Blood
By Robert J. Marton
Thomas Carroll was home sick that day. Otherwise, he would never have missed the biggest story ever to hit town.
It was Alice Landers’ first day on the job as a reporter for the Mayefield Messenger, a day she would never forget – the day the presidential candidate bled all over her.
For one day in the spring of the early 1970’s, Mayefield became the national center of attention and an historical footnote as a place where a gunman tried to alter the landscape of American history.
It was a Monday, one of the busiest days of the week for a weekly newspaper, which was printed on Wednesday and circulated on Thursday. A reporter really could not afford to miss work on a Monday or Tuesday, and this Monday was the first one Thomas had ever missed in his five years at the Messenger. But he had a high temperature and multiple flu symptoms, and was unable to venture far from his bed.
Main Street on a Monday morning: Traffic started about six o’clock as commuters headed to the highway out of the town or to the train station at the end of Main. Parking spaces began to fill up around eight as office and shop workers arrived to start the week. By nine, parking on the street was at a premium.
After parking a block away, Alice Landers arrived at the Messenger’s Main Street office this Monday morning, ready to begin her small-town journalism career. The weather was sunny and cool. The forecast was for clouds and showers later in the day, but the morning was one of great promise.
In the three years since her college graduation, Alice worked as an intern on metropolitan dailies in two large cities. The violence she encountered on city streets –shootings, knifings, rapes and assaults– terrified her. She could not stand the blood. Her mother wanted Alice to come back to her hometown in Ohio. There was a job teaching English and Reading at the Grant Avenue School which she could have for the asking, but she wanted to be a journalist, albeit a kinder and gentler one than the big city dailies required.
She was excited to answer the Messenger’s advertisement for a reporter. Mayefield appeared to be a quaint and old-fashioned town, and the Messenger itself seemed to reflect the town’s peaceful aura. She was interviewed by the publisher, Hyatt Maye, and the editor, Sarah Mencken. Alice saw them as a cute elderly couple, pleasantly reminiscent of an earlier time, running a mom and pop small town newspaper.
Alice expected a typical first day on the job, one of orientation, training and familiarization. She needed to learn how things worked here. She didn’t even know the town, although it was fairly small and easy to get around. She was totally unprepared for this reaction when she walked through the door:
“Thank God you’re here,” exclaimed Sarah Mencken. “Thomas is sick and we need you to cover the Willie Blount speech. He’s speaking at the shopping center at three o’clock. Take that desk over there. Call the town police department and find out their plans. Call the county police. Call the fire department and see if they’re having people there.”
Thus began Alice’s day of complete chaos. Throughout the morning, she consulted with the town, county and state police to find out the security arrangements, which were going to be very tight. She made calls to Blount’s state campaign headquarters to learn the plans for this afternoon’s activities and background on the candidate’s positions.
She also recalled as best she could the historical context of the story she was about to become part of:
As the nation transitioned from the 1960’s to the 70’s, the Democratic Party was in a state of disarray. The Republican sitting president had yet to become ensconced in the scandal that eventually would force him from office, so he had no real challengers within his party and was a favorite to win reelection. Southern Democratic conservatives, who would, in later years, bolt to the Republican side, loudly and aggressively rallied around the final remnants of the old South – states’ rights versus federalism, which was a polite and political way of challenging the federal government’s mandates of full racial integration.
The Southern contingent of the Democratic Party was led by Willie Blount, governor of Mississippi. He claimed national attention in the 1960’s as he blocked the path of five black children who attempted, with the aid of federal marshals, to integrate an elementary school in the state capitol. Blount made a huge show of defiance for the benefit of the news cameras, and then allowed the state police to gently move him aside to avoid arrest by the marshals, as he loudly proclaimed the mantra of another Southern governor: “Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.” Blount became a symbol of Southern rebellion with a message of continued segregation which resounded throughout the country. He gained many sympathizers even far outside his Southern base.
Blount had been a candidate for the Democratic presidential nomination twice before, but his momentum was now at a peak. He staged a nationwide speaking tour that May in conjunction with Democratic primary elections. A stop was scheduled for Mayefield today.
The morning hours in the office passed quickly, and before Alice knew it, it was two o’clock, time to leave for the event.
At first, she drove in the wrong direction. After turning around and righting her course, she missed the sign for the shopping center and rode past it. When she finally arrived at the right place, she encountered spectators milling about inside a large cordoned-off area of the parking lot. It was mostly a white crowd, a mix of ages, a few wearing “Blount for President” campaign buttons. They almost totally ignored the warm-up musical entertainment, country and western singer Billy Grammer and his three sidemen.
