 
Beyond the Truth

Bobby A. Troutt

Copyright 2011 by Bobby A. Troutt

Smashwords Edition

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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 you 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."

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 he 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.

"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' faces 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 do. 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.

*****

Beyond the Truth

Gavel

It was late July of 1989 and the weather hung hot and heavy over the skyline of Atlanta. Latisha stood on the balcony of her downtown apartment, waiting to face the day. She could hear the early morning traffic below, and in the distance, a helicopter flying nearby. As she turned to go back in, she heard the radio announcer calling for a high of 98 degrees. She left the patio door open slightly, allowing a warm breeze to flow through. The draft twisted about her bare ankles, ruffling the bottom of her nightgown. She went into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee.

Latisha sat on the edge of the couch drinking her coffee. Her body was covered in a light sherbet gown that lay flowing down her waistline. Her long, black, slender legs showed through the twin splits in her gown, and her long black hair was tucked behind her ears, accentuating the shape of her face. She looked up and saw Michael standing in the doorway.

She smiled. "Coffee?" she asked.

"Sure," he replied.

They sat for a few minutes and talked.

"I want to go downtown this morning and go by the courthouse," he said. "What time is it?"

"It's 8:15," Latisha replied.

"We'll have to hurry," he warned.

"But I'm not dressed."

"Hurry up and get dressed," he said. "I've got to be there by 9:00. You know the traffic is..."

"Okay," she replied. "But I don't see what the big hurry is."

"Come on, baby," he whispered. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her. Slowly he moved his hands around her waist, and pulled her up to him. "Please," he said.

"Okay!" she agreed. "This time!" Then she kissed him back.

Hurriedly, they got ready and made their way down to the parking garage. Michael seemed a little quiet and more to himself than usual. He had a lot on his mind. The traffic was terrible; he had been right. They made it to Interstate 75, looking for the 285 bypass. The sixteen lanes of traffic were packed. The traffic came to a standstill every couple of miles. Michael didn't have much to say except for cussing the other drivers to hurry up. Latisha was thinking about her life.

She was born Samantha Bridge, and was originally from Savannah. She was gang raped when she was a teenager; it was something she never got over.

When she moved to Atlanta six years ago, she started an escort service using a few local girls. "Rain" was her street name.

About a year later she met Gibbs in a one night stand, but it turned into a business deal. Gibbs was the head of the Delmottai Family in the south Atlanta branch. His brother, Gardner, was the head of the family in South Miami. The two brothers were top of the line mobsters in the southeast in their day. After Gardner died, Gibbs took it all over. That's when he began to change. A barrier formed between him and Latisha.

Michael Beckett was the family's bookkeeper. He kept up with everything and was paid very well. He was a genius in his own way. Michael was in some kind of special force with the government when he was young. He never talked about it. After the barrier went up between Gibbs and Latisha, she began seeing Michael in secret.

Suddenly, the car horn wailed as Michael yelled out the window, "Get out of the way!" The driver in front of them cussed, flipped him off, and took off. "The stupid idiot," mumbled Michael as he returned the bird and his tires squealed.

Latisha didn't know what to say. Michael seemed to change so quickly; he was edgy and uptight. "Do you want me to drive?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "We're about there, Latisha, hang loose, baby. Keep it together, it's almost party time. Trust me!"

They pulled up and parked about a block away from the courthouse. "Michael, what are you doing?" she questioned.

"Hush, baby," he said as he softly kissed her on the lips. "We can walk from here."

"Walk!" she shouted. "Why are we walking when we can park at the courthouse?"

"We need the exercise, baby," he replied. "Come on now and trust me."

As she got out of the car she grabbed him by the arm. "Michael, is something going on?"

"No, girl, everything is cool," he replied. Then he kissed her again, slapped her on the butt and said, "Let's move along, baby, we're almost there."

As they crossed the street and walked toward the courthouse, Michael stopped at a newspaper stand and bought a paper. Next they walked toward the bottom of the courthouse steps. The building was huge, with six stories and a basement. The place was busy, people moving in and out, cabs pulling up, traffic backed up, and on top of all that, it was a hot muggy morning. Latisha started to ask Michael why they were there when she noticed him looking at his watch. She thought back to the many days she had spent in the courthouse. She remembered how the usual hearing began.

"Hear ye, hear ye, all rise, Honorable Judge Edward Harville presiding of the Commonwealth State of Georgia," the bailiff would state. "You may be seated."

The judge would look to the lawyers and ask, "Are we ready to proceed?"

They would agree. Then Judge Harville would pick up the gavel and slam it down on the desk – another typical day in court.

Latisha was suddenly startled from her thoughts. Boom! The courthouse exploded and people started running out, screaming and crying as fire and smoke engulfed the building.

"Oh my God," she cried as they stood outside and watched a giant fireball shoot up in the sky. Pieces of the courthouse began to fall everywhere. Quickly, Michael and Latisha took cover. In a matter of minutes the police and fire departments had surrounded the building. Sirens screamed as ambulances raced to the scene.

"My God, Michael," Latisha cried. "What happened?"

They watched the building burn as injured people were carried out.

"Michael, Michael," she cried but he didn't say a word.

Black smoke filled the already overcast sky as the smell of the explosion torched the hot air. Latisha's eyes were filled with tears as so many hurt and dead people were being removed. Then suddenly the police came by, roping off the crime scene. They asked Latisha and Michael to step back. Michael folded up his paper, placed it under his arm, and took Latisha by the hand as they headed toward the car. When they got to the car, she stopped and asked him, "What is going on?"

He said, "The courthouse has just blown up, duh."

"Did you have anything to do with that?" she asked.

"Latisha, girl, you know I.... No, I didn't," he replied. "Why would you say such a thing?"

"Why did you want to come down here?" she questioned him.

"I was supposed to meet a couple of guys, but they never showed up. Hey, baby, look at me, it's Michael. You know me better than that. Come on, girl," he replied.

"Are you lying to me?" she asked.

"Would I lie to you?" he replied.

She looked at him and said nothing. She turned and got into the car. As they drove off, sirens haunted the city as a huge black cloud hovered over the courthouse. On their way, they passed ambulances and police cars racing to the scene. She turned to look at Michael. He turned to her, placing his hand on her leg.

"It's going to be alright," he assured Latisha.

The TV was filled with the news of the bombing for the next few weeks; Atlanta was in an uproar. There had been eighty-three people killed in the explosion and the count was rising. Hundreds of people were injured. The FBI had been called in to take over the investigation. People were placing wreaths for their loved ones at the shell of the building that was left. The news reporters were stating that this was the worst tragedy in Georgia's history. While the world prayed, the FBI searched the rubble for anything, any clue that could give them some answers.

"What are you watching, girl?" asked Michael. "Are they still talking about the bombing?"

"Yeah, it's awful," she replied, "all those innocent people dead. Can you imagine their families?"

"You do know that Gibbs will be back from Miami this evening, don't you?" questioned Michael.

"Yeah, I know—so?" she replied.

"I'll meet you at our apartment in a few days," Michael said. "I'll let you know when. I need to keep a low profile for a while."

"Gibbs thinks I'm seeing someone else," she said.

"Does he know who?" Michael asked.

"No, I don't think so," she replied. "But he is asking questions about my coming and going."

"Be careful, baby," warned Michael. "We don't want the cat to get out of the bag."

"Yeah," she answered.

Agent Benjamin Calloway of the FBI appeared on the TV.

"Agent Calloway," asked the reporter, "have you come up with any leads?"

"Well, nothing concrete," Calloway replied. "But we do have something we are looking into."

"Do you think it was a terrorist attack?" questioned the reporter.

"No, we are pretty sure it's not that," replied Agent Calloway. "It appears it may be a single bomber with some accomplice. It's just too early to tell."

"What do you think, Michael?" Latisha asked. "Who would do such a thing?"

"There are a lot of sick people out there in his world," he stated. "It could be anybody. It's sad that innocent people were killed to get one or two. But that's the way it works sometimes I guess."

"What do you mean?" she asked. "What one or two?"

"Oh, nothing, girl, I was thinking out loud. I'll see you in a few days," Michael said.

Then he reached for her and kissed her, gently rubbing his hands up and down her whole back side. "You still my girl?" he asked.

She slowly looked up at him, "Yes, I am," as she laid her head on his chest.

Early the next morning, there was a knock at Latisha's door. When she answered, it was Gibbs.

"I heard you were back," she said as he stepped in and closed the door.

"You don't seem so surprised," he said.

Then he grabbed her, kissed her hard, and jerked her by the hair of the head.

"Did you get what I wanted?" he yelled.

"No, not yet," she replied.

"When are you going to get it?" he asked. "You're running out of time."

"Soon," she said, "soon. I'm working on it. Michael is no fool."

"I want that book soon," he threatened, "or your bed partner is going to have a little accident." Then he shoved her away. As she fell to the couch he boasted, "Remember I can destroy you."

Then Gibbs left and Latisha was alone. She was torn on what to do. Michael kept the books for the mob, but secretly he made a second set. Gibbs found out about the book and was afraid Michael would use it against the family and destroy them. Gibbs was blackmailing Latisha to find the book. Gibbs and the family were afraid to approach Michael because they knew he could turn the state's evidence against them. The FBI was hot on the Delmottai family anyway. They didn't need any more heat, but when the right time came they would handle Michael permanently. Latisha was torn between the two. But no matter what, she had to look after herself first.

A few days later, she heard from Michael. He came by and picked her up. They stopped off and got a bite to eat and then they headed downtown. Michael didn't have a lot to say.

"I wish it would rain," he said.

Latisha was praying he hadn't found her out. He asked if Gibbs had come by. She told him he had come by the other day. He asked her what he wanted. She told him that he came by to let her know he was back in town. Then suddenly, they pulled into the hospital parking lot.

"Michael what are we doing here?" she asked.

A hospital employee wheeled a man out in a wheelchair. Evidently he was being dismissed. She watched as he got into the passenger seat of an old Buick. Latisha then heard Michael talking to himself; no, he was talking to someone through an earphone microphone.

"He's pulling off," he said. Then they followed.

"What is going on, Michael?" she cried. "First the courthouse, now this!"

"Shhh, baby, trust me, okay?" he asked. "Just sit back and enjoy the ride."

She was afraid. She didn't know which one was worse, Michael or Gibbs. They followed about two or three car lengths behind the man. They traveled down Peachtree Street, across town toward the interstate. By the time they reached the corner of Gammons and Ferguson, they were right behind the Buick. There was one car in front of it when they reached the red light. Latisha couldn't help noticing a man working on the light pole beside the road. Then she heard Michael talking to someone, again.

"Okay, Skip and Gulley, he's almost right above you," guided Michael. "Kill the light."

Latisha didn't say a word. She watched and listened. He was telling someone that the man's car was right above the manhole. The light seemed to be stalled. They sat there for a few minutes. Then she heard Michael say, "Let's move. Move it. Good job, I'll be in touch."

As the light changed they followed the Buick from a distance, making their way onto the freeway. Not far down the road, Michael pulled a small box with a light and a button on it out of his pocket.

"Watch this, baby," he said as he pressed the button. Boom! The car they had been following exploded, flipping over and over down the freeway into a roll and then stopped upside down. Boom! It was engulfed in flames.

Latisha cried out, "Michael, Michael, what have you done?"

There were wrecks happening everywhere. Pieces of cars scattered all across the freeway. People crawled out of their cars as sirens once again filled the air. Latisha didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to do. She was so scared. Who was this monster she had been sleeping with? Quickly, they took the next exit and disappeared into the traffic.

"I want to go home," Latisha cried.

"But, baby," he said.

"Michael, now," she replied. "Don't touch me. You're crazy."

"Oh, come on, Latisha," he said, "don't you think this is a lot more fun than trying to find my book?"

She didn't say a word. She froze.

"Okay, girl, I'll take you home," he replied.

"How did you know?" she asked.

"I bugged your apartment," he laughed.

She took a deep breath, and her hands were trembling.

"What now?" she asked.

"Now, I'll take you home," he replied.

A few days later at the federal building, Agent Calloway, head of operations in the courthouse bombing case, had put together a theory on the case. Calloway and his crime team had concluded that the bomb was hidden under Judge Harville's bench. When the judge struck the gavel, it triggered the explosive. After going over employee records, it appeared that the bomber, who they didn't know yet, took a job as a custodian at the courthouse a few weeks prior to the bombing. From the residue found on one of the custodian carts, the culprit must have smuggled the explosive in a little at a time, possibly in a lunch box. As time grew near, he assembled the bomb at work and concealed it behind a fake wall under the judge's bench. A custodian was a perfect position, because they had access to almost everywhere in the courthouse. No one would question a custodian cleaning a judge's bench; that was his job.

"But what was the motive?" asked one officer.

"And who is this master mind?" asked another.

"We don't know yet," explained Agent Calloway, "but there is something else. We believe the courthouse bombing and the bombing on the freeway are connected somehow."

"Do you think it's the same bomber or a copycat?" asked an officer.

"It could be either. We're working on it," Calloway said.

"Are there any suspects?" asked another officer.

"The courthouse employees' ID photos give us a little insight. But we are afraid the bomber may have worn a disguise."

Agent Gilliam walked in with a file and handed it to Calloway. After carefully reading it, he briefed the team on the updated report.

"The explosion specialist has reconstructed the bombing," stated Calloway. "They found that the force of the gavel caused a hair spring trigger to set off the explosives that lined the judge's bench.

"The car bomb was placed under the car—possibly between the time he left the hospital and got on the freeway, maybe even at the hospital. The car bomb was what they call a paper bomb because it is so thin, yet carries a big explosion. Packed between two pieces of coated paper with nitrogen, a series of small wires are connected together with microchips acted as dynamite caps. The bomb was placed under the vehicle with magnetic tips flat against the bottom, unseen to anyone as the vehicle moves down the road. It was triggered by a sound frequency that fuses the microchips with the nitrogen, creating the explosion. It sounds very complicated but can be made fast and at home in your living room.

"Also, the report includes the last five years of Judge Harville's cases; we will focus on the ones that involve District Attorney James Russell Taylor, the victim in the car bombing. There were several cases through the years. We are handing them out to you. Do your homework. We'll have another briefing tomorrow. If you run across anything, bring it to us immediately. Time is of the essence," he said.

The investigation went on. Every agent and police officer in Atlanta was searching the streets, putting the word out if anyone knew anything to let them know. The bombings had stopped, thank the Lord, and Michael had disappeared.

The temperature was steadily climbing each day. It reached 99 degrees. The heat was taking a toll on every one.

It had been weeks since Latisha had heard from Michael. She really didn't know if she wanted to. Gibbs was pushing her hard and riding her back about the book. She hadn't told him that Michael knew about the double cross. She was afraid Gibbs would kill her so she decided to keep it to herself.

Finally, the FBI received a break. From the court records and transcripts of a trial they learned that Judge Harville had tried a rape/murder case of an eighteen-year-old girl in 1986. She had been assaulted by Dewayne Bartley, a two-bit hood with connections to the Delmottai family. Bartley was doing some small time work for the Delmottai family.

Michael Beckett's daughter was walking home from the library. About two blocks from her house, Bartley pulled up beside her, placed a rag full of chloroform over her mouth, and forced her into his car. Then he drove across town to an abandoned warehouse owned by the Delmottai family.

When she started to come to, she began to scream. Quickly he started hitting her, beating her up beyond recognition. Next he raped her, not once, but twice. She died after the beating. They found his hair particles and traces of his semen on her body; her blood residue was found on him and his clothes. A reasonable without a doubt case, or so everyone thought it was. It appeared to be open and shut but they let him walk. He appeared to have a solid alibi with a crowd of people to back it up, influential people. Because of a legal technicality the girl's father, Michael Beckett, swore he would get even. They had to remove him from the courtroom.

"Beckett, Michael Beckett, where have I heard that name before?" asked Calloway. "Oh, yes, ain't he the bookkeeper for the Delmottai family?"

"I believe you're right," spoke up Gilliam, Calloway's partner. "Isn't that a strange situation?"

"Whatever happened to this Dewayne Bartley?"

"He disappeared after the trial. The word out on the street," said Gilliam, "is that the Delmottai family sent him out of town to take the heat off the situation."

"I want everything you can find on this Beckett guy, ASAP! Put out an APB on him, and let's bring him in for some questioning. See if you can find Dewayne Bartley."

South of Atlanta stood the old civil war mansion of the Delmottai family, the Sleeping Willows Estate. It stood four stories tall, spanned 12,650 square feet, and had fifteen bedrooms, two kitchens, a pool, a golf course, and a gym with indoor bowling and racquetball. The outside was enhanced with a lake, a circle drive lined with twenty-eight weeping willows from the entrance to the house, three fountains, a twelve foot fence, and high tech surveillance.

Latisha was on her way to the mansion. When she arrived Gibbs was waiting outside for her.

"Now there's my favorite girl," said Gibbs.

"Hello, Gibbs," she replied.

"Come here, baby," he said. "Let me give you a hug," he said.

"You stay away from me," she cried. "I want out of this crazy mess. Michael has disappeared, probably left Atlanta."

"Oh, he has," said Gibbs.

"I don't know where he is or where the book is," she insisted. "I want out."

Quickly Gibbs grabbed her and slapped her. "Before you go, let's have a little ride for old times' sake."

She tried to fight back, but he slapped her again and grabbed her hair and twisted her arm. Then he forced her into the house to a side room where he raped her and beat her. She cried and screamed. She begged him not to. She fought back with all she had but he was too strong for her. Then he grabbed her by the neck and picked her up and shoved her out into the hallway. She hit the wall first then the floor. Latisha didn't know what to do. She had never seen him like this.

"Get out of here," he screamed, "you whore! I'll find the book myself!"

She gathered her things and ran through the house crying.

She jumped in her car. As she passed the last willow down the drive she knew it was time for her to leave Atlanta. She raced back to her apartment. When she got there, there were two men waiting for her outside. She eased out of the car as they approached her.

"Latisha Bridge," one of them said.

"Yes, that's me," Latisha replied.

"I'm Agent Calloway and this is Agent Gilliam, FBI. We want to ask you some questions about a Michael Beckett."

They looked her over. She was a mess.

"You look like you had a pretty rough night, Miss Bridge. Who did this to you?" asked Agent Gilliam.

"Never mind that," she replied nervously. "How can I help you? How is it that I'm supposed to know this Michael...uh, what did you say his last name was?"

"Beckett," replied Agent Gilliam. "We understand you know him very well."

"Really!" she replied. "I really don't know what you mean."

"Have you ever heard of an escort service named Night Angels, the Delmottai family, Gibbs, and possibly the bombings that are taking place around Atlanta?" asked Calloway.

She didn't say anything. "I want to see a lawyer," she demanded.

"There's no need for that," said Calloway. "We want your help."

"My help?" she cried. "Are you crazy? Do you want to get me killed? These guys are crazy!"

"Hold on, Miss Bridges. We want you to help us find Michael Beckett," replied Calloway.

"You want me to be an informant," she said.

"In a roundabout way," interrupted Gilliam.

