Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil Part 22

Chapter 25.

TALK OF THE TOWN.

Midway through Jim Williams's second year in jail, Savannah more or less forgot about him. The city turned its attention to other topics. There was a good deal of talk, for example, about the divine intervention allegedly visited upon George Mercer III.

George Mercer III was a prominent businessman and the nephew of the late Johnny Mercer. Mr. Mercer was leaving his house in Ardsley Park one evening to go to a dinner party when he suddenly realized he'd forgotten his car keys. He went back inside to get them. In the front hall he heard a voice say loud and clear, "George, you drink too much!"

Mr. Mercer looked around, but the hall was empty. "Who are you?" he asked. "And where are you?"

"I am the Lord," said the voice. "I am everywhere."

"Well, I know I drink more than I should," said Mr. Mercer, "but how do I know you're the Lord? If you really are, show me. Show me now. If you can prove to me you're G.o.d I'll never drink again." Suddenly, Mr. Mercer felt himself being lifted high in the air. Up over his house. Up over Ardsley Park. He was lifted so high he could look down and see all of Savannah-the downtown squares, the river, Tybee Island, and Hilton Head. And the voice said, "Have I proved to you that I am real?" Mr. Mercer declared then and there that he did believe, and the Lord put him back down in the front hall. George Mercer III never took another drink after that.

Even people who doubted the truth of that story had to admit that on a spiritual level at least something very strange was happening to Savannah's upper crust. How else could one explain the charismatic services Thursday nights at Christ Episcopal Church? Christ Church was Savannah's oldest and most tradition-bound house of worship. It was the Mother Church of Georgia, John Wesley having served as its rector in 1736. But now the charismatics had a foot in the door, and they were gathering in the bas.e.m.e.nt on Thursday nights, speaking in tongues, strumming guitars, banging on tambourines, and waving their arms in the air whenever the spirit moved them. The more conservative parishioners were appalled; some simply refused to believe it.

Spiritual matters were not Savannah's only preoccupation, however. There was concern about the city's economy as well. Savannah's renaissance had crested, and a decline had begun. The city seemed more isolated than ever. Northern businesses were relocating in the South, but they were putting down roots in Atlanta, Jacksonville, and Charleston, not in Savannah. Downtown real estate values, after rising sharply for twenty years, had softened. Retail stores were abandoning Broughton Street and moving out to the Mall and elsewhere on the southside. More ominous yet, it seemed that Savannah's most lucrative source of income-the shipping business-was on the verge of being choked off by, of all things, the old Talmadge Bridge. As tall as the bridge was, it was not quite tall enough to allow the huge new superfreighters to sail under it to the docks upriver. Several medium-size containerships had already clipped off aerials and radar masts on the underside of the bridge, and port officials dreaded that any day now a whole p.o.o.p deck would be sheared off into the water. Before that ever happened, of course, a fair portion of Savannah's shipping trade would have headed for other ports. The threat to the economy of Savannah and Georgia was grave enough to send the state's congressional delegation scrambling in search of federal funds for a new bridge. After a period of tense negotiations, money was allotted and a potential calamity averted. Fears about the old bridge were replaced by curiosity about what the new one would look like.

With matters like these to talk about, there was little time for thoughts of Jim Williams. "After all," sighed Millicent Moore-land, "what more is there to say except 'Poor Jim!'"

Indeed, a more immediate concern was the sudden appearance on downtown walls, sidewalks, and dumpsters of graffiti that read A DISTURBED JENNIFER A DISTURBED JENNIFER. The desperate nature of the scrawl suggested that a deranged woman was roaming the lanes, contemplating harm to herself or others. After a month of heightened anxiety and double-locking of doors, "A Disturbed Jennifer" materialized as a rock group composed of four green-haired students from the Savannah College of Art and Design. The resolution of that mystery calmed fears but did nothing to soothe Savannah's increasing impatience with the new art school.

The Savannah College of Art and Design-known familiarly as SCAD-had opened its doors in 1979 with the blessings of all Savannah. The school had taken over the boarded-up Guard Armory on Madison Square and refurbished it as cla.s.srooms and studios for seventy-one art students. Within two years, enrollment had climbed to three hundred, and the college had acquired and restored several more old and empty buildings-warehouses, public schools, even a jailhouse. SCAD's young president, Richard Rowan, let it be known that the student body would eventually grow to two thousand.

