The Walls of Jericho

by Jack Ford

  Graves shook his head slowly. “That ain’t important now. My buddy and the other kid ain’t with us no more so they ain’t gonna be no help.”

  “But if we’re going to convince a prosecutor that you’re telling the truth, they’re going to want to know who else was there.”

  “Nope,” Graves said, shaking his head sternly now. “I ain’t gonna bring those boys’ names into this. They ain’t with us and there ain’t no reason for their families to be troubled now after all these years. Ain’t gonna do it.”

  “Okay, well, we’ll deal with that issue down the road if we need to.” Murray scribbled another note, and then looked up. “So who came up with the plan to kill him?”

  “Shit, we never planned on him gettin’ killed. We mighta been a little crazy back then but we wasn’t that damn stupid.”

  “Then how’d it happen?”

  “Still ain’t quite sure after all these years. We was drinkin’, like I said, just hangin”round in the parking lot, and we got to talkin’ ’bout what was goin’ on with all the niggers and them folks from up north comin’ down here to agitate and all.” Graves paused to pull a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, popped one out, tapped it three times on the desk, and fired it up. After a deep drag, he turned his attention back to the lawyer.

  “Ol’ Tillman seemed ’specially worked up over all them voter registration rallies. I remember him sayin’ that the niggers ’round here don’t have the sense to come in from the fields in a lightnin’ storm, so how they gonna be expected to vote like a white man?”

  “I don’t understand,” the lawyer said, puzzled. “So how’d you go from this drinking in a parking lot to a murder?”

  “Just hold on,” Graves said between drags on his cigarette. “I’m gettin’ there. Anyway, like I said, after a while, the other boys drifted off and it was just me and my buddy and Tillman and the other boy. Finally, I got a little tired of listenin’ to him bitchin’ so I said ‘Why don’t you just quit your talkin’ and do somethin’ ’bout it?’”

  “What did he say then?”

  Graves chuckled a bit. “Tell you the truth, he seemed a little pissed off that a redneck like me would be callin’ him out, him bein’ a rich college kid and all. So he got real uppity and said ‘Like what?’ So I told him there was one a them rallies goin’ on right then out at the nigger church and maybe we should head out there an’ put the fear a God in the nigger organizer. Teach him a little lesson.”

  “What’d he say to that?”

  Graves thought a moment. “Lookin’ back on it, I think he kinda felt hisself backed into a corner. You know, was he just a big-mouth blowhard or did he really have the balls to do somethin’? I figure he didn’t want to look like some pussy in front a the likes of us rednecks, so finally he says, ‘Well then, let’s us go teach that nigger a damn lesson he won’t forget.’”

  “What about the other boy? What’d he say?”

  “Didn’t say nothin’,” Graves answered, shaking his head slowly. “Didn’t seem real interested, but he was ridin’ with Tillman so I don’t think he really had much of a choice without lookin’ like a pussy hisself.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “Me and my buddy jumped into my truck and the other two got into Tillman’s car and we headed out to the church.”

  “What was the name of the church?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. Don’t think I ever knew it as anything other than the nigger church. Anyway, once we got out there we just hung ’round till the rally ended, then we followed the preacher out onto the highway. We ran him off the road, pulled some old feed bags from my truck over our heads so nobody’d recognize us, yanked him outta his car, and started roughin’ him up a bit. And that’s when things got outta hand.”

  “How?”

  “Well,” Graves said, twisting his face in thought. “It kinda happened real quick-like. First, the boy with Tillman tried to stop the beatin’ and we all got pissed at him. Then the stupid fuckin’ nigger pulls the boy’s hood off and right then Tillman fuckin’ freaks out.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “He grabs a damn shotgun out the back of his car and blows the fuckin’ nigger away, right there on the side a the road. So now we’re all screamin’ at him, yellin’ ‘Why the fuck did you do that?’”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. Up till then, I just figured him for a big-talkin’ rich kid. But now, with this nigger lyin’ dead in the road, his head down in a ditch, blood all over the fuckin’ place, Jessup’s all cool-like and starts orderin’ us all around. Says get in the cars and get the fuck outta there. Later, we pulled into a parking lot and when I asked him again why he killed the fucker, he looks at me real cold-like and says he wasn’t gonna run the risk of his life bein’ ruined if the preacher identified any of us. And then he said, lookin’ straight at me and my buddy, if we ever breathed a word of what happened, he’d make sure we ended up on the side of a road just like that fuckin’ preacher.” Graves paused a moment and looked directly at his lawyer. “And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I believed him. I believed he’d kill us. Or maybe have us killed. And I’ve believed it till this day.”

  “So why tell the story now?”

  Ricky Earl shrugged. ’Cause I reckon I ain’t got much to lose anymore, do I?”

  CHAPTER 11

  Downtown Oxford, Mississippi, known for generations as “The Square,” is a charming ode to all things Southern. At the center, as with so many Southern towns, is the old courthouse, standing sentry for a century and a half over the comings and goings of the county seat of Lafayette County. Built in 1840, the venerable structure had been torched and destroyed by the Union Army of General A. J. Smith in the waning days of the Civil War. Rebuilt in 1872, ironically through federal government funding, it is a striking and majestic building with two wings flanking a central edifice graced by large windows, balconies, and double doors along the outside of the second-floor courtroom, archways topped by pillars adorning the two main entrances, and an imposing clock tower crowning it all.

  A number of roads, including North and South Lamar Boulevards, radiate out from the courthouse, like spokes on a wheel. The Square itself is an eclectic collection of elegant old buildings surrounding the courthouse, housing upscale stores, restaurants, and impressive offices. Many of these structures are fronted by New Orleans-style balconies with finely carved wooden or wrought-iron balustrades, and graceful galleries that shade the sidewalks.

  Jeff sat on one such balcony that wrapped around the second story of a bookstore directly across from the courthouse. It was one of his favorite haunts on the Square, a quiet oasis where you could sip a sweet tea and page through a new book while enjoying the hustle and bustle of the activity below from a cozy distance. Paging absently through a newspaper, he wondered why he had been summoned here in the middle of a workday. Ella and he had been busily scrolling through Sovereignty Commission records on computers in the law school library, searching for some mention of an elusive investigator named either Hollingsworth or Hollingsly, when he’d received a curious and cryptic phone call from a former colleague begging Jeff to meet him immediately. Unwilling to come to the law school, the caller had suggested meeting at the bookstore.

  Looking up at the sound of a screen door slamming shut, Jeff saw his friend, Travis Murray, shuffling out from inside the store, a file under his arm and a glass of iced tea in his hand. Murray dropped into a rocking chair next to Jeff and offered a sheepish smile.

  “Thanks for meeting up with me. Sorry it was such short notice.”

  The two men had been friends since Jeff’s early days as a prosecutor. Murray was a criminal defense attorney and a good portion of his clients were indigents assigned to him by the court. After their first few cases together, Jeff had quickly realized that Murray’s heavy-set, rumpled appearance
belied a sharp legal mind and a kind soul, a combination that was not always found in members of the criminal bar. Despite being on opposite sides of a number of cases, they had developed a respect for each other that blossomed into real friendship. Since Jeff had quit practicing law and gone into teaching, Murray had called him occasionally for advice on a case, but today’s call had been different.

  There had been an urgency in Murray’s voice and a troubling unwillingness to provide any details on the phone that had caused Jeff to immediately excuse himself from Ella and their research to race down to the Square.

  “Been a while, Travis,” Jeff said, leaning over to shake his friend’s hand. “How’ve you been?”

  “Okay,” Murray shrugged. “Still dealing with the same shit. Working out deals, some trials, trying to pay the bills. You remember.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Jeff chuckled. “That’s why I got into teaching.”

