Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil Part 23

Joe looked at me and smiled broadly, while continuing to play the piano. "You wouldn't be trying to tell me Jim Williams has finally told you one of his many alternate versions of how he shot Danny Hansford, would you?"

"Who said anything about Jim Williams?"

"Oh, that's right," said Joe, "we were speaking hypothetically, weren't we? Well, according to the law, this 'unnamed person' is under no obligation to divulge his secret information, which-if it's what I think think it is-is not all that secret anyway. Heh-heh. In fact, I was beginning to wonder how long it was going to take a certain writer from New York to find out something half of Savannah already knows." it is-is not all that secret anyway. Heh-heh. In fact, I was beginning to wonder how long it was going to take a certain writer from New York to find out something half of Savannah already knows."

As Joe spoke, a policeman and a policewoman approached and stood awkwardly by the side of the piano.

"Mr. Joe Odom?" the policeman said.

"That's me," said Joe.

"We have orders to place you under arrest."

"You do? What's the charge?" Joe went on playing the piano.

"Scofflaw," said the policewoman. "We're from Thunderbolt. You got six unpaid speedin' tickets and a U-turn violation."

"Any bad-check charges?" Joe asked.

"No, just the speedin' tickets and the U-turn," the woman said.

"Well, that's a relief."

"We'll have to take you to Thunderbolt in the squad car," the policeman said. "Once we book you and relieve you of two hundred dollars for bond, why, you can be on your way."

"Fair enough," said Joe, "but I'd be much obliged if you'd bear with me while I finish up a couple of things. I was just giving my friend here some legal advice. And ..." He leaned closer to the two officers and lowered his voice. "See that old couple sitting by the ice machine? They've driven in from Swainsboro to celebrate their sixtieth wedding anniversary, and they've asked me to play a medley of their favorite songs. I'm about halfway through. I'll be done with both of these ch.o.r.es in about four or five minutes, if it's okay with you." The policewoman murmured it would be fine, and the two of them took seats near the door. Joe sent the waiter over with c.o.kes and turned back to me.

"Now, about this not-so-secret secret information," he said. "I would tell this 'unnamed person,' in case he's interested, that in all of Jim Williams's versions of how he shot Danny Hansford, there are certain consistent points. The shooting happened in the course of an argument and on the spur of the moment. It was not a premeditated killing. The victim was an out-of-control, drunk, drug-addicted kid with a history of violence, and the defendant was a frightened, angry, nonviolent older man with no criminal record. That's a scenario for manslaughter maybe, but not first-degree murder. And in Georgia, a conviction for manslaughter usually carries a sentence of five to ten years with two years to serve. Jim's already served two years."

"I suppose you could look at it that way," I said, "if you wanted to."

"Anyhow, that's my answer to your question about the 'point of law.'"

"Thanks," I said.

"And now, there is the small matter of my consultation fee-heh-heh. I'm thinking I'll waive it in exchange for a small favor. All you have to do is to follow a certain squad car out to Thunderbolt in a few minutes, then turn around and drive a certain attorney-scofflaw back to town."

"It's a deal," I said.

Joe finished his medley with a flourish. He went over to the bar and, while Mandy's head was turned, took $200 out of the cash register. On his way out the door, he stopped to pay his respects to the couple from Swainsboro. The woman wore a large pink corsage pinned above her heart.

"Oh, Joe," she said, "that was lovely. Thank you so much!"

Her husband stood and shook Joe's hand. "It ain't but midnight, Joe. Why're you leavin' so early?"

Joe smoothed the lapels of his tuxedo and straightened his plaid bow tie. "I've just been informed there's an official motorcade leaving for Thunderbolt, and I've been invited to ride in the lead car."

"My word!" said the woman. "That's a great honor."

"Yes, ma'am," said Joe. "You could look at it that way, if you wanted to."

Chapter 27.

LUCKY NUMBER.

Blanche Williams came into the dining room and took her seat at the dinner table for lunch. "

The cat won't eat," she said.

Jim Williams looked up from the Sotheby's auction catalog he had brought with him to the table. He looked at the cat, who was sitting motionless in the doorway. Then he returned his attention to the catalog.

Mrs. Williams unfolded her napkin and put it in her lap. "It's the same as last time," she said. "The cat wouldn't eat then either. Or the time before that. It's happened every time we've come back from the courthouse to wait for the jury to make up its mind. She's refused to eat."

Williams's sister, Dorothy Kingery, glanced at her watch. "It's one-thirty," she said. "They've been at it three hours now. I guess they're having lunch. I wonder if they'll take a break or go right on deliberating while they eat."

