No Defense (24 page)

“Why wouldn’t there be any blacks on the
jury?” I asked.

“Not many live in the county, and of those
less than forty percent are registered to vote-that’s where we get
our jury list. I can probably strike the few who get summonses.
It’s a rare day when an Alabama jury convicts a white man for
killing a black man. In fact, I read last week that four thousand
racially motivated murders occurred in the South between 1886 and
1966. How many whites got in trouble? I can’t name more than a
few.”

“As horrible as those numbers are-I mean,
what they stand for-they make me feel better about your odds,
Daddy,” I said.

My father rolled back his chair, stood up,
and put on his suit jacket. We were dismissed. “I want to think
about all this and we’ll talk again in the morning, Chip,” he
said.

“The arraignment is in the morning,” Chip
said.

“I know when it is,” my father said harshly.
“Meet me here at eight o’clock.”

“I’m telling everybody to stay away from the
arraignment,” he said to me. “I don’t want a big to-do. No need for
it.”

“Mother’s not coming?” I asked,
surprised.

“She’s happy to stay home. Your sister is
supposed to be in bed anyway, so she’s not coming. And Buck wants
to pretend this isn’t happening.”

“Well, I want to come,” I insisted. “I
really do. Please.”

“I don’t know why, but I guess I can’t stop
you,” he said. “As they used to say in the good old days, you’re
free, white, and twenty-one.”

The arraignment was in Courtroom B on the
first floor of the new courthouse. When the building was dedicated
in April, I’d felt that the grandeur of the marble floors, the
carved oak doors, and the high ceilings imparted a sense of
justice. Now I saw the same space as cold and heartless, a reminder
of just how powerless I was to help my father.

I arrived at court early to avoid the press
and the demonstrators I assumed would be on the courthouse steps.
After the news stories broke, three fully outfitted Klansmen had
stood outside my restaurant a few hours each day for a week in
support of their hero, my father. I had done my best to ignore the
Klan, and I was just as anxious to avoid the placards and glares of
the Birmingham NAACP members who were in town.

The courtroom filled up quickly between
eight-forty-five and nine o’clock, primarily with reporters (Ben
was in the first row), the extended families of Jimmy Turnbow and
Leon Johnson, and a few members of the Coffee Club. The rest of our
family had stayed away, as my father had requested.

At five before nine, my father and Chip came
in following their morning meeting. Chip didn’t look happy. He
walked quickly, his squat frame bobbing up and down with each step.
My father, looking relaxed, winked at me when he passed. I wondered
what was going on.

Bobby Lee McNabb, the senior judge in
Tallagumsa County, entered Courtroom B at exactly nine. Judge
McNabb was a small olive-skinned man, with thin black hair and a
large beak nose.

The bailiff stood up and ordered us to stand
as well.

Bobby Lee McNabb called the court to order
and told us to sit down again. “Good morning, everyone, Newell,
Chip, Junior. Welcome to you out-of-town folks. Sorry to see y’all
under these circumstances, but here we are and we might as well
proceed with
The State of Alabama v. Newell Hagerdorn.

“I’ll read the indictment,” he continued. He
read: “The grand jury of Tallagumsa County charges that on or about
August 27, 1963, Newell Hagerdorn did: (1) unlawfully and with
malice aforethought kill Jimmy Turnbow by shooting him with a
shotgun; (2) unlawfully and with malice aforethought kill Leon
Johnson by shooting him with a shotgun; against the peace and
dignity of the State of Alabama.”

As Judge McNabb talked, a peroxide-blond
woman in a skin-tight knit dress typed every word he said on a
little machine that looked more like an adding machine than a
typewriter.

“How do you plead, Newell?” the judge
asked.

My father stood up. “Not guilty to both
charges,” he said. Then he sat down.

“We should talk about our schedule,” Judge
McNabb said, balancing a large desk calendar upright in front of
him.

Chip and Junior stood up. They made an odd
couple: Chip was five foot two inches tall, Junior six foot five
inches.

“Today is August the twenty-ninth,” Judge
McNabb said. “Junior, you’ll be prosecuting, right?”

“Yes, Judge,” Junior said.

“Let’s hear what you’re thinking about for a
trial date,” Judge McNabb said.

“I hoped we could get the trial done in
between Thanksgiving and Christmas,” Junior said.

“And motions?”

“One month from today,” Junior said. “If
that’s enough time for the defense.”

“Chip, what does the defense say to those
proposals?” Judge McNabb asked.

“We’d like to go to trial no later than
October second,” Chip said.

A buzz of conversation began among the
spectators. Junior looked confused. Judge Bobby Lee McNabb,
obviously surprised, pounded his gavel.

“We have only two motions, and we can make
them today-right now, in fact,” Chip said. “First, we move to waive
a jury trial; and second, we move for discovery of all material
we’re entitled to under Rule 16. That’s it. The mayor wants this
resolved as quickly as possible so he can get on with his life and
the election.”

“The State have any objections, Junior?”
Judge McNabb asked. “The court and the prosecutor have to agree
before there can be a jury waiver.”

“I haven’t thought much about trying this
without a jury,” Junior said slowly. “I just don’t know. The trial
date too, that’s awful early. We may have difficulty getting all
the evidence together in time for an October trial.”

“Your Honor, if I may, the State shouldn’t
bring an indictment if the State’s not ready to proceed with a case
immediately,” Chip said.

“Could we take a break?” Junior asked.

Court was adjourned. The buzz that had begun
when Chip dropped his bombshell erupted into a cacophony of voices.
Several reporters, including Ben, rushed out of the room. I assumed
they were placing calls to their legal experts to see what this
could mean. I wished I knew. The day before we’d talked in Daddy’s
office about delay and more delay, and now he was asking for a
trial date in just over a month. What about all the motions Chip
could make? What about a jury that would surely acquit? What was
going on? The families of Jimmy and Leon looked suspiciously in my
father’s direction, no doubt wondering what sort of trickery he was
up to.

In the hallway outside the courtroom, I
grabbed my father’s arm and pulled him down the hall, away from the
reporters. “You come too, Chip,” I ordered. I yanked open the door
to Courtroom D. It was empty. The three of us went inside. The door
swung slowly shut behind us.

“What was all that about?” I asked. “What
are you doing, Daddy?”

“I told you not to come, remember? Last
night, after looking at the whole thing, I realized that what I
want is as quick and quiet a trial as possible,” he said. “If we
use all the means of delay Chip says are available, I’ll delay
myself right out of the gubernatorial election.”

“Not if you get the case dismissed,” I said.
I could hear how whiny I sounded, but I couldn’t help it. The
situation seemed to grow more ludicrous by the day.

“But then everyone will say I won by playing
technical legal games,” he said. “A dismissal would just give the
press and my opponents too much ammunition and increase the chances
that the FBI and the Justice Department will look into the murders
again, dragging everything out even longer. The whole affair will
be never ending. I need-!want-a speedy resolution and a final
one.”

“But why not take the jury, then, and be
sure of getting off?” I asked. “If a jury acquits, how can anyone
complain?”

Chip patted my shoulder. “I think we’re
taking a big risk,” he said. “But your father has the final say.
I’ve advised him of the risks and benefits of every approach.
That’s all I can do.”

“This is the stupidest idea you’ve ever
had,” I said.

“No, the smartest,” my father said. “Listen,
the government can’t prove I killed anyone because I didn’t; the
people will see there’s no truth to the charges. I’m going to win
the case, end this bullshit once and for all, and win the election
too.”

“Do you think I should admire you for
avoiding the easy way out, for holding the government to its burden
of proof? I might agree with your approach if you were going to
testify, if you’d finally explain all this. Will you?” I asked. I
didn’t bother to look at him as I spoke. I figured I knew what his
answer would be.

“No,” he said.

I wanted to hit him. “Chip! This is
ridiculous!” I said. “Make him listen.”

Chip shrugged. “Once Newell Hagerdom makes
up his mind, I don’t know any way to change it. If you do, LuAnn,
let me in on the secret.”

“I give up,” I said quietly.

I got up and walked to the doors, where I
caught sight of several reporters who’d been watching us through
the small glass windows in the doors. When they saw me, they moved
quickly out of sight, trying to hide their prying eyes.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

My family traditionally had a Labor Day
cookout at Clark Lake with Jolene and her family. Since the
arraignment had been less than a week before Labor Day, I’d assumed
we’d just skip it this year. I was wrong.

The day was pleasant, with the temperature
in the high eighties and low humidity. My father was in a great
mood-happy, he said, that the trial would be over soon and
everything would be back to normal.

Before Jolene and her family arrived at my
parents’, I helped Mother carry out bowls of salads and trays of
hot dogs and hamburgers to the picnic table. She didn’t seem at all
concerned about the events of the last month or the upcoming trial.
All her energy was focused on making the picnic a success, taking
care of my sister, and planning for the church bazaar.

On my last trip to the kitchen for mustard
and ketchup, I caught sight of Ben walking up the path from the
direction of his rental house. He carried his steno pad in one hand
and wore his camera around his neck. My father smiled and shook
Ben’s hand. Ben looked around, saw me, and waved. I stared at him,
then ran inside the house to find out what was going on.

Buck sat at the dining-room table stamping
fundraising envelopes for Daddy’s gubernatorial race. Buck’s
enthusiasm for the election had waned briefly after the newscast
accused Daddy of being involved in the murders and then again after
the indictment, but he was still the campaign manager. If he felt
any anxiety, he never let on publicly.

“Buck! Why is Ben Gainey here?” I
demanded.

Buck stopped writing, but didn’t put down
his pen or look at me. “Your father wanted him,” he said.

“I thought he hated him,” I said. “I thought
he couldn’t stand to be near him. I thought he wanted to shoot him,
for God’s sake.”

“Newell doesn’t like or dislike Ben
particularly, but he’s decided that Ben should be with him
regularly from now through the trial. His view is that Ben broke
the story, and Ben should write the happy ending as well. Besides,
Ben will be fairer than any of the other Yankees covering the case.
As for why he’s here today, the publicity will be great. You know,
with Jolene’s family here. We need some good press.” He counted the
number of envelopes in the pile he’d just made.

“I don’t want him here!” I said.

“Go tell your father,” Buck said, smiling.
He stood up and patted me on the back, well aware that I wouldn’t
say a word to Daddy.

“Fine, but I’m not going to be nice to
Ben.”

“You sound just like a four-year-old,” Buck
said.

While we were arguing in the house, I heard
cars pulling up. I looked out. Jolene, her husband, two daughters,
and seven grandchildren (ages one month to fifteen) arrived in the
two old cars my father had given them over the years. Only Jolene’s
son, Darrell, was missing.

I went out and greeted our guests. Jolene
had on shorts and a T-shirt commemorating the family reunion she
and her family had attended in the hills of Tennessee the year
before, where they’d met hundreds of other members of the Wilson
clan.

“Hi. Where’s Darrell?” I asked Jolene.

She frowned. “He couldn’t come,” she said,
looking past me toward the shoreline.

“He couldn’t or wouldn’t?” I said.

She didn’t answer.

“Come on,” I urged her. “Just tell me.”

“Don’t you tell your daddy, but Darrell
called us Uncle Toms for coming, say we betrayed our race and all
this like that. ‘Mr. Newell didn’t do nothing,’ I told him. But he
wouldn’t listen. Lordy, I never seen him like that.”