Where Southern Cross the Dog (11 page)

“People do strange things. I'm surprised every time I read the paper.”

“We'll just have to wait and see. Nobody really knows anything for sure yet.”

“Oh, I almost forgot to ask you,” Hannah said, turning to look closely at him. “There's a party in two weeks. Would you like to go?”

“Another one? Sure.”

“It may be a little wild.”

Travis nodded. “Okay with me. But not wild like your other party? My legs don't need any adjustments. I like the way they work right now.”

“Well, that all depends on you.” Hannah smiled at him.

Travis looked around but still couldn't figure out what to expect. He leaned over to Hannah and said, “What are we doing at the top of the levee?”

“Just watch.”

A truck that had been parked by the church pulled up at the bottom of the levee. The driver got out and unloaded a small barrel, some burlap sacks, and some baling wire. Then he reparked the truck by the church.

“What are they doing?” Travis said.

“Ssshhhhh,” Hannah said.

Six men whom Travis recognized from the picnic gathered around the barrel. Each one took a sack and carefully cut the burlap, rolling it into a tight ball. Next they took the wire and, working in pairs, wound the wire around the burlap and tightened it with pliers. Then the balls were dropped in the barrel, which seemed to contain some kind of liquid. Just as they finished rolling the sixth and final ball, the last vestiges of sunlight winked and disappeared. It was pitch dark now. No moon, no lights of any kind.

The picnickers' voices slowly lowered to whispers and then drifted away altogether. “Is everyone ready?” a voice shouted from down below.

“Yeah!” everyone yelled, especially the children.

Travis saw the single, small flame of a match, then the area below the levee erupted in an explosion of light and fire as each man took a burlap ball from the barrel and ignited it. When the last one was lit, the whole area was ablaze.

The children screamed with delight when the balls were lit, their excitement rising by the second. The men formed a ring and tossed the balls between them, throwing them higher each time.

“How do they do that?” Travis asked in astonishment.

“The burlap was soaked in kerosene.”

“No, how can they hold onto them?”

“They're farmers. Their hands are so callused they can't feel the heat, and they don't hold the balls long enough to burn themselves. A couple of them are probably wearing gloves. These are homemade fireworks.”

The flaming balls flew in arcs through the night sky, like falling stars racing in the heavens. The sight was breathtaking.

Travis turned and looked at Hannah. Her face was beaming with delight. The light of the blazing spheres and their fiery tails flickered and danced in her eyes. Only she was more beautiful.

Travis grabbed her hand. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Hannah smiled and squeezed Travis's hand in return, never taking her eyes off the spectacle.

In his subterranean laboratory, at close to three in the morning, Conrad Higson spread the broken and disparate pieces of various metals onto a cloth that covered the entire surface of his desk. He picked up the first one and held it in both hands. The curved blade, thirty inches long, was one of a dozen that had made up the mechanism of his nonfunctioning harvester that chopped off the top of
the cotton stalk. The blade was made from a material being tested extensively at the University of Illinois. It had several military applications, including tank treads, ship decking, and, possibly, helmets. Higson meticulously examined each piece of metal, scribbled down a number of calculations, and handwrote a comprehensive analysis in his scientific journal. His notes included detailed formulas for estimating the strength-to-weight ratio, shear strength, and ductility, among other material properties; likewise, he included potential causes of failure and comparisons to other materials.

His analysis continued past daybreak and into midmorning. When he was finally done, he placed his journal, drawings, and a short letter in a box, which he then sealed and addressed to his contact in Washington, who would make sure it was delivered to the right Nazi official in Germany.

Higson was very pleased with himself for conceiving the idea of using the mechanized cotton harvester as a research tool for Germany's war effort. He hoped the reinstatement committee would also think it was clever.

It was nearly noon when the professor climbed out of his laboratory, placed the box on the kitchen table, and collapsed on his bed, where he slept for ten uninterrupted hours.

Got me accused for murder.

