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Charles Sudduth was standing at his bedroom window early
one morning
having a cup of coffee, when he saw Johnny Pierce, the Mississippi Highway
Patrol officer assigned to the area, approach his house in a patrol car, slow
down and point in his direction. Behind the patrol car was an unmarked car
with two men in business suits. As the unmarked car pulled up opposite the
house, it slowed down, then stopped. The men inside the car stared at the
house a moment, then drove off. Charles did not like the way that looked.
After dressing---he wasn't used to wearing a coat and tie, but proper
attire
seemed appropriate for his mission---Charles drove around town until he
found the unmarked car that had stopped in front of his house. It was parked
outside Jones's Diner. Finding the car had not been difficult. He lived in a
small Delta town of around 3,000 people.
You could count all the cafes and restaurants on one hand (and have
fingers
to spare). Half the population was African American, but there were no
black-owned businesses on the white side of town. Segregation was still
the rule, and the two races were separated by more than historical tradition.
They were separated by a railroad track that drew a dividing line between
the haves and the have-nots.
When Charles found the unmarked car, he went into the diner and sat
down on a stool at the counter beside the two men in business suits.
"What's up?" he said cheerfully.
The men did not answer.
Several times, Charles tried to start a conversation with the men. They
only ignored him. Finally, he said, "Did you guys want to speak to me
about
something?"
The men stared straight ahead.
Charles went outside and wrote down the license number of their car.
When he got home, he called the state Motor Vehicle Bureau in Jackson
and told them that someone had sideswiped his car. He gave them the
license number of the car parked outside the diner. It was a lie, but he
was being watched by men in suits, and this was no time to quibble over
small details.
"I wouldn't worry about it," said the motor vehicles clerk,
after she had
looked up the ownership of the car. Her voice was reassuring. "I'm sure
they will pay for any damages. That car belongs to the FBI."
From James Dickerson: North To Canada,
p.45
See more of Mr. Dickerson's books at
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