Ghosts of Mississippi
The Murder of Medgar Evers, the Trials of Byron De La Beckwith, and the Haunting of the New South
Maryanne Vollers
Contents
Epigraph
Dedication
1. Ghosts of the Old South
2. Decatur
3. The Veteran
4. Brave New World
5. Black Monday
6. The Association
7. The Stirring
8. The Spy Agency
9. The Freedom Riders
10. Ole Miss
11. The Jackson Movement
12. The Last Warning
13. The Hour of Lead
14. Funeral
15. Pawn in the Game
16. Trial by Ambush
17. The Varmint Hunter
18. The Second Trial
19. The Long Summer
20. White Knights
21. Homecoming
22. Mississippi Turning
23. The Case
24. The Statue
25. Hurricane Season
26. Batesville
27. The Testimony of Ghosts
28. The Last Mile of the Way
Epilogue: 2013
Acknowledgments
Notes
Copyright © Maryanne Vollers 2013
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form. For information, address International Creative Management, 730 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10019.
ebook ISBN: 9780786754991
Distributed by Argo Navis Author Services
The arc of the moral universe is long,
But it bends toward justice.
— Theodore Parker, abolitionist
For Bill Campbell
All the roads lead home to you
1
Ghosts of the Old South
Byron De La Beckwith was not an ordinary prisoner, and he was not treated like one.
When he arrived at the Hinds County Detention Center in the fall of 1991, he was seventy years old and suffering from blocked arteries and bad hearing. Beckwith was confined to an eight-by-ten-foot private cell, with its own shower, in the medical block of the jail. His meals were brought to him in his cell. He had a cot, a little black-and-white TV, a bookcase, a reading light, a public-school-issue desk-chair, and boxes and boxes of paper, pens, special foods, vitamins, letters, notepads, envelopes, and assorted ultra-right-wing political literature.
Beckwith had to be kept away from the other prisoners, who were mostly black. He was such a garrulous, uninhibited racist that he was as likely to call someone a “nigger” to his face now as he was back in 1964, the last time he was in jail in Jackson, Mississippi. It was clear to those who remembered him, and many did, that the man hadn’t changed much in three decades. Neither had his predicament. Beckwith was charged with killing a civil rights leader named Medgar Evers, of shooting him in the back in his driveway one hot June night in 1963 and leaving him to bleed to death in front of his wife and young children.
Beckwith’s rifle was found at the scene, but nobody had seen him pull the trigger. He was tried twice for the crime, and both times juries of twelve white men couldn’t decide on a verdict. After the second mistrial, Beckwith was set loose. The murder charge, however, hung over him for three decades.
Then new evidence surfaced in the dormant case, and Byron De La Beckwith was arrested again. By now the story of Beckwith and Evers was so old and famous that songs had been written about it and passed down through a generation. A legend was about to be tried for killing a legend.
As the new case against Beckwith slowly worked its way through the courts, there was a feeling that a cycle was being completed in the state’s history: a time of revelation, of epiphany, perhaps even of judgment was about to visit Mississippi.
In the years that had gone by between the first and most recent incarcerations of Byron De La Beckwith, the Deep South started calling itself the New South, and its optimistic leaders tried to shake off the past like a lingering nightmare. But history will not be ignored, not in Mississippi, where people live long with their memories and their grandparent’s memories, where outraged and querulous ghosts still haunt the future.
An eerie deja vu settled over the state. For those who were paying attention, the tenor of the times seemed more like the early sixties than the nineties.
Slender, rolled-up broadsides began appearing on people’s lawns, just like they did in the days when the Ku Klux Klan had paralyzed whole counties with fear. The little papers advised potential jurors that Byron De La Beckwith was a hero and an innocent man.
One steamy August morning, ten months after Beckwith’s arrival in the Jackson jail, a cousin named Kim McGeoy and a guest showed up to visit him. The smiling guard buzzed McGeoy into the corridor as two of Beckwith’s earlier visitors exited. A middle-aged man and woman nodded cheerfully. They both carried clear plastic garbage sacks loaded with hundreds of folded white papers and tiny booklets titled Citizens’ Rule Book. The visitors were not searched going out, and Kim and his guest were not searched or even run through a metal detector after they signed in.
Another electric door opened, and they walked, unescorted, into a narrow hallway. There were a dozen or so solid doors, each with a small, rectangular glass window. The door to cell 121 was open.
Byron De La Beckwith lounged on his prison cot, chatting with John Branton, an old Klan friend, and another cousin whose family owned miles of cotton land around Greenwood, Mississippi, where Beckwith was raised.
Beckwith wore a dark blue prison jumpsuit and jail slippers. His face and arms were white as pipe clay after so many months in lockup. He glanced up at Kim and smiled broadly.
“Greetings, cousin!” he chirped.
“Hello, Delay,” said Kim, calling him by the name his friends used.
