That Night at the Palace (19 page)

Naturally the journalists were reluctant to leave and asked a barrage of questions, none of which Cockwright was capable of answering. The most notable and obvious question was, “Does this mean that the ‘Alligator Killer’ is still on the loose?”

To Primrose’s amusement, Nathaniel had to do a lot of sidestepping on that one. He was quite proud of the label he’d put on the killer and insisted that Primrose and Coleman reference the moniker to every newspaper they called. Now it had quite ironically, come back to bite him. Still, ever the politician, Cockwright managed to get everyone out the door, including his two deputies to help manage the ever-growing disaster.

Once all of the reporters were safely out, Cockwright turned to Jefferson and Brewster and demanded, “What are the two of you doing to me?”

Jefferson looked at Brewster and the Ranger simply shrugged and said, “The kid’s daddy has a lawyer on the way here, and with what we’ve got on the boy, the case would be tossed out in no time anyway.”

“That is for me to decide, not you,” the now fuming C.A. shouted.

Brewster glanced over Nathaniel’s shoulder through the wide glass front window at the reporters. Sensing he was being watched, the C.A. regained his composure and glanced back at the reporters with his broadest smile.

“Look, you two nincompoops, this is my case. I want every detail.” He looked at Jefferson. “Get me your report.”

Jefferson went over to his filing cabinet. He had spent two hours the night before typing the thing up. This was, by far, the longest, most detailed, and most difficult report he’d ever written.

“And you,” Cockwright said to Brewster, “you’re no longer on this case. The sheriff’s department is taking over. Your captain should be calling. I spoke to the director this morning.”

Jefferson handed the report to Cockwright, which amounted to one single spaced typewritten page, “That’s it. Not much to it.”

Cockwright took the paper and began reading.

“My captain,” Brewster began, “called just before you got here. I was waiting for the chief to return before heading back to Dallas.”

Cockwright glared at Brewster and then looked back down at the page. He knew McKinney was being sly.

After a moment Cockwright said, “Let me get this straight. He threatened the victim at the movie and then attacked him over something to do with a girl. Then the two were together at the bridge at the time the murder took place?”

Brewster crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter behind the chief’s desk.

“Well, yes,” Jefferson replied, “but there’s more to it.”

“What?”

Jefferson thought and then answered, “Well, there was this killing a few years back.”

“The murder was the night before last!”

“I know, but…” Jefferson looked over at Brewster for help.

Brewster smiled, “I think what the Chief is trying to say is that the kid didn’t do it.”

“How can you say that?” Cockwright demanded again in a voice loud enough to be heard outside.

Brewster smiled at the reporters who were straining to hear and then replied in a calmer, more even voice, “We know because we are professional law enforcement officers, and we know when we’ve got our man. That kid is not our man.”

Cockwright almost blew his top. “Professionals? You two couldn’t solve this case if the killer walked in here and confessed. In this county I can get a conviction in five minutes with what I have right here in my hand.

“Now see here,” he said to Brewster, “you’re off the case and I want you out of this town today.”

Then he turned to Jefferson. “Right now, you’re going to take me to this kid’s house where we’re going to arrest him for the murder of,” he looked back at the report, “Cliff Tidwell.”

Jefferson looked at Brewster, having gained a little nerve from working with the Ranger and then looked at Cockwright. “I don’t work for you. If you want to arrest him, go do it yourself.”

The C.A.’s eyes lit up again, but then he glanced over his shoulder and smiled at the reporters. He then looked back at Jefferson and Brewster and said calmly, “You two mark my words. By the time I’m finished with this case I’ll have both of your badges. Now, where does this kid live?”

“Go a block up Main, turn right to Red Oak. It’s 301, on the corner. You can’t miss it.”

The County Attorney glared at the two and turned to head out the door.

“My report, Mr. Cockfight?” Jefferson asked.

Cockwright stopped at the door, took a deep breath, and looked back at Jefferson.

“My report. I need it for my files. I’ll make you a copy and get it to you later today.”

The C.A.’s eyes were red with anger as he handed the paper to Jefferson, and then he put his smile back on and headed out the door.

Jefferson felt some pride as the turned to look at Brewster.

“Well, Chief,” Brewster offered, “I believe that between the two of us we have a pretty good enemy in that C.A.”

