Divine Rebel Page 5

  The first and oldest member of this fabled quartet was Merle Travis, an influential guitar player who also wrote many songs, including “Sixteen Tons,” which became a number one hit for Tennessee Ernie Ford in the mid-fifties. Travis began his life in the tiny community of Ebenezer.

  Muhlenberg County also contributed, albeit on a smaller scale, to Hollywood, courtesy of two marvelous character actors. The most-famous was Warren Oates, who was born in the rural community of Depoy. Oates, with his craggy face, shifty eyes, and scratchy voice was in dozens of movies, including The Wild Bunch, In the Heat of the Night, and Stripes. James Best, famous as Rosco P. Coltrane on TV’s Dukes of Hazzard, hailed from Powderly. Although Best was lesser known than Oates, he actually had the longer-lasting career.

  Those six Muhlenberg County natives left large footprints in the entertainment world. Not bad for a small Kentucky county.

  When Merle Travis wrote songs like “Sixteen Tons” and “Dark as a Dungeon,” he was writing about a subject he was very familiar with…coal mining. Muhlenberg County was long recognized for producing coal, first with underground mines, and then with strip mining, a process that brought with it. Dual outcomes…devastation of the county’s landscape, and tremendous prosperity for the communities and the people living in them. By the mid-sixties, when strip mining was at its zenith, Muhlenberg County was one of the top coal-producing regions in the world.

  However, it was during my years growing up there that the tectonic plates supporting economic welfare had begun to shift. Things started to change, and not for the better. Joyous prosperity was replaced by a sense of dread, of impending doom. This monumental change came when a ruling by the Environmental Protection Agency judged the area’s vast coal reserves to contain high levels of sulfur, thus rendering it environmentally unsuitable for use. Suddenly, coal, the engine that drove the local economy, was as lifeless as a dead baby still in the womb.

  Naturally, given the circumstances, the EPA, or “APE,” as it was derisively described by the local newspaper, became the villain in what was happening. Locals saw this as simply one more example of Big Government moving in to hand down a draconian dictate that impacted in a negative way those most seriously affected by decisions made by eggheads comfortably ensconced in cushy offices many hundreds of miles away. The end result of that ruling was the death of mining in Muhlenberg County. Almost overnight, miners traded a regular paycheck for a meager monthly unemployment check with a relatively short shelf-life. Those benefits ended after a certain length of time, replaced by welfare checks and food stamps intended to serve as a final lifeline, neither of which provided a family with its real needs…pride and dignity.

  A handful of miners, the lucky ones, found work in mines located in bordering states. This was a double-edged sword for the men: it did provide a paycheck, but it also required the miner to either find a temporary place to live during the week, or to make the daily drive to and from the worksite, both of which were a hardship for the miner and for his family. Some ex-miners found jobs locally that paid nowhere close to what they had previously earned digging coal, while the rest, the majority, ended up unemployed, barely scraping by on those monthly subsistence checks.

  In Muhlenberg County, David did battle with Goliath, and Goliath was victorious.

  ~ * ~

  Pulling off the Western Kentucky Parkway, I was back in the very battleground where Goliath crushed David, thus relegating David to the dustbin…or coalbin, if you prefer…of history.

  Turning left onto U.S. 431, I headed toward my hometown, which was less than two miles away. Several motels were to my left, including a Best Western, where I had made a reservation before leaving Siesta Key, two eating places, a Huddle House and a Mexican restaurant, and to my great surprise, a liquor store (more about booze later). I had entertained the idea of staying with Karen and Mike Tucker, but eventually decided against it. If my preliminary research into the murder proved fruitful, and I had to really begin digging into what transpired on that deadly night, the last thing I needed were distractions. My mind had to be zeroed in on a single purpose, trying to uncover a dark truth. I’m not suggesting Karen and Mike are distractions…they most-surely are not…but they are generous and friendly and kind, which would almost certainly require them to show me a good time on occasion. Also, given what I was looking into, a brutal homicide, they would naturally be inquisitive, meaning I was sure to be bombarded by dozens of questions about who I had spoken with, what I had learned, and what was my next step. Being entertained or constantly having to answer questions were not high priorities on my agenda.

  Having already reserved a room, I decided to proceed into town to see how close it was now compared to how I remembered it growing up. Turning left onto Broad Street, it didn’t take but a second or two to see that it in no way resembled the town I had left all those years ago. Nostalgia can distort, I openly acknowledge that, but what I saw today was sad and depressing.

  Back in the day, Broad Street was a consistent buzz of activity and energy. Both sides of the street were lined with thriving businesses of all types, each one fully capable of meeting customers’ needs, regardless of what product or service they were seeking. The success of those businesses was definitely buoyed by the booming coal industry and the TVA power plant located in Paradise. Yes, the very same Paradise mentioned in John Prine’s song.

  On Saturdays, the city population swelled dramatically with the arrival of folks from smaller communities who showed up to do their shopping, and to connect with friends they rarely saw during weekdays. It was a wild, rambunctious, energetic town back then, and a great place to live and to come of age in.

  Sadly, those days were long past. Broad Street, once healthy and prosperous, resembled a decaying mouth with many missing teeth. Locations where those successful businesses once stood had given way to empty, vacant lots that dotted both sides of the street. Sure, there were businesses operating, including a handful familiar to me from my days living here, but Broad Street was only a shell of what it had been in its heyday. As for shoppers, I didn’t see a single one. On this day Broad Street appeared to be totally abandoned.

  Not unlike many small communities around the country, if you wanted to shop, to purchase just about anything under the sun, you were forced to make the short drive to Walmart. While it is undeniable that Walmart killed countless small businesses throughout this country, it is also undeniable that the giant retailer is now the heartbeat that keeps my hometown from going completely under. Like many things life hurls our way, Walmart is both a blessing and a curse.

  Now back to the alcohol situation. Until very recently, my hometown, indeed all of Muhlenberg County, was dry, meaning alcohol sales were strictly prohibited. You could go to jail for selling booze. If someone desired alcohol, he or she had to travel to a nearby city to satisfy the urge. But don’t be fooled—the wet/dry dynamic was in actuality a legal/illegal issue. True, it was illegal to sell alcohol, but that in no way meant booze wasn’t readily available. It was, courtesy of the many bootleggers working in the city/county, two of whom were remarkably successful. One lived within the city limits, while his rival operated out in the county.

  The hometown guy lived in a second-floor corner apartment at the far end of downtown. He was no longer a young man, so going up and down the stairs to make a sale had become an unpleasant experience. Having grown weary of conducting business in such a manner, he had looked for an alternative method, which he found by simply tying a rope to a bucket. Then after stepping out onto the balcony, he lowered the bucket down to the potential customer with the instruction to first put the money in the bucket. Cash in hand, our guy went into his apartment, retrieved the requested alcohol, put it in the bucket, and lowered it down to his waiting customer. Not a bad system for our bootlegger, who years earlier had been the town’s chief of police.

  His arch-rival in the illegal booze-selling enterprise conducted his business out of his house several miles outside of town.
He made his sales via a drive-thru window on the side of his house rather than utilizing a bucket and rope. His preferred a method proved to be highly successful. On most weekends, he served more customers and did better business than the average McDonald’s.

  As I slowly circled through town, everywhere I looked many pleasant memories sprang to life. There was the pool room where I misspent much of my youth, a house where I courted a girl, and the cemetery where we played football. Run down to the Gish monument, cut sharply to your left, and I’ll hit you with a pass, the quarterback ordered. The play seldom worked, but, hey, not every pass thrown by Joe Namath or Bart Starr resulted in a completion. It was the complex strategic planning that mattered.

