Joel put the phone down without a word and left the building. He drifted across the campus until he saw an empty bench partially hidden by shrubbery. He sat there and fought back tears, determined to find the stoicism taught by his father. Poor Stella, he thought. She was as fiery and emotional as their mother, and he knew she was a mess at the moment.
Frightened, bewildered, and confused, Joel watched the leaves fall and scatter in the breeze. He felt the urge to go home, immediately, to catch a train and be in Clanton before dark, and once there he would get to the bottom of things. The thought passed, though, and he wondered if he would ever go back. Reverend Bell was a gifted and popular minister, and at the moment there was probably great hostility toward the Bannings. Besides, his father had given him and Stella strict instructions to stay away. Joel, at the age of twenty, could not remember a single instance when he had disobeyed his father. With age, he had learned to respectfully disagree with him, but he would never disobey him. His father was a proud soldier, a strict disciplinarian who said little and valued authority.
There was simply no way his father could commit murder.
Chapter 4
The courthouse, and the shops and offices lining the neat square around it, closed at five each weekday. Usually by that time all doors were locked, all lights were off, the sidewalks were empty, and everyone was gone. However, on this day the townsfolk lingered a bit later in case more facts and/or gossip emerged about the killing. They had talked of nothing else since nine that morning. They had shocked each other with the first reports, then spread along later developments. They had stood in solemn respect as old man Magargel paraded his hearse around the square to provide a glimpse of the corpse outlined under a black cape. Some had ventured to the Methodist church and held vigil while offering prayers, then returned to their places around the square with near-breathless descriptions of what was happening on the front line. Baptists, Presbyterians, and Pentecostals were at a disadvantage since they could claim no real connection to either the victim or his killer. The Methodists, though, were in the spotlight, with each one eager to describe relationships that seemed to grow stronger as the day progressed. On this unforgettable day, the Clanton Methodist Church had never known so many congregants.
For most people in Clanton, among the white folks anyway, there was a sense of betrayal. Dexter Bell was popular and highly regarded. Pete Banning was a near-mythical figure. To have one kill the other was such a senseless loss it touched almost everyone. Motive was so incomprehensible that no solid rumor emerged to address it.
Not that there was a shortage of rumors; there certainly was not. Banning would be in court tomorrow. He was refusing to say anything. He would plead insanity. John Wilbanks had never lost a trial and was not about to lose this one. Judge Oswalt was a close friend of Banning’s, or maybe he was a close friend of Dexter Bell’s. The trial would be moved to Tupelo. He had not been right since the war. Jackie Bell was heavily sedated. Her kids were a mess. Pete would put up his land as security for bail and go home tomorrow.
To avoid seeing anyone, Florry parked on a side street and hurried to the law office. John Wilbanks was working late and waiting for her in the reception room on the first floor.
* * *
—
In 1946, there were a dozen lawyers in Ford County and half of them worked for the firm of Wilbanks & Wilbanks. All six were related. For over a hundred years, the Wilbanks family had been prominent in law, politics, banking, real estate, and farming. John and his brother Russell studied law up north and ran the firm, which seemed to run most other commercial matters in the county. Another brother was the chairman of the largest bank in the county, along with owning several businesses. A cousin farmed two thousand acres. Another cousin handled real estate and was also a state representative with ambitions. It was rumored that the family met in secret the first week of January of each year to tally up the various profits and divide the money. There seemed to be plenty to go around.
Florry had known John Wilbanks since high school, though she was three years older. His firm had always taken care of the Bannings’ legal matters, none of which had ever seemed that complicated until now. There had been the sticky problem of shipping Liza off to the asylum, but John had discreetly pulled the right strings and away she went. Florry’s ancient divorce had likewise been swept under the rug by John and his brother, with hardly a record of it in the county books.
He greeted her with a solemn hug and she followed him upstairs to his large office, the finest in town, with a terrace that overlooked the courthouse square. The walls were covered with grim portraits of his dead ancestors. Death was everywhere. He waved at a rich leather sofa and she took a seat.
“I met with him,” John began as he struck a match and lit a short black cigar. “He didn’t say much. In fact he’s refusing to say anything.”
“What in God’s name, John?” she asked as her eyes watered.
“Hell if I know. You didn’t see it coming?”
“Of course not. You know Pete. He doesn’t talk, especially about private matters. He’ll chat a bit about his kids, go on like all farmers about the weather and the price of seed and all that drivel. But you get nothing personal. And something as awful as this, well, no, he would never say a word.”
John sucked on his cigar and blasted a cloud of blue smoke at the ceiling. “So you have no idea what’s behind this?”
She dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief and said, “I’m too overwhelmed to make any sense of it, John. I’m having trouble breathing right now, forget thinking clearly. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, but not now. Everything is a blur.”
“And Joel and Stella?”
“I’ve spoken with both of them. Poor children, away at school, enjoying the college life, nothing really to worry about, and they get the news that their father has just murdered their minister, a man they admired. And they can’t come home because Pete gave strict instructions, in writing no less, that they stay away until he changes his mind.” She sobbed for a minute as John worked his cigar, then she clenched her jaws, dabbed some more, and said, “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, go ahead, Florry, cry all you want. I wish I could. Get it out of your system because it’s only natural. This is no time to be brave. Emotion is welcome here. This is a perfectly awful day that will haunt us for years to come.”
“What is coming, John?”
“Well, nothing good, I can promise you that. I spoke with Judge Oswalt this afternoon and he will not even consider the notion of bail. Out of the question, which I completely understand. It is murder, after all. I met with Pete this afternoon, but he’s not cooperative. So, on the one hand he will not plead guilty, and on the other he won’t provide any cooperation for a defense. This could change, of course, but you and I both know him and he doesn’t change his mind once it’s made up.”