by Casey Cep
That news went national almost instantly, and when it hit Alexander City, everyone in town assumed the book in question was The Reverend. Tom Radney had died on August 7, 2011, and for his family it was bittersweet to think that Lee was finally going to share his story with the world. A year before her stroke, his son, Thomas, had run into Harper Lee at the University of Alabama. When his father heard about the encounter, Big Tom wrote Nelle a note. “The years are getting by,” he said, “and I would very much like to see you again before the grim reaper comes for either of us.”
Lee responded to say, “It was a delight to see young Thomas—he has grown considerably since I last saw him!” He had indeed. Thomas, now a lawyer himself and practicing in the Zoo, had been only a few feet tall when Lee was reporting in Alex City, but by the time she sent that letter, he had children of his own. Together with their cousins and their aunts—who, like Thomas, had all stayed in Tallapoosa County—they could field two football teams, and did: every year, right before Christmas, the family gathered for a tradition known as the Radney Bowl. Three decades had passed since Lee had moved into a cabin on Lake Martin and Big Tom had won Robert Burns an acquittal. “Can’t believe you’ve got high-school grandchildren,” she wrote. “You and Madolyn must be walking on sticks now.”
Lee said nothing in that letter about Willie Maxwell, nothing of the briefcase full of files Radney had given her all those years earlier, nothing of The Reverend, nothing of nothing. Whatever a writer might owe her sources, Lee hadn’t delivered much of anything, even an explanation. She had, though, given the Radneys a mustard-seed-size reason to maintain their faith that she would write their story. After Big Tom died and the family sorted through his possessions, Madolyn Price, his oldest granddaughter—the daughter of his oldest daughter, Ellen—found that letter from Lee, along with, incredibly, what seemed like a chapter of The Reverend. Strangely, after all the time Lee had spent reporting the story, these four typed pages were fictionalized. Maxwell was still Maxwell, but Big Tom had become Jonathan Thomas Larkin IV, a lawyer who, as the chapter opens, gets a call from Maxwell saying that the police are accusing him of murdering his wife. The subsequent scenes sketch a history of Larkin’s family, moving them from the shores of Ireland to a little patch of Alabama clay at the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains—the same basic technique that appears in the opening chapter of To Kill a Mockingbird, which took the Finch family all the way from Cornwall to the Creek Wars. The genealogy doesn’t quite match that of Big Tom, and as big as he was in real life, he looms even larger in the chapter, destined to become “a lawyer and politician, the likes of which Alabama had not seen before.” That discovery made Little Madolyn, as she was known, realize why her grandfather had always been so adamant that Harper Lee was going to write about him. And, of course, it made her wonder about what had happened to the rest of the book.
Little Madolyn tried writing to the author, hoping if nothing else to get back her grandfather’s massive briefcase full of files, which she learned from her grandmother had never been returned. She got no direct response but eventually heard back from Tonja Carter that the aging author did not have the files and had no memory of her grandfather. At the time, that had struck the Radneys as heartbreaking, because it likely meant the author’s memory was gone, and worse, that she had destroyed not only whatever she had written about the Maxwell case but all of her research, too. Now, though, they wondered if it had all been a mistake, and this new book was The Reverend.
It was not. On February 3, 2015, the world learned that the forthcoming book was actually the manuscript that Harper Lee had delivered to Maurice Crain fifty-eight years before—the original, unedited draft of Go Set a Watchman. Tonja Carter conveyed a statement from the author, still ensconced in the Meadows and never able to speak directly with the press, saying that Harper Lee was “happy as hell” about the publication.
The “new” book from Harper Lee turned out to be the oldest one she had written. The people of Alexander City made their peace with the fact that they might never get to read Lee’s version of the life and death of the Reverend Willie Maxwell, and eventually the rumors about him quieted down, as they always had before. By then, after all, the Reverend had been dead for almost forty years, and his lawyer had been dead for five. And soon enough, the woman who tried to write about them both would be gone, too.
* * *
—
You can visit them all in a single day if you want. In death, as in life, they stayed close to home, buried in the red dirt of Alabama. A wrought-iron archway and an American flag mark Peace and Goodwill Cemetery, where the Reverend’s grave sits along the far right side, not far from many of his relatives. It is marked with a low stone and a plain brass plaque that reads, “Willie J. Maxwell,” with no other detail beyond his army service. The years of his birth and death bracket a simple cross.
