Alex Cross"s Trial.
by James Patterson.
Chapter 1.
"LET HER HANG until she"s dead!""Take her out and hang her now! I"ll do it myself!"Bam! Bam! Bam!Judge Otis L. Warren wielded his gavel with such fury I thought he might smash a hole in the top of his bench."Quiet in the court!" the judge shouted. "Settle down, or by G.o.d I will hold every last one of you sons of b.i.t.c.hes in contempt."Bam! Bam! Bam!It was no use. Warren"s courtroom was overflowing with disgruntled white citizens who wanted nothing more than to see my client hang. Two of them on the left side began a chant that was soon taken up by others:We don"t care where. We don"t care how.We just wanna hang Gracie Johnson now!The shouts from some among the white majority sent such a shiver of fear through the colored balcony that one woman fainted and had to be carried out.Another bang of the gavel. Judge Warren stood and shouted, "Mr. Loomis, escort all those in the colored section out of my courtroom and out of the building."I couldn"t hold my tongue another second."Your Honor, I object! I don"t see any of the colored folks being rowdy or disrespectful. The ones making the fuss are the white men in front."Judge Warren glared over his gla.s.ses at me. His expression intimidated the room into silence."Mr. Corbett, it is my job to decide how to keep order in my court. It is your job to counsel your client-and let me tell you, from where I sit, she needs all the help she can get."I couldn"t disagree.What I once thought would be an easy victory in the case of District of Columbia v. Johnson was swiftly turning into a disaster for Gracie and her increasingly helpless attorney, Benjamin E. Corbett: that being myself.Gracie Johnson was on trial for the murder of Lydia Davenport, a wealthy white woman who was active in Washington society at a level high enough to cause a nosebleed. Worse, Gracie was a black woman accused of killing her wealthy white employer.The year was 1906. Before it was all over, I was afraid they were going to hang Gracie.I had to be careful they didn"t hang me while they were at it.
Chapter 2.
"I WILL NOT TOLERATE another outburst," Judge Warren said to the spectators. He turned to look me in the eye. "And I suggest that you, Mr. Corbett, select your objections with greater care.""Yes, Your Honor," I said, then immediately held my tongue in check with my teeth."Mr. Ames, you may resume questioning the defendant."Carter Ames, the city attorney, was a little old man about five feet tall. He strode to the witness stand as if he were every inch of six-two."Now, Grace, let"s go back to the afternoon in question, May twenty-third. In your testimony-before the unfortunate disruption occurred-isn"t it true that you essentially admitted to murdering Mrs. Davenport?""Excuse me, sir, I said no such thing," Gracie shot back."The court stenographer will please read the testimony given by Miss Johnson a few moments before the courtroom interruption.""Got it right here, Carter," the stenographer said.Wonderful. Ames and the court stenographer were on a first-name basis. No telling which parts of Gracie"s testimony had been left out or "improved."The stenographer flipped back the pages in his tablet and began to read in a droning voice."Miz Davenport was always a mean old lady. Never had a nice word for anybody. Ask me, she had it coming to her. The day before she got killed, she told me she was fixing to fire me because I was too stupid to know which side of the plate do the fish fork go on. She was a mean old witch, she was. I"m telling you, she had it coming."I jumped up from my chair."Your Honor, obviously my client did not mean-""Sit down, Mr. Corbett."I had one more thing to say-I just had to get it out."Your Honor, the prosecutor is deliberately twisting my client"s words!"Carter Ames turned to me with a smile. "Why, Mr. Corbett, I"m not twisting a thing. Your client has spoken for herself very clearly. I have no further questions, Your Honor.""In that case, court will adjourn for a two-hour recess, so we can get ourselves a cold gla.s.s of tea and some dinner," the judge said. "I believe that Mrs. Warren said my personal favorite, chicken pot pie, is on the menu today."Bam! Bam! Bam!
Chapter 3.
THE TWO-HOUR DINNER BREAK before Carter Ames and I gave our closing arguments seemed to last at least twice that long. I never had much appet.i.te during a case, so I spent the interval pacing the block around the courthouse square, mopping my face and neck with a handkerchief.Washington was in the grip of a torturous heat wave, and it was only June. The air was as thick and swampy as any summer afternoon back home in Mississippi. Carriage horses were collapsing. Society ladies called off their afternoon teas and spent their leisure time soaking in cool tubs.Back home in Eudora I rarely had to wear the full lawyer suit with high stiff-starched collar and all the snaps and suspenders. Down south, folks knew how to survive the heat: move slowly, and wear light clothing.It must have been ninety-five degrees when we finally returned to the courtroom. The newfangled electric fans barely stirred a breeze. Gracie"s face streamed with perspiration.The judge entered. "Are you ready, gentlemen?"Carter Ames sauntered toward the jury box. He put on a big friendly smile and leaned in close to the jury foreman. Ames was justly famous for the high drama and fancy oratory of his closing arguments in murder cases."Gentlemen, I want you to join me on an important journey," he said, in his orotund voice. "I"ll let you in on our destination before we commence-the Kingdom of Truth. Few who set out on the journey toward the Kingdom of Truth ever reach their destination. But today, gentlemen, I can promise you, that is where we shall arrive."The smoke from Judge Warren"s after-dinner cigar wafted blue through the air around the dandyish little city attorney. He slowly paced the length of the jury box, turned, and paced the other way."We are not going to make this journey by ourselves, gentlemen. Our companions on this journey are not of the fancy kind. They don"t wear fine clothes and they don"t ride first cla.s.s. Our companions, gentlemen, are the facts of this case."As metaphors go, it seemed fairly simpleminded to me, but the jurors were apparently lapping it up. I made a mental note to lay on an even thicker layer of corn pone than I had originally intended. It was the least I could do for Grace and her chances."What do the facts of this murder case tell us?" Ames asked. His voice dropped a few notes on the scale. "The first fact is this: Grace Johnson has all but confessed to the crime of murder, right here in front of you today. You heard her admit to a most powerful motive, the hateful emotions and vitriolic resentments she bore toward her employer."It was all I could do to keep from jumping up and shouting "Objection!" Judge Warren"s earlier warning served to keep me in my seat."The second fact speaks even more loudly. Grace claims that Lydia Davenport shouted at her. Let me repeat that shocking claim, gentlemen. Lydia Davenport dared to shout at the woman who was a willing employee in her household. In other words, Mrs. Davenport deserved to die because she shouted at a maid!"Ames was not just a skillful actor; when it came to the facts, he was also quite the juggler."Now let another fact speak to you, friends. The fact is, the court has appointed one of the capital"s finest young attorneys to represent Grace Johnson. Now mind you, this is as it should be. Let the least among us have the best defense money can buy-your tax money, that is. But don"t let the young gentleman fool you. Don"t let his pretty words bamboozle you. Let me tell you what he"s going to try to do."He waved his hand indifferently in my direction, as if I were a fly buzzing around his head."Mr. Corbett will try to cast doubt upon these obvious facts. He will tell you that the Davenport house was bursting with employees who might have murdered Lydia Davenport."Ames spun on his tiny heel and pointed a crooked finger at my client."But the fact is this: Only one person in that house admits out loud, in a clear voice, to having a motive for the murder. And that person is seated right there! Grace Johnson!"He strode to the prosecution table and lifted a worn brown Bible. He opened it to a page he seemed to know by heart and began to read aloud."If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free."He snapped the Bible closed with a flourish and held it high in the air."Gentlemen, we have arrived. Our journey is done. Welcome to the Kingdom of Truth. The only possible verdict is guilty."Son of a b.i.t.c.h! Carter Ames had just destroyed my closing argument.
