Spies of Mississippi Read online

  Upon arriving on the campus on June 17, X seamlessly blended in to sessions preparing the student activists for the danger ahead. Posing as one of the few black activists from Mississippi, he gained access to sessions on registering voters, dealing with police brutality, and opening the Freedom Schools.

  During one session his friend R. Jess Brown, a black lawyer from Jackson, told the students, “Now get this in your heads and remember what I am going to say. They—the white folk, the police, the state police—they are all waiting for you. They are looking for you. They are ready. They are armed. They know some of your names and your descriptions even now, even before you get to Mississippi.”

  Naturally, Agent X knew that all too well. He was one of the secret operatives making sure that the state was fully prepared. He and his confederates had supplied the Commission with extensive information on Freedom Summer throughout that spring and had filed more extensive reports through his 11 days at the training seminar. He revealed the names, descriptions, and destinations of key activists; the role to be played by volunteer lawyers; the plans of key reporters covering the initiative; and the mounting fears of students destined for hostile territory.

  As X fed the pipeline, the Commission staff worked diligently to prepare the state to repel the invaders. Commission agent Tom Scarborough set up meetings across the state to prepare public officials and civic leaders for the onslaught of northern college students. “The purpose of these meetings has been to organize the city and county officials to work in a coordinated unit to handle the racial agitators who have promised to invade Mississippi this summer,” Scarborough reported. In Lafayette County, Scarborough warned community leaders that the invasion would be led by “communists, sex perverts, odd balls, and do-gooders.” Meeting with a group of newly elected county sheriffs, Scarborough warned the incoming lawmen that many of their counties were destined to be overrun by radicals. The law enforcement community was getting edgy.

  Commission agents also set out to visit sheriff’s offices in all 82 counties to prepare law enforcement officers for potential trouble. The agents provided police with a summary of 19 state laws that could be used to arrest or detain troublemakers. Their goal was to strengthen the hand of county sheriff’s offices statewide, which had been fortified with hundreds of newly deputized auxiliary officers. The police were gearing up for a virtual war with the “outside agitators.”

  As the Commission fueled the fevered preparations, a new development arose. Agent Andy Hopkins had been investigating the intense competition for recruits between violent new factions of the Klan. One night shots were fired into Hopkins’s house, and Klan literature was left in his yard. It appeared that the resurgent Klan was gearing up for war, too. The new Klan was so extreme that it was ready to take on the Commission itself—on top of their common enemy—in defense of white rule.

  The wild swirl of events was cascading out of the control of a state leadership that had changed dramatically over the past six months. Former lieutenant governor Paul Johnson had been elected to succeed his mentor Ross Barnett after running on the slogan “Stand Tall with Paul,” reminding voters of his stand in the schoolhouse door at Ole Miss. Commission director Erle Johnston was advising the new governor on the state’s preparations for Freedom Summer. But as the summer program drew close, Johnston informed his boss of “secret organizations of white people, whose mission apparently is to take laws into their own hands.”

  In fact, the newly formed and violent White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan were entering dozens of recruits in the newly formed auxiliary police units. These Klansmen would not wear hoods and robes to confront the “invaders” instead, they would wear badges and carry state-issued firearms. As Freedom Summer approached, the imperial wizard of the White Knights, Sam Bowers, told his followers, “The first contact with the troops of the enemy in the street should be as legally deputized law enforcement officers.”

  CHAPTER 15

  MARKED MEN

  Michael Schwerner, Andrew Goodman, and James Chaney were at the Freedom Summer training seminar in Ohio, too. As the three young activists listened to lectures, attended workshops, and sang freedom songs, they never imagined that a black segregationist spy was watching, listening, and reporting back to Mississippi. On June 20, 1964, the three climbed into their CORE-issued, blue 1963 Ford Fairlane station wagon and set out for the Magnolia State. The ultimate destination was Mt. Zion Methodist Church in Neshoba County, Mississippi. Three nights earlier, Klansmen had doused the church with kerosene and set it ablaze. The activists wanted to help the congregation rebuild the church to make good on plans to use it as a Freedom School.

  Like many of the Freedom Summer volunteers, Schwerner, Goodman, and Chaney were in their 20s, idealistic, and committed, but they hailed from vastly different backgrounds.

  Michael “Mickey” Schwerner was 24, white, college educated, and married. He was the son of a successful businessman and a high school biology teacher from New York. Mickey sported a trademark goatee and loved sports, rock music, poker, and comedian W. C. Fields. In his application to serve as a CORE organizer, Schwerner vowed to spend the rest of his life working toward an integrated society. He had spent the previous summer registering voters in Meridian, Mississippi.

  Andrew Goodman was a 20-year-old white graduate of a liberal, private high school in New York, who had gone on to study at Queens College. He hailed from an affluent, politically connected family that owned a share of the left-leaning Pacifica radio network. Goodman had a flair for music and acting. He felt that a summer of civil rights work in Mississippi would extend his horizons beyond his privileged background.

