by Scott Pratt
“All of this is a matter for the jury,” Armstrong said.
“You might want to be quiet for a minute,” I said to Armstrong. I looked back at the judge. “I kept asking myself why Mr. Armstrong was prosecuting this case. He was being totally unreasonable. I didn’t think he was a racist, although I’d suspected Riddle was for some time. But now I know why Mr. Armstrong continued with this, and we can either go back into open court and I can embarrass and humiliate him, or we can work this out in chambers, he can ask you to dismiss the case, and everyone can start moving on from this disaster.”
Armstrong turned to me and said, “You’re so damned smug. You say you know why I’m continuing with this case? You don’t know anything. I’m continuing with this case because a young woman made an accusation of rape and it is my job to prosecute crimes in this district.”
“You’re being blackmailed by a woman named Erlene Barlowe,” I said.
Armstrong’s neck twitched as though he’d had some kind of involuntary muscle spasm.
“I don’t know anyone named Erlene Barlowe,” he said.
“Yes, you do, and I can prove it. I can also prove how she’s blackmailing you. Do you want me to play the tape I have of her telling me about your affair? I subpoenaed her, too. Surely you had to wonder why I’d do that. I’ll put her on the witness stand and play the tape I have of her describing how she’s blackmailing you. It’s as good or better than the Riddle tape.”
“Talk to me, Mr. Dillard,” Judge Neese said, pointing at herself. “What’s this about an affair and why would it matter?”
“Don’t take this wrong,” I said. “Personally, I couldn’t care less about Mr. Armstrong’s sexual orientation, but he’s having an affair with an electrician named Michael Adams. It’s a long story, judge, but Ms. Barlowe set this entire thing up. She owns the escort service that sent Ms. Self to the party. Her plan was to make a false allegation of rape against a player and then get a big check out of the university. She had no idea Ms. Self and Riddle would turn it into a gang rape and a racial matter, but because they did, Ms. Barlowe stood to get even more money out of the university. Mr. Armstrong has continued to prosecute—even though he had no evidence and knew the allegations were totally false—because Ms. Barlowe threatened to expose his affair with Mr. Adams to the public. And she’d do it, too. She also promised him a little cut of the money. How much was it, Mr. Armstrong? Two hundred grand?”
Judge Neese looked at Armstrong.
“Is this true?” she said.
He started to answer, but suddenly, he burst into tears. He sobbed uncontrollably for a full minute. It was so pitiful I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he finally composed himself. “I haven’t slept in weeks. I just haven’t known what to do. I love the job and I want to continue as the district attorney. Can’t we put a lid on this Barlowe woman?”
“Wait a minute,” Judge Neese said. “I’m far less concerned with Ms. Barlowe than I am with you, Mr. Armstrong. What’s been described here, even with the blackmail, is an egregious breach of ethics. Everything you’ve done in this case screams of prosecutorial misconduct. I’ll have to report you to the Board of Professional Responsibility. If I don’t, then I’ll be in breach of my duty as a judge. You’re probably going to lose your license to practice law, and if the FBI gets wind of this, and I’m going to make sure they do, you could be facing an official misconduct charge.”
“Please don’t do that, your Honor,” Armstrong said as the tears started to flow again. “I made a mistake and I regret it. I’ve regretted it every day since Ms. Barlowe first came to me and told me what she was planning. I just didn’t see any way out.”
“You’re a prosecutor,” the judge said. “You should have involved law enforcement. You could have wired yourself up and stung her, which is apparently what Mr. Dillard has done.”
“And let everyone know I’m bisexual? That I’m having an affair with a man? I didn’t see that as an option.”
“So instead, you allowed three young black men to be arrested, kicked out of school, kicked off of the football team, falsely accused of kidnapping and rape, humiliated in front of the entire country, be incarcerated and have their lives put in jeopardy. You gave interviews to news outlets all over the country and tried to set yourself up as a hero. You can sit there and cry all you want, Mr. Armstrong. You have to accept the consequences of your choices and your actions.”
A long silence followed, with the exception of Armstrong’s sniffling.
“Where do we go from here?” I said quietly.
“As soon as Mr. Armstrong pulls himself together, we’re going back into court.”
We waited a few more minutes before Armstrong was able to gather himself. His eyes were red and anyone who took a close look at him would be able to tell he’d been crying, but at that point, I didn’t feel the least bit sorry for him. The judge was right. He’d brought every bit of this on himself. Armstrong had allowed a terrible injustice to occur. Not only had he allowed it to occur, he was an active participant. I didn’t think things would go well for him when we got back to the courtroom, and I didn’t think they’d go well for him in the future.
When we finally walked out, everyone in the courtroom stood as the bailiff called court back into session. I took a seat at the defense table and Kevin said, “How’d it go?”
“We’re about to find out,” I said.
Judge Neese was flipping through the motion I’d filed. She looked up over her reading glasses a couple of times, sighed heavily, and finally spoke.
“Will the defendants and the prosecution please stand?” she said. “Mr. Dillard, after having heard the testimony presented earlier and after the meeting that just took place in chambers, the court finds that the prosecution of these three young men has, indeed, been in bad faith. It has been nefarious, selective, arbitrary, and, frankly, one of the most egregious examples of prosecutorial misconduct I’ve ever seen. The defendants’ rights under the Fourteenth Amendment have been violated. They have been denied due process. I want to say on the record that this court finds that not only are these young men innocent, but no crime was, in fact, committed. There was no kidnapping. There was no rape. This court will do everything in its power to see that Mr. Armstrong is disbarred and never practices law again. I will also do everything in my power to make sure that Investigator Riddle never works as a law enforcement officer again. I will encourage the Johnson City chief of police to pursue a false report investigation against the alleged victim.
“I know this case has caused deep racial division at a time when racial division was the last thing this community, or any community for that matter, needed. My hope is that the resolution of this case will help to calm the waters a bit and that we can get back to the business of respecting each other and doing what is right in our criminal justice system. Mr. Davidson, Mr. Wright, Mr. Belle, the court orders the cases against each of you dismissed with prejudice. That means you cannot ever be prosecuted for these crimes that didn’t happen, no matter what, and again, I want to emphasize on the record that this court specifically finds that these crimes did not happen. You are free to go. Bailiff, call the jail and have Mr. Wright’s and Mr. Belle’s personal effects sent over here immediately. I don’t want them to spend another second in jail. If they don’t have transportation, I would ask that their lawyers arrange or provide transportation. They can wait in the jury room until their clothing and other effects arrive, change out of those jail uniforms, and leave. Mr. Davidson, Mr. Wright, Mr. Belle, I apologize to each and every one of you for the pain you have endured. If I’d known earlier what I know now, I would have put a stop to this. Court is in recess.”
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 17
In the parking lot, Leon Bates heard from one of the bailiffs posted inside that the hearing was over and what had happened. It was, to say the least, tense in the parking lot surrounding the Justice Center in Jonesborough. Leon instructed th
e bailiff to keep everyone inside until he gave the all clear.
Leon’s men had been able to scoop up two pick-up trucks with four men each in them at the power station based about five miles from the courthouse based on information provided by Sarah Dillard’s friend, Greg Murray, early that morning. The men were all armed with fully-automatic assault rifles, but Leon’s deputies had been waiting for them, surprised them, and arrested them without a shot being fired. Still, the arrests confirmed Leon’s worst fears. Some kind of attack was planned that day.
At the courthouse, however, the kind of security Leon needed to provide was a nightmare. The courthouse faced a busy four-lane highway between Johnson City and Greeneville. If one walked out the front door, Tavern Hill Road was just to the left. Leon had blocked that road off three miles away at Hairetown Road, but he couldn’t just shut down Highway 11E, which was the four-lane that ran parallel to the courthouse in the front.
Across the highway, there were three feeder streets—N. Cherokee St., N. 2nd Ave. and Washington Ave.—that could be used as a means of approach by someone with hostile intentions. Leon had checkpoints on both sides of 11E, on the old Jonesborough Highway, on Main Street, on Old State Route 34, and on Highway 81, but his officers couldn’t force people to get out and allow their vehicles to be searched without some reasonable suspicion that they had committed or were about to commit a crime. Three or four men in a pick-up—white or black—did not provide that suspicion. And even so, with a fairly simple plan—like being in a home or a hotel or one of the restaurants or diners close to the courthouse and mobilizing quickly—Leon knew small groups could get to the courthouse parking lot, and if they did, all hell could break loose.
He had snipers on the roof of the courthouse and on the roofs of two businesses across the street. He had his men and vehicles placed tactically so that it would be very, very difficult for anyone to get to the courthouse itself. But if they came from opposite directions, got into the parking lot, and wanted to start shooting at each other or at Leon’s men, there would be little he could do but shoot back.
Less than five minutes after Leon was notified the hearing was over, he saw a red SUV, followed by a blue pick-up truck, pull slowly into the courthouse driveway. They’d come from the west, his right, and they stopped fifty feet short of Leon’s SWAT team, who were set up behind concrete barricades that had been hauled into the site.
A minute later, two more pick-ups, both silver, pulled in from the east and parked at the edge of the lot stopping short of a Tennessee Highway Patrol SWAT team. The men in the vehicles that had come from the west were black. The men who had come from the east were white. Leon counted what he thought to be eight whites and eight blacks. He saw weapons in the vehicles. Men were starting to get out of the vehicles and take cover on the sides, behind the doors, behind the trucks, in the truck beds. Leon pushed a button on his communications microphone and said, “Hold your fire, gents. Go easy.”
Leon quickly reached into the SUV he’d driven to the courthouse that morning and grabbed a bullhorn. He set the Colt M4A1 carbine he was carrying in the back seat and climbed on top of the SUV. He was wearing full tactical gear, but he was exposed. A head shot could kill him. There were also certain types of armor piercing bullets available. He hoped none of these people were quite that sophisticated. Still, Leon stood atop the SUV and faced them. He had to try to settle this peacefully.
“The hearing is over!” Leon said through the bullhorn. “The right thing happened in there. The boys who were falsely charged have been exonerated and will be released. A police officer has been taken to jail and the district attorney will end up being disbarred. There is no need for any bloodshed, no need for any more hatred. The system has finally worked.
“Now if you men turn around and drive on out of here right now, we won’t even follow you. We’ll let you go. No harm has been done. It’s over! Do you hear me? There is nothing you can do here but spread more hatred and fear and blood, and there’s just no sense in it. No sense at all. So please, I’m asking you. Hell, I’m begging you. Load up your weapons, get back in your vehicles, and drive away.”
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 17
The attorneys, boys and I all gathered in the jury room off a hallway outside the courtroom. The boys looked stunned.
“What in the world happened back there in chambers?” Jim Beaumont asked me.
I winked at him and said, “I’ll never tell.”
Kevin thanked me and Charlie and Jack over and over. He had questions: “Does this mean I get my life back? Will they let me finish school? Do you think we’ll get to play the last few games of the season? What do we do now?”
A bailiff came to the door and told us to stay in the jury room until he gave the all clear. His name was Hobie Beales, and I’d known him for more than twenty years. I walked up to him and said quietly, “What’s going on out there, Hobie?”
“Might be trouble brewing,” he said.
I nodded at him, and told him I’d be coming out in a minute.
“I don’t think that’d be a good idea, counselor,” he said. “We picked up a couple of truckloads of boys earlier. Sheriff thinks there’s gonna be bad trouble.”
“I’ll be out,” I said. “Don’t shoot me.”
