Harvest of Thorns

by Paul E. Wootten

  Jack Schira would be meeting her at the courthouse at nine-thirty. Chan would remain in the hallway during the arraignment. Schira seemed to be a competent attorney, with a certain showmanship that he was quick to admit was uncommon in Saxon County. That showmanship might be all they had going for them, as the prosecuting attorney had made it clear he was pursuing charges of felony assault.

  Vestal stepped into the courthouse and made her way to the second floor, Chan in tow. He was confused and scared, natural for a five-year-old who had seen his father cuffed and taken away in a police cruiser. They waited on a long hard bench outside the courtroom. At ten o’clock a bailiff came out and glanced around, his eyes settling on Vestal and Chan.

  “Mrs. Manning,” he said kindly, “Court’s about to commence. You’ll want to come in.”

  She stood slowly, eyes sweeping the deserted hallway. Dread settling in.

  “I’m afraid our lawyer... he’s not—”

  “I’m right here, Mrs. Manning.” Schira strode around a corner and took her elbow, leading her past the bailiff into the courtroom. Other than a half-dozen spectators, the court reporter, and man who appeared to be an attorney, the large room was empty.

  “I’m sorry, Vessie,” Schira said quietly as they took their place at the large table in front. “My wife became ill overnight. I had to find someone to stay with her.”

  They were still standing when Judge Airey entered, looking tired and drawn. After getting situated, he wasted no time calling the proceedings to order.

  “Deputy, bring in the defendant.”

  Vestal was surprised at how gaunt Earl looked. During their brief visits, he’d indicated the food wasn’t very good, but today was the first time she could see how it was impacting him. He was led to a seat next to Schira and the handcuffs were removed. The orange and white jumpsuit hung from his frame.

  “Mr. Taggert, are you ready to proceed?” Judge Airey looked coldly at the well-dressed man seated at the table to the Mannings’ right. Vestal watched him shuffle through a mountain of paperwork, irritation flashing across his face.

  “Your Honor, there is no doubt that five days ago, the defendant Earl Manning entered the home of Grover Petty and beat the man to within an inch of his life. There is also—”

  “Objection, Your Honor!” Schira was on his feet. “Mr. Taggert is already trying the case and we’ve not even officially heard the charges.” He quieted a bit as he turned to face his adversary. “All we have to go on are rumors being circulated around town that he plans to prosecute Mr. Manning for felony assault. We can’t do much with rumors, Your Honor.”

  “Objection sustained,” the judge said wearily “Move ahead Mr. Taggert.”

  Taggert sighed. “As I was saying, Your Honor, we were ready to move forward, but it seems Mr. Petty has had a change of heart.”

  Vestal felt her heart leap. She grasped her husband’s hand.

  “Mr. Petty, though still recovering from the significant beating he received at the hands of Earl Manning, has decided to turn the other cheek.”

  Guffaws arose from the scattered spectators. “The cheek that ain’t broke?” someone whispered.

  The judge rapped his gravel, motioning for Taggert to proceed.

  “Your Honor, Mr. Petty asks that he be left alone to live quietly at his home on Grebey Island, and that he be allowed to continue building the farm where he has worked so hard the past ten years.”

  More laughter.

  “He works harder trying to avoid work.”

  “So you’re saying, Mr. Taggert, that the suspect is no longer being charged?”

  Taggert nodded.

  “Then I hereby order Mr. Manning released.” The judge banged his gavel before continuing. “Is there any further business to come before the court?”

  Schira stood. “Your Honor, on behalf of my client, Mr. Manning, I respectfully request that the court order Grover Petty to remove himself and his possessions from the farm on Grebey Island on or before the thirtieth of this month.”

  Vestal looked to her husband; Earl appeared as confused as she.

  “Your Honor,” Schira continued, “It came to our attention after reviewing the tax records that Mr. Manning is the legal and rightful owner of the home in which Mr. Petty has been living. Additionally, there is no record that Mr. Petty has paid rent for a period of time longer than two years.”

  “Mr. Taggert, do you know anything about this?”

  The attorney stood, his mouth open. “Your Honor, I... we... no sir, I don’t know anything about it. Grover said Levi Manning gave him that land, free and clear.”

  “Does he have paperwork supporting that claim?” the judge asked. “A deed? A contract?”

  “No, Your Honor. They had talked about it a few times, but there’s nothing in writing.”

  “Then I find for Mr. Manning. Mr. Taggert, advise your client to remove himself from the premises by the thirtieth.”

  ###

  Schira escorted the Mannings into the Diplomat Diner, across the street from the courthouse.

  “What can I get you folks?” The waitress was a plump redhead, with moles and sunspots on her face and neck.

  “Amanda? Amanda Shropshire?”

  The waitress glanced up from her order pad, then did a double-take.

  “Do I know – oh my goodness,” a smile lit up her face. “Earl! It’s really you!”

  Earl stood and offered his hand, but Amanda brushed it aside with a hug. She was several inches taller and seventy pounds heavier than Earl, and when she hugged him he almost disappeared.

  “Amanda and I went through school together,” he said. “Good people, her family. Lived out on the county road between Adair and Shipley.”

  “We was both outcasts back then,” Amanda smiled. “People ‘round here never had much use for folks up our way, and after Earl and his mama took up with the coloreds we was both outsiders.”

  “Forgive me, Amanda.” Earl nodded to the others. “This is my wife, Vessie and my son, Chan.” Amanda offered her hand to Vestal, then took a close look at the boy.

  “You all make a beautiful family,” she smiled. “But I always knew Earl would marry well.”

  “I’m Jack Schira,” the attorney said, rising from his seat. “A family friend.”

  “I heard about you,” Amanda said, pointing at Schira. “You’re that guy who took old Judge Airey down a couple notches.” Earl was unsure if this was a good thing or not. They didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  “That one’s needed taking down a long time. Arrogant old cuss can’t be bothered to leave a nickel tip.”

  “Amanda, get to work!” A grizzled man poked his head through a door behind the lunch counter.

  “Shut up, Tank. These people are my friends.” Tank scowled at them for a few moments before retreating into the back.

  “Good to see you, Earl. I hope you’re thinking about moving back this way.”

  “That’s the plan, Amanda.”

  After orders were placed, Amanda joined Tank in the kitchen, leaving the Mannings and their attorney.

  “Amanda was one of the few white kids who was nice to me after Daddy got sent away,” Earl said. “We’d take up for each other when we had to. Her family was so bad off. Amanda never had much, except what others gave her.”

  “Did she know Miss Cora?” Vestal had watched the interaction with considerable interest.

  “Oh yes. Amanda and her brother, Butch worked for us some in the summer, same as they did for the others on the island. Never too proud to work, that’s for sure.”

  Vestal turned her attention to Schira. “What exactly happened in court, Mr. Schira? What did you mean about Earl owning the house where that Petty man is living?”

  Schira picked up his leather bag and pulled out a sheath of papers. “Apparently there’s some people around here who don’t like Mr. Petty any more than you do, Earl.”

  Schira laid a number of documents on the table. The first was Petty�
��s arrest record. Stretching back to the 1930’s, Grover Petty had been convicted of more than a dozen crimes in Adair County. Cattle rustling, theft, and assault among them.

  “Have you heard of a guy named Alcorn? A lawyer?” Schira’s question triggered a memory. Alcorn was a name Earl knew, but from where?

  Schira continued, “He’s dead now, but back in the ‘30’s and up until a few years ago, he had a reputation for being a real gunslinger in the courtroom. Had an office in Sikeston, but from what I could find, he traveled all over the place. He took on tough cases and almost always won.”

  Earl looked over the documents, wracking his brain to come up with how he knew the name.

  “In almost every case in Saxon County, Grover Petty got nothing more than a slap on the wrist. You’ll also note a common name in most of these cases.” Schira pointed to specific locations on several of the documents.

