The term “Jim Crow Law” can be found as early as 1892 in the title of a New York Times article about Louisiana requiring segregated railroad cars. The origin of the phrase “Jim Crow” has often been attributed to “Jump Jim Crow”, a song-and-dance caricature of blacks performed by white actor Thomas D. Rice in blackface, which first surfaced in 1828 and was used to satirize Andrew Jackson’s populist policies. As a result of Rice’s fame, “Jim Crow” by 1838 had become a pejorative expression meaning “Negro”. When southern legislatures passed laws of racial segregation directed against blacks at the end of the 19th century, these statutes became known as Jim Crow laws.
— Woodward, C. Vann and McFeely, William S. (2001),
The Strange Career of Jim Crow. p. 7
April 1962, Aiken, South Carolina
By the time Carter had risen just after dawn, swam in his pool for thirty minutes, and dressed in his charcoal suit and navy blue tie for the day, Margot was waiting for him in the breakfast room sipping a cup of coffee. He kissed her on the cheek, and poured himself a cup from the porcelain coffee pot the staff had prepared earlier. He picked up the morning’s copy of The State and perused the headlines.
“You seem to be in good spirits this morning,” she said. She slowly stirred her coffee with a spoon, and added, “I take it your ‘dinner’ went well?”
Carter didn’t take her bait, and instead sat down for his breakfast. The sun shone through the dogwood trees and dappled the room. He smelled the sausage sizzling on the grill from the adjacent kitchen, and soon their cook came in with a smile and a tray carrying Margot’s grapefruit with sliced banana, and Carter’s eggs over easy, with sausage and buttered toast.
While swimming earlier, he had been able to recharge. The simple repetition of the ten-second laps was rote for him, the stamina to push himself forward had been built over the years and the muscular reflex was instinctual by now, freeing his mind to concentrate on other matters other than the simple act of gliding across the surface of the pool. He usually swam first thing each day weather permitting, and this spring morning promised sun and humidity hinting of the languorous summer heat that would soon come. The fumbling awkwardness of the previous day’s radio appearance had still gnawed at him despite the cathartic relief of his subsequent diversion at the dive bar, and as his body repeated its movements in the water, full strokes and strong kicking, his mind worked at trying to find his voice, his true personality to break through and connect with the audience, his eventual electorate.
“What do we have on the agenda for me today?” Carter asked Margot as he laid his linen napkin on his lap. “I thought I saw that I had a luncheon somewhere here in Aiken.”
Margot slid a typed sheet of paper over to him from a folder on the table.
“Just one appointment scheduled for today, and then tomorrow you have a full day in the Upstate,” she said.
“... and with no further ado, gentlemen, may I present our guest speaker, Mr. Carter Ridge.”
The bespectacled, balding middle-aged president of the local Kiwanis Club motioned for Carter to take over the small lectern in the center of the bare folding table. As he stood and cleared his throat, a tepid, bored round of applause ushered him from the two-dozen members at this monthly luncheon in the activities room of the local Methodist church. Nearby the windows were open to let in a slight breeze, and he heard the church’s groundskeeper start the lawnmower.
“Thank-you for that kind introduction, Mr. uh...” Carter said, and glanced to his note card where the name of the Kiwanis president had been written in red ink. “Mr. Jarvis.”
Carter gazed for a moment at the room of middle-aged white men, most of whom were focused on their plates of fried chicken and potato salad instead of on their guest speaker. All of a sudden the roar of the now fully engaged lawnmower began not far from their little meeting.
“Yes, well, as Mr. Jarvis spoke regarding your illustrious group’s stated goals of improving the lives of our children and our community, I am struck at um, “ Carter began, and as the lawnmower made its way closer to the open windows, he looked down at his note cards and spoke louder.
“I AM STRUCK HOW WE CAN ALL, IN OUR OWN WAY, GO ABOUT MAKING LIFE BETTER FOR THOSE IN NEED IN OUR COMMUNITY.”
Mr. Jarvis got up and closed the windows, then returned to his seat next to the lectern.
“Thank-you,” Carter said. Sweat started beading on his brow, and as he continued with his prepared remarks over the next fifteen minutes, he tried to make eye contact with any soul in the room who would return his mental S.O.S., but to no avail. The combination of the muffled lawnmower, heavy humidity from this late spring midday, coupled with the now empty plates and satiated bellies, as well as Carter’s nervous stammers about his political program that he dubbed “The Good Life” added up to an unmemorable, disappointing impression for the attendees.
Back in his car after shaking everyone’s hand, he cursed himself. What am I doing? I’m an idiot. He loosened his tie, and turned the key to start the engine of his Citroën. Standing on the porch to the assembly hall were the men from the club, mingling and smoking, and Carter waved to no one in particular as he turned out of the parking lot. The car’s unique style was immediately recognizable, and now Carter wondered if whenever someone in town were to see it whether they would associate it with the most boring guest speaker in Kiwanis Club history.
He drove the short distance back home and turned from the red clay of Easy Street to the crushed pebble driveway of his estate, Galanos. After parking next to the guesthouse, he walked over to the patio and pool, where he saw Margot sitting under a large awning, reading in the shade.
“Well how did it go, darling?” she asked as he came over to sit with her.
“Not well.”
He poured himself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher. The condensation from the glass pitcher dripped onto the tabletop, with a couple of the drops falling on Margot’s open magazine page.
“Sorry about that, apparently nothing is going well with me today,” Carter apologized.
“Oh that’s nonsense,” she said, wiping the page with a linen napkin. “I’m sure it was just fine.”
After recounting the luncheon, he said, “I don’t want to rely on notecards anymore. It’s a crutch for me, and it inhibits me from just speaking freely, and engaging with the audience.” He took a sip from his glass. “Plus, I know all of the key points of The Good Life.”
She nodded. “The important thing is setting the right image now. Getting seen and recognized, having your name easily recalled. Associating your name, your face, with The Good Life. That’s what we’re going to focus on.”
The horrible link he had made in his mind between himself and being the most boring speaker in Kiwanis history still nagged at him.
“Going forward, I’ll make sure that we have the logistics nailed down. When I approached Mr. Jarvis two months ago, I didn’t personally go to the Methodist church assembly hall and check it out. Obviously, I’m not sure what we could have done about that damn lawnmower, but I agree. You need to feel free to engage with your audience, to joke a bit, and walk around the room to get their attention.”
She folded her magazine and pulled out her large notebook.
“These little events are just practice for you. I know you hate them, but honestly, once you get to the point where it becomes second nature, you will break through to the next level and be ready for the larger crowds, more sophisticated interviews, and bigger media exposure when we unveil your candidacy this summer.”
She pointed to her handwritten notes on one of the pages, and began reading from it. “A sure, strong voice; eye contact; easy smile; intelligence and wit; with a dry sense of humor. Poised, sophisticated, and modern.” She closed the notebook, and turned back to look at him.
“Remember? That’s what we wrote down as your image that we are cultivating. We’re training your every interaction with the public to reinforce those characteristics, that idea of who you are.”
“Yes, I remember,” Carter said. He also remembered how it made him feel, being marketed as a bar of soap or box of detergent. “I know that it is part of the game of politics, but I don’t have to like it.”
“I know, darling,” she said patting his hand. “But let’s try to make it as enjoyable as possible. Maybe I should be there at these events with you? To give you moral support?”
Carter shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to have to worry about Margot’s constant evaluation, and her noticing how he interacted if there happened to be a handsome man in the audience. That was the sole hidden oasis in an otherwise arid desert of glad-handing and speeches.
“No, that’s all right. I’m just a bit frustrated, that’s all.”
“I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again because it’s one of my mantras, don’t ever underestimate the power of aesthetics,” she said. “We are biological animals, still trying to shrug off millennia of evolution’s effects where we lived in a wild environment, and needed to make quick judgments based on sight and sound. First impressions are still lasting impressions.”
She took a sip from her iced tea, and then added, “Which is why I always demand that men wear a tie, and women wear a sensible dress.”
His failure in making a strong first impression lingered like the gnat hovering above the half empty pitcher. Trying to move past his malaise, he thought about how he’d felt back in prep school when he was practicing with the water polo team. Training was as much a mental exercise as it was physical, and this phase of his campaign was no different, he knew. Normally he thrived on that feeling of pushing himself to the limit, with the knowledge that he was getting better despite the exhaustion. Plus, it hadn’t hurt that he was in a pool surrounded by other nearly naked athletes. He knew what he needed to do.
“I’m going to take a walk and clear my mind,” he said, as he got up from the patio table.
He kissed her on the top of her head, and headed down the driveway.
He had always been a shy boy growing up, happy in his own private world of pretend battles with his toy soldiers, running around in the adjacent Hitchcock Woods with his neighborhood friends Stax and Moxie, or riding his bike down the quiet dirt roads of this sleepy Southern town. Living in the dominant shadows cast by his parents created a delicateness to Carter’s character. His father, David, was taciturn as well but with a steely edge sharpened by his years of building a business empire that included three paper mills across the Carolinas, while his mother, Idella, embodied the very definition of refined gentility. If his parents were the towering longleaf pines that soared in the depths of the forest, he was the fragile violet growing at their base.
The question as to why he was running for governor had an easy answer, at least to him. Its origin sprang from the one person in his life whom he could go to for the unvarnished truth and advice that had no other motive other than what was best for him; not Margot, for while she did have a kind of love for him, it was more for an idea of him, as a work in progress. The love that the two of them shared for each other was as partners, transactional in nature but complicit for both since each brought unique qualities into their union. Margot’s genius was in her creativity and her imagination of the possible. She had a relentless drive for success. Carter had the financial means to bring her vision to life, but even more importantly, he had the sensitivity to understand that he needed something bigger to propel him and give his life meaning and a purpose. It was a lesson that he’d first learned early on from the person who would become his guiding light.
The walk from Galanos up Easy Street, along Whiskey Road, and over to Florence Street was one Carter had made countless times as a teenager, back and forth to Aiken Prep. Towering pine trees shaded his alma mater’s driveway; their pungent pollen overpowered the more delicate aroma of the many white-petaled dogwood trees in bloom. Carter could hear the staccato whistle of Coach Garrett on the back athletic field, leading his “young gentlemen” as he called the students who made up his various sport teams. This being spring, he guessed it was the baseball team practicing, which was confirmed with the brisk crack of a wooden bat as he rounded the back of the main hall. The coach looked down at his wristwatch, and then did a double whistle.
“All right, gentlemen, wrap it up and hit the showers,” he called out. He turned when he saw Carter approaching, and gave him a big smile. “Well, hello there. How’re you doing, son?”
He gave Carter a firm handshake and as the teenagers filed past with their baseball gear, Carter said, “I’m doing okay, just thought I’d stop by.”
Carter had used this excuse so many times in the past fourteen years that they both knew what it meant.
“This running for governor is a challenge,” Carter said to Coach Garrett once they were settled in the coach’s locker room office, cramped with lacrosse sticks and rolled-up goal netting. “I’m trying to find my voice, to make a connection with the voters, and I am coming up dry.”
Garrett pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt breast pocket, and offered Carter one, which he politely declined. After lighting one up, Garrett blew out a long whiff of smoke and then said, “Remember that water polo match we had against Porter-Gaud down in Charleston? When was that, back in ‘46?”
Carter smiled at the memory, and knew immediately where Garrett was going with the story.
“Yes,” Carter said. “That’s the game you moved me into the power forward position for the first time.”
“That’s right. You were still new to that role, but you adapted. You adapted really quickly. We were down three-zero at half-time, but you took control and found the other team’s weak spot, and we ended up winning, five-four.”
Carter nodded. Garrett took another drag from his cigarette and smiled.
“You really shone through. After that match, I pretty much thought the sky was the limit for you, and you’ve proved me right.”
Carter changed position in the wooden chair. He moved a partially deflated football on the floor with his foot, and could hear the banter of the baseball team behind him as they horse-played in the locker room and showers.
“The way I see it, politics is a lot like water polo. Or lacrosse, for that matter,” Garrett continued. “It’s a team sport. You have your campaign staff, your pollster, your manager, and together, you are moving in unison to get you elected. Now, I don’t doubt you have some challenges. If you remember, Porter-Gaud didn’t know we could play such a fast game. But we had you. Fast. Strong. And boy oh boy, you could whip that ball into the goal from any angle, with each arm.”
Carter blushed.
“You can do the same. Nobody knows who you are, Carter. You’re just beginning your campaign. Hell, you haven’t even announced you’re running for governor. You’re still testing the waters so to speak. Going to a ladies missionary luncheon one day, popping up on the radio the next day. You’ll find your path. Your team is doing their work and when the time comes, you’re going to start hitting that goal. Bang! Bang!”
He looked at Carter and shook his head. “Son, you just go out there and leave it all on the field. Don’t second-guess yourself. And use this time when you are still unknown to practice, practice, practice. You’ll find that confidence that you had in the water against Porter-Gaud, and you’ll make me proud.”
