Redneck Country...Black Letter Law

By John Russell Smith

Criminal defense attorney J.R. Cuttler begins his Sunday with thoughts of flying his airplane around the East Texas area and later watching his Dallas Cowboys play the hated Washington Redskins. That thought is shattered in an instant when the local radio station reports the abduction and rapes of a twenty-nine-year-old woman and her twelve-year-old cousin from the local Walmart parking lot. The identity of the victims and the initial allegations as to their assailant would draw Cuttler into a capital murder case that would forever change his life and his practice of law.

This small, deep East Texas town located on the Texas-Louisiana border still lives in times we would all like to forget...times most of us have fought to forget. Therefore, when two White women are allegedly abducted, beaten, raped and sodomized by an uppity young Black man, the county digresses into the mindset of Coloreds use back door.

After his arrest in another jurisdiction, Lincoln Johnson is beaten beyond recognition by two deputies returning him to the local jail. It is this senseless barbarity that raises Cuttlers ire to the degree that he agrees to represent the accused.

The development of pre-trial tactics, the trial, and hypnotic conclusion pits modern scientific methodology and old time trial theatrics.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453508541

John Russell Smith

J.R. was born in Knox City, Texas, and spent his youth in Carlsbad, New Mexico. He graduated from Texas Christian University in Fort Worth, Texas, and spent seven years as Personel Officer of the Nevada Employment Security Department, after which he attended South Texas College of Law in Houston, Texas. After passing the bar exam, J.R. moved to Center, Texas, where he has maintained a private practice for over 36 years, except for four years when he was elected and served as Shelby County Criminal District Attorney. His primary area of law is in criminal law. He resides with his wife, Cindy, four Pomeranians, and a large Macaw. In addition to Redneck Country. . .Black Letter Law, J.R. is working on two manuscripts, both involving capital murder cases.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

"Radio station KPCL interrupts the Sunday morning worship service from the First Tabernacle Church in Crownover, Texas, to bring you the following special bulletin:

Twenty-nine-year-old Sarah Weaver and her twelve-year-old cousin, whose name is being withheld because of her age, were found bound and badly beaten behind the Mt. Gideon Baptist Church this morning at approximately seven thirty a.m. by church custodian Curtis Cartwright.

According to Conway County Sheriff Ted Parker, Cartwright opened the church in preparation of the monthly Deacons’ breakfast. While setting up picnic tables behind the church, Cartwright said he saw Ms. Weaver’s nude body tied to an oak tree. Ms. Weaver appeared to be badly beaten and was covered with blood.

Cartwright immediately called 911 and reported finding Ms. Weaver. Cartwright further related to Sheriff Parker that while waiting for the authorities and ambulance to arrive, he found a brown car parked very close to the north side of the church. As he approached the vehicle, he discovered the twelve-year-old girl handcuffed to the steering wheel. According to Cartwright, she was also nude and appeared to be badly beaten.

Ms. Weaver was taken to Nacogdoches Medical Center, where she is listed in critical condition with multiple lacerations around her head and shoulders and multiple fractures to both her jaws.

The juvenile was life-flighted to Good Shepherd Children’s Hospital in Shreveport, Louisiana, where she is reported to be in the intensive care unit, also in critical condition. Sheriff Parker reports that according to the initial medical examinations, not only were both the woman and child badly beaten, but they both appear to also have been sexually assaulted.

Ms. Weaver was last seen by her father at approximately eight p.m. Saturday night. She and her cousin were reportedly going to buy gift wrapping paper at Walmart. Ms. Weaver was driving a 1980 brown Chevrolet Impala.

Anyone having any information concerning this matter or having seen anything suspicious last night should contact the Conway County Sheriff’s Office.

We now return you to the Sunday worship service from the First Tabernacle Church in Crownover, Texas."

What a shitty way to start a Sunday, he thought as he stroked the last bit of shaving cream from his chin. Sexually assaulted . . . beaten . . . tied to a tree and handcuffed to a steering wheel . . . a twelve-year-old girl . . . my good God Almighty! People might expect this crap in Houston or Dallas, but not in Redneck Country, USA. We’re the buckle on the Bible Belt for Christ’s sake, not some metropolis of perverts . . . unbelievable, the man thought as he washed his face clean.

After thirty years of practicing criminal law, both as a criminal defense attorney and elected district attorney, J.R. Cuttler still couldn’t believe the level to which society had devolved. What type of maniac, weirdo, or pervert would beat and sexually assault a twelve-year-old child and then leave her handcuffed to the steering wheel of a car? What type of sadistic bastard would leave a woman tied to a tree after raping and beating her?

When they catch the son-of-a-bitch, they ought to bend him over a barrel at the Ellis Unit at the state prison in Huntsville and let the boys on death row have him for a few months. After an all-out warfare on the lower, dorsal, posterior region of his anatomy, they ought to throw the remains of his lousy ass in the Neches River and let the alligator gar feast on what is left of his sphincter muscle, J.R. muttered as he pulled his Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt over his head.

J.R.’s favorite memories as the elected district attorney of Conway County, Texas, involved prosecuting child molesters and rapists. He prosecuted such cases with additional vigor. When he secured his conviction of such a reprobate, he would take time to find out what unit of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, Institutional Division the lousy bastard had been assigned. Then he’d find a convict in that unit that he had either prosecuted or defended and write him a short note:

Dear Mr. X:

You’re getting a new fish soon. His name is ______, and he’s doing twenty years for (raping a child, molesting his stepdaughter, or raping his wife while holding a gun to her head, etc.). Please give him my regards.

If I can be of any assistance to you in the future, just let me know.

Sincerely,

J.R. Cuttler

Conway County, DA

This letter would invoke the creed of the convict. For the first thirty days of his incarceration in the general population, he would be provided with all the Vaseline necessary to lessen the friction and reduce the agony on his hemorrhoids.

What to do with my Sunday? J.R. questioned himself. Since his divorce three years ago, he had no one to answer to, except a little five-pound Pomeranian named Button. With no big lawn to keep up (because his ex-wife got it all in the divorce), he wasn’t obligated to mow, clean up, or do a damned thing on weekends he didn’t want to do.

J.R.’s present modest three-room garage apartment, unlike his former five-bedroom brick behemoth sitting on ten acres of land, didn’t require much maintenance. And each time he ascended and descended the stairs to his little castle, he thanked the good Lord that Button—and not his ex-wife—was the only one he had to care for when he reached the door.

