The Walls of Jericho

by Jack Ford

  James Meredith was an Air Force veteran who sought to be the first to shatter the racial barrier at Ole Miss. Following a protracted legal battle, which was ultimately resolved in his favor by the United States Supreme Court, and due to the continued resistance by the Governor of Mississippi, Meredith needed the help of federal forces to compel the school to honor the law and allow his admission. He then spent two tormented semesters on campus, harassed by many and shunned by nearly all, before graduating in August of 1963.

  Looking around him, Jeff was struck by the irony of it all. Here they were, gathering to celebrate the courage of James Meredith, at the same site where many had gathered in an attempt to frighten him off—and even kill him—during those turbulent and troubled days in 1962. Different time, different place, he thought, yet again.

  A hush came over the crowd as the Chancellor of the university stepped up to the microphone. In many ways, the Chancellor was the living embodiment of the path that his university had traveled over the past decades. A big man, he had been a stalwart on some of the great Ole Miss football teams during the late 1950s and early 1960s. Although raised in the era of Southern athletic and social segregation, it was his vision and leadership that had helped transform the university, in one of the great historical ironies, from the smoldering center of anti-integration fervor into a beacon of racial harmony and reconciliation.

  “I want to thank you all,” he said, scanning the crowd, “for joining us today as we gather to remember an important time in our history, both as a university and as a nation. It was forty years ago that a courageous young man defied the time and the tides of hatred by walking into this building and declaring that he would not be moved. James Meredith taught us then about the virtues of honor and perseverance and justice. And he also taught us a great deal about patience and forgiveness, as he endured the trials and tribulations of his difficult time as a student here.

  “But we have learned much from his teachings, though the learning process was often painfully slow. You only need to stroll today across this beautiful campus, which means so much to so many of us, to witness the true integration—not just of color but of culture and spirit—that is the legacy of James Meredith.” He paused for the applause that rang out from those before him.

  “We gather here today to celebrate yet another step in the journey begun by that one man some forty years ago. Today, we come together to announce a substantial gift to the Institute for Racial Reconciliation, which, as you know, has been a leading force—since its inception—in the study of our past and the important racial dialogue leading into our future. This generous gift will allow the Institute to expand its facilities and, as a consequence, expand the scope and quality of its programs as it heads into the next decade of the twenty-first century.” Again, applause.

  Looking around the crowd, the Chancellor spotted Jefferson Trannon and nodded in his direction.

  “Before I introduce our most gracious benefactor, I want to note the presence of a special guest. The name of William Trannon is one that every Ole Miss Rebel, young or old, recognizes. One of our all-time football greats, an exceptional lawyer, a former dean of our law school, and the youngest-ever chief justice of the Mississippi Supreme Court, William Trannon was one of the early champions of civil rights in this state. His wisdom, and his great courage—in the face of scorn and even violence—were responsible for vast changes in the legal landscape that helped to usher in the laws that allowed the civil rights movement to take root and flourish. He is, indeed, one of the greatest leaders of this university and this state. Although Justice Trannon could not be with us today, his son, Jefferson Trannon—who we ar proud to have on the faculty of the law school—is here representing his father.”

  There was an earnest wave of applause as Jeff rose and, with a raised hand, acknowledged the Chancellor and the crowd.

  “Jeff, please extend our best wishes to your father and let him know that we all look forward to seeing him again soon. Actually, we could probably use him on the field this Saturday when Alabama comes to town,” the Chancellor said to laughter from the crowd.

