The Sharecropper Prodigy (23 page)

             
The sheriff sat in his chair, rubbing his face as if he didn’t know what to say or do. After a minute he spoke, “Well, I guess I’d better get in touch with Judge Hawkins. I think he has court today here in town. I…I don’t know exactly what to do. Tryin’ to hide a body is a crime, even if it was self-defense. Why didn’t you two come and tell me what happened? Did you not trust me to do the right thing?”

             
“Sheriff, try to put yourself in mine and Manuel’s place,” Ben answered. “I was a fourteen year old negro boy, who was with the only Mexican who lives in the county. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust
you
. But I had no confidence whatsoever that when we got to trial, a jury in this county would take our side over a white man. I still don’t have much confidence, but I’m tired of this thing hangin’ over my head. That’s why I came to you. To tell you what really happened. If I had wanted it to remain a secret, I probably could have. There were no witnesses to say Manuel and I ever did anything wrong. But I thought you and whatever family Ned might have needed to know the truth.”

             
“I understand, Ben. I don’t know how the judge and the district attorney are gonna react. There will have to be some kind of hearing or maybe even a trial. I’ll tell you what. Do you have any place in town to stay?”              “He can stay at my Papa’s house,” Rachel said. “He stayed there for a week nursing me back to health after he saved my life. You can tell the judge and district attorney that, too.”

             
“Ben, I believe you. But it’s not that simple. It’s not just up to me. I’m not gonna hold you, if you promise not to leave town.”

             
“I won’t go anywhere ‘til my name is cleared,” Ben said.

*****

              If there had ever been a public official who believed in the superiority of the white race, it was Randall Baxter. He had been the district attorney for Jones County for several years and had been chomping at the bits to get in a courtroom full of like-minded, southern bigots, to prosecute Ben’s papa. He was devastated when the lynch mob, many of whom were his friends, had robbed him of something he had been looking forward to like a little kid waiting on Christmas morning. When the sheriff told Judge Hawkins about Ben’s confession, Baxter saw this as his moment of redemption. I he wasn’t able to send old Rube to the electric chair, his son would be the next best thing.
This could even be better,
he thought.
An uppity nigger who believes an education from some Yankee school is somehow gonna make him as good as a white man. You can dress a hog up in a silk suit, but he’s still a stinkin’, mud wallowin’ hog.

             
Baxter went immediately to Judge Hawkins for a warrant.

             
“What are you gonna charge him with, Randall?” Judge Hawkins asked, knowing the racist proclivities of the district attorney. The judge also knew that if it weren’t for the poll tax keeping almost all negroes from the voting booth, Randall Baxter would have been retired to his dairy farm several years ago. He was sixty-two years old and had only become harder with age.

             
“I’m gonna charge him with murder, what else?”

             
“The boy said it was self defense, Randall. You’ve got no witnesses to prove otherwise and everybody who knew Ned Higgins, knew he didn’t like nigras or Mexicans.”

             
“Who says there were no witnesses? That nigger boy? What did you expect him to say? We don’t know if there are witnesses or not. Nobody’s tried to find any.”

             
“Dammit, Randall. Why don’t you charge him with obstruction of justice or something.”

             
“’Cause I believe him and that Mexican killed Ned, that’s why.”

             
“I believe it’s because you didn’t get your chance to convict his daddy,” the judge said. Judge Hawkins had had to deal with Randall Baxter for years. He was a tenacious prosecutor who usually got a conviction on people who deserved it. But he had a feeling this was nothing more than a vendetta against Ben and negroes in general. He’d never gotten to prosecute a black man for anything more serious than stealing chickens or maybe some small item at the grocery store.

             
“Are you gonna keep me from doin’ my job, Judge?” Baxter asked, as if the judge had slapped him in the face.

             
“No, Randall. I’m not gonna stand in the way of the law. I just think you might have a hard time getting a grand jury to indict him without witnesses. And what about Mr. Cruz? According to Ben Evans he’s the one who struck the blow that killed him. If Ben Evans is guilty of any crime at all, it would just be helping Mr. Cruz hide Ned’s body. And maybe stealin’ George Winston’s truck.”

             
“I’ll get an indictment, judge, if you’ll just give me a warrant.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

              It turned out Ned Higgins had a family. In fact, he had a rather extended family that lived in a little town in Southwest Georgia and it was plain to see that Ned had come by his hatred for anybody that didn’t have white skin honestly. His daddy and two of his uncles had at one time been Klan members. It turned out Ned had a falling out with his daddy a few years before. They had made no effort to contact each other, and if Ned had lived, probably never would have. But as soon as the family heard that Ned had died at the hands of a negro and a Mexican, they were suddenly prostrate with grief, or at least grief is what they went all out to display to the people in Jones County. Their real motivation for traveling so many miles was simple. Hatred. They hated the thought of any white man being struck down by a Mexican and a negro. Love for their long lost kin didn’t even enter into it.

             
Me and Rachel went to see Ben at the county jail everyday. I had put my job on hold, hoping Max McGee could still find me something when all this was over. He told me he was sorry to hear about Ben and for me not to worry. “I’ll have something for you when you get ready,” Max said. “This project is huge and will last a while.”

             
The Higgins came into town in droves. Some got hotel rooms in Collinwood and Gadsden, some just brought tents and found places to camp. The first time I saw Ned’s daddy was in my Uncle Joe’s store. He had quickly made friends with Bob Samples and some of the other resident bigots that had a hand in lynching Rube Evans. No charges were ever brought against Bob or any of the rest of them. I believe the sheriff wanted to, but had no cooperation from Randall Baxter. Prosecution and getting a guilty verdict would have been all but impossible, anyway.

             
Roscoe Higgins, Ned’s daddy, was a big man with hands the size of baseball mitts. He had a long, graying beard that made him look like a returning Confederate officer from the battle at Bull Run or Chancellorsville. There was a small cigar dangling from his mouth that bobbed up and down every time he talked. I was walking around the store, picking up a few things for Lizzie. I would occasionally glance in the direction of the gaggle of men that were standing in their usual place around the pot-belly stove. It was at least eighty degrees outside. I noticed Bob pointing at me once and Roscoe Higgins nodding his head. I had no idea what they were talking about or planning, but Bob knew better than to try to start trouble with me in my Uncle Joe’s store. He knew if he did, he would be staring down twin barrels of a double-barreled shotgun quicker than a cat jumping a mouse.

             
Uncle Joe put my few items in a poke sack and I paid him. He looked back in the direction of the men standing around the stove.

             
“Do you want me to call the sheriff?” he asked, concern in his voice.

             
“No, I’ll be alright, Uncle Joe. I’m going straight back to the Winston’s place.”

             
Uncle Joe nodded and handed me my change. I walked out and got in Mr. Winston’s car and drove away. I had gone maybe a couple of miles down Highway 11 and was fiddling with the radio in the car. I was trying to get some news on the war, specifically what was going on in North Africa where General Patton and Field Marshall Romell were trying to outfox and outfight each other. I knew we were gaining ground there, and I knew Patton would never quit. Patton didn’t sit around waiting for something to happen. He was a mover and a shaker. But most of all, that’s where Manuel was. He had saved my life and had been one of Rachel, Ben and my best friends when he lived in Collinwood.

             
I just happened to glance in the side view mirror in time to see the pick-up truck that was pulling up beside me. It was barreling down on me hard, trying to nudge me off the road. I put the gas pedal to the floor. I knew whatever the pick-up had under the hood, it was no match for the big V-8 in Mr. Winston’s Cadillac. I quickly pulled away, grinning a little as I saw the truck get smaller in the mirror. I knew the truck belonged to Roscoe Higgins, because I had seen it sitting outside my Uncle Joe’s store. It looked like somebody was riding with him, and I assumed it to be Bob Samples. It might have been better for them that I got away, because I wasn’t able to do much fist and skull fighting anymore since I nearly lost my leg in Algiers. But Mr. Winston kept a Colt .45 under the seat of the car and I would not have hesitated to use it.

*****

              The sky had the orange and red glow that immediately precedes twilight as Will Henry walked into his front yard. He had put in a hard day hauling fertilizer to all the different tenant fields and running what seemed like a hundred errands for Mr. Winston. Just as he crossed the old dirt road that ran in front of his little house, he saw a pick-up truck pulled off to the side with two men inside that were big enough to fill the entire cab. Will looked over and saw his ten year old daughter and five year old son swinging on an old tire Will had hung from an oak tree limb. He knew they couldn’t hear them unless he yelled, so he cautiously walked over to the truck before the men had a chance to get out.

             
“What can I do fer you gents?” Will asked, trying to keep from sounding nervous.

             
“Well, we might be able to help one another,” the man sitting behind the steering wheel answered. “Names Roscoe Higgins. I’m Ned’s daddy.”

             
“Oh…yeah, uh…pleased to meet you, Mr. Higgins. I work, uh….used to work with Ned. Me and him was good friends. I sure do hate what happened to ‘im.”

             
“Me too, boy, me too. Why, it plum near broke his momma’s heart when she heard about ‘em fishin’ his body outta that river.”

             
“Well, if there’s anything I can do……”

             
“There is something you can do, boy,” Roscoe said. “You can testify at that little niggers trial. There gonna prob’ly call you, anyhow, so you might as well tell ‘em what really happened to my boy.”

             
“Well, sir, I wasn’t there when it happened. Ned sent me on home, you see, and…..”

             
“You know what happened, boy. That Mexican took that gun away from Ned and shot him dead in cold blood. Then him and that nigger boy put ‘im in that truck and dumped him in the river for the catfish and carp to eat.”

             
“That may be, sir. But I didn’t see ‘em,” Will said, looking over his shoulder to see if his children were still swinging. They were still there, and he was praying they would go in the house.

             
“Well, let me ask you sump’n then. I believe you seen what really happened that night and maybe just forgot. Would five-hundred dollars help yore memory any?”

             
Five-hundred dollars was more than half what Will made in a year, and he sure could use it. He would like to buy his wife and kids some nicer clothes. Mr. Winston paid a fair wage and gave him a place to live, but he still didn’t have as much as he would like to spend on his family. They deserved nice things just like everybody else. Of course, he seemed wealthy compared to the tenant farmers and sharecroppers.

             
“I don’t know, Mr. Higgins. I ain’t got nothin’ personal against Ben Evans, and besides I don’t like lyin’. And lyin’ in court is against the law.”

             
“How about six-hundred, then. I don’t think I could raise no more than that.”

             
Will shook his head. “I don’t know, I just don’t think…..”

             
“Well, let me put it to you like this, boy,” Roscoe said, pointing his finger at Will. “You can take the six-hundred dollars and say what I tell you to say, or, well…. let’s just say I shore do hate to hear when folks young ’uns  come up missin’.” Roscoe was looking past Will at the children, who were now pushing the swing back and forth with nobody in it.