The reckoning, p.16
The Reckoning, page 16
Other reporters hurled a barrage of questions at Thigpen, too. He ignored them all.
Drayton jockeyed among the horde that followed the deputies and Thigpen to the entrance of the courthouse.
“Why did you shoot him, Mr. Thigpen? Can you tell us why you shot him?” Drayton wouldn’t give up.
Rutherford Thigpen looked directly into the WKCU News 6 camera, then to the ground where he placed his next step, and at the camera again.
“Can you tell us why?” Drayton asked again, placing the mic near his mouth.
“No n—— gonna talk to me the way he did!” Thigpen shouted unexpectedly, his words of hate piercing the air like a knife. “Do you know who I am?! I’m Rutherford Thigpen. I come from three generations of Thigpens in this parish.”
One of the deputies grabbed him firmly and ushered him through the entrance of the building.
“Well, you heard it here on WKCU News 6,” the shocked reporter said, speaking to the camera again. “This is Drayton Wilkerson reporting. We’ll have more on News at Ten.”
“Did you hear what he said ?”
“Yes, we heard him loud and clear, Kyra,” her dad answered.
“He shot Gramps because he felt Gramps talked back to him. You can’t get lower than that.”
“All that hate!” Lamar’s mom murmured, shaking her head. “Hatred just festered and metastasized. It could have been any Black person.”
“Papa probably wasn’t gonna bow down to him like the old days,” Lamar’s dad added. “That old racist couldn’t take it. Well, he’s in jail now. But I’m afraid he’s gonna get leniency because of his age.”
“But, Dad,” Lamar wanted to know, “how could he? He just came right out and said he shot Gramps because no n—— gonna talk to him that way.”
“I heard him, Lamar. I heard him.”
Lamar looked at Attorney Smith. Everyone else did, too. Lamar and the family had gained a lot of respect for him during the last week. They waited for his response, his point of view. The attorney chose his words carefully.
“This arrest is just the first step,” he explained. “We have to find out what the charge will be. We should know that tomorrow or the next day. I think it should be at least second-degree murder. Rutherford Thigpen didn’t plan the murder. He did, however, willfully shoot Mr. Phillips. So I think second-degree murder should be considered. We’ll see. It’s obvious to me, too, that this qualifies as a hate crime. And those two deputies should be charged as well. Just suspending them isn’t enough. They broke the law. We also have to make sure the authorities find out who set fire to that church.”
“We didn’t do all this protesting for nothing, did we, Mr. Smith?” asked Lamar’s mom. “It seems that there is so much more to do.”
“No! No!” Attorney Smith answered quickly. “Don’t underestimate what we have accomplished so far. We got the wheels of justice turning. That doesn’t happen often in small towns like this. Without the protest, there probably wouldn’t have been an arrest. These protests put a spotlight on this case. We just have to make sure that the wheels of justice keep turning. Listen, you all have given so much of your time to ensure that there is justice for your father and grandfather. But y’all know the road to justice is long and filled with roadblocks and discrimination that has been a part of the justice system for centuries. But you gotta be encouraged. Your efforts have made a difference.”
“So do we still continue to protest?” Kyra wanted to know.
“That’s your call, Kyra. You and your group and Reverend Thurmond and his people. But personally, I think we can take a break for now and see what happens. You have missed days from school and after-school activities. Others have missed days from work. We can always come back when we need to. You’ve forced a reckoning in this town. I don’t think it can go back to the way it was.”
Slowly, Lamar walked away and headed to his room.
“Lamar,” his father called.
“Let him go,” Lamar’s mom told her husband. “He probably wants to be alone.”
“I guess we’ve had a lot to take in for one day,” Mr. Smith said.
When Lamar reached his room, he wanted to view the video he had done of his grandfather at the town council meeting. But the DA still had his laptop. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone to look at the photos he had saved of his grandfather. There were some of his Gramps giving those council people a piece of his mind. He looked at each photo intently. Then he fell across the bed, tears flowing. It seemed as if there might be justice for his grandfather. But that wouldn’t bring him back. He missed his Gramps.