  “Judge Airey.”

  “Yep. Now there are a couple here, in Perry and Bollinger Counties.” Schira pulled two files from the pile. “In these cases Petty got some significant time in state prison. Four years here and two on this one. As I dug deeper, I found he was always paroled after serving a couple months. Overcrowded conditions, they said.”

  When Earl heard the word, parole, it clicked.

  “Alcorn was the lawyer who got Levi out of jail.”

  Vestal’s eyes grew wide. “If it hadn’t been for him, you and your mama...”

  “Wouldn’t have had to leave Grebey Island. At least not as soon as we did.”

  They sat quietly for a moment. Chan, oblivious, continued working in a coloring book.

  “But, Mr. Schira,” Earl said. “What’s this have to do with kicking Grover Petty out of the Stanley house?”

  Schira shoved the papers back into his satchel, pulled out a thin file, and opened it.

  “Because it’s not the Stanleys’ house, it hasn’t been for years.”

  “It’s yours.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Cora was mad enough to spit, and the longer she waited the madder she got.

  The contacts she’d reached out to in Washington weren’t the source of her anger, nor were those contacts’ contacts in Jefferson City. It wasn’t the friends of friends who knew the goings-on in the county courthouse back in Adair she was mad at. Nope. Even though they were proving to be slower than molasses at gathering the information she desperately wanted, she wasn’t mad at them.

  Cora was mad at herself.

  Seated at the oversized desk in her large office three blocks from the Capital, Cora tried to work, but curiosity kept getting in the way. She knew the wait was equally long for her son back in Missouri.

  She was dismayed to learn that all traces of the Grebey Island Negroes, other than the Stanley house, were gone. Even more troubling, Levi had somehow come into possession of their land, though it appeared any actual farming of the island was limited to the few acres Grover Petty was sharecropping.

  Jack Schira was unable to learn much, either. People around the Saxon County Courthouse were reluctant to talk to an outsider in any situation, let alone one who brought problems to light that resulted in three of their hard-working friends losing their jobs so Judge Airey could save his

  Sadly, all of this could have easily been headed off, and that was why Cora was angry with herself. In the decades since leaving Grebey Island, Cora had kept the stack of letters and postcards. Pulling off her jacket in the overheated office, she spread the letters before her on the desk, looking for any clues of what might have happened.

  For the first few months after they left the island, Harry Davis’s letters arrived weekly, growing increasingly intimate. The spark she felt as she read them for the first time in twenty years was scarcely dimmed. Harry professed his love and was saving money to join her in Washington where, if she’d have him, they would be married. She had written back that she would have him indeed, and that she would gladly send some of the proceeds from the farm to expedite his arrival.

  Harry was fiercely independent, though. While he appreciated the offer, he preferred to earn the money.

  Curiously lacking from Harry’s letters was any mention of Levi Manning and the farm. Harry worked for Lincoln Stanley the rest of the summer and fall, filling the void left when Harvester returned to school. Once the harvest was concluded, he returned to St. Louis to work double shifts in a steel plant. With God’s grace I should be able to move to Washington by early spring, he wrote in November of 1938, three months after Cora left. I will find a boarding house in which to live while I get my feet on the ground. After I am employed, I would consider it my highest achievement to be able to formally court you, Miss Cora.

  Though she hadn’t kept copies of her letters to him, she remembered her response. You are a good man, Mr. Davis. It would be an honor to be courted by you.

  For two months there was no reply. At first Cora assumed the double shifts were keeping him busy. She wrote four letters the first month, and another two the second, before opening her mailbox on a snowy February morning to find a thin envelope with a St. Louis postmark.

  The letter was brief, just three lines. Unlike the others, it was typewritten.

  I feel it will be better for both of us to break off our plans. I have started courting a young Negro woman here in St. Louis and feel my opportunities will be better with her. I wish you only the best.

