Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  JUNE 28, 1976

  5:07 AM

  Chan hopped out of the shower and dressed quickly. Although he usually woke at 5:30, he couldn’t sleep and was anxious to get to work to continue processing the story. His tie-in article on the history of Henry Brooks had won the approval of his editor (Darby actually patted his shoulder slightly) and was running in the morning edition.

  He arrived at The Republic in short order, grabbed a copy of the paper and sat down alone in the bullpen. After reading his own contribution, he read Norma’s article on the fallout over the deaths of Tyrell James and Luther Jennings. He thought about the impact their deaths were having on Macinaw. He had heard the whispers in the black and white communities. Talk of fear ran rampant on the one side, while the talk of justice permeated the other. It was the same old story. No matter how much progress was seemingly made in racial matters, something was sure to come along and split the harmony right down the middle.

  Chan stood to fix a cup of coffee when the realization hit him: what was happening now had the potential to be devastating to Macinaw. Left unsolved, the deaths of Tyrell James and Luther Jennings would eat away at the stability of the town until those train tracks, both real and imagined, would no longer keep the townsfolk from tearing each other apart. He resolved then and there that he would not let that happen. He would stop this Henry Brooks “wannabe” before it was too late, before the town fell into complete chaos.

  9:08 AM

  Chan was back on the road heading down the Lowcountry highway again. He would next interview Sonny Watts, the lawyer who had taken up the case for the Macinaw Seven and did the near impossible job of convincing a mostly white jury to acquit them in the murder of Robert Dover. It seemed a good idea to pick his brain over the case and glean as many details from the past as possible. Perhaps Watts would even be aware of a connection that existed between his clients and Henry Brooks.

  Darby and Norma warned Chan of Watts’s somewhat eccentric nature, and he got a first-hand look at that eccentricity as he pulled up in front of his sprawling place in the southern tip of Macinaw County.

  Watts was standing above a forty by twenty-five-foot excavation to the right of his white columned house. Piles of rich, black earth formed the perimeter of the dig. The man was an interesting sight standing there in muddy boots and covered by a royal purple robe. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. He held a rolled-up paper in his right hand and was instructing several Mexican laborers who were toiling down in the pit.

  As Chan parked and made his way over, he saw that Watts was a man of some forty- plus years, solidly built. He had light brown hair that fell over his ears and into his eyes. He kept swooshing his hair back with his free hand so that he could see. He greeted Chan with a partial grin.

  “You must be Chan Adams.” He maintained the cigarette in his mouth—blinking the exhaled smoke from his eyes.

  Chan took his outstretched hand. “Yes, and you are Mr. Sonny Watts.”

  “Correct. Forgive our bit of construction here. I have long dreamed of adding a pool to my compound—for cooling off on days such as this.” He swooshed his hair again, flicked sweat from his nose and then discarded the cig in the open pit.

  Chan nodded, admiring the work. “I’m sure it will be nice, Mr. Watts.”

  “Call me, Sonny, please. I hear Mr. Watts all day long in the courthouse.”

  “Very well, Sonny. Thanks for agreeing to see me.”

  “I have a deposition today in Summerville at 2:00 p.m. Until then, I’m at your disposal. But let’s go inside—get out of this heat, shall we?”

  Chan followed the man up the brick steps of his home. Watts kicked off his boots at the entrance and led Chan through black double-doors and into the foyer. A wooden staircase stretched high to a balcony on the second floor overlooking the foyer. Chan was immediately taken to the animal heads on the walls of the room—an impressive selection of African springbok, blue wildebeest, gazelles and a massive Cape buffalo.

  Watts then led Chan into a study just off the foyer. It too was handsome and maintained the same safari theme. More exotic animal heads poked through the wall behind a grand black oak desk on which Watts placed the plans for his pool. A side wall contained bookshelves lined with stuffy-looking law books. “My favorite room in the house,” Watts announced. “I bought the house eight years ago when I moved here. Belonged to a local doctor who had just passed. I wanted this place to represent who I am.” He moved behind the desk and patted the long, furry neck of an African Impala. “Brought all my darlings with me.”

