The Reckoning

Chapter 1

On a cold morning in early October of 1946, Pete Banning awoke before sunrise and had no thoughts of going back to sleep. For a long time he lay in the center of his bed, stared at the dark ceiling, and asked himself for the thousandth time if he had the courage. Finally, as the first trace of dawn peeked through a window, he accepted the solemn reality that it was time for the killing. The need for it had become so overwhelming that he could not continue with his daily routines. He could not remain the man he was until the deed was done. Its planning was simple, yet difficult to imagine. Its aftershocks would rattle on for decades and change the lives of those he loved and many of those he didn’t. Its notoriety would create a legend, though he certainly wanted no fame. Indeed, as was his nature, he wished to avoid the attention, but that would not be possible. He had no choice. The truth had slowly been revealed, and once he had the full grasp of it, the killing became as inevitable as the sunrise.

He dressed slowly, as always, his war-wounded legs stiff and painful from the night, and made his way through the dark house to the kitchen, where he turned on a dim light and brewed his coffee. As it percolated, he stood ramrod straight beside the breakfast table, clasped his hands behind his head, and gently bent both knees. He grimaced as pain radiated from his hips to his ankles, but he held the squat for ten seconds. He relaxed, did it again and again, each time sinking lower. There were metal rods in his left leg and shrapnel in his right.

Pete poured coffee, added milk and sugar, and walked outside onto the back porch, where he stood at the steps and looked across his land. The sun was breaking in the east and a yellowish light cast itself across the sea of white. The fields were thick and heavy with cotton that looked like fallen snow, and on any other day Pete would manage a smile at what would certainly be a bumper crop. But there would be no smiles on this day; only tears, and lots of them. To avoid the killing, though, would be an act of cowardice, a notion unknown to his being. He sipped his coffee and admired his land and was comforted by its security. Below the blanket of white was a layer of rich black topsoil that had been owned by Bannings for over a hundred years. Those in power would take him away and would probably execute him, but his land would endure forever and support his family.

Mack, his bluetick hound, awoke from his slumber and joined him on the porch. Pete spoke to him and rubbed his head.

The cotton was bursting in the bolls and straining to be picked, and before long teams of field hands would load into wagons for the ride to the far acres. As a boy, Pete rode in the wagon with the Negroes and pulled a cotton sack twelve hours a day. The Bannings were farmers and landowners, but they were workers, not gentrified planters with decadent lives made possible by the sweat of others.

He sipped his coffee and watched the fallen snow grow whiter as the sky brightened. In the distance, beyond the cattle barn and the chicken coop, he heard the voices of the Negroes as they were gathering at the tractor shed for another long day. They were men and women he had known his entire life, dirt-poor field hands whose ancestors had toiled the same land for a century. What would happen to them after the killing? Nothing, really. They had survived with little and knew nothing else. Tomorrow, they would gather in stunned silence at the same time in the same place, and whisper over the fire, then head to the fields, worried, no doubt, but also eager to pursue their labors and collect their wages. The harvest would go on, undisturbed and abundant.

He finished his coffee, placed the cup on a porch rail, and lit a cigarette. He thought of his children. Joel was a senior at Vanderbilt and Stella was in her second year at Hollins, and he was thankful they were away. He could almost feel their fear and shame at their father being in jail, but he was confident they would survive, like the field hands. They were intelligent and well-adjusted, and they would always have the land. They would finish their education, marry well, and prosper.

As he smoked he picked up his coffee cup, returned to the kitchen, and stepped to the phone to call his sister, Florry. It was a Wednesday, the day they met for breakfast, and he confirmed that he would be there before long. He poured out the dregs, lit another cigarette, and took his barn jacket off a hook by the door. He and Mack walked across the backyard to a trail that led past the garden where Nineva and Amos grew an abundance of vegetables to feed the Bannings and their dependents. He passed the cattle barn and heard Amos talking to the cows as he prepared to milk them. Pete said good morning, and they discussed a certain fat hog that had been selected for a gutting come Saturday.

He walked on, with no limp, though his legs ached. At the tractor shed, the Negroes were gathered around a fire pit as they bantered and sipped coffee from tin cups. When they saw him they grew silent. Several offered “Mornin’, Mista Banning,” and he spoke to them. The men wore old, dirty overalls; the women, long dresses and straw hats. No one wore shoes. The children and teenagers sat near a wagon, huddled under a blanket, sleepy-eyed and solemn-faced, dreading another long day picking cotton.

There was a school for Negroes on the Banning land, one made possible by the generosity of a rich Jew from Chicago, and Pete’s father had put up enough in matching funds to see it built. The Bannings insisted that all the colored children on their land study at least through the eighth grade. But in October, when nothing mattered but the picking, the school was closed and the students were in the fields.

Pete spoke quietly with Buford, his white foreman. They discussed the weather, the tonnage picked the day before, the price of cotton on the Memphis exchange. There were never enough pickers during peak season, and Buford was expecting a truckload of white workers from Tupelo. He had expected them the day before but they did not show. There was a rumor that a farmer two miles away was offering a nickel more per pound, but such talk was always rampant during the harvest. Picking crews worked hard one day, disappeared the next, and then came back as prices fluctuated. The Negroes, though, did not have the advantage of shopping around, and the Bannings were known to pay everyone the same.

The two John Deere tractors sputtered to life, and the field hands loaded into the wagons. Pete watched them rock and sway as they disappeared deep into the fallen snow.

He lit another cigarette and walked with Mack past the shed and along a dirt road. Florry lived a mile away on her section of land, and these days Pete always went there on foot. The exercise was painful, but the doctors had told him that long walks would eventually fortify his legs and the pain might one day subside. He doubted that, and had accepted the reality that his legs would burn and ache for the rest of his life, a life he was lucky to have. He had once been presumed dead, and had indeed come very close to the end, so every day was a gift.

Until now. Today would be the last day of his life as he knew it, and he had accepted this. He had no choice.

Florry lived in a pink cottage she had built after their mother died and left them the land. She was a poet with no interest in farming but had a keen interest in the income it generated. Her section, 640 acres, was just as fertile as Pete’s, and she leased it to him for half the profits. It was a handshake arrangement, one as ironclad as any thick contract, and grounded on implicit trust.

When he arrived, she was in the backyard, walking through her aviary of chicken wire and netting, scattering feed as she chatted to her assortment of parrots, parakeets, and toucans. Beside the bird haven was a hutch where she kept a dozen chickens. Her two golden retrievers sat on the grass, watching the feeding with no interest in the exotic birds. Her house was filled with cats, creatures neither Pete nor the dogs cared for.

He pointed to a spot on the front porch and told Mack to rest there, then went inside. Marietta was busy in the kitchen and the house smelled of fried bacon and corn cakes. He said good morning to her and took a seat at the breakfast table. She poured him coffee and he began reading the Tupelo morning paper. From the old phonograph in the living room, a soprano wailed in operatic misery. He often wondered how many other folks in Ford County listened to opera.

When Florry was finished with her birds, she came in the rear door, said good morning to her brother, and sat across from him. There were no hugs, no affection. To those who knew them, the Bannings were thought to be cold and distant, devoid of warmth and rarely emotional. This was true but not intentional; they had simply been raised that way.

Florry was forty-eight and had survived a brief and bad marriage as a young woman. She was one of the few divorced women in the county and thus looked down upon, as if somehow damaged and perhaps immoral. Not that she cared; she didn’t. She had a few friends and seldom left her property. Behind her back she was often referred to as the Bird Lady, and not affectionately.

Marietta served them thick omelets with tomatoes and spinach, corn cakes bathed with butter, bacon, and strawberry jam. Except for the coffee, sugar, and salt, everything on the table came from their soil.

Florry said, “I received a letter from Stella yesterday. She seems to be doing fine, though struggling with calculus. She prefers literature and history. She is so much like me.”

Pete’s children were expected to write at least one letter a week to their aunt, who wrote to them at least twice a week. Pete wasn’t much for letters and had told them not to bother. However, writing to their aunt was a strict requirement.

“Haven’t heard from Joel,” she said.

“I’m sure he’s busy,” Pete said as he flipped a page of the newspaper. “Is he still seeing that girl?”

“I suppose. He’s much too young for romance, Pete, you should say something to him.”

“He won’t listen.” Pete took a bite of his omelet. “I just want him to hurry up and graduate. I’m tired of paying tuition.”

“I suppose the picking is going well,” she said. She had hardly touched her food.

“Could be better, and the price dropped again yesterday. There’s too much cotton this year.”

“The price goes up and down, doesn’t it? When the price is high there’s not enough cotton and when it’s low there’s too much of it. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

“I suppose.” He had toyed with the idea of warning his sister of what was to come, but she would react badly, beg him not to do it, become hysterical, and they would fight, something they had not done in years. The killing would change her life dramatically, and on the one hand he pitied her and felt an obligation to explain. But on the other, he knew that it could not be explained, and attempting to do so would serve no useful purpose.

The thought that this could be their last meal together was difficult to comprehend, but then most things that morning were being done for the last time.

They were obliged to discuss the weather and this went on for a few minutes. According to the almanac, the next two weeks would be cool and dry, perfect for picking. Pete offered the same concerns about the lack of field hands, and she reminded him that this complaint was common every season. Indeed, last week over omelets he had lamented the shortage of temporary workers.

Pete was not one to linger over food, especially on this awful day. He had been starved during the war and knew how little the body needed to survive. A thin frame kept weight off his legs. He chewed a bite of bacon, sipped his coffee, turned another page, and listened as Florry went on about a cousin who had just died at ninety, too soon in her opinion. Death was on his mind and he wondered what the Tupelo paper would say about him in the days to come. There would be stories, and perhaps a lot of them, but he had no desire to attract attention. It was inevitable, though, and he feared the sensational.

“You’re not eating much,” she said. “And you’re looking a bit thin.”

“Not much of an appetite,” he replied.

“How much are you smoking?”

“As much as I want.”

He was forty-three, and, at least in her opinion, looked older. His thick dark hair was graying above his ears, and long wrinkles were forming across his forehead. The dashing young soldier who’d gone off to war was aging too fast. His memories and burdens were heavy, but he kept them to himself. The horrors he had survived would never be discussed, not by him anyway.

Once a month he forced himself to ask about her writing, her poetry. A few pieces had been published in obscure literary magazines in the last decade, but not much. In spite of her lack of success, she loved nothing more than to bore her brother, his children, and her small circle of friends with the latest developments in her career. She could prattle on forever about her “projects,” or about certain editors who loved her poetry but just couldn’t seem to find room for it, or fan letters she had received from around the world. Her following was not that wide, and Pete suspected the lone letter from some lost soul in New Zealand three years earlier was still the only one that arrived with a foreign stamp.

He didn’t read poetry, and after being forced to read his sister’s he had sworn off the stuff forever. He preferred fiction, especially from southern writers, and especially William Faulkner, a man he’d met before the war at a cocktail party in Oxford.

This morning was not the time to discuss it. He was facing an ugly chore, a monstrous deed, one that could not be avoided or postponed any longer.

He shoved his plate away, his food half-eaten, and finished his coffee. “Always a pleasure,” he said with a smile as he stood. He thanked Marietta, put on his barn coat, and left the cottage. Mack was waiting on the front steps. From the porch Florry called good-bye to him as he walked away and waved without turning around.

Back on the dirt road he lengthened his stride and shook off the stiffness caused by half an hour of sitting. The sun was up and burning off the dew, and all around the thick bolls sagged on the stems and begged to be picked. He walked on, a lonely man whose days were numbered.

Nineva was in the kitchen, at the gas stove stewing the last tomatoes for canning. He said good morning, poured fresh coffee, and took it to his study, where he sat at his desk and arranged his papers. All bills were paid. All accounts were current and in order. The bank statements were reconciled and showed sufficient cash on hand. He wrote a one-page letter to his wife, addressed and stamped the envelope. He placed a checkbook and some files in a briefcase and left it beside his desk. From a bottom drawer he withdrew his Colt .45 revolver, checked to make sure all six chambers were loaded, and stuck it in the pocket of his barn jacket.

At eight o’clock, he told Nineva he was going to town and asked if she needed anything. She did not, and he left the front porch with Mack behind him. He opened the door to his new 1946 Ford pickup, and Mack jumped onto the passenger’s side of the bench seat. Mack rarely missed a ride to town and today would be no different, at least for the dog.

The Banning home, a splendid Colonial Revival built by Pete’s parents before the crash in 1929, sat on Highway 18, south of Clanton. The county road had been paved the year before with postwar federal money. The locals believed that Pete had used his clout to secure the funding, but it wasn’t true.

Clanton was four miles away, and Pete drove slowly, as always. There was no traffic, except for an occasional mule-drawn trailer laden with cotton and headed for the gin. A few of the county’s larger farmers, like Pete, owned tractors, but most of the hauling was still done by mules, as were the plowing and planting. All picking was by hand. The John Deere and International Harvester corporations were trying to perfect mechanized pickers that would supposedly one day eliminate the need for so much manual labor, but Pete had his doubts. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered but the task at hand.

Cotton blown from the trailers littered the shoulders of the highway. Two sleepy-eyed colored boys loitered by a field road and waved as they admired his truck, one of two new Fords in the county. Pete did not acknowledge them. He lit a cigarette and said something to Mack as they entered the town.

Near the courthouse square he parked in front of the post office and watched the foot traffic come and go. He wished to avoid people he knew, or those who might know him, because after the killing any witnesses were apt to offer such banal observations as “I saw him and he seemed perfectly normal,” while the next one might say, “Bumped into him at the post office and he had a deranged look about him.” After a tragedy, those with even the slightest connections to it often exaggerate their involvement and importance.

He eased from his truck, walked to the letter box, and mailed the envelope to his wife. Driving away, he circled the courthouse, with its wide, shaded lawn and gazebos, and had a vague image of what a spectacle his trial might be. Would they haul him in with handcuffs? Would the jury show sympathy? Would his lawyers work some magic and save him? Too many questions with no answers. He passed the Tea Shoppe, where the lawyers and bankers held forth each morning over scalding coffee and buttermilk biscuits, and wondered what they would say about the killing. He avoided the coffee shop because he was a farmer and had no time for the idle chitchat.

Let them talk. He expected little sympathy from them or from anyone else in the county for that matter. He cared nothing for sympathy, sought no understanding, had no plans to explain his actions. At the moment, he was a soldier with orders and a mission to carry out.

He parked on a quiet street a block behind the Methodist church. He got out, stretched his legs for a moment, zipped up his barn jacket, told Mack that he would return shortly, and began walking toward the church his grandfather had helped build seventy years earlier. It was a short walk, and along the way he saw no one. Later, no one would claim to have seen him.

The Reverend Dexter Bell had been preaching at the Clanton Methodist Church since three months before Pearl Harbor. It was the third church of his ministry, and he would have been rotated onward like all Methodist preachers but for the war. Shortages in the ranks had caused a shifting of duties, an upsetting of schedules. Normally, in the Methodist denomination, a minister lasted only two years in one church, sometimes three, before being reassigned. Reverend Bell had been in Clanton for five years and knew it was only a matter of time before he was called to move on. Unfortunately, the call did not arrive in time.

He was sitting at his desk in his office, in an annex behind the handsome sanctuary, alone as usual on Wednesday morning. The church secretary worked only three afternoons each week. The reverend had finished his morning prayers, had his study Bible open on his desk, along with two reference books, and was contemplating his next sermon when someone knocked on his door. Before he could answer, the door swung open, and Pete Banning walked in, frowning and filled with purpose.

Surprised at the intrusion, Bell said, “Well, good morning, Pete.” He was about to stand when Pete whipped out a pistol with a long barrel and said, “You know why I’m here.”

Bell froze and gawked in horror at the weapon and barely managed to say, “Pete, what are you doing?”

“I’ve killed a lot of men, Preacher, all brave soldiers on the field. You’re the first coward.”

“Pete, no, no!” Dexter said, raising his hands and falling back into his chair, eyes wide and mouth open. “If it’s about Liza, I can explain. No, Pete!”

Pete took a step closer, aimed down at Dexter, and squeezed the trigger. He had been trained as a marksman with all firearms, and had used them in battle to kill more men than he cared to remember, and he had spent his life in the woods hunting animals large and small. The first shot went through Dexter’s heart, as did the second. The third entered his skull just above the nose.

Within the walls of a small office, the shots boomed like cannon fire, but only two people heard them. Dexter’s wife, Jackie, was alone in the parsonage on the other side of the church, cleaning the kitchen when she heard the noise. She later described it as the muffled sounds of someone clapping hands three times, and, at the moment, had no idea it was gunfire. She couldn’t possibly have known her husband had just been murdered.

Hop Purdue had been cleaning the church for twenty years. He was in the annex when he heard the shots that seemed to shake the building. He was standing in the hallway outside the pastor’s study when the door opened and Pete walked out, still holding the pistol. He raised it, aimed it at Hop’s face, and seemed ready to fire. Hop fell to his knees and pleaded, “Please, Mista Banning. I ain’t done nothin’. I got kids, Mista Banning.”

Pete lowered the gun and said, “You’re a good man, Hop. Go tell the sheriff.”

Chapter 2

Standing in the side door, Hop watched Pete walk away, calmly putting the pistol in his jacket pocket as he went. When he was out of sight, Hop shuffled — his right leg was two inches shorter than his left — back to the study, eased through the open door, and studied the preacher. His eyes were closed and his head was slumped to one side, with blood dripping down his nose. Behind his head there was a mess of blood and matter splattered on the back of his chair. His white shirt was turning red around his chest, and his chest was not moving. Hop stood there for a few seconds, maybe a minute, maybe longer, to make sure there was no movement. He realized there was nothing he could do to help him. The pungent odor of gunpowder hung heavy in the room and Hop thought he might vomit.

Because he was the nearest Negro he figured he would get blamed for something. Stricken with fear and afraid to move, he touched nothing and managed to slowly back out of the room. He closed the door and began sobbing. Preacher Bell was a gentle man who had treated him with respect and shown concern for his family. A fine man, a family man, a loving man who was adored by his church. Whatever he had done to offend Mr. Pete Banning was certainly not worth his life.

It occurred to Hop that someone else might have heard the gunshots. What if Mrs. Bell came running and saw her husband bloodied and dead at his desk? Hop waited and waited and tried to compose himself. He knew he didn’t have the courage to go find her and break the news. Let the white folks do that. There was no one else in the church, and as the minutes passed he began to realize that the situation was in his hands. But not for long. If someone saw him running from the church he would undoubtedly become the first suspect. So he left the annex as calmly as possible and hurried down the same street Mr. Banning had taken. He picked up his pace, bypassed the square, and before long saw the jail.

Deputy Roy Lester was getting out of a patrol car. “Mornin’, Hop,” he said, then noticed his red eyes and the tears on his cheeks.

“Preacher Bell’s been shot,” Hop blurted. “He’s dead.”

With Hop in the front seat and still wiping tears, Lester sped through the quiet streets of Clanton and minutes later slid to a dusty stop in the gravel parking lot outside the annex. In front of them the door flew open and Jackie Bell ran through it, screaming. Her hands were red with blood, her cotton dress was stained as well, and she had touched and streaked her face. She was howling, screaming, saying nothing they could understand, just shrieking in horror, her face contorted in shock. Lester grabbed her, tried to restrain her, but she tore away and yelled, “He’s dead! He’s dead! Somebody killed my husband.” Lester grabbed her again, tried to console her and keep her from returning to the study. Hop watched and had no idea what to do. He was still worried that he might get blamed and wanted to limit his involvement.

Mrs. Vanlandingham from across the street heard the commotion and came running, still holding a dish towel. She arrived just as the sheriff, Nix Gridley, wheeled into the parking lot and slid in the gravel. Nix scrambled out of his car, and when Jackie saw him she screamed, “He’s dead, Nix! Dexter’s dead! Somebody shot him! Oh my God! Help me!”

Nix, Lester, and Mrs. Vanlandingham walked her across the street and onto the porch, where she fell into a wicker rocker. Mrs. Vanlandingham tried to wipe her face and hands but Jackie shoved her away. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing painfully while groaning, almost retching.

Nix said to Lester, “Stay with her.” He crossed the street where Deputy Red Arnett was waiting. They entered the annex and slowly crept into the study, where they found Preacher Bell’s body on the floor beside his chair. Nix carefully touched his right wrist and after a few seconds said, “There’s no pulse.”

“No surprise there,” Arnett said. “Don’t reckon we need an ambulance.”

“I’d say no. Call the funeral home.”

Hop stepped into the study and said, “Mista Pete Banning shot him. Heard him do it. Saw the gun.”

Nix stood, frowned at Hop, and said, “Pete Banning?”

“Yes, suh. I was out there in the hall. He pointed the gun at me, then told me to go find you.”

“What else did he say?”

“Said I was a good man. That’s all. Then he left.”

Nix folded his arms across his chest and looked at Red, who shook his head in disbelief and mumbled, “Pete Banning?”

Both looked at Hop as if they didn’t believe him. Hop said, “That’s right. Seen him myself, with a long-barreled revolver. Aimed it right here,” he said, pointing to a spot in the center of his forehead. “Thought I was dead too.”

Nix pushed his hat back and rubbed his cheeks. He looked at the floor and noticed the pool of blood spreading and moving silently away from the body. He looked at Dexter’s closed eyes and asked himself for the first time, and the first of many, what could have possibly provoked this?

Red said, “Well, I guess this crime is solved.”

“I suppose it is,” Nix said. “But let’s take some pictures and look for slugs.”

“What about the family?” Red asked.

“Same thought here. Let’s get Mrs. Bell back in the parsonage and get some ladies to sit with her. I’ll go to the school and talk to the principal. They have three kids, right?”

“I think so.”

“That’s right,” Hop said. “Two girls and a boy.”

Nix looked at Hop and said, “Not a word out of you, Hop, okay? I mean it, not a word. Don’t tell a soul what happened here. If you talk, I swear I’ll throw you in jail.”

“No, suh, Mista Sheriff, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

They left the study, closed the door, and walked outside. Across the street more neighbors were gathering around the Vanlandingham porch. Most were housewives standing on the lawn, wide-eyed with their hands over their mouths in disbelief.

Ford County had not seen a white murder in over ten years. In 1936, a couple of sharecroppers went to war over a strip of worthless farmland. The one with the better aim prevailed, claimed self-defense at trial, and walked home. Two years later, a black boy was lynched near the settlement of Box Hill, where he allegedly said something fresh to a white woman. In 1938, though, lynching was not considered murder or a crime of any sort anywhere in the South, especially Mississippi. However, a wrong word to a white woman could be punishable by death.

At that moment, neither Nix Gridley nor Red Arnett nor Roy Lester nor anyone else under the age of seventy in Clanton could remember the murder of such a prominent citizen. And, the fact that the prime suspect was even more prominent stopped the entire town cold in its tracks. In the courthouse, the clerks and lawyers and judges forgot their business, repeated what they had just heard, and shook their heads. In the shops and offices around the square the secretaries and owners and customers passed along the stunning news and looked at each other in shock. In the schools, the teachers quit teaching, left their students, and huddled in the hallways. On the shaded streets around the square, neighbors stood near mailboxes and worked hard to think of different ways to say, “This can’t be true.”

But it was. A crowd gathered in the Vanlandingham yard and gazed desperately across the street at the gravel lot, where three patrol cars — the county’s entire fleet — along with the hearse from Magargel’s Funeral Home were parked. Jackie Bell had been escorted back to the parsonage, where she was sitting with a doctor friend and some ladies from the church. Soon the streets were crowded with cars and trucks driven by the curious. Some inched along, their drivers gawking. Others parked haphazardly as close to the church as possible.

The presence of the hearse was a magnet, and the people moved onto the parking lot, where Roy Lester told them to stand back. The rear door of the hearse was partially open, which meant, of course, that a body would soon be brought to it and loaded for the short drive to the funeral home. As with any tragedy — crime or accident — what the curious really wanted was to see a body. Stunned and shocked as they were, they inched forward in muted silence and realized they were the lucky ones. They were witnesses to a dramatic piece of an unimaginable story, and for the rest of their lives they could talk of being there when Preacher Bell was taken away in a hearse.

Sheriff Gridley walked through the annex door, glanced at the crowd, and removed his hat. Behind him, the stretcher appeared, with old man Magargel holding one end and his son the other. The corpse was covered with a black drape and only Dexter’s brown shoes were visible. All the men instantly removed their hats and caps and all the women bowed their heads, but they did not close their eyes. Some were sobbing quietly. When the body was properly loaded and the rear door was closed, old man Magargel got behind the wheel and drove away. Never one to miss the opportunity for some extra drama, he poked through the side streets until he entered the square, then did two slow laps around the courthouse so the town could have a look.

An hour later, Sheriff Gridley called with instructions to transport the body to Jackson for an autopsy.

Nineva could not remember the last time Mr. Pete had asked her to sit with him on the front porch. She had better things to do. Amos was in the barn churning butter and needed her help. After that, she had a mess of peas and beans to can. There was some dirty laundry to wash. But if the boss said sit there in that rocker and let’s visit for a spell, then she could not argue. She sipped iced tea while he smoked cigarettes, more than usual, she would recall later when she told Amos. He seemed preoccupied with the traffic out on the highway, a quarter of a mile down the drive. A few cars and trucks inched along, passing trailers filled with cotton and headed to the gin in town.

When the sheriff’s car made its turn, Pete said, “There he comes.”

“Who?” she asked.

“Sheriff Gridley.”

“What he want?”

“He’s coming to arrest me, Nineva. For murder. I just shot and killed Dexter Bell, the Methodist preacher.”

“Git outta here! You done what?”

“You heard me.” He stood and walked a few steps to where she was sitting. He leaned down and pointed a finger at her face. “And you will never say a word to anyone, Nineva. You hear me?”

Her eyes were as big as eggs and her mouth was wide open, but she could not speak. He pulled a small envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to her. “Get in the house now, and as soon as I leave take this to Florry.”

He took her hand, helped her to her feet, and opened the screen door. When she was inside she let loose with a painful howl that startled him. He closed the front door and turned to watch the sheriff approach. Gridley was in no hurry. He stopped and parked by Pete’s truck, got out of his patrol car with Red and Roy for support, and walked toward the porch before stopping at the steps. He stared at Pete, who seemed unconcerned.

“Better come with us, Pete,” Nix said.

Pete pointed to his truck and said, “The pistol is on the front seat.”

Nix looked at Red and said, “Get it.”

Pete slowly stepped down and walked to the sheriff’s car. Roy opened a rear door, and as Pete was bending over he heard Nineva wail in the backyard. He looked up and saw her scampering toward the barn, holding the letter.

“Let’s go,” Nix said as he opened his door and situated himself behind the wheel. Red sat next to him and held the gun. In the rear seat, Roy and Pete were side by side, their shoulders almost touching. No one said a word, indeed no one seemed to breathe as they left the farm and turned onto the highway. The lawmen were going through the motions with a sense of disbelief, shocked like everyone else. A popular preacher murdered in cold blood by the town’s favorite son, a legendary war hero. There had to be a damned good reason for it, and it was only a matter of time before the truth spilled out. But, at that moment, the clock had stopped and events were not real.

Halfway to town, Nix glanced in his mirror and said, “I’m not going to ask why you did it, Pete. Just want to confirm it was you, that’s all.”

Pete took a deep breath and looked at the cotton fields they were passing and said, “I have nothing to say.”

The Ford County jail had been built in a prior century and was barely fit for human habitation. Originally a small warehouse, it had been converted to this and to that and finally bought by the county and divided in two by a brick wall. In the front half, six cells were configured to hold the white prisoners, and in the back eight cells were squeezed in for the blacks. The jail was rarely filled to capacity, at least up front. Attached to it was a small office wing the county had later built for the sheriff and the Clanton police department. The jail was only two blocks off the square and from its front door one could see the top of the courthouse. During criminal trials, which were rare, the accused was often walked from the jail with a deputy or two as escorts.

A crowd had gathered in front of the jail to get a glimpse of the killer. It was still inconceivable that Pete Banning did what he did, and there was also a general disbelief that he would be thrown in jail. Surely, for someone as prominent as Mr. Banning, there would be another set of rules. However, if Nix indeed had the guts to arrest him, there were enough curious folks who wanted to see it for themselves.

“I guess word’s out,” Nix mumbled as he turned in to the small gravel lot by the jail. “Not a word by anybody,” he instructed. The car stopped and all four doors opened. Nix grabbed Banning by the elbow and ushered him to the front door, with Red and Roy following. The crowd, gawking, was still and silent until a reporter with The Ford County Times stepped forward with a camera and snapped a photo, with a flash that startled even Pete. Just as he was entering the door, someone yelled, “You’ll die in hell, Banning!”

“That’s right, that’s right,” someone else added.

The suspect didn’t flinch and seemed oblivious to the crowd. Soon he was inside and out of sight.

Waiting inside, in a cramped room where all suspects and criminals were signed in and processed, was Mr. John Wilbanks, a prominent lawyer in town and longtime friend of the Bannings.

“And to what do we owe this pleasure?” Nix said to Mr. Wilbanks, obviously not pleased to see him.

“Mr. Banning is my client and I’m here to represent him,” Wilbanks replied. He stepped forward and shook hands with Pete without a word.

Nix said, “We’ll do our business first, then you can do yours.”

Wilbanks said, “I’ve already called Judge Oswalt and we’ve discussed bail.”

“Wonderful. When you’ve discussed it to the point of him granting bail, I’m sure he’ll give me a call. Until then, Mr. Wilbanks, this man is a suspect in a murder and I’ll deal with him accordingly. Now, would you please leave?”

“I would like to speak with my client.”

“He’s not going anywhere. Come back in an hour.”

“No interrogation, you understand?”

Banning said, “I have nothing to say.”

Florry read the note on her front porch as Nineva and Amos watched. They were still panting from their sprint from the main house and horrified at what was happening.

When she finished she lowered it, looked at them, and asked, “And he’s gone?”

“The law took him, Miss Florry,” Nineva said. “He knew they were comin’ to get him.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He said he done kilt the preacher,” Nineva replied, wiping her cheeks.

The note instructed Florry to call Joel at Vanderbilt and Stella at Hollins and explain to them that their father had been arrested for the murder of the Reverend Dexter Bell. They were to speak to no one about this, especially reporters, and they were to stay away at college until further notice. He was sorry for this tragic turn of events but hopeful that one day they would understand. He asked Florry to visit him the following day at the jail to discuss matters.

She felt faint but could show no weakness in front of the help. She folded the note, stuck it in a pocket, and dismissed them. Nineva and Amos backed away, more frightened and confused than before, and slowly walked across her front yard to the trail. She watched them until they were out of sight, then sat in a wicker rocker with one of her cats and fought her emotions.

He had certainly seemed preoccupied at breakfast, only a few hours earlier, but then he had not been right since the war. Why hadn’t he warned her? How could he do something so unbelievably evil? What would happen to him, his children, his wife? To her, his only sibling? And the land?

Florry was far from a devout Methodist, but she had been raised in the church and attended occasionally. She had learned to keep her distance from the ministers because they were gone by the time they’d settled in, but Bell was one of the better ones.

She thought of his pretty wife and children, and finally broke down. Marietta eased through the screen door and stood beside her as she sobbed.

Chapter 3

The town descended upon the Methodist church. As the crowd grew, a deacon told Hop to unlock the sanctuary. The stricken mourners filed in and filled the pews and whispered the latest, whatever that happened to be. They prayed and wept and wiped their faces and shook their heads in disbelief. The faithful members, those who knew Dexter well and loved him dearly, clung together in small groups and moaned in their suffering. For the less committed, those who attended monthly but not weekly, the church was a magnet that drew them as close as possible to the tragedy. Even some of the truly backslidden arrived to share in the suffering. At that awful moment, everyone was a Methodist and welcomed in Reverend Bell’s church.

The murder of their preacher was emotionally and physically overwhelming. The fact that he had been killed by one of their own was, initially, too astonishing to believe. Joshua Banning, Pete’s grandfather, had helped build the church. His father had been a deacon his entire adult life. Most of those present had sat in those same pews and offered countless prayers for Pete during the war. They had been devastated when the news arrived from the War Department that he was presumed dead. They had held candlelight vigils at his second coming. They had rejoiced in tears when he and Liza made their grand reentry the week after the Japanese surrendered. Every Sunday morning during the war, Reverend Bell had called out the names of soldiers from Ford County and offered a special prayer. First on his list was Pete Banning, the town’s hero and the source of immense local pride. Now the rumor that he had murdered their preacher was simply too incredible to absorb.

But as the news sank in, the whispering intensified, in some circles anyway, and the great question of “Why?” was asked a thousand times. Only a few of the bravest dared to suggest that Pete’s wife had something to do with it.

What the mourners really wanted was to get their hands on Jackie and the children, to touch them and have a good cry, as if that would soften their shock. But Jackie, according to the gossip, was next door in the parsonage, secluded in her bedroom with her three children, and seeing no one. The house was packed with her closest friends and the crowd spilled out onto the porches and across the front yard, where grim-faced men smoked and grumbled. When friends stepped outside for fresh air, others stepped inside to take their places. Still others moved next door to the sanctuary.

The stricken and the curious continued to come, and the streets around the church were lined with cars and trucks. Folks drifted toward the church in small groups, moving slowly as if they weren’t sure what they would do when they got there but were needed nonetheless.

When the pews were packed, Hop opened the door to the balcony. He hid in the shadows below the belfry and avoided everyone. Sheriff Gridley had threatened him and he was saying nothing. He did marvel, though, at the way the white folks managed to keep their composure, most of them anyway. The slaying of a popular black preacher would provoke an outpouring far more chaotic.

A deacon suggested to Miss Emma Faye Riddle that some music might be appropriate. She had played the organ for decades, but wasn’t sure if the occasion was right. She soon agreed, though, and when she hit the first notes of “The Old Rugged Cross,” the weeping intensified.

Outside, under the trees, a man approached a group of smokers and announced, “They got Pete Banning in jail. Got his gun too.” This was met with acceptance, commented on, then passed along until the news entered the sanctuary, where it spread from pew to pew.

Pete Banning, arrested for the murder of their preacher.

