It was Sunday and the Morning Star Baptist Church was ablaze with color and alive with noise. The members of the congregation, dressed in their church-going best—the women wearing vibrant, multi-hued dresses and hats, the men in suits and ties—had spent the last hour lifting up their souls with a succession of traditional hymns and spirituals.
Jeff and Ella were seated in the front row, invited guests of Reverend Butler. Surrounded by worshipers old and young, they felt warmly welcomed and at peace. The past few days since the murder case against Tillman Jessup had been dismissed had been a dizzying whirl of developments. Royce Henning had, in fact, been squeezed by Terrell Jackson and, faced with the nightmare of life in prison, had immediately confessed and agreed to testify about the roles played by Jessup and Sheriff Poole in the death of Ricky Earl Graves.
Dealing with the sheriff was initially a bit more problematic. He indignantly denied any involvement in Ricky Earl’s killing and claimed that Henning was lying just to protect himself. However, the search of Ricky Earl’s cell had turned up a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and forensic tests revealed the residue of a significant amount of digitalis inside the bottle, together with two fingerprints, smudged but readable, that matched those of Sheriff Poole. After a search of the sheriff’s home resulted in the discovery of $250,000 in cash hidden in two shotgun cases—a cache that coincided with Henning’s claim that he had delivered that amount to Poole as a down payment for his betrayal—Poole’s lawyers were now desperately negotiating a plea deal to save him from the potential of a death sentence. The likelihood was that Clayton Poole would spend the rest of his life in prison while Royce Henning, as a result of his cooperation, would do five to ten years on a conspiracy charge.
The apprehension and arrest of A. J. Hollingsly had proved more difficult. A warrant had been issued for his arrest but, so far, he had managed to elude capture. Although a rumor had him retreating deep into the North Carolina woods, an interstate task force headed up by Terrell Jackson was confident that, eventually, they would track him down.
As for Tillman Jessup, the once-rising star of Mississippi politics, the public now knew that he was, indeed, a murderer. District Attorney Gibb Haynes had played Kendra Leigh’s recording of Jessup’s confession at a press conference attended by a mass of local and national media. Lead stories and headlines across the nation blared that the four-decade-old murder mystery had finally been solved.
Meanwhile, Kendra Leigh had been arrested and charged with her husband’s murder, triggering yet another eruption of media coverage. Once the details surrounding the shooting were made public, a flock of top lawyers had volunteered to defend her. Judge Langston, after being advised of her dire prognosis, released her to home confinement as a condition of her bail, with a fervent prayer that when she passed away, it would be peacefully in her own bed.
As the music and voices in the Morning Star Baptist Church faded, Reverend Butler stepped to the podium, his aged, graying head held high, and his eyes radiant with the joy he felt in his heart.
Looking down at Jeff and Ella, he smiled as a proud father would when acknowledging that his children had persevered through difficult times and accomplished something of value. Ella reached over and took Jeff’s hand, tucking it between both of her own.
“Brothers and sisters,” Reverend Butler began, “we gather this morning to celebrate the triumph of justice, a justice long delayed but, finally, not denied.”
A chorus of “Amen” rippled throughout the church, as the members nodded their heads in approval.
“Some forty years ago—a few of you were here with me back then,” he said, scanning the sea of uplifted faces, “I stood here in our old church and embraced a brother who had come to shed a light on our lives. A brother who brought us good news about our fight for freedom.” He paused. “A brother who, later that night, sacrificed his own life for that freedom.
“Today,” he continued, his voice rising, “we are here to finally lay the soul of our brother, Elijah Hall, to rest.”
“Amen!” came the shouts.
“Dr. King told us many times,” Reverend Butler said, his voice now stronger, louder, and pulsing with rhythm and raw energy, “that the arc of the moral universe is long.” He paused for a dramatic moment. “But it bends always toward justice.”
“Yes, Lord!” came the cries from the congregation.
“And that arc has bent and twisted along its path for many years, but it finally found the justice it sought right here this week in Oxford.”
“Praise the Lord!”
“The forces of good rose up and circled the ancient citadel of evil and racism, blowing their horns and praying that the Lord would help them prevail.”
“Yes, Jesus!”
“And the Lord heard their prayers,” the minister cried, his voice soaring. “The Lord heard the sound of the trumpets of truth! And the walls of Jericho have fallen once again!”
The congregation exploded into a raucous, impassioned symphony of “Amen!” and “Praise the Lord Jesus!”
After letting the wave of sound wash over the room for a full minute, Reverend Butler raised his hands and a reverential silence slowly descended upon the old building.
“Brothers and sisters,” he solemnly intoned, “the soul of our long-departed friend, of our brother, Elijah Hall, can finally rest in peace. Justice has been done!”
Reverend Butler turned toward the members of the choir and nodded, smiling broadly, as they launched into a hand-clapping, foot-stomping rendition of “Ain’t That Good News”—a song that had not been heard inside those walls for forty years—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?