

Turnbull

Based on a True Story

By Jonathan C. Jackson

©Copyright 2013 Jonathan Jackson

"....In the name of God. Do your duty."

-Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (1960)

Part I

"I can do this."

"Come on in. Don't lag! Get in here and let's get this over with."

Throughout the pursuit of my education, especially in the graduate school realm, I have encountered people who feel that their own time should be more valuable to the rest of the world than the breath they take. This occasion was no exception but this particular invitation turned out to be a real life changer, for two usually stubborn and unyielding individuals – myself and my host.

When we talk of history, we talk of facts and momentous remembrances, but we almost always forget the Human side of everything. We don't consider that the man who just drove his car across the Bonneville Salt Flats to set a speed record in 1941 had a head cold and a sneeze that snuck up on him almost resulted in a catastrophic crash. We don't consider that the boy who just delivered the newspaper by throwing it up onto the top of a shrub will come back the next day and aim for another spot just as inconvenient. We especially don't think about things like the black and white photograph of the man with arms thrown wide to stretch and yawn on a New York City sidewalk – the same man just stepped off the elevator in the building behind him and left a great deal of gas for the next passenger to enjoy.

Let's keep it all in perspective. We read of crimes and trials in the newspapers and it's simply a recitation of fact, supposition, conjecture and hopefully true revelations of actions. We don't consider hidden biases of jurors, or that the judge may be playing Sudoku on his bench where no one can see. We don't consider the defense attorney who knows without doubt that his client is guilty but is obligated to give him adequate representation. We don't consider that the State's case is weak and barely passes the threshold for proof beyond a reasonable doubt to convict. To us, it's just black and white news print and none of the human element. Never mind the mother of the man being convicted is standing in the back of the court room sobbing and experiencing heart palpitations. Let's keep it all in perspective.  
That's how the interview went for me. This significant meeting became a benchmark for pretty much everything I would do for several years. Please don't misunderstand the purpose of what you're reading. This isn't at all about me. I just happen to be the one fortunate enough to grasp hold of a small sliver of information to allow it to reveal itself as a drama that in a different social circle, or a different time frame, could have reached global importance.

Having once romanticized the idea of being a writer, I imagined it would be entertaining to enroll in a creative writing class in lieu of an undergraduate literature class that I had been putting off for three years. My ACT scores were high enough to get me into college, but unlike many of my friends, weren't high enough to exempt me from the drudgery of "core curriculum prison". I had already completed a couple of English Comp and Lit classes but the last one was like a pendulous weight hanging over me. I had to take it now, so I could graduate in the fall. Seriously though, just how hard could a writing class be?

That first day of class, I strolled into creative writing with my book bag over my shoulder and my coffee in hand, ready to start my William Sidney Porter phase of life, (that's O'Henry to most of y'all). By the shock I received entering that class; I realized that I was wrong about a lot of things. I heard sitar music playing softly from a tape player on the desk and the shades were drawn. Was it nap time? I wasn't even the first to arrive and I am always twenty minutes early everywhere I go.

There was no cardigan-wearing, pipe smoking, and mustachioed, grand-fatherly professor that I've seen around campus. I was hoping for a Samuel Clemmons aka Mark Twain as I was taking on the role of O'Henry. Instead there was a really cute, if not barely-in-her-twenties, woman dressed as you would expect a half-hearted hippie from the late 1960s. She had long braided hair with a silk scarf tied around it. She was dressed in flowing dress and blouse with a dozen huge bracelets around her wrists. Despite all of the bangles, I just had to consider, "since when were college professors allowed to be good looking? Isn't there some rule that says if they don't look like academics, they should be crones or New York cab driver types?"

I later learned that many undergraduate courses were taught by graduate teaching assistants who weren't "real professors" at all. They were that caste of slave labor that each collegiate department had that consisted of tuition paying students who had aspirations of actually being experts or professors in their fields. When the professor had a hangover or a golf game, or worse, a shopping excursion, that was who would teach their classes. Some, mine, were fortunate enough to have a complete class of their own. None the less, despite only being a GTA, she still leveraged a great deal of influence as she was going to be issuing a final grade to us.

Also in my classroom were about two dozen other students. Each of them had the same lost look glazing their eyes. I don't think, like me, any of them expected this either. I shared their pain. The instructor cheerfully invited me in and asked my name. After scanning a class roster on a clip board, she directed me to an assigned seat. Wonderful, a seating chart; back to grade school we will go. I don't usually object to order and organization but I did hope to sit somewhere in an anonymous back corner of the room so I could goof off should the urge hit me.

We were given our introduction and an immediate assignment to write three paragraphs about what was most pressing on our minds at that exact moment. Seriously, did she really want to read what I was thinking? Here I was experiencing a serious case of "teacher crush." I didn't want to write about politics or my most recent spiritual epiphany. I didn't even want to write the lyrics to that ominous song about Iron Man that had been stuck in my head since seeing a bumper sticker at a red light that morning touting an old heavy metal rock group. It was creative writing after all, so I became creative and quickly drafted a short essay about my love of music of the Indian culture. Total malarkey, yes of course, but it was off-the-cuff and my appreciation for it wasn't totally a fabrication.

I learned over the course of a few weeks, that amid my other core classes, the creative writing was just as much of a hassle as any other. There was no great writing project with overtones of winning awards and scholarships. There was no romance, and no glamour. Well, almost; my imagination filled in a lot when she would lecture about rhythm and flow of a story.

Midway through the semester we were given an unusual option for our class. We could stay in the classroom and continue to study the writings of other people and take tests or we could "innovate." Innovate, as my teacher described it, was a gamble. We would leave class and not return until the day of the final exams. On that day, we would turn in one hundred pages of original, creative writing.

The focus of the instructions was on the word, original. This was a creative writing class and the idea of copying someone else's work never crossed my mind until the instructor brought it up. What's the point? We'd heard horror stories from a variety of professors and instructors over the years about students who plagiarized their work. None of use wanted to end up in that never ending pit of academic despair.

This assignment was valued at 90% of our final grade, should we be so brave, and we had until our next class meeting to decide. I think the instructor was hoping for an "out" so that she could take the rest of the semester off herself, but who was I to judge?

I went to her after class, looking for the small print that goes with deals like this. I learned in high school economics that there was no such thing as a "free lunch" and also learned that the economic catch phrase also applied to most everything else in life – nothing was ever truly free.

"What's the catch? We can really write one project and get 90% of our grade?"

"That's it, simple as pie. You've already earned the equivalent to the first ten percent through class work, attendance, and assignments. That will all be averaged at the end of the semester and included in your score. It's pretty simple actually. Were you expecting more, maybe angels playing harps?" She smiled at me and I'm sure she knew that I'd developed quite an oedipal crush on her over the last six weeks. If I looked as goofy and as awkward as I felt when I talked to her, how could she not?

She went on to explain that in many collegiate courses, the material is actually too deep for simple classroom study to be thorough. That was part of the reason that some subjects spanned multiple semesters, but also required quite a bit of independent study. Creative writing is one of those subjects. You could learn all of the theory you want in a classroom and you could do all of the busy work and drills that you can stand, but it takes strenuous thought, organization, and a study of the written word to make a good creative writer. She said that the effort required to make what most would call a "great" creative writer may just be too intimidating for me to consider at my stage of the game.

I was beginning to like the idea of being allowed to work on my own at somewhat my own pace. "What are the rules for this assignment? Are there any special formatting requirements?"  
"You must have been daydreaming when I explained this. I told you, one hundred pages due at the time of the final exam."

"Yes and...?" I was beginning to get really frustrated. I've never been patient or good with people who I see as trying to talk in circles or those who feel the need to prove they have greater intellect than I. It didn't put me in my place. In fact, it made me rather angry. Sigmund Freud wouldn't have remained healthy around me for long.

"That's all. You create, organize and write one hundred pages on something you choose and turn it in to me on the day of the final exam. There are no rules to follow. I'm not even going to check your grammar usage – spelling, yes, but grammar, no. Remember, this is Creative Writing class, not Report Writing class. Be bold, daring, or risqué if you must but by all means, you use your mind and create something original."

I wasn't convinced there wasn't some small print attached to this but I thanked her profusely knowing that this would be a slam dunk for me. It could mean a really easy "A" and boost my GPA significantly to make up for a seriously sloppy freshman year. One hundred pages was nothing! I could do this in my sleep, well maybe not completely asleep but in a drowsy state for sure.

Her parting words to me as I left the classroom, expecting not to go back for many weeks, were like a dagger in the back, "Have fun, but don't let that arrogance get in the way."

She did smile when I looked back, stunned. Was she really that intuitive?

Three weeks later, I sat alone in a booth at a local coffee shop, Al's. Yes the name is cliché but the guy who owns it really is named Al. He was a good-hearted guy who did his best to keep a business running all the while helping struggling college students have nutritious meals. By this time, I did have a notepad full of partial story topics but not a shred of printable material. Are you kidding me? I was inconsolable. Me, the guy with the deepest imagination in the whole state, unable to come up with a theme to fill one hundred measly pages of paper for what should be the easiest grade I'd ever try to earn. It wasn't that I couldn't find something to write about; that part was easy. I couldn't find a way to get started. Every time I would come up with an intro, I would reject it for being too flowery, or cute or cheesy. It was like a champion race horse with the world's best jockey, ready to race, but the starting gate won't open. I wanted to impress the teacher but not be so obvious in intellectual flirting just in case it failed miserably, which was what I really expected.

The gentleman who sat at the booth beside me had left his newspaper on the seat after he finished his breakfast. I assumed his intention was for the next patron to pick it up for a good read. Being that I was desperate for some sort of stimulation, other than Biology, History, or Spanish, I picked it up to take grateful advantage of his generosity.

I assumed the newspaper would be one of our many college publications. I had missed a few installments of a local political satire and wanted to get caught up. It was, however, from a small town I'd never heard of. The guts of the paper consisted of an alarming number of coupons and sales flyers. It was a cornucopia of hours of entertaining clipping and sorting for those thrifty shoppers who resided in the community. They greatly outnumbered the printed news pages, but I put them aside. Not to be bothered with the price of Boston Butt Roast, I still needed the stimulation and thinking that at worst case it may be good for a laugh. I thumbed through it while absently picking at my cooling and hardening bagel.

Despite the church happenings, the local gossip, and the "who got arrested last Friday" reporting, it was a fairly boring edition. Everything was "submitted for" or written by "staff." I'd be willing to bet the paper didn't have single "real" reporter other than an editor and sports photographer who did the field work as well. I can't believe people actually pay fifty cents for this thing.

However, one section did seem interesting. One of the small-type headlines read: "Mule gets stuck in mud hole and farmer breaks his leg in the rescue." It was dated from sometime around 1918 and was just a look back on their community history. I chuckled.

Oh, don't get mad at me. I didn't think it was amusing his leg was broken. My funny bone was tweaked by the way it was written. Did the farmer break his leg or the mule's in the rescue? Did the reporter commit a grave writing error, or did he bend the rules to provoke thought in his reader? I never would know but I kept reading the other sidelines hoping for more light-hearted humor.

I'm no pro writer, not by a long shot. Remember, I'm just a fifth year college senior in my only writing class but even I could comment about stuff like that. Anyway, I've spent way too much time discussing my lead up to what direction this is all going. Like I said, it's not about me at all.

One of the bold-typed headlines gave me pause; just enough to stop eating my bagel. I actually read it twice trying to grasp its substance or "wrap my head around it" as my philosophy teacher would say. The three line article was dated from 1944, the author unidentified: "Murderer of Colored Doctor Sentenced to 99 Years in State Penitentiary."

I wasn't raised during the times of the Civil Rights Movements which were in the 1960s but I was pretty sure that I'd never heard of a Black Doctor, especially back during the 1940s. I'm sure there were many; I just never had a need to consider it. I do remember thinking, "That must have been a really special guy to have his murderer sentenced to 99 years in the pen in 1944." It was a pretty deep thought for a country boy turned soon-to-be college graduate. I'll accept some applause on this particular point.

The South, during that time frame, wasn't very well known for the advancement of minorities, much less the extraction of justice on their behalf. I learned this in the sociology and political science classes I was required to take as a part of my degree program. I was intrigued. From this point forward, all I can say is "God bless the information age."

Something really nice happened to me that day in that little café. The diner changed in nature from a diner to a café that day because diners don't inspire, cafés do! I can't exactly explain what it was but it's as if a light switch was flipped on in my brain and wouldn't shut off. I found an energy and excitement within me that was both alarming and hopeful.

In the light of that switch charging my brain, I was able to come up with a topic for my project, "Billy the Kidd had Bad Acne." It was a comedy and I was able to write the one hundred pages, plus about twenty, over a really busy weekend. I expected to earn the A for the class easily enough. The words just flowed from my mind, down through my fingers, into my keyboard with very little effort.

I showed up to the next writing class, surprising the instructor. She apparently assumed that I'd given up on the innovation project and was going to beg permission to come back to the lecture. I'm not so sure she would have let me, but she assumed wrong and that was perfectly fine with me. I had bigger things in mind.

There were only three students sitting in the class and I'm sure she was disappointed the entire class didn't take her up on the innovation project. Don't you know she was miffed at 3 out of 27 students causing her to have to show up that early in the morning? I'd hate to take their exams! They say that "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" but what about college instructors?

When the class ended, I presented her with my finished project, bound in a nice folder that I bought at an office supply, with a title page and all.

"You have three more weeks before you have to turn this in. Don't you think you should use your time more wisely to revise and edit this work? This is for a final grade, you know."

"No thank you. I am confident it's "A" material. I had too much fun writing it."

She looked at the folder really skeptically, cocked eyebrow and all, and then back at me. "You're sure?"

"I am." I paused, not sure how to approach what was really gnawing at me. I really was excited about the new project I had created for myself and I did want to gain her assistance.

"I have another project I want to pursue, with your help, of course. I had to get this out of the way."

"I hardly think my generous assignment is 'in the way' as you would put it. Also, you realize that whatever it is you want to work on won't be for class credit."

"Oh, of course," I say. "This is just something I found that I feel drawn to pursue."

I realized that I had just offended the one person who would be giving me the grade and ultimately affecting my graduation in a few months, so I offered my explanation and told her about the three sentence article I read, without giving away too many details. I didn't want her to take my idea, after all. I explained to her about me feeling charged and how I couldn't sleep and I certainly couldn't think about anything without obsessing about that article.

Seeming excited, she gave me a knowing smile. "You've obviously found your muse."

"My what?" I asked.

"Your muse, it's mythology. I should have you go to the library and look it up but I'll tell you anyway."

She sat on the corner of the classroom instructor's desk. Her frumpy sweater fell open, revealing a sorority t-shirt. Something about seeing that shirt really bothered me but I listened anyway. It was as if the sorority shirt diminished her credibility with me. I know it was a very ignorant thing to think considering how many women participate in them. I was in a fraternity myself. Who was I to judge?

"Every great artist throughout history had a muse to inspire him or her to do great work. It was someone, or something, which forced you to achieve high potentials and motivated you to seek greater artistry. Some claimed Heavenly intervention. Others drew motivation from their children or tragedies or lofty personal goals."

Laughing I said, "That figures. My muse is a small town newspaper with a guy that's been dead for almost seventy years. I really would prefer a cute, curly haired, red head in a toga." Realizing I had more or less just described my teacher in a Toga, I flushed.

"A muse is a muse," she said, un-phased.

Once I got over the idea that the person I was putting so much hope in was just another student, I relaxed some. We were able to spend about three hours that afternoon going over my pending investigations and what I needed to do to start researching this story.

"What are you going to do with this once you get it all together?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead yet."

She cautioned me that since I was dealing with real people, real events and certainly historical fact, I had an obligation to be as accurate as I could, no matter what the project turned out to be. My list included state archives, internet resources, local records, court house records, and trying to go meet people in this town that may have first-hand knowledge. Because the information would be so old and the people I would meet would have few details, she did seem buoyed by the idea that I will have to use my newly acquired creative writing skills to go along with the research.

She pressed for details of the article often, but got nowhere with me. I wasn't letting go of this tiger I was holding by the tail. I satisfied her by promising to let her see my work first if it amounted to anything.

I got really lucky though. Somehow, through a very small and uninteresting internet reference to an old courthouse record which led me to a state archive record, I was able to locate the attorney that represented the man convicted of the murder. Unfortunately, the attorney was long retired, having passed the "torch" of keeping the law business going to his now middle-aged child. I tried calling the office, but got the ever present "busy," "occupied," or "with a client" excuse that my calls would go unanswered.

Refusing to be put off, I plugged the address of the law office into my GPS on my so-called smart phone and took a 146 mile road trip, one way. Classes for the day would have to wait. I had some motivation as well as enthusiasm for what I thought would be a great project. Expending some effort to look in to it was a no-brainer.

When I entered the city limits of that small town, I had to slam on my brakes. The whole town just screamed "speed trap." I located the law office but I circled the court square three times, gaining suspicious looks from local police. The office was wedged between a small diner and a laundry service offering "Martenizing" (whatever that is) and same day delivery.

Unfortunate for my great deal of impatience, I had arrived at lunch time and there was a sign hanging on the door handle that said "out to lunch." I didn't know people still used signs like that. Passing about ten minutes parked in my car and bored with waiting, I went to the diner. My energy and excitement was really eroding my patience. I ordered the special of the day. Their old fashioned Reuben sandwich is not what you'd call what I found placed in front of me.  
While people-watching, which I love to do, I did notice a well-dressed woman enjoying a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. She looked like something carved out of marble—very cold, yet very warm at the same time. I watched her finish her dessert and then followed her out the door with my eyes. When I realized that she had turned next door to the law office I knew she was who I was waiting for.

"Yes! Here we go!" I must have said out loud as I drew a weird look from the waitress holding a pot of coffee.

I deduced she must be the secretary and would know when the attorney I needed to speak to would return. Quickly finishing my sandwich and overly sweetened iced tea, I paid and went next door. One word of caution as a side note about tea in the south, if you don't already know; it's usually already sweetened when you get it. Be sure to taste if first before you add sugar.

Without knocking, I entered the small lobby of the law office. It was very nice, completed in dark hardwoods and elegant marble table tops. A lace doily covered a small table in the corner holding several seemingly current magazines. I bet there was a lot of history in these walls. The brass bell that tinkled above my head when I entered startled me but it also alerted the lady that I knew to have entered the office.

"May I help you?" She asked, coming out of a side office with a file folder in her hand.

"I hope so," I said. "I'm a college student and I'm trying to research an old criminal case that was handled by this office a long time ago. Will Mr. Leonard be in today so that I may talk to him?"

Her expression became shadowed for a moment and she told me that Mr. Leonard had passed away more than a year ago.

"He was my brother, but I'm the lawyer of the family. I kept my maiden name for professional reasons." I didn't see a wedding ring on her finger. She must be divorced, I thought.

I was embarrassed and reminded by an image of my mother shaking her finger at me that assuming anything can get you in a bad fix. I pushed forward, apologizing of course.

"I'll introduce you to my father. I did tell him you called about the case," She paused thoughtfully, "but I'll warn you, he's not easy to talk to, and even less easy to get along with."  
She picked up a telephone from the secretary's desk and dialed. An old fashioned ringer sounded from an office behind a closed door off of the hallway. I heard a gruff exclamation, a desk drawer slam, and a muffled curse as the phone was answered and dropped.

"Ms. Leonard, I can come back if it's a bad time."

"Nonsense," she said waving a hand. "He's probably asleep in his chair in there." Her attention returned to the telephone. "Papa, that young man is here about the Blakely murder. No, he didn't have an appointment."

She shook her head a few times and said, "Ok," hanging up the receiver.

"He said to make an appointment and to come back another time."

I stood there with my mouth partly open. "I drove two and a half hours to get here. Is there no one else I can talk to?" This was a mistake on my part. You can tell, I'm sure, that I come from an era of high expectation of superior customer service and with that goes the expectation to be able to loudly complain when it does not meet my satisfaction. Fortunately for me, this limited "confrontation" was largely ignored.  
During my dismay, an elderly woman came in and took her seat behind the secretary's desk. She had an air of "I'm in charge" whether she really was or not. As she wrapped her sweater around her shoulders she commented on my expression, noticing I looked as if I'd swallowed something distasteful.

Ms. Leonard explained what was going on. She told how I'd driven so far to get there and my aspirations as they relate to the case. She, the secretary who I later found out was named Mrs. Barton, smiled warmly at me.

"Oh I remember that family. They were such nice people."

Giving her a wink, Ms. Leonard then also told about the Senior Leonard refusing to see me. Their relationship seemed to be such that I had a hard time grasping who worked for whom.

"Oh he did, did he? We'll just see about that!" She stood from behind the desk and marched toward the closed office door, her thick high heels hammering and echoing on the hardwood floor.

"It's not as if he has a single thing pressing, at all, this month." I think I would learn to dread the sound of her heels if I ever worked here. They provoked images from horror movies that said, "I'm coming to get you little boy."

Ms. Leonard looked at me out of the corner of her eye and then nodded, smiling, toward the motivated octogenarian, "Just watch this. I'm predicting less than 30 seconds."

The office door closed behind her and we could hear a scolding taking place, all of it coming from Mrs. Barton toward the elder attorney.

"She's worked for him for more than fifty years. She gets away with stuff like that."

The secretary came back out, adjusted her sweater and returned to her desk with a, "Harrumph."

"He'll see you shortly." She told me. "Have a seat, please."

Ms. Leonard looked at her watch. "48 seconds! I was so close that time."

A few minutes later as I thumbed absently through a copy of a golf magazine, the door to the office opened, causing distress in me that only arises when visiting cemeteries after dark. I expected fog and a ghoulish skeletonized hand to beckon me inside. Instead, an elderly gentleman stood in the doorway, wearing a dark suit with shiny shoes, silhouetted from a dim desk lamp bulb. He stared at me.

I stand up.

"Can you read?" he demanded.

"Excuse me?"

"I asked you if you could read. Are you deaf and dumb?"

"Papa!" the daughter exclaimed. He glanced at her quickly and then back at me.

"Do you have thirty five dollars?"  
"I can read. I am not deaf or dumb and I do have thirty five dollars."

"Good."

On saying that, he slung a paperback book at me which I managed to catch and not rip the cover off of.  
"Read that. There's a hotel across the square. Rooms are thirty five dollars for a night. Read that book tonight and meet me back here tomorrow at six a.m."

"But sir..."

"If you haven't read it, don't come back to see me. Just leave my book at the desk and go away." He slammed the door, dismissing me quite obviously. I looked at both of the women who were witness to the spectacle. They both shrugged as if to say, "What can you do?"

In my hand was an incredibly worn and dog-eared copy of "To Kill a Mocking Bird" by Harper Lee. This was a book assigned to me in High School, that I bought some cheat notes for, learned for a test, and promptly forgot. Now I'm being assigned to read it in one night by an angry old man from whom all I want is to ask a few questions about a seventy- year-old court case.

Still amazed, I nodded to the two ladies and left the office. Leaving my car parked where it was, I walked absently across the court square toward the ancient hotel, wandering through the historical war relics preserved on the small lawn. There sure were a lot of canons for such a small town, as if any town in modern day USA needed artillery.

Finding an unoccupied bench, I sat down and looked back toward the law office. Had I not been already flustered, I would swear that I saw the old metal blinds in the front office snap shut as I looked up. Was he watching me? I got the distinct feeling that the old lawyer was making a fool of me and making me pay a price for his time at six a.m. if he actually showed up.

"I do have his book though." I said as I held it up gesturing toward the office with it, "But who meets at a law office at six in the morning?"

Grumbling, I lean back, getting as comfortable as I can on a municipal bench. I open the cover to find an inscription, written probably with a fountain pen, in scratchy ink that is fading to a brown color:

"Fascination, Bravado and Passion will only win just so much. Justice, Compassion, and Courage will finish the battle."

Could the author have written this or did someone else offer it as a gift? It seemed like a fairly wise and well-intended quotation. I turned the page.

About an hour after opening the book and having absorbed twenty five pages or so, I rubbed my eyes and stretched my arms toward the setting sun. Behind me was the old hotel. The Handsome Hound Hotel signage was complete with a hound sitting on a chair, crossed legs and all, holding a tea cup to its lips. I gave it a moment's inspection and decided I may as well settle in for the night.

I was still unsure why I was willing to follow that old coot's demands. Was my curiosity that great? I wouldn't get college credit for this project. Shrugging and relenting, I admitted to myself that I had no hot dates for the night and the best I could look forward to was television with my neighbor since his TV didn't have an ex-roommate's angry-at-a-football-game remote control sticking out of the screen.

I rented the room and it was exactly thirty five dollars for the night, as Mr. Leonard said. I spent another buck fifty in an ancient vending machine for a soda and a bag of very stale potato chips.

The room had no television which I suppose was ok since I was supposed to be reading this book anyway. The telephone looked as if it hadn't worked in years, despite the guarantees of the desk clerk that it did and I had to dial nine to get out at fifty cents a minute. I kicked off my shoes and jumped backward onto the bed, preparing to settle in with the book. Once the bed bugs, dust mites, and whatever monster lived under the bed finished their imaginary protestations to my invasion, I drew the pillows behind my head and read for several more hours.

As the morning hours grew larger and the horizon started getting lighter out of the dusty hotel window, I closed the completed book and napped fitfully. I set the alarm on my cell phone for five forty-five. It was obnoxious but worked well enough to wake me up with a jolt.

Staggering to the bathroom, I rubbed cold water on my face and took care of my morning routine. Coffee was going to be desperately needed, right away.

I wandered back across the square again after handing in my room key and surrendering my bed. The diner was open so early and it totally suited me. The waitress was chipper and quickly brought me some black coffee along with a fried egg and bacon sandwich. So I splurged a little. My arteries didn't harden right away.

I took an extra cup of coffee to go and waited by the door of the law office as I ate my sandwich. At six o'clock sharp the door opened behind me. I stood there with the book in my back pocket and a cup of coffee in each hand. The old lawyer stood poised as if ready to do battle.

"Come on in. Don't lag! Get in here and let's get this over with."

******

As I made my way through the door, I handed the fresher of the two cups of coffee to him.

"You may be useful yet." He said, as I imagine was his way to thank me.

"Sit over there." He gestured toward a comfortable looking arm chair. "We're going to be a while. You may as well get comfortable."

I sat down and remembered the book in my back pocket. Sliding forward in the seat, I pulled it out and handed it to him. "It's a lot different than when I read it in High School."

"The book is, or you are?"

"I see your point." I thought he was making a rhetorical statement, not requiring an answer.

"What point? I just asked a question."

Daunted, I shut up. I realized that any efforts I made to engage him in conversation which I might consider intelligent or intriguing, were wasted. There was little chance of me impressing him and it was a mistake to try to impress him with my intellect, as feeble as I felt at the time.

"Let's get down to business," he said as he sat behind his desk and tugging a top drawer open. From within he withdrew a small sterling flask and poured a few drops of amber liquid into the coffee.

I was busy trying to think of ways to politely refuse an offer of liquor in my coffee when he silently replaced it in the drawer. Apparently I didn't rate the offer.

"Are you going to take notes?" He asked. "There's a lot to tell."

"Not right now. I want to focus on listening to you first."

He glanced at me just like I've seen John Wayne do a couple of times in the old westerns. "Smart boy," He grumbled with hard steely eyes.

He sat back in his chair, resting his hands on the hardwood arms, and let out a breath as if he'd been holding it for an hour. He lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. He became so calm and so silent so quickly that I thought he was about to take a nap or die right there in front of me. I sat silently and waited for either result.

"Sebastian the Peace Maker was a manuscript written by a fellow out of another small Tennessee town, by the name of Jackson." He said, with his chin still down and his eyes still closed. "He wrote page after page of how his life was mostly good but during the times when he needed intervention the most, Sebastian would show up. " He shifted slightly.

"He spent every page talking about the timing Sebastian would employ to intervene in his life and make everything as it should be. It perplexed me how one man could have such a profound impact on another and with such insight."

He rolled his shoulders some, keeping his eyes closed as if picturing a moment as he talked to me. "I know neither of them, but I found myself jealous of him as he talked about Sebastian. I found myself wondering exactly what sort of relationship these two had."

"You see, this fellow never made it clear at first if he was male or female so it was natural to assume he was a man, which he was, and he also never made mention of this relationship other than expressing his fondness for Sebastian."

He straightened some and looked at me across the desk, before reclosing his eyes considering his next words. I think he wanted to make sure I was paying attention to him and not dozing as I sat there silently. "I took it for granted throughout the whole manuscript that Sebastian was an empathetic person who seemed to be around Jackson a lot."

I looked on expectantly, anxious for a point to be made.

"I was wrong." He pushed back in the chair and put his feet up on the edge of his waste basket, opening his eyes.

"Sebastian was his dog." Again he looked at me as if sizing me up.

"Can you believe that? All through reading that, I was so busy putting my own ideas and thoughts into the story that I failed to recognize the most basic and successful of all relationships man has ever known on this earth – that of him and his dog."

He continued. "Sometimes we make assumptions that aren't bad and they certainly aren't good either; they just aren't right. I don't say right meaning correct either. I say it meaning you get a gut feeling that something isn't as it's supposed to be."

I sat up some. "Are you saying some assumptions have been made that aren't right regarding this murder case?"

"No, I'm not saying that at all. I told you that to remind you to keep an open mind about me, not the trial or its outcome... about me."

He taps his middle finger against his temple. "Sometimes we use too much of this, instead of using enough of this." He moves his hand to his chest and taps over where his heart it.

"I've been haunted by this for more years than I care to remember. 1966 was the best and the worst year of my life, outside of my family events and the births of my two children."

"1966? I don't understand. This murder took place in 1944. Am I talking about a different case?"

"No, we're talking about the Blakely murder."

He no doubt saw the look of utter confusion on my face. I know I could see it on his, but what I took for confusion quickly looked to be replaced by some really strong emotion. His hawk-like gaze softened.

"I wasn't the original defense attorney on the case, thank God. I may have gotten him acquitted and justice would never have been done. It wouldn't have been done on so many levels." The elder attorney took a deep breath, truly engaged in a memory.

"As a matter of fact, when the case was prosecuted in 1944, I was barely a teenager. Oh I do remember it well though. We saw things in people during those times that would make a nation proud. We were wrapped up in WWII at the time, but that didn't have anything to do with the case."

I interrupt him, "That's even better for my purposes. I can learn about it from a community point of view as well as from that of a learned attorney."

"Nonsense. Look son, don't patronize me. I'm too old for niceties but I'm still sharper than most people."

I nod mutely.

"This is just a hobby or a school assignment for you. I'm talking about peoples' lives." He put great emphasis on the word lives, sounding much like a preacher. "The whole world was changing so quickly in those days. People didn't know what to expect from moment to moment."

Again, I begin to apologize and realize that it would only make things worse, so I sit silently and wait.

He softened again, physically and in his voice, like someone was pushing a button, turning him on and off. "You don't even know the right questions to ask."

He paused and again seemed to be appraising me. It must have been a mannerism he had with everyone. Maybe it was a tactic to intimidate a rival in court, but it was unnerving! "I'm going to go ahead and give you all of the answers and you can figure out your questions later."  
Another long pause, "You'll suffice since there isn't anyone else my daughter wants me to tell."

Is he settling for me because there's no one else to talk to or simply because I'm the only one to ever ask and pass his flying paperback book test? I get the feeling he's found me lacking in some way but is going ahead regardless.

"Try not to interrupt me." He points a finger in warning, "I'm going to share this with you because my secretary, bless her heart and my daughter, bless her heart too, think that this would be a good outlet for me."

"I don't care if you quote me; I'm not so much ashamed by what I did as I am regretful of the reasons."

I had no idea what he was talking about and at this point he had taken over control of this whole adventure. Maybe I was kidding myself to think that after I was sent to the hotel with a reading assignment, that I had any semblance of leadership in this interview. Questions were popping into my mind to ask at a rate too fast to count. I just knew that if I were to ask them, he'd realize I didn't know anything about what he was revealing and may very well kick me out for not being better prepared. Why did this old man intimidate me so much?

"I always tell my doctor when I get my prostate examined that I'm too old to care what people think of such an old A-hole and I suppose that when revealing aspects of my youth to you, I'm just not caring what they think of this particular old A-hole either."

Thankfully the coffee that was just in my mouth got swallowed; otherwise I would have blown it all over his desk with the spontaneous laugh that erupted from me. Seemingly embarrassed, the old lawyer started laughing too.

"I love telling that joke. It's as close as I'll ever get to cussing. People don't respect you if you have a foul mouth too much." I agreed with him, regaining my composure.

"You did get the A-hole reference didn't you? The real one compared to the one people see me as being sometimes?"

"Yes sir, I gathered."

"Ok, let's continue."

With the ice completely broken, us both sipping coffee, the old gentleman leaned back in his chair and began his story.

"You could say this whole story started back in 1898 or 1900, no one is exactly sure of which year it was, but that was the time frame that the good Doctor Blakely was born, in South Carolina."

I lean forward resting my chin on my fist in rapt attention.

"I called him the 'good Doctor' because that's exactly what he was. He was a good community Doctor for everyone, black and some white alike. My, was he popular, but anyway I'm getting ahead of myself. Theodore was born to a poor family in South Carolina as most Black families in the South were in those days. You have to realize that the emancipation was still very fresh in the minds of many people at that time and those times were very hard on people, especially the Blacks. Yes, they'd been granted their freedoms, but there was little else. For most, life was, in many ways, more difficult as a free person."

"His father, I never knew his name, was a preacher. I'd heard the Doctor talk about him once or twice as a child, but that was so long ago I don't remember the particulars."

"Something happened that set Theodore apart from the other people around him. There was no question he was a brilliant man, but he was so...I don't know...upright, I suppose. Sure he had vices like the rest of us, but his were minor compared to some. Speaking of which..."

He withdrew the small flask again and freshened up his coffee, still not offering any to me to refuse.

"By the grace of the Almighty, despite the poverty of his area and the absolute depression that was set heavy on the shoulders of the Negro community back then, he managed to get to go through school and made it to college. He did very well in college too. He was popular among the ladies and was a man of high esteem among his peers. He never turned his back on anyone, even when he should have been out living it up like the rest of the college boys."

I interrupted him at this point, drawing a scowl. "I'm sorry but you've called him Black and a Negro. Those terms aren't politically correct."

"Politically correct, Ha! I'll tell you about politically correct. Twenty years after the good Doctor was killed, Blacks were still being lynched on back roads. Political correctness didn't come around until sometime in the 1980's best as I can recall. Besides, I pay him respect when I refer to him in every way. He earned it."

"Somewhere about 1920 he was in Medical School in Nashville, Tennessee at a small college called Meharry Medical College. It was an all-Black school and it gave young Black scholars a chance to learn a profession, not a job, but an honest to goodness profession. Theodore became a Medical Doctor."

"I understand that he traveled around a little bit and worked here and there but eventually settled back here where he set up his practice, and made a home for his wife."

"How in the world do you know all of this, if you weren't his attorney, and were just a child when it all happened?" I broke the rule and interrupted.

"Did you read that book I gave you?"

"I did."

"So, what did you think when you read it?"

"It was interesting."

"Did you happen to think about the characters as real people or was it just a story to you?

"Well, I did really consider the qualities of many of the characters. I liked the curious innocence Scout had and the guardian like tones implied about Boo Radley."

"Was there anyone else? Leave off the book store character reviews. Tell me about what you really thought about."

"My dad."

"What do you mean, your dad?"

"My dad was a lot like Atticus Finch. He was a good and decent man who stood up for what was right."

At that, the old lawyer turned his chair with his back to me and looked at a bookshelf behind him.

"Did my daughter talk to you last night?"

Startled by the unusual and sudden change of direction I bleated like a stricken calf, "No sir! I didn't see her last night!" Thinking he was going to imply something else.

"Are you sure she didn't say anything to you about me or the book?"

"No sir, she didn't." I relax some.

"Since that book came out in 1960 and the movie with Gregory Peck a few years later, I'll bet you that I've read the whole story more than a hundred and fifty times. That exact book." He said, jabbing his finger at the book on his desk.

"Many people refer to scholarly journals written about ethics and many people turn to the Good Book, which I do myself. As for me being a lawyer, that story about Atticus Finch defending the man Tom Robinson, is the kind of lawyer I always tried to be."

He turned his chair back around to face me, as if by doing so he was admitting to a great crime and anxious to receive his judgment and punishment. "He was always trying to be the best role model he could be for his daughter and at the same time standing up straight and proud in his love of his community and all who lived in it -- even those considered to be a lowly Negro."

"Like Don Quixote jousting with windmills, he was jousting with oppression, depression, injustice, and hatred. It was a large wad of all of the things that I detest rolled into one great big antagonist in the character of Bob Ewell who levied the false rape charges against the innocent black man."

I was beginning to understand this wizened old lawyer. He really was, one of the "good guys."

"Let me go back to the beginning of what I know and tell you about this Doctor."

Part II

"So this is good music.

South Carolina, 1908

"Before our sermon today, I had a chance to, ahem – inspect the lunch baskets outside with Mister Jerry. I want to thank all you ladies for bringing what you did. I know times are hard on all of us, some more than others, and bless my soul you are all so very generous." The Pastor spoke in front of his small congregation. They met no less than four times per week and the seats in the meager church building were almost always filled. His flock always needed "tending."

"I do appreciate Mrs. Idella Brock for bringing her delicious fresh pickled beets to our lunch on the grounds today. I can only pray she remembers how much I appreciate her when she's giving out the servings. Make mine two!" The Pastor laughed from behind his maple podium pointing out Mrs. Brock, making her fan herself a little faster as he pretends to lick his fingertips.

"They sure are fine to eat, just like Loula's chicken livers!" The Pastor was working up an appetite as was the crowd by their chorus of "Amen!" The children in the front rows made faces and similarly ugly sounds when he mentioned chicken liver. It's universally not a child favorite.

It was hot that South Carolina day and all of the church windows were open to let the breeze blow through. The ladies in their hats and lace collars all fanned themselves with fans made from the pages of newspaper. The men who attended either sat with their wives, to be chided by their unattended friends, or in small groups to be the chiders of those men dragged to hear the Good Word.

According to church policy, which changed from week to week depending on the particular mood of the Pastor, or more accurately, the Pastor's wife; all of the church children sat on the front two benches. Many believed, and fervently hoped; this was so they would pay attention during the sermons and thus be more Christian in their lives. The Pastor knew it was to keep the kids in front of everyone so they would behave and be easy targets for a slap across the back of the neck if they needed "tightening up." Whatever the motive, it did seem to work. Once you reached the age of 13 you could move toward the back but horseplay within easy reach of the adult congregants had consequences.

The leader of this small, rural, Baptist Church was none other than the right honorable Pastor Blakely. He was a gentle soul until it came to preaching the Word of God and then some would swear you could see a heavenly light leak out through his eyes. On greater consideration, leak probably isn't the best choice of words to use. It indicates that something is being withheld and only manages to slip out. The Pastor held nothing back and shared the Good News at every opportunity. Heaven poured out of this man of God. He undoubtedly was a true believer and made sure he did his best to help everyone else in town to be true believers also.

They called him the "right honorable" because he was a handsome man and gained the attention of all of the single women in the community, some of the married too. Fortunately for him and unfortunately for them, he was faithfully married and celebrated it. Because of his "right honorable" reputation, he was also well-respected by most of the men in the town, even those who would never be caught dead in a church.

"Before we break today to go take our lunch," He winks at his wife on the third row. "I want to hold your hearts and thoughts to one more thing. I've heard a lot lately about a new juke joint opening up down by the river."

Clutching his bible against his chest with his left hand and raising his right, "Now I'll be the first to hold my hand to the Lord and say I love good music, but the carrying on out yonder is a bit much I hear and I'm positive that it isn't in accordance with scripture!" He sets down his bible and pauses to wipe his glasses with his handkerchief.

He slaps the top of the podium without warning, startling the children in the front row and drawing a "Whoop" from a lady in the back of the room.

"Whiskey is my concern! Yes we can all call that drink by its true name, 'Spirits,' because that's exactly what takes over when you drink too much – wicked spirits." As if throwing down a hot rock, the Pastor points his long calloused index finger to the ground, shouting.

"Wicked, wicked spirits come forth in men who should be acting on behalf of the Lord!" He raises his bible mightily in his hand over his head, "Luke 21 verse 34 – and take heed to yourselves, lest at any time your hearts be overcharged with surfeiting and drunkenness and cares of this life..."

There is a collective gasp by the ladies as they pretend they've never heard such talk before. The men, of course, all nod their heads knowingly. Most of them have seen or dealt with calamity of some kind because of alcohol. Many had firsthand knowledge in the previous days and were dragged to church by their wives because of such.

"Be ready for the temptation of this evil and resist it! Away from me satan!"

The children on the front row, mostly boys under the age of 10, all sit in wide-eyed terror of the finger being pointed down from the pulpit and the wicked spirits it calls to the imagination. They were all very knowledgeable about the monsters under the beds, inside the outhouse holes, under the houses and out in the woods at night. Any one of them could have recited to you numerous stories about haunted lights in the swamp or trains on the track that never stopped. This was a new one, a Whiskey Monster!

The pastor continued, "Gentle folks, I plead...I say I plead with you to stay away from those places! Keep your families and your children safe by not bringing that temptation into your lives! Your lives are distressed enough day to day without this. Alcohol isn't the answer to find peace. We all know that path is only found through Jesus Christ! Can I get some amen power?"

