Disgraceland Read online

  When news of Jerry Lee’s child bride was made public, it ruined him. He had arrived in England for a much heralded tour in 1958. He had gotten there before Elvis, who was serving in the Army at the time. And just as Jerry Lee was positioned to snatch that King of Rock ’n’ Roll crown from Elvis’s flattopped head, a reporter asked about the girl by his side. He lied and boosted her age by two years, telling the press that she was fifteen, but he told the truth that she was his wife.

  The press lost its collective mind. To the British, marrying your cousin? Marrying a fifteen-year-old? It was barbaric. Uncivilized. Unimaginable. And so very scandalous. The tabloids nearly ran out of ink. Suddenly it all made sense! Jerry Lee’s hits—“Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On,” “Great Balls of Fire,” and especially “High School Confidential”—were all viewed through the prism of his newly discovered pedophilic lifestyle.

  The press, justifiably, crucified Jerry Lee both in the UK and back home in the States. In a heartbeat, he went from making $10,000 a night to being kicked out of the country, blacklisted on the radio back home, and stringing together one-nighters for a couple hundred bucks here and there.

  His reputation never really recovered, but by the early ’70s, Jerry Lee did regain his fame and his fortune. He was conquering the charts again. This time as a country singer, with hit after hit after hit. Between 1968 and 1977, Jerry Lee had seventeen top-ten hits on the Billboard Country charts. It wasn’t the pre–“I married my teenage cousin” international sensation status he’d had at the start of his career, but it was a hugely popular run: By late ’70s–early ’80s standards, Jerry Lee Lewis was once again a household name.

  Success or lack of success, it didn’t matter. Jerry Lee’s demons were still there. He did his best to outrun them. Fueled by speed, alcohol, and a burning desire to never again lose the fame and fortune he’d now rediscovered, Jerry Lee crisscrossed the United States and Europe, playing hundreds of shows a year. Suddenly, money wasn’t a problem anymore, at least if he could keep his fourth wife, Jaren, out of his pocket, and the IRS off his back.

  But then in 1981, all of that speed he’d been taking caught up to him, and his stomach nearly exploded. The doctors gave him no better than even odds that he’d live. Friends like Johnny Cash and Elizabeth Taylor came by the hospital to say their farewells. But miraculously, he got better, and in April 1982, looking beaten up and worse for wear, he appeared on HBO, in a special celebrating 25 Years of Jerry Lee Lewis.

  “They call me the Killer,” he told the audience, “but the only thing I ever killed in my life was possibly myself.”

  Maybe that was true. But the coming years would be full of death and mayhem.

  In 1979, the tax men raided Jerry Lee Lewis’s Nesbit, Mississippi, home. The one that locals were now commonly referring to as “Disgraceland” because of the way Jerry Lee’s life—at least in the public’s estimation—stood in contrast to the life of their hero, Elvis Presley. Not surprisingly, the raid of Disgraceland turned up cocaine and marijuana. Then in 1984, the IRS were back, bringing to court a case against Jerry Lee for tax evasion from 1975 to 1980. Jerry Lee was acquitted of the tax evasion charge, but he still had to pay back taxes.

  And then more trouble: A looming divorce settlement from Jaren threatened to bankrupt Jerry Lee yet again. But as Jerry Lee’s “luck” would have it, Jaren mysteriously turned up dead in a friend’s swimming pool. There were no witnesses. The official ruling? An accident.

  For Jerry Lee, it was no doubt a convenient accident. Because with Jaren out of the picture, he wouldn’t be on the hook for the expensive divorce settlement she was seeking.

  A year after Jaren’s death—almost to the day—the Killer took bride number five, Shawn Michelle Stevens, a cocktail waitress from Michigan nearly half his age. On June 7, 1983, on a tree-shaded patio on Jerry Lee’s eighty-acre estate—the one with the piano-shaped pool out back—they were married: Jerry Lee wore a white tux, Shawn a white dress, of course, and a fat $7,000 wedding ring. The National Enquirer was on hand to shoot the photos. The new couple beamed.

  But the light in Shawn’s eyes wouldn’t last. Less than three months later, Shawn was dead. The official cause of death, like Jerry Lee’s wife before her: an accident.

