1

Haywire County

Sheriff Lawrence Brown was elected in 1930 and ruled Buncombe County, NC, with an iron
hand for 32 years. Bag men shook down the moonshiners, gamblers, and brothels, making
the sheriff and the Democratic party bosses wealthy. But even party members were growing
tired of Brown. Some of his deputies were as arrogant as storm troopers.

Fate turned slowly against them. In 1961, Jimmy Rogers was the managing editor of The
Times (there were two daily papers in those days.) For some unknown reason, he sent a
reporter out to do an expose on gambling operations in Buncombe.

That reporter bought lottery and baseball tickets at various bookie joints and ran a story.

When that story broke, to the astonishment of everyone everywhere since the newspapers
were in the pockets of Democratic party leaders, the General County Court Judge remarked
that he would like to talk to that reporter. Two deputies then went to the reporter’s house,
pulled his phone off the wall, slung his mother-in-law down on a couch and took the reporter
in. The wimpy reporter, a Democrat, did not sue for false arrest.

That was the beginning of a slow slide. While nothing was ever done in court, that incident
was a beginning.

Bear in mind that Claude Ramsey was the executive editor of The Citizen and TheTimes. His
brother Gordon* was Sheriff Brown’s chief deputy. The incident simmered.
*Gordon was Chairman of the Buncombe County Commissioners, 1968-1972

Longtime Democrats were beginning to think…but it seemed to die down.

Then some members of the Asheville Jaycees offered a critical opinion on that and several
other things.

A few weeks later, the state Jaycee organization held its annual convention at Asheville's City
Auditorium, and as usual, served cocktails. Suddenly deputy sheriffs barged in to raid and
arrest the Jaycees on liquor charges. It was harassment, without doubt, and while the court
action was meaningless, the political reaction was reaching critical mass.

The police reporter at The Citizen was Bob Matthews, an older fellow who was easily
intimidated. Someone at the Sheriff’s Department made up a phony arrest warrant and
showed it to Bob, who added it to his report. Then the warrant was destroyed. The person
who had been named sued the newspaper and won a settlement.

So on two occasions that year, the brass at the newspaper backed down. The reporter who
had been manhandled, and the libel lawsuit. The cowardice at the newspaper was laughable.

Lewis Green, the Times police reporter, was checking reports at Memorial Mission Hospital
one Friday night and found one just taken on Tate Lyda, one of Brown’s deputies (and the
father of Buck Lyda, who later became Sheriff).
 2

The report noted that Lyda had suffered a scalp laceration as result of being hit with a pistol.
Lyda was supposed to be on vacation.

Beef Capps, the night chief deputy, was there so the reporter asked him what had happened.

“Nothing. We don’t want this in the paper,” he said.

The reporter asked again. Beef again said “We don’t want this in the paper.”

“Who the hell is We, Beef? Are you pregnant or something.”

“Alright, go to the Courthouse basement ... we're questioning a suspect.”

Arriving in the basement interrogation room, the reporter found Chief Investigator Flake
Moffitt working the man over with a rubber hose. He burst in on them and the deputies moved
away from the man.

The reporter asked the suspect what had happened.

“What the hell, man. You don’t think you’re going to get this in the paper, do you?” he asked,
savvy.

“I’m going to try!” the reporter answered.

The man had recently gotten out of prison and rented a house in Beaverdam neighboring one
Lyda had rented. They shared a mountain spring. On vacation, Lyda got on a drunk and
pulled the ex-con’s pipe out of the spring. The man went up the hill and put it back. Lyda then
went up there with his pistol to intimidate the man who simply took the pistol away from Lyda
and beat him up with it.

The reporter called the story in to the city editor and went home. To his amazement, the
paper printed several paragraphs of it. The next day the reporter was at his desk when Mrs.
Clyde Bradley walked up, asking. “Did you write this?”

“Yes indeed,” a bit apprehensive because she was the wife of the Chairman of the Board of
Elections and a big Democrat. He thought she was going to complain but she hugged him
and said “It’s about time this newspaper did something about that mess over there.”

Other Democrats weighed in quietly. He got some threatening phone calls from deputies but
time was nigh. The election was soon.

Election day 1962 was a classic. The county turned out in large numbers. There were reports
of threats, fights, bribes, .. the usual stuff of any election.

After the polls closed, the newsroom had gotten returns from all but two precincts—No. 10,
all black and Democratic; and No. 4, all wealthy white and Republican.