Chapter 4.
THE DIMINUTIVE PROSECUTOR THREW a thin smile my way as he returned to his chair, his eyes dancing with the light of triumph. I felt a twinge in my stomach.But now it was my turn to speak, and hopefully to save a woman"s life.I began with a simple declaration of the fact that no one had witnessed the murder, and then I discussed the other suspects: the Irish gardener, Mrs. Davenport"s secretary, and her houseman-all of whom despised their employer and could have easily committed the murder. Of course, they were all white.Then, since Carter Ames had stolen my thunder, I decided to finish up in another direction, a bold and risky one that brought tremors to my hands."Now, before you all go off to your jury room, I"m going to do something that"s not often done. Mr. Ames claimed to have taken you to the Kingdom of Truth, but the fact is, he never even got close to his stated destination. He omitted the most important truth of all. He never mentioned the real reason Gracie Johnson is facing the possibility of losing her life."You know the reason. I don"t even have to say it. But I"m going to say it anyway."Gracie Johnson is colored. That"s why she"s here. That"s the only reason she"s here. She was the only colored employee in attendance at the Davenport house that day."So there it is. She"s a Negro. You gentlemen are white. Everyone expects that a white jury will always convict a black defendant. But I know that not to be true. I think-matter of fact, I truly believe-that you have more honor than that. You have the integrity to see through what the prosecutor is trying to do here, which is to railroad an innocent woman whose only crime was telling you honestly that her boss was a mean old woman."Do you see what we"ve found? We"ve turned up the most important fact of all. And that fact, the fact that Gracie"s skin is black, should have no influence whatsoever on what you decide."That"s what the law says, in every state in this Union. If there is a reasonable doubt in your mind as to whether or not Gracie Johnson is a murderer, you... must... vote... to... acquit."I started to go back to my chair, but then I turned and walked right up to Carter Ames"s table."May I, Carter?"I picked up his Bible, flipping through the pages until I appeared to find the verse I was seeking in the book of Proverbs. No one needed to know I was quoting from memory:"When justice is done, it brings joy to the righteous."I closed the Good Book.
Chapter 5.
CARTER AMES PUSHED his silver flask of bourbon toward my face. "Have a swig, Ben. You deserve it, son. Well done."What a sight for the funny pages we must have made-Ames barely five feet tall, me at six-four-standing side by side in the marble hallway outside the courtroom."No, thanks, Carter. I"d rather be sober when the verdict comes in.""I wouldn"t, if I was you." His voice was a curdled mixture of phlegm and whiskey. As he lifted the flask to his mouth, I was surprised to see half-moons of sweat under his arms. In the courtroom he"d looked cool as a block of pond ice."Your summation was d.a.m.n good," he observed. "I think you had "em going for a while there. But then you went and threw in that colored stuff. Why"d you have to remind them? You think they didn"t notice she"s black as the ace of spades?""I thought I saw one or two who weren"t buying your motive," I said. "Only takes one to hang "em up.""And twelve to hang her, don"t I know it."He took another swig from his flask and eased himself down to a bench. "Sit down, Ben. I want to talk to you, not your rear end."I sat."Son, you"re a fine young lawyer, Harvard trained and all, gonna make a finer lawyer one of these days," he said. "But you still need to learn that Washington is a southern town. We"re every bit as southern as wherever you"re from down in Podunk, Mississippi."I grimaced and shook my head. "I just do what I think is right, Carter.""I know you do. And that"s what makes everybody think you"re nothing but a G.o.dd.a.m.ned bleeding-heart fool and n.i.g.g.e.r-lover."Before I could defend-well, just about everything I believe in-a police officer poked his head out of the courtroom. "Jury"s coming back."
Chapter 6.