  “It’s very impressive. Does your wife approve?” Chan asked innocently.

  Watts laughed. “No. And that’s why they’re here and she’s long since gone.”

  Chan grinned at the cavalier comment.

  “Please, have a seat,” Watts said with a wave of his hand.

  As Chan sat in one of the plush reading chairs, Watts backtracked to the study’s entrance. “Ximina! Ximinia, come here, please.”

  Within seconds an older Mexican woman in a simple smock appeared at the entrance. She handed Watts a starched white shirt.

  “Ximina, bring us two lemonades.” He held up two fingers. The woman nodded and disappeared to the back of the house.

  Watts returned to his desk. Before sitting, he removed his robe, revealing a pair of pinstriped grey slacks. He slipped the white shirt over his undershirt and then sat without buttoning it. He offered Chan an odd-looking cigarette from a silver case on his desk.

  “It’s a Kretek,” Watts said. “From Indonesia.”

  Chan fired up the clove cigarette, a crackling sound followed. He then inhaled deeply. “Interesting flavor. From Indonesia, did you say?”

  Watts nodded as he lit his and blew the sweet-smelling smoke. “A friend of mine works in shipping in Charleston. He gets me a case every now and then.”

  Chan placed the smoke in an ashtray on a small circular table next to his chair. “So, Mr. Watts, I mean, Sonny…”

  “You want to know about the Macinaw Seven,” Watts surmised. “You want to know about the court case, how I got involved, how they were acquitted that year, the fallout after the trial.” Watts stood and slipped on a pair of black loafers that were behind his desk. He began to button his shirt. He eyed Chan with the Kretek hanging from his mouth. “And you want to know if there was some connection with the mass murderer, Henry Brooks.”

  Chan nodded. “Macinaw, the whole state of South Carolina rather, is understandably curious.”

  Watts opened the top drawer to his desk, pulled out a pair of silver cufflinks and ran them through the eyes on his shirt sleeves. “Well, let me answer the last one first. There was absolutely no connection to Henry Brooks. Those kids were frightened when they were brought in that day. Crawford and his boys had roughed them up pretty good; I managed to calm them down. But from that initial meeting to preparation for the trial to the days in court to the acquittal, none of those kids said anything about Henry Brooks.”

  “Might you or your firm have mentioned something to them about Henry Brooks? Even in the most obscure context?”

  “No. At the time I didn’t even know who Henry Brooks was. There was never any mention of him. And nothing since I became involved.”

  Chan jotted his words down in his notebook. “And how did you get involved exactly?”

  Watts smiled and brushed back his hair. “Well, I’ve always been a bit of a crusader. I got wind of what was happening that day and rushed down to the jailhouse before they could railroad those kids.”

  “You volunteered to represent them? You weren’t in the public defender’s office, were you?”

  “No, but if they didn’t have quality representation they could have ended up paying the price for the Dover murder. I just didn’t think it was right. I may have been brash, idealistic…maybe a bit naïve, but I didn’t want what happened in Orangeburg to happen here. I didn’t want a Macinaw Massacre.”

  Ximina appeared at the study entra
nce holding a tray with two lemonades and a folded black tie. Watts grabbed the tray from her and slid it on his desk as he dismissed her. He then handed Chan one of the glasses.

  “Made with real lemons. Enjoy,” Watts said.

  As Chan took a quick sip, Watts grabbed the tie and, as if done a thousand times before, expertly tied it around his neck within seconds.

  “No compensation for your efforts?” Chan continued the inquiry.

  “Their families paid bare minimums. But what was more important was seeing justice done. Check with my office and you’ll see that is not a rarity for me. Sometimes I can’t help myself in pulling for the underdog. It’s part of my nature.”

  Watts sat on his desk and drank his lemonade. As he did, Chan scanned the trophy heads behind him and wondered if Watts’ nature included underdog status for those animals as well.

