by Jeff Stetson
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2004 by Jeff Stetson, Elisia-Paul Productions, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Warner Books
Hachette Book Group, USA
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com.
First eBook Edition: July 2004
ISBN: 978-0-7595-1191-0
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
To Addie Mae, Carole, Cynthia, and Denise, as well as all other victims of ignorance and hate: Your blood is either in our veins or on our hands; may God save us if we can’t tell the difference.
PROLOGUE
The terror returned. Except this time the color of the flesh to be burned wasn’t black. The moonlight guided the stranger as he worked among the shadows of a forest that bore witness to his crime. Soon the night would rescind its protection, leaving him to face the sunrise alone.
He marveled at the awesome power of the past. He’d never felt this alive, which terrified him, for he knew in his heart he’d lost the desire to seek forgiveness and, with it, his capacity to forgive. If that was the price to pay for justice, he’d accept his punishment. And now, at long last, so would the man bound against the fallen tree.
He studied the poorly drawn map of sweat, dirt, and blood intersecting the man’s tormented face, then carefully tested the strips of sheet that bound his hands and feet. He poured liquid on the twisted body and could tell from the man’s whimpering that it stung. The faded electrical tape over the man’s mouth muffled his cries but couldn’t conceal the pain in his eyes. In a different time and place that pain would have mattered—but not tonight, not ever again.
He understood that retribution made one simple demand: to travel at its own pace down the path paved by others. He wondered if he was fully prepared for the journey. Then he lit the match, and with a simple flick of his finger, the body erupted into flames. The smell of burning flesh sickened him. He wanted to scream almost as much as he needed to watch. He stepped back to get a better look at the future, and confirmed that the past was indeed powerful. It was never behind, as many wished, but rather always in front, always ahead, a haunting reminder of the relentlessness of memory.
He observed the man stretched out on his back, muscles melting violently into bone. He listened intently to the feeble cursing that escaped the burning hole once protected by human lips. For the first time he pitied white skin. But pity wouldn’t save this man, nor would it rescue his companion, who hung lifelessly from a sagging branch just above his head.
He tried to remember the words to “America the Beautiful.” He thought back to his childhood, when the rendition sung by Ray Charles had always made him cry. “America! America! God shed His grace on thee. . . .”
The flames, brighter now, engulfed the man pleading to become a corpse. And they cast a colorful yellow-orange glow on the grotesquely swaying second man, his neck broken and eyes frozen shut in unfinished prayer. His shredded shirt glistened with blood that had, until tonight, pumped for over six decades through an unrepentant heart. “. . . and crown Thy good with brotherhood . . .”
The crackling sound of fire replaced the stranger’s recollection of the music. He closed his eyes, but the images remained: one burned, one lynched; two condemned to hell—three if he included himself.
“They kill you before you die. . . .” He now knew with absolute certainty what those words meant. His eyes burned, but he refused to shed any tears. There’d be no freedom from the burden of history and no release from the sorrow.
“. . . from sea to shining sea!”
CHAPTER 1
THE DEFECTIVELY REPAIRED air conditioner murmured and moaned, harmonizing with Professor Martin Matheson, whose soothing voice hardly needed musical accompaniment. “Andrew Reid was on leave from his second tour in Vietnam when he stopped to have a drink in a local bar with his nineteen-year-old brother.”
Dr. Matheson stuck a pushpin through the photo of a black man burned at the stake and attached it to a poster board. Some students let out audible gasps. Others turned away or diverted their eyes to the polished hardwood floor of the former dance hall where Matheson’s class had been reassigned to accommodate greater than expected enrollment. Even in this larger space, many undergraduates were forced to stand alongside the mirrored walls. Their reflections made the room appear twice as crowded.
A number of students sat on the floor. Women who’d left their previous classes five minutes early to ensure they’d sit closest to the faculty member nicknamed “Mister Knowledge” and “Doctor Fine” filled front-row seats. They watched Matheson unbutton the top of his Armani linen-and-silk-blend shirt as he gracefully walked past.
“Waitress was white. They smiled at her. She smiled back.” He retrieved an eight-by-ten photo of two grinning white men in their mid- to late twenties. He casually pinned it to a second poster board resting against an easel.
“Her husband, Robert Taylor, and her brother, Reginald Hopkins, followed the two young black men out of the bar and at gunpoint drove them to a deserted wooded area.” Matheson returned to the first poster board and uncovered a photo of another black man, a thick-knotted noose around his fractured neck. He was hanging from a tree that had once borne less precious fruit.
The professor placed the photo next to the picture of the charred corpse, making it easier for his students to imagine the unimaginable. “They tied Reid to a log and burned him at the stake, but not until they tortured him and forced him to look at the lynched body of his younger brother.”
