Category: The Boaz Scorekeeper

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

Over the next several weeks, as often as I could, I continued to sit in that grove of Hickory trees and watch our new home rise from the dirt.

Just as I expected, nothing became of the Murray’s deaths.  What I mean is neither the Flaming Five, their fathers, or anyone connected to these five prominent families, were ever tied to Bill and Nellie’s deaths.  In fact, these cases remained unsolved for almost twenty years.  Other than learning that cyanide poisoning had killed them, no other evidence was ever discovered that indicated they were murdered.  Of course, I knew in my gut they were.

In looking back, that gut feeling was a major transitional point in my life.  That, and a conversation between two block layers that I had overheard where the two had argued over the existence of God with the older man chiding the younger saying, ‘faith is just belief in the absence of evidence.’  These two events or occurrences in my life caused me to start thinking about truth and how to determine what was true.

I understood court cases were not determined simply by gut feelings.  Especially criminal cases where the level of proof was much higher than in a civil case.  The legal standard was proof beyond a reasonable doubt.  This level of proof is not proof beyond all doubt.  I guess one could say that would be unreasonable to expect that.

Up until Bill and Nellie’s deaths, I had put aside my growing doubts about God.  Nellie had been an inspiration to me.  She almost convinced me that there was really something to prayer.  That changed with her and Bill’s deaths.

I was raised to doubt my doubts and to anchor my life to Christ by faith.  But, wasn’t that like having a gut feeling about something?  Most of my life I had had a gut feeling that Christ and Christianity were true. Then, a time where I had a gut feeling Christ and Christianity was the single biggest myth ever. But now I realized that my early life commitment to Christ and God was rooted in beliefs implanted in me by nearly everyone around me, certainly the preachers and Sunday School teachers I had sat before and soaked up their every word.  I felt like a child to admit that I hadn’t been a critical thinker when it came to my religious life.  Oh yes, I was extremely critical in my professional life.  I had received an excellent legal education at Emory’s law school.  I also realized I had been educated, trained so to speak, by the church.  That training was an equipping in compartmentalization.  The Bible teachers had taught me to keep my thoughts and live my life in a spiritual bubble, and not to allow my secular world to infiltrate my Christianity.

Gut feelings and faith were simply not enough.  There had to be more.  I started reading outside the faith.  I disobeyed.  I rejected compartmentalization.  I broke down the walls between my spiritual life and my secular life.  I used my critical thinking skills to probe into my Christian beliefs and the overwhelming question that I faced was why does God allow so much suffering in the world?

My mind raced back to May 25, 1972.  Why did God allow Wendi and Cindi to be repeatedly raped by the Flaming Five?  Why did God allow them to beat them with a shovel, killing Cindi?  Why did God allow David to smother Wendi to death?  Why did God allow His children to suffer untold pain?  Why did I have to suffer through six months of incarceration and the humiliation of a criminal trial?  Why did the Flaming Five escape punishment, with their reputations and dignity intact, even though they were rapists and murderers?  Why did Bill and Nellie have to die?  Why were the true perpetrators not held financially responsible for Wendi and Cindi’s deaths?  Why was there no justice for Bill and Nellie?  And on and on.

I couldn’t answer any of these questions, but I now believed that either God didn’t care about any of these things, or He was powerless to prevent them from happening.  And, it wasn’t because God hadn’t been called upon.  I particularly remembered the scripture verse on the index card Nellie gave me the Friday her and Bill came to the office before the trial was to begin on the following Monday: “And all things you ask in prayer, believing, you will receive.” (Matthew 21:22).  I had heard Nellie’s prayer and how humbly and specifically she had asked God for His intervention: “Sweet and Holy Jesus we ask you for complete victory in this legal battle against those who murdered our daughters.  …. We simply ask you for justice for Wendi and Cindi.”

Why did God not do what He promised He would do?  This Bible verse is a prayer promise.  It could not be clearer: ask, believe, and receive.  Nellie asked, there could be no doubt she believed, but she certainly didn’t receive.  But, I can hear Christian apologists.  I grew up hearing all their arguments.  The very existence of millions of Christian apologists proves the Bible often says one thing, but God does something quite the contrary.  Why did the Word not mean what the Word clearly said?  No, it couldn’t be honest.  It had to be magic.  ‘God is mysterious.  We do not know the mind of God.  God has a plan that is far more loving than we can know.’  I felt beads of sweat popping out across my forehead.  I was angry.  I was angry that I had been so damn stupid.  The Bible was a lie, at least this verse was.  I had seen and experienced it firsthand.  I knew that a lying Bible didn’t necessarily mean that there was no God, that God didn’t intervene in human affairs, but it sure as hell meant I had been wrong to believe it was the infallible Word of God.

Those damn Christian apologists kept saddling up beside my mind.  ‘Micaden, don’t forget that God gave men freewill.  All the evil comes about because men are sinners and they choose to do wrong.’  For some reason, this argument no longer made any sense.  Even if freewill is the reason for all evil in the world (what about the pain and suffering that comes about naturally?  From floods, earthquakes, tornadoes, famines?) wasn’t I taught that God is all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving, and all-beneficent?  Now, for the first time in my life I realized that God cannot be all these things.  How could God be all-loving and yet allow Wendi and Cindi to suffer as they did?  I myself tried to help these two precious girls but was stopped by the Flaming Five.  I tried to help and I’m just a weak and lowly sinner.  God didn’t step in and help because He is not who the Bible says He is.  There, I finally said it. 

My stomach started rolling when I thought of the two prayer meetings that had taken place the Friday night before the wrongful death trial was to begin on Monday morning.  Nelle had invited me and Matt to her church, Calvary Baptist in Douglas.  Matt had attended.  Her church had a prayer meeting to implore God to favor justice, to give her and Bill victory over those who had caused the death of their dear daughters.  But, while that meeting was taking place, First Baptist Church of Christ in Boaz was holding its own prayer meeting for the Flaming Five and their fathers.  These fine folks were imploring God to hold back the hand of greed that was attacking their favored sons.  So, I’m to conclude that when God gets in a direct conflict like this, He protects those with the higher social standing, those who have more financial resources, all while ignoring the side that has the facts on its side?  This doesn’t square with the Bible, or at least, the version that I had been taught.

