47

The jurors filed silently out of their room and followed the bailiff down a back stairway to a side door of the courthouse, the same route they had taken every day since Tuesday. Once outside they scattered without a word. Nevin Dark decided to drive home for lunch. He did not want to be around his colleagues at that moment. He needed time to digest the story he had just heard. He wanted to breathe, to think, to remember. Alone in his truck with the windows down, he almost felt dirty; maybe a shower would help.

Mista Burt. Mista Burt. Somewhere on the shadier side of his wife’s family tree, there had been a great-uncle or a distant cousin named Burt. Many years ago he lived near Palmyra, and there had always been whispers about Burt’s involvement with the Klan.

It couldn’t be the same man.

In his fifty-three years in Ford County, Nevin had heard of only one other lynching, but he had almost forgotten the story. It supposedly happened around the turn of the century. All witnesses were dead, and the details had been forgotten. Nevin had never heard a description of such a killing by a real witness. Poor Ancil. He looked so pitiful with his little round head and oversized suit, and wiping tears with a sleeve.

Disoriented by Demerol or not, there was no doubt Seth knew what he was doing.

Michele Still and Barb Gaston had no plans for lunch, and they were too emotional to think clearly. They jumped into Michele’s car and fled Clanton, taking the first road out with no destination in mind. The distance helped, and after five miles on an empty county road they were able to relax. They stopped at a country store and bought soft drinks and crackers, then sat in the shade with the windows down and listened to a soul station out of Memphis.

“We got nine votes?” Michele asked.

“Girl, we may have twelve.”

“Naw, we’ll never get Doley.”

“One day, I’m gonna slap his ass. Might be today, might be next year, but I’ll do it.”

Michele managed to laugh and their moods were lifted considerably.

Jim Whitehurst also drove home for lunch. His wife was waiting with a stew and they ate on the patio. He had told her everything else about the trial, but he did not want to replay what he had just heard. But she insisted, and they hardly touched their lunch.

Tracy McMillen and Fay Pollan drove together to a strip mall east of town where a new sub shop was doing a booming business. Their “Juror” buttons got a few looks but no inquiries. They got a booth so they could talk and within minutes were in complete agreement. Seth Hubbard might have been fading in his final days, but there was no doubt he planned things perfectly. They had not been too impressed with Herschel and Ramona anyway. And, they didn’t like the fact that a black housekeeper would get all the money, but, as Jake had said, it was not for the jurors to decide. It wasn’t their money.

For the Hubbard family, a morning that had begun with such promise had turned into a humiliating nightmare. The truth was out about their grandfather, a man they’d hardly known, and now their family name would be permanently stained. They could learn to handle the stain, but losing the money would be a catastrophe. They suddenly wanted to hide. They sprinted to the home of their host, out by the country club, and ignored lunch while debating whether they should return to the courtroom.

Lettie and Portia returned to the Sappington place during the break, but there were no thoughts of lunch. Instead, they went to Lettie’s bedroom, kicked off their shoes, and lay side by side, holding hands, and began to cry.

Ancil’s story had closed so many circles.

With so many thoughts swirling around there were almost no words. Emotions were too high. Lettie thought of her grandmother Esther and the horror of the story. And her mother, a little girl with no clothes, no food, no shelter.

“How’d he know, Mom?” Portia asked.

“Who? Which one? Which story?”

“Seth. How’d he know it was you? How did Seth Hubbard ever find out you were the daughter of Lois Rinds?”

Lettie stared at the spinning ceiling fan and couldn’t begin to answer. Finally, she said, “He was a very smart man, but I doubt if we’ll ever know.”

Willie Traynor stopped by Jake’s office with a platter of sandwiches and invited himself to lunch. Jake and Harry Rex were upstairs, on the balcony, having a drink. Coffee for Jake, beer for Harry Rex. They appreciated the sandwiches and helped themselves. Willie chose a beer. He said, “You know, when I had the paper, somewhere around 1975, some guy published a book about lynchings. He did his homework, had lots of gory photographs and such, and it was a good read. According to him, and he was from up north and eager to make us look bad, between 1882 and 1968 thirty-five hundred blacks were lynched in the United States. There were also thirteen hundred whites, but most were horse thieves out west. From 1900 on, almost all lynchings were of blacks, including some women and children.”

“Is this really appropriate during lunch?” Harry Rex asked.

“I didn’t know you had such a delicate stomach, big boy,” Willie shot back. “Anyway, guess which state leads the nation in lynchings.”

“I’m afraid to ask,” Jake said.

“You got it. We’re number one, at almost six hundred, and all but forty were black. Georgia is a close second, Texas a close third. So I remember reading this book and thinking, Six hundred is a lot. How many were in Ford County? I went back a hundred years and read every copy of the Times. I found only three, all black, and there was no record of Sylvester Rinds.”

“Who compiled these numbers?” Jake asked.

“There have been studies, but you have to question their validity.”

“If they knew of six hundred,” Harry Rex said, “you can bet there were a lot more.”

Willie took a swig of beer and said, “And guess how many people were charged with murder for taking part in a lynch mob.”

“Zero.”

“You got it. Not a single person. It was the law of the land, and black folks were fair game.”

“Kinda makes me sick,” Jake said.

“Well, old buddy, your jury’s sick too,” Willie said, “and they’re on your side.”

At 1:30, the jurors reassembled in the deliberation room, and there was not a single word uttered about the trial. A bailiff led them into the courtroom. The large screen was gone. There were no more witnesses. Judge Atlee looked down and said, “Mr. Brigance, your closing argument.”

Jake walked to the podium without a legal pad; he had no notes. He began by saying, “This will be the shortest closing argument in the history of this courtroom, because nothing I can say could ever be as persuasive as the testimony of Ancil Hubbard. The longer I talk, the more distance I put between him and your deliberations, so I’ll be brief. I want you to remember everything he said, not that anyone who heard it is likely to forget. Trials often take unexpected turns. When we started this one on Monday, none of us could have predicted that a lynching would explain the mystery of why Seth Hubbard left his fortune to Lettie Lang. His father lynched her grandfather in 1930. And after he killed him, he took his land and scattered his family, and Ancil told that story far better than I’ll ever be able to. For six months, many of us have wondered why Seth did what he did. Now we know. Now it’s clear.