The Last Juror
Chapter 7
The bomb was a rather basic incendiary device that, if detonated, would have quickly engulfed our printing room. There the fire would have been energized by various chemicals and no less than 110 gallons of printer's ink, and would have raced quickly through the front offices. After a few minutes, with no sprinkler system and no alarms, who knows how much of the upper two floors could have been saved. Probably not much. It was very likely that the fire, if properly detonated in the early hours of Thursday morning, would've burned most of the four buildings in our row.
It was discovered sitting ominously, still intact, next to a pile of old papers in the printing room, by the village idiot. Or, I should say, one of the village idiots. Clanton had more than its share.
His name was Piston, and he, like the building and the ancient press and the untouched libraries upstairs and down, came with the deal. Piston was not an official employee of the Times, but he nonetheless showed up every Friday to collect his $50 in cash. No checks. For this fee he sometimes swept the floors and occasionally rearranged the dirt on the front windows, and he hauled out the trash when someone complained. He kept no hours, came and went as he pleased, didn't believe in knocking on doors when meetings were in progress, liked to use our phones and drink our coffee, and though he at first looked rather sinister eyes wide apart and covered with thick glasses, oversized trucker's cap pulled down low, scraggly beard, hideous buck teeth - he was harmless. He provided his janitorial services for several businesses around the square, and somehow survived. No one knew where he lived, or with whom, or how he got about town. The less we knew about Piston, the better.
Piston was in early Thursday morning - he'd had a key for decades - and said that he first heard something ticking. Upon closer examination he noticed three, five-gallon plastic cans laced together with a wooden box sitting on the floor next to them. The ticking sound came from the box. Piston had been around the printing room for many years and occasionally helped Hardy on Tuesday nights when he ran the paper.
For most folks, panic would quickly follow curiosity, but for Piston it took a while. After poking around the cans to make sure that they were in fact filled with gasoline, and after determining that a series of dangerous-looking wires tied everything together, he walked to Margaret's office and called Hardy. He said the ticking was getting louder.
Hardy called the police, and around 9 A.M. I was awakened with the news.
Most of downtown was evacuated by the time I arrived. Piston was sitting on the hood of a car, by then thoroughly distraught at having survived such a close call. He was being attended by some acquaintances and an ambulance driver, and he seemed to be enjoying the attention.
Wiley Meek had photographed the bomb before the police removed the gasoline cans and placed them safely in the alley behind our building. "Woulda blown up half of downtown," was Wiley's uneducated evaluation of the bomb. He nervously darted around the scene, recording the excitement for future use.
The chief of police explained to me that the area was off limits because the wooden box had not been opened and whatever was in there was still ticking. "It might explode," he said gravely, as if he was the first one smart enough to realize the danger. I doubted if he had much experience with bombs, but I went along. An official from the state crime lab was being rushed in. It was decided that the four buildings in our row would remain unoccupied until this expert finished his business.
A bomb in downtown Clanton! The news spread faster than the fire would have, and all work stopped. The county offices emptied, as well as the banks and stores and cafes, and before long large groups of spectators were crowded across the street, under the huge oaks on the south side of the courthouse, a safe distance away. They gawked at our little building, obviously concerned and frightened but also waiting for some excitement. They'd never seen a bomb blast before.
The Clanton city police had been joined by the Sheriff's deputies, and every uniform in the county was soon present, milling about on the sidewalks, doing absolutely nothing. Sheriff Coley and the police chief huddled and conferred and watched the throng across the street, then barked some orders here and there, but if any of their orders were followed it wasn't noticeable. It was obvious to all that the city and county had no bomb drills.
Baggy needed a drink. It was too early for me. I followed him into the rear of the courthouse, up a narrow flight of stairs I'd not seen before, through a cramped hallway, then up another twenty steps to a small dirty room with a low ceiling. "Used to be the old jury room," he said. "Then it was the law library."
"What is it now?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
"The Bar Room. Get it? Bar? Lawyers? Booze?"
"Got it." There was a card table with folding legs and a beaten look that indicated years of use. Around it were half a dozen mismatched chairs, all county hand-me-downs that had been passed from one county office to another and finally ditched in this dingy little room.
