“Then you can help Wilbanks. He needs it.”
“I’ve written him a letter and I thought about seeing him tomorrow.”
“That’s a bad idea, Joel. I doubt he works on Sundays, and you cannot be seen around town. Your father would be upset if he knew you were here. My advice to you is to leave town as quietly as you sneaked in, and not to return until Pete says so.”
“I’d like to talk to Buford and check on the crops.”
“You can’t do a thing to help the crops. You’re not a farmer, remember. Besides, Buford has things under control. He reports to me; I plan to run by the jail and report to Pete. We’re in the midst of a good harvest so don’t try to screw things up. Besides, Buford would tell your father that you’re here. Bad idea.”
Joel managed a laugh, his first, and swigged his whiskey. He shoved his bowl away, which prompted her to say, “Half a bowl. You should eat more, Joel. You’re finally filling out but you have a ways to go. You’re still too thin.”
“Not much of an appetite these days, Aunt Florry, for some reason. Mind if I smoke?”
She nodded and said, “On the porch.” Joel stepped outside with a cigarette while she cleared the table, then she refreshed her drink, laid another log on the fire in the den, and fell into her favorite armchair to wait for him. When he returned, he grabbed his flask, joined her in the den, and sat on the worn leather sofa.
She cleared her throat and said, “There’s something you should know, since we were discussing the cotton. I suppose it’s no real secret since there is a public record of it in the courthouse. About a month ago, your father hired a lawyer in Tupelo to write a deed transferring ownership of his farm to you and Stella jointly. My land, of course, belongs to me and was not involved. John Wilbanks told me this last Wednesday in his office. Of course, you and Stella would one day inherit the land anyway.”
Joel thought for a moment, obviously surprised and confused. “And why did he do this?”
“Why does Pete do anything? Because he can. It wasn’t very smart, according to Wilbanks. He was moving his assets to protect them from the family of a man he was planning to murder. Plain and simple. In doing so, though, he handed a gift to the prosecution. The DA can prove at trial that the murder was premeditated. Pete planned everything.”
“Is the land protected?”
“Wilbanks doesn’t think so, but we didn’t go into it. It was the day after and we were still stunned. Still are, I guess.”
“Aren’t we all? Wilbanks thinks Bell’s family will come after the land?”
“He implied that but didn’t say it outright. It might be fodder for your research, now that you’ve found the law library.”
“This family needs a full-time lawyer.” He took a drink and finished his flask. Florry watched him carefully and loved every ounce of his being. He favored her side, the Bannings, tall with dark eyes and thick hair, while Stella was the image of Liza, both in looks and in temperament. He was grieving, and Florry ached with his pain. His happy, privileged life was taking a dramatic turn for the worse, and he could do nothing to correct its course.
Quietly, he asked, “Has anyone talked about Mom getting out? Is it even a possibility? Dad sent her away, and now that his influence is rather limited, is there a chance she can come home?”
“I don’t know, Joel, but I’ve heard nothing about that. Before this, your father would drive to Whitfield once a month to see her. He never said much, but on a couple of occasions he mentioned his visits, said she was not getting any better.”
“How is one supposed to improve in an insane asylum?”
“You’re asking the wrong person.”
“And why can’t I visit her?”
“Because your father said no.”
“I can’t see my father and I can’t visit my mother. Is it okay to admit that I miss my parents, Florry?”
“Of course you do, dear. I’m so sorry.”
They watched the fire for a long time and nothing was said. It hissed and crackled and began dying for the night. One of the cats jumped up onto the leather sofa and looked at Joel as if he were trespassing. Finally, Joel said softly, “I don’t know what to do, Florry. Nothing makes sense right now.”
For the first time his words were not clear, his tongue thick.
She took a sip and said, “Well, coming home tonight is not the answer. The train for Memphis leaves at nine thirty in the morning, and you’ll be on it. There’s nothing to do here but worry.”
“I suppose I can worry at college.”
“I suppose you can.”
Chapter 8
The Ford County grand jury convened on the third Monday of each month to listen to evidence of the latest crimes among the locals. On the docket for October 21 was the usual laundry list: a domestic dispute that devolved into a severe beating; Chuck Manley and his alleged stolen car; a Negro who fired a pistol at another, and though he missed, the bullet shattered the window of a rural white church, which added gravity to the incident and elevated it to a felony; a con man from Tupelo who had blanketed the county with bad checks; a white man and a black woman who were caught in the act of enthusiastically violating the state’s antimiscegenation laws; and so on. The list totaled ten crimes, all felonies, and that was about average for a peaceful community. Last on the list was the matter of Pete Banning and his murder charge.
Miles Truitt had been the district attorney since his election seven years earlier. As the chief prosecutor, he handled the grand jury, which was little more than a rubber stamp for whatever he wanted. Truitt selected the eighteen people who served, picked which crimes needed to be pursued, called witnesses who gave evidence that favored only the prosecution, leaned heavily on the jury when the evidence seemed a bit shaky, and secured the indictments that were then served upon the defendants. After that, Truitt controlled the criminal trial docket and decided which cases would be tried first and last. Almost none actually went to trial. Instead they were settled with a deal, a plea bargain in which the defendant confessed to being guilty in return for as light a sentence as possible.
After seven years of routine prosecutions, Miles Truitt had been lulled into the mundane rut of putting away bootleggers, wife beaters, and car thieves. His jurisdiction covered the five counties of the Twenty-Second District, and the year before he had tried only four cases to verdicts. All other indictees had pled out. His job had lost its luster, primarily because there simply was not enough exciting crime in his corner of northern Mississippi.
But Pete Banning had broken the monotony, and in spectacular fashion. Every prosecutor dreams of the sensational murder trial, with a prominent (white) defendant, a well-known victim, a crowded courtroom, lots of press, and, of course, an outcome favorable to the prosecutor and all the fine citizens who voted for him. Truitt’s dream was coming true, and he tried to control his eagerness to get on with the prosecution of Pete Banning.
The grand jury assembled in the courthouse in the same room used by trial juries. It was a cramped space hardly wide and long enough for a trial jury of twelve, with chairs wedged around a long narrow table. Of the eighteen, only sixteen were present, all white men. Mr. Jock Fedison from Karraway had called in sick, though it was widely believed he was really too busy in his cotton fields to be bothered with trifling judicial matters. Mr. Wade Burrell had not bothered to call at all and had been neither seen nor heard from in weeks. He was not a farmer but was rumored to be having trouble with his wife. She said flatly that the bum had gone off drunk and wasn’t coming back.
Sixteen was a sufficient quorum, and Truitt called them to order. Sheriff Gridley was brought in as the first witness and sworn to tell the truth. Truitt began with Chuck Manley’s case and Gridley laid out the facts. The vote was sixteen to zero in favor of an indictment for grand larceny, with no discussion. The bad-check artist was next, and the sheriff presented copies of the checks and affidavits from some of the aggrieved merchants. Sixteen to zero again, and the same for the pulpwood cutter who broke his wife’s nose, among other injuries.