Spies of Mississippi (8 page)

During that pivotal summer another historic event loosened the segregationists’ hold on power.
Following a filibuster by southern senators, Congress passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964—a fitting tribute to the late President Kennedy and a watershed moment in the history of the civil rights movement. President Johnson signed the bill as part of his program for a Great Society, a vision of a nation free of widespread poverty, ignorance, and injustice. The new law prohibited segregation in places serving the general public, including restaurants, hotels, motels, playgrounds, and swimming pools. Even more important, it allowed the federal government to cut off funds to any government-supported program found to be practicing racial discrimination, including schools, hospitals, defense plants, and research labs. The threat of losing tens of millions of dollars in U.S. government funding was not lost on embattled state officials, who were finally rethinking their determination to maintain segregation “at all costs.”

It was about then that Ole Miss history professor James Silver revealed to the nation the depth of the state’s disdain for dissent, its censorship of books, its control of the media, and its use of secret agents to undercut civil rights. In his book
Mississippi: The Closed Society,
Silver described a state that operated more like a totalitarian police regime than a part of the modern United States of America. Silver knew firsthand of the Commission’s methods through its repeated efforts to get him fired from Ole Miss. With public interest in Mississippi peaking in the wake of Freedom Summer, the book became a best seller, adding to the national pressure on the state to change its ways.

Given those pressures, the snarl of the segregationists began to ease. One of the first signs of change came from Governor Paul Johnson, who, during his campaign, had referred to the NAACP as the National Association of Apes, Coons, Niggers, and Possums. Now he was pledging to put an end to the state’s support for white racism. “We are not going to be the pushing boy for that element ever again,” he said. “We built the dog house we now find ourselves in.” Meantime, the FBI was dismantling the Klan, and membership in the White Citizens’ Council was waning, as the white middle class distanced itself from violence. The Magnolia Curtain was lifting.

By 1965, Commission director Erle Johnston was trying to reposition his segregation watchdogs
as a cadre of “racial troubleshooters,” a problem-solving liaison among the state government, the white community, and the black community. Seeking to rise above the reputation of a “super-snooping operation,” Johnston told white civic groups that the Commission was now dedicated to negotiating solutions to disputes and intervening early to prevent misunderstandings and flare-ups. In fact, Johnston did take steps to curb the excesses of the operation. He finally cut off payments to the White Citizens’ Council and became an informant to the FBI, providing valuable information for its crackdown on the Klan.

Nevertheless, the agency never really abandoned its segregationist mission—as if racism had been infused in its DNA. While publicly touting the agency as a troubleshooter, Johnston continued to play his role as the hidden protector of white rule. At one point, in a letter to a state recreation official, he recommended “closing swimming pools at the end of this summer” rather than allowing black and white children to swim together in integrated pools. His advice was not heeded. He also helped admissions officers at Mississippi Southern College force a black applicant to drop his application for admission by threatening to expose the student’s sexual preference. “We have information that you are a homosexual,” Johnston wrote. “If you change your mind about enrolling at an all-white university we will say no more about it. If you persist in your application, we will give this information to the press and Justice Department.” The prospective student did not enroll.

That year Johnston also issued one of his most telling directives. He ordered agents to destroy documents in the Commission files. His confidential memo instructed his spies to purge their files of investigative reports that suggested interference with the voter registration process. Johnston went on to direct agents to write future reports with code words and phrases to obscure the nature of the investigations. For example, investigative reports were to refer to voting registration volunteers as “subversives,” thus insulating commission agents from charges of tampering with the vote. His memo concluded, “Except for a copy being sent to the governor’s office, no record of these directions will remain in our files. As soon as you have familiarized yourself with the contents, please destroy this directive.” The agents destroyed the incriminating files but forgot to destroy Johnston’s memo.

By 1966 Johnston was growing weary, beaten down by criticism from both sides of the racial divide. He tried unsuccessfully to persuade his superiors to change the name of the Commission to the Mississippi State Information Agency and to recast it as a modern public relations outlet. But too many powerful politicians wanted the watchdog to remain on the job. By 1967 he was arguing that the Commission had “outlived its usefulness” and was “ready for the grave.” Finally, in November 1967, he announced his retirement. The state legislature thanked him for his service but refused to shut down the operation. They replaced him with a former FBI agent and maintained a skeleton staff.