Williams looked up from his auction catalog. "Listen to this," he said. "'When Catherine of Braganza, the Infanta of Portugal, arrived in England in 1662 to marry Charles II, she brought with her the largest dowry ever. Part of the dowry was the Port of Bombay in India ....'" He laughed. "Now, that's the kind of princess I like!"

"This makes the third time she's done it," Mrs. Williams said, "-not touched her food."

Dorothy Kingery regarded the sandwich on her plate. "Sonny says he'll call from the courthouse as soon as there's word. I hope we can hear the telephone from in here."

"I don't know how she knows," Mrs. Williams mused softly. "But she always knows."

Jim Williams suddenly closed the auction catalog and stood up. "I've got an idea!" he said. "We'll eat lunch on the dishes from the Nanking Cargo. Just for good luck."

He took several blue-and-white plates out of the breakfront cabinet and pa.s.sed them around the table. His mother and his sister transferred their sandwiches from their plain white plates to the blue-and-white plates. The blue-and-white plates had been part of a huge s.h.i.+pment of Chinese export porcelain that had been lost in the South China Sea in 1752 and salvaged in 1983. Williams had bought several dozen plates, cups, and bowls at a highly publicized Christie's auction, and they had arrived at Mercer House within the past few weeks.

"These plates have been sitting on the bottom of the ocean for two hundred and thirty years," he said, "but they're still brand-new. When they were found they were in their original packing crates. They're in mint condition. No one has ever eaten off them before. We're the first. Funny way to preserve dishes, isn't it?"

Mrs. Williams lifted her sandwich and looked at her plate.

"You can't fool a cat," she said.

Two weeks earlier, on the first day of Williams's third trial, the outcome had seemed a foregone conclusion-so much so that the Savannah Morning News Savannah Morning News had announced in a weary headline, had announced in a weary headline, WILLIAMS FACES YET ANOTHER CONVICTION FOR MURDER. WILLIAMS FACES YET ANOTHER CONVICTION FOR MURDER. The jury of nine women and three men seemed predisposed to hand down a third conviction; all of them, having been subjected to six years of relentless publicity, admitted that they knew about the case and were aware that two prior juries had already found Williams guilty. The tension and suspense of the first two trials had given way to a feeling of grim inevitability. Television cameras were stationed outside the courthouse once again, but this time the spectator benches in the courtroom were only half full. Prentiss Crowe declared he would not even bother to read the news reports, it was all becoming such a bore. "It's the same old story over and over," he said, "like reruns of The jury of nine women and three men seemed predisposed to hand down a third conviction; all of them, having been subjected to six years of relentless publicity, admitted that they knew about the case and were aware that two prior juries had already found Williams guilty. The tension and suspense of the first two trials had given way to a feeling of grim inevitability. Television cameras were stationed outside the courthouse once again, but this time the spectator benches in the courtroom were only half full. Prentiss Crowe declared he would not even bother to read the news reports, it was all becoming such a bore. "It's the same old story over and over," he said, "like reruns of I Love Lucy." I Love Lucy."

The courthouse flack was among those who did attend. He sat slumped in his seat with one arm hooked over the back as if to keep himself from sliding off onto the floor. As usual, he was an oracle of courthouse wisdom and rumor. "Jim Williams's guilt or innocence is no longer the issue," he said. "Spencer Lawton's incompetence is the issue. The question on everybody's mind is, How long will he keep s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up? I mean, this case is getting to be like a bad bullfight. Lawton's the matador who can't finish off the bull. Twice now, he's plunged the sword in, but the bull's still on his feet, and the fans are getting restless. Lawton looks ridiculous."

The prosecution led off with its by-now familiar repertory company of witnesses-the police photographer, the officers who came to Mercer House the night of the shooting, the lab technicians. Each responded to Spencer Lawton's questions, then submitted to cross-examination by Sonny Seiler, and left the stand. Judge Oliver nodded sleepily on the bench. The courthouse flack yawned.

"What part did you play in the removal of the body from Mercer House?" Lawton asked Detective Joseph Jordan, as he had in each of the first two trials.

"I bagged the hands," Jordan answered.

"Could you explain to the jury what you mean by bagging the hands and what the purpose for that would be?"

"Anytime there is a shooting," said Detective Jordan, "and you have reason to believe that a dead person has fired a weapon, paper bags are placed over the hands to prevent any foreign substance from getting on the hands and contaminating them, or any gunpowder residue-if there is any-from being accidentally wiped off."

A poker-faced Sonny Seiler cross-examined the unsuspecting Detective Jordan.

"What kind of bags did you use?"

"Paper bags."

"What did you bind them with?"

"I believe it was evidence tape."

"Are you absolutely sure those hands were bagged before they left the house?"

"I bagged them," said Jordan.

When the prosecution rested its case, Sonny Seiler rose to summon his first witness.

"Call Marilyn Case," he said.

