Mississippi Trial, 1955

by Chris Crowe

  “Maybe Dad and I are too much like that; neither one of us is willing to make an effort to understand the other.”

  “I’ll tell you, son, that’s one family trait I wish hadn’t been passed on. There’s lots in you that you, your daddy, or I can’t do a thing about, but this is something you can change. And believe me, a good relationship between a father and his son is worth it. It’s worth more than you can know.”

  “Grampa, sometimes I wish that Dad and me could be like you and me.”

  Grampa looked sad when he heard that, and he said quietly, “So do I, son. So do I.”

  When we got back home, there was a note on the door from Ruthanne. It was written in her perfect looping cursive handwriting and in the careful English she always used when she wrote something.

  “Dear Mr. Earl,” it read, “I am truly sorry I cannot be at work today. My extended family has experienced a tragedy, and I must attend to their immediate needs. I shall do my utmost to be at work on time tomorrow morning. Please excuse my unavoidable absence.

  “Very sincerely yours, Ruthanne Parker.”

  “Good thing we had that big catfish lunch in Indianola today,” Grampa said as he handed me the note and opened the front door. “Grab the newspaper there, Hiram, and let’s get inside and figure out what we can do to keep from starving until we see Ruthanne again.”

  I picked up the Commonwealth off the porch and followed Grampa into the house. When he got settled into his favorite chair, I handed him the paper and headed for the kitchen to put something together for dinner. “Scrambled eggs and toast okay?” I asked.

  “Throw in a little onion if you can find it,” he called over his shoulder as he snapped open the evening paper. “Looks like we’re going to survive after all.”

  I had just set the frying pan on the stove when Grampa called for me. I switched off the burner and trotted back into the living room. “Grampa, are you all right?”

  “Take a look at this,” he said, handing me the paper. His face had turned serious and pale.

  Splashed across the front page was the headline: “Chicago Negro Youth Abducted by Three White Men at Money.”

  I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. I skimmed the article: Emmett had been missing since early Sunday morning. Three white men and a woman had gone to his uncle’s home and asked if the boy from Chicago was there. They took Emmett out to their car where a white woman identified him as the one who had made “ugly remarks” to her, and then put him in the car and drove off. No one had seen Emmett since. The sheriff had already arrested Roy Bryant and J. W. Milam for the kidnapping—even though they claimed they had released Emmett—and was searching for a third man.

  “I can’t believe this! I called the sheriff’s office. I told them about R.C. I warned them that something like . . .” My voice choked up and I had to sit down. “It’s R.C. They’ve got to know that. I told them Friday night.”

  “What are you talking about?” Grampa looked worried.

  “The third man! R. C. Rydell told me he was going to make trouble.”

  “Now don’t go jumping to conclusions, son,” said Grampa. “Just because R.C. was talking big Friday doesn’t mean he had something to do with this.”

  “But he told me he was going up to Money with some other men. He said they were just going to do some talking, but I knew it wouldn’t stop at that. I knew something bad was going to happen. I should’ve done more. I could’ve stopped R.C. I could’ve found Emmett and warned him.” My whole body felt cold and hard, like a rock sinking to the bottom of a lake.

  Grampa was about to say something when the phone rang. I went into the kitchen and answered it.

  “This is Sheriff George Smith, and I’m wondering if I could speak to Hiram Hillburn.”

  “Yessir,” I said. “That’s me.” I gulped. What had R.C. told the sheriff? Had he blamed me for what had happened?

  “My deputy said you called here Friday night with some information about R. C. Rydell and his plans to call on a Negro boy Saturday night.”

  “Yessir.”

  “You seen R.C. lately?”

  “Not since that night.”

  “He say anything to you about what he planned on doing?”

  I took a deep breath. “He said he was going up to Money with a couple other men to talk to a Negro boy about the trouble at the Bryant store. I tried to stop him. I didn’t want anything to happen. I called your office and told—”

  “Hold on, boy. You did just fine. Now, you got any idea where R.C. might be? He didn’t say anything about where he might be heading, did he?”

  “Last I knew he was headed home.”

  Sheriff Smith cleared his throat. “I thank you, Hiram, for your help in this case. One more question: How long are you planning on staying in Greenwood?”

  “I got a ticket for Wednesday’s train. My dad wants me back in time for school.”

  “Well, you’d better call your daddy and tell him you’re not going to be able to make that train. I’m afraid we might be needing you around here for the next little while.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Grampa didn’t seem too worried about the sheriff’s phone call. “George Smith is all right,” he said. “He’s just doing his job. My guess is that when he finally catches up with R. C. Rydell, he’s going to want you around to back up your story. You’ll be fine, Hiram, I promise. And look on the bright side: We’ll get to have a little more time together.”

  We talked for a few minutes, then Grampa went to the kitchen to use the phone. He dialed the operator and asked her to connect him with my parents’ phone number. While I stood behind him waiting for the call to be put through, I wondered how Mom and Dad would take it. Would Dad even believe Grampa, or would he think it was some kind of trick to keep me in Greenwood longer? I still felt cold and nervous. The thought of being the guy who got R. C. Rydell in big trouble with the police made me want to get out of Greenwood while I was still breathing.

