This podcast contains graphic descriptions of death and decay. Please listen with care. Campsite Media. Roughly five seconds after the news about Tri-State hit the airwaves back in 2002, Every lawyer within spitting distance of noble began recruiting clients. Some attorneys put out newspaper ads, and one law firm creates a website just to learn families who were victims of Tri-State crematory. A flurry of lawsuits follows against the funeral homes and Brent Marsh and his family. Luckily, the Marsh's have a homeowners' policy with Georgia Farm Bureau Insurance, and the company ends up providing them with representation for the civil cases. That's how a tall and lanky lawyer named Stuart James gets involved. A guy from the insurance company calls Stuart to ask if he'll help defend the family.

He said, I got a bunch of lawsuits for you. I said, Really? He said, I got about, I think it was like 115. I said, What are you talking about? He said, Well, you know about that guy who had the dead bodies on the property? I said, Yeah. He said, Well, we insure him. I said, Really? I went down to Georgia and I picked up 115 lawsuits.

In total, the marshes in the funeral homes Brent worked with faced more than 250 civil suits in three states. Combined, they're looking at more than $100 million in potential damages. Most of the remaining cases are consolidated into a single class action suit seeking millions of dollars, and some of the funeral homes settle on their own. Amidst all this litigation, Stuart meets with Brent. This isn't one of their regular lawyer-client visits. Stuart wants to get the full story from Brent to learn exactly what happened at Tri-State. The civil suits could go on a long time, and people get old and die. He wants to make sure the story exists somewhere on paper, even if that paper is then put into a safe and locked away.

I went to the jail, and I went in there, and I sat in a little visiting room with him for a couple of hours and went over everything detail by detail. And he understood that I was making a record, and I made a record of it that I could use at a later time.

You wrote it all down, in other words? I did write it all down. Was it an important moment for Brent then? Was it a final confession getting off his chest, or was it already off his chest?

No, he and I were sitting there talking about what happened. And he knew... You know, Brent's a smart guy. He knew I was doing it because I'm a lawyer, not his friend, but this is his lawyer. He said, This is because I'm preserving the record. He understood that. He understood exactly what was going on. And he just told me everything. I know why it happened, when it happened. I know exactly where all the bodies were. I know exactly what he did. I know everything that he did, and I know the reasons why.

When I speak with Stuart, I'm hoping he'll connect me to Brent, who has never gone on the record with any reporter. I want to interview Brent because I want to know what was going on in his head when he ran the crematory. I want to know why he did all this, why this all happened in the first place. And I know the family is due, too. And after a year of working on this story and learning everything I can about him, except what it's like to be in the same room, I will finally meet Brent Marsh. From Waveland and Campside Media, this is Noble. I'm Sean Raviv. Episode State, the Pastor. As For part of his plea deal in the criminal case, Brent has to send a handwritten letter of apology to a designated relative of each body that was found and identified at Tri-state. He writes more than 200 versions of this. Dear Mrs Smith, I am so sorry for your loss. I wish I had the answers to give you that would put your mind at ease, but I do not. I can only offer you my deepest apology. Someday, I pray that you will be able to forgive me for my failure to properly perform my job.

Also, I pray you will be able to put an end to this chapter of your life. Please accept my sincerest apologies and my prayers for you. Prayerfully yours, Brent Marsh. To start serving his 12 years, Brent has taken to a prison close to the Georgia Coast, a five and a half hour drive from the Appalachian Hills of Noble. Here's a civil defense attorney, Stuart James.

Brent was considered a high-risk prisoner because he was so high profile. When he was originally in prison, he was in a facility where cops and high-risk prisoners would be in there. He was a really good prisoner, and he wanted to go work and be a volunteer member at the fire department up the street. Normally, they would have allowed him to do that, but because of who he was, they did not.

But Brent finds a lot of other things to do.

He got more education in prison than anybody I know.

That's Brent's criminal defense attorney, McCrack and Poston.

But I guess if you're doing 12 years, you do that. I think he learned how to be a barber. He finished a theological degree. I was quite proud of him because he didn't sit idly. He was very well-liked. He did a lot of work in prison. He was very reliable. No disciplinary record, that thing, which is remarkable.

In Georgia, it's common for an offender to be released early if they don't cause any problems. And Brent is a model prisoner, according to McCrackin. But he's never granted parole. Later in his sentence, Brent is transferred to a facility a bit closer to Noble, so it's easier for his family to visit. That family includes a daughter. Incredibly, she was born two weeks before the bodies were discovered. As this little girl was first encountering the world, her father was being arrested and put on the cover of newspapers across the country. Stuart James again.

I think the most painful aspect for him going to prison was that he couldn't be a daily part of the raising his daughter, but he was even dedicated from prison to make sure that everything was done for her benefit. Make sure that she was visiting him, made sure he wrote her letters, make sure that he supported any decision his wife was making in terms of education, make sure that his mother was involved with her life, and make sure that... I think the most important thing is that regardless of what he did or did not do, he loved her, and that love was unconditional. He's a great father.

Brent's daughter is a teenager when he gets out of prison in June of 2016. Fourteen 14 years after the bodies were first discovered. Mccrackin picks him up. Local news reporters are there, and they follow McCrackin's black pickup all the way to Noble. They want to get Brent to say a few words, but he stands silent as McCrackin speaks on his behalf. Mccrackin tells the reporters that it's time to forgive Brent Marsh, to welcome him back to the community. He says, I just want people to leave him alone and give him a chance. I'm as guilty as anyone of not leaving Brent Marsh alone. I suspect that if he was given the choice, he'd prefer I never make this podcast. That tristate crematory and everything he did and didn't do was forgotten forever. And I've wondered myself, Is it wrong to put more attention on Brent? Someone who has been portrayed as a sicko and a monster, but who has done his time and is now trying to get past it. But I also know that his actions affected a lot of other people, not just Brent. And I don't think he's monstrous. Far from it.

So I stay in touch with Brent's lawyers, Stuart and McCrackin, and repeatedly, nicely ask for an interview. The idea is to present Brent as a human being, whatever human he is. I tell Stuart and McCrackin that if listeners can hear Brent's voice, they'll hear the goodness so many people say is there. And maybe along the way, Brent can tell me what really happened. But for months, there's no sign that I'll get an interview. After Brent gets out of prison, he gets a job at a warehouse and is quickly promoted. He also gets a commercial driver's license and runs a transportation company for a while. He again starts giving back to the community. He works for the United Way and a Baptist Pastors Association. Brent Marsh actually volunteers for FEMA, one of the agencies that came to Noble to help with cleanup a tri-state. By the time I first reach out to him, he seems to have worked his way back to a pretty normal life. I can only hope that McCrackin will somehow convince Brent to talk to me, even though I'm not sure McCrackin wants him to. In the meantime, I investigate the question of why without Brent, why he did what he did.

And I return to a familiar source, someone who spent more time in this case than anybody. Even after everyone else leaves Noble and returns to the regular beats, Special Agent Greg Ramey of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, the GBI, keeps working the crematory case. There are still bodies lingering, unidentified, and Greg doesn't like leaving cases unresolved. Walker County is his home. This all happened just a quick drive from his house, and Greg is continually reminded that not all the families can move on.

There was a little old lady that, bless her heart, she called up. It seemed like every day. They didn't have any children. There was no other folks in their family. Just these two little folks. Just a sweet-heart little couple. The gentleman died, and this little lady called every day. If it didn't hear from me every day. I heard from her once a week. Hon, this is so-and-so. Have you found my husband? I said, No, ma'am. Sorry, we haven't.

Eventually, after a couple of years, the old woman stops calling, and Greg just assumes she died. Her husband's body is never found. The final body count that the newspapers use is 339, but that's really just an estimate, probably an overcount, according to Greg. A lot of the remains in the Marsh family's property are so decayed, mangled, and commingled that the number of bodies found just can't be exact. Parts of one body get mixed with parts of another, especially smaller bones, like from the hands and feet. Two bodies even get switched altogether, given to the wrong families. But Greg eventually sorts it out. The number of bodies identified is a bit more precise. With all the millions of dollars spent in Walker County by all the different agencies who got involved, to this day, only 226 of the bodies have been identified, and some people think even that number is off by one or two. Overall, Greg is proud of his work on the case, but he still has regrets.

I felt like we did a phenomenal job other than, in my heart, I wish we could have identified all of those bodies. That would have been my ultimate goal in it. It didn't happen.

Once they stop IDing bodies, There's another thing to deal with. There are roughly 100 unidentified and unclaimed sets of human remains. What do you do with 100 bodies with no names? In March 2004, they're buried in separate unmarked graves at a cemetery on a hill in Walker County. The state later spends tens of thousands of dollars to put a memorial in that same spot. The engraved marker includes a passage from Ecclesiastes and a poem about healing. And at the edge of the same cemetery, there are a few unlabeled mausoleums. They're filled with 178 sets of ashes that families abandoned. They sent them in to be tested and never picked them up. I guess those families didn't deem every individual bit of cremains essential to preserving memories, which I found a bit ironic after so much energy and money and emotion had been spent, mostly directed at one man for doing something not totally dissimilar, abandoning remains unceremonized. Ceremoniously. I guess what the living owe the dead, like so much else in this world, depends on the person and their feelings at any given moment. And maybe if enough time goes by or enough healing, we owe the dead very little.

In this case, the coroner didn't know what else to do with the 178 sets of desserted ashes, so they will probably stay in those unmarked mausoleums forever. The identities of the 100 bodies buried at this cemetery will probably remain unknown. Many years ago, the GBI put up notices on their website with descriptions of the unclaimed remains. And when I last checked, they were still up. So Greg still has unanswered questions about Tri-state. But when it comes to the question of why, he's formed a pretty coherent theory. When Ray Marsh became too sick to run the crematory, Brent was in college. You may remember how it was going to school, first time away from home, becoming your own person. It's a big deal, especially when you live in a small, entangled community where everyone knows your family. That can be smothering, and it comes with expectations. Maybe Brent didn't want to come home.

I think he got thrust into a business that he didn't want to be a part of. He was like a lay coach here locally for football teams and stuff like that. He loved being out in the community doing that. I think that was his passion, his love, not being involved with dead bodies and stuff. I think it was getting forced into a business that he didn't want to be in. I think part of that influence may have come from his mother.

During his time as head of the crematory, Ray Marsh employed his nephew, who helped mostly with the grave digging service. He was Brent's cousin, but 30 years older. When he found out Brent was taking over the business, he quit. He said he didn't want to work for Brent. A guy so much younger than him.

It was more than one guy could handle. If you've got a funeral service that's due this afternoon, you get those chairs right there, you got to get that tent up, you got to get that whole day, you got to get that vault set. What do you not have to do this afternoon? You don't have to burn that body. So he puts that off. Well, then tomorrow you got one. You've got a funeral service to do tomorrow. You got to dig that hole. You got to set that stuff. You got to move it from over here, get it over here. I don't have time to start that thing and be there and run that. So I put it off. Wait a minute now. I've got to get this done. I've got to get something back to them. I'll just send them this, and they'll never know.

Brent's Civil Defense attorney, Stuart James, worked closely for years with McCrack and Poston, the ring leader of the Marsh's Legal Affairs. While McCrackin stands by his own theory that Brent was in a fog because of mercury poisoning, that he wasn't thinking clearly and he wasn't himself, Stuart seems to have a different theory on Brent. He agrees with Greg that Brent probably didn't want take over his dad's crematory.

I mean, would you want to burn a body for a living? I wouldn't. But it was a family business, so it wasn't like he was not aware of what was going on in the business. Now, it is true that dad got sick, and I can say, generally, I don't know that he didn't want to come home. Was it a choice that he would make? No. He did it out of duty for family. It fell on him because he was the son, and dad was sick, and he had to do what was best for his family.

Stuart and Greg both believe that family played a central role in what Brent did. Did he encounter a certain- My producer, Johnny Kaufman, asked Stuart whether Brent ran into any problems or obstacles when he was put in charge of running the crematory. Maybe things his dad didn't have to deal with.

I can't answer that question.

It's just confidential. Here, Stuart brings up a statement from a different attorney, a guy who represented more than a thousand families in the lawsuits.

He suggested that what Brent did was not any will toward anybody, but it's like being in your office. He didn't quite say it this way, but I will paraphrase it in the way I understand it. You have your inbox, you have your outbox, and what happens is you fall behind and the inbox gets too full and you can't fill the outbox. I will leave it at that.

