February 6, 2020, morning
McArdle mounted the front porch and knocked. The two guys on the street who had thrown the tomato at him were watching him.
“The door is unlocked. Please come in,” he heard.
McArdle pushed the door open and could see Mrs. Barnes sitting on a sofa with a little dog at her feet. Across from the front door was a second room that appeared to be a small kitchen. In front of the kitchen door was a small table with four chairs, and two more chairs stacked in the corner. Cozy. Another door next to the sofa must have led to the bathroom and bedrooms.
“May I get you a glass of water, Mr. McArdle?”
“No, ma’am. I’m fine, thanks.”
“Well, will you sit down over here, please?”
McArdle started toward the couch and stopped momentarily when he saw a bookshelf on the wall to his right. Then he continued and proceeded to sit down. The little dog sat up and looked at him. She appeared to be a Pomeranian and looked rather like a giant bat.
“This is my dog, Whale,” said Mrs. Barnes. “She is about my age. Two little old ladies. Almost two hundred years old! Did those boys outside give you trouble just now?”
“The tall one threw a tomato at me. Don’t worry, I ducked.”
“That jackass Larry, just wait ’til lunch!”
“What’s that, Mrs. Barnes?”
“I’m sorry, I’m talking to myself. Do you have an interest in books, Mr. McArdle?”
“Yes, ma’am, definitely. I grew up with books.”
“But you didn’t come to see me to ask about my books?”
“No, ma’am. That’s correct.”
McArdle felt awkward about getting straight to the point, so he sat flummoxed until Mrs. Barnes said, “You said on the phone your name is Samuel?”
“Yes, ma’am. Most people call me Sam.”
“And most people call me Miss Jasmine. I didn’t tell you on the phone, but I met your parents in 1963. Your father was a professor at Florida State, and your mother’s name is Roberta. Her birthday is February 10, 1919. We were born on the same day. And your older sister’s name is also Roberta, born February 10, 1957. But your parents weren’t from around here. Your father moved to Tallahassee to accept a teaching job at Florida State. I imagine they’ve both passed?”
McArdle was stunned, and it showed on his face. He stammered, “Yes, ma’am, that’s correct. They’ve both been gone about twenty years. May I ask how you know all of that?”
McArdle half expected Miss Jasmine to reveal that she was a witch.
“Well, you see, Mr. McArdle…”
“Sam, please, ma’am.”
“Well then, Sam. When you were about three years old, your parents had a party for the department. The truth is I didn’t need the money but sometimes got bored so did some occasional work. Your mother needed help with cooking and serving and found out about me from the yard man across the street. His name was Simp, short for Simpson. I started first grade with him in 1926. He passed last year, ninety-nine years old, still doing yards.
“Your Mother’s name was Roberta, so of course I told her about my daughter, also Roberta. My baby was born February 10, 1951, but unfortunately passed in 1973. By the way, February 10 also happens to be my birthday, but one hundred years ago. I’ll turn 101 in four days. If I make it that far maybe we can have a birthday party for your mother, your sister, my daughter, and me. Otherwise a funeral.”
It took a moment for this to sink in with McArdle. Finally he said, “Incredible, you, my mom, my sister, and your daughter all with the same birthday. And three Robertas.
“Life is filled with coincidences, that’s for sure,” said Miss Jasmine. “I guess it makes you and me kindred spirits. That’s why I agreed to see you. Anyway, I’m sure your parents made a good impression on the faculty, having competent black help in 1963.”
That sounds shameful,” said Sam. “And I knew Simp. He did yardwork in our neighborhood since I can remember. I saw him cutting grass about five years ago when I came home to visit. May I ask what else you can remember?”
“Funny you ask about my memory, but that’s why you came here. I read the local paper all the way from 1926 up to July 1937. From six years old to seventeen. Until my trauma.
“Then I was a blank from 1937 until 1950 when I recovered and started to read again. I read everything in the newspaper until about 2000. By then I thought the papers were junk and filled with jibber-jabber. Newspapers used to be eight to ten pages, so easy to read in one go. Families would take turns reading the newspaper, in most families starting with the father. No internet then, so everybody in town got the same news, whether they agreed with it or not. But about 2000 I stopped reading the papers. Aside from my trauma, I remember most of what I read in the newspapers.”
“Can you remember about Joe and Kelvin?” asked McArdle.
“You mean the boys who drowned checking the flooded cars in 1973? Were they your friends? I’m so sorry! I remember reading that, but that’s something the whole town was talking about for months and years. Everybody would know about that.”
McArdle had a lump in his throat as he always did when he thought about Joe and Kelvin.
“Aside from the newspapers, what can you remember?”
“I remember up to 1937. I remember things that happened, and I remember what I read in the paper. But 1937 was too much. I became dissociative, I think is what they call it. I don’t remember anything about the ’40s, not even that we had a World War II; imagine that! But in 1950 I recovered. Somehow after that thirteen-year blank, my mind accepted. I could accept but not forgive. I married a nice man, and we had a daughter. He died the first year we were married ten days before our baby’s birthday. An allergic reaction to anesthesia when he was having an appendectomy. Those allergic deaths used to be quite common in the ’50s.”
McArdle and Miss Jasmine were both quiet for a time and just looked at each other. McArdle noticed how her skin was nice with no wrinkles, and her face and person exuded a quiet exuberance. McArdle didn’t doubt but never would have guessed she was one hundred years old.
