Beyond The Truth

Beyond the Truth

  Bobby A. Troutt

  Copyright 2011 by Bobby A. Troutt

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  Table of Contents

  Crooked Creek Mississippi

  Gavel

  Sweet Water Creek, Kentucky

  Forget-me-Nots

  Apartment 1-C

  *****

  Beyond the Truth

  Crooked Creek Mississippi

  Crooked Creek was a quiet community on the Mississippi and Alabama state line. In 1965 it was a small town, twisted with tradition, and set in its ways.

  I, David Doyle, was a young assistant to the public defender, Walter Higgins. Walter was middle aged, short in stature, with white hair, bushy black eyebrows, and a well-developed beer gut. He was a good man, one of the best lawyers around in his time, but he had a bad drinking problem.

  One night in early fall, Crooked Creek was changed forever. That was the night the town died.

  I was walking along the road, about 9:45 p.m.; my car had broken down. I had not gone far when, out of Crooked Creek, four police cars raced by me, lights flashing and sirens screaming. Something bad must have happened, I thought.

  The next morning, the sheriff’s deputies barged through the door of our office. Startled, I asked, “What’s going on?”

  They ordered me to sit down.

  Then, without warning, they pushed open the back door to the storeroom where Walter was asleep. That’s where he lived.

  “Let’s go, Walter,” ordered one of the deputies. “We’ve got someone who wants to see you.”

  Walter slowly turned over, half asleep and still drunk from the night before.

  “What’s going on?” he yelled. “Where are you taking me? David, hand me a bottle.”

  “You’ll see,” replied the other officer. “Judge Hackett wants to see you.”

  “But why?” he asked. “What have I done?”

  They left in a hurry. Having no idea what was going on, I grabbed my coat and Walter’s keys and headed out; I had a pretty good idea where they were headed.

  A backroom behind the club was the judge’s favorite hideaway, along with his shady friends. I had heard many things about it, but I’d never been there before. Nothing good occurred in that room. Not knowing what to expect, I was afraid for Walter. I made my way towards the back of the club where a deputy stood at the door. I told him that I was Walter’s assistant and asked to go in. He opened the door slightly and asked the judge if I could come in.

  “Why not,” he said. “Maybe the young assistant can learn something.”

  Carefully, I stepped in. There was no one in the room but the judge, Walter, the other deputy, and another man I didn’t know. I listened. The best I could tell, Becky, the daughter of Maynard Simpson, the judge’s first cousin, didn’t come home last night, and he hadn’t heard from her.

  “She was last seen getting into the car with a black man at the diner,” stated Judge Hackett. Some of the customers at the diner saw them talking outside. The next thing they knew she got into his car, and they left together.

  “What does that have to do with me?” asked Walter.

  “I am going to appoint you to defend him,” the judge informed Walter.

  “But I can’t defend him or anybody fairly,” he said. “I can’t help myself without a bottle.”

  “You’ll do fine,” replied Judge Hackett. “After all, Walter, you used to be one of the best.”

  “But Your Honor,” cried Walter, “how do you know he’s done anything? Becky may be staying with friends.”

  “Now, now, Walter,” said the judge. “You take the case, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

  “It looks like an open and shut case,” spoke up the stranger.

  “Oh yes, Walter,” interrupted the judge. “This is John Holland, the new D.A. He started this week. John will be prosecuting your client and I hope you two can work together.”

  “Yes, Walter, we are going to make a good team,” said John. “A stranger, a black man, picks up a white girl, and she disappears. Eyewitnesses see her leave with him from the diner; one of her earrings was found in his car; they were last seen at Johnston Service Station, not far from her home. I believe it’s an open and shut case.”

  “Sounds to me like it’s all circumstantial evidence,” replied Walter, “a bunch of hearsay. Where’s the body?”

  “We haven’t found the body yet,” replied John, “but we will. Murder one looks good, I believe. We have enough evidence to indict him.”

  I didn’t know what to say. They had already tried and convicted the man. I couldn’t believe it. It appeared they wanted Walter to throw the case and railroad the man. I started to speak up, but the deputy grabbed me and led me out of the room. When I was leaving, I overheard the judge say to Walter, “You do good on this case, Walter, and I will see that all the drinks at the club are on the house.”

  Quickly Walter turned and walked away.

  “You can’t do me this way,” he cried. “I’m not playing your game.”

  “Here, Walter,” shouted the judge as he handed him a bottle of whiskey, “it’s on me.”

  We drove off; not a word was said. Walter slowly twisted the cap of the bottle, on and off, shaking it, and then he cussed a little. However, he never took a drink, nor spoke a word. His eyes were filled with tears, and his hands shook as he said, “David, let’s go to the jail. He will never get a fair trial in this town,” he said. “The black man, woman, or child has always been mistreated here. I have seen it too many times in my life. But, I have to help him if I can. God help us all. There is work to be done. I want to hear his side of the story first.”

  When we arrived, Walter’s hands were shaking and trembling. Quickly, he reached for the bottle; then he stopped. I didn’t breathe a word. He put the top back on it and laid it on the seat beside him.

  At the jail, we asked to see Jess D. Durham. They brought him in. He was a young man, maybe twenty or twenty-one years old. There were cuts and bruises all across his face from where he had been beaten. Jess was tall, with a little touch of a goatee on his chin and a hint of a mustache.

  “What on earth happened?” asked Walter.

  Jess stayed quiet, withdrawn, still shaken.

  “Who did this to you?” questioned Walter. “Did they do it?” he asked as he pointed to the jailers.

  Jess didn’t say a word.

  “My name is Walter Higgins and this is my assistant, David,” Walter said.

  Carefully, Walter explained the situation to Jess.

  “Do you think I can get a fair trial,” Jess cried out, “in an all-white town?”

  Walter dropped his head. “I understand what you are saying,” he replied. “I’m willing to do my best. I’m the only hope you’ve got.”

  “Do your best!” shouted Jess. “Ain’t no white man going to help a black man. You’re one of them. All of you are alike.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Suddenly, Walter stood up and said, “I’m the only chance you’ve got and the only friend you have in this town right now. Take it or leave it. I’ll tell you, Jess, what kind of deal you will get. I know them. If you admit to it, maybe we can make a plea bargain for a lesser sentence, maybe 25-30 years. If you don’t admit to it, they are going to take it all the way—life without parole, if you live to make it to trial. That’s the best deal you’ve got unless you let me help you. Are you with me, Jess? Will y
ou help me fight it?”

