‘One Night of Madness’ Chapter 4 tells of the life and times of Roy Braswell

Editor’s Note: This is the final installment of Stokes McMillan’s “One Night of Madness.” The book chronicles the lives of several Newport and area families leading up to the murder of several members of a black family, the Harrises, at the hands of Leon Turner and his accomplices in 1950.

The fourth chapter focuses on Attala County Sheriff Roy Braswell – how he became sheriff and his role in the events as a law enforcement officer.



I have said this at least a dozen times, in the office of The Star-Herald – This book is something movies are created around. Murder, poverty, families torn apart in a small rural community in Mississippi.

The newspaper received a copy of the book early this week and I am dying to dive into the pages. The 400-plus book contains photographs and even a letter William Faulkner wrote to The Commercial Appeal about the murderers.

Enjoy!

–Leslie N. Dees



Chapter 4, The Sheriff

In 1944, Roy Braswell had his second encounter with Leon Turner. The previous year, Braswell had been astonished to learn of seventy-four-year-old Elvira Turner’s arduous journey to Jackson to petition the governor for release of her grandson. He had been more surprised that the governor granted her request. Leon’s return to Newport was of major concern to the lawmen of Attala and surrounding counties. Sheriff Weatherly and Deputy Braswell talked to people in Beat 4 and learned that Leon was reverting to his old ways of drinking, gambling, and moonshining. But authorities were unable to catch Leon doing anything illegal, so they could not arrest him. All they could do was keep a distant eye on the parolee and wait for a lucky break.

That break came early in 1944. The Holmes County sheriff called Sheriff Weatherly to say he had received a tip—no doubt from nightclub owner Tillman Branch—that Turner was making moonshine at a still near Newport. The tipster even told when Leon would be there.

On a cold February evening, Boss Weatherly, Roy Braswell, and other lawmen hid in the woods while Leon Turner cooked up a fresh batch of white lightnin’ at Tillman Branch’s still. Leon was sitting on a log in front of the hot fire sampling his brew when raiders suddenly sprang out of hiding with guns drawn. Completely surprised, Leon gave up without a fight.

A few days later, Leon’s parole was revoked and he was sent back to prison. He would not resurface for years.



In 1945 a tragic event occurred in downtown Kosciusko that would have a major impact on Roy Braswell’s career. It was a quiet Tuesday morning, two days before Thanksgiving. The holiday was going to be particularly meaningful: the nation’s first Thanksgiving at peace since Pearl Harbor. Thousands of war-weary veterans, having returned home, were in the process of transitioning sanely and stably back to civilian life; but, for some, the adjustment to peacetime was not easy. Such was the case of Edward Wilkins, a twenty-eight-year-old ex-soldier who had recently returned to his Attala County roots after spending the last part of the war in a veterans’ hospital. Wilkins had psychological difficulty leaving the fighting behind.

Deputy Braswell was in the sheriff’s courthouse office doing routine paperwork when a commotion erupted outside the office. It sounded like two men in a heated argument. Roy hurried into the courthouse foyer and saw a flustered young man walking rapidly in circles, arms gesturing, yelling incoherently at a uniformed policeman. Roy recognized that the frantic civilian was Ed Wilkins. The policeman ordered Wilkins to stop and tried to grab him by the arm, but Wilkins only grew more agitated.

Knowing of the veteran’s disturbed condition, Braswell walked up and, in a quiet, reasonable voice, tried to calm him. Wilkins merely spun around and dashed out of the courthouse.

The two peace officers ran after him. Darting across the street, they caught up with Wilkins in front of Allen’s Drug Store. The three men skuffled, then Wilkins broke free and ran into the nearby Firestone Store. He emerged brandishing two axes and began stumbling down the sidewalk, ranting incomprehensibly. The lawmen, accompanied by a growing crowd of spectators, followed Wilkins around the square, keeping their distance as the ex-soldier wildly swung the axes at unseen enemies.

Kosciusko’s chief of police, E. C. Hall, came out of the nearby police office and saw the turmoil. Hall walked toward Wilkins, drew his pistol, and told Wilkins to drop the axes. When the deranged man didn’t respond, Hall fired a shot into the air and another into the ground.

The gunfire took Wilkins back to the battlefield. He responded by throwing an ax at the shooter. Under attack, Chief Hall fired at Wilkins. Wounded, the veteran charged toward his adversary and threw the second ax, hitting Hall in the side. Hall pumped several bullets into the crazed man, but Wilkins kept coming. He reached the chief and fought feebly. After a brief struggle, Hall threw Wilkins to the pavement. The young veteran did not get up.

Chief Hall was in anguish over the shooting. He cried out to the man lying at his feet, “Look what you’ve made me do!”

An ambulance rushed Edward Wilkins to the hospital, but his wounds were too great to survive.

E. C. Hall was briefly treated at the hospital and released. Although his physical wound was minor, the psychological damage was serious. A highly patriotic American, he was shaken to the core by killing a war veteran. Hall turned to alcohol to ease his anguish.



