Clanton was changing, and I was not happy with its direction. Like most small towns in the South, it was sprawling in all directions with no plan for its growth. Bargain City was booming, and the area around it was attracting every fast-food franchise imaginable. Downtown was declining, though the courthouse and the county government would always draw people. Strong political leaders were needed, folks with vision, and they were in short supply.
On the other hand, I suspected the town was weary of me. Because of my preachy opposition to the war in Vietnam, I would always be considered a radical liberal. And I did little to diminish this reputation. As the paper grew and the profits increased, and as a direct result my skin got thicker, I editorialized more and more. I railed against closed meetings held by the city council and the county Board of Supervisors. I sued to get access to public records. I spent one year bitching about the almost complete lack of zoning and land-use management in the county, and when Bargain City came to town I said way too much. I ridiculed the state’s campaign finance laws, which were designed to allow rich people to elect their favorites. And when Danny Padgitt was set free, I unloaded on the parole system.
Throughout the seventies, I was always on a soapbox. And while this made for interesting reading and sold papers, it also transformed me into something of an oddity. I was viewed as a malcontent, one with a pulpit. I don’t think I was ever a bully; I tried hard not to be. But looking back, there were fights I started not only out of conviction but also out of boredom.
As I grew older, I wanted to be a regular citizen. I would always be an outsider, but that didn’t bother me anymore. I wanted to come and go, to live in Clanton as I saw fit, then leave for long periods of time when I got bored. Amazing how the prospect of money can change your future.
I became consumed with the dream of walking away, of taking a sabbatical to some place I’d never been, of seeing the world.
The next meeting with Gary McGrew was at a restaurant in Tupelo. He’d been to my office several times. One more visit and the staff would start whispering. Over lunch we again looked at my books, talked about his client’s plans, negotiated this point and that one. If I sold, I wanted the owner to honor the new five-year contracts I’d given to Davey Bigmouth Bass, Hardy, and Margaret. Baggy would either retire soon or die of liver poisoning. Wiley had always been a part-timer, and his interest in chasing subjects for photos was waning. He was the only employee I’d told about the negotiations, and he had encouraged me to take the money and run.
McGrew’s client wanted me to stay on for at least a year, at a very high salary, and train the new editor. I would not agree to this. If I walked away, then I walked away. I didn’t want a boss, and I didn’t want the local heat that would come for selling the county’s paper to a large firm from outside the state.
Their offer was at $1.3 million. A consultant I’d hired in Knoxville had valued the Times at $1.35 million.
“Confidentially, we’ve bought the papers in Tyler and Van Buren Counties,” McGrew said, late in a very long lunch. “Things are falling into place.”
He was being almost completely honest. The owner of the paper in Tyler County had agreed in principle, but the documents had not been signed.
“But there’s a new wrinkle,” he said. “The paper in Polk County might be for sale. Frankly, we’re taking a look at it if you pass. It’s quite a bit cheaper.”
“Ah, more pressure,” I said.
The Polk County Herald had four thousand readers and lousy management. I saw it every week.
“I’m not trying to pressure you. I’m just putting everything on the table.”
“I really want a million and a half bucks,” I said.
“That’s over the top, Willie.”
“It’s high, but you’ll earn it back. Might take a little longer, but look ten years down the road.”
“I’m not sure we can go that high.”
“You’ll have to if you want the paper.”
A sense of urgency had arisen. McGrew hinted at a deadline, then finally said, “We’ve been talking for months now, and my client is anxious to reach a conclusion. He wants to close the deal by the first of next month, or he’ll go elsewhere.”
The tactic didn’t bother me. I was tired of talking too. Either I sold, or I didn’t. It was time to make a decision.
“That’s twenty-three days from now,” I said.
“It is.”
“Fair enough.”
The long days of summer arrived, and the insufferable heat and humidity settled in for their annual three-month stay. I made my usual rounds — to the churches on my list, to the softball fields, to the local golf tournament, to the watermelon cuttings. But Clanton was waiting, and the wait was all we talked about.
Inevitably, the noose around the neck of each remaining juror was loosened somewhat. They quite naturally got tired of being prisoners in their homes, of altering their lifelong routines, of having packs of neighbors guard their homes at night. They began to venture out, to try and resume normal lives.
The patience of the killer was unnerving. He had the advantage of time, and he knew his victims would grow weary of all that protection. He knew they would drop their guard, make a mistake. We knew it too.
After missing three consecutive Sundays, for the first time in her life, Miss Callie insisted on going to church. Escorted by Sam, Esau, and Leon, she marched into the sanctuary on Sunday morning and worshiped the Lord as if she’d been gone a year. Her brothers and sisters embraced her, and prayed for her fervently. Reverend Small revised his sermon on the spot and preached on God’s protection of his followers. Sam said he went on for almost three hours.
Two days later, Miss Callie slid into the backseat of my Mercedes. With Esau beside her and Sam riding shotgun, we hurried out of Clanton with a deputy behind us. He stopped at the county line, and an hour later we were in Memphis. There was a new shopping mall east of town that was all the rage, and Miss Callie dreamed of seeing it. Over a hundred stores under one roof! For the first time in her life, she ate a pizza; she saw an ice rink, two men holding hands, and a mixed-race family. She approved only of the ice rink.
After a full hour of Sam’s atrocious navigating, we finally found the cemetery in south Memphis. Using a map from the guardhouse, we eventually located the grave of Nicola Rossetti DeJarnette. Miss Callie placed a bouquet of flowers she’d brought from home on the grave, and when it became apparent she planned to spend some time there, we walked away and left her in peace.
In memory of Nicola, Miss Callie wanted Italian food. I had reserved a table at Grisanti’s, a Memphis landmark, and we had a long, delightful dinner of lasagna and ravioli stuffed with goat cheese. She managed to overcome her bias against bought food, and, to protect her from sin, I insisted on paying for it.
We didn’t want to leave Memphis. For a few hours we had escaped the fear of the unknown and the anxiety of the waiting. Clanton seemed a thousand miles away, and that was too close. Going back late that night, I found myself driving slower and slower.
Though we didn’t discuss it, and the conversation grew quieter the closer we got to home, there was a killer loose in Ford County. Miss Callie’s name was on his list. If not for the two dead bodies, that would have been impossible to believe.