The Last Juror (11 page)

Folks were watching again, so I picked out the smallest piece and put it in my mouth. The texture was rubbery, the taste was acrid and foul. The smell had a barnyard essence. I chewed as hard as possible, choked it down, then followed with a gulp of moonshine. And for a few seconds I thought I might faint.

“Hog guts, boy,” Harry Rex said, slapping me on the back. He threw another one in his large mouth and offered me the plate. “Where’s the goat?” I managed to ask. Anything would be an improvement.

Whatever happened to beer and pizza? Why would these people eat and drink such disagreeable things?

Harry Rex walked away, the putrid smell of the chitlins following him like smoke. I placed the fruit jar on the railing, hoping it would tumble and disappear. I watched others pass around their moonshine, one jar usually good for an entire group. There was absolutely no concern over germs and such. No bacteria could’ve survived within three feet of the vile brew.

I excused myself from the deck, said I needed to find a restroom. Harry Rex emerged from the back door of the cabin holding two pistols and a box of ammo. “We’d better take a few shots before it gets dark,” he said. “Follow me.”

We stopped at the goat spit where a cowboy named Rafe joined us. “Rafe’s my runner,” Harry Rex said as the three of us headed for the woods.

“What’s a runner?” I asked.

“Runs cases.”

“I’m the ambulance chaser,” Rafe said helpfully. “Although usually the ambulance is behind me.”

I had so much to learn, though I was making some real progress. Chitlins and moonshine in one day were no small feat. We walked a hundred yards or so down an old field road, through some woods, then came to a clearing. Between two magnificent oaks Harry Rex had constructed a semicircle wall of hay bales twenty feet high. In the center was a white bedsheet, and in the middle of it was the crude outline of a man. An attacker. The enemy. The target.

Not surprisingly, Rafe whipped out his own handgun. Harry Rex was handling mine. “Here’s the deal,” he said, beginning the lesson. “This is a double action revolver with six cartridges. Press here and the cylinder pops out.” Rafe reached over and deftly loaded six bullets, something he had obviously done many, many times. “Snap it back like this, and you’re ready to fire.”

We were about fifty feet from the target. I could still hear the music from the cabin. What would the other guests think when they heard gunfire? Nothing. It happened all the time.

Rafe took my handgun and faced the target. “For starters, spread your legs to shoulders’ width, bend the knees slightly, use both hands like this, and squeeze the
trigger with your right index finger.” He demonstrated as he spoke, and, of course, everything looked easy. I was standing less than five feet away when the gun fired, and the sharp crack jolted my nerves. Why did it have to be so loud?

I had never heard live gunfire.

The second shot hit the target square in the chest, and the next four landed around the midsection. He turned to me, opened the cylinder, spun out the empty cartridges, and said, “Now you do it.”

My hands were shaking as I took the gun. It was warm and the smell of gunpowder hung heavy around us. I managed to shove in the six cartridges and snap the cylinder shut without hurting anyone. I faced the target, lifted the gun with both hands, crouched like someone in a bad movie, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger. It felt and sounded like a small bomb of some sort.

“You gotta keep your eyes open, dammit,” Harry Rex growled.

“What did I hit?”

“That hill beyond the oak trees.”

“Try it again,” Rafe said.

I tried to look down the gunsight but it was shaking too badly to be of any use. I squeezed the trigger again, this time with my eyes open, waiting to see where my bullet hit. I noticed no entry wound anywhere near the target.

“He missed the sheet,” Rafe mumbled behind me.

“Fire again,” Harry Rex said.

I did, and again couldn’t see where the bullet landed. Rafe gently took my left arm and eased me forward another ten feet. “You’re doin’ fine,” he said. “We got plenty of ammo.”

I missed the hay on the fourth shot, and Harry Rex said, “I guess the Padgitts are safe after all.”

“It’s the moonshine,” I said.

“It just takes practice,” Rafe said, moving me forward yet again. My hands were sweating, my heart was galloping away, my ears were ringing.

On number five I hit the sheet, barely, in the top right-hand corner, at least six feet from the target. On number six I missed everything again and heard the bullet hit a branch up in one of the oaks.