“May I ask you about the lynchings then?” McArdle finally said.
“You mean the murders.”
“Technically they were taken from the jail and then killed.”
“So?”
“That makes it a lynching. An extrajudicial killing.”
Miss Jasmine nodded. “That’s what they say. An extrajudicial killing. But to me it was just plain murder. They killed my cousins.”
McArdle was quiet, not wanting to agitate her, but she seemed to understand his hesitation and said, “Don’t worry, I don’t break down crying anymore. 1937 happened, and in 1951 the love of my life died. But I had my baby girl. I said I was dissociative for thirteen years. I was a blank. But somehow, I came back and learned to live my life. I just had to accept what happened. I finally learned you take your life, or it takes you. But might I ask you some questions?”
“Yes, ma’am, please go ahead.”
“Well then, Sam, what can you tell me about the murders?”
“Well, I can only repeat what is archived in the Tallahassee paper and a few historical articles.”
“What happened according to those?”
“The two young men—Ponder and Harris—were both seventeen years old. They allegedly burglarized a local business after hours. They were seen by a local policeman—Officer Townes—and he attempted to arrest them. A scuffle ensued and one of the boys stabbed the police officer.”
“Please excuse the fact-check,” said Miss Jasmine. The newspapers said they were seventeen, but everybody knows they were only fourteen. What else can you tell me, Mr. McArdle—Sam?”
“The sheriff and another deputy found the two young men and arrested them. They confessed after being interrogated for hours by Sheriff Ortega, Police Chief Powell, and the county prosecutor, Parkinson. The boys were in jail two nights, and during the second night they were abducted by four masked men with a car, who at gunpoint forced the jailer to release the young prisoners. The boys were both found dead the next morning riddled with bullets within steps of the residence of the chief justice of the Florida Supreme Court. There had been placards made with racist epithets in green paint and laid on the bodies of the victims.”
“And?”
“The governor was upset at the negative attention paid to Florida in the national news, including the New York Times and Boston Globe, and the FBI was called in to do an investigation. Like you just said, the governor called it a murder; not a lynching, and a lot of people criticized him for those comments.”
“And?”
“The FBI determined the guns of the sheriff and police officers were not used in the crime. But the FBI did not test personal firearms of any law enforcement officers, or the guns of any local citizens. No fingerprints were found on the placards. After various investigations of about a month, no suspects could be found, and the case was not pursued.”
“Have you reached any conclusions?”
“No conclusions, just a lot of questions based on the gaps in the official story.”
“For example?”
“For example, the population at the time was about 16,000. Probably about 20 percent black.”
“So?”
“Two things. First, everybody knew everybody else. People talk. It’s hard to imagine that at the time nobody knew who did it, both in the white community and in the black. Even if they weren’t involved, the sheriff must have known, and the mayor must have known. My house growing up where you helped with the party? Two doors down from the mayor’s widow. The neighborhood children all called her Granny Jacobs growing up, and I was in the same grade as her grandson, who lived around the corner.
“Basically, everybody thirty years older than me growing up would have known what happened, but nobody ever talked about it. Growing up I never heard there had been lynchings…”
“Murders.”
“Yes, ma’am, murders.”
“I never knew of the murders until about 2000, and then only because I got curious as an adult. By then it was too late to ask most of the people who had been alive. I could have asked Simp, for example. I have not been living in Tallahassee since 1980, but you agreed to see me, so I made this trip.”
“Anything else?”
“Too much to keep straight, really. I looked up a few things. In 1937 there were about 340,000 cars in all of Florida. With a population of only 16,000, Tallahassee could not have had more than about four thousand cars. How could the police not be able to narrow down the vigilantes’ vehicle? All vehicles then had to be registered. Why were there no fingerprints on the placards? Did the racist placard writers know to wear gloves? What happened to the cop who was stabbed? The newspapers said he was released from the hospital the same day. It must have been a pretty superficial wound. Did he really get stabbed?
“And then the whole story with the jailer, who had to first be abducted to go to the police station where jail keys were kept, then go back to the jail to abduct the boys. The jailer never identified any voices and didn’t know what kind of car it was.”
“And?”
“The jailer said there was ‘a car’ with four masked men. So, the four men and the two prisoners fit into one car? I looked this up. In 1937 most cars held four or five people, and a fewer number of cars seated six. Since all the cars had to be registered, you could narrow down the number of suspects from the registrations. Why didn’t they check that?
“Does anybody seriously believe they did not have a whole crew of people in cars waiting for the lynching? And they just stop investigating after a month? I mean, Jesus Christ…”
McArdle was afraid he had blasphemed.
“Don’t worry, Mr. McArd…I mean Sam. I am a bit of an atheist. You didn’t offend me. You were going to say?”
“You had the sheriff, the chief of police, and the county prosecutor who interrogated two teenagers. Of course this was the 1930s, but no attorney present. That is the public record of the arrest and aftermath. Then there was the whole cult of lynching. How were those boys going to survive against those odds?”
McArdle stopped. He thought Miss Jasmine might interject “murders” again, but she didn’t. Whale had gotten comfortable on the floor and was snoring.
“So, in 2020 you decide to interview a hundred-year-old lady to see what she remembers. Well, if you let me get both of us a glass of water, I can tell you what I know.”