The Lynwood courthouse, a two-story Greek revival structure dating to the late 1800s, was the rare building in the state with an exterior constructed of marble. The massive columns lining its front entrance projected formality and, to some residents, the nobility of a bygone era. The tall rectangular windows once opened to allow air to circulate through the courthouse’s cool, polished interior, but the windows had been painted shut years ago. An ornate overhang kept rain from falling on people standing under the ionic columns, but it didn’t much help those who had to stand farther away.
The courthouse lawn, which also was the old town square, had been the site of many public events—including, in the early twenties, Klan lynchings of black men. Whether the horrific injustices still cursed the lawn was an open question, but the large oak that had supported the hanging ropes had been cut down only in the early seventies, and even then on account of wilt, not infamy.
The media advisory gave broadcast stations and newspapers more than enough time to use the press conference as their lead story, complete with B-roll footage and background interviews. Main Justice also issued its press announcement, but the division’s leadership deferred to the enthusiastic US attorney because the cross burnings were—by all accounts other than the DA’s—local acts of domestic terrorism in his community of Lynwood. Rush would represent the Civil Rights Division at the press conference, but the chief instructed him not to speak.
The US attorney wore his preferred uniform: dark-blue suit, crisp Egyptian cotton white dress shirt, gold cuff links, and dress shoes so shiny that the reflection lit up the underside of his chin. His thinning hair was coiffed and hinted at a recent coloring. The US attorney lived for these moments, and while his face was somber, his eyes revealed a childlike joy as he surveyed his playground.
“Can y’all hear?” the US attorney hollered to those consigned to the back of the crowd at the bottom of the steps.
The assembled members of the media bobbed their heads, even those in the front.
“Good morning and thank you for bein’ here. My name is J. W. Cristwell, and I proudly serve as your US attorney. With me today is James Robertson, our special agent in charge of the local division of the bureau. To my right, we have Adrien Rush from the Civil Rights Division of the Justice Department and FBI Special Agent Mercer. I’m also honored to have with me the newly elected mayor of Lynwood, Kevin—I mean to say Kelvin—Brooks. Thank you, Mayor, for being here.”
Rush noticed that the local DA was not in attendance.
“How do you spell Adrien? With an a or e?” asked a reporter.
“Folks, I ask that you hold questions until after my statement.” Cristwell waved the reporter off and straightened his large frame.
“I’m very pleased to announce that a United States grand jury sittin’ here in Lynwood has returned an indictment charging a Frank Daniels with federal criminal civil rights violations arising from hateful attempts to threaten the minorities of this town. The federal indictment was unsealed yesterday after agents took the defendant into custody. Without incident, I might add.”
The US attorney paused so the reporters could write down the first of his numerous quotable quotes, and he continued only when enough reporters stopped scribbling and looked up.
“The crimes in the indictment include violating the civil rights of victims in our beloved town. The criminal objective was to deny our minority residents the rights they should enjoy without interference in worship, housing, and advocacy,” the US attorney said. “As y’all know, five crosses were burned that night. At the NAACP, a home in Mooretown, a synagogue, and this very courthouse. A fifth cross was left at a Muslim center.”
The US attorney turned to face the building behind him, apparently so the cameras could capture his choreographed tribute.
“The terrorist threats were made under the cover of darkness, but the perpetrators left a unique calling card,” the US attorney pronounced, his voice and arms rising together in concert.
Rush had not seen the US attorney’s statement beforehand and was wagering a private bet as to how many ethical lines it would cross. He accepted that the event was the US attorney’s moment to shine in his district, and Cristwell’s words were passionate, even occasionally eloquent.
“Burning a cross in a black person’s yard is hateful. It and the others were meant to punish them for doing nothing more than being fine citizens.”
The US attorney had complete command of the crowd on the courthouse steps. The audience could have closed their eyes and with no effort at all, imagined Cristwell delivering a sermon.
“One of the victims suffered a heart attack when she saw the flaming cross. Shameful, I say. Shameful.”
Cristwell’s voice deepened. “The Klan tried to resurrect its ugly message in my community. Lynwood has moved far beyond such racial trouble. Why, we just elected this fine mayor.”
Cristwell pointed to Mayor Brooks. The mayor nodded but looked uncomfortable being an exhibit.
“This indictment was the result of the efforts of federal and state law enforcement,” the US attorney said, making the expected roll call of credits. “In fact, it was a local detective who broke the case—an ordinary traffic stop with surprising results!”
He paused again. Rush had done enough of these events to know the pauses gave the news editors natural breaks for video clips.
“Today, my message is clear. Hate has no place in Lynwood. It will find no quarter here. As y’all can see, the indictment charges Frank Daniels and only describes unidentified co-conspirators—I assure you, the federal investigation will continue until we corral every last one.”
And with that, the US attorney concluded his remarks and shook hands as if the reporters were potential voters. Rush guessed they were.
“How’d I do?” the US attorney asked as they walked together to Cristwell’s office.
“Dramatic,” Rush responded, “and effective.”
Rush meant it. He worried about defending some of the US attorney’s comments in court, but in the end, who’d care? Daniels was as unattractive a defendant as they came: a violent racist with a hood.
Until the press conference, neither Rush nor anyone else had responded to the media inquiries about the investigation. The Lynwood Chronicle’s initial coverage had been favorable, focusing on the victims, but as months passed without charges, the paper’s opinion writers turned impatient. Its editorial board ran a series of sharply critical pieces to prod the feds into solving the crimes and prosecuting the offenders.
But Rush and Mercer didn’t need the push. All they required was a quantum of admissible evidence. They knew the culprits were in plain sight, with every white male a reminder of their failure. The perpetrators were masquerading as store clerks, plant managers, salesmen, even lawyers, and wearing everyday masks that hid their nefarious activities.
Rush had stood at the lectern alongside the US attorney, knowing that the media coverage, like a change in the prevailing wind, would now be at their backs. No plea offers and no deals. The Klan case required a trial before a jury of Lynwood residents.
Evidently the defendant felt the same, and he demanded a speedy trial. The court, presided over by US District Judge Gail Matthews, specially set the trial to begin in late February, almost exactly a year after the fiery night.
20
THE TRIAL
The grand dragon’s arrest and the subsequent press conference fed the public’s appetite for clear-cut tales of good versus evil, but by the time the trial date approached, Lee Mercer envisioned a bigger story. So did the newcomer, Kristine Battle, an assistant US attorney—called an AUSA by most everyone in law enforcement—who had joined the team for trial.
“Lynwood’s racial sins still inhabit this place like ghosts confined to the basement,” Battle said. “This trial should chase them out.”
Battle was one of only two black prosecutors in the US attorney’s office. She had been born and raised fifty miles from Lynwood, gone
to college in the Big Easy, and then law school in California. After two years in a national law firm’s New Orleans office researching, writing, and dutifully following partners around, she wanted—no, needed—to be in a courtroom. She left the firm with an open invitation to return, but nobody expected she would.
“Agreed. This town needs to look in the mirror.” Mercer hadn’t grown up in Lynwood, but he’d lived there for a decade, putting down markers like marrying and starting a family. He was invested enough and knew enough to want to tell the larger truth.
“We take it head-on,” Battle said, continuing her pitch.
“I got it,” Rush said. “I got it.”
But he didn’t really, not the way they needed him to understand. That wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was a simple matter of pigment and history and experience.
The US attorney had assigned Battle to join Rush as co-counsel just a month before the trial. Battle had no desire to be the tactical add-on to the prosecution team and had told the US attorney just that. Assurances had been made. So when Mercer gave her the bureau’s seal of approval, Rush folded Battle in without resistance.
Battle stood an inch shy of six feet and spoke with a clear, steady voice. She conveyed competence with every move and utterance. According to Mercer, early in her career Battle had won over skeptical special agents (all men) who had thought she was an affirmative action hire—the agents being unaware of, and uninterested in, her impressive résumé. Battle said she didn’t care what the agents thought—she just needed them to pay attention to the cases and get the job done. Soon enough, agents started coming to her to work on new matters together.
She had instant standing to weigh in on trial decisions. Despite Battle’s vision, however, Rush saw the trial as performance, not purification. He had a prosecutor’s sympathy for crime victims, especially for Nettie Wynn, whom he saw as dignity personified, but he hesitated to frame the trial as a referendum about race and the town. He wanted to notch a victory in a high-profile case, not force Lynwood into an existential crisis.
“What are you proposing?” Rush asked.
“We put on evidence—big-picture evidence—about the Klan and Lynwood. We’ll use old articles, maybe even witnesses who can talk about the violence committed by the local Klan over decades.”
“You really think that comes in at trial?” Rush asked. “Presenting all this to the grand jury was one thing, but—”
“The defendant wrapped himself with the Klan symbols and the fiery crosses,” Mercer reminded Rush. “He invoked Lynwood’s racist past to scare off minorities.”
“Think big.” Battle didn’t mince words either. “Be assertive.”
“Why make this more complicated?” Rush asked. “We’ve got the confession.”
“Because we should tell the whole truth.”
“I don’t want to push back,” Rush said, acknowledging more than arguing, “but the story of race and Lynwood will take more than our case.”
“Let’s start the conversation,” Battle said.
. . .
Judge Matthews rejected the plan to try Lynwood along with the defendant. Gone were accounts of Klan gatherings outside of town, summary executions of blacks by hooded Klansmen in Lynwood’s square, and the published newspaper accounts of Klansmen wielding local political power. The judge allowed an explanation of the symbolism of burning crosses but excluded all evidence of previous Klan-connected violence in the area. With the court’s rulings, the town’s complicity in its own racist history was excised from the case.
The judge’s rationale was not complicated. She wanted a fast and clean trial and had the power to get what she wanted.
The court’s edict for efficiency aligned with the defense’s strategy not to question the status or stories of the victims. Through his filings, the assistant federal public defender, Andrew Dawson, had revealed his anticipated defense and so it was no secret: his client was a braggart, someone who very well might claim credit for things he didn’t do. Dawson wasn’t aiming for an outright win for his client. The likelihood of an acquittal at trial was remote in normal circumstances, and in this case, even less so. So the defense attorney needed to introduce pity as the natural extension of disgust, and see if that more benign emotion might resonate. If one outlier juror questioned the government’s case, it might be enough for a mistrial. It would be a lightning strike on a clear day, but a mistrial would lead to the government making a plea offer, any plea offer.
