My Father and Atticus Finch (22 page)

Foster Beck went to his death in 1973 believing that Charles White had not received justice.

As for my mother, she got a job teaching sixth grade in Montgomery, where she was highly sought after by parents and never forgotten by students. And while she always helped out by contributing part of her salary toward the family's needs, she always kept her own separate checking account.

I
N THE FIRST YEARS
of the new millennium, my family sponsored a series of lectures in honor of Foster Campbell Beck at Emory University. The inaugural speaker was the late Anthony Lewis, the author of
Gideon's Trumpet
, a Pulitzer Prize-winning book on the constitutional right to an attorney of indigent persons accused of serious crimes. Mr. Lewis was followed in succeeding years by Morris Dees, the founder of the Southern Poverty Law Center, a nonprofit organization in Montgomery, Alabama, devoted to fighting bigotry and hate; by Linda Greenhouse, the Supreme Court reporter for the
New York Times
; by Floyd Abrams, defender of the First Amendment, a professor at the Columbia University School of Journalism (and my worthy opponent in a case in which I represented the estate of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and he represented CBS); and finally by the Honorable John Lewis, the civil rights hero. Congressman Lewis, who currently serves the district in Atlanta where I reside, was born in Troy, Alabama, in 1940, a year and a half after the trial of Charles White, Alias.

A
ND SO WE COME
to the end of my father's story, but not to my curiosity about its possible connection with Harper Lee. In June 1992, I wrote to Eugene Winick, Harper Lee's New York literary agent at McIntosh and Otis. Gene and I had been on a fishing trip together in upstate New York, and when I told him about my father's case, he encouraged me to send a letter he could forward to Ms. Lee. Gene responded to me on July 6, forwarding a copy of Ms. Lee's letter to him, dated July 1, 1992.

I take Ms. Lee at her word—that she did not “recall” the case I described to her agent, that
To Kill a Mockingbird
was fiction. I don't doubt that her novel is fiction. But might stories about the Charles White case in Troy have filtered through to Monroeville, also in south Alabama, where Ms. Lee, at the time twelve years old, grew up? And might they somehow have inspired her novel, even though she had no conscious recollection of it sixty-six years later?

In her letter, Ms. Lee expressed skepticism that there would have been any newspaper publicity about my father's case, but having eventually obtained copies of multiple articles, I know for a fact that she was incorrect about that. Not only did the
Troy Messenger
report the arrest of Charles White in the front page article read by my father at the urging of Judge Parks; the
Alabama Journal
, in Montgomery, beneath the prominent all-caps headline “NEGRO ADMITS ATTACK IN TROY,” wrote that a “six foot, 250 pound negro ‘fortune teller' . . . first identified as C. W. White” confessed to attacking a Troy “white girl” and was sent to Kilby prison for his safety “when it became apparent feeling was getting pretty high” in Troy. The Troy and Montgomery newspapers ran other articles about the indictment, trial, sentencing, and execution, some of which I have cited or quoted from. I have heard that Ms. Lee's father was a south Alabama newspaper editor himself, as well as a lawyer; he might well have seen, read, and discussed some of the stories in the Montgomery and Troy papers. And in the South, at least in those days, there were the orally transmitted stories, especially likely to have been told and retold about something as unusual as a white Alabama lawyer vigorously defending a Negro man charged with rape of a white woman; about a trial in which the judge found it prudent to arrange for an armed escort of the Negro defendant back and
forth between the courthouse and a distant prison, then to surround the courthouse throughout the trial with sixteen Highway Patrolmen in order to prevent a lynching. Such a trial likely would have been discussed in south Alabama—perhaps even in Ms. Lee's south Alabama hometown of Monroeville.