Alice couldn’t locate a press area, so she just wandered through the crowd, which she estimated to be about 2,000. She spoke to a few people, gathering quotes on why they were there (mostly “curiosity,” they said). Sprinkled throughout, as well as on the perimeter and on the roofs of stores, were police from various departments, Secret Service men (their ear phones gave them away) and what she assumed were Blount’s own bodyguards. As three o’clock approached, she found a spot in front of a specially erected stage with a bulletproof podium.
The band played “Gotta Travel On” and “DetroitCity,” then broke into a spirited version of “Dixie.” Blount bounded out on the stage, smiling, with his customary “Hi, folks!” The spectators cheered with approval. Alice felt a sensation new to her: a combination of Southern charm and danger, as Blount connected with a friendly crowd that was closely watched by heavily armed policemen. But the danger didn’t seem real – this was a suburban, orderly crowd, far different from the scary, always ready-to-erupt urban environments she had left behind.
Although she had never heard him speak before, she felt Blount was not at his best that day. His voice cracked as he delivered his standard line about “those pointy-headed intellectuals who can’t park their bicycles straight.” She had no idea what that meant, but it clearly resonated with the enthusiastic onlookers.
Blount railed on against “social schemers” and “ultra- false liberals.” He advised the folks to vote in the primary “to shake the eyeteeth of the Democratic Party. Let’s give ’em the St. Vitus dance. And tell ’em a vote for Willie Blount is a vote for the average citizen.”
Alice could feel the crowd pushing against her, inching closer to the front. A man directly behind her kept leaning forward, accidentally (she assumed) bumping her shoulder as he yelled, “Over here, Willie, Over here.” The shoving and yelling made it difficult for her take notes. She glanced back at him and noticed he was wearing a red and white shirt and blue trousers, matching the draping on Blount’s podium. She guessed he was probably part of the campaign staff.
After about an hour, Blount wrapped up his comments to loud applause. Billy Grammer and his band began to play “Under the Double Eagle” as Blount walked down the steps from the stage to shake hands with fans. The crowd surged forward, including the man behind Alice who shoved her forward and lunged toward the candidate.
What happened next seemed unreal. As Blount went from person to person with his usual “Nice to see ya,” Alice heard the sounds she hoped she would never hear again, the sounds that drove her from the city beat. The “red, white and blue” young man leaped ahead, stuck his arm forward toward the candidate and fired five bullets from a revolver. Security men immediately wrestled him to the ground, knocking Alice down at the same time. The gun skidded along the pavement and almost hit her forehead.
People screamed. Alice rose to her feet, barely noticing the blood splatters on her white blouse, and moved forward to observe what was happening. Blount was still lying on the asphalt, bleeding from his chest and right arm. Several others, one appearing to be a Mississippi state trooper, also were wounded. An elderly man whom Alice assumed was a doctor was going from victim to victim, offering whatever assistance he could. She could hear the whine of the sirens in the distance.
Alice couldn’t conduct any interviews in the chaos. The best she could do was watch and scribble notes. An ambulance arrived after about 10 minutes –although it seemed like forever—and Blount was taken to the closest hospital, 20 miles away. Alice noticed that the shooter was nowhere to be seen, she must have missed the police take him away. She tried to get quotes from some of the confused spectators, spent a few minutes interviewing the elderly doctor, and attempted unsuccessfully to gain some useful information from the police on the scene.
Eventually the crowd dispersed and the police cordoned off the scene. Alice retrieved her car and returned to the office on Main Street.
“Oh, my God, dear, we were so worried,” Sarah exclaimed as Alice reentered the office. “Your first day on the job, how awful.
“Blood! You have blood on your blouse. Is that his blood?”
At that moment, Sarah looked and sounded so much like her mother, Alice was tempted to run to her for a hug, a temptation she was later very happy she resisted. Instead she maintained her composure. “Let’s get to work,” she said. “How do you want to handle this thing?”
At his home on Maple Drive, Thomas dressed quickly after viewing the television news of the shooting. This was the BIG story he had dreamed of for years, and he had missed it. But he knew the Messenger staff would need him. He arrived at the office, ready for work, just after Alice did.
By six o’clock the calls had started coming in: from Time magazine, the Associated Press and NBC, among others. These news outlets had run out of facts once past the original reports, and were desperate for more. Hyatt Maye answered the calls himself, primarily giving background information about the town but little of any value. He was saving the good stuff for the Messenger (not that he personally knew much of value to share).
After much debate, the staff decided Alice should write a first-person account as well as the main news story. She had a perspective no other paper could offer. She had been so close to the action; in fact, came away with the victim’s blood on her blouse. The blood upset her so much she shook whenever she thought of it, but she was not about to pass up this unique journalistic opportunity. Hyatt and Sarah originally voted against her doing a first person story – the Messenger seldom did analysis or commentary, they said – but she perceived that jealously over the visibility of her rookie assignment, especially from Sarah, was part of the reason. But Thomas was adamant that the eyewitness account had to be done. “We have a story no one else has,” he insisted. “The whole country will be watching us. Let’s show them we really know what we’re doing.”
He pointed to Alice: “Besides, look at the blood all over her. That’s every reporter’s dream.”
Alice went to the ladies room and threw up.
So Alice, Thomas and Sarah collaborated on comprehensive coverage of the biggest news story ever to hit Mayefield. Thomas took the background and local interview assignments. Alice worked on the news story itself and her first-person sidebar, but Thomas helped her gain access to local police, rescue and medical officials. As the Messenger’s true editor (Hyatt was editor in title only), Sarah coordinated the overall coverage, edited copy, and chose photographs from the many submitted by local freelancers and residents.
They had both a challenge and an advantage. Their challenge: The Messenger had to print more than just “the facts” – the facts were already being reported on the television news and would be highlighted in Tuesday’s daily newspapers. They had to have fresh information that had not already been reported in other venues. Their advantage: The shooting occurred on a Monday, and the Messenger would not be printed until Wednesday. They had an extra day to develop background stories on the victims and shooter, interview local eyewitnesses and get updated information on Blount’s medical condition.
Hyatt strutted around the office, barking orders and demanding constant updates. Alice quickly observed that Sarah and Thomas ignored him, so she tuned him out and charged ahead with her work.
Although still weak from the flu, Thomas wrote all the non-shooting copy that would make up that week’s issue, allowing Alice and Sarah to concentrate on the Blount coverage.
They worked until after midnight, went home and slept for a few hours, then resumed again at eight o’clock Tuesday. By Tuesday evening, when the final copy was picked up by the printing courier, the exhausted team had produced the finest issue in the Messenger history. Alice, Sarah and Thomas drove to the printing plant –10 miles away—Wednesday morning to paste up the final copy and supervise production. Normally they returned to Mayfield as soon as the paper began printing, but on this special week, they waited for the first copies to come off the press. Holding the still-moist paper staining their hands black, they marveled at the banner headline:
Gov. Blount Is Shot, Legs Paralyzed; Suspect Seized at Mayfield Rally
Below the fold, Alice’s first person story appeared:
A First Day on the Job to Remember
By Alice Landers
Mayefield Messenger Staff Writer
I expected my first day on the job as a Messenger reporter to be uneventful. At the very most, I thought I might cover a public meeting.
I sure was mistaken.
As a metro reporter before coming to Mayefield, I had encountered plenty of crime and violence. But today was different. This was no random act, no petty crime.
I came here to cover news, but instead I became an eyewitness to history. What happened this week may change the course of American politics. Whether you liked or disliked Governor Blount, you have to acknowledge he was a significant presence in this year’s election. But he may not be any longer.
Would he have won? There is no way to predict, but now, someone else may have to fill the void. Will he be better, or worse?
My experience this week had a very personal side to it. In addition to observing history, I had an opportunity to see and meet a group of people –the people of Mayefield—as they subdued the shooter and offered aid and comfort to those injured. And I must have been quite a sight as I scurried around the scene with Governor Blount’s blood on my blouse, because I received numerous calls that evening inquiring about my well being. Calls from caring strangers, whom I hope will become my friends.
I may never again experience history in the making, but I’m sure I will again experience the kindness of the people of Mayefield.
I think I’m going to like it here.
Thomas wanted to title the story, “His Blood on My Blouse,” but Sarah and Hyatt refused (not understanding he was only kidding).
The issue sold out Wednesday and was reprinted Thursday. Again it sold out. Alice sent copies to her mother and many of her friends. It was her best work and she was justifiably proud. Hyatt let her take off Thursday and Friday, which she used to catch up on sleep and her laundry (although she didn’t try to wash the bloodstains from her blouse – it became a souvenir).
