Court of Lies

by Gerry Spence

  “You have no choice,” Coker argued. “If you don’t run, people will think you’re guilty, and Sewell will win by default.”

  At the last minute, the judge filed for reelection.

  The following evening at about 6:15—it was dark by then—Haskins Sewell was shot to death as he was about to enter his car, which was parked in the courthouse parking lot. The wound in the center of his forehead left a powder-burned entry lesion typical of a contact wound. The killer had put the gun against Haskins Sewell’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 51

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, before the ravens had visited his feeder, Judge Murray got a phone call. “Jesus Christ, I just heard on the news that…” The judge couldn’t understand the rest—the fast, wild yelping of the caller. It was Hardy Tillman.

  “You hear me, Judge? They just found old Sewell. He has a pretty little bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.”

  The judge made no reply.

  “Somebody shot the bastard.” Hardy laughed a high, hysterical laugh. “That shivering little dog of his he called Honeypot was trying to get into the back door of the courthouse. Huffsmith found the dog damn near froze to death, and then old Huffsmith started looking for Sewell, and that’s when he found the bastard in the parking lot by his car, dead as a blowed-out tire.”

  “Hardy! Don’t talk about this to anyone. Not anyone! I’ll be there in a little while.” He hung up the phone.

  Betsy grabbed the judge’s arm as he sat frozen on the edge of the bed. “What is it?” she asked. When he told her, she started to say something.

  “Betsy,” he said, “do not talk to me about this. I am not going to talk to you. They can’t make you testify against me—our husband-wife privilege—but if I’m charged along with Hardy, they might try to make you testify against him.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Neither of you has an alibi, nor do I,” he said. “You were coming home from school and the grocery store about six, right? The clerk at the grocery store can only testify you were in town about the time of the murder. You could be a suspect, crazy as that seems. And I was still at the courthouse, but I don’t recall seeing anyone there. They’d all gone home.”

  Suddenly, the reality of the moment came thundering into the judge’s consciousness: Yes, Sewell had been murdered! He’d tried not to hate the man, but he’d failed. Hate was a poison. Still, he felt a forbidden sense of triumph over the man’s death.

  Yes, he’d fantasized killing Sewell. But that didn’t make him a killer. What man didn’t kill his enemies in his own safe dream world? Such was the function of fantasies—to test reality—to follow the good and reject the bad. Dreaming was healthy. Although Sewell’s murder had provided a fleeting sense that a greater justice had been served, the judge also felt guilt creeping in. And more frightening, once again he found himself struggling with what was mere dream and what was reality.

  Sewell must have been a lonely man. He had no family. Only that little yapping lapdog. He had no one to love him. How could he give love back? Yes, the judge thought, I have survived my archenemy, Sewell. But had he won? He knew there’d be trouble, because hate enjoys an eternal life and is transferred from the dead to the living like an incurable plague.

  He didn’t remember if he’d slept the night following Sewell’s murder. He didn’t remember getting dressed. Betsy put his bacon and eggs in front of him. Then quietly she said, “John”—she rarely called him John, usually she called him honey—“I was scared, so I went to the closet to see if our pistol was there. It’s gone.” She waited for his response. He cut into the egg, and the yoke was softer than usual and ran across the plate. “What did you do with it?”

  “I told you, Betsy, we can’t talk about this.”

  After Betsy had left for school, the judge gathered enough energy to feed the ravens. They were talking to him. What did they know that he didn’t? They only wanted to be fed, he assured himself.

  He drove to town, met Hardy at the tire store, and told his old friend that they couldn’t be friends anymore, at least not until the Sewell murder was solved and the killer charged and convicted. If either of them was charged and either was called to the stand, that person might be required to testify about what the other had said. “And remember, we never had this conversation,” the judge said to Hardy.

  “My mouth is clammed shut as tight as a donkey’s ass in fly time,” Hardy replied.

