Chapter Forty

Arraignment

Bill

A few weeks after Jackson’s first appearance, I read the following article in the Orlando Sun newspaper, dated March 11:

Grand Jury Returns Murder Indictment

in 1971 Cold-Case

By Alex Trexler,

DNA evidence led to the first-degree murder indictment on Monday in the cold-case killings of the Cunningham family more than four decades ago. New evidence was presented to the grand jury, and Claude H. Jordan was indicted on the murder charges. Jordan had been arrested by both Ocala and Nawinah police officers in February at his residence in Ocala. The State Attorney’s Office stated a DNA database matched Jordan’s DNA with evidence recovered over forty years ago at the scene of the Cunningham murders in Nawinah. Jordan is also charged with statutory rape, sodomy, and incest, and seven counts of aggravated child abuse. He is being held at the Orange County Jail without bail.

Jackson’s arraignment was set for ten a.m., Wednesday. When we arrived at the courthouse, we were assaulted by the press. Since I had kept on my medical regiment and had even been back to see Louie and Dr. Nichols, my heart was healing fine, and I was able to withstand the stress and emotion.

Doug Plimpton met us and told me he’d be assisting the prosecution team when the trial began. The courtroom was extremely crowded. Doug had found out Jackson’s arraignment was the second on the docket. The bailiff called, “All rise for the Honorable Judge Irwin Prescott.” The judge took his seat, and the bailiff handed him paperwork on the first case. The bailiff looked out into the audience. “The court calls Elena Diego to the bench.”

We waited as the judge read the drug, prostitution, and soliciting charges against Elena Diego and she pled not guilty. The judge set a trial date for Diego and released her on bail.

The bailiff handed the judge paperwork on Jackson’s case. “The court calls Claude Hiram Jordan.”

From the side of the courtroom, Jackson was led in by two guards. All eyes in the room turned to look at this broken, old man dressed in his orange jumpsuit as he labored to stand before the judge. Gary Palmer came forward to join him.

The judge addressed Jackson, “State your name to the court.”

“Claude Hiram Jordan.”

“Claude Hiram Jordan, you have been indicted on ten counts of murder in the first degree on Mary Louise Cunningham, Ida Mae Cunningham, and the Cunningham children: Elizabeth Ann, Cletus Isaac, Daisy Estelle, Travis Angus, Lily Diane, Silas Milton, and the unborn baby. In addition, you are charged with the murder of Daniel Joseph Reynolds. These crimes took place in the late hours of October 31, 1971, in the home of the Cunningham family, Nawinah, Orange County, Florida. How do you plead to these counts?”

Jackson hesitantly looked at his attorney, then at the judge. “Not guilty.”

The judge read the additional charges. “You are also indicted on seven counts of aggravated child abuse.” The judge read the children’s names again. “How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“In addition, you have been indicted on one count of statutory rape, sodomy, and incest against Ida Mae Cunningham. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“The capital crimes of murder in the first degree in the state of Florida are punishable by death by lethal injection. Your pretrial status conference is set for Wednesday, April 9.”

Jackson was taken away by his two guards.

As we turned to leave the courtroom, I noticed three people approaching Gary Palmer. The older woman was Jackson’s wife, who I remembered from his arrest. A younger woman, who looked very much like the older woman, stood next to her. I watched the young man standing near Palmer. Something was familiar about him. I asked Joel, “Who is that man talking to Gary Palmer?”

“That’s Jackson’s son, Craig Jordan.”

Surprised, I stopped in the aisle and stared at the man, realizing why he looked familiar. “Ah, no wonder his looks caught my eye. He bears a very strong resemblance to my son Travis.”

“Bill, remember I told you he looked very much like you as you probably looked at that age? Did your son Travis look like you?”

“Yes, he did.”

Exiting the courtroom, we were aggressively met with cameras and reporters. Microphones were shoved in front of my face.

“Are you William Cunningham?”

“Where have you been all these years?”

“Why would Claude Jordan kill your family?”

Some questions were very personal and accusing.

“Why have you waited so long to come forward?”

“Did you see the mutilated bodies of your family?”

“How did you escape being killed while your entire family was murdered?”

“Did you hide while they were murdered?”

On the way to Andrew’s house, I continued to think about those hurtful, accusing questions. It was their job, but did they have to be so cruel without even knowing the facts? Did they only care about their story? This was not a story. This was my life and my family who had been brutally murdered.

I also thought about Craig Jordan since the resemblance was so similar. Why did he have to look so much like Travis? If he had looked like his demon father, I never would’ve given him a second thought. But I kept reminding myself that his father murdered my family. Why should I care about his son? However, when I thought rationally, I realized this man was not his father. Truth be told, besides the evil half-brother Clay Jackson, the others, Craig Jordan, his sister, and their children, were my only living blood relatives. How did I feel about that? It would be different if I didn’t know they existed, but now I knew. Now I knew.

