“Is that a question?”
“I believe it is, yes.”
Noll started laughing and looked at the jurors, most of whom were ready to join him. “Mr. Graebel, are you asking me if we serve alcoholic beverages at Foxy’s? Because if you are, then the answer is yes.”
“And that’s illegal, right?”
Noll smiled and raised both hands. “Go talk to my boss, okay? I don’t own the place and I don’t serve drinks. You got me on trial for murder, ain’t that serious enough?”
Several of the male jurors laughed out loud, which caused Noll to start chuckling again. The humor spread instantly and dozens of spectators joined in the fun.
Poor young Pat Graebel stood at the podium, the butt of the joke, the fool of the hour, the hotshot prosecutor whose case had vanished into thin air.
Two hours later, the jurors filed back into the courtroom. Most appeared to be amused by the process. The trial had turned into a travesty. All twelve voted “not guilty” and Nevin Noll beat his first rap.
Chapter 12
Keith was in right field, half asleep, one eye on the fireflies twinkling in the semidarkness, the other on the action far away. The bases were loaded, the pitcher was in trouble, and no one cared. The game meant nothing. It was a meaningless tournament that was intended to draw teams from along the Coast, but most had backed out. The winner would advance to nowhere. The American Legion season was over and the boys were tired of playing. The parents, evidently, were also weary because the stands were empty, with only a few bored girlfriends gossiping and ignoring the game.
A horn honked in the parking lot and Keith waved at his gang. The car was a brand-new 1963 Pontiac Grand Prix, candy-apple red, convertible, perhaps the coolest car in Biloxi at the moment. Its driver was Hugh Malco, and the occasion had been his sixteenth birthday. His father had surprised him with the car, and the boys, all of whom were still driving old family sedans, when they were lucky, had never seen a finer gift. Of course they were envious, but they were also thrilled to be cruising the streets in such style. Hugh seemed determined to wear out the 12,000-mile warranty in the first two months. He always had money for gas, cash he earned working for his father, and also a generous allowance.
And he had plenty of time on his hands. He had given up baseball and the other team sports, and for fun trained in Buster’s Gym three days a week. He boxed in tournaments around the state and lost as many as he won, but he loved the thrill of the fight. He was also proud of the fact that he was in the ring and his friends were not. They cheered him on, but they didn’t have the guts to put on the gloves.
A lazy pop foul drifted down the right field line and Keith took it in stride for the final out. Ten minutes later, he was in the rear seat of the Grand Prix and they were off to the marina. Hugh was behind the wheel, driving with more caution since his second speeding ticket the week before. Riding shotgun was Denny Smith, who was in charge of the beer cooler. Next to Keith in the back was Joey Grasich, another kid from Point Cadet who had started the first grade with Hugh and Keith. Joey’s father was a charter captain who fished for a living. He owned several boats, including the twenty-five-foot Carolina Skiff the boys were borrowing for the trip. All parents had signed off on the adventure—an overnight camping excursion to Ship Island.
They unloaded the trunk of the Grand Prix and piled their gear and coolers onto the boat. Hugh hated to leave his new car in the lot at the marina but had no choice. He admired it, wiped a smudge of dirt off the rear bumper, then locked it and bounded down the dock and jumped onto the skiff that was pulling away. The harbormaster whistled at Joey and told him to slow down. He did so as they opened another round of canned Schlitz. They were soon in the Mississippi Sound and the lights of the town were fading behind them.
Ship Island was a narrow slice of land thirteen miles away. It was a barrier island that took the brunt of the many hurricanes that hammered the Coast, but between storms it was popular with campers and day-trippers. On the weekends, families boated out for long picnics. Ferries ran excursions for tourists and locals. Teenagers sneaked away for adolescent games and bad behavior. Soldiers were known to spend drunken weekends on the island, parties that constantly drew complaints.