He could see into the man’s seething mind and knew he could influence the man to do what was required.
The man’s name was BJ Walker.
BJ Walker
Biloxi, Mississippi - 1967
“Them dang niggers, spics, and kikes think they’s good as us. What do you say, BJ?”
BJ Walker didn’t say anything. He was thinking. For the last two hours, BJ had been drinking beer with his two best friends, Wallace Killibrew and Luke Johnson. They had known each other all their lives, and had spent many hours at this place where shady trees hung over the Gulf waters. Luke’s old Ford pickup was parked on the road about twenty yards up a grassy slope. A pyramid of empty beer cans sat on a flat concrete cover protecting an iron valve which controlled the flow of waste through a large corrugated pipe extending ten feet into the Gulf of Mexico.
Wallace, a small, mean drunk with a glass eye wanted an answer. “I said what do you say, BJ?”
“I say I’m thinking, Wallace. I’m thinking that maybe God don’t want us to just stand by and watch what’s rightfully ours turned over to New York Jews and spics and darkies that think they’s white. That’s what I think.”
“Damn right, BJ.”
Luke, a fat, pimply high school dropout from a well-to-do family said, “What we gonna do, BJ?”
“Shut up, Luke,” said Wallace. “BJ’s thinking. What we gonna do, BJ?”
“I don’t know, yet. But it’s coming. Right now, I think we should have us some fun. Let’s go find us somebody.”
There was a whoop from Wallace as they headed up the slope to Luke’s truck. Wallace grabbed the remaining six pack and started kicking Luke’s backside as the overweight boy struggled up the slope.
“Get your fat rump agoin’, boy. We gonna have some fun!”
When Wallace and Luke finally reached the truck, BJ was standing by the passenger door. “We’ll head north and see what we find.”
Luke got behind the wheel and Wallace got in the middle. BJ was on the passenger side in the coveted “shotgun” position. He never had to call it the way the rest of America did. He was the undisputed leader - the position was his.
It was about two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon and the Blacks were headed home from church. The three friends would travel far enough away from Biloxi so folks wouldn’t know them. They would find someone alone and do what they wanted. If they were lucky, they’d find a young girl and have their way with her. If not, beating the daylights out of some young buck would be just fine.
They drove until they saw two Black teenagers, a boy and a girl, walking in the same direction as the truck. The boy was walking closest to the road. BJ reached behind the seat and retrieved a baseball bat. “Slow down and get me close enough to smack this nigger’s head with this bat.”
Luke was scared and didn’t want to do this, but he didn’t think he had a choice because BJ and Wallace were his only friends. As they approached the couple, Luke slowed down. BJ leaned out the window and swung the bat. Luke heard the sickening thud of the bat and BJ yelled, “Stop!” The truck skidded to a stop on the gravel road. Opening the door and jumping out, BJ raised the bat over his head and pointed it toward heaven. “Glory be to God!” he yelled. “I done got me a nigger!”
Wallace got out of the truck and started jumping up and down and dancing some bizarre jig. Luke was petrified. He looked back and saw the boy laying face down in the dirt. The girl was kneeling over him, trying to get him up so they could run, her young face a mass of hysteria. Luke had never seen such unadulterated fear before. He got out of the truck and just watched.
BJ, holding the bat over his shoulder as if he were ready to take a practice swing, was walking toward the girl. The girl was screaming, “Get up, Johnny, get up! Get up!”
Wallace was hunched over like some troll with both hands forward, wiggling his fingers. He was circling BJ and still kicking up his legs. He kept repeating in a singsong voice. “Come on, little girl. We’s got sumpin for yous. Indeeds we do!”
When BJ and Wallace got within fifteen feet of the couple, the girl, still crying in uncontrollable fear, bolted into a corn field, screaming, “Help me, help me!”
BJ pointed the bat at her and yelled, “Wallace, go get her!” Wallace ran after the girl, still bent over like some animal. Luke and BJ could hear him howl as he raced down the corn rows.
BJ bent over the boy to check if he was still alive. He was, even though blood trickled from back of his head and mixed with the Mississippi dust. BJ’s swing was not too hard. He had aimed for the top of the boy’s head, hoping just to knock him out and not kill him. The back of the boy’s clean white shirt had red specks of blood and his face was turned away from the road.
“He’s still alive,” said BJ. “Good. Better not to kill them. Law gets a mite mad if you kill them. You hurt them, they don’t do much.”
The howling in the cornfield stopped and they heard Wallace yell, “I gots her! I gots her!Come on boys. We’s gonna have some fun now!”
“Bring her here, Wallace,” yelled BJ.
They could hear the girl screaming and Wallace whooping. The sound became louder until they saw the two appear between the rows. Her lip was split where Wallace had hit her and her blouse was also ripped open where Wallace had done some preliminary work.
“Here she be, BJ, all young and tender.”
The girl was still screaming and trying to get away. BJ walked up to her, bunched his fist, and hit her square in the face. Her nose spurted blood and she fell unconscious. “There,” he said, “that’s better. Tie her in the back of the truck and let’s go.”
Wallace was still whooping and jumping. “What about this here buck, BJ? Do we kill him now?”
“No. Leave him be. Luke, give Wallace a hand.”
Luke hesitated. “I ain’t sure I want to do this, BJ.”
BJ started toward Luke, “You better do what I say if you don’t want me to knock them pimples off your face. Now, get going!”
Luke moved toward the unconscious girl and BJ aimed a kick at Luke’s backside. “Hurry up!”
Luke and Wallace put the girl in the truck bed. There was some rope in the truck bed Luke used to tie up his dogs and Wallace took it and tied the girl’s hands and feet. When she was secured, Wallace groped her and muttered, “Oh, goodness. Oh, goodness.”
“Wallace, you ride in back with the nigger. Luke, you drive. Let’s go.”
Wallace whooped. “Ya think she’s a virgin, BJ? I’m betting she is.”
“Get your hands up before I blow your head clean off!”
The voice came from behind them. They looked backed and saw three Black men, one had a cocked eight-gauge shotgun and two had small-bore rifles. The shotgun was aiming at BJ. Wallace and Luke had the small bores on them. Two women ran up and started providing care to the boy.
BJ, who still had the bat in his hand, started toward the shotgun. “You ain’t gonna shoot me black boy, now are you?”
Shotgun brought his weapon up to his shoulder. “You darn well better believe I am if you take one step closer. That girl’s my niece, and the boy’s my nephew. And you ain’t going to hurt them no more. Put down the bat, cracker. And do it now.”
BJ looked at Wallace and Luke. They were frozen under the beads of the rifles. “Do it, BJ,” said Wallace, “or they’ll kill us sure.”
“My daughter seen you,” said Shotgun. “She come and told me what you was doing. I got my two grown sons and we come running.