WHITE HONOR: Chapters 30 and 31

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30      Ugly Opinion


On Moonday he left his apartment at dawn. He breakfasted at a Crack on his way south. At 8:30 a.m., he idled his Del Sol around Pioneer Cemetery, said a greeting to Meriwether, and parked under a leafless tree. At 11 a.m., he went to Hohenwald for lunch. At Lewis County Middle School, he paid a visit to Christy. Then, he drove back out to the monument. Still, he saw no sign of Park Service people or archeological work about to be done. Irate, he headed back to Nashville. He played the angriest songs on the tapes he had in the car. Cranking up the volume, he sang ferociously, ad-libbing when so inspired.

“I’ve got one heart, and it hurts like hell! … If you can’t rock me, somebody will! ….”

He took out the tape and inserted another. He cued up the last song and screamed and growled along.

“… Well, you’re crazy, mother, with your ball and chain. You’re plain psychotic, plain insane! If you don’t believe I will do it, just wait for the thud of the bullet! ….”

When he finally clicked off the player, and breathing hard and deep, he felt improved, purged.

At his apartment, he phoned a Natchez Trace Parkway ranger station, the one at which Ranger Morgan was perched. Some guy answered. