Fruits of a Dead Legacy

By Anthony Harris

For decades, Billy Wayne Sharp has worshipped at the altar of white supremacy. In doing so, he has been successful in drawing thousands to that altar, establishing himself as a revered leader of the white nationalist movement. Politicians, public servants, and every-day adherents to white supremacy embrace Billy Wayne’s belief that white people were ordained by God to lord over non-whites. His belief in the biblical correctness of white supremacy has led to murder, fire bombings, attempted assassinations, and plans for an apocalyptic race war, which he believes will result in his becoming the new Messiah.
The town of Sharpville, Mississippi stands at the crossroads of a historic existential moment. It is the epicenter of Billy Wayne’s plans to become the new Messiah. Will the town that bears his family name reject Billy Wayne’s efforts to violently transform the racial and religious landscape of the entire nation? Will it rise up against or give in to his belief in the “natural order”? Will the fruits of his racist legacy develop rot and die, or will they become hardy and multiply?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Feb 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781642379112

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Mandela

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The telephone sounded the standard ubiquitous Office Phone ringtone at precisely 8:05 p.m. As she was leaving her office for the evening, Cheryl Davis, the Mayor’s Director of Communications, considered her two options. One, let the call go to voicemail; or two, pick up the receiver to find out why someone was calling more than three hours past the close of business. Lenwood would have called on her cell phone, she thought. So, it must be business. In exasperation, she said to herself, who could be calling this late? Don’t they know city hall closes at 5:00? She took one step toward the door and quickly turned on her heels, having ultimately chosen option two. She picked up the receiver on the fourth ring, one ring before it would have automatically gone to voicemail.

Forty-two-year-old Cheryl Davis, an experienced journalist with several networks and newspapers, returned to her hometown to care for her ailing mother. With more than twenty years in journalism, she had been nominated twice for the prestigious Peabody Award and once for the equally prestigious Pulitzer, for her reporting on human trafficking. After her mother passed, she decided to remain indefinitely in Sharpville, in part as a change of pace from the adrenalin-driven lifestyle of big city living. She had lived in Chicago and New York City for most of her adult life, soaking up the energy and electricity that those two cities produced. Outside a few semi-serious relationships, marriage was never a practical consideration, given her hectic travel and work schedules and her deep devotion to her career.

Before leaving the annual Boys and Girls banquet, Booker T. Coleman approached her about helping with his mayoral campaign. She told him that his timing couldn’t have been better because she was becoming bored and needed another mountain to climb. A long-shot campaign featuring a black and white candidate in the most racially divisive town in Mississippi certainly qualified for a mountain climb. Since she was determined to not go back to her former life in the big cities and because she believed in Coleman’s message of unity, she accepted his offer on the spot; and following his election, he named her Director of Communications for the Office of the Mayor, a new position.

She stands nearly five feet, eight inches tall and is proportionately slender. On this day, she was dressed in a black skirt, a white silk sleeveless blouse and a pair of black Louboutin heels. Her black hair was styled in a ponytail with a puffy top. When not wearing contacts, she sported a pair of dark tortoise shell Dolce & Gabbana glasses, which she wore that evening. Owing to her southern Italian heritage, she wears a permanent tan that makes her stand out even more. If she had not chosen a career in journalism, her wit and humor could have led to a career as a comic. In fact, on her first date with Lenwood, she entertained him with a spot-on rendition of Gilda Radner’s Saturday Night Live character, Roseanne Rosannadana.

This is the Office of the Mayor, Cheryl Davis speaking. How may I help you? she said as she removed her left earring in order to rest the phone between her ear and neck.

You don’t know me. But you gonna git to know me, real soon, you nigger-lovin’, nigger-fuckin’ bitch, intoned the cold, angry, raspy, southern drawl.

Cheryl rolled her eyes and stomped her feet, having regretted not taking option one.

Sir, I don’t have time to listen to racist bullshit after hours. If you need to conduct business with this office, I suggest you call back tomorrow at regular office hours, 8-5. Otherwise, you’re wasting my time and yours.

Listen here you no-count cunt. You’re a fuckin’ traitor to your own damn race and to the true Word of God. You know that, gal? And for your unholy acts of blaspheming and treason, you done been declared an enemy of the Almighty and of the right-thankin’ white people of Sharpville… and soon…real soon, you coon-loving she-devil, you will soon know the punishment for your devilment. We got special ways…

"Listen to me, you sick asshole. You don’t scare me. Not one damn bit, you ignorant, puny dick motherfucker. You ain’t gonna do shit to me. I am not like most people in this town, who shake in their boots when they hear the name Billy Wayne Sharp or other brain-less, knuckle-dragging, red-neck BSers like you. As the song says, take the sheet off your face, boy. It’s a brand-new day. So, drop the racist bullshit because you and your kind, from the White House on down, are not going to ruin this country for the decent people who want to live in peace. Your bullshit Jim Crow legacy is dead. You just don’t know it yet. You are like a man hanging onto a ledge…about to drop and too damn stupid and stubborn to save your own sorry life. So, I’m going to hang up the phone now. But here’s the last thing I want you to hear from this traitor to the white race."

Oh yeah? Ain’t nothin’ you can say gonna change what done already been put in motion. Like the old sayin’ goes. You made yo bed, now lay in it…with that coon nigger boyfriend of yours-un. Layin’ with a nigger… you might as well lay with a goddamn ape. ‘Cause it ain’t no difference in the two of ‘em. Sweet thang, looka here. You done fucked up in the worst way, and you gonna have to pay the price. You brought this shame on yoself. Remember that. You brought it on yo own damn self. Now, what the hell you gotta tell me befo you hang up? ‘Cause I’m gittin’ tired of yakin’ at yo whorish ass.

"Now don’t go and get me confused with your mama, when you start calling me whorish, especially when your mother and sister are probably the same person. Look, Einstein, I’m not going to make this too complicated, you ignorant inbred. So, I will make my final words real simple so that even an imbecile like you can understand: FUCK YOU!"

She slammed down the receiver and after two tries, managed to place it back onto the cradle.

Despite her plucky words, Cheryl was shaken by her conversation with the caller. Her hands trembled as she tried to place the earring back onto the earlobe. After the third try, she realized that her breathing and pulse had increased and that she was feeling a bit unsteady. She lowered herself into her desk chair, slowly filled her lungs with air and expelled it through slightly open lips. She repeated the routine two more times. After the third inhale-exhale, she felt her pulse and breathing slowing and the lightheadedness dissipating. A few minutes later, she had steadied her hands enough to successfully negotiate the return of the earring to her earlobe. For a long moment she stared at the telephone. She kicked herself for saying what she said to the caller. Maybe I should have just hung up after hearing what he said. Or not have answered it at all.

She knew she had angered her caller, who was part of a ruthless, hate-filled and dangerous group of people in Sharpville. She knew from press reports that hate crimes and white nationalism had been increasing all across the country and that many bigots had begun to feel emboldened to use dangerous, incendiary rhetoric and actions to further the cause of white supremacy and white nationalism. She knew these were dangerous times, not just for her fellow citizens in Sharpville, but also for marginalized and maligned groups everywhere, in the United States and abroad. For the first time in memory, an unfamiliar fear became real for her. It was more than a fleeting moment of visceral fear that evaporated after a few minutes. This was a new-found fear that she could not have imagined before that phone call. For sure, she was aware of and repulsed by the historical and contemporary oppression of black people. She knew about the daily fear that black people experience while driving, walking, or simply being black. She knew that black people were treated like crap all the time. She knew what happened to Quinton Johnson and Junior Nelson. She knew what happened to the marchers in downtown Sharpville a few days earlier. She knew what happened to James Byrd, Jr. in Jasper, Texas, Emmett Till, in Money, Mississippi, Mack Charles Parker, in Lumberton, Mississippi and all the other black men killed at the hands of white supremacists, who were no different in attitude and actions than the man she had just told: FUCK YOU! And although she had empathy for the horrendous treatment that black people had endured for decades and centuries, she could never really know the depths, duration, and intensity of that fear. Yet, for the first time, a different level of fear had invaded her psyche. A racist verbal attack and physical threat had been so pointedly and viciously directed at her; and for no other reason other than caring for a man whose melanin composition was different than hers.

Cheryl Davis decided that she was not going to be a victim, at least not tonight. So, as she prepared to leave her office, she steeled herself and checked her purse to make sure her pepper spray was handy. Lenwood had urged her to purchase a handgun, but she refused, due to her unequivocal opposition to the unchecked proliferation of guns in the United States. Their compromise was a top-of-the-line self-defense pepper spray gel.

Though she didn’t want to bother Lenwood with the angry phone call with her racist, wannabe tormentor and the unexpected anxiety and fear that it caused her, she thought it would be a good idea to call someone to let them know about the call and that she was leaving her office alone. She knew, through watching suspense movies and using common sense, that there was something inherently comforting to be in contact with someone when leaving an empty building alone and in the dark.

She didn’t trust many local people, so calling someone in Sharpville was out of the question. The idea of calling the Mayor or his secretary was also out of the question, not because she didn’t trust them. She didn’t want to come across as a fragile, helpless white woman who needed comforting whenever a bigot shouted, BOO! No. She needed to handle her business, just like everyone else who’s committed to resisting hatred and bigotry, knowing full well that there could be dangerous and sometimes lethal retaliation for standing up for justice and equality. She accepted the fact that she had no claim to any special treatment due to her personal relationship with Lenwood nor to her professional relationship with Mayor Coleman. She also accepted the fact that because she is a privileged white woman, she could normally rely on her whiteness to remove herself from racially charged situations. But she also realized that her armor of white privilege would provide no protection from the bigotry and hatred that had engulfed her town, especially since the caller had so menacingly revoked her membership in the white race.

After retrieving her cell phone from her purse, she pressed the speed dial number for a friend in Chicago, but the call went straight to voicemail. At the tone, Cheryl said, Linzy, hi. This is Cheryl. I’m leaving my office, and I’m a little worried, to be honest. I just had an angry conversation with this bat-shit crazy racist asshole, and it has me a little shaky. If you get this message in the next five minutes, please give me a call. I just want someone to stay on the phone with me until I get to my car. Talk to you later…bye. She returned the phone to her purse and told herself to just get the hell out of there… RIGHT! NOW! So, she stood, switched off the office lights, engaged both locks on her office door, and hurriedly walked away from her second-floor office. With each step, she became aware of an eerie sense of paranoia rising up inside her, triggering a reflexive and unfamiliar hypervigilance. Normal sounds like a water fountain clicking on, ticking seconds on a wall clock, and AC units turning on became amplified. As she approached the elevator, she was acutely aware of the sounds of her Louboutin heels, even though she intentionally tried to mute their click-clack sounds with tip-toe steps. She listened intently for any unusual sounds emanating from adjoining offices and the hallway. She shot searching glances down dark hallways and made quick, furtive turns of her head toward the direction from which she had come.

Unexpectedly, she found herself in the middle of an emotional tug-of-war, going from defiance to fear and recycling backwards through both emotions. She was about to give in to the urge to forget her concerns about bothering Lenwood. Her emotional roller coaster was in full throttle. Call. Don’t call. Back and forth. She argued with herself about whether to give in to her fear or remain defiant. Would calling Lenwood be an act of fear or a betrayal of her resistance and defiance? She wanted to be a strong ally in the struggle for racial justice, not a weak and needy one. She further reasoned that Lenwood already carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t deserve to have his girlfriend distract him from his duties. No. I will be okay. I won’t let those bastards intimidate me.

With a mixture of fear and grit, Cheryl exited a side door that led to an enclosed public parking garage. She retrieved the pepper spray and the attached chain and secured it around her neck. She surveyed the empty two-level garage, scanning in all directions, alert to any sound – threatening or benign. She felt her pulse racing and her breathing matching the click-clack of her shoes, which echoed from her rapidly increasing gait. She moved in the direction of her black Range Rover, which was parked in her designated parking spot that was identified by a sign that read: Director of Communications, Cheryl Davis. Remembering a suggestion that she learned in a self-defense class, she tucked her office keys between her fingers, fashioning an effective self-defense weapon. Pepper spray and keys, she thought, Just let somebody come and mess with me. I’ll gouge their eyes out and empty this pepper spray right in their stupid face. She pressed the unlock button on her key fob and heard the familiar chirp. Feeling comforted that she was about to secure herself inside her car, she pulled the door handle. Surprised that the door didn’t open, she pulled again – same result. Thinking that she must have pressed lock instead of unlock, she pressed the unlock button on the fob again. For the third time, the door failed to open. She examined the fob, turning it around in her hand several times, then aimed it directly at the door. Please, please work this time. Chirp. She pulled the handle and the door opened. Thank you, Jesus. She folded herself into the driver’s seat, checked her rearview and sideview mirrors. As she fastened her seatbelt, she went through her inhale-exhale routine a couple times and allowed a sense of calm to cascade over her shaky body.

Nothing is more dangerous than ignorance and intolerance armed with power.

Voltaire

CHAPTER TWO

His thunderous HELLO! echoed throughout the cavernous metal warehouse. Jim Bob Henson’s raspy southern drawl announced his entry into the nearly empty 10,000 square-foot structure. The silver-gray edifice sat on 1,000 acres of sprawling woodlands, encircled with electrified fencing, razor wire, and stern written warnings to KEEP OUT or DIE. Scattered throughout the expansive acreage were three large man-made lakes – all stocked with bass, crappie, and catfish. Rutted dirt paths snaked throughout the property and provided the only thoroughfare for various and sundry four-wheelers and dirt bikes owned by BSers. When not in use, the vehicles were stored in a covered aluminum parking shed that was covered with a green camouflage tarp. Surveillance cameras, mounted on tree trunks, detected and recorded movements of animals and humans. More than a dozen green camouflaged deer stands rose up from the grounds throughout the property. For BSers, the private, isolated woods afforded them unfettered access to deer, coyote, racoons, fox, boar, an occasional black bear and an array of waterfowl year-round for their hunting pleasure.

The warehouse was a warehouse in name only. It housed no commercial wares – neither hard nor soft. Rather, the behemoth structure served as headquarters for the racist group known as BSers, who were rabid devotees of Billy Wayne Sharp and his doctrine of white supremacy. The moniker, BS, was derived from the initials of the first and last names of the group’s founder – Billy Wayne Sharp. A violent group dedicated to racial segregation and white southern heritage, the BSers routinely intimidated black residents with physical assaults and threats. Prompted by sheer hatred, they ruthlessly attacked a group of marchers, most of whom were black, during a demonstration protesting the death of Quinton Johnson, the black teenager found hanged in the all-black Brick Yard section of Sharpville. Like invisible ninja warriors, dozens of camouflaged BSers, without warning, quickly descended on the unsuspecting marchers and disappeared just as quickly, leaving scores of men, women and children lying in pools of blood, with broken limbs and ribs, screaming and writhing in pain. They did so without fear of being identified or captured. white on-lookers provided easy escape paths as they disappeared into the crowd of supporters, who provided cover and comfort for their warrior comrades.

The faux warehouse also served as a workplace for various clandestine projects, such as building Improvised Explosive Devices (IED), modifying automatic weapons, and tinkering with electronics equipment. Also, it served as an oversized man-cave that was the prime venue for cavorting, drinking, and viewing news and sports events on three large LED screens. To accommodate their partying proclivities, a makeshift bar made of cinder blocks and thick, wide wooden planks sat in a distant corner of the building, just inside a rear door. Satellite TV service broadcast continuous news programs from Fox News and from whichever network carried the latest NASCAR race or the broadcast of the latest Monster Jam Truck competition. Wooden, backless bar stools were spaced along the length of the 30-foot long improvised bar, which was liberally stocked with bottles of Mountain Dew, sweet tea, water, shot glasses, beer mugs, mason jars, and an assortment of liquors, beers, and bar nuts.