“Are you all right?” Kyra asked, standing in the doorway of Lamar’s room.
When she saw Lamar sobbing, she walked in and sat on the bed next to him. Kyra could always find words to express what she felt, and to comment on most any situation. This time, however, she struggled. At first, the words wouldn’t come.
Then she nudged Lamar. “You know what I’ve been thinking? Let’s ask Reverend Thurmond if we can set up a Black history program at church. Do you think that’s a good idea? Maybe you can help me organize it.”
That caught Lamar’s attention. He began wiping the tears away.
“You think he would let us do that?” he asked Kyra.
“I’m sure he would,” she assured him. “We just have to put it together. Are you up for it?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Lamar answered. “I’ll ask kids from the middle school to come.”
Lamar sat upright on the bed and thought for a moment. Then he turned to his sister. “I got so much to learn. Gramps said that the more you know about your history, about your people, the better you’re prepared to deal with anything. I got a lot to learn.”
“Me too. We all got a lot to learn. So why are you sitting on that bed? Let’s get to it!”
“You bet,” Lamar said with a glow on his face.
“And get that video camera ready,” Kyra added.
“Y’all going to the council meeting tonight, aren’t you?” Lamar asked, getting his video camcorder ready to take with him.
“We told you we’re going,” Lamar’s dad answered. “We’re going to try to attend as many meetings as we can.”
“Yeah, Lamar, your father and I have been talking,” Lamar’s mom added. “From now on, we’re gonna be more involved in what’s happening in Morton. Just like Papa was. We can’t be Papa, but we can do our part.”
“None of us can be Papa,” Lamar’s dad said emphatically. “None of us.”
Lamar smiled. He knew his grandfather would be happy about everyone doing their part.
The town council chamber was packed when they arrived. Lamar’s parents had to search to find seats. White citizens were grouped together as before, but others were scattered among the Black citizens who dominated the meeting. Television and news reporters were there, too, including Drayton Wilkerson.
“Those sheriff’s deputies gonna get what they deserve, too,” someone yelled out as the Phillipses took their seats.
“Yeah, we’ll take to the streets again if they don’t,” said another.
As usual, Kyra remained in the back, while Lamar roamed the room videotaping with his camcorder, T.C. right behind him. He gave a salute to Drayton and Victor, who were also making the rounds.
“Before we call the meeting to order,” Mayor Johnson told everyone, “I would like to share a few words with you. This town and this area have been through so much over the last few weeks. But I am hopeful. There is much that lies before us. Mr. Thigpen must go on trial. The two deputies must be held accountable. The culprits who set fire to Mt. Moriah Baptist Church must be apprehended. But we will continue to move forward. We have to. And I hope all of you are willing to pull together to help us do that. Hatred is an evil. We all must fight against it. Fight against it with all our might. All of us.”
After the town officials discussed the items on their agenda, Mayor Johnson asked the Phillips family to come forward.
Uneasy, Lamar’s parents looked at each other. Kyra and Lamar seemed fazed by the request, too.
“Please come up front,” Mayor Johnson implored again after noticing the family had not moved. “All of you. This is important.”
Slowly and reluctantly, Mr. and Ms. Phillips walked to the front of the chamber, followed by their children. Once there, they each stood nervously, facing their fellow citizens.
“Councilwoman Wilcox announced earlier,” the mayor said, “that the town’s recreation department has received a grant to upgrade our parks and recreational activities. Among our plans is the building of a community center in the south side of the town.”
The good news drew cheers. “It’s ’bout time,” a man yelled out.
But no one paid attention to him. Something good was going to happen in Morton, and everyone was happy about that.
“Now, the reason I have asked the Phillipses to come up front,” continued the mayor, “is because I want them to know, and all of you to know, that the community center will be named the Joshua D. Phillips Community Center in honor of one of our town’s heroes.”
Lamar’s parents gasped. For once, Kyra was speechless. As the citizens of Morton rose and applauded, he started filming, planning how he would include this special honor in his documentary. He already had the title: Joshua Phillips: A Man of His Times.
