The Devil in Pew Number Seven

by Rebecca Nichols Alonzo; Rebecca Nichols Alonzo

  * * *

  August 1, 1976, was an insufferably hot Sunday in Sellerstown, with temperatures topping ninety-one degrees. The sweet, robust smell of tobacco leaves drying in the nearby barns, carried on the wings of a gentle breeze, filled the air. People arriving for the evening service found spaces to park their cars on the grassy front yard of the church. We didn’t have a paved parking lot; the casualness of leaving vehicles on the natural grass just seemed to fit the intimate, welcoming feeling worshipers enjoyed.

  Inside the sanctuary, Momma was stationed at the organ and played a medley of favorite hymns as the faithful packed the church. Trading looks with Daddy as the clock inched toward 7 p.m., she transitioned into the call to worship to start the service. When Daddy took to the pulpit, he seemed to preach with a renewed strength of purpose. He was in his element, teaching the Word of God to those eager to learn.

  That evening, Mr. Watts returned to his old tricks,50 igniting the sixth explosion across the street from the parsonage. I think the blast was his way of letting the church community know that he hadn’t given up—not by a long shot. By detonating this bomb while church was in session, he wanted everyone to know he was still in control and a force to be reckoned with.

  A month later, in early September, when his series of threatening letters, shootings, and bombings had still failed to drive us away, Mr. Watts waved the promise of a pile of cash under the nose of one of his henchmen. Roger Williams was summoned to the home of Mr. Watts. Facing the former county commissioner, Roger listened as Mr. Watts vented. Mr. Watts groused once again that Daddy was a thorn in his side. “I’ve tried so hard to scare him out but it don’t seem like he’ll leave,” Mr. Watts said, adding, “We’ve done everything we know to do.”

  That’s when Mr. Watts presented Roger with a tempting offer to make some serious cash.

  The deal was simple.

  Use your car to run the pastor over.

  Make it look like an accident.

  There’s $100,000 in it for you if you succeed.

  As before, Mr. Watts was the mastermind who preferred to leave the dirty work to others. He peeled five one-hundred-dollar bills from his wad of cash and placed the crisp bills on the table. You know, just a little gift to whet Roger’s appetite for the big payday. Something to show he meant business.

  Roger snatched up the money and tucked the cash into his pocket. Intrigued by the plan, Roger wasn’t entirely ready to act. This, after all, was a really big deal with serious consequences. Mr. Watts was asking him to kill the popular pastor, and he wanted to know what would happen if he were somehow implicated in the death. Roger wasn’t a wealthy man. If he faced charges, he wouldn’t be able to hire a good lawyer to keep him from life in prison.

  Mr. Watts told Roger not to worry, saying, “If you make it look like an accident,51 I don’t think you’ll be caught. But if you are, there is plenty of money, plenty of it, for your defense and for doing that for me.” With a pat on the back as Roger turned to leave, Mr. Watts said he’d be in touch. For reasons unknown, Mr. Watts had second thoughts and never activated his plan.

  Instead, on Wednesday night, October 13, shortly after our family received a death threat, Mr. Watts and Bud Sellers ignited yet another bomb in our driveway. This, the seventh powerful explosion, could be heard two miles away. At the time, sixty people were gathered in the church for the midweek service; the other youngsters and I were meeting at Aunt Pat’s house two doors away from the church. An armed parishioner stood guard to ensure our safety. We, too, were shaken by the blast.

  While a contingent of police and ATF agents cordoned off the area to investigate the explosion, Daddy spoke with the press. Daddy was grateful to report that nobody had been physically harmed—although there was a close call. Upon hearing a shotgun go off, a member of the congregation stepped outside to patrol the area. Not seeing any reason for alarm, he returned. Had he remained outside, he could have been injured by the blast. Daddy admitted, “We’re all sort of shaken,”52 but reiterated that he had no plans to quit. “We just intend to carry on and take more precautions when we have night services.”

