Where Southern Cross the Dog (20 page)

Charlie paused to sip from the glass of water on his table. Luke looked at him inquisitively, and Charlie looked away.

“Now, what about the evidence?” Charlie said. “The evidence! You've got to have some evidence to convict a man. That's what's supposed to make the case against an accused man, isn't it? Where's the evidence?” Charlie asked rhetorically. “Well, you're going to see that there is little to no evidence. And don't you think that before we sentence a man to death, or put him in Parchman for life, we ought to have some real evidence? And a lot of it. I certainly wouldn't want to be convicted on hearsay and rumor, would you?”

Charlie turned his head and looked into Sam's eyes. The district attorney stared back at him. He seemed to be taking this personally. Charlie returned to the jury.

“Finally, we've got to address motive. There has to be a motive for this murder. I mean no one kills a man without a motive. And we've got to hear one, or again, I'm gonna have a hard time believing that Mr. Williams is responsible. You know, people kill for all kinds of reasons—jealousy, hate, revenge. Some people are just crazy, and they run out and kill people for any old reason, even a made-up one. But whatever the reason, there is one. Has to be one. And that, along with evidence, is what the prosecution is obliged to show you and get you to believe. That Mr. Williams had a motive for what he allegedly did. It's the prosecutor's responsibility to show you that. And if he can't or won't, or you just don't believe it, then Mr. Williams has got to go free.”

Charlie took another sip of water. “I hope I've made it clear what the prosecution has to do and what I have to do. You have a difficult task, but I know you'll make the right decision. For yourselves and for Mr. Williams.”

Charlie stood for a moment, making eye contact with each of the jurors one by one. Then he turned away and sat back down at his table. Tackett would have to work for this one. Only after the final verdict was read would Charlie know what the jury believed and understood.

Luke leaned over just inches from his face. “That was pretty good,” he whispered. “Maybe I'm glad I asked for a lawyer. But let's don't make it too good. I don't want to die, but cell life ain't bad.”

Charlie looked perplexed. What did that mean? he asked himself. “Don't get overly excited. We've got a long way to go.”

Tackett knew that Charlie wouldn't let Luke take the stand. He didn't even have to ask. Tackett's first witness was Mrs. Sarah Miller, who lived with her husband and children about a mile from
the Williamses. She was about Elma's age, late twenties, and wore a simple beige dress that might have been borrowed, considering its good condition. She appeared nervous, almost trembling. Tackett would have to tread lightly. He didn't want her to cry. Didn't want the jury thinking he was bullying her.

Like Luke and Elma, Mrs. Miller and her husband were sharecroppers. They attended church together, and she praised Elma's singing talents. “She knows almost every song in the hymnal,” Mrs. Miller said. She also mentioned the help Elma was receiving from Mr. Miller, her husband, and others.

“Since Luke's been gone, my husband has been helping Elma with her crops. Or, I should say, Mr. Williams's crops. She can't do it by herself, and Luke always raised a good crop and put food on the table. Once all the crops are sold, we're gonna split the money. Then next year, we'll do the same thing. We'll just keep going until he comes home.”

Finally, Tackett inquired about what he really wanted to know, and asked Mrs. Miller if her family owned or had access to a vehicle. She said they did not but that their neighbors four miles away had one. Feeling he had achieved his goal of proving Luke had access to a car if he needed one, Tackett had no further questions for his first witness.

Down to the churchhouse!

—Robert Petway

TRAVIS LEANED AGAINST THE CAR, WHICH WAS PARKED in front of the church. His foot rested on the car's running board, his fingers tapped rhythmically on the roof.

Where the heck was Wayne? He had known about this revival for two weeks. It was one of the last revivals of the season, and one of the best, especially if you'd never been to one. From what Travis had heard, the Church of Christ in God, or the “Holy Rollers” as nonmembers called them, was the most enthusiastic church in the black community.