Alice began her second week on the job on a beautiful spring Monday morning. The Blount shooting was behind her –the story had been milked and there was nothing left to tell. It was old news. She was looking forward to getting into the small town routine: no more assassination attempts, no national attention, and no blood. Over the next few weeks, she covered town council and school board meetings, a local church play, covered two auto accidents (Hyatt loved to put pictures of car wrecks on the front page), and wrote several wedding announcements.
She was finally doing the job she wanted to do. She envisioned a new life in Mayefield. She could find an apartment in town, maybe even on Main Street so she could walk to work. The people were friendly. She supposed there were other single people she could meet and socialize with. She had been planning to start attending Mass more regularly, and the old stone Catholic Church at the end of Main Street seemed comfortable and inviting. Mayefield had possibilities for the future.
Then the call came.
It was her fourth week on the job, an early Tuesday morning. Thomas was out interviewing local farmers about the crop forecasts for the summer. Alice took the call. A dead body had been found just a block off Main Street behind a furniture warehouse. The police believed it was a suicide.
Alice walked shakily down to the scene, showed her press identification to a town policeman and moved as close in as the police would allow. The body had already been taken away, but the blood remained:
Blood on the grass.
Blood on the windows.
Blood on the white wall.
The police were not saying much, but Alice approached an older man, standing away from the crowd, and asked, “Sir, do you know who he was?”
The man glanced at her, almost sadly. “You a reporter? I probably shouldn’t speak to you…”
His voice trailed off before he began to haltingly speak again.
“I guess it’s ok, you probably won’t print it anyway. He was my daughter’s boyfriend. They called him ‘J.J.’ His real name was James Jansen. My daughter is Helen. She’s home, crying in her room. My wife is with her.
“That boy really loved her. He believed he could not live without her … he told her that all the time.
“They went together for about a year. It seems like they were always together. Before school, during school… after school. They went to Mayefield High”
The man looked around for a moment, as if seeing if anyone else was listening. They weren’t; everyone else was still focused on the police activity. He continued:
“But it seemed to be more intense for J.J. then for Helen. I think the whole thing started to cool for her. They were seniors – J.J. was already talking about marriage right after graduation. Helen wanted to go to college. Her mother and I wanted her to go too.
“I think she felt smothered. A lifetime as a small town wife and mother was the last thing she wants. We felt the same way. We liked J.J., but we want a different life for her. She’s so smart, has so much potential.”
“Did they talk about the future?” Alice asked.
“Too much, I think,” the old man replied. “I heard them talk about being together … and apart. But J.J. wouldn’t accept any other answer than what he wanted. The other night, I overhead him say, ‘If you leave me, I’ll kill myself.’
“We never thought he would really do it,” he said quietly.
Last night, J.J. left Helen’s home in tears – she emphatically broke off their relationship that night—and stumbled almost drunkenly down toward the river. He had hidden a shotgun in the bushes behind the furniture company warehouse at the top of the riverbank. He retrieved the shotgun, placed the barrel against his forehead, and pulled the trigger.
What had once been the bone, tissue and blood of J.J.’s brain was now a spattered mess on the whitewashed warehouse wall.
Alice listened to the story. She had no way of knowing how much of the old man’s tale was really true, but it really didn’t matter. The Messenger would not print this private version. She would get the facts from the official police report and quotes from a police spokesman. She took a few pictures of the bloody scene, but doubted very much if any of the gruesome pictures would actually appear in the paper.
Alice returned to the office and wrote as much of the story as she could. She told Sarah she was ill and had to leave for the day. She called in sick Friday.
There were only two shootings reported in Mayefield that year –the assassination attempt on Willie Blount and J.J.’s suicide– both occurring in the same month. But two were more than Alice could tolerate. She didn’t even give the usual two weeks notice. When Hyatt and Sarah opened the Messenger office the next Monday morning, an envelope had been slipped under the door. Inside was a note:
“I’m sorry. I can’t stand it. There is too much blood here. Forgive me. Alice”
Alice’s story ended here, but the results of the bloodshed did not.
Willie Blount never ran for political office again. He was bound to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
The bloodstain on the whitewashed wall seemed never to go away. Years after J.J. blew his brains all over the wall because Helen didn’t love him anymore, the stain remained. Or was it just a rust stain? No one was really sure, but the permanent bloodstain made for a better story.
(Robert J. Marton)