M'naghten Rules: A Novel Inspired by True Events About Insanity in the First Degree

By Ben W. Thompson

Rich on Southern tradition, language culture, and mind-set, this is much along the lines of John Berendt's Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, with characters event he most fertile of imaginations would have difficulty creating. Homosexuality, eccentricity, political corruption, and murder. Fortunately, when Mr. Thompson moved to Colorado he brought his Southern gift for story telling, as his writing is instantly enthralling and nearly impossible to put down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Nov 13, 2007
• ISBN: 9781466959347

Ben W. Thompson

Ben Thompson graduated from Florida State University College of Law in 1970. He was immediately involved in numerous capital punishment cases in which the death penalty by electrocution was available to the State. None of his capital cases resulted in the death penalty. He was elected to the City Council of Tallahassee, Florida, and served as its mayor in the 1970s. He also served as staff counsel for the House of Representatives. He moved to Boulder, Colorado with his wife and two children in 1982, and resides there now where he maintains a private practice. He has been president of his Rotary Club, Jaycees, and Master of his lodge in Masons, and has received numerous civic awards. This book is one of a series about attorney Mark Slade with future books to be published. Contact may be made at [e-mail].

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Chapter One

A round patch featuring a ferocious Indian profile of black and maroon was sewn to each sleeve and the hips of the pants.

Goose bumps rose on my arms as the crowd noise diminished, and I heard the steady drum beats again – the pace of a heartbeat – boom, boom, boom, boom.

The home crowd stomped their collective feet on the steel stadium floor and chanted, Go to hell, Florida! Go to hell! as the University of Florida Gators ran through the dressing room entrance.

As our team burst through a paper hoop onto the field, a brass Civil War cannon exploded, fireworks ignited behind the scoreboard, and thousands of school-colored balloons floated into the autumn sky.

Renegade pranced in front of the team as we jogged to our bench. Then the horse carried Osceola, flaming spear held loftily above his head, as they circled the stadium interior.

We won the toss. The first play after the kickoff was a hellish run for the endzone. I was to fake once towards the middle and head towards the goal line – eighty yards away. I kept my gummed hands loose at my side and strained to hear the quarterback count above the noise.

It was to be a quick count snap with the hopes we would catch them off guard. I anticipated the second count like a dragster anticipates the green light, and watched as the quarterback mouthed his second guttural yell.

As the ball snapped, I was gone. I raced toward the right center for about fifteen yards. I saw the defensive back careening my way and executed a hard, slow-down, basketball-fake to my extreme right. I watched him commit to the fake out of the corner of my eye, and exploded back to the left looking forward for the next ten explosive steps. I’ve been told I was as fast as there was for those ten steps.

Finally, I looked back over my right shoulder, watching as the ball whistle through the air over my head. I stretched out as far as I could, stumbled once and grabbed the ball with my left hand, jerking it in with my right.

I didn’t know if I was one step or two steps ahead of the back, but I knew I could outrun him now. I kicked in the afterburner and streaked into the end zone, raising the football in a flurry of Gator thrown paper cups. Amidst cheers, I flipped the ball to the cornerback who had chased me in vain and did a little of the Seminole mud dance – exaggerated, high-kneed, rocking steps like walking in slow motion through quicksand.

That night I caught 259 yards worth of passes and experienced heights of excitement and confidence I’d never known before.

Even now, just remembering it made me feel better.

* * *

I’d been so caught up in my mental imagery of the game, that most of the scenery had slipped by before I realized I’d reached the city limits of Tallahassee.

Tallahassee, translated from the language of the Seminoles, meant old fields and the town was located on top of several high, rolling hills. It had been built in a central location between the Spanish seaport of St. Augustine and the Pirate seaport of Pensacola. It was far enough inland to protect it from naval attack.

During the early 1800s, a group of colonist scouts had left both seaports simultaneously to locate a spot for the capital. They battled unfriendly natives, water moccasins, alligators and the other dangers of the jungle and wound up at this site, full of crystal clear springs, waterfalls, and sky-blue lakes. They managed to convince the friendly natives that they only wanted a small plot of land on which to build a meeting house, a temporary situation.

Now it was 1974, and the city had swelled to about a hundred thousand. The original meeting house had long since been replaced by a large domed structure with Corinthian capitals. Directly behind it was a forty-story modern monstrosity, visible from every part of the city, that resembled nothing so much as a giant penis. You had to wonder what the architect’s intentions were.

I pressed on to the old marble and limestone courthouse set in a square amid native dogwoods, azaleas and palm trees and parked on the street. As I got out of the car, I could see Judge Cobb pacing back and forth behind his second-story window. Not a good sign. I hurried up the walk, into the building, and past the stuffed bear and alligator posed in a final death battle in the lobby. I took the stairs three at a time up to the Judge’s chambers. Miss Emery, the Judge’s ancient, dowdy clerk nodded solemnly, saying, Go right through, he’s waiting for you. Without a moment to catch my breath, I knocked on the heavy walnut door and went in.

The Judge shook my hand and motioned for me to sit down. Thanks for comin’ Mark – ‘preciate ya makin’ it on such short notice an’ all. He paused as he resumed his pacing. I think you know I was mighty impressed with your representation of the Madigan lady.

In a pig’s eye, I thought. I sat quietly, my eyes transfixed by the dandruff that had accumulated on the shoulders of the Judge’s navy blue suit jacket. Perspiration soaked the back of his white shirt collar. He stood about 5’ 11" and was trim in build with steel gray hair and deep blue eyes.

Course, my first real impression of you was your Junior year at Florida State – what a first catch, he continued. I nearly lost my hearin’ from the noise in the stands that day, though I must admit I wanted to take my glasses off and lend them to that son-of-a-bitch referee. It was no secret that Nelson Cobb was a Gator – partial to the University of Florida.

Funny thing, about a year later that ref came up before me on a shopliftin’ charge. Can you believe it? After stealin’ that game, the bastard had the nerve to tell me he had no priors.

Judge Cobb chuckled softly, but I knew he hadn’t called me all the way up here to jaw about football. I was nodding and smiling, but my mind kept flashing back to the Madigan/Wilkerson case and how he had ruled for the prosecution whenever I’d tried to suppress evidence, how he’d yelled at me repeatedly and even threatened me with contempt. The son-of-a-bitch scared the hell out of me, and I didn’t care who knew it.

Judge Cobb finally settled into his large leather chair, leaning back, closing his eyes, and folding his gnarled fingers in front of him as if in prayer. Mark … he hesitated a second, reached over and pulled out a large red folder from his stack of haphazard files. A smattering of newspaper clippings fell out of the folder and he pushed them across the desk at me. This is the case I need your help on.

Now I realized that my premonition of impending disaster had been right on the money.

Suspect Sought in Murder of Businessman’s Son read one, and Police Search for Head of Slain Harvard Student, and, All American Linebacker Arrested in Murder of James R. Foster, Jr. I’d been reading the local papers with the detached, yet gossipy interest of a small town resident. Now, the headlines had become glaringly personal.

There was a high school picture of Larry Joe Lewis in his football uniform looking big and powerful. Next to him, Jimmy Foster looked as sweet and effeminate as a Yankee hairdresser, his fragile features prominent in what was probably his senior photo. I knew both the boys from Independence – Lewis for his stunning performances on the gridiron, and Jimmy mostly from his father’s Jeep dealership, one of the largest in Florida.

Independence was a small town where everyone knew everyone, at least on a casual basis.

I shifted uneasily in the straightback chair. I want to appoint you to represent the defendant, Judge Cobb said in his deep Florida accent, opening his eyes slowly to gauge my reaction.

I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’ve watched you. Don’t just mean football, either. I saw plenty of spunk and determination durin’ the Madigan case, and I don’t think there’s another attorney ‘round here who could handle this any better’n you could. Let’s face it, somebody’s got to represent the bastard.

The room was unbearably hot. I wiped my hands on my slacks and swallowed hard. I had always suspected that Judge Cobb wanted to get back at me for having gotten Stella Madigan off. Knowing the Judge’s reputation, it was hardly out of the question. He definitely had me by the balls now.

