<v Speaker 1>2nd Avenue South, Nashville, Tennessee. 4.45 a.m. on Saturday, November 23rd, 2013.

<v Speaker 1>Just a few hours before, all of Nashville had come

<v Speaker 1>together to say goodbye to a king. Not an actual king,

<v Speaker 1>but a man who had more than earned the respect

<v Speaker 1>of one. His life and career were the very blueprint

<v Speaker 1>of country music, and no honest country singer could ever

<v Speaker 1>leave him off their list of influences. George Jones, the possum,

<v Speaker 1>the man most people say has the single greatest voice

<v Speaker 1>in the history of country music. He passed away in

<v Speaker 1>April of that year. And on Friday night, Bridgestone Arena

<v Speaker 1>filled up for a tribute. They were calling playing possum

<v Speaker 1>the final no show. The guest list at that event

<v Speaker 1>was a who's who of music of all genres. George Strait,

<v Speaker 1>Reba McEntire, Garth Brooks, Trisha Yearwood, Alan Jackson, Miranda Lambert, Alabama,

<v Speaker 1>Bill Anderson, Travis Tritt, Brad Paisley, Blake Shelton, Vince Gill,

<v Speaker 1>Eric Church, Sam Moore, Tommy Shaw of Styx, Kid Rock,

<v Speaker 1>Jamie Johnson stood up and sang My Wild Irish Rose

<v Speaker 1>with mega death, if you can believe that. 20,000 heartbroken

<v Speaker 1>fans were also there, all singing He Stopped Loving Her

<v Speaker 1>Today with tears running down their faces. It was the

<v Speaker 1>kind of night that could really only happen in Nashville.

<v Speaker 1>And about six-tenths of a mile south of that arena,

<v Speaker 1>the pickers and the players and the hangers-on did what

<v Speaker 1>they've always done in this town after a big night.

<v Speaker 1>They went looking for the after-party. And they found it

<v Speaker 1>at a place called Pit and Barrel. And among the

<v Speaker 1>people gathered at Pit and Barrel that night was a

<v Speaker 1>big-hearted outlaw singer out of Arab, Alabama. Now, you're going

<v Speaker 1>to have to trust me on that one. It's spelled A-ra-b.

<v Speaker 1>But anyone who lives there will tell you with great

<v Speaker 1>authority that it is not pronounced that way. That singer's

<v Speaker 1>name was Wayne Mills. Wayne was 44 years old and

<v Speaker 1>had 15 hard years of touring under his belt. His

<v Speaker 1>wife and his little boy were sleeping peacefully at home

<v Speaker 1>while Wayne was spending some time and having a few

<v Speaker 1>laughs with his friend and the owner of Pit and Barrel,

<v Speaker 1>Chris Farrell. Around 4.45, the room had pretty much emptied

<v Speaker 1>out to almost nothing. And what happened in those last

<v Speaker 1>few minutes in a nearly empty bar between two tired, grieving,

<v Speaker 1>drinking men? A jury would spend a week trying to

<v Speaker 1>put back together. But one part is not in dispute.

<v Speaker 1>Chris Farrell picked up a. 22 pistol and fired three rounds.

<v Speaker 1>And the third shot struck Wayne Mills in the back

<v Speaker 1>of the head. By sunrise, Wayne Mills was fighting for

<v Speaker 1>his life at Vanderbilt. By that afternoon, he was gone.

<v Speaker 1>And the man who pulled the trigger would spend the

<v Speaker 1>next two years insisting he'd killed his friend because there

<v Speaker 1>simply was no other choice. From Hey Dad Productions, this

<v Speaker 1>is Nash Villains.

<v Speaker 2>Nash Villains.

<v Speaker 1>The following program contains dramatized reconstruction and discussion of a

<v Speaker 1>real violent crime quotations attributed to named individuals are drawn

<v Speaker 1>from public court records and news reports. Listener discretion is advised.

<v Speaker 1>Wayne Mills was first and last a road dog. He

<v Speaker 1>was born Gerald Wayne Mills on August 17th, 1969 in Arab, Alabama,

<v Speaker 1>little town on top of Brindley Mountain in the northern

<v Speaker 1>part of the state, the son of Jack and Pauline Mills.

<v Speaker 1>And before the music bug bit him, he was an

<v Speaker 1>athlete and a good one. He played baseball at Wallace State.