  “You were smart. Regular paychecks and no clients to deal with. Sounds pretty good to me.”

  “I’m enjoying it. But I’ve got to admit, there are times when I miss the courtroom. Not a lot of times—but some. Anyway,” Jeff said, his smile fading, “what’s all this mystery about?”

  Murray leaned closer, his gray, wire-brush eyebrows furrowed as he looked around anxiously. Satisfied no one was close enough to overhear their conversation, he slid a dollar bill across the small table between them.

  “What’s this?” Jeff asked.

  “It’s your retainer.”

  “Retainer? What for?”

  “So that this conversation stays confidential. Attorney-client privilege.”

  “I don’t get it,” Jeff said, puzzled. “You want me to represent you?”

  “No, not me. I’m retaining you to be co-counsel on a case.”

  “Travis, what the hell’re you talking about?”

  “I need your advice. And your help. I might be in the middle of something that’s way too big for just me and I got to figure out how to handle it.”

  “Okay, slow down,” Jeff said calmly. “Let’s start at the beginning. First of all, are you in any trouble?”

  “No, no, it’s not me. It’s a client.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear. With all this mystery shit, you had me scared there for a minute. So, who’s the client and what’s it all about?”

  “The client’s nobody,” Murray said, relaxing a bit. “A big-time loser, rap sheet longer than your arm. He’s doing thirty years on an armed robbery, but he’s old enough that he’s probably only leaving prison in a box.”

  Jeff shook his head, still puzzled. “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal then?”

  “The big deal isn’t the client. The big deal is the person he wants to dime out on an old murder.” Murray stopped and looked around again.

  “So,” Jeff said, a slight smile turning the corners of his mouth, “are you going to give me this name or do I have to guess?”

  “This is confidential, right? You’re in?”

  “I’m not sure how ‘in’ I am but, yeah, this is confidential.”

  “Okay, so here’s the deal. My guy says he was there when a black preacher—a civil rights organizer—was murdered back in 1960. The case was never solved. No arrests, no suspects, nothing. And here’s the kicker.” Murray paused, his eyebrows arching. “He claims the killer was none other than the next governor of this great state—Tillman Jessup!”

  “Is this a joke?” Jeff asked, staring incredulously at Murray.

  “No joke. This is for real. My guy’s given me the whole story. Says he was there and saw Jessup do the shooting. I checked out the details of the old murder—there wasn’t a whole lot out there since there wasn’t much of an investigation—and they seem to square with what he told me.”

  “And you believe him?”

  Murray thought a moment before answering. “Yeah, I believe him,” he said solemnly.

  Jeff sat back in his chair, shaking his head. “I don’t know, Travis. If this is true—and that’s a big ‘if ’—and if we can actually prove it—and that’s probably a bigger ‘if ’—I just don’t know . . . ,” he said, his voice trailing off.

  “Look, Jeff,” Murray said, leaning closer, “if this is true—and I think it is—someone has to do something about it. We can’t just let a killer become the next governor.”

  “But, Jesus Christ, we’re talking about Tillman-fucking-Jessup! And a forty-year-old murder! And some scumbag lifer! Who the hell’s going to believe him?”

  “I do, Jeff,” Murray said quietly. “And, if you talk to him, I think you will, too.”

  Jeff was quiet for a moment, then looked directly into his friend’s eyes. “I guess that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “So,” Ella asked, “what are you going to do?”

  Jeff and Ella were walking through the Grove at the center of campus. After the conversation with Travis Murray, Jeff had returned to the law library, where Ella was still poring over the records of the Sovereignty Commission. Realizing that he’d need a media ally if he took the case, and already feeling that she was someone he could trust, he asked her to come outside to talk. After she acknowledged that their entire discussion would remain completely “off the record” until he declared otherwise, he had related his conversation with Murray to her.

  “I’m still not sure,” Jeff answered.

  “Then why tell me the story if you’re not sold on it yourself?”