  Jess paused for a minute. “Okay,” he replied. “I’m with you.”

  “All right!” I shouted. “Let’s go for it.”

  “Let me sit down,” said Walter, “and you tell me what happened.”

  They sat down at the table and Jess began to tell his side of the story. “I had stopped off at the diner to get a cup of coffee and a bite to eat.”

  “What time was it?” asked Walter.

  “Around 7:30 p.m.,” replied Jess. “Then when I was getting ready to leave, this white girl followed me out to my car and wanted a ride up the road. She had long brown hair, a long skirt, white blouse, and a bow in her hair. They called her Becky. She had on some saddle shoes, too. It was around 8:30 when I left. I told her I couldn’t, but she kept on and on. Then she said she was going to walk. I gave in. She got in the car. We left the diner, and we drove toward her house.”

  “You drive a ‘62 Chevy Belair?” asked Walter.

  “Yes, sir, I do,” replied Jess. “I noticed a Ford Fairlane followed us for a while, but it turned off. We talked. Then, not far up the road, she motioned for me to pull over. I did. She got out beside the road.”

  ‘My house,’ she stated, ‘is right up the road. I had better get out here and walk the rest of the way. Daddy wouldn’t understand.’

  “She got out, and I headed on out of town. I swear I didn’t do anything to her. She was alive when I left her.”

  “What about Johnston Service Station?” Walter questioned.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, “on our way to her house we stopped at the station to get some gas. It was 9:00 p.m.; I heard it on the radio. She was still with me.”

  “Johnston Service Station is on the way to Maynard’s house,” I replied. “Jess was picked up a few miles from there. I know because I was walking down the road near there when the police came by.”

  “Johnston’s closes at 10:00 p.m. Then what happened, Jess?” asked Walter.

  “Not far from the station, the police pulled me over. They jerked me out of the car, yelling about some missing white girl. When I tried to explain, they started hitting me with blackjacks, kicking me, and shoving me around. I tried to fight back, but my hands were cuffed. I fell to the ground. The next thing I remember I was in a jail cell, and some doctor was doctoring my cuts and bruises. I had a picture with me. They took it with my other things. Can you see if I can get it back?”

  “Sure, I’ll check into it,” replied Walter. “What about the earring they found in your car?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Jess. “I didn’t know they found one. It was dark. I didn’t notice if she had any on or not. They tried to get me to run, but I didn’t. One officer said, ‘Let’s let him escape, and we’ll say he tried to resist arrest.’

  A few days later Jess was taken from the jail for arraignment. It seemed like they were in a hurry to get the case to trial. Walter, Jess, and I stood before Judge Hackett. He started asking Jess some questions.

  “Your Honor,” said Walter. “My client has repeatedly asked for bail and it has been denied. I would ask Your Honor to set a bail for my client.”

  “Bail denied,” replied the judge. “Mr. Durham is from out of state and is subject to flee.”

  “Your Honor, what about putting him in my custody?” requested Walter.

  “Denied!” shouted Hackett. “Walter, you live in the storeroom of your office.”

  “Your Honor,” explained Walter, “I would like to say that the disappearance of Becky Simpson is not the reason my client, Jess D. Durham, is on trial. He’s on trial because of the color of his skin. That’s what this two-bit mock trial is about.”

  Bang, bang, bang sounded the gavel as the courtroom filled with angry remarks.

  “Order, order in this courtroom,” shouted the judge, “or I’ll have the courtroom cleared! Mr. Higgins, one more outburst like that, and I’ll hold you in contempt. Set bail at $50,000.00.”

  “Jess D. Durham, are you aware of the charges brought before you?” asked the judge.

  “Yes I am, Your Honor,” he replied.

  “How do you plead?” asked Judge Hackett.

  “Not guilty, sir,” stated Jess.

  “Let the record show trial is set for three weeks from today, and the jury selection will begin immediately,” proclaimed the judge.

  Bang, bang, sounded the gavel as he yelled, “Next!”

  Afterwards we talked to Jess and assured him we would try to do everything we could to help him. On our way back to the office, I asked Walter what he thought. He reached over for the bottle that he had left on the seat, then tossed it out the window without any hesitation.

  “I believe him,” I said. “Something may have happened to Becky, but he didn’t have anything to do with it. But how are we going to prove it in this town?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Walter. “There are other people besides Jess connected to this girl, boyfriends, friends, and even her daddy may be connected. There’s more to it than what’s being said.”

  “I’ll do some snooping around,” I suggested, “and see what I can find out. I agree with you. It’s too hush-hush.”

  Later on back at the club, we saw Becky’s boyfriend, Ben Hackett. He had long hair, wore a tie-dyed t-shirt, blue jeans, and wore sandals. Ben, I guess, had stopped by to see the judge, his uncle—when he was leaving, we followed him out and spoke to him.

  “Ben,” asked Walter, “what happened that night at the diner?”

  “We had a few words,” explained Ben, “and then this black guy tried to butt in. I told him to stay out of it. But Becky wouldn’t leave it alone. She got mad at me and left with him. I guess she thought that would make me jealous, and I would come after her. A little later, I got worried about her. Jimmy, Bill, Jack, and I headed over to her house. We found her walking down the road, headed home. We picked her up, and we went up to the quarry to work things out. Later we dropped her off in front of her house. That was the last time I saw her.”

  I could tell Ben was still pissed off and cocky. He didn’t act too upset to me that she was missing. I knew there was more to the story than he was telling.

  “Ben, are you sure that’s all that happened that night?” questioned Walter.

  “Yes, sir, that’s all. I have nothing else to say. I’ve probably already said too much,” he replied. Then he started to leave. “My uncle told me to keep my mouth shut, but I don’t have anything to hide.”

  Walter listened, but he was no fool.

  “What do you think, Walter?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he replied.

  “Ben’s daddy is running for mayor again,” I stated. The election is only a couple of months off. It wouldn’t take much for him to be defeated, if some kind of scandal were to pop up.”

  “I believe you’re right, David,” replied Walter. “The judge doesn’t want anything to hurt his brother’s chances.”

