The Pecan Man (11 page)

“I know you didn’t do this. I’m
going to get you out of here.”

He didn’t respond.

“Do you understand me? I’m
going to get you out of here before they hurt you again.”

“Don’t,” was all he said before
he cut his eyes away again.

I wasn't one to pray often. I
was raised Methodist myself and we were taught not to bother God with anything
real specific, just the Lord’s Prayer at night and a litany of blessings on
friends and family. I looked down at the frail man who had tended my flowers
with care and never asked a thing of me and I felt compelled to ask for help.

I bowed my head and spoke
aloud, “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom
come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily
bread and forgive us…” My voice caught. I tried again. “Forgive us our
trespasses…” I couldn’t go on.

A feeble voice rose up, “As we
forgive those who trespass against us.”

I didn't cry at my own
husband's funeral, but I cried then. And the tears didn't stop until the Public
Defender arrived to meet his new client.
                      

Eleven

Jeffrey Thatcher was a huge man who wore a stained white
shirt and a crooked tie that barely reached his midriff. It may not be fair to
claim that the man was disinterested. He seemed genuinely concerned that Eldred
Mims was injured, but in retrospect I believe he was more worried about the
impact to his career than anything else. Doing the right thing is apparently
harder than it sounds when politics are involved.

He didn’t want me to stay while
he talked to his client, but Eddie managed to convey that he wanted me there.

“I’m Jeffrey Thatcher, Mr.
Mims. You are Eldred Mims, correct?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You have a middle name, Sir?”

“Uh-uh.”

“No middle name at all?”

“Uh-uh.”

The entire conversation went
this way. I filled in where I could, explaining about Eddie’s family in Alabama
and providing what little information I knew, including the general area of the
woods where I thought Mr. Mims lived.    

“Were you - umm -
home
the night Skipper Kornegay was killed, Mr. Mims? I believe that was on
Thanksgiving sometime around 8:30 p.m.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Mr. Mims had Thanksgiving
dinner at my house that day, Mr. Thatcher. He went home around sometime around
3 o’clock.” I decided to tell the absolute truth to a point. I knew Eldred Mims
hadn’t killed anyone, so I clung to “the truth shall set you free” and hoped
for the best. I just knew in my heart they had no evidence against him and I
prayed they’d exonerate him and never solve the case. It was incredibly naive
of me to even think it possible.

“Did you see or speak to anyone
after you left Mrs. Beckworth’s house that evening?”

“Mmm-mmm.”

I was looking down and I
actually remember raising my eyebrows at his answer. I knew for a fact Marcus
followed him home.

“Absolutely no one? You’re
sure?”

“Mmm-hmm,” He nodded and gave
me a pointed look which Jeffrey Thatcher missed as he made notes on his legal
pad.

The next few questions were a
blur as I mentally raced through all the reasons why Eddie might deny the truth
about Marcus. I still had not decided whether I would ask Eddie about it later
when I snatched myself back to attention.

“I have to ask you about the
murder itself now, Mr. Mims. Do you still want Mrs. Beckworth to stay?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Eddie nodded.

“I need for you to tell me the
truth, now. I’m your attorney and that means I won’t repeat what I hear, unless
you ask me to speak for you in court. Do you understand that?”

Eddie nodded again.

“Did you kill Skipper Kornegay,
Mr. Mims?”

Eddie looked away for a moment,
stared at the wall beside him as if trying to memorize something written there.
He sighed once and looked back at Jeffrey Thatcher. There were unshed tears in
his eyes.

“No, Sir.” He shook his head
and winced in pain.

“Is there any evidence, anywhere
that would support or refute that claim?”

I glared at the man. Why
couldn’t he just put it in plain English?

“What I mean is, is there
anything that would make it look like you did commit the murder, or is there
anything that would prove you didn’t?”

Eddie looked away again.

“No, sir," he said through
clenched gums.

Chip Smallwood arrived with a
cup of lukewarm soup, just as Jeffrey Thatcher was packing his ancient leather
briefcase.

“I’ll leave you to your supper,
Mr. Mims. Here’s my card if

you have any questions. I’ll be back in touch with you
sometime tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute!” I said. “What
about getting him out of here?”

“And taking him where? A
hospital?" Mr. Thatcher looked confused.

“Not a hospital - home!"

“Mrs. Beckworth, my client has
been charged with murder. What’s more, he has no home to which he can go. Even
if we could get the judge to set a reasonable bail, which is highly doubtful, I
don’t think I could get a bondsman to post it for him. Mr. Mims will be here a
while. I think you’d better get used to the idea.”

“Mr. Thatcher…” My voice
sounded thin, despite the heavy sarcasm in it. “Mr. Mims has been arrested for
a murder he did not commit. They can’t possibly keep him here under these
circumstances.”

“And what circumstances are you
referring to, Mrs. Beckworth?”

“Any of them!” I was nearly
frantic. “He’s been beaten within an inch of his life, and you know as well as
I do that he couldn’t possibly have resisted enough to warrant these wounds. He
is old and feeble and as far as I know, has never hurt a fly. I will not have
him sitting in this jail waiting to be beaten again. You absolutely must do
something to help him.”

Jeffrey Thatcher sighed heavily
and set his briefcase on the floor. He scratched the back of his neck and
pushed his glasses back up on his nose.

“Common sense tells me you’re
probably right, Mrs. Beckworth, but the law tells me I have to go through the
process it sets forth. I’ll do the best I can do, but I can’t make any
promises. I can’t even give you any hope.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Try to
get some rest, Mr. Mims.” With that, Mr. Thatcher gave a nod to Chip Smallwood,
who unlocked the cell door and ushered him out.

