The spectators were shown to the left, or south, side of the courtroom, and the pews there were filling fast not long after the doors opened. Among the curious were some reporters, and they were given front-row seats.
To the right, the bailiff, Walter Willy, herded those who had been summoned. Seventy registered voters had been selected by Judge Oswalt and the circuit court clerk, and they had been mailed letters two weeks before. Fourteen had been disqualified for various reasons. Those left in the pool looked nervously around the courtroom, uncertain as to whether they should feel honored to be chosen or terrified of serving in such a notorious case. Though their letters gave no indication of who was on trial, the entire county knew it was Pete Banning. Of the fifty-six, only one had ever served on a trial jury before. Full-blown trials were rare in rural Mississippi. Everyone in the pool was white; only three were women.
Above them, the balcony was filling with Negroes, and Negroes only. Signs in the hallways of the courthouse kept matters segregated—restrooms, water fountains, entrances to offices, and the courtroom. Penrod, a man with status, was sweeping the balcony floor and explaining to others how the court system worked. This was his turf. He’d watched trials before and was quite informed. Ernie moved up and down the staircase, stopping by the balcony to flirt with some ladies. Hop from the Methodist church was the man of the hour in the balcony because he would be called to testify. He was the State’s most important witness, and he made sure his people knew it. They wished him well.
At exactly nine o’clock, Walter Willy, who’d been the volunteer bailiff for longer than anyone could remember, marched to his position in front of the bench, stood at attention, or at least his version of it, and commenced to howl: “All rise for the court!” His high-pitched squeal startled those who’d never heard it before, and everyone scrambled to their feet as Judge Oswalt emerged from the door behind his bench.
Walter Willy tilted his head back, and with his eyes on the ceiling continued yodeling, “Hear ye, hear ye, the circuit court of the Twenty-Second Judicial District of the great State of Mississippi is hereby called to order. The Honorable Rafe Oswalt presiding. Let all who have business before this court come forward. God bless America and God bless Mississippi.”
Such language was not required and could not be found in any code section, rule of procedure, court order, or local ordinance. When he had somehow assumed the job years earlier, and no one could recall exactly how he had become the court’s permanent bailiff, Walter Willy had spent a lot of time perfecting his call to order, and now it was an accepted part of the opening of court. Judge Oswalt really didn’t care; however, the lawyers despised it. Regardless of the importance of the hearing or the trial, Walter was there to give his earsplitting call to rise.
Another part of his act was his homemade uniform. The matching shirt and pants were olive khaki, nothing remotely similar to what the real deputies were wearing, and his mother had sewn his name above the pocket in bold yellow letters. She had also added some random patches with no significance on his sleeves. He wore a bright gold badge he’d found at a flea market in Memphis, and a thick black ammo belt with a row of shiny cartridges that gave the impression that Walter might just shoot first and ask questions later. He could not, however, because he had no weapon. Nix Gridley flatly refused to deputize him and wanted no part of Walter Willy and his routine.
Judge Oswalt tolerated it with a wink because it was harmless and added a bit of color to the otherwise drab courtroom and dull proceedings.
He settled himself at his bench, said, “Please be seated,” and arranged his flowing black robe around himself. He looked at the crowd. Both the gallery and the balcony were full. In his seventeen years on the bench, he had never seen so many in this courtroom. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, good morning and welcome. There’s only one case on the docket this week. Mr. Sheriff, would you bring in the defendant?”
Nix was waiting at a side door. He nodded, opened the door, and seconds later appeared with Pete Banning, who walked in slowly, with no handcuffs, tall and erect, his face showing no concern but with his eyes on the floor. He seemed not to notice the crowd watching his every move. Pete hated neckties and wore a dark jacket over a white shirt. John Wilbanks had thought it important to wear a suit to show proper respect for the proceedings. Pete had asked how many men on the jury would be wearing suits, and when his lawyer said probably none, the issue was settled. The truth was Pete didn’t care what he wore, what the jurors wore, what anyone wore.
Without as much as a glance at the audience, he took his seat at the defense table, crossed his arms, and looked at Judge Oswalt.
Florry was three rows back at the end of a pew. Beside her was Mildred Highlander, her best friend in town, and the only one who’d volunteered to sit through the trial with her. She and Pete had argued over her attendance. He was dead set against it. She was determined to watch. She wanted to know what was happening for her own benefit, but also to report to Joel and Stella. Too, she figured that Pete would have almost no one else there pulling for him. And she was correct. Everywhere she turned she got harsh looks from angry Methodists.
Judge Oswalt said, “In the matter of the State of Mississippi versus Pete Banning, what says the State?”
Miles Truitt rose with a purpose and replied, “Your Honor, the State of Mississippi is ready for trial.”
“And what says the defense?”
John Wilbanks stood and said, “As is the defense.” When both sat down, Judge Oswalt looked at the prospective jurors and said, “Now, we summoned seventy of you folks here as prospective jurors. One has passed away, three have not been found, and ten have been sent home, disqualified. So we now have a panel of fifty-six. I have been informed by the bailiff that all fifty-six are present, are above the age of eighteen, under the age of sixty-five, and have no health problems that would prevent jury duty. You have been arranged in numerical order and will be addressed as such.”
It would serve no purpose to explain that the ten who had been disqualified were basically illiterate and had been unable to complete a rudimentary questionnaire.
Judge Oswalt shuffled some papers, found the indictment, and read it aloud. The facts as alleged constituted first-degree murder under Mississippi law, punishable by either life in prison or death in the electric chair. He introduced the four lawyers and asked them to stand. He introduced the defendant, but when asked to stand, Pete refused. He didn’t budge and seemed not to hear. Judge Oswalt was irritated but decided to ignore the slight.
It was not a wise thing to do, and John Wilbanks planned to give his client an earful during the first recess. What could Pete possibly hope to gain by being disrespectful?
Moving right along, the judge launched into a windy narrative in which he described both the alleged murder victim and the alleged murderer. At the time of his death, Dexter Bell had been the minister of the Clanton Methodist Church for five years, and as such was active in the community. He was well-known, as was the defendant. Pete Banning was born in Ford County to a prominent family, and so on.