Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  “Still working the Main Street drainage issue, Norma?” Darby asked.

  “Yes. I still want to get feedback from some of the store owners on that end and check with the mayor’s office again before I submit the final. We can definitely go with it in tomorrow’s edition.”

  Darby shook his head. “Yeah, okay, but it may have to wait.” He then hesitated, which got Norma’s attention. “Before I came to work this morning, I got a call from Pebo over at the Sheriff’s office. There was a murder last night off the Edisto. Tyrell James.”

  “Tyrell James?”

  “Yep. One and the same.”

  Chan glanced back and forth at them—confusion on his brow.

  Norma leaned back into the couch. “My God, I know his momma well. This is going to break her heart.” She then sat upright, back in reporter mode. “Is there a suspect?”

  “Nothing yet. Pebo said he was stabbed in the neck.”

  “And you want me over there?” she asked even though she already knew his answer. Norma was always given stories that dealt directly with Macinaw’s African-American community. She was well-aware of how life in a southern town worked and was acutely knowledgeable about her role in it.

  “Yes, and you can take the kid there with you,” Darby said. He then pointed at Chan. “You okay with that, Adams?”

  Chan stood, smiling. “Yes, sir. I’ll be happy to help investigate, flesh out leads…”

  “Nobody said anything about you investigating, Adams. You go with Norma. Watch and learn. Keep your mouth shut and stay out of her way. Got it?”

  Chan’s smile faded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Darby looked back at Norma. “Deputy Haskit is at the scene. You can start there.”

  Norma stood, nodding at Darby and slinging her pocketbook on her shoulder. She walked past the editor, and Chan began to follow. Darby stopped him by grabbing his arm.

  “You didn’t get me my coffee this morning, Adams.”

  Chan looked over at Darby’s empty coffee mug on the conference table and then back to his boss. “I didn’t know how you take it,” Chan said, an iciness enveloping his words.

  “Black. Think you can remember that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Chan said breaking from his grip and heading out the door. “I’ll remember.”

  6:27 AM

  Norma and Chan were both working on their second cigarette of the morning as they rode down Main Street. Chan had offered to drive his car, and Norma took him up on it, figuring it would do him good to learn the roads first hand.

  “So, who’s this James fellow that was killed?” Chan asked. “His name seemed to get your attention.”

  “Take a right up here,” Norma said, indicating the next street. She waited as they turned and then responded, “Tyrell James has a history here in Macinaw—and it’s a rather uncomfortable one.”

  “Uncomfortable for him or for Macinaw?”

  Norma took a drag and blew the smoke out the window. “Both. He was one of the Seven—what some people called the Macinaw Seven. Have you heard about them?”

  Chan turned down the corners of his mouth. “No. Who were they?”

  “They were seven local black males, kids mostly, who were arrested for the murder of Robert Dover back in 1969. Dover was the son of Ellis Dover, a prominent farmer and political big-wig in this area.” She paused before adding, “And yes, the Dovers are white.”

  “So, racial issues?”

  Norma nodded. “At every turn. A powder-keg-waiting-to-explode kind of situation, if you know what I mean.”

  “The seven weren’t convicted?”

  “No, acquitted—which is amazing in itself considering the courts down here. But it was an uneasy acquittal. Things really never settled after the trial.”

  “And the murder?”

  “Unsolved to this day. But to be honest, I don’t know if the cops really looked too hard after the acquittal. They were certain the Seven had done it.”

  “How so?”

  “They were seen coming from the barn where Robert was found—his body hanging in the hayloft—a rope around his neck.”

  “Hanging? Did the police ever consider it a suicide?” Chan asked.

  “Not when they had seven blacks witnessed running from the barn. And they had motive some say. Many believed they killed Robert in retaliation for the Orangeburg Massacre.”

  “The what?”

  “Don’t they teach social studies over there in Georgia?” Norma asked lightly.

  “Must’ve overslept that day,” Chan quipped.

  Norma hesitated as she looked up at the road ahead. “Take the first left after the bridge.” She refocused on Chan. “I’m afraid the story gets more complex the more I tell. Suffice it to say, the Seven may have had cause.”

