by Chris Crowe
After a few minutes, Naomi leaned her head on my shoulder and said, “I feel awful. And I’m just so scared.”
For the next two days Greenwood hummed with talk about Emmett Till. Some wondered who the third man might be. Others hoped Bryant and Milam got the full punishment of the law. A few thought Bryant and Milam had done nothing wrong. “Nigger boy shoulda knowed better,” I overheard someone say at the River Café. “I’m mighty glad we still got men in the Delta who won’t put up with uppity niggers from the North. Maybe that message’ll get around.”
That night, Grampa pointed to a front page article he had just read in the Commonwealth. “They got that right,” he said. “Got it dead right. Listen to this, Hiram.”
Grampa read the article aloud, sounding as dramatic as a radio announcer:
A Just Appraisal (An Editorial)
September 2, 1955
The State of Mississippi, and Leflore and Tallahatchie counties in particular, have been brought into the focus of national attention within the past few days as a result of the brutal murder of Emmett Louis Till, a 14-year-old Chicago Negro boy. This deplorable incident has made our section the target of unjustifiable criticism, thoughtless accusations, and avenging threats.
We can understand the heartbreak of the mother of the dead boy and we offer our sympathy and express our deep regret that this terrible thing has happened to her, but her determination to see that “Mississippi is going to pay for this,” charging the entire state with the guilt of those who took the law into their own hands, is evidence of the poison selfish men have planted in the minds of people outside the South. If the mother had expressed the determination to see that the guilty parties “must pay for this crime,” she would have expressed the sincere desires of the people of Mississippi.
The NAACP has only revealed again its blindness and injustice in charging that “Mississippi has decided to maintain white supremacy by murdering children,” and that “the killers of the boy felt free to lynch him because there is in the entire state no restraining influence, not in the state capital, among the daily newspapers, the clergy, nor any segment of the so-called better citizens.” From its headquarters in New York it has charged every citizen of the state with being an accomplice in the crime. On the basis of one murder it has judged the character, honor, and integrity of the entire population. One wonders why it did not judge the people of our state by the incident of a few months ago when a ten-year-old white girl in the same community risked her life in the same river, only a few miles from where the body of the fourteen-year-old boy was found, to save the life of a Negro woman who was drowning.
The citizens of this area are determined that the guilty parties shall be punished to the full extent of the law and that justice shall be administered irrespective of the color of the victim or the criminals. The greatest enemies of this justice are the outside groups and individuals who chill the flames of indignation aroused by such crimes by wholesale and indiscriminate accusations against the law-abiding and justice-loving people of our state. If the NAACP and other groups want justice, then let them cease throwing stones at the prosecution, judge, and jury. If they’re as concerned about this matter as they claim, then let them judge the evidence in the case and cease using the case as manufactured evidence to wage war against segregation.
The people of Mississippi are no more responsible for this tragic murder and no more condone it than the people of New York, or any other state, are responsible for and condone murders committed there, but every decent and respectable citizen of this state will assume his or her responsibility for seeing that justice is administered through the courts of law and that guilty parties shall pay for their crime.
He set the paper down. “See here? We can’t be blamed for the sorry actions of a couple local hotheads who haven’t got an ounce of common sense between them. Those boys being from Mississippi shouldn’t condemn the whole lot of us. Just because we believe in segregation, in the inequality of the races, or just because we might even know a couple dumb peckerwoods from the next county doesn’t make us evil. Those boys did the killing, not me, you, or the entire state of Mississippi.”
He shifted in his chair, looking like he’d made up his mind about something. “No blame here, no sir, and I don’t care what that boy’s mama or the NAACP say about it.”
“But what about R.C., Grampa? The paper’s been saying that there was a third man involved in it.”
“The law’ll take care of him. Sooner or later R. C. Rydell’s going to end up in a bad way, Hiram. If he doesn’t get hung for this, it’ll be something else down the road. The boy’s got bad blood and that’s all there is to it. And, Hiram, I’ve been thinking about this, and it seems to me there’s no need for you getting mixed up in this mess. R.C. has dug his own grave. My guess is that once the sheriff catches up with him, things’ll be plain as day and you won’t need to say anything about anybody. You’ll be on your way back to Arizona before you know it.”
I hoped Grampa was right, but I knew that if I did have to say anything to Sheriff Smith about R.C., I’d be lucky to get out of Greenwood alive.
CHAPTER 12
Most of the next day I fretted about what to do. Had R.C. heard that I’d talked to the sheriff? Was he looking for me? If he was, would he come at night, catch me in the backyard when I wasn’t expecting him? Would he pull me into an alley when I was downtown? Would he be hiding out near one of my fishing holes, waiting to ambush me? Or would he be crazy and cocky enough just to walk up to the front door and knock?
When we were kids, I figured R.C. was plain mean, but after what happened to Emmett, I knew R.C. was worse than mean. For the first time in my life, I worried about dying, not just the death part, but the messy and painful things that would lead up to the dying, the kinds of things that would make a guy welcome death. I wanted to forget the sheriff’s orders, pack up my things, and jump on the next train out of Greenwood.
