The Devil in Pew Number Seven (28 page)

Given that history with Mr. Watts and his family, you’d think the judge would have recused himself due to the possible conflict of interest. He added, “I agree [with Watts’s attorneys] that the Horry Watts pictured in this case is not the Horry Watts I knew, but I have to deal with the Horry Watts in this case. . . . The severity of the offenses committed easily dictate maximum punishment of all charges, but the severity of the offenses is not the only factor the court should consider. The person involved is, of course, the most important thing.”

Judge Britt concluded, “The sentence will be the maximum sentence, but that will not be the ultimate. I will send you to the institution to find out what is in the best interest of society and H. J. Watts.” As ordered by the judge, Mr. Watts underwent sixty days of “mental, physical and psychological testing in Butner Federal Correctional Institution.” Probably the most disturbing aspect of the judgment to me was what Judge Britt considered to be the “maximum” sentence for targeting our family:

• Count one: $10,000 and five years in prison

• Count two: Five years in prison to run concurrently with the first five-year sentence

I should point out that at the same trial, Mr. Watts was also tried and sentenced to an additional ten years for conspiracy to bomb two other people as well as for using the postal system to deliver threatening letters to them. Taken together, Mr. Watts was facing fifteen years in prison and significant cash fines.

Upon hearing the judgment, Mr. Watts became visibly emotional. He removed his thick, black-framed glasses to brush away his tears. I don’t know what prompted the outburst of emotion. Mr. Watts rarely displayed any feeling around us other than anger, rage, or spite. I have my doubts that his tears flowed from a repentant heart. If anything, I suspect they were a product of embarrassment.

As mentioned earlier, Mr. Watts knew a thing or two about correctional facilities. In 1972, as a county commissioner, Mr. Watts helped facilitate the planning and building of the Columbus County Law Enforcement Center—a state-of-the-art jailhouse. His name, along with the other commissioners’, was engraved on a sizable placard that had been affixed adjacent to the entrance of the prison.

Ironically, this slogan was splashed in large type on the wall of the prison: Respect for Law is the Beginning of Wisdom. That was nine short years before this event. Mr. Watts had to have been mortified to learn that he, of all people, was now heading to jail. In spite of his money, power, and his squad of lawyers, the unthinkable had happened.

He had lost.

At age seventy-five, the man who wasn’t accustomed to losing was now a convict. Rather than toss the case out on some technicality, his longtime associate and friend, Judge Britt, did the sentencing. The thought that his residence would be a prison cell somewhere within the federal penitentiary system—not his beloved stretch of Sellerstown Road—had to have been humiliating.

On March 11, 1981, justice prevailed.

Mr. Watts was finally placed behind bars.

Chapter 14

Life Is Hard, but God Is Good

The tide turned.

In spite of the good news that Mr. Watts was to receive some measure of justice for his behavior, the years he had spent persecuting our family wounded Daddy to the depth of his soul. While Daddy had his good days, in the wake of the trial he went from better to worse. He suffered from paranoia and constantly battled taunting voices inside his head. His condition, we were told, was aggravated by extreme sleep deprivation. These vestiges of Mr. Watts’s hounding led to bizarre behavior and ultimately to a severe nervous breakdown.

Even when Daddy was sick, I loved to be with him. I came to accept the fact that he would break down at times. In my view, he was still my daddy in spite of the challenges to his mental state. His hugs never changed; they were engulfing, warm, and safe.

When I was fourteen, we were advised that Daddy might benefit from a stay in a special faith-based institution that dealt with those who had similar struggles. I understood he had to go.

Right before Daddy was to leave, Danny and I had an opportunity to say good-bye. Other times when Daddy had been taken to a hospital, we’d come home from school, and he’d already be gone. No good-byes. No hugs. No last prayer together as a family. So this was a treat to get to send him off. When Danny and I arrived home from spending some time with friends, the house was quiet. The shades had not been drawn open to let in the usual light that made our home feel warm and welcoming, perhaps because Daddy felt safer knowing strangers on the outside couldn’t see in.

I found Daddy sitting upright in his brown cloth recliner in the family room. He sat as still as a statue. He wore his normal attire, a short-sleeve, button-down shirt, khaki pants, and brown slippers. When I searched his face, I could barely see the brown of his eyes due to the redness that surrounded them. He had a distant look on his face as if he were somewhere else.

I didn’t hesitate to climb onto his lap.

Though I was fourteen, I hadn’t outgrown the security I felt from sitting on his lap. I reached to wrap my arms around him for one last hug, but the hug wasn’t returned as usual. I said, “I love you, Daddy,” but he sat like a prisoner sworn to silence. During that brief encounter, I got the feeling that he was looking through me rather than at me. In the past he’d make eye contact when speaking to us; now he appeared tired and broken.

I knew I couldn’t stay long. The car was packed and ready for the long road trip ahead. I held his huge hand and once again said, “I love you, Daddy. . . . I’ll see you soon.” Just then, and much to my surprise, he said, “I love you, Rebecca.” He didn’t make eye contact as he spoke. He didn’t need to. The words were enough. It was such a gift to me for God to allow him to step back into reality—if just for a moment—to let me know that his love for me had not drifted away along with his mind.

After I slipped off his lap, Danny came and hugged Daddy, but at age nine, he just said his “I love yous” and turned around to leave. There was no point in waiting for a conversation. It wasn’t going to happen. Daddy was too tired and heavily medicated. As Daddy left for the trip, I hoped and prayed that this hospital visit would be a short one.

* * *

I didn’t see the storm coming.

There had been no alarm, no forewarning, nothing to prepare me for the news that would send me reeling for years. I was completely blindsided. On October 5, 1984, my world was blown apart. The tornado of grief hit on Friday while I was attending school. My teacher called me to her desk and, with a look on her face I couldn’t quite make out, told me I was not to ride the bus home that day; I was to take the bus that would go to my grandmother’s house instead.