THE c.u.mBERSOME IRON SHACKLES around Gracie Johnson"s ankles clanked noisily as I helped her to her feet at the defense table."Thank you, Mr. Corbett," she whispered.Judge Warren gazed down on her as if he were G.o.d. "Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict in this case?" he asked."Yes, we have, Your Honor."Like every lawyer since the Romans invented the Code of Justinian, I had tried to learn something from the jurors" faces as they filed into the courtroom-the haberdasher, the retired schoolteacher, the pale young man who was engaged to Congressman Chapman"s daughter and had cracked a tentative smile during my summation.Several of them were looking directly at Gracie, which was supposed to be a good sign for a defendant. I decided to take it that way and said a hopeful little prayer.The judge intoned, "How find you in the matter of murder against Grace Johnson?"The foreman rose in a deliberate manner, then in a strong, clear voice he said, "We the jury find the defendant guilty as charged."The courtroom erupted with exclamations, some sobs, even an ugly smattering of applause.Bam! Bam! Bam!"I will have order in my court," said the judge. d.a.m.ned if I didn"t see a smile flash across Judge Warren"s face before he managed to swallow it.I slid my arms around Gracie. One of us was trembling, and I realized it was me. My eyes, not hers, were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with hot tears."It be all right, Mr. Corbett," she said quietly."It isn"t all right, Gracie. It"s a disgrace."Two D.C. blueboys were heading our way, coming to take her back to jail. I motioned for them to give us a moment."Don"t you worry, Mr. Corbett," Gracie said. "Jesus works in mysterious ways.""G.o.d bless you, Gracie. We"ll file an appeal.""Thank you, Mr. Corbett. But now I got to tell you something.""What"s that?"She leaned close to me, dropping her voice to a whisper. "I done the crime.""What?""I done the crime.""Gracie!""I got five chillun, Mr. Corbett. That old lady, she don"t pay me hardly nothing. I needed money. So I meant to take the silver.""And... what happened?""I was coming through the dining room with the silver chest in my hands. Miz Davenport walk in. She "posed to be having a nap. Well, she screamed at me like she the devil. Then she come a-running at me."Gracie was composed, very calm, almost in a trance as she spoke to me."I had the bone-handle carving knife in my hand. Not for her-I don"t know, just in case of something. When she run at me, I turned. She run straight up on that knife, sir. I swear I never meant to do it."The policemen apparently felt they"d been patient long enough. They came up alongside us and, taking hold of Gracie"s arms, began to lead her away."But I tell you, Mr. Corbett...""What, Gracie?""I would do it again."
Chapter 7.
AS I WALKED all the way home from the courthouse on that hot June day, I still had no idea what life-changing things were in store for me and my family. Not a hint, not a clue.Our house was quiet and dark that afternoon when I arrived. I walked through the front parlor. No sign of Meg, Amelia, or Alice.In the kitchen a peach pie was cooling on a table. Through the window I saw our cook, Mazie, sitting on the back stoop, sh.e.l.ling b.u.t.ter beans into a white enamelware pan."Has Meg gone out, Mazie?" I called."Yes, suh, Mr. Ben. And she took the littl"uns with her. Don"t know where. Miz Corbett, she was in some bad mood when she went. Her face all red like, you know how she gets."How she gets. My Meg, my sweet New England wife. So red in the face. You know how she gets. The gentlest girl at Radcliffe, the prettiest girl ever to come from Warwick, Rhode Island. Burning red in the face.And she gets that way because of me, I couldn"t help thinking. Because of my failure, because of my repeated failure. Because of the shame I bring on our house with my endless "charity cases" for the poor and disenfranchised.I walked to the parlor and lifted my banjo from its shelf. I"d been trying to learn to play ragtime tunes since I first heard the new music that had come sweeping up from the South late in the old century. It was music as noisy and fast as one of the new motorcars that were unsettling horses all over the country.I sat on the piano bench and tried to force my clumsy fingers to find the first offbeat notes of that skittering melody. The music seemed to be in such a hurry, but something about it took me back to a place and a time much slower, and maybe better, than any in Washington, D.C. The b.u.mpy syncopation reminded me of the sound I used to hear coming from tiny Negro churches out in the country, in the woods outside Eudora, Mississippi, where I was born and raised.As a boy I"d walked past those churches a thousand times. I"d heard the clapping and the fervent amens. Now that had all gotten blended in with a fast-march tempo and the syncopated melody of the old work songs. Mix it all together, speed it up, and somehow, from that corner of the South, down around where Louisiana, Mississippi, and Arkansas meet up, the music came out ragtime.Whenever I heard that sound, whether issuing from a saloon on the wrong side of Capitol Hill or a shiny new phonograph in Dupont Circle, it sent me out of my Washington life and down the memory road to Mississippi.And whenever I thought of Mississippi, I couldn"t help seeing my mother"s face.
Chapter 8.
EUDORA, THE COUNTY SEAT, is located in an odd corner of southern Mississippi, sixty miles east of the Big Muddy and fifteen miles north of the Louisiana state line.My father, the Honorable Everett J. Corbett, may have been the most important judge in town, but the only truly famous citizen in Eudora was my mother, Louellen Corbett. They called her "the Poetess of Dixie." She wrote sweet, simple, sentimental verses in such noted periodicals as Woburn"s Weekly Companion and the Beacon-Light that captured the hearts of southern ladies. She wrote poems about everything dear to the southern heart-paddle wheelers on the Mississippi, moonlight on the magnolias, the lonely n.o.bility of the aging Confederate widow.But that one particular day in Eudora...I am a boy of seven, an only child. I"m downtown with my mother on a summer afternoon.Downtown consisted of the Purina feed and seed store, the First Bank, a few shops around the courthouse square, the Slide Inn Cafe, specializing in fresh seafood from the Gulf, and the Ben Franklin five-and-dime-about which my mother was fond of saying, "They sell everything you need and nothing you really want."July was wide-open summer in south Mississippi, featuring a sun that rose early and stayed at the top of the sky all afternoon. The air near the Gulf is so humid at all times of year that you have to put your shoes near the stove at night to keep them from turning white with mildew.I was wearing short pants, but Mama was "dressed for town"-a lacy flowing dress that swept the ground, a sky blue shawl with dark blue fringe, and her ever-present wide-brimmed straw hat. A boy always thinks of his mother as pretty, but on that afternoon, I remember, she seemed to be shining.Our ch.o.r.e that day was to pick up eighteen yards of blue velvet Mama had ordered from Sam Jenkins" Mercantile for new dining room curtains."Mornin", Sam.""Why, good morning, Miz Corbett," he said. "Don"t you look nice today.""Thank you."For Mama, that was mighty few words to utter. I turned to look at her, but she seemed all right.Sam Jenkins stood there peering at her too. "Is there something I can help you with, Miz Corbett?""Yeah," she said, "Sham. Oh. Excuse me."Something was wrong. Why was my mother slurring her words?"Did you come to pick up that fabric, Miz Corbett?" said Sam. Instead of answering, Mama squinted hard and rubbed the front of her head."Miz Corbett? You all right?"Silence from my mother. Only a puzzled gaze.Then that slurred, weak voice again."When doesh shoe... when...""Miz Corbett, have you been... have you been drinking?"Mama shook her head slowly and kept rubbing her forehead. I felt the blood flush through my body."Don"t be shilly. I sh... I... don"t..."I spoke very quietly. "Mama, what"s wrong with you?""Ben, you better take your mama home now. Looks like she may have had a little touch o" the grape." He forced a laugh."My mama never drinks. She must be sick.""I"m afraid she is, son. Whiskey sick."Suddenly my mother"s knees buckled. She drooped over to one side and then fell to the floor with a heavy thud.Sam Jenkins turned to the back of his store. "Henry, come up here! I got a lady pa.s.sed out drunk on the floor."
