The Boys from Biloxi: A Legal Thriller (36 page)

Former governor Waller described what it was like for a DA to receive death threats for simply doing his job. He had been there and he knew the fear. Jesse’s courage had cost him his life, but the job he started would one day be finished. The thugs and mobsters who killed him would get their day in court.

Amongst the family, there was no doubt about who would speak. Tim knew he could not keep his composure. Beverly and Laura happily deferred to their older brother. When Keith stepped to the pulpit there was complete silence in the church. In a strong, articulate
voice, he thanked everyone on behalf of the family. He assured them that the family would not only survive, but would endure and prevail. His mother, Agnes, and his siblings, Beverly, Laura, and Tim, appreciated the prayers and the outpouring of support.

Jesse taught him many lessons about life, and also about the law. Great trial lawyers aren’t born; they’re made. The great ones simply tell the jury a story, one that he has a thorough command of. The story must be written and rewritten, and edited some more, to the point where the lawyer knows every word, pause, and punch line by memory. The delivery is smooth but not too polished, not in any way rehearsed. Listening to Keith speak without notes and without a single wasted syllable, it was hard to believe he was only twenty-eight years old and had taken only three jury trials all the way to verdicts.

He told stories of fishing with his father in the Mississippi Sound, of playing baseball in the backyard, of a thousand games with Jesse always in the stands. He never missed one. When Keith was fifteen, Jesse took him to court to watch a trial, and over dinner they discussed every move made by the lawyers and the judge. Many trials followed. By the time he was sixteen he was wearing a coat and tie and sitting right behind Jesse.

Keith’s voice never cracked. His delivery was as smooth as a veteran stage actor’s. Though he kept his composure, his eulogy was extremely emotional. He ended with: “Our father did not die in vain. His work had just begun, and his work will be finished. His enemies will die in prison.”

The Requiem Mass drew an even larger crowd that overflowed the sanctuary. Those who arrived late were directed to a large canopied tent beside the church building. A PA system relayed the events: the sprinkling of holy water on the coffin as it entered the front doors; the family receiving the coffin at the altar and placing
an open Bible on it; the reading of Holy Scripture by Beverly and Laura; a solo by a soprano; a reading from the Gospel of Luke by Jesse’s brother; a reflection on the verses by Father Norris, followed by a lengthy homily in which he talked about death in the Christian world and said marvelous things about Jesse Rudy; an organist played a beautiful hymn; Tim read a prayer and managed to get through it; communion took half an hour, and when it was over Father Norris sprinkled more holy water on the coffin as he gave the final commendation.

On the Tuesday after Labor Day the courthouse reopened for business. The west half of the second floor was blocked off with a temporary partition as work crews finished the cleanup and began the repairs. Judge Oliphant was eager to tackle his docket and schedule hearings.

Two days later, in his courtroom, a brief ceremony took place. Pursuant to an appointment by Governor Cliff Finch, Keith Rudy would fill the vacancy left by the death of his father and serve as district attorney for the remainder of the term, through 1979. Judge Oliphant read the appointment and swore in the new DA. Agnes and Ainsley watched proudly, though with plenty of quiet doubts. Both had been opposed to Keith taking the job, but his mind was made up. To Agnes, he was like Jesse in so many ways. When he felt he was right, it was impossible to dissuade him.

Beverly and Laura looked on, along with Egan, the Pettigrew brothers, and a handful of other friends. They were all still sleepwalking through the aftermath of the murder, but Keith’s appointment gave them hope that justice would be served. There were no speeches, but a reporter from the
Register
covered it and chatted with Keith when it was over. His first question was one that was obvious: “Can you be fair and objective if you prosecute the person or persons responsible for the murder of your father?”

Keith knew it was coming and replied: “I can be fair but I don’t have to be objective. In any murder investigation, the police and prosecutor determine guilt long before the jury, so in that respect they’re not exactly objective. I can only promise to be fair.”

“If the murder is solved, will you handle the trial?”

“It’s much too early to talk about a trial.”

