Grif Stockley: Blind Judgement

I’d probably turn into an alcoholic after the first month.

“I’ve been helpin’ out at my uncle’s barbecue place in town for a while,” Class responds.

“It’s actually owned by Paul Taylor. I didn’t even know that.”

For the first time since I’ve been talking to him, I pick up a false note here. I haven’t asked about his association with the Taylors.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, watching his face carefully.

If he is conning me, I’d like to find out earlier than later.

“They’re sayin’ he hired me,” Class says.

“I hardly even know him.”

I question him at length about Paul, and he admits that before he started at the plant he was a delivery man for an appliance store in town that Paul owned. Paul rarely came in the store, but when he did, he would make a point to speak to the help.

“He was real friendly,” Class says.

“We always got a ham at Christmas from him.”

That sounds like Paul, the great benefactor of the underclass. He wouldn’t pay minimum wage if there was any way he could avoid it, but he liked to play Santa Claus.

“Have you seen him since you worked there?” I ask, afraid I see where this is heading.

“On the street every now and then,” Class says.

“And then at Oldham’s Barbecue some. See, like I say, it turned out he owned it, and my uncle just managed it for him.”

Paul, it appears, has had Class on the payroll for years.

“So how long have you been working one way or another for Paul Taylor?”

“About eight years, I guess,” Class says, using his fingers to count.

It is easy to guess what has happened. While the prosecuting attorney was waiting for the results of the DNA analysis, he just sat back and watched Class. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Oldham was about to retire and Class was going to join the entrepreneurial class, courtesy of Paul.

On the other hand, it is not out of the realm of the possible it was a coincidence. Employers are few and far between in the Delta.

“How much were you making?” I ask.

“More than I was making cutting meat,” Class admits. He sighs, knowing things don’t look good for him.

I ask him directly, “Did Paul Taylor hire you to kill Willie “Naw, sir!” Class says, raising his voice for the first time.

“I swear to God he didn’t. I didn’t murder ole Willie for nobody.”

For some reason I think I believe him. Maybe I just want to do this case. We talk for a while longer and then I get a guard to let him come around to sign my retainer agreement. I don’t make a practice of trying to milk the cow dry in one setting. I will have ample opportunity to find out Doss’s story. I tell him that I will try to have his arraignment set as quickly as possible so we can get a trial date. I explain that since he has no money for a bond, he will have to remain in jail until the trial, which he accepts more stoically than I would.

Paul, he tells me, has already made bond, which is hardly surprising.

I drive to the courthouse in Bear Creek and find the sheriff’s office on the first floor. I want to pay a courtesy call on him before I go see the prosecuting attorney. If I do my job right on this case, the sheriff’s job in this case is just beginning. As I walk into the building, I realize I haven’t been here since I was a teenager and signed up for the draft. With the Vietnam War on, a heart murmur, which has never given me a moment’s problem, probably saved my life. As I push open the door, I wonder why this case didn’t make this morning’s edition of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. I can understand that the arrest of a black plant-worker in the rural Delta for the murder of a Chinese businessman would spark no great interest by the media, but Paul’s arrest should be big news. At least it would have been twenty years ago. Maybe he isn’t as rich as I thought.

I open the door and am greeted by a young black secretary behind a desk and a typewriter.

“You lookin’ for Sheriff Bonner? He just called and said he’s on the way.”

She has an old-fashioned bushy ‘fro that I haven’t seen in twenty years. Maybe eighteen at the most, she has an infectious smile that draws a smile from me. The last time I was in this building the only black face was behind a broom.

“May I have a seat and wait for him?” I ask.

“You sure can,” she says brightly.

“Would you care for some coffee?”

I take off my overcoat and sit down across from her. I’ve drunk enough coffee today to float a battleship, but one more cup won’t hurt.

“With just a little milk or whitener in it,” I say, pleased by the courtesy shown me. Could the sheriff be a black man? I realize I’ve got to find out what the hell has been going on for the last thirty years over here before I go too much further on this case.

“You must be a lawyer, but not from around here,” my hostess says, pouring my coffee into a mug that has a replica of the design of the Pyramid office building and sports arena in Memphis.

She’s clad in a modest green jumper with a white blouse underneath, Julia’s outfits, by comparison, look like the getups of a low-rent call girl. I realize how low my expectations are in the Delta. If you believe everything you read, you’d expect to find a girl this age at the welfare office with two children hanging on to her as she signs up for food stamps and AFDC.

“I’m Gideon Page,” I say, holding out my hand for my coffee. She takes my hand and pumps it as if she were a politician seeking votes.

“I’m Yolanda Ford, Sheriff Bonner’s secretary,” she replies.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

The door opens, and there is no mistaking the sheriff. Bonner is a

compact black man in his early forties, in an olive and tan uniform. He measures no more than 5‘9”, and that may be stretching it because of the boots he is wearing.

He sports a firm black mustache, and as he grins at Yolanda, I notice he has the whitest teeth of any black I’ve seen this side of Hollywood.

The color of dark chocolate, Bonner is undeniably an attractive man. He smiles easily at me, but instead of introducing himself, he turns back to Yolanda and asks, “Who do we have here?”

By allowing her to make our introduction, I see he is training her, and I watch closely as Yolanda replies, “Sheriff Bonner, this is Mr. Gideon Page. He hasn’t been here long enough to let us know what we can do for him.”

Revealing his gun at his side as he takes off his leather jacket, Bonner offers his hand.

“I’m Woodrow Bonner. How’re you, Mr. Page?”

Such friendliness seems genuine enough, and with his firm handshake I begin to perceive why Bonner is surely the first black sheriff in Bear Creek since Reconstruction. He radiates a politician’s affability. I tell him I am fine and that I am Class Bledsoe’s attorney.

“Yolanda, hold my calls,” he says without changing his expression and leads me back through a door to his office behind her desk.

His office, though small, is very much like an up-and-coming

politician’s-on the walls is a picture of him with Bill Clinton and another with the once Surgeon General of the United States, Joycelyn Elders, who I recall as director of the Arkansas Department of Health helped start a controversial school-based clinic over here which made available birth control information. Directly behind his chair is a picture of him shaking hands with Jesse Jackson and Maynard Jackson, the former black mayor of Atlanta. This area of the state is heavily Democratic, and no serious candidate can afford to overlook it, despite the declining population. Beside the celebrities are framed certificates showing his participation in various law enforcement and community activities. On his desk is a picture of presumably his wife and his two children, both teenaged girls who look just like him.