Travis pretended to dig through his bag, but eventually he leaned back in the chair and waited for the inevitable. Miss Beamer had resumed typing. After a few more minutes, Travis knew there wasn’t much time left. “Do you have a towel or something, Miss Beamer?” Travis said.
“No, I don’t. And I’m not supposed to leave the room. Security reasons. Can’t she get it?” She gestured toward Hannah.
“Miss Beamer, I think the colored bathrooms are all downstairs, and I need a towel now.”
“They are downstairs, aren’t they? I guess I never thought about it. Can’t you get to the bathroom?”
“No, ma’am, I feel too sick.” He groaned. “Can you get it, ma’am? Please?”
“All right,” she sighed, rising. “I really shouldn’t be doing this. You two don’t move until I get back. Do you understand?”
“I’ll try,” Travis said.
Miss Beamer walked out the door into the hallway. Travis could hear her heels clicking on the floor. When the clicking grew faint, he stood up.
“Find the files,” he said to Hannah, stepping into the hall. “Lock this door, and make sure you get the letter back that I brought. I forged Sam’s signature.” He heard Hannah turn the latch, and he checked to make sure it was locked.
Travis’s first convulsion was a dry heave. He felt his stomach churn and the onset of the queasy feeling he used to get whenever his mother made liver for supper. He was bent over in front of the office door, hands on his knees, when the first of his lunch hit the floor. Then he heard the clicking heels again, and a shriek.
He looked up at Miss Beamer. “Can you get some more towels? I’m sick to my stomach.”
Miss Beamer turned and ran for more towels.
Travis heard several people gasp as they walked into the hall from their offices. He continued to vomit directly in front of the office door. Soon the mess spread across the entire entrance and began to seep under the door. This was even better than he had planned. Travis lay down and tried to block the doorway. He groaned and rolled from side to side as people approached, groaning louder when someone reached for him.
At last Miss Beamer returned, this time with two janitors. “Move him and clean this mess up,” she ordered.
Five to ten minutes had passed, Travis figured. He hoped Hannah had found the files.
The janitors lifted Travis by his arms and placed him in a chair that someone had brought from their office. He leaned forward staring at the floor.
The door opened, and Hannah looked out.
Everyone looked up. She glanced at Travis, then down at the mess. Travis saw the bag in her hand.
“It must’ve been something I had for lunch,” he said.
“Do we need to take you to a doctor?” Hannah asked with concern as she stepped around the mess and set the bag next to Travis.
“No, I’m feeling better already.”
“Let’s hope so,” Miss Beamer said, scowling at the entrance to her office.
Travis rubbed a towel across his forehead. “Thank you, Miss Beamer. I do sincerely apologize for the mess.” After a few minutes, Travis stood up. “I think we better get going. I’m feeling well enough to walk, and the fresh air will do me good.”
“What about your information?” Miss Beamer said.
“Maybe we can come back tomorrow, when I’m feeling better, and try again. Thank you so much, ma’am, for all your help.”
“Don’t come back till you’re fully recovered, young man,” Miss Beamer said almost vehemently.
Travis and Hannah walked downstairs and out the front entrance to the building. The guard had returned to his desk but said nothing as they left.
“Did you find anything?” Travis asked, hurrying down the street.
“Everything I could. Are we felons now?”
“I think so.”
“Maybe we’re the ones that’ll end up in jail.”
“Let’s hurry. We don’t want to miss the train.”
The return trip to Clarksdale was much more relaxed than the morning ride had been. Travis had cleaned up in the station’s washroom, but he was still pale from his self-induced illness; the porter never questioned his need for a nurse-companion. If the porter from the morning had said something, this one kept it to himself.
Hannah sat next to the window, drew the shade, and went to sleep almost as soon as the whistle blew, signaling their departure. That’s what most everyone did on the ride heading north. Travis never opened the files Hannah had taken. A man was sitting across the aisle, and Travis didn’t want to attract anyone’s curiosity, much less risk having to explain what he was reading.