  I don’t know whether Mr. Watts read the paper and noticed Daddy’s public refusal to quit. If he had, that might explain why five days later, on October 18, Mr. Watts struck for the eighth time. There was no way he’d let this country preacher beat him. If Daddy refused to go, then Mr. Watts would just have to turn up the heat by detonating an explosion in the field behind our house. Although we weren’t spending nights at the parsonage, I believe Mr. Watts was trying to drive home the point that he was still dead serious: We would leave Sellerstown walking, crawling, dead, or alive.

  Three weeks later, on November 10, 1976, gunshots pierced the otherwise peaceful evening and shattered the security light illuminating the church lawn. Minutes later, Mr. Watts and his sidekick Bud Sellers struck again, igniting a bomb that exploded during the middle of our Wednesday night church service.

  Billy Sellers, one of Daddy’s loyal and dear friends, narrowly escaped harm. Speaking to the press, Billy said, “I was sitting on the back pew [when] a shotgun blast was heard. I walked outside to see53 what it was and didn’t notice that the light had been shot out. If I had, I might have wandered outside to check it out and might have been blown up when the dynamite exploded. I went back in the church, and the dynamite exploded just as I got back inside.”

  Following the blast, three men from the church, E. J. Sellers, Billy Sellers, and Barry McKee, rushed outside and searched the fields around the church property. They found and caught a man, Wayne Tedder, a friend of Mr. Watts, hiding in a nearby field with a shotgun in his hand. The gun was the weapon used to shoot out the night-light on the church grounds. The suspect, who owed Mr. Watts some money, was held until the police arrived.

  Catching Wayne Tedder red-handed was encouraging. And yet, Daddy’s fragile nerves were rattled, pushing him closer to yet another mental breakdown. He wasn’t alone. The effect of the bombing unnerved the entire community. Robert Sellers said, “This thing’s got to come to a close.54 Little children are scared to death, running around shaking, and the people are getting tired of this thing. You can’t even so much as rest in [Sellerstown].” Eddie Sellers agreed, adding, “You have to leave home to get a nap. It’s gettin’ so we expect it every night.”

  * * *

  The pressure was on.

  We weren’t the only ones feeling the heat.

  Mr. Watts, having initiated four bombings in as many months that summer and fall, knew the law and an organized citizen patrol were watching Sellerstown like hawks. Special Agent Charles Mercer was asking tough questions and pursuing every lead. One misstep and Mr. Watts would be exposed—and he knew it. Needing to do something to divert unwanted attention from himself, Mr. Watts devised a plan. He just needed to call in a favor from one of his minions to carry it out.

  On Thanksgiving Day, November 25, 1976, police answered a call for help at the residence of Mr. Watts, who reported that someone had taken several shots at his house. The bullets from a high-powered rifle had penetrated the exterior wall just below his front window. What Mr. Watts failed to report55 was that he had paid a man to shoot at his home in order to make himself look like a victim, the same way he had mailed himself a threatening letter.

  * * *

  Recognizing that entertaining guests in the trailer at Christmastime wasn’t an option due to space limitations, my parents decided to move back to the parsonage just after Thanksgiving. I had mixed emotions upon hearing that news. Although I was happy to be home, I had felt safe in the trailer and wanted to feel the same level of comfort in my own bedroom. And yet knowing that Mr. Watts was, once again, pacing outside my window, watching us through his thick, eye-distorting glasses, I found falling asleep a challenge.

  I was okay being home during the day, mind you. Mr. Watts never attacked us in broad daylight. But when the sun went down, my fears soared. Getting into bed was next to impossible. How could I
close my eyes and fall asleep with the knowledge that Mr. Watts, a man who hated us, just might choose to assault us in the dead of night?

  Momma didn’t seem to share my anxiety. I watched her display a strength and confidence that prompted me to ask, “Momma, what are we gonna do if there’s another bombing? What if I die?”

  Stroking my hair, offering me a tender smile, she’d say, “Honey, it’s okay. You know why? Because to die is to be together with Jesus where nobody can hurt you.”

  In my mind I understood her point: If the worst thing happened—namely, that I was to die in my sleep—I’d be okay because I’d be in heaven. But getting my heart to go along with what I knew in my head seemed as impossible as climbing Mount Everest.

  Much to my surprise, for several precious weeks after moving home, Mr. Watts left us alone. For a short time, it looked as if we’d be able to enjoy Christmas without a further incident.

  Now that would have been quite the gift.

  On Sunday night, December 12, 1976, a cold rain and thick fog moved in, yet it failed to put a damper on the congregation’s attendance. Every seat in the sanctuary was filled as Daddy preached on the topic of fighting the good fight of faith. His text was 1 Timothy 6. Midway into his message, the building shook as Mr. Watts bombarded us with his tenth destructive device.

  Ten bombs in two-and-a-half years.

  Six targeting our home.

  Four aimed at the church.

  Daddy could only take so much. For the next two weeks, he was hospitalized for mental distress. Our Christmas was ruined.

  Our loved ones begged us to leave. Grandma Welch called Momma weekly, trying to convince her to move away, whether that was home to Bogalusa—or Mobile—or just about anywhere but Sellerstown. Grandma was beside herself, fearing that the attacks would never end. On the other hand, the church yearned for us to stay. My parents, torn between the pleas of the family and the call they felt upon their lives to this community, believed the situation had to get better.

  And the devil in pew number seven remained committed to his crusade to drive us from Sellerstown . . . “crawling or walking, dead or alive.”

  Chapter 10

  Black Thursday

  The visitor came.56

  In the spring of 1977, Daddy was home when a sharp knock on the front door echoed through the house. There was nothing unusual about guests stopping by the parsonage unannounced. In a way, our home doubled as his office. People with church or personal business often dropped by for an impromptu meeting. Although Daddy didn’t recognize the caller, he greeted the man with a warm handshake and invited him into the den.

  By all outward appearances, the man looked as normal as anyone you’d meet on the street, although the look in his eyes had the intensity of a hawk. He wore no mask, nor was he dressed in a white, hooded robe. And while he didn’t sport the white cross encircled in red, the symbol of the Ku Klux Klan, the man introduced himself as the personal bodyguard of the Grand Wizard of North Carolina.

  As they took their seats, the man explained the reason for his visit. With his commanding knowledge of the facts, he demonstrated that he and the Klan were fully aware of the events unfolding in Sellerstown. The Klan felt that the constant persecution we were suffering was wrong, and furthermore, he said everybody knew who was behind these attacks.

  I’m sure Daddy must have felt a degree of inner conflict as he listened. On one hand, the harsh prejudices and practices of the Klan were the polar opposite of the love of Jesus he preached, not to mention the saving love that defined his life. And yet Daddy must have felt some degree of gratefulness that this outsider cared about our situation.

  But the man didn’t come to just offer sympathy.

  He came with a radical offer to help.

  Before stating his proposition, the man said, “Mr. Watts is never coming to justice.” Evidently, he knew about Mr. Watts’s connections within the “good old boy” political system. He must have known that someone as powerful as Mr. Watts could pull whatever strings were necessary to evade a conviction forever. But the Klan, as he was quick to point out, had contacts and manpower. Sitting a few feet from Daddy, the man leaned forward and laid out his proposal.

  “We’re ready to take him out,” he said without a hint of sarcasm. There was nothing in his body language—no wink, no smirk—nothing to indicate the offer was a joke. This man was dead serious. “Nobody has to know,” he said, adding, “Just give us permission, and it can all be over once and for all.”

  The thought that there would be no more bombings, shootings, home invasions, threatening phone calls, midnight stalking, or interruptions in church must have been appealing to Daddy on some level. The idea that he and his family would finally be safe from the resident madman was almost too good to imagine. How different his life would be if Mr. Watts wasn’t in the picture! If he just gave the word, the cloud of fear that followed him every waking hour would be gone.

  But to have the man “taken out”?

  Killed?

  I can’t say for certain, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Daddy, weighing this extreme proposal, pictured in his mind’s eye the temptation of Jesus by Satan. While alone, hungry, and vulnerable after a forty-day fast, Jesus was tempted by the devil, who promised Him the world if Jesus would simply bow down and worship him. Just as Jesus resisted the temptation to take a shortcut to glory, Daddy would have no part in killing Mr. Watts.