  James Chaney was a 21-year-old, poor, black native of Meridian, Mississippi. His mother cleaned houses for white families, and his father had worked construction jobs as a plasterer before he had left the family. As Chaney matured, he recognized the depth of discrimination in his hometown and saw civil rights work as a route out.

  On the afternoon of June 21, 1964, Schwerner, Goodman, and Chaney rolled in to Neshoba County en route to the ruins of the Mt. Zion Methodist Church. Chaney was at the wheel of the station wagon, license number H 25503. The car was already on a watch list at the Neshoba County sheriff’s office. In the wild swirl of events leading up to Freedom Summer, the Commission had sent the information to law enforcement officials across the state, and the White Citizens’ Council had picked it up and circulated it as well. Schwerner was particularly well known to the authorities, given his work registering voters in Meridian the year before. Schwerner was also well known to the White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, whose leaders nicknamed him Goatee and targeted him for death.

  At about 4 p.m., Neshoba County deputy sheriff Cecil Price pulled over the car. Price arrested Chaney for speeding and took all three men to the jail in nearby Philadelphia. As the men sat in their cells, armed Klansmen began gathering outside. At about 10:30 p.m., the police released the three, with the Klansmen still milling on the street. As the activists climbed back into their car and headed out of town, Deputy Price followed in a squad car. The Klansmen were close behind.

  The next day the activists’ burned-out station wagon was found in the Bogue Chitto Swamp outside Philadelphia. There was no sign of the three men. Their disappearance spurred an international media frenzy and a massive search. Even President Johnson got involved, consoling the activists’ families and ordering FBI director J. Edgar Hoover to lead the search. The President also ordered Hoover to take down the Mississippi Klan—once and for all.

  Naturally, the Commission had the situation covered on all sides. Just before his departure from the Ohio training seminar, Agent X had reported that student activists had gotten word of the disappearances and were being flooded with phone calls and telegrams from relatives urging them to withdraw from the project. Commission agent Andy Hopkins had rushed to Philadelphia to monitor events and to shadow the FBI. A former FBI man himself, Hopkins reported that the town was abuzz with rumors that �
�these subjects met with foul play either while in custody of the sheriff or shortly after their release.”

  A few days later Hopkins reported more talk around town: “There are rumors that there is a KKK in Philadelphia and some prominent citizens are members of the Klan.” Despite the talk, Hopkins maintained the view of many locals, who insisted the incident was a publicity stunt designed to grab headlines. Hopkins also complained that FBI agents were elbowing state investigators out of the probe and strong-arming suspects for information. A couple weeks into the investigation, however, Hopkins conceded that the FBI tactics were getting results—particularly their round-the-clock surveillance of suspected Klansmen and their willingness to dole out tens of thousands of dollars for information.

  The search for the missing men went on for six weeks. The FBI dragged swamps and searched woods. The Mississippi Highway Patrol kept watch across the state in the event that the missing men showed up unexpectedly. The Jackson Clarion Ledger speculated that the three “agitators” were probably in “Cuba or another Communist area awaiting their next task.” Then the speculation ended. On August 4, 1964, 44 days after the civil rights workers were last seen alive, FBI agents dug up their bodies, buried deep into an earthen dam on a secluded farm outside Philadelphia. Commission agent Hopkins supplied his bosses with a hand-drawn map showing the burial site, noting that the bodies were discovered 14 feet down.

  The tragic discovery put a worldwide spotlight on Klan violence in Mississippi. But as the headlines and television reports circled the globe, the violence and reprisals against civil rights advocates continued in the Magnolia State. Over the course of the summer, more than 40 black churches were burned and hundreds of activists were jailed. For their part, the Freedom Summer volunteers registered 1,600 new black voters, opened 37 Freedom Schools, and organized a biracial slate of candidates to challenge the Democratic Party regulars at the national convention that fall. The accomplishments were less grand than originally envisioned but significant nonetheless. The tide was turning.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE MAGNOLIA CURTAIN

  During that pivotal summer another historic event loosened the segregationists’ hold on power. Following a filibuster by southern senators, Congress passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964—a fitting tribute to the late President Kennedy and a watershed moment in the history of the civil rights movement. President Johnson signed the bill as part of his program for a Great Society, a vision of a nation free of widespread poverty, ignorance, and injustice. The new law prohibited segregation in places serving the general public, including restaurants, hotels, motels, playgrounds, and swimming pools. Even more important, it allowed the federal government to cut off funds to any government-supported program found to be practicing racial discrimination, including schools, hospitals, defense plants, and research labs. The threat of losing tens of millions of dollars in U.S. government funding was not lost on embattled state officials, who were finally rethinking their determination to maintain segregation “at all costs.”

  It was about then that Ole Miss history professor James Silver revealed to the nation the depth of the state’s disdain for dissent, its censorship of books, its control of the media, and its use of secret agents to undercut civil rights. In his book Mississippi: The Closed Society, Silver described a state that operated more like a totalitarian police regime than a part of the modern United States of America. Silver knew firsthand of the Commission’s methods through its repeated efforts to get him fired from Ole Miss. With public interest in Mississippi peaking in the wake of Freedom Summer, the book became a best seller, adding to the national pressure on the state to change its ways.

  Given those pressures, the snarl of the segregationists began to ease. One of the first signs of change came from Governor Paul Johnson, who, during his campaign, had referred to the NAACP as the National Association of Apes, Coons, Niggers, and Possums. Now he was pledging to put an end to the state’s support for white racism. “We are not going to be the pushing boy for that element ever again,” he said. “We built the dog house we now find ourselves in.” Meantime, the FBI was dismantling the Klan, and membership in the White Citizens’ Council was waning, as the white middle class distanced itself from violence. The Magnolia Curtain was lifting.

  CHAPTER 17

  “DESTROY THIS DIRECTIVE”

  By 1965, Commission director Erle Johnston was trying to reposition his segregation watchdogs as a cadre of “racial troubleshooters,” a problem-solving liaison among the state government, the white community, and the black community. Seeking to rise above the reputation of a “super-snooping operation,” Johnston told white civic groups that the Commission was now dedicated to negotiating solutions to disputes and intervening early to prevent misunderstandings and flare-ups. In fact, Johnston did take steps to curb the excesses of the operation. He finally cut off payments to the White Citizens’ Council and became an informant to the FBI, providing valuable information for its crackdown on the Klan.

  Nevertheless, the agency never really abandoned its segregationist mission—as if racism had been infused in its DNA. While publicly touting the agency as a troubleshooter, Johnston continued to play his role as the hidden protector of white rule. At one point, in a letter to a state recreation official, he recommended “closing swimming pools at the end of this summer” rather than allowing black and white children to swim together in integrated pools. His advice was not heeded. He also helped admissions officers at Mississippi Southern College force a black applicant to drop his application for admission by threatening to expose the student’s sexual preference. “We have information that you are a homosexual,” Johnston wrote. “If you change your mind about enrolling at an all-white university we will say no more about it. If you persist in your application, we will give this information to the press and Justice Department.” The prospective student did not enroll.

  That year Johnston also issued one of his most telling directives. He ordered agents to destroy documents in the Commission files. His confidential memo instructed his spies to purge their files of investigative reports that suggested interference with the voter registration process. Johnston went on to direct agents to write future reports with code words and phrases to obscure the nature of the investigations. For example, investigative reports were to refer to voting registration volunteers as “subversives,” thus insulating commission agents from charges of tampering with the vote. His memo concluded, “Except for a copy being sent to the governor’s office, no record of these directions will remain in our files. As soon as you have familiarized yourself with the contents, please destroy this directive.” The agents destroyed the incriminating files but forgot to destroy Johnston’s memo.

  By 1966 Johnston was growing weary, beaten down by criticism from both sides of the racial divide. He tried unsuccessfully to persuade his superiors to change the name of the Commission to the Mississippi State Information Agency and to recast it as a modern public relations outlet. But too many powerful politicians wanted the watchdog to remain on the job. By 1967 he was arguing that the Commission had “outlived its usefulness” and was “ready for the grave.” Finally, in November 1967, he announced his retirement. The state legislature thanked him for his service but refused to shut down the operation. They replaced him with a former FBI agent and maintained a skeleton staff.

  Through the late 1960s, the scaled-back agency monitored school desegregation, kept tabs on anti–Vietnam War protesters, and snooped on a couple of black power groups. By the early 1970s, the powerful politicians on the Commission’s governing board routinely skipped meetings, proposals to eliminate its budget came and went, and the staff was reduced to infiltrating rock concerts to spy on hippies. By summer 1973, the agency’s obituary was finally being written, with the Memphis Commercial Appeal reporting that Mississippi’s “Ole Watchdog is Barking for its Life.” On July 1, 1973, the Commission staff was released, its office closed, and its records locked. Four years later the state leg
islature finally abolished the law that had created the Commission back in 1956.

  This chapter of history was finally over. The Commission was abolished, the White Citizens’ Council marginalized, and the Klan tamed. The Civil Rights Act and Voting Rights Act were the law of the land. The march toward equality and justice had picked up its pace. But the question remained: Could Mississippi really change?

  In the course of researching this book, I traveled across the state contemplating that question and searching for answers. From the vast cotton fields and moss-draped bayous of the Delta to the hurricane-racked homes and glittering casinos on the Gulf Coast to the state offices and streets of Jackson, I witnessed the progress that has been made since the rule of the segregationists, when the creed of white supremacy stood as bedrock and the code of racial separation was enforced with an iron fist. The “whites only” signs are long gone from the café windows, and the storefront offices that once housed White Citizens’ Council chapters have long been converted into restaurants and gift shops. Today, legions of black and white children attend school together and long lines of black and white voters stand at the polls on election day. Racial violence is a discussion topic for history students at Ole Miss rather than a frightening reality of life on that once war-torn campus.

  I also saw the ghosts of the past lurking behind the signs of progress. The names of segregationist politicians are proudly etched into the granite of public buildings. Their official biographies are often cleansed of the cold, hard truth of a bygone era. These ghosts whisper that the principles of the past are still with us and remind us that history can always return as the future.