From our meeting in the forest clearing, we went straight back to William Hawley’s property. I think it was around noon, maybe closer to one. Either way, the sun was burning high in an utterly cloudless sky.
The first thing I noticed were a dozen or so vehicles parked close to Hawley’s house. Their drivers weren’t outside, meaning they must have been inside, likely preparing for the initiation ceremony the Klan refers to as naturalization. The group is like the mafia when it comes to such things, in that very few accounts of the actual process have ever been written. What I was about to witness—and be a part of—was something that no other undercover informant had ever seen. If I made it through the ceremony, the information I would be able to give Armstrong and Vaughn would be the first of its kind.
William Hawley led me and the other guy about to be initiated up to the front door. Charles Denton was on my other side. This time, his wife did not accompany us. I could feel Denton studying me the whole time, trying to get a read on my facial expression to see if I was scared, apprehensive, excited. I did my best to look like I was taking things in stride, not wanting to do anything that would attract undue attention, even though my heart was racing and I could feel sweat beading up on my forehead. He knew me as an army sniper, so doing my best to remain stoic and calm seemed the best way to approach this. Not quite just another day at the office, but nothing I couldn’t handle either.
“Stay here,” Hawley said, indicating a bench on the front porch, to the right of the heavy door.
Hawley left me and the other guy there, while he and Denton entered the house, closing the door behind them. A few minutes later, a pair of Klansmen came outside. One grabbed hold of the other guy and took him inside, while the second remained with me, hovering nearby.
At that point, I remember thinking, Breathe, focus, don’t break a sweat . . . I focused on observing anything I could, including listening to whatever sounds emanated from the house. I heard a creaky metal door slam closed. I heard something banging. I detected sounds of a struggle, maybe someone being thrown against a wall, and then that metal door slamming again. Partly I was trying to distract myself from the man looming six feet away, partly I was trying to get some notion of what I’d be facing when it was my turn inside. But I was distracted by the news Shannon had shared with me just a few days earlier. Though we had yet to tie the knot, she told me she was pregnant with our first child. I was overjoyed—starting a family with Shannon was all I ever wanted. But it also changed the way I thought about the inherent risks of my work undercover. Suddenly the stakes were even higher. As I anxiously waited to be brought into the house for the initiation, I struggled to stay focused and calm. But succumbing to fear wasn’t an option. I now had a family to protect.
Fifteen minutes after they brought my fellow initiate into the house, the two men who’d originally come outside led me through the front door together. They immediately fitted a black pillowcase over my head and pulled it down tight. The world went dark, that bright sunlight now a memory. I kept telling myself to focus and observe, focus and observe, focus and observe. Of course, I couldn’t see anything through that pillowcase, but I could still hear and feel, and I wanted to remember every detail I could to properly complete my report. I breathed steadily, willing myself to remain calm.
I took twelve small steps forward and then twenty more to the right, which I assumed meant we’d turned down a hallway. They pushed me through what felt like a heavy curtain or drape that smelled musty. Then one of the men threw me against the wall and patted me down. That same person pushed me back and forth, a test to see if I’d get rattled. I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to would-be Klan members who didn’t pass, figuring their bodies might have been among the many lying at the bottom of Lochloosa Lake or inside the stomachs of gators.
That’s when the other man yanked the pillowcase off my head. It was still pitch black, except for a sliver of light pushing through a small hole in the curtain that was now behind me. One of the men rapped his knuckles against what must have been that metal door I’d heard clanging a few times from outside the house.
“Enter,” I heard from beyond the door.
I heard the creaking sound again and knew the door was opening. I felt one of my escorts put a hand against my back and push me inside, into a thin spray of flickering light cast by fourteen candles inlaid into a white wooden cross: seven going up and down and seven more going across Then the metal door slammed behind me. My eyes adjusted to the light, and I saw four robed, hooded figures standing before me. The nearest wore purple, the others white, green, and black respectively. The figure in black stood to the left of the cross and candles, making him the klavern’s Grand Knighthawk, who was responsible for security and defense, the so-called Keeper of the Flame. The man in the purple robe was about Charles Denton’s height. Set between me and the figure garbed in purple was a wooden table covered in a white cloth with a Bible resting atop it next to a broadsword more than a yard long. Behind me, I heard the distinctive sound of a shell being racked into a 12-gauge shotgun, the noise as loud as a gunshot itself.
“Kneel,” the figure robed in purple ordered, and I recognized the voice as Charles Denton’s.
I did and looked up at him.
“Do you swear to protect the Klan with your life?”
“I do,” I replied.
“Do you swear to give your life for your brothers?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear to protect the white race, uphold the purity of the white race, and to die for your white brothers?”
“I do.”
Another of the robed figures lifted the broadsword from the table and lowered the blade until it touched my collarbone, scraping across my neck in the process. I could feel the weight of it—this was no prop. It must have been an authentic battle sword that had likely drawn blood at some point. I realized then that there were only two ways this naturalization ceremony could end: with me being accepted into the Klan or never being seen again.
“State your full name,” Charles Denton instructed.
“Joseph Moore.”
I focused on my breathing again, trying to get my heart rate back under control. I didn’t want to start perspiring, nothing that would show any weakness or fear.
“Do you swear your allegiance to the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan?”
“Yes.”
“Are you willing to die for the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan?”
“Yes.”
“Do you swear by the Almighty God to uphold the values of the brotherhood, to keep its teaching close to your heart, and to value the brotherhood above your own life?”
“I do.”
There was a pause, and I heard the hiss of the sword cutting the air before me. Then the blade landed on my collarbone again, feeling even heavier.
“Rise.”
I stood up, fighting the stiffness in my legs from kneeling.
“You are now a Knight of the Ku Klux Klan,” said the robed, hooded Charles Denton, the tension gone from his voice. “Welcome, Brother Joe.”