There was no further explanation.

I did as I was told.

When I got off the bus, Mrs. Deborah, my grandparents’ next-door neighbor and close family friend, greeted me. Without disclosing what was going on, she took me to her house instead of to my grandparents’. Her behavior seemed guarded, as if she wasn’t at liberty to talk about why I had been summoned to their house. Although the homes were separated by several acres, as we pulled into her driveway, I noticed a number of extra cars parked outside of my grandparents’ house.

That was odd.

It wasn’t my birthday—or theirs—so this couldn’t be a surprise party. I knew my grandparents had big family get-togethers all the time, but nothing was scheduled for that weekend. The more I thought about the reasons behind the unusual situation, the more I sensed something might be wrong. I just couldn’t figure out what it was. Had something happened to Grandma or Grandpa?

Did they have a fall?

Had one of them died?

They
were
older, so that was an option.

Mrs. Deborah tried to distract me with chitchat while stalling for time. The longer I had to wait, however, the more persistent I became in my search for answers.
When can I go to my grandmother’s house? What is going on over there? Who are all of those people gathered at their house?

About all Mrs. Deborah told me was that I had to wait until we received a phone call—and not to worry. Again, that didn’t make any sense. Why the mystery? I was fourteen at the time and had a more refined “baloney meter” that resonated whenever adults weren’t being forthright with me. After what felt like an eternity, the call finally came. I hustled across the yard between the two houses.

As I crossed the small ditch separating the homes, virtually out of the blue, a heavy feeling weighed down on my chest as if someone were standing on my rib cage. I was overwhelmed with the foreboding sensation that something bad had happened to my daddy. Something really bad. Between the short hike and the uneasy premonition gnawing at my stomach, my heart started to race.

As I pushed open the side sliding-glass door, a distinct hush fell on the room. All eyes were immediately fixed on me—which felt strange, as if I were some kind of endangered species being studied. Why was I suddenly the center of attention? I was just a kid. Since I hadn’t done anything wrong, I knew I couldn’t be in trouble. When I said, “Hi, everyone,” with a wave of my hand, they responded with a somber “Hi” that seemed to fit the restrained mood.

Scanning the room for a clue as to what was happening, I noticed my pastor sitting on the sofa with a number of my extended family members. For some reason the sight of him heightened my fears. This gathering wasn’t for a wedding, it wasn’t a Bible study, and it wasn’t for a meal. That left very few options as to why he was present. Besides, upon closer inspection I noticed several people clutching wads of crumpled tissue.

Not good.

I was directed down the hall to the last bedroom on the left. I knew it was Aunt Dot’s bedroom, which, at first, made me wonder if she had fallen ill. For a fleeting moment I was relieved to discover Aunt Dot was fine. After I settled on the edge of the bed, I was informed that Daddy had passed away earlier that morning. The words knocked the wind out of me, striking me with the force of a jolt of electricity.

More words of explanation came . . . something about a blood clot lodged in his heart took his life . . . he was now at peace with Jesus . . . Daddy was reunited with Momma . . . but I was too numb to care. Never in a thousand years would I have expected to hear that news. Daddy was just forty-six years old. He was way too young to die. I turned on my heels and ran out of the house screaming “
Noooooo!
” at the top of my lungs.

Shaking uncontrollably as if standing on the epicenter of an earthquake, I collapsed. Still shrieking out my disbelief, I didn’t care what anybody might have thought about the scene I was making. My heart was shattered into a million fragile pieces. The grief was beyond comprehension. I had no strength to cope with the finality of his death.

First Momma. Now Daddy.

Gone.

When Momma was gunned down, I didn’t get to say good-bye to her. And now, without warning, Daddy died when I was at school. Once again I didn’t get the chance to say a final good-bye. It just didn’t seem fair. I would have given
anything
to have been at his side, to have hugged and kissed him one last time.

I think his death hurt me at such a core level because after losing Momma, Daddy had made me a promise: He pledged he would never leave Daniel or me. Like a prizefighter before stepping into the ring, Daddy had a rock-solid focus in his eyes as he spoke. That look assured me that he meant every word of his commitment. His words provided the security I needed to face the world. Now the words ran through my mind as a reminder that the promise he had made had been broken.

At just fourteen, I was an orphan.

What was I going to do without Daddy? Who would teach me how to drive? Who would screen my dates? Who would walk me down the aisle on my wedding day? I can’t say I had all of these thoughts immediately upon hearing the tragic news. And yet somehow, some part of me knew my world would never, ever be the same without Daddy.

A few minutes after I went back inside the house, Danny arrived. I was with him in the back bedroom when he was told that Daddy had died. He fell across the bed, sobbing his little heart out. Watching him fall apart intensified my pain. I was hurting for both of us now. How could two young hearts bear so much grief?

At nine, Danny had been getting into sports. Daddy had been so proud of his progress. But now my brother wouldn’t have his father cheering him on. Who would take Danny hunting and fishing? Who would mentor him into becoming a young man? Who would teach him how to love, respect, and court the hand of a woman? In a way, Danny needed Daddy even more than I did. Daddy was supposed to be Danny’s compass on the road to manhood. Without him, that road would be a long and difficult journey.

I wanted him back.

* * *

Daddy’s funeral was held on October 11, 1984, at the Belmany Mortuary in Mobile. Three ministers gathered together to officiate the celebration of Daddy’s homecoming—Ernest Miller, Daddy’s lifelong friend who knew him from the early days when Daddy got saved; Kenneth Draughon, Daddy’s pastor at the time; and Mitchell Smith, Daddy’s assistant pastor from Sellerstown.