  “This whole thing seems fishy,” said David. “I believe I’ll talk to Ben.”

  Walter may have been an old drunk. Ben’s uncle may have been the judge and his daddy the mayor but things didn’t seem to add up. Ben said he felt relief and confident when he recalled what else his uncle told him and that was he was already working on Sheriff Ford. The sheriff had been a friend of the family for years. David had entered unbeknown to them and stood further enough away so they couldn’t see him.

  “Ben, what about Jimmy Fowler and the other boys?” asked his uncle.

  “They won’t be any problem,” Ben told him with a little laugh. “They’re too scared to talk. But what about Jimmy,” he said. “I haven’t seen him around in a few days, which is a little odd. Jimmy does have a tendency to have a big mouth. I’ll talk to him when I see him.”

  As Ben was driving away, I told Walter, “Ben didn’t seem to mind talking to us. He was eager to volunteer information.”

&nb
sp; Walter replied, “Yeah, he told us what he wanted to but the question is was it the truth.”

  But after a few days later Ben had found out that Jimmy had went up north to stay with a cousin and work. Jimmy and the other boys were questioned later on about that night. But their stories all collaborated with each other. They were not suspects at the time.

  We wasted no time. The trial was quickly approaching. Walter’s strongest argument was the fact that all they had on his client was circumstantial evidence.

  The preliminary hearing began.

  “He has no alibi,” spoke up the detective. “Witnesses saw him at the diner with her, and Mr. Johnston saw them together at the service station.”

  “That’s right,” replied Walter. “But there’s no body. If there’s no body found, how could there be a crime committed? It looks to me like a missing person case.”

  “We have witnesses and evidence,” stated the judge, “that the missing girl was last seen with your client, and one of her earrings was found in his car. The D.A. is calling for 25-35 years.”

  “But Your Honor,” cried Walter. “My client was tried and convicted by the people of this town when he first set foot in the diner and then let a white girl ride in his car.”

  Bang, bang went the gavel. “Walter, approach the bench. Don’t you get out of line with me,” said the judge. “This is my courtroom.”

  “Yes, sir,” mumbled Walter as he stepped back.

  “We’ll take a short recess,” said the judge.

  As the judge and D.A. retired to his chambers, he seemed troubled. I then started doing some snooping around myself. A little PI work. I eased into the room beside the judge’s chamber and listened through an adjoining door. It appeared to the judge that Walter was not going to work with him on this case. The judge seemed uneasy and afraid he might try something.

  “I’ve got to have some insurance,” he said to himself, “but what?” David heard him say to himself.

  Then he made the call. After a short recess, the judge returned back to the courtroom. David followed him back. He was curious.

  “Something has come up,” said the judge. “Court is adjourned.”

  Once again the judge returned to his chambers, spending the rest of the day alone. “I believe John we can select a jury within two or three days,” said the judge. “Before David gets back from his wild goose chase in Jackson.”

  The afternoon passed as Judge Hackett lay asleep in his chair. Suddenly the phone rang, waking him. It was from David from Jackson, returning his call.

  “Okay, yes, sir, that’s right. That’ll be fine,” he said.

  He hung up the phone, looked at his watch, and then hurried out the door for the club. Judge Hackett invited Walter over to the club. The club was packed. Drinks were on the house. When Walter got there, the same two deputies that had escorted Walter in before stood by.

  “I’m glad you could make it, Walter,” said the judge. “That’s why I called for this meeting.”

  “What is this all about?” asked Walter.

  “Just a friendly get together,” replied the judge as he slowly poured him a drink. “You want one?”

  “No thanks,” he replied. “I’ve stopped drinking.”

  “Oh, you have,” said the judge. “Then tell me, Walter, about your meetings with Sid Young at the back door of the liquor store late at night.”

  “You’re crazy! I haven’t been doing any drinking!” shouted Walter.

  Slowly, the judge pulled his desk drawer open and pulled out a couple of pictures.

  “Got you,” laughed the judge.

  “What do you want!” shouted Walter. “What do you want from me? I didn’t want this case in the first place. You were the one who came and got me.”

  “Settle down, Walter, everything is going to be all right. Here, have a drink on me.”

  Walter suddenly reached over and slapped it out of the judge’s hands. The two deputies stepped forward but the judge stopped them.

  “Walter, I’m going to pour you one more drink, and you are going to have a drink with me,” the judge ordered.

  Walter never said a word. His hands had begun to shake, sweat had beaded up on his forehead, and his mouth was dry. Slowly the judge poured the drink. The room was silent except for the gurgling of the whiskey filling the glass. Carefully the judge handed it to him. Walter slowly reached for it with both hands. As the whiskey danced about in the glass on the way to Walter’s mouth, he suddenly shot it up to his mouth and swallowed. With a slight sigh, Walter eased down into the chair and nervously scooted the empty glass toward the judge.

  “Another one,” the judge said.

  “Why not!”

  “Do you men want to join us?” he said to the officers.

  “The more the merrier,” they replied.

  That was all that it took for Walter to become clay in the judge’s hands. The judge ordered the two deputies to stay with Walter twenty-four hours a day. “Don’t let him out of your sight, and don’t let anyone near him. Give him a drink or two, not enough to get him drunk, but enough to keep him in a stupor.”

  The next day the jury selection had begun. In the evening the judge would throw private parties at the club with a lot of drinking and women. For the next couple of days the deputies took Walter from the club to the courthouse and back, until finally the jury was selected.

  “I understand that you have reached an agreement,” said the judge, “on the jury.”

  “Yes we have,” replied the D.A.

  “And what about the defense?” questioned the judge.

  Walter sat for a few minutes with his head in his hands. His head was busting, his heart was racing; he was so deranged, he was sick at his stomach and felt awful.

  “What about the defense?” asked the judge.

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor, what was the question?” asked Walter.

  “Do you accept the jury selection?”

  “Yes, I guess, yeah…I mean,” he stuttered.

  Bang, bang, bang sounded the gavel onto the mallet as the judge announced, “Let it be known that the jury has been selected.”

  There were eight white men and three white women on the jury. Walter eased up out of his chair and started toward the door.

  “Are you alright, Walter?” asked Mr. Holland, the D.A.

  “Yeah,” replied Walter. “It must be the flu.”

  “You look pretty rough,” said the D.A. “Can I help you?”