“Do you know of any suspects?”

“No.”

“Will you be involved in the investigation?”

“At every turn. We’ll follow every lead, look under every rock. I will not rest until this crime is solved.”

Similar questions dogged him during his first days in office. Reporters hung around Rudy & Pettigrew and were repeatedly asked to leave. A steady flow of friends and well-wishers stopped by for a somber word or two and Keith quickly grew tired of their presence. The front door was eventually locked. Gage and Gene worked in the downstairs conference room and kept an eye on the foot traffic. The phone rang nonstop and was routinely ignored. Clients were asked to be patient.

With most of the DA’s records destroyed, one of Keith’s first challenges was to reconstruct the files and determine who had been indicted and what was the status of each defendant. Without exception, the local bar rallied behind him and provided copies of all records. Judge Oliphant ran interference and gave no ground to the defense attorneys. Rex Dubisson spent hours with Keith and walked him through the ins and outs of the job. Pat Graebel, next door in the Nineteenth District, did the same and made his staff available.

Keith began each day by taking Agnes to morning Mass at St. Michael’s.

Two days after Keith became the DA, Hugh made another journey north into no-man’s-land to visit his father. The cotton was in full bloom and the flatlands were as white as snow on both sides of the highway. It was somewhat interesting to watch the Delta change colors with the season as the crops got ready for the
harvest, but he still found it depressing. He perked up at the sight of his first cotton picker, a bright green John Deere mechanized creation that resembled a giant insect creeping through the snow. Then he saw another and soon they were everywhere. He passed a trailer headed for the gin, loose bolls flying into the air and landing like litter on the sides of the highway.

Five miles south of the prison, he saw a sight so startling that he slowed and almost stopped on the shoulder of the road. A prison guard with a shotgun and a cowboy hat sat in the saddle of a quarter horse and watched a gang of about a dozen black inmates pluck bolls of cotton from stalks that were almost chest-high. They stuffed the cotton into thick burlap sacks they dragged behind them.

It was September of 1976, more than a hundred years after emancipation.

Parchman covered 18,000 acres of rich soil. With its endless supply of free labor it had been, historically at least, a cash cow for the state. Back in its glory days, long before the intervention of federal litigation and notions of prisoners’ rights, the working conditions had been brutal, especially for black inmates.

Hugh shook his head and moved on, stunned again by the backwardness of Mississippi, and happy to be from the Coast. A different world.

Lance had so far avoided picking cotton, a loathsome job now reserved as punishment. He lived in Unit 26, one of many separate “camps” scattered throughout the sprawling farm. Though the federal courts had repeatedly told the state to desegregate Parchman, there were still a few places where inmates with a little cash could survive without the fear of violence. Unit 26 was the preferred address, though the cells lacked air-conditioning and ventilation.

Hugh cleared the front gate and followed well-marked roads into the depths of the farm. He parked in the small lot of Unit 26, cleared another security post, and entered a red-brick administration building. He got frisked again, then led to the visitation room.
Lance appeared on the other side of a mesh screen and they said hello. Though the visits were supposed to be confidential, Lance trusted no one at the prison and cautioned Hugh about saying too much.

Other than a few more gray hairs and wrinkles around his eyes, Lance had changed little in sixteen months. The cardiac problems that had practically killed him the year before had mysteriously vanished. He claimed to be in good health and surviving the ordeals of prison. He worked in the library, took walks around the camp several times each day, and wrote letters to friends, though all mail was screened. In cautious terms, they talked about the family businesses and Hugh assured him all was well. Fats sent his regards, as did Nevin and the other guys. Carmen was doing much better now that Lance was away, though Hugh downplayed his mother’s happiness. Lance feigned concern for her well-being.

They talked about everything but the obvious. Jesse Rudy’s death was never mentioned. Lance had not been involved in it, and he was worried sick that his unpredictable son had done something stupid.

All suspicions were on Hugh because there were no other credible suspects.

