#19: The Mortician and the Widow: Trust, Control, and the Cost of Silence

Nothing seemed wrong—until someone opened the garage.

In a quiet East Texas town, an elderly woman vanished without explanation. Months passed. Her home sat undisturbed, her absence explained away—until a routine welfare check uncovered something chilling inside a taped-shut garage freezer. This episode unpacks the unsettling mystery that followed, the town’s unusual reaction, and the chain of events that would eventually capture national attention and inspire a Hollywood film. A story of isolation, control, and a community forced to confront what lay beneath the surface.

Keywords: Texas true crime, freezer mystery, small town disappearance, unsolved at first, true crime podcast, East Texas case, hidden body, shocking discovery, crime and psychology, real story behind the Bernie movie

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:02):
Before we begin. Do you have a theory about this
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might be featured in a future episode. I'm Harper Finley
and this is night Watch Files. Quick update. Next week

(00:27):
marks our twentieth episode and the end of season one
of night Watch Files. After that, we'll be taking a
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season two, which premieres on August second. If you're a
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You can join for just three dollars a month. Check
the show notes for the link. Now back to the episode.

(00:54):
East Texas moves at its own pace. The towns are small,
the roads are long. People settle in quiet lives and
tend to their business without drawing much attention. In one
such town, comfortably out of the way, surrounded by pine
trees and two lane highways, nothing much ever seemed to happen.
The streets were clean, the churches full, neighbors waved, strangers

(01:15):
stood out. It was the kind of place where reputation mattered,
where routines went unbroken for years at a time, and
if someone didn't show up to choir practice or the
lunch counter at the usual hour, it wouldn't take long
before someone noticed. But sometimes people drift, They move away,
they get sick, they close their doors and choose to

(01:36):
be left alone. And so when a certain house sat
quiet for weeks, then months, there were questions, but not alarm.
The lawn was tidy, the mail was collected, and when asked,
someone always seemed to have an answer. She was traveling,
or unwell, or just resting. For a while, that explanation
was enough, But in time, small things began to add up.

(01:59):
Mis holiday, a phone that never picked up, a voice
no longer heard at church, Whispers started, then faded, the
silence returned, and then, one day, nearly nine months after
anyone could recall the last confirmed sighting, someone opened a
door that hadn't been opened in a very long time.
Authorities found no signs of struggle, no blood, no broken glass,

(02:21):
just a tidy home frozen in time. In the garage,
tucked against the back wall, sat a large white freezer.
It was taped shut. What they found inside would shock
an entire town and unravel the story of a man
they thought they knew, a man who had once sung
at their funerals, taught their children, and brought them comfort
in their darkest hours. But behind the kindness was something else,

(02:44):
something hidden, something chilling. The town of Carthage sits in

(03:10):
the piney woods of East Texas, just twenty miles west
of the Louisiana border. With a population of roughly six thousand,
five hundred, It's the kind of place where people wave
at each other on the street, churches fill on Sundays,
and just about everyone knows your name. Locals describe it
as an immensely likable town, quiet, proud of its roots,

(03:32):
and deeply traditional. In the nineteen forties and fifties, Carthage
earned the title of Gas Capital of the United States,
a legacy that left many residents with oil and gas
wealth and a strong sense of independence. The town clings
to its past with pride, hosting dueling museums, promoting itself
as the cradle of country music legends like Tex Ritter

(03:54):
and Jim Reeves, and frequently appearing on lists of the
best small towns in the Country by the mid nineteen nineties,
Carthage was featured in the Best one hundred Small Towns
in America. The people of Carthage, often referred to as Carthaginians,
are described as conservative, both socially and politically. They're the

(04:15):
kind of neighbors who will step out of their vehicles
during a traffic jam to help push a stalled car
or check if someone needs directions. Violent crime was rare,
Murders were almost unheard of in the more affluent parts
of town, and local lore suggested that any trouble usually
stayed on the wrong side of the tracks. The city's
sense of order and moral clarity was so deeply ingrained

(04:37):
that when a local state senator was caught soliciting a
prostitute in Austin town, leaders claimed he would have avoided
the whole ordeal if he'd stayed home, because, as they
put it, Carthage has no prostitutes. It was into this orderly,
tight knit environment that Berne Tita arrived in nineteen eighty five.
From the outset, it felt to many like something good

(04:59):
had come town. Bernie was gentle, attentive, and well mannered.
He smiled, easily, listened closely, and treated every one, especially
the elderly, with a warmth that felt genuine and rare.
People said he was an asset to Carthage, someone they
were proud to call one of their own. Bernie worked
as an assistant funeral director at Hawthorne Funeral Home. It

(05:20):
didn't take long before people were singing his praises. Don Lipsey,
the funeral homes owner, considered him the most qualified young
man he'd ever hired. Bernie was a perfectionist in his work,
capable of styling hair and applying make up in a
way that made the deceased look peaceful, natural, and dignified.
He was often requested to sing behind a screen during services,

(05:42):
his tenor voice comforting, clear and strong. One elderly woman
even said Bernie sang better than the town's paid preacher.
Families in mourning gravitated toward him, drawn in by his kindness,
his sense of presence, and his quiet ability to know
just what to say. But Bernie didn't stop at funerals.
He immersed himself in the spiritual and cultural life of

(06:05):
the town. He taught Sunday school at the first United
Methodist Church, sometimes even standing in for the minister. He
sang in the church choir, directed community musicals at Panola College,
and lent his voice to the professional Shreveport Chamber Singers.
He helped organize the Christmas decorations for the town square
and had a special affection for Broadway musicals. In a

(06:28):
town proud of its traditions, Bernie became one of its
most beloved fixtures. His empathy, especially for older widows, stood out.
He comforted women after the loss of their husbands, offering
handkerchiefs and quiet scripture, and following up in the weeks
that followed to help them pick up prescriptions or simply
to talk. He sewed curtains for those who needed them,

(06:51):
helped others file taxes, and was always quick to shake
a hand and ask after someone's well being. According to
one church member, Bernie he brought something to Carthage that
wasn't there before, an abundance of compassion. It didn't go unnoticed.
He became especially popular with the town's older women, who
adored him for his attentiveness and charm. Some said he

(07:14):
made them feel young again. Others called him there guardian angel.
Before long, he began giving generous gifts to people in town.
Catalog deliveries from ups arrived frequently. He bought a car
for one family, paid for a house for another, pledged scholarships,
donated to churches, led Boy Scout fundraisers, and even rescued

(07:34):
a failing trophy shop to keep it running. There were whispers,
of course, some men called Bernie a little light in
the loafers, noting his high voice and theatrical flare, his
lack of romantic interest in women, and his mannerisms. But
in Carthage, few seemed to care. People were too taken
with his kindness, too grateful for what he gave back.

(07:56):
One woman told the Houston Chronicle that if she had
to list the people she blie leaved were going to Heaven,
Bernie would be first. Another said, simply, he's a god.
By all accounts, Bernie Tita was the best of Carthage
until a freezer was opened. Marjorie Nugent was born into

(08:26):
a world where money and appearance mattered. She grew up
in a time when women were expected to marry well,
manage a household, and keep certain things private, especially pain.
Those who knew her from earlier years said she had
always carried herself with a sense of control, sharp, dignified
self contained but not necessarily warm. At eighty one years old,

(08:49):
she lived alone in a large gated home on the
edge of town, surrounded by fields and pine trees. She
had inherited a fortune from her late husband R. L.
Rod Nugent, a promptminent banker and oilmen. After his death,
her estate was valued between five and ten million dollars,
and her oil and gas royalties alone brought in several

(09:09):
hundred thousand dollars each year. She was a widow of
substantial means in a town where old money still carried weight.
But unlike most of Carthage's affluent residence, Marjorie was not admired.
Her name was spoken with a mix of fear and disdain.
She was known for being cold, sharp tongued, and, as
many described her, simply mean. One local called her the

(09:32):
richest and snowdiest widow in Carthage. Others remembered her as
critical and controlling, quick to lash out when someone disappointed her,
even over small things. Her own sister admitted she was
afraid of her. A cousin said she had blue periods
when her remarks could be cruel, cutting deep into whoever
happened to be standing near by. She rarely left her property,

(09:54):
was reluctant to spend money locally, and once argued with
a vet over a forty five dollar bill. To many
in town, Marjorie was the town grinch, humorless, ungenerous, and aloof.
She was estranged from most of her family. Her relationship
with her only son, Rod Junior was strained and distant.
She had severed ties with her sister over an argument

(10:15):
about their mother's estate. Even her granddaughters were pushed away.
Over time, she became an isolated figure, not just in
her home but in the fabric of the community. Quick
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(10:35):
just three bucks a month. Links in the show notes
and we're back. Thanks for sticking through that. Let's get
back to it. Before she became the reclusive widow at
the story's center, Marjorie Nugent cast a shadow much larger
than the two lane roads that cut through Carthage. Her nephew,

(10:58):
Joe Rhodes, remembered a childchildhood shaped less by sugar and
more by tension. He recounted a terrifying memory Marjorie once
chased him through the yard with garden shears, finally locking
him in a room and refusing to let him out
until the maid intervened and let him call home. His
mother later said she had thought of Marjorie as the

(11:18):
devil on earth. This was no isolated incident. Family members
described interactions marked by sharp criticism and icy resolve. Another
sister said, I was always afraid of her, even when
she did ugly things. Such experiences help explain how fear,
rather than affection, came to define many of Marjorie's relationships.