Early that evening while Grampa was dozing in his chair and I was flipping through old magazines trying to keep my mind off the trial, torture, death, and R. C. Rydell, a loud knock on the front door just about pushed my heart right through my chest.
I didn’t move. Grampa’s snoring paused a moment, but he didn’t wake up.
The pounding again.
“Grampa?” I whispered. “Grampa, somebody’s at the door.”
He was dead asleep.
More pounding.
R.C.? My mind raced to figure out what to do. Grampa’s pickup sat in the driveway, so it was obvious we were home. I could wake Grampa, but he’d be no good against R.C., and if he got in the way, R.C. probably would hurt him too. I could sneak out the back, but that’d mean leaving Grampa alone.
Believe me, I’m no hero, but right then I realized that as long as I was in Greenwood, R.C. could get me if he wanted to, and I’d have to face up to him sooner or later. I took another look at Grampa—asleep. “I’ll get it,” I said, even though he couldn’t hear me.
It was still summer, but my hand felt ice cold as I gripped the knob to open the door; it was like opening my own coffin. I took a deep breath, turned the handle, and braced myself for a fist smashing my front teeth.
Where I had expected to see R. C. Rydell ready to rip my head off stood a uniformed deputy. He had a clipboard and some papers in his hand.
“You Hiram Hillburn?”
Slumping against the doorway, I tipped my head back and let out a sigh.
“Lookit here, boy,” the deputy snapped. “You Hiram Hillburn or not?”
I stepped through the front door and pulled it closed behind me. “Yessir.” My voice shook a little.
“Consider yourself served, son.” He handed me a sealed envelope, then held out his clipboard. “Sign here, and that lets the judge know you received this subpoena to appear in court.”
“Court?”
“Don’t tell me Sheriff Smith never said nothing to you about the trial they’re fixing to have up in Sumner? You kno
w, ’bout that colored boy that got himself kidnapped and killed?”
“He asked me to stay in Greenwood, but he didn’t say anything about a trial.”
The deputy handed me a pencil and tapped the clipboard. “Not my problem, son. Signing this only means I handed you the subpoena; whether or not you end up testifying in court is up to the judge and the lawyers. And I suppose, maybe because you’re a juvenile, you won’t even have to testify if you don’t want to. But I’m just delivering this”—he paused, looking at the clipboard—“and if you’ll sign it, I can get back to work.”
I signed the form and he left.
Grampa was awake when I came back into the house. “Naomi again?”
“Nosir, it was a deputy. He brought me this.” I handed the envelope to Grampa; he opened it and read the subpoena. When he finished, he didn’t say anything for a while.
Finally, he said, “I don’t like this, son, not one bit. It’s one thing for you to talk to George Smith about what R.C.’s done and said, but testifying in court . . . you’re just a boy, and this business is too dirty for you to be getting mixed up in.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you have a choice. Last I checked, we’re still living in the United States of America, regardless of what the NAACP and those outside agitators say. If I was you, Hiram, I’d keep my mouth shut about this whole thing. It’s going to be ugly, maybe even dangerous. Northern rabble-rousers will be there, and some of our local rednecks aren’t going to take too kindly to that. And didn’t you say that R.C. had threatened you?”
“Not exactly threatened, but I sure felt warned; he doesn’t want me talking to Sheriff Smith about what he did to Emmett while we were fishing.”
“That boy’s dangerous. You ought to lay low, keep quiet, and let things work themselves out; no need for you to risk getting hurt. The judge can make you appear in court, but you don’t have to tell everything you know, especially when testifying might put you in serious danger.”
I nodded. R.C. scared me, for sure, but shouldn’t I tell all the truth, even if I was afraid?
“Now, what about this R. C. Rydell?” Grampa asked. “You want me to talk to the sheriff about his threatening you? You got a right to feel safe here, anywhere, and the law’s bound to protect you. If you’re worried that he’s going to come after you, I can ask the sheriff to have him locked up if they find him, or maybe have a deputy keep an eye on the house while you’re here. You know that boy, Hiram; you know he can be real trouble.”
“I guess I wouldn’t mind if a deputy kind of hung around here for a while, just in case.” I hoped I’d never see R.C. again, because if he really wanted to get me, having a deputy around wasn’t going to stop him.
“If you talk in court, Hiram, you’re going to stir up R.C. pretty good. There’s no way you can keep it secret. Trials are public, and whatever gets said is going to show up in the Commonwealth, so even if old R.C. has enough sense to steer clear of the Sumner courthouse, he’s going to hear that you spoke against him in court.”
Thinking about R.C made me shiver. “I know I’d be crazy to tell everything at that trial; R.C. scares me to death. If I had my choice, I’d be on a train tonight headed back to Tempe. But Emmett Till is dead, Grampa, for no good reason. He had as much right to be here in Leflore County as I do. He was just a kid, a kid like me—”
“Hold on, son. He was a colored boy who didn’t know his place.”
“That doesn’t give R.C. and those two other men the right to murder him.”
