The Disenchantment of Narcissa Tarver, page 25
Complicity. Cissa wrote the word a second time in her shorthand script. Did that mean that anyone who even knew about whitecapping activities and didn’t try to stop it might be indicted? Perspiration blossomed at her hairline and in her armpits. She glanced around the room. There was another gaggle of men circled up on the opposite side of the hallway and among its number she recognized two faces. One of them was Gordon Cortman, the man Duncan had defeated for sheriff. The other was Detective Hector Davis. He was the one who appeared to be the center of attention. Cissa assumed the remainder of those in the circle were the members of what was billing itself as the Fulton County Law and Order Executive Committee. Enemies, she thought. These are the ones Duncan sees as his enemies.
Cissa spotted a bench closer to the enemy gathering and quietly shifted to it, tilting her head down, though not quickly enough to prevent Hector Davis from catching her eye and offering what almost looked like a smile. Cissa sat and listened.
“How many indictments do you think they’ll hand down?” one of the men asked.
Davis rocked back on his heels, gazing at the ceiling as he turned ever so slightly in Cissa’s direction. “If they accept all our evidence, probably hundreds. Maybe a thousand.”
Cissa’s heart skipped a beat as she continued her notetaking. She doubted there were as many as a thousand white men in all of Fulton County. Could they really indict so many? Surely not Duncan, though. He’s the sheriff. Duly elected by the people of the county.
“How can they not accept the evidence?” Another man spoke. “I’m sure we’re on the right side of history here. Vardaman may not care about niggers’ rights any more than we do, but he’s bound and determined to put an end to lawlessness and these whitecappers are a lawless bunch. We’re here to defend the law.”
Cissa frowned, trying to understand why these men were Duncan’s enemies. They seemed to be intent on stopping the kind of activity that had injured Julia’s daughter and who knows how many others. Whose side are you on, Cissa Tarver? She cast a furtive glance toward her brother’s circle on the opposite side of the room and kept writing. Hector Davis had just indicated that he carried with him signed confessions from more than two dozen men.
“They are here and ready to testify,” he said. “Ready to name names and quote chapter and verse.”
“But now they’re going to have to say all that under oath,” another man said. “And you know sometimes that oath makes people forgetful.”
“Especially when someone’s taken a different oath that carries a death sentence if they break it.” A murmur ran through the group.
“If we can get enough of them to tell the truth,” Hector Davis said with a frown, “then the scales tilt in our direction and they’ll know they have nothing to fear.”
Cissa turned her attention toward a set of doors at the end of the hallway that had just swung open. The crowd pressed in that direction and Duncan signaled to Cissa to move that way as well.
Cissa entered the courtroom and found a seat near the back. She felt the pulse in her temples surge as a man at the front of the room declared the opening of the regular May session of the U.S. Fifth Circuit Court for the Southern District of Mississippi, Judge Henry Clay Niles presiding.
The first order of business was the empaneling of a grand jury, the selection of which, Cissa had to assume, had been decided ahead of time since it only took a few minutes to read out the list of names. As twenty-one men stepped forward to take their oaths, Cissa noticed that two of them were Negroes. The only man Cissa recognized was Gordon Cortman.
After swearing in the grand jurors, Judge Niles commenced his charge to them as Cissa took notes.
“There are parts of our illustrious state,” the judge began, “in which lawlessness runs unchecked, and government homesteaders are intimidated by bands of men working in the dark of night. How foolish it is,” he continued, “to send missionaries to foreign lands when there is such a splendid field of operation at home among men who join oathbound organizations, openly declare themselves against law and order, and try to live in a community among themselves and governed by their own will and caprice, riding up and down the public highways at night and shooting promiscuously into churches, schoolhouses and at signboards and raising hell generally.” He insisted that such behavior had nothing to recommend it, and “is a sowing of seeds that will produce a harvest of ruin and desolation.”
Cissa wrote it all down. As she glanced around the courtroom, she noticed that Hector Davis had taken a seat just across the aisle from her. And he was looking at her. She quickly turned her eyes back to her notepad, but not before seeing Davis raise his eyebrows and nod in apparent approval of her activity. She took a deep breath and continued listening.
The judge had moved on to speak about other cases that were likely to be presented to the grand jury. He spoke at some length of peonage in which Negroes were held in virtual slavery by indebtedness. He deplored such situations, declaring that slavery was “one of the most mournful chapters in American history.” In our enlightened age, he said, no form of it should be tolerated.
Judge Niles also issued a strong warning to those “who hang around court rooms during the session for the purpose of finding out what is going on in the grand jury rooms, or who infest the hotels and boarding houses and try to influence some weak petit juror in his decision.” In the performance of their duties, the judge said, jurors “should have no friends to conceal nor enemies to punish.” Cissa squirmed, knowing that she fully intended to be one of those persons hanging around trying to find out what was going on. The judge hadn’t said that such persons were breaking any law.
After the judge concluded his charge to the grand jury, observers were excused from the room, and the jury went away to begin its work. Duncan approached Cissa and guided her into a side hallway, accompanied by Eli. “Well?” Duncan said.