(11:41):
She lived largely removed from the town's social fabric. While
she held considerable wealth, she gave little to charity unless prompted.
She didn't attend community events. When she did venture out,
say to a country store the post office, her demeanor
was cold, her manner brief conversations ended quickly. Few stuck
around long enough to learn anything personal. The accounts varied,

(12:04):
but the effect was consistent. Marjorie was respected, but not loved.
Her estate was well managed, her name well known, but
she was not the kind of person anyone rushed to
visit or thought they could trust. In small town Texas,
that kind of distance carried meaning people in town would
sometimes see her at the grocery store or driving through

(12:26):
the square, but few claimed to know her. Most said
they wouldn't dare knock on her door. Some whispered about
her temper. Others described a woman who had once been
part of the community, but had over time walled herself
off completely. One person remarked that if she held her
nose any higher, she might drown in a rainstorm. Whether

(12:47):
this isolation was self imposed or shaped by life experiences,
no one could say for certain. What was clear was that,
by the time she reached her eighties, Marjorie Nugent had
pushed most people away, or kept them far enough out
that they stopped trying. Bernie Tita met Marjorie Nugent in
March of nineteen ninety at her husband's funeral. He had

(13:09):
embalmed the body himself and oversaw the service at Hawthorne
Funeral Home. He noticed her sitting alone in the front pew,
rigid and expressionless. When she shivered, he offered her his coat. Later,
he checked in on her, as he often did with widows,
dropping by to see if they needed groceries, prescriptions, or
someone to talk to. It was something he did frequently

(13:31):
part of his quiet mission to bring comfort to those
who were grieving. In the weeks that followed, Marjorie and
Bernie began spending more time together. At first, it was
a simple gesture of kindness, Bernie calling in to make
sure she was all right, inviting her to community events,
But soon they became inseparable. He was decades younger than her,

(13:53):
soft spoken, warm and thoughtful. She was blunt, guarded, and
accustomed to solitude. It was a pairing that confused many
in Carthage. Despite her reputation, Marjorie softened, at least with Bernie.
She gave him gifts, including her late husband's twelve thousand
dollars rolex. By nineteen ninety one, she had authorized him
to sign checks on her behalf. When a stockbroker questioned

(14:16):
her decision, she exploded with anger, threatening to move her accounts. Bernie,
it seemed, was now in charge of her money and
her life. He spent his days off at her house
and eventually began traveling with her. They were seen around
town holding hands, though Bernie explained it away by saying
she was unsteady on her feet. At one point, they

(14:38):
shared a cruise cabin in late nineteen ninety three, Marjorie
hired him full time as her business manager and travel companion.
The pay was generous, much more than what he earned
at the funeral home. The arrangement allowed Bernie to indulge
in his love of giving gifts for friends, donations to
local causes, and elaborate catalog orders that arrived by the

(14:59):
box slow. Together they traveled widely, the Pyramids of Egypt,
the cathedrals of Russia, Broadway shows in New York. Marjorie
flew the Concord. They crossed the Atlantic on the Queen Mary.
Bernie laid out her medication, made her coffee, trimmed her
toe nails. He was in effect her butler, companion, assistant,

(15:20):
and nurse. But the relationship, by many accounts, grew darker.
Marjorie became increasingly possessive. If Bernie wasn't at her house
by eleven forty five for lunch, she would page him
repeatedly until he arrived. If he was delayed or distracted,
she would beerate him. Friends noted that he seemed afraid
of disappointing her, once describing her as someone who would

(15:42):
give me living hell if he wasn't exactly where he
was supposed to be. In nineteen ninety one, Marjorie made
a decision that shocked her remaining family. She disinherited her son,
Rod Junior, and rewrote her will, leaving everything to Bernie,
her ten million dollar estate, her home, her investments, all
of it. Bernie claimed she simply didn't feel appreciated by

(16:04):
her family. He said she trusted him. Bernie soon took
her seat on the board of the First National Bank.
By nineteen ninety four, relatives noticed that the framed photos
of Rod Nugent had been replaced with pictures of Bernie.
When her granddaughters came to visit, she insisted she didn't
recognize them and told them to leave. By this point,

(16:26):
Bernie was quietly using Marjorie's money to help others in town.
He bought cars for families in need, pledged scholarships, donated
to churches, bought a home for a struggling couple, funded
boy scout drives, and even rescued a local trophy shop.
People called him a robin Hood, a man who used
the wealth of a difficult old woman to bring joy
to others. Some saw it as generous, others saw it

(16:48):
as strange. The townspeople who adored Bernie and barely tolerated Marjorie,
viewed their relationship through the same lens. They viewed everything
Bernie did with warmth and admiration. His closeness to her
was puzzling, but most chalked it up to Bernie simply
being Bernie, compassionate, selfless, and kind. Only a few wondered

(17:11):
what exactly was going on behind the closed doors of
Marjorie Nugent's house. By late nineteen ninety six, something subtle
began to shift in Carthage. People still saw Bernie at church,

(17:34):
at choir rehearsals, at college productions, but Marjorie Nugent, once
his constant companion, was no longer at his side. The
change was gradual at first, it passed without question. When
Bernie visited his sister for Thanksgiving that year, he explained
that Missus Nugent had gone to Ohio to spend the
holiday with the only family member she was still on

(17:55):
speaking terms with. At Christmas, Bernie was seen decorating Marjorie's house,
just as he had done the year before, but again
she was nowhere to be seen. Bernie told friends she
was still in Ohio. As winter turned to spring, the
story evolved. Bernie said missus Nugent wasn't feeling well, that
she was resting, and that she wasn't accepting visitors. By

(18:17):
late spring, he claimed she had suffered a stroke and
was recovering in a private nursing home outside Carthage. There
was no address, no phone number, no further details. But
in a town that trusted Bernie without question, no one
pushed Marjorie Nugent had vanished from public life, yet no
one sounded the alarm. The people of Carthage, so accustomed

(18:39):
to Bernie's goodness, gave him the benefit of the doubt.
After all, Marjorie had always been reclusive. The explanation made sense,
at least on the surface. Behind closed doors, Bernie continued
to manage her estate. Bills were paid, her lawn was trimmed,
her home cleaned regularly. Nothing outwardly appeared amiss. Bernie carried

(18:59):
on with his acts of generosity. He quietly used missus
Nugent's money to support the community, funding a Western War store,
buying tickets for college plays, sponsoring choir concerts. On a
Chamber of Commerce trip to Nashville, he was spotted pushing
a Carthage widow in a wheelchair through the airport. No
one asked about Marjorie. They asked Bernie how he was doing,

(19:21):
and they praised his kindness. Still, small concerns began to surface.
Ruth Cockrell, Marjorie's cousin, began to grow suspicious. Bernie's stories
didn't sit right with her. Ruth worried something had happened.
She didn't believe the stroke, the nursing home, or the
distant relative in Ohio. She wondered privately if Marjorie had

(19:41):
been harmed, poisoned, locked away, or worse, but admitted she
had no one she could safely tell. Bernie was too loved,
too respected. Any accusation would have been met with laughter
or dismissal. At the same time, Lloyd Tiller, Marjorie's stockbroker,
noticed that she had stopped responding to his messages. When

(20:02):
he contacted Bernie, he was told that Marjorie was losing
her mind, that she might be suffering from Alzheimer's. Tiller
didn't believe it, not completely. It wasn't until July of
nineteen ninety seven, nearly eight months after Marjorie was last seen,
that someone finally acted a Carthage woman never publicly named,
contacted the Sheriff's department and asked if anyone had seen

(20:24):
missus Nugent lately. She was concerned. The concern was noted,
but nothing happened immediately. The department had other calls to
respond to the missing person report. Sat idle weeks passed,
then deputies decided to follow up. Bernie wasn't in town.
He was in Las Vegas attending a wedding for a
Panola College student. He told investigators that Marjorie was staying

(20:48):
at a hospital in Temple under an assumed name, and
that she didn't wish to be contacted, but when deputies
reached out to the hospital, no one matching her description
could be found. At that point, they reached out to
Marjorie's estranged son, Rod Nugent, in Amarillo. Rod had already
grown concerned. After failing to reach his mother, He drove

(21:10):
to Carthage with his eldest daughter, Alexandria Nugent, determined to
find out what was going on. The house was quiet,
immaculately kept, but something felt wrong. Alexandria noticed that the
garage freezer had been taped shut. It stood out her grandmother,
a child of the Great Depression, was meticulous about storing food.

(21:31):
She would never have left things in disarray. If she
had gone somewhere, she would have made sure nothing spoiled.
Alexandria pealed back the tape and opened the lid. Underneath
frozen peas and boxed dinners, she saw a white sheet,
wrapped tight, and just beneath it the top of a
human head. Alexandria turned to her father and said, simply,

(21:52):
they found her. It was over. The story that had
held Carthage in a gentle, trusting trance for nearly nine
months collapsed in it instant. Bernitita's carefully constructed facade had
begun to unravel when sheriff's deputies arrived at Marjorie Nugent's

(22:27):
home in August nineteen ninety seven. What they found inside
the garage would upend everything Carthage thought it new. A
chest style deep freezer sat against the wall, taped shut.
Beneath a layer of frozen vegetables and packaged meals was
a white sheet wrapped tightly around a body, Marjorie's body.
It had been there for nine months to preserve the evidence.

(22:49):
Deputies were ordered not to disturb the contents. Instead, the
entire freezer was lifted into the back of a pickup
truck and driven generator attached to Dallas. It would take
two days for the body to thaw enough for the autopsy.
By the time the results came in, Bernie Tita had
already confessed. Deputies located him back in Carthage. That same day.

(23:13):
He had plans to take a local little league team
to dinner. He seemed surprised when they said they needed
to speak with him. They brought him to the Panola
County Sheriff's office for questioning. In the interview room, Bernie
remained composed at first, but it didn't last. As the
minutes passed, his hands began to tremble and he became
visibly unsettled. Then quietly, he admitted to shooting Marjorie Nugent.

(23:37):
He told investigators it happened on November nineteenth, nineteen ninety six.
That morning they were preparing to run errands. There hadn't
been a fight, there was no warning, he said. He
picked up a twenty two caliber rifle and fired once
in the back, then again. It was the same rifle.
He added that missus Nugent had asked him to purchase

(23:59):
she wanted it for armadillos. He described the aftermath with
clinical precision. He washed the blood from the garage floor
using a garden hose, then carefully he prepared the body,
wrapped it in a sheet, and placed it in the freezer.
When asked why he hadn't simply abandoned her, Bernie said
he couldn't. I wanted to give missus Nugent a proper burial,

(24:20):
He explained, everyone needs a proper burial, but the burial
never happened. Bernie was, by his own words, relieved when
deputies finally came for him. It felt like this big
weight had been lifted off my shoulder, he told them.
The confession, shocking in its calm detail, opened the door
to further revelations. Bernie admitted to continuing to manage Marjorie's

(24:44):
finances after her death. He cashed checks, forged her signature,
and continued making wire transfers from her accounts. He hosted
gatherings in her home, flew to New York and Paris,
bought crystal and antique furniture, and spent thousands on catalog
gifts for his friends. He told his sister. He used
the money to make others happy, to bring joy where

(25:06):
there had been grief. Investigators determined that Bernie had spent
approximately three point eight million dollars of Marjorie's fortune, some
while she was alive, much of it after she was dead.
He claimed he had no real plan, that he hadn't
intended to kill her and hadn't thought about what came next.
That she had simply become too hateful, too possessive. He

(25:27):
said she controlled every hour of his day, called him incessantly,
lashed out without warning. When asked why he did it,
he looked at the officer and replied, as if the
answer was self evident. She was very hateful and very possessive.
To some, the explanation made sense, at least in Carthage.
When news of Marjorie's death spread, the reaction in town

(25:50):
was not sorrow for the victim, but concern for the
man who had taken her life. Her funeral drew only
a handful of mourners. By contrast, support for Bernie swelled.
Many residents felt sympathy. Some claimed she must have driven
him to it. Others speculated that the money in Bernie's
access to it had simply allowed things to get out

(26:10):
of hand. In interviews, locals said things like poor Bernie,
and I don't blame him. They described her as bitter, spiteful,
and cruel, and Bernie as sweet, gentle and kind. A
few said flatly that they believed it was self defense.
The district attorney, Danny Buck Davidson, knew what he was
up against. Bernie Tita wasn't just liked in Panola County,

(26:33):
he was adored. Finding a jury willing to convict him
there would be nearly impossible, so he filed for a
change of venue. Quick break ads keep the show running,
but if you want to skip them, the ad free

(26:55):
versions on Patreon for just three bucks a month, links
in the show notes and we're back. Thanks for sticking
through that. Let's get back to it. The trial of
Bernie Tita began under unusual circumstances. In Carthage. It had

(27:19):
become clear that a fair jury could not be seated.
The man charged with murder had spent years caring for
the town's elderly, singing at their funerals, teaching their children,
directing their plays, and delivering food to their doors. He
was admired loved. The courtroom had to be moved two
counties away to San Augustine just to find twelve people

(27:41):
who didn't know him personally. The prosecution laid out a
case built on premeditation and greed. They argued that Bernie
Tita was not a gentle caregiver, but a practiced manipulator
who had embedded himself into the life of a lonely,
wealthy woman for one reason money. To the new Nugent family,
Bernie had run what they called a sweetheart scam. They

(28:04):
said Marjorie believed Bernie was in love with her, and
that he let her believe it, that he had seen
an opening in the weeks after her husband's death and
exploited it. Assistant Attorney General Lisa Tanner described how Bernie,
struggling with credit card debt and unpaid taxes, had quietly
siphoned away nearly four million dollars. He had forged Marjorie's signature,

(28:26):
fabricated financial documents, and created fake brokerage statements to cover
the withdrawals. All of it, they said, was theft, quiet,
persistent theft, the kind Marjorie never saw coming. Then, just
before a scheduled meeting with the new trustee of her
family trust, someone who might have uncovered the missing funds.
Marjorie Nugent disappeared. The prosecution pointed to that date as

(28:50):
no coincidence. They said Bernie killed her to protect what
he had taken, that he moved the rifle closer to
the garage, that he had been thinking about it for months,
and that on November nineteenth, nineteen ninety six, he shot
her once in the back, paralyzed her, then walked over
and fired three more times at point blank range. They
called it cold blooded, calculated, and they said Bernie Tita

(29:14):
had kept smiling through it all. The defense painted a
different picture. They did not dispute that Bernie had killed
Marjorie Nugent, but they asked the jury to understand why.
To them, Bernie was not a predator, but a broken
man who had snapped under the weight of psychological abuse.
They described Marjorie as imperious and volatile, some one who

(29:36):
cut off her own family, lashed out at any one
who disappointed her, and kept Bernie tethered to her life
with a mix of dependency and control. Witnesses described her temper,
her demands, and her isolation her own sister had once
said she was afraid of her. The defense said that
Bernie had become her prisoner, that Marjorie was possessive and hateful,

(29:58):
and that Bernie, who had known loneliness and abandonment since childhood,
felt unable to escape. On the day of the murder,
he had told her he couldn't go on, that he
couldn't be her friend any more. She had refused to
let him leave, locked the gates, threatened him, and in
a dissociative episode triggered by years of emotional manipulation, he

(30:20):
pulled the trigger. A forensic psychiatrist supported the argument, testifying
that Bernie had experienced a break, a dissociative moment born
of deep psychological distress. It wasn't planned, they said, it
wasn't a scheme. It was a collapse. In court, Berney's
soft spoken demeanor held. He wept, He thanked the people
who had supported him. He admitted what he'd done, but

(30:43):
he denied ever intending to kill her. Public opinion remained divided.
To some, Bernie was a con man, someone who saw
an opportunity and took it, then silenced the only person
who could stop him. To others, he was a tragic figure, gentle, generous,
pushed beyond the brink by a woman whose cruelty was
too much to bear. The trial lasted less than a week.

(31:25):
The jury, unfamiliar with Bernie's charm or community service, took
just twenty minutes to find him guilty. In February of
nineteen ninety nine, he was sentenced to life in prison.
District Attorney Danny Buck Davidson, who had once called Bernie
the most popular man in town, now addressed him in
court as a killer. His case was simple. Bernie Tita

(31:47):
had committed first degree murder. He had lied, he had stolen,
and when he thought it might all come crashing down,
he eliminated the one person who could stop him. To
the jury, Davidson said the motive was greed and betrayal.
That Bernie, in quiet and calculated moves, had taken everything
from a woman who trusted him her money, her name,

(32:08):
her autonomy, and eventually her life. Nine years after he
first met Marjorie Nugent, Bernie told reporters he felt pretty
good about the outcome. I deserve time, he said. I've
done a particularly horrible thing, the worst thing in my
life for most the story ended there, but it didn't
stay buried. It's October twenty ten inside the McConnell Unit,

(32:32):
a sprawling prison facility near Beeville, Texas. Two visitors sit
across from a man in his early fifties. It's Bernie.
He wears a pale blue jumpsuit in prison issued boots.
His voice is soft, almost gentle. His hands are folded
loosely on the table. Across from him sit actor Jack
Black and director Richard Linklater. They're here doing something few

(32:53):
filmmakers ever get the chance to do, preparing a role
based not on an interpretation or a memory, but a
living subject. Black watches closely as Tita speaks, noting his
speech patterns. The slight textes drawl, softened by formality. At
one point, Black asks a question, something that's been weighing
on him throughout the pre production process. Why didn't you

(33:16):
just walk away? Bernie doesn't hesitate, because I was all
she had. He says, I was her only friend in
a vacuum. It's a line from a film script, but here,
in a real prison interview room, it hangs in the
air like a quiet confession. There's something unsettling about how
ordinary he seems how kind, and yet this is a

(33:37):
man who stored the body of an eighty one year
old widow in a freezer and went on living off
her fortune for nine months before being caught. Linklater would
later describe this moment as the axis around which the
entire film turns. The question isn't whether Bernie Tita killed
Marjorie Nugent he confessed. The real question, the one the
film would grapple with, is how and what why a

(34:00):
man like Bernie came to do what he did, and
what it meant for a town like Carthage. Richard Linklater
had read the same stories everyone else had. The case
was strange enough to catch attention even among the usual
flow of Texas crime coverage. But it wasn't until reading
Skip Hollinsworth's article in Texas Monthly, the very same article

(34:20):
that informs most of this episode, that Linklater began to
feel the tug of something deeper. There was a cinematic
quality to the contradictions a small East Texas town, a
popular mortician, an abrasive heiress, a freezer, a confession, and
a trial that never quite settled anything. But Linklater wasn't

(34:40):
interested in dramatizing a murder. He was more interested in tone,
in the way people talked about Bernie, in how townsfolk
seemed to describe the killer in warmer terms than the victim,
in the strange cognitive dissonance that arose when kindness and
violence occupied the same space. He reached out to Hollinsworth
and and the two began shaping the story not as

(35:03):
a conventional crime thriller, but as something closer to satire, blunt, observational,
and laced with documentary realism. Casting Jack Black as Bernie
was an early decision. Black wasn't the obvious choice for
a quiet, church going assistant funeral director, but Link later
knew him well, He'd worked with him before, and more importantly,

(35:23):
he trusted him to play it straight, to hold back
when needed, and let the performance rest in nuance. Shirley
mc lane agreed to portray Marjorie after hearing that the
role required flashes of charm amid irascibility. That'll be me
after I'm gone, she joked to play district attorney Danny
Buck Davidson. They cast Matthew McConaughey, a real life East

(35:45):
Texan who understood the cadence of small town politics and
courtroom showmanship. McConaughey gained weight, inserted dental plumpers, and chose
wire rim glasses to mirror Davidson's everyday appearance. But the
film's real secret weapon was its cast. It was its style.
Bernie opens not with a dramatic murder scene or courtroom

(36:06):
stand off, but with the inside of a casket. Jack
Black's Bernie demonstrates how to prepare a body for burial,
instructing young mortuary students at a funeral home. His delivery
is calm and practiced. The scene is oddly charming. It's
also grounded in fact Bernie really did teach funeral techniques
to local students. The film leans heavily on real voices.

(36:27):
Townspeople appear on camera as themselves, offering commentary between scenes.
Some sing Bernie's praises, Others speculate about motives or recount
old gossip. The format moves freely between documentary and fiction,
and that was intentional. Link Later wanted the viewer to
feel the tension that lived in Carthage between what people

(36:48):
knew Bernie had done and how they still felt about him.
One woman on camera admits that she doesn't believe Bernie
should be in prison. Another says he only shot her
four times, not five. It's a moment played almost for laughs,
but it cuts to something deeper. In Carthage, the boundaries
between justice, personality, and community had long since merged. Shooting

(37:11):
unfolded across Bastrop, Smithville, Georgetown, Lockhart, and Carthage in twenty
two Days. Link later mixed seasoned character actors with local residents,
handing many a scripted outline, then letting them reshape lines
into natural Panola County vernacular. Honey, there are folks in
this town who would have shot her for five dollars,

(37:32):
one woman quips on screen, lifted straight from real conversation.
The semidocumentary structure emerged in the edit scenes, glide between
narrative and talking head interviews, allowing town gossip to steer
the plot whenever either principal Marjorie dead Burnie, incarcerated cannot speak.
Linklater later described those interviews as social lubricant, the way

(37:55):
small communities metabolize shock. Linklater knew that making a film
in this way would bring criticism. Some might accuse it
of softening the crime. Others might see it as entertainment
disguised as empathy. But what Link later understood was that
people already had softened the crime long before the cameras arrived.

(38:16):
His film didn't create that ambiguity. It documented it. Quick
break ads keep the show running, but if you want
to skip them, the ad free versions on Patreon for
just three bucks a month. Links in the show notes

(38:36):
and we're back. Thanks for sticking through that. Let's get
back to it. At the Austin premiere of Bernie in
twenty twelve, Richard Linklater stood in the lobby, shaking hands,
answering questions, and thanking those who had helped make the
project possible. The mood was celebratory, but then someone approached

(38:56):
him with a very different purpose. Jody Cole was a
criminal defense attorney. She'd read about the case before she'd
seen the film, and now she was curious not about
the film's accuracy, but about the legal record behind it.
She asked link Later if he had trial transcripts, motions,
evidence files, anything he could share. He did. He handed

(39:18):
them over the next day. Cole wasn't looking for a
way to exonerate Bernie Tita. She accepted that he'd killed
Marjorie nugent, But what caught her attention was the absence
of certain facts, particularly regarding Bernie's mental state and history
of trauma. She began digging. What she uncovered would reframe
the entire case. When Bernie's original trial took place in

(39:40):
nineteen ninety nine, the defense never raised the issue of
prior abuse. There had been no psychological evaluations pointing to dissociation,
no expert testimony on long term trauma. But Jodi Cole
found evidence that Bernie had been molested as a teenager
by an older male relative. The abuse, she learned, was
not fleeting or isolated. It had left deep psychological scars,

(40:04):
scars that shaped how Bernie related to others, especially older
authority figures. Forensic psychiatrist Richard Pessikoff examined the case and
argued that the years of sexual trauma, combined with Marjorie's
alleged psychological abuse, had caused Bernie to dissociate that when
he pulled the trigger, he wasn't fully present. Bernie himself said,

(40:25):
I wasn't part of the shooting. I felt like I
wasn't even there. This wasn't an excuse. It didn't reverse
the fact of the crime, but it did raise questions
about Bernie's capacity and state of mind at the time
of the killing, questions that, had they been raised at trial,
might have changed the outcome. Jody Cole took her findings

(40:45):
to the one person who had the power to act,
Danny Buck Davidson. Davidson had tried the original case. He
had painted Bernie as a manipulator and one, but when
he reviewed the new material, including evaluations by docter Edward Greepin,
he made a surprising decision. He didn't double down. Instead,

(41:05):
he signed an affidavit stating that if he had known
then what he knows now, he might have pursued a
different charge instead of murder, perhaps sudden passion, a lesser
offense that carried a maximum sentence of twenty years. In
May twenty fourteen, Judge Diane Devasto granted a new sentencing
hearing and Bernie Tito was released on ten thousand dollars

(41:27):
bail pending a re sentencing hearing under strict supervision. He
had served nearly fifteen years of his life sentence, and
then something even more unusual happened. Bernie moved into the
garage apartment behind Richard Linklater's home in Austin, he joined
a choir, attended church. Those around him described him as kind, humble, gentle.

(41:49):
The public reaction was swift and divided. For some, the
film Bernie had brought clarity. It gave context. It showed
a man who had lived a life of service and
suffered deeply. They saw his release not as a loophole,
but as a coarse correction. To others, especially Marjorie Nugent's family,
it was a mockery. They learned about the release from

(42:11):
the media. To them, the film Bernie was more than inaccurate.
It was deeply offensive. They said it twisted the truth,
turned a killer into a folk hero, and trivialized their loss.
They argued that Bernie had charmed the system once and
now he was doing it again with the help of Hollywood.
They staged protests, held press conferences, and criticized Linklater, directly

(42:33):
accusing the film of warping public opinion and interfering with justice.
Marjorie's nephew, Joe Rhodes, watched the film in Los Angeles.
He didn't laugh. He sat in a theater full of
strangers as the audience chuckled at remarks about his aunt's temper,
her coldness, her loneliness, the re enactments, the talking heads,

(42:54):
the townspeople speaking with affection about the man who killed her.
It was disorienting, not just because of what was said,
but because of what wasn't. The audience didn't know the
years of distance, the estrangement, the moments when Marjorie's presence
could turn from stiff to frightening, nor did they know
the silence that had followed her death. What they saw

(43:15):
was a man they liked and a woman they didn't,
and that was enough to decide who deserved sympathy. Joe
left the theater unsettled. The film was accurate in many
of its details, but the tone, the affection, the gentle
mockery felt hollow. He later described the experience as surreal.
His aunt's murder had become entertainment. The freezer a punchline.

(43:38):
The town that had once feared her now mourned the
man who confessed to killing her. Under pressure, Davidson recused himself.
The Texas Attorney General's Office took over the case. The
nugents fought back, hired an attorney. Released documents argued that
the abuse allegations were either fabricated or unprovable. Marjorie's granddaughter,

(43:58):
Shannon Nugent, told Bernie in court, you are nothing to me.
The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals allowed for a new
sentencing trial, but not a release. In April twenty sixteen,
the case returned to court, this time in Henderson, another
town where Bernie's reputation wouldn't skew the jury pool. Lisa Tanner,

(44:19):
the Assistant Attorney General, led the prosecution. She acknowledged Bernie's
troubled past, but told jurors this case was not about sympathy,
it was about cold blooded murder. The defense repeated its
claims of trauma and dissociation. Bernie did not testify. The
testimony lasted three weeks. Some described Marjorie as controlling, difficult,

(44:40):
even cruel. Others painted her as private, principled, and loving
in her own way. One granddaughter said her grandmother had
been conned by a man who told her what she
needed to hear and then stole everything she had. After
four hours of deliberation, the new jury returned its verdict
ninety nine years to life. Bernie Tita was sent back

(45:02):
to prison. A later appeal failed In August twenty seventeen,
the court upheld the sentence. A previous theft charge was dismissed,
but it didn't change the outcome. As of now, Bernie
Tita remains incarcerated at the Estelle Unit in Huntsville, Texas.
His earliest possible parole date is August third, twenty twenty nine,

(45:22):
the day after his seventy first birthday. The town of
Carthage has never quite agreed on what happened. To some,
Bernie was a fraud, to others, a man who broke
under pressure, and to a few still someone they'd trust
to sing at their funeral. Richard linklater didn't write another
article after that or shoot a sequel, but he has

(45:42):
spoken about what the case taught him. He remains convinced
that Bernie Tita's story, tragic as it is, says something
about the flaws in the criminal justice system, the way
trials sometimes miss context that matters, the way trauma can
lie buried, and the way a small town perception can
become the most powerful force in the court room. He

(46:03):
doesn't deny that a woman died, he doesn't ignore the
pain of her family, but he also believes that if
a legal system isn't allowed to evolve when new facts emerge,
then justice becomes brittle and less honest. In his words,
I didn't make Bernie to exonerate him. I made it
to understand something about people, about contradiction. That contradiction still lingers.

(46:27):
A man with no prior violence, who gave so much
to so many, still took a life. A town that
knew him, trusted him and grieved with him, still had
to reckon with what he'd done. But the facts remain.
A woman was killed, her body hidden, her fortune spent,
and her name for better or worse, remembered only in
the shadow of the man who took her life. And

(46:48):
the movie, just ninety nine minutes long, still echoes through
every conversation about it. The case remains one of the
most unusual intersections of film, fact and law in modern
American crime. Linklater often says the project proved that art
can stir justice, yet cannot dictate it. The courtroom must
finally weigh harm above charm. Jack Black credits the role

(47:11):
with changing public opinion about his range, while McConaughey notes
that the experience clarified his own feelings about small town
gossip and moral gray zones for Carthage residence. The picture
locked their voices on to celluloid, ensuring that long after
memories fade, their drawls and opinions will continue to frame
the strange saga of a mortician and the widow who

(47:34):
lost her life U