My Father and Atticus Finch

by Joseph Madison Beck

  Judge Parks said that Etta was being held until her trial in the women’s prison near Montgomery, in Tutwiler. He didn’t want her lynched either.

  There would be no call for lynching a rapist who was on his way to the chair, Solicitor Orme assured Judge Parks. As for Etta, she would go up for life as an accomplice to rape, the least she deserved for luring Miss Elizabeth to her house. Turning to Foster, the solicitor winked and asked, are you thinking about defending Etta too, son?

  “Name’s Foster Campbell Beck, not son. Maybe I will. Or maybe under the ethical rules, she’ll need separate counsel.”

  Solicitor Orme was on his feet, his tone angry, threatening. He didn’t need to be told about any ethics by Mr. Foster Campbell Beck.

  Judge Parks chuckled, then calmly admonished both counsel from his swivel chair. He was not wearing his black robe, but in his perfectly starched white shirt and blue silk tie snugged up under his collar, he was, as Foster appraised him, in perfect command of his chambers. He would postpone the trial till the fourteenth; they would strike a jury on the thirteenth. That would give Foster time to see his client again, and Etta to boot.

  Before dismissing the lawyers, Judge Parks reminded Solicitor Orme about the second Scottsboro case, two years earlier.

  Solicitor Orme said of course, he knew about that second Scottsboro case. There would have to be a couple of colored summoned for the panel. But he still had the right to strike peremptorily as well as for cause.

  Foster was not really counting on the Supreme Court’s ruling that Negroes had to be called for possible jury selection. It had not made any difference in south Alabama. No sooner was voir dire commenced than the prosecutor would exercise his challenges and get rid of the Negroes. Women didn’t serve on Alabama juries either, although maybe it was just as well, Foster thought, recalling the coal-black skin and threatening demeanor of his client. He would have to see the warden at Kilby about getting Charles White washed up and shaved and given a haircut before he was sent to Troy to stand trial.

  THE ABILITY of a prosecutor in 1938 Alabama to eliminate African Americans from juries by using peremptory strikes—strikes of a prospective juror without stating a reason—probably comes as no surprise to most people. What may shock, however, is the fact that the practice continued for decades after the Charles White case.

  The 1875 Civil Rights Act prohibited states from discriminating in selection of jurors, and in Strauder v. West Virginia, 100 U.S. 303 (1879), the United States Supreme Court ruled that a state statute limiting jury service to whites violated the equal protection of the laws guaranteed by the Fourteenth Amendment. Despite that promising beginning, however, and notwithstanding the second Scottsboro case (requiring that blacks be called for possible service on grand juries), many district attorneys continued to use peremptory strikes to eliminate any black person from appearing on a petite—a trial jury—especially for a trial of an African American defendant.

  In 1965, almost one hundred years after the Strauder decision and more than a quarter century after the Charles White trial, the Supreme Court addressed the precise issue, but not in a satisfactory manner. Despite the fact that all six African Americans on the prospective juror panel had been struck by the prosecutor, the court said that, absent proof of intentional discrimination, there was no constitutional violation (Swain v. Alabama, 380 U.S. 202, re-hearing denied, 381 U.S. 921 [1965]).

  After considerable criticism—e.g., “Swain v. Alabama: The Use of Peremptory Challenges to Strike Blacks from Juries,” 27 How. L. J. 1571 (1984)—the Supreme Court revisited the issue in Batson v. Kentucky, 476 U.S. 79 (1986), and overruled Swain to the extent that it required proof of intentional discrimination. Where prosecutors methodically eliminated all black jurors through the use of peremptory strikes, the court held that an inference of discrimination would arise, requiring prosecutors to give a non-race-based reason for each strike. Otherwise, the struck potential juror would be placed back on the panel.

