That Night at the Palace (24 page)

When County Attorney Nathaniel Cockwright got to the porch steps, the two police deputies stepped off the porch and blocked his way. Nathaniel stopped before them and then looked back at the chief, expecting the empty-headed law officer to at least have the aptitude if not the courtesy to tell his deputies to get out of the way.

“We’ve been asked not to allow you into the house, Mr. Cockwright. If you’d like something to eat, one of my boys will be happy to go make you a plate,” the chief explained.

“I’d like to at least show my respects to the mother,” Cockwright protested, partly angry and partly bewildered.

“Please, out of respect for the family, do us this one favor.”

Suddenly the screen door opened. The father stepped out, followed by his wife and the young man who had sat next to them at the funeral, along with the teenage girl. The man, unashamedly in tears, shook the boy’s hand and then gave him a big bear hug. Next the wife hugged the boy and kissed him on the cheek. She then hugged and kissed the girl. After that the boy turned to face Nathaniel with the girl holding onto his arm. The two brainless deputies stepped out of the way, and the boy and girl came down the steps.

Reaching out to shake Cockwright’s hand Jesse said, “Hello, Mr. Cockwright. I’m Jesse Rose. I’d like to surrender.”

#

FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH

ELZA TEXAS

2:00 p.m. November 19, 1941

Cherokee-One-Leg climbed gingerly out of his Model-AA pickup truck. He was wearing his only suit, and rather than his old dusty cavalry hat he wore a black fedora. He’d ordered the hat and the suit years before from the Montgomery Ward Company at the insistence of his wife. The suit was black with narrow pinstripes, with pleated and cuffed pants and a kerchief in the front pocket. He had to admit that it was dapper.

This was the second time he’d worn it. The other time was for his wife’s funeral. She had spent hours studying the Ward’s catalogue picking it out. It was a shame that she had never seen him in it. He had just never found the right time. The old soldier felt a tear come to his eye as he thought about her.

He parked near the back of the large red brick church, knowing his place. A person of color wouldn’t walk through the front door. Normally he’d never walk into that church at all. There were churches for the colored folks. But even in Elza, funerals were different. Everyone knew the Tidwells. Paying respects was expected. Cherokee would not be the only colored person there that day, though they all would enter though the back, climb the narrow staircase, and sit in the balcony.

The old church building was a result of the oil boom when there had been a lot of money in the little town. There was probably a time when it was almost full on Sunday mornings, but nowadays the balcony was only opened on Easter, and the occasional funeral.

The church was long and narrow with a stage, for lack of better word, holding the pulpit and choir loft, and an indoor baptism pool behind the choir. There were about a dozen rows of pews with an aisle down the middle, making actually twenty-four pews, all capable of seating about ten people comfortably. The balcony was “U” shaped. In the back it sat over the last five rows of the lower sanctuary. On the sides the balcony continued with two rows.

Cherokee, with the help of his crutch, made his way up the narrow staircase and found a seat along with the other people of color on the right-side balcony. The back balcony would be reserved for the overflow white folks.

The seat on the side balcony was exactly what Cherokee wanted. He was toward the front of the church and could easily look back and see the entire congregation. So far the plan was working as expected. Jesse was sitting with Cliff’s family at the front, almost right below Cherokee. From where he sat, the old black man could easily spot anything out of the normal, or in this case, anyone who was not mourning Clifford Tidwell besides that silly C.A. Cockwright.

He spotted the man almost immediately. The Indian fighter’s eyes might not be what they once were, but picking out this man didn’t require an eagle’s sight. Everyone else in the church was with family, but this man was alone. His suit was different. These people were farmers and small town folk. They all wore old, unstylish suits that were bought straight out of a catalog like Cherokee’s. This man’s suit was freshly pressed and fitted by a tailor.

The man also kept looking at Jesse. Everyone else had their eyes on Reverend Anderson or the choir as they sang, but this guy never took his eyes off Jesse. It was him. He looked just like his brother. It had been five years, but Cherokee had not forgotten the face. There was now no reason to question what had happened to Clifford. The past had, in fact, come back to haunt them.