  I found my way to River Road and made the hilly ten-minute drive to Green River, where as a teen, I and my buddies would swim, oftentimes traversing the river in a daring race to avoid being crushed by the huge barges carrying coal to the steam plant. In retrospect, it was a dangerous thing to do; back then, blindly fearless, we gave no thought to potential disaster.

  On the drive to the river, I had my first glimpse of the prison where young Todd Brown was currently incarcerated. Would he remain there, I wondered, or would he eventually be moved to another facility? I hoped for his sake that he stayed put. Being so close to his parents allowed them to visit on a regular basis without any undue hardships. That is, if you grant that seeing your son behind bars for life isn’t considered a hardship.

  Turning around, I drove back to town, to my hotel, and checked in. After schlepping my luggage and my laptop to my room, I splashed cold water on my face, sat on the bed, took out my cell phone, and called Mike Tucker to let him know I had arrived.

  Karen answered and immediately invited me to join them for supper. I respectfully declined, deferring, truthfully, because I was eager to begin digging into the murder of Luke Felton. Karen accepted my rejection without challenge or argument. She did, however, elicit a promise from me to take a raincheck for supper at a future date. I gave her my word that we would get together soon, and then we ended the call.

  I sat at the desk, fired up my laptop, and got down to business. Prior to leaving Siesta Key, I had searched for articles in local newspapers that related to the murder. Surprisingly, considering the murder occurred in a small town, I found several detailed, well-written accounts of the crime. My primary focus was on learning the names of the principal actors involved with the case. There had been no actual trial, but there was a sentencing hearing, and it was from reading about that meeting that I found the names of four individuals I wanted to interview:

  * Mark Robinson (County Attorney)

  * Anne Bishop (Brown Family Attorney)

  * Robert Durham (Circuit Judge)

  * Jimmy Martin (Chief of Police)

  ~ * ~

  Jimmy Martin was the only member of that quartet I knew. He was a year older than me and attended a county school, but we competed on the baseball diamond on numerous occasions. I must admit to being surprised that he was the chief of police; knowing him back when we were young, my money would have been on him ending up on the wrong side of the badge. Despite whatever reservations I had about him, Jimmy was a cop, so I had no choice but to speak with him.

  Those four names gave me a starting point, yet I couldn’t help but feel there had to be others involved. For instance, was there an outside investigator? Almost certainly there had to have been. I couldn’t envision Jimmy Martin being a skilled or competent homicide investigator. And what role, if any, did the sheriff’s department play in the investigation? It was difficult for me to believe they weren’t involved in some way. After all, the murder took place out in the county, not in my hometown’s city limits. I made a notation to find out who was the sheriff.

  The big question for me was who did I want to speak with first? My instinct was to get in touch with Steve Brown, whom I knew, and talk to him. But a part of me said that wasn’t a good idea, not yet, that it was too soon to get his take on what had happened with his grandson. Speaking with Steve would have to be put on hold for the time being. Who, then? I made my decision after studying the list for a few seconds—Mark Robinson, the DA.

  Grabbing my cell phone, I dialed Mike Tucker’s number. He answered before the first ring ended.

  “Change your mind about having supper with us tonight?”

  “No, that’s not why I’m calling. I need your help with something.”

  “Sure, what do you need?”

  “Do you know Mark Robinson?” I said.

  “Very well. In fact, his office is right down the hall from mine.”

  “I’d like to talk to him about the case. Can you arrange a meeting between us?”

  “This ain’t exactly Hollywood, Nick. No need to schedule a meeting. You show up at my office tomorrow morning and I’ll introduce you. Mark’s a great guy. Smart as hell, too. You’ll enjoy talking with him. Come by around ten and we’ll go from there.”

  “One more question. Who’s the sheriff?”

  “Perry Jackson.”

  “What’s your scouting report on him?”

  “I don’t know Perry well, but…there are those among us who swear he’ll never be nominated for sainthood.”

  “Gotcha. See you tomorrow at ten, Mike.”

  I ended the call, then added Perry Jackson’s name to the list of people I needed to interview.

