The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.

After three months of spending every weekday night attending a formal Bar Review course, and cramming every waking moment on weekends, I passed the Georgia Bar on my first attempt.  Ted Ingram and I were the only two associates to pass.  This, I believe, was one reason Partner Greg Gambol asked the two of us to join him in representing 43-year-old Terry Lynn Gaines. But, there was a bigger reason.  Two weeks earlier junior partner Clay Watkins had surprised the Firm with his announcement he was returning to his hometown of Black Mountain, North Carolina to take over the family lumber mill after his father’s cancer diagnosis.  Gambol faced an immediate need for help with the Gaines capital murder case he had conditionally accepted just two days before Watkins announced his resignation.

The Gaines case not only posed a staffing problem for Greg, it also offered a solid logistical issue.  Greg led the Firm’s active criminal defense practice and had to manage his time carefully.  Loganville is 100 miles east of Atlanta and is located mostly in Walton County, although a small portion of the city lies within Gwinnett County.   

Our client’s father, Walt Lee Gaines, had heard of Greg and the Firm a few years earlier when Greg won the highly publicized Cobb County Case, State of Georgia vs. Brandon Ray Kilgore.  Kilgore had been charged with murdering three people with a hammer and confessed on video.  Greg was successful in using an expert in false memories, and having the taped confession ruled inadmissible greatly weakening the State’s case.  Surprisingly, Kilgore was acquitted, even though there was evidence Kilgore was present at the scene.

The Gaines family was prominent in Loganville and throughout Walton and Gwinnett Counties.  They had lived there for over 100 years and owned a host of diversified businesses including a chain of convenience stores, a mobile home manufacturing plant, two restaurants, and a commercial construction company. 

Terry Lynn Gaines was, as the old saying goes, the black sheep of the family.  However, he was a star of Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Terry had received a whole lot of Georgia press due to his rants and demonstrations against homosexuals.  His mantra was Leviticus 20:13: “If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.”  Gaines had recently been indicted for the murder of Victor Albert Semmes of Monroe, Georgia.  It was 15 miles east of Gaines’ hometown, and was the county seat for Walton County.

Due to an emergency dental appointment, associate Ted Ingram was unable to go with Greg Gambol and me on our first trip to visit Terry.  Before we went inside the Detention Center to meet him, Walt Gaines confronted us in the parking lot and insisted that Greg accept a $50,000 retainer and agree to represent his son.  Greg finally agreed but with one condition—that if he didn’t believe Terry wanted our services or if Greg felt we were just not a good fit, then we could void the contract and refund the retainer.  Walt agreed.

Our meeting that day with Terry Lee Gaines was my first ever with a criminal defendant.  I had met with clients of partners Ralph Downs and Clayton Stevens who had engaged the Firm as plaintiffs in civil cases, such as auto accidents and medical malpractice.  Terry was a short man with broad shoulders, big hands and curly blond hair.  He looked younger than the 43 years as stated on the arrest report.

After we introduced ourselves and informed him that his father had hired us to represent him he thanked us for agreeing to be his lawyers and promised he would always tell us the truth.  Then, he just blurted out, “I was obedient to God when I killed Victor Semmes.”  Greg told Terry that he had a constitutional right to be silent and that the Prosecutor could not force him to testify.  Greg went into a long speech about attorney-client confidentiality and the illegality of a lawyer putting on knowingly false testimony. Terry told us not to worry that he didn’t intend to testify at trial.  He said it would not be necessary since the State would be unable to prove his guilt.

I asked Terry why he felt that way (on the drive over Greg had given me permission to interact with Terry any way I wanted, since Ted and I would be meeting with him more than Greg would).  He said that the only link the Prosecutor had between him and Victor was an argument the two of them had outside the Monroe Post Office.  Terry said that his group, “Death to Fags” was legally marching that day when Victor and two of his friends shouted across the parking lot to them that “God loves homosexuals and bigots.”  Terry said that he walked over to Victor and they got into a pushing and shoving match, but it ended when the cops showed up.  Three days later Victor’s body was found leaning up against the Civil War Memorial on the front lawn of the County Courthouse. 

Terry said that two days after their altercation at the Post Office, he lucked-up and saw Victor coming out of Dave’s Cards and Gifts on South Broad.  “He drove his car south to Criswell Park and parked by the lake.  There was no one else there.  I pulled on a pair of leather gloves and parked behind him blocking him in.  Victor had locked himself in his car by the time I reached his door.  I had a hammer in my truck so I busted his window and hit him a few times with the hammer.  I had him out of the car and in the back of my truck in just a couple of minutes.  I hit him a few more times with my hammer and tied him up.  I drove to my father’s farm and hid my truck in a grove of trees by the pond.  Early the next morning I deposited his body at the Courthouse.”  Greg asked Terry if he had given a statement to the police.  He said, “absolutely not.”

Over the next 14 months Ted and I spent a lot of time with Terry.  His story never wavered.  His favorite thing to talk about was his faith in God and Christ.  He had complete confidence that he was justified in killing Victor Semmes.  Although the Prosecutor tried his best he never discovered the truth of what happened to Victor Semmes, nor did he discover Terry’s truck, gloves, or hammer. 

At trial, the strength of the Prosecutor’s case was a man who said he witnessed Terry abducting and beating Victor at Criswell Park.  The man claimed to be fishing on the other side of the pond from where the incident took place. We put on an expert in eyewitness testimony who convincingly showed the difficulty of accurately identifying Terry Lynn Gaines from the distance and angle the man was at from across the pond.

Despite the eyewitness testimony, the jury rendered a not guilty verdict.  Media theory was that the longstanding good reputation of Terry’s family throughout Walton County, and the local hatred for homosexuals were the real reasons why the jury refused to convict a local hero of sorts.  Whatever the reasons, the case left Greg, Ted, and me with several questions.  Terry had told us that he was not driving his own truck.  However, he would never tell us what happened to the truck, the gloves, or the hammer he used to commit the murder.

This case was very troubling to me.  Although I knew and understood that the criminal defendant had no duty to prove his innocence and that he had a constitutional right to sit silent at trial and not put forth any evidence at all, I understood that it was the Prosecutor’s full responsibility to prove the guilt of the accused beyond a reasonable doubt.  I believed in these principles.  However, before this case, I had never given serious thought about the victim’s family and the seeming dishonest role the criminal defense attorney was playing to prevent them from obtaining justice for their loved one.  I think I relived Wendi’s death and imagined the choking grief that her family had endured for almost ten years.  To truly know that the man you are representing has so viciously murdered another human being felt horribly repulsive.  I forever wondered whether the lawyers who had represented Randall, James, and John had known how they had raped, murdered, and hidden two sweet and innocent sisters.

There was another reason the case of Terry Lynn Gaines gave me trouble.  It was God.  How could a loving God have such hatred for homosexuals that he instructed his followers to put them to death?  And more insane, how could modern day folks become so indoctrinated that they believed such nonsense written by iron age peasants over 2,000 years ago?  These two questions watered those lingering doubts I had long had whether the God of the Bible was in fact ‘the Lord Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel.’

The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.

The law firm of Downs, Gambol & Stevens offered me a job a few weeks before I graduated from law school. They said they felt, after observing me for the two semesters I had clerked for them, that I would make a good fit.  I thanked them for their generous offer but told them I had always planned on returning to Boaz to practice with Matt.

However, my carefully laid plans changed radically the day I graduated. Matt had surprised me earlier that morning when he showed up at my apartment.  He took me to breakfast and we mainly just hung out without talking seriously about anything.  My parents arrived just in time for us to walk to Glenn Memorial Auditorium for me and my 125 other classmates to receive our J.D diplomas.  After a nice dinner with my parents they returned to Boaz but Matt stayed the night.  We sat out on my tiny balcony overlooking Peavine Creek right off Clifton Road and brainstormed a new case he had just taken in.

Around midnight, while I was dozing and trying to tell Matt I needed to go to bed, out of the blue he said, “Micaden, I can’t offer you a job right now.”  He said he had thought a lot about me coming to work for him and decided that it was unfair for me if he didn’t encourage me to experience law practice from the perspective of a large firm in a big city.  More specifically, he said he would never forgive himself if he didn’t try his best to persuade me to practice alongside Greg Gambol.  Matt believed Greg was the best, if not one of the best, criminal defense attorneys in the nation.  I hadn’t realized until now that Greg and Matt were law school classmates.  They both had served as editors on the school’s Crime and Punishment Law Review and had become close friends.  After they graduated they had gone their separate ways but had stayed in touch over the years. I knew that without Matt I would never have been selected to clerk for Downs, Gambol, & Stevens.

Matt said I needed to stay in Atlanta for at least five years.  He planned on practicing in Boaz another 20 to 25 years, at least until he was 70 or 75 years old, assuming his health allowed him to.  He stated that the experience I gained by working with Greg would make the firm of Bearden and Tanner much stronger.

At first, I fully opposed his idea but caved in after he asked me to do this as a favor to him. He told me about his experience with another big Atlanta firm after he graduated from Emory’s Law School in 1960, the year I turned six.  He said that he believed those ten years developed and honed his skills and that without that experience he seriously doubted he would have been able to provide the level of legal service he had provided to me in my case.  Matt asked me to consider this as full payment for his services for representing me in my kidnapping and murder case.  I felt ashamed that I hadn’t thought about the sacrifice that Matt had made for me.  Matt had responded so unselfishly when my Dad called him after my arrest.  Matt had agreed to take my case without a large retainer, allowing my parents to pay what they could, when they could.  They had paid a few thousand dollars over the years but not anything like the amount of fees Matt had diligently and honestly earned.  Ultimately, I had no choice.

The next morning Matt arranged for us to meet Greg Gambol.  As Matt drove us downtown I could hear Sheriff Brown say, “Tanner, you are under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of Wendi and Cindi Murray.”  I felt sad that yet again a surprise had knocked at the door of my life and I had no ability to resist.  I hoped Matt’s surprise was better than Brown’s.  As Matt pulled into the parking deck across from Greg’s office I felt ashamed that I had associated these two events.  Matt had been my salvation.  It had been his wisdom and ability to persuade that had pulled me from the jaws of depression and despair and had led me, step by step, to victory.  Now again, Matt was the visionary, who marshaled us both to ignore disappointment and embark upon another long journey towards a worthy goal.  As I sat and listened to Matt argue with Greg why he should hire me I realized how blessed I was to have such an advocate.

Greg renewed his offer and I accepted.  I was now the newest associate at Downs, Gambol & Stevens.

I spent the first three months—along with three other new associates—shadowing the Firm’s named partners and studying for the Bar Exam.  In a large firm, a new lawyer doesn’t take on new cases. He simply assists the responsible lawyer.  A new lawyer is merely an apprentice.  I mainly conducted legal research and writing.  In law school, I had learned the IRAC method of analyzing a legal issue: issue, rule, analysis, and conclusion.  The analysis component was where the relevant law was applied to the facts of the case the firm was dealing with.  The partner would give me the legal issue or question to answer.  It was my job to determine what rule or law applied to the issue.  This normally required days and days, sometimes 100 hours or more, in the Firm’s law library, searching for the relevant statutes (if any) and applicable case law.  Once I felt I had exhausted the search I would outline my argument to determine if there were any logical fallacies leading me to the conclusion that I had already roughly formed in my mind.  Once my outline was solid, I drafted a memorandum.  This was a formal document laying out in detail how the relevant law required the conclusion I had reached after considering counter-arguments the other side would naturally posit.

The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.

After my trial, I just knew that my dear Wendi and her sister Cindi would finally get justice.  How could they not after young Shawn Taylor’s eyewitness testimony?

I could not have been more wrong.  Randall, James, and John were arrested with a million-dollar bond set in each case.  Within two days the three were back on the street.  The four cheerleaders were also arrested with much lower bonds.  They too bonded out.  In less than a week the Prosecutor mysteriously resigned. Two days later Shawn and his father were killed in a freak car accident in Mountainboro, just south of Boaz.

The newly appointed Prosecutor pursued the three defendants but was unable to convince a Grand Jury to indict them.  There were two insurmountable problems.  Most people in the area believed that Wendi and Cindi were dead but their bodies had never been discovered.  This was not the most difficult issue for the new Prosecutor.  Now, after Shawn’s death, there was no witness other than myself who could or would say that Wendi and Cindi had left the camp with Randall, James, and John.  Mysterious to Matt, the new Prosecutor didn’t even call me to testify before the Grand Jury.  It was not until many years later that I finally understood why the Prosecutor could not offer as evidence at trial the written transcript of Shawn’s testimony from my own trial.  It was a common legal principle known as hearsay.

The cases against Randall, James, and John were eventually dismissed.  Again, without Shawn’s testimony, the new Prosecutor couldn’t very easily refute the four cheerleaders’ testimony from my trial. 

A few days after my trial Matt called and asked me if I still hoped to become a lawyer someday.  I told him I did and had already requested information from several different law schools around the southeast.  He said that was good but suggested I not gaze too much at the top of the mountain but turn my attention to the valley beneath, the one I was in.  He asked me if I wanted to start learning what goes on in a law office.  The next afternoon I started work with the man who had literally saved my life.  He seemed to see something in me that I couldn’t see.  He saw something that didn’t even exist in my imagination.  For the next six months Matt, with patience of no other human, gave me introductory lessons in case law research and memorandum writing.  He even let me shadow him to court on numerous occasions.  But, even more importantly, he allowed me to witness him interviewing and counseling his clients, and let me sit in the conference room as he brainstormed the clearest and most persuasive way to present a case to a jury.

This time with Matt solidified my decision to become a lawyer.  Just as important, and even more unsuspected, Matt guided my thoughts on how and where to pursue my formal education.  He thought I should decide against returning to Snead State Junior College in September for my freshman year, and then on to Auburn University to complete my undergraduate degree.  He knew that both James and Randall would be there on basketball scholarships.  He also knew that Wade, Fred, and John were headed to the University of Alabama.  The bottom line, Matt believed I needed to get away to rebuild my life. 

Ultimately, Matt helped guide me to Emory University in Atlanta.  It was his alma mater.  For the next seven years—spending summers in Boaz clerking for Matt—I earned an undergraduate degree in English, and a Juris Doctorate degree from the Emory University School of Law.  Again, with much help from Matt and my parents, along with scholarships, grants, work-study jobs, and clerking my senior year for a law firm in Atlanta, I graduated June 10th, 1980 owing less than $10,000 in student loans.

The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.

I never did find a summer job, but I did on several occasions help our neighbor Floyd Parker haul hay from his fields. 

It was the Tuesday after Labor Day when I found out what truth and justice were about, at least the version hovering like a misty fog over Boaz, Alabama.  I had just returned home from my first day as a student at Snead State Junior College when I heard a knock on the front door.  It was Sheriff Wayne Brown and his Deputy Carl Lauderdale.  I could feel the same prickly sensations running up and down my spine that I had felt during their first visit at the beginning of the summer.

I walked out on the front porch and Brown said, “Tanner, you are under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of Wendi and Cindi Murray.”  I literally collapsed and the Deputy had to lead me to the back seat of his car.

They carried me to an interrogation room inside the county jail at Guntersville. I knew from television and my High School Civics class that I had a right to an attorney but that didn’t seem to matter.  Detective Kent Allison ignored my request and shouted out a barrage of questions: “where did you dump Wendi and Cindi?” “How did you kill them?” “Don’t you think you have put the girls’ parents through enough hell by withholding this evidence?”

He then told me that my five buddies had finally come forward and told him and Sheriff Brown what happened.  He said, “we know now that it was you who drove Wendi and Cindi back to the Dairy Queen from where ya’ll had been partying all night. They don’t know what you did but all five of them have told us, separately I might add, the very same story.  Also, the four other girls who were present told us the same thing.  Tanner, you might as well confess, clean up your conscience, and give these two grieving parents some closure.”

I told the Detective that I was being framed, that Randall, James, and John were the ones who had left with Wendi and Cindi, while Fred, Wade, and I stayed at the camp.  I told him that around 2:00 a.m. Saturday morning how Randall, James, and John had left with all six of the girls but had returned with Wendi and Cindi less than an hour later.  I told him about how they had raped the girls in the tent and had forced me to stay by the campfire even though I tried to stop them.

Detective Allison asked me why I had lied to the Sheriff and Deputy Lauderdale when they came to see me the first of the summer.  I told him that I knew how it would look if I told how I had seen Wendi and Cindi on Friday night, and early Saturday morning.  I also told him about the oath the five had made me swear.  I told him I knew it was wrong to swear but I also knew it was wrong to break an oath. 

The detective made me write out my statement.  Again, I simply told the truth.  Deputy Lauderdale took me to a private cell and locked me up.  Several hours later he came back for me and carried me back to the interrogation room where my Father and Mother were waiting, along with a man I had never seen.  He introduced himself as Matt Bearden.  He was a little shorter than me, maybe six feet, slim, and had curly black hair.  He wore a white shirt, no tie, blue-jeans, and a pair of Converse tennis shoes. 

Mother kept trying to hug me and Dad asked if I had anything to do with the disappearance of the girls.  Before I could answer, Mr. Bearden instructed me not to say anything.  He asked my parents to leave us alone.  He then asked me if I had been present at a party with Wendi and Cindi after graduation as all five witnesses had said.  I told him yes.  He then asked me to describe what had happened that night but to limit my statements to what I had seen and heard.  He wanted to know just exactly what I had observed with my five senses.  When I finished he told me that it looked to him like I was the scapegoat.  He told me how Nyra Sue Gibson, one of the four cheerleaders who were present most of that night, had come forward admitting she and three other Boaz cheerleaders had partied with us, and with Wendi and Cindi from Douglas.  Nyra had said that I was the one who drove all the girls home from the party dropping off her and her three classmates at the High School.  She said that I had driven off with Wendi and Cindi still in my car.  I told Mr. Bearden that was an absolute lie.  He said that the families of my five friends were all well connected in Boaz.  He said he suspected they were choreographing this whole story.

My bail was set at $500,000, so I stayed in jail.  My parents couldn’t post that type of bond.  Over the next six months I found out who I really was.  At first, I sank into deep depression and searched for a way to kill myself.  If it hadn’t been for Matt Bearden, my attorney, and Brother G, I would never have made it. 

Matt, as he made me call him, not only worked diligently on my case, he became a friend.  He came to visit me at least once per week, usually on Saturday morning, early.  He brought me law books and gave me homework of a sort.  He asked me to read one preselected case per day trying to figure out the key issues and how the appeals court had resolved them.  After the first week or two I started investing hours per week in this assignment because I knew Matt would have me verbally present each case to him during our time together on Saturday.  Every case I read seemed to have something to do with my own case.  Matt also brought me one novel per week.  Matt had a way with words and encouraged me to focus my pleasure reading on fiction.  There was something about In Cold Blood, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Godfather, among many others, that steeled my mind, and stole my heart.  They gave me hope.  Just like the cases from the law books Matt had me read, the novels seemed to hold meaning to my circumstances.  After my second reading of The Godfather, I began to wonder if the Corleone family represented, at least in some ways, the families of the Flaming Five.  In addition to Matt’s weekly visits, he also reached out through the mail.  I usually received one, sometimes two, letters per week.  Each letter also included another homework assignment, this time a written assignment.  He would pose one or two questions about the prior week’s novel. What made this a little difficult was that I was already reading a new novel.  Looking back, I think Matt was training me to become a future lawyer.  They don’t have the luxury of working just one case.  They must keep up with facts and stories of maybe a dozen or more cases.  I never knew how much money Matt spent on me.  He furnished me with envelopes, stamps, a mountain of paper, and a ton of books.  He convinced me that writing was therapeutic and that untold power resided in simple words.  In a letter written two days before my trial, I told Matt that if he won my case that I wanted to become a lawyer like him.  I thanked him for caring for me and showing me how a real criminal defense lawyer defends his client.

It was Matt that managed my head during these four months.  But, it was Brother G, Gabriel Gorham, Gabe for short, that loved and innocently manipulated my heart.  He always came late Tuesday afternoon, and he brought along one of his Deacons.  A typical visit was both men with me in Interrogation One or Two.  The Deacon would give me a short report about my family, sometimes handing me letters from Mama El and Mother.  He would lead us in a prayer and then leave Brother G and me alone.  He used emotion, where Matt used reason, to motivate me towards hope.  I have never in my life been around anyone who could stir up my emotions like Brother G.  He preached a sermon to me every week.  Standing and strutting around the six by six cave.  Four months of sermons and the two that most carried me to the finish line at the end of my trial were the stories of Joseph and David.  Joseph in the Egyptian jail, and David’s fight with Goliath.  “Micaden, you are a modern-day Joseph, a man placed here in this jail by God Himself.  You see this as a prison.  It is not.  It is God’s schoolhouse.  God is calling you to a mighty work.  There is a town, a state, and a nation that someday soon will die from famine if you don’t learn the right lessons here today, tomorrow, and next week.  There is one, two, maybe ten Goliaths that will enslave and murder unhindered if you do not let God shape your heart for His righteous work.  And on and on Brother G would go.  Every week.  This continued until the middle of January 1973. 

I knew something was different when he showed up Tuesday morning.  By himself.  He announced God had called him to First Baptist Church of Jonesborough, Tennessee.  With tears in his eyes he gave me a scripture verse laminated on gold colored paper: “But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.” (Hebrews 11:6).  Before he left, we embraced and he said a prayer pleading with God to hold me fast in the palm of His hand.  As he walked out he said, “I love you Micaden and will see you again someday, if not on this earth, in Heaven.”  That was the last time I ever saw Brother G.   

My trial began on Monday, January 18th, 1973.  The State’s case was strong. My nine classmates, the Flaming Five and the four cheerleaders, presented flawless testimonies.  It was obvious to me they had spent much time rehearsing every detail.  Of course, it didn’t help when Sheriff Brown and Deputy Lauderdale told the jury how I had lied when I was first confronted three days after the crime. At the end of Thursday, day four of my trial, there was no one in Marshall County who would have bet on me, who thought that I had a chance in Hell of being acquitted.  No one, except Matt Bearden.

On Friday morning before Matt had a chance to call his first witness, Judge Garrison announced a recess until Monday morning.  He said that he and the lawyers had some legal issues to deal with.  Two deputies walked me back across the street to my cell.  Matt came to see me around 3:00 p.m., and gave me an update of what had gone on since I left.  He said that the Prosecutor was trying to stop us from putting on our main witness.  The Prosecutor was arguing that Shawn Taylor was not competent to testify since he was only nine years old.  The Judge deferred his ruling until Monday and said he would interview the child in his chambers before the trial resumed. I had not even heard of Shawn Taylor.

That weekend was the longest of my life.  I was ready for the trial to be over.  But, I feared what would follow if I was found guilty.  On Monday after a long interview in his office, the Judge ruled Shawn Taylor could testify.  My case and my future most likely rested on a scared little nine-year-old boy.  Shawn was brave.  He testified that he was inside the Dairy Queen early Saturday morning, the 26th day of May, last year.  He said he was sitting at a table in the dining room waiting on his father to finish up cleaning.  Shawn said that he saw Randall, James, and John drive into the parking lot beside a small blue car that had been there ever since he arrived.  He stated he recognized all three of them because he knew them from First Baptist Church of Christ.  Shawn said that Randall, James, and John had worked in Bible School the prior year.  He also described the tag James had on the front bumper of his GMC van.  He said it was a bucking horse rode by a pretty girl.  Matt showed Shawn a picture of James’ van with the front tag clearly shown.  Shawn told the jury that was the vehicle he saw.  Shawn went on to testify that Randall and John had gotten out of James’ vehicle with two girls and then had gotten into the blue car.  Then, they all drove off.  The Prosecutor on cross-examination tried to convince Shawn he might have been mistaken about who he saw.  Shawn held his ground leaving the Prosecutor rattled.

After my testimony, the Judge ordered a recess until after lunch, even agreeing for me to stay in an interview room off the courtroom while two deputies stood guard.  Matt’s secretary brought lunch while he stayed with me.  I appreciate how Matt treated me like an adult.  He didn’t try to give me false hope.  He said that Shawn had shot a big hole in the State’s case but that didn’t necessarily mean I would win.  He said that he had seen juries do surprising things.  He reminded me of what he had said at the beginning.  Going to trial was like walking into a tiger’s cage, dangerous.  At worst, you will be killed.  At a minimum, you will lose an arm, a leg, the side of your face.  But, for sure, you will be scarred forever.

The Prosecutor’s closing argument was predictable. He told the jury they had to conclude Wendi and Cindi were dead.  He also argued that they must ignore Shawn Taylor’s testimony.  The Judge reprimanded the Prosecutor when he said that the Defense had provided no proof that Shawn was even at the Dairy Queen that early morning.  The Prosecutor said the only reasonable conclusion was for the jury to find me guilty.  Matt argued that Shawn’s testimony created reasonable doubt.  Matt emphasized that all nine of the State’s witnesses declared that Wendi and Cindi left in my car from the camp.  He said, “hilarious, since Micaden’s car was a tiny Chevrolet Corvair, and it was parked at San Ann #1.”  Matt described how close a relationship the Flaming Five had with the four cheerleaders.  Matt reviewed with the jury my testimony of how Fred and Wade had threatened me with punishment and prison if I spoke one word about what happened on that fateful night.  Matt said it would be unfair and a violation of their oath to disregard Shawn’s testimony that it was Randall, James, and John who had put Wendi and Cindi in their Father’s car parked at the Dairy Queen.

Court went late that Monday.  It was almost five o’clock when the Judge finished charging the jury.  He called a recess until 9:00 a.m. Tuesday morning and ordered them not to speak with anyone about the case.  The jury deliberated for three days.  At 10:25 a.m. on Friday morning, the jury foreman announced the jury was hopelessly deadlocked.  After the Judge brought the jury back into the courtroom and strongly urged them to reach a verdict, the foreman asked to speak.  He said that there was absolutely no need to continue deliberations, that there was one juror who had made it clear that he would never vote guilty in this case.  The Judge ordered a mistrial.

Even though the Prosecutor could have retried the case, he never did.  I had dodged the biggest bullet imaginable.  I owed it all to Matt Bearden.  He was the one who believed in me and persisted in his quest to find the infamous smoking gun.  I don’t think Shawn Taylor’s parents would have ever allowed Shawn to testify if it hadn’t been for Matt’s ability to persuade them to have the courage to stand up against the families of the Flaming Five.  I walked out of the Marshall County Courthouse on Friday, January 29th, 1973, a free man.  Matt walked with me across the street to the jail to help me retrieve my things from my cell.  I reminded him that I had decided to go to law school someday.  As we walked out I promised him that I would treat my clients like he had treated me.