Over the years, Travis had learned a lot about the black churches and their history. Methodists, Baptists, African Methodist-Episcopal, and Catholics all had one thing in common: their God was a maternal one who showed great mercy. In white churches, the ones
that Travis had attended all his life, God was cast in the image of a father, a strict disciplinarian.

Tonight, Travis was eagerly expecting to see someone “get religion” or “get the Holy Ghost,” but without Wayne he might not have the nerve to go alone. He should have asked Hannah to go with him, but it was too late now.

Travis watched as people continued to make their way into the church. It was filling up. After waiting for half an hour, he decided Wayne was not going to show up, and Travis climbed back into his car. But his hand paused on the ignition. He looked at the people streaming in. Why shouldn't I go in? he thought. I'm already here.

As Travis walked toward the front door, he wasn't sure how he would be received, but he would try to be discreet by standing near the back. Once inside, he realized he had few options where to stand, and he took a place next to the wall. A woman standing in front of him looked over her shoulder. “Good evening,” Travis said politely.

“Evenin',” she murmured, and turned back toward the front.

The seated parishioners, led enthusiastically by a woman who stood on a platform at the front of the church, swayed back and forth, clapping their hands and praising the Lord. The crowd continued to swell, and Travis was pushed forward several feet while others squeezed into the building.

Eventually, the woman on the platform stopped chanting and clapping, and the parishioners followed her lead. She then read several passages of scripture, pausing only for the frequent calls of “Amen” from her rapt audience.

Travis noticed the woman next to him was quite vocal. Soon, he got caught up in the moment and uttered an “Amen” himself. Nobody seemed to mind.

The temperature in the building had climbed considerably since Travis had arrived. With the oil lamps lighting the interior, the
crowd, and the night's late-summer heat, Travis felt beads of sweat begin to gather on his forehead and the familiar sensation of his damp shirt beginning to stick to his back. He looked around at the people dressed in proper worshipping attire, dresses and suits, and couldn't imagine how they could bear the heat. But then he remembered many of them worked all day under a burning sun.

After the Scriptures were read, the woman asked, “Does anyone want, I mean need, to testify tonight? Who needs to testify?”

Several hands went up.

“Come on up,” she said. “One at a time, y'all.”

Some began with a hymn and others just stood on the platform and started talking. Travis could barely hear the meeker ones. And some made more gyrations than noise.

One young man of about twelve got up and slowly walked to the front of the church. Travis could barely see him until he mounted the platform. A hush fell over the crowd.

“I got the Lord the day my momma died,” he said with a bowed head.

“Oh, Jesus,” a woman moaned.

“The Lord, he come to me when the first load of dirt hit the top of her coffin,” the boy said. “I could feel him come inside me, touch my heart, and tell me it was time to become a man. I said, ‘A man, Jesus?'” The boy was rocking side to side. “And He said, ‘That's right, a man.' I said, ‘I ain't ready.' And He said, ‘Don't matter. It's gonna be all right 'cause I'm walking right beside you.'”

“Praise that baby,” another woman said.

“And He walks with me every day and sleeps with me every night.”

“Every night,” someone said.

“And now I'm okay 'cause I got Jesus with me.” The boy stepped down from the platform, and people clapped and patted him on the back. A woman who had kept shouting out during his testimony
grabbed him and hugged him like she'd never see him again. He smiled, but with a pained expression on his face.

Travis felt the testimonies exciting the crowd. Everyone was moving, swaying, chanting, and Amening more and more.

An older man tried to testify, but he fell to one knee before he could get a word out and had to be led from the platform.

After the testimonies, a collection basket went around, the woman leading the service asking for “buffaloes” and “brownies.” Songs and prayers continued while she encouraged the attendees to give a bit more, and then a bit more again. The collection was completed only when she pronounced herself satisfied with the amount.

Finally, after the collection, the woman took a seat on the platform. There was silence for a few moments. Once or twice someone cried out, “Jesus is in me,” or “Praise the Lord.” The woman in front of Travis shouted both.

Several minutes passed and everyone was in deep reflection, praying and shouting when necessary. Travis bowed his head, peeking every once in a while to see what was happening.

