by Scott Pratt
After high school, though, Murray was involved in a serious car accident that fractured his sternum, several ribs and broke his right humerus and left femur. He was in the hospital for weeks, and when he was released, he was addicted to opiates. At the time, there was no program for weaning patients who had been using large amounts of opiates while in the hospital off of the drugs, so Murray was left to either quit cold turkey and go through the terrible withdrawal symptoms or keep on trying to get his hands on the drugs any way he could. That meant going to the street dealers, and they were expensive. He’d started breaking into houses, he’d stolen from his parents and grandparents. Eventually, he found himself alone, ostracized from his family, and that’s when he decided to rob a bank. He was caught and sent to the federal penitentiary.
“I was sorry to hear about what happened to you,” Brown said. “How long have you been out?”
“Just a few months.”
“Got a job?”
“Yeah. I’m working at a place down in Jonesborough. My mother helped me get this truck because I’ve been clean for several years. Just trying to put my life back together.”
“How was it?” Brown said. “Prison, I mean.”
Murray shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know what Brown wanted to hear.
“It was prison,” he said. “I spent five years in a medium security federal pen in Beckley, West Virginia, and then they moved me to a camp. Medium was a bitch.”
“A lot of niggers in there?” Brown said.
Murray was surprised by Brown’s casual use of one of the most volatile words in the English language.
“Yeah, there were a lot of black guys, but if you kept your head up and stayed smart, you could avoid trouble with them. Everything in prison is organized by race. They call them cars. If I’m white and I don’t want to run with a gang, then I’m automatically sorted into the Independent White Boy car. Black guys ride in their own cars, whether they’re gang banging or not. It’s not a good idea to mix with guys from another race in prison.”
“Why do you call them black guys?” Brown said. “They’re niggers, pure and simple.”
“Using that word was the quickest way I knew of to get yourself shanked or killed on the inside. Even if you didn’t say it to a black guy. There are no secrets in prison. The white supremacists say it all the time, but they’re close to each other all the time and they protect each other. If I was talking to a white guy who wasn’t an Aryan or a member of one of the other white supremacist gangs and I used that word, I’d either get blackmailed, shanked, raped or killed eventually. That’s just the way it works. I just call them black guys.”
“You’ll get used to the change,” Brown said.
“You still up on Buck Mountain?” Murray said.
“Sure am. Won’t ever leave. What about you?”
“I’ve got a place in Washington County close to where I’m working. I come up here to see momma and daddy pretty regular. At least there aren’t any black families living up there on Buck. You shouldn’t have any trouble with them.”
“Well, you’d be wrong about that, my friend,” Brown said. “I’m real concerned about the way things are going in this country, and me and some of my buddies have decided to do something about it. Say, you wouldn’t be interested in coming to a meeting, would you? We could use a man with your experience. You might be able to provide some insight.”
“Insight into what?”
“Into how these niggers think. You had to be around them enough in prison to know how they think. I don’t understand them. I’m sure you’ve heard about what’s going on with those three football players raping that white girl at ETSU. We plan to do something about it. Well, just between me and you and that gas pump over there, we already did a little something about it.”
Sarah had told Murray about the cross being burned in her brother’s yard and the shots being fired. He had a strong suspicion that he was looking at the man—or at least one of the men—responsible.
“What’d you do?” Murray said.
“Just raised some hell. Sent a message.”
“Good for you,” Murray said. “I’ve always said a man has to act on what he believes in, not just talk about it.”
“So what about that meeting? My brother and a couple of my cousins and some other boys I recruited will be there. It’s a planning session. We’re going to make a statement that’ll be heard all over this country. The white man is going to push back against all this liberal bullshit that’s been shoved down our throats.”
Murray wanted nothing to do with Brown or any meeting, but he saw a chance to perhaps redeem himself for some of the things he’d done in the past and maybe learn more about what happened at Sarah’s brother’s house. He nodded.
“Sure, Garrett, I’ll come to the meeting. I appreciate you asking me. And you’re right. Maybe I can help.”
“Damn, brother, that’s good to hear,” Brown said. “You know the old white Pentecostal church about a mile from my folks’ place on Buck Mountain Road?”
“Yeah, I remember it.”
“It ain’t a church no more, but it works just fine for a meeting place. We’ll be there at eight tomorrow night. Come on by and we’ll fill you in on what’s going to happen.”
“I’ll see you there,” Murray said.
“Good to see you, brother,” Brown said. “And welcome home. You came back at a perfect time.”
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 16
Sarah called me at ten o’clock at night and asked if she could come over. I asked whether anything was wrong and she said her friend Greg Murray needed to talk to me and yes, something might be wrong. I told her to come on.
They arrived about forty minutes later. Caroline was already asleep—she was spending about twenty hours a day in bed since the radiation on her knee—and Kevin was in Jack’s room. I didn’t know what the conversation was going to be about, but I didn’t want Kevin to listen, so when they arrived we went out on the deck. It was chilly—around forty-five degrees—but not too uncomfortable. Rio took the opportunity to disappear into the darkness and go on patrol.
