The Boys from Biloxi: A Legal Thriller (46 page)

Like his father, Keith had no fear of the Malcos and relished the idea of going after Lance if he resumed his old ways.

And, he was not altogether bothered by losing Henry Taylor. He was, after all, the man who had “pulled the trigger” and killed Jesse Rudy.

The photo was a five-by-seven black and white, and it was smuggled into Parchman by a guard working for Lance Malco. He admired it for a day and wished he had another one just like it. Bloody, naked, dead as a doornail, hanging from an outrigger, the incompetent bomber who’d snitched on his Hugh and sent him to death row.

Lance bribed another guard for a white-gloved hand delivery of the photo to one Lou Palmer, aka Nevin Noll, currently housed in Unit 18, Parchman prison.

No message was included; none was needed.

On June 7, Keith and an assistant got into the rear seat of a brand-new unmarked highway patrol car for the ride down to Hattiesburg. One perk of being AG was a chauffeured ride anywhere he wanted, with an extra bodyguard thrown in. On the downside were the recurring threats of bodily harm, which usually came in the form of half-crazed, barely literate letters, many of them sent from prisons and jails. The state police monitored the mail and, so far, had seen nothing to worry about.

Another perk was the rare use of the state jet, an asset coveted by a handful of elected officials but controlled exclusively by the governor. Keith had been on it once, enjoyed it immensely, and could see himself riding it into the future.

The gathering was at the federal courthouse in Hattiesburg. The occasion was an oral argument in front of the judge handling the habeas corpus petition filed by Hugh Malco. Two reporters, without cameras, were waiting in the hall outside the courtroom and asked Keith for a word or two. He politely declined.

Inside, he sat at the State’s table with Witt Beasley and two of his top litigators.

Across from them Hugh’s appellate lawyers from Atlanta busied themselves with paperwork. So far, their voluminous filings had produced nothing beneficial for their client. They had lost in the state supreme court by a vote of 9-0. They had lost on a petition for a rehearing, a formality. They had appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court and lost when it refused to hear the case. Round Two was a petition for post-conviction relief back in the state supreme court,
which they lost. They petitioned for a rehearing, another formality, and lost. They appealed that to the U.S. Supreme Court, which again declined to take the case. With the required state filings out of the way, they entered Round Three in federal court with a petition for habeas corpus.

Hugh had been convicted and sentenced to death in the circuit court of Forrest County, Hattiesburg, in April of 1978. Six years later, in the same town but a different courthouse, both he and his case were still alive. According to Witt, though, both were in jeopardy. The finish line was in sight. Hugh’s high-powered lawyers were bright and experienced, but they had yet to gain any traction with their arguments. Keith, who still read every word that was filed, agreed.

As they waited for His Honor, more reporters gathered in the front row behind the lawyers. There wasn’t much of a crowd. It was, after all, rather dry and monotonous appellate maneuvering. When the notice had arrived a month earlier, Keith had wanted to handle the oral argument himself. He knew the case as well as Witt and was certainly capable of going toe-to-toe with the habeas boys, but he realized it was not a good idea. His father’s murder would be discussed to some degree, and he and Witt agreed that he should stay in his chair.

Hugh wanted to attend the hearing and his lawyers had made a request. However, the custom was for such a request to be either approved or disapproved by the attorney general, and Keith happily said no. He wanted Hugh to leave the Row in a box, and not before. It was a pleasure denying him even a few hours outside his miserable little cell.

His Honor finally appeared to call things to order. As the aggrieved and appealing party, Hugh’s lawyers went first and spent the first hour describing in boring detail the lousy job Joshua Burch did defending their client at trial. Ineffective assistance of counsel was customarily relied on by desperate men and was almost always presented on appeal. The problem was that Joshua Burch was not
some court-appointed public defender assigned to an indigent client. He was Joshua Burch, one of the finest criminal defense lawyers in the state. It was clear His Honor wasn’t buying the attack on Mr. Burch.

Next, a different lawyer argued that the State’s witnesses had severe credibility problems. Henry Taylor and Nevin Noll were originally co-defendants before they flipped in an effort to avoid the gas chamber themselves.

His Honor appeared to doze off. Everything that was being said had already been submitted in the brick-like briefs filed weeks earlier. For two hours the lawyers droned on. Months ago Keith and Witt had realized that Hugh and his team had nothing new: no surprise witness, no novel strategies, no brilliant arguments missed by Joshua Burch at trial. They were simply doing their jobs and going through the motions for a client who was clearly guilty.

When His Honor had had enough, he let it be known and called for a coffee break.

As a thirty-year veteran of appellate arguments, Witt Beasley had long since learned to make his case with concise and logical written briefs, and say as little as possible in court. He believed that all lawyers talked too much, and he also knew that the more crap a judge heard, the less patience he had.

Witt hit the high points, finished in less than an hour, and they left for lunch.