  “Now,” the Chancellor said, raising his hands to quiet the gathering, “I’m honored to introduce the man whose generosity is the reason for our celebration today. Senator Tillman Jessup has served in the legislature of the great state of Mississippi—as did his father and grandfather before him—for more than two decades. And,” he added with a smile, “if what we’ve all been hearing lately is true, he’ll be continuing that service from the governor’s mansion fairly soon.” Another burst of applause. “During all of this time, he has worked tirelessly to improve the lives of every citizen. Also during this time, he and his family have made significant donations to various social and academic causes, once again doing their best to improve the quality of life in our state. Although Senator Jessup chose to attend that other university over in Starkville,” the Chancellor said with a chuckle, “we here at Ole Miss have, nevertheless, always looked at him as family. And so, we’re delighted today to introduce, with our deep thanks, an esteemed and generous member of our family—Ladies and gentlemen, Senator Tillman Jessup!”

  Rising from his seat in the front row, Senator Jessup waved to the crowd, acknowledging the hearty applause, as he walked to the podium and shook hands with the Chancellor. He was a tall, thick-bodied, square-faced man with a florid complexion and light brown, wavy hair that was just beginning to surrender to touches of gray at the temples. Dressed in an expensive dark suit, with a white shirt, bright red tie, and matching red handkerchief flowing from his breast pocket, he looked every bit the rich, successful Southern politician.

  “Thank you, Chancellor, for those very kind words,” he said in a deep, easy drawl, smiling at the crowd. “My wife, Kendra Leigh, and I, as always, are delighted to be back here at Ole Miss and to be a part of this celebration.” He nodded toward his wife sitting in the front row. “As everybody knows, she’s not only the beauty but also the brains of this marriage. As the Chancellor noted, I got my degree from Mississippi State but she—,” he shot a glowing smile her way, “—she was the smart one. A Rebel cheerleader, president of the Tri-Delts, and the Ole Miss Homecoming Queen her senior year—I certainly married well!” he said to an explosion of laughter and good-natured applause.

  Kendra Leigh Jessup, stylishly ultra-thin, dressed in a severely tailored blush rose-colored suit, her blond hair swept up and framing a face that easily conjured up the beauty of a ’60s campus queen, turned slightly and offered a quick, imperious wave to the gathering.

  “We’re happy,” he continued in a more solemn tone, “to play our small part in advancing the work of this fine institution. As we look at this monument to James Meredith, we’re reminded of a dark time in our history. But we’re also reminded of the progress we’ve made, not just here at Ole Miss but throughout this great state of ours. Thank you, then, to the staff of the Institute for Reconciliation for their devotion and hard work in advancing this cause. And thank you to all of you who have gathered here today to make your voices heard in this continuing struggle.”

  Smiling and waving, Jessup made his way back to his seat and joined his wife.

  “Shortest speech I’ve ever heard from him,” Jeff whispered to the dean.

  “Don’t worry,” the dean replied quietly. “You can be sure he’s not finished working this crowd.”

  After a few more words from the Chancellor and the President of the Institute, the event wrapped up. Many of the attendees drifted off toward the steps of the Lyceum where a cocktail bar had been set up.

  Jeff was wandering through the maze of guests, hoping to locate the attractive woman he’d seen near the monument, when he heard his name called. Turning, he saw Senator Jessup approaching, his wife following a few steps behind.

  “Good to see you again, Jeff,” Jessup said, grasping Trannon’s hand and delivering a hearty clap to his shoulder.

  “Good to
see you too, Senator.”

  “You remember Kendra Leigh?”

  “Yes, indeed. Nice to see you again, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Jessup responded with what struck Trannon as a rather empty, uninterested smile, especially for a politician’s wife, and offered a brief handshake. She began to say something, but was cut off by the booming voice of her husband.

  “So, how’s the ol’ judge doing?”

  “He’s doing fine, sir. Thank you for asking.”

  “Well, you make sure you tell him that Kendra Leigh and I were asking for him.”

  “I certainly will. I know he’ll be glad to hear that.”

  Turning to his wife, Jessup said, “You remember what his daddy did to us his senior year? A one-man wrecking crew,” he said, turning back toward Trannon. “State had a pretty good team that year, but ‘Fast Willie’ just turned that game into a track meet. Had three long touchdown runs—and another called back. Your daddy sure could run,” he said, shaking his head. “Fastest boy—colored or white—I ever saw on a football field.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve heard quite a lot about that game over the years.” Jeff smiled. “Especially from you State folks.”

