In Broad Daylight (55 page)

Toward the end of 1982, the townspeople's fear of criminal proceedings abated, and the media coverage dropped off. With no developments to report, journalists contented themselves with updates every July 10.

On April 2,1984, Trena married Howard J." a curly-haired roofer in his forties who had lived in the little town most of his life and had two children from a previous marriage.

But a rumor persisted that McFadin and Trena had married. Some people swore that they had even seen the announcement in one of the Kansas City papers. McFadin denied the story in a newspaper article, saying that he was already married and that "the rumors were probably started by someone wanting to cause me some aggravation." Nonetheless the idea of McElroy's widow and his lawyer consorting after his death had too much appeal to die easily.

On July 9, 1984, one day before the three-year statute of limitations would have expired, Trena filed lawsuits in state and federal courts against the city of Skidmore, Nodaway County, Danny Estes, Steve Peter, and Del Clement for the death of her husband. In federal court, she alleged that the defendants had knowingly violated Ken McElroy's civil rights under color of law. She sought $5 million in damages.

In state court, she charged the defendants with the wrongful death of her husband and an assault upon herself. In this suit, she sought $6 million, including $2 million for loss of support, services, and companionship; $3 million in punitive damages because of the reckless and wanton nature of the acts; and $1 million for her own pain and suffering.

In both suits she alleged that the residents of Skidmore and Nodaway County held a meeting for the specific purpose of determining how to get rid of her husband; that Estes and Peter failed to do anything to stop the assault on her husband; and that Del Clement shot her husband in the head with a high-powered rifle and killed him.

The suits blindsided the community. The residents had thought their only worry was whether the criminal justice system was finished with them; the idea that Trena would sue them for killing her husband had never occurred to most of them. Whatever healing had taken place was instantly undone. Media veterans now, they knew the press would be back in full force-peering in every nook and cranny of the town, shoving microphones in people's faces, then misquoting them or taunting them when they said nothing. The tavern would fill with TV cameras, and curious strangers would inhibit normal discourse in the cafe. The farmers would be traipsing to courtrooms so lawyer McFadin could turn them upside down and inside out when they should be out in the fields on their tractors or combines.

The defendants' lawyers drafted answers to Trena's complaints and filed motions to dismiss the suits. In the state court, Monty Wilson disqualified himself from hearing the case. Naturally. Skidmore undertook to pay the cost of Mayor Peter's legal defense, and the insurance company's lawyers represented the county and Sheriff Estes.

In February 1985, the defendants took Trena's deposition. Her testimony was a disaster; she was unsure of basic information, hesitated on simple matters, was wrong on others, and contradicted herself from one answer to the next. The one fact about which she never wavered, however, was the identification of Del Clement as her husband's killer. She claimed that she had lied under oath about the rape, arson, and molestation charges against McElroy, but insisted that she was telling the truth now. She would not be a good witness if the case came to trial.

Trena's deposition was kept in the clerk's office in Skidmore for anyone who wanted to stop in and read it. Those who read it had a good chuckle-she seemed not to have known what she was saying most of the time.

Sometime after her deposition, Trena decided she didn't want to proceed with her lawsuits. The turmoil would prevent her and her children from putting the killing behind them and getting on with their lives, which was what she wanted. She instructed McFadin to drop the lawsuits. He resisted mightily, arguing that he had a solid case, and that they stood a good chance of winning if they went to trial. Even without going to trial, he explained, their chances of a substantial settlement increased as they got closer to trial, which was still a long way off. He stressed the amount of money that would be available for Ken's children and the likelihood that the publicity and the trial would result in the prosecution of his killer. Despite all of McFadin's many persuasive skills, Trena was adamant in her demand that he drop the lawsuits. But she finally agreed to let him try to obtain an out-of-court settlement.

Most residents learned of the settlement as they had learned of the lawsuit, through the media. On September 5, 1985, the Forum announced that the suit had been settled but that, under the agreement, the parties could not release the terms. Townspeople had little trouble finding out the terms, however. Trena received a total of $17,500 from the defendants. Nodaway County paid $12,500, Del Clement paid $3,000, and the town of Skidmore paid $2,000.

The reasons for settling the claims were obvious: The amount paid was less than the legal fees for defending the suit would have been; witnesses would not have to testify yet again (some had done so three times already); the defendants would not have to face the possibility of losing; and the settlement would put the whole thing behind the community once and for all.

Although the townspeople understood the rationale, a good many were livid. You didn't pay money to get out of something unless you were guilty, they reasoned, and the settlement would be seen as an admission that the town had conspired to kill McElroy-and it hadn't. To many, the cost of the lawyers would have been worth it to ensure that Trena didn't get a damn penny. The sentiment ran so high that some people talked about impeaching the entire city council. Even today, finding a council member who recalls arguing in favor of the settlement is difficult.

As time passed, however, a new sentiment gradually took root: "Well, $17,500 wasn't too bad a price to pay to get rid of the bastard, was it?"

The theme of the 1985 Punkin' Show was "Farmers Feed the World." Co-chairman Cheryl Brown worked nonstop for weeks preparing for the three-day celebration. On Friday afternoon in a field next to the school, hundreds of people sat on the grass or on the tailgates of pickups and drank beer in the hot sun as they watched tractors pull a heavy iron sled over a dirt strip. Two women took admission for the first forty-five minutes, then quit and left with their beer to join the others. Evelyn Carter sold hamburgers and hot dogs at the Methodist church booth, while Del Clement served as the announcer for the tractor pull, calling out, "Next up!" and noting the distance pulled by each contestant. The table in front of him was bright with trophies.

