stared at the ceiling. Dear God, I prayed,
what should I do?
I was still lying on the cot when I began
remembering. It was like a curtain being
drawn back. I saw Jack running into the
store again, that look of terror on his face.
But this time I did not run outside immedi
ately.' I ran past him toward a storeroom.
A man stood in the passageway to the
kitchen, pointing a gun. ,
I panicked and ran into the storeroom,
thinking Jack was following. Then I heard
two shots. How long I was in the storeroom '
I don't know. I remember Jack standing by
the bathroom door, clutching his throat.
"Get help!" he gasped. It was then I ran
by him and got blood on my shoes.
No wonder the police had been suspi
cious! In some sort of amnesia or shock, I
had blacked all this out of my mind. Tre
mendously excited, I called my lawyer. '
"We'll try to get you free tomorrow on a
writ," he said, echoing my excitement
When I WENT into court, I firmly be
lieved my ordeal was over. But in
stead of a writ of habeas corpus, I heard:
"The State of Nevada . . . Belva Griffis . . .
for the murder of Clarence (Jack) Griffis.
..." I fainted.
On March 11, Jack was buried in Chico,
Calif., where he had lived until 1957. I
pleaded without success to attend the fu
neral; I never saw Jack again after that
last terrible glimpse in the kitchen. That
night, however, I had two unexpected call
ers, attorney Jack McPherson and his wife
Norma. We had been friends in Chico when
he was district attorney of Butte County.
"Belva," he said, "you have many good
friends in Chico who believe in you. They
want me to represent you with a local at
torney, Douglas Busey. Before I do, though,
I have to ask you a hard question." He
leaned forward. "Did you kill Jack?"
"Absolutely not.'"
"Ill represent you then," he said, and that
was a turning point in my life. On April 3
detectives testified at a preliminary hearing
that I had told conflicting stories and lies.
I was held without bail.
Meanwhile, police were searching for
the murder gun they were certain I
had hidden. They ripped up our apartment
and pulled out all our groceries, leaving
them to spoil. "We'll tear that building apart
brick by brick," one assistant district attor
ney said, "until We find that gun." Mr. Mc
Pherson pointed out that not only was there
no time to hide a gun, but there was no rea
son for me to use one. Nobody listened.
My trial was set for July 17. 1 tried to tell
authorities all my story including the parts
I had just recalled but they would not talk
to me any more. My attorneys had me write
a statement about the events of March 3
and sign it under penalty of perjury, but
nothing happened. .
Finally Mr. McPherson visited me one
day. "Belva," he said, "the only way I can
get the officers to talk to you is to agree
to another lie-detector test. But they de
mand that you sign an agreement allowing
either side to use the results in court.
"As far as I know, this has never been
done before. If something went amiss, as
it did last time well, Belva, it could wreck
our case. If you say so, though, we'll give
it another try. And for your protection,
we'll hire Dr. LeMoyne Snyder to super
vise the test"
I suppose all "crime fans" know Dr. Sny
der, a member of the Court of Last Resort -and
a great criminologist He has been
called in on many celebrated cases, includ
ing some studied by Erie Stanley Gardner
who writes the Perry Mason stories.
The test was given July 5. The night be
fore, I felt apprehensive. My life depended
on what it would indicate. -
Dr. Snyder and a police official were
ready with the polygraph when I entered
the police station the next morning. Again
the questions but this time my answers
would determine whether I would go free
' or to prison. The moments were agonizing,
but finally Dr. Snyder and the police were
ready to check their results and this time
I had reacted perfectly!
The next morning, amid apologies and
even tears by .one official, I was released. I
had spent four months and three days in
jail. Worse, though, was the idea that any
one could have believed me capable of
killing my husband.
Attorney McPherson, Mrs. Griffis conor.
"Well, it's all over now," a well-wisher
said as I stepped into the sunshine a free
woman. But it wasn't I knew some people
would never forget that Belva Griffis had
been accused of murdering her husband.
So I fled Reno almost as if I were a crim
inal. Ashamed and embittered, I went to
the shelter of my friends in Chico.
Then on July 11 I got a call from Jack
McPherson. "Belva," he said, "you're really
free now they've caught the killers!"
The Reno police, working on the slimmest
of clues from an informer, had done a won
derful piece of detective work and tracked
down three teen-agers. Police said the boys
confessed to the shooting and had discarded
their .22 caliber gun in the nearby foothills.
Later it was found.
Now I am free both of the state's charges
and the cloud of suspicion. Some day I hope
I will be free of the bitterness. I think I
will. I just have to remember my family
and friends who came to my aid when
things were seemingly hopeless. Jack and
I were very lucky to make friends like that.
Family Weekly, October 1. 1M1
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