I know you’re a local boy, Mark, and you may have powerful reservations about handlin’ this case, so I’m gonna let you know I’ll be happy to pretend this conversation never occurred. If you feel you can’t do it for some reason – you won’t have to tell me what the reasons are – just say no.

Fat chance. It was no secret that you didn’t tell a Judge no when he asked you to represent someone. You might as well forget ever appearing before him again or hoping he would ever rule favorably for your clients – no matter how innocent they were. I had to admit, I wasn’t quite ready to throw in the towel on my legal career, but I still needed a few seconds to compose myself before I could tell him, Your Honor, I appreciate your confidence in me. I’ll … I stammered a little. I’ll do my best."

Judge Cobb smiled shrewdly, nodded his head and stood up. Thank you, Mark, he said as he came around the desk and handed me the rest of the folder. He leaned back against his dusty bookshelf and continued.

I know the murder took place in Independence, but it’s not my intent to make you try it there. Not likely you’ll find twelve impartial jurors in a town of only five thousand. Difficult at best.

I was surprised and more than a bit skeptical. Why would the Judge practically guarantee he would grant a motion for change of venue?

The Judge went on, And you’ll more than likely want to ask for the appointment of experts. My review of the investigative report, he motioned at the file I was holding, it’s in there, take a look at it Mark…makes me think you may want to enlist the aide of a psychiatrist, or some such specialist.

Abruptly, Judge Cobb turned and walked over to the door. He lifted his black robe off the hook and put it on. I’ve got a hearin’ at 3:00, and then I’ll be back to meet with you and the prosecutor, the Judge said. He’s scheduled to be here about 4:30, so you’ve got a little time to review the file. Have Miss Emery make copies of anythin’ you need.

Between you and me, Mark, the prosecutor doesn’t need to know what we’ve been discussin’ here or that I’ve given you this information. He glanced at the folder in my lap, and I nodded to let him know I understood. He strode out, his robes billowing behind him like dark thunderheads, and I closed the door and sat down with his little gift.

The autopsy report was on top, along with a police report, investigative reports and a list of the prosecutor’s witnesses to date. Jesus, this was strange. Nobody had immediate access to the prosecution’s files. You usually had to file motions and make formal requests, a process that could take months. Yet here it all was, tied up pretty and sitting in may lap. I glanced through the newspaper articles. The Independence Democrat reported:

The body of James R. Foster, Jr. was discovered near Bethel Baptist Church in north Independence by local hunters Thursday evening. Initial reports indicate that he had been decapitated and his arms and legs had been severed from his torso.

I began feeling sick to my stomach, even though I’d read this story over breakfast a couple of mornings before.

Sheriff’s deputies would neither confirm nor deny that the victim’s head was still missing, and the area surrounding the church has been closed off while police continue their investigation.

The next article featured quotes from members of the community about the dead boy. I stood and stretched for a moment by the window before I continued.

Pastor Sidney Morrison told reporters that Jimmy Foster was a fine, outstanding citizen, and the members of his congregation were shocked and dismayed at the horrible crime which has been committed against this bright young student. Jimmy was doing well at Harvard this year, Pastor Morrison said, and we all expected him to go on to law school and maybe even into the political arena.

There was also a quote from the Mayor of Independence that it was a cryin’ shame, and a picture of the Foster family leaving the mortuary in which Mrs. Foster was held up on either side by her husband and brother. The Florida Ledger was more graphic:

The victim’s body was apparently run over several times by a large vehicle, and early autopsy reports indicate that the victim had been sexually molested. Devil worship is suspected due to evidence found at the murder scene which police would not immediately disclose. We have every reason to believe that some sort of satanic ritual was at work here, Officer Dale Anderson told Ledger reporters, and we are fairly certain that the church was used in connection with voodoo practices.

A later article stated:

Larry Joe Lewis, local football hero, was arrested at 10:45 this morning in connection with the brutal murder of James R. Foster, Jr. Police would not release further information, but it was indicated that Lewis was being transferred to the Chattahoochee Mental Hospital for protection while awaiting arraignment.

This was too much for even me to take in all at once, so I took the file out to Miss Emery and asked her to make copies for me – just in the nick of time, as it turned out. No sooner had I gone back into the Judge’s chambers, when Bill Lauer came bursting in.

I understand you’re gonna be the defense attorney in this case – is that correct?

What was this, old home week? Bill Lauer was the Leon County prosecutor, the very same one that I’d beaten in the Madigan trial. He was short and compact and always reminded me of a bantam rooster. He was followed closely behind by the man who had appointed him to his moderately prestigious position – the elected State Attorney, James Day. Day held out his hand and gave me his firm politician’s grip, giving me to wonder if he was up for reelection again. Lauer sat down brashly in the Judge’s chair.

I had no great affection for Lauer. He was the kind of man who thought everybody who didn’t see eye-to-eye with him should be sent to Siberia. A serious lack of tolerance for new ideas. He’d gone to the University of Miami Law School and had a superior air about him, as if anybody who hadn’t attended Miami was the scum of the earth. His attitude didn’t bother me much. He was wearing a dark blue three-piece suit with a baby-blue oxford buttondown, and I thought it was pretty funny when I saw the taps on the toes of his gray alligator cowboy boots. The metal clicked impatiently under him on the polished floor.

So, how’s it goin’, Bill? I ventured.

Lauer looked across at me and said, I’m gonna oppose this, Slade. There’s absolutely no reason in the world why a special attorney should be appointed in this case. That’s what the public defender is for.

It gave me pleasure to note that he looked like he might be a little nervous under his Marine Corps exterior. I watched him pat the perspiration from his forehead with a clean, white handkerchief.

Miss Emery knocked before coming in and discreetly handed me my copies. She shot Lauer a what-the-hell do-you-think-you’re-doing-in-the-Judge’s-chair look that jolted him out of it not a moment too soon.

Judge Cobb swept back into his chambers, a pretty brunette court reporter in tow. Sit down, gentlemen, he commanded. We’re gonna put a few things on the record now.

The reporter set up her transcribing equipment in the corner, and the Judge began.

Sarah, you ready?

The court reporter nodded, smiled, and crossed her tan legs neatly under the table.

This is the case of The State of Florida vs. Larry Joe Lewis, Action No. 735 CR, he announced routinely. The purpose of this hearin’ bein’ held in Chambers on January 3, 1974, is the appointment of Mr. Mark Slade as attorney for the Defendant in this matter. Mr. Slade, will you please identify yourself for the record.

Mark Andrew Slade, admitted to the Florida State Bar in 1969.

Address? asked the reporter.

Old Jailhouse Professional Buildin’.

Bill Lauer snickered. The Judge glared at Lauer and I continued, 11321 East Main, Independence, Florida.

Do you accept the appointment? the Judge asked.

Yes, sir, I do.

For the record, Your Honor, I’ll have to object, Lauer began. There’s no reason to appoint a special attorney in this case. It’s a tremendous waste of the taxpayers’ money.

Objection denied, the Judge said. I hereby appoint Mark Slade. Mr. Slade, do you have any motions at this time?

I nodded.

Your Honor, due to the excessive publicity in this matter, and the fact that my client is well known in the community of Independence, I hereby move for a change of venue to Tallahassee for purposes of the trial in this matter.

Bill Lauer shifted uneasily in his chair. Your Honor, I object…there’s no …

The Judge cut him off. Motion granted. Anythin’ else?

I continued. Judge, I would like to ask that you appoint the followin’ experts to assist me in my representation.

Lauer was on the edge of his seat.

First, I’d like to request Dr. Dale Friedman. I was pulling names out of the air; Friedman had worked with Howard in the past so I figured he must be pretty good.

Lauer was screaming now. Your Honor, I object! We have taxpayers’ money to think about here!

Let the record reflect that Dr. Dale Friedman has been appointed as an expert, Judge Cobb said calmly.

Lauer’s jaw was clenched, but I went on. Also, Your Honor, I proceeded boldly, I would request that the State grant me permission to engage the services of a private investigator, Mr. Paddy Gannon.