There was no turning back.  My mind was now on a course of truth-seeking.  Playing the mental games, I had been brainwashed into playing all my life; were no longer appealing.  No, they were absolutely appalling.  If Wendi and Cindi, and Bill and Nellie, were ever to receive any justice it wouldn’t come from a non-existent God.  But, it might could come from me.  And, yet again, I had had a revolutionary thought, one never snapping out in my mind.  Could I step in and mete out some justice?  I loved these four-beautiful people and they had been treated as the scum of the earth by five prominent families, by both a criminal and civil justice system, and by the Christian God who didn’t exist.  There, that day in late November 1998, standing in the middle of the road leading up to our partially framed but roofless dwelling, I determined I would create some form of justice for the four dead, buried, and seemingly forgotten, Murrays.

But, my determination was slow in evolving.  My idea to create justice was like so many ideas.  It got caught in a revolving door.  I became a hamster on a wheel, working to keep justice far, far away from my clients.  For the next seventeen years I traveled all over North Alabama defending those accused of every evil under the sun: murder, arson, theft, burglary, and unimaginable sex crimes. 

Nevertheless, I never forgot the Murrays and the horrible series of events that began on graduation night 1972.  Even though I didn’t pursue actual justice, I did continue to keep score, recording every game played by the Flaming Five, whether private or public, whether coaching and teaching at the Family Life Center, or selling God, money, cars, nails and lumber, and land and houses.  One thing never happened.  Not one of the Flaming Five ever fouled out of the game.  They were masters at running, passing, shooting. I had long concluded they were actors with far better skills than the very best of Hollywood.  To every eye but mine, they were in all ways happy and successful.  They were bulletproofed, or so it seemed.  Justice had never been interested in playing against the Flaming Five.  They were simply too quick, too fast, too smart, for justice to survive on the same court.  

However, as often happens in life, things changed once again.  In 2015, I almost forgot about my loss and my determination to seek justice for the Murrays.  It was Monday, February 9th.  Lewis lost the love of his life.  Susan died in an innocuous car accident, not much more than a fender-bender, at the intersection of Bethsaida Road and Highway 431.  Lewis and Susan had married in 2012.  Kaden Lewis Tanner, mine and Karla’s only grandchild, was born July 18, 2013.  Now, Susan’s near-perfect life had been taken away.  By God or fate.  An autopsy revealed that she was dying from an inoperable brain tumor.  It was in the early stages, revealing itself so far with only an occasional headache.  Susan’s death rocked our family and our life.  If there was remotely anything positive from the timing of Susan’s death, it was Kaden was less than two years old.  Lewis surprised us all.  He became the rock we all needed.  I still feel ashamed that I almost fell apart while he steeled himself for Kaden.  Within two years of Susan’s death, both Lewis and Kaden were living forward.  Michael Lewis Tanner was and is a better man than I am.

As bad as these past two years were, they were not bad enough to prevent my mind from returning to the events of May 25, 1972.  By early 2017, I once again started having nightmares.  When conscious, all I could think about was various levels of injustice in the world.  How could a loving God take sweet Susan from Kaden and Lewis?  What had she done to deserve that?  What had they done to deserve losing their wonderful and kind, wife and mother?  And, on a wholly different level, the same questions returned to my mind that I had asked nearly nineteen years earlier.  I had to do something.

No doubt it was long past time for new rules.  It was time the game changed.  It was time justice had a chance.  But, I needed a nudge to push me off the hamster wheel.

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

The Murray’s autopsies were released three weeks after Judge Freeman dismissed their case.  However, Matt had been unable to obtain a copy until the last week of November.  Cyanide poisoning was the cause of both deaths.  The Marshall County District Attorney opened a formal investigation.  I had a good working relationship with Detective Darden Clarke who shared with me that the Sheriff had seized a bottle of Restoril the day the bodies were found. Restoril was a benzodiazepine used as a sleeping pill. The bottle seized was Nellie’s and had been prescribed by Dr. Lester, her family doctor. Darden told me the DA was sending the Restoril to the State Lab for analysis to determine if the remaining pills contained any cyanide.  He said even if they did and were the cause of Nellie’s death, it didn’t explain how Bill died from cyanide poisoning unless he had taken one of her sleeping pills.  Darden said the only thing they knew for sure right now was that Bill and Nellie Murray died from cyanide poisoning.  They were a long way from ruling their deaths a homicide even though suspicions were high.

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

Matt was so gracious in allowing me to work part time for the remainder of October and the entire month of November 1998.  He knew how hard Bill and Nellie’s deaths hit me. But time off from the law practice was insufficient alone to redirect my thinking.  Probably, the only thing that kept me from bed-ridden depression was the construction of our home at Hickory Hollow.  Karla and I had purchased this 100-acre tract off Cox Gap Road in North Etowah County earlier this year.  We had planned this house for months and had only hired Boggs Construction Company in August with plans to break ground the last week of October.  The first week was devoted to digging a partial basement, with the second and third weeks focused on pouring a footer and the basement floor.  The fourth week was consumed with block laying.

There was something therapeutic about watching the workmen, whether they were operating a track hoe or a bulldozer, or pulling a tape measure and using stakes and string to layout the outer walls of the sprawling ranch style house.  I mostly sat in a lawn chair and watched.  I occasionally would talk with Stewart Boggs, but that was rare since he was like a machine focused on production.  He knew what he was doing.  We had spent countless hours since late August hashing through the many decisions before having the plans drawn.

No matter how hard I tried to focus on the construction, my mind kept wandering to the Murrays final night.  I didn’t know for sure but I had from the first news of their deaths, concluded the Flaming Five were responsible.  No doubt, I didn’t give mere coincidence much of a chance to be the reason.  How on earth could their deaths be a coincidence?   If only Bill or Nellie had died in their sleep that Sunday night I might could side with coincidence.  But, two deaths were a totally different matter.  And both deaths just hours before the world was to begin to hear the mountain of evidence Matt and I had assembled that would convince the most skeptical jurors imaginable that Wade, James, Randall, Fred, and John, and each of their fathers, were responsible for the deaths of Wendi and Cindi Murray.

The only consolation I could allow to seed in my mind was that somehow, this time, the ones responsible for the Murray’s deaths would face criminal punishment.  They would serve hard time in prison.  While sitting under hundred-year-old Hickory trees, my mind sought out the truth of what happened that night.  At first, I believed it nothing more than my imagination, but near the end of November I felt I had constructed a foolproof case of reliable and admissible evidence against David Adams and Walter Tillman.  I don’t know why I believed these two were the only two who had come to the Murray’s that Sunday night and killed them.  How did they kill them?  There were no signs of any struggle.  Their house had not been broken into.  No doubt my mind was using past reality to construct a present reality.  David had smothered the final life out of Wendi over 25 years ago while Walter watched.  And, just four months earlier, Walter had settled his part of the wrongful death case.  He had convinced himself that settling his case had freed him to commit two additional murders.  Was his participation forced by the other members of Club Eden?  Hadn’t Walter sold-out the Club?  Now, he felt he had to make up with the Club to save his skin.  Thus, he helped David, the ruthless, evil David, to once again snuff the live out of two more Murrays.