Then Lamar remembered the first time Gramps had taken him to a council meeting. Gramps was concerned about the unpaved streets in the Black neighborhoods in Morton. Nothing had been said about that.
“Mayor Johnson,” he blurted out, “what about the unpaved streets?”
His mother gave him a disapproving stare. But Mayor Johnson beamed at Lamar.
“Lamar, we’re working on that, too. I think we’ll have some good news at our next council meeting.”
Then he looked at the citizens of Morton and said, “Joshua Phillips’s legacy lives on!”
Lamar was proud that his grandfather was being recognized for his contributions to Morton. But what would Gramps say if he was here? The best way for me to honor Gramps, he thought, is for me to carry on like he would. Speak up, fight for justice and make life better for others. Yeah. That’s Joshua Phillips’s real legacy. We will get those streets paved, and we won’t stop until we get justice for Gramps.
Don't miss Wade Hudson's revelatory and moving memoir about growing up in the South during the heart of the Civil Rights Movement.
So this is what solitary confinement is like? I asked myself, shaking my head.
There was no one else in the tiny eight-foot-by-eight-foot cell to hear me. A small sink near a toilet stood out. There were no windows. A thin mattress with a sheet and a blanket thrown over it rested on the concrete floor. There was no pillow.
I had thought the dormitory rooms on the campus of Southern University, the institution that I attended, were small. They now seemed like large suites at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City compared to this suffocating place.
I sat down on the mattress and leaned against the brick wall. I didn’t know what was happening. Why had a warrant been issued for my arrest? I hadn’t done anything illegal!
A little more than an hour earlier, I had been in a car with two friends, on our way to a grocery store. With the windows rolled down, we were enjoying the nice spring breeze that blew into the car and cooled us off. The latest R & B hits played loudly on the radio. Suddenly, a news flash interrupted our groove and caught our attention.
Two Negro men were arrested this morning in the Scotlandville section of Baton Rouge. They have been identified as Alphonse Snedecor and Frank A. Stewart. Both men are wanted for conspiracy to murder Baton Rouge mayor Woody Dumas and a number of other city officials, authorities said. A press conference will be held later today, when more details will be disclosed. A third man identified as Wade Hudson is being sought, authorities added. Both Stewart and Hudson are leaders of SOUL, a civil rights organization with headquarters in the Scotlandville section of Baton Rouge. Snedecor, a Baton Rouge native, is also a member of the group.
No one said a word as the music began to play again. It was as if the world had stopped.
James Holden, Stewart’s cousin and the owner and driver of the car we were riding in, slammed his open hand hard against the steering wheel.
“What the…!” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“Damn! Damn! They must have picked up Frank just after we left. This is bad.”
“Who else they gonna arrest?” Barbara George, the third member of our trio, asked. The fear in her voice was apparent.
I didn’t say anything. Staring at nothing in particular, I began thinking about all the other young Black freedom fighters around the country who had been arrested or killed. I had even donated to fundraising efforts for many of them. I thought about Fred Hampton and Mark Clark, Black Panther leaders who had been killed a few months earlier by the police in Chicago. Would Frank, Alphonse, or I become three more casualties?
“Holden! Take me to the bus station,” I blurted. “I gotta get out of Dodge, man! I gotta get out of town. These folks will either kill me or send me to prison for the rest of my life. I got to get out of here!”
Holden pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car. He and Barbara looked at me.
“That’s what you want to do?” Holden asked pointedly.
“Yeah, man, I’m splitting! These are crazy White folks! I don’t know what they’ll do. You heard what the man said on the radio. They’re accusing us of trying to kill the mayor and some other White officials.”
“But you can’t go to the bus station,” Barbara interjected. “Cops are probably there, too, and at the airport.”
“Well, drop me off at the bus station in Cheneyville or some other town not too far from here. I ain’t going to jail for the rest of my life!”
I looked around, now concerned that the police might be closing in on us.
“Wade, if you run and they catch up with you, they’ll shoot you. I’m telling you. They’ll shoot you.”
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
_145816692_
Wade Hudson, The Reckoning