Then, shouts and screams rang out as a man who had been sitting in a chair on the platform stood and walked to the center. He looked over the congregation, raised his arms toward heaven, and shouted, “Amen, Jesus. Amen.”

Travis jumped when several people around him immediately shouted out in response. The entire congregation began clapping rhythmically, in unison. Obviously, everyone had been waiting for this, and Travis smiled when the man gave himself over to the crowd's enthusiasm. This was what Travis had come for.

“My name is Reverend Taylor,” the man said. “Reverend Taylor,” he reiterated again for emphasis, raising his voice.

“Tell us, Reverend,” a voice said from the crowd.

“Tell it all,” another followed.

“Oh, I will brother,” he said. “I will.”

Another shout came from someone near the front.

The reverend looked out over the crowd. “I see a lot of ladies here tonight. That's good. But does that mean your men don't need saving?”

Some laughs were heard from the audience.

“Or maybe they've already been saved?”

Reverend Taylor took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “It's warm tonight.”

More Amens.

“But— not as hot as the Devil's house,” he said.

“Oh no!” someone said.

“Not that hot,” added another voice.

“But tonight, we're gonna cool it down,” the reverend said, “because this is the Lord's house. And there isn't any place for the Devil in the Lord's house.”

The crowd shouted in unison.

“Where is the Lord? Where is Jesus?” he said.

“Come to us, Jesus,” a woman said.

“Can you find him?”

“Is he here?” He pointed to his head. “Here?” He pointed to his heart. “Here?” He pointed to a chair. Then a lamp, then outside. Then he swirled his arm over his head. “Where is Jesus?” Reverend Taylor paced across the platform, back and forth. “Where is He? Where is my Jesus?” Finally, he stopped. He turned, faced the crowd, and slowly raised his eyes.

“Did you find Him, Reverend?” a voice said.

“Oh, I found Him, all right,” the preacher answered.

“Where was He?”

“He's everywhere. Here, here, here, here,” he said, jumping up and down on the platform. Then Reverend Taylor moved around the room, pointing at adults, babies, chairs, the platform itself. “He's over here and there.” He squeezed between people, touched them on their heads, and even went outside the building for a moment. His frantic motions whipped the crowd into a frenzy. They shouted
and clapped and yelled, “He's here,” as they pointed at themselves or their friends.

The reverend returned to the platform. He was breathing heavily. “Jesus is everywhere, my friends. He is everything.”

Hallelujahs and Amens sounded all through the room.

The reverend took a sip of water and looked out over the congregation.

Travis noticed that although it was hot in the room, the reverend had not removed his coat. In fact, he still looked quite composed.

The crowd in its excitement had pushed farther into the room, though Travis had thought that impossible. The aisles were packed, the benches full, and Travis was holding himself stiffly to keep from pushing on the woman in front of him. Two people had already fainted and been carried out, overcome by “getting the Holy Ghost,” though it looked like they had merely succumbed to the heat.

Now Reverend Taylor changed his demeanor, turning to the crowd and almost whispering, “And where is the Devil?”

“Oh no,” someone said.

“Is he with Jesus?”

“No. Never,” said the crowd.

“Is he outside?”

Travis noticed the crowd was tentative.

“Is he there?” the reverend asked, pointing to a baby who'd been sleeping by the platform.

“Oh no, not a baby,” said a woman seated near the child.

“Is he here?” he said, pointing at himself. “And is he out there?” He pointed into the audience.

Only a few affirmatives came from the audience.

“You bet he is. He's in my heart, and he's in your heart. But he's not everywhere, oh no. He's not in the babies, and he's not in the animals. He's not in a mule, and he's not in a pig. The Devil's only in us.”

The crowd pondered this while the reverend paced.

“So, if the Devil's in us and the Lord is everywhere, well then, what can we do? To the Devil?”

“Get him out,” someone said.

“Oh yeah,” the reverend said. “Oh yeah. Who said that? Who said that?” he asked, walking into the throng toward the part of the room from which the voice had risen.