“Nice shot,” Harry Rex said. “You almost hit a squirrel.”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Relax,” Rafe said. “You’re too tense.” He helped me reload, and this time he squeezed my hands around the gun. “Breathe deeply,” he said over my shoulder. “Exhale right before you pull the trigger.” He steadied the gun as I looked down the sight, and when it fired the target took a hit in the groin.

“Now we’re in business,” Harry Rex said.

Rafe released me, and, like a gunslinger at high noon, I unloaded the next five shots. All hit the sheet, one would’ve taken off the target’s ear. Rafe approved and we loaded up again.

Harry Rex had a 9-millimeter Glock automatic from his vast collection, and as the sun slowly disappeared we
took turns blasting away. He was good and had no trouble drilling ten straight shots into the upper torso from fifty feet. After four rounds, I began to relax and enjoy the sport of it. Rafe was an excellent teacher, and as I progressed he passed on tips here and there. “It just takes practice,” he kept saying.

When we finished, Harry Rex said, “The gun’s a gift. You can come out here anytime for target practice.”

“Thanks,” I said. I stuck the gun in my pocket like a real redneck. I was delighted that the ritual was over, that I had accomplished something that every other male in the county had experienced by his twelfth birthday. I didn’t feel any safer. Any Padgitt who jumped from the bushes would have the advantage of surprise, and the benefit of years of target practice. I could almost envision myself grappling with my own gun in the darkness and finally unloading a bullet that would more likely hit me than any assailant.

As we were walking back through the woods, Harry Rex said from behind me, “That bleached blonde you met, Carleen.”

“Yeah,” I said, suddenly nervous.

“She likes you.”

Carleen had lived at least forty very hard years. I could think of nothing to say.

“She’s always good for a hop in the sack.”

I doubted if Carleen had missed too many sacks in Ford County. “No thanks,” I said. “I got a girl in Memphis.”

“So?”

“Good call,” Rafe said under his breath.

“A girl here, a girl there. What’s the big difference?”

“I gotta deal for you, Harry Rex,” I said. “If I need your help picking up women, I’ll let you know.”

“Just a roll in the hay,” he mumbled.

I did not have a girl in Memphis, but I knew several. I’d rather make the drive than stoop to the likes of Carleen.

______

T
he goat had a distinctive taste; not good, but, after the chitlins, not nearly as bad as I had feared. It was tough and smothered in sticky barbeque sauce, which, I suspected, was applied in generous layers to counter the taste of the meat. I toyed with a slice of it and washed it down with beer. We were on the deck again with Loretta Lynn in the background. The moonshine had made the rounds for a while and some of the guests were dancing above the pond. Carleen had disappeared earlier with someone else, so I felt safe. Harry Rex sat nearby, telling everyone how effective I’d been shooting squirrels and rabbits. His talent for storytelling was remarkable.

I was an oddity but every effort was made to include me. Driving the dark roads home, I asked myself the same question I posed every day. What was I doing in Ford County, Mississippi?

CHAPTER 10

T
he gun was too big for my pocket. For a few hours I tried walking around with it, but I was terrified the thing would discharge down there very near my privates. So I decided to carry it in a ragged leather briefcase my father had given me. For three days the briefcase went everywhere, even to lunch, then I grew weary of that too. After a week I left the pistol under the seat of my car, and after three weeks I had pretty much forgotten about it. I did not go to the cabin for more target practice, though I did attend a few other goat parties in which I avoided chitlins, moonshine, and an increasingly aggressive Carleen.

The county was quiet, a lull before the frenzy of the trial. The
Times
said nothing about the case because nothing was happening. The Padgitts were still refusing to pledge their land for Danny’s bail, so he remained a guest in Sheriff Coley’s special cell, watching television,
playing cards or checkers, getting plenty of rest, and eating better food than the common inmates.

The first week in May, Judge Loopus was back in town, and my thoughts returned to my trusty Smith & Wesson.

Lucien Wilbanks had filed a motion requesting a change of venue, and the Judge set it for a hearing at 9 A.M. on a Monday morning. Half the county was there, it seemed. Certainly most of the regulars from around the square. Baggy and I got to the courtroom early and secured good seats.