  “No, no, that’s alright,” replied Walter. “I’ll make it.”

  When he slipped through the doors, there were no deputies to escort him this time. His hangover raced through his head, causing his eyes to swell. He craved a drink of whiskey. “What have I done?” he whispered under his breath.

  When he got home, he looked for a bottle, but there wasn’t one. Then without warning, he collapsed onto the floor. A few hours later I walked in. That is where I found him. The place was a mess. I fixed some black coffee. Evidently, he had fallen off the wagon. I was furious, but not as much with Walter. For the next two days, I worked with him, day and night, to get him, once again, back onto the wagon. Walter told me the whole story of what had happened.

  “Please forgive me, David,” he cried. “I’m sorry. It got out of hand,” he said.

  “I’m sorry I left you here,” I replied. “I should have known better.”

  “David,” he said, “what are we doing to do? What is Jess going to say?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I have been wondering the same thing. It appears so hopeless. Everything is going to be all right,” I said. “Here you go, Walter, keep drinking the coffee,” I said. “Everything is going to be fine. I’ve got to leave for a few minutes,” I told him. “I’ll be back.”

  I left Walter behind as I made my way over to the club. When I got there, the judge was not in, so I waited. In a couple of hours h
e came in.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” he said.

  “I want to know what you have done to Walter,” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “He evidently had one too many drinks. How was your trip?”

  “She was very nice, Your Honor,” I said. “She showed me the city of Jackson and then some.”

  “She’s one of my best girls,” bragged the judge.

  “What about Walter?” I said.

  “Walter is yesterday’s news. Here! A toast to you, David,” cried the judge, “and your new job, Public Defender. Cheers! Yes, David, I believe you have a bright future in Crooked Creek.”

  When Walter finally bounced back, he was on fire—embarrassed, mad, and ashamed, but on fire. He was aggravated with himself about his weakness. His blood pressure had shot up and he was ready to take care of things. He was breathing fire, so to speak. I had never seen him this wound up.

  “Let’s go, David, and see the judge,” said Walter.

  We raced over to the judge’s chambers. Then we finally worked our way in to see him.

  “Yes, Walter, what can I do for you?” he said.

  “I want another jury,” he demanded.

  “I can’t do that,” replied the judge. “The prosecution and you both agreed on it. I’m sorry, Walter, you’ll have to do with the ones you selected.”

  “You deliberately got me drunk,” cried Walter, “to get me to agree to an all-white jury!”

  “Wait a minute, Walter!” shouted the judge. “I didn’t get you drunk, you got yourself drunk. I only offered you a drink. It was you that took it.”

  “Your Honor,” yelled out Walter, “an all-white jury—you’ve got to be kidding. How can my client be judged fairly when there are no black jurors? He is to be tried by his peers. Do you think a white man would be tried by an all-black jury?”

  Angrily, the judge jumped up.

  “Mr. Higgins,” warned the judge. “Are you questioning me?”

  “No, but I do have some reservations about possible prejudice against my client creating some doubt about a fair trial.”

  “Request denied!” shouted the judge. “The jury has already been selected. The trial will start on Monday. Good luck. Now get the hell out of my office.”

  For the next few weeks, Walter and I made several trips to see Jess. His bail had been posted so high that there was no one in town who could afford it. Jess seemed to be in good spirits, though, the best you could be in his situation. Walter told him he had one more thing to try—and if that failed, Lord be with us all.

  It was pouring down rain that day in Crooked Creek. The town lay quiet as federal agents moved in. They arrested Judge Hackett, his brother, the mayor, the sheriff, and five of his deputies for conspiracy, abusive power, racial discrimination and entrapment. It was believed for several years that the judge’s prejudice and his misuse of his authority against blacks were sending innocent men and women to prison with longer, unnecessary jail time.

  Mr. Holliman and I were both working undercover on an internal affairs investigation with the F.B.I. They were cracking down on some accusations the NAACP had brought to the Federal Bureau of Investigation's attention. They had suspicions of innocent people being incriminated based solely on their race. The accusations had been proven true by mine and Mr. Holliman’s undercover work. I did go to Jackson, but not to see Judge Hackett’s girl, I went to the State Attorney General with the evidence against them for the FBI to move in and make their arrest.

  Walter and I stood by the courthouse waiting for the old judge to be carried away. When the judge finally appeared, Walter raised his soda can while looking towards the judge and said, “I’ll drink to that.” After the arrest a new judge was appointed, and a new jury was selected with both black and white jurors.

  The day of the trial quickly came. It had been pouring down rain but had cleared up when we got to the courthouse. I went ahead to take care of some last minute things. Walter went down to see Jess for a few last details. The courthouse was packed. This was the biggest thing that had ever happened in Crooked Creek. People were seated everywhere. The courtroom was filled.

  Walter came in. He was soaked, yet sober. He hadn’t had a drink since his last encounter with Judge Hackett. Walter believed in Jess’s innocence. In some way, Walter knew this was his last chance as a lawyer, and he wanted to make the best of it. For the last twenty-five years, he had his life tied up in a bottle after his wife and daughter were killed in an accident. Maybe this would bring him out of his hard shell. Who knows? It seemed to be working.

  The bailiff said, “All rise, the Honorable Judge Harold D. Griffin presiding. The commonwealth state of Mississippi vs. Jess D. Durham, docket number 24176-06. You may all be seated.”

  “Are the prosecution and the defense ready to proceed with the case?” questioned Judge Griffin.

  “We are, Your Honor,” answered the lawyers.

  “Let us begin,” said the judge.

  The two lawyers made their opening remarks. The prosecutor danced about the courtroom, parading Jess’s guilt.

  “Without a shadow of doubt, we are going to prove Mr. Durham guilty of murder!” the D.A. shouted.

  Then Walter, calmly and with confidence, walked up to the jury.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we have here a young man with no apparent motive whatsoever, no previous arrests or convictions. The man simply drove through our town, not knowing anyone, and minding his own business. Today he sits before you with no more than circumstantial evidence, not one thread of evidence connecting him to the disappearance of Becky Simpson, except that he was last seen with her. No blood, no hair, no other evidence, except one of her earrings found in his car. I believe, ladies and gentlemen, if you will weigh the facts in this case, and in your heart look at my client as your son on trial today, you will see no more than a man in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  As the trial proceeded, the D.A. called for Maynard Simpson to take the stand. After they swore him in, the D.A. began to question him.

