Markham Street (eBook)

Chapter 1

The Letter

My name is Ronnie Williams. I am the youngest of D.V. and Johnnie Williams’ eight children. Today, I thank God that I can write this book without succumbing to the anger and hatred I once felt for those involved in my brother Marvin’s murder. But in 1984, hatred is exactly what I felt when I learned the facts of Marvin’s death. Those facts came from the most unlikely source – a one-armed white man by the name of Charles Hackney who wrote a letter to my parents 24 years after my brother was killed.

I was seven when Marvin died, and I can’t recall a single occasion when my parents ever spoke about his death. All I knew was that he tripped on some steps and died from a blood clot. I didn’t know why we never talked about it, only that there was an unspoken understanding that Marvin’s death was not to be discussed. But the real reason was because my parents always knew the official story was a lie.

It may seem strange that they kept this knowledge to themselves, but in the Deep South in the 1960s they felt they had no choice. Back then it wasn’t uncommon for Black men like my brother to be physically abused, or worse, by white police officers. Anyone who spoke out about such an incident was endangering themselves and their family, and my parents had seven other children they wanted to keep safe. So now and then we talked about the good things in Marvin’s life, like his military service, how much he loved his family, how kind and handsome he was. But we never, ever discussed his death.

All that changed on August 8, 1984.

That summer I was 30 years old, working in Little Rock for the Arkansas Department of Education. Every morning before work and every evening on my way home from work I stopped by my parents’ house to check on them. Our morning visit was a quick check-in, long enough to give Mother a kiss and make sure they were both all right. The afternoon visit was a little longer. First, I’d find and chat with my mother. No matter what she was doing, she always greeted me with the same warm smile and said, “Here comes Mother’s baby.” After we talked, I’d go find my father and see how his day had gone.

My father had a huge “truck patch,” an enormous garden spread across his two acres and the nearby field he leased from a neighbor. That garden was his pride and joy. He worked it daily and often bragged about having one of the best truck patches in the community. When I stopped by in the evening, Daddy was almost always out in the fields. We’d visit about his day, about what he’d planted, the weather, or when the corn would be ready to harvest.

But that Wednesday evening, as soon as I came into view, I could see that Daddy was near the house, watching for me. When he saw my car, he dropped his tools and walked quickly toward Mother, who was already waiting outside the house. As I pulled into their drive, Daddy reached her and they stood together, unsmiling. I knew something serious had happened before I stopped the car. I got out, and they turned without a word and walked to the carport, where it was shady and cool.

The carport was where our family talked, celebrated holidays, and during the long, hot Arkansas summers ate some of my father’s sweet watermelons. It was like our sanctuary, with my mother’s wind chimes hanging from the beams and making beautiful music in the soft breeze. This was where church deacons lined up on Saturdays to get haircuts from my father (who was, among his many trades, the town’s barber) before going to church on Sunday. Meanwhile, their wives sat together and waited for their husbands, sharing community gossip and the latest news about children and grandchildren. So it was natural that if an important conversation were to be had, we would have it there.

When they reached the carport, my mother and father sat down in the lawn chairs they kept there, and I sat across from them. Then my father spoke.

“Hey Son, I’ve got something here your mother and me would like for you to look at. It’s a letter from a guy by the name of Charles Hackney. He says he was in the jail with Marvin and he saw what happened to him.”

And then Daddy handed me the letter.

I was completely taken aback. This was the first time in my life either of my parents ever brought up Marvin’s death to me. I searched their faces. My father seldom showed emotion, but I heard uncertainty in his voice and saw pain in his eyes. Mother looked helpless, with an expression of total dependency that said, ‘Son, we need for you to tell us what to do.’

I opened the letter and read it. When I finished there was silence. Finally, I told my parents I wanted to take it home to read it again and think. I said I’d talk with them the next day about where we’d go from here, and I left.

As I drove down their driveway a powerful feeling came over me that remains with me to this day. It is difficult to put into words, but the best way I can describe it is that I felt a deep stillness and calm come over me, and the spirit of the Lord spoke to me and said, “I have preserved you for this moment.”

Those words still resonate in my heart. It was as though God was handing off an assignment to me, as if He was saying, “OK, here is this truth I need for you to tackle. This is why you’re here, in this place, and in this moment.” I felt certain that whatever was about to unfold was part of my calling, and that I would be equipped to fulfill it.

Before going into my house, I sat in the car and read Hackney’s letter again. It was dated August 6, 1984, twenty-four years and three months after the date of Marvin’s death. It was addressed to my father, whose first name was misspelled, and the return address was a prison cell in Wrightsville, Arkansas.

Between the moment my father handed me that letter and the moment I opened the door to our house, my world had shifted. But my wife Connie and our two boys, ages 6 and 2, didn’t know that. The boys were waiting to play with Dad and tell me about their day, while Connie made dinner. So, I went through the motions of a normal evening, but my mind was far away.

Finally, after the kids were in bed, I went into our bedroom and read the letter a third time. Then I gave it to Connie and asked her to read it.

August 6, 1984

Charles L. Hackney.

B-7. p.o. Box 407

Wrightsville Arkansas

Mr. Delever Williams

Menifee Arkansas

Mr. Williams

This is not an easy letter for me to write. I have wanted to contact you before now, but I just did not do it.

I would like for you to know that it has took me 24 years to get this investigation going. I can assure you that the officials there in Faulkner County knew what happened to your son with in 6 hours after it happened, because I told the prosecuting attorney that morning there in the jail that they beat a Black man there at 2:00 AM. I saw part of it and I could hear more of it but I could not see it. Because I told what I saw my life was thereatened and I was forced to tell lies for these so called up standing people who ran Faulkner County.

Because I was scared. And I was a young man who was dum. Not that I didn’t care for my fellow man. But because I knew what could happen to me. I know how you felt because I have lost two of my own. Not that way but just the same they are gone.

In 1962 I did what I could to get this looked into. I agreed to go to Federal Court and tell what I knew. But I never heard anything else about it.

I have lived with it for 24 years. But when I was told that it had been ruled an accident, that was just to much. I do not want to hurt any one by doing what I have did on this matter I hope that you understand. By me seeing what I did caused me some trouble. And the chances are this is going to cause me even more trouble as long as I am here in prison.

I think that I will feel better with my self once this is cleared up and settled but you know as well as I do the rich people go free and the poor people go to prison. That is a bad thing to say about your justic system. But I think that I speak the truth. As long as a man tells the truth he should not have any thing to fear, but I am afraid that is not the way it work every time.

I feel for you and your family, but it was not my doing. I was just a witness. And I would give any thing if I had not have been there that nite.

Yours truly

Charles L. Hackney.

When she finished reading, Connie looked at me and slowly said, “So, your brother was killed? He was murdered?” I think I nodded.

That night I barely slept. Terrible images of Marvin being beaten filled my mind. Why would those officers have beaten my brother? If Charles Hackney told the prosecuting attorney what he heard and saw, why was nothing done about it?

I had no idea how much that letter would change our lives, or that I would be totally consumed with my brother’s case from 1984 until this very moment.

What I did know was that Marvin was not an exception. There are thousands of Marvin Williams whose stories will never be told, whose families didn’t get a witness letter in the mail, who feared violent retribution if they spoke out, or were never able to build a case because the evidence was deliberately destroyed. In writing this book I am speaking on behalf of all of them.

When I’m asked why I was compelled to...