Life [6]
When you crossed the river from Tennessee, then mostly a dry state, into West Memphis, which is in Arkansas, there were liquor stores selling what was basically moonshine with brown paper labels. Ronnie and I had gone berserk in one of them, buying every bizarre bottle of bourbon with a great label, Flying Cock, Fighting Cock, the Grey Major, little hip flasks with all of these exotic handwritten labels on them. We had sixty-odd in the trunk. So now we were suddenly suspected of being bootleggers. “No, we bought them, we paid for them.” So I think all of that booze confused them. This is the ’70s and boozers are not dopeheads, in those days there was that separation. “At least they’re men and drink whiskey.” Then they found Freddie’s briefcase, which was locked, and he told them he’d forgotten the combination. So they smacked it open and there, sure enough, were two small containers of pharmaceutical cocaine. Gober thought he had us, or at least he had Freddie, cold.
It took some time to find the judge, now late in the evening, and when he arrived he’d been out on the golf course all day, drinking, and by this time he was flying.
Now we have total comedy, absurdity, Keystone Kops as the judge takes to his bench and the various lawyers and cops try to get him to follow their versions of the law. What Gober wanted to do was to get the judge to rule that the search and the finding of the coke were legal and that all of us would be detained on felony charges—i.e., put in the slammer. On this little point of law, arguably, hung the future of the Rolling Stones, in America at least.
What then happened is pretty much as follows, from what I overheard and from Bill Carter’s later testimony. And this is the quickest way to tell it, with apologies to Perry Mason.
The Cast:
Bill Gober. Police Chief. Vindictive, enraged.
Judge Wynne. Presiding judge in Fordyce. Very drunk.
Frank Wynne. Prosecuting attorney. The judge’s brother.
Bill Carter. Well-known, aggressive criminal lawyer, representing the Rolling Stones. Native of Arkansas, from Little Rock.
Tommy Mays. Prosecuting attorney. Idealistic, fresh out of law school.
Others present: Judge Fairley. Brought along by Carter to witness fair play and to keep him out of jail.
Outside Courthouse: Two thousand Rolling Stones fans who are pressed against barricades outside the town hall, chanting “Free Keith. Free Keith.”
Inside Courtroom:
Judge: Now, I think what we are judging here is a felony. A felony, gennnmen. I will take summmissions. Mr. Attorney?
Young Prosecuting Attorney: Your Honor, there is a problem here about evidence.
Judge: Y’all have to excuse me a minute. I’ll recess.
[Perplexity in court. Proceeding held up for ten minutes. Judge returns. His mission was to cross the road and buy a pint bottle of bourbon before the store closed at ten p.m. The bottle is now in his sock.]
Carter [on telephone to Frank Wynne, the judge’s brother]: Frank, where are you? You’d better come up. Tom’s intoxicated. Yeah. OK. OK.
Judge: Proceed, Mr.… ah… proceed.
Young Prosecuting Attorney: I don’t think we can legally do this, Your Honor. We don’t have justification to hold them. I think we have to let them go.
Police Chief [to judge, yelling]: Damn we do. You gonna let these bastards go? You know I’m gonna place you under arrest, Judge. You damn right I am. You are intoxicated. You are publicly drunk. You are not fit to sit on that bench. You are causing a disgrace to our community. [He tries to grab him.]
Judge [yelling]: You sonofabitch. Gerraway from me. You threaten me, I’m gonna have your ass outta… [A scuffle.]
Carter [moving to separate them]: