Duplicates
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OXFORD, MISSISSIPPI: AUGUST 15, 1957
The greatest fear of white women living in Mississippi was rape . . . being tied with their own
stockings and violated by a Negro man. This wasn't a fear born in one particular season or even
one year, but rather a deep-seated anxiety accumulated over generations, notions whites had
about blacks, their lusty appetites, secret desires and shiftless, sneaky ways. In Oxford, the whole
idea of black-on-white rape had been given specifics three times during the summer..."stocking"
rapes with murder as a conclusion. In Lafayette County, the fright was epidemic.
For most whites, the only consolation was that justice would soon be done in the triple-murder and rape trial of Otis Lee Williams, a young black who lived alone, and by all accounts, pretty much stayed to himself. Just before lunchtime Thursday, the self-confidant and near cocky prosecution rested. A guilty verdict seemed certain and the courthouse crowd moved across the street, like they almost always did, for lunch at Grundy Cole's café.
Flanked by deputies, the jury made its way to the restaurant, followed by the victims' friends and family, and a covey of just plain curious onlookers. They were seated, ordering and fanning to stay cool, when Robert Andrews Winslow came out the courthouse south entrance, coat on his arm. Slender and agile, the young lawyer bounded down the few marble steps and walked to a group of blacks standing under the oaks on the lawn.
He said a few words to Otis Lee's mother and shook hands with her husband, the defendant's stepfather, then walked slowly across the street. So far in court, Rob had been quiet, a heck-of-a- lot quieter than most defense attorneys would have been. The only real point he'd made was with the sheriff, one Raymond Wheat, a burly and disagreeable sort who didn't like much of anything but peace and quiet...the thing that got him elected. Wheat always seemed to go through some strange metamorphosis on trial days. Abandoning his normal gruff voice and using full sentences, complete words, all syllables enunciated in a dialect akin to Yankee talk, the sheriff had confirmed Otis Lee Williams had never been in trouble with the law in Lafayette County or anywhere else. "Before this, of course," he'd pointed out.
Not much progress, but enough, Rob Winslow thought as he entered the restaurant. Hungry patrons and the smell of corn bread and onions filled the small dining room but Rob spotted his empty seat. He pulled back the chair, nodded to the waitress, then to the man who sat across the table. Loosening his tie and rolling up the sleeves of his starched white shirt, Rob tried to relax, to expel the tension accumulated during the morning.
Eyes scanning the restaurant, he noticed several people looking away when he caught them watching. Defending a black man accused of rape and murder was excuse enough to be scorned, but Rob Winslow knew his lunch partner, a known Klan member, was the focus of their interest... and perhaps, making them a bit nervous.
Once the waitress served his food, Rob leaned across the table. For a moment he studied the mousy features of the man who wore a white T-shirt, jeans and sported a flattop haircut. Then, voice low, Rob asked his question, a natural follow-up to their earlier phone conversation. "What about the cuts, Judd? A ritual?"
The muscles in Judd Bentley's face were tight, eyes surrounded by creased skin. The look on his face left no doubt he didn't want to answer. Trouble was, his Klan oath might make it impossible but he owed Rob and at best faced a dilemma. The FBI had accused Bentley of taking part in the murder of Willie Edwards in Alabama in January but had no hard evidence. Rob had met with them for three hours, made his point and the FBI had released Judd and left him alone ever since.
"Look, Rob. I ain't against helpin' a friend. You done me a pretty big favor. But I also ain't too hot on helpin' that rapin' nigger. Understand?"
Rob understood completely. Racial tensions were high, especially with a civil rights bill before Congress. He stood alone in the white community...even his wife despised his defense of Otis Lee...but race had nothing to do with Rob's motivation. His job was to seek justice and he intended to win. For a month, since the evidence against Otis Lee came down to one thing, shoes, Rob had been looking down, paying attention to feet, particularly in the courtroom.
For a moment Rob's gaze moved from Judd to the others within view, most occupied with iced tea and meat loaf, the Thursday special. He couldn't see the sole of a single shoe. The feet he saw were firmly planted under tables, white tablecloths hiding any crossed legs. Then he turned back.
"Judd, the cut in the sole of Otis Lee's shoe is a Klan cut, a mark."
"Must be a hand-me-down pair."
"He says his shoes were mail order, from Sears. Swears it. Has no idea about the cut. Never saw it or the shoes before."
"He's lyin', Rob. No truth in 'em. You outta know that."
Maybe. Maybe not, Rob thought, but Otis Lee's honesty about the shoes didn't matter. Nobody would believe him anyway. "All I want is confirmation, Judd. You don't need to go further. Are the sole cuts part of Klan ritual?"
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About the Book
OXFORD, MISSISSIPPI, 1957:
Reaching the top of his profession, lawyer Robert Andrews Winslow
wins the triple murder/rape trial of black man Otis Lee Williams, but less than a year later, Otis Lee is
executed for a similar crime. Guilt-ridden for not helping save Otis Lee and scorned for helping in the
first trial, Winslow's slide begins. Alone, broke and usually drunk, he leaves Mississippi and his
profession.
OXFORD, MISSISSIPPI, 1991:
Down and out, Winslow has no place left to go but home to the small
bungalow on General's Road outside Oxford, his meager inheritance. Now a writer, he's given two files,
which might contain a desperately needed story, and musters himself for a last try to salvage his life. He
drags his weary, sedentary and abused body along dusty back roads where he encounters Mississippi
Delta families who share the land, wealth and a special desire to conceal secrets long-buried in the rich
black soil.
Constantly in danger and aided by friends whose motives he doubts, Winslow pieces together the story hinted in two autopsy files: Rosemary Thompson - Antigua, Raymond Thompson - Los Angeles. The twins died almost the same time at age thirty-two, thousands of miles apart, both naked in bed. The dead twins are the story but when Rob discovers the other DUPLICATES, he begins to realize the connection to himself, his past... and his downfall.
A few secrets remaining, the murder of his black friend Hook Todd forces Rob Winslow back into to the courtroom in defense of another innocent man. Manipulating the justice system he once loved, Winslow is able to solve six crimes committed over seventy-five years, including his own murder by a so-called crazy man who isn't crazy at all.
About the Author
LACY McCALL was born in 1937 in North Mississippi at a time when there were still few paved secondary roads and electricity hadn't made its way beyond the towns. The rural South had changed little since the Civil War.
This was a place where water came from a cistern, light from a coal oil lamp and warmth on cold nights from the backlog, which usually burned out about daylight. Vegetables came from the garden, watermelons from the patch and money from cotton. Strong recollections aside, and as strange as it might seem, Lacy McCall finds himself at home in cyberspace.
He attended high school in Memphis, college at Auburn University, Memphis University and finally Huntingdon College where he received a liberal arts education, which included an abundance of religion, history and philosophy.
In 1963, he became registered as an architect and established his own design firm in Montgomery, Alabama. Since, he has designed projects for business and the military as far west as Elephant Butte, New Mexico, and as far south as Key West. Besides a fascination with Southern history, hobbies include computer programming, amateur radio and sailing.
In the late eighties, after writing a column for a technical journal, he began his first novel. Devoted to learning the craft, he has studied fiction writing, participated with writers' groups and attended conferences. Most recently, this included the Seaside/FIU Writers' Conference headed by Les Standiford.
Work includes several suspense novels, a futuristic saga set in 2020, a Western series set in the 1850's and a humorous mystery series about a Southern good old boy, who can't stay out of trouble. Samples of his work can be seen on Lacy McCall's website at www.lacymccall.com.
Lacy McCall and his wife, Anne, have one son, two daughters and six grandchildren. They divide their time between a homes at Seagrove Beach, Florida, and Pensacola, Florida, where his architectural practice still flourishes.