In one corner there was a small refrigerator with a padlock. Baggy, of course, had a key, and inside he found a bottle of bourbon. He poured a generous shot into a paper cup and said, "Grab a chair." We pulled two of them up to the window, and below was the scene we had just left. "Not a bad view, huh?" he said proudly.
"How often you come here?"
"Twice a week, maybe, sometimes more. We play poker every Tuesday and Thursday at noon."
"Who's in the club?"
"It's a secret society." He took a sip and smacked his lips as if he'd been in the desert for a month. A spider made its way down a thick web along the window. Dust was half an inch thick on the sills.
"I guess they're losin' their touch," he said, gazing down at the excitement.
"They?" I was almost afraid to ask.
"The Padgitts." He said this with a certain smugness, then allowed it to hang in the air for my benefit.
"You're sure it's the Padgitts?" I asked.
Baggy thought he knew everything, and he was right about half the time. He smirked and grunted, took another sip, then said, "They've been burnin' buildings forever. It's one of their scams - insurance fraud. They've made a bloody fortune off insurance companies." A quick sip. "Odd, though, that they would use gasoline. Your more talented arsonists stay away from gasoline because it's easily detected. You know that?"
"No."
"True. A good fire marshal can smell gasoline within minutes after the blaze is out. Gasoline means arson. Arson means no insurance payoffs." A sip. "Of course, in this case, they probably wanted you to know it's arson. Makes sense, doesn't it?"
Nothing made sense at that moment. I was too confused to say much.
Baggy was content to do the talking. "Come to think of it, that's probably the reason it wasn't detonated. They wanted you to see it. If it went off, then the county wouldn't have the Times, which might upset some folks. Might make some other folks happy."
"Thanks."
"Anyway, that explains it better. It was a subtle act of intimidation."
"Subtle?"
"Yes, compared to what could've been. Believe me, those guys know how to burn buildings. You were lucky."
I noticed how he had quickly disassociated himself from the paper. It was "I" who was lucky, not "we."
The bourbon had found its way to the brain and was loosening the tongue. "About three years ago, maybe four, there was a large fire at one of their lumber mills, the one on Highway 401, just off the island. They never burn anything on the island because they don't want the authorities snoopin' around. Anyway, the insurance company smelled a rat, refused to pay, so Lucien Wilbanks filed this big lawsuit. It came to trial, in front of the Honorable Reed Loopus. I heard ever' word of it." A long, satisfying drink.
"Who won?"
He ignored me completely because the story was not yet properly laid out. "It was a big fire. The boys from Clanton took off with all their trucks. The volunteers from Karaway took off, ever' yokel with a siren went screamin' off toward Padgitt Island. Nothin' like a good fire around here to get the boys worked up. That and a bomb, I guess, but I can't remember the last bomb."
"And so..."
"Highway 401 runs through some lowland near Padgitt Island, real swampy. There's a bridge over Massey's Creek, and when the fire trucks came flyin' up to the bridge they found a pickup layin' on its side, like it had rolled over. The road was completely blocked; couldn't go around because there was nothin' but swamps and ditches." He smacked his lips and poured more from the bottle. It was time for me to say something, but whatever I said would be completely ignored anyway. This was the way Baggy preferred to be prompted.
"Whose pickup was it?" I asked, the words barely out of my mouth before he was shaking his head as if the question was completely off the mark.
"The fire was ragin' like hell. Fire trucks backed up all along 401 because some clown had flipped his pickup. Never found him. No sign of a driver. No sign of an owner because there was no registration. No tags. The vehicle ID had been sanded off. The truck was never claimed. Wasn't damaged much cither. All this came out at trial. Ever'body knew the Padgitts set the fire, flipped one of their stolen trucks to block the road, but the insurance company couldn't prove it."
Down below Sheriff Coley had found his bullhorn. He was asking the people to please stay off the street in front of our office. His shrieking voice added urgency to the situation.
"So the insurance company won?" I said, anxious to get to the end.
"Helluva trial. Went on for three days. Wilbanks can usually cut a deal with one or two people on the jury. Been doin' it for years and never gets caught. Plus he knows ever'body in the county. The insurance boys were up from Jackson, and they didn't have a clue. The jury stayed out for two hours, came back with a verdict for the claim, a hundred grand, and for good measure, tacked on a million in punitive damages."
