Where Southern Cross the Dog (30 page)

“In the case of the State of Mississippi versus Luke Williams,” Ellis said firmly, “we the jury find the defendant, Luke Williams, not guilty as charged.”

The courtroom was silent. But all eyes slowly turned toward Sam Tackett.

“You may sit down, Mr. Ellis. Thank you.” The judge picked up a pen. “At this time, the jury is dismissed. Thank you for your service to the State of Mississippi.”

No one in the jury moved.

“You may go. Henry, please show them out.”

Slowly, one by one, they stood, and Henry guided them through a side door out of the courtroom. When the last one exited, Judge Long returned to his work and signed several documents.

“What's going on?” Luke said, to no one in particular.

“You've been acquitted of this charge, Mr. Williams,” Judge Long said. “Now we have to figure out what to do about the other charges against you. Mr. Tackett?”

Judge Long had hoped that Sam would drop the indictments and let Luke walk. That's what he'd have done, because they all knew the confession was inadmissible. And Charlie would make sure Luke pleaded not guilty. But sometimes Sam could be obstinate.

Tackett was infuriated that the jury had acquitted Luke. He looked up and almost sneered at Judge Long. “I just tried a case in which I had an eyewitness, and I couldn't get a conviction. Do you really think I should pursue the charges when I don't have any eyewitnesses and a possible inadmissible confession?”

“Did he admit to the crimes?” Judge Long asked.

“Not until after a deputy drew his weapon. Your honor, we can't move forward without an admissible confession. There's nothing else.”

“Well, Sam, do I hear a motion to dismiss?”

The prosecutor stared down at his papers. Judge Long knew that Tackett didn't want to give up, but he had no choice. He might get reelected, now that Luke had been acquitted, plus there'd be other trials. Charlie and Luke were sitting at their table, unemotional, detached.

“I have no choice, your honor. The prosecution asks that the indictments against Luke Williams be dismissed because of insufficient evidence.”

“Motion granted.”

Judge Long watched Charlie lean back in his chair and breathe a sigh of relief. Then Charlie slapped Luke on the shoulder pulling him back from wherever he had gone in his reverie.

“You're free to go, Mr. Williams,” the judge said.

“It's over, Luke,” Charlie said. “You won.”

“But how?” Luke asked.

“Because even with a witness,” Tackett said, “I couldn't convict a white man of killing a black man in Mississippi. I'm either a bad prosecutor or there isn't an impartial jury to be found in this state.” Tackett's words trailed off. He threw up his hands at Charlie and Luke, and packed up.

“Reasonable doubt,” Charlie said.

“It's all speculation at this point,” Judge Long said. “Save it for another venue.”

“What do I do, Judge?” Luke said. “Where do I go?”

“You go home, Luke.” Judge Long was stacking neat piles on his bench.

“But I'm not ready to go home.”

“Well, I don't care what you do, but you're not staying in my jail one more day. You've been acquitted. Freed. Now go.” The judge motioned for the bailiff to come forward. “Henry, please escort Mr. Williams back to his cell to collect his things. Ensure that he has everything, sign him out, and give him a few dollars to be on his way.” Judge Long reached into his pocket and produced three one-dollar
bills. He handed them to Henry. “This should get him started. I don't want to see him near my courthouse again. You got that, Mr. Williams?”

Luke nodded his head.

Judge Long looked at the small group left in his courtroom. “Court adjourned.” He tapped his gavel one last time.

The handful of men watched while Luke was led through a door near the front of the courtroom. In an instant, he was gone.

“A killer's walking free,” Tackett said.

“It doesn't go your way every time,” the judge said. “Sometimes justice isn't always served the way you expect. But there's nothing you can do about it now, the jury's will is done.” Judge Long looked at his watch. “Anyone want a drink?”

“How 'bout two?” Tackett said.

It was 8:25 a.m.