I was merely speculating.  My real imaginings sitting in a grove of Hickory trees at Hickory Hollow was simply an exercise in survival.  The sun, the wind, the occasional summer shower, flooded my mind with a natural hope but it was my legal training and my inherent bent towards logic and reason that enabled me to sit up and avoid a bed-ridden depression.

While watching workmen at Hickory Hollow, if I had any doubts whether the Flaming Five and Fathers were responsible for the Murray’s deaths, these disappeared when the results of their long-delayed autopsies were released.

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

The deaths of Bill and Nellie Murray brought about the death of their wrongful death lawsuit against the Flaming Five.  For over twenty-five years Alabama was one of only a hand full of states that allowed the decedent’s personal representative to bring a lawsuit on behalf of a decedent.  All other states gave this authority solely to a member of the decedent’s family.  Bill and Nellie Murray, as personal representatives, had filed their lawsuit in early 1997.

In late summer 1997 the Alabama Legislature decided it was time to conform Statute 6-5-410, the wrongful death statute, to what most of other states provided.  The amended statute removed the authority from a personal representative and instead gave it to a family member.  But, the Legislature made a grave error when it used this statement: “No one may prosecute a wrongful death action other than a living parent, spouse, or sibling.” 

In early 1997, Bill and Nellie Murray, and Bill’s mother, Brenda, were the only surviving family members of Wendi and Cindi Murray, other than cousin Clinton.  The daughters obviously had no spouse, nor did they have a sibling.  The Legislature’s failure to include a grandparent as an authorized family member to prosecute a wrongful death action killed Bill and Nellie’s lawsuit.

The attorneys for the Flaming Five were experts in wrongful death claims.  On Wednesday, only two days after the Murray’s failed to show up for court, Ralph Summerford, on behalf of all Defendants, filed a motion to dismiss Bill and Nellie’s case.  Although we knew our case was on shaky grounds, Matt and I filed a motion in opposition asserting the suspiciousness of Bill and Nellie’s deaths as sufficient grounds for the Court to postpone its ruling until autopsies could be conducted. 

The Court set the motions for hearing a week later.  Ralph Summerford had the law on his side.  He argued that no matter the reason or cause of the Murray’s deaths, Alabama law requires a dismissal of their wrongful death case.  I will never forget his statement to Judge Freeman, “Your Honor, with the unfortunate passing of the Murray’s, the Plaintiff’s case is now void.  This Court must follow the wisdom of our legislators in recognizing that wrongful death cases are very private and personal matters and that when an entire family ceases to exist, so too should any claims they might otherwise have.”  I also will never forget the smirk on the faces of the Flaming Five.

The Court granted the Defendants motion.

Once again, justice had eluded Wendi and Cindi Murray.

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

On Monday morning, Matt and I arrived at the Marshall County Courthouse in Guntersville a few minutes after 8:00 a.m.  We hauled in a trunk load of briefcases and file boxes.  Matt hung around the courtroom thinking the Defendants’ attorneys would make a reasonable offer to settle.  I walked outside to wait for the Murray’s.  I had told them Friday to park along Gunter Avenue and that I would meet them out front at 8:30.

At 8:55 a.m. they still had not arrived.  At 9:00 I walked back to Courtroom 203 and told Matt.  Judge Freeman, prompt as always, called our case.  Matt informed the Court our clients had not arrived and he feared they had been in an accident or had some other emergency.  Judge ordered a 30-minute delay.

I walked to the Clerk’s office to borrow the phone.  I dialed the Murray’s home number knowing all along that no one would answer.  I then looked up the number for Pete and Nancy Strother, the Murray’s good friends and neighbors.  Nancy answered on the first ring and told me that she had not seen Bill or Nellie this morning but that their car was still in their driveway.  I asked her to walk over.  I told her where Nellie kept a key but she already knew that.  I waited on the line for nearly ten minutes.  When Nancy returned she could barely speak.  She said that Bill and Nellie were both dead.  They were still in bed and it was like they had gone to sleep and never woke up.  I told her to call the Douglas Police Department and that I would be there as soon as I could.

I walked back to the Courtroom and told Matt.  He motioned for us to go to a small conference room off to the side of the Courtroom to prevent the Defendants and their counsel from hearing us.  The first thing Matt said was, “they’ve done it again.  You know this isn’t natural.  The Murray’s have been murdered.  There can be no other explanation.”  We then walked down the hall to Judge Freeman’s chambers.  After we relayed what we had just learned, we asked him for a continuance which he granted without bringing in the Defendant’s counsel. 

Matt and I went back into the Courtroom, packed up, and walked out.

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

Every time I had met with Bill and Nellie Murray, whether at the law office or at their home in Douglas, she had given me an index card containing a single Bible verse.  The verse was always a prayer promise. 

Now, it is Friday morning in late October 1998, less than three days before the start of their wrongful death lawsuit.  True to form, Bill and Nellie walk into the conference room where Matt and I are seated and Nellie hands me a small index card reading: “And all things you ask in prayer, believing, you will receive.” Matthew 21:22.

“It’s justice time for Wendi and Cindi.”  Nellie said as Matt helped her with a chair.

“It certainly appears that we have as strong a case as we could ask for.” I said.

“I just wish the prosecutor back in 1973 had had all this evidence during the murder trial.”  Matt said.

“I do too, but that was not God’s will.  Nellie and I realize that no amount of money from this civil case could ever satisfy the longings of our hearts for our dear daughters.  But, we have come to believe that the impact a multi-million-dollar judgment will have on these five families might just break their power and control in this little town.”  Bill said.

“Bill and I are ashamed for not remembering to invite you two to a final prayer meeting tonight at Calvary Baptist.  It starts at 7:00.  Pastor Brown will deliver a sermon first and then everyone who is led to will pray and lay hands on us.”

“Thank you for the invitation.  I will be there.”  Matt said.

“I’m sorry but I cannot attend.  For the past several months I have not been a very attentive husband or father.  Two weeks ago, I promised Lewis I would take him and his grandmother to Huntsville to see the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus.  None of us were sure how long the trial would last.  Will you forgive me?  I trust you know that I will be there with you in spirit.”  I said.

“Completely understandable.  You go and enjoy these precious moments with your son and wife.  Bill and I thank the both of you from the bottom of our hearts.  You two have been such a blessing, just the encouragement Bill and I needed.”  Nellie said.

After an hour of reviewing, once more, the evidence and what to expect starting Monday, Nellie asked to lead us in a prayer.

“Dear Lord Jesus, we praise you for the privilege of coming before your throne.  We don’t begin to understand why we lost our beautiful daughters, Wendi and Cindi, over 25 years ago.  We acknowledge that we are sinners and lack full knowledge and wisdom.  But, we trust you and your ways.  Sweet and Holy Jesus we ask you for complete victory in this legal battle against those who murdered our daughters.  You know Father that Bill and I are not greedy and that this lawsuit is not at all about money.  We simply ask you for justice for Wendi and Cindi.  We claim victory because we believe in You and trust You, and have faith in You.  We have complete confidence in Your Holy and infallible Word.  Thank you for all your promises you have given us, and right now I especially thank you for Matthew 21:22: ‘And all things you ask in prayer, believing, you will receive.’ Amen and Amen.”

Bill and Nellie stood and hugged each other. Bill became emotional and started to cry.  Matt followed him out into the hall while Nellie lingered.  With tears in her eyes she handed me a large gold locket.  I held it in my hand not knowing exactly what to do.  She motioned for me to open it.  Inside, there were two pictures.  On the left was Wendi.  Her 9th grade school picture, according to Nellie.  On the right side of the locket was my Senior portrait.  I now knew why a few weeks ago Nellie had asked to borrow my 12th grade annual.  She had made a copy of my picture to use with the locket.  Nellie said she had given the locket to Wendi on her 15th birthday, May 8, 1969.  She had worn it virtually every day even though it contained only her picture.  Nellie said Wendi always claimed that someday God would bring to her the love of her life.  “Wendi didn’t wear her locket to the graduation party.  I think someway she had a premonition.”  Nellie reached up and kissed my cheek.  As she walked out of the conference room she said, “I have no doubt that Wendi found the love of her life.  You would have made a wonderful husband and son-in-law.  Keep her locket close during the trial.  God will guide your thoughts and speech.”

I followed Nellie out into an empty reception area.  Matt had followed Bill all the way outside to his car.  As Nellie opened the door she turned and said, “I forgot to give you this.  It is a list of prayer promises I cherish.  Just like Wendi’s locket, I wanted you to have these close as we spend the next week or two in trial.  God will not fail us.”

I thanked her and we hugged once again.  After she left, I walked back to my office, sat down and read the list of prayer scriptures Nellie had just handed me.

(See Appendix A for Nellie’s prayer promises.)

APPENDIX A

Chapter 34

Nellie’s prayer promises:

Matthew 18:19

“Again, I say to you, that if two of you agree on earth about anything that they may ask, it shall be done for them by My Father who is in heaven.

Matthew 7:7-11

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. “For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened. “Or what man is there among you who, when his son asks for a loaf, will give him a stone?

“Or if he asks for a fish, he will not give him a snake, will he? “If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him!

Luke 11:9-13

“So, I say to you, ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. “For everyone who asks, receives; and he who seeks, finds; and to him who knocks, it will be opened. “Now suppose one of you fathers is asked by his son for a fish; he will not give him a snake instead of a fish, will he?

“Or if he is asked for an egg, he will not give him a scorpion, will he? “If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him?”

Matthew 21:22

“And all things you ask in prayer, believing, you will receive.”

John 14:13-14

“Whatever you ask in My name, that will I do, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. “If you ask Me anything in My name, I will do it.”

John 15:7

“If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.

John 15:16

“You did not choose Me but I chose you, and appointed you that you would go and bear fruit, and that your fruit would remain, so that whatever you ask of the Father in My name He may give to you.

John 16:23-24

“In that day, you will not question Me about anything Truly, truly, I say to you, if you ask the Father for anything in My name, He will give it to you. “Until now you have asked for nothing in My name; ask and you will receive, so that your joy may be made full.

Psalm 91:14-16

“Because he has loved Me, therefore I will deliver him; I will set him securely on high, because he has known My name. “He will call upon Me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will rescue him and honor him. “With a long life, I will satisfy him and let him see My salvation.”

Psalm 50:14-15

“Offer to God a sacrifice of thanksgiving and pay your vows to the Most High; Call upon Me in the day of trouble; I shall rescue you, and you will honor Me.”

Psalm 10:17

O LORD, You have heard the desire of the humble; You will strengthen their heart, You will incline Your ear.

Exodus 22:22-23

“You shall not afflict any widow or orphan. “If you afflict him at all, and if he does cry out to Me, I will surely hear his cry;

Psalm 102:19-20

For He looked down from His holy height; From Heaven the LORD gazed upon the earth, To hear the groaning of the prisoner, To set free those who were doomed to death,

Isaiah 41:17

“The afflicted and needy are seeking water, but there is none, And, their tongue is parched with thirst; I, the LORD, will answer them Myself, As the God of Israel I will not forsake them.

2 Chronicles 7:14

and My people who are called by My name humble themselves and pray and seek My face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, will forgive their sin and will heal their land.

Ezekiel 36:37

‘Thus, says the Lord GOD, “This also I will let the house of Israel ask Me to do for them: I will increase their men like a flock.

Zechariah 10:6

“I will strengthen the house of Judah, And I will save the house of Joseph, And I will bring them back, Because I have had compassion on them; And they will be as though I had not rejected them, For I am the LORD their God and I will answer them.

Zechariah 13:8-9

“It will come about in all the land,” Declares the LORD, “That two parts in it will be cut off and perish; But the third will be left in it. “And I will bring the third part through the fire, refine them as silver is refined, and test them as gold is tested They will call on My name, And I will answer them; I will say, ‘They are My people,’ And they will say, ‘The LORD is my God.'”

1 John 3:22

and whatever we ask we receive from Him, because we keep His commandments and do the things that are pleasing in His sight.

Mark 11:24

“Therefore, I say to you, all things for which you pray and ask, believe that you have received them, and they will be granted you.

1 John 5:14

This is the confidence which we have before Him, that, if we ask anything according to His will, He hears us.

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

It was the Monday afternoon before Boaz schools were slated to close for their traditional one-week Spring break in mid-March 1998.  Tina’s granddaughter Danielle, as usual, rode the bus to our office to help until Tina’s 4:30 quitting time.

Danielle walked two letters and a discovery motion back to my office from Tina’s desk and said she had some news I might be interested in.  She and half of Boaz High School had become enamored with something called Six Degrees.  It was the first of its kind, a social media site before Facebook and certainly before the onslaught of lightweight smartphones.  Yet, on a desktop, it worked pretty good. 