Chapter 9.
FROM SEPARATE DIRECTIONS CAME two teenage boys. One was white, with red hair. The bigger one was black, as tall as he was skinny."Y"all help this boy take his mama out of here," Sam Jenkins said.The white boy leaned down to Mama and tried to lift her. She was small, but he couldn"t find the right angle to maneuver her into a standing position."Marcus, you gonna help me?""Mist" Sam, I think this lady sick," said the black kid."n.o.body asked your opinion," said Mr. Jenkins. "Just get her out of the store!"They lifted my mother up and carried her out to the sidewalk, where they set her on a bench near the watering trough."s.h.i.t. She ain"t sick," said the redheaded boy. "She"s drunk as a monkey."I was trying my best not to cry, but I couldn"t stop the tears blurring my eyes. I was helpless and small, and something was terribly, terribly wrong with my mother. I believed that she might die right there.The white boy disappeared back into the store, shaking his mop of red hair in disgust.Then Marcus spoke very softly to me. "Want to hep me carry her down to the doctor?"I remember nothing of how we got my mother to Dr. Hunter"s house. I do remember hearing the doctor say, "Louellen isn"t drunk. This is apoplexy. She"s had a stroke, Ben. I"m so sorry."I burst into tears.Later on, when I understood what the doctor"s words really meant, I wished Mama had been drunk. Everything in our lives was so different from then on. The next day she was in a wheelchair and looked twenty years older. Eventually she regained her ability to speak, but she left that chair only when she was lifted into the washtub or her bed.She wrote a few poems about her condition-"A View from a Moving Chair" and "Words You May Not Understand" were the most famous ones-but she was always weak and often distracted.To my surprise, she sometimes enjoyed talking about that day in Jenkins"s store. She would laugh at the idea that she had been mistaken for a drunk, but she always repeated the lesson she had learned that day: "Just remember one thing, Ben. That was a black boy who helped us. He was the only one who helped."I did as she instructed. I remembered it through grammar school, high school, college, and law school. I remembered it whenever colored people came to my office in Washington with worried faces and tears in their eyes, asking for my help.But sometimes I couldn"t help them. The way I couldn"t help Grace Johnson.I rested the neck of the banjo against my arm and began to pick out the notes of "Bethena," the saddest rag Joplin ever wrote. Every note in that jaunty, quick tune is minor, every shading of the melody is dark.For all that, it made me feel better-a little homesick, maybe, but what"s so wrong with that?
Chapter 10.
I HEARD THE CLICK of the front door, then the happy, giggly sounds of Amelia and Alice hurrying inside.This was followed by Meg"s icy voice."Say a quick h.e.l.lo to your father, girls. Then wash up for supper."Amelia poked her head through the parlor door, a happy little angel of seven in a red-and-white gingham sundress, shortly followed by Alice, another helping of strawberry short-cake in an identical outfit.Those dresses were the only thing identical about the girls. Although they were twins, they barely looked like sisters.Amelia was small, with fine, dark, beautiful features exactly like her mother"s. Alice was taller, blond and lanky, and had the misfortune of taking after her father, though I will say that our family looks had settled better on her face than on mine."Remind me again which one of you is which," I said with a stern expression."Daddy, you know," said Amelia. Alice squealed in delight."No, I"ve completely forgotten. How am I supposed to be able to tell the difference when you look exactly alike?"To Amelia, that was a scream.Meg walked into the front hall. "Come along, girls. You heard what I said."I pointed at Alice. "Oh, now I remember. You are... Amelia." And then, pointing at Amelia, "So that means you must be Alice.""And you must be Mommy!" Amelia pointed at me, giggling at her own cleverness. Was there any sweeter sound in the world?I knelt down and kissed her, then her sister, and gathered them both for a big daddy-hug."Where have you two been causing trouble today?"In a ridiculously loud stage whisper Alice said: "We"re not allowed to say... but we were hiding in church."Meg called again, with the business end of her voice: "Girls!""Mama says you"re in trouble," Amelia reported. "She says you"re in the doghouse.""And we don"t even have a dog!" Alice crowed with laughter."Girls!" That voice brooked no nonsense.They ran from my arms.
Chapter 11.
I WILL NEVER FORGET the rest of that evening, not a moment of it. Not a detail has been lost on me."You and I are living in two different marriages, Ben. It"s the truth, a sad truth. I"ll admit it," said Meg.I was flabbergasted by this announcement from my wife of nearly eleven years. We were sitting in the parlor on the uncomfortable horsehair sofa Meg"s father had given us as a wedding gift. We had just finished an awkward supper."Two different marriages? That"s a tough statement, Meg.""I meant it to be, Ben. When I was at Radcliffe and you were at Harvard I used to look at you and think, Now, this is the man I could always be with. I honestly believed that. So I waited for you while you went to law school. All the time you were at Columbia, in New York, I was wasting away at my father"s house. Then I waited some more, while you went to Cuba and fought in that war that none of us understood.""Meg, I"m sorry. It was a war.""But I"m still waiting!" She twirled around, her arms outstretched. And in that one gesture, in those few seconds, I realized the complete truth of what she was saying. Our house was not the one on Dupont Circle that Meg deserved, but a small frame bungalow on the wrong side of Capitol Hill. Cracks were visible in our plaster walls. The piano had broken keys. The roof leaked.Through soft sobs Meg continued, "I"m not a selfish woman. I admire the cases you take, really I do. I want the poor people and the colored people to be helped. But I also want something for my girls and me. Is that so wrong?"She wasn"t wrong. Maybe I had let her down by worrying too much about my own conscience, not thinking enough about her expectations and the life she believed she was getting when she married me."I love you, Meg. You know I adore you." I reached and touched her face. Her dark hair fell across my fingers. We could have been back in Harvard Yard or walking in the moonlight along the Charles.A sudden knock, and Mazie entered the room. ""Scuse me, Mr. Ben. They"s a man at the door. Says it"s urgent.""Who is it, Mazie?" said Meg."He say his name Nate, and..." She paused, reluctant to finish the sentence."Is he a colored man, Mazie?" I asked.Meg said, "Of course he is, Ben. He"s here to see you, isn"t he?"A pause."Please show the man in," I said.
