by Jack Ford
It was barely three years ago when Jeff began to notice the changes in his father. At first, they were not terribly alarming—a name forgotten, a story repeated, an appointment missed. Just normal signs of getting older, Jeff had thought. But then the embarrassing events seemed to come more rapidly and were more obvious. And soon the whispers began. Stories of confusion during judicial conferences, embarrassing lapses during conversations, and, finally, an episode of such bewilderment on the bench during an oral argument that a judicial colleague ordered a recess. When the hearing resumed, the chief justice’s chair was empty.
The downward spiral had been swift and merciless. William Trannon—legendary athlete, brilliant scholar, ardent advocate, wise jurist, and paragon of all things good and noble—had Alzheimer’s disease. His days were now spent in a chair, staring aimlessly, that imposing mind imprisoned in an enveloping shroud of confusion. He spoke rarely and only offered all-too-brief flashes of recognition of family and friends.
Jeff had made it a regular part of his schedule to visit often. He would talk with—or, more precisely, at—his father about current events and legal news and what his old friends were up to. He no longer expected any real reaction from his father to any of those stories, and he rarely received any. But surprisingly—and, Jeff thought, perhaps miraculously—the only subject that ever elicited a reaction from his father, even if it was merely a widening of his eyes or a slight nod of the head, was talk of the Ole Miss football team.
“So, Dad,” Jeff began, leaning over to intersect his father’s unfocused gaze, “Alabama’s comin’ to town this Saturday.” No reaction. “They’re pretty good this year,” Jeff continued. “Got a new coach and he’s got ’em playing like the Bear’s old teams.”
And then, for a brief moment, at the mention of the legendary Alabama coach, Bear Bryant, there was a spark in his father’s eyes, some flicker of awareness, at once both tantalizing and heartbreaking, that whisked across his face and then vanished, like a glimpse of summer lightning on the far horizon.
“Could be a good game,” Jeff continued. “We looked real solid last week. New quarterback’s coming along and the defense’s been playing well. Game’s on television, so I’ll remind Elizabeth to put it on for you.” He made a mental note to do so, as he followed his father’s gaze out through the window.
“Just came from the college,” Jeff offered after a few silent minutes had passed. “A ceremony up at the Lyceum outside by the Meredith memorial.”
As he mentioned James Meredith, Jeff glanced over to a framed photo that hung on the wall next to the fireplace. It had always seemed odd to Jeff that, with all of his father’s honors and accomplishments, only two photos graced his library walls. One was of the 1962 Ole Miss national championship football team—his father, the number twenty-seven emblazoned in white on his blue jersey, seated in the first row. The other was a grainy black and white newspaper photo of a young James Meredith sitting in an Ole Miss classroom, surrounded by a sea of vacant desks—except for one. The lone student sharing the resounding emptiness of the classroom with Meredith was a young, earnest, and determined-looking William Trannon.
“Lot of folks showed up for the ceremony. Had to sit through some speeches, but it wasn’t too bad. The Chancellor even suggested that we could still use you on the field Saturday,” Jeff chuckled. “Anyway, they all were asking for you.”
Jeff looked over, searching for a response, knowing there would be none. Finally, he sighed deeply, sat back in his chair, and shared the silence with his father.
CHAPTER 7
The attack came from behind, without warning. First, a swift, crushing punch to the kidneys sent Ricky Earl Graves stumbling to his hands and knees. Then a fusillade of fists and feet drove him sprawling to the ground. He tried to roll away, wrapping his elbows protectively around his head, searching for some escape from the hammering blows. But the cordon of furious black men only tightened around him, flailing away at their target.
Then, just as suddenly as the beating had started, it was over. The attackers rapidly melted back into the receding throng of other inmates in the prison recreation yard.
A pair of prison guards jogged over to the bloody figure still writhing in pain in the dirt. While one guard was calling the medical unit on his radio, the second rolled Graves over. Both eyes were already nearly swollen shut and blood streamed from his mouth and nose.
“Just stay still. You’ll be okay,” the guard said, scanning the yard. “What’s an old man like you doin’ beefin’ with them black boys?”
“I ain’t beefin’ with nobody,” Graves mumbled, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
“Then what the fuck was that all about?” the guard asked.
“Somebody told them niggers that I used to be in the Klan. They been threatenin’ to kick my ass ever since.” Graves groaned, pain streaking up from his damaged ribs as he struggled to take a breath. “Fuckers finally got me.”
“Got ya pretty good, too,” the guard said. “Don’t you go tryin’ to move till the doc gets here.”
“Think I’ll be able to park in the medical wing and away from them fuckers for a while?”
“Probably, by the looks of you. But not forever,” the guard answered. “Some advice? Most of the assholes in here don’t give a shit if you was in the Klan or not. Some might even think you’re a hero, if you were. But if those boys think you’re KKK,” he nodded toward a group of black prisoners now watching intently from across the yard, “then you better get yourself some friends to watch your back.”
“Ain’t got no friends in here,” Graves said, his words thick and slow through his bloodied lips.
“Well then,” the guard answered, “you just better find some someplace. Before we go carryin’ you outta here in a pine box.”
CHAPTER 8
“So,” Jeff said, both surprised and pleased, “didn’t I see you yesterday at the memorial ceremony outside the Lyceum?”
The woman sitting on the other side of his desk inclined her head slightly and nodded. She didn’t look at all like the hard-edged, big-city journalist Jeff had expected when he had agreed to an interview with the New York Times reporter who had called him again that morning. And he certainly hadn’t expected his interviewer to be the same woman he’d found so intriguing at the previous day’s ceremony. She was dressed in a conservative dark skirt and matching jacket. A waterfall of thick, curly, auburn hair cascaded down to her shoulders, surrounding a pretty, oval face, with high cheekbones and radiant, penetrating green eyes flanking the only imperfection in an otherwise striking appearance: a slightly crooked nose, sprinkled with freckles, that looked like it might have been broken sometime in her past.
“So then, why were you there? And why this interest in the Sovereignty Commission?” Jeff asked, thinking that she was even more attractive up close than she had appeared from a distance.
“And I thought I was the one who was doing the interview,” Ella Garrity said, through a small, playful smile.
“Sorry,” Jeff said. “I don’t often get a request from a paper like the New York Times to talk about my book. Just wondering why a reporter would want to come all the way down here to interview me.”
“Fair question,” she nodded. “I’m working on a series about race relations in Mississippi, a kind of ‘then-and-now’ look at where the state’s been and what kind of progress has been made. That’s why I was at the ceremony yesterday. And I’d come across your book when I was doing some research on the Sovereignty Commission and thought your observations might be helpful.”
“Happy to help out. First off, how much do you know about the Commission? I don’t want to bore you with stuff you already know.”
“Well, I do know a good bit about its history and structure. I’m actually from Mississippi.”
“Really?”
“Why so surprised?”
“Don’t know,” he shrugged. “I
guess when I think about the New York Times I don’t think of reporters from Mississippi. How’d you end up there?”
“I went to college up north—”
“Where ‘up north’?” Jeff interrupted.
“Yale.”
Jeff raised an eyebrow and nodded, impressed. “So we couldn’t keep you down on the farm?”
“Afraid my folks were intent on sending me away. And it was quite an adventure for a little girl from a small town down in the Delta. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Yale. But a part of me did miss tailgates, sundresses, and football games down South,” she added.
“Guess it really is in the blood,” Jeff said, warming up to her.
“Guess it is,” she said, the hint of a wistful smile momentarily appearing. “Anyway, after graduation I knew I wanted to be a writer so I took the first newspaper job that would have me. Wrote community news and obituaries for a small weekly in Connecticut. Then I caught on with the New Haven Register and, after a few years there and some stories that got noticed, I found my way to the Times.”
“Pretty impressive resume,” Jeff said. “Especially for someone so young.”
“I’m actually quite a bit older than I look,” Ella shot back, her emerald eyes sparking, clearly not delighted by the reference to her age.
“Sorry,” Jeff replied quickly, raising his hands defensively. “Didn’t mean that as any kind of criticism. Actually meant it as a compliment.”
“No problem,” Ella answered, the flash of annoyance extinguished as quickly as it had appeared. “Anyway, getting back to the Sovereignty Commission, I was especially curious about whether you had talked to anyone associated with it when you were doing your research.”
“Not too many of them left, I’m afraid,” Jeff said, shaking his head. “Found a few still alive, but they were mostly just clerks and secretaries who’d been pretty young when they worked there. Couldn’t really give me any details or background on the work the Commission did. Most of my research came from the documents.”
Ella nodded. “I had the same results.” She paused a moment, then leaned forward. “Did you ever hear anything about any so-called ‘investigators’? Guys that did the dirty work?”
“Yeah, I heard a lot about them. And found some names in the documents, too. But none of them are still alive, at least none that I could find.”
Ella leaned back in her chair, her lips pursed, quiet for a moment.
“Why’re you asking about investigators?” Jeff asked. “Did you find any?”
“No. Not yet, anyway.”
“Do you have some leads? Someone who’s still alive?” Jeff asked.
“Not really a lead. More like just a rumor. About a former investigator who’s still around but doesn’t want to be found.”
“Any details?”
“Not really. Heard the rumor from a couple of different sources. But nothing concrete. Both thought that the guy had made it clear a long time ago that he didn’t want to talk. Ever. To anyone. Apparently, he may be one of the bad guys who knows where a lot of skeletons are still buried.”
“Literally?”
“Maybe. Who knows? But I’d love to track him down and ask.”
Jeff leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his face, and thought a moment. “Why do you think he’d even meet with you—if he’s still alive—much less actually talk with you?”
“Can’t hurt to try. Worst-case scenario is he refuses to see us.”
“‘Us’?” Jeff asked, shooting her a quizzical glance.
“I thought, given your interest in the Commission, you’d jump at the chance to talk with someone who was on the inside. Also,” she said, flashing her most engaging smile, “I could use your help trying to find him. Figured you know your way around.”
Jeff looked at her carefully, considering her request, and then nodded slowly. “Okay, I’m in.”
