Bryson City Tales Read online

  “We named her ‘Walter.’”

  I could hear Helen trying to swallow her laughter.

  Clem and Doris were beaming as they left the office.

  I went back to work—after all, there were patients waiting to be seen.

  As far as I know, my first full-term delivery is still alive. She’s delivered a bunch of her own calves over the last two decades. But I bet she’s never experienced a birth like her own. And even though I’ve delivered over 1,500 newborns in my career, few of those deliveries are as memorable as the birth of Walter.

  chapter ten

  THE “EXPERT”

  A few weeks passed. I was starting to feel like I just might fit in here, alongside townspeople and patients and doctors whose ways were clearly different from where I’d cut my medical teeth. Then I received a call from Marcellus “Buck” Buchanan. Mr. Buchanan had been the Superior Court solicitor (the district attorney) over the seven counties of western North Carolina since 1967—after serving three terms as a state representative in the North Carolina legislature in the 1950s. His offices were in Sylva.

  “Sorry to have to call you, son. I’d love to come over there and meet you in person. But duty calls.”

  For some reason I can’t explain, I just didn’t like his tone. So I kept our exchange professional. “How can I help you, sir?”

  “Well, son, I just got your coroner’s report.”

  Time seemed to stop. My mind raced back to the night just a few weeks before when I had been called to my first murder case. The scene of the house flooded with police car lights and the memory of the headless body and the brain-covered walls washed over me from head to toe. Moreover, the feelings of inadequacy on the evening of the murder and the uncertainty of whether moving to Bryson City had been wise or not—coupled with Mitch’s subsequent and frequent questioning of my competence (“Are you stupid?”)—left me suddenly feeling shaken and unsure.

  The DA continued, “Son, your report looks good—real good—and it sure enough agrees with the autopsy.”

  I felt a bit of pride rising in my chest—after all, I had been well trained in both England and in a world-class medical center in the latest science and techniques. But even though I had been well trained in the science of medicine, I was feeling less prepared for the practice of medicine—at least in Bryson City. Yet when it came to the murder investigation, I thought, It really isn’t brain surgery. I mean, after all, the man had his head blown off. What else could the cause of death be? I relaxed and decided to stay cool. “Thank you, sir.”

  He then asked several questions about the crime scene investigation report. Finally he concluded again, “You did a terrific job, son. Just terrific.”

  I wasn’t sure where this was going. I had pronounced a man dead and determined that his head was missing and splattered all across the wall of a small bedroom. This was not a major forensic coup.

  He went on, “You just did a superlative job, son, exceptional.” The syrup was getting a bit too sweet and was being poured on a little too thickly. “In fact,” he said, lowering his voice to a near whisper, “your report is a whole lot better than most. I’m used to receiving documents with far less quality and completeness from your neck of the woods—if you know what I mean.”

  Again I felt proud. I should have known better. Only a moment later he smashed my good feelings with his next pronouncement. “Son, we’re going for murder one for this insect. I would like to see him fry—to a crisp. Squishing an insect like this is too quick, too painless. I want him to fry.” To me this was a most unpleasant thought. The Wild West philosophy and practice of inflicting torment on the already condemned seemed to be alive and well—at least in Sylva.

  “Here’s what I’m planning,” the DA continued. “I want to call you as my first witness in the trial. I suspect it will be one of the bigger trials in our area this year. I’m expecting plenty of media coverage and interviews. I’m expecting that young attorneys from all over the western part of the state will come to see this trial. And, son, I don’t want to let them down—and I don’t want you to let me down.”

  Oh, great! A puffed-up, egotistical, self-centered media hog.Just what Ineed. I couldn’t believe it. All I could say was, “Yes, sir.”

  He kept on talking, in his slow southern drawl. “But don’t worry, son. Don’t worry. My boys will come over there and work with you a bit. We’ll get you shaped up in no time at all. There’s one thing I can promise you: I’ll make you look really good, son.” He paused. Must have been for drama. Maybe he was just practicing. “Any questions?”

