Let the Circle Be Unbroken: Chapters 1–3

Papa was a tall, pecan-brown-skinned man with both a reputation and a bearing that commanded respect; all four boys stood to greet him.

Russell nodded soberly, conceding the point.

Russell nodded soberly, conceding the point.

Son-Boy frowned disdainfully. “That all you got?”

A year ago he would have been right down here playing too, but now at thirteen he had changed so much that he seldom deigned to play with us at all anymore.

"Ya s'pose they really gonna put ole T.J. to death like folks say?" Son-Boy wondered, absently shaking the marbles in his hand, the impending game for the moment forgotten.

Since he now considered himself above such childish games as marble playing, he no doubt felt the edict didn’t affect him one way or the other.

Little Man was a most particular boy when it came to his clothes, his school materials, his anything. He frowned down at his immaculate jacket, pants and shoes, then at Henry and Maynard, and demanded, “Couldn’t y'all find no place better’n that?”

I inhaled deeply as I made my final ploy. “I’ll even let you go first.”

Papa’s eyes were steadfast.

Riding the rope that pulled the bell was Doris Anne, giggling with unbridled delight.

“What day is it?” Stacey asked, brusquely ignoring Clarence’s summation of what rights he thought we had.

The years had taught her to discern whenever something was wrong, and before we could say anything she demanded to know what was the matter.

Sinking the axe into a log, she took off the raw leather gloves she wore and the scarf which revealed long hair neatly pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck.

Mama offered him one of the rockers and he sat down tentatively, as was his custom, crossing one long leg over the other.

I expected Mama and Papa to reproach Stacey for butting into so serious a conversation.

“We ain’t likely to get there now ’fore noon, and even if the trial’s still goin’ on, we ain’t gonna get back till after school’s out.”
Moe nodded, acknowledging the precarious timetable.

As Christopher-John, Little Man, and I ran along behind them, I pleaded with Stacey, cajoled him, and threatened him with every dire consequence I could think of, but none of my talk changed his mind.

Little Man, Christopher-John, and I glanced at each other, apprehensive about our proposed adventure and about approaching a figure as mysterious as Wordell.

“Ah, Joe, go on down to the courthouse,” wheedled Little Willie. “It ain’t gonna take you but a minute.”

“Don’t start,” said a man with him, his voice stringently testy.

Even I, as much as I disliked the woman and felt no loss at all for her bigoted husband, felt pity for her.

“Now, Wade, you know all that’s supposition. You got no right to ask this witness to testify to what was in the minds of her attackers.”

T.J.’s words were halting and unsure, all the cockiness gone.

“Speak up, T.J.,” Mr. Jamison admonished kindly, “so the court can hear.”

Judge Havershack pounded his gavel and ordered R.W. to sit down and be quiet. Sullenly, R.W. looked around the courtroom, then back at the judge, and sat.

“—and you say it was R.W. Simms with a black stocking covering his face who hit Jim Lee Barnett with the axe, and that it was R.W. who shoved Mrs. Barnett, rendering—leaving—her unconscious.”

For an interminable time he gazed at T.J. and T.J. cowered under that gaze.

But what I want to know is why you have chosen to malign two hardworking young men who only did good by you?

“I object, your honor!” interceded Mr. Jamison.

"All right, Hadley, that’s enough now,” Judge Havershack reprimanded him without enthusiasm.

He continued to question T.J. in a less dramatic fashion, contending that the beating T.J. had incurred was indeed the result of a falling-out among thieves: black thieves.

The money had never been found; neither had the two other murderers. T.J. had just been unlucky enough to be caught, and he contended that T.J., no matter what he said, was guilty of murder.

“Mr. Simms,” said Mr. Jamison after taking several long moments to look unhurriedly through his notes on the table, “Reverend Gabson has just testified that he and a number of people at Great Faith church saw you and your brother Melvin with T.J. Avery on the evening of August twenty-fifth. Do you concur in this?”

Then Mr. Jamison made his summation, pleading to the jury to be merciful and reminding them that a verdict of guilty with no recommendation for clemency would result in the death penalty.

We demand they follow us docilely, and if they should dare to disobey, we punish them for their disobedience, as Melvin and R.W. punished T.J. by beating him.

Mr. Macabee’s plea to the jury demanded that they remember that the murder of a fine, upstanding citizen had been committed and that that, above all else, had to be the deciding factor, not the age of the defendant, the color of his skin, or the color of the man murdered.

None of us said anything as we avoided looking at each other, afraid our fear would be seen, until Christopher-John adamantly declared: “But T.J. ain’t killed nobody! He ain’t!”

The courtroom erupted in sporadic clapping.

Judge Havershack ordered immediate silence, then thanked the jury members for their fine service and dismissed them. T.J., he remanded to the hands of Sheriff Dobbs to be taken at the first opportunity to the state penitentiary at Parchman.