The Walls of Jericho

by Jack Ford

  “Yeah, well, I do mind when somebody breaks into my place. Especially someone like you.”

  “Fair enough. Next time I’ll call first.”

  “There won’t be any ‘next time.’ Now you better get the hell out of here. I’m calling the cops,” Jeff said, reaching for his cell phone.

  Hollingsly cocked his head while he kept the gun trained on Jeff and Ella. “Ain’t y’all even just a little bit curious ’bout why I’m here?”

  Jeff glared at him. “You come back to finish the job your boys messed up out in the woods? Figure now that you killed Ricky Earl you might as well get rid of us, too?”

  Hollingsly chuckled, a deep, malevolent rumble. “You givin’ me way too much credit, boy. Wasn’t me got to that redneck bastard snitch. Tried once to get him in the jail,” he shrugged again. “No luck. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy as hell that sumbitch keeled over dead. But he’s no notch on my gun.”

  “You expect us to believe you?” Ella chimed in. “After what you tried to do to us?”

  “Don’t give a shit, little lady, if you believe me or not,” Hollingsly said scornfully. “Anyway, I heard the bastard died of a heart attack?” He peered questioningly at Jeff. “Somethin’ I don’t know ’bout goin’ on?”

  Jeff stared at him. “You really had nothing to do with Ricky Earl’s death?”

  “Nope.” Hollingsly chuckled again. “Even I can’t make a fella have a heart attack. Looks like the Good Lord lined up on our side this time.”

  “Well then, why don’t you just finish up your gloating—if you’re not gonna kill us—and get the hell out of here!” Jeff said angrily, now emboldened by the idea that Hollingsly wasn’t actually planning on shooting them.

  “In good time,” Hollingsly said, a cold grin creasing his face. He pointed the gun toward the couch. “Y’all have a seat, first. Somethin’ I got to say. Think y’all will find it real interestin’.”

  Jeff looked at Ella and nodded. They crossed the room to the couch and sat, Hollingsly’s revolver still pointed at them.

  “We’re listening,” Ella said coolly.

  “Good,” Hollingsly said, the cold grin now a full-blown, evil smile. “So, let me fill y’all in on some details ’bout the shootin’ of that ol’ nigger preacher back in ’60. First of all, like I told y’all back in the woods, Ricky Earl was right. Tillman Jessup was the one blew that fucker away out there on that road. Yep,” he nodded, “pumped both barrels into that boy. It’s funny. Wouldn’t a thought the rich little pansy-ass had the balls to do somethin’ like that. Never know, do ya?

  “Anyways,” he said, leaning forward and staring hard at Jeff, who returned the stare, “there was, in fact, four of ’em out there that night. Ain’t you just a bit interested in who those other fellas were?”

  “Sure,” said Ella quietly, trying to ratchet the tension level down. “But Ricky Earl would never tell us. Said they were both dead now so he didn’t want to get their families involved.”

  Hollingsly smirked. “And y’all just believed him?”

  “Why shouldn’t we?” Ella asked.

  “Because he’s a lyin’ son of a bitch. Always been a lyin’ son of a bitch. No different now.”

  “What do you mean?” Jeff interrupted.

  “I mean that bastard lied to y’all. Ain’t both dead.”

  Jeff shot a quick glance at Ella who raised an eyebrow slightly, sending a signal to just stay calm and listen.

  “Well, actually, one of ’em is dead. Went and got hisself killed in Vietnam back in ’68. But the other one—well, he most certainly ain’t dead.”

  Hollingsly leaned back in his chair, the annoying smile still plastered across his dark, craggy face.

  “So, the fourth boy isn’t dead?” Ella asked, clearly taken aback by this new revelation. “Is he still around?”

  “Sorta.”

  “What is this, some kind of damn guessing game?” Jeff barked. “I think you’re full of shit and just trying to play with us. So why don’t you just get the hell out, take your damn games with you, and leave us alone!”

  Hollingsly said nothing for a tense moment, firing a riveting glare at Jeff. Finally, he slid forward in his chair, looked first at Ella and then at Jeff.

