Where Southern Cross the Dog (27 page)

Travis listened closely, as intently as he had ever listened to anyone before.

“Eventually, you live long enough, and there's no place left for any more hurt. No place left for any more scars.”

She paused.

“I've lost a husband, two children when they were babies, friends, and family. My heart's all covered with scars. The scars of living a long life. I'm not complaining. It's just the way it is.”

Travis let his head hang, continuing to rub her hand. It had warmed since he started holding it. If he looked at her, he wouldn't be able to hide his tears.

“And when there's no more room on your heart for any more scars, then you must become a scar on someone else's heart. It's my time, Travis. Hannah has to understand.”

Travis leaned over and lightly kissed the back of her hand. Tears escaped from both his eyes, and he massaged them into the creases of her skin.

Addie Morgan died that Friday. Her family was by her side, Hannah sitting on the edge of the bed and holding her hand. Addie had drifted in and out of consciousness for several hours. During her last waking moments, she called to her granddaughter. “Hannah, dear, dear Hannah,” she said with a smile.

“Yes, Gami. What is it?”

But Addie didn't respond.

Then the old woman opened her eyes once more. “Daddy,” she said in a child's high voice. “Daddy, will you swing me again? Please?” Her eyes closed again, and Hannah felt the life seep from her grandmother's body. Hannah shook her gently, but she had passed.

Travis's father had told his son long ago that you could tell the measure of a Southerner—black or white—by how many people of the opposite race showed up at their funeral. Addie had clearly been well liked.

After a short viewing in the morning, the service was held Saturday afternoon in a small country church just outside of town, where Addie had been baptized many years before. Inside the church were twelve rows of pews, the same number as the disciples of Jesus, and a narrow aisle ran down the center. Big wooden shutters, propped open, let in the light and a cross-breeze. The church was unusually cool, the large oaks outside providing continuous shade from the persistent sun.

The Morgan family filled the front pews, while distant relatives and friends took the middle pews. At the rear of the church, white mourners stood in silent respect or, some being elderly, sat in the last few rows.

Hannah sat in the first row, on the aisle, and Travis stood in the back.

A soloist sang, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” Addie's favorite hymn, while mourners entered the church. Travis had overheard Mr. Morgan instructing the pastor several times that Addie's funeral service was to be short: no choir, no long-winded speakers, no collections for the family.

Mercifully, the pastor spoke briefly, and near the end of the service asked if anyone in the congregation would like to speak. Several people stood, and one by one told stories about Addie from different times in her life: girl, young woman, mother, grandmother, and, in the end, as the matriarch of her family. Some of the stories were humorous; others were poignant; all suggested how much Addie had meant to the speaker. Gradually, the gloom throughout the church lifted a little.

When the final story had been told, the crowd fell silent except for the occasional sniffle. Realizing that the reverend was about to conclude the service, Travis took a deep breath, grasped his grandmother's dog-eared Bible, and walked to the front of the church.

Hannah looked up, and for the first time that day, the tears briefly cleared from her eyes. Travis hadn't told her of his plans to speak.

Travis stepped into the pulpit and faced the church, looking out at all the faces of Addie's life, the people of both races whom she had loved or somehow touched. He wondered what the faces of his life would look like. Who would come to say good-bye to him?

“This was my grandmother's favorite passage in the Bible,” Travis said. “I'd like to read it to you, and for Mrs. Morgan—or Addie, as most of you knew her. Today, it seems most appropriate.”

But the souls of the just are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them. They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead; and their passing away was thought an affliction and their going forth from us, utter destruction. But they are in peace. For if before men, indeed, they be punished, yet is their hope full of immortality; chastised a little, they shall be greatly blessed, because God tried them and found them worthy of Himself. As gold in the furnace, He proved them, and as sacrificial offerings He took them to Himself. In the time of their visitation they shall shine, and shall dart about as sparks through stubble; they shall judge nations and rule over peoples, and the Lord shall be their King forever. Those who trust in Him shall understand truth, and the faithful shall abide with Him in love: Because grace and mercy are with His holy ones, and His care is with the elect.

Travis closed his Bible and walked down the aisle to his place at the back of the church. He touched Hannah's shoulder briefly as he passed.

She could only nod and cry.

District attorney sure is hard on a man.

—Washington White

JUDGE BERTRAM LONG RECONVENED LUKE WILLIAMS'S trial Monday at 10:00 a.m. People crammed tightly into the courtroom, eager to hear the final statements from both attorneys.

Brusquely, the judge started the day by addressing the jury. “We are near the end of the trial,” he said, “and today Mr. Tackett and Mr. Usher will give their closing statements. Subsequently, we will meet one final time when you are ready to deliver your verdict. It could be an hour after you begin deliberations or it could be—well, a little longer. Does everyone understand?”

The jurors nodded their heads, as did several people in the audience who were listening attentively.

“Mr. Tackett,” Judge Long said. “You may proceed.”

The prosecutor's closing statement reiterated the limited evidence he had presented. He reviewed details of the crime scene and the heinous nature of the murder. He mentioned Luke only when discussing Professor Higson's testimony.

“And he shows no remorse,” Tackett said. “If he had any, his lawyer would have put him on the stand. But since he is not repentant, the defense is afraid to parade him in front of the jury, for fear they may find him callous and evil. Innocent men proclaim their innocence; the guilty hide.”

Tackett walked closer to the jury box, focusing on his summation. He had momentarily forgotten this could well be the last term for the only Coahoma County district attorney who successfully prosecuted a white man for the murder of a black one.

“And so,” Tackett continued, “you, the jury, have a difficult decision to make. Made even more difficult by the fact that you live in Mississippi.”

Tackett could feel the anguish in the courtroom. One older man in the jury box gripped his handkerchief tightly. Tackett knew it would be hard for all the jurors.

“Can you do it? I don't know. But you will have to try. We all must serve justice. And while you deliberate, please remember that justice sees no color. Justice never conceals herself from her enemies, and her tears are only for the victims. You must not let yourselves be swayed by outside influences. You must do what must be done. Make the tough choices and don't look back.” He paused. “Help me serve justice. If for no one else, then at least for Milton Hibbs's children.”

Tackett walked back to his seat in silence.

“Mr. Usher,” Judge Long said.

Charlie pushed his chair back and looked at his client. Luke's eyes were tired; they didn't dart around like they had at the start of the trial. The end was drawing near, and his look was one of sorrow.

Charlie had long planned what he wanted to say. “Gentlemen of the jury, you've heard a lot during this trial,” he began as he walked slowly toward the judge's bench. “A lot to consider. You know, there have been a few times in my life when I honestly didn't know what was going on around me, what was happening. For instance, one time when I was at the University of Mississippi, I was playing in a football game—by the way, we beat Alabama.” He saw a few smiles. “Well, I got hit so hard I had to sit out the rest of the game. I spent the entire second half in a daze. I didn't even know who won until somebody told me later that night.”

Charlie stopped at the foot of the judge's bench and turned to face the jury. “The last couple of weeks have felt to me like I was back on that bench again, sitting in a daze. Accusations, but no motives. Witnesses who didn't see what they thought they did.”

Charlie approached the jury box.

“I've been trained to do one thing in my life. To be a good attorney and defend the innocent and the guilty alike. Why do I do that? Because sometimes the guilty are not really guilty, and the innocent are not really innocent. But in the end, the truth is always the same. And don't confuse justice, which you heard about from Mr. Tackett, with truth. Because justice is served by men who have faults and make mistakes, but truth lies with a higher power. No matter who's guilty, and no matter who's innocent, the truth is always the same. I like to think that I protect that truth. At least, I try to. We all like to think that about ourselves, don't we? But that's hard, because sometimes it's hard to find the truth. Sometimes the truth can't be found. And no matter where we look, we can't find it. But why? Why can't we find it? Someone must know where it is. We know that God knows where it is. That's for sure.”

Several jurors nodded their heads in agreement. One mouthed, “Amen.”

“And if we can't find the truth,” Charlie gestured with both hands, “it's because when men hide the truth from one another, it's
very, very seldom found. Men know where to hide the truth from each other, but they can't hide it from God.” He paused to let the jury absorb his words.

“Mr. Tackett,” Charlie motioned toward the prosecution's table, “he thinks he's found the truth in this case. Maybe he has. And the judge, I bet he thinks he knows where the truth is. In fact, everyone in this courtroom probably has an idea of where the truth might be in this trial.” Charlie swept his arm in a half-circle, trying to encompass the entire room full of people.

“But in a court of law, the only people who matter are you.” Charlie spun back to face the jury, sternly pointing at one juror after another. “It doesn't matter where Judge Long or Mr. Tackett or anyone else in this courtroom thinks the truth is. You, the jury, are the only ones who can find the truth. Mr. Tackett and I have tried to help you find it, but we have only guided you based on what we know, which may or may not be right. Ultimately, it's yours to find.”

When Charlie had finished speaking, he stepped back, away from the jury, never turning his back to them, and sat down at the defense table. He had said nothing about the evidence, the crime scene, witnesses, or any of the particulars of the case. But he had said something about Luke, Tackett, Judge Long, and himself. And about the legal system.

Charlie glanced at Luke, who looked satisfied.

Several minutes passed while Judge Long completed his notes and shuffled papers. At last, he looked up, peered at the jury, and gave them some final instructions. The trial was almost over, he said, and all that remained was for them to determine the verdict. Then Luke Williams would either be released or sentenced. “Seek the truth,” Judge Long said. The jurors rose, filed out of the jury box, and were escorted to another room to begin their deliberations.

Twenty minutes later, after Luke had been led back to his cell and the courtroom had finally cleared, Charlie walked out of the
courthouse and strolled by the Sunflower River on his way home. He declined an invitation to sip bourbon with Tackett and the judge. He had had enough of them for a while.

I want to ride the Yellow Dog.

—Sam Collins

HANNAH WASN'T HERSELF AFTER THE FUNERAL. SHE moped around Monday and didn't bother to go out at all. She just sat in a chair in the living room, staring out the window most of the day. Her father offered to take her to Memphis for a day trip the following weekend, but she declined quickly even though it was days away. Her mother took her shopping Tuesday afternoon, but that didn't help either.

“Give it time,” Cora said, rubbing the back of her hand across Hannah's cheek. “Your hurt will heal, sweetheart.”

Travis now felt sure that any information they might find on Conrad Higson wasn't in Coahoma County. The only other place to look was in Jackson. At least that's what the records had indicated.

So, he decided to take a quick trip down to the FBI office. He'd get in and out in minutes and hopefully stumble across something useful. At least he'd find out if any files even existed on Higson. How he was going to do all that, he wasn't quite sure.

Travis was also thinking of Hannah. She needed a break, and he wanted to distract her from her sadness over Addie. He called her Tuesday evening and asked her to come to Jackson with him.

“No, I have to get back to work this week,” she said. “I don't want to go all the way down there.”

“Come on, Hannah. We can be there and back in a day. I don't want to go by myself.”

“Well, I'll have to ask my parents.”

“Okay, I can wait.”

She returned to the phone a few minutes later. “All right. They said I could go, but only if we come back the same day.”

“That's fine. But they know it'll be late when you get in?”

“They know.”

“Great. I'll meet you at the train station tomorrow morning.”

“What time?”

“Let's say half-past five. Too early?”

“No, that's okay.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Travis woke up early Wednesday morning. He got dressed quickly and packed a small bag for the trip.