One thing that he did salvage out of the three-decade-plus relationship with the ex was his airplane. The Beechcraft Bonanza A36 was indeed his pride and joy. Besides trying lawsuits before a jury—any jury, any time—flying was his passion. He had learned after more than twenty-five years of flying that a person can’t fly an airplane properly if he is thinking about anything else. J.R. had made it a practice that when he got too many cobwebs in that six-inch cavity between his ears, he’d go flying.

After hearing the dismal news that had started his day and after looking out his upstairs picture window and seeing not one single cloud in the sky, he knew what would occupy his afternoon. J.R.’s favorite musician and a fellow flying enthusiast was Jimmy Buffett. A line in one of Buffett’s songs relates that changes in latitude, changes in attitude. J.R.’s rendition refers to "changes in altitude, changes in attitude." Punching holes in the sky with his Dearly Beloved (the name he affectionately gave his plane) automatically improved his attitude. He could hardly wait to get behind the yoke and push that throttle forward. And as always, he would take his five-pound co-pilot.

After stopping at Jerry’s Bar-B-Que for a chopped-beef sandwich, J.R. and Button headed for what the locals call Crownover International Airport. In reality, it is Crownover Municipal Airport, a modest but very well-equipped and well-maintained airport with 5,500 feet of runway. For a town that boasted a total population of 5,678 on its city limit sign, the airport is more than adequate for a community the size of Crownover, Texas.

As J.R. pulled into the entrance to the airport to go to his hangar, he could see the usual Saturday/Sunday gathering of local pilots and wannabe pilots congregated at what is referred to as a terminal. In reality, the terminal is a one-room portable building with a unisex bathroom. It boasts two couches, a table upon which a person can prepare flight plans, and a large covered back porch that runs the length of the building closest to the runway. On any East Texas day, when the mercury doesn’t exceed ninety-five degrees, this is where a person can find a gathering of Lovers of Flight. Older pilots tell of flight experiences where they almost bought the farm (which might or might not be entirely true), and younger pilots and non-pilots alike listen intently, many times hearing the same story over and over.

J.R. parked his white Lincoln Navigator next to his hangar and carried Button over to the group of about ten guys assembled on the porch. Button, at ten inches in height and weighing in at five pounds, was not an imposing threat; but he would charge at a man with a bark that made grown men lift their leg for protection.

What the hell happened to Sarah and Vickie? Tony Porter asked J.R. as he approached the group. Porter was a longtime pilot who owned a Cessna 310. He helped haul cadavers for a local funeral home when he wasn’t leasing out for charter to Mexico’s better fishing lakes.

All I know is what I heard on the radio this morning, J.R. responded.

Hell, J.R., you’re the ex-DA. You’re supposed to know what’s going on around here! Porter exclaimed.

Yeah, Jimmy Sloan chimed in, and you’ve led more goddamned guilty people out of that courtroom than Moses led Jews out of Egypt. What do you think happened? Jimmy was an ex-pilot who lost his right leg when a tractor turned over on him about ten years earlier. He was pinned under the tractor for more than seven hours before his wife found him. He was damn lucky the only thing he lost was his leg. At any rate, his flying days were over because it’s damned near impossible to work both pedals on an aircraft with only one leg.

Is Vickie the little girl’s name? J.R. asked.

Hell yes, Sammy Owens reported in an all-knowing tone. She’s Vickie Bradshaw—you know, Pug Bradshaw’s little girl. Sammy Owens was a retired telephone repairman for Southwest Bell. Now all he did was dip Skoal and fly an old Cessna 182 that was held together with spit and baling wire.

"Well, I’ll bet you a six-pack of beer it’s a Nigger that done it, Porter exclaimed. And I’ll add another six-pack to that and bet it’s not a Conway County Nigger," he added.

No bet, Sammy Owens answered.

To that point, J.R. hadn’t even thought about the racial overtones of last night’s tragedy. Sarah and Vickie were from true full-blooded East Texas bigot stock. Their respective fathers, Kenneth and Pug Bradshaw, were brothers of the blood and, some say, brothers of the Klan. On the other hand, the Mt. Gideon Church, where the girls were found, is a Black church.

"You can bet your last fuckin’ dollar it’s a Nigger," Matthew Price, a would-be pilot, chimed in. "You don’t think a White man’s gonna take two White women out to a Nigger church and spend all night fuckin’ and whippin’ the shit out of ’em, do ya?"

"Hell no, not a White man . . . it’s gonna be an out-of-town Nigger . . . prob’ly just got out of the joint, Porter asserted. And that sodomizin’ is something those coons learn in prison." Porter wasn’t smart enough to know that sodomy in prison is not restricted to any particular race.

As the jaw music (also known as shootin’ the shit in East Texas) continued, J.R. reflected on the victims. He knew Sarah Weaver through his law practice and through her employment at the First National Bank of Crownover. J.R. had represented her former husband, Kenny Weaver, against her in their divorce about five years before. He also saw her at the bank on almost a daily basis.

Sarah was an attractive girl, but had a reputation of being a little loose morally, by East Texas standards. The cause of her divorce was an alleged affair with a former Black high school football star with whom she had worked at a local poultry processing plant some years ago. Kenny Weaver (her former husband) could forgive the affair but could not stand the local scrutiny of it having been with a Black man.

After her divorce, Sarah went to the local community college and had taken enough computer courses to get out of the processing plant and into the bank. Sarah’s father, Kenneth Bradshaw, had a way of expressing himself when it came to her change of employment. He would say of Sarah’s move from a poultry processing plant to the bank: There’s a world of difference cuttin’ butt holes out of chickens and mixin’ with butt holes with money in the bank!

J.R. could not envision how Kenneth and his brother Pug were handling this tragedy. He knew one thing, however, if it came to pass that the perpetrator(s) was Black, Conway County, Texas, was about to begin a march backward through history.

J.R. and Button quietly retreated toward the hangar as the voices became louder and more animated. As he whispered that he’d see them later, he heard a familiar voice, How about a ride, J.R.? J.R. turned around and saw Billy Joe Lewis.

Sure, J.R. responded, you know you can always sit ‘right seat’ next to me.

Billy Joe Lewis was a hanger-on around the airport. He didn’t have a family and was on a 100 percent Social Security disability by virtue of two crushed legs caused by a motorcycle accident ten years ago. Billy Joe was a prolific reader of anything that had to do with flying airplanes. He had taken the written portion of the FAA private pilots’ examination, as well as the written test for an instrument rating. He had passed both with flying colors. However, since he couldn’t operate the rudder/brake pedals on an airplane, he couldn’t pass his flight test.

J.R. put Button on the ground, slid open the large hangar doors, and pulled his cream-tan-and-blue aircraft out on the tarmac. It truly shimmered in the bright sunlight. The Beechcraft Bonanza A36 was considered the Rolls-Royce of single-engine aircraft, at least according to J.R. Cuttler and also probably to a majority of private pilots around the world. It has room for six passengers and, with a full load of fuel, has a range of over five hundred nautical miles. The two sets of backseats can be arranged with all six seats facing forward, or one can have club seating with the back two sets of seats facing each other. A large cargo door on the right side of the aircraft makes it easy for passenger loading or unloading and for loading other cargo when not carrying people.

J.R. would brag that the aircraft had 2,867 rivets holding the shiny metallic surface on to the frame. He knew because after he polished Dearly Beloved, which he did on a regular basis, he would go around each rivet with a toothbrush to make sure that none of the white powder residue from the dried polish could be seen.

As J.R. started to perform his preflight inspection, Billy Joe stood in the shade, playing with Button. The little Pom was not a one-man dog, but the list of persons who could touch him was very short.

You don’t think Thomas Henry had anything to do with that thing at the Black church last night, do you, J.R.? Billy Joe inquired.

I wouldn’t think so, Billy Joe, J.R. responded. Thomas Henry really loved Sarah. Hell, if Sarah hadn’t thought her daddy would have killed Thomas Henry, she’d have married him. Besides, last time I heard anything about Thomas Henry, he was somewhere in California working in a fish cannery.

Thomas Henry Pollard was the Black man with whom Sarah had had the affair when they both worked at the chicken processing plant in Crownover. Thomas Henry had been an all-state defensive back for the Crownover High School Nightrider football team. He attended Stephen F. Austin State University in nearby Nacogdoches, Texas, on a full football scholarship. He lasted for one semester. At football, he was a natural; at the required academics, he just couldn’t cut it.

After his affair with Sarah became known around town, Thomas Henry left town immediately. Rumor had it that Sarah’s father and uncle, Kenneth and Pug Bradshaw, pulled a Godfather act on Thomas Henry. Folks say that Kenneth and Pug told Thomas Henry that he could leave Conway County with his manhood still in place, or he could stay and would have to sit down to take a leak for the rest of his life. Thomas Henry hasn’t been seen in Conway County, Texas, since—not even to visit his mother.

J.R. put Button in the rear seats and then helped Billy Joe up onto the wing of Dearly Beloved. After J.R. crawled into the cockpit and into the left seat, Billy Joe lifted himself into the right seat. Although his legs were of little use, Billy Joe Lewis’s arms made Mike Tyson’s arms look like a sissy’s arms. After finishing off his checklist, J.R. yelled out the side window, "Clear the prop!" which is a standard warning for anyone outside that the pilot is ready to start the engine. J.R. made sure that Billy Joe’s seat belt was secured, and then he reached in the back and put his little dog on his lap. With a twist of the key, 300 horsepower of roaring engine came to life.

After back-taxiing on runway 17, J.R. announced, Crownover traffic, this is November one five Romeo Papa, departing runway one seven, Crownover, Texas. (Dearly Beloved’s tail number was N15RP, referred to over the radio as November one five Romeo Papa.) J.R. pushed the throttle all the way forward and felt the thrust of all three hundred horses push his back firmly into his seat as they sped down the runway. At eighty-five miles per hour, the sleek aircraft lifted itself off the runway and into the air, at which time J.R. retracted the landing gears. At 2,500 rpm, the rate of the climb was one thousand feet per minute.

After reaching one thousand feet, J.R. made a ninety-degree left turn, which is standard procedure for leaving the pattern. J.R. looked over at Billy Joe, and the smile on his small round face was unmistakable. God, how that crippled little man loved to fly!

You’ve got the yoke, Billy Joe, J.R. directed as he transferred the yoke to Billy Joe’s side. He then began to softly scratch Button, who had already gone to sleep on his lap. I’ll take care of the pedals. You just call out our course, J.R. offered.

Let’s take a heading of 250 degrees. We’ll fly down Highway 84 over that Black church toward Harlan, Texas, Billy Joe ordered modestly.

You’ve got it, Captain, left rudder to 250 degrees, J.R. responded. We had better stay above fifteen hundred feet on the altitude, Billy Joe, J.R. suggested. We don’t want the preachers and the chicken people reporting us to the FAA.

You’re right, J.R., Billy Joe responded. No sense in upsetting the little birds that make our livelihood or pissin’ off the men who speak to the man upstairs.

As they flew southwest on Highway 84 toward Harlan, Texas, they could see Mt. Gideon Baptist Church on the north side of the highway. Billy Joe exclaimed, Jesus, look at all them friggin’ cars!

Let’s do a two-minute turn, J.R. suggested as he applied left pedal pressure. Billy Joe eased the yoke left, keeping the bubble in place for a two-minute turn on the turn and bank indicator.

There were at least thirty vehicles at, or around, the church. From the air, J.R. could see the white Conway County Sheriff’s Department vehicles, the black-and-white vehicles from the Texas Department of Public Safety, and various other pickups and vans parked up and down the highway. It appeared that they had secured an area about fifty yards wide completely around the church grounds.

As they completed their first 360-degree turn, J.R. could see a brown-colored vehicle parked extremely close to the north side of the church. The driver’s side was so close to the church that it appeared impossible for anyone to open the driver’s door. The front of the car was pointed toward the back of the church.

That must be where they found little Vickie cuffed to the steering wheel, J.R. thought. In back of the church, to the north, there were three large oak trees. J.R. had been to several socials at Mt. Gideon Baptist Church when he ran for Conway County district attorney. Most of the church’s activities were held outside under the oaks. One of the trees must have been where Curtis Cartwright had found Sarah tied.

Look over there, Billy Joe. They’ve got the dogs out! J.R. exclaimed as he looked out the left window of the plane.

Yeah, looks like two teams of ’em to me, Billy Joe responded as he stretched to see around J.R.

