sez he better not never catch me down there no more less’n I got business, and he ain’t gonna neither! Now y’all get on out and walk if ya goin’ and don’t be takin’ no long time comin’ back here ’cause I’se gon’ be ready to go back home ’fore that sun get past them trees yonder.”
“Ah, Joe, come on—” started Clarence.
“It ain’t but a block,” Stacey said, jumping down. “We jus’ wasting time here.”
As soon as we were off the wagon, Joe, without a backwardglance, let out a “ged on up, ole mule” and rolled away. For a moment, we stood watching the wagon and feeling just a bit deserted, then with Stacey leading the way walked the block down Main to McGiver Street and turned up the dusty street to the courthouse.
The courthouse was a wooden building in need of a coat of paint. It faced a wide yard and a colorful flower garden which gave the area a festive air. Standing around the yard and on the steps were clusters of farm people, faded-looking men in faded overalls and faded-looking women in dresses cut from brightly patterned cotton flour sacks; townspeople stood apart from them, looking a bit smarter in their serge suits and store-bought fashions.
“Is it over?” I said.
No one knew so no one answered. Not daring to ask any of the people gathered on the lawn, we made our way through the crowd to the other end of the building, where we saw an elderly Negro gentleman sitting under a gnarled pine. Stacey approached him and asked if the trial was over. He was told that the jury had only been selected. The trial was to start after lunch.
The day was warm and the courtroom windows had been raised. We went over to the building and, climbing onto the concrete ledge which ran along its base, peeked in. Only a few people remained inside. A group of men stood talking at the front, where two sizable tables and a towering desk set upon a platform dominated the room. Two women in dark, sober-looking hats and print dresses sat on a bench midway back, and at the very rear of the room, in the left-hand corner, sat Mr. and Mrs. Avery and three of their eight children. With them were Mr. Silas Lanier and the Reverend Gabson, a few other members of Great Faith, and three people I didn’t know. T.J. was not in the room.
We returned to the old man and asked him if he thought we could sit inside. He laughed. “Y’all younguns see that speck of space the colored folks squattin’ in? Ain’t none of ’em gon’ move ’cause they’s ’fraid they lose they space.”
“You mean that’s all the room there is for the colored?” said Stacey.
“What y’all see is all they is. White folks thinkin’ they’s doin’ good to ’lows that much.”
We thanked the man for his information, then settled beside him to wait for the trial to resume. We decided that since we could not get into the courtroom, we could station ourselves close enough to the windows to at least see T.J.
As we waited, Mr. John Farnsworth, the county extension agent walked past. Mr. Farnsworth was a pleasant-looking man whose job originally had been to visit all the farms in the area to give agricultural advice. But since last year—1933—it had also included administering the government’s crop-control program, which meant keeping a close eye on each farmer’s cotton production. Mama and Papa said that this additional responsibility had made him less than popular. Now as he walked through the crowd, he was greeted with cold stares and angry grumblings.
“Hey, Farnsworth!” called a white farmer nearby. “Too bad it’s near winter, ain’t it? Ain’t got no cotton for ya to go plowin’ up!”
Mr. Farnsworth ignored the taunt and went up the steps into the courthouse.
The farmer stared malevolently after him, then spat on the ground. “Like to plow him up.”
“Don’t start,” said a man with him, his voice stringently testy.
I glanced over at the group and recognized the man as Mr. Tate Sutton, a white
“Ah, Joe, come on—” started Clarence.
“It ain’t but a block,” Stacey said, jumping down. “We jus’ wasting time here.”
As soon as we were off the wagon, Joe, without a backwardglance, let out a “ged on up, ole mule” and rolled away. For a moment, we stood watching the wagon and feeling just a bit deserted, then with Stacey leading the way walked the block down Main to McGiver Street and turned up the dusty street to the courthouse.
The courthouse was a wooden building in need of a coat of paint. It faced a wide yard and a colorful flower garden which gave the area a festive air. Standing around the yard and on the steps were clusters of farm people, faded-looking men in faded overalls and faded-looking women in dresses cut from brightly patterned cotton flour sacks; townspeople stood apart from them, looking a bit smarter in their serge suits and store-bought fashions.
“Is it over?” I said.
No one knew so no one answered. Not daring to ask any of the people gathered on the lawn, we made our way through the crowd to the other end of the building, where we saw an elderly Negro gentleman sitting under a gnarled pine. Stacey approached him and asked if the trial was over. He was told that the jury had only been selected. The trial was to start after lunch.
The day was warm and the courtroom windows had been raised. We went over to the building and, climbing onto the concrete ledge which ran along its base, peeked in. Only a few people remained inside. A group of men stood talking at the front, where two sizable tables and a towering desk set upon a platform dominated the room. Two women in dark, sober-looking hats and print dresses sat on a bench midway back, and at the very rear of the room, in the left-hand corner, sat Mr. and Mrs. Avery and three of their eight children. With them were Mr. Silas Lanier and the Reverend Gabson, a few other members of Great Faith, and three people I didn’t know. T.J. was not in the room.
We returned to the old man and asked him if he thought we could sit inside. He laughed. “Y’all younguns see that speck of space the colored folks squattin’ in? Ain’t none of ’em gon’ move ’cause they’s ’fraid they lose they space.”
“You mean that’s all the room there is for the colored?” said Stacey.
“What y’all see is all they is. White folks thinkin’ they’s doin’ good to ’lows that much.”
We thanked the man for his information, then settled beside him to wait for the trial to resume. We decided that since we could not get into the courtroom, we could station ourselves close enough to the windows to at least see T.J.
As we waited, Mr. John Farnsworth, the county extension agent walked past. Mr. Farnsworth was a pleasant-looking man whose job originally had been to visit all the farms in the area to give agricultural advice. But since last year—1933—it had also included administering the government’s crop-control program, which meant keeping a close eye on each farmer’s cotton production. Mama and Papa said that this additional responsibility had made him less than popular. Now as he walked through the crowd, he was greeted with cold stares and angry grumblings.
“Hey, Farnsworth!” called a white farmer nearby. “Too bad it’s near winter, ain’t it? Ain’t got no cotton for ya to go plowin’ up!”
Mr. Farnsworth ignored the taunt and went up the steps into the courthouse.
The farmer stared malevolently after him, then spat on the ground. “Like to plow him up.”
“Don’t start,” said a man with him, his voice stringently testy.
I glanced over at the group and recognized the man as Mr. Tate Sutton, a white
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