The Road to Memphis (18 page)

“Boy, we already know that!”

“Got no choice, Moe,” said Willie urgently. “You gotta run, man. They catch up with you, you could be swinging from a tree, and there won’t be no questionin’ that, one of them Aames boys die.”

Moe glanced from Willie to Stacey. “I leave from here, I be running the rest of my life. Can’t never come back—”

“Better that,” I said, “then never being able to leave at all.”

Moe looked at me, then said to Stacey, “Just take me over to talk to him, will ya? I gotta know if there’s another way.”

“There’s not.”

“I’m asking ya.”

“You wrong. There’s no other way—”

“Then I be the one that pay. Can’t leave knowing I ain’t tried.”

Stacey stared at Moe as if he would like to have just knocked him out and put him on that train. “All right, I’ll take you to see him. But you got to promise me something, Moe.”

“What’s that?”

“Things don’t work out with Mr. Jamison, you going to get on that train and leave.”

“Won’t be nothing much else I can do.”

Stacey and I went back inside the cafe to tell Oliver that Moe had arrived and that we were headed for Mr. Jamison’s. “Check the train schedules, will you?” Stacey asked him. “I figure we’ll have to head on there afterward. We’ll pick up some of Moe’s things from Mrs. Stalnaker’s, then we’ll go.” He looked around. “Where’s Clarence?”

“Lying down in back. Want me to get him?”

“Naw, let him rest,” said Stacey.

Oliver followed us out and greeted Moe, hidden in the shadows beyond the corners of the cafe. Then, as he moved back toward the door, he said: “I’ll see y’all back here in another hour or so.”

The rest of us got into the Ford and headed for Mr. Jamison’s widowed sister’s house, where Mr. Jamison resided when practicing law in Jackson. Because Stacey and I had been there once before when Stacey had made a payment on his car, we knew what to expect. Houses were huge and set back on deep lawns that were lush and meticulously mowed. Folks that lived on that plush street seemed civil enough; still they had stared curiously that time we had come, for colored folks, except for
domestics, were a rarity and not welcomed in white neighborhoods. I was not looking forward to going there again.

When we reached the house, Stacey turned off the engine, then looked back at Moe. “Why don’t you wait here?” he said. “I’ll go in and talk to Mr. Jamison.”

“I’ll go with you,” I volunteered.

“Maybe I best go in myself,” said Moe.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said. “The law, it’s a funny thing, Moe, and Mr. Jamison being a lawyer and all, he might have to tell somebody about seeing you.”

Stacey agreed. “Best you stay here.”

“Yeah, y’all go on,” instructed Little Willie. “I’ll keep the boy company. And hurry back, will ya?” He glanced nervously at the street. “Don’t want to be sitting up here too long.”

Moe said nothing further. He seemed tired of arguing. Stacey and I got out of the car, passed by the front door, and walked up the darkened drive to a side door and rang the bell. A few moments passed, then we heard footsteps. The door swung open, and a woman, gray haired and middle-aged, stared out at us, a curious look on her face. “Yes?” she said.

“We . . . we’re here to see Mr. Jamison,” said Stacey. “Name’s Logan. Stacey and Cassie Logan.”

“David Logan’s children?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She peered out and studied us closely. “Oh, yes, I remember your father. Come in. I’ll tell my brother you’re here.”

She pushed the screen door open, and we stepped inside. Leading us down a softly lit hallway, she ushered us into a comfortable room with deep-set sofas and a fire burning brightly in the hearth. Mr. Jamison, standing behind a huge desk, was talking on the telephone. He looked over as we entered. He
didn’t seem surprised to see us. He motioned us to sit down, then continued his conversation. His sister left the room. We continued to stand. When Mr. Jamison hung up, he said, “Am I correct in assuming you’ve come about Moe?”

“You heard, then?” said Stacey.

Mr. Jamison nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, we were wondering . . . what’s the best thing for him to do?”

“Assuming he happens to show up here?”

“Yes, sir . . . assuming that.”

He motioned again for us to sit, and this time we did. He sat across from us. “Well, I’d say that’ll partly depend on how the Aames boys fare, and at this point it looks as if Troy might not make it. He was hurt pretty bad.”

“But what if he pulls through? What if they all pull through?” “If Moe’s in custody, he’ll still most likely have to go to jail.”