  “Mr. Simpson, has Becky ever failed to come home before this?”

  “Objection,” yelled Walter, “leading the witness.”

  “Sustained,” said the judge. “You don’t have to answer the question.”

  “No, sir,” Mr. Simpson replied boldly.

  “Will you tell us, Mr. Simpson, about the morning after she didn’t come home?” asked Mr. Holland.

  “Well, sir,” replied Mr. Simpson. “She didn’t come home that night at all. Her bed had not been slept in, and everything in her room appeared untouched. She hadn’t called or left a note. It was like she disappeared. I called some of her friends, but no one had seen her.”

  “I object, Your Honor,” yelled Walter. “That’s hearsay.”

  “Sustained,” replied the judge. “You don’t have to answer the question, Mr. Simpson,” replied the judge.

  “That’s all, Your Honor,” said Mr. Holland.

  “Without you knowing it, Mr. Simpson,” questioned Walter. “Is it possible Becky could have stayed with friends?”

  “I object,” yelled the D.A., “calls for speculation.”

  “Sustained,” sounded the judge. “You may rephrase the question.”

  “Mr. Simpson, was there ever a time Becky stayed with friends that you didn’t know about?” asked Walter.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” he answered. “But she would call if she did.”

  “Every time?” asked Walter.

  “Well maybe,” squirmed Mr. Simpson, “most of the time.”

  “No further questions,” said Walter.

  The prosecution called Ben Hackett to the stand.

  “Ben, do you remember that night at the diner?” asked the D.A.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Ben.

  “Do you remember the argument with Becky?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, I do,” said Ben.
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  “Can you tell the jury what that argument was all about?” asked Mr. Holland.

  “Over nothing really,” replied Ben. “Becky wanted to go home, and I wanted to hang around at the diner with the guys.”

  “Then what happened?” he asked.

  “Becky,” answered Ben, “then went outside with him.”

  “Let the record show Ben is referring to Jess D. Durham, the defendant,” stated the D.A. “Then what?”

  “I watched out the window while they talked. She got into his car with him and they drove off.”

  “What happened after that?” questioned Mr. Holland.

  “Well, the guys and I played two or three more games of pool,” he stated, “and we left for home,” he stated.

  “Thank you, Ben,” replied the D.A. “I have no further questions.”

  “Does the defense want to question the witness?” asked the judge.

  “Yes, sir, we do,” replied Walter. “I do have one question. Ben, what time did you get home that night?”

  “Ah, about uh 9:30 or 10:00,” he stuttered.

  “Ben, do you think your father, the mayor, would verify that time for you?” questioned Walter.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  Then the judge slammed the gavel down on the bench and called out for a recess, “It’s close to lunch. The trial will resume in one hour.”

  Shortly after recess, the honorable Judge Griffin reentered the courtroom.

  “All rise,” called the bailiff. “You can be seated.”

  “Any further witnesses from the prosecution?” asked the judge.

  “No, sir, Your Honor, the prosecution rests,” replied the D.A.

  The defense called Mr. Johnston to the stand.

  “Mr. Johnston, about what time did you see Mr. Durham and Becky?” asked Walter.

  “It was about 9:00 or 9:30,” he stated. “They had stopped and gotten some gas.”

  “Did you see any evidence of trouble? Was she afraid? Did she say anything at all that was troubling?” asked Walter.

  “I object, calls for a conclusion from the witness,” shouted the D.A.

  “Sustained,” replied the judge. “Mr. Johnston you don’t have to answer. You may rephrase the question.”

  “Did you notice anything that night out of the ordinary?” asked Walter.

  “I object, Your Honor. We’re not on a fishing trip,” shouted the D.A.

  “Objection overruled,” said the judge. “Get to your point, Walter.”

  “Your Honor, I’m trying to establish that Mr. Johnston was the last person to see them together that night,” he replied. “He stated he saw no bruises or cuts on my client or Becky at the station, but up the road, where my client was pulled over, he had been beaten. No further questions, Your Honor.”

  As the trial proceeded, things weren’t going so well for Jess. Walter was fighting tooth and nail for him. The odds were stacked against him, and it seemed to be a losing battle.

  The defense called Officer Daily to the stand.

  “Officer Daily, you were the arresting officer on the night in question?” Walter asked.

  “Yes, sir, I was,” he replied.

  “When you pulled my client over, was there anyone with him in the car?” Walter asked.

  “No, sir,” replied the officer. “He was alone.”

  “When you and the others approached him on the night in question,” said Walter, “Did he give you any trouble?”

  “Yes, he did,” answered Officer Daily.

  “Were there any cuts or bruises on him that night?” asked Walter.

  “I object, leading the witness,” cried Mr. Holland.

  “Objection overruled,” replied the judge. “You may answer the question.”

  “Yes, sir, there were,” he said. “When Mr. Durham got out of his car I shined my light in his face. That was when I saw the cuts and bruises. He had a bloody lip, scratches on his cheeks, and his nose was bloody.”

  “Officer Daily, why did you pull him over in the first place?” Walter questioned. Was he speeding or driving recklessly?”

  “No, sir,” replied the officer. “We had gotten a call about a disturbance at the diner around 8:30. A black man and a white woman had been seen leaving together. He was said to have been acting suspiciously. We pulled Mr. Durham over because his car fit the description, but there was no woman. Then we took him in for questioning.”

  “No further questions,” said the defense.

  “You may step down, Officer,” motioned Judge Griffin.

  As witness after witness took the stand, Walter fought with all he had to try to save Jess. Circumstantial evidence didn’t give him much to work on either. It seemed so hopeless.

  Where was the body? It was crazy. There was no body found. How could there have been a murder? All the evidence, the earring, and some hostile witnesses pointed to Jess. That was their case. They were at the diner about 7:00 or 7:30. Ben said Becky and Jess left a little after 8:00. He said he left at 8:45 and was home about 9:30 or 10:00. Mr. Johnston last saw Jess and Becky about 9:00 or 9:30. The police pulled Jess over about 10:00 p.m.

  In their closing remarks, the two lawyers battled it out, one saying, “He’s guilty without a shadow of a doubt,” and the other saying, “He is an innocent man.” Walter pleaded with the jury for a verdict of not guilty to spare a young man’s life. The jury went out.

