Murder at The Washington Tribune (19 page)

Michael Wilcox was charged in the murder of Marjorie Jones. The elected county prosecutor added rape to the initial charge, but an autopsy indicated intercourse had not taken place. Her hymen was intact. Attempted rape was a possibility, but it was decided that adding that charge would only muddle the case for murder in the first degree. A public defender was assigned to represent Michael, who'd confessed to the crime his first night in custody. His attorney came to the house shortly after being assigned and met with Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox. Joseph had been told to stay in his room, but he sneaked out and lay at the top of the stairs while they conferred downstairs.

“I'm afraid there's not a lot I can do for Michael,” the attorney said. He was an older man who attended the same church as Michael's parents. “He's confessed to the murder, and all the evidence supports that confession.”

“Do they want to kill him?” Mrs. Wilcox asked.

“Yes, ma'am. The prosecutor is calling for the death penalty.”

She closed her eyes and prayed silently.

“The crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain,” her husband said aloud, citing Isaiah's prophecy about the coming of the Messiah. “My firstborn has brought a plague to this Christian house.”

“I understand,” the attorney said, “but we have a legal problem here. I know the two of you well. You are hard-working, decent people who follow the word of the Lord and practice His moral teachings. But the law doesn't always recognize such truths. What we must do—what
I
must do—is to try and spare Michael's life. He was obviously not of his right mind when he committed this act. The young Jones woman evidently had questionable moral principles. Michael has told me of seeing her undressing in the window of her own bedroom, enticing and corrupting impressionable young men like your son.”

“A harlot!” Mr. Wilcox said with finality.

“Perhaps not that,” said the attorney, “but someone who must be, at least, partially culpable in this unfortunate incident. I know that your fine son has had many troubles in his young life, at school, in the community. His anger and aggressiveness is well known in Kankakee.”

“He's been a bad seed,” the father offered. “I pray, most merciful Father, to be forgiving of me for bringing such a soul into Your world.” He said it to the ceiling.

It became silent downstairs, and Joseph crawled to the very edge of the stairs to better hear. Finally, the attorney spoke.

“The important thing,” he said, “is to spare Michael's life.”

“But you said—” the mother said.

“I said the prosecutor is asking for the death penalty. But I believe I might be successful in pleading insanity for Michael. If so, he would be found not guilty by reason of insanity and would be remanded to a hospital for the criminally insane.”

“Insanity,” the mother wailed, and began to cry.

“He must be that,” said the father. “Only an insane person would do such a terrible thing.”

“Exactly,” the attorney agreed. “I believe that based upon Michael's past behavior, and the behavior of the young lady next door, I stand at least a decent chance of defending Michael on that basis. There's also the possibility that a plea bargain can be struck with that as the outcome. Citizens around here aren't keen on laying out thousands of dollars for trials. The prosecutor's comin' up for reelection soon. He might see the wisdom of sparing the county that expense.”

“I see,” the father said.

“Do I have your permission to pursue that course of action?”

“Michael has taken a life,” the father said. “It is written in Exodus that there shall be eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.”

“But our God is forgiving,” the mother said. “If Michael's life can be spared, it will be God's will.”

And the will of twelve jurors,
the attorney thought.

“Please,” Joseph heard his mother say. “I don't want my firstborn to die.”

After a long pause, the father said to the attorney, “I hereby give my permission.”

“I will have to discuss it with Michael,” the attorney said.

“I will tell him what to do,” said the father. “How long will he remain in the institution?”

“Until he is judged fit to rejoin society. It will be years. But I stress to you that I may not succeed in achieving a not guilty verdict, or be able to arrange a plea bargain with the prosecutor. But I assure you I will try.”

“That is all we can ask,” the mother said.

“Let us pray,” the father said.

The muffled words of prayers drifted up the stairs. Joseph returned to his room, flung himself on his bed, and sobbed, his body heaving until there were no more tears to shed.

Michael was held without bail until his trial, which commenced seven months later. Joseph asked his parents if he could join them when they visited Michael in jail, but was rebuked each time. Going to school was torture for him. Classmates taunted him about having a pervert, a sex fiend, and a killer for a brother. Marjorie Jones's mother and father shunned any contact with the Wilcox family. Two of her older brothers attacked Joseph on a few occasions, sending him home with a bloody nose and violet circles around his eyes. He never cried in school, or when suffering the brothers' pummeling, but when in the sanctity of his bedroom, he would weep so hard that nausea would result. He considered running away but could not muster the courage to do it. His parents came down hard on him to do well in school despite “the plague your brother has cast over this family,” and he did, spending many hours alone with his schoolbooks—and his dreams of one day escaping to a better, gentler life.

Michael's attorney was unsuccessful in brokering a plea deal with the prosecutor, and the murder trial of Michael Wilcox went forward. It was the talk of the county and of the state of Illinois. Each courtroom day was played out on the front pages of newspapers across the state, with a picture of Michael frequently accompanying the articles. The press accounts were the only conduit Joseph had to what was happening to his brother. His mother and father refused to discuss anything with him, or to allow him to attend the trial. Nor did his father make an appearance in the courtroom. He went to work at the mill each day, leaving visits to the courthouse to his wife, who was faithful in her attendance.

The trial lasted six days. After closing arguments, during which Michael's attorney frequently invoked God and the Bible in pleading that his client's life be saved, the jury deliberated for only four hours before announcing its verdict: Not guilty by reason of insanity.