Claude Ramsey, the executive editor, sent to No. 10 to get the returns, which were being
tampered with. They came in, followed by No. 4.
 3

Ramsey, loyal but knowledgeable Democrat that he was, looked at it and said sadly:
“Gentlemen, Laurence has lost by 150 votes.”

He had it so close. Brown lost by 146 votes, then called for a recount. Reporters went to the
basement of the Courthouse, where Brown had retained some lawyers. One was a young
lawyer, who went behind the curtains of a couple of machines, came out to confer with
colleagues a moment, then said: “We don’t want a recount.”

The Democrats stole all they could and still lost.

They did not take it in stride. On the day Clay was sworn in, he found cruiser battery and radio
cables cut, flat tires, radiator hoses slashed, and all uniforms piled up and urinated on by
outgoing deputies.

When young Republican Harry P. Clay won the Buncombe County Sheriff’s office in 1962, it
signaled a sea-change in Buncombe County politics. Laurence E. Brown had been Sheriff for
32 years. Brown was one of two big bosses and a few lesser stalwarts who kept the political
scene here in solid control.

When Brown fell to the voters, most of the power in the Democratic party flowed to J. Weldon
Weir, the city manager who had risen through the ranks of an even older machine years
before and had taken charge. Other office holders—powers to a lesser extent—were Coke
Candler, chairman of the Board of Commissioners; Winky Digges, the Register-of-Deeds who
had taken that office after his father had held it for years; and Zeb Weaver, the Clerk of
Superior Court. While highly influential inside the Democratic Party, these three could not
really wield the big power. There were some others who remained loyal to the party, but who
did not hold office and were not trusted by Weir.

One maverick had began emerging with his own power base, and he was such a wild card in
the deck that Brown, Wier and all others treated him with kid gloves, though he had risen with
their help. He was Bob Swain, at that time the Solicitor—or District Attorney—for the district
comprised of both Buncombe and Madison counties. Through the judicious use of his official
prosecutorial power in both counties, Swain had knitted an alliance with the Ponder clan in
Madison. There was a amorphous reservoir of Democratic votes along the borders of
Buncombe and Madison. These remained free of any political obligations to the Weir
machine, but they were seldom taken into account until the invisible war later began between
Swain and the Weir machine.

The youthful new Republican Sheriff Harry P. Clay could not stand the sight of blood. The old
and politically seasoned Democratic coroner Dr. John Young knew that.

One Sunday morning at Deaverview Apartments, a young wife had taken all she could from
an abusive, estranged husband, and as he lunged up the steps to her home she shot him in
the heart with a double-barreled shotgun. As Deaverview was a dangerous place even for
emergency workers, the investigating deputies called Dr. John Young who ordered the body
to be taken to Anders-Rice Funeral Home to await a coroner’s ruling.

The body was stripped and placed on a porcelain gurney, blood running down small channels,
out a hole and dripping into a small bucket hung under it.
 4

In those days a coroner had the authority to order a sheriff to be present for an autopsy if he
decided he needed such a witness. Dr. Young looked at the ragged, gaping wound in the
man’s chest and the blood draining down the table and nodded sagely. “Uh huh, I think such a
crime should be witnessed by the High Sheriff.”

Chief Deputy Willis Mitchell, a seasoned retired ATF agent with a wry, subtle sense of irony
told the others:”I knew he would do that. He knows the Sheriff can’t stand the sight of blood,
and the Sheriff was out drunk most of the night.”

He turned and ordered a deputy to go get the Sheriff. Dr. Young, recognizing the potential of
the situation, was in high good humor, exchanging wit and small talk with all those present.
He was a patient man.

Finally the Sheriff came in, sweating and sick. He refused to look at the body.

Dr. Young had a scalpel ready. He zipped the torso open, dipped in and brought forth a
double handful of buckshot and clotted blood.

“Look here, Sheriff,” he said. “I’m going to rule that this man died from a shotgun wound to the
chest. Will you agree with my opinion?” He held the evidence out to the Sheriff, whose eyes
rolled back and slowly slid down the wall, passed out.

The deputies were smothering grins and giggles. Dr. Young stared off to a mid-distance. His
face held a faint smile, patiently waiting for the Sheriff to come to.

The Sheriff’s eyes slowly opened and with the help of a couple of deputies he groped his way
up the wall like a punchy prizefighter on the ropes. He was retching and sweating.