  “Well,” Jessup said, nodding and smiling to someone over Trannon’s shoulder as he grabbed his wife’s arm. “You be sure to send him our regards.”

  “I will,” Jeff answered, but by the time the words were out of his mouth the senator had moved on to jovial handshakes with a new group of admirers.

  Jeff worked his way through the crowd, politely fielding questions and greetings for his father, and then circled around to the front of the Lyceum and headed off toward his office.

  CHAPTER 5

  The lawyer glanced up from the file in front of him as the door to the cramped cinder-block conference room swung open. A burly, unfriendly-looking guard filled the doorway, and then stepped aside as a prisoner, clad in an orange jumpsuit, stepped into the room. Shuffling, in that manner peculiar to jail inmates, his feet clad in white socks and blue shower sandals, the prisoner ambled over to the small metal table in the center of the room and dropped into the plastic chair across from the lawyer.

  “Mr. Graves,” the lawyer said, struggling to lift his bulk out of the chair as he extended his hand. As he stood, the prisoner could tell that the lawyer was short, easily fifty pounds overweight, and stuffed into an ill-fitting, worn blue suit. “I’m Travis Murray. I’ve been assigned to represent you.”

  “Well, ain’t this your lucky damn day,” the prisoner chuckled, grasping the lawyer’s hand. “I go by Ricky Earl.”

  “Okay, Ricky Earl,” Murray nodded, scanning some papers in the folder. “Why don’t we get started by talking about these charges? Says here that you walked into a liquor store, pulled a gun, and robbed the guy behind the counter.” He looked up. “True?”

  “Yep, pretty much,” Ricky Earl answered.

  “Any reason?”

  “Just needed some money,” he shrugged. “Been seriously strung out for a while. Thought I’d make a quick hit and get outta town.” He shrugged again. “Didn’t count on the old man bein’ some kinda fuckin’ hero.”

  “Okay,” Murray said, scribbling some notes on a yellow legal pad. “Well then,” he looked up, “here’s our biggest problem. I talked to the prosecutor’s office this morning. Wanted to get some idea what they were looking for to make this go away. Afraid the news isn’t good.”

  “Didn’t think it would be. So, what’s the bottom line?”

  “The bottom line is . . . they’re looking to max you out. Life, no parole.”

  Ricky Earl was silent for a moment. “No chance to carve off some time?”

  “Nope. Seems they got a bit of a hard-on for you. Guess it has something to do with your sheet,” he said, holding up a computer printout. “Fifteen priors tend to get prosecutors a little riled up.”

  “Actually, it’s only thirteen, but then who’s really counting?” Ricky Earl smirked. “No help that the gun wasn’t loaded and I gave up without a problem?”

  “Sorry. I tried all of those arguments but no dice. Unless you’ve got something really good that we can bargain with,” Murray held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, “there’s not much that we can do except plead for some mercy at sentencing.”

  “What’s the chance of that?”

  “Honestly? Not much, I’m afraid. We drew a real hard-ass judge and you’re, unfortunately, way past ‘three strikes and you’re out.’ Wish I had better news, but by now you know how the game’s played.”

  Ricky Earl was silent for a long moment, looking off into the distance.

  “Ricky Earl? You okay?”

  His eyes slowly came back into focus. “Yeah. Sure. Not like I wasn’t expecting this,” he answered, lost in his thoughts.

  “So, what should I tell them? You want to plead and take our chances? Hope that by saving them from a trial we just might catch a little break?”

  Ricky Earl again didn’t seem to hear.

  Murray leaned closer across the table. “Ricky Earl?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking,” he said softly, leaning back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m gonna need a little time to sort this all out. That okay?”

