With the bodies piling up, it was inevitable the story would attract more attention than the Times could give it. The next morning, a reporter I knew from the Memphis paper arrived in my office, and about twenty minutes later one from the Jackson paper joined us. Both covered northern Mississippi, where the hottest news was usually a factory explosion or another indicted county official.
I gave them the background on both murders, the Padgitt parole, and the fear that had gripped the county. We were not competitors - they wrote for large dailies that barely overlapped. Most of my subscribers also took either the Memphis or Jackson papers. The Tupelo daily was also popular.
And, frankly, I was losing interest; not in the current crisis, but in journalism as a vocation. The world was calling me. As I sat there drinking coffee and trading stories with those two veterans, both of whom were older than me, each of whom earned about $40,000 a year, I found it hard to believe that I could walk away right then with a million bucks. It was difficult to stay focused.
They eventually left to pursue their own angles. A few minutes later Sam called with a rather urgent, "You need to come over."
A ragtag little unit was still guarding the Ruffin porch. All four were bleary-eyed and in need of sleep. Sam cleared me through the bivouac and we went to the kitchen table where Miss Callie was shelling butter beans, a task she always performed on the rear porch. She gave me a warm smile and the standard bear hug, but she was a troubled woman. "In here," she said. Sam nodded and we followed her into her small bedroom. She closed the door behind us as if intruders were lurking, then she disappeared into a narrow closet. We waited awkwardly while she rattled around in there.
She finally emerged with an old spiral notebook, one that had obviously been well hidden. "Something doesn't make sense," she said as she sat on the edge of the bed. Sam sat beside her and I backed into an old rocker. She was flipping through the pages of her handwritten notes. "Here it is," she said.
"We gave our solemn promises that we would never talk about what happened in the jury room," she said, "but this is too important not to tell. When we found Mr. Padgitt guilty, the vote was quick and unanimous. But when we came to the issue of the death penalty, there was some opposition to it. I certainly didn't want to send anyone to die, but I had promised to follow the law. Things got very heated, there were sharp words, even some accusations and threats. Not a pleasant thing to sit through. When the battle lines became clear, there were three people opposed to the death penalty, and they were not about to change their minds."
She showed me a page in her notebook. In her clear and distinctive handwriting there were two columns - one had nine names, the other had only three - L. Fargarson, Mo Teale, and Maxine Root. I gawked at the names, thinking that maybe I was looking at the killer's list.
"When did you write this?" I asked.
"I kept notes during the trial," she said.
Why would Danny Padgitt be killing the jurors who refused to give him the death penalty? The ones who had effectively saved his life?
"He's killing the wrong ones, isn't he?" Sam asked. "I mean, it's all wrong, but if you're out for revenge why go after the folks who tried to save you?"
"As I said, it doesn't make sense," Miss Callie said.
"You're assuming too much," I said. "You're assuming he knows how each juror voted. As far as I know, and I snooped around for a long time, the jurors never told anyone how the vote went. The trial was overshadowed rather quickly by the desegregation order. Padgitt was shipped off to Parchman the same day he was found guilty. There's a good chance he's picking off the easy ones first, and Mr. Fargarson and Mr. Teale just happened to be more accessible."
"That's very coincidental," Sam said.
We pondered that for a long time. I wasn't sure if it was plausible; I wasn't sure of anything. Then I had another thought: "Keep in mind, all twelve jurors voted guilty, and that was just after he made his threat."
"I suppose," Miss Callie said, unconvinced. We were trying to make sense of something that was completely incomprehensible.
"Anyway, I need to give this information to the Sheriff," I said.
"We promised we'd never tell."
"That was nine years ago, Mother," Sam said. "And no one could have predicted what's happening now."
"It's especially important for Maxine Root," I said.
"Don't you think some of the other jurors have come forward with this same information?" Sam said.
"Maybe, but it was a long time ago. And I doubt if they kept notes."
There was a commotion at the front door. Bobby, Leon, and Al had arrived. They had met in St. Louis, then driven all night to Clanton. We had coffee around the kitchen table, and I filled them in on the most recent developments. Miss Callie suddenly sprang to life and was pondering meals and making a list of vegetables for Esau to pick.
* * *
Sheriff McNatt was out making the rounds, visiting each juror. I had to unload on someone, so I barged into Harry Rex's office and waited impatiently while he finished a deposition. When we were alone, I told him about Miss Callie's list and the division of the jurors. He'd been haggling with a room full of lawyers for the past two hours, so he was in a feisty mood.
As usual, he had a different, far more cynical theory.
"Those three were supposed to hang the jury on guilt," he said after a quick analysis. "They caved for some reason, probably thought they were doin' the right thing by keepin' him out of the gas chamber, but of course Padgitt ain't thinkin' that way. For nine years he's been pissed because his three stooges didn't hang the jury. He figures he'll get them first, then go after the rest."
"There's no way Lenny Fargarson was a stooge for Danny Padgitt," I argued.
"Just because he's crippled?"
'Just because he was a very devout Christian."
"He was unemployed, Willie. He was once able to work, but he knew his condition would only deteriorate over the years. Maybe he needed money. Hell, everybody needs money. The Padgitts have trucks full of cash."
"I don't buy it."
"It makes more sense than any of your screwball theories. What are you sayin' - somebody else is pickin' off the jurors?"
"I didn't say that."
"Good, because I was about to call you a flamin' dumb-ass."
"You've called me worse."
"Not this morning."
"And under your theory, Mo Teale and Maxine Root also took cash from the Padgitts, then double-crossed Danny on the issue of guilt, then reversed themselves on the issue of death, and will now pay the ultimate price because they didn't hang the jury to begin with? Is that what you're saying, Harry Rex?"
"Damned right!"
"You're a flaming dumb-ass, you know that? Why would an honest, hardworking, crime-hating, churchgoing man like Mo Teale agree to take money from the Padgitts?"
"Maybe they threatened him."
"Maybe! Maybe they didn't!"
"So what's your best theory?"
"It's Padgitt, and it just so happens that the first two he picked off happened to be two of the three who voted no to the death penalty. He doesn't know how the vote went. He was in Parchman twelve hours after the verdict. He's made his list. Fargarson was first because he was such an easy target. Teale was second because Padgitt could choose the setting."
"Who's third?"
"I don't know, but these folks won't stay locked in their homes forever. He'll bide his time, let things die down, then secretly start making plans again."
"He could have some help, you know."
"Exactly."
Harry Rex's phone had never stopped ringing. He glared at it during a pause, then said, "I got work to do."
"I guess I'll go see the Sheriff. See you later." I was out of his office when he yelled, "Say, Willie. One other thing."
I turned to face him.
"Sell it, take the money, go play for a while. You've earned it."
"Thanks."
"But don't leave Clanton, you hear?"
"I won't."
* * *
Mr. Earl Youry ran a road grader for the county. He graded the rural roads that ran into very remote places, out from Possum Ridge and far beyond Shady Grove. Since he worked alone, it was decided that he should hang around the county barn for a few days where he had many friends, all of whom had rifles in their trucks and were on high alert. Sheriff McNatt huddled with Mr. Youry and his supervisor and worked out a plan to keep him safe.
Mr. Youry called the Sheriff and said he had important information. He admitted his recollection was less than thorough, but he was certain that the crippled boy and Mo Teale had been adamant in their refusal to impose the death penalty. He remembered that they had a third vote, maybe it was one of the women, maybe the colored lady. He just couldn't recall exactly, and, after all, it had been nine years. He posed the same question to McNatt - "Why would Danny Padgitt be killing the jurors who refused to give him the death penalty?"
When I walked into the Sheriff's office, he had just finished his conversation with Mr. Youry, and he was as bewildered as he should have been. I closed the door and relayed my conversation with Miss Callie. "I saw her notes, Sheriff," I said. "The third vote was Maxine Root."
For an hour we rehashed the same arguments I'd had with Sam and Harry Rex, and again it made no sense. He did not believe that the Padgitts had bought or intimidated either Lenny or Mo Teale; he wasn't so sure about Maxine Root since she came from a rougher family. He more or less agreed with me that the first two killings had been coincidental, and that Padgitt, in all likelihood, did not know how the jurors had voted. Interestingly, he claimed that he found out about a year after the verdict that it had been a 9 - 3 split on the issue of death, and that Mo Teale had become almost violently opposed to such a sentence.
But, both of us conceded, with Lucien Wilbanks involved it was entirely possible Padgitt knew more about the deliberations than we did. Anything was possible.
And nothing made sense.
While I was sitting in his office, he called Maxine Root. She worked as a bookkeeper at the shoe factory north of town, and had insisted on going to work. McNatt had been in her office that morning, inspecting the place, talking with her boss and coworkers, making sure everyone felt safe. Two of his deputies were outside the building, watching for trouble and waiting to haul Maxine back home at quitting time.
They chatted on the phone like old friends for a few minutes, then McNatt said, "Say, Maxine, I know that you and Mo Teale and the Fargarson boy were the only three who voted against the death penalty for Danny Padgitt..." He paused as she interrupted.
"Well, it's not important how I found out. What's important here is that makes me real nervous about your safety. Extra nervous."
He listened to her for a few minutes. As she rambled on he interrupted occasionally with such things as: "Well, Maxine, I can't just charge out there and arrest the boy."
And, "You tell your brothers to keep those guns in their trucks."
And, "I'm workin' on the case, Maxine, and when I get enough evidence I'll get a warrant for his arrest."
And, "It's too late to give him the death penalty, Maxine. You did what you thought was right at the time."
She was crying when the conversation ended. "Poor thing," McNatt said, "her nerves are shot to hell."
"Can't really blame her," I said. "I'm ducking under windows myself."