The plan, so far, was playing out as Cherokee had hoped. Finally, just as expected, the man stopped looking at Jesse and glanced up at the balcony. The two men locked eyes.

#

When the funeral ended, Cherokee worked his way down the stairs and outside as quickly as he could under the circumstances. Even with only one leg, he was still out before most of the mourners. He made his way around to the front and watched as the man walked out of the sanctuary. Again, he was alone. Cherokee kept his distance but didn’t let the man out of his sight. It seemed strange, a tall black man with a peg leg and a crutch should have stood out in the sea of white faces, but the old warrior had long since learned that in a crowd like this he was almost invisible. That invisibility didn’t bother him. He’d grown accustomed to it, and more importantly, at times like this, it was useful.

The stranger lingered under a sycamore smoking a cigarette while everyone filtered out of the church. He tended to stay somewhat behind the tree, almost as if he was hiding.

Then the man straightened up and watched the steps to the church. Cherokee looked around and saw a young woman coming out. She was the Stoker girl.

She walked out into the parking lot, looking as if she were searching for someone. The man continued to hide behind the tree, watching the girl as she came toward him.

While Cherokee was watching the man, Chief Hightower walked up to the old Indian.

“Thanks for looking after Jesse, Cherokee.”

“You knew?” Cherokee answered, while not taking his eyes off the man behind the tree.

“I figured it out. The boys always liked being around you. I drove out by your place yesterday and saw Gemma Crawford’s car.”

When Jewel got close to the tree, the man jumped out from behind it, surprising her. Startled, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. They laughed as he led her to a car.

Cherokee, leaning on his crutch, looked at Jefferson and nodded his head over toward the man and the Stoker girl.

“Do you know that man?” Cherokee asked.

Jefferson watched the man as he held the door of a red 1940 Chevrolet Special Deluxe Coupe convertible open for Jewel.

“No. The girl’s Jewel Stoker. I don’t know who the man is. Jesse said that she had a boyfriend in Jacksonville. That must be him.”

“He’s your killer.”

Jefferson looked at the old Indian. “How do you know?”

“I just know,” Cherokee answered.

As the man got into his car, he briefly glanced back at Cherokee and Jefferson.

Jefferson pulled a notepad out of his pocket and began taking down the man’s license tag number. All the other cars began lining up behind the family in the hearse. The man and Jewel pulled out of the parking lot and drove away in the opposite direction.

Jefferson looked up at the line of cars forming up.

“I’ve got to get over to the cemetery,” the chief said.

“When’s that Ranger coming back?”

“I don’t know. A few days, maybe a week.”

“You’re gonna need ‘im.”

#

CHEROKEE COUNTY COURTHOUSE

RUSK, TEXAS

8:38 a.m. November 21, 1941

Cherokee County Attorney Nathaniel Elbridge Cockwright had just delivered the most compelling oratory of his life. In just under forty minutes he had given an address that was eloquent, deliberate, detailed, and quite frankly, an unarguably persuasive discourse. Everyone in the courtroom was brought to tears as he described the inhumane details of the murder. He even garnered a couple of “you tell ‘ems” from the audience. Judge Buckner, of course, put a quick stop to the outbursts, but it still served to prove to Nathaniel that he was making his point.

An arraignment in Judge Nehemiah Buckner’s court was usually limited to the accused and the arresting officer, but Nathaniel and his staff had made sure that everyone in the county knew what was happening that morning, ensuring that the courtroom was packed with reporters, spectators, and even the C.A. from Anderson county, who just wanted to watch.

Up to this point, everything, again, had gone terribly wrong. The punk kid had waited until late in the day to surrender. By then the reporters had all gone home to file their stories. Had he done it as soon as the funeral was over or even at the graveside ceremony, their picture would have been on the cover of every paper between Houston and Dallas.

As unimaginably perplexing as it sounds, the killer had been sitting right there next to the family through the entire funeral and graveside service, right in front of the entire town, and not a single soul bothered to mention it to the authorities. Even the dumb-cluck police chief knew the murderer was there and didn’t say a word.