  “I appreciate this,” Daddy said after a moment to process his thoughts. “But that’s not the way we do things. Yes, we’re frustrated. Yes, the process is taking its toll on us and on the community. But we’re dependent on God to take care of Mr. Watts for us.”

  * * *

  Spring gave way to summer without another explosion rocking our world. In fact, Mr. Watts took a break from his string of bombings in 1977. The reasons for his cease-fire are unknown. Perhaps the reason for his restraint was the ever-watchful eye of Special Agent Charles Mercer, who left no stone unturned in his investigation. Or perhaps it was the $10,000 reward offered by Agent Mercer for information linking Mr. Watts to the bombings.

  It might have had to do with the fact that Mr. Watts was having difficulty leveraging his wealth to buy off the police. On one occasion, for example, Mr. Watts initiated a ninety-minute casual conversation with Deputy James Coleman and County Police Chief Jesse Barker. Mr. Watts spent most of the time describing how much money he had amassed and wanted these officers to know he was “well off.”57 Without offering a bribe outright, the implication had to have been clear. Evidently, they didn’t take the bait.

  Their investigation wasn’t for sale.

  The yearlong suspension of hostilities—at least those involving guns, home invasions, and bombs—was a welcomed relief. However, Mr. Watts still sat in pew number seven each Sunday morning making faces at Daddy. He tried his best to cause a distraction by coughing, sucking his teeth, squirming in his seat, and tapping his watch.

  To an outsider, the actions of Mr. Watts during church might have appeared eccentric at worst, the ludicrous yet harmless actions of someone who wasn’t right in the head. But to those who knew the man, it was evident that Mr. Watts wasn’t a changed man. He still paced at night. He still glared at us with a smoldering disdain that, like hot lava, would inevitably surface.

  Somewhere, somehow, he’d strike again.

  It was just a matter of time.

  * * *

  Even so, as the months rolled on without an attack, life, at least for me, settled down into a more peaceful, uneventful rhythm. I rode motorcycles with Missy, played in our secret fort in the woods, and occasionally hung out with Billy Wayne. Admittedly, now that I had finished first grade, I discovered Billy Wayne had cooties. He was, after all, a boy, and all boys had that dreaded disease, which is why I stopped trying to marry him. No longer in a hurry to get to the altar, having lost the interest in sealing our “vows” with a kiss, I was open to new ways to pass the time.

  One hot, summer aft
ernoon, Daddy was working around the house, and Momma was taking a nap with Daniel. I was bored, which can be dangerous when you are seven years old and the adults are preoccupied. Spying the yellow school bus used to pick up people for church, I got a crazy idea. Don’t ask me where the thought came from or why such a notion struck me as okay. It just did.

  I decided it would be fun to make mud pies on every seat of that bus. It would be my own giant kitchen on wheels with plenty of room for all the pretend flavors I could cook up. Retrieving the water hose from the side of the house, I got busy creating fresh mud pies on Becky’s Bakery Bus. With the care of a pastry chef, I carried the mud to each seat, shaped it into a pie, and then cut it into individual servings with my knife—a stick. As I worked, I decided two pies per seat sounded about right.

  You know, one for each passenger.

  Just as I was finishing my preparations, Daddy came by to see why I had been so quiet for so long. When he approached, I was standing outside the bus, proud of my accomplishment. He looked at me, the water hose, and the mud on my hands, shirt, and shorts. Then his eyes drifted toward the open door of the bus. Without saying a word, he walked up the stairs and into the bus to find out what I had been up to. I tagged along behind, waiting for his words of praise.

  As he walked down the aisle, studying each seat without comment, I began to realize what I wasn’t hearing. There was no “Wow, Bec, this is great!” or “Your mud pies sure look yummy.” Instead, I received the what-in-the-world-have-you-done look followed by a speech explaining why my bakery wasn’t such a good idea. He didn’t need to raise his voice for me to get the picture that he was displeased with my handiwork.

  While I had experienced a string of horrors at the hands of Mr. Watts, I realize now that the thing I feared most in life was the thought that I might do something to cause my father to stop loving me. I think Daddy sensed this. And although I was sent inside to clean up while he took the hose to spray down the interior of the bus, he never gave me the impression that his love for me had been dampened.