"I can't find him," she replied. "I don't know where he is. He's gone, disappeared. He's probably not even in Atlanta."

"We think he is," spoke up Calloway, "and we believe you can find him. He will be getting in touch with you some time or another."

"So you want me to fish him out in the open. What's in it for me?" she asked. "What do I get, a hero's plate to hang on my wall?"

"You have a choice of two things," replied Calloway, "Spend the next few years in prison, or be relocated with a new name, new life, and a new start."

"I don't know," she said, "let me think about it."

"Let me know," replied Calloway, "within the next twenty-four hours."

Then they started to leave.

"Wait a minute," she said. "I'll do it. I'll see what I can do."

"We'll be in touch," they replied.

Back at headquarters Calloway received an update on Beckett. It appeared that Beckett had no previous arrest or record. His military file showed that he was in the Special Forces and was a top class demolition expert, one of the best. Calloway paused for a minute.

"We just got a tip that Beckett has an apartment on the eastside. Here's the address, Georgia Towers, 4107 Twin Lane," said Gilliam.

"Let's get a stakeout over there on the double," instructed Calloway. "Oh, by the way, what do we have on the Delmottai family?"

"Got it right here," replied Gilliam. "A whole file—racketeering, money laundering, murder, prostitution, gambling, bribes, conspiracy, need I go on?"

"No, that's good," replied Calloway. "Let's find this guy."

Meanwhile, Gibbs was also searching for Michael Beckett. He wanted to find him before the Feds did. But after trying their resources, he could not be found. Gibbs thought Latisha must be right. He must have left Atlanta. But where would he go?

"Let's make calls to some friends in the other cities and see if he turns up there. Wait a minute," said Gibbs to the others. "I have a better plan. Let's lay low for a while and let the Feds do our work for us. We'll follow them around and when they have him, we'll take him."

While Gibbs was waiting and the Feds were working, Michael dressed as a homeless man. He was dressed in a pair of wrinkled dark blue pants and a wrinkled work shirt with the name Bubba on it. He had a stubby beard and had his long hair tucked in under a ball cap. He wore wire rim glasses with a piece of scotch tape around the left earpiece. He rented locker #407 at the bus station downtown, close to the federal courthouse. He placed a package in it, and then left. It was addressed to Georgia's Federal Attorney's Office, Federal Building, 1274 Peachtree Street, Atlanta, Georgia. The return address read only "Bones."

Michael roamed around Atlanta disguised, a trick he learned in the Special Forces. Back at the station, one of the police informants told the Feds that there were two guys working with Beckett, Skip Brown and Gulley Simons, both from out of town.

"Did you get a description of these guys?" asked Calloway.

"Yes, we got them," replied the officer.

"Good work," praised Calloway. "Let's get an APB out on them."

"Sir," interrupted the officer, "There's something else."

"What's that?" said Calloway.

He said, "There are some dirty cops in the police department working with the Delmottai family."

"Okay, I see," he replied. "We'll check it out. By the way, what's this informant's name in case I want to talk to him again?"

"I don't know his real name," said the officer, "but he goes by the name Bones. He's a homeless man."

"Good job, officer," encouraged Calloway. "Gilliam, have we had any luck with the stakeout?" he asked.

"Negative," replied Gilliam.

"Keep me informed," ordered Calloway. "Have we heard anything from Beckett's girlfriend?"

"She said she hadn't heard a word from him. But she did say one of her girls went out with a guy who looked like him, but she said it wasn't him," replied Gilliam.

"How does she know?" asked Calloway.

"Latisha knows. Believe me, take my word," replied Gilliam.

"Well, keep on it," commanded Calloway.

A massive manhunt was put out in Atlanta for Michael Beckett, Skip Brown, and Gully Simons. A few days later, Latisha called the station to talk to Calloway. She told him that Michael had told her that he would be at their apartment Friday night at 9:00, that he would meet her there. He wanted to see her.

"Did he say anything else?" questioned Calloway.

"No, he didn't," she replied.

On Friday Calloway sent in reinforcements, snipers and all. "We got him in our trap, men," boasted Calloway to the team in a briefing. "We want him alive if possible, but we will take him dead if he doesn't want to cooperate. Stay on your toes, men, look sharp, and be alert," warned Calloway. "This guy is not your run of the mill thug."

The clock ticked, the hours passed, and the swat team and others had all but moved into position. Hearts throbbed, hands sweated, and all eyes shifted about and watched.

"Do you see anything?" Calloway whispered into his walkie-talkie.

"Not yet, sir," replied an officer. "But wait, sir, I can see some movement in the room. It's dark, but there's someone in there. I can't tell if it's Beckett or not."

In a few minutes the light came on. There was someone sitting in a chair in front of the window.

Suddenly the officer got a good look at the other guys. "It appears to be Skip Brown and Gulley Simons, sir," he reassured them.

"Okay, men, she should be here soon," said Calloway. "Keep alert."

Time passed, all was quiet, when all of a sudden a voice came across the walkie-talkie, "Someone is coming, sir."

The men gripped their triggers and wiped the sweat from their eyes. The tension was growing.

"Wait, wait a minute," the officer replied. "It's only a homeless man."

"Get him out of there," said Calloway.

The officer motioned for the man to get back, but the man didn't understand, so the officers eased over and pulled him back. The man quickly went over and hovered down by some trashcans, afraid to move.

"There she is," said Calloway. "She's late. Give her time to get in and back out, then we move in."

As Latisha made her way into the building, the FBI waited on pins and needles. Calloway wondered what was taking so long.

"I see her, sir," said one of the snipers across the street in the other building. "She just now walked in."

"Okay, men, as soon as she is out of the building, move in," commanded Calloway, "on the double."

In a few minutes she turned and went out the door. At the same time the SWAT team began to move. As her feet hit the ground outside, the team kicked the door in at the apartment. Gun fire opened up from both sides. When the shots were over the lieutenant gave a report. Skip Brown and Gulley were dead, along with two officers. A man tied in a chair in front of the window was dead also, but it was not Beckett. About that time they started hearing a tick-tick, tick-tick.

"It's a bomb!" screamed the lieutenant.

Quickly everyone scrambled. But it was too late. With a Boom, the apartment exploded, blowing windows out everywhere. As a big ball of fire shot up, the building exploded into a gigantic ball of light, lighting up the whole block.

"Oh my God," cried Calloway.

As the team rushed to help the injured the sirens sounded again throughout Atlanta. Ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars were immediately on the scene. A deep black smoke smothered the building as they tried to evacuate the tenants. Everyone was helping, people were crying out. The windows in the building across the street were all blown out. There was glass everywhere. Calloway stood speechless in the background. In the confusion and the chaos he watched the building go up in flames. The homeless man came up to him and asked him for a light. Calloway replied back, "I'm sorry, I don't smoke." As the homeless man started to leave, he bumped into him. "I'm sorry," he said.

"That's alright," replied Calloway.

Then the homeless man disappeared into the alley. "The heat is terrible," said Calloway as he stepped in to help the victims.

The night lingered on as only an empty shell of a building stood. Smoke lingered about the wet debris as the smell of death haunted the city of Atlanta once again. As the last of the smoke smoldered over the rubble, night rested on Atlanta. Life went on as the screams of the sirens tainted the streets of the city.

It was late at the station, and Calloway rested at his desk trying to put the pieces of the case together. He searched for his pen to jot down a few notes when he suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Carefully he opened it, and found a list of names of six crooked cops on the payroll of the Delmottai family. The note was signed by Bones. Then he remembered the homeless guy that asked for a light. Carefully, he looked over the names and spent the rest of the night working on the men on the list.

A week later all was still calm. The police had searched the city with a fine tooth comb. Nobody had seen or heard a thing. It was like the bomber was a ghost. They believed he was probably hiding out in the underground, but luckily there had been no more bombings.

By the end of the week, Agent Gilliam came in. "Calloway," he said. "We got the dental records back. Skip Brown and Gulley Simons were two of the men killed in the apartment bombing. Guess who was tied up in the chair?"

"Bartley," answered Calloway.

"Right, Dewayne Bartley," replied Gilliam, "the guy who raped and murdered Beckett's daughter."

"Anything else?" asked Calloway.

"Brown's car was parked behind the building. We found some maps of Louisiana and some food bags from some Baton Rouge restaurants. Inside Bartley's wallet was the name of a hotel and a number there. We checked the number and it belonged to Bartley's girlfriend. The agent there questioned her. Bartley had been hiding out there. Evidently Brown and Simons went to Baton Rouge to get him and bring him back here. Beckett must have decided to kill them all," stated Gilliam.

Calloway turned to Gilliam, "Pick up Latisha and bring her in now!"

Meanwhile, Calloway went to talk to the captain. When he arrived he talked to him in private about the information on the crooked cops on his force. He gave the captain the list of names and showed him evidence against them that he had already found—there was more. He explained that some of the officers had been on the take for at least ten years.

The captain brought immediate action against them. First he relieved them of their duties without pay until further notice, depending on the hearing. An internal affairs investigation was set. The officers, if found guilty, could be sent to prison.

By evening, Latisha had been found. She was in the process of leaving town.

"Get in here!" yelled Calloway.

As she stepped in, he slammed the door shut behind her. Calloway yelled at her. But she wasn't bashful; she dished it back to him. She was full of spirit. They were screaming and hollering. You couldn't hear much of what they were saying, but you could tell both of them were getting their points across. Suddenly the door opened, and they walked out as Latisha continued to talk.

"If I knew anything new on Michael I would tell you, but I don't," she cried out.

"You said he calls every once in a while," said Calloway. "The next time he calls, I want you to set up a meeting with him at the Dog Patch Alley in the underground. Let me know when, and we'll take care of the rest. Got it?"

Nervously she started to speak up.

"Don't worry, Latisha, you'll be fine. We'll take care of you. Trust me," he said. "Call me. That's all you have to do."

"I'll call," she replied.

She left quickly.

"Can you trust her?" asked Agent Gilliam.

"No, I'm afraid not. She's in love with him," replied Calloway. "But right now she's my only hope."

The five or six days seemed like months. While waiting, Captain Stewart of the Atlanta Police Department wrapped up the internal affairs cases of the six officers. Because of the evidence Calloway provided and the ongoing investigation of his department, they were arrested and awaiting trial. There was enough evidence on the Delmottai family and some other mobsters for an indictment.

Then the phone rang, and one of the officers answered.

"It's for you, sir."

Calloway answered. It was the call he had been waiting for. Latisha said the meeting with Michael had been arranged for 2:30 a.m. Friday. Calloway thanked her, told her she would be alright, and then hung up.

On Tuesday before the meeting, Calloway called a special meeting with the team. They went over every piece of information that they had on Beckett: his military record, his family, and his habits. Hours and hours were spent getting prepared. When the day was over, Calloway looked across the room at the team and said, "Men, not only is he a high explosive expert, he is a marksman, too. Bring him in or bring him down. Get a good night's sleep. I want you all here at seven in the morning."

Since Calloway's last talk with Latisha he seemed troubled. Gilliam noticed.

"What's troubling you, Calloway?" Gilliam asked.

"No, there's nothing, really," replied Calloway.

"Come on, Ben, you can't lie to me. I'm your partner," he said. "But if there is something we need to know, you need to tell us before we go out there."

"I suppose you're right," he replied. "I'll take care of it."

Then he walked away.

"Goodnight, Ben," mumbled Gilliam.

The DJ gave the forecast over Calloway's radio, "It is another hot and muggy day in Atlanta with the temperature rising to the upper nineties with no rain in sight. It has been one of the longest dry spells and one of the hottest summers on record." Calloway pulled into the station.

It was Wednesday morning, a few minutes before seven. He passed by his office and walked straight into the conference room.

He stated boldly and with confidence, "Men, this bomber we are looking for is a psychologically sick madman. I found out from a source that he has a malignant brain tumor, and he has only a few months to live. He has to be stopped before more people are killed. I tell you this because the man you're looking for has no reason to live; he has no hope, and will stop at nothing. How many more innocent lives will suffer depends on us. We have to bring him in or bring him down. I want snipers on both sides of the roof, in the windows above the alley, and a ground crew spread out in full camouflage gear. I want the team to be at the alley at eleven o'clock, in position, and ready. Are there any questions? Alright, men, keep alert."

The hours ticked away as the burning hot sun set once again in Georgia and the approaching darkness of a devilish night fell. The city awoke with the appearing night skyline that sparkled like diamonds in the midst of the heat. It would be only a short time before the team would be locked into position, and choppers stood by. The clock ticked while most everyone was in bed; only a few partiers were still strolling by. The air sat still in the midst of the heat.

It was 2:30 a.m. when Latisha's car pulled up. The engine was still running as she nervously waited. Three o'clock passed and still not a sign. It was about as hot at night as it was during the day. She cracked her window and tried to take a deep breath. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't say anything because she was afraid of giving it away. She looked about the alley, but didn't see anyone. Maybe Calloway lied to her, set her up, she said to herself. Then she heard a voice from behind her, coming from the back seat.

"He didn't lie to you, baby, they're here. Trust me," Beckett said.

"What, Michael, what do you want?" she pleaded.

"All I want, baby, is a kiss for old times' sake," he said.

"Can you see anything?" asked Calloway to the others.

"No, sir," they replied.

"Can you tell what she's doing in the car?" asked Calloway.

"Negative, sir, it's too dark to tell," he replied.

"Hold your positions, men. Let's give it a little more time," warned Calloway.

Then Michael placed his arm around her neck as if to hug her. He passionately kissed her, and when she fought back, he quickly jerked his arm and snapped her neck. "Goodnight, baby," he said. Next, he eased her over to the other side of the seat, climbed over the seat, and got behind the wheel. Then he started moving the car slowly down the alley."

"What is she doing?" cried Calloway. "Hold your fire, men. Is she leaving? What in the world?"

About that time Michael threw open the car door, kicked her out onto the street, and sped out of there.

"Shoot, shoot, shoot!" cried Calloway.

Quickly, the marksmen began to fire. But the car had gone out of the alley.

Two weeks later downtown at the post office a homeless man mailed a package. It was the copy of the book on the Delmottai family. He sent it to the State Attorney General's Office in Atlanta. The return address read Bones. Three hours later, Michael Beckett walked into the police station covered with dynamite. Everyone grabbed for their guns and aimed at him, creating a standoff. Calloway turned and eased forward. He couldn't help but see the detonator in Beckett's right hand. The red light was on. Probably, if he let off the pressure the whole building would blow up.

"Okay, Beckett, what's the deal?" said Calloway. "How many more innocent people are you going to take?"

Beckett didn't say a word but slowly looked around at the arsenal surrounding him. As the policemen watched him carefully, sweat began to bead up on their foreheads and hands. For ten minutes Beckett stood, not even blinking an eye. Still he said nothing.

"What can we do?" he asked.

Beckett then very carefully pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and asked, "Calloway, you got a light?"

Calloway replied, "I don't smoke."

Then Beckett replied, "Oh, yes, that's right."

Quickly remembering, Calloway yelled, "Bones!"

About that time Beckett moved and the agents opened fire on him, shooting him several times and killing him. Slowly, they walked over to him. Michael lay sprawled out on the floor as blood began to run from his body. As they got closer they saw that the dynamite strapped about his chest were empty hulls. Then Calloway bent down to retrieve the detonator only to find it was nothing but a pack of lifesavers. The men stood quietly as Calloway said, "He wanted us to kill him."

*****

Beyond the Truth

Sweetwater Creek, Kentucky

It was the first full day of autumn in the year of our Lord 1952. I lived in the small town of Sweet Water Creek, Kentucky. My name is Willy Hornsby. My daddy nicknamed me "Poot;" he always said I was a little stinker. He calls my sister Margaret "Punkin." Daddy would always make me so mad. He would say that even though right now everyone was calling me Poot, when I got bigger they would call me Fart. He would laugh. I didn't think it was so funny. But when I got bigger people just called me William, thank the Lord.

I'll never forget that day as long as I live. It started off early that morning. I was in the back yard watching the birds fly. They were flying high in the grayish blue skies with a touch of clouds floating about. As I stood there, I watched them fly close together, swaying to the right then the left, then up and down, quickly turning about. I knew by their flight that cooler weather would be drawing near. I looked across the blue, and saw another swarm of birds flying recklessly as some perched upon the powerlines. At first there were several, and then at last there were only two or three. The leaves dressed the trees with bright romantic colors as some laid at rest on the ground, while others waltzed about in the quiet stir of the breeze.

I used to love summer, riding my bike and playing in the warm sunny days. I remember the summer showers that used to come and leave. I recall running about wildly out in the rain and getting soaked. Then it would stop raining and the sun would come out and dry it all up. You could smell the dust from the road where the rain had fallen. But as I grew older, autumn became my time of year.

We lived outside of Sweet Water in Sullivan County. Going by the road it was about a mile from town, but you could cut through the woods and it was closer, a half mile maybe. Across the river was Delk, Missouri, and to the south of us was Gutter Creek, Tennessee. People around here always did say that Sweet Water was at the point where Tennessee, Missouri, and Kentucky met. Sweet Water got its name from an old Indian saying. There was a beautiful Indian girl once named New Moon. She was half Indian and half white. She fell in love with an Indian boy named Painted Cloud. They were deeply in love. The old Indian folklore said that she blew him a kiss through the waterfall and their love was so strong between them, when the kiss passed through the water the water turned sweet.

We had lost Mama a couple of years ago to T.B.; I sure do miss her. She was the greatest mama in the world. I still think about her a lot. I miss her chocolate gravy and biscuits for breakfast. There was something about Mama that was special. She fixed fried rabbit with white gravy or sawmill gravy. We would pick wild spring lettuce at the spring. She would cut it up with some onions, and then pour hot bacon grease over it. Hush your mouth—it was good. She would bake some sweet potatoes and put a little brown sugar and butter on them. They were good, too. I always laugh when I think about what she always said. Mama called sweet potatoes music roots because they made you fart.

Everyone called Daddy "Coondog" for he had an eye for finding coons along with our dog, Miss Maggie. It was Daddy, my sister Margaret, and Miss Maggie. She was one of a litter of puppies that was running around everywhere. One day they were out in the road when they almost got hit by a car. That busted up the litter and after that Miss Maggie came to our house and hung around. Mama said not to feed her because she'll stay. We tried running her off, but she would always go behind the house and hide. Mama had a soft heart and gave into Miss Maggie and she has been here ever since.

We lived on Chicken Branch Road out in the boonies. We didn't have indoor plumbing. Whenever we had to use the bathroom, we went to the outhouse. At night, after dark, we used a slop jar in the back room. Then early in the morning we would empty it. When we took our baths, we would draw water from the well, heat it up and take our bath in a wash pan, also in the back room. We used coal oil lamps, and cooked on a wood cook stove. It may have not been much to some, but it was all we had. Mama and Daddy always taught us to be thankful.

