Spies of Mississippi Page 3

  Agent Van Landingham began working up an investigation, relying on the initial groundwork provided by a confidential investigator code-named T1. The exhaustive probe examined Kennard’s childhood in Hattiesburg, his upbringing in Chicago, his years in the military, in college, and on the farm. The agents interviewed his friends, teachers, ministers, and business associates and sent a bank examiner to the Citizens’ Bank of Hattiesburg to inspect his accounts. The search turned up nothing that undercut his application. “Persons who know Kennard describe him as intelligent, well educated, quiet spoken, courteous with a desire to better the Negro race,” Van Landingham reported.

  The investigators were so intent on finding damning information that their reports presented the most mundane facts with sinister implication. The agents noted that as a student Kennard joined the Progressive Citizens’ Club and the German Club. Furthermore, “the files of confidential agent T1 reflect that Clyde Kennard has no middle name.”

  With little to go on, Van Landingham paid a visit to Dudley W. Conner, head of the White Citizens’ Council of Hattiesburg. Without prodding, Conner offered to have his Council henchmen “take care of [Kennard].” When pressed by the investigator on the meaning behind that menacing statement, Conner explained, “Kennard’s car could be hit by a train or he could have some accident on the highway and no one would ever know the difference.”

  As an alternative to the Council’s extreme approach, Van Landingham devised a more moderate plan to pressure Kennard to drop his application. As part of that plan, Governor Coleman invited Kennard to a meeting in Jackson and offered to get him into a segregated Negro college or even an integrated university in the North. Short of that, the governor appealed to Kennard to hold off on his application until the controversy over it “cooled down,” maybe after the next election.

  Van Landingham also organized a committee of influential black educators to lobby Kennard to drop his application. The educators agreed to make the case in exchange for the governor’s support for a state-funded Negro junior college in Hattiesburg. Pleading with Kennard to take back the application, they warned that his attempt to become the first black admitted to an all-white college could undercut black schools and lead to trouble, even bloodshed.

  Kennard refused to back down. Now, for him, it was a matter of principle. He even questioned the role of the investigators on his trail. “Is it the integrationists or segregationists who are employing secret investigators to search records?” he asked.

  The fateful meeting between Kennard and Mississippi Southern president McCain was set for Tuesday, September 14, 1959, at 9:30 a.m. The entire meeting lasted just 20 minutes. McCain and Van Landingham implored Kennard to give up, but he politely held his ground. Then Mississippi Southern admissions director Aubrey Lucas was called into the office to hand Kennard the official letter of rejection, which claimed that his University of Chicago transcripts were incomplete and that his physical examination records had been altered, proving that he lacked the moral character to attend the prestigious college.

  Kennard was escorted out of the office and back toward his car. In the distance he saw two campus police officers standing next to his vehicle. Constables Charlie Ward and Lee Daniels confronted him, accused him of speeding through the campus, and placed him under arrest for reckless driving. As one of the constables took Kennard into custody, the other apparently opened the station wagon and planted five half-pints of liquor under the front seat. Later that day, Kennard was charged with reckless driving and possession of liquor. At that time Mississippi was a dry state, and possessing liquor was technically illegal even though it was sold openly and was widely available.

  After learning of the arrest, Van Landingham called the governor’s office with the news. He told Coleman’s administrative assistant, “It appeared to be a frame up with the planting of evidence in his car.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE SAVIOR OF SEGREGATION

  Throughout his campaign for governor, Ross Barnett traveled the state stoking the fears of small-town white voters with racially charged stump speeches. His voice moved from soft cadence to rolling thunder as he warned that their “cherished way of life” was being threatened by the “integrationists, agitators, subversives, and race mixers.” “I am a Mississippi segregationist and proud of it,” Barnett said to wild cheers. The crowds whooped, stomped their feet, and shouted back, “You tell ‘em, Ross.”

  Barnett had lost two previous campaigns for governor, but this time he had an added advantage. The successful private attorney and former Klansman had been handpicked and endorsed by the White Citizens’ Council, which had become a powerful political force in the state in a few short years. In fact, as Barnett picked up the pace of his campaign in 1959, the Council had more than 200 chapters with more than 80,000 members in Mississippi.

  On the campaign trail, Barnett zeroed in on the federal government. The 1954 Supreme Court school desegregation ruling had been just the beginning of a steady federal assault on segregation. The U.S. Justice Department had formed a special division to make sure the states enforced a growing body of civil rights laws. Congress was considering sweeping new legislation to mandate integration in public buildings, parks, and playgrounds and to ban racial discrimination in the workplace. Furthermore, a young, liberal Massachusetts congressman named John F. Kennedy was running for President. For the first time, a viable candidate for the nation’s highest office was courting the black vote. Barnett knew change was coming. He also knew that fear of that change was his ticket to power.

  Barnett told voters that the national politicians were trampling on Mississippi’s right to govern itself. His campaign workers even nailed posters to telephone poles in small towns warning that only he could stop “the occupation forces from the N.A.A.C.P. and the specially trained goon squads from the Justice Department.”

  With his arms waving and his voice trembling, he pledged that no public school, park, swimming pool, or restroom would be integrated on his watch. And in the end, this fierce segregationist, with a flair for drama that would become his hallmark, summed up his position on integration with one word: “Never!” Standing on the campaign stage, he would proclaim segregation forever, and his hillbilly band would break into song, “He’s for segregation one hundred percent / He’s not a moderate, like some other gent.”

  Barnett also criticized departing governor Coleman for failing to use the Commission to neutralize the enemy. The fact that Barnett had no knowledge of the Commission’s secret operations didn’t stop him from charging the segregation watchdogs with sleeping on the job.

  Since Governor Coleman was ineligible to run for a consecutive second term under state law, Lieutenant Governor J. Carroll Gartin opposed Barnett in the key Democratic primary. And since the Republican Party had no viable candidate to run in the general election, the winner of the Democratic primary was certain to become governor. Gartin, a moderate on race in the Coleman tradition, could not rile up as much segregationist fervor as his demagogic rival. By the time the primary was held in August 1959, Barnett was gaining momentum, and he ended up winning by a comfortable margin. Upon hearing the news of Barnett’s victory, outgoing Governor Coleman said, “May the good Lord help us for the next four years.” With that, Ross Barnett rode a wave of white fear into the governor’s mansion.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE CLANDESTINE WAR

  “At all costs.” Ross Barnett used that phrase to describe the lengths to which he would go in his efforts to preserve segregation in his native state. Delivering his inaugural address on a cold, gray day in January 1960, the new governor struck a tone of determination and defiance.

  “You know and I know,” he reassured his fellow white citizens, “that we will maintain segregation in Mississippi at all costs.” The small-town boy who dreamed of growing up to become an important man had realized his greatest ambition. Barnett would relish the architectural excesses of the governor’s mansion (he would install gold-plated fixtur
es in the bathrooms). He would take pride in the State Capitol Building, with its 16 different kinds of marble and its bronze statue of former governor and U.S. senator Theodore Bilbo, an openly racist and corrupt powermonger who proudly referred to himself as the Man.

  Now Ross Barnett was the new man—and his rise to power proved that classic race baiting could still win elections in the Magnolia State.

  After settling in to his office, Barnett received regular status reports, investigative memos, and personal briefings on the Commission and attended regular meetings of its governing board. The new governor expected the spies to wage a real clandestine war against the civil rights movement. But how? He had no set of directions for building a secret police force and no owner’s manual for running a covert spy network. He was just a hardworking and successful farmer-turned-lawyer from the farming hamlet of Standing Pine.

  One of ten sons of a Confederate Civil War veteran, Barnett had grown up vying for attention and developed an obsessive dream of wearing fine suits, making important speeches, and being in the limelight. He had worked his way through law school, built a successful law practice, and become president of the Mississippi Bar Association. Finally he rose to power as a classic white supremacist who once proclaimed, “God is the ultimate segregationist. He made the white man white and the Negro black and never intended them to mix.”

  But behind his back, people did not always give Barnett the respect he longed for. He was often mocked as a chronic bumbler, and his actions frequently added to the snickers. Speaking at a breakfast meeting with Jewish community leaders at a local synagogue, he thanked the members of B’nai Brith for joining him in “fine Christian fellowship.” He once injured himself on an airport tarmac by stepping into the whirling propeller blade of his own campaign airplane. He would become the only governor to name two Miss Americas honorary colonels in the Mississippi National Guard. Barnett liked to say, “I love mockingbirds, Miss Americas, and Mississippi.”

  Barnett’s antics hid his raw intelligence, ambition, and persistence in his quest for power. He knew how to charm his friends and disarm his enemies with his courtly demeanor, down-home storytelling, quick wit, and lowbrow humor. He also knew how power worked and applied that knowledge to transforming the Commission. With the support of the state legislature, he doubled the Commission’s budget and increased its staff. He fired an investigator who had chafed at Barnett’s campaign claim of the Commission’s foot-dragging, which had sent a clear message that the “moderate” course of the Coleman years was over. Barnett also stacked the Commission board with political allies who shared his views on race. Through his first year in office, Barnett and his allies took several steps to transform the agency into a more effective weapon of information war.

  Step 1: Enlist Powerful Allies

  In a controversial move, Barnett pressed state officials to allow the Commission to funnel taxpayer dollars directly into the coffers of the White Citizens’ Council. The Commission funding would begin at $5,000 a month for a speakers’ program and total more than $200,000 over a number of years—more than $1.8 million in today’s currency. And with the added legitimacy of public funding, the Council would position itself as a quasi-official arm of state government as it pushed its way into other state agencies, acquired confidential government information, collaborated with law enforcement, and demanded more and more power.

  Step 2: Know Your Enemies

  The Commission added a new director of investigations and a number of new agents to its roster while increasing its use of private detective agencies and “special” freelance operatives. The typical investigator was a former FBI agent or state police investigator with surveillance experience and a commitment to segregation. Under Barnett, the agents’ investigative tactics became more aggressive and their reports increasingly mean-spirited, reflecting their personal opposition to integration and their disdain for their adversaries.