Downtown residents did not respond happily to Rowan's announcement. While the students did contribute something to the local economy, and they did bring a little life to the otherwise empty streets, they were becoming in the eyes of some people a blight on the landscape with their green hair, their odd clothes, their skateboards, and their tendency to play loud music on their stereos well into the night. In reaction, a group of downtown residents formed a Quality of Life Committee to deal with the situation. Joe Webster, who headed the committee, could be seen each day at noontime walking stiffly with the aid of a cane from his office in the C&S Bank building to the Oglethorpe Club for lunch. His route took him down Bull Street past the main entrance of SCAD, where he would invariably make his way through a small cl.u.s.ter of students and point silently with his cane at some offending object-a crumpled candy wrapper or a motorcycle idling noisily at the curb. On one occasion, Mr. Webster and his committee stopped in to see Richard Rowan in his office to express their concern that the fragile human ecology of downtown Savannah might not survive two thousand students. The total population of the historic district was, after all, only about ten thousand. Rowan told the committee that he would see what he could do about the loud music and that, by the by, he had recently revised his goal from two thousand students to four four thousand. thousand.

However disruptive the college might have been to Savannah's peace and quiet, it did nothing to harm the city's physical beauty. The college restored each building it bought with taste and authenticity, and Savannah continued to receive compliments from its far-flung admirers. Le Monde Le Monde called Savannah "la plus belle des villes d'Amerique du Nord." The National Trust for Historic Preservation focused a flattering spotlight on the city when it bestowed its highest honor-the Louise Crowninshield Award-on Lee Adler for his contribution to Savannah's restoration. Adler went to Washington to accept the award, and upon his return his fellow citizens rallied around him in customary fashion: They congratulated him for winning yet another great honor, and as soon as his back was turned, they bitterly denounced him for once again hogging sole credit for a job done by many. called Savannah "la plus belle des villes d'Amerique du Nord." The National Trust for Historic Preservation focused a flattering spotlight on the city when it bestowed its highest honor-the Louise Crowninshield Award-on Lee Adler for his contribution to Savannah's restoration. Adler went to Washington to accept the award, and upon his return his fellow citizens rallied around him in customary fashion: They congratulated him for winning yet another great honor, and as soon as his back was turned, they bitterly denounced him for once again hogging sole credit for a job done by many.

While Savannah had grown accustomed to receiving compliments for its good looks, the city was thoroughly unprepared for a shockingly negative piece of news about itself that came howling out of the FBI in Washington and resounded around the world. Savannah had achieved the highest per-capita murder rate in the United States the previous year-54 murders, or 22.6 murders per 100,000 people. Savannah had become the murder capital of the United States! A stunned Mayor John Rousakis looked at the figures and complained that Savannah had been the victim of a statistical fluke. The numbers reflected murder rates in metropolitan metropolitan areas. Unlike most cities, Savannah did not have vast outlying suburbs with thousands of untroubled suburbanites to dilute its murder rate. When the murder rate was confined to actual city limits, Savannah ranked fifteenth in the nation, which was still a troubling distinction for a city that was not even among the country's hundred largest cities. areas. Unlike most cities, Savannah did not have vast outlying suburbs with thousands of untroubled suburbanites to dilute its murder rate. When the murder rate was confined to actual city limits, Savannah ranked fifteenth in the nation, which was still a troubling distinction for a city that was not even among the country's hundred largest cities.

Intending to clarify the matter, the city manager, Don Mendonsa, announced that a breakdown of police figures showed that crime in Savannah "is a black problem." Nearly half of Savannah's population was black, he said, but 91 percent of the murderers were black, and 85 percent of the victims were also black. The same was true for rape (89 percent of the offenders and 87 percent of the victims were black). Ninety-four percent of a.s.saults and 95 percent of robberies involved black offenders. The city manager was not a racist. He expressed a compa.s.sionate concern for dealing with the root causes-12.1 percent unemployment among blacks, compared with 4.7 for whites, and similar disparities in school-dropout rates, teenage pregnancies, unwed mothers, and family income.

