Swift Justice: The Southern Way

by R. P. Wolff

  The Sheriff tried to calm the people down. He assured them that they would take swift action and arrest the people responsible for the crimes.

  The Sheriff was disrupted as two new visitors walked briskly to the counter. It was a state trooper and some stranger, a short stocky man, that the Sheriff did not recognized. The Sheriff was not expecting a state trooper.

  The Sheriff asked them, “What can I do for you, boys?”

  “I am Howard Goldstein. I am an attorney for the ACLU, which stands for the American Civil Liberties Union. I’m here to see my client, Leon Brooks. I believe you have him here.”

  The Sheriff was startled that Leon had already obtained an out-of-town attorney so quickly. How did he arrange that? The Sheriff wondered. And then what was the state trooper doing there? This day was getting worse by the minute, thought the Sheriff.

  The Sheriff paused before he responded. “Really, how do you know he is locked up here?”

  “Never mind how I know. Again, I need to speak to my client.”

  “Your client is in a lot of trouble, and you can’t speak to him right now.”

  “Excuse me? I am his attorney. Are you refusing for a person from speaking to his attorney? Am I understanding that right?”

  “Yeah, you’re understanding that fuckin’ right. You can’t speak to him. He’s fuckin’ killed some people.” The Sheriff wanted to smack the Jew lawyer. He could tell that he was Jewish, with his name ending in “stein.”

  “So have you arrested him?”

  The Sheriff hesitated, as he wasn’t sure how to answer this question. He hadn’t formally booked him in yet, but he had certainly detained him. “Yes, we have arrested him.”

  “Did you press charges?”

  Again, the Sheriff felt like smacking Goldstein, but the imposing state trooper was hovering around. “No, we did not press charges.”

  “I am demanding that I speak to my client, Leon Brooks.”

  The Sheriff had enough. “First of all, motherfucker, you don’t demand anything in this county. I am the sheriff in this county, and you don’t fuckin’ come in here and tell me what to do. You don’t bring your Jew ass over here and think you can boss me around with your fancy talking.”

  Goldstein was undeterred. “Look, I am telling you right now that I am not leaving here until I speak to my client, Leon Brooks. Now, he has his rights under the United States Constitution to have counsel. And the fact that you have already spoken to him without offering him counsel is concerning.”

  “We offered him the public defender, but he refused it,” the Sheriff lied. The Sheriff just realized that this Goldstein character has no idea that they also arrested Leon’s family and friends. The Sheriff chuckled to himself to think how Goldstein was going to react on discovering that new development.

  “Oh, he was, huh?”

  “Yeah.” The Sheriff was happy to see that Goldstein had a look of surprise on his face. The Sheriff must have thrown him a curve ball.

  “Okay, the state trooper and I are going to sit in your little lobby area and wait to see my client.”

  “Why do you have the state trooper with you?” the Sheriff asked. The Sheriff noticed that the state trooper, a tall muscular man who looked to be in his early thirties, appeared awkward and seemed reluctant to be there.

  “Well, for my safety, and the safety of my client. Your county has a bad reputation—”

  The Sheriff interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with our county. Our county has a great reputation. Don’t you come over here and criticize our county.”

  “All right, I’m going to sit over here.” Goldstein pointed to the five chairs that laid against a wall. “I am not leaving until I see my client. So you go ahead and talk to whomever you need to talk to, but I am seeing my client. I can assure you that if you check the law, Leon Brooks is entitled to see his attorney.”

  “You’re walking on dangerous water, mister fuckin’ Jew boy.” The Sheriff sighed. He figured that he might have to give in and let Leon speak to his client. This attorney seemed connected. “Okay, motherfucker, I’ll see what I can do. Have a seat.”

  Chapter 8

  “Wake up, Leon!” yelled the Sheriff. “You have a visitor.”

  Leon woke up from a deep sleep. He had no idea how long he had slept.

  “Come on boy, I’m not going to ask you again. Get up.”

