Alex Cross's Trial Part 4
THE HANGMAN'S BOWIE KNIFE made quick work of the rope. They let Eli Weinberg's body fall to the ground with a thud. I had seen ailing farm animals put down with more respect."You reckon we oughta bury him?" a man said."Leave him where he lies," said Chaney. "He said he had a son in Baton Rouge. We'll get word to our brothers down there. The son can come fetch him.""Jews are supposed to be buried before sundown on the day they die," I said."It figures you would know all about Jews," said Doc Conover.Chaney climbed aboard the wagon and took the reins. As we jolted out of the clearing, Jacob reached down to untie my ankles. "Turn around and let me do your hands," he said.I will confess it-I felt a wash of relief. They didn't intend to kill me tonight.Without any warning a stiff breeze swept over us, along with a spatter of oversized raindrops. The breeze died for a moment, then the rain was on us, lashing us with windy sheets of water.I noticed that Doc's wet white robe had become translucent, so I could read his name st.i.tched on the pharmacist's jacket he wore underneath."What you think, Ben?" Jacob asked as the wagon wheels slogged through the mud. "Is the Klan making a little more sense to you now?"If Jacob hadn't been a friend my whole life, I would have punched him right then. "Listen to yourself, Jacob. You just killed a man. Do you hear me? You killed him."I thought he was going to snap back at me, but the fire suddenly died in his eyes. He shook his head, in sorrow or disgust. He stared down at his callused hands."You... will... never... understand," he said. "I'm a fool to even try. You're not like us anymore. You don't understand how things have changed.""Let me tell you what else I don't understand," I said. "How you-the one I always thought was my friend-how could you do this to me, Jacob? Jacob, I was your friend.""I did it to help you," he said. "To keep you alive." His voice was weak, pathetic.The rain was beginning to slacken. The wagon slowed to a stop outside Scully's barn, where the evening's festivities had begun."Come on, Ben," Jacob said in a low voice. "Let's go home.""I don't think so." I turned away and set off walking in the direction of Eudora."Where the h.e.l.l you going?" he called after me.I didn't answer or even look back.
Chapter 81.
A SILK BANNER with elegant black letters ran the length of the wall.WELCOME HOME, BENThis was the banner that had hung in the dining room for the big family celebration the day I returned from my service in Cuba. Half the town turned out to cheer the decorated Spanish-American War veteran who had distinguished himself under the famous Colonel Theodore Roosevelt.Now the banner was dingy, the silk stained brown with drips from the leaky roof. I was standing not in my father's house on Holly Street but in the "long house" out back, a former slave quarters.It was to the long house that I had come after I left Jacob. It hadn't housed an actual slave since well before I was born. At the moment it seemed to be serving as a storage room for every piece of castoff junk my father didn't want in the house.It was also home to the dogs, Duke and Dutchy, the oldest, fattest, laziest bloodhounds in all of Mississippi. They didn't even bother to bark when I opened the door and stepped inside.I lit an old kerosene lantern and watched the mice scurry away into corners. As the shadows retreated, I realized that all the junk piled in here was my junk. My father had turned the long house into a repository of everything related to my childhood.The oak desk from my bedroom was shoved against the wall under the welcome banner. Piled on top of the desk were pasteboard cartons and the little desk chair I had used before I was old enough to use a grown-up one.I lifted the lid of the topmost carton. A musty smell rose from the books inside. I lifted out a handful: A Boy's History of the Old South, My First Lessons in Arithmetic, and my favorite book when I was a boy: Bra.s.s Knuckles, Or, The Story of a Boy Who Cheated.Next to the desk stood my first bed, a narrow spool one decorated by my mother with hand-painted stars. It was hard to believe I'd ever fit on that little bed.In the far corner was another pile of Benjamin Corbett's effects: football, basketball, catcher's mitt, slide trombone, the boxer's speed bag that once hung from a rafter in the attic.I lifted the corner of a bedsheet draping a large object, and uncovered the most wonderful possession of my entire childhood: a miniature two-seater buggy, made perfectly to scale of white-painted wicker with spoked iron wheels. I remembered the thrill it gave me when our old stable hand Mose would hitch up the old mule, Sarah, to my buggy. He would lift me onto the driver's seat and lead the mule and me on a walk around the property. I must have been all of six or seven.Before I knew what was happening, I was crying. I stood in the middle of that dark, musty room and let the tears come. My shoulders shook violently. I sank down to a chair and buried my head in my hands. I was finally home-and it was awful.
Chapter 82.
A FAMILIAR VOICE brought me out of a deep sleep. These days I came awake instantly, and always with an edge of fear. It was only when I blinked at the two figures smiling down on me that I was able to relax."Near 'bout time for breakfast," said Yvella, my father's cook. Beside her was Dabney, the houseman. Each held a silver tray."Way past time," said Dabney. "In another hour it'll be time for dinner."Among the items on Dabney's tray were a silver coffeepot emitting a tendril of steam from its spout and a complete place setting of Mama's best china.Yvella's tray offered just about every breakfast item known to southern mankind: grits, fried eggs, spicy link sausage, homemade patty sausage, griddle cakes with sorghum syrup, a basket of baking-powder biscuits, b.u.t.ter, watermelon pickles, and fig preserves."Yvella, you don't expect me to eat all this?""Yes, suh, I sure do," she said. "You too d.a.m.n skinny.""I have lost some weight here recently," I said and rolled my eyes."Yeah, I heard all about it," she said."How'd y'all know I was here... in the guest quarters?""Duke come and told me," Dabney said.I realized that I was standing in front of them shirtless, wearing only my drawers. I looked around for my clothes."Don't you worry about it, Mister Ben," Yvella said. "I seen plenty worse than that. I took your clothes to the wash."Dabney brought over a filigreed iron tea table I remembered from Mama's flower garden."I didn't tell your daddy you's here," he said. "I figure you'd want to tell him yourself. But why don't you come on and sleep in the house, Mister Ben. That big old house just rattling around with hardly n.o.body in it, you out here sleepin' with the dogs.""We'll see," I said. "Thank you for the invitation."Along with the coffee, Dabney had brought me a straight razor, shaving soap, a tortoisesh.e.l.l comb and brush, and a stack of fresh clothing-my old clothes, laundered and folded. I was probably skinny enough to fit into them now."G.o.d bless you both," I said."You the one that needs the blessin', from what I hear," Yvella said. "You best keep out of trouble.""I will try," I said. "Listen, I have a favor to ask both of y'all.""Your father don't need to know, and we ain't gonna tell him," said Dabney."The same goes for me," said Yvella. "And now I got a favor to ask of you.""What is it?""Would you eat them d.a.m.n biscuits before they get cold?"
Chapter 83.
AS SOON AS I POURED the last of the coffee, Duke and Dutchy started barking-insistent, urgent, annoying barks. They ran up and down along the wall underneath the cobwebby window.I went over and was astonished to see Elizabeth in the bushes and with her none other than L. J. Stringer.I motioned for them to go around to the front door."d.a.m.n, Ben," L.J. said, "if we wanted to come through the front door, we would have done it in the first place."I shut the door behind them. "How'd you even know I was here?"They looked annoyed at my stupidity."Don't you think those Klan boys had somebody follow you home last night after their meeting? The whole town knows, Ben. Everybody knows who you are and where you are. All the time."I felt stupid. Of course they had followed me.L.J. straightened. "Ben, let me put it to you as simply as I know how. Your life is in danger.""He's right. Actually, it's a miracle you're still alive," said Elizabeth. She reached out and touched my shoulder, eyes wide with concern.L.J. spoke in a no-nonsense voice. "People are really angry, Ben. I mean angry. You forget what a small town this is. Folks know you're up to something, and whatever it is, you ain't here to make them look good.""I don't have to defend myself, L.J. There's murder going on in this town. h.e.l.l, I've seen six people with my own eyes who've been murdered, just in the short time since I got here! They nearly killed me, just for seeing what I saw."Elizabeth spoke, her voice as gentle as L.J.'s was harsh."Ben, these are, or were, your neighbors," she said. "These are your friends. Most of them are good, decent people.""Elizabeth, I don't see anything decent about men who murder innocent people. You put neighborliness ahead of simple humanity? Forgive me if I disagree."I realized that I probably sounded like a defense attorney pleading a case. Another hopeless one?L.J. seemed to read my mind. "No point in discussing it any further," he said. "We came here because we're afraid for you, Ben. We want to try to help. It's just a matter of time before they come for you again. And hang you good. I'll figure out some way to keep you safe.""Thank you, L.J., Elizabeth. I really do appreciate your concern. More than you can possibly know.""Until then, Ben, listen to me. Do not trust anyone. And that means anyone."I knew that "anyone" included Jacob Gill, and even my father. It probably meant Dabney and Yvella too. But did it also mean the very people giving me this cautionary advice? Could I trust L.J. and Elizabeth?"We'd best be on our way," L.J. said. "Isn't there a back door out of here?"I pointed to it."Don't forget what I said, Ben. Keep your head down."L.J. opened the little door that let onto the alley. He glanced around, then turned back. "n.o.body around. Let's go, Elizabeth."She turned to me with a smile that spoke of her concern."Ben, please let us help. We're your friends. Maybe your only friends."
Chapter 84.
ALMOST MIDNIGHT. Another knock came on the rear door of the long house.I shot the bolt and the door swung open.Moody Cross was standing there in a white jumper. And not a little terrified. She pushed past me and slammed the door shut."Papaw sent me.""I guess my secret hiding place is the worst-kept secret in Mississippi," I said.She was out of breath. "We need help. A lady from the Slide Inn sent her colored girl out to warn us. Said they's a group of men coming out to kill me and Papaw and Ricky.""Who's Ricky?""My cousin, you met him at the funeral. He got run out of Chatawa, where he lived all his life. He been staying with us since you left-you know, like for protection."Now I remembered him, a boy about the same age as Hiram, with a family resemblance to Hiram and Moody."What happened in Chatawa?" I asked."Two white men said they saw Ricky staring at a white woman. Said he was thinkin' evil thoughts. I guess some white folks can even see inside of a black boy's brain. There's this group of 'em-the White Raiders, is what they call 'em up there. They s'posed to be the ones coming to get us."This seemed like more than coincidence. The horror raining down upon Abraham's family simply would not stop, would it?"There's something else."What else could there possibly be?"Papaw is sick," she said. "He can't get out of his bed, got the fever and the shakes, and Aunt Henry's been there nursing him."Moody started to cry, and I remembered something Mama always used to say: When the time comes you want to start crying, that's the time to start moving.It was time for me to go get L.J. and Elizabeth.
Chapter 85.
L. J. STRINGER'S six-seater spring wagon flew down the road, stirring the motionless air of a sticky-hot Mississippi night."You're going straight to h.e.l.l, Ben Corbett, and you're taking me with you!" L.J. raised his crop to urge on his team.As soon as I had gotten Moody to stop crying, we'd sneaked over to the Stringer place and surprised the whole household with our late-night knock on the kitchen door. I'd asked L.J. to help me protect Abraham, Moody, and Ricky. He'd listened and he hadn't hesitated. "I said I'd help you, Ben, and I will."Yes, he'd heard of the White Raiders. Yes, he knew them to be a gang of killers. Finally he sighed heavily and sent his man Luther out to hitch up his team.And now here we were, b.u.mping and rolling our way out to Abraham's house in the Quarters. Crammed together on the back bench were Moody, Luther Cosgrove, and his brother Conrad.Luther and Conrad were L.J.'s a.s.sistants-"my man Friday and his brother Sat.u.r.day," he joked-on call twenty-four hours a day to do whatever the boss wanted done. They drove Allegra Stringer on her errands. They ran packages to McComb and Jackson and Shreveport. If L.J. needed anybody "brought into line," as he put it, it was the Cosgroves who did the bringing."What we're doing here is extremely foolish," said L.J. "You know that?""I know that," I said. "But if we don't help these people, n.o.body will. And they're all going to die."L.J. shrugged and said, "Well, we can't have that. This has to stop somewhere. Might as well be right here and right now."
Chapter 86.
POOR ABRAHAM WAS in the parlor of his house, sleeping fitfully when we arrived. Half a dozen men came from the Quarters, as volunteers, even though they had only a couple of rifles. "Guarding Father Abraham," that's what they called it. Abraham was that beloved here.As it turned out, the White Raiders didn't come that first night, but we continued guarding Father Abraham. As the sun went down the second evening, L.J. and I took our places on the porch. We'd been friends for a long time, but he'd gotten better and better with the years, the exact opposite of Jacob.I arranged the other men as carefully as a Civil War general planning his lines of defense. I put two of the new men on the roof, despite Moody's protest that the sheets of tin were so old and rusty that they would almost certainly fall through.Then L.J. dispatched five of the men in an enfilade line among the old willow trees at the edge of the woods."Stay awake. Stay alert," he told everyone. "Don't leave your post for any d.a.m.n reason. If you need to pee, just do it in place."As the second night watch began, our fears were as high as on the first.Around eleven L.J. and I decided a finger of sour-mash whiskey was what our coffee needed to take the edge off. After midnight Moody came out with a fresh pot. She told me Abraham was awake.Through the window I saw him propped up on his pillow. Between his hands he held a bowl of steaming liquid, which he raised to his lips."How's he doing?""He's got a little more energy tonight. But I ain't getting my hopes up. Aunt Henry says he's on his way."I nodded and walked inside."How are you feeling, friend?" I asked.He smiled. "How are you, is the question," he said. "I ain't doing nothing but laying on this bed, trying not to die. You the one doing somethin'.""I'll keep doing my job, as long as you do yours," I said.I was surprised how sharp he seemed, and I seized the opportunity."Still no word from the White House, Abraham," I told him. "Makes me angry.""The Lord and the president, they both work in mysterious ways," he said."How did you ever come to know him, Abraham?" I asked. "The president, that is.""Mr. Roosevelt's mama was a southern lady, you know. Miss Mittie. From over where I'm from, in Roswell, Georgia. And see, my sister Annie went to work for Miss Mittie, eventually went with her up to New York. She was still up there, nursing Mittie, the day she died. Died the same day as Mr. Roosevelt's first wife, Alice. Did you know his mama died the same day as his wife? I was there that day, helping Annie. That was a terrible day. I guess he never forgot it.""Ben!" L.J. shouted. "The sons o' b.i.t.c.hes are here! They're everywhere!"From all around the cabin came a clatter of hooves, then an explosion of gunfire.I lunged for the front door. I was almost there when one of the Raiders came crashing through the roof, landing on my back.
Chapter 87.
BULLETS WERE WHIZZING through the air as the confused-looking man picked himself up off the floor, still clutching a sc.r.a.p of rusted tin he'd brought with him on his fall through the roof.L.J. ran into the house and aimed a rifle at the fallen Raider. "Get the h.e.l.l out of here or die. I see you again, you die!"In the darkness outside I could see eight men wheeling about on horses. They wore no sheets, no hoods. They weren't bothering to hide themselves. I recognized the redheaded troublemaker I'd encountered at the trough in front of Jenkins' Mercantile.One lout, on a big dappled quarter horse, must have weighed in at four hundred pounds. The horse struggled to keep from collapsing.The fat man was agile, though, hopping down from his saddle like somebody a third his size. The other Raiders were getting down too, yoking their horses together.One aimed his shotgun at the house. Ka-blam!"G.o.ddammit," L.J. grunted. He poked the barrel of his fine hand-carved rifle through the window, squeezed the trigger, and dropped the shooter in his tracks.This was war, just like I remembered it from Cuba, except the enemy was from my own town.L.J. called, "Take the back of the house, Ben!" So I ran to the tiny kitchen and onto the stoop.Behind the trunk of a giant pecan tree stood Ricky, with his shotgun trained across the yard on an oak where a White Raider huddled with his rifle trained on him.Neither of them had a clear shot, but they were banging away at each other, riddling each other's tree trunk with bullets and squirrel shot.As I burst headlong onto that stoop, I presented a clear target for the White Raider.He swung his gun toward me, and time seemed to slow down while I watched him turn. He squeezed off a shot. I saw the spark of the bullet strike a rock near the stoop.The man ducked behind the oak, but he was big enough that the trunk didn't entirely conceal his belly. I braced my pistol hand on my other arm and fired.I got him, and he hit the dirt with a thud, screaming, holding his abdomen.His fellow Raiders had circled behind the house in a ragged line, and now attacked, sweeping the ground with gunfire, round after round. These men had come well armed; they were good with their guns. I remembered that Colonel Roosevelt called this kind of fighting "sweep in and sweep up," a strategy, he said, that was "generally used by butchers and fools."These fools were shooting and yelling as they came, catcalling, "We got you now, n.i.g.g.e.rs!" and "Run, boy! Look at him go!"A shout came from the swamp: "They got Roy! G.o.dd.a.m.n n.i.g.g.e.rs done shot Roy!" This news provoked a fresh round of shooting. L.J. glanced at me; we had the same thought at the same instant.We waited until the last shot, when all their weapons were unloaded at the same time.Then we charged around the house, weapons leveled at the Raiders. "Drop 'em!" L.J. hollered.They obliged, and I rushed to pick up the rifles, yelling, "Don't move-not one of you move!"Soon two of the black men who'd been concealed along the fence line appeared, lugging a p.r.o.ne, struggling Raider they had la.s.soed and hog-tied."Where y'all want this one?""Put him down right here by the rest," said L.J.When they came riding in, the Raiders hadn't realized they were outnumbered, but they were finding it out now. I saw a couple of smart ones leap on their horses and ride off.But here came the huge fat man, lumbering around the side of the house with a shotgun in one hand, a pistol in the other."Drop your guns!" L.J. yelled.The fat man did not obey. Instead, he pulled the trigger on the pistol. The bullet hit L.J. in the right cheek. I swear I heard the crack of his cheekbone breaking, then he fell to the ground.I fired at the fat man and he went down hard. Stayed down, didn't move."L.J.! Are you all right?" I knew he was not."Oh, h.e.l.l, yeah," L.J. said. "The d.a.m.n thing just grazed me." I could plainly see that it had taken a sizable chunk of flesh out of his cheek; blood oozed down his chin. That side of his face was black with gunpowder.I heard more commotion in front of the house, then hoof-beats. The remaining Raiders had taken this opportunity to get the h.e.l.l out of there."Moody!" I called.There was no answer.L.J. made a kind of whistling sound as he breathed through the new hole in his cheek."Moody, they're gone! Come on out now, I need you!"Again all was silent."You'd better... go see... ," L.J. mumbled.I rushed through the back door and stopped short at the threshold of the parlor. Abraham lay on his bed with the long barrel of a pistol pointed at his head. The man holding it had his other arm around Moody in a choke hold."You stop right there, Corbett," said the Raider. "They's nothin' would give me more pleasure than to finish off this old troublemaking n.i.g.g.e.r, and then you."I didn't move.I didn't have to.I watched Moody's hand gliding into the pocket of her jumper. She pulled out a kitchen knife and in one smooth motion plunged it into the White Raider's back.
Chapter 88.
"BEN CORBETT HERE is a well-known n.i.g.g.e.r-lover, so I don't expect him to know any better-but L.J., for the love of G.o.d, I never in this world thought I would find you pulling such a stunt."It was four in the morning, and we were standing in the dogtrot of the log cabin that belonged to Phineas Eversman and his family. Phineas was the chief of the Eudora police department, which consisted of him, Mort Crowley, and Harry Kelleher, who worked only part-time."Just hear us out, Phineas," L.J. said. When he lifted the b.l.o.o.d.y rag from his face, his voice had a sickening whistle in it. "Your town is out of control.""Look, Phineas, you can call me every name in the book," I said. "You can hate me and everything I stand for, but we still have five men in the back of our wagon who attacked and murdered innocent people in the Quarters tonight. We are witnesses, and we are here to swear out a formal complaint against these men. That means you are required by law to arrest 'em, hold 'em, and see that they're brought to trial for murder."Eversman looked past me and out the front door. In the back of the wagon he saw five White Raiders tightly bound, hand and foot, by the very ropes they had brought with them for hanging Negroes.Standing guard over these men were Cousin Ricky and eight of the ten surviving volunteer guards. Luther Cosgrove and a man named Jimmie Cooper had been gunned down. The captured men had laughed and hooted all the way downtown, promising us that their pal Phineas Eversman would soon set them free."Now, wait a minute, Corbett," said Phineas. "The first thing out of your mouth was that you and these Nigras killed some of the men.""They attacked us!" I bellowed. "We had to fight back or we'd all be dead! Are you listening?""There's no need to get ugly," said Phineas. His voice was mild, but his eyes kept flicking outside to the tied-up men, as if he were weighing the risks on all sides.L.J. pressed the b.l.o.o.d.y cloth against his cheek. "Phineas, you listen to me, now," he said quietly. "It's time, Phineas. It's time to put an end to it-the violence, all the hatred against coloreds in this town. These Ku Kluxer gangs are tearing Eudora apart, limb from limb. People are living in fear, black and white. You know me, Phineas. I've lived here all my life. I was there tonight. I saw what happened. I demand as a citizen of this town that you arrest these men for murder. Right now."Eversman pulled his chenille bathrobe snug around his skinny body. He refashioned the knot in the belt, then made his way past us, outside to the wagon."Evenin', Phineas," said one of the Raiders with a chuckle. "I sure am sorry these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds decided to wake you up for no good reason."Eversman didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. I thought I heard a quiver in his voice, but he spoke loud and clear."You men are under arrest for... for trespa.s.sing, a.s.sault with a deadly weapon, and... and..."He couldn't seem to get the words out, so I helped him."And first-degree murder."Eversman glanced at me. He swallowed hard. "And first-degree murder," he said.The men set up a howl. A dour, wiry man yelled, "Because that n.i.g.g.e.r-lover Corbett says so?"Eversman's voice had lost its tremor. "And because his complaint is supported by our most upstanding citizen, Mr. Stringer," he said."Mr. Stringer is indeed upstanding," I said. "But Chief Eversman will also find that my complaint is fully and completely supported by a person even more esteemed than L. J. Stringer, if you can imagine that."The wiry man in the wagon cast an ugly eye on me. "And who the h.e.l.l that?""His name," I said, "is Theodore Roosevelt."Part FiveTHE TRIAL AT EUDORA
Chapter 89.
JACKSON HENSEN, the harried senior personal a.s.sistant to the president, entered the Oval Office with a bloodred leather folder under his arm. He took one look at the president and dropped the folder. The morning's correspondence scattered all over the carpet-telegrams and official greetings from the king of England, the shah of Persia, and the j.a.panese amba.s.sador, letters from congressmen, ordinary citizens, and all manner of federal bureaucrats."Har-de-har-har!" The president was laughing and singing. Also, he was dancing a jig. He was waving a golden Western Union telegram in the air as he capered in a circle behind his desk."Is anything the matter, sir?" Jackson Hensen asked."Does it look like there's anything the matter, Hensen?""Well, sir, I've never actually seen you dancing, except at state dinners. Never at your desk.""This is the first time I've ever been happy enough to dance at my desk," Roosevelt said. "Read this." He thrust the telegram at Hensen and collapsed onto a sofa, out of breath, but still chuckling and congratulating himself.Hensen scanned the telegram. It was stamped 11:50 p.m. of the previous night, signed CROSS AND CORBETT, and originated from a telegraph station in McComb, Mississippi. The report described in detail events that had occurred during the previous several days-lynchings, Klan meetings, the attack of the White Raiders, the gun battle, the arrest of three Raiders on charges of first-degree murder.It was this last piece of information that so delighted the president."There it is!" Roosevelt shouted. "White men charged for killing black men, right down there in the heart of Dixie. Now let Du Bois and that Wells-Barnett woman try to tell me I have ignored the Negro problem!"Hensen's eyes came up from the telegram. "It is excellent news, sir.""Worth dancing about, Hensen?""Well, sir... certainly."For a moment Jackson Hensen feared that President Roosevelt was going to make him dance."Do you know why I am fortunate enough to receive this most excellent news, Mr. Hensen?""Why is that, sir?"Roosevelt peered around the sofa. "Where'd you go, Hensen?""I'm here, sir. Picking up the mail.""Never mind that, Hensen. Get your pad, will you? I gave Margaret the afternoon off. I want to send my congratulations to Abraham Cross and Ben Corbett. What shall it be, then, a letter or a wire?"Hensen took a little notebook and pencil from his vest pocket."Those men must have thought I'd forgotten all about them." He laughed, a big booming Roosevelt laugh. "I think I showed great wisdom not to respond to their first report, but to let them draw their own conclusions as to what should be done.""Yes, sir, it most certainly was wise of you." Hensen was often amazed at the depth and breadth of the president's self-regard. He licked the point of his pencil. Roosevelt perched on the edge of his desk, mindful of the fine figure he cut as he dictated his message of congratulations."What a magnificent ending to this project!" the president exclaimed.
Chapter 90.
PHINEAS EVERSMAN'S FIRST ACT was to release two of the five prisoners. He told us it was for lack of evidence, but I a.s.sumed there was some family connection. (There had to be; this was Mississippi.) I was so surprised and impressed that the chief had actually arrested the other three men that I offered no word of protest.The three still in custody were named Chester Madden, Henry Wadsworth North, and, ironically enough, Lincoln Alexander Stephens, a man whose name evoked both the Great Emanc.i.p.ator and the dwarfish vice-president of the Confederacy. Henry North was the redheaded bully I'd encountered before, at Jenkins' Mercantile.Some folks called it "the n.i.g.g.e.rtown Trial." Others called it "the White Raiders Trial." The New Orleans Item dubbed it "That Mess in Eudora." Whatever people called it, everyone was obsessed with it.The citizens of Eudora were divided on the issues, but they certainly weren't evenly divided. A small group welcomed the prospect of punishment for the violent, night-riding Raiders. But many folks, unbelievable as it might seem, thought the Raiders were being treated unfairly.The Eudora Gazette, a weekly four-sheeter usually devoted to social notes, was now publishing five days a week, churning out a breathless new front-page report on the White Raiders Trial every day. The formerly lazy and slow-moving editor, j.a.pheth Morgan, was a whirl of energy, placing expensive telephone trunk calls nearly daily to consult with his "unimpeachable sources of information in the capital."j.a.pheth Morgan had never worked this hard before. He was losing weight and smoking cigarettes, one after another. He had dark circles under his eyes."You'd best settle down a bit, j.a.pheth," L.J. told him. "This trial could end up being the death of you.""But you don't understand," j.a.pheth answered. "For me and for the Gazette, this isn't the opportunity of a lifetime, it's the trial of the century!"The trial of the century.As soon as he said it, I knew it was true. This was the trial of the century-not just for Eudora, not just for Mississippi, but for the entire country.
Chapter 91.
"NOTICE HOW n.o.bODY COMPLAINS about the heat anymore," L.J. said to me one morning over breakfast at his home. "n.o.body talks about the mosquitoes, or the price of cotton, or any of the things that mattered before. None of those things means a d.a.m.n now. All anybody cares about is the trial."I had to smile. "I wouldn't know what you're talking about, L.J., since n.o.body in this town speaks to me.""Maybe they're like me, they just hate talking to a d.a.m.n lawyer."I'd been given a bedroom on the second floor at L.J.'s, with a sitting room attached and a small balcony where my first cup of coffee was served every morning. There were fresh sheets, starched and ironed, every day; the best sausages for breakfast, aged beef for supper.Most important, L.J. posted three armed guards around the house: one at the front, one in the back, and one baking on the roof. At L.J.'s I'd gotten the first really good night's sleep I'd had since coming back to Eudora.L.J.'s wife, Allegra, bustled into the dining room."j.a.pheth Morgan insists on seeing you two right now," she said.Indeed, Morgan did mean right now. He had followed Allegra and was standing directly behind her. In his hand was a fresh broadsheet, the ink still shiny. At the top of the page I saw in enormous type the word EXTRA!!!"I thought you two gentlemen would want to be the first to read this," Morgan said.L.J. shook his head. "What the h.e.l.l have you done now, j.a.pheth?"Morgan began to read aloud. "The Mississippi Office of Criminal Courts has announced the venue and date for the proceedings currently known far and wide as the White Raiders Trial. Following a ruling by the Mississippi Supreme Court, the prosecutor's pet.i.tion for change of venue has been denied, and the trial will be held in Eudora, Mississippi, scene of the alleged offenses.""Well, h.e.l.l, that's no big surprise," L.J. said. "We all knew n.o.body else wanted to grab hold of this hot horseshoe.""I agree," I said. "It's disappointing, but it does provide the prosecution with its first proper grounds for appeal.""Appeal to whom?" said L.J. "The Supreme Court has ruled.""There's another Supreme Court, in Washington," I said with a wink.j.a.pheth looked relieved. "Do y'all want to hear this or not?""Please," L.J. said, straightening his face into a serious expression. "Please read on.""Jury selection will begin on September the seventeenth at nine o'clock a.m.," he read."G.o.dd.a.m.n, what is that, next Monday? That's six days from today," L.J. said. "Ben, you're gonna have to scramble.""Wait. Wait. Wait," j.a.pheth said.He read slowly, emphatically:"Further, the Supreme Court has exercised its judicial discretion to appoint a judge to oversee this important and much-noted trial. The judge appointed is..."j.a.pheth glanced over to make sure we were listening. We absolutely were.Then he read on:"The judge appointed is a lifetime citizen of Eudora, the Honorable Everett J. Corbett."
Chapter 92.
SON OF A b.i.t.c.h!It was not illegal for the Mississippi Supreme Court to appoint my father to preside over a trial in which I was a.s.sisting the prosecution.Not illegal, but wildly unusual, and absolutely deliberate.I could have fought it, but I already knew that I wouldn't. It gave us a second, decent ground for the eventual, inevitable appeal.Most people in town, j.a.pheth reported, were positively delighted with the news. Everyone knew that Judge Corbett was "fair" and "honest" and "sensible." Judge Corbett "understands the true meaning of justice.""That is exactly what I am afraid of," I said.Having spent the first part of my life listening to my father pontificate, I knew one thing for certain: he might cloak himself in eloquence, reason, and formality, but underneath it all he believed that although Negroes might be absolutely free, thanks to the detested Mr. Lincoln, nowhere was it written that Negroes deserved to be absolutely equal.Judge Corbett and men of his cla.s.s had gradually enshrined that inequality in law, and the highest court in the land had upheld its finding that "separate but equal" was good enough for everybody.Now the trial was less than a week away, and one huge question was still outstanding: who would the state of Mississippi send to prosecute the case?"My sources in the capital have heard nothing about it," j.a.pheth told L.J. and me. "It's a big, holy secret."
Chapter 93.
A WHILE LATER, the three of us were sitting on the west veranda of L.J.'s house, watching the sunset and sipping bourbon over cracked ice."Well, you gentlemen are always acting so all-fired high and mighty," j.a.pheth said, "but you've yet to give me a single piece of information that I can use. Why don't you start by sharing the names of the prosecution witnesses?""Watch out, L.J., he's using one of his journalist's tricks to get you to spill it," I said."Me?" L.J. scoffed. "What do I know? I don't know anything. I've been cut off by the entire town. I'm almost as much persona non grata as Mr. n.i.g.g.e.r-Lover Corbett. Everybody from here to Jackson knows whose side I'm on. And you know any friend of Ben Corbett's doesn't have another friend between here and Jackson."I clapped his shoulder. "I appreciate what you've done, L.J."It was right then that we heard a deep tenor voice, with a hint of something actorly in the round tones, accompanying a firm bootstep down the upstairs hall."If you need a friend from Jackson, maybe I can fill the bill."We looked up to see a man whose appearance was as polished and natty as his voice. He wore a seersucker suit of the finest quality and a straw boater with a jaunty red band. He could not have been much more than thirty, and he carried a wicker portmanteau and a large leather satchel jammed with papers.He introduced himself as Jonah Curtis and explained that he had been appointed by the state of Mississippi to prosecute the White Raiders."I had my a.s.sistant reserve a room at Miss Maybelle's establishment," he said. "But Maybelle took one look at me and it turned out she had misplaced my reservation. She suggested I bring myself to this address.""Welcome to the house of pariahs, Mr. Curtis," said L.J. "You are welcome to stay here in my home for as long as this trial takes.""I do appreciate that, sir. And please, call me Jonah."Jonah Curtis was almost as tall as I. He was what anyone would call a handsome man.And Jonah Curtis was one other thing besides.Jonah Curtis was a black man.
Chapter 94.
ONE IMPORTANT PIECE of the puzzle was still missing.Who would be defending the White Raiders?The next morning that puzzle piece appeared. L.J. came rushing into the house yelling, "Those G.o.dd.a.m.n leaky slop buckets have gone and got themselves the best G.o.dd.a.m.n criminal defense attorney in the South!"Jonah looked up from his book. "Maxwell Hayes Lewis?""How did you know that?" L.J. asked."You said the best." Jonah turned to me. "Ben, if you needed a lawyer to defend a gang of no-good lowlifes who viciously attacked a colored man's house, who would you get?""Maxwell Hayes Lewis," I said."And why would you want him?""Because he got the governor of Arkansas acquitted after he shot his b.a.s.t.a.r.d son-his half Negro son-in full view of at least twenty-five people.""So, our little pack of rats managed to get themselves 'Loophole Lewis,' " Jonah said.Loophole Lewis. That's how he was known wherever lawyers got together and gossiped about others of their species. Lewis's philosophy was simple: "If you can't find a loophole for your client, go out and invent one."Jonah carefully closed his well-thumbed copy of the Revised Civil Code of the State of Mississippi. "You know, I have always wanted to meet Counselor Lewis," he said.Jonah must have made a special connection with the good Lord, because we were still sipping coffee ten minutes later when L.J.'s butler announced that a Mr. Maxwell Lewis was there to see us."I thought it would be the mannerly thing to do, to come by and introduce myself to you distinguished gentlemen of the prosecution," Lewis said, coming in.He was plainspoken and plain-looking. My mother would have said he was "plain as an old corn stick." Then she would have added, "But that's just on the outside, so you'd better watch yourself."We all told Mr. Lewis we were pleased to meet him. He said he was pleased to meet us as well. No, thank you, he said, no tea or coffee for him. Bourbon? Certainly not at this early hour, he said, although he asked if he might revisit the question somewhat later in the day.This display of southern charm was not the reason for his visit, I was sure. Fairly soon he sidled up to the real reason."I must say, Mr. Corbett, I was a mite surprised when I saw that the trial judge will be none other than your distinguished father," he said."As was I," I said. Clearly he wanted me to say more, so I stayed silent."It's an unusual choice, and highly irregular," he continued on. "My first instinct was to try to get a new judge from the powers that be in Jackson, but then I got to thinking about it. This is an open-and-shut case. Why bother causing a fuss? I'm sure Judge Corbett will preside with absolute fairness.""If there's one thing he's known for," I said, "it's his fairness. And already we find ourselves in agreement, Mr. Lewis. We also believe that this is an open-and-shut case. I'm just afraid the door will be shutting on you."Lewis chuckled at my sally. "Ah! We shall see about that," he said. "I've been checking on your record in murder trials up in Washington, D.C. And yours too, Mr. Curtis. We shall certainly see."
Chapter 95.
OVER THE NEXT DAYS we transformed the sitting room off my sleeping quarters into the White Raiders War Room, as L.J. soon nicknamed our paper-strewn maelstrom of an office.Conrad, the Cosgrove brother who had survived the a.s.sault at Abraham's house, went up to McComb every morning to collect every newspaper and pamphlet having to do with the upcoming trial. We hauled an old chalkboard up from L.J.'s bas.e.m.e.nt and made two lists of possibilities: "Impossible" and "Possible."Among the latter were some terrifying questions:What if Maxwell Hayes Lewis leads with a request for dismissal?Bang, the gavel falls! The case is over!What if Abraham is too ill to testify? What if he dies before or during the trial?Bang! The case is over!What if Lewis tampers with the jury? It wouldn't be too difficult in this town.What if...?We made our lists, erased them, improved and reworked them, and studied them as if they were the received word of G.o.d.After spending a few days working beside him, I decided that Jonah Curtis was not only a smart man but a wise one. Jonah clearly had intelligence to spare, tempered with humor and a bit of easygoing cynicism-the result, I supposed, of growing up always seeing the other side of the coin toss we call Justice. He was the son of a sharecropper who spent most of his life as a slave, on a cotton plantation near Clarksdale, in the Mississippi Delta. When Jonah got his law degree and pa.s.sed the bar examination, his father gave him a gift, the gold pocket watch for which he'd been saving since before Jonah was born.It was a beautiful timepiece, but the chain, clumsily hammered together from old sc.r.a.ps of iron, didn't match its quality. Jonah told me that his father had made it himself, from a piece of the very chain that had shackled him to the auction block the last time he was offered for sale.Sometimes Jonah got a little ahead of himself with his legal theories, at least as far as L.J. was concerned."A verdict depends on the culture of any given town," Jonah said. "A man held for killing a Negro in New York City will have a very different trial-and a very different outcome-than a man held for the same crime in Atlanta. Bring him to Eudora, and again the crime and the resulting trial would be different. We might say this White Raiders case is sui generis."L.J. sighed heavily. "Talk English, for G.o.d's sake," he said. "Down here, we say 'soo-ey' when we're calling hogs."L.J. already considered me the worst know-it-all in the room, so I left this for Jonah to explain."Sorry, L.J., it's Latin," said Jonah. "Sui generis-'of its own kind,' literally, 'of its own genus.' In other words, this case... well, there's never been another one anything like it."
Chapter 96.
THE CHANTING OUTSIDE L.J.'S HOUSE grew louder. The voices came closer and closer.All white?Not right.All white?We fight.I hurried to the balcony off the War Room, with L.J. and Jonah at my heels. An astounding sight met our eyes. There were black people, scores of them-two hundred or more-slowly marching down the middle of Willow Street in Eudora, Mississippi.This was almost unbelievable. In the South, black people were not supposed to a.s.semble in these numbers.L.J. let out a whistle. "That is one angry bunch of Negroes," he said."I think the word I would use is 'pa.s.sionate,' " said Jonah.Though I had never expected to see black people marching through the streets, I knew instantly what this was about. Tomorrow the trial would begin, and the first order of business was jury selection. No Negro had ever been permitted to serve on a jury in the state of Mississippi. Many of the liberal Yankee newspapers had declared it an outrage. They suggested that the White Raiders Trial might be just the occasion for the presiding judge to allow one or possibly even two colored men to serve as jurors.We stood at the railing of the veranda, watching the marchers slowly pa.s.s. It was plain that they had taken a detour from Commerce Street to go past L.J.'s house. Some of them waved or lifted their hats to us.Just when we thought we had seen the last of the marchers, another phalanx turned the corner onto Willow.I was amazed. "Gentlemen. Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"L.J. smiled. "Yessir, it's one h.e.l.l of a crowd.""Not just the size of the crowd," I said. "Take a look at who's leading it."All white?Not right.L.J. squinted to see. "Those two old folks at the front?"Jonah answered for me. "The lady is Ida Wells-Barnett," he said. "And the gentleman, if I am not mistaken, is Mr. W. E. B. Du Bois. This is history being made, indeed."
Chapter 97.