  “Very open-minded of you,” Chan said. “I’ll bet there aren’t that many lawyers around here who would have done the same for those kids.”

  “Well, if you’re hinting at the racial differences, I’d like to think I am a representative of the new South, Mr. Adams. A South without the old barriers, the old clichés. Take Ximina and my pool crew for example,” Watts continued. He then put his hand to his mouth as if he were whispering the words. “They’re here in South Carolina illegally.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. But I give them odd jobs to do around here. I even let them camp in one of the fields behind my place. Soon they’ll have enough dinero to have their families move here, get nationalized and be a part of the Macinaw community.” Watts smiled but then quickly said, “You won’t print that about them being illegals, will you?”

  Chan dismissed the thought with a shake of his head and moved on. “Tell me about the acquittal. I read you were able to conflict the prosecution’s star witness.”

  Watts drew down the corners of his mouth as he thought about it. “She conflicted herself, really. Mrs. Teresa Glazer—a widow who lived near the Dover estate. She has since passed away. Anyway, the police had the seven kids who ran from the Dover barn that day, and it was Mrs. Glazer’s testimony that she witnessed the seven running from the barn—identified them all. But on the stand, under cross examination, and with the Bible underhand, she swore that she had initially counted eight young men running down the road. And later I showed her pictures of the seven and she swore that it was them, but I had replaced two of the seven with pictures of different black kids. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to cast some doubt on her testimony.” Watts brushed back his hair from his eyes and laughed. “Roy Todd, the state’s prosecutor at the time, was so mad that he could spit fire. He spent all that time building the case, tying those kids to the Orangeburg Massacre, making it a case of vengeance against the troopers’ acquittal in that case. He thought he had it all locked up. But the reality was that there was no evidence against the Macinaw Seven—except for the fact they were there in the vicinity.”

  “And why were they there?”

  Watts took a drag from his crackling Kretek and smiled. “No law against walking down a country road, is there?”

  Chan smirked and then looked at his notes. “I also read that as part of the defense you pushed the suicide theory—a hanging not a lynching.”

  “Yes. To me it was obvious. I believe the poor Dover boy hung himself.”

  Chan furled his brow. “Why would he do that?”

  Watts threw his hands in the air. “I’m not sure, but have you met his father yet? A man like that could do a lot of damage to a kid’s psyche.”

  Chan nodded as he recalled his meeting with Ellis Dover. “So, the jury comes back and acquits the Seven. What happened after?”

  “I’d like to say we all lived happily ever after, but this is Macinaw, so no such luck. To say things were tense between the white and black communities is putting it mildly. Crawford and the police continued to harass my clients. They trumped up charges of larceny and drug use against the Seven to the point where it ran a few of them out of the county. But to be honest, life does move on and I’ve had little contact with any of the Seven since the trial.”

  Chan continued to prod Watts for the next twenty minutes, but basically, they rehashed most of what was already well-known. After mutual pleasantries were offered, Watts led Chan out of his house and back to the front lawn where they first met.

  “If you think of anything else that might be useful, please call me at the paper or at my home,” Chan said. “Anything at all.”

  Watts nodded. “I will. Good luck with the story. I sincerely hope the police can stop this new Henry Brooks. It’s high time we put all this madness behind us.”

  As Chan made his way to his car, Watts moved back to the pool dig and stood over his workers. Chan drove away from the house down its old plantation-style road lined with mature Magnolia trees. It struck him how this new South was not so far removed from the old one. And he wondered if the irony of that fact had been completely lost on someone like Mr. Sonny Watts.

  2:11 PM

  Sheriff Justin Crawford sat alone in the Palm Leaf Café. Lunch this week had been late every day, if at all, and Crawford just wanted thirty minutes of peace to enjoy his turkey sandwich and iced tea.

  But as the café’s door swung open, Crawford knew the growls in his stomach would have to wait.

  Ellis Dover with a scowl and sullen eyes slid his big frame into the booth seat opposite the sheriff. He dropped a copy of The Macinaw Republic on the table top.

  “You seen this?” Dover said tetchily.