  Yeah, where can I go throw up? I thought. But I continued to keep my cool, “No, sir, none at all.”

  “Well then, you have a good day, you hear?” He hung up and I felt hung out. Testify in court? I had never been in court.What would I do? What would I be asked? How would I prepare? I was in a bit of a panic—until I thought of Fred Moody, the good-natured attorney and chairman of the hospital board, whom I’d met during my interview over Eloise Newman’s delicious and welcoming lunch. I picked up the phone to call Fred.

  He had heard about the case. “In fact, Walt, I’ll be representing the accused. Judge Leatherwood wanted the best!” he said as he chuckled. I enjoyed Fred’s humor—dry and to the point, disarming and endearing. Fred always enjoyed working to help the underdog—a fact that attracted business from the entire region to his small downtown office next to Bennett’s Drug Store. “Why don’t you drop by the office today after work, and we’ll chat.”

  When I arrived at his office—its walls covered with bookshelves crammed with law books and diplomas—he immediately put me at ease. “Walt, your part will be the easiest part of the entire trial. First, the district attorney will qualify you as an expert. Walt, by now everyone in town knows about your training and expertise. Even I won’t be able to fight that motion.”

  He smiled, then continued. “Once the judge certifies you as an expert, then the DA will question you about your investigation—what you saw and what you concluded. The main fact to which he’ll want you to attest is the cause of death. Since both you and the pathologist who did the autopsy have certified that the cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head, that should be easy.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Well, then I’ll get a chance to cross-examine you, Walt.”

  I felt my eyes narrow. “What will that be like?”

  “Well, I expect I’ll be brutal. The questions will be tough and medically demanding. I’ll put you to the test, for sure.” He paused—his face serious but his eyes smiling.

  “Are you kidding?”

  Then he broke into a smile. “Yeah.”

  He became serious again. “Actually, I’ll have a lot of other work ahead of me before and during this trial. I can’t imagine that I’ll have any cross-examination of you at all.” He smiled again. My mistake was assuming it was the smile of someone who was actually on my side.

  “Now, some of my predecessors, they would have grilled you. No doubt about it.”

  “Who are you talking about, Fred?”

  “Walt, I’m just the tail end of a line of simple attorneys here in Swain County. But I tell you, there have been some mighty good ones. The older folks around the courthouse all talk about Fred Fisher. He tutored a fellow named A. J. Franklin, who was licensed to practice law in 1899. R. L. Leatherwood and A. M. Frye, who built the Fryemont Inn, had excellent reputations. Another fellow who tutored here in town before obtaining his law license was S. W. Black, who was educated by T. K. Bryson himself—who was kin to Colonel Thaddeus Dillard Bryson, the namesake of our fair village.”

  I was impressed by Fred’s command of local history.

  “So, Walt, I’m just carrying on the proud tradition of country lawyers. We don’t know a whole lot, but we try to do a whole lot of good.” He laughed. I liked Fred.

  Several weeks before the trial, two young attorneys from the district attorney’s office called. They wanted to visit me
to prepare me for trial. They covered the basics of being a witness for the state. They covered what I should wear to the trial—professional suit, not showy or gaudy or loud. They covered how I should address the jury—as a teacher and as an expert, never defensive or aloof. They instructed me in how to answer questions and how to swear in—they actually taught me how to stand and place my right hand on the Bible and how to hold my left hand and how to look the jurors in the eye as I say, “I do.” My goodness, I didn’t get this much preparation for marriage or for performing surgery.

  They spent nearly two hours rehearsing questions and answers, examination and cross-examination. They reviewed every trick question in the book, except one—one they and I should have expected but did not.

  For what seemed like an eternity, they covered detail after detail. Then, to cap off the day, they spent time reviewing the many mistakes made by other doctors in my position. Toward the end of the meeting, something came to the forefront that turned my stomach.

