My Father and Atticus Finch (10 page)

Early on the morning of July 14, 1938, Charles White arrived back in Troy, escorted from Montgomery's Kilby prison, the newspapers
reported, by fourteen members of the Alabama Highway Patrol. This group was met just outside of town by two more state patrolmen stationed in Troy, bringing the grand total to sixteen. Pike County Sheriff B. R. Reeves and two deputies drove out to meet the state officers, bringing chains that turned out to be unnecessary, as Charles White had been shackled ever since he was removed from his cell in Montgomery. Owing to the intervention of Judge Parks with the Patrol commandant in Montgomery, all sixteen of the patrolmen would remain at the courthouse throughout the trial to ensure perfect order.

By 8 a.m., more than two hundred white men—a mix of well-barbered Troy shop owners in short-sleeved shirts and sun-browned Pike County farmers wearing brogans and overalls—had surrounded the courthouse. Plumes of dry dust raised by their Model Ts and mule-drawn wagons hung in the air as the men milled about, quietly shaking hands, exchanging greetings, speaking in low tones. A knot of teenaged white boys, members of the high school football team, joked, jostled, and swapped licks until warned by a deputy sheriff. Three elderly Pike County Negro men, dressed in their Sunday suits, had come to the courthouse at the invitation of Judge Parks, and they stood together, outside but near the front doors.

At 8:30 a.m. on the dot, Sheriff Reeves threw open the doors, and close to half of the white men who had been waiting pushed into the courtroom, taking with them the free fans imprinted with information about local merchants that were handed out at the door, and quickly filled the benches. A teenaged white boy was assigned to stand in the back of the courtroom, pay close attention, and run out to report, as developments warranted, to more than one hundred white men who could not find a seat and would have to wait in the
foyer or outside on the square. Through prearrangement by Judge Parks, the three elderly Negroes were ushered inside separately by Sheriff Reeves and directed to an area in the back where they could stand out of the way and observe. To everyone's relief, the Negroes politely declined the offer of chairs.

Next to make an entrance were a number of middle-aged white women, dressed in long, plain skirts, simple blouses, and floppy bonnets. The women entered as a group but quickly separated as they found the seats they had ordered their husbands to save for them. It was understood that the women would be permitted to stay for a while but might have to be excused should the testimony become inappropriate for their ears.

The Pike County courtroom of Judge Parks was now filled to capacity. By order of the judge, the tall windows on each side had been left fully raised throughout the night of July 13, in hopes that the evening air would cool the courtroom. While this measure had been effective to a point, it had let in a small owl and lots of gnats and other insects. The owl was chased out by Sheriff Reeves's deputies, but many of the insects would remain in the courtroom and torment those in attendance throughout the day. The open windows also gave some the impression that sitting on the windowsills would be permitted. Judge Parks had anticipated such an infraction and a deputy quickly dislodged the offenders, who were forced to watch through the windows from outside.

The mood abruptly tensed and hushed moments later as Court Reporter Clarence McCartha, the clerks, and the lawyers entered, the lawyers solemnly taking their places at their respective tables and commencing to rustle papers. Next came the twelve jurors, solemnly nodding, occasionally smiling to their friends and neighbors in the
packed courtroom, but avoiding eye contact with the lawyers as they had been instructed to do by Judge Parks.

It was time for the defendant to be brought in. At Foster Beck's insistence, Charles White's face had been shaved and his hair neatly trimmed, and he had been loaned a set of civilian clothes before leaving Kilby prison, but there had been a question about whether he would have to wear his shackles in the courtroom. “As Blackstone wrote as long ago as 1769, in his
Commentaries on the Laws of England
,” Foster had argued to Judge Parks in chambers, “unless there is a danger, a defendant must be brought to bar without irons or any manner of shackles. The State of Alabama has not shown there to be any danger.”

Judge Parks agreed. The defendant would not wear shackles when in the presence of the jury. As a result, Charles White was able to walk in with only a deputy holding his arm and to make his way unassisted to his counsel's table.

“All rise,” an assistant clerk commanded the moment Charles was seated. The assistant clerk had moved to Troy from Boston. Despite having lived in Alabama for ten years, he had retained a stentorian Boston accent, which gave a martial tone to the words “All rise,” the signal for Judge W. L. Parks to enter the courtroom.

   Chapter 18

J
UDGE
W. L. P
ARKS
, by the evidence of his obituary, had not attended law school. That was not unusual in those days, when attorneys often simply apprenticed with practicing lawyers before taking the bar exam. I remember my father saying that Judge Parks had a reputation for being fair and that he “could have done worse,” a comment that was like him, for he was not the kind of man to blame others.

My father believed that Judge Parks chose him, rather than a Yankee lawyer, to defend Charles White as a way of demonstrating Southern self-sufficiency. In addition to my father's growing reputation, Judge Parks also knew of my father's law partner, Mr. Yarbrough, and the fact that this much older civic and business leader placed confidence in my father would have been reassuring to Judge Parks. The advocacy of a respected, if on the young side, trial lawyer from Enterprise, the son of one of Alabama's progressives on race, along with the strict courtroom decorum that Judge Parks had promised to impose, would go far toward convincing skeptics that the trial of Charles White would be as fair as any colored man
accused of raping a white woman could have gotten anywhere, even in New York.

Judge Parks gaveled the courtroom to silence and directed everyone to be seated. He did not say good morning, and his tone and demeanor were solemn as the indictment was read: “The Grand Jury of Pike County charge that Charles White, alias William White, alias Reeves White, whose Christian name is to the Grand Jury otherwise unknown, forcibly ravished Elizabeth Liger, a woman, against the peace and dignity of the State of Alabama.”

What was said by Judge Parks as he turned to face the jury does not appear in the transcript, but based on what my father said and the way things are done in court, he would have explained that what he had just read was what the law called an indictment: a formal charge of a crime but not evidence of a crime. Pausing to allow the distinction to sink in to each of the twelve jurors, all of whom he knew personally or through their families, he told them to base their verdict on evidence alone
.
Another pause, and then there was a change in tone; no longer warm, his voice held a warning.

In a moment, he told the jury, you will hear the opening statements of Mr. E. C. Orme of Troy, representing the people of the State of Alabama, and then of Mr. Foster Beck of Enterprise, who will represent the accused, Charles White. What the lawyers say in these opening statements, Judge Parks explained, will not be evidence. It will only be what the lawyers
expect
the evidence will be. And that is all they would say, he warned, or he would put a halt to it. Judge Parks gave each attorney a stern look, as if to reinforce to one and all that this was his courtroom, not theirs, and that he would brook no impertinence, holding their eyes until each nodded
his assent. The lawyers would not be permitted to tell the jury the law. Judge Parks would do that.

Turning from the lawyers to the packed courtroom, Judge Parks said that the Alabama Highway Patrolmen everyone had seen would deal with any disturbances by the crowd outside. There would be no talking, and no stirring or commotion, inside, or he would have the sheriff clear the courtroom of the offenders.

Judge Parks paused for emphasis before saying, “Sheriff Reeves?” Sheriff B. R. Reeves considered rising up from his chair beside Mr. McCartha but decided it was not worth the effort. Everyone knew who he was. The sheriff contented himself with pressing down on the arms of his chair and straining to lift his posterior an inch or two before collapsing back on the seat.

“B
E IT REMEMBERED
that on the 14th day of July, 1938, in the Circuit Court of Pike County, Alabama, Hon. W. L. Parks presiding, the following proceedings were held,” Court Reporter McCartha recorded in shorthand, “ELIZABETH LIGER, a witness for the State, being first duly sworn to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, testified as follows on Direct Examination.”

“My name is Elizabeth Liger. They sometimes call me Cain Liger. I am twenty years old. I will be twenty-one this September 17.”

