Ol' Red

By Don Goodman and Jack

Although he swears he's innocent, Frankie Tatum is convicted and receives two concurrent life sentences for the double murder of his wife and the local Sheriff's son. Only a last minute reprieve from the Governor saves him from an almost certain death at the hands of the vengeful Sheriff. Instead of incarceration in the Tennessee State Prison System, Frankie is ordered to be transferred to the notorious 'Skullhead Prison' in Southern Georgia on the edge of the deadly Okefenokee Swamp.
He's thrown into a nightmare existence of heavy labor, savage guards and in constant danger from gators, poisonous snakes, quicksand and his fellow inmates.
No one has ever escaped this hellhole overseen by a sadistic warden and a dog with a legendary reputation for never losing his man, Ol' Red.
Here is the real story behind the Blake Shelton country classic hit song, "Ol' Red." If you liked the song you're gonna love the book!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack
• Release date: Feb 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311223401

Don Goodman

Don Goodman/SongwriterBorn Hohenwald, Tennessee 1944Don Goodman was born in Hohenwald, Tennessee in the Swan Creek area where much of this story takes placeAs a child Don's family followed the call of the automobile and moved to Detroit, Michigan. At the Wyandotte Church of Christ young Don sat between his mother who sang sharp soprano and his father who sang flat bass, so singing in pitch for Don has always been the impossible dream.He still holds the record for fifty-eight unexcused absences the first time he journeyed through his sophomore year at Taylor Center High School. He spent days in a neighbor's tree writing short stories and poems.Fueled by the faith of Miss Rosa Lou Wilson, a teacher who convinced him he could be a writer he hitchhiked to Nashville in 1961 with a handful of songs and a twelve string guitar that he still can't tune or play. A couple of thousand songs later he's still, "Livin' the dream."In 1986 at the "Bull's Creek Bait Shop" in Gallatin, Tennessee he married his beautiful wife Gayle. That same year Don, Mark Sherrill and James "Bo" Bohon composed the country music classic, "Ol' Red." Now that song has inspired him to write his first novel.Don resides in Tennessee with his wife, son Jeremy, daughter Tiffany and granddaughter's Alyssa and Charlee.

Book preview

1

A ring-tailed rascal sits 'top a split rail fence in the moonlight. That gnarly ol' raccoon is rubbin' his belly and lickin' his lips. As far as the eye can see sweet corn's dancin' in the evenin' breeze. He's just sittin' there sayin' grace over all those heavenly golden nuggets he's 'bout to eat. But this Tennessee night holds a surprise for that masked marauder, there's trouble comin' and he'll be runnin' for his life before he gets halfway through supper.

There's a cabin in the clearin' on the other side of the cornfield where an old man in a slouch hat is sittin' in a rockin' chair, smokin' his pipe. A wrinkled faced hound dog is sleepin' at his feet on a tattered piece of rug. He's got a mason jar of hundred twenty proof and a shotgun leanin' up against the wall. There's a light on in the window castin' shadows 'cross the porch; crickets singin' to beat the band and a night owl hootin' in a tree nearby.

Suddenly, the stillness of the night is shattered by coon hounds bayin' in the dark, hot on the trail and closin' in on that corn stealin' varmint. The old hound on the porch starts tryin' to get up; they're playin' his song. But the old man puts his hand on the dog, chuckles softly and says, Easy bud, easy now. Not this time. No, not this time.

As the hound sighs and settles back down, the old man takes a puff on his pipe, gazes off into the night and says thoughtfully, Time...now there's a puzzle. How can a moment last forever while a lifetime slips away? We waste it like there's no tomorrow, yet all the time we'll ever have won't nearly be enough. You're never ten years old, you're ten and a half. And when you're on your first date with the prettiest girl in the whole wide world...why, that Friday night goes by in the blink of an eye and you gotta take her home when it seems like the night was only just beginnin'. But you don't really know what time is; not 'til you're doin' it.