When it became obvious that the suspect indeed had nothing to say, Sheriff Gridley led him through a door and into a narrow hallway with little light. Iron bars lined both sides. There were three cells on the right, three on the left, each about the size of a walk-in closet. There were no windows and the jail felt like a damp, dark dungeon, a place where men were forgotten and time went unnoticed. And, evidently, a place where everyone smoked. Gridley stuck a large key into a door, pulled it open, and nodded for the suspect to step inside. A cheap cot was at the far wall, and there was nothing else in the way of furnishings.

Gridley said, “Not much room, I’m afraid, Pete, but then it is a jail, after all.”

Pete stepped inside, glanced around, and said, “I’ve seen worse.” He stepped to the cot and sat on it.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Gridley said. “If you need to use it, just yell.”

Pete was staring at the floor. He shrugged, said nothing. Gridley slammed the door and returned to his office. Pete stretched out and consumed the full length of his cot. He was two inches over six feet; the cot was not quite that long. The cell was musty and cold and he picked up a folded blanket, one that was practically threadbare and would be of little use at night. He didn’t care. Captivity was nothing new, and he had survived conditions that now, four years later, were still hard to imagine.

When John Wilbanks returned less than an hour later, he and the sheriff argued briefly over where, exactly, the attorney-client conference would take place. There was no designated room for such important meetings. The lawyers usually walked into the cell block and huddled with their clients with a row of bars between them, and with every other prisoner straining to eavesdrop. Occasionally, a lawyer would catch his client outside in the rec yard and give advice through chain link. Most often, though, the lawyers did not bother to visit their clients at the jail. They waited until they were hauled into court and chatted with them there.

But John Wilbanks considered himself to be superior to every other lawyer in Ford County, if not the entire state, and his new criminal client was certainly a cut above the rest of Gridley’s prisoners. Their status warranted a proper place to meet, and the sheriff’s office would work just fine. Gridley finally acquiesced — few people won arguments with John Wilbanks, who, by the way, had always supported the sheriff at election time — and after some mumbling and cussing and a few benign rules left to fetch Pete. He brought him in with no handcuffs and said they could chat for half an hour.

When they were alone, Wilbanks began with “Okay, Pete, let’s talk about the crime. If you did it, tell me you did it. If you didn’t do it, then tell me who did.”

“I have nothing to say,” Pete said and lit a cigarette.

“That’s not good enough.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Interesting. Do you plan to cooperate with your defense lawyer?”

A shrug, a puff, nothing more.

Wilbanks offered a professional smile and said, “Okay, here’s the scenario. In a day or two they’ll take you over to the courtroom for an initial appearance before Judge Oswalt. I assume you’ll plead not guilty, then they’ll bring you back here. In a month or so, the grand jury will meet and indict you for murder, first degree. I would guess that by February or March, Oswalt will be ready for a trial, which I’m ready to handle, if that’s what you want.”

“John, you’ve always been my lawyer.”

“Good. Then you have to cooperate.”

“Cooperate?”

“Yes, Pete, cooperate. On the surface, this appears to be cold-blooded murder. Give me something to work with, Pete. Surely you had a motive.”

“It’s between me and Dexter Bell.”

“No, it’s now between you and the State of Mississippi, which, like all states, takes a dim view of cold-blooded murder.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“That’s not a defense, Pete.”

“Maybe I don’t have a defense, not one that folks would understand.”

“Well, the folks on the jury need to understand something. My first thought, indeed my only one at this moment, is a plea of insanity.”

Pete shook his head and said, “Hell no. I’m as sane as you are.”

“But I’m not facing the electric chair, Pete.”

Pete blew a cloud of smoke and said, “I’m not doing that.”

“Great, then give me a motive, a reason. Give me something, Pete.”

“I have nothing to say.”

Joel Banning was walking down the steps outside Benson Hall when someone called his name. Another student, a freshman he knew of but had not met, handed him an envelope and said, “Dean Mulrooney needs to see you at once, in his office. It’s urgent.”

“Thanks,” Joel said, taking the envelope and watching the freshman walk away. Inside, a handwritten note on official Vanderbilt stationery instructed Joel to please come without delay to the dean’s office in Kirkland Hall, the administration building.

Joel had a literature class in fifteen minutes and the professor frowned on absences. If he sprinted, he could run by the dean’s office, tend to whatever matter was at hand, then arrive late for class and hope the professor was in a good mood. He hustled across the quad to Kirkland Hall and bounded up the stairs to the third floor, where the dean’s secretary explained that he was to wait until precisely 11:00 a.m., when his aunt Florry would call from home. The secretary claimed to know nothing. She had spoken to Florry Banning, who was calling on her rural party line and thus without privacy. Florry planned to drive into Clanton and use the private line at a friend’s home.

As he waited, he assumed someone had died and he could not help but think of those relatives and friends he preferred to lose before the others. The Banning family was small: just his parents, Pete and Liza, his sister, Stella, and his aunt Florry. The grandparents were dead. Florry had no children; thus, he and Stella had no first cousins on the Banning side. His mother’s people were from Memphis but had scattered after the war.

He paced around the office, ignoring the looks from the secretary, and decided it was probably his mother. She had been sent away months earlier and the family was reeling. He and Stella had not seen her and their letters went unanswered. Their father refused to discuss his wife’s treatment, and, well, there were a lot of unknowns. Would her condition improve? Would she come home? Would the family ever be a real family again? Joel and Stella had questions, but their father preferred to talk about other matters when he chose to talk at all. Likewise, Aunt Florry was of little help.

She called at 11:00 a.m. on the dot. The secretary handed Joel the phone and stepped around a corner, though probably within earshot, he figured. Joel said hello, then listened for what seemed an eternity. Florry began by explaining that she was in town at the home of Miss Mildred Highlander, a woman Joel had known his entire life, and she, Florry, was there because the call needed to be private and there was no privacy on their rural party line, as he well knew. And, really, nothing was private in town right now because his father had driven to the Methodist church just hours earlier and shot and killed the Reverend Dexter Bell, and was now in jail, and, well, as anyone could understand, the entire town was buzzing and everything had come to a complete stop. Don’t ask why and don’t say anything that might get overheard, wherever you are, Joel, but it’s just awful and God help us.

Joel leaned on the secretary’s desk for support as he felt faint. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and listened. Florry said she had just talked to Stella at Hollins and she did not take it well. They had her in the president’s office with a nurse. She explained that Pete had given her specific instructions, in writing no less, that they — Joel and Stella — were to stay at school and away from home and Clanton until further notice. They should make plans to spend Thanksgiving holidays with friends as far away from Ford County as possible. And, if they were contacted by reporters, investigators, police, or anybody else, they were to say absolutely nothing. Not a word to anyone about their father or the family. Not a word, period. She wrapped things up by saying that she loved him dearly, would write a long letter immediately, and that she wished she could be there with him at this horrible moment.

Joel put the phone down without a word and left the building. He drifted across the campus until he saw an empty bench partially hidden by shrubbery. He sat there and fought back tears, determined to find the stoicism taught by his father. Poor Stella, he thought. She was as fiery and emotional as their mother, and he knew she was a mess at the moment.

Frightened, bewildered, and confused, Joel watched the leaves fall and scatter in the breeze. He felt the urge to go home, immediately, to catch a train and be in Clanton before dark, and once there he would get to the bottom of things. The thought passed, though, and he wondered if he would ever go back. Reverend Bell was a gifted and popular minister, and at the moment there was probably great hostility toward the Bannings. Besides, his father had given him and Stella strict instructions to stay away. Joel, at the age of twenty, could not remember a single instance when he had disobeyed his father. With age, he had learned to respectfully disagree with him, but he would never disobey him. His father was a proud soldier, a strict disciplinarian who said little and valued authority.

There was simply no way his father could commit murder.

Chapter 4

The courthouse, and the shops and offices lining the neat square around it, closed at five each weekday. Usually by that time all doors were locked, all lights were off, the sidewalks were empty, and everyone was gone. However, on this day the townsfolk lingered a bit later in case more facts and/or gossip emerged about the killing. They had talked of nothing else since nine that morning. They had shocked each other with the first reports, then spread along later developments. They had stood in solemn respect as old man Magargel paraded his hearse around the square to provide a glimpse of the corpse outlined under a black cape. Some had ventured to the Methodist church and held vigil while offering prayers, then returned to their places around the square with near-breathless descriptions of what was happening on the front line. Baptists, Presbyterians, and Pentecostals were at a disadvantage since they could claim no real connection to either the victim or his killer. The Methodists, though, were in the spotlight, with each one eager to describe relationships that seemed to grow stronger as the day progressed. On this unforgettable day, the Clanton Methodist Church had never known so many congregants.

For most people in Clanton, among the white folks anyway, there was a sense of betrayal. Dexter Bell was popular and highly regarded. Pete Banning was a near-mythical figure. To have one kill the other was such a senseless loss it touched almost everyone. Motive was so incomprehensible that no solid rumor emerged to address it.

Not that there was a shortage of rumors; there certainly was not. Banning would be in court tomorrow. He was refusing to say anything. He would plead insanity. John Wilbanks had never lost a trial and was not about to lose this one. Judge Oswalt was a close friend of Banning’s, or maybe he was a close friend of Dexter Bell’s. The trial would be moved to Tupelo. He had not been right since the war. Jackie Bell was heavily sedated. Her kids were a mess. Pete would put up his land as security for bail and go home tomorrow.

To avoid seeing anyone, Florry parked on a side street and hurried to the law office. John Wilbanks was working late and waiting for her in the reception room on the first floor.

In 1946, there were a dozen lawyers in Ford County and half of them worked for the firm of Wilbanks & Wilbanks. All six were related. For over a hundred years, the Wilbanks family had been prominent in law, politics, banking, real estate, and farming. John and his brother Russell studied law up north and ran the firm, which seemed to run most other commercial matters in the county. Another brother was the chairman of the largest bank in the county, along with owning several businesses. A cousin farmed two thousand acres. Another cousin handled real estate and was also a state representative with ambitions. It was rumored that the family met in secret the first week of January of each year to tally up the various profits and divide the money. There seemed to be plenty to go around.

Florry had known John Wilbanks since high school, though she was three years older. His firm had always taken care of the Bannings’ legal matters, none of which had ever seemed that complicated until now. There had been the sticky problem of shipping Liza off to the asylum, but John had discreetly pulled the right strings and away she went. Florry’s ancient divorce had likewise been swept under the rug by John and his brother, with hardly a record of it in the county books.

He greeted her with a solemn hug and she followed him upstairs to his large office, the finest in town, with a terrace that overlooked the courthouse square. The walls were covered with grim portraits of his dead ancestors. Death was everywhere. He waved at a rich leather sofa and she took a seat.

“I met with him,” John began as he struck a match and lit a short black cigar. “He didn’t say much. In fact he’s refusing to say anything.”

“What in God’s name, John?” she asked as her eyes watered.

“Hell if I know. You didn’t see it coming?”

“Of course not. You know Pete. He doesn’t talk, especially about private matters. He’ll chat a bit about his kids, go on like all farmers about the weather and the price of seed and all that drivel. But you get nothing personal. And something as awful as this, well, no, he would never say a word.”

John sucked on his cigar and blasted a cloud of blue smoke at the ceiling. “So you have no idea what’s behind this?”

She dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief and said, “I’m too overwhelmed to make any sense of it, John. I’m having trouble breathing right now, forget thinking clearly. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, but not now. Everything is a blur.”

“And Joel and Stella?”

“I’ve spoken with both of them. Poor children, away at school, enjoying the college life, nothing really to worry about, and they get the news that their father has just murdered their minister, a man they admired. And they can’t come home because Pete gave strict instructions, in writing no less, that they stay away until he changes his mind.” She sobbed for a minute as John worked his cigar, then she clenched her jaws, dabbed some more, and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, go ahead, Florry, cry all you want. I wish I could. Get it out of your system because it’s only natural. This is no time to be brave. Emotion is welcome here. This is a perfectly awful day that will haunt us for years to come.”

“What is coming, John?”

“Well, nothing good, I can promise you that. I spoke with Judge Oswalt this afternoon and he will not even consider the notion of bail. Out of the question, which I completely understand. It is murder, after all. I met with Pete this afternoon, but he’s not cooperative. So, on the one hand he will not plead guilty, and on the other he won’t provide any cooperation for a defense. This could change, of course, but you and I both know him and he doesn’t change his mind once it’s made up.”

“What kind of defense?”

“Our options appear to be rather limited. Self-defense, irresistible impulse, an alibi perhaps. Nothing fits here, Florry.” He pulled again on the cigar and exhaled another cloud. “And there’s more. I received a tip this afternoon and walked over to the land records office. Three weeks ago, Pete signed a deed transferring ownership of his land to Joel and Stella. There was no good reason for doing this, and he certainly didn’t want me to know about it. He used a lawyer from Tupelo, one with few contacts in Clanton.”

“And the point is? I’m sorry, John, help me here.”

“The point is Pete was planning this for some time, and to protect his land from possible claims to be made by the family of Dexter Bell, he gave it to his children, took his name off the title.”

“Will that work?”

“I doubt it, but that’s another issue for another day. Your land is, of course, in your name and will not be affected by any of this.”

“Thanks, John, but I haven’t even thought about that.”

“Assuming he goes to trial, and I can’t imagine why he will not, the land transaction will be entered into evidence against him to prove premeditation. It was all carefully planned, Florry. Pete had been thinking about this for a long time.”

Florry held the handkerchief to her mouth and stared at the floor as minutes passed. The office was perfectly still and quiet; all sounds from the street below were gone. John stood and stubbed his cigar into a heavy crystal ashtray, then walked to his desk and lit another one. He went to the windows of a French door and gazed at the courthouse across the street. It was almost dusk and the shadows were falling on the lawn.

Without turning around, he asked, “How long was Pete in the hospital after he escaped?”

“Months and months. I don’t know, maybe a year. He had extensive wounds and weighed 130 pounds. It took time.”

“How about mentally? Were there problems?”

“Well, typically, he’s never talked about them if they in fact existed. But how can you not be a bit off in the head after going through what he endured?”

“Was he diagnosed?”

“I have no idea. He is not the same person after the war, but how could he be? I’m sure a lot of those boys are scarred.”

“How is he different?”

She stuck her handkerchief in her purse, as if to say the tears were over for now. “Liza said there were nightmares at first, a lot of sleepless nights. He’s moodier now, prone to long stretches of silence, which he seems to enjoy. But then, you’re talking about a man who’s never said a lot. I do remember thinking that he was quite happy and relaxed when he got home. He was still convalescing and gaining weight, and he smiled a lot, just happy to be alive and happy the war was over. That didn’t last, though. I could tell things were tense between him and Liza. Nineva said they were not getting along. It was really strange because it seemed as though the stronger he got, the more he got himself together, the quicker she unraveled.”

“What were they fighting about?”

“I don’t know. Nineva sees and hears everything, so they were careful. She told Marietta that they often sent her out of the house so they could discuss things. Liza was spiraling. I remember seeing her once, not long before she went away, and she looked thin, frail, and sort of beleaguered. It’s no secret that she and I have never been close, so she never confided in me. I guess he didn’t either.”

John puffed his cigar and returned to his seat near Florry. He stared at her with a pleasant smile, one old friend to another, and said, “The only possible connection between Reverend Bell, your brother, and a senseless murder is Liza Banning. Do you agree?”

“I’m in no position to agree to anything.”

“Come on, Florry, help me out here. I’m the only person who might be able to save Pete’s life, and that looks pretty doubtful right now. How much time did Dexter Bell spend with Liza when we thought Pete was dead?”

“Good God, John, I don’t know. Those first days and weeks were just awful. Liza was a wreck. The kids were traumatized. The house was a beehive as everybody in the county stopped by with a ham or a pork shank and a spare shoulder to cry on, along with a dozen questions. Sure, Dexter was there, and I remember his wife too. They were close to Pete and Liza.”

“But nothing unusual?”

“Unusual? Are you suggesting something went on between Liza and Dexter Bell? That’s outrageous, John.”

“Yes it is, and so is this murder, the defense of which I’m now in charge of, if there is to be a defense. There’s a reason Pete killed him. If he won’t explain things, then it’s up to me to find a motive.”

Florry raised her hands and said, “I’m done. It’s been a stressful day, John, and I can’t go on. Maybe another time.” She got to her feet and headed for the door, which he quickly opened for her. He held her arm down the stairs. They hugged at the front door and promised to talk soon.

His first meal as an inmate was a bowl of soup beans with a wedge of stale corn bread. Both were cold, and as Pete sat on the edge of his cot and held the bowl he pondered the question of how difficult it might be to keep the beans warm long enough to serve them to the prisoners. Surely that could be done, though he would suggest it to no one. He would not complain, for he had learned the hard way that complaining often made matters worse.

Across the dark passageway another prisoner sat on his cot and dined under the dim glow of a bare bulb at the end of a cord. His name was Leon Colliver, a member of a family known for making good moonshine, a flask of which he had hidden under his cot. Twice throughout the afternoon Colliver had offered a swig to Pete, who declined. According to Colliver, he would be shipped out to the state penitentiary at Parchman, where he was scheduled to spend a few years. It would be his second visit there and he was looking forward to it. Any place was better than this dungeon. At Parchman, the inmates spent most of their time outdoors.

Colliver wanted to chat and was curious as to why Pete was in jail. As the day wore on, the gossip spread, even to the other four white inmates, and by dusk everyone knew Pete had killed the Methodist preacher. Colliver had plenty of time to talk and wanted some details. He got nothing. What Colliver didn’t know was that Pete Banning had been shot, beaten, starved, tortured, locked in barbed wire, ship hulls, boxcars, and POW camps, and one of many survival lessons he’d picked up during his ordeal was to never say much to a person you don’t know. Colliver got nothing.

After dinner, Nix Gridley appeared in the cell block and stopped at Pete’s cell. Pete stood and took three steps to the bars. In a voice that was almost a whisper, Gridley said, “Look, Pete, we got some nosy reporters pesterin’ us, hangin’ around the jail, wantin’ to talk to you, me, anybody who’ll engage them. Just want to make sure you have no interest.”

“I have no interest,” Pete said.

“They’re comin’ from all over — Tupelo, Jackson, Memphis.”

“I have no interest.”

“That’s what I figured. You doin’ all right back here?”

“Doin’ fine. I’ve seen worse.”

“I know. Look, Pete, just so you’ll know, I stopped this afternoon and had a word with Jackie Bell, at the parsonage. She’s holdin’ up okay, I guess. Kids are a mess, though.”

Pete glared at him without a trace of sympathy, though he thought about saying something smart like “Please give her my regards.” Or, “Aw shucks, tell her I’m sorry.” But he only frowned at the sheriff as if he were an idiot. Why tell me this?

When it was obvious Pete would not respond, Gridley backed away and said, “If you need anything, let me know.”

“Thanks.”

Chapter 5

At 4:00 a.m., Florry finally abandoned all efforts at sleep and went to the kitchen to make coffee. Marietta, who lived in the basement, heard noises and soon appeared in her nightshirt. Florry said she couldn’t sleep, didn’t need anything, and sent her back to her room. After two cups with sugar, and another round of tears, Florry bit her lip and decided the dreadful nightmare might inspire creativity. For an hour she fiddled with a poem but tossed it at dawn. She turned to nonfiction and began a diary dedicated to the tragedy in real time. She skipped a bath and breakfast and by 7:00 a.m. was in Clanton, at the home of Mildred Highlander, a widow who lived alone and was, as far as Florry knew, the only person in town who understood her poetry. Over hot tea and cheese biscuits, they talked of nothing but the nightmare.

Mildred took both the Tupelo and the Memphis morning papers and, expecting the worst, they were not disappointed. It was the lead story on the front page of the Tupelo paper with the headline “War Hero Arrested For Murder.” Memphis, with obviously less interest in what happened down in Mississippi, ran the story on the front page, metro section, under the headline “Popular Preacher Shot Dead At Church.” The facts varied little from one article to the other. Not a word from the suspect’s lawyer or any of the authorities. General shock around town.

The local paper, The Ford County Times, was a weekly that hit the stands early each Wednesday morning, so it missed the excitement by one day and would have to wait until the following week. Its photographer, though, had nailed Pete Banning as he walked into the jail, and the same photo was used by both the Memphis and the Tupelo papers. Pete, with three good-ole-boy cops in mismatching uniforms and hats, being led into the jail with a look of complete indifference.

Since it seemed as though Clanton was suffering from a case of collective lockjaw, the reporters dwelled on Pete’s colorful record as a war hero. Relying heavily on their archives, both newspapers detailed his career and his exploits as a legendary soldier in the South Pacific. Both used smaller photos of Pete when he returned to Clanton the year before. Tupelo even used a photo of Pete and Liza during a ceremony on the courthouse lawn.

Vic Dixon lived across the street from Mildred, and was one of the few people in Clanton who subscribed to the Jackson morning paper, the largest in the state but one with a slim following in the northern counties. After he read it that morning with his coffee, he walked over and offered it to Mildred, who had requested it. While in her den, he spoke to Florry and passed along his condolences, or sympathies, or whatever the hell one is supposed to offer to the sister of a man who is charged with murder and appears guilty of it. Mildred shooed him away, but only after squeezing a promise that Vic would save his dailies.

Florry wanted everything for her file, or scrapbook, or nonfiction account of the nightmare. She wanted to save, record, and preserve it all. For what purpose she was not quite certain, but a long, sad, and also truly unique story was unfolding, and she had no intentions of missing any of it. When Joel and Stella finally returned home, she wanted to be able to answer as many questions as possible.

She was disappointed, though, when she realized that Jackson, which was farther away from Clanton than Tupelo or Memphis, had even fewer details, and fewer photos. It ran the rather lame headline “Prominent Farmer Arrested in Clanton.” Nevertheless, Florry clipped a subscription coupon and planned to mail it with a check.

Using Mildred’s private line, she called Joel and Stella and tried to assure them that things at home were not as catastrophic as they might seem. She failed miserably, and when she finally rang off both her niece and her nephew were in tears. Their father was in jail, damn it, and charged with an awful murder. And they wanted to come home.

At nine, Florry braced herself and drove to the jail in her 1939 Lincoln. It had less than twenty thousand miles on the odometer and rarely left the county, primarily because its owner had no driver’s license. She had flunked the test twice, been stopped by the police on several occasions, without penalties, and continued to drive because of a handshake agreement with Nix Gridley that she would drive only to town and back, and never at night.

She walked into the jail, into the sheriff’s office, said hello to Nix and Red, and announced that she was there to see her brother. In a heavy straw bag, she had packed three novels by William Faulkner, three pounds of Standard Coffee, mail-ordered from the distributor in Baltimore, one coffee mug, ten packs of cigarettes, matches, a toothbrush and toothpaste, two bars of soap, two bottles of aspirin, two bottles of painkillers, and a box of chocolates. Every item had been requested by her brother.

After some awkward conversation, Nix finally asked her what was in the bag. Without offering it, she explained there were a few harmless items for her brother, stuff he had requested.

Both cops made a mental note to write this down and pass it along to the prosecutor. The prisoner planned his crime so carefully he made a list of items to be brought to the jail by his sister. Clear evidence of premeditated murder. An honest but potentially damaging mistake by Florry.

“When did he request these items?” Nix asked nonchalantly, as if it meant nothing.

Florry, eager to cooperate, said, “Oh, he left a note with Nineva, told her to bring it to me after he was arrested.”

“I see,” Nix said. “Tell me, Florry, how much did you know about his plans?”

“I knew nothing. I swear. Absolutely nothing. I’m as shocked as you, even more so because he’s my brother and I can’t imagine him doing anything like this.” Nix glanced at Red with a look that conveyed doubt, in something. Doubt that she knew nothing beforehand. Doubt that she knew nothing about motive. Doubt that she was telling everything. The look exchanged between the two cops startled Florry, and she realized she shouldn’t be talking. “Could I please see my brother?” she practically demanded.

“Sure,” Nix said. He looked again at Red and said, “Go fetch the prisoner.” When Red stepped out, Nix took the bag and examined its contents. This irritated Florry, who said, “What are you looking for, Nix, guns and knives?”

“What’s he supposed to do with this coffee?” Nix asked.

“Drink it.”

“We have our own, Florry.”

“I’m sure you do, but Pete is particular about his coffee. Goes back to the war, when he couldn’t get any. It has to be Standard Coffee from New Orleans. That’s the least you can do.”

“If we serve him Standard, then we have to serve the same to the rest of the prisoners, at least to the white ones. No preferential treatment here, Florry, you understand? Folks already suspect Pete’ll get a special deal.”

“I can accept that. I’ll haul in all the Standard Coffee you want.”

Nix held up the coffee mug. It was ceramic, off-white in color, with light brown stains, obviously well used. Before he could say anything, Florry added, “That’s his favorite mug. They gave it to him at the military hospital after his surgeries while he was convalescing. Surely, Nix, you will not deny a war hero the simple favor of drinking coffee from his favorite mug.”

“I suppose not,” Nix mumbled as he began placing the items back in the bag.

“He’s not your typical prisoner, Nix, remember that. You’ve got him locked up back there with God knows who, probably a bunch of thieves and bootleggers, but you must remember that he is Pete Banning.”

“He’s locked up because he murdered the Methodist preacher, Florry. And as of right now he’s the only murderer back there. He will not be given special treatment.”

The door opened and Pete walked in with Red behind him. He looked stone-faced at his sister and stood erect in the middle of the room, looking down at Nix.

“I suppose you want to use my office again,” Nix said.

“Thanks, Nix, that’s mighty nice of you,” Pete said. Nix grudgingly stood, picked up his hat, and left the room with Red. His gun and holster hung from a rack in a corner, in plain sight.

Pete moved a chair, took a seat, and looked at his sister, whose first words were “You idiot. How could you be so stupid and selfish and shortsighted and absolutely idiotic? How could you do this to your family? Forget me, forget the farm and the people who depend on you. Forget your friends. How in the world could you do this to your children? They are devastated, Pete, frightened beyond belief and absolutely distraught. How could you?”

“I had no choice.”

“Oh, really? Care to explain things, Pete?”

“No, I will not explain, and lower your voice. Don’t assume they’re not listening.”

“I don’t care if they’re listening.”

His eyes glazed as he pointed a finger at her and said, “Settle down, Florry. I’m in no mood for your theatrics and I will not be abused. I did what I did for a reason and perhaps one day you will understand. For now, though, I have nothing to say about the matter and since you don’t understand I suggest you watch your words.”

Her eyes instantly watered and her lip quivered. She dropped her chin to her chest and mumbled, “So you can’t even talk to me?”

“To no one, not even you.”

She stared at the floor for a long time as his words sank in. The day before they’d had their usual fine Wednesday breakfast with no hint of what was to come. Pete was like that now: aloof, distant, often in another world.

Florry looked at him and said, “I’m going to ask you why.”

“And I have nothing to say.”

“What did Dexter Bell do to deserve this?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Is Liza involved in this?”

Pete hesitated for a second and Florry knew she had touched a nerve. He said, “I have nothing to say,” and went about the deliberate business of removing a cigarette from a pack, tapping it on his wristwatch for some unfathomable reason, as always, then lighting it with a match.

“Do you feel any remorse or sympathy for his family?” she asked.

“I try not to think about them. Yes, I’m sorry it had to happen, but this was not something I wanted to do. They, along with the rest of us, will simply learn to live with what has happened.”

“Just like that? It’s over. He’s dead. Too bad. Just deal with it as life goes on. I’d like to see you trot this little theory out in front of his three beautiful children right now.”

“Feel free to leave.” She made no movement except for the gentle dabbing of her cheeks with a tissue. Pete blew some smoke that settled into a fog not far above their heads. They could hear voices in the distance, laughter coming from the sheriff and his deputies as they went about their business.

Finally, Florry asked, “What are the conditions like back there?”

“It’s a jail. I’ve seen worse.”

“Are they feeding you?”

“The food’s okay. I’ve seen worse.”

“Joel and Stella want to come home and see you. They are terrified, Pete, absolutely frightened stiff, and, understandably, quite confused.”

“I’ve made it very clear they are not to come home until I say. Period. Please remind them of this. I know what’s best.”

“I doubt that. What’s best is for their father to be at home going about his business and trying to keep a fractured family together, not sitting in jail charged with a senseless murder.”

Ignoring this, he said, “I worry about them, but they are strong and smart and they’ll survive.”

“I’m not so sure about that. It’s easy for you to assume they’re as strong as you, given what you went through, but that may not be the case, Pete. You can’t just assume that your children will survive this unscarred.”

“I’ll not be lectured. You are welcome to come visit, and I appreciate it, but not if you feel the need to deliver a sermon with each visit. Let’s keep things on the light side, Florry, okay? My days are numbered. Don’t make them worse.”

Chapter 6

The Honorable Rafe Oswalt had been the circuit court judge for Ford, Tyler, Milburn, Polk, and Van Buren Counties for the past seventeen years. Because he lived next door in Smithfield, the seat of Polk County, he had never met either the defendant or the deceased. Like everyone else, though, he was intrigued by the facts and eager to assume jurisdiction over the matter. During his unremarkable career on the bench, he had presided over a dozen or so rather routine murders — drunken brawls, knife fights in black honky-tonks, domestic conflicts — all crimes of rage or passion that usually ended in short trials followed by long prison sentences. Not a single murder had involved the death of such a prominent person.

Judge Oswalt had read the newspaper reports and heard some of the gossip. He had spoken twice on the phone with John Wilbanks, a lawyer he greatly admired. He had also spoken on the phone with the district attorney, Miles Truitt, a lawyer he admired less. On Friday morning, the bailiff cracked the door to the judge’s chambers behind the courtroom and reported that a crowd was waiting.

Indeed it was. Friday just happened to be a scheduled docket day for routine appearances for criminal matters and motion hearings in civil suits. No jury trials were planned in Ford County for months, and normally such a dull lineup on a Friday would attract almost no spectators. Suddenly, though, there was curiosity, and admission was free. The curiosity wasn’t limited to the few courthouse regulars who whittled carvings and dipped snuff under the old oaks on the lawn while waiting for some action inside. The curiosity consumed Ford County, and by 9:00 a.m. the courtroom was filled with dozens of people wanting to get a glimpse of Pete Banning. There were reporters from several newspapers, one from as far away as Atlanta. There were a lot of Methodists, now committed anti-Banning folks who bunched together on one side behind the prosecutor’s table. Across the aisle were assorted friends of Pete and Dexter Bell, along with the courthouse regulars, as well as a lot of townsfolk who managed to sneak away from their jobs for the moment. Above them, in the balcony, sat a few Negroes, isolated by their color. Unlike most buildings in town, the courthouse allowed them to come and go through the front door, but once inside they were banished to the balcony. They too wanted a look at the defendant.

No members of the Bell or Banning family were present. The Bells were in mourning and preparing for a funeral the following day. The Bannings were staying as far away as possible.

Because they were officers of the court, the town’s lawyers were allowed to come and go beyond the bar and around the bench. All twelve were present, all wearing their best dark suits and feigning important legal business while the crowd looked on. The clerks, normally a languid if not lethargic group, were shuffling their useless paperwork with vigor.

Nix Gridley had two full-time deputies — Roy Lester and Red Arnett — and three part-timers, along with two volunteers. On this fine day the entire force of eight was present, all in proper, well-starched, and almost matching uniforms and presenting an impressive show of muscle. Nix himself seemed to be everywhere — laughing with the lawyers, flirting with the clerks, chatting with a few of the spectators. He was a year away from reelection and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to appear important in front of so many voters.

And so the show went on as the crowd grew and the clock ticked past nine. Judge Oswalt finally emerged from behind the bench in his flowing black robe and assumed his throne. Acting as if he hadn’t noticed the spectators, he looked at Nix and said, “Mr. Sheriff, bring in the prisoners.”

Nix was already at the door by the jury box. He opened it, disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with Pete Banning in handcuffs and wearing bulky gray overalls with the word “Jail” across the front. Behind Pete was Chuck Manley, an alleged car thief with the misfortune of being arrested a few days before Pete shot the preacher. Under normal circumstances, Chuck would have been hauled in from the jail, frog-marched in front of the judge, appointed a lawyer, and sent back to jail with hardly a soul knowing anything about it. Fate intervened, though, and Manley’s alleged crime would now be known to many.

Pete moved as if on parade, ramrod straight with an air of confidence and a nonchalant look. Nix led him to a chair in front of the empty jury box, and Manley sat beside him. Their handcuffs were not removed. The lawyers found their seats and for a moment all was quiet as His Honor studiously reviewed a few sheets of paper. Finally, he said, “The matter of State versus Chuck Manley.”

A lawyer named Nance jumped to his feet and motioned for his client to join him in front of the bench. Manley stepped over and looked up at the judge, who asked, “You are Chuck Manley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Mr. Nance here is your lawyer?”

“I guess. My momma hired him.”

“Do you want him to be your lawyer?”

“I guess. I’m not guilty, though; this is just a misunderstanding.”

Nance grabbed his elbow and told him to shut up.

“You were arrested last Monday and charged with stealing Mr. Earl Caldwell’s 1938 Buick out of his driveway over in Karraway. How do you plead?”

Manley said, “Not guilty, sir. I can explain.”

“Not today, son. Maybe later. Your bond is hereby set at $100. Can you pay this?”

“I doubt it.”

Nance, eager to say something in front of such a crowd, bellowed, “Your Honor, I suggest that this young man be released on his own recognizance. He has no criminal record, has a job, and will show up in court whenever he is supposed to.”

“That true, son, you have a job?”

“Yes, sir. I drive a truck for Mr. J. P. Leatherwood.”

“Is he in the courtroom?”

“Oh, I doubt it. He’s very busy.”

Nance jumped in with “Your Honor, I’ve spoken with Mr. Leatherwood and he is willing to sign a guarantee that my client will appear in court when directed. If you’d like to talk to Mr. Leatherwood, I can arrange this.”

“Very well. Take him back to jail and I’ll call his boss this afternoon.”

Manley was escorted out of the courtroom less than five minutes after entering it. His Honor signed his name a few times and reviewed some papers as everyone waited. Finally he said, “In the matter of State versus Pete Banning.”

John Wilbanks was on his feet and striding to the bench. Pete stood, grimaced slightly, then walked to a spot next to his lawyer. Judge Oswalt asked, “You are Pete Banning?”

He nodded. “I am.”