Like his predecessor, Bill Waller, Governor Finch had served two terms as a district attorney. The brutal murder of one of their own was unthinkable, and he made its investigation his highest priority. He formed a joint task force with the state police and FBI, and promised full cooperation and funding.

In late September, the task force met in secret for the first time in a hotel in Pascagoula. Special Agents Jackson Lewis and Spence Whitehead were there on behalf of the FBI. The head of the state police, Captain Moffett, presided. He was flanked by two of his
investigators. Two more of his men, state troopers in uniform, guarded the door. Keith took notes and said little.

It was significant that local law enforcement was absent. Fats Bowman and his gang would never be included, because of distrust. The Biloxi police were not qualified to take part in such a high-profile and complicated investigation. No one in the room wanted the locals to get involved unless it became necessary. Secrecy was crucial.

Agent Lewis reviewed a report from the lab at Quantico. The experts were certain that the blast had been caused by Semtex, a plastic explosive widely used by the U.S. military. They believed the bomber got his hands on the deadlier stuff and was not altogether familiar with its strength. Their estimate was between five and ten pounds, far more than necessary to kill a man in his office.

As they discussed the damage, the faint sounds of hammers and saws were heard from the repair work down the hall.

Keith struggled to ignore the fact that he was sitting in the courtroom where his father had made his mark suing insurance companies after Camille, and later prosecuting notorious criminals. Not twenty feet away was the bench where Lance Malco had stood when he pled guilty and was sentenced by Judge Oliphant.

Next was a discussion of potential witnesses. Henry Taylor was never mentioned. The FBI had practically driven him out of town, broken leg and all, three days after the murder, then leaned on the state and local police to remain quiet about his existence. The FBI had big plans for Taylor, but it was simply too risky to involve anyone in Biloxi at such an early stage. One stray word could jeopardize Jackson Lewis’s scheme. Likewise, Judge Oliphant, who had signed the search warrants for Taylor’s truck and motel room, had promised secrecy.

Keith would be told of Henry Taylor in due course. He was grief-stricken, driven by revenge, and thoroughly untested. Keeping him in the dark was a delicate matter, but the FBI had no choice. There was also the complicated matter of Keith handling
the prosecution. No one in the room believed he would be allowed to pursue the killer or killers all the way to a trial. A special prosecutor would be appointed by the state supreme court, according to backroom conversations between Captain Moffett and the FBI.

The task force reviewed a summary of every person known to be either in the courthouse or having just left it at the time of the explosion. Thirteen people were injured, most by flying glass. Egan Clement was thrown to the floor and received a gash to her head along with a minor concussion. One Alan Taylor from Necaise was knocked down the stairs and broke his leg. He claimed to have been on his way to purchase car tags from the tax collector’s office on the second floor. His story checked out, according to the FBI.

Keith said, “I’ve spoken to Egan several times and she thinks she saw a delivery man with packages near the stairs at the time of the explosion.”

Lewis nodded agreement and said, “Yes, and we’ve spoken to her at length. As you know, she was knocked unconscious. Her recall is not always the same. Most of her story is rather fuzzy, at best. But we’re still digging.”

“So, we could have a suspect?”

“Yes, possibly. That man, if he exists, is a priority.”

“And no one else reported seeing him?”

“No one.”

“How’d the bomb get in the office?”

“We don’t know yet. Everything is preliminary, Keith.”

Keith was suspicious but let it pass. It was too early to press the investigators but he felt certain they knew more than they were sharing. At least there was the possibility of a suspect.

Joint efforts by state and federal law enforcement were notoriously fraught with suspicions and turf battles. After some shadowboxing, it was agreed that Jackson Lewis and the FBI would take the lead in the investigation. Moffett feigned frustration, but he was under direct orders from the governor to yield to the Feds.

In the ninety days before the murder, Henry Taylor had either made or received 515 calls. Every number had been checked; most were local to family, friends, a couple of ladies he seemed to know well. Thirty-one were long distance but none were suspicious. Two weeks before the murder, he had received a phone call from a pay phone in Biloxi, but it was impossible to know who placed it.