The Boys from Biloxi: A Legal Thriller (25 page)

As the assistant district attorney, Egan Clement was assigned by her boss to investigate seven unsolved murders that occurred between 1966 and 1971. Five of them were thought to be gang-related because the victims were involved, at some level, with organized crime. Periodically, the turf battles erupted and one killing led to the inevitable payback. Fats Bowman had a deputy he considered to be his chief investigator, but he was untrained and inexperienced, primarily because the sheriff had little interest in wasting manpower trying to solve gangland killings. The reality was that the cases were cold and no one was digging.

After Jesse was sworn in, it took five months to get a look at the sheriff department’s files. For murders, they were quite thin and revealed little. He also badgered the state police for assistance, but confirmed what he had expected—Harrison County was the domain of Fats Bowman, and the State preferred to avoid it. Likewise, the FBI had not been involved. The murders, as well as the plethora of other criminal activity, involved state statutes, not federal.

Egan was particularly bothered by the murder of Dusty Cromwell. His death was no great loss to society, but the manner in which it happened was galling. He had been gunned down on a public beach, on a warm, sunny afternoon, less than a mile from the Biloxi lighthouse. At least a dozen witnesses heard the crack from the rifle shot, though no one saw the gunman. A family—mother, father, and two children—were within forty feet of Dusty when half his head was blown off, and they saw the carnage as his girlfriend screamed for help.

The sheriff department’s file had plenty of gory photographs, along with an autopsy report that concluded with the obvious. Witnesses gave statements in which they recounted what they saw, which was little more than a man killed instantly by a single bullet to the head. A brief bio of Cromwell gave the details of a thug with a shady past and three felony convictions. His club, Surf Club, had been torched and he had sworn revenge against Lance Malco, Ginger Redfield, and others, though the others were not named. In short, Dusty had managed to make some fearsome enemies in his short career as a mobster.

Jesse was convinced Lance Malco was behind the murder. Egan agreed, and their theory, or rather their speculation, was that Lance used Mike Savage, a known arsonist, to torch Surf Club. Cromwell retaliated by killing Savage and cutting off his ear. Cromwell then hired someone to take out Lance and the hit was almost a success. The bullet with his name on it barely missed, shattered his windshield, and peppered him and Nevin Noll with bits of glass. Convinced his life was on the line, Lance hired a contract killer to take care of Dusty.

It was an interesting story and quite plausible, but thoroughly beyond proof.

The state’s death penalty statute made contract killing a capital offense, punishable by death in the gas chamber at Parchman prison. Lance and his gang had killed several men and there was no reason to stop. They had proven to be immune from prosecution. Only Nevin Noll had been charged and arrested. His murder of Earl Fortier ten years earlier in Pascagoula had landed him in a trial, but he walked away a free man when the jury found him not guilty.

As the district attorney, it was Jesse’s sworn duty to prosecute all felonies, regardless of who committed them or how despicable the victims might have been. He wasn’t afraid of Lance Malco and his thugs, and he would indict them all when and if he had the proof. But finding it seemed impossible.

With no help from the police at any level, Jesse decided to get his hands dirty. The criminals he was after played a deadly game with no rules and no conscience. To catch a thief, he needed to hire a thief.

The runner’s name was Haley Stofer. He was driving carefully along Highway 90, obeying all the laws, when a roadblock suddenly appeared in front of him just west of Bay St. Louis. The sheriff of Hancock County had received a tip and wanted to have a chat with Stofer. In his trunk they found eighty pounds of marijuana. According to the tipster, Stofer worked for a trafficker in New Orleans and was making a run to Mobile. During his second day in the county jail, Stofer’s lawyer broke the news that he was looking at thirty years in prison.

Jesse informed the lawyer that he would push hard for the maximum sentence and there would be no plea deal. Drugs were pouring in from South America, everyone was alarmed. Harsh laws were being passed. Tough action was needed to protect society.

