The Walls of Jericho Read online

  THE WALLS

  OF JERICHO

  A NOVEL

  JACK FORD

  Copyright © 2013 by Jack Ford

  Bascom Hill Publishing Group

  322 1st Avenue North, Fifth Floor

  Minneapolis, MN 55401

  612.436.3954

  www.bascomhillbooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Jenni Wheeler

  Edited for Bascom Hill by Robert Christian Schmidt

  ISBN: 978-1-62652-445-3

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This book is dedicated to my mother, Peggy White, for all she has done for her children.

  “By faith the walls of Jericho fell down after they had been encircled for seven days.”

  Hebrews, 11:30-31

  “Yes, Mississippi was. But, Mississippi is, and we are proud of what we have become.”

  Myrlie Evers-Williams

  Widow of slain civil rights leader Medgar Evers

  October 1, 2002

  PROLOGUE

  Lafayette County, Mississippi

  July 21, 1960

  The headlights snapped off as two vehicles turned onto a narrow gravel road. A new model, two-tone Buick sedan coasted to a stop in a small clearing, followed closely by a rusty, battered, black Chevy pickup truck. The soft ticking of their idling engines was swallowed up by a chorus of night sounds from the surrounding trees and thick foliage.

  Across the clearing, about a hundred yards away, stood a small church. Its weathered, single-story wood frame was topped by a sagging tapestry of patched and rusty sheet metal, crowned by an old steeple that somehow managed to preserve a shabby dignity despite its precarious list to one side. Although it was approaching midnight on a Thursday, the old building was ablaze with light and alive with noise, as the soulful strains of a lively Negro spiritual wafted through the thick folds of the heavy Mississippi summer air.

  Two young men climbed out of the truck, each holding a longneck beer bottle, and sauntered over to the Buick. Both looked to be in their late teens, scruffy and lean, hair unkempt, dressed in worn jeans and dingy white t-shirts. The driver leaned against the car and took a long pull on his beer.

  “So,” he said, gazing toward the church, and then glancing down at the man in the driver’s seat of the Buick. “What now?”

  The two men inside the Buick were also in their teens and were also drinking beer. But, instead of old jeans and t-shirts, they wore khaki pants and short-sleeved white button-down shirts. The driver was bobbing his dense thatch of reddish-blond hair up and down to the sound of Roy Orbison’s “Only the Lonely” drifting from the radio, while his passenger sat slumped in the seat, a baseball cap tugged low over his forehead. The driver reached over and turned the radio down.

  “We wait,” he answered, between sips of beer.

  Across the field, inside the Morning Star Baptist Church, the rollicking, hand-clapping rendition of “Ain’t That Good News” wound down as the minister rose from his seat on the altar. Reverend Calvin Butler, dressed in a dark suit despite the oppressive heat, was a slight man with an oval, boyish face. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses framed deep-set, intelligent eyes that, tonight, glowed with evangelical excitement.

  Raising his hands to silence the congregation, he smiled at the three dozen or so men, women, and children who had gathered to listen to their guest. The last of the clapping died away.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Reverend Butler began. He paused a moment until the crowd had hushed. “Brothers and sisters,” he repeated, this time more forcefully. “Let us thank our brother, Elijah, once again for driving all this way to visit with us tonight.”

  He smiled down at the man seated next to him. “And we thank you, brother, for the good work you’re doing for us—and for all the colored folks in this state—to teach us to stand up for ourselves and to register to vote.”

  Another burst of clapping erupted, punctuated by shouts of “Amen!” and “Lord bless you, brother!”

  The visitor, Reverend Elijah Hall, who looked to be no older than thirty, nodded to the crowd. His dark, handsome, square face, glistening with perspiration, looked like it was cut from polished ebony marble. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “Brother Elijah,” Reverend Butler continued, his voice now rising and pulsing with rhythmic energy as he gestured toward the congregation. “We want you to know—we want everyone in this county to know— colored folks and white folks alike—that we believe! That we believe in your mission! That we believe that God has blessed us by sending you to join us tonight! To teach us—to help us understand—all of us, men and women, boys and girls—that it is time! To help us to understand, as that great court in Washington told us, that separate is not equal! And to help us to understand that to be equal, we need to be heard!” he shouted.

  More applause and shouts of “Amen!” and “Yes, Lord!” burst through the small, stifling room.