This was the last straw for Lauer, "Your Honor, this is highly irregular. You can’t appoint TWO experts in a case like this. The defendant has CONFESSED to the murder…what is the point of this waste of the taxpayers’ …"

The Judge cut him off again. Motion granted to appoint Mr. Gannon. That concludes this hearin’. The Judge stood up, and the pretty brunette started putting her things away.

Mr. Slade, Mr. Lauer, I’ll see you at nine a.m. Monday mornin’ for the arraignment. Judge Cobb removed his robe and motioned us toward the door.

Lauer practically exploded out into Miss Emery’s office, his taps clacking down the tile floor. State Attorney Day followed solemnly behind.

I don’t fuckin’ believe this! I heard him hiss to Day as they waited for the elevator.

Truth be known, I didn’t quite believe it myself.

I took the stairs down with forced restraint this time. Casually, I stopped by the display cases in the lobby to glance through the centuries’ worth of local artifacts there – Indian spear points, Spanish armor, English documents written in long, florid script. I didn’t want to appear anything but cool and collected, but underneath it all, I was anxious to talk to Howard about the case. I hoped he would be at the office when I got there. I tried mentally to organize everything I knew about the case so far. I had a good mind for remembering facts – another skill I’d honed with Howard. Now, if I could just catch him before he caught Jack Daniels for his daily appointment.

A strong afternoon breeze had come up and I could smell the salt water from the coast, nearly thirty miles away. I walked back to my car past the arcade of flags that were flapping like tiny waves against their metal poles. Looking up, I could see a Royal Spanish flag, a Union Jack, a French tri-color, the still revered Stars and Bars of the Confederacy, and several others. Each represented the different factions that had governed Florida during her rich history. I turned the key in the ignition and headed back home. The Bee’s (one of the last MBG’s made) dual pipes rumbled music from the small block V/8—better than a stereo!

With a few exceptions, the newly restored downtown looked exactly as it had during plantation days and would have made a great movie set. As I travelled the road back towards Miccosukee, though, the houses became more and more run-down until there were only tin-roofed wooden shacks with dirt yards full of junk cars and unkempt children.

It was nearly dusk when I pulled in the straw-covered lot in front of the office. A couple of small deer grazed in the meadow behind the building, and I was relieved to see that Howard’s light was still on.

Jeannie was gone. I wondered what she did when she left the office, picturing her in a steamy bath of bubbles as white ashen soft, silky skin.

The front door felt heavier than usual. We had encased the old metal bars from the original jail in glass so plenty of light got in. The thing still weighed a ton, and Jeannie usually had to come through the side door if she was carrying anything more than her pocketbook. The hand forged hinges still worked after all these years though.

I walked upstairs past the cream-and-brown wallpaper that was decorated with little yellow pineapples. Howard had been threatening to rip it down, claiming only a queer would keep it up, but I fought against it after I discovered it had last been manufactured in 1865. Not that this was the kind of information I was normally privy to, but a couple of blue-haired ladies from the historical society had been by to nose about when Howard and I were sandblasting some of the interior brick. One of them had taken me aside to point out the importance of preserving the stairwell as it was. Now I was convinced it was my civic duty to do so.

Howard Walker’s silver-gray head was obscured behind a stack of papers on his desk. Why was it, I wondered, that so many brilliant men I knew were such slobs in the office? I liked things organized so I could worry about more useful things than where I’d left a pencil.

A sign hung over Howard’s head that read, Those of You Who THINK You Know Everything, Bother the Hell Out of the way of those of Us Who DO. It was typical of Howard.

The early evening light filtered through the greens and blues of the stained-glass window behind him, lending Howard a serene appearance. I felt a wave of affection for him, thinking how much I had learned from him over the years.

Howard grunted when he saw me and kept writing, and I sat down on the other side of his mahogany desk, relaxing a little and looking around his office while I waited for him to get to a stopping point. On his desk were a photo of his wife, Louise, probably taken twenty years earlier, and a picture of his son Chuck, looking natty in his 101st Airborne uniform. Chuck was a few years older than me, married now and living in Boulder, Colorado.

There were two tall, arched windows in the office, and the walls were covered in rich wood paneling. Howard had hung his framed diplomas haphazardly on the walls along with credentials of one kind or the other – mostly certificates of admission to the various bars and plaques from local service organizations like the Chamber of Commerce and Rotary.