Stofer was twenty-seven years old, single, and couldn’t fathom the idea of spending the next three decades locked away. He had already served three years in Louisiana for stealing cars and preferred life on the outside. For a month he sat and waited in a hot jail cell for some movement in his case. The traffickers in New Orleans paid for a lawyer who did little except warn him to keep his mouth shut or else. Another month passed and he remained silent.

He was surprised one day when he was handcuffed and taken back to the small, cramped room where the lawyers came to visit. His lawyer wasn’t there but the district attorney was. They had glared at each other briefly in court during the preliminary hearing.

Jesse said, “Got a few minutes?”

“I guess. Where’s my lawyer?”

“I don’t know. Cigarette?”

“No thanks.”

Jesse lit one and seemed in no hurry. “The grand jury meets
tomorrow and you’ll be indicted for all those charges we discussed in court.”

“Yes sir.”

“You can either plead guilty or go to trial, doesn’t really matter, because you’ll get thirty years anyway.”

“Yes sir.”

“You ever met anyone who’s served time in Parchman prison?”

“Yes sir. Met a guy in Angola who served time there.”

“I’m sure he was happy to be out of there.”

“Yes sir. Said it’s the worst place in the country.”

“I can’t imagine spending thirty years there, can you?”

“Look, Mr. Rudy, if you’re thinking about offering me some kind of deal where you’ll knock off a few years if I squeal on my colleagues, then the answer is no. I don’t care where you send me, they’ll have my throat cut within two years. I know them. You don’t.”

“Not at all. I’m thinking about a different gang. And a different deal that involves no time behind bars. Zero. You walk out, never look back.”

Stofer studied his feet, then frowned at Jesse. “Okay, I’m thoroughly confused.”

“You drive through Biloxi often?”

“Yes sir. It’s been my route.”

“Ever stop at the nightclubs?”

“Sure. Cold beer, plenty of girls.”

“Well, the clubs are operated by a gang of criminals. Ever hear of the Dixie Mafia?”

“Sure. There were stories about them in prison, but I don’t know much.”

“It’s sort of a loosely organized bunch of bad boys that began settling around here twenty years ago. With time, they took over the clubs and offered booze, gambling, girls, even drugs. And they’re still very much in business. Camille blew them all away but they
came right back. Gangsters, thieves, pimps, crooks, arsonists, they even have their own hit men. Left behind a lot of dead bodies.”

“Where’s this going?”

“I want you to go to work for them.”

“Sounds like a great group.”

“As opposed to your drug traffickers?”

“With a criminal record, I have trouble finding work, Mr. Rudy. I’ve tried.”

“That’s no excuse for running drugs.”

“I’m not making excuses. Why would I want to work for these boys?”

“To avoid thirty years in prison. You really have no choice.”

Stofer ran his fingers through his thick, shoulder-length hair. “Can I have that cigarette?”

Jesse handed him one and lit it.

Stofer said, “Seems like my lawyer should be in on this.”

“Fire your lawyer. I can’t trust him. Nobody knows about this deal, Stofer. Only the two of us. Get rid of your lawyer or he’ll just screw things up.”

Blue smoke boiled from both nostrils as the defendant emptied his lungs. He blew the remnants and said, “I really don’t like him either.”

“He’s a crook.”

“I gotta think about this, Mr. Rudy. It’s pretty overwhelming.”

“You got twenty-four hours. I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll read the indictment together, though you probably know what’s coming.”

“Yes sir.”

The next day, at the same table, Jesse handed Stofer his indictment. He read it slowly, the pain obvious in his face. Thirty years was inconceivable. No one could survive three decades at Parchman.

When he finished, he laid it on the table and asked, “Got a cigarette?”

Both lit up. Jesse glanced at his watch as if he had better things to do. “Yes or no?”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Not really. Fire your lawyer and we’ll get down to business.”

“I’ve already fired him.”

Jesse smiled and said, “Smart move. I’ll take this indictment and hide it in a drawer. Maybe we’ll never see it again. You screw up or double-cross me, and off you go. If you get real smart and run away, there’s an eighty percent chance you’ll eventually get caught. I’ll add ten years and I’ll guarantee you right now that you’ll serve every minute of a forty-year sentence, with hard labor.”