“And you are represented by the Honorable John Wilbanks?”

Another nod. “I am.”

“And you have been arrested and charged for the first-degree murder of the Reverend Dexter Bell. Do you understand this?

“And do you understand that first-degree murder is based on premeditation and can possibly carry the death penalty, whereas second-degree murder is punishable by a long prison sentence?”

“I understand this.”

“And how do you wish to plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“The court will accept your plea and enter it on the docket. Anything else, Mr. Wilbanks?”

The lawyer replied, “Well, yes, Your Honor, I respectfully request the court to consider setting a reasonable bond for my client. Now, I realize the gravity of this charge and do not take it lightly. But a bond is permissible in this case. A bond is nothing but a guarantee that the defendant will not flee, but rather will appear in court when he’s supposed to. Mr. Banning owns an entire section of land, 640 acres, free and clear, with no debts whatsoever, and he is willing to post the deed to his property as security for his bond. His sister owns the adjacent section and will do the same. I might add, Your Honor, that this land has been in the Banning family for over one hundred years and neither my client nor his sister will do anything to jeopardize it.”

Judge Oswalt interrupted with “This is first-degree murder, Mr. Wilbanks.”

“I understand, Your Honor, but my client is innocent until proven guilty. How does it benefit the State or anyone else to keep him in jail when he can post a secure bond and remain free until trial? He’s not going anywhere.”

“I’ve never heard of a bond for a charge this serious.”

“Nor have I, but the Mississippi Code does not prohibit it. If the court would like, I will be happy to submit a brief on this point.”

During the back-and-forth, Pete stood at attention, stiff and unmoving as a sentry. He stared straight ahead, as if hearing nothing but absorbing it all.

Judge Oswalt thought for a moment and said, “Very well. I’ll read your brief, but it will have to be quite persuasive to change my mind. Meanwhile, the prisoner will remain in the custody of the sheriff’s office.”

Nix gently took Pete by the elbow and led him from the courtroom, with John Wilbanks in pursuit. Waiting outside next to the sheriff’s car were two photographers, and they quickly snapped the same shots they had taken when the defendant was entering the courthouse. A reporter yelled a question in Pete’s direction. He ignored it as he ducked into the rear seat. Within minutes, he was back in his cell, handcuffs and shoes off, reading Go Down, Moses and smoking a cigarette.

The burying of Dexter Bell became a glorious affair. It began on Thursday, the day after the killing, when old man Magargel opened the doors of his funeral home at 6:00 p.m. and the mob descended. Half an hour earlier, Jackie Bell and her three children were allowed to privately view the body. As was the custom, at that time and in that part of the world, the casket was open. Dexter lay still and quiet on a bed of shiny cloth, his black suit visible from the waist up. Jackie fainted as her children screamed and bawled and fell all over themselves. Mr. Magargel and his son were the only others in the room and they tried to render assistance, which was impossible.

There was no good reason for an open casket. No law or verse of sacred scripture commanded such a ritual. It was simply what folks did to create as much drama as possible. More emotion equaled more love for the deceased. Jackie had sat through dozens of funerals conducted by her husband, and the caskets were always open.

The Magargels had little experience with gunshot wounds to the face. Most of their clients were old folks whose frail bodies were easy to prepare. But not long into the embalming of Reverend Bell they realized they needed help and called a more experienced colleague from Memphis. A large chunk of the back of the skull had been blown off during the exit of bullet number three, but that was not of any significance. No one would ever see that part of the deceased. With the entry, though, right above the nose, there was a sizable divot that required hours of skillful rebuilding and molding with all manner of restructuring putty, glue, and coloring. The end product was okay, but far from great. Dexter continued to frown, as though he would forever be staring in horror at the gun.

After half an hour of private viewing, a perfectly miserable time in which even the experienced and cold-blooded Magargels were pushed to the brink of tears, Jackie and her children were arranged in seats near the casket and the doors were opened and the crowd rushed in. What followed were three hours of unrestrained agony, grieving, and suffering.

After a break, it continued the following afternoon when Dexter was rolled down the aisle of his church and parked under his pulpit. Jackie, who’d seen enough, asked that the casket not be opened. Old man Magargel frowned at this, though he complied and said nothing. He hated to miss such a rich opportunity to see folks racked with grief. For three more hours, Jackie and her children stood gamely by the casket and greeted many of the same people they’d greeted the evening before. Hundreds showed up, including every able-bodied Methodist in the county and many from other churches, and friends of the family, with a lot of children far too young for such mourning but drawn to the wake out of friendship with the Bells. Also paying respects were many outright strangers who simply didn’t want to miss the opportunity to wedge themselves into the story. The pews were filled with people who waited patiently to proceed past the casket and say something banal to the family, and as they waited they prayed, and whispered softly, passing along the latest news. The sanctuary suffered under the weight of inconsolable loss, which was made even worse by the pipe organ. Miss Emma Faye Riddle churned away, playing one sorrowful dirge after another.

Hop watched from a corner of the balcony, vexed again at the strange ways of white folks.

After two days of these preliminaries, the weary gathered for the last time at the church on Saturday afternoon for the funeral. A preacher friend of Dexter’s led the ceremony, which was complete with a full choir, two solos, a lengthy homily, more of Miss Emma Faye and her organ, scripture readings, three eulogies, tears by the bucket loads, and, yes, an open casket. Though he tried valiantly, the preacher failed to make sense of the death. He relied heavily on the theme of “God works in mysterious ways” but that found little traction. He finally surrendered and the choir rose to its feet.

After two grueling hours, there was nothing left to say, and they loaded Dexter into the hearse and paraded across town to the public cemetery, where he was finally laid to rest amid a sea of flowers and a tide of raw emotion. Long after they were dismissed by the preacher, Jackie and the children sat in their folding chairs under the canopy and stared at the casket and the pile of black dirt beside it.

Mrs. Gloria Grange was a devout Methodist who missed none of the ceremonies, and after the interment she stopped by the home of Mildred Highlander, for tea. Mildred was a Presbyterian and unacquainted with Reverend Bell; thus she didn’t attend the wake or funeral. But she certainly wanted all the details, and Gloria unloaded.

Late Saturday afternoon, Florry hustled to town, also for tea with Mildred. She was eager to hear the details of the suffering caused by her brother, and Mildred was just as eager to pass them along.

Chapter 7

For the first time in his young life, Joel Banning disobeyed his father. He left Nashville Saturday morning and took the train to Memphis, a four-hour ride that allowed plenty of time to consider his act of disobedience, and by the time he arrived in Memphis he had convinced himself that it was justified. Indeed, he could even articulate his reasons: He needed to check on Florry to see how she was holding up; he needed to meet with Buford the overseer and make sure the harvest was going well; perhaps he would meet with John Wilbanks and discuss his father’s defense, or maybe not. Their little family was disintegrating on all fronts and someone had to step forward and try to save it. Besides, his father was in jail, and if Joel eased in and out the way he planned, his quick visit would not be discovered, his act of disobedience undetected.

The train from Memphis to Clanton stopped six times, and it was after dark when he stepped onto the platform and pulled his hat low over his eyes. A few people got off and no one seemed to recognize him. There were two cabs in town and both were idling outside the station, their drivers leaning on the same fender chewing tobacco and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.

“Is that telephone box still outside the drugstore?” Joel asked the nearest driver.

“It is.”

“Can you take me there?”

“Hop in.”

The square was packed with late Saturday shoppers. Even during the picking season, the farmers and their field hands cleaned up after lunch and headed to town. The stores were filled, the sidewalks packed, the Atrium was showing Bing Crosby in Blue Skies, and a long line waited around the corner. Live bluegrass was entertaining a throng on the courthouse lawn. Joel preferred to avoid the crowds and asked his driver to stop on a side street. The phone box in front of Gainwright’s Pharmacy was occupied. Joel stood beside it, fidgeting for the benefit of the young lady using the phone, and tried his best to avoid eye contact with the packs of people passing by. When he was finally inside he punched in a nickel and called Aunt Florry. After a few rings she answered.

Assuming, as always, that someone was listening on their rural party line, he said quickly, “Florry, it’s me. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“What? Who?”

“Your favorite nephew. Bye.”

As the only nephew, he was confident she got the message. Showing up unannounced would give her too much of a shock. Plus, he was starving and figured a little advance notice might get some hot food on the table. Back in the cab, he asked the driver to ease by the Methodist church. As they left the bustling square, they passed Cal’s Game Room, a pool hall known for its bootleg beer and craps in the back. As a young teenager in Clanton, Joel had been strictly warned by his father to stay away from Cal’s, in much the same way that all proper young men had been cautioned. It was a rowdy place on weekends, with a rough crowd, and there were usually fights and such. Because it was off-limits, Joel had always been tempted to sneak in during his high school days. His friends would brag about hanging out at Cal’s, and there were even stories of girls upstairs. Now, though, with three years of college behind him, and in the big city at that, Joel scoffed at the notion of being tempted by such a low-end dive. He knew the fine bars of Nashville and all the pleasures they offered. He could not imagine ever returning to live in Clanton, a town where the beer and liquor were illegal, as were most things.

The lights were on in the sanctuary of the Methodist church, and as they passed it the driver said, “You from around here?”

“Not really,” Joel said.

“So you haven’t heard the big news this week, about the preacher?”

“Yeah, I read about it. A strange story.”

“Shot him right there,” the driver said, pointing to the annex behind the sanctuary. “Buried him this afternoon. Got the guy in jail but he won’t say anything.”

Joel did not respond, did not wish to pursue this conversation that he had not initiated. He gazed at the church as they eased past it, and he remembered with great fondness those Sunday mornings when he and Stella would be dressed in their finest, bow ties and bonnets, and walked into the sanctuary holding hands with their parents, who were also turned out in their Sunday best. Joel knew at a young age that his father’s suits and his mother’s dresses were a bit nicer than the average Methodist’s, and their cars and trucks were always newer, and they talked of finishing college and not just high school. He realized a lot as a child, but because he was a Banning he was also taught humility and the virtue of saying as little as possible.

He had been baptized in that church when he was ten years old; Stella at nine. The family had faithfully attended the weekly services, the fall and spring revivals, the cookouts, potluck suppers, funerals, weddings, and an endless schedule of social events because for them, and for many in their town, the church was the center of society. Joel remembered all of the pastors who had come and gone. Pastor Wardall had buried his grandfather Jacob Banning. Ron Cooper had baptized Joel, and his son had been Joel’s best friend in the fourth grade. And on and on. The pastors came and went until Dexter Bell arrived before the war.

Evidently, he stayed too long.

Joel said, “Head out Highway 18. I’ll show you where to stop.”

The cabbie replied, “To where? Always like to know where I’m goin’.”

“Out by the Banning place.”

“You a Banning?”

There was nothing worse than a nosy cabdriver. Joel ignored him and glanced through the rear window at the church as it disappeared around the corner. He had liked Dexter Bell, though by his early teens he was beginning to question his harsh sermons. It was Pastor Bell who had sat with the family on that horrible evening when they had been informed that Lieutenant Pete Banning was missing and presumed dead in the Philippines. During those dark days, Pastor Bell took charge of the mourning — directing the church ladies and their endless parade of food, organizing prayer vigils at the church, shooing folks away from the house when privacy was needed, and counseling the family, almost daily, it seemed. Joel and Stella even whispered complaints when they grew tired of the counseling. What they wanted was to spend time alone with their mother, but the reverend was always around. Often he brought his wife, Jackie; other times he did not. As Joel grew older, he found Jackie Bell cold and aloof, and Stella didn’t like her either.

Joel closed his eyes and shook his head again. It wasn’t really true, was it? His father had murdered Dexter Bell and was now locked up?

The cotton began at the edge of town, and under a full moon it was plain to see which fields had been picked. Though he had no plans to farm like his ancestors, Joel checked the market on the Memphis Cotton Exchange every day in The Nashville Tennessean. It was pretty damned important. The land would one day belong to him, and to Stella, and the annual harvest would be crucial.

“Gonna be a nice crop this year,” the cabbie said.

“That’s what I hear. About another mile and I’ll get out.”

Moments later, Joel said, “Up there at Pace Road, that’ll be fine.”

“In the middle of nowhere?”

“That’s right.” The cab slowed, turned onto a gravel road, and stopped. “That’ll be a dollar,” the driver said. Joel handed him four quarters, thanked him for the lift, and got out with his small duffel. After the cab turned around and was headed back to town, he walked the quarter mile to the driveway leading to his home.

The house was dark and unlocked, and as he eased through it he figured Mack, the bluetick hound, was either at Nineva’s or at Florry’s. Otherwise, he would have been barking when Joel approached on the gravel drive. In earlier times and not that long ago, the house would have been alive with the voices of his parents, and music on the radio, and perhaps friends over for dinner on a Saturday night. But tonight it was a tomb, dark and still and smelling of stale tobacco.

Now they were both locked away: his mother in a state asylum, his father in the county jail.

He left through the rear door, swung wide to avoid the small home of Nineva and Amos, and picked up the trail by the barns and tractor shed. This was his land and he knew every inch of it. A hundred yards away, a light shone in the window of Buford’s cottage. He had been their overseer, or foreman as he preferred to be called, since before the war, and his importance to the family had just been greatly elevated.

All lights were on in Florry’s cottage and she was waiting near the door. She hugged him at first, then scolded him for coming, then hugged him again. Marietta had made a pot of venison stew two days earlier and it was warming on the stove. A thick, meaty aroma filled the house.

“You’re finally gaining some weight,” Florry said as they sat at the dining table. She was pouring coffee from a ceramic pot.

“Let’s not talk about our weight,” Joel said.

“Agreed.” Florry was gaining too, though not on purpose.

“It’s so good to see you, Joel.”

“It’s good to be home, even under these circumstances.”

“Why did you come?”

“Because I live here, Aunt Florry. Because my father is in jail and my poor mother has been sent away, so what the hell is happening to us?”

“Watch your language, college boy.”

“Please. I’m twenty years old and I’m a senior. I’ll cuss, smoke, and drink anytime I wish.”

“Lawd have mercy,” Marietta said as she walked by.

“That’s enough, Marietta,” Florry snapped. “I’ll take care of the stew. You’re done for the night. See you late tomorrow morning.”

Marietta yanked off her apron, tossed it on the counter, pulled on her coat, and went to the basement.

They took deep breaths, sipped their coffee, and let a moment pass. Calmly, Joel asked, “Why did he do it?”

Florry shook her head. “No one knows but him, and he refuses to explain things. I’ve seen him once, the day after, and he’s in another world.”

“There has to be a reason, Aunt Florry. He would never do something so random, so awful, without a reason.”

“Oh, I agree, but he’s not going to talk about it, Joel. I’ve seen the look on his face, seen it many times, and I know what it means. It’s a secret he’ll take to his grave.”

“He owes us an explanation.”

“Well, we’re not going to get one, I can promise you that.”

“Do you have any bourbon?”

“You’re too young for bourbon, Joel.”

“I’m twenty,” he said, standing. “I’ll graduate from Vanderbilt next spring, then go to law school.” He was walking to the sofa where he’d left his duffel. “And I’m going to law school because I have no plans to become another farmer, regardless of what he wants.” He reached into his duffel and retrieved a flask. “I have no plans to live here, Aunt Florry, and I think you’ve known that for a long time.” He returned to the table, unscrewed the top of the flask, and took a swig. “Jack Daniel’s. Would you like some?”

“No.”

Another swig. “And even if I were considering a return to Ford County, I would say that that possibility has been pretty much shot to hell now that my father has become the most famous murderer in local history. Can’t really blame me, can you?”

“I suppose not. You haven’t mentioned law school before.”

“I’ve been thinking about it all year.”

“That’s wonderful. Where will you go?”

“I’m not sure. Not Vanderbilt. I like Nashville but I need a change. Maybe Tulane or Texas. I was considering Ole Miss but now I have this strong desire to get far away from this here.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

Florry went to the kitchen and filled a large bowl with stew from the pot on the stove. She served it to him with leftover corn bread and a glass of water. Before she sat down, she reached deep into the cupboard and retrieved a bottle of gin. She mixed two ounces with a splash of tonic water, and sat across from him.

He smiled and said, “Stella and I found your gin once. Did you know that?”

“No! Did you drink it?”

“We tried to. I was about sixteen and we knew you kept it hidden in the cupboard. I poured a little in a glass and took a sip. Almost puked. It burned to my toes and tasted like hair tonic. How do you drink that stuff?”

“With practice. What was Stella’s reaction?”

“The same. I don’t think she’s touched alcohol since.”

“I’ll bet she has. You seem to have developed a taste.”

“I’m a college boy, Aunt Florry. It’s part of my education.” He took a large spoonful of stew and then another. After four or five, he put down his spoon and paused to allow his food to settle. He helped it with a sip of sour mash, then smiled at his aunt and said, “I want to talk about my mother, Aunt Florry. There are secrets back there and you know a lot that you haven’t told us.”

Florry shook her head and looked away.

He went on, “I know she broke down when they told us he was dead, or presumed dead. Hell, didn’t we all, Aunt Florry? I couldn’t leave the house for a week. Remember that?”

“How could I forget? It was awful.”

“We were like ghosts, just sleepwalking through the days and dreading the nights. But we somehow found a little strength to go on, and I think Mom did okay, don’t you? Didn’t Mom sort of get tough and put on a brave face?”

“She did. We all did. But it wasn’t easy.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was a living hell, but we survived. I was at Vanderbilt when she called that night with the news that he wasn’t dead after all, that he’d been found and rescued. They said he was badly wounded, but that didn’t seem important. He was alive! I hurried home and we celebrated, and I remember Mom being quite happy. Am I right, Aunt Florry?”

“Yes, that’s the way I remember it. We were elated, almost euphoric, and that lasted for a few days. Just the fact that he was alive was a miracle. Then we began reading stories about how badly the POWs were treated over there, and we worried about his injuries, and so on.”

“Sure, now back to my mother. We were thrilled when he was released, and when he came home a hero my mother was the proudest woman in the world. They could not have been happier, hell, we were all ecstatic, and that was only a year ago, Aunt Florry. So what happened?”

“Don’t assume I know what happened because I don’t. For the first few weeks all was well. Pete was still recovering and getting stronger by the day. They were happy; things seemed to be fine. Then they weren’t. I was not aware of their troubles until long after they had started. Nineva told Marietta that they were fighting, that Liza was acting crazy, prone to long bouts of foul moods and time alone in her room. They stopped sleeping together and your father moved into your bedroom. I wasn’t supposed to know this so I couldn’t really ask. And you know it’s a waste of time to ask your father anything about his private matters. I’ve never been close to Liza and she would never confide in me. So, I was in the dark, and, frankly, that’s not always a bad place to be.”

A long pull on the whiskey and Joel said, “Then she was sent away.”

“Then she was sent away.”

“Why, Aunt Florry? Why was my mother committed to the state mental hospital?”

Florry sloshed her gin around her glass and studied it at length. Then she took a sip, grimaced as if it was awful, and set down the glass. “Your father decided she needed help, and there’s no one around here. The professionals are at Whitfield, and that’s where he sent her.”

“Just like that? She got shipped off?”

“No, there were proceedings. But let’s be honest, Joel, your father knows the right people and he’s got the Wilbanks boys in his back pocket. They talked to a judge; he signed the order. And your mother acquiesced. She did not object to the commitment order, not that she had a choice. If Pete insisted, which I’m sure he did, she could not fight him.”

“What’s her diagnosis?”

“I have no idea. Being a woman, I guess. Keep in mind, Joel, that it’s a man’s world, and if a husband with connections feels as though his wife is suffering through the change and depressed and her moods are swinging right and left, well, he can send her off for a spell.”

“I find it hard to believe that my father would have my mother committed to a mental institution because of the change. She seems kind of young for that. There’s a lot more to it, Aunt Florry.”

“I’m sure there is, but I was not privy to their discussions and conflicts.”

Joel returned to his stew and gulped a few bites, followed with more of his whiskey.

In a futile effort to change the subject, Florry asked, “Are you still seeing that girl?”

“Which girl?”

“Well, I guess that’s enough of an answer. Any girl in your life these days?”

“Not really. I’m too young and I have law school in front of me. You said on the phone that you’ve spoken with John Wilbanks. I assume he’s taken charge of the defense.”

“He has, or what there is of it. Your father is not cooperating. Wilbanks wants to use an insanity defense, says it’s the only way to save his life, but your father will have none of it. Says he’s got more sense than Wilbanks or the next lawyer, which I won’t argue.”

“More proof that he’s crazy. He has no choice but to plead insanity, there’s no other defense. I did the research myself at the law school yesterday.”

“Then you can help Wilbanks. He needs it.”

“I’ve written him a letter and I thought about seeing him tomorrow.”

“That’s a bad idea, Joel. I doubt he works on Sundays, and you cannot be seen around town. Your father would be upset if he knew you were here. My advice to you is to leave town as quietly as you sneaked in, and not to return until Pete says so.”

“I’d like to talk to Buford and check on the crops.”

“You can’t do a thing to help the crops. You’re not a farmer, remember. Besides, Buford has things under control. He reports to me; I plan to run by the jail and report to Pete. We’re in the midst of a good harvest so don’t try to screw things up. Besides, Buford would tell your father that you’re here. Bad idea.”

Joel managed a laugh, his first, and swigged his whiskey. He shoved his bowl away, which prompted her to say, “Half a bowl. You should eat more, Joel. You’re finally filling out but you have a ways to go. You’re still too thin.”

“Not much of an appetite these days, Aunt Florry, for some reason. Mind if I smoke?”

She nodded and said, “On the porch.” Joel stepped outside with a cigarette while she cleared the table, then she refreshed her drink, laid another log on the fire in the den, and fell into her favorite armchair to wait for him. When he returned, he grabbed his flask, joined her in the den, and sat on the worn leather sofa.

She cleared her throat and said, “There’s something you should know, since we were discussing the cotton. I suppose it’s no real secret since there is a public record of it in the courthouse. About a month ago, your father hired a lawyer in Tupelo to write a deed transferring ownership of his farm to you and Stella jointly. My land, of course, belongs to me and was not involved. John Wilbanks told me this last Wednesday in his office. Of course, you and Stella would one day inherit the land anyway.”

Joel thought for a moment, obviously surprised and confused. “And why did he do this?”

“Why does Pete do anything? Because he can. It wasn’t very smart, according to Wilbanks. He was moving his assets to protect them from the family of a man he was planning to murder. Plain and simple. In doing so, though, he handed a gift to the prosecution. The DA can prove at trial that the murder was premeditated. Pete planned everything.”

“Is the land protected?”

“Wilbanks doesn’t think so, but we didn’t go into it. It was the day after and we were still stunned. Still are, I guess.”

“Aren’t we all? Wilbanks thinks Bell’s family will come after the land?”

“He implied that but didn’t say it outright. It might be fodder for your research, now that you’ve found the law library.”

“This family needs a full-time lawyer.” He took a drink and finished his flask. Florry watched him carefully and loved every ounce of his being. He favored her side, the Bannings, tall with dark eyes and thick hair, while Stella was the image of Liza, both in looks and in temperament. He was grieving, and Florry ached with his pain. His happy, privileged life was taking a dramatic turn for the worse, and he could do nothing to correct its course.

Quietly, he asked, “Has anyone talked about Mom getting out? Is it even a possibility? Dad sent her away, and now that his influence is rather limited, is there a chance she can come home?”

“I don’t know, Joel, but I’ve heard nothing about that. Before this, your father would drive to Whitfield once a month to see her. He never said much, but on a couple of occasions he mentioned his visits, said she was not getting any better.”

“How is one supposed to improve in an insane asylum?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

“And why can’t I visit her?”

“Because your father said no.”

“I can’t see my father and I can’t visit my mother. Is it okay to admit that I miss my parents, Florry?”

“Of course you do, dear. I’m so sorry.”

They watched the fire for a long time and nothing was said. It hissed and crackled and began dying for the night. One of the cats jumped up onto the leather sofa and looked at Joel as if he were trespassing. Finally, Joel said softly, “I don’t know what to do, Florry. Nothing makes sense right now.”

For the first time his words were not clear, his tongue thick.

She took a sip and said, “Well, coming home tonight is not the answer. The train for Memphis leaves at nine thirty in the morning, and you’ll be on it. There’s nothing to do here but worry.”

“I suppose I can worry at college.”

“I suppose you can.”

Chapter 8

The Ford County grand jury convened on the third Monday of each month to listen to evidence of the latest crimes among the locals. On the docket for October 21 was the usual laundry list: a domestic dispute that devolved into a severe beating; Chuck Manley and his alleged stolen car; a Negro who fired a pistol at another, and though he missed, the bullet shattered the window of a rural white church, which added gravity to the incident and elevated it to a felony; a con man from Tupelo who had blanketed the county with bad checks; a white man and a black woman who were caught in the act of enthusiastically violating the state’s antimiscegenation laws; and so on. The list totaled ten crimes, all felonies, and that was about average for a peaceful community. Last on the list was the matter of Pete Banning and his murder charge.

Miles Truitt had been the district attorney since his election seven years earlier. As the chief prosecutor, he handled the grand jury, which was little more than a rubber stamp for whatever he wanted. Truitt selected the eighteen people who served, picked which crimes needed to be pursued, called witnesses who gave evidence that favored only the prosecution, leaned heavily on the jury when the evidence seemed a bit shaky, and secured the indictments that were then served upon the defendants. After that, Truitt controlled the criminal trial docket and decided which cases would be tried first and last. Almost none actually went to trial. Instead they were settled with a deal, a plea bargain in which the defendant confessed to being guilty in return for as light a sentence as possible.

After seven years of routine prosecutions, Miles Truitt had been lulled into the mundane rut of putting away bootleggers, wife beaters, and car thieves. His jurisdiction covered the five counties of the Twenty-Second District, and the year before he had tried only four cases to verdicts. All other indictees had pled out. His job had lost its luster, primarily because there simply was not enough exciting crime in his corner of northern Mississippi.

But Pete Banning had broken the monotony, and in spectacular fashion. Every prosecutor dreams of the sensational murder trial, with a prominent (white) defendant, a well-known victim, a crowded courtroom, lots of press, and, of course, an outcome favorable to the prosecutor and all the fine citizens who voted for him. Truitt’s dream was coming true, and he tried to control his eagerness to get on with the prosecution of Pete Banning.

The grand jury assembled in the courthouse in the same room used by trial juries. It was a cramped space hardly wide and long enough for a trial jury of twelve, with chairs wedged around a long narrow table. Of the eighteen, only sixteen were present, all white men. Mr. Jock Fedison from Karraway had called in sick, though it was widely believed he was really too busy in his cotton fields to be bothered with trifling judicial matters. Mr. Wade Burrell had not bothered to call at all and had been neither seen nor heard from in weeks. He was not a farmer but was rumored to be having trouble with his wife. She said flatly that the bum had gone off drunk and wasn’t coming back.

Sixteen was a sufficient quorum, and Truitt called them to order. Sheriff Gridley was brought in as the first witness and sworn to tell the truth. Truitt began with Chuck Manley’s case and Gridley laid out the facts. The vote was sixteen to zero in favor of an indictment for grand larceny, with no discussion. The bad-check artist was next, and the sheriff presented copies of the checks and affidavits from some of the aggrieved merchants. Sixteen to zero again, and the same for the pulpwood cutter who broke his wife’s nose, among other injuries.

Justice was sailing right along until Truitt called up the miscegenation case. The two lovers had been caught in the act in the back of a pickup truck parked in an area known for such activities. Deputy Roy Lester had received an anonymous tip by phone that the two were planning such a rendezvous, and he got there first. The identity of the tipster was unknown. Lester hid in the darkness and was pleased to learn that the tip was accurate. The white man, who later admitted to having a wife and a kid, drove his truck to a spot very near Lester’s hiding place, and commenced to partially undress while the black girl, aged eighteen and single, did likewise. The area being deserted at that moment, they decided to get down to business in the back of the truck.

Testifying before the grand jury, Lester claimed he watched calmly from behind some trees. In truth, though, he found the encounter quite erotic and was anything but calm. The grand jurors hung on every word, and Lester was discreet, even understated, with his descriptions. As the white man was reaching his climax, Lester jumped from his hiding place, brandished his weapon, and yelled, “Stop right there!” Which was probably the wrong command because who could really stop at that critical juncture? As they hurriedly dressed, Lester waited with the handcuffs. He walked them to his patrol car hidden down a dirt trail, and hauled them to jail. Along the way, the white man began crying and begging for mercy. His wife would certainly divorce him and he loved her so.

When he finished his testimony, the room was silent, as if the grand jurors were lost in their own imaginations and wanted more of the narrative. Finally, Mr. Phil Hobard, a science teacher at Clanton High and a transplanted Yankee from Ohio, asked, “If he’s twenty-six years old and she’s eighteen, then why is having relations against the law?”

Truitt was quick to take control of the discussion. “Because sex between a Caucasian and a Negro is against the law, and it’s against the law because the state legislature made it illegal many years ago.”

Mr. Hobard was not satisfied. He ignored the frowns from his colleagues and pressed on. “Is adultery against the law?”

A few of the men dropped their stares and glanced at some papers on the table. Two even squirmed, but the zealots looked even fiercer as if to say, “If it’s not it certainly should be.”

Truitt replied, “No, it is not. At one time it was, but the authorities found it rather difficult to enforce.”

Hobard said, “So, let me get this straight. In Mississippi today it’s not against the law to have sex with a woman who’s not your wife so long as she is of the same race. A different race, though, and you can be arrested and prosecuted, right?”

“That’s what the code says,” Truitt answered.

Hobard, who was evidently the only one on the grand jury with the courage to dig deeper, asked, “Don’t we have better things to do than to prosecute two consenting adults who were evidently having a lot of fun, in bed, or in the back of a truck, or wherever?”

Truitt replied, “I didn’t write the law, Mr. Hobard. And if you want to change it, then take up the matter with your state senator.”

“Our state senator is an idiot.”

“Well, perhaps, but that’s outside the scope of our jurisdiction. Are we ready to vote on this indictment?” Truitt asked.

“No,” Hobard said sharply. “You’re trying to speed things along. Fine, but before we vote I’d like to ask my colleagues on this grand jury how many of them have ever had sex with a black woman. If you have, then there’s no way you can vote to convict these two people.”

An unseen vacuum sucked all the air out of the room. Several of the grand jurors turned pale. Several turned red with anger. One zealot blurted, “Never!” Others spoke:

“Come on, this is ridiculous.”

“You’re nuts. Come on, let’s vote!”

“It’s a crime and we have no choice.”

Nix Gridley stood in a corner, looked at their faces, and managed to conceal a smile. Dunn Ludlow was a regular at the colored whorehouse in Lowtown. Milt Muncie had kept the same black mistress for at least as long as Nix had been sheriff. Neville Wray came from an old family of plantation owners who had been mixing and mingling for generations. Now, though, all fifteen were posturing in various awkward stages of piousness.

The state’s antimiscegenation law was similar to others throughout the South and had little to do with sex between white men and black women; such relations were hardly frowned on. The purpose of the law was to protect the sanctity of white women and keep the Negroes away from them. But, as history had proven many times, if two people want to have sex they do not spend time thinking about code sections. The law prevented nothing, but was used occasionally as punishment after the fact.

Truitt waited until all comments ceased, then said, “We need to move along. Can we have a vote here. All in favor of these two being indicted, raise your hands.” Fifteen hands went up, all but Hobard’s.

An indictment did not require a unanimous vote. Two-thirds would suffice, and Truitt had never lost one. The grand jury soon dispatched with the other cases, and Truitt said, “And now we come to the matter of Mr. Pete Banning. First-degree murder. I’m sure you all know as much as I do. Sheriff Gridley.”

Nix stepped over some boots and shoes and managed to return to the seat at the end of the table. Half the men were smoking and Nix told Roy Lester to crack a window. Truitt lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling.

Nix began with the crime scene and passed around two photos of Dexter Bell lying dead in his office. He described the scene, recounted the testimony of Hop Purdue, and told the story of driving out to arrest Pete, who told him where to find the gun. Nix produced the gun and three slugs, and said there was no doubt they did the damage. The state police had sent a report. Since his arrest, Pete Banning had refused to discuss the case. He was represented by Mr. John Wilbanks. If indicted, it appeared as though there would be a trial in the near future.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Truitt said. “Any questions?”

A hand shot up and Milt Muncie asked loudly, “Do we have to vote on this? I mean, I know Pete Banning and I knew Dexter Bell, and I really don’t want to get involved here.”

“Neither do I,” said Tyus Sutton. “I grew up with Pete Banning and I don’t feel right sittin’ in judgment.”

“That’s right,” said Paul Carlin. “I’m not touchin’ this case, and if you try to force me, then I’ll just resign. We can resign from this grand jury, can’t we? I’d rather resign than deal with it.”

“No, you can’t resign,” Truitt said sharply as his rubber stamp unraveled.

“How about we abstain?” asked Joe Fisher. “It makes sense that we have the right to abstain in a case where we are personally acquainted with those involved, right? Show me where in the law it says we can’t abstain when we want to.”

All eyes were on Truitt, who, in matters of grand jury procedure, usually made up the rules as he went along, as did all DAs around the state. He could not remember any reference to abstentions in these situations, though, truthfully, he had not looked at the code sections in years. He had become so accustomed to the rubber-stamp approach that he’d neglected the procedural intricacies.

As he stalled and tried to think of a response, his thoughts were not on the grand jury but on the trial jury. If the men of Ford County were so split, and so eager to avoid the case, how could he possibly convince twelve of them to return a verdict of guilty? The biggest case of his career was melting before his eyes.

He cleared his throat and said, “May I remind you that you took an oath to properly and without bias listen to the evidence and decide if in all probability the alleged crime was committed? You are not here to pass judgment on Mr. Banning’s guilt or innocence; that’s not your job. Your duty is to decide whether he should be charged with murder. The trial court will determine his fate. Now, Sheriff Gridley, do you have any doubt that Pete Banning murdered Dexter Bell?”

“None whatsoever.”

“And that, gentlemen, is all that is sufficient for an indictment. Any further discussion?”

“I ain’t votin’,” Tyus Sutton said defiantly. “Pete had a reason for doin’ what he did and I ain’t passin’ judgment.”