Coach Garrett had arrived at Aiken Preparatory School when Carter was thirteen. As when a boy graduates from playing checkers, to learning chess, and the possibility of a myriad strategies while looking at the board of the game, Mr. Garrett raised the stakes for every boy at Aiken Prep. It was the beginning of the war, with Europe already in full conflict and America slowly moving ahead. A Northerner and a veteran of not only the Great War but of a private academy in Vermont where he had been the athletic director, Garrett had had enough of the long cold winters and had come South. At fifty-five, he was too old for active military service, but had a drill sergeant’s martinet demeanor, with a shoulders-back-chin-out view of the world. On his first day as the school’s new athletics coach, he’d randomly divided the boys into two separate teams to play “capture the flag,” a game simple in its conception and yet difficult to perfect and win, because it involved individual bravery coupled with a team dynamic and strategy. Half of the game he’d spent with one squad, giving them advice and developing their game-plan to infiltrate the other team’s field, to divert the strongest members, and slip in the fastest runner to attempt to grab their opponents’ flag and bring it back across the demarcation line without getting tackled. The exhilaration of playing with the older students in a new game that nobody had ever played before, engendered a true feeling of camaraderie that hadn’t existed before between seniors who were four or five years older than Carter and underclassmen such as himself. The second half of the game the coach had spent with the other squad, offering the same encouragement to find a way to penetrate the other side’s weaknesses and exploit their own team’s strengths. The game went on for over an hour, bleeding into the normally scheduled final afternoon study hall.
“Your teachers will thank me later,” he called out into the field when he’d seen that 3:00 p.m. had passed fifteen minutes earlier.
Carter’s team did not win that first day, coming up two flags short to the winning team’s five. But at thirteen (and a half) years old, and almost five feet tall, he’d proved that he had both courage and speed for his age, having been integral to getting the flag home in each of their successful forays.
“Boy, I like the way you think!” Mr. Garrett patted Carter on the back as they reluctantly made their way back to the campus from the playing field. “You’ve got some audacity!”
That afternoon Carter had looked up audacity in his father’s dictionary in the study back home, and he’d liked what he read.
The next day, Mr. Garrett had announced to the boys during each sport class, that they were going to be part of a new team, that yesterday’s demonstration showed him that this was a group of exceptionally gifted Southern gentlemen, who didn’t show any fear, but were audacious. Carter frowned, realizing that he had appropriated a trait to himself that didn’t belong to him alone, but was now being thrown around like cheap confetti by this new coach. He wanted to be the sole one who embodied that sense of courageous energy.
“This school already has baseball, track and field, and a decent lacrosse squad. We’re going to continue in that tradition with a new sport that requires stamina, strength, and strategy. Everyone change into your swimming trunks!”
Normally, the boys went swimming during their sports lessons in their first two years only, and the years after that were reserved for one of the traditional sports during their fitness class. So as Carter changed in the locker room with the other dozen boys of his year, he wondered what this new sport would be. But he was determined to prove that he was truly the most audacious.
The boys’ lockers were scattered about the cavernous basement, three rows of dozens of top and bottom lockers. The musty, heavy musk of adolescent boy sweat and hormones mingled with the stinging bite of industrial-strength bleach and pine-scented cleaning solvents. To Carter’s sensitive nose he could never be certain whether to be slightly excited or repulsed by the blend of scents.
The boys sauntered out of the locker room and assembled outside where Mr. Garrett had stood by the deep end of the pool, which had goal nets set up on each end. Bobbing in the middle of the pool, between the two goals, was a yellow ball.
“Gentlemen, welcome to water polo!” he’d yelled out. “Now, I know you can swim, some better than others.” Carter had thought he saw the coach looking at him when he’d said that. “But like yesterday’s game, each of you has a gift, something that sets you apart in how you can play together as a team.”
Carter had felt a surge of excitement build inside him, as if this were the culmination of the past seven summers of endless swimming at his home. As Coach Garrett had given a quick rundown of the game, Carter looked at the other boys, and thought that this is going to be a piece of cake.
“You will be part of a team, moving the ball around to each other, and if you get the ball, and feel... audacious... you shoot that ball into the other team’s goal. Any questions? No? Okay, then... get in that pool, gentlemen!”
He’d given a series of staccato blasts from his whistle. Over the course of the next forty minutes, the chirp of that whistle had focused Carter’s mind.
Initially, the goal had been to get the boys to toss the ball to each other in a circle as they trod water, something that had been easier said than done for all of them, except for Carter.
Carter owned that pool.
As the other boys had struggled to catch, or to switch to their dominant hand to throw, all the while trying to remain afloat, Carter had been able to feint his throws, catch and throw back in one motion. Carter could hear his coach cheering him on, which gave him an additional boost to push even harder to impress him.
The final ten minutes of the practice, Mr. Garrett had had Carter in the middle of the circle, catching and throwing randomly to each boy, all of whom were now completely exhausted. Once they’d heard the final whistle and the order to hit the showers, Mr. Garrett had taken Carter aside.
“Son, that was an amazing display out there. You are incredibly gifted.”
Carter had still been slightly out of breath from the whole endeavor, but he grinned unabashedly as he’d dried off.
“How do you feel?” Mr. Garrett asked, as he’d lit a cigarette that he’d pulled from his shirt pocket.
“Sir, I feel... audacious!”
Mr. Garrett had let out a loud, belly laugh and slapped Carter’s shoulder. “Yes, I imagine you do, boy. I imagine you do.”
Garrett had seen that potential in Carter to excel at water polo and had moved him up to practice with the upperclassmen, who despite their size advantage and age difference had been no match for the determined Carter. Over the weeks and eventually years that had followed, Garrett had pushed Carter not only physically to exceed, but to learn how to think and analyze as a competitor, and eventually as a leader. They would often talk in his gym office after the final classes had let out for the day, when the other students were doing their drills out on the practice field. Most of the time Coach Garrett had just sat there in his office and listened, nodding, encouraging Carter to go on before he gave his advice.
He didn’t judge Carter, not when Carter had told him that he’d felt like a coward after seeing the family’s Negro housekeeper taunted by a pick-up truck full of local white day laborers on her way home one afternoon (“you have to choose your battles wisely,” he had counseled), nor when he’d later admitted that he was afraid of what the other boys thought of him (“know who you are, Carter, and then just be yourself and that will give you confidence,” he had told him). When Carter had said he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to get married, the coach had paused a moment, pulled out a pouch of chewing tobacco and put a pinch into his mouth, and finally said, “well, I reckon I never imagined you were the type to just marry anyone.” He then added, “You’ll find someone special someday, Carter. Someone just like you.” This cryptic response was met with a wink, as if Garrett was saying your secret is safe with me.
Years later when Carter had told Coach Garrett that he was going to marry Margot, Garrett just nodded and said, “I suppose you’ve thought it all out. Probably makes sense at some level.” It wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement for his pending nuptials, but Carter hadn’t entered into the marriage with any illusions either. It was what was expected of him, and Carter always exceeded expectations. Carter gained some respectability out of it with not only his family, but the larger community as well, while Margot was assured a lifestyle of wealth and the status of marrying one of the most eligible bachelors south of the Mason-Dixon line.
It was the spring of his senior year at Aiken Prep when Coach Garrett had challenged Carter to make something of his privileged life. Carter had already been volunteering to sweep and clean the locker room at the end of each day, having picked up that this would impress the coach. And it had. He was already the student body president and editor of the school paper, and while everybody liked Carter, teachers and fellow students alike, he didn’t stand out as someone who was different. He was just someone eminently likeable. Non-threatening. That is until he was in the water and leading the water polo team towards victory each match. There in the pool was where Carter stood out, where he was willing to take a chance to make himself vulnerable, and box out an opponent and make a shot towards the goal. But outside of the pool, on dry land, Carter just wanted to blend in.
One afternoon after practice the team’s jokester, Parker, was feeling particularly randy. The locker room at Aiken Prep had been a cauldron of adolescent testosterone, which usually triggered an anxious response in Carter’s sub-consciousness that there was going to be nakedness, nervous energy, and over-compensating roughhousing along with boisterous laughter. As was usual, Parker could be heard on the other side of Carter’s row of lockers. He came from old money, an ancestral plantation in southern Georgia, and the kind of arrogant superiority generations of cotton growers seemed to harvest in abundance. Parker had a tendency to not know what was appropriate and not appropriate, particularly when it came to his considerable endowment, which he loved to parade on in any occasion. Carter had always been intrigued, but never showed any visible interest, always laughing and joining the rest of the team with calls to “put that beast away.”
That day, however, Parker had been imitating the beloved Negro school custodian, Mister Samson, whose obsequious manner while pouring iced tea in the cafeteria (“more tea, sir?” came out as “Motissa”). Instead of a stainless steel pitcher in his hand, however, he had his ample manhood exposed, passing it around to each unsuspecting team member. Carter had immediately been drawn to Parker’s exposed sex, and nervously tried to keep himself from taking a long second glance as Parker plopped it against another crouched teammate’s shoulder. Realizing he might have been staring too long, Carter had joined in the laughter, not because he’d found the Motissa act funny, he hadn’t, he’d thought it was stupidly racist, but to camouflage his own lingering gaze.
