MR. ROLLINS: A black man advocating for racial justice.
MR. RUSH: Thank you, Mr. Rollins. I pass this witness.
MR. DAWSON: No questions, judge. Well, I do have one question.
COURT: All right. Go ahead.
MR. DAWSON: Sir, do you have any personal knowledge about who burned the cross at your office?
MR. ROLLINS: It was a violent racist or a group of them.
MR. DAWSON: I mean the identity of the person. A description or name based on your own knowledge.
MR. ROLLINS: No, I do not.
MR. DAWSON: Thank you. Nothing further.
COURT: Mr. Rollins, you are excused as a witness.
Rollins left the courtroom and found a shaded bench outside the building. He realized that he couldn’t have claimed that very bench when he was a child—not for his own. He also remembered his grandparents’ quiet dignity through decades of being forced to follow and never lead in any part of their lives other than within their home. He was transported to them, and for a fleeting moment, he was still running around their backyard, free of fear and distraction, his only immediate challenge escaping their embrace. But the burden of bearing witness to the fiery crosses swept away the thoughts of his grandparents, and he wept into his hands.
Maryam Modi was the government’s next witness. She fidgeted with her earrings as she walked up to the witness box. She was not wearing a headscarf, as she had taken it off and put it in her pocket just outside the courtroom door.
MS. BATTLE: Ms. Modi, please tell the jurors your full name.
MS. MODI: Maryam Modi.
MS. BATTLE: Could you spell that for the record and the jurors?
MS. MODI: M-A-R-Y-A-M and then M-O-D-I.
MS. BATTLE: Where do you live?
MS. MODI: I live in Chelsea Commons, a neighborhood west of Lynwood.
MS. BATTLE: Do you have a family?
MS. MODI: Yes, I have a nice family.
MS. BATTLE: Tell the jurors about them.
MS. MODI: I’m married with three young children, ages eleven, seven, and four. Two boys and a girl.
MS. BATTLE: Share with the jurors and the court your education.
MS. MODI: I have a degree in history from UCM. I mean to say the University of Central Michigan—I finished maybe fifteen years ago. We moved here close to two years ago.
MS. BATTLE: Ms. Modi, you were, or are, affiliated with the Islamic Community Center in Lynwood, correct?
MS. MODI: Yes.
MS. BATTLE: Please tell the jurors about the Islamic center.
MS. MODI: Now or back then?
MS. BATTLE: Back at the time of the incident, or even before that.
MS. MODI: Several Muslim families started the center to socialize and for services. We don’t—we didn’t—have a full-time imam, so we had services at the homes of members. The new center gave us a place to be together.
MS. BATTLE: How long had the Islamic center been open as of late February of last year?
MS. MODI: Maybe three months.
MS. BATTLE: By the way, what’s an imam?
MS. MODI: An imam is the leader of a Muslim congregation, like a priest or reverend.
MS. BATTLE: Or rabbi?
MS. MODI: Yes. Also like a rabbi, I suppose.
MS. BATTLE: What was your role with the Islamic Community Center?
MS. MODI: Everything. Jack—or Jill—of all trades, I would say. I kept track of reservations for the center’s space and made sure it was open. I cleaned up after events.
MS. BATTLE: Did children use the space?
MS. MODI: That was one of the main reasons the center was built—for the children. Playdates with friends and parties. Other events like that. It was meant to be where they would not feel out of place.
MS. BATTLE: Explain if you can what you mean.
MS. MODI: A place where wearing a hijab doesn’t result in stares.
MS. BATTLE: What’s a hijab?
MS. MODI: Some Muslim women use a scarf to cover their heads when in public. I don’t usually wear one, but other women do.
MS. BATTLE: Were you at the Islamic center on—by the way, where was the center located?
MS. MODI: The Midtown Shopping Mall in Lynwood, on Washington. We are—were—next to a tax preparer’s office.
MS. BATTLE: Were you at the center on the morning of February nineteenth of last year?
MS. MODI: Yes. I arrived at the center before ten to open it for a child’s birthday party.
MS. BATTLE: Did anything unusual occur when you arrived that morning?
MS. MODI: I was outside the door about to unlock it when I saw a large piece of wood on the pavement.
MS. BATTLE: What did you think the piece of wood was?
