The Year the Lights Came On (34 page)

“Uh—yes’m.”

As I walked away, I made a vow, a cross-my-heart vow: I would never again get within a mile of Megan’s home. Nothing was worth such agony.

*

Ben Alford’s petition had impact. Sheriff Dwight Brownlee received it in the presence of Happy Colquitt, photographer and editor of
The
Eden County Garden.

Happy Colquitt published a front-page picture of Sheriff Brownlee holding ten copies of the petition, and beneath the picture was an editorial which became a mild endorsement of the sheriff’s re-election chances. One of the paragraphs in the editorial read:

It
is this writer’s opinion that Sheriff Dwight Brownlee acted wisely in accepting the petition by Ben Alford of the Emery Community, regarding an alleged incident between a minor and A. G.
Hixon’s General Store. The incident, of course, is subject to legal settlement in due process of law, but it is encouraging to note that a community has the
gumption to stand up for one of its own, and that the county sheriff is sympathetic to such unity.

The editorial further noted that Sheriff Brownlee had conferred with Judge Foster Harris and that Judge Harris was pondering the
“weight of the documents.”
My father explained the expression had nothing to do with pounds, but was a poetic legal term suggesting “the scales of justice.”

Judge Harris pondered for a week. One of the men who worked with Dover on the REA right-of-way crew, and boarded at a house in Edenville, said he had heard a rumor from Hilda Benson, who was a librarian, that Judge Harris had pondered himself into a state of frustration. If he allowed the petition to have influence in any legal action, Judge Harris would be petitioned out of business; if he ignored the petition, he would catch grief seven ways to Sunday.

The man on the REA right-of-way crew told us that he had told Hilda to tell Judge Harris about Freeman’s bravery in Black Pool Swamp. “That ought to make some difference,” the man said solemnly. “I hear tell that anybody in that swamp is in danger of losin’ his life. I hear tell the real name of that swamp is the Great Okeenoonoo, and it means Woods of Death, or somethin’ like that.”

Later, Dover explained the man’s ignorance. “He’s not from
around here, and when Freeman first found that out, he took to pulling that poor fellow’s leg, especially after he told Freeman he was scared of snakes.”

While Judge Harris reviewed his predicament, the citizens of Emery waited and wondered—wondered aloud and in marathon sessions at Allgood’s General Store, which had become the new gathering place for the men of Emery.

There was a story from Edenville that Sheriff Brownlee had decided to forget Freeman’s escape as an act motivated by fear, and something to be expected of a fourteen-year-old. Freeman said of the decision, “He’s right about that, it was fear. He was about to lock me up and melt the key.”

There was also a report that Judge Harris had inquired, on the sly, if A. G. Hixon would simply drop his charges against Freeman. A. G. Hixon refused; he had too much prestige invested in the incident, and though there was speculation that he, too, doubted Dupree’s accusation, he was trapped by his commitment.

None of us were certain what actually happened, but early one morning, after he had been released from the hospital, Freeman announced at Allgood’s that his father had accepted the services of Jackson Whitmire, attorney at law.

“Jackson Whitmire’s takin’ my case for a dollar, or something like that,” Freeman said, “and from what I hear he’s not worth much more’n that, but the people that know him say watchin’ him at work is pure pleasure. He already told Daddy that if they call in a jury, he’ll wave to them, or somethin’, and that means whoever’s on the jury will leave and put it up to Judge Harris about what’s to be done with me.”

Freeman’s confusion was understandable. According to my mother, Jackson Whitmire’s estimation of the law was, at best,
muddled. He had a won-lost record considerably lower than the Atlanta Crackers’, who were in fifth place of the Southern League, but he did enjoy an unusual reputation as a courtroom performer. Most of Jackson Whitmire’s cases ended with hysterical pleading, many tears, and a summation that seldom had anything to do with the case before the court. There was one trial, my mother said, when Jackson Whitmire had been so theatrical the jury actually applauded him, and then ruled against his client.