A chorus of amens resounds.

He takes a deep settling breath. "Now let us pray." The Pastor raises both hands over his congregation, lifting his head, but cracking one eye to make sure the kids were praying too.

As one, the whole congregation bowed their heads as the Pastor started the prayer that seemed to the children to last for three hours, but was actually just a couple of minutes. There where choruses of "amens" and "Lord have mercies" but when the Pastor closed the prayer with the final amen, the children were the first to bolt out the door of the church, running to the picnic tables under the Elm trees.

They nearly bowled over fragile, old Mister Jerry. Mister Jerry's job was to stand in the open church door where he could hear the sermon but could also see the picnic tables where the food was waiting. If he saw a local dog or other animal approach the tables, he was responsible for running them away, giving rise to a few loud whistles and shouts of "Get on out of here!" during the sermons. Sometimes his passion for shooing away critters would fall on opportune moments. The Pastor would say something like the ever popular, "Get behind me satan" and outside you'd hear a "Scat, go on!" It would certainly draw a laugh and sometimes even the Pastor's wife would slip up and snort.

In return for his valiant efforts, Mr. Jerry got first choice of the pies although he never took a single piece, claiming it made him too sleepy to eat something so sweet. Instead he'd fill up on green beans and boiled okra which the kids were happy to let him have.

As the afternoon progressed and having eaten as much as they could stand, the Pastor and his wife sat back against one of the old Elm trees in the picnic grounds and watched the kids chase each other with sticks and rocks. His wife, sometimes acting like an over-protective hen, soon began to protest and wanted to stop the game. She could reasonably predict an injury to be in the making. The Pastor puts a hand on hers in an "I've got this" sort of way. He admired her concern for the children, not just her own, but sometimes you have to just let a boy be a boy. Looking back on his own childhood, post war, he was grateful they could be just boys.

A shrill whistle erupts from the Pastor and all of the kids skid to a halt as well as the adults in the area cleaning up their left-overs. They were all well attuned to the Pastor's whistle. Two young boys come trotting up, one short and stocky, the other taller and slender.

"Theo you're worrying your mama. Why don't you two go find something a little less dangerous to do, like helping these ladies clean up the trash?" He waved his hand around indicating the whole of the church grounds. "Haven't they already done enough work in preparing this food for all of us? You youngsters need to help clean up."

The taller of the two answers, "Ok Papa." They both run toward the nearest lady holding sweets. She was like the pied-piper with a chess pie. Clearly their intent is to offer to finish off what she has so she doesn't have the enormous burden of carrying it home with her.

"Dear remind me to address this at the service tonight. The children need to be given some tasks, even if small ones."

"Oh I won't forget!" His wife smiles.

Theo Blakely was their son and a true-to-form preacher's child. He had appropriate manners, an advanced biblical intellect and the love of every elderly woman in town. He was tall for his age, handsome, and quick on his feet. The old ladies all knew he would be the one to eventually marry their great-grand-daughters as well as be the next in line of Blakely Baptist Ministers.

The other boy was Tug. His real name was Jeremy Rhine and it was unusual for a black boy in the south, to have a German surname. However, everyone called him Tug, not because of his stature, but because he was always tugging on the seat of his pants. He didn't seem to mind. In fact he seemed to respond well to the attention, even if it wasn't all positive. It was probably because all of the attention he got at home was probably abusive.

Kids speculated that he tugged on them because he was always sitting on something wet that they giggled about. The adults sadly knew it was because he was often sore from the frequent and sometimes-brutal spankings the boy would get from his uncle, Razmus, who was poorly raising him. The frequent end result of the battering he received was that the Blakely family would often take him in for days at a time to keep him "safe from dangers." Razmus never seemed to notice he was gone, but he probably didn't care either. Despite all of his hardships for his young years, he as a good boy at heart and everyone recognized it.

Tug was very light skinned for a Negro child and often drew unwarranted attention from some of the others in the black community. They questioned his heritage behind their hands but it made no difference to the Blakelys. The two boys were best of friends and as close to being brothers as someone unrelated by blood could be. Rumors traveled about how is mother was 3rd generation Caribbean, as was Raz, but his father was of European ancestry, although no one had ever seen him before.

Mama Blakely would often shake her head at the boy and say a prayer for him. It seemed that her son Theo was the only real blessing he had in the whole world. She encouraged all of her children to pray for Jeremy's welfare and that of his family on a regular basis. She didn't know what success their prayer had for that family, but she knew they were being heard. What happened after that was up to God.

Oddly enough, she did feel sorry for his uncle too. She was raised on "turn the other cheek," and "hate the sin but not the sinner." She was yet to be born when it happened, but her mother had told her stories about Razmus being raised by someone who was slow in releasing the slaves by about ten years after the War Between the States. How he got away with it, no one knows. She told her daughter that Razmus was beaten nearly to death a couple of times by other slaves because he was a weak child. He was angry and mean, through and through.

• • • •

The two boys lay silent in the leaves on the edge of the creek bank, listening. They both knew they had heard a cough in the creek bed below them as they hiked and did idle things wandering through the woods, as boys are expected to do as a part of growing up. Something all children learned in the south during that time frame was to be wary of all adults you may encounter alone out in "the woods." Numerous children disappeared without a sign or trace of them to be found ever again.

"Who do you think it is?" Tug whispered hoarsely to Theo. "He's in our swimming hole."

"I don't know but why is he hiding in a creek? Theo countered, suspicious himself.

"You think he's hiding from someone because he did something?"

"I don't know. I think..." A whisper interrupted by another cough from below.

The boys crawl toward the edge of the steeply eroded creek bank to look off down in the deeper part beside their swimming hole. They don't see anything right away but soon hear water being poured into water. The amusing after-thought they had later in the day was wondering how the "trespasser" go to the hole in the first place. It was a treacherous climb down the bank and otherwise he had to walk half a mile down the creek bed. They laughed later also that he must have tumbled in.

They sneak quietly around to the side where they can have a better view of the gravel bar where they spend much of their summer time. There they see a man they recognize but don't know. They've seen him around town and at certain events, but neither knows his name. He's staggering and upending the contents of a clear glass bottle, some down his throat, some down the front of his dirty shirt.

"Ahh, who do you think you are?" They hear him ask some invisible cohort.

"Is he sick?" Theo asks in a whisper, desperately trying not to laugh.

"Be a man, she says. Take care of business, she says. Stand up to him, she says." He grumbles loudly to no one. "What do I care what a flowered dress costs?"

"He's drunk!" Tug exclaims as quiet as he is capable of being, "Just like Uncle Raz on Saturday night."

Tug grabs a big rock in his hand and leans back as if to throw. Theo grabs his hand, stopping the throw of the missile sure to do harm to the drunk. "What are you doing?"

Theo knows that if Tug is angry and were to throw that rock, it would hurt that man in a bad way. Tug may be short and nearing pre-teen fat, but he is strong and can throw a rock better than most can shoot a gun.

"Mean! I swear to God he's mean. He deserves it!"

Theo sees tears brimming in Tug's eyes and he puts his arm around his friend. "That's not your uncle. Let him be." Theo stares at the man. Tug sees drunkenness often but Theo never had. It was more amusing to him than to Tug.

"I'll show you!" They hear glass shatter on rocks and see the drunken man sit down hard on the gravel bar just before he lies back to snore loudly. Theo commented that he must be talking to those whiskey demons his daddy preached about.

Tug wipes his cheeks. "Sorry."

"It's ok. I won't tell anybody." Theo's compassion and wisdom shined, recognizing the pain his best friend was feeling.

They stand up, no longer cautious of alerting the man to their presence and walk farther down the rise overlooking the creek.

Tug grabs a piece of cane growing near the creek and hand over hand, bends it over until he's holding the flexed tip of twelve feet of air-swishing green death. With a swashbucklers relish he releases the plant to watch it whip up into the air.

"Imagine if we tied a cat or something to the end of that." Tug contemplates. "Woohoo, It would go flying!"

Theo sits down and looks through a hole in a rock. Tug stops to look at Theo, his sadness, disappearing.

"I know where they get it."

Theo looks up from his rock. "Get what?"

"The whiskey," Tug pauses, wondering if he made a mistake telling the Preacher's son, even though he is his best friend in the world. "I know where they get their bottles of whiskey."

"How do you know that?" Theo asks, squatting on his heels and hugging his knees, squinting at Tug.

"I followed my uncle one night. He ran out of his hooch – that's what he calls it -- and left out of the house really late. I heard him so I followed him," Tug explained with a shrug as if what other logical answer could there be.

Theo was rapt, "What did you see?" He sure did love a good mystery, much less a real one!

Tug smiles and then conspiratorially shares with Theo, "There were a lot of people there. It's down by the river where your papa said it was..."

"You went to the juke joint?" Theo exclaimed loudly causing Tug to lunge at him to put his hand over Theo's mouth.

"Be quiet! Yes I did, er, well I didn't go inside. There's a tree outside with a perfect limb for sitting. I climbed up to watch through a window while my uncle was inside. Nobody saw me."

"What did you see?" Theo is visibly excited but beginning to get seriously upset he was left out of a real, honest-to-goodness adventure, planned or not.

"I didn't see too awful much."

"Yeah and?"

"There were a lot of people but when I saw Uncle Raz walk toward the door, I jumped down and ran home. I got scared." Tug rubbed absently at the side of his hip.

"I had to get home before him and I didn't want him to catch me there, or out of my bed."

"Yeah, I can see that." Theo agreed.

Tug told Theo about the loud music from the two horns and piano in the corner; the singing by the women and the non-stop laughter. He told Theo about the fish cooking outside knowing that Theo loved fish.

"That sounds so exciting!" Theo said, "it is soo..." He stops in mid-sentence.

"So what," Tug asks.

"It sounds so tempting," Theo sheepishly admits, "Just like Papa's sermon."

"Yeah I guess you're right. I haven't thought much of it since I've already seen it."

The two boys continued their idle trek along the creek bank, swinging sticks like sabers, throwing rocks at knotholes on trees and seeing who could spit the farthest.

"I want to see it."

"See what?" asked Tug.

"The juke joint, I want to go see it too."

"Oh Theo I don't know!" Tug draws in a deep breath. "If I get caught, If you get caught. It'll be really bad."

"We won't get caught. I don't want to do anything but look. We can sneak up on that tree limb you found. It'll hold us both won't it? Besides, Papa said it was good music there."

"Yeah it was good music," said Tug recalling the night he sneaked away.

"But if we get caught, Raz will kill me for sure. Your papa will kill both of us."

Theo, always confident, "We won't get caught and if we do, we'll say we're frog hunting."

"You just remember that this is your idea. When your papa is tannin' your hide, you don't forget I told you so."

"We'll go tomorrow night."

Tug hesitates.

"Chicken!" Theo chides him and starts making cackling chicken noises and flapping imaginary wings, "Bok, bok, ba-bok!"

"Oh all right. I'll go." The boys shake hands, "tomorrow night."

As they are walking back to the house Tug considers out loud, "You know I'm pretty sure that the son of a preacher-man shouldn't ever call his best friend a chicken."

"Bok, bok, bok!" Theo replies.

• • • •

"Go on! Scat!" Tug waves his hands in the air, scolding the dogs following him down the road. They picked up his trail a few hundred yards earlier from the over-grown lawn of another house. They were just curious following him but he was trying to be stealthy and it wasn't working. He was really trying hard not to be seen by anyone.

A cat burglar or a Federal spy, he wasn't. A rock thrown in the dark, followed by a yelp, lets Tug know the nosey followers are gone. He dropped the other two rocks he'd picked up in case he needed them. He rarely missed the first throw anyway.

He strolls down the side of the familiar old road in the dark, carrying on a little boy style conversation with himself about how a bullfrog can't walk backwards. He has sneaked out, leaving a wadded up comforter under his sheet in an attempt to fool his drunkard uncle. He whistles a soft tune after winning the argument with himself.

A figure stepped out of the dark from behind a tree, startling Tug, punching him in the arm.

"Would you shut up? You make more noise than a bag of frying pans."

It was Theo. He had semi-sneaked out of his own bed too, only Theo was holding on to a wicked looking frog gig. This gig was a three pointed trident on the end of a six foot cane pole used for spearing frogs.

"What's that for?" said Tug admiring the obviously adult sized frog-killer, "That one isn't yours."

"Mine is broken. I told Papa we might go hunt bull frogs tonight so he let me borrow his. This way if he catches me out, he'll remember that."

"You can't carry that thing up in the tree with us."

"Oh I won't," Theo leaned it behind a tree. "Don't let me forget it. That tip cost a whole dollar."

Impatiently, Tug started walking on down the road without Theo.

"Hey! Wait up!" Theo chased after his friend, catching him quickly.

"How far is it?"

"I don't know really. It's about like walking to the milk barn and back." Tug replied using their popular hide-out as a reference, meaning about two miles.

"Shoo, that's a long way! I didn't think your fat bottom could get that far in one night." Theo laughed, dancing out of the way of Tug's swung fist. "Missed me, missed me!"

Tug grumbled, "This time," then he laughed himself. "I hope they have music playing tonight."

Theo frowned, "Me too. That's why I wanted to go." He did worry that he would miss the music and this would all be for nothing.

The two boys hiked off of the road way down onto a well-worn path, pitching stones into the river when they heard a noise in the dark behind them, moving their direction. Their imaginations going wild with ideas of specters, demons and vampires, they warily stepped off of the path, far enough to be hidden from the moonlight and squatted down. Soon a man appeared around the bend, mumbling to himself and staggering slightly. He wasn't looking for them so he wasn't following them.

"You think it's a ghost?" Tug asked, leaving Theo not sure if he was serious or just playing.

"I hope it's not my papa!" Theo whispered.

They both strained their young eyes trying to see who it was following them through the dark.

"No, just another drunk," he paused. "We sure are seeing a lot of them around here this week."

When he walks through an errant beam of moonlight penetrating the leaves of the trees overhead, they both instantly recognize him.

"That's your Uncle Raz!" Theo whispered urgently. "He's looking for you!"

"Wait." Tug put his hand on Theo's shoulder, staring at his uncle in the dark.

"He's not looking for me." Tug bites his lip in anger. "He's going to the joint to get some more hooch."

Tug stands up as if daring his uncle to look his way, all the while wishing the moon to fall from the sky and squash him flat. He can feel his pulse pounding in his temples.

"Come on. Let's see if that's where he goes."

"He's drunk already," Tug says as they step back onto the path a short distance behind the swaying man.

Theo asks, "Did he have whiskey at home?"

"I don't know. He was supposed to go to the granary across the river all day today and sell his corn from last fall. That's the corn that I picked! I heard him tell a neighbor that they was running out of corn out in Oklahoma. Uncle Raz said he would be getting his high dollar for it."

"Did he do it? I helped pick it too, you know."

"I don't know. I didn't see him today."

Theo knew that Tug was often hurt by his uncle, but he had never experienced such hatred for anyone like his friend did. He couldn't imagine ever hating one of his uncles or his own father like that. Shrugging though, the boys continue the walk at a slower pace some distance behind him, knowing if they are caught; it's a certain belt whipping for both of them.

• • • •

They heard the noise and the music long before they saw the juke joint. They smelled the meat roasting over an open fire pit to be sold to the juke joints customers. There was no hiding it. These boys were excited. The music revved them up and the thrill of being somewhere that was more or less forbidden to them was beyond description. It was better than jumping out of a barn loft into a pile of hay.

They found their tree to climb, exactly where Tug said it was and the limb was in a perfect position. They hoisted themselves up just as Raz made his way through the front door.

The sign on the front was painted sloppily in white letters, "Muzic." Theo thought it comical that so many couldn't read or write, much less spell. However, Theo didn't realize just how unusual it was for a young boy his age to be able to read and write, at all. Illiteracy was actually very high among most rural people.

The juke joint appeared to be built out of the remains of an old fishing shack with a covered deck on the back toward the river. None of the windows had glass in them and the shutters that protected those windows hung loosely on rusted hinges. The coastal storms that raged by on the ocean just a day's ride away did great damage even this far inland.

The joint was well lit inside and when the boys settled onto a tree limb about fifteen feet up, they could clearly see everything going on. It looked wild! Theo began imagining scenes from the Old Testament his father had preached about. "So that's what they did," he wondered aloud. It didn't look worth the worry in his young judgment.

There were musicians playing on a piano and a brass horn in the corner. They were the best Theo had ever heard, although they were the only jazz players he'd ever heard. Theo did truly enjoy the rhythm and tempo of the music.

There was a sweaty, fat man in dungarees pouring drinks in jars along one wall and the rest of the area was covered with a mish-mash of wooden tables and chairs, all filled with people drinking it up and having a large time. There was even one overweight, sweaty, white man with a large burn scar on his forehead.

Theo noticed a couple of women in very floral dresses kicking their heels up with the music and seeming to be the life of the crowd. Their dark cheeks were colored pink and their lips were as red as their shiny high heel shoes. He and Tug noticed them as did Uncle Razmus who was leaned against the "bar" watching. Tug elbowed him in the ribs, grinning largely in the dark.

• • • •

They watched Uncle Raz swallow his drink and tip up his jar to show it was empty. He then waved it and a hand full of cash in the air, demanding more. One of the "ladies" in a floral dress paid close attention to Raz, her eyes seeming to fixate on the hand full of loose cash he was waving around. Her head moved in a rhythmic coordination with Uncle Raz' fist full of cash; just like a snake watching a helpless song bird.

"It looks like your uncle sold his corn today."

"Look at all that money he's shakin' around in there!" Tug was amazed, never having seen more than twenty dollars at one time. "I bet he wastes every last bit of it.

The floral dressed lady had Raz's attention too. She stroked his shoulder and his chin, cooing sweet things into his ears, all the while cutting her eyes toward a large and mean-looking, bald man sitting at one of the tables. Theo and Tug didn't notice this part.

They saw her kiss Raz on the cheek and then turn her back to him, pushing back against him while speaking to the man at the table. Raz was oblivious. They then saw Raz wobble his head toward the woman as she stepped away; smile largely and with his whole hand, grabbed her backside. They heard the shriek that erupted from her and saw the fit of laughter that shook Raz. They also saw the bald man stand up with such force as to turn his table over. Raz still didn't seem to notice him, though. He was still laughing and staring at his hand that still held a whole ten pounds of floral covered buttock. Neither Tug or Theo had ever seen Raz laugh, much less smile, and it disturbed them.

The boys saw the bald man stomp over to Raz and jab Raz in the chest with a stiff finger, scowling and spitting as he spoke into Raz's face. They saw Raz smile, pat the man on the cheek, and shove something into the man's shirt pocket, just before he stumbled away toward the back door. The heavy of a man stood stunned and looked around the room to see if anyone saw his disrespecting. The woman seemed to be the only one.

They witnessed the woman with her hands to her face; scold the big, mean looking man while others started to look on. The boys didn't understand the obvious challenge she was giving to the bald man's manhood; the "are you going to let him get away with doing that to me" scolding that was apparently going on.

The two had intentions of robbing Raz of his money after he left for the night but this presented another opportunity for the woman to manipulate her personal muscle to her will. The big man looked around and the quickly followed Raz out the back door of the joint toward the outhouse.

• • • •

Raz stumbled out the back door of the juke joint struggling with the buttons on the front of his pants, needing terribly to relieve himself at the outhouse. Even drunk, he knew he would never make it that far, so he diverted to the nearest tree. Little did he know that his nephew and Theo were sitting on a limb just above his head in the dark fringe of the joint's dirt lawn. The big man followed him out.

The big man held a dollar bill between his thumb and index finger waving it around. "Hey old man, who do you think you are grabbing my woman like that?"

Raz, who had already begun to relieve himself on the grass under the tree, passed gas and turned toward him, wetting his shoes.

Raz mumbled something and the big man reacted, "My boots! You got that on my boots!" He reached down to pull his pant leg up a little and jerked back, "My pants too!"

Raz mumbled again and grinned. "What did you say? Are you getting uppity with me?" Sweat shown like an oily sheen, on the shaved dark head of the man standing over Raz. The kids could see it reflecting and when the breeze shifted they could easily smell him.

Tug held his nose, "Phew!"

Theo, un-phased by the rampant body odor, saw him pull a big folding knife from his pocket and heard the "click" as the blade snapped open.

"You want to try answering me again? I asked what you thought you were doing grabbing her, then shoving a dollar in my pocket. You saying she's cheap? You saying she's only worth a dollar?"  
The timing could be no worse but Raz became understandable at that moment. "If the red, high heel fits," he laughed.

"I think it's gonna take all of your money to make this right." The bald man spat. "You are already sorry and just sayin so ain't gonna help none."

"Who said anything about being sorry?" Raz held out his arms as if expecting a jovial hug from the big, angry man. "If you think you can take it." He didn't see the knife.

Without flinching, the big man stepped forward and stabbed the knife into the center of Raz's chest. The knife slid in as if given a slot and Raz didn't react. Either the whiskey was restraining him or he was shocked by what had happened. It wasn't like in the comic pages. There was no big talk, scuffle or clash of enormous blades. He just pushed it right in.

Grunting, the big man jerked the knife free of Raz, who continued to stand. Blood spurted from the wound as he withdrew the blade. He jabbed it back into his chest again. This time Raz fell to his back, looking up into the tree, directly at the boys. He clutched his chest, the pain reaching his brain, and moaned. The moan, coated with realization increased into a mind-numbing shriek.

"He killed me! He killed me!" Raz wailed before going silent as the shock set in.

Theo cried out and Tug sat silent, mouth hanging agape. Fortunately for the boys, the music drowned out the sound of the murder taking place below them, as well as the cries escaping from one of the two of them. Tug started to breathe hard, panting like a tired dog. "Did you see that?"

The soon-to-be killer, overcome with whiskey and the energy of what he'd just done, runs back into the juke joint, bloody knife in his hand. The boys can see people start to react to it and run out the front door. A woman screams.

Over the din of the panic and confusion, they heard the woman with the bald man ask, "Did you get the money?" and they clearly heard his answer saying he didn't. They see her rare way back and with a mighty swing, slap his head and call him stupid. The man almost stumbled under the blow and the venom in her voice.

Theo and Tug climb down the tree and stand over Raz, laying there with bloody bubbles in the corners of his mouth.

Theo sees the blood seeping through the twin gashes in Raz's shirt. He hears Raz gasp for breath.

Not knowing what to do and as tears begin to seep from his eyes, Theo puts his hands over Raz's wounds and pushes. He instinctively tries to stop the flow of blood.

His hands are too small to staunch the flow and it pushes between his fingers onto the ground. Every time Raz's heart beats under Theo's hand the blood wells a little more.

"There's so much of it!" Theo cries out in alarm. "What do I do?"

Tug just stands over them both, staring at his mortally wounded uncle and guardian. He spits on the ground. "Serves you right," and spits again, ignoring Theo completely.

"Help me Tug!" Theo pleads, "Put it back in him!"

Theo scoops up the bloody dust off of the ground. He vainly tries to squeeze the blood out of it, back into Raz's chest. "Help me!" he yells again, this time getting attention from inside the building.

Raz reaches up grabbing Theo's shirt and through a frothy foam in his mouth threatens Tug, "I'm gonna get you boy. Get yo' self back home now." He gasps one last, bloody breath and lays still.

People are coming out and yelling in the dark, seeing the two boys. "Who are you boys?"

The voices of many blend into an overwhelming roar in Theo's ears.

"Someone go get the Sheriff!"

"Deke done killed a man!"

Tug grabs Theo by the collar. "Run!"

• • • •

Out of breath from running and from the stress of the moment, Tug falls to the grass beside the creek. Theo stops and kneels beside him.

"He killed him Theo! He killed Uncle Raz!" Tug wasn't tearful or seemingly upset. He seemed to be more astounded. It was as if he had just witnessed some great magic trick and had figured out the magician's secret.

"I saw." Theo says as he studies his bloody hands in the moonlight. Holding his hands in front of his face, Theo begins to tremble.

"He died with my hands on him, Tug. He bled straight through my fingers."

"Yeah," Tug is distant in thought. "Where will I go now?"

"Tug he died," Theo says, "and he thought I was you."

"What?"

"He said for me to get back home, thinking I was you."

"Figures don't it? I bet he threatened to beat me too, didn't he?"

"Yeah."

"He got what he deserved." Tug mumbles under his breath convincing himself that Raz got exactly what he deserved.

"But Tug, he's dead!"

"I know. I know."

Theo walks to the creek and washes his hands in the cold water, wishing the whole time he'd been frog hunting instead. Killing bull frogs for dinner is a great deal different than having a man killed under your feet.

He listens to the stillness of the night, the burbling of water over the rocks and the crickets in the brush. He considers that his best friend's uncle lay dying under his hands, blood seeping through holes in his chest and bubbling out of his mouth. He lowers his head, not knowing what to think and weeps.

Much calmer, walking along the old dirt road back toward their homes, the boys start planning what to tell everyone else.

"We can't tell Papa we saw that. He can't know we were there."

"I spect' the Sheriff will come for me."

"No! He doesn't know we were there unless someone recognized us," Theo in near panic. "No one said our names!"

"No Theo, Raz was killed. They're gonna make me leave and live somewhere else."

"Oh." Theo feels foolish and selfish now that he understands what his best friend is saying. Tug is now dreadfully afraid that he'll be forced to move away. He gained a degree of freedom from a hostile and abusive old man to face uncertainty of where he'd rest his head that night.

"I bet you can stay with us. We'll be like real brothers then." Theo lamented the idea of losing his playmate and best friend.

"I sure do hope so." Theo puts his arm around Tug and squeezes, momentarily forgetting his own recent break down.

The boys return to their homes, Theo sneaking in and Tug walking calmly through the front door. Both agreed to say nothing about where they were or what they saw.

Tug, unusually peaceful despite the tragedy of the night, went right to sleep in his bed. Theo, terrified and soul-sick lay wide-eyed staring at the ceiling. He could hear his brother breathing in his peaceful sleep, but none was coming to him easily. Eventually exhaustion overtook him.

• • • •

The sounds of boots walking across their porch and the knocking on their front door, wakes Theo from his restless sleep. He hears his father grumbling as he gets up to answer the door, "I'm coming, I'm coming."

Theo peeks from his window and is surprised to see a horse standing in front of his house, and a white man on his front porch. The man is wearing a gun on his hip.

His father opens the door and is surprised himself to see the Sheriff of the county standing on his step in the middle of the night. He strikes a match and lights a lamp. "Come in Sheriff, come in. What can I do for you tonight?"

The Sheriff takes his hat off, knocks the dust off of his pant legs and then steps across the threshold. "I'm sorry to wake you Reverend but there's been a death and you're needed."

"A death," asks Pastor Blakely. "Someone I know?"

"Yes, it was Razmus."  
"I didn't even know he was sick. Let me go get my proper clothes and shoes on."

"Reverend, there's more..."

Theo peeked through the crack in his door trying desperately to hear what was being said but the voices were too low. He saw his father shake his head at the Sheriff and then the Sheriff held up his hand to stop him from walking back to his room.

His father stopped and Theo could see his shoulders slump. Pastor Blakely turned to look at the door to the boy's bedroom, amazement and what looked like disappointment battling for control of his face.

"He knows!" Theo thought to himself as he quickly returned to his bed. His sheet pulled up tight with his back to the door, he held his breath for fear his father would hear it and know he was awake. He heard more footsteps and then heard the sound of his door being opened.

"See Sheriff, he's right there, sound-asleep."

The Sheriff looked in at Theo's inert form. "Okay, thank you Reverend."

The Sheriff walked away from the door but Theo's father stayed. He leaned back in the room for a last look. "He better be sound asleep when I get back too."

He wasn't fooled by Theo's feigned sleep. "I recon I'll go get Jeremy and bring him back over here.

He closed the bedroom door and Theo sucked in a lung full of air, his heart pounding. He heard his father leave with the Sheriff.

• • • •

The next morning, Theo woke from his fitful sleep to hear noise from the kitchen of pots and pans being moved about and a hushed conversation between his mother and his father. He slowly climbed out of the bed and walked to the central room of the house which also served as a dining room, family room and side of the kitchen. He saw Tug sound asleep on the sofa under a blanket his grandmother had sewn herself. Papa must have really gone and gotten him during the night.

Theo's mother was in the kitchen. Theo eavesdropped on the conversation. "He can stay here as long as he wants. He can't stay with that no-good aunt of his. Raz was bad enough!"

The Pastor was with her. "They are his blood family. They will love him as they should,"

"So that's why he was living with Raz and getting beaten by the old drunk all the time? Is that love?"

She had no way of knowing that before Tug was eighteen years old, he would die in an accident while he working at a saw mill dragging away the scrap. The saw didn't get him, neither did the logs. A freak bolt of lightning during an afternoon spring rain struck the machinery and he was standing too close. She didn't know that his death, and the grieving by Theo that followed, would be the final push Theo needed to propel him towards his calling. There was quite a lot that no one knew. It's how God intended it.

"He can stay here as long as he wants, or until his family comes for him." The Pastor conceded looking up seeing Theo in the doorway. "You and I need to talk, son."

"Be gentle," Mama Blakely reminded. Papa cut his eyes at her. He knew what needed to be said but she was right to remind him. Sometimes people say the wrong things at the wrong times for the wrong reasons.

"Let's go outside so we don't wake your friend."

"Okay Papa."

The elder Blakely put his arm around his son's shoulder and led him outside beyond the porch and into the woods across the road, where they sat down on a bench Theo had made the previous summer.

Theo sat nervously and his father didn't say anything. He sat there with his head back, eyes closed and mouth moving with silent words. Theo assumed he was praying for peace and mercy for Theo since Theo was about to be killed for doing something really wrong.

"So how many frogs did you get last night?" The question stuns Theo.

"Yes, frogs, you said you might go frog hunting last night."

"I didn't get any."

"You didn't see any or you didn't go or you didn't gig any?"

Theo knew at this moment that to do anything other than tell the truth would forever mark him with his father. "I didn't go frog hunting."

"Ah, so you were home all night last night. That's odd because I couldn't find my gig this morning in the shed when I looked."

Theo's heart raced. He'd forgotten to get the gig from behind the tree where he leaned it when he met Tug the night before.

"I know where it is. I can go get it." He somehow managed to avoid the question at hand.

"That's not necessary. You can do it another time. I need to talk to you about something that happened last night."

"Yes papa."

"They said they saw two small boys there last night." His father began, but before he could finish, Theo broke into sobs.

"I couldn't help him papa! I couldn't save him."

Theo's father knew the truth and suffered with his son as he watched him break down. He put his arm around his shoulders until he quieted.

Theo looked up into his father's eyes, "Are they going to hang us?"

Stunned by the question, "Why in the world would they do that," his father asked.

"Because we were there and we'll get the blame! We didn't do anything, I promise Papa, we were up on a tree limb listening for music and then he came out and..."

Theo recounted the entire night's events to his father who sat quietly and listened, taking it all in. When Theo finished, he held his hands up in front of his father's face telling him about the blood and how he could still smell the metallic smell in the skin of his fingers. He wept some more and again his father put his arms around his son.

"Theo, listen to me," he shook his son gently, "listen to me."

Theo stopped briefly, his breath hitching in his chest.

"You're not in trouble. There were plenty of people who know just what happened. Deke has already been caught and confessed to it all."

Theo sighed loudly. "You are in trouble for sneaking out and for lying to me and your mama." It was a small blessing to Theo.

"Son, the next time you want to listen to some good music, just tell me and I'll take you to the city and we'll listen to a real performance. You've seen how dangerous the other places can be."

They both stand and walk across the dirt road back toward their home, but Theo stops in the middle of the road, staring at his hands.

Quietly he whispers as if ashamed of his helplessness, "I couldn't save him Papa."

His father stops too, "I know boy. I know. God gives us talent and strength to do many wonderful things but there are just some things that men just aren't meant to do, especially not young boys trying to grow up too fast."

"I tried to save him but I couldn't."  
"Look here son. You're going to feel bad about this for a long time but turn it into something worthwhile."

Theo nods at him and his father draws him close and he begins to pray. "Lord my son has witnessed the evils of this world. Please ease his soul. Give him your undeserved grace and ease the burden on his young heart. Let him take what he's witnessed at the hand of man and be your good Witness. It's in your Son's precious name that I pray. Amen."

He pushes his son back from his embrace, lifting his chin to look into his eyes.

"Turn this tragedy into a blessing. Learn from it. Tell your friends what you saw. Tell them what you really saw, not a glamorous dance hall, but a filthy, murderous, snakes den."

Theo nods again.

"Are you ok, son?"

Theo dries his eyes with the backs of his hands and stares at his palms, knowing how much blood was on them. "Yes, sir."

"Good, now let's go wake up your new brother. I'm sure Mama has some ham ready for us. I think we all have a lot to talk about."

The two Blakelys walk to the house, fathers arm around his son. His father noticed that Theo seemed to be taller under his arm. Had he grown recently?

• • • •

Rural Tennessee, 1923

"You're going to have to hold still young man."

The frightened and squirming child was barely able to stay seated on the table as the boyish-looking doctor pulled a large thorn out of the back of the boys scalp.

"Hold still!" he pleaded again, going for a loose headlock on the child.

"You hold still right now." the boy's mother scolded as she smacked him on the calf. He yelped and sat still, obviously fearing his mother much more than the doctor.

The doctor pulled the green and brown thorn from the boys scalp and then dabbed on iodine to clean the wound. "Just a couple more -- what did you do, dive head first into a briar bush?"  
The boy started to answer but his mother spoke first. "He and a friend were playing on a log over a creek. I seen him do it." She cut her eyes sharply at her son. "He was someplace he didn't need to be."

The doctor flinched, remembering doing something similar as a child. "Yes ma'am."

"I saw him start to fall. Instead of just jumping off in the water, he started running across the log, twirling his arms, like some fool bird trying to take off. I guess he was trying to outrun his fall."

The doctor says, "Yes, go on," his attention truly on pulling the thorns from under the boy's scalp.

"He made it to the end of the log and just flopped off on his head in a briar patch." She muffled a laugh behind her hand at the consternation of her injured son. "My but it was funny to watch."

Turning serious again, "but he still shouldn't have been there. He could have put out his eyes or fell on a copperhead."

The doctor winked at the little boy and shrugged his shoulders. He stage whispers to the boy, "Mama's do know best don't they?" The boy nods.

"But we have the most fun." The boy nods emphatically.

"He's all done Mrs. Hardin. I think I got all of them out and I put iodine on all of the wounds. He should be ok."

"Thank you, doctor." She straightens her dress, then her hat. The boy jumps off of the table and nearly knocks over a pair of men coming through the door.

The doctor sees them, "Be right with you gentlemen."

Mrs. Hardin leans in to the doctor, "Doctor, I know you're married but if you ever have need, my cousin Loretta is a beautiful, single, young, Christian woman..."

The doctor cuts her off, "Thank you, Mrs. Hardin. If your son starts running a fever bring him back here and let me look at him."

She pulls a jar of green beans from her purse and presses it into the doctor's hand. She looks at the floor, "I hope this is ok."

"It'll be just fine," he says, opening a small closet and putting the jar on the shelf with about two dozen other jars of assorted canned vegetables. "Watch his scalp though. If it's still tender in a few days, bring him back." She says goodbye and walks away.

"You have a nice day," he says to her departing back as she leaves his small office, passing the two men who both tip their hats to her and mumbling, "Ma'am."

The doctor somewhat recognizes one of the men, an older black man who he'd given treatment earlier that year for a bad tick bite. The other man, odd to be in this particular office, was a large, sweaty white man with saw dust on his boots.

"What can I do for you two today?"

The white man steps forward, "This fellow works for me out at the mill and got himself cut on a nail that flew out of a timber we were shaping." He looks to the other fellow.

"Come on up here and show the doctor."

The older black man mumbled and stepped forward, un-wrapping a cloth from his forearm. "It didn't need to be doctored, Mister John"

"I can't have you getting gang green and losing your arm." He turned to the doctor. "He wouldn't agree to see anyone but you on the way over here. Said you took care of him once before."

"I remember him." The doctor gently pulled the man's arm toward him and looked at the wound. "Now let's have a look."

"Yes, that's a pretty deep cut, but it didn't get to muscle so it should heal ok if we can keep it clean." He looked at the injured man. "You're going to be fine."

The doctor laid the man's arm across a basin and rinsed it with water beginning to remove saw dust from the wound.

The man called Mister John spoke again, "So you from around here Doc? I don't recall seeing you in these parts much."

Talking as he worked, "No sir, I'm from South Carolina originally. I ended up going to a medical college in Nashville. I went to The Capital, Washington, for a short while and then returned here. We liked the area so much that my wife and I decided to stay. We moved here about a year ago."

"I see. I can't say that I've ever heard of a black doctor before, except for maybe in the war over yonder. I don't mean no disrespect you know." He points over his shoulder with his thumb, meaning France and WWI.

"No offense taken. Times are changing."

"Yes they are." He continued, "My wife teaches school and would probably enjoy getting to meet you. She enjoys educated conversation. My talk of grabbling catfish from the Turnbull or Beaver Dam Crik just bores her to tears."

Awkwardly acknowledging the obscure compliment, the doctor knows that propriety would never allow a white woman to sit and have a conversation with a black man. It was a shame because he did lack for intelligent conversation with his own wife. He shakes his head slightly.

"Something wrong," Mister John asks.

"Not at all, I'm just thinking about my own missus. There's a lot to be said for a smart woman."

Mr. John laughed, relaxing greatly. "Ain't that the truth? Mine keeps me on my toes all the time."

The injured man sat silently, intently watching what the doctor was doing.

"Ok look here. Part of this cut is deep and I need to sew it closed. Do you think you can stand it?

The injured man nods his head.

"What's your name?" the young doctor asked.

"My name is John."

"I thought your name is John?" The doctor asked of the man standing over them, watching.

"It is. We are both named John." He laughed. "I was named for the Book of John and I have no idea where this one was named for." He swatted the man on the shoulder gently with his hat, making the doctor shield the wound with his hand to prevent saw dust from going in.

"Oh, sorry," The man said.

"So, John, do you think you can stand a stitch or two?

"Yes sir I can and I'm named for the Good Book too," he said looking back at the other John, "in fact my mama, rest her soul, named me for the verse John 17:4."

Just as he began to quote the verse, the other John joined in grinning at his employee. Apparently they'd done this several times before, "I have glorified thee on the earth..."

They were both surprised when the doctor joined in their oration, "I have finished the work thou gavest me to do."

They both stared at the Doctor who just smiled, "My father was a minister. I can do this all day with you. So how about those couple of stitches?"

The un-injured John steps back toward the door. "I'm going to go wait out front. I don't know that I can watch this," Mister John said, seeing the growing look of alarm on his injured employee's face.

Standing outside on the step, he hears a yelp or two of pain and then silence. A few moments later, the doctor comes to the door with his man cradling a bandaged arm. "It was just like he was sewing up a pair of socks Mister John."

The Doctor grinned, "No, I don't sew socks nearly as well."

Mister John approached, "How much do I owe you Doc?"

The Doctor squinted at him. "You don't have green beans do you?"

"Huh? No, I have money."

"That's excellent. I have plenty of green beans. That'll be one dollar."

"Fair enough," the big man says and pulls a silver dollar coin from his pocket, handing it to the doctor. "I appreciate you taking care of John here. He keeps my mill running."

"Where is your mill?" The doctor asks, "In case I ever need lumber or something."

"It's about twelve miles south-east of here, over on the edge of Turnbull creek, almost to Nails creek. Folks call it Spencer's Mill."

"Twelve miles," The doctor was amazed, "You brought him twelve miles to me? I know there are at least three other school-educated doctors between here and there."

"As I said, he wouldn't see anyone else." Mr. John stepped up and did something strange. He held out his hand to shake with the Doctor. "Thank you."

The Doctor shook his hand, "My name is Theodore Blakely, by the way."

The big man nodded, "Spencer is my name, John Spencer."

They rode off on their lumber truck, leaving the doctor to shake his head, "Interesting friends, those two."

He opened the screen door to his clinic, chuckling but paused, watching the truck depart, "Thou madest him a little lower than the angels; thou crownedst him with glory and honour, and didst set him over the works of thy hands." He wished that he had shared that one with them. It seemed appropriate and was one of his father's favorites.

"Good afternoon!" He shouted and waved to the neighbor lady across the street, sitting on her porch chair shelling beans – a sentinel observing their street. She tilts her head and waves as he closes the door behind him.

• • • •

The Barber looked through the screen door on his shop, which was nothing more than a single room on the back side of an old building that he borrowed a few days a week to cut hair. He stared at the two old men arguing on his steps. He continued to clip his customer's hair but the commotion outside bothered him.

The man in his chair getting the hair cut seemed to be blissfully asleep, ignoring it all, with a hot towel wrapped around his face. Despite his ordinary wool trousers and pressed shirt, he wore exceptionally nice wing-tipped shoes.

"Would you two come inside or go away and stop making such a racket on the sidewalk?" The Barber scolded.

One of the men opened the door and looked in at the man sitting in the chair and then at the other older man sitting against the wall looking at a newspaper. "How long you figure it'll be before I can get a cut?"

The Barber addressed the man with the paper, "You getting a cut or a shave today Harmon?"

The older man rubbed his chin as he set down the paper. "No, I think I'm ok today."

The Barber nodded, "About 10 minutes – can you wait that long or are you and Earl going to kill each other out there?"