  Leon jolted up and walked up to the cell entrance to get his hands cuffed as before. He hoped that Goldstein was the visitor.

  The cops escorted Leon to the same interrogation room as before, sat him down, and cuffed him to the eye bolt as before.

  “Wait here,” barked Junior.

  A few minutes later, Junior led Goldstein into the room.

  “Take those cuffs off my client while I speak to him,” ordered Goldstein.

  “No fuckin’ way,” said Junior. “He’s fuckin’ dangerous.” Before Goldstein could continue his objection, Junior left the room and closed the door.

  Goldstein shook his head in disapproval and sat down across from Leon. “Hello. I’m Howard Goldstein. We spoke over the phone. How are you?”

  Leon sighed. “I’m really tired and sore from the beatings.”

  “Beatings from last night when they tried to hang you?”

  “Yes, and the beatings from when we turned ourselves in.”

  “Wait, you were the only one who was supposed to turn yourself in.”

  “Oh, you don’t know,” said Leon. “They have arrested my papa, my brothers, and a friend of ours.”

  “They’re in jail with you, right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do they have them in jail?”

  “They think we all did it to the three white men.”

  Goldstein sighed heavily. “Go on and tell me everything that happened.”

  Leon told Goldstein everything except for the part of him kicking the white guys after they were dead.

  Goldstein sat there pondering Leon’s story.

  “Mr. Goldstein.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I ask you why you are helping me? I mean there aren’t any white people that I know that are willing to help a Negro.”

  “Why do I help you? I’m glad you asked that question.” Goldstein paused. “Well, I’m a holocaust survivor. I was a Jew in Germany during World War II. I came home one day and I saw my father hung, certainly by the Germans. Before I even had a chance to mourn my father’s death, my mother took me and my siblings to try to escape. I was only eight years old. They cornered us in an alley. There was a small opening in a brick wall. I was the only one who could fit, so I crawled through the opening.”

  To Leon’s shock, Goldstein started to cry. Leon regretted asking the question.

  With his eyes completely moist with tears, Goldstein continued his nightmare. Goldstein paused and tried to compose himself. “Then … I heard the machine guns blasting. I heard bodies drop—my family’s bodies.” Goldstein paused. He continued to cry. He struggled to continue but appeared to force himself to fight through it.

  “So I waited until the footsteps—the German footsteps—left the alley.” He paused again and stared straight at Leon, but he wasn’t actually seeing Leon. He had the thousand-yard stare that a soldier has that can’t be explained. The stare that they have seen something that is so horrifying that they can’t talk about it. The stare that just looks straight ahead—like they are in their own world and no one is around.

  “Then, I peeked out through the small hole in the bricks, and I saw my mother and siblings, Jacob, Abraham, and Aleana.” Goldstein cleared his throat and looked up into the ceiling as if he could barely finish. “They were still. They didn’t move. Blood covered their bodies. Before I had to react, I heard more footsteps, which I assumed were Germans. I hid back into the bricks. They left, but I knew I had to leave.” Goldstein stopped speaking momentarily. It appeared that he couldn’t continue.

  “So I struggled to survive for the remainder of
the war. Ironically, a German family hid me along the way. They hated Jews, but they felt sorry for a young boy. Anyway, I eventually ended up in New York, and became a lawyer. Many people helped me along the way. Some were Jews—some were not. I can’t believe that I’m telling you this. I have never told anyone my story in length. I don’t know why I’m telling you.”

  Leon gently asked him his original question again. “So, Mr. Goldstein, again, why are you helping me?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry for rambling on.” Goldstein paused to think about his response. “I help Negroes because I died in that alley. My life ended in that alley. My life died when I saw my father hanging from a noose. The pain in my stomach is indescribable. My heart has a permanent hole in it. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of my family. It’s a wound that won’t heal. The injustice that I witnessed was unbearable. I’m not interested in money. I’m only interested in one thing: justice! I can’t save my parents or my wonderful siblings, but I can possibly save other people that experience injustice. So you ask me why I help you. I guess I have selfish reasons. I guess I’m not really helping Negroes. I guess, in my mind, I’m really trying to help my family. This is the only thing that I can do that somewhat stops the pain. I don’t care if they kill me. I don’t care if they string me up. I have already been strung up as far as I’m concerned. I have an anger inside of me that is greater than all the Negroes in this county. I look at these rednecks, and I see Nazis. And I want them to suffer.”

  Leon struggled to know what to say. “Wow, that is … um … a horrible story. I’m so sorry to hear about your family.”

  “Yes, I’m already dead. I live in a fog. They can’t kill me twice. In fact, if they kill me, maybe the pain will stop. Maybe I’m secretly hoping that they kill me. Bring it on, fuckers.”

  “How can you be sure that I didn’t kill them?”

  “I can tell.”

  “So what do I do?” asked Leon.

  “Let me think.” Goldstein paused. “They have forty-eight hours to decide whether they will press charges against you, so they’ll probably wait until right up to the forty-eight hour to decide. I guess we’re just going to have to wait and see what they do. But, in the meantime, I do not want you to say another word to them about anything.”

  “But they’ll beat me if I don’t talk.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. In that case, just keep repeating what you already told them.”

  “Okay. What about my brothers, papa, and Mr. Stevens?”

  “Well, I would be glad to represent them as well. I assumed that they will want me to represent them. What do you think?”

  “Yes, they will definitely want you to represent them.”

  The door opened without warning, and it startled both Goldstein and Leon. It was the Sheriff.

  “Okay, times up,” barked the Sheriff.

  “I’m not done,” said Goldstein.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I’ve only been able to speak to him for a couple of minutes.”

  “Jew boy, your time is up! Do you understand?”

  “Okay, but I need to speak to my other clients.”

  “What other clients? You never mentioned anything about other clients when you showed up here. Leon, have you been telling lies again?”

  Leon was ready to speak, but Goldstein spoke first. “I need to speak to the other people who you have locked up at the same time as Leon.”

  “Sorry chief, you don’t represent them.”

  “I do now. Look, do we have to go through this same game again.”

  “It’s no fuckin’ game. People have died last night. This is no game.”

  “I know that, but I need to speak to my other clients. Just cut the crap and let me speak to them, or do I have to get the state trooper involved.”

  Leon was surprised to see the Sheriff waver on Goldstein’s threat. The Sheriff sighed heavily. “Okay, I’ll take Leon back, but you have to speak to the others all at once. You don’t get to speak to them one by one.”

  Goldstein sighed in frustration. “Okay, I can live with that.”

  “All right, I’ll have my son escort you back to the lobby. I’m taking Leon back to jail where he belongs. We’ll call you when the other Negroes are ready to meet with you.”

  Goldstein spoke to Leon. “Leon, I’m not leaving this town until you are released from jail.”

