biloxi district attorney targeted
Memphis Commercial Appeal:
crusading d.a. killed in biloxi
Atlanta Constitution:
famed prosecutor, jesse rudy, dead at 52
Gage Pettigrew collected the morning newspapers from various shops along the Coast and took them to the Rudy home at dawn on Saturday. The house was dark, quiet, and mournful. The neighbors, reporters, and curious had yet to appear. Gene Pettigrew was guarding the front porch, napping in a wicker rocker, waiting for his brother. They went inside, locked the door, and made coffee in the kitchen.
Keith heard them stirring. On the worst night of his life, he had stayed in his parents’ bedroom, sleeping fitfully in a chair, watching his mother and praying for her. Laura was on one side, Beverly the other, Ainsley slept upstairs.
He eased from the dark room and went to the kitchen. It was almost 7:00 a.m., Saturday, August 21, the beginning of the second-worst day of his life. He sat at the table with Gage and Gene, drank coffee, and stared at the headlines, but had no desire to look at the newspapers. He knew the stories. Beside Gene’s coffee cup was a yellow legal pad, and they finally got around to it. Gene said, “You have some pressing matters.”
“Just shoot me,” Keith mumbled.
“Sorry.” Gage clicked off the most urgent: a meeting with Father Norris, their priest at St. Michael’s; a dreaded chat with the funeral home over arrangements; at least two dozen phone calls to important people, including some judges, politicians, and former governor Bill Waller; a meeting with the FBI and state police for an update on whatever they knew about the bombing; the preparation of a statement for the press; the matter of fetching Tim from the airport in New Orleans.
“That’s enough,” Keith said as he sipped coffee he couldn’t taste and gazed at a window. Laura entered the kitchen and sat at the table without a word, as if in another world. Her eyes were swollen and red, and she looked as though she had not slept in days.
“How’s Mom?” Keith asked.
“In the shower,” she replied.
After a long, heavy, silent gap, Gene said, “You guys have to be hungry. What if I go find some breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry,” Keith said.
“Where’s Dad right now?” Laura asked.
Gage replied, “He’s at the hospital, in the morgue.”
“I want to see him.”
Gage and Gene looked at each other. Keith said, “We can’t do that. The police said it’s a bad idea. After the autopsy, the casket will remain closed.”
She bit a lip and wiped her eyes.
Keith said to Gene, “Breakfast might work. We need to shower and dress and talk about receiving guests.”
Laura said, “I don’t want to see anyone.”
“Nor do I but we have no choice. I’ll talk to Mom. We can’t sit around and cry all day.”
“That’s what I plan to do, Keith, and you need to cry too. Drop all the stoic stuff.”
“Don’t worry.”
* * *
Henry Taylor, the man with no name, suffered the indignity of relieving himself into a bedpan and being wiped by a hospital orderly. His shattered left tibia throbbed in pain, but he was still determined to get out of bed at the first chance and somehow make an escape. When he complained of discomfort, a nurse injected a heavy dose of something into his IV and he floated away. He awoke to the smiling face of a very pretty nurse who wanted to ask him some questions. He feigned semi-consciousness and asked for a phone directory. When she returned an hour later she brought him some chocolate ice cream and flattered him with a round of light flirting. She explained that the hospital administrator was insisting that she gather some basic information so they could bill him properly.