They watched out the window as Cockwright, along with his deputies and the sheriff’s deputies, got into their cars and pulled away, followed by the throng of reporters.

“Poor Jesse,” the chief commented.

“Yeah, we should probably go get him.”

Jefferson looked at Brewster, “You didn’t send him home?”

“He’s on the roof waiting for us to get him down.”

A few moments later Jefferson and Brewster were standing at the base of the storm drain as Jesse shimmied down from the roof of the police station.

“Now, what do we do?” Jefferson asked Brewster.

“Well, I’ve got to go back to my headquarters in Dallas, but the case is still yours as far as the Rangers are concerned. If you want me back, you just need to call my HQ, but it’ll probably be a good idea for me to stay out of town a few days while that Cockwright fellow cools down.”

Jesse came to the ground between the two men.

“What about Jesse? I can’t take him home.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“What do you mean, I can’t go home?” Jesse asked.

“The C.A. wants to make a name for himself by puttin’ you in jail for killing Cliff. They’re at your house right now, so we got to get you out of here as soon as we can.”

Jesse’s face showed the fear he felt.

“Can they do that?”

“They’re going to try, but we know you didn’t do it,” Brewster explained. “You know more than you’re tellin’, but you’re not a murderer. But they’re going to give you the chair if you don’t open up.”

Jesse looked him in the eye. He fought the urge to cry but just shook his head.

“Okay. We’ve got to take you somewhere to keep you out of their hands. Is there a friend who you can stay with? Someone out of town?”

Jesse just shook his head.

“Chief?”

“Nothin’ comes to mind.”

“Wait. I know where I can go,” Jesse replied.

Just as Jesse started to say where, Jefferson stopped him. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to have to lie to the C.A.”

“Okay, I’ll take you,” Brewster offered. “Chief, I suspect you need to get ready. That C.A.’s gonna be back here screaming at you in a minute.”

Jefferson smile. “I’m beginning to enjoy rufflin’ his feathers’.”

#

Police Chief Thomas Jefferson Hightower had just enough time to make some fresh coffee and sit down behind his desk before his eminence, County Attorney Nathaniel Cockwright, came barging into his office demanding to know exactly where Jesse was hiding. The C.A., of course, didn’t believe him when he said that he had no idea.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doin’, Chief Hightower, but this isn’t over. I’m going to get that kid.”

“Anything I can do to help,” replied Hightower with a smile as the C.A. stormed out the door and got into one of the cars and drove away.

#

About ten minutes later Brewster, with Jesse beside him, drove his coupe through a small community of about a hundred homes. The streets were all reddish dirt, and most of the homes needed some repair. There were lots of kids about playing, and most of the homes had large porches with one or two adults sitting on rocking chairs, shucking peas and carving potatoes. Every face Brewster saw was black.

At Jesse’s direction Brewster turned down a long narrow road that went on for about a quarter of a mile and ended at a single house. On the porch sat an old black man, alone in a rocking chair. The man had a stern face and the cold look of someone who had experienced a hard life. Brewster had seen such men many times. Most were criminals, but a few were Rangers. It struck him that there was often a fine line between bandit and lawman.

As the car approached, the old man stood. Brewster noted that he had only one leg.

“Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” Jesse replied.

“You’re not going to be able to hide out long. That C.A.’s not going to give up. He’ll be here looking for you.”

“I suspect they’ll get me at the funeral,” Jesse replied drily.

“Funeral?”

“I’m going to Cliff’s funeral.”

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t thought about that. I’d hoped we could keep you out of their hands until I got back.”

Jesse shrugged. “I can’t miss the funeral. He was my best friend.”

“No, of course not,” Brewster replied. “Your dad’s lawyer will be in town soon. I’ll call Chief Hightower and have him get in touch with this lawyer and fill him in on everything. I’ll have Hightower come get you Wednesday morning and take you home. You can see your parents and meet with the lawyer. He’ll probably have you turn yourself in after the funeral.”

“Okay.”

Brewster looked at the stern-faced old man on the porch. “Are you sure you’ll be alright here?”

Jesse smiled, “Cherokee’s my friend. I’ll be okay.”

“Cherokee?”

“Folks call him Cherokee-One-Leg because he’s half Indian. His real name’s Julius Caeser Bradford. His mom was Arapaho. People around here don’t know the difference, so they’ve been callin’ him Cherokee since he was a kid.”