“I ain’t running.”

“Good boy.” Jesse reached down, picked up a small grocery sack, and placed it on the table. “Your stuff. Car keys, wallet, wristwatch, almost two hundred bucks in cash. Go to Biloxi, settle in, hang around two joints, Red Velvet and Foxy’s, get a job.”

“Doing what?”

“Washing dishes, sweeping floors, making up the beds, I don’t care. Work hard, listen even harder, and watch what you say. Try to get a promotion to bartender. Those guys see and hear it all.”

“What’s my cover?”

“Don’t need one. You’re Haley Stofer, age twenty-seven, from Gretna, Louisiana. New Orleans kid. Looking for work. Got a criminal record, something they’ll admire. Don’t mind getting your hands dirty.”

“And what am I looking for?”

“Nothing but a job. Once inside, you keep your head low and your ears open. You’re a criminal, Stofer, you figure it out.”

“How do I report to you?”

“My office is in the Harrison County Courthouse in Biloxi, second floor. Be there at eight
a.m.
sharp on the first and third Mondays of every month. Don’t call ahead. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Don’t introduce yourself to anybody in the office. I’ll be waiting and we’ll have a cup of coffee.”

“And the sheriff here?”

“Drive off and don’t look back. I’ve fed him a line. He’s good for now.”

“I guess I should say thanks, Mr. Rudy.”

“Not yet. Never forget, Stofer, that these guys’ll kill you in an instant. Never drop your guard.”

In May of 1973, Jesse and Agnes, along with their two daughters, Laura and Beverly, made the six-hour drive from Biloxi to Oxford for a weekend celebration. Keith was graduating from law school at Ole Miss, with honors, and the family was rightfully proud. As with most classes, the top students were headed to the larger cities—Jackson, Memphis, New Orleans, maybe even Atlanta—to work by the hour in big firms that represented corporations. The second tier generally stayed in-state and worked for smaller firms specializing in insurance defense. The majority of the graduates went home, where they joined the family firm, or knew someone in an office on the courthouse square, or gamely hung out a shingle and declared themselves ready to sue.

From the first day of classes, Keith knew where he was going and never bothered with a single interview. He loved Biloxi, worshipped his father, and was excited about helping build Rudy & Pettigrew into an important firm on the Coast. He studied hard, at least for the first two years, because he found the law fascinating. During his third year, though, he fell for a brunette undergrad named Ainsley and found her far more interesting. She was only twenty, younger than both Laura and Beverly, and with two more years of college she and Keith were not looking forward to a long-distance romance.

The spring graduation was a time of law school class reunions, alumni gatherings, judicial conferences, bar committee meetings, and parties and dinners. The campus and town seemed choked with lawyers. Since Jesse had not attended Ole Miss, but rather had
pursued the more challenging route of night school at Loyola, he felt somewhat like an outsider. He was pleasantly surprised, though, at the number of judges and lawyers who recognized his name and wanted to shake his hand. Barely a year and a half in office, he had received more attention than he’d realized.

Over drinks, several lawyers joked with him about cleaning up the Coast. Don’t get too carried away, they deadpanned. For years they had enjoyed sneaking away for a night or two of fun. Jesse laughed along with their silliness, more determined than ever to resume his war.

After Sunday’s cap-and-gown ceremony, the cameras came out. In every shot of Keith, with his family and friends, Ainsley was by his side.

Driving home, Jesse and Agnes were convinced they had just spent the weekend with their future daughter-in-law. Laura found her adorable. Beverly was more amused by how smitten their big brother was with the girl. The romance was his first serious one and he had fallen hard.

When Joshua Burch had finally emptied his impressive bag of delaying tactics, and when Judge Nelson Oliphant had finally had enough of said tactics, the matter of the
State of Mississippi v. Ginger Eileen Redfield
was set for trial. Jesse’s patience had gone out the window months earlier and he was barely speaking to Mr. Burch, though he considered it unprofessional to bicker and pout with opposing lawyers. He was the district attorney, the representative of the State, and it was incumbent upon him to at least strive to behave better than the rest.

