The Dark-Thirty (3 page)

R
iley Holt, the richest and most powerful man in Tallahatchie County, Mississippi, was attacked and left for dead along State Highway 49. The whole state prayed for Holt’s recovery,
but he died several days later, never regaining consciousness.

Nobody could remember a murder ever taking place in Tyre, unless you count Miz Jasper’s cat Sidney many years earlier. Folk didn’t know quite what to say or do about a real homicide.

The mayor, who was a pallbearer at Holt’s funeral, announced his personal outrage at the violence perpetrated against “one of Mississippi’s finest families.” Holt’s weeping, red-faced widow stood on the steps of the First Baptist Church and wailed for justice. The governor consoled the widow. “Don’t you worry none, Miz Holt. The truth will come out. You can count on it.”

Meanwhile, the burden of the investigation was dropped into the lap of Chief Burton Baker and his four-man Tyre police department. He decided to question Hoop Granger, whose filling station was near the Holt estate. Maybe he’d seen something.

Hoop Granger sat by the dirt-streaked window and watched Chief Baker walk toward Simm’s Ironwork Shop, where Hoop and the other local riffraff hung out. Hoop, who’d been a difficult child, was a downright ornery man. He’d grown up bitter as quinine and meaner than a swamp snake. He made a living as a self-taught
auto mechanic, having inherited the service station out on Highway 49 from his father.

Hoop warned his friends that Baker was coming. The men greeted the officer coolly.

“Like to ask you a few questions, Hoop,” Baker announced.

“I’m wondering, Chief, why you wasting time talking to me, when you ought to be over in the Corners arresting one of them darkies for murdering Holt.”

“Why are you jumping on the defensive?” Baker was obviously annoyed. “I came to find out if you saw something.”

Hoop turned to the window. “I might have.”

“Hoop, if you know anything, you’d better tell me now. Did you see somebody from the Corners out at the Holt place?”

“I seen Alvin …” Hoop swallowed hard. His eyes darted around, never making eye contact. “Alvin Tinsley. Yeah. He went up to Holt’s on the day of the murder.”

Alvin Tinsley was a young black man who was respected by both the white and black communities. He’d grown up in Tyre, and after working his way through Tuskegee Institute in veterinary science, he’d come back home. But the state of Mississippi had denied him a veterinary
license. Then Alvin saved one of Riley Holt’s prize walking horses, and the powerful Holt made sure Alvin got his license. Holt immediately hired Alvin to take care of all the animals on the Holt plantation.

Chief Baker looked around. Hoop’s friends were nodding their heads in agreement.

“Hoop, come on over to the station and we’ll talk more,” he said. He opened the door, then added, “I’m going to send for Alvin. We can get to the bottom of this right now.”

On his way out, Hoop turned to the chief. “You know the road leading up to the Holt place goes right by my station, so I see everything. And I swear I saw Alvin go by—looking mad enough to kill.”

Half an hour later Alvin Tinsley was shown into the chief’s office. Politely removing his hat, he took the seat Chief Baker offered him. Hoop shifted uneasily in his chair as he watched a black man being given the same courtesy as a white.

His mind went back twenty years when he and Alvin had sat in this same office. He remembered accusing Alvin of another crime—of hanging Miz Jasper’s cat. And he remembered
Alvin admitting that he’d done it … just as Hoop had made him do. “If you don’t say you did it, I’ll tell my daddy to fire your daddy, then he won’t have no job.”

Hoop still remembered Chief Baker’s eyes staring at him. “Are you sure this is what happened?” he’d said.

“Sure, Chief,” Hoop had answered. “It was just like I said. Alvin killed that dumb ol’ cat for scratching him, but he’s sorry.”

“It’s strange to me … the only one who’s got scratches on his hand is you, Hoop.”

But Alvin had held to Hoop’s story and taken the punishment without complaint.

Now here they were again, sitting before Chief Baker.

“Seems like we’ve done this before,” Baker said, sighing. “How’s Miz Cora Mae?” he asked, putting off official business. Then, “Alvin, can you tell me about your movements on or around the thirteenth of June 1938 …? That was last Thursday.”

“Mama’s doing nicely,” Alvin said, answering the chief’s first question. “I was over in Mound Bayou,” he said, answering the second one. “Left Wednesday evening. My mother-in-law is sick, so my wife and I took the bus over to
see about her. Is there a reason why you’re asking?” Alvin looked at Hoop with troubled eyes.

“That’d give you a good alibi, and it’s easy enough to check,” the chief said, immediately dispatching Officer Peterson over to the hardware store that doubled as a bus station to verify Alvin’s story.

“Why do I need an alibi?” Alvin was surprised.

“Hoop here says he saw you arguing with Mr. Holt on the thirteenth. Is that true?”

Alvin turned to Hoop. “Not this time you don’t,” he said. And turning back to Chief Baker, “No sir. Sure, I was out to the Holt place last Wednesday before I left. He sent for me. Wanted me to go up to Memphis with him to look at a filly when I got back. But not one cross word passed between us.”