The cell walls were cinder block painted a sickly yellow. There was a narrow horizontal window near the top of the back wall that admitted a thin wash of sunlight. From time to time Beckwith would leap onto his cot and strain to look out the window, maybe just for a glimpse of natural color in the world outside.
The cot took up most of the length of his cell. Next to it his small bookcase was stuffed with Bibles and other books on subjects that interested him. There was a large paperback titled Gun Parts.
The wall by his desk was taped over with clippings, cartoons, snapshots, and fan mail. One cartoon, clipped from a newspaper editorial page, depicted the nine U.S. Supreme Court justices seated for a group photo. It showed a beaming Clarence Thomas with his hand on the thigh of a startled Sandra Day O’Connor. Beneath the image of the new African-American justice, Beckwith had penned, “Who dat?”
One of the snapshots taped to the wall showed a group of smiling white folks on a sunny day. There were maybe a dozen lined up in two rows, not unlike the Supreme Court justices, each holding a round red battle shield emblazoned with the white cross and red blood-drop emblem of the Ku Klux Klan.
The banty little prisoner was in high spirits. He was looking forward to his court appearance on Monday, at a hearing set to decide whether his right to a speedy trial had been violated. He expected to be set free any day now, either because the murder charge would be dropped or because the judge would finally allow him out on bond.
“I think they’ll let me go. It’s costing them too much money to keep me in this hospital,” Beckwith told his guests. He was holding court now, a princeling among his subjects. Every gesture was exaggerated: a hearty backslap, a doubled-over guffaw. The heart patient seemed as spry as a teenager as he bounded around the small cell, talking.
“You know we got AIDS here, right n
ext door?” Beckwith said. “A white boy.”
Someone in the room suggested that the AIDS victim should go plant a kiss on the district attorney, and they all laughed.
“Then there’s this nigger down the hall!” Beckwith said in his loud deaf-man’s voice. As he said it, a black male nurse walked past his cell, not even glancing at the open door.
“Now Delay, you know the sheriff warned you about that kind of language around here,” said Kim, shutting the door.
Beckwith was unrepentant. He asked his visitors if they’d heard the new joke going around town. It was about the petrified forest, a small tourist attraction north of Jackson, and the recently unveiled bronze statue of Medgar Evers on Medgar Evers Boulevard, formerly Delta Drive.
“Do you know how to get to the petrified forest?” Beckwith asked archly.
Pause.
“Just head out Delta Drive and turn left at the petrified nigger!”
The laughter from his friends further energized Beckwith. He pounded his chest and bragged, “I don’t have a heart problem!”
But something was bothering Beckwith. It was the stranger who came in with Kim. She was one of the book writers who had been trading letters with him. He hadn’t invited her, but for some reason he told her she could stay and write down whatever she wanted. Now a weird current was singing in Beckwith, working at him, and he was changing in front of everyone’s eyes.
“You look like a white woman, but are you a Jew?” he asked.
Kim broke in and told him his visitor was a Catholic. But Beckwith was suspicious. If he hated any group more than blacks, it was Jews.
“A Catholic would know the Hail Mary,” he said. “You say it after me: Hail Mary . . .”
She looked at him, then realized what he wanted.
“Full of grace. The Lord is with thee . . . ,” she said.
“Blessed art thou among women . . . ,” he continued, staring hard, gesturing with his hand for her to finish.
“And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God . . .”
“Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death . . .”
Beckwith was satisfied only for a few moments. He couldn’t relax. He started to pace, and he began to sermonize, raising his finger to the sky, and before long he was ranting about “filthy Jews.” Every time he said the word “Jew” he hooked one bony finger next to his nose and made a sniveling, sneering face. Jews were impostors, he said, and the white men of True Israel, like himself, had a mission.
“It is in Luke!” he shouted. “As I wrote to you, thus it is today: ‘But those mine enemies, who would not that I should reign over them, bring hither, and slay them before me!’”
He was panting now, and his three friends looked worried. He sat down on the cot to catch his breath, while his visitors changed the subject. They talked about mutual friends, and guns, and that got the old man’s attention.
Beckwith was calm now, and he launched into a long, elaborate story about going squirrel hunting with his visiting cousin from Greenwood.
“I wanted to show him you could hunt squirrel with a pistol,” said Beckwith, nodding at the dapper businessman in the nice khakis seated on his cot. “This was in the days before there were scopes for pistols. I knew my pistol could shoot because my wife was always shooting at me with it!”
He was laughing now, loose. His friends exchanged nervous looks. “This was my first wife. She was a terrible shot, always missed me!
“Anyway, we were out in the woods and I took a green walnut and put it on a stick, and shot it.” He assumed the stance of a man firing a gun, his pale blue eyes peering over the sight at the imaginary target.
“BAM!”
Beckwith stood up.
“He thought it was a lucky shot, so I did it again.”
