out.

  "I know."

  "I said it before. I have a bad feeling about this."

  * * * *

  The cases came and went and I made a buck. Several clients mentioned the Gungirl case when they hired me. Attorneys recognized my name, and I was even put on a small retainer by a couple law firms. I worked a case involving one of Shamus's assistants, found a missing cat for a kid, and along the way stumbled on the FBI's Public Enemy Number One over on Friscoville Avenue. I stood bodyguard for one luscious woman, solved the mystery of the red witch—claiming to be a love sorceress—and even shot a man in my own apartment on another case. Frenchy and I went back to getting along after I'd convinced him I hadn't purloined that confession.

  Incredibly, the Yankees missed the ‘48 Series. Still hard to fathom the Cleveland Indians as world champions. At least the ‘49 Series was worth the wait. Yankees beat the Brooklyn Dodgers four games to one; the papers were full of Brooklynites sobbing. Or were they Brooklynoids?

  Just after the Series, Steve Swindon was electrocuted at Orleans Parish Prison. Evelyn and her husband came by that night and we sat up in my apartment and drank Falstaffs.

  "Never seen anything like it,” James said, readjusting his glasses. “The electric chair actually has a name. Gruesome Gertie."

  I knew that.

  Evelyn hadn't witnessed the execution. The Chronicle sent a more seasoned reporter, but James had to watch and was sick over it. He preferred hanging. “Don't know when I'll be able to eat cooked meat again,” he said.

  Evelyn, who'd been drinking silently, finally said, “I have a college degree, but not in journalism.” She sighed. “History. Newcomb College."

  I was about to congratulate her, but it didn't feel right.

  "I was wrong about the death penalty."

  "You were?” I prodded.

  "Since Louisiana became a state in 1812, eight women have been executed. All slaves or former slaves."

  Oh no. The beer churned in my belly. I knew where this was going.

  "We don't execute white women in this state.” Evelyn took a hit of Falstaff. “Until now."

  She let it fade there, but I couldn't. “They didn't execute those slaves for running away, did they?"

  Evelyn shook her hea
d. “Arson. Murder. Slaves who ran away weren't executed. They usually just cut off a foot."

  Judy's execution was set for Halloween, 1949. Pleas to Governor Earl Long went unanswered—hard to figure with his well-publicized escapades with strippers and other colorful women. Evelyn had been to see Judy Wells once since the trail. I'd been up to San Gabriel twice. Each time, Judy seemed more fragile, weaker, quieter. I brought her what I could—paperback books, toiletries, some fluffy towels, a thick terrycloth robe.

  When Judy arrived at the House of Detention on Sunday, October 30, Jim Long dropped by to say, “Judy wants to talk.” We met James and Evelyn outside the same interview room. A priest was already inside, along with a matron. Judy was on her knees receiving Communion. We waited. The room smelled of pine oil.

  The priest left, telling Judy he'd see her tomorrow. Her last day on earth. He didn't say that, but it's what I thought. Judy was just as pale but didn't seem as fragile. Her smile was warm and she took my hand, snapping over her shoulder at the matron. “I'm touching his hand, and if you don't like it you can kill me tomorrow."

  She held my hand tightly and said, “I want to ask you one last favor."

  I waited.

  "A promise actually. I want you to promise you'll be there with me when I go."

  What the hell could I say? Hell no, I didn't want to watch it, not for a second, but I looked into those chocolate eyes and nodded.

  "I promise."

  She squeezed my hand and looked at Evelyn, then Jim, then back to me. “I want you all to see what they do to me."

  Back to Evelyn, she added, “You still promise to have me buried next to Steve."

  Evelyn nodded and looked paler than Judy.

  When Judy's gaze turned back to me I stared into her eyes for a long time before I went, “You didn't shoot anyone."

  No answer except what was in her eyes and it told me I was right.

  * * * *

  It rained all day.

  Jim drove, telling me, “I tried every trick I know. Got some Yankee lawyers from New York and Chicago involved. Did everything but send the governor some hookers."

  We parked next to the cold, moldy House of D. The bricks, once red, were brownish green from the years; it looked almost medieval, especially on a frosty, wet night. On my way in I reminded myself I believed in the death penalty. Best way to eliminate murderers. All that bunk that it didn't deter murders wasn't true. As a cop, I'd seen many murderers scared to death of visiting Gruesome Gertie.