“You’re not passing judgment,” Truitt snapped. “And if he had a reason and has a legal defense it will all come out at trial. Anybody else?” Truitt was angry and glared at his jurors as if ready for a brawl. He knew the law and they didn’t.

Tyus Sutton was not easily intimidated. He stood and pointed a finger across the table at Truitt. “I’m at a point in my life where I will not be yelled at. I’m leavin’, and if you want to tattle to the judge and get me in trouble, I’ll remember that the next time you run for office. And I know where to find a lawyer.” He stomped to the door, opened it, walked through it, and slammed it behind him.

Down to fifteen. Two-thirds were required for an indictment, and at least three of those remaining didn’t want to vote. Truitt was suddenly sweating and breathing heavily, and he was racking his brain as he strategized on the fly. He could dismiss them and present the Banning case next month. He could dismiss them and ask the judge for a new panel. He could press for a vote, hope for the best, and if he failed to get ten he could always present the case again in November. Or could he? Did double jeopardy apply to grand jury cases? He didn’t think so, but what if he made the wrong move? He had never been in such a position.

He decided to press on as if he’d been in this situation many times. “Any more discussion?”

There were some anxious glances around the table but no one seemed eager to join Tyus Sutton. “Very well,” Truitt continued. “All those in favor of indicting Pete Banning for the first-degree murder of the Reverend Dexter Bell raise your hands.”

With no enthusiasm, five hands slowly went up. Five more eventually joined them. All others remained under the table.

“You can’t abstain,” Truitt snapped at Milt Muncie.

“And you can’t make me vote,” Muncie shot back angrily, ready to either throw a punch or take one.

Truitt looked around the room, counted quickly, and announced, “I count ten. That’s two-thirds, enough for an indictment. Thank you, Sheriff. We are dismissed.”

As the days passed, Pete busied himself by improving conditions at the jail. The coffee was his first target and by the end of his third day the entire jail — prisoners, guards, and cops — were drinking Standard Coffee from New Orleans. Florry delivered it in five-pound bags, and during her second visit asked Nix what the colored prisoners were drinking. He replied that they were not served coffee, and this angered her. During the ensuing tirade, she threatened to withhold all coffee until it was offered to everyone.

At home, she snapped Marietta and Nineva into high gear and they began cooking and baking with a vengeance. Almost daily, Florry arrived at the jail with cakes, pies, cookies, brownies, and pots of beef stew, venison stew, collard greens, red beans and rice, and peas and corn bread. The quality of the jailhouse cuisine rose dramatically, for all inmates, with most of them eating far better than on the outside. When Amos gutted a fatted hog, the entire jail gorged on smoked spare ribs. Nix and his boys feasted as well, and saved a few bucks on lunch. He had never experienced the incarceration of a wealthy landowner who had plenty of acreage for growing food and the staff to prepare it.

After the first week, Pete convinced Nix to appoint him a jail trusty, which meant his cell was not locked during the day and he could roam as he pleased as long as he did not leave the building. Nix was somewhat sensitive to the potential rumors that Pete was getting special treatment, and at first didn’t like the idea of using him as a trusty. But, every respectable jail had at least one trusty, and at the moment Nix had none. The last one, Homer Galax, served the county faithfully for six years and had three to go on his aggravated assault conviction when he ran off with a widow who was rumored to have some money. They had not been seen since, and Nix had neither the time, the interest, nor the energy to look for them.

Another rule, one that was evidently nonbinding as well, was that a trusty had to first be convicted of his crime and sentenced to serve his time in the county jail rather than the state pen. Nix brushed this aside as well, and Pete became the trusty. As such, he served the much improved meals to the other four white prisoners, and to the six or seven black ones on the back side of the jail. Since all prisoners soon knew where the food was originating, Pete was a popular trusty. He organized work details to clean up the jail, and he paid for a plumber to modernize the equipment in both restrooms. For a few bucks, he devised a venting system to clear the smoke-clogged air, and everyone, even the smokers, breathed easier. He and a black prisoner overhauled the furnace and the cells were almost toasty at night. He slept hard, napped frequently, exercised on the hour, and encouraged his new pals to do likewise. When he was bored he read novels, almost as fast as Florry could deliver them. There were no shelves in his tiny cell so she hauled them back to his study, where his library numbered in the thousands. He also read stacks of newspapers and magazines that she brought him.

Pete offered his reading materials to the others, but there was little interest. He suspected they were either fully or partially illiterate. To pass the time, he played poker with Leon Colliver, the moonshiner across the hall. Leon was not particularly bright, but he was sharp as hell at cards and Pete, who had mastered all card games in the army, had his hands full. Cribbage was his favorite, and Florry brought his cribbage board. Leon had never heard of the game, but absorbed it with no effort and within an hour was up a nickel. They played for a penny a game. IOUs were acceptable and no one really expected to collect any money.

Late in the afternoon, after all chores were done and the jail was spiffier than ever, Pete would unlock Leon’s cell and they would move their rickety chairs into the hallway, completely blocking it. The cribbage board was placed on a small square of plywood Pete kept in his cell. It was balanced on a wooden barrel that once held nails. The games began. Leon managed to keep a flask full of corn whiskey, distilled, of course, by his family, and at first Pete showed no interest. However, as the days dragged on and he began to accept the reality that he would be either executed or sent to prison forever, he said what the hell. In the heat of a tense cribbage game, Leon would glance around, up and down the hall, remove the flask from his front pants pocket, unscrew the top, take a swig, and hand it over. Pete would look around, take a drink, and hand it back. They weren’t selfish; there simply wasn’t enough to go around. And besides, every jail had a snitch, and Sheriff Gridley would frown on the drinking.

The two were hunched over the game board, talking of nothing but the score, when the door opened and Nix entered the narrow hallway. He was holding some papers.

“Evenin’, fellas,” he said. They nodded politely. He handed the papers to Pete and said, “The grand jury met today and here’s your indictment. First degree.”

Pete sat straight and took the papers. “No real surprise, I guess.”

“It was pretty cut-and-dried. Trial’s set for January 6.”

“They can’t do it any sooner?”

“You’ll have to talk to your lawyer about that.” Nix turned around and left.

Chapter 9

A month after the death of her husband, Jackie Bell moved with her three children to her parents’ home in Rome, Georgia. She took the few meager pieces of furniture that didn’t belong to the parsonage. She took a flood of beautiful memories of the past five years in Clanton. She took the painful farewells of a congregation that had nurtured her and her family. And, she took her husband. In the chaos after his murder, she’d agreed to have him interred in Clanton because it was simpler. However, they were not from Mississippi, had no relatives there and no real roots, and she wanted to go home. Why leave him behind? Part of her day was a trip to the cemetery to lay flowers and have a good cry, a ritual she planned to continue forever, and she couldn’t do that from Georgia. Dexter was from Rome too, so she had him reburied in a small cemetery behind a Methodist church.

They had married when he was in seminary in Atlanta. Their nomadic journey began upon graduation, when he was assigned the position of associate pastor of a church in Florida. From there they zigzagged across the South, having three children with no two born in the same place, and finally got assigned to Clanton a few months before Pearl Harbor.

Jackie loved Clanton until the day Dexter died, but not long after the funeral she realized she couldn’t stay. The most immediate reason was that the church wanted the parsonage. A new minister would be assigned and his family would need a place to live. The church hierarchy generously offered to provide housing for a year at no cost, but she declined. Another reason, indeed the most significant one, was that the children were suffering. They adored their father and could not accept his absence. And in such a small town, they would be forever stigmatized as the kids whose father was gunned down under mysterious circumstances. To protect them, Jackie moved to a place they knew only as the home of their grandparents.

Once in Rome, and once the children returned to the ritual of school, she realized how temporary the arrangements were. Her parents’ home was modest and certainly not large enough for three children. She collected $10,000 in life insurance and began looking for a place to rent. Much to the concern of her parents, she began skipping church. They were devout Methodists who never missed a Sunday. Indeed, few people in their part of the world missed church and those who did were talked about. Jackie was not in the mood to do much explaining, but she made it clear to her parents that she was struggling with her faith and needed time to reexamine her beliefs. Privately, she was asking the obvious question: Her husband, a devout servant and follower of Christ, was reading his Bible and preparing his sermon, at church, when he was murdered. Why couldn’t God protect him, of all people? Upon deeper reflection, this often led to the more troubling question, one she never asked aloud: Is there really a God? The mere consideration of this as a passing thought frightened her, but she could not deny its existence.

Before long, she was being talked about, according to her mother, but she didn’t care. Her suffering was at a level far above anything a few local gossips could inflict. Her kids were struggling in a new school. Day-to-day living was a challenge.

Two weeks after moving in with her parents, she moved out and into a rental home on the other side of town. It was owned by a lawyer named Errol McLeish, a thirty-nine-year-old bachelor she had known years earlier at Rome High School. McLeish and Dexter had been in the same class, though in different circles. Like everyone in the small town, McLeish knew the story behind Dexter’s demise and wanted to help his young widow.

After weeks of barely eating enough to sustain herself, Jackie had finally lost the pounds she’d gained six years earlier with her last pregnancy. It was not a weight loss scheme she would recommend to anyone, and it was so far the only bright spot in an otherwise hideous nightmare, but she had to admit, as she looked at herself in the mirror, that she was skinnier than she had been in years. Now at thirty-eight, she weighed the same as on her wedding day, and she admired her newly uncovered hip bones. Her eyes were puffy and red from all that weeping, and she vowed to finally stop it.

McLeish stopped by twice a week to check on things, and Jackie began using a bit of makeup and wearing tighter dresses when he was around. She felt guilty at first, with Dexter still warm in the ground, but she wasn’t even flirting yet. She had no plans to pursue a romance for the remainder of her life, she told herself, but then educated bachelors were probably scarce in Rome. She was, after all, now single, and what was wrong with looking nice?

For his part, McLeish thought her cute but with serious baggage. The widowhood was one thing, and something that could be dealt with over time, but he wanted no part of a ready-made family. As an only child who had spent little time around children, he found the idea overwhelming. He led her along, though, quietly taking advantage of her pain and loneliness, and the noticing advanced to flirting.

His real interest was in her possible lawsuit. McLeish owned several properties, all heavily mortgaged, and he had debts from other deals, and after lawyering for ten years he realized it was not going to be that profitable. As soon as Jackie moved back to Rome, McLeish began setting his traps. He traveled to Clanton and snooped around the courthouse long enough to learn about the Bannings. He spent hours digging through the land records, and when confronted with the inevitable inquiry, he claimed to be a leasing agent for a “big oil and gas company.” As he expected, this rippled through the courthouse and around the square and through the law offices and before long Clanton was seized by its first and only oil rush. Lawyers and their assistants pored over dusty old plat books while keeping a sharp ear for gossip and a close eye on this stranger. McLeish, though, soon vanished as quietly as he had arrived, leaving the town to wonder when the oil boom was coming. He was back in Georgia, where he checked on the widow Bell with a polite regularity, never appearing eager or interested but always thoughtful, almost deferential, as though he understood her tangled world and wanted no part of it.

In 1946, Hollins had an enrollment of 375 students, all female. The college was a hundred years old and had a sterling reputation, especially among upper-class southern ladies. Stella Banning chose it because many of her mother’s well-to-do friends in Memphis went there. Liza did not, primarily because her family couldn’t afford it.

The girls wrapped themselves around Stella like a tight cocoon and shielded her from intrusions and negativity. They found it hard to believe that someone as pretty and sweet as Stella could be in the midst of such a tragic family drama, but it certainly wasn’t her fault. No one at Hollins had ever been to Clanton. A few knew her father was a war hero, but to most girls that mattered little. No one had met her parents, though her brother, Joel, had made quite a splash during a recent visit for alumni weekend.

In the days and weeks after the killing, Stella was never alone. Her two roommates stayed with her during the nights when she often awoke with nightmares and bursts of emotion. During the days, she was surrounded by friends who kept her busy. Her professors understood her fragility and she was allowed to miss class and postpone homework and papers. Counselors checked on her daily. The president monitored her situation and was briefed by a provost twice a week. It was soon known that she would not be going home for the Thanksgiving holiday. Her father had ordered her to stay away. This prompted a flood of invitations, some from friends and professors, some from girls she hardly knew.

Stella was touched almost to tears and thanked them all, then left Roanoke on the train with Ginger Reed, perhaps her best friend, and headed to Alexandria, Virginia, for a week of partying in D.C. She had been once before, with Ginger, and she was enthralled by the big city. Though she had not told her parents, nor Joel, she planned to graduate as soon as possible and follow the bright lights. New York was her first choice, D.C. her second. New Orleans was a distant third. Long before the killing, she knew she would never again live in Ford County. After the killing, she wanted to stay as far away from the place as possible.

Though her dreams had been interrupted, she was still determined to become a writer. She adored the short fiction of Eudora Welty and the bizarre and colorful characters of Carson McCullers. Both were strong southern women writing in authentic voices about families, conflicts, soil, and the tortured history of the South, and they were successfully publishing in a time when men dominated American fiction. Stella read them all, men and women, and she was convinced there was room for her. She might start with stories about her own family, she often thought to herself, now more than before, but knew that would not happen.

She would land a job with a magazine in New York, and live in a cheap apartment in Brooklyn with friends, and she would begin her first novel as soon as she settled in and inspiration hit. She was reasonably certain that her parents and her aunt Florry would support her if necessary. Being a Banning, she had been raised with the unspoken belief that the land would always remain in the family and provide support.

Enjoy life in New York, work for a magazine, start a novel, and do it all with the knowledge that there was money back home. The dream was exciting and it was real, until the murder. Now home was far away and nothing was certain.

Ginger’s family lived in Old Town, in an eighteenth-century mansion on Duke Street. Her parents and younger sister had been briefed on the details of the Banning family nightmare and it was never mentioned. Stella was treated to a week of cocktail parties, long dinners, walks along the Potomac, and a string of clubs frequented by students where they smoked cigarettes, drank too much, listened to swing bands, and danced through the night.

On Thanksgiving Day, she called Aunt Florry, and for ten minutes they talked as if there was nothing out of order. Joel was the guest of a fraternity brother’s family in Kentucky, and Florry reported that he was hunting nonstop and enjoying the break. They would be together for Christmas, she promised.

Later in the afternoon, Florry loaded up a small tub containing two roasted turkeys, with potatoes, carrots, beets, and turnips, along with a pan of dressing, giblet gravy, yeast rolls, and two pecan pies. She drove the feast to the jail, where she supervised the carving of the turkeys by her brother. The meal was for all prisoners, and for Mr. Tick Poley, the ancient part-time jailhouse guard who worked nights and most holidays so Nix and his men could take the day off. Florry and Pete dined alone in Nix’s office, with his unlocked gun case in plain view. An unsecured door opened to the gravel lot. Tick was content to eat by himself in the jail’s lobby as he guarded the front door.

Pete took a few bites, then lit a cigarette. In spite of his sister’s efforts, he was still eating little and looked thin, and because he never went outside his skin was pale. As usual, she had commented on this. As usual, he ignored her. He did manage to perk up when she replayed the calls from Stella and Joel. In Florry’s version, they were doing quite well and enjoying the season. Pete smiled as he smoked, his eyes drifting to the ceiling and beyond.

Chapter 10

By Thanksgiving, the cotton had been picked for the third and final time and Pete was pleased with the harvest. He watched the markets and reviewed the books each week when Buford came to the jail. He signed checks, paid bills, reviewed deposits and accounts, and directed the selling of his cotton through the Memphis exchange. He ordered the reopening of the colored school on his property, and approved pay raises for the teachers and the installation of new stoves for winter heat. Buford was itching to buy the latest model John Deere tractor. Many of the larger farmers now owned them, but Pete said not now, maybe later. Facing such an uncertain future, he was reluctant to spend a lot of money.

The price of cotton was also being watched closely by Errol McLeish. Georgia produced almost as much cotton as Mississippi, so he was no stranger to its economics. As the spot price on the Memphis Cotton Exchange rose, so did his commitment to the welfare of Jackie Bell.

After weeks of discussion and research, John Wilbanks and his brother Russell finally decided the trial of Pete Banning should not take place in Clanton. They would seek a change of venue and try to have it moved somewhere far away.

Initially, they had been encouraged by the courthouse rumors that Miles Truitt came close to a mutiny with his grand jury. Evidently, their client had some friends and admirers who were sympathetic, and the vote to indict barely passed. Only rumors, of course, and since grand jury proceedings were not recorded in any fashion, and supposedly confidential, they could not be sure about what really happened. With time, though, they grew skeptical about the impartiality of a trial jury. They and their employees talked to countless friends around the county in an effort to judge public sentiment. They consulted a few of the other lawyers in town, and two retired judges, and a handful of former deputies, and a couple of old sheriffs. Since the jury would consist of white men only, and virtually all would claim membership in a church, they chatted with preachers they knew, men from all denominations. Their wives talked to other wives, at other churches, and at garden clubs and bridge clubs, and almost anywhere the conversation could be initiated without being awkward.

It became clear, at least to John Wilbanks, that sentiment was running strongly against his client. Time and again, he and his staff and his friends heard folks say something to the effect of “Whatever conflict those two had, it could have been settled without bloodshed.” And the fact that Pete Banning was saying nothing to defend himself made it even easier to convict him. He would always be a legendary war hero, but no one had the right to kill without a good reason.

Under John’s guidance, his firm conducted thorough research of every venue change case in American law, and he wrote a masterful fifty-page brief supporting his request. The endeavor took hours and hours, and eventually led to a heated discussion between John and Russell regarding the pressing matter of their fees. Since Pete’s arrest, John had been reluctant to broach the matter. Now, though, it was inevitable.

Also eating up the clock was the not insignificant matter of mounting a defense. Pete had not minced words when John mentioned a claim of insanity, but there was nothing else to argue before the jury. Obviously, a perfectly normal human who shoots another three times at point-blank range cannot be in possession of his full mental faculties, but to build such a case required the defense to inform the court with a notice and a brief. John wrote one, along with supporting case law, and was prepared to file it at the same time he filed the motion for a change of venue.

Before doing so, however, he needed his client’s approval. He haggled with Nix Gridley until he got his way, and late one afternoon a week before Christmas, Nix and Roy Lester left the jail with Pete Banning and drove him to the square. If he enjoyed his first breath of fresh air, he did not show it. He did not take in the festive decorations on the storefronts, did not seem at all interested in what the town was doing, did not even seem appreciative that he was being allowed to meet his lawyer in his office, as opposed to the jail. He sat low in the rear seat wearing a hat and bound by handcuffs, and stared at his feet during the brief ride. Nix parked behind the Wilbanks Building, and no one saw Pete enter with a cop at each elbow. Inside, the handcuffs were removed and he followed John Wilbanks to his office upstairs. Wilbanks’s secretary served Nix and Roy black coffee with a pastry in the downstairs foyer.

Russell sat in one chair, John the other, with Pete on a leather sofa across a coffee table. They attempted small talk, but it was awkward. How do you chat about the weather and the holidays with a man who’s sitting in jail accused of murder?

“How are things at the jail?” John asked.

“Fine,” Pete said, stone-faced. “I’ve seen worse.”

“I hear you’re pretty much running things over there.”

A slight grin, nothing more. “Nix made me a trusty, so I’m not always confined.”

Russell smiled and said, “I hear the prisoners are getting fat, thanks to Florry.”

“The food has improved,” Pete said as he reached for a cigarette.

John and Russell exchanged glances. Russell got busy lighting his own cigarette, leaving John alone with the unpleasant business. He cleared his throat and said, “Yes, well, look, Pete, we’ve never had a conversation about attorneys’ fees. Our firm is putting in a lot of hours. The trial is three weeks away and between now and then we’ll work on little else. We need to get paid, Pete.”

Pete shrugged and asked, “Have you ever sent me a bill that didn’t get paid?”

“No, but then you’ve never been charged with murder.”

“How much are you talking about?”

“We need $5,000, Pete, and that’s on the low side.”

He filled his lungs, exhaled a cloud, looked at the ceiling. “I’d hate to see the high side. Why is it so expensive?”

Russell decided to enter the ring. “Hours, Pete, hours and hours. Time is all we have to sell, and we’re not making money here. Your family’s been with this firm forever, we’re old friends, and we are here to protect you. But we have office expenses and bills to pay too.”

Pete flicked his ashes into a tray and took a quick puff. He wasn’t angry or surprised. His expressions conveyed nothing. Finally, he said, “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

Well, what you can do is write us a damned check, John wanted to say, but let it go. The issue had been addressed and Pete would not forget it. They would discuss it later.

Russell reached for some papers and said, “We have some stuff for you to read, Pete. They’re preliminary motions for your trial, and before we file them you need to read them and sign off.”

Pete took the papers, and after glancing at them said, “There’s a lot of stuff here. Why don’t you just summarize, preferably in layman’s terms?”

John smiled and nodded and took the lead. “Sure, Pete. The first motion is a request to the court to change the venue of the trial, move it somewhere else, as far away as possible. We’ve come to believe that public sentiment is fairly strong against you, and we know it will be difficult to find sympathetic jurors.”

“Where do you want the trial?”

“The judge has complete discretion in that matter, according to the case law. Knowing Judge Oswalt, he’ll want to retain control over the trial without having to travel too far. So, if he grants our motion, which, by the way, Pete, is a long shot on a good day, he’ll probably keep it somewhere in this judicial district. We’ll argue to the contrary, but, frankly, any place will be better than here.”

“And why do you believe that?”

“Because Dexter Bell was a popular preacher with a large congregation, and there are eight other Methodist churches in this county. In numbers, it’s the second-largest denomination behind the Baptists, which present another problem. Baptists and Methodists are first cousins, Pete, and they often stick together on tough issues. Politics, whiskey, school boards. You can always count on those two clans to march to the same drum.”

“I know that. But I’m a Methodist too.”

“Right, and you have some supporters, old friends and such. But most people view you as a cold-blooded murderer. I’m not sure you realize that. The people in this county think of Pete Banning as a war hero who, for reasons known only to himself, walked into the church and murdered an unarmed preacher.”

Russell added for emphasis, “Pete, you don’t have a dog’s chance in hell.”

Pete shrugged as if that was okay with him. He did what he had to do; damn the consequences. He took a long drag as smoke swirled around the room. “What makes you think things will be different in another county?”

John asked, “Do you know the preachers at the Methodist churches in Polk, Tyler, or Milburn Counties? Of course not. Those counties are right next door yet we know very few folks who live there. They will know neither you nor Dexter Bell personally.”

Russell said, “We’re trying to avoid the personal relationships, Pete. I’m sure a lot of those folks have read the newspapers, but they’ve never met you or Dexter Bell. Without the personal knowledge, we stand a better chance of getting by the raw feelings and planting doubt.”

“Doubt? Tell me about this doubt,” Pete said, gently surprised.

“We’ll get to that in a minute,” John said. “Do you agree that we need to ask for a change of venue?”

“No. If I have to do it, I want my trial to be right here.”

“Oh, you have to, Pete. The only way to avoid a trial is to plead guilty.”

“Are you asking me to plead guilty?”

“No.”

“Good, because I’m not, and I will not ask for a change of venue. This is my home, always has been, same for my ancestors, and if the people of Ford County want to convict me, then it’ll happen across the street in the courthouse.”

John and Russell looked at each other in frustration. Pete laid the papers on the coffee table without having read the first word. He lit another cigarette, casually crossed his legs as if he had all the time in the world, and looked at John as if to say, “What’s next?”

John took his copy of the brief and dropped it loudly on the coffee table. “Well, there goes a month of fine legal research and writing.”

Pete replied, “And I guess I’m supposed to pay for that. If you’d asked me up front I could’ve saved you all that work. No wonder your fees are so high.”

John seethed as Russell fumed and Pete puffed away. After a pause, Pete continued, “Look, boys, I don’t mind paying legal fees, especially since I’m in a jam like this, but $5,000? I mean, I farm almost a thousand acres that require backbreaking work for eight months by thirty field hands, and if I’m lucky and the weather cooperates and the spot price stays high and the fertilizer works and the boll weevils stay away and enough labor shows up to pick, then every three or four years I get a decent crop and maybe I’ll clear, after all bills, $20,000. Half goes to Florry. That leaves me with ten and you want half of that.”

“Your numbers are low,” John said without hesitation. His family raised more cotton than the Bannings. “Our cousin had a very good crop and so did you.”

Russell said, “If you object to our fees, Pete, you can always hire someone else. There are other lawyers in town. We’re just doing our best to protect you.”

“Come on, boys,” Pete said. “You’ve always taken care of me and my family. I have no gripe with what you want, but it may take some time to round up the money.”

Both John and Russell strongly suspected that Pete could write the check with ease, but he was, after all, a farmer, and as a breed they enjoyed squeezing a nickel. And the lawyers were sympathetic too, because in all likelihood he would never farm again and would either die soon in the electric chair or much later in some awful prison hospital. His future was worse than bleak, and they couldn’t blame him for trying to save all the money possible.

A secretary tapped on the door and entered with an elegant coffee service. She filled three porcelain cups and offered cream and sugar. Pete deliberately mixed his blend, took a sip, and stubbed out a cigarette.

When she was gone, John said, “Okay, moving right along. We have another motion we need to discuss. Our only possible defense is one based on temporary insanity. If you’re found not guilty, and that’s highly unlikely, it will be because we can convince the jury that you were not thinking rationally when you pulled the trigger.”

“I’ve already told you that I don’t want that.”

“And I heard you, Pete, but it’s not just about what you want. It’s more of what’s available to us at trial. Insanity is all we have. Period. Take away insanity, and all we can do is sit in the courtroom and listen like spectators while the prosecutor strings you up. Is that what you want?”

Pete shrugged as if he didn’t care and said, “Do what you gotta do, but I will not pretend to be insane.”

Russell said, “We’ve found a psychiatrist in Memphis who’s willing to examine you and testify on your behalf at trial. He’s well-known and is effective in these situations.”

“Well, he must be a first-class kook if he’ll say I’m crazy,” Pete said with a smile, as if somewhat humorous. Neither lawyer returned the smile. John sipped his coffee while Russell lit another cigarette. The air was not only thick with smoke but heavy with tension. The lawyers were doing their best but their client didn’t seem to appreciate either their work or his own predicament.

John cleared his throat again and shifted his weight. “So, to recap where we are, Pete, we have no defense, no excuses, no explanation for what happened, and no chance of moving the trial to a less hostile environment. And you’re okay with all this?”

Pete shrugged and said nothing.

John began pinching his forehead as if in pain. A full moment passed without a sound. Finally, Russell said, “There is one other matter, Pete, something you should be aware of. We’ve done some digging into Dexter Bell’s background and found a matter of interest. Eight years ago, when he was pastoring a church in a small town in Louisiana, there was a problem. The church had a young secretary, twenty years old and newly married, and there appears to have been some type of relationship between the girl and her pastor. Lots of rumors and not many facts, but Bell was soon reassigned. The secretary and her husband moved to Texas.”

John added, “Obviously, we haven’t dug that deep, and it may be impossible to prove anything of value. It appears as though the matter was kept under tight wraps.”

“Can that come into court here?” Pete asked.

“Not without some additional evidence. Do you want us to pursue it?”

“No, not on my behalf. It’s not to be mentioned in my trial.”

“May I ask why not, Pete?” John asked with a frown. “You’re giving us absolutely nothing to work with here.” Russell rolled his eyes again and seemed ready to leave the room.

“I said no,” Pete repeated. “And don’t bring it up again.”

Proof that Dexter Bell was a philanderer would likely be excluded at trial, but it would certainly help explain the motive for his murder. If he had a wandering eye, and if it caught the attention of Liza Banning when she was mourning the loss of her husband, then the great mystery would be solved. But it was now apparent that Pete had no interest in solving it. He would take his secrets to his grave.

John said, “Well, Pete, it’s going to be a very short trial. We have no defense, no witnesses to call, nothing to argue in front of the jury. We should be in and out in a day or so.”

“If that long,” Russell said.

“So be it,” Pete said.

Chapter 11

Three days before Christmas, Joel stepped onto a train at Union Station in downtown Nashville, and waiting for him in a dining car was his lovely and fashionable sister. Stella was now nineteen, only eighteen months younger than her brother, but during the past semester she had grown from a late-blooming teenager into a beautiful young woman. She seemed taller, and her skinny figure had developed some pleasant curves, which he couldn’t help but notice. She looked older, fuller, and wiser, and when she lit a cigarette she reminded Joel of an actress straight from the big screen.

“When did you start smoking?” he asked. The train was rolling out of the city and heading south. They were at a dining table with cups of coffee in front of them. Waiters hustled about taking lunch orders.

“I’ve been sneaking since I was sixteen,” she said. “Same as you. At college, most girls come out into the open when they turn twenty, though it’s still frowned upon. I was going to quit, and then Pete got trigger-happy. Now I’m smoking more than ever to settle my nerves.”

“You should quit.”

“What about you?”

“I need to quit too. It’s great to see you, sis. Let’s not begin our little trip talking about Pete.”

“Begin? I’ve been on this train for six hours. We left Roanoke at five this morning.”

They ordered lunch and iced tea and talked for an hour about college life: courses, favorite professors, friends, plans for the future, and the challenge of going about their days as if things were normal while having both parents locked away. When they caught themselves dwelling on family, they immediately changed the subject and talked about the upcoming year. Joel had been accepted to law school at Vanderbilt but wanted a change of scenery. He had also been accepted at Ole Miss, but that was only an hour from Clanton and, given the circumstances, seemed far too close to home.

Stella was halfway through her sophomore year and eager to move on. She loved Hollins but longed for the anonymity of a big city. At college, everyone knew her and now knew about her father. She wanted strangers in her life, people who didn’t know or care where she was from. On the romantic front, there wasn’t much activity. Over the Thanksgiving break she’d met a boy in D.C. and they had gone dancing twice and to the movies once. He was a student at Georgetown, had a nice family and all, appeared to be well groomed and mannered, and he was writing her letters, but there was really no spark. She’d string him along for another month or so, then break his heart. Joel reported even more tepid progress. A few dates here and there but none worth talking about. He claimed he really wasn’t in the market, what with three years of law school on the horizon. He had always vowed to remain single until his thirtieth birthday.

Try as they might, they could not stay off the most obvious subject. Joel told her for the first time that their father had transferred his land to them as joint owners three weeks before the killing. Pete might have thought he was clever but it was a really stupid move. The prosecution would use the deed as evidence that he was carefully planning his crime and taking steps to protect his property. Joel was spending time in the law school library, and the more he researched the bleaker the future looked. According to a friend whose father was a lawyer, there was an excellent chance that Jackie Bell would sue Pete Banning in a wrongful death action. This had driven Joel to spend hours researching lawsuits. He was also digging into the unpleasant subject of fraudulent transfers. The deed from their father to them could be attacked by lawyers working for the Bells. The law was uniform throughout the country that a person facing civil damages could not hide or move property around to dodge valid claims.

However, Joel had faith in the Wilbanks firm, not only for its legal muscle, but also for its political finesse. He could tell Stella was alarmed by the thought of losing their land. She had already been consumed with the horror of losing her father. She had no idea what would happen to her mother. And now this — the possibility of losing everything. At one point her eyes watered and she fought back tears. Joel managed to soothe things somewhat by explaining that any potential lawsuit could always be settled on favorable terms. Besides, they had far more urgent matters. Their father would be put on trial in two weeks. And, pursuant to his commands, his children would not be allowed anywhere near the courthouse.

When they finished lunch, they moved to a private cabin and closed the door. They were in Mississippi now, stopping at towns like Corinth and Ripley. Stella nodded off and slept for an hour.

They were going home because their father had finally summoned them. By letter, he had outlined the parameters of their Christmas visit: home on December 22, no more than three nights in the house, stay away from downtown, don’t even think about going to church, limit contact with friends, do not discuss family business with anyone, spend time with Florry, and he would arrange some private time with them, but not much.

Florry had written too, as always, and promised some plans of her own, with a big surprise in the works. She was waiting at the station in Clanton when they arrived at dusk. In the spirit of the season, she was garbed in a bright green dress that flowed around her much like a tent designed to conceal her girth. It fell in ripples to her ankles and shimmered in the dim platform lights. On her head was a red fedora that only a circus clown would contemplate, and around her neck was an assemblage of gaudy trinkets that rattled when she moved. When she saw Stella she bellowed and burst forward, practically tackling her with a bear hug. Joel glanced around during the assault, and by the time Florry grabbed him her eyes were moist. Stella was crying. The three embraced as other passengers hurried by.

The kids were home. The family was sinking. They clutched each other for support. What in God’s name had Pete done to them?

Joel carried the luggage as the women walked arm in arm, both talking excitedly at the same time. They crawled into the rear seat of Florry’s 1939 Lincoln, still talking, with Florry breaking long enough to tell Joel he was driving. And that was fine with him. He’d ridden with his aunt enough to know the dangers. He punched the gas and they sped away from Clanton, exceeding every posted limit.

As they roared down Highway 18, with no traffic in sight, Florry informed them that they would be staying with her in the pink cottage and not in their home. The pink cottage was covered with Christmas decorations, warmed by a roaring fire, and smelled of Marietta’s cooking. Their home was practically deserted, cold and dark and without spirit and not a sign of the season anywhere, and besides Nineva was depressed and did nothing but mope around the house talking to herself and crying, at least according to Marietta.

When Joel turned in to their drive, the talking stopped as they approached the only home he and Stella had ever known. It was indeed dark, lifeless, as if the people who had lived there were all dead and the place had been abandoned. He stopped the car with its lights shining in the front windows. He turned off the ignition and for a moment nothing was said.

“Let’s not go in,” Florry mumbled.

Joel said, “One year ago, we were all there, all together for Christmas. Dad was home from the war. Mom was happy and beautiful and buzzing around the house, so excited to have her family together. Remember the dinner we had on Christmas Eve?”

Stella said softly, “Yes, the house was packed with guests, including Dexter and Jackie Bell.”

“What the hell has happened to us?”

Because there was no answer, no one tried to offer one. Pete’s truck was parked next to the house and next to it was the family sedan, a Pontiac bought before the war. The vehicles were where they were supposed to be, as if those who owned them were inside the house and tucking in for the night, as if all was well around the Banning home.

