That Night at the Palace (17 page)

The problem with being a C.A. in a place like Cherokee County was dealing with these small town police departments. People like this chief had no legal education and therefore had no understanding of proper jurisprudence. A few of these hillbillies had little more than a grade school education and were hired simply because their brother-in-law happened to get elected mayor.

Proper or not, Nathaniel made a grand show of marching into the courtroom even though, besides the judge and the chief, the only people in the court were the bailiff, the clerk, and the murderer. The chief, fool that he was, was standing in front of Judge Buckner’s desk with his hand on the murderer’s arm. He didn’t even have handcuffs on the man.

“Your Honor,” Nathaniel began, “I must interrupt this proceeding. I insist that my department take over the processing of this case immediately.”

Jefferson looked over his shoulder in dismay at the County Attorney as he was rapidly approaching the bench.

“And why would that be?” Judge Buckner asked nonchalantly.

“Your Honor, surely you will agree that a case like this one cannot be handled the same way you would some drunken brawler.”

Judge Buckner looked down at the notes handed to him by the clerk moments before and then, with a smirk, asked Nathaniel, “And why not?”

“This man, allegedly, committed a major crime, your Honor. We owe it to the public to handle this case with the utmost care. I’m sure that the last thing we want is for a case of this magnitude to get overruled on some technicality.”

“Well we certainly don’t want that,” the Judge retorted. Judge Bucker had been on the bench in Cherokee County for almost fifty years. In those years he’d seen a lot of C.A.’s come and go but none as irritating as Nathaniel Cockwright. Cockwright treated the office of County Attorney as an inconvenience he was forced to endure until he got elected to the job that he seemed to think he deserved. This performance was a perfect example of what Buckner thought of as Cockwright’s incompetence. Had he bothered to step into the clerk’s office before storming into the courtroom, he would know that this was a drunk and disorderly case and not a murder. Buckner had read the same article in
The Jacksonville Statesman
as Cockwright, but unlike Cockwright, the judge finished the article. Had Cockwright done so he would know that the Texas Rangers had sent one of their best men down to investigate the murder in Elza. And if Cockwright was half the County Attorney that he thought he was, he would know that the Rangers never march into court without consulting the C.A.’s office. The reason the Rangers were so well respected was that they only presented cases that were sure to get a conviction.

“So you will agree that I need to take over this arraignment immediately.”

“This is not an arraignment, Mr. Cockwright. Mr. Stoker here has foregone his right to a jury trial, and I am about to present his sentence.”

Nathaniel’s jaw dropped. He had never imagined such a thing. Buckner was an old crotchety judge, but the C.A. never thought the man incompetent. A first year law student could get this sentence overthrown on appeal.

“Judge, you can’t tell me that you’re seriously going to handle a murder case this haphazardly.”

Judge Buckner looked up at Cockwright, fighting the temptation to laugh, and then looked at Chief Hightower. “This is a murder case, Chief? I don’t see anything about a murder in my case notes.”

Jefferson’s eyes widened. Up to that moment he was just wondering why the County Attorney was interested in Irwin Stoker getting drunk and firing a shotgun off in the Palace, but suddenly he didn’t know what to think.

“No, sir. He threatened a kid, but he was stopped before anyone was shot.”

Nathaniel had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “This isn’t the man who murdered that boy in Elza Saturday night?” He asked the chief.

“No.”

The judge held his notes up, pretending to be looking at them as he fought the urge to smile.

“You said he threatened someone. How do you know he didn’t commit that murder down there?”

“Because he was sitting in my jail sleeping off a drunk, sir,” the chief answered, still not realizing that the judge was playing with the C.A.

Nathan suddenly realized that the judge had let him make an ass of himself. He glanced at Primrose, wishing there was a way he could blame this mess on him, but there was just no escaping it.

“Your, Honor, I seem to have made a mistake. Please continue.”

The judge, feeling like he deserved an award for his acting performance looked at Stoker. “Mr. Stoker, I sentence you to six weeks on the farm. If you’re back in my court again because you fired a gun while drunk, you’ll be there for a year. Is that understood?”