  The minister plunged forward, this time not waiting for the congregation to quiet down.

  “It is time,” he repeated. “Time for the colored folks of this county to stand!”

  “Amen!” the congregation answered.

  “Time for us to speak up!”

  “Amen!”

  “Time for us to be heard!”

  “Amen!”

  “Time for us—all of us—come Election Day, to vote so that our voices can be heard—not just ins
ide this house of God—but throughout this state and this nation!”

  This time the room exploded into a cacophony of clapping, foot stomping, whistles, and shouts of “Amen.”

  Elijah Hall stood, and Reverend Butler wrapped his arms around him, holding him in a long embrace, while the congregation launched into another chorus of “Ain’t That Good News,” their voices raised to God, tears streaming down their cheeks.

  I got a crown in that kingdom—ain’t that good news?

  I got a crown in that kingdom—ain’t that good news?

  I’m gonna lay down this world

  I’m gonna shoulder up my cross

  I’m gonna carry it home to Jesus—

  Ain’t that good news, my Lord, ain’t that good news?

  Thirty minutes later, the last of the gathered crowd had said goodbye and the minister and his visitor stood together in the doorway.

  “Are you sure you won’t stay the night with us?” the minister asked.

  “Thank you, Reverend, but no. I need to be in Jackson tomorrow night for another meeting and I’d just as soon get a head start tonight. I’ve got a cousin lives about an hour from here and he’s expecting me. I’ll get some sleep there.”

  “Well then, you’d better get started,” Reverend Butler said, looking up into the night sky. “Feels like some rain’s comin’. Lord knows we could use it, but I don’t want you gettin’ caught up in a storm this late.”

  Hall extended his hand. “Thank you, Reverend, for your hospitality. And for gathering so many of your folks tonight.”

  “No, Elijah. It’s us who thank you. What you’re doing is God’s work. These people—our people—need to hear what you have to say. Need to know that other folks just like them are ready to stand up and vote. It’s God’s work,” he repeated, placing his hand on Hall’s shoulder, as they walked to his car. “And we thank you for it.”

  Hall climbed into his rickety black Ford sedan and fired up the engine. “Take care now. And be careful drivin’,” the minister said softly.

  “I will, Reverend. God bless you.”

  Hall tugged at the gearshift on the steering column and the car chugged away from the old building.

  Reverend Butler watched the taillights disappear into the night and then turned back into the church, closing the door behind him.

  A moment later, across the field about a hundred yards away, two sets of headlights blinked on and then also disappeared into the night.

  The road was narrow, dark, and winding, more a country lane than a highway. Elijah Hall was hunched over the steering wheel, peering cautiously out through his dirt-streaked and insect-speckled windshield into the blackness ahead. He had traveled about three miles from the church when he noticed a set of headlights some distance behind him. Glancing up occasionally at his rearview mirror, he could see that the other vehicle seemed to be gradually closing the distance between them. Elijah slowed down a bit and pulled slightly toward the soft shoulder on the right, hoping the car would pass him. Might as well let him go on ahead and light the way for me, Elijah thought.

  The other car drew closer, then swung out around to the left and accelerated. Elijah glanced over toward the passing vehicle but was startled at the sudden flash of a second set of headlights in his rearview mirror. Just then, the first car swerved sharply back in front of him. With Elijah jerking the steering wheel hard to the right, the Ford slid off the road and onto the shoulder, throwing up a fishtail of dirt and gravel. The car came to rest, its engine stalled and smoking, with the front tires settled into a low drainage ditch.

  The driver behind him quickly hit the brakes and wheeled in behind Elijah, bracketing the old Ford between the two mysterious vehicles.

  For a long moment, there was no sound or movement. Elijah, nearly blinded by the headlights behind him, started to push open his door when he saw the silhouettes of two men approaching the front of his car. Two more figures appeared behind him. He pulled his door shut.

  “That there was some serious careless drivin’,” a voice said.

  “Yeah, you coulda got us all killed drivin’ like that,” another voice chimed in.

  Elijah shaded his eyes, trying to make out the faces of the men through the glare of the headlights.

  “Don’t you go lookin’ at us, nigger!” snarled one of the men.

  “Here! Quick! Put these on,” a voice urged the others in a harsh whisper.