When Howard finally looked up, I noticed how tired he appeared. Dark circles and bags of flesh had gathered under his eyes. I wondered how long he could keep going at this pace with his renewed drinking. What’s goin’ on? he said in his gruff voice and pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels out from his bottom drawer. He wiped a couple of glasses on his shirt front and poured them half-full.

Been assigned to represent the Lewis kid, I announced heavily, reaching for the glass he offered me.

Howard looked me straight in the eye and leaned back in his chair.

Good Ole Corn-on-the-Cobb, he said matter of factly, as if he already knew.

Yeah, I replied and waited for some further reaction from Howard. He paused and then proceeded slowly and purposefully.

Judge Nelson Q. Cobb, born 1905; admitted to the bar in 1947 – not the way we do it now, mind you. He actually graduated from the engineering school at the University of Florida and started practicin’ law without so much as a class in torts. I was always amazed at how Howard could summon up trivia on demand.

Got ‘grandfathered’ in they called it in those days, just took a test that showed he had some ability and was admitted to practice!

I had a mental picture of Cobb being sworn in wearing a Civil War uniform. Of course he was not really old enough to have served in the War of Northern Aggression, as it is still called down here, but I liked the image.

Howard continued. Appointed as County prosecutor for Wakulla County in May of 1957; gained a reputation as a hardliner – never took plea bargains, although a lot of times he would’ve had better results if he had. Howard refilled his glass and waved the bottle at me.

No thanks, I said.

Appointed to the bench, 1963; elected Chief Judge, June 22, 1967. Two kids – oldest son killed in the Korean War.

I don’t know how you do it, Howard, I said in semi-mock amazement.

Howard swiveled around in his leather chair to pull a file out of the antique oak cabinets behind him. In a way I could see Howard as younger version of the Judge – a shrewd, Southern Gentleman, whose era was slowly being eroded by civil rights, trailer parks and shopping malls.

Here’s how, Howard grunted and tossed a file folder at me. The file was marked COBB in large black letters. Inside were notes on how the Judge had ruled on every case that Howard had ever had before him, along with bits of miscellaneous information about the Judge’s personal life. Included among Howard’s hen scratchings was a worn newspaper photograph, easily fifty years old, picturing the Judge, a show girl, and what looked vaguely like a very young Miss Emery, drinking in a speak-easy.

I had to laugh. Where did you get this?

Howard’s eyes sparkled for a split second. Had an investigator do a little research on him, Howard replied.

You’re kiddin’. You had someone investigate a Judge?

Hey, Howard snapped, you have to know who you’re dealin’ with if you want to represent your client properly.

I knew he was right, but it still made me uneasy. Did Howard keep a file on me? I suddenly had a strong suspicion that he did.

I’ve gotta enter a plea on Monday.

Things movin’ pretty fast then. You feelin’ okay?

Yeah, I dead panned. A little shaky right now but I probably just need to eat.

Listen. Wanna come over for supper? A growin’ boy like you needs to keep his strength up, and besides, Louise will have my hide if I’m late one more time this week.

No, thanks, Howard, I said, I need to do some readin’.

I walked with Howard down the steps to the front door, said goodnight, and I went back into my office to check my messages.

My little corner of the world was full of my personal mementos. A small oak table held a tarnished gold tripod – the throne for my prize football. Above the table, I’d hung a framed photograph of The Catch I’d made in the Florida game. I picked up the ball, juggling it absentmindedly back and forth and sat behind my ancient roll-top desk, staring blankly out at the wild azalea bushes and magnolias that were starting to bud. I sat there for a long time just mulling things over before my eyes finally came to rest again on the hanging tree that stood like a great black skeleton against the darkening sky.

Chapter Two

Friday, January 4, 1974

I was as much a product of my Southern upbringing as the next guy. I grew up in a white, God-fearing, Baptist household where old fashioned traditions of church, family and country were paramount. We were close knit in our community and suspect of anything and anyone that was different – racially, religiously, sexually, or politically. The last thing on earth you wanted to be was a Yankee – or a queer.