  But unlike Jaren’s death, Shawn’s attracted some attention: Police reports had gone missing, and a whole bunch of questionable evidence was uncovered at the scene. When the EMTs turned up at Jerry Lee’s house in response to his 911 call, they found Shawn’s body with blood under her fingernails and bruises on her body and, perhaps most suspicious, scrapes on Jerry Lee’s hands.

  The nearby Memphis newspaper, forever friendly to their local star, rolled over. But in Detroit—near where Shawn’s parents lived—reporters were intrigued for obvious reasons: A local girl married a genuine celebrity and was found dead, less than three months after the wedding and only twelve months after his previous wife died under circumstances that could only generously be called “mysterious.” The Detroit press smelled a rat. Something was up, so they dug in. And they uncovered details that the local Memphis press and authorities would have preferred remained buried. Those details simply didn’t add up. To some, the death of Mrs. Jerry Lee Lewis was starting to look like a cover-up, and not a very good one.

  The Killer, Jerry Lee Lewis.

  And to think, just seventy-seven days earlier, Shawn Stevens Lewis was happily married. To a bona fide celebrity, to boot! Sure, he was a raging speed freak, an alcoholic, paranoid enough to sleep with a loaded pistol under his pillow, but he was a celebrity nonetheless. Marital bliss soon gave way to the reality of living with a spoiled, narcissistic, drug- and alcohol-addled rock star who was used to getting his way all the time and beholden to absolutely nobody.

  Shawn got hip quick: Jerry Lee liked to drink. A lot.

  Rule no. 1: Let him.

  Jerry Lee’s stomach hurt. A lot.

  Rule no. 2: Get used to him shooting Talwin straight into his belly with that big ugly needle.

  Jerry Lee liked attention from the ladies.

  Rule no. 3: Don’t give a fucking inch! Jerry Lee is YOUR man. Grab that needy slut by the hair and tell her to fuck right off back to the dirt-floor shack her white trash mama failed to do her the favor of miscarrying in, and get back to the business of being the one and only Mrs. Jerry Lee Fucking Lewis. Jerry Lee is like a needy puppy, and he needs to be reminded of who his woman is.

  And like most needy men, Jerry Lee was jealous. Really jealous, even though his eyes wandered and the eyes of women everywhere wandered right back. Not only was Shawn determined to not give an inch, she also wasn’t afraid to let her man know she was no sucker. Confidentially, a high school crush was waiting for her back in Michigan should things with Jerry Lee not work out. Eventually, Shawn revealed to Jerry Lee that she had an exit strategy and threatened to leave. That did not please the Killer. Not at all.

  “You’re my wife,” he said. “I’ll kill you before you leave me.”

  It wasn’t long before Shawn also learned that Jerry Lee liked group sex. Why settle for one woman when a romp with two or three would be even better? Shawn was cool, but a swinger she was not, especially not with her younger sister, Shelley. Jerry Lee had been trying to maneuver Shelley during one of her visits to the newlywed couple. When Shelley batted away Jerry Lee’s advances, his reaction was something between petulance and rage. Banging his fist into a counter, he screamed at her.

  “You scared of me? You should be. Why do you think they call me the Killer? How’d I get that name, huh?” And then, to seal the point, he slapped Shelley hard across her face.

  Shawn was scared. She needed to get out or she was likely to wind up beaten or, worse, dead.

  And that was what happened.

  Shortly after the incident with Jerry Lee and her sister, Shawn Stevens Lewis was found dead in their home.

  For the local EMTs who took the call, there was nothing out of the ordinary about heading over to Jerry Lee’s to p
rovide medical assistance to some passed-out reveler. It was part of the gig. Finding a dead body, though? That was something new.

  Upon arrival, the EMTs were confused. Jerry Lee was nowhere to be found—which was odd, considering Jerry Lee had called in the dead body. The perplexities didn’t end there. Strangely, to the EMTs, the body seemed to be placed on the fully made bed in the couple’s guest room as opposed to being in their bedroom, which was where one would naturally expect a newlywed couple to sleep at night. The EMTs checked for vitals while Lottie Jackson, Jerry Lee’s caretaker of more than a decade, knocked on his bedroom door. Within seconds, the Killer emerged.