Florry said, “Okay, enough of this. We’ll not spend our time wallowing in misery. Start the car and let’s go. Marietta has a pot of chili on the stove and she’s baking a caramel fudge pie.”

Joel backed away from the house and followed a gravel road that swung wide around the barns and sheds of the Banning compound. They passed the small white house where Nineva and Amos had lived for decades. A light was on, and Mack, Pete’s dog, watched them from the front porch.

“How’s Nineva?” Stella asked.

“Cranky as always,” Florry said. Her feuds with Pete’s housekeeper had been settled years earlier when both women decided to simply ignore each other. “Actually, she’s worried, same as everybody else. No one knows what’s in the future.”

“Who’s not worried?” Stella mumbled aloud.

They were moving slowly along a dark stretch of road with endless fields around them. Joel suddenly stopped and turned off the ignition and the lights. Without turning around, he said, “Okay, Aunt Florry, here we are in the middle of nowhere with no one to eavesdrop on our conversation. Just the three of us, alone and together for the first time. You always know more than anyone else, so let’s have it. Why did Pete kill Dexter Bell? There must be a good reason and you know it.”

She didn’t respond for a long time, and the longer she waited the more Stella and Joel anticipated her words. Finally, she would reveal the great mystery and make sense of the insanity. Instead, she said, “As God is my witness, I don’t know. I just don’t know, and I’m not sure we’ll ever understand it. Your father is perfectly capable of taking his secrets to his grave.”

“Was Dad angry with Dexter, any kind of disagreement or feud over a church matter?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did they have business dealings of any kind? I know it’s a ridiculous question but stick with me, okay? I’m trying to eliminate possible conflicts.”

Florry said, “Dexter was a preacher. I’m not aware of any business dealings.”

“So that brings us to the obvious, doesn’t it? Our mother was the only connection between Dad and Dexter Bell. I remember those first days when we thought he was dead. The house was crawling with people, so many people that I had to get out and go for long walks around the farm. And I remember Dexter came over a lot to sit with Mom. They would pray and read the Bible and sometimes I sat with them. It was horrible and we were all in shock, but I remember Dexter as being calm and reassuring. Don’t you, Stella?”

“Oh, yes, he was wonderful. He was there all the time. His wife came with him occasionally, but she was never that comforting. After the initial shock of it all, the crowds thinned out and we sort of got back into our routines.”

Florry said, “The country was at war. Men were dying everywhere. We managed to move on, still hopeful, still praying a lot, but we got about our business. Goodness, we had to keep living.”

“The question is how long did Dexter hang around, Florry?” Joel asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

“I have no idea, Joel, and I’m not sure I appreciate your tone. It’s accusatory and I’ve done nothing wrong, nor am I hiding anything.”

“We just want answers,” he said.

“And maybe there are none. Life is full of mysteries and we’re not guaranteed the answers. I was never suspicious of anything between Dexter Bell and your mother. In fact, the mere suggestion is shocking to me. I’ve never heard a peep from Marietta or Nineva or anyone for that matter, not the slightest hint that things were going on.” There was a long pause as Florry caught her breath.

Stella said, “Please start the car, Joel, I’m getting cold.”

He made no move toward the ignition.

Florry said, “At the same time, I have always kept my distance from Liza, and certainly from Nineva. I can’t imagine Pete living in the same house with both of those women, but then that was never any of my business.”

To which Joel wanted to reply something along the lines that the house was actually quite pleasant, before the war anyway, back when life was normal. And Stella thought, though she would never say, that it had always seemed to be Aunt Florry who caused trouble in the family. But then, too, it had been before the war, back when both of her parents were more or less in one piece.

Joel pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “I’m not accusing my mother of anything, you understand? I certainly have no proof, but the circumstances demand these questions.”

Stella said, “You sound like such a lawyer.”

Florry snapped, “Good heavens, Joel, it’s thirty degrees outside and I’m freezing. Let’s go.”

At noon on Christmas Eve, as Nineva was buzzing around their kitchen preparing at least five dishes at once and Joel and Stella were trying their best to pester her and make her laugh, the phone rang. Joel grabbed it first and said hello to Nix Gridley. The call was expected. When he hung up he informed Stella that their father would be home in about an hour. Then he left to fetch Aunt Florry.

Ten weeks in jail would weather any man, but Pete Banning seemed to be aging faster than most. His hair was grayer and the wrinkles were spreading at the corners of his eyes. In spite of Florry’s takeover of the jailhouse kitchen, he somehow managed to look even thinner. Of course, for some prisoners ten weeks meant time closer to freedom. For men like Pete, though, there would be no freedom; thus no hope, no reason to keep the spirit alive. One way or another, he would die as a captive, away from home. For Pete Banning, death had certain advantages. One was physical; he would live the rest of his life in pain, at times severe pain, and that was not a pleasant prospect. One was mental; he would always carry images of indescribable human suffering, and at times these burdens drove him to the brink of madness. Almost every hour, a battle raged as he tried gamely to purge them from his mind. Only rarely was he successful.

As Pete looked at the future, he figured this was to be his last Christmas. He convinced Nix of that and finagled a quick visit to the farm. He had not seen his children in months and might not see them for a long time. Nix was sympathetic to a point, but he was also unable to erase the thoughts of the Bell children never seeing their father again. As the weeks dragged on and the trial approached, Nix was even more convinced that sentiments in the county were running strongly against Pete Banning. The hard-won admiration he had enjoyed only the year before had vanished in a matter of seconds. His trial wouldn’t take long either.

At any rate, Nix agreed to a brief visit — one hour max. No other prisoner was allowed such leniency and Pete was to tell no one inside the jail where he was going. Dressed in street clothes, he rode in the front seat with Nix, as usual saying nothing and staring at the empty fields. When they stopped behind his truck, Nix at first insisted on waiting in his car, but Pete would have none of it. The weather was frigid and there was hot coffee inside.

For half an hour Pete sat at the kitchen table, with Joel on one side and Stella and Florry on the other. Nineva stood by the stove, drying dishes and all but taking part in the conversation. Pete was relaxed, delighted to see his children, and asked a hundred questions about school and their plans.

Sheriff Gridley sat alone in the living room, sipping coffee and flipping through a farmer’s magazine with one eye on the clock. It was, after all, Christmas Eve, and he had some shopping to do.

Pete and the children moved from the kitchen to his small office, where he closed the door for privacy. He and Stella sat side by side on a small sofa and Joel pulled a wooden chair close. As he began to talk about his trial, Stella was already fighting tears. He had no defense to offer and expected to be convicted with little effort. The unknown was whether the jury would recommend death or life in prison. Either was okay with him. He had accepted his fate and would face his punishment.

Stella cried harder, but Joel had questions. However, Pete cautioned them that the one question they could never ask was why he did it. He had good reasons, but they were between him and Dexter Bell. More than once he apologized for the shame, embarrassment, and hardship he was causing them, for the irrevocable damage to their good name. He asked for their forgiveness, but they were not ready for that. Until he could make some sense out of what was happening, they could not contemplate mercy. He was their father. Who were they to forgive him? And why forgive when the sinner had yet to come clean with his motives? It was confusing and terribly emotional, and finally even Pete shed a tear or two.

When an hour had passed, Nix knocked on the door and ended the little reunion. Pete followed him to the patrol car for the ride back to jail.

For the sake of her children, Jackie Bell took them to church for the Christmas Eve service. They sat with their grandparents, who smiled with pride at the lovely family, minus the father. Jackie sat at the far end of the pew, and two rows behind her sat Errol McLeish, a rather wayward Methodist himself and occasional attendee of the church. She had mentioned that she was taking the kids to the service, and Errol just happened to drop by too. He was not stalking her at all, just keeping tabs from a distance. She was terribly wounded, and rightfully so, and he was smart enough to respect her mourning. It would pass eventually.

After church, Jackie and the kids went to her parents’ home for a long Christmas dinner, then stories by the fire. Each child unwrapped a gift and Jackie took pictures with her Kodak. It was late when they returned to their little duplex. She put them to bed and killed an hour by the tree, sipping hot cocoa, listening to carols on the phonograph, and wrestling with her emotions. Dexter should be there, quietly assembling toys as they shared a special moment. How could she be a widow at the age of thirty-eight? And, more urgently, how was she supposed to provide for those three precious children sleeping just down the hallway?

For at least the past ten years, she had often doubted if the marriage would last. Dexter loved ladies and had an eye that was always roving. He used his good looks and charisma, as well as his pastoral duties, to manipulate the younger women of his churches. He had never been caught outright, and certainly had never confessed, but he had left a trail of suspicions. Clanton was his fourth church assignment, second as senior pastor, and Jackie had been watching closer than ever. Because she had no hard evidence, she had yet to confront him, but that day would come. Or would it? Would she ever have the courage to blow up the family and drag it through a terrible divorce? She had always known that she would be blamed. Would it be easier to suffer in silence to protect the children, and to protect his career? In her most private moments, she had grieved over these conflicts.

And now they were moot. She was single, without the stigma of a divorce. Her children were scarred, but the country was emerging from a war in which half a million American men were killed. Families everywhere were scarred, wounded, trying to cope, and picking up the pieces.

It appeared as though Dexter finally messed with the wrong woman, though Jackie had not suspected Liza Banning. She was certainly pretty enough, and vulnerable. Jackie had been watching and had seen nothing out of line, but with a husband prone to cheat every pretty woman was a potential target.

Jackie wiped a tear as she ached for her husband. She would always love him, and her deep love made the suspicions even more painful. She hated it, and hated him for it, and at times she hated herself for not being strong enough to walk out. But those days were gone, weren’t they? Never again would she watch Dexter drive away to visit the sick and wonder where he was really going. Never again would she be suspicious as he counseled behind a locked office door. Never again would she notice the round backside of a young lady in church and wonder if Dexter was admiring it too.

The tears turned to sobs and she couldn’t stop. Was she crying out of grief, loss, anger, or relief? She didn’t know and couldn’t make sense of it. The album finished and she walked to the kitchen for something else to drink. On the counter was a tall, layered cake with red icing, a Christmas concoction Errol McLeish had dropped off for the kids. She cut a slice, poured a glass of milk, and returned to the den.

He was such a thoughtful man.

Chapter 12

After a large Christmas brunch of bacon, omelets, and buttermilk biscuits, they said good-bye to Marietta in the pink cottage, and to all the birds, cats, and dogs, and they loaded themselves and their luggage into the car for a road trip. Joel was the chauffeur again, evidently a permanent position because there was no offer of help from either of the two ladies in the rear seat. Both talked nonstop, cackling away and amusing their driver. WHBQ out of Memphis ran nothing but Christmas carols, but to hear them Joel was forced to crank up the radio. The girls complained about the volume. He complained about their constant racket. Everyone laughed and the road trip was off to a great start. Leaving Ford County behind was a relief.

Three hours later, they arrived at the imposing gate of the Mississippi State Hospital at Whitfield, and the mood in the car changed dramatically. Liza had been sent there seven months earlier and there had been almost no news about her treatment. They had written letters but received no replies. They knew that Pete had spoken to her doctors, but, of course, he had passed along nothing from their conversations. Florry, Joel, and Stella were assuming Liza knew about the murder of Dexter Bell, but they wouldn’t know for sure until they met with her doctors. It was entirely possible they were keeping such dreadful news away from her as protection. Again, Pete had told them nothing.

A uniformed guard had some paperwork, then some directions, and the gate eventually swung open. Whitfield was the state’s only psychiatric hospital, and it was an expansive collection of buildings spread over thousands of acres. It was called a campus, looked more like a grand old estate, and was surrounded by fields, woods, and forests. Over three thousand patients lived there, along with five hundred employees. It was segregated, with separate facilities for whites and blacks. Joel drove past a post office, a tuberculosis hospital, a bakery, a lake, a golf course, and the wing where they sent the alcoholics. With a lot of help from the backseat, he eventually found the building where his mother was housed and parked nearby.

For a moment, they sat in the idle car and stared at the imposing structure. Stella asked, “Do we have any clue as to her diagnosis? Is it depression, or schizophrenia, or a nervous breakdown? Is she suicidal? Does she hear voices? Or did Pete just want her out of the house?”

Florry was shaking her head. “I don’t really know. She spiraled quickly and Pete told me to stay away from the house. We’ve had these conversations.”

Trouble began just inside the front door when a surly clerk demanded to know if they had made an appointment. Yes, Florry explained, she had called two days earlier and spoken with a Mrs. Fortenberry, an administrator in building 41, where they were now standing. The clerk said Mrs. Fortenberry had the day off because it was, after all, Christmas Day. Florry replied that she knew exactly what day it was, and the two young people with her were the children of Liza Banning and they wanted to see their mother on Christmas.

The clerk disappeared for a long time. When she returned, she brought with her a gentleman who introduced himself as Dr. Hilsabeck. At his reluctant invitation, they followed him down the hall to a small office with only two chairs for visitors. Joel stood by the door. In spite of his white lab coat, Hilsabeck didn’t look like a doctor, not that they’d had much experience with psychiatrists. He had a slick head, squeaky voice, and shifty eyes, and he did not inspire confidence. Once situated, he arranged a file in the center of his desk and began with “I’m afraid there is a problem.” He spoke with an obnoxious northern accent, clearly condescending. And the name Hilsabeck was certainly not from anywhere in the South.

“What kind of problem?” Florry demanded. She had already determined that she didn’t like building 41 and the people who ran it.

Hilsabeck lifted his eyebrows but not his eyes, as if he preferred to avoid direct contact. “I cannot discuss this patient with you. Her guardian, Mr. Pete Banning, has instructed me and the other doctors to engage in no consultations with anyone but him.”

“She’s my mother!” Joel said angrily. “And I want to know how she’s doing.”

Hilsabeck did not react to the anger, but simply lifted a sheet of paper as if it were the Gospel. “This is the court order from Ford County, signed by the judge up there.” He looked at the order when he spoke, again preferring to avoid eye contact. “The commitment order, and it names Pete Banning as the guardian, Liza Banning as his ward, and it quite clearly states that in all matters regarding her treatment we, her doctors, are to have discussions with no one but him. All visits from family and friends must first be approved by Pete Banning. Indeed, Mr. Banning phoned yesterday afternoon. I spoke with him for a few minutes, and he reminded me that he had approved no visits with his ward. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

The three looked at each other in disbelief. They had met with Pete for an hour the day before in the Banning home. Joel and Stella had asked about their mother, got no response from their father, and had not mentioned this visit.

Joel glared at Florry and asked, “Did you tell him we were coming?”

“I did not. Did you?”

“No. We had talked about it and decided to keep it quiet.”

Hilsabeck closed the file and said, “I’m really sorry. It’s out of my control.”

Stella buried her face in her hands and began weeping. Florry patted her knee and snarled at Hilsabeck, “They haven’t seen their mother in seven months. They’re worried sick about her.”

“I’m very sorry.”

Joel asked, “Can you at least tell us how she’s doing? Are you decent enough for that?”

Hilsabeck stood with his file and replied, “I will not be insulted. Ms. Banning is doing better. That’s all I can say right now. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He stepped around his desk, stepped over Joel’s feet, and squeezed through the door.

Stella wiped her cheeks with the back of a hand and took a deep breath. Florry watched her and held her hand. Under his breath, Joel hissed, “That son of a bitch.”

“Which one?” Florry asked.

“Your brother. He knew we were coming down here.”

“Why would he do this?” Stella asked.

When no one replied they let the question hang in the air for a long time. Why? Because he was hiding something? Maybe Liza was not mentally unbalanced and got herself shipped off because her husband was angry with her? That was not unheard of. Florry had a childhood friend who was put away while suffering through a bad case of menopause.

Or perhaps Liza was really sick. She had suffered a severe breakdown with the news that Pete was missing and presumed dead and perhaps she had never fully recovered. But why would he shield her from her own children?

Or was Pete the crazy one? Perhaps he was scarred from the war and finally cracked up when he killed Dexter Bell. And it was futile to try and understand his actions.

A slight knock on the door startled them. They stepped out of the office and were met by two unarmed security guards in uniform. One smiled and sort of waved down the hall. They were followed out of the building and the guards watched them drive away.

As they passed the lake, Joel noticed a small park with benches and a gazebo. He turned and drove in that direction. Without a word, he stopped the car, got out and closed the door, lit a cigarette, and walked to a picnic table under a leafless oak. He gazed at the still waters and at the row of buildings on the other side. Stella was soon at his side, asking for a cigarette. They leaned on the table, smoking, saying nothing. Florry arrived a moment later, and the three braved the cold and thought about their next move.

Joel said, “We should go back to Clanton, go to the jail, have a showdown with him, and demand that he allow us to see Mom.”

“And you think that’ll work?” Florry replied.

“Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stella said. “He’s always one step ahead of us. Somehow he knew we were coming. And here we are — staring at a lake instead of visiting with Mom. I’m not going back to Clanton right now.”

“Neither am I,” said Florry. “We have reservations in the French Quarter, and that’s where I’m going. It’s my car.”

“But you have no license,” Joel said.

“That’s never stopped me before. I’ve actually driven to New Orleans on one occasion. Down and back without a hitch.”

Stella said, “Come on, we deserve some fun.”

Five hours later, Joel turned off Canal Street and onto Royal. The French Quarter was alive with the season and its narrow sidewalks were packed with locals and tourists hustling to dinner and clubs. Buildings and streetlamps were adorned with festive lighting. At the corner of Iberville, Joel stopped in front of the majestic Hotel Monteleone, the grandest hotel in the Quarter. A bellhop took their bags as a valet disappeared with Florry’s car. They strolled into the elegant lobby and entered another world.

Three years earlier, during the depths of the war, when the family was certain Pete was dead but still praying for a miracle, Florry had convinced Liza to allow her to take the kids on a New Year’s trip. In fact, Liza had been invited, but she declined, saying she was simply not in the mood to celebrate. Florry had expected her to say no and was relieved when she did. So, they boarded the train without her, rode six hours from Clanton to New Orleans, and spent three memorable days roaming the Quarter, a place Florry adored and knew well. Their base was the Hotel Monteleone. In its popular bar one night, when she was drinking gin and Joel was sipping bourbon and Stella was eating chocolates, Florry had told them of her great dream of living in the French Quarter, far away from Ford County, in another world where writers and poets and playwrights worked and lived and threw dinner parties. She longed for her dream to come true, but the next morning she apologized for drinking too much and talking so foolishly.

On this Christmas night, the manager was summoned when she arrived with her niece and nephew. There were warm greetings all around, then a glass of champagne. A nine o’clock dinner reservation was confirmed, and they hustled to their rooms to freshen up.

Over cocktails, Florry laid down the ground rules for their stay, which amounted to nothing more than the promise not to discuss either of their parents for the next four days. Joel and Stella readily agreed. Florry had checked with the concierge to find out what was happening in the city, and there was much to explore: a new jazz club on Dauphine, a Broadway production at the Moondance, and several promising new restaurants. In addition to wandering the Quarter and admiring French antiques on Royal, and watching the street acts in Jackson Square, and having chicory coffee and beignets at any one of a dozen cozy sidewalk cafés, and loafing along the levee with the river traffic, and shopping at Maison Blanche, there was, as always, something new in town.

Of course there would be a long dinner at the town house on Chartres Street where Miss Twyla would be waiting. She was a dear old friend from Florry’s Memphis years. She was also a poet who wrote a lot and published little, like Florry. Twyla, though, had the benefit of marrying well. When her husband died young she became a rich widow, one who preferred the company of women over men. She left Memphis about the same time Florry built the pink cottage and went home.

For dinner, they were seated at a choice table in the elegant dining room and surrounded by a well-dressed crowd in the holiday spirit. Waiters in white jackets brought platters of raw oysters and poured ice-cold Sancerre. As the wine relaxed them, they poked fun at the other diners and laughed a lot. Florry informed them she had extended their reservations for an entire week. If they were up to it, they could ring in the New Year at a rowdy dance in the hotel’s grand ballroom.

Ford County was far away.

Chapter 13

At 5:00 a.m. on Monday, January 6, 1947, Ernie Dowdle left his shotgun house in Lowtown and began walking toward the railroad tracks owned by Illinois Central. The temperature was around thirty degrees, seasonal according to the almanac Ernie kept in his kitchen. The weather, especially in the dead of winter, was an important part of his job.

The wind picked up from the northwest, and by the time he arrived at the courthouse twenty minutes later his fingers and feet were cold. As he often did, he stopped and admired the old, stately building, the largest structure in the county, and allowed himself a bit of pride. It was his job to make it warm, something he’d been doing for the past fifteen years, and he, Ernie Dowdle, was very good at it.

This would be no ordinary day. The biggest trial he could remember was about to begin, and that courtroom up there on the second floor would soon be filled. He unlocked the service door on the north side of the building, closed and locked it behind him, turned on a light, and took the stairs to the basement. In the boiler room he went through his wintertime ritual of checking the four burners, only one of which he’d left on through the weekend. It kept the temperature throughout the building at roughly forty degrees, enough to protect the pipes. Next, he checked the dials on the two four-hundred-gallon tanks of heating oil. He had topped them off the previous Friday in anticipation of the trial. He removed a plate and looked inside the exhaust flue. When he was satisfied that the system was in order, he turned on the other three burners and waited for the temperature to rise in the steam boiler situated above them.

As he waited he assembled a table from three soft-drink cases and took a seat with an eye on the dials and gauges and began to eat a cold biscuit his wife had baked the night before. His table was often used for breakfast and lunch, and when things were slow he and Penrod, the janitor, would pull out a checkerboard and play a game or two. He poured black coffee from an old thermos, and as he sipped it he thought about Mr. Pete Banning. He had never met the man, but a cousin lived on the Banning farm and worked the fields. In years past, decades even, Ernie’s people had been farmworkers and most were buried out near the Banning land. Ernie considered himself lucky to have escaped the life of a field hand. He’d made it all the way to town, and to a much better job that had nothing to do with picking cotton.

Ernie, like most black folks in Ford County, was fascinated by the murder of Dexter Bell. After it happened, it had been widely believed that a man as prominent as Pete Banning would never be put on trial. If he’d shot a black man, for any reason whatsoever, he probably would not have been arrested. If a black man murdered another black man, justice would be arbitrarily sought, and by white men only. Issues such as motive, standing, drunkenness, and criminal past were important, but the overriding factor was usually whom the defendant worked for. The right boss could get you a few months in the county jail. No boss could get you strapped to the electric chair.

Now that it was apparent that Mr. Banning would indeed face a jury of his peers, no one, at least in Lowtown, believed he would be convicted and punished. He had money and money could buy slick lawyers. Money could bribe the jurors. Money could influence the judge. White people knew how to use money to get whatever they wanted.

What made the case so compelling to Ernie was the fact that no colored folks were involved. No blame could be placed on any of them. There were no black scapegoats. A serious crime with a white victim always led to the roundup of the usual black suspects, but not in this case. It was just a good old-fashioned brawl among the white folks, and Ernie planned to watch as much of the trial as possible. Like everyone else he wanted to know why Banning did it. He was certain it involved a woman.

He finished his biscuit and studied the gauges. The steam was boiling now and ready to go. When the temperature rose to 175 degrees, he slowly pulled levers and released the steam. It ran through a maze of pipes that led to radiators in every room of the courthouse. He adjusted settings on the burners while keeping an eye on the dials. Satisfied, he climbed the service stairs to the second floor and stepped through the door beside the jury box. The courtroom was dark and cold. He turned on one light — the rest would wait until exactly 7:00 a.m. He walked through the bar and along the benches and to a wall where a black cast-iron radiator was rattling and coming to life. The steam from below was pumping through it and emanating the first wave of warm air that broke the chill. Ernie smiled, quietly proud that the system he maintained so well was working.

It was 6:30 now, and given the size of the courtroom, with its thirty-foot ceilings and balcony, and old leaky windows that were still frosty, Ernie figured it would take over an hour for his six radiators to raise the temperature to around seventy degrees. The front doors of the courthouse opened at 8:00, but Ernie suspected the regulars, the clerks and employees and probably even some of the lawyers, would begin drifting in through the side doors before then, all eager to watch the opening of the trial.

Judge Rafe Oswalt arrived at a quarter to eight and found Penrod sweeping the floor of his chambers behind the courtroom. They exchanged pleasantries, but Penrod knew the judge was in no mood for small talk. A moment later, Ernie Dowdle stopped by to say hello and ask His Honor about the temperature. It was perfect, as always.

John Wilbanks and his brother Russell arrived for the defense. They claimed their table, the one away from the jury box, and began covering it with thick law books and files and other lawyerly effects. They wore fine dark suits and silk ties and looked the part of wealthy, successful lawyers, which was the look everyone in town expected of them. Miles Truitt arrived for the State, along with his assistant district attorney, Maylon Post, a rookie fresh from Ole Miss law school. Truitt and John Wilbanks shook hands and began a friendly chat as they watched the crowd file in.

Nix Gridley arrived with his two men, Roy Lester and Red Arnett, all three in clean, pressed, and matching uniforms, and with a thick layer of shiny black polish on their boots. For the occasion, Nix had deputized two volunteers and given them guns and uniforms and strict instructions to keep order in the courtroom. Nix moved around the courtroom chatting with the clerks, laughing with the lawyers, and nodding at those he recognized in the jury pool.

The spectators were shown to the left, or south, side of the courtroom, and the pews there were filling fast not long after the doors opened. Among the curious were some reporters, and they were given front-row seats.

To the right, the bailiff, Walter Willy, herded those who had been summoned. Seventy registered voters had been selected by Judge Oswalt and the circuit court clerk, and they had been mailed letters two weeks before. Fourteen had been disqualified for various reasons. Those left in the pool looked nervously around the courtroom, uncertain as to whether they should feel honored to be chosen or terrified of serving in such a notorious case. Though their letters gave no indication of who was on trial, the entire county knew it was Pete Banning. Of the fifty-six, only one had ever served on a trial jury before. Full-blown trials were rare in rural Mississippi. Everyone in the pool was white; only three were women.

Above them, the balcony was filling with Negroes, and Negroes only. Signs in the hallways of the courthouse kept matters segregated — restrooms, water fountains, entrances to offices, and the courtroom. Penrod, a man with status, was sweeping the balcony floor and explaining to others how the court system worked. This was his turf. He’d watched trials before and was quite informed. Ernie moved up and down the staircase, stopping by the balcony to flirt with some ladies. Hop from the Methodist church was the man of the hour in the balcony because he would be called to testify. He was the State’s most important witness, and he made sure his people knew it. They wished him well.

At exactly nine o’clock, Walter Willy, who’d been the volunteer bailiff for longer than anyone could remember, marched to his position in front of the bench, stood at attention, or at least his version of it, and commenced to howl: “All rise for the court!” His high-pitched squeal startled those who’d never heard it before, and everyone scrambled to their feet as Judge Oswalt emerged from the door behind his bench.

Walter Willy tilted his head back, and with his eyes on the ceiling continued yodeling, “Hear ye, hear ye, the circuit court of the Twenty-Second Judicial District of the great State of Mississippi is hereby called to order. The Honorable Rafe Oswalt presiding. Let all who have business before this court come forward. God bless America and God bless Mississippi.”

Such language was not required and could not be found in any code section, rule of procedure, court order, or local ordinance. When he had somehow assumed the job years earlier, and no one could recall exactly how he had become the court’s permanent bailiff, Walter Willy had spent a lot of time perfecting his call to order, and now it was an accepted part of the opening of court. Judge Oswalt really didn’t care; however, the lawyers despised it. Regardless of the importance of the hearing or the trial, Walter was there to give his earsplitting call to rise.

Another part of his act was his homemade uniform. The matching shirt and pants were olive khaki, nothing remotely similar to what the real deputies were wearing, and his mother had sewn his name above the pocket in bold yellow letters. She had also added some random patches with no significance on his sleeves. He wore a bright gold badge he’d found at a flea market in Memphis, and a thick black ammo belt with a row of shiny cartridges that gave the impression that Walter might just shoot first and ask questions later. He could not, however, because he had no weapon. Nix Gridley flatly refused to deputize him and wanted no part of Walter Willy and his routine.

Judge Oswalt tolerated it with a wink because it was harmless and added a bit of color to the otherwise drab courtroom and dull proceedings.

He settled himself at his bench, said, “Please be seated,” and arranged his flowing black robe around himself. He looked at the crowd. Both the gallery and the balcony were full. In his seventeen years on the bench, he had never seen so many in this courtroom. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, good morning and welcome. There’s only one case on the docket this week. Mr. Sheriff, would you bring in the defendant?”

Nix was waiting at a side door. He nodded, opened the door, and seconds later appeared with Pete Banning, who walked in slowly, with no handcuffs, tall and erect, his face showing no concern but with his eyes on the floor. He seemed not to notice the crowd watching his every move. Pete hated neckties and wore a dark jacket over a white shirt. John Wilbanks had thought it important to wear a suit to show proper respect for the proceedings. Pete had asked how many men on the jury would be wearing suits, and when his lawyer said probably none, the issue was settled. The truth was Pete didn’t care what he wore, what the jurors wore, what anyone wore.

Without as much as a glance at the audience, he took his seat at the defense table, crossed his arms, and looked at Judge Oswalt.

Florry was three rows back at the end of a pew. Beside her was Mildred Highlander, her best friend in town, and the only one who’d volunteered to sit through the trial with her. She and Pete had argued over her attendance. He was dead set against it. She was determined to watch. She wanted to know what was happening for her own benefit, but also to report to Joel and Stella. Too, she figured that Pete would have almost no one else there pulling for him. And she was correct. Everywhere she turned she got harsh looks from angry Methodists.

Judge Oswalt said, “In the matter of the State of Mississippi versus Pete Banning, what says the State?”

Miles Truitt rose with a purpose and replied, “Your Honor, the State of Mississippi is ready for trial.”

“And what says the defense?”

John Wilbanks stood and said, “As is the defense.” When both sat down, Judge Oswalt looked at the prospective jurors and said, “Now, we summoned seventy of you folks here as prospective jurors. One has passed away, three have not been found, and ten have been sent home, disqualified. So we now have a panel of fifty-six. I have been informed by the bailiff that all fifty-six are present, are above the age of eighteen, under the age of sixty-five, and have no health problems that would prevent jury duty. You have been arranged in numerical order and will be addressed as such.”

It would serve no purpose to explain that the ten who had been disqualified were basically illiterate and had been unable to complete a rudimentary questionnaire.

Judge Oswalt shuffled some papers, found the indictment, and read it aloud. The facts as alleged constituted first-degree murder under Mississippi law, punishable by either life in prison or death in the electric chair. He introduced the four lawyers and asked them to stand. He introduced the defendant, but when asked to stand, Pete refused. He didn’t budge and seemed not to hear. Judge Oswalt was irritated but decided to ignore the slight.

It was not a wise thing to do, and John Wilbanks planned to give his client an earful during the first recess. What could Pete possibly hope to gain by being disrespectful?

Moving right along, the judge launched into a windy narrative in which he described both the alleged murder victim and the alleged murderer. At the time of his death, Dexter Bell had been the minister of the Clanton Methodist Church for five years, and as such was active in the community. He was well-known, as was the defendant. Pete Banning was born in Ford County to a prominent family, and so on.

When the buildup was finally finished, Judge Oswalt asked the prospective jurors if anyone was related by blood or marriage to either Dexter Bell or Pete Banning. No one moved. Next he asked if anyone considered himself a personal friend of Pete Banning’s. Two men stood. Both said they were longtime friends and they could not pass judgment on Pete, regardless of what the evidence proved. Both were excused and left the courtroom. Next he asked how many were friends with a member of the immediate Banning family and he named Liza, Florry, Joel, and Stella. Six people stood. One young man said he finished high school with Joel. One said his sister and Stella were friends and he knew her well. Another knew Florry from years back. Judge Oswalt quizzed them individually and at length and asked if they could remain fair and impartial. All six assured him they could and they remained in the pool. Three said they were friends with the Bells but claimed they could remain impartial. John Wilbanks doubted this and planned to challenge them later in the day.

With the war so recent and its memories still so vivid, Judge Oswalt knew he had no choice but to confront it head-on. Giving almost no background, he described Pete Banning as a highly decorated army officer who had been a prisoner of war. He asked how many veterans of war were in the pool. Seven men stood, and he called them by name and questioned them. To a man, each said he was able to set aside any bias or favoritism and follow the law and the orders of the court.

Eleven men from Ford County had been killed in the war, and Judge Oswalt and the circuit clerk had tried diligently to exclude those families from the pool.

Moving to the other side of the matter, Judge Oswalt asked if any were members of Dexter Bell’s church. Three men and one woman stood, and they were excused outright. Down to fifty. And how many were members of other Methodist churches scattered around the county? Five more stood. Three said they had met Dexter Bell; two had not. Judge Oswalt kept them all on the panel.

He had granted each side five peremptory challenges to be used later in the day. If John Wilbanks didn’t like the looks or body language of a certain Methodist, he could dismiss him for no reason. If Miles Truitt suspected an acquaintance of the Banning family might be sandbagging, he could invoke a challenge and the person was gone. The four lawyers sat perched on the edges of their chairs and watched every twitch, smile, and frown from the jury pool.

Judge Oswalt preferred to take control of the selection of his juries. Other judges gave the lawyers more leeway, but they usually talked too much and tried to curry favor. After an hour of skillful questioning, Oswalt had trimmed the panel to forty-five and he yielded the floor to Miles Truitt, who stood and offered a big smile and tried to seem relaxed. He began by repeating and emphasizing something the judge had already covered: If the State proved every element of its charge of first-degree murder, the jury would then be asked to impose the death penalty. Can you really do that? Can you really sentence Pete Banning to the electric chair? If you follow the law, then you have no choice. It will not be easy, but sometimes following the law takes a lot of courage. Do you have that courage?

Truitt paced along the bar and was quite effective at forcing each juror to consider the gravity of the task at hand. Some probably had doubts, but at that moment no one admitted to any. Truitt was concerned about the veterans and suspected they would be more sympathetic than they were willing to admit. He called on one, asked him to stand, thanked him for his service, and quizzed him for a few minutes. When he seemed to be satisfied, he moved on to the next veteran.

The selection process crept along, and at 10:30, the judge needed a break and a cigarette. Half of the courtroom lit up too as folks stood and stretched and quietly exchanged opinions. Some left for the restrooms; others went back to work. Everyone tried to ignore the jurors, pursuant to instructions from the bench.