Chapter 12.
RIGHT THEN AND THERE, everything changed in our lives, certainly in mine. Meg looked at me with those big eyes of hers, as much in sorrow as in anger. I reached to touch her again, but she pulled away. She shook her head as if I were a child whose behavior had disappointed her. "You know this one by name?""I only know one man named Nate, and that"s Nate Pryor. He was Tenth Cavalry. We rode together at San Juan Hill."Nate appeared at the door just in time to hear Meg say, "The h.e.l.l with you, Ben."She walked past Nate and out of the room without so much as looking at him. Her pa.s.sing set up the first decent breeze I"d felt all day."You can introduce us some other time," Nate said. His voice was deep, his enunciation precise. I shook his hand warmly and clapped his shoulder."I don"t know what elixir you"re drinking, Nate, but you look younger than you did the day Colonel Roosevelt drove us up old San Juan Hill.""The only medicine I take is good old-fashioned hard work. The kind the Lord intended a man to make with his days. Maybe a little taste of "shine once in a while, for a chaser."I nodded, but then I looked into his eyes. "What brings you here, Nate? What"s so urgent?""I"m here with a serious proposition. I wouldn"t bother you, but it"s something I believe only you can do."Whatever the favor he was about to ask of me, I was fast losing the desire to hear about it. A sad tale, surely-hard times, ill health, someone"s poor relative left penniless and in need of free legal a.s.sistance.I tried to keep my voice gentle. "I"ve taken on about all the cases I can handle for a while.""Oh, this is not a law case." He flashed a particularly charming smile. "Perhaps I should have mentioned that I came here today directly from the White House. This isn"t my proposition. This is a request from the president."I was astonished. "Roosevelt sent you here? To my home?""The man himself."
Chapter 13.
THE FIRST TIME I EVER LAID eyes on Theodore Roosevelt-G.o.d, how he hated the nickname "Teddy"-I was surprised by how much he resembled the cartoons and caricatures with which the papers regularly mocked him. And now, on this fine summer day in the White House, I saw that the thick spectacles pinching his nose, the wide solid waist, and the prominent potbelly had only become more p.r.o.nounced since he took up residence on Pennsylvania Avenue.Roosevelt jumped up from his desk and charged across the room toward me before his a.s.sistant, Jackson Hensen, could finish his introduction."Captain Corbett, a pleasure to see you again. It"s been too long.""The pleasure is entirely mine, Colonel... uhm, Mr. President.""No, no, no. I"ll always prefer Colonel!"The president waved me over to a green silk sofa near his desk. I sat, trying to contain my excitement at being in the Oval Office, a room that was airy and beautifully appointed but a good deal smaller than I would have imagined.A door to the left of the president"s desk glided open. In came a tall Negro valet bearing a tea tray, which he placed on a side table. "Shall I pour, sir?""Thank you, Harold, I"ll do my own pouring."The valet left the room. Roosevelt went to a cabinet behind his desk and took out a crystal decanter. "Except I"ll be pouring this. What"ll it be, Captain, whiskey or wine? I"m having claret myself. I never touch spirituous liquors."That is how I wound up sitting beside TR on the green sofa, sipping fine Kentucky bourbon from a china teacup embossed with the presidential seal."I presume our old friend Nate Pryor has given you some idea why I wanted to see you," he said.I placed my cup on the saucer. "He actually didn"t say much, to be honest. Only that it was to do with the South, some kind of mission. A problem with the colored people? Danger, perhaps.""I"ve been doing a little checking on you, Ben. It just so happens that the place you were born and raised is the perfect place to send you. a.s.suming you agree to this a.s.signment.""Mississippi?""Specifically your hometown. Eudora, isn"t it?""Sir? I"m not sure I understand. Something urgent in Eudora?"He walked to his desk and returned with a blue leather portfolio stamped with the presidential seal in gold."You are aware that the crime of lynching has been increasing at an alarming rate in the South?" he said."I"ve read newspaper stories.""It"s not enough that some people have managed to reverse every forward step the Negro race has managed since the war. Now they"ve taken to mob rule. They run about killing innocent people and stringing "em up from the nearest tree."The president placed the portfolio in my hand."These are papers I"ve been collecting on the situation: reports of the most horrible occurrences, some police records. Things it"s hard for a Christian man to credit. Especially since the perpetrators of these crimes are men who claim to be Christians."My first thought was that the president was exaggerating the problem. Northerners do that all the time. Of course I had heard of lynchings, but I hadn"t known of any in Mississippi since I was a boy."They hang men, they hang women, for G.o.d"s sake they even hang young children," Roosevelt said. "They do the most unspeakable things to their bodies, Ben."I didn"t say a word. How could I? He was talking about my hometown."I"ve tried discussing the matter with several southern senators. To a man, they claim it"s the work of outsiders and a fringe element of white reprobates. But I know d.a.m.n well it"s the Klan, and in some of these towns that includes just about every respectable white man.""But Colonel," I said, "the Klan was outlawed forty years ago.""Yes. And apparently it"s stronger than ever now. That"s why you"re here, Captain."
Chapter 14.