"Pah! He couldn't hurt a fly" said Earl as he sidled past James, intentionally sticking an elbow in the other man's ribs as he held the door.

Swatting him with his hat, James followed him in, "I'll take a shave and a trim when you're done with him," he said pointing at the man asleep in the chair with the hat in his hand.

"What were you two arguing about anyway," questioned the Barber. "That's all you old coots do is fuss and fight."

Both of the older men started talking at once, neither willing to yield to the other just out of sheer spite. The Barber and his other visitor, Harmon, could catch bits and pieces of the tirade and surmised that it had something to do with a boxing match that took place ten years earlier, somewhere up in New Jersey.

They continued to discuss the merits of this unknown boxing match. The bell over the door tinkled as it was opened and slammed shut behind the person entering. All of the men, except for the one in the chair, froze and stared in silence at the woman that came in the door. Women just didn't come into a men's barbershop, just like men didn't go into their parlors. There were secrets to be maintained!

"Theodore!" She screeched. No man said anything, afraid to draw her undivided attention to him, along with her well-known ire.

She swung her purse hitting the foot of the man asleep in the chair with the towel over his face. "Theodore, wake up!"

The man in the chair stirred and pulled the towel from his face as the barber sat the chair upright. "Hello dear."

"Theodore, I'm hungry. Take me down to the diner so we can have lunch."

The man in the chair looked up at the barber who said, "We're almost finished."

"Dear, go ahead to the diner and order for both of us. I want a ham sandwich and a side of their coleslaw. I'll be in shortly to pay for it and we'll eat together."

"No, I want you to go now! You can come back and finish being trifling with these trifling people later."

Seeing trouble brewing, the barber stepped away from the chair. Theodore sat straighter and took a firm but casual tone. "I am in the middle of a haircut. I will be down as soon as I'm finished."

She stood staring at him, slack-jawed.

"Now, dear, go order us some lunch and I'll be in shortly to pay for it." He sat back in the chair so the barber could finish what he was doing, "We'll enjoy a good lunch together as soon as I'm done here. I have to look at that Jopsin girl's jaw when we're done.

His wife looked as if she was preparing to explode in fit of rage. Instead, she turned on her heel and left the shop, slamming the door so hard that it rattled all of the pictures hanging on the wall.

"I supposed I had better join her."

"I wouldn't be in a hurry to do it, doc. If that was my wife, I may just hold off on going home for a day or two," Said one of the men watching the spectacle.

"She's just having a bad day."

The three men in the shop all stared at the young doctor. Surely he didn't believe that his wife was simply having a bad day. None of them was educated beyond what they could get in church as a child, but they all knew a crazy-woman when they saw one.

"You just be careful what you say to her doc. You may just pick some flowers for her for later on."

The Barber quickly finished the cut, accepted the two bits payment and whisked any hair from the man's shoulders.

Theodore, no longer an anonymous barbershop customer, transformed back into Doctor Blakely when he lifted his bleached white doctor's coat from the coat rack and put it on as he exited the shop.

He had no sooner stepped down two of the three steps when he saw a motion out of the corner of his eye. Shrieking in fury, his wife was standing beside him, trying to ambush him with a brick to the side of his head. He jumped away from her, catching her wrist. He gently forced her to drop the brick which was intended for a killing blow.

She screamed something unintelligible and the doctor quickly drew her to him, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

"Let go of me!" He held fast, looking around, he saw the four men in the barber shop looking out of the door at them.

"See, I told you." He heard one of them mutter.

"She's having a bad day." He said apologetically to them and slowly, but gently, carried the thrashing woman down the sidewalk toward their small home over his office -- sad look on his face.

"You let go of me! I'm no poor, bean eating Negro! You let go of me!"

He continued carrying her forward, hoping a crowd wouldn't gather from the commotion.

"I'm the wife of a doctor! I don't deserve to be treated like a slob!"

Still moving forward, her kicking at his shins, scratching at his arms, spittle flying with her every word, he squeezed her tightly. "Woman you need to calm yourself and have a little dignity!"

Obviously he didn't yell this or even say it loudly. He spoke forcefully into her ear.

"I'm taking you home and when we get there, I'll go get you some lunch."

She calmed somewhat but he didn't release her until they were off of the sidewalk and moving up the stairs toward their apartment.

A small crowd had gathered in the neighborhood windows, all watching the spectacle but none came outside out of respect for the doctor, save for the four men at the barbershop. The whole community knew how his wife was and the whispers around church were that she was "touched." They would always tap their temples when saying that.

The four old men who didn't mind standing on the sidewalk to watch, all shook their heads.

"She's plumb crazy," said one, receiving a chorus of agreement from the others.

"That boy deserves better than that. God blesses his soul for putting up with her," lamented the barber as he turned back toward his shop, shaking his head.

Another chorus of muted agreement came from the other men and those who overheard him from the windows of their homes and stores.

• • • •

"Yes, ma'am, they do send good news by telegram." Theodore told the woman sitting in the chair across from his small desk. "Telegrams aren't always bad news, you know. I could read it to you, if you like."

Theodore knew that she didn't know how to read and she trusted him to not embarrass her for her lack of proper schooling.

The elderly woman gave the sealed telegram to the Doctor, her hands shaking from age, anxiety and poor health.

"I've not held an official telegram in a long time. I think the last time I got one, it was about the death of my father."

The woman gasped but Theodore quickly put her at ease. "Oh it wasn't completely a bad thing! My father was a Minister. I am sure that when he died he was ready for it and the Good Lord had a place ready for him. It took the sting out of it, so it wasn't all bad news."

His attempt wasn't completely successful in calming her. She is still afraid that the telegram is a bearer of bad news. "Please read it for me. If it's something terrible, I don't wanna know. Just tell me I don't want to know and I'll let it go at that."

"I'm sure it'll be alright. Now, let me see."

The Doctor opened the envelope and unfolded the telegram. He read through it, mumbling as he did so, and then looking up at the woman, he smiled. Her small fists were clenched in her dress at her throat, anticipating what he would tell her.

"It's not bad. This is all good news! Here, I'll read it to you. Dear Aunt Eliza, stop. We are all well, stop. The flood didn't take the farm, stop. The Mississippi killed a lot but missed us, stop. We'll see you this fall, stop."

The old woman wiped newly forming tears from her eyes with her handkerchief. "That was my sister's daughter." She took a deep calming breath.

"I was so worried. When I heard the Mississippi was killin hunderds of people I feared for them."

"Well now you don't have to worry." He handed the yellow telegram and envelope back to her. "You may want to save that. Not too many people around here get sent telegrams like that in this day."

She reverently took it from him, folding it carefully and placed it in her tattered floral handbag. She gave the doctor a quick kiss on the cheek thanking him for some peace and told him she'd say prayers for him and his own family.

"Thank you, we all need them." This was the truth in every way for the young doctor. His wife, a well known fit-thrower had threatened to leave him many times in the past and almost four weeks earlier had followed through and disappeared without a trace.

They chatted briefly about the weather and about the new blue and yellow train engine that came in to town the previous morning. Finally, the elder woman made her way to the door. Looking through its glass pane she had one last comment. It remains to be seen if what was about to happen was a moment of good fortune or just plain bad luck.

"Looks like your prayers got answered," but under her breath, "only the Lord knows why."

Helen, the Doctor's wife, came through the door at that time, followed by another woman, a stranger. They were both dressed as if they were going out to a club to listen to music and dance. Gaudy was too complimentary. She encountered the old woman, in the doorway, who neither moved aside nor backed up to allow her access to the interior of the room.

"Bout' time you showed back up." The old woman scolded as she pushed her way through the door.

Helen huffed and put on an indignant expression.

"You better mind your own business old hag!" Helen shouted at the back of the exiting senior, who truly could care less about anything she had to say.

Helen whirled on Theodore, striking out, pointing her index finger at him like a weapon about to unleash a bolt of lightning, "Don't you say a word either!"

Theodore, in a staged whisper took on a truly innocent look. "What would I say? Who could imagine that I have would have any comment to make?"

She smirked as did the strange woman with her.

"You've been gone for almost a month, with no warning, no goodbye, and no note. Now you show back up, being rude to my patients and to me."

"Yeah, so what?"

"You have some nerve behaving this way. And look at you! Have you been selling yourself lately? You've never made efforts to look so, so cheap!"

"Look Theo, I'm just here to get my trunk and the rest of my belongings. Minerva and I are moving to Chicago." She indicated the woman standing behind her glaring at her husband.

"So you're leaving me – again. Does this mean divorce is coming?"

"Go right ahead and file it. I won't be anywhere around these parts to have anything to do with it."

"I can't say I'm surprised."

"Look, I'm going to go up and get my things. You just stay away from me and stay out of my way. I'm going to find me a rich, older doctor who's mature, and has sophistication. I don't know why I picked a country bumpkin playing doctor, like you."

Theodore didn't move or say a word. He was considering what to say, if anything, as she ascended the stairs toward their, or rather his, home. Minerva followed her up the stairs.

Despite the heartache he was feeling over the loss of his wife, he also experienced a bit of relief, for which he immediately felt guilty.

"She's not always been right, but at least she knows what she wants," He paused, "and who is this Minerva person?"

He had never seen her before and wondered who she was and where she came from. Helen, his wife, was significantly older than him. Minerva looked to be about the same age as him, if not even a little bit younger.  
"Is she Helen's family?" He wondered aloud to himself. He had never met any of her family members in the seven years he had known her, six years of which having been as her husband. He assumed they were all gone, or she was intentionally avoiding them. He had also wondered in her times of "having bad days" if her family wasn't intentionally ignoring her. For that matter, was Helen really her name?

He decided he would ask Minerva and went up the stairs as well. Maybe she would have some answers for this stranger-than-usual behavior of his wife.

He entered their small upstairs apartment and found the two women in the kitchen, Helen packing up a small bag with silverware and Minerva standing over her quietly humming and looking bored.

"Helen, I need some answers."

He stands there with his fists on his hips then indicates Minerva, "Who is she?"

Helen stands mutely, as if deciding whether or not he deserves an answer.

He looks at Minerva, "Who are you?"

"Don't speak to her! Don't you dare speak to her! She's mine!"

As if jabbed with a hot poker, Helen erupted into a fit of profanity at her husband, claiming he was worthless and had no ambition staying in the small, hick town. She screamed how she wanted what was due to her. She screamed about his prowess as a husband and as a man. She ended her tirade in a fit of jealous rage how all of the women around him would stare at him and talk behind their hands.

"My husband! You were my husband! They don't get to look at you!"

She reached into her purse and pulled out a small blue-black pistol, aiming it at the doctor. "You need to be marked. You need to be ugly like everyone else. I'm through being hurt by you.

Holding up his hands, "Hey now, you know you don't need that. I'm not going to hurt you."

"You're sure not going to hurt me! I'm in charge and I'm taking Minnie and my stuff to Chicago! You can die right here!"

Minerva, in the meantime, seemed as surprised to see the gun as Helen's husband. "Whoa now, Helen, you didn't say nothing about killin' no body. I ain't going back to jail cause' you wanted to kill your ole' man."

Theodore turned on her, "Back to jail? You were already in jail? Who is this woman?"

"None of your business," Helen screeched. "She's here with me and she isn't going to be drooling over you."

She raised the pistol toward him, the muzzle looking like a cavern to the doctor. "I can kill you now and then everything will be mine!"

He and Minerva both held their hands out in front, both trying to talk Helen into putting down the gun. She wasn't listening but seemed to be deciding whether or not to kill him right there in their small, comfortable kitchen.

Theodore was too far from her to be able to reach her and he was too far from the door to make an escape without being hit easily by a bullet. He began saying silent prayers, knowing that his end may be at hand.

"Helen! I don't want to stay in Tennessee! Can we please just go on to Chicago?" Minerva pleaded.

The mention of Chicago seemed to momentarily distract Helen. Theodore took two quick steps, grabbing the pistol away from his wife. He put it in his pants pocket as she screamed and flailed at his chest with her fists.

A voice from the stairs shouted up, "Doctor Blakely, are you ok? It's the police."

"Yes, I'm fine. Helen is just having a bad day, is all."

"She's back?" he asked, then repeated to someone else downstairs, "Helen's come back."

Others could be heard talking downstairs.

"I'm coming up." He shouted and eventually a police officer holding a very similar pistol emerged into the kitchen, aiming at the two women. "Someone said they saw a woman with a gun through a window."

Minerva instantly pointed at Helen and ratted her out, "She did officer. I didn't have nothing to do with it. I'm just along to help her carry her trunk so she can move out."

The officer looked at the doctor. "Moving out she says," he continued. "Doc, I know this sounds bad, but I'm inclined to let them leave right away."

He looked around. "Where's the gun."

Theodore patted his front pocket. "I took it from her."

"Good, you keep it. Lord knows you may need it before this is all over," looking sternly at Helen and Minerva.

"Helen, do you have all of your things you need? Once you go out that door, unless the good doctor invites you back, you better never set foot in this building again." He looked at the doctor for confirmation, who nodded his head sadly.

Helen grumbled she was moving out of state.

"Probably for the better then," the officer stated seemingly relieved.

He stood over the two women as they finished gathering Helen's possessions and left the building, dragging the trunk down the sidewalk in the direction of the train station.

Theodore, while visibly saddened, had spent the last month wondering if Helen would ever come back and whether or not she was safe. It was a small consolation that she wasn't hurt, although he doubted he would ever see her again.

And so the divorce papers stated, recalling the repeated incidents of Helen attacking him in public, her constant verbal humiliation and harassment of him, the regular insults and rude attitude toward his patients. They went on to say that Doctor Blakely was an upstanding member of the community and of his church and that her constant bad behavior caused him great worry and grief, as well as potential damage to his reputation. The court agreed and ordered the marriage dissolved.

Besides, the doctor was a handsome man and an educated man. Even as a child females were drawn to him. He wouldn't be alone for long.

Part III

"You were that child who..."

On a typical October morning in Middle Tennessee, the cool weather didn't slow the roads of prosperity. U.S. Highway 70, heading west out of Nashville was active at 9:07 that Thursday morning with people of all sorts making their way along the "Broadway of America."

The regular run of the bus to Nashville was making its return leg. The road was rough but the leaves on the trees were just turning gorgeous shades of reds, yellows, oranges and gold. Fall was knocking at the door and all but one of the six passengers was appreciating it through the open windows of the bus despite the chill in the air.

Two men sitting in the front were engaged with the driver about the weather turning cool in preparation for some good hunting. "The squirrels would be out in droves," one said.

Two of the chatty older women on board were discussing a recipe for cooking green beans without adding salt. Good heavens you'd think the world was coming to an end with that consideration. They had no idea that half-way around the world, at that exact moment, Athens, Greece was being liberated from the Nazi hoard by U.S. and Allied troops.

Another older woman, usually a participant in their conversations, sat staring at a young black man sitting against the window, her mouth partially open in amazement.

The young man, dressed in a light denim jacket, khaki pants that were too short for his too long legs, and a green shirt, had a pinky finger buried up to almost the second knuckle in his left nostril. He was auguring his finger hoping to clear an obstruction. He would withdraw it, look at it, and then re-insert it for another attempt.

"Would you like a handkerchief?" The older woman asked disgustedly, as much a question as it was a scolding.

He ignored her, content to search with his finger.

"Young man," she spat. "I asked if you would like a tissue."

He turned to look at her, a finger still inserted, "nuh-uh." He answered negatively.

She turned away quickly trying to inject herself into the green-bean conversation and ignore the young man with the filthy public habits.

Shortly thereafter, the Driver of the bus leaned back and yelled so everyone could hear him, "Anyone need to get off at the White Bluff stop?"

He waited for a few seconds and hearing no response, gave the bus a little more gas. "Okay folks, we'll be at the end in about 20 minutes."

The passengers on the bus began straightening themselves and gathering their possessions when the Driver turned back again.

"We'll leave for the return leg at four o'clock with a stop in White Bluff at four twenty, back in Nashville by five oh five.

The old women all sat straight and proper as the bus rolled into town, just as the young man with the bad public habits tapped one on the shoulder. She turned to look at him.

"Would you like to buy a gold watch?" He asked as he held a gold colored pocket watch out to her by its chain.

"No, no thank you." She said, not taking the watch to look at it, knowing where his fingers were recently.

What she didn't know also was that the watch was stolen during a jewelry store burglary for which that same young man was arrested and indicted. He was out on bond still pending trial for the jewelry store, in addition to burglarizing a shoe store on the same spree. No one was quite sure how he convinced anyone to make his bail payment but amazingly enough, he was out.

"I need the money. I'll sell it to you cheap."

• • • •

Eldred hurried off of the bus ahead of everyone else, drawing a look from the men who have traditionally allowed the women to disembark first. The ever popular age-old question was raised behind him, "What are young people coming to these days?"

He didn't care though. His goal was to get some fast cash selling that gold watch so he can take off to New York. He'd heard during his brief, most recent stay in jail that there was plenty to be gained by someone who was willing to take it. He admitted he had no problem taking anything that someone didn't bother protecting.

He was in a hurry and his patience was running low. He just knew that something would go wrong before he had a chance to escape from the south and go north.

"Just like my kin-folk did a hunnerd years ago." He would tell the men sharing a cell with him in Nashville before his bail being posted. "I'm headed north."

Stopping to lean against a wall, Eldred rolled a quick cigarette. Striking a long, red tipped match against the brick, he lit it. He inhaled deeply and slowly, and then exhaled the smoke just as slowly while he looked around. He needed to find someone to buy that watch.

He didn't have any concern about the current indictment he was facing trial over. Truthfully all that legal mumbo-jumbo they all tried to tell him at once, went in one ear and straight out the other. He didn't have any concern that by leaving the state he would be a wanted man.

He didn't understand anything other than they were letting him out of jail because a bondsman said he could go. The intention of the bondsman was very clear however.

Pointing a lit cigar at Eldred outside of the jail, "Boy if you don't show back up to court, I'll hunt you til the day I die, or someone else hangs you first." He spat as he talked and a purple scar that descended from his ear to his throat blanched with the strain of the statement.

Eldred believed his threat. Eldred figured his fence would have him bailed out just because Eldred knew too much about his operation and might rat him out to avoid jail. Instead it was his father and his cousin, using every penny they'd ever saved.

The bus pulled away from the curb to head back to the garage and a large car pulled up right behind it into the vacated space with several people in it. The first person to step out of the car was a black man in an Army uniform. His uniform chest had numerous ribbons on it, meaning he was probably just home from the war. When he withdrew his cane and walked with a significant limp, it confirmed his recent arrival. A nondescript couple got out also and appeared to act like family to him.

A cigarette between his index and middle finger, Eldred flipped a jaunty salute to the soldier. Unsure if it was meant to be offensive or respectful, the soldier just nodded, making severe eye contact with Eldred, sizing him up. By the look on the soldier's face, it seemed as if his judgment of Eldred was lacking, and completely accurate.

Eldred wandered into the nearby hardware store and asked several people if they "be interested" in buying his gold watch. They all refused. Strangely enough, no one asked where the watch came from and how he managed to be in possession of it. Maybe they all knew what to expect, or suspect as the case may be.

While in the store, he did manage to palm a nice pocket knife left sitting on the counter, as he strolled by, looking to see if anyone noticed the theft. It slid easily into his pocket; the weight of it bouncing slightly against his thigh as he walked.

He made his way around town for an hour or two, wandering aimlessly. He day-dreamed of wandering the sidewalks of New York City; smoking his cigarettes and having coins jingle in his pockets.

He sold the stolen pocket knife to a stranger for five dollars near the rail road tracks. Later, with four dollars left in his pocket, he ate a warm ham sandwich on the sidewalk outside of the neighborhood store and drank down a bottle of grape flavored soda. It sure did taste good to pay for food with money he actually earned, he thought. To him, criminal activity like stealing and selling that stolen pocket knife constituted work and earning.

He saw from the clock on the bank face that he needed to sell that watch and try and make the bus back to Nashville. He had only a few hours to spare.

He was walking down the sidewalk on Mulberry Street and encountered a lady that was familiar to him. He spoke first, "Hi there Miss Hann..."

She cut him off, "Good afternoon Eldred. My name has changed since I last saw you. I'm a Blakely now. I married the Doctor Theo a few months ago."

It made no difference to him, what-so-ever, but he played along. "Would your husband like a good gold pocket watch? I'll sell it to you cheap." He pulled the watch and chain from his pocket showing her as it flashed in the afternoon sunlight.

"My, that is a pretty gold watch, but I have no money to spend on it." She thought for a moment, "You may want to go see my husband and see if he wants a gold watch. He's in his office now." She pointed down the street with her finger toward Dr. Blakely's small clinic.

"Alright, I'll go ask him." He said hesitantly, knowing he was out of time and ideas for some fast money.

He stepped across the street toward a small mechanics shop where the mechanic was stretched out under the hood of an old truck, trying to reach something down deep. Grunting with frustration, the mechanic stood up and walked around to the front of the truck and open hood. Putting his feet on the bumper, he stepped over into the motor compartment and squatted on the radiator, wrench in hand.

"Hey there," Eldred said, announcing his presence.

"Hey yourself," the mechanic said in return, not stopping what he was doing.

"You think you might want to buy a gold watch?" He asked holding the watch and chain up behind the mechanic's back.

The mechanic didn't turn around, "Nah, I don't need something like that." He turned to look at Eldred, "Now if you're hiding a good hunting gun in your pocket, we might talk about that. I lost mine in the Harpeth River when my boat turned over one night."

"Why did you have a gun on the river at night? What were you doing, making whiskey?

Eldred caught his gaze and it clearly said to "shut his mouth and fast."

Eldred, usually slow on the uptake, knew where to find a hunting gun. "I can get you one, but it'll be about fifteen dollars."

"Does it shoot?"

"Yeah, good enough I suppose. I shoot rabbits with it."

"Alright, I'll bring it back in the morning."

"See you then."

Eldred knew then that he had to spend the night at his parents place out in Turnbull Community. Problem was, he had no way to get there. He would figure that out later. He still wanted to sell that watch and continued on toward the doctor's office.

The little bell over the door announced his presence and Dr. Blakely, now middle-aged, came from the back examination room. "Why Eldred Hardin, I haven't seen you in forever, how have you been keeping yourself?"

Eldred, looked around and then down at the floor. "I've been alright Doc. I got a telegram telling me that Ma was bad sick. I took the bus in this mornin' but fell asleep and missed the get off in White Bluff. I got no way to get back there."

The doctor sat at his desk, "She's sick?"

"That's what the telegram said. I've been practicing my reading and it said that." Eldred was lying but was playing the con by ear, not sure where he came up with the telegram idea.

He paused again, nervous. "Doc, I have a gold watch, give to me by a man I work for in Nashville. I need to sell it so I can get a ride to my Ma's place and check on her." He put his hand on the watch in his pocket.

"How much do you want for that gold watch I see hanging out of your jacket pocket?"

The doctor reached for his wallet and opened it preparing to pull out some cash. Eldred couldn't help but notice the large amount of money crammed in that billfold.

"I'd like thirty dollars for it. It's real gold."

The doctor sighed, "I can't pay that much for it. I have other bills to pay."

Eldred looked crestfallen as Dr. Blakely put the billfold back in his pant pocket.

"Tell you what I'll do. It's time for me to leave anyway, I'll just give you a ride out to your Ma's place and that'll give me a chance to see if she needs some doctoring."

Eldred started to protest but it was shushed by the doctor who was already pulling his jacket from the hook behind the door. "Let's go."

The two men walked around the building to where the doctor had parked his grass-green sedan. "I hope your Ma is alright. I haven't seen to her in over a year."

"Me too."

• • • •

The sky was darkening quickly as the police car pulled over to the side of the road. He knew he would be able to catch at least a few speeders on this long curvy stretch. Sergeant Hale rolled down his window, despite it being October and cool. His new police issue wool overcoat would keep him plenty warm if he should need it, but so far it was way too warm for a coat.

He turned off his headlights and killed the motor. He considered lighting a cigarette but knew his wife would be upset if she found out about it. He was trying to kick the habit. It was just too costly and took up too much of his time.

He sat quietly, watching the gray clouds slide across an early evening sky as something began to nag at his awareness. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but something just wasn't right, he knew it. He wondered if there was a chore he had forgotten to do and could come up with nothing. He looked around his car to see if something was left undone and still came up with nothing.

A slight gust of wind blew in his window and he realized what was teasing the edges of his senses. There was a smell on the air that wasn't natural, something that smelled vaguely of char and sour milk.

The Sergeant exited his car with his silver flashlight in hand. He was proud of this flashlight. It was given to him by another officer who was leaving to fight the war. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on who you ask, he was told that he was just too old to join up and go fight.  
"You are much more valuable to us at home, keeping everyone safe," the young corporal at the enlistment office told him. "Sergeants aren't just grown on trees you know."

He'd accepted that with a bit of resignation, regret and relief. Patriotism ran as strong in his blood as anyone else.

He flicked on the light and the pale yellow glow of the bulb revealed nothing but weeds. A gentle breeze was still blowing and he decided to let his nose lead him, and it did. Scuffing the soles of his shoes on the roadway as he scented the air, he crossed the road and walked just a short way beyond where he would usually turn around to chase a speeder.

There, down a small embankment and somewhat obscured by the high weeds, was a large green sedan. The driver side window was broken and interior smelled strongly of a recent fire.

"Well what have we here?" He said imitating an Irish brogue, "Someone trying to dispose of a stolen auto."

He searched the vehicle and found several leaves from a magazine charred along with a man's billfold partially burned. The upholstery was mildly burned with an empty box of matches laying on its side in the driver's foot well.

"They didn't do a very good job of burning up the evidence." He said to himself as he pulled out a note pad and a pencil. Licking the tip of the pencil, he began writing what he saw and what he found.

He noticed a satchel on the front seat and opened it up; curious about why it would have been left behind. A leather plate, bolted with brass rivets under the handle of the bag, bore the name of Dr. Theodore Blakely, MD. He made note of that on his pad.

He also found a selective service card for the Doctor Blakely that had his address in a neighboring county. It was scorched too. Oddly enough, gas ration coupons were scattered about the car.

"Those are valuable and the bag too! Why in the world would someone leave them behind?" He scratches his head. "Well it's too dark to do a thorough investigation." He looks around to open the trunk of the car and only finds a spare tire; a small paper sack of old roasted peanuts and a fishing pole.

The Sergeant climbs back up the embankment and looks both ways down the road. "Yep, too dark to do anything; we'll take care of it in the morning."

• • • •

The Sergeant flipped the cover closed on his ticket book and stuffed it over the sun visor. He climbs out of the car and stretches his arms up over his head trying to work an ache out of his back that made its appearance during his last traffic stop. Making sure his uniform was straight; he entered the small diner/bar/saloon/dance hall/meeting room.

Jonas, the owner of "The Barley Shop" was very proud of his multi-purpose establishment, even though only a rare white man or woman ever came in. Sergeant Hale, however, had no racial hang-ups about dining there. In fact, he quite enjoyed their Thursday night roast beef sandwiches.

"Evenin' Sergeant," the proprietor greeted him as he took a seat at his usual table in the corner.

He always sat in a corner with his back to the wall. It was something he learned from reading about "Wild Bill" Hickok from back in 1869. He did that so no one could ever sneak up on him. Old "Wild Bill" died because the one time he didn't do it, a cowboy did sneak up behind him and shot him. That same event even came up with the saying of Aces and Eights in poker being a "dead-man's hand" because Hickok was holding that when he was assassinated.

"Good Evening Mr. Jonas. Are you out of the roast beef yet?"

"I have enough for probably one good sandwich if you want it."

"That'll be fine. How about some slaw too, while you're at it?"

"On the way."

Sergeant Hale got up and helped himself to some coffee behind the counter as the owner exited the kitchen with a plate covered with sandwich.

"Anything exciting happen tonight out on the road? I've been stuck here all day paying loving attention to that roast."

"Just a few speeders, you know - the usual." He pondered for a moment, "There was also a car that someone tried to burn up; a really pretty green sedan."

"A green sedan you say?" Jonas studied him. "There wasn't no one with it was there?"

"Not a soul, why?"

"Nothing really I suppose. There was this fellow in here a couple' hours ago. I know I've seen him before but couldn't tell you his name. He was flashing around a lot of cash and getting a lot of attention with it. He pulled up in a green sedan. It was the color of cut grass."

"Did he look like a doctor? I'm pretty sure the car belonged to a doctor."

He laughed, "Not this fella! He looked like he was used to sleeping in a corn crib every other night. He just had a lot of money."

"Jonas, you think you might recognize that car if you saw it again?"

"I sure would. There was a big scratch across the hood where the paint had curled up some like something was thrown on it"

"I don't remember seeing that."

"What's that?"  
"Nothing. You think you might ride up the road with me for a few minutes and look at this car?"

"I don't know, we're in the middle of the later dinner rush." He waves his hand toward the empty dining room and laughs. "Let me lock the door."

"Thanks."

"Should I tell the missus I'll be gone a while?"

"Nah, shouldn't take too long. It's not far. I'll finish this roast and coffee first, though."

• • • •

"Is that the car you remember?" The Sergeant asks as he walks toward the car lit by his headlights.

Jonas walks up to the car, casting long shadows against the tree line, and then points at a long scratch across the hood with a curl of paint sticking up. "Yes it is." He says excitedly. "See, there's that scratch I told you about."

"Yes, so it is. You don't know the driver though?"

"No, but I do know the fellow he met up with when they left my place. He goes by the name Harold Wilson. He works over at the meat packing plant on the night shift. I imagine he's there by now." Jonas pushes his hat back on his head. "It sure does look like something bad has happened here."

"That's what I'm afraid of. You think this Harold Wilson would have robbed the guy driving this car and tried to burn it?"

"I don't rightly know. I don't know him other than listening to him talk about canning meat for the soldiers when he comes in for a beer before work."

"Can you tell me which plant he works at? I think I may need to go pay him a visit."

"Sure, but watch out for him. He carries a big curved blade knife in his back pocket." He points toward his own back pocket. "He says it's for cutting tobacco stalk. I agree with him, it's big enough."

"I'll be careful with him, and the knife." He lovingly pats the holstered revolver dangling from his belt at his hip.

• • • •

"Deputy, I need to get a message to Sheriff Hammon. This is Sergeant Hale of the Belle Meade Police." He listens to the telephone receiver. "Ok pass this along to whoever is there then. Tell em' that I've located a partially burned, grass-green sedan with items in the car belonging to Dr. Theodore Blakely of your town."

The Deputy on the other end tells him to hang on a moment and then unexpectedly the Sheriff gets on the phone.

"This is Sheriff Hammon. Sorry for that, everyone that calls wants to talk to me directly. I let the Deputy and the Jailer handle it when I can. I was about to leave for the night, you got lucky"

"Thank you Sheriff. As I was telling your Deputy, I located...."

"He told me you located Dr. Blakely's car."

"Yes I believe so."

"Where is it?"

Sergeant Hale told the Sheriff everything he knew up to that point.

"Sergeant, if you can give me forty five minutes, I'll send my deputy to check on the Doctor and call you back."

"That's fine. I have some work to do here. I do have a lead on who had the car, if it is your doctor's. I'll pursue it as soon as you call me back."

"Good. Goodbye."

"Bye." The Sergeant hangs up the phone.

The Sergeant occupies himself near the telephone cleaning his revolver, filing some old reports, and attempting to roll a cigarette one handed. "Dang it how did those cowboys do that with one hand?" He threw it all in the waste can by the desk.

According to the clock ticking away on the desk, at forty four minutes the phone rang. The Sergeant picked it up.

"Belle Meade Police, Sergeant Hale."

"This is Sheriff Hammon, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir, I hope you have some good news for me."

"Unfortunately, no, I don't. I talked to Mrs. Blakely, Lucille, and she told me her husband never came home after work. She also told me she saw him drive off with a fellow by the name of Eldred Hardin, this afternoon. She hasn't seen him since."

"That's what I was afraid of. Can you think of any reason why he'd be over in this part of town Sheriff? This is the Negro area where I found the car."

"Well I should say so. The doctor is a Negro."

"Well I'll be." The Sergeant scratches the back of his neck as he considers what he's been told. "Alright then, I'll get on this and let you know something as soon as I find out Sheriff."

"I do appreciate it." The Sheriff replied, "but Hale, keep one thing in mind for me if you would."

"Of course Sheriff, what is that?"

"Dr. Blakely isn't an ordinary black man. He's smart and the whole community loves him. Whenever someone in the jail is sick, he comes and tends to them for free usually, white or black. He's a personal friend of my own. I know the big city people have ways of doing things, but I would appreciate it if you'd be extra diligent on this case."

"Sheriff, I'll give it my full attention."

"That's all I can ask. I'll call you back tomorrow if I have anything else to share. You do the same."

"Sure thing Sheriff. Goodnight."

He placed the handset in the receiver. Whether he was loved or not, it made no difference, Sergeant Hale would do his best to solve any crime that's been committed, starting with the apparent vandalism to his car.

• • • •

"I don't care who you say you are, you ain't coming in here tonight. I got a big order to fill for the early train tomorrow."

"Mister, you don't understand. I'm investigating a crime, a possible kidnapping at that."

"Good for you!" His New York accent was beginning to break through.

"I just want to talk to Eldred Hardin or Harold Wilson."

"I don't know any Hardin. Wilson is working the canning line and he can't come off it for another two hours."

"I'm not going to wait that long." The Sergeant places his hand on the grip of his revolver as if for emphasis and a little more than subtle threat.

"Yeah go ahead and stroke that thing all you want. I got at least two of 'em in my desk." The night manager of the meat packing plant brags.

Much like the cowboys of old west, the Sergeant's reflexes were lightning fast. In a flash he had reached out and grabbed the short Italian by the collar and pushed him against the wall, the tips of his toes barely making contact.

"Now you listen to me you sawed-off little runt. I'm in no mood to put up with this tonight." He shakes the man for emphasis, "You go in there right now and you bring that man out to me or I'm going to shut this whole place down and make sure it stays shut down for a good twenty-four hours."

"Yeah, whatever you say."

"What was that?" He shakes him by the collar again

"Yes sir!" the sweaty little man yells just before the Sergeant lets him go. He quickly enters the plant through a door in the office leaving the Sergeant alone to stare at the photos pinned to the wall. Most were of boxers or race horses.

"I sure hope those horses aren't what we're packaging here to feed the troops." he says out loud.

Soon the manager returns with a twenty-something year old, black kid in tow. "Here's your Harold Wilson. He's got a five minute break."

He pushes the kid toward the police officer and then sits in the corner behind the desk to watch the events unfolding. "It must be bad, kid. He wanted to take me on to get to talk to you. That would have been a mistake or at least the start of one." The manager points with his thumb at one of the boxing photos, revealing a much younger version of him. The Sergeant smiles cordially and nods. "We may just see yet."

The little man blanches and quickly sits down, mute.

Using his fast reflexes one more time, the Sergeant reaches around the young man and grabs the knife in his back pocket by its handle and pulls it out. A look of indignation and almost a challenge crosses the young man's face.

Completely ignoring the indignation the young man was experiencing, the Sergeant puts the knife in his own back pocket for the moment.

Backing a step away he asks the man, "Son, I'm here to find out why you ruined that green car out by the city limits. Wilson immediately looks as if he's either going to bolt for the door or wet his britches. He doesn't speak.

"Are you going to tell me what you did or do I have to haul you in?" He put extra emphasis on the "haul you in" part.

"No sir. I don't want to go to jail. I didn't do nothing. I didn't do it. It wasn't me. I swear." He gets panicky. "I tole him not to be messin around with that!"

"Calm down!" The Sergeant yells at the wound up, mumbling young man. "Speak clearly so I can understand you!"

He instantly settles. "I didn't want nothing to do with that. It was all E's fault."

"E as in Eldred, you mean Eldred Hardin?"

The young man chokes. "You already got him? Did he tell you I did it? I swear I didn't, I swear it on my mama's grave I didn't do it."

"Settle down, settle down. Sit down there and talk to me." The Sergeant looks at the manager and asks him, "Can he sit in this chair?"

"Suit yourself. I ain't missing this for the world." The way he pronounced world came out sounding like "woy-ld," making both the officer and the suspect look at him quizzically.

The young man sits down and calmly answers the officer's questions with the night manager paying rapt attention to the drama unfolding before him. No longer as afraid of the officer as he started, he clearly had quite a bit to say. The Sergeant took copious notes in his pad and asked quite a few questions as they were sparked by information revealed by Wilson.

• • • •

The dusty Belle Meade police car pulls up in front of the Sheriff's Jailers House. Several people file out of the jail house, led by a man wearing a sweat stained tan felt cowboy hat and wearing a gold badge pinned to his shirt. He wasn't wearing a gun but from his demeanor, it may have not been necessary to have one. They hurry up to the car and look in the empty back seat.

"Where is he?" Sheriff Hammon asks, "Where is my prisoner?"

Sergeant Hale climbs out of the car, again stretching to relieve his back of the constant ache. They all hear a muffled thump from the rear of the car. One of the deputies opens the trunk and pulls out a black man handcuffed from inside. He had a welt across his cheek and looked angry enough to spit nails.

"What is the meaning of this?" The Sheriff whirled on the officer.

"Sorry Sheriff." The Sergeant replied, "He was fine til we came across that last creek and then he decided he wanted to try to kick me through my seat back and try to cause us to crash. I had to subdue him slightly, and put him in the back for the last mile and a half."

"That makes perfect sense to me."

"He obviously knows where he is."

"Yes, I'm afraid he does. We all know who he is and what he's capable of."

The black man standing handcuffed before the Sheriff wasn't Harold Wilson. It was none other than Eldred Hardin who had just the previous morning taken a bus ride into town.

"Yes we all know each other, don't we Eldred?" The Sheriff asked as he swapped out Eldred's hand cuffs, handing the originals back to the Sergeant.

"After some investigating, I found out where he was staying and went and scooped him up." He looked at Eldred. "His drinking buddy had no problem giving him up to me. He didn't know where he was living. I ended up finding his lawyer who helped me out of concern for Eldred's well-being."

"Not surprising, is it Eldred?" The Sheriff asks of Hardin.

"Oh yes, and he had this in his possession. It must have been a souvenir of the car he stole." He handed the Sheriff a card. It was a copy of a South Carolina driver's license with the name Theodore Blakely typed on it. "He claimed to be the car's owner and said his name is Blakely. Unfortunately for him, I already knew his real name."

The Sheriff gestured to the other deputies, "Come take him inside. Clean him up and get him something to eat, looks like he needs it."

The deputies hustled Eldred into the Jail House and closed the door behind him.

"Sheriff, I'm afraid I may have some bad news for you."

"What's that?"

"I think this is more than a stolen car. The fellow that turned him in to me also told me where to find a shotgun in the weeds along the highway. It was right where he said it would be."

"Did he say anything about the Doctor?"

"Not a word, but he was really scared he would be implicated in something." He nods toward the Jailers House, "I'm thinking your boy in there knows a lot more than he's letting on."

"Thank you Sergeant." The Sheriff extends his hand. "We'll take it from here."

The Sergeant salutes him with two fingers, "Any time, just give me a call if you need anything else."

• • • •

The Sheriff slams the door as he enters the jail house causing everyone in the room to jump, along with the pictures on the wall. He stomps over to the small iron cell where Eldred sits eating a piece of bread and cheese. "You've finally done it this time Eldred."

"I didn't do nothing."

"Where is Dr. Blakely?"

"How should I know?"

"You were the last person seen with him, in his car, driving away from his clinic."

"I done told that other cop what happened."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I didn't do nothing to Dr. Theodore."

"He's been a friend to you since you were a baby hasn't he."

Eldred paused, thinking, "Yes he is." He said, using the present tense as a means of trying to gain some credibility. Eldred knew he wasn't really smart but thought he could for sure out-fox these people.

"So why don't you tell me where you both went yesterday? Tell you what, why don't you just start from when you came into town?"

"I rode the early bus in this morning cause I got a telegram saying that my mama was terrible sick and had asked for me."

"Who sent you the telegram and where was it delivered to?"

"There wasn't no return name on it and it was brought to me at my room in Nashville."

"Your room; you're renting a room?"

"I'm living with some friends, downtown a ways."

"So the telegram office managed to find you downtown a ways. That's really efficient of them." He walked around the cell and sat in a chair. "So you came to town to check on your mama. Why didn't you get off at the White Bluff stop?"  
"Just like I told Dr. Theodore, I slept through the stop."

"Yes, and?"

"I spent time around town then Dr. Theodore offered to give me a ride to my Mama's place to check on her."

"So you took the Doctor to see your Mama too?"

"Yes sir."

"Okay, and then what?"

"I offered to give Doc four dollars to drive me to the bus stop in White Bluff to catch the late bus back to Nashville."

"Did he drive you there?"

"He did"

"So you took the bus back to Nashville, not Dr. Blakely's car?"

"That's exactly what I did."

"So then how did Dr. Blakely's car end up near a place where you were seen?"

"It wasn't me. I wasn't there. I saw my Mama. Dr. Blakely saw my Mama. He took me to White Bluff where I caught the bus and that was the last I saw of any of them."

The Sheriff and everyone in the room waited for him to say more, but nothing else was forthcoming.

"Well I guess that does it then," said the Sheriff making a show of putting his hat on and heading to the front door. He motioned for one of his deputies to join him outside.

"Yes sir?" The Deputy whispered once the door was closed and they were alone on the porch.

"You get on over to the bus driver's house for the late bus and ask him if he had this boy on his bus to Nashville."

"Yes sir. If he asks, what do I tell him?"

"Tell him we're just following up on something for now."

"Yes sir. What are you going to do?"

"I'm gonna go wake up his Mama and Daddy out on Turnbull."

• • • •

A noise in Hardin's cell made the deputy look up. Sitting on the edge of his small bed, Eldred seemed to be acting out a strange stage play. The Deputy was intrigued and attempted to make notes of what was being said.

"Wow, this guy is a good actor," the deputy said, noting the changes in Eldred's voice and his inflections.

"Wha-chu gonna do wit all dat money you had Eldred," a feminine-like voice emerged from Hardin.

"I was gonna go to New York City, or maybe even Atlantic City," a masculine Eldred voice replied.

"You know I don wanna go north. Les go the otha way. Les go sout to see da ocean when we get free."

"You know I can't swim."

"I don care iffin you can't swim."

"If I drowned then you would too."

"I don care. I wanna see da beach."

"No."

"Why you let doze mens talk to you dat way?"

"What men?"

"All of them. Doze white mens."

"They ain't done nothing wrong to me."

"You'll see," the feminine Eldred voice said, "You'll see."

Eldred pushes his fingers deep in his ears.

"You ain't gettin rid of me dat easy."

He groans, laying back, trying to wrap the thin pillow around his head, completely unaware of the deputy watching the exchange, open mouthed and scribbling on the pad.

• • • •

Sheriff Hammon walked up the wooden steps of the small farm house. His boots making deep echoes against the wood, waking one of the dogs underneath that gave a low dangerous growl and then a subdued woof. He knocked on the door frame, firmly, knowing he was waking up some much older people.

No one came to the door, so he knocked again a little louder.

"Who is it?" came a voice from somewhere in the house, a male voice.

"It's Sheriff Hammon, Mr. Hardin. I need to talk to you a minute. Something's come up."

"Just a minute."

The Sheriff backed up and leaned against the porch pole and waited, knowing it would take a little while for Old Man Hardin to get moving around, as he listened to bumps and shuffling feet inside the house.

The old man came to the door, a lamp lit and in his hand.

"What happened, Sheriff?"

"Can you come outside? I don't want to wake Missus Hardin. I know she's been sick and all."

"Sick? Not her. I don't know what you been told but we were diggin taters all afternoon. I'm the one that's hurtin." He puts both hands in the small of his back and leans back. "I ain't that young anymore."

"Your wife isn't ill?"

"Lord no, she ain't ailin. You're the second person today to ask that."

"Who was the other?"

"Why, Doctor Blakely, that's who. He brought my boy Eldred out to visit. They thought she was sick and I tell you he was plumb mad when he left too. He drove all the way out here for nothing."

"Did he take your boy with him?"

"He did. He was suppose to take him to White Bluff to the bus stop to go back to the city."

"Alright, I won't bother you anymore. I'm sorry to have waked you up so late at night."

"It's alright, as long as the dogs don't start barking, everyone else will go back to sleep."

"Again, I'm sorry. Have a nice night."

The Sheriff tipped his hat and walked off of the porch as the old man closed the door to the house. Just as he was getting back in the truck, he looked up and saw the old man standing back out on the porch waving at him.

He stepped back out and approached the house.

"Did I forget something Mr. Hardin?"

"Well now that you're already here and all, I've got something turned up missing. May as well tell you now and save me a trip to town."

"Alright."

• • • •

"So he calls me back to the house telling me that he may as well report something else that's turned up missing." The Sheriff takes a big drink of coffee from the pot on the stove in the kitchen of the Jailers house. The Deputy and the Jailer lean in.

"So what was it?" The Jailer asked.

"He said that after the Doctor and his son left, he was hungry for dinner but wanted some fresh meat. He went inside to get his shotgun to shoot a rabbit he saw earlier in the field and it was gone."

"The rabbit was gone?" The Deputy asked. The Jailer and the Deputy laughed. "He wanted to report a missing rabbit?"

"No you bolt, the shotgun was gone. It was usually behind a door in the house and it was gone; so were three of his shells."

"Just three," the Jailer asked, still laughing over his own joke.

"Yes, he said he only had enough money to buy four. There was one left."

"He didn't know why they'd leave one and then take the gun. It wasn't like he could do anything with it with the gun gone."

"So what does this mean to us, Sheriff?"

"It means a shotgun and three shells were stolen from the house. What's more, the old man is convinced that the Doctor stole them. Now you can laugh at that if you want to."

The three of them amble into the main room where the iron-barred cell stood with only one occupant, asleep on his cot. The Sheriff tapped his coffee mug on the bars, "Wake up son. Wake up, I said."

Eldred stirred, the feminine voice in his head warning him, "Don't you talk to him. He's gonna gas you!"

Eldred didn't move very quickly and the Sheriff ordered him to wake up and stand up. He complied but sleepily said, "Sheriff I done told you everything. I got nothing else to say."

The Sheriff sucked at his teeth considering that.

"I'll be back later. We'll talk some more then."

The Sheriff left the office to go find his other deputy who went to see the bus driver but he was fortunate. Just as he was about to leave, his deputy showed up.

"Sheriff, I found the driver last night."

"Yeah, what did he say?"

"Hardin didn't take the bus to Nashville. Said he hasn't seen him in over a month."

"Was he sure about that?"

"I asked him the same thing and he said sure he was sure. He's known Hardin since they was kids."

"Let's go inside and talk to the prisoner and find out exactly what is going on here." The Sheriff said as he moved toward the door. The Sheriff didn't notice the subtle change in his own attitude but the Deputy did. The man inside went from being Eldred, or Hardin, to being "the prisoner." It was serious now.

• • • •

The Sheriff and the Deputy questioned the prisoner for more than an hour that morning, with no success. He just wouldn't talk to them, about anything, not even the weather. The Sheriff knew he had head problems, was often called "slow" or "simple" or "addle brained."

He knew he could out-wit him. It was just a matter of time is all. His frustration was rising however and the Sheriff was hungry so he and the jailer left the Deputy with the prisoner and went to the back to the kitchen to have some lunch that the local ladies made every day.

While they were eating a buttered bread and ham sandwich, he heard yelling from the front and feet pounding across the wood floor.

"Sheriff, they found him! Sheriff! They found him." He threw open the kitchen door as he rushed in.

"Calm down son! They found who?"

"Dr. Blakely! They found him."

"Who did?"  
"Two boys and their dog; they found him out on the Turnbull."

"What was he doing out there? Walking?"

"No! He's dead! He's been shot in the back with a shotgun," the Deputy yelled, unaware that half of the people around the Court House square just heard the whole exchange.

From inside the other room, where the cell made of the iron bars stands, they heard the prisoner, Eldred Hardin yell, "I want to talk to the Sheriff! I want to talk to the Sheriff right now!"

A hiss behind his ears warned him again, "They gonna gas you Eldred Hardin, jus like I said. You gonna taste da gas and I ain't never gonna see no ocean." Eldred didn't respond.

"What do you want Hardin?" The Sheriff asked.

"I want to confess."

Apparently discovery of the body and the loud announcement by the Deputy to everyone made Hardin change his mind and now want to figure out how to avoid being strung up and beaten out back, not realizing that the idea to do so never crossed the Sheriff's mind.

"I want to confess!"

"You'll get da gas!"

• • • •

"Okay, let's stop here! Are you telling me that because someone found the body, the suspect automatically volunteered to confess?"

"That's what happened for sure. No one ever accused the Hardin boy of being bright." The old Lawyer's stomach growled loudly. "As a matter fact, the prison psychologist later sent a report to the court saying that he was schizophrenic, only back then they didn't call it that. It was called Praecox."

I made a note of that word on the pad that I had pulled out while listening to the tale unfolding before me. I will have to look that up when I get a chance.

Mr. Leonard continued, "He was said to have another person trapped inside of him – a woman no less. He sucked his thumb as well. Another said he had lesions on his body, on his privates. I don't know how he got those unless he gave them to himself; or maybe from the VD or Syphilis"

I shudder at the thought considering my idea of a lesion was a weeping, bloody wound.

"Someone concluded he was crazy," I summarized. "I don't suppose that back then anyone did anything about it though."

"No, he was already locked up. It would have served no greater good to put him anywhere else. We're getting way ahead of ourselves here."

My own stomach grumbled loudly and by looking at the clock on my smart phone I saw it was approaching two o'clock. "Would you care if we stopped and got some lunch? I'll go next door and get us both something if you like, my treat."

"Of course it's your treat. I share my knowledge, you buy the food. The coffee was a good start." I took his order and ran next door to get something to hold us over.

Once I got back to the office we put our food on trays he had stacked in the corner behind a potted plant and ate quietly. I had my first egg salad sandwich. It was marvelous. The old man ate a bacon, lettuce and tomato on dry toast. I didn't see anything desirable about it but he seemed to enjoy it.

"I call him the 'old man' a lot," I thought. I reassure myself that it isn't disrespectful or derogatory. It's just what he is. It's an observation.

After a loud bar-room style belch the old lawyer patted his belly. "Now that hit the spot. Where were we?"

"The Deputy just told the Sheriff that some kids had found the body of the Doctor."

"Ahh yes, I remember. Well, Eldred said at least twice I recall from the records that he wanted to confess. The Sheriff, in his wisdom wouldn't let him without representation and other witnesses being present."

• • • •

"I want to confess!" Eldred yelled to anyone listening but intending for the Sheriff to take the responsibility.

"Now you just hold on a second!" The Sheriff holds up both hands to stop Eldred. "You're not confessing to nothing without there being witnesses here."

The Sheriff gave a warning to everyone within hearing distance, "Everyone is to shut up right now and not say a word about anything, to anyone, until I say so." He pointed at one of the locals hanging out by the front porch, "That means you too. You understand me? You've already said enough."

The fellow gulped when he realized that the Sheriff already knew he was the one who had already started spreading the word about the Doctor being kidnapped by the Hardin boy.  
"Yes sir!" he stammered.

"Now get on out of here." The Sheriff commanded of the man who left in a hurry.

They made sure there were ample witnesses to the confession. The Sheriff called in Mrs. Andrews, a Notary, to record the confession and notarize the signature. He also brought in three men to serve as witnesses, Loach, Keefer and Dole. He knew the men well and also knew they would be credible witnesses.

The Sheriff sat in a chair directly across from Hardin.

"Now look here Eldred, this is how we're going to do this. I'm going to let you talk. You volunteered; no, you demanded, to be able to confess to something. I didn't demand this of you. When you're done talking, you just say so, and then we'll probably have questions for you. Mrs. Andrews is going to write down what you say, and then notarize your signature when you're done. Start whenever you're ready."

"What am I signing?"

"She's going to write down what you say and then let you read it yourself. If you agree with it, you can sign it. Unless you'd rather write it yourself?" The Sheriff knew he didn't know how to read or write and would be surprised if he knew how to sign his own name, thus providing Mrs. Andrews for him.

"No, she can. Can I have a glass of water?"

The Sheriff gestures toward a deputy who quickly brings Hardin a glass of water. He drinks it all.

"I came in to town on the morning bus, meaning to sell a gold watch I won in a game. I was planning on moving to New York to get a job so I needed the money to get started."

All eyes were on him. "I found a fellow who wanted to buy a shotgun instead and knew where I could get one – my Pappy's. I convinced Dr. Blakely to take me out there by telling him that Ma was sick. I really did need that money and that was the only way I knew to get it until I saw all of the money that Doc Blakely had in his wallet when I asked him to buy that gold watch I had. I saw that money again when he was going to make change for the four dollar ride to White Bluff and I couldn't think of nothin' else. He put that billfold on the seat between us and then I decided to kill him."

• • • •

"You can roll your window down if you want. I keep mine rolled up to keep the wind out of my eyes; allergies you know."

"Thanks. I appreciate the ride out to see on my Ma."

"It's alright. I needed to get away from town for a little while anyway and a country drive would do me some good. I just got remarried and it's been a little overwhelming. I don't have the energy or the conversational skills I used to."

"I s'pose."

The sedan wasn't the top of the line and the suspension needed a little work. It made for a bumpy, squeaky ride. The cool air blowing in through the vent windows made it enjoyable and Doctor Blakely truly enjoyed the scenery. He was at a point in his life where he was paying more and more attention to the world around him and appreciating things more. He was maturing, even at his solid middle-age. He'd often considered getting himself some land and maybe having a small farm. It kept getting put off because of one thing or another and finally it just slipped away.

He'd remarried to Lucille just a few months earlier and she didn't share the dream of being a farmer's wife. If anything, she wanted a more complicated and sophisticated life than a simple and less troublesome. He didn't blame her, but a small stretch of land would still be nice.

He reflected on his new wife and how much younger than him she is. She was a real change from his other relationships and he had sincerely high expectations for the years to come.

They had driven more than ten miles when the Doctor realized that he hadn't been out here but once. These country roads were unfamiliar to him this far away from town. "Where do we go from here?" He asked Eldred. "As much as I enjoy riding around, I'm lost. I have no idea where to go."

"You been there before Doc, jus stay straight for another half mile and you'll go to the right when we get to the end of the fence. It ain't far."

"I hope your mother is alright. I'll take good care of her if she isn't. I've always enjoyed her when she brings me canned green beans and preserves." He smiles to himself considering the craggy old woman, who was elderly-seeming the first time he'd met her more than twenty years earlier.

"You know Doc, Ma, always did like you. I appreciate you bringing me to see her."

The car made a braking turn to the right and continued on down the tree lined dirt road, tossing up a cloud of orange and red leaves in its wake. Soon they came to a clearing beside the road, with a small house and a large garden in the front yard. Stooped over in the garden digging potatoes was Hardin's father, as well as his mother.

"Now what in the world...?" The Doctor asked, curious as to why a woman who was supposed to be violently ill should be stooped over digging potatoes. He looked at Eldred.

"I thought you said she was sick?"

"The telegram told me Ma was bad sick."

"Let me see it." The Doctor demanded holding his hand out expectantly.

"I left it in Nashville. I've been tricked Doc. Someone made me think she was about to die."

"Go figure that." He put the car in park and opened the door. "I'm here; I may as well go tend to the sick family." He grabbed his doctor's bag out of the back seat and walked across the garden toward the two people now standing and shading their eyes from the evening sun to see who was visiting.

Eldred could see them talking but couldn't hear what was being said. He saw the doctor put his hand on his mother's shoulder and her put both of her hands up and shake her head. He knew she was just asked if she had been sick lately. He could see his father interrupt and put both hands on his lower back, telling about his back pain. The doctor pressed on his back some and then patted him on the shoulder. It was an "I think you'll survive another year" type of pat.

While the Doctor and his parents were involved with each other he slipped away from the car and into the house. The shotgun was exactly where it was always kept, behind the closet door. He lifted it to his shoulder. It felt like it belonged there considering he'd been shooting this same gun as long as he could remember. On the shelf in front of his eyes were four new shotgun shells with pretty red paper and black writing. He quickly grabbed three of the four and loaded two in the shotgun. He stuffed the other into his pants pocket, just in case two wouldn't work.

Eldred sneaked back out of the house and put the shotgun in the back seat of the car without being noticed. He then walked over to where everyone stood.

"Boy where you been?" His father asked as he walked up.

"Went in to see if any cornbread was on the stove."

"We ate it last night."

"I'll make some more tonight if you're gonna stay for dinner." His mother said hopefully.

"I need to get back to town."

"You ain't in trouble again are you? We can't be bailing you out no more. There ain't no more money."

Doctor Blakely looked at Eldred, shocked. He wasn't aware that he had been in jail before. He started to ask about it but was cut off, making him angrier.

"I need to get back so I can go to work." Hardin said hurriedly.

"Well, well you've got a job," his father said, holding his hands up to the air in mock praise. "God must have been involved because I know this trifling boy didn't go out and find a job on his own."

Eldred didn't respond, but instead talked to the now irate Doctor. "Doc, I'll give you four dollars for gas if you'll take me to the bus stop in White Bluff to catch the evening run."

"Four dollars! Where did you get that?" His father asked and then added some sarcasm. "Oh that's right, you worked for it."

Eldred sneered at him and his father leaned closer. "Seriously son, who'd you rob this time for that money?"

Doctor Blakely ignored all of this and considered refusing Eldred's offer, which would have been the best thing to do. Given his good nature and that Eldred was willing to pay a lot more for his gas than it would have cost to buy; he could call it all even without feeling guilty about it.

Eldred spun on his heel and went back to the car without so much as saying goodbye to his parents. They apparently didn't mind and were used to such behavior as they didn't say anything either. The Doctor looked at them both and shrugged.

"If y'all need anything, just let me know. Mr. Hardin, if you want to try something, I've heard that if you rub a chili pepper on your joints that hurt, the pain will ease some. I've never tried it but I noticed you've got several hundred hanging on your porch there drying. Get it good and wet and let it soak into the skin."

"I'll try that." The old man agreed with him.

Doctor Blakely returned to his car and noticed Eldred sitting sullenly in the front seat and he also noticed the shotgun in the back seat.

"What's the gun for," he asked as he climbed behind the steering wheel.

"I'm gonna take it back with me to hunt some squirrels for dinner."

"They let you carry that on the bus?"

"Ain't never been a problem before as long as it's put away."

"If you say so."

He started the car. "You said something about four dollars?"

Eldred reached into his pocket and pulled out the wadded-up bills and pushed it into the open palm of the Doctor. To Doctor then took out his billfold and put them in. Eldred could again see that it was fat with cash.

"Thank you. I'll get gas on the way back," Dr. Blakely offered as he handed a dollar to Eldred.

"I know a short cut to get to the station. Take a right instead of a left, down by the creek. It'll save a mile or so."

"You navigate and I'll drive."

"I what?"

"Navigate - where you tell me which way to go." Eldred looked blankly at him, "Never mind. Just tell me when to turn."

"Alright."

They had driven a mile or more parallel to Turnbull Creek, between Jingo and White Bluff when Dr. Blakely became concerned about the shotgun. "This road is awful bumpy. Is that shotgun loaded? I don't want there to be an accident and have that thing go off in the back seat."

He pulled the car to a stop under a grove of tall, old, white oak trees and they checked the gun. It was loaded. Eldred knew that already because he loaded it at his parent's place. He put all of the shells in his pocket.

"Doc, I'll be back; I have to go up to the trees for a minute."

"Why?"

"I've got to go, bad."

"Why didn't you go back -- oh never mind."

"I won't be long."

"I'll keep the motor running."

Eldred ran up into the woods toward some thick brush. The Doctor sat quietly, silently praying for patience with this young man. After all, he of all people knows he's slow and he does come up with some fantastical stories. He could stand to have a little patience with him.

"Hey Doc! Hey Doctor Blakely!" He hears Eldred yell.

"Oh what now?" he says to himself. "What do you want?" he yells back.

"I found a squirrel! Bring the shotgun!"

"Are you serious?" The Doctor yells.

"Yes, before he gets away!"

"Good grief!" Theodore climbs out of his car, leaving the motor running. "I suppose he'll want me to call him Bwana next as I tote his hunting gun for him."

Dr. Blakely trudges through the woods toward Eldred who is looking up in a tall oak tree. Dr. Blakely notices all of the acorns on the ground. "Lots of acorns here, makes sense a squirrel would be here." He hands the shotgun to Eldred.

Eldred doesn't say anything just keeps looking upward, until he breaks open the shotgun and inserts two shotgun shells. He slowly raises the shotgun, aiming and fires once, then twice. The noise startles Theodore, who begins to look for a squirrel to fall from the tree. Nothing falls. He hears Eldred open the shotgun and eject the two spent shells, inserting a single fresh one.

He expects to hear a third shot and looks back at Eldred.

"Well? Where is it?"

"I must have missed."

"Missed? You shot two times with a shotgun!"

The doctor throws his hands in the air and starts walking toward his car, muttering to himself, angry.

"Doc, hold on," Eldred says to him as he raises the shotgun and sights down the twin barrels at the back of the Doctor. He wipes sweat away from his eyes as his caregiver stops, fifteen feet away.

"What now?" He asks beginning to turn.

Eldred Hardin pulls the trigger sending the good doctor crashing forward.

• • • •

"It was all just greed, plain ole money greed that made me do it. I knew he had a whole bunch of money in his pocket and I knew I wouldn't get near enough for that old shotgun."

Hardin slouched over in the chair, offering the glass back to the Deputy who was standing there with his jaw hanging open having listened to his first murder confession. He took it and got some more water him.

"After that I took the car and drove around a while, and ended up going to Nashville. I met up with a buddy of mine. Once I told him what I done, we went and burned the car so no one could find me. Guess I was wrong."

"He had ninety dollars in his pocket and some change. I spent a lot of it on whiskey and beer, a bunch on a woman, and then I lost the rest shooting dice."

He drank another glass of water.

"That's all there was to it. I shot him. I went through his pockets and took everything out, then I took his car and left."

The Sheriff and everyone in the room noticed how cool Eldred was being as he told the story. He was completely detached and showed no sadness or remorse.

"Have y'all told my Ma and Pa yet?"

"Just this morning but I talked to them last night though. Your Pa thought Dr. Blakely stole the gun."

Eldred actually laughed. "So what happens next?"

Mrs. Anderson approached him with the written confession and a pen.

The Sheriff pulled his chair closer, "Now before you sign that let me make sure you know your rights."

• • • •

"Wow," I say. "That's some serious drama right there."

"No, that's not drama. We haven't even gotten to the Grand Jury or the trial yet."

"Oh."

"Lawyers are about to get involved. We'll monkey anything up, don't you know?" The old Lawyer laughed at his own joke. "This is the part where I actually take an interest in what happened. I didn't have a problem with anything up to the point of the murder, because he confessed to it. It wasn't coerced at all. It was as good of a confession as you could as for outside of having witnesses standing around agreeing with every word as he speaks it."

"I assume most confessions back then didn't go as well?"

"Well, that depends on who got the confession. Many were suspect, many were not. We just didn't have the legal protections that we have now."

"You have the right to remain silent, everything you say.."

"Yes exactly, that's the Miranda law that arose from a criminal case of Miranda versus the State of Arizona. Television made that statement famous."

"So what about all of the people who knew the Doctor had been murdered and Hardin confessed? Did they get involved?"

"Oh yes, they got involved alright. One thing first though. In To Kill a Mockingbird, the defendant was innocent beyond a shadow of a doubt. He was falsely accused. In this case, the defendant is guilty beyond doubt. He also had a number of other charges pending as well at the same time in another jurisdiction."

I must have had a lost expression on my face.

"You'll understand later but I didn't want you to think I was trying to even suggest that Eldred Hardin was innocent. He was guilty as sin."

Part IV

"You must let justice work."

The Sheriff pulled his vehicle slowly around the Court Square, careful to avoid hitting anyone within the crowd that was gathering in the street.

"There must be seventy people here," he said to himself, amazed. "It looks like all of Nobletown has shown up."

He lightly pushed his horn once to make sure everyone knew to move out of his way. Unfortunately his horn didn't have a soft setting and the loud "aoogah" of his antiquated horn startled half-a-dozen of the scores of people illuminated in his lights. There were children running around without shoes enjoying the last of the pleasant weather and elderly adults dressed in overcoats because they were always cold. Most of the people present were colored. Many looked to have just come out of the fields working but a surprising bunch looked as if they'd just come from church.

Pulling into his parking spot in front of the Jailer's House, he shuts off his engine and his lights. He checks the time on his old pocket watch.

"It's only eight o'clock." He rubs his forehead and pushing his knuckles deep into his eyes. "It feels like midnight." The Sheriff stretches out his arms and gives a roaring yawn like a bear.

Truly hoping to avoid having to talk to anyone, he opens his squeaky door and slides out. His patience with people wasn't at its greatest, virtuous level at that moment. Almost forgetting, he reaches back onto his passenger seat to retrieve a paper-wrapped sandwich he'd brought for the deputy on duty. It ruined any hope for stealth allowing him to get away unmolested. A woman's shrill voice shouted in the dark.

"Sheriff! Sheriff! Is it true? Did he kill Doc. Blakely?"

The Sheriff turned and tried to see who had spoken in the growing crowd. It was dark out and the lights he could see did nothing more than to add to the haze and glare. His eyes were just too weary from the long hours and his lack of sleep.

"So this is what it feels like to need glasses and not have them."

Again, the woman's voice, "Did Hardin kill Doctor Blakely?"

"I can't talk about that right now." He spoke loudly to the anonymous voice hidden within the throng of people. They, however, weren't willing to accept that as an adequate answer.

Grumbling, the tired Sheriff resigned himself to the task at hand, "I guess we're going to have to do this after all."

He addressed the crowd, climbing up on the metal bumper of his truck and cupping his hands around his mouth to shout. "Y'all go on home and get some rest. There's nothing here that you can do and there's nothing that I can tell you. We don't know the whole story just yet. It is an investigation."

He paused for a moment. "Y'all know I have a job to do. So, like I said, y'all go home and put those young-uns to bed. Maybe over the next few days we'll have something to tell you."  
Not waiting for a response, he turned and went into the Jailer's House, flopping down heavily into a rocking chair in the living room.

He could see Hardin, lying on his bunk in the jail cell, through the nearly closed door that divided the two rooms. He could see his deputy sitting in the room with him, writing notes on a pad of paper.

Grunting and curious of what he could possibly be writing, he climbed out of the comfortable chair, and approached the Deputy. "I almost forgot. Dayna sent you this sandwich when I stopped to get some gas." He handed the newspaper-wrapped sandwich to the deputy whose face flushed. It was well known that the store clerk, Dayna, had a crush on the kid, but he did his best to hide it. It was unusual to have a law man who was also so naïve and innocent-seeming.

"Has he said anything or given you any trouble?" He asked the deputy who had just opened the sandwich.

"N-N-No Sheriff. He just lays there and breathes heavy." Reducing to a whisper he continues, his stutter disappearing, "He did cry a few times and talked to himself, but that's all." He hands the Sheriff the note pad.

The Sheriff nods and pats his deputy on the shoulder. "You ok to stay awake with him?"

"Yes sir. I've got some coffee and I slept a bit today."

"Alright, let me know if you need anything. I'm going to go rack out in the easy chair."

He made his way back to the other room and the comfortable chair, tossing the pad, unread onto the table. Exhausted, he laid his head back and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

He woke up with a start, forgetting where he was sitting. A deputy had just come in and closed the front door noisily.

"He may be spending the night in there with Hardin if he's not careful," the deputy said loudly, angrily, and with a reddened face.

Groggily the Sheriff asked, "Who's that?"  
"One of the Randolph kids. He was up on the porch trying to peek in through a window." He stopped to take off his jacket and look back outside. "They are getting bolder, Sheriff. They're on the step now."

"What time is it?" The Sheriff asks.

The angry deputy stops and looks at his watch. "It's after midnight."  
"I slept too long." He climbs out of the chair.

"What do you want me to do about them?"

"What in the world are you talking about?"  
"That mob outside, ain't you been watching?"

"No. I've been trying to get some shut-eye for the night shift."

"You better look outside then."

The Sheriff stands from his chair and pulls aside the drapes over the window to look out front. Putting his face close to the glass, an egg hits the window, smashing and dribbling trails of goo down the outside.

"Well I'll be..." The Sheriff puts his hat on brusquely. "We'll just see about that."

"See I told you so," shouted the aggravated deputy, following on his heels but stopping short at the door, not wanting to share in the Sheriff's anger.

The Sheriff exits the front door, stomping loudly on the porch flooring, and casting dangerous looks at the crowd, followed by the deputy.

"Who just threw that?" The crowd was silent.

"Well, who threw it? Speak up!" The Sheriff was angry and the whole crowd was feeling it. A woman pushed a frightened teenager forward.

The Sheriff pointed a finger at him. "Did you throw that egg?"

The boy hesitated and then stammered, "Yes-suh."

"Get up here!" The Sheriff roared, grabbing the boys arm as he came forward, nearly dragging him up the last step. Putting the teen's face beside the broken egg he had just thrown, the Sheriff yells at him.

"You have five minutes to get a rag and clean up that mess you made on my Jail House. If you don't, I'm going to fine your mama three dollars for vandalism, and put you on a work crew for a week!"

His mother quickly throws him a rag that she pulled from a pocket in her skirts. "Clean it up! I ain't got three dollars." The teen got down on his knees beside the window and got busy cleaning.

Indignant the Sheriff is about to go back inside when again a voice assails him. "We want that murderer Sheriff!" A chorus of voices shouts agreement.

The Sheriff looks into the crowd. Old style torches had been made and were being lit. He sees one man holding a coiled length of rope over his shoulder.

"Send him out Sheriff. We want the murderer!"

Turning back without saying a word and holding a single finger in the air as if to say "just a minute," the Sheriff enters the Jailer's House. The crowd reacts excitedly, apparently believing he was going to turn the murderer over to them. To the contrary however, he takes a shotgun from the gun closet and makes sure it is loaded. He puts extra shells in his pants pocket, silently praying that he won't need them.

The crowd gets louder as it finds its courage when the Sheriff steps back out onto the porch with a shotgun in his hand. Shouts of "hang the murderer" or "lynch him" were arising.

"You shoot him Sheriff," a young voice called out. "You've got the scatter gun."

The Sheriff was stunned. In all his years, he'd never seen, nor heard of, an all-Black lynch mob. They truly intended to take out their anger on that boy inside and hang him.

The Sheriff motions to the deputy looking at him through the window. The Deputy cracks open the door, almost hesitant to come outside.

"Drag that rocking chair out here," He orders.

Puzzled, the Deputy does as he is told and drags the rocking chair onto the front porch.

"Go arm yourself." He takes the chair from the Deputy and puts it right in front of the door. The deputy withdraws a shotgun from behind the door, in full view of the crowd. He anticipated this need.

"Good man. That's using your head. Now go on inside," he again ordered the Deputy. "Anyone besides me comes through that door; you drop them where they stand."

The Sheriff sits in the rocking chair, facing the crowd with his back to the door. He lays the shotgun across his lap and leans back, giving the chair a bit of momentum to rock. His threat is quite obvious – anyone who wants to get into that jailhouse has to get through him, the shotgun and if all else fails-- the rocking chair.

He mulls over how much he hates the idea of "eye-for-an-eye" mob justice. That verse from the Bible has been misused so many times as an excuse to act on hostile and grieving emotions. Apparently it doesn't matter what the color of your skin is if you're feeling the need to extract a pound of flesh.

Silently, he sits there rocking, watching the crowd by torch light while the crowd watches him in return, also silent. Eventually, the more impatient and aggressive of those gathered move forward and again push the Sheriff to give up Hardin. The Sheriff subtly, but quite openly, moves the muzzle of the shotgun toward the people stepping up on the bottom step of the porch.

"Now look here Sheriff," the leader says. "We just want justice for the Doctor. We need it! He didn't deserve no death like that. We all heard how he was shot in the back by that kid."

"Is that a fact? You want justice for the Doctor, just like that?" The Sheriff snaps his fingers in the air. "Is it justice for the doctor or justice for you?"

"Yes sir, as a matter of fact, we do."

"So just how do you intend to hand out this justice? I don't hear any Lawyers stepping forward from your group. Where is your judge? Where is your jury?"

"We don't need no Judge and we certainly don't need no lawyer to tell us what is right and what is wrong."

A middle aged man with a woman close to his side, her arm locked in his, makes his way forward. The Sheriff recognizes him.

"What do you plan to do with him, put him back in my jail?"

The man with the rope coiled over his shoulders moves forward, "No we plan to have ourselves a good old hanging."

"A hanging, is that so?" The sheriff points at the man holding the rope. "Are you going to put that noose around his neck and hoist him up?"

The man swallowed hard, "I just might."

"Do you have the backbone for that?" The Sheriff asked a little louder, so others could hear. "You're so anxious to kill a man, why aren't you over in Europe fighting for our country?" He pauses.

"I bet you're just a great big old coward who wants to kill a man who can't fight back. You need this crowd of people to build up your courage."

The Sheriff points to the man and woman he recognized approaching

"Pastor is that what you plan, too? You want to hang that youngster in there without a trial?"

"No, I don't." He climbs the step to talk to the Sheriff. "No, I don't plan on doing anything like that. I just want to help these people." He said motioning to the crowd in the street.

"Are you going to preach?"

"I'm going to tell them the truth and hope they listen, if need be."

"Thank you Reverend but that won't be necessary."

The Sheriff lays his shotgun against the railing and steps on to the top step, making eye contact with as many people as possible.

"There is nothing you can do here tonight." He emphasized the word nothing. "I know most of you and I also know that not a one of you is a cold blooded killer. I also know that a few of you," He pinned the rope holding man with a look, "wouldn't be so brave if it weren't for a crowd standing here. It's a cowardly act to mob a man."

A voice rang out from the crowd, a woman's voice, "He killed Theo!"

"Yes, that's what it looks like, but we have to let the court, and a jury, decide what the facts are. There is no other way and there is no other way to get that boy except through me and my men."

He again stares at the man with the coiled noose. "Are you man enough to come through me?" The man disappears back into the crowd."

The Pastor speaks up loudly so everyone could hear. "Sheriff we know you'll do what is right. We're not bad people. We just grieve for the Doctor's death and need something done."

"We will get justice for Dr. Blakely, no matter who killed him. Now y'all go on home. You must let justice work."

The Pastor nods and turns to the crowd, "You heard the Sheriff, go home. Come to the church tomorrow. After services, we'll let everyone talk that needs to. I'll have the Deacon there as well." The crowd slowly disperses as the Sheriff drags the cumbersome rocking chair back inside.

Inside, the two deputies are wide-eyed and grinning while Hardin is standing in the cell with his face pressed between the bars. "Thank you Sheriff," was all he said.

Handing the shotgun to the deputy and sitting back down in the chair, the Sheriff studies his prisoner. "Don't thank me yet."

• • • •

Knuckles rap loudly on the door of the office. The gentleman behind the desk looks up.

"Afternoon Judge, do you have a minute?"

"Come in Mr. Claude. I sure do, just wrapping up some required reading. What's on your mind?"

"The first motion has been filed."

The Judge ponders for a moment, "Which case would that be."

"The Blakely murder, your Honor."

"Yes, I suppose it is time for that circus to begin isn't it?"

The clerk chuckled. "Aren't they all?"

"You know, I do believe if we could harness all of the dramatics and hysteria that accompanies a capital case like that one, we could power most of Nashville from the energy."

The Judge reaches out to take the documents from the Clerk's hand. "So who's the Counsel on this one, someone local?"

"No sir, not this time; this is a fellow named Sparkman. I've checked into him and he does a bit of criminal defense and quite a bit of small claim, civil work in Nashville."

"Is he qualified to try a capital case? Does he have experience?"

"He's been vetted a few times over. Apparently he's well known in certain circles at the capital, or his family is. He has a rather full family history in local law and politics."

"Well as long as he knows what he's doing and I don't have to hear about mistrial accusations later, we'll be fine. I understand there was a confession anyway."

"There was although I'm sure it'll be challenged."

"It always is, he holds out his hand. "Very well, let's get on with it. Let me sign your receipt so you can get back to work and I can read what they've sent."

The judge signs for the documents and opens the envelope. "I sure do hope this one knows how to write an intelligent motion. By the way, I'm waiting for the prosecutor assignment. Anyone volunteered for it yet or will the District Attorney General appoint one of his Assistants?"

"I believe they are still working on it. They are all 'up on the case.' Like you said; there was a confession."

Opening his window blinds a bit wider after the clerk leaves, the Judge reclines in his office chair and gives the motion a read.

Later, much later, he puts down the documents and rubs his eyes. "Well at least he knew what to say." It was darker now and the Judge realized he had been reading for quite some time.

"Loraine, would you come in here please?" He yells to his office secretary who promptly comes in.

"Yes Judge?"

"Loraine, would you be a dear and lock these up in the vault for the night. I'm going to go home and get some rest and try to give them some thought." He hands her the documents he'd replaced in the envelope.

"I appreciate you coming in on a Saturday to get us caught up on our end of year reports."

"It was no problem Judge. Ever since Harold died, I've always stayed busy on the weekends."

"That's fine; just remind me one day next week to give you a day off."

She smirked at him, "do you really expect me to believe you'll ever be slow enough for me to take off during the week?"

"Doubtful, but we'll try!" The Judge admitted. "Monday morning, we'll work on my replies over some coffee. I expect we'll be at it for a while."

"Yes sir. Should I ask for a stenographer?  
"No, that won't be necessary. I'm going to create a document for the record anyway. We'll just have to do it long hand."

"Yes sir. I'll pick up some extra carbon paper for copies on my way in Monday, so I may be a few minutes late."

"Late! How dare you!" The Judge exclaimed in mock-exasperation.

Ever since her husband was killed in the war in France, Loraine had aged none-too-gracefully. Their children were grown and out so that left Loraine alone most of the time, unless she was at work or involved in a church function. The Judge felt such pity for her but tried not to let it show. It would wound her pride. While she missed her husband this last year and grieved for him, she was still proud of what his sacrifice meant. The letter she'd received from the War Department said that he saved the lives of a dozen men before he perished. It was framed and hangs on the wall behind her desk.

"Thank you. You ladies don't get too out of hand tonight at your social. Have a good night." Dismissing her, he waited for her to leave before he stood from his chair and stretched his back with his arms high over his head. He was looking forward to a quick dinner and long night sleep. He had an overwhelming feeling he was going to need his rest over the next few weeks.

• • • •

Sipping her coffee very lady-like compared to the slurps of the judge, Loraine was ready to take notes. She'd tried to offer the Judge a morning biscuit but he turned her down, claiming it would just make him hungrier later in the day. What he really meant was he was looking forward to the Monday pot roast at the lunch counter next to the court house. He wanted all the room his britches could accommodate for roast and turnips.

"Ok, so let's do this draft and then you can type it up and I'll sign the final documents." The Judge paused. "I spent more time than usual thinking about this case and the implications that go along with it. Our community has lost a genuine asset. He even treated me for my hurt back a few years ago. Our community is very truly injured. That's without even considering the perpetrator."

Loraine gave him a blank look as if asking for more.

"Does this make me biased toward the accused? Not at all; I believe the facts of the case will prevail, innocent or guilty and I'm really glad it's a jury trial.

"I spoke to him once or twice when he brought his wife in to renew their licenses." Loraine added.

"The Sheriff told me that there was a black lynch mob that was going to string that Hardin boy up for it. A black lynch mob, have you ever heard of such a thing? These weren't just good ole' boys who'd been drinking too much and turned mean. These were men, women and children feeling grief over the death, even a minister showed up!"

"Apparently they didn't lynch him," Loraine said with a shudder, very sensitive to the idea of death for anyone.

"No, they didn't." The Judge opened a desk drawer looking for something as he talked. "The Sheriff talked them down, with the help of that Minister. It ended up going away because the people trust our Sheriff to see justice is done. To tell you the truth, when he told me about it, I was envisioning Errol Flynn on the roof of the Jail house with a sword in each hand, a knife in his teeth and the sun setting behind his back."

Loraine laughed and added, "I bet he was dashing in his own mind."

"I'm sure he was, but in the end, his integrity is really what stopped any kind of violence that night. He's a good one."

Finding the pencil he was looking for, he made a few notes in a notebook and looked at the clock on the wall behind Loraine. "Eight o'clock sharp, let's get started." They were all business.

"Start this document with the State of Tennessee versus Eldred Hardin, giving this date and put my name as officiating and as signatory at the end. Use standard legal format, please."

Loraine cut her eyes at the Judge.

"Yes I know I didn't have to say that but if I didn't then you'd scold me."

She nodded and smiled warmly.

"In the matter of Tennessee v. Eldred Hardin we are considering a number of individual pleas in a single document. This was filed December 2, 1944, a Saturday, by one Jessie Sparkman, Esquire, of Nashville, Tennessee. I've identified a number of salient points in this filing that we'll address." The Judge stopped being so formal for a moment.

"This was one of the better motions I've read in a long time. This lawyer had a fire in his gut when he was drafting it." He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk as he read from the paper in his hands.

"Ok, back to business. The first plea is an outright plea to quash the Grand Jury indictment off hand. As much as I would like to do that, there has never been a case in my court that warranted dismissal of an indictment just because the defendant asked for it. I do suppose you must ask the obvious questions first, such as this, before you get to the serious pleading."

Opening a page of notes he produced from his desk the judge mumbled to himself some and then said, "Yes, we will deny the first plea to quash the indictment. The indictment will stand as presented to the Grand Jury and handed down by the Grand Jury. This will go to trial on that merit. The Grand Jury indictment was presented based on evidence of fact accompanied by the confession of the accused."

He waited briefly for Loraine to catch up on her notes. He knows her shorthand is very fast, but it's still early and he doesn't want to tire her unnecessarily.

"The second plea has a little more substance to it, of which I'm more inclined to study it, and give it due consideration."

"In the second plea, the defendant's attorney indicates that the defendant, one Eldred Hardin did sustain in January of 1942, an injury to his person, so grievous that it interferes with his mental and physical well-being. He further indicates in this plea that the defendant also suffers from a number of venereal diseases; gonorrhea and syphilis are those to which he was diagnosed and is receiving ongoing treatment."

The Judge pauses for a moment. "You know Loraine, I'm not certain the Sheriff knows the boy is being treated for that. Make a note to let him know to follow up with a doctor and make sure it's continued as it's supposed to be. It's ironic – he allegedly kills the one doctor who has always taken care of him growing up."