Although racial inequalities were, if anything, greater in Savannah than in other southern cities, Savannah's blacks displayed surprisingly little hostility toward whites. On the surface, at least, a remarkable civility prevailed. A black man pa.s.sing a white stranger on the street would be likely to nod and say, "Good morning," "How y'doing?" or simply "Hey." Outwardly, little seemed to have changed since William Makepeace Thackeray visited Savannah in 1848 and described it as a tranquil old city with wide, tree-planted streets and "a few happy Negroes sauntering here and there." Thackeray was not the only person to notice that slaves had smiles on their faces. W. H. Pierson wrote in The Water Witch The Water Witch in 1863: "[The slaves] are, by all odds, the happiest-looking folks in the Confederacy. They sing, while the whites curse and pray." During slavery, it was thought by some observers that the apparent good cheer of the slaves had something to do with their expectation that the roles would be reversed in the hereafter: They would be the masters, and whites would be their slaves. In the 1960s, the civil rights struggle put a temporary strain on relations, but integration was peaceful on the whole. Since then, Savannah had been governed largely by moderate whites who made it their business to stay on good terms with the black community. As a result, racial peace was maintained, and blacks remained politically conservative, which is to say, pa.s.sive. There was no discernible black activism in Savannah. But it was evident that underneath their apparent complacency, Savannah's blacks were beset by an anguish and despair that ran so deep and expressed itself with such violence that it had made Savannah the murder capital of America. in 1863: "[The slaves] are, by all odds, the happiest-looking folks in the Confederacy. They sing, while the whites curse and pray." During slavery, it was thought by some observers that the apparent good cheer of the slaves had something to do with their expectation that the roles would be reversed in the hereafter: They would be the masters, and whites would be their slaves. In the 1960s, the civil rights struggle put a temporary strain on relations, but integration was peaceful on the whole. Since then, Savannah had been governed largely by moderate whites who made it their business to stay on good terms with the black community. As a result, racial peace was maintained, and blacks remained politically conservative, which is to say, pa.s.sive. There was no discernible black activism in Savannah. But it was evident that underneath their apparent complacency, Savannah's blacks were beset by an anguish and despair that ran so deep and expressed itself with such violence that it had made Savannah the murder capital of America.

If Savannah's spiritual, economic, artistic, architectural, and law-and-order concerns were not enough to keep people's minds off Jim Williams, there were plenty of distractions on the social scene. There was talk, for instance, about a standoff at the Married Woman's Card Club. Slots for membership had opened up, but compet.i.tion to fill them had become so fierce that every candidate had been blackballed for two years running. No one had gotten into the club in all that time, and for the first time in memory, membership had slipped below the mandated sixteen. The stalemate was temporarily upstaged by a food-poisoning scare at one of the club's get-togethers. The ladies were just heading home at six o'clock when they discovered the hostess's cat lying dead on the front steps. Someone recalled having seen the cat nibbling a leftover portion of crab ca.s.serole only minutes before. The women thereupon trotted to their cars and drove in a swarm to Candler Hospital to have their stomachs pumped. The following morning, the next-door neighbor stopped by to say he was sorry he'd run over the cat.

Neither the Married Woman's membership crisis nor the food scare received any mention in the newspaper's society column. It was, in fact, at about this time that the newspaper announced it was discontinuing its society column altogether. The column had never been much more than a bland recitation of guest lists, but its disappearance provoked a stinging rebuke from one of Savannah's leading socialites, Mrs. Vera Dutton Strong. In her letter to the editor, which was one of the longest the newspaper had ever published, Mrs. Strong expressed "shocked disbelief" at the cancellation of the column, calling the paper's social coverage a "genuine disgrace." There was a certain irony in this, because the most compelling social gossip at the moment happened to be the test of wills currently being waged by Mrs. Strong and her rebellious daughter, Dutton.

Vera Dutton Strong was an heiress to the huge Dutton pulpwood fortune. An only child, she was a member of one of Savannah's richest society families; her mother and father had always dressed for dinner-black tie and evening gown. Throughout her childhood she had been known as "The Princess," a nickname that seemed only natural for her. She was Debutante of the Year, and at her wedding she wore an exact replica of the gown Queen Elizabeth II had worn at her her wedding. Over the years, Mrs. Strong had shown herself to be good-humored, warm-hearted, and strong-willed. She was a founder of the Savannah Ballet Company and served as its hovering benefactress. Each year just before the Cotillion ball, society mothers would send their debutante daughters to Vera Strong so that she could teach them how to curtsy properly. A cloistered Savannahian of the purest sort, Mrs. Strong had never been to Europe, and she was past fifty when she visited Charleston for the first time. wedding. Over the years, Mrs. Strong had shown herself to be good-humored, warm-hearted, and strong-willed. She was a founder of the Savannah Ballet Company and served as its hovering benefactress. Each year just before the Cotillion ball, society mothers would send their debutante daughters to Vera Strong so that she could teach them how to curtsy properly. A cloistered Savannahian of the purest sort, Mrs. Strong had never been to Europe, and she was past fifty when she visited Charleston for the first time.

Mrs. Strong's own daughter, Dutton, was an angel-faced beauty with long red hair and not the slightest inclination to be a princess or a ballerina, both of which Mrs. Strong had set her heart on. Dutton obediently started ballet lessons at the age of four, and soon she was dancing with her mother's ballet company. Dutton's debutante party was the only one ever held at the Telfair museum; Vera Strong hired Peter Duchin and his orchestra and commissioned a twelve-foot ice sculpture of the Eiffel Tower to highlight the "April in Paris" theme of the party. It was not until Dutton went away to school that a streak of independence began to a.s.sert itself. She skipped cla.s.ses, stopped dancing, and finally dropped out of school. She came back home to Savannah, where she spent a year aimlessly hanging around the house and doing battle with her mother. "I never wanted to be a ballerina!" Dutton would bellow. "You're "You're the one who wanted to be a ballerina!" But Mrs. Strong would have none of it. "That's nonsense! You loved dancing, or you never would have been so good at it!" After one especially energetic quarrel, Dutton stormed out of the house and moved into an apartment with an older woman who had been her mother's poodle breeder. Dutton cut her long hair short, took to wearing jeans instead of skirts, put on weight, and stopped wearing lipstick. Then one afternoon she came to see her mother to announce that she had at long last decided on a career. She would go to the police academy and become a Savannah cop. the one who wanted to be a ballerina!" But Mrs. Strong would have none of it. "That's nonsense! You loved dancing, or you never would have been so good at it!" After one especially energetic quarrel, Dutton stormed out of the house and moved into an apartment with an older woman who had been her mother's poodle breeder. Dutton cut her long hair short, took to wearing jeans instead of skirts, put on weight, and stopped wearing lipstick. Then one afternoon she came to see her mother to announce that she had at long last decided on a career. She would go to the police academy and become a Savannah cop.

Vera Strong took the news with uncharacteristic calm. "If that's what you really want," she said, "I pray it turns out to be everything you're hoping for." Mrs. Strong attended her daughter's graduation at the police academy with a pasted-on smile. She wore the same smile at Christmas dinner when her daughter, the former ballerina-debutante, arrived wearing a navy-blue polyester pants suit with a .38 revolver on one hip and a Mace can and handcuffs on the other.

Refusing to admit defeat, Vera Strong decided to view her daughter's choice of profession as a selfless gesture of civic-mindedness rather than a betrayal of the family heritage. In the spring, she called the Oglethorpe Club to reserve a table for Easter dinner, making a point of telling the club manager that Dutton would be going on duty immediately afterward and would therefore be in uniform. Sensing a crisis of protocol, the manager demurred and said he would have to confer with the board. Ten minutes later he called back with profound apologies: The no-trousers rule for women had never been lifted before and the board dared not do it now. Mrs. Strong forthwith denounced the manager, the board, and the Oglethorpe Club as only she could do. She then slammed down the telephone and booked a table at the more amenable but less exclusive Chatham Club.

The Savannah Morning News Savannah Morning News proved to be more tractable than the Oglethorpe Club. Stung by Mrs. Strong's vituperative letter, the paper reinstated its society gossip column. Understandably, the column never made reference to the red-headed ballerina and her astonishing leap from proved to be more tractable than the Oglethorpe Club. Stung by Mrs. Strong's vituperative letter, the paper reinstated its society gossip column. Understandably, the column never made reference to the red-headed ballerina and her astonishing leap from Coppelia Coppelia to cop, or to the continuing anguish that it caused her mother. to cop, or to the continuing anguish that it caused her mother.

While all this was going on, the controversy over Joe Odom and the Hamilton-Turner House continued unabated. Shortly after Joe set up the nonprofit "Hamilton-Turner Museum Foundation" to shield his illegal tour business, his neighbors countered by arguing before the Department of Inspections that, profit or nonprofit, the Hamilton-Turner House stood within one hundred yards of a school. This meant it was illegal for Joe to sell liquor at his luncheons and dinner parties. But Joe was not concerned. "The law says I can't sell sell liquor," he said. "It doesn't say I can't liquor," he said. "It doesn't say I can't serve serve it." Somewhere in the gray area between selling and serving, Joe knew how to make money giving liquor to his customers, and he went right on doing it. it." Somewhere in the gray area between selling and serving, Joe knew how to make money giving liquor to his customers, and he went right on doing it.

Liquor also played a part in a small drama involving Serena Dawes. Serena and Luther Driggers had split up, and Serena had taken to cruising the docks late at night in an effort to pick up Greek sailors. One night the police spotted her driving erratically along River Street and stopped her. Serena opted for a pose of elegant femininity, which was a feat in itself since she was wearing a shortie nightgown and fluffy white rabbit-head slippers. She batted her eyelashes and exclaimed sweetly that she had gone out to move her "cah-wuh" and had gotten lost. When the policemen took her to the county jail and booked her for driving under the influence, she wanted to scream and scratch their faces, but instead she held herself in check and coyly thanked them for coming to her rescue. She mentioned that her "great-granddaddy-in-law" had been Amba.s.sador to the Court of St. James's just to let them know they were dealing with a woman of quality. An hour later, Luther Driggers came down to bail her out, but by that time Serena had had enough of pretense. A fat black prison matron, who had taken Serena's handbag and searched it, now handed it back to her.

"You can have it back," the matron said. "It's clean."

"It is not not clean anymore," Serena snapped, s.n.a.t.c.hing the purse out of the woman's hands. "And if I clean anymore," Serena snapped, s.n.a.t.c.hing the purse out of the woman's hands. "And if I ever ever catch you putting your filthy f.u.c.king hands on anything of mine again, you'll be wearing your poon-tang for a turtleneck!" catch you putting your filthy f.u.c.king hands on anything of mine again, you'll be wearing your poon-tang for a turtleneck!"

These, then, were the matters of consuming interest in Savannah, the city Le Monde Le Monde had called "la plus belle des villes" in North America. Beautiful it was, but still very isolated and, because of that, a bit too trusting. Police had recently circulated a warning about a pair of con men who were cashing checks drawn on a nonexistent company. The con men had given their victims a sporting chance by naming their bogus company "Fly By Night, Inc.," but dozens of Savannah merchants had cashed the checks anyway. About the same time, it also came to light that the clerk in charge of handling the money in probate court did not know how to multiply and that one of the probate judges had taken advantage of the situation by dipping into the cash box. Life, in other words, went on. Savannah had community questions to resolve, such as: Should a second mall be built? Had Mr. Charles Hall ruined Whitfield Square by painting his gingerbread house a dozen shades of pink and purple? And, if so, did the city have the right to force him to repaint it in more acceptable colors? had called "la plus belle des villes" in North America. Beautiful it was, but still very isolated and, because of that, a bit too trusting. Police had recently circulated a warning about a pair of con men who were cashing checks drawn on a nonexistent company. The con men had given their victims a sporting chance by naming their bogus company "Fly By Night, Inc.," but dozens of Savannah merchants had cashed the checks anyway. About the same time, it also came to light that the clerk in charge of handling the money in probate court did not know how to multiply and that one of the probate judges had taken advantage of the situation by dipping into the cash box. Life, in other words, went on. Savannah had community questions to resolve, such as: Should a second mall be built? Had Mr. Charles Hall ruined Whitfield Square by painting his gingerbread house a dozen shades of pink and purple? And, if so, did the city have the right to force him to repaint it in more acceptable colors?

Then one day in June, all of these questions were overshadowed by the news that the Georgia Supreme Court had once again overturned Jim Williams's conviction for murder.

The court cited two reasons for setting aside the conviction. First, it ruled that Judge Oliver should not have allowed a Savannah police detective to testify as an "expert" for the prosecution on points of evidence that the jurors were competent to evaluate on their own-the smeared blood on Danny Hansford's hand, the chair on his pants cuff, the fragments of paper on top of the gun. Second, the court faulted Spencer Lawton for waiting until his closing argument to demonstrate that the trigger on Hansford's gun was easy to pull rather than difficult, as the defense had claimed. In effect, said the court, Lawton's demonstration introduced new evidence, which should have been brought up during the trial itself, at which time the defense could have responded to it.

Williams was lucky. The reversal had been a 4-to-3 decision. The three dissenting justices argued that the errors had been harmless ones and that, in any case, they had not influenced the verdict. But none of that mattered now. Since the state supreme court had not found Williams innocent-they had merely thrown out the verdict-murder charges still stood against him. He would be tried a third time in Judge Oliver's court, and a third jury would deliver yet another verdict.

Williams emerged from the Chatham County Jail a little thinner than before, a little grayer at the temples, and ghostly pale from having been indoors nearly two years. He squinted in the sun. As he and Sonny Seiler walked to a car parked at the curb, a small group of reporters and cameramen followed along, shouting questions.

Did Williams think he would be acquitted at a third trial?

"Yes, of course," he said.

What would be the deciding factor?

"Money," he said. "My case has been about money from the very beginning. The D.A. spends the taxpayers' money, and I spend my own-five hundred thousand dollars of it so far. The criminal-justice system is rigged that way, in case you haven't noticed. I'd still be in jail if I hadn't been able to pay for lawyers and experts and their endless expenses. So far I've managed to stay even with the prosecution. Dollar for dollar, t.i.t for tat."

As he approached the car, Williams looked across Montgomery Street and saw an old black woman standing at the bus stop. She was staring in his direction through purple gla.s.ses. Williams met her glance briefly and smiled. Then he turned back to the reporters.

"Well ... maybe I shouldn't have said 't.i.t for tat.' As I've always said, there are forces working in my favor-forces the D.A. doesn't know anything about."

And what might they be?

"You can put them down under the heading of ... 'miscellaneous,'" he said.