  “Okay, mister nigger-lovin’, justice-for-all crusader. If y’all are so damned interested in justice for that nigger’s killer,” Hollingsly paused as his upper lip curled into a sneer, “why don’t y’all just go on up to that big ol’ mansion you grew up in and ask your daddy who else was there that night?”

  CHAPTER 51

  The room was as silent as a tomb; the only sound was Hollingsly’s tobacco-ravaged, ragged breathing. Jeff continued to glare at him, his expression unchanged, as if he hadn’t heard the astonishing words. Ella looked at the two men, puzzled, as she struggled to process what Hollingsly had just said. Slowly, Jeff’s hard gaze began to soften, the anger seeping out, replaced by a swelling surge of confusion.

  “What . . . what are you talking about?” he stammered.

  Hollingsly, his face flushed with a sardonic grin, rocked back in his chair, enjoying himself as he locked eyes with Jeff.

  “Boy, I damn sure got your attention now, ain’t I?” he cackled. “I said, why don’t you go ask your daddy who all else was there when that nigger got hisself introduced to the wrong end of a shotgun?”

  Jeff sat staring, stunned, paroxysms of fear and disbelief seizing at his chest, washing over him like a rising tide.

  “Why should I ask him?” he finally said, his voice barely audible.

  “Why d’ya think?” Hollingsly said, his face now contorted into a cunning, contemptuous sneer. “Well then, I’ll just tell you why, since you apparently ain’t smart enough to figure it out your own self. There were four boys out there that night, awright? Tillman Jessup, Ricky Earl Graves, boy by the name a Jimmy Raye . . . and Willie Trannon.”

  “Bullshit!” Jeff spat indignantly.

  “No, sir. Ain’t bullshit. God’s honest truth. The great Justice William Trannon. Champion of the poor downtrodden niggers. Patron saint of the civil rights movement. And—oh, yeah—accomplice to the murder of that damn nigger preacher.” He cackled again. “Now, ain’t that a bitch!”

  Hollingsly glanced over at Ella.

  “Real interested in what yer headline’ll be when you write that there story, little lady.”

  Ella just glowered at him.

  “Why’re you telling me this?” Jeff asked, still stunned. “Why not just go public with it yourself?”

  “Shit, ain’t nobody gonna believe me if I tell the damn story. But you? Hell, they gotta believe it if it comes from you.”

  Jeff’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think—even if I did believe your ridiculous story—that I’d ever tell anyone?”

  “’Cause I know you,” Hollingsly smirked, “and your kind. All holier-than-thou while you shout about integrity and justice. Well, here’s some real fuckin’ justice for you. Once you talk to yer daddy, you’ll know I’m tellin’ the truth. And then you’re gonna hafta tell. ’Cause if you don’t—if you try to bury the truth—then yer life’ll be one big fraud, too. Just like yer daddy’s.”

  Slowly, Jeff’s face twisted into a mask of sheer hatred, his lips trembling, his jaw clenching.

  “You’re a fucking liar!” he exploded, starting up from his chair toward the old man.

  Hollingsly swiftly raised the revolver, pointing it directly in Jeff’s face.

  “Nothin’ I’d like better, boy, than to blow a big fuckin’ hole in you. One more step and they gonna be cleanin’ up your splattered brains for a week. Now sit the fuck down. I ain’t finished.”

  “Yes, you are,” Ella said calmly, standing and placing herself between a seething Jeff and a menacing Hollingsly. “You’re not going to shoot us. Didn’t do it when you had the chance out in the woods— left it to your idiot henchme
n—and you’re certainly not going to do it now. You’ve said what you came to say. Now leave.”

  No one spoke as an anxious moment passed. Eventually, Hollingsly lowered the gun, his malevolent glare transforming back into his sardonic grin.

  “Okay, little lady. Yer right. Guess I am ’bout done here.” He looked at Jeff. “So, you just go on up there and ask. See what your daddy has to say. An’ soon as you reckon that I’m tellin’ the truth—and you will—well, I just can’t wait to see you or that damn DA stand up in that ol’ courtroom and announce to the whole goddamn world that the next witness—the only witness left against Tillman Jessup—is William Fuckin’ Trannon. Might even just stay around to see that!”

