by R. Jean Reid
They released her but stood close, as if they might be needed again. With another few breaths, she was able to keep her voice close to steady. “Tell me what you know,” she asked.
“Not much at this point. We hope we get forensics from his house,” Harold said.
“Men in ski masks aren’t a very helpful description,” Nell said harshly.
“We’re going on the theory that the men who torched his house are connected to the ones who killed him, so there might be something there that will provide the link.”
“To the arson,” Nell pointed out, the bitterness still in her voice. “It won’t prove they murdered him, especially as the ones who burned his house couldn’t be the ones following him.” As she said it, she felt chilled. It had to mean this wasn’t a final bit of violence from the past, one or two madmen hanging on. What happened to Marcus had to have been plotted and planned, and suddenly Nell felt small and vulnerable.
“If we get them for one thing, we have a better chance to get them for another.”
“I heard their horn over his cell phone. Bastards played ‘Dixie’ with it,” Nell remembered.
Harold just nodded.
After he left, Nell again apologized for her breakdown. She retreated to the bathroom to scrub the red off her face. Then she got a cup of coffee and went to her office. She sat at her desk and stared out the window.
Ina Claire and Dolan arrived; Jacko met them at the door and gave them the news. Nell didn’t hear the words, just a short, cheery greeting as they came in, then the tone changing, voices hushed, an underhiss of sorrow and outrage.
You killed an old man but you didn’t save yourselves, she silently cursed the murderers, fury coursing through her. We have Marcus’s files; if we can’t find a witness to name the faces in the picture, we can dredge through those documents, take the names found there, get old yearbooks, old photos from the Crier morgue, wedding shots, and painstakingly match the faces with the people. They would not escape.
Suddenly Nell decided she couldn’t sit and listen to workmen pound all day. Looking through her desk, she found the address for Hattie Jacobs in New Orleans. It was in Marcus’s handwriting.
She remembered to take the photo out of her filing cabinet; only the group shot, not the one of Michael’s execution. The faces were the same, and it would only add to the horror.
“I’m going to New Orleans,” she told her staff. They were all assembled in the break room, Pam’s temporary office. Jacko again agreed to pick up Josh and Lizzie if Nell didn’t get back in time. He even offered to mind them should she stay overnight.
She thanked him, then headed for her car. She stopped by home long enough to get directions and throw a few things in an overnight bag, even though she intended to be back that evening.
It was an hour-and-a-half drive from Pelican Bay to New Orleans. Nell made good time, late enough to miss the morning rush. She knew she might not find Hattie Jacobs. She could have moved, died—or just not be at home.
Nell and Thom had come to New Orleans a number of times, including more or less keeping their vow of one romantic weekend a year sans kids, so she was familiar with the more beaten paths. The address for Hattie Jacobs was on a street Nell recognized, and, according to her map, it was just a few blocks out of the French Quarter. But as Nell turned onto Ursulines, she recognized this was a part of New Orleans the tourists didn’t see. Crossing over Rampart from the official boundaries of the Quarter changed the neighborhood. The houses were the Creole cottages of the historic area, but time and money for upkeep was sporadic; some well-kept houses sat next to ones boarded up and abandoned.
Nell drove slowly, looking for Hattie’s address, aware she was out of place. Spying the number she was looking for, Nell pulled over. As she walked up the steps to the front door, she noticed the neighbors watching her. She nodded a bare greeting at them and knocked on the door.
One of the women on the opposite porch called out, “She stepped out, be back shortly.”
Nell thought about asking if a woman named Hattie Jacobs did indeed live there, but that would tell them she was a stranger and put her into the suspect category of government agent, law, or health, hunting down an old woman.
Nell thanked the woman and said causally, “I’ll be back after a few other errands, then.” She got in her car and drove off, remembering a little coffee shop she and Thom had chanced on, outside the Quarter where parking would be kinder. She took a few wrong turns but finally found the right street and, in the next block, the coffee shop. But walking in brought back memories of being with Thom, so Nell got her coffee to go and wandered around, gazing at the windows of the shops along the street but with no real notice of what was in them. What a double-edged sword memory is, Nell thought. How many times will I get hit with remembering the things Thom and I used to do? In Pelican Bay she couldn’t avoid places they had been together, but this city should be large enough not to ambush her with recollections that cut so sharply. She discarded her half-drunk coffee and got back in her car, then slowly made her way back to Hattie Jacobs’ block. There were no memories of Thom there.
Just Marcus Fletcher, she thought, glancing at his handwriting on the address.
She again pulled in front. Clouds now covered the sun and the added chill had driven the stoop sitters inside. Nell remained in her car, trying to decide if it had been “a little while” enough for her to knock again.
She noticed a woman walking in her direction. As the woman got closer, Nell saw she was older, her shoulders stooped, wearing a cloth coat that looked like it had seen a number of winters and carrying two small grocery sacks. Nell watched her as she turned and made her way up the steps to the door.
Nell got out of her car. When she got to the foot of the stairs, she said, “Excuse me, but are you Hattie Jacobs?” The woman turned to her, and she added, “My name is Nell McGraw and I’m a reporter with the Pelican Bay Crier,” to give the woman access to her name and a clue to her purpose there.
“Pelican Bay?” the woman said slowly.
“Yes, it’s a small town over on the Gulf—”
The woman cut her off. “I know where Pelican Bay is.”
“Are you Mrs. Jacobs?” Nell asked again.
“Yes, I am. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to talk to you about some things that happened a long time ago.”
Hattie Jacobs hesitated before saying, “You’d better come in then.”
Nell followed her into the house. It was neat and well kept, the furniture old, a mix of colors and styles, as if Hattie had collected them slowly along the way.
“I’m making tea. Would you like some?” she asked. “Help take the chill off.”
“Yes, thank you.” Nell sat down on the couch while Hattie Jacobs carried her sacks back to the kitchen. From her briefcase, Nell took out the most recent copy of the Pelican Bay Crier, with its stories about the murders and the property theft. She left the photo where it was; it wasn’t something she could show without being sure Hattie was ready to see it.
Hattie returned with two steaming cups and a small tray with milk, lemons, honey, and sugar on it. Nell added some milk and honey.
“This is the most recent edition of the paper,” Nell said, handing it to her. “The two stories—”
But Hattie Jacobs cut her off by gasping, “Oh, my God! Michael. And Ella and Dora. These are the pictures that Rufus took.”
“Rufus?” Nell prompted.
“Yes, Rufus Jackson. Farm just down from mine. Michael stayed with him, and Ella and Dora stayed with me.” She looked at Nell and said, “They’re dead, aren’t they.”
“I’m sorry, yes, they are.” Nell could have let her read the story, but instead she told it, leading Hattie through finding the bones to establishing the identity of Dora Ellischwartz.
When she finished, Hattie asked, “Ma
y I keep this?” referring to the paper.
“Yes, of course.”
“Something to remember them by,” the old woman said softly. “I liked both Ella and Dora. But Michael … he was a friend. I knew he didn’t just leave.”
“Tell me about them.”
Hattie stared at the photographs, her hands tracing their faces, then said, “Dora was the fun, laughing one. She’d come home and say, ‘let’s have a party,’ and we’d put sugar on bread for cake, and she’d plug in that radio of hers, find some music and have us all dancing, spin my kids around the room until they were dizzy.
“Ella was quiet, a little too serious; she and Dora really balanced each other that way. She’d be reading a book until Dora took her by the hand and said, ‘c’mon, you have to dance,’ and Ella would pretend to be annoyed, but she was the best dancer once she let loose and got going.
“Michael. Michael and I used to sit on the porch and talk. Sometimes we wouldn’t talk, but just be silent with each other and it was an easy time. Sitting watching the sun set. The others worked hard, but Michael … Michael gave me hope. Hope things would change, that my children would live in a different world. Promised me one day I’d come visit him in New York and he’d walk me down Broadway.”
Then she was silent, as if remembering all the promises and the ways they had been broken.
Nell gave her a moment, then gently prompted, “What happened with your farm? How did they get it away?”
“They said I didn’t pay my taxes,” Hattie said, her voice hard. The words came slowly; the years hadn’t taken the bitterness away.
“But you did,” Nell said, adding, “I tracked down Penny March, the clerk, and she remembered. They changed the records.”
“They did, they changed them. Told me I had to pay or I’d forfeit. But I had no money to pay again.”
“And that was what happened? They foreclosed with the taxes?”
“No, they would’ve, but Mr. Dupree bought my property. I never really knew, wasn’t the place for a woman like me to ask, but I think they were fighting, each getting greedy. Mr. Dupree waited until he knew I had no choice: I would lose it for nothing or take whatever he gave me. Did the same thing with my land, the bayou camp, and the bay beach. We each got hit for taxes we’d already paid, then he came around and bought the property just before it would have been taken. We got something, he got the land.”
Andre Dupree. Nell had been hoping his hands were no dirtier than buying property that had been stolen by others. That would be painful enough to tell Aaron, but could the son ever forgive her for opening old wounds to find his father wielding the knife?
Nell took out a map of Tchula County and spread it over the coffee table. “Can you point out what was yours?”
Hattie did. Her land was most of what had turned into the posh Country Club and part of Back Bay Estates, with the other properties she had mentioned becoming the rest of it and the Marina. Andre Dupree had not only stolen from the poor and the powerless, but he had cheated his partners by buying the land before they could take it.
“According to the records we looked at, your land was bought by something called Pelican Property,” Nell said.
“I remember the name, but it was Dupree that came out and offered the deal. He was the one who gave me the money.”
“How did you know him?”
“Saw him around, his name in the paper. He was always polite, pretended to be nice. Even when he helped burn the cross, he wasn’t as bad as the rest of them.”
“Burned the cross?” Nell said, taken aback, still able to be shocked.
“Michael told me they couldn’t take away my property, that we could fight. One last piece of hope he gave me. I had even tried to register to vote, thought the world was going to change. Then Michael was gone and I had to sell the land.
“I’d gone to the courthouse to register, then I went by the tax office to inform Mr. Dunning I was going to protest, gave him an affidavit Michael got a lawyer friend of his to draw up.