A storm blew in, but the tractors kept pulling until the rain arrived and the electrical equipment had to be unplugged. The evening's events were moved to the cafeteria in the school basement. Then the electricity failed and the contest to choose Mr. and Miss Punkin' had to be held by flashlight. Finally, generators were located and hooked up, and the beauty pageant was held in an uncertain, wavering light. In the tavern, the customers drank by kerosene lamps.

Around eight o'clock, the storm ended. The sky cleared in the west, revealing a blue horizon streaked with fiery pinks and oranges. Overhead the sky loomed a billowing black, and silver lightning bolts streaked across the darkness.

The township garage had been decorated with colorful balloons and streamers for the dance. No alcohol could be sold, so people came with their own whiskey and beer. A popular country-rock group, Midnight Rain, was scheduled to play, but the electricity had not been restored. Emergency generators were brought in, but they made a terrible racket and the sound came and went. Around 11:30, the band gave up and went home. The hard core got down to serious drinking.

Early the next morning, the frog jumping contest was held in the little park uphill from the post office. Ten or fifteen young children had frogs of all shapes and sizes-mottled, wet frogs, fat brown frogs with bulging eyes, and little bitty green tree frogs-stuffed in jars and boxes. A circle eight-feet across and a smaller circle inside had been spray-painted on the grass. Two kids at a time put their frogs in the small circle and blew and hollered and slapped and stomped the ground behind their frogs to get them to jump to the outside circle. One freckled four-year-old girl got so mad when her big brown frog wouldn't move that she stomped on its head, then picked it up and threw it disgustedly into a shoebox.

The parade began at 10:30. The morning was beautiful-warm in the sun and cool in the shade, with a light breeze. Lining the streets were four or five hundred people-including lots of kids, lots of old people, and lots of clowns.

The procession came from the south and turned east onto Elm Street, heading downhill, a continuous stream of high school bands, Shriners' patrols with fat men driving tiny cars in small circles, beauty queens and attendants, seed dealers, members of the Skidmore Saddle Club, a wagon carrying a small girl dressed as a pumpkin, a Confederate soldier marching with a 109-year-old rifle, three fire trucks, Lions Club members sitting in a truck throwing candy to the children, a float supporting a huge globe made of papier-mache and labeled "Farmers Feed The World," and various and sundry folks in cars and on horses. Guy Hamm, at ninety-eight the oldest farmer in town, was the grand marshal. He raised his hand slowly as he drove by, his gaunt face working a crinkly smile.

In front of Sumy's station sat a flatbed trailer holding a podium and chairs for the judges and luminaries. Behind the podium, dressed in stiff new blue jeans, a white cowboy shirt, a white straw cowboy hat, and polished cowboy boots, Greg Clement announced the parade, describing each participant and adlibbing to the crowd. From a truck next to the speaker's platform, a video camera followed the procession as it passed in front of the post office and the tavern.

The Junior Queen Show was held that evening on the school grounds just east of the school building. From folding chairs and wobbly sets of wooden bleachers, two or three hundred spectators watched the contest unfold on a makeshift stage. The contestants were ten to thirteen years old, well-scrubbed pictures of flowering innocence. Wearing ribbons in their hair and colorful gowns with matching heels, the girls sat upright in chairs on the stage, hands in laps, looking prim and pretty, and smiling at their parents in the audience. Their hair sparkled in the bright lights.

In the final part of the contest, each girl walked to the podium and answered a question designed to demonstrate her poise and ability to think on her feet. The first girl was asked, "If you could be any animal in the world, what would it be, and why?"

The second finalist, a slender girl with shoulder-length chestnut hair, stood shyly in her sleeveless lavender gown before the podium.

"If you could change one thing in the world," she was asked, "what would it be, and why?"

She paused, looked out at the crowd and then down at her clasped hands, before saying, "There would be no more murders."

She looked up, her brown eyes clear and bright, her hair lifting gently in the evening breeze.

"Why?" the questioner prompted her gently.

The answer slipped from the girl's lips, seeming to surprise even her with its clarity: "Because I have trouble sleeping at night."

Skidmore continues on its precarious economic path. Maurer's Hardware store closed a couple of years back because it could not compete with the discount stores in Maryville. Bo and Lois would like to sell the B & B Grocery, but so far there are no takers; chances are, they will simply close the store someday.

A few years after Bo was shot, the wounds in his neck became infected and had to be reopened. The doctor removed pieces of wadding that had lodged deep in his flesh. At seventy-eight, Bo has slowed some, and has occasional grouchy spells, but he still spends several hours every day cutting meat and grinding hamburger at the store. For Lois, "life goes on." She serves on the board of aldermen and works hard on community projects. While she has softened somewhat, she has not forgiven the criminal justice system for what happened to her family and the town.

The beautiful Methodist church with the stained glass windows was torn down last year. The walls were becoming unstable, and the congregation couldn't raise the money to repair the structure. The people built a simple one-story building in its place.

Del and Greg Clement sold the D & G Tavern in 1982. The couple who bought the bar renamed it the Robin's Nest, after the woman, but many people still refer to it as the D & G, or simply the pool hall. Although the tavern hosts occasional dances, with the music often provided by the Clement Brothers Band, the bar has never recovered its earlier place as a social center.

Cheryl Brown divorced her husband in July 1986 and moved into Skidmore with her two daughters. She tended bar at the tavern until it closed for a few months when the new owners split up. Now she works at the Wal-Mart store in Maryville.

Sheriff Estes survived a challenge by Deputy Jim Kish in the 1984 >Democratic primary, only to be defeated by David McClain in the general election. Estes now works as a city cop in Maryville.