  Immediately, the EMTs noticed the bright red scratches on the back of Jerry Lee’s hand. They looked like the kind of scratches a pet cat would make. Except Jerry Lee didn’t own a cat. Blood was also visible on Jerry Lee’s robe. And on his slippers. There was a pile of bloody clothes in the bathroom. A rivulet of blood on a door. More blood on the carpet. Broken glass was scattered across the floor throughout the house, among what appeared to be the remnants of a small personal pill pharmacy and at least one hypodermic syringe. What the hell happened?

  There was also blood on Shawn’s dead hand. In her hair. On her clothes. And on a bra that was in another room. There was dirt all over her body. Bruises on her arms. On her hip. Her fingernails were broken, and they had something that looked a lot like blood underneath. Freaked out, the EMTs quietly went about their business. With a mountain of sketchy physical evidence, a woman lying dead on top of a neatly made bed that wasn’t hers, and a drug-addled rock star, they were far out of their depth.

  This scene just didn’t make sense. And it made even less sense that said evidence wouldn’t be reported. At least not until after the grand jury convened, ensuring, of course, that the grand jury would find no indication of foul play.

  Jerry Lee Lewis shooting speed straight into his belly.

  Jerry Lee Lewis had DeSoto County, Mississippi, wound tightly around his finger. He had to. He couldn’t live the way he lived—raising hell, doing whatever the hell he pleased, whenever the hell he damned well wanted and to whomever he crossed paths with—without first making friends with the county cops and politicians.

  Elvis the King’s fiefdom was Memphis—up the road a piece—so Jerry Lee’s kingdom became DeSoto. When DeSoto County law officials needed him, Jerry Lee showed up with his fat rock star wallet. He made the appropriate campaign contributions to the appropriate men who made sure that DeSoto County remained an appropriate place to fear God in, and to raise your children up right in. Jerry Lee was one of their own. So when Jerry Lee fucked up, they didn’t arrest him: They made sure the mess went away. Who needed it, anyway? The resulting press and the headache of having to type up a report and to go to court, and for what? So the judge could send Jerry Lee straight back to the bar with a slap on the wrist and a token fine? Nah. Better to just solve the problem on the spot. Send Jerry Lee home. Get him to sleep it off. He’d remember who his friends were by morning and likely drop a bottle of Chivas off at the station as a thank-you.

  So, on the night before Shawn’s death, when Jerry Lee drove his car off the road and into a ditch, DeSoto County deputies simply had his car towed and gave him a ride home. They didn’t even test him for intoxication. Why bother? Jerry Lee was clearly wasted. The sheriff’s department didn’t trouble themselves recording the incident, either. County dispatcher John Crawford said at the time, “I knew not to log it or nothing. When I heard it was Jerry Lee Lewis, I knew it was just a community service.”

  And it was in this culture that the investigation of Jerry Lee’s newest dead wife was to take place.

  The case never stood a chance. When state investigators arrived at the scene of the crime on the morning Shawn was found dead, DeSoto County officials were already muddling through the house and mucking up the crime scene. State investigators later reported that Jerry Lee had been secluded in his den—alone—with DeSoto County deputy sheriff Jack McCauley for more than an hour by the time they arrived.

  When they emerged from that conversation, state investigators were informed that the decision had already been made by county investigators—unilaterally—to use a private medical examiner instead of a public one.

  This meant that DeSoto County would control the flow of information surrounding the death of Shawn Lewis. Apparently the state investigators were fine with this. Less work.

  The county, DeSoto County, Jerry Lee Lewis’s county, would handle the medical examination and ensure that any and all sordid details from Shawn’s death would never be placed in the public record. They’d be buried so deep they’d never see the light of day.

  However, to Danny Phillips, the young funeral director who received Shawn’s body, the physical evidence reeked of foul play, and he was either too stupid or too principled to clam up about it. Phillips said at the time, “I’d never say Jerry Lee killed that girl…but I’d like to see it investigated. To me, I just can’t believe that girl just got to that bed and lay down and died. You just can’t make me believe it.”

  Phillips was particularly perplexed by his finding of what he thought to be a puncture wound caused by a hypodermic needle on Shawn’s right arm. The same type of needle found at Jerry Lee’s house that day.