The next day, Andrew again drove me to the Orange County Jail to harass Jackson. He refused my visit. Apparently, he’d complained to the judge, who ordered the guards to abstain from forcing him into the visitation area. I guess Captain Graham only had so much clout. He couldn’t override a judge’s order. So we left the building without confronting Jackson.

As we were leaving the jail, climbing up the stairs was Craig Jordan and his mother. When I looked at him, he also caught sight of me. He quickly touched his mother’s shoulder, said something briefly to her, and approached me. “Mr. Cunningham, I know you have no reason to speak to me, but may I have a word with you?”

I did want to talk to him, but not on the steps of the jail surrounded by reporters. Andrew quickly recognized my dilemma. “Meet us at the coffee shop around the corner in an hour.” Then we walked to the parking lot, leaving Jordan standing on the steps to deal with the reporters.

At the coffee shop, Andrew said, “Bill, I hope I wasn’t out of line telling Craig Jordan to meet us. It seems ever since you saw him in court, you’ve been thinking about him.”

“You weren’t out of line. You’re correct. He looks so much like Travis.”

“I recognized that yesterday also. Remember, Travis was my best friend. I also noticed throughout the court proceedings, Craig Jordan kept looking your way. You were so focused on what the judge was saying you weren’t aware until Craig Jordan walked up to Gary Palmer.”

“I didn’t notice him until then. Do you think he knows what a monster his father is?”

“No, I really don’t, but since he wants to talk to you, it makes me curious.”

When Craig Jordan walked into the restaurant, Andrew signaled him in our direction. He didn’t reach out to shake my hand, and I made no such jester either. I wasn’t his friend, nor did I want to be. I did want to hear what he had to say.

“Mr. Cunningham, I’m Craig Jordan.”

“I know who you are,” I curtly responded.

“This probably means nothing to you, but I sincerely want to apologize, not for my father, but for what he did to your family and to you. His crimes are incomprehensible to my mother, my sister, and me. Please believe me. We knew nothing of this part of him. That’s not to say I didn’t think he had something evil about him. I recognized that trait even as a child, but I never expected he was capable of such atrocities.”

I was staring at Jordan when Andrew asked, “Then do you think your father is guilty of these crimes?”

“Yes.”

He surprised me with that brusque, single comment.

Andrew continued, “That’s quite unusual for a son to have those feelings about his own father, especially when he hasn’t even been convicted.”

“Believe me, I’ve wrestled with this since Mom called me about his arrest. Originally, I thought he was caught for some of his fraudulent business deals. When I learned what the accusations were, my heart told me no way, but my mind and gut told me he may have committed those murders. My father is a very evil man. As a youth, I lived in terror, never knowing where his temper would lead. I have scars on my back from beatings with whatever he could get his hands on. If I did anything he was displeased about, I’d first be lectured for days what a terrible person I was. Then he’d schedule what he called an ‘organized beating.’ Those were worse than the almost daily spur of the moment thrashings because I’d worry about them for days. And they were horrible. Several times I passed out from the pain.”

Andrew asked, “What about your mother? Surely she knew this was going on?”

“She did to some extent. Poor woman. She’s terrified of him. She was an immigrant from Poland coming to this country to escape the violence of the Polish uprising in the seventies. She had been working sixteen hours a day cleaning houses when my father met her. One day, she was assigned to clean his house, and he took a liking to her and married her. This man promised to love, honor, and protect her, but his evil nature is not capable of those deeds.”

Craig Jordan pleadingly looked at me. Finally, I asked, “Why are you telling me these things?”

“As I said, I know it doesn’t mean much to you, but I’m truly sorry for what my father has done to you. My mother, my sister, and I are in no way like my father. Mom is a kind, sensitive woman. She just didn’t have the means or the knowledge to get free of him. As for my sister, she was an adult before she admitted the kind of a person he is. For whatever reason, he didn’t beat her. She got the lectures like I did and oftentimes was slapped when he didn’t like her attitude, but no beatings. She knew he was cruel but thought all fathers were like him. I think she blocked out much of the violence. When he’d beat me, she’d hide in her room under her blankets, covering her ears to avoid hearing my screams. She never talked to me about what she heard. She feared if we discussed it, she’d have to admit what he did. By ignoring it, she could pretend the beatings never happened. She was just a kid. That’s how she was able to cope.

“We’re a very dysfunctional family. To the public, Dad is a great community leader, businessman, and family man. But in the dark, recesses of our own home, that monster showed its evil face.”

I said nothing for a while, then I asked, “What do you want from me?”

He looked surprised at my question. “I want nothing from you.”

He arose from his seat and pushed his chair under the table. “Thank you for your time.” And he walked out of the restaurant without looking back.

After several minutes, Andrew asked, “What do you think, Bill?”

This man didn’t have to talk to me. He wasn’t asking me for anything. He didn’t even ask me to forgive his father. “I don’t know what to think.”