Through the late 1960s, the scaled-back agency monitored school desegregation, kept tabs on anti–Vietnam War protesters, and snooped on a couple of black power groups. By the early 1970s, the powerful politicians on the Commission’s governing board routinely skipped meetings, proposals to eliminate its budget came and went, and the staff was reduced to infiltrating rock concerts to spy on hippies. By summer 1973, the agency’s obituary was finally being written, with the
Memphis Commercial Appeal
reporting that Mississippi’s “Ole Watchdog is Barking for its Life.” On July 1, 1973, the Commission staff was released, its office closed, and its records locked. Four years later the state legislature finally abolished the law that had created the Commission back in 1956.

This chapter of history was finally over. The Commission was abolished, the White Citizens’ Council marginalized, and the Klan tamed. The Civil Rights Act and Voting Rights Act were the law of the land. The march toward equality and justice had picked up its pace. But the question remained: Could Mississippi really change?

In the course of researching this book, I traveled across the state contemplating that question and searching for answers. From the vast cotton fields and moss-draped bayous of the Delta to the hurricane-racked homes and glittering casinos on the Gulf Coast to the state offices and streets of Jackson, I witnessed the progress that has been made since the rule of the segregationists, when the creed of white supremacy stood as bedrock and the code of racial separation was enforced with an iron fist. The “whites only” signs are long gone from the café windows, and the storefront offices that once housed White Citizens’ Council chapters have long been converted into restaurants and gift shops. Today, legions of black and white children attend school together and long lines of black and white voters stand at the polls on election day. Racial violence is a discussion topic for history students at Ole Miss rather than a frightening reality of life on that once war-torn campus.

I also saw the ghosts of the past lurking behind the signs of progress. The names of segregationist politicians are proudly etched into the granite of public buildings. Their official biographies are often cleansed of the cold, hard truth of a bygone era. These ghosts whisper that the principles of the past are still with us and remind us that history can always return as the future.

In fact, there is evidence that the bad old days are poised for a comeback. For the past two decades, public schools have been gradually resegregating as federal and state courts back off enforcement of integration laws and legislatures sidestep the issue. New white-is-right pressure groups, having resurrected the concepts of the long-defunct White Citizens’ Council, target a new generation of potential race warriors on the Internet. Most details and nuances of the civil rights movement are still unknown to adults and young people today—not only in Mississippi but across the nation.

My advice is that everyone read the Commission files, with their chilling investigative reports on private citizens and their underhanded tactics for maintaining the racist status quo. In the end, the files are an important reminder of the dangers of unchecked power and the reckless disregard for individual rights. And while those files reflect the excesses of the powerful, they also reveal the strength of the people who refused to play the role of the powerless. As the investigative reports show, many of the true civil rights heroes were ordinary folks who hailed from the small towns and clapboard shacks of the Magnolia State, who carried on their struggle to bring down segregation and discrimination with the constant shadow of the state looming over them. Their names—categorized in the files as race agitators, subversives, and communists—live on as champions of the most powerful democratic movement in our history.

The Commission files:
The end of the Commission started a heated debate over the fate of the six locked file cabinets of secret papers that had been removed from the office and stored in an underground vault. Resisting calls from lawmakers to destroy the files altogether, the legislature voted to keep the documents sealed for another 50 years, until July 1, 2027. The American Civil Liberties Union filed suit demanding the documents be opened to the public without delay. The courts finally ordered the files to be made public, and their release in 1998 revealed the extent of the secret enterprise.

The FBI:
Director J. Edgar Hoover carried out his orders to defuse Klan violence in Mississippi but proved no friend to the civil rights movement. By the mid-1960s Hoover was pressing ahead with COINTELPRO—a massive federal spying operation targeting civil rights advocates, anti-war groups, and alleged communists. The bureau’s use of electronic eavesdropping, masterful sabotage, and extensive infiltration took the art of domestic spying to a dangerous new level.

Agent X:
The Day Detective Agency operated a string of black agents for the Commission. The reports were filed under the code name Informant X to protect the identity of the operatives. A comprehensive review of the Commission’s files indicates that a primary operative infiltrated the organizations that were planning Mississippi Freedom Summer in 1964 and provided a steady stream of intelligence to the Commission. The information was passed on to law enforcement and fell into the hands of the Ku Klux Klan.

