oughta done this,” he said.
“Slow down to the side,” I said, “and let him pass.”
The patrol car sped by, but only to make a U-turn, and then another, in order to follow us again. For about ten miles we crept down the highway with his car nosing our bumper until he flicked on his flashers and pulled us over.
“Get out of your car and come here,” he ordered. Mr. Isaac gave me a forlorn look and did what he was told.
I walked over to provide moral support.
“What’s the trouble?”
“Go back to your car,” the patrolman said. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”
“I just want to know what the problem is.”
“You’re the problem, coming down here and stirring these people up.”
“I only want to know why you stopped us.”
“That’s none of your business. Now get back in your car.”
I took out a small pad and wrote down the information on their badges.
“What the hell do you think this is?” He threw open his door and grabbed me by the arm. “You’re interfering with what I’m doing here.”
He and the deputy manhandled me back to the car.
“Get in, nigger.” He pressed one hand down on my head and shoved. “Follow me.”
The justice of the peace held forth at his blacksmith shop on Highway 51 south of McComb. I was charged with interfering with an arrest.
“But I’m the only one you arrested,” I pointed out.
They exchanged perturbed glances, then conferred in a corner.
“We’re charging you with obstructing justice. Are you ready to stand trial?” the justice of the peace asked.
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Can I make a phone call?”
“I guess you can. Where to?”
“Washington.”
“Washington! Who the hell do you know in Washington?”
“John Doar, at the Civil Rights Division of the United States Department of Justice.”
“You want to call them over a little thing like this? Boy, we can’t afford to let you dial long distance.”
“I’m calling collect.”
“Collect!” the justice of the peace scoffed. “You can go right ahead and try.”
The call went through; their faces dropped.
“It’s a case of intimidation,” I told John Doar, “in clear violation of the Civil Rights Acts of 1957 and 1960.”
“Call the FBI collect,” Doar told me, “and tell them the story too.”
And so I did.
“Boy, you’ve sure got some friends,” the deputy said. “Too bad they’re all the way up there in Washington.”
The trial was swift; I was guilty as charged.
“The fine is fifty dollars plus five in court costs,” the justice of the peace said, “but I’ll suspend the fine and charge you only court costs if you’ll agree not to return to court for ninety days.”
“I’m not guilty. I won’t pay a penny.”
“Boy, are you sure you know what you’re about? You leave me no choice but to order that you be remanded to the Pike County Jail.”
I stayed in jail two days while all of McComb talked about the “New York Negro” who was too stubborn to pay five dollars in court costs. I would have stayed in jail longer, but without my knowledge, Jack Young, an attorney for the NAACP, came down from Jackson and paid my fine and I was free.
The next morning I resumed the citizenship school at Mount Pilgrim Church.
By the following Tuesday, five people were ready and willing to go to the courthouse. They returned all smiles. Nothing had happened. But later that day we received word that the whites of Liberty had held a secret meeting where they drew up a list of “uppity” blacks and vowed to kill me if I came to town.
4
The situation in Liberty was so tense, I didn’t press anyone at citizenship classes to volunteer. But about a week later Curtis Dawson, a dependable man whom Steptoe vouched for, and Reverend Alfred Knox, a powerfully built farmer and part-time preacher, said they were ready to register. If they had the courage, others would follow their example. Dawson picked me up at Steptoe’s, and we drove to the Liberty courthouse, where Preacher Knox was supposed to be waiting. We didn’t see him on the lawn, so we parked and looked around. We found him outside the post office, where he felt less conspicuous. We were walking back to the courthouse when suddenly three men strode across the street and blocked the sidewalk.
A big, burly man grabbed a fistful of my T-shirt and demanded, “Where do you think you’re goin’, nigger?”
“To the courthouse.”
“Like hell you are,” and he slugged me on the side of my head with the blunt end of a folded jackknife. Blood spurted from my scalp and ran down my face; I fell to my knees and threw up my hands to protect my skull.
“Leave him alone,” Alfred Knox cried, reaching out to help. “Let him be.”
“You stay out of this, uncle,” one of the other men warned.
He clobbered me again on the top of the head and my face slammed the sidewalk. For a moment I felt as if my soul had ascended and I were a disembodied spirit hovering above with a bird’s-eye view of my own beating. I watched what had been my body on the ground tuck up its legs and try to protect its groin. A man bent over the curled form, kicking and punching it until he was winded. Finally, he stepped back.
“Nigger,” he panted, “you’re leavin’ town.”
I watched the three men walk away.
Then I was back in my body, with a stabbing pain behind my eyes, while Alfred Knox pressed a large handkerchief to my head until the bleeding stopped.
“Come on,” he said, helping me to my feet, “you’ve had enough for one day.”
I stood as still as I could, waiting for the nausea to pass.
“No,” I said. “I want to see the sheriff.”
We crossed the courthouse lawn to the office of Sheriff E. L. Caston.
“I’ve been assaulted,” I said. “I want you to swear
