Brambleman (31 page)

“Mr. Patterson?”

“I doan wanna … buy anything,” the old man
wheezed. “Ain’t got … money.”

Charlie spoke quickly. “I don’t want to sell
you anything. I’m working on a book about Forsyth County. I
understand you know what happened to a man named John Riggins, and
I wondered if you might be willing to talk about it.”

The old man gasped, either in surprise or for
breath. “Ain’t heard that name … in a long time. Someone finally
caught … up to it. So that’s … what it’s all about.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Been a car … parked down the road … past day
or so.” He pointed feebly toward the side of the house. “Ain’t
there today. Not so far as I see, anyway. You know anything … ’bout
that?”

“No. But people have expressed an interest in
what I’ve been doing lately. I can say that.”

“What you mean?”

“They broke in and stole a bunch of papers.
They didn’t find what they were looking for.”

“What they looking fer?”

“A land title and this.” Charlie pulled out
the lynching photograph from his satchel. “You ever seen it?”

Patterson stared, his mouth open slightly,
his wheezing almost a whistle. “No.”

Charlie’s spirits sank as he put back the
photo.

“But I remember … ’em takin’ it.”

Charlie’s spirits bounced back. “Go on.”

“Don’t suppose … you got smokes.” Patterson
pulled a bloody handkerchief from his robe pocket. He weakly
coughed up a red patch of phlegm and spit it into the cloth, then
tucked it away.

“Afraid I don’t.”

“Come inside anyway.” Patterson let him in,
apparently as starved for company as he was for nicotine. Charlie
followed him as he slowly shuffled to the kitchen table and sat
down in an old metal-legged chair with a torn vinyl cushion, the
oxygen cart pressed against his leg. Charlie remained standing.

A TV blared away in the living room, which it
shared with a hospital bed. A pile of dirty dishes sat in the sink
and more were scattered across the table. There were competing
stenches: a backed-up toilet or septic tank, rotting food, and/or a
dead animal under the house. Charlie doubted that Patterson could
smell any of it.

“I heard that land’s gettin’ sold. That
picture … worth a million dollars,” said Patterson.

“More than that,” Charlie said, raising his
voice to be heard above the TV’s din.

“All right. This is somethin’ … needs to be
told. Nuthin’ nobody can do to me now. I’m dyin’. Cancer. That’s
what the tube’s for.” He pointed to his nose.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Uh, mind if I turn
off the TV?”

The old man nodded. “Go ahead.”

Charlie went into the living room.
The
Matthew Steele Show
was on. Trash TV of the worst sort. Two
mothers were pregnant by their sons-in-law, and their daughters sat
beside them. The graphic at the bottom of the screen said,
“
She’s my half-sister, she’s my step-daughter
!”

Charlie shook his head in disgust.

“You got to turn off the VCR, too. That’s an
old show I was watching”

“Oh. OK.” Charlie turned off the machines,
then stepped to the front window and looked out. “Where was the car
parked?”

“Down the hill … under some trees.”

Charlie saw a wide, flat shoulder on the road
about a quarter-mile east. No sign of a stakeout. Returning to the
kitchen, he sat down across from Patterson, pulled a small digital
voice recorder from his shirt pocket, and cleared a spot for it on
the table.

“Excuse the mess. My niece … supposed to come
by … and help me. Hasn’t been here … for a week. I’m runnin’ outta
food. She probably … shacked up with somebody … met in a bar … and
forgot about me.”

“I can get you something after we talk.”
Charlie realized how cold that sounded, especially since he meant
to say it that way.

“Something from … Pancake Hut. I’ll trade you
… interview for eggs ’n grits.”

Charlie grimaced at the mention of his least
favorite restaurant. Nevertheless he said, “Sounds like a
deal.”

“I just turned eighty-two … Longer than most
… nonsmokers. Outlasted … everybody. Wife … kids. Now all I got …
is that niece … lucky she comes by … once a week.”

“I’m going to turn on the recorder now.”
Charlie pushed the
Rec
button.

“I reckon … I got to do this,” Patterson
said.

Charlie reckoned he did.

Patterson began in his wheezing rasp. “OK. It
was 1937 … my birthday, October 12 … just a few days ago.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Nobody pays any attention … anymore. But you
don’t need to hear … ’bout that. I was playin’ hooky to celebrate.
Bad year. Weevils was everywhere. We lost half our crop.”

Charlie pointed to the window and swept his
hand around. “On this land?”

“No. My daddy owned land. I rent this house
now … with my Social Security. Anyway, Bobby Jeter and me cut
school to go fishin’ … near the ford at Long Creek not far from
here. Didn’t have a bridge back then … built one the next year.
Back then you had to go a mile to a bridge, but it was so shallow
at the ford you could drive across.

“We heard a car coming … and ran to hide. It
pulled up on one bank. A minute later, three or four men rode up on
horses on the opposite side. They didn’t cross the creek. Waited on
the top side. We hunkered down. Heard ’em talkin’ but couldn’t …
make out what they said. Before long, we hear some whistling …
clopping along the road. John Riggins. His mule started acting up …
’cause of the crowd waiting, I reckon. I ’member Riggins calmin’ it
down … just ’fore they came into the open. Riggins stopped when he
saw the men. He bent down and talked in the mule’s ear. We were so
close I heard him say, ‘We gonna let these men pass.’ He backed his
mule … and pulled it to the side. He was close to us … where we was
hidin’.”

Charlie gazed into the man’s clouded eyes.
Patterson broke contact and looked out the dirty kitchen window.
“There was four men in the car. The men on horses … splashed across
and the others got out of the car … the little fella with a face
like the devil was one of ’em. He got out and waded across …
splashing water. Ike Cutchins, wavin’ his arms. Riggins looked at
him and said, ‘What you want, Ike?’ I never talked to the man … but
everybody knew him, he was the only colored man … left in the
county. Deep booming voice. I could tell he didn’t respect
Cutchins. … I bet Cutchins’ veins was bulging … to be talked to …
that way by a … well, you know how it was back then.” Patterson
shook his head. “It’s the lowlifes … always wanna be called sir.
Don’t get me started … on Ike Cutchins. I ain’t got the breath for
it.”

He asked for a drink. Charlie couldn’t find a
clean glass so he washed one. He filled it from a leaky kitchen
faucet that spurted airy water and waited for the man to collect
himself. The interview was taking a tremendous toll on him.
Patterson took a few sips, then continued.

“‘You know why I’m here,’ Ike says. Riggins
says he don’t. ‘Tell ’em what you did to my woman!’ Ike shouts.”
Patterson coughed. “Riggins says … he didn’t do nothing. Ike goes
into a rage, like a little demon. Stomping up and down, shoutin’,
‘You a liar. You was, you was!’

“As soon as he says that, he pulls a pistol …
out of his waistband. Shoots the mule in the head. It flops over …
thrashin’ around. The other men yell at him … for not getting a
clean shot. He always was a lousy shot. My dad said when he’d go
out hunting … he’d as likely shoot out … the neighbor’s window … as
bag a rabbit. Riggins is stuck under the mule. Ike laughs. ‘Who’s
the big man now?’ Riggins doesn’t say anything. Cutchins kicks
him.” Patterson paused for another drink of water and wiped away
some moisture from his eye. He started coughing again and pulled
out his bloody wet handkerchief. “I need a Kleenex.”

After a minute’s search, Charlie found a box
of tissues in the living room. Patterson hacked weakly and this
time wadded up the tissue without looking to see what landed in it.
A few moments passed before he continued. “Riggins wiggles his way
out … from under the mule while Cutchins jaws at him. Somebody with
a shotgun … Tom Dempsey … puts the mule out of its misery. Tom
turns to Cutchins … says, ‘Get it over with.’ But Cutchins ain’t
through. Says ‘Beg for your life, nigger!’ Riggins says … ‘Go on.’
Cutchins screams, ‘I wanna hear you beg for your life, nigger!’ And
Riggins, say what you will, he was a man.”

Patterson choked up and tears welled in his
eyes. “He say, ‘I’m not gonna beg for something I got a right to.
You can’t give me life. You can just take it away.’ ‘Then I’ll take
it away,’ Cutchins says. Riggins knew he was a dead man. No point
in being a pussy about it. He wasn’t givin’ Cutchins no
satisfaction. He tries to stand up … Cutchins pistol whips him.
Riggins a big man. Strong. He just keeps gettin’ up … towers over
Cutchins, who’s pointing the gun at him. He grabs the gun. They
fight over it. Cutchins is cussing. Riggins says, ‘You ain’t …
gonna be the one to kill me.’ That’s the last … thing he said. Tom
Dempsey runs up … clubs him from behind with the shotgun butt.
Riggins staggers backward … lets go of the gun. Cutchins shoots him
in the gut.”

Patterson stopped talking and gasped for
breath. Charlie pushed the glass of water toward him, but Patterson
shook his head and held up his hand to signal for time.

Charlie listened to him wheeze, accompanied
by the ticking of a clock and birds singing outside. After a couple
of minutes, the old man continued: “Riggins don’t go down at first.
He wobbles on his legs for a minute … then drops to his knees.
Cutchins laughs and says, ‘Looks like I am the one to kill you!’
Then Cutchins shoots him in the face … two or three times. Riggins
falls over. My buddy pisses himself … and runs away, making a
racket in the underbrush. The men hear him. They run after him and
catch him … but they don’t see me. He don’t tell ’em about me. They
drag him … over to Riggins … and Cutchins orders him to shoot the
body. He didn’t want to … but they tell him, ‘You’re one of us
now.’ Bobby’s cryin’.”

Patterson’s voice broke again and he sobbed.
“Cutchins is a sick bastard. You put that down.”

Charlie nodded grimly as he jotted on his
pad.

“Bobby told me years later … he had a
thousand nightmares about it. I told him … the man was dead
already. What they did was bad wrong. Murder. But it was even
worse, makin’ … a child be part of it. I know … now … we was all a
part of it. It wasn’t just a thing that happened. We all had to own
it. It wasn’t just a thing.”

Another pause. Patterson drummed the table.
“What Cutchins does next … he pulls down his pants and pisses on
Riggins. Laughin’. He says, ‘I ain’t even started yet.’ Then he
runs to the car and gets some gasoline … kerosene … coal oil or
something. Douses the body and somebody else … Joshua Logan—”

“Really.”

“—he gets some rope and throws it over a tree
and makes a loop. ’Cause I guess you got to have a hangin’, even
though it makes no sense. One of the men rides off on horseback …
takes Bobby with him. And they haul the corpse across the creek.
Logan puts the rope around Riggins’ neck. A bunch of them pull him
up and Cutchins lights him … and Riggins hangs there burning.”

Charlie broke in: “Were you still hiding?
What were you thinking?”

“I was still in the brush … I thought they
were going to kill Bobby. Afraid they’d kill me.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought they were … in league with
the devil. They mighta been. They didn’t … care about nobody. But
the devil … don’t take you … where you don’t want to go.”

Charlie didn’t want to dwell on that
statement right then.

“Did you ever talk to anyone about this?”

“Other than Bobby and my niece, not till
today. I figgered it wouldn’t do no good. But now … I got nothin to
lose.” Patterson took a sip of water. “They left Riggins hangin’ …
took a picture.”

Charlie pulled out the photograph. “Can you
identify these people?”

“Yeah,” the old man said with disgust.
“That’s Ike Cutchins, lookin’ like … he caught hisself a fish.”
Patterson sneered as he pointed. “He’s the only one … still
alive.”

Patterson named the other men in Cutchins’s
mob: Joshua Logan, then fifteen years younger than the dying man
Charlie had dreamed about; Tom Dempsey; Bob Parkhurst; Hank Suches;
Tom Montgomery. Eight men in all, six in the picture, most of them
clad in overalls and dungarees. Charlie struggled to contain his
excitement as he wrote down the names, especially
Montgomery—Cecil’s father and Joshua Logan’s brother-in-law.
(Charlie had figured out that both Logan and Montgomery were
Lillian Scott’s great-uncles.)

The seventh man, who owned the car and had
enough sense not to pose at a crime scene, was named Carswell; he’d
been the photographer. Patterson’s mention of that name caused
Charlie’s eyes to light up and his heart to beat even faster. The
Carswells had practically run Forsyth County back in 1912 and for
many years before and since. Plus Bernie Dent and Thomas Oscar had
been executed on Carswell land. “I forget his first name,”
Patterson said. “But it won’t be hard to find. He was mayor of
Cumming … during World War II.”

“What about the man who rode off with Bobby
Jeter?”

“That was Bill Roark. He was Bobby’s
next-door neighbor.”

Charlie listened to the birds outside for a
moment, hoping in vain that Patterson could use the time to catch
his breath. “Murder by lynching,” Charlie muttered. It had been a
cold-blooded killing in broad daylight on a pretext so flimsy it
was only worth mentioning due to its perverse irony. “What was it
that Ike Cutchins claimed Riggins did to his wife? Was he trying to
claim there was a rape?”

Patterson snorted in disgust. “There was a
rape all right. Not the way he claimed.”