  “Well,” Murray answered, gathering up his file and stuffing it into a briefcase, “I guess they’ll be all right with a few more days, given what you’re looking at.” He slid his card across the table. “Call me next week with your answer. But don’t wait too long. We don’t want to piss them off any more than they already are. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Ricky Earl answered, picking up the lawyer’s card and slipping it into his pocket.

  CHAPTER 6

  North Lamar Boulevard in Oxford, Mississippi, is a gracious vestige of the Old South, a broad, leafy street marked by large, elegant old homes adorned with graceful porches and majestic columns. The street radiates out from the center of Oxford and has long been—together with its sibling, South Lamar Boulevard—home to the upper echelon of the Oxford community.

  Jeff Trannon had taken the short walk from the campus and had paused before one of the more grand structures, a three-story mansion with striking pillars and wide verandas wrapping around the front and sides of a home that seemed right off the movie set of Gone with the Wind. Its breathtaking beauty was marred only by a rather odd blemish—a corner of the veranda apparently damaged by some long-ago fire, the old charred, unrepaired remnants visible even from the street. This was Jeff Trannon’s boyhood home. Indeed, it had been the home to three generations of Trannons and was still the residence of his father, the revered retired chief justice of the Mississippi Supreme Court.

  Jeff strolled up the long walkway, took the steps two at a time, and pushed open the massive oak door. The interior was of classic Southern plantation-style design with a wide center hall running from the front to the rear of the house, a sweeping staircase on the right followed by a series of French doors lining the hallway that opened into an expansive living room, a smaller sitting room, a music room, and a library. Beyond these rooms, the hall emptied into a large kitchen that ran along the rear veranda.

  A woman, wearing a housedress and apron, peered around the corner from the kitchen and smiled when she saw him in the hallway. She was petite and elegant, her charcoal hair, shot through with streaks of white, was pulled tightly back in a bun, framing a round, soft face with skin the color of caramel. Elizabeth Worthington had been with the Trannons as long as Jeff could remember, not just a part of the home, but also a part of the family. Although, with her unlined face and refined carriage, she appeared to be in her fifties, Jeff was certain that she was at least in her mid-seventies, perhaps even older. Since the death of Jeff’s mother after a long illness, and the retirement of his father, she had become even more of a presence inside the rambling old home.

  “Hey, Jefferson,” she said, welcoming him with a w
arm smile and a pat on the cheek. Since his mother had passed away, Elizabeth was now the only person who always called him by his full name. “Didn’t know y’all were dropping by this afternoon. Everything okay?”

  “Fine,” he answered, bending over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Just came from a reception up at the college and thought I’d drop in on Dad. Lots of people were asking for him.”

  “That’s nice,” she said, wheeling and heading back toward the kitchen. “He’s in the library.”

  “How’s he doing today?” Jeff called after her.

  “About the same,” she answered, disappearing around the corner.

  Jeff crossed the hall and pushed open the doors to the library. Stepping inside, he thought about how he’d always loved this room, with its immense marble fireplace, flanked by oak-paneled walls and carved bookshelves. Once, as a child, he’d tried to count all the books stuffed into every corner of the shelves, but gave up as he neared one thousand, wondering if even the great man—his father—had actually read all of them. More than any other part of the house, this room would always be what he recalled when he thought of his father. The books everywhere, the tidy desk with stacks of papers and legal pads and sharpened pencils, all arranged carefully and in a specific pattern like pieces on a chessboard, reflecting both the wide-ranging curiosity and the precise intellect that had made his father such a commanding figure as a lawyer and a judge.

  William Trannon was sitting in a tufted leather wing chair in front of a broad window, looking out on the big magnolia trees guarding the side yard. Jeff crossed the room quickly and patted his father tenderly on the shoulder.

  “Hey, Dad. How you doing?” he said gently.

  His father, dressed as usual in charcoal-gray slacks, blue blazer, and white button-down shirt with a crimson and blue striped tie, stared quietly out the window. A sad smile creased Jeff’s face as he dropped into the matching wing chair next to his father.