“What kind of defense?”
“Our options appear to be rather limited. Self-defense, irresistible impulse, an alibi perhaps. Nothing fits here, Florry.” He pulled again on the cigar and exhaled another cloud. “And there’s more. I received a tip this afternoon and walked over to the land records office. Three weeks ago, Pete signed a deed transferring ownership of his land to Joel and Stella. There was no good reason for doing this, and he certainly didn’t want me to know about it. He used a lawyer from Tupelo, one with few contacts in Clanton.”
“And the point is? I’m sorry, John, help me here.”
“The point is Pete was planning this for some time, and to protect his land from possible claims to be made by the family of Dexter Bell, he gave it to his children, took his name off the title.”
“Will that work?”
“I doubt it, but that’s another issue for another day. Your land is, of course, in your name and will not be affected by any of this.”
“Thanks, John, but I haven’t even thought about that.”
“Assuming he goes to trial, and I can’t imagine why he will not, the land transaction will be entered into evidence against him to prove premeditation. It was all carefully planned, Florry. Pete had been thinking about this for a long time.”
Florry held the handkerchief to her mouth and stared at the floor as minutes passed. The office was perfectly still and quiet; all sounds from the street below were gone. John stood and stubbed his cigar into a heavy crystal ashtray, then walked to his desk and lit another one. He went to the windows of a French door and gazed at the courthouse across the street. It was almost dusk and the shadows were falling on the lawn.
Without turning around, he asked, “How long was Pete in the hospital after he escaped?”
“Months and months. I don’t know, maybe a year. He had extensive wounds and weighed 130 pounds. It took time.”
“How about mentally? Were there problems?”
“Well, typically, he’s never talked about them if they in fact existed. But how can you not be a bit off in the head after going through what he endured?”
“Was he diagnosed?”
“I have no idea. He is not the same person after the war, but how could he be? I’m sure a lot of those boys are scarred.”
“How is he different?”
She stuck her handkerchief in her purse, as if to say the tears were over for now. “Liza said there were nightmares at first, a lot of sleepless nights. He’s moodier now, prone to long stretches of silence, which he seems to enjoy. But then, you’re talking about a man who’s never said a lot. I do remember thinking that he was quite happy and relaxed when he got home. He was still convalescing and gaining weight, and he smiled a lot, just happy to be alive and happy the war was over. That didn’t last, though. I could tell things were tense between him and Liza. Nineva said they were not getting along. It was really strange because it seemed as though the stronger he got, the more he got himself together, the quicker she unraveled.”
“What were they fighting about?”
“I don’t know. Nineva sees and hears everything, so they were careful. She told Marietta that they often sent her out of the house so they could discuss things. Liza was spiraling. I remember seeing her once, not long before she went away, and she looked thin, frail, and sort of beleaguered. It’s no secret that she and I have never been close, so she never confided in me. I guess he didn’t either.”
John puffed his cigar and returned to his seat near Florry. He stared at her with a pleasant smile, one old friend to another, and said, “The only possible connection between Reverend Bell, your brother, and a senseless murder is Liza Banning. Do you agree?”
“I’m in no position to agree to anything.”
“Come on, Florry, help me out here. I’m the only person who might be able to save Pete’s life, and that looks pretty doubtful right now. How much time did Dexter Bell spend with Liza when we thought Pete was dead?”
“Good God, John, I don’t know. Those first days and weeks were just awful. Liza was a wreck. The kids were traumatized. The house was a beehive as everybody in the county stopped by with a ham or a pork shank and a spare shoulder to cry on, along with a dozen questions. Sure, Dexter was there, and I remember his wife too. They were close to Pete and Liza.”
“But nothing unusual?”
“Unusual? Are you suggesting something went on between Liza and Dexter Bell? That’s outrageous, John.”
“Yes it is, and so is this murder, the defense of which I’m now in charge of, if there is to be a defense. There’s a reason Pete killed him. If he won’t explain things, then it’s up to me to find a motive.”
Florry raised her hands and said, “I’m done. It’s been a stressful day, John, and I can’t go on. Maybe another time.” She got to her feet and headed for the door, which he quickly opened for her. He held her arm down the stairs. They hugged at the front door and promised to talk soon.
* * *
—
His first meal as an inmate was a bowl of soup beans with a wedge of stale corn bread. Both were cold, and as Pete sat on the edge of his cot and held the bowl he pondered the question of how difficult it might be to keep the beans warm long enough to serve them to the prisoners. Surely that could be done, though he would suggest it to no one. He would not complain, for he had learned the hard way that complaining often made matters worse.
Across the dark passageway another prisoner sat on his cot and dined under the dim glow of a bare bulb at the end of a cord. His name was Leon Colliver, a member of a family known for making good moonshine, a flask of which he had hidden under his cot. Twice throughout the afternoon Colliver had offered a swig to Pete, who declined. According to Colliver, he would be shipped out to the state penitentiary at Parchman, where he was scheduled to spend a few years. It would be his second visit there and he was looking forward to it. Any place was better than this dungeon. At Parchman, the inmates spent most of their time outdoors.
Colliver wanted to chat and was curious as to why Pete was in jail. As the day wore on, the gossip spread, even to the other four white inmates, and by dusk everyone knew Pete had killed the Methodist preacher. Colliver had plenty of time to talk and wanted some details. He got nothing. What Colliver didn’t know was that Pete Banning had been shot, beaten, starved, tortured, locked in barbed wire, ship hulls, boxcars, and POW camps, and one of many survival lessons he’d picked up during his ordeal was to never say much to a person you don’t know. Colliver got nothing.
After dinner, Nix Gridley appeared in the cell block and stopped at Pete’s cell. Pete stood and took three steps to the bars. In a voice that was almost a whisper, Gridley said, “Look, Pete, we got some nosy reporters pesterin’ us, hangin’ around the jail, wantin’ to talk to you, me, anybody who’ll engage them. Just want to make sure you have no interest.”