by Joel B Reed
I nodded. Even Arkansas seems to be moving at flank speed toward the twentieth century. It’s a pity the rest of the world is in the twenty-first. Or that major graft is overlooked or written into law while simple gestures of gratitude like mine are policed.
I decided to call it a day and check in with Dee. There was no sign of him yet, and I figured he got stuck back in Nashville. It was too dark now to see much in the blacksmith shop. I thought about going by to talk to the pastor’s wife, then decided the wiser course might be to wait until I had someone with me tomorrow. I figured she was probably not too happy with her husband’s arrest and would not hesitate to vent her wrath on anyone remotely official.
I was halfway back to the car when the lady herself came out from the church and waved for me to stop. There was no way I could pretend not to see her, so I turned and headed toward the building. She stepped back inside, out of the weather, and watched me approach through the open door.
I was prepared for outrage, but when I walked into the church, Mrs. Jones was quite calm. When I tried to explain the arrest was not my idea, she smiled. “Serves him right,” she sniffed. “Asking me to lie for him like that!”
“Any idea why he did, Mrs. Jones?”
“Please, everyone calls me Emma, Dr. Phillips.”
“Most everyone calls me Jazz, Emma,” I answered and she smiled.
“He was trying to protect Luther. Did he explain about Luther at all?”
I told her about our conversation at the jail and Luther’s release. “He headed down the ridge when we got here,” I said. “Does he live down there?”
“No,” she said softly. “He was probably going to visit Goodie’s grave. He does that a lot…more since Wilbur was shot.”
“I can understand why. That’s two of their original group gone, both shot to death. I would find that very disturbing, even without being the one who was directly involved the first time.”
“It was an accident, you know.”
“Yes, Albert stressed that. Yet, I’m afraid knowing that wouldn’t make much difference, at least not to me. I would say the same is true for Luther, too.” She nodded her head. “What did you want to see me about, Mrs...Emma?”
Her face turned serious. “I don’t know what they told you about Albert at the courthouse, but I wanted you to know the truth about it. There was a time he was wanted by the FBI, but he was pardoned. We have the paper in the safe deposit box. It was signed by President Carter…one of his last official acts.”
“What was Albert wanted for?” I asked.
She gave me a long look. “I can’t see how that matters, but it is a matter of public record. He was lumped together with a whole bunch of other people when the FBI was after the Black Panthers.” Her face grew grim. “No, let me put that another way. It was when the FBI was trying to exterminate the Black Panthers. There was very little about it that was legal.”
I had to agree. That whole chapter in FBI history is an embarrassment to the Bureau, and one I hope they never forget. Very few of even the most radical activists were prosecuted, even though they were guilty by their own admission. The reason they were never brought to trial was because the investigators broke so many laws so flagrantly in the course of the investigation that the government would have had to prosecute them, too. One of the worst incidents was the cold blooded execution of Fred Hampton in Chicago in 1968. As far as I know, there was never much official interest in prosecuting that.
I nodded. “You’re right. Do you have any idea why they might have been interested in Albert in the first place?”
She thought a moment. “Their file on him goes way back, to the early days of the Civil Rights movement. He was quite taken with the Freedom Riders and corresponded with Dr. King and some of the others. He was at the top of our class in high school and planned to join them after we graduated.” She smiled. “He was ready to quit school and take off for Montgomery, but Dr. King advised him to finish school first. Then he was drafted right away and spent four years in the Army. Dr. King’s people advised him not to resist.” She paused, remembering.
“When he came back from the Army, things had changed quite a bit. He had changed, too. The Army picked him for Special Forces and then kept him in two extra years. When he came out, he was so angry. They released him in Los Angeles, and somehow he met Bobby Seales. That was before the Black Panthers were formed, but Albert met the men who would lead it. He wrote me and told me about it, all about how discouraged he had become with Dr. King’s nonviolent movement. He said violence was all the system understood and that black folk would never achieve equality until they took up arms and forced white America to give them justice.” She stopped, tears gathering in her eyes. “You know, I didn’t care about any of that back then, not that much. All I knew was that the beautiful, gentle man I sent off to the Army came back as an angry stranger, so full of anger I almost left him.”
“No wonder they started a file on him,” I responded. “He probably scared them to death even talking to Bobby Seales. Do you recall why the warrant was issued for him?”
She looked at me as if I’d asked which way was up. “You just said it,” she told me. “They knew how he was trained and what he could do. He frightened them to death like a lot of other people they arrested.”
“Yes, I understand, but that wasn’t what I was asking. Was there a specific charge mentioned, like illegal possession of weapons or conspiracy or something else? There usually is when a warrant is issued.”
“Oh. Well, yes, but it was absurd. They wanted him as a material witness to whatever they were trying to get against the Panthers.”
“That was all? A material witness?” She nodded. “Then why did he run?”
“He didn’t know that at the time. All he knew was that there was a federal warrant out for his arrest. He ran because people were getting killed in custody, even when the FBI was involved. Or, maybe, because the FBI was involved.”
