The drive from Oxford to the Morning Star Baptist Church took about ten minutes. Jeff and Ella headed out of Oxford on Highway 6 and then turned off onto a narrow, two-lane road that meandered through fields of reddish dirt studded with copses of pine trees. Jeff had discovered that the Reverend Calvin Butler, who had been the pastor of the church back in 1960 and—apparently—the last person, other than his killers, to see Elijah Hall alive, had retired some years back but was still associated with the church as a senior pastor. During his decades as the church leader, he had become a powerful force in the county, revered by his black congregation and, ultimately—as the shackles of segregation loosened—respected by the white community, as well.
As they drove, Ella took in the fields, punctuated by occasional small, ramshackle farmhouses and rusting farm equipment.
“This area probably looked pretty much the same back in 1960 as it does now,” she said quietly.
“Certainly hasn’t changed much since I’ve been around,” Jeff agreed.
“You think Reverend Butler will be much help?” she asked, still gazing out the window.
“Don’t know. Might be in his eighties by now, or close to it. I guess it depends on how sharp he still is.”
“And how much he wants to help. Or doesn’t,” she added ominously.
As they rounded a small curve, they came upon the church, set back about fifty yards from the road. It was a squat, cinder-block building with two large windows flanking a broad set of steps leading to the front double doors. The one-story structure had a shingled roof capped by a drooping wooden steeple, a rather incongruous, aged appendage to what looked like an otherwise fairly new edifice.
On the steps sat an older, frail-looking, white-haired black man, dressed in a dark suit. Rising stiffly as they parked in front of the church, he walked toward them, hand outstretched in greeting.
“Welcome,” he said in a strong, deep baritone voice that belied his slight build. He wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that magnified his still alert, penetrating eyes. Jeff and Ella took turns shaking his hand, both struck by the strength in his grip.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Jeff said.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Trannon. Your daddy’s been a friend for a whole lot of years. How’s he been doin’ lately?” the pastor asked.
“Pretty well, sir. Thanks for asking,” said Jeff.
“Well, you be sure to pass on my best to him. And you, Miss Garrity,” he said, turning to Ella and offering a broad smile, “it’s a real pleasure to meet you, too. Seen some of your articles over the years. Happy to have you both come visitin’. C’mon inside where we can get a little more comfortable.”
Reverend Butler led them up the steps and into the church. It was surprisingly cool and dark inside, given the midday Mississippi heat and humidity, even at this time of the year. They found some chairs in a corner and settled into a small circle.
“So,” Butler said, squinting intently at both of them through his glasses. “You said you wanted to talk about Reverend Hall’s murder. Why?”
“Well,” said Jeff. “We’re looking into the details and thought you might be able to help us out.”
“I might be. But you still haven’t answered my question. Why?” he asked again, his eyes still smiling, but his voice stern, laced with the authority of many years of sermons.
“Well, sir,” Jeff began, glancing quickly at Ella and then turning to Butler. “We’re actually involved in an investigation into his murder.”
“Investigation?” interrupted Butler. “He was murdered near forty years ago. And there were no suspects even back then. I don’t mean to sound rude, but what possible kind of investigation could you two be conducting now?”
“Fair question,” said Jeff. “And I could see why you’d be puzzled. Let me explain. First, I want to share some information with you and I’d be much obliged if you’d consider it confidential between us.”
Butler stared at Jeff intently for a moment, and then nodded his assent.
“Okay then. We’ve come across some information about Reverend Hall’s murder. Information that may well help to solve his killing.”
“What kind of information?”
“We’ve found a man who was there when it happened.”
“One of the killers?”
“Well, he’s not the one who pulled the trigger, but he was there.”
“And he’s told you how it happened? And who was involved?”
Jeff nodded.
Butler was silent for a moment. “Why would this man come forward with this information now?”
“I wish I could tell you it was out of the goodness of his heart. But it’s not. He was recently sentenced to a long prison term and he’s looking for some way to get his time cut down. He’s hoping that, in exchange for his story and his testimony, he might get some kind of deal.”
“You’ll pardon me if I suggest that your description of this man doesn’t immediately fill me with an abiding sense of trust,” Butler said, a small, wry smile working its way across his deeply creased, oval face.
Jeff shrugged. “That was exactly our feeling at first. But after hours talking with him . . . well, we think he’s telling the truth.”
Butler sat back in his chair, his gaze focused on the altar in front of the church. After a while, he turned back to Jeff and Ella. “You know,” he said softly, “in a way, I’ve always blamed myself for Elijah’s death.”
“Why?” asked Ella gently. “You couldn’t have known what was going to happen to him.”
“I never should have let him drive back so late. Not around here. And not in those days. I should have insisted that he stay overnight.” He shook his head sadly. “He’d be alive today if I’d insisted. I truly believe that. Believed it for forty years now.”
They all sat in silence. Then Butler sighed, sat up, squared his shoulders, and looked directly at Jeff. “I’d like to talk with this man.”