When there was a need for bloodhounds (e.g., to search for lost persons or to search for escaped or suspected criminals), local authorities would call on the Texas Department of Criminal Justice in Huntsville, Texas. They were nationally recognized as having some of the best-trained dogs in the nation and had always been ready and willing to help when called upon.

J.R. started thinking, Why the dogs? One reason they would use dogs is if they thought the perpetrator left on foot. Another reason would be to try and determine if there is more than one scent, which would indicate more than one perpetrator. J.R. continued to mull questions around in his mind: If the perpetrator left on foot, did he arrive on foot? Did the perpetrator abduct Sarah and Vickie at some other place and take them there? Or could Sarah have arranged to meet the perpetrator at the church? Surely Sarah wouldn’t have arranged to meet someone at the church, not with a twelve-year-old girl with her? Why was the car parked so close to the church? Questions, questions, questions.

After two circles around the church, Billy Joe ordered a heading to Lake Harlan. It was a calm day on the small man-made lake, and they saw only four or five boats trying to catch a Sunday evening meal.

You recognize anyone down there, Billy Joe? J.R. questioned.

Naw, my brother has a twenty-four-foot pontoon boat, but he’s not out there today, Billy Joe answered.

J.R. knew someone that lived at Lake Harlan from time to time. In the latter stages of his marriage to the wicked blonde witch, he had met a lady named Cindy Lynne. She actually lived in Houston, Texas, and worked as an auditor for Tenneco. She came back to East Texas from time to time to visit with her parents, who lived in nearby Nacogdoches, Texas. Her father was a retiree from ExxonMobil and her mother from Southwestern Bell. They had a small cabin on the lake, and when Cindy visited for any period of time, she stayed at the cabin.

On one of her visits, she visited Ye Ol’ Pub, J.R.’s favorite watering hole, with her aunt, a local real estate broker. He was immediately attracted to her small perfectly proportioned body and large sky blue eyes. She had a feisty personality that exuded confidence, complemented by her formal education and experience as a world traveler. They hit it off immediately but approached each other very cautiously. As J.R. looked down on the north side of the lake, he could not see her Lincoln Town Car and surmised that she was not here this weekend.

As they crossed over the north end of the lake, J.R. took over the controls. Reluctantly, Billy Joe took his hands off the yoke, and they headed back toward Crownover International.

Don’t worry, little buddy. We’ll fly again soon, J.R. offered.

Crownover traffic, this is November one five Romeo Papa, entering left downwind for landing on runway one seven. This will be a complete stop. J.R. would later announce his base leg and then his final approach. On their final approach to runway 17, J.R. pulled full flaps and eased back on the throttle.

Perfect landing, just perfect! Billy Joe exclaimed as he patted J.R. on the back. You couldn’t have busted an egg between the tire and the ground. You set this beauty down so soft, hell, the tires didn’t even screech.

Making a perfect landing while the terminal porch is filled with onlookers is a proud moment in any pilot’s life. A bad landing and the pilot has to withstand the hecklers who always have some smart-ass statements to make, like Better luck next time, or I hear they’re going to put a cushioned asphalt on the runway next year.

J.R. pulled the sleek aircraft into the hangar and helped Billy Joe down off the wing, putting Button down on the ground so he could run and bark at the boys on the porch. As he pulled away from the hangar, he could still see a few of the guys exchanging intelligence. As he drove away from the airport, J.R. Cuttler felt as he always felt after flying his Dearly Beloved, relaxed and at peace with himself and the world. For J.R., that’s what Sundays were for.

The Sunday night television ritual for J.R. and Button began with 60 Minutes. Ironically, Mike Wallace’s lead story had to do with sexual violence. As vivid pictures of sexual violence were depicted on the screen, J.R. couldn’t help but think about Sarah and little Vickie.

Again, he wondered, Under what circumstances did Sarah and Vickie get to Mt. Gideon Baptist Church that night? Did they drive there, or were they taken there? If they were taken there, who took them there? If they were taken there, did Sarah know the perpetrator(s)? At least they were alive. Maybe later if they were able to talk, they would be able to provide the answers.

CHAPTER 2

Weekday mornings had begun the same for J.R. Cuttler for thirty years . . . at four thirty. He had always been a morning person. There were two reasons for that. First, he liked to get up early and get to his law offices before the phone started ringing. He always said he could get more accomplished between five thirty and eight in the morning than he could the rest of the day. Second, he always quit at four thirty in the afternoon when he wasn’t in trial because he never missed watching Judge Wapner on The People’s Court and having a Lite Beer from Miller at his favorite watering hole, the Ye Ol’ Pub.

There was no need to set an alarm. Promptly at 4:30 a.m., his right eye opened and glanced at the clock. Button knew it was time to get up also. Although the little creature was less than a year old, he had the routine down pat. J.R. would get up and throw on a pair of shorts and take the little Pomeranian downstairs to the yard so he could take care of his business. J.R. would then take him back upstairs and open his favorite chunky-style Alpo beef in its own gravy. After a ritualistic glass of skimmed milk, it was time for J.R. to shine, shave, shower, and shampoo; and they were ready for the new week.

The white Lincoln Navigator pulled away from the apartment at precisely 5:30 a.m. and arrived at the office at 5:33 a.m. That was another good thing about living in Crownover, Texas—it never took much time to get from one place to any other place. The apartment was less than ten blocks from the office. J.R. did not envy his deep-carpet brethren in their skyscrapers in Dallas, Houston, and the like. Living three minutes from his office beat the hell out of driving into Houston from Conroe or into Dallas from Plano.

The J.R. Cuttler Building is located on the east side of the square in beautiful downtown Crownover, Texas. For those persons not familiar with Texas, almost every town is built around a square. If the town is the county seat (i.e., the seat of government in the county), the courthouse is located in the center of that square. Crownover, Texas, is the county seat of Conway County, Texas, and has been since 1885 when a group of citizens stole all the county records from nearby Parkerville, Texas, and moved them to Crownover, creating a new county seat. Therefore, the courthouse sits in the middle of the square, in the middle of Crownover, Texas.

J.R. exited his vehicle and walked up to the front door, keys in hand. Without even looking down, he reached for his Dallas Morning News; and like every weekday before for twenty years, it was there. Johnny Pagliari, the only person of Italian heritage left in Conway County, had been throwing J.R.’s Dallas Morning News for two decades. Only two times during that period had Pagliari failed to have the paper there at 5:33 a.m. Both of those times, the truck bringing the paper couldn’t get from Dallas because of snow. Snow in East Texas is as scarce as lips on a chicken.