Jefferson nudged Stoker to answer.

“Ah, yes, sir.”

“Bailiff.”

The bailiff put handcuffs on Stoker and led him away.

The judge slammed his gavel. “Court adjourned.”

Cockwright stood there humiliated as Judge Buckner rose, glared at him, and walked out of the room.

County Attorney Nathaniel Cockwright was fuming when the judge left, but he still had business to do. His office had a career-changing murder to prosecute, and this dimwitted police chief had his ticket to the Governor’s mansion sitting in his jail.

“Chief,” he said while trying to control the anger that he now was directing at Jefferson, “tell me about this murder investigation. I understand you’ve made an arrest. Why haven’t you contacted my office?”

Jefferson was dumbfounded, wondering just how the C.A. knew that they had picked up Jesse and asked, “How do you know we made an arrest?”

“That’s not the point! Why haven’t you contacted my office?”

Primrose stepped back. He felt for the police chief. He’d been on the receiving end of more than one of Nathaniel Cockwright’s tirades and could see a world-class example on the way. Primrose was less than two years out of law school and knew almost nothing about being a C.A., but he felt sure that he knew more than Cockwright. This was no way to talk to a police chief, especially one with a major crime on his hands. If justice was the sole objective then the two departments should be working together to make sure that they presented a case that put the culprit behind bars.

“Look, Mr. Cockwright...”

“County Attorney Cockwright.”

Jefferson rolled his eyes. He’d never had any encounters with Cockwright, but he’d heard a few stories from the sheriff and other police chiefs. “We picked up someone, but we’re not finished with the investigation.”

“I’m the one who will decide when you’ve finished your investigation. As I understand it, you’re holding a young man who threatened the victim in front of witnesses only hours before the murder?”

“Well, yeah, but there’s more to it.”

“Like what?”

“Well, these kids were friends, and I’ve known them all their lives, and I don’t think this kid did it.”

“You don’t think he did it?” Cockwright began sarcastically. “Well, then, let’s go find someone you haven’t known, Chief. Why did he threaten the victim?”

“It was about a girl, but I don’t think it was a serious threat.”

“Okay, you have motive. Where was this kid when the murder took place?”

“Well, we think he was home asleep, but he’d been with Cliff, the victim, a little before the murder.”

“Good god, Chief. What are you waiting for? You have your man.”

“I brought in a Texas Ranger to help with the investigation, and we think that there’s more to this.”

“Why is everyone impressed with the damn Texas Rangers? You two are making this case harder than it needs to be. You have your man. Clearly, you and this Ranger can’t handle this, so my office is taking over.”

“Primrose,” Cockwright ordered.

Primrose rolled his eyes behind Cockwright’s back, a move not missed by Jefferson.

“Yes, sir.”

“Go tell the Sheriff that we require two of his deputies immediately to go to Elza and pick up this prisoner.”

Primrose froze; the last thing he wanted to do was speak to the sheriff. “Me, sir?”

“Yes, you. Is there anyone else named Primrose around here?”

Primrose debated with himself for a moment. Did he want to take a lashing from Cockwright or one from the sheriff? Finally he decided on the sheriff. He didn’t have to work for him every day. “Yes, sir,” he said and headed off to the sheriff’s office.

“We’ll be leaving within the hour. I want you with us.” Cockwright ordered the chief.

#

ELZA, TEXAS

November 17, 1941

Reporter David Roberson had been taking calls all morning from other papers about the murder. He’d done the same thing a dozen times over the years. In the big cities, helping a competitor is unheard of, but these papers weren’t really competitors. Some of these cities were forty to sixty miles away. This murder in Elza was front-page news on his paper because Elza was just a few miles down the road, but over in Nacogdoches or Palestine or Henderson, this was page-three stuff. The same was true when something of interest happened over in their cities. He could make a few phone calls and basically repeat the other guy’s story, giving him a contributor credit.

After his little conversation with the County Attorney, Roberson found himself in a bit of a pickle. On one side, he had a Texas Ranger who threatened him. On the other he had a C.A. who did exactly the same thing.