  While the jury deliberated, Walter and I waited patiently. I didn’t know what to say. I had never seen Walter so upset. He was quiet and stayed to himself. I left him alone to collect his thoughts. Shortly, he came over with tears in his eyes.

  “David,” he said, “you know about my wife’s accident.”

  I replied, “Yes, I know a little.”

  “I’ve never been able to say much about it before without a drink. But she and my daughter were coming home one late foggy night. They had been over in the next county visiting. While on their way home, she was hit head on by another car. She and my daughter were killed. The man who was driving the other car was black. His wife was hurt. They had a small boy. The police report stated he had been drinking and had a list of speeding tickets. They charged him with vehicular homicide and sentenced him to five to ten years in prison. I couldn’t bare my loss; my love and my family gone just like that. That quick.”

  “I didn’t know what to do, so I started drinking to ease the pain. Every day, I drank more and more, and every day, I hated him that much more. He died in prison about three years later. I was glad that justice had finally come, an eye for an eye. But I still drank. It had become a way of life.”

  “Then one day his wife, Katherine, came to me. That’s when I found out the truth. Her husband was not drunk. He didn’t even drink. It was my wife who was drunk and hit them. Because of prejudice, the police took the bottles of whisky out of her car and placed them in his. Katherine watched as the law falsely incriminated her husband. That’s what really happened to my wife and little girl. It was her fault all along,” cried Walter. “I had suspected something before, but I turned my head. I never thought it would end like it did. Kat, I mean Katherine, came to me many times after the accident, asking me to help her husband get out of prison. I didn’t; I couldn’t. I turned my back on him and walked away.”

  “I drank even more. I couldn’t forgive myself for what had happened. I had blamed and hated an innocent man for years—until I met Jess. Thank God it woke me up. I couldn’t stand by and let it happen again. Hatred can change you, David,” said Walter. “It can destroy you and eat you up.”

  “Did you know Katherine and her family before the accident?” I asked.

  Walter was about to answer, but someone burst through the courtroom door and yelled, “The verdict is in!”

  On their way back into the courtroom, Walter turned to Jess and said, “I’ve got to be honest with you. The looks I saw on the jurors’ fac
es during the trial didn’t look good, but I’m going to keep fighting for you because I believe in you.”

  “I understand,” Jess replied. “I appreciate all that you have done, Walter.”

  “I can petition for appeals,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” said Jess. “I was guilty when they saw the color of my skin. You know that.”

  Quickly, the courtroom filled. There was not a place left even to stand.

  “All rise,” stated the bailiff. “Be seated.”

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” asked the judge.

  “We have, Your Honor,” stated the jury foreman.

  “Jess D. Durham, will you rise and face the jury?” ordered the judge.

  The foreman handed the verdict to the bailiff; he handed it to the judge. The judge looked at it and handed it back to the foreman. You could hear a pin drop in that courtroom. The tension was so tight, and the pressure was so heavy something had to give—but what?

  “You may read the verdict,” said the judge.

  “We the jury,” stated the foreman, “find the defendant Jess D. Durham guilty of murder in the second degree.”

  The courtroom was filled with uproar, anger, and hostility.

  Judge Griffin yelled out, “Order, order in the courtroom! I will have no more outbursts!”

  As the courtroom began to quiet down, Judge Griffin turned to Jess and said, “The sentencing hearing will be in two days. The jury can be dismissed; court adjourned.”

  Walter and I didn’t know what to say, but we knew one thing. We were not going to give up.

  In two days, Jess stood before Judge Griffin once again as he handed him down a 15-25 year sentence, eligible for parole in 20 years.

  After the trial, everything in Crooked Creek went on. Within a few months the trial was all but forgotten, except that Walter and I kept fighting for Jess. We filed a petition for a new trial on the motion that nobody was ever found, lack of proof of a crime had been committed, and the lack of time to allow for preparation for trial. The jury had reached their verdict based on the fact that there was not enough concrete evidence to prove his innocence.

  “If only there had been a reasonable doubt in the mind of one juror, we could have had a hung jury. The only thing the jury had to go on was the prejudiced testimony of a few witnesses,” said Walter.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “We keep trying,” said Walter.

  The harder Walter fought, the less attention people paid him. The town had accepted the verdict and wanted to forget about it and move on. Every week we went to the prison to visit Jess. He still declared his innocence. Months passed, and Jess had little to no hope. As the years passed, we became best friends. The visits became less about what had happened, and more like a family get-together.

  During one of the visits Walter excused himself for a moment. “I have to make a call,” he said.

  “David, Walter has always believed that someone knew something,” Jess said, “but never came forward. There is something I want to confess. I lied to Walter in the beginning about Becky and me.”

  “Why, Jess?” I asked.

  “That night was not the first night I had ever met Becky. Becky and I had been together a couple of times. That night, I just happened to be there when she needed a ride. She didn’t feel safe with Ben. Apparently Ben and his friends had followed us. Becky and I pulled over to make out when suddenly the doors of the car flew open. I was beaten by them and they took Becky,” Jess confessed. “That was the last time I saw her.”

  “That could have saved you from prison! Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked, annoyed.

  Jess explained, “A black man seeing a white woman would have been a death sentence for me. I knew going to prison was the only way to survive. If I had gotten off on the truth, there would have been shotguns ready to take me out when I exited the courthouse doors. Please don’t say anything to Walter.”

  “Sure,” I replied.

  Walter returned. “I couldn’t get through,” he said. “I’ll try later.”

  Then Walter brought up some things about the trial that were on his mind.

  “The body was never found,” Walter replied. “They dragged that old quarry several times, but found nothing—not a trace of anything.”

  While they were talking, Walter asked Jess what in the world brought him to Mississippi in the first place. Jess told him he was on his way to his aunt’s house to visit.

  “Who are your aunt and uncle?” I asked.

  “Their names are John and Mary Sue Durham,” replied Jess. “Mary Sue’s maiden name was Whitley. Have you ever heard of them?”

  “I don’t believe I have,” I replied. “What about you, Walter? You have lived around here all your life.”

  Walters face began to turn pale as he dropped his head into his hands.

  “He died in this prison,” said Jess, “several years ago. I never did understand it all.”