After you leave Peace and Goodwill, head northeast on Highway 22 until you come to the stop sign where the lawmen waited before the funeral of the Reverend. Keep going until the pines get thinner and the houses get thicker and you reach Highway 280; if you catch the stoplight there, you can look to the right and see what’s left of the Horseshoe Bend Motel, now a Days Inn. Cross the intersection and Highway 22 becomes Lee Street. Follow it into town, and on your right you’ll see the crumbling brick remains of Russell Mills—the textile industry has mostly moved to Latin America now—before coming up on the new annex to the Alex City courthouse, named for Judge C. J. Coley, and then to Court Square and the Zoo. Swing around the traffic circle and head out on Jefferson Street, where the House of Hutchinson Funeral Home was located before it burned down.
Cut west on Circle Drive, and you’ll reach the Alexander City Cemetery. The grand front gates are open from dawn until dusk, and anytime between you can find your way to a long gray slab nearly as big as Big Tom. John Tomas Radney is memorialized on his headstone as “President Board of Trustees Alabama State University,” for his service to a historically black college in Montgomery; as “Trustee of Huntingdon College,” for his service to the Methodist Church; as “Captain U.S. Army JAG CORP,” for his service to country; as “Alabama State Senator,” for his service to state; and, at the top, where no one can miss it, “Mr. Alabama Democrat.”
When you’re ready to leave Alexander City, take Cherokee Road out of town, follow it all the way to Lake Martin, and cross over the waters at Kowaliga Bridge, just north of the Martin Dam. Continue south, past the town of Eclectic, and follow the road as it winds west past Wetumpka, where, eighty million years ago, a meteor the size of three football fields hurled itself from outer space into Alabama, changing the landscape of the state forever. Beyond that, you’ll pass the place where the Tallapoosa River meets the Coosa River, and they continue on together to the coast. Drive on through Montgomery, the state capital, and head south; from there, any number of roads will take you west to Monroeville. If you see a sign for Burnt Corn, you’ll know you’re getting close. You’re even closer when you can see the water tower and the cupola of the old courthouse, now a museum, where there’s a piece of an old oak tree preserved behind glass.
In the early hours of the morning of February 19, 2016, at the age of eighty-nine, Harper Lee died in the Meadows, only a few streets away from the home on South Alabama Avenue where she had learned to read and write. Her funeral was private, and her body was interred in her family’s plot in Hillcrest Cemetery. She is buried alongside her father, mother, and oldest sister. Look for the headstone that reads “Lee,” and the four modest markers in front of it. Many things could be carved into the one on the far left, but if you brush aside the pennies that always seem to accumulate on top of it, you’ll find that the engraving doesn’t say “Pulitzer Prize Winner” or “Author of To Kill a Mockingbird.” It doesn’t even say “Writer.” It says only “Nelle Harper Lee.”
| Epilogue |
At the time that Nelle Harper Lee died, she hadn’t said anything
about the Maxwell case in years. For all that she loved facts, when it came to her own life and work, she made them very difficult to come by, and The Reverend remained as mysterious as the man whose life inspired it. In a strange symmetry of author and subject, Lee and her book became the object of as much “rumor, fantasy, dreams, conjecture, and outright lies” as Maxwell had once been.
Then, a year after her death, Lee’s estate contacted the family of Tom Radney. A few weeks later, his oldest daughter, Ellen, drove from Alexander City to Monroeville, where I met her at the Monroe County Courthouse, and together we walked across the street to the Lee family law firm.
Waiting for us inside was an oversize leather briefcase. It was covered in a thick layer of dust and had been in Lee’s possession since the fall of 1977. When we opened it, we found the red scrapbook of newspaper clippings that Jim Earnhardt’s mother had made, along with file folders brimming with case records, depositions, letters, maps from around Lake Martin, photostatic copies of articles, the odd brochure, the warranty for a tape recorder, and two full court transcripts.
Inside a folder labeled “Mary,” misfiled among all of the other documents, was a single page of Lee’s typed notes from her reporting in Alexander City, identical to those that she had made for Truman Capote in Kansas, which are archived in the New York Public Library. The Radneys let me review the materials, then put them away with their chapter and went back to wondering what became of the rest of the book.
