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40 Greatest Stories

A Case of Rape

In State of Texas vs. Willard Bishop Jackson, justice was served up. But was it served?
By Jim Atkinson |
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January 15, 1972; about 10 p.m.: Beverly and her girlfriends had been at the Sportspage bar on Inwood, a few blocks from her Americana apartment, about 20 minutes when she saw him. Still sipping on her first drink, chatting with her friends and a couple of men by the stairway, she spotted a pair of eyes moving toward her. They were the wide, dark eyes of a slender, handsome black, dressed in a gray suit and black shirt. In one white-hot instant of recognition, she knew it was he. The man mounted the stairs, passing barely 3 feet from her; as he took the steps one by one, he appeared to turn and look at her — once, twice, three times. One of the young men Beverly had met at the bar even turned to her and said, “You know that guy?”

“Yes,” Beverly replied. “That’s the man who shot me.”

Beverly’s friends huddled about her to shield her from the man, while one of the young men kept his eye on the black as he ascended to the upper level of the bar and stood by the railing. Another male friend went to call the police. Lt. Eberhardt was on duty when the young man called about 10 o’clock. He immediately called Detective Johnson, rounded up the other two on-duty detectives, Glen Johnson and Jim Lauderdale, ordered a uniformed squad, and roared off to the 3100 block of Inwood Road.

At the Sportspage, Eberhardt stationed Johnson by the front door and the uniformed squad near the rear exit. Then he, Johnson, and Lauderdale entered the teeming singles bar. They found Beverly’s friend, who pointed out the suspect on the upper level of the bar. The three detectives, dressed in plain clothes, mounted the stairs.

On the second level, Eberhardt instructed Johnson and Lauderdale to approach the suspect from each side; he would come up the middle and make the official arrest. The three officers inched up behind the suspect, edging through the thick crowd. When Eberhardt signalled, Johnson and Lauderdale grabbed the suspect’s hands and pulled them behind his back. Eberhardt frisked the suspect, pulled a pair of black leather gloves out of one of his hands and cuffed him.

“You’re under arrest,” he said. “You’re going to have to go with us.” As the detectives led the suspect through the crowd, out a rear exit and down the fire escape, the young black offered no resistance, in fact, did not utter a sound. The officers hurried him to a waiting squad car, planted him in the back seat and sped to police headquarters.
On the way to City Hall, the suspect finally spoke. His words were unimportant, perfunctory responses to the reading of his rights; but something else struck Eberhardt. The young black’s voice did not have a trace of southern drawl.

• • •

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Beverly was summoned to City Hall to view a hastily composed lineup. Without hesitation she identified the man she’d seen earlier at the Sportspage as the intruder who’d terrorized Margaret and her less than two months before. Margaret was contacted at her parents’ home and told to return to Dallas to view a lineup the next morning. Meanwhile, the suspect was made. Even the barest details about the young man revealed he was no typical street thug. He was identified as Willard Bishop Jackson, 29, a coach and teacher at Oliver Wendell Holmes Junior High School. He had a wife of six years, Ann Jackson, and no children. He lived in a modest home in a middle-class black neighborhood in South Oak Cliff. He had a college degree in physical education from Bishop College; an honorary discharge from the Army.

He had no criminal record.

As mugs were taken, prints made, the appropriate papers shuffled, even the detectives had to wonder if they had the right man. While it was true that anything was possible in the bizarre world of crime — especially sex crime — the soft-spoken, polite young man before them did not seem to be the sort capable of bloodlust. The officers quickly decided one thing: While they would interrogate the suspect strenuously, they would question Beverly and Margaret just as intensely, to make certain they had nabbed the right fellow.

• • •

Ann Jackson was frankly a little worried about the whereabouts of her husband. The pretty 29-year-old’s normally bright, pixie face was lined with concern as she watched her kitchen clock approach 3 a.m. She’d left Willard about 9 p.m. that night, after the two had attended a Holmes basketball game. Her husband had said he needed to drop by the Cotton Bowling Palace to pick up some money owed him from a pot bowling game earlier in the month. He’d indicated the fellow who owed him the cash would not arrive at the bowling alley until 11 or so, and that he’d probably drop by the Sportspage for a drink in the interim. He’d estimated he’d be home at midnight.

Now it was 3 a.m., and she hadn’t heard a word from him. Ann had told her husband she’d wait up for him, so she was more than a little worried that he hadn’t called. At last, the kitchen phone jangled.