—Roosevelt Sykes

JUDGE LONG RETURNED TO HIS CHAMBERS FROM THE county courtroom and removed his robe, hanging it carefully in a small cabinet. He opened a desk drawer and removed a bottle of bourbon and a glass. He filled the glass one-third full, capped the bottle, and placed it back in the drawer. He took a sip, and sat back in his chair. It had been another hard day on the bench.

He gazed out the window, daydreaming. Breaking his reverie, his secretary poked her head in the office. “Judge, Mr. Tackett is here to see you.”

“Did he have an appointment?”

“Yes, sir. He's here at your request.”

“Oh, that's right,” the judge said without taking his eyes off the scene outside his office window. “Send him in, please.”

“Come in, Sam,” Judge Long said after hearing him knock gently on the door.

“Good afternoon, Judge,” Tackett said.

The judge stood up to greet him. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, sir.”

“I heard about the scuffle,” the judge said, while shaking hands. “How's the deputy?”

“He's recovering. Nasty little gash, but he'll be all right.”

“Have a seat,” the judge said. He motioned toward a high-backed leather chair to his left.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Would you like a drink?” He held up his glass.

“No, thank you, Judge.”

The judge sat behind a large mahogany desk that seemed to stretch almost the entire width of the room. It was sparsely decorated with a lamp, an ashtray, three pictures, and several stacks of papers.

“Why don't you give me a few details,” the judge said. “What went on down there the other day during Luke Williams's statement?”

“Sheriff Collins and Bill Montgomery were taking his confession, and he got a little agitated. They got things under control pretty quickly. I wasn't actually in the room when it started.”

“Agitated? It was a little more than that, wasn't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He ever ask for an attorney?”

“Collins said he didn't want one.”

“But he could have provided him with one or at least some help. All I know is I've had several calls from folks wanting to know if Luke had some legal assistance. And a slew of others who said we're not sentencing a white man for what he's done without a trial. In fact, Congressman Morley called to make sure we're having a trial and that he gets fair representation. I assured him we were. Some folks even think Luke may have been justified.” The judge took a sip of his drink.

“We wouldn't normally provide any legal counsel to—”

“It doesn't matter, Sam. I've taken enough calls already. We're not going to argue about this. Everyone in the county who's aware of this thinks he should have had some representation. And that's good enough for me.”

There was another knock at the door. “Sir, Charlie Usher has arrived,” the judge's secretary announced.

The judge motioned for her to send him in.

Charlie Usher entered and the three men exchanged handshakes and greetings. Charlie sat down in a chair across from Tackett.

“Drink, Charlie?” the judge asked, pouring a little more bourbon into his own glass.

“No, thank you, Judge,” Charlie said.

“You still wearing those old dark suits, Charlie,” the judge said, “and keeping that hair short?”

“It's hot out, Judge. These suits may be thin from too many cleanings, but they're cool.”

“I'm glad you're here,” the judge said. “We were just about to get to you.” The judge sat up in his chair and picked up a pencil. “Here's what I'm going to do. I'm appointing Charlie as Luke's attorney for the trial.”

“Luke Williams?” asked Charlie.

“That's right,” the judge said.

“But Judge—” Tackett said.

“I don't have time to debate this. We're not sentencing a white man for killing a black in this town without a trial, confession or no confession. Not now and not while I'm taking calls from congressmen. Got it?”

“Judge, one question about the trial,” Tackett said. “Will the confession be admissible?”

“I don't know yet. We'll have a pretrial hearing to discuss it.”

Charlie protested. “I've never defended in a murder trial, Judge. I have very little experience in this area.”

“Did you go to law school?” the judge asked.

Charlie nodded.

“Then you'll do fine. A trial's a trial.”

Tackett and Charlie both grimaced.

“Charlie, you understand what I need from you?” the judge said, finishing his bourbon.

“I think so.”

“Well, in case you don't, let me explain it clearly. I need you to defend this man and see if you can get an acquittal. That should be easy enough, right? A lot of people will be watching this trial, so you need to represent Luke adequately.” Judge Long slid a file across his desk. “Read this; it'll tell you what you need to know for now.”