  * * *

  Before the week was over, the governor appointed a special prosecutor to take over the duties of the late Haskins Sewell. The governor’s appointee was an ambitious young assistant district attorney named Robert Headley, Jr., thirty-seven, from Laramie County, who, by reputation, had collected far too many convictions for a prosecutor of his age and experience.

  Headley came storming into Jackson with an unconditional commitment to dispose, in a timely manner, those who had had anything to do with the murder of a fellow prosecutor. He stood well over six feet and was blond, with cold blue eyes that could focus on a subject like a spotlight at midnight. He wore alligator cowboy boots, a big silver-gray Stetson, and a western-cut suede jacket, no tie, but a bolo with a large hunk of mounted turquoise on the slide. If he’d been born a century earlier, he’d have been wearing matched ivory-handled Colts.

  The morning following his arrival in Jackson, Headley met with the local paper. “I’m here on a sacred mission,” he began, reading from his prepared statement. “The good people of Jackson Hole should know that their reign of terror is over. I’m here to bring back the safety of law and order to this county. We will find whoever is responsible for this heinous crime. I will prosecute, and I will see that justice is done—to the maximum.” He set his right hand on his hip, as if genetic habit demanded that he reassure himself that his six-guns were loose in their holsters.

  “Mr. Headley, do you have any suspects?” the reporter asked.

  “There are more than a few persons of interest whom we will examine. This was a brazen, arrogant killing by a killer or killers who knew what they were doing. Let me tell you this much: A single shot killed prosecutor Sewell. The shot was placed precisely and expertly, and he died instantly.”

  “Do you suspect the Mafia?” the reporter asked.

  “In Wyoming? Hardly!”

  “Do you have a scenario for the motive?”

  “Yes, the killer or killers obviously were not happy with Mr. Sewell.”

  “Do you suspect that the killer or killers intended to stop the prosecutor from exposing criminal activity in the county?”

  “No comment.”

  The next day, Headley empaneled a grand jury, and Judge Little was appointed by the Wyoming Supreme Court to preside over all judicial aspects of the investigation. Once more, the press, in a noisy, pushy mob, descended on the small town of Jackson. The sheriff’s office was flooded with calls from citizens offering help.

  A mechanic from the local Chevy garage called, claiming that on the night of the murder he saw a black Cadillac with a driver and three passengers who didn’t belong in Jackson Hole. They turned in to the courthouse parking lot just about six the evening of the murder. The mechanic said he’d earlier stopped at the tavern for a couple of beers and was on his way home when he witnessed the car.

  A teacher at the high school called the sheriff’s office, saying he knew about a bunch of kids who’d been prosecuted by Sewell, and one of the kids, Roger Moore, son of the local Baptist preacher, owned a pistol and was a crack shot. Sewell had sent one of Moore’s buddies off to the boys’ reformatory as a result of his second shoplifting conviction. The caller said he’d personally heard the kid threaten to kill Sewell.

  The sheriff’s office received scores of calls from citizens whose neighbors were suspected of various crimes, ranging from kid-kicking to kidnapping. Every citizen who’d ever been prosecuted by Sewell was automatically a suspect. But the special prosecutor had his own scenario, and he was quick
to lay it out for Sheriff Lowe.

  “I always look for the obvious first,” Headley told the sheriff. “People, including law enforcement, read too many True Detective magazines, where the least suspected comes up guilty. We are not here to beguile the media or impress the public. We’re here to solve this outrageous crime.”

  Lillian Adams was called to the grand jury as Headley’s first witness. The only other persons in the room were Headley; his assistant, Jimmy Friedman, an assistant district attorney from Laramie County who’d been sent along to help Headley, if, indeed, he should require any; the court reporter; and twenty ragtag grand jurors whom Undersheriff Bromley had gathered at random off the streets of Jackson. As is the standard rule in grand jury proceedings, no judge remained in the room to officiate, and as a consequence the prosecutor was free to employ any tactics he might choose—proper, intimidating, unjust, or otherwise.