“Annie,” her husband’s voice intoned calmly. “I’m in jail.”

“Jail!” she replied incredulously, “What for?”

“They have me here for raping and robbing someone.”

Ann grinned, suspecting her husband was once again pulling her leg. “Okay, Willard, you’re a little late. But it’s okay, you can come home now.” Then she hung up on him, snickering to herself at her oneupmanship.

A half-hour passed before she began to worry again. Could it be? Could it be that Willard really was in jail? For rape and robbery? It seemed ludicrous. But the clock on the kitchen wall didn’t joke. Ann decided to call police headquarters.

“Yes,” the officer said, “we do have a Willard Jackson in custody for suspicion of rape and robbery.” Ann was stunned. She gathered up her purse, jumped in the car. and sped to City Hall. There she was ushered to her husband’s cell. Willard comforted her somewhat. He did not seem worried. The police just made a mistake; he’d be cleared with little hassle in a day or so, hopefully sooner. Meanwhile, it might not be a bad idea for Annie to look for an attorney. Ann Jackson returned home just before dawn. She slept fitfully for a couple of hours.

Margaret Moore arrived at City Hall at 10 the next morning. Detectives Wagoner and Eberhardt immediately took her to the lineup facility for identification of the suspect. Six blacks, including Willard Bishop Jackson, were herded onto the small platform. Margaret was led to a spot several feet away, at a slight angle to the lineup. The lineup room was in a state of disrepair: Boards and cabinets were strewn about the center of the room; the light was poor. The suspect was situated in the lineup furthest from Margaret’s vantage point.

She strained to get a better look at all the faces. Minutes passed; she seemed distraught. Finally, she turned to Wagoner and said, “I’m 99 percent sure it’s the first one over there,” pointing to Jackson. “But I’m not 100 percent sure. I want to be 100 percent sure.” Wagoner explained that the lineup ID cards made no provision for such partial identification: under the circumstances, she would have to mark the box styled “none” on the ID form. Margaret then asked to see some photos. Wagoner and Margaret retired to his office: they were joined by Beverly Michaels.

Margaret was shown five snapshots — two of Jackson alone, the other three of lineups including other blacks resembling him. Margaret sifted through one photo, then a second; she stopped abruptly at the third and studied it carefully. It was a photo of Willard Bishop Jackson seated in a chair.

“Oh, my God, it’s him!” she cried. “That’s him without a doubt. I can see the look in his eye and the way he’s sitting in his chair.”

• • •

Willard Bishop Jackson had spent a no more restful evening than his wife. After signing waivers of release for the police to search his home, standing through the first lineup, and visiting with his wife, the suspect had been the target of intense grilling from Eberhardt and the other detectives. The detectives had started slowly, gradually moving the conversation to facts and details relating to the rape/assault. Jackson, however, didn’t have much to say. He was innocent, he said. He’d never seen the girls before, never been to the apartments in question. In fact, he hadn’t even been in town the Sunday night the crimes took place. He and his wife had been on the road back from Austin, where they’d visited her family for the Thanksgiving weekend. They’d all vouch for that. That was all there was to it.

The next day, Jackson consented to a polygraph examination. It seemed to him the logical thing to do: Clearly, his claims of innocence during interrogation were not going to wash with the police in and of themselves; getting on the lie box would prove his lack of guilt once and for all. He had everything to gain and nothing to lose.

The preparatory conversation and exam lasted three hours. The test was administered by Det. Don McElroy, an expert polygraph operator. When all was said and done that morning, no one would ever really know whether Jackson passed or flunked the exam: Some would later say he did, in fact, fail; others would claim it was, at best, inconclusive, tainted by improper procedure. At any rate, the test did not secure the exoneration he’d hoped for. And in fact, it would later prove to be a move Jackson would very much regret.

Ann Jackson arose early Sunday morning and began rummaging through the Yellow Pages for an attorney. Call after call produced the same results: Call back Monday; leave a number. Frustrated and depressed, she welcomed the call from her husband that morning. There wasn’t much time for small talk, he said. He just wanted to let her know he’d signed some consent-to-search waivers, and police would soon be there to pick up some personal effects. Not long after her husband’s call, Detective Charles Hallam arrived at the Jackson home in South Oak Cliff to search the premises. Mrs. Jackson pointed him to the location of her .22 revolver, a .38 caliber revolver, two .22 shells, and her husband’s black alligator belt. Hallam looked around the home a while longer but found nothing interesting or salient to the investigation. He thanked Ann Jackson and left.

