“That’s so. That’s so,” agreed the judge, but the doubt had not been dispelled from his voice nor removed from his face. He removed his cigar from his mouth, viewed its mangled appearance through much chewing upon it, threw it with an expression of disgust out of the window, narrowly missing a man passing in the street below. He chuckled as he placed a fresh cigar in his mouth.
“ ’Taint no harm in trying, though,” he said, half to himself.
“Besides, our plan is to enlist the support of every white man in the county who stands for something,” went on Kenneth, eager to gain the old man as a staunch ally. “We know there’ll be opposition from some of the landlords and merchants and bankers who are making money off this system, but we figure there are enough decent white people here to help us through. …”
“Mebbe so. Mebbe so,” replied the judge, though there was a distinct note of doubt in his voice now. “I wouldn’t be too sure, though. I wouldn’t be too sure.”
“But, Judge—” interrupted Kenneth. The judge silenced him with a movement of his hand.
“Ken, have you ever thought out what a decent white man goes through with in a town like Central City? Have you thought what he has to put up with all over the South? There ain’t a whole lot of them, but just figure what’d happen to a white man today who tried to do anything about cleaning up this rotten state of affairs we got here. Why, he’d be run out of town, if he wasn’t lynched!”
“But, Judge,” began Kenneth again, “take lynching, for example. You know, and I know, and everybody in the South knows that if a Negro is arrested charged with criminal assault on a white woman, if he’s guilty, there isn’t one chance in a million of his going free. Why don’t they bring them to trial and execute them legally instead of hanging and burning them?”
“Why? Why?” The judge repeated the interrogative as though it were a word he had never heard before. “You know, and so do I and all the rest of us here in the South, that nine out of ten cases where these trifling women holler and claim they been raped, they ain’t been no rape. They just got caught and they yelled rape to save their reputations. And they lynch the nigra to hush the matter up.”
Kenneth was amazed at the old man. Not amazed at what he said, for that is common knowledge in the South. He was astounded that even so liberal a man as the judge should frankly admit that which is denied in public but known to be true. He hesitated to press the inquiry further, and thought it expedient to shift the conversation away from such dangerous ground.
“Why don’t men like yourself speak out against the things you know are wrong, Judge?.”
“What would happen to us if we did? Count me out ’cause I’m so old I couldn’t do much. But take right here in Central City the men I’ve talked with just like I’m talking to you. How many of them could say what they really want to? I don’t mean on the race question. I mean on any question—religion, politics—oh—anything at all. Suppose Roy Ewing or any other white man here said he was tired of voting the Democratic ticket and was going to vote Republican or Socialist. Suppose he decided he didn’t believe in the Virgin Birth or that all bad folks were burned eternally in a lake of fire and brimstone after they died. If they didn’t think he was crazy, they’d stop trading with him and all the womenfolks would run from Roy’s wife and daughter like they had the smallpox. That’s the hell of it, Ken. These po’ white trash stopped everybody from talking against lynching nigras, and they’ve stopped us from talking about anything. And far’s I can see, things’re getting worse every day.”
“Couldn’t you organize those white people who think like you do?” asked Kenneth.
“No, that ain’t much use either. It all goes back to the same root—self-interest—how much is it going to cost me? I tell you, Ken, the most tragic figure I know is the white man in the South who wants to be decent. This here system of lynching and covering up their lynching with lying has grown so big that any man who tries to tackle it is beat befo’ he starts. Specially in the little towns. Now in Atlanta there’s some folks can speak out and say most anything they please, but here—” The old lawyer threw out his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.
“Why can’t the South see where their course is leading them?” asked Kenneth. “Suppose there wasn’t a white man in the South who was interested in the Negro. Suppose every white man hated every Negro who lived. Why couldn’t they see even then that they are doing more harm to themselves than they could ever do to the Negro? With all its rich natural resources, with its fertile soil and its wonderful climate, the South is farther behind in civilization than any other part of the United States—or the world, for that matter. Aren’t they ever going to see how they’re hurting themselves by trying to keep the Negro down?”
“That’s just it,” replied the judge. “A man starts out practising cheating in a petty way, and before he knows it he’s crooked all the way through. He starts being mean part of the time, and soon he’s mean all over. Or he tries being kind and decent, and he turns out to be pretty decent. It’s just like a man drinking liquor—first thing he knows, he’s liable to be drunk all the time.”
The judge shifted his cigar to a corner of his mouth and let fly a stream of tobacco juice from the other corner, every drop landing squarely in the box of sawdust some ten feet