Besides the “obvious parallels,” as Ms. Lee wrote, in the two stories, some of the details are similar. The trial of Charles White, a black man charged with raping a white woman, took place in 1938, in a small town in south Alabama; in the 1960 novel
Mockingbird
, the trial of a black man charged with raping a white woman was imagined to have occurred in 1935, just three years earlier, and also in a small town in south Alabama. In both cases there were threats to lynch the accused, prevented in my father's case by the well-publicized presence of the Alabama Highway Patrol, in
Mockingbird
when Scout shamed the mob outside the jail. And in
Mockingbird,
the alleged victim, Mayella Ewell, was a young woman of limited background and education, almost as much to be pitied as condemned, a woman in some ways much like Elizabeth “Cain” Liger.

Dr. Stewart's testimony that Elizabeth Liger was intact differs, of course, from what Harper Lee imagined in
Mockingbird
, where, to the apparent dismay of Atticus Finch, no doctor was even called to examine Mayella Ewell. Interestingly, however, in both the actual case and the fictional one, the alleged victim either did not manifest the physical traumas typical of rape—Elizabeth Liger was intact—or did not engage in intercourse with the defendant at all—Mayella Ewell's father interrupted her attempted seduction of Tom Robinson. Finally, the interactions between the accused men and the alleged victims strike me as an intriguing similarity. Atticus Finch told his jury that Mayella Ewell “did something that in our society
is unspeakable: she kissed a black man.” I think the jury must have believed Elizabeth Liger and Charles White did something unspeakable, even if there was no rape.

There are more trivial similarities. Both lawyers, known to be excellent shots, were nearly blind in one eye, both were men without wives (Atticus was a widower), both were ahead of their times on the subject of race, and both represented poor families, sometimes being paid in produce, which was all that many of their clients could afford during those Depression years.

But there are differences as well: the man Harper Lee imagined as Atticus in
Mockingbird
was a seasoned attorney “of nearly fifty,” while my father was a much younger man. In the aftermath of the fictional case, Bob Ewell's eventual attack on Jem was a personal vendetta, after which Atticus Finch resumed his professional life, whereas my father ultimately lost his law practice.

I have great admiration for Ms. Lee and
To Kill a
Mockingbird—
such a classic that a few years ago, the
New York Times
reported it was still selling some 750,000 copies annually, and that was well before
Go Set a
Watchman
. That same article also reported that Ms. Lee had stopped talking to the press in 1965, and for years, I heard her described as “reclusive.” Still, this reclusive lady notified my client, the publishers Houghton Mifflin, of her support of a widely publicized case I was defending—the alleged copyright infringement of the book and movie
Gone with the Wind
by a parody,
The Wind Done Gone
. This was a surprising move by Ms. Lee—and one much appreciated by me—and I sometimes wonder if my earlier correspondence with her agent played any role in her decision to step forward in such a public way. More likely, she was just sympathetic
to my clients, the publisher and the African American author, Alice Randall, and willing to go on the record in their defense.

So I will leave it at this: as men of courage and conviction, the Atticus Finch of
Mockingbird
and my father were birds of a feather. Alabamians should take pride not only in native daughter Harper Lee, creator of the fictional lawyer who inspired so many, but also in native son Foster Campbell Beck, a real Alabama lawyer.

   Appendix

I
N AN EFFORT
to maintain the pace of the foregoing narrative, I have deferred explaining how I came to discover the facts of the Charles White case. Although I had heard about the case, by the time I began to take a real interest in it, my father was dead. That was when I belatedly realized that I didn't even know the name of his client.

My search began in earnest when I hired someone in Montgomery—I lived in Atlanta by then, and it was before digitization of many public records—to review any mentions of my father or his law firm in cases before the Alabama Supreme Court in the 1930s. I had remembered my father telling me he appealed the case to the Alabama Supreme Court.

