C H A P T E R 1
The rolling hills of southeast Oklahoma stretch from Norman across to
Arkansas and show little evidence of the vast deposits of crude oil that
were once beneath them. Some old rigs dot the countryside; the active
ones churn on, pumping out a few gallons with each slow turn and
prompting a passerby to ask if the effort is really worth it. Many have
simply given up, and sit motionless amid the fields as corroding
reminders of the glory days of gushers and wildcatters and instant
fortunes.
There are rigs scattered through the farmland around Ada, an old oil
town of sixteen thousand with a college and a county courthouse. The
rigs are idle, though-the oil is gone. Money is now made in Ada by the
hour in factories and feed mills and on pecan farms.
Downtown Ada is a busy place. There are no empty or boarded-up
buildings on Main Street. The merchants survive, though much of their
business has moved to the edge of town. The cafes are crowded at lunch.
The Pontotoc County Courthouse is old and cramped and full of lawyers
and their clients. Around it is the usual hodgepodge of county buildings
and law offices. The jail, a squat, windowless bomb shelter, was for some
forgotten reason built on the courthouse lawn. The metham-phetamine
scourge keeps it full.
Main Street ends at the campus of East Central University, home to four
thousand students, many of them commuters. The school pumps life into
the community with a fresh supply of young people and a faculty that
adds some diversity to southeastern Oklahoma.
Few things escape the attention of the Ada Evening News, a lively daily
that covers the region and works hard to compete with The Oklahoman,
the state's largest paper. There's usually world and national news on the
front page, then state and regional, then the important items- high
school sports, local politics, community calendars, and obituaries.
The people of Ada and Pontotoc County are a pleasant blend of
small-town southerners and independent westerners. The accent could be
from east Texas or Arkansas, with flat i's and other long vowels. It's
Chickasaw country. Oklahoma has more Native Americans than any other
state, and after a hundred years of mixing many of the white folks have
Indian blood. The stigma is fading fast; indeed, there is now pride in the
heritage.
The Bible Belt runs hard through Ada. The town has fifty churches from a
dozen strains of Christianity. They are active places, and not just on
Sundays. There is one Catholic church, and one for the Episcopalians, but
no temple or synagogue. Most folks are Christians, or claim to be, and
belonging to a church is rather expected. A person's social status is often
determined by religious affiliation.
With sixteen thousand people, Ada is considered large for rural
Oklahoma, and it attracts factories and discount stores. Workers and
shoppers make the drive from several counties. It is eighty miles south
and east of Oklahoma City, and three hours north of Dallas. Everybody
knows somebody working or living in Texas.
The biggest source of local pride is the quarter-horse "bidness." Some of
the best horses are bred by Ada ranchers. And when the Ada High
Cougars win another state title in football, the town struts for years.
It's a friendly place, filled with people who speak to strangers and always
to each other and are anxious to help anyone in need. Kids play on
shaded front lawns. Doors are left open during the day. Teenagers cruise
through the night causing little trouble.
Had it not been for two notorious murders in the early 1980s, Ada would
have gone unnoticed by the world. And that would have been just fine
with the good folks of Pontotoc County.
As if by some unwritten city ordinance, most of the nightclubs and
watering holes in Ada were on the periphery of the town, banished to the
edges to keep the riffraff and their mischief away from the better folks.
The Coachlight was one such place, a cavernous metal building with bad
lighting, cheap beer, jukeboxes, a weekend band, a dance floor, and
outside a sprawling gravel parking lot where dusty pickups greatly
outnumbered sedans. Its regulars were what you would expect factory
workers looking for a drink before heading home, country boys looking
for fun, late-night twenty-somethings, and the dance and party crowd
there to listen to live music. Vince Gill and Randy Travis passed through
early in their careers.
It was a popular and busy place, employing many part-time bartenders