"I'm not saying you are."

"So I take it you don't really disapprove."

"No. As a matter of fact, when I think about it, it suits me fine. See, with all these weirdos you got filling up your book, I figure somebody's gonna have to play the good guy, and it's beginning to look like it'll be me."

Joe Odom's new residence was by far the grandest of the four he had occupied in the short time I'd known him. It was an ornate four-story mansion, a Second Empire chateau built by a former mayor of Savannah in 1873. It was the only house of its kind in Savannah, and it stood out. People often referred to it as "The Charles Addams House," because it had a mansard roof topped by a lacy ironwork cresting. The Hamilton-Turner House was its proper name, and it was so fine an example of its type that it was featured in A Field Guide to American Houses. A Field Guide to American Houses. Tall, paired windows opened onto elegant balconies, and a cast-iron picket fence embraced the site. All in all, the Hamilton-Turner House was so imposing and yet so fanciful a structure that pa.s.sersby often stopped in front of it for no other reason than to marvel at it. Joe was not one to let such an opportunity slip through his fingers; he posted a sign on the gate a few days after he moved in: Tall, paired windows opened onto elegant balconies, and a cast-iron picket fence embraced the site. All in all, the Hamilton-Turner House was so imposing and yet so fanciful a structure that pa.s.sersby often stopped in front of it for no other reason than to marvel at it. Joe was not one to let such an opportunity slip through his fingers; he posted a sign on the gate a few days after he moved in: PRIVATE RESIDENCE: TOURS PRIVATE RESIDENCE: TOURS 10:00 10:00 A.M. TO A.M. TO 6:00 6:00 P.M. P.M.

Knowledgeable Savannahians were taken aback by the sign, because they knew that the outside of the Hamilton-Turner House was the only part worth looking at. The interior had been gutted and cut up into apartments long ago. Joe had taken the parlor floor for himself, and it was only this portion of the house that was open for viewing. The s.p.a.ce did have tall windows with dramatic views of the square, but the once-stately progression of beautifully proportioned rooms had been sacrificed to make bathrooms, bedrooms, closets, and a kitchen. Walls had been moved and open archways filled in. And yet, because of its vastness, the parlor floor still did retain the aura of a grand piano n.o.bile. piano n.o.bile. It had old chandeliers and mantels and pier mirrors (though none were original to the house), and Joe did manage to fill the place appealingly with what was left of his own furniture plus antiques borrowed from friends or taken on consignment from local antique shops. It had old chandeliers and mantels and pier mirrors (though none were original to the house), and Joe did manage to fill the place appealingly with what was left of his own furniture plus antiques borrowed from friends or taken on consignment from local antique shops.

Joe had, in fact, created something new in Savannah: the only private house that was operating as a full-time tourist attraction. Seven other houses were also open to the public, but they were all museum houses, all important architectural specimens authentically restored and staffed by professional curators and operated on a nonprofit basis. Joe's made-over parlor floor had, in effect, gone into compet.i.tion with the museums. And he did get his share of tourists. At least fifty people would walk in off the street every day, and half a dozen or more tour buses would stop by. One busload usually stayed for lunch, and in the evenings Joe made the dining room available for private dinners by candlelight.

To help handle all this traffic, Joe hired a short, indomitably cheerful black housekeeper and stationed her at the top of the front steps in a crisp black-and-white maid's uniform. Her name was Gloria, and she had big eyes and little corkscrew curls hanging down over her forehead. Knowing that half the money she collected at the door was hers to keep, Gloria flagged down virtually everybody who came near the house. On slow days, she was not above offering a cut-rate deal-one dollar per person instead of the usual three. ("It may only be but a dollar," she would say later, "but it sure looks like a lot sittin' next to nothin'.") Gloria gave her customers a gla.s.s of lemonade and led them through the parlor floor, blinking her eyes in wonderment as she recounted the historical highlights of the house. She explained that it was the first house in Savannah to be electrified (the mayor who built it had also been head of the power company) and that it had served as the center of the city's social and cultural life in the latter part of the nineteenth century. "This house is the center of a lot of things now too," she would add with a big smile. If "Mr. Joe" happened to be home, he would play a few old standards for the guests, and then Gloria would sing the few lines she knew from "Stormy Weather" while doing a dance that resembled the hula.

Joe netted an average of $500 a week from the house, most of it in cash, which suited his needs perfectly since there was not a single bank left in Savannah that would give him a checking account. Even the bank account at Sweet Georgia Brown's had been taken out of his hands. It was now in Mandy's name, and it was her signature, not his, that appeared on all the checks made out to employees and suppliers of the bar.

