Sycamore Row - John Grisham

or so away, and she was yelling and crying. She tried to get close, but one of the white men
knocked her down. Seth and I got closer and closer until we were at the edge of the trees. We
stopped there and watched and listened. Some more men showed up in another truck. They
had a rope, and when Sylvester saw the rope, he went crazy. It took three or four of the white
men to hold him down until they could bind his hands and legs. They dragged him over and
shoved him up into the back of one of the trucks.”
“Where was your father?” Lucien asked.
Ancil paused, took a deep breath, then rubbed his eyes. He continued: “He was there,
sort of off to the side, watching, holding a shotgun. He was definitely part of the gang, but he
didn’t want to get his hands dirty. There were four trucks, and they drove slowly away from
the settlement, not far, to a row of sycamore trees. Seth and I knew the place well because we
had fished in the creek. There were five or six tall sycamore trees in a perfect row; thus the
name. There was an old story about an Indian tribe planting the trees as part of their pagan
rituals, but who knows? The trucks stopped at the first tree and made a semicircle so there
would be enough light. Seth and I had crept along in the woods. I didn’t want to watch, and at
one point I said, ‘Seth, let’s get out of here.’ But I didn’t move and neither did he. It was too
awful to walk away from. They strung the rope over a thick branch and wrestled the noose
around Sylvester’s neck. He was twisting, yelling, begging, ‘I ain’t said nothin’, Mista Burt, I
ain’t said nothin’. Please, Mista Burt, you know I ain’t said nothin’.’ A couple of them yanked
the other end of the rope and almost pulled his head off.” Lucien asked, “Who was Mr. Burt?”
Ancil took another deep breath and stared at the camera in a long, awkward pause.
Finally, he said, “You know, that was almost fifty-nine years ago and I’m sure all of these
men have been dead for a long time. I’m sure they’re rotting in hell, where they belong. But
they have families, and nothing good can come from naming their names. Seth recognized
three of them: Mista Burt, who was the leader of the lynch mob. Our dear father, of course.
And one other, but I’m just not going to give names.”
“Do you remember the names?”
“Oh yes. I’ll never forget them, as long as I live.”
“Fair enough. What happened next?”
Another long pause as Ancil fought to compose himself.
Jake looked at the jurors. Number three, Michele Still, was touching her cheeks with a
tissue. The other black juror, Barb Gaston, number eight, was wiping her eyes. To her
right, Jim Whitehurst, number seven, handed her his handkerchief.
“Sylvester was practically strung up but his toes were still touching the bed of the truck. The
rope was so tight around his neck he couldn’t talk or scream, but he tried to. He made this
awful sound that I’ll never forget, sort of a high-pitched growl. They let him suffer there for a
minute or two, all of the men standing close and admiring their work. He danced on his
tiptoes, tried to free his hands, and tried to scream. It was so pathetic, so awful.”
Ancil wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Someone off camera handed him
some tissues. He was breathing heavily.