  Six

  Early morning had a strangeness to it that was disconcerting. Color seemed to have been washed away from the landscape. Bleakness ruled. Everywhere I looked was like viewing an old Mathew Brady Civil War photograph. All that was missing were the twisted, dead soldiers scattered across the blood-soaked terrain. The culprit for this weirdness was those thick clouds floating across the sky like an inverted ocean with its dark rolling waves. I could not recall ever being met by such an odd, colorless morning.

  Although Huddle House was within easy walking distance of my motel, I decided to drive. Ten minutes later I was inside the restaurant, which was packed with customers. Every stool at the counter and every booth was occupied. After a brief wait I got lucky…a family of four vacated their booth. I grabbed it immediately and no sooner had I settled in than a waitress was at the booth taking my order. I went with an omelet, hash brown potatoes, link sausage, and orange juice. The food arrived in short order, and it was tasty. Finished, I paid, left a nice tip, walked outside, got into my car, and drove away.

  The Judge Executive’s office where Mike worked was in the courthouse in Greenville, which was seven miles from my hometown. This community of approximately forty-five hundred citizens also served as the county seat. It was there that virtually all county legal business was conducted. Among the offices within the courthouse were the Sheriff’s Department, County Clerk, Election Office, PVA Office, and Deeds and Records. Most of those offices were located on the first and second levels. The third floor was home to the large courtroom.

  It was only eight-thirty when I arrived at the courthouse. I parked, climbed the stairs, and went inside the big building that dominated the block. Instead of going directly to Mike’s office, I took a detour, went up to the third floor to the courtroom, and sat in a back row. The large room was quiet, dignified, not unlike a church. It was, for me at least, a place that inspired reverence.

  When I was a teen, my uncle Arthur Tyler was the circuit judge, and on several occasions, I had the good fortune to attend trials he presided over. He thought it would be a good civics lesson for me to get an up-close view of how justice was meted out when individuals violated the social contract by committing crimes ranging from homicide to theft to assault and battery to dozens of other felonies and serious misdemeanors. Uncle Art was always cool and collected, but no one doubted the courtroom was his. He ruled absolutely.

  Sitting there, I smiled when recalling a story I was told about a trial Uncle Art was presiding over. The guy on trial, his name was Johnny, had been in and out of prison for a litany of petty crimes. However, this time
the charge was far more serious. Johnny was on trial for setting fire to a barn that resulted in the death of several horses. With so many past offenses on his resume, he was considered a habitual criminal, which meant a guilty verdict could land him behind bars for a lengthy period. Now this guy’s mother, Greta, was a real piece of work. She was pigeon-toed, cross-eyed, and had skin like sandpaper. She didn’t walk as much as she shuffled rapidly forward. Greta was severely bent at the waist, meaning that wherever she went her head arrived three seconds before her ass.

  After all the evidence had been heard, Uncle Art charged the jury, then sent them off to deliberate. When the jury was out of sight, Uncle Art looked up and saw Greta racing straight down the aisle toward the bench. Upon arriving, she said, “Judge Tyler, I want you to know how displeased I am with the way this trial has been conducted. Johnny is so upset that he hasn’t had a bowel movement in a week.” To which my uncle replied, “Well, Greta, you just wait until he hears the verdict this jury is going to come back with. He’ll have a good one then.”

  How can you beat that for a civics lesson?

  ~ * ~

  I had intended to silence my cell phone before entering the courtroom but had failed to do so. It was buzzing, sounding much louder than normal in this quietness. I wrestled it out of my pants pocket and checked to see who had the temerity to disturb the solitude. To my surprise the call was from my daughter.

  “Are you okay, Angel? Is everything all right? Has something happened?” My flood of words was met by a long silence. I could hear her breathing as the silence extended. My fear was that she would hang up without speaking. “Talk to me, Angel. You phoned, you reached out. That tells me you are searching for something. Don’t let this moment pass.”