The way I interpret what Stuart is saying is that running a crematory, maybe to someone who grew up with one on his property, can be a job just like any other. I've had jobs. Hell, everyone has had jobs where you fall behind, where you fall so far behind that you just can't catch up. And if burning bodies is your job and you get backed up, well, maybe to you, it's just a full inbox. It's not the same as falling behind in your TPS reports, but it might feel that way to you. But just because you can twist and contort yourself into believing a scenario where what happened is somewhat understandable, that doesn't mean it's right. And Greg Ramey, for doesn't condone what Brent did by any stretch. That said, Greg's more sympathetic to Brent than I would have expected, considering all he put him through as the central investigator on the case. Greg retired from the GBI in 2019. He still lives in Walker County. He spends his time building houses for his two sons. During his career, Greg worked sex crimes, murders, and child abuse cases. But the Tri-state Crematory case is probably the the one he'll be remembered for.

Was his the crime of the century? Was this just well-thought-out scheme that took a mastermind to figure out? No. I mean, he just didn't do his job at the end of the day. Did he need to go to jail? Absolutely. Did he do some horrible, terrible things? Absolutely. Did he hurt and affect thousands of lives? Yes, absolutely. But at the end of the day, this guy wasn't a criminal mastermind set out to say, Oh, I've got this devious mind. Let me show you how I'm going to screw Walker County and the rest of Southeastern United States and make a name for myself. That wasn't that guy.

That's probably why, even though Greg knows all the pain Brent caused, he He wasn't disturbed or angry when he sees him around town, which he does.

I have no hard feelings. My job was to do my job. I did it well, and I never made anything personal out of the cases. It was me doing my job. Unfortunately here, living in a community where you live and grow up at, sometimes you put friends in jail, sometimes you put relatives in jail.

When you've seen Brett Marsh, do you guys say hello to each other?

If we're close enough to speak, we may. I mean, it's not, Hey, how you been? It's just, Hi, how are you?

Just like anybody else from the community?

Yeah, just friendly to anybody.

Even though he might not show it at the grocery or wherever he might run into Brent, Greg still shares some of the frustration of the families. He's unhappy with Brent because he hasn't explained why he didn't burn the bodies and why he passed out fake cremains. To Greg, it means Brent hasn't fully atoned.

I think if Brent had come forward and said, Hey, look, folks, I was trying to do my dad's business, but it was overwhelming. I didn't want to be in this business. This wasn't what I was interested in. I got forced into it, and it was just more than I could do, and I didn't know what to do. I was trying to preserve my family name, and I'm sorry. Let me tell you, folks will forgive you in a heartbeat down here in the south. I think the community still looks and said, Well, you did it. We know you did it. You served time for it, but you never owned up. You never manned up.

Greg told me that there's a lesson from his grandfather that he carries with him, that you go to hell the same for lying as you do stealing and killing. To Greg, a Christian, it means that you might be able to get away with concealing the truth when you're on Earth. But when you die, God will judge you. Brent Marsh is probably familiar with that same lesson. He's also a staunch Christian and a pastor at the tiny church in Noble founded by his ancestors. And that's where, one Sunday morning, I finally spoke with him. Somewhere in the archives of Stuart James, the civil defense attorney for Brent Marsh, there's a secret document. In that document is the story, the full story, of what happened at Tri-State Crematory, which Brent told Stuart when he visited him in jail many years ago.

He went over the method and the madness of all of it with him, what his feelings were, why he did what he did, why he didn't do what he did, what happened, where the bodies were, where were they located. I asked for specific factual stuff, and I confirmed everything that I knew.

But even though Stuart told me about this document, he wouldn't give me a copy or even tell me what's written on it.

Part of me would love to be able to tell his story. I don't know what Brent would want to do if I asked him, and I said, Do you want to tell your story? We told him it was safe to do so. I don't know what he would want to do. I've never asked him that story. The only thing I can tell you is that Brent, If your story has to be told, what are we going to do? And Brent would say, I have to rely on my lawyers to give me advice on that.

Stuart has a professional obligation to look out for Brent's best interests. And his on-the-record opinion is that what's best for his client is to keep secret the story on that document, the story of why it happened. Brent got out of prison in 2016, but his punishment hasn't ended. As part of the plea deal, he agreed to never profit in any way off of the crematory story. If he does do something like sell the movie rights or write a book and make money off it, he would have to pay the state of Georgia $8 million. That penalty could make anyone a bit tight-lipped. Brent also agreed to serve 60 33 years probation, making for a total sentence of 75 years, essentially the rest of his life. In April 2023, Brent went before a judge who had the discretion to end Brent's probation. But despite his violation-free life since getting out of prison, the judge rejected Brent's request to end his probation due to the, quote, Particular heinous gruesome nature of this crime that has affected hundreds of people here in Walker County. Mccrackin plans to continue arguing for the end of Brent's probation every year until it's granted.

I thought I might meet Brent the day of his probation hearing, but when it didn't go their way, McCrackin decided it wasn't a good idea to introduce me to his client. And when it It seemed like meeting Brent wasn't going to ever happen, in my last formal interview with McCrackin, I asked him, straight up, on the record, why Brent had not agreed to it.

He has been an absolute perfect citizen. Since his arrest, and I think he just doesn't want to stir it up.

Just for the record, the answer to any question to ask you is not going to make us angry or anything like that. But I'm just curious, did you advise him not to talk to us?

I actually told him because we had just experienced what we experienced in trying to get his probation early terminated. I said, At this point, maybe it wouldn't hurt for people to know your story. And he was pretty resolute. I had to tell him, I respect that.

Do you think that it would do good for Brent to tell his story, to talk about what happened?

I don't know that it would. It'd be nice for closing seizure for him to do, but he's still on 75 years of probation. He's still working that off. I would not want to bring the scrutiny and ire of somebody somebody that's going to pop off and try to, Oh, he failed to check in. Let's nail him. Let's give him... He's got 50 more years left. Let's bring him in. But I don't think it's time quite yet.

It's hard to tell if the Walker County community has moved on, but it's not like you drive through the county and see billboards about Tri-state. It's still the sleepy, not quite Mayberry it back at the turn of the millennium. And with the abundant space and relatively cool temperatures in the foothills, it still seems like a nice place to live. After all is said and done, I don't think Brent has had a big long term effect on the place. Mccrackin has maintained a relationship with the marshes, even today. But lately, he's turned his attention to that other big case of his, to the client who was accused of kidnapping his wife and murdering her, the Zenith Man. His book on that case came out in February, and it's a hell of a true crime story. Without a chance to interview Brent, there will always be gaps in the story of Tristate Crematory. But with everything I've learned, I have a somewhat clear picture in my head, at least, of how it started. It's a rainy day in Noble in spring 1997. Brent's been running Tristate for a few months. He's in the cramped crematory office, a body sitting nearby waiting to be burned.

But Brent doesn't have time for that now. He's getting ready to head north for a funeral in Chattanooga, where he'll spend an hour in the rain, setting up chairs and tents. As he's getting ready to leave, he gets a call from a funeral home. They've got another body for him to cremate. And all he can think is, Shit. So he goes and sets up the funeral, getting soaked in the process. It takes longer than he expects because the ground is rocky and cold. Then he hops in his van, filthy, and picks up the new body, thinking all the way about how he missed his school, playing football, going to classes, hanging out with friends, how he never really wanted this job, this life. When he gets back to the crematory building, he sits down alone as usual. He's frustrated, holds his head in his hands. It's so bad. But when he lifts his head up, he sees a bag of concrete mix that he's using to build a little staircase at the house. And he thinks the same thing I've thought and the same thing everyone has thought about some job at some point their life.

If they never know, then what's the difference? And that's how it starts, or at least that's how I imagine it. And when he's arrested five years later, people want to know why, but he never tells them. The only explanation that ever makes sense to me has little to do with mercury poisoning. It has to do with family and legacy, protecting the ones you love. Brent couldn't do the crematory job on his own, and he didn't want to, but he kept putting on a show like he did so the family business wouldn't die. And when he's caught, there's still family to protect. His sick father, his beloved mother, his sister, his wife, and now his two-week-old baby girl. Maybe keeping his mouth shut is the best way to protect them. Maybe that's what allows his daughter to grow and thrive, to even attend an Ivy League school despite being born into the crematory mess. I think the most likely explanation is that Brent is keeping his mouth shut for them. After a few years, the lawsuits mostly wrap up. It's a little complicated, but without admitting wrongdoing, the funeral homes settle with the families for a combined $36.5 million.

For the families involved, there are tiers of payment. If your body is found and identified, you get more than someone whose body is never found. The part of the property where the crematory sits is put under a conservation easement. That means it's still private property belonging to the marshes, but nothing can be built there. A crew comes out one day to demolish the crematory building and haul away the furnace. Stuart James is there.

It was the central symbol for why everything happened at the property. Everything, about the whole thing was there. Did it work? Did it not work? Was it maintained? Was it not maintained? What was put in there? What was not put in there? If that retort hadn't been there, none of this would have happened.

The crew brings a backhoe, uses it to tear the building apart piece by piece. And as they work, Brent's mother, Clara Marsh, comes out of the house to see it happen.

She walked out and stood right by me watching it go down. And the conversation was something to the effect, Well, this means this is finally over. Because that symbol was gone. I don't think she was sad about it. I think she was glad that she was getting closure to everything that was going on. My best guess is that she'll never talk about it, I don't think. I don't think she would ever talk about it. I won't talk about her feelings in more detail than except to say that the best thing about it is if she can have closure, I think she's got as much closure as she can get on it.

And after everything, the Marsh family ends up shockingly well off financially. Their insurance company, Georgia Farm Bureau, is in a bind, needing to defend a client they don't want to defend. And in order to avoid potential liabilities from all the lawsuits, they negotiate a deal with the Marshes. The Marsh family absolves the Farm Bureau of claims from their homeowners' policy, covering the crematory suits. And in exchange, the insurance company pays $3 million for the Marsh's legal defense. The company also creates two separate trusts, one for Clara and one for Brent's children. The Marsh family keeps their homes and property and ends up with $400,000 in trust. They get paid. Where the Marsh name now stands is unclear to me. They've stayed in the land where people once rode go-karts and horses, where rays on the lake parties were legendary, and where teenagers dance deep into the night. The Lake's been drained for a while now, but Clara still lives on the property, and so does Brent. And Every Sunday, they go to the church founded by Brent's great grandfather. Brent is now the pastor there. To make a left, right? Yeah. It's a Sunday morning in early 2024, and my producer, Johnny Kaufman and I are driving to Noble in the direction of New Home Baptist Church, where we hope to meet Brent Marsh and listen to him preach.

Do I need to say something?

Say how you're feeling.

Fucking so nervous. We've been talking about this for months, but the whole time I knew like, Oh, well, that's something we'll do later. But now it's something we're doing now. They don't know we're coming. Nobody does. We've been told by a friend of the family that the congregation of New Home is small and mostly made up of marshes, almost like a family church. So it feels weird and a little wrong to be going. But we've I've also been told that anyone is welcome there, and it feels important to go. Because all this time, I've vowed to show Brent's humanity, and it's hard without actually meeting him. I think this might be the only way left to do that. On our way to the church, we drive past the company that employs Gerald Cooke, the gasman who first reported body parts on the marsh property. We pass a funeral home that worked with the marshes. We pass a cemetery, and we're in Noble now. We pull up to the small white church Church. There are a handful of cars in the lot already. Okay, we're parked in the back of the church, got the woods and some grass.

And I guess we're just going to walk in. There's nobody outside. We're greeting people. They probably already started. We get out of the car and a woman named Joyce opens the church door. We say hi, but then we pause and ask to speak to someone in charge. She gives us a questioning look, as she should, and says she'll get the pastor. We wait in the entry room while she taps on the shoulder of a large man in a dark suit. I know immediately that it's Brent. He's older, but he looks the same as they did in the pictures from countless newspapers, like the football player he used to be, shaved head with a beer that now has some gray in it. We say good morning and tell him our names. He introduces himself and shakes our hands. We explain why we're there, that we're the journalists who he's heard about, the ones doing the podcast. He says we're welcome to attend the service. Just don't record anything. Johnny takes his microphone bag back to the car, and we go into the sanctuary. There are about seven people in the room doing Sunday school, mostly elderly adults.

They all smile at us. Johnny and I, both white, stick out like sore thumbs. Clara Marsh is there. She's 92 years old. When she learns that we're journalists, she walks over to us, says she used to be a teacher, that she taught English for 40 years. We already know about her proud past, but we don't tell her that. The service begins a few minutes later, and more very smartly dressed people from Noble come in until there are about 15 or 20 of us in the pews. Some of them are younger, even a few small kids who wander around the sanctuary, occasionally getting pulled up onto a friendly lap. New generations of marshes, presumably. Brent is now 50 years old, half a lifetime from the young man he was when he made a tremendous mistake. He gets up to preach. He asked us not to record for the podcast, and so we don't. But one of his relatives made a recording of Brent delivering a sermon right after he got out of prison, right in the same room we're sitting in.

Hello. Hi. How are you doing? I think I've spoken to everybody here. I think I've loved everybody here. I think I had a handshake with everybody here. But I want to talk to you for just a minute.

Brent asked everyone to turn to the second chapter of Exodus.

And it came and passed in those days when Moses was grown, that he went out into his brother.

He tells the congregation that today, they're going to be talking about Moses. In this story, Moses sees an Egyptian beating a Hebrew, and Moses kills the Egyptian, and buries him in the sand to defend his people.

And when Ferdinand heard this thing, he sought to slay Moses.

When Pharoah finds out what Moses did, he vows to kill him. So Moses flees. In this story that begins with someone committing, I guess, arguably a crime and then burying the evidence, Brent finds a lesson, the ultimate lesson.

I just want you all to understand that the Lord is going to put you in some situations. He's going to put you in some positions where you're not going to know exactly what you're going to do.

Sometimes God will put you in a tough spot, and it might not be clear what the right thing is to do. Brent tells the New Home congregation that that's when it's important to take a step back, to wait for God's guidance, so you don't do anything rash, so you do what God would want you to do.

Is it something that God has put on your heart to do? To do. But if it's something he has not put on your heart to do, don't skip ahead. Wait on his time.

Amen.

New Hope, wait on his time for everything that you do. New Hope, whatever you think you want to do, do it in his time. Because his time is like no one else's time. His time is always the right time.

I suspect that friend harsh as being earnest when he gives this sermon. But he may be pointing out the irony that he, of all people on this Earth, needed to take a step back before he made that watershed decision all those years ago. Johnny and I stayed for the whole service. Towards At the end of it, Brent pray for us. Most of the congregation approaches us after and thanks us for coming, despite knowing that we're journalists and that we're telling a story about their family that they don't necessarily want told. One woman grabs my hand and says, simply, Tell the truth. And I think we have. And on our way out of the church, as we walk past Brent Marsh, he tells us to come back again anytime.

Noble is a production of Waveland and Campside Media.

Noble was reported and written by Johnny Kaufman and me, Sean Raviv. Johnny Kaufman is our senior producer. Sierra Franco is our associate producer. Editing by Jason Hoke, Johnny Kaufman, and Matt Sher. Fact-checking by Kaylyn Lynch. Sound design, mixing, scoring, and original music by Garret Tiedemann. Our theme music is La Lucia Asuna Sola by the band Esmerine. Campside Media's operations team is Doug Slawin, David Eichler, Ashley Warren, Destiny Dingle, and Sabina Mara. Jason Hoke is the executive producer at Waveland. The executive producers at Campside Media are Josh Dean, Vanessa Gregoriades, Adam Hoff, and Matt Sher. Special thanks to Cynthia Marsh Harvey, author of the book Calleys Family, which holds invaluable information on the history of the marshes, and Harold Michael Harvey for his video from New Home Baptist Church. We'd also like to thank McCrackin Poston, Emily Roberts, Miranda Kaplan, Max Blau, Eric Jubon, Zabe Bent, Stephanie Wharton, Julie Parker, Johnny Bass, Ron Cordova, Hugh Berryman, Joe Layman, Brent Hendrix, Tim Mason, Beverly Foster, Dwyane Wilson, Bill Brown, James Boniford, Elizabeth Cabrazer, Dan Ronan, Roxanne Karimi, Rick Kennedy, and Judy O'Neill of UCTV, the home of North Georgia, and all the gracious members of New Home Baptist Church in Noble, Georgia.

Last, we'd like to acknowledge the families and memories of Ira Manis, Luther Mason, Ross Hall, Ron Hendrix, Bobby Crawford, Ray Marsh, and all those who were found at Tri-State Crematory, known and unknown.