“Now I remember him.”

Jesse stepped out of the car and reached back to shake Brewster’s hand.

“Thank you, Corporal.”

“We’re going to get you out of this, kid, but you’re going to have to tell us what you know.”

Jesse looked him in the eye. “I wish I could help, but I can’t.”

Chapter 9

PLEASANT GROVE, TEXAS

July 7, 1936

J
esse and Cliff rumbled along through the old black community in the noisy old Model-T truck. It had taken almost a week to get the thing running. They had ransacked almost every Model-T in East Texas for parts. Jewel’s father’s old truck had a good fuel pump, distributer, carburetor, and gas tank, but both trucks had rusted-out radiators. As it turned out, there were a lot of old Model-T’s around; many were still running, but the ones that didn’t run almost always had a rusted-out radiator. Finally they learned that Mrs. Bertha Greer, Jesse’s and Cliff’s Sunday School teacher, had an old Model-T car sitting in an over-grown shed in the woods behind her house.

All three of them went to check it out before talking to Mrs. Greer, partly because they expected it to be rusted just like the others, but mostly because the boys knew full well that before she would let them so much as look at it, she’d make them go home and memorize a half dozen scripture verses. So far, Jesse and Cliff, mostly Cliff, had managed to get through Mrs. Greer’s class with memorizing almost no verses, with the exception of the mandatory John 3:16, Romans 3:23, and Romans 10:13 - there was no escaping having to memorize those three. Jesse and Cliff, again mostly Cliff, always managed to find something to help Brother Bill with that required their immediate attention at the time during class that was allotted to scripture memory. They regularly volunteered to set up or put away the folding chairs in the “fellowship hall” or pour water into the baptism tank.

The boys had pretty good success in avoiding Mrs. Greer’s memorizing assignments, but that was mostly because Brother Bill made sure the boys had something to keep them occupied. About a year earlier they had volunteered to help fill the baptism tank, which had to be filled by hand since there was no running water in the church. The tank itself was a modern marvel and had been purchased from Sears and Roebuck and installed right behind the choir loft. Unfortunately, since almost everybody in Elza had already been baptized, the new tank didn’t get a lot of use, especially in the summer months when the water level tended to go down due to evaporation. The tank also tended to leak into the choir robe room. So when they did have someone to baptize, the tank had to be re-filled. This particular task was not one that the boys preferred to volunteer for, but carrying buckets of water was still better than getting any more of Mrs. Greer’s memorization assignments. That summer Sunday morning the boys told Brother Bill that they would be happy to fill the tank. It was a considerable amount of work, requiring the boys to fill three gallon buckets at Mrs. Williamson’s well next door and carry them into the back of the building and then pour them into the tank.

That particular Sunday had been right after the annual spring revival, and there were five freshly saved lives to be baptized. The group, all members of the same family, had recently moved to Elza from over in Louisiana. They had previously been Presbyterians, but Elza didn’t have a Presbyterian church, so they all needed to be re-baptized to become full-fledged, honest-to-God Baptists.

Jesse and Cliff had just finished their first trip with a bucket when Cliff had noticed Brother Bill’s fishing waders hanging in the dressing room behind the sanctuary next to the baptism tank. Brother Bill would put on the rubber waders so that, rather than completely disrobing to baptize the newly saved Christians, all he had to do was pull the waders over his pants and put on a white robe over his dress-shirt. That way, while the choir sang Amazing Grace, which they did after every baptism, all Brother Bill would have to do is take off his robe and waders, put on his suit coat, and walk out just after the chorus and deliver his sermon.

By the third time the boys passed the waders hanging on the wall, Cliff could no longer resist the opportunity and took out his pocketknife to cut a small hole in the seat of the rubber waders. Later, when Brother Bill had stepped into the pool to baptize the five newly saved believers his rubber pants began to fill with water. The professional that he was, he never let on before anyone, but as the choir sang it had taken almost all five new Christians/Baptists to help him climb out of the tank. Worse still, he had to borrow some trousers from the newly baptized - Baptist style - believers to deliver his sermon. So that Sunday he had stood in front of the whole congregation wearing his black suit coat and a pair of tan pants that were eight inches too short.