  The special prosecutor was a man guided by simple rules. “Delay,” Headley asserted, “aborts justice.” Without introduction, not even a “Good morning,” he began his questioning of Lillian. The sound of his voice was accusatory. His presence was powerful and threatening, his patience virtuous.

  “Mrs. Adams, you harbored a great deal of enmity against Mr. Sewell, isn’t that true?”

  “I would like my attorney, Mr. Coker, present,” she replied. She looked worn, but her voice and appearance were steady.

  “You are not permitted to have your lawyer in a grand jury hearing.”

  “I find that unacceptable,” she said. “I’m an American citizen. I’m entitled to a lawyer.”

  “I see that Mr. Coker is waiting outside. You can leave this room and obtain advice from him as is reasonably needed. But he will not be present for your testimony. That happens to be the law.”

  “In that case, I refuse to answer any of your questions.”

  “On what grounds, Mrs. Adams?”

  “I don’t have to have grounds. I just refuse to answer.”

  “Do you want to be held in contempt?”

  “Do what you please. I’m an American citizen, and I have rights.”

  “Yes,” Headley said coldly. “I will ask His Honor, Judge Little, to come in.”

  Shortly, Headley’s assistant, Jimmy Friedman, returned to the room with Judge Little in tow.

  “You refuse to answer a question put to you by Mr. Headley?” Judge Little asked Lillian Adams. He was still wearing a bow tie, and he was not smiling.

  “I want my lawyer present.”

  “What you want and what the law provides are two different things. You perhaps do not know this, Mrs. Adams, but it is the universal law across the land that a witness is not entitled to representation inside the grand jury room. Do you understand?”

  “In that case, I refuse to answer.”

  “What are your grounds?”

  “How do I know what my grounds are? I’m not a lawyer. But one thing I know: You are a part of this ongoing witch hunt that is intended to destroy the lives of innocent people.”

  “I have heard quite enough from you, Mrs. Adams,” Judge Little warned. “I would not rely on escaping the law a second time. Are you going to answer Mr. Headley’s question or take leave to ask your attorney’s advice?”

  “I want my lawyer here. You can throw me in jail. That’s what you’ve wanted from the beginning. Now you have the power. I have no doubt you will use your power as you and Mr. Sewell have attempted in the past.”

  “Call the sheriff,” the judge said.

  Within minutes, Undersheriff Bromley entered the grand jury room. “Take this woman,” Judge Little ordered. Promptly, Bromley grabbed Lillian’s arm and, without apologies, locked one handcuff to her wrist and the other to himself. Then he dragged her from the room.

  Coker had been sitting in a chair close to the jury room door, to be handy if Lillian needed him. As Bromley passed by with Lillian in handcuffs, Coker stepped in front of the undersheriff. “What’s going on here?”

  “This lady has been held in contempt by Judge Little,” Bromley said. He sounded on the outskirts of a grand hurrah. “She won’t answer any questions, and she refuses to talk to you about it.”

  Coker whispered in Lillian’s ear. Then he turned to the undersheriff: “She’s ready to talk. Take her back to the grand jury.”

  Once more in front of Judge Little, Lillian Adams looked up at the judge with disdain and said, “I refuse to testify on the grounds that my testimony might incriminate me.”

  “Release the witness,” Judge Little ruled. “You see, this is still America, despite what you may think, Mrs. Adams. You have stated proper grounds for not testifying, which I find particularly interesting given the testimony I’ve heard in your case. However, my comments are ad hominem.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

  “Ask your lawyer,” the judge replied. “You may go.”

  By noon, Headley had gone through twelve witnesses, most of whom proved to be of little interest to him. However, his first witness after lunch was Henry Green.

  “Mr. Green, you called the sheriff’s office to report that Hardy Tillman had made certain threatening statements against Mr. Sewell?”

  “That’s right,” Green said. “Sometimes Hardy has coffee with the boys, and that time when he was charged with an assault on Sewell, he said, ‘I should have killed the son of a bitch instead a just kicking him in the ass in self-defense.’ I distinctly remember him saying that.”