Following the release of the Commission papers, civil rights activists were particularly interested in answering this question: Who was the Agent X who compromised Mississippi Freedom Summer? A number of activists pointed to R. L. Bolden, who had attended infiltrated meetings, worked on compromised campaigns, and been at the scene of the Freedom Summer training seminars in Ohio. In an interview for this book, Bolden conceded that he worked with the Day Agency and admitted that he provided his bosses with details of civil rights meetings. He insisted the information he passed along was public and claimed there were no secrets in the wide-open civil rights movement. Acknowledging that the Day Agency may have passed his information on to the Commission, he added, “I was not the only one.”

Erle Johnston:
After retiring from the Commission, Johnston returned to his hometown, edited his weekly newspaper, and authored a number of books, including a reminiscence about segregationist governor Ross Barnett titled
I Rolled with Ross.
Through the years, Johnston seemed conflicted between the romance of operating near the height of state power and the shame of doing the bidding of the white power structure. Following the release of the commission files, Johnston came under criticism for the agency’s excesses, and his claims of being a “practical segregationist” and “troubleshooter” failed to dissuade his detractors. He sat on a board dedicated to the preservation of historic papers for Tougaloo College, which he once spied on. He died in 1995.

J. P. Coleman:
After leaving the governor’s office, Coleman went on to a distinguished career in government. Driven by a passion for public service, he ran for and won a seat in the state legislature in 1960 and was appointed a federal judge in 1965. He served on the federal court for 16 years. His legacy would always be compromised by the stroke of his pen that created the Sovereignty Commission. He died in 1991.

Aaron Henry
: Persevering in his fight for integration and voting rights, Henry served as a community organizer, coalition builder, and respected leader. He was elected to the Mississippi State Legislature in 1982 and served until 1996. He died in 1997.

Clyde Kennard:
After he succumbed to cancer in 1963, Kennard’s attempt to integrate Mississippi Southern College was reduced to a footnote in civil rights history. But then students at Lincolnshire High School in Illinois, along with the Center for Wrongful Convictions at Northwestern University, persuaded Kennard’s accuser to recant the testimony that had led to Kennard’s conviction as an accomplice to the theft of five bags of chicken feed. In 2006 a judge in the same courtroom where Kennard had been found guilty back in 1960 vacated his conviction. In addition, a building has been named in his honor at the University of Southern Mississippi, formerly Mississippi Southern College.

Ross Barnett:
After leaving the governor’s office in 1964, Barnett suffered a decline in popularity as word of his secret dealings with the Kennedys spread. He failed in a second bid for the governor’s office and faded from public view. He was reduced to speaking at white supremacist gatherings and playing accordion and telling stories at county fairs. He died in 1987.

James Meredith:
After graduating from Ole Miss, Meredith was shot while leading a March Against Fear from Memphis to Jackson in 1966. Dr. Martin Luther King and other civil rights leaders continued the march for him, and Meredith recovered from his wounds and rejoined the trek. Years later, in a dramatic shift, Meredith became a stockbroker, a member of the Republican Party, and a staff member of archconservative Senator Jesse Helms. He claimed that liberal Democrats were the greatest enemies of African Americans. He also wrote an 11-volume history of Mississippi. In 1997 he donated his personal papers to Ole Miss.

Byron De La Beckwith
: After walking away free from two trials in the shooting death of Medgar Evers, “Delay Beckwith” went on to play a leadership role in white supremacist groups. In 1994, De La Beckwith was retried for the murder of Medgar Evers amid revelations that the Commission had intervened for the defense during the second trial. This time a jury of eight blacks and four whites found him guilty, and a judge sentenced him to life at Parchman Farm. He died in prison in 2001.

Percy Greene:
Scorned as a sellout by many in the black community, Greene finally sold his newspaper and retired. As activist Fred Clark recalled, “They were paying him for those articles that he would write about black people…. He was wearing fine suits, smoking the best cigars, but deep down inside people around him didn’t like him because of how he was getting his money, off the blood of the black people. But he had suffered himself and just didn’t see no light or no hope at the end of the tunnel.”