At that moment, it was impossible to stare at Pete Banning and think of him as the man who murdered Dexter Bell. Judge Oswalt realized this and decided to intervene. “Let’s take a recess,” he said, reaching for a cigarette.
In his chambers, he flung off his robe and lit a Camel. He looked at John Wilbanks and said, “That’s enough of that. This is a trial, not a medal ceremony. I want to know right now if your client will take the stand and I want to know how you plan to make this relevant.”
Truitt was angry and said, “The damage is done, Judge. It’s not relevant and it should not have been presented to the jury.”
“Will he testify?” the judge demanded.
“I’m afraid not,” Wilbanks said quietly in defeat. “He just told me that he does not wish to say anything.”
“Do you have any more witnesses?”
Wilbanks hesitated and said, “Yes, one of the American soldiers who served with Pete.”
“One of the commandos in the jungle?”
“Yes, but it’s not important. My client just informed me that he will object to any more testimony about the war.”
Oswalt took a long pull from his Camel and walked to a window. “Are there any more witnesses from either side?”
“The prosecution has rested, Your Honor,” Truitt said.
“I have nothing else, Judge,” Wilbanks said.
Oswalt turned around and stood behind his desk. “All right. I’ll send the jury home. We’ll work on the jury instructions in here; then you guys get some rest. You’ll do your closing statements in the morning; then I’ll give the case to the jury.”
Clay Wampler was a cowboy from Colorado who joined the army in 1940. He was sent to the Philippines later that year as part of the Thirty-First Infantry. He surrendered on Bataan, survived the death march, and met Pete Banning in a POW camp. His life was saved when a Japanese guard sold him enough quinine to break his malaria. While being transported to a labor camp in Japan, he and Pete escaped. They decided that since they were dead men anyway, they would take their chances in the jungle, where they spent the first three days and nights lost in the bush. When they were too weak to walk and were discussing ways to commit suicide, they killed an injured Japanese soldier they caught napping in the woods. In his backpack they found food and water, and after gorging themselves they hid the body and barely escaped his patrol. Armed with a pistol, a knife, a rifle, and a bayonet, they eventually found American and Filipino guerrillas. They lived in the mountainous jungles and became quite adept at picking off enemy soldiers. Their exploits could fill a thick book.
Clay contacted John Wilbanks and offered to help in any way. He traveled to Clanton and was prepared to take the stand and say whatever was necessary to save his friend. When the lawyer informed him he would not be allowed to testify, he went to the jail on Tuesday afternoon to visit Pete.
Sheriff Gridley left the jail at five o’clock and, as was the custom now, turned his office over to his trusty and Tick Poley. Florry served her brother and Clay a fine dinner, and listened for hours as they swapped stories she had never heard before. It was the only time Pete talked about the war. As one tale led to another, Florry listened in disbelief at the descriptions of the suffering they had endured. Survival seemed like a miracle.
Clay was bewildered by the prospect of his friend being put to death by the State of Mississippi. When Pete assured him it was likely, he vowed to round up the old gang and lay siege to Clanton. The chubby deputies he had seen around the courthouse would be no match for their buddies, hardened commandos who had killed thousands in ways too awful to talk about.
“We often had to kill quietly,” Clay explained gravely to Florry. “A gunshot draws attention.”
She nodded as if she understood completely.
Long after dinner, Tick Poley finally knocked on the door and said the party was over. Pete and Clay embraced and said good-bye. Clay promised to return with the gang to rescue their captain. Pete replied that those days were over.
He went to his cell, turned off his light, and fell asleep.
Chapter 16
A light snow was falling when Miles Truitt rose to deliver his closing argument to the jury. Few things excited the locals like a snowfall, and though the forecast was for only an inch or two, the town was buzzing as if it might get socked in for a month. Miles thought it might hurt his case. The jurors would not waste time with their deliberations but want to hurry home to prepare. John Wilbanks worried that the weather might not benefit Pete. It could distract the jurors. He was praying for one or two to hold out for a life sentence and not death, and any potential dissenters might throw in the towel, side with the majority, and get home before the roads became treacherous. An outright conviction was a certainty, but a split verdict on the sentence meant life and not death. He and Russell had been debating the pros and cons of snow throughout the early morning, with nothing settled. Russell was convinced it would not be a factor. The trial had been brief. The jurors were thoroughly engaged. Their decision was far too important to be affected.
The things lawyers argue about.
Miles walked to the jury box, smiled at the jurors, thanked them for their service, as if they had a choice, and said, “I ask you to ignore the testimony of the last witness, Major Rusconi, from New Orleans. Nothing he said was relevant to this case, to this charge of murder. I’m not asking you to forget the service and sacrifice of the defendant. It was extraordinary, even legendary, but that’s where it ends. This country just won the greatest world war in history, and we have many reasons to be proud. Four hundred thousand Americans died, and today across this great land families are still picking up the pieces. Over five million men and women served, most of them bravely, even heroically. But, being a war hero does not give anyone the right to come home and commit such a senseless and horrible murder. What if all of our war heroes decided to take the law into their own hands and start firing away?”
Miles was pacing slowly and speaking without notes. He had rehearsed for hours, prepared for weeks, and knew this would be his finest hour.
“Instead, I ask you to think about Jackie Bell and her children. Three wonderful kids who will live the rest of their lives without their father. A fine man of God, a fine pastor, a great father and husband. A man cut down at the age of thirty-nine in cold blood, and for no apparent reason. A man with no defense, no warning, no reason to question why his friend suddenly showed up with a gun. No way to escape, no time to defend himself, no means to avoid a sudden and tragic end. A preacher who either was reading the Bible or had just finished when the defendant suddenly appeared without warning and took his life. I suppose we’ll never know the cause of the conflict between Dexter Bell and Pete Banning, but I’ll ask the question we’ve all asked each other since last October: Why in God’s holy name could it not have been settled without bloodshed?”
Miles turned and glared at the defendant. He held his arms open wide and asked, “Why?”
Pete stared straight ahead, unflinching.
“But bloodshed is what we have, and it is now your duty to deal with it. There can be no doubt about the facts. The defense could not bring itself to suggest someone else did the killing. The defense did not claim that Pete Banning was mentally unstable. The defense did its best but there is no defense. Pete Banning shot and killed Dexter Bell. He acted alone and with premeditation. He planned it and he knew exactly what he was doing. When you retire to deliberate in a few moments, you’ll take with you a copy of the deed he signed just three weeks before the murder. It was an attempt to transfer his biggest asset to his children, to protect his land. In legal terms, it is known as a fraudulent conveyance. A fraud, in preparation for a murder. We’ll never know how long the defendant planned the killing, and it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that it was carefully thought out, it was premeditated.”