Grampa’s face turned serious. “You don’t know for sure who did the killing, Hiram, and you’ve got to remember that Chicago boy made his own trouble. If he’d stayed in his place, he’d be alive today, and believe me, son, I truly wish none of this had happened.” Grampa looked exhausted. “Not a single bit of it.”
“But it did happen, and that boy is dead, and we both know that R. C. Rydell had something to do with it. Sure he scares me, but don’t I owe Emmett something? Isn’t it my duty to do something about it?”
“You don’t owe that boy a damn thing. For starters, he’s dead. All the talking in the world isn’t going to change that. And you’re in the Delta, son. No jury down here would even dream of punishing white boys for putting a Negro in his place. Sure, they got carried away something awful, but they’re local men, white men. The only thing you’ll do by speaking up in that trial is to get yourself hurt, maybe hurt bad.”
Grampa sounded so wrongheaded, I couldn’t believe it. Maybe some of what Dad was always spouting about equality and the American dream had rubbed off on me. “Don’t American laws apply in the Delta? What R.C. and those two men did was wrong, Grampa. It makes me sick just to think about it.”
“Because you’re a decent young man. You come from good stock, Hiram.”
“If I’m so decent, shouldn’t I tell what I know about R.C.? He killed a boy, Grampa, and I could’ve stopped him.”
“Now, Hiram, you already did more than you had to, calling the sheriff and everything. Not many boys your age would’ve had the courage to—”
“But I should have done more. Maybe I could have stopped R.C. that night, made him stay here. Maybe if I had followed him . . .”
Grampa waved his hand impatiently. “You’re forgetting that two grown men are already in jail for the crime, and they’ve admitted to kidnapping the boy. They would have done what they did whether or not R.C. was there—and you don’t know for sure that he was there, Hiram.”
“But he told me he was going to Money with a couple of men and that they were going to teach a Northern Negro a lesson. Emmett disappeared the next night.”
“Just because he planned to go up there doesn’t mean he ever did. Look at what you’re saying, son. You’ve already convicted R.C. for a crime you can’t be sure he committed. How are you going to look in court? Are you willing to accuse a boy everybody knows is a big talker of kidnapping and murder based on a conversation you had with him one night?”
“Grampa, I know R.C. and what he can do. I’ve seen what he’s done before.”
“So what? Do you have proof that he went to Mose Wright’s house that night? That he was with Bryant and Milam? That he helped them kill that boy? You got any proof of that?”
“But he said—”
“Don’t matter what he said, Hiram, the court’s interested in what he did, in what can be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. Do you really think that a jury made up of white Delta men is going to take your word over that of a local boy? Like I said, if you tell everything in that trial, the only thing you’re going to do is get yourself hurt and embarrass me.”
“Embarrass you?”
“People around here have long memories, son. They remember how your daddy was, how I couldn’t talk or whip any sense into him when he got to be your age. You have no idea how humiliating it is when a boy shames his family! Friends and neighbors said they understood, that they felt sorry about how Harlan and I battled, but I know that behind my back they talked about how I was a poor father, that if I had raised Harlan right, he wouldn’t have shamed me.” His voice trailed off. “Your daddy . . . you can’t be like your daddy.”
Grampa sat quietly until Ruthanne called us to supper. He looked up, a little confused, like he’d been dreaming or something, and waved me over to help him out of his chair.
“You get in court and talk against white folks, Hiram, and people around here’ll see your daddy in you. Contrary, that’s what he was. Didn’t like the South, the Southern ways. The Delta wasn’t good enough for him.” He wiped his mouth, and his hand trembled. “I don’t think I could take it again. That public condemnation. Friends gossiping. Feeling shame because of what my boy did and said. I raised you different, Hiram. You are not like your father. You’re a Delta boy, through and through.” Grampa patted my arm. “You’re a good boy, son, and I’ve been proud of you. I know you’ll do the right thing.”
Neither one of us said much during supper. Grampa
seemed worn out, tired, and like his mind was on something else, and I just didn’t feel like talking. Ruthanne had made one of my favorite dinners, but it didn’t taste very good that night. Thinking about R.C., Emmett, Dad and Grampa, and the trial pretty much ruined me for eating. I managed a drumstick and a couple scoops of mashed potatoes and coleslaw and then excused myself. I needed to get out of the house. I needed to see Naomi.
Grampa said nothing when I left the table and headed for the kitchen.
“You feeling all right, Mr. Hiram?” asked Ruthanne when I came in. “Not like you to leave my fried chicken and fixings uneaten like that.”
I shrugged. “Just been worrying about this trial.”
“You let the judge and lawyers worry about that. And I bet they’re plenty worried themselves. I never thought I’d see it happen, but they got two white men sitting in jail right now, and they’re going to send ’em to trial. Far as I know, this is the first time in the history of Mississippi that white men are gonna be made to account for what they done to a black man.” Ruthanne’s eyes filled with tears. “Nothing any jury can do to bring Emmett back, but they sure can let folks in the Delta know that things are changing. Changing at last.”