Eddie took a few sips of the
soup before he waved me away. I took my leave soon after. I need to make a few
phone calls.

Chip Smallwood walked me to the
cellblock door. I spoke quietly so Eddie would not hear.

“How’s your mama and daddy
doin’, Chip?” I had to check a few things out before I could get where I was
going with him.

He shrugged. “Not too bad, I
reckon. I don’t really see ‘em too much.”

That was a good sign.

“What a shame,” I sympathized.
“I thought you were pretty close to your parents.”

Chip shifted uncomfortably.
“Mom and me’s close, I reckon. I try to see her when I can.”

“You and your daddy have a
fallin’ out?”

My rudeness was appalling, but
I pressed on anyway.

“Well, you know, fathers and
sons don’t always see eye to eye. I wouldn’t call it a fallin’ out, though.”

Now, as a rule, a southern
gentleman does everything he can to honor his father and mother. They could be
drunken fools and you’d never hear a word against his parents. I suddenly
thought of an incident from many years back, a vivid reminder of Chip's strong
character.

We were finishing crafts in
Sunday school one morning and I turned around just in time to see Chip
Smallwood hurl a box of crayons at a boy sitting across from him. I was
absolutely shocked. Chip had never given me a moment’s trouble before.

I called the two boys to me and
suggested that Chip apologize. I didn’t think for a moment he would refuse, but
that’s exactly what he did. He tucked his little chin to his chest, crossed his
arms, stared straight ahead and uttered not a word.

“Did you hear me, Chipper?” I
asked. “I need you to apologize so we can finish up our projects.”

He looked away without
speaking.

“Chip, honey, I know you didn’t
mean to throw those crayons at C.J., so let’s just say ‘I’m sorry’ and get it
over with, okay?”

“Aw, he meant to do it all
right. He was aimin’ straight for my hayed, Miz Beckworth,” whined C.J. McComb.

I never did get the boy to
apologize, nor utter a word in his own defense. He clamped his teeth shut and
refused to discuss the incident ever again. It was years before I learned that
C.J. had kicked Chip under the table hard enough to leave a bruise on his shin.
    

Chip didn’t tattle out of a
sense of honor. It was clear to me now. He wouldn’t rat anyone out, but he
by
God
wouldn’t apologize to the rat, either.

“You working the late shift
tonight?”

“Yes, Ma’am, three to eleven.”

“So you weren’t here when they
brought Mr. Mims in, huh?”

“No, Ma’am, not exactly, but
they went to the infirmary first and I was here by the time they brought him to
the cell.”

“Did he look like that when
they got him here?”

“I reckon he did. They kept him
in the infirmary for quite a while.”

”You think he put up that big a
fight?”

“That’s what they say.” His
leather holster crackled as he squirmed a bit and looked away.

“I know what they said. What
I’m asking is, do you think he really did?” I looked him straight in the eye
and he held my gaze.

“I wasn’t there, Mrs.
Beckworth. I really couldn’t tell.”

“That’s what I figured you’d
say,” I said, resigned, but not angry.

“I’m sorry…”

I cut him off with the wave of
my hand. “No need to apologize, son. Like you said, you weren’t there.”

He opened the outer door,
walked me through it and clicked it shut.

“Chip,” I said.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“If you
had
been there,
would you have let them beat him like that?”

He took a deep breath and
studied his fingernails.

“No, Ma’am,” he said finally,
“I don’t reckon I would’ve.”

“You were a good boy, Chip
Smallwood.” I patted his arm. “And you’re a good man.”

He nodded and reached back
towards the cellblock door. He pressed a button on the wall and waited to be
buzzed back in.

“Keep an eye on him for me,
would you?” I asked.

“I’ll do my best.” He nodded
his head once and disappeared through the door.

I made two phone calls when I
got home. The first was to Harley Odell. That is, the Honorable Harley T.
Odell, Circuit Court Judge, or “Poopsie," as he was called by everyone who
knew him as a child.

He punched me in the stomach
when I was twelve years old and he was just ten. There was no reason for it. He
just walked up to me in our back yard and punched me as hard as he could. I
guess when you’ve been called Poopsie all your life the rage just builds up
until it has to go somewhere. I threw up on his bare feet. We’ve never spoken
of it since, but I’m almost positive Harley Odell still feels like he owes me
something for his momentary cruelty.

When I told him what I knew -
well, what I wanted
him
to know I knew - about Eldred Mims, he promised
to look into the case and let me know what he could. He also cautioned me not
to get involved in something that might be more than I bargained for.

“Too late,” I said.

“Don’t say another word,” he
warned. “I don’t want to know.”

“G’night, Poopsie,” I said,
only half-jokingly.

“Night, Ora,” he growled.

The second call was to Ralph
Kornegay. I hesitated before I called his home. On the one hand, I was angry
over his treatment of an innocent man. On the other, he and his wife had just
lost their only child. Right or wrong, I think Ralph
believed
Eldred
Mims killed his son. I felt hard-pressed to stand in judgment.

I decided to tread lightly. I
expressed my condolences first and my concern for Eldred Mims second. I told
him I was absolutely convinced of the man’s innocence and cautioned him not to
jeopardize his job by losing his cool. He defended his deputies for “using
appropriate force to subdue a combative suspect.”

“Combative,” I repeated in a
dry monotone.

“Yes, Ma‘am,” Ralph replied,
“He was combative all right.”