Naturally, the pastor knew exactly who was responsible, regardless of how innocent the boys tried to appear. The following week the two drained the tank, which again had to be done by hand. They then scrubbed the tank, helped repair the leak, and then re-filled the tank, which took almost a full day. After that Brother Bill made sure that the boys had tasks to perform each Sunday morning. Little did he know that he was doing them a favor by getting them out of Mrs. Greer’s class right before she issued memorization assignments.

So when Jesse, Cliff, and Jewel saw that Mrs. Greer’s Model-T sedan had not only a good radiator but also four wheels with no broken spokes and a seat that was in almost new condition, they had no choice but to go knocking on her door. It took considerably less begging than Jesse or Cliff would have thought. Mrs. Greer was delighted to let the three kids have parts off the old car. The car had belonged to her late husband, God rest his soul, and since he had sold the motor out of it for parts before he died the thing was doing nothing but rusting away.

They were just about home free without the subject of scripture memory even coming when Jewel asked, “Is there anything you would like us to do for you, Mrs. Greer?”

If Cliff had owned a gun he would have shot her right then and there. Another moment and they would have gotten away without so much as quoting the words, “Jesus wept,” had Jewel managed to keep her big mouth shut.

As a result of Jewel’s generosity, the two boys were given the memorization list for the entire summer. Jewel was exempt from the task because her family went to the Methodist church, so Mrs. Greer didn’t feel responsible for her spiritual development. Mrs. Greer had never met Jewel but confessed to be extremely impressed at what a thoughtful young lady she was when she promised, to Cliff’s chagrin, to make sure that the boys worked on their memorization every day.

Nevertheless, regardless of how much it ended up costing them, the little stake bed Ford turned out to run pretty well. To drive it the boys had to wire a couple of two-by-four blocks to the pedals because Jewel was the only one tall enough to reach the floorboard. And of course the top had long since rotted away, so when it rained, which wasn’t often, they got wet. But aside from the occasional backfire and a lot of noise, the truck rolled along just fine.

In fact, the only problem they had at all was getting tires, but Cliff solved that issue by offering to make three free deliveries per tire for George Henry McMillan. Cliff wanted one delivery per tire, but the fact was that they were in no position to negotiate. They weren’t going anywhere without tires, and George Henry was the only person in Elza with tires for sale.

The day they finally got it running they proudly drove right down Main Street on a busy Saturday afternoon to show off their achievement. Of course, by then everyone in Elza knew what the kids were up to, mostly because they had gone through every shed and barn in town looking for parts. Still, they made quite a show with Cliff at the wheel as they triumphantly demonstrated their mechanical skills. There had been quite a debate as to who had the right to be the first to drive the truck. Jewel made a good case for herself given that without her father’s truck they would probably still be looking for parts. Jesse’s argument was probably the weakest, but it was he who found out that Mrs. Greer had a Model-T in the woods behind her house. Cliff shot that one down because he, rightly, figured that they would have found it sooner or later. In the end Jewel had to give way to Cliff, even though he wasn’t tall enough to reach the pedals, another argument in Jewel’s favor, but fixing the truck had been Cliff’s idea. All things considered, building up that old truck was nothing short of genius as far as all three were concerned.

The possibility of the kids getting it to run had been a subject of a great deal of deliberation at the domino hall and out in front of McMillan’s store. Not an insignificant amount of money had been wagered, which encouraged Cliff’s determination all the more. Once he learned that the boys at the domino hall were placing bets, there was no amount of scripture memorizing that could have stopped him from driving that rusted collection of bolts.

Thus their proud parade down Main Street garnered the attention of just about everyone in town. People all along the street came out of the stores to see that the kids actually got the old, long-forgotten truck to roll. Even Gemma and Jettie Crawford stepped out of Ruth Anne’s shop to clap and wave as the Model-T rolled by. Their father, Peterson Crawford, who had just parked his Plymouth sedan, stood stern-faced and watched as the kids passed.

Just as they reached the end of the street, Police Chief Thomas Jefferson Hightower stepped off the curb into the middle of the
thoroughfare
with a cigar in his mouth, displaying the most official look he could muster. Cliff pulled to a stop and the chief walked around the truck, looking it over carefully and finally stopping next to Cliff.