  Despite this reform, the Equal Justice Initiative, a nonprofit organization headquartered in Montgomery, Alabama, found, in a paper entitled “Illegal Racial Discrimination in Jury Selection: A Continuing Legacy,” that twenty years after Batson, appellate courts in eight Southern states were still being “forced to recognize continuing problems with racially based jury selection.” Indeed, as recently as November 2015 the Supreme Court heard oral argument on a challenge to alleged racially motivated uses of peremptory challenges.

  And so, of course, no African Americans survived peremptory challenges for the 1938 trial in State of Alabama v. Charles White, Alias.

  Chapter 11

  LAWYERS, whether they handle litigation or transactions, sometimes receive unpleasant news that must be disclosed to the client. For their part, clients sometimes blame the bringer of the bad news. From what my father told me, his next meeting with Charles White in the colored ward at Kilby was initially pretty tense.

  “Shee-uh,” Charles White said when his lawyer told him the State would seek the death penalty. “You told me they might if I don’t leave that confession alone. Now you seem surprised, lawyer Beck.” He gave Foster a contemptuous look through the heavy steel mesh screen that separated them, then rolled his eyes to stare at the discolored ceiling.

  “Without your confession,” Foster said, “they’ll have to prove rape beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  Charles stopped staring at the ceiling and looked at his lawyer. “I told you it didn’t happen like she’s sayin’. I told you the only reason I signed that piece of paper was they promised me I wouldn’t get the rope that night.”

  “So, you don’t want to die?”

  As at their first meeting when Foster asked, “What really happened?” the contempt drained from Charles’s face. “What you sayin’?”

  “I’m saying, if you want to live, you’ve got to help me help you.”

  “You believe me?”

  Foster had suspected that question was coming and had resolved to answer right back without a pause, but still he hesitated at the weight of the moment. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. All that matters is whether they can prove to all twelve of the jury beyond a reasonable doubt that you raped her.”

  “Twelve white men.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Shee-uh,” Charles said, this time more in despair than contempt.

  “Troy’s not as bad as some places. This is Alabama, not Mississippi. I can imagine what you’ve heard it’s like down here, coming from Detroit.”

  “Twelve white men from Dee-troit wouldn’t believe a nigger in a case like this,” Charles said. “If you’d been anywhere you’d know that much.” Charles spat in disgust on the filthy floor, and the white prison guard fingered the trigger of his shotgun. “Anyways, now they want to kill me, I’m gonna say my piece, lawyer Beck. I’m tellin’ that jury what really happened.”

  Foster pursed his lips. “I’m not sure I want you taking the stand.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Foster closed his eyes and frowned. “The State can find out if you’ve been in trouble before. They’ll use it on cross-examination if you take the stand.”

  “No trouble before this.”

  Foster was not convinced. “If they get papers saying you’ve been convicted somewhere, served time, they’ll put that in your face on the stand, and the jury will believe you’re a repeat criminal. That will make them more likely to convict you. But the jury won’t know about any prior trouble if you don’t testify. And you have a constitutional right not to take the stand.”

  Charles White did not do him the courtesy of a nod, much less another word. He just glared. Foster imagined with a shudder how this kind of defiance would play to the jury. Even what Charles did for a living was suspicious: reading cards and telling fortunes for money.

  After another moment, Foster said, “Besides, it won’t be necessary for you to take the stand. I’ve been doing a little asking around. I talked to someone who talked to D
r. Stewart, the examining physician.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said that biologically, she’s still a virgin.”

  Chapter 12

  IN 1915, the boll weevil—an insect indigenous to Mexico that destroys cotton bolls before they ripen—stormed into south Alabama, having already ravaged Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi. Within three years, entire cotton fields had been laid waste. Desperate, south Alabama farmers planted peanuts, a crop that proved to be a godsend: the combination of sandy soil, lots of sunshine, and the imperviousness of the peanut plant to the boll weevil brought prosperity to the region, nowhere more than in and around Enterprise.