Before he could get to the kitchen area to start his first pot of coffee, the phone rang.

Who in the hell is calling me at this time of the morning? J.R. muttered to himself. Good morning. This is J.R. Cuttler, he answered in as pleasant a voice as he could muster.

Mr. J.R.? a quivering voice asked.

Yes, who’s this? J.R. asked, noting that the voice on the other end of the line sounded like an older Black lady.

I don’t wants to get involved, but I saw a Colored boy in the car with those girls that got hurt the other night, the voice exclaimed in a trembling voice.

How do you know it was the same girls? J.R. inquired.

I just knows, the quivering voice responded.

Have you called the sheriff and told him this? J.R. asked.

No, sir, and I ain’t gonna. You knows that the high sheriff don’t like Colored peoples. Mr. J.R., I’m callin’ you ’cause you always been fair to Colored people, the voice reported.

Where did you see them? J.R. asked in a little more consoling voice than that he used when he had first answered.

"They were at the stoplight there by the Walmart place. The girls were in the front seat, and there was a Colored boy in the backseat. Little Vickie was right next to me where we was stopped, and she looked real scared . . . I mean real scared," the voice said.

Did you recognize the Black man? J.R. asked as he heard the click of the receiver on the other end. What the hell? he thought.

J.R. always said the first cup of coffee in the morning always seemed to be the best. Ordinarily, it was time for him to enjoy the moment, look at the Dallas Morning News, and mentally plan his day. This was not going to be one of those mornings!

As he took his first long sip out of his Dallas Cowboys coffee mug, he thought about the phone call. The caller was undoubtedly a Black lady, and she sounded older. It’s an East Texasism for older Black people to refer to the sheriff as the high sheriff. The lady knew the victims, and he sensed that she knew the Colored boy in the backseat of Sarah’s car. J.R., sensing that this was an older lady, didn’t place any significance at the time on her use of the term boy. Older Blacks would use that term for anyone that was a few years younger than they were. Another reason J.R. knew that the caller was an older lady is that older Blacks in East Texas never use Black or African-Americans in reference to themselves. They use Colored.

J.R. took another sip of coffee and put in a call to the Conway County Sheriff’s Department.

This is the Conway County Sheriff’s Department, Valerie speaking, a pleasant voice reported.

Good morning, Valerie. This is J.R. Cuttler, and how are you doing this fine morning? J.R. asked.

I’m fine, Mr. J.R., and you don’t have to ID yourself to me. First, I know your voice anywhere. And second, you’re the only one I know that’s up this early. What can I do for you? she inquired.

Valerie Simmons had been a dispatcher for the Sheriff’s Department for the past two years of J.R.’s term as Conway County district attorney. She had been one of the only persons in the Sheriff’s Department that he could count on to give him a smile and have a reasonably pleasant voice on the telephone. Valerie Simmons was to the Sheriff’s Department what Johnny Pagliari was to Conway County’s Italian population. She was the token Black employee in the Conway County Sheriff’s Department.

How goes the investigation into Saturday night? J.R. asked.

You know I can’t talk to you about what’s going on around here, Mr. J.R. The sheriff used to get upset when we talked to you when you was the DA. He’d have my butt in a sling if I gave his least favorite lawyer, and maybe his least favorite human bein’ on this planet, any information, Valerie said in a jovial, almost-laughing voice.

Seriously, J.R. asked, how are Sarah and Vickie doing?

Sarah is touch and go. She might not make it. Vickie is going to be all right if she don’t have too much internal bleeding, Valerie reported.

Val, would you have the sheriff call me as soon as he gets in, J.R. requested. And thank you.

Sheriff Ted Parker and J.R. Cuttler had a mutual disgust and genuine dislike for each other. For twenty years prior to being elected district attorney, J.R.’s primary practice had been in criminal defense. Back in the late 1970s and early 1980s, not many attorneys in East Texas practiced a lot of criminal law. When he began his practice in Conway County, practicing criminal law consisted of being appointed on the day of a defendant’s arraignment and then asking the district attorney how much time your client was going to have to do. In those days, the court gave you fifty dollars to plead out a felony defendant, and pretrial motions were unheard of. Jury trials were always frowned upon, except in murder cases where the DA was going for the death penalty and which almost always involved a Black defendant. A lawyer could always find some justification for a killing, self-defense or the like, when the client was White; but when the client was Black, he was a murderer!

When J.R. Cuttler moved to Crownover, he had a lot of extra time on his hands because his private practice was almost nonexistent. There was, and is, an old axiom that exists in Conway County, Texas: "People from off (those who are not at least third-generation Conway countians) don’t go out on their own in any business and succeed." One is supposed to join a local firm or business, and then after twenty or thirty years, he is allowed to be successful.

One way for J.R. to pay the overhead in those early days of his practice, even at fifty dollars a case, was to take criminal appointments from the court. And since other lawyers in town didn’t like to practice criminal law and frowned upon those who did, J.R. found himself on the receiving end of most of the felony criminal appointments in Conway County.

A factor in J.R.’s favor, if it could be called a favor, was Judge Samual Givens. Although not a politician at the time he moved to town, J.R. made a very wise decision on a cold December day thirty years ago. J.R. had received a card in the mail from the Supreme Court of the State of Texas stating that he had passed the bar examination. Most legal hopefuls who passed the bar examination in those days would travel all the way to Austin, Texas, to be sworn into the practice of law by the Texas Supreme Court. Not J.R. Cuttler! He asked Judge Givens if he would do the honor. So on that wet, dreary December morning, Judge Givens swore J.R. Cuttler into the practice of law. The ceremony took place in Judge Givens’ office above the Rexall drugstore on the square in Crownover, Texas. From that day forward, Judge Givens was a guiding light in the young lawyer’s life and would become his mentor and idol.

After that, without a lot to do, J.R. Cuttler started being the primary recipient of criminal appointments on a very regular basis. A criminal appointment is an indicted individual who claims that he or she cannot afford an attorney. The court will appoint that person an attorney who will defend the client (defendant) to the best of the appointed attorney’s ability. J.R. began working the hell out of his appointments. He began to file motions for examining trials and made the district attorney bring in grand juries and indict his clients immediately or be forced to expose the evidence in front of a justice of the peace.

