Where Southern Cross the Dog (22 page)

Tackett picked up a set of pictures from his table and handed them to Collins. Then he continued. “Do you recognize these pictures, Sheriff?”

“Yes, they were taken at the site of the murder by my department's photographer.”

“And they depict what you saw the morning the body was discovered?”

“Yes.”

“And that man in the pictures was identified as Milton Hibbs?”

“Yes.”

Tackett went on for ten minutes summarizing the details of the crime. “Is my description consistent with what you found when you investigated the crime scene?”

“For the most part,” Collins said.

“What isn't?”

“It's consistent.”

“Thank you.”

Tackett offered the photographs into evidence, and Usher quickly objected because of their graphic nature. Judge Long overruled him and motioned for Tackett to continue.

“Sheriff, you're somewhat familiar with Mr. Williams's whereabouts over the past few weeks, is that correct?” Tackett knew not to mention that Luke had been in jail on other charges. Charlie would object immediately.

“Yes,” Collins said. “I've been able to keep an eye on him sometimes.”

“And so, can you tell us where Mr. Williams was on the night of the murder?”

“No, I can't.”

“So, unless we hear otherwise from the defense, Mr. Williams cannot be accounted for on the night of the murder. Is that correct?”

“I don't know where he was that night.”

Tackett leafed through some papers he was holding, studying them intently. The court was quiet. Tackett hoped they were all pondering
his line of questions and Collins's answers. His next question needed just the right moment. “Sheriff, who killed Milton Hibbs?”

The sheriff started to speak Luke's name and point in his direction, but Charlie Usher rose to his feet. “Objection, your honor,” he said, trying to drown out Collins's voice. Luke's name was barely audible. “Determining guilt is the province of the jury, not the county sheriff. And any deduction is completely without foundation. What exactly is the sheriff going to base his determination on? We haven't heard anything today that could possibly indicate the identity of the assailant? Maybe Mr. Tackett will provide an affidavit from the deceased, positively identifying the killer. I didn't see Sheriff Collins on the night of the murder; maybe he thinks I did it. Regardless, this is not the sheriff's responsibility. Unless he was at the scene of the crime during the murder, which he wasn't.”

Charlie heard the snickers and watched a juror or two turn to his neighbor and smile. “Judge,” Charlie continued, “I request that any statements or references from Sheriff Collins which were speculative or require a conclusion based on limited facts be stricken. This is ludicrous and is only Mr. Tackett's feeble attempt to create an impression among the jury that there is any real evidence in this trial.”

“Your honor,” Tackett protested. “I'm only asking the sheriff to provide an answer based on his years of experience as a sheriff and having been involved in cases like this before.”

“Gentlemen,” the judge snarled, tapping his gavel.

“Nonsense,” Charlie said. “The sheriff has no more insight into this case, based on anything the prosecution has presented so far, than I do, your honor. What the prosecutor is doing is getting the sheriff to mutter my client's name within the context of this murder. Everyone in this courtroom could be a suspect.”

“Your honor—” Tackett began.

The gavel descended again, louder than before.

“The objection is sustained,” Judge Long said. “Mr. Tackett, present us with facts and keep the opinions of your witnesses out of my courtroom. Is that understood?”

Tackett raised his hand to speak, but the judge ignored him and then instructed the jury once again to disregard certain parts of the sheriff's testimony. “Mr. Usher, would you like to cross?” the judge asked.

“Yes, your honor,” Charlie said.

Charlie positioned himself next to the stand where Sheriff Collins was sitting. “I only have a couple of questions. Did you inspect the body at the scene or wait until later?”

“We cut the body down,” Collins said, “and checked it right there before we sent him to the morgue.”

“Did you find anything? I mean on his person.”

“A few things.”

“Can you be more descriptive?”

“A ring, watch, pocketknife, and some money, a very small amount.”

“You found all
that?
” He stepped away from the sheriff and faced the jury.

“Yes.”

