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By Root 516 0

warm, friendly woman who one sensed kept up both ends of the conversation. He was well respected, the way earnest, consistently reliable men always are. He stood alone, at once commanding and humble, in the pale light in front of the altar. But instead of speaking, he closed his eyes and began by singing in a baritone wail; he started confidently, stomping his foot rhythmically on the rough wooden floor boards and clapping his hands. The audience joined in, many singing along with each familiar verse, some waiting for the chorus, all stamping their feet on the floor and clapping their hands in perfect unison. There were no instruments, no hymnals, just the sweet medley of voices singing, feet thumping, hands slapping. You could feel the swelling confidence. The hymn was followed by Spencer’s earnest prayer. What had started as a community meeting turned into a prayer meeting. Only when that was over did we turn to the subject of the trial. But their spirituality, as well as their unity, had given them strength.

It changed everything. Word got around. We started to get the information we needed to build our defense.

Once the proceedings got under way, the trial lasted almost three weeks. It was mean and nasty, marked by angry objections, lengthy bench conferences, and heated cross-examinations. Turner’s house was burned down in the middle of it—it felt like one last attempt to intimidate a community that was regaining its voice and courage. No one was arrested. It was a sharp reminder of the cost of taking a stand.

Blessedly, there were lighter moments, too, such as when the famed black defense attorney J. R. Chestnut cross-examined a witness who was well into his eighties and whose youngest son was twelve.

“How old did you say you were?” asked Chestnut, a wily grin on his face. The witness confirmed he was in his eighties.

“And how old is your youngest boy?” Chestnut pressed, incredulous. The witness repeated that the boy was twelve. A juror giggled nervously.

Chestnut scratched his chin and replied, “Sir, there’re a whole lot of questions I’d like to ask you, but none of ’em have anything to do with this case.” The courtroom erupted with laughter, giving us a needed break from the tension.

Each defendant was entitled to a closing argument, and Chestnut gave the one for Albert Turner. Others of us by then had reviewed the evidence in detail and poked holes in the prosecutors’ theory of the case. Chestnut talked about the man. He talked about a man who had been educated at Alabama A&M but who had never really left Perry County, about his work with Dr. King and his sacrifice on the Edmund Pettus Bridge, about his commitment to carry on Dr. King’s work by organizing the black community of Perry County, about the countless ways he had helped the witnesses who had been subpoenaed by the government to testify during the trial, about the comforts and opportunities he had given up so he could help his neighbors find a better way forward. Before he delivered every carefully constructed piece of this puzzle, he boomed the refrain “Who is Albert Turner?” It was a sermon. By the time he finished, the prosecutors’ claim that this man could possibly take advantage of, let alone defraud, his own black brothers and sisters seemed absurd. I was in tears.

The jurors had only been out for a day when we were called back in. The courtroom was packed with the defendants’ friends and neighbors, the very people who initially had been too afraid to associate themselves with the trial, let alone come to the courthouse. The jurors somberly entered the hot courtroom and took their seats, unwilling to make eye contact with any of the defendants. Then the verdict was announced: not guilty on all counts. The place erupted with cheers and applause. One of the spectators yelled, “Thank you, jury!” Another started to sing a hymn of thanksgiving, and everyone joined in, just like those irrepressible old ladies of Cosmopolitan. Judge Cox tried to restore order but finally threw down his gavel and stormed off in disgust. Lani and I were in tears again.