Cissa pulled out her notes. “You were there so I won’t review what the judge said.”
“Yes, yes. What about earlier? I saw you over near where Cortman and that infernal Pinkerton were holding court.”
“They sounded fairly confident about their witnesses,” Cissa said as she scanned her notes. “They’re looking for a lot more indictments. Hundreds, Davis said.”
Duncan’s eyes smoldered. “We’ll see about that,” he said. “I want you to stay here in the hallway and let me know who goes into the jury chamber. Descriptions if you can’t pick up names. And note down the time they go in and when they come out.” He nodded toward the large clock on the wall, which had just clicked another minute forward.
Cissa clutched her notebook to her breast. “But didn’t the judge caution against such things?”
Duncan chuckled. “Well, he may not like it, but everybody does it. And all you’ll be doing is taking notes. Eli will come get you for lunch when they recess.”
Cissa found a seat and prepared to do as her brother had instructed. She was nervous about it, the judge’s strong words continuing to echo in her mind. I’m only taking notes, she told herself. Yes, but to what use did Duncan intend to put those notes? To what use might she put them herself?
Cissa settled down to observe. She wasn’t the only one seated in the hallway. There were a couple of well-dressed men sitting well apart from one another, heads down, feet shuffling nervously. Were these witnesses? A couple of younger men lounged nearby, chatting casually. At the very end of the bench was a Negro woman who sat erect, her head held high, her gaze fixed on the only window.
Occupying a chair across the hall from Cissa and closest to the door into the jury room was Detective Davis. In her notes, Cissa described him as looking alert and confident. He held a large grip sack overflowing with documents, which he took with him on his repeated visits to the grand jury, in between visits of other individuals. Unlike the witnesses, Hector Davis maintained his demeanor of ease, clearly in his element here in this charged judicial proceeding. Cissa felt as nervous as the witnesses looked, especially when she noticed Hector Davis looking at her and noticing her looking at him. Of course I’m looking at you, she thought. You’re the most important man in the room and I need to know what you’re up to.
Between jotting down notes, Cissa composed a little piece that she was determined to submit to the Advocate. Mr. Hodges had said she should go to the Western Union office and send by telegraph any information she might glean from her presence at the courthouse. He would cover her costs. When Eli came to collect her for lunch, she insisted she wasn’t hungry, that she only wanted to take a little walk and stretch her legs. “Do you know where the Western Union office is?” she asked.
Eli gave her a sly grin. “Determined, are you?” He led her outside and pointed down the street. “Head this way toward the old capitol building and you’ll see their offices there on the right. It’s catty-corner across from the Baptist Church. You can’t miss it. Oh, and there’s a bakery next door. Just in case you decide you are hungry after all.”
Cissa headed in the direction Eli had indicated, relieved to be outdoors and away from the crowded and overheated courthouse. She had just spotted the Western Union sign when she heard a quiet voice behind her. “Miss Tarver!” She turned. It was Detective Davis.
She turned back around quickly. She slowed her steps but didn’t stop. What was Davis up to? He should know that Cissa Tarver, currently serving as secretary to Sheriff Duncan Tarver, should not be seen in public conversing with the Pinkerton detective who was in the employ of people Duncan called enemies. When Cissa glanced around again, she saw Davis jerk his head in the direction of a side street.
Cissa looked down at the notebook in her hand. It held the story she had written up for the Marchelle Advocate. What else might she be able to include in her story if she spent a few minutes in conversation with Hector Davis? With a furtive glance over her shoulder and a pounding heart she altered course, following Davis down the side street. He entered a door with a placard for a law office. Cissa followed. There was no one at the desk.
Even though it was cooler inside than on the street, Cissa perspired profusely.
Davis gestured toward a bench. “I thought you might like a little something extra for that story you’re about to file,” he said. “How would you like to say that an unnamed but highly reliable source assured you that there is every indication that witnesses are standing firm in their testimony to the grand jury?” He waited a moment.
“Oh,” Cissa said, realizing what Davis was offering. She opened her pad as he repeated the words more slowly.
“...every indication that witnesses are standing firm in their testimony to the grand jury."
When Cissa looked up after recording his words verbatim, she noticed that he was looking at her damaged hand.
“You’re very quick with that shorthand, Miss Tarver. Are you naturally left-handed?” There was no pity in his voice, only curiosity.
“No,” Cissa said. “I learned to write with my left after a childhood injury. It was a spider bite that went to gangrene.” Why was she offering these personal details to a man she barely knew?
“I admire you for not letting a little thing like that hold you back,” he said. “You seem to be a good newswoman.”
For the first time, Cissa offered Hector Davis a heartfelt smile. “Thank you,” she said. And then she surprised herself by asking, “Are you really a Yankee?”
“Yankee? Me?” Hector Davis chuckled as his eyes sought a far corner of the room. “No, I was born and raised in Tennessee. My folks were from Virginia.” He paused. “I guess the Pinkertons got a bad name here in the South when some of them worked as spies for the Union during the war.”