The Freeman Boyd case would give Jackson Whitmire an opportunity to be a central figure in a celebrated event. Besides, he was confident Freeman would be carried triumphantly from the courtroom on the shoulders of Judge Harris. “I’ll get him off,” he bragged at Allgood’s one afternoon, after interviewing a number of Freeman’s friends and supporters. “There won’t be nothin’ to it. I’ll get him off free as the day he was born.”

“Why, that’d make him naked as a jaybird,” observed Ferris Allgood.

“Now, that’d be a sight to behold, wouldn’t it?” Jackson Whitmire responded. “Freeman, naked as a jaybird, ridin’ the shoulders of a judge.”

And everyone laughed heartily.

We were encouraged by the boasting, but there was still the nagging uncertainty of Dupree’s contention that it was a Hixon against a Boyd. We were not fools; names mattered, and we knew it. Still, it was a new time. It was 1947. The REA was coming, and as the right-of-way crew hacked through the swamp we could hear the warning sound of change—the falling of trees, the singing of crosscut saws, the cadence of sling blades, the echo of the ax. The differences between Our Side and the Highway 17 Gang were diminishing in the evidence of the REA, and we began to realize Wesley had been accurate in his confrontation with Dupree: the only true difference was attitude—what we thought and what they thought. That was all. Yet, names mattered, and we knew it.

“You just can’t trust people,” admitted Freeman. “There’s no way they can prove I took that money, but you can’t never tell. Old Man Hixon’s got some pull in this county and that’s for sure.”

“What’s Mr. Whitmire got in mind, Freeman?” asked Wesley.

“Don’t know,” answered Freeman. “He said he had a plan worked out. Won’t say what it is, but he swears I’ll never see the light of day in a courtroom. Said he’d been haggling with the Judge. I don’t know what it is, but he’s cocky as a bantam rooster in a yardful of hen turkeys.”

*

Two days later, we were summoned to the Eden County Courthouse.

“I don’t know why they want all you boys,” fussed Mother, as she drove us to Edenville. “It just doesn’t seem right.”

“Who’s goin’ to be there, Mama?” Wesley wanted to know.

“Well, just about everybody you can think of,” replied Mother. “You and Colin, and R. J., and Otis, and Paul, and Dupree, and that little Haynes boy…”

“Sonny?” I asked.

“Sonny—yes, that’s his name. I don’t know why I can’t remember that boy’s name,” Mother said. “I can remember his oldest brother, Whitney, but I can’t remember him. Whitney’s married to the Desmond girl, who’s Gladys Presley’s first cousin.”

“Yes’m,” Wesley said. “Who else, Mama?”

“Who else?”

“Yes’m. Who else will be at the courthouse?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Lots of people. All the parents.”

The courthouse was an aged, two-story building of granite blocks with the word JVSTICE chiseled over the main door. (I could never understand why the U in justice was a V) The building was in the center of Edenville and people referred to the area as Courthouse Square.

Sheriff Brownlee met us at the front door. He wore a starched and pressed new uniform, and his badge gleamed from hard polishing.

“Is everybody here?” Mother asked sharply.

“Yes’m,” Sheriff Brownlee answered courteously. “You’re the last ones.”

“What’s this about, Dwight?” demanded Mother.

“Now, Mrs. Wynn, there’s not much to it. Just a little interview. Judge is tryin’ to find out what’s happened so this thing can be settled.”

“Well, I don’t know why he wants these boys,” snapped Mother. “It’s plain that Freeman didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He just wants to talk, Mrs. Wynn. That’s all.”

We were led to Judge Harris’ office. It was a huge, oppressive room with a high ceiling. In the center of the ceiling, a four-blade fan whirled slowly. The odor of the room was musty, like old clothes.

No one spoke as we entered. Parents were seated along one wall, and their sons were seated together in two rows of chairs placed in front of Judge Harris’ desk.

“Boys, y’all can take a seat over there,” Sheriff Brownlee whispered. “Mrs. Wynn, if you’d sit over there…” He indicated an empty chair and Mother sat beside Angus Waller, R. J.’s father. My father was the only father not present; he had refused to attend,
realizing his dissatisfaction with the county law enforcement would leave him irritated.

Dupree and Sonny sat together on the front row, with Freeman and Otis and Paul. Jack and R. J. and Alvin were on the second row, where Wesley and I sat. We exchanged nods, but no one spoke.

We waited, subdued and anxious, for Judge Harris. The room was silent, awesomely silent. Dupree popped his knuckles and tried to appear calm, though his hand trembled. Sonny sat back in his chair, his shoulders slumped forward. His face was as white as milk glass. Sonny was frightened. Freeman was amused. He leaned forward in his chair and rolled his pocket knife from hand to hand. A smile was pressed on his face. Alvin and R. J. and Otis and Jack sat perfectly still, uncomfortable, each wondering why he was there and each seriously doubting the advisability of having Freeman as a friend.

A side door opened suddenly and Judge Harris entered his office and walked briskly to a raised swivel chair behind his desk. He was a short man with a head that extended abnormally forward from his neck, giving him an appearance of someone who had spent too many hours leaning over a desk deliberating the fate of others. His face had two
terraces of flesh running off the corners of his nose and into his jowls. His eyes were close-set and steady and I knew instantly that he could freeze water with a stare.

Judge Harris did not say Hello, thank you for coming, or It’s a nice day. He sat, surveyed the room, and began. “I’ve been in a meeting all morning with Jackson Whitmire, who’s representing Freeman Boyd in this matter, and with Rayford Callagan, who’s representing A. G. Hixon, and I’m telling everybody in here that it seems to me there’s a lot of smoke for such a little fire. Now, I aim to ask some questions and see if we can clear the air a little.”

Judge Harris paused, shuffled through some papers on his desk, and continued. “There’s not the first thing about this session today that’s one-hundred percent legal, but it seems to me the spirit of the law might best be served by bringing you people together and saying straight out what everybody thinks. Things get settled that way that don’t do nothing but bog down when everything’s all legal.

“Now, who’s Freeman Boyd?” he asked.

Freeman raised his hand. “Me, Your Honor, sir,” he said. Jackson Whitmire had coached Freeman well.

“Who’s Dupree Hixon?” Judge Harris asked.

Dupree half stood. “Me—uh—sir.”

“That’s good enough. Now, the rest of you stand as I call your name.”

As our names were sounded, we stood, silently, then sat again. Judge Harris studied us with his never-blinking gaze. He asked our parents to stand and introduce themselves, though he knew each by first name. Judge Harris was remarkably official.

“From what I’ve been able to piece together,” the Judge said, swiveling in his chair, “there’s two things here: an alleged theft of twenty dollars, and some old-fashioned disagreements. Whitmire tells me he’s got information about a threat Dupree Hixon made against Freeman Boyd, and then along comes Dupree Hixon later on and accuses Freeman Boyd of stealing twenty dollars from his daddy’s store. Now, A. G.—” he turned to A. G. Hixon “—I know it’s not the twenty dollars that makes the difference to you; it’s the principle of the matter, and I can appreciate that. But if all this comes down to a case of spite and revenge, then you know as well
as I do, A. G., that it’s a matter for the people involved to settle and has no business whatsoever in a courtroom.” Judge Harris studied A. G. Hixon. “Is that right, A. G.?”

“Yessir, that’s right,” A. G. Hixon replied meekly.

“All right, now let’s get to some questions,” rumbled Judge Harris. “I want everybody to know why there’s no lawyers in this room. This is not a court. It’s not a trial. And I’m not about to have somebody objecting every minute, and over nothing. Now…” He read something from the paper in front of him. “Now, it seems there’s more to this than stealing money, like I said. Seems like there’s been bad feelings going on over there in Emery for some time now, and that’s what I want to know about.” He paused and looked at Freeman.

“From what I’ve been able to find out,” the Judge continued, “there was a big fight over at the school, and it got out of hand. Says on this piece of paper that Jackson Whitmire gave me, that a little while after that fight, Dupree Hixon made his threat against Freeman Boyd, after Freeman Boyd accused Dupree of questionable behavior. Now, who’s going to tell me about that?”

No one answered. No one even moved.

“Well, there’s no need to be afraid. I don’t plan on sending anybody to jail. Anybody can speak up and say whatever he wants to. Dupree Hixon, why don’t you tell me about that?”