  On the way home, Walter sat quietly. He didn’t say a word. I brought up Jess’s uncle. “Walter, I can’t believe you didn’t know him. You know everybody.”

  Walter suddenly pulled the car over and stopped.

  “David, Mary Sue Whitley, or Durham, is the sister of the man my wife ran into the night of the accident,” Walter explained.

  “You have got to be kidding!” I cried. “It can’t be. Do you know the odds in that?”

  “I don’t want Jess to know,” said Walter. “He’s been through enough in Crooked Creek.”

  That was all that was said that day. Time went on and we visited each week and holiday. Jess asked Walter to drop the appeals. He would be going up before the parole board in eight more years.

  “It’s been a long hard twelve years,” stated Walter.

  “I’m tired. It’s never going to make any difference. If they haven’t done anything by now, they never will,” Jess said. “You and David have done your best. I’ll be alright. I’ll do the time.”

  The years soon passed. Walter had to stop coming; his heart was failing him. All the years of drinking were beginning to catch up with him. I kept on visiting Jess weekly. We had a lot of fun, good talks, and he had become a very classy chess player. He always asked about Walter, and I told him Walter asked about him, too. I didn’t want to come out and tell him that the doctor had only given Walter a few weeks to live. I had promised Walter I wouldn’t tell him.

  “I send him my best,” Jess would always say when I got up to leave. I’d nod my head, yes, and wave goodbye.

  That day, on the way back from the prison fifty miles north of Crooked Creek, it was pouring down rain. I stopped by to see Walter. As I drove up, the medics were bringing him out; he had passed. I was numb. My eyes teared up and a big lump hung in my throat. Walter had been like a father to me. I loved him, and I respected him. He had been a great mentor. Not long after Walter got sick, he had helped me to get the public defender’s job in Crooked Creek. I don’t know what on earth I would have done without him.

  He was buried in Crooked Creek. There were only a few people there. I tried to get them to let Jess come, but they said they couldn’t. Jess took it hard. He thought the world of Walter. I thank the Lord daily for Jess’s sake that Walter had a friend on the FBI and introduced me to him to work undercover against Judge Hackett. I’m afraid of what would have happened to Jess if he hadn’t.

  Not long after Walter’s death, I was at the office going through some old boxes of papers and things of Walter’s, when I came across a picture of a black family. I turned the photograph over and read what was on the back: “Jamie, Katherine (Kat), John, and Mary Sue.” This had to be Jess’s father, mother, aunt, and uncle. There also was a little boy in the picture who looked about eight years old. The picture had been taken in 1954. There also was some smudged writing on the bottom, another date. It read, born 1947. I couldn’t make
out the name. I tried to figure out where exactly the picture could have come from. Then I remembered hearing Jess at the jail saying something about a picture being lost. This must have been the picture he was talking about. It was probably with his belongings when they arrested him, and Walter wound up with it. But why didn’t he give it back to Jess instead of keeping it? I asked myself. Should I give Jess the picture? In the bottom of the box I found a bundle of old love letters to Walter. I started to read a few, but I decided not to finish. I did notice the initials KAT at the bottom of one of the letters. It would be years later before I would sit down and thumb through them again. It didn’t seem important at the time.

  The years passed, and everything around Crooked Creek began to change. The town finally picked up and moved on.

  Then suddenly one morning out of the blue, the sheriff burst into my office.

  “David, David!” he cried. “Get your coat. They need you over at Fowler Farm.”

  “What on earth is going on?” I shouted as we ran out the door and jumped into the car. With the lights on and the siren screaming, we raced down the highway.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Jimmy Fowler,” said the sheriff. “He’s on his death bed, and he’s calling for you.”

  Racing down the road, we finally reached Jimmy’s house. We jumped out of the car and rushed in. Jimmy lay in the bedroom. He was dying from pancreatic cancer, and he seemed to have a lot on his mind.

  “Jimmy, Jimmy,” called the sheriff. “David is here. Do you want to tell him what you told me?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve got to tell him,” cried Jimmy. “I’ve got to be free from the past David.”

  “What is it, Jimmy?” I asked. “What about the past?”

  “There’s something I want to tell you,” he said, “something that happened a long time ago.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Go on, what is it?”

  “It’s about that night Becky disappeared,” he said.

  “Are you talking about Becky Simpson?” I asked.

  “Yes,” cried Jimmy.

  “What really happened to her, Jimmy?” I asked. “Do you know?”

  “That night at the diner,” he said, “Becky and Ben got into a fight. They were arguing and fussing like usual. The black man paid for his meal and then headed out the door. Becky ran out to his car and was talking to him. We watched out the window. In a few minutes she got into the car with him, and they drove off. We waited at the diner for about fifteen or twenty minutes. Ben was crazy. He was cussing and throwing things about. Then he yelled, ‘Let’s go.’

  “Ben, me, and a couple more jumped into his car and headed after them. We caught up with them at Johnston’s Service Station. We parked on the side of the road and waited. He was getting gas. Then they left, headed toward Becky’s house. Up the road, they had pulled over and were sitting in the car. We watched and waited.

  “Carefully, Ben started the car and began to ease up behind them with his lights off. When we got in behind them, we jumped out of the car. We ran up to his car and started pulling Becky and him out. I held Becky while Ben and the others beat him up. We had him out-numbered. The black guy didn’t have a chance. She was screaming and fighting to get away. He lay moaning on the ground beside his car. Ben grabbed for Becky. He snatched her out of my hands and pushed her into his car. He was so angry.

  “Quickly, we drove off toward the rock quarry. I looked back as the black man was crawling beside the road. In a few minutes, we were out of sight.

  “Ben pushed the car to its limits. As we approached the quarry, Becky was still crying and screaming. Ben, without warning, reached over and slapped her and grabbed her by the hair of her head. Then he dragged her out of the car, cussing and swearing that he was going to kill her. All of a sudden he slapped her again, knocking her to her knees. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. He was like a mad man. We got into it. He knocked me back. I tried to help her, but the others grabbed me. Suddenly Ben turned on me. I tried to fight, but they held on to me. Then he struck Becky in the head, and she went sailing through the air. She landed on the ground and never got up.

  “Suddenly, everyone stopped. It got quiet. ‘Becky, Becky,’ I cried. She wasn’t moving. She was lifeless.

