Race Against Time

Auteur

Jerry Mitchell has been a reporter in Mississippi since 1986. A winner of more than 30 national awards, Mitchell is the founder of the Mississippi Center for Investigative Reporting. The nonprofit is continuing his work of exposing injustices and raising up a new generation of investigative reporters.

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"For almost two decades, investigative journalist Jerry Mitchell doggedly pursued the Klansmen responsible for some of the most notorious murders of the civil rights movement. This book is his amazing story. Thanks to him, and to courageous prosecutors, witnesses, and FBI agents, justice finally prevailed." —John Grisham, author of The Guardians

On June 21, 1964, more than twenty Klansmen murdered three civil rights workers. The killings, in what would become known as the "Mississippi Burning" case, were among the most brazen acts of violence during the civil rights movement. And even though the killers' identities, including the sheriff's deputy, were an open secret, no one was charged with murder in the months and years that followed.

It took forty-one years before the mastermind was brought to trial and finally convicted for the three innocent lives he took. If there is one man who helped pave the way for justice, it is investigative reporter Jerry Mitchell.

In Race Against Time, Mitchell takes readers on the twisting, pulse-racing road that led to the reopening of four of the most infamous killings from the days of the civil rights movement, decades after the fact. His work played a central role in bringing killers to justice for the assassination of Medgar Evers, the firebombing of Vernon Dahmer, the 16th Street Church bombing in Birmingham and the Mississippi Burning case. Mitchell reveals how he unearthed secret documents, found long-lost suspects and witnesses, building up evidence strong enough to take on the Klan. He takes us into every harrowing scene along the way, as when Mitchell goes into the lion's den, meeting one-on-one with the very murderers he is seeking to catch. His efforts have put four leading Klansmen behind bars, years after they thought they had gotten away with murder.

Race Against Time is an astonishing, courageous story capturing a historic race for justice, as the past is uncovered, clue by clue, and long-ignored evils are brought into the light. This is a landmark book and essential reading for all Americans.

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Chapter 1

1

The Ford station wagon topped a hill before disappearing into the darkness. Mickey Schwerner drove, deep in thought. Fellow New Yorker Andy Goodman propped his body against the passenger door, drifting off to sleep. Mississippi native James Chaney, the lone African-American, swallowed hard, shifting in the backseat.

Two cars and a pickup truck raced to catch up. Schwerner spotted them in his rearview mirror. “Uh-oh.”

The noise woke Goodman. “What is it? What do they want?”

Schwerner rolled down the window and stuck out his arm, motioning for the car to pass. “Is it a cop?”

Goodman gazed back. “I can’t see.”

The car crunched into the wagon, and Schwerner wondered aloud if their pursuers were playing a joke.

“They ain’t playin’,” Chaney said. “You better believe it.”

Metal and glass smashed again. “What are we going to do?” Goodman asked.

Schwerner told his fellow civil rights workers to hold on. He jerked the wagon off the blacktop onto a dirt road, sending up a swirl of dust. His pursuers weren’t shaken. Instead, they flipped on police lights and began to close the distance again.

Schwerner spotted the crimson glow in his rearview mirror and cursed. “It is a cop.”

Goodman advised, “Better stop.”

“Okay, sit tight, you guys. Don’t say anything. Let me talk.”

Schwerner turned to Chaney. “We’ll be all right. Just relax.”

The wagon squeaked to a stop. Doors opened and slammed shut, interrupting a chorus of frogs.

Flashlights bathed them in light. A Klansman with a crew cut told Schwerner, “Y’all think you can drive any speed you want around here?”

“You had us scared to death, man,” Schwerner replied.

“Don’t you call me ‘man,’ Jew-boy.”

“No, sir, what should I call you?”

“Don’t call me nothing, nigger-lovin’ Jew-boy. You just listen.”

“Yes, sir.”

The crew cut moved closer to the driver and sniffed. “Hell, you’re even startin’ to smell like a nigger, Jew-boy.”

Schwerner reassured Goodman, “We’ll be all right.”

“Sure you will, nigger lover.”

“He seen your face,” a fellow Klansman advised. “That ain’t good. You don’t want him seein’ your face.”

“Oh,” the crew cut replied, “it don’t make no difference no more.”

He pressed his pistol against Schwerner’s temple and pulled the trigger. Blood spattered against Goodman. “Oh, shit, we’re into it now, boys,” one Klansman said.

Three shots echoed in the night air.

“You only left me a nigger, but at least I shot me a nigger,” another Klansman said with a chuckle, joining a choir of laughter.

Everything went dark. White letters spelled out on a black screen: “Mississippi, 1964.”

I was one of several dozen people watching the film Mississippi Burning tonight, squeezed inside a theater where coarse blue fabric covered metal chairs. Nothing distinguished this movie house from thousands of other multiplexes across America. Except, of course, that this was not just any place.

This was Mississippi—a place where some of the nation’s poorest people live on some of the world’s richest soil, a place with the nation’s highest illiteracy rate and some of the world’s greatest writers. Decades earlier, Mississippi had bragged in tourist brochures about being “The Hospitality State.” What it failed to mention was it led the nation in the lynchings of African-Americans between the Civil War and the civil rights movement.

Through newspaper photographs and television news, Americans had witnessed the brutality in Mississippi for themselves. In spring 1963, they saw police dogs attack civil rights workers in Greenwood. Months later, they observed the trail of blood left by NAACP leader Medgar Evers when he was assassinated in the driveway of his Jackson home. During the summer of 1964, Americans watched sailors tromp through swamps in search of the three missing civil rights workers, Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner, who were last seen leaving the small town of Philadelphia, Mississippi.

For forty-four days, the drama unfolded before the nation. Mississippi’s US senator Jim Eastland told President Lyndon B. Johnson that he believed the missing trio were part of a “publicity stunt,” and Mississippi governor Paul Johnson Jr. suggested they “could be in Cuba.” Days before the FBI unearthed their bodies on August 4, 1964, the governor spoke at the Neshoba County Fair, just two miles from that grisly discovery. He told the cheering crowd there were hundreds of people missing in Harlem, and “somebody ought to find them.”

The killings came to define what the world thought of Mississippi, and no subsequent events had dislodged it by the time I came here in 1986 as the lowliest of reporters for the Pulitzer Prize–winning newspaper The Clarion-Ledger. I arrived the day before my twenty-seventh birthday, the same day the paper carried a story about the burial of Senator Eastland, the longtim…