Coach Garrett had come out of his office to see what the unusually raucous laughter had been about, and had blown his whistle with a quick blast. The boys had immediately quit their laughter, and turned towards the coach, their faces ruddy with embarrassment. He’d scanned the room, and then slowly shook his head. Walking over to Parker, who had put his towel back around his waist, he’d barked, “you want to do your little act in front of Mister Samson?”
Parker had stood there in silence.
“Answer me, son!”
“Sir, no, sir!”
“You should all be ashamed of yourselves,” Coach said, his gaze landing on Carter. “Double drills tomorrow, gentlemen! You can thank Parker and Carter afterwards.”
Carter’s mouth fell open out of disbelief, and he’d followed the coach into his office.
“Coach, I didn’t have anything to do with all of that!”
Garrett had shaken his head and motioned for him to close the door. Carter tightened his towel around his waist and complied. The sound of the showers behind him muffled the lowered voices of the other boys as Garrett closed his notebook on his desk.
“Carter, the reason why I’m holding you partly responsible is that you are the team captain. You are their leader, and I am going to hold you responsible for your team.”
Carter hadn’t protested, calculating that it was futile to argue with the coach on the matter. Instead he’d sat in silence listening, even if not entirely agreeing with the coach’s assessment.
“I didn’t take you for a racist, Carter,” the coach began. He squinted at the teen. Carter didn’t say anything; his eyes were focused on the tile floor at his feet. The coach blew out a long plume of tobacco smoke into the air, and tapped his index finger on his notebook trying to settle on his words.
“I still don’t. I know you aren’t like these other boys. You have a heart, you’re sensitive, and you have all of the makings to be a real leader. But you have to lead by example, Carter. When you are in the pool as captain, you lead almost by instinct anymore; you’ve done your drills and know what to look for in the other team’s defenses. But as their leader, it is you who has to make the choices, and you either rise of fall based on them.”
Carter had looked up at him, nodding.
Coach Garrett had pulled out a copy of the day’s newspaper from under his notebook. He’d rubbed his chin, thinking for a moment. It had been the beginning of May, with only two more water polo matches left before the state championship, and graduation was in a little more than a month.
“Christ, boy, you have so much potential it just makes me frustrated to see you not rising to the challenge,” he’d finally said. “What the hell is keeping you back? Why can’t you be the Carter Ridge out of the pool that I see leading that team in the pool? What are you afraid of, boy?”
Carter had cleared his throat. He couldn’t tell him the real truth, that he’d been staring at Parker’s naked body and had been over-compensating, trying to hide who he was by joining in the team fun at Mister Samson’s expense. To admit to that would have been humiliating, and despite the fact that Carter was sure that Coach Garrett already suspected as much, it would have meant that Carter would have to verbalize and confess a fact that even he did not truly want to give credence to himself. He rationalized away those lusts as just comparing himself physically to someone else, to see how he was in relation to this well-built fellow athlete. It was normal, he’d thought, we all do it.
But the coach had been correct in his analysis. At his core, Carter needed to find the ability to flick that inner switch to lead that he was able to do so easily in the water. He wasn’t sure what it was that kept holding him back from taking a stand, from acting on his moral convictions. “I don’t know, coach,” was all he could muster.
“What do you want to do with your life, Carter?”
“I suppose that after college I’ll be working for my daddy’s company, taking it over someday.”
Coach Garrett nodded slowly, as if coming to the same conclusion. “You’ll learn the ropes from your father, doing the routine of how to run a big company, and how to anticipate problems, reacting accordingly to the marketplace. It will be just like being in the pool, playing water polo against another team. Eventually you’ll get there, Carter, and you’ll do fine.”
He paused for a moment, taking another drag from his cigarette.
“But is that what you really want to do, Carter? Will you be happy running paper mills?” His eyebrows rose slightly, and with a hint of a grin, Garrett said, “Did I ever tell you that my father was a farmer in upstate New York?”
Carter shook his head.
“I hated farming. The isolation mainly is what I remember, but my father loved it. He assumed that I was going to take over the family farm once I finished school, but I had other ideas. I got a football scholarship out of high school, and that was my ticket out of town. I never looked back. My younger brother ended up taking over the farm eventually, and he is doing quite well at it. But I would have hated it. It would have killed my soul.”
He’d looked at Carter for a flash, and then said, “I know your soul isn’t one of a business tycoon, Carter Ridge. What is going to push you forward, boy, towards that goal bobbing in the water ahead of you?”
He’d turned the newspaper sitting on his desk towards Carter.