When he got Jesse back to Rusk, Nathaniel put his deputies to work on the phones, making sure that every paper in the state knew about the arrest. But most of the papers missed getting the story out in the evening editions. He did get it mentioned on WBAP radio out of Fort Worth, though. The result of that was beautiful. The courthouse was packed with spectators for. Even the balcony was full. Nathaniel had hoped for a good turnout, and in fact he had prepared his arrival for it. Normally he would have parked around back in the spot designated for the County Attorney and entered through the small door next to the back staircase. But he anticipated some press, so he’d had Primrose pick him up at home and drop him off on the square in front of the courthouse. He’d climbed the steps, briefcase in hand, as throngs of reporters crowded around him, snapping pictures and asking questions. When he got to the top, he stopped before going in to deliver a few brief comments about justice being served and the safety of the good people of Cherokee County and of course, answer a some questions. He then posed for a few pictures before walking into the courthouse.

#

The courtroom was already crowded when Cockwright arrived, and by the time Judge Buckner walked in, it was standing room only. The defendant was seated to Nathaniel’s right, surrounded by a bevy of attorneys, of course. That would play into Nathaniel’s hands. He had already planned to play up the fact that this killer had come from one of the wealthiest families in the County. The fact that he had a half-dozen expensive lawyers was not going to play well with these small-town bumpkins.

Nathaniel had just about had it up to his ears with the kid’s legal team. No less than four were waiting at the sheriff’s office when they arrived back from the funeral with the defendant. They made all sorts of demands, most of which the C.A. felt unobligated to comply to. Most notably, they insisted on seeing their client before the arraignment. That wasn’t about to happen. Nathaniel’s plan, which he had come up with the moment he’d made the arrest, was to spend the night questioning the punk, hoping to break him down in the wee hours when the kid was exhausted. He had started the questioning as they drove in from Elza, but the dumb brat never said a single word. So when he got him to the jail, he intended to continue the interrogation, and made a good effort, but again, this arrogant little delinquent never so much as opened his mouth. Then one of these overpaid ambulance chasers marched into the sheriff’s office with no less than Judge Buckner in tow, ordering Nathaniel to allow the self-important barristers to be present during questioning. On top of that, the judge released the kid without a bail hearing. He set bail and the lawyer posted it standing right there in Sheriff Cadwalder’s office.

Nathaniel proudly sat down with all confidence that whatever the defense countered would sound foolish in comparison to the speech he had made before Judge Buckner.

“Thank you for your long-winded discourse, Mr. Cockwright,” Judge Buckner said to a round of muffled snickers. “Would the accused like to rebut?”

Nathaniel ignored the admonition. He was used to the judge’s sarcasm. The important thing was that the press and spectators had heard what he’d had to say.

The lead attorney stood and answered, “No thank you, your honor.”

Nathaniel couldn’t help but smile.

“How does the defendant plea?”

The attorney stood again. “He pleads not guilty, your Honor.”

“I’d like to hear it from the defendant, if you don’t mind Counselor.”

The attorney sat down and nodded to Jesse, who stood. “Not guilty, your Honor.”

As Jesse sat down, Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, trying hard to contain his elation. Had the dumb kid and his lawyers pleaded guilty, this thing would have been over and done with in a couple of days, but as it was, Nathaniel had the chance to keep this in the headlines for a month or more.

“That will be all for now, Bailiff. Please lead the defendant down to the sheriff’s office. I’d like to see the lead attorneys for both sides in my chambers now,” Buckner ordered and then slammed down his gavel and left the room.

#

Wilhelm Dinkler III shook hands with County Attorney Cockwright, who for some reason he wanted to call Cockfight, and seated himself in one of the two chairs in front of the judge’s enormous mahogany desk. Wilhelm, Wil to his friends, had defended over a hundred criminal cases. This was his twenty-fifth murder case and by far the most publicized. Normally he went to great lengths to protect his client from even being mentioned in the press, but this C.A. had quite a head start. It was rumored around the courthouse that he had contacted the newspapers the very minute he heard about the crime. This, of course, was going to make things considerably more difficult because the jury would, most likely, have their opinions formed before the trial began, which quite frankly was what this idiot C.A. apparently wanted. The fool needed an edge. His speech showed what kind of attorney he was. In Houston, on an even field, Dinkler would have had this thing won on the first day of testimony.