I WAS GLAD when Roosevelt reached for the decanter again. This talk of the sins of my fellow southerners had me upset, even a little angry."Colonel, I haven"t spent much time down home since I finished law school," I said cautiously. "But I"d be surprised if there"s a problem in Eudora. Folks there generally treat the Negroes well."When he spoke, his voice was gentle. "Open your eyes, Ben. Since April there have been two men and a fifteen-year-old boy allegedly lynched within a few miles of your hometown. It"s on the way to becoming a G.o.dd.a.m.n epidemic, and I-""Excuse me, sir. Sorry to interrupt. You said "allegedly"?""Excellent! You"re paying attention!" He thwacked my knee with the portfolio. "In this file you"ll see letter after letter, report after report, from congressmen, judges, mayors, governors. Nearly every one tells me the lynching reports are greatly exaggerated. There are no lynchings in their towns or districts. The Negro is living in freedom and comfort, and the white southerner is his boon friend and ally."I nodded. I didn"t want to admit that had I been asked, that would have been very much like my own estimate of the situation."But that is not the story I"m hearing from certain men of conscience," he said. "I need to know the truth. I"m glad you don"t automatically believe what I"m telling you, Ben. I want a man with an open mind, an honest and skeptical man like yourself who can see all sides of the question. I want you to go down there and investigate, and get to the bottom of this.""But sir, what is it you want me to find out? Exactly what?""Answer these questions for me," he said."Are lynchings as common a fact of life as I think they are?"Is the Ku Klux Klan alive and thriving down there, and if so, who is behind the outrageous resurgence?"What in h.e.l.l is the truth-the absolute truth? And what can a president do to stop these awful things from happening?"He barked these questions at me in the same high, sharp voice I recalled from the parade ground in Havana. His face was flushed red, full of righteous anger and determination.Then, softly, he asked, "Will you do it for me, and for this country, Ben?"I did not hesitate. How could I? "Of course, I am at your service. I"ll do what you ask.""Bully! When can you go?""Well, sir, I do have a trial beginning next week in the circuit court," I said."Leave the judge"s name with Mr. Hensen. We"ll take care of it. I want you in Mississippi as soon as possible."He clapped his hand on my shoulder as he walked me to the door. From the breast pocket of his jacket he removed a folded sc.r.a.p of paper, which he handed to me."This is the name of a man who will a.s.sist you down there. I believe he"ll be able to open your eyes to the way your good people of Eudora have been treating their colored citizens.""Yes, sir." I tucked it away."One more thing...""Sir?""I must have secrecy. A cover story has been arranged for you: you"re in Mississippi to interview possible federal judges. If your real mission is exposed, I will deny that I had anything to do with your trip. And Ben, this could be dangerous for you. The Klan murders people-clearly."In the outer office I gave the judge"s name to Mr. Hensen, then walked down the steps of the North Portico to the curving driveway. To be honest, I hoped some friend or acquaintance might happen along and witness my emergence from that famous house, but no such luck.I stepped out onto Pennsylvania Avenue and turned toward my office. I would have to work late getting everything in order. It seemed I might be gone for a while.I had just pa.s.sed the entrance to Willard"s Hotel when I remembered the slip of paper the president had given me. I pulled it out and took a step back to read it in the haze of gaslight from the hotel lobby.Written in the president"s own bold, precise hand were four words:ABRAHAM CROSS EUDORA QUARTERSI thought I knew everybody in Eudora, but I"d never heard of Abraham Cross. "The Quarters" was the Negro section of town. This was the man who was going to teach me about southerners and lynching?The fact was, I had not been completely honest with Roosevelt. Had he asked me, I would have told him the truth. I already knew more than I cared to know about the horror of lynching.I had seen one.
Chapter 15.
THE SUMMER WE BOTH turned twelve, my best friend, Jacob Gill, and I made it a practice to slip out of our houses after supper and meet at the vacant lot behind the First Bank of Eudora. Once out of the sight of grown-ups, we proceeded to commit the cardinal and rather breathtaking sin of smoking cigarettes.We"d blow perfect smoke rings into the hot night air and talk about everything, from the new shortstop just sent down from the Jackson Senators to play with the Hattiesburg Tar Heels, to the unmistakable b.r.e.a.s.t.s budding on a lovely and mysterious eighth grader named Cora Sinclair.More than anything, I think, we liked the ritual of smoking-swiping the tobacco from Jacob"s father"s humidor, bribing Old Man Sanders at the general store to sell us a pack of Bugler papers without a word to our mothers, tapping out just the right amount of tobacco, licking the gummed edge of the paper, firing the match. We considered ourselves men, not boys, and there was nothing like a good after-dinner smoke to consecrate the feeling.Then came a Monday night, early August. The last night we ever smoked together.I will tell you how the nightmare began, at least how I remember it.Jacob and I were a little light-headed from smoking three cigarettes in quick succession. We heard noises on Commerce Street and walked down the alley beside the bank to see what was stirring.The first thing we saw was a group of men coming out of the bas.e.m.e.nt of the First Methodist Church. I immediately recognized Leon Reynolds, the "dirty man" who did the sweeping and manure hauling in front of the stores around the courthouse square. He had a hard job, a big belly, and a sour-mash-whiskey att.i.tude.Across Commerce Street, on the sidewalk in front of Miss Ida Simmons"s sewing and notions shop, we saw three colored teenagers standing and shooting the breeze. Lounging against the wall of Miss Ida"s, they were facing the wrong way to see that there were white men bearing down on them.I recognized the tallest boy as George Pearson, whose mother sometimes did washing and ironing for our neighbors the Harrises. Beside him was his brother Lanky. I didn"t recognize the third boy.If Jacob and I could hear their conversation this plainly, so could the men walking down the sidewalk toward them. George Pearson was doing most of the talking."Shoot, Lank, they couldn"t do a d.a.m.n thing "round here without us," he said. "Let "em try to get along without colored folks. Who"d curry their hosses and pitch their hay? Who"d they get to cut cane and pick cotton?"Jacob looked at me. I looked back at him. We knew black boys were not supposed to talk this way.The white men walked right past us and stepped down into the street. I don"t think they even registered our presence. When they heard what George was saying, they started walking faster, and then they ran. They were almost upon the three boys when one of the men boomed, "h.e.l.l, George, you one smart little n.i.g.g.e.r to figure all that out by yourself!"
