by Jack Ford
“What happened?” asked Jackson.
Jeff shrugged. “Ricky Earl says the guy scared the shit out of him, so he told him everything. The guy promised him the whole thing would just go away, but if he ever said anything about the killing, he’d end up dead, too.”
“So he kept quiet for all these years?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Jeff asked.
“Guess so,” Jackson agreed. “Do we know who this investigator was?”
“Yup, we think so. Name’s A. J. Hollingsly. And there’s a chance that he might still be alive.”
Jackson frowned. “From what I’ve heard about those guys, they were some pretty hard-ass racists. Did some nasty shit. What’s the chance—if this guy is still alive—that he’d be willing to talk?”
“Realistically? Pretty slim. We’ve been asking around, trying to find him, but no luck so far. But if we could get any kind of confirmation from him, anything at all, it could go a long way toward building a decent case against Jessup.”
“And who knows,” Ella added, “maybe he’s had a change of heart after all these years. Even George Wallace changed his mind on segregation.”
Jackson shook his big head and grunted. “Yeah, but he had to go get hisself shot, first. Plus, Wallace was just a shitload of talk. He wasn’t the serious bad-ass that some of those Sovereignty boys were.”
“Guess we won’t know for sure until we find him and ask,” said Jeff.
“Might not be as easy as all that,” said Jackson. “Not too many of those ol’ boys left. Most of ’em died off by now. And the few that’re still around don’t seem to want to talk much.”
“So?” Ella asked, concern heavy in her voice. “Do you think we shouldn’t try to find him?”
“Shit, no,” Jackson grinned. “Let’s go track down the ol’ redneck son of a bitch and have a little visit with him. Might be fun!”
CHAPTER 18
The blood-orange sun was sliding below the wooded horizon as Terrell Jackson roared off down the road to visit with Reverend Butler. Jeff and Ella lingered at the scene for a few more minutes before climbing into Jeff’s old Jeep and heading back toward Oxford. They drove in silence, each haunted by their visions of the murder of Elijah Hall, visions made all the more real after standing in the area where he had been gunned down.
“How’s your hotel?” Jeff asked, finally breaking the reflective quiet.
“It’s fine. And the people there are really very nice.”
“How about the food?”
Ella smiled ruefully. “Not quite as nice.”
“Want to grab a quick dinner?”
Her smile grew brighter. “Love to. What’ve you got in mind?”
“Well,” he said, “there’s actually a really good diner just up the road.”
“A diner?” Ella chuckled. “What kind of a dinner date is that?”
“I’m sorry,” Jeff stammered, clearly flustered. “But . . . it’s a really good diner. And I didn’t mean to make it sound like . . .”
“Like a date?” Ella interrupted. “Don’t get upset. I was only kidding. And your diner sounds lovely,” she added soothingly.
“Okay.” He paused a moment. “But, if you want, we could find a nicer place . . .”
“Jeff,” she interrupted again, a wry smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “Relax. I’m kidding. Really. Besides, I like diners. I’m a Mississippi girl, remember?”
He shot her a smile and the awkwardness passed. After a few minutes, he pulled into the parking lot of the Rebel Roadhouse, an old-fashioned, chrome-sided dining car that looked like it had been parked in the same spot for decades, which, indeed, it had.
Inside, they dropped into a vinyl-upholstered booth, complete with an anachronistic miniature jukebox perched on the table between them. After briefly scanning the menu, they each ordered cheeseburgers and French fries. While they were waiting for their food, Ella seemed distracted and fidgety.
“You okay?” Jeff finally asked.
Ella was silent for a moment, then leaned forward and looked intently at Jeff.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” she said softly.
“About what?” Jeff asked.
“Remember when we first met and talked about the series I was writing? About Mississippi, then and now?”
“Sure.”
“Well, there’s a reason I wanted to do the story. It’s not just journalism. It’s also personal.”
“How?”
Ella took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’ve always felt more than a little guilty about everything that happened in Mississippi’s past. The Klan, the lynchings, the burnings.”
“I think we all—well, most of us, anyway—feel some of that.”
“But I’ve got a good reason to feel that way. I told you I grew up here. It was a small town. Indianola, down in the Delta. My family had lived there for generations. My father ran a drugstore that had been started by my grandfather. My mother was a teacher.”
“But why would you . . . ?” Jeff began.
Ella put her hand up. “Please, Jeff. Let me finish.”
He nodded.
“When I was home from college one Christmas vacation, I was telling my father about a course I had taken at Yale that studied famous trials. One of the cases dealt with the murder of Emmett Till, right here in Mississippi back in the fifties.”
“I know all about the case,” Jeff said sadly.
“Well, then you know that the killers were found not guilty, despite a ton of evidence against them. And that the Klan probably had a lot to do with the verdict.”
Jeff shook his head. “It was awful. The horrible torture and murder of a fourteen-year-old black boy visiting from Chicago. And a complete miscarriage of justice. A defense lawyer told the all-white jury that their ancestors would roll over in their graves if they ever convicted a white man for killing ‘a colored.’ The two guys even confessed to the kidnapping and killing after the trial—said they had to kill the boy because he was disrespectful to one of their wives—but were never charged with anything else. Got paid four thousand dollars for their story. And walked away free. Not one of our greatest judicial moments,” he added.