Chief Hightower had been approached a number of times on the street by concerned citizens warning him that three mischievous kids who were way too young to drive were building an automobile. Most of the warnings, naturally, came from the same people who complained about Toad Lowery’s noisy truck or that Hobe Bethard’s dogs barked too much. The chief, of course, already knew about the kids - in fact he had bet a dollar fifty that Cliff would get it done. He also knew, of course, that they were too young. He’d even checked with
Judge Buckner who, upon considerable thought said, strangely, that there was no law prohibiting kids from driving.

And Jefferson also knew that their parents were the only ones in the small town who didn’t know what they were doing. So the chief, without the kids knowing, which in Elza was no small feat, had a discussion with some of their parents. He made no effort to talk to Murdock and Garvis Rose, who never knew or seemed to care what Jesse did with his time. For Jefferson’s money, life was better that way.

Cliff’s father, Ned Tidwell, was not at all surprised at what the kids were doing, but he expressed a lot of concern for their safety, as did Irwin Stoker. In the end they both came to the same conclusion - the kids were putting their time to good use and staying out of trouble. More importantly, their idea of doing deliveries for Washington’s and McMillan’s was a darn good one, and they would probably make a little money at it. Among the three, however, Jefferson was the only one who thought the kids would actually get that old Model-T to run. In the end it was decided that the kids could go through with their plans and no one would interfere. If they got the truck running, which was doubtful, Jefferson would give them a good talking to about safety and responsibility of driving an automobile.

All in all, the only real concern was that Irwin Stoker didn’t like his little girl spending her afternoons with those two boys. Jefferson just smiled and assured him that he and Sarah had done a good job raising that girl and that the boys had much more to fear from her than she did of them.

So when Jefferson walked up to a proudly smiling Cliff Tidwell, he gave the best performance of a professional lawman he could possibly manage. Cliff, as usual, had long since suspected that the Chief might possibly try to deny them the right to drive and had prepared an admirable case in defense of his position. Jefferson, though, was not at all interested in Cliff’s oratory and gave a good ten-minute lecture to them about all the auto accidents he had seen in his time as chief. It was a grand performance, though at that point in his career, other than a few fender-benders, he had only seen one serious accident, and it didn’t involve a serious injury. Because of the size of Elza, most of the town, the three kids included, had come out to see that wreck. Still, Jefferson made his point that the driver of that car could have easily ended up dead.

Eventually, the kids had to agree to some safety requirements or else, Jefferson, as chief, would take the truck away. First, they had to drive no faster than twenty-five miles per hour. That part, he suspected, was easy because he didn’t think that the old truck would actually go that fast. Secondly, they couldn’t go more than ten miles from downtown Elza, and not into Jacksonville or Rusk because the police in those towns might not be so accommodating, and he wasn’t about to go to either of those towns to get the kids out of jail. Thirdly, they were not to drive after dark. That part was all the more important because it looked like the headlamps on the old truck were broken.

All three readily agreed, mostly because they had no choice, though none of them had any idea if they could obey Jefferson’s rules. They could keep from driving at night and they knew that they’d get in trouble for going up to Jacksonville or Rusk, but the ten-mile rule and the speed limit were different stories. The car’s speedometer and odometer didn’t work, so they had no idea how fast they were going or how far they had driven.

The two boys turned up the long, red dirt, tree-lined lane leading to Cherokee-One-Leg’s house. Their daily routine had changed once they became mobile. Both boys started getting up extra early to do their chores at home. They then met up at Washington’s where they, as quickly as they could, swept the floors and stacked feed. Then they would load up for a delivery, if Nickel had any. At first there weren’t any at either store, but as soon as the local farmers heard they could get feed delivered, they began calling in orders.

When finished at the feed store the boys would rush over to McMillan’s and sweep and stock, and if they were lucky they would get one or two deliveries before picking up Jewel at noon. Cliff made a reasonable case that they should keep the profit from any deliveries that they made before she joined them. Jesse, by that point, stayed out of Cliff’s arguments with Jewel, realizing that Cliff never won and was more likely to go home with a black eye than with any extra profit. Jewel made her position clear that Cliff would not have had a truck without her dad’s parts and they had a deal, making them equal partners. The two were in quite a standoff until Jewel was ready to put up the dukes, to which Cliff would mutter that he wasn’t going to beat up a girl and would storm off in defeat.