“You saying I’m a liar?”

Alvin sighed. “I’m not calling you a liar. I’m saying I’m telling the truth.”

The men sat in stony silence until Peterson came in and handed a note to Chief Baker.

“Well, Alvin, seems your story holds up. You see this, Hoop? Presley over at the store says he sold Alvin and Opal a ticket on the twelfth from here to Mound Bayou.” The chief stood and
extended his hand, which Alvin shook. “You may go. Sorry we had to put you through all this, but for the record I had to ask. Tell Miz Cora Mae I’ll be over for a slice of sweet potato pie first chance I get.”

“I’ll tell her you asked about her,” Alvin said, glancing at Hoop before leaving.

Hoop slammed his fist into his palm. “You letting him go? I can’t believe you taking that darky’s word over
mine.”

“Alvin didn’t call you a liar,” Chief Baker snapped at Hoop. “You and them shop boys got the coloreds around here scared to death of you. But I’m not. You’re lying out of your teeth, and I hate to think why.” The chief leaned over his desk and forced the man to make eye contact. “Where were you last Thursday?”

Hoop looked at his feet. “Working at my station pumping gas. Got witnesses aplenty. Ask Jake, Bo, and Tomie Lee.”

Chief Baker turned in his swivel chair. With his back to Hoop, he said, “Why, I’d have to be possessed by a clown to believe a word that fell out of any one of your mouths. Now git, and make sure that bald-faced lie you hatched about Alvin dies quickly.”

But the chief’s warning didn’t do a thing to
stop Hoop. Back at the ironwork shop he told his buddies, “Alvin killed Holt, and I know it.” He sauntered over to the cooler and pulled out a cold drink, putting a nickel in the cup on the counter. He straddled a chair and leaned back against the wall. “I told Baker-boy what I seen, and what did he do? He insulted me, laughed at me in front of that uppity nigger passing hisself off as some kinda horse doctor with a fancy name!”

Anger fueled Hoop’s speech. “A white man’s life was taken right here in our town. Who’s next … our wives, daughters, mothers? And what does the chief of police do? I’ll tell you! He shakes the murderer’s hand like they was equals. That shows Baker ain’t gonna do nothing.” He spat as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “I says it’s time we take charge. Like the Bible says. ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ ”

It didn’t take much to convince the rowdy gang at Simm’s that an innocent man was guilty. “Are we gon’ suffer a murdering black coon to walk among us unpunished?” Hoop asked in conclusion.

A silent signal passed from man to man. In groups of two or three they left.

*   *   *

Hoop loved the white robe of a Klansman. Wearing it made him feel powerful and strong—even safe. He pulled the hood over his head and hurried out the door. A passing pickup slowed down just long enough for him to jump aboard.

Seven cars and trucks roared down Russell Avenue at twelve thirty
A.M
. By two thirty in the morning the Ku Klux Klan had dragged Alvin from his house and taken him to a clearing down by the Tallahatchie River. There, under a Mississippi blood moon with a flaming cross of fire, they tried, convicted, and sentenced him for the murder of Riley Holt.

“You ain’t so uppity now, are you? You not so important now that Holt ain’t here to protect you,” Hoop mocked Alvin. “If you looking for somebody to blame for what’s happening now, blame that nigger school that made you think you could get out of your place, boy.”

Hoop darted around in the glowing firelight. “This is the guilty one, all right. Make no mistake about that.” Then, turning to the condemned man, he said, “Why don’t you admit you did it, boy? Say you’re guilty. Say it!” A Klansman put the rope around Alvin’s neck.

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints
. Alvin mumbled psalms of comfort he’d learned as a child. His eyes had been beaten shut. He struggled to speak. “You can’t make me confess to a crime I didn’t commit … again,” he said, agony twisting his face. “I’m innocent. And I’m going to prove it!”

Hoop stopped laughing. He moved in close to torment his victim. “You gonna be dead. And dead men can’t do nothing!”

Alvin managed to whisper a last promise. “I’m coming back. Watch for me!”

“You threatening me?” Hoop raised his voice in mock rage but felt very much in control. Then he kicked the stump from underneath Alvin, snapping the man’s neck instantly.

The next day the mayor released a ludicrous report: Alvin Tinsley had hanged himself after confessing to Riley Holt’s murder. All the good citizens of Tyre publicly accepted the report—whether they believed it or not—satisfied that the untidy mess had been cleared up and life could go back to normal.

Alvin’s widow and mother claimed his body at the morgue in the courthouse basement. The authorities had his coffin officially sealed so
none of his family or friends ever got to see his body. The day after they buried Alvin, his widow left for Chicago. Those who stayed in Tyre knew that Alvin’s death hadn’t solved Riley Holt’s murder. But they felt helpless to do anything about it. They accepted his murder as “the way things are,” and for them, life went back to normal, too.