Joe and Mandy were no closer to marrying. In fact, his attentions toward other women had become more frequent and more open. On several occasions Gloria found the door to Joe's bedroom locked while she was leading tours through the house. She was never at a loss for words. "Beyond this door lies the mansion's master bedroom," she would say, "and today the editors of Southern Accents Southern Accents magazine are photographing it for publication, and we cannot disturb them. So I am very sorry, but we will not be able to see this room today." Her explanation might or might not be thrown into question by the sounds of laughter and giggling on the other side of the door. magazine are photographing it for publication, and we cannot disturb them. So I am very sorry, but we will not be able to see this room today." Her explanation might or might not be thrown into question by the sounds of laughter and giggling on the other side of the door.

Mandy was aware of Joe's flirtations. "I swear Joe Odom is going to drive me into being a feminist," she said. "Two years ago if anybody had told me that, I'd a died." But Mandy began to display a new a.s.sertiveness. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the checkbook at Sweet Georgia Brown's and stationed herself at the cash register, thereby shutting off Joe's supply of easy money. So the cash flowing into Joe's pocket from the tour business provided a much-needed lifeline. But there was a hitch: It was illegal.

The Hamilton-Turner House was zoned for residential use. Private tour houses were not permitted.

Lafayette Square was a quiet, conservative corner of Savannah. It was surrounded by stately townhouses and free-standing mansions. The townhouse where the writer Flannery O'Connor had lived as a child stood catty-corner from Joe on Charlton Street. Directly across the square the magnificent Andrew Low House, a pink Italianate villa with a Greek Revival portico, sat in all its architectural and historic splendor; Juliette Gordon Low had founded the Girl Scouts of America there in 1912, and it was now the Georgia headquarters of the Colonial Dames. Of all Joe's neighbors, however, none was more reproachful a presence than the Lafayette apartment house, that monument to Joe's financial debacle of just a few years back. The Lafayette stood on the far side of the square in silent rebuke to Joe. Within its walls there were half a dozen people who had still not recovered from the shock of having their apartments foreclosed (and then having to sue to get them back) when Joe defaulted on his construction loan.

The noise and the fumes of the buses irritated the residents of Lafayette Square, but the wedding parties nearly drove them to distraction. For these affairs, Joe literally annexed the square as his own front yard. He put a Dixieland band on the portico over his front door and pitched tents in the square without bothering to obtain a permit. The square reverberated with blaring music and the shrill chatter of a hundred wedding guests milling about. "Everybody loves a wedding," said Joe, grievously miscalculating the tolerance of his neighbors. After enduring three such weddings, the neighbors formed a committee and sent a spy into the Hamilton-Turner House on a fact-finding mission.

The spy was a dowdy middle-aged woman who lived on the southside. Posing as a walk-in tourist, she entered the Hamilton-Turner House at three in the afternoon for what was supposed to have been a twenty-minute tour. She emerged two hours later with her hair frosted and spiked and her face made up to look like Cleopatra. She declared that Joe Odom was a heartthrob, that the housekeeper, Gloria, was so cute she could just eat her up, and that she did not have time to discuss it any further because she needed to rush home, change clothes, and get to Sweet Georgia Brown's in time for happy hour.

Exasperated, the committee selected a second spy, also a middle-aged woman, but this one was a bit more savvy, having been a docent in one of the museum houses. This second spy came back to report that there was a lot more going on in the Hamilton-Turner House than tours. "Joe Odom, charming as he is, seems unable to distinguish between his private and his business lives. His many friends pop in and out and mingle with the paying guests in a most familiar way. They converse, they make drinks, they raid the refrigerator, they use the telephone. Four men were playing poker in the dining room, and I could swear I saw one of them on the evening news not long ago-he was very fat, that's why I remember him-and he'd been arrested for embezzlement, or maybe it was drug-running. There was a woman curled up on a sofa sleeping off what Mr. Odom laughingly described as 'a marathon binge.' In the kitchen we came upon an extremely talkative young man giving an elderly woman a permanent wave. He had the cheek to suggest that I I should be next, that I could use a comb-out, I think it was. When you add to these activities the constant comings and goings of the tenants who live in the upstairs apartments-they must all walk through Mr. Odom's entrance hall to reach the stairway-you have an idea of the chaotic atmosphere that prevails. should be next, that I could use a comb-out, I think it was. When you add to these activities the constant comings and goings of the tenants who live in the upstairs apartments-they must all walk through Mr. Odom's entrance hall to reach the stairway-you have an idea of the chaotic atmosphere that prevails.

"Mr. Odom's tours are an out-and-out con job," the spy went on. "Three dollars is a lot to pay for a glimpse of a thrown-together apartment with no historic interest. Most of Mr. Odom's artifacts are bogus-General Oglethorpe's snuffbox and that sort of thing. Often Mr. Odom simply lapses into a parody of a real house tour. He referred to a pair of oil portraits as his 'ancestors-by-purchase,' because he said he'd found them in a flea market and they seemed to want to come home with him. The furniture is an ungainly combination of styles-some reproductions, some period pieces-almost all of it in deplorable condition. One loveseat had an overturned slop bucket in place of a missing leg. Knowing of Mr. Odom's precarious financial situation, I was not surprised that he made several allusions to the fact that everything in the house was for sale-carpets, paintings, furniture, bric-a-brac. He sang a few songs, which was pleasant enough, but he then made a blatant pitch for Sweet Georgia Brown's, fliers for which lie in stacks on every table. It seems clear that this whole tawdry enterprise is nothing but a promotional come-on for Mr. Odom's nightclub. By contrast, the museum houses give far greater educational value, and the fees they collect are used for the worthwhile purpose of maintaining important remnants of Savannah's heritage. Mr. Odom's tours merely cheapen the concept."

Shortly after this visitation, the Department of Inspections notified Joe by certified letter that the tour business at the Hamilton-Turner House violated the zoning code and must cease immediately.

Joe ignored the order. "The best response is always no response," he said. "It buys you two or three months' breathing time, six if you're lucky." In the meantime, he quietly persuaded friends on the Metropolitan Planning Commission to propose a zoning amendment allowing private tour houses. When the Downtown Neighborhood a.s.sociation got wind of it, they voted to oppose it, and the amendment went down to defeat. A few weeks later-the day before the St. Patrick's Day parade-the Department of Inspections again ordered Joe to stop the tours at once or face legal action. This time the Savannah Morning News Savannah Morning News picked up the story. Joe's breathing time, it seemed, was over. picked up the story. Joe's breathing time, it seemed, was over.

The wagon carrying the dead Union soldier turned the corner and continued up Abercorn Street.

"I don't know, Joe," I said. "I get the feeling you might end up in that wagon before I do."

"Now, don't you start frettin' about your friend Joe," he said.

"You're going to obey the court order, aren't you?"

"Me? The Host of Savannah? Close my doors? It's not my nature to be antisocial. Goes against my grain. Besides, I'm getting filthy rich being so hospitable. I'd have to be crazy to become unfriendly all of a sudden." Joe looked out over the square, scanning the buildings ranged around him as if they were enemy fortifications. "I have a plan."

"What is it?"

"I thought I'd enlist the help of some of your new friends. That Minerva woman, for instance. I thought we might drive over to Beaufort around midnight and have a little chat with her. See if she'll cast a spell on some of the folks who want to shut me down. Or maybe we could get your buddy Luther Driggers to poison 'em. Or your pal Jim Williams to shoot 'em ... in self-defense, of course."

"Poor taste," I said.

"No good, huh? Well, I have another idea. I really do, and this one is serious. Come on downstairs. I'll show you what I mean."

Joe worked his way down the stairs shaking hands and calling out greetings. Parade-watching parties were in full swing on every floor of the house. Friends shouted expressions of support. "Keep up the fight, Joe!" "Don't let 'em close you down." "h.e.l.l with 'em, Joe, they ain't got no right." And Joe told them again and again, "Don't worry. We're staying open. We're staying open."

The crush of people on the parlor floor was so dense it was difficult to make our way through it. This was the first time Joe had lived in a house on the actual parade route, and as a result his St. Patrick's Day party was an even bigger draw than usual. In the midst of it, Gloria, the housekeeper, was gamely showing tourists through the house at three dollars a head, perhaps for the last time. Three middle-aged couples stood cl.u.s.tered around her, cupping their ears in order to hear her over the din of the jostling crowd. "In the olden days," Gloria was saying, "the ladies used to sit by this fireplace shielding their faces behind these beaded heat screens. You see, in those days, ladies' makeup was made out of wax, and if it got too hot it would run down their pretty faces ...."

Joe led me into a small, cluttered room at the rear of the house. He took a sheaf of papers out of a desk drawer. "Now, here's my plan," he said. "I've had to come out of retirement to draft it-had to put on my lawyer's hat. Anyhow, tomorrow morning I will go over to the courthouse and dump this legal rigmarole in their lap." He handed me the papers. They were the incorporation doc.u.ments for "The Hamilton-Turner Museum Foundation," which was described as "a nonprofit corporation whose purpose will be to restore the interior of the Hamilton-Turner House through proceeds generated by a private, not-forprofit tour business on the premises-Joseph A. Odom, president."

"So that's it, plain and simple," he said. "After we deduct salaries and expenses, I can't say there will be any proceeds. But at least we won't be in violation of any zoning code. As of tomorrow morning, the Hamilton-Turner House will not be a private house; it will be a museum. So, if they still want to close me down, they'll have to close the others too."

"Do you think it will work?" I asked.

"It'll work until they figure out how to get around it. But by the time they do, I reckon it won't matter because I'll be rich and famous as the hero of your book."

At that moment, appropriately enough, a flourish of trumpets and a crash of cymbals was heard from the pa.s.sing parade.

Chapter 20.

SONNY.

Two weeks before his second trial was to begin, Jim Williams stood in the street outside his antiques shop watching three men unload a heavy piece of furniture from a large van.

"Easy now," he said. They were lowering a carved sideboard. "Up a little on the right."

"How's it going?" I asked.

"Business as usual," he said.

"I mean that other bit of business."

"My trial? I haven't the vaguest idea. I leave all that to my lawyers. To me it's a giant bore. Now that that interests me." Williams nodded at the sideboard. "That's a very rare example of Georgian furniture. Black walnut. Early nineteenth century. The Regency details are extremely unusual. I've never seen anything like it before." interests me." Williams nodded at the sideboard. "That's a very rare example of Georgian furniture. Black walnut. Early nineteenth century. The Regency details are extremely unusual. I've never seen anything like it before."

He spoke as if the furniture coming off the truck was his sole concern. In fact, the defense arrangements for his upcoming retrial had been in turmoil only a few weeks earlier, necessitating a change of lawyers. Bobby Lee Cook, for all his guile and resourcefulness, had not been able to free himself from a conflict in court dates. He was committed to represent another client in a federal case, and the federal calendar always took precedence over state-level cases. Williams, suddenly finding himself without a lawyer, turned to Frank "Sonny" Seiler, a prominent Savannah attorney and a partner in the law firm of Bouhan, Williams and Levy. Seiler was already involved in the case peripherally, having been retained by Williams in his defense against the $10 million civil suit brought by Hansford's mother. That suit would come to trial once the criminal case was settled. Now, in Cook's absence, Williams asked Seiler to take over the criminal case as well.

At fifty, Sonny Seiler enjoyed a position of considerable stature within the Georgia legal community. He was past president of the State Bar of Georgia. He was listed in the book The Best Lawyers in America The Best Lawyers in America as one of the top civil litigators in the country. He was also a native Savannahian, and that was a major plus for Williams. Juries, especially Savannah juries, were instinctively suspicious of out-of-town lawyers. Bobby Lee Cook had been from Summerville, Georgia, a hundred miles north of Atlanta, far enough away to make him a foreigner in Savannah. Seiler was not only homegrown, he had earned a place in Savannah lore. Thirty years earlier, at the age of twenty-two, he had dived into the Savannah River at the foot of East Broad Street and swum eighteen miles out to Tybee in six hours against rough water and the threat of a hurricane. as one of the top civil litigators in the country. He was also a native Savannahian, and that was a major plus for Williams. Juries, especially Savannah juries, were instinctively suspicious of out-of-town lawyers. Bobby Lee Cook had been from Summerville, Georgia, a hundred miles north of Atlanta, far enough away to make him a foreigner in Savannah. Seiler was not only homegrown, he had earned a place in Savannah lore. Thirty years earlier, at the age of twenty-two, he had dived into the Savannah River at the foot of East Broad Street and swum eighteen miles out to Tybee in six hours against rough water and the threat of a hurricane.

"Sonny Seiler's been busily at work on my case," said Williams. "He calls to tell me about it, but I only half listen. He sends me letters, but I just scan them. If you think it would amuse you, go see him yourself and let him explain it to you. Then you can tell me, in a few well-chosen words, how you think my case is going. It'll save me the trouble. His office is right around the corner in Armstrong House, that big gray mansion I used to own at Bull and Gaston. I'll tell him to talk to you. Just make sure you see him after five o'clock. Any earlier would be during office hours, and he'd probably bill me at his hourly rate. I've come to know the ways of lawyers." The corners of Williams's mouth drew downward. "Tell him to give my best to ugh-uh." ugh-uh."

"Ugh-uh?"

"U-G-A. Uga. Uga's a big white bulldog. He's the University of Georgia mascot. Sonny Seiler is the proud owner." Williams said this with a disdainful look. "Sonny is very gung-ho. He's the university's number-one football fan. He's owned the school's mascot since he was in law school in the nineteen-fifties. The current Uga is the fourth in the Uga dynasty. Twenty-five years of Ugas and football. Sonny drives Uga up to Athens for all the home games in a big Georgia-red station wagon. The license plate reads 'UGA IV.'"

The entrance hall of Armstrong House was a cavernous s.p.a.ce with marble floors and a baronial fireplace. A full-length oil portrait of a British n.o.bleman in a crimson cape dominated one wall. Beneath it, old Mr. Glover, the porter, sat sleeping in an armchair. A receptionist at the foot of a sweeping stairway whispered that I should go right on up.

Sonny Seiler's office was a large, elegant room that had once served as the mansion's master bedroom. Tall French windows looked out across Bull Street toward the Oglethorpe Club. On the walls, where one might have expected to find portraits of the firm's founders, there were portraits of Uga I, Uga II, and Uga III. Each of the bulldogs wore a bright red football jersey over ma.s.sive shoulders; a black G G for Georgia was centered on the dog's chest. Seiler was sitting at his desk in a white short-sleeved shirt. He was solidly built and had big shoulders. When I came in, he bounded up from his chair like a halfback breaking out of a huddle. We shook hands. He wore a ring big enough to be bra.s.s knuckles. It sparkled with two rows of diamonds that spelled out in big block letters for Georgia was centered on the dog's chest. Seiler was sitting at his desk in a white short-sleeved shirt. He was solidly built and had big shoulders. When I came in, he bounded up from his chair like a halfback breaking out of a huddle. We shook hands. He wore a ring big enough to be bra.s.s knuckles. It sparkled with two rows of diamonds that spelled out in big block letters GEORGIA-NATIONAL CHAMPIONS GEORGIA-NATIONAL CHAMPIONS-1980. I sat down across the desk. It was quarter to six, but I got right to the point, thinking Seiler might have the clock running anyhow.

"Will your approach to this trial be any different from the first one?" I asked.

"h.e.l.l, yes," he said. "We're gonna have a whole new game plan. The biggest mistake the defense made in the first trial was not facing the h.o.m.os.e.xual issue head-on. Bobby Lee Cook thought he had an agreement to keep it out of the trial altogether, so he settled for a jury of old-maid schoolteachers and it was a disaster. He was double-crossed when the judge allowed those two punk friends of Hansford's to testify about Jim and Danny having s.e.x. So I sat Jim down and said, 'Look, we can't make that mistake again. If we do, Lawton will bring those guys back and send the jury into orbit the way he did last time. You've got to come right out with it yourself this time, in your own words. in your own words. Phrase it gently and get the shock of it over.' Well, Jim was dead set against it. He flatly refused, said absolutely not. He said he'd never expose his mother to that kind of talk. So I said, 'For G.o.d's sake, Jim, she was sitting right there during the first trial! She's already heard it!' 'Not from me, she hasn't,' he said. So I thought a minute and I said, 'How about if your mother is Phrase it gently and get the shock of it over.' Well, Jim was dead set against it. He flatly refused, said absolutely not. He said he'd never expose his mother to that kind of talk. So I said, 'For G.o.d's sake, Jim, she was sitting right there during the first trial! She's already heard it!' 'Not from me, she hasn't,' he said. So I thought a minute and I said, 'How about if your mother is not not in the courtroom when you testify? Then she won't hear it from you.' Jim finally came around. He agreed to do it. I told him not to worry, we'll back him up by picking a jury that's not biased against h.o.m.os.e.xuals." in the courtroom when you testify? Then she won't hear it from you.' Jim finally came around. He agreed to do it. I told him not to worry, we'll back him up by picking a jury that's not biased against h.o.m.os.e.xuals."

"How do you plan to do that?" I asked.

Seiler leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk. "Well, Coach, this is what we're gonna do. When we interview prospective jurors, we're gonna ask 'em, 'Would you have a problem if you learned that a defendant was a h.o.m.os.e.xual?' They'll all say, 'Oh, no! No problem at all.' Then we'll ask 'em, 'Would you want a h.o.m.os.e.xual teaching your children at school?' Right there, we'll trap a lot of 'em: 'Well ... no,' they'll say, 'I wouldn't want that,' and we'll strike those people for cause. If they slip past that question, we'll hit 'em with 'Are there any h.o.m.os.e.xuals in your church?' Then: 'Would you mind if your minister was a h.o.m.os.e.xual?' If there's any bias, we'll dig it out sooner or later."

Seiler was not interested in seeking a change of venue. "We might be very sorry if we got it," he said. "There's no telling where we'd end up tryin' this case. We'd have no control over it. We could find ourselves in Ware County." He rolled his eyes. "All they got there are a bunch of d.a.m.n rednecks. I mean, h.e.l.l, people over there think it's a sin to have s.e.x with the lights on. They'd lynch Jim before they ever got around to convicting him. So I think we're better off right here in Savannah. The D.A.'s case isn't as strong as he makes it out to be, and it's gettin' weaker all the time."

"How?" I ventured to ask.

"Well, I'll tell ya. Lawton likes to talk about the 'overwhelming' physical evidence against Jim. That's bulls.h.i.t. He's got two pet theories: the gunshot-residue theory and the coup de grace theory. He claims the absence of gunshot residue on Danny's hands proves he didn't fire a gun, and he says Danny was lying on the floor when Jim shot him in the back. Well, we've come up with brand-new evidence that knocks h.e.l.l out of both those arguments. I don't mind telling you what we've got, 'Cause we've had to share it all with the D.A.

"Last month, we got a court order that allowed us to have our own experts conduct laboratory tests on the two German Lugers-Jim's and Danny's-and the shirt that Danny was wearing. We lined up one of the top forensic pathologists in the country to do the tests, Dr. Irving Stone of the Inst.i.tute for Forensic Sciences in Dallas. He's the guy who a.n.a.lyzed the clothing worn by President Kennedy and Governor Connally for the congressional committee that reexamined the Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination. In other words, he's no slouch.

"Now, we were stickin' our neck out, 'Cause we didn't know whether Stone's findings would help us or hurt us, and we were under court order to give the results to Lawton. In fact, the D.A. sent his man with us to Dallas-Dr. Larry Howard, the director of the Georgia Crime Lab. Ol' Doc Howard carried the guns and the shirt down there.

"Well, when Dr. Stone stepped up to test-fire Danny's pistol, something unexpected happened. It wouldn't fire. At first, Stone thought the safety was on. But it turned out that the trouble was that the gun had an unusually heavy trigger pull-twenty pounds. A normal trigger pull is four to six pounds. Stone had to squeeze hard to pull the trigger, and as he did, the gun jerked around drastically. Right there we had an unlooked-for explanation for why Danny missed Jim and shot into the desk. It was a bonus. It just fell into our lap.

"Then Dr. Stone went ahead and tested the gun to see if it was consistent in the way it threw off gunpowder. Get this: Stone found that when he held Danny's gun in a downward angle and fired it, as Danny would have, the gunshot residue was diminished by more than half. Not only that, the gun was erratic in the amount of residue it threw off! Well, ol' Doc Howard was breathin' heavy right about now.

"Then Dr. Stone ran an a.n.a.lysis of Danny's shirt. h.e.l.l, there wasn't any gunpowder on it at all! According to Stone, that proves Jim had to be standing at least four feet away from Danny, because that's how far Jim's gun ejects debris out the front of the barrel. Stone says that means there's no way Jim could have come around the desk to fire the last two shots, because there'd be gunpowder on Danny's shirt if he had. So much for Lawton's coup de grace theory. I thought ol' Doc Howard was gonna pa.s.s out."

Seiler pulled a manila envelope out of his desk drawer. "Now, I'm gonna show you a little surprise we have in store for Lawton. After the police got to Jim's house, they photographed the room where the shooting took place. Those pictures showed all sorts of supposedly incriminating details. Right? A chair leg on Danny Hansford's trousers, particles of paper on top of the gun on the desk, smeared blood on Danny's wrist. Bad stuff. Lawton introduced about twenty photographs in the first trial, but the police photographer testified she took five rolls. five rolls. That means there were over a hundred pictures we hadn't seen. A couple weeks ago we asked to have a look at the rest of them. We didn't know what we were looking for, and frankly we didn't think we'd find anything. That means there were over a hundred pictures we hadn't seen. A couple weeks ago we asked to have a look at the rest of them. We didn't know what we were looking for, and frankly we didn't think we'd find anything.

"Well, we got the full set of photographs a couple of days ago. Okay. Now, look at this one."

Seiler handed me a photograph showing the chair behind Williams's desk. A leather pouch lay on the carpet against a leg of the chair.

"Now compare that photograph ... with this one." In the second shot, the leather pouch was no longer touching the chair leg; it was several inches away. "You can tell from the designs in the carpet that both the chair and the leather pouch have been moved. I don't know who moved them or why, but n.o.body is supposed to touch anything at the scene of an alleged crime until photography is completed and measurements are taken. If the police do move anything, they're required to photograph it actually being moved, and they didn't. When we looked through the rest of the pictures, this is the sort of thing we found."