“Well then, it seems to me that robbery couldn't have been a motive for this killing. Now we're getting somewhere.” He turned and faced Collins again. “So, if he wasn't killed for his belongings, then why do you think he was killed?”

“Objection,” Tackett said. “Speculative.”

“Sustained,” Judge Long said.

Charlie nodded. “Okay, let's look at what we've got. One black man, a day laborer—not from Clarksdale—found dead with all of his personal effects. He'd been stabbed, beaten, and strung up. That's no easy feat for one man, almost couldn't be done. Now, I've lived in Clarksdale long enough to know this sure does look like
somebody got lynched. Somebody did something that got him in a whole lot of trouble. I don't know what it was, but it could've been anything that offended the wrong person.” Charlie glanced at the jurors. They were considering it. “Sheriff, you mentioned in your earlier testimony that you know about lynchings? Maybe where and when they take place?”

“I don't remember what I said.”

“You said it. I'll bet Mr. Tackett remembers.” Charlie shot a glance at Tackett. “So I've got to ask you, is it possible this was a lynching you just didn't know about?”

Collins quickly looked to Tackett for guidance.

“The answer's not with Mr. Tackett,” Charlie said. “I'll repeat the question. Is it
possible
Hibbs was lynched and you had no knowledge of it—before or after?”

Collins wiped his brow and said, “Not likely, but it's possible.”

“Possible, huh. That's all I have your honor.” The defense attorney returned to his seat. A doubt in the jurors' minds was all he needed.

“We're breaking for lunch.” The judge looked at his watch. “We'll reconvene at two o'clock.”

By the time everyone returned to the courtroom, two hours had elapsed. Judge Long had eaten a quick lunch and then taken a nap to avoid falling asleep in the afternoon proceedings.

“All rise,” the bailiff said. Judge Long entered the courtroom, which was only half as full as it had been this morning.

“Be seated,” the judge said. The crowd seated themselves into the wooden benches and chairs. He sorted through some papers and looked up. “Well, Mr. Tackett, what do you have for us this afternoon?”

Tackett had the county coroner take the stand to discuss the autopsy procedures. Bill Montgomery reviewed the report that Tackett had presented earlier and indicated that some of the injuries
were consistent with knife wounds. The bruising around the neck and crushed windpipe were undoubtedly caused by the rope. Montgomery vacillated on whether the victim died from the stabbing or asphyxiation. Whichever it was, both were attributable to the assailant. A number of pictures taken during the autopsy were also submitted as evidence.

Charlie had no questions for the coroner, so he declined cross-examination.

“The prosecution would like to call Horace Johnson,” Tackett boomed.

In the back, a slight black man wearing a dark and somewhat tattered suit grabbed the seat back in front of him to pull himself up. He shuffled down the aisle and took the seat in the witness stand. The court was quiet, and all eyes were on this man with a pencil-thin mustache whose ebony face was adorned with lines and creases too numerous to count.

“Good afternoon,” Tackett said.

“Good afternoon, suh,” he replied.

Tackett knew that in order to convict a white man, he had to erase the victim's color. That's why Horace Johnson was on the stand. Horace would help humanize the victim as someone who could feel pain, could suffer, someone who had a family. Horace would help persuade the jury to think of the murdered field hand as a person, not a thing. Tackett quickly got to the point. “Did you know or ever meet the victim, Milton Hibbs?”

Johnson spoke slowly. “Yessuh, I met him once. We worked a cotton field together, but just one day. My row was next to his so we got to talkin', helped pass the time. I do remember he knew a lot of songs. A pretty fair caller and a hard worker.”

“Could you tell us a little about what he looked like, his age, his size?”

“I guess he's about, maybe, thirty. Much younger than me. He was average size. Like you.”

Tackett smiled. “What did y'all talk about that day you met him?”

“All sorts of things. Where he was from, his family.”

“And where was that?”

“Up near Tupelo. Came for the harvest. Trying to get a little extra cash to put in his pocket. Heard the money was good here.”

“He had a family?”