  “Doctor,” intoned one of the DA’s staff, “are you aware that the DA is planning to run for the state senate?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, he is considering it. And, Doctor, we’re planning this trial to be one of his showpieces for the year. It’s real important to the DA that he look good. Real good. We want to help you help him. Understand?”

  I nodded my head affirmatively, although not really sure what I might do or say in a small-town murder trial that could have anything at all to do with a race for the senate. Silly me, I thought this trial might be about justice and truth—about proving the facts. After all, one man was dead and another was on trial for his life.

  Then I found myself getting angry. Finally I lost my cool. “Gentlemen, I don’t really give a hoot about your boss’s political career. I don’t really care how he looks at this trial. I will testify honestly and forthrightly that it is my personal and professional opinion that this was a crime of passion, but not premeditated murder—certainly not worthy of the death penalty. I’ll testify about the little bit of investigation I did and I’ll testify as to the cause of death. But my role ends there. That you would even begin to think that my testimony might swing the senate race seems grandiose at best—or ludicrous at the very least. I find it highly insulting.”

  I stood to leave. They seemed stunned. “Good day.”

  I left the room. I was angry and disillusioned. I was nervous about participating in this trial, but I was determined to be prepared and do my job. If only I had known that I’d end up looking like a fool . . .

  chapter eleven

  THE TRIAL

  The day of the trial dawned; yet I had been awake for hours, wondering, What is really going to happen today? Will I seem credible and professional? Will this be one of my reputation-building moments? By 3:00 A.M. I was wide-awake. I tossed and turned for another hour, trying to rid my mind of the flurry of thoughts and concerns. Finally I just went ahead and got up.

  I had come to believe that waking up like this was just God’s special way of nudging me for a private meeting time. I had a soft reading chair that served as the repository of my derriere for these quiet times—time to read the Scriptures (listen to God’s words) and to pray (to talk to him). I had grown fond of this time and soon found it essential to my day-to-day well-being. It’s just that these times were not usually so early in the morning.

  At 6:00 A.M. it was time to take a shower and get dressed. Barb had picked out my best suit for my “day in court.” After breakfast, I crossed the street to make rounds at the hospital. Several of the nurses and Dr. Mitchell whistled when they saw me. Mitch commented, “You shore are gussied up.” Louise, never one to mince words, asked, “Someone die?” I smiled—so did she. At about 8:30, I headed to the county courthouse for the 9:00 A.M. start of court.

  The scene at the courthouse was a bit outrageous. As I drove up, my first clue that this was not the usual case in Swain County was the TV vans and the satellite truck set up in the parking lot. There was a line forming at the front door. I ducked past the line and the reporters to the side entrance used by the attorneys and staff. My new friend, Deputy Rogers, let me in the door.

  Once inside the courtroom, I saw Fred Moody sitting alone at the defendant’s desk. He was reviewing a small mountain of papers. At the prosecutor’s table was a crew of men and women in what appeared to be their Sunday-best suits—they actually looked more like stockbrokers than country attorneys. In the middle, dressed in a crisp but slightly off-white three-piece suit, was the silver-haired district attorney and senator-wanna-be. I felt like I was walking into a theater where preparations for a high-stakes performance were under way.

  One of the DA’s young staff members saw me and announced to him my arrival. Mr. Buchanan flashed his pearly white, near-perfect smile and passed through the gate in the bar to come meet me. “Welcome, Doctor, welcome. Are you ready to become a star? Son, I’m going to make you a star!” he proclaimed as he brusquely swatted me across the back. “Let me show you where I want you to sit.”

  He walked me up to a bench just behind the bar where we chatted for a few minutes. He cocked his head over to a row of seats behind the defense table, to a group of well-dressed young men, chatting together and laughing. “Know who they are?”

  “Not really.”