I leaned toward him. “Even though it was Statler and them that started it all? Mr. Jamison, you know Moe. You know how hard he works. He minds his own business and doesn’t go out looking for trouble. He was thinking on joining the Army, was figuring on trying to get to be an officer or maybe get some pilot training or something like that. He always figured to make something of himself. But today Statler Aames and them, they were teasing at him, like they teased at Clarence, and he had that crowbar, and he just hauled off and hit them with it. He shouldn’t’ve done it—he knows that—but they pushed him into it. Now he’s trying to do the right thing. He doesn’t want to run. He—” Nothing in Mr. Jamison’s face changed; yet I knew I had slipped and said too much. From what I had said, Mr. Jamison had to know that we had seen Moe since the incident in Strawberry. I glanced at Stacey,
but it was too late to correct myself now, so I just went on. “He was figuring that maybe if Staller Aames and them were all right and seeing this here’s Jackson, not back down in Strawberry, maybe things wouldn’t go so bad for him.”

Mr. Jamison considered. “Even if Moe were to go to the Jackson police, he’d still have to stand trial in Strawberry.”

I sighed. “Then he’s got no chance.”

Mr. Jamison’s lawyer eyes studied me. “I know you’re interested in the law, Cassie. I’m sure you already know that the law can sometimes be a tough thing. As a lawyer I often find that giving advice can be a tough thing too. What I’m telling you and Stacey now is some legal advice mixed with a good measure of common sense. If you’re asking me strictly about the law concerning Moe’s situation, I have to tell you what the law says. Any man who raises his hand against another man and injures him must be held accountable. If you’re asking what Moe should do, then I feel obliged to tell you that the law is an imperfect piece of machinery and not blind to color, not here in Mississippi. The law here is bound by race. No matter what Moe’s defense, his being a Negro will affect what happens to him. Yes, he could go to the police, but as the law stands and as Mississippi justice stands, he would go to prison.”

“What if . . . Could you help him?”

“I could defend him, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, what . . . what about if he goes north?”

Stacey moved uneasily and cast me a harsh look. Mr. Jamison took note and was silent for some moments. He seemed to be pondering his answer. “Most likely he’d be better off,” he finally said.

He had spoken the truth, and Stacey and I both knew it. There was nothing further to discuss. We started to get up. Mr. Jamison stopped us. “My secretary said that they’re still
searching for Moe around Strawberry, but they’re thinking he might be out of the county by now.”

I tried to keep from looking at Stacey. I tried to keep that same lawyer face Mr. Jamison showed when he knew a secret and wasn’t about to tell.

“There’s been some speculation on how he might have gotten out and who might have helped him. Either someone took him without knowing the trouble Moe was in, or someone knew the trouble but took him anyway. The sheriff has even suggested that Moe could have gotten a ride with someone headed for Jackson . . . such as myself—”

I leaned forward. “Mr. Jamison, they don’t think you—”

Mr. Jamison smiled thinly. “No, Cassie. My sister and another lady accompanied me back to Jackson, and there’s no questioning the word of those two fine ladies. Statler, though, thinks it was Harris Mitchum who helped Moe get away. In fact, some men have already been to Harris’s grandmother’s place looking for him—”

“They get him?” I asked, my lawyer poker face gone.

“No. He wasn’t there.”

I was relieved, and I didn’t care if Mr. Jamison knew it.

Stacey stood, and I got up too. “We thank you, Mr. Jamison,” he said, “for taking the time to talk to us.”

Mr. Jamison shook Stacey’s hand. “You have any more questions, you come back.”

“Yes, sir, we’ll do that. We’re obliged.”

Mr. Jamison waved away any obligation with a slight motion of his hand and saw us out. He walked us down the front hallway to the front door. Stacey glanced out into the night. “Maybe . . . maybe, Mr. Jamison, it be best we leave the way we come.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Jamison and turned on the porch light
as if he had no fear of eyes watching in the night, seeing colored folks walking out his front door. “Watch your step, now.”

We said good-bye and returned to the car. Moe and Little Willie didn’t ask any questions, and Stacey and I said nothing until we were out of that neighborhood. Just being there made us nervous. Once we were back on the main street, we told Moe everything Mr. Jamison had said. Moe’s first thoughts were of Harris. “They . . . they think it was Harris helped me, then he in ’bout much trouble as I am.”

“They haven’t caught up with him yet,” I said. “Maybe they won’t.”