Within minutes Jim Williams was back in Mercer House, back in the news, and back on people's minds again whether they liked it or not.

Chapter 26.

ANOTHER STORY.

With a third trial in the offing, Jim Williams's case was approaching landmark status and attracting attention well beyond Savannah. Williams's air of cynical detachment lent spice to the expanding media coverage. Us Us magazine ("The Scandal That Shook Savannah") described Williams as having a "von Bulow-like demeanor." The editors of the photographic doc.u.mentary magazine ("The Scandal That Shook Savannah") described Williams as having a "von Bulow-like demeanor." The editors of the photographic doc.u.mentary A Day in the Life of America A Day in the Life of America sent a photographer to Savannah with instructions to take a picture of Williams as an example of southern decadence. The photographer, Gerd Ludwig, set up his lights and cameras in Mercer House. sent a photographer to Savannah with instructions to take a picture of Williams as an example of southern decadence. The photographer, Gerd Ludwig, set up his lights and cameras in Mercer House.

"He was here all day," Williams said afterward, "trying his best to capture my 'decadence' on film. I suppose I could have made it easy for him. I could have offered to pose with my most recently acquired historic relic-the dagger that Prince Yussupov used when he murdered Rasputin. That would have done nicely, don't you think? Yussupov sliced off Rasputin's c.o.c.k and b.a.l.l.s with it."

Williams took little interest in the legal side of his upcoming trial. Instead, he busied himself with the "miscellaneous" end of things, which is to say he played Psycho Dice incessantly and allowed Minerva to become a lurking presence around Mercer House. She performed the appropriate rituals for removing a curse from the house, just in case there was one, and she also cast spells on people Williams suspected of wishing him ill. By chance, I happened to see her in the midst of one of these ceremonies. It was an afternoon in March, and the annual Tour of Homes was in progress. As usual, Williams had refused to open Mercer House to the tourists, but Lee and Emma Adler had happily thrown open their doors. Williams stood at his living-room window, smoking a cigarillo and making wry comments as he watched visitors trooping up the Adlers' front steps across the street. He motioned me over to the window. Two well-dressed couples were walking single file up the Adlers' steps. Minerva was right behind them, carrying her trademark shopping bag. At the top of the steps, she paused while the others went inside; then, after looking around in all directions, she reached into the bag and flung what appeared to be a handful of dirt into the little garden below. She threw another handful down the steps. Williams laughed.

"Was that graveyard dirt?" I asked.

"What else?" he said.

"Taken from a graveyard at midnight?"

"When else?"

Minerva went inside the Adlers' house. "What on earth is she doing in there?" I asked.

"Her usual mumbo-jumbo, I suppose," said Williams. "Twigs, leaves, feathers, exotic powders, chicken bones. I told her Lee Adler controls the D.A., and that's all she had to hear. Minerva's been a very busy witch lately. She's been out at Vernonburg several times to dress down Spencer Lawton's house, and yesterday she paid a call on Judge Oliver's cottage in Tybee. She's thrown graveyard dirt at some of the best homes in Savannah, G.o.d bless her."

While Williams contented himself with these mystical manipulations, Sonny Seiler mounted a vigorous legal campaign to strengthen the position of the defense. He moved to suppress most of the evidence seized at Mercer House the night of the shooting on the grounds that the police did not have a search warrant; the motion was denied by the Georgia Supreme Court. His pet.i.tion for a change of venue was likewise rejected. As the date for the trial drew near, Seiler found himself with essentially the same defense strategy as in the second trial. This time he would not sequester the jury, which would improve matters slightly, but he had no new evidence and no new witnesses. He had decided against using Hansford's two young hustler friends and their stories about Hansford's plan to kill or injure Williams, fearing they might backfire; besides, Hansford's penchant for violence was amply established through other witnesses. In any case, the most troublesome issue remained the total absence of gunshot residue on Danny Hansford's hand. That piece of evidence had proved decisive against Williams in both trials, despite everything the defense had done to explain it. Seiler's expert witness, Dr. Irving Stone, had testified that the downward angle of the gun, plus the blood from Hansford's hand and the delay of twelve hours before the police swabbed for residue, would have diminished the residue on Hansford's hands by 70 percent, but no more. It was unlikely that very much of the remaining 30 percent could have accidentally rubbed off on the way to the hospital, because the police had taken the routine precaution of taping paper bags over Hansford's hands before moving his body. Seiler telephoned Dr. Stone one more time to ask if there was any way he could explain a zero reading of gunshot residue. "No," Dr. Stone told him, "not with the information I have."