At 11:00 a.m., John Wilbanks stood and looked at the prospective jurors. So much of what he wanted to say had been taken away from him by his own client. His plan had been to sow the seed of insanity early in the jury selection process, and then follow it with testimony that would be shocking, sad, credible, and convincing. But Pete would have none of it. Pete had done nothing to help save his own skin, and John could not decide if his client carried some type of perverse death wish, or simply was so arrogant as to believe no jury would convict him. Either way, the defense was hopeless.

John had already seen enough and knew which jurors he wanted. He would try to avoid all Methodists and aim for the veterans. But he was a lawyer, and no lawyer onstage with a captive audience can resist saying a few words. He smiled and seemed warm and thoroughly honored to be there doing what he was doing, defending a fine man who had defended our country. He lobbed a few questions at the panel as a whole, then he zeroed in on a couple of Methodists, but for the most part his comments were designed not to uncover some hidden bias, but rather to convey warmth, trust, and likability.

When he finished, Judge Oswalt recessed court until 2:00 p.m. and asked everyone to leave the courtroom. It took a few minutes for the crowd to file out, and while they waited the judge informed the clerks and other curious insiders that it would be a good time to go find lunch. When the courtroom was practically empty, he said, “Mr. Wilbanks, I believe you have a matter that you would like to present, on the record.”

John Wilbanks stood and said, “Yes, Your Honor, but I prefer we do it in chambers.”

“We’ll do it here. It’s rather crowded back there. Besides, if we’re on the record it’s really not a confidential matter, is it?”

“I suppose not.”

Judge Oswalt nodded at the court reporter and said, “We’re now on the record. Please proceed, Mr. Wilbanks.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. This is really not a motion or a petition to the court, because the defense is not asking for any type of relief. However, I am compelled to state the following for the record so there will never be any doubt about my defense of my client. I had planned to pursue two strategies aimed at securing a fair trial for my client. First, I planned to ask the court for a change of venue. I was convinced then, as I certainly am now, that my client cannot receive a fair trial in this county. I’ve lived here my entire life, as has my father and his father, and I know this county. As we have already seen this morning, the facts of this case are well known to the friends and neighbors of Pete Banning and Dexter Bell. It will be impossible to find twelve people who are open-minded and impartial. After watching and studying the pool this morning, I am convinced that many are not exactly forthcoming with their true feelings. It is simply unfair to hold this trial in this courtroom. However, when I discussed a change of venue with my client, he strongly opposed such a move, and he still does. I would like for him to be on the record.”

Judge Oswalt looked at Pete and asked, “Mr. Banning, is this true? Are you opposed to a motion to change venue?”

Pete stood and said, “Yes, it’s true. I want my trial right here.”

“So, you have chosen to ignore the advice of your lawyer, correct?”

“I’m not ignoring my lawyer. I’m just not agreeing with him.”

“Very well. You may sit. Continue, Mr. Wilbanks.”

John rolled his eyes in frustration and cleared his throat. “Second, and even more important, at least in my opinion, is the issue of a proper defense. I had planned to notify the court that the defense would invoke a plea of insanity, but my client would have none of it. I had planned to present extensive testimony of the inhumane and, frankly, indescribable conditions that he suffered and survived during the war. I had located two psychiatric experts and was prepared to use them to evaluate my client and testify at this trial. However, once again my client refused to cooperate and instructed me not to pursue such a course.”

Judge Oswalt asked Pete, “Is this true, Mr. Banning?”

Without standing, Pete said, “I’m not crazy, Judge, and for me to try and act crazy would be dishonest.”

The judge nodded. The court reporter scribbled away. The words were being recorded for history. For the defense the words were damning enough, but it was his last utterance that would not be forgotten. Almost as an afterthought, Pete, who weighed every word in every situation, said, “I knew what I was doing.”

John Wilbanks looked at the judge and shrugged, as if in surrender.

Chapter 14

Juror number one was a mystery. James Lindsey, age fifty-three, married; occupation — none; address — a rural road out from the remote settlement of Box Hill, almost to Tyler County. His questionnaire said he was a Baptist. He had volunteered nothing during the morning session, and no one seemed to know anything about him. Neither John Wilbanks nor Miles Truitt wanted to waste a challenge, so James Lindsey became the first juror selected for the trial.

Judge Oswalt called the name of juror number two, a Mr. Delbert Mooney, one of the sprawling Mooney clan from the town of Karraway, the only other incorporated municipality in Ford County. Delbert was twenty-seven years old, had spent two years in the army fighting in Europe, and had been injured twice. John Wilbanks wanted him desperately. Miles Truitt did not, and he exercised his first peremptory challenge.

They were still in the courtroom but they were alone, just Judge Oswalt and the lawyers. The defendant had been taken back to jail for lunch, and until further orders. The bailiff, court reporter, clerks, and deputies had been banished. The final selection of the trial jurors was a confidential matter involving only the judge and the lawyers, and it was not on the record. They nibbled on sandwiches and sipped iced tea, but they were too preoccupied to enjoy lunch.

The judge called the name of juror number three, one of two women left. Some rules were written, others simply assumed. For serious crimes, the juries always comprised twelve white men. There was no discussion as to why or how this came to be; it was simply understood. John Wilbanks said, “We should remove her ‘for cause,’ don’t you think, Miles?” Miles was quick to agree. A “for cause” challenge meant the prospect was obviously unsuited for jury duty, and rather than embarrass him or her in open court with a public dismissal, the ploy of a “for cause” strike was reserved for private discussions. And, most important, it did not count as a peremptory challenge. The judge simply ruled that the person would not serve, and this discretion was never debated.

There was no urgency in their work. With very few prosecution witnesses and perhaps none for the defense, the trial, once under way, would not last long. So they worked their way through the remaining names, accepting some, culling others, arguing professionally at times, but always making steady progress. At 3:00 p.m. Judge Oswalt needed another smoke, and he decided to send word to the crowd waiting in the hallways and sitting on the stairs and loitering outdoors in the cold that the trial would begin at nine sharp the following morning. Those in the jury pool would remain nearby. At 4:30, the doors were opened. A few spectators drifted in with the jurors, and a few Negroes returned to the balcony. After the defendant was brought in and placed at the defense table, Judge Oswalt said that a jury had been selected. He called twelve names, and they made their way to the jury box and took their seats.

Twelve white men. Four Baptists; two Methodists; two Pentecostals; one Presbyterian; one Church of Christ. And two who claimed no church membership and were likely headed straight to hell.

They raised their right hands and swore to uphold their duties; then they were sent home with strict instructions to avoid talking about the case. Judge Oswalt adjourned court and disappeared. When the courtroom was empty, John Wilbanks asked Sheriff Gridley if he could have a few minutes alone with his client. It was far easier to chat at the defense table than at the jail, and Nix agreed.

As Penrod swept the floor around the spectators’ benches, and as Ernie Dowdle fiddled with his radiators, the defense team huddled with their client. Russell said, “I don’t like your demeanor in court, Pete.”

John quickly added, “You seem arrogant and aloof and the jury will pick up on this. Plus, you were disrespectful to Judge Oswalt. This cannot happen again.”

Russell said, “When the trial starts tomorrow, those jurors will spend half their time looking at you.”

“Why?” Pete asked.

“Because they’re curious. Because their job is to judge you. They’ve never done this before and they’re in awe of these surroundings. They will absorb everything, and it’s important that you look somewhat sympathetic.”

“Not sure I can do that,” Pete said.

“Well, try, okay?” John said. “Take some notes and flip through some papers. Look like you’re interested in your own case.”

“Who picked that jury?” Pete asked.

“Us. The lawyers and the judge.”

“I’m not so sure about it. Looks to me like they’ve already made up their minds. I didn’t see too many friendly faces.”

“Well, show them one, okay, Pete?” John looked away in frustration. “Remember, those folks get to decide how you spend the rest of your life.”

“That’s already been decided.”

Ernie’s radiators were humming along at 9:30 Tuesday morning when Miles Truitt rose to address the jury in his opening statement. The courtroom was warm and once again packed, and Ernie and Penrod crouched in a corner of the packed balcony and watched with great anticipation.

Everyone grew still and quiet. Truitt wore a dark brown wool suit with a vest. A gold chain dropped from a vest pocket. It was a new suit, one bought for this moment, the biggest trial of his career. He stood before the jury and offered a warm smile, then thanked them for their service to the State of Mississippi, his client. They had been carefully chosen to hear the evidence, to evaluate the witnesses, to weigh the law, and finally to decide guilt or innocence. It was a heavy responsibility, and he thanked them again.

First-degree murder was the most serious crime on the books in Mississippi. Truitt read its definition straight from the code: “The intentional, deliberate, and premeditated killing of another human being without the authority of law by any means or in any manner.” He read it a second time, slowly and loudly, each word echoing around the courtroom. And the punishment: “Upon conviction of first-degree murder, the jury shall decide to impose death by the electric chair, or life without parole.”

Truitt turned, pointed at the defendant, and said, “Gentlemen of the jury, the Reverend Dexter Bell was murdered in the first degree by Pete Banning, who now deserves to die.” It was a pronouncement that was certainly expected, but dramatic nonetheless.

Truitt talked about Dexter: his childhood in Georgia, his call to the ministry, his marriage to Jackie, his early churches, his children, his powerful sermons, his compassion for all, his leadership in the community, his popularity in Clanton. There were no blemishes on Dexter, no missteps along the way. A fine young minister dedicated to his calling and his faith, gunned down at church by an army sharpshooter. Such a waste. A loving father taken away in an instant and leaving three beautiful children behind.

The State of Mississippi would prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt, and when the witnesses were finished he, Miles Truitt, would return to this very spot and ask for justice. Justice for Dexter Bell and his family. Justice for the town of Clanton. Justice for humanity.

John Wilbanks watched the performance with admiration. True, Miles Truitt had the facts on his side and that was always a major advantage. But Truitt was subtle in his approach, understating some facts instead of taking a sledgehammer to them. The murder was so monstrous on its face that it didn’t need affected drama. As Wilbanks watched the faces of the jurors, he confirmed what he had known for a long time. There would be no sympathy for his client. And with no proof of their own, the defense was dead, as was the defendant.

The courtroom was silent as Miles Truitt sat down. Judge Oswalt looked at John Wilbanks, nodded, and said, “And for the defense.”

Wilbanks stood and fiddled with the knot of his fine silk tie as he approached the jury box. He had nothing to say, and he wasn’t about to blast away with some preposterous claim of mistaken identity or conjure up a bogus alibi. So he smiled and said, “Gentlemen of the jury, the rules of procedure in trials like this allow the defense to waive its opening statement until later when the prosecution is finished. The defense chooses to exercise this option.” He turned and nodded to the bench.

Judge Oswalt shrugged and said, “Fine with me. Mr. Truitt, please call your first witness.”

Truitt stood and bellowed, “The State of Mississippi calls Mrs. Jackie Bell to the stand.”

From the second row behind the prosecution’s table, Jackie stood and moved to the end of the pew. She was sitting with Errol McLeish, who had driven her from Rome, Georgia, on Sunday afternoon. Her parents were keeping her children. Her father had insisted on accompanying her to the trial, but she dissuaded him. Errol had volunteered and was eager to make the trip. She was staying with a friend from church, and Errol had a room at the Bedford Hotel on the Clanton square.

All eyes were on Jackie, and she was prepared for the attention. Her thin figure was wrapped tight in a slim-fitting black belted suit. She wore black suede pumps, a small black velvet half hat, and a simple string of pearls. The emphasis on black worked perfectly and she emanated grief and suffering, sort of. She was very much the widow, but a young and attractive one at that.

All twelve men watched every step as she made her approach, as did the lawyers, the judge, and virtually everyone else. Pete, though, was not impressed and kept his eyes on the floor. The court reporter swore her to tell the truth, and Jackie situated herself in the witness chair and looked at the crowd. She carefully crossed her legs and the crowd watched every move.

From behind a podium, Miles Truitt smiled at her and asked her name and address. He had coached her well and she looked sincerely at the faces of the jurors as she spoke. Other essentials followed: She was thirty-eight years old, had three children, had lived in Clanton for five years but moved to Georgia after the death of her husband. “I became a widow,” she said sadly.

“Now, on the morning of October 9 of last year, at approximately nine o’clock, where were you?”

“At home. We lived in the parsonage beside the Methodist church.”

“Where was your husband?”

“Dexter was in his office at the church, at his desk, working on his sermon.”

“Tell the jury what happened.”

“Well, I was in the kitchen, putting away dishes, and I heard some sounds I’d never heard before. Three of them, in rapid succession, as if someone on the front porch had clapped his hands loudly three times. I thought little of it, at first, but then I became curious. Then something told me to check on Dexter. I went to the phone and called his office. When he didn’t answer, I left the parsonage, walked around the front of the church and into the annex where his office was.” Her voice broke as her eyes watered. She touched her lips with the back of her hand and looked at Miles. She was holding a tissue she had taken to the stand.

He asked, “And did you find your husband?”

She swallowed hard, seemed to grit her teeth, and continued, “Dexter was at his desk, still in his chair. He’d been shot and was bleeding; there was blood everywhere.” Her voice broke again, so she paused, took a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and was ready to move on.

The only sound in the courtroom was the quiet hum and rattle of Ernie Dowdle’s radiators. No one moved or whispered. They stared at Jackie and waited patiently as she gamely pulled herself together and told her horrible story. There was no hurry. The town had been waiting for three months to hear the details of what happened that morning.

“Did you speak to him?” Miles asked.

“I’m not sure. I remember screaming and running around his desk to his chair and grabbing him and pulling him, and, well, I’m not sure of everything. It was just so awful.” She closed her eyes and lowered her head and wept. Her tears created others, and many of the women who knew her and Dexter were wiping their eyes too.

Her testimony was unnecessary. The defense offered to stipulate that Dexter Bell was in fact dead and that his death was caused by three bullets fired from a .45-caliber Colt pistol. Sympathy was irrelevant to the facts, and any evidence deemed irrelevant was by law inadmissible. However, Judge Oswalt, along with every other judge in the state, and the entire country as well, always allowed the prosecution to trot out a surviving relative or two to ostensibly prove death. The real purpose, though, was to stir up the jurors.

Jackie gritted her teeth again and plowed forward, or at least tried to. Dexter was lying on the floor, she was talking to him, but he was not responsive. She remembered running from his office covered in blood and screaming, and that’s when the deputy showed up with Hop and, well, after that, she just didn’t remember things that clearly.

Another pause as Jackie broke down, and after a painful gap seemed unable to continue. Judge Oswalt looked at Miles and said, “Mr. Truitt, I think we’ve heard enough from this witness.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Any cross-examination, Mr. Wilbanks?”

“Of course not, Your Honor,” John Wilbanks said with great sympathy.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bell, you are excused,” the judge said.

Walter Willy jumped to his feet, took her hand, and led her past the jurors and the lawyers, through the bar, and back to her pew. Judge Oswalt needed a smoke and called for a recess. The jurors were led out first, by Walter, and when they were gone the crowd relaxed and everyone wanted to talk. Many of the church folks lined up for a hug with Jackie, all eager to get their hands on her. Errol McLeish inched away from the mob and watched her from a distance. Other than Jackie, he didn’t know a soul in the courtroom and no one knew him.

Hop wobbled to the witness stand and swore to tell the truth. His real name was Chester Purdue, which he gave, and then explained that he’d been called Hop since childhood, for obvious reasons. Hop was beyond nervous. He was terrified, and glanced repeatedly at the balcony for support from his people. From that vantage point, testifying looked so much easier. Down here, though, with everybody staring at him, all those white people — the lawyers and judge and jurors and clerks, not to mention the crowd — well, he was instantly rattled and had trouble talking. Mr. Miles Truitt had worked with him for hours down the hall in his office. They had walked through his testimony several times, with Mr. Truitt repeatedly telling him to just relax and tell his story. He was relaxed, yesterday and the day before in Mr. Truitt’s office, but now this was the big show, with everybody watching and nobody smiling.

“Just look at me, nobody else,” Mr. Truitt had said over and over.

So Hop stared at the DA and told his story. It was a Wednesday morning and he was cleaning the stained-glass windows of the sanctuary, a job he did once a month and it took the better part of three days. He left the sanctuary and walked into the annex headed to a storage room where he kept his supplies. He passed the door to Reverend Bell’s office. It was closed and Hop knew better than to disturb the preacher in the morning. Hop did not hear voices. He did not see anyone enter the annex. As far as he knew, there were only two people in the church — him and the preacher. He was reaching for a bottle of cleaner when he heard three loud noises. All three the same and they practically shook the building. He was startled and ran into the hallway, where he heard a door open. Mr. Pete Banning stepped out of the preacher’s office holding a gun.

“How long have you known Pete Banning?” Truitt asked.

“A long time. He’s a member of the church.”

“Would you point to the man who was holding the gun?”

“If you say so.” Hop pointed at the defendant. He described how Mista Banning pointed the gun at his head, how he fell to his knees pleading, and how Mista Banning said he was a good man. Now go tell the sheriff.

Hop watched him walk away, then slipped into the office, though he didn’t really want to. Reverend Bell was in his chair, bleeding in the head and chest, eyes closed. Hop wasn’t sure how long he stood there; he was too terrified to think straight. Finally, he backed away without touching a thing and ran to get the sheriff.

No lawyer could score points by impeaching Hop or casting doubts about his veracity. There was nothing to impeach. What reason did Hop have to cut corners with the truth? He saw what he saw and he had embellished not a word. John Wilbanks stood and quietly said that he did not wish to cross-examine the witness. Indeed, he had nothing to throw at any of the State’s witnesses.

As he sat and listened, and seethed, John asked himself, and not for the first time, why he had been so quick to rush to Pete’s defense. The man was guilty and had no desire to appear otherwise. Why couldn’t some other lawyer sit benignly at the defense table and captain this sinking ship? From the perspective of an accomplished trial lawyer, it was unsettling, almost embarrassing.

The next witness for the State was a man everybody knew. Slim Fargason had been the elected chancery clerk for decades, and one of his duties was the recording and preservation of all of the county’s land records. In short order, he looked at a certified copy of a deed and explained to the jury that on September 16 of the previous year Mr. Pete Banning had transferred by quitclaim deed a section of land, 640 acres, to his two children, Joel and Stella Banning. The land had been owned by Pete since 1932 when his mother died and bequeathed it to him by her last will and testament.

On cross-examination, John Wilbanks fleshed out the chain of title and made much of the fact that the land had been owned by the Banning family for well over a hundred years. Wasn’t it common knowledge in Ford County that the Bannings kept their land? Slim confessed that he couldn’t attest to what was common knowledge, could only speak for himself, but, yes, he figured the land would eventually be owned by the next generation.

When the questions were over, Slim hustled off the stand and returned to his office.

Deputy Roy Lester was called to testify. Following Mississippi law, he removed his service revolver, holster, and belt before stepping into the witness stand. As Truitt lobbed questions, Lester picked up Hop’s narrative and described the scene when they arrived. First, they tried to subdue Mrs. Bell, who was hysterical, and rightly so. He was with her when Sheriff Gridley arrived on the scene, and he walked her across the street to Mrs. Vanlandingham’s porch. He later went to the church and helped with the investigation.

John Wilbanks had nothing on cross.

Miles Truitt had the facts on his side, which was usually the case with prosecutors, and for that reason he was deliberate and plodding. Creativity was not necessary. He would slowly piece together the narrative and walk the jurors step by step through the crime and its aftermath. His next witness was Sheriff Nix Gridley, who unlatched his weaponry and took the stand.

Nix laid out the crime scene, and through a series of enlarged color photos the jurors finally saw the dead body, and all the blood. The photos were gruesome, inflammatory, and prejudicial, but trial judges in Mississippi always allowed them. The truth was that murders were messy, and the triers of fact had the right to see the damage wrought by the defendant. Fortunately, the photos were not large enough to be seen from the gallery or the balcony. Jackie Bell was spared the sight of her dead husband, but she was still troubled to learn that such evidence existed. No one had told her Dexter had been photographed as his blood crept across the floor. What would happen to the photographs after the trial?

As they were passed around the jury box, several of the jurors glared at Pete, who was flipping through a thick law book. He rarely looked up, never looked around, and most of the time seemed detached from his own trial.

Nix told of his conversation with Hop, who identified the murderer. He, Roy Lester, and Red Arnett drove out to arrest Pete Banning, who was waiting on the porch. He told them the gun was in his truck and they took it. He said nothing as they drove to the jail, where John Wilbanks was waiting. Mr. Wilbanks insisted that there was to be no interrogation without him present, so Nix never got the chance to talk to the defendant, who, to this day, has never said a word as to why he killed the preacher.

“So you have no idea as to motive?” Truitt asked.

John Wilbanks was itching to do something lawyerly. He jumped to his feet and said, “Objection. Calls for speculation. This witness is in no position to give his ‘idea’ or opinion as to motive.”

“Sustained.”

Unfazed, Truitt walked to a small table in front of the bench, reached into a cardboard box, removed a pistol, and handed it to Nix. “Is this the gun you removed from Pete Banning’s pickup truck?”

Nix held it with both hands and nodded. Yes.

“Would you describe it for the jury?”

“Sure. It’s made by Colt for the army, a .45 caliber, a single-action revolver, with six rounds in the cylinder. Five-and-a-half-inch barrel. A very nice gun. I’d say a legend in the business.”

“Do you know where the defendant purchased this gun?”

“I do not. Again, I’ve never talked to the defendant about the shooting.”

“Do you know how many rounds were fired by the defendant at the deceased?”

“There were three. Hop said he heard three rounds, and, as you’ve heard, Mrs. Bell testified that she heard three sounds. According to the autopsy, the deceased was hit twice in the chest and once in the face.”

“Were you able to recover any of the slugs?”

“Yes, two of them. One passed through the head and lodged in the foam padding of the chair in which the deceased was sitting. Another passed through the torso and lodged lower in the chair. The third was removed by the pathologist during the autopsy.”

Jackie Bell burst into tears and began sobbing. Errol McLeish stood and helped her to her feet. She left the courtroom with her hands over her face as everyone watched and waited. When the door closed behind her, Miles Truitt looked at Judge Oswalt, who nodded as if to say, “Get on with it.”

Truitt walked to the table, took a small package from the box, and handed it to the witness. “Can you describe these?”

“Sure. These are the three slugs that killed the preacher.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Well, I sent the gun and the slugs to the crime lab. They ran the ballistics tests and sent me a report.” Truitt stepped to his table, picked up some papers, and sort of waved them at Judge Oswalt. “Your Honor, I have their two reports. The first is from the ballistics expert; the second is from the doctor who performed the autopsy. I move that these be admitted into evidence.”

“Any objections, Mr. Wilbanks?”

“Yes, Your Honor, the same objections I raised last week. I prefer to have these two experts here in the courtroom so I can cross-examine them. I cannot cross-examine written reports. There is no good reason why these two men were not subpoenaed here to testify. This is unfair to the defense.”

“Overruled. The reports are admitted into evidence. Proceed, Mr. Truitt.”

“Now, Sheriff Gridley, the jury will be able to review both reports, but can you summarize what the ballistics expert said?”

“Sure. The three spent cartridges were still in the chamber, so the analysis was easy. The expert examined them, along with the three slugs, and he test fired the weapon. In his opinion, there is no doubt that the Colt revolver we took from the defendant’s truck fired the three fatal shots. No doubt.”

“And can you summarize the findings of the doctor who performed the autopsy?”

“No surprise there. The three bullets fired from Pete Banning’s revolver entered the body of the deceased and caused his death. It’s all right here in the report.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. I tender the witness.”

John Wilbanks stood and glared at Gridley as if he might throw a rock at him. He stepped to the podium and pondered his first question. For weeks now, every living soul in Ford County had known that Pete Banning shot and killed Dexter Bell. If Wilbanks dared to suggest otherwise, he risked losing whatever credibility he had. He also risked outright ridicule, something his pride couldn’t tolerate. He decided to poke and prod a bit, perhaps raise a little suspicion, but above all maintain his elevated status.

“Sheriff, who is your ballistics expert?”

“A man named Doug Cranwell, works down in Jackson.”

“And you think he’s a qualified expert in his field?”

“Seems to be. He’s used by a lot of folks in law enforcement.”

“Well, forgive me for asking, but I can’t quiz him on his qualifications, because he’s not here. Why is he not here to testify live before this jury?”

“I guess you’ll have to ask Mr. Truitt. I’m not in charge of trials.” Nix smiled at the jurors and enjoyed his moment of levity.

“I see. And which doctor did you use for the autopsy?”

“Dr. Fred Briley, also down in Jackson. He’s used by a lot of sheriffs.”

“And why is he not here to testify before this jury?”

“I think he charges too much money.”

“I see. Is this a low-budget investigation? A crime that’s not too important?”

“It comes out of Mr. Truitt’s budget, not mine. So you’ll have to ask him.”

“Don’t you think it’s odd, Sheriff, that neither of these experts would show up here and subject himself to a rigorous cross-examination by the defense?”

Truitt stood and said, “Objection, Your Honor. This witness does not control the prosecution of this case.”

“Sustained.”

Nix, who was enjoying his brief visit to the witness stand, kept talking. “It’s really an open-and-shut case and I guess Mr. Truitt didn’t see the need for a lot of experts.”

“That’s enough, Sheriff,” Oswalt growled.

Wilbanks bristled and asked, “So, how many murders have you investigated, Sheriff?”

“Not many. I run a tight ship around here. We don’t see a lot of crime.”

“How many murders?”

When it became apparent an answer was required, Gridley shifted weight, thought for a second, and asked, “Black or white?”

Wilbanks glanced away in frustration and asked, “Do you investigate them differently?”

“No, I guess not. I’ve seen three or four stabbings in Lowtown, and that Dulaney boy got hanged out from Box Hill. Other than that, on our side of town, we found Jesse Green floating in the river but could never tell if he’d been murdered. Body was decomposed too much. So I guess just one other murder before now.”

“And how long have you been the sheriff?”

“Goin’ on eight years.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Wilbanks said and returned to his table.

Judge Oswalt was shaking from a lack of nicotine. He rapped his gavel and said, “We’ll adjourn for lunch and reconvene at 2:00 p.m.”

Chapter 15

After cigarettes and sandwiches, the judge met privately with the lawyers. Truitt said he had no other witnesses and felt as though he had proven his case sufficiently. Oswalt agreed. Wilbanks couldn’t deny it either and complimented the DA on how well his evidence had been presented. As for the defense, there was still doubt as to whether Pete Banning would take the stand. One day he wanted to testify and plead his case to the jury. The next day he would barely speak to his own lawyer. Wilbanks confided that he now believed Pete was mentally unbalanced, but there would be no insanity plea. Pete was still staunchly opposed to it, and the filing deadline had long since passed.

“Who’s your first witness?” Judge Oswalt asked.

“Major Rusconi, U.S. Army.”

“And the gist of his testimony?”

“I want to establish that my client, while on active duty and fighting the Japanese in the Philippines, was taken captive and presumed dead. This was the message sent to his family in May of 1942.”

“I don’t see the relevance to this crime, John,” Truitt said.

“And I’m not surprised to hear that. I will attempt to lay the foundation for my client’s testimony, in the event he takes the stand.”

“I’m not so sure either, John,” Judge Oswalt said skeptically. “You’ll prove he was dead or missing or both, and this was what the family believed, and therefore the minister, in the course of doing his duties, somehow stepped out of line, thus giving the defendant an excuse. Is this what you’re thinking?”

Truitt was shaking his head in disapproval.

Wilbanks said, “Judge, I don’t have anything else, maybe other than the defendant himself. You must allow me to mount a defense, shaky as it sounds.”

“Put him on. Miles, make your objection. I’ll let him go for a few minutes and see where he takes us, but I am skeptical.”

“Thanks, Judge,” Wilbanks said.

When the jurors were seated after a leisurely lunch break, Judge Oswalt informed them that the State had rested and the defense was waiving its right to make an opening statement. Major Anthony Rusconi was called to the stand, and he marched right in, garbed in full military regalia. He was from New Orleans, with that thick, unmistakable accent and easy smile. He was a career officer who had served in the Pacific.

After a few preliminaries, Miles Truitt rose and politely said, “Your Honor, with all due respect to the witness, his testimony is and will continue to be of no relevance to the facts and issues involved in this case. Therefore, I would like to enter a continuing objection to his testimony.”

“So noted. Continue, Mr. Wilbanks.”

Before the war, Rusconi was stationed in Manila and worked in the headquarters of General Douglas MacArthur, the commander of the U.S. forces in the Philippines. The day after Pearl Harbor, the Japanese bombed the American air bases in the Philippines and the war was on.

At that time, Lieutenant Pete Banning was an officer in the Twenty-Sixth Cavalry and stationed at Fort Stotsenburg near Clark Field, sixty miles north of Manila.

The Japanese quickly destroyed the American air and naval forces and invaded with fifty thousand battle-hardened and well-supplied troops. The Americans and their allies, the Filipino Scouts and the regular Philippine Army, mounted a heroic defense, but as the Japanese reinforced and tightened their noose around the islands, food, medicine, fuel, and ammunition disappeared. With no air support for protection and no navy to provide supplies and possible escape, the Americans were forced to retreat to the Bataan Peninsula, a forbidding and jungle-infested stretch of terrain jutting into the South China Sea.

Rusconi was quite the storyteller and seemed to enjoy the opportunity to talk about the war. Miles Truitt shook his head and tried to make eye contact with Judge Oswalt, who avoided him. The jurors were spellbound. The spectators were riveted and virtually motionless.

The siege lasted four months, and when the Americans were forced to surrender to a vastly superior force, it was the biggest defeat in the history of the U.S. Army. But the men had no choice. They were starving, sick, emaciated, and dying so fast burials were not possible. Malaria, dengue fever, dysentery, scurvy, and beriberi were rampant, along with tropical diseases the American doctors had never heard of. And things were about to get worse.

Rusconi himself surrendered in Manila in February of 1942. General MacArthur left in March and set up his command in Australia. Rusconi and his staff were thrown in a prison camp near Manila, but were allowed to maintain many of the records the Japanese did not deem important. They were reasonably well treated but always hungry. Things were to be far different on Bataan.

According to the scant records Rusconi was able to keep and piece together, Lieutenant Banning surrendered with his unit on April 10, 1942, on the southern tip of the Bataan Peninsula. He was one of approximately seventy thousand prisoners of war who were forced to march for days with no food and water. Thousands collapsed and died in the blistering sun and their bodies were simply tossed in roadside ditches.

Among the captured were hundreds of officers, and, as awful as the conditions were, some semblance of command was attempted. Word spread through the march that the names of those who died were to be remembered and later recorded so the families could be notified. Under the dire circumstances, it was a task that proved to be difficult. Rusconi digressed and explained to the jury that as of today, January 7, 1947, the U.S. Army was still in the grim business of finding and attempting to identify dead soldiers in the Philippines.

Miles Truitt stood, raised both hands, and said, “Your Honor, please, this is a murder trial. This story is tragic and compelling, but it has nothing to do with our business here.”

Judge Oswalt was obviously struggling. The testimony was clearly irrelevant. He looked at John Wilbanks and said, “Where are you going, Counselor?”

Wilbanks managed to give the impression that he knew exactly what he was doing. He said, “Please, Your Honor, bear with me for a little longer. I think I can tie things together.”

The judge looked skeptical but said to Rusconi, “Continue.”

Several days into the march, Lieutenant Banning was injured and left behind. No effort was made to assist him because, as the captives had quickly learned, such an effort drew a quick bayonet from a Japanese guard. Later, during a break, some of the men from his unit listened as the Japanese soldiers finished off the stragglers. There was no doubt Lieutenant Banning had been shot by the Japanese guards.

Pete was listening because it was impossible not to, but he sat stone-faced and stared at the floor as if he heard nothing. Not once did he react or look at the witness.

Rusconi testified that at least ten thousand U.S. and Philippine soldiers died during the march. They died from starvation, dehydration, exhaustion, sunstroke, and executions by bullets, beatings, bayonetings, and beheadings. Those who survived were packed into wretched death camps where survival was even more challenging than it had been on the death march. The officers attempted to organize various ways to record the names of the dead, and during the late spring and early summer of 1942 lists of casualties began to filter into Rusconi’s office in Manila. On May 19 the family of Pete Banning was officially notified that he had been captured, was missing, and was presumed dead. From that point, there was no word from the captain until the liberation of the Philippines, when he emerged from the jungle with a gang of commandos. For over two years, he had led his men in a brazen, heroic, and near-suicidal campaign of terror against the Japanese army. For his bravery and leadership, he was awarded the Purple Heart, the Silver Star, the Bronze Star, and the Distinguished Service Cross for heroism in combat.

At that moment, it was impossible to stare at Pete Banning and think of him as the man who murdered Dexter Bell. Judge Oswalt realized this and decided to intervene. “Let’s take a recess,” he said, reaching for a cigarette.

In his chambers, he flung off his robe and lit a Camel. He looked at John Wilbanks and said, “That’s enough of that. This is a trial, not a medal ceremony. I want to know right now if your client will take the stand and I want to know how you plan to make this relevant.”

Truitt was angry and said, “The damage is done, Judge. It’s not relevant and it should not have been presented to the jury.”

“Will he testify?” the judge demanded.

“I’m afraid not,” Wilbanks said quietly in defeat. “He just told me that he does not wish to say anything.”

“Do you have any more witnesses?”

Wilbanks hesitated and said, “Yes, one of the American soldiers who served with Pete.”

“One of the commandos in the jungle?”

“Yes, but it’s not important. My client just informed me that he will object to any more testimony about the war.”

Oswalt took a long pull from his Camel and walked to a window. “Are there any more witnesses from either side?”

“The prosecution has rested, Your Honor,” Truitt said.

“I have nothing else, Judge,” Wilbanks said.

Oswalt turned around and stood behind his desk. “All right. I’ll send the jury home. We’ll work on the jury instructions in here; then you guys get some rest. You’ll do your closing statements in the morning; then I’ll give the case to the jury.”