Danielle said that during study hall today she went to the library and saw Bert Dickerson and Raynell Peterson sitting at a computer workstation snickering and getting into trouble with the librarian.  Raynell called Danielle over pointing out a picture on Six Degrees of Tracie Simmons sitting in a red Chevelle.  Tracie was a classmate of mine, a cheerleader, who, along with Nyra’s cousin Mandy Gibson, never attended any of the events at Club Eden. 

Tracie, at age 43, had moved back to Boaz early last year after her teaching position at Vanderbilt had been eliminated.  She soon got bored and asked if she could volunteer at the law office three days per week.  Tracie and Danielle had become fast friends mainly rooted in the old stories Tracie glamorized from her days at Boaz High School.

Danielle shared that she kept standing next to Raynell looking over Bert’s shoulder as he kept scrolling through a bunch of other photos.  Bert had found his father’s 1971 Boaz High School annual and, being a car nut, had made and posted several photos of cars and trucks that littered the pages.

Danielle said Bert was Justin Adam’s best and worst friend.  He had come into the library and saw all of us giggling.  He ignored us until Bert hollered out, “Justin, come see your old man’s shaggin wagon.”  After Justin saw the photo of his father’s van, lettered with ‘Honey Wagon’ on the side, he went ballistic demanding to know where Bert had gotten the photo.  Finally, Justin left in a rage.  Bert then said, “I’m glad I didn’t show him the comment.” 

Comments to postings were one of the main attractions for people using Six Degrees.  The day after Bert posted the ‘Honey Wagon’ photo an Alvin Simmons had commented, “I think this is my uncle Ted’s van in Carrollton, Georgia.”  Danielle said she knew this must be the infamous van from the stories she had heard concerning the disappearance of the Murray twins back in the early 70s.  I thanked her for reminding me of that chapter in my life. 

After she left I pondered the early life of that van and wondered what had become of it.  In August 1971, Adams Buick, Chevrolet & GMC became the first dealership north of Birmingham to receive a GMC Vandura.  It was a total makeover of the flat-nosed model that was introduced in 1964.  The Van had the long 125-inch wheelbase and was equipped with a 250 CID L6 engine and a three-speed manual transmission with column shift.

David had promised James he would be the first owner in Marshall County of a Vandura with a StarCraft conversion.  David fulfilled that promise when he handed the keys to James on September 29, 1971.

Shortly after Wendi and Cindi had gone missing, Sheriff Wayne Brown had questioned James.  He admitted the girls had been in his van.  He told the Sheriff that he and Randall and John had picked the girls up at the Dairy Queen and then had planned on dropping them off there after the graduation party, but at the last minute, I had insisted on carrying them home.  The Sheriff’s office had seized and examined the van finding nothing incriminating.

The next day I asked Danielle if there was a way to contact Alvin, the guy who had commented on James’ van.  She said sure.  I gave her my chair and she sat down at my computer and logged onto her Six Degrees account.  She found Bert Dickerson’s account and the van posting.  She pulled up the only comment and sent Alvin Simmons a question asking if his uncle might be interested in selling the van and asked for his phone number.

Within an hour, Alvin responded saying that he doubted his uncle would sell but included his phone number.  I called for Melvin Singer, his wife told me that he was in Atlanta on business and wouldn’t return until late.  I told her what it concerned and asked her to have him call me as soon as possible, and it didn’t matter how late it was.  I left her both my office and home telephone numbers.

At 1:00 a.m. my home phone rang. I had just laid down for the night.  Melvin had pulled his file on the Vandura.  After a couple of minutes, I could confirm that he owned the van that James and crew had used to transport the dead and dying Wendi, and a dead Cindi, from Little Cove Road back to their burial site off Martin Road.  Melvin said that he had bought the van at the Atlanta Auto Auction in late summer 1972.  He was in his 30’s at the time and was still reliving his high school days, buying the vehicle he could only dream about when he was 16.  He said the van was still in mint condition, having been garaged ever since he bought it.  He finally conceded that he would entertain selling it since he hadn’t driven it in almost ten years.  At 1:50 a.m. I bought the 1971 GMC Vandura for $5,000 on a hunch that it might still provide evidence from the murders.

In the early 1970s law enforcement agencies had little to no ability to obtain and use forensic evidence in criminal cases.  This changed in the mid-80s with the advent of DNA testing.  This allowed for the testing of biological material such as skin, hair, blood, and other bodily fluids.

I had heard of this new method and had read several articles.  I pulled out one such article that was included in a legal continuing education class I had taken last year at the University of Alabama.  It read, in part, “DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid, contains the complex genetic blueprint that distinguishes each person. Forensic testing can determine if distinctive patterns in the genetic material found at a crime scene matches the DNA in a potential perpetrator with better than 99% accuracy.”  The article went on to tell how DNA testing had been used by prosecutors across the U.S. to gain convictions.  “In 1987, Florida rapist Tommie Lee Andrews became the first person in the U.S. to be convicted because of DNA evidence; he was sentenced to 22 years behind bars. The next year, a Virginia killer dubbed the ‘South Side Strangler’ was sentenced to death after DNA linked him to several rapes and murders around Richmond. DNA is also responsible for snaring Gary Ridgway, the infamous ‘Green River Killer’ of Washington State, responsible for a string of murders around Seattle in the 1980s and ’90s. After being implicated by genetic testing, Ridgway pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 48 consecutive life sentences. Law-enforcement agencies around the world are assembling DNA databases, which have yielded matches that investigators may otherwise have missed. The FBI now has DNA records on more than 5 million convicted offenders, and sex offenders in all 50 states are required to submit DNA samples to law enforcement.”

I was also familiar with a case where the prosecution failed to obtain a conviction in large part because of the failure of DNA testing to convince a jury.  No doubt, everyone in the United States could recall exactly where they were when the ‘Not Guilty’ verdict in the O.J. Simpson case was announced just a little over two years ago.

The next morning, I told Matt what I had done and I saw, for the first time ever, he had an anger button.  Matt was as cool as they come no matter the pressure, but he almost came unhinged when I told him I had spent $5,000 of firm resources simply on a hunch.  Fortunately for me, Matt recovered quickly and his strong genes for reason shut down his anger.  He pulled me into the conference room and demanded I lay out my plan.  I told him that I had arranged with two of Sheriff Mac Holcomb’s deputies to follow me and photograph the van, ‘as is,’ in Melvin Singer’s garage, and then to haul it to the State of Alabama’s Forensic Lab in Birmingham.  They would perform a forensic inspection, and conduct testing if they obtained any DNA materials.

A little over a month after the 1971 GMC Vandura was delivered to the Forensic Lab, I received the miracle call.  It had retrieved hair and blood samples.  The extracted DNA material matched that obtained from the skull and bones found at Lot 13 in the Pebblebrook subdivision development.  The teeth from the two skulls had previously been matched to Wendi and Cindi’s dental records, and DNA obtained from the recovered bones had been matched to samples obtained from the twin’s untouched bedroom.

My hunch was correct.  This was great news for the wrongful death lawsuit.  However, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelming sadness that no criminal charges would ever be brought against the Flaming Five.  I could only hope that a Marshall County jury would award the Murray’s a multi-million-dollar civil verdict.

The second-best thing about this evidence was it would likely come as a total surprise at trial to the defendants.  So far, they had not propounded a single discovery request that came close to requiring Matt and me to disclose this evidence.

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

The first chance I had to visit Mr. Maples was Thursday afternoon.  I didn’t have any trouble finding where he lived.  Matt had fished in his pond when he was a kid.

I had not called ahead.  I figured my chance for talking with Harold was increased by a surprise visit.  A middle-aged lady, who I later learned was Bea Rogers, Harold’s caregiver, answered the door bell.  I gave her my business card and told her I needed a few minutes with Mr. Maples.  She first said that he did not accept visitors. I told her that I thought he would make an exception for me since I was a lawyer and was there to decide whether my decision to include him in a lawsuit on behalf of the Sand Mountain Bank was the correct decision.  I told her that he didn’t have to speak to me now if he had rather have the Sheriff come pick him up and take him to the county courthouse for a formal deposition.  I did take a little liberty by enlisting the Sheriff’s help at this point.  Ms. Rogers left me standing outside the front door on the porch to go discuss my offer with Harold.  It took her nearly five minutes to return.

She invited me in and led me to a glassed-in room on the back of the house.  With the afternoon sun and a five-brick gas heater, it felt like 125 degrees in the room, but Harold still had a heavy coverlet over his legs as he sat in a lounge chair.  I introduced myself and told him that my purpose in coming was to make a friend and an ally and not an enemy.  I told him about Matt and me buying the building downtown where the Sand Mountain Bank had started its operations in 1931.  I also told him that I had figured out that he had embezzled 25% of the City’s occupational tax monies.  I was surprised that he didn’t offer more resistance.

“What tipped you off?”

“I found one of your journals in a box upstairs in a storage room.  It was in a wooden box with a bunch of receipts journals from 1972.  It had a monthly entry detailing the ‘Occ tax’ and ‘CE’s share.’  I was familiar with Club Eden and figured that’s what ‘CE’ stood for.  Actually, it was just a guess at first.”

“I’ve wondered for years what happened to that particular journal.  When the bank moved I brought all my other personal journals home. I had kept them in my office in an old safe that Ron Garrett, the Bank’s President, gave me in the late 30’s when he renovated his office and bought a newer safe.  By the way, you haven’t told me how you really figured out what I was doing.”  Harold said.

“My law partner’s father worked for Majestic Mobile Homes as a bookkeeper in the Fifties.  He said that the Boaz City Council had passed a 2% occupational tax in late 1945 and the Sand Mountain Bank was awarded the fiduciary contract.  Every employer within the City limits had to file a monthly report and withhold 2% from each employee’s paycheck.  The employer then had to remit this, along with the report, to the Bank by the 20th of the month following the withholding month.  Truth is, I never figured out how you were diverting the money.  Care to tell me?”

“You probably know that one of the Adams’ has held the Mayor’s job forever, probably seventy-five or eighty years.  When the occupational tax started, Eugene Adams was the Mayor and I assume you know that he was a member of the Club.”

“I do.”

“Eugene set up an account at First State Bank of Boaz and was the only signatory.  After the tax program started, I would write two checks per month. One to the City’s general fund for 75% of the tax, and one to the City’s fund at First State.  It was surprising that no one ever asked to see the actual payroll tax reports.  It didn’t hurt that Eugene was always doing favors for the City’s bookkeeper.”

“What happened to the tax funds in the account at First State Bank?”

“Again, I assume you know that Fitz Billingsley’s father, Farris Billingsley, was a Club member?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Eugene would write a monthly check to a rotating list of City vendors and Farris would cash the check.  He would remove 10% for a tithe and then divide the remaining money into six parts, giving me a part and each of the five Club members a part.”

“Why on earth did he pay a tithe?”

“Are you a heathen?  The tithe is the Lord’s.  The money we received from the occupational tax was our earnings.  We owed it to the Lord.”

“That’s about the strangest reasoning I’ve ever heard.  But, I have another question.”  I said with no doubt a puzzled look on my face.

“How did you get involved with the Club and this embezzlement scheme?”

“I was a plant from day one.  What I mean is Eugene and the other four Club members approached me in 1930 when the Sand Mountain Bank was being organized.  You might imagine that Farris’ First State Bank was against another bank in town. They tried to come up with a way to stop it altogether but it was probably the only time they were beaten.  But, it didn’t stop them from conniving.  I made a deal with them and applied for the bookkeeping job.  I got the job.  Of course, it didn’t hurt that I was highly qualified.  By the way, the tax scheme was not the only creation I came up with.”

“I bet.  But, for now I need to ask you another question.”  I pulled out Journal 15 and opened to the first entry concerning Vincent Prader.  “What did you mean here when you wrote, ‘Vincent Prader opened acct. $1,200.00. Needs lesson.’?”

“You do know that to open a new business in Boaz you have to have the Club’s approval and blessing?”

“I am beginning to recognize that.”  I said.

“Most every business in Boaz is under the Club’s thumb.  There are a lot of small, mom and pop businesses that have sprouted but they have little staying power.  They are really a diversion.  The Club can take them out most any time.  The problem arises for new businesses if they are a direct competition to the Club, better put, to the Club members personal businesses.  Vincent Prader had Boaz in the palm of his hand.  What I mean is the citizens, almost the entire community, loved him.  Gosh, he was a true war hero.  But, Adams Chevrolet had a monopoly on new and used car sales in the City.  The Club was committed to protecting its own.  When I learned that Prader was investigating opening a Volkswagen dealership I told Fitz.  And, to make matters even worse, the Club members hated Germans, rightly so because of the war.  They would never stand for a German made car being sold in Boaz, Alabama.”

“What did they do?”

“I knew I had to keep the Club satisfied so I would offer advice to show them how much a team player I was.  These tips usually earned me a nice bonus at the end of the year.  You do see don’t you how that with me at the Sand Mountain Bank and with Fitz at First State Bank we pretty much were in the heartbeat of the Boaz economy.  A banker knows more about the folks in the community than the preacher does.”

“So, what happened to Prader?” I asked.

“He and his wife, Helga Katz, moved back to Germany.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“Son, that’s code for they disappeared.”

“The Club killed them, didn’t it?”

“I have no knowledge of that.”

“Why do I think you are lying to me?”

“That’s your problem not mine.”

“Let’s see about that.  There is no statute of limitations for murder.  It sure looks like you conspired with the Club to murder Vincent Prader.  I know you are old but do you really want to be arrested, go through a long trial, and end up spending your last days in a cold and damp jail cell?”

“I wouldn’t live a month in prison.  Can we make a deal?”

“We can if you will be completely truthful with me.  I need to know everything you know about the criminal activities of the Club and its members.”  I said.

Harold’s caregiver came in and gave him his afternoon medicine and a small glass of water.  She looked at me with a ‘are-you-about-done-look’ and said. “Harold needs his rest, you need to be wrapping this up.”

Harold ignored her and said, “There are two other murders that I’ve heard about.  I don’t have any direct proof for either of them.  I am confident that Vincent Prader and his wife are buried somewhere in a secret grave.  I’m not as sure about the other two murders.”

“Tell me what you have heard.” I said.

“I don’t know much because they were before my involvement with the Club but they seem to fit its pattern.  In 1901 Leroy Jones and his family moved to Boaz from Gadsden.  From all I gathered, they were a loving, God-fearing family that wanted nothing more than to earn a living and raise a family.  Problems started when they tried to attend First Baptist Church of Christ, and when Leroy tried to enroll his children in the Boaz schools.  But, the triggering event was when Rudolph discovered his daughter was overly frisky with Leroy’s son Toby. Long story short is the Club was not about to have a black family living in Boaz.”

“So, they moved back to Gadsden?”

“Well, Leroy’s wife and daughter did.  Sally, I think that was the daughter’s name.  Leroy was found hanging from a big oak tree down close to Nedmore Store.  Toby didn’t do any better.”

“Courtesy of the Club?”

“If I had to bet, yes.  But, that’s just my opinion, not based on knowledge.”

“What about the other murder you mentioned?”

“It was 1926, same type of thing happened when a homosexual couple moved into town.  By the time the Club found out about the two men’s sexual orientation, they had already leased a building for a flower shop.  Actually, they had already received an initial shipment to stock their store.”

“What happened?”

“Seems the couple had a sudden change of plans and sold the shop to Benjamin Ericson’s girlfriend, the woman who became his wife.”

“Do you have a similar opinion about what happened to the homosexual couple?”

“I do, definitely.”

“One other question before I go.  What made you decide to break your oath to the Club?”

“I didn’t take an oath.”

“You were or are a member of Club Eden, right?”

“No, absolutely not.  You have to be a Tillman, an Adams, a Radford, a Billingsley, or an Ericson to be a member of that Club.”

“Do you know if the Club had any other ‘Harold Maples’ types that it dealt so closely with?”

“I feel confident there were many other little sheep like myself, but I don’t know.  The Club is rather secretive if you know what I mean.”

“I do.  Back to our deal.  I will need you to submit to a deposition.  It can take place here if you like.”

“Is that absolutely necessary. I’ve told you everything I know.”

“And, I appreciate that but all that will simply be hearsay coming from me.  Why are you so reluctant?  Does the Club still control you?”

“The Club is always in control.  I’m just trying to weigh which is worse, prison or moving back to Germany if you know what I mean.”

“What if I talked to the District Attorney and he got you protection?”

“Oh, the hell with it, set up the deposition.  I am 93 years old.  I’ve lived a good life.  It’s time to put an end to all this.”

“Thank you for your time today.  I’ll be in touch.” I said as Harold pulled another coverlet from the floor across his legs.

I left and headed back to the office feeling that I had probably talked with Harold Maples for the last time.

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

I arrived home, unloaded the truck and set fire to the product of our day’s demolitions. Karla had cooked my favorite meal of pinto beans, cornbread, fried potatoes, and coconut pie.  Even though I was tired, after supper, Karla and I took turns playing chess with Lewis.  We were fortunate he was still at the age he would spend real quality time with his parents.

At 10:45 p.m., Lewis called it quits after capturing Karla’s King.  He went to bed and Karla started reading her Sunday School lesson.  I pulled my feet up in my lounging chair and dozed off.  At midnight, Karla kissed my forehead and said goodnight.  I got up and walked to the kitchen and saw Journal 15 laying on the counter.  I drank a glass of water and brought the journal back to my chair.  I was no longer sleepy.

All I knew before I started to read was Fitz and Harold were apparently friends and he was a bookkeeper at the Sand Mountain Bank.  And, according to Fitz, a very creative bookkeeper.  I assumed the letter had been written by Fitz Billingsley given the oddity of his first name.  I didn’t know Harold’s last name.  I was puzzled.  I had found Journal 15 in an old storage room, a hidden one at that, of the Sand Mountain Bank, Fitz’ First State Bank of Boaz only competitor.  I became even more puzzled when I read the first journal entry, dated January 21, 1946, one I assume was written by Harold:

Period: December 1945

Gross Wages $57,927.96

Tax $1,158.56

No. Workers 1049

Avg. No. Hours 227.28

Avg. Mo. Earnings $55.22

Avg. Hourly Rate $.2430

CE’s share $289.64

Tithe $28.96

This appeared to be some type of payroll tax report.  For some reason, I flipped to the back of the journal and in the middle of the next to the last page was this entry:

Period: November 1946

Gross Wages $60,374.18

Tax $1,207.48

No. Workers 1093

Avg. No. Hours 226.13

Avg. Mo. Earnings $55.22

Avg. Hourly Rate $.2442

CE’s share $301.87

Tithe $30.19

I flipped back to the front and was even more confused after reading the second journal entry.  It was dated February 3, 1946: “Vincent Prader opened acct. $1,200.00. Needs lesson.” 

Even though it was nearly 11:00 p.m., I called Matt and read him these three entries.  He had me calculate the tax as a percentage of the gross wages.  In both entries, it was 2%.  Matt said that sounded like the City’s occupational tax that started at the end of the war. I asked him did he have any idea who Harold was.  He didn’t even pause to think but said, “Harold Maples.  He is a landmark, worked 50 years at least for the Sand Mountain Bank. Started as a bookkeeper and stayed in that position all those years. The man has staying power that’s for sure.  I bet he is nearly a 100 years old.  As far as I know he still lives in the old home place where he grew up, down College Avenue.”

Matt and I speculated for a while about Harold and Fitz’ relationship. I told him it appeared that Journal 15 was personal to Harold and was not a part of the official banking records like the red and green journals I had found.  He asked why then was the black journal in with these official journals.  I said I didn’t have a clue.  We hung up, leaving me just as confused and aggravated that I hadn’t asked Matt about Vincent Prader. I called Matt back but he couldn’t remember.  I called it a night and went to bed.

Matt and I worked nearly all-day Sunday removing three layers of vinyl from the reception room floor.  We didn’t venture up into the upstairs storage room.

Monday, before going into the law office, I dropped by the library and had Barbara Mills, the head librarian since the Boaz Library was formed in 1929, show me how to use the microfiche machine.  I told her I wanted to review all issues of the 1945 and 1946 Sand Mountain Reporter, the oldest newspaper in the area.  After an hour or so I found an article with the headline, “Invincible Prader Returns a Hero.”  After reading the article I learned ‘Invincible’ was a nickname for Vincent Prader.  He was a highly decorated army hero who returned home in mid-December 1945.  Vincent had grown up south of Boaz in the Red Apple community and had graduated Boaz High School May 20, 1940, volunteering for the Army two days later.  The article went on to describe how Prader had single-handedly fought four Germans to save his friend Malcom Jackson of Memphis.  The article said Prader and his German born wife, Helga, were planning on opening a Volkswagen auto dealership in Boaz.

At 10:00 a.m., Barbara stuck her head in the cramped little media room and said that Matt had called and that my 10:30 appointment was already there.  I closed my notebook and turned off the microfiche machine.  When I was nearly to the Library exit, I turned and asked Barbara if she knew anything about a Vincent and Helga Prader.  She said, “yes, sadly so.  Vincent returned from World War II a hero and bought the Miller property on North Main to operate a Volkswagen dealership.  A few days before it opened, right after a load of Beetle cars were delivered, I think it was around Thanksgiving 1946, he and his wife went missing.  They never were found.  I can’t believe you don’t remember.  Oh, sorry.  That was before your time.  The bottom line is that story rocked Boaz for years.”

As I drove to the law office, I had a gut feeling that Fitz Billingsley and Harold Maples had taught Vincent and his wife a lesson.  If possible, I was going to pay Mr. Maples a friendly visit.

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

The 30th of December, four days after the Murray’s met with Walter Tillman and his lawyer Ralph Summerford, Matt and I purchased a building in old downtown Boaz.  When the Realtor first showed it to us in early November, neither Matt or I remembered that it was the building where the Sand Mountain Bank had started its business operations back in the early 1930’s.  The bank had moved in the late 70’s or early 80’s to a modern building on Broad Street.  Even though for the past 20 years or so the original building had been used as a beauty shop it still revealed the architecture and mystique of a depression era bank.  Matt and I both loved it from the very first visit even though it would require a lot of renovation to convert it into a workable law office.

The building’s owner was a bank out of Gadsden.  It had acquired it two years earlier through foreclosure.  After interviewing several contractors, we decided to take it slow and do some of the initial demolition work ourselves.  We felt the activity might be good for us since we spent most of our days either sitting behind a desk or standing in courtrooms. 

We decided to close Wednesday through Sunday to celebrate the New Year’s Holiday, but mostly to work tearing out a ceiling that had been installed after the bank had moved out.  The ceiling was less than eight feet high and we wanted a reception area with high ceilings that revealed the Bank’s original architecture.

By late Saturday afternoon, Matt and I were nearly exhausted and had just finished toting out another huge pile of ripped paneling and broken two-by-fours when we noticed a single piece of plywood nailed fifteen feet or so up the south wall that we had exposed when we tore out the false ceiling.  The remainder of this wall, that is, the part that we could see, was covered with beautiful pine boards, running vertically, each at least ten inches wide.  These boards came all the way down to the floor and they also were against the wall under the piece of plywood.

We placed our two extension ladders on either side of the piece of plywood, and with crowbars and hammers, removed the four by eight sheet of plywood. After Matt nearly tipped backwards off his ladder we slid the plywood gently down to the floor.  When we looked back up we saw what looked like a solid oak door, closed inside what had to be a hand-carved frame.  We went back up and the door knob resisted only minimally.  I pushed the door open and stepped off my ladder and inside to a dark and musty smelling room.

Matt went out to his truck and brought two flashlights.  We couldn’t believe what we saw.  There were dozens and dozens of cardboard boxes containing manila files.  The ones we opened mainly contained loan files: copies of promissory notes, deeds, mortgages, and sometimes hand-written notes setting out personal property items the borrower was putting up as collateral for the cash the bank was providing.  One note said, ‘Betsy, my finest cow,” and another one I could barely read said “my turning plow, my two and only middle buster plows, and my Georgia stock plow.”

There were two old ladder back chairs almost hidden against the side wall and buried under a pile of wooden boxes.  Each of these boxes had a metal clasp with a lock but none of them were fastened.  I opened one of the boxes and found twelve high-quality journal books, each with a red leather spine.  I glanced through a couple and saw listings of payments the bank had made.  This box contained one journal per month for the year 1938.  I opened several other wooden boxes and found more disbursement journals, but I also found boxes that contained journals with green leather spines.  Rightly so, these were receipts journals.  I looked through the February 1944 journal and saw daily listings of what appeared to be every deposit the bank took in for every day during this month.

After I moved thirty or so boxes from on top of, besides, and in front of the two ladder back chairs, I pulled them into the center of the room.  Matt sat in one and kept on infatuated with the handwritten notes he was finding in loan files. I pulled another wooden box over in front of me and sat down in the other chair.  It contained twelve journals with green spines representing January through December 1972.  There was another journal in this box.  As I removed it, I noticed it’s black leather spine. I opened it and saw an envelope taped to the inside front cover.  It contained a hand-written letter.  The letter was dated December 23, 1946 and read: “Harold, thanks for your friendship and being the most creative bookkeeper in the world.  I appreciate you. Merry Christmas,” signed “Fitz.”  Under the taped envelope and in big bold letters on the inside front cover was written, “Journal No. 15.”

“That’s enough cows, pigs, chickens, and plows for one day. I’m heading home.  You ready?” Matt said wiping his forehead with a blue and white checkered handkerchief.

I agreed, but carried the black-spine journal with me.  We turned off the lights, locked the door, and Matt drove off.  I tied down the pile of lumber and paneling on the back of my truck and headed home glancing down every few minutes to the journal beside me thinking, “red for cash paid out, green for cash taken in, and black for … what?”