  Step 3: Dehumanize the Opposition

  The revitalized team immediately launched an extensive “subversive hunt,” investigating private citizens for criticizing state officials, belonging to liberal organizations, or supporting unpopular causes. A report issued in March 1961 noted that investigations were being launched against people who were merely speaking out, people whose “utterances or actions indicate they should be watched with suspicion of future racial attitudes.”

  The investigative files increasingly referred to the opposition as agitators, subversives, beatniks, do-gooders, and Communists. The communist tag was the most potent weapon even though it had been several years since the fall from grace of U.S. senator Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin, whose finger-pointing ruined reputations, wrecked careers, and led to his expulsion from the Senate. In Mississippi, a person accused of being a communist was prejudged a supporter of the Soviet Union at a time when that totalitarian, nuclear-armed nation was aligning its allies against the United States.

  Step 4: Control the Media

  Barnett named his former campaign publicist Erle Johnston the Commission’s public relations director. The former newspaper reporter, editor, and publisher had solid ties to journalists in the Mississippi press. He also knew how the national media worked and had connections at national news services in Washington, D.C., and TV networks in New York. Johnston was the perfect choice to work both sides of the story. He would adeptly paint the Commission as a benign public relations operation representing the positive side of race relations in the state. Behind the scenes, he would fine-tune the propaganda bible, emphasizing the soft sell of segregation. “This is a selling job and it cannot be done by waving red flags or using emotional approaches,” he advised. “Facts, situations, and an appeal for understanding will be more effective in gaining support for the South.”

  Johnston expanded the propaganda package to include carefully crafted speeches, articles by black segregationists, and a 27-minute film entitled The Message of Mississippi, which “showed in scenes and interviews the racial harmony that exists among the vast majorities of each race.”

  Step 5: Set Moral Standards

  The revitalized team launched a campaign to remove “subversive” books from the shelves of schools and public libraries. The Commission’s education and information unit listed books that contained sections on desegregation or labor organizations as unacceptable and suggested replacing them with books that advocated segregation and white supremacy. At dozens of colleges and high schools, it presented programs detailing the evils of communism and loaned books, films, and speeches on racial separation and white supremacy to young readers.

  CHAPTER 9

  NEVER, NEVER LAND

  Federal judge John Minor Wisdom coined a phrase for the political climate in Mississippi. Wisdom said that segregationist policy was crafted and defended in the “eerie atmosphere of never never land.” A swipe at the segregationist cries of “Never,” the remark also referred to James M. Barrie’s classic children’s novel Peter Pan, where children are led into a bizarre fantasy world—an alternate reality. The comparison to Mississippi was apropos. The deep racial divide, widespread poverty, and isolation kept Mississippi in a sort of social time warp. Mississippi had no major cosmopolitan center like Atlanta, New Orleans, or Memphis, where large newspapers carried competing points of view and major universities debated new ideas. When commercial airliners circled to land at the Jackson airport, pilots playfully instructed passengers to fasten their seat belts and set their watches back 50 years.

  The fundamentals of segregation only began to describe the complicated world that Mississippians—approximately 55 percent white and 45 percent black—had to navigate at the time. A black woman was allowed to shop in a white-owned department store but could not try on clothes because the dressing rooms were reserved for whites only. A black child could be admitted into a public hospital but could not play with white children in the waiting area of the pediatrics ward. Black men and women were expected to respect white people at all times but were not to be a
ddressed as Mr., Mrs., or Miss by whites. Both whites and blacks loved to attend the big event of the year: the Mississippi State Fair. It lasted for two weeks each summer—one week for white patrons and one week for “colored” patrons. These complex lines had to be understood and adhered to or very carefully sidestepped.

  As the civil rights crusaders pressed for change, the white power structure pulled back hard to maintain the lines of demarcation. And with Barnett in the governor’s office, the state moved toward an even stronger form of white resistance, doling out punishment to anyone who was found to be crossing the color line.

  The harsher tactics also played a role in the continuing saga of Clyde Kennard, the military veteran who had been denied admission to all-white Mississippi Southern College. Kennard, who had been framed by the police for possession of liquor, soon found himself in another run-in with the law. This chapter in the saga began when the Forrest County Cooperative warehouse was burglarized. The day before, 19-year-old Johnny Lee Roberts had been loading trucks and had purposely left a door to the warehouse unlocked. The next morning, Roberts reentered the building and stole five bags of chicken feed worth $25. In short order, police grilled and arrested Roberts. Under pressure to confess, Roberts claimed that his friend, Clyde Kennard, had put him up to it.

  Police searched Kennard’s farm and came back with a couple of empty feed bags. Kennard was charged as an accomplice to burglary—a felony. On the witness stand, Roberts gave a meandering, hard-to-follow account of the robbery that confused even the district attorney. Still, it took an all-white jury only ten minutes to hand down guilty verdicts. Roberts got a suspended sentence, and the co-op rehired him. Kennard, by contrast, was sentenced to the maximum penalty—seven years of hard labor at the notorious Mississippi State Penitentiary at Parchman.