  Chan nodded as he thought about it. “So how were the Seven acquitted if the cops were so convinced?”

  “Sonny Watts—their lawyer. He found a lot of holes to loop in the investigation. The case against them fell apart during the trial.”

  “But not according to the cops, right?”

  “Right. The cops, the Dovers, and many other people to this day still believe that the Macinaw Seven got away with killing Robert.”

  Chan tapped his fingers atop the steering wheel. “Intriguing. And now one of them is dead.”

  “Murdered,” Norma clarified.

  “Right, murdered. I imagine this is going to be hard on the town, raising all those ill feelings again.”

  Norma sighed. “I’m afraid that is a definite possibility.” She turned to look out of her rolled-down window and away from the glare of the rising sun. “Welcome to Macinaw, Mr. Adams.”

  7:02 AM

  Norma had Chan park the car down the dirt road from the crime scene so that they could approach discreetly. They walked toward the house side by side.

  “Take it slow,” Norma said. “Cops don’t like it when you rush a crime scene. They get all closed-mouthed and protective. And let me initiate the conversation. I know how these guys think.”

  As they stepped onto the dirt driveway, they were met by two Macinaw sheriff deputies who were leaning against their patrol cars, blocking the entrance. Both deputies were tall, close to six feet, although Chief Deputy Bobby Haskit, the lankier of the two, may have been an inch taller. Deputy Jimmy Evans with his broad shoulders and crew cut was more intimidating to Chan. Both lawmen looked alert despite the early morning hour.

  “Hello, there, Miss Norma,” Haskit began. “How’re you?”

  “Morning, Bobby,” she said. “Too early in the day for all this.”

  The deputies agreed with a nod.

  Norma pointed behind her. “This is Chan Adams. He’s with the paper now.” She turned to Chan and indicated the two men. “Deputies Haskit and Evans.”

  Chan reached beyond Norma and shook both of their hands. Bobby Haskit smiled at the young reporter—Jimmy Evans did not.

  “So, what’s the situation?” Norma asked

  Haskit looked back at the house, caught Deputy Evans’ wary expression, and then refocused on Norma. “This is strictly off the record, Norma, but it’s a bad scene. Somebody got to Tyrell last night. Jabbed him in the neck. Left a ton of blood inside.”

  “Forced entry?”

  “Not that we can tell.”

  “Anything stolen?”

  “He lived alone, so it’s gonna be hard to say—although his TV, stereo, and guns are still inside. Nothing else appeared disturbed.”

  “Drugs?”

  “I never knew Tyrell to run with that crew, but anything is possible at this point.”

  Norma paused and then added, “You said a ton of blood. Which room?”

  “Back bedroom. His bedroom. We found him on the bed. We think the assailant surprised him there.”

  “Can we take a look?” Chan blurted out.

  Norma shot a stern look at Chan.

  Haskit smiled at the young reporter. “Not yet. We have more investigative proce
dures to follow.” He looked back at the house before adding, “Could be several hours yet.”

  “Next of kin notified?” Norma asked.

  Haskit nodded in the affirmative. “His momma is at the station now. In fact, she was the one who called Tyrell last night to check on him. When she didn’t get an answer, she sent her brother over to find out why. He discovered the body.”

  “And what time did she make the call?” Chan asked.

  Instead of admonishing Chan, Norma stayed focused on the deputy as she knew his question was appropriate.

  “Around nine, I think. He had been working late yesterday.”

  Norma moved slightly forward and lowered her voice a bit. “And what of the other six, Bobby? Has anyone checked on them?”

  Haskit hesitated to answer. “I’m sorry, Norma. I’ve said too much already. We’re just working this crime scene. You need to ask the sheriff about all that.”

  4:45 PM

  Sheriff Justin Crawford’s office was what Chan had imagined a small county sheriff’s office to be: twelve square feet, cramped and clipped, with a singular window—the shade drawn shut. A distinctive combination of cheap cigars, gun oil and old leather smells permeated the room.

  Chan sat quietly with Norma in visitor chairs across from the sheriff’s desk waiting on his return, eyes drifting about the room. He noted scattered documents and folders of all kinds as if a huge file cabinet had suddenly exploded, raining paper down on everything.

  He was drawn to the faux wood walls where he saw plaques, medals, and citations jammed against various pictures of the sheriff—some with fellow lawmen, others with certain dignitaries. A personalized autographed picture of President Nixon was lost amid the clutter. A locked gun rack was placed prominently on the wall below the photographs.

  The sheriff’s desk was also a testament to an overworked man. Beside the obligatory wife and kids’ photo, the desk held a filled ash tray, two coffee cups overflowing with pens, a multi-function phone with messages taped to the receiver, in-out boxes filled with assorted papers, and a desk calendar littered with personal reminders scribbled in red ink.

  The office door swung open, and Sheriff Crawford stormed in. He was authority and assurance wrapped in a tan sheriff’s uniform. A huge presence, Crawford maintained an athletic build on his five-eleven frame despite being well past the age of fifty. His head was still covered with a chock full of black hair although time had tempered the edges to a snowy grey. He had a prominent nose and strong jaw on his clean-shaven face. And his eyes, like his hair, were the color of night. He cast them upon his visitors as he made his way around his desk.

  As he sat, he spread out the desk clutter with his hands and then leaned back in his leather chair. “Always a pleasure to talk to the fourth estate, Norma, but we’re a little busy today, as you might imagine.”

  “We’re busy, too, Sheriff, with deadlines looming,” Norma said. “We need to know of any progress on the investigation.”

  Crawford shrugged. “All dead-ends so far. We’ll continue to work the case, obviously, but we really have nothing to report right now.”

  “No prints? No leads? Nothing?”

  “The investigation continues, but no, there is nothing so far.”

  “Could this have something to do with Tyrell’s past?” Chan blurted out. “Specifically, his involvement with the Macinaw Seven?”

  Crawford frowned and set his eyes on Chan. “And who are you, sir?”

  Norma leaned forward, “This….”

  “I’m Chan Adams, with The Macinaw Republic,” Chan said, jumping the introduction. He looked down at his open notepad and then back up. “In 1969, Tyrell James and six others were charged with the murder of Robert Dover….”

  “I’m well-aware of the Macinaw Seven, young man. I was sheriff then, too.”

  “So then, you would also know that their acquittal left many in this town with feelings of an unsatisfied need for justice.”

  Crawford almost laughed. “You don’t have to connect the dots for me, Mr. Adams. As I said, I was sheriff then. I was the one who arrested the seven men. I lived through the trial and the fallout.”

  “Have you contacted the others involved?” Chan asked.

  Crawford dismissed the notion with a quick shake of his head.

  “That would seem a logical move. If nothing else, to check on their safety.”

  “No need to jump the gun, Mr. Adams. We have the situation under control. This appears to be an isolated attack. We have no reason to believe others are involved or that anyone else is in danger.”

  “But how do you…?”

  Crawford pressed his hands down on his desk as he stood. “As I said, it’s under control, sir. Now if you and Miss Norma will excuse me, I have other business that I really do need to take care of.” He shot a look directly at Norma.

  Norma rose without hesitation. “You will keep us apprised, Sheriff?”

  “Of course,” he said. “As soon as we know anything.”

  Norma headed out without another word—Chan right on her heels.

  Crawford waited for their stir to dissipate and then grabbed his phone. “Deputy, get in here.”

  Within seconds, Bobby Haskit appeared in the door to the office, a somber look on his face.

  “Did you check with the coroner’s office?” Crawford asked.

  “Yes, sir, and you were right. The exact same as Henry Brooks.”

  6:47 PM

  Chan wheeled the Torino into the employee parking spaces behind The Macinaw Republic. He pulled his car to a stop, but kept the engine running. Norma grabbed a Hardee’s bag from the floorboard and cracked open her door.

  “See what you can find out from Luther Jennings.” She handed him directions written on a napkin. “This is the latest address I have on him. See if he’s heard anything from the other five. And ask him when he contacted Tyrell last.”

  “He may be more inclined to talk with you,” Chan said.

  “Yeah, but I’ve got to finish my article on the drainage issue and get our preliminary on Tyrell ready for tomorrow’s edition. You can do it—you have good instincts. Just be direct like you were with Crawford. He’ll respect that. Swing back by here later, and let me know what he said.”

  “Okay. Cover for me with Darby.”

  “Will do.”

  Norma stepped out and headed toward the building.

  Chan drove back onto Main Street, following Norma’s directions. He rubbed at his tired eyes and felt the day’s tension in his shoulders. He’d had a rough start, but he was at least thankful to have had Norma as a partner for the day. Although their investigation into Tyrell James’s death had been rather fruitless so far, it had given him time to hear much of the back-story on the Macinaw Seven and the Robert Dover murder.

  Luther Jennings, as he was told, was the other member of the Macinaw Seven who had been on the South Carolina State campus the day of the Orangeburg Massacre. He and Tyrell were juniors at State in 1968 and became swept up in the fervor leading up to that fateful night in February. They befriended Cleveland Sellers, the civil rights activist and program director for the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, who helped stage the protests at the bowling alley. According to Norma, after everything was over, Sellers was forced to take the fall for the riot, which angered Luther and Tyrell. And the following year, after the patrolmen were acquitted in the deaths of the three students killed on State’s campus, the two went out on their own and vowed to get even with the system. They returned to Macinaw and, with five other recruited locals, went looking for trouble.

  Trouble. That’s exactly where Chan thought he was headed as he crossed the railroad tracks and into Macinaw’s black section of town. A small town divided along racial lines was almost cliché, but he recognized that was a reality across much of the South, including his home in Georgia. Economic and social factors drew most of the dividing lines, and Chan knew that people were people no matter their side of the track. But the wor
ld loved to point out the obvious, and race was always the first thing people noticed.

  Chan parked on the street in front of Luther’s modest home and hopped out. He crossed the sidewalk to the sound of a dog barking a few houses down. He went through a chain-link fence gate—a cement path led to a covered porch and the front door.

  The house was dark, but Chan thought he heard movement inside. He knocked twice.

  “Mr. Jennings?” He waited and then, “Luther Jennings?”

  Chan peeked inside a front window, waited a few seconds, and then banged against the door. “Mr. Jennings?”

  “Get the hell outta here, Henry Brooks!” a deep voice called out from within the dark house.

  Chan hesitated in confusion. “Sir? My name is Chan Adams. I’m a reporter.” He waited and then tried, “I just want to talk with Mr. Luther Jennings.”

  “Go away! I ain’t said nothing about nobody! Get the hell away from me!”

  “Sir? I don’t understand….”

  Chan heard stomping coming toward the door. “I say I ain’t said nothing! Do you hear? Now leave me alone!”

  Chan leaned his head against the door. “Sir, I just have a few…”

  The door swung open, and Chan nearly fell into the barrel of the pointed shotgun. Luther Jennings had a desperate, wild look in his eyes. He was a young and strong man, but his youthful appearance was belied by the fear etched in every line of his face.

  Chan ducked and spun his body before the first shot blasted by his head. He felt the heat of the blast and sensed pellets fire past the back of his neck and left ear. Within a solitary second, he had leaped down the entire stairs leading to the porch and was stumbling toward the gate. In two giant strides, Chan was at the end of the yard. He sensed the shotgun being leveled at him again and dove over the fence. The second blast caught him in mid-air, tearing cloth and skin away from his backside. He landed face first on the sidewalk, breaking his nose and skinning his hands and forearms.

  Chan heard footsteps pounding behind him, and he managed to pull himself up and blindly jump into his Torino. The pain was excruciating, but he fumbled the keys from his pocket and started the car. Through his bloody right eye, he saw Luther coming after him with the shotgun. He slammed the accelerator and tore down the street, a third shotgun blast echoing behind him.