On a Wednesday afternoon, Judge Oliphant summoned Mr. Rudy and Mr. Burch to his chambers and handed them the list of prospective jurors he and the circuit clerk had just finished compiling. It had sixty names, all registered voters in Harrison County.
Fully aware of the defendant’s background in the underworld and the crowd she ran with, Judge Oliphant was concerned with protecting his pool from “outside influences.” He lectured both lawyers on the pitfalls of jury tampering and threatened harsh sanctions if he caught wind of improper contact. Jesse took the lecture in stride because he knew he wasn’t the target. Burch absorbed it too without objection. He knew his client and her ilk were capable of anything. He promised to warn her.

Two hours later, Deputy Kilgore parked behind Red Velvet, entered through an infamous yellow door that was partially hidden by some old shipping crates, and hurried to Malco’s office.

In the haste to rebuild after Camille, the contractor misread the floor plans and installed a door that was not called for. However, it proved invaluable as it became the secret passage for upstanding men who didn’t want to be seen coming and going through the front door of the club. To visit their favorite girls, they parked in the rear and used the yellow door.

Kilgore tossed a copy of the jury list onto Lance’s desk. “Sixty names. Fats says he knows at least half of them.”

Lance grabbed the list and studied each name without a word. As a quiet businessman, he avoided the public and rarely made an effort to meet a stranger. He had long since accepted the reality that most people viewed him as shady and dishonest, and he didn’t care as long as the money rolled in. He was wealthier than all but a handful on the Coast. The only gathering Lance attended was Mass every Sunday.

He checked off six names that looked familiar.

Kilgore recognized fifteen. He said, “You know, I’ve lived here over forty years and think I know a lot of people, but every time I get one of these jury lists I feel like a stranger.”

As Joshua Burch had labored through his maneuvers and delays, he and Lance and Ginger became convinced that her trial was a crucial showdown with Jesse Rudy. He had already won the nuisance case, though it was on appeal and Carousel was
busier than ever. But it was still a major victory for him, especially if the Mississippi Supreme Court affirmed the chancellor’s ruling and forced the club to close. A criminal conviction for running a brothel would put Ginger in prison, close her clubs, and embolden Rudy to use the same statute to indict and prosecute others.

Though the owners were a ragtag, disorganized gang of crooks who competed against each other, despised each other, and often fought each other, there were moments when Lance could command some respect and get the others to follow for their own good. The trial of Ginger Redfield was that moment.

Copies of the list went out. By nine o’clock that evening, the owner of every nightclub, bar, pool hall, and strip joint had the list and was asking about names.

The first two witnesses called by the State were Chuck Armstrong and Dennis Greenleaf, the same two off-duty policemen who had testified in the nuisance case ten months earlier. They had gone to Carousel, bought drinks for Marlene and another girl, had more drinks, then negotiated a price for an upstairs visit. They observed other waitresses hustling johns and there was plenty of traffic in and out of the bar. They watched several men do the same thing they had done, except the other guys left with the girls.

Both witnesses had been grilled by Joshua Burch before, and they had been thoroughly prepped by Jesse Rudy. They held their own and stayed cool and professional when Burch accused them of procuring prostitutes and trying to lead young ladies astray.

Jesse kept one eye on the jury as Burch railed away. Eight men, four women, all white. Three Baptists, three Catholics, two Methodists, two Pentecostals, and two outright sinners who claimed no church affiliation. Most of them seemed amused by Burch’s overly dramatic insinuation that the officers were corrupting the naive waitresses. Everyone within a hundred miles of the courthouse
knew the reputations of the nightclubs. They had heard the stories for years.