Since the judge had reconvened so early, Sam Tackett had gone straight to the courtroom without stopping by his office. When he returned after having had a shot of bourbon with the judge in his chambers, Tackett poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. Positioned squarely in the center of it was a single file. The other items on the desk had all been cleared away. A handwritten note taped to the front read, “Urgent—Please Read!”

Taking a sip of the bitter coffee, Tackett opened the file and began to scan its contents. After a couple of minutes, he asked his secretary if she had set the file on his desk. She hadn't. Then he asked her to send for Sheriff Collins and Bill Montgomery. They each appeared within ten minutes.

They sat quietly while Tackett read excerpts from the file. He listed all of Higson's residences and his activities since he had arrived in the United States, beginning with his original work in New York through his transfer to Clarksdale. The most recent information described in detail how he had managed to pass military secrets to
Berlin through the German embassy in Washington, D.C. Every so often, Tackett handed a piece of paper to the coroner or the sheriff.

After a long silence, Tackett said, “He's not who we thought he was.”

“Well, he's definitely not one of our most upstanding citizens,” Montgomery said.

“Does anyone remember him moving into town?” Tackett asked. “I surely don't.”

“He just kind of showed up,” Collins said. “He ain't even been in Clarksdale that long.”

“Yeah, but he's been busy,” Tackett said.

“Why hasn't the FBI picked him up?” Collins said. “This really isn't our matter.”

Tackett shrugged. “Good point. Maybe we should check with them.”

“Don't you think they would have said something already if they wanted us to know?” Montgomery said. He sat back in his chair. “What are we going to do, Sam?”

Tackett rubbed his brow. “Nothing, it's not our jurisdiction. We're just going to wait for the FBI to call us or come up here to arrest Higson. Frank, why don't you have someone drive by his house every so often. Just to make sure he's still around. Or if the professor does head to Oxford, we know of his whereabouts. If I don't hear from the FBI in a day or two, and Higson's just going about his business, I'll call them. The guy's got no reason to think he's under suspicion, does he? No reason to run?”

“Not that I know of,” Collins said.

Elma heard the knock and opened the door to find Reverend Coulter standing with his hat in his hand.

“Hello, Elma,” he said. She peered out, not opening the door all the way. “May I come in?”

She didn't answer, but opened the door wider to allow him to pass. She prayed he wasn't there for one of his compassionate visits.

“You're not going to offer me a cup of coffee?”

“Sorry, Reverend. What can I get you?”

“Water is fine.”

Elma poured a glass of water and placed it in front of him at the kitchen table. Then she stood near the window and watched the children out in the yard.

“Elma, have you heard the news?”

“Yes, I know. Luke's coming home.”

“How did you hear?”

“Just did.” Elma stood with her arms folded, staring out the window. “He's been gone so long. I'm not sure what it'll feel like to have him home. Kind of strange at first I guess.” She dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Are you worried?”

“'Bout what?”

“What he's done.”

“What he's done? They set him free.”

“Doesn't mean he didn't kill anybody, Elma. He confessed to the killings.”

“But the jury—.” She turned to face the reverend.

“Somebody saw him do it. But I guess it doesn't matter now. What's done is done, and when he comes home, you'll be living with a man that's sinned against God. The only reason he's not going to Parchman is all those poor souls were black.”

Elma sighed heavily.

Reverend Coulter stood up and took a step toward Elma. “You know there are some things that happened while Luke was away that he shouldn't know about. You know that, don't you?”

She folded her arms in front of her again.

“How you strayed, fell outside the favor of the Lord.” He took another step toward her. “Luke would not look kindly on you seeking comfort elsewhere.”

She moved her foot backward but her heel hit the wall.

Coulter grabbed her wrists and brought her arms down to her sides. She tried to struggle free, but her frail arms were useless.

“Please, Reverend.”

They could hear the children outside playing a raucous game of tag. He glanced out the window, then at her.

“You never know what Luke would do if he found out. Maybe hurt one of the children.”

“No, he'd never.”

“You never know what could happen.” One hand was now moving down her back, the other grabbed her tightly around the neck. He pulled her ear to his mouth and ran his lips over it.

She felt sick.

“We'll get through this,” he whispered. “But believe me, like you believe in the Lord, Luke should never know what happened. What you did.”

She could feel his hand move to her hip and then behind her. She pushed on his wrist. It didn't help.

He shoved her against the wall.

Not with the children outside. Not now.

Finally, he relaxed his grip and stepped back.

She quickly straightened herself. The children might be in for lunch at any moment.

“I'll keep in touch.” The reverend opened the door. “You and Luke make sure to be at church.”

Just get out. Please, please, just get out, she thought.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. It was a ritual now. He threw the envelope on the kitchen table. “Just a few dollars for the children. And don't worry, Elma,
even with Luke back, I'll still be around every once in a while to bring you comfort.”

As he drove away, Elma could hear the kids out back now, so she went out on the front porch and sat on one of the steps her neighbor had recently repaired after he'd tripped on the old ones. She put her face in her hands to hide her tears.

North wind has began howling.

—Walters Davis

CAPTAIN JOHANN KESSLER WAS STANDING OUTSIDE the bridge of the Liberator, a general service cargo ship, waiting for his orders from Germany. They'd been moored in New Orleans for several days, where the youthful crew enjoyed the nightlife and the cynical captain enjoyed heckling them when they stumbled back to their berths early each morning.

Kessler leaned on the railing and watched the dockworkers, puffing at his pipe. Suddenly, the bridge door opened and a sailor appeared at his side.

“Captain?”

“Yes,” Kessler said.

“I've received an emergency communication from the German embassy in Washington.”

Kessler straightened up. “Let me see it.” He read the single line of transcription carefully. “Spider's web is broken. Get the spider out.”

Kessler looked up. “When did you receive this?”

“Just now, Captain. What does it mean?”

“Never mind. Tell Neumann I need to see him immediately.”

Neumann was outside the bridge with Captain Kessler in less than a minute.

“Neumann, how close are we to being ready to leave?”

“We can be ready in a day.”

“Contact Perry Fontaine in Pilot's Town and tell them we need someone to guide us back out to sea. Send him soon. Have we finished off-loading cargo?”

“Yes, Captain, but we're still loading supplies on board.” Neumann motioned toward the labor and equipment being used to load containers of cotton, sugar, canned foods, and some chemicals into the cargo hold. They also needed provisions for the crew during the return trip.

“We may not be able to finish reloading.”

“What's the hurry, sir?”

Kessler stood closer to his first mate. “The network is broken. It's only a matter of time before Higson is arrested. We've been ordered to get him out of the country.”

“Where is he now?”

“Clarksdale, but we'll see if he can meet us somewhere in between, maybe Vicksburg. We certainly can't risk having him lead the Americans to us. Have the ship ready for departure as soon as you can.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kessler turned and leaned on the railing again. To the north he saw storm clouds drifting in.

Special agents up the country.

—John Estes

RUSS KALMAN WALKED INTO HIS OFFICE AFTER A late-afternoon meeting and stood at his desk, gazing at the surface strewn with papers.

“Mr. Kalman,” his secretary said.

He looked up.

“It's Washington on the phone.”

“Who is it?”

“Robert Haynes.”

The chief sat down, propped his feet on his desk, and picked up the phone.

“Afternoon, Robert.”

“Hello, Russ.”

“How are things up there?”

“Oh, pretty good. The weather's starting to cool off, so that's a relief. A little too hot for us Yankees in the summer.”

“Well, it hasn't cooled off down here yet. And I doubt it will for a few more weeks at least. What can we help you with today?”

“Actually, nothing. But I'm going to help you.”

“Oh, really?”

“We've broken Higson's network,” Haynes said.

Kalman sat up in his chair and positioned himself over his desk. “Say again.”