Chapter 16.
GEORGE PEARSON TURNED, and I saw nothing but the whites of his eyes. It was stupid of him to be talking like that in the open on Commerce Street, but he quickly demonstrated that he was smart enough to run.Jacob and I watched him leap the horse trough in one bound and take off sprinting through the skinny alley beside the church. Leon Reynolds and his pals gave chase, huffing and cursing and yelling "Stop, n.i.g.g.e.r!""We better go home, Ben," said Jacob. "I"m not kidding you.""No," I said. "We"re going after them. Come on. I dare you."I knew Jacob would lay down his life before taking off in the face of a dare. Sure enough, he followed me. We kept far enough back so as not to be seen. I had not been a very religious boy up till then, but I found myself praying for George Pearson to get away. Please, G.o.d, I thought, make George run fast.The men chased him all the way to the end of Court Street, out past the icehouse. As they went along, a couple more men joined the chase. George seemed to be getting away! Then, from out of nowhere, a bucket came sailing out of the icehouse door, tangling his feet and tripping him up.Within seconds the men were on George. Leon Reynolds punched him right in his face. The man next to him hocked up a big wad of spit and let it fly. Another man reached down, grabbed George by the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, and twisted his hand."Holy G.o.d," Jacob whispered in the bushes where we"d taken shelter. "They"re gonna kill him, Ben. I swear to G.o.d."The men yanked George up by one arm and set him stumbling in front of them. They taunted and teased and pushed him toward the swampy woods behind the icehouse. One of them had a torch. Then another torch was lit."We gotta do something," I said to Jacob. "We gotta. I"m serious, boy.""You crazy? What in h.e.l.l can we do? They"ll twist our b.a.l.l.s off too.""Run home and get your daddy," I said. "I"ll try to keep up with "em."Jacob looked at me, plainly trying to gauge whether his departure now would mean he had failed to live up to my earlier dare. But finally he ran for help.Leon Reynolds yanked George up hard by his ear. I found my hand clutching at the side of my own head in sympathy.Two men lifted George as easily as if he were a cloth doll. Blood poured from his mouth, along with a load of bile and vomit.One man held George at the waist while another pushed and pulled his head up and down to make him perform a jerky bow."There you go, n.i.g.g.e.r boy. Now you"re bowing and showing the respect you should."Then, leaning in, with one firm tug, Leon Reynolds pulled George"s ear clean off his head.
Chapter 17.
I WANTED to throw up.I stood ankle deep in the muck of the swamp, batting at the cloud of mosquitoes that whined around my face and arms. I was hiding as best I could behind a tangle of brambly vines and swamp gra.s.s, all alone and completely petrified.In no time at all, the men had fashioned a rope into a thick noose with a hangman"s knot. It took even less time to sling the rope over the middle fork of a sizable sycamore tree.The only sound in those woods was the awful grunting of the men, the steady metallic chant of the cicadas, and the loud beating of my heart."You know why you being punished, boy?" shouted one of the men.There was no response from George Pearson. He must have fainted from the beatings or maybe the pain of losing his ear."We don"t appreciate boasting. We don"t appreciate it from no n.i.g.g.e.r boy.""Now, come on, w.i.l.l.y, ain"t it a little rough to throw a boy a rope party just for shootin" off his stupid-a.s.s mouth?" said another."You got another suggestion, Earl?" w.i.l.l.y said. "What other tonic would you recommend?"I looked around for Jacob. Surely he"d had time to get home and come back with his father.The men carried George to the sandy ground underneath the sycamore. One of them held up his head while the others slid the rope around his neck.I didn"t know what I could do. I was just one boy. I wasn"t strong enough to take on one of these men, much less all of them, but I had to do something. I couldn"t just hide like a jack-rabbit in the woods and watch them hang George Pearson.So I finally moved out of the shadows. I guess the slosh of my feet in swamp water turned their heads. I stood revealed in the light of the moon and their torches."Would you looka here," said w.i.l.l.y."Who the h.e.l.l is this?" said one of his friends."Ain"t but a little old boy, come out to give us a hand."I realized I was shivering now as if this were the coldest night of all time. "Let him go," I squeaked, instantly ashamed of the tremor in my voice."You follered us out here to hep this n.i.g.g.e.r?" said w.i.l.l.y. "You want us to string you up next to him, boy?""He did nothing wrong," I said. "He was just talking. I heard him.""w.i.l.l.y, that"s Judge Corbett"s kid," said a tall, skinny man."That"s right," I said, "he"s my daddy. You"re all gonna be in bad trouble when I tell what you did!"They laughed as if I"d told the funniest joke they"d ever heard."Well, now, correct me if I"m wrong, young Master Corbett," said w.i.l.l.y, "but I believe the law in these parts says if a n.i.g.g.e.r goes to boasting, his friends and neighbors got every right to throw him a little rope party and teach him how to dance."My throat was so dry I was surprised any sound came out. "But he didn"t do anything wrong," I said again. For some reason I thought if I repeated myself, they would see the logic.w.i.l.l.y put on a smile that held not a hint of amus.e.m.e.nt. "Boys, I believe we have got ourselves a pure-D, grade-A, number one junior n.i.g.g.e.r-lover."The other men laughed out loud. Hot tears sprang up in my eyes, but I willed them not to fall. I would not cry in front of these awful b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, these cowards.I recognized a tall, skinny one as J. T. Mack, the overseer at the McFarland plantation. He slurred his words as if he were drunk. "If this boy is half smart as his daddy, he"ll just turn his a.s.s around and march on back home. And forget he ever come out here tonight."In two steps w.i.l.l.y was on me, gripping my arm, then my throat. J. T. Mack moved in to grab my other arm."Hold on, son. You can"t go home to daddy yet. We need a souvenir of your visit. Come on out of there, Scooter," said J.T.Out of nowhere came a dapper young man in a green-and-white-plaid suit, his hair slicked back with brilliantine. He looked about sixteen years old. He carried a wooden box camera on a large tripod, which he set up in the clearing about ten feet from the motionless body of George Pearson.Scooter stuck his head under the black cloak attached to the camera and then pushed back out. "I can"t see nothing. It"s too dark. Bring your light in close to his face," he said.The two men with torches moved closer, illuminating the shining black skin of George Pearson"s face. Scooter put his head back under the cloth.With that, Leon pulled hard on the rope. George Pearson stood straight up and then he flew off the ground three or four feet. His eyes opened wide, bulging as if they might explode. His whole face seemed to swell. His body began trembling and jerking.The horror of what I was seeing froze me in place. I felt something warm dripping down my leg and realized I had peed my pants.No one was looking at me now or bothering to hold me. Slowly, slowly, I began to back away."Hope you got a good likeness, Scooter," said J.T. "We"ll all be wanting a copy. Something to remember ol" George by."Everybody hooted and laughed at that one. I turned and ran for my life.