  “Like I told Travis, if we go ahead with this, the media’ll be all over it like flies on molasses. And we’ll need to try to control it. At least in the beginning.”

  “Wait a minute. I didn’t say anything about being ‘controlled,’” she said, anger flaring. “The only thing I agreed to was keeping the story off the record until—”

  “Whoa! Calm down. I didn’t mean that we’d try to control you. I only meant that by working with you we could control when the story broke. That way, you get the exclusive, and we have the story reported first by somebody we trust will be fair and honest. You help us and we help you. Deal?” He grinned and thrust out his hand.

  “Deal,” she said, a smile slowly working its way across her face as she shook his hand. “But I’m still curious. Why tell me the story if you’re still not sold on it yourself?”

  “It’s not so much that I’m not sold on the story. I’m just not sold on whether I want to be a part of it.”

  “So you do believe it? That Jessup is a killer?”

  Jeff gnawed on his lower lip thoughtfully before he answered. “I’ve known Travis a long time and I trust him—and he believes it.”

  “But that’s not my question. Will the court direct the witness to answer the question,” she said, mimicking a cross-examiner, a playful glint in her eyes. “Do you believe it?”

  “I guess I believe that Travis could be right. That it could be true. But I won’t know for sure until we talk to his client.”

  “What’ll you do then, if you believe him?”

  “I’m not sure,” he answered softly.

  They walked silently, strolling through the Grove until they ended up at the front of the Lyceum. Without saying anything, they both sat down on the steps between two of the sculpted columns. After a while, Ella turned to him.

  “Why did you decide to come here for school?” she asked.

  “Never really thought about anyplace else,” Jeff answered, gazing about the grounds. “Just always assumed this was where I belonged. When they offered me a football scholarship I cancelled my other recruiting visits and signed on right away.”

  “But what about your father? He must cast a pretty imposing shadow around this place. Didn’t you ever worry about that? About living in that shadow while you were here?”

  At fiirst, Jeff didn’t answer. Then, still gazing out over the campus, he nodded his head slowly.

&
nbsp; “I guess there was a time that I thought about going someplace else. But then I realized that, no matter where I went, I was still going to be ‘Willie Trannon’s son.’ And, after a while, I figured I was okay with that. Look,” he said, turning to face her, “he’s done some pretty incredible things with his life. And I’ve got enormous respect for that. I really do. So I decided to stay here and try to carve out my own little niche.” He was quiet for a while. “I guess this just always seemed like home. Plus, around then was when my mom first got sick.” He shrugged. “So I stayed.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And what?”

  “Are you glad you stayed? Even with that shadow always around?”

  “Yeah,” he answered softly. “I guess so. Shadow and all.”

  She stared at him, searching his face as he continued to look off into the distance. Then she touched his arm gently.

  “Sorry. That’s all probably none of my business. Just the curious reporter in me, I guess. Anyway,” she said, her tone all business, “what’s the next step?”

  Jeff snapped out of his reverie and quickly stood up. “I’ve got to decide if I’m in or not. So, I guess we need to go have a talk with Travis’s client.”

  “And then?”

  Jeff sighed. “And then we both decide if we’re ready to turn this damn state upside down.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “You sure it’s a good idea, bringin’ a reporter in on this?” Ricky Earl Graves asked, eying Ella suspiciously.

  Jeff and Ella had traveled with Travis Murray to visit his client at the prison. They were seated around an old metal table, the top scarred by the carvings and absent scrapings of a legion of bored, angry, and frustrated prisoners. Through the heavy security-glass window embedded in one of the cinder-block walls, they could hear the echoes of the shouts, slamming doors, and overhead speakers that made up the symphony of routine prison sounds.

  “Yeah, it’s a good idea,” Murray answered. “Like I said, if we go forward with this the media will be all over it. Ella’s agreed to help us get our story out, in return for an exclusive about how it all went down.”