Sometimes "Is" Isn't by Jim Newell

Sometimes “Is” Isn’t
    By Jim Newell
    The courtroom in the small central Tennessee town of Greenburg was beyond warm in the May heat wave. It was steaming. The two large circulating fans that hung from the ceiling lazily chased each other in circles and stirred the air around without making anything or anybody cooler. Nevertheless, the air was electric with anticipation when Court Clerk Walter Grange stood up and made his announcement.
    “Order in the court. This session in the case of the State of Tennessee versus Jacky Paul Nelson, His Honour Judge Gabriel Holman presiding, will come to order. All rise.”
    With the court clerk’s announcement, the crowded courtroom struggled to its collective feet, the door to the judge’s chamber opened, and the rotund figure of Judge Holman entered and took his seat on a platform several feet above the floor of the room. The judge looked at the State Attorney’s table behind which the prosecutor, Gerald Copeland and Sheriff Billy Bob Turner stood, then glanced at the defence table to the right. The stately man in the light grey suit, Thomas Gifford, stood with a thin, dark-haired young man beside him. This young man, Jacky Paul Nelson, known to his friends as JP, was charged with the murder of his father, Hansford Nelson. JP’s appearance was visibly unhappy, but he stood straight and waited on the judge. On the left side of the table was an unusual object, a package somewhat less than a foot high and about a foot and a half long wrapped in what appeared to be a small bath towel.
    “Satisfied that all was in order, Judge Holman said in his courtroom voice, “Y’all may be seated.” The judge’s deep and measured courtroom tones were different from the social voice that showed a usually friendly man who gave the impression that all was well in his particular part of the world. After his permission was given, the seats in the courtroom again became occupied, all of them. The reason for the large crowd was that this little town of Greenburg had not had a murder trial in five years. The last one had been in 1930 when Clement Gurridge had been found guilty of murdering his wife. In that case, Clem had been hanged shortly thereafter and the town had talked of nothing else for a couple of years. Now it appeared that something similar was about to take place.
    “Mr. Gifford,” said the judge when all was quiet, the State completed questioning its final witness before the noon recess. Do you wish to cross-examine?”
    “Yes, Your Honour.” Thomas Gifford’s voice was well modulated and had very little of the common Southern drawl, although he had lived and practiced law in Greenburg all his life.
    “Sheriff Turner, will you kindly return to the stand?” asked the judge. He leaned back in his chair and appeared to take an extra keen interest in Gifford’s next move.
    Before he left the State Attorney’s table, the sheriff had a short and apparently agitated conference with Gerald Copeland, causing Judge Holman to sit forward again and ask in a noticeably annoyed tone, “Sheriff Turner, are you going to present yourself for cross-examination?”
    The sheriff broke off the conversation and walked across the courtroom floor without looking up at the judge, took the oath and settled himself in the witness chair, scowling at the defence attorney. Gifford maintained his usual calm demeanour and began by asking, “Sheriff Turner, you testified under oath this morning that you made the arrest of JP. Nelson on the charge of murdering his father, Hansford?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did you say to my client when you came to look at the body of the dead man?
    “I asked, ‘Who shot him?’”
    “And what did he reply?”
    “He said, ‘I don’t know but I’m glad the SOB is dead.’”
    “Then what?’”
    “I asked where the gun was and he said, ‘My uncle took the rifles up and put mine in my truck.’”
    “And when did you arrest my client?”
    “After I found the rifle in