  Despite the needle.

  Despite the puncture wound in Shawn’s arm.

  Despite the overwhelming amount of physical evidence on the scene.

  The bruises on her body.

  The dirt on her body.

  The blood under her fingernails.

  The defensive-looking scratches on Jerry Lee’s hand.

  The broken shards of glass scattered throughout the house.

  And despite the fact that with all this mayhem, county investigators reached the hard-to-believe conclusion that Shawn crawled up onto a perfectly made bed to go to sleep in a bedroom that wasn’t hers, lay down, closed her eyes, and died peacefully.

  Despite all of this, local DeSoto County authorities officially ruled the death an accident without even conducting a full investigation.

  The private medical examiner quickly declared “no foul play,” and the body was shipped out of the lab within hours to be embalmed.

  DeSoto County sheriff Dink Sowell explained away the crime scene evidence at Jerry Lee’s place, stating that the blood was from Jerry Lee cutting his finger on a glass. He made no mention of the countless shards of broken glass throughout the house, or of the scratches on Jerry Lee’s hand, or of the blood under Shawn’s fingernails. Authorities described Shawn’s bruises as “superficial.”

  Sheriff Sowell claimed there were “no marks of any violence” and no indication of anyone being attacked.

  County attorney Bill Ballard declared it a “complete and thorough” investigation despite the fact that the lab tests to determine whose blood was on the scene weren’t yet completed.

  Putting aside the physical evidence, investigators didn’t seem to care that three nights before Shawn’s death, Jerry Lee took two women home for sex with him and Shawn. At some point things got scary, and the two women were spooked enough to run out of the house and to frantically beg Jerry Lee’s neighbors for a ride out of there. Did Shawn try to escape, too? This anecdotal detail was never given to the grand jury.

  The case never stood a chance. Which is maddening, given that Shawn made two calls the night before her death. The first was made late to her mom. Shawn told her she was thinking of leaving Jerry Lee but that he wouldn’t let her. Shawn’s mom thought she was upset and that by morning it would all blow over. They made plans to talk later and hung up.

  Then Shawn made a second call. This one wasn’t to family, but to the sister of her hometown sweetheart, Scott. He was the one Shawn mentioned to Jerry Lee during their argument over the countless women threatening their relationship. Shawn wanted to know if Scott still loved her. She was planning her exit, and they agreed that Scott’s sister would come for her later that month. Then—in midsentenc
e—the phone went dead.

  On the day they found Shawn dead, while the local cops and state investigators got down to the business of securing the scene and coming up with their own interpretations of what the words complete and thorough meant, Jerry Lee decamped fifteen miles north to the home of his manager, J.W. Whitten. Reporters were ringing the phone off the hook. Looking for a comment from the Killer about his newest dead wife to run in their evening editions: “So tragic…how was he able to stand the strain?” that sort of thing. But J.W.—ever Jerry Lee’s keeper—made it clear that the Killer would not be able to come to the phone. He was supposedly “in shock” and “heavily sedated.”

  Jerry Lee could feel the heat on the back of his neck. The sweat, beading off his forehead, stung his already bloodshot eyes. He needed to get high. And quick. Or who knew what he was liable to do. Only problem was he had no speed. He’d flushed his stash before the cops showed up earlier that morning. And now his head felt like it was in a vise. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, and J.W.’s phone ringing off the hook wasn’t helping matters. Jerry Lee tried watching television but quickly lost interest. The phone rang some more. GOD DAMN that phone! The fire in his belly began to roil. Jerry Lee grabbed the phone. Picked up the receiver, held down the switch, waited until he got a dial tone and rang up Hernando’s Hide Away. When the bartender answered, Jerry Lee was short and to the point.

  “Hey-uh, izza Killer. You holding? Uh-huh. Got any rigs? Goddamn cops cleaned me out!”

  Satisfied with the answer on the other end of the line, Jerry Lee sat on J.W.’s couch, secure in the notion that he would be high in no time. There was a moment of calm. Until the phone rang again. Almost immediately. Jerry Lee snatched it up without thinking and pitched it against the wall, mercifully ending its incessant wail.