On the other side of the gray metal door was a covered pathway made of concrete pavers that led to five private bungalows. As a gift from an anonymous benefactor, the A-frame bungalows were available to BSers on a first-come, first-served basis, free of charge. The fully furnished units were equipped with indoor plumbing, air conditioning, heating, towels, and bedding for a full-size bed. Attached to the inside door of each unit was a list of rules, professionally printed in large, red block letters: 1. Be respectful of time…if you need more than two hours, go to a hotel. 2. No smoking. 3. Use air freshener generously when you leave. 4. Discard trash. 5 Return room key to its proper place on the key holder. 6. Take your used towels and linen home, wash them, and return them ASAP.

The building had once belonged to Billy Wayne Sharp prior to his convictions on state and federal charges ranging from human trafficking, income tax evasion, racketeering and extortion to murder. His convictions carried with them the forfeitures of all his possessions, which included numerous domestic bank accounts, boats, houses, condominiums, office buildings, and controlling interests in lucrative retirement communities in Texas, Nevada, and Florida. Being the consummate survivor, manipulator, and dealmaker, Billy Wayne managed to hide many of his possessions through asset transfers to loyal friends. That very small circle of individuals adhered to every detail of Billy Wayne’s directives regarding all major decisions involving those possessions. Also, he was able to maintain liquid assets in bank accounts in Singapore, The Cayman Islands, and Switzerland. By granting access to those accounts to two trusted, loyal, and anonymous friends, Billy Wayne maintained ownership and control of his vast wealth, which fluctuated between five hundred million and seven hundred million dollars.

Following the convictions of Billy Wayne Sharp and his accomplices, the local university and community leaders distanced themselves from the once lauded philanthropic spirit and prowess of Billy Wayne. They removed his name from prominent buildings on the campus and in the town of Sharpville. His thoroughly sullied name was removed from The Billy Wayne Sharp Center for Innovation and Entrepreneurship; the Billy Wayne Sharp Civic Center; the Billy Wayne Sharp Waterway and Flood Control; the Billy Wayne Sharp Retirement Village; and the Billy Wayne Sharp Sports and Youth Complex. Numerous politicians who were wholly owned subsidiaries of Billy Wayne saw their political careers end. Those who held law licenses permanently lost them; and most left the state of Mississippi. Those who did not leave or have the resources to flee the state, ended up broke and unable to find employment beyond being Walmart greeters. Divorces, broken homes, lawsuits, and property liens dogged all those who succumbed to the age-old practice of sacrificing one’s values and principles on the altar of financial gain. Yet, still standing among the carnage he created, was Billy Wayne Sharp – the pious puppeteer, the master manipulator, progenitor and promoter of a brand of white nationalism that was steeped in his perverted views of Christianity, which enjoyed marginal acceptance in other parts of the country, especially in the Midwest and the South. Billy Wayne promoted a Christian perspective that claimed that black people were relegated to a position of servitude by God, due to the transgressions of Ham. Years ago, after reading Genesis 9:22-25, his life-long racist beliefs found a biblical base. Ham, the father of Canaan, saw his father’s nakedness and told his two brothers who were outside… When Noah awoke from his drunken stupor he learned what his youngest son had done to him. So he said, Cursed be Canaan! The lowest of slaves he will be to his brothers. Accordingly, in Billy Wayne’s and other earlier and modern-day theologians’ minds, this passage came to justify slavery and to regard being black as a curse.