The train rolled on, and Travis watched the sun settle onto the hazy horizon. Empty cotton fields stretched for as far as the eye could see. Dry, rotting stalks awaited the spring, with its renewal of the ritual that dominated the Delta for over a hundred years.
Then he heard up ahead of them a whistle that was more like a howl. With its engine’s wailing whistle and its cars’ yellow accents, the Yazoo and Mississippi Valley Railroad—formerly the Yazoo Delta Railway—was familiar and singular throughout the Delta. Travis knew the railroad better by its nickname, the Yellow Dog. As the train rumbled north toward home, a tune came to mind, and Travis hummed W. C. Handy’s “Yellow Dog Blues.” He mouthed the last line of the song to himself.
“He’s gone where the Southern cross the Yellow Dog.”
A child in the car tried to emulate the train’s whistle, but he could not match its pitch.
Travis’s eyes closed with the setting sun, only to open again, hours later, when the train pulled into Clarksdale.
CHAPTER 33
Stay off of Parchman Farm.
—Booker White
JUDGE BERTRAM LONG REACHED OVER TO HIS nightstand and picked up the phone after the second ring. “Judge Long.”
“Judge, it’s Henry,” the bailiff said.
“What do you need, Henry? It’s almost midnight.”
“Yes, sir, but I wanted to let you know. The jury’s reached a verdict.”
“Good. We’ve got to get this thing over with—but it’s a little late now to reconvene.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Seven-thirty tomorrow morning, in my courtroom.”
“Seven-thirty? We usually—”
“You heard me.” The judge hung up. He quickly called his secretary, who called Sam Tackett and Charlie Usher. The latter then left a message with one of the jail guards to have Luke Williams in the courtroom by 7:15 a.m.
At 7:30 a.m., the courtroom was almost empty: Judge Long, Tackett, Montgomery, Usher, Luke, the bailiff, Sheriff Collins, and the jury sat in silence. The only other person in the courtroom was reporter Lewis Murphree. He sat alone, his notepad open, in the first row behind Tackett.
Judge Long was pleased. The last thing he wanted now was a crowd who might not like the coming verdict. He looked over the silent courtroom, then turned toward the jury. All twelve looked back, awaiting his directions. With so few people, there isn’t any chance of anyone expressing their dissatisfaction with the decision, doing as they’ve done so many times before, turning their emotional discontent into violent physical rage. They can always turn vengeful later, but by then, time will have abated the wounds, and individual reasoning will reign over collective, maniacal thought. If not, they’ll be back in my courtroom. Sitting in Luke’s seat.
“Mr. Ellis,” Judge Long said.
Ron Ellis, the foreman, stood up in the jury box. “Yes, your honor?”
“Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have.”
“Could you please hand your decision to the bailiff.”
Ellis handed a small piece of paper to the bailiff who immediately walked over and handed it to Judge Long. The judge opened and read it, then returned it to the bailiff. Henry handed the paper to Ron, who was still standing in the jury box. Judge Long looked out over the courtroom again. “Will the defendant and counsel please rise.”
Luke and Charlie stood up.
The judge thought Luke looked like he hadn’t slept well. “Mr. Ellis, will you please read the verdict.”
“In the case of the State of Mississippi versus Luke Williams,” Ellis said firmly, “we the jury find the defendant, Luke Williams, not guilty as charged.”
The courtroom was silent. But all eyes slowly turned toward Sam Tackett.
“You may sit down, Mr. Ellis. Thank you.” The judge picked up a pen. “At this time, the jury is dismissed. Thank you for your service to the State of Mississippi.”
No one in the jury moved.
“You may go. Henry, please show them out.”
Slowly, one by one, they stood, and Henry guided them through a side door out of the courtroom. When the last one exited, Judge Long returned to his work and signed several documents.
“What’s going on?” Luke said, to no one in particular.
“You’ve been acquitted of this charge, Mr. Williams,” Judge Long said. “Now we have to figure out what to do about the other charges against you. Mr. Tackett?”
Judge Long had hoped that Sam would drop the indictments and let Luke walk. That’s what he’d have done, because they all knew the confession was inadmissible. And Charlie would make sure Luke pleaded not guilty. But sometimes Sam could be obstinate.
Tackett was infuriated that the jury had acquitted Luke. He looked up and almost sneered at Judge Long. “I just tried a case in which I had an eyewitness, and I couldn’t get a conviction. Do you really think I should pursue the charges when I don’t have any eyewitnesses and a possible inadmissible confession?”
“Did he admit to the crimes?” Judge Long asked.
“Not until after a deputy drew his weapon. Your honor, we can’t move forward without an admissible confession. There’s nothing else.”
“Well, Sam, do I hear a motion to dismiss?”
The prosecutor stared down at his papers. Judge Long knew that Tackett didn’t want to give up, but he had no choice. He might get reelected, now that Luke had been acquitted, plus there’d be other trials. Charlie and Luke were sitting at their table, unemotional, detached.
“I have no choice, your honor. The prosecution asks that the indictments against Luke Williams be dismissed because of insufficient evidence.”
“Motion granted.”
Judge Long watched Charlie lean back in his chair and breathe a sigh of relief. Then Charlie slapped Luke on the shoulder pulling him back from wherever he had gone in his reverie.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Williams,” the judge said.
“It’s over, Luke,” Charlie said. “You won.”
“But how?” Luke asked.
“Because even with a witness,” Tackett said, “I couldn’t convict a white man of killing a black man in Mississippi. I’m either a bad prosecutor or there isn’t an impartial jury to be found in this state.” Tackett’s words trailed off. He threw up his hands at Charlie and Luke, and packed up.
“Reasonable doubt,” Charlie said.
“It’s all speculation at this point,” Judge Long said. “Save it for another venue.”
“What do I do, Judge?” Luke said. “Where do I go?”
“You go home, Luke.” Judge Long was stacking neat piles on his bench.
“But I’m not ready to go home.”
“Well, I don’t care what you do, but you’re not staying in my jail one more day. You’ve been acquitted. Freed. Now go.” The judge motioned for the bailiff to come forward. “Henry, please escort Mr. Williams back to his cell to collect his things. Ensure that he has everything, sign him out, and give him a few dollars to be on his way.” Judge Long reached into his pocket and produced three one-dollar bills. He handed them to Henry. “This should get him started. I don’t want to see him near my courthouse again. You got that, Mr. Williams?”
Luke nodded his head.
Judge Long looked at the small group left in his courtroom. “Court adjourned.” He tapped his gavel one last time.
The handful of men watched while Luke was led through a door near the front of the courtroom. In an instant, he was gone.
“A killer’s walking free,” Tackett said.
“It doesn’t go your way every time,” the judge said. “Sometimes justice isn’t always served the way you expect. But there’s nothing you can do about it now, the jury’s will is done.” Judge Long looked at his watch. “Anyone want a drink?”
“How ’bout two?” Tackett said.
It was 8:25 a.m.
Since the judge had reconvened so early, Sam Tackett had gone straight to the courtroom without stopping by his office. When he returned after having had a shot of bourbon with the judge in his chambers, Tackett poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. Positioned squarely in the center of it was a single file. The other items on the desk had all been cleared away. A handwritten note taped to the front read, “Urgent—Please Read!”
Taking a sip of the bitter coffee, Tackett opened the file and began to scan its contents. After a couple of minutes, he asked his secretary if she had set the file on his desk. She hadn’t. Then he asked her to send for Sheriff Collins and Bill Montgomery. They each appeared within ten minutes.