"The defendant's attorney indicates that based upon the grievous injury and the active disease state, the accused was unable to differentiate between right and wrong, thus was unable to determine a right act from the alleged wrong act of which he is accused – murdering Doctor Theodore Blakely with malice and forethought."

The Judge removes his reading glasses and flips through his notes on the pad. "Right now, we have hundreds if not thousands of soldiers coming home with grievous injuries to their heads and other parts of their bodies." The Judge notices the stricken look growing on Loraine's face.

"I'm sorry Loraine, but it's a truth of the times we live in. I can't just accept because an attorney claims he's had injury and disease that he doesn't know right from wrong. There has been no real evidence to substantiate these claims, or the medical fact that it claims to be supported by. That is going to be a matter for trial, and argued by professionals before a Jury who will then decide what is fact or not."

"On the second plea asking for dismissal based on the medical history, disease state and alleged inability of the accused to determine right from wrong, I am going to deny for the reasons I just stated. That is for the Trier of Fact to determine."

The Judge rubs his eyes in growing frustration anticipating the next few pleas. "These next few are doozies. Loraine we, meaning our local legal system, has been accused of impropriety, standing in the way of justice, and even by supposition, to fix trials so that blacks will be found guilty."

Loraine looks at the Judge dumbstruck, "I've never heard of anyone in my years in this court doing that. Who would do such a thing?"

"I don't think it's been intentional, but from the wording of these pleas it could be happening without even realizing it, all because of a simplistic mindset resistant to change."

"I don't understand."

"You will in a minute. On the third plea, the accused demands the indictment be quashed and the case dismissed based on an improperly seated Grand Jury. His allegation is that the Grand Jury was chosen without revealing the exact method in the indictment. He further alleges that because it is made up of all white men, and the method isn't revealed, then we are guilty of rigging the jury.

"In the subsequent pleas that attach to this, he further alleges that for the Petit Jury as well as the Grand Jury, this has been going on. He says that the jurors are drawn from a list prepared by some unidentified person without making it a fair sampling of the community. In short, there are no black jurors."

The Judge continues as Loraine writes, "He further alleges that this has been the nature and tradition of this court for as long as we have been recording trials in this county and that he expects it will continue to be that way for the foreseeable future. He says that there are ample Negros in the community that more than qualify for Petit or Grand Jury, Civil or Criminal trials, and that they have been purposefully excluded from jury selection."

His voice rising with his growing anger and his face reddening, he is distracted by a brisk knock on the door. "Come in" he commands as Loraine discretely covers her writings from prying eyes.

"I'm sorry your honor to interrupt," the Clerk of the court says as he comes in and also acknowledges the secretary. "Sorry Loraine."

"What do you have? Something's happened?"

"No Your Honor, just another filing for the Blakely murder."

He hands another envelope to the Judge. "More of the same; I expect we'll see more."

"I expect we will. Loraine and I will have these replies to you in the next hour or so." Loraine looks skeptical and the Judge modifies. "Maybe we should make it two hours."

"That'll be fine Judge. Let me know if there is anything you need me to do."

"I'll let you know." The judge said but not before the Clerk had closed the door behind himself.

Settling behind his desk again, tossing the new envelope into a tray on the side the Judge dives back into his previous work. "Accusations like that, while potentially true and damaging to this court's reputation, are not the question here right now, at least not on the face of it. This accused young man gave a full confession, without coercion, and in view of a handful of witnesses and documented by a stenographer. Regardless of the Grand Jury, this was going to trial the minute he made his mark on that confession."

Exhaling greatly, "I have battled with this over the night and regardless of what I know to be real or the allegations that have been made, it's going to go to trial. All of this other stuff, the impropriety and the allegations of jury tampering are going to have to be addressed by the Attorney General, not me. I'll pass that burden on to him."

"In the matter of the allegations of improper Grand and Petit Jury Selection, I am going to deny the plea for dismissal based on the fact that a true, proper and documented confession was issued by the con, um, accused." The Judge let out an uncharacteristic laugh. "This trial is already getting to me. Instead of saying accused, I almost said confused."

Loraine laughed a little with him but they both turned grave as the gravity of this trial returned quickly.

"I am rejecting, on its face, the plea basis that the accused is being denied opportunity for a fair trial. I reject that he is being denied due process of law. I refute that he is being denied equal protection of the law. The allegation that the court is acting inappropriately in contradiction to the Tennessee State Constitution, the US Constitution and the Law of the Land is not a battle that I'm willing to tackle in this court, nor do I think it would be appropriate for the court to attempt to try itself on those grounds."

"That's all I have for this plea request. Type it up and I'll put my signature to it so we can file it and return it quickly."

Loraine turned and left the room. Shortly thereafter the Judge could hear her typewriter click-clacking in the next room with the occasional tinkle of the bell as she returned the carriage. He tore open the envelope that the Clerk had brought in earlier and unfolded the document.

He read, swore softly to himself and made more notes on his notepad. "Loraine, come back in here please!" He yelled over the noise of the type writer.

She returned to his office.

"Here's one to add to that reply. Style it as it is written on the first one. It's a specific motion to quash the jury panel. I'm going to deny it with the exact same language as the other one. I'll sign it and we can file them both at the same time."

She took the documents from him and returned to her desk, closing the office door behind her. The Judge looked out the window at the darkening December sky. "Looks like rain coming, maybe even a storm on the horizon. It's time for some pot roast." The Judge stood from his desk and rubbed his hands together anticipating his lunch, without realizing how prophetic his statement about the storm would be.

• • • •

Belching loudly after returning from his lunch, the Judge stands before one of his large office windows adjusting his belt out a notch. A light knock on the door sounds out and then Loraine sticks her head inside.

"Judge the Clerk just brought up another set of papers, do you want me to sign for them or do you want him to come in. He seems to want to talk to you and I know you have a busy afternoon planned."

"No, that's okay. Send him in. I'm sure the next few weeks will be just like this, all day."

"Yes, sir," she says withdrawing, opening the door wider to allow the Court Clerk to enter.

"Well it looks like that Nashville lawyer is going to wear you out with motions and pleas before this trial begins."

"It certainly does, it seems." He reaches to take the envelope from the Clerk, "More of the same or something new?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure what to make of it. I'm not an attorney, obviously, but we've both been around these courts long enough to know what's proper and what isn't. I'm not saying this isn't proper. It's... just unusual. You'll see when you read it. I'm headed back downstairs. Shout if you need anything."

Propping the glasses on the end of his nose to read the light, type-written document, the Judge grunts at the Clerk as he leaves, incredibly curious about what could be in this page that would fluster his Court Clerk. After reading the first few sentences he puts down the paper, "Well, I'll be. This is unusual to say the least."

"Hey Loraine," He yells just before she pokes her head through the door. "Could you get that lawyer on the telephone for me? I need to make sure he meant to send this to me."

Perplexed she asked him, "Not doing a little ex-parte communication are we?"

Distracted, he hears her and responds a little more irritably than he intends. "Of course not! I'm looking at appropriateness of a filing, not at the substance of the filing." He knows his secretary does her best to keep him out of trouble and prevent him from breaching protocol boundaries.

The Judge stops her before she can withdraw and make the call. "No, wait. Never mind, don't call. I don't even want the question to be raised. I'm more than a little surprised is all."

"Don't leave me in suspense. Tell me what you're talking about."

"This last motion – the attorney tries to present evidence of his own personal involvement with the accused. It's not unheard of, completely, but... well I can decide if this is an amateurish mistake or a brilliant move. Counsel can't testify in a trial, but he's trying to beat it to trial by testifying in a pre-trial motion."

"That's not unheard of."

"Maybe it's just the way it's worded. I can almost see him sitting in his ivory tower office near the Capital dictating to his entourage."

"I doubt he's that kind of an attorney."

"Yeah, I'm sure you're right. Listen to this..." The Judge begins to read the motion.

• • • •

"Maggie, would you come in here and bring your note pad?" Jesse called from his cluttered law office to his ever-present secretary.

"On my way," she replied."

He filled her in as she took her customary seat across from his desk, "This is another motion in the Eldred Hardin case."

"Styled the same way as before?"

"Yes and when it's done, I'll run it down there and file it. I need to speak with Hardin, anyway."

He stands from behind his desk and starts pacing, trying to decide how to begin this motion, which may very well be his last chance at preventing this murder trial from happening. He removes a jacket he had draped across the arms of a rocking chair in the corner of his office that his grandfather had made (which he swore Teddy Roosevelt himself had sat in).

Sitting in the rocker, he sighed heavily.

"Oh it's going to be one of those?" Maggie asked.

Jesse Sparkman laughed. "Oh don't be dramatic. Yes, I'm going to wax a little bit. I needed this straight back on this chair anyway."

Nodding, she licked the tip of the pencil and put it to paper, dating and styling the draft of the document. "Ready," she said.

Flipping through some notes he'd made on a pad then taking a drink of some cold coffee left on the table beside the chair, the attorney begins.

"In this cause, I as the attorney for the Defendant, desire to file a plea of present insanity of said Defendant, with whom I have been acquainted since June, 1944 and in sustention of said plea, make the following statement as his attorney under oath." He pauses for a breath.

"Said Defendant was arrested on fourteen warrants, charging larceny of twenty-eight watches from Kay Jewelry in Nashville and one ladies white gold diamond wedding band, make a total whole sale price of $505.14." He looks through the pad again to verify the amount.

"Said Defendant is also arrested on warrants charging larceny of $35 worth of shoes from Flagg brothers in Nashville and was bound over to criminal Court and indicted June 28, 1944. He was placed in jail where he remained until July 27, 1944, when he was released on bond, signed by a professional bondsman. Are you with me so far Maggie?"

"I'm almost ahead of you boss," the secretary replied with a smirk.

"I was retained before he was indicted, to represent him. I made many trips to the jail to confer with him, and soon discovered that I was representing a client who was 'not all there,' and it was impossible to obtain any intelligent statement from him." He paused again to consider something. "Maggie, be sure to put the words 'not all there' in quotes please."

"Already did it."

"Very good. Where was I? Oh yes...impossible to obtain any intelligent statements from him so as to conduct his defense, as he was not rational or normal and I believed him to be mentally unbalance."

He turned to the next page of his notes. "In my investigation, I discovered he had received an injury in 1942, causing him to be hospitalized. I also noted that the shape of his head was such that it appeared to be lopsided. No, wait, change that to one-sided, not lopsided. I did meet with his father and two of his cousins in conference and told them of my suspicions."

"I was convinced that because of his apparent condition and the almost certainty of him getting into trouble again. I told them that I thought it unwise for him to be given bond and that I believed it was impossible for him to tell right from wrong. I also explained to them that I couldn't adequately interview him due to his constant crying, unwillingness to advise with me and his overall resistance. I tried every conceivable way to approach him to talk to me about his defense, to no avail."

"I conferred with the Attorney General and together with the attorney for the jewelry store tried to bring him before the Attorney General, but was declined. After he was indicted, however; we did negotiate an agreement for him to plead guilty to two cases of larceny and pay a fine of $25. Wait a moment."

He checked through more notes. "Maggie it was two cases of 'attempt to commit a felony,' not two cases of larceny.  
"Got it."

"He was also to take a six months suspended sentence, pay costs. I advised his father that the case is on the docket of the Criminal Court for Davidson County on Friday, December the 8th. I also told him that the court was prepared to act on the advisement of the Attorney General. Let's take a break for a few minutes."

Maggie quietly got up from her place at the desk and went back out front. Jesse stood and walked to the small washroom attached to his office. There, he leaned over the small porcelain sink, wiping his face with a cold wash rag. Gripping both sides of the sink he looks deep into his own eyes in the mirror's reflection.

"Eldred, you knucklehead, you were almost completely free. What in the world were you thinking?"

Knowing that his own question was answered simply by, "he wasn't thinking," he dried his face and returned to the office.

"Maggie, you ready?"

She returns shortly and resumes her place and pose with pencil hovering over the page.

"I was shocked, but not completely surprised to learn that he was looking at charges of kidnapping and possibly murder when the officer from Belle Meade came looking for him. I advised them where I believed him to be located and since that time he has been located in the local jail where he is now."

"I have had one interview with him since his arrest in the presence of his mother and father, and one interview where he swore to his pleas to quash the indictment in his case. In this last interview I found him to be suffering from severe mental delusions. He claimed that he had a large sum of money in an account at American National Bank, to which he produced a book of blank checks. He asked me to fill out a check payable to him, take it to a girl named Brooks who would sign it as it was on deposit under her name. I had already heard about this alleged bank account, checked it out, and found nothing there."

"He wept constantly during this last interview and became insistent that he didn't kill Doctor Blakely. He alleged that it was a man named Wilson who committed the murder. He also insisted that he did not sign a confession to the murder. He finally admitted to me of a paper being given to him in the jail, which he said was in his clothes in the "bull pen" in the jail. The Sheriff sent for the paper but was told that none was found. The Sheriff did tell me that such a paper, a confession recorded by a court stenographer, was furnished him at the time he signed it. This was my first knowledge that he had possessed such paper writing."

"Through my investigations I discovered that he had syphilis and gonorrhea and furnished the county health officer documentation to support that he was infected with syphilis. He always appeared to be extremely nervous, his eyes dancing all around and his statements were very incoherent. I was soon convinced that he was so irrational mentally that he did not know Good from Evil and that he was crazy on October 12, 1944, the date of the alleged murder and remains crazy now."

He took a deep breath. "Let's wrap it up there. I'll take that to the court clerk and offer it as a sworn document."

Maggie looked at him tentatively, "Are you sure you want to send this?"

"Yes, it's the truth and needs to be in the record somewhere."

She shrugged, "give me a few minutes to type it up for you. Should I cancel your three o'clock appointment this afternoon with Mrs. Murphy?"

"Oh shoot, I forgot about her. We're preparing her will." He pondered. "I need to get this filed more than she needs a will right away. I don't expect she'll die overnight so reschedule her for first thing in the morning, please."

"Right away."

• • • •

"I'll say this; it's very well written."

"Yes, everything he's submitted so far has been. I have no doubt he's an excellent advocate for his clients, especially after reading this. I just wonder if he hasn't pushed the limits a little on this one."

"So what are you going to do?"

"It's definitely going to trial. Besides, he didn't do the one thing that I expected would have been done first of all."

"What would that be?"

"He didn't submit a motion to have the confession thrown out or even challenge it. He has stated that he believes the accused isn't capable of determining right from wrong. He more or less alluded that there may be an impropriety in the confession or at the very least it was concocted by someone else and the accused signed it."

"I wonder why he didn't."

"Beats me, but that is the basis for my denying his motions. The plea of insanity is legitimate but not so much based on the personal experience and ahem – testimony, of the counsel for the defense. Again as before, we'll flesh all of these issues out in the courtroom.

• • • •

"Hardin you have a visitor," the deputy said as he opened the door to the hallway where the jail cells were located.

He recognized the man being led in by the Deputy as his lawyer and he had a grim look on his face.

"Hello Eldred," the man said. "Are they treating you well?"

"I suppose so."

"I came to visit with you and talk about your trial. Do you feel up to talking to me today?"

"I suppose I do. They say that I'm going to spend forever in the state prison if they say I'm guilty. One fellow I heard outside said they'd gas me. I don't want to be gassed."

"Remember back when we went before the court and told them that you plead not guilty to the crimes you're accused of."

"I do."

"Do you remember what we talked about afterward?"

"I do. We talked about me being a crazy man."

"Well, sort of but there was more to it."

"We talked about that paper."

"Yes that paper. That paper was a confession that says you admitted to killing that doctor."

"I remember you saying that, but I didn't kidnap Doctor Blakely."

"No, you didn't kidnap the doctor. They dropped that charge based on your confession. You confessed to killing him but he was there of his own free will. Do you remember telling them you wanted to confess? Do you remember what you told them?"

"I remember everything. That man came running in sayin they found the doc's body. I told them I wanted to see the Sheriff right then and to confess. He didn't let me though. He made me wait. More men showed up and a woman with a pencil. They had me talk real slow and that lady was writing everything down."

"What did you tell them?"  
"I told them... I told them..." He starts to cry again. "I told them how I killed Doc Blakely."

"Yes you confessed to killing Doctor Blakely. Do you remember what you were feeling or thinking when you shot – er, did it?"

"No. I didn't feel nothing. I didn't think nothing. He had all of that money and I needed it, so I just did it. I feel bad about it now, but I can't help what I done did."

"Hardin, here's the deal. Do you remember when you got in trouble in Nashville and I talked to the people about how you can't make decisions of right from wrong? How we worked it out so you wouldn't go to prison? How I told your father and cousins that you needed to stay locked up for now?"

"I remember."

"Do you remember why I said you needed to stay locked up for now?"

"Yes, to keep me out of trouble. But I didn't get in no more trouble. I didn't steal anything."

"You're locked up right now for admitting to killing and robbing a local doctor."

"That's right but I didn't get in no more trouble for stealing, did I?" He seemed proud of himself and was making sure his attorney knew he didn't steal anything else.

Exasperated Mr. Sparkman let out a long breath and clenched his fists, "you just don't get it."

"Don't get what?"

Realizing that he'd said that out loud and he was answered he waved off the question, "Never mind."

"So when are they going to let me out of here Mr. Sparkman? I didn't steal nothing and I'm ready to go to Nashville to get the probation started. When do I get to leave?"

"Not for a while, Eldred, probably not for a while."

Knowing he was short on time for the day he wanted to bolster his client with a little information. He just had to make sure it was simple enough for him to understand. He knew his client to be very crafty, especially after scheming to rob the doctor; he as pretty simple as well.

"In a few days we're going to go into a court room and there are going to be a lot of people talking about you and telling you what a horrible person you are and a lot of other things like that. It's going to be very important you don't react to them. Don't say anything, don't talk back. I do believe you didn't know what you were doing and I'm going to try to prove that. It's important that you don't do anything but let me talk. Okay?"

"I hear you."

"I mean it! You have to not talk back to these people."

"I won't."

"Good, we might get you through this yet."

"Mr. Sparkman, sir?"

"Yes?"

"Are they going to gas me?"

"We're going to do our best not to let that happen."

"I'll be quiet then."

Part V

"Why is he saying that about me?"

"Remember now, it's very important that you be very quiet during the next few days," the attorney whispered to Eldred as they sat in front of the court room. Eldred kept looking around at the crowd of faces gathering behind them. None of them seemed friendly and most returned his look with angry stares or muted hate-filled comments.

"Eldred, did you hear what I said?"

Eldred spun around on his attorney, angry. "I don't need you to keep telling me that. I'm a grown man and can talk when I want to."

Stunned, the attorney thought for a moment. "Yes you are a grown man, but I want you to think about something you asked me about. Think about it whenever you decide you're going to talk when I don't tell you to."

"Oh yeah, what's that?" He's still angry, obviously in response to the hostility he's feeling from the spectators.

The attorney looks him in the eye to keep his attention, "Gas."

The angry energy drains out of Eldred's face and he slumps in his chair. His attorney then tells him to sit up straight and have good posture. He didn't need to wrinkle up his suit the first five minutes of the trial.

"Now listen Eldred, remember what I told you. They are going to be saying a lot of things the next few days and they are going to point their fingers are you often. Just ignore it. The last thing we want is for you to say a word during this whole trial. 'If you don't say it, they can't use it against you' is how we're going to work this," his attorney warned, "for now."

The accused nods his head, already weary of all of the attention he's been receiving. The bailiff comes out and bids everyone rise and goes through the motions of opening the court. Eldred leans over to look at the prosecutors and doesn't recognize any of them. They didn't look at all nervous or anxious. To them this was just another day at work. He understood that – nothing to worry about. He didn't break into any more stores anyway.

Just as the Judge made his way to his seat and prompted everyone else to be seated, Eldred forgot where he was. "Hey Mr. Sparkman, where's the gold watch I brought from Nashville?"

Mr. Sparkman, quickly grabbed his client by his arm and shushed him but not before drawing the attention of the Judge and the prosecutors. Once the imagined echo of Hardin's voice died away the Jurors were led in and sat in their box. Eldred leaned over to his attorney and whispered in his ear, "Who are they?"

Whispering very quietly back to Eldred's ear, "Those are the Jurors. Remember, I told you about them. We had to come pick the few we wanted. They are the people I told you about that are going to listen to everything said and then decide what happens to you."

"They decide if I get gas or not?"

"Yes, they do."

"I should be nice to them then."

"Yes, you should be nice – and quiet, but yes be nice."

"Ok. I'll be nice." Eldred looked at the Jurors after they were seated and he nodded to one of the men in the front row wearing a blue and green tie.

"That's a nice tie you have there." He smiled wide to the Juror, "Ain't I nice?"

This drew an immediate slam of the gavel and reprimand from the Judge not to mention a few choked-back laughs from the gallery. Mr. Sparkman heard a comment from the crowd that stung quite a bit, "Looks like the simple leading the stupid." He shrugged it off.

"Oh, this is going to be a long week."

Eldred looked at him blankly.

• • • •

The Jurors all took their seats and tried their best to look stern, although to some it seemed to be a nuisance or a bore. The Judge looked them over a moment and gave the audience in the gallery a chance to settle before beginning the trial process. He slams down the gavel three times to make sure every eye in the room was on him.

"Now before I start this proceeding, I want you people who are spectators to understand something. I will tolerate no nonsense from anyone. Any cat calls, or acting out of any kind will result in me clearing every last one of you out of this room for the duration of the trial. So keep quiet." He points at Hardin, "That means you too. If you know what's good for you. Mr. Sparkman, I'm sure you understand."

Jesse rises, "Yes your honor."

"Good." Jesse sits back down.

The Judge addresses the Jury. "I'm going to read your jury instructions to you. If you have questions, please hold them until we recess after openings. We're going to be here a few days and we don't want to leave anything out. You will also be provided written copy of these instructions for your deliberations."

"In the State of Tennessee versus Eldred Hardin the indictment in this case charges the defendant with the offense of murder in the first degree. This charge, however, embraces four distinct, felonious homicides – to wit: murder in the first degree, murder in the second degree, voluntary manslaughter; and involuntary manslaughter."

He continues, "The law makes it the duty of the court to give in charge to the jury the law relative to the case on trial and of the jury to carefully consider all of the evidence delivered to them on the trial, and, under law given them by the Court, render their verdict with absolute impartiality."

"The jury, in no case should have any sympathy or prejudice, or allow anything but the law and the evidence to have any influence upon them in determining their verdict."

"Murder is thus defined: 'If any person, of sound memory and discretion, unlawfully kill any reasonable creature in being, and under the peace of the State, with malice aforethought, either express or implied, such person shall be guilty of murder.' It is clear that malice is the essential ingredient of murder. Malice is the intent to do an injury to another; a design formed in the mind of doing mischief to another."

The judge pauses and studies the jurors, making sure they were absorbing what he was saying, but so far it seems that they were paying astute attention to him; the air of boredom or of impatience long since vanished.

"A case of homicide cannot be murder unless at and before the killing the wicked intent, constituting malice aforethought, exists in the mind of the slayer. Malice is either express or implied. In homicide, express malice is malice against the person killed. Implied malice is malice not against the party slain, but malice in general, or that condition of the mind of the slayer which indicates a wicked, depraved and malignant spirit, and a heart regardless of social duty and fatally bent on mischief."

The judge went on for the better part of thirty minutes reading the jury instructions, and all through this process you could have heard a pin hit the floor. Everyone from the Bailiffs to the lady wearing the grey hat in the back left corner of the court room were enthralled with what they were witnessing and participating in, to one degree or another.

Jesse looked away from the Judge for a moment to look at his client's reaction. To his amazement, Hardin was sitting quietly, eyes closed and breathing slowly. Realizing his client was asleep and knowing the grave offense the Judge would take if he discovered this, he reached under the table and quietly squeezed Hardin's leg, careful not to startle him.

Hardin sat straighter, with a start and a snort that did draw the gaze of the Judge for a flicker of a moment. "Don't go to sleep!" Jesse scolded very quietly. "That could be the death of you in front of this jury!"

Hardin oriented on Jesse, eyes seemingly unfocused and then sharpening, "I'll try not to. I ain't been sleeping much lately."

Then the judge said something that greatly alarmed Hardin, "If you find from the evidence, beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant unlawfully, willfully, maliciously, deliberately, and premeditatedly killed Theodore Blakely as charged in the indictment, your verdict should be, 'We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of Murder in the First Degree, as charged in the indictment, and fix his punishment at Death by Electrocution..."

Upon hearing that, Hardin became animated; starting to rise from his chair, panic in his eyes and his mouth hanging open. Jesse did his best to restrain him quietly as the Judge continued, "...unless you are of the opinion there are mitigating circumstances, in which event you may commute the punishment to life in the Penitentiary or for not more than a definite period of time, over twenty years.

The remainder of the jury instructions detailing lesser included offenses, presumption of innocence, reasonable doubt, and self defense were all completely lost on Hardin. He had been so worried about being gassed that he never considered the method of execution in Tennessee at the time was death by electrocution in the electric chair. He saw this form of death being much more terrifying than the gas chamber that he'd concocted in his mind.

Hissing at his attorney, as quietly as he could, "You didn't tell me they are going to electrify me!"

"Electrocute, it's electrocute, and we are going to try and prevent that." He whispers back.

Shortly after, the Judge wraps up the Jury instructions and then announces, "We are going to take a ten minute recess and then we'll begin with opening arguments. Be back in your seats in ten minutes." He slams down the gavel and exits through a door behind his bench.

The gallery gets loud with people talking excitedly to each other. Deputies stand behind Hardin as much to prevent him from escaping as to prevent people in the audience from going after him. There had been persistent threats although no one had acted on them. The Deputies disliked the idea of protecting someone they thought to be a murderer, but it was their duty and they would do it well.

Jesse turns to Hardin. "Now it is time for the other lawyer to start telling the jury about what you did. He's going to tell a big story about how everything happened and he's going to point his finger at you and tell them you are evil, wicked and all sorts of other things. You have to be quiet and act like it doesn't bother you. Can you do that? The Jurors are going to be watching you for a reaction."

"I can do that. I'll look straight ahead and think about shooting dice. I can do that in my head."

"Good, you do that. Now, when the other lawyer gets finished, I get a chance to go up there and tell those same Jurors our side of the story. Again, all you have to do is sit here and quietly pay attention. Do not talk out, do not get up. Just sit here. Can you do that too?"

"I can do that. I'll try playing cards in my head instead of dice."

The Judge came back in at nine minutes and fifty seconds of the recess and once the courtroom had returned to their seats, the Judge slammed the gavel. "The State may present their opening arguments."

"Thank you, your Honor," said the stately attorney who stood from behind the other table and made his way to the podium.

He greeted the Jurors warmly and thanked them for being willing to serve in their civil duties in the court room. He also did exactly as Jesse said he would. He, more-or-less repeated word for word the actions that transpired in Hardin's jail-house confession and then informed the Jurors that it was a confession, witnessed and recorded by a stenographer. He reminded them of the requirements of the law and pointed his finger at Hardin at least twice, talking about malice, and evil and debauchery with a dead man's money.

Hardin did very well to sit still but it wore on him. "Why is he saying that about me?" He asked of Jesse.

"He's trying to convince the jury that you're an evil person who should suffer punishment because of it."

"Oh," was all Hardin could say.

The prosecutor pointed his finger at Hardin one more time before he told the Judge he was finished.

Jesse knew that the prosecutor was representing the government and was supposed to be representing the side of good and justice. He understood all of that, down to his core, but that man was still his adversary and he couldn't find it in himself to see him any way other than that.

He leans over to Hardin, "Now it's our turn. You sit still and quiet, you hear?"

"Yes sir." Hardin hadn't called him "Sir" very many times and it gave his attorney pause to consider that maybe his client did understand what was at risk here. He knew he was guilty of killing the man, but he did believe that he wasn't in his right mind when he did it, or ever for that matter. All anyone had to do was to talk to him for a little while to draw that conclusion. It was up to him to convince the jury of the same thing; without letting him talk to them.

He greets the Jurors in much the same way the prosecutor did. He appeared humble, just, and confident. Stepping back to the defense table, he takes a sip of water, clears his throat and begins.

"Insanity, in order to excuse a person for crime must be of such a character as to deprive him of his reason, so as to render him incapable of distinguishing between right and wrong, or discerning good from evil." He paused for effect and continued in the style of a preacher, laying emphasis on the words he wanted the Jurors to remember the most.

"Or the insane or false illusions must be of such a character as to deprive him of his will power and have such control over him as to force him to do the act without the power to control his mind and will, and render him unable to resist the impulse to do the act."

He went on to say that if the Jurors suspected he did the killing without the ability to resist these false illusions and with reasonable doubt of the matter, they should acquit him.

"Every person is presumed to be sane but the subsequent conduct of the defendant may be considered to ascertain whether or not he was sane or acting under insane illusions at the time of the killing but for no other purpose." He noticed a juror roll his eyes and glance at a different juror as if looking for agreement.

"A person may be wholly or partially insane. He may have insane or false illusions, that is, be led by some false notion or hobby and these illusions may be of such a character and have such a power and control over his mind and will as to deprive him of all power and by an irresistible force, compel him to commit a very grave crime, thus rendering the party wholly irresponsible for the crime he commits."

Still, Jesse could see doubt in the Juror's expression. He continues, "But the fact that a person has illusions is not always the sign that he is insane to the extent that he is irresponsible for the commission of crime. Many persons of strong mind have illusions."

He pauses for a moment to again let the jurors absorb his last statement, hoping that a few of them could relate to exactly what he was saying and praying that they considered themselves to be strong minded despite these illusions. He delves into the most important part of his opening, "The question is whether the defendant at the time he committed the act knew its nature and character and that it was wrong." He slams his hand down on the podium for emphasis, knowing he'd regret it later as his hand immediately began to feel the pain. He also hoped that his small bit of theatrics was sufficient to offset those of the prosecutor and is finger pointing.

"Finally, considering the inability of the accused to determine right from wrong, good from evil and under the control of his impulses, he denies killing the deceased. He says that the deceased and a man by the name of Howard Wilson had a quarrel about a woman; that he thought there would be trouble and walked away; that he heard a shot but did not know who fired; that Harold Wilson then called to him to come back where he was and drive the deceased's car back to Nashville."

Jesse stopped talking and thought to himself, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"When the accused hesitated, Wilson fired the shotgun at him and several shot struck him in the head." Jesse could see the Jurors look at Hardin trying to discern the location or degree of injury. "He then drove the deceased's car back to Nashville, in fear for his life, and left it but not burning it. He says he did not rob Doctor Blakely and he did not kill him."

Taking a deep breath, Jesse looked at Eldred who was staring at the wall straight ahead. He was probably playing out a hand of cards in his head, oblivious to what he was facing at that moment. He hoped the vacant look on Hardin's face would be noticed by the Jurors.

"If you believe that theory to be true and have reasonable doubt as to his guilt, you should acquit the defendant. Or, if you believe the defendant killed the deceased and he was insane to the extent that he could not discriminate between right and wrong, or discern good from evil or if you have reasonable doubt as to that then you should acquit the defendant. Search your hearts and your unwavering knowledge of right from wrong, unlike the accused who is unable. Thank you."

Jesse returns to the table and sits down.

The Judge then takes over, "Mr. Sparkman are you finished with your opening?"

Jesse stands back up, unbelieving at how exhausted he was just from that short speech. "Yes your honor, I am. Thank you."

"Very well then, Mr. Prosecutor you're up first. Gentlemen of the Jury, the prosecution will present its evidence to you including witnesses. The Defense will have the opportunity to cross examine the witnesses. When the Prosecution rests, the Defense will then have the opportunity to refute the State's case, present witnesses and allow the Prosecution to cross examine. When that is all said and done, you will weigh evidence, determine the facts of the case and render your verdict."

The Prosecutor was distracted by a suited gentleman who had entered the court room and leaned across the railing to whisper in his ear. They whispered briefly and the Prosecutor stood.

"Your Honor, if it pleases the court, I would like to request we recess and reconvene tomorrow morning bright and early, and spend the day hearing the facts. I was just told of a medical emergency of a family member that greatly needs my presence."

"It does not please this court to delay this matter but seeing it's a medical emergency, we will reconvene at eight o'clock tomorrow morning and see this trial through." He slams his gavel. The Bailiff bids everyone to rise as the Judge exits.

"Are we done now?" Hardin asks his attorney.

"No we are just barely started. They are going to take you back to the jail. Keep your suit neat and I'll come over and talk to you as soon as I get a bite of dinner."

"Okay. Bring me some pie if you think about it."

"I'll do what I can."

• • • •

The dim bulb flickered above the mirror in the tiny private bathroom behind the Judge's chambers. Wrapped in silver trim, the mirror was showing its age, the reflective paint behind the glass beginning to look like marble. The porcelain sink hanging from the wall was just as old and the tiny bowl reflected many decades of men and women, figuratively and literally, washing their hands free of the cases they had represented in the adjoining court room.

Jesse put his face in his hands letting the water he held there refresh him and drain into the sink. He held his breath for a few minutes and with eyes closed, he carefully dragged the towel from the rod and dried his face.

Muffled with the towel pressed over his face he lamented what was about to happen in the court room next door. "Oh Eldred, I tried to tell you what would happen. Why couldn't you just listen to me and stay in jail for the robbery. Stupid! Stupid kid! Now you're going to be lit up like a light bulb."

He leaned his head back and stared into the glowing bare bulb over the sink, watching the slight tremor of the filament as is sparkled with electricity. He imagined his client would look just like that if he couldn't provide a better than ever defense.

Refolding and hanging the towel back on the rack, he straightened his tie. With a deep breath he drew open the door and made his way to the court room.

To his back he heard, "Good luck tomorrow, Counselor."

Turning he saw the District Attorney General standing at the end of the hallway talking to the Assistant DA. He nodded and gave a slight wave. "Thanks."

He heard one of the entourage say, "Sparkman, that's his name, Jesse Sparkman." He put emphasis on the Spark, "How ironic."

Jesse cringed, not out of shame, but because he agreed. It was ironic.

• • • •

"I'm perplexed about a few things so far. Why didn't the lawyer want Hardin to speak out during the trial? You would think that once the Jury got to hear that he was crazy it would be open and shut."

"One would think that, wouldn't they? It's not that simple but that tactic is used fairly often. It's also very dangerous."

"Why?"

"Once a person says something, anything, in a court, it is 'out there' and is subject to verification, rejection or acceptance. Once you open a door with testimony, you can't very easily close it."

"I still don't understand."

"Take for example Hardin and his previous crimes. He wasn't convicted yet, but he was under indictment for them, while he was on trial for murder."

"Yes I remember."

"Suppose the attorney had him on the stand and did everything he could to show him in a good light and paint him as an innocent man. Hardin may blurt out that he'd never done anything wrong, which he may truly believe given his state, but then the prosecutor has the opportunity to refute that and establish the credibility of the witness and the testimony. He could then reveal that Hardin had many counts of burglary pending against him on another indictment."

"Oh I see. He would then be immediately suspect of the crime."

"Worse than that – everything he would ever say thereafter would be suspect and his credibility would be damaged. Imagine being caught in a real outright lie, not just an omission or a deception."

"That would be very bad."

"It could sink their whole defense, even if he was innocent. Also, for an equally important factor, which would seem trivial on the face – they needed the Jury to like Eldred and not think of him as a cold blooded killer. They needed to associate him with the simpleton or the slower kid they all knew who couldn't possibly have a malicious bone in his body. If he antagonized the jury or made them feel like he was wasting their time, it could change the 'flavor' of the whole trial."

"So, Mr. Sparkman needed to prove Eldred's craziness without actually having him on the stand."

"Exactly, but unfortunately it didn't work out that way. Hardin did have to take the stand. It seemed that the defense wasn't working against the prosecution, even though the evidence was mostly circumstantial—well except for that circumstantial confession he gave."

There was a scratching sound at a dark wooden door at the back of the office. The old lawyer stood from his chair, stretching his back. "Oh that feels good. We've been at this a long time."

He went to the front office door, opening it and looking out into the lobby. It was empty. "They've gone home for dinner already. It's about time we did the same thing." He then walked to the other door that I just assumed was a closet and opened it.

The door opened onto an alleyway and seated on top of the step was a small dog who immediately invited himself inside and accepted a scratch between his ears from the old lawyer.

"This is Oscar. Yes, he's a stray and no, my daughter and secretary don't know about him."

Closing the door behind the dog, he went to his desk and withdrew a biscuit and a piece of ham, offering it to the dog, who then took it to a corner and lay down to eat.

He wasn't the most beautiful animal I'd ever seen. He had dark, coarse hair, a lot of which looked like it had fallen out with age and he moved slowly.

Interrupted from my inspection of the dog enjoying his dinner the lawyer told me another story, "After reading that manuscript I already told you about, about the man and his dog, Sebastian the Peace Maker, I ran across that old thing in the alley as I was sneaking out for an early evening. I figured it was meant to be. He was old, hungry and tired and reminded me much of myself. He was also alone and needing attention, again much like me. So we started a routine."

I eased back in the chair, very interested in this side story.

"For two years now, every night, he comes to that door and scratches to be let in. I'll give him a little something to eat although he probably raids garbage cans around town. I tried to take him home but he ran away and showed up here the next night so I left it alone. He's old and I wonder if he can handle the cold, so I let him spend the night in the office here. He leaves when I come back in the next morning and let him out."

"The two ladies out front don't know about him and I prefer to keep it that way. Our arrangement works out well for him and me. Oscar has been good for me and I hope I've been equally good for him."

"We're done here. Let's go." He takes his coat from the rack and puts his hat on his head, alarming me.

"Wait!" I exclaim. "What about the trial?"

"We'll get to that later."

"You want me to come back in the morning at six again?"

He gave me a queer look. "No I imagine eight will be just fine, like normal folk."

"I'll go get a hotel room again."

Now he surprises me. "Not tonight. You're going to stay at my house. I have some things for you to see and we'll eat dinner. My daughter already told me she's making meatloaf and you don't want to miss it."

"Thank you," was all I could say, greatly surprised by his offer and familiarity toward me.

"Just remember," He shakes a thick finger at me, "not a word about the dog."

We later arrived at his house but not before I learned that the next time I'll refuse the offer of a ride in his European sedan. It was harrowing! The nicks and scrapes on the doors, fenders and bumpers were active visual testament to his need to walk, not drive. We made it alive, however, and his daughter greeted us at the door.

• • • •

"Eat up. They sent this up to you from the diner tonight. I suppose they are feeling sorry for you."

Hardin rolled over on his bed, and looked at the suit of clothes hanging just outside of his reach on a hanger. "It took me killing a man to look important," he said to himself.

"What's that?" The Deputy asked, not sure of what he heard Hardin say, but very suspicious of what he thought he heard.

"Nothin important, what's for supper tonight?"

The Deputy opened the basket and removed the warming towel over the food. "It looks like we'll be having meatloaf and peas tonight."

"Is there any pie?"

"No." The Deputy answered plainly, all the while thinking that Hardin didn't deserve pie in jail. He's lucky to get the meat loaf and peas.

"My lawyer will be here soon. He'll bring me some pie."

"If I let him." The Deputy prepared two plates, his of course had the largest portions of the choices servings. Eldred didn't care. His mind wasn't so much on a meal as he was hoping he could just think more of it. He was worried about his own mortality.

The deputy handed him the plate through the slot and a spoon and napkin. "Can I have a coffee?" Without a word the deputy nodded and poured him a cup of the lukewarm drink.

They both ate in silence for a few minutes.

"What's it like?" The Deputy asked him.

Surprised that he was engaging him in conversation, Eldred answered with a mouth full of food and without much thought.

"What's what like?"

"You know, k-k-killing a man." The Deputy motioned toward the shotgun leaned against the wall, well out of reach of the cell and the prisoner.

"I don't know."

"W-W-What do you mean you don't know? You confessed to killing him."

"I don't remember what it felt like. One minute I was there, the next minute he was there, the next minute he was gone. You talk funny."

The Deputy was scheduled to leave work at the Sheriff's office in two weeks. He had been called to active duty with the military and he was told it was to the Army Air Corps, probably in Italy. He had flown a plane a few times down in Georgia and told that to the recruiter. They told him he would probably fly planes for his country. He secretly hoped it would be a Mustang fighter or a B25 but he didn't relish the idea of killing anyone and thought his slight stutter might just disqualify him. Glamorous jobs didn't go to stutterers.

"You didn't feel n-n-nothing at all?"

"Not that I recall."

"Did you even stop to look at his body? Did he..."

"That will be enough of that!" The voice thundered from the front room as the Sheriff came through the door into the jail room. "You know you can't question him like that."

The Deputy almost choked on his food and Eldred had stopped eating all together, wondering why the sheriff was there.

"You'll get your fill of that when you go overseas this spring."

"I wasn't interrogating him Sheriff; just curious conversation over dinner is all."

"Well eat your dinner and don't ask him any more questions unless his lawyer is here. Better yet, don't ask him any questions at all. Let the investigator do that."

"Yes sir." He gulped down his food. "Am I in trouble Sheriff?"

"No, but anything you ask him and he tells you can't be used in court – more or less. You have to follow procedure at all times."

"Yes sir."

The Sheriff didn't want to go into the intricacies of questioning a prisoner with the Deputy, especially in front of the prisoner.

"Hardin are you done eating yet?"

Eldred looked at his plate and empty cup and stood up to hand them to the Sheriff through the slot in the bars. "Yes Sheriff."

The Sheriff turned to return the dishes to the kitchen but was stopped by Hardin.

"They are going to kill me aren't they Sheriff?"

He wasn't quite sure how to answer that and his Deputy was staring at him just as expectantly as Hardin was.

"Son, it looks like that's their intention. I don't know any other way to say it."

Eldred thought about it for a moment. "I don't suppose there is any other way." He laid down with his back toward the two men outside of the cell and pulled the blanket up over his head and shoulders. His feet, uncovered, trembled.

• • • •

I pushed the plate back on the table, the few left over black-eyed peas rolling around in the creamy tomato sauce of the meatloaf. "That was great. I haven't eaten that well in a long time, Mrs. Leonard."

"Now stop right there. You stop calling me Missus. My name is Molly and I expect you to call me by it."

"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you Molly."

"You're very welcome."

"Can we stop pussy-footing around here? Bring out that pie, daughter."

"It's cool enough now I suppose. Give me a moment." She poured her father a cup of coffee and went into the kitchen. He looked behind his back to see if she was looking and when he saw that she wasn't, he produced the silver flask from his pocket. He poured a few drops of the liquor into the coffee and then stopped to look at me. For a brief moment I thought I was finally going to get to refuse his offer, but it still didn't come. He capped his flask quietly and returned it to his pocket.

Nearing on precision timing, Molly exited the kitchen with three plates of buttermilk pie.

"Now that looks good daughter! This young fellow doesn't need it. I'll eat his."

I know I must have looked shocked as they both laughed. "Papa he's a starving college student. I'm sure you can remember those days – wait, they did have colleges back then didn't they?"

He "harrumphed" as you would expect of a British Nobleman, and then ate his pie. It was some of the best I'd had but that day was a lot of that; the best of pie, the best of intrigue, the best of drama, and the best of a little bit of rural criminal court history.

• • • •

Later, after dinner, when the old man was asleep in his chair in front of the television, I was helping his daughter clean up in the kitchen.

"Does he ever lighten up?" I asked.

"Oh he does from time to time. He really does when Oscar comes to visit him at the office."

"Oscar?" I feign ignorance.

"You didn't meet Oscar before you left? That's odd. He brings him inside every night. He thinks we don't know about him but we always make sure there is a biscuit and some meat in the refrigerator every day for him. Papa takes those for the old dog."

"I met Oscar, but I was sworn to secrecy. It looks like it's no secret for me to violate at this point."

"No, no secret at all but don't let on that we know. I think that's part of the special intrigue of Oscar is that it's his secret." She put down her dish towel and took a deep breath, looking at me. I swallowed hard and I don't know why; maybe it was because she was about to say something serious.

"Is papa telling you what you need to know? He's not being rude is he?"

"He sure is – telling me what I need to know that is – not being rude. There is a lot more to all of this than I ever dreamed of and he seems to know everything."

I change directions for a moment, not wanting to be appearing to put her father on a pedestal. "Do you have other family in the law profession?"

"No, not yet," She replied. "I wish you could meet my daughter. She's away at college. She's working on a Master's Degree in English Literature and planning on going to law school herself very soon."

She told him a little about her daughter and it turns out they go to the same college. "Does she know about the case I'm researching?"

"Oh, no, no one does. Papa isn't one to discuss his cases with anyone, especially this one. The only reason I am knowledgeable about the case is because I looked at the file after you called the first time. Papa had mentioned it before but never in any detail; not enough for me to remember outside of the effect it had on him."

She continued, "This case is what caused him to become a Judge himself for a little while. He enjoyed being a Judge but really disliked one aspect of it – you had to see everyone who came into the courtroom. There were just some people that he didn't care to interact with. He called them the sick, lame and lazy – the perpetual whiners. "

"He wouldn't deal with sick people?"

"Not sick in a real, physical sense of the word. These were the people who were always claiming to be sick in order to take advantage of whatever system was in place at the time."

She told him several stories of her younger years, one in particular about a man who wore a neck brace everywhere he went so as to gain special attention from others. He had never even had a neck injury. Those were the people her father despised.

"He went back to private practice law so he could personally select his clients."

"So he selected the murderer to be his client?"

"No, he didn't." He was appointed by the Judge to take on the appeal of the case as the pro-bono attorney for the defendant.

"He seems to have been so emotionally vested in the case, the way he talks about it."

"He became that way. The judge gave it to him for reasons that no one knows. We often wondered if it was because father was altruistic and forthright or if the judge was taking advantage of him being a fairly new attorney in the area. I doubt any of the older attorneys would have given it a second glance or even pursued it in earnest. No one wanted Hardin to get out of jail, not even papa, once he learned what he did and how he did it."

"That must be difficult; having an attorney who doesn't truly want you to prevail."

"Yes, unless that attorney is my father. You see, no matter what papa's personal feelings are about the case, he is a true believer in Justice and the Law. Papa is a devout Christian too, and feels it is his responsibility to right all wrongs, if they are within his influence."

"He's a Don Quixote, jousting with windmills!"

"No, even better; he's straight out of 'To Kill a Mockingbird.' Now you know why it was important for you to read that book."

It dawned on me that the old lawyer, who I now have to call Judge, really did feel a kinship to the characters in the book. It seems that the qualities exemplified in the book were those that he wanted to be known for, himself.

"I think I can relate to that."

"I was hoping you could. You know, I forced him to talk to you. He didn't want to, but I didn't give him the choice." She patted me on the shoulder. "I'm glad now that I did. He seems to be different, already, just from spending a day with you."

"I've really enjoyed it myself! I've learned so much from him already. If I can make this book come together, it'll be because of him."

"You're really going to write a book now? We thought this would end up a newspaper piece; but a book – that's ambitious."

"Yes, I believe so. Somewhere in the middle of the day, this went from an obsessive curiosity to me making notes on the layout for a book. I've never done it before, so I'll be anxious to see what comes out of it."

"My daughter will be impressed. I do wish she was here so you could meet her. She'd love to know her grandfather was 'book-worthy' and not just some cob-webbed, mean-tempered, old lawyer."

I looked at some of the pictures on the mantle while we were talking. There were quite a few of a studious looking young blonde girl.

"Is this her, your daughter?"

"Yes. She's been gone all semester. She's had some sort of responsibility that she's had to take care of at school so she could prepare to graduate."

"I know how she feels. I'm within a few months of graduation, myself."

"Oh really? Is this your graduate or undergraduate?"

"It's undergrad. I'm actually on a five-year plan that allowed for me being a rather ignorant freshman and not taking school seriously."

She laughed and admitted to the five-year plan for herself as well, only she blamed it on changing majors a couple of times. I pick up the framed picture, recognizing the face but not how I know her. "I must have seen her around campus."

"So your daughter is earning a degree in..." I trailed off to let her finish the sentence for me.

"She's getting her Master's degree in English."

"Oh, that's right, you already told me that."

"She was a prodigy of sorts. She took it upon herself to go to summer school two years in a row during high school and graduated high school a year early. Then she did the same thing in college and earned her Bachelor's degree in a little over three years."

"What's the rush?"

"She wants to get to spend some time abroad after school and has this grand calendar planned out about when she will travel, when she'll start law school. She even has her marriage and children planned out."

"Does she really expect to live by a schedule like that?"

"No, but it gives her a base to work from."

"Will she visit soon?"

"She's not come home to visit one time this semester considering that she's not all that far away."

"Have you gone to visit her?"

Guiltily, "No I haven't. I suppose I should."

"Well there you go," I say with a flourish and a bow. I change the subject quickly however, as I don't want to miss the opportunity to hear more about the case.

"Did he take many cases like Hardin's?"

"No, he tried not to after that," she smiled sadly. "He thinks it damaged his character and he's spent his career since trying to make it up. I've told him over and over that what was done was right according to the law and that no matter which person the attorney was, it should have ended the same way."

"I don't understand."

"He feels like he owes something to the Doctor who was murdered."

"Again, I don't understand."  
"He's not told you yet then. I'll let it come from him but I think this is actually therapeutic for him. He is a truly good man. You'll see."

"I've gathered that already. I just don't know how to talk to him yet."

She burst out laughing, loud enough to wake her father in the next room. "Neither do the rest of us."

He grumbled from the next room, "What's so all fired funny?"

We both took it down to smiles and Molly showed me to my room for the night. I slept fitfully the whole night dreaming of the case and then waking to only think of the case. What must lawyers go through doing this? I don't think I could ever get used to it.

• • • •

"Sorry I didn't come in to see you last night. It got late and then I didn't want to wake you only to tell you I had nothing to different to say."

"The Sheriff came in and fussed at the guard."  
"Fussed about what?"

"We were talking."

"About what?" Jesse was starting to become suspicious.

"Turns out the guard is going to fight in the war in a month and wanted to know what it was like to kill a man."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I didn't know."

Jesse sat back for a moment considering this. Either Eldred was very crafty in thinking on his feet under pressure by denying that or he truly didn't know. He was convinced that no matter what happened, Hardin was still crazy.

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't come in."

"I waited up for you but I wasn't going nowhere, not while I'm rottin' in jail."

You're lucky that's all that's happening to you right now, Jesse thought to himself, and then silently chastised himself for thinking ill of his client.

"Did you get enough rest?"

"Nah, not really; I woke up a lot. I kept thinking about all those things he said about me."

"Remember, you can't let it bother you. It's going to get worse the next few days. There will be people you may not know, or even people you don't remember talking about you."

Eldred pondered that for a moment and then asked, "If they don't know me, how are they going to talk about me?"

"They will be experts in certain areas or witnesses to things they think they saw you do or say."

He was silent after this for a much longer time. "So, anybody can say they saw me and tell them that – and they'll believe them?"

"Essentially, yes, but they have to swear to tell the truth before they say it."

Again, another long pause for consideration, "then why can't I just swear too and tell em all that I didn't do it?"

"I wish it was that simple, I really do."

A deputy approached, "Sorry to interrupt but it's seven o'clock. We need to get him fed, dressed and to court on time.

"Of course," Jesse responded. "Eldred I'll see you in about an hour at the courthouse. Try and keep your food off of your shirt."

"I will."

• • • •

"Alright, out you go Oscar," said the old lawyer as he opened the back door of his office to let his overnight guest out for the day. Breaking his routine, the dog didn't immediately leave but instead trotted over to where I was sitting and jumped up, putting his front feet on my knee.

Strangest thing, that dog, he made eye contact with me and just like the lawyer the day before, I swear he was sizing me up. Apparently content that I was suitable, he gave me a very low but seemingly friendly "woof" and exited, wire-haired tail wagging high over his back.

"I've never known him to not run out in a hurry in the morning but, you're the first person who's ever been in here when I do that. He must have needed to make sure you weren't a burglar or something."

"I think he was sizing me up for a bite."

"I doubt he would have bit you. I'm not even sure he has any teeth."

"Probably so; I hope I passed the test."

The old lawyer laughed, "Well he didn't hike his leg on yours so that's a plus. I actually expected him to do that when he first went to you."

I laughed with him and he turned more serious but still much more casual than he was the day before.

"Here now young man, I want you to take some notes on this case so you get them right," he says handing me a note pad. "You may want to record it."

I know I looked confused at his sudden change of demeanor toward me and he did explain.

"I'm about to talk about the trial and the sentencing. This isn't where I come in just yet. I'm still twenty or so years away by this time, but something interesting did happen."

"I'm all ears."

"Yes, so am I," he fingering his own thick ears. "From my boxing days but that's a whole different story." I reminded myself to ask him about that too, when I had a chance.

It seemed that he was putting off talking about the trial, so I let him have his room. I sat back in the comfortable chair with my note pad when I realized that we didn't have any coffee. Saved by the bell! I provided the excuse he needed to not jump into the story of the trial so quickly.

"Oh shoot! Wait! I have to go get us some coffee next door."

Apparently he'd not thought of it, but he was agreeable. He reached into his pocket and I stopped him. "These are on me. It's the very least I could do."

"You're right but I fear I may ask a larger favor of you later."

"It's ok. I've got it." I ran next door, saying good morning to the women in the office and then retrieving two large cups of black coffee.

When I returned, I was surprised to see that he had taken off his coat and was sitting there in his shirt and suspenders. I was surprised because he even wore his suit coat to dinner in his own home the night before and then fell asleep in his easy chair wearing it.

He tipped his liquor from the flask in his coffee, still not offering me any, as he began, "We were talking about the dangers of having a defendant testify in a trial, but we have to consider that it's not just the Judge in this type of trial. There was a Jury present also. There are up to twelve people sitting in that court room, and more if you count alternates, depending on the jurisdiction and the law of the land. These are not professional listeners or jurors. They are just like you and me and everyone else on the street, or at least they are supposed to be. Just like the rest of us, they are greatly influenced by so many things, temperature, smells, sounds, attitude, the atmosphere in a room, right down to what they had for breakfast that morning."

"Those Jurors are supposed to put all of that aside and then pay attention to only the facts of law presented and then make their decision based on what a reasonable person is supposed to do given the facts," he shook his finger at me, "again excluding everything else. I tell you it's never once, in the history of the courts of man, ever happened as it is supposed to. Human beings cannot completely exclude their senses and what they experience, even within a stuffy old court house."

"If your client picks his nose, a juror will see it. If the prosecutor looks overly confident or looks defeated, a juror will see it. If a person in the gallery laughs at something, a juror will hear it. It is imperative as lawyers, that we predict and control exactly what a juror hears and perceives before it happens. We want to win our case. We want to win it based on the facts, but there are those who will use external influence surreptitiously in the court room. That's where the Judge comes in with his gavel. He keeps the order and makes sure the process is accurate and correct."

"I understand."

"So you see why Eldred and his lawyer were walking on a tight rope. He wanted the Jurors to understand that Eldred, while maybe not innocent of the homicide, was mentally unbalanced. If he pushed it too far, the Jurors would not look favorably on Eldred but instead start to see him as a true villain. There is a certain psychology to a jury trial."

"It's like you said, 'do what you can to control those influences' and then you can focus on winning your case."

"Exactly. What Mr. Sparkman was hoping for were not outbursts and maniac behavior that would upset a jury and make them hate his client. He was counting on the blank stare of a man who the jury would see as retarded, simple-minded, and innocent even if only in spirit. If Eldred could have drooled some during this it would have galvanized his case just that much more."

"Also remember, that it was Mr. Sparkman's belief that Eldred really was mentally deficient. He had tried to convince the court of that prior to the trial. His efforts to defend were sincere, even if he knew that his client did in fact kill the Doctor. He believed the malice, based in clear thought, was absent."

"So Mr. Sparkman knew Eldred killed the Doctor, he was just trying to get him off on a technicality?"  
"It's not a technicality. That's when someone somewhere makes a grievous error in judgment and usurps the judicial process. Some crucial step is omitted or is deviated from. That is the greatest travesty when someone who is guilty as sin is acquitted because of someone else's error, either by accident or intent. Many lawyers find their reputation damaged due to such things, through no fault of their own, because people believe they are helping criminals and the unjust sidestep the law. It just isn't true."

"I do understand."

"I'm not here to defend my profession. There are saints and sinners in every profession, including the ministry of all places. Mr. Sparkman was one of the previous. He was providing his client, who he believed incapable of knowing good from evil, effective counsel."

"I've never really even though of Mr. Sparkman as a bad guy in all of this, or the prosecutor. The whole process is fascinating."

"You continue to keep that open mind, especially when we start discussing my role in all of this Shakespearean drama."

"I'll do my best."

Molly stuck her head in the office door to wish us both good morning. She looked at her father and her jaw dropped. "Papa, are you ok?"

"Never better he replied. Does something look out of sorts?"

"Uh, no, just asking," She withdrew to the outer office and I heard her tell the secretary, "He took his coat off!"

I also heard the reply, "You're kidding!"

• • • •

"Mr. Sparkman, the morning is yours." The Judge offered to Jesse. It was time for the Defense to put on their case but up until now it had been a real uphill battle. Jesse could tell by the eyes and the body language of the Jurors that they were taking in every single thing that the Prosecution was feeding to them. His cross examinations and objections and rebuttals had done little more than draw looks of ire and impatience from the Jurors.

Jesse stands and buttons his coat. "Thank you your honor. Two of my witnesses have been precluded from testifying in this matter and offering what I would consider to be relevant and significant testimony as to the innocence of my client. I would like that issue preserved in the record."

The Judge looked peeved but grumbled back, "So noted."

"Thank you your honor. I would like to call Eldred Hardin to the stand."

Eldred looked alarmed and Jesse approached him. The prosecuting attorneys smiled knowingly, as if a spider waiting for a moth to fly into the web.

"Mister Jesse, you told me you didn't want me to talk in here. Now you do? I don't know what to tell them!"

"You'll be just fine, just tell the truth and only answer with 'yes' or 'no' when asked a question, unless I specifically tell you to describe something."

Hardin rose from his seat and approached the witness box, very conscious of the hateful looks that were hitting his back from the spectators. Once he climbed in, he stood beside the chair and the Bailiff approached him with a well-worn Bible in hand.

"Put your right hand on the Bible." Hardin did so, but tentatively. "Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

Eldred lifted his hand from the bible and looked at the Bailiff. The Bailiff nodded for him to put his hand back and the Judge intervened.

"Mister Hardin you must answer yes or no."

Eldred swallowed hard, "Yes or no."

There was a general chuckle around the court room and a few from the jury box. The Judge slammed his gavel down.

"Is that a yes or a no, Mr. Hardin. Do you swear to tell the truth?"

"Yes sir."

"Good enough. Bailiff..."

The Bailiff told Eldred to have a seat which he did.

His attorney approached him and put his hand on the rail in front of him.

"Would you state your name and address for the record please?" Eldred did so.

Formality out of the way, the attorney became cheerful. "Good morning Eldred, are you feeling well."

Eldred looked at him and then at the Jury and back at the attorney who nodded to him.

"No."

Expecting a positive answer, Jesse, asked for clarification. "I expected you to say that you were feeling well. Why are you not?"

"I'm scared and I itch." He said looking down toward his lap. There was another round of muffled chuckling around the room.

Jesse was concerned at first that this may turn into a circus but he was gradually realizing that this may be to Eldred's benefit. If they truly see him as simple, then they may be lenient.

"Eldred tell me about how you were arrested."

"Is that a yes or a no"

"No, that's an answer I want you to describe. Tell us all the true story about when you were arrested."

"You see, Rodney and I were walking down the sidewalk and he looked in the Jewelry store window and said how much he'd like to have a gold watch."

"No Eldred! Tell us about how you were arrested and accused of killing someone."

"Oh. I was with my lady. We had just finished dancing and went back to the place I was staying and this policeman showed up asking my name."

"And then what happened?"

"Shayla got mad at him and tried to hit him but he said he was taking her to jail too and she ran offt," A chuckle again.

"And then what?"

"He brought me back here."

"Did you ride in the front seat of the police car or the back."

"Neither one!"

Innocently, Jesse continued, "What do you mean?"

"He threw me in the back of the trunk and hit every bump in the road!"

A Juror laughed but choked it back when the Judge gave him a stern look.

"Then what?"

"Here I am."

"Did you have any problems when you got to the jail here?"

"No, they didn't beat me up right away if that's what you're asking."

"Did they feed you?"

"Yes."

"Did you get to see a Doctor?"

"No."

"So they treated you well?"

"Yes. Decent enough."

"What happened that night?"

"They wanted to hang me."

"The Sheriff wanted to hang you.?"

"No, the crowd outside. I heard them all talking through the door and a couple of times a few of them would come around the jail house near a window and I heard them talking about doing things to me."

"Did they do bad things to you?"

"No. The Sheriff stopped them, I heard."

"But you were scared weren't you? You were scared for your life from the men inside and the men outside."

"Objection the prosecutor shouted as he rose from his chair. He's trying to testify for his client."

"Sustained, keep it as a question Mr. Sparkman the Judge warned."

"I withdraw that question. Mr. Hardin, did you fear for your life in the jail?"

"Yes, I did."

"Tell me how."

"They kept talking to me and telling me I was gonna die."

"Who did?"

"Those people that I hear."

"Who were they? Do you know their names?"

"I don't know." Eldred put his head in his hands. "He said if I ratted him out, he'd kill me."

"Who did? Who threatened your life if you 'ratted' him out?"

"Hankie, Hankie Wilson."

"What would you 'rat out' Mr. Wilson for?"

"He robbed and killed Dr. Blakely, not me."

The audience, as well as the jurors and judge sat up a little straighter and gave greater attention.

"What do you mean, 'he robbed and killed Dr. Blakely?'"

"He was with us and argued with him about a woman. They liked the same woman. Hankie got mad and shot him."

"Now Eldred, this is important. Do you understand that? This is very important. You gave and signed a confession in the jail. Do you remember doing that?"

"Yes sir."

"Now you say that Hankie Wilson killed him, not you?"

"Yes sir."

"What about that confession you gave and signed. There were witnesses there that heard it and saw you sign it."

"Wilson said he would kill me if I ratted him out."

"So did you confess to the crime?"

"Yes, Wilson said he'd kill me."

"Did you kill Doctor Blakely?"

Eldred paused for a moment and took a deep rattling breath. "No sir, I didn't kill him."

A murmur arose in the court room and the judge tapped his gavel a few times, not slamming it like usual. He was apparently very interested in what was being said as well.

"Mr. Hardin did you read the confession you signed?"

"Not really."

"What do you mean by that? Either you read it or you didn't."

"I don't know how to read that good. I mean, I can read which smoking tobacco I want in the store, and I can sign my mark. I know how to read the names of some stores."

"So you really can't read, then?"

"No, sir."

"Was the confession, that you signed, read back to you?"

"No, they just had me swear it was true and I marked it. Then they got all excited and took it away. Now, here I am."

On hearing this, the Judge gave a very stern look to the prosecutor, who shrugged and in turn slowly sought out the eyes of the Sheriff in the audience. He shrugged also. One of the Jurors saw this exchange and followed it with his own eyes.

"Has Hankie Wilson been to see you?"

Eldred said that he hadn't but then stood up and looked around the court room, searching the faces.

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing if he's here now. He said he'd kill me."

"The witness will sit down." The Judge commanded and Eldred complied, seeming however, to have not heard a word he said.

"Is he here?" Jesse asked curiously, wondering if gunfire would erupt from some unknown, already-blooded killer.

"I don't see him." Jesse felt guilty for the relief he felt. If a Hankie Wilson did confront them in the court room, it would have put an end to this trial for sure.

So it went on for most of the day and the prosecution had their opportunity to cross examine Hardin for a while too. Two different prosecutors took turns cross examining Eldred and in the end they seemed as frustrated as anyone else. They didn't make or break their case through their cross.

There were several clear answers but there were many of the continuing nonsense answers, all of which drew the amusement of some of the people in the court, despite the judge threatening to jail the 'next person who laughed' and fine the rest.

Jesse couldn't tell if he was hurting or helping his case with Eldred's testimony but so far it didn't seem if any real damage had been done. All he had to do was cast a shadow of a doubt on the Jury and they would have to acquit Eldred. Unfortunately, he also knew that the Jury had been hand selected and that there was no real due process involvement in the jury selection. He worried for his client's life and he also grieved for his own reputation which was being tarnished by this trial.

Eldred got to a point where he was having trouble differentiating between the murder he was on trial for and the small string of robberies he was accused of and indicted for, albeit not stood trial for. He asked about his gold watch at least twice and his lawyer was beginning to think that the stress of the cross examination was loosening Hardin's controls on his immediate reality. The Judge called for a thirty minute recess but shortly after returning accepted the Defense's position to rest their case and let Eldred out of the witness box.

When the Judge dismissed Eldred and he returned to his seat, he looked exhausted. The Judge looked rather tired too as he slammed his gavel announcing that the court was in recess and would convene the next morning for closing arguments.

• • • •

"So he did testify. I thought the strategy was to keep him off of the stand?"

"Yes, and it was. It was a very dangerous thing to do, but the State still held firm to the idea of a witnessed and signed confession to the killing. They argued that he was simply trying to distract the Jury away from the truth at hand."

"That he killed the doctor."

"Precisely."

"Who were the two witnesses that didn't get called?"

"I don't know but I'll be they were someone who could swear to where Eldred was or wasn't. The thing is that Eldred admitted to being with the Doctor; admitted to killing him; and even in his later testimony admitted to being present when the doctor was killed. The only thing someone else could testify to was that they actually saw him witness, not commit the crime and his story didn't include anyone else being there, by either accounting."

"Maybe they were figments of his imagination? Was he concocting them?"

"Now you're thinking." The old lawyer said, pointing a finger at me. "This is the crux of the matter. Were these real people or someone that Hardin believed was there? Unfortunately they didn't substantiate the crazy claim. There were actual people for the court to have refused to hear their testimony."

"So was he or wasn't he really crazy?"

"Don't get ahead of me."

• • • •

"Mister Jesse, I don't understand any of this anymore," Eldred whispered to his attorney as he sat back down with a great exhalation of air. Closing arguments were complete and there was great anticipation building in the room.

"It's all done now, Eldred," he whispered back. "I've done all that I could to help keep you out of the harm. It's up to the Jury now."

"Does that..." Eldred began to whisper back but was shushed by Jesse. The Judge was going to address the Jury.

The Judge slams his gavel down three times, gathering the attention of everyone in the room. "Gentlemen of the Jury, you have heard the presentation of evidence by the prosecution and by the defense. Both the prosecution and the defense have rested in their cases. It is now up to you to determine, based on the evidence, what is fact and what is not. Rely on your charge and instructions at the beginning of this proceeding and refer back to them frequently if you find yourself questioning what direction to proceed."

Jesse looked over at Hardin, whose gaze was fixed on the Judge, and a slight line of drool was building at the corner of his mouth. Why couldn't he have done that two days ago, he thought to himself. "Keep your fingers crossed and pray Eldred, even if you have never prayed before. You need God's mercy right now to keep you out of the electric chair. I've done all I can do."

• • • •

The Bailiff stuck his head in the door of the small room where Hardin and his attorney are sitting. They haven't said much. Hardin just looks out the window high up on the wall.

"The Jury is about to come back in."

"Ok thanks. That didn't take long," says Jesse as he looks at his watch, "just a few hours."

Hardin finally speaks, "At least they won't make me breathe gas." He smiles weakly.

The Bailiff lets the attorney enter the court room first and then escorts Hardin to the table. The difference now is that there are a number of Deputies standing close by.

They must be preparing for some trouble, Jesse thinks to himself. I hope this doesn't end badly today. He is hopeful but not optimistic. He watched the Jurors eyes every time he spoke and they got angrier and angrier as the trial went on.

"All rise" the Bailiff bid the court room, which they did as the Judge entered and sat behind his bench.

"Be seated. Bailiff, bring in the Jurors."

The burly Bailiff opened the side door and bid the Jurors to enter to their seats. When they were all seated, the Judge had to bang his gavel once to calm the audience.

He addressed the Jury, "You have had ample opportunity to view the evidence and consider your decisions. You have elected to return your verdict at this time." He looks at the man seated in the first seat.

"Mr. Jury Foreman, have you reached a verdict?"

The man stands and wipes his hands on his pants legs. He appears nervous. "We have your Honor."

"He hands a folded piece of paper to the Bailiff who then hands it to the Judge." The Judge reads it, his eyebrows arching slightly. Jesse sees this and a small ember of hope blossoms in his chest.

"The verdict appears to be in proper order. Will the Defendant and his counsel rise?" Jesse and Hardin stand from behind their table.

The Judge continues, "Mr. Jury Foreman, read your verdict."

The Bailiff hands the paper back to the Jury Foreman who takes it in hand, opening it. He looks directly at Hardin, a smile spreading on his face.

"He's smiling? What is this? He's smiling?" Jesse says quietly with growing alarm.

"We the Jury, find the defendant guilty of murder in the First Degree..." The spectators go wild and cheer. The Judge starts slamming his gavel for order in the court. Bailiffs start herding spectators out into the hallway as the Jury Foreman continues to read.

"...as charged in the indictment, and fix his punishment at Death by Electrocution."

Hardin slumps in his chair and Jesse sits with him. The noise rises again with more celebration from the spectators. The Judge slams his gavel again, demanding order louder and issuing a threat of confinement to a few celebrating spectators.

"Continue Mr. Jury Foreman," the Judge orders.

"What?" Jesse stands back up from his chair. "There's more?"

He drags Hardin up from his chair by his arm, shaking him, "Listen!"

The Jury Foreman continues to read, "In light of mitigating circumstances the penalty of death is here-by waived and in its place a sentence of not less than ninety-nine years in the State Penitentiary."

The shouts of celebration in the courtroom cease as if a giant hand was waved across the mouths of every spectator. Confusion replaces celebration and the Judge orders the courtroom cleared immediately. The Deputies and Bailiffs move to the back of the room, ushering out the crowd, celebrating and angered alike, but not before they could hear Jesse Sparkman shout, "Yes!" at the front of the court room.

Once the doors were closed and guarded by a Deputy, the silence in the room was overwhelming.

"Your Honor," Jesse shouted over the receding din, "If I may?"

"Proceed Mr. Sparkman."

"Your honor we accept the Jury's verdict for the moment but also request a new trial based on the grounds that I have previously filed and averred."

"Are you prepared to submit your motion at this moment?"

"No your honor, I request a few days to prepare the motion for submission."

"Very well, we will expect your motion before the end of the day on Monday."

"Thank you Your Honor." Jesse sat down with a great sense of relief washing over him. He had saved his life. Now he has to gain his freedom.

The Judge banged his gavel once drawing attention, "Mister Hardin, please rise again." Hardin and his attorney stood. "You have been given an unusual reprieve in light of your confession and in light of the facts. I suggest you make the best of it and amend your ways. You are hereby sentenced to 99 years of confinement in the Tennessee State Penitentiary where you will complete your sentence beginning within seven days, providing opportunity for your attorney to prepare his motions for relief."

"Mr. Jury Foreman and members of the Jury, we thank you for your service to our community and to our way of life. You are excused from duty. Please make yourself available for Jury polling and you may exit out the private exit should you so desire." None of the Jurors rose or left. All were anxious to see this drama play out.

He addresses the court officers in the rear of the room, "Deputies, give him a few moments with his attorney and take him into custody within our jail."

The judge slams the gavel, "This matter is closed, and Court is adjourned."

• • • •

Jesse pulled his collars up tighter around his neck and the cold wind blew dead fallen leaves around his feet. Now that the trial was over, the weather seems to have concluded that it was truly time for winter to arrive.

The court house office door opened and a deputy emerged in his woolen coat, leading Hardin out, followed by a deputy holding a shotgun. Eldred didn't look up at first, his eyes were on the ground, probably considering shooting dice, or remotely considering his fate in light of his brand new 99-year prison sentence. He took small, short steps due to the chains that surrounded his ankles. Those chains were attached to another chain that went around his waist and also joined his handcuffs. He was truly manacled for the ride back to the jail.

The Deputies didn't take offense at the attorney who approached Eldred. They both knew him to be his attorney in the trial and seemed to like him. During his interactions with them via the jail and the courthouse, he treated them with an extra level of dignity that they were unaccustomed to from the country folk that lived around them. They had numerous discussions after that about how different it must be to be a law man in a large city versus a small rural county. They'd heard horror stories about the altercations the city officers would be involved in, but they couldn't be much worse than chasing moonshiners across ridge-lines in the middle of the night.

Eldred walked past the attorney before he realized that he was standing on the sidewalk. He stopped and turned back.

"How are you holding up Eldred?"

Eldred looked past the attorney for a moment, at his mother standing inside of the courthouse, looking out at him through the glass pane of the door. His father was standing behind her, rheumy eyes downcast with disappointment and shame. Eldred shared a brief bit of eye contact with her for just a moment.

"I'm alright Mr. Jesse. My ma and pa ain't doing too good. I'm sure they are blaming theyselves for what I did."

"I'll have a talk with them, if you think that will help."

"Yessir," he mumbled, "but I think a preacher may be best for Ma. She's been praying a lot for me and says she's being punished for dropping me. I don't know what that means but she needs the preacher."

Jesse knew exactly what she meant by being punished for dropping him. Through his meetings with the family and with Hardin, preparing for the trial, he learned that several times throughout his young life, Eldred had sustained head injuries. Once, only days old, his teenage mother dropped him when an angry neighbor came into the room and tried to take the baby away from her, claiming it was his grandson, which it wasn't. In the struggle, Eldred was dropped. That was the first time. Later, he fell on his head crossing a creek, which ended up being his first real medical exposure to Dr. Blakely.

"Mama said that if Dr. Blakely hadn't saved me several times as a boy, he would still be alive today."

Jesse stood there, mouth open, unable to believe what he was hearing. That mother was grieving for everyone, not just herself.

"I'll talk to your mama for you. You take care of yourself in jail Eldred. In the meantime, I'll work on getting you released and this conviction overturned. Do like the Judge said and take advantage of the reprieve."

"The what?" He asked.

"Not getting electrocuted."

"Oh," he paused, "I will."

"They'll be holding you for about a week while they get a space ready for you in Nashville at the State Penitentiary. If you need anything between now and then, you know how to find me. I'll be in touch with you. Even after you go in, let me know how you're doing."

"I will."

The two shook hands and Jesse stood still on the sidewalk watching them lead Eldred to the waiting car. He looked up at the darkening early winter sky and breathed deeply of the cold air before returning to the court house to address Hardin's parents.

• • • •

The Judge stands at the large window of his office overlooking the courthouse lawn. Loraine knocks on the door and the Judge tells her to come in.

"Mr. Claude is here Judge. Do you want to see him?"

"Yes, send him in."

She soon returns with the Clerk and they all three stand looking out the window onto a cold, gray December day. They watch as Eldred Hardin is lead from the courthouse in chains around his waist, wrists and feet. They watch as he is approached by his attorney and they awkwardly shake hands and exchange a few words before being led away.

"That fellow there saved his life today."

"It was a good trial, Judge, although I never expected the outcome," said Mr. Claude

"Neither did I but I'll sleep better tonight because of it. I was starting to wonder myself about the boy, but couldn't say anything. He had such a blank expression on his face the entire time."

Loraine, the toughest of the three and the only woman present gave her two-cents, "Justice was done, regardless."
Part VI

"As I live in my cage..."

The Circuit Court Clerk, Mr. Hamblin Claude, called "Ham" by his best of friends, was standing at the counter in his office sorting through some of the stacks of documents that accumulated every time a Grand Jury met. Despite the gravity and seriousness he dedicated to his position, it amused him at times to read some of the attempts to gain indictment or court attention. People would complain about the smallest and most insignificant issues, all the while feeling that they held the enormity of a pitched battle.

His reading through a document, in which a gentleman living on one end of a road complaining about the braying of the coon hound of a man living on the other end of a road which resulted in the party of the first part stealing and abandoning the animal belonging to the party of the second part, and so on and so on and so on – was interrupted by the jingling of the small brass bell over the office door. The local mail carrier and gossip monger entered the office with a broad smile across his clean shaven face.

"Mornin' Mr. Claude," the mailman greeted the Clerk.

"Good morning Jack! I didn't recognize you without that growth that was attached to your chin. Did your pet squirrel give up hope and abandon you?"

The mailman laughed. He had worn a beard ever since he'd been able to grow one. It was a regular point of contention with the local Post Master and the uniform regulations of the U. S. Postal Service. Jack always swore that as long as he was required to wear boots as if he was still on the pony express he would wear a beard as well. He also believed it was a matter of jealousy that no one he worked with could possibly grow as thick and luxurious of a beard as he could.

"You got them to ease up on the boot requirements?"

Jack smiled broadly and flushed a little. "No, they didn't. I'm still working on that."

"But you shaved your beard. How did you manage to do that?"

"Uh, well, I met a woman..."

"Aha," The clerk interrupted, "I knew it! Only a woman can do what the federal government can't!"

Jack laughed agreeably and handed the clerk an envelope. "He's a letter for you Mr. Claude. It's addressed to you this time, instead of the Judge."

"What do you mean?"

"Lately whenever this fellow sent a letter, it was for the Judge."

"You're pretty observant aren't you?"

"I am always community aware."

"I call it nosey!" Mr. Claude laughed with the mailman. "How do we know you're not a spy for old Adolph Shickelgruber himself?" The reference to Adolph Hitler was commonplace and a joke among friends. The postal carriers in the area were always up on the latest gossip.

"Have a good day," he said jovially and strolled out the door.

"You too Jack," offered Mr. Claude as he waved him out.

Claude's assistant came into the office, brushing past the mailman as he left.

"Who's the new carrier?" She asked.

"That's not a new one. That's Jack."

She wolf-whistled and looked out the door after him, "He should have shaved long ago!"

"Easy girl, your Henry might not take a shine to you whistling at the post man."

"I think it's time for Henry to shave his beard too," she commented as she walked off with a stack of papers in hand.

Mr. Claude returned to his desk, turning the envelope over in his hands. It wasn't often that he received mail addressed specifically to him. Usually it was an "in care of" or "please file or forward to" type of mailing.

He never received personal mail at home either and his wife was always upset with everyone beginning to get telephones in their homes, no one wrote letters anymore. If it weren't for her recipe mailing circles and pen pals, she would go stir crazy. He knew, however, at some point she would want a telephone in their home as well.

He opened the envelope with an ivory handled letter opener. "So what do we have here?" He unfolded the document realizing that it was a letter as much as a legal document.

"My dear Mr. Claude, In the State of Tennessee versus Eldred Hardin; murder sentence of 99 years, I have decided to withdraw my motion for a new trial, and if you please, kindly deliver the letter enclosed to the honorable Judge, to him which is a letter to the same effect."

The Clerk withdrew the enclosure, seeing it was as described, a withdrawal of a motion for a new trial.

"I have left there a Wayside Bill of Exceptions to be signed by the Judge and I think I will recall that also, and unless you wish to keep it for your files, you may send it to me."

He looked at that enclosure as well, making sure it was also the same document described.

"Well that crafty devil. He withdrew the motion for a retrial and preserved it for appeal all at once." The Clerk knew that this filing's purpose was to put in permanent form and bring into the record, anything that went on during the trial but was not part of the permanent trial record. It was a magnificent tool when going to a higher court for appeal of a case.

"Find also enclosed the list of the jurors who sat on the case and please place their post-office addresses opposite their names and mail same to me, in enclosed stamped and addressed envelope."

"Everybody in the Court House and those citizens I had the pleasure of meeting, showed rare cordiality to me and I want to thank you for your very kind and considerate treatment in every way. Remember me to all of the Court House Ring; they are all very fine gentlemen. I trust I will have the pleasure of seeing you sometime and if you need any favors here, command me, and it will be a pleasure."

"With the season's greetings and thanking you, I remain yours truly - Jesse W. Sparkman."

• • • •

Loraine knocked on the door to the Judge's office which was standing open. The Judge turned from a book he was holding near his small law library, "Yes ma'am?" His reading glasses were up on his forehead and he seemed quiet in thought.

"I hate to bother you, but Mr. Claude is here to see you."

"Send him in. I have some writings for him to file with the records anyway."

The Clerk strode in behind her, "Morning Judge, I hate to keep bothering you lately but wanted to share some news with you."

"Sure come on in. I'm just doing a little research on some case law about insanity as a defense."

"That's sort of why I'm here. I received a letter this morning from Mr. Sparkman, the attorney for the Defense in the murder trial."

"So what did he have to say?"

"It was a very nice letter and very polite. He withdrew his motion for a new trial." He placed the document on the Judge's desk. "He also entered a Wayside Bill of Exceptions to preserve the record."

"I expected the Wayside Bill but I didn't expect him not to file for a new trial. That's very odd."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." He said as he closed the office door. "Can we talk just you and me – you step aside from being a Judge for a moment?"

"Yes, of course, as long as it's not a conflict." He agreed, removing his glasses from his forehead and sitting in a chair beside his friend.

"I'm not skilled in the law like some, but I'm astute when it comes to people. I have a hard time understanding some of the particulars of this case, especially when things like this come about."

The Judge understood his concern. "I know what you're talking about. I didn't ask Mr. Sparkman directly but I gathered a lot from his pretrial motions and his attitude toward his client."

Mr. Claude crossed his legs and steepled his fingers under his chin. "I'm listening."

"That young man's goal was to save that colored boy's life. We all knew he was guilty, including his attorney. He as much as said so in his motions to dismiss. He gave a perfectly legal confession before a crowd of upstanding citizens and it was recorded on paper and signed."

The Judge continued. "I'm not saying there was anything inappropriate, at all, about how he handled his case. I think he was considering the long term effects of what could happen. What would happen if there was a retrial and all of a sudden Hardin was found guilty again with a different jury, but this time they affirmed the death sentence?"

The Clerk nodded, gaining a grasp on what the Judge was saying. "So what you're saying is they got the death sentence off of the table and were glad to take what they could get."

"I'm not saying that, you are." The Judge gives a wry smile. "I think he was protecting his client the best way he knew how; by keeping him somewhere where he was supervised constantly and out of harm's way. He's also protecting a life-time of yet un-victimized victims."

"So he didn't botch the case looking for an acquittal, he actually accomplished the goals that best served his client."

"In my personal opinion only, I would like to think so."

Slapping his hands down on his thighs, the Clerk stood. "I really liked the fellow and was hoping for something like this to be the case, but what about the Wayside Bill?"