The judge imposed sentence a week later. Michael Jeremiah Wilcox was to be confined to a state mental hospital until such time that medical authorities deemed him sufficiently cured to once again take his place in society.

During Michael's early years in the institution, Joseph frequently asked his mother to allow him to accompany her when she traveled to see his brother on visitation days. Her answer was always negative, which only fueled his speculation and fantasies about what it must be like for Michael in such a place. His father refused to visit even once, and retreated into his own inner world, going to work, returning to the house at four, and secluding himself in a corner of the living room where he read the Bible until dinner. Michael's name was never mentioned, and Joseph eventually accepted this prohibition.

Church remained an important part of the family's weekly activities, and Joseph was expected to fully involve himself. That meant attending services on Sunday mornings, a Bible class one night a week, and a youth prayer group every other Saturday. He grew to dread attending church. Not only did he find the experience boring and uninspiring, he sensed the change in attitude of the other parishioners toward him and his family. They were friendly and courteous enough, but looked at him in a way that made him uncomfortable. Once, he overheard a woman tell another, “That other Wilcox boy's the one I'd be worried about. Insanity is in the blood and genes, runs right through a family like any other disease.”

His father died during Joseph's senior year in high school, keeling over at church one Sunday morning as he passed the collection plate, a chore in which he took great pride and pleasure. The funeral was sparsely attended, some men from the mill, a few neighbors, and those members of the congregation who attended all funerals as a godly social obligation. The reverend praised the father for his love of God and love of the church. Mrs. Wilcox asked Michael's lawyer if there was any possibility that Michael might be allowed to attend, but was told that was out of the question.

Joseph graduated among the top of his class and went off to college on a partial scholarship, which supplemented a small amount of money left by his father. He'd edited his high school's small newspaper; the scholarship was based upon that and his stated intention to pursue a career in journalism. He came home on breaks during his first two years and wanted to visit Michael. But his mother forbade it, and he never pressed her to change her mind. She died during the summer between his sophomore and junior years. He sold the house, which had been left to him in her will, and never again stepped foot in that house, on that land, at the cemetery where both parents were buried, or in a church. Nor did he attempt to see Michael. As far as he was concerned Michael was dead, too, and he decided it was better that way. He forged his life as a reporter, met and married Georgia, and fathered Roberta. He'd succeeded in escaping and had freed himself from the family into which he'd been born, and vowed to never look back. He'd kept that vow for more than forty years.

Until now.

Knowing how difficult parking was in Adams Morgan, he took a taxi there, telling his turbaned driver to take him to the busy corner of Eighteenth Street and Columbia Road, the heart of this section of the city. He was glad Edith had suggested having dinner there. While Washington was no longer considered a culinary wasteland—it now had as many good restaurants as any other major city—the city's eateries tended to reflect the pretentiousness of the city itself and its political heavyweights, the food not always matching up to the promise. But Adams Morgan's eclectic array of restaurants served authentic ethnic cooking, one of the reasons tourists and native Washingtonians alike flocked to this gentrified conclave north of Dupont Circle, which had become Washington's Latin Quarter and Greenwich Village rolled into one.

The intersection was chockablock with people. Aromas from the kitchens of ethnic restaurants and sidewalk food vendors hung heavy in the air. Salsa and Afro-Cuban music poured from speakers outside nightclubs and open-air cafés, causing some on the streets to move to their rhythms. He stopped to admire an Andean band of pan-pipers playing their native music. After dropping a few dollars in a case at the feet of the band's leader, he moved down the block to where two African stiltwalkers perched precariously high atop their slender stilts, their colorful costumes and hats blowing in the breeze, wide smiles on their coal-black faces. The energy on the street was contagious and uplifting, and he forgot about his visit with Michael and what it might mean to his life. But by the time he'd navigated the crowds to the restaurant, his elevated spirit had sunk back to its previous level.

Edith Vargas-Swayze stood outside beneath the restaurant's large chrome and neon sign talking with a well-dressed black couple when Wilcox arrived. She introduced him to them, promised they'd be in touch, and the couple walked away.

“What's he do?” Wilcox asked.

“Lawyer, securities, and a good one. Or so I'm told. She owns a dress shop downtown.”

“I should have been a lawyer,” Wilcox said. “Or owned a dress shop.”

She laughed. “You'd look funny in basic black with pearls, Joe. Hungry?”

“No, but a drink would be welcome.”

“They make the best martinis in town,” she said, leading him inside. She stopped suddenly. “Hey, I caught you on TV. You were great.”

“Thanks, but being a talking head isn't my thing. I've got some more lined up. Good PR for the paper—or so I'm told.”

“Ever been here before?” she asked about the restaurant.

“Yeah. A couple of times, but not recently. It's like a throwback to the eighties.”

“I love it here, especially on Friday nights.”

“Why Friday?”

“The chef serves up matzoh-ball soup, challah bread, and brisket.”

“This place goes kosher?” he said, laughing.

“On Friday nights.”

“I thought you were Hispanic.”

“Orthodox Hispanic.”

“Oh.”

They were led to a table away from the lively bar.

“Glad we could do this,” he said. “We didn't get much of a chance to talk last time.”

“Duty called.”

After ordering drinks and a platter of crisply fried calamari to go with them, she asked how he'd felt about his TV appearance.