This was my first time I’d seen Murray up close. He was a decent enough looking guy, a few years younger than Sarah and me. He was just under six feet tall, blonde hair that he wore medium length, pale blue eyes and a cleft chin. He was wearing jeans and work boots and a black and blue flannel shirt beneath a gray down jacket. He wasn’t wearing any jewelry at all and I didn’t notice any tattoos.
Sarah introduced us and we sat down.
“Can I get anybody anything?” I said. “I can make some coffee or hot tea. I have a few beers in the fridge.”
“No, thanks,” Murray said. Sarah also politely refused.
“I saw you the day I came down to see Sarah,” I said to Murray. “I should have introduced myself.”
“I was a little rude,” Murray said. “I’ve heard a lot about you. To be honest, I was a little scared of you.”
“Well, as you can see, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I don’t breathe fire or anything,” I said.
“Do you know about my past?” he said.
I nodded. “I had the sheriff checking you out less than five minutes after I saw you that day.”
“I’m clean now,” he said. “I drink a beer now and then, but that’s it. You don’t have to worry about me being around Grace or your sister.”
“I’m not,” I said. “My sister has had her own struggles. She can take care of herself. And if she was the least bit concerned about you being around Grace, well...I don’t even have to say any more about that. So my curiosity is piqued. What’s important at this time of night?”
“I need your word you won’t tell anyone I talked to you,” he said.
“Okay. You have my word.”
“Seriously. I could wind up dead.”
“Sounds ominous. You have my word.”
“I was born and raised on Buck Mountain up in Carter County,” Murray said. “Ever hea
rd of it?”
I nodded. “I’ve represented a few folks from up there. I’ve sampled a little Buck Mountain special reserve moonshine. It nearly blew the top of my head off.”
Murray chuckled. “Yeah, my granddaddy used to have a still. He made some wicked stuff. So anyway, my folks are both still alive and still live up there so I go visit them on occasion. Yesterday was one of those occasions. I stopped at a convenience store in Hampton to get gas on my way back and ran into an old high school buddy of mine, a man by the name of Garrett Brown. Ring a bell?”
“Can’t say that it does.”
“Garrett was a big shot in high school and we were close. We ran around a lot together, got in some mischief, chased girls. You know how high school boys do. Well, I ran into him at the convenience store and we got to talking. He knew I’d been in the pen for a long time, so I guess he thought I would naturally be a candidate for what he had in mind, but I’m not. I don’t want to have anything to do with what he has in mind.”
“What’s he have in mind?” I said. “Since you’re here, I assume it has something to do with me?”
“He’s a member of the Klan. He invited me to a meeting tonight. I’d just come from there when I went to Sarah’s and she called you. You apparently have some big hearing scheduled tomorrow at the courthouse in Jonesborough, right?”
I nodded. “I’m hoping to put an end to the prosecution of the three young black men that were charged with raping the white woman at the football party back in August.”
“They’re planning an attack,” he said. “They had a bulletin board up with a bunch of pictures that he said are going to be the targets. All three of the boys’ pictures were up there, plus you and your son and the woman who practices law at your office.”
“You mean Charlie Story?”
“Yes. Charleston Story was what he called her. They also plan to shoot those other lawyers and any black person they can shoot.”
“How are they planning to do it?” I said. “Are they going to come in the building and shoot it out with the bailiffs?”
“No. They’re going to have scouts in the courtroom and in the parking lot. They’ll be waiting at different locations nearby. Once they get word the hearing is over and people are coming out, they’re going to come tearing in the lot in pick-up trucks and start blasting away. They want to try to kill as many as they can in a minute and then get out.”
“How many will there be?”
“I’m not sure,” Murray said, “but Garrett mentioned other ‘brothers’ from different counties around here that will be involved. I’m guessing they’ll have at least twenty shooters.”
“And you’re supposed to be one of them?”
“I told him I would, but I’m not going anywhere near that place. I don’t have any desire to be involved in any kind of violence, and I’m not a racist.”
“Did they give you any kind of instructions on where to meet up with anyone?”
“Yeah, there’s a power station near the end of Bugaboo Springs Road. It’s six or seven minutes from the courthouse, they said.”
“I know where it is.”
“I’m supposed to meet them there. They told me to bring a rifle, but I’m a convicted felon. I don’t have a rifle. So they told me they’d have one there for me.”
“Do you know the sheriff here? His name is Leon Bates.”
“Heard of him. Never met him.”
“He and I are friends. He’s a good guy, honest as they come. He’s also in charge of the security at the courthouse. Would you be willing to share with him what you just told me?”
Murray nodded. “I don’t see why not.”
“Good. Let me get him on the phone and get him over here. He’ll want to hear this in person, and I’m sure he’ll have a lot of questions.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Murray said. “Garrett and his buddies burned the cross and shot up your house. They bragged about it to me. The worst thing was they had a cop with them when they did it. Some investigator from Johnson City. He was at the meeting.”
“You catch his name?” I said.
“Yeah. It was Riddle. Bo Riddle.”
