Devil in the Grove: Thurgood Marshall, the Groveland Boys, and the Dawn of a New America

the rape, one reporter observed, he “whooped and hollered, waved his arms and then crooned as to a babe in arms.” That his voice was strained by a cold and he was battling laryngitis seemed only to heighten the alarm he infused into his depiction. “Now, gentlemen, she sat there in that car being held prisoner, and she told you that she was afraid. She was afraid for her life, and oh, my God, why should she not be? . . . A woman’s chastity is the greatest thing on earth to her, and nothing in the world compares to it.” So it was that the crime committed in the car that night was a violation not just of Norma Lee Padgett but also of Southern womanhood, and so, too, the jurors’ verdict would be punishing the accused for a crime against not one woman but all women, against their own wives and daughters. “You have a right to sit on this jury for the protection of your women-folk, and I would like to tell you this example, on one historical occasion, there was a good woman, from a good family, on the eve of her wedding, and she was caught in the back yard and savagely raped, and she walked over to the edge of the cliff and hurled herself into eternity, rather than sacrifice that which to her was dearer than life itself. That, gentlemen, was her chastity. Now, gentlemen, Norma Padgett, this simple country girl, chose to live, and she has suffered the greatest tragedy that can befall any woman, and she will suffer for it for the rest of her life. She has lived to tell the story, and don’t you gentlemen forget that that thing, that horrible thing, will never be erased from her mind.”
    Hunter paused to catch his breath. His rhetoric hung in the air: “savagely,” “greatest tragedy,” “protection of your women-folk”—he was sparing the jury no drama, or fear. After a moment, Hunter drew himself up and moved in closer to the jury. A downcast look crossed his face. He was solemn. His voice sank lower. “Now, gentlemen, I am about to conclude my argument to you in this case. I have tried to do a good job. That is my sacred duty. Gentlemen, I have been seriously ill, and this is probably the last capital case I will try in this county. . . . I have been stricken with what may be a fatal disease.”
    His words were lost on no one in the courtroom. Mabel Norris Reese, Thurgood Marshall, the defense team, Sam Buie, everyone’s ears pricked up. For a second Judge Futch even forsook his cedar sticks.
    “Gentlemen, I don’t want to do any man, whether he be black, white, or colored, an injustice, and I have come to the realization that I may soon have to meet the Almighty, and I don’t want to meet the Almighty with any innocent blood on my soul. Gentlemen, I don’t believe that I will ever do so, but I do want to leave this county in such condition, that you and your wives and your daughters and your sisters and your sweethearts can walk and ride the streets of this county and this state in perfect safety, as you should do. I want to leave this county and this state in such a condition that no bunch of men can come in and snatch up your wife or your daughter and carry her out in the woods and rape her.”
    Marshall had lost count (though Greenberg had not) of Hunter’s instances of prosecutorial misconduct in his closing argument, but his revelation of a “fatal disease” was clearly a ploy to gain jurors’ sympathies and, again, grounds for a mistrial (another for Greenberg to record in the event of an appeal). Still, the defense did not object, as Hunter was wrapping up his summation, and the judge would surely have overruled in any case.
    Testimony and arguments had been completed. Walter Irvin did not meet his gaze as the special counsel reminded him, as Marshall had been reminded by the state attorney, that the governor’s plea offer was “open up until the case went to the jury.” Once the jury withdrew for its deliberation, though, the defendant’s last chance to ensure himself a life sentence rather than the death penalty, in the event of his conviction, would be forfeit. And again, Marshall reminded Irvin that he would in all likelihood be facing the electric chair.
    Stoic, staring into the distance beyond the defense table, Irvin had listened to his counsel. His silence was heavy. Then his eyes met Marshall’s. “I didn’t do it,” Irvin said, and said he would not plead guilty to what he didn’t do. Marshall nodded, and clasped the resolute Irvin’s shoulder.
    Judge Truman