Chapter 18.
I SUPPOSE THERE might have been one good thing about the punishing southern-style heat wave that had settled over Washington: that night Meg had gone to bed wearing her lightest nightgown. As I opened the door to our room Meg was resting on our bed, pretending to read her leatherbound copy of the book of Psalms."Are you speaking to me?" I asked her."You weren"t here to speak to until now," she answered without looking up.I leaned down and kissed her and was relieved that she didn"t turn away.Meg was so lovely just then, and I wanted nothing more than to lie down beside her. But it wouldn"t be fair, not with the knowledge running around in my head."Meg," I said softly, "I have something to tell you. I"m not sure how you"re going to take it."Her eyes hardened."I went to the White House tonight," I said.Her eyes flashed. In one second the hardness melted into joy."The White House!" she cried. "Oh, I knew it! I knew Roosevelt would have to come around! You"re one of the best young lawyers in town. How ridiculous of him to have waited this long to offer you a position!""It"s not a position," I said. "The president asked me to... take on a mission for him. It could be for a month or two."Meg sat straight up. The Psalms slid to the floor with a soft plop. "Oh, Ben, you"re going to leave us again? Where?""Home," I said. "To Mississippi. To Eudora."She exhaled sharply. "What could the president possibly want you to do in that G.o.dforsaken corner of nowhere?""I"m sorry, Meg," I said. "I can"t tell you. I had to give Roosevelt my word."Meg"s rage exploded, and she cast about for a suitable weapon. Seizing the bottle of French eau de toilette I had given her for her birthday, she fired it against the wall with such force that it shattered. A dreamy scent of lavender filled the room."Meg, how could I say no? He"s the president of the United States.""And I"m your wife. I want you to understand something, Ben. When you go back to Mississippi, on your mission, you"d best be advised to purchase a one-way ticket. Because if you go, there"s no point in coming back. I mean that, Ben. So help me, I"m serious. I can"t wait for you any longer."I heard a sound behind me. Meg and I turned to discover that we had an audience for this display: Alice and Amelia."h.e.l.lo, girls," I said. "Mama and I are having a talk. An adult talk. Back to bed with both of you now."Meg had already turned her face away from the door. I could see from the heaving of her shoulders that she was crying, and that made me feel awful.I walked the girls back to their room, where I tucked them in, covering them gently with the light cotton sheets that sufficed on hot nights like this.I kissed Amelia, then Alice. Then I had to kiss Alice again, and Amelia, in that order, to even things out.As I rose to leave, Amelia threw her skinny arms around me and tugged me back down to her side."Don"t go, Papa," she said in a voice so sweet it nearly broke my heart. "If you go, we"ll never see you again."The moment Amelia said it, I had the terrible thought that my little girl just might be right.Part TwoHOMECOMING
Chapter 19.
I WAS SOON ENOUGH reminded of the dangers of the mission I"d undertaken for the president of the United States. Two days into my journey south, I was in Memphis, about to board the Mississippi & Tennessee train to Carthage, where I would switch to the Jackson & Northern for the trip to Jackson. I had just discovered some truly disturbing reading material.I had been waiting when the Memphis Public Library opened its doors at nine a.m. A kindly lady librarian had succ.u.mbed to one of my shameless winks. She agreed to violate several regulations at once to lend me a number of back issues of the local newspapers, which I agreed to return by mail.I had carefully chosen the most recent issues that carried sensational stories of lynchings on their front pages. Many of those appeared in the Memphis News-Scimitar and the Memphis Commercial Appeal.I was instantly confused by one headline that declared, "Colored Youth Hung by Rope AND Shot by Rope." The article explained that after the fifteen-year-old boy was strung up by his neck-he"d been accused of setting fire to a warehouse-the mob shot so many bullets at his dangling corpse that one bullet actually severed the rope. The boy"s body crashed to the ground, a fall that would surely have killed him had he not already been dead.Another article blaring from the News-Scimitar concerned the lynching of a Negro who was the father of two young boys. The man was taken forcibly from the Shelby County Jail and lynched within a few yards of the entrance. The unusual thing here? A member of the sheriff"s department had gone to the man"s home and brought his sons to view their daddy"s lynching.The "coverage" in these pieces read more like the review of a new vaudeville show or a lady pianist at a cla.s.sical music concert. To wit:The Everett lynching was far more gruesome than the Kelly lynching of but two weeks previous. Due to the unusual explosion of Thaddeus Everett"s neck and carotid arteries, this hanging was both more extraordinary and interesting than the afore-mentioned Kelly death.And from the Memphis Sunday Times, a "critique" of a different lynching:Olivia Kent Oxxam, the only woman privileged to be present at "Pa" Harris"s lynching in the River Knolls region, declared it to be "One of the most riveting events of my lifetime. I was grateful to be there."These articles made the lynchings seem so engrossing that they must surely surpa.s.s the new Vitagraph "flicker" picture shows for their entertainment value.I folded the papers carefully and stashed them in my valise. Then I decided that the heat inside the train carriage was worse than the soot and grime that would flow in from the stacks after I opened the window. I made my move, but the d.a.m.n window wouldn"t budge.I was pushing upward with all my strength when the gentleman in the opposite seat said, "Even a strong young man like yourself won"t be able to open that window-without pulling down on the side latch first."
Chapter 20.