He crouched again in the shooting posture, aiming at the back wall, his eyes narrowed in pure concentration on the imagined target, somewhere beyond the window, out in the world.
“BAM!”
2
Decatur
We were all close, but different. Medgar was more quietish. I used to see him go way down in himself, like he’s in a deep, deep studying. He’d just walk down the yard and out in the pasture where we’d keep the cow and the horse, and he’d be looking way over there somewhere.
He used to always carve his name on the trees and things: M. W. Evers. Everywhere you’d go: M. W. Evers. Mama had a wash place down by the spring where she built a shed to keep out of the rain. You’d see M. W. Evers all over it.
Now when I drive along the expressway in Chicago I see his name again: Medgar Evers School. All over the country. Medgar Evers Boulevard. Or whatever.
See, he had a dream, it was something in him, that he wanted. He’d carve his name and he’d stand back and he’d look. Even he didn’t know. It all come back to me, after it happened. Now I see his name everywhere.
— Elizabeth Evers Jordan
Decatur didn’t have much going for it as a town, but it did have a courthouse. It was an impressive building, a Greek Revival marvel with brick walls, jaunty striped awnings over the windows, and massive Doric columns at the north and south ends. A wide expanse of stone steps led up to the formal north door, and that was where, in the summer of 1934, Theodore Bilbo delivered a speech to the white citizens of Newton County, Mississippi.
It was a Saturday night, hot as it could be, and the town was packed with men who rode in from the county to listen to the ex-governor from Poplarville. This time around, Bilbo was running for the U.S. Senate. The topic of the night was the same as always: niggers and what to do with them. Bilbo knew his audience and what they wanted to hear. It had worked for him for thirty years, and it would carry him through the rest of his career as the most racist politician in Washington.
“Nigger women!” shouted Bilbo, warming to his subject. “All they do is wash clothes and have babies. So don’t pay them money! Give them old clothes!”
Medgar and Charles Evers had slipped into town that night to hear the man speak. They were small then, eight and eleven, so they wormed their way between the legs of the men in the crowd. The brothers ended up sitting on the courthouse steps, directly beneath the fat little white man.
Charles remembers Bilbo was so short he had to stand on a pedestal just to be seen. He wore his trademark white suit and red suspenders and red tie. The boys raised their faces, and the gaslight from the courthouse must have caught them in the shadows, because Bilbo looked down and saw them.
“See those two little nigger boys sitting here,” Bilbo shrilled through his bullhorn. “If we don’t watch out, we will live to see the day when these two nigger boys will be asking to represent us in Washington!”
A murmur passed through the crowd. The boys could feel all those sets of eyes staring down at them in the hot night. They didn’t move, and Bilbo resumed talking.
Later Charles would say that the speech was downright inspirational.
For two boys growing up in rural Mississippi during the Depression, Charles Evers and his little brother, Medgar, had some powerful dreams. Late at night, with the house dark and quiet and their sisters and parents asleep, the brothers would lie in their bed on the sleeping porch and talk about their future together.
They had a plan. They would buy some land down in South America — Brazil! — and build two houses on two hills separated by a valley. The houses would look out on each other, and the brothers could walk across the valley to visit. They were going to put a big, tall fence around the property with a guard at the gate and big dogs running patrol around the grounds.
“We won’t let any white folks in,” said Medgar.
“And very few niggers,” said Charles. And the boys would laugh until Daddy Jim shouted for quiet.
The dream kept growing, expanding as the years went by. In Brazil they would have their own plantation, have their own women, their own children, and keep out the world. They would be fre
e and live close together.
Another thing they agreed: they would never get married.
Medgar and Charles Evers grew up in a painted white house with a tin roof on an acre of farmland near the railroad tracks in Decatur.
Their father, James Evers, was a public worker. That meant he never sharecropped on a plantation; he was his own man. When there were jobs, he worked on the railroad. Mostly he stacked planks in the lumberyard at the sawmill. He was a lanky, powerful man, more than six feet tall. His father had owned his own land, and so did Jim Evers, and he built by hand the house where he raised his family.
Jessie, his wife, worked as a domestic for some white folks in town. She took in laundry. The Everses kept milk cows and chickens and planted crops, and while they were often short of cash, the family always had food on the table.
Jessie Evers had been divorced before she met Jim Evers. Her first husband’s name was Grimm. For all their life together that’s what Jim Evers called her, Grimm. She brought three children with her to the second marriage: Eddie, Eva, and Gene. She had four more children with Jim: James Charles, Elizabeth, Medgar, and Mary Ruth.
Jessie was a tiny woman, not five foot two, with tiny feet and hands. She was born Jessie Wright in Scott County, just west of Decatur. Her grandfather was a half-Indian slave, and according to the family legend, he was the most troublesome, uncooperative slave in east Mississippi. His name was Medgar Wright, and Jessie named her fourth son for him.
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