It had been a tough assignment for Dawson. He had represented plenty of unsympathetic clients, but this one was the first to garner national media attention. The only defense victory in the case thus far was convincing the district judge to release Daniels on home detention pending trial.
Aware of the defense strategy, Rush and Battle wove into each day’s evidence one strand Klan and two strands victim. They would tell the jurors—and the public—how the crosses had traumatized each victim’s sense of self, and how being targeted cleaves identity from the soul, leaving both vulnerable. And they would show that the threats didn’t just instill fear, but sustained that fear with an uncertain future. The prosecution had a simple mission: to keep out of the way of the evidence.
. . .
As the case agent, Mercer sat at the counsel table. He scribbled observations and passed them like a bucket in a fire brigade. Rush and Battle sat next to each other, with Rush positioned closest to the podium in the courtroom’s well, or center. All three moved around the courtroom with deliberateness, knowing that the rest of the room—jurors, judge, defense lawyers, and spectators, be they supporters or bigots hiding in plain sight—followed their every move and were inclined to make quick judgments about demeanor, competence, and even clothing choices. The first rule of advocacy was to look the part, and they did.
Jury selection in federal court was like speed-dialing, using the same sets of numbers over and over. The judge elicited basic information from the potential jurors, including employment, marital status, children, and whether they could commit to sitting for four days of a trial. She also asked whether everyone could be fair, but she didn’t explain what fair might mean in a case involving the Ku Klux Klan. She gave the lawyers five minutes to ask follow-up questions and made it clear that she would cut them off at the time limit.
The panel was a quiet group, mostly nodding to the judge’s inquiries, so it wasn’t surprising that they provided abbreviated answers to the lawyers’ prodding. An all-white jury of eight women and four men—with one alternate added for good measure—took the oath by midafternoon on the first day of trial.
The judge asked the government to start its case-in-chief. Rush called Nathaniel Rollins of the NAACP to the stand.
MR. RUSH: Sir, please state and spell your full name for the record and the jurors.
MR. ROLLINS: Nathaniel Rollins. R-O-L-L-I-N-S.
MR. RUSH: Please tell the jurors and the court where you work.
MR. ROLLINS: I am the president of the local chapter of the NAACP—that is, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.
MR. RUSH: How long have you been with the NAACP?
MR. ROLLINS: Over a decade. I started my formal association after I retired from a career in education.
MR. RUSH: Tell the jurors about your background. First, your education.
MR. ROLLINS: I received my undergraduate degree from Howard University in Washington, DC, and a master’s degree from the University of Texas at Austin.
MR. RUSH: You were a teacher?
MR. ROLLINS: Yes. I spent over thirty years in education. I was an instructor at a public high school, teaching mathematics—algebra, trigonometry, calculus. Later, I became an administrator.
MR. RUSH: How did you become involved with the NAACP?
MR. ROLLINS: I knew the NAACP to be a force for social change and equal opportunities for African Americans and other minority groups. Of course, I knew its work opposing discrimination and violence. When I retired, I decided
to volunteer at an after-school mentoring program. It was sponsored by the NAACP. My time volunteering blossomed into a leadership role.
MR. RUSH: Were you with the NAACP on February nineteenth of last year?
MR. ROLLINS: Yes.
MR. RUSH: Please tell the jurors about that night.
MR. ROLLINS: I received a phone call from the police in the early morning hours. I was told that an incident had occurred at the NAACP office. The actual NAACP office is a converted house. Of course, I went to the office right away.
MR. RUSH: What did you see when you arrived?
MR. ROLLINS: I saw fire trucks and police cars in front. I wasn’t sure what was happening. An officer led me to the front yard, where I saw a burnt wooden cross that was stuck in the ground.
MR. RUSH: What was your reaction to seeing the cross?
MR. ROLLINS: I was stunned and disgusted to witness the quintessential symbol of hate in America still being used against us. It cut deep. Still does.
MR. RUSH: What does a burning cross mean to you?
MR. ROLLINS: The promise of harm. The message is clear: leave now, or else.
MR. RUSH: Or else what?
MR. ROLLINS: Or else be hurt or killed. The burning cross in front of a black institution is the purest symbol of racial bigotry.
MR. DAWSON: Objection.
COURT: Sustained.
MR. RUSH: Did the cross burning cause any damage?
MR. ROLLINS: To the office building or us?
MR. RUSH: I guess I’m asking about both.
MR. ROLLINS: The area in front was completely underwater, and the signage was destroyed. The physical damage was minor, but the damage to the employees and our members wasn’t as easy to fix. The police have provided extra patrols in front for months, but that shouldn’t—can’t—last forever.
MR. RUSH: So, you took the burning cross to be a threat?
MR. ROLLINS: No other way to see it from my perspective.
MR. RUSH: And what perspective is that?
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