It was that early autumn morning Daddy wanted us to go to Ethel's Store and get a few things. Ethel's was a country store that set not far up the road. That's where we bought a lot of things. Daddy would buy stands of lard, twenty-five pound sacks of flour and meal for five or six dollars. With ten dollars you could get a whole box full of groceries. I remember Daddy would give Margaret and me a quarter every Saturday and we would go to Ethel's and buy a soft drink, a snack, and some candy. Daddy liked Ethel's bologna. She would take a stick of it and slice it with a butcher knife as thick as you wanted, slap it on two pieces of loaf bread or crackers and then Daddy would douse it with hot sauce. That was his favorite and mine, too. I was like Daddy. Margaret liked cheese on crackers, her favorite.

We would pick up soft drink bottles on the side of the road and take them to the store and sell them. The store was a small building with a porch. People would always sit on it and pass the time. In the winter or rainy days they would sit inside around a wood stove. Ethel's husband would bottom chairs with strips of tree bark or grass strings. Sometimes he would weave broom straw together and make straw brooms. Sweet Water may have not been much to a lot of people but to us that grew up there, it was an interesting place.

That day, Daddy sent us to Ethel's to get a pound of bologna, half pound of cheese, a loaf of bread, and drinks. Margaret and I took the path through the woods, which was shortest through the old Vernon Hensley place. Margaret and I walked along the dirt road barefoot. It was still early autumn and we still had a little summer like weather. I recall stopping in the road and patting my foot in the dust and it would shoot up between my toes. Our feet were covered with dust, plum up to our ankles. Miss Maggie stayed home with Daddy. He loved to squirrel and rabbit hunt, and so did Miss Maggie. Daddy has said he and Miss Maggie might try their luck that day. We made our way to Ethel's and got our things. But on the way back we decided to stop off at the spring house and get us a cold drink of water from the old underground spring that fed into the spring house.

It was a beautiful lazy "Indian summer day," as the old folks called it. The workers in the fields were harvesting their crops. The trees were ablaze with fiery colors. The wind was warm, but yet with a touch of coolness about it. As we neared the spring house, we saw a couple of deer drinking from the outside pool of water from the spring. About the shed there were a couple of squirrels playing in the top of some nearby trees. Daddy should have been here. The shed was made out of lumber. It was weathered from the years of old. There was one door and two small windows with a rusty tin roof nearly covered with fallen leaves. Inside there was a wooden floor. In some places the floor was dirt and other places it was wood. There was also a boxed in well which housed the incoming water from the underground spring into a pool. The water was cold, I remember that day, and it kept a slow stir with it. The incoming water moved slowly in, causing the pool to stir. There was an overflow pipe that ran out of the shed where the animals drank. There was an old wood tool closet inside where they kept tools or storage stuff. Above the tool closet was some shelving. Margaret and I used to come here and play. But on this day that we stopped off to play, and get a cold drink of water. It would be our last time for the rest of our lives.

It happened that day that Margaret and I were playing around the shed, throwing up leaves, covering ourselves, rolling on the ground, laughing, and having fun. We suddenly stopped when we heard a car coming up the old log road. We both thought it was strange. We had never seen anyone there before. Quickly, we panicked, looking for a place to hide. From the sound of the car, it sounded close. Running through the woods, we'd surely be seen. So we went into the shed, got inside the tool closet and closed the door. Then suddenly, the car pulled up in front of the shed. In a few moments we heard talking and laughing. We couldn't see a thing, but we could hear them. It sounded like two boys and a girl. We were scared to death. We were so scared we were frozen, couldn't move, except our eyes. Then we heard another voice. It was three boys and I knew they were drinking because I heard them ask another boy to toss him a beer. I started to say something to Margaret but before I could she put her hands over my mouth, afraid it might give us away. After that I didn't say a word. In a few minutes, they left the car and headed for the shed. We could hear them talking but it didn't sound good. The girl was already drunk from her slurred speech and falling about. She could hardly stand up. The boys laughed at her and poked fun, trying to smooch on her. As they made their way into the shed, we sat scared for our lives. Human instinct told Margaret and me it was not good, something bad was going to happen. We could see them pretty good through the cracks in the door of the closet, but the way the light from the outside came in, I didn't believe they could see us. The tool shed was shaded. Two of the boys we knew. We had seen them around before. We didn't know their names until they gave it away in their conversation. There were three white boys and one white girl. The leader the main boy's name was Larry Wayne. The other boys were Danny Lee and Roger Dale. The girl's name was Betty Sue. We didn't know her. We had never seen her before. As they talked things started to get out of hand. It was beginning to get rough. They started passing her around to each other.

As we were humped down in the tool closet, Margaret felt something crawling across her feet. I quickly looked down and so did Margaret. There we saw a big rat crawling over her feet. We quickly gasped for breath of air, afraid to make a sound, afraid we'd get caught.

Then suddenly Danny Lee said, "Did you hear that?"

"Oh, it's nothing," said the other boy. "You're just paranoid."

"Back off," replied Roger Dale.

"Both of you shut up," cried out Larry Wayne.

Then suddenly Larry Wayne grabbed her by the hair of the head and jerked her around. At the same time Margaret quickly placed her hands over my eyes and placed my head against her chest. I didn't know what was happening. We were so afraid, afraid of getting caught and for the girl. As Margaret watched, she held me tighter and tighter to her. Larry Wayne then jerked off her blouse. I could hear the clothes tearing. Margaret had begun to cry because I felt her teardrops hit the top to my head. Then Larry Wayne knocked her to the floor as one boy held her feet and legs down the other held her hands over her head and each of them had their way with her. I might not have seen what was happening, but I could make it out by the sound of it. The girl began to scream and fight back, but it didn't do any good. The boys were too strong. They slapped her and hit her with their fist. But she couldn't get free. She cried out for help, but we were so afraid we couldn't do anything. I was so afraid, I wet in my pants. Luckily, the boys were so preoccupied with her they paid us no never mind. If they would have found us, we too may have gotten killed. She fought to get away, she suddenly turned her head toward us. Margaret slipped her hands from my eyes, I quickly looked up at Margaret. She had placed her hands over her mouth to stop from screaming. I turned again, Margaret and the girl's eyes met. I never forgot the expression on the girl's face. She must have somehow got a glimpse of Margaret through the cracks of the tool shed door. Then in a few minutes Larry Wayne grabbed a rock near him and struck her in the head three times. Blood splattered the inside shed. The girl was dead. Her half nude body lay motionless with her eyes still open. I quickly turned and buried my face in Margaret's chest. I held back my tears and so did Margaret, afraid we'd get caught. Two of the boys carried her to the outside. Larry Wayne walked over to the corner across form us and took a leak. I heard one of them say to get the shovel out of the car. Luckily they had a shovel.

Then the boy who was getting the shovel said, "We forgot the damn thing."

"I thought you put it in the car."

"No," the other boy replied. "You were supposed to get it. What are we going to do now?"

Chills ran down our spines as we just knew they would look in the shed.

We began to pray, "Oh, my God, please......."

About then Larry Wayne yelled from the inside, "I've got one. There's one in here leaning against the wall."

Then Larry Wayne grabbed the shovel and headed outside. "Thank you, Lord" was all we had the strength to whisper. Tears filled our eyes at what we had witnessed. Our bodies trembled as we tried to hold on and not get caught. As we quietly waited, we could hear them digging the hole. Two of the boys were arguing over who was going to dig it. Larry Wayne stepped in and told them to keep their damn mouths shut and take turns. He stood and watched while he smoked his cigarettes. We were praying they would hurry up and leave. Finally, they dug a shallow grave and placed her in it and covered her up. Roger Dale slung the shovel over in the woods. You could hear it as it hit a tree and bounced. Then we heard the car crank and they quickly turned around, driving off as Margaret and I busted out of the shed and headed home.

We ran as hard as we could for home. We stopped and looked back. It looked like the boy in the backseat had turned around and looked out of the back window. Then all of a sudden the car slid into a stop. As they got out and looked back Margaret and I hugged the ground, not to be seen. They must have thought they saw something, because they got into the car and left. We tore out for home. But before we got home Margaret stopped me and made me swear not to tell Daddy.

"Those boys are evil white boys and if they know we saw them they may try to kill us like that girl. Willy you got to keep quiet," she demanded. "Don't say a word. You promise?"

"But, Margaret," I replied.

"You promise?" she questioned me.

"I'll try," I replied. "I'll do my best."

"It's for our own good," she said. "You know how white people are toward Negroes."

When we got back home, Daddy hadn't got back yet. I didn't have a whole lot to say and neither did Margaret. We stayed close together, not letting each other out of sight. Later in the evening, Daddy and Miss Maggie came home. We went ahead doing our chores, but looking over our shoulders thinking they may have seen us running through the woods. Daddy kept asking us if everything was alright.

"You two are awfully quiet," he stated. "Has the cat got your tongue?"

We kinda grinned and went on our way. He could sense something but couldn't put his finger on it.

"Poot," he said, "did something happen today at Ethel's?"

"No, sir," I replied.

"Will, what's wrong? Y'all seem to be preoccupied."

"Nothing, Daddy," replied Margaret.

"Now, Punkin," he said. "Don't tell me that."

"But Daddy," she replied.

"Oh okay, girl, I'll wait until you want to tell me when you get ready. Poot, do you want to help me clean the squirrels?"

I looked over to Margaret and she motioned for me to go on.

"I guess so," I said.

I held the hind legs of the squirrel and Daddy started cleaning it. I held it for a minute or two and then took off, throwing up. I couldn't handle it. Daddy put the squirrel down and came over to me. I was shaking and crying.

"Daddy, don't let them get me," I cried.

"Who get you, son?" Daddy replied. "What are you talking about? Come on Willie, you can tell me."
Then Margaret came up and we all sat as we told him what had happened. Daddy reached forth and grabbed us both in his arms.

"Oh my God," he cried, "oh my God."

We all started to cry. Daddy would look up from time to time but he didn't say anything.

"Do you think they saw you?" he asked.

Margaret replied, "I don't think so or they would have come after us. What are we going to do? I don't want them to hurt you, me, or Poot."

"Give me a little time to think about it," he replied. "Whatever y'all do, stay close to the house."

I reached down and grabbed Miss Maggie and told Daddy that she would protect us. A little while later Daddy called us in for supper. After the blessing he said, "Tomorrow we'll go into town and tell the sheriff."

"But Daddy," Margaret cried. "They'll get us."

"No, they won't," he assured us. "It's the sheriff's problem. Let him handle it."

"But Daddy," she cried.

"That's enough," he said. "My mind is made up."

Then Margaret quickly jumped up from the table and went to her room.

"Poot," he said, "What do you have to say for yourself?"

He dropped his fork in his plate and took off to Margaret's room.

"Well Lord, I don't know. What do I need to do?" he said out loud.

There was no answer.

As night fell heavy, Daddy sat watch. He didn't know if anything would happen or not. But, he wanted to be ready. Maggie lay at his feet and a shotgun lay in his arms while Margaret and I lay in her bed trying to get away from the awful scene in our minds. About one-thirty, I guess it was, Margaret and I had fallen asleep. About two forty five, Margaret woke up with a terrifying scream, crying out and fighting in the bed. I quickly jumped up and started to cry as Daddy leaped up out of his chair and ran over to us. While Maggie barked and paced the floor, Margaret fought against Daddy.

He cried out, "Baby, it's me, Daddy. Calm down, girl, it's me. Everything will be alright." Finally she fell out into his arms with tears in his eyes he cried out, "Lord, please help us."

I then quickly ran to him crying also, "Daddy, Daddy," I cried.

He reached over and grabbed me and hugged me, too. As he laid us back down in the bed Maggie jumped up in the bed also and laid her head in Margaret's lap.

"Are we going to be alright?" I asked him.

"Sure," he replied.

"It's all a bad dream now," he said.

"But will we wake up to a brighter day tomorrow?" I asked.

"Maybe tomorrow," he replied.

He then picked his gun up and rested it in his arms. As the day broke, the light of it laid hopeful promises as the sun slowly rose over the hill and hollows.

"A new day," said Daddy, "with a day of new hope."

No one had much to say that morning, even about last night. Everything was quiet, even Maggie. Daddy fixed us a bite of breakfast, but no one seemed to be hungry. I guess everyone was dreading the worse. We all loaded up in Daddy's truck, with Maggie in the back, and headed into town.

Margaret turned to him and said, "Daddy, I know you're doing the right thing. But I'm scared. I miss Mama so."

"I know you do," he said. "I miss her too."

"Daddy," she said. "What's going to happen when a Negro girl testifies against three white boys for murder?"

"I don't know, baby girl," he replied. "But all that matters is to do the right thing and the Lord will watch over us. Besides the white girl that got killed, you may be the way the Lord has to help bring justice for her. I trust in the Lord, that if you're in the right, he will be there for us."

As we pulled up in front of the police station, Daddy started to get out. Margaret and I just sat there.

"Now come on," he coached us. "Let's go and do what we need to do." Slowly we got out. I took one of his hands and Margaret took the other.

"You know Punkin," he said, "talking about your Mama, girl she would be real proud of you."  
"What about me, Daddy?" I asked.

"And you too, Poot. She would be real proud of you both."

As we made our way in, I couldn't help from noticing the looks on the white people's faces. I'm sure Daddy saw it, too, but he held his head and shoulder back and asked to speak to the sheriff. One old white woman sitting there reached down by her feet and picked up her pocket book, and sat it in her lap and folded her arms across the top of it.

"It will be just a minute, Mr. Hornsby."

Then the telephone rang and he answered.

"Thank you, deputy," Daddy replied.

We took a seat across from the old woman and her son. He walked over to me and started to talk. Then suddenly his mother got up, took him by the hand, and walked out the door. In a few minutes the deputy told us we could go in. It had been a while since Daddy had seen the sheriff. His name was Paul Louis. He and Daddy used to coon hunt together when they were growing up. The sheriff didn't live far from Daddy back then. I remember Daddy talking about it.

"Well what have we here, Coondog," he said. "Why I haven't seen you in a coon's age!"

"Glad to see you again, sheriff."

"Oh, you don't have to say that," he replied. "It's still Paul."

Then we took a seat and sat down. Margaret and Poot told him the situation of what had happened. He listened.

"That's the strangest thing. I was talking to Miss Bennett and she told me her daughter, Betty Sue, didn't come home last night.

"Daddy, I believe that was the girl's name," Margaret said. "I remember now they called her Betty Sue."

The sheriff sat for a few minutes and then he spoke. "Coondog you know as well as I do about Margaret testifying."

"I know what you're saying," answered back Daddy. "But Paul, we have to do what is right and let the judge take care of it."

"I know, but it may get hard on her. Are you willing to take that chance?" he asked. "I will do everything is my power to protect y'all. You know that."

"I know you will," Daddy replied.

"Alright," Paul said. "Let's hear what the children have to say."

Margaret and I told the sheriff exactly what had happened. It was definitely enough to open an investigation and bring the boys in for questioning.

"I would like for the children to meet us up at Vernon Hensley's old place," requested Paul. "If it would be alright and go back over everything once more. There may be something they'll remember that they forgot. I want a strong case against these boys. I want to put them away to they will never hurt anyone else."

Daddy asked us if we thought we could do that.

We both replied, "Yes, sir."

As we were leaving the police station a team of officers were on their way to Vernon Hensley's old place. We followed but first we were going to stop off at Ethel's and get us a cold drink and candy, Daddy's treat because he was proud of us for being so brave. By the time we reached Hensley's place Margaret had told Daddy that she was feeling a little better about it now. She told him that she thought she had done the right thing and that the sheriff, she believed, was a good man. I remember something Daddy said one time about it all. That it may take a long time to overcome what we saw that day but in time it will soon pass, to just make the best of it if we can. And that's what Margaret and I did.

When we arrived at the Hensley's place the police were already setting up to investigate the crime scene. They found the blood splattered inside the shed, the shovel, and the shallow grave. They collected some of the beer cans for possible fingerprints, along with the shovel and tire prints of the car. Paul asked Margaret and me to take our time and tell him exactly what we saw. Margaret and I went back over everything again leaving nothing undone. In a few minutes, they brought out her body.

"It's Betty Sue," said Paul.

The coroner took her for further examination. About that time Margaret and I turned toward Daddy and we buried our faces in his side.

"You can take the children home, Coondog," said Paul. "They've seen enough."

A deputy ran from inside the shed screaming, "Sheriff, we found the rock and it's got blood on it!"

It didn't take long for the sheriff to wind up the crime scene. The other deputies had picked up the suspect. It was pretty obvious the other two boys with Larry Wayne were Roger Dale and Danny Lee. The three boys had a list of troubles with the law. It was not a big surprise to Paul. They were picked up and brought in. The next few hours were crucial for the sheriff to build his case. The eye witness had been kept a secret since she was a minor.

Life went on for us. Daddy raised tobacco and corn. It was that time of year when his tobacco laid cut and piled in the field. He and some men were hauling it in and putting it in the barn to cure, to get it ready to strip and sell. The corn had all but been picked. It lay in the crib. We stayed close to home during that time. About the only time we left was to go to church on Sunday. I remember that first Sunday when we heard they had charged the boys with rape and murder and that bail had been denied. Daddy came home and fixed a big pot of chitterlings. He had washed and cleaned them five or six times Saturday and still had to clean them on Sunday. Daddy couldn't clean and fix them like Mama could. And you talk about stinking the high heavens up, he did with those chitterlings. When he cleaned them he had two buckets, bad stuff in one bucket and the good ones in the other bucket. Then he would put the good ones in a pot of boiling water and they were on their way. Also that day of the celebration, the sheriff came by. Daddy offered him some chitterlings, but he quickly turned him down.

"I just wanted to come by and see how y'all were doing," said Paul, "especially the children."

I heard Daddy tell him that we were doing alright and that we still had dreams and we still woke up in the night but we were doing as well as expected.

"That's good," replied Paul. "The girl was Betty Sue Bennett. She too was something from what I found out. She was two months pregnant. It was probably one of the boys and they were trying to get out of it and took it too far."

"Where was the girl from?" Daddy asked. "From around here?"

"She was from Horace Hill," replied Paul, "the other side of town."  
"Yeah, I know the place," Daddy spoke up.

"Her mother is dead. She has been dead about five or six years. She lived with her stepfather who drank, molested, and abused her they say. He may have been the father of her child from what I hear. Her dad had left them when she was two years old and about a year later her mother remarried."

"That's a shame," replied Daddy. "What about her stepfather?"

"I don't know. He had left a couple months back but no one has seen him since. The boys had been drinking that day and they picked Betty Sue up at the Blue-Tic-Hound Bar and Grill over on Highway 109. The D.A. is really pushing it. He's going after the death penalty. Jury selection starts in two weeks," he said. "Well, I've got to get back to the office. I'll talk to you later, Coondog."

"I'll see you, Paul and thanks for everything," Daddy replied.

Margaret and I waved bye. That afternoon it rained as Margaret and I looked out the window. A bad storm had hit with heavy rain and driving winds. Nearby you could hear a haunting cry of the lightning and thunder as it pressed down upon us. It continued throughout the night. About eleven thirty that night the darkness was divided by the taunting sound of sirens and lights from toward town. Something had happened, but what? Suddenly the phone rang.

I answered, "Hello ... Daddy, its Sheriff Louis."

Daddy quickly took the phone.

"Hello," he said.

"There has been a jail break. Larry Wayne and the other two boys have overpowered a jailer and have escaped through the boiler room. They are considered armed and dangerous. I'm going to send two deputies out there. Stay in the house. We're going to get them, Coondog. They can't get far," assured Paul

"Okay," Daddy replied. "Thanks, Paul, for calling. We'll be careful."

""What is it, Daddy?" we both asked in unison.

"Oh, it's nothing," he replied. "It's nothing for you two to worry about. Paul is going to take care of it."

"Daddy," spoke up Margaret.

"Yes, Punkin."

"They broke out of jail didn't they?" she questioned.

He then took us in his arms and said, "Yes they have."

As she became uneasy, tears filled her eyes.

"Hush, Punkin. Everything is going to be fine. Paul is going to catch them. You'll be alright."

"Daddy, I'm scared," cried Margaret.

"Me, too," I said as I hugged Daddy's neck tight.

"Let's cut the lights down," he warned.

"What about Maggie," I asked.

"She's outside," he replied. "She'll make a good watchdog for us."

In the meantime, I found out that Larry Wayne and the other two boys had escaped and split up. Danny Lee had hotwired a car and was headed for the Tennessee state line. Larry Wayne had something to take care of and planned to meet Roger Dale at the tunnel. It was about one thirty in the morning when suddenly Douglas Rutherford, the DA, awoke from his sleep. It was the phone. It was from the Sheriff. He told him about the escape. Then he heard something across the room as he turned on the light. He rose up in his bed to see what it was. He knew it couldn't be his wife, for she was out of town helping take care of her mother, unless she decided to come back early. As the light filled the room he looked across the bedroom.

"What the hell?" he cried out.

There sat Larry Wayne in a chair beside his bed. Quickly, the DA jumped up.

"How did you get in here?" he asked. "The police are looking for you," he stated. "I thought you would be long gone by now."

"Well, I'm not," replied Larry Wayne, "which is why I'm here. What about our deal? I've kept my end and I want to know about you."

"I'm working on it," assured the DA. "It's going to take a little time. We have to be careful."

"Time, I don't have much of it right now. I took care of the girl for you," said Larry Wayne, "before your wife found out about her and the baby. In return you were going to get Danny, Roger, and me off on these other pending charges if we did you a little favor, plus get us off over Betty Sue. Now they are crying for the death penalty. How do you think I feel?"

"I am, I am," cried the DA. "I'll take care of it. You haven't told Danny or Roger, or anyone else about the deal have you?"

"No I haven't," replied Larry Wayne. "It's between you and me."

"That's good," he said. "Keep it between us."

As the thunder roared, the lightning flashed down on the town. In the DA's bedroom window a silhouette accented his wall. His shadow and Larry Wayne stood there and the silhouette of a handgun was pointing at the DA's head.

"There is one, maybe two or three bullets in the chamber, leaving three empty," he stated. "How lucky do you think you are?" asked Larry Wayne.

The DA never said a word.

"Our deal meant a lot to me," he said, "especially my part of being a free man. I wonder just how important is your part to you."

Then he pulled the trigger back and slowly squeezed the trigger. Click went the trigger in the empty chamber.

"I have killed one already," boasted Larry Wayne. "One more won't matter."

The DA stood trembling as sweat lay across his brow.

"Larry Wayne don't do this," he cried. "I'll take care of it. I'll get right on it. Please...."

Larry Wayne slowly pulled the trigger again. The trigger released the hammer into the chamber. Click, sounded the gun. The chamber was empty. Then Larry Wayne started to laugh as he pulled the gun away.

"You're lucky," he said, "two times a winner, the third a loser."

The DA quickly sat down on the edge of his bed in relief.

"Don't worry, Mr. Rutherford, your secret is good with me unless you try something. I want you to know how serious I take our deal and my freedom."

Meanwhile, across the state line in Tennessee, Danny Lee's car had run out of gas and he was in the process of stealing another car when a state trooper and other police officers moved in on him. In trying to get away he opened fire and was shot and killed. Roger Dale had laid in wait for Larry Wayne at the tunnel. While Larry Wayne was on his way to meet with Roger, he had one more stop. Around three o'clock that morning he arrived at our house. There was a patrol car parked outside. Evidently he didn't see the officers. About then Maggie started to bark. Daddy stood to his feet and ran to the door. Margaret and I huddled close together as the officer met Daddy on the porch.

"What is it Maggie," said Daddy.

Maggie kept barking.

"She must have heard something," said one of the officers.

"Someone is out there," replied Daddy.

About then Maggie charged into the woods barking. In a few minutes, we heard a shot and Maggie squalling, and then it was silent. Carefully, Daddy and the officers moved toward the woods. Daddy shot twice in the air with his shotgun.

"Hold on, Coondog," said one of the officers. "Wait here for us."

Quickly Daddy reloaded and waited.

As the officers moved in the woods, everything got quiet. Margaret and I had stepped out onto the porch. Daddy looked back and saw us and told us to wait there. The officers searched the area with flashlights. In a few minutes one of them yelled.

"Over here."

Daddy took off into the woods. As he made his way to them he found Maggie dead.

"I'm sorry, Coondog," said the officer.

Then the other officer made the statement, "Whoever it was is probably gone by now. I'll call it in."

Quickly Daddy reached down and picked up Maggie in his arms and took her back to the barn. As Daddy walked out of the woods toward the barn, we ran over to him and started to cry. He placed Maggie down on the ground.

"We'll bury her in the morning," he said as we cried and held onto him.

"Daddy is it ever going to stop?" cried Margaret. "I wish we had never stopped at that old spring house."

"Everything will be alright," replied Daddy. "We are going through a bad time, but we have had bad times before and got through them."

Then I looked up at him and said, "Like when Mama died."

Then he reached down and picked me up and took Margaret by the hand and took us into the house. When morning broke, it met the day. There was one inmate dead and two still at large. The burial of Maggie was hard to let go. Daddy said some words over her and we placed wildflowers on her grave. We buried her at the edge of the woods and yard not far from the barn. As the day soon passed it seemed like Larry Wayne and Roger Dale had vanished off the face of the earth. Patrol cars searched the county over. But, Sheriff Louis was not quite sure of that. He believed they were still close by. He believed they were hiding out, but where?

Not far out of town was Arlene's. She ran a house of ill repute named the Glass House. Arlene McKinney was the madam. She had moved there about fifteen years ago. She was brought in by some high prestige officials. They had partnership in the business. The house was remodeled when she took it over. It was an old colonial mansion. The front of it was glassed in with import windows from Spain. The grounds about it were filled with beautiful gardens. The house itself had twenty-eight rooms, not counting the parlor and kitchen. Arlene worked young college girls from Kentucky and neighboring states. They were protected by the secret unknown officials. The girls came from everywhere to pick up some fast and easy money. A lot of them worked in the summer, others the weekends. There was always a fresh turnabout. There were plenty of girls wanting in on the action. Money talked. The house was off Highway 52 on US Junction 9 where three states met: Kentucky, Tennessee, and Missouri. They called it "The Point."

Betty Sue had worked there on and off until she got pregnant. Arlene let her go until after she had the baby.

There is a story about an old fort that stood where the house is today. Historians believed that in the 1700's a group of settlers built the fort. The settlers had dug a tunnel from under it to the river's edge to bring in supplies from off the ship. After several Indian attacks, disease and hardship, the settlers died out or moved on. The fort stood empty for years. Then one night a storm hit and lightning struck the fort and burned it down. As time passed, the tunnel had collapsed in some places. Then in the early 1930's a rich Kentucky Colonel bought the place and built the old colonial mansion there. He built it from the bottom up, as it is today. He reworked the tunnel and planted beautiful Victorian gardens about it. It was also said that through the years that the rising of the river washed out a cave in the banks that opened the entrance to the tunnel. The rich Kentucky colonel rumor has it that he was Arlene's and Betty Sue's mother's grandfather. That was only a rumor; it was never official. When he died, Arlene took the house over with the help of some of her granddaddy's friends. The tunnel was used to bring in the young girls and high profile clients into the house. From a trapdoor in the basement you had easy access to the house of sin.

A couple of days later Sheriff Louis received a tip that Larry Wayne and Roger Dale had been seen at Arlene's. So he waited until nearly dark and sent some men in the front door with a warrant and a team of officers at the mouth of the tunnel. As the officers searched the house, Larry Wayne and Roger left out through the tunnel. But as they neared the mouth of the cave, they were surrounded by Sheriff Louis and his deputies. Then all of a sudden Roger panicked and started shooting. Quickly, the sheriff and his men took cover in the tall grass, returning the fire. Then in minutes it seemed Roger had been hit.

Larry yelled out, "I'm coming out. Don't shoot."

"Throw down your gun!" cried the sheriff.

Roger lay on the ground bleeding. Larry Wayne threw out his gun and walked out with his hands up in the air. Quickly, they cuffed him and called for an ambulance to take Roger Dale to the hospital. Roger died on the way. Larry Wayne remained locked up away from the population. He stayed in a solitary cell until his trial.

Word of the capture and death of the convicts spread quickly. Sheriff Louis went by and told Coondog. They were all relieved. The sheriff told him that there was no need to worry.

"Larry Wayne will not escape from where he is now," he stated.

Arlene was never charged with harboring a fugitive. Her friend took care of that. Back at the jail Larry Wayne was yelling, "I want to talk to the DA!" But, no one paid him any mind.

Then after the sheriff got back to his office, the jailer said, "He wants to talk to the DA."

So then Sheriff Louis went back to Larry's cell. "What's the problem now?" asked the sheriff.

"I don't have no problem," he responded. "I want to talk with the DA, Mr. Douglas Rutherford."

"Now why do you want to talk to him for, to cut a deal?" replied the sheriff.

"Tell him I said to come and see me or else."

"It's late right now," replied the sheriff. "I'll tell him in the morning."

"You better," cried out Larry Wayne. "I've got a secret, sheriff."

"I bet you have," laughed Paul.

The night was quiet for a change. The sky was filled with stars and clear. There was a peace, or rest it seemed like, over the town.

Early the next morning, the sheriff ran into the DA. He told him that Larry Wayne wanted to see him. He just laughed it off.

"If I get the time," he replied, "I'll try to stop by."

Several days passed and Larry Wayne was still crying out to see the DA. Either he hadn't had time or he was avoiding him. The jailer told him to hush it up. Then finally, the DA stopped by.

"What can I do for you, Larry Wayne?" he asked.

"Oh, you're trying to be a smart ass," said Larry. "What the hell do you think I want?"

"I don't know," the DA replied. "I have no idea."

"Have you forgot about our little deal and your favor?" asked Larry.

"I don't know," he replied. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."

"Don't try to play stupid with me," cried out Larry Wayne as he reached through the bars to grab the DA. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. The judge would be glad to know what I know. Then you'd be behind these bars with me and then I'd kill you," he threatened.

"Now, now, Larry Wayne, well I've got to go," he said. "I don't believe we have anything else to talk about."

As the DA turned to leave, Larry Wayne spit on him and called him a son-of-a-bitch. Then the DA turned a bit and said to him, "It's my word against yours. Now, who do you think they will believe?"

"We'll see, Mr. big shot DA man. We'll see!" screamed Larry Wayne."

The DA never saw Larry again until the trial. The court had appointed Larry Wayne a public defender. Her name was Shelly Bean. She had only been out of law school for about three years and didn't have much courtroom experience. She talked to Larry Wayne several times, getting the case together. Taking into consideration the evidence, two eyewitnesses, and his previous record it didn't look very good. All he wanted was to take the stand. His attorney didn't feel like that was a good idea considering his case, anger issues, and hostility.

Weeks passed and the jury was finally selected. The state wanted the death penalty and the defense was hoping for life without the possibility of parole. The trial lay ahead.

Things had settled down around home, too.

"Within a few days it will all be over with," encouraged Daddy, "and then we can go on with our lives."

Margaret had made her way to Mama's graveside several times in the last few weeks. She missed Mama. We all did. Daddy was strong for us in ways, but there were the times Mama bared the test. I guess Mamas are like that. They could fill in the blanks when no one else could. The day that Margaret went to visit Mama, I went with her and stood far off. I knew she wanted to talk to Mama alone. She told Mama she loved her and missed her and wished she was here for us all. Tears filled her eyes and she started to cry.

"Mama, I am so afraid I don't know what to do. I don't want to testify against a white man or anyone else. Why, Mama, did we have to see it? Why couldn't we have gone the other way? Mama," she cried out, "it's not fair!"

As she broke down, she laid her head upon the grave and wept. In a few minutes, I went to her and took her by the hand.

"It's time to go," I said.

She stood up without saying a word except to say bye to Mama. As we made our way home, we were both quiet. Then we looked up and saw a rainbow in the sky. We smiled and looked at one another and headed home. There had been several rumors about two Negroes testifying against a white man, even if it was Larry Wayne. That didn't seem to set well with some of the townspeople. There were some who didn't like it and others who saw no harm. They hoped Larry Wayne would finally get what was coming to him. There was one rumor that someone was going to jump Daddy. But, it was only a rumor.

Finally, the dreaded day had come. The officers escorted Larry Wayne to the courthouse. When Larry saw us he stopped dead in his tracks and stood looking at Margaret. Then Daddy stepped up beside her and stared at Larry Wayne. The officers nudged him to go on as Larry never said a word. Then he stopped again and started laughing out loud. Daddy stepped as if to dare him to make a move. But Larry Wayne didn't. Then the officer escorted him on into the courthouse. The people outside didn't say a word. They kept their distance from us. The courtroom was packed. We had to go into the balcony to sit. That was where Negroes sat.

About that time the bailiff said, "All rise. The commonwealth state of Kentucky versus Larry Wayne Byers is now in session with Honorable Judge Sawyer Woodard presiding. Are the defense and prosecution ready?"

"Yes, your honor," they stated.

"You may go ahead, prosecutor," said the judge, "with your opening remarks."

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the state has enough evidence and an eyewitness who actually saw Mr. Byers commit this horrible vicious crime. We also have witnesses who saw Mr. Byers, Danny Lee, and Roger Dale with the victim last. We are going to prove without a shadow of a doubt that the vicious murder of Betty Sue Bennett was willfully done, staged, and carried out by the hand of Larry Wayne Byers. That's all, your honor."

Then the defense took the floor.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask that you will listen to the trial, weigh the evidence, and the testimony before you reach a decision. The victim, Miss Betty Sue Bennett was real popular around town. She had many men friends. She worked at Arlene's part-time. There could have been others who could have murdered her. My client was one of her clients, along with his two friends, Danny Lee Lyles and Roger Dale Browning. She had friends and enemies. The Negro witness holds the key to the murder. Could she be wrong or mistaken? She's just a child, a Negro child. That's all, your honor."

"You can call your first witness, Mr. Rutherford."

"Your honor I call Raymond Jones to the stand."

As the bailiff swore him in, Rutherford looked around the courtroom. When his eyes met with Larry Wayne, Larry Wayne winked at him. Now Mr. Jones, you are the owner of the Blue Tic Hound Bar and Grill."

"Yes, sir, I am," he stated.

"Tell us, Mr. Jones, what took place the day in question at the restaurant," asked the DA.

"Well, sir," he said, "that day Larry Wayne, Danny Lee, and Roger Dale were all hanging out at the restaurant. They had ordered some food. About the time they finished eating; Betty Sue came in and went over to talk to them. They sat and talked a while before they all got up and left."

"Then what?" said Mr. Rutherford.

"Betty Sue got into the car with them and they left," he replied.

"That was the last time you saw her?" asked the DA.

"Yes sir, the next thing I heard she was dead," he explained.

"No more questions," replied the DA.

"Miss Bean do you have any question for Mr. Jones," asked the judge.

"Only one," she said. "Did Betty Sue seem to be afraid or threatened by Larry Wayne and the other boys?"

"No ma'am," he replied.

"So you would say that she willfully left with them on her own," suggested Miss Bean.

"Yes ma'am," he said.

"No further questions," she said.

Then the DA got up and addressed the court.

"Your honor, I would like to put this rock with Larry Wayne's bloody print on it as state's Exhibit 1. Also the rock was examined by the state crime lab and there were traces of hair on the rock belonging to Betty Sue Bennett. This shovel, state Exhibit 2, was used to dig her shallow grave near the murder scene with his prints on it. Also, your honor, these plaster tire prints from the crime scene that match his car tires is Exhibit 3. Now I ask you, what was the motive? It's plain and simple: Betty Sue Bennett was pregnant with Larry Wayne's child."

"I object!" yelled Miss Bean. "Your honor, he is calling for a conclusion. She had been with several men. How can he say it was my client?"

"Sustained, let the statement be taken off the record. Is the state ready to call its next witness?"

"I am your honor. I call Margaret Hornsby to the stand."

As she made her way to the witness stand you could tell she was scared. The bailiff swore her in and she took a seat.

"Now Margaret," he said, "how old are you?"

"Twelve," she replied.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

"On Chicken Branch Road," she replied.

"Now Margaret, could you tell us and the jury what took place at the spring house that day in question?'

Slowly she stated what happened and within a few minutes she was finished.

"Now Margaret do you see in this courtroom the person who took the rock and killed Betty Sue Bennett?"

She sat a few minutes and looked around the courtroom.

"Margaret," he said. "Can you point out the person you saw that day at the spring house?"

Slowly she raised her hand and pointed toward Larry Wayne.

"Let the record show she is pointing at Larry Wayne."

"Do you have any questions Miss Beans?"

"Yes, your honor, I have one question. Margaret have you ever told something and thought you had it right but later on it wasn't exactly like you saw it?"

"I object, your honor."

"No further questions," replied Miss Bean.

"Objection sustained. You don't have to answer that," explained the judge.

As she stepped down from the stand she hurriedly walked back to Daddy's side. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead and hugged her.

"You did very good," Daddy said.

He told her he was proud of her and her Mama would have been, too.

I reached over and took her other hand and held it tight in mine.

Then the judge asked the defense, "Do you have any more witnesses at this time?"

"I do, your honor."

Then she called a few charter witnesses to the stand. She appeared like she was killing time, hesitating about something. But we didn't know what. Finally, she ran out of time.

"Miss Bean do you have any other witnesses other than friends and relatives of your client?"

She didn't want to put Larry Wayne on the stand. She knew it would be over with.

"Your honor I call Larry Wayne Byers to the stand."

Larry Wayne was sworn in and took a seat. He had his day in court. As the old saying goes, every dog will have its day. He pointed fingers and called names.

The judge spoke up, "Larry Wayne, did anyone else know about this deal between you and the DA?"

Larry sat a few minutes.

"Is there anyone that can collaborate your accusations?" questioned the judge.

He looked at the jury and the DA and said, "Yes."

The judge immediately said, "It's close to lunch. Court is adjourned for lunch. We will reconvene at one o'clock. Counselor Rutherford, I want to see you in my chambers."

The judge and the DA went in his chambers and started talking about the situation at hand.

"Do you think he told anybody?" said the counselor.

"I don't know," said the judge.

"Who could he have told?" asked the DA.

"We can't take a chance with this guy," said the judge.

"Do you think he is bluffing?" asked the DA.

"I don't know," replied the judge. "But the looks on the juror's faces weren't good."

"Let's offer him a plea bargain, a plea of murder in the second degree and drop the death penalty. Give him eight years with parole in four if he drops this whole charade about the deal."

"Do you think he'll take it?" asked the judge.

"I don't know," replied the DA. "We'll see. I'll offer it to him and see what he says. I'll see you at one."

As the DA was leaving, the phone rang. It was the lab with the results of the blood test. The test had for some reason or another came in late. The judge told them he would be right down there. The DA and the judge had their blood tested when they first found out about Betty's pregnancy to see if either of them was the father. When he arrived at the lab, he found out the results of the test. It so happened that the DA was married to the judge's daughter. Judge Woodard was the baby's father. The lab tech, who was a friend of the judge, had helped him several times in the past. The lab tech agreed to swap the judge's name with the DA's which would show the DA as the father of the baby. Then he has the results sent to his office after lunch. It cost the judge a substantial amount of money for the cover up. But he was willing to pay it to conceal his name.

Back at his chambers, before the reconvening, the judge showed the DA the lab results of his test. It showed that the DA was the father of Betty's baby. The judge told him to trust him that he would try not to let it be presented in court.

The court reconvened at one o'clock. The public defender asked to approach the bench. She inquired about what was taking so long on the blood test.

"I just got it at lunch," the judge said and he handed the results to her.

Quickly, she looked it over.

It showed that Larry Wayne was the father of Betty's baby. As he took it back, he encouraged her that it wouldn't be very wise for her to address the court with this new evidence. She would not only be cutting Larry Wayne's throat but her case as well.

"I guess you're right, your honor," she said.

Little did anyone know, the judge had his friend, the lab tech, fix him a copy of the blood test showing Larry Wayne as the father of the child.

"Is there anything else, counselor?" said Judge Woodard.

"No, your honor, the state rests," replied the DA.

"No, your honor," spoke up Miss Bean.

As the two attorneys stated their closing remarks, the burden of the verdict lay with a jury of twelve of Larry Wayne's peers. As the jury was out, the DA went over to the jail to see Larry Wayne about the plea bargain they had offered him. It would be less time and a better deal than the original.

"Is it guaranteed?" asked Larry.

"Yes, it's yours if you want it," replied the DA.

Larry didn't mind going to prison for eight years. It was better than the electric chair. Soon word came that the jury had made a decision. As the courtroom filled, the judge entered.

"All be seated," said the bailiff.

"Foreman of the jury, have you reached a verdict?" said the judge.

"Yes we have, your honor," he replied.

"Will the defendant stand and face the jury?" requested the judge. "You may read your verdict."

"We the jury find Larry Wayne Byers guilty of murder in the first degree."

This stirred the courtroom.

"Order, order," yelled the judge. "Larry Wayne Byers you have been found guilty of murder in the first degree. Sentencing will be within a week."

Bang went the gavel as the judge dismissed the jury and court.

The week passed quickly. Larry Wayne took the plea bargain and was sent to the Kentucky State Penitentiary at Stoney Point in Marshall County. About a month later, Larry Wayne got into a fight with another inmate and killed him. It was suspected but no one really knew. As it turns out, the man suspected of killing him was Betty Sue's stepfather. He had been picked up around the time Betty Sue was murdered for violation of probation. About a year later, they found Larry Wayne stabbed to death in his cell. The killer was never caught.

It had seemed like a long time since the trial. Time had passed and things were back to normal, if you know what normal is.

Daddy, Margaret and I like it simple. Daddy liked salt on his raw potatoes, salt in his buttermilk and I like eating raw turnip greens. Margaret, well she liked the girl things.

Then one day we saw Daddy coming down the road. Margaret and I ran out to meet him. In his arms he held a little puppy, which he gave to us. We both wanted to hold him and make a fuss over him. He reminded me of Maggie in his face. We asked what his name was.

Daddy replied, "I named him Hard Times."

We all laughed and I said, "Keep it simple."

*****

Beyond the Truth

Forget-me-Nots

The charcoal bricks lay piled up where the chimney once stood. A touch of hollyhocks and buttercups spotted the ground around about it. The house that once stood there now lay in ashes, the remains all but disappearing through the years. The meadow was filled with rolling hills of tall grass and wild forget-me-nots. At times, the wind would sweep across the meadow and drive wave after wave across the tall grass, bending it over to kiss the forget-me-nots with its touch.

It was the summer of 1923 in Long Creek, Alabama. Jennifer was ten and Shane was eleven. Both of them lived on Broken Fence Road not far from the meadow. It was their favorite place in the entire world, so beautiful and peaceful, and they played there day after day. People who lived around there called it Running Meadow because of the wave of the wind. The smell of the forget-me-nots when the wind stirred filled the whole community with fragrance. The smell was so sweet. It was Jennifer's favorite flower. She always said that when she got married she wanted the forget-me-nots to be in her wedding.

She and Shane were good friends. They grew up together, and later on became childhood sweethearts. Although their love was innocent, as time passed it slowly grew to a truer love.

In the meadow, they would run, laugh, fall to the earth and roll in the tall grass. He'd pick her a bouquet of forget-me-nots and take them to her when she was sick. At times he'd pluck a flower and place it behind her ear, smile, and gaze into her eyes. To them, the meadow was their magical world. They felt safe from the dangers of the changing world there. All that mattered to them was that they had each other.

As time passed they played in the meadow. They played ball, rode bikes, and had picnics. Some days they just lay around looking up at the blue sky, wondering what they would be doing ten or twenty years from now. There was one thing for sure and that was they wanted to stay in the meadow where the wild forget-me-nots grew.

One day after a summer shower, with the fresh scent of rain and the sweet smell of the forget-me-nots, Shane stole a kiss from Jennifer. Her eyes sparkled with a warm smile. As he dropped his head, she returned the kiss on his forehead. When he looked up, he saw her smile; then he smiled and hugged her. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said.

Since then a lot of summers had come and gone. The years were good to them. Jennifer, now fourteen, and Shane fifteen, had become more than childhood sweethearts. She had grown to be a beautiful young lady, and he a handsome young man. They were inseparable, and their love. The early stages of love growing up, had begun a longtime ago.

In the summer of 1927, Shane's stepdad started letting him drive. He was so happy and proud; it made him feel so grown up. He had learned to drive on the farm, through fields and old logging roads. His car may not have been the classiest ride, but one thing for sure it was a way to go and it beat the heck out of walking.

Shane took his first long trip along with Jennifer sitting by his side to Dry Ridge, Mississippi, to pick blackberries. Long Creek was northwest of Montgomery, Alabama. Dry Ridge was just across the state line. It was said to have the best blackberries east of the Mississippi River. Shane and Jennifer were going to take them back to Long Creek to sell. Why old widow Parker, he told her, had won first place in the Stone County Fair for the last three years. Surely, she would want to try for four. Getting rid of the berries wouldn't be the problem because everyone around Long Creek loved cobbler.

About a mile outside of Long Creek, they crossed over Stinking Creek. It was a small creek that ran along the road and crossed over at Fieldmore's Lane. You talk about stinking. It was stinking to the high heavens that day. Jennifer accused Shane of farting and he accused her. They both held their noses as they crossed over. The people around there said the creek was fed by sulfur wells that emptied out into the creek. That's the reason it smelled so bad and that's where it got its name. As they crossed over, dust from the road filled the air. The dust helped take away the smell of the creek. Shane and Jennifer laughed about it.

Driving opened up a new world to Shane and Jennifer. They went to barn dances, hoedowns, and church picnics, just to name a few. And don't forget they played spin the bottle and post office too, but all that didn't have much to do with driving dad's old truck. They had their fights and quarrels, their disappointments, hurts, and breakups. But in the end love covered it all. Love mended that which was broken. It healed that which was hurt. Love forgave unconditionally when the words "I'm sorry" came from the heart.

At fifteen, Shane took his first drink of homebrew at a barn dance. When Jennifer found out she got so mad she jumped him. About half lit, Shane slapped her, knocking her down. But when he realized what he had done, he fell to her side, begging her to forgive him. As she cried, she pushed him away, yelling at him to get away from her as she took off through the crowd. The people watched for a minute as Shane fell to the ground, crying as he called her name. One by one the people left.

A few days later Shane had convinced Jennifer that he was sorry and that it would never happen again. She forgave him, believing it wasn't him but the homebrew. Besides, Shane had grown up with it. He had been around it all his life. His stepdad drank all the time. His mother was dead.

But little did Jennifer realize that the homebrew would eventually tangle Shane's life into a whirlwind of trouble. From that time on, Shane drank more and more, keeping it from Jennifer the best he could. If Shane ever hit Jennifer again, they kept it quiet. Although at times there were marks and bruises on her face and arms, it was never mentioned. He would tell his friends he liked the buzz it gave.

Shane and his friends loved to drag race on Winklers Road. Late Friday or Saturday night they would get together and race their cars to see who had the hottest car. Everyone else stood by the side, cheering them on.

But there was another thing that came out of the barn dance the night he took his first drink. They met two new friends, Betty Kaye and James Lee. They were both from Dry Ridge. James had lived in Long Creek about two years. Betty Kaye had moved to Long Creek about a year ago. Little did Shane and Jennifer know, their new friendship was not a mere accident. There was a secret that would turn all their lives around.

Betty was secretly in love with Shane. Shane was in love with Jennifer, but became infatuated with Betty Kaye. James Lee loved Betty, but she acted like she didn't know he was alive. James Lee was a loner, stayed to himself a lot, and nobody fooled with him much. But no matter what happened, Shane and Jennifer would still find their way back to the meadow of forget-me-nots. It seemed like it would somehow make everything all right.

As time passed, they grew closer, but drifted from the meadow. In 1929, the stock market crashed and life became more challenging for them. People everywhere lost their jobs, and homes. Their visits to the meadow became fewer. They were growing up. Shane was nineteen, and Jennifer was eighteen. Their hookups with their new friends kept them busy. They went everywhere and did everything together. The four were inseparable.

Things went well for a while until their secrets began to come out. There was no problem with Jennifer. She was in love with Shane. Shane loved Jennifer, too, but, Betty Kaye was a looker, and every chance she got she made her move on Shane. Although Shane had plenty of opportunities to be with Betty Kaye, he never did cross the line with her. It made James Lee furious when he saw Betty Kaye throwing herself on Shane. It made him even madder seeing Shane wanting her. Yes, at first, things were good. But after the back-biting, fussing, fighting, and arguing, the once happy couples soon went their separate ways. Things began to turn around as they stopped running around together. Betty Kay and James Lee slowly backed off.

That first summer after graduation proved not only hard on the economy, but also hard on relationships and growing up. Times were hard for everyone that summer. Plants were closing, jobs were scarce, and no one had any money. You were blessed if you lived on a farm; at least you could grow your own food. It was a time when neighbors pulled together; everyone was in the same boat.

Shane and Jennifer were thankful they were in love except when Shane came around with the smell of homebrew on his breath. Jennifer would tell him to leave and he would.

During the summer, Jennifer ran into Betty Kaye. They had a few words. One time they got into a fight at the drag races. James Lee broke them up. By now, Betty Kaye had picked up a little fancy for James Lee. But when things started to get close, Betty Kaye let him know he wasn't the man Shane was, and it would drive him into a rage. She would just laugh.

The heat of summer lingered on that year. There was little to no rain. The meadow lay dry and brittle with wilt and bugs.

"Oh, what I would give for a good slow rain," Jennifer said as she and Shane stood in the meadow that day.

It had been a long time since they had spent time together there. She wanted to build a house there, raise their children. He thought it was a splendid idea. Slowly, she stepped off the footage of each room in their dream house.

She said, "From this window I want the view of the valley and from this one my beautiful forget-me-nots."

He took her by the hand and into his arms, and they danced about the meadow as they had done as children. And wouldn't you know it, that rascal stole another kiss from her, this time better than before. For the next few weeks they met in the meadow and talked. He had cut back on his drinking and promised her he had quit.

Soon, the leaves began to slowly change. The brilliant colors were the promise of autumn to come. The air was a bit more nippy now than before, but only a sweater was needed for now.

The rains had finally set in. It was pouring down rain that morning. Jennifer had gone by Shane's house; she was trying to catch him before he left for Dry Ridge to see about a job. The thunder echoed in the background as the big drops of water splashed to the ground. But when she got there Shane had already left. She had knocked on the door several times and had started to leave when his stepdad answered it. He invited her in and was glad to see her. He gave her a towel to dry off. Jennifer asked about Shane; and he told her he had just left.

She replied, "I have to go, too."

As she turned to open the door, he stepped in front of it so she couldn't get out.

"I've got to go!" yelled Jennifer.

"You ain't going anywhere until I get a little sugar first," he said with a sick grin.

"If you don't get out of my way I'm going to scream," she said.

"Go ahead," he replied. "Scream all you want to. There's no one who can hear you. Besides, everyone that lives around is not at home."

Then she kicked him in the leg. As he reached for her leg with one hand, he grabbed her by her hair and pushed her through the house to the bedroom. She fought and fought, trying to get away, but now he held her tight with both hands. As she screamed and kicked, she tried to get away to the door. But the hold he had on her was too overpowering. Slowly, he ripped open her top. She spit in his face and cussed him. The smell of whiskey and cigarettes almost took her breath. She was wearing down fast. Her legs were about to buckle under her when he hit her with his fists, forcing her down onto the bed. As she lay there quietly, he had his way. All she could do was cry. Outside all you could hear was the thunder in the clouds and the rain beating down on the tin roof. In a few minutes it was over, but to Jennifer it had seemed like an hour. She made her way up off the bed as she put back on her clothes. She couldn't stop crying, nor control the feelings of how she felt. Suddenly, he grabbed her again. He was so strong and she was so weak. She remembered his breath with the smell of smoke and whiskey. He whispered in her ear and told her if she told anyone about this, Shane or anyone, he would kill her in her sleep. Then he pushed her away from him.

Quickly she ran toward the door and out into the rain. The rain felt so good. It helped to wash away the smell of his body. As she made her way down the road, she suddenly stopped and turned toward the meadow. Hurriedly, she made her way through the field where she and Shane had planned their dream house. There she fell on the ground and cried out, "Oh, God, let me die," she pleaded. "Why, Lord, why, Lord did this have to happen to me?" She cried out for Shane. As the rain beat down on her, she lay down in the meadow as she had when she was a child. Shortly after that, the rain stopped and the sun shone bright. She rose slowly and gazed out across the valley. The heat from the light of the sun dried her tears and its warmth healed the hurt, as the fragrance of the wild forget-me-nots comforted her heart. From there she made her way home. That night was the longest night she had ever spent. She never told a soul, but no one she knew kept a diary. She remembered that when Shane and she were little, Shane's stepdad had messed with him. It was early and Shane probably hadn't gotten back from Dry Ridge, she said to herself. He hadn't come by to see her, nor had she heard from him either. She guessed he probably stayed over at Dry Ridge to drink with some of his friends.

It was early the next morning when Shane strolled in. After he cleaned up, he went over to see Jennifer. When he got there she was lying around, upset and irritable.

"Hey," he said as he came in.

She never said a word. As he made his way over to kiss her and sit beside her, she pulled away from him.

"What's wrong," he asked. "Are you mad because I stayed over at Dry Ridge?"

Then she turned to him and said, "I needed you last night and you weren't there."

"I'm sorry, Jennifer," he apologized. "I got tied up."

"You're always sorry about everything," she replied. "Things never change."

"Okay, I was out with some of the guys. Is that a crime?" he cried. "Besides, we aren't married."

"Thank goodness," she replied.

"I'm getting out of here!" he yelled. "I'll see you later."

"Bye," she cried as she turned and dropped her head.

A few days later he came by to see her. She wasn't as mad as before, but she did seem distant. Shane couldn't figure it out. He tried to understand what he may have done wrong to upset her so. Was it because he stopped over at Dry Ridge? Was it a woman thing? Could it be he hadn't stopped drinking? Then he said to himself, "Maybe she thinks I'm seeing someone else."

"Hey, girl" he said as he came in.

"Hey," she replied.

"How have you been?" he asked.

"All right."

"I've missed you," he said.

"I've missed you too," she replied.

"Jennifer," he said. "Do you want to tell me what I've done?"

"You haven't done anything," she replied.

"Then why are you acting so strange?" he said. "You act like I'm sleeping around on you."

"Are you?" she replied.

"No, I'm not," he replied.

"Then why did you bring it up?" asked Jennifer. "Is it Betty Kaye?"

"It's nobody," he cried. "I said that to see if that was the reason you're acting so strange."

"I know," she said. "Shane, you're not seeing someone else."

"Then what's wrong?" he asked.

"I've got a lot on my mind," she replied. "I want to spend some time alone."

"Are you wanting to break up?" he asked.

"I don't know what I want."

"Do you want me?" he asked.

"I don't know for sure," she replied, "if I want anybody."

"Well, I'm gone, Jennifer," he said. "Call me when you make up your mind. Is it my drinking?"

She shook her head and looked the other way. For the next few weeks they talked on and off, and some days they argued. She wanted to tell him so badly but she was so afraid of what he would do. The only one she could turn to was her diary. It was a way to release some of the hurt and anger. Maybe someday the truth would be revealed. Time went on, and the pressure was so strong that Shane and Jennifer broke up and went their separate ways. But a few days later Jennifer had a change of heart. She felt bad because of the way she had treated him. So she sent word for him to meet her at the meadow around eight that night; she wanted to talk to him. When Shane got the word he was relieved. He looked forward to seeing her at the meadow. The last time he was there the weeds had gotten tall, the old chimney still stood as times before, but the echo from the valley seemed faint and weak. A lot of the flowers had already bloomed. The daffodils and hollyhock were all gone and there were only a few forget-me-nots left for the season. Shane had noticed they grew back fewer each year. He did notice, by the chimney, a patch of devil's pokers growing there. But no matter what grew in the meadow, it was their place, even until the end of the world.

That night when Shane pulled up at the meadow, Jennifer was already there. From the headlights of his truck he could see her sitting down on the ground on a blanket. Shane paused a few minutes before he got out, to take a quick drink. He had been drinking for two days. Finally, he stumbled out of his truck with a coal-oil lantern in his hand. Then he made his way down to where she was.

"Good evening, Jenny, I mean Jennifer. How are you...today...I mean tonight?"

Jennifer fought back her anger as Shane set the lamp down and tried to light it.

"Damn," he cried out as he jumped back and blew on his finger.

"Here, let me do it," she said. "You're too drunk."

"I'll do it," he said boldly. "Don't you think I can light this stupid lamp?"

She just looked at him. Then he tried it again.

"Here, let me do this," she scolded.

"Here, you do it then," he grumbled.