  “Hello, Dee?” Grampa said into the phone. “This is Earl. . . . Yes, calling long distance. . . . No, Hiram is fine, but there is some complication just now. Is Harlan home? . . . I see. Well, there’s been some mischief down here, none of it Hiram’s doing, of course, but the sheriff is in the middle of tracking down some of the troublemakers, and he might need Hiram here to confirm a detail or two. . . . No, no, it’s nothing serious at all, just a hotheaded kid acting stupid. Of course, Hiram is welcome to stay here, you know that. I’ll take good care of him until this whole thing is over, then I’ll make sure he gets on the next train for Arizona. . . . Yes. . . . Yes, dear, I will.”

  Grampa handed me the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”

  “Hiram?” Mom sounded worried. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

  “It’s like Grampa said. The sheriff just wants me to stick around in case I have to answer questions or something. I’ll be all right.”

  “Your father’s not going to be pleased when he hears about this. You know how he feels about Greenwood.”

  “Well, tell him that being here has helped me appreciate what he’s been saying all along. I still love it here and love being with Grampa, but I think maybe I understand Dad a little better now. At least I hope I do.”

  “Do you need me or Dad to come out there? One of us could be in Greenwood in a few days.”

  “I’ll be fine with Grampa, and I’ll come home as soon as I can. Everything’ll be okay.” I tried to say that like I believed it.

  “Just you remember who you are, Hiram Hillburn, and be sure you do what is right no matter what. And help your grampa as much as you can. You’re not there on vacation anymore.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “I love you, son.”

  “Love you too,” I said before I hung up.

  Later that night Grampa talked to Sheriff Smith on the phone just to make sure he understood everything that was going on. He told me about the call before we went to bed.

  “George thinks
this might go to trial, and if it does, and if it turns out R.C. was involved with those peckerwoods, he’ll need you to testify. He’s got other evidence, of course, but your story will help place R.C. in the picture. I told him I didn’t think involving you in this whole mess was necessary, but he insisted on keeping you around. I tell you one thing, Hiram, if R. C. Rydell is involved in this, he’s in deep trouble. This isn’t bullying. They’re after him for kidnapping. George thinks R.C. might be holding that Negro boy somewhere right now. There’s no telling what he might have done.”

  That’s exactly what I was afraid of.

  Ruthanne showed up to work the next morning looking exhausted. She’d been out to Emmett’s uncle’s home trying to offer what help she could. “Uncle Mose is sick with worry,” she said. “Those white men came into their home in the middle of the night with a flashlight and a gun and demanded to see Bobo. Uncle Mose begged them to leave him there; he promised he’d give Bobo a good licking himself, but they wouldn’t listen.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “They made the boy get dressed and dragged him out to their car, and nobody’s seen or heard from him since.” Ruthanne held back a sob, but her voice quivered when she said, “That poor boy and his mama. This is plain awful.”

  The next evening’s paper had little to say about the kidnapping. “Negro Youth Still Missing,” read the front-page headline. The short article summarized the details in the case, including that the police were still looking for a third man and that they were conducting intense searches for Emmett up around Money.

  I wondered if they’d find R.C.

  I wondered if they’d find Emmett.

  Wednesday evening’s paper answered one of my questions: They found Emmett.

  MISSING CHICAGO NEGRO YOUTH FOUND IN TALLAHATCHIE RIVER

  August 31, 1955

  The body of a 14-year-old kidnapped Chicago Negro boy was found floating in the Tallahatchie River this morning. Discovery of the body was made by a young fisherman named Mims, who was inspecting his trot line. The body was in shallow water near the bank, it was reported, and was found at Pecan Point near Phillipp.

  Young Mims notified Sheriff H. C. Strider at Charleston in Tallahatchie County of his find. He immediately called the sheriff’s office in Greenwood and reported the matter.

  Deputy Sheriff John Edd Cothran and Deputy Sheriff Ed Weber went to the scene and carried Mose Wright, uncle of the youth, along in order to make identification of the body. It was brought back to Greenwood and turned over to the Century Burial Association, local Negro undertakers.

  Officers said that the body had been weighed down with a cotton gin pulley tied with barbed wire. There was also a bullet hole in his head.

  Three white men and a woman took the boy from his uncle’s home early Sunday after the boy allegedly made “ugly remarks” to a white woman.

  Two white men, Roy Bryant and his half brother J. W. Milam, have been charged with kidnapping. The sheriff’s office said that an additional charge of murder will be made since the turn of events.

  Sheriff George W. Smith said several days ago after the happening that he was afraid of foul play.

  Young Till allegedly made the ugly remarks to Mrs. Bryant, wife of the storekeeper who faces a kidnapping charge. The youth was visiting his uncle, Mose Wright, a tenant farmer.

  Sheriff Smith said Bryant admitted taking the boy from his uncle’s home but said the youth was released when Mrs. Bryant said he was not the boy who made the remarks to her.

  Sheriff Smith said the investigation showed:

  Young Till and several other Negro youths went to the Bryant store in the Money community and Till went in and allegedly made the remarks.

  Early Sunday, a car carrying three men and a woman drove up to Wright’s house. One of the men asked Wright if the boy from Chicago was there. Two men brought the boy out of the house.

  Wright asked where they were taking his nephew. One of the men replied, “Nowhere if he’s not the right one.”

  When I put the newspaper down, my hands were shaky and cold. Emmett was dead, murdered. The article said nothing about R. C. Rydell, but I figured the sheriff must still be looking for him. Was R.C. involved in the murder? I knew he was, and I hoped the police would find him—soon.

  And what about Naomi? If R.C. skipped town or ended up in jail, she’d be left alone with her dad. I didn’t even want to think how much more miserable her life might become in that shack down along the Yazoo.

  Grampa interrupted my thoughts when he whistled softly after reading the article. “I can’t believe they killed that boy.” He rubbed his hand across his face and muttered to himself, “There’s going to be hell to pay now.” He still looked pale as he folded the paper on his lap, creased it carefully in half, and set it on the table next to his chair. “Hiram, those boys went too far, way too far. For his sake, I sure hope your friend wasn’t involved in this mess. I never did think much of R. C. Rydell, but I never took him for a murderer.”

  “R.C.’s not my friend, Grampa,” I reminded him without looking at him. “I told you how he acted.”

  “Of course he’s not your friend. A Hillburn usually has better sense than getting mixed up with people like these.” Grampa rapped his knuckles on the folded newspaper. “People all over the United States are hearing about what’s happened down here and wondering what kind of uncivilized brutes live in Mississippi. Those peckerwoods who did this are a shame to all of us in the Delta. No self-respecting Southern gentleman would lower himself to go this far.”

  Grampa’s reaction bothered me. He seemed more concerned about the negative press than about what had happened to Emmett Till.

  He kept on complaining. “The radio said that colored boy’s mama up in Chicago is blaming everyone in Mississippi for what’s happened, said she said, ‘The entire state of Mississippi is going to pay for this.’ The woman’s grief is understandable, Hiram, but she’s got no cause to blame all of us for what a couple redneck peckerwoods did in the middle of the night.

  “Before we know it, the NAACP and all those bleeding-heart Northerners are going to use this as another excuse for integration. They’re going to come down here and cry about how we treat our Negroes and how we’ve got to mix the races in our schools. That’s what really makes me mad, son: Those ignorant boys have stirred up a hornet’s nest of trouble.”

  “But what about Emmett?” I asked. “They killed him. Doesn’t that make you mad?”

  “Of course those boys went too far. Whatever that colored boy deserved, he didn’t deserve getting shot and tossed into the Tallahatchie, that’s for sure.”

  I wanted to yell at Grampa. A boy was murdered just for acting cocky! I wanted to say something, something mean and hard that would knock some sense into him, but I knew nothing I could say would change him, and I had a glimpse into why Dad and Grampa never got along.

  “Mr. Hiram,” called Ruthanne from the front door, “you got a visitor.” I left Grampa sulking in his chair and went to the front porch where Ruthanne stood talking to Naomi. Naomi had her head down, as she always did when she spoke to adults. “Miz Ruthanne,” she said, “I just want you to know how awful sorry I am for what’s happened to your cousin’s nephew. It’s an evil thing, a terrible hateful thing.” A tear rolled down her cheek and Ruthanne hugged her.

  “Now thank you, honey,” said Ruthanne. “Lord knows it surely does help to share grief with somebody else.” She sighed and let go of Naomi. “Child, I do appreciate your sympathy, but you didn’t come here just to talk to me. I’m heading on home anyway, so you and Mr. Hiram can set out here and talk if you like.”

  Naomi nodded and sat in the porch swing while Ruthanne stood there looking washed out and exhausted. I remembered how I had felt when Gramma died and wondered how Ruthanne was feeling. Emmett’s death had been a surprise, just like Gramma’s had been, but his was a brutal murder, not a quiet slipping away in the middle of the night.

  “Ruthanne,” I said, “I feel terrible about Emmett.
I don’t know what I can do or say. I wish I could have . . . I’ll remember him and his family in my prayers.”

  “Thank you, Hiram. We’ll all be praying too, praying for the good Lord’s mercy. Good night, you two,” she said and went down the front steps.

  When she had gone, I sat next to Naomi.

  “I can’t believe it, Hiram,” she whispered. “They killed that boy. When I think about how he must have felt, what he must’ve been thinking those last hours . . . how afraid he woulda been.” She shivered. “Why do men do things like that? Why do they have to hurt people?”

  I had no answer, so we sat without talking as our swing rocked gently in the late August breeze. Even though the horrible things that had been done to Emmett filled my head, it was comforting to be with Naomi. Like Ruthanne said, it helps to have someone to share grief with.