Consumed by Hate, Redeemed by Love

by Thomas A. Tarrants

  I continued to develop friendships across racial lines within the prison, however. Perhaps the most notable was Douglass Baker, a black civil rights lawyer who was serving a short term at Parchman. I first met Doug in 1973, I believe, when we served together on the prisoner advisory committee, a group established by prison officials to give input on how to improve conditions for inmates. An intelligent, cultured, and well-educated man, Doug was also a writer and an excellent classical pianist. He was passionate and outspoken in his racial and liberal political beliefs, but this did not hinder our friendship. For some reason, Doug genuinely liked me; I liked him too. Once again, a personal relationship shattered stereotypes I had once held so tightly. Shortly after Doug’s release, he came to faith in Christ through a mutual friend of ours. We remained in periodic contact for a number of years after our prison days until he died.

  I developed good friendships with two other interesting inmates. One was a college student who had been deeply involved in the drug scene. While in Parchman, he, too, came to know Christ. His life had changed dramatically. Another was a leftist who had formerly been a member of the far-left Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) and had gotten in trouble in Mississippi. He and I developed a friendly relationship, in spite of our earlier radical tendencies. He was a highly intelligent, quiet, mild-mannered guy, and I liked him a lot.

  What an unexpected direction my life had taken! I had developed friendships with an FBI agent, a liberal civil rights leader, a Jewish leader, a militant civil rights lawyer, a hippie drug user, and a radical leftist. The alienation and hostility that once separated us was gone. This was a surprising and strange list of friends for a former Ku Klux Klan terrorist.

  Not only is God in the business of reconciliation, but he has a sense of humor as well.

  16

  NEW POSSIBILITIES

  My time at the pre-release center was not without its dangers. One night a drunk inmate named Kenny got into a disagreement with another inmate and pulled a knife. The situation quickly escalated, and Kenny began chasing the other inmate through the center, intending to kill him. Fortunately, Kenny slowed down long enough for me to catch up and try to talk with him. To my surprise, he responded to me, and he gave me the knife. Minutes later, security officers arrived and took both men to maximum security. The subsequent investigation revealed that a corrupt guard had been smuggling in alcohol and selling it to the inmates. He was fired.

  The incident may sound trivial in comparison to other events that had led me to this point, but it was not trivial at all. Those seemingly random circumstances had, in fact, saved my life. The leaders of the Mississippi Ku Klux Klan had heard of my conversion not just from me by letter but from newspaper accounts and others. To them, I had become a traitor to the Cause. And there’s nothing extremists hate more than a traitor to their cause.

  So the Klan had ordered a hit on me.

  After several months in maximum security, Kenny returned to his job at the pre-release center. One of the first things he did was thank me for keeping him from killing the other inmate. In gratitude, he then made a bone-chilling confession. His attorney was a man whom I knew, and who had been deeply involved with the Klan. Kenny said that days before the knife incident, this lawyer had sent an intermediary to the pre-release center on visiting day to offer him $2,500 (which was a lot of money to a prisoner in those days) to ensure that I had a “fatal accident.”

  The night I stopped him from killing the other inmate, he actually had the opportunity to kill me. But when he realized I had intervened for his benefit, out of concern for him—an angry, drunk convict with a grievance and a knife—he decided not to hurt me.

  It was another instance of God intervening to protect my life.

  * * *

  By the summer of 1974, I had read almost every book that I could obtain on my must-read list. I had also taken what college courses I could by correspondence, although in the mid-seventies there weren’t many available that interested me. To continue my education would require both the structure and the resources of a university.

  That, in turn, would require me to be out of prison.

  I think Frank Watts first raised the prospect of my early release. He based this on the profound changes in my beliefs, life, and attitudes, and my demonstrated commitment to follow Jesus. In conversations with his superiors at the FBI, Frank argued that I was no longer a radical, no longer a risk, and that I was far more valuable to society on the outside, where I could share how God had changed me from a hate-filled racist to a follower of Christ. Maybe I could be useful in turning young people away from being radicalized, he reasoned.

  However, Frank’s supervisors at the FBI flatly disagreed. They still saw me as a dangerous criminal. Word came down (I’m not sure if it was from Hoover or from Roy Moore, the special agent in charge for Mississippi) that if Frank liked his job and wanted to keep it, he ought to give up this idea. As far as the FBI was concerned, I was where I was supposed to be.

  I had told Ken Dean of my desire to attend college, and he encouraged it, saying he’d talk to Bill Hollowell, the superintendent. Hollowell responded positively and said that at the proper time he would present the matter to the new governor, Bill Waller, who would have to give final approval. Hollowell also pointed out that I had no chance at early release unless leaders of Mississippi’s black community and Jewish community agreed to support it, or at least not oppose it. Then Ken called Lieutenant Governor William Winter, who was a personal friend of his. Ken also spoke with key white liberals and leaders of the black community to assure them of my changed life.

  The prison’s staff psychologist gave me a thorough psychological evaluation and concluded that my rehabilitation was complete. He even drove me to Jackson to take the Scholastic Aptitude Test (SAT). Along with the prison’s assistant superintendent, he wrote letters of recommendation to the colleges where I applied. Through his encouragement and that of Ken Dean and Henry Barmettler, I applied to and was accepted at Rutgers College in New Jersey, Duke University in North Carolina, and Earlham College in Indiana. Everything was falling into place. I had made high SAT scores, been accepted by three excellent schools, and been recommended by Parchman’s psychologist and executive staff. My former enemies had agreed to my release, and even the lieutenant governor was ready to publicly support it.

  But when the proposal came to Governor Waller, his answer was a firm no. In a televised news conference, someone asked him about the possibility of my early release, and the governor said that while I had made considerable progress during my years in Parchman, he felt it was not yet time for me to be released from incarceration.

  I was devastated. Why hadn’t God intervened and opened the door for my release? Why had he not blessed my efforts and those of my friends? Why had he not answered my prayers and those of many others on my behalf? What we were seeking and praying for was good, not bad. Wasn’t six years in prison enough? There seemed no hope left for an early release. To me, if this effort failed, as strong as it was, no effort would succeed. The future looked very dark, even hopeless. I would be stuck at Parchman for many more years.

  To make matters worse, I was teaching classes full of inmates who were about to be released, most of whom had no intention of going straight. I didn’t dispute that I deserved my sentence. But I was a new man, and I would never be involved in crime again, while two-thirds of these men would be back in prison in three years or less. It was hard. Very hard. My hopes were crushed. The future looked bleak.

  For several days I had to fight strong feelings of bitterness, resentment, self-pity, and depression. But gradually I realized that, among other things, this disappointment was to show me a simple but important truth: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts” (Isaiah 55:8–9).

  As I prayed through this crisis of faith, God impresse
d on me in a clear, unmistakable way that he would eventually set me free, but that it would be in his time and on his terms. I was to make no further efforts to bring it about in my own strength. One day he spoke to me as clearly as I have ever experienced in my life. It was just as clear, strong, and distinct as if someone were speaking to me audibly, but without any sound. He said to me, “Stop trying to get out. You can’t get out a day sooner than I want you to leave, and they can’t hold you a day longer than I want you to stay.” This was not what I wanted to hear, but it was what I needed to hear. It stabilized me. My hope returned. I had to trust God and wait patiently for him to act in his own time.

  Two years later, in the spring of 1976, I met Dr. Leighton Ford, an evangelist with the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. Dr. Ford came to the area as part of an evangelistic crusade, and when he came to the prison to preach, we had a brief talk—the beginning of what grew to be a good friendship.

  After our conversation, Ford concluded that it would be good for me to attend Chuck Colson’s prison discipleship program in Washington, DC. The two-week program was designed to provide intensive discipleship training for inmates who wanted to grow spiritually and were trusted by prison chaplains. First Presbyterian church generously offered to cover any expense involved. Ford contacted Chuck Colson, who sent a letter to prison officials asking that I be allowed to participate in the Washington program.

  This was a highly unusual request, especially for someone as politically controversial as I was. (Skeptics were still around.) The warden and staff were supportive, but a request of this nature—leaving the state for two weeks unescorted—had to be approved by the governor himself. Then there was the additional issue that the program had no security; everything was based on the honor system. Complicating matters further was the fact that Mississippi had a newly elected governor. It was a long shot, but the Parchman officials forwarded Chuck Colson’s invitation, with the warden’s personal recommendation for approval, to Governor Cliff Finch.

  Given that I had a thirty-year sentence for terrorism, plus five years more for escaping, Governor Finch would certainly see me as a security risk. Even if I didn’t escape, once it became known that he had approved my leaving the state for two weeks without supervision, there could well be a public uproar. And if I did escape, there was no way he could defend his decision. Getting permission was extremely unlikely. But the prison chaplains and I prayed that if it was God’s will for me to go to Washington, he would open the door. We waited and waited, but no word came.

  Through a set of circumstances that can only be described as miraculous, Governor Cliff Finch gave his approval. On the last possible day, a state senator who was a good friend of the governor’s top aide, Herman Glazier, was visiting the prison and came to the pre-release center for a tour. Chaplain Howell was showing him around and introduced me to him, taking the opportunity to explain my problem. The man called Mr. Glazier in the governor’s office on the spot and the approval was forthcoming. I was going to Washington, DC.

  During my two weeks at Chuck Colson’s Prison Fellowship Discipleship Program, I got to know a dozen other inmates—all from federal prisons. The program provided teaching during the day and visits to churches on Sundays and several weekday evenings. For me, it was a time of solid teaching and spiritual growth. It was also the beginning of long-lasting and rewarding friendships with four special men who taught in the program: Chuck Colson, Sen. Harold Hughes, Dr. Richard Halverson, and Dr. John Staggers.

  Chuck Colson was a conservative Republican, former marine captain, high-powered Washington lawyer, special counsel to President Richard Nixon, and White House hatchet man who had spent seven months in prison for his involvement in the Watergate conspiracy. He, too, had experienced a remarkable transformation, one that produced a passion to help those in prison.

  Harold Hughes was a liberal Democrat who had been the governor of Iowa and United States senator from 1969 to 1975 and loved Jesus Christ. He had a strong commitment to helping the poor and people struggling with alcoholism, with which he once suffered. He was a bear of a man who had traveled a hard path through life. He understood the common man and his problems and tried to do what he could to help people. He was not a typical Washington politician and left the Senate after only one term in order to serve God in other ways.

  Dr. Halverson, senior pastor of Fourth Presbyterian Church and chairman of the board of World Vision, was a highly respected evangelical leader in the United States and abroad.

  Dr. John Staggers, a former assistant to the mayor of Washington and former professor at Howard University, was a respected black leader. He played a courageous role in calming the riots in Washington after the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., walking into a group of angry, armed rioters to reduce tensions and challenge them to work for change through nonviolent means. One of the most remarkable things about these four men was the fact that in spite of their differences, they were good friends because of their relationship with Christ. They had a unity in Christ and worked together to serve him.

  In a group discernment exercise toward the end of this two-week program, each inmate was asked to share what spiritual gifts we saw in the others. I was identified by several as having a gift of teaching. From then on, I began to wonder about ministry. Might God want to use me in a ministry of teaching and helping others grow as disciples of Jesus?

  The high point of the conference came the night before we returned to our respective prisons. A banquet was held at a grand old mansion in the Embassy Row section of Washington, DC, as a commencement service for the men in the discipleship program.

  Before dinner, Chuck Colson came into the kitchen, where I was talking with someone, and told me he wanted to introduce me to a man who was in the library. It was Eldridge Cleaver, a man who had been a leader in the Black Panther Party, an organization committed to armed struggle against racism and the United States government. FBI director J. Edgar Hoover had described the Black Panthers as “the greatest threat to internal security of the country.”1 In 1968, Cleaver had fled prosecution in Oakland, California, for the attempted murder of two policemen, going first to Cuba, then Algeria, and eventually France. He had recently returned to the United States after renouncing his radical past and professing faith in Christ.

  I had heard of Eldridge’s rather unusual conversion experience, which I couldn’t quite understand, and wanted to meet him. As Chuck and I left the kitchen together, I jokingly asked him, “Are you sure this guy’s saved?” Quite amused, he assured me there was nothing to worry about, and we went downstairs to the library. A more dissimilar group than you could possibly imagine now stood together in that library—Chuck Colson, Harold Hughes, Eldridge Cleaver, and Tom Tarrants. A moment later I found myself shaking hands with a man I would have hated several years before, but for whom I now felt only love. Under any other circumstances, those of us around the table would have been at least ideological enemies. But because of a common commitment to Jesus Christ, it could now be different for all of us. Sadly, Eldridge got on the speaker circuit before becoming well-grounded in the faith and wound up becoming disillusioned and spiraling into a bizarre course of life.

  I did not realize at the time the significance of what God was doing. He was continuing to work out his great plan of reconciliation—reconciliation of man to God and man to man—through the power of Christ. He was also strengthening my spiritual life and laying the foundation of my future ministry.

  17

  FREE AT LAST!

  Not long after my return from Washington, a federal court order to reduce overcrowding at Parchman made it possible for me to be considered for a work-release program. The inmate population at that point was 2,600 and rising, well above the designated maximum capacity of 1,900. The court gave the state of Mississippi a limited window of time to comply with the reduction order. This greatly favored my situation. If approved, I could possibly be released by Christmas of that year.

  Without
my prompting, two counselors in the Division of Vocational Rehabilitation took it on themselves to do the early groundwork. In preparation for work release, I had to pass a thorough psychological evaluation and pass muster, in person, before the prison classification committee. Then there was the matter of securing a job and sponsor in Mississippi. Often, an inmate’s family would help arrange this, but since mine was 350 miles away in Alabama and had no contacts in Mississippi, they couldn’t help.

  Under the terms of the work-release program, the county sheriff and chief circuit judge in whatever jurisdiction I chose to relocate would have to give their official approval. A number of people in nearby Cleveland, only twenty-five miles away, had befriended me and it also had a good university, so I decided to apply there. Most of my friends were leaders in the community, and I assumed their recommendations would assure approval. But during my two years of waiting, I had learned to look first to God and seek his will. So I prayed that if this wasn’t where God wanted me to go, he would shut the door. And the door closed before my eyes. The sheriff refused to approve my coming to Cleveland. I was disappointed, but this time I was not crushed.

  I applied to go to Tupelo, Mississippi, hometown of Elvis Presley, where I also had some Christian friends. Again, I prayed that God would close this door if it were not his place for me. And again, local officials refused to accept me.

  My relocation from Parchman was going to be more difficult than I thought. I was at one time labeled by the press and federal and state authorities as the most dangerous man in Mississippi. That stuck in people’s minds. More important, my crime had involved shooting a police officer—an extremely serious offense in its own right. Even though I was no longer the terrorist who had been the FBI’s number one target in Mississippi, not everyone knew that. It would be politically risky for a sheriff and judge to approve my living in their jurisdiction. Even if local citizens did not protest, law enforcement authorities would. For some people I was barely human and should rot in prison.