Trials: A Very Important Prisoner

With the wrapped-in-cotton care normally accorded to precious art works, James Earl Ray was flown to Memphis last week to stand trial for the murder of Martin Luther King.

A bulletproof vest hung over his plaid shirt and his legs were encased in armored trousering when he was led, handcuffed, from a 61-ton armored van into Shelby County jail at dawn. A score of deputies with riot guns formed a defensive perimeter. Ray was hustled to an air-conditioned cell on the jail's third floor. Heavy steel plates block cell windows. Closed-circuit television cameras monitor all movements. Prison trusties who ran elevators have been replaced by sheriff's officers.

The Straight Word. Such massive protection is more than justified. There is widespread speculation that King's death was plotted by conspirators who are still free. "He won't finish that trial," a Memphis underworldling warned last week. "He's not going to get on that witness chair—and that's the straight word."

Although it will probably be months until he faces trial before Memphis Judge W. Preston Battle, a tough, independent-minded jurist, Ray seemed almost in a hurry to return to the U.S. Abandoning his effort to appeal a British extradition order that seemed doomed to failure anyway, he was spirited by night from grimy Wandsworth prison to Lakenheath Air Base 76 miles from London for his nonstop flight to Memphis.

The secret move left his attorney, Arthur V. Hanes, fuming. He had wanted to go along, said Hanes, because F.B.I. agents aboard the U.S. Air Force jet might question Ray (the F.B.I, said that the four agents escorting Ray had not spoken to him). "The case against this boy is full of holes," sneered Hanes, "and I've got a few bombshells that we're going to drop into those holes." Just what they were, Hanes would not—or could not—say.