“Yessuh. Five kids, wife. Little place he was fixing up. Wanted to buy some more land, hoping to get a bigger crop so he wouldn't have to travel during harvest.”

“Just trying to find a place in this world, wasn't he?”

“Yessuh. Just a little place.”

“I think we're all looking for that.”

Horace nodded his agreement.

“Could you tell us what you saw when you went down and identified the body at the morgue?”

Horace spent several minutes detailing the savagely beaten remains of Milton Hibbs. His description mimicked Collins's and Montgomery's testimony, but Johnson's hushed, scratchy voice, always seemingly on the verge of cracking, resurrected Hibbs's pain. “He must've been some hurtin',” concluded the witness.

Tackett looked at the jury. Some of them looked a little unsettled, almost queasy. The autopsy pictures were helpful, but Johnson gave the pictures depth and emotion. The jury had all seen death before, but usually only after the undertaker had performed his services, and rarely, if ever, so violently dispatched. Tackett was evoking their sympathy.

“You think he was in a lot of pain?” Tackett asked.

“Dun know 'zactly, but I hope he died quick.”

“I hope so, too.” Tackett glanced at the jury. “A man shouldn't have to suffer that much. One more question: Do you know what's being done with the body?”

“I heard they was gonna send him back to Tupelo, but the family ain't got the money. Don't know 'bout his insurance, and it's a long way by wagon. Just leave him, I guess.”

“That's too bad. He won't get a proper burial. The family won't be able to say their final good-byes.”

“Yessuh, that's a shame.”

“That's all I have, your honor.” Tackett took his seat.

“Mr. Usher,” Judge Long said.

Charlie started to rise, but Luke placed his hand gently on Charlie's arm. Charlie turned. Luke wore a thoughtful expression, as though he were only now considering the ramifications of what he had done. Horace and Milton weren't much different from Luke. Only in color. Their pain was the same. What color drove apart, pain brought together.

No sense arguing with Luke. Charlie settled back into his seat. “No questions, your honor.”

The judge tapped his gavel. “We're adjourned until Wednesday, counselors.”

Tackett watched the judge disappear into his chambers, the jury file out, and the spectators start to disperse. Today had been a good day for him.

Charlie walked over to the prosecutor's table. “Maybe Luke would be better off without me,” he said. “That way, at least, someone might feel sorry for him.”

“Oh, don't worry,” Tackett said, “they feel sorry for him all right. You can be sure of that. You see how they were looking at him. It's like they're looking in a mirror. He's one of them. But you know what, I need a conviction. We need a little justice. At least for those he killed.”

“How can you
not
get a conviction? The defense is weak. No alibi, no witnesses to where he was that night. All I got is a white
man who won't and shouldn't take the stand, and reasonable doubt. What else do you need?”

Could that be enough? Tackett thought. One more witness was all he had. “We'll see.”

Please take a walk with me.

—Robert Lockwood

TRAVIS HADN'T TOLD ANYONE ABOUT HIS NIGHT AT the revival. He figured nobody would have believed him anyway. He could barely believe it himself; caught inside a church aflame, pinned to the ground while someone whispered gibberish to him.

The Negro community in Clarksdale and throughout the South had always communicated by way of an undercurrent of gossip and news that penetrated even the most remote areas. Travis knew about this but had never experienced it until that night at the church. Its impact and the clarity it provided made Travis wonder what else he didn't know but should. And he wondered what to do with what he knew now.

On Tuesday morning, Travis decided to call Hannah.

“Hello,” said the voice on the other end of the phone.

Travis hesitated in the instant it took to recognize her voice. “Hannah, it's Travis,” he said.

“Hi,” she said, her voice warm and friendly.

“You didn't go to the trial yesterday, did you?”

“No, I couldn't. I was helping my grandmother. She hasn't been herself lately. She's not sick, just not full of energy like she usually is.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks, she'll be okay.”

“Listen, Hannah.” Travis dropped his voice conspiratorially. “I need your help tonight.”