Dark End Of The Street

Chapter 52

The phrase public record is misleading. Most people think it means they have access to all the governmental information they want, anytime they want it. The truth is that the “all” part of the statement varies from state to state – mainly watered down to “some” – and the “anytime” means when they get around to it. Last year, I was helping a fellow tracker look for a death certificate on legendary bluesman Blind Blake in Atlanta and ran into a mighty long clusterfuck. He had the theory that Blake had died somewhere in south Georgia after being hit by a streetcar in the ‘twenties and that ole Blake’s death would show up somewhere in state records. My written request was never answered. My phone calls were greeted by polite paper sluggers, but no answers were ever given. A trip to Georgia confirmed that no one had even looked for the damned thing.

That’s the way it works. Most of the time you have to go to the office yourself. You have to be polite to those paper sluggers and, if you are lucky, they’ll crawl down into the cave or depths of hell or wherever those physical records are stored, and bring you back an answer. I’ve had tons of academics spin these great tales about conspiracies behind public records and how bureaucrats want to keep everything secret. Most of the time that’s bullshit. When searching for old files, your biggest enemy is apathy.

As I waited down at Davis Bail Bonds on Poplar, I hoped Ulysses was having luck getting what we needed released. I picked at a paper container of health food he’d bought for me. Some tofu squares in brown rice, broccoli, and cooked carrots. I hunted for a bottle of Crystal. Maybe some pepper. Nothing.

It was about 2:00 P.M. when he finally got back. He slid out of his leather coat, hung it on a mahogany rack, and turned down the jazz playing overhead before plunking down the thick stack of papers he carried under his arm.

I picked it up. About half a phone book.

U made some coffee and returned some phone calls while I took the stack into his lobby and flipped through the pages. He called out from his office: “Be careful with those pictures. I have to return them in the morning. Rest was a copy.”

James, Mary/Porter, Eddie

December 17, 1968

The first pages consisted of a detailed report from the Shelby County Medical Examiner. Eddie Porter had multiple injuries. Blunt trauma to the back of the head. Four of his front teeth broken loose. Two found in his stomach. Single gunshot to the base of the skull.

Mary James had died much more cleanly, if there was such a thing. She suffered four knife wounds to her face and a single gunshot that began underneath her jaw and ended up in her brain.

Both died from a. 38 caliber bullet.

The crime scene photos, a set of ten, had that same washed-out, grainy-color look of those old Polaroids from the early ‘sixties. Grandpa in weird black glasses. Mother with a beehive. Of course, these were larger, eight by tens, with some of the most disturbing images I’d ever seen.

I’d seen men killed. But staring into the warped angle in which pregnant Mary James lay, clutching her belly with eyes open, made me turn my head and flip the page quickly. These were too personal. I shuffled through the rest. The back of James’s head. Broken plates on the floor and a plane ticket in a pool of blood.

Two sets of bloody shoe prints. Blood smears in an old kitchen. I swallowed as if my own spit were contaminated.

But I was careful to look thoroughly at each page. Take the time. U brought me some coffee in a mug stamped with logo for his company and I leafed through charts and diagrams of angles that the shooter or shooters used. Everything I saw implied two men.

EVIDENCE LIST:

32 scene photographs

1 brick

1 plane ticket

1 kitchen knife

1 woven rug

2 chairs

1 Formica table fingerprint samples (doors and windows)

1 wallet personal papers from James’s home

I flipped through the stack quickly looking for copies of what would appear to be letters or notes but only saw more neatly typed pages. What did interest me was the detective log. As with most, they were written by one of a team of two detectives and carried time and place of interviews, what happened, as well as what they personally observed.

1400 hours

December 18, 1968.

Bluff City Records offices, College Street

Interviewed suspect Clyde James at the offices of a local Negro music company. The white owner, Robert Lee Cook, was present as well as a secretery and family of Mr. James. James appeared agitated and shook during the interview. We asked why he wasn’t home last night and how he did not discover the bodies. At this point, Mr. Cook interrupted and stated the Mr. James was with him at a party and several witnesses were available to collaborate the story. Mr. James nodded confirmation of his whereabouts. When asked where did he sleep, Mr. James refused to answer. Once again, Mr. Cook tried to intervene, at which point Detective Tyler asked that he and his secretary leave the room. Mr. Cook advised Mr. James not to speak without a lawyer. Mr. James nodded. Upon exiting the offices, Mr. james told us he saw two white males fleeing the home in a green station wagon with wood paneling. We asked when he saw this, Mr. James once again refused to answer. Mr. Cook gave us the name of Bill Hammond, a local attorney. We took the card.

I read on. More interviews. A deposition with Cook where he told a long story about his Christmas party that included sweaty details about the women who attended and intricate facts about appetizers that made me hunger for more than tofu. I thought about Payne’s BBQ and looked at my watch before ripping through a few more pages.

Another with Clyde James.

0830

December 20, 1968

433 Rosewood Ave.

Second interview with suspect. We had hoped this meeting would lead to an admission, but it seemed that Mr. James only wanted to further his story about the two white males. We were called by Mr. James earlier in the morning and told that he wished for a confidential talk. We agreed and met Mr. James at his residence. No others were present. Captain Leek was notified. Mr. James elaborated that Mr. Cook was being untruthful on our meeting on Dec. 18. MR. James stated he was at home at the time of the killings and that he fled the home for several hours walking the streets due to the death of his wife and friend. When asked why he did not seek medical attention for them, he stated they were both clearly dead. He continued that he witnessed one male known to him and another he had met on one occasion walk into the home with weapons. He stated he watched the men from the inside of a abandoned car in his yard. He stated he saw the men enter the home and that he heard screams from his wife. Mr. James was asked why he did not intervene and he stated he was unable to, presumably for his own safey. Mr. James stated the second victim, Mr. Edward Porter, entered the home a short time later and then heard two gunshots. The two men fled the home. Mr. James checked on the victim’s condition. Seeing they were deceased he began to walk from the home and shortly thereafter became intoxicated with a man unknown to him. Mr. James identified the first male as that of Levi Ransom. He stated Mr. Ransom was an associate of Mr. Cook and was a frequent visitor to the Negro record shop. The second man was described as a juvenile and at another time witnessed to be in the company or Mr. Ransom. Mr. James only recalled the juvenile as that of Judas. No other details. We left the house at 1030 and discussed Mr. Ransom with Captain Leek. Mr. Ransom is known to have committed several offenses in Shelby County and is believed to have served time at Brushy Mountain.

“Holy shit,” I yelled to U.

“Read on, brother,” he called back and kept talking to someone on the phone. For the first time, I noticed the slight buzz coming from the big neon sign in his window and the stale smell of his sofa. A funky, rotten smell of recidivist rednecks.

There was an interview with Ransom at a pool hall off Beale Street and the detectives noted that he owned the place. I imagined the pool hall smelling like the sofa and filled with testosterone and nicotine. Ransom denied knowing Cook or Porter or even being in Memphis that day. Ransom said, “I don’t hang out with niggers.” He was asked about this kid Judas and was described as shaking his head throughout the interview. I could tell the detective didn’t give two shits for Ransom by the way he listed a long complicated criminal history after the interview.

My hands were now only filled with a few remaining sheets of paper and I read as fast as I could, searching for more answers. My heart thudded in my chest as I cruised through the interview with the would-be accomplice. It was short. Only two pages. I guessed juveniles weren’t part of the public-record thing, because the boy’s name and address had been crossed through with a fat black marker.

I took another sip of cold coffee. I wanted a cigarette but instead searched in my coat for a pack of gum. I paced the office for a few minutes.

“So that’s it?” I asked, blowing a bubble from the Bazooka.

U shrugged.

“Ransom… What happened to the rest? They never even arrested anyone? Man, this can’t be the whole file.”

“Look at that first page. Two-twenty-one. Look at your page count at the bottom. They match. I’ve done this a few more times than you, professor.”

I put on my coat and tossed him his leather trench.

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Find that detective.”

U shook his head and said, “That mother is probably dead.”

“Let’s find out.”

He tossed me back his coat and walked back into his office and started banging the hell out of his computer keys. I poured some more coffee, downed a little more tofu, and waited.