“You’ve been following this lynching trial, haven’t you?” Garrett said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to go up to Greenville and report on it for the school paper. I’ve already talked to the headmaster, and he agrees that it would be a great opportunity for you.”
He’d stubbed out his cigarette, and leaned back a bit in his chair. “The closing arguments are in a couple of days, and then it goes to the jury. I’ll have the headmaster ask your parents if it would be all right for you to go up there. What do you say?”
They’d arrived at mid-day, and the heat was already oppressive. Carter’s father had booked a room at the best hotel in town for Carter and the company’s lawyer, Mr. Cooper, which happened to be across from the county courthouse. As luck would have it, it was also where the press pool from out of state were staying; the trial was that big of a deal, that even such grandees as Life, Time, and The New Yorker had sent reporters to cover the lynching trial. When they’d arrived at the hotel, Carter poked his head into the inviting dining room where at one large table he could see the press all gathered for their lunch. It was exciting for him to be witnessing history, even if it was under awful circumstances. Soon Mr. Cooper had motioned for him to go with him and the bellhop up to their third floor room. While Carter was to observe the trial across the street, Cooper would be meeting with the local C.I.O. union affiliate, negotiating the new contract for the Ridge Paper Company’s operations in the Upstate region.
After grabbing a quick lunch in the dining room, Carter joined the rest of the public in the courthouse. The trial was being held in the biggest courtroom in the building, a cavernous theater for this most macabre spectacle of thirty-one defendants all charged with a variety of crimes including conspiracy and the murder of Willie Earle. They’d been joined by their families, friends, the usual courthouse hangers-on who spent their idle time watching trials, and because of the notoriety of the trial, additional local curious citizens. The press had a large table near the lawyers, next to the jury of twelve white men. From the balcony, the Negroes had sat in silence, and watched. It was up there, with this forgotten audience of aggrieved citizens where Carter decided to sit.
Before the judge arrived for the afternoon session, Carter had found a seat next to two local college students, and as he sat down he’d introduced himself and offered his hand. They’d been momentarily taken aback, but had smiled and introduced themselves as well. Carter saw the muscular forearm of the one seated closest to him. It was as dark and hard as a crow bar, with thick veins gently protuding, running the length of his arm from his wrist all the way into his rolled up white shirt, and as they settled into the worn wooden pew, their elbows touched, mixing their body sweat gently which mildly excited Carter. One of them said he was reporting on the trial for his college newspaper, so he and Carter began talking about their impressions of the trial.
“All rise...” the court bailiff announced as Judge J. Robert Martin, Jr. entered the courtroom from his chambers.
During the rest of the afternoon, Carter had sat in rapt silence as he listened to the final arguments made by each of the defense attorneys. The amount of sugary platitudes and syrupy paeans to the jury would have sent someone with even the slightest hint of diabetes into shock. The jury was exhorted as “good Christians” and “the finest of Southern stock” to “remember their role” as guardians of society against the heavy-handed fist of the FBI and “Yankee meddling” into our affairs. The fact that the FBI had been summoned to investigate the lynching by none other than Governor Strom Thurmond had been noticeably absent from their exhortations. “We are the masters of our fate, not them (shaking their fists at the FBI agents sitting conspicuously in one of the rows),” and certainly not them, those “Yankee journalists from New. York. City.” If the heat below on the main floor of this circus was in the 90s, up in the balcony for the “Coloreds” it was over 100. Carter’s dress shirt was drenched in sweat, and he had long since loosened his necktie. Calvin, the Negro college student reporter next to him, fanned himself with his notebook, stopping occasionally to jot down a quote. It had been fascinating but exhausting for Carter, and at the end of the day’s proceedings, before everyone had filed back out to the relative cool of the lobby and outside, he’d held back to chat a bit more with Calvin and his friend, Bradford.
“Can I get a quote from you on what your thoughts or observations are about the trial so far?” Carter had asked them, opening his own notebook.
Calvin smiled and shook his head.
“Nothing on the record, Carter, sorry. I can’t risk something happening to my family if one of these white folks got a fool idea up in their head about something I said.”
“You can quote me,” Bradford said. “I think that the judge has done about as well as could be expected, but I am not optimistic that justice will be served. This jury will never convict thirty-one white folks. These are their neighbors, their taxicab drivers. For what? The murder of a drunken Negro? I hope to live to see the day, someday, when that might happen, but it won’t happen today or tomorrow sadly.”
Carter had jotted it down and thanked them.
“Could you save me my seat for tomorrow?”
After a cool bath back at the hotel, Carter had dressed for dinner. Mr. Cooper had left a message with the front desk that he would be having dinner with the union representatives, celebrating the successful conclusion of negotiations. Carter made his way down, and lingered a bit in the doorway, waiting for the national press to come in as well. He could hear some of them in the hotel bar, across from the lobby, and soon they began making their way over. There were five of them in total, and as they approached, Carter had rubbed his hand palms on his dinner jacket to dry them, and then smiled and introduced himself.
“Good evening, my name is Carter Ridge and I’m covering the trial as well for my school newspaper. I wonder if I might join you tonight for dinner?”
They all said that would be fine, and had been eager to talk with a native Southerner about a local’s impressions of the trial, the overall state of affairs in race relations, and his thoughts about the future for the South in general. It had been the first time where he had been asked such probing, intellectual questions from strangers, and he realized that it was exciting for him to speak and voice his opinion. The five of them sat and listened as they ate their house salad and Confederate fried steak with carrots and potatoes. By the end of the meal, he’d realized that he had barely touched his own, and quickly ate it all as they’d talked amongst themselves about the day’s events. Over coffee and banana cream pie, the conversation had been lighter, and he’d asked them about their impressions of South Carolina, and what New York City was like. He liked their accents, they sounded like Coach Garrett and some of his teachers at school, and he didn’t take offence at them for their criticisms of Jim Crow, the heat, and the general sense of hostility most of the locals had towards them.
The following two days were the final deliberations, and relatively short in comparison to the previous ones according to Calvin, who had been in his perch in the balcony from the very first gavel. By Wednesday afternoon the closing arguments had been completed, and the judge gave his instructions to the jury.
A rainstorm of legendary proportions had blown into town on the day the jury had sat to deliberate, and by early evening they had reached a decision. The reporters had run back across from the hotel in the downpour, and sat waiting for their verdict. The acquittals on all counts created a roar of clapping and gasps of relief from the dozens of family members and supporters for the defendants. Carter’s hand was in a fist, and he pounded it once on his knee out of frustration when the cacophony erupted below the balcony. He shook his head in disbelief, and looked in anguish at Calvin and Bradford, who were slumped back in their seats with their arms crossed.
It was a remarkable sight, the backslapping, posing for photographs, as well as the smiles and glad-handing by the attorneys and the acquitted would-be conspirators/murderers. He’d felt sick to his stomach, and once they’d trudged down the stairs and eventually outside in the torrential rain, Carter shook Calvin and Bradford’s hands for a final goodbye.
The crowd outside was smaller than indoors, due in large part to the rain, but there were still substantial numbers of local supporters whooping and hollering their enthusiasm for the verdict. As the Negroes started to disperse, someone from the other side of the courthouse grounds shouted “Git back home you niggers” and Carter had shot a look at Calvin whose eyes were wide with fury. Bradford held Calvin back, and then Carter saw someone with overalls and a twisted leer.
“What’chu lookin’ at boy?” the local had jeered at Bradford. “You and your nigger-lovin’ friend...”
The Greenville sheriff’s officers stepped outside from the courthouse to escort the jury, and at that moment a large rock was hurled from the locals towards the departing Negroes. Carter had looked back at the gathering crowd, and with his fists clenched yelled, “Is that all you got?”
A band of about six men started towards him, and then Calvin and Bradford and a few other Negroes had joined suit, standing with Carter.
A sheriff’s deputy blew his whistle and said “Disperse! Disperse!” when another couple of officers had begun brandishing their night sticks towards the white mob. The first officer yelled to Carter and his group, “I TOLD YOU TO DISPERSE! YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR VIOLATING AN ORDER FROM AN OFFICER OF THE LAW!”
He couldn’t believe it. Within moments he’d been handcuffed and pushed into the back of a nearby sheriff’s van, along with Calvin, Bradford, and five others. The only other white being detained with them was the Life magazine photographer who continued to take photos of the melee. After having his mug shot and fingerprints taken, Carter had called back to the hotel and left a message for Cooper, who arrived at the sheriff’s station within the hour. Bond was posted for all seven of them, and Cooper arranged to have all charges dropped. Carter slept most of the ride back to Aiken, but once home he’d come alive as he recounted his adventure to his parents. Cooper had stood back in silence, a little ashamed that he had not succeeded in keeping Carter safe and out of trouble, but David had been beyond proud of his son, and had thanked Cooper for not only a successful completion of the labor negotiations, but also for bringing back Carter in one piece.