Finally he pointed his finger at the Coroner and gasped “All right, you Democrat son-of-a-
bitch, I’m going to arrest you for defaming a dead body.”

Willis shook his head, asked the smirking coroner if he was done, then respectfully led the
heaving Sheriff out the door.

As the 1966 election loomed, there was a deadly automobile accident at the Swannanoa red
light. Both the driver and passenger in one of the cars were thrown through the windshield
onto the hood and obviously dead on arrival. First responders could do nothing except cover
the bodies with sheets until the coroner finished eating at his home on the other side of the
county and drove the 20 miles to reach the scene. Meanwhile, a huge crowd gathered and
word quickly spread that the bodies were two popular football players at the local high school.

About an hour after later, the coroner arrived in his Cadillac. A coaster siren mounted on the
fender purred to let the crowd know that they must clear the way. Dr Young looked like
Broderick Crawford as he stepped from the car dressed in a suit and hat and puffing a big
cigar. The crowd gasped as he jerked the sheets off, jerked one victim's head up by the hair,
let it drop, and joked “They won't have the guts to do that again.”
 5

The election was held shortly afterwards. The coroner was turned out of office and replaced
by Dr Robert Moffit who established a professional medical examiner corps. As a result, crime
scene examination was left to the police and EMTs could transfer bodies to the morgue as
soon as the investigators permitted.

In 1970, D.A. Bob Swain was up for reelection. During the 1962 race he had been a good
Democrat and fiercely fought the Republican Clay. Being the prosecutor, he had to work with
the Sheriff’s Department on a daily basis and an uneasy truce settled between the Sheriff and
the prosecutor. In addition, Weir felt that Clay was a weak and naïve young man whose
purpose had been only to knock Brown out, and then be dropped between the cracks. The
Republicans seemed to have no future here.

Swain was a drinking man, as was Clay, and they began to hold after-hours conferences over
bourbon. A bond was formed. Swain’s behavior was becoming scandalous and rebellious to
the city boss and certain other Democrats. It was decided that he must go. Among other
things, Swain had been arrested for drunk driving by a young politically naive State Highway
Patrolman. (That patrolman shortly found himself transferred to some backwater district in
eastern North Carolina.)

Weir was backing former Public Safety director Charlie Dermid against Clay, then selected
young lawyer Bill Moore to run against Swain in the Democratic primary. Moore was an up-
and-coming young attorney with a future in the party, it seemed, During those years, very few
younger aspirants were able to get the backing of the machine. With such backing Moore
handily defeated Swain in the primary.

There were other Democratic politicians lurking in the underbrush, ready to play a role. They
were attorney Bruce Elmore, who had a considerable following but who was hamstrung
because of his loyalty to the Democratic Party, as was Claude DeBruhl, an activist from an old
political family. Both had fought Weir within the confines of party discipline and had never
helped Republicans. Neither played any visible role in what was to become the explosive
charge to destroy Weir and others in his machine, but they were later suspected.

A vital part of Weir’s strength flowed from the black precincts, which were under his influence,
if not control. But Elmore also had much influence in those precincts, while DeBruhl’s strength
was in other areas. No one familiar with the events of that time has ever blamed either for
direct involvement for what was to come.

The courthouse closed at 5 PM. Five minutes later, Sheriff Harry Clay walked into Prosecutor
Bob Swain’s office holding his Stetson in his left hand and carrying a bag in his right.

“I got us half-a-gallon of Wild Turkey.” Said the sheriff.

Bob grinned, “That’s good but I’ve got a couple of quarts of the smoothest ‘shine Orville
Rogers ever made. I’ve been keeping it for evidence, but we can enjoy it now.”

“How much time did he get?” asked Harry

“None but I put the fear of Sheriff Harry P. Clay in him. He won’t be late with his money again.”
 6

“Ya know Bob, I wish we didn’t have to shake down the gamblers and ‘shiners to keep our
jobs.” drawled the sheriff. “I’d like to just do real law enforcement instead.”

Bob, who had already been primaried out but who had aspirations, looked grim. “Well, they’re
just filling a public demand but we have to pay the bosses or they will turn the tombstones
against us.”

Harry knew exactly what Bob meant. Every election, vans full of city and county workers left
from various public buildings, stopping at each polling place. At each stop, the workers were
handed slips each bearing the name of a voter who had died, moved away, or simply never
bothered to vote. The tombstones were the most faithful voters in any election, going back
over one hundred years.

