Everything She Ever Wanted (69 page)

They recessed for the day at 6:4S P.m. and began again on Wednesday

morning, May 4, at 9:30.
 
Pat wore a lilac-colored dress that day.
 
She

listened as Bill Hamner described the steady progression of documents

that ultimately disinherited virtually everyone but Tom and Pat.
 
The

old people had been very closemouthed about exactly what their assets

were, but Hamner knew they had been in excess of two hundred thousand

dollars at the time of the first wills.
 
No one knew what remained.

Jean Boggs's children's portion had dwindled to one-sixth, and that was

under Pat's control.

If the spectators had expected titillating revelations, they were

disappointed on the third day of trial.
 
The witnesses were dry, and

their testimony was rife with dull detail about technicalities.
 
Hamner

and his partner, Fred Reeves, went through the many, many changes and

codicils to the elderly Allansons' wills.
 
Joyce Tichenor, who had

notarized Paw's supposed confession, and her bank manager, Gus Yosue,

testified about the single time they had encountered the defendant and

her grandfather-in-law.

The evening of April 16 was not totally clear in their memories; there

was no reason for them to remember it.
 
Yosue recalled the young woman

helping the elderly man into the bank, and her insistence that he

didn't want people knowing his business.

Tichenor remembered that the top papers on the stack that she notarized

had appeared to be warranty deeds with plats, blocks, lots, and

measurements on them.
 
She remembered six or seven sheets of paper that

were "just turned up from the bottom a little way by her [Pat], and she

would say at each sheet, 'Sign here, Paw."

Tichenor had not used her seal, but had merely stamped the pages.
 
"The

date and the signature were my writing," she said.

"I did not write that 'Sworn and subscribed to before me' on there."

She had routinely jotted down the specifics of the ten minute

transaction in her log and forgotten about it-until subpoenaed as a

witness.
 
She had had no idea she had notarized a confession to double

murder.

Andy Weathers hated to do it, but it was necessary.
 
An ambulance was

sent to bring eighty-year-old Walter Allanson back to testify.
 
He

denied that he had any part in the murders of his son and

daughter-in-law.
 
He remembered the murder day of July 3, 1974, well.

He did not clearly remember signing the papers at the bank, or, rather,

he remembered that April night in mismatched segments.
 
He recalled

"signing papers for Pat," but he felt sure that he had never gone into

the bank itself never talked to no lady-just a man come out to the

car."

Jim Kelly of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation-s crime lab, chief

document examiner and handwriting expert for the state, was called to

the stand by the prosecution to explain the peculiarities in the

confession.
 
Only the last of the five pages had d, and that last page

had not been typed continuously.
 
been signed The confession was rife

with typographical and grammatical errors, although someone had gone

through it with a blue ballpoint pen, correcting some of them.
 
Kelly

pointed out that, while the date of the notary's signature on the last

page was April 16, the date typed at the beginning of the alleged

confession was April 19.

Odd.
 
And suspect.

McAllister asked only one question: "How many pages were in the

confession?"
 
The answer was "five."

Wisely, the defense attorney left it at that.

Weathers then recalled Dr. Everett Solomons of the crime lab and asked

him about the liquid found in the antique whiskey bottle.
 
"Say, right

here in front of this jury, I took normal swallows of this arsenic-are

you with me so far?"

"Yes, sir."

"What would happen?"

"I would expect you to have to be hospitalized in order to live.

"How many swallows of this would kill you-normally, how many?"

"I would expect two swallows."

Weathers was so intent that he did not see the incongruity of "normal"

swallows of arsenic.
 
Solomons was adamant that two swallows was a

lethal dose.
 
No human would live six months, or four months-orfour

minutes-if he did that.

Pat drooped like a wilted rose as the trial progressed beyond 5:00

P.m. that day.
 
During a jury recess, McAllister asked if they might

stop.

"Your Honor, at this point I would move that we recess for the day

based upon the fact that my client is suffering from certain physical

disabilities.
 
At the late hour yesterday, she suffered from

dizziness.