  There was a rustling outside the car door. Elijah tried to sneak a look at the men but could only make out the four figures in a tight huddle. Then, suddenly, his door was yanked open and two sets of hands jerked him out of the car. Struggling, he was pinned up against the hood. As he tried to twist away, he felt a heavy blow to his stomach that seemed to suck all the air out of his lungs. He gasped and then groaned as he was punched a second time, the blow a vicious shot to the kidney. Doubling over, wrapping his arms protectively around himself, Elijah sagged down to his knees as the men holding him released their grip.

  “Goddamn, nigger, can’t you take a punch?” cackled one of the men.

  “Shit, no,” laughed another. “This here ain’t no hard-workin’ field nigger can take a little beatin’.” The man lashed out with a hard kick that drove Elijah over onto his side. “This here’s some sissified preachin’ nigger. Probably ain’t even from ’round here. Ain’t that right, boy?” he said, driving his boot once more into Elijah’s side.

  Elijah Hall grunted in pain and tried to turn away from his attacker. As he rolled onto his back, he saw that the four men had formed a circle around him. The headlights cast a gauzy, spectral glow on the figures as the circle tightened, only dark eyes visible through the slits in the burlap hoods they wore.

  One of the men, the driver of the Buick, reached down and grabbed Elijah by the shirt, yanking him up into a half-sitting position.

  “Listen here,” he sneered. “We all don’t need no more nigger voters in this county. And we don’t need no more of your kind showin’ up and makin’ noise about all you niggers and your civil rights. You understand?” he said, flinging Elijah back to the ground. He kicked the preacher in the stomach and stepped away.

  “We all got some civil rights, too. And one of them rights is to kick the ever-lovin’ shit outta you to make sure you don’t ever come back here again. Boys,” he added, nodding at their prey, who was now trying to scramble away.

  The two jeans-clad teens took turns planting their boots into the preacher’s sides as he tried to roll away, covering his face with his arms, gasping and groaning from the force of the blows. Suddenly, the fourth attacker leaned into the scrum and stomped on the preacher’s back, driving him flat onto the ground. Then he stepped back and turned toward the others.

  “Stop!” he yelled. “That’s enough!”

  “What the fuck’s your problem?” hissed one of the men, glaring at him. “You some kinda nigger lover?”

  “Shit, I ain’t no nigger lover,” he spat. “He deserves a fuckin’ beating. But y’all gonna kill him,” the teen said, turning toward the leader. “And I damn sure didn’t come along for no killing.”

  Before the leader could answer, the same teen turned and, once more lashing out with his foot, caught the groaning Elijah squarely on the side of his head. “There! He got the damn message, now leave him be. C’mon, let’s go.”

  But, before he could move away from the twisted, writhing figure on the ground, one of the Elijah’s arms suddenly shot out, grabbing the teen’s leg, pulling him to the ground. Struggling to keep his balance, the teen fell sideways, slamming into Hall’s car and tumbling into the drainage ditch. As he stumbled to his feet, his burlap hood slipped off and he looked directly into the fierce, defiant eyes of the beaten and bloodied preacher.

  Elijah rose to his knees, swaying unsteadily, his gaze locked on the eyes of the young man who had stopped the beating.

  The shotgun blast shattered the heavy silence of the muggy night.

  The preacher’s body pitched forwar
d, arms splayed out, legs twitching, his head and shoulders sliding into the roadside ditch, a bloody crater gouged across his back.

  “Jesus Christ!” screamed the teen, scrambling backward, his white shirt splattered with Elijah Hall’s blood. He turned toward the others, his eyes searching and frightened.

  The leader stepped into the milky halo of the headlights, a shotgun in his hands, tendrils of smoke curling up out of the double barrels.

  “What the hell . . . ? Why’d you shoot him?” the blood-splattered teen pleaded. “We were just gonna scare him—not kill him!”

  “I shot him ’cause he saw your face,” the leader answered coldly.

  “But he only saw me. Not all y’all.”

  “Yeah, but maybe I don’t trust you to keep your damn mouth shut if he talked—and someone came lookin’ for you,” the shooter answered, a steely edge to his voice. He looked both ways down the empty road, and then nodded toward the body. “Leave him be. Let’s get the hell outta here. Now!”

  Two of the attackers jumped back into the truck while the leader raced to the Buick, pausing as he swung the car door open.

  “Now!” he screamed at the fourth teen, who stood transfixed, staring down at the smoldering, crimson gash in the preacher’s back. He slowly peeled his gaze away from the body and staggered back to the car.