They sat quietly while Tackett read excerpts from the file. He listed all of Higson’s residences and his activities since he had arrived in the United States, beginning with his original work in New York through his transfer to Clarksdale. The most recent information described in detail how he had managed to pass military secrets to Berlin through the German embassy in Washington, D.C. Every so often, Tackett handed a piece of paper to the coroner or the sheriff.
After a long silence, Tackett said, “He’s not who we thought he was.”
“Well, he’s definitely not one of our most upstanding citizens,” Montgomery said.
“Does anyone remember him moving into town?” Tackett asked. “I surely don’t.”
“He just kind of showed up,” Collins said. “He ain’t even been in Clarksdale that long.”
“Yeah, but he’s been busy,” Tackett said.
“Why hasn’t the FBI picked him up?” Collins said. “This really isn’t our matter.”
Tackett shrugged. “Good point. Maybe we should check with them.”
“Don’t you think they would have said something already if they wanted us to know?” Montgomery said. He sat back in his chair. “What are we going to do, Sam?”
Tackett rubbed his brow. “Nothing, it’s not our jurisdiction. We’re just going to wait for the FBI to call us or come up here to arrest Higson. Frank, why don’t you have someone drive by his house every so often. Just to make sure he’s still around. Or if the professor does head to Oxford, we know of his whereabouts. If I don’t hear from the FBI in a day or two, and Higson’s just going about his business, I’ll call them. The guy’s got no reason to think he’s under suspicion, does he? No reason to run?”
“Not that I know of,” Collins said.
Elma heard the knock and opened the door to find Reverend Coulter standing with his hat in his hand.
“Hello, Elma,” he said. She peered out, not opening the door all the way. “May I come in?”
She didn’t answer, but opened the door wider to allow him to pass. She prayed he wasn’t there for one of his compassionate visits.
“You’re not going to offer me a cup of coffee?”
“Sorry, Reverend. What can I get you?”
“Water is fine.”
Elma poured a glass of water and placed it in front of him at the kitchen table. Then she stood near the window and watched the children out in the yard.
“Elma, have you heard the news?”
“Yes, I know. Luke’s coming home.”
“How did you hear?”
“Just did.” Elma stood with her arms folded, staring out the window. “He’s been gone so long. I’m not sure what it’ll feel like to have him home. Kind of strange at first I guess.” She dabbed at her eyes
with the back of her hand.
“Are you worried?”
“’Bout what?”
“What he’s done.”
“What he’s done? They set him free.”
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t kill anybody, Elma. He confessed to the killings.”
“But the jury—.” She turned to face the reverend.
“Somebody saw him do it. But I guess it doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done, and when he comes home, you’ll be living with a man that’s sinned against God. The only reason he’s not going to Parchman is all those poor souls were black.”
Elma sighed heavily.
Reverend Coulter stood up and took a step toward Elma. “You know there are some things that happened while Luke was away that he shouldn’t know about. You know that, don’t you?”
She folded her arms in front of her again.
“How you strayed, fell outside the favor of the Lord.” He took another step toward her. “Luke would not look kindly on you seeking comfort elsewhere.”
She moved her foot backward but her heel hit the wall.
Coulter grabbed her wrists and brought her arms down to her sides. She tried to struggle free, but her frail arms were useless.
“Please, Reverend.”
They could hear the children outside playing a raucous game of tag. He glanced out the window, then at her.
“You never know what Luke would do if he found out. Maybe hurt one of the children.”
“No, he’d never.”
“You never know what could happen.” One hand was now moving down her back, the other grabbed her tightly around the neck. He pulled her ear to his mouth and ran his lips over it.
She felt sick.
“We’ll get through this,” he whispered. “But believe me, like you believe in the Lord, Luke should never know what happened. What you did.”
She could feel his hand move to her hip and then behind her. She pushed on his wrist. It didn’t help.
He shoved her against the wall.
Not with the children outside. Not now.
Finally, he relaxed his grip and stepped back.
She quickly straightened herself. The children might be in for lunch at any moment.
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