Harry grinned “What if there were no tombstones?”

“You gonna talk or play cards?’ Bob did not like where this conversation was going.

Harry said “Look, you and I both have the master keys to the courthouse. If the registration
books disappeared from the board of elections office, there’d have to be a new registration,
supervised by both parties. That would level the playing field and let the best candidates win.”

“Let me have a couple of shots of Orville’s finest and think about it.” Bob filled a water glass
for each of them and tossed his down the hatch. After a moment he spoke. “You know there
will be one hell of a stink and the bosses will turn over every rock in the county to look for
those books. You got a safe place to hide them?”

“Safe as the grave. Brother Honeycutt will guard them.” Harry looked pleased

“Our lodge brother? He’s dead.” Bob said in surprise.

“Yes, and as a member of the Order of Eagles, he is entitled to an honor guard. I volunteered
a couple of deputies I can trust for duty tonight and the two of us will be there in the morning.
We will slip the books into the bottom of the casket and they will go six feet under at eleven
tomorrow.”

Each downed another glass. Then, the two conspirators took one of the carts Bob used to
move records to the courtrooms down to the Board of Elections offices. They filled it and rode
the jail elevator down to the sub-basement where the sheriff parked his personal car. After a
quick trip to the funeral home, they returned to the office where they finished the other three
quarts of booze. The Wild Turkey was great but nowhere near as good as Orville’s brew.

The following morning, the two friends each had a good stiff drink at their respective homes before
relieving the deputies at the funeral home. In his brown suit with his badge pinned to the breast
pocket, Harry looked the part of the construction company owner and rancher turned sheriff that he
was in real life. Bob, dressed in a black suit and white shirt, would have only have needed a powdered
wig to play the part of Ichabod Crane in a revival of Sleepy Hollow.
 7

Brother Honeycutt, while never holding office, was deeply involved in local politics and all the
local politicians came to be seen at the funeral. The theft had been discovered and was the
main topic of discussion among the attendees, at least half of whom were glad he was gone.

Bob and Harry were forced to hide their smirks as the politicians filed past the casket
containing the books they were so desperate to find. At eleven AM, the funeral was followed
by a trip to the graveyard for the books which repose at the feet of the corpse to this day.

As a result, a new registration had to be held under strict supervision. This obliterated much
of the votes the local political machines needed to elect their candidates. For the first time in a
century, the best qualified people had a real chance to be elected.

Unfortunately, the loss of the bosses did not end the corruption. Even if he had wanted to stop
the graft, the system was in place and involved too many people. Since he no longer had to
hand over the lion's share of the take, Harry P. Clay became a very wealthy man.

Tom Morrissey was elected Sheriff in 1970 and held office until 1986. He vowed to
clean up the corruption in the county. Two well-known brothels continued to operate
within a mile of his home. Every one in the community knew they were there. Visiting the
black one was considered a rite-of-passage for the junior firemen at Skyland Fire
Department. Several moonshiners also plied their trade in the area.

C.V. “Buck” Lyda was elected in 1986 and served until 1990. Charlie Long was elected
in 1990 and served until 1994. Sheriff Bobby Medford was elected in 1994 and served
until 2006.

Quote from the Asheville Citizen-Times Wednesday, October 08, 2008

“The federal government on Tuesday wrapped up the long-running corruption investigation

that netted Buncombe County's former sheriff and four of his top deputies.

“Former Sheriff Bobby Medford was sentenced to 15 years in prison Monday for taking bribes
totaling more than $300,000 from illegal gambling operators. His attorneys said Tuesday
Medford would appeal the sentence.

“Long-time gambling operator Jim Lindsey was sentenced to five months in prison, three
years probation and five months community confinement. He once paid Medford $6,000 to
move machines into a store occupied by a rival.

“He'd known Medford for 30 years. The two met on the job when Lindsey was the assistant
chief deputy of the Buncombe County Sheriff's Office under Sheriff Harry Clay.

“He got out of the gambling business in 1995 but continued to pay bribes to help his sons,
who took it over, he said in court. His sons were spared charges as part of his plea deal.”
 8

Much of the forgoing material is adapted from

OF HUMAN INTEREST
Lewis W. Green's 2003 Book of Journalistic Reminiscences
New York, iUniverse, Inc. paper, 248 pp. ISBN 0-595-30544-X