Other than what was in the briefcase, Nelle Harper Lee’s estate is sealed. The entirety of her literary assets, including whatever else exists of The Reverend, remains unpublished and unknown.
| Acknowledgments |
I am mindful that Mockingbird became the beloved book that it is through the tireless work of an agent and an editor, and I’m grateful to have found my own Maurice Crain and Tay Hohoff. Edward Orloff knew I had a book in me before I did, and while every writer deserves an agent who encourages her work, few are blessed to find one so loving and kind. For his part, Andrew Miller is the editor every writer dreams of: patient, steadfast, and encyclopedic about everything from Amtrak to Kierkegaard. Many of his colleagues at Knopf helped bring this book into the world, including Sonny Mehta, Zakiya Harris, Paul Bogaards, Chris Gillespie, Ruth Liebmann, Jessica Purcell, Rachel Fershleiser, Madison Brock, Bette Alexander, Ingrid Sterner, Lisa Montebello, Betty Lew, and Alabama’s own Nicholas Latimer. I am moved by and grateful for their love for this book. The same goes for Jason Arthur at William Heinemann, who was a gentleman from the first time I heard his voice, and whose confidence in Nelle was contagious. I only hope I’ve honored his memory of his friend.
Special thanks go to the Radneys, for never losing faith. They’ve waited a long time for this story to be told, and I’m grateful they let me be the one to tell it. I’m very sorry that I missed Big Tom, but he left behind one of the warmest, most welcoming families in all of Alabama. I’m so thankful to Ellen for tending her father’s memory, and to Little Madolyn for all her tireless work to tell her grandfather’s story. Now and always, Roll Tide!
Jim Earnhardt taught me more about Harper Lee than almost anyone I met, not only because he shared his memories, but because his character taught me something about what she looked for in friends. He is also one of the finest journalists in Alabama, and I’m grateful for his friendship and encouragement along the way. Returning his scrapbook forty years after he loaned it to Harper Lee was one of my favorite experiences of reporting this book. Another journalist, Vern Smith, taught me an enormous amount about this case and many others in the Deep South. It’s some kind of reporter who, forty years later, can still dig up his notes for a young cub.
Various librarians and libraries are acknowledged throughout the notes, but I’d like to specifically thank Heather Thomas and her colleagues at the Library of Congress, who managed, one “Ask a Librarian” at a time, to help me find every article ever written about the Reverend Maxwell, Tom Radney, and Harper Lee, plus an astonishing quantity of Alabama arcana.
Thanks to the living library of all things Alabama that is Diane McWhorter, who deleted one notable letter from this book and my life, but added more wisdom to both than I could ever repay.
Special thanks to Ben Phelan, fact-checker extraordinaire, whose knowledge of Alabama would impress Albert James Pickett, and who never tired of asking “How know?” Thanks also to David Haglund, Sasha Weiss, and Nicholas Thompson, without whom I would never have driven through the night to Alabama, or had half as much fun writing about what I found there; Becca Laurie, who is possibly the only “assistant researchist” to rival Nelle Harper Lee, not to mention a dear friend and beloved PI; Philip Gourevitch, who provided both the early nudge I needed and who, together with Larissa MacFarquhar, provided a model of deep, ethical journalism; David Grann, without whose books I couldn’t have written this one, and whose early enthusiasm made all the difference; and Elliott Holt, who did so much for me and this book along the way and whose Alabama roots were an inspiration. Special thanks to Luppe Luppen for the Monroeville Mardi Gras and to the Jackson’s Gap crew, Amanda Griscom Little and Laura Ruth Venable.
Jamaica Kincaid, Geneva Robertson-Dworet, Scoop and Kate Wasserstein, Francesca Mari, and Leslie Jamison have all made this book, and me, much better. To have one such friend is a blessing, but to have so many is more than anyone deserves.
For sharing their memories of “Aunt Dody,” I am forever grateful to Ed Conner and Hank Conner. Ed, especially, brought her back to life with his humor, intelligence, sincerity, and sweetness; I delighted in our conversations and the early view of Ellenelle. I’m likewise grateful to Laura and David Byres for the antebellum grits, breakfast in a cup, and superhosting.
My mother and father, Sandy and Bill Cep, have loved me no matter what and deserve more thanks than I can give them here. They worked harder than anyone should ever have to in order to make sure their children could get an education and do whatever we wanted. I’m sure they never imagined raising a writer, but I’m also sure no writer could have better parents. I hope they know how proud I have always been to be one of their daughters.
My sisters, Melinda and Katelin, have tolerated my love of words and willingness to use too many of them for a very long time. One of them helped me learn to read, and the other was my first audience. Their laughter and love and faith have made my life rich and joyful, and their constant supply of legal pads, felt pens, mechanical pencils, and internet made this book better.
My partner in crime and everything else, Kathryn Schulz, deserves thanks for putting up with a hundred thousand miles of Wawa, Waffle House, whatifs, Patsy Cline, Hank Williams, Jason Isbell, taxidermy, and me. I couldn’t have written this book, or anything else, without her.
| Notes |
| PROLOGUE |
For the description of the trial, I relied on local, regional, and national news reports and the trial transcript, along with interviews I conducted with Mary Ann Karr, Robert Burns, Jim Earnhardt, Mary Lynn Blackmon, Alvin Benn, Leewood Avary, Madolyn Radney, and James Abbett. In particular, I am grateful for the archives of The Alexander City Outlook, The Dadeville Record, The Coosa Press, The Montgomery Advertiser, The Afro-American, Jet, and The Anniston Star.
| 1 | DIVIDE THE WATERS FROM THE WATERS
For the history of Lake Martin and its surrounding communities, along with the account of rural Alabama in the early twentieth century, I am indebted to Heritage of Coosa County; Heritage of Tallapoosa County; Schafer, Lake Martin; Walls and Oliver, Alexander City; Jackson, Rivers of History; Richardson, That’s Waht They Say; Rosengarten, All God’s Dangers; Agee and Evans, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men; Rogers, Ward, Atkins, and Flynt, Alabama; and Hamilton, Alabama. I also learned a great deal from some unpublished personal memoirs: Ben Russell’s “The History of Benjamin Russell and Russell Lands Inc.”; Ben Carlton’s “Keno—Keyno: Keno Community Then and Yonder”; and the untitled
memoirs of Inez Warren. For the Reverend Maxwell’s early biography, I relied on regional newspaper coverage, local courthouse records, military service records, national census records, and trial transcripts. I am grateful to the staff of the Adelia M. Russell Library in Alexander City and the Horseshoe Bend Regional Library in Dadeville.
“the moral equivalent”: William James, “The Moral Equivalent of War,” McClure’s Magazine, Aug. 1910, 463–68.
“Every loafing stream”: “Montgomery Men Originators of Cherokee Development—Martin,” Montgomery Advertiser, Nov. 8, 1925, 3.
“To gather the streams”: Mt. Vernon–Woodberry Co. v. Alabama Power Co., 240 U.S. 30 (1916).
“Our local Nordics”: Langston Hughes, “Nazis and Dixie Nordics,” Chicago Defender, March 10, 1945, reprinted in Hughes, Langston Hughes and the “Chicago Defender,” 78–80.
“There wouldn’t be anybody”: Frank Colquitt, interview by author, Feb. 3, 2016.
“You’d think that man”: David M. Alpern and Vern E. Smith, “Seventh Son,” Newsweek, July 4, 1977, p. 21.
| 2 | MINISTER OF THE GOSPEL
For details of Mary Lou Maxwell’s death, I relied on police reports, investigative notes, her autopsy file and death certificate, court transcripts, legal notes, and newspaper coverage. I am grateful to Dr. Richard Roper for reviewing her autopsy with me and offering his professional memories of the case as well as the crime lab. For the descriptions of the Reverend’s work and the broader labor history of Lake Martin, I relied on Fickle, Green Gold; Allison, Moonshine Memories; Heritage of Coosa County; Heritage of Tallapoosa County; Flynt, Alabama in the Twentieth Century; local and regional newspaper coverage; the archives of Alabama Forests; and the assistance of Regina Strickland of the Horseshoe Bend Regional Library, Clara Williams, Alvin Benn, Jim Earnhardt, Patricia Wilkerson, Gladys Shockley, Vern Smith, Jacqueline Bush Giddens, Paul Pruitt Jr., Frank Colquitt, Benny Nolen, Clark Sahlie, Sam Duvall and Chris Isaacson at the Alabama Forestry Association, Lonette Berg of the Alabama Baptist Historical Commission, Andrew Childress and Richard Gilreath at the University of Texas at Austin’s Briscoe Center for American History, and Karen C. Bullard of the Troy Public Library.