  “Well, you’re going to be here for a while then,” said the Sheriff.

  ~~~~

  As soon as Goldstein finished interviewing Leon’s family and Mr. Stevens, the Sheriff pulled the microphone plug out of the reel-to-reel tape recorder. It was located in a storage closest on the second floor adjacent to his office. The storage closet was located right above the interview room, number one. The Sheriff hid a small microphone in the light fixture that hung down over the table. He secretly recorded all conversations between suspects and their visitors, including conversations with their attorneys.

  The Sheriff was proud of his mischievous concoction. The only person who knew about it was his son, Junior. They never told Acton or the Judge. It was their little secret between father and son.

  The Sheriff called Junior into his office, and Junior closed the door behind him. The Sheriff sat at his oak wood desk while Junior sat across from him. Behind the Sheriff was a large window, but the blinds were drawn, so no one could see them listening to the tapes.

  “Okay, Junior, I taped both of Goldstein’s conversations with Leon and his fuckin’ family. Let’s listen in and see what they have to say.”

  “What time are we supposed to meet with the Judge?” asked Junior.

  “Two o’clock. That gives us enough time to listen to these tapes and find out from Billy about the cause of deaths.”

  “Okay.”

  They listened to the tape in silence. They glanced at each other with puzzlement on Goldstein’s holocaust story.

  The Sheriff thought that Goldstein’s story was bullshit, and Goldstein was trying to impress Leon.

  Then, they listened to the other conversation with Leon’s family and the other Negro friend of theirs.

  “Man, they’re scared, Dad. They think we’re going to hang all of them. Sounds like they got a guilty conscious.”

  “Yeah, but their story is consistent.”

  “Well, they had all night to plan their story.”

  “True. I guess you’re right.”

  “Do you think they did it?”

  “I don’t know.” The sheriff paused. “But I know that Leon’s story couldn’t be right. That story is bullshit, so they must have done it. It had to be organized.”

  “But how could it be organized? Leon’s family had no idea that Leon was going to be kidnapped by Lucky.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t organized. Maybe it was spontaneous. Maybe someone saw Leon go missing, and they followed Lucky.”

  “Hmmm. That makes sense, Dad. So they followed them and maybe signaled for backup.”

  “Yes. That had to be how it happened.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll see what the Judge thinks.”

  Chapter 9

  It was near two o’clock, and the men sat around the table at the Social Club waiting for the Judge to appear for the start of another crucial meeting. The Judge was in the side office making a phone call.

  The Sheriff reflected back on the events of the last few days. How his world had changed—for the worse. In the old days, in the twenties and thirties, the Fraternity of the Texas Klans could do whatever it wanted. Now people were challenging the Klan, and some people, like Goldstein and Deron, didn’t appeared to be scared of the Klan. The Sheriff realized that the Klan was losing its influence. Membership was way down from the twenties, and the Judge’s political influence had severely diminished, although the Judge would never admit it.

  In the height of their power, in the twenties, the Klan had over 120,000 members in Texas. Now it was less than half of that and on a continui
ng decline except that the Sheriff noticed a slight uptick since the Brown versus Board of Education case. The Sheriff speculated that apparently the case woke up some white people. Once white people realized that their kids might be going to school with Negroes, they decided to act—and join the Klan.

  Membership was important for their political influence. The Judge was methodical on maintaining it. It was really quite simple. Any political candidate that wanted their support would have to sign a written pledge that the candidate would support the Klan’s priorities. In return for their pledge, the Klan would campaign for them and, most importantly, give them money under the table. Also, the Klan would secretly discourage people from voting against the Klan’s candidate, and they would also discourage qualified opponents from running.

  But this system was dependent on a large membership, which provided the necessary votes, and money that each member had to pay to be a member. The Judge always exaggerated the membership numbers. He told potential candidates that there were over 100,000 members, and the candidates believed him. This seemed to work for the Judge, but the candidates did notice the lack of money. As a result, the Judge’s influence was slipping.

  They had to figure out a way to increase membership. Ironically, the Sheriff realized that niggers killing white people could be the recipe they needed to increase the membership.

  The Sheriff reflected back on when Junior witnessed his first lynching. He had just turned a teenager. Back then, the Sheriff had a farm, which had a lot of niggers working the farm for him. One of the niggers, Jerome, stole some money from the Sheriff, so the Sheriff had to take action. A group of about twenty Klan members, including Junior, took Jerome to the woods, actually near the place where Lucky was killed, and hung him. Of course, before they hung him, they tortured him. He continued to deny that he stole the money, so the torturing continued.

  The Sheriff was disappointed in Junior because Junior cried and so did some of the other young boys. The Sheriff had whispered sternly to Junior, “Junior, stop that crying. Stop that crying right now.” Junior composed himself and wiped his tears. When the Sheriff got home that night, he took Junior to the garage and whipped him repeatedly with his belt. He yelled, “Don’t you ever cry in front of our friends again. You looked weak. Do you understand?”