“So,” Ella continued, “after I told my father how uncomfortable I felt in the class when we discussed the case—I was the only Southerner in the room, and actually from Mississippi, for God’s sake—he started acting really strange, trying to change the subject and not looking at me. Finally, I asked him what was the matter.”
She paused a moment. Jeff could tell she was struggling with her emotions. Then, she took another deep breath and continued.
“My grandfather was in the Klan, Jeff. And not just a rank-and-file Klansman. He was the damn leader of the local klavern, or whatever they called it.”
She paused again, searching Jeff’s eyes for some kind of reaction. Now it was his turn to take a deep breath.
“You never knew anything about it?” he asked, his tone gentle.
“Not until then. My parents had never said anything about it. My grandfather died when I was about ten. But all my memories are of this big, gentle, kind old man who everybody in the town loved.”
She paused to wipe away two small tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes.
“My father said he had wanted to tell me but had never found the right time,” she continued. “Until then. He tried to explain that back in the fifties and sixties things were different. He claimed that my grandfather was not a bad man, but that most of the men in the town back then—especially the town leaders—joined the Klan. That the men who owned the businesses were all expected to join. Anyway, when I asked if my grandfather had ever been involved with the bad stuff—cross burnings and beatings—my father said he didn’t think so. But, Jeff,” she said, leaning closer to him across the table, “I don’t think he was telling the tr
uth. There was just something about the way my father answered, how he avoided looking me in the eye. I don’t believe him,” she stated flatly.
“Wow,” Jeff said softly. “Have you talked about it anymore?”
“Nope. He refuses to discuss it. Says it’s ancient history and there’s no reason to drag it all up again.”
“Look, Ella. It’s Mississippi. We all know what this place was like back then. I think it’s a pretty safe bet,” he said, with a tender smile, “that you’re not the only child of the Delta with a grandparent who was in the Klan.”
“I know that. And I keep telling myself that. But part of me just can’t get past the fact that my grandfather was a leader of the KKK.”
Just then, the waitress arrived with their food. She scattered the plates across the table, gave them a quick smile, and headed back to the kitchen.
“Anyway,” she sighed, “I wanted you to know.”
“I appreciate it, Ella. I really do. But it doesn’t mean anything,” Jeff said reassuringly. “It’s not who you are. And it was a long time ago. So let’s just enjoy the fine food at this lovely dining establishment.”
“Our dinner date?”
“Yeah,” he grinned. “Our dinner date.”
Ella took a bite of her cheeseburger and then looked over at Jeff.
“That makes us a bit of an odd couple then, doesn’t it?” she said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you’re the son of a great integration crusader and I’m the granddaughter of a Klan leader. And here we are trying to solve a forty-year-old civil rights murder together.”
Jeff smiled and shrugged. “A little odd, maybe. But I think we’re doing okay.”
They finished off their cheeseburgers and split a piece of pecan pie, content for the moment to talk about anything except the murder of Elijah Hall. After Jeff paid the check, despite Ella’s protestations that they should split it, they strolled out into the cool Mississippi night. As Ella walked around the front of Jeff’s Jeep, she suddenly stopped.
“Jeff! Look!” she cried.
Jeff stopped and looked down. All four tires on his Jeep were flat. And each had a hunting knife protruding, like an arrow, from the sidewall.
At that moment, Jeff’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and answered, still staring at the knives in his tires.
“Hello?”
“You been lookin’ for a man that don’t wanna be found,” a deep voice drawled.
“Who is this?” Jeff said.
“No matter who it is. Only thing matters is you stop diggin’ around where you don’t belong. Before y’all get yourselves hurt. This here’s your last warning. Next time’ll be more than just your damn tires. You got it?”
Jeff pulled Ella next to him as his eyes darted about, looking for anyone who could be watching them.
“Wait!” Jeff said. “Who the hell are you? And where . . . ?”
The phone went dead.
CHAPTER 19
“What?” Tillman Jessup exploded. “Is he fucking crazy?”
Jessup was seated behind the desk in his office in the State Capitol building located in downtown Jackson. Across from him, perched uncomfortably on the edge of his chair, sat Royce Henning, his chief of staff. Henning, slim and stylishly dressed, his thinning blond hair receding slightly, had worked for Jessup for ten years. He was smart, charming, ruthless, and fanatically loyal to the man he believed would soon be Mississippi’s governor and—possibly down the road—the president of the United States. Usually a model of self-composure, his elegant, angular, patrician features were now twisted and tortured by concern over the news he had just passed on to his boss.
“It makes no sense,” said Henning, shaking his head. “I tried to get through to Haynes, but he’s been ducking my calls.”
“So how do you know it’s true?” asked Jessup angrily.
“My source is solid and he . . .”
“Who told you?” Jessup interrupted. “And how does he know?”
Henning shook his head again. “You’re better off not knowing. Trust me—he’s very close to all of this. And he told me that Haynes is definitely moving forward with an investigation.”