Cissa hadn’t known that about the Pinkertons. She wasn’t sure why something they’d done more than fifty years ago should be relevant today. “I’d best get on down to the Western Union,” Cissa said.
“Of course.” Davis stood up and extended a hand to Cissa, who rose without taking it. “Don’t worry,” he said with a grin. “I’ve got some work to do here so I’ll stay a while. No one is going to see us together.”
After Cissa had relayed her story to Mr. Hodges, she reflected on her brief conversation with Detective Davis. She was grateful for his quote. Even though it had to be anonymous, she thought it might mean her story would merit a slightly larger headline. But why had he offered it? And then she recalled the conversation she’d overheard earlier. No doubt what Davis had told Cissa was something he wanted the remaining witnesses to hear to encourage them to stand firm in their testimony. Be careful, Narcissa Tarver. This man may be using you for his own ends. She recalled how Duncan had used her reporting to get what he wanted into the paper. She’d vowed not to let that happen again, to listen to her gut or better angels or whatever it was. She needed to keep her wits about her.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Worst Possible”
May 3-4, 1905
On Monday evening, Cissa handed over to Eli the transcriptions in longhand of all the notes she had taken during the day, omitting the information Hector Davis had shared with her in private. On Tuesday, she continued documenting the comings and goings outside the grand jury room. She noted the time on the clock for each entry and departure. She learned from overheard conversations that something called “demurrers” and “pleas in abatement” were being filed with respect to the sixteen whitecapping indictments that had been handed down in a previous court session. She watched Hector Davis intently but had no further conversations with him. Her submission to the Marchelle Advocate was brief.
“What are demurrers and pleas of abatement?” she asked Eli on Tuesday evening as she handed over her next batch of transcribed notes.
“Legal mumbo-jumbo,” Eli said. “Basically it just means they’re trying to get the cases dismissed or at least delayed for some reason or another. Generally because of some flaw in the charges or who’s making them or on what grounds.”
Later that evening, Cissa sat in her room reading the account of the day printed in the pages of Jackson’s evening daily paper. There was little there that she didn’t already know. The paper’s description of the Fulton County citizens in attendance at court annoyed her: “In personal appearance a majority are not pleasing to behold. They are typical residents of the backwoods, rough and uncouth in appearance.” She reflected on her brother’s consistently dapper style and his insistence that she herself be well dressed. The paper was not wrong about some of the others.
Near the main article Cissa found a small piece that drew her interest: It was about the Cortman family of Fulton County, and she could see that it was an attempt to distance two family members—Gordon (who was on the grand jury) and Phillip (who was an officer of the Law and Order Committee)—from Felix, who was currently serving in the state legislature. Felix was also the treasurer who had been involved in the infamous controversy over missing Fulton County funds. So much for family loyalty, she thought. She wondered where the boundary lay. When was loyalty stretched too far?
Cissa had just picked up a magazine she’d found on the bedside table when she heard a knock on her door. “Come in,” she called.
The door opened to reveal Annabelle holding a small tray with a glass of milk and some cookies.
“Why, thank you, Annabelle.” Cissa was surprised to see her young cousin instead of Hattie.
“I thought I’d bring it to you myself this evening,” Annabelle said as she continued holding the tray. “I’m going roller skating with some friends tomorrow evening and Mother says I should invite you to come along. She said you ought to have some fun while you’re here in the city.”
Cissa suppressed a smile, feeling certain that this was not the way Cousin Virginia had expected her message to be delivered. “That’s kind of you,” she said, “but I’m sure I’ll need to stay here to transcribe my notes. Do you go roller skating often?”
“Oh, yes. It’s quite the thing now. They play all the latest tunes on the gramophone, and we skate round and round.” Annabelle dropped her chin and looked up at Cissa with a mischievous grin. “We even hold hands with a boy sometimes.” She giggled.
Cissa almost wanted to go, thinking how diverting it would be to watch groups of young people enjoying themselves. She doubted she’d have the courage to try skating. Then she pictured herself, the lonely spinster sitting on the side watching, and she was glad she had an excuse for staying in.
When Cissa arrived at the courthouse on Wednesday morning, she sensed an elevated tension in the air. There were fewer observers in the hallway outside the grand jury room. Detective Davis breezed past and, without looking right or left, entered the room. Cissa took note. He came out barely ten minutes later and, with a casual nod toward Cissa, strolled down the hallway and out of sight.
“What do you think is happening?” Cissa asked of the man sitting nearest to her. He was a young man with disturbingly erect posture and an annoying habit of foot-tapping.
“I’m guessing that they’ve reached their decisions,” he said. “Get ready for some fireworks.”
After another half hour in which nothing happened, the doors to the jury room opened and stayed that way. The jurors were not there.
“Let’s go,” the foot-tapper said. “They’ll be in the main courtroom ready to hand over something to Judge Niles.”
Cissa’s heart beat fast as she made her way into the courtroom, which was soon full to overflowing. She claimed a spot off to one side where she could see the judge clearly. She could also see where Duncan sat near the front of the room. She couldn’t see Eli, though she knew he was there somewhere.