In addition to the gunshot-residue problem, Seiler was becoming concerned about Williams's testimony. It had been nearly four years since he had last testified, and Seiler worried that he might become confused about minor details and contradict what he had said before. Two weeks before the trial was to begin, he insisted that Williams sit down and review his prior testimony. Any deviation in his story, even the slightest detail, would give Lawton a chance to pounce on his credibility. Seiler told Williams he would bring the transcripts to Mercer House on Sat.u.r.day afternoon, and they would go over them together. Sat.u.r.day morning, Williams called and invited me to sit in on the review.

"Come half an hour early," Williams said. "I have something I want to tell you."

The moment he opened the door, I could tell Williams knew the odds were against him. He had shaved his mustache. Seiler had tried to make him shave it for the second trial, saying it would make him look less forbidding, but Williams had refused. Now Williams was apparently willing to do anything to ingratiate himself with the jury.

He came right to the point. "Sonny doesn't know this yet, but I'm going to change my story. I'm going to tell what really happened that night. It's my only chance to win this case."

I made no comment. Williams drew a deep breath and then began: "The evening started out just as I've always said it did. Danny and I went to a drive-in movie. He was drinking bourbon and smoking gra.s.s. We came back to the house. He started an argument, kicked in the Atari set, grabbed me by the neck, pushed me up against the doorjamb. All that's true. Then he followed me into the study, just as I've always said. We called Joe Goodman. Right after that, Danny took the tankard in his hand and said, 'This tankard has about made up its mind to go through that painting over there.' I told him to get out. He went into the hall, I heard crashing sounds, he came back with the Luger in his hand and said, 'I'm leaving tomorrow, but you're leaving tonight.' Then he raised his arm and pulled the trigger. All that's true. It's what I've been saying all along. But here's the difference: The gun was on safety! The gun was on safety! When Danny pulled the trigger, nothing happened! No bullets came out. No bullets whizzed by my arm. Danny lowered the gun, took the safety off, and ejected a live round. That gave me time to reach into the drawer and get my own gun and shoot him. I fired three times. Bam, bam, bam. He fell dead. But he hadn't fired a shot. Then I thought: G.o.dd.a.m.n, what have I done! I went around the desk, picked up his gun, fired two shots back across the desk, and dropped the gun on the floor. In the panic of the moment I didn't know what else to do." When Danny pulled the trigger, nothing happened! No bullets came out. No bullets whizzed by my arm. Danny lowered the gun, took the safety off, and ejected a live round. That gave me time to reach into the drawer and get my own gun and shoot him. I fired three times. Bam, bam, bam. He fell dead. But he hadn't fired a shot. Then I thought: G.o.dd.a.m.n, what have I done! I went around the desk, picked up his gun, fired two shots back across the desk, and dropped the gun on the floor. In the panic of the moment I didn't know what else to do."

Having said all that, Williams seemed strangely elated. "You see, it explains why there was no gunpowder on Danny's hand!" He studied me carefully, looking to see my reaction to his new story.

I wondered if my expression betrayed my astonishment.

"The police and my lawyer, Bob Duffy, arrived at the house at the same time," he went on. "I took them into the study and told them Danny had fired at me and missed, and that I'd shot him. I had a feeling I was making a bad situation worse by sticking to that story, but I didn't see that I had any choice. Well, I've been convicted twice now, so I've finally decided to tell it the way it really happened. And when I do, Spencer Lawton's case will crumble. I'll be acquitted."

"I'm not sure how you figure that," I said.

"Because it explains everything! The lack of gunpowder on Danny's hand. The live round on the floor. The pieces of paper on the gun. It all ties together!"

My guess was that Williams was using me to float a trial balloon. His new story fit the evidence well enough, and it preserved his claim of self-defense. But it was too convenient, too neat, and too late to do him much good.

"If you tell that story," I said, trying not to sound too argumentative, "you'll be admitting you've committed perjury all these years."

"Yes, of course," he said, "but so what?"

Evidently, Williams did not want to be dissuaded. So I did not tell him that I thought his new story would be music to Spencer Lawton's ears, or that if he admitted having fired all the shots, any jury-even a friendly one-would conclude that Hansford had never held a gun in his hand at all that night.

"You haven't told Sonny Seiler any of this?" I asked.

"I intend to tell him as soon as he gets here."

Good, let Sonny Seiler deal with it. It was not my business to counsel Williams anyway. I shifted the conversation to innocuous topics while we waited. I told Williams that without his mustache, he had a benign look. A jury might like that. I glanced out the window, watching for Seiler, and noticed Minerva sitting on a bench in the square.

"Is she casting a spell on somebody?"

"Probably," said Williams. "I give her twenty-five dollars a day, and I've learned not to ask questions."

