Derenne Towers
Photo, Jack MillerChapter 7 – Murder
Will Jackson spun from side to side behind his 18th Century reproduction mahogany desk. The curvature allowed him to pile papers all around, though more were stacked behind him in the built-in bookcases on either side of a white wooden mantelpiece. A gold, electronic clock chimed two in the afternoon from the mantle.
Will read the account of the crime in the Savannah Gazette. It was obvious that much was missing from the newspaper's facts. But this much was clear: Lane Russell, Jr. had been arrested for arson and murder. The crime scene was the Derenne Towers on Liberty Street. The twelfth floor penthouse had been set on fire. Inside, the slain body of Reeve Heidt, age 41, was found strangled and nude in his bathtub. A "dental instrument" was found inserted in his rectum. Evidence of cocaine was discovered in the apartment. Heidt, the papers said, was part owner of the new nightclub, Dr Feelgood's, a club known for its homosexual clientele.
Will rubbed the inside of his nose as he pondered the account. He thought of Lane Russell, Sr., who had phoned him early in the morning. They had played football together in junior high school for Chatham Academy. Lane had become a success, buying up Savannah Sugar stock and becoming a Vice-President of the large sugar plant upriver from Savannah. He had not heard from Lane for years, until now. It was exactly the sort of horror story Will feared for his own son. "Drugs, niggers, and fags," Will whispered, "Savannah's ugly demons." But Will scolded himself for using those very words. As a lawyer he knew that everyone deserved understanding. Will would give anyone a helping hand if he could, blacks and gays included. Will was proud of his acceptance of others. He had learned tolerance the hard way in his teenage years as a Jew, and then as a Baptist.
Maybe my taking this case will help David see the error of choosing this way of life, Will thought. Will was more concerned about the drugs his son took than the homosexuals he had as friends. "We have to choose what we become," Will argued with himself. "We can't be too cautious in this world." He wondered what the paper meant by "dental instrument." Will realized that this case could be the hardest of his career.
When Will arrived home, he told Patty the news. "Lane Russell?" Patty asked, astonished. "The boy who dated Cindy? He murdered someone?" She had to sit down. Will had completely forgotten that his stepdaughter had gone out several times with Lane before he and Patty were married. Cindy had moved to live in California with her dad after Will had moved in. But she still spent the summers with Will and Patty.
"They weren't very close, were they?" Will asked. This brought the horror far too close to home.
"No. They just went out a few times. To movies, that sort of thing." Patty hoped that was all.
"And you will defend him? Do you think he did it?"
"I'm afraid they've almost proved it. He tried to burn the place up, but the fire went out. His fingerprints are all over the place and several people saw them together that night."
"Then how will you defend him?"
"That's what I have to figure out," Will replied. "If nothing else, he was out of his head. I may have to plead insanity. It's too early to tell. Hell, I haven't even interviewed him yet."
"So you could refuse to defend him?"
"His father and I were best friends. I can't let him down. Anyway, it's a case I want to try. There are a lot of things that need straightening out in this town." Will regarded his wife, hoping for support.
"I don't know, Will. I have a bad feeling about it. I met that boy and he was such a sweet, good-looking kid. And he comes from a wonderful family that lacks nothing. It's a crying shame."
"Yes it is," Will agreed.
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Betty Bagby stirred cocoa. Both her sons were visiting and it was a cold, damp evening. The gas logs were on, and Betty had even lit the handmade, glass oil lamps. "I just can't believe your father would defend that piece of shit," Betty yelled from the kitchen.
"That's what lawyers do," David said with sarcasm. "They defend criminals."
"How do you know he did it? He could be innocent," Skip protested.
"I wish they could prove someone else did it," David replied. "Read the paper. Read the evidence." David reached for his mother's copy of the Gazette.
"It's unbelievable," Skip said, not taking the offered paper. "He must've been stoned on coke and worse to do all that."
"He was hallucinating, I imagine," David suggested.