Seiler laid out several other photographs showing objects on the top of Williams's desk. "Notice the position of the pink box, here ... and here." The pink box, too, had been moved. So had a copy of TV Guide TV Guide, a stack of envelopes, rolls of paper, and a telephone directory.

"When you look at all the pictures-and not just the twenty the D.A. used for the first trial-you can see that things were being shuffled around all over the place. That means the scene of the shooting was never properly secured. There's not supposed to be anybody in the room when the police photographer is shooting pictures, but just look at these photographs: You can see feet, arms, legs, civilian shoes, uniform shoes, black shoes, felt shoes. The police were swarming all over the house that night. It was a convention. And now we discover they were moving the evidence. That's crazy. It violates rudimentary police procedure. What's more, it taints all the evidence in the room!" it taints all the evidence in the room!"

Seiler beamed. "I tell ya, we're in good shape. The only thing out of our control is Jim's arrogance on the witness stand. But h.e.l.l, we ain't never gonna get around that. We're just gonna have to live with it."

Seiler tilted back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. "Lawton's in trouble, but it's his own fault. He made a terrible blunder playing keep-away with the evidence in the first trial. Lawton's articulate and smart, no question. But he doesn't have the experience a D.A. oughta have. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I've been practicing law for twenty-five years, been in court dozens and dozens of times. Spencer Lawton hasn't handled but two court cases in his life-the Rangers case and Jim's first trial-and he hasn't won one yet, now that Jim's conviction has been reversed. He's anxious and he's green, and we're gonna take advantage of that. We've been keeping the pressure on him, swamping him with pre-trial motions, distracting him with details. There's nothing we can do about the horrendous publicity, of course, but this time we're gonna sequester the jury to shield them from it. I hate to do it to 'em, but we'll try to speed things up a little by having Sat.u.r.day sessions in court." Seiler shook his head. "Right in the middle of football season too. That oughta prove I didn't make the decision lightly. I've been to every Georgia home game for the last twenty-five years. I figure I'll miss at least one game, maybe two this year because of the trial. But we'll be at the opener against UCLA this Sat.u.r.day."

"You and Uga?"

"Yup," said Seiler. "Ever seen Uga?"

"No, but I've heard about him."

"People love love Uga!" he said. "He's the most famous animal in Georgia!" Seiler gestured toward a bank of file cabinets next to his desk. "That whole thing is full of nothing but Uga." He began rolling out the drawers. They were crammed with clippings, photographs, posters, letters. Uga!" he said. "He's the most famous animal in Georgia!" Seiler gestured toward a bank of file cabinets next to his desk. "That whole thing is full of nothing but Uga." He began rolling out the drawers. They were crammed with clippings, photographs, posters, letters.

"Last year, Uga went to the Heisman Trophy award dinner in New York," he said. "Did you hear about that? Here, look." Seiler pulled out an AP Wirephoto of himself and Uga IV with Herschel Walker, the Georgia halfback who had won the Heisman Trophy that year. The three of them, the dog included, were wearing black tie. "Uga's the only dog ever to be invited to a Heisman dinner," he said brightly.

He continued wading through the files. "Uga's correspondence is amazing. When he had an operation on his knee, he got hundreds hundreds of get-well cards from all over the country. There's a file of them somewhere in here. He even got a card from Mike the Tiger." of get-well cards from all over the country. There's a file of them somewhere in here. He even got a card from Mike the Tiger."

"Who's Mike the Tiger?" I asked.

Seiler looked up from the cabinet, surprised at my ignorance. "LSU," he said. He pressed the intercom. "Betty, you got that file with Uga's get-well cards? I cain't find it."

Seiler's secretary came into the room with a worried look. "It should be in there, Sonny," she said. She opened another drawer and looked through it. Then she left the room. Seiler went on rummaging, thoroughly engrossed. Meanwhile, I glanced around the room. A life-size porcelain bulldog lounged on the hearth. Above it, a procession of carved bulldogs prowled across the mantelpiece in bas-relief. Scattered here and there were other objects of bulldogiana-framed snapshots, a bra.s.s paperweight, figurines, needlepoint pillows. Betty came back into the room.

"I think this is it, Sonny," she said. She gave him a file labeled "Knee Injury." Scores of cards and letters fell out onto the desk. Seiler began to paw through them.