  Hollingsly stood, the gun still held loosely at his waist, as he edged around Ella toward the door.

  “Can’t say you wasn’t warned, boy,” he said, pausing as he opened the door. “Told you to stay outta this or you’d be sorry. Next time, you might wanna listen up.”

  He slammed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 52

  Elizabeth opened the door as Jeff was climbing the front porch stairs. Dressed in her typical evening attire of a skirt, neatly pressed blouse, and apron, there was a look of real concern spread across her dark, ageless face. Jeff had called a few minutes earlier and told her that he was coming over to see his father. She had sensed immediately, by the tone of his voice and the time of the call, that there was some sort of problem.

  “Y’all okay?” she asked tenderly, touching his cheek.

  “I’m fine,” he answered. “Dad still awake?”

  She nodded. “Just getting ready to help him upstairs to bed when you called. He’s in his usual spot in the library.”

  Elizabeth started, noticing Ella, who had lagged behind and was still standing on the porch. She tossed a questioning glance at Jeff.

  “Sorry,” Jeff mumbled, somewhat absently. “Elizabeth, this is my friend, Ella. Could you keep her company for a few minutes while I talk to my father?”

  Still puzzled, Elizabeth nodded. “Certainly,” she said, her deeply engrained sense of propriety overtaking her confusion, as she extended her hand to Ella. “Sometimes Jefferson forgets his manners—despite his upbringing. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Ella. I was thinking about a cup of tea. Will you join me?”

  “Thank you,” Ella smiled. “That would be very nice.”

  “We’ll be in the kitchen, if you need us,” Elizabeth said to Jeff. Ella gently brushed his arm and offered a tiny, hopeful smile before Elizabeth led her off toward the rear of the house.

  Jeff waited until they had disappeared into the kitchen, and then walked down the hall to the library. He stopped before the closed, arching double doors, his hand on the polished brass handle, unsure what he should do next. He pulled his hand away. This is foolish, he thought. Why should he ever believe anything that A. J. Hollingsly said? The man wasn’t just a liar—he was also a killer. A pathological maniac still fighting guerrilla hit-and-run skirmishes in a war of hatred and bigotry that should have ended decades ago. What better way for this twisted, rage-filled sociopath to attempt to wreak vengeance on Jeff than to accuse his iconic father of an unthinkable act of racist violence, an allegation that it was now impossible for him to defend? Besides, it was extremely unlikely that his father would even comprehend the conversation, much less actually be capable of denying the allegations or responding to any questions.

  Jeff stood before the doors, paralyzed with fear and indecision, unable to believe that Hollingsly’s claim about his father could possibly be true. Yet he was unable to force himself to walk away, despite being deeply afraid of both asking the question and hearing what the answer might be.

  He turned the handle and stepped into the library. Dimly lit and darkly paneled, with a Brahms violin concerto softly flowing from a CD player tucked within the bookshelves, the room had the comforting feel of a medieval chapel, at once both deeply spiritual and profoundly safe.

  William Trannon was at his usual post, propped in a wing chair, staring blankly out into the shadows of the darkened gardens. As always, Jeff was struck by the cruelly painful irony of the still-healthy body of a former great athlete playing host to the vastly diminished vestiges of a once-great mind.

  “Hey, Dad,” he said softly, dragging a small chair to the window and placing himself within his father’s line of sight. “Sorry to come by so late, but there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  Jeff leaned forward, staring directly into his father’s eyes, looking for some glimmer of recognition. There was nothing but an empty gaze.

  “Dad . . . Dad, look at me. It’s Jeff. Please look at me,” he begged.

  Nothing.

  “Dad,” Jeff continued, inching even closer, trying somehow to penetrate that enshrouding fog that held his father’s mind hostage. “Dad . . . listen to me.”

  Still nothing.

  “I need to ask you something,” Jeff went on, this time his voice louder and more demanding. “I need to ask you about the murder of Reverend Elijah Hall back in 1960.”