She took the match in her hand and struck it and the lamp began to burn. Meanwhile Betty Kaye had heard earlier that Shane and Jennifer would be in their favorite place, which she knew. So she took her car and drove out there. It was time to set this thing straight once and for all about Shane. Besides, little did anyone know, she had been with Shane several times. Also, James Lee had heard about the rendezvous and had hitchhiked out there earlier. He knew Betty Kaye had heard about it, and he knew she would be there, too. When Betty Kaye arrived she parked her car on an old logging trail that was down in the valley above the meadow. James Lee walked through the woods on the other side of the meadow and hid in the tall grass. Betty Kaye didn't get that close to them, she was afraid of getting caught. But James Lee worked his way up crawling on the ground with the darkness and the tall grass covering him. The light from the lantern shone bright. Betty Kaye and James Lee could see Shane and Jennifer well. As Shane and Jennifer talked, they got the strangest feeling they were being watched.

"Anybody out there?" Shane cried out.

But there was no answer except for some crickets and a whippoorwill close by. While they talked, Jennifer started to tell him about what happened with his stepdad. But Shane was so drunk he couldn't keep his hands off her. It was plain to her. Shane was only interested in something else and she was definitely not in the mood.

"Just for once, Shane," she cried. "I wish we could sit down and talk when you're not drunk or drinking."

"Oh, come on, Jennifer," he said as he slowly moved his hands about her body.

Then suddenly she thought she heard something.

"What was that?" she asked.

"I don't know," replied Shane. "Who's there?" cried out Shane.

But all they could hear was the whippoorwill taking flight. Whoo, whoo, whoo, screeched a sound from the darkness.

"What's that screeching sound?" shouted Jennifer.

"That, my girl, is an owl," he replied, "An owl, that's all, nothing else but an owl. There is no one out there. Now can we get back to where we were?"

"Shane, have you been drinking homebrew again?" she asked.

"Why no, my love," he stuttered. "Tonight I'm drinking Roastner wine, baby doll. Now can we go back to...."

"No," she stated boldly. "I'm going home."

"Go home? Baby, we just got here!"

Then Shane heard something in the tall grass.

"Shhh," he hushed Jennifer, "wait here."

"Oh, Shane, please be careful," she replied.

Slowly, he moved from the light of the lantern to the edge of the darkness as a hand slowly reached down and picked up a brick. Then all at once Shane fell to the ground. Quietly, Jennifer waited for him, calling his name. Suddenly she was struck in the head with a brick from behind, and she was killed instantly. As she was hit, her blood splattered on some nearby forget-me-nots. Everything was quiet. A few minutes later Betty Kaye stood up and saw Jennifer on the ground at James Lee's feet. Shane was nowhere to be seen. Then she saw James Lee throw down a brick. Quickly, she covered her mouth and lay quietly in the meadow. James Lee yelled out of the darkness of the night.

"Betty Kaye, I know you're out there!"

She lay still, not moving a muscle. She was terrified.

"Betty Kaye!" he yelled again.

As he turned to disappear into the darkness, he walked by Shane, who looked up from the ground and saw only a blurry figure standing over him. By now, Betty Kaye had slipped back to her car and was headed back toward town. James Lee ran down to the road.

A few minutes later, Shane woke up, sick to his stomach, and throwing up. When he got over his sick spell, he called for Jennifer. But there was no answer. He slowly picked himself up off the ground and wandered back to where she was. But when he got there he found her in a puddle of blood. Frightened, not thinking, he picked up the bloody brick that lay beside her. Then coming to his senses, he dropped the brick and fell to his knees, picking her up into his arms. As he cried, he held her tight. Slowly, the blood ran from her head through his fingers and down his arm.

"Oh, God!" he screamed, "why, God, oh why, God!"

Down on the main highway, James Lee stood beside the road, hitchhiking back toward town. Meanwhile, Shane was just now realizing how it was beginning to look.

What am I going to do? he thought. They are going to blame me. "Think, think," he mumbled under his breath. Then he began to look around for his stuff. Quickly, he grabbed the lantern and jumped in his truck and started for home. He stopped and listened. There were sirens, and they sounded like they were coming that way. He paused for about thirty minutes to get himself together. He took his shirt off and wiped his hands and arms off and put it behind his seat. Slowly he pulled off, not wanting to be noticed. He decided to ride around and try to figure out what was the best thing to do. As he headed toward town he could hear the sirens. On down the road, there had been a wreck. A policeman that was directing traffic motioned for him to stop.

"How are you doing, Shane?" he asked.

"Fine, sir," replied Shane. "What do you have, Officer Turner, a wreck?"

"A bad wreck," he replied. "They were going awfully fast. They evidently lost control. Okay, Shane, you go on now and be careful," he suggested.

As Shane drove on, he looked over as they were getting the bodies out of the car, but he didn't recognize them. Then he took off toward town. The last thing you could see was the back end of his truck and one taillight. That night he drove around until about midnight. As he woke the next morning, his stepdad came bursting into the room yelling.

"Shane, Shane, you're not going to believe it!"

"What, what?" Shane cried as he jumped up.

"They found Jennifer's body in the meadow. The police are up there now. Come on!" he yelled.

Quickly, Shane got dressed. He had hoped and prayed it had been a bad dream, but evidently not. When they reached the scene they had covered her body and were loading her into the ambulance. As Shane stood before the meadow once more there seemed to be a haunting sound in the wind, and the smell of forget-me-nots was low and faint. Carefully the wind drove the tall grass, it stirred a loneliness about it.

The police were questioning everyone around when suddenly they saw Shane.

"I'm real sorry, Shane, about Jennifer," said the detective. "I guess this is quite a shock to you."

Then Shane broke down crying and trembling. "I don't understand," he said. "Detective, why did something like this have to happen?"

Then his stepdad placed his hand upon Shane's shoulder. "This is a bad time, officer," he stated. "Could you talk to him later?"

"Sure, I understand," replied the officer. "But let me understand something, Shane. She was your girlfriend, wasn't she?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Were you with her last night?"

"No, no, sir," he quickly responded.

The detective got a feeling he was awfully nervous for some reason. As the Detective turned to walk off he stopped and looked back.

"Did you know that James Lee was killed in a car wreck not far from here?"

"No," he quickly replied. "No, I haven't heard."

"I'll be talking to you, Shane, later on," replied the detective.

"Sure, just let me know," he mumbled.

The next three weeks would be crucial in the investigation of the murder. This was big news in the community of Long Creek. This was about the third time a high profile case had hit home. The police called the case the Forget-me-not Murder.

Detective Guthrie Gordon was assigned to the case. Like a tick on a hound, Detective Gordon jumped in feet first. He questioned several people. One person said they had driven by the meadow that night and had seen Shane's truck there. Officer Turner told him that he had worked the wreck that night and that Shane had driven through headed for town. It was a known fact that Shane had hit her and it was probably not the only time. The more the detective worked on the case, the more Shane got deeper in. Then he talked to Betty Kaye.

"Rumor has it," he said, "that you and Jennifer didn't get along very well. It seems like most of your troubles were over Shane."

"Sure," she said. "We had our problems but they never did amount to much."

"So you and Jennifer were jealous of each other?" he asked.

"No, not really," she said. "We didn't always see eye to eye."

"But, there were a lot of folks who spoke highly of Shane. They didn't think he could ever do anything like this."

By the end of the first week, Detective Gordon had talked to just about everyone. Shane's stepdad said he came home around midnight. She had been killed around 9:00 p.m. The wreck happened down the road around 9:50 p.m. and Shane came by the wreck at 10:15 p.m. Detective Gordon thought it was a coincidence that Shane was in the area around the time of the crime. He wondered what James Lee was doing there as well. His friend said he let him out near the meadow and was supposed to come back to get him, but forgot about him. A witness that saw the wreck said they saw the car stop and pick up a boy near the meadow. They were driving fast and reckless, swerving back and forth right before they wrecked. To top it all off, Jennifer's scarf was found in James Lee's coat pocket.

Then early Saturday morning the first big break of the case came. An officer had pulled Shane over for drunk driving. When they searched his truck they found his bloody shirt behind the seat. He had forgotten to take it out and get rid of it. They took Shane in for questioning. When they got him to the station, Shane was put into a room with District Attorney Benton Sullivan and Detective Gordon. Shane was scared to death. As the two men started their interrogation, Shane sat and listened. He showed no emotion. But when they brought up the bloody shirt, he told them he wanted a lawyer.

"Take him away," said the D.A., "and give him his phone call.

Detective Gordon asked, "What do you think?"

The D.A. replied, "I'm not sure. We can hold him for seventy-two hours."

Then Detective Gordon spoke up, "We are going to have to charge him or let him go. Let's see what he tells his lawyer."

By noon, Shane's lawyers, Ben Swindle and Willie Crook, met with him at the jail. If there ever was a time Shane told the truth, he told it to his lawyers. In a couple hours they brought Shane back to the interrogation room with his lawyers present. As the men talked, his lawyers told him to tell the truth.

"Jennifer called me to meet her at the meadow around 8:00 p.m. When I got there she was waiting for me. I had been drinking for the past two days. She wanted to work things out. We started talking when I heard something. I called out, but there was no answer. Then I heard it again. I got up and walked around to see if I could see anyone.

Suddenly I fell to my knees, then to the ground. In a few minutes I looked up, but my vision was blurred. I thought I saw someone standing over me. The next thing I knew, I was getting up off the ground, sick and throwing up. I finally made my way back to Jennifer. When I got there she was already dead. I noticed the brick lying beside her. Without thinking, I picked it up and then dropped it. I panicked when I heard the sirens. I was headed back to town when I came upon the roadblock. That's where I saw Officer Turner. As I went past the wreck I saw the bodies, but they were covered with sheets. I rode around until midnight, then went home. But I didn't kill her."

"If you hadn't done anything, why didn't you go to the police?" asked Detective Gordon.

"I was afraid. I didn't think anyone would believe me," he replied. "I was drunk and panicked. That's what happened," he said. "That's the truth. Do you believe me?"

The room fell silent. Shane didn't have an alibi or a witness. The D.A. bought some of it. But he wondered about the rest of his testimony. For instance, he was too drunk to recognize someone with the blurred vision. But he drove around all night until midnight. His prints were on the murder weapon and he smudged the other print with his. That other print could have been from anyone, maybe a long time ago, that had nothing to do with the murder; and what about the bloody shirt?

About then an officer came in. "Sir, may I see you a minute," he said.

"Excuse me," replied the D.A. as he left the room.

Then about ten minutes the D.A. reentered. "That will be all for right now," said the D.A.

"Am I free to go?" asked Shane.

"For now," replied the D.A. "But we will be in touch."

As they were leaving, Detective Gordon asked Benton, "What on earth is up?"

"That was the man from the lab. James Lee's clothes had two sets of blood types on them. One was his from the wreck and guess who the other was?"

Detective Gordon replied, "Jennifer's."

"Right," answered the D.A. "These two boys may have had a conspiracy going on. They both may be guilty. They also found Jennifer's scarf in James Lee's pocket."

As the two men set out to find the truth about the bizarre, twisted evidence, it looked like more and more fell on Shane since James Lee was dead, even if they were in on it together.

Monday morning, at the station, a copy of Jennifer's autopsy report lay on Detective Gordon's desk, and also the D.A.'s. Suddenly, Gordon's phone rang. It was the D.A.

"Gordon, can you get over here on the double?"

"Yes, sir," he replied.

In a matter of minutes he was in the D.A.'s office.

"What's up?" asked Gordon.

"Have you seen the autopsy on Jennifer's case?" questioned the D.A.

"No, not yet," he said. "I was about to read it when you called."

"Here, look at it," he replied.

Quickly, Gordon looked the report over. "She was pregnant!" cried Gordon, "A month, probably by Shane or James Lee."

"I think we may have a motive," sighed the D.A. "Come on, let's check out Betty Kaye and also Shane's stepdad."

Shortly, they arrived at Betty Kaye's. They knocked on her door. She answered it and stepped out on to the porch.

"Sorry to bother you again, Betty Kaye," said the D.A. "But we would like to ask you a few questions. Jennifer and you fought a lot over Shane from what I have been told. I'd say you knew her pretty well."

"Yes," she replied. "I knew her. I thought we were friends for a while. Why?"

"Did you know she was pregnant?" asked the D.A.

"Pregnant!" she cried.

"Did she ever mention if Shane was the daddy?" asked Detective Gordon.

"Why no, no, I mean I didn't know it," she replied. "Was it Shane's?"

"We don't know," said Detective Gordon. "But we thought you might have heard it from the other teenagers around."

"No," she replied. "This is the first time I heard it."

"Just out of curiosity, Betty Kaye," asked the D.A. "how was your relationship with Shane?"

"Are you asking if we messed around?" she said. "Well Shane and I had slept around from time to time behind Jennifer's back, if that is what you want to know. When he got drunk he would come around. Yeah, sure I slept with him more than once," she told the D.A.

"Did James Lee know?" asked Detective Gordon.

"Sure," she replied. "I told him."

"James Lee had a thing for you I heard," stated the D.A. "How did he feel about that?"

"He didn't like it," she said. "He'd get mad."

"Where were you the night Jennifer was killed?" asked the D.A.

"I was out of town," she said. "I was at Bethany Point...alone. I needed some time by myself to think. I got home around 9:30 p.m. Ask my parents, they were home."

"Well, that will be all for now," they said as they left and headed to see Shane's stepdad.

When they arrived he was sitting on the porch about half lit.

"Well, Detective Gordon and Mr. Sullivan, what brings you here?" he said. "The neighbors complaining I'm making too much noise again?"

"Oh, no," laughed Detective Gordon. "We wanted to ask you a few questions," replied the D.A.

"Ask away," said Shane's stepdad. "Do you mind if I have a little drink of my Roastner wine? Want some?"

"No, thanks," they replied.

"Got some aged homebrew," he chuckled.

"No, we're fine," they said.

"Okay now, what's the question?" he asked.

"Did you know or have you ever heard anything about Jennifer being pregnant?"

Then he got awfully quiet and stopped his rocker. He didn't say anything for a few minutes.

"Excuse me," he said. "I need another sip." Then he looked up to them and said, "There's no way that baby can be Shane's."

"Why do you say that?" replied the D.A.

"When Shane played ball in the tenth grade he was hurt during a game. After that Shane was not able to have children. It has been a well-kept secret all these years by the family. The only one who knew was the doctor, Shane, his mama, and me. You can check it out. There's no way he could have children."

"Well, thanks again," they replied as they left and headed back to the station. The D.A. sat quietly as Detective Gordon drove.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked.

"Shane had a temper," replied the D.A., "and a drinking problem. He couldn't have children so maybe Jennifer met him in the meadow that night to tell him she was pregnant. He was already drunk when he got there. When she told him, he may have gone into a drunken rage knowing it couldn't be his, and killed her."

"That someone else," said Gordon, "could have been James Lee."

"Could have," replied the D.A. "I think we have enough evidence to bring him in."

"I agree," replied Gordon.

In a matter of hours Shane was picked up. He was drunk. They took him to jail and charged him with murder in the first degree. When Shane arrived at the jail, he called his attorneys, Crook and Swindle. They rushed down to the jail and started working on his case.

In a day or two Shane was taken from jail for his arraignment. When he entered the courtroom, they took a seat. In a few minutes the bailiff called, "All stand."

Then in walked Judge Clarence Rivers, II. "You may be seated," he said. "Let's see what we have here. Will the defendant rise? Shane Taylor you are aware of the charges brought against you, murder in the first degree?"

"Yes, sir," he stated.

"How do you plead?" asked the judge.

"Not guilty, your honor," he replied.

"Does counsel have any remarks at this time?" questioned Judge Rivers.

"Yes, your honor, we do," they said. "Our client requests bail. He is noted to have lived here all his life and has no cause to flee."

Carefully, the judge looked over the transcript. "Considering the seriousness of the crime," he answered, "I'm going to deny bail and bind the case over to the Grand Jury. Court date is set for three weeks," ordered the Judge. "Next!"

The next three weeks Shane and his attorneys worked day and night to prepare their case for court. They had very strong evidence against him and what they needed was a miracle from God. Time seemed to fly by.

Shortly, their time ran out. The deputies took him from jail to the courthouse on a warm and sunny day. There were a few people standing on the courthouse steps as they brought him in. This was the third time a case of this profile had come to Long Creek. Slowly, they entered the courtroom with Shane in shackles and chains. You could hear people whispering among themselves as he walked by.

Shortly the bailiff called for all to rise.

"Hear ye, hear ye, the commonwealth state of Alabama vs. Shane D. Taylor, Judge Clarence Rivers, II presiding, docket number 3A576180. You can be seated."

As the judge slammed the gavel down, he stated that the court was now in session. Shane sat with his attorneys. Across from him sat the D.A. and his assistant, Benjamin Dillon, a young attorney not long out of law school.

The D.A. called their first witness, Officer Turner, who testified to seeing Shane at the wreck that night, coming through the roadblock. After a few questions, the defense attorney cross-examined. Witness after witness on both sides took the stand. The versions of testimony from the witnesses laid guilt toward Shane. The hard evidence against him laid a hard, unbreakable burden on the defense.

Betty Kaye sat in the courtroom listening to the trail. She never made a move or motion to come forth as the only eyewitness. In her eyes you could see the coldness and bitterness that lay within her.

The trial lasted four days. It didn't look good for the defense. First, his truck was seen at the crime scene. Second, his fingerprints were on the murder weapon. Third, her blood was all over his bloody shirt. That was enough to establish a guilty plea with any jury. The strong evidence, plus no alibi, and no eyewitnesses were two other important factors in the case. On the fifth day the jury deliberated. It only took them an hour and a half to reach a verdict.

"All rise," said the bailiff.

As Judge Clarence Rivers, II, made his way to the bench, he said, "You can be seated. Mr. Foreman of the jury," he said, "has the jury reached a verdict?"

"We have, your honor," he replied as he handed it to the bailiff.

The bailiff handed it to the judge. As Judge Rivers opened it and read it, he handed it back to the bailiff, who handed it back to the foreman of the jury.

"Will the defendant rise and face the jury?" the judge ordered. "Foreman you can read the verdict."

"The jury finds Shane D. Taylor guilty of murder in the first degree."

Suddenly the courtroom burst out in an uproar.

"Order, order in this courtroom," cried Judge Rivers. "I want to thank the jury for their deliberation and verdict, and you can consider yourselves dismissed. Shane Taylor you have been tried by your peers and you have heard the verdict," stated the judge. "There will be a sentencing hearing in two weeks. Court adjourned!"

Shane dropped his head in silence as he left the courtroom. His lawyers would try for a mistrial, but at the same time work on an appeal. Shane shook his head hopelessly. Betty Kaye stood in the background as Shane left the courtroom. Her eyes watered; at the same time, a begrudging grin crossed her face.

The next two weeks flew by and once again Shane stood before the judge. Shane had given up all hope even though his attorneys worked around the clock to help him. As the judge took the bench, he once more asked Shane to stand.

