I’ll take whatever mileage I can get out of Page’s Drugs.
“On the square. You’ve got a good memory.” My mind plays back summer Saturday evenings at closing time, when, locking the front door, my father, invariably dressed in muted slacks and short-sleeved shirts, would stare balefully across the square and shake his head in distaste at the gaudily dressed black males strutting like peacocks as they dipped in and out of the Busy Bee, a black cafe. I recall a liquor store and black movie theater adjacent to the restaurant.
“I used to go in there when I was a kid, and he’d shoo me out,” Bonner says.
“I’m pretty sure he thought I was stealing comic books.”
“He thought everybody was,” I say hastily.
Though I don’t remember my father as a rude man, I doubt if he was overly polite to the black kids who waited restlessly for their parents to decide what store-bought nostrums would ease their aches and pains.
I try to picture Bonner as a ten-year-old and imagine him already picking up cues on how the world worked-slowly in our part of the state. I add, “You might not remember he became seriously mentally ill.”
Bonner, to his credit, doesn’t pretend sympathy he can’t feel.
“I had forgotten that,” he says.
“Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Page?”
I explain that I am merely trying to get oriented and haven’t even seen the charges filed against my client.
“Did your office handle the investigation,” I ask politely, “or did the state police get involved?” Usually, small-town sheriffs need all the help they can get.
Bonner spins a small globe on his desk.
“Do you know how many investigators there are on the state police force that are minorities? I’ll give you a hint. Not many. As you probably know, Bear Creek is now seventy percent black. To maintain the credibility of law enforcement over here, I do all my own investigations.”
And it keeps you in the public eye, I think to myself. In ten years I can see this man being the first black Congressman from the 1 st District. He has that much charisma.
“I can understand that,” I say.
“Though I’m just getting started, it seems to me that my client could easily have been set up. Weren’t there other suspects besides him?”
Bonner puts his hand behind his head.
“My policy is that once I’ve turned over a file to the prosecutor, I don’t say anything about it until trial.”
“So you don’t have any doubts,” I ask, “that my client was hired by Paul Taylor to murder Willie Ting Instead of responding right away, Bonner rocks gently in his chair.
Finally, he says, politely, “I think I just answered that question.” He stands up, dismissing me.
“Our prosecutor is upstairs.
I’m sure he’ll answer any questions for you.”
I scramble to my feet.
“If you received some information that Paul Taylor had hired someone else to kill Willie Ting I say, “you’d investigate it before this case goes to trial?”
The sheriff shrugs.
“Of course.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say as if I already have something in mind.
I don’t. But it is never too early to begin the job of softening up the prosecutor.
If law enforcement begins to have doubts about a case, you can be sure they will be passed along to the prosecutor. My advantage in this case is that I know Paul’s track record.
I ask if he can arrange for me not to have to call ahead to the prison for an appointment each time I want to see Bledsoe. He says he can do that, but to call ahead if I can.
I smile and shake hands again with Bonner and head upstairs, not knowing how to ask if the prosecutor is also black. I should have asked Class or his wife these questions. All I know is that the judge, Rufus Johnson, is a black man.
The whites still left over here must be going nuts over this case. If Paul Taylor can be charged with murder, they have to feel nobody is safe.
I find the prosecuting attorney’s office across from the top of the stairs. There is no secretary, but I can hear a black man’s voice in an inner office. I go stand in the doorway and motion that I’ll be sitting in the waiting room. On the telephone, he nods at me. In contrast to the sheriff’s Hershey’s Kisses color, the prosecutor is polished copper, and his eyes look yellowish from the distance of about ten feet. The sleeves of his white shirt are folded back at the cuffs, and his pink silk tie is flung back over his shoulder as if it has been getting in his way. He sounds agitated, but I can’t make out what he is saying. He motions to me that he will be off the phone in a moment, and I go have a seat across from the secretary’s desk.
Unlike the sheriff’s office, the walls in the prosecutor’s office, as out here, are bare, and it occurs to me that his home base is probably either Forrest City to the north or Helena to the south. Both towns have been more prosperous than Bear Creek, but I remind myself prosperity is a relative term in the Delta these days. As I unsuccessfully try to eavesdrop, it occurs to me that I have deliberately avoided making inquiries about the case through the white community first. Why?
The answer is obvious, now that I permit myself to think about it. I would have been pressured to turn down Bledsoe’s case, and I might have done so. For the first time, I allow myself to guess who Paul has employed to represent him, but I know already that he must have hired Dick Dickerson, who is considered one of the best trial attorneys in the state. A graduate of Columbia Law School, Dick could have gone anywhere. For reasons I’ve never understood, he chose to come back to practice law in a place where ninety-nine percent of his clients couldn’t have cared less where he went to school. He must be at least sixty. I wonder if he has any regrets. I may find out before this case is over.
Moments later, the prosecutor comes out and introduces himself.
“Melvin Butterfield,” he says, apologetically, extending his hand as if I have an appointment and he has forced me to wait.
“Gideon Page,” I say, as we shake hands.
“I’m representing Class Bledsoe.”
The prosecutor’s mouth doesn’t exactly drop open, but he is clearly surprised as he stares at me for a long moment. Perhaps he thought Class
would hire a black attorney.
“How do you do?” he says.
“Sorry, I was on the phone. Want to come on back?”
“Sure,” I say and follow him back into the office. Butterfield is tall, perhaps 6‘4”, and can’t weigh more than one sixty.
“I know you,” he says emphatically as he takes a seat behind his desk.
“You’re that guy who got off Dade Cunningham in that rape case up in Fayetteville. Damn. First, Taylor gets Dick Dickerson, whom I can’t even beat on a parking ticket, and now Class hires a hot-shot from Blackwell County.” He grins, splitting his face from ear to ear.
“Maybe we can plead this out to simple assault tomorrow, and I can go back to trying DWIS against the public defender.”
I laugh out loud. Prosecuting attorneys invariably take themselves as seriously as God. This guy has a twinkle in his yellowish eyes.
Compared to him, the sheriff was positively pompous.
“That would be fine with me,” I reply.
“Man, you’re famous around here. How’d you get an acquittal in that case? There was only two blacks on that jury.”
Flattered that he knows so much about me, I say modestly, “It probably
helped that he had caught the pass that beat Alabama.” “Isn’t that the truth?” he says breezily.
“As long as they win, the Razorbacks can do no wrong.”
Is this guy really the prosecutor? He seems pretty loosey-goosey.
“Have you got a minute to talk? I just saw my client in the jail. I assume Paul Taylor is already out.”
“You bet,” Butterfield says.
“Despite five-hundred-thousand-dollar bail Dick had him out before they could give Mr. Taylor a wiener for supper.”
I smile, thinking how much I’d have liked to have seen Paul seated on his bunk eating a hot dog.