“Two nights later there were seven of them on my front lawn, wearing those starched sheets their wives had ironed, burning a cross. Telling me Michael and Ella and Dora were gone.”
“If they were hooded, how could you tell who they were?” Nell asked.
“Ever recognized someone by their voice? The way they walk? Every Negro in Tchula County knew what Sheriff Tremble’s voice sounded like, cigarette harsh. Also his deputy, Reese Allen. Recognized Bessmer the undertaker with his big, pale hands. The greasy mechanic’s fingernails, with a high voice, was Norbert Jones. And Dupree had a soft cough, always covered his mouth with his hand. Even when he had a hood on.”
“Do you think these were the men who murdered Michael, Dora, and Ella?”
“They knew they were gone and not coming back,” Hattie Jacobs told her. “How else could they know that?”
“Maybe people talked,” Nell suggested.
“Dora and Ella left my house in the morning. They didn’t come back that evening. Instead, these men and their burning cross, and the way they told us we could never hope again.”
“The timing is damning,” Nell noted.
“But an old woman like me isn’t going to be enough to do much to them,” Hattie said, her voice weary and resigned.
“Your say-so alone, probably not. But we’ve found other evidence.”
Hattie looked at her.
Nell continued. “They took pictures. Men like this also mistreat their daughters, and those daughters, when they grow up, don’t hide the family secrets. Right now we just have photos, but no names. I brought one of them with me. It’s not something easy to look at, but it would be a great help if you could identify any of the men.”
Hattie slowly nodded her head and Nell took the damning photo from her briefcase. When she first saw it, the old woman stiffened, then hugged herself tightly, looking at the image without touching it. She spent several minutes gazing at the photograph. Then she recited to Nell, “Sheriff Tremble with that shotgun, Norbert Jones right next to Dora, he ran the gas place in town; Albert Dunning with the club, Reese Allen, sheriff’s deputy, with the pistol, Bruce—I think his last name was Goodman—bag boy at the grocery, Rick Connor, the high hair in back, he did odd jobs, never held one long, and Barnett, Delwin Barnett, he drove a garbage truck.” She was able to name seven of the ten men there.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jacobs,” Nell said as she put the photo back into her briefcase. “There is no statute of limitations on murder. You may be contacted by the District Attorney’s office. Although these photos might be damning enough.”
“A few twilight years of justice. Most of them already in their graves by now.”
Nell couldn’t argue. The men in the photo had fifty years of freedom. “What happened after you were forced to sell your land?”
“I had family over here. Came to live with my cousin Bessie till I found a place of my own. Hard with four kids used to the open spaces of a farm. I got work as a maid in a hotel. Some days I’d dream I was back on the farm, then wake up to this city and cleaning other people’s trash.” She was silent, then said very softly, “I still occasionally dream I’m back there, wide open green space and the time mine to make my day.”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Jacobs,” Nell said. Those feeble words were all she could say.
“Hattie. Just call me Hattie. At least they didn’t get away with it forever. Twilight justice is better than none.” After a pause, she said, “Would you like more tea? Mine’s gone cold and the day is too chilly for that.” She didn’t wait for Nell’s reply, but picked up the cups and went back to the kitchen. From there she said, “My son Emmett is going to come by and fix some of these drafty doors, but his wife broke her arm and he’s got to do all the chores she used to do.”
“Probably a good thing for him to find out how hard woman work,”
Nell answered. “You said you had four children? What happened to them after they left the farm?”
Hattie replied with a question. “You have any children?”
“Yes, two. Lizzie, my daughter, is on the verge of teenage angst and Josh, my son, who’s twelve, is still more interested in sharks and searching for shells on the beach than girls.”
“Josh and Lizzie. Family names?” She brought in two steaming cups of tea.
“Elizabeth came from my older sister, Margaret Elizabeth. She … did a lot of raising me. And Josh is just Joshua. My husband Thom was named for his father and he insisted no one else carry that burden,” Nell said quickly, busying herself with her tea.
Hattie caught the past tense. “Was?”
“Was. Thom was killed by a drunk driver,” Nell said. “About a month ago.” She wondered why she added that.
Hattie reached over and took Nell’s hand. She held it silently, then softly said, “Daniel, my husband, was killed by a tractor. White boy going too fast. It tipped over, caught Daniel under it. He lingered for about a week.” Again she was silent.
“How did you do it? It’s hard enough with two children for me. But how did you go on?” Nell was no longer a reporter, and her questions had nothing to do with any story she would write.
“I had to. I just had to,” Hattie answered slowly. “That’s how I went on. We had almost made another life when we got the farm taken away.” She paused. “I lost two of them.”
“Your children?” Nell asked, almost a whisper.
“Daniel, named after his father. He wanted to fight, to rip that cross down with his bare hands. Anger caught him just growing into a man. It had no place to go. Left the farm he was going to take over someday to go sleep on piled blankets on the floor of his cousins’ room. He started getting into trouble with the law, then more trouble. He’s … up at Angola now. Don’t know whether to hope I’m still alive when he gets out or hope I’m gone and don’t have to hear the gunshot and wonder if it’s him—shooting or being shot.”