The reckoning, p.9
The Reckoning, page 9
Lamar wished he had been with his grandfather on that last trip that morning. Maybe I could have recorded everything and then everyone would know what really happened. I could have proved that Gramps didn’t attack Rutherford Thigpen with a tire iron. Perhaps I could have prevented Gramps from being killed. But he hadn’t been there.
A while later, he picked up his camcorder and hurried to the bus stop. The bus was always late, so he knew he would have to wait. When it finally arrived, he got on the nearly empty vehicle and found a seat.
Once the bus reached the corner of Main and Mt. Pleasant Street in downtown Morton, Lamar jumped off and rushed to the courthouse. On the way, he passed the district attorney’s office, the post office and the building that housed the police jury, the governing body of the parish, and its various departments.
A three-story brown brick-and-concrete structure, the courthouse sat about thirty yards from the street on a neatly landscaped square. A long, recently constructed walkway directed visitors to the thirty-five steps that led to the entrance. Built in 1925, it was listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
Lamar didn’t see many people. A few went inside the courthouse to conduct business. But that was it. He wondered where everyone was. He looked at his cell phone to catch the time: 11:30. Just as he placed the phone in his back pocket again, it rang.
“Why didn’t you let me know you was gonna leave? I would’ve gone with you.” It was T.C.
“Mr. Deloria told me I could go home if I wanted to. You heard him,” Lamar reminded his friend. “You know he wouldn’t let you go.”
“I would have left anyway.”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you, T.C. You would’ve gotten in trouble.”
“Are a lot of people there?” T.C. wanted to know. “All the students at school talkin’ ’bout the protest.”
“No one is here yet. It’s still early. Ain’t you supposed to be in class? I know you’re not talking on the phone while you’re in class.”
T.C. laughed. “Come on, Lamar, I ain’t that stupid. I’m in the bathroom. I got permission to leave class.”
Lamar noticed several people walk up and stand in front of the courthouse.
“I’ve got to hang up now, T.C. People are starting to come.”
“Man, I sure wish I could be there,” T.C. complained. Lamar ended the call.
Five people now stood in front of the courthouse. Lamar saw them look around, so he assumed they probably weren’t from Morton. Three were White and two were Black. When one of them turned toward Lamar, he could see the name on the front of his sweatshirt. WSU. Lamar knew the letters stood for Williams State University, a school about forty miles away. The university had offered Philyaw a scholarship. But Lamar knew Philyaw wasn’t going there, because he wanted to attend a school with a big reputation in basketball.
One of the Black students saw Lamar standing with his camcorder and walked over.
“Do you know what time the protest is supposed to start?” he asked. Short and stocky, the student looked no older than Kyra.
He must be a freshman, Lamar thought.
“I think it’s at twelve noon,” Lamar answered. “At least that’s what I heard.”
“Do you know who organized it?” the student asked. “We’re from the Committee for Social Justice at Williams State,” he said, pointing to the other four students, who were now staring at Lamar.
“We heard about what happened here. So we came to help as much as we can. It looks like another Black person is a victim of racism.”
Lamar swallowed hard. “He was my grandfather.”
“What?” The student froze.
“He was my grandfather,” Lamar repeated.
“Hey, guys,” the student called to his friends. “Come on over here. This young brother says that the man who was killed was his grandfather.”
“What’s your name?” one of the White students asked.
“Lamar Phillips.”
“We’re sorry about your grandfather,” the White student offered. “We’re here to help make sure that your grandfather gets justice. And we don’t want nothing covered up. That’s what usually happens.”
“So you don’t know who organized this?” the short, stocky Black student asked again.
“No. I found out at school this morning. I go to the middle school. All I know is that some students from the high school supposed to be here at lunch to protest. My sister might know. She’s always involved in things like this.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” the other Black student asked.
“Kyra Phillips,” Lamar answered. Then he saw Kyra walking toward them with a group of her high school friends.
“There she is now!” Lamar shouted. He ran to meet his sister.
“Kyra! Kyra! They’re from Williams State,” Lamar told his sister, pointing to the college students. “They came here for the protest.”
The short, stocky Black guy stepped up again.
“I’m William Jenkins. This is Jennifer McClain, Martha Lane, Fred Carter and Beauregard Tobias. We call him Beau. He’s from Morton.”
“I’m Kyra Phillips. I’m with the Students for Freedom at Morton High School. You’re from here?” she asked Beau Tobias.
“Yeah. I grew up in the north end, on Tibbets Drive,” Beau answered.
“You didn’t go to Morton High, did you? I don’t remember you.”
“No. I went to the private school. Jackson Academy.”
“Beau is the one who told us about the protest,” William said to Kyra. “So, you all organized it?” he wanted to know.
“Yeah, we wanted to get things started as soon as we could. Other people are joining us. A group of ministers got the permit this morning. They’re coming, too.”
“Yeah. We were wondering if you had a permit,” Fred shared. “The authorities can be rough if you don’t.”