  It was the last Cora heard from Harry Davis. She picked up her heartfelt response, three pages in length, that she had cried over but ultimately never mailed. Nor had there been any communication with anyone else from Grebey Island. That door had been firmly shut, lest emotions best kept buried came spilling out.

  It was the closing of that door that was making Cora mad. Why hadn’t she put personal feelings aside and continued to communicate with the people she’d grown so close to? If she had, perhaps she wouldn’t be relying on others to find out how Levi Manning came to possess the entire island.

  Exasperated by the wait, Cora decided to place a call of her own. There was nothing quite like the sound of her grandson’s chipper voice to make things right. Reaching for the phone, she winced at the pain she’d been feeling in her right arm the past several days. Today, even her jaw was sore. Once things on Grebey Island were sorted out, she planned to get in touch with Dr. Griffith for a long-overdue check-up and lecture on how she needed to take better care of herself.

  “Operator, I’d like to make a long-distance call to Saxon County, Missouri.” The call was quickly connected and on the second ring, a child’s voice answered.

  “Hello!”

  “Hello! Is somebody there?”

  “Hello... is this Grandma?”

  “Hello?”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  ST. LOUIS GLOBE DEMOCRAT

  May 9, 1967

  POLITICAL ADVISOR/CONFIDANT DEAD AT FIFTY-EIGHT

  Washington – Cora Tasby Manning, formerly of Missouri, was found dead in her office yesterday, the victim of an apparent heart attack.

  Born in rural Cape Girardeau County and educated in Oak Ridge, Manning rose from humble surroundings to become one of the most influential women in National and Midwest politics. Beginning as a staffer to then-Senator Harry S. Truman, Manning’s role evolved from secretary to family friend and confidant. Speaking of Manning at a 1949 press conference, President Truman stated, “Cora has both common sense and horse sense. I’d be a fool not to listen to her.”

  Following President Truman’s retirement from public service, Manning served as an advisor to President Johnson and several Missourians serving in the United States Congress. Most recently, Manning has operated her own consulting firm, focused on helping public officials from the Midwest maintain open communication with their constituents.

  Cora Tasby Manning is survived by a son, Earl Manning, his wife Vestal, and grandson Channing, all residents of Saxon County, Missouri.

  Gravesite services will be held August 11 at the Tasby family cemetery near Oak R
idge. President and Mrs. Truman and numerous dignitaries are expected to attend.

  Missouri Governor Warren E. Hearnes has ordered that all flags in the state be flown at half-mast through the end of the month to honor Manning.

  FORTY-NINE

  As always, the faces were unfamiliar. Their names, Martin Luther and Lyndon, obviously false, used to mock the men they felt could do the most to disrupt the cause.

  “Sometimes God takes care of things so we don’t have to,” one of the locals said.

  “That Manning woman got way too big for her britches,” another said. “She had to go - one way or another.”

  “Her passing will definitely make it easier,” Martin Luther said. “Cora Manning was starting to pick at old scabs.”

  “How about we move ahead with our plans.” The local’s statement was met with assent from most of the dozen men gathered in the musty shed.

  “I can’t see much reason to wait,” said another. “The sooner we rid the island of ‘em, the sooner things can be the way they’re supposed to be.”

  “The coon wife needs to be the first to go,” another said, adding with a wink, “I’d like to take care of that one myself.”

  “You’re forgetting the tenets on which this group was founded.” Lowell Surratt, Sr.’s words quelled their laughter. Even at his advanced age he was a man others listened to.

  “You’re also underestimating Cora Manning’s influence,” Lyndon said. “She left behind a lot of important friends. You hurt her family, you bring the kind of attention we strive to avoid.”

  Impatience was evident. “Some of us are getting pretty tired of waiting for things to happen,” a local said.

  Martin Luther stood and reached for his overcoat, nodding for Lyndon to do the same.

  “Gentlemen, impatience is a weak man’s trait. The KKK and those other groups, they’re impatient. They move without thinking and wind up with public sentiment against them. Ask some of your daddies who were here when this group started. They remember how things were before The White Covenant.”