No Defense (26 page)

“We’ve got character witnesses. That’s about
it. But who knows?” Chip said. “Maybe you’ll change your mind,
Newell. Maybe when the time comes you’ll take the stand and let us
all in on whatever it is you aren’t telling.”

“Don’t count on it,” my father said.

Not long after I took my seat in Courtroom G
that first day, Bobby Lee McNabb entered through a door in the back
of the courtroom wearing his judge’s robe.

The bailiff, John Barrett, called the
courtroom to order: “All rise for the Honorable Judge McNabb.”

Because I’d known Bobby Lee McNabb all my
life, I had trouble thinking of him as “The Honorable” anything. I
knew him when he was bald. I watched his slow transformation when
he got hair transplants. I knew his daughter, Miriam, the class
slut when we were in junior high school; she was plagued by an even
larger beak nose than her father’s. I knew Bobby Lee went to AA
meetings in Cullman. I knew his olive skin was darker than usual on
the day the trial began because he had been to a conference in
Bermuda a week earlier. I knew all that, and more, but the
information didn’t give me a clue as to what Bobby Lee McNabb’s
verdict would be.

In contrast to his style at the arraignment,
Judge McNabb called Junior “Mr. Fuller” and Chip “Mr. Tuckahoe”
once the trial began. After several negative press comments about
the familiarity of all the parties at that first court session,
Judge McNabb met in his chambers with Junior and Chip and told them
that he would conduct the trial with a little more formality. There
would be no first names used-and, he added as they were leaving, he
didn’t want to hear any lawyer or witness using the word
“nigger.”

After a few preliminaries, Judge McNabb
asked that Junior call the prosecution witnesses together to be
sworn.

The witnesses for the State came forward. My
sister, Jane, six months pregnant, pale, puffy, and at least fifty
pounds heavier than her prepregnancy weight, stood and joined six
men in front of Judge McNabb.

The group took the oath to tell the truth
and nothing but the truth.

“You must wait in the witness room until the
bailiff comes to get you,” Judge McNabb explained to the seven
prosecution witnesses. “You may not communicate with each other or
anyone other than the attorneys in the case regarding your
testimony until all witnesses are released. Follow Mr. Barrett, the
bailiff, to the witness room,” he directed.

The seven witnesses turned and followed John
Barrett out of the courtroom.

Junior’s first witness was the coroner, Phil
Vogel. Phil was close to retirement age, almost sixty-five. He and
my father were not friends. They weren’t really enemies either, but
they’d never gotten along. Phil was a deacon in the Southern
Baptist Church who on more than one occasion had lectured my father
about committing his life to Christ. Phil wore a large cross tie
tack, and his white hair was slicked back with Vitalis. His hands
and head shook from the Parkinson’s disease he’d had for a few
years.

“Please state your full name,” Junior said.
Junior had never been able to keep still, and he walked back and
forth in front of Phil as he questioned him, his hands clasped
behind his back most of the time. Junior’s deep voice resonated
throughout the room.

“Philip Cable Vogel.”

“Your address?”

“Box 67, Route 9, Tallagumsa.”

“What is your line of work?”

“I’m the county coroner,” Vogel said.

“How long have you held that position?”

“Sixteen years,” Vogel answered. “Before
that I was the deputy coroner for twenty years.”

“What are your responsibilities as county
coroner?”

“I am required to ascertain the cause of
death for anyone who dies in this county.” As he talked he rubbed
his thumb and forefinger together over and over. I had trouble
taking my eyes off his hands.

“How do you determine cause of death?”
Junior asked.

“Depends on the circumstances.”

“Well, Mr. Vogel, let’s say I was walking
down the road and I came upon a dead body somewhere in the county.
After I let you know, what would you do in such a case? What would
be your routine?”

“I would go to the scene and try to figure
out the cause of death, like I said. I’d look at the bodies, take
pictures, study the area. If I can’t tell by just looking, then Dr.
Stuart would do an external exam or if necessary an autopsy and
report his findings in writing to me.”

“What would happen next?”

“I’d take statements from any witnesses, and
if it looks like the cause of death was some unlawful means or
other I’d summon a panel of six jurors and they’d look into the
cause of death.”

“And that’s called?”

“An inquest.”

“How does the jury proceed with an
inquest?”

“They subpoena witnesses, take testimony,
and decide whether or not the victim died naturally. If not, they
render a verdict on who they think killed him and how. Then I can
issue an arrest warrant for that person.”

“Were you coroner on August 27, 1963?”
Junior asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you have occasion to investigate two
deaths that night?”

“Yes.”

“How did you learn of the deaths?”

“The sheriff”

“Who was the sheriff then?”

“Mayor Hagerdorn.”

“The defendant?” Junior asked.

“Yes,” Vogel answered. “He called me at home
and told me I better get out there, about six miles after the
turn-off onto Old Highway 49, and take a look.”

“Did you go?”

“Yes. I drove over there. A car was all
smashed up against a pine tree. One of the dead boys was in the
car, slumped over the steering wheel. The other was on the ground,
about twenty yards away, sprawled on his stomach.”

“What were the names of the dead men?”

“Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson.”

“Could you ascertain from looking at them
what the causes of death were?”

“Yep. From looking and because the sheriff
showed me some of the shells he’d found around the car. Shotgun.
Blew off Leon Johnson’s face. Jimmy Turnbow left the car alive. He
got shot and died right where I found him.” Vogel shook his hand
very hard, as if it had fallen asleep. The finger rubbing
abated.

“How do you know that Jimmy Turnbow wasn’t
shot in the car and
then
died where you found him?” Junior
asked.

“No blood in the car other than Johnson’s,
the one driving, and none trailing from the car to where Mr.
Turnbow was found lying on the ground. There would have been some
if he’d got shot in the car, there would have been some on the
ground too. There was plenty where we found him.”

