I looked up one afternoon in March 1979 and there was a gentleman in a nice suit standing at my office door. Unlike Harry Rex, whose entrance began on the street and was heard by everyone in the building, this guy had climbed the stairs without making a sound.
His name was Gary McGrew, a consultant from Nashville, whose area of expertise was small-town newspapers. As I fixed a pot of coffee, he explained that a rather well-financed client of his was planning to buy several newspapers in Mississippi during 1979. Because I had seven thousand subscribers, no debt, an offset press, and because we now ran the printing for six smaller weeklies, plus our own shoppers’ guides, his client was very interested in buying The Ford County Times.
“How interested?” I asked.
“Extremely. If we could look at the books, we could value your company.”
He left and I made a few phone calls to verify his credibility. He checked out fine, and I collected my current financials. Three days later we met again, this time at night. I did not want Wiley or Baggy or anyone else hanging around. News that the Times was changing hands would be such hot gossip that they’d open the coffee shops at 3 A.M. instead of 5.
McGrew crunched the numbers like a seasoned analyst. I waited, oddly nervous, as if the verdict might drastically change my life.
“You’re clearing a hundred grand after taxes, plus you’re taking a salary of fifty grand. Depreciation is another twenty, no interest because you have no debt. That’s one-seventy in cash flow, times the standard multiple of six, comes to one million twenty thousand.”
“And the building?” I asked.
He glanced around as if the ceiling might collapse any moment. “These places typically don’t sell for much.”
“A hundred thousand,” I said.
“Okay. And a hundred thousand for the offset press and other equipment. The total value is somewhere in the neighborhood of one-point-two million.”
“Is that an offer?” I asked, even more anxious.
“It might be. I’ll have to discuss it with my client.”
I had no intention of selling the Times. I had stumbled into the business, gotten a few lucky breaks, worked hard writing stories and obituaries and selling pages of ads, and now, nine years later, my little company was worth over a million dollars.
I was young, still single though I was tired of being lonely and living alone in a mansion with three leftover Hocutt cats that refused to die. I had accepted the reality that I would not find a bride in Ford County. All the good ones were snatched up by their twentieth birthday, and I was too old to compete at that level. I dated all the young divorcées, most of whom were quick to hop in the sack and wake up in my fine home, and dream about spending all the money I was rumored to be making. The only one I really liked, and dated off and on for a year, was saddled with three small children.
But it’s funny what a million bucks will do to you. Once it was in play, it was never far from my thoughts. The job became more tedious. I grew to resent the ridiculous obituaries and the endless pressure of the deadlines. I told myself at least once a day that I no longer had to hustle the street selling ads. I could quit the editorials. No more nasty letters to the editor.
A week later, I told Gary McGrew that the Times was not for sale. He said his client had decided to buy three papers by the end of the year, so I had time to think about it.
Remarkably, word of our discussions never leaked.
Chapter 36
On a Thursday afternoon in early May, I received a phone call from the attorney for the Parole Board. The next Padgitt hearing would take place the following Monday.
“Convenient timing,” I said.
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“We publish every Wednesday, so I don’t have time to run a story before the hearing.”
“We don’t monitor your paper, Mr. Traynor,” he said.
“I don’t believe that,” I snapped.
“What you believe is irrelevant. The Board has decided that you will not be permitted to attend the hearing. You violated our rules last time by reporting on what happened.”
“I’m banned?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’ll be there anyway.”
I hung up and called Sheriff McNatt. He, too, had been notified of the hearing, but wasn’t sure if he could attend. He was hot on the trail of a missing child (from Wisconsin), and it was obvious he had little interest in getting mixed up with the Padgitts.
Our District Attorney, Rufus Buckley, had an armed robbery trial scheduled for Monday in Van Buren County. He promised to send a letter opposing the parole, but the letter never made it. Circuit Judge Omar Noose was presiding over the same trial, so he was off the hook. I began to think that no one would be there to speak in opposition to Padgitt’s release.
For fun I asked Baggy to go. He gasped, then quickly let loose with an impressive list of excuses.
I walked over to Harry Rex’s with the news. He had an ugly divorce trial starting Monday in Tupelo; otherwise he might have gone with me to Parchman. “The boy’s gonna be released, Willie,” he said.
“We stopped it last year,” I said.
“Once the parole hearings start, it’s just a matter of time.”
“But somebody has to fight it.”
“Why bother? He’s gettin’ out eventually. Why piss off the Padgitts? You won’t get any volunteers.”
Volunteers were indeed hard to find as the entire town ducked for cover. I had envisioned an angry mob packing into the parole board hearing and disrupting the meeting.
My angry mob consisted of three people.
Wiley Meek agreed to ride over with me, though he had no interest in speaking. If they were serious about banning me from the room, Wiley would sit through it and give me the details. Sheriff McNatt surprised us with his presence.
Security was tight in the hall outside the hearing room. When the Board attorney saw me he became angry and we exchanged words. Guards in uniforms surrounded me. I was outnumbered and unarmed. I was escorted from the building and placed in my car, then watched by two thick-necked ruffians with low IQs.
According to Wiley, the hearing went like clockwork. Lucien was there with various Padgitts. The Board attorney read a staff report that made Danny sound like an Eagle Scout. His caseworker seconded the nomination. Lucien spoke for ten minutes, the usual lawyerly bullshit. Danny’s father spoke last and pleaded emotionally for his son’s release. He was desperately needed back home, where the family had interests in timber, gravel, asphalt, trucking, contracting, and freight. He would have so many jobs and work so many hours each week that he couldn’t possibly get into more trouble.
Sheriff McNatt gamely stood up for the people of Ford County. He was nervous and not a good speaker, but did a credible job of replaying the crime. Remarkably, he neglected to remind the Board members that a jury drawn from the same pool of people who elected him had been threatened by Danny Padgitt.
By a vote of 4–1, Danny Padgitt was paroled from prison.
Clanton was quietly disappointed. During the trial, the town had a real thirst for blood and was bitter when the jury didn’t deliver the death penalty. But nine years had passed, and since the parole hearing it had been accepted that Danny Padgitt would eventually get out. No one expected it so soon, but after the hearing we were over the shock.