Clay Wampler was a cowboy from Colorado who joined the army in 1940. He was sent to the Philippines later that year as part of the Thirty-First Infantry. He surrendered on Bataan, survived the death march, and met Pete Banning in a POW camp. His life was saved when a Japanese guard sold him enough quinine to break his malaria. While being transported to a labor camp in Japan, he and Pete escaped. They decided that since they were dead men anyway, they would take their chances in the jungle, where they spent the first three days and nights lost in the bush. When they were too weak to walk and were discussing ways to commit suicide, they killed an injured Japanese soldier they caught napping in the woods. In his backpack they found food and water, and after gorging themselves they hid the body and barely escaped his patrol. Armed with a pistol, a knife, a rifle, and a bayonet, they eventually found American and Filipino guerrillas. They lived in the mountainous jungles and became quite adept at picking off enemy soldiers. Their exploits could fill a thick book.

Clay contacted John Wilbanks and offered to help in any way. He traveled to Clanton and was prepared to take the stand and say whatever was necessary to save his friend. When the lawyer informed him he would not be allowed to testify, he went to the jail on Tuesday afternoon to visit Pete.

Sheriff Gridley left the jail at five o’clock and, as was the custom now, turned his office over to his trusty and Tick Poley. Florry served her brother and Clay a fine dinner, and listened for hours as they swapped stories she had never heard before. It was the only time Pete talked about the war. As one tale led to another, Florry listened in disbelief at the descriptions of the suffering they had endured. Survival seemed like a miracle.

Clay was bewildered by the prospect of his friend being put to death by the State of Mississippi. When Pete assured him it was likely, he vowed to round up the old gang and lay siege to Clanton. The chubby deputies he had seen around the courthouse would be no match for their buddies, hardened commandos who had killed thousands in ways too awful to talk about.

“We often had to kill quietly,” Clay explained gravely to Florry. “A gunshot draws attention.”

She nodded as if she understood completely.

Long after dinner, Tick Poley finally knocked on the door and said the party was over. Pete and Clay embraced and said good-bye. Clay promised to return with the gang to rescue their captain. Pete replied that those days were over.

He went to his cell, turned off his light, and fell asleep.

Chapter 16

A light snow was falling when Miles Truitt rose to deliver his closing argument to the jury. Few things excited the locals like a snowfall, and though the forecast was for only an inch or two, the town was buzzing as if it might get socked in for a month. Miles thought it might hurt his case. The jurors would not waste time with their deliberations but want to hurry home to prepare. John Wilbanks worried that the weather might not benefit Pete. It could distract the jurors. He was praying for one or two to hold out for a life sentence and not death, and any potential dissenters might throw in the towel, side with the majority, and get home before the roads became treacherous. An outright conviction was a certainty, but a split verdict on the sentence meant life and not death. He and Russell had been debating the pros and cons of snow throughout the early morning, with nothing settled. Russell was convinced it would not be a factor. The trial had been brief. The jurors were thoroughly engaged. Their decision was far too important to be affected.

The things lawyers argue about.

Miles walked to the jury box, smiled at the jurors, thanked them for their service, as if they had a choice, and said, “I ask you to ignore the testimony of the last witness, Major Rusconi, from New Orleans. Nothing he said was relevant to this case, to this charge of murder. I’m not asking you to forget the service and sacrifice of the defendant. It was extraordinary, even legendary, but that’s where it ends. This country just won the greatest world war in history, and we have many reasons to be proud. Four hundred thousand Americans died, and today across this great land families are still picking up the pieces. Over five million men and women served, most of them bravely, even heroically. But, being a war hero does not give anyone the right to come home and commit such a senseless and horrible murder. What if all of our war heroes decided to take the law into their own hands and start firing away?”

Miles was pacing slowly and speaking without notes. He had rehearsed for hours, prepared for weeks, and knew this would be his finest hour.

“Instead, I ask you to think about Jackie Bell and her children. Three wonderful kids who will live the rest of their lives without their father. A fine man of God, a fine pastor, a great father and husband. A man cut down at the age of thirty-nine in cold blood, and for no apparent reason. A man with no defense, no warning, no reason to question why his friend suddenly showed up with a gun. No way to escape, no time to defend himself, no means to avoid a sudden and tragic end. A preacher who either was reading the Bible or had just finished when the defendant suddenly appeared without warning and took his life. I suppose we’ll never know the cause of the conflict between Dexter Bell and Pete Banning, but I’ll ask the question we’ve all asked each other since last October: Why in God’s holy name could it not have been settled without bloodshed?”

Miles turned and glared at the defendant. He held his arms open wide and asked, “Why?”

Pete stared straight ahead, unflinching.

“But bloodshed is what we have, and it is now your duty to deal with it. There can be no doubt about the facts. The defense could not bring itself to suggest someone else did the killing. The defense did not claim that Pete Banning was mentally unstable. The defense did its best but there is no defense. Pete Banning shot and killed Dexter Bell. He acted alone and with premeditation. He planned it and he knew exactly what he was doing. When you retire to deliberate in a few moments, you’ll take with you a copy of the deed he signed just three weeks before the murder. It was an attempt to transfer his biggest asset to his children, to protect his land. In legal terms, it is known as a fraudulent conveyance. A fraud, in preparation for a murder. We’ll never know how long the defendant planned the killing, and it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that it was carefully thought out, it was premeditated.”

Miles paused, stepped to his table, and took a sip of water. He was an actor in the middle of a fine performance, and the jurors, as well as the others in the courtroom, were spellbound.

He continued, “Guilt in this case is simple, as is the punishment. You and you alone have the power to sentence the defendant to death in the electric chair, or life without parole in Parchman prison. The reason we have the death penalty in this state is that some people deserve it. This man is guilty of first-degree murder, and under our laws he has no right to live. Our laws are not written to protect the interests of the wealthy, the privileged, or those who served this country in the war. If I am found guilty of first-degree murder, I deserve to die. Same for you. Same for him. Read the law carefully when you get back to the jury room. It’s simple and straightforward and nowhere can you find an exception for war heroes. If at any time back there you find yourself tempted to show him mercy, then I ask you to take a moment and think about Dexter Bell and his family. Then I ask you to show Mr. Pete Banning the same mercy he showed Dexter Bell. God bless him. You took an oath to do your duty, and in this case your duty demands a verdict of guilty and a sentence of death. Thank you.”

Judge Oswalt had set no time limits on the final summations. Truitt could have gone on uninterrupted for an hour or two, but he wisely did not. The facts were simple, the trial had been short, and his arguments were clear and to the point.

John Wilbanks would be even briefer. He began with the startling question of “How do we benefit by executing Pete Banning? Think about that for a moment.” He paused and began pacing, slowly, back and forth before the jurors. “If you execute Pete Banning, do you make our community safer? The answer is no. He was born here forty-three years ago and has lived an exemplary life. Husband, father, farmer, neighbor, employer, church member, West Point graduate. He served this country with more courage than we can ever imagine. If you execute Pete Banning, do you bring back Dexter Bell? The answer is obvious. All of us have tremendous sympathy for the Bell family and their great suffering. All they want is their father and husband back, but that is not within your power. If you execute Pete Banning, do you expect to live the rest of your lives with a feeling of accomplishing something, of doing what the State of Mississippi asked you to do? I doubt it. The answer, gentlemen, is that there is no benefit in taking this man’s life.”

Wilbanks paused and gazed around the courtroom. He cleared his throat, and refocused on the jurors, meeting them eye to eye. “The obvious question here is, if killing is wrong, and we can all agree that it is, why is the State allowed to kill? The people who make our laws down in Jackson are no smarter than you. Their sense of good and evil, of basic morality, is no greater than yours. I know some of those people and I can assure you they are not as decent and God-fearing as you. They are not as wise as you. If you look at some of the laws they pass you’ll realize that they are often wrong. But somewhere along the way, somewhere in the lawmaking process, someone with a little sense decided to give you, the jurors, a choice. They realized that every case is different, that every defendant is different, and there may come a moment, in a trial, when the jurors say to themselves that the killing must stop. That’s why you have the choice between life and death. It’s in the law that you have been given.”

Another dramatic pause as Wilbanks looked from face to face. “We can’t bring back Dexter Bell and deliver him to his children. But Pete Banning has children too. A fine young son and beautiful daughter, both away at college, both with their lives in front of them. Please don’t take away their father. They’ve done nothing wrong. They don’t deserve to be punished. Granted, Pete Banning will not have much of a life inside prison walls, but he will be there. His children can visit him on occasion. They can certainly write letters, send him photographs on their wedding days, and allow him the joy of seeing the faces of his grandchildren. Though absent, Pete will be a presence in their lives, as they will be in his. Pete Banning is a great man, certainly greater than me, greater than most of us in this courtroom. I’ve known him for practically his entire life. My father was close to his father. He is one of us. He was bred here of the same black dirt, raised here with the same beliefs and convictions and traditions, same as you and me. How do we benefit by sending him to his grave? If we the people execute one of our own, there will be a bloody stain on Ford County that will never wash away. Never, never, never.”

His voice cracked slightly as he struggled to keep his composure. He swallowed hard, clenched his jaws, pleaded with his eyes. “I beg you, gentlemen of this jury, a jury of his peers, to spare the life of Pete Banning.”

When John Wilbanks sat down next to Pete, he put an arm around his shoulder for a quick, tight hug. Pete did not respond but continued staring straight ahead, as if he had heard nothing.

Judge Oswalt gave the jury its final instructions, and everyone stood as its members filed out. “We are in recess,” he said. “Court is adjourned.” He tapped his gavel and disappeared behind the bench. It was almost eleven and the snow had stopped.

In complete silence, half the crowd filed out of the courtroom. The great question was how long it would take, but since no one could predict, little was said. Those who stayed behind congregated in small groups and whispered and smoked and shook their heads as the old clock above the bench ticked slowly.

Jackie Bell had heard enough. She and Errol left after a few minutes and walked to his car. He brushed snow off his windshield and they left Clanton. She had been away from her children for four days.

Florry, too, had seen enough of the trial. Avoiding the stares of the Methodists, she and Mildred Highlander gathered their coats and walked out. They drove to Mildred’s home and brewed a pot of tea. At the kitchen table, they read the newspapers from Tupelo, Memphis, and Jackson. All three had reporters in the courtroom and photographers outside. Tupelo and Memphis ran long front-page stories, with pictures of Pete walking into the courthouse in handcuffs the day before. Jackson did the same on page 2. Florry clipped away and added them to her scrapbook. She would call Joel and Stella with the awful news when it arrived.

Pete returned to his cell and asked for a cup of coffee. Roy Lester fetched it and Pete thanked him. After a few minutes, Leon Colliver, the moonshiner across the way, said, “Hey, Pete, you wanna play?”

“Sure.” Pete walked out of his cell, got the key ring hanging on a wall, and unlocked Leon’s cell. They arranged their game board in the middle of the hall and began a game of cribbage. Leon pulled out his flask, took a sip, and handed it over to Pete, who took a shot.

“What are your chances?” Leon asked.

“Slim to none.”

“They gonna give you the chair?”

“I’ll be surprised if they don’t.”

No one volunteered to serve as foreman. As per instructions from the judge, their first order of business was to elect one. Hal Greenwood owned a country store out near the lake and was a big talker. Someone nominated him and he was unanimously elected. He quipped about deserving extra pay. The current rate in Ford County was a dollar a day.

Judge Oswalt had told them to take their time. The trial had been short; there was nothing else on the docket for that week, and it was obviously a serious case. He suggested they begin their deliberations by going through his written instructions and discussing the applicable code sections. This they did.

He said it was important to examine each exhibit placed into evidence. The gun and slugs received little attention — none was really needed. Hal slowly read aloud the autopsy and ballistics reports. He skimmed the quitclaim deed, hitting only the high points and passing on the legalese.

Walter Willy not only ran the courtroom but also was in charge of the jury. He stood guard outside the door, alone, and shooed away anyone who came close. By pressing an ear against the door he could hear almost everything being said inside. This he did, as always. He heard the word “lunch” and backed away. Hal Greenwood opened the door and reported that the jurors were hungry. Walter explained that he was a step ahead and sandwiches had been ordered.

As they waited, Hal suggested they take an initial vote on the issue of guilt. In no particular order, each of the twelve said the word “guilty,” though a couple were more reluctant than the others.

John and Russell Wilbanks had lunch in the firm’s conference room. They usually walked down the street to a café but were not in the mood for the stares and banal observations from the people they saw almost every day. Russell admired his brother’s last appeal to the jury and was convinced one or two would hold out for a life sentence. John was not as confident. He was still frustrated, even moody and depressed over how he had handled the trial. If given free rein, he could have mounted a strong insanity defense and saved Pete’s life. His client, though, seemed hell-bent on destruction. In perhaps the biggest case of his career, he had been boxed in and relegated to being little more than a bystander.

As he toyed with his lunch, he reminded himself that nothing in a trial lawyer’s life was as nerve-racking as waiting on a jury.

One of Joel’s fraternity brothers was from a small town an hour from the Vanderbilt campus. When the trial began Monday morning, Joel found it impossible to think of anything else. His friend invited him to the family’s estate, where they rode horses, hunted for hours deep in the woods, and tried to talk of anything but what was happening in Clanton. He called Stella each evening to check on her. She, too, was skipping classes and trying to avoid people.

Russell Wilbanks was correct. Three of the twelve could not bring themselves to vote in favor of death, at least not in the early deliberations. One, Wilbur Stack, was a veteran of the war who had been wounded three times in Italy. He had survived Miles Truitt’s preemptory challenges simply because Miles used all five before he could exempt Stack. Another, Dale Musgrave, ran a sawmill down by the lake and admitted that his father had done business with Pete’s father and had often expressed great admiration for the family. It was pointed out that perhaps this should have been mentioned during the selection process, but it was too late. The third, Vince Pendergrass, was a Pentecostal housepainter who claimed no ties to the Bannings but found it difficult to believe that he was expected to kill a man. Several of the other nine expressed the same feelings but were also determined to follow the law. None of the twelve were eager to vote for death, but all believed in the death penalty. On paper and in theory, it was quite popular throughout the country, and certainly in Mississippi. But very few people served on juries where they were asked to pull the switch. That was an altogether different matter.

The debate went on, in a dignified manner, with each man given ample opportunity to express his views. The snow was gone. The skies were clear, the roads passable. There was no urgency in getting home. At 3:00 p.m., Hal Greenwood opened the door and asked Walter for a pot of coffee and twelve cups.

After the coffee, and with the room fogged with cigarette smoke, decorum began to unravel as voices rose. The dividing line was clear but not entrenched. The nine never wavered, but the three showed signs of capitulation. It was pointed out repeatedly that they were dealing with a murder that was well planned and should have been avoided. If Pete Banning had only taken the stand and explained his motives, then there might be some sympathy. But he just sat there, seemingly oblivious to his own trial, and never once looked at the jurors.

The man was obviously damaged by the war. Why didn’t his lawyer prove this? Could his motive have something to do with his wife and Dexter Bell? The Methodists resented this suggestion and defended the honor of the slain pastor. Hal Greenwood cautioned them that it was not their place to weigh the case outside the facts. They were bound by what they heard and saw in the courtroom.

Around four, Vince Pendergrass changed his mind and sided with the majority. It was the first conversion and a pivotal moment. The ten felt emboldened and ratcheted up the pressure on Wilbur Stack and Dale Musgrave.

Ernie Dowdle entered the hallway from the courtroom and caught Walter Willy dozing by the door to the jury room. It was almost five, past time for Ernie to go home, and he stopped by to ask Walter if he needed anything. Walter assured him he did not and told him to move along, he had matters firmly under control.

“What they doin’ in there?” Ernie asked, nodding at the door.

“Deliberating,” Walter said professionally. “Now please leave.”

“Gonna get a verdict?”

“I can’t say.”

Ernie left and climbed a narrow stairway to the third floor, where the county kept a small law library and some storage rooms. Walking as softly as possible, he opened the door to a dark and narrow utility room where Penrod was sitting on a stool with an unlit corncob pipe in his mouth. A cast-iron air vent ran from the floor to the ceiling. A slit in the floor beside it carried not only the smell of cigarette smoke but the muted voices of the jurors directly below.

With hardly a sound, Penrod said, “Eleven to one.”

Ernie looked surprised. An hour earlier the vote had been nine to three. He and Penrod were certain they would be fired and probably jailed if anyone learned of their eavesdropping, so they kept it to themselves. Most cases involving juries were civil in nature and too boring to fool with. The occasional criminal trial usually involved a black defendant and an all-white jury, with deliberations that were quick and predictable. Mr. Banning’s trial was far more interesting. Were the white folks really going to convict and kill one of their own?

Having accomplished nothing through the afternoon, John Wilbanks decided to settle his nerves as darkness approached. He and Russell retired to an upstairs room where they kept a coffeepot and a fully stocked bar. Russell poured them Jack Daniel’s over ice and they sat in old straw chairs that had been in the firm for decades. Through a window they could see the courthouse across the street, and on the second floor they could see silhouettes of the jurors as they occasionally moved around the room. They’d had the case for over six hours, which was not a long time in rural Mississippi.

John recalled the old story of a Depression-era jury that hung up for days over a trivial dispute. When the verdict was finally given, and the jurors dismissed, the truth came out. A dollar a day was pretty good money back then, and most of the jurors had little else to do.

They shared a laugh, poured another shot, and were discussing the possibilities of dinner when the light in the jury room went out. Moments later, the office phone rang. A secretary walked upstairs with the news that the jury was ready.

Judge Oswalt allowed some time to pass so the word could spread and the crowd could reconvene. At 7:00 p.m., as promised, he appeared on the bench in a black robe, told Walter Willy to dispense with his yodeling, and ordered Nix to bring in the defendant. Pete Banning walked to his chair and sat down without looking at a soul. When everyone was in place, Walter fetched the jury.

They filed in slowly, one by one, with each face downcast. One glanced at the audience; another glanced at Pete. They sat down and looked at the bench, as if hating the moment and wanting desperately to be somewhere else.

Judge Oswalt said, “Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

Hal Greenwood stood with a sheet of paper. “Yes, Your Honor, we have.”

“Please hand it to the bailiff.”

Walter Willy took the sheet of paper from Hal and, without looking at it, took it to the bench and gave it to the judge, who read it slowly and asked, “Gentlemen, do each of you agree with this verdict?”

All twelve nodded, some barely, none with enthusiasm.

“Would the defendant please stand?”

Pete Banning slowly stood, straightened his back, braced his shoulders, raised his chin, and glared at Judge Oswalt.

“The unanimous verdict is as follows: ‘We the jury find the defendant, Pete Banning, guilty of first-degree murder in the death of Dexter Bell. And we the jury order a sentence of death by electrocution.”

Not only did the defendant fail to flinch; he didn’t even blink. Others did, though, and throughout the crowd there were a few gasps and groans. And in the jury box Wilbur Stack was suddenly overcome with emotion and covered his face with his hands. For the rest of his life, he would regret the day he caved and voted to kill another soldier.

Florry kept it together, primarily because the verdict was no surprise. Her brother expected this outcome. She had watched the jurors through every word of the trial and knew there would be no compassion. And, frankly, why should there be? For reasons that seemed unfathomable, her brother had turned into a killer, one who wanted no sympathy. She touched a tissue to her cheeks and thought about Joel and Stella, but managed to keep her composure. She could lose it later, when she was alone.

Judge Oswalt picked up another sheet of paper and read, “Mr. Banning, by virtue of the power granted unto me by the State of Mississippi, I hereby sentence you to death by electrocution ninety days from today, April 8. You may sit down.”

Pete took his seat with no expression. Judge Oswalt informed the lawyers they would have thirty days to file post-trial motions and appeals; then he thanked the jurors for their service and excused them. When they were gone, he pointed at Pete, looked at Nix, and said, “Take him back to the jail.”

Chapter 17

At the Tea Shoppe on the square, the doors opened as usual at 6:00 a.m., and within minutes the place was full as lawyers, bankers, ministers, and businessmen — the white-collar crowd — gathered over coffee and biscuits and passed around the morning newspapers. No one ate alone. There was a round table for Democrats and another, across the room, for Republicans. The Ole Miss diehards huddled together in a clique near the front while those who favored the State College preferred a table near the kitchen. The Methodists had a spot, the Baptists another. Inter-table discussions were common, as were jokes and gags, but real arguments were rare.

The verdict attracted a full house. Everyone knew the facts and details and even the gossip but they came early anyway to make sure they had missed nothing. Perhaps Pete Banning had broken his silence and said something to his lawyer or Nix Gridley. Perhaps Jackie Bell had commented on the verdict to a reporter. Perhaps the Tupelo paper had sniffed out a lead the others had missed. And, the biggest topic to discuss: Would the State really execute Pete Banning?

A contractor asked Reed Taylor, a lawyer, about the appeals process. Reed explained that John Wilbanks had thirty days to notify the court that he would appeal, then thirty more to file his briefs and the necessary paperwork. The Attorney General in Jackson would handle the briefs for the State, and his office would have thirty more days to answer whatever John Wilbanks filed. That’s ninety days. The state supreme court would then consider the case, and that would take a few months. If the court reversed the conviction, and Reed, frankly, saw no possible way that would happen, the case would be sent back to Ford County for a retrial. If the supreme court affirmed the conviction, John Wilbanks could stall things and attempt to appeal further to the U.S. Supreme Court. That would be a waste of time, but it might buy Pete a few months. If Wilbanks chose not to do this, then the execution could take place within the calendar year.

Reed went on to explain that in a death case the appeal was automatic. He had watched the entire trial and had seen no error upon which to base an appeal, but one had to be filed regardless. Furthermore, as Reed went on, the only possible mistake in the trial was allowing that soldier to testify about the war. And, of course, that was prejudicial to the prosecution. It gave John Wilbanks nothing to argue on appeal.

After Reed finished, the men went back into their huddles and the conversations were muted. Occasionally the door opened and a welcome blast of cold air penetrated the fog of cigarette smoke and bacon grease. Their state senator arrived, seeking votes. He was not one of them, but instead lived in Smithfield down in Polk County. They saw little of him until reelection time and most of them quietly resented his presence in town during its moment of high drama. He made the rounds with a sappy smile, collecting handshakes and trying to remember names. He finally found a chair with the Baptists, all of whom were busy reading newspapers and sipping coffee. He had once waffled on the issue of statewide alcohol and they had no use for him.

As the early morning dragged on, it became apparent that there was nothing new in the Banning case. The trial had been quick, the verdict quicker. Evidently, after it was rendered nothing important had been said by the jurors, the lawyers, the defendant, or the victim’s family. Efforts around the Tea Shoppe to create rumors fell flat, and by seven thirty the men were queuing up at the cash register.

Late Wednesday night, after the dreaded phone call from Aunt Florry, Joel returned to campus. Early Thursday, he went to the periodicals section of the main campus library where there were racks of a dozen morning editions from around the country. Tupelo and Jackson were not included but the Memphis Press-Scimitar was always there. He took it to a booth and hid, staring at the photo of his father as he left the courthouse in handcuffs, and reading accounts of what happened when the jury returned with its verdict. He still couldn’t believe an execution date had been set so soon. He couldn’t believe any of this tragedy.

His graduation was on for May 17. So, about five weeks or so after his father was to be strapped into an electric chair, he, young Joel Banning, age twenty-one, was expected to march proudly across the lawn in cap and gown with a thousand others and get his degree from a prestigious university. It seemed impossible.

Attending another class seemed impossible too. While his fraternity brothers had closed ranks and were trying their best to protect him and maintain some semblance of a normal college life, Joel felt stigmatized, ashamed, at times even embarrassed. He felt the stares in class. He could almost hear the whispers, on campus and off. He was a senior with good grades and could coast to graduation, which was exactly what he planned to do. He would meet with his professors and make promises. Quitting was not an option. Surviving was the challenge.

His application to the law school at Yale had been rejected. He was in at Vanderbilt and Ole Miss, and the difference in cost was substantial. Now that his father had been convicted of the murder, a wrongful death lawsuit could be expected. The family’s finances were in for uncertain times, and Joel wasn’t sure law school was feasible. Imagine, a Banning worried about money, and all because his father carried a grudge. Whatever the conflict between Pete and Reverend Bell, it wasn’t worth the damage.

An hour passed and Joel skipped his first class. He left the library, wandered across campus, and bought a cup of coffee in the cafeteria. He drank it, skipped his second class, then returned to his dorm and called his sister.

Stella was drifting too. She had decided to take a leave and go hide in D.C. for the rest of the year. She loved Hollins and would one day graduate, but at the moment every face she saw belonged to someone who knew her father was in jail for murder and now condemned to die. The shame and pity were too much. She ached for her mother’s embrace. She grieved for her father, but she was also finding it easier to think ill of him.

Her favorite dean knew a Hollins graduate in D.C. and made the call. Stella would leave on the next train, live in a small guest cottage in Georgetown, babysit some kids, tutor them, be a nanny, a gofer, or whatever. And outside her host family, no one she encountered would know her name or where she was from. The move from Roanoke to Washington would put even more miles between her and Clanton.

Working for the Memphis Press-Scimitar, a cub reporter named Hardy Capley covered the trial from start to finish. His brother had been a POW during the war, and Hardy was intrigued by the presence of Clay Wampler, the Colorado cowboy who had served with Pete Banning in the Philippines. Clay was not allowed to testify but had made his presence known around the courtroom, especially during the recesses. He hung around Clanton for a few days after the trial and eventually left. Hardy badgered his editor until he relented and allowed the reporter to pursue the story. Hardy traveled by bus and train to Colorado and spent two days with Wampler, who spoke freely of his adventures and escapades fighting the Japanese as a guerrilla under the command of Pete Banning.

Hardy’s story was ten thousand words and could have been five times that. It was an incredible narrative that deserved to be published, but was simply too long for a newspaper. He refused to cut it, threatened to quit and take it elsewhere, and harangued his bosses at the newspaper until they agreed to publish it in a three-part series.

In remarkable detail, Hardy described the siege of Bataan; the bravery of the American and Filipino troops, their disease, starvation, and fear, their incredible courage in the face of a superior force, and their humiliation in being forced to surrender. The now infamous Bataan Death March was narrated so vividly that the editors were forced to tone it down somewhat. The savagery and cruelty of the Japanese soldiers was described with minor editing. The wanton murder and neglect of so many American POWs was heartbreaking and infuriating.

Though much of the story had already been told, both by escapees and by survivors, the story hit hard in Clanton because it involved one of their own. For over two years, Pete Banning had led a ragtag group of American and Filipino commandos as they harassed the Japanese, certain every morning that the day would be their last. Having avoided death so many times, they accepted it as a fact and fought with reckless abandon. They killed hundreds of Japanese soldiers. They destroyed bridges, railroads, airplanes, barracks, tanks, armories, and supply stations. They became so feared that a bounty of $10,000 was placed on the head of Pete Banning. Constantly pursued, the guerrillas could disappear into the jungles and attack days later twenty miles away from their last known position. In Wampler’s biased opinion, Pete Banning was the greatest soldier he had ever known.

The series was widely read in Ford County and throttled most of the enthusiasm to see Pete executed. Judge Oswalt even commented to John Wilbanks that had the newspaper published the stories before the trial he would have been forced to move it a hundred miles away.

Pete Banning had steadfastly refused to talk about the war. Now someone else was doing the talking, and many in the county wanted a different ending to his story.

If the defendant was burdened by his conviction and death sentence, he showed no signs of it. Pete went about his duties as trusty as if the trial had never taken place. He kept the jail on a strict schedule, kept the two prisoner restrooms clean and orderly, barked at inmates who did not make their beds each morning or left trash on the floors of their cells, encouraged them to read books, newspapers, and magazines, and was teaching two of the inmates, one white and the other black, how to read. He maintained a steady supply of good food, primarily from his farm. When he wasn’t busy puttering around the jail, he played cribbage for hours with Leon Colliver, read stacks of novels, and napped. Not once did he complain about his trial or mention his fate.

His mail increased dramatically after the trial. The letters came from almost every state and they were written by other veterans who had survived the horrors of war in the Philippines. Long letters, in which the soldiers told their stories. They supported Pete and found it appalling that such a hero was about to be executed. He wrote them back, short notes because of the volume, and before long he was spending two hours a day with his correspondence.

His letters to his children grew longer. He would soon be gone, but his written words would be theirs forever. Joel did not admit he was having second thoughts about law school. Stella certainly did not admit she was living in D.C. with her studies suspended. Her dean at Hollins forwarded Pete’s letters, and in return mailed Stella’s to him. She had not even told Florry where she was.

Pete was in the middle of a cribbage game one afternoon when Tick Poley interrupted and said his lawyer was there. Pete said thanks, then played on, making John Wilbanks wait twenty minutes until the game was over.

When they were alone in the sheriff’s office, Wilbanks said, “We have to file your appeal by next Wednesday.”

“What appeal?” Pete asked.

“Good question. It’s really not an appeal, because we have nothing to appeal. However, the law says that in a death case the appeal is automatic, so I have to file something.”

“That makes no sense, like a lot of the law,” Pete said. He opened a pack of Pall Malls and lit one.

“Well, Pete, I didn’t make the law, but rules are rules. I’m going to file a very thin brief and get it in under the wire. You want to read it?”

“What’s it gonna say? What are my grounds for an appeal?”

“Not much. I’m sure I’ll use the old standby: The verdict was against the overwhelming weight of the evidence.”

“I thought the evidence sounded pretty good.”

“Indeed it did. And since I was precluded from mounting a defense on the grounds of insanity, which was our only possible strategy, and one that would have worked beautifully, then there really isn’t much to write about.”

“I’m not crazy, John.”

“We’ve had this discussion and it’s too late to cover it again.”

“I don’t like the idea of an appeal.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I’ve been sentenced by a jury of my peers, good men from my home county, and they have more sense than those judges down in Jackson. Let’s leave their verdict alone, John.”

“I have to file something. It’s automatic.”

“Do not file an appeal on my behalf, do you understand me, John?”

“I have no choice.”

“Then I’ll find another lawyer.”

“Oh, great, Pete. This is just beautiful. You want to fire me now that the trial is over. You want another lawyer so you can handcuff him too? You’re headed for the electric chair, Pete. Who in hell would want to represent you this late in the fourth quarter?”

“Do not file an appeal for me.”

John Wilbanks bolted to his feet and headed for the door. “I’ll file it because it has to be filed, but I’m not wasting any more time, Pete. You haven’t paid my fee for the trial.”

“I’ll get around to it.”

“That’s what you keep saying.” Wilbanks opened the door, marched through, and slammed it behind him.

The appeal was filed, and John Wilbanks, to his knowledge, was not fired, nor was he paid. It was one of the thinnest filings ever received by the Mississippi Supreme Court in a murder case, and in response the State answered fully. Which was to say, with another thin brief. There was simply nothing wrong with the trial, and the defendant claimed no prejudicial errors. For a court often criticized for its glacier-like pace, the justices were reluctant to affirm so quickly in such a notorious case. Instead, they instructed their clerk to reshuffle the docket and set the Banning matter for oral argument for later in the spring. John Wilbanks informed the clerk that he had not requested oral argument and would not participate in one. He had nothing to argue.

April 8 came and went with no execution. By then word had filtered through the Tea Shoppe that delays were in the works and no firm date had been set, so the town was not counting the days. Instead, as spring arrived, the gossip around the town and county ventured away from Pete Banning and turned to the most important aspect of life, the planting of cotton. The fields were plowed and tilled and prepped for the seed, and the weather was watched intently. The farmers studied the skies as they marked their calendars. Plant too early, say in late March, and heavy rains could wash away the seed. Plant too late, say by the first of May, and the crop would be off to a bad start and run the risk of being flooded come October. Farming, as always, was an annual crapshoot.

Buford Provine, the Bannings’ longtime foreman, began stopping by the jail each morning for a cigarette with Pete. They usually met outdoors behind the jail, with Buford leaning against a tree while Pete stretched his legs on the other side of the eight-foot chain-link fence. He was in the “yard,” a small square dirt patch sometimes used by the inmates for fresh air. It was also used for visitation and conferences with lawyers. Anything to get outside the jail.

On April 9, the day after he was supposed to die, Pete and Buford discussed the almanacs and forecasts from the weather service and made the decision to plant the seeds as soon as possible. As Buford drove away from the jail, Pete watched his truck disappear. He was pleased with their decision to plant, but he also knew that he would not be around for the harvest.

The day before he was to graduate from Vanderbilt, Joel packed his possessions into two duffel bags and left Nashville. He took the train to D.C. and found Stella in Georgetown. She was delighted to see him and claimed to be quite happy with her job, that of “practically raising three children.” Her guest cottage was too small for another boarder, and besides her boss did not want anyone else living there. Joel found a room in a flophouse near Dupont Circle and got a job as a waiter in an upscale restaurant. He and Stella explored the city as much as her job would allow, and they reveled in being around large numbers of people who had no idea where they were from. In long letters home they explained to Aunt Florry and to their father that they had summer jobs in D.C. and life was okay. More about classes later.

On June 4, the Mississippi Supreme Court, without oral argument, unanimously affirmed the conviction and sentence of Pete Banning, and remanded the case back to Judge Oswalt. A week later, he set the execution thirty days away, on Thursday, July 10.

There were no more appeals.

Chapter 18

Prior to 1940, Mississippi executed its criminals by hanging, which at that time was the preferred method throughout the country. In some states the killings were done quietly with little fanfare, but in others they were public events. Tough politicians in Mississippi firmly believed that showing the people what could happen if they stepped too far out of line was an effective means of controlling crime, so capital punishment became a show in most instances. Local sheriffs made the decisions, and as a general rule white defendants were hanged in private while black ones were put on display.

Between 1818 and 1940, the state hanged eight hundred people, 80 percent of whom were black. Those, of course, were the judicial hangings for rapists and murderers who had been processed through the courts. During that same period of time, approximately six hundred black men were lynched by mobs operating outside the legal system and thoroughly immune from any of its repercussions.

The state prison was named after its first warden, Jim Parchman. It was a large cotton plantation covering eight thousand acres in Sunflower County, in the heart of the Delta. The people there did not want their home to be known as the “death county,” and they had politicians with clout. As a result, hangings took place in the counties where the crimes were committed. There were no fixed gallows, no trained executioners, no standard procedures, no protocol. It wasn’t that complicated, just secure a rope around the man’s neck and watch him drop. The locals built the frames, crossbeams, and trapdoors, and the sheriffs were in charge of stringing up the condemned as the crowds looked on.