Meanwhile, Eberhardt sent the black leather gloves found on the suspect to Louie Anderson at the county crime lab. He requested a blood test on the items. Anderson, a veteran forensic chemist, discovered a small speck of blood on the rear portion of the glove. On closer microscopic and chemical analysis, he found that the sample was not only insufficient to determine blood type, but too small even to ascertain whether the blood was human or animal. The strange case continued to withhold physical evidence.

During the next few days, as formal charges of rape, assault with intent to murder and robbery by firearms were prepared against the suspect, Jackson remained in custody without benefit of counsel. His wife’s search for legal representation had not been easy: The couple was of comfortable means, but not wealthy. Perhaps more important, neither Willard nor Ann could quite comprehend what was happening to them. Neither could seriously accept that the case against Willard had now gained momentum; despite his protestations of innocence, the firm identification by both girls carried enormous weight. But the Jacksons still held firm hope, even as the case began to grind through the cogs of the Dallas County criminal justice system, that any hour, any minute. Willard would be freed.

But it was not to be, and Ann Jackson eventually became dreadfully worried. She had to face it; Willard needed a lawyer. Through a friend at LTV, where she worked as a technical artist, she’d heard the name of Charles Tessmer. Tessmer was reputed to be the finest defense trial lawyer in Dallas, a peer of such legends as Percy Foreman and Racehorse Haynes of Houston, and Warren Burnett of Odessa. Tessmer’s reputation stretched back more than a quarter of a century in Dallas: During those years, the burly, red-haired lawyer had never had a client sent to the electric chair; moreover, he’d sent shock waves through the Courthouse in the early ’60s by gaining the first acquittal ever for a black man accused of raping a white woman. Ann wasted no time contacting Tessmer’s office and setting an appointment.

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Charles Tessmer, otherwise known as “Mr. T,” listened to the young black woman’s story carefully from his massive leather chair. His heavily jowled, ruddy face rarely flinched as Ann Jackson described the night of her husband’s arrest and her understanding of the charges against him; he nodded sympathetically as she reiterated his innocence, and recounted the alibi that the couple had been on the road back from Austin on the night of the crimes. Though he quickly dispatched an assistant, Noel Portnoy, to visit Jackson at the City Jail and to instruct the suspect to have no further conversation with the police, the 52-year-old attorney was not immediately certain he wanted to take the case. He’d defended hundreds of similar defendants: as much sympathy as he felt for the attractive young woman before him, he had to admit to himself the case did not exactly pique his interest. After all, he was well beyond the ambulance-chasing phase of his career; he’d frankly had his bellyful of small-time rape cases.

But when Portnoy returned from the jail, he began to reconsider. Portnoy was extremely impressed with the suspect; there was, in fact, a very good chance he and his wife were telling the truth about his innocence. Moreover, the alibi seemed more solid than most. Tessmer decided at least to represent the suspect at the upcoming pretrial hearing on the charges against him.

At the pretrial hearing, Tessmer became more hooked on the case. Though the two complainants were extremely impressive, firm and articulate in their description of the crimes and their belief that Willard Jackson was the perpetrator, Tessmer sensed their testimony was the substance of the State’s case. Those girls were sharp all right, but Charles Tessmer had certainly seen stronger prosecution cases: As it stood, there was no physical evidence to corroborate their testimony, no fingerprint or other piece of evidence to link Jackson to the crime. Either a jury would buy the girls’ story, or it wouldn’t. In the peculiar milieu of criminal defense law, that represented very good odds for the defendant.

Tessmer sensed something else, too: As he left the County Courthouse that day, he truly felt Willard Bishop Jackson was innocent. That was no small self-admission for a defense attorney; mythology notwithstanding, a defense counsel’s belief in a client’s innocence is rarely more than a professional necessity. Seldom does an attorney encounter a client in whom he has a gut level belief.

That would turn out to be the first, but certainly not the last, unique aspect of the case. Charles Tessmer did not know that he was about to embark on one of the most bizarre journeys in his long legal career. This seemingly simple case of rape would turn out to be anything but. It would, in fact, become that frightening breed of criminal case: a case that would lay bare the ugly fact that justice, as produced in the insulated cocoon of the courtroom, can be the most imperfect and unsatisfying kind of truth.

• • •

Author

Jim Atkinson

Jim Atkinson

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