  “That’s a group of young attorneys from all over—Robbinsville, Murphy, Andrews, Franklin, Sylva, and Waynes-ville. Why, there’s even a couple from Asheville. They’re all here to watch the old dog at work. Let’s give them a good show, son.” He swatted my back again as the door to the chamber opened to allow the waiting crowd to enter. Quickly he was off to socialize with potential voters.

  A moment later the accused and the members of the jury entered the courtroom. The bailiff announced the entry of the judge, and we all stood as he entered. He sat down and gaveled the court to order. During the attorneys’ opening statements I found myself daydreaming a bit, feeling the lack of sleep, and then nearly nodding off several times. I was startled back to reality when I heard the DA’s booming voice declare, “Your Honor, we call as the People’s first witness Dr. Walter L. Larimore.”

  In one instant it seemed as though all of the eyes in the courtroom were on me. For a brief moment, I felt the nausea and cold sweat I’d felt the night of the murder. I stood, feeling my legs shaking a bit. As Deputy Rogers opened the gate, I passed the bar and walked briskly to the witness-box. The bailiff approached with a Bible in his hand. I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. Of course, I did this while obediently eyeing the members of the jury. I then made myself comfortable in the leather-covered witness chair.

  The DA slowly stood, smiling at the jury as he approached the witness stand. “Can you tell the jury your name?” Mr. Buchanan almost crooned.

  “Walt Larimore.”

  “And you are a medical doctor, an M.D. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And is it correct that you received your M.D. degree at the Louisiana State University School of Medicine in New Orleans, Louisiana, finishing in the top five in your class?”

  “Yes, sir. That is true.”

  “And is it true that after completing a general practice teaching fellowship at the Queen’s Medical Center in Nottingham, England, you entered and completed your family medicine residency training at the Duke University Medical Center in Durham, North Carolina? Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Duke University, the world-famous Duke University Medical Center?”

  I paused. Isn’t this going a bit overboard? I thought. Nevertheless, I responded, “Yes, sir.”

  Turning to the jury, he flashed his famous smile, then turned toward the spectators in the courtroom, continuing, “The medical university that trains some of the best physicians in the world—that Duke University?”

  Well, although this was a bit over the top, I was beginning to enjoy him. Here
was a dashing and charismatic attorney informing the attorneys of western North Carolina, the news media, and scores of curious locals about my training and qualifications. I couldn’t pay for this type of advertising. This was, I presumed, a new doctor’s dream come true.

  The DA, smiling from ear to ear, now approached the jury. “And, Dr. Larimore, is it true that you are authorized by this great state of North Carolina as a certified coroner?”

  I furrowed my brow. “Uh, no, sir, that’s not true, sir.”

  He immediately corrected his error. “Um, yes. Why yes. But is it not true that you are certified by the state of North Carolina as a medical examiner?”

  That is correct, sir,” I replied. “

  “Your Honor,” came the sharp retort from my friend, Mr. Moody, as he slowly stood to his feet.

  “Mr. Moody?” replied the somewhat startled judge.

  Fred slowly straightened his lanky frame, not nearly as expensively clad as his opponent. “Your Honor, the defense is well aware of Dr. Larimore’s copious CV. We are aware of his superlative training and his extensive experience.”

  Wow, I thought to myself, my man Fred! I basked in the sunshine of this unexpected bravado. But then, I should not have been surprised. Fred was a friend—a supporter. Why wouldn’t he want the new doctor in his hometown to look good?

  “I am aware that Mr. Buchanan desires to qualify Dr. Larimore as an expert in this case,” Fred continued. “Your Honor, I may have been born at night, but sir, I was not born last night.” He paused as the gallery chuckled. Both reporters and young attorneys were scribbling notes. And I was relishing the moment.

  “The defense not only has no objection to qualifying Dr. Larimore as an expert, sir, but it is our view that Dr. Larimore, based on his clearly documented and independently certified training and experience, may be the singularly most qualified expert to have ever appeared in this court.”