“Oh, the police are friendly. The chief is one of us. There’s no danger. Whenever something like this happens, the Tribe is naturally blamed anyway. And if members of the Tribe did do it, no one would tell. There’s been altogether too much lawlessness among the niggers lately. The courts are cluttered with them. It should be a good lesson for them.”
“But isn’t this lawlessness?”
“The Tribe has its own law and metes out its own justice. You’ll see. You’ve taken only your first degree. You haven’t learned about the tribunal. It’s the fairest, justest institution in the United States. It fortifies the ordinary methods of law enforcement and insures justice to every one whose case is brought before it. If a man is condemned by it, be sure he is guilty.”
Robert noticed that Howard had not said that the Tribe had or had not been responsible for the affair. Yet he had vindicated it. There was a peculiar thing about the oath, too, or one of them: a person was permitted to deny a fact or even to falsify in defense of the Tribe. A phrase he had heard somewhere popped into his mind: “A good dose of tar taken externally with lots of feathers.”
Howard was detailing the offenses of the Negroes of Corinth. Of the entire black race. Of the colored races. What had they to do with this one individual human being who had been punished by these superior white men? Well, perhaps this man was guilty. The newspaper story hinted that the victim had distributed among his fellow Negroes white mule, a poisonous whiskey that incited the drinkers to violence—when it did not paralyze them, more or less permanently. After all, what was the law, but an institution to maintain justice? It was an instrument of man. It functioned through men. What difference was there fundamentally if men in long white gowns and masks sentenced you or a judge with a white wig and black robes or men in business suits! As long as the man was really guilty. And ordinary justice often lagged, allowed the criminal to escape, failed to impress its lesson on others.
“Oh, it was probably a good lesson at that,” said Robert.
“Probably!” exclaimed Pinkney. “Why there’s no doubt about it. It will do more to restore law and order, to stop the selling of white mule than raiding a dozen stills. I know the niggers. You know them too, Hamilton. They’ll become frightened and quit.”
The Rev. Mr. Lister was in his private office in conference with Mr. Griffith and another gentleman, according to the rather plump, middle-aged woman who sat typing in the outer room. Pinkney introduced Robert to her. Her name was Mrs. Ward. She had pleasant, a trifle flirtatious, brown eyes, assisted Mr. Griffith in editing the Tribe paper and various pamphlets, and chewed gum.
“Seen the last copy of the Clarion?” she asked, with a smile, turning to reach for something.
“No, what’s that?” asked Robert.