“We know,” Kyra agreed. “That’s one of the first things we did when we decided to have this protest.”
“Well, we’re here to assist. Let us know what we can do,” William offered, rubbing his hands together as if he was really ready to get started.
“You can grab some of the signs we made,” Kyra informed him. “We’re going to start gathering soon. We’re gonna march from the front of the courthouse to the end of the block and back again. We got until six o’clock. So be prepared for a lot of walking. We chose this location because all the parish officials have offices on this street.”
“Man, you sure have it organized,” William declared, looking anxious. “We can’t wait to get started.”
“Well, it was my grandfather that racist man killed.”
Lamar had already begun videotaping. From a distance, he saw someone else filming. His camera, however, was much bigger and more high-tech than Lamar’s. WKCU News 6 was emblazoned on it. Standing next to the camera operator was the reporter from Channel 6, Drayton Wilkerson.
As twelve noon neared, more students from the high school arrived. People from the town had come, too. Lamar counted more than one hundred people.
A high school cheerleader handed Kyra a megaphone.
“All right, everyone,” Kyra shouted. “Time to march. And no throwing rocks or yelling at anyone. Got that?”
“Yeah!” some of the protestors responded. “We got it.”
“And stay on the sidewalk,” Kyra added. “Don’t go in the street.”
The students began marching, some carrying colorful posters Kyra and her group had given them and others holding up posters they had made themselves. The first protest in Morton in more than fifty years had begun.
There were all kinds of posters, large and small, in color and in black marker.
WE DEMAND JUSTICE.
MURDER IS ILLEGAL!
JUSTICE FOR MR. PHILLIPS.
ANOTHER BLACK PERSON MURDERED!
Someone yelled out, “No justice, no peace!” The protestors picked it up, and quickly a chorus belted out the words that had become familiar from other protests. No justice, yelled one group. No peace, responded another.
And on it went as the protestors made their way down the sidewalk and back.
No justice!
No peace!
No justice!
No peace!
No justice!
No peace!
Lamar videotaped it all, following the protestors as his camcorder rolled. He made sure he captured Kyra, who, assisted by several other organizers, kept the protestors in line. He noticed sheriff’s deputies standing near the window of the courthouse. He wondered if they were going to come out or remain inside. They stayed inside.
As the protestors continued to march, Lamar noticed a small group of neatly dressed men approach. He recognized one of them. It was Reverend Thurmond. Lamar assumed they were members of the ministers’ group Kyra mentioned. Reverend Thurmond mounted a portable stage, and Kyra handed the megaphone to him.
“Listen! Listen!” he called as the protestors gathered around the stage. “I have some important information I need to share with you.
“For those of you who may not know me, I am Reverend Thurmond, pastor of Friendship Baptist Church here in Morton. I was Brother Joshua Phillips’s and his family’s pastor. I and the Morton Ministerial Alliance worked with the Students for Freedom at Morton High School to organize this protest. Our group has had an opportunity to speak with the district attorney this morning, and he told us that no charges will be filed against the man who shot Brother Phillips, because all evidence indicates it was self-defense.”
Booooooooooo, came the collective response. Raised fists and other protestations augmented the frenzied reaction.
“You’re right! We can’t and we won’t accept that,” Reverend Thurmond declared, raising his voice louder so he could be heard. “We don’t believe it was self-defense. And we can’t allow them to let this drop. We’ve got to keep pushing them to do a real investigation. I know they want this to go away. But we aren’t going to let it, are we?”
“NOOOOOOOO!”
Reverend Thurmond continued. “Now, you all know that the district attorney is an officer of the parish. He’s not a part of the Morton town government. So the mayor and the town council have no say in what the district attorney does or does not do. Not even the police chief here in Morton does.”
“So we get screwed again?” someone yelled. “Is that what you’re leading to?”
“No, we’re not going to let this go,” Reverend Thurmond answered quickly. “We’re going to keep demanding justice for Brother Phillips. And we will get justice.”
“But they’re not going to arrest a White man for killing a Black man!” another student shouted. Lamar moved in so he could get a close-up. The cameraman from WKCU stood opposite him.
“When was the last time that happened?” the student continued, his voice getting even louder.
“This will be different,” Reverend Thurmond responded in a more determined voice. “We’re not going to be alone. We’ve been receiving calls from all over the country about this case. We even heard from representatives of a famous basketball player. I can’t give his name right now. But he offered his support. This is going to be different.”
“LeBron James?!” someone shouted. “Must be LeBron.”
“Well, it just could be,” Reverend Thurmond responded. “But it could be someone else. A lot of Black basketball players have been using their platform to help make change.”
“Especially the WNBA! The women players have been leading the way,” Kyra jumped in firmly and very pointedly.
“Yes. Yes. Absolutely,” Reverend Thurmond seconded. “Now, let’s go back to protesting peacefully. Okay? We will get justice.”
As soon as Reverend Thurmond stepped down from the makeshift stage, Drayton Wilkerson and his camera operator rushed up to him.