  This history was told and retold throughout my boyhood—after all, I was born in Enterprise, even though I grew up in Montgomery. What I remember best is the way Enterprise memorialized the boll weevil’s contribution. It was even reported in my elementary school Weekly Reader, the only mention that I recall of anything about Alabama in any Weekly Reader: the true story of the creation and dedication of a sculpture of a female nymph holding over her head a pedestal on which was mounted a much larger-than-life replica of a Mexican boll weevil. The inscription read: “In Profound Appreciation of the Boll Weevil and What it has Done as the Herald of Prosperity, This Monument was Erected by the Citizens of Enterprise, Coffee County, Alabama.” Enterprise’s humorous veneration of the boll weevil contrasted with the most famous monument in Troy: a statue of John Wilkes Booth. People said the different monuments illustrated that the distance between Troy and Enterprise was greater than thirty-seven miles.

  “TROY’S LIKE BABYLON,” Bertha said. She and Foster were standing in line outside the Methodist church in Enterprise, waiting their turn to shake hands with the preacher. Bertha was alluding to the sermon they had just heard, which praised Daniel for gaining permission from his Babylonian captors to forgo the meat and wine apportioned him by King Nebuchadnezzar and take only the food and water consistent with his faith. “Compared to Troy, Enterprise is Jerusalem,” Bertha said.

  “Bertha, you’ve never even been to Troy.” Foster’s tone was impatient. Bertha had made him waste part of his Sunday morning, convincing him to come to church with her by talking up the visiting minister, an Emory theology school graduate. In Foster’s opinion, the sermon had not been worth the sacrifice.

  “True,” Bertha admitted, as they strolled from the Methodist church toward the commercial center of Enterprise. “I haven’t been to Troy, but I can contrast it with Enterprise just by their monuments. Enterprise has its boll weevil. Troy has that awful statue of John Wilkes Booth. I don’t need to go to Troy to see it. I’ve read and heard all about it. It’s the only one in the nation, North or South, Foster.”

  “Troy’s still not Babylon, and I’m not Daniel,” he interrupted, heading off an anticipated analogy to the lion’s den and his upcoming defense of Charles White. When Bertha remained silent, he pursued it. “You are uninformed about Troy, Bertha. That monument to John Wilkes Booth was not commissioned by the town and never was installed on public property. I think you missed the point.”

  “And I think you missed the point, Foster.” Now it was Bertha who was interrupting. “Daniel, a slave, triumphed over mighty King Nebuchadnezzar. And I thought you would like that, the underdog winning over a king.”

  Winning over king or a judge, Foster thought—only now, a jury as well. He decided this was as good a time as there was going to be to bring up the dramatic change in the case of State of Alabama v. Charles White, Alias. “You remember my telling you about the Troy case, the alleged rape?” He knew she remembered. He knew that was why she brought up Troy being like Babylon; she was still hoping to talk him out of taking the case.

  “Of course I remember.”

  “Well there’s been a little change in the plan. The State isn’t going to try to use the confession.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means there will be a trial. Now they’ll have to prove he did it.”

  “I’m not following you. I thought there was going to be a trial, all along, and that was why you would have to go to Troy.”

  “Bertha.” He caught his impatience and took a deep breath. She might have wanted to be a lawyer, but she was not one. “Before, it was just about deciding how much time he would serve for a crime he confessed to. That decision would have been made privately, in the judge’s chambers. Now the State can’t use the confession, so there’s the whole question of whether he did it. Charles told me it didn’t happen the way she said. I think the confession was coerced.”

  “Why Foster!”

  “Bertha, before you tear off on a tangent about how this case will destroy my law practice, you should know I can prove there was never any rape.” He stopped and waited.

  “Then he’s innocent?”

  “Yes.” Foster was not quite as sure as he sounded. His client was innocent of violent, forcible rape: that much was clear from the examination by Dr. Stewart. Miss Elizabeth was not only intact; there were no signs of blood or bruising—though it could come down to how the law defined rape. “I’m certain he’s innocent of what he is charged with.”