Charlie picked up the file and jotted down notes.

“Sam,” Judge Long continued, “prepare the paperwork. I want the grand jury convened tomorrow morning at eight and the indictments issued. We'll arraign at one in the afternoon.” He stood to leave. “Now, gentlemen, I'm going home. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Judge,” Charlie said, packing up his papers and preparing to leave. “Which indictment will we try first?”

“Sam, got any preference?” the judge asked.

“How about all together?” Tackett said.

Charlie laughed. “Never.”

“Pick one,” the judge said. “And let us know soon.”

All three men exited the courthouse. The judge said his good-byes and left them on the front lawn.

“You better talk to your client tonight,” Tackett said. “Tell him what to expect, and why we're having a trial.”

“
I'm
not even sure what to expect.”

At precisely 7:05 p.m., the jailer rattled his keys against the bars that kept Luke Williams from the rest of the world.

“Wake up in there,” he said.

“I'm awake,” Luke answered from the darkness. His voice was scratchy and hoarse.

“You've got a visitor,” the jailer said.

“Who's that?”

“You'll see.”

The cell door swung open, and Charlie Usher stepped from behind the jailer and entered the cell. He held a chair, which he placed in front of Luke's bed.

“Do you need me to stay?” the jailer asked, closing the cell door but not locking it.

“No,” Charlie said.

“I'll check back in a few minutes.”

“I'll need about thirty.”

Charlie had checked the cells on either side of Luke's, and they were empty. If they spoke softly their voices wouldn't travel far. Charlie wanted to meet where Luke was most comfortable. It would keep him calm. “‘Evening, Luke,” Charlie said.

“Who are you?” He sat up and hung his legs over the side of the bed.

“I'm Charlie Usher, your lawyer.” Charlie held out his hand. “Appointed by Judge Long to represent you.”

Luke reluctantly shook it. “What do I need a lawyer for?”

“Like I said, I'm going to defend you at trial. Did you think you were gonna defend yourself?”

Luke looked at him suspiciously. He pulled a cigarette from a small pack, scratched a match on the bed frame, and drew deeply. “But I already told them everything.”

“Yeah, I know, but you need a lawyer anyway. Speaking of what you told them, did you ask for a lawyer when they were taking your statement? When you were telling them about the murders?”

“Kind of. I knew they wouldn't get me one. I told them to ask me later, but later never came.”

Charlie angled his legal pad to catch the small amount of light coming from the hallway. “Well, someone thought you were serious, so here I am.”

“How do I get rid of you?”

“You can ask the judge to appoint you a new one, but I don't think he will. You're better off just sticking with me for now.”

As he wrote, Charlie could feel Luke's stare through the smoky haze. He knew he was Luke's only option for legal representation—with or without Luke's approval. “Tomorrow we go to court, and you'll be formally charged with the murders. Then we'll enter a plea of not guilty.”

“How can I do that? I already said I did it.”

Charlie shifted in his chair. “That's okay. We can still plead not guilty. We're going to ask that the confession be ruled inadmissible. I think we've got cause. Did you know the FBI is involved?”

“No. Am I famous?”

“A little.”

“They were there during your statement. Saw what went on. In fact, one of them shot you.”

Luke held up his arm.

“And of course the victims themselves. They're drawing some attention.”

“'Cause they're black.”

“Yeah. Lot of people don't think a white man should go to jail for something like that.”

“What do you think?”

“Doesn't matter what I think. My job is to defend you against the charges. So, are we going to plead not guilty?”

“What if I don't?”

“Well, it works like this. If you plead guilty to the murders tomorrow at the arraignment, there is no trial. The only thing a judge will do, a few days to a week after the arraignment, is to convene a jury,
which will determine your sentence. Could be a prison term or the death penalty. But if you plead not guilty, then we'll go to trial to determine whether you're guilty or innocent. If you're guilty, again, you could get a prison term at Parchman Farm or the death penalty. But they find you innocent, you go free.”