And I was tired of Clanton. With some reluctance the town had come to accept me, especially when it became obvious I wasn’t leaving. But it was a very small place, and at times I felt suffocated. I spent so many weekends at home, with little to do but read and write,
that I became accustomed to it. And that frustrated me greatly. I tried the poker nights with Bubba Crocket and the Foxhole gang, and the redneck cookouts with Harry Rex and company. But I never felt as though I belonged.
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.”
______
T
he 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.
According to Baggy, and verified by research in the
Times
archives, there had been no unsolved murders that century. Almost every killing had been some impulsive act where the smoking gun had been seen by witnesses. Arrests, trials, and convictions had been prompt. Now, there was a very smart and very deliberate killer out there, and every one knew his intended victims. For such a law-abiding, God-fearing community, it was inconceivable.
Bobby, Al, Max, and Leon had, at various times, argued strenuously for Miss Callie to go stay with any of them for a month or so. Sam and I, and even Esau, had joined in these rather vigorous requests, but she would not budge. She was in close contact with God, and he would protect her.
In nine years, the only time I lost my temper with Miss Callie, and the only time she rebuked me, was during an argument about spending a month in Milwaukee with Bobby. “Those big cities are dangerous,” she had said.
“No place is as dangerous as Clanton right now,” I had replied.
Later, when I raised my voice, she told me she did not appreciate my lack of respect, and I quickly shut up.
As we crossed into Ford County late that night, I began watching my rearview mirror. It was silly, but then it wasn’t. In Lowtown, the Ruffin home was guarded by a deputy parked in the street, and a friend of Esau’s on the porch.
“It’s been a quiet night,” the friend said. In other words, no one had been shot or shot at.
Sam and I played checkers for an hour on the porch while she went to sleep.
The waiting continued.
CHAPTER 42
N
ineteen seventy-nine was a year for local elections in Mississippi, my third as a registered voter. It was much quieter than the first two. The Sheriff’s race was uncontested, something that was unheard of. There had been a rumor that the Padgitts had bought a new candidate, but after the parole debacle they backed off. Senator Theo Morton drew an opponent who brought me an ad that screamed the question—WHY DID SENATOR MORTON GET DANNY PADGITT PAROLED? CASH! THAT’S WHY! As much as I wanted to run the ad, I had neither the time nor the energy for a libel suit.
There was a constable’s race out in Beat Four with thirteen candidates, but other than that the races were fairly lethargic. The county was fixated on the murders of Fargarson and Teale, and, more important, on who might be next. Sheriff McNatt and the investigators
from the state police and state crime lab had exhausted every possible clue and lead. All we could do was wait.
As July Fourth approached, there was a noticeable lack of excitement about the annual celebration. Though almost everyone felt safe, there was a dark cloud hanging over the county. Oddly, rumors persisted that something bad would happen when we all gathered around the courthouse on the Fourth. Rumors, though, had never been born with such creativity, nor spread as rapidly, as in the month of June.
______
O
n June 25, in a fancy law office in Tupelo, I signed a pile of documents that transferred ownership of the
Times
to a media company owned in part by Mr. Ray Noble of Atlanta. Mr. Noble handed me a check for $1.5 million, and I quickly, and somewhat anxiously, walked it down the street, where my newest friend, Stu Holland, was waiting in his rather spacious office in the Merchants Bank. News of such a deposit in Clanton would leak overnight, so I buried the money with Stu, then drove home.
It was the longest one-hour drive of my life. It was exhilarating because I had cashed in at the market’s peak. I had squeezed top dollar out of a well-heeled and honorable buyer who planned to make few changes to my newspaper. Adventure was calling me, and I now had the means to answer.
And it was a sad drive because I was giving up such a large and rewarding part of my life. The paper and I
had grown and matured together; me as an adult, it as a prosperous entity. It had become what any small-town paper should be—a lively observer of current events, a recorder of history, an occasional commentator on politics and social issues. As for me, I was a young man who had blindly and doggedly built something from scratch. I suppose I should’ve felt my age, but all I wanted to do was find a beach. Then a girl.
When I returned to Clanton, I walked into Margaret’s office, closed the door, and told her about the sale. She burst into tears, and before long my eyes were moist as well. Her fierce loyalty had always amazed me, and though she, like Miss Callie, worried way too much about my soul, she had grown to love me nonetheless. I explained that the new owners were wonderful people, planned no drastic changes, and had approved her new five-year contract at an increased salary. This made her cry even more.
Hardy did not cry. By then he had been printing the
Times
for almost thirty years. He was moody, cantankerous, drank too much like most pressmen, and if the new owners didn’t like him then he’d simply quit and go fishing. He did appreciate the new contract though.
As did Davey Bigmouth Bass. He was shocked at the news, but rallied nicely at the idea of earning more money.
Baggy was on vacation somewhere out West, with his brother, not his wife. Mr. Ray Noble had been reluctant to agree to another five years’ of Baggy’s sluggish
reporting, and I could not, in good conscience, make him a part of the deal. Baggy was on his own.
We had five other employees, and I personally broke the news to each of them. It took all of one afternoon, and when if it was finally over I was drained. I met Harry Rex in the back room at Pepe’s and we celebrated with margaritas.
I was anxious to leave town and go somewhere, but it would be impossible until the killings stopped.
______
F
or most of June, the Ruffin professors scrambled back and forth to Clanton. They juggled assignments and vacations, trying their best to make sure at least two or three of them were always with Miss Callie. Sam seldom left the house. He stayed in Lowtown to protect his mother, but also to keep his own profile low. Trooper Durant was still around, though he was married again and his two renegade sons had left the area.
Sam spent hours on the porch, reading voraciously, playing checkers with Esau or whoever stopped by to help guard things for a while. He played backgammon with me until he figured out the strategy, then he insisted that we bet a dollar per game. Before long I owed him $50. Such blatant gambling was a deadly secret on Miss Callie’s porch.