  Crawford glanced at the headlines. “I’ve seen it.”

  “Goddamn witch hunt,” Dover said. “And they’re making me the goddamn witch.”

  “It doesn’t go that far, Ellis—although you would be well-advised to watch your mouth around the press from now on.”

  Dover scanned the headlines again himself. “Little mutt of a dog, comes barking at me in the barber shop. Catches me off-guard.” Dover re-focused on Crawford. “Everybody in this town can read between the lines, Sheriff. They have a helluva nerve thinking I’d even care to knock off those black sons-a-bitches.”

  Crawford glanced around and then brought his hands down close to the table signaling Dover to lower his voice.

  “I don’t give a damn who hears me, Justin. I just need you to handle this.”

  “I have no power over the press,” Crawford said.

  “And I’m not gonna be the punching bag for The Macinaw Republic, the NAACP and any two-bit porch monkey who thinks it’s a good time to get at the man. I need to be cleared of all this.”

  Crawford shrugged. “You’re not a suspect, if that’s what you’re getting at?”

  Dover feigned surprise and put his hand over his heart. “I’m not? Well, la-dee-da. That’s mighty white of you, Sheriff.”

  Crawford frowned and leaned over the table. “Listen, Ellis, I don’t pretend to deny that you’ve had my back in every election since Newton’s death, but I can’t steer a murder investigation anyway you want it to go just because of that fact. You just need to sit tight and shut that big mouth of yours. We’ll catch this killer soon enough.”

  “Like you did for my son’s murder?”

  Crawford pounded the table with his left hand. “Goddamn it, Ellis. We arrested the Seven. I collected every bit of evidence I could find on those boys. It was circumstantial at best. It didn’t hold up.”

  “They were radicals for God’s sake! Probably members of the goddamn Black Panthers. They were on a mission that day to come take what was most precious from me. And they did, Justin. They found my boy and strung him up. Took the life right outta him and me!” His voice quivered with rage.

  Crawford caught the furtive glances and worried faces of the other customers in the café. “I know, Ellis. I know,” he said calmly. “I’m sorry about Robert. I’m sorry for your loss. It’s just that evidence went against us that day. It happens.”

  Dover quieted in response as well, to th
e point of being strangely stoical. He sat for a moment in thought and then, “The paper said Henry Brooks’ methods were used on the two colored boys, James and Jennings.”

  “That’s right,” Crawford said. “The sigils and everything.”

  Dover nodded again. “The death angels. I remember that so vividly. During those terrible months, I never let my boys go outside to play. They lost a part of their childhood because of that monster. And now it’s happening again. Interesting.”

  The sheriff eyed Dover as he solemnly got up from the booth. The man, whom many considered the most powerful person in Macinaw, then walked out of the café without another word.

  Justin Crawford looked down at his plate and the waiting sandwich, but the sheriff’s appetite was long gone.

  4:44 PM

  At The Macinaw Republic, Chan sat at the desk he shared with Norma. He stared at his typewriter—his piece on Sonny Watts was nearly complete. He would give it another run-through and then pass it to Norma before submitting it to Darby and his critical eye. But he realized the article, like everything else he had submitted to this point, was raising more questions than answers. Watts didn’t know of a connection of his clients to Henry Brooks, yet the sigils and Luther’s vocal belief that Brooks was after him indicated there was. But it couldn’t be Brooks. That’s not a possibility.

  Chan went to Darby’s office and asked for the file on the deceased killer. Like the one that Crawford had, Darby’s file on Brooks was thick, yellowed and filled with dog-eared documents. The editor turned it over to his rookie without comment and Chan didn’t know if that was a sign of respect or indifference—although he wouldn’t bet against the latter.

  Chan took the file to the bullpen and spread it out on the table. Every news article on the disappearances and killings, every op-ed piece during those years, every photograph of the atrocities, every police report, medical analysis and court document on the case was seemingly jammed in there. Chan felt well-versed on the story so he focused more on Darby’s copies of the police and medical reports.