  “Why Foster, then I think you are noble to defend him!” She clasped his hand and squeezed. Her eyes widened and glistened.

  Her reaction caught him off guard. She had originally urged him not to represent a confessed Negro rapist, even though it would have been done privately, in chambers, because the word would still get around and hurt his career. But now that he would be defending the same man in a very public trial that everyone in south Alabama would hear about, she was delighted, and simply taking his word, without more, that Charles was innocent, making it unnecessary to go into detail about the evidence of Miss Elizabeth’s virginity, something he had been dreading having to do with her.

  And she had called him noble. Her praise lifted his spirits, renewed his determination. For a moment, it was not only about his beloved Constitution; he also must not disappoint Bertha. Pulled by a tide of unaccustomed emotions, he decided to retreat to a neutral topic. “I always thought Troy was treated unfairly in the press and that our boll weevil monument was a little silly.”

  “And I think it is a delightful homage to the peanut!” Bertha said, still holding his hand.

  Chapter 13

  THE PROMINENCE of the peanut in my boyhood calls to mind a cherished Beck family document, a letter received by my grandfather, Mr. M. L., from Dr. George Washington Carver. I believe my father first showed the letter to my mother at or about the time he told her the case would be going to trial. I know that just before the trial, he was required to pay a visit to Mr. M. L., and my guess is that he would have shown my mother the letter as a way of explaining his father, a man she did not particularly care for and was a little intimidated by. Given that my mother’s own father had named his firstborn son Abraham Lincoln and his second William Seward, along with his sympathy for the imprisoned Socialist Eugene Debs, I think my father wanted to show her the letter out of pride in his own family’s progressive credentials.

  “Speaking of the boll weevil statue and the peanut, there’s something I’ve been meaning to show you, Bertha, if you will stop by my office for a minute. It’s a letter to Daddy from Dr. George Washington Carver. You’ve heard of Dr. Carver at Tuskegee?”

  “Of course, Foster. He’s the colored man who figured out all the uses for the peanut. Everyone’s heard of the wonderful Dr. Carver.”

  Foster knew that not everyone who had heard of Dr. Carver thought it was wonderful for a Negro to rise so high on his intellect, but he no longer wanted to argue and pick at Bertha; instead, he wanted to bask in her praise of him for sticking with Charles White while also subtly showing off his own family. “Well, Bertha,” he said, still holding her hand, “all the talk about Dr. Carver caught Daddy’s ear. He wanted to meet the man himself. Daddy used the occasion of having to fetch Frances from Eclectic—it was back when you two were teaching there before moving to Ent
erprise. He checked the road and figured he could go by Tuskegee and still get to Eclectic before night.”

  “You think Mr. M. L. just wanted to see for himself a really, really smart colored man?” Bertha teased.

  “Daddy didn’t go see Dr. Carver thinking he was going to see a curiosity,” Foster said, releasing her hand. He wanted to explain his father to Bertha; he wanted her to respect him, even if she did not especially like him. “Daddy fancies himself as someone like Dr. Carver—an intellectual, but the useful kind.” Foster opened the door to his office and held it for Bertha.

  “Daddy likes to write articles and correspond with interesting people, colored or white, all over the country,” Foster said. “I’ve been meaning to show you this letter. Daddy got it from Dr. Carver after he wrote an article about him in the Troy Messenger. Daddy lent me the letter and I keep it here in the office.” Foster reached into a cubicle of his father’s old rolltop desk, took out the letter, and handed it to Bertha.

  Mr. M. L. BeckJune 5, 1934

  Glenwood, Ala.

  My dear Mr. Beck,

  Your much appreciated greetings along with your write up in “The Troy Messenger” has just reached me.

  In your beautiful and fascinating article it is difficult for me to realize that I am the subject of such a splendid article.

  I wish I could live within hailing distance of the many lovely things you have said about me.

  I am especially glad to get in touch with you, as I do not recall our having spent a more delightful, pleasant, and profitable hour, than with you.