Double vision.
 
She has told me today she has a problem with blood

clotting.
 
I know she has problems with her heart.
 
She's been in the

hospital three times since the first of this year.
 
She is not in any

condition, in my professional opinion, to continue in this trial and to

continue to aid me.
 
It is my expectation that we will be ready to go

forward tomorrow morning.

Judge Holt peered balefully at Pat.
 
"What is the problem with your

client that at five o'clock in the afternoon she can't go on?"

McAllister was stumped.
 
He didn't know the specifics of Pat's sinking

spells.
 
"I do not know if there is anything inherent about five

o'clock or not.
 
But I do know she's unable to continue today in a

meaningful way to assist me."

Holt suppressed a snort.
 
"What do you mean she's not able to continue

in a meaninaful way?"

"Your Honor .
 
. . it's impossible for me .
 
. . to really converse

with her."

"You have been conversing with her."

McAllister referred to the physical strain on Pat, who, according to

Colonel Radcliffe, was suffering from a "severe blood clot."

Being on trial would put anyone under a physical strain, Counselor,"

Judge Holt said.
 
"We can get a doctor up here to look at her."

McAllister backed down.
 
His client had her own doctor.

Holt was not about to rein in his speedy trial.
 
He had trial

commitments the next week.
 
But not long after his decision, the state

rested its case.
 
It was near 6:00 P.m. on Wednesday, May 4.

Although he wasn't happy about it, Holt recessed for the day.

They would go longer tomorrow-unless the defendant was truly ill.

If she was, she would have to let him know.

The defendant looked surprised.
 
No one had ever doubted her frail

health before.

Dunham McAllister rose to begin the case for the defense.
 
"Your Honor,

I call Patricia Allanson to the stand."

The gallery murmured.
 
Whatever Pat's physical disabilities of the

night before, she had apparently made a miraculous recovery.
 
She wore

the emerald green sheath again.
 
She had gained weight and the cap

sleeves showed her plump short arms, the bodice tight across her full

breasts.
 
She seemed calm and selfpossessed, not at all nervous.

Her mother and stepfather looked at her with pride; Margureitte's chin

lifted and the colonel's bearing was ramrod straight and tall.
 
Only

Susan seemed nervous.

Pat answered her attorney's questions easily, giving her address in

Morrow and her former address on Tell Road.

"Have you ever lived at Walter and Nona Allanson's residence?"

"No, sir.
 
. . . Normally, I went when Mrs.
 
Allanson called me.1

"How often was that?"

"In the earlier ... period ... it was not in excess of three times a

week because of my own inability to get around.
 
After I got better,

she called me an average of about four or five times a week and asked

me to come."

Pat was prepared-even eager-to discuss her own precarious health, but

Andy Weathers objected.
 
He could see no bearing on this case.
 
Judge

Holt sustained.

McAllister moved ahead to the time of Walter Allanson's heart attack in

January of 1976.
 
Pat rolled her tongue in her mouth, wetting her lips

with its tip as she recalled her visit to his hospital room.

"He had a nurse to call the house and say that he had some very

important information he wanted to speak to me about.
 
. . . When I got

there, I went in and immediately he asked me to call for the nurse.
 
My

mother was with me .
 
. .

he told the nurse that he had gotten approval from the doctor to have a

private conversation with me, and he wanted the curtains closed and

everything.
 
. . .

That was when Paw-Mr. Allanson- I'm sorry," she said apologetically,

"I can't help but say 'Paw' because I have called him that so long."

McAllister nodded encouragingly, and Pat continued.

"He thought he was going to die, and he had something that had to be

told.

. . . He told me that Tommy-he calls my husband Tommy-he said that

Tommy did not do what he was put in jail for.
 
He said, 'I did it."
 
And

that's as far as he went because I stopped him.
 
I didn't

believe him in the first place, and in the second place, I had been

told by the doctor he didn't need anything to upset him or excite him,

and I thought that was a pretty upsetting and excitable subject-so I

didn't pursue it."