  “Then Ben turned to me and yelled, ‘Jimmy throw her into the quarry.’ I looked up and cussed him. ‘Throw her into the quarry,’ he screamed. ‘We’re going on; you can walk.’

  “Ben and the others left as I crawled over to Becky. She was still motionless. I raised her head, and blood filled my hands and seeped through my fingers. I cried out, but no one heard me, ‘What am I going to do?’

  “Then suddenly, Becky moved her hands, moaned, and tilted her foot. I quickly pulled her up into my arms and held her close. Evidently, she had hit her head on a rock. When she hit the ground, it knocked her out. I waited for her to become stronger.

  “We took off on foot across the field. Not far up the road we reached Highway 6 and a motel. We got a room. I told the clerk I had car trouble down the road. I snuck Becky into the room. There I doctored her wounds as well as mine.”

  “There never was a murder?” I asked.

  “No, there wasn’t,” replied Jimmy.

  “An innocent man was sent to jail and wasted most of his life for something he didn’t do,” I replied. Is that what you are saying, Jimmy?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jimmy replied. “But there’s more. “Ben and Becky were fighting that night because he had found out she was pregnant, and the baby wasn’t his. He tried to force her to tell him whose baby it was, but she wouldn’t.”

  “Pregnant!” I shouted. “If it wasn’t Ben’s, then whose was it?”

  “It was mine,” replied Jimmy. “Becky and I had been seeing each other secretly for months. She was tired of Ben and his ways. She wanted to break up with him so she and the baby could be with me. But he wouldn’t allow it. I think he had suspicions about us, but he never said anything.

  “That night, we decided to disappear up north where no one knew us, and we could get a new start. We lived there until Becky died a few years later of pneumonia. I raised our little girl until Daddy got sick, and then I moved back here. I never told a soul, not even my daughter. Everything seemed to have been forgotten when we moved back so I let it go to until now. The doctor says I have but a few weeks to live, and I want to make things right the best I can. I’m sorry, David, about it all.”

  “But why Jess?” I asked. “Why him?”

  “Why not?” replied Jimmy. “David, there is something I want you to do for me,” asked Jimmy. “Would you talk to Maynard, and see if he would come to talk and meet his granddaughter?”

  “Sure, Jimmy,” I replied, “for the girl’s sake. I’ll see what I can do. Sheriff, let’s go see Judge Caldwell.”

  “You bet,” replied the sheriff.

  “Would you have ever believed it?” said the sheriff as we jumped into the car.

  We raced toward city hall. Quickly, we made our way to the judge’s office and filled him in on all the details. He notified the governor in Jackson and explained it all to him. Shortly, the governor issued Jess a pardon. After nearly twenty years, the mystery of Crooked Creek had been solved. Within a matter of hours, I walked out of prison with Jess—a free man.

  “I wish Walter could have been here,” I said.

  “Me, too,” he replied. “He would have been so proud.”

  “I believe he is seeing the whole thing now,” I remarked.

  Slowly, Jess took a long deep breath of fresh cool air. “It’s great to be out; it’s good to be free.”

  “What are you going to do now?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t really know,” he replied. “I’ve got a lot of things to catch up on. When you are locked up, you can think of all sorts of things you want to d
o. I may stay around here for a while. I’ve got some things on my mind. I don’t know. I may go back up north. David, I want to thank you for all that you have done for me through the years. You’re like a brother.”

  “That’s alright,” I said. “Walter and I always believed you were innocent.”

  We drove back through Crooked Creek; Jess saw it had changed a lot since he was sent to prison nearly twenty years ago. Johnston Service Station was completely gone, and the diner was closed and condemned.

  “David, let me out here,” he said. “David come walk with me.”

  “Okay, Jess, I replied. “Do you need anything?”

  He replied, “Not right now.”

  As we walked down the street, no one knew Jess. He was but a stranger once more. Where his life had stopped, it had started again. Jess shared with David something he had heard Walter say. “Time heals all wounds, so they say. But the healing can’t be done as long as we keep opening the wounds.” At the graveyard, he knelt at Walter’s grave and paused for a moment in silence. Then he stood and began to think back to how it all had started. David stood back a little ways to give Jess some privacy. David heard what he thought may be prayers. But it was Jess remembering out loud.

  Becky was pretty, he remembered, trying to flirt with him to make her boyfriend jealous. It made them mad when she asked me to take her home in front of Ben and his friends. He remembered Becky and him getting into the car. As they drove off she yelled at Ben and waved out the window. We stopped for gas at Johnston’s Service Station. Old Man Johnston kept staring at us like he had never seen a black man with a white girl. When we got up the road close to her house, we pulled over and began to make out. That must have been when her earring fell off. We looked for it but couldn’t find it. Her boyfriend had given them to her on her birthday. Then all of a sudden a car pulled up behind us. It was Ben and his friends. We got into a fight over her. I remember they jumped me and grabbed her. They threw her into the car and drove off, leaving me lying beside the road. I always hated it that I had lied to Walter about the cuts and bruises. I told him the police had done it. Jess strolled about the gravesite, thinking. He thought about Walter, the past, and the years in prison. Slowly he shook his head as he knelt down beside Walter’s grave.

  “Walter, Walter, Walter,” he cried, “if you only could have known.”

  Then he paused as tears rushed into his eyes. Walter, my name is not Jess Durham. My real name is Jess Whitley. My daddy and mama were the ones your wife hit. I was eight years old when the wreck happened. Mama sent me up north to live with my daddy’s sister. Mama never told anyone. After Daddy died in prison, Mama came to live with us. I know it wasn’t your fault about my daddy’s death. I saw how much you hurt for years. I had the same hurt in me. Both of us wanted closure. With tears in his eyes, he paused once again as he placed his hand upon the stone marker. I came to say goodbye. David now knew why Jess was so alone.

  Years rolled by at Crooked Creek and David’s life did also. I am up in age now, sixty-eight to be exact. I gave my job up as a public defender a long time ago. Through the years, I have heard and seen a lot of things in my profession. I’ve kept many secrets in my line of work. But one secret tops them all. Walter was like a father to me, and Jess became a brother. The secret I found in Walter’s and Kat’s old love letters was taken to Kat’s grave, and will soon be taken to mine. Walter and Jess were father and son, but never knew it.