The time my father went to prison

Well, it wasn't prison, exactly. It was a little jail down in the basement of the courthouse. It consisted of two small cells and a little bathroom. If a prisoner wanted to go to the bathroom, he had to summon the guard, who let him out and locked him back in when he was done. The sheriff's wife brought in three meals a day, and the beds weren't bad. Things could have been worse.

My father was incarcerated for killing a deer. Times were hard, deer were plentiful and many a man supplemented his food supply with an illegally killed buck. It was illegal because there was a law which prohibited killing a deer except during deer season, between November 10 and November 30. But the deer were a nuisance, eating the corn crop and trampling around in the potato patch and who could blame a man for protecting his crops?

As a little background history, the law had been in effect only about five years. The game warden knew how it was, and looked the other way if he was forced by circumstances to acknowledge that a deer had been killed. It was rumored that he himself was partial to venison, and didn't look askance on the gift of a chunk of deer meat once in awhile.

Then a new game warden roared into town, and all was changed. First he got old Gus Martin, caught carrying a deer out of the woods. The deer was all dressed out and ready to cut into portions. Into the bed of the warden's truck it went, and Gus was given a choice. Pay the hundred dollar fine, or go to the pokey. Gus paid. Then old Mr. Collins was nabbed, and not having any money for the fine, off he went to jail. He pled guilty, and was given a sentence of ten days, but the poor old man was so sick that they took him back home.

My father was of sterner stuff. When the game warden came upon him skinning out a deer, he was polite but held his ground. The warden sneaked up on him and accosted him with a demand to hand over his gun.

"Can't do that," said my father. "My gun's back at the house. I shot the deer from the back door. This is my property and the deer was in the corn field. I had to kill it. It was ruining the crop."

"Are you saying you are refusing to pay the fine? You pay a hundred dollars and turn over the deer. It's the only sensible thing to do. Then we forget all about it. It will never go on your record."

Such chiccanery went against the grain in more ways than one. My father dug in his heels and opted for the hard road.

"Let me tell my wife, and get some clean clothes." he said. "The hired hand will take care of the stock. You can put me in jail if you want to. I demand a triaL"

The game warden was in a hard place. He wanted the hundred dollars and he definitely did not want a trial. Most of the jury would be deer hunters themselves, and would let my father off. Besides, it was expensive to hold a trial, and it would further run up the bill if they had to keep someone in jail, eating free meals and laying around reading books and magazines. But he had no choice. Off they went to tell my mother and take the thirty mile trip up to the county seat. The deer was left in the woods and I suppose some neighbor came and got it.

It caused quite a stir. My aunt, who lived not far from the jail, heard about it by way of a phone call from my Uncle Juel, and rushed over with a tin of homemade soup and the wherewithal to bail him out. She cried, pledged her help, and they had a nice visit together. My father announced his satisfaction with the accommodations and said he and his cellmate were getting along fine.

"This is just like home," he announced. "the food is great and i have a couple of good magazines, and I've learned a couple of card games. I'll stay here. You could call old Bob LaFollette for me, though. I'm going to trial and he'll represent me."

Bob LaFollette was a former member of the Legislature and a great friend of my grandpa. He accepted the case pro bono and wasted no time. He had a plan and thought the prospects of an acquittal were good.

Trial was set in a speedy fashion, as it cost money to keep a man in jail. It cost money to have a trial, too, and the parties involved in the mattef were all aware of that. So the trial would commence in just a couple of days.

Friends and relatives flocked to see the big event. My sister and I went up with a neighbor, wearing our new flowered dresses with the cape sleeves. My mother didn't go, but my Aunt Emma, she of the soft heart, came. My sister and my Aunt Emma both cried. I thought it was a great adventure.

This took place in the darkest days of the depression, around 1936 or so, and the courtroom was a shabby, dusty room with benches for the spectators. My father was sitting in a chair next to the judge's bench, wearing a clean pair of overalls and a white shirt. I remember that there was a young district attorney, wearing a cheap suit. The judge looked around and then tapped his pencil on his desk and looked at the wall clock and sighed. My father's attorney was nowhere in sight. "Well, Mr. Pettis, are you representing yourself or what? Where is your counsellor?"

At that moment, there was a bustle at the door, and old Bob LaFollette hustled in. He was rumpled and perspiring, and his bushy hair stood up all over his head. "Sorry, your honor," he wheezed. "We are ready to proceed."
No time was wasted. "How does your client plead?" The judge asked the attorney.
"Not guilty, on account of extenuating circumstances, your honor." "What extenuating circumstances?"
"The deer was threatening my client's corn crop. Not to mention the garden and the potato field. He did the only thing he could do, your honor. He shot it and freely admits to the fact."

"What happened to the deer?" this was a valid question and I had been wondering about it myself. "We have no idea, your honor," answered old Bob, and he smiled at the jury.

Clearly, my father had broken the law. It was in May or June, a far cry from November. But Bob LaFollette and my father relied on the jury to be sympathetic. They found him guilty.

The rest of the story is anticlimactic. The judge offered my father the chance to pay the fine and he refused. He declared himself ready to enjoy ten days of good food and rest. This put the judge in a quandary. He really had spent enough money already and didn't fancy feeding and lodging a man who represented no threat to anyone. Old Bob LaFollette was equal to the occasion. Stepping up to the banch, he made a suggestion. The judge's eyes lit up and he grinned a broad grin.

"Mr. Pettis, approach the bench so that I may pronounce sentence," he intoned. "You have been found guilty. For the record, I sentence you to ten days in our jail. However, in view of the circumstances, I am suspending sentence. You are free to go." He went out of the room, slamming the door behind him. My father, now a free man, had no choice but to go on home.

This wasn't the only time my father was arrested. But that is another story.