“Well, if there was ever any doubt that Jessup was the killer,” Jeff said, “we’ve certainly put that question to rest.”
The entire prosecution team was seated around a conference table in the district attorney’s office. Gibb Haynes sat at the head of the table, flanked by Sheriff Clayton Poole, Terrell Jackson, and two young assistant prosecutors. Jeff and Travis Murray were seated at the far end.
“We all sure as hell know that,” the district attorney said, gesturing at those around the table. “Unfortunately, the jury’ll never hear about your adventure and Hollingsly’s statements about Jessup. Can’t figure out, for the life of me, any way we could make that kind of testimony admissible without getting him on the stand.”
Jeff nodded his agreement. “Anything new on the search for Hollingsly?”
“Nothing yet,” answered Haynes.
“Now that he’s the subject of an official murder investigation, I thought we might have some luck. But he’s apparently gone to ground and ain’t nobody talking,” said Sheriff Poole.
“Well,” said Haynes, “I think we just got to assume we’re going to trial on Monday with what we got. In the meantime, we keep looking for Hollingsly and, if we find him, we squeeze the hell outta him to get him to testify. A murder charge might make him look at things a little differently. If not,” Haynes looked directly at Jeff and Travis Murray, “it looks like ol’ Ricky Earl’s gonna be carryin’ the ball for us all by himself. Can he handle it?”
“He’ll be fine,” Jeff said reassuringly. “Let’s just hope we can find a jury that’ll be willing to listen.”
Terrell Jackson snorted. “Yeah, right. Like a jury from ’round here’s gonna take some ol’ nasty redneck convict’s word over that of Tillman Jessup, with all his money and family name and army of expensive lawyers.” He snorted again.
“Listen here,” Gibb Haynes said. “I know we got an uphill battle. And I’m not stupid enough to bet the farm on this one. But I’m not willing to surrender, either. This is a whole different place from back when Elijah Hall was murdered. No more all-white racist juries. No more of the KKK and Sovereignty folks runnin’ around interferin’ with the justice system. Hell, who would’ve thought a Mississippi jury— whites and blacks—would finally convict Byron De La Beckwith of killing Medgar Evers back in ’63? Took more than thirty years and two hung juries, but it finally happened. Lord knows it’s not going to be easy. But, if I didn’t think we had a shot, I wouldn’t be sitting here with all y’all gettin’ ready to go to trial.”
“Yeah,” Travis Murray smiled ruefully. “Except De La Beckwith left his rifle, fingerprints and all, at the murder scene. And he boasted over the years to a lot of people that he was the killer. Not quite our case. Too bad Jessup wasn’t as accommodating.”
“Look,” Jeff said. “Gibb’s right. It’s not going to be easy. And we all knew that before we started. But, if nothing else, De La Beckwith’s conviction made it clear we’ve turned the corner on these old civil rights cases and at least now they’ll be taken seriously. So now it’s our job to find us a jury that’ll listen. Maybe we win and maybe we don’t. But at least this murder—and this victim—will finally see the light of day. And that’s a damn sight better than what happened here forty years ago.”
The district attorney looked around the table. “Okay, then. So maybe we’re the few Spartans taking on the Persian hordes at Thermopylae. But when this is over, they’ll damn sure know they were in a battle.”
“You do know the Spartans all died, right?” Jeff asked with a bemused grin.
The district attorney grinned back at all of them. “No need for y’all to get hung up on those little details.” He pulled out a legal pad and tossed it on the desk in front of him. “Now, let’s get to work deciding what our jury should look like.”