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    Quitman County Prison
    Quitman County Prison
    Quitman County Prison
    Ebook61 pages1 hour

    Quitman County Prison

    By Rushton Woodside

    ()

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    About this ebook

    In a minimalist style reminiscent of Hemingway and a voice like Sam Spade, investigative journalist Alan Meriwether narrates a story from his files.

    In 1977 in rural South Georgia an interview with a convicted arsonist and murderer leads to a personal and highly dangerous vendetta to prove the innocence of the mentally challenged young convict. Others try to stop Meriwether at any cost.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRushton Woodside
    Release dateDec 30, 2010
    ISBN9781458117496
    Quitman County Prison
    Author

    Rushton Woodside

    Born right at the mid-twentieth century point in Atlanta, still a sleepy southern city at that time. My mother's bookcase was filled with classics and I read them all before I was twelve, and re-read many. Steinbeck, Faulkner, Hemmingway and the like. For most of my life I have always had an active book going, if not two or three. Favorite types of books to read: Almost any genre of fiction, almost any non-fiction. I've travelled the country as a truck driver and as a rambler, and met thousands of people in thousands of circumstances. I've held dozens of jobs, from digging holes to making technical presentations in Board-rooms. I wrote a lot of poetry and songs as a teen. After a successful eight years writing computer programs and technical documentation I entered book retail, and stayed there for nearly twenty years. I read good books to know how to write, and read bad books on purpose to know how not to write. I completed my first novel in 2004 and it was published locally with great success. It was then that I got serious and studied many books on the craft, and began writing as often as possible. My seventh book is now in progress.

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      Book preview

      Quitman County Prison - Rushton Woodside

      Quitman County Prison

      By: Rushton Woodside

      Copyright (c) 2010 Rushton Woodside.

      This edition published by Smashwords.

      All rights reserved, no portions of this book may be reproduced in any manner, either electronic or physical, without written permission of the author. I hereby authorize Smashwords and its affiliates only to distribute this work electronically.

      Cover design, layout and setup (c) 2010 Rushton Woodside.

      Discover other titles by Rushton Woodside at Smashwords.com

      Generations http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/23526

      Sarasota Bay http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/21446

      Panther Run http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/21583

      Cowgirl Blues http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/21787

      Every person and event that follows is fictional

      (Atlanta Journal-Constitution - June 12th 1977)

      SHORTEST MURDER TRIAL IN STATE HISTORY

      On June sixth Benjamin Grogan was sentenced to die in the electric chair in what was the shortest murder trial on record in Georgia. In just over two hours he was convicted of arson and murder in the first degree. He faced charges of burning the Kilpatrick Sawmill in Quitman County Georgia and the resultant death of an Alabama woman.

      Grogan will be the first person to be sentenced to Capital Punishment in the state of Georgia since the recent reinstatement of the law. Found in the burned-out shell of his truck at the scene was the body of Ernestine Slack, a resident of Eufaula Alabama. The body was beyond recognition but identified by family through jewelry and a poorly set broken bone in her left leg. She had been missing for three days at the time of the fire. Though unmarried, she was found to have been several months pregnant. Grogan was passed out from alcohol consumption on the scene, with an empty gas can by his side.

      Entering Quitman County - August 1977

      The rain kept coming down at a consistent sixty-degree angle from my left, sounding like marbles thrown relentlessly onto the roof of my car. A late September tropical storm was hammering Savannah and I was suffering the consequences over a hundred miles away.

      Quitman County Georgia lay southwest of Atlanta, about halfway to Florida right across the Chattahoochee River from Alabama. The population as of 1970 was a little over two thousand people occupying eighteen thousand square miles. If averaged out, each occupant would have had about thirty acres to call home. But most of them were in the two towns there. That's about all I knew.

      After bypassing Columbus and skirting the Army base the highway had deteriorated rapidly just as the storm came in. The scrub pines and low rolling hills became a blur, nearly invisible.

      There had been no attempt at grading, just concrete hurriedly poured on existing red clay roads that had probably been more heavily traveled when they were Indian paths. The highway fought me for every mile. Potholes everywhere. Tree branches downed by the gusty wind.

      Hell of a spot to have a flat tire. I drove slowly afterwards with no spare left.

      The sign at the county limit was a joke, old and decorated with rust-lined bullet holes. It had obviously been driven over more than once and then bent back up into a semblance of authority.

      No buildings or side roads. No lights anywhere. Even with the heavy rain I could taste the fishy smell of the river along with a hint of sulfur water. The windshield of my old Ford wagon was fogging, but not just with moisture. I swiped it with my shirt cuff and created a terrible smear. The unsteady flip-flop of the vacuum operated wipers became my world. There was one oval area through which I could see the road, but I had to tilt my head from side to side and follow the wiper blade to catch the brief moments of clarity. After somewhere about forever, I finally saw a faint light on the horizon and hoped it was Georgetown, the county seat. The blurry light grew to a lone streetlight highlighting the rain. A squat building appeared. A Gulf station with a big inviting awning.

      The greasy kid on duty filled my tank, patched my tire, apologized for the lack of a telephone and gave me explicit directions to the prison all in record time. I tipped him a dollar and noticed in my mirror as I pulled out that he pocketed all the money, not just the tip.

      Quitman County Prison, August 1977.

      I found the word prison to not be quite appropriate once I arrived. Large jail was more like it. I pulled into the uneven parking lot in the rain. From the visitor parking space, which sorrowfully had no wear on the hand painted lines after three decades, the unwavering wall of water blocked my view of the entrance. I knew the jail was there, but could only see the glow of lights.

      My invisible goal was over twenty yards away or so. But the beck and call of an obsession drew me out of the car. Steeling myself, I ran through the storm unaided. A useless umbrella and hat waited in the car. The wind ripped two buttons from my long raincoat and the flapping tail nearly carried me off into a drainage trench.

      After some hustle and bustle on the part of the guard I was inside Quitman County prison

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