As the November 1947 election neared, Roy Braswell was worried about his job. The primaries had whittled the sheriff’s race down to two men, Police Chief E. C. Hall and Willie Blanton, a farmer who had been sheriff from 1932 to 1936. It was rumored that Blanton, should he win, intended to select his brother to be deputy sheriff in Roy Braswell’s place.

Roy didn’t particularly like or trust E. C. Hall, but he did not want to relinquish his job. Roy had ambitions for the sheriff’s office—he had tested the waters in the past primary—and knew that being out of law enforcement for at least four years would dampen any chance of being elected. Thus, he approached candidate Hall with a deal: he and his father-in-law, popular former sheriff Everett Bailey, would work the county to influence people to vote for Hall if Hall would retain Braswell as deputy when he won. Hall accepted the proposition.

Braswell and Bailey actively canvassed the county touting the attributes of Mr. Hall, arguing for new blood in the office rather than electing a man who had been sheriff over a decade before. Their campaigning was effective: Hall won the election.

Sheriff E. C. Hall honored his word, and Braswell stayed on as deputy sheriff. Roy and Inez had to move out of their house next to the jail, however, because Sheriff Hall selected his nephew, Quitman Harris, as county jailer.



One duty of the sheriff was to attend courthouse sessions of the Mississippi Fifth Circuit Court.

Whereas the court had been the domain of Newport’s Judge John Allen for nineteen years, January 1948 had witnessed his retirement. Now, two months later, Judge Allen’s newly elected replacement was about to make his first appearance as judge in Attala County. This fledgling magistrate was J. P. Coleman, who, as a young district attorney, had prosecuted Leon Turner in 1940. While the last years of the elderly Judge Allen’s court had been slow, relaxed, and informal, the proceedings of thirty-three-year-old Judge Coleman were expected to be different. Coleman had campaigned on efficiency and speed for his Circuit Court—something Attala County had not seen in decades, if ever. It was into this new court environment that recently inaugurated Sheriff Hall was to show up for his first session.

With the morning proceedings due to start in minutes, Judge Coleman was in his chamber adjoining the courtroom. In the spectators’ gallery, Deputy Sheriff Roy Braswell sat in the first of many rows of wooden benches, casually chatting with someone sitting behind him. Scattered about the room were a few other citizens—slightly more than the normal handful of regular court aficionados—here to witness Judge Coleman’s first appearance. Their conversations created a low murmur throughout the room.

The side door to the high-ceilinged room opened, and Braswell looked its way. His eyes widened as he saw Sheriff Hall entering the courtroom.

Hall’s tie was loose and crooked; a conspicuous shaving nick adorned his chin. He walked in a slow, stiff, deliberate manner from the door to the railing that separated the spectators’ area from the bar and grasped it with his left hand. Pausing, he took a deep breath before advancing to a nearby chair back, which he held while again hesitating. In such a manner, the sheriff advanced from object to object, haltingly making his way toward Braswell. Roy could see that Hall’s eyes were glazed.

Conversation, interspersed with quiet chuckles, picked up throughout the courtroom.

Hall finally worked his way to a position next to Braswell and lowered himself in a controlled collapse into a bench seat. From three feet away, Roy noted a strong smell of alcohol. The two men conversed briefly, and Roy could tell the sheriff was liberally drunk. After a moment, Braswell rose and made his way out the chamber’s side door. He dashed into a nearby office and called the jail.

When Quitman Harris answered, Roy told him that his uncle was at the courtroom drunk. He urged Harris to come get him before the judge entered. Luckily for Hall, Quitman made it to court and retrieved the sheriff before Judge Coleman ever saw him in his condition.

But the damage was done. Word of the event carried to the mayor and the County Board of Supervisors. These men agreed that this sort of embarrassing behavior could not be tolerated, though they hoped the incident was an anomaly. They gave Sheriff Hall another chance.

The other shoe dropped a year later.

A county resident died of natural causes one night in early 1949. Procedures specified that the body not be removed until the county coroner came to the scene and provided a preliminary ruling on the cause of death. This particular evening, however, the coroner was unavailable; so, again per procedures, the sheriff was called to perform the inquiry.

It took an abnormally long time for E. C. Hall to arrive. And when he did, it was plain that he was “full to the back teeth” drunk. Staggering around while conducting the investigation, the sheriff made a laughable spectacle of himself. Deputy Braswell was eventually summoned to take care of the situation and get his boss home.

In a furor, county leaders decided that Sheriff E. C. Hall had to go. Hall was summoned to a closed-door meeting and given the choice to either resign or be impeached.

On March 10, 1949, fifteen months after taking office, Sheriff Hall submitted the following letter to the Board of Supervisors:



For the past several months I have been under a very severe physical strain. My health is and has been very poor. I have had a serious rectal operation and I am now suffering considerable physical pain.

I consider it advisable under the above circumstances to tender my resignation as sheriff effective immediately.



The board accepted Hall’s resignation and appointed Chief Deputy Sheriff Roy Braswell to fill in as acting sheriff. Furthermore, they scheduled a special election in two months to permanently fill the position. Braswell immediately announced his candidacy, as did four other men.

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