the right side of the tracks, a bell began to toll, slowly at first and then with increasing vigor as it summoned the white population to services. From the wrong side of the tracks, the breeze carried the strong chords of a piano.
We followed the music, drawn to a large white wooden-frame building with a simple steeple at the corner of two sandy streets. The church sagged from age but the exterior was freshly painted and the lawn neatly mowed. A sign identified it as the Mt. Moriah House of Prayer, pastored by the Reverend Clifford Grace. The front door was open and we could see the backs of the people in the congregation and, up front, two high-backed altar chairs covered in red velvet. Behind the chairs on risers fourteen members of the purple-robed choir—men and women, young and old, black—swayed as they sang “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.”
I had seen this scene before, but only in my mind. When I was little, my family would drive from Detroit to Florida for a week at the beach and on Sunday we would leave at the crack of dawn to drive home. Dad would fiddle with the radio as he drove, discovering each year that on Sunday mornings in the South, church was the only thing broadcast. With pianos, electric guitars, and singers and preachers that sounded like they meant it, black church services were much more entertaining than white. I would close my eyes as we listened, trying to picture the small country churches, their preachers, and their choirs.
By the time the choir finished with “Home is Over Jordan,” I was home, in the station wagon with Mom and Dad in the front and Luke and me in the back, rolling northward as we listened to gospel music, the car filled with the smell of Thermos coffee and smoke from unfiltered Chesterfields.
Brad and I walked in quietly and slid into a back pew. A few members of the congregation turned our way and nodded—an old women in a lavender dress and an ornate flowered hat; a teenage boy in a bright blue athletic warm-up suit; a teenage girl with a gravity-defying swirl of hair; a man in a suit; a farmer in a threadbare jacket and boots.
I picked up a Popsicle-stick fan with a picture of a radiant brown-haired, blue-eyed Jesus on one side and the words “Courtesy of Short & Sons Mortuary” emblazoned on the back. Except for Jesus, Brad and I were the only white people in the place. A tall, lanky man in purple liturgical robes rose from one of the altar chairs, partially blocking my view.
“Thank you and praise Jesus for the magnificent choir,” he boomed, leading the congregation in applause. When the clapping died, he said, “Before we end today we’ll follow our custom of sharing our joys and concerns. Joys and Concerns, brothers and sisters.” He stroked his salt-and-pepper beard and motioned to someone I couldn’t see.
“My joy is that I’d like to ask our church youth basketball team to stand up because they won the league championship last Saturday up at Bamberg,” said a woman. A round of applause and I saw the teenager in the athletic suit stand shyly.
A middle-aged woman near the front stood. “My concern is for my great aunt in Cincinnati who is in the hospital with surgery. I ask that the church pray for her.” She sat.
The preacher pointed to a woman in the congregation. “I ask your prayers for my daughter Delicia and her kids in New York and that things get worked out with her boyfriend,” she said.
A man in a blue suit stood. “I praise Jesus that the Men’s Association chicken dinner raised six hundred fifty-eight dollars last Saturday night for new robes for the choir.”
And so it went. A joy about a son’s promotion in the Army; a concern about an ill parent; a joy about a new baby; a concern about a nephew in jail; a joy that Reverend Jesse Jackson was running for president; a concern about “the way things are up in Columbia.” And then one that caused my heart to race: “I ask your prayers to give me strength to find justice for my loving son Wallace.”
“Amen!” the congregation resounded.
When the service was over, the minister greeted us at the door. If he was surprised to see two white men among his worshipers, he didn’t show it. He smiled a huge smile and extended his hand. “Welcome to a day the Lord hath made,” he said. “I am the Reverend Clifford Grace.”
“I’m Brad Hall. This is Matt Harper. I don’t believe we’ve met but I live at Windrow. My family—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Hall,” Rev. Grace interrupted.
“Reverend, I’m sure it’s a surprise for you to see us here.” Grace didn’t react. Brad continued, “We’ve come because we could use your help.”
“On Wallace Sampson,” Grace said.
“How’d you know?”
Grace laughed. “Mary Pell is a member here.”
“I’m surprised she brought it up,” Brad said.
“Word gets around. Mr. Hall, it’s been years since Wallace was killed. Rumors get started. People make guesses about who did it. And every Sunday, Etta Mae Sampson reminds us of a mother’s pain. It’s a poison in Hirtsboro, a devil that won’t be exorcised. So, it’s not a surprise when black people want to know who killed Wallace Sampson. But when a white man does, especially a Hall, that’s something different.”
“Were you here when it happened?” I asked.
“I was.”
“Would you tell me about it?”
“Later.” Reverend Grace glanced at his watch. “Right now, I’ve got to get on over to the county jail.” He smiled. “Services for the prisoners.”
As we left, Reverend Grace pointed out Etta Mae Sampson’s white-frame house a block away.
For reporters, going to see the family of someone who has died comes with the territory. I have had to do it maybe half a dozen times. Once you’re there, it often ends up being not as bad as it sounds. For one thing, survivors and family members usually want to talk. It helps them remember the dead and process their own grief. The other thing is that whatever you’re asking them to do is a lot easier than what they’ve just been through. After you’ve actually lost a parent or a spouse or a child, how bad can talking about it really be?
Somehow all that logic never makes it any easier, though, and I was nervous as we knocked on the door of Etta Mae Sampson’s house. Potted red geraniums were positioned on either side of the front door. A woman in her fifties, her dark hair pulled into a neat bun, came to the door but stayed behind the screen. Mrs. Sampson was still dressed for church in her purple dress and matching shoes.
“Mrs. Sampson, I’m Brad Hall and this is Matt Harper. I live at Windrow and Matt is a newspaper reporter up in Charlotte. I’m sorry to intrude. Mrs. Sampson, I’m wondering if we could ask you about Wallace.”
“My Wallace?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did someone send you?”
“No, ma’am. We’re here on our own. Matt is writing a story about what happened.”
Not so fast, I thought, but kept quiet.
“Mary Pell works for you,” she said to Brad.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I know who you are.”
She turned to me. I was prepared to produce my press card but Mrs. Sampson didn’t ask. Instead, she said, “I don’t understand. Why now? What kind of story?”
I could have told her that Brad’s explanation that I was doing a story wasn’t exactly right, that Brad was the driving force and, at this point, I was still along for the ride, just taking a sniff, as those in the investigative reporting trade say. It’s a Cardinal Rule that you never promise anybody there will be a story. There’s just too much that can go wrong—from leads that don’t pan out, to fresh news breaking, to production mistakes, to idiot editors. Every reporter has had the experience of going home at night with every assurance his story was going to appear and maybe even on the front page only to search through the next day’s