"One point one million!" I said.
"You got it. The first million-dollar verdict in Ford County. Lasted about a year until the Supreme Court took an ax to it and cut out the punitive."
The notion of Lucien Wilbanks having such sway over jurors was not comforting. Baggy neglected his bourbon for a moment and gazed at something below. "This is a bad sign, son," he finally said. "Really bad."
I was his boss and didn't like to be referred to as "son," but I let it slide. I had more pressing matters at hand. "The intimidation?" I said.
"Yep. The Padgitts rarely leave the island. The fact that they've brought their little show on the road means they're ready for war. If they can intimidate the newspaper, then they'll try it with the jury. They already own the Sheriff."
"But Wilbanks said he wants a change of venue."
He snorted and rediscovered his drink. "Don't bet on it, son."
"Please call me Willie." Odd how I was now clinging to that name.
"Don't bet on it, Willie. The boy's guilty; his only chance is to have a jury that can be bought or scared. Ten to one odds the trial takes place right here, in this building."
* * *
After two hours of waiting in vain for the ground to shake, the town was ready for lunch. The crowd broke up and drifted away. The expert from the state crime lab finally arrived and went to work in the printing room. I wasn't allowed in the building, which was fine with me.
Margaret, Wiley, and I had a sandwich in the gazebo on the courthouse lawn. We ate quietly, chatted briefly, the three of us keeping an eye on our office across the street. Occasionally someone would see us and stop for an awkward word or two. What do you say to bombing victims when the bomb doesn't go off? Fortunately, the townsfolk had had little practice in that area. We collected some sympathy and a few offers of help.
Sheriff Coley ambled over and gave a preliminary report on our bomb. The clock was of the wind-up alarm variety, available in stores everywhere. At first glance the expert thought there was a problem with the wiring. Very amateurish, he said.
"How will you investigate this?" I asked with an edge.
"We'll check for prints, see if we can find any witnesses. The usual."
"Will you talk to the Padgitts?" I asked, even edgier. I was, after all, in the presence of my employees. And though I was scared to death, I wanted to impress them with how utterly fearless I was.
"You know somethin' I don't?" he shot back.
"They're suspects, aren't they?"
"Are you the Sheriff now?"
"They're the most experienced arsonists in the county, been burning buildings for years with impunity. Their lawyer threatened me in court last week. We've had Danny Padgitt on the front page twice. If they're not suspects, then who is?"
"Just go ahead and write the story, son. Call 'em by name. You seem determined to get sued anyway."
"I'll take care of the paper," I said. "You catch the criminals."
He tipped his hat to Margaret and walked away.
"Next year's reelection year," Wiley said as we watched Coley stop and chat with two ladies near a drinking fountain. "I hope he has an opponent."
* * *
The intimidation continued, at Wiley's expense. He lived a mile from town on a five-acre hobby farm, where his wife raised ducks and watermelons. That night as he parked in his drive and was getting out of his car, two goons jumped from the shrubs and assaulted him. The larger man knocked him down and kicked him in the face, while the other one rummaged through his backseat and pulled out two cameras. Wiley was fifty-eight years old and an ex-Marine, and at some point in the melee he managed to land a kick that sent the larger assailant to the ground. There they exchanged blows and as Wiley was gaining the upper hand the other thug banged him over the head with one of his cameras. Wiley said he didn't remember much after that.
His wife eventually heard the ruckus. She found Wiley on the ground, semiconscious, with both cameras shattered. In the house, she put ice packs on his face and determined that there were no broken bones. The ex-Marine did not want to go to the hospital.
A deputy arrived and made a report. Wiley had caught only a glimpse of his attackers and he'd certainly never seen them before. "They're back on the island by now," he said. "You won't find them."
His wife prevailed, and an hour later they called me from the hospital. I saw him between X rays. His face was a mess, but he managed to smile. He grabbed my hand and pulled me close. "Next week, front page," he said through cut lips and swollen jaws.
A few hours later I left the hospital and went for a long drive through the countryside. I kept glancing at my mirror, half-expecting another load of Padgitts to come roaring up, guns blazing.
