No Defense (33 page)

“No.”

“Miss Kenney,” Junior asked, “were you once
married?”

“Yes, I was.”

“What was your married name?”

“Reese. Everybody back then knew me as Liz
Reese.”

“Your husband was Dean Reese?”

“Yes.”

“How long were you married?”

“Two years.”

“Until he died?”

“That’s right.”

“What is your occupation?”

“I am president and CEO of Miss Reese’s
Pies. My company bakes pies, cakes, and cookies and sells them
internationally.”

“Do you know the defendant?” Junior
asked.

“Yes.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Since January of 1963.” With the exception
of occasional glances at Junior or the judge by Liz Reese (I
couldn’t think of her as Miss Kenney), she and my father stared at
each other as she answered Junior’s questions.

“Please describe your relationship.”

She took a deep breath and smiled slightly.
“We were lovers. I was very young and we were in love. You know how
it is when you’re young? You think no one ever felt the way you
feel, that you’ll die without each other. Well, that’s how we
were.”

Like Eddie and I used to be, I thought. “How
old were you at the time?”

“I was twenty-two.”

“Do you have any children?”

“One, Camille.”

“How old is Camille now?”

“Sixteen.”

“Was your marriage to Dean Reese a happy
one?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“My husband was a drunk, a hateful, mean
man. He was violent. I despised him.”

“And yet you married him?”

“He hadn’t seemed what he turned out to be
when we first met. After the first few months of marriage, though,
I wanted out.”

“Why didn’t you leave?”

“I got pregnant and I didn’t know what else
to do or where to go.” She shrugged. “My parents were dead, and my
brother lived in Alaska. When Dean moved from Mississippi to
Tallagumsa, the baby and I came along.”

“Did he ever hit you?”

“Many times.”

“When did that begin?”

“A few months after we married. He’d drink,
accuse me of things I hadn’t done, and hit me.”

“Where were you on the evening of August 27,
1963?”

“At the house we rented in Tallagumsa, 209
Third Avenue.”

“Was Dean Reese with you?”

“Yes, but he left about seven. He told me
he’d be off working all night. I didn’t even know where he said he
was going. He had a lot of odd jobs, and by then I didn’t listen to
him anymore. When he left I called Newell, and Newell came
over.”

“Do you know what car Mayor Hagerdorn drove
to your house?”

“His sheriff’s car. He always drove it
everywhere.”

“What happened after he got there?”

“We checked on Camille. She was asleep, then
we went into the bedroom, and I was closing the curtains when I
heard a loud noise outside. I looked out. Dean had just closed the
hood of Newell’s car. He drove the squad car away. There wasn’t
anything we could do. We watched and waited and eventually Dean
came driving up with the car, parked it right back where it had
been, and got in his own car and drove away. He had something in
his hands, but I couldn’t tell what.”

“Why didn’t you report the car stolen?”

“It was a rather awkward situation. We
thought we should wait and see what happened. The car came back in
one piece, so we figured no harm was done. He was just harassing me
and Newell a little.”

“When did you learn that Jimmy Turnbow and
Leon Johnson had been murdered?”

“Later that night. Newell called me and told
me about the boys’ murders. Then the next day I heard Dean talking
on the phone to someone about it.”

“Describe that conversation, please.”

“He told someone over the phone that he knew
who’d killed Turnbow and Johnson, that he’d been there when it
happened, and he wanted to meet with whoever it was on the phone.
He left the house, and I called Newell and told him that Dean was
up to something. He said I should keep an eye on him. Dean came
back that afternoon, drunk, and finally passed out. I went to his
car and looked all over to see if I could find what he’d put in it.
There was a shotgun in the trunk that wasn’t his. He had plenty of
guns, but none of them were as nice as the one in the trunk. The
next chance I got I called Newell and told him about it. He told me
to try to get the gun from Dean’s car, that it was his, but the
next time I looked the gun was gone. So we waited for whatever
happened next.”

“What did happen?” Junior asked.

