by Jack Ford
“Maybe he kept it that way as a reminder,” Ella said, stroking his hand. “A reminder of a terrible mistake he made when he was very young. A reminder of his own need for redemption.”
“Maybe,” Jeff whispered.
“So . . . what now?” Ella asked after a few more minutes of silence crept by.
Jeff sighed deeply. “Don’t know.”
He stopped rocking and leaned forward, his hands clasped prayer-like in front of his face.
“I’m not a very religious man,” he began, his voice so muted that it was almost as if he was talking just to himself. “Never have been. Always struggled with the notion of having faith in something that was beyond my grasp or understanding. The one thing—the only thing—I truly worshipped was my father. Like I told you, he wasn’t always that easy to get close to. And it sure as hell was impossible to live up to him. But he was the one thing, the one person, I could always believe in. And now . . .” he stopped, his voice choked and faltering.
“But you can’t just ignore all the goodness . . .” Ella began.
“Don’t you see?” Jeff interrupted, his voice strained. “All those great things, all the accomplishments? Were they real? How can they still count for something, now that we know he was there that night?
“It wasn’t just him that I worshipped,” he continued. “Not just the great William Trannon. It was the idea of him, the hero who stood strong in the face of all the overwhelming obstacles and always did the right thing. Always. Just because it was the right thing to do.”
Jeff turned and faced Ella, his eyes etched in pain. “I worshipped him because he was about honor. He was about the power of hope and the power of wisdom and the power of goodness and courage and honesty. I didn’t have a religion or church—I had him. He was my faith.” Again, his voice wavered, aching with the sting of betrayal, as he shifted his focus once again off into the distance.
“Jeff,” Ella said cautiously. “Are you really sure he was there? I mean, he never actually said that he was out there that night. That he was with them. So how can you really be certain?”
“I’m certain,” Jeff answered evenly. “If you’d seen his reaction, the look in his eyes, the pain, and the tears—if you knew him like I do, you’d be certain, too.” He was silent for a moment. “The only question now is what do I do about it?”
“What do you mean, ‘what do you do’? What can you do? You can’t prove he was there. There’s no confession, no witnesses, just what you believe. You, of all people, should understand that. So why should you do anything? Why should you tell anybody? Do you want to destroy his image and all he’s done over a lifetime? For what?”
“I don’t know,” he confessed, his hands covering his face. “I just wish he could tell me what I should do.”
CHAPTER 54
It was dark and quiet inside the Morning Star Baptist Church. Jeff had called Reverend Butler first thing in the morning and asked if he could come talk to him about something important. On the drive out from Oxford, Jeff explained to Ella that he wanted to share the last night’s revelations about his father’s presence at the murder scene with the minister. Still profoundly perplexed over what to do, Jeff hoped that the minister might offer some perspective and guidance.
The three of them sat tucked away in a corner of the church, sipping from the glasses of iced sweet tea that Reverend Butler had waiting for them when they arrived.
“Shame the Lord decided to bring Ricky Earl home right then and there in the courtroom,” the minister, dressed as always in a dark suit, said, shaking his head sadly. “And after he’d finally found some meaning in his life, too. Darn shame.”
“Once again proving, as we know, that God works in mysterious ways,” Ella said.
“Amen to that, Miss Ella,” he answered. “So now what?” he asked, turning toward Jeff. “Case closed?”
“Looks that way,” Jeff answered dejectedly.
“So then, what brings y’all out here this early to visit with me? Don’t take this the wrong way, but y’all don’t strike me much as the early mornin’ prayin’ type,” Butler said with a gentle smile.
“Well, there’s something I’d like to tell you,” Jeff began.
“Listen, Jeff. No need for any explanations or apologies. Y’all tried. You took on a powerful man because it was the right thing to do. Almost cost y’all your own lives but you didn’t back down. If you grew up during the civil rights years like I did, you learned that victories over evil come in all different shapes and sizes. Maybe we didn’t win in the courtroom, but y’all can rest assured that just resurrecting this case and, finally, after all these years, shining a light on Elijah Hall’s murder, surely was some kind of victory. Yes, indeed.”
“Thank you, Reverend. I understand what you’re saying and, hopefully, someday I’ll feel the same way. But . . . there’s something else.”
Jeff paused, looking uncertainly at Ella, who nodded and gave him an encouraging half-smile.
“It’s about my father,” he continued haltingly. “And Elijah Hall’s murder.”
“Your father?” Butler said, leaning forward in his chair, clearly confused. “I . . . don’t understand.”
“Let me explain it to you. Remember how Ricky Earl told us that there were four boys out there that night?”
“Right,” the minister said. “He, Tillman Jessup, and two others he wouldn’t name, who’d since died.”
“Well, that’s what we all thought. That the other two had died. Turns out what he actually said—Ella here checked her notes—was that they ‘were no longer with us.’ And we all just assumed that they were dead.”
“They’re not?” Butler exclaimed. “They’re still alive?”
“Actually, one is dead,” Jeff answered. “But the other . . . well, we think the other is still alive.”
“Still alive?” Butler’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Can he testify?”
“Well, there’s a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The fourth boy, the one who’s still alive . . . we have reason to believe he is my father,” Jeff said.
Reverend Butler stared at Jeff through his thick glasses, his deeply creased face twisting into a mask of confusion.
“I don’t . . . think I understand,” Butler said hesitantly.
“Remember the old guy from the Sovereignty Commission? Hollingsly?” Jeff asked.
“The one who tried to kill you?”
“Yeah. Well, he showed up last night at my apartment. Claimed that the other two people who were there that night were a boy named Jimmy Raye, who died in Vietnam . . . and my father.”
“But, you can’t possibly believe . . .” the Reverend began.
Jeff held his hands up to silence him. “Please, just listen to me, first. So, Hollingsly, who we know had talked to Ricky Earl right after the shooting and claims to have talked to at least one other boy, showed up last night and told me that I should go ask my father who was there that night.”
“And?”
“And, I did.”
“Did he say anything?”
Jeff shook his head. “He doesn’t really talk anymore. But when I asked him, he got upset.”
“Upset? How?”
“Well,” Jeff said, his voice now strained. “You know how they say that sometimes Alzheimer’s patients can remember things from a long time ago but can’t remember what happened yesterday? I think that’s what took place last night. When I asked him, I could see something, some flash of understanding in his eyes. And then . . .” Jeff stopped and tried to compose himself. “And then . . . he started to cry.”
There was no sound inside the church, other than the faint growling of a tractor from the farm across the road. Finally, Reverend Butler took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, the noise a soft rattling in his frail old lungs.
“So . . . do you truly believ
e, in your heart, that your father was part of the killing?” Butler asked, with more than just a tinge of incredulity. “I do,” Jeff answered, his voice barely a whisper.
The minister closed his eyes and shook his head gently from side to side.
“I can’t believe this,” he mumbled. “This can’t be true.”
“I’m afraid it is,” said Jeff. “If you could have seen the look—the guilt and the pain—in his eyes. And then the tears. If you’d seen that, you’d know. ”
After a moment, Butler leaned forward in his chair and looked searchingly into Jeff’s eyes.
“What do you plan to do about this belief of yours?”
“I’m not sure. I was hoping that you could help me decide.”
Butler nodded, seeming to emerge from his doubt and wonder as he assumed his role of minister and spiritual guide.
“What are your choices?” he asked.
“I guess I could tell the district attorney. Of course, then he’d have to tell the defense,” Jeff mused. “Maybe I could just talk to Judge Langston about it. See what he thinks.”
Reverend Butler contemplated this for a moment.
“But, I thought you said your daddy doesn’t talk anymore?”
Jeff shook his head. “Not sure if he can’t or if he just doesn’t. Bottom line is, I don’t think he’s said a word for more than a year.”
“Well then, if he can’t talk, what good would it do to bring it up to all those folks? Not gonna be able to put him up on a witness stand to tell his story. So, what’s there to be gained?” He peered carefully at Jeff through his thick glasses. “Seems to me, there’s nothing to be gained at all.”
Jeff seemed puzzled.
“What about justice?” he asked.
“Justice?” echoed the minister. “Justice for who? Not for Tillman Jessup. Said yourself that your father couldn’t testify, so it surely wouldn’t help to put Jessup in jail. Only thing coming from that, then, would be the destruction of your father’s image and reputation. Certainly not gonna hurt Jessup. That what you want?”
“But what about justice for Elijah Hall? Isn’t that worth something?” Jeff pleaded.
“How would all this provide any justice for him? Jessup’ll walk out that courtroom, still be a free man. Some folks might believe he’s a killer,” he shrugged, “but chances are he’ll probably go on and become the next governor anyway. And Elijah Hall? He’ll still be dead after all these years. So, the only thing that you’ll do is make people forget all the good your daddy did over the years.” He shook his head sadly. “Don’t seem like a very fair trade-off to me.”
Jeff rubbed his hands over his face, anguishing over the dilemma that had invaded his soul, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
“But Dad always believed that justice was absolute. Something was either right or it was wrong. There was no question, no indecision. He often said that justice was the one moral certainty in a world that would otherwise fall into moral chaos.” He paused. “And what he did was wrong. I know he didn’t mean for it to happen like that. I know he tried to stop it. But he was there. And that was wrong.”
Jeff looked first to Reverend Butler, and then to Ella, who had sat silently, bearing witness to his torment.
“What would he do if this all was reversed?” Jeff asked. “If I’d been the one out there on that road? Would he tell me we had to keep quiet? And let the truth stay hidden until it dies?”
Reverend Butler leaned forward, his hands grasped prayerfully in front of his face, his eyes sharing Jeff’s distress.
“Jeff,” he said soothingly. “I’ve known your daddy for forty years. First met him when he and a few Ole Miss kids came to me and volunteered to drive some of my church folks to the polls to register to vote. This was a year or two after Elijah’s murder. Not a real popular thing for all them to do back then. Surprised the hell out of me, tell you the truth.
“We became good friends over the years,” the minister continued, a hint of a sorrowful smile working its way across his face. “We talked often about the civil rights movement and what we could both do to help. After he became a judge, he’d sometimes talk to me about cases he was handling. I think I knew him pretty good, probably better’n most. And I see an awful lot of him in you, son. And that’s somethin’ you should be real proud of.”
“So, you think he’d tell me to keep quiet? To just let it all fade away?” Jeff asked softly.
“I wish I could tell you I was truly sure what he’d say to do. But I can’t. But there is something I am truly sure about,” the minister said, his look still compassionate, but his tone more firm. “Sometimes we need to hold on to our heroes. No matter what. Lord knows, Dr. King was no angel all the time. But the good that he did, the leadership and hope that he provided . . . well, that was worth sometimes lookin’ the other way. We needed to believe in him. Seems to me it’s the same with your daddy. He did so much good for so many over the years. Yes, if he was there the night of the murder—even if he tried to stop it—that was surely wrong. But we still need our heroes. And your daddy—well, he’s a hero. And we need to still believe in him, too.”
Jeff looked at the minister, his eyes pooling, his faith shaken.
“I just want to do what’s right,” Jeff sighed softly.
“The thing about justice,” the minister said, “is that it’s not always perfect. But we do what we can. Does your father need to be punished somehow for justice to prevail?” He shook his head. “I can’t believe that a just God would demand that of him. Or of you, as his son. Sometimes we make a man pay for his sins with his life. Seems to me your father used his life to pay for his sins.”
Jeff took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, wiping the tears from his eyes with his shirtsleeve.
“Thank you, Reverend,” he said.
The minister stood and placed his hand tenderly on Jeff’s shoulder.
“I think, son, that you need to let this go. You need to trust that, when the time comes, the Good Lord’ll sort it all out.”
CHAPTER 55
“He’s right, you know,” Ella said.
They were in Jeff’s car, driving back to Oxford. Both had been quiet since they had left Reverend Butler back at the church. Jeff just stared out the windshield, both hands locked in a vise-like grip around the steering wheel.
“Jeff? You okay?” she asked.
Jeff nodded.
“Then talk to me. Please.”
“Part of me knows he’s right,” he said softly. “I understand what he’s saying—that revealing this won’t help anyone. And will only destroy everything my father’s done. I get that.”
“But . . . ?”
He turned to face her, anger flaring in his eyes.
“But, if I do that, if I keep quiet . . . then Hollingsly’s right. Then I’m part of a fraud. A horrible, hypocritical fraud. The same fraud that’s haunted my father all these years.”
Ella reached out, her fingers lightly brushing Jeff’s cheek.
“I’m so sorry. No one should ever have to make this kind of decision. If you go public, you validate your father’s ideals and values while, at the same time, you destroy his legacy. If you keep quiet,” she sighed, “well, you know the pain that comes with that decision.”
“So?” Jeff said, turning to her, a questioning look in his eyes. “What do you think I should do?”
“Like I said, I think Reverend Butler’s right. It’s the old ‘greatest good for the greatest number of people’ argument. You tell the story and it has a devastating impact on many. You stay silent and it’s devastating to you alone.” She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. “Seems to me the answer is clear. You have to take the hit. For the good of so many others.”
Jeff gnawed on his lip, deep in thought, again staring straight ahead.
“And, one more thing,” Ella said. “I think you owe your father that muc
h. He’s earned it.”
Jeff took a deep, fluttering breath and slowly exhaled.
“I know. You’re right. And so is Reverend Butler. I guess I just need some time for the idea to settle in. The problem is I just can’t get Hollingsly out of my mind. I keep seeing his leering, evil grin and thinking that if I don’t tell, then, somehow, he wins. And it’s killing me.”
“Jeff, you can’t let him get to you. That’s exactly what he wants. His whole life has been about hatred and destruction. And trying to play people against each other. And now, he’s trying to play you, too— against yourself.”
Jeff nodded, his face hardening, now resolute. “I’ve got to forget about him. I know that.” He paused. “I’ve got one more person I want to talk to. I think it’ll be helpful. In the meantime,” he said, turning and shooting her a curious glance, “at least this might make a great story for you.”
“Story?” she said, puzzled. “What story?”
“About the fall of the legendary William Trannon.” He shrugged. “In some ways, might be an even better story than if Jessup was convicted.”
Ella glared at him for a full minute, an angry storm filling her eyes, and then the storm receded, leaving behind just a troubled cloud. She shook her head.
“No story there. Certainly not one that we could ever go with.”
“What do you mean?” Jeff said uncertainly. “It’s a huge story.”
“Might be . . . if we could ever confirm it.” She shook her head again. “Do you think the New York Times would ever run a story of that magnitude—challenging the heritage of a civil rights hero and accusing him of being an accomplice to murder—based solely on the ravings of a racist lunatic? With no confirmation or additional sources? I’d be out of a job right quick if I ever went to the editors with that one. I’m afraid, as far as I’m concerned, this whole thing never happened.”
Jeff looked at her and, for the first time in a while, a small, thankful smile found its way across his face.
“I’ve lost a lot the last few days.” He sighed. After a moment, he turned toward her. “Hopefully, you don’t have to leave real soon?”