Knowing the judge as he did, Witt predicted an opinion within six months. Assuming it would be in the State’s favor, Hugh would then appeal another loss to the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans. The Fifth had the reputation of being a fairly industrious court and often ruled in less than a year. If it upheld the State, then Hugh’s next and probably final appeal would be to the U.S. Supreme Court, where he’d already lost twice.

Keith wasn’t counting the months until an execution date
could be set, but he was counting the years. If things fell into place for the State of Mississippi, Hugh Malco would be strapped down while Keith was still the attorney general.

Lance Malco’s euphoria upon leaving Parchman was tempered by his reentry into civilian life on the Coast. His family was gone. Carmen lived in Memphis to be closer to Hugh. The other children had scattered a decade ago and had almost no contact with either their father or Hugh. After the divorce, the family home had been sold, at Lance’s direction. His faithful lieutenants were either working elsewhere or had left the Coast altogether. His rock, Fats Bowman, was dead. The new sheriff, along with the new city officials, had already let it be known that Mr. Malco’s return was not welcome and that he would be watched closely.

He still owned his clubs—Red Velvet, Foxy’s, Desperado, O’Malley’s, and the Truck Stop—but they were run-down and in need of renovation. They had lost their popularity to newer, splashier joints along the Strip. Two of his bars had closed. In a world where cash was king, he knew almost for a certainty that he had been robbed blind by managers, bartenders, and bouncers. He’d found it impossible to run things from prison. If Hugh and Nevin had not screwed up, they could have controlled the empire and kept the others in line. With them gone, though, no one had the guts or smarts to step up, take orders from the Boss, and protect his interests.

The euphoria lasted only days before Lance realized he was falling into a state of depression. He was sixty-two years old, in decent health, notwithstanding eight years in prison, which ramped up the aging process. His favorite son was on death row. His marriage was long gone. Though he still had plenty of assets, his empire was in serious decline. His friends had deserted him. The few people
whose opinion he coveted were certain he was behind the death of Jesse Rudy.

The Malco name, once feared and respected by many, was mud.

He owned a row of condos on St. Louis Bay in Hancock County. He moved into one, rented some furniture, bought a small fishing boat, and began spending his days on the water, catching nothing and not really trying. He was a lonely man with no family, no friends, no future. He decided to hang around and spend whatever was necessary to save Hugh, and if that proved unsuccessful he would sell everything, count his money, and move to the mountains.

The Strip seemed like a thousand miles away.

The long-awaited opening came in late September when Sammy Shaw noticed that prisoners working in the print shop had loaded some empty cardboard boxes into the dumpster, which was almost overflowing. When Sammy saw the dilapidated sanitation truck arrive at the side gate to collect the dumpster, he signaled Nevin Noll, who was ready. They had walked through this first phase of their escape a hundred times. Each carried a brown paper sack filled with supplies as they jumped into the dumpster and burrowed deep under the cardboard boxes. The dumpster was used by the kitchen and the laundry, and they were instantly covered with rotten food and other filth. Step One was successful—they had not been noticed.

Cables rattled as the driver latched the dumpster, then a motor whined as it tilted up and began jerking forward onto the bed. It clanged and rattled into place, then became still. Nevin and Sammy were four feet down in the muck with no light anywhere, but they were relieved when the dumpster began moving. The truck stopped, the driver yelled, someone yelled back, a gate banged, and they were moving again.

The landfill was nothing but a gigantic quagmire of garbage and mud, dug miles from the units, as far away as possible. Each unit had a fence with guards and razor wire, but the entire prison farm did not. When the truck cleared another fence, the escapees knew they were free and clear, for the moment. Step Two was successful.

The unloading would be the trickiest part. The rear door
was unlatched and the dumpster began tilting sharply. Nevin and Sammy began their slide, one that would either lead to temporary freedom or get them shot on the spot. They had cut and jerry-rigged the cardboard boxes and were completely hidden inside them. Mixed in a wave of garbage bags, loose bottles and cans and jars, they gained speed, slid hard out of the dumpster, fell about ten feet into the landfill and into the vast acreage of rotting food, dead animals, and noxious vapors.

They stayed frozen in place. They heard the dumpster fall back onto the truck. The truck left and they waited. In the distance, they could hear a bulldozer tracking over the latest loads of garbage and filth, packing it all down to make room for more.

Carefully, and trying to stifle their gagging, they inched their way upward to daylight. The dozer was a hundred yards away, crisscrossing. When it turned away from them, they scampered out of the pile, and, staying low, moved until the dozer turned and they hid again. In the distance, another sanitation truck was heading in their general direction.

Though speed was everything, they could not afford to get in a hurry. It was about 1:30. The first bed check was at 6:30.

Dodging the bulldozer and the sanitation trucks, they eventually made it out of the landfill and into a gorgeous field of snowy white cotton with stalks chest-high. Once there they began running, a slow measured jog that took them off the prison land and onto someone else’s property. Step Three was working; they were technically out of prison, though far from free.

If most prisons could be jailbroken, then why were most escapees caught within forty-eight hours? Nevin and Sammy had talked about it for hours. In general terms, they knew what to expect within the prison. Outside of it, they had almost no idea what they would encounter. One fact was certain: they could only run so far. Jeeps, three-wheelers, helicopters, and bloodhounds would soon be on their trail.

After two hours they found a muddy pond and collapsed into
it. They peeled out of their stinking prison clothes and changed into jeans and shirts they had stolen and hidden months earlier. They ate cheese sandwiches and drank canned water. They rolled their dirty clothes into tight wads, wrapped them with baling wire, tied them to a rock, and left them in the pond. In their paper sacks, they had food, water, one pistol, and some cash.

According to Sammy’s brother, Marlin, the nearest country store was on Highway 32, about five miles from the western boundary of the prison. They found it around 4:00
p.m.
and called Marlin from the pay phone. He left Memphis immediately, for a rendezvous that in his opinion would probably never happen. According to the plan, he would drive to an infamous honky-tonk called Big Bear’s on the north side of Clarksdale, an hour from the prison. He would have a beer, watch the door, and try to convince himself that his older brother was about to walk in.

It was 4:30. Two hours from bed check and alarms, assuming, of course, they had not already been seen. They left the store and walked two miles out of sight. They hid under a tree and watched for traffic. Most of the people who lived in the area were black, so Sammy became the hitchhiker. With the pistol. They heard a car approach and he jumped onto the shoulder and stuck out a thumb. The driver was white and never slowed down. The next vehicle was an old pickup driven by an elderly black gentleman, and he never slowed down. They waited fifteen minutes; it was not a busy highway. In the distance they saw a late-model sedan and decided Nevin should play the role. He stuck out a thumb, managed to look harmless, and the driver took the bait. He was a fortyish white man with a friendly smile, said he was a fertilizer salesman. Nevin said his car had broken down a few miles back. As they approached the same store, Nevin pulled out his pistol and told the guy to turn around. He turned pale and said he had a wife and three kids. Great, said Nevin, and you’ll see them later tonight if you just do as you’re told. “What’s your first name?”

“Scott.”

“Nice, Scott. Just do what I say and nobody gets hurt, okay?”

“Yes sir.”

They picked up Sammy and headed west on Highway 32. Nevin said over his shoulder, “Say, Eddie, this here is Scott, our new chauffeur. Please tell him we’re good boys who don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“That’s right, Scott. Just a couple of Boy Scouts.”

Scott was unable to speak.

“How much gas?” Nevin asked.

“Half a tank.”

“Turn here.”

Nevin had memorized maps and knew every county road in the area. They zigzagged in a general northern direction until they left the town of Tutwiler. Nevin pointed to a farm road and said, “Turn here.” A hundred yards down the road, he made Scott stop and change seats. Nevin gave the pistol to Sammy in the rear seat who kept the barrel touching the back of Scott’s neck. On a deserted farm road between two vast cotton fields, Nevin stopped the car and said, “Get out.”

“Please, sir,” Scott pleaded.

Sammy poked him with the gun barrel and he got out. They led him down a row of cotton, stopped, and Nevin said, “Get on your knees.”

Scott was crying and said, “Please, I have a beautiful wife and three gorgeous kids. Please don’t do this.”

“Give me your wallet.”

Scott quickly handed it over and dropped to his knees. He bowed his head and tried to pray and kept mumbling, “Please.”

“Lay down,” Nevin said and Scott did so.

Nevin winked at Sammy who put the gun in his pocket. They left Scott crying in the cotton field. An hour later they parked the sedan in front of a convenience store in a rough part of Clarksdale. The keys stayed in the ignition. Two blocks away, Nevin waited
outside in the dark while Sammy strutted through the front door of Big Bear’s and hugged his brother.

Marlin drove them to a motel in Memphis where they took long, hot showers, ate burgers and fries and drained cold beers, and changed into nicer clothes. They split their loot: $210 in cash they had saved in prison; $35 from poor Scott. They threw away his wallet and credit cards.

At the bus station, they said goodbye without a hug. No need to call attention to themselves. They shook hands like lost friends. Nevin left first on a bus to Dallas. Half an hour later, Sammy left for St. Louis.

Marlin was relieved to be rid of both of them. He knew the odds were against them, but for two men who were facing years if not decades at Parchman, why not take the risk?

Two days later, Keith was informed by the state police. A prison escape was always unexpected, but Keith was not surprised. After the mysterious disappearance of Henry Taylor, he knew the pressure would mount against Nevin Noll. And, he was confident he would eventually be found.

Still, it was unsettling to know that Noll was loose. He was as guilty of killing Keith’s father as Taylor and Hugh Malco, and belonged in a cell on death row.

Sammy Shaw was arrested in Kansas City after the police received a Crime Stoppers tip. Someone who knew him needed $500 in cash.

A month passed with no sign of Nevin Noll. Then two months. Keith tried not to think about him.

Lance Malco wasn’t worried either. The last place Noll would surface was the Coast. Lance had put a $50,000 contract on his head and he’d made sure Noll knew it.

If he had good sense, which he did, he would find his way to Brazil.