Affixed to the walls inside BSers headquarters were reminders of the heritage that gave birth to Billy Wayne’s movement – giant rebel flags, framed photos of confederate generals, and a framed photo of Billy Wayne Sharp, which was positioned alongside a framed Euro-centric picture of Jesus. The portrait of Billy Wayne showed him smiling with a full, rounded face, ruddy complexion, fat jowls, and thin gray hair, pulled back into a ponytail. A perpetual light was attached to the framed pictures of Jesus and Billy Wayne, illuminating their faces and making them stand out among all the other artifacts in the room. A scan of the room revealed folding metal chairs and tables, neatly lined up along one wall. Also, an elevated wooden stage with a wooden pulpit podium was situated to be visible to anyone in the room.

***

Jim Bob heard a loud grunt in return, signaling an acknowledgement from the lone warehouse occupant of his presence. He ambled over to a spot alongside a wooden rectangular work table that was lighted by a hanging fixture suspended from the ceiling. Next to him stood a fellow BSer, who was leaning at the waist, smiling and tinkering with several pieces of electronic equipment.

Bobby Lee, you got everythang set up? asked Jim Bob, a rotund man dressed in camo pants, T-shirt and boots.

"Oh, hell yeah, Jim Bob. This’ll be a picnic in the park. A piece of cake. Like rolling off a log. Like taking candy from a baby. You pick your favorite and it shall be done," answered the equally rotund man, also decked out in camo from head to toe and wearing a pair of black binocular goggles.

Bobby Lee Longstreet had become tech savvy during the time he spent in Afghanistan with a tactical surveillance unit. His unit was comprised of ten technologically talented soldiers, who received numerous commendations for their work in electronically tracking ISIS fighters. When he was discharged from the Army, he enrolled in online computer classes, which augmented the significant electronics surveillance skills that he had acquired as a soldier. In addition, he attended militia group meet-ups where he taught and learned about new and emerging surveillance gadgets. The combination of his technical skills and his adherence to Billy Wayne’s worldview made him a very valuable and respected member of the team.

Using a couple of gadgets he ordered from the Internet and the easy-to-follow directions that came with them, Bobby Lee meticulously programmed one of the gadgets – a modified standard remote control unit that could now read the computer circuitry on Cheryl’s telephone and Range Rover. The other device scanned millions of possible combinations of passwords and logins that would allow him to hack Cheryl’s car, key fob, telephone, the surveillance cameras in the parking garage, and her home security system. In less than five minutes, he had completed his tasks. He was now in control of Cheryl’s life. He effectively owned her cell phone, key fob, the Range Rover’s on-board computer system, parking garage surveillance cameras and the security system at her home.

How you know this gonna work, Bobby Lee? This looks like a bunch of James Bond, mumbo-jumbo spook shit to me. How the hell you gonna stand here, ten miles from where that bitch is, and make her phone and car do what you want it to do? asked Jim Bob incredulously.

Well, my friend, let me demonstrate the genius of yours truly and the bountiful harvest of that wonderful invention called the Internet.

Alright, son. Let’s see this shit, said Jim Bob as he placed a pinch of Skoal between his cheek and gum.

Bobby Lee pulled a fully charged burner phone from his back pocket. With a few keystrokes, the screen lit up, displaying the area in the parking garage where Cheryl’s car was parked. With the designated parking sign and her name and job title prominently displayed, Bobby Lee was able to select the correct camera view that brought her car into a full color, panoramic view. Also, by scanning the other camera sites, he was also able to determine that there were no other cars in the garage.

Now take a look at this. There she is. This is real-time, boy. This ain’t no fuckin’ recordin’. Looka there. She’s walking toward her car, which you can see right there, he said pointing to the black Range Rover on the phone’s LED screen.

I’ll be damned. I done seen it all. You mean we lookin’ at that bitch, live, right this godddam minute and that’s her car? asked Jim Bob as he expelled a mouthful of tobacco juice into a Dixie cup that he clutched like he was nursing a cup of beer.

Now watch this shit, son. Watch it now. Here it comes. I’m gonna push this little button and watch what happens.

They