“And what ’bout Jeremy?” said Moe. “What if they find out it was him, and he faces trouble after what he done for me?” None of us answered. “Maybe . . . maybe I oughta think of going back.”

I turned all the way around in my seat so I could look straight at him. “Are you crazy? Boy, you can’t go back there!”

“May be the only way to keep Harris outa trouble. Jeremy too.”

“Make sense, man!” admonished Little Willie. “Shuckies, Harris’ll be all right! They ain’t got him, and no doubt he hid good by now. And as for Jeremy, that’s his family, man! He one of ’em! They ain’t gonna hurt him!”

“But—”

“Moe.” Stacey was looking at him in the rearview mirror. “Forget it, Moe. You’re not going back.”

Moe said nothing and looked out into the night. Stacey drove on. A block from Rose Street a lanky figure stepped into the street and waved us down. It was Oliver, and Clarence was with him.

Stacey rolled down the window. “What is it?”

“Man, the police, they been up to Miz Stalnaker’s,” said Clarence. “Best not go up there.”

“Yeah,” continued Oliver. “Got a call from Miz Stalnaker, and she said don’t bring Moe there. Seem that Strawberry sheriff called up here about Moe.”

“Well, then, we’ll just take Moe right on to the train,” said Willie.

“Wouldn’t advise it. Miz Stalnaker said they know he’s here, they know he’ll wanna get out. Said they could be keeping an eye on both the train and the bus station.”

Little Willie, sitting directly behind Stacey, leaned forward. “Well, what we gonna do, Stace?”

Stacey glanced at the silent Moe, then checked the street. “This here’s no place to talk. Let’s go back to the cafe.”

“Yeah, you right,” Oliver agreed as he and Clarence moved away. “See y’all there.”

When we got to the cafe, Stacey looked around cautiously, then parked several buildings down. Oliver and Clarence passed us, parked as well, and we all got out. We met, shielded by the night and the broken streetlight overhead.

“So,” said Oliver, “what we doing?”

“If the police are watching the train and the bus station,” said Stacey, “then I figure the best thing to do is to drive Moe out myself.”

Moe spoke for the first time since we had learned about the police. “No, Stacey, I won’t let you do that.”

“No other way. I’ll drive you to Memphis, and you can get a train from there to Chicago and Uncle Hammer. Once you in Chicago, you don’t have to worry. They’ll have a hard time getting you there.”

“Look, it’s me in trouble, and I got no right bringing y’all in it. You got any idea what’ll happen if we get picked up?
You’ll be going to jail too! No, sir! I’m not gonna let ya do it!”

Stacey turned back to the Ford.

Moe grabbed his arm. “Stacey, you hearing me?”

“Well, what you going to do, then?” Stacey asked him. “Stay here and let them take you back? You want to go to jail? Man, what’s the matter with you? You want to end up like T.J.?” After those words, Stacey looked around fiercely as Moe released his arm, then was silent. We all were silent at the mention of T.J. Avery. All of us except Oliver had known T.J. well. All of us except Oliver had grown up with him and had witnessed the day he had been taken off to prison at the age of fourteen for, supposedly, killing a white man.

Finally, Moe broke the silence. Slowly shaking his head, he sighed and said, “No . . . no, that’s not what I want.”

“Then you going to have to go.”

Little Willie looked anxiously across the street, where a car had slowed. “Well, looka here, we can’t be standing up here all night jawing ’bout the thing.” The car drove on, and he looked back at Moe. “We gotta move!”

“I just can’t have y’all in trouble on my account. Y’all done risked enough as it is.”

“Seem to me,” said Stacey, “I’ve been in trouble on your account before, and you been there, too, on account of me, so don’t fight me on this, Moe. We got no time to fight.”

I hooked my arm with Moe’s. “Well, whatever y’all finally decide to do, I’m going with you.”

“Ah, naw, Cassie,” said Stacey. “Naw, you’re not. Papa and Mama would skin me alive, I took you with me and anything happened—”

“But you’re going—”

“Look, Cassie, I get into trouble, I got only me to worry
about. You be with me, I’m going to have to worry about you too.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself. Besides, if I’m with you, it might make things easier.”

“She got a point,” said Oliver. “If police start looking, they won’t be looking for a girl traveling with Moe.”

Stacey was still against it.

“Ah, man,” said Willie, “you know you ain’t gonna get no peace ’less you let her go. We all watch out for her, ’cause we goin’ too.”