"Here it is," he said. "Mike the Tiger. And here's one from the Boston College Eagle ... the Kentucky Wildcat ... Mrs. Willingham's fourth-grade cla.s.s in Macon." Some of the letters ran to several pages. Seiler held up a handful.

"I tell ya, Uga's a phenomenon. Uga III even made it into The Animals' Who's Who. The Animals' Who's Who. He was the mascot when we won the national championship a couple years ago." He was the mascot when we won the national championship a couple years ago."

Seiler went over to the bookshelf and took down the book. Indeed, Uga III was immortalized in it, along with Rin Tin Tin, Man o' War, Moby d.i.c.k, Toto, and The White Rabbit. I put the book down on Seiler's desk, which was now awash in Uga memorabilia.

"You know," said Seiler, looking up from the pile, "you oughta try to make it up to Athens this weekend. We're playing UCLA. Oughta see at least one game while you're here. If you do, come on by the hotel suite around noon. We always have a little gathering before the game. That's when Uga gets dressed."

On Sat.u.r.day morning, traffic flowed north toward Athens with the exuberance of a cavalry charge. Red-and-black pennants fluttered from aerials. Homemade signs flashed messages of common cause: GO BULLDOGS! BEAT UCLA! HOW 'BOUT THEM DAWGS! GO BULLDOGS! BEAT UCLA! HOW 'BOUT THEM DAWGS!

At noon, a dozen guests were gathered in Sonny Seiler's hotel suite. A radio on the dresser was tuned to a pregame call-in question-and-answer show. Seiler sat on the edge of the bed talking on the telephone. He wore a red sweater, black slacks, and a white baseball cap inscribed with the letter G. He was shouting into the receiver.

"That you, Remer? Can you hear me? We all up here listenin' to the d.a.m.n talk show, but you ain't called in yet! ... They got a bunch a crackers callin' in. Huh? Oh, h.e.l.l, they just askin' dumb questions like, 'When do we wear white pants and when do we wear red?' and 'How many conference games has Georgia lost in red trousers?' You gonna call in? ... It's that 800 number I gave you. You got it? ... Okay, Coach, we'll be listenin' for ya."

Sonny got up from the bed. "That was Remer Lane. He's back in Savannah. Gonna call that radio show with a question about Uga." At this moment, Uga himself was reclining on a blanket in the shower stall, an enormous heap of furry white wrinkles surrounded by a cl.u.s.ter of admirers including Seiler's daughter, Swann. "Hey, baby, hey, sweetie," a woman cooed. "You gonna pull us through today, Sugar?"

Sonny went to a makeshift bar on the dresser and poured several drinks. "I tell ya," he said, "I got every bit of faith in this team. We gonna have another winning season, but I sure do miss Herschel."

"Amen," said a man in a red blazer. Herschel Walker had played his last season the previous year and was now a rookie with the New Jersey Generals.

"We'll do okay," another man said, "but I'm already beginning to sweat the Florida game. Not the outcome of the game, mind you. The tickets. Everybody wants tickets. I'm usually pretty good at finding 'em, and everybody and his brother seems to know that. But I mean, Jesus, it's only September and it's already started."

"September!" said a tall man in a red-and-black windbreaker. "My phone usually starts ringing around the middle of July, and that's no exaggeration. Then come August, it really heats up. I get phone calls, I get interoffice memos, I get telegrams, I get letters. I'm the most popular man in Georgia when it comes to the Georgia-Florida game."

Most of the men in the room were well-connected football fans, and now they traded stories about getting tickets for friends. "Hey, Sonny!" one of them called out. "What about that Williams murder case? You figure you're gonna win it?"

Seiler looked at the man. "Is Georgia gonna beat UCLA?" Georgia was heavily favored. "I tell ya, Coach," said Seiler, "don't go placing any bets against us yet. We got a couple of surprises up our sleeve. New evidence, a couple of new witnesses. It's gonna be a ... Oh, wait! wait! There it is!" Seiler reached over and turned up the volume on the radio. There it is!" Seiler reached over and turned up the volume on the radio.

"...of course, Uga has a big appet.i.te," the announcer was saying, the announcer was saying, "and our caller from Savannah wants to know: 'What brand of dog food does Uga eat?'" "and our caller from Savannah wants to know: 'What brand of dog food does Uga eat?'"

"Attaboy, Remer!" said Seiler. Everyone in the room knew the answer: Jim Dandy dog ration. Uga not only ate Jim Dandy dog ration, but he officially endorsed it too. Plastic cups were raised in a toast to Uga IV and Jim Dandy. Swann Seiler poked her head in the door. "Daddy, it's time to dress Uga."