“First, Bev Carter told Newell that the FBI
agents had the gun and wouldn’t give it back. Then the FBI agents
went to Newell’s house, I guess it was a week later, and basically
accused him of murder. That’s when we figured out what Dean was up
to. It was the most ridiculous thing. We both laughed at first
because Dean was so pathetic, and we couldn’t imagine that anyone,
especially the FBI, would actually believe a word he said. The idea
was absurd. Then we realized that if the gun had been used that
night, as one of the agents told Newell, it meant Dean had killed
the boys and it wasn’t funny at all. It was terrible. He’d been a
mean man and a drunk, but I didn’t think he was capable of
cold-blooded murder.” Liz Reese shook her head sadly. “I was so
ashamed to even know him.”

“Did you talk to your husband about your
fears?”

“Yes. Newell didn’t want me to say anything
to Dean, but I couldn’t stand it. I confronted him. First, though,
I took Camille to our neighbors so Dean couldn’t hurt her. He never
had, but I was worried now that I suspected him of murder. I told
him I knew what he was doing, trying to blame Newell for a crime
he’d committed, and he wouldn’t get away with it. I told him I
hated him more than ever.”

“What did Dean Reese do?”

“He accused me of being in love with a
murderer, and asked what I would do when my boyfriend went to jail.
Who would take care of me and the baby? Dean told me he worked for
the FBI and had for a year, and they respected him. He kept saying
that I was in love with a murderer and soon everyone would know my
lover was a murderer.”

For the first time in the course of her
testimony she began to grow agitated. Her words came faster, and
the sure look I’d been so impressed with when she came into the
courtroom was replaced by one of fear. She pressed herself toward
the back of the stand, as if backing off from something. My father
closed his eyes as Liz Reese continued to talk.

“Then Dean punched me in the face. I didn’t
even care what he did anymore. When I told him he couldn’t hurt me,
he knocked me across the room into the dining-room wall, I guess to
prove me wrong. The wall was a horrible green. I remember it so
well because I hated the color from the day we moved in. And there
I was, thrown up against that disgusting wall. I sort of slid down
it, and he kicked me. When I see that color today you know, some
government offices use it, it must be very cheap-I get sick to my
stomach.” She forced a smile.

“Were you hurt?” Junior asked.

“My eye swelled shut and was black, my nose
was bleeding terribly. The next day I had bruises everywhere.”

“Did you try to leave the house?”

“First I ran into the bedroom and got my
suitcase from the closet. I don’t know why I didn’t just leave. I
think I must have wanted him to understand that it was over, that I
really was leaving him at last. He got madder and madder, but I
couldn’t stand it anymore. I didn’t care if he killed me. I really
didn’t care. Dean screamed and yelled and told me he and I would
die together before I’d be with Newell. I told Dean that I knew he
had killed those poor boys, that I saw him with Newell’s car and
his gun, and I wouldn’t let him do that to Newell. It was too late,
Dean claimed that he’d already told the FBI the whole story and it
was on tape. He said they believed him.” She frowned. “I couldn’t
imagine anyone would believe anything he said, but here we are
after all these years for that very reason.”

“What happened next?” Junior asked.

“Then he threw me down on the bed and tried
to kiss me. I kneed him hard and ran into the kitchen, where I got
a butcher knife.” She spoke so quickly that the words began to run
together. “I told him-”

“Could you please talk a bit slower, Miss
Kenney?” Judge McNabb asked.

“Sorry,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I
told him that if he tried to touch me again, ever, I’d kill him,
that he disgusted me, that I hated him, and that I would make sure
no one believed anything he said. I told him he wouldn’t see me or
Camille ever again.”

“What did he do?”

“What he always did after he hit me. He
started crying and apologizing about how he didn’t mean to hurt me,
how he loved me and would do anything for me. But I told him that I
was getting a divorce, and I left. I ran over to Norma’s, my friend
down the street who had Camille.”

“Did you see Dean Reese again?”