MS. MODI: At first, I thought it was some sort of construction debris.
MS. BATTLE: When did you realize it wasn’t?
MS. MODI: A woman passing by stopped. I noticed her face. She had a strange look, not angry, but concerned. I was confused more than anything else. I guess I realized the wood wasn’t simply a piece of wood. I knew it was bad. Very bad. I felt sick.
MS. BATTLE: What was the cross a sign of ? To you, that is.
MS. MODI: Everyone knows about a burning cross. You don’t have to be—it’s a sign of hate. A sign we had to leave.
MS. BATTLE: We?
MS. MODI: Muslims.
MS. BATTLE: Were you afraid when you saw the cross?
MS. MODI: Of course! The other lady had fear in her eyes, but it wasn’t fear for herself. She was scared for me.
MS. BATTLE: What happened to the center?
MS. MODI: The center closed. The children could’ve been in danger. We didn’t feel safe there anymore.
MS. BATTLE: Thank you, Ms. Modi. No further questions. I pass the witness.
MR. DAWSON: I have one question. Ms. Modi, do you have any personal knowledge about the identity—a name or a physical description—of the person or persons who left the cross at the center?
MS. MODI: No, I don’t know who left the cross, but that man there is charged with it.
Modi pointed over in Daniels’s direction, but she didn’t look at him. Daniels’s face, however, possessed the trace of a grin—a snicker of success—revealing apparent satisfaction that he had the power to cause Modi’s distress.
MR. DAWSON: Well, Ms. Modi, do you have any personal knowledge of whether my client placed the cross at the Islamic center?
MS. MODI: Well, no.
MR. DAWSON: Thank you.
COURT: Nothing further? Ms. Modi, you’re excused as a witness. Mr. Rush or Ms. Battle, who’s your next witness? How are we doing with time?
MR. RUSH: If we can have one moment, Your Honor.
COURT: Ladies and gentlemen, we will take our afternoon stretch now. Please don’t discuss the case with one another or anyone else.
The jurors stood up, stretched a little, and filed out of the courtroom. The judge also disappeared, leaving the lawyers and spectators.
After Battle walked Modi out of the courtroom, the trial team huddled. The original plan had Nettie Wynn ending the day’s testimony, but the other witnesses in the case went faster than planned, so the government might run out of witnesses well before the five p.m. stopping point. Having dead time at the end of a trial day was like inviting someone for dinner but having nothing to serve. Judges reacted to unexpected late-afternoon silence with any number of emotions—from understanding to outrage. Time in the federal court system was a precious commodity, not to be relegated to mere convenience.
By looks and leans, the jury appeared engaged, but heads usually bobbed by midafternoon when the river’s water naturally wanted to meander in the three o’clock bend.
“Mrs. Wynn should testify right before the detective,” Rush said in his courtroom whisper. “The case should end on the confession, agreed?”
“The jurors already know the defendant confessed. We told them in the opening,” Battle responded. “None of it’s a sur
prise, so the order isn’t critical. We need to get to deliberations.”
“End with the detective and introduce the Klan outfit,” Mercer said. “We want the jurors angry when they start deliberating.”
“So when does Mrs. Wynn go on?” Rush asked.
“Now, if she’s up for it,” Battle replied.
“Lee, can you see if she’s ready?” Rush asked as he was counting up the minutes for the remaining witnesses. “And can you see if Nicole DuBose is here?”
Mercer gave Rush a schoolteacher’s look of warning, but it wasn’t time to poke Rush about his continuing quixotic interest in a victim’s relative.
“If Wynn goes on now, that should work,” Battle suggested. “Tomorrow morning, let’s call the rabbi and the courthouse guard. Just the one guard who actually saw the cross on fire. He’s entertaining in his own odd way.”
“Lee, have you reached the detective?” Rush asked.
“I’ve been chasing the guy ever since his grand jury appearance,” Mercer said. “He thought you weren’t appreciative enough of his role in all this.”
“I have half a mind to unload him on Battle. He’ll never know what hit him.”
“Don’t you dare,” Battle protested.
“I’m joking. Kinda.”
“We started this trial with a huge advantage,” Battle said. “We’ve got an unsympathetic defendant who’s an admitted leader of the Klan, plus a confession and likeable victims.”
