The grand jury adjourned at nine. Mast met with the U.S. Marshal, and planned the arrests for early the next morning. Jaynes and Sprawling found late flights from New Orleans back to D.C.
Thirty-seven
“I handled a car wreck once, just after I joined the firm. It happened on 49, up in Stone County, near Wiggins. Our clients were going north when a flatbed truck pulled out from a county road, right in front of them. A big wreck. Three people were in our car, the driver was killed, his wife was severely injured, a kid in the backseat had a broken leg. The flatbed truck was owned by a paper company, heavily insured, and so the case had potential. They gave it to me, and I jumped in gung ho because I was new. There was no doubt the truck was at fault, but its driver, who was not hurt, claimed our car was speeding. This became the big issue—how fast was our dead driver going? My accident reconstructionist estimated his speed at sixty miles per hour, which was not too bad. The highway was posted for fifty-five; everybody does at least sixty. My clients were driving to Jackson to visit family, and were in no hurry.
“The accident reconstructionist hired by the truck’s insurance company estimated my guy’s speed at seventy-five, and this, of course, would’ve seriously hurt our case. Any jury will frown on twenty miles over the speed limit. We found a witness, an old man who was either the second or third person on the scene. His name was Mr. Clovis Goodman, age eighty-one, blind in one eye and couldn’t see out of the other.”
“Seriously?” Sandy asked.
“No, but his vision was somewhat impaired. He was still driving, and on that day he was puttering down the highway in his 1968 Chevrolet pickup when our car passed him. Then, just over the next hill, old Clovis happened upon the wreck. Clovis was a very tender old man, lived alone, no close family, forgotten and neglected, and seeing this horrible accident moved him deeply. He tried to help the victims, and hung around for a while, then he left. He didn’t say anything to anybody. He was too upset. He told me later he didn’t sleep for a week.
“Anyway, we got word that one of the later arrivals had actually videoed the accident scene while the ambulances and cops and fire trucks were there. Traffic was backed up, people were bored, and, hell, they’ll video anything, so we borrowed the tape. A paralegal analyzed it and took down all the license plate numbers. Then he found the owners, trying to find witnesses. That’s how we found Clovis. He said he practically saw the wreck, but was too upset to talk about it. I asked him if I could come out for a visit, and he said yes.
“Clovis lived in the country, out from Wiggins, in a small white-frame house he and his wife had built back
before the war. She had been dead for many years. So had his only child, a son who’d gone astray. He had two grandchildren; one lived in California and the other near Hattiesburg. He hadn’t seen either in years. I learned all this within the first hour. Clovis was a lonely old man, gruff at first, as if he didn’t trust lawyers and resented wasting time, but not long into the first visit he was boiling hot water for instant coffee and telling family secrets. We sat on the porch, in rocking chairs with a dozen old cats swarming under our feet, and talked about everything but the wreck. Fortunately, it was a Saturday, so I could waste time and not worry about the office. He was a wonderful storyteller. The Depression was a favorite topic, as was the war. After a couple of hours, I finally mentioned the car wreck, and he went quiet and looked pained and informed me softly that he just couldn’t talk about it yet. Said he knew something important, but it wasn’t the right time. I asked him how fast he was driving when our car went by. He said he never got above fifty. I asked him if he could estimate how fast our car was going, and he just shook his head.
“Two days later, I stopped by late one afternoon, and we settled back on the porch for another round of war stories. Promptly at six, Clovis said he was hungry, said furthermore that he loved catfish, and asked if I would like to join him for dinner. I was single at the time, and so Clovis and I left for dinner. I drove, of course, and he talked. We had greasy catfish at six bucks for all you can eat. Clovis ate real slow, his chin just inches above the pile of fish. The waitress put the check on the table and Clovis never saw it. It sat there for ten minutes. He kept talking with a mouthful of
hush puppies. I figured the dinner was money well spent if Clovis ever came through with his testimony. We eventually left, and driving back to his house he announced he needed a beer, just one beer for his bladder, and at that moment we just happened to be nearing a country store. I parked. He didn’t move, and so I bought the beer too. We drove and drank, and he said he’d like to show me where he grew up. It wasn’t far away, he said. One county road led to the next, and after twenty minutes I had no idea where I was. Clovis couldn’t see very well. He needed another beer, also for his bladder. I asked directions from a store clerk, and Clovis and I set sail again. He pointed this way and that, and we finally found the town of Necaise Crossing in Hancock County. Once we found it, he said we could turn around. He forgot the part about his childhood home. More beer. More directions from the store clerks.
