and then dying from electrocution. The executions were not open to the public, but there were always plenty of witnesses.
The chair was soon nicknamed Old Sparky, and its fame grew. In a rare moment, Mississippi was on the progressive end of something. Louisiana noticed it and built a copycat version, though no other states followed suit.
From October of 1940 to January of 1947, Old Sparky was used thirty-seven times as Jimmy Thompson toured the state with his road show. Practice did not make perfect and, though the citizens were quite proud of the killings, complaints arose. No two executions were the same. Some were quick and seemingly merciful. Others, though, were drawn out and dreadful. In 1943, an electrocution in Lee County went awry when Thompson improperly attached electrodes to the condemned man’s legs. They caught on fire, burned his pants and flesh, and sent clouds of sickening smoke that gagged the witnesses in the courtroom. In 1944, the first jolt failed to kill the condemned man, so Jimmy pulled the switch again. And again. Two hours later, the poor man was still alive and in horrible pain. The sheriff tried to stop the ordeal but Thompson would have none of it. He ramped up the generator and finished him off with one last charge.
In May of 1947, Old Sparky was set up in the main courtroom of the Hinds County Courthouse in Jackson, and a black man convicted of murder was electrocuted.
And in July, Jimmy Thompson and his contraption headed to Ford County.
* * *
—
Because John Wilbanks had heard the same question so often, and had so often given the same honest answer, there was little doubt that the execution was about to take place. There was nothing to stop it, save for a clemency petition Wilbanks filed with the governor without informing his client. Clemency was the sole province of the governor, and the chances of receiving it were slim. When John filed it he included a letter to the governor explaining that he was doing so only to cover all legal bases. Other than that, as John repeatedly explained, there was nothing to stop the execution. No pending appeals. No last-minute legal maneuverings. Nothing.
Clanton celebrated July 4 with its annual parade through downtown, with dozens of uniformed veterans marching and passing out candy to the children. The courthouse lawn was covered with barbecue grills and ice cream stands. A band played in a gazebo. Since it was an election year, candidates took turns at the microphone and made their promises. The celebration, though, was somewhat muted as the townsfolk talked of nothing but the execution. And, as John Wilbanks noted from the balcony of his office, the crowd was definitely smaller than usual.
On Tuesday, July 8, Jimmy Thompson arrived in his silver truck and parked it beside the courthouse. He unloaded it and encouraged all who were curious to have a look. As always, he allowed a few kids to sit in the electric chair and pose for photographs. Reporters were already gathering, and Jimmy regaled them with stories of his great experiences around the state. He walked them through the procedure, explaining in minute detail how the generator remained in the truck and the two-thousand-volt current would run approximately three hundred feet along the sidewalk and into the courthouse, up the stairs and into the courtroom, where Old Sparky was already in place near the jury box.
* * *
—
Joel and Stella arrived by train late on Tuesday night and were met at the station by Florry. They hustled away, ignoring everyone, and went to her pink cottage, where Marietta had dinner waiting. It was a somber evening with little conversation. What could be said? They were sleepwalking into a nightmare as reality slowly settled in.
* * *
—
Early Wednesday morning, Nix Gridley stopped by the courthouse and was not surprised to find a small crowd of gawkers staring at Old Sparky. Jimmy Thompson, a weasel the sheriff was already tired of, was holding forth on the amazing capabilities of his machine, and after a few minutes Nix left and walked to the jail. He rounded up Roy Lester, and, using a side door, they walked out with Pete Banning and quickly left in Gridley’s patrol car. Pete sat in the rear seat, without handcuffs, and said virtually nothing as they raced south on the Natchez Trace Parkway. In the town of Kosciusko, they sat in the car as Roy bought biscuits and coffee from