Turnbull: Based on a True Story Read online

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 poc
ket, 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 f
rom 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.”