Then, while talking to a reporter from down in Crockett, a thought came to Roberson’s head.

There’s safety in numbers.

So, Roberson happened to casually mention that the murder was considerably more vicious than he’d previously thought. Apparently, Roberson explained, the killer had fed the poor kid alive to an alligator. Also, there had been an arrest, and the C.A. himself was headed down to Elza to pick up this brutal killer. It was probably the part about the alligator that had gotten the ball rolling.

He made six calls in fifteen minutes. Anyone who could be in Elza by ten got the word.

Sure enough, Roberson wasn’t able to park anywhere near the Elza Police station. There were reporters around that he hadn’t even called. There was even a guy from Natchitoches, Louisiana. He must have broken a land speed record getting to Elza. Roberson arrived as late as he possibly could. The last thing he wanted to do was run into Brewster McKinney. The way he saw it, he could just stay in the background and let the other reporters do the work.

The little town was alive. All the good old boys were out to see what was going on. They weren’t used to so many strangers all at once. Roberson could see many of his various competitors interviewing the locals. Everyone wanted to get the facts on this killing. What kind of person would feed a dying man to animals?

Roberson suddenly had a sinking feeling. That would be the headline on some of these papers tomorrow. From what he could tell, the kid in jail was not a bad kid and may not have done it, but when the evening papers came out, thanks partly to Roberson, this young man’s picture would be on every front page as the monster who fed his friend to an alligator. Roberson knew that he was partly to blame. But, it was this C.A. who pushed him into it. The fact was that the C.A. would hang this kid regardless. It didn’t matter if there was a real killer out there walking free. This story was big enough to hit wires and would probably be all over the state by the evening editions, which, of course was exactly what Cockwright wanted.

The reporter had grown to hate politicians like Cockwright. Those types insisted on nothing short of total integrity from the press but would lie right to your face and demand that it be printed without challenge. It was an end-justifies-the-means world to those people. Politicians like Cockwright seemed to think that their personal agenda was all that mattered. Cockwright probably hadn’t even given a thought to guilt or innocence.

Roberson was stewing on that thought as a small caravan of cars turned off the highway onto Main Street. The lead car was a county sheriff’s Ford, followed by two other county Fords, with the Elza Police prowler in the rear. The three county cars all stopped in a line stretching from the Police Station to midway past the movie theater. All the reporters suddenly came running. Roberson saw that a few of his fellow journalists had photographers with them, a luxury the
Statesman
couldn’t afford. Roberson was shocked to see just how many reporters had made the trip to Elza. It occurred to him that he wasn’t the only one who had made phone calls.

That arrogant priss had his staff working the phones making sure their boss got his headlines.

Then the back door of the second car opened and out stepped, smiling for the cameras, Nathaniel Cockwright.

Roberson watched with disdain as Cockwright made his grandiose performance for his colleagues and then walked to the front door of the Police Station. This was all backwards. These journalists, himself specifically, were doing the bidding of an ambitious, incompetent, and borderline corrupt politician for the sheer purpose of helping him further his political aspirations. A journalist’s job was to be the voice of the oppressed, the vanguard of the people. They should be holding politician’s feet to the fire, exposing corruption, and demanding justice for the masses. Cockwright may have won this round, but he wouldn’t win the match. This journalist would not be used, at least not by the likes of Nathaniel Cockwright. McKinney was right. That kid’s family needn’t read the details in the papers. The kid in jail may yet be innocent, but Cockwright was perfectly willing to send him to the chair to springboard himself into the Governor’s mansion.

#

Brewster McKinney was on his sixth cup of coffee. After Chief Hightower had left Brewster went upstairs two more times to question the boy. Obviously he had struck a nerve. The kid, who had shown a few signs of fear the night before, was now seriously frightened. He tried to conceal his feelings, but he showed the signs - avoiding eye contact, fidgeting, sweating. It was only a matter of time before he broke, if Brewster had a couple of days to wear him down. But he didn’t have a couple of days. The kid’s daddy would be in with some big-city lawyer, and Brewster wouldn’t have another minute with the boy.