The defendant’s presence was not required, but evidently Sheriff Coley wanted to show him off. They brought him in, handcuffed and wearing new orange coveralls. Everyone looked at me. The power of the press had brought about change.

“It’s a setup,” Baggy whispered.

“What?”

“They’re baitin’ us into runnin’ a picture of Danny in his cute little jail outfit. Then Wilbanks can run back to the Judge and claim the jury pool has been poisoned yet again. Don’t fall for it.”

My naïveté shocked me again. Wiley had been positioned outside the jail in another effort to ambush Padgitt when they loaded him up for court. I could see a large front page photo of him in his orange coveralls.

Lucien Wilbanks entered the courtroom from behind the bench. As usual, he seemed angry and perturbed, as if he’d just lost an argument with the Judge. He walked to the defense table, tossed down his legal
pad, and scanned the crowd. His eyes locked onto me. They narrowed and his jaws clenched, and I thought he might hop over the bar and attack. His client turned around and began looking too. Someone pointed, and Mr. Danny Padgitt himself commenced glaring at me as if I might be his next victim. I was having trouble breathing, but I tried to keep calm. Baggy inched away.

In the front row behind the defense crowd were several Padgitts, all older than Danny. They, too, joined the staring, and I had never felt so vulnerable. These were violent men who knew nothing but crime, intimidation, leg breaking, killing, and there I was in the same room with them while they dreamed of ways to cut my throat.

A bailiff called us to order and everybody stood to acknowledge the entrance of His Honor. “Please be seated,” he said.

Loopus scanned the papers while we waited, then he adjusted his reading glasses and said, “This is a motion to change venue, filed by the defense. Mr. Wilbanks, how many witnesses do you have?”

“Half a dozen, give or take. We’ll see how things go.”

“And the State?”

A short round man with no hair and a black suit bounced to his feet and said, “About the same.” His name was Ernie Gaddis, the longtime, part-time District Attorney from up in Tyler County.

“I don’t want to be here all day,” Loopus mumbled, as if he had an afternoon golf game. “Call your first witness, Mr. Wilbanks.”

“Mr. Walter Pickard.”

The name was unknown to me, which was expected, but Baggy had never heard of him either. During the preliminary questions it was established that he had lived in Karaway for over twenty years, went to church every Sunday and the Rotary Club every Thursday. For a living he owned a small furniture factory.

“Must buy lumber from the Padgitts,” Baggy whispered.

His wife was a schoolteacher. He had coached Little League baseball and worked with the Boy Scouts. Lucien pressed on and did a masterful job of laying the groundwork that Mr. Pickard knew his community well.

Karaway was a smaller town eighteen miles west of Clanton. Spot had always neglected the place and we sold very few papers there. And even fewer ads. In my youthful eagerness, I was already contemplating the expansion of my empire. A small weekly in Karaway would sell a thousand copies, I thought.

“When did you first hear that Miss Kassellaw had been murdered?” Wilbanks asked.

“Couple of days after it happened,” Mr. Pickard said. “News is sometimes slow getting to Karaway.”

“Who told you?”

“One of my employees came in with the story. She has a brother who lives around Beech Hill, where it happened.”

“Did you hear that someone had been arrested for the murder?” Lucien asked. He prowled around the
courtroom like a bored cat. Just going through the motions, yet missing nothing.

“Yes, the rumor was that one of the young Padgitts had been arrested.”

“Did you later confirm this?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I saw the story in
The Ford County Times.
There was a large photo of Danny Padgitt on the front page, right next to a large photo of Rhoda Kassellaw”

“Did you read the reports in the
Times
?”

“I did.”

“And did you form an opinion about Mr. Padgitt’s guilt or innocence?”

“He looked guilty to me. In the photo he had blood all over his shirt. His face was placed right next to that of the victim’s, you know, side by side. The headline was huge and said something like, DANNY PADGITT ARRESTED FOR MURDER.”

“So you assumed he was guilty?”

“It was impossible not to.”

“What’s been the reaction to the murder in Karaway?”

“Shock and outrage. This is a peaceful county. Serious crimes are rare.”

“In your opinion, do folks over there generally believe Danny Padgitt raped and murdered Rhoda Kassellaw?”