Authors: Harry N. MacLean
"That one is $10,775," said the salesman.
"Reckon you could throw in a grill guard, since I'm paying cash?" asked McElroy.
"No," said the salesman. "That would be another $175."
McElroy pulled a four-inch-thick wad of money from his shirt pocket, dropped it on the desk, and laughed, saying, "You better count it, I'm a little illiterate." When the salesman finished counting, he had $9,000 sitting in a pile on his desk.
McElroy and Fred came back the next day, December 23, with the rest of the cash. McElroy was in a good mood. When the transaction was completed, he said, "A man sure could use a Christmas present or two for making a good deal in a place like this." The salesman went to the manager's office and came back with a box of candy and a bottle of Jack Daniel's.
McElroy thanked him, then climbed into his powerful, shiny new truck and drove off.
In January, the Nodaway County earth lay cold and dormant. A light snow had settled on the frozen ponds and the hillsides were blanketed in a white dust. Abandoned by the geese, deer, and other creatures in the closing days of autumn, the fields stood empty of man and animal, except perhaps for a cow wandering here or there. The shattered cornstalks of the previous year's harvest formed a dirty yellow stubble against the white snow. The skies remained the same leaden gray, day after day, casting a dull light without shadow, freezing the landscape in a black-and-white still frame. The only movement came from the icy wind blowing across the fields, swirling shreds of leaves and stalks in its wake.
Behind the large farmhouses, the tall walnut trees stood black and naked, their skinny limbs fanning out in veined symmetry against the gray sky. The squirrels' nests, built the previous fall, sat low in the crotches of the limbs, like well-anchored clots, in anticipation of a long, hard winter. The big machines of planting and harvest, the tractors and combines and grain trucks, hunkered in the barns and sheds, hibernating through the frozen months. The farmyards were quiet except for the clatter of hogs hitting their metal feeders and the occasional rumbling of a pickup, the only vehicle that still fired up and roamed the hard earth.
Nestled among the trees, the farmhouses offered the solace of heat and light. The days were short and the months long, and the farmers had settled easily into winter's peaceful lethargy.
A few miles east on Route V, a man and a woman tramped through frozen pastures until they came to a fence in front of a small hill. The man set three beer cans on the fence post, then took a .22-caliber pistol and a box of shells from his pocket. Patiently, he showed his wife how to load the shells, work the safety, hold the gun for a steady aim, and squeeze the trigger. He would be leaving for the stock show in Denver in a few weeks,
and she had insisted that he teach her how to shoot the pistol before he left. She had never met Ken McElroy, but she knew he scared her husband. He told her how, when he helped out behind the bar at the tavern, he avoided looking at McElroy. She could handle a rifle and a shotgun, but she wanted to be able to shoot a man coming down the hall to her bedroom. She practiced shooting until her arms were so tired she could no longer hold the pistol level.
The Strattons continued to face the harassment stoically, trying to ignore McElroy. Stratton's captain had complained to the attorney general's office but was told nothing could be done. The McElroys continued to appear in the driveway and the St. Joe police continued to spot-check the area, but the tan Buick always left before the police arrived. Then, one Sunday morning, McElroy finally pushed the Strattons too far.
Stratton had left early to work the highways with a spotter plane. Before Margaret got ready for church, she had moved the Monte Carlo from the garage to the driveway to warm it up a bit in the winter sun. Now, dressed in a suit, she went out, locking the back door and dropping the house key into her purse. She crossed the deck and was starting down the stairs when she saw the tan Buick in the driveway, right behind the Monte Carlo. Her first impulse was to rush back into the house, but she knew finding her key quickly would be difficult. As she hesitated, wondering whether to turn back or go on, she noticed about six inches of a double-barreled shotgun poking out of the driver's window, angled in her direction. Inside the car, she could see the red light moving up and down the scanner, and McElroy's thick right hand clutching a red-and-white beer can. Trena sat beside him, unmoving.
Finally, Margaret decided to call McElroy's bluff. Her legs shaking, her hand gripping the rail, she slowly descended the stairs. As she walked by the Buick, passing within a few feet of the gun barrel, McElroy stared at her. For an instant she looked back into his flat eyes, without flinching. She got in the car and sat still for a second. Well, I've got my best clothes on, she thought. If he shoots me, I'll be in good shape for the hospital and the funeral parlor. She turned the key and started the car, but she was so nervous that her leg jumped, and the engine died. She started the car again, thinking that if he didn't back up, she would push the button to open the garage door and pull forward. When she shifted into reverse, McElroy started the Buick and began backing slowly out of the driveway.
Margaret drove to the Greenhills Shopping Center to pick up some items before going to church. McElroy followed, staying about five or six feet behind her. Inside the store, standing at the checkout counter, she looked out the window and saw the Buick parked next to her Monte Carlo. I can't even go to church in peace anymore, she thought angrily.
After telling the clerk what was happening, she asked for the number of the patrol. The two women fumbled unsuccessfully in the phone book until the manager came over. By then, Margaret was running late and realized that she might miss church. Besides, McElroy had already pointed the gun at her and hadn't pulled the trigger. She thanked the clerk, picked up her sack, and left. As she walked by the Buick, McElroy crushed an empty beer can and dropped it in her path, staring at her with that empty, expressionless look. Trena looked straight ahead as Margaret got in her car.
As she drove out of the parking lot, Margaret decided she had had enough. She pulled onto the beltway and drove to Troop H headquarters.
"Where's five-oh-seven?" she demanded of the sergeant at the desk when she walked in.
"He's out working the airplane," the officer responded.
"Well," said Margaret, "Ken McElroy was sitting in my driveway with a shotgun this morning when I left for church, and now he's following me, and I've had it. I can't take it anymore!"
"Do you have a CB in your car?" the sergeant asked.
"Yes," said Margaret.
"Turn it to channel nine and go on ahead to church," said the sergeant. "I'll contact the plane and the patrol car."
The Buick was nowhere around when she drove out, but about two miles away she saw it sitting at a stop sign, waiting for her, as if McElroy had a map of her route. When she drove past, the Buick pulled out and swung in behind her. Just then she heard the plane overhead.
"Can you see the plane?" the Troop H dispatcher asked on the radio.
"Yes," she replied.
"We've got you under surveillance," he said. "Just keep on going to church."
The plane hovered overhead, while she drove to church. After a block or two, the Buick dropped from her rear-view mirror. McElroy had undoubtedly picked up the transmission from the dispatcher.
Stratton decided that the harassment had gone on long enough. Only a few days earlier, McElroy had blocked the entrance to the parking lot at St. Francis Hospital and made Vicki late for work.
Stratton's captain, Fred Roam, cared about his men and tried to help with any problems they might be having. "How is Margaret taking it?" he would ask Stratton. "Is there anything we can do?"
Once, Captain Roam had asked Stratton why somebody hadn't already shot the son of a bitch.
"You trained us too well for that," Stratton responded, the frustration showing in his voice.
Now, Stratton explained to the captain, the time had finally come to do something about Ken McElroy. Stratton had no intention of embarrassing the patrol, and he would be happy to resign before carrying out his plan. He would also listen to any alternatives the captain had.
Roam didn't want Stratton to resign, but neither did he want to hear about the plan. "Be careful," he said. "Don't do anything rash."
Later, Stratton ticked off a mental list of McElroy's buddies and selected a character McElroy had run with for many years and would probably listen to. Both men had supposedly been involved in killing a man some years earlier in St. Joe by stretching him over a set of railroad tracks minutes before a train came. Stratton found his quarry in the lobby of a seedy hotel frequented by winos and prostitutes and other lowlifes in the industrial part of St. Joe.
"What do you want?" the man asked nervously as Stratton approached him.
"Come outside," Stratton said. "I want to talk to you."
When they reached the sidewalk, Stratton told him they were going for a ride and ordered him to get in the patrol car. Stratton headed north on Waterworks Road, an isolated stretch of gravel road that ran along the river bottoms below the bluffs. As he drove, Stratton told the lowlife what McElroy had been doing. He then explained that the harassment was over, that he wasn't going to put up with it anymore.
"That shit's going to stop," said Stratton. "I could set McElroy up and blow him away and be all legal about it, and it's very near to happening. Darkness will cover me as well as it'll cover him."
"Why are you telling me?" the man asked. "Why would I care what he's doing?"
Stratton looked at him and said nothing. They rode in silence for five minutes, then Stratton turned the patrol car around and headed back to the hotel.
Neither Stratton nor McElroy ever found out whether Stratton was indeed capable of setting a man up and shooting him down in cold blood. The phone calls, the appearances in the driveway, the visits to the Pamida store, all stopped. As Stratton had always believed, McElroy couldn't handle strength.
As McElroy's February 5, 1981, trial date approached, his case did not look good. Bo was still alive and well and seemingly as determined as ever. McElroy needed a break, and he needed time for the break to happen. In short, he needed a continuance.
On January 22, 1981, two weeks before trial, a powerful state senator named Richard Webster filed papers with the court stating that he had been retained by McElroy on January 5 to represent him in the case. Webster also sought a continuance, alleging that the Missouri General Assembly would be in session on February 4, and that his attendance would be required there.
Webster was invoking a law referred to as the legislative continuance statute, certainly one of the most self-serving laws ever adopted by any legislative body in this country. The law provided that in any criminal or civil case pending in the state courts, a continuance would be granted if the lawyer for either party was a member of the general assembly, if the assembly was then in session, and if the attendance of the lawyer was necessary to a fair and proper trial or other proceeding in the suit. The lawyer-legislator had only to file an affidavit setting forth the above facts, and the court had to continue the trial until ten days after the general assembly adjourns. The Missouri Supreme Court had held that a judge cannot question the legitimacy or truthfulness of a legislator's assertions. Thus, any party who wanted a case continued could hire a lawyer-legislator during the session, and the continuance would be automatically granted.
McFadin had played the game beautifully, of course. First, he got the case continued from December 5, 1980, into the legislative session, which began on January 6, 1981. Then, he retained a lawyer-legislator to obtain a continuance past the legislative session. McFadin did not hesitate to use this statute to obtain continuances for clients in criminal cases. In fact, he used it as often as once or twice a year, and he made no apologies for it. In his view, he was simply using an appropriate procedural tool to advance his client's case. Technically, McFadin believed that the legislator-lawyer need never actually appear in court or participate in the proceedings, but he always insisted, as a matter of ethics, that the legislator actually participate in the case.
The hearing on the motion for a continuance was held on January 27, 1981. Judge Donelson understood what was happening, and he wasn't happy about it. He stated plainly that if Webster didn't participate in the trial, he would be held in contempt of court. With no other choice, Donelson continued the case to June 25, 1981. Thus, in a county where the average criminal cases went to trial in thirty to sixty days, McElroy's first-degree assault case had been delayed for almost a year.
February could be the coldest month of the year. The ground was frozen solid, and the temperature often hovered around zero. The chill,
damp winds swept unhindered across the fields and through the valleys. Although spring was only a month away, the countryside lay in the depth of winter, the trough of the lull before the new cycle began.