“An investigation! Jesus fucking Christ! Just the rumor of an investigation could fucking destroy us! Where the hell’s all this coming from?”
“Not sure yet. But I’m working on it.” Henning paused a moment, then leaned forward.
“Senator,” he said delicately. “Is there anything here—anything at all—that I should know about?”
Jessup glared at him. “I can’t believe you’re actually asking me that question.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Henning said hastily. “But if I’m going to make all this nonsense go away, I’ve got to know everything.”
“No, goddamn it! I didn’t kill any fucking black preacher forty fucking years ago! Does that satisfy you?” Jessup snarled.
“Yes, sir. Of course it does. But I’m sure you understand why I had to ask.”
Jessup waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind. The important thing is how do we put a lid on this bullshit and make it disappear before we get buried by it?”
“Well,” said Henning thoughtfully. “I’ll try to talk to Haynes right away. I’ll camp out in front of his office if I have to. What’s your relationship with him?”
Jessup shrugged. “Never been real close. He’s never asked me for any help and I’ve never offered any. But I never thought he’d come at me like this. Especially for something this absurd.”
“It just makes no sense,” Henning repeated. “Why would Haynes put himself in this position? He’s got to know that we won’t let this happen. And that he’ll pay the price.”
“Where the hell is all this coming from?” Jessup mused angrily.
“I don’t know yet. But I promise I’ll find out soon, sir. And then we’ll do whatever we have to do to make it go away quickly and quietly.”
CHAPTER 20
“No prints. No nothin’,” said Terrell Jackson.
“How about the knives?” asked Jeff.
Jackson shrugged. “Typical hunting knives. Can buy them anywhere.”
Jeff and Jackson were sitting at a long table in the district attorney’s private conference room. District Attorney Gibb Haynes sat at the end of the table, deep in a quiet conversation with Sheriff Clayton Poole. The men were waiting for Ricky Earl Graves, who had been transferred from Parchman State Prison to the Lafayette County Jail.
“You had any luck tracking Hollingsly down?” asked Jeff.
“Nope. Don’t suspect I will. Getting any of these ol’ rednecks to give up a brother to a lawman—especially one my color—ain’t likely to happen,” answered Jackson. “But I’ll keep on it. How ’bout you? You backin’ off after your tires got decorated by them knives?”
Jeff shook his head. “Not after we got his attention. I talked to a friend of my father, an old-timer who was on the road for thirty years with the Highway Patrol. Said he knew Hollingsly from the old days and thinks he might be able to help. And Ella’s become a bulldog about finding him. She’s checking with a source at Social Security and also trying to run down an address from the Mississippi pension system.”
“Just be careful, y’hear,” said Jackson. “These boys don’t play real fair.”
Just then, there was a knock and the door swung open. Graves was escorted into the room, dressed in a prison jumpsuit and a hooded sweatshirt, his hands shackled in front of him. Jeff stood and motioned to the two guards to seat Graves in the chair at the far end of the table.
“Gentlemen,” said Jeff, nodding toward his client, “this here is Ricky Earl Graves. Ricky Earl, this is District Attorney Haynes, Sheriff Poole, and Investigator Jackson.”
Jeff took his seat and looked toward Ricky Earl. “So, here’s the plan.
You’re going to tell these gentlemen your story, start to finish, just the way you told it to me. Don’t leave anything out. And then they’ll ask you any questions they might have.”
Jeff nodded toward Haynes. “The district attorney has agreed that this conversation is completely off-the-record. Nothing you say here can ever be used against you if they decide not to make a deal with us. After this meeting, Mr. Haynes and I will decide if we have a deal and then we’ll move forward from there. Agreed?”
Haynes looked hard at Ricky Earl for a moment, and then nodded.
“Good,” Jeff said, leaning back in his chair. “Okay, Ricky Earl, you’re on. Let’s start at the beginning.”
Ricky Earl looked around the table at his audience, placed his manacled hands on the table in front of him, and offered up a wolf-like grin.
“Seems pretty clear to me that y’all ain’t thrilled to be spendin’ time with the likes of me. Especially you, Mister Jackson,” he said, looking directly at Terrell. “And, tell you the truth, I ain’t so happy to be hangin’ out with all y’all either. But this is just business, fellas, so let’s get on with it.” And, with that, he began to tell his story.
The men at the table listened carefully, each taking extensive notes, as Ricky Earl described the events that led to the murder of Elijah Hall. Jeff was pleased that the details never wavered from the previous versions that Ricky Earl had provided. When Ricky Earl finished his narrative, Haynes began a decidedly unfriendly cross-examination. In rapid-fire fashion, Haynes questioned Ricky Earl’s story, probing for inconsistencies, challenging his memory and his motives, seeking any signs of weakness in either the witness or his testimony. Occasionally, the district attorney would pause and huddle with Poole and Jackson before leaning across the table, pointing his finger at Ricky Earl, and continuing his barrage. Despite the open hostility, Ricky Earl kept his composure and was quick to provide all the answers, including an intense discussion of the particulars concerning the actual shooting and the location of the body afterward.