"He had to do that as a matter of Ethics. There are some questions raised, that had he not raised them and filed them in the bill, would put his reputation and probably his license in jeopardy. It's the same reason I declined to rule so that a higher court could address them should they feel compelled to do so."

The Clerk nodded and reached for the bound stack of files on the desk, "Are these for me to file?"

"Yes, go ahead and take them, please. Thank you."

He nodded again and patted the Judge on the shoulder, "You have a good day."

"You too, my friend."

• • • •

"I bet there were some upset people in that town!"

"You have no idea. People were expecting there to be a death row prisoner headed to Nashville to be electrocuted."

"From what I learned in my studies of the trial and the period leading up to it, and from the people of the town as well, it changed into something very ugly."

"What do you mean?"

"At first, they were angry that the Doctor was killed."

"Of course, anyone would be."

"But then it turned out that the suspected murderer was a local boy that the Doctor had been taking care of since he was an infant."

"Again, that's reasonable."

"It's very reasonable but after that things just changed. First, there were some articles that ran in the newspaper that described the robbery-homicide in detail and the motive. There were a few small vigilante groups that wanted to do him harm and there was even a drummed-up bigot group that wanted to lynch him "just because."

"Just because?"

"Yes, just because he was black. It had nothing to do with the victim, who was also black. It wasn't about a perceived sense of justice or injustice. They just wanted to string someone up in a tree."

"What happened?"

"The Sheriff happened. Look, he was a really good man in a really hard time. He even deputized a couple of volunteers just to guard Hardin at the Jail House so his deputies could rest every few days. He held these angry people at bay, without anyone getting hurt and without anyone going to jail because of some out-of-control emotions."

"We see that today still," I say knowing that the news broadcasts every morning and every evening showed the same kind of out of control emotion, around the world. "Those times weren't so different than from what they are now."

"No they are not. You're very astute. I may just have to reconsider my initial opinion of you."

I suppose I looked at him with an open mouth. He just smiled and winked at me.

"Hardin didn't go straight to prison. They weren't ready for him. He spent nearly a week in the local jailer's house before they delivered him to Nashville. That was the most difficult time for everyone because by then, he was found guilty of the murder and he didn't seem to express any remorse at all for it.

"He stayed at the Jailer's house? You keep saying that but I don't understand. Why didn't he just stay in the jail?"

The old lawyer laughed. I suppose my age has crept up on me again. Back in those days, the counties didn't all have jails as we do now, overseen by the Sheriff. Many of them had county work farms and county prisons, but not local jails. The Jailer's House was a take-off of an old system where a house was fortified in part to hold prisoners and the Jailer would live there, even with his wife and family. They took care of feeding the prisoners and minding after them.

"Wasn't that dangerous?"

"It could be, but again, back then, people didn't tolerate much foolishness either. Repercussions, unofficially, could be harsh."

"I don't know if I could live in a house with cells in it."

"It wasn't an altogether bad job for many, but with trials like this one and people being so worked up and angry, it got exciting."

"He got sentenced to 99 years though! I can't believe people couldn't accept that. Sure some wanted vengeance, but for the most part, that sentence is the same thing."

"Remember also, when the murder took place, we were deep into World War II. Germany had captured the Greek Isles. V2 rockets were smashing into Britain. We were attacking Tokyo with B-29s. The aircraft carrier Lexington had even sustained heavy damage from Kamikazes in the Pacific. Passions were running high."

"Did a ninety-nine year sentence not seem just?"

"To some, it certainly did. I remember plainly the remarks about the Jury Foreman smiling. I never got the opportunity to ask him about it though. Was he smiling because of the First Degree Murder conviction, or was he smiling because of the commuted death sentence?"

That reminded me of the small newspaper headline about the farmer breaks a leg while rescuing the mule from the hole and I related that to him.

"Exactly," he agreed. These riddles of human nature, and of journalism I'll add, tend to make me a little crazy at times!

"Totally understandable," I agree, having felt a little derived craziness from time to time myself.

"Let me tell you about the real crazy thing. The pun is absolutely intended although there is nothing funny about it."

• • • •

"That's all I need for now Officer, just him. Wait outside please."

"I'll be right outside if you need anything."

Eldred watched the correctional officer, who he'd already learned to call "Screw" or "Bull" quietly behind their backs, leave the room and close the door. There was nothing correctional about them unless you count getting swatted with a wooden night stick in the backs of the thighs when you disregard a prison rule. That was even if you didn't know what the rule was to start with. They corrected that lack of knowledge quickly! He understood why it was so quiet in the prison when the guards were on the floor.

To their faces, they were Mister so-and-so or Boss so-and-so if you were on a work crew. Eldred couldn't expect a work crew for a while. He was too new and that was something you earned, or bought if you could afford it.

He slowly allowed his gaze to leave the guard exiting and move to the man sitting in the chair across from him. He wore a pressed shirt and pants and a white coat with a pen in the pocket. Eldred wondered how long that coat would be if the man stood up. It looked like it fit like a woman's dress, it was so long. Eldred knew this man to be a doctor but this wasn't a doctor's room. There were no medical supplies or instruments. Eldred was looking because of the potential to steal something and take it back to his cell for himself.

The doctor was looking through a manila file folder in his lap. He apparently wasn't afraid of Eldred and Eldred wondered if he should be. He was here for killing a doctor wasn't he?

"Have a seat Mister Hardin," the doctor told him in an unusual accent, pointing to the chair across from him. Eldred did as he was told. He didn't see a billy club but that didn't mean he didn't have one.

The doctor looked him over for a few seconds and then continued to read in the file with an occasional "yes" or an "aha" or "I see" coming out quietly.

"Well then," he said as he closed the folder with a flourish and put it on a table behind him, again with that accent. It caused Eldred to stare. "You have been here about a week. How are you getting along?"

Eldred stared at him, enjoying the accent that was slowly becoming funny to him.

"Why are you staring at me so queerly?"

Eldred recognized that word. "I don't like men that way."

"What way would that be?"

"Like you said, queer. I'm a man and I like women."

"Liked is the more appropriate word it seems. Judging from your sentence a woman seems to be forever out of your grasp."

Eldred blinked.

"Again, how are you getting along?"

"I'm here. Why do you talk so funny?"

So it went, for a number of hours over a couple of days; the doctor asking questions and Eldred being evasive, non-responsive, elusive or utterly direct in comment but not answer.

• • • •

The telephone rings on the desk of the prison warden's secretary. She tries to ignore it and lets it ring at least five times. Dreading another complaint, she answers it, "Warden Fore's office, this is Jess."

She listens for a moment. "Yes Doctor. Give me a bit to see if he is available. I believe he is still in his office. She keys the speaker box on her desk to alert the Warden.

"Warden, Dr. McCale is on the telephone for you. He seems rather upset."

"What does that old stuffed shirt want now," Returned the voice over the box on the desk.

"He just asked to talk to you."

"This is the Warden," he says as he picks up the telephone.

"Warden Fore, this is Dr. McCale. I need to speak to you about one of the new inmates, an Eldred Hardin."

"Do you have his number? I don't have files with names for the new inmates yet, just their numbers."

"Yes, just a moment." The warden can hear the doctor looking through papers, "Yes here it is. It is number 38295."

"Hold on, he just got here last week, right?"

"That is correct."

The Warden thumbs through his inbox and withdraws a narrow file and opens it glancing over the top sheet. "I have his file now. Murder conviction, ninety nine years it looks like."

"The boy doesn't belong here."

"So you are overturning the jury verdict?" The Warden laughs.

"No, it's not that at all. I'm quite sure he was capable of murder and still is. He's just verifiably insane. One moment he is as lucid as you or I and the next moment I would swear I'm talking to a woman, if not another man all together."

"Is he play-acting with you?"  
"To what end? He's already convicted."

"To get better treatment while he's here?"

"It's doubtful. He has all of the hallmark signs of a mentally unbalanced individual. He does not answer questions, except when it suits him. He sucks his thumb constantly and he is extremely apathetic."

"What about him being another person, like you just mentioned?"

"He says he has a 'girl in his head' to whom he seems to have responded several times during our meetings."

"What are you saying about him?"

"He clearly has praecox."

"What, pray tell, is praecox?"

"It's a premature dementia."

"He's turning senile, at his young age?"

"No, it's not the same thing. This is a chronic disease that is characterized by cognitive disintegration. He's going to have progressive decreases in mental functioning such as memory loss, problem solving, and for now, attention span." The Doctor takes a breath and is encouraged to continue by the Warden.

"I dare say his controls over aggression and submission will be greatly inhibited. He has already exhibited manic behaviors in my exam room. I don't know the long term effects specific to him individually but as we've seen, he's capable of homicide."

"Yes, of a doctor."

"Excuse me, did you say doctor?"

"Yes the man he killed was his doctor." He heard the doctor swallow hard on the other end of the line.

"Well, he is going to need to be kept away from the general population. I fear with his impairment, he'll kill someone else or get himself killed."

"Is he dangerous?"

"He's a killer already!" The Doctor exclaimed, his voice rising with his alarm.

"Very well, we'll take precautions with him, although he's a lifer. At the very least he's looking at thirty three years before the parole board will even consider him and I'd be willing to bet that a few of the members of that parole board haven't even been born yet.

"I am sure."

"Is there anything else you need to report to me, Doctor?"

"He has lesions on his genitals."

"Lesions?"

"Yes, a sexually transmitted disease."

"Wonderful," the Warden said, sarcasm dripping from the word. "Get him treated and put your report in his file."

• • • •

November 26, 1964

The popcorn hits Eldred on the chest. "Take this back stupe, fetch me some fresh corn." The guard was really trusting that Eldred wouldn't defile his popcorn for his demeaning behavior. Eldred, on the other hand had already defiled the first batch, of which the guard ate most of already. He smiled quietly to himself.

The Warden, in a show of hospitality for the Thanksgiving season, had provided a chance for all of the inmates, not in lockdown, to see a Gregory Peck movie called "To Kill a Mockingbird." All the prisoners had to do was stay out of trouble for the month beforehand and then pay $1 to get in. A bag of popcorn was handed to each one as he walked in the door, by Eldred Hardin of course.

Eldred was every bit as unbalanced as his attorney, his doctor, and his cell mates over the last twenty years believed. He would become someone else when the mood hit him, but usually when he was angry about something. He did stay out of trouble with only the occasional complaint that something would turn up missing from someone on his cell block.

They all blamed him because he came and went from the cells as he pleased. He didn't hold to any conventions such as a man's cell being his domain and to stay out. He took more than a few beatings for it as well, but still he persisted in wandering and pilfering at will, and sometimes unaware he was even doing it.

Once he pulled the billy club off of the belt of a guard without the guard noticing. He carried it around all day, shoved in his pants like he was a guard. Everyone but the guards noticed until toward the end of the shift, he was tapping on the bars with it. Once the guards did notice what he had and where it had come from, he suffered another of his readily occurring lifelong head injuries.

Now, however, his job was to hand out small nickel bags of popcorn to everyone watching the movie as they came in. His getting to do this replaced the need to pay $1 to get in. The other prisoners didn't get refills, which was just as well. None of them were interested in it anyway because they wanted to see the movie without distraction, a rarity in the prison. They would have stared amazed at the birth of fruit flies on the screen if it was presented.

The movie rolled and the opening credits scrolled, not that it mattered to Eldred. He just enjoyed listening to the music before it started. He handed the guard a fresh bag of corn, complete with spittle from a dozen or so other prisoners and more salt than any one man should eat. The guard would take it and eat it for if he didn't, it would appear a weakness and the cons got one over on him.

Eldred finally got the chance to sit down, in the very back row and watch the movie. He was very engaged with the characters and the story line. He could easily see himself being in the story.

"I'm Tom Robinson," he said quietly to himself. The movie progressed and the trial of Tom Robinson climaxed. Atticus Finch gave a marvelous speech to the court.

Eldred started to become animated when he began realizing how similar his trial was to that of Tom Robinson in the movie. Sure, Eldred thought, I kill the doctor but my jury was all white too. I remember my lawyer saying something about that.

He stood up, "I am Tom."

He was immediately shushed and ignored them as he walked toward the screen, "I am Tom."

"Shut up and sit down," some of the other inmates yelled at him. Some threw popcorn.

He kept walking toward the screen, now showing a close-up of Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch. He touched the screen and turned to face the crowd in the dark room with the projector light flickering over him, casting a dark shadow on the screen.

"I am Tom Robinson!" he yelled.

"Move out of the way Tom!" a voice yelled.

"Yeah Tom; move out of the way!" Another voice yelled just as a billy club struck him across the calves making him fall to the floor. The crowd cheered that the dimwit was away from the movie screen so they could watch the ending.

"I am Tom," Eldred said to no one in particular as he lay on the dusty floor in the darkened auditorium, "I am Tom."

• • • •

"So how are your legs Mr. Hardin? Do you feel any better today?"

The doctor examined the backs of Eldred's calves where the billy club had struck him. During the years that Eldred first came to the prison, club beatings weren't uncommon. Prisoners were not treated lightly and rule infractions led to physical punishment. Twenty years later, the sixties were ushering in a "kinder and gentler" form of prison reform. Beatings still took place, but not as frequently and now you were given the chance to see a doctor when they did happen.

"I can walk without limping as much today."

"That's good. I'm glad that left leg wasn't broken again. It was hard enough healing the last time."

"Yeah, I won't fall down the stairs like that anymore, no matter how many cigarettes I can get for walking a rail."

"So I heard you were fixated on calling yourself Tom Robinson when you got hit. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I am Tom Robinson. I am him."

"But Tom Robinson was innocent and falsely charged. Are you saying you were falsely charged?"

"No, but I'm him."

"Explain."

"The white men."

"What does that mean?"  
"The jury was all white at my trial. My lawyer got really mad about it."

"Did he do anything about it?"

"I like cookies, if you'll let me have a cookie." Eldred's attention had drifted suddenly. The doctor snapped his fingers in front of Eldred's eyes.

"Draw it back in for a few moments."

"I killed my doctor." Eldred confessed.

Stunned at first, the doctor sat upright, leaning not so close to Eldred.

"Oh, did you now," His Irish brogue becoming a little more pronounced.

"I am Tom Robinson and you talk funny."

Seeing that he'd lost his attention for the time being, the doctor had the guard escort Eldred back to his cell. "He'll be ok, just no more blows to the backs of his calves if you don't mind." The guard nodded and moved Eldred away.

• • • •

Eldred sat alone at his table, looking at the pictures in a farming magazine. He was contemplating planting pumpkins in the summer if he could scrounge the seeds. He hoped that next time they cooked with pumpkins in the kitchen, his friend Aldo would save a few seeds for him. He had some dirt in a shoe box that he would put small food scraps in and mix it up. One of the older inmates told him it was called composting. It turned to fertilizer and helped plants grow.

He had been nurturing his shoe box of dirt for a few months. The guards would heckle him, asking if his dirt had grown anything. He wouldn't answer because he knew there was nothing planted in there yet. One day, one of the guards saw him put a piece of boiled egg in the dirt and just had to stop.

"You trying to grow a chicken there son?"

Eldred just looked toward him, eyes to the ground, "No sir, just making the dirt good."

The next day, when Eldred returned from the yard where he'd been sweeping up paper trash, he found his box of dirt on top of his bunk with a friend chicken leg sitting on it. He laughed a little, blew the dirt off of the chicken leg and ate it as he looked out of the cell window. The guard would walk by from time to time and make clucking noises like a chicken.

In the library, however, a shadow fell and crossed his magazine as an older white man came and sat down beside him. Eldred didn't know him and was alarmed and suspicious of him as he spoke.

"Are you Hardin?"

"What if I am?"

"Are you Hardin?" he asked with a little more energy.

"Who are you first?"

"I'm Ahab. Are you Hardin?"

"That's a strange name."

"I'll ask you one last time and them I'm gone like the wind. Are you Hardin?"

Relenting, he told Ahab that he is.

"Yes I'm Hardin, Eldred Hardin. Why do you want to know?"

"The Doc sent me -- said you may need my help."

"How can a bald, fat, white man help me?"

Looking somewhat offended and even a bit overly theatrical in his expression he relented. "I used to be a lawyer in Chattanooga til I ran over a man with my car. Now I'm stuck in this hole in the wall."

"Yeah, so?"

"The Doc told me you may have a case to get out of here. He mentioned Tom Robinson from the movie we watched at Thanksgiving."

"I am Tom Robinson."

"That's what he told me. Let's you and I talk for a little while."

"Why would Doc want to help me out? He don't owe me nothin." Eldred eyed him, " What's it going to cost me?"

"Absolutely nothing; it's just my way of saying thank you to the state and giving them the finger at the same time. Doc tells me about people in bad situations and lets me try to help them. Hang the state with its own discrepancies, I always say."

"Why me?"

"The Doc doesn't need a reason. He likes you and thinks you got a bum deal. He doesn't like seeing you picked on all the time and not standing up for yourself."

"I'm listening," Hardin said, all the while thinking about exactly how guilty he really is in his crimes. He couldn't help it if they treated him wrong now and during his trial. He also didn't consider that a different jury may have had him executed twenty years earlier.

"No, I'm listening to you Tom Rob. Tell me what you know."

Eldred started talking and the more he talked the more the jailed lawyer nodded his head. They talked well through dinner and up to the time the guards called for return to cells and lights out. They talked several more times, with Ahab taking notes and giving suggestions to Eldred. He called himself Ahab after the novel in which Ahab sought to slay the white whale. His white whale was the government – all of it.

• • • •

The punch came from out of nowhere and it rocked Eldred so hard that he flew from his chair at the desk and landed in a heap beside the waste basket. He grabbed at the waste basket to steady himself and start to pull himself up, but the stars and hummingbirds circling his vision and his throbbing temple kept him on the floor.

Ahab leapt up and stood over Eldred, glaring down at him and his ham sized fist shaking in Eldred's face. Bracing for another punch, Eldred squeezed his eyes tight, only to see fireworks behind the lids.

"Don't you ever cuss me again! Do you hear me? I'll help you with your case but you cuss me again and I'll snap your scrawny neck."

"What are you talking about?" Eldred croaked, I didn't call you nothing."

"You used profanity toward me. I won't tolerate it. Do it again and I'll snap your neck."

It took a few minutes for Eldred to shake the cobwebs from his head and remember that he did use profanity with the jailed attorney as he was trying to tell him what a writ of habeas corpus was used for. It confused Eldred and he must have blurted something out, without thinking about it. That was common place in the prison, especially when it was just the cons talking. You didn't dare curse at or around a guard. It would get you a real beating. Apparently Ahab was just as sensitive about it.

"I'm sorry Ahab, I didn't mean to. It just slipped out."

Ahab thought about this for a few breaths and then decided to accept the apology. His idea of repayment for doing the legal work for the convicts was that they would revere him and the foul language of the yard ruined that. He reached out his hand and lifted Eldred back to his feet and sat his chair straight for him.

"Not bad for an old, white, fat man huh?"

Eldred rubbed the goose egg rising on his temple, "Not bad at all."

"I grew up in the sticks and struggled through school and then struggled through law school. I used to fight in barns on the weekends to make money before I made my way as a lawyer."

Still rubbing his aching head, "You must have made a lot of money fighting."

"I did. Now let's fight for you. You have to file a writ of habeas corpus with the courts. Basically you're going to have to ask the state for permission to sue them for your freedom."

"Sue it? You mean I'll get money out of this?"

"No, you will get your freedom if it all works out. You're going to file the writ with the State Courts and basically you're going to sue the warden of this prison for proof that he has the legal right to detain you."

"Sue the Warden, but what if I lose? He'll make my life hell in here – worse than it already is."

"No, it's not a personal thing. He's a figure head in the suit, representing the Department of Prisons and the State. He's just a name on the top of the paper. He'll never walk into the court room."

"As long as he don't get mad at me. I've worked hard to stay on his good side."

"He won't be mad, but he may hate to see you go. See, everyone knows you're guilty of killing that doctor twenty years ago. That's the rub. You're guilty and you know it. You'll probably get out, whereas there are truly innocent men in here right now that will die here." Ahab scratched his chin for a moment considering something.

"What's wrong?"

"You may want to watch your back. There are people in here who will open your throat out of spite if they think you're really going to get out, just to keep you from being free. If I were you, I wouldn't talk at all, not to anyone."

Eldred laughed.

"What's so funny? I'm being serious."

"The last time someone told me not to talk, for my own good, I ended up in prison."

"Hopefully this time it will get you out of prison and the last time did keep you from the 'lectric chair."

"Yep."

"Do you know how to read and write? There's no shame in not knowing how, lots of people don't."

"I do, good enough. I learned some as a kid and more the last twenty years locked up here."

"That's good. You'll need to write this in your hand and your signature. It'll mean more when they get it."

"What do I need to do?"

• • • •

"Let's take a look at what we have so far." Ahab lifts the paper from the desk and puts his pencil to it. "You've named the Warden as the respondent and yourself as the damaged party."

He continues to read through the document making marks and editing the text. "You need to make sure you put on here that you're a Negro male so they'll understand why your complaint has merit. I'll write it in for you since I drafted this anyway."

"We've shown that you've been convicted twenty years and eight months and that you plead not guilty to the crimes you were accused of and sentenced to ninety-nine years for."

"Do you think we need to do anything else to make them like us?"

"Not right now. We just need to make sure they understand your case and are willing to hear it."

"So this isn't like my court when I was supposed to have them like me?"

"No. This is about the color of your skin and your civil rights."

"Oh."

"The first item in the brief is that you did have effective counsel but that broke down and your attorney didn't file an appeal for you. That is ineffective counsel in your defense and rights. He never appealed your case to the higher courts as he promised."

"That's right."

"The second item in the brief is that he didn't file a motion for a new trial as he advised that he wanted to do. He withdrew that motion."

"Yes."

"The third item is that the Judge, who is now deceased, allowed the trial to move forward and even seek the death penalty based on circumstantial evidence. Fourth, no witness was ever produced to testify that they witnessed you killing the victim or even stating to anyone that you did. Fifth, you were refused a medical examination."

"Well that's not absolutely true..." He was cut off by Ahab. "It is true. No psychiatrist ever examined you to make sure you were of your right mind."

"That part is true enough."

"Sixth, you were put to trial for your very life without a court reporter present. No transcript was ever submitted of the trial but an affidavit from the local Court Clerk is offered that demonstrates everything said so far."

"Seventh, you were refused the opportunity to present two witnesses on your behalf, even after the court allowed you to call them in from another city. This was a violation of your civil rights."

"That's true too but I don't remember who they were. My lawyer may have them."

"Right, after twenty years? I hope you don't believe that."

"We could try."

"We'll add in here that you have been trying to find justice since you were incarcerated but haven't had the money to hire an attorney to represent you and that you even had to draft this document yourself because you couldn't hire an attorney."

"What are you then?"

"I'm a convict just like you. I just happened to be a lawyer once, long ago." He taps his index finger to the side of his head, grinning, "They took my law license away a long time ago, but they can't ever take away what I know."

Eldred smiles along with him, although he's not sure why.

"You write this out in your own hand just like we have it written here and then we'll go see the prison notary to file it for you. After that, it's going to be a long time of waiting and seeing what will happen. The court will have to agree that you need a new trial so we may have to appeal to them several times."

"I got nothing but time."

"That's good because I don't either."

• • • •

Eldred ran down the corridor with the white paper fluttering in his hands. He was so focused on the letter he'd just received that he bounced off of the arm of a guard and fell to the floor. He was lucky; it was one of the more humane and nicer bulls at the prison. "Hey watch out there Hardin! You trying for solitary time?"

Out of breath, "I'm so sorry boss; I wasn't paying attention to you. I didn't mean nothing, I swear."

"Alright, slow it down then. Next time we'll have some words."

Eldred climbed to his feet and yelled back over his shoulder as he ran, "Yes boss."

He ran around the corner, up the two flights of stairs and right into Ahab's cell. He found Ahab reclined on his bed with another, much younger looking convict sitting there with his hand on Ahab's stomach. He was taken by surprise to encounter this.

"What in the world?" he was startled and confused.

"Get on out of here. We'll talk about your appeal later." Ahab said gruffly to the boy who got up and left without saying a word to Eldred. "What do you want Hardin?"

"I got a letter from the court!"

"Give it here." He snatches the letter from Eldred's hands. "Did they turn you down already?"

He reads the brief letter, which he now learns is a copy. "This is a court order for your case to be forwarded to be considered by the Tennessee Supreme Court. It looks like someone took attention to your case."

"Does this mean I'll be let free from here?"

"It looks like it may be a possibility. They'll appoint you a lawyer and start the process."

"You won't be my lawyer?"

"Remember, I'm not a lawyer anymore. The State took away my..." He never got to finish the sentence. Hardin punched him in the mouth with all of the strength his skinny arms could muster. He hit him hard enough to send him flying off of his bunk to land on his back against the steel sink. He stood over the bleeding convict.

"Don't you ever think you can hit me and get away with it! And, you leave that boy alone!" Hardin grabbed up his letter and marched out of the cell back toward his own.
Part VII

"Do your duty!"

Eldred sat alone at his table in the cafeteria, eating his peas and onions. He sat alone more often than not, lately, as word has spread like wildfire that he was facing at a chance of being released. The pain everyone felt was just as Ahab had explained it to him. They knew him to be guilty and yet he was going to be released. He had been threatened a few times, once by someone he thought was his friend. Many of them were guilty of much lesser crimes; even petty theft of fresh produce from a farmer's market.

He spoke out loud to the room of convicts who seemed to be shunning him, talking to no one but to anyone who was listening, "You'd all do the same thing, if you had the chance, wouldn't you?"

He knew they felt betrayed. They'd told him that. It was almost as if they all expected him to turn down the chance for freedom, just so he could share in their misery and confinement. Even he knew that was foolish. He couldn't understand their hatred for him and want to hurt him.

The previous morning he returned to his cell to find his mattress on the floor and someone had urinated all over his blanket and pillow. He slept on the bare bunk that night as the laundry was slow in washing his things in particular. They'd heard too.

This time, a new guy came and sat across from him. He was dark skinned but different. Eldred knew he was Mexican. He'd seen him around the yard for a few weeks. They ate in silence.

"When you get out, you're gonna send me what I need in the mail."

"What?" Eldred looked up, surprised the Mexican had spoken. His accent was thick.

He sneered at Eldred. "When you get out, you're going to mail things to me. I'm gonna give you a list."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because if you don't, I'm going to cut you in your sleep before you ever get to go." He drew his thumb across his throat in a menacing gesture.

Eldred recognized a real threat and despite the seriousness of the threat, he couldn't help himself from reacting. "So suppose I go tell the guard you just said that? You'll get solitary for a month for that."

"Then maybe I should do it right now." The Mexican sneered again.

Eldred could hear a metallic tapping on the table from underneath. He leaned over and could see the man holding a small, jagged-looking blade in his hand, tapping the table. He sat back up and stared at the man with a bit of trepidation which soon turned into a smile.

The threatening man seemed to get angry. "Why are you smiling at me?"

Eldred just sat there smiling.

"I asked you why you are smiling at me." He let a string of Spanish fly, mixed with spittle, that most around them were sure was a whole boat load of profanity. The guards didn't react as they didn't speak Spanish and had no idea what was said. They just stood and watched.

Eldred nodded his head, "yes."

"Yes what? You gonna do what I tole you?"

"No."

"No! Then why you say yes?"

"I said yes to the man behind you."

Alarm entered the Mexican's face and before he could turn completely around, Ahab landed a haymaker right hook into his right ear from behind. The angry man folded up on himself, dropping his knife, which Ahab quickly scooped up and hid in the band of his pants.

"Woohoo that felt good!" Ahab yelled as whistles blew and three guards pounced on him. He didn't resist but still took a few blows from the guards.

Eldred just sat there.

"He had a knife boss! He had a knife! I was protecting that man."

The guard jerked Ahab around, "What knife?"

"I scooped it up boss. I stuck it in my waist." The guard quickly found the knife and asked Eldred. "Is that what happened?"

"Yes boss. That's what happened. The Mex was threatening me with it."

The guards all knew the possibility of Eldred being released and knew to watch out for violent actions against him. "Alright then, next time, don't hide it in your pants."

He gave Ahab a shake and helped the other two officers drag off the limp form of the man lying beside the table. Everyone else in the cafeteria sat wide eyed and silent. They knew the unconscious man would wake up in a dark cell and spend more than a month in it. He would get out though, and Hardin would be in trouble.

"What are you looking at?" Ahab yelled at them all. They slowly turned back to their meals, intentionally going slow to not seem intimidated by Ahab, which they weren't. Ahab knew he was valuable to all of them at some point because of his legal knowledge. He was reasonably secure in knowing that none of them would bother him.

Ahab sat back down with Eldred, "Boy-O that felt good! That one had been pestering me for months and trying those threats on me. He's a no-good rapist." No matter what your crime and your conviction, rapists and people who hurt children were especially heinous in the convict population. They were ordinarily open game for the others who took great joy in watching them suffer.

Eldred stared at him.

Ahab knew what he was thinking – that punch in the mouth that Hardin had given him.

"I ain't sore about that punch in the mouth. Matter of fact that made us even from where I slugged you earlier. Now, however, you really owe me one because I just saved your bacon."

"So what do you want?" Eldred didn't trust him at all.

"Same deal, I want you to take care of some things on the outside for me when you get out."

"I don't know about that."

"It won't be nothing like he wanted. I don't have family outside and need some stuff filed and sent around. You could do it and not be in trouble. Call it my legal and Mexican defense fee."

"I can do that."

"Good!" He sat down "So what have you heard from the court?"

"Nary a word, not since I got that letter that I showed you. They ain't said a word to me."

"That's been almost two months! I told you they're slow."

"You don't think it got lost somewhere do you?"

"That's possible. I would worry that it got lost on purpose. Yours is an old case and will mean a lot of work for someone. If they give you a new trial, they'll have to track down witnesses, if they are still alive. They'll have to pull out old evidence, if it still exists after twenty years. They'll have to have transcripts."

Eldred shook his head. "They don't have em. They never did."

"That's right! I forgot! Usually that's a really bad thing, but this time it may be to your advantage. In essence there is no record of your trial other than maybe the Judges notes and the pleadings and filings and convictions."

Eldred looked completely confused.

"They aren't just going to let you go, Hardin. They will have to offer you a new trial and try to correct the problems you complained about in your Habeas Corpus. You're still guilty of your crime until the new trial says you aren't."

Eldred looked downtrodden.

Ahab leaned over and gave him a smart slap on the back, "Relax! Like I said, they don't have enough information about your old trial. How can they try you twenty years later and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you did it? You're as good as home free."

"That's what I thought last time. So did my lawyer."

"Times have changed. Times have changed. People actually care about your civil rights now and people are walking the streets all over the south and in the north too, shouting about your rights. You'll get your trial and if nothing else you'll get out of these walls for a few weeks while you have that trial."

"If you say so; I ain't gonna hold my breath for it."

• • • •

"Hey Burl we got another one from the prison!" The secretary shouted at the Court Clerk Burl Dinkins. "Want me to put in the 'I'll read it later' pile?"

"How many does that make this week?" He shouted back. "I don't want them to pile up too much."

Burl took his job very seriously but when you're the Court Clerk of a large metropolitan criminal court, you can't just jump through every flaming hoop that a prisoner offers to you. They are convicts after all and don't have anything better to do with their time than to send out useless motions and requests for orders to an office as obviously over-worked as his.

"Is it one of the regulars? Let me guess, it's Hazleton or Bonds, isn't it?"

"No!" She cackled, probably losing her chewing gum to the floor. "It's some poor Joe named Hardin," her sarcasm dripping on poor.

"I'd better read it now then while I have a mind to. I'll do the others tomorrow after court lets out."

She brings the letter to him, "here ya go. I'm gonna go outside and smoke."

"Filthy habit; it's going to rot your head off of your shoulders one day."

She coughs with bizarre timing and appears to taste what was coughed up; thinking silently that maybe the old man was right.

"Alright let me see here. This shouldn't take too awfully long." He opened the letter with the blade of a knife that he'd taken off of a man in the foyer of the court room one day who was planning to kill a judge with it. It was the one time he'd ever beat the Bailiff to the punch, and the last. He was sore for a month after that scuffle.

"Well he has somewhat decent penmanship." He read murmuring to himself, his lips moving the whole time. It was an annoying habit his secretary teased him about. "Hmmm, looks like you filed an appropriate Writ of Habeas Corpus but haven't had continued process on it yet."

He went to his ledger and found the name where it was sent forward from his office several months earlier. "The fault isn't here my friend, I did my job already. No need to file the additional motion you're asking about."

He leaned to look at the open door. "Hey Cybil, you out there?" he shouted looking for the secretary. "She's still out smoking and gossiping with the other gals out back. I'll just do it myself."

He lifted the receiver of the telephone and connected with the operator. "This is the Court Clerk's office. Please connect me with the State Supreme Court Clerk's office. Thank you, yes I'll wait."

He waited for a few moments and someone came on the line. "This is Burl Dinkins calling for the Clerk." He paused, "Yes, thank you." He responded to a query.

Someone else came on the line. "Good morning Robin, this is Burl. Look, I think I have one for you that needs some legs under it." He listened for a moment. "Yes, it's in your office already, here's the number..."

• • • •

"Good night it's cold out here! Why in the world do you want to talk to me outside in this weather?" Ahab asked of Eldred, huddled against the wall of the yard where sunshine was just shining through the wintery clouds. He pulled the collar of his coat tight around his neck and shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

"Here read this." He handed Ahab a folded envelope.

Ahab took a tentative step back when he took it. "Don't swing any punches now!"

"I won't. That was just one time."

Ahab unfolded the letter. "Well I'll be! Do you know what this is?" He jumped up and down which was comical to watch for a man his size.

"Sort of but I need help understanding all of it."

"According to this, on January 20, 1966, you're going to be appointed an attorney to represent you in...oh my goodness...local court!"

He jumped up and down again and then quickly settled to Earth. "Hey wait, that's today! This is dated three days ago."

"Yep."

"All you can say is yep? Aren't you excited? You're getting a new trial. It says so right here!" He waved the letter around wildly.

"Yep."

• • • •

"Who do we have who can do some pro-bono work on the list?" The Judge asked of his assistant. "Looks like the Supreme Court is referring a really old case back to us to retry."

"How old?" She asked, looking skeptically at him.

"Wow. This one is from 1944. Is there anyone around here who was working twenty years ago?"

"I believe Hamblin was here back then."

"The Clerk, really? Get him on the phone and have him come up here."

"Right away."

• • • •

"You wanted to see me Judge?" The old Clerk asked as he entered the empty court room.

"Yes, come and talk to me. I'm trying to find out about an old case that we had way back in 1944. It's the Hardin case."

"Hardin, Hardin." He said the name a few times, rolling it around on his tongue and in his mind. "Yes I believe I remember that one. A young fellow murdered a doctor."

"You're probably right."

"He got the death penalty didn't he?"

"No that was commuted at trial and he was given life."

"I remember! That was the ninety-nine year sentence!" He turned grave. "Why is that coming back up now?"

"It looks like we're going to try that case again. Someone somewhere may have made some mistakes and the Supreme Court wants to make sure that we didn't."

• • • •

"So it is by order by the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court that the matter of Eldred Hardin versus Warden Joseph Breer in this cause is assigned to this court for hearing and it further appears that the Petitioner is an indigent person and is unable to employ counsel and that he is entitled to counsel."

"It is therefore ordered by the court that...uh..." the Judge leans over quietly to his assistant. "Who was that?"

"Mr. Leonard, your Honor."

"Yes, that the honorable W.P. Leonard, of the local Bar be and is appointed counsel to represent the petitioner in the stated cause."

He looks through his calendar. "It is further ordered that we will set this cause for hearing at a date, as yet undetermined, until which time we will give Mr. Leonard adequate opportunity to consult with the petitioner and prepare for hearing." The Judge taps his gavel on the bench, more out of habit than anything as there were only four people, counting himself and his assistant, in the court room at the time. They were clearing some docket items before the current trial resumed after lunch.

"Please make sure that Mr. Leonard and his new client are provided notice of this and send Mr. Leonard my regards."

The assistant looked at him silently as she nodded her head in understanding. "I wonder what Leonard ever did to him?" She thought.

• • • •

"So what did you do to that Judge to get assigned to that case?" I asked curious about what he could have done to incur the wrath of a Judge.

"I don't have any idea. To this day, I never knew why he appointed me that man's counsel. I would like to think it was because he knew I would give him the most effective representation."

"Do you really think so?"

"No," he admitted defeated. "I think he believed I'd screw it up and then Hardin would go back to prison for the remaining seventy-eight years. Judges don't like to have their courts reviewed or under review."

"Was it the same Judge?"

"No but it was the same court. They are territorial even if the mess wasn't their own. They, er, we stick together."

"That's right! I forgot you were a Judge too."

"For a little while at least, it wasn't what I expected."

"So what did you do about being appointed?"

"Well, at first I got mad because I can't make any money taking freebie cases like that one. Then I got drunk because I got mad." He saw the look on my face.

"I don't drink anymore and even then I didn't drink much."

He again saw an unbelieving look on my face.

"What about the flask you carry?" I asked, actually it was more like a challenge.

"This old thing?" He pulled it out of his pocket and threw it to me. "Go ahead and take a swig."

He stared at me defiantly.

Not wanting to be daunted by this I unscrewed the cap, held my breath, and tipped it back. What oozed down my throat wasn't scalding liquor like I expected but a silky-sweet, very thick liquid. I gagged on it.

"What the..."

"It's my own creation. I cut Honey with hot tea and stir it all together until it's just barely a liquid."

I looked astounded.

"To tell you the truth, I hate black coffee. It's just too aggressive for me. I won't tell anyone though. It would soften my image. This mix makes it sweeter and easier to drink."

"I thought this whole time you were mixing in whiskey and then not sharing with me."

"Nope, I was being selfish of my mix. I don't usually keep a lot of it. Being in my pocket keeps it warm."

I try not to imagine it pressed against his elderly leg, staying warm, after I just took a drink of it. Too late, I was disgusted.

"You look like you just swallowed a fly," He laughed. "Now back to the trial."

I wiped my watering eyes and tried to be more attentive.

"The first thing I did was to gather as many of the court documents I could get and study up on the case. There weren't very many and they weren't very much help. Back then, there really wasn't an archivist who could hold it all together in an orderly fashion for people like me to research. Now, they are much more efficient and hard working. It would have been much easier if they were back then too."

"Did you find what you needed?"

"No, actually, I did not."

"What was missing?"

"In a word – everything!"

"What was missing that you needed?" I was taking copious notes at this point.

"There wasn't a court transcript. Can you believe they'd try a Capital Case and not have a court reporter working? Apparently the State didn't need one and the Defense didn't want to or couldn't pay for one. Now, twenty years later, I had nothing to go by. I had to piece everything together as I could."

"Then what did you do?"

"Once I pretty much understood what had happened, I went to visit Hardin for the first time. It was at the Prison then."

"So when does the book come about?"

"I'll get to that soon enough."

• • • •

"Spread your arms and your feet." The guard instructed him as he prepared to enter the visitor's area of the prison. "What's in the brief case?"

"Legal documents protected by confidentiality and attorney-client privilege."

"Don't worry, I didn't intend to read them. I just wanted to make sure you don't have a tommy-gun hidden away in there."

He continued to pat down the lawyer, assuring no weapons were in his possession. "You're familiar with the rules, right?"

"I am."

"Ok we're going to take you into a room where you can meet with your convict. You'll go in first and once you're settled, we'll go have him brought up."

"I understand. I'll probably be doing this quite a bit."

"Right. Once we bring him in, we'll handcuff him to the bar on the table. Do not touch him and do not hand him anything other than papers or a writing pen. Make sure of that. We will be watching through the window from time to time."

"I understand."

The guard turned to leave. "Make yourself comfortable. It'll be about thirty minutes before we can get him since this was unscheduled."

"I'll make an appointment next time."

"It would be much appreciated."

After he left the room, the attorney stood up and stretched his arms over his head. He walked around the small room a few times, obviously bored, and tested the door handle a few times. It was locked. He was effectively a prisoner now. He wished that he'd brought something with him like a newspaper to occupy his time. He looked around and eventually looked into the waste basket. In the bottom, lying face down, was a small hip pocket book.

Not considering the implications of germs or other vile things in the bottom of a waste basket, he picked it up. It was a relatively new copy of To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. Someone must have gotten upset with it or bored of it and tossed it out. He'd heard of the story and he heard of a movie about it, but had seen neither. He was more of a John Wayne fan instead of Gregory Peck. With a shrug he returned to his seat and began to read.

He didn't realize how much time had passed before there was a commotion at the door and the guard was visible through the window. He quickly dog-eared the top of page 34 and put it in his brief case to finish later. Where had the time gone?

The guard led Harding into the room and cuffed him to the table in front of his new attorney. He should have looked excited but instead looked sleepy and bored.

"He's all yours. Just knock on the door when you're ready to end this. We'll let you out and then come back for him. If there are any problems just shout, we'll be right outside." He absently tapped the baton hanging from his belt.

"I'm sure we'll be fine." The guards backed out of the room and closed the door, locking it behind themselves. "They must use those batons a lot," he thought. "I should ask about that at some point."

Eldred was sitting as he didn't have a choice, that or lean over the table. The chains on his wrists holding him to the bar didn't leave a lot of leeway for movement. He reached over to shake his hand and a rapping sounded on the glass. The Guard was shaking his head in a negative gesture.