"Hallucinating, my ass," Betty exclaimed, bringing two huge cups of cocoa into the den. "He was after money. And he just did all the other shit to cover it up."
"You're probably right," David agreed.
"That trial will be a joke. And your father will be the funniest part. Only no one will laugh," Betty predicted. "I hope they fry his ass."
"I like your new painting." Skip had had enough of murder. "When did you get it?"
"Connor and Lee brought it over Tuesday night," Betty said. "I'm still not used to it."
"It's magnificent," David said, envious of the huge painting above Betty's bed. The acrylic work was 4' by 4' and filled the wall with color and surreal figures that looked like Betty's guardian angels. "That was a nice reward for your invitations."
"If Lee Johnson hadn't twisted his ankle, it would still be in Connor's studio," Betty said. "Jane was furious when she saw them haul it off. Of course, she didn't protest though. Lee said he could see the smoke rising into her eyes and out of her ears."
"The show was a big success, I hear," David added. "They sold over half the works. That painting will be worth a fortune one day."
David and Skip finished their cocoa. "Is that bar still open?" Betty asked David as they prepared to leave.
"Dr. Feelgoods?" Yes, you know there were two other owners. I don't think they are into the drug deals the way Reeve was. But they are sticking together and being really cautious. They have several security guards at the club."
"Well, you just be careful," Betty warned. "Stay away from that place until all the hoopla is over."
"We'll see," David said.
Locking the gate as they left the garden in front of Betty's carriage house, Skip turned to David. "You still want to stop in Pinkies?"
"Sure. Why not?"
Pinkies was almost deserted. One old customer sat stooped on the bar. "Ski" was bartending. Everyone called him "Ski" for short -- his real name was Polish.
"How're you boys tonight?"
"Doin' fine," Skip said, trying to be upbeat.
The brothers played a few games of pinball as they drank beer. David put money in the jukebox, selecting Bob Dylan and Ray Charles.
"I guess Dad'll be in the news, maybe even TV," Skip said.
"I can't believe he's involved in all this. Reeve probably deserved what he got. He was involved over his head in drugs. You know, his car had the back window shot out."
"His Bentley?"
"Yea. I think he was involved with the Dixie Mafia. Lane was probably a hit man."
Not a very clever one, if that's true."
"I wonder what Dad will do with the gay angle," David said.
"He'll say Reeve was gay and tried to force himself on Lane," Skip answered.
"You're right. That's exactly what he'll do. That really is sick, isn't it?"
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A yellow, 1967 Camaro Super Sports convertible pulled up in front of the Camphor-Christian house. Mick Jagger sang that he could "get no satisfaction" from the 8-track tape player. Lane Russell, singing the same lyrics, turned down the volume as he drove into the parking space, stepped out of the convertible, and walked up to the door of Will Jackson, Attorney at Law, as the stained brass plaque announced. "This is going to be Hell," Lane said out loud as he banged the knocker and let himself into the office.
"Come in, come in," Will Jackson said from his desk. He had seen the convertible and knew who it was. "Have a seat." No other clients were in the office. It was almost 4 and the part-time secretary was gone. Skip had done a few chores earlier but was gone as well.
Lane plopped down in the cushiony armchair. The dark green upholstery was covered in images of pink lotuses. "Mr. Jackson, I want to thank you for getting me out of jail. You can't imagine how horrible it was."
"Yes, I can," Will said, a crooked smile controlling his contempt. "I know exactly how horrible it is. And you knew too, didn't you, from being there before?"
"Yes, sir." Lane played hangdog.
"You are on probation now, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You could be sent back to jail for violation of that probation. You realize that don't you?"
Lane looked up at Will. He said nothing, afraid Mr. Jackson would start yelling at him.
"You were lucky to get convicted of mere possession of cocaine. You could have been found guilty of dealing it. The lawyer who got that reduced charge did you a big favor."
"I wasn't dealing, Mr. Jackson."
"Come on, Lane. Don't start bullshitting me. If you want me to save your ass, you are going to have to bare your ugly little soul to me. This isn't a drug charge anymore. This is a capital offense. You bullshit me and it's all over for you. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," Lane said, military style. "You ask and I'll tell you whatever you want to know."
"I want to know, in exact detail, every single thing that happened the night you killed Reeve Heidt. I emphasize "killed," not murdered. You did kill him, didn't you?"
"Mr. Jackson, I would never kill anybody," Lane pleaded. "I don't know how it happened. I was possessed. I was crazy, Mr. Jackson. It was the drugs..."
"Stop," Will ordered. "Now go back to early that evening and start there. Tell me what happened step by step. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," Lane whispered. He was shaking. The resolve and strength he had driving to Jackson's office was gone. He wanted to break down and cry. But he told his story.
The trial of Lane Russell was the sensation of the hour. The news dwelled repeatedly on every piece of evidence. District Attorney Cameron (Corky) Stubbs was certain of an easy conviction. All he had to do was present the evidence, including the pink electric toothbrush on which Lane's fingerprints had been found. "This was the act of a monster," Corky said to the jury. "The heinous crime of a drug dealer out for revenge. The premeditated act of a man who should never be allowed to threaten society again. I ask for justice, I ask you for the death penalty," Corky demanded, as if he expected applause.
Will Jackson went for shock effect. "Let us make it clear, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Let me say, right away, my client did kill Reeve Heidt." (Gasps from the galleries.) "This was, as my colleague says, the act of a monster. But the monster, as we shall show, was not Lane Russell, it was Reeve Heidt. And horrible as his death was, horrible as this whole episode was, make no mistake, Reeve Heidt was the monster."
Corky and Will paraded three days worth of witnesses between them. Witnesses for the prosecution testified to the use of drugs, to the fact that Lane and Reeve were together the night of the crime. They gave scientific evidence showing that Lane's fingerprints were everywhere in Reeve's apartment, including the electric toothbrush. "This sickening act, this brutal mutilation demonstrates the hateful evil of Lane Russell," Corky announced.
Will denied nothing. Instead he brought forth Lane's past. He displayed boy scout badges. He questioned Lane's minister, the Reverend Bob White of the First Baptist Church. He had teachers and friends testify to Lane's basic goodness and acts of kindness. He had Lane's father, his former buddy, testify how naive and passionate his son was. As the older Russell wept on the stand over his son's tragedy, tears appeared in the eyes of the jury.
Will's best witness of all was Lane himself. Coached and rehearsed a hundred times, Lane walked from the defendant's desk to the witness stand. As he sat and took the oath, he looked out over the crowded courtroom. He felt for a minute a cramp in his bowels. He was afraid. His father stared at him with a mix of pity and hatred. Lane glanced at the jury. "If only I can get their sympathy," he thought.
Will was standing before him. "Tell me Lane, what took place early the evening of January 9?"
"Yes, sir." Lane gathered his thoughts. "At around six that evening I met up with some friends for dinner. We ate at the Crystal Beer Parlor."
"Who were these friends?"
"Curt Smith, John Malcolm, and Reeve Heidt."
Curt and John had already testified.
"Did anything unusual happen over dinner?"
"No. We made plans to go to Dr. Feelgood's."
"What is that?" Will asked.
"It's a bar and club on Drayton Street." Lane paused. "It's a bar that homosexuals go to."
Will turned and looked at the jury. "Are you a ho-mo-sexual, Lane?"
"No sir. But I've engaged in homosexual acts sometimes."
"Why is that?"
"I just let them do it to me." Lane tried to sound pathetic. "They gave me money, and I was usually drunk. I was always disgusted by it." Lane felt a tear gather in his right eye.
"So you went to this bar. Did you go with someone?"
"I went with Reeve."
"Reeve Heidt," Will emphasized. "Did he invite you to go there?"
"Objection!" Corky yelled. "Leading the witness."
"Sustained," Judge Mitchell said.
"Did you go there on your own?" Will asked.
Lane looked around. "Reeve suggested we go."
"What happened at this bar?"
"We drank. Lots of people were dancing. Reeve is one of the owners of the bar; so, I got free drinks."
"How long were you there?"
"Until after 1."
"And did you spend most of the time at the bar with Reeve Heidt?"
"Reeve and I had an argument. He wanted me to go with him to his apartment, but I wanted to stay at the bar. He yelled at me and I walked off for a while. But then he told me he had a gift for me."
"Did he say what the gift was?"
"No. He said it was expensive and that I would like it. He said it was in his apartment."
"So at 1 a.m. you left Dr. Feelgood's and accompanied Reeve Heidt to his apartment."
"Yes, sir."
"Where is this apartment?"
"The Derenne Towers on Liberty Street. He rented a penthouse suite."
"You walked there?"
"No. We drove in his Bentley."
"You drove in his automobile?"
"That's right."
"What happened when you arrived at his apartment?"
"Reeve gave me a gold bracelet."
"This was the 'gift' you mentioned."
"That's right."
The gold bracelet was presented as evidence and duly listed.
"What happened then?"
"I was in a good mood," Lane admitted. "Reeve put music on his stereo. Then he offered me cocaine."
"And you accepted?"
Lane tried to look contrite. "I did," he confessed.
"You were having an enjoyable time together, then?" Will asked, slyly.
"At first, we were," Lane said. "Then he put the make on me. He tried to come over and kiss me." Lane wanted to appear shocked. "I told him not to do that."
"Not to do what?" Will prodded.
"Not to kiss me. He was touching me and saying I was his baby. He said he going to make love to me."
"Why didn't you just get up and leave?" Will asked. This was a big point they had rehearsed over and over.
"Oh God," Lane said, "I wish I had, Mr. Jackson. I wish to God I had." He paused to let his anguish sink in. "I didn't know what to do. I was so drunk and high. Reeve was undressing. He was unbuttoning my shirt. I felt the whole room spinning around me and Reeve kept groping at me. Then I pushed him. I don't know how it happened. But I felt this rage of anger come up out of me like a demon. It was like I was possessed. I felt myself grab Reeve and hit him and hit him over and over. Then I strangled him." Lane broke down into sobs and moans, banging his fist on the witness stand.
The court recessed for an hour. Will comforted Lane and told him he was doing fine. After the recess came the cross-examinations.
Corky's questioning was tough. Over occasional objections by Will Jackson, he probed Lane's use of drugs. The court had refused to let him mention Lane's prior conviction for drug possession, but he was allowed to dwell as long as he liked on the use of drugs on the night of January 9.
"You enjoy using drugs, don't you?" Corky insisted.
Will objected, but the judge overruled.
"I did," Lane said, again beginning to sob. "Drugs were my downfall."
"Will's long nights going over testimony and taking Corky's role paid off. Corky's tough methods made Lane look bullied. It was easy for the jury to imagine him being victimized by an older man. Everything fell into place for Will and prepared the way for his closing ovation. It was all he could do to contain his excitement. Even as Corky wrapped up his case, Will could smell success. He had to contain his eagerness now, had to maintain his look of tragedy.
As Will rose to make his closing statement, the courtroom fell silent. Will could feel the hush, could sense the attention of those present in the room as never before. For the first time in his career he knew that everything he did would be remembered. His remarks would either condemn his old friend's son or set him free. It was an awesome responsibility. Will saw Lane, Sr. sitting on one of the viewers' benches. How important, yet haggard, he looked. For a split second, Will thought of the shame he felt as a teenager, and of the shame he felt when he first knew his own son was gay. Perhaps he could make up for that shame, now.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you have heard our esteemed district attorney make a strong case against my client, Lane Russell, Jr. The horrible tragedy on that cold January night is undeniable. Reeve Heidt died a tragic death at the hand of Lane Russell. We don't deny it. What we do deny, strange as it must sound, is that Reeve Heidt was the innocent victim. And we affirm that Lane was just as much a victim of evil as Reeve Heidt.