He filed pretrial motions for discovery and inspection of the state’s case that took days for the district attorney to respond to and then to hear. This took precious time away from the district attorney, who, in those days, also had a civil practice where he or she would make the real money. He filed motions to suppress evidence that theretofore was an exercise in futility. He reminded the court that there was a Fourth Amendment to the United States Constitution forbidding unlawful searches and seizures, a Fifth Amendment protecting the accused against self-incrimination, a Sixth Amendment guaranteeing an accused’s right to counsel and so forth and so on. Eventually, in Conway County, Texas, there was a rebirth of the United States Constitution and a realization that Article 1, Section 9 of the Texas Constitution provides those same rights and protections and in some cases even greater protections to Texans.

Surprisingly, the court was dismissing criminal cases; and law enforcement officers were being reminded, reluctantly, that people had rights! Prior to that time, in Conway County, Texas, an accused had a right to remain silent . . . as long as he could stand the pain and a right to a lawyer before he pleaded guilty!

Over the years, the criminal judicial system and law enforcement improved in Conway County—that is, until twelve years earlier when Ted Parker, then a retired police officer out of the Houston, Texas, Police Department, moved back home. Sheriff Ted Parker had moved away from Conway County over thirty years before. When he retired and moved back home, those who were discontented with the present sheriff talked him into running for the office. The former sheriff at that time had been in office for sixteen years; and as often happens, no matter how effective a person has been in East Texas, the people wanted a change. Ted Parker was that change. He ran for office and was elected.

Under Sheriff Parker’s reign, over the next four years, the Sheriff’s Department digressed from an effective law enforcement agency to a reincarnation of the Gestapo. The sheriff surrounded himself with those made in his philosophical likeness . . . Adolph Hitler!

It was a predictable fact that the sheriff, his hooligans, and J.R. Cuttler would cross paths many times. What made it worse was that Conway County also elected its first Ms. District Attorney, who was joined with Sheriff Parker at the hip. Most of her time was spent conducting surveillance with her investigator and the sheriff, riding around the back roads of Conway County and sucking down three packs of Eve menthol cigarettes a day. After an arrest was made and the accused was indicted, the wheels of justice stopped dead in its tracks. Ms. District Attorney traded in her statutory duty to see that justice was done for a snub-nose .38 Smith & Wesson that she kept strapped to the inside of her skinny thigh. There were only six jury trials conducted in the four years that she held office. The criminal docket in Conway County was a mess.

After four years of Sheriff Parker, the lady DA, and the complete deterioration of the criminal justice system in Conway County, J.R. Cuttler ran for DA and was elected. The next four years would be the most miserable in Sheriff Parker’s career. J.R. had, and to this day still has, a small plaque on his desk that says "Next to Injustice, I Hate Losing! This philosophy and J.R. Cuttler’s daily diligence in practicing it would drive an eternal wedge between himself and Sheriff Parker for his four-year term as district attorney. After four years, J.R. Cuttler found that there were just as many criminals wearing law enforcement uniforms as there were citizens accused of criminal activities. Although he ran for reelection, it was a half-hearted effort, and he was defeated. A big part of his defeat was the fact that he refused to prosecute half the cases brought to him by local law enforcement. He just didn’t feel like attempting to justify illegal searches and seizures, coerced confessions, and planted evidence. After his defeat, he eagerly returned to private practice. When people who didn’t know asked him what he did for a living, he would begin by saying that he was a recovering prosecutor"!

CHAPTER 3

There are three places where a person can get knowledge of the world in Conway County, Texas. One is the Lake Country Inn Coffee Shop, the second is Pinky Oliver’s Barber Shop (which happens to be next door to the J.R. Cuttler Building and is also owned by J.R. Cuttler), and the third is Ye Ol’ Pub.

The coffee shop knowledge begins soon after the shop opens. There are three or four different levels of knowledge, disseminated in thirty—to forty-five-minute intervals. The first level of knowledge begins to arrive about a quarter past five in the morning, after Thelma Gilchrest and her cook have time to open up and get the first ten pots of coffee brewing. Thelma owns the Lake Country Inn Coffee Shop and is the primary waitress there. The earliest group of purveyors of news is made up primarily of timber and poultry truck drivers, mixed in with retired and/or unemployed men who spend most of the night listening to CB scanners. Next to radio station KPCL, the scanner is the most popular source of information for what happens after the sun goes down and the sun comes up in Conway County, Texas. Local citizens listen to home-based CB radio transmissions, truck to truck, and the Sheriff’s Department radio communication, which is the most popular channel.

The last level of knowledge consists of a group that has had coffee together every weekday morning at eight for the past twenty years. The regulars in this group consist of J.R. Cuttler, attorney; Phil Manford, florist; Sammy Williams, banker; Jerry Bob Windham, liquor store owner; and Col. James D. Merrick. USMC retired Colonel Merrick (and heavy on the colonel) is a veteran of both the European and Pacific theaters in the big war—WWII.

J.R. was the last to arrive this Monday morning. He declared that his excuse for tardiness was an exercise in futility in calling the high sheriff and wondering if he would return the call. The group chuckled, knowing the utter contempt between the two men.

What’ya think about a Nigger raping those poor little girls? Thelma Gilchrest asked as she poured J.R.’s first cup of coffee.

What? How do you know it’s a Black man? J.R. asked, thinking about his earlier telephone call.

Well, Kenneth Bradshaw was here when we opened this morning. He just came from the hospital in Nacogdoches and said Sarah had been screamin’ and moanin’, ‘Please don’t hurt me anymore!’

But did she say the perpetrator was Black? J.R. asked again.

"We’re not talkin’ Black person here, Counselor, and we’re not talkin’ perpetrator. We’re talkin’ raper, and we’re talking Nigger!" yelled a voice from behind where J.R. was sitting with his back to the door. J.R. recognized the voice. It was Kenneth Bradshaw, Sarah’s father. He looked like hell. It didn’t look like he’d shaved for days, his eyes were red, his overalls were covered with dirt and mud, and he smelled of alcohol . . . cheap alcohol.

For the last twenty-four hours, I was either at the hospital or on my four-wheeler looking for tracks of the sorry motherfucker that did this to my little girl and my little niece. And when I find the motherfucker, he ain’t gonna need the likes of you, Counselor! the man said as tears rolled down his face.

Kenneth, I’m so very sorry about Sarah and about Vickie. If there’s anything I can do J.R. was cut off in midsentence.