As most people in Troy knew, Elizabeth “Cain” Liger was the daughter of the family that owned the Liger grocery store in town. Although one of her arms was deformed, Elizabeth Liger was otherwise of a modestly athletic build, with straight-line hips, long, slender legs and undeveloped breasts. She looked a little younger
than twenty going on twenty-one, but sounded a little older when she spoke. Some in Troy had told Foster she was “slow”; others said no, she was just “dreamy,” a “silly girl” who would be fine when she married and had some children. Everyone agreed she believed in fortune-tellers.

Solicitor Orme asked her if she knew Mary Etta Bray.

“I do know Etta. I have been knowing her about two years and have been seeing her all along.”

Solicitor Orme asked how long she had known Charles White.

“The first time I saw him was in the store last month. That is him sitting over there.”

“Indicating,” Mr. McCartha recorded in shorthand.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Solicitor Orme asked, “did Charles White do something to you?”

Foster tensed, but he did not object. The story was going to come in sooner or later; an objection to the leading question would look as if the defense was afraid for the jury to hear what had happened.

“Yes, Charles White did something to me. It was on a Tuesday down at Etta's house where he was staying. When I got down there, Etta showed me to Charles White's room.”

“Did you ask to see Charles White?”

“I did not ask for Charlie. She knew what I wanted and she led me to the room. Mary Etta did not go in the room with me. It was just he and I in there. Then he locked the room.”

“Please tell the jury what happened next.”

“I told him I came to have my fortune told. He said it would be twelve dollars and he was going to fix me up.”

“Miss Elizabeth, did anything else happen other than the fortune-telling?”

“After he got through telling my fortune he told me to come over to his side of the table where he was sitting. When I got over there he pulled up my dress and took some kind of salve and put it on me right down there . . .”

“Indicating,” the transcript recorded.

“On my private parts.”

“Did he do anything else to you that Tuesday?”

“He told me to get on the bed, he was going to fix me up, and I told him no he wasn't going to fix me up there on the bed, and he got on top of me then. He pulled up my clothes and pulled off one part of my shorts. I cried but it didn't do any good. I could feel something stinging down there—a stinging, and a funny and burning feeling down there, and I asked him to get off me but he would not do it, and every time I cried he put his hand over my mouth and he said, ‘If you tell anybody I am going to kill you.' He was lying on top of me and he was just so big and fat he hurt me when he lay down on me.”

The State then asked the following question: “Did you see him undo his clothes?”

The defendant objected to this question as leading, the transcript recorded, but there was no ruling by the court.

“Yes, I saw and know what a man's private parts are. Yes, I saw him do something about that. He got it out and then stuck it in mine. I couldn't tell how far because you see I was looking the other way when he got on top of me. All I could tell was just when he was putting it down there was it would sting and it would feel funny and burn. I wasn't in that position only about two or three minutes. That was about as long as I was on the bed. When I was on the bed his right arm was back of my neck. I think it was about that far . . .”

“Indicating,” the transcript recorded.

“Around my neck if I am not mistaked.

“Whenever I asked him to get off, he wouldn't do it and he said he wanted to stay on there a little longer, that he wanted to get off. When he got off I got up. I put my shorts back on. I started to open the door. I didn't know it was locked and I couldn't get out and he pulled me back and he felt of my breasts and he said, ‘When this boy meets you he is going to feel your breasts like that.' ”

“Indicating,” the reporter noted in shorthand.

“He said, when the right one comes to meet me this is what he will do. That he would feel my breasts, and he said that would make them big. And then he unlocked the door and he opened it and let me out. I started home then. I saw Mary Etta and her girl in the house. Mary Etta was in the kitchen, I think, fixing dinner. I told her about what he was doing to me. She said, ‘He wasn't going to hurt you,' that ‘he was as good as gold.' ”

The defendant moved to strike what was said about Mary Etta. The court ruled that what had happened could be shown, but not the details of the conversation.

The witness continued: “I went on home from down there. When I got home I saw Mr. Scarbrough down at the store. I told Mr. Scarbrough when I went to the store.”

“Nothing further,” Solicitor Orme said, and returned to his seat.