Keith’s job was to take notes, watch the jurors, and try to keep an eye on the crowd behind him. The courtroom was about half full and he did not see another club owner. At some point, though, during the testimony of Greenleaf, he glanced around and was surprised to see Hugh Malco sitting in the back row. They made eye contact, then both looked away nonchalantly as if neither cared what the other was doing. Hugh’s hair was longer and he was growing a mustache. He looked thicker in the chest, and Keith thought it was because of too much beer in the pool halls. They had come a long way since 1960 and their glory years as all-stars, and the divide between them was deep and permanent.

But, in spite of their radically different paths, Keith, if only for a second, had a soft spot for his old buddy.

After the morning recess, Jesse called two more officers to the stand, and their testimony was similar to the first two. More of the same pickup routines but with different girls. More promises of sex at fifty dollars a half hour, double that for sixty minutes.

As Burch went through another performance on cross-examination, Jesse took notes and watched the jurors. Number eight was a man named Nunzio, age forty-three, alleged Methodist, and he seemed detached from the trial, with the odd habit of staring at either the ceiling or his shoes.

Keith, who was not about to miss the excitement, sat in a chair along the bar, behind his father. He passed up a note that read:
number 8, Nunzio, not listening, acting weird. Mind’s already made up??

Lunch was a quick sandwich in the conference room of the law office. Egan Clement was concerned about juror number three, Mr. Dewey, an older gentleman prone to nodding off. At least half the jury, especially the Baptists and Pentecostals, were all in and eager to strike a blow for righteous living. The other half was more difficult to read.

In the afternoon, Jesse finished the State’s case with the
remaining two undercover officers. Their testimony varied little from the first four, and by the time Burch finished haranguing them, the words “prostitute” and “prostitution” had been bandied about so much, there was little doubt the defendant’s nightclub wasn’t much more than a regular whorehouse.

At 3:00
p.m.
, the State rested. Joshua Burch wasted no time in calling his star witness. When Marlene took the stand and swore to tell the truth, she had never looked plainer. Real name of Marlene Hitchcock, age twenty-four, now living in Prattville, Alabama. Her cotton dress was loose-fitting, covered every inch of her chest, and fell well below her knees. Her shoes were plain sandals, something her grandmother might wear. Her face was untouched by makeup, with only a light layer of pink gloss on her lips. She had never worn glasses but Burch found her a pair, and peeking from behind the round frames she could have been a school librarian.

Sitting in the third row and watching now that they were finished, Chuck Armstrong and Dennis Greenleaf barely recognized her.

In a carefully rehearsed back-and-forth, Burch led her through testimony that revealed a tough life: forced to drop out of high school, first marriage to a real loser, low-wage jobs until she arrived in Biloxi four years earlier and got a job serving drinks at Carousel. She had never (1) offered herself for sex, (2) suggested sex to a customer, (3) observed other girls hustling for sex, (4) heard of any rooms upstairs where there might be sex, and so on. A complete, total, and smoothly delivered stonewalling of any talk of sex activities at Carousel. She admired “Miss Ginger” greatly and enjoyed working for her.

Her testimony was so blatantly false that it was oddly believable. No decent human being would take an oath, on a Bible no less, then proceed to launch themselves into such unrestrained lying.

Jesse began his cross pleasantly with a discussion of her payroll adventures. She admitted she worked only for cash tips and reported none of it. There were no deductions for pesky things like
taxes, withholding for Social Security, or unemployment insurance. She suddenly began crying as she described how hard it was to make and save a few bucks to send home to her mother, who just happened to be raising Marlene’s child, a three-year-old little girl.

If Jesse wanted to score points portraying her as a tax cheat, he failed. The jurors, especially the men, seemed sympathetic. Even dressed down and plain-faced, she was a pretty woman, with a twinkle in her eye when she wasn’t crying. The men in the jury box were paying attention.

Jesse moved on to the sex talk, but got nowhere. She flatly denied any suggestion of being in that business. When he probed too hard, she startled everyone by snapping, “I am not a prostitute, Mr. Rudy!”

He wasn’t sure how to handle her. The issue was, after all, rather delicate. How does one question the sex life of another, in open court?