indictment from a grand jury. The grand jury requirement is rooted in English common law and was enshrined in the Magna Carta as a check on the king’s power. In the American colonies, grand juries continued to serve as a check on royal powers by refusing to indict individuals who refused to pay taxes and duties imposed by Britain. The Founding Fathers understandably preserved the grand jury. The Fifth Amendment provides that “no person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictmentof a Grand Jury.…” The grand jury is no longer used in Britain, and the Fifth Amendment grand jury requirement has not been extended by the Supreme Court to the states (though other provisions of the amendment have been). By their own laws, most states require a grand jury in serious cases. Proceedings are in secret, and neither the defendant nor his lawyer is present. It is also debatable how effective the grand jury is as a shield against abuse of authority. “A competent prosecutor can get a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich,” a New York judge once said. (Prosecutors also use the grand jury as an investigative tool, subpoenaing witnesses to help them solve a crime or to find enough evidence to indict an individual. They are often used this way in cases involving organized crime or terrorism.)
A few months before asking the grand jury to indict Elmore, Jones had brought the same panel the case of a prominent member of the community, a white man, who had shot and killed a black man walking across his property at night. In the secrecy of the grand jury room, Jones made it clear that he did not think an indictment was appropriate. The accused was an upstanding member of the community, Jones said, and he asked the grand jurors what they would have done if they had seen a black man on their property in the dark. Wouldn’t they have picked up a shotgun? he said to the jurors. The grand jury declined to indict.
Jones didn’t present much evidence in the Elmore case—the testimony of a couple of police officers and the gruesome photographs of Mrs. Edwards stuffed in the closet. It took less than twenty minutes. “It was bim, bam, thank you ma’am,” recalled Barry Raborn, at thirty-six the youngest member of the all-white grand jury. Raborn told Jones he didn’t think he should be serving; he had grown up three doors from Mrs. Edwards—a remarkably attractive lady, he thought—and his father had been a pallbearer at her funeral. He had gone to high school with two of the police officers in the case. Nevertheless, Jones kept him. Raborn abstained from voting for or against an indictment; years later, he would conclude that he had been wrong not to oppose it. It wouldn’t have made much difference, except to his conscience.
In addition to murder, the grand jury handed up an indictment for criminal sexual conduct, burglary, housebreaking, armed robbery, and larceny.
There was never any doubt the jury would indict. Greenwood grand juries always did what Jones wanted, followed him like sheep, said Raborn. “If he said it was dark outside in the middle of the afternoon, they’d say, ‘You’re right.’ ”
W ILLIAM T OWNES J ONES III was a Greenwood institution—renowned, powerful, and feared. “He was the sort of person for whom the cliché about taking up all the air in the room could have been invented,” said a lawyer who knew him. He was about five eight or five nine, of average build. He prided himself on being physically tough and had a firm handshake. Vain about his age, a dapper dresser in a conservative, old-fashioned way—he wore a fedora long after they had gone out of style—Jones was charismatic. At the same time, he appeared to be openly needy, a man who seemed to suffer in front of your eyes. He was born into the landed gentry, in the quaint-sounding Ware Shoals, just up the road from Greenwood. His father had lost the land to drink and the
A few months before asking the grand jury to indict Elmore, Jones had brought the same panel the case of a prominent member of the community, a white man, who had shot and killed a black man walking across his property at night. In the secrecy of the grand jury room, Jones made it clear that he did not think an indictment was appropriate. The accused was an upstanding member of the community, Jones said, and he asked the grand jurors what they would have done if they had seen a black man on their property in the dark. Wouldn’t they have picked up a shotgun? he said to the jurors. The grand jury declined to indict.
Jones didn’t present much evidence in the Elmore case—the testimony of a couple of police officers and the gruesome photographs of Mrs. Edwards stuffed in the closet. It took less than twenty minutes. “It was bim, bam, thank you ma’am,” recalled Barry Raborn, at thirty-six the youngest member of the all-white grand jury. Raborn told Jones he didn’t think he should be serving; he had grown up three doors from Mrs. Edwards—a remarkably attractive lady, he thought—and his father had been a pallbearer at her funeral. He had gone to high school with two of the police officers in the case. Nevertheless, Jones kept him. Raborn abstained from voting for or against an indictment; years later, he would conclude that he had been wrong not to oppose it. It wouldn’t have made much difference, except to his conscience.
In addition to murder, the grand jury handed up an indictment for criminal sexual conduct, burglary, housebreaking, armed robbery, and larceny.
There was never any doubt the jury would indict. Greenwood grand juries always did what Jones wanted, followed him like sheep, said Raborn. “If he said it was dark outside in the middle of the afternoon, they’d say, ‘You’re right.’ ”
W ILLIAM T OWNES J ONES III was a Greenwood institution—renowned, powerful, and feared. “He was the sort of person for whom the cliché about taking up all the air in the room could have been invented,” said a lawyer who knew him. He was about five eight or five nine, of average build. He prided himself on being physically tough and had a firm handshake. Vain about his age, a dapper dresser in a conservative, old-fashioned way—he wore a fedora long after they had gone out of style—Jones was charismatic. At the same time, he appeared to be openly needy, a man who seemed to suffer in front of your eyes. He was born into the landed gentry, in the quaint-sounding Ware Shoals, just up the road from Greenwood. His father had lost the land to drink and the
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