A soft moan, then crying came from the other
side of the courtroom.

“Who else was at the scene, Mr. Vogel?”
Junior asked.

“The sheriff, three deputies, an ambulance,”
Phil Vogel answered.

“What were the names of the deputies?”

“Bev Carter, the sheriff now, he was one of
them. I don’t remember who the other two were.”

“What were they doing?”

“The deputies and the sheriff were walking
around, looking all over the ground and in the car for evidence,
and the ambulance was waiting for me to take a look so they could
take the bodies away.”

“Did you form an opinion as to whether Mr.
Turnbow and Mr. Johnson met their deaths as a result of unlawful
means?”

“Yes. They did.”

“Did you take any statements in connection
with your investigation?”

“No.”

“Did you issue a report?”

“No.”

“Did you ever convene a jury?”

“No.”

“Did you arrest anyone for the crime?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you say those were things you would
normally do in the course of your duties as county coroner if you
believed a death was by unlawful means?”

“Yes.”

“Why weren’t they done in this case, Mr.
Vogel?”

“The sheriff told me not to worry with
it.”

“Sheriff Hagerdorn?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, just said I shouldn’t bother with
it.”

“What did you do?”

“Just what he said.”

“Which was?”

“Nothing. I didn’t pursue it.”

“No further questions.”

Junior sat down, and Chip Tuckahoe stood up
to cross-examine for the defense.

“Just a few questions, Mr. Vogel,” Chip
said. He stood next to the attorney’s table, occasionally glancing
down at a yellow pad on which he’d made some notes.

“When did Mayor Hagerdorn, then sheriff,
tell you not to pursue an inquiry into the deaths of Turnbow and
Johnson?” Chip asked.

“A few days after they died-maybe a week,”
Vogel answered.

“Where were you when he talked with you
about it?”

“At the home of Dean Reese.”

“Why were you there?”

“Reese was dead. I was doing my job.”

“Busy week,” someone snickered behind
me.

“Could you tell us the circumstances of that
death?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Junior said.
“Newell Hagerdom isn’t being tried for the death of Dean
Reese.”

“But Dean Reese’s life and death are a
critical part of this case, Your Honor,” Chip argued. “Mr. Fuller
can’t introduce bits and pieces of evidence concerning Mr. Reese
and restrict my development of those same areas.”

“I don’t believe I’ve mentioned Mr. Reese,”
Junior said.

“Fine,” Chip said, slapping his palm with
one of his sharp yellow pencils. “If the State will agree not to
mention Mr. Reese during the remainder of this trial, I’ll be glad
to end this cross-examination now.”

“I withdraw my objection,” Junior said.

“Mr. Vogel,” Chip continued, “you were
saying that Mayor Hagerdom told you that you needn’t worry about
the case anymore while you and he were at Dean Reese’s home after
Reese died. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“What was the date of Reese’s death?”

“It was September 6, 1963.”

“Did the sheriff call you to come to the
Reese home?”

“No, I called him. The deputy, Bev Carter,
had called me up, and after I got there I called the sheriff and
reported Reese’s death to him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That it looked like Dean Reese had stuck a
gun in his mouth and shot out the back of his head. The gun was
right next to him. We checked it out. His gun, his prints.
Fortunately, he did it in the garage, not the house.”

“Fortunately for his wife,” someone behind
me whispered.

“When the sheriff got there, what did he
do?” Chip asked.

“He looked at the body, went in the house
for a while, came out, and told me not to worry about the
Johnson-Turnbow case anymore.”

“What had you done up to that time on the
Johnson-Turnbow case?”

“Not much.”

“What exactly had you done at the time of
Dean Reese’s death?”

“Nothing, exactly.” Vogel began rubbing his
thumb with his forefinger again.

“You must have had plans for an
investigation?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“What were they?”

“I can’t remember. That was a long time
ago.”

“At the time of Reese’s death, did the
sheriff know you hadn’t begun work on the Turnbow-Johnson
case?”

“I never told him, so I guess not. Only a
week or so had passed; there was no big rush.”

“When were you going to start your
investigation of the Turnbow-Johnson case?”

“I don’t know. A few days.”

“Didn’t you think it would have been a waste
of time? Isn’t that why nothing had been done?” Chip asked. “Didn’t
you say on more than one occasion that you weren’t going to have an
inquest?”

“Well, it’s true. Nobody was going to get in
trouble for shooting two Negroes. Why bother with an inquest?”

From across the aisle came a loud
hissing.

Judge McNabb banged his gavel twice. “Next
time I hear that or anything like it from the spectators, the
perpetrator will be escorted out of my courtroom.”

“They don’t know what ‘perpetrator’ means on
the other side of the aisle,” someone near me said.

Judge McNabb hit his gavel again.

Mr. Vogel looked• out toward the commotion.
His head shook slightly. “It’s a fact,” he continued. “Those were
different times. Nobody got in trouble for killing niggers-excuse
me, Negroes-especially in a situation like that, where they were
aiming to integrate the university. That’s just how it was.”

“Before the day you went to Dean Reese’s
house, that day he shot himself, hadn’t Sheriff Hagerdom talked to
you about the importance of your investigation on at least two
occasions?” Chip asked Vogel.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t he urge you to get going, to move on
it, to act?”

“Yes, he did.”

“But you ignored what he said, didn’t
you?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions,” Chip said.

“Redirect?” Judge McNabb asked Junior.

“No, Your Honor,” Junior said.

I was proud of Chip. What I’d thought during
Junior’s direct exam of Phil Vogel would be devastating for my
father turned out to be not so bad after all.

Maybe our luck was finally changing.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN