The judge turned to McCallum. “Is the state alleging the defendant’s involvement in any other criminal activities?”
“No, your honor.”
Judge Williams looked skeptical. “And the state opposes any bail?”
“The state does.”
“That’s outrageous!” Gasque interjected.
“Sit down!” Judge Williams commanded.
“Solicitor, I’m going to have to ask you to provide some support for your allegations. Is the state prepared to offer evidence?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Proceed.”
“Your honor, the state would like to present testimony from William A. Bascom.”
The bailiff opened the side door. Vanessa Brown shifted nervously. The white-haired Billy Bascom entered, his sharp nose pointed down and to the left, his beady black eyes staring sideways. He stuck close to the rail separating the spectators from the business end of the courtroom, like a possum trying to avoid the light, as he climbed to the witness stand.
McCallum began by leading Bascom through his career in the Klan and his decision to become an informant.
“Did there come a time when during your activities with the Klan that you got to know Olen Pennegar and Rutledge Buchan?”
“Yes. They were members. And I also knew them because Judge Buchan was a judge and he owned De Sto that Raeford Watson ran. Olen Pennegar was the police chief.”
“And you were all in the Klan?”
Gasque stood up. “Objection your honor. They are not charged with being members of the Klan.”
“Sustained,” Judge Williams said. “Mr. McCallum, where are you headed?”
McCallum ignored the question but hurried up. “Mr. Bascom, on the night in question did you have the occasion to be playing poker with any of the defendants?”
“Yes, sir. With both of them.”
“Where?”
Bascom reached for his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He was groping in his suit jacket pocket for his lighter when he realized where he was.
“In Town Hall. We was drinking and playing poker while we was standing guard against the blacks. They’d about tore up the town the night before. Broke some windows. Somebody throwed a firebomb at De Sto. Judge Buchan was pretty upset about it.”
“Objection!” Gasque shouted. “He couldn’t know Buchan’s mental state.”
“Sustained.”
McCallum plowed ahead. “Mr. Bascom, did Judge Buchan say anything about the firebomb?”
“He said he was pissed off about it. He said he was losing a lot of money because the blacks were scaring away the jumpers.”
“Jumpers?”
“The boys from the bomb plant who’d come for the hookers Raeford kept in the back. Raeford said that’s where the big money was. He ran the hookers and De Sto for Rut Buchan.”
“Sustained,” Judge Williams said, not waiting for the objection. “Mr. McCallum, please get to the point.”
McCallum continued, “The judge told you he was upset because the activities of the blacks had cut his revenue from the grocery and from the prostitution operation, is that correct?”
Bascom pressed his hands together. “Yes. That and he said the firebomb had caused Raeford Watson to have a heart attack. He said he was angry about that, too.”
“Mr. Bascom, did the defendant say anything else about the firebomb?”
“Yes. He said, ‘Just like a damn nigger to build one that don’t go off. ’”
Judge Williams cleared his throat.
“During the poker game, did the defendant offer an opinion about what should be done about the firebomb?”
“He said we needed to keep the niggers in their place, that we couldn’t let them think they could get away with something like that. He said it threatened the whole town, not just him.”
“Did he suggest a method—” McCallum made a show of consulting his notes– “for ‘keeping the niggers in their place’?”
“He said there needed to be a killing.”
“Did he say who needed to be killed?”
“No. He said we should just kill the first nigger to walk past De Sto after midnight.”
Mrs. Sampson wept.
Reverend Grace took her hands. There was a look of rage on his face I had never seen before. Angry murmurs rolled through the back of the room.
“Get that quote exactly,” Bullock whispered to me.
“Order!” said Judge Williams.
“And how did you decide who would do the killing?”
“We played a hand of poker. Me, Pennegar, and Buchan. To decide who would be the shooter and who would be lookouts.”
“And the loser would be the one to pull the trigger.”
“No. The winner.”
The air went out of the courtroom. A chorus of groans and an outraged “No!” erupted from behind us. Even Judge Williams seemed staggered.
“Order!” the judge commanded.
McCallum took a deep breath and asked, “And who won the hand?”
Bascom looked surprised. “Why, Judge Buchan. Four of a kind beat a full house.”
More murmurs from the crowd.
“Then what happened?”
“Midnight came and Rut got his deer rifle from the trunk of his car. Olen said he wanted to go home. He said he thought Rut had been bluffing.”
“That’s what he was trying to say,” I whispered to Bullock. “Bluffing.’”
McCallum said, “Please continue, Mr. Bascom.”
“Rut said it was fine by him, just as long as Olen kept his mouth shut. Then the judge set up in the woods across the road. I hid in some bushes down the street. I waited until midnight. I saw someone walking down the road. I could tell it was a black. I whistled, like we’d planned. A minute later, I heard the shot from where Rut was standing. The person fell. I took off running.” He reached into his pocket for another cigarette then put it back. “I didn’t know it was a kid until the next day.”
“On a subsequent occasion, did you talk to Buchan about that?”
“I did.”
“What was his response?”
“He said, ‘Just another nigger we won’t have to worry about growing up.’ ”
Sobs exploded from the front row. This time, there was no gavel.
When the courtroom quieted, McCallum said, “We have no other witnesses, your honor.”
Judge Williams cleared his throat. After a pause, he said, “Before I rule I would like to hear from Mrs. Sampson on the question of whether the defendants pose a threat if released on bail. Please direct Mrs. Sampson to the stand.”
All eyes followed Etta Mae Sampson. Clutching a white handkerchief and wearing her purple Sunday dress, she walked to the front of the courtroom, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She placed her hand on the Bible, took the oath, and sat straight-backed in the witness chair. “Mrs. Sampson, I have only one question,” Judge Williams said kindly. “Judge Buchan has been charged with killing your son. Would you be in fear if he were free on bail?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re not afraid he might kill you?”
“He might. But I do not fear man. Only God.”
The Judge smiled. “Mrs. Sampson, you’re a trusting woman. How does Wallace’s father feel about the question?”
“I have no way of knowing.”
“Is he here today?”
“No, sir.”
“Where is he?”
I waited for her to say that Wallace’s father was dead. Instead she twisted her handkerchief and stared at the judge.
Judge Williams leaned toward the witness box. “Mrs. Sampson . . .”
“I . . . don’t wish to say . . .” she whispered. Her eyes pleaded for help.
Bullock s
hot me a look that asked, “What the hell is going on?” I was starting to have an idea but this wasn’t the time to tell him.
“Let me remind you, Mrs. Sampson, that you swore to tell the truth,” the judge said. “Where is Wallace’s father?”
Mrs. Sampson looked at the spectators, then at the judge, then at the Bible on the corner of the witness stand.
“At Windrow . . .”
“He works there?” the judge asked.
She took a deep breath and I could see her strengthen. “No. He lives there.”
“So Wallace’s father is . . .”
“Mr. Everett Hall.”
“What the hell!” the Associated Press reporter said as he vaulted out of his seat for the second time. “I’ll be damned,” Bullock whispered. In the front row, Brad Hall sat stunned. Vanessa Brown wrapped her arms around him. At the defense table, Rut Buchan paled and slumped in his chair, deflating like a punctured blow-up toy.
The courtroom roar quieted when the spectators realized Mrs. Sampson was continuing. She uncrumpled her handkerchief and smoothed it across her lap, carefully adjusting the corners so that it was even on all sides. She looked straight ahead, as if she were staring into the past.
“He raped me,” she said evenly. “We didn’t call it that then. But that’s what it was. He’d been shooting birds and drinking. He came to the Big House where I was working. I remember what he said. He said, ‘Why pay for brown sugar at De Sto when you can get it in the kitchen for free?’ I never told anyone, even when I found I was pregnant. It made no matter. I never loved my Wallace any less. God wouldn’t have given him to me in the way that He did unless Wallace was something special.”
Less than an hour after the hearing ended, Judge Williams ordered Pennegar released on his own recognizance.
In the matter of Buchan, Judge Williams ruled that, “The heinousness of the crime and the fact that the state is seeking the death penalty implies a flight risk. However, given Judge Buchan’s history and ties to the community, a very high bail and electronic monitoring is not unreasonable.” He set the bond at one million dollars.
Late that afternoon, having put up one hundred thousand dollars cash and assigning title to some of his real estate to cover the rest, Buchan emerged from the courthouse, his orange prison jump suit replaced by gray slacks, white shirt, red silk tie, and blue blazer. He seemed to have recovered his poise. I wrote the words “unruffled,” “taciturn,” and “military bearing” in my notebook as he walked quickly toward his car. Bullock and I fell in behind him, followed by a gaggle of other reporters.
Bullock asked, “Judge Buchan, do you have any comment?” Buchan ignored the question, climbed into his car and started the engine. He lowered the driver’s side window. “My comment,” he said calmly, “is that I hope you gentlemen have a pleasant evening.”
We filed our story from a phone at the courthouse. Learning who had pulled the trigger and how Wallace Sampson had become the victim answered the biggest remaining questions about the case. But the biggest news was the allegation that Everett Hall had committed rape as a young man—and that Wallace Sampson was the result. Our story devoted as much space to that as it did to the outcome of the bail hearing.
“It explains a lot of things,” Bullock observed. “Everett Hall rapes a black woman and has an illegitimate son—a problem he thought was conveniently buried when Wallace Sampson happened to get shot. Then we come along and he does everything he can to stop us, including calling in his chips with the governor. Make a note to check if there’s a statute of limitation on rape.”
“More South Carolina stories,” I said as I wrote. “Reich will be thrilled.”
I had just finished when a deputy ran breathless into the courthouse.
“Holy shit!” he yelled. “Holy shit! Holy shit! Buchan shot himself. Put the gun in his mouth at his family plot at the cemetery and pulled the trigger. One of the cemetery attendants found him.”
“My God, how awful!” a woman said.
“And there’s a fire at the church. All hell’s breaking loose!”
We sprinted to the Dodge. With Bullock driving, we made Hirtsboro in record time and pushed through the crowd that had gathered on the street by the Mt. Moriah House of Prayer.
The flames didn’t come from the church but from the shed behind it. We watched for a few minutes as the fire roared higher. Then, the shed’s roof fell in, sending a cascade of sparks to the sky. A wall collapsed. The shed’s interior boiled in flames and in a few minutes most of its contents were consumed– all except the Lynching Cross, which remained propped against one wall, bright flames eating away at each of its sections.
I walked over to where Mary Pell and Reverend Grace were standing.
“Praise God,” Reverend Grace said.
Mary Pell smiled. “This time it worked.”
Epilogue
Assistant Managing Editor Bob DeCaprio took the call when the Pulitzer Prize committee phoned with the word that the Charlotte Times had won the Gold Medal for Public Service for the Wallace Sampson investigation.
A roar went up from all corners following his announcement over the newsroom public address system. Ronnie Bullock, I, and everyone else at the Charlotte Times had just achieved the pinnacle of journalism.
Bullock ran over to my desk and jumped into my arms, like Yogi Berra after Don Larsen’s no-hitter. “I can’t believe it,” he roared. “We won the big one!” Before I could answer, we were surrounded by a cheering mob of reporters, editors and photographers. Other Charlotte Times employees—press operators, ad sales people, secretaries—flooded into the newsroom from their offices in the building. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fred Drake snapping pictures.
Walker Burns climbed atop his desk and raised his hands for quiet. “All I want to say is thank you. Thank you to Ronnie and to Matt. Thank you for giving us one of the greatest days of our lives.”
Another roar went up from the crowd and then, “Ron-nie! Ron-nie! Ron-nie” until Bullock climbed to the top of the desk and waved. More cheers. Then, “Har-per! Har-per! Har-per!” until I climbed up, too. Even more cheers.
“Speech!” the crowd demanded. “Speech!”
Bullock shrugged. Walker stepped back. At that moment I saw Warren Reich and the E.B. pulling a wagon of bottles of champagne packed in ice into the newsroom.
Champagne corks began to pop. Someone handed me a bottle. I caught the E.B.’s eye. From across the room, she lifted her glass to me in a silent salute.
“I don’t want champagne on the carpeting,” DeCaprio, the assistant managing editor, shouted into the din.
It wouldn’t have mattered, even if everyone could have heard him. I, for one, was determined that champagne was going everywhere, including the carpeting. I popped the cork and bubbles spewed out in a torrent. I took what was left and poured it on Bullock’s head.
“Lemme have one of those!” Bullock demanded. Someone handed him a bottle. He hopped off the desk and sought out Carmela Cruz.
“I’ve always wanted to see what you look like wet,” he said, drenching her.
“Too sweet,” she laughed, licking her lips. “I prefer something drier.”
The celebration went on until far too close to deadline. When it came time to take the official Pulitzer Prize pictures, Bullock and I were feeling magnanimous enough to accept the suggestion of Human Resources Director John Hafer that we make everyone part of the team—from the publisher, to the printers, to the delivery people.
“Why not?” Bullock said.
With Walker, Bullock, and me up front—the “bell cows” as Walker put it—all the newspaper’s employees gathered in front of the Charlotte Times building while Drake set up a remote control camera on the roof.
“You know what the best part about this is?” Bullock whispered as Drake hustled down to join the group.
“What?”
“When they write our obits, it’ll say ‘Pulitzer Prize-winner.’”
The Pulitzer Prizes are presented each spring in a special ceremony at Columbia University in New York. The publisher registered only a mild objection when Walker told him all three of us intended to go.
On the day of the ceremony, Walker took us to the New York Times for a tour. We saw editors on the phone with correspondents in Peking, a sports department that occupied almost an entire floor, an elaborate test kitchen for the food writers.
We dined on poached salmon, asparagus, and a chilled New York State white wine in a private dining room with one of the editors that Walker knew.
“It must be incredible to work here,” I said to the editor. “Foreign correspondents, huge travel budgets, unlimited staff . . .”
“It’s not bad,” she said. “But the New York Times could be really good if we had sufficient resources.”
I stole a glance at Bullock who rolled his eyes. In the cab on the way to the ceremony, I asked Walker if he was still looking for another job.
“Pardner, I was until that lunch. I got to figure if they don’t have enough cowboys on the roundup at the damn New York Times, maybe there ain’t no such thing.”
A few days after I got home, I called Brad and told him I was sorry about his father.
“He’s up north now and if anything comes of this—there’s no statute of limitations for rape in South Carolina—he’ll have the best lawyers. I’m just sorry for all the hurt he’s caused.”
“Be proud of what you’ve done to make it right.”
“It’s strange to think of Wallace as my half brother. It makes his death even tougher.”
“I know.”
“You need to come down to Windrow. I still owe you and Reverend Grace a botany tour.”
Two days later I took Brad up on his offer. It was still dark when he tapped me on the shoulder Saturday morning. I rubbed my eyes and looked at my watch. Just after five o’ clock, I heard the clanging of pans and the sing-song voice of Mary Pell from the kitchen.
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