“I’m Drayton Wilkerson from WKCU News 6,” the reporter introduced himself. “I’d like to interview you for our evening news.”
“Certainly,” answered Reverend Thurmond.
“And what church do you pastor?” Drayton inquired.
“Friendship Baptist Church, where Joshua Phillips was a member.”
“And your first name is Thomas. Right?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Reverend Thurmond answered.
“I’m ready, Victor,” Drayton Wilkerson told his camera operator after clearing his throat. Lamar watched intently. He couldn’t wait to watch a professional news reporter in action.
“Are we rolling, Vic?”
“Rolling,” Victor answered.
“This is Drayton Wilkerson standing in front…wait, wait. Let me do that again. I don’t like that opening.”
After composing himself, the reporter started again.
“This is Drayton Wilkerson reporting for WKCU News 6. I am here in Morton, Louisiana, in front of the parish courthouse, where a little more than one hundred people are protesting for what they call justice for Joshua Phillips. The people who have assembled here, mostly students from Morton High School, don’t believe the account given by Mr. Rutherford Thigpen, the man who said he shot Joshua Phillips in self-defense following a traffic accident. The people here say Mr. Thigpen murdered Mr. Phillips. I’m standing with Reverend Thomas Thurmond, pastor of Friendship Baptist Church in Morton. Reverend Thurmond is one of the leaders of this protest, as well as having been Mr. Phillips’s pastor.
“Reverend Thurmond, can you tell our viewers why you are here today? What do you hope to accomplish?”
“Well, we want to see the man who killed Joshua Phillips arrested. We believe it was murder.”
“But Mr. Thigpen is claiming self-defense, and there are no witnesses.” Drayton moved in a little closer to the reverend, anticipating his reply.
“I don’t believe that,” Reverend Thurmond answered in an unyielding tone. “We don’t believe that. And we think there probably are witnesses. There’s more to this than what has been revealed so far.”
Drayton looked startled. “So you believe there may be a cover-up?”
“That wouldn’t be so unusual, would it? Some White people in this town have a history of covering up for other Whites when the victims are Black.”
“But Morton has made a lot of strides over the decades, hasn’t it? You have a Black mayor and several Black members of the town council. There are Black members of the parish’s police jury governing body. Even your police department is integrated. You think the kind of racism of the past still exists in your town?”
Lamar couldn’t wait to hear Reverend Thurmond’s response. He thought about how his grandfather would have answered that question. Gramps would have given an hour-long lecture about ongoing injustices. What would Reverend Thurmond say? The clear-eyed minister looked directly into the camera.
“What do you think has been going on in this country for centuries? It takes a lot of work to remove the yoke of racism from around the necks of Black people. Electing a few Black people to political office is a drop in the bucket.”
“I’m not challenging you,” Drayton explained, looking uneasy. “I’m just doing my job as a reporter by asking important questions.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. And I’m just doing my job trying to tell the truth. The last few years, some people have been trying to reverse the little progress that has been made.”
“So what’s the next step for this protest?” Drayton continued.
“We’re going to keep putting on the pressure until we get the truth out and Mr. Phillips’s murderer is brought to justice.”
“Thank you, Reverend Thurmond.”
“Thank you.”
“As you can see, there is a lot of frustration here in Morton,” Drayton said, now turning to face the camera. “A Black man is dead, and Black people and their supporters here believe it was murder. I guess you can say the racial issues that are facing Morton mirror what has been going on around the country. This is Drayton Wilkerson reporting for WKCU News 6.”
“That’s a wrap,” he told Victor.
“Do you want to keep that ending?” Victor asked. “The part about racial issues around the country mirroring what’s happening in Morton.”
“Yes, I’m keeping it,” Drayton snapped back.
“Are you sure?” Victor persisted.
“Yes, I’m sure. It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Just looking out for your interests,” Victor told his news-gathering partner as he shrugged and walked away. Drayton Wilkerson walked away, too, surveying the scene for another angle for a story.
Maybe I can interview the pastor, too, Lamar thought. I wonder if he’ll talk to me. He ran to catch up with Reverend Thurmond.
“Can I interview you, Reverend Thurmond?” he asked sheepishly.
“Are you being a news reporter today, too, Lamar?” Reverend Thurmond asked, eyeing the video camcorder Lamar held.
“Well, sir, I’m doing a documentary.”
“A documentary?” Reverend Thurmond repeated.
“Yes, sir…on my grandfather. Me and him talked about doing one before he was killed. I just wanna ask you a few questions.”
“That’s great. Okay, go ahead,” Reverend Thurmond replied.
Lamar thought for a moment, wondering what question to ask first. Then he remembered how Drayton Wilkerson had started his interview with Reverend Thurmond.
“I’m Lamar Phillips here at the protest for justice for Joshua Phillips. I’m talking with Reverend Thomas Thurmond, pastor of Friendship Baptist Church and one of the organizers of the protest. Reverend Thurmond, why are you here today?”
Reverend Thurmond smiled and leaned closer to the camcorder.