  Jeff stopped and peered deep into his father’s eyes. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d seen some brief flicker of response in his father’s face, some fleeting sign of comprehension.

  “Dad, this is important,” Jeff said, his voice challenging some lost element of the spirit that once bravely inhabited his father’s body to fight its way to the surface, if only for a few moments.

  “Were you there that night?” Jeff asked. “Dad . . . were you there when Elijah Hall was murdered?”

  There was no response, just the same opaque, impenetrable gaze. Whatever Jeff thought—or hoped—he had seen in his father’s face had retreated back into the wilderness of confusion. Jeff sighed and fell back into his chair, staring at the elegantly molded ceiling in frustration, convinced that he would never know the truth of Hollingsly’s accusations.

  He was about to stand when he thought he heard a sound, not actually a word but just a wisp of something that resembled a soft sob, from deep within his father’s chest. He sprang forward, searching for something—anything—that suggested he’d somehow penetrated the mystifying haze.

  For a long moment, there was nothing—no look, no sound. Jeff thought that, perhaps, he’d been mistaken. Then, his father’s head turned, ever so slightly, toward him.

  “Dad?” Jeff said softly.

  Slowly, barely perceptible, the shroud that had fallen over the soul of William Trannon rose and there was some spark of life once again in those once-luminous eyes. But there was not just life—there was also pain. Haunted, bottomless, chastened, overwhelming pain.

  And then there were tears. First a single drop, then a stream, coursing down from those agonized eyes, flowing across his wrinkled cheeks and cascading down onto the crisp white shirt and tie; his body, now a mere ghost of the great athlete, wracked by deep, shuddering sobs.

  Jeff stared, at once astonished by the appearance of long-ago vanished emotions while also both angry and grief-stricken at the realization of what these emotions signified.

  Now, he knew. His father, for decades the grand beacon of wisdom and rectitude, had been there that awful night. The great and legendary William Trannon had, indeed, been an accomplice to the brutal murder of Elijah Hall. Jeff sat motionless in the hushed and breathless room, unsure of what he should do, how he should react.

  Finally, as the sobbing subsided into soft, whispering sighs, Jeff leaned forward and wrapped the lost and shattered figure of his father in his arms.

  CHAPTER 53

  Jeff and Ella sat next to each other, swaying gently in wicker rocking chairs perched in a corner of the old wrap-around porch. The only sound was the murmured chorus of the denizens of the dark and the only light was the shimmering, milky glow from a nearby streetlight sheathed in a soft nocturnal mist. Neither had spoken for nearly ten minutes since Jeff had left
his father in the library inside the house.

  After a while, Ella reached over and took Jeff’s hand, entwining her fingers with his. They rocked silently for a few more minutes, Ella casting concerned glances toward Jeff, who had retreated somewhere far away from her.

  “What happened there?” she asked quietly, finally breaking their conspiracy of silence, inclining her head toward the charred, skeletal remnants of the far corner of the porch.

  Jeff shifted his glance in the direction of the corner, a bitter, ironic smile creeping across his face.

  “A souvenir from the Klan,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Sometime back in the late sixties, Dad was a young lawyer representing the members of a black church up near Jackson in a lawsuit he brought against the KKK. Claimed they were responsible for a firebombing that destroyed the building. Got a lot of attention, as you might imagine. Anyway, I guess the boys in the white hoods weren’t real happy about it, so one night a few of them cruised by, burned a cross on the lawn, and tossed some Molotov cocktails on the porch. Kind of a subtle message to warn him off.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Well, this was all before I was born, but the story goes that Dad and Mom were able to put the fire out before it spread. He won the case and convinced a federal jury to award $100,000 in damages against a local Klan klavern. Forced them to declare bankruptcy and put them out of business. At least for a while. Started a whole new way for blacks to fight back in court.”

  “But why . . . ?” Ella began, looking quizzically at the scarred ruins.

  “A badge of honor, I guess,” Jeff said. “Made a lot of enemies back then. He refused to repair it. Kept it that way all these years as a sign that he wasn’t going to back down, no matter what. As a lawyer or a judge.” He shrugged. “At least, that’s what I always believed. Now, I’m not so sure.”