“You get shot, it’ll be of your own accord,” Hobie said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I turned to Jack and Charlie.
“Stay in here no matter what. Lock these doors down. The bailiffs are all armed with rifles and shotguns today, nobody’s going to get past them. I’m going to go see what’s going on outside.”
“Dad,” Jack said. “Why don’t you just stay back here with us?”
“Because Leon’s out there, and Leon’s my friend.”
“But you don’t even have a weapon.”
“I hope I won’t need one. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I went out the door and jogged down the hall. I turned a corner and went through a door that led to the lobby. I could see Leon outside standing on top of a department issue SUV. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying through the thick glass that ran all along the front of the building, but suddenly, a lone shot rang out and Leon went flying off the top of the SUV and landed on the asphalt. Everything went into slow-motion as I felt myself yelling, “No!” and I began to run toward the front door.
When I hit the door with my shoulder, a cacophony of small arms fire, assault rifles, mostly, was building to a crescendo similar to that at the climax of a holiday fireworks display. Bullets were whistling, smashing glass, tearing into metal vehicles, skipping off the asphalt pavement.
Leon was lying in the fetal position on the asphalt about thirty feet outside the door. I made my way to him quickly while the firefight raged around me. I pulled him up close under the SUV and looked at his flak jacket. There was a tear, but no blood, and upon further inspection, the ceramic tile backed by Kevlar had held. Leon had been hit by a high-powered round. He’d be in a lot of pain, but he was alive and would be okay. He moaned and opened his eyes.
“Damn,” he said. “Damn. Some son of a bitch broke my ribs, brother.”
I pulled him closer to shield him further from the bullets that were still whizzing, albeit more infrequently.
“Where the hell is your weapon?” I said.
“It’s on the seat.”
The gunfire was beginning to slow. I stuck my head up and looked around. Police officers were advancing on vehicles on both ends of the parking lot. The vehicles had been shot full of holes. I could see bodies lying in pools of blood. There were men writhing and screaming. It reminded me of a time many years ago on Grenada when my Ranger battalion jumped onto Point Salines airstrip. It was a time I didn’t want to think about.
“It’s almost over, Leon,” I said. “Your guys have them. Their vehicles are too damaged to move. Nobody’s getting away.”
“I tried to stop it,” Leon said. There was pain in his eyes. “I swear it, brother Dillard. I tried
to stop it.”
“I’m sure you did. A lot of people tried to stop it. This isn’t your fault.”
“We’ve got a mass shooting in my county caused by a woman I got too close to. This is on me.”
“There’ll be plenty of room for blame later,” I said. “For now, let me see if we can’t get you on your feet. You’re the sheriff. Stand up and act like one.”
Leon smiled and looked at me with a sparkle in his eye. I could tell he was grateful I came out to help him.
“Don’t be giving me a hard time,” he said as I helped him to his feet. “Look at you. Who comes to a firefight in a damned suit and tie?”
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 17
I turned Leon over to the medics and went back inside. As I went through the front door, I looked back over my shoulder. It truly did resemble a military mop-up operation out in front of the courthouse. A helicopter had landed on the front lawn beyond the parking lot, there were medical personnel everywhere, blue lights flashing, police and dogs, and there was blood. A lot of blood.
I wondered whether everyone had gotten what they came for. Several men had apparently ridden in on a wave of hatred and adrenaline, inspired by events that didn’t concern them, determined only to kill either a policeman or someone with a different skin color. Several of them, it was obvious, had paid the ultimate price.
The bailiffs were beginning to release people from the courtroom. They were ordering them to proceed straight to their vehicles and to leave the courthouse immediately. That included the media. The media was told they could go across the street, drive up and down Highway 11-E, or observe from the shopping center across Tavern Hill Road. There would be a press conference later. Everyone else was told the best thing they could do was to get as far away from the courthouse as possible as quickly as possible.