"By the jurisdiction of the commonwealth state of Alabama, I hereby sentence you to life without parole. You will serve your time at Stoney Creek State Correctional Center, in Mobile, Alabama."

His knees nearly buckled under him as tears filled his eyes. Then the court officers led him away.

The years ahead would be hard for Shane. Life without parole was hard time. The first two years was a nightmare. He couldn't adjust. He stayed in fights, was stabbed twice, and raped.

They say it can make you or break you. His only peace was his quiet time in his cell. There he thought about Jennifer and growing up in the meadow. He wished a thousand times that he could smell the sweet fragrance of the forget-me-nots. Time and time again he went over and over each and every detail of what happened, but failed to put all the pieces together.

His stepdad came to see him every once and a while. They sat around and talked a lot. He was about all the family that Shane had left. There were a couple of aunts and one uncle that had come once but never came back. His lawyers would come by at first to give him an update on the appeal, but nothing ever came of it.

As the years passed, Shane began to settle down and adjust to prison life. He hated every day he was there, but made the best of it.

The trial took place in 1932. It was 1939, seven years later, when he received a letter from one of his aunts. She wrote that Jim, his stepdad, had died from cirrhosis of the liver. A few years later, 1948, his lawyer retired with no hope of him ever getting out.

Not only was Shane fighting the ghost of his past, but Betty Kaye was dealing with hers all through those years. After the trial she had moved from Long Creek to Bethany Point. She finally married, settled down, and raised two children. But her years weren't easy. Day after day, night after night, she recalled the look on Shane's face when the foreman of the jury said guilty. There were times she wanted to say something about what she had seen, but her anger and bitterness convinced her to make him pay for the way he had treated her. There's nothing worse than a woman scorned. She had tried numerous times to get Shane to dump Jennifer but he wouldn't. It appeared that all Shane wanted with her was to play around, but he didn't love her like he loved Jennifer.

Dying now with cancer, Betty Kaye wanted to make things right, if she could. It was because of her that Shane went to prison. She couldn't fight the demons anymore. She had carried it around for all those years. She had to get it off her chest. It was easy for the first few years. The bitterness and anger suppressed back the reality of what she had done. As the years passed, it slowly wore her down, and the truth of what she had done caused her to face reality.

First, she went back to Long Creek and talked to Benjamin Dillon who was the Assistant D.A. at Shane's trail. He was now a defense lawyer who had always been intrigued about the case. Benton Sullivan, who was the D.A. then, had retired a few years back. Henry James Carr was appointed the new district attorney.

It was 1957; Shane had spent 24 years in prison. When Benjamin and Betty Kaye made their visit to Shane, she told him what she saw. Then he turned to her and asked her why she hadn't come forth.

She replied in tears, "I begrudged your and Jennifer's relationship. I was young, selfish, and bitter. I hated her, but I loved you, and if I couldn't have you no one else would. I thought at first, at the opening of the trial, that prison might help you. Shane, you are a totally different person when you are drinking. It was like I didn't know you at times."

"Then tell me this," he said. "Do you know whose baby it was she carried?"

"No, I don't know," she replied. "No one knew except her. I had never known her to be with anyone except you."

"What about James Lee?" he asked.

"I don't know. I don't think so," she said. "I'm sure it wasn't."

"What do you think, Benjamin?" asked Shane.

"Her testimony alone should be enough," he stated. "I have reviewed the case and there was some evidence that was not used in the trial by the D.A. It is all circumstantial, but with her testimony and the new evidence it could create the doubt we need for a new trial. We will have to try it and see.

For the next year, Benjamin worked on building a new case. He knew if the new evidence and eyewitness didn't overturn the verdict that Shane would die in prison. With appeals and overloaded court cases, Benjamin fought to make a motion for an early trail. Finally, in 1959, his opportunity came. Shane was offered a new trial based on the one and only eyewitness.

The new trial date was set and they brought Shane back to Long Creek to stand trial. As he entered Long Creek he noticed how much it had changed. The town had grown a lot in ways, but some things had stayed the same. The courthouse looked smaller than before. He remembered it was huge when he stood trial. There was not as much of a turnout this time as before. Most everyone he knew was all but gone. He noticed a lot of new faces as they entered the courtroom.

"Hear ye, hear ye, all rise. The commonwealth state of Alabama vs. Shane D. Taylor, docket number 3A576180B, Judge William Thomas Roark presiding. You may take your seats."

Then Judge Roark called for the lawyers to approach the bench. He quietly talked to them for a minute, and they took their seats. District Attorney Henry James Carr began and was followed by the defense. About all the D.A. could do was to rehash the old evidence from the former trail. But Benjamin introduced new evidence that was suppressed in the first trial, which directly indicated that there was a possibility of someone else who could have killed Jennifer besides his client, Shane D. Taylor. The Judge permitted the evidence. Benjamin laid out other possibilities that helped create a suspicion of doubt to the jurors. One, Jennifer's scarf was found in James Lee's coat pocket the night he was killed. Two, there were two sets of prints on the brick, Shane's and someone else's.

"Let it be known to the jury that this is a signed document of the FBI crime lab in Birmingham. By a ninety percent accuracy of their new testing of the other fingerprints on the brick, they are now able to recognize and record the other prints as belonging to James Lee. Also, the crime lab retested the bloody shirt of James Lee, not Shane's shirt, but James Lee's from the wreck. They found two types of blood. One was his from the wreck and sprinkled spots of blood from Jennifer, who was already dead. Furthermore, I have the testimony of Richard Davis, the friend who took James Lee out to the meadow that night and forgot to come back and get him, along with some of his friends from Dry Ridge who have signed sworn affidavits of hearing James Lee earlier making threats against Shane Taylor, circumstantial, yes, coincidence, no. The truth lies here with James Lee and Shane Taylor."

Then the D.A. got up and raised the motion that the evidence was circumstantial, and the defense was on a wild good chase.

"Your honor, I ask for a petition to the jury to disregard the new evidence. It is irrelevant to the solid evidence that has already convicted Shane Taylor. This is a farce, an absurd witch hunt."

Then the judge turned and thought a minute and said, "It does create doubt," he said. "Request denied, Mr. Dillon."

"Your honor, I would like to call the only eyewitness at this time," he said, "Betty Kaye Howard." She took the stand. "Betty Kaye would you tell us and the jury what you saw that night in the meadow?"

"I had driven out to the meadow that night. I had heard Jennifer was to meet Shane about 8:00 p.m. I got there a little early. Jennifer was sitting down on a quilt in the tall grass. Just as I lay down not far from her, Shane pulled up in his truck. He got out with an oil lantern and went over to sit beside her. They started to talk. Then he heard something and called out. I lay motionless in the grass. I didn't want to get caught. Then it happened again and Shane stood up and yelled. Slowly, he began to walk around. Then he disappeared in the darkness. Everything was quiet. Then I noticed a snake slithering through the grass near me. I froze and covered my head and waited. A few minutes later I looked up again. When I looked up I saw Jennifer lying on the ground and James Lee standing over her with a brick in his hand. Then he threw the brick down and stuck her scarf into his coat pocket. Next he called out my name. I dropped my head and lay still. When I looked up he was gone. I quickly eased up out of the grass and left for home. I never saw Shane again that night after he entered the darkness."

"Thank you, Betty Kaye," replied Benjamin.

"Do you have any questions for the witness?" asked Judge Roark.

"Yes, I do," replied the D.A. "Betty Kaye, why didn't you come forward at the first trial?"

"I was angry and mad at the way Shane treated me. I thought prison would make him grow up."

"For revenge, you say," said Henry James.

"Yes, sir," she replied. "You could say that."

"Is it true," he asked, "you are now dying of cancer and you want to die with a clear conscious and that's why you decided to testify now? To make you feel better."

"I object, your honor!" shouted Benjamin. "Her dying plea is to make a wrong right. Not to make her feel better."

"Sustained," cried Judge Roark. "Remove that last statement. Do you, Mr. Carr, have any other questions?"

"No, sir, your honor. Oh, yes, one more. Betty Kaye are you still in love with Shane?"

"I object!" cried Benjamin.

"Objection denied. You may answer the question."

"Y...es, I...," she answered stuttering.

"Is it not true that you've always been in love with him?"

"I object!" yelled Benjamin as he called for a conclusion.

"Objection sustained," said the judge. "Do you have any further questions?" asked the judge.

"No, your honor," stated the prosecution.

"You may step down," replied the judge.

Two days later the jury went into deliberation. About an hour later the jury notified the court they had reached a verdict. As the judge entered, he looked at the verdict. Then the foreman read it aloud.

"We the jury find Shane D. Taylor not guilty of murder in the first degree."

Benjamin, Shane, and Betty Kaye leaped for joy as the judge called for order in the courtroom.

"Shane D. Taylor, by the Commonwealth of the state of Alabama I hereby order you released from Stoney Creek Correctional Center in Mobile no later than this afternoon by 5:00 p.m. The sheriff's deputy will take you down there to get your things and hand deliver the papers to the warden."

Six months later Betty Kaye died of cancer. Benjamin went on with his law practice and Shane returned to Long Creek to live. He had spent nearly thirty years in prison and now he was a free man.

"It feels good," he said. "I never thought air could smell so clean."

On his first day back, Shane went to the meadow. He had longed to see it again after all this time. He and Jennifer had so many happy memories there. He thought it would be the best place to start his new life. It was spring. The chimney that once stood there was nothing but a pile of bricks. A patch of bluebells grew with wild Sweet William near the fallen chimney. The ground was hard and rocky and sagebrush grew now with the tall grasses. He looked about for the wild forget-me-nots but saw none. Then as he turned he noticed a grave overlooking the valley. It was Jennifer's. She had made her parents promise her she would be buried in the meadow. As he slowly walked over to her grave, he saw her name on the stone and growing on top of her grave was a patch of forget-me-nots. No one but Jennifer's parents knew that Shane had bought the meadow years ago for Jennifer as a wedding present.

As time passed, Shane built their dream house there. He took the fallen brick and built a chimney, followed by their dream house.

Then one day a haunting ghost of the pass came to reality. While Shane was picking up bricks from the pile he found a metal box. Inside of it he found her diary. As the thumbed through it, he read that his stepdad had raped her, and that it was his child. He buckled at the knees and fell to the earth. Angrily he cried out across the meadow, "Oh, God, oh God, why!"

Time passed and no one ever knew about the diary except Shane. The long unanswered question of the baby was finally put to rest. From that point on he stayed to himself. He never married, nor dated. His family was all gone. All that he had left was the meadow to call home. A few years later he died and was buried next to Jennifer. The meadow is now overflowing with forget-me-nots and tall grasses.

But, yet to this day, there lies an unanswered secret among the forget-me-nots of the meadow. Did Shane actually kill Jennifer with the motive that District Attorney Sullivan believed? Or could it have been James Lee from what the only witness said? To this day, the real truth still lies in the meadow where the tall grasses wave in the wind and kiss the blooming forget-me-nots.

*****

Beyond the Truth

Apartment 1-C

As day broke, I stood in front of my window watching as a slow, steady rain fell. I watched the raindrops bead up on the glass and slowly move downward, sometimes connecting with other drops, sometimes not. It was New Year's Day, 1950. I was forty-one years old. Just hours ago at midnight the streets were crowded with people celebrating. Now the streets were empty. Those who were celebrating are long into their sleep. Having watched many years come and go from my apartment window, my journal is full of pages and events of my years spent there.

My name is Juanita Johnson. I live in the little town of Hearthstone in southern middle Tennessee. I'm originally from south central Kentucky, born and raised, but I have lived here since 1932. Through the years, I have patiently watched the years pass.

As I look out, I can see the town square with the courthouse slightly to my right. There are numerous stores, offices, and shops scattered about. On my left, I can partially see the train station and depot. On a typical day, the streets are busy with cars, sedans, trucks, coupes and deluxes. If you are lucky, from time to time, you will see an old 40 Nash go by.

War was going on in Europe and the world was at turmoil. As I recall, I had not been in town long. I was twenty-one, with a zest for life. I thought I had the world by the tail. I took a job at a dance hall where people paid to dance, especially soldiers away from home.

I was new in town and it was a good way to meet people. I worked six days a week and I shared a room at a boarding house outside of town, with another girl, but it wasn't Apartment 1-C. My roommate's name was Ellen, and we hit it off good. We had a ball back then. It was the place to have fun in those days.

Outside of town, just off exit 231 on Highway 10, was a night club called the Golden Bubble. Party! Party! Party! I was twenty-three years old. We showed no shame as we danced, trotted, swung and jitterbugged the nights away. The club had a dance floor with a live band, a bar, and a dining room with tables, booths and a jukebox. It closed at midnight. There was a motel down the road for a little getaway.

I remember some of the old songs over the years. "Chattanooga Choo-Choo" was one of my favorites, along with "Coconut Grove" and "It Was Just Like Taking Candy From A Baby" was among a few. It's funny how old songs can bring back so many memories. It was the era of red lipstick and nails, and clip-on earrings that could cover the whole side of your face.

I remember the night when I first saw him. "What a man," I thought! My heart raced, and my breath was swept away as I fanned myself trying to get control. I knew then; nobody had to tell me he was the one. He was dressed in his dashing uniform with his crew cut look, about 5'10", with dark hair and green eyes. I couldn't keep from staring. As he looked about the room, I tried not to be so obviously interested. I turned slightly, like I didn't see him, but from the corner of my eye I watched as he approached me.

"Excuse me," he said.

I turned and replied, "Oh, did you say something?"

He gazed into my eyes and handed me a handful of dance tickets. "We have the whole night," he said. "My name is Kenneth Patterson."

My face blushed and my legs nearly buckled under me as we began to dance.

"My name is Juanita Johnson," I replied.

That night we talked and danced the night away. It was like it was meant to be. I had never met anyone like him. He was nineteen, just out of boot camp and headed for Italy. He was only in town for a couple of days, before he had to leave for Alabama and then on to Italy. It seemed like we had known each other all our lives. I didn't want it to end, and I could tell he didn't either. When the night ended, he walked me home. At my door, he asked if he could see me tomorrow. I agreed, because I didn't have to be at work until three o'clock.

"Good," he replied. "I'll come by early, and we can spend the day together."

He grabbed me in his arms and kissed me. I thought I was going to melt. Following through with the kiss, he slowly ran his fingers through my hair as he held my head in his hands and lightly brushed my lips once again. He faded slowly into the night; I couldn't wait to tell Ellen. I raced upstairs to my room so full of excitement I couldn't sleep. Floating on air, I told Ellen; she was so excited for me. We had spent hours talking about the right one, the knight in shining armor. Now I had found mine. I couldn't believe it.

Morning came early, especially when I hadn't had much sleep. I couldn't wait until he arrived. I got ready, went outside, and waited on the doorstep for him. It was a beautiful day, and as I waited, I thought of what we would say to each other. I pictured his face in my mind and could still smell his cologne from last night. I felt like a teenager in love for the first time; I couldn't help but giggle.

I turned to look as a van pulled up in front of the boarding house. The driver got out, opened the door of the van, and pulled out a beautiful bouquet of roses. He asked if I was Juanita Johnson. I replied, "Why, yes I am." When he handed me the dozen roses, my heart stopped. I couldn't believe it. My hands began to shake, and my mouth fell open. My eyes watered as I opened the card and read aloud, "Don't ever let it end, Love Kenneth." As I started to take them inside, I heard someone whistle. I stopped and turned toward the direction of the whistle. It was Kenneth. Leaping from the steps, I ran and jumped into his arms and kissed him passionately. We held each other for what seemed like hours. He picked me up and twirled me around like a childhood sweetheart.

"You shouldn't have gotten the roses," I said.

"You don't like them?" he asked.

"Oh, no, I love them!"

He stopped and let me down. Looking into my eyes he said, "I believe I am falling in love with you."

I dropped my head for a moment and paused.

He lifted my chin with his finger. My eyes filled with tears and my bottom lip began to quiver. He looked into my eyes again and whispered, "It's okay. I know the answer."

He touched my lips to his and I whispered, "Me too."

Without warning, Ellen burst through the door. She quickly made her way over to us. She was running late for work.

"Ellen," I said, "this is Kenneth."

"Hi," she replied as she picked at her hair.

"Kenneth, this is my roommate and best friend, Ellen," I said.

"Glad to meet you," he stated.

"Glad to meet you, Kenneth," she said as she turned to me with a thumbs up. "Well, I have to run. Don't do anything I wouldn't do," she laughed.

"We won't," I kidded.

"Girl," replied Ellen, "bye."

After Ellen left I invited him up to my room so I could put the flowers in a vase. Kenneth liked my room. We spent most of the morning sitting around talking. Then we left and I showed him around town. We window-shopped, bought ice cream, and caught a movie at the picture show. At the end of the day, we returned to my apartment. It wouldn't be long before I had to go to work and he had to catch the train for Tuscaloosa.

The rest of the day, we lounged around the apartment and listened to the big bands on the radio. We both knew that in a few hours we may never see each other again. I would be left behind and he would be off to war in Europe. I couldn't bring myself to face what I would do if anything happened to him. This was our moment, our time together, and I couldn't allow my thoughts to tangle up my heart. A slow song came on the radio, and we danced in the middle of the floor. I gently laid my head on his shoulder as we slowly moved around the room.

My thoughts kept haunting me as I held him tighter. Slowly, he started moving his hand about my back and stroking my hair. My body was saying one thing while my mind said something else. We rested on the bed, as the music continued playing, and kissed like never before. By now nothing else seemed to matter because we had each other. As we made out, my thoughts were not so important, but the feeling was very intense. I pulled away because I didn't know what tomorrow would bring and I didn't want it to end like this. I wanted it to last forever, if it could. He told me he understood and also wanted it to be the right time. Besides, our time had slipped away. I had to go to work and he had a train to catch.

"I'll walk you to the station," I said.

"I have to go by my room and get my things," he replied. "You won't be late will you?"

"No," I answered.

We made our rounds, got his things, and waited for the train.

"I may never see you again," he said, "but I'll always remember you and our time together. I don't know from one moment to the next in the army where I'll be or what I'll be doing."

"I'll miss you so much and here's my address," I cried. "We can write each other to keep in touch."

"Sure," he replied, "we'll see each other again. Hey," he said as he heard the train approaching the station, "save a dance for me."

I cried, wanting him to stay with me forever. As I looked into his eyes, I saw tears filling up in the corners.

"All aboard!" yelled the conductor.

Quickly, people started boarding the train.

"Last call," shouted the conductor, "All aboard!"

Kenneth reached back once more, kissed me, and jumped onto the train. I cried and waved. One of the hardest things I had ever done was to let him go. Slowly, the train pulled out of the station. I waved until it was out of sight. Looking at my watch, I had just enough time to get to work, and I cried every step of the way. The haunting words you'll never see him again echoed in my mind. I didn't look back because I wanted to remember us the way we were.

That night at work, I couldn't keep my mind off of him. Every dance I danced I envisioned him holding me once again. I struggled through the night and finally made it home and went to sleep.

"Wake up, girl!" shouted Ellen. "Juanita, wake up! I've got something to tell you!"

Slowly, I rolled over as Ellen looked at me and said, "Girl, you look awful. He's gone isn't he?"

I shook my head.

"He'll be back," she encouraged.

"Maybe," I replied.

Ellen told me she was moving to Nashville to start a new job. I didn't know what to say. I was happy for her. But I didn't want her to go.

"Will you be alright, girl?" she asked.

"Sure, I'll be fine," I replied.

The next few days would be the hardest days of my life, worrying about Kenneth and Ellen.

The weekend arrived and Ellen and I said our goodbyes. After Ellen moved out I moved into an apartment on the town square, apartment 1-C in Morningside Towers. It was a one-bedroom apartment with a living room, kitchen, and bath. My apartment was on the third floor with a great window view of the town.

It had been several weeks and I hadn't heard anything from Kenneth. I began to think I had read something into the picture that wasn't there. Maybe I had put my heart out there to get broken. But it had seemed so good, real, and natural.

I did everything I could to stay busy and keep my mind off Kenneth. I was doing fine until one night Kenneth walked in the door of the dance hall. My heart literally stopped and I froze in my tracks. As he made his way over to me, I ran toward him. When we met, we kissed and hugged. Oh, God, we were so happy to see each other. My body quivered in his arms as he softly breathed in my ear, "I love you." We made our way over to a table and sat down. We kissed some more, held hands, and began to talk. He told me he was on a furlough and couldn't stay long. He would leave for New York tonight and then go overseas.

"I had to see you before I left," he said. "These last few weeks have about driven me crazy."

"But you're here now," I said. "We have this time together, if we never have it again."

I told him to wait a few minutes and I would be back. I asked the other girls if they would cover for me. They said they would. I ran back to the table to get him and we went back to my apartment. We didn't have more than a few hours together, but we made the best of it. Our souls burned for each other and our bodies ached with passion. It would be a night that I would always remember. The time seemed to fly. He asked me if I wanted to walk him to the train station. I told him I couldn't go through that again. I couldn't stand there and watch him leave, knowing I may never see him again. He seemed to understand because it was hard for him, too. As we walked toward the door, he grabbed me and kissed me goodbye. He turned, stopped, and said, "Will you...."

"Kenneth, will I what?" I inquired.

"Will you wait for me?" he asked.

I told him I would. As the door shut behind him, I went to the window and watched him walk down the street and disappear. My crying drowned out the sound of the train leaving the station. Something inside me that night told me I would never see him again. I fought back the feeling as I told myself he'd be back some day.

Time went on and we kept in touch with letters. I got one nearly every week. I quit the dance hall and started working in a factory that made parts for the military. I worked there for two years. Things were going well. His letters sounded good for both of us. However, the distance took a tremendous toll on us. It would pay off in the end, if we ended up together. That's all that mattered to me.

Three years later when I was twenty-six, my mother died of a heart attack. She was the last of my family. Daddy had died when I was little, and I had no brothers or sisters. It's a hard thing losing your mother. It takes time, a lot of time, to accept it. She died of a heart attack and never knew what hit her. It was hard to give her up. She's better off now, I believe. At least she won't have to suffer. She left me with an inheritance that I could live on for the rest of my life. With part of the money, I bought a new 1936 Plymouth and put the rest in savings.

From apartment 1-C I saw the world pass me by. I don't even know why I bought the car; I didn't really need it. I guess I thought it would cheer me up.

I spent countless hours looking out the window watching the depot, looking for Kenneth. The months passed and the letters continued, until suddenly they stopped. Week after week I checked the mail, but there were no letters. I didn't know what to do. There was nothing I could do. I didn't know his family, so I didn't know where to start looking. All I could do was wait and worry. Day after day, I waited and prayed. I watched the depot constantly but there was no sign of him. I fell into a deep depression, slept most of the time, and withdrew from society.

My hurt made me a recluse and I would spend the rest of my life in apartment 1-C. I hired a little boy, fourteen year old John Marshall, to run errands for me. I agreed to pay him well for his help. I didn't want any more dealings with the outside world. I was waiting to die. He was the only person I saw from the outside world. He would always ask how I was doing and when I asked him he would always reply, "Tolerable."

"Am I losing my mind?" I screamed. The hurt, anger, and not knowing was getting the best of me.

Finally, I received a letter from one of Kenneth's friends. He said Kenneth had been gassed in North Africa. He was missing in action and when he was found he was barely alive. He had to be dug out of the sand. He was hospitalized in Italy for two weeks before being shipped to a larger military hospital in France. He would probably be in the hospital there for at least a year.

I thanked God that he was all right. I wanted to see him and be with him so badly, but there was nothing I could do. I wrote letter after letter, but he never responded. There had to be something else wrong. Then about two months later, I wrote his friend and asked if there was something else he didn't tell me. He wrote me back and told me Kenneth had gotten married a week ago to a woman who had been his nurse. He was sorry that I had to find out that way. But, Kenneth wanted him to tell me.

At that moment, my world stopped. I pulled myself into a shell and stayed there. I don't think my heart ever beat again after that. The hurt was so bad I could hardly bear it. I became so angry I couldn't stand myself. I wanted to die. I wanted to kill him. I had no desire to ever set foot out into the world again.

The year was 1940. I had lived as a recluse for the past four years. I wanted to shut the world out and I did. I was thirty-one, the backside of thirty. I never heard another word from Kenneth or his friend. To me, Kenneth had died. The pain of love can be a devastating thing. It can cause you to do some crazy things. I wanted to die and get out of it all. He made his choice and I made mine. I'd make it some way somehow, but it would be without the help of the world. It would be lonely at times. But I could always look out the window and see more than I wanted to see.

Life can be cruel at times. I spend most of my time sleeping. I don't have any contact with anyone except John Marshall, and I rarely see him. But when I do, we both ask each other how it's going, and he says he's "tolerable," which is more than I can say. He leaves everything at the door. I slip him an envelope under the door. He asks from time to time how I'm doing and I seldom answer. John Marshall is good to me. He has become a loyal friend. When he gets a little older, I'm going to let him have my car. I don't need it anymore. He calls me Miss Juanita. He's always so polite. I read a lot and write daily in my journal. I spend my evenings looking out the window. It's funny how the town has changed so much in such a short time.

I think about Ellen at times, and Mama and Daddy. I wonder if the dance hall is still open or if it has shut down. I think back to the days of the Golden Bubble. I listen to music on my radio, tapping my feet to the beat. But all things that are good and well are in the past. Sometimes it is good to leave the past behind and live one day at a time.

When I thought things might look up, turn around, or even change, President Roosevelt made a radio announcement. On December 7, 1941 the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. It was awful. We seemed so vulnerable and surprised by the attack. I listened all day and night. "What is wrong with people anymore? Haven't they had enough of war already?" I said out loud.

The next day President Roosevelt declared war on Japan. I couldn't help but think of all the lives that war changed in a matter of minutes. After hearing about Pearl Harbor, I lay in bed for days listening to the radio. I was so depressed I couldn't stay up. I wondered what else would happen and how many more people would die?

As the days passed, John Marshall came by every day to check on me. He would call my name at the door. Sometimes I would answer, but most of the time I was asleep. It would take me a few days to perk up again. Who knows, one minute I might be dreaming I'm dancing across the room with an imaginable handsome man or the next minute I might be sitting quietly reading a good book. Who cares? I live in my own little world, not the world beyond these walls but the one in my mind. One day I spent the whole day looking at old photographs. I ran across one of Kenneth and me. I had already cut his face out of some; some I had completely torn up. I wonder from time to time if he and his wife are still together or divorced. What would I do or say if he came and knocked on my door? Unexpectedly, there was a knock at my door.

"Yes," I said.

"Miss Juanita, it's me, John Marshall. I have those things you asked me to get."

"That'll be fine, John Marshall, leave them by the door."

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes, I am," I replied. "Thanks for asking. Are you...?"

"Tolerable," he said. "I'm tolerable."

A family moved in next door. It was a man, his wife, and daughter. They appeared to be doing well until late one night I heard them fighting. The walls of the apartment are thin and you can hear almost everything that goes on if you are quiet. Late that night he was yelling at his wife, and she was crying. It almost made me cry. It sounded like he was slapping her around. I would have called the police, but I didn't have a phone. For the next few weeks, the fighting would start up about midnight every other night. I believed he was hitting her, but I wasn't sure. Then one day when he wasn't at home I called for her through the vent in the wall that connected our apartments.

"Psst, hey, girl," I yelled through the vent.

"Yes, yes, who is it?" the voice questioned.

"I live next door, and I want to help you."  
"I don't need any help. Everything is fine," she replied.

"Come on," I said. "I hear your husband at night. I can't help but hear it."

"You don't understand him," she stated.

"I know enough to know that he is beating on you," I replied.

"I've got to go," she said.

I heard her door slam, and the apartment was quiet. The next two nights were quiet, probably because he didn't come home. But the third night, around midnight, it started again. This time it went on day after day and night after night. I didn't know what to do. She wouldn't let me help her at all. All I knew to do was pray for her and cry with her. A few weeks later, I heard her voice through the vent. She told me her name was Sandra Briley, and her little girl's name was Beverly. Charles was her husband. She asked me if I would help her and her daughter.

I told her I had a plan.

"One night when he passes out, gather a few things and take your daughter to the train depot," I instructed. "I'll pay for your ticket and give you some extra money for food. Sandra, take the train to Slick Rock, Kentucky. I have some friends there who will help you. I'll get the money tomorrow and put it in an envelope. When you knock at my door and identify yourself, I will slip it under the door."

"When do you think I can do it?" she asked.

"Any time after tomorrow when he passes out," I replied.

"What if he catches me?" she cried.

"He won't," I encouraged her. "When he passes out, you don't hear anything else out of him until the next day. Trust me, Sandra."

"But I'm afraid," she stated. "What if I can't make it on my own? I have my daughter, too."

"Sandra, it's this way—a chance for a better life or live like you have been living," I told her. "You have to do it for you and your daughter. No one can do this for you. It may be scary right now, but things will get better for you. My friends I told you about will guide you and help you," I explained.

"Okay," she said. "I'll talk to you later."

The next day I sent John Marshall for the money. When he got back, he knocked on the door and asked if I was okay. I assured him I was. He slipped the envelope under the door. I thanked him and asked how he was.

He replied, "Tolerable, Miss Juanita."

That afternoon I called for Sandra through the vent.

"Yes," she said.

I told her I had the money and to follow the plan. She told me to give her a minute. In a few seconds, I heard her knock at the door. Carefully, I eased the envelope under the door. I heard her walk away.

That night I waited as long as I could before I fell asleep. Around midnight I heard the most awful noise I had ever heard in my life. It was him farting. It woke me from a sound sleep. I wondered if Sandra had left. I listened but all I could hear was his snoring. I eased up to the vent and called for her, but there was no answer. I hoped for the best; maybe she made it. It took me forever to go back to sleep. The next morning I was awakened by John Marshall knocking at the door.

"Miss Juanita, are you up?"

I crawled out of bed and went to the door.

"Yes, John Marshall," I said.

"You told me to remind you about my birthday," he replied.

"Oh, yes, I did" I recalled.

"Today I'm eighteen," he boasted.

"Well, John, happy birthday," I said as I opened the door. "Here are the keys to your car."

He smiled from ear to ear. He didn't know what to say.

I asked him how he felt about the new car. He smiled and replied, "Tolerable, Miss Juanita, tolerable."

"You have been taking care of that car all these years, John Marshall," I said. "It's time for it to be yours."

I changed the subject and asked John Marshall if he would step next door and see if he could hear anything. He leaned against the door and it slowly opened. Cautiously, he peeped in. It was empty. Nothing was there except a few pieces of furniture. He shut the door and came back to tell me what he saw. I eased my door shut as John Marshall walked away. I began to think to myself that she was gone. They were all gone, but I know I heard him snoring last night. He must have left early this morning. I wondered if she had taken the train to Kentucky.

From then on, I spent a lot of days looking out the window. John Marshall spent a lot of time in his car. He keeps it so nice and clean. I don't see him as much as I used too. But whenever I need him, he is always there. I give him a little extra from time to time for gas and all. I don't know what I ever did without him. We have become close friends through the years. We have become "tolerable" together, I guess you would say. It's good to have a friend.

Then one day, I heard something in the apartment next door. I quietly listened at the vent to see if I recognized who it was. It sounded like someone moving in. But who, I wondered, a man or woman? In my old age, I had become a busy body. The day passed; I listened at the vent but heard nothing. Whoever it was, they were very quiet. At night I listened, but all I heard was someone mumbling on the phone. They had no visitors. They only left the apartment at night, so they must sleep in the day. "Maybe they work the night shift," I thought. It was very strange. Even John Marshall hadn't seen anyone.

As the weeks passed, I had all but forgotten my neighbor until one night they had company. I slipped out of bed, eased up to the vent and listened. There were three of them. They were talking about the bank across the street. Carefully, I listened in. I was horrified to hear they were going to rob the bank in a few days. "I have to tell the police," I thought. I had to get word to the police, but how. I thought about getting John Marshall to tip the police off. But days passed, and John Marshall didn't show up. It was the first time ever that he had stayed gone so long. "What am I to do?" I thought. "Should I go to the police myself?" However, I couldn't bring myself to open the door and go out.

I continued listening as they talked some more. I realized they were actors at the local palace theater. They were studying their lines for an upcoming play. I felt so foolish and stupid, and I am so glad that I didn't tell John Marshall who finally came by to see me. I think he is spending all his time with his girlfriend.

As the months went by, the apartment next door was empty again.

Two days after New Year's Eve in 1950, we had one of the biggest snows that year I had ever seen. Main Street was abandoned; only a few cars tried to get through the snow. I had come down with a bad cough, was sick to my stomach, and running a fever. As I watched the snow fall, I couldn't help but think how beautiful it was. It fell so fast and heavy that it covered the ground in no time.

I remembered that day so well; I felt so bad. Chills had set in and I felt like I was freezing to death. I didn't know what I was going to do if it got worse. I had had colds before, on and off, but nothing like this. As time went on, I grew worse. John Marshall knocked on the door and asked me how I was. I made my way to the door and let him in. I was so sick I couldn't stand it. Immediately, he saw I was sick and helped me back to the couch. For the next few days, he stayed with me and helped me get better. For two days and nights, he sat by me until the fever broke. We played checkers and cards, and talked and laughed when I had the strength. It had been a long time since I had any company, and it felt good. I remember when I got well, I told John Marshall he had to go.

The next time he came to check on me, he told me he left me something at the door. After he left, I eased the door open. I found a big plastic ring of a thing. I read on the tag, hula-hoop. "That John Marshall," I laughed to myself. I wondered how on earth the thing worked. I read the instructions and slipped it about my waist. I tried it and it went round and round to my feet. I knew I wasn't doing it right. But I kept trying, and after a while I did better. I really wasn't use to so much work.

The years had truly slipped by. Times were changing even faster now. The apartment building had gone down a lot through the years. It had aged in time just as I had. My time would pass one day, but my memories would live on in my notebook, my memoirs, the collection of bits and pieces of my life. I chose my life to be as it is and I want my memories to be remembered in the pages of my words. I had instructed John Marshall to take my ashes and empty them in the wind for my soul to sing out that I was free.

The spring of 1951, I was forty-two, would be a turning point in my life. It happened when a new neighbor moved in next door. It would only be by chance that, through the vent once more, we would connect. It happened one day when he was at home. I overheard him whistling. I listened for a few minutes, and then I lightly tapped on the wall. At first he wasn't sure where it was coming from. When I tapped the rhyme of his tune, he came over to the wall and returned the tap. That was how it all started.

I spoke to him through the vent. I told him my name; he told me his, Shawn. He asked me what I was doing. For the next hour I filled him in on my life as a recluse. He couldn't believe it. From that time on we talked daily. Shawn told me he was a salesman and traveled his route six months out of the year. He was here in Hearthstone for a while until he had to go back out on the road. Time passed and we talked even more. He told me about the world I had shut out. Shawn asked me several times if he could come over to see me. But I told him he couldn't. I wanted to leave things as they were. He really didn't understand, but he didn't press me. We became good friends over time. It was good to have someone again. The laughter we shared proved to be the best medicine.

We seemed to have a lot in common, and it seemed like I had known him before. But there was no way. Shawn was a lot younger than me, and he said he loved to dance. There was not a day that went by that we didn't meet at the vent and talk. There were times I thought seriously about opening the door and living again. But something held me back—something I couldn't explain or let go. Anyway it didn't seem so important anymore.

Then one day he told me he had to go back on the road for a while. He promised me that he would come back, and told me to wait for him.

"When I come back," he said, "I am going to take you dancing from dusk to dawn."

I giggled to myself, flattered and impressed by such a dashing knight in armor. I knew I couldn't, but it did mean a lot that he cared enough to suggest it.

After he left, I longed to hear from him. I missed him so. Time and time again I lightly tapped on the wall, hoping he would tap back. I stood at the window, watching and hoping he would return. What I wouldn't give to hear his whistle or soft voice through the vent again. Not a day went by that I didn't hope to hear from him. But there was something inside me that told me I would never see him again.

It was 1952, almost a year since he had left. I was forty-three and my health was failing. I told John Marshall about my wishes for him to scatter my ashes in the wind. I knew it wouldn't be that long, for the last ten years I have grieved.

Then in the mail, I received a letter addressed to apartment 1-C Morningside Towers. It was from Sandra in Slick Rock, Kentucky. She told me she and the baby were fine. She thanked me for all I had done for them. She said she would never forget me. I was relieved to hear the great news. I had always hoped she made it.

I asked John Marshall to stay with me. My heart had been failing for the last few years. I never told anyone about it. John Marshall begged me to let him take me to the doctor, but I resisted. I wanted it this way. Weak and trembling, I lay down on the couch. John Marshall sat by my side. As things slowly got quiet, I closed my eyes.

"Miss Juanita," cried John Marshall. "Miss Juanita!"

Quickly, he ran for help. By the time they got to the apartment it was too late. They had pronounced her dead. I John Marshall kept my word. As tears filled my eyes I took her ashes to a meadow outside of town. From there I scattered her ashes in the wind, as I cried out, "She's free."

A couple of days after her funeral, Shawn came looking for her, only to find me moving her things. He asked about her and I filled him in.

"John Marshall," he asked, "can I stay for a bit?"

I replied, "That will be fine."

Carefully, he began to search the room looking for something, anything that would help him understand. He couldn't believe she had spent most of her life here. Slowly, he eased over to the window where she had sat time and time again looking out. He saw the vent where they first met. Although he never saw or met her, he seemed to have known her. He spotted a box of books on the floor. He reached for one; it was her journal. Casually, Shawn thumbed through it, reading here and there. Then he suddenly stopped when he read the name Kenneth Patterson. As he read on he found out that she was once in love with his older brother. The salesman, her neighbor, was Shawn Patterson.

*****

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A Cry in the Wind

Bobby A. Troutt is a southern writer who writes a variety of short stories, spiritual books and children's books.