Ask a man in prison, How's it goin'? If he's a short-timer he'll say, 'Twenty-one and four', meanin' he's twenty-one years into a twenty-five year sentence. If he's green meat don't bother askin' 'cause he probably won't reply. He'll still have a chip on his shoulder 'bout the woman, partner, or judge who screwed him. It takes a while to accept guilt or, at least make peace with the situation. If he did answer you'd hear the backside, 'Two and twenty- three.' Now that might sound like eternity, but it's not. Eternity is when you're trying to pile up ninety-nine years and you ain't got but fifty left to do it.

That'd be me, Frank Tatum, twenty-one years old in the prime of my life and locked up in a mosquito infested prison farm in South Georgia. A Judge and twelve of my peers from the State of Tennessee, after careful consideration and twenty-seven whole minutes of deliberation, voted and reached a verdict that put me away for the rest of my natural life. Now, you might wonder what kind of heinous crime a man would have to commit to warrant such a fate?

Well, according to a mighty convincing prosecutor, on the night of October 4th, 1956 with malice and aforethought I did willfully take a .38 caliber pistol and shoot two people to death, the woman I loved more than life itself and the lowdown dirty skunk I've killed in my dreams every night since. The way that prosecutor described the murder scene as being lit only by the dischargin' of the pistol, mighty convincin'.

Judge Odium Draper, gaveled the court to order, then directed me to stand for sentencing. Frank Tatum, you've been found guilty on two counts of murder in the first degree. Because this jury could not agree on the death penalty recommendation, regretfully I cannot send you to our State's brand new electric chair. And so, I am remanding you to the custody of the Hohenwald Sheriff's Department for immediate transport to the Tennessee State Prison in Nashville, where you will serve two concurrent life sentences with no possibility of parole. He sneered, That means you're gonna die in prison boy...if you live long enough. He smacked the bench with his gavel and barked, Sheriff Canon, take him away.

An agitated young man, waving some papers in his hand stood and said, Tennessee States Attorney Your Honor, you may want to delay that 'Order to Transport' until you've had a chance to read this letter. May I approach the bench?

The Judge, angered by having his authority challenged said, I've made my ruling...Sheriff Canon! He pointed at me, and the Sheriff and his Deputy grabbed my arms and started frog-marchin' me to the door. The States Attorney insisted, Actually Sir, you really do need to read this. He gestured at two U.S. Marshals blocking the exit, I'm afraid I must insist. The Judge fumed, This is highly irregular and your behavior is completely out of line in my court, unacceptable! Let me see that document...it might just give me the excuse I need to put you behind bars for contempt. As the young States Attorney handed the papers to the Bailiff he said, Just doin' my job Judge, just doin' my job.

With a shocked look of disbelief on his face, Judge Draper turned to the Sheriff and said, Says here I'm ordered to turn the custody of this convict over to the U.S. Marshals. It's signed by the Governor himself. Hands out, palms up he added, I have no choice.

Sheriff Canon exploded, You said I'd git him after the trial, that's what you said! He stamped his foot, Damn it, this ain't right. Then he hissed at me so's only I could hear, Tatum I'll git ya, ya sumbitch. The Marshals stepped in and moved the Sheriff and his Deputy aside sayin' to me, C'mon boy, we got a train to catch.

We took a train to Atlanta. I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. The rocking and swaying of the train and the warm sunshine coming through the window lulled me to sleep...and I dreamed...

It was early in the night, around nine thirty or ten and the moon was just getting' up in the sky. Me and Grandpa were following the dogs down through the bottoms off Big Swan Creek, not far from the house. We heard an awful sound, one all dog men hate to hear; a cry of shock, surprise and pain, one of the dogs was hurt. I took off runnin'. They weren't too far ahead of us, I guess the coon musta doubled back. I ran towards the cries of pain and found Dooger at the edge of the creek, his right forepaw was caught in a trap. He was trying to get free, but his struggles were only making the teeth of the trap cut deeper into his leg. His flesh was torn to the bone, but in the moonlight I could see well enough, he hadn't severed any tendons, yet.

I steadied his leg and tried to calm him, scratchin' his ears and whisperin', Easy boy, Grandpa's comin', easy now. He wanted his leg out of that trap really bad, he was hurtin' and scared, his eyes were wild and terrified. An animal in pain is truly a pitiful sight.

Grandpa came runnin' into the clearing, saw what had happened and cursed, Damn them trap settin' sons a bitches all to hell! He knelt down beside me and assessed the situation. Frankie, we've got to move him...can you get that trap loose from whatever it's tied too? I knelt in the creek and felt around under the water 'til I found where the chain was wired to a tree root and got it loose. Then we moved Dooger and the trap up the bank to a place we'd have more room to work. Grandpa said, Hand me that piece of wood there by your leg and listen. Those trap jaws are wet and slippery. Whatever you do, don't get your fingers caught in 'em. Dooger may try to bite you, he's hurt and he's scared, but I'll try to control him as best I can. When you get the jaws far enough apart, I'll shove this stick in 'em so's they can't slam shut and do more damage.

Grandpa set the lantern on a rock and then straddled Dooger. Leaning over the dog's head he grasped the injured leg about an inch above the trap. He was talking' real soft to Dooger, which seemed to calm him. I put my foot on the spring and gripped the upper jaw with both hands. I stepped down on the spring and pulled as hard as I could with my fingers on the slippery metal. When Dooger began to jerk Grandpa settled more of his weight on him and kept him from movin'. The trap began to give, but just as I got the top teeth out of his leg I started to lose my grip. Grandpa shoved that piece of wood between the jaws just in time. Now that we had it jammed I was able to press down harder on the spring. As soon as there was enough room to lift Dooger's leg, Grandpa slowly and carefully freed it from the lower jaw and pulled it away from the trap. I let go, the trap slammed shut and cut the wood almost clean in two. If Grandpa hadn't known what he was doin' the dog would have lost that leg for sure.

Dooger was in pain and going into shock. Grandpa said, Frankie, I'll help you get him onta your shoulders. We need ta get him up to the house and treat that wound with disinfectant. I'm thinkin' there's a real good chance we can save his leg.

Together we picked him up and got him draped over my shoulders like you'd carry a deer carcass. When he was settled, Grandpa said, After you bandage him, make sure to tape it real good so's he can't be lickin' at it. On that shelf where I keep the treatments you'll find a box of pills from the vets. Crush a couple of 'em into powder, mix it up with a little water and pour it down his throat. Make real sure he swallows all of it; it'll make him sleep. I'll round up the rest of the dogs and get 'em outta here in case there's more a them damn traps around. Now get goin', Son.

I set off in a Tennessee stride, that long step that eats up ground, but doesn't wear a man out like runnin' does. I kept talkin' to Dooger; he didn't squirm much, except when a pain shot through his leg. After about twenty minutes I came out of the woods behind Grandpa's cabin. A light was on in the bedroom window.

Grandma knew something was wrong, we'd got back way too early. I went right to the kennels, slid Dooger off my shoulders and laid him down as gently as I could. It wasn't easy, but I wound up sitting on the ground and leaning back til' I had him resting on his side. That was how Grandma found me when she walked in with a lantern. Needless to say, it scared her half to death. I had blood on me from Dooger's leg and she thought I'd been shot.

After I'd told her what happened, she helped me get Dooger onto an old quilt, then we treated and bandaged his leg as best we could. I figured Grandpa would have to stitch it up when he got home.

While I was mixing the sleeping medicine Grandma said, Frankie, I've been uneasy all evenin'. I couldn't sleep to save my soul! I've had this premonition that something awful was gonna' happen. I put my arm around her and said, Heck Grandma, this ain't that bad, we got to him before he damaged it too much. Give him some time to heal up and he oughta be good as new!

"No Frankie, I don't think this was about the dog. Earlier on I saw a Sheriff's car go up and down the road a couple of times. And all night long a mourning dove's been callin' from the live oak where you and Bobbie used to swing. I'll stay here with Dooger and wait for your Grandpa.