“So he came back here to Arkansas?” I asked.
“No, he went to Canada. It was easy to get into Canada back then, and the government there was reluctant to extradite anyone for what they considered a political crime.” She smiled. “Canada was good for him…very good. He was able to work his way through college there, and it was during that time he found his faith again. He even went to seminary there.”
“He had a conversion experience?”
“No, it was more like a quiet awakening. He never stopped writing to me, you know, even through his angry days in California, and I think I may have had a little to do with his change of mind. I never hesitated to tell him exactly what I thought, either.” She smiled. “I can be quite emphatic at times.”
I laughed, thinking of the sound of glass breaking in the parsonage the day before. She gave me a sharp look. “My wife, Nellie, can, too,” I said, not lying for a minute. “I think it may be gender related.”
“You mean you men can be so pig headed,” she scolded, but very mildly. “Albert tells me I was his angel from the Lord, and I think he’s right. They are not exactly the gentle creatures most people think.”
What Emma was telling me put a whole new cast on things. I wondered if Albert Jones might not fit well as a suspect. One thing was certain. Trained by the Special Forces, he would certainly know his way around the M-16. He would also be a crack shot, even if he had not held a rifle in years. I made a mental note to check where he was when the shots were fired.
“You said he was pardoned. Tell me about that.”
“Yes,” she said. “Bless Jimmy Carter, even if he was a southerner. It was one of his last official acts as President.” She thought for a moment. “There’s not much to tell. I got a lawyer with good political connections, and he was able to get it done. Some of the NAACP people were involved. There were some people in the Justice Department who opposed having the fugitive charges dropped, but the pardon took care of everything. I’ll show it to you. The way it’s worded covers any and all crimes. That w
as to keep someone later on making a different charge from the same incident. Not that there were any crimes except for standing up for our rights.”
I asked her several questions about the day of the shooting and who all she had seen there for the celebration. I ended up with three pages of notes in my steno book. I was sure most of this was duplication, but I knew it might turn up something new, and it never hurts to be thorough.
At some point Emma saw me squinting as I tried to write, and got up and turned on the church lights. “We are probably causing talk,” she said with a smile. I suddenly realized we had been alone in the church for over an hour and how this must look to people in Oak Grove It must have showed in my face. She smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Jazz. I’m not about to be inappropriate.”
I started to say I couldn’t imagine her being anything but appropriate but stopped. Crime brings out strange behaviors in otherwise normal folk, and I did not want her taking my words as an insult. Nor did I want her to take it as a challenge, showing me just how inappropriate she could be. “I’m sure you can handle any foolish talk,” I told her. “They wouldn’t dare.”
She laughed, and I asked her about her husband’s friends. “The choir boys were not always exactly that,” she told me. “There was some devilment they raised around here, too, especially on Halloween.
Mostly they were decent young men, and they were deeply wounded when Goodie died. Wilbur, of course, was about twenty years older than the rest of them and seemed to be the least affected. I don’t think he was there the day it happened, but you’ll have to ask Albert about that. You have seen for yourself what it did to Luther—Luther Adams—and the other Luther, the one they call Slide, went downhill from there. He was always the wild one, but that seemed to push him over the edge. Come to think, he was a little younger than the rest, too.” She stopped speaking.
“I’m not sure what you mean by his being pushed over the edge,” I told her. “What did he do?”
“Well, I’m not sure I know everything, but if half what I heard was true, he went pretty bad. Nothing violent, but dishonest. He was always a bootlegger, but mostly for himself and his friends.” She nodded. “Yes, I’m talking about the choir boys, including Albert. He’s no stranger to hard spirits, and it was Slide who supplied them. After Goodie was shot, he started supplying anyone who had the money, and I understand he got pretty big. I heard he got involved in other things, too…stealing and then drugs. Then he had to leave the state for a while. Seems he got some of the wrong people mad at him, and he had to leave town rather suddenly. He only came back a long while after they were dead.”
She looked at me. “You read the article about Wilbur, didn’t you?” I told her I had. “Well, when the deacons invited Wilbur to leave, it was Slide he went to before he ended up in New Orleans. It may have even been those very same deacons, of this church, mind you, that Slide angered. They were known as moonshiners, and he probably didn’t pay them. Anyway, it was Slide got Wilbur his job with the carnival. I think he decided he could starve to death just as fast playing piano as working as a roustabout.” She smiled. “Wilbur really wasn’t a physical person. Moving his fingers was about all the exercise he cared to get. It didn’t seem to matter whether it was with a piano or one of the ladies.”
I laughed. “What about the deacons? Any of them or their kids still around?” It was a stretch, but like human memory, motive for murder is not bound by time. Sometimes it is not even tied to people still living.
Emma Jones shook her head. “They died out years ago and their children all moved away. I can give you their names, but it’ll be a waste of time. They’re all respectable people now, and they never came back…ever.”
“Why don’t you tell me, anyway? Then we can cross them off the list.” I was thinking of Spinks when I said that. I didn’t think there would be any fruit from this line of investigation, but it was something that would keep him busy in Little Rock for a couple of extra days. With luck, it could take him a week.
Emma gave me seven names. She thought four of those lived in or around Memphis, but was not sure where the others were. That was even better. Spinks might have a difficult time tracking them down. Nor could Lonnie say I wasn’t keeping the Bureau actively involved.
I looked over my notes. I saw two things I needed to ask and decided to take the easy one first. “There was a sixth member of the choir: Edward Posey. Do you know whatever came of him?”
“Poor Eddy,” she said. “He was the youngest one by three or four years. I think the others picked on him pretty bad, especially Slide. Wilbur was his hero, at least at first, and he was standing next to Goodie when he was shot.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what ever came of him. His family moved away five or six years after the accident, and we never heard from him again. I heard he was drafted and sent to Vietnam, but I have no idea what happened to him after that. He was one of those people other folk never notice. When they did, they thought he was Slide or maybe Wilbur’s younger brother. He looked exactly like them.”
I did some mental arithmetic. Smiley Jones was celebrating his eightieth birthday when he was shot, which would put Pastor Jones somewhere in his middle seventies. It didn’t add up, and I asked Emma about it.
“Wilbur was old enough to be their dad,” she told me. “I know Albert must have told you different, but he sees himself as much older than he is. He is still on the prime side of sixty. Even so, Wilbur looked younger than him.”
“So Edward would be in his middle fifties?” I asked. Emma nodded. “Then Smiley was old enough to be his father,” I said.
“That’s true,” she said. “There was even some talk that he was. He sure looked enough like him. Back then, Wilbur was a real heartthrob, even to the younger girls.” The way she looked at me said she was speaking from experience.
“What do you think?” I asked. “Was Edward his son?”
She frowned. “I really don’t think that matters. Let’s not go there.”
“All right,” I agreed. “You told me Smiley was Edward’s hero at first. What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “After the accident Edward kept more and more to himself. He still came to church and sang in the choir, but I didn’t see him with the others much any more. Wilbur had left town by then, and I know Edward must have missed him. But when Wilbur’s name came up, he never had anything to say. The one time I remember, he looked angry. Even bitter.”
“Maybe he felt abandoned,” I suggested. “Kids do that.”
She shook her head. “Maybe so. Who knows?” I had the impression she thought there was more to it than that, but she fell silent.
I decided it was time to ask the tough one. “I need to ask you some things. I am just trying to be thorough. There is one thing I do need do know. Were you and Albert in the community center when the shooting happened?”
“Of course,” she said, surprised. “We were talking to a group of people when someone came in and told Albert that Wilbur was shot. Albert was the first one out the door.”
“Do you remember who it was that brought the news?”
“Yes. It was one of the children. I told the other policemen this.” She was beginning to grow uneasy. “Where are you going with this?”
“I’m just trying to get a clear picture,” I said. “Police reports don’t always give enough details. Or the right details.” That was an understatement. Police reports are often barely literate. There were sharp complaints when I put some of the CID investigators through a course in remedial writing, but it paid huge dividends in clearing cases. It paid off even better in court.
Emma nodded, but she was not convinced. “Please bear with me,” I said. “Were you and Albert in the community center the whole time the celebration was going on?”
“Yes. I told the other officers that, too. Neither Albert nor I left the center from the time we came in until the news came Wilbur was shot.”
“Neither of you left at all…not even to
use the privy?”
I expected her to get angry, but she laughed. “No. Albert would tell you that two things are necessary for the ministry with all the pot luck suppers and long board meetings. One is a brass stomach and the other is a cast iron bladder. We are very careful to watch our intake at things like that.” She looked at my watch. “We better wind this up soon, or there will be talk.”
I thanked her for her time, and she walked me to the church door. “There is one other thing,” I asked. “Are there any other Luthers around here?”
Again, she laughed. “No, praise God. Three of them has been confusing enough. Especially with Slide being mistaken all the time with Wilbur.” Then her fact took on a mischievous look. “There was a Luther Anne, but she always went by her middle name.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Not for a minute. She used to live in Nashville, but she grew up here. She married and moved away.”
I turned to leave, but stopped. “Where does Luther live?” I asked. “I want to make sure he’s all right.”
“Thank you,” she said. “It would save me a trip. Albert usually checks on him.” She gave me directions.
Luther’s place was in the deep woods behind the store, not far off the path Dee and I followed that morning. Even though we passed within fifty feet of it, the brush was so dense we never saw it, and I would have missed the turnoff if I had not been watching carefully. It was getting late and light was fading fast in the deep woods. Without my flashlight, I couldn’t make out more than the dim outline of the path.
When I first saw Luther’s shack, I thought I had taken the wrong turn. It was low and badly weathered with ill fitting boards nailed at odd angles to cover places the wallboards were missing. I found out later it had started out as a barn before being converted into a chicken shed and then a hay barn. At some point, it was abandoned, and later on Luther bought it for next to nothing. There was no power and no plumbing, but it was home to him, and he had lived there for more years than anyone could remember.