<v Speaker 1>Then he played football at the University of Alabama, the

<v Speaker 1>Crimson Tide, and walked out of Tuscaloosa with a bachelor's

<v Speaker 1>degree in education. Wayne had the world in the palm

<v Speaker 1>of his hand. With a teaching degree and a football

<v Speaker 1>background from the most storied program in the South, he

<v Speaker 1>could have coached. He could have stood in front of

<v Speaker 1>a classroom for 30 years and drawn a steady check

<v Speaker 1>and a pension. But instead, he picked up a guitar,

<v Speaker 1>and he never put it down. He built a band,

<v Speaker 1>the Wayne Mills Band, pointed his van south, east, and west,

<v Speaker 1>and started playing the college towns. Auburn, Athens, Oxford, Baton Rouge,

<v Speaker 1>every honky-tonking frat house, field party, and roadhouse that would

<v Speaker 1>have him. It was the mid to late 90s, and

<v Speaker 1>the sound Wayne was chasing wasn't exactly mainstream. He was

<v Speaker 1>heavily influenced by the outlaw country movement, and it came

<v Speaker 1>through in his music. And it was too country for

<v Speaker 1>country radio and too rowdy for a lot of other people,

<v Speaker 1>until it wasn't. And the ones who brought that sound

<v Speaker 1>back were guys like Wayne. who built that whole scene

<v Speaker 1>one 200-mile drive at a time. For more than 15 years,

<v Speaker 1>that was the life of Wayne Mills. Play a packed

<v Speaker 1>room on a Saturday night, tear the roof off the place,

<v Speaker 1>sell some CDs off the merch table, load the van

<v Speaker 1>at 2 in the morning, and drive to the next one.

<v Speaker 1>Along the way, Wayne recorded five studio albums and a

<v Speaker 1>couple of live albums. His last studio album came out

<v Speaker 1>in June of 2010, and in a bit of foreshadowing

<v Speaker 1>in Wayne's life, it was called The Last Honky Tonk. Now,

<v Speaker 1>like a lot of artists, Wayne struggled to find the

<v Speaker 1>success he wanted in America. But that doesn't mean he

<v Speaker 1>wasn't successful. In fact, while he was still grinding it

<v Speaker 1>out in American roadhouses, he was quietly having some decent

<v Speaker 1>chart success across the pond. Between 2008 and 2010, he

<v Speaker 1>racked up seven top 20 singles in Europe. In 2009,

<v Speaker 1>he had a number one record in Belgium. The music

<v Speaker 1>business is strange sometimes. Here's an outlaw singer from Arab, Alabama,

<v Speaker 1>sitting on top of the chart in Belgium, then driving

<v Speaker 1>four hours to play a bar in Tuscaloosa for gas money.

<v Speaker 1>Thus was the life of Wayne Mills. Wayne moved to

<v Speaker 1>Nashville in 2003. Once he was in town, he became

<v Speaker 1>the musician's musician, the one the famous people call a friend.

<v Speaker 1>Early on, a young Oklahoma kid named Blake Shelton opened

<v Speaker 1>shows for Wayne. He toured with Jamie Johnson and shared

<v Speaker 1>a stage with Jamie more times than anybody could count.

<v Speaker 1>The two of them were genuinely close. He crossed paths

<v Speaker 1>with Taylor Hicks, and he had a habit of reaching

<v Speaker 1>a hand back down the ladder. He mentored younger artists,

<v Speaker 1>including a singer named Craig Wayne Boyd, who one year

<v Speaker 1>after Wayne died would go on to win The Voice.

<v Speaker 1>But there was more to Wayne than just music. He

<v Speaker 1>was a devoted husband to his wife, Carol, and a

<v Speaker 1>proud daddy to a little boy. He had that degree

<v Speaker 1>he never used because the road called louder, and he

<v Speaker 1>was beloved at the very top of the country music business.

<v Speaker 1>And by every bartender and door guy from Nashville to

<v Speaker 1>the Gulf Coast, by every account we could find in

<v Speaker 1>our research, Wayne Mills was one of the good ones.

<v Speaker 1>And that brings us to the friend behind the bar.

<v Speaker 1>Because the man hosting that after party, the man who

<v Speaker 1>owned Pit and Barrel, wasn't a stranger to Wayne. Chris

<v Speaker 1>Farrell was Wayne's friend. And that's the part that's haunted

<v Speaker 1>this story for more than a decade. It wasn't about

<v Speaker 1>a robbery or a stranger in a dark parking lot.

<v Speaker 1>It was two friends in a bar at the end

<v Speaker 1>of a long night of mourning a legend. And by mourning,

<v Speaker 1>one of them was dead and the other was a defendant. Now,

<v Speaker 1>to set this scene properly, we have to back up

<v Speaker 1>to April of 2013, when country music lost George Jones.

<v Speaker 1>If you're under a certain age, let me give you

<v Speaker 1>a crash course in what George Jones meant. He was

<v Speaker 1>lovingly called the possum by friends, family, and fans. That

<v Speaker 1>nickname was given to George early in his career when

<v Speaker 1>he released an album that featured a side profile picture

<v Speaker 1>of George on the cover. Country DJs Tommy Kutcher and

<v Speaker 1>Ralph Emery were talking about it on air and said

<v Speaker 1>with the size of his nose and those beady eyes,

<v Speaker 1>he looks just like a possum. And it stuck. George

<v Speaker 1>hated it at first, but eventually warmed up to it.

<v Speaker 1>The possum was a nickname he didn't earn. His other

<v Speaker 1>nickname was a self-inflicted wound brought on by a long

<v Speaker 1>string of bad decisions and poor life choices. George Jones

<v Speaker 1>had a well-documented history with alcohol and cocaine addiction. And

<v Speaker 1>when he was doing either or both, he would frequently

<v Speaker 1>miss scheduled shows. It got so bad in the 70s

<v Speaker 1>that venues began listing him as the opening act because

<v Speaker 1>they just figured he wasn't going to show anyway. And

<v Speaker 1>whoever was supposed to be the opener wound up getting

<v Speaker 1>top billing. In 1979 alone, George Jones missed 54 concerts

<v Speaker 1>due to his addictions. And eventually, people started calling him

<v Speaker 1>No Show Jones. He wasn't really fond of that one either.

<v Speaker 1>But eventually he owned it, even released a song called

<v Speaker 1>No Show Jones with Merle Haggard in 1982 to poke

<v Speaker 1>fun at himself. There may have been quite a few

<v Speaker 1>questions about George, but the one thing nobody argued about

<v Speaker 1>was that voice. Frank Sinatra once called him the second

<v Speaker 1>best singer in America. Waylon Jennings wrote a whole song

<v Speaker 1>wishing he could sing like George. He went on to

<v Speaker 1>become one of the most influential and well-respected singers. members

<v Speaker 1>of the country music family. And when he died on

<v Speaker 1>April 26, 2013, it was like a cathedral coming down.

<v Speaker 1>And so later that year, Nashville decided to give George

<v Speaker 1>his due and throw him the send-off he deserved. November 22nd,

<v Speaker 1>2013 at Bridgestone Arena, playing possum, the final no-show tribute

<v Speaker 1>to George Jones. And just about everybody who was anybody

<v Speaker 1>showed up to sing. Garth and Tricia, Alan Jackson, Miranda Lambert,

<v Speaker 1>Travis Tritt, Brad Paisley, Charlie Daniels, Jamie Johnson, and Megadeth.

<v Speaker 1>That's how big and strange and full that night was.

<v Speaker 1>And a night like that doesn't really end. Not for

<v Speaker 1>the music, people. The stage lights go down and the

<v Speaker 1>emotion has nowhere to go, so everybody spills out into

<v Speaker 1>the downtown bars to keep it alive a little longer.

<v Speaker 1>And one of the places they landed was an after-hours spot,

<v Speaker 1>Pit and Barrel, at 515 2nd Avenue South, right around

<v Speaker 1>the corner from Bridgestone Arena. It was a standalone building,

<v Speaker 1>about 3,000 square feet, with a bar, barbecue pit, and

<v Speaker 1>a little stage. Before it was pit and barrel, it

<v Speaker 1>had been a place called the Boondocks Barbecue Joint. And

<v Speaker 1>it was in pit and barrel where this tale takes

<v Speaker 1>a turn that you couldn't put in a movie because

<v Speaker 1>nobody would believe it. The Boondocks Barbecue Joint Just two

<v Speaker 1>months before this night, back in September of 2013, a

<v Speaker 1>national television crew had rolled into pit and barrel. The

<v Speaker 1>show was Bar Rescue on Spike TV. You know the one.

<v Speaker 1>A struggling bar, a tough-talking expert, a big dramatic makeover,

<v Speaker 1>and a triumphant reopening. They had already been in and

<v Speaker 1>completely remodeled the place. They cleaned it up. They gave

<v Speaker 1>it its shot at the spotlight. And the episode featuring

<v Speaker 1>Pit and Barrel was scheduled to air the very next day, Sunday,

<v Speaker 1>November 24th. This bar is about to have the biggest

<v Speaker 1>moment of its existence on television. The whole town is

<v Speaker 1>out mourning George Jones. It's the middle of the night.

<v Speaker 1>Everybody's been drinking. Everybody's emotional. And the room is getting

<v Speaker 1>a little thin toward that lonely hour when it's just

<v Speaker 1>the diehards and the staff and the owner. Now, by

<v Speaker 1>every account, the mood had been good. It was, after all,

<v Speaker 1>a party. Old friends, war stories, a guitar getting passed around,

<v Speaker 1>Wayne Mills and Chris Farrell, two friends, right there in

<v Speaker 1>the middle of it. Nobody in that room at midnight

<v Speaker 1>could have told you a single thing was wrong. But

<v Speaker 1>somewhere in the last hour before dawn, as the crowd

<v Speaker 1>thinned out, the drinks kept coming and something, something small,

<v Speaker 1>something almost nothing caught hold. And once it caught in

<v Speaker 1>a nearly empty bar with two tired, grieving, intoxicated men

<v Speaker 1>and at least a couple of loaded handguns in the building,

<v Speaker 1>it did not stop. You know, when two old friends

<v Speaker 1>get into a fight, there's a short list of things

<v Speaker 1>that normally cost it. It could be an unpaid debt

<v Speaker 1>or a woman or some old wound that got drugged

<v Speaker 1>back up and reopened. But not this one. This one

<v Speaker 1>started with a cigarette. A cigarette lit in the wrong

<v Speaker 1>corner of a room at the hour when Good Sense

<v Speaker 1>has long since gone home to bed. Remember, Chris's place

<v Speaker 1>had just undergone a major renovation for the show Bar Rescue,

<v Speaker 1>and he was very protective of the new look of

<v Speaker 1>the place. Back then, restaurants and bars could have a

<v Speaker 1>smoking section and a non-smoking section. And witnesses say that

<v Speaker 1>Wayne lit a cigarette in the non-smoking section. and Farrell

<v Speaker 1>quickly asked him to put it out. According to the prosecution,

<v Speaker 1>Wayne didn't want to, and at some point, Wayne apparently

<v Speaker 1>flicked some ashes on the floor, and a stupid, tiny,

<v Speaker 1>forgettable disagreement between two friends became the catalyst for a murder.

<v Speaker 1>The last few hangers-on in the bar felt it turn,

<v Speaker 1>and they started moving toward the door, the way people

<v Speaker 1>do when the air in a room thickens up and

<v Speaker 1>they know trouble is brewing. And before long, the only

<v Speaker 1>two souls in pit and barrel were Wayne and Chris. Now,

<v Speaker 1>from this point forward, the only living account of the

<v Speaker 1>next few seconds is Chris Farrell's, the one he gave

<v Speaker 1>police that morning and later repeated on the witness stand.

<v Speaker 1>He said Wayne broke a glass and threatened to kill him.

<v Speaker 1>He said he was afraid, and then Chris reached for a.

<v Speaker 1>22 caliber pistol, one of two handguns later found in

<v Speaker 1>the bar, and fired three times. The first two shots missed.

<v Speaker 1>The third struck Wayne Mills in the back of the head. Now,

<v Speaker 1>to Chris Farrell's credit, and the record reflects this, he

<v Speaker 1>didn't run. He called 911, and he stayed. When the

<v Speaker 1>police and the ambulance arrived, he cooperated, although they did

<v Speaker 1>note that his biggest concern didn't seem to be for

<v Speaker 1>the life of his friend, but trying to keep his

<v Speaker 1>dog from escaping through the front door. He had a

<v Speaker 1>valid permit for the gun, and from that first morning,

<v Speaker 1>he told them all the same thing. He did the

<v Speaker 1>only thing he could because he was in fear for

<v Speaker 1>his life. Wayne was rushed to Vanderbilt University Medical Center,

<v Speaker 1>arriving around 5.15 that morning. The doctors did everything they could.

<v Speaker 1>And for the next 12 hours, the country music world

<v Speaker 1>held its breath and prayed. But the wound was catastrophic.

<v Speaker 1>And that afternoon, Wayne Mills died. And almost immediately... That

<v Speaker 1>self-defense story that Chris Farrell was throwing around began to

<v Speaker 1>run headfirst into the one witness that never takes the

<v Speaker 1>stand and never tells a lie. The victim's body. When

<v Speaker 1>the autopsy came back from the Davidson County Medical Center's office,

<v Speaker 1>the results were, yes, Wayne died of a gunshot wound.

<v Speaker 1>But the examiner also documented two broken ribs, plus bruises

<v Speaker 1>and scrapes all over his body, the kind of marks

<v Speaker 1>that suggest a physical scuffle at some point before the shot.

<v Speaker 1>And critically, there was no evidence that the gun had

<v Speaker 1>been fired at close range. This wasn't a muzzle pressed

<v Speaker 1>against a man in a life-or-death grapple, and the wound

<v Speaker 1>itself told the loudest story of all. Because Wayne Mills

<v Speaker 1>was shot in the back of the head. And that

<v Speaker 1>is a very hard thing to tie into your story

<v Speaker 1>about a man who is supposedly at that very instant

<v Speaker 1>an imminent deadly threat to you. The Nashville Police Department

<v Speaker 1>said it pretty plainly. The evidence just did not support

<v Speaker 1>Chris Farrell's claim of self-defense. Meanwhile, the emotional toll of

<v Speaker 1>Wayne's death began to spread through the country music industry.

<v Speaker 1>Among the stars who publicly mourned Wayne were Blake Shelton,

<v Speaker 1>Dierks Bentley, and Colt Ford, and Jamie Johnson, along with

<v Speaker 1>the whole outlaw world. A man who had spent 15

<v Speaker 1>years as the guy everybody knew and nobody could say

<v Speaker 1>a bad word about was suddenly the subject of every

<v Speaker 1>headline in town for the worst time. possible reason and

<v Speaker 1>that bar rescue episode the one set to air the

<v Speaker 1>next day showing off the beautiful new pit and barrel

<v Speaker 1>well spike tv did the decent thing and pulled it

<v Speaker 1>out of respect for wayne's family but then in one

<v Speaker 1>of those cruel little accidents of life it aired anyway

<v Speaker 1>by mistake in a midnight encore slot fans who knew

<v Speaker 1>what had just happened in that very building were absolutely

<v Speaker 1>furious It was as if the place itself refused to

<v Speaker 1>let the tragedy stay quiet. It took more than a

<v Speaker 1>year to bring Chris Farrell to trial. The case got

<v Speaker 1>delayed and delayed again. Pushed back the better part of

<v Speaker 1>five months at one point. But in early March 2015,

<v Speaker 1>in the Davidson County Criminal Court, in front of Judge

<v Speaker 1>Steve Dozier, the state of Tennessee finally laid out its

<v Speaker 1>case that this was no act of self-defense. This was,

<v Speaker 1>at the very least, second-degree murder. And it must have

<v Speaker 1>been a strange sight to the people in the courtroom as,

<v Speaker 1>day after day, the biggest names in country music came

<v Speaker 1>and sat in the gallery together. Wayne's friend Jamie Johnson

<v Speaker 1>was there again and again. The two of them had

<v Speaker 1>toured together. They had shared stages. And now Johnson sat

<v Speaker 1>in that courtroom daily watching the state try to get

<v Speaker 1>his buddy some justice. The prosecution's theme was devastating in

<v Speaker 1>its simplicity. Assistant District Attorney Wesley King told the jury

<v Speaker 1>that Wayne Mills was killed over this stupidest of arguments

<v Speaker 1>and that when Farrell couldn't win it with words, well,

<v Speaker 1>he chose another way. What we know about this case...

<v Speaker 1>is pretty simple. Mr. Farrell was losing the argument, but

<v Speaker 1>he decided he was going to have the last word

<v Speaker 1>no matter what. And the last word was a bullet

<v Speaker 1>to the back of Wayne Mills' head. This case isn't complicated,

<v Speaker 1>ladies and gentlemen. Wayne Mills is dead because Chris Farrell

<v Speaker 1>can't keep his rage in check. He went on to

<v Speaker 1>remind the jury that Chris appeared more concerned for his

<v Speaker 1>dog than the man he had just shot that morning.

<v Speaker 1>And even though Chris had repeated over and over that

<v Speaker 1>he was in fear for his life, he could never

<v Speaker 1>quite figure out exactly why he was so afraid. Chris

<v Speaker 1>told investigators multiple versions of the source of his fear. First,

<v Speaker 1>he said Wayne had broken a glass and threatened him.

<v Speaker 1>Then he had pulled a gun. Then he just reached

<v Speaker 1>for something in a threatening manner. And finally, he admitted

<v Speaker 1>that Wayne was in fact unarmed. Now, the defense, led

<v Speaker 1>by veteran Nashville attorney David Rabin, put Chris Farrell on

<v Speaker 1>the stand in his own defense. And Farrell admitted it.

<v Speaker 1>He admitted he shot Wayne Mills. But he said he

<v Speaker 1>did it because he feared for his life, that Wayne

<v Speaker 1>had lit that cigarette and threatened to kill him. But

<v Speaker 1>the physical facts sat in that courtroom like a stone.

<v Speaker 1>Testimony placed the two men 15 to 20 feet apart

<v Speaker 1>at the moment of the shooting. There was a bar

<v Speaker 1>counter between them, and Wayne Mills was leaving, turned away,

<v Speaker 1>headed for the door when the shots were fired. And

<v Speaker 1>then it was left in the hands of the jury.

<v Speaker 1>After a trial that ran about a week, On March 6, 2015,

<v Speaker 1>they came back. And they came back with a verdict

<v Speaker 1>of guilty. Second-degree murder. A Class A felony in the

<v Speaker 1>state of Tennessee. Then came the sentencing. And that had

<v Speaker 1>its own drama. The first hearing in early April got

<v Speaker 1>continued when the defense decided at the last minute to

<v Speaker 1>call one more witness. But when it was done on

<v Speaker 1>April 24, 2015, Judge Dozier handed down the sentence. The

<v Speaker 1>prosecution had asked for 25 years. The defense argued for 15.

<v Speaker 1>Judge Dozier split the difference and gave Chris Farrell 20 years.

<v Speaker 1>And in Tennessee, for this class of offense, that's 20

<v Speaker 1>years served at 100%. No parole, no early release. Chris

<v Speaker 1>would serve every one of those 7,300 days. The judge

<v Speaker 1>made his reasoning plain. He didn't believe Farrell had been

<v Speaker 1>strongly provoked, and he pointed straight back at the distance

<v Speaker 1>between the men, the bar between them, the fact that

<v Speaker 1>Wayne was walking toward the door and where the bullet hit.

<v Speaker 1>Before Judge Crozier rendered his final sentence, Chris Farrell stood

<v Speaker 1>up and spoke to the court. And whatever you make

<v Speaker 1>of him, it was pretty clear that the man standing

<v Speaker 1>at that podium was broken. I stand here today with

<v Speaker 1>the heaviest heart, conscience, and soul.

<v Speaker 2>I've wished every minute of every day that I could

<v Speaker 2>go back.

<v Speaker 1>And do it differently. I lost my composure. I panicked

<v Speaker 1>like anything I've ever experienced. I panicked. I'm sorry. And

<v Speaker 1>then there was Carol Mills, Wayne's widow, the mother of

<v Speaker 1>his little boy, Jack, who sat in that courtroom day

<v Speaker 1>after day waiting for justice for Wayne. And that justice

<v Speaker 1>had finally come.

<v Speaker 2>I have to say that it's very hard and has

<v Speaker 2>been very hard for 503 days, to sit here and

<v Speaker 2>think about what I would say if given the opportunity.

<v Speaker 2>On November 23rd at 5 a.m., my life was changed forever.

<v Speaker 2>And even worse, my son's life was changed forever. There

<v Speaker 2>won't be any more dance parties in our basement with

<v Speaker 2>my son doing the electric slide with his dad. There

<v Speaker 2>are things that I can't compensate for. Jack plays baseball,

<v Speaker 2>and half the time I'm yelling to run when the

<v Speaker 2>coach is telling him to stop, and those were things

<v Speaker 2>Wayne could do. Nobody can ever, ever replace that or

<v Speaker 2>make up for that. And your split-second decision didn't just

<v Speaker 2>change my life or Jack's life, but all of the

<v Speaker 2>hundreds of friends Wayne had and all of the people

<v Speaker 2>that used to come and see him play. And after

<v Speaker 2>listening and sitting through this trial, the defense was right

<v Speaker 2>about one thing. Friends don't murder their friends.