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 17
Leon came over the night before and spoke with Greg Murray for an hour-and-a-half. I knew he was deeply concerned, as was I. I told him about the black man who paid us a visit at the office, and he said he’d been contacted by the FBI. Apparently, the New Black Panther Party had mobilized some of its members and a confrontation—more likely a firefight—was very likely to occur no matter what the outcome of the hearing. Erlene’s grand plan to extort money out of the university had gone terribly wrong. Her platform had been hijacked by extremists, and I’d never known of anything good to come of extremism in any form.
I arrived at the courthouse with Jack and Charlie at 8:30 a.m. The security was like nothing I’d ever seen in Jonesborough. There were armed Washington County deputies in SWAT gear everywhere, there were Tennessee Highway Patrolmen, there were Johnson City and Jonesborough policemen in uniform. I’d talked to Jack and Charlie about the possibility of violence after the hearing and told them both to stay inside the building until we were certain it was safe to come out. We were ready to blow Mike Armstrong’s case, and possibly his career, out of the water. We were ready to expose Sheila Self as a liar, Bo Riddle as a racist, and Erlene Barlowe as a blackmailer, extortionist, and manipulator. If all went according to plan (and things rarely did) Kevin Davidson and his teammates would be free by the afternoon. I just hoped they would still be alive.
I saw Leon standing near the front entrance to the courtroom. He, too, was dressed like a soldier about to go into combat. I walked up to him and said, “What’s the play, Leon? Are you going to try to find them or wait for them to come?”
“We only have the one location that Murray gave me last night,” Leon said. “We’re watching it and we’ll neutralize them as soon as they gather. We have everybody on deck. Patrol cars are searching. We have people in the air. We’re going to do all we can to prevent bloodshed, but I’ll be honest with you, brother Dillard. I have a bad feeling in the pit of my gut.”
“Stay safe, my friend,” I said to him and I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you later on.”
Judge Neese walked through the door at 9:00 a.m. sharp. She sat down at the bench after the bailiff had called the court to order and looked out over the packed courtroom.
“I just want everyone here to know I won’t tolerate any outbursts of any kind,” she said. “None. I’ll clear the courtroom.”
She then turned her gaze to me. It was not sympathetic or friendly.
“Mr. Dillard, the motion you filed is, by far, the most accusatory, inflammatory, and perhaps dangerous motion that has ever been filed in my court. I’m going to give you one chance to withdraw the motion. If you fail to do so and then fail to prove the very serious allegations you’ve made, you will be leaving this courtroom in handcuffs. Do you understand?”
I stood and said, “I understand, your Honor. I do not wish to withdraw the motion. All I ask is that you give me a fair hearing, and I have no reason to believe you won’t.”
“I don’t expect the kind of rhetoric and theatrics you displayed the last time you appeared before me,” she said.
“I’ll do my best to hold off on the rhetoric, but there are going to be some theatrics. This is a highly-charged, emotional case, as you well know. There are racial overtones that are going to be exposed here today. I hope you’ll allow me to prove the allegations I’ve made.”
“Provided you present your proof within the boundaries of the law, you’ll get your chance.”
“Thank you, your Honor. That’s all I can ask.”
“All right,” the judge said. “For the record, I have before me a lengthy motion filed by Mr. Dillard and his associates and joined by counsel for the other two defendants in this case. At its core, it alleges a bad faith prosecution on the part of the district attorney general that
has deprived the defendants in this case of their rights to due process under the Fourteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution and Article One, Section Nine of the Tennessee Constitution. We have several witnesses that Mr. Dillard has subpoenaed, including the alleged victim. Mr. Armstrong did not try to quash the subpoena, so I can only conclude that he has no problem with his alleged victim being subjected to examination by Mr. Dillard prior to trial.”
I looked over at Armstrong, wondering whether he had talked with Erlene. I was sure he had, because he looked like he’d just eaten a pile of horse manure and was ready to throw up. I was thinking he knew he was about to be run over by a train, there was no way he could stop it, and he just wanted to get on with it. He hadn’t filed any sort of written response to the motion, hadn’t asked to keep anything out or exclude any witnesses. I wondered whether he’d even bothered to read it.
“Call your first witness, Mr. Dillard,” the judge said.
“We call Laurie Ingram,” I said.
A pretty young woman with curly brown hair and dark eyes, dressed in a thigh-length blue dress, walked into the courtroom and sat down in the witness chair. She raised her hand and was sworn in by the judge.
“Objection,” Mike Armstrong said. “We object to the relevance of this witness’s testimony.”
“Do you even know what the testimony is going to be?” the judge said.
“Mr. Dillard hasn’t bothered to inform me,” Armstrong said.
“Your honor, this young lady took a video that we intend to play for the court. I tried to play it for Mr. Armstrong, but he refused to watch. I sent him a copy last week. He obviously hasn’t bothered to look at it. The video depicts what happened at the party where this alleged rape occurred, the witness can authenticate it, and it’s relevant to the issues in the motion we filed.”
“Objection overruled,” the judge said. “Go ahead, Mr. Dillard.”
“Would you state your name, please?” I said.
“Laurie Ingram.”
“Miss Ingram, back on the night of Saturday, August twenty-fourth and early morning of Sunday, August twenty-fifth, did you attend a party held by the majority of the members of East Tennessee State University’s football team?”