Acceptable male behavior dictated that affection among men be shown in only the most masculine of ways: a punch on the shoulder, a slap on the back, or a firm handshake. Boys in the locker rooms learned early on never to gaze below another’s shoulder in the shower, and a snap on the ass with a wet towel was about as sexual as any boy ever got with another that I knew of.

Mike Poppodopolis, whose father owned the local Greek diner, was the only guy I’d actually seen kiss his daddy. He was a furr-i-nerr so everyone agreed it was probably okay, but it still made me a little squeamish. I made it a point to stay out of lip range whenever I was around him.

Homosexuality was about as taboo a subject as there ever was. We might have called one another faggots in jest, but to do so seriously would have been fighting words.

As for me, the only contact I’d ever had with anything even slightly deviant was the time I’d unwittingly seen a transvestite perform in a New Orleans burlesque show. I was twenty-two then, and content that the performer was a glamorous female doing a terrific impersonation of Judy Garland. Suddenly, my buddy elbowed me in the side and whispered, See his Adam’s apple? That’s how you can tell it’s a guy. I looked at women’s throats much more earnestly after that.

Needless to say, my life up to this point hadn’t prepared me for the nightmare that was coming. Oh, I’d handled plenty of cases involving violent crimes over the years, but I’d hardened a lot in the war and knew what it took to work with violent types.

There were plenty of violent crimes to be tried, too. During the summer months, Independence was so hot and humid that some nights people were like walking tinderboxes, just waiting to ignite when liquor, anxiety and passions ran too freely. Lord help you if there was a full moon.

But the Lewis case was different from the rest. The sexual references in the autopsy report were so repulsive that I had difficulty even reading through it. When I reached the section about James Foster, Jr., having had anal intercourse some time before his death, I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach.

Sperm samples from Lewis had been requested in order to establish whether or not he had been Foster’s partner, and I didn’t want to think that maybe he had been.

The initial police interview with Lewis also threw me for a loop. A rambling quote in which he told officers that he needed the head to show Marie I was a man, and a reference to the eye was to be for my mamma, indicated to me that this guy was not playing with a full deck. Early in the game as it was, I was sure that I was going to try for an insanity plea.

Florida had a statute in effect at that time concerning the use of a temporary insanity plea. Many states adhered to similar statutes known as impulse defenses and I had overheard Howard explaining Florida’s version to a client once.

Take a simple, classic case of a husband who walks in on his wife with another man, for instance. If the husband just happens to be carryin’ a gun when he walks in on the adulterers, and if in a fit of rage he pulls his gun and shoots the lover, there’s no premeditation and he might successfully plead temporary insanity. But if he leaves the room, goes to the local huntin’ shop, buys a rifle, and waits to catch the guy as he’s goin’ to work the next mornin’, then he’s had time to think about it and it’s a whole ‘nother ball game. It’s hangin’ time.

In Florida though, there was also a secondary rule called the right and wrong test which Howard explained this way: Basically what it means is that if a person knows the difference between right and wrong, and if while committin’ the crime he knows he’s doin’ somethin’ wrong, then he can’t claim insanity.

The law was more complicated than that, of course, but it was difficult to define. Every legal professional in the state that I’d ever talked to wished it didn’t exist at all. Nevertheless, the complexity of it meant there was always a chance that I could pull it off with Lewis.

Howard had left a message with Jeannie that he would be in Tallahassee on Friday and to have me see as many of his clients as I could. The normal office activities go on, even after you’re assigned to represent a murderer, and my schedule was now even more hectic because of Howard’s absence. His note said to meet him at the Silver Slipper in Tallahassee Friday evening, and I hoped to get done in time to get there and give him a strong piece of my mind.

I met with a couple of bikers known as Moose and Frenchie. They wanted me to represent them in a criminal case stemming from a barroom brawl at a saloon next to the No Tell Motel. They also wanted to sue the fuckin’ Nazi, who had started it.

Fifteen hundred dollar retainer, I told Moose, and he pulled out a wad of bills from his cut-off denim jacket and pared off Benjamin Franklins like they were mess hall potato peels.

I took about an