  “Yes?” Headley said, as if asking for more.

  “I know one thing for sure,” Green said. “Hardy hated Sewell. He is Judge Murray’s best friend, and he was raising all kinds of hell about how Sewell had charged him and the judge with obstructing justice, and when Sewell charged the judge with perjury, Hardy went plumb bananas.”

  Headley had subpoenaed Hardy. He entered the jury room as Green was leaving. Without preliminaries, Headley hit Hardy with a volley of questions. “Mr. Tillman, have you ever made any threatening remarks against prosecutor Sewell?”

  “I suppose that retarded peckerhead, Henry Green, told you I did.”

  “I asked you a question. Have you ever made any threatening remarks against Haskins Sewell?”

  “That there is none of your business,” Hardy said.

  “It is my business to determine such facts,” Headley said. “Please answer my question.”

  “I ain’t in the habit of talking about my business to strangers,” Hardy replied.

  “Answer my question, sir.”

  “Well, I ain’t talking,” Hardy said.

  “Do you refuse to answer?”

  “What do you think?”

  Headley stuck his head out of the jury room door and hollered, “Call the judge.”

  Judge Little appeared, and Hardy assured the judge that he was not about to answer any questions “for that nosy blond pipsqueak punk,” whereupon the judge found him in contempt and ordered him confined to jail. Undersheriff Bromley cuffed both of Hardy’s hands behind him and led him from the jury room.

  “When I get out of here,” Hardy hissed over his shoulder at Headley, “I’m gonna have a little meeting with you, and you’re going to look like a turtle. Nobody is going to be able to tell where your head starts and your ass ends.”

  As the undersheriff led Hardy past where Coker was still sitting just outside the jury room, Coker hollered, “Tell them you take the Fifth, Hardy. That’s your ticket out of jail.”

  “I take the Fifth,” Hardy hollered back, whereupon Bromley led him back to the jury room. Hardy took the Fifth on the record and was immediately released by Judge Little.

  As Hardy walked out, Jim Mortenson, Lillian’s father, walked into the jury room. He, too, took the Fifth, after which Mortensen turned to the grand jurors and said, “Any good citizen doing his duty would have killed that no-good bastard. I fought in the war to save us from those kind. And now look what we got! Lying no-good bastards like that Sewell, who was supposed to be protect
ing our rights, not shitting on ’em—excuse my language.”

  Late that same afternoon, Judge Murray was called to testify. The judge took the stand and was slow and stiff in sitting down. “Judge Murray, I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.” Headley’s hostile eyes belied his sentiments. “I have always been a great admirer of yours. But I have to ask you some questions. You’ve been waiting to go to trial on perjury charges that were brought against you by Mr. Haskins Sewell, is that true?”

  “Yes,” the judge said.

  “That must be extremely troublesome to you.”

  “Of course.”

  “And to your wife.” Then Headley came out with it. His eyes were fixed on the judge as if the judge’s reaction to his next question would settle it once and for all. “Did you kill, arrange for the killing, or agree to the killing of Haskins Sewell?”

  The judge, stunned, stared back at Headley for a long time, trying to determine how to answer the special prosecutor. If he answered any part of the question, there would be an endless volume of additional questions: Where had he been that night? Who could attest to that? Others would be drawn into his inquiry, including Betsy. He would be asked about his conversations with Hardy, and his relationship with Lillian, as paternal as it was.

  “I refuse to answer on the grounds that my answer might incriminate me,” the judge said in as strong a voice as he could muster.

  A week later, the special prosecutor announced that the grand jury had indicted both Judge John Murray and Hardy Tillman for the murder of Haskins Sewell. The charges carried the death penalty.

  CHAPTER 52

  SPRING ARRIVED IN Teton County and the early arrowroot balsam turned the lower hillsides yellow. The Canada geese were nesting, and the quaking aspens were budding. Already, here and there the rose-colored wild geraniums were popping into early bloom, and the alpine buttercups, already half past bloom, held on, as if they knew it was their last chance.