<v Speaker 1>Before Carol stepped away from the podium, she had one

<v Speaker 1>more thing to say. directed at the defense attorneys, who

<v Speaker 1>had opted to capitalize on the fact that the murder

<v Speaker 1>had taken place on the night of the George Jones

<v Speaker 1>Memorial by quoting the lyrics to a George Jones song

<v Speaker 1>called Choices during their closing arguments.

<v Speaker 2>And if we're closing our arguments with George Jones songs,

<v Speaker 2>then my vote is for still due in time.

<v Speaker 1>The defense, of course, promised to fight on, and they did.

<v Speaker 1>They asked for a new trial, and they were denied.

<v Speaker 1>So they took it up to the Tennessee Court of

<v Speaker 1>Criminal Appeals, and in November of 2016, that court affirmed

<v Speaker 1>the conviction and the sentence. In March of 2017, they

<v Speaker 1>tried to get their case in front of the Tennessee

<v Speaker 1>Supreme Court, but the high court declined to hear the case.

<v Speaker 1>Years later, in 2020, a final post-conviction challenge was denied.

<v Speaker 1>Every court that looked at it landed exactly where the

<v Speaker 1>jury had. Chris Farrell was and is a convicted murderer.

<v Speaker 1>As for the bar, pit and barrel sat boarded up

<v Speaker 1>for a while, windows covered, no trespassing signs on the

<v Speaker 1>doors like a haunted thing nobody wanted, and in 2016,

<v Speaker 1>they finally tore it down. A lot of Wayne's friends

<v Speaker 1>said they were glad to see it go. You can

<v Speaker 1>knock down a building, but you can't knock down a

<v Speaker 1>body of work. Wayne Mills left behind those records, the

<v Speaker 1>studio albums, the live cuts, the last honky-tonk. He left

<v Speaker 1>behind a scene he helped build with his own two

<v Speaker 1>hands in a beat-up van. He left behind the friends

<v Speaker 1>who still say his name from stages. He left behind

<v Speaker 1>a kid he mentored, Craig Wayne Boyd, who won a

<v Speaker 1>national television singing competition the year after Wayne died and

<v Speaker 1>made sure everybody knew who helped him get there. And

<v Speaker 1>of course, he left behind Carol and Jack. The prosecutor

<v Speaker 1>called it the stupidest of arguments. And I can't think

<v Speaker 1>of three better words to sum up this whole tragedy.

<v Speaker 1>And it was all because of a cigarette lit in

<v Speaker 1>the wrong section of a bar at five in the morning.

<v Speaker 1>At the tail end of a night, everybody had spent

<v Speaker 1>mourning George Jones. Two friends, both worn out, grieving, drunk,

<v Speaker 1>and a loaded pistol within arm's reach. That's the razor

<v Speaker 1>thin line between an ordinary night and a man never

<v Speaker 1>coming home. That's what keeps this one alive in Nashville

<v Speaker 1>all these years later. There's no criminal mastermind here, no

<v Speaker 1>shadowy plot, just how thin the ice really is. How

<v Speaker 1>a small, dumb spark in the wrong room at the

<v Speaker 1>wrong hour with a gun in reach can end a

<v Speaker 1>good man's life and put his friend away for 20 years.

<v Speaker 1>Two families destroyed over a cigarette. Wayne Mills spent his

<v Speaker 1>whole life playing the last honky-tonk of the night. That

<v Speaker 1>room where the chairs are already going up on tables

<v Speaker 1>and it's just you, the band, and whoever loved the

<v Speaker 1>music enough to stick around till the lights came up.

<v Speaker 1>He deserved a better last call than the one he got.

<v Speaker 1>If you want to know who he really was, don't

<v Speaker 1>start with the headlines. Start with the music. Go find

<v Speaker 1>the last honky-tonk. Put it on. Turn it up. That's

<v Speaker 1>the man. And that's the part that a bullet can

<v Speaker 1>never take. I'm Jerry Broadway. Thanks for listening. I'll see

<v Speaker 1>you next time on Nash Villains.