An initial discovery was of a case appealing the conviction of an alleged murderer, but a review of the second case,
State of Alabama v. Charles White, Alias
, involving an alleged rape by a black man of a white woman in Troy, Alabama, coupled with the mention of my father's law firm as counsel, left no doubt that this was the one. Now that I had the name of the case and of my father's client, I was able
to obtain, for a modest fee, the search results from the very helpful Alabama Department of Archives and History. The Troy and Montgomery newspapers published a number of articles about the case, which apparently had caused quite a stir in south Alabama, and the Alabama Department of Archives and History had copies of at least some of those articles. (Interestingly to me, the papers carried slightly varied accounts of some of the facts, perhaps because of the need to rely on reports from citizens in the field and to meet press deadlines; for example, in addition to the slight differences in the arrest and indictment dates reported by the
Troy
Messenger
and the
Montgomery
Advertiser
, noted above in the narrative, the
Alabama Journal
described the victim as “a 16 year old” and wrote that “the negro robbed and attacked her after enticing her into a house on the pretext of ‘telling her fortune.' ” Elizabeth Liger testified at trial under oath that she was twenty, and there is no mention of her having been robbed.)

Once again, the Alabama Department of Archives and History, namely Dr. Norwood Kerr, was helpful in tracking documentary items of interest. Dr. Kerr confirmed that he had sent me everything in the Archives about the case, and also confirmed my memory of Hank Aaron's performance for Jacksonville before being called up to the Milwaukee Braves.

Importantly, I obtained from Dr. Kerr a copy of the trial transcript, which included not only the names of the judge, solicitor, alleged victim, and witnesses, but also the witnesses' testimony and the charges by the judge to the jury. I remember the chill that went up my spine when I recognized my father's handwritten notations and signature on the transcript.

I was less successful in obtaining information about the other
principals. I found no mention of the trial judge, William L. Parks, the alleged victim, Elizabeth Liger, or of the Charles White case in the history of Pike County that I purchased from the Troy library. The two references to Solicitor Ewell C. Orme, who prosecuted Charles White, refer to him only as a “Troy attorney” who became president of a fertilizer company in 1952. In a response to my letter of inquiry, a Troy attorney who practiced law with E. C. Orme “for approximately 20 years” wrote that he had no information about the Charles White case, noting that it had been tried and appealed six years before his birth. Correspondence and conversations with others in Troy produced no new information, although I was eventually able to obtain a copy of the jury summons list thanks to a Troy State University professor.

By purchasing a copy of the death certificate, I learned that Elizabeth “Cain” Liger died in a Montgomery hospital on October 28, 1964. The “main cause of death was pulmonary edema caused by ovarian cancer.” Apparently, she never married. A search turned up no heirs, no surviving brothers or sisters, and no reference to her part in the case.

Nor could I find any information about the Charles White case through those who knew my father's law partner, a much older man I only heard referred to as Mr. Yarbrough, in particular what role, if any, he had played in the case. My father's handwritten family history records that after the Troy lawyers “managed to get employed as special prosecutor or used other excuses” to avoid being appointed to defend Charles White, the judge “on a personal basis” asked “my partner and me to defend the case.” Yet other than that sentence (and a mention in the
Messenger
that the day after the trial, Mr. Yarbrough announced they would appeal), I know of no active part he took in the trial.

The two-person law firm Yarbrough and Beck is listed as counsel, but that was the practice then (and often now) when an attorney in a law firm takes a case. I read the reference to “my partner and me” as my father's expression of pride in his law firm, in his new partnership at the firm, rather than as an acknowledgment of any subsequent participation in the case by Mr. Yarbrough. I know from his family history and our conversations that he had tried cases alone prior to the Charles White case.

Mr. Yarbrough was described in an article (publisher unknown), forwarded to me by an Enterprise lawyer who knew him, as a “most civic minded” man who “pushed for the paving of the streets” in Enterprise and who was the first president of the Enterprise Chamber of Commerce and a charter member of the Enterprise Rotary Club; however, there was no mention in the article of any of his accomplishments as a lawyer—which is consistent with my mother's comment to me that Mr. Yarbrough was “more interested in business than in law.” Even his obituary, other than referring to him as a “prominent Enterprise attorney” who served as city attorney for several years, mentions no clients or cases, but instead reports that he was “a charter member of the Enterprise Rotary Club, Shriner, Deacon in the First Baptist Church, first president of the Chamber of Commerce, served several terms as Commander of American Legion Post . . . He played a major part in securing Fort Rucker for this area during World War II.”