“When we got near his house, I realized where we were, and I started asking questions about the car wreck. He said it was still too painful to talk about. I helped him into the house and he fell onto the sofa, snoring. It was almost midnight. This went on for about a month. Rocking on the front porch. Catfish on Tuesdays. Road trips for his bladder. The insurance policy had limits of two million. Our case was worth every bit of that, and, though Clovis didn’t know it, his testimony was getting more crucial by the day. He assured me no one else had contacted him about the accident, so it was critical that I nail down his facts before the insurance boys found him.”
“How much time had passed since the accident?” Sandy asked.
“Four or five months. I finally pressed him one day. I told him that we had reached an important point in the lawsuit, and it was time for him to answer some questions. He said he was ready. I asked him how fast our car was going when it passed him. He said it sure was awful, seeing those people hurt like that, crushed and bleeding, especially the little boy. The poor old man had tears in his eyes. A few minutes later, I asked him again, ‘Clovis, can you estimate how fast the car was going when it passed you?’ He said he sure would like to help the family. I said they would certainly appreciate that. And then he looked me square in the eyes, and said, ‘How fast do you think it was going?’
“I said that in my opinion it was going about fifty-five miles an hour. Clovis said, ‘Then that’s what it was. Fifty-five miles an hour. I was doing fifty, and they just barely eased past me.’
“We went to trial, and Clovis Goodman was the best witness I’ve ever seen. He was old, humble, but wise and thoroughly believable. The jury ignored all the fancy accident reconstruction testimony and hung their verdict on Clovis. They gave us two point three million dollars.
“We kept in touch. I did his will for him. He didn’t have much; just the house and six acres, seven thousand dollars in the bank. When he died, he wanted everything sold and the money given to the Daughters of the Confederacy. Not one relative was mentioned in his will. The grandson in California had been gone for twenty years. The granddaughter in Hattiesburg hadn’t made contact since he received an invitation to her high school graduation in 1968. He neither attended nor sent a gift. He seldom mentioned them,
but I knew Clovis longed for some connection with his family.
“He got sick and couldn’t live by himself, so I moved him into a nursing home in Wiggins. I sold his house and farm, and handled all of his financial affairs. At the time, I was his only friend. I sent him cards and gifts, and every time I went to Hattiesburg or Jackson I would stop and visit for as long as I could. At least once a month, I would go get him and take him to the Catfish Cabin. Then we’d take a road trip. After a beer or two he’d start with his stories. I took him fishing one day, just me and Clovis in a boat for eight hours, and I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.
“He caught pneumonia in November of ’91, and almost died. It scared him. We fixed his will again. He wanted to leave some of the money to his local church, the rest to the remnants of the Confederacy. He picked out his cemetery plot, made his burial arrangements. I brought up the idea of a living will, so he wouldn’t be kept alive by machines. He liked it, and he insisted that I be designated as the person to pull the plug, in consultation with his doctors, of course. Clovis was tired of the nursing home, tired of the loneliness, tired of life. He said his heart was right with God, and he was ready to go.
“The pneumonia came back with a fury in early January of ’92. I had him transferred to the hospital here in Biloxi so I could watch him. I went by every day, and I was the only visitor old Clovis ever had. No other friends. No relatives. No minister. Not one single person but me. He deteriorated slowly, and it became apparent he would never leave. He lapsed into a coma, never to return. They put him on a respirator,
and after about a week of that the doctors said he was brain dead. We, myself and three doctors, read his living will together, then turned off the respirator.”
“What day was it?” Sandy asked.
“February 6, 1992.”
Sandy exhaled, closed his eyes tightly, and slowly shook his head.