WHEN I WAS A BOY, my mother would sometimes take me to watch my father conducting a trial."It's a presiding day," she'd say. "Let's go see Daddy scaring the pants off of everyone." And away we'd go to the courthouse.To my child's eyes the old Pike County Courthouse looked exactly like a church. The second-floor gallery where the colored people got to sit was like the choir loft. The benches below were the pews. And my father stood at the high altar in the front of the room, delivering thunderous sermons and running the whole thing like a very strict minister who happened to wield a hammer instead of a Bible.More than twenty years later, here I was, back in the church of Judge Everett Corbett.But today, as L.J. and Jonah and I arranged our papers and books on the prosecution table, the old courthouse felt like something else entirely.Not a church.It was more like a theater now.The upstairs colored section had been transformed into balcony seats. The benches on the main level were the orchestra seats, jammed to overflowing with an audience that had stood in line for hours to see the hottest entertainment in town. And that altar? Well, that was now center stage.That was Everett J. Corbett's stage. He could be a dynamic, exciting performer, and I felt sure he would not let his audience down today.Ringing the front steps of the courthouse were Scooter Willems and several dozen men like him, bristling with tripods and huge black accordion cameras. Accompanying the photographers were at least a hundred reporters flashing pencils and notebooks, trading tidbits with each other, rushing this way and that in pursuit of the latest rumors.Inside, the colored spectators had dutifully filed upstairs to the cheap seats. The benches below were filled to maximum capacity by the white citizens of Eudora. Only the first two rows had been left empty, roped off for the pool of potential jurors.Dominating the wall above the judge's bench was an enormous Fattorini & Sons regulator clock nearly as long as a grandfather clock, with a carved dark-wood case, elegant Roman numerals, and a pair of gleaming bra.s.s pendulums. Growing up, I always thought of it as the Clock of Justice.Now every tick brought us closer to nine a.m.Here came a pair of Chief Eversman's newly recruited deputies, leading in the defendants. Three White Raiders. No shackles, ropes, or handcuffs. The deputies chatted and laughed with the men as they led them to the defense table.And then the great Maxwell Hayes Lewis strode from the back of the room to greet the Raiders and shake their hands so that everyone in the courtroom could see how normal, how average and amiable, these men were. After a moment's discussion the defendants turned to look at our table. They looked back at each other and grinned. The sight of Jonah, L.J., and me seemed to amuse them greatly.The bailiff entered with a solemn expression, carrying the heavy cast-iron imprinting seal, which he placed at the right end of my father's bench. This was the seal he would use to mark evidence as it was admitted."All rise," the bailiff called. "The court is now in session, the Honorable Everett J. Corbett presiding."Daddy's big entrance was always a highlight. Here he came through the door at stage left, his hair gleaming with brilliantine, his silky black robe pressed to perfection by Dabney.He lifted the heavy mahogany gavel. I was surprised to see him using the gavel I had sent him on his sixtieth birthday, since I had never received a thank-you note.He brought the gavel down with a thunderous bang."There will be order!" he commanded. "There will be silence! There will be justice!"
Chapter 98.
NOW TO PICK A JURY.That summer had been one of the hottest on record. It seemed to me that G.o.d had saved up all the excess heat and humidity in the world and brought it down upon Eudora today. It was already so hot in the courtroom that the hand fans were flapping like a flock of restless birds.Judge Corbett had evidently taken measures to spruce up the courtroom for the national press, who were allowed inside between sessions to gather sc.r.a.ps of news. He had ordered all the spectator benches and tables and chairs sanded and revarnished, and indeed they all gleamed as if brand-new. But the new varnish turned soft and sticky in the heat and gave off fumes that set heads spinning. I breathed the sweetish, medicinal smell; the seat of my trousers stuck to my chair.This was going to be a very long day.I saw at once that Judge Corbett still ran an efficient courtroom. It took only ten minutes for the first three candidates to be interviewed, approved, and seated in the jury box: three middle-aged white men.Jonah made little fuss over any of them. I a.s.sumed he was saving his objections for an occasion when they might prove persuasive.It didn't take long.The clerk read a name from the list: "Patton William Taylor."
Chapter 99.
FROM THE FRONT ROW rose a mousy little man commonly known as Patsy-Boy Taylor. I knew him as a helper of Lyman Tripp, the undertaker in whose wagon I had ridden to the Klan meeting at Scully's barn.I scribbled a note and pa.s.sed it to Jonah.Taylor served time in La. State Prison for a.s.sault of Negro girl. Believe he broke her leg.Jonah scanned the note, nodding. It was his turn to question the prospective juror first."Good morning, Mr. Taylor," he said. "Tell me, sir, have you ever been to Louisiana?""Once or twice," said Patsy-Boy."How about the town of Angola? Ever been there?"The man frowned. "I reckon I have.""And how long was your most recent stay in Angola, Mr. Taylor?""I don't remember.""Perhaps I can help refresh your memory, sir," Jonah said. "Mr. Taylor, did you recently finish a five-month term in the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola?""I might've," said Taylor. "I can't quite remember.""Your Honor, if it please the court, could you direct Mr. Taylor to answer my question?"The ice in my father's water pitcher had melted away, but there was plenty of it in his voice. "He did answer, Mr. Curtis," he said. "He said that he couldn't quite remember.""Your Honor, with all due respect, I don't believe-""Your beliefs are of no interest to me, Mr. Curtis," my father said. He turned to the defense table. "Mr. Lewis, do you have any objection to this gentleman sitting on this jury?""None whatsoever, Your Honor.""Mr. Taylor will be sworn in to serve," my father said. The gavel came down.By reflex L.J. and I came up off our chairs. I can't say I couldn't believe what had just happened, probably because I'd watched justice being meted out in Mississippi for too long. But still."I most strenuously object, Your Honor," Jonah said in a loud voice.A young colored woman in the gallery called out, "That ain't justice!"My father pointed his gavel at her. "Contempt of court. Ten days in jail and a dollar fine. Get her out of here!"Two of Phineas's deputies ran to do his bidding. Everyone heard the woman's noisy protest as he dragged her down the stairs.Meanwhile, my father's attention was seemingly riveted by the sight of a fly trapped in the soft varnish of his bench. The insect was hopelessly stuck, its wings buzzing. The judge closed his thumb and forefinger on the fly, plucked it up, and placed it in the center of his desk.Bang! He brought his gavel down on that fly."Let me tell you something, Mr. Curtis," he said. "Let me explain something to you. I would advise you to listen, and listen well. I am in charge of this courtroom. Did you hear what I said?""Yes, sir," Jonah replied."What did I say?" My father's voice was deadly calm. "Repeat it for me, please.""You are in charge of this courtroom, Your Honor.""You're d.a.m.n right I am. Now, you may object to Counselor Lewis's comments. He is your opponent; he represents the defense. But you may not ever-ever-object to something I have said. For any reason."The only sound in the courtroom was the ticking of the clock and the hum of the ceiling fans."Thank you, Mr. Curtis. And tell those two clowns you brought with you to sit themselves down, or I'll have them removed from my courtroom."The trial of the new century-the proceedings known as the State of Mississippi v. Madden, North, and Stephens-was officially under way.
Chapter 100.