“We might be able to arrange that. But first, we need your advice.”
“About?”
“About whether we should go public with this. And whether we should push to prosecute the killer.”
Butler looked at them both carefully. “You haven’t told me who the killer is, yet.”
“No, sir, we haven’t. That’s the problem.”
“Why such a problem? A killer is a killer, no matter how long ago it happened.”
“That’s true,” Jeff answered. “But in this case, the killer is a very important man.”
Butler leaned forward. “Mr. Trannon,” he said, his voice now that of a preacher offering a glimpse of truth to his congregation, “do you read your Bible?”
“Perhaps not as often as I should,” Jeff answered somewhat sheepishly.
“And you, Miss Garrity?” Butler asked, turning toward Ella.
“A great deal when I was younger. Not so much now,” she confessed.
Butler raised a critical eyebrow and asked, “Do you remember the story of Joshua and the Battle of Jericho?”
“Sure,” said Jeff.
“And what do you remember about the story?”
“Well,” Jeff answered, thinking quickly back to his Bible lessons as a young boy. “Jericho was a fortress city besieged by Joshua and his Israelite army. But rather than take the city by force, Joshua ordered the priests to surround the city. Once they were in place, they sounded their trumpets and the walls came crashing down. So Joshua was able to conquer the city without a fight.”
Butler looked to Ella who quickly nodded her agreement with Jeff’s memory of the Bible lesson. He then smiled kindly at both as he shook his head.
“I’m afraid you both suffer from the same limited recollection of the story that has afflicted most of my flock over the years.”
Both Jeff and Ella appeared puzzled.
“You’re correct that the great warrior, Joshua, a successor to Moses, had surrounded the city of Jericho, which was a stronghold of the Canaanites. But the destruction of the city didn’t occur immediately. Joshua ordered his priests to lead the troops in a march around the city once a day for six days. As they circled the city, the priests sounded their trumpets. Then, on the seventh day, Joshua ordered the priests and the army to circle the city seven times, again blowing the trumpets. And on the seventh time, Joshua ordered all to ‘shout, for the Lord has given you the city.’ And as the trumpets blew and the people shouted, the walls of Jericho came tumbling down.” Butler looked pointedly at Jeff and Ella. “Do you see, then?”
Jeff and Ella seemed confused.
“Do you see, then, the meaning of the story for us?” Butler repeated.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Jeff answered, still puzzled.
“For years, I’ve preached about Joshua and the Battle of Jericho. I’ve told my people that the Bible offered us a parable through the story of Jericho, a parable that helped us to understand our own battle against the fortress of racism and bigotry. A parable that taught us how to bring that terrible fortress tumbling down.” He looked again carefully at Jeff and Ella, sensing that they were still uncertain about his meaning.
“Our struggle for civil rights, and against the brutality of racism, wasn’t won in a single great battle. It’s taken us many years, and great suffering and loss by many people, to fight our battle. And, in some ways, it’s still being fought today. But what the story of Joshua and Jericho teaches us is that our battle against racism can be won, not by a single blow of brute strength, but by the constant sound of the trumpets of righteousness and the voices of good people seeking change. We’ve conquered the evil of bigotry not with weapons, but with God’s will. Not by force—but by faith.”
Butler looked at them carefully. “What I’m saying to you is, it doesn’t matter how important this man who killed Elijah may be. He needs to pay for his crime. The trumpets of justice need to be blown, even now, forty years later. What’s left of the walls of Jericho, the fortress of racism and hatred, needs to come tumbling down. And you two must sound those trumpets.”
After a moment, he smiled at them gently. “Now, come and tell me your story.”
About an hour later, they left the church and walked to Jeff’s car. Butler had listened carefully as Jeff and Ella described Ricky Earl Graves’s story of the murder of Elijah Hall. He had asked just a few questions and, when they had finished, simply nodded his head and said, “Thank you for coming to me.”
Butler offered his hand, first to Ella and then to Jeff. “What will you do now?” he asked both.
“I think it’s time now for me to talk to the district attorney. Try to convince him that Ricky Earl’s telling the truth and that it’s time to go after Tillman Jessup,” Jeff said.
“That, I believe, shall be quite an interesting meeting,” Butler chuckled.
As she started to climb into the car, Ella suddenly stopped. “Just one last thing,” she said to Butler. “We meant to ask you this earlier. Do you, by any chance, remember the songs being sung in your church the night of the murder?”
“Songs?” Butler asked. “Is that important?”
“Could be,” Ella said. “I realize it’s a long time ago but . . .”
“Miss Garrity,” Butler interrupted. “I remember every moment of that night as if it was yesterday. And I’m sure I will until the day I leave this earth. Of course, I remember. We were singing one of my favorites: ‘Ain’t That Good News.’ Haven’t sung that song since,” he mused. “Rather sad, isn’t it? Singing about good news just minutes before a good man would be murdered.”
Ella shot Jeff a glance, and then said to Butler, “Yes. Very sad.”