There’s not a goddamned thing you can do, mister. You took sides against her in her divorce, and she don’t need any of your help now! Bradshaw yelled.

Sarah had been the one who filed for her divorce and had chosen another attorney to represent her. J.R. hadn’t taken sides against her, but that fact didn’t lessen his sorrow.

Kenneth Bradshaw left as quickly as he had arrived, leaving a coffee shop full of people in which a sound could not be heard.

Holy shit, J.R. thought to himself, the Black lady on the phone this morning was right. It was a Black man.

Did Sarah name the man? J.R. asked Thelma Gilchrest.

Naw, she ain’t even waked up yet, Thelma explained. "Kenneth said she was under a lot of drugs that the doctor gave her, and she just kept screamin’ in her sleep. He said they got tubes stickin’ in ever’ place on Sarah’s body that you can stick ’em. He said she just said something about him being Black and something about a gold tooth. And he said the same thing he told you that the Nigger son-of-a-bitch would never make it to the jailhouse."

That’s just what we need, J.R. thought as he quickly finished his coffee, a friggin’ lynch-mob mentality permeating Conway County before there had even been an arrest.

I’d hate to be the lawyer that represents the Nigger that did that to two White women in Conway County. How about you, J.R.? spouted the ever-acid tongue of Colonel Merrick.

Yeah, it would be a tough wagon to pull all right, J.R. muttered as he left the coffee shop. Don’t worry about one thing, Colonel, J.R. thought as he cranked up the Navigator. I won’t have to worry about representing the son-of-a-bitch. I’ve been assigned the last twenty shit-eaten cases by Judge Givens . . . I’ve paid my dues.

J.R. felt remarkably at peace with himself as he drove out of the parking lot on his way back to his office. Some poor son-of-a-bitchin’ attorney is going to have to grab his ankles to keep this asshole from having a heavenly visit from the lady of the needle paying his client his last house call, J.R. thought to himself.

As he entered his office, he heard a familiar voice say, Boss, the high sheriff returned your call. The familiar voice belonged to Lynda Jordan, a.k.a. Lyndy. Lyndy had been in the employ of the Law Offices of J.R. Cuttler since she was in high school, almost fifteen years now. Although his former wife had ruled the law offices while she was there (for twenty-three years), it had been Lynda Jordan who had taken it upon herself to be personally responsible for babysitting J.R. Her main responsibility was to make sure the well-known substance never hit the whirling blade in the Law Offices of J.R. Cuttler.

Conway County Sheriff’s Department, this is Valerie, the soft, pleasant voice stated.

"Val, J.R. here. Is he in?" J.R. inquired.

Sure bet, just a sec, Valerie responded.

Good morning. This is Sheriff Ted Parker, the curt voice echoed on the other end of the phone.

Sheriff, this is J.R. Cuttler. How ya doing this morning? J.R. asked in his happy voice.

I’m all right, and I’m very busy. What do you want? Parker inquired in what J.R. described as his shit-eatin’ tone.

Sheriff, I got a call this morning at 5:50. I’m not sure that it means anything, but I thought I’d pass it on, J.R. offered.

Why don’t you just tell me about it, and I’ll decide whether it means anything, the sheriff said curtly.

First, I feel quite sure it was an older Black lady. She said she saw Sarah and Vickie at the stoplight by Walmart Saturday night, and there was a Black boy" in the backseat. Apparently, the lady who called knows the girls because she referred to them by name and said that Vickie looked scared," J.R. offered.

Who was it that called? the sheriff asked.

I don’t know. When I asked her if she knew the Black boy in the backseat, she hung up, J.R. explained.

Well then, that doesn’t help us a whole hell of a lot, does it, Mr. Cuttler? the sheriff responded. "Hell, Sarah’s been talking all night about someone hurtin’ her. And she confirmed when we asked her if he was Black or White that he was Black. Also, for what it’s worth, she said something about a gold tooth. But probably 90 percent of those people have gold teeth, so that don’t mean a damned thing!"

Was she able to understand your questioning? Word has it that she was severely beaten and that the doctors had her heavily sedated because of the pain and trauma, J.R. inquired.

I’m not on the stand, and you’re not in the courtroom, Counselor. So I don’t feel any need to answer any of your shitty questions. Besides, it don’t take a genius to figure out that no White man is gonna take two White women to a Nigger church to rape ’em, the sheriff proclaimed, invoking his most eloquent use of the English language.

Yeah, J.R. thought back, that was Matthew Price’s theory that had been expounded upon the day before at the airport.

How is Vickie? Has she been able to tell you anything? J.R. asked politely.

That’s a law enforcement matter, Cuttler, and you ain’t in law enforcement anymore. You can read about it in the papers, Sheriff Parker related in his usual sarcastic manner as he hung up in J.R.’s ear!

Fuck you very much, Sheriff, J.R. thought as he gently placed the receiver down.

You’ve got fifteen minutes until docket call, Lyndy said as she entered J.R.’s office.

Oh shit, that’s right, J.R. responded, remembering that it was the first Monday in October.

Here’s the docket sheet. All your cases are outlined in red, Lyndy offered as she handed J.R. a large stack of files.

Why red? J.R. asked. Are we starting a new color code in the office?

No, Lyndy replied, but the rest of the girls in the office felt it would be appropriate as the same color as your ass after talking to the high sheriff this morning. Only Lyndy could get away with such a statement.

Don’t remind me, dear, J.R. uttered as he left out the door for the courthouse.

The Conway County Courthouse is a large two-story brick structure said to be of Scottish design. It does, in fact, look a lot like an old castle out of an Errol Flynn picture show. It was built in 1885, the same year a group called the Regulators stole the records and brought them to Crownover from Parkerville, some nine miles away. The red-colored brick was made right here in Conway County. The brick has black-colored granules that are said to be lignite. Indeed, lignite (a soft brownish black coal intermediate between peat and bituminous coal) was once mined as a fuel source in East Texas.

The courtroom is on the second floor of the courthouse. As a matter of fact, the courtroom is the second floor of the courthouse. There are two stairwells to the courtroom, but only one of them has been in use for the past twenty or thirty years. When out-of-town attorneys come to Conway County for the first time, they can’t believe the size of the courtroom. There are 350 seats in the gallery that slopes down to the low swinging wooden gates, through which only members of the bar and officers of the court may enter. In that sacred area exist the judge’s bench, witness stand, jury box, and counsel tables. In the rear of the courtroom, there are stairways leading up to a perch, where in olden days deputies sat with .30-30 Winchester rifles during murder trials . . . just to keep the peace!