It was not a lawless county, where organized criminals ran roughshod over the law-abiding people. It was just the opposite - crime was rare. Corruption was generally frowned upon. I was right and they were wrong, and I decided I'd be damned before I knuckled under. I'd buy myself a gun; hell, everybody else in the county carried two or three. And if necessary I'd hire a guard of some sort. My paper would grow even bolder as the murder trial approached.
It was discovered sitting ominously, still intact, next to a pile of old papers in the printing room, by the village idiot. Or, I should say, one of the village idiots. Clanton had more than its share.
His name was Piston, and he, like the building and the ancient press and the untouched libraries upstairs and down, came with the deal. Piston was not an official employee of the Times, but he nonetheless showed up every Friday to collect his $50 in cash. No checks. For this fee he sometimes swept the floors and occasionally rearranged the dirt on the front windows, and he hauled out the trash when someone complained. He kept no hours, came and went as he pleased, didn't believe in knocking on doors when meetings were in progress, liked to use our phones and drink our coffee, and though he at first looked rather sinister eyes wide apart and covered with thick glasses, oversized trucker's cap pulled down low, scraggly beard, hideous buck teeth - he was harmless. He provided his janitorial services for several businesses around the square, and somehow survived. No one knew where he lived, or with whom, or how he got about town. The less we knew about Piston, the better.
Piston was in early Thursday morning - he'd had a key for decades - and said that he first heard something ticking. Upon closer examination he noticed three, five-gallon plastic cans laced together with a wooden box sitting on the floor next to them. The ticking sound came from the box. Piston had been around the printing room for many years and occasionally helped Hardy on Tuesday nights when he ran the paper.
For most folks, panic would quickly follow curiosity, but for Piston it took a while. After poking around the cans to make sure that they were in fact filled with gasoline, and after determining that a series of dangerous-looking wires tied everything together, he walked to Margaret's office and called Hardy. He said the ticking was getting louder.
Hardy called the police, and around 9 A.M. I was awakened with the news.
Most of downtown was evacuated by the time I arrived. Piston was sitting on the hood of a car, by then thoroughly distraught at having survived such a close call. He was being attended by some acquaintances and an ambulance driver, and he seemed to be enjoying the attention.
Wiley Meek had photographed the bomb before the police removed the gasoline cans and placed them safely in the alley behind our building. "Woulda blown up half of downtown," was Wiley's uneducated evaluation of the bomb. He nervously darted around the scene, recording the excitement for future use.
The chief of police explained to me that the area was off limits because the wooden box had not been opened and whatever was in there was still ticking. "It might explode," he said gravely, as if he was the first one smart enough to realize the danger. I doubted if he had much experience with bombs, but I went along. An official from the state crime lab was being rushed in. It was decided that the four buildings in our row would remain unoccupied until this expert finished his business.
A bomb in downtown Clanton! The news spread faster than the fire would have, and all work stopped. The county offices emptied, as well as the banks and stores and cafes, and before long large groups of spectators were crowded across the street, under the huge oaks on the south side of the courthouse, a safe distance away. They gawked at our little building, obviously concerned and frightened but also waiting for some excitement. They'd never seen a bomb blast before.
The Clanton city police had been joined by the Sheriff's deputies, and every uniform in the county was soon present, milling about on the sidewalks, doing absolutely nothing. Sheriff Coley and the police chief huddled and conferred and watched the throng across the street, then barked some orders here and there, but if any of their orders were followed it wasn't noticeable. It was obvious to all that the city and county had no bomb drills.
Baggy needed a drink. It was too early for me. I followed him into the rear of the courthouse, up a narrow flight of stairs I'd not seen before, through a cramped hallway, then up another twenty steps to a small dirty room with a low ceiling. "Used to be the old jury room," he said. "Then it was the law library."
"What is it now?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
"The Bar Room. Get it? Bar? Lawyers? Booze?"
"Got it." There was a card table with folding legs and a beaten look that indicated years of use. Around it were half a dozen mismatched chairs, all county hand-me-downs that had been passed from one county office to another and finally ditched in this dingy little room.
In one corner there was a small refrigerator with a padlock. Baggy, of course, had a key, and inside he found a bottle of bourbon. He poured a generous shot into a paper cup and said, "Grab a chair." We pulled two of them up to the window, and below was the scene we had just left. "Not a bad view, huh?" he said proudly.
"How often you come here?"