Hanging was quick and efficient, but there were problems. In 1932, a white man named Guy Fairley was hanged but something went wrong. His neck didn’t break as planned, and he flailed about choking, bleeding, screaming, and taking much too long to die. His death was widely reported and prompted talk of reform. In 1937, a white man named Tray Samson dropped through the trapdoor and died instantly when his head snapped completely off and rolled toward the sheriff. A photographer was there, and though no newspaper would run the photo it made the rounds anyway.

In 1940, the state legislature addressed the problem. A compromise was reached when it was agreed that the state would stop hanging and move to the more modern method of electrocution. And since there was too much opposition to killing the defendants at Parchman, the state decided to construct a portable electric chair that could easily be moved from county to county. Impressed with their ingenuity, the legislators quickly passed this into law. Some problems arose when it was realized that no one in the country had ever used a portable electric chair. And, for a while anyway, no reputable electrical contractor wanted to touch this unique and clever idea.

Finally, a company in Memphis stepped forward and designed the first portable electric chair in history. It came with six hundred feet of high-tension cables, a switchboard, its own generator, helmet straps, and electrodes designed from specs borrowed from states with stationary electric chairs. The entire unit was carried from county to county in a large silver truck specially designed for such occasions.

The new state executioner was a sleazy character named Jimmy Thompson who had just been paroled from Parchman, where he had served time for armed robbery. In addition to being an ex-con, he was an ex-sailor, ex-marine, ex — carnival showboat, ex-hypnotist, and frequent drunkard. He got the job through political patronage — he personally knew the governor. He was paid $100 per execution, plus expenses.

Thompson loved cameras and was always available for interviews. He arrived early to each site, displayed his portable chair and its switchboard, and posed for photos with the locals. After his first execution, he told a newspaper the defendant died “with tears in his eyes for the efficient care I took to give him a good clean burning.” The deceased, a black man named Willie Mae Bragg, who’d been convicted of killing his wife, was photographed being strapped in by deputies and then dying from electrocution. The executions were not open to the public, but there were always plenty of witnesses.

The chair was soon nicknamed Old Sparky, and its fame grew. In a rare moment, Mississippi was on the progressive end of something. Louisiana noticed it and built a copycat version, though no other states followed suit.

From October of 1940 to January of 1947, Old Sparky was used thirty-seven times as Jimmy Thompson toured the state with his road show. Practice did not make perfect and, though the citizens were quite proud of the killings, complaints arose. No two executions were the same. Some were quick and seemingly merciful. Others, though, were drawn out and dreadful. In 1943, an electrocution in Lee County went awry when Thompson improperly attached electrodes to the condemned man’s legs. They caught on fire, burned his pants and flesh, and sent clouds of sickening smoke that gagged the witnesses in the courtroom. In 1944, the first jolt failed to kill the condemned man, so Jimmy pulled the switch again. And again. Two hours later, the poor man was still alive and in horrible pain. The sheriff tried to stop the ordeal but Thompson would have none of it. He ramped up the generator and finished him off with one last charge.

In May of 1947, Old Sparky was set up in the main courtroom of the Hinds County Courthouse in Jackson, and a black man convicted of murder was electrocuted.

And in July, Jimmy Thompson and his contraption headed to Ford County.

Because John Wilbanks had heard the same question so often, and had so often given the same honest answer, there was little doubt that the execution was about to take place. There was nothing to stop it, save for a clemency petition Wilbanks filed with the governor without informing his client. Clemency was the sole province of the governor, and the chances of receiving it were slim. When John filed it he included a letter to the governor explaining that he was doing so only to cover all legal bases. Other than that, as John repeatedly explained, there was nothing to stop the execution. No pending appeals. No last-minute legal maneuverings. Nothing.

Clanton celebrated July 4 with its annual parade through downtown, with dozens of uniformed veterans marching and passing out candy to the children. The courthouse lawn was covered with barbecue grills and ice cream stands. A band played in a gazebo. Since it was an election year, candidates took turns at the microphone and made their promises. The celebration, though, was somewhat muted as the townsfolk talked of nothing but the execution. And, as John Wilbanks noted from the balcony of his office, the crowd was definitely smaller than usual.

On Tuesday, July 8, Jimmy Thompson arrived in his silver truck and parked it beside the courthouse. He unloaded it and encouraged all who were curious to have a look. As always, he allowed a few kids to sit in the electric chair and pose for photographs. Reporters were already gathering, and Jimmy regaled them with stories of his great experiences around the state. He walked them through the procedure, explaining in minute detail how the generator remained in the truck and the two-thousand-volt current would run approximately three hundred feet along the sidewalk and into the courthouse, up the stairs and into the courtroom, where Old Sparky was already in place near the jury box.

Joel and Stella arrived by train late on Tuesday night and were met at the station by Florry. They hustled away, ignoring everyone, and went to her pink cottage, where Marietta had dinner waiting. It was a somber evening with little conversation. What could be said? They were sleepwalking into a nightmare as reality slowly settled in.

Early Wednesday morning, Nix Gridley stopped by the courthouse and was not surprised to find a small crowd of gawkers staring at Old Sparky. Jimmy Thompson, a weasel the sheriff was already tired of, was holding forth on the amazing capabilities of his machine, and after a few minutes Nix left and walked to the jail. He rounded up Roy Lester, and, using a side door, they walked out with Pete Banning and quickly left in Gridley’s patrol car. Pete sat in the rear seat, without handcuffs, and said virtually nothing as they raced south on the Natchez Trace Parkway. In the town of Kosciusko, they sat in the car as Roy bought biscuits and coffee from a diner. They ate in silence as the miles flew by.

The director of the Mississippi State Hospital at Whitfield was waiting at the front gate. Nix followed him through the grounds and to building 41, where Liza Banning had spent the last fourteen months. Two doctors were waiting. Stiff introductions were made, and Pete followed them to an office where they closed the door.

Dr. Hilsabeck did the talking. “Your wife is not doing well, Mr. Banning, sorry to say. And this will only make matters worse. She is in complete withdrawal and speaks to no one.”

“I had to come,” Pete said. “There was no other way.”

“I understand. You will be surprised by her appearance, and don’t expect much in the way of a response.”

“How much does she know?”

“We’ve told her everything. She was showing some improvement until she was informed of the murder, several months ago. That caused a dramatic setback and her condition has only deteriorated. Two weeks ago, after I spoke with the sheriff, when it became apparent that the execution was inevitable, we tried to break it to her gently. That has caused a complete withdrawal. She eats almost nothing and hasn’t spoken a word since then. Frankly, if the execution takes place, we have no idea of the impact. Obviously, we are deeply concerned.”

“I’d like to see her.”

“Very well.”

Pete followed them down the hall and up one flight of stairs. A nurse was waiting beside an unmarked door. Hilsabeck nodded at Pete, who opened the door and stepped inside. The nurse and the doctor waited in the hall.

The room was lit by only a small dim ceiling light. There was no window. A door was opened to a tiny bathroom. On a narrow, wood-framed bed Liza Banning was propped up by pillows and awake, waiting. She wore a faded gray gown and was tucked in by sheets. Pete carefully walked to the bed and sat by her feet. She watched him closely, as if afraid, and said nothing. She was almost forty but looked much older, with graying hair, gaunt cheeks, wrinkles, pale skin, and hollow eyes. The room was dark, quiet, motionless.

Pete finally said, “Liza, I’ve come to say good-bye.”

In a voice that was surprisingly firm she replied, “I want to see my children.”

“They’ll be here in a day or so, after I’m gone, I promise.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled, as if relieved. Minutes passed and Pete began gently rubbing her leg through the sheets. She did not respond.

“The children will be fine, Liza, I promise. They’re strong and they’ll survive us.”

Tears began running down her cheeks, then dripping off her chin. She did not reach to wipe them, nor did he. Minutes passed and the tears continued. She whispered, “Do you love me, Pete?”

“I do. I always have and I’ve never stopped.”

“Can you forgive me?”

Pete looked at the floor and stared blankly for a long time. He cleared his throat and said, “I cannot lie. I’ve tried many times, Liza, but, no, I cannot forgive you.”

“Please, Pete, please say you’ll forgive me before you go.”

“I’m sorry. I love you and I’ll go to my grave loving you.”

“Just like in the old days?”

“Just like in the old days.”

“What happened to those days, Pete? Why can’t we be together again with the kids?”

“We know the answer, Liza. Too much has happened. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, Pete.” She started sobbing and he moved closer and gently embraced her. She was frail and brittle and for a second he flashed back to the skeletons he was forced to bury on Bataan, once healthy soldiers starved to death and weighing less than a hundred pounds. He closed his eyes and pushed those thoughts away and somehow managed to remember her body back in the glory days when he couldn’t keep his hands off her. He longed for those days, for the not too distant past when they lived in a state of near-constant arousal and never missed an opportunity.

He finally broke down and cried too.

The last supper was cooked by Nineva and it was Pete’s favorite: fried pork chops, whipped potatoes and gravy, and boiled okra. He arrived after dark with the sheriff and Roy, who sat on the porch and rocked in wicker chairs as they waited.

Nineva served the family in the dining room, then left the house, in tears. Amos walked her home, after saying his good-byes.

Pete carried the conversation, primarily because no one else had much to say. What were they supposed to say at that awful moment? Florry couldn’t eat and Joel and Stella had no appetites. Pete, though, was hungry and carved his pork chops as he described his visit to Whitfield. “I told your mom that you would see her on Friday, if that’s what you want.”

“That should be a pleasant little gathering,” Joel said. “We bury you Friday morning, then race off to the nuthouse to see Mom.”

“She needs to see you,” Pete said, chewing.

“We tried once before,” Stella said. She had not lifted a fork. “But you intervened. Why?”

“Well, we’re not going to argue over our last meal, now are we, Stella?”

“Of course not. We’re Bannings and we don’t discuss anything. We’re expected to keep a stiff upper lip and just plow on, as if everything will be okay, all secrets will be buried, life will eventually return to normal, and no one will ever know why you’ve put us in this horrible position. All anger is to be suppressed, all questions ignored. We’re Bannings, the toughest of all.” Her voice cracked and she wiped her face.

Pete ignored her and said, “I’ve met with John Wilbanks and everything is in order. Buford has the crops under control and he’ll meet with Florry to make sure the farm runs smoothly. The land is in your names now and it will stay in the family. The income will be split each year and you’ll get checks by Christmas.”

Joel put down his fork and said, “So life just goes on, right, Dad? The State kills you tomorrow, we bury you the next day, then we leave and go back to our own little worlds as if nothing has changed.”

“Everybody dies at some point, Joel. My father did not see fifty, nor did his father. Bannings don’t live long.”

“Now, that’s comforting,” Florry said.

“Male Bannings, I should say. The women folk tend to live longer.”

Stella said, “Could we talk about something other than dying?”

Joel said, “Oh, sure, sis. The weather, the crops, the Cardinals? What’s on your mind at this terrible hour?”

“I don’t know,” she said as she touched her napkin to her eyes. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe we’re sitting here trying to eat when this is the last time we’ll ever see you.”

“You have to be strong, Stella,” Pete said.

“I’m tired of being strong, or pretending to be. I can’t believe this is happening to our family. Why have you done this?”

There was a long gap as both women wiped their eyes. Joel took a bite of potatoes and swallowed without chewing. “So, I guess you plan to take your secrets to your grave, right, Dad? Even now, at the last hour, you can’t tell us why you killed Dexter Bell, so we are destined to spend the rest of our lives wondering why. Is that where we are?”

“I’ve told you I’ll not discuss it.”

“Of course not.”

“You owe us an explanation,” Stella said.

“I don’t owe you a damned thing,” Pete snapped angrily, then took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry. But I’ll not discuss it.”

“I have a question,” Joel said calmly. “And since this will be my last chance to ask it, and it’s something I’ll be curious about for the rest of my life, I’m going to ask. You saw a lot of terrible things in the war, a lot of suffering and dying and you yourself killed a lot of men in battle. When a soldier sees that much death, does it make you callous? Does it make life and living somewhat cheaper? Do you reach a point where you think that death is not that big of a deal? I’m not being critical, Dad, I’m just curious.”

Pete took a bite of a pork chop and chewed it as he considered the question. “I suppose so. I reached a point where I knew I was going to die, and when that happens in battle a soldier accepts his fate and fights even harder. I lost a lot of friends. I even buried some of them. So I stopped making friends. Then I didn’t die. I survived, and because of what I went through it made life even more precious. But I realized that dying is a part of living. Everybody reaches the end. Some sooner than others. Does that answer your question?”

“Not really. I guess there are no answers.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about dying,” Florry said.

“This is surreal,” Stella said.

“Life is never cheap,” Pete continued. “Every day is a gift, and don’t forget that.”

“What about Dexter Bell’s life?” Joel asked.

“He deserved to die, Joel. You’ll never understand it, and I suppose you’ll learn one day that life is filled with things we can never understand. There’s no guarantee that you are allowed to live with the full knowledge of everything. There are a lot of mysteries out there. Accept them and move on.”

Pete wiped his mouth and shoved his plate away.

“I have a question,” Stella said. “You’ll be remembered for a long time around here, and not for the right reasons. In fact, your death will probably become a legend. My question is this: How do you want us to remember you?”

Pete smiled and replied, “As a good man who created two beautiful children. Let the world say what it wants, it cannot say anything bad about the two of you. I’ll die a proud man because of you and your brother.”

Stella covered her face with her napkin and began sobbing. Pete slowly stood and said, “I need to be going. The sheriff has had a long day.”

Joel stood with tears running down his cheeks and hugged his father, who said, “Be strong.”

Stella had dissolved into a mess of tears and couldn’t stand. Pete bent over, kissed her on the top of her head, and said, “Enough crying now. Be strong for your mother. She’ll be back here one day.”

He looked at Florry and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She nodded as he left the dining room. They listened as the front door closed, then all three had a good cry. Joel walked to the front porch and watched the sheriff’s car disappear on the highway.

Chapter 19

Thursday, July 10, the date on the second death warrant signed by Judge Rafe Oswalt, Pete Banning awoke at dawn and lit a cigarette. Roy Lester brought him a cup of coffee and asked if he wanted breakfast. He did not. Roy asked if he’d slept well and he replied that he had. No, there was nothing Roy could do for him at the moment, but thanks anyway. Leon Colliver called out from across the hallway and suggested one last game of cribbage. Pete liked that idea and they arranged their game board between their cells. Pete reminded Leon that he owed him $2.35 in winnings, and Leon reminded Pete that he had not paid him for all the illegal liquor they had consumed in the past nine months. They had a laugh, shook hands, and called it even.

“Hard to believe this is really gonna happen, Pete,” Leon said as he shuffled the deck.

“The law is the law. Sometimes it works for you; sometimes it doesn’t.”

“It just don’t seem fair.”

“Who said life is fair?”

After a few hands, Leon pulled out his flask and said, “You may not need this but I do.”

“I’ll pass,” Pete said.

The door opened and Nix Gridley approached them. He appeared fidgety and tired. “Can I do anything for you, Pete?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Okay. At some point we need to walk through the schedule, just so we’ll know what to expect.”

“Later, Nix, if you don’t mind. I’m busy right now.”

“I see. Look, there’s a bunch of reporters hanging around outside the jail, all wanting to know if you’ll have anything to say.”

“Why would I talk to them now?”

“That’s what I figured. And John Wilbanks has already called. He wants to come over.”

“I’ve had enough of John Wilbanks. There’s nothing left to say. Tell him I’m busy.”

Nix rolled his eyes at Leon, turned, and left.

The soldiers began arriving before noon. They came from nearby counties, easy trips of two and three hours. They came from other states, after driving all night. They came alone in pickup trucks, and they came in carloads. They came in the uniforms they once proudly wore, and they came in overalls, khakis, and suits with ties. They came unarmed with no plans to cause trouble, but one word from their hero and they would be ready to fight. They came to honor him, to be there when he died because he had been there for them. They came to say farewell.

They parked around the courthouse and then around the square, and when there was no place to park they lined the streets of the downtown neighborhoods. They milled about, greeting each other, staring grimly at the townsfolk, people they really didn’t like, because it was them, the locals, who had sentenced him to die. They roamed the halls of the courthouse and stared at the locked door of the upstairs courtroom. They filled the coffee shops and cafés and killed time, speaking gravely to each other but not to anyone from the town. They grouped around the silver truck and studied the cables that ran along the main sidewalk and into the courthouse. They shook their heads and thought of ways to stop it all, but they moved on, waiting. They glared at the police and deputies, a dozen armed and uniformed men, most sent in from nearby counties.

The governor was Fielding Wright, a lawyer from the Delta who had become a successful politician. He had stepped into the office eight months earlier, when his predecessor died, and he was currently seeking election to a full four-year term. After lunch on Thursday, he met with the Attorney General, who assured him there was nothing left in the courts that might stop the execution.

Governor Wright had received a flood of letters requesting, even demanding, clemency for Pete Banning, but others had asked for justice in the full measure of the law. He viewed his election opponents as weak and did not wish to politicize the execution, but like most people he was intrigued by the case. He left his office in the state capital in the backseat of a 1946 Cadillac, his official vehicle, with a driver and an aide. They followed two state troopers in a marked car and headed north. They stopped in Grenada, where the governor met briefly with a prominent supporter, and made another stop for the same reason in Oxford. They arrived in Clanton shortly before five and drove around the square. The governor was amazed at the crowd milling about the courthouse lawn. He had been assured by the sheriff that matters were under control and additional police were not needed.

Word had leaked that the governor was coming, and another crowd, mostly reporters, waited outside the jail. When he stepped out of his car, cameras flashed and questions were thrown at him. He smiled and ignored them and quickly went inside. Nix Gridley was waiting in his office, along with John Wilbanks and the state senator, an ally. The governor knew Wilbanks, who was supporting one of his opponents in the election. That did not matter at the moment. To the governor, this was not a political event.

Roy Lester brought in the prisoner and introductions were made. John Wilbanks asked the senator to please step outside. What was about to be discussed was none of his business. He reluctantly left. When the four men were alone, the governor went through a breezy narrative of having met Pete Banning’s father years earlier at some event in Jackson. He knew the family was important to the area and had been prominent for many years.

Pete was not impressed.

The governor said, “Now, Mr. Banning, as you know I have the power to commute your death sentence to life in prison, and that’s why I’m here. I really don’t see any benefit to proceeding with your execution.”

Pete listened carefully, then replied, “Well, thank you, sir, for coming, but I did not request this meeting.”

“Nor did anyone else. I’m here of my own volition, and I’m willing to grant clemency and stop the execution, but only on one condition. I will do so if you explain to me, and to the sheriff and to your own lawyer, why you killed that preacher.”

Pete glared at John Wilbanks as if he was behind a conspiracy. Wilbanks shook his head.

Pete looked at the governor without expression and said, “I have nothing to say.”

“We’re dealing with life and death here, Mr. Banning. Surely you do not want to face the electric chair in a matter of hours.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“I’m dead serious, Mr. Banning. Tell us why, and your execution will not take place.”

“I have nothing to say.”

John Wilbanks dropped his head and walked to a window. Nix Gridley gave an exasperated sigh as if to say, “I told you so.” The governor stared at Pete, who returned the stare without blinking.

Finally, Governor Wright said, “Very well. As you wish.” He stood and left the office, walked outside, ignored the reporters again, and drove away to the home of a doctor where dinner was being prepared.

As dusk settled over the town, the crowd swelled around the courthouse and the streets were filled with people. Vehicles could no longer move and traffic was diverted.

Roy Lester left the jail in his patrol car and drove to the home of Mildred Highlander. Florry was waiting, and he returned to the jail with her. They managed to sneak through the rear door and avoid the reporters. She was taken to the sheriff’s office, where Nix greeted her with a hug. He left her there, and a few minutes later her brother was brought in. They sat facing each other, their knees touching.

“Have you eaten?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. “No, they offered a last meal but I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“What did the governor want?”

“Just stopped by to say farewell, I guess. How are the kids?”

“‘How are the kids?’ What do you expect, Pete? They’re a mess. They’re devastated and who can blame them?”

“It’ll be over soon.”

“For you, yes, but not for us. You get to go out in a blaze of glory, but we are left to pick up the pieces and wonder why the hell this happened.”

“I’m sorry, Florry. I had no choice.”

She was wiping her eyes and biting her tongue. She wanted to lash out and finally unload everything, but she also wanted to hug him one last time to make sure he knew that his family loved him.

He leaned closer, took her hands, and said, “There are some things you should know.”

Chapter 20

The prisoner made only one request. He wanted to walk from the jail to the courthouse, a short distance of only two blocks, but nevertheless a long march to the grave. It was important to him to walk proudly, head high, hands unshackled, as he bravely faced the death he had so often eluded. He wanted to show the courage that few people could ever understand. He would die a proud man with no grudges, no regrets.

At eight o’clock, he stepped from the front door of the jail in a white shirt and khaki pants. His sleeves were rolled up because the air was hot, the humidity stifling. With Roy Lester on one side and Red Arnett on the other, he followed Nix Gridley through the crowd that parted to make way. The only sounds were cameras flashing and clicking. There were no banal questions lobbed by the reporters, no shouts of encouragement, no threats of condemnation. At Wesley Avenue, they turned and headed for the square, walking down the middle of the street as the curious fell in behind. As they approached, the soldiers lining the street snapped to attention and saluted. Pete saw them, looked surprised for a second or two, then nodded grimly. He walked slowly, certainly in no hurry, but determined to get on with it.

On the square, a hush fell over the crowd as the prisoner and his guards came into view. Nix growled at some to stand back and give way and everyone complied. He turned onto Madison Street in front of the Tea Shoppe and the procession followed.

Ahead, the courthouse loomed, fully lit and waiting. It was the most important building in the county, the place where justice was preserved and dispensed, rights were protected, disputes settled peacefully and fairly. Pete Banning himself had served on a jury as a much younger man, and had been impressed with the experience. He and his fellow jurors had followed the law and delivered a just verdict. Justice had been served, and now justice awaited him.

The extra police had cordoned off the main sidewalk of the courthouse. Beside it ran the cables carrying the current. The generator in the silver truck hummed as they walked past, though Pete did not seem to notice. Following Nix, he stepped over the cables as they turned toward the building. He was surprised at the crowd, especially at the number of soldiers, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, careful not to see someone he might know.

They slowly made their way to the courthouse and stepped inside. It was empty now, the police having locked all doors and banned the curious. Nix was determined to avoid a spectacle, and he vowed to arrest anyone found inside without permission. They climbed the main stairway and stopped at the courtroom doors. A guard opened them and they entered. Cables ran down the aisle, past the bar, and to the chair.

Old Sparky sat ominously next to the jury box, facing the rows of empty benches where the spectators normally sat. But there were no spectators, only a handful of witnesses. Pete had approved none. There was no one from the family of Dexter Bell. Nix had banned all photographers, much to the dismay of Jimmy Thompson, who was eagerly waiting at the switchboard next to his beloved chair. Tables had been moved and a row of seats near the bench had been arranged for the witnesses. Miles Truitt, the prosecutor, sat next to Judge Rafe Oswalt. Next to him was Governor Wright, who had never seen an execution and had decided to stay in town for this one. He felt it was his duty to witness a capital punishment since his people were so passionately in favor of it. Beside the governor were four reporters, handpicked by Nix Gridley, and including Hardy Capley of the Memphis Press-Scimitar.

John Wilbanks was absent because he chose to be. Pete would have approved him as a witness, but John wanted no part of the proceedings. The case was over and he was hopeful the Banning mess was behind him. He doubted it, though, and strongly anticipated more legal fallout from the murder. At the moment, he and Russell were sitting on their office balcony watching the crowd and the courthouse and sipping bourbon.

Inside, Pete was led to a wooden chair next to Old Sparky and took a seat. Jimmy Thompson said, “Mr. Banning, this is the part of my job that I dislike.”

Nix said, “Why don’t you just shut up and do what you have to do?” Nix was fed up with Thompson and his theatrics.

Nothing else was said as Thompson took a set of surplus army clippers and cut Pete’s hair as close to the scalp as possible. The dark brown and gray clippings fell in bunches onto his shirt and arms and Thompson deftly brushed them to the floor. He rolled up the khakis on Pete’s left leg and skinned his calf. As he quickly went about his business the only sound in the courtroom was the buzzing of the clippers. None of the men watching had ever been near an execution and knew almost nothing about the procedures. Thompson, though, was a pro and went about his duties with efficiency. When he turned off the clippers he nodded at Old Sparky and said, “Please have a seat.”

Pete took two steps and lowered himself into the clunky wooden throne. Thompson secured his wrists with heavy leather straps, then did the same at his waist and ankles. From a bucket, he took two wet sponges and stuck them to his calves, then secured them with a bulky strap holding an electrode. The sponges were necessary to aid the rapid flow of electricity.

Pete closed his eyes and began breathing heavily.

Thompson placed four wet sponges on Pete’s head. Water dripped and ran down his face and Thompson apologized for this. Pete did not respond. The headpiece was a metal contraption, not unlike a football helmet, and when Thompson adjusted it into place, Pete grimaced, his only negative reaction so far. When the sponges were set under the headpiece, Thompson tightened it. He attached wires and fiddled with straps and seemed to be taking too much time. However, since neither Nix nor anyone else knew anything about the protocol, they waited and watched in silence. The humid courtroom grew even stickier and everyone was sweating. Because of the heat, someone had partially opened four of the tall windows on each side, and, unfortunately, someone had forgotten to close them.

Thompson felt the pressure of such a high-profile job. Most of his victims were poor black criminals, and few people cared if their executions had a flaw or two. Not a single one had ever walked away. But the execution of a prominent white man was unheard of, and Thompson was determined to pull off a clean killing, one that would not be criticized.

He picked up a black shroud and asked Pete, “Would you like a blindfold?”

“No.”

“Very well.” Thompson nodded at Judge Oswalt, who stood and took a few steps toward the condemned. Holding a sheet of paper, he cleared his nervous throat and said, “Mr. Banning, I am required by law to read your death warrant. ‘By order of the circuit court of the Twenty-Second Judicial District for the State of Mississippi, and after having been found guilty of first-degree murder and sentenced to death by electrocution, said verdict having been affirmed by the supreme court of this state, I, Judge Rafe Oswalt, do hereby order the immediate execution of the defendant, Mr. Pete Banning.’ May God have mercy on your soul.” The paper was shaking as he read it without looking at Pete, and he sat down as quickly as possible.

From the darkened balcony, three colored men watched the show in disbelief. Ernie Dowdle, who worked the courthouse basement, and Penrod, its custodian, and Hop Purdue, the church’s janitor, all lay flat on their stomachs and peeked through the railing. They were too frightened to breathe because if they were seen Nix would almost certainly throw them in jail for years to come.

Thompson nodded at Nix Gridley, who stepped nearer the chair and asked, “Pete, do you have anything you want to say?”

“No.”

Nix backed away and stood near the witnesses with Roy Lester and Red Arnett. The county coroner stood behind them. Jimmy Thompson stepped to his switchboard, studied it for a second, and asked Nix, “Is there any reason this execution should not go forward?”

Nix shook his head and said, “None.”

Thompson turned a dial. The generator out in the silver truck whined louder as its gasoline engine increased the current. Those standing near it realized what was happening and backed away. The hot current shot through the cables and arrived in seconds at Old Sparky. A five-inch metal switch with a red plastic cover protruded from the switchboard. Jimmy took it and slammed it down. Two thousand volts of current hit Pete and every muscle in his body contracted and shot up and forward and he tore against the bindings. He screamed, a loud, mighty roar of unmitigated pain and agony that shocked the witnesses. The scream shrieked around the courtroom and continued for seconds as his body gyrated with a sickening fury. The scream escaped the courtroom through the open windows and reverberated through the night.

Later, those standing near the silver truck and its generator, on the south side of the courthouse near its front, would claim that they did not hear the scream, but those standing on the east and west ends, and especially those near the rear, heard it and would never forget it. John Wilbanks heard it as clear as thunder and said, “Oh my God.” He stood and took a step closer and looked at the frightened faces of those nearest the courtroom. The scream lasted for seconds, but for many it would last forever.

The first jolt was supposed to stop his heart and render him unconscious, but there was no way to know. Pete convulsed violently for about ten seconds, though time was impossible to measure. When Thompson pulled the switch and cut the current, Pete’s head slumped to his right and he was still. Then he twitched. Thompson waited for thirty seconds, as always, and lowered the switch for the second dose. Pete jerked as the current hit again, but his body resisted less and was clearly shutting down. During the second jolt, the temperature inside his body hit two hundred degrees Fahrenheit and his organs began to melt. Blood rushed from his eye sockets.

Thompson cut the current and instructed the coroner to see if Pete was dead. The coroner didn’t move, but instead stood with his mouth open and stared at the ghoulish face of Pete Banning. Nix Gridley finally managed to look away and felt nauseated. Miles Truitt, who six months earlier had stood in the exact spot where Old Sparky now sat and begged the jury for the death penalty, had now witnessed his first execution and would never be the same. Nor would the governor. For political reasons he would continue to support the death penalty while silently wishing it would go away, at least for white defendants.

In the balcony, Hop Purdue closed his eyes and began crying. As the star witness, he had testified against Mista Banning and felt responsible.

After the initial shock, the reporters recovered and began scribbling with a fury.

“Please, sir, if you don’t mind,” Thompson said with irritation as he motioned for the coroner, who was finally able to move. Holding a stethoscope he’d borrowed from a doctor, a fine physician who had flatly refused to get near the execution, he stepped to the body and checked Pete’s heart. Blood and other fluids were pouring from his eye sockets and his white cotton shirt was rapidly changing colors. The coroner was not certain if he heard anything or if he actually used the stethoscope correctly because at that moment he wanted Pete dead. He had seen enough. And, if Pete wasn’t dead, then he would be very soon. So the coroner backed away and said, “There is no heartbeat. This man is dead.”

Thompson was relieved that the execution had gone so smoothly. Other than the excruciating scream that seemed to rattle the windows, and perhaps the melting eyeballs, there was nothing he had not seen before. Pete’s was his thirty-eighth execution, and the reality was that no two were the same. Thompson thought he had seen it all, from charred skin to bones broken as the bodies flailed, but there was always a new wrinkle. All in all, though, this was a good night for the State. He quickly unlatched the headpiece, removed it, and placed the shroud over Pete’s face to hide some of the gore. He began unplugging wires and releasing bindings. As he went about his work, Miles Truitt excused himself, as did the governor. The reporters, though, remained transfixed as they tried to record every detail.

Nix pulled Roy Lester aside and said, “Look, I’m gonna finish up here and get the body to the funeral home. I promised Florry we’d let her know when it’s over. She’s at her place, that pink cottage, with the kids, and I want you to ride out there and deliver the news.”

Roy’s eyes were moist and he was obviously rattled. He managed to say, “Sure, Boss.”

For over a hundred years, the Bannings had buried their dead in a family cemetery on the side of a rolling hill not far from the pink cottage. The simple tombstones were arranged neatly under the limbs of an ancient sycamore, a stately old tree that had been around as long as the Bannings. Long before Pete was born, the name Old Sycamore was given to the cemetery and became part of the family vernacular. A dead relative wasn’t always dead. He or she had simply gone “home” to Old Sycamore.

At precisely 8:00 a.m. on Friday, July 11, a small crowd gathered at Old Sycamore and watched as a simple wooden casket was lowered by ropes into the grave. Four of the Bannings’ field hands had dug the grave the day before, and now they managed the casket. The tombstone was already in place, complete with the name and dates: Peter Joshua Banning III Born May 2, 1903, Died July 10, 1947. Inscribed at the bottom were the words “God’s Faithful Soldier.”

Fifteen white people stood around the grave in their Sunday best. The burial was by invitation only, and Pete had made the list, along with detailed instructions as to starting time, scripture verses, and the construction of the casket. The guests included Nix Gridley, John Wilbanks and his wife, some other friends, and of course Florry, Stella, and Joel. Behind them were Nineva, Amos, and Marietta, the domestic help. Behind them and farther away were about forty Negroes of various ages, all Banning dependents, all dressed in the best clothing they owned. While the white folks at first tried to remain stoic and unemotional, the Negroes made no such efforts. They were crying as soon as they saw the casket being pulled from the hearse. Mista Pete was their boss and a good and decent man, and they couldn’t believe he was gone.

In the 1940s, in rural Mississippi, the fate of a black family depended upon the goodness or evil of the white man who owned the land, and the Bannings had always been protective and fair. The Negroes could not grasp the logic of the white man’s law. Why would they kill one of their own? It made no sense.

Nineva, who had assisted the doctor in birthing Pete forty-four years earlier, was overcome and could barely stand. Amos clutched and consoled her.

The minister was a young Presbyterian divinity student from Tupelo, the friend of a friend with almost no connections to Ford County. How Pete found him they would never know. He offered an opening prayer, and was quite eloquent. By the time he finished, Stella was once again in tears. She stood between her aunt and her brother, both with arms over her shoulders for support. After the prayer, the minister read Psalm 23, then talked briefly about the life of Pete Banning. He did not dwell on the war but said only that Pete was decorated. He said nothing about the murder conviction and its aftermath but talked for ten minutes about grace, forgiveness, justice, and a few other concepts that he couldn’t quite link with the facts at hand. When he finished, he said another prayer. Marietta stepped closer to the tombstone and sang a cappella the first two stanzas of “Amazing Grace.” She had a beautiful voice and often sang along with the opera albums in the pink cottage.

When the minister said the service was over, the mourners slowly backed away to allow the gravediggers room to shovel in the dirt. The three Bannings had no desire to watch the grave filled. They spoke to a few of the friends as they headed for the car.

Nix Gridley stopped Joel and explained that many of the soldiers were still in town and wanted to stop by the grave and pay their respects. Joel discussed it with Florry and they agreed that Pete would approve.

An hour later they began arriving, and they came throughout the day. They came alone, solitary figures with lots of memories. They came in small groups and spoke to each other in whispers. They came quietly, somberly, proudly. They touched the tombstone, studied the freshly piled dirt, said their prayers or whatever they wanted to say, and they left with great sadness for a man few of them had ever met.