Seiler arrived shortly, accompanied by his secretary and two lawyers who were a.s.sisting on the case, Don Samuel and David Botts. Seiler was out of breath. "We got a lot to cover this afternoon," he said, "so let's get going."

We a.s.sembled in the study. Williams sat at his desk, and Seiler stood in the center of the room. He was wearing a blue blazer and a red-white-and-black Georgia bulldog tie. I felt a twinge of pity for him. His case was about to fall apart. He was full of energy, impatient to begin.

"Now, Jim," he said, "we're coming into this trial with some serious problems, and I don't want to give Lawton a chance to tangle you up on cross-examination. If you get up there and say you blinked twice before you shot Hansford, he'll say, 'But, Mr. Williams, didn't you testify on an earlier occasion that you blinked three three times?'" times?'"

"Sonny," said Williams, "before we get into all of that, there's something I want to tell you about my testimony."

"Okay," said Seiler, "but just wait a minute. I want to review where we stand. Number one: We have not been able to get a change of venue. Number two: Our motion to suppress the evidence has been denied. Number three: We've had a h.e.l.l of a time trying to deal with that d.a.m.ned gunshot-residue test."

"I know all about that, Sonny," said Williams. "What I have to say has a direct bearing on it."

"Just hear me out. Then you can go ahead."

Exasperated, Williams sat back in his chair, arms crossed. Seiler continued.

"A couple of weeks ago, Dr. Stone told me he could not explain how Danny could have fired a gun and still had zero gunpowder on his hand. He made a suggestion, though. He said, 'Why don't you go back out to Candler Hospital and see if you can find out what they did with Hansford's body before they swabbed his hands for gunpowder. Maybe you'll come up with something.' He said the more a body is moved or touched, the more likely it is that gunpowder will be wiped off.

"I went out to the hospital yesterday and asked for the file on Hansford. They gave me the autopsy report. Nothing new about that. We've had a copy of it all along. But this copy had a top sheet I hadn't seen before. It was a green hospital admitting form filled out by the nurse in charge of the emergency room-Marilyn Case. She had written a note on it: 'Hands bagged bilaterally in Emergency Department.' This piqued my curiosity, so I called her up and asked her to explain it. She said it meant she had put bags over both of Danny's hands so the gunpowder wouldn't rub off; the coroner had called and told her to do it. I said, 'Wait a minute! The police said they they put bags on Hansford's hands back at Mercer House! You mean to tell me that there were no bags on Hansford's hands when he arrived at the emergency room?' 'I'm sure of it,' she said. 'I bagged the hands myself.'" put bags on Hansford's hands back at Mercer House! You mean to tell me that there were no bags on Hansford's hands when he arrived at the emergency room?' 'I'm sure of it,' she said. 'I bagged the hands myself.'"

Seiler was glowing. "Do you know what this means?" he said. "It means the police didn't bag the hands at all! They've been lying all along. They forgot to bag the hands! They wrapped Hansford in a blanket, lifted him onto a gurney, wheeled him into an ambulance, drove him out to the hospital, wheeled him into the emergency room, lifted him off the gurney, unwrapped him, and all that time his bare hands were flopping around and rubbing against his shirt, his jeans, the blanket-and rubbing off all that gunshot residue! I called Dr. Stone and told him what I'd found. 'Sonny,' he said, 'you struck gold!'" I called Dr. Stone and told him what I'd found. 'Sonny,' he said, 'you struck gold!'"

Seiler pulled a copy of the admissions sheet out of his briefcase. "Here it is, Coach!" he said. "The death knell of Spencer Lawton's precious gunshot-residue test. They based their whole case on it, dammit, and we're gonna kick it right between the goal posts. What's worse, Lawton was obligated to give us a copy of this sheet along with the autopsy report, and he didn't. So, we've caught him hiding the evidence again. He's gonna have fits when we hit him with it."

Seiler put the paper back in his briefcase and snapped it shut. "Okay, Jim," he said. "Your turn."

Williams sat with his chin cupped in his hand. He glanced at me, flickered his eyebrows, and then looked back at Seiler.

"Never mind, Sonny," he said. "It's not important."

I left Mercer House that afternoon with the uncomfortable feeling that I knew more than I wanted to know. Around midnight, I stopped in at Sweet Georgia Brown's and sat down on the piano bench next to Joe.

"I need to ask you about a point of law," I said.

"I knew you'd get into trouble writing that book of yours," Joe said. "But like I told you, that's what I'm here for."

"This is a purely hypothetical question," I said. "Suppose an unnamed person-an upstanding citizen minding his own business-happened to become privy to inside information about a criminal case. Something secret, something that contradicts sworn testimony. Would this person become an accessory after the fact if he just kept quiet about it?"