“When you put it like that, if we mess this up, we’ll have to explore other occupations,” Rush said.
“Be careful. Life’s cruel that way.”
. . .
The jury returned to a standing courtroom. After everyone sat, the judge asked for the next witness. Battle—in a choreographed move—turned to the back of the courtroom and signaled to the court security officer to escort Nettie Wynn to the waist-high cherrywood divider that separated the spectators from the court’s equivalent of the stage.
Wynn wore a blouse with a muted pattern of flowers and a large floppy collared neck. A light cotton sweater covered her blouse. Her hair was drawn back but not tied, and seemed to radiate from her head in weightless strands of gray, black, and white. Her face reflected the long, soft wrinkles of time. She walked slowly up to the hinged partition and waited.
Rush tried to picture Nettie Wynn as a young woman, but he couldn’t conjure up any images. He simply hadn’t any real clue about how a young black woman in America during the early part of the twentieth century would have looked, how she might have dressed, what hairstyle she might have worn, or what jewelry she might have fancied. He glanced over at Battle, who likely saw a young Nettie Wynn with astonishing clarity. Her images might not have been entirely accurate, but the imagining was likely effortless.
The courtroom spectators, bunched into small groups in the pews on either side of the aisle, twisted in their seats to get a better look, knowing the next witness was of special significance. Battle greeted Wynn with a smile and a supportive hand as they made their way to the witness box.
MS. BATTLE: Good afternoon, Mrs. Wynn. How are you?
MRS. WYNN: I’m fine, thank you. A little nervous.
MS. BATTLE: Nothing to worry about. Please tell the jury your full name.
MRS. WYNN: Nettie Grace Wynn.
MS. BATTLE: Is Nettie a nickname?
MRS. WYNN: Not to me.
MS. BATTLE: Of course. Where do you live?
MRS. WYNN: I live at 54 Crescent Street in Lynwood. It’s really in Mooretown.
MS. BATTLE: How long have you lived there?
MRS. WYNN: All my life. Over eighty years.
MS. BATTLE: In the same house?
MRS. WYNN: Yes. My father built the home around 1913. It’s changed over time, but not that much, and it’s still my home.
MS. BATTLE: So you were raised on Crescent Street?
MRS. WYNN: Yes, with an older brother and a sister too.
MS. BATTLE: What are their names?
MRS. WYNN: Both have passed. Virgil and Agnes.
MS. BATTLE: Any other family?
MRS. WYNN: Two children. Three grandchildren. May I mention that my granddaughter Nicole is here? She lives in New York City and is a very successful journalist.
MS. BATTLE: Well, yes. I guess you’ve just said it.
MRS. WYNN: My late husband Lewis and I, we raised two children. Daniel and Rosalyn. Daniel lives in Chicago and served in the army. My Rosie’s passed. She had cancer.
MS. BATTLE: I’m sorry to hear that. You mentioned your late husband, Mr. Lewis Wynn. Tell the jurors about him.
MRS. WYNN: We were married over fifty years. Folks said we made quite the pair. He worked at the plant over in Baskerville before it shut down. He was a master mechanic—very skilled with his hands. He was smart, too. And well-read.
MS. BATTLE: Going back to your home, please tell the jurors about why your father built the home himself.
MRS. WYNN: My family settled in Lynwood after the turn of the century. The town was segregated. We weren’t allowed to live north of the river. Truth is, we couldn’t live anywhere except for Mooretown.
MS. BATTLE: Why?
MRS. WYNN: Because we were a black family in the South.
MS. BATTLE: Was your father a carpenter?
MRS. WYNN: Lord, no. He was a salesman. Sold goods and merchandise to black folks. He was respected in the community. After my elder brother was born, my father knew we needed a bigger place, but he couldn’t afford to buy it. So Daddy used his sales skills and convinced his friends who worked in the trades to help him build a home on a vacant lot. Took some time, and it was nothin’ fancy, but it had three bedrooms and a separate bathroom. I was born into that house.
MS. BATTLE: You have lived on Crescent your whole life?
MRS. WYNN: Yes, I have.
MS. BATTLE: Why did you stay in the same home through the years?
MRS. WYNN: My father passed first, in ’43. When my mother passed later, I was married with an infant daughter but still living there. It made sense for us to stay, and we did.
Defense Attorney Dawson rose from his chair to object, but—surrendering to circumstance—he returned to his seat without saying anything. Much of Wynn’s testimony up to that point was objectionable under the formal rules of evidence, but Dawson couldn’t afford to alienate the jury by appearing too harsh or aggressive with her. Battle took full advantage of Dawson’s predicament.
MS. BATTLE: Mrs. Wynn, has the neighborhood in which you have lived your entire life stayed the same or changed over the years?
MRS. WYNN: Changed in ways, and stayed the same in others.
MS. BATTLE: Explain what you mean.
MRS. WYNN: Folks move in, stay for a spell, and move on. Kids grow up and leave. Mostly good people. A few troublemakers, but they don’t last. Lord, I’ve done seen it all from my front steps.
MS. BATTLE: What about the races or ethnicities of the residents over the years? If you would, please tell us about the racial makeup of the neighborhood.
MR. DAWSON: Objection. Relevance.
COURT: Overruled. Mrs. Wynn, you may answer the question if you know.
MRS. WYNN: Black folks mostly, but I’ve had neighbors of near every color and persuasion. My Nicole tells me I live in a wildflower patch in the Arctic. I say anyone’s welcome as long as they tend to their grass and children.
MS. BATTLE: Mrs. Wynn, were you at home on the evening of February eighteenth of last year?
MRS. WYNN: Yes, I suppose I was.
MS. BATTLE: Were you alone? That is, you live alone, correct?
MRS. WYNN: I live by myself, but dear, I’ve got a house full of memories, so I’m never alone.
The judge smiled and turned to see the jurors’ reaction. Most of the jurors smiled and turned to see the defense attorney’s reaction. Dawson didn’t look at anything, including his client.
MS. BATTLE: Mrs. Wynn, you went to bed at what time on the night of February eighteenth?
MRS. WYNN: Oh, my bedtime is nine thirty.
MS. BATTLE: So you went to your bedroom at nine thirty?
MRS. WYNN: Yes, I suppose.
MS. BATTLE: Did you fall asleep?
MRS. WYNN: I don’t do anything there but sleep, dear. [Laughter.]
MS. BATTLE: Did anything unusual happen during that night or the next morning?
MRS. WYNN: Why, yes.
MS. BATTLE: Please explain what happened.
MRS. WYNN: I woke up to sirens. The noise was so loud I went to the window to see what was causing the commotion. I saw lights—flashing lights—but they was so bright I had to close my eyes.
MS. BATTLE: Please go on.
MRS. WYNN: I thought I saw a tree burning.
MS. BATTLE: Explain what you mean.
MRS. WYNN: It saddened me to see such a sight.
MS. BATTLE: But you were mistaken, correct?
MRS. WYNN: I don’t have a tree in my yard. My hickory was cut down ages ago after a lightning storm split its trunk.
MS. BATTLE: Is that when you realized the fire wasn’t a tree?
MRS. WYNN: Yes, when I realized there was no tree to burn.
MS. BATTLE: What was on fire?
MRS. WYNN: A cross. Have mercy. A cross was burning before me.
MS. BATTLE: How’d you react?
MRS. WYNN: I can’t say it right in words. Horrified. I must tell you that I don’t remember much after that.
MS. BATTLE: Did you faint?
MRS. WYNN: Dear, I’m ashamed that I don’t remember. The next I can recall, I was in the hospital with people fussin’ over me.
MS. BATTLE: Do you know why you were in the hospital?
MRS. WYNN: The doctors told me I had a heart attack.
MS. BATTLE: How long were you in the hospital, if you can remember?
MRS. WYNN: I was supposed to leave, but the doctors kept changing their minds. So I stayed at Lynwood Memorial, and also some other place for a short time. People were very nice, but the food was not.
MS. BATTLE: Are you still under a doctor’s care?
MRS. WYNN: I visit the doctor every two weeks. They are trying to get me to change what I eat, but I tell them I’m too old for that.
MS. BATTLE: Mrs. Wynn, what does a burning cross in your yard mean to you?
MRS. WYNN: There’s no conversation to have about what it means, dear. The KKK is after you, and they want you to leave. But I’ve got everything I ever wanted or needed right there on Crescent, so I won’t be leaving anytime soon.
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