Brandon Hamilton, a second-year graduate student, sat in the back row. He stared at the horrific remains of two black men who, in the words of Matheson, “once shared
the same earth as us and perhaps the same dreams.” His large right hand gripped the side of the desk, then slowly closed, making a powerful fist. At six feet four, carrying 235 pounds of solid muscle, he’d been the most sought-after athlete in the country. In his freshman year he set collegiate records in three sports and became captain of the football and basketball teams. As a sophomore he was giving serious consideration to turning pro until, by accident or destiny, he signed up for a class taught by Matheson. On the day he handed in his term paper to the professor, he also turned in all his uniforms and forfeited his scholarship. He vowed never again to serve a system content to exploit him as a commodity but never respect him as a man.
“In deliberations that lasted three minutes, a jury of their peers found Taylor and Hopkins not guilty.” Matheson was reaching for a stack of photocopies when the oak door creaked open and two white policemen entered. Matheson smiled as he watched Dr. Henry Watkins, assistant vice president of administrative affairs, passively follow the police. The only black man in the university’s central administration, Watkins had long ago grown accustomed to following behind quietly.
“It would’ve taken less time, but the foreman had difficulty filling out the verdict forms. I suppose some people are just naturally inept when it comes to carrying out instructions.” Matheson directed this last remark to Watkins, who was meticulously adjusting his glasses.
The first officer waited quietly near the rear entrance, seeming reluctant to interrupt class proceedings any further. The second officer chose to be more conspicuous. He paced the area with his short, stocky arms folded across his police shield. Heavy footsteps beat rhythmically against the shining parquet floor, announcing his impatience.
Matheson, ignoring the officers, picked up the stack of papers, and handed it to Regina Davis, seated in the front, center row. She’d been voted the first black homecoming queen in the university’s 168-year history. But to her the only honor that mattered was the privilege of serving as Matheson’s teaching assistant. She’d been chosen from among 112 eager applicants.
Matheson sensed her anxiety and touched her hand. She looked briefly at the policemen before dividing the large stack into smaller sections, placing a pile on each front-row desk for the students to distribute.
The impatient police officer stared at Watkins, which seemed to provide the prodding the timid administrator needed. “Professor Matheson, will you be long?”
“Not as long as justice takes in the great state of Mississippi,” Matheson responded politely. “But, as they say, good things come to those who wait.” The class erupted in laughter.
“Although they also say, ‘Justice delayed is justice . . .’”
“‘Denied’!” the students shouted out as they’d done many times before.
Matheson felt immensely proud of them. He’d become a teacher to make a difference, to hold up a mirror before the despised and dispossessed so they’d see just how beautiful they really were. If nothing else, he hoped he’d achieved that goal.
The students reviewed the material. Each page contained a recent photo of Taylor and Hopkins along with their home addresses, phone numbers, and other personal information.
“Remember your history. It can be painful, but it’s all we have. I’ll see you Friday. Until then . . . good hunting.” Matheson nodded at the impatient policeman, who’d finally stopped pacing.
The students gathered their books and quickly filed past the uninvited visitors. Regina, the ever-vigilant witness, returned to her seat and opened her notebook. Brandon marched toward Matheson and stood silently by his side.
Matheson focused his attention on the two officers. “Did you come for these?” He removed the photos of the black victims. “Or those?” He pointed at the photo of the smiling white men, then leaned against the podium.
The policeman dropped his arms to his sides and studied Matheson curiously. “I need to read you your rights.”
“That presumes they come from you. They don’t.” Matheson, displaying absolute conviction in his response, still delivered it with surprising congeniality.
The policeman removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt, clanking together the two sides.
Brandon approached him and stared at his name tag. The officer started to issue a command when Brandon turned toward Regina and announced, “Officer Macon, badge number three-seventeen.”
Regina recorded the information, and Brandon directed his attention to the handcuffs. “You’re not putting those on him,” he warned.
Macon slowly placed his hand on his holster and unsnapped the thin restraining strap. Matheson stepped in front of the anxious officer. “It’s all right, Brandon,” he spoke softly. “Putting two fists together is always preferable to one.”
Matheson held out his hands in a manner that suggested a challenge more than an offer to submit to arrest. He smiled disarmingly at Macon, then voluntarily extended his arms while shifting his attention to Watkins. “Don’t look so worried, Dr. Watkins; the publicity will probably drive up enrollment.” The professor winked, which obliged Watkins to smile in appreciation.
The annoyed officer placed the handcuffs on Matheson, making them fit as tightly as possible.
Matheson felt the cold steel binding his wrists and recalled the first time he’d seen his father arrested. Television cameras were supposed to ensure safety but didn’t. A deputy sheriff had unwittingly become part of recorded history by twisting the cuffs until they dug deep into his father’s skin; a vein was cut, almost severed. The blood gushed onto a camera lens, which led a moment later to a baton striking glass, then flesh, then bone. He’d been five years old and had never seen violence or felt terror or imagined his father helpless. His first impulse had been to overcome the fear and place his small body in harm’s way. Instead, he did as he’d been taught. He sang songs of protest and faith and love and watched his father bleed.
“Are you comfortable, Professor?” Macon’s partner asked, genuinely concerned.
“Oh, yes, very. But I’m a teacher, so it’s my job to make others uncomfortable. The search for truth is often unsettling. If acquiring knowledge were easy, everyone would have it.” Regina and Brandon exchanged a smile while Macon remained stoic.
Matheson moved his fists as far apart as the cuffs allowed and examined his hands in front of Watkins. “The chains are more sophisticated now,” he stated reflectively.
“So are the crimes,” volunteered the quiet officer.
“Not the crimes—the criminals,” Matheson corrected.
“You want to know why we’re taking you in?”
Matheson looked kindly at Macon’s partner, who had asked the question. “I was expecting you to arrive the first week of classes. Have you ever read Pedagogy of the Oppressed?” He didn’t wait for a response. “There’s a myth that the truth shall set you free. It won’t, but it’ll make you angry as hell. Making people angry by telling them the truth has been considered a crime in virtually every jurisdiction in this country.” He looked at Watkins. “I believe it’s called sedition.”
For all the rhetoric, Matheson’s tone remained nonconfrontational. He delivered his words dispassionately, with a style that set others at ease.
Regina rose from her seat and joined Brandon. “If he’s not released within twenty-four hours, you’d better expect half the university outside his cell.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, young lady,” replied Macon.
“Keep this in mind, too,” interjected Brandon. “We won’t stop going after the people on Professor Matheson’s list, no matter what you do or how many of us you arrest.”
“Is that a fact?” Macon said with disdain.
“And here’s another,” Brandon said, his vehemence escalating. “If he’s harmed in any way, the next person we’re going to visit is you.”
“You threatenin’ a police officer, son?” Macon’s chest expanded until Matheson’s voice relieved the officer’s tension.
“My students don’t make
threats, Officer Macon. As a general rule it’s not advantageous to give your adversary any warning.”
Macon grabbed Matheson’s elbow. “I think it’s time for you to go with us.”
Regina studied Matheson. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“Just tell my father not to worry,” Matheson said calmly. “And let the students know I don’t intend on missing any classes, so I expect everyone to complete their assignments on time.”
A group of black male students quietly entered the room and stationed themselves on either side of the door.
Macon released Matheson’s arm with a trace of apprehension. “There’s not gonna be any trouble, is there, Professor Matheson?” He’d been finally forced to use Matheson’s name and the entitlement that went with it.
Matheson leaned in close to Macon. “I’d never allow that,” he replied gently, carefully emphasizing the word “allow.”
Matheson glanced at Regina and signaled his permission for her to leave. She and Brandon walked through the parallel rows of student guards, and Watkins followed seconds later. The loyal entourage remained attentive. The policemen led Matheson out of the room, although from his demeanor the professor appeared to be the person in command.
CHAPTER 2
TODD MILLER MIGHT have been the last native-born white liberal lawyer in Mississippi, perhaps in the whole South. Certainly, he had to be the only good ol’ boy over sixty-five who wore a gray braided ponytail, although he preferred to call it silver—and call it was precisely what he did. Like the Lone Ranger summoning his white steed, Miller had been known to command his ponytail with a confident toss of his head, swinging it over his left shoulder and allowing his limp badge of honor to rest inches above his heart.
He once told a jury that his hair was an extension of his mind, and if the mind became “courageous enough to touch the heart, then true justice would be found.” By the time the judge admonished the jury to disregard that definition, Miller had already flung the thing over his shoulder and endeared himself to the twelve men and women who would decide his client’s fate.
He particularly enjoyed tossing his ponytail during opening argument, when he’d rather the jurors remember his hair than any promises he hadn’t kept. He never used the trick during his closing, when he preferred they recall his eloquence, along with the sincerity of his eyes. Those eyes had been credited with winning every close case, changing color with his passion, and intensity with his choice of shirts. Normally bluish gray, his eyes became solid blue with indignation, green with defiance—and, sometimes, humor—and on rare occasions, when he expended every ounce of energy and needed to draw from his legendary well of oratorical magic, they switched to gold. Jurors had sworn to it. A few even claimed that his eyes had actually displayed a hint of red, which Miller later declared was caused by a fire in his belly.