“He didn’t want a church service because he knew no one would come. We buried him in a cemetery outside Wiggins. I was there, as a pallbearer. Three old widows from the church were there, crying, but you got the impression they had cried over every burial in Wiggins in the past fifty years. The minister was there, and he dragged with him five elderly deacons to act as pallbearers. Two other folks were there, for a total of twelve. After a brief service, Clovis was laid to rest.”
“It was a pretty light casket, wasn’t it?” Sandy said.
“Yes it was.”
“Where was Clovis?”
“His spirit was rejoicing with the saints.”
“Where was his body?”
“On the porch of my cabin, in a freezer.”
“You sick puppy.”
“I didn’t kill anybody, Sandy. Old Clovis was singing with the angels; when his remains got burned up. I figured he wouldn’t mind.”
“You have an excuse for everything, don’t you, Patrick?”
Patrick’s legs hung from the side of his bed. His feet were six inches from the floor. He didn’t respond.
Sandy paced around a bit, then leaned on the wall. He was only slightly relieved to learn his friend had
not killed anyone. The thought of burning a corpse seemed almost as repulsive.
“Let’s hear the rest of it,” Sandy said. “I’m sure you have everything mapped out.”
“I’ve had time to think about it, yes.”
“I’m listening.”
“There’s a Mississippi penal statute on grave-snatching, but it wouldn’t apply to me. I didn’t steal Clovis from the grave. I took him from his casket. There’s another statute dealing with mutilating a corpse, and it’s the only one Parrish can stick on me. It’s a felony, and carries up to one year in jail. I figure that if that’s all they can use, then Parrish will push very hard for the one year.”
“He can’t let you walk away.”
“No, he can’t. But here’s the catch. He won’t know about Clovis unless I tell him, but I have to tell him before he’ll drop the murder charges. Now, telling him about Clovis is one thing, but testifying in court is another. He can’t make me testify in court if he tries me for mutilation. He’ll be pressured to try me for something, because, as you say, he can’t allow me to walk away. He can try me, but he can’t convict me because I’m the only witness and there’s no way to prove the burned body was that of Clovis.”
“Parrish is screwed from all sides.”
“Correct. The federal charges are gone, and when we drop this bomb Parrish will feel enormous heat to nail me for something. Otherwise, I walk.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Simple. We take the pressure off Parrish and allow him to save face. You go to Clovis’ grandchildren, tell them the truth, offer them some money. They’ll certainly
have the right to sue me once the truth is known, and you can assume they’ll do it. Their suit isn’t worth much because they ignored the old man most of their lives, but it’s a safe bet they’ll sue anyway. We cut them off at the pass. We settle with them quietly, and in return for the money they agree to pressure Parrish not to press charges.”
“You scheming bastard.”
“Thank you. Why won’t it work?”
“Parrish can prosecute you regardless of the family’s wishes.”
“But he won’t because he can’t convict me. The worst scenario for Parrish is to take me to trial and lose. It’s much safer for him to hit the back door now, use the family as an excuse, and avoid the embarrassment of losing a high-profile case.”
“Is this what you’ve been thinking about for the past four years?”
“It has crossed my mind, yes.”
Sandy began pacing along the foot of the bed, deep in thought, his mind clicking away and trying to keep up with his client’s. “We have to give Parrish something,” he said, almost to himself, still walking.
“I’m more concerned with myself than Parrish,” Patrick said.
“It’s not just Parrish. It’s the system, Patrick. If you walk away, then you’ve effectively bought your way out of jail. Everybody looks bad but you.”
“Maybe I’m only concerned with me.”
“So am I. But you can’t humiliate the system and expect to ride off into the sunset.”
“Nobody made Parrish run and get a capital murder indictment. He could’ve waited a week or two. No
one made him announce it to the press. I have no sympathy for him.”
“Neither do I. But this is a hard sell, Patrick.”
“Then I’ll make it a bit easier. I’ll plead guilty to the mutilation, but with no jail time. Not one single day. I’ll go to court, plead guilty, pay a fine, let Parrish get credit for a conviction, but then I’m outta here.”
“You’ll be a convicted felon.”
“No, I’ll be free. Who in Brazil will care if I get a slap on the wrist?”