Directly next to the judge’s chair, behind the bench, there is a trapdoor with a winding staircase down to the judge’s first-floor office. It was designed as a path for quick retreat for the judge in case of conflict.

The keeper of the gate to the bench, as he had been for twenty-five years, was a rotund man affectionately known as Scooter Handley. Scooter had been Judge Givens’ bailiff since he was almost killed a quarter of a century earlier at the Fort Worth Fat Stock Show and Rodeo. A champion Brahma bull rider, his hand got caught up in the bull rope that fateful night, and the bull dragged Scooter the length of the arena three times before the clowns could get him loose. Besides dislocating his shoulder, breaking ten ribs, and crushing two ankles, Scooter suffered severe brain damage when the big Brahma caught him several times in the head with a stubbed horn.

After three months in the hospital and in rehab, Scooter came home, unable to function and lead the life of a professional rodeo cowboy. He had been called Scooter since his high school days. It is said that a man could put a glass full of water on top of Scooter’s Stetson hat, and as he walked, there would never be a drop lost. They said he just scooted along.

Scooter’s dad had been Judge Givens’ best childhood friend, and when the Korean (Police Action) War broke out, they both joined the army together. On February 17, 1951, Paul Pinky Handley was killed in action near Incheon, South Korea. Coincidentally, Pinky was on patrol that freezing morning when Samual Givens was sick with pneumonia and had a 104 ºF fever. Had it not been for his illness, Samual Givens would have been killed, like every other member of Sergeant Pinky Handley’s platoon. Judge Givens would never really ever get over the fact that but for the grace of Almighty God, he would have also been killed. Sergeant Handley was awarded the Bronze Star with oak-leaf clusters and was nominated for the Congressional Medal of Honor.

After Scooter’s brush with death and after his release from rehab, he returned to Conway County. Because of his disability, he was unable to hold down any meaningful employment. For such a proud man, it was a miserable four years. Judge Samual Givens went to the county commissioners and asked them to grant him a budget that included a bailiff. Scooter Handley was the first, and only, bailiff Judge Givens had ever had. A more respected man than Scooter Handley did not exist in East Texas.

Hey, Scoot, how ya doin’? J.R. asked as he walked down to the gate.

Hangin’ in there, Mr. J.R. How about you? Scooter responded.

Looks like a big docket today, J.R. commented. Lots of strange faces.

"Yeah, we got some freshwater coon asses from Shreveport here on that explosion last year at the plywood plant," Scooter offered. There had been a boiler explosion at one of the two plywood plants a couple of years back, and nine people had been killed. The plaintiff’s lawyers were from Texas; but most of the insurance lawyers were from Shreveport, Louisiana, just sixty miles away.

The term coon ass is an endearing term in Louisiana and along the eastern border of Texas. It is said that the term was coined by the Cajun people of Louisiana. For those not familiar with the term Cajun, they have to remember Longfellow’s Evangeline. In that work, there were French settlers in what is now Nova Scotia (then called Acadia), who were deported by order of the British in 1755. Many of those settlers ended up in Louisiana where the name Acadian gradually became corrupted to Cajun. In theory, the term is restricted to Louisianans of Acadian French ancestry. Along the Texas-Louisiana border, there are regular coon asses that refer to those who live in the saltwater areas from Grand Isle, Louisiana, in the Gulf of Mexico up to where the Mississippi’s freshwater mixes with the saltwater. Freshwater coon asses refer to folks who live more in the northern part of Louisiana. Since Conway County, Texas, is separated from Louisiana only by the Sabine River, those folks that live in Shreveport, Louisiana, are referred to as freshwater coon asses.

I had to move one of ’em out of your seat, Mr. J.R., Scooter offered proudly. They don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.

When there wasn’t a jury in the box, J.R. Cuttler always sat in the seat closest to Judge Givens’ bench, which was also closest to the only gas heater in the front of the courtroom. He had started sitting there twenty-nine years ago for two reasons: (1) J.R. (although he would never admit it) had a hearing problem. When he sat out in the gallery with a lot of the other lawyers or at the counsel table that only had room for about six people, he had a hard time hearing Judge Givens and anything else that was happening close to the bench; and, (2) it got bloody cold in that old courtroom in the winter, and that old gas heater was the only thing that made it tolerable. Over a long period of time, local lawyers just knew, and accepted the fact, that the front seat in the jury box closest to Judge Givens might as well have a Reserved for J.R. Cuttler sign painted on it. And as long as Scooter Handley was around, out-of-towners would also respect the sanctity of that seat.

All rise! Scooter bellowed throughout the entire courtroom. The Judicial District Court of Conway County, Texas, is now in session. The Honorable Samual Givens presiding.

Judge Givens made his way down toward the bench with his curved black pipe gripped tightly in his teeth. Be seated please, the old judge offered as he walked down the aisle. As he passed J.R., he winked and said softly, Get that shit-eatin grin off your face, boy!

Yes, sir, Your Honor, sir, and a very good mornin’ to you too, J.R. responded.

Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to call the jury docket first, and then we’ll call the nonjury docket. As I call the cases, please announce as to whether the case is ready for trial. And if it’s not ready for trial, I’ll expect a good reason why it’s not, Judge Givens said as he looked over his half-glasses at who was there. Judge Givens ran a tight ship, meaning that he liked to move cases on his docket. He didn’t tolerate people who filed lawsuits and just hoped that they would settle with a little profit. You better have a good cause of action in his court, and you better get it ready for trial fast, or he would dismiss the case in a minute for want of prosecution.

As he began to call the jury docket, the door in the rear of the courtroom burst open; and in came Sheriff Parker, followed by two deputy sheriffs and District Attorney Horace Mobley. May we approach the bench, Your Honor? the district attorney asked.

Come forward, Mr. Mobley, Sheriff Parker, the judge invited.

It didn’t take a lot of experience in a courtroom to guess that the district attorney and the sheriff had something important for the judge.

Judge, I’ve got an application, supported by affidavit, for an arrest warrant and an evidentiary search warrant I’d like to present for your consideration, Mobley related to the judge in almost a whisper.

This is one of the reasons J.R. liked his seat. He could hear most of the bench conferences without approaching the bench or being