“No. When I came back the next day he was
dead. Newell came over and we talked about what to do. Finally we
decided not to talk about the murders at all, ever, not to tell
anyone about what we knew, that the truth wouldn’t help anyone.
Justice had been done. Besides, we didn’t really trust the FBI.
After all, they’d paid a crazy person all that time and they’d
believed him too. Without the FBI behind him, he wouldn’t have had
the nerve to murder those boys.”

“How long did you stay in Tallagumsa?”

“I left town the next week. It was hard to
leave Newell, but I couldn’t stay. He couldn’t leave. We’ve kept in
touch over the years, but never so much as mentioned the murders. I
thought I’d heard the last of it until Newell called a few months
ago and told me some reporter was digging into it. We discussed
what we should do and concluded it made sense to do the same thing
we’d done before--that is, say and do nothing.”

“Why?”Junior asked.

“We worried about the consequences to my
daughter. She never knew anything about her father. I didn’t want
her to get to know him this way. Over the years I had painted a
very flattering picture of the father she never knew, and I thought
she would be devastated if she learned the truth. Imagine growing
up in a happy, basically average household and finding out at age
sixteen that your father was a monster. Sixteen is a very sensitive
age, especially for a girl. And Newell felt very strongly that our
past relationship was nobody’s business. I agreed. We assumed the
reporter would give up.”

“When did you change your plans?” Junior
asked.

“When Newell was indicted I offered to help,
to risk exposure, because it was obvious that the whole thing
wasn’t going away. But he said no, that the government couldn’t
prove anything, not to worry. He dug in his heels, positive he’d
never be convicted on my husband’s word.”

“Is that why you denied knowledge of any of
these events when I first contacted you in August?” Junior
asked.

“Yes.”

“Why have you come forward now?”

“Saturday you called me and told me that you
had talked with someone who planned to go to the press with the
basics of the story I just told you if I didn’t testify. So here I
am. My agreeing to come gave me time to talk to Camille and try to
explain the circumstances to her. I didn’t want her reading about
her father in the paper or hearing some distorted version of our
past, though I doubt that would have been much worse for her than
my telling her was. Still, she was better off hearing the truth out
of my mouth first and under my terms, if you know what I mean. And
after reading the news accounts of the first two days of the trial,
I wasn’t so sure that the State wasn’t successfully proving the
wrong person had committed the crime. I was upset about what was
going to happen to Newell.”

I cried softly during Liz Reese’s testimony.
My first emotion was one of relief-immense relief that the trial
was over and that my father was innocent. I never believed he had
killed Turnbow and Johnson, but until I heard Liz Reese’s testimony
there was always that unspeakable possibility, which I couldn’t
acknowledge until it was no longer a possibility, that he had done
it. On the heels of relief came a strong sense of outrage. Not at
Ben, not at Junior, but at my father. How dare he do this to our
family? And for what? To protect someone else’s family while his
own self-destructed. To keep his sordid, pathetic little affair a
secret.

Judge McNabb asked Liz Reese a few
questions, but I couldn’t concentrate. I began to shake all over.
All I could think about was how many times over the last months I’d
begged my father to tell me the truth. How many times he’d smugly
refused. The horrible things I’d said to my sister and mother. The
brush-off I’d given Eddie whenever he tried to talk to me.

What a thoughtless bastard my father really
was. All he had to do was tell me the truth that day I called him
and told him that Ben had the FBI documents. All he had to do was
tell the simple truth. Surely at that time the matter could have
been settled discreetly. And even if Ben had insisted on going
public with the whole story, at least our family would have been
spared the worst of living through this torturous nightmare my
father had so selfishly created. I hated him.

When Judge McNabb finished questioning Liz
Reese, she glided off the witness stand. She stopped at my father’s
table, leaned over and whispered something to him, lightly touched
his hand, then smiled and walked away.

Judge McNabb asked everyone to quiet down
for one more minute, dismissed the case, and thanked everyone for
being so patient. He was obviously relieved to have the case end
without having to make the hard decision himself

I stood up and walked to the front of the
courtroom, pushed open the swinging gate, and went past the bar. My
father grinned, showing about as much remorse as a little boy who’d
been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.