"It may be hard to believe that in the 1970s there could exist what we simply have to call a den of Satan. But that is just what that apartment of Reeve Heidt's was. There were objects of devil worship. There were naked statues and all sorts of pornography. The place was full of masks and harnesses for sado-masochistic torture. People were whipped, beaten, and tortured in that place. The despicable ceremonies involved drugs and sexual encounters of every kind.
"Is it any wonder, ladies and gentlemen, that this young man sitting before you, awaiting your judgment, lost his senses in such a place? Is it hard to imagine his fear and anger when this older man threatened to rape, perhaps even mutilate him? Think what Lane must have experienced that night, high on the drugs Reeve Heidt provided, intoxicated with liquor given to him in the homosexual bar Reeve owned, seeing this man attempting to have his way, no matter what.
"This world is too filled with evil. There is evil lurking in what seem to be the nicest places. You don't have to go to the homosexual bar to find it. You can find it in the finest penthouses and finest mansions of Savannah. We must be on guard against it. For the evil work of Satan threatens the fabric of our society. Our children in school are being seduced with drugs as we speak. It is only by refusing to give in to these temptations that we have a prayer.
"Lane did not have a prayer that night. He had only force to save him. I submit to you that Lane acted in self-defense. He was threatened with rape and torture; so, he lashed out to save himself. When he realized that Reeve was dead, he consigned the place to flames for the hell it represented. He set fire to the Den of Satan. I ask each of you, would you not have done the same, yourself, to save your soul?"
Will enumerated the items of evidence; he reviewed the testimony of others, for and against his client. Then, he repeated himself, asking again which of those in the jury box would not have done the same. Reading assent in their eyes, especially the eyes of the seven men on the jury, Will returned to sit beside Lane Russell, Jr., patting his arm as he did so.
The jury deliberated for two days. They requested very little, and speculation suggested a basic division among them. Nonetheless, the stronger beliefs prevailed and the foreman finally announced that a verdict was reached.
"We the jury find the defendant not guilty."
A gasp rose from the spectators. Newsmen jumped up and fled the courtroom as the judge hammered for order. Friends of Reeve Heidt, whose family had never attended the trial, stared in disbelief. Will gave Lane Russell a resounding hug, as if he had saved his own son. Lane Sr. came to their side, embracing his son and giving Will a hug as well. "You are the best damned lawyer in the Southeast," Lane Sr. said.
The verdict horrified most gay Savannians. Someone suggested a march on City Hall. But no one took the suggestion seriously. For a few weeks business at Dr Feelgood’s boomed as gays came downtown to show their support.
David was among those who were horrified by the verdict. The night of the decision he was at 24 West, turning to Dr Landry for solace. "How could my own father argue that homosexuals are satanic? Doesn't he realize that this verdict signals open season on gays? Kill a fag for Jesus?"
"You can't be surprised," Landry replied. "Given the religious climate, that most of the jury was probably Southern Baptist, what better argument could your father make? It was a stroke of genius."
"But how could anyone believe all that crap? Reeve Heidt was a rich pusher. But he wasn't a devil worshipper. I could have handled his arguing against drug use. It's the attack on gay people that upsets me. He knows I'm gay, and he was saying he thought I deserved to die as well."
"David, that is ridiculous. Your father was trying to get Lane off the hook. He did a great job of it. He acted like a good defense lawyer. You can't blame him for not taking up the gay rights cause."
"No, you're wrong. He didn't just ignore the gay issue; he used it. He said outright that being gay is being evil. And I think that is evil. He fed the hysteria that threatens all of us. And I hate him for it."
"Look. Your father loves you, I'm sure of it. In his own convoluted way, he probably thinks that his winning this case will be a good influence on you. Don't expect too much of him. My mother has the same ingrained prejudices. The best you can do is to be patient and educate them with the good example of your own life."
David replied, "Fuck him and fuck being a good example. Let's go have a drink somewhere.”