"Whoops, I forgot," said the lawyer giving an apologetic gesture in return. The guard just smiled crookedly, probably having to do the same thing several times a day.

"Are you Eldred Hardin?"

"That's my name. Are you my lawyer who's gonna get me out of jail?"

"I am your appointed counsel and it remains to be seen if you will get out."

"Remains to what?"

"We don't know if you'll get out yet or not."

"Oh."

"So here's what I have. You confessed to killing a man back in 1944, you went to trial, you had a lawyer, you were convicted and here you are."

"That's about it."

"But now you say that you didn't have effective counsel, that your rights were violated, and that you were sick enough that you shouldn't have gone to trial."

"That's about it."

"So my question is why did you wait twenty years to do this?"

"I seen it in a movie. This feller was on trial for his life, like I was and the jury was all white. The lawyer working for him said it was wrong because it was all white. My lawyer here in prison said my jury was against my rights because it was all white."

"You have a lawyer here in prison? Why am I here?"

"He ain't a real lawyer. He used to be."

"I see. He's a convict too."

Purely out of curiosity he asked, "What was the movie you were watching to come up with this?"

"Sure enough, he's a con too. The movie was something about how to kill a cat bird."

"How to kill a cat bird; that's a strange movie title," then it hit him. "Do you mean To Kill a Mockingbird?"

"Yeah, that's it. I'm Tom Robinson when I'm not making cooked corn for everyone."

"Are you telling me that's your name now?"

"Well no! That's... he's...well, he's just like me. I don't know how to rightly explain it."

"Does anyone else know about you and this movie?"

"Yeah, a lot of people."

"I see, I've been set up for a joke," he thought about the book in the trash.

"Huh?"

"Nothing." He elected not to mention the book but would read it anyway. He wanted to know how this man associated himself with a character in it. The next time the guard walked by and looked in, he received a jaunty wink from the attorney earning an odd expression from the guard.

Reeling things back in to the present and "real" reality, "I've read over your claims so on top of all of this, you say that your Jury was inappropriate and against your rights?"

"There wasn't a single black man on it."

"Maybe they weren't selected. Juries are meant to be random, you know."

"No, I was at selection! There weren't no black men!" Eldred tried to stand out of anger but he forgot he was chained to the table, making a loud clattering racket and jerking him back down.

"Ok calm down, I'm not your enemy. I'm going to be asking you a lot of questions during this process and you need to remember I'm not here to hurt you. You're already sentenced to ninety-nine years. You've got nothing to lose and plenty of time to listen." The guard looked through the window and was waved away with a smile.

"Alright, I'm sorry."

"Tell me about the killing Eldred. Don't leave anything out."

Hardin started to protest.

"Ok then tell me about the alleged killing. Don't lie to me. You can't ever lie to me, no matter what it's about. If I ever catch you lying to me, I can guarantee you won't get released from this place."

• • • •

"I thought that book was something that you'd picked up in a book store or was given to you by someone as gift."

"Heavens no, I never read anything just for pleasure. I have better things to do with my time. I picked that book out of the trash purely out of boredom in a prison interview room. To this very day, I wonder if it was put there by Divine purpose or was purely accidental."

He picked it up off of his desk from where he'd placed it the day before after I returned it to him. "It's served me very well over the years and I dare say that I've memorized most of it. It keeps me grounded, even if it is purely fiction. It's a goal of sorts."

"A goal?"

"Yes, one where I stand up in the face of something that is unjust, with the innocent and the righteous standing behind me, and I shake my fist, daring them to come beyond me, never mind the consequences."

"Just like Don Quixote!" I kept coming back to thoughts of this legendary Conquistador. He battled an inanimate enemy that could never be defeated. "But what about that quote written in the front cover?"

He opened the book reading aloud from the inscription, "Fascination, Bravado and passion will only win just so much. Justice, Compassion and Courage will finish the battle."

"Did you write that?"

"No, I did not. That was probably written by some grandmother for a prisoner so he wouldn't feel so downtrodden in prison. More than likely she thought him innocent which may be how it ended up in the trash."

I was crestfallen and he noticed it.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, I..." I stammered, "I thought it was a charge for you to do what is right and just from someone who was wiser or more experienced than you, maybe a mentor or something. I thought the book may have been a memento of something like that."

"No, I found it in the trash. There was nothing romantic about it. Sorry." He paused thoughtfully. "I don't believe in accidents so it was placed there just for me to find that day, before I met Eldred. I believe that. There are only two books which I admit changed my life, the first is the Bible and the second is this worn-out old thing." He held it up for emphasis and then laid it down reverently.

"Why didn't you ever buy a new one?"

"Why would I? The words haven't changed."

I had to laugh at that. He had me there. Just because it was well worn didn't mean it wasn't still the same book.

"So did Hardin tell you how innocent he was?"

"Quite the contrary, it was just the opposite. He told me the whole story from start to finish, just as I've told you. He didn't leave out any details which surprised me that he had that kind of recall after so many long years and especially considering his mental deficiency."

"Did you think he was crazy?"

"Crazier than an outhouse rat! That boy told me he had people living inside of him at times."

"So you still wanted to get him out of prison?"

"Not at first. Not after the first meeting. I was glad that he told me the truth about everything but it convinced me he didn't deserve to be free. He did kill that Doctor. There was no question about it."

"But what about the not guilty by reason of insanity tactic?"

"We talked about that and he told me how his first attorney approached that. Today in court that is what we call an affirmative defense. It means the defense has to actually prove their case, so they would have to prove that he was truly insane."

"Isn't that what you did?"

"Not me. I knew the boy was loco. They didn't appoint me to retry the case based on that. If they failed to offer proof toward their defense, then that's on the attorney not the court and certainly not grounds for the Supreme Court to grant a new trial. I was appointed to retry the case based on its Constitutional merits."

"So it didn't matter he was crazy?"

"Yes and no. It mattered to me greatly because he didn't understand, in my mind, how the murder was wrong. After twenty years he was still fixated on the robbery charges, which were dropped after the ninety-nine year murder conviction. He was so stuck in the mentality that the only thing he did wrong was steal that nothing else was looked at as more wrong than that. Does that make sense to you?"

"Yes I suppose it does. He was probably raised that way."

"I met his parents when I was a child and they were hard people. I'm sure if he'd been caught stealing as a child, his mother would have beaten him to a bloody mess. His father probably would have killed him outright and buried him in the garden. They were good people."

"But the value of life..."

"The value of life was different in those days. Times were hard, and they were especially hard for blacks. Once they were freed after the Civil War, very few people were overjoyed in trying to make their lives any easier, so they struggled for better than 100 years to try to break even with the white folks. Fortunately, now days, we don't hold to that and people are supposed to be treated like people, regardless of their color. It's what this country stands for."

"You strayed. You were talking about the value of life."

"Oh yes, as I was saying. Because the value of life was so different in those days, it wasn't unheard of for people to take a life if it was justified. It was easier to justify back then than it is now and the definition of justice was quite different as well."

"I'm with you." I say as I scribble furiously on my note pad.

"So after you met him, what did you do?"

"I tried to get the Judge to remove me from the case. I was very forthright and I had no desire to take part in freeing a guilty man."

"Apparently the Judge didn't take you from the case."

"What I got was a reprimand and a lecture about how everyone, no matter who they are, is entitled to effective counsel and representation in the U.S. Justice system. He still didn't tell me why I was appointed to this case, but I did begin to believe it wasn't as much an initiation for me as it was a life-vest for the local court."

"What do you mean a life vest?"

"Well, speaking now in hindsight and the Judge then probably saw it the same way; some significant procedural errors were made. Today we call them Violating Constitutional Rights that will make you end up in Federal Court down on Broadway in Nashville with your hat in your hand praying for mercy."

"The Judge was looking for a way to ease the conscience of the court? Is that it?"

The old lawyer laughed. "I've never thought of it that way, but you could be right."

I made sure to write that down as he continued.

"I hoped at the time that he assigned me to the case because despite my hesitation, he knew I'd do what was right. If he stayed in Jail it was because I was able to show beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was guilty and there was no improper procedure. If he was released it was because I was his champion and justice would be done at the request of the court and previous wrongs thwarted whether they were intentional or not."

"So what did you do next?"

"The wheels of justice move rather slowly but much like a locomotive, once they get going, they are hard pressed to be stopped. I tried to give a little energy to the case and started filing motions based on the facts I had at hand. I didn't sugar coat anything and used only what we knew to be hard proven fact. The murder was essentially irrelevant."

"Irrelevant? You lost me again. That's why he was convicted. How is it irrelevant?"

"It's the procedure! The court has rules and obligations that it must uphold. It's not that it may or chooses to uphold. It must! Hardin confessed to the murder and the court and the jury accepted the confession as legitimate. He did it in front of reliable witnesses who were without question, honest and of high integrity, especially that Sheriff. He killed the Doctor."

"So he was going to be released on a technicality."

"If you want to simplify something so important to our way of life, then yes. The Court failed to appropriately select a jury of his peers. The key word there is his peers, not the courts peers, but his, a simple, country gone city, young, black man. None of those jurors met that bill and none that they chose from met that either. He didn't have a peer anywhere in that court room, except maybe in the audience watching and I bet those were few."

"I understand, but he still committed the crime. He was guilty."

"Yes he was and that is what has tormented me for so many years. I know that I did what was right because our system of justice, flawed as it is, is the best in the world and well below the hand of God the Almighty. If we don't uphold our own laws, as the law bearers and keepers, how can we ask that of our citizens?"

"That idea I can understand. So he wasn't released because of anything he did. He didn't earn his release at all. He was released because of something someone else didn't do."

"There was a line in that book that toppled me over the balance in favor of providing that effective counsel to a guilty man."

"Which line was that?"

With a theatrical flourish the old lawyer stood in his suspenders, hooked his thumbs in his pants and lifted his chin. "This is my Winston Churchill pose."

I shrugged and he continued. "In the name of God, do your duty!" he shouted.

We heard feet coming toward the door asking, "Are you ok in there?"

"We're fine!" He shouted, "Just enforcing something important."

Footsteps went away from the door.

"So again, he was released on a very important technicality."

"You're getting way ahead of me but at least you acknowledge now that it was important. I haven't even talked about him being released." He sat back down in his chair with an "oof."

"There was a lot of work and jockeying to take place before those words were even considered. As I said, I wasn't convinced I could get him released or that it was even the right thing to do. I took that effective counsel lecture to heart but that night, I stayed up and read that book."

"Is that why you had me read it in one night?"

"Yes. I wanted you to learn it just the same way I did."

"That seems fair, although at the time I thought you were senile."

"Don't rule that out completely. I may still be. Just for now, think about that book."

"Ok, so then what?"

"Then I went to see Eldred again, and I tell you, in those days I hated riding that bus to Nashville. Once I got there, I had to stay all day to get the return bus back home. It consumed the entire day."

"You didn't own a car?"  
"No, at that time, I wasn't making a lot of money, ala this pro bono case. I still hadn't established my firm and future partnership either. I was a young lawyer with a degree and a brief case and access to law libraries around the county in other law offices."

"What did you do?"

"The first thing I had to do was wait for the response to the writ of Habeas Corpus that was filed against the warden of the prison, who is called the Respondent. He had a set period of time to respond to the allegations in the writ or the writ would be granted on its face as accurate. The calendar can be your friend at times but it can also be your worst enemy."

I wrote and wrote, trying to keep up with him. He would pause at times and give me a chance to catch up in my notes.

"In February of 1966 we got the reply and as we expected, the Warden, or rather the attorney for the Department of Corrections denied all of the allegations and prayed for the court to keep Hardin in his custody to finish out his sentence."

"Why did he pray to the court?"

"It's not as if he got on his knees and offered a religious prayer. It's a term left over from the Old English Common Law that essentially means a hopeful or deserved request."

"Gotcha."

"So once we had the Warden's response denying everything, we began to prepare to go to trial and I wasted many days in Nashville for one hour meetings with Hardin, which was all the prison would permit in a day. Now it's different."

"That seems terribly inconvenient. Since you and the court were in one city and the prisoner was in another."

"It was. In April, I convinced the court to order Hardin released back to the local jail so he could participate in a hearing. They let him come to the jail just a few days beforehand so at least those few days we could truly prepare. So the dance began."

I laughed some at the term he used, "the dance." I had heard that used in so many different situations that were adversarial but a dance is something that is supposed to be friendly. It's just one of those odd things I find funny.

"We went to the hearing where I was able to present an amended petition to the court and spelled out specifically the Constitutional violations that my client was alleging. I worked hard on it for a few days using what little information I had and it flew. The Judge agreed with the amendment and allowed us to go forward with it. They let Hardin remain for a few days but soon ordered him back to the prison. It was fine with me. I didn't really need his involvement at this point other than going every week or so to update him on the absolute nothing that I heard from anyone else – until the end of the month, I got a reply I wasn't expecting from the District Attorney General. "

"What was that?" I could tell he was letting a bit of drama build up before he told me.

"They denied every single one of our claims," He paused. "The District Attorney General was able to artfully and rightfully undo every single claim we had made – except for the last one."

"What was the last one?"

"That was the one we had hoped would hold water. It alleged the improper jury selection."

"So he agreed?"

"Not only did he agree, he provided the court the case law supporting our claim that the Jury was improper."

"So he was released then?"

"Not so fast Speedy! There is still procedure that had to be followed, which got us in this bind to start with. As I was saying about the wheels of justice turning quickly like a runaway locomotive and nothing can stop them? Well a Judge can slam on those brakes in a hurry and they did."

"It got to be the end of May and I still hadn't heard anything else for more than a month. I took a few other cases and didn't go see Hardin but twice. What good would it do? I got a letter from him and he was pleading his case to me, his own lawyer. That's when I knew he was crazy. He was back to thinking he could convince me to release him from prison when I didn't have that authority at all. He was quite literally begging."

Part VIII

"Don't let the door hit ya."

"Are you really going to send this?" Ahab questioned Eldred as he held a wet rag to Eldred's bruised head with one hand and a newly written letter in the other. A few hours earlier he had been brutally attacked in the yard when the guards "weren't watching" and some cash or favors probably changed hands. "It sounds like you're begging that lawyer to let you loose."

"I am. They're gonna kill me eventually. Only reason I got away today was I threw dirt in his eyes."

"That was a pretty good move if you ask me. Just next time don't hit that brick in his hand with your head so much." He tried to make light of the situation.

"I was promised a new trial and then all of a sudden they don't talk to me no more. My lawyer hadn't come to see me or sent me no letters from the court."

"I told you these things take time."

"What time? They already done decided that I got a new trial."

"Maybe it's a matter of finding a place on the docket. I know how that can be slow and I do know how it works."

"Heck with that, they promised. I told the Cap'n that I needed to see the Warden and he didn't do nothing about it. I need to go to seg to stay safe." Seg, meaning segregation was a place where inmates were kept isolated from other inmates for a variety of reasons. This was where some of those rapists and child molesters went. It's also where they put the prison snitches. It's also where marked men hid. That was Eldred. He was marked, all because of something someone else didn't do twenty years earlier."

• • • •

The Captain of the Guard was exiting the door of the Wardens' office after a meeting when he was called back in by the voice within.

"I almost forgot Captain, that Hardin fellow."

"Yes sir."

"Segregate him. Send him now."

"Yes sir."

Just like that, Eldred was spared further violence in prison. The next two months bore little resemblance to the previous twenty years except for the ever present lack of information and progress. He didn't see anyone he knew from the general population and they were prevented from seeing him obviously.

Eldred didn't realize that he would also have to cut ties with all of the people he considered to be his friends. They knew he went somewhere they couldn't go. They all hoped he went to segregation. Secretly, Ahab wondered if his friend had already been killed and disposed of. His legal advice dried up thereafter for other inmates, unless of course they threatened him harm or offered him extra food from the kitchen.

• • • •

"So what about your work, didn't the court take you seriously after that?"

"Yes, they took me seriously but again it took a little time to get those wheels turning a second time. We had the hearing and got to present whatever witnesses we needed. Remember now, we weren't having a hearing to determine if he killed the Doctor but to specifically address the allegations made in the Writ of Habeas Corpus, so it wasn't as if he was on trial for the murder again."

"It looks to me like the roles sort of changed. You became the prosecutor and the State became the defendant and you were out to slap their wrists for doing wrong by your client."

"That much is true, of sorts, but still I was a member of the Bar and expected to behave in a manner befitting such. I wasn't thrusting a banner in the air and running around the room."

"Of course not."

"I still had my conscience to defend as well. I found and submitted a lot of case law and I mean a lot, to the courts about the consequences of excluding blacks from juries all across the country. All of the case law showed that if this happened, the original verdict was voided."

"Thrown out on a technicality."

"Essentially, but I wish you'd stop using that word."

"What word, technicality?"

"Yes, that one. It's becoming offensive and the more I hear it the more it trivializes our Constitution and Judicial Process."

"I'm sorry. It's just what I'm accustomed to. We see it in all of the TV cop and court dramas."

"I know. That makes it all the worse. You young people get what you think is a legal education from scripted court dramas."

I raise my hand, "Guilty as charged!"

He tsk-tsked and we continued.

"So what did you do?"

"I gave the court a way out, while still representing my client to the best of my abilities. I presented Hill v. Texas to them."

"Should I know what that means?"

"No, but I've committed it to heart."

He began a recitation that made me jealous of his ability to do so. "How do these old men memorize such lengthy works so they can recite them back at will? Almost like a preacher quoting Scripture without a Bible in their hand."

"Hill v. Texas states clearly says that a prisoner, whose conviction is reversed by this court need not go free if he is in fact guilty, for the state may indict and try him again by the procedure which conforms to Constitutional requirements. But no State is at liberty to impose upon one charged with crime, a discrimination in its trial procedure which the Constitution, and an act passed pursuant to the Constitution, alike forbid. Nor is this Court at liberty to grant or withhold the benefits of equal protection, which the Constitution commands for all, merely as we deem the defendant innocent or guilty."

I applaud quietly as he bows his head in acceptance and winks.

"So you're telling me that while you did everything you could to hold the court to task on the Constitutional Issues, you also made it clear that they should retry him for his crime instead of letting him go free."

"Exactly!" He shouts pointing a finger at me.

"So that's what you did. Why have you spent so much time battering yourself over this?"

"Obviously my daughter did get to you."

Busted! I thought. "Yes, she told me this case has haunted you."

"It's simple really. Once they read my brief, the Judge issued his ruling."

• • • •

Every sound at night made Eldred flinch, even though he knew that he was locked up safe. He put his head at the foot of his bed and he could see the free night sky through the small window in his door. When he laid just right, the small door window lined up with the window high up on the wall and he could see out. He would stare at the stars and wonder if he'd ever get to sit outside as a freeman and look up at them. Outside the wall, quite a distance away, a firework exploded sending a shower of colored sparks in a large soundless umbrella.

Eldred let out a very soft "oooh."

He was surprised when he heard a voice from outside of his door. "It's Independence Day today. Too bad it's not yours."

A guard, who he didn't particularly like and who certainly didn't like him, was talking.

"Maybe one day," He said in response, wondering if he would be dragged out and punched for his insolence.

"Doubtful," he heard the guard reply as he walked off.

He continued to watch through the window hoping to catch another glimpse of fireworks but all he saw were hints of color flashes against clouds of billowy smoke from the display.

Several days go by and his routine doesn't change. His depression increases and his anxieties get worse. He asks for the window to be covered so he can't see the sky at night.

The woman in his head talks a lot more using his mouth, not just his mind. This draws the anger of the other people in segregation as well as the guards stationed there. Eldred is in a downward spiral and letting the whole world know it rather loudly.

About 5 am, although he didn't know the time, his cell door flies open and a dark figure tells him to come out waking him from a fitful sleep. He feared this moment and he knows he's been making everyone around him really mad.

"They's here to kill you Eldred. You missed da gas. You missed da lectricity. You ain't gonna miss da angry men." He feels in his heart that he's about to die.

"You're not going to get me to walk to my own death!" He shouts as he throws his shoes from the floor toward the shadowy figure. Two burly guards rush into his cell and grab him by the arms and stand him up while a third shoves all of his possessions into a pillow case.

"I didn't do nothing! I didn't do nothing! Let me stay!" he pleads. The guards only laugh and drag him along.

"Shut up you kook!" one of them says under his breath. "We were told not to wake the others," but eyes were already beginning to come to the windows. Eldred makes eye contact with many of them, pleading with his eyes and with his struggles for help.

He soon finds himself in a room he's never been in before and a uniformed guard he's never seen before is pushing papers at him. They are all being really nice to him. He doesn't understand.

"Sign here and here and here. Pick up that pack. Sign there. Take this. Sign here. Good luck to you." A paper sack is pushed into his hands as well, with some clothing, fifty dollars and a suit coat.

In a blur, he was dressed in his new tan suit, money in his pocket and standing outside of the gate of the Prison watching the sun rise in the East over Nashville. A taxi pulls up and out steps his attorney, with his hand outstretched holding a small stack of papers.

"Eldred, let's take a ride."

"Where are we going?" Eldred was still suspicious. After twenty years imprisoned he didn't trust anyone.

"I think we're going to take you home."

Eldred collapses to the ground.

• • • •

"Wait! I don't get it! You sound as if you were happy he got released from Prison. Why drag him out of the cell in the middle of the night?"

"I was happy that we did what was right. The dragging out of the cell was the Warden's idea. The guards and the other cons now thought that Eldred had been dragged out and given his just rewards. Someone had made him 'disappear' and no one was the wiser. That way they wouldn't ever come looking for him if they got the chance. They thought he was fertilizing the prison bean patch or something of the like."

"But he was guilty of murder!"

The old lawyer hanged his head. "Yes he was, but our system was guilty of much worse. They didn't allow him to be treated like a true citizen."

"Why was he let go?" I thumbed rapidly through my notes looking for the reference I remembered. "I thought he was supposed to get a new trial. You gave them the out with the Texas versus someone case." I thumbed through my notes furiously, knowing I had it written down. "He could have been retried and served his sentence!"

• • • •

Ham made his way back to the Judge's office, the newly arrived order in his hands. "I'm here to see the Judge." He told the secretary somberly, knowing this wasn't going to be a glowing moment in the history of the court.

She smiled politely and picked up the telephone on her desk. He heard it ring in the inner office and answered by the Judge. "Mr. Claude is here to see you Judge."

She hanged up the phone. "He says you can come in Mr. Claude."

"Thank you" he said as he walked past her to the inner door. He'd made this walk many times over his decades of service but today felt especially bleak.

The Judge greeted him warmly, "Good morning Ham. What brings you up here so early?"

He pulled back a chair and sat down heavily, his shoulders sagging. "I'm the bearer of bad tidings today Your Honor. This was just filed with my office."

He handed the documents to the Judge who took them with concern on his face. "Did someone die?"

"Yes, twenty years ago."

"Oh, it's that case."

"Yes, that case."

The Judge read the order. "This is pretty much what I expected. We're going to have to have a new trial," he paused, pensive, "Or we can just turn him loose."

"Yes, that's about the short of it."

"We'll make it work Ham. You don't need worry excessively over it."

"I'm getting too old for this Judge. I think it's time for me to start thinking about retiring somewhere."

The Judge laughed politely, "Retire? Never! You know as well as I do you'll work until your last breath."

The aging Clerk stood from his chair, "You're probably right."

"Don't fret over this. I'll get with the D.A. and we'll figure it out. I know we can still get all of the witnesses back together if need be."

"That's what worries me. That's what got us in this mess to start with. It's going to get expensive and the newspaper is going to get hold of it. I wonder what the more righteous action really is." He knew that he wasn't in a position to influence this and rightfully so, but he had an overwhelming need to have said that.

The Judge just nods at him, turning his chair to look out the window, the document in his hand absently being tapped against the arm of his chair.

• • • •

"He had his new trial then and was still found not guilty?"  
"Nothing of the sort happened. The Judge met with the District Attorney, who in turn called me to a meeting to discuss the potentials for a new trial. I had actually hoped it would go to trial. I wanted justice to be served. I wanted his release to be because the Court acknowledged a wrong was done to him, not because they just made the decision over coffee one morning."

"What happened?"

"The DA was a good fellow. I still respect him. He, the Judge and I sat down over coffee of all things. They laid it out to me, spelling out every aspect of the impending trial. We were laying out the procedure and what must be done to the letter of the law."

"Did they intimidate you?"

"No! Certainly Not! This was purely an academic meeting. Since none of us were involved in the original conviction we really were able to be objective about it; them more than I. None of us wanted any mistakes at this point. I just wanted a chance to take it to trial and let the truth come out."

"How did they take that?"

"I don't know. Once I said that, our meeting was more or less over."

"Did the trial last a long time or was it just a few days like the first one?"

"It never happened. Somewhere along the line, they decided that it wouldn't be feasible to hold a new trial. There was too much difficulty in evidence. There was too much expense involved. They elected not to retry him but take the second option. They ordered him to be released. I won the case."

"So the doctor goes unavenged?"

"Unavenged?" He got rather animated. "Son, that's not our purpose! Our job is to see that justice is served and it has been! He served twenty years in the penitentiary where he was regularly assaulted by his peers and occasionally by the guards. He is mentally ill but received no treatment. Yes he killed that Doctor and I am so very sorry for that but anything I do can't undo that...."

He stopped and stared hard at me. "Why are you sitting there with that fool grin on your face?"

He didn't realize that he'd risen from his chair and was scolding me about how well he'd done his job and that it wasn't his fault a murderer went free. He'd seen justice done. He'd always been the man that he wanted to be. He just never would admit it to himself.

He froze in place, his face taking on a purple color. "Molly!" He yelled, "Molly come in here!"

His daughter came running in. "What's wrong Papa? Are you ok?"

He turned an angry eye toward me. "Get this person out of my office! Now!"

Stunned I looked at her and stood up; not sure what I'd done but I gathered my things and followed her out. She closed the office door as I walked past. Behind us we could hear things being thrown and breakable things being broken.

"What did you do in there?" She asked me, exasperation in her expression.  
"I have no idea. I just smiled at him because he was proving a point that he refused to see. I didn't say a word. I swear."

"You'd better tell me what happened."

Just as I started to share the story with her, it became very quiet in the closed office. We looked to the door, wondering if we should go in and check on him.

The secretary stood up from her chair, also waiting for the next rush of the storm.

"You two come back in here." He said to us as he opened the door and stepped out. His suspenders were off of his shoulders and his shirt tail was hanging out. His hair was a mess and his eyes were red.

"Papa was that a tantrum or a stroke?"

"You just come in here and sit down a minute while I compose myself."

We edged past him and made our way toward the two chairs. He grabbed me by the arm rather forcefully and said, "Wait a minute."

I stopped and looked at him, not quite sure what else to do. I made eye contact with those cold, hard eyes.

"I was wrong to act like that, and I'm truly sorry. You made me admit something and it was, er, challenging to do. That case has been a shield for me for so long, and a sword...." He trailed off leaving me to connect the dots.

I was holding eye contact with him, afraid to do anything else. A moment of silence passed and he purposefully glanced down, causing me to do the same. He had held his hand out between us for me to shake. I took it and shook it with a firm grip.

"It's quite alright."

"No it's not. Have a seat and let me properly apologize to both of you, with an explanation."

• • • •

"Molly, you didn't need to have me over again for dinner. I really should be getting back to school. I've skipped three days of class already. I should at least be prepared on Monday."

Molly Leonard brought a platter with a steaming roast to the table. I changed my mind quickly, smelling it, and asked about the extra place setting at the table.

"Nonsense, Son, you've earned a place at my table this week," the old lawyer responded for his daughter, "After what I've put you through, it's the least we could do.

"Besides, my granddaughter is coming home for the weekend," he continued with his hand on my shoulder holding me in my seat. "She should be here shortly for dinner."

He looked at his watch and then at the clock on the wall. "Is that right?" He gave his pocket watch a shake and putting it to his ear.

Rolling her eyes at her father, Molly smiled at me. "I called her like you suggested and she agreed to come home this weekend. She's just been really busy teaching and all."

"Teaching?" I begin to ask as we hear the front door open.

"Mama, I'm home. Where is everybody?"

"We're in here dear, in the dining room. I have someone I want you to meet."

I stood up, ever trying to be the gentleman and around the corner walks my Creative Writing teacher.

Her mother begins, "I'd like you to meet..."

She recognizes me and smiles. "We've already been introduced."

All I can do is laugh.

Fin

"Where ya been? I've been waiting..."

The mourners had spent more than two hours filing past the open casket holding the earthly remains of Doctor Theodore Blakely and then paying respects to his lovely, grieving wife.

"He looks so good. It's such a terrible shame to go that way." One mourner said to her as she took her hands and kissed her cheek. "I was just at your wedding and you two made such a handsome couple." She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and moved on, letting the next in line comfort the widow.

The Reverend entered the church and ushers began suggesting that people take their seats so the service could begin. Finally, the last of the mourners made it by the Widow Blakely, and allowed her to take her own seat beside her family and her husband's.

The minister began, "We are gathered here today to say goodbye to the dearly departed, our brother and friend, Theodore Blakely. I knew Dr. Blakely to be a man of God and a man dedicated to serving all people, no matter who they are. He was a patient man, loved by all, revered by many. He was an outstanding role model for our young men and women."

The Reverend took a deep breath and laid his bible on the podium. "I have a card here that arrived this morning with that beautiful floral wreath," He points out a large wreath beside the casket, "from Judge Clement about our brother Theodore. I felt it appropriate in the eyes of God to read it to you all, before we let his kin start their eulogy."

He cleared his throat as he unfolded the note from his inside suit pocket and hanged his glasses over his ears and nose. He cleared his throat one more time.

"The colored race has lost a good Doctor; the entire community has lost a valuable citizen. He died in the line of duty, while on an errand of mercy to minister to the sick and afflicted."  
The reverend replaced the card in his pocket. "He said more about justice being meted out in proper manner. We thank the Judge for his compliments and for his gracious showing of respect for the good brother." Eulogies and the sermon following went on for a while, met by moist eyes and quiet sobs all around the room.

• • • •

"In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. So says the Lord." Recited the Pastor standing beside the flower adorned casket and grave.

"Amen?" He asks.

"Amen," the mourners respond.

"Lord, today we commit the Earthly remains our brother Theodore to the ground. We know his soul is with you at your feet, ready to do service, as he was in this life before."

The pastor nods his head at four men holding ropes on either side of the casket, who then begin to slowly and gently lower it into the grave. A quartet of women standing behind the minister begin a mournful version of Shall We Gather at the River.

Lucille stops the Sheriff as he walks past the family paying respects.

"Did he do it Sheriff? Did that man kill my husband?"

The Sheriff looked into her young, sad eyes, "He said he did and I believe him, but only The Lord knows the truth."

The Sheriff lingered behind to talk to the Reverend. Approaching him slowly with an outstretched hand, the Sheriff greeted him. "That was a beautiful service. I'm sure Doc Blakely would be very proud to know so many people cared for him in such a way."

"You're right Sheriff. He would have been proud but would have been too proud to show it." They both nod somberly. "So you think you have the one who did it?"

"You're not the first person to ask that question today." He looks up into the October sky. "Yes sir, I do, but I like what you had to say about justice. We do what we can, but God does deliver just rewards."

The much older, colored preacher put his hand on the Sheriff's shoulder. "We do what we can here and pray we do it right."

"Amen to that."

• • • •

The dust felt warm and powdery between Theo's bare toes in the middle of the old road. The sun was shining warmly on his neck and the cicadas were buzzing contentedly in the willows to the sides. Clouds were skidding across the crystal blue sky in great billowy shapes resembling people and animals.

He looks around. He soaks in the experience and hums the melody of a song he learned in his father's church.

"Hey, Theo!" He hears yelled into the breeze from further down the road. He sees Tug running toward him, a pair of fishing poles shaking wildly behind him, held over his shoulder.

"Hey Tug!" Theo yells in reply and gallops forward to meet his best friend and adopted bother.  
They collide in a huge hug, laughing and circling around. They patted each other on the back and rubbing the tops of their heads, each smiling broadly with eyes shining. Behaving like true boys they separate and start walking down the road, kicking small rocks, cane poles bobbing. Tug puts his arm around Theo's shoulder.

"Where ya been, buddy? I've been waiting for you."

END

Epilogue

Just after Eldred received his response that his case was going to be considered by the higher Court, I stopped writing in the story to start penning these notes. I know how this all plays out from here on anyway.

I am not the young man you follow throughout the entirety of this work. We share some similarities such as a desire for knowledge, a slight arrogance in creativity, and refusing to take "no" for an answer. Outside of those few things, he and I are purely figments of each other's imaginations and he's a vehicle to tell this story.

This is a fictional novel, based on a true story. While I would love to be able to make note of the Doctor who was actually killed and give him credit for his contributions to our society and to our community I've been requested to refrain from doing so. This writing is not intended to create or exacerbate any racial tensions. All terminology utilized within is done so with the utmost respect for the citizens of this community. We can all look back on the last century as a time of great and meaningful change in our society.

The old lawyer, his daughter and his entire office are fictional as is the town they reside in. I created them from an amalgamation of experiences I had through life, law school, college, and people I've met. Actually, I have engineered every character in this book to accurately reflect the true story from which this arose while allowing the families of those involved to rest in their anonymity.

The references about To Kill a Mocking Bird, by Harper Lee, having influence over this story-line are purely my own concoction. I do not know if that very famous story and equally notable movie were an influence on the actual court proceedings that took place in the 1960s but they fit so nicely together I couldn't help but give credit to one through the other. I wish that Harper Lee could have read what I've written here and enjoyed the process as much as I have.

"Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird." – Harper Lee

I know many mockingbirds.

I spent two years strictly researching the facts of the trial, the lives of the people involved and the outcomes. The confession and the facts of the trial are real as are the results. The assembly of the lynch mob and the outcomes are just as real.

I was able to locate the actual court documents and fashion a story around them. Obviously, I took quite a few creative liberties with the interactions between every character in the book. I also took advantage of that to create a few characters based on "suggestions" I garnered from reading the filings. There was no Ahab that I'm aware of and Dr. Blakely's car could have been any color other than grass green.

I have written this with the intent that a teenager could safely read it without exposure to unnecessary foul language or other similarly offensive themes. The few moments of violence were necessary for the development of the storyline.

Many people were instrumental in helping me gather information for this effort and I want to thank them all, even if I fail to mention them by name here.

Straight away I want to say thank you to God, through whom all things are possible. The idea that someone such as me could ever complete a task like this has to be only at the Hands and Grace of our Lord and Savior. I try to utilize Scripture throughout the story as during the time frames this story took place it was a regular part of peoples' lives. I wish it was still as great an influence today as it was then. We're working on that.

Second is my mother. Part of the emotion put into this book arises from the passing of my father, and helping my mother adjust to life alone after decades of being with her husband. I know everyone says the last person you should let critique your work is your mother as she is certainly biased, but she did get to participate in the beginning of it. She has always done everything she could to encourage me and encourage my creativity.

My Uncle Roger and Cousin Christy have been huge in pushing me to get this done and stop sitting on it. I dare say that without them, I wouldn't be typing this for you today – more like ten years from now. Roger has been after me to pursue my writing for many years, not even counting this project. I am grateful to both of them for their motivation and encouragement as well as their critique of the work as it progressed. There will be much more following this project for you both to read. I have at least three new outlines ready to go.

My own immediate family has been very patient throughout this project. I've not spoken of it much around them but they knew about "that doctor that got killed" and the book I'm writing about him. I am appreciative of their patience for the late nights I spend making noise, working at the computer or my ill temper when I get frustrated and from lack of sleep. I try not to push my obsessive hobbies and projects off on them but sometimes it can't be helped.

There are many people who have helped me gather information, without which this never would have come together. I want to list them here and offer them my sincerest thanks:

Mr. W. Ray Crouch, Assistant District Attorney of the 23rd Judicial District; Ms. Pam Edwards, of the Dickson County Archives; Ms. Jackie Wall Farthing, the Dickson County Register of Deeds; Ms. Darla Brock, Archivist of the Tennessee State Library and Archives; Mr. Tim Eades, Chief of Police, Belle Meade, Tennessee; Ms. Amy Park, Tennessee Court of Appeals; Ms. Douglas and Ms. Brown of Meharry Medical College; Mr. Mike Catalano, Tennessee Supreme Court Clerk's Office; Mr. Scott Perkins, a lifelong friend; Ms. Amy Adams, a longtime friend -- thank you for Oscar.

There are many other people who have offered advice or suggestions about the project who I have not mentioned and there are many who anxiously await a first copy, which I'm happy to give. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

I referenced Sebastian the Peace Maker in this story a couple of times. This is a very small article that I've written for a southern lifestyle magazine about an incredible dog. I will include it, for your enjoyment and for my reflection, at the conclusion of these notes.

The author can be contacted at JJScribbler@gmail.com and will make every effort to respond to appropriate and mannerly emails.

Sebastian the Peace Maker

My dog never did leap beside me out of airplanes into combat zones. He never did seek out lost children in the woods. He didn't locate bombs in airports or guide the blind across busy intersections. He didn't discover millions of dollars and loads of narcotics hidden in vehicles. He was just Sebastian the Peace Maker.

Several years ago, my family was put to task to adopt a small Pomeranian that very much resembled a Red Fox, minus the large fluffy tail. This little dog, named Sebastian, had managed to make his way from Memphis, Tennessee to Nashville, Tennessee via a series of failed adoptions. When we first picked him up at a family member's home, he hid under the furniture and cried when touched. He was terrified of everything and everyone but we took him home anyway.

The first day at home, he scampered under my bed and refused to come out for two days. Finally, I decided enough was enough and reached under the bed to pull him out. I succeeded in extricating him but he also succeeded in chewing up my hand and drawing quite a bit of blood. It wasn't his fault he was so scared of everything. Up until this point, his life had been traumatic.

We made every effort to make him comfortable. We hoped he would enjoy toys and treats and a comfy bed, but none of that appealed to him. What he did take to was a blue and white Teddy Bear that he commandeered. He slept beside it and groomed it and even took it pieces of food from his bowl. It was cute and heart-warming and if it took that to make him happy, so be it.

Time went on and Sebastian came to associate himself with me. He apparently decided that I would be his human and he began to learn me. He loved all of my family but he became a fixture with me. Whenever I sat down to watch television or read the paper, he would wait to be picked up and sit beside me. Whenever I went somewhere he would stand at the door and patiently await my return. When I would eat a meal, he would sit quietly beside me knowing that a handout was sure to come.

As much as he loved me, he loved my children too. If I so much as pretended to spank my children, that small dog who loved me beyond all else would bark, growl and snap at me as if to say, "Look John, you're my best friend and I'll give my life for you, but you're not going to hurt these kids while I'm around." I appreciated that more than any person could ever know. He was part of the family and a hundred pound guard dog shoved into a loving, ten pound package.

Sebastian was intuitive. This is how he became the Peace Maker. I went through several really stressful and tumultuous years. Sebastian could tell when I needed my space, but also when I needed a companion. He would seek me out as if to say, "Hey buddy, I know you've had a hard day. Don't forget I love you." He was as regular as clockwork. He could sense my stress without me even calling him and he would come to make me all better.

The tragic part of being a pet owner is that we greatly outlive them. See, the part about Sebastian that I've neglected to tell you is that he wasn't well, since the day we got him. He was old when he came to me. He had congestive heart failure. His kidneys were beginning to fail. He had arthritis and his hips were failing. His eyes were starting to become cloudy robbing him of sight.

Day after day, month after month, that poor little dog would take as many as six pills in the morning and another six at night. That doesn't count the cream that I would have to put in his eyes or that I would have to lift him onto his small bed. This story doesn't consider that to hold him for any length of time meant that you would have to change to clean clothes afterwards because he couldn't control his bladder. This story doesn't consider that he would cough after every second breath, day and night, because his lungs were failing. It doesn't matter. He was the Peace Maker.

It doesn't take into consideration that when you pet him, his entire body would rock from a gentle touch and that he would faint from the exertions of walking down the side walk. It doesn't take into consideration that to scratch his head or his back meant feeling his every bone under the slightest caress. It doesn't take into consideration that his teeth were thinning and he couldn't chew on a bone but would still zealously defend my children if he thought they were going to come to harm. It doesn't matter. He was the Peace Maker.

I discovered, late in his life, that I could fill a bath tub with warm water and let him float in it, his head in my hand and he would go quickly to sleep, enjoying the relief that the weightlessness of the warm water would give to his old bones and joints. Hours I spent kneeling beside the bath, hands shriveling in the water, letting my friend have respite from his pain. Medication no longer worked.

Despite his poor, frail body failing him every moment of every day, he never failed me. His small, diseased heart was large enough for the both of us. He was truly man's best friend. The Doctors and the staff of the veterinary clinic where we frequented were amazed at his ability to cling to life. He was tenacious in his love and dedication. "He could go at any moment," they would tell me, but would smile and be amazed when I would bring him back for his checkups.

I held him in my arms when he took his last breath and I buried him beneath a large white oak tree in the middle of a hay pasture last Christmas. I gave him some hyacinth bulbs and they bloomed this spring, cheerfully marking his grave in a spray of blue, purple and pink. He was the little, lonely, thrown away dog who only wanted a family and found one. Sebastian was the Peace Maker.

Blessed are the peacemakers for they will be called the Children of God. Matthew 5:9