A fresh face! A new witness! A change in the script! The courthouse flack leaned forward in his seat. Judge Oliver opened both eyes. Lawton and his a.s.sistant exchanged wary glances.

She was curly-headed and blond, about forty, and she wore a gray suit with a white silk blouse. She said she had worked as a nurse at Candler Hospital for fifteen years; before that, she had served as a.s.sistant coroner of Chatham County. Yes, she had been on duty in the Candler emergency room when Danny Hansford's body was brought in. Seiler handed her a copy of the hospital admissions sheet, then strode nonchalantly past Spencer Lawton and dropped another copy on the table in front of him. While Lawton and his a.s.sistant huddled over the piece of paper, Seiler placed a blowup of it on an easel in front of the jury and went on with his questioning.

"Let me ask you, Ms. Case, if you recognize this doc.u.ment."

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Is that your handwriting on it?"

"Yes, sir, it is."

"Tell this jury, Ms. Case, ma'am, whether or not Danny Hansford's hands were bagged when you received him at the hospital."

"No, sir, they were not."

A murmur of surprise swept the courtroom. Judge Oliver gaveled the room to silence.

"All right, Ms. Case," Seiler went on, "so you bagged the hands yourself?"

"Yes, I did."

"How did you do it?"

"I got two plastic garbage bags, put them over both hands, and wrapped adhesive tape around the wrists."

After a brief and faltering cross-examination by a shaken Spencer Lawton, Marilyn Case stepped down from the stand. Seiler next called Dr. Stone, the forensic pathologist. Dr. Stone said that because Hansford's hands had not been bagged before he was moved to the hospital, all traces of gunshot residue could easily have been wiped off. He then added gently that by using plastic garbage bags instead of paper bags, the well-meaning Marilyn Case had actually made matters worse. "Plastic bags are an absolute no-no," he said. "They create static electricity, which can actually pull particles from the hand. Furthermore, if the body is then placed in a refrigerated morgue bin for five hours, as Hansford's body was, condensation forms inside the plastic bag, and water just kinda runs off the hands."

"In light of all that," Seiler asked, "are you surprised that there was no gunshot residue on Hansford's hand?"

"I'd be surprised if there had had been any," said Dr. Stone. been any," said Dr. Stone.

Television stations cut into their afternoon programming with the news flash: "Shocking new evidence has come to light in the Jim Williams murder trial .... The district attorney has been taken by complete surprise .... Word around the courthouse is that Williams will walk ...." Later that night, Sonny Seiler arrived at the 1790 restaurant for dinner and received a standing ovation.

Lawton, having lost the use of his leading piece of evidence, s.h.i.+fted gears for his final argument. "We don't need the gunshot-residue test to prove that Jim Williams is guilty," he said. "It's only one piece of evidence among many." Point by point, he enumerated the surviving evidence against Jim Williams: the placement of bullet fragments, the bits of paper on the gun, the trajectory of fire, the chair leg on Hansford's pants, the blood on Hansford's hand but no blood on his gun. In particular, he focused on the thirty-six-minute gap between the time Hansford was shot and Williams's call to the police. "What did Jim Williams do in that thirty-six minutes?" Lawton asked. "I'll tell you what he did. He got another gun, went over to where Danny was lying, and shot a bullet into the desk. Then he pulled Danny's hand out from under his body and put it over the gun. What did he do for the balance of the time? I'll tell you what he did: He went around the house selectively destroying furniture!" selectively destroying furniture!"

Lawton held up the police photographs of the interior of Mercer House. "This is the grandfather clock Danny Hansford allegedly knocked over. It's facedown in the hall. Notice how the base of the clock is still very close to the wall. I submit that's not where it would be if a strong twenty-one-year-old like Danny Hansford had thrown it over in a violent rage. It would have hit that tile floor and skittered down the hall. But it's barely moved out from the wall. That's because Jim Williams did it. He leaned the clock over carefully and let it drop from a few inches off the floor, high enough to crack the case and break the gla.s.s. But not high enough to damage it beyond repair. If you recall, Jim Williams told you he was able to restore it and sell it.

"Now let's see what other damage was done. A chair and a table were turned over. A silver tray was knocked off a table. An Atari set was stomped, and a half-pint of bourbon was smashed. The total damage being, what, a hundred twenty dollars and seventeen cents? I don't know. But I ask you to look at all the expensive antiques that weren't weren't broken, chests, tables, paintings-worth fifty thousand dollars, a hundred thousand dollars. Ask yourself whether a young man on a murderous rampage, tearing up furniture in the home of somebody who loved antiques, would have stopped at the trifling damage he did. Of course not. That furniture was broken, if you will, by a man who loved it-by Jim Williams." broken, chests, tables, paintings-worth fifty thousand dollars, a hundred thousand dollars. Ask yourself whether a young man on a murderous rampage, tearing up furniture in the home of somebody who loved antiques, would have stopped at the trifling damage he did. Of course not. That furniture was broken, if you will, by a man who loved it-by Jim Williams."