"Twice a week, maybe, sometimes more. We play poker every Tuesday and Thursday at noon."
"Who's in the club?"
"It's a secret society." He took a sip and smacked his lips as if he'd been in the desert for a month. A spider made its way down a thick web along the window. Dust was half an inch thick on the sills.
"I guess they're losin' their touch," he said, gazing down at the excitement.
"They?" I was almost afraid to ask.
"The Padgitts." He said this with a certain smugness, then allowed it to hang in the air for my benefit.
"You're sure it's the Padgitts?" I asked.
Baggy thought he knew everything, and he was right about half the time. He smirked and grunted, took another sip, then said, "They've been burnin' buildings forever. It's one of their scams - insurance fraud. They've made a bloody fortune off insurance companies." A quick sip. "Odd, though, that they would use gasoline. Your more talented arsonists stay away from gasoline because it's easily detected. You know that?"
"No."
"True. A good fire marshal can smell gasoline within minutes after the blaze is out. Gasoline means arson. Arson means no insurance payoffs." A sip. "Of course, in this case, they probably wanted you to know it's arson. Makes sense, doesn't it?"
Nothing made sense at that moment. I was too confused to say much.
Baggy was content to do the talking. "Come to think of it, that's probably the reason it wasn't detonated. They wanted you to see it. If it went off, then the county wouldn't have the Times, which might upset some folks. Might make some other folks happy."
"Thanks."
"Anyway, that explains it better. It was a subtle act of intimidation."
"Subtle?"
"Yes, compared to what could've been. Believe me, those guys know how to burn buildings. You were lucky."
I noticed how he had quickly disassociated himself from the paper. It was "I" who was lucky, not "we."
The bourbon had found its way to the brain and was loosening the tongue. "About three years ago, maybe four, there was a large fire at one of their lumber mills, the one on Highway 401, just off the island. They never burn anything on the island because they don't want the authorities snoopin' around. Anyway, the insurance company smelled a rat, refused to pay, so Lucien Wilbanks filed this big lawsuit. It came to trial, in front of the Honorable Reed Loopus. I heard ever' word of it." A long, satisfying drink.
"Who won?"
He ignored me completely because the story was not yet properly laid out. "It was a big fire. The boys from Clanton took off with all their trucks. The volunteers from Karaway took off, ever' yokel with a siren went screamin' off toward Padgitt Island. Nothin' like a good fire around here to get the boys worked up. That and a bomb, I guess, but I can't remember the last bomb."
"And so..."
"Highway 401 runs through some lowland near Padgitt Island, real swampy. There's a bridge over Massey's Creek, and when the fire trucks came flyin' up to the bridge they found a pickup layin' on its side, like it had rolled over. The road was completely blocked; couldn't go around because there was nothin' but swamps and ditches." He smacked his lips and poured more from the bottle. It was time for me to say something, but whatever I said would be completely ignored anyway. This was the way Baggy preferred to be prompted.
"Whose pickup was it?" I asked, the words barely out of my mouth before he was shaking his head as if the question was completely off the mark.
"The fire was ragin' like hell. Fire trucks backed up all along 401 because some clown had flipped his pickup. Never found him. No sign of a driver. No sign of an owner because there was no registration. No tags. The vehicle ID had been sanded off. The truck was never claimed. Wasn't damaged much cither. All this came out at trial. Ever'body knew the Padgitts set the fire, flipped one of their stolen trucks to block the road, but the insurance company couldn't prove it."
Down below Sheriff Coley had found his bullhorn. He was asking the people to please stay off the street in front of our office. His shrieking voice added urgency to the situation.
"So the insurance company won?" I said, anxious to get to the end.
"Helluva trial. Went on for three days. Wilbanks can usually cut a deal with one or two people on the jury. Been doin' it for years and never gets caught. Plus he knows ever'body in the county. The insurance boys were up from Jackson, and they didn't have a clue. The jury stayed out for two hours, came back with a verdict for the claim, a hundred grand, and for good measure, tacked on a million in punitive damages."
"One point one million!" I said.
"You got it. The first million-dollar verdict in Ford County. Lasted about a year until the Supreme Court took an ax to it and cut out the punitive."
The notion of Lucien Wilbanks having such sway over jurors was not comforting. Baggy neglected his bourbon for a moment and gazed at something below. "This is a bad sign, son," he finally said. "Really bad."
I was his boss and didn't like to be referred to as "son," but I let it slide. I had more pressing matters at hand. "The intimidation?" I said.
"Yep. The Padgitts rarely leave the island. The fact that they've brought their little show on the road means they're ready for war. If they can intimidate the newspaper, then they'll try it with the jury. They already own the Sheriff."
"But Wilbanks said he wants a change of venue."
He snorted and rediscovered his drink. "Don't bet on it, son."
"Please call me Willie." Odd how I was now clinging to that name.
"Don't bet on it, Willie. The boy's guilty; his only chance is to have a jury that can be bought or scared. Ten to one odds the trial takes place right here, in this building."
* * *
After two hours of waiting in vain for the ground to shake, the town was ready for lunch. The crowd broke up and drifted away. The expert from the state crime lab finally arrived and went to work in the printing room. I wasn't allowed in the building, which was fine with me.
Margaret, Wiley, and I had a sandwich in the gazebo on the courthouse lawn. We ate quietly, chatted briefly, the three of us keeping an eye on our office across the street. Occasionally someone would see us and stop for an awkward word or two. What do you say to bombing victims when the bomb doesn't go off? Fortunately, the townsfolk had had little practice in that area. We collected some sympathy and a few offers of help.
Sheriff Coley ambled over and gave a preliminary report on our bomb. The clock was of the wind-up alarm variety, available in stores everywhere. At first glance the expert thought there was a problem with the wiring. Very amateurish, he said.
"How will you investigate this?" I asked with an edge.
"We'll check for prints, see if we can find any witnesses. The usual."
"Will you talk to the Padgitts?" I asked, even edgier. I was, after all, in the presence of my employees. And though I was scared to death, I wanted to impress them with how utterly fearless I was.
"You know somethin' I don't?" he shot back.
"They're suspects, aren't they?"
"Are you the Sheriff now?"
"They're the most experienced arsonists in the county, been burning buildings for years with impunity. Their lawyer threatened me in court last week. We've had Danny Padgitt on the front page twice. If they're not suspects, then who is?"
"Just go ahead and write the story, son. Call 'em by name. You seem determined to get sued anyway."
"I'll take care of the paper," I said. "You catch the criminals."
He tipped his hat to Margaret and walked away.
"Next year's reelection year," Wiley said as we watched Coley stop and chat with two ladies near a drinking fountain. "I hope he has an opponent."
* * *
The intimidation continued, at Wiley's expense. He lived a mile from town on a five-acre hobby farm, where his wife raised ducks and watermelons. That night as he parked in his drive and was getting out of his car, two goons jumped from the shrubs and assaulted him. The larger man knocked him down and kicked him in the face, while the other one rummaged through his backseat and pulled out two cameras. Wiley was fifty-eight years old and an ex-Marine, and at some point in the melee he managed to land a kick that sent the larger assailant to the ground. There they exchanged blows and as Wiley was gaining the upper hand the other thug banged him over the head with one of his cameras. Wiley said he didn't remember much after that.
His wife eventually heard the ruckus. She found Wiley on the ground, semiconscious, with both cameras shattered. In the house, she put ice packs on his face and determined that there were no broken bones. The ex-Marine did not want to go to the hospital.
A deputy arrived and made a report. Wiley had caught only a glimpse of his attackers and he'd certainly never seen them before. "They're back on the island by now," he said. "You won't find them."
His wife prevailed, and an hour later they called me from the hospital. I saw him between X rays. His face was a mess, but he managed to smile. He grabbed my hand and pulled me close. "Next week, front page," he said through cut lips and swollen jaws.
A few hours later I left the hospital and went for a long drive through the countryside. I kept glancing at my mirror, half-expecting another load of Padgitts to come roaring up, guns blazing.
It was not a lawless county, where organized criminals ran roughshod over the law-abiding people. It was just the opposite - crime was rare. Corruption was generally frowned upon. I was right and they were wrong, and I decided I'd be damned before I knuckled under. I'd buy myself a gun; hell, everybody else in the county carried two or three. And if necessary I'd hire a guard of some sort. My paper would grow even bolder as the murder trial approached.