“Great,” she said, as the smile faded quickly, now all business again. “So, where do you suggest we start?”
“I’ll reach out to some law enforcement folks I know. See if we can find any new leads. And we should take another look at some of the Commission documents. Did anybody mention a name?”
“Just one. Thought it might be something like Hollingsworth or Hollingsly.”
“Well, at least that gives us something to run with.”
“Hopefully.” She paused a moment. “One more question?”
“Sure.”
“Thomas or Davis?”
Jeff looked at her, puzzled.
“Which one are you named after—Thomas Jefferson or Jefferson Davis?”
Jeff chuckled. “Neither, I’m afraid. Named after my grandfather. Although my guess is, as an old and proud Mississippian, he’d probably have said Davis.”
“Sorry, just my reporter’s curiosity. Although some people might call it nosiness.
“And, by the way,” she added, a brow arched and a twinkle in her eyes, “you don’t look that old yourself. For a professor.”
“Okay, okay. My apologies again.” Jeff raised his hands in mock surrender. “I promise—no more mention of anyone’s age.”
CHAPTER 9
“I wanna make a deal.”
Travis Murray looked up from Ricky Earl Graves’s file, puzzled. “Make a deal? What’re you talking about? You already pled out and got sentenced.”
Graves leaned across the visiting room table toward his lawyer, his eyes and lips still bruised and swollen, his face crisscrossed by stitches. “I gotta get outta here.”
“Ricky Earl, we talked about this when we first met. That was the time for you to come up with something to trade with the prosecutor. But you said you had nothing. And, given your record, you would’ve needed some pretty good shit to work any kind of real deal. We’re just lucky the judge didn’t max you out.”
“Yeah, real fuckin’ lucky,” Graves sneered. “If I live to be eighty-five and catch a break from the parole board I might get over the wall and get to die all alone in some fleabag motel. Some fuckin’ luck.”
“So why’re we having this conversation now?”
“Because I don’t wanna die in here. And I sure as hell don’t wanna die with some jailhouse nigger’s shiv stuck in my gut.”
“Look, I understand,” the lawyer said, a note of sympathy in his voice. “But it’s too late. Your case is done. Unless you miraculously come up with some big-time information, there’s really nothing more I can do for you.”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Graves said, lowering his voice even though they were alone in the prison visiting room. “I happen to have some pretty big-fuckin’-deal information. And now I’m ready to trade.”
“Okay. So tell me what you’ve got,” Murray said, not sounding the least bit convinced.
“It’s about a murder,” Graves answered.
“What murder?”
“An old murder. Back in the sixties.”
“Give me details,” Murray said, pulling out a legal pad.
“A nigger preacher got killed tryin’ to get other niggers to register to vote. Happened outside Oxford. Got a lot of publicity but nobody was ever charged. Never even had any suspects.”
“And how do you know about the killing?” Murray asked, scribbling notes on his pad.
“’Cause I was there.”
The lawyer’s head shot up. “You were there when he was killed?”
“Yup.”
“Did you kill him?” the lawyer asked quietly.
“Nope. But I saw it happen.”
“So, who was the killer?”
A wicked smile crossed Graves’s face. “Well, ya see, that’s the big-fuckin’-deal information that’s gonna get me outta here.”
“Maybe. But we’re talking about a long time ago. Who knows if there’s still any interest in a cold civil rights murder case?”
“There’ll be plenty of interest in this case. Trust me.”
“Why’re you so sure?”
Graves smiled again. “Because the killer of that nigger preacher is the same man who’s gonna be the next governor of the state of Mississippi.”
CHAPTER 10
“Tillman Jessup? He’s the killer?” Murray asked, shocked.
“Yup. Tillman Jessup’s the one killed that preacher. Back in ’60. And now they say he’s a shoo-in to be the next governor.” Ricky Earl chuckled. “Ain’t that gonna surprise a shitload of people!”
The lawyer dropped his pen and leaned closer to his client. “Ricky Earl, you bullshittin’ me about this?”
“No, sir. This the God’s honest truth. Ol’ Tillman’s the one pulled the trigger and wasted that nigger.”
“And you were there? You saw the whole thing?”
“Yes, sir. Was standin’ right there next to him when he fired. Like to scare the shit outta me.”
“Okay then, let’s back up a little,” Murray said, picking up his pen and scribbling furiously on his pad. “Tell me how it happened. Everything.”
“Well, a bunch of us was just hangin’ ’round drinkin’ beers and bullshittin’—”
“How many of you were there?” the lawyer interrupted.
“At first there was a whole gang, maybe ten or twelve,” said Graves, his gaze shifting away from the lawyer and focusing on something off in the distant past. “Most of us just got out of high school and we was all just hangin’ ’round a barbeque joint shootin’ the shit, lookin’ to pick up girls. Anyway, by the end of the night there was just four of us left. Me and one a my buddies, and Jessup and another guy. We kinda knew each other from school but we wasn’t real close-like with them.”
“Wait a second,” the lawyer demanded, looking up from his writing. “Who were the other two guys?”