The solemn faces in the jury box gave every indication that Lawton had recouped at least some of the ground he had lost earlier. Lawton's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "What Jim Williams didn't didn't do in those thirty-six minutes was call for an ambulance. He's been described as a compa.s.sionate man who makes contributions to the Humane Society. Well, he didn't even call the Humane Society to come check on Danny Hansford." A young female juror wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. "We can spot them the gunshot-residue test," Lawton said. "We don't need it to convict Jim Williams." do in those thirty-six minutes was call for an ambulance. He's been described as a compa.s.sionate man who makes contributions to the Humane Society. Well, he didn't even call the Humane Society to come check on Danny Hansford." A young female juror wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. "We can spot them the gunshot-residue test," Lawton said. "We don't need it to convict Jim Williams."

By the end of the day, the palpable s.h.i.+ft in the jury's mood had alarmed Sonny Seiler. Lawton had effectively rebuilt his case around the surviving pieces of physical evidence, diverting attention from the embarra.s.sment of the bagged hands. There was nothing Seiler could do about it now; he had already rested his case and delivered his closing argument. The judge sent the jury home for the night. The next morning he read his instructions, and the jury retired to consider its verdict.

Back at Mercer House, the Williamses finished their sandwiches in silence. Mrs. Williams folded her napkin and gazed out the window. Dorothy fidgeted with a spoon. Williams flipped through the Sotheby's catalog, not really reading.

The telephone rang. It was Sonny Seiler reporting that the jury was having hamburgers for lunch. At four-thirty, Seiler called again to say that the jury had asked to have a dictionary sent in. One of the jurors did not know the meaning of the word "malice."

At five-thirty, Judge Oliver sent the jury home for the weekend, still deadlocked. Seiler had learned from the bailiffs, who were notorious for prying and telling tales, that the jurors were evenly split. Deliberations resumed at ten o'clock Monday morning. Around noon Seiler noticed that the bailiffs had suddenly stopped talking to him. They averted their eyes when he pa.s.sed in the corridor. It was an ominous sign. "That means a decision is coming down in favor of the prosecution," he said.

By three o'clock, the split had widened to 11-to-1 in favor of conviction. The forewoman of the jury sent a note to the judge. "There is one person who refuses to change her mind no matter what we say or do." Within minutes, the bailiffs let it be known that the lone holdout was a woman named Cecilia Tyo, a feisty divorcee in her late fifties. Mrs. Tyo had told the other jurors that years ago she had found herself in a life-and-death situation not unlike the one Jim Williams described. Her live-in boyfriend had come into the kitchen in a drunken rage and tried to strangle her while she was cooking dinner. Just as she was about to black out, she grabbed a fillet knife and stabbed him in the ribs, wounding but not killing him. Mrs. Tyo said she understood the meaning of "self-defense" better than anyone else on the jury, and she would not change her vote. "My three children are all grown up," she said. "I don't have to go home and cook. I don't have any responsibilities. I can stay here as long as any of you can."

At five o'clock, the judge summoned all parties into the courtroom. Williams came from Mercer House, Seiler from his office. The jury took its place in the jury box. Mrs. Tyo, her white hair wound in a bun, sat with her jaw set, staring sullenly at the floor. She neither looked at nor spoke to the other jurors.

"Madam Foreman, have you arrived at a verdict?"

"I'm sorry, Your Honor," the forewoman said, "we have not."

"Do you believe that if you deliberate further you will get a verdict?"

"I'm beginning to believe, Your Honor, that we could deliberate until h.e.l.l freezes over and not get a verdict."

Sonny Seiler moved for a mistrial, but Judge Oliver brusquely denied it. Instead, over Seiler's objections, he read a "Dynamite Charge" to the jury, which essentially told them in blunt terms to stop dawdling and come to a unanimous decision. He then adjourned the proceedings until ten o'clock the next morning, admonis.h.i.+ng the jurors, as he had done many times before, not to read, listen to, or watch news reports of the trial, and not to discuss the case with anyone.

Jim Williams drove home from the courthouse, but instead of going inside, he walked across the street into Monterey Square and sat down on a bench next to Minerva.

"My lawyers have f.u.c.ked up again," he said. "There's only one juror who's still on my side. It's a woman."

"How strong is she?" Minerva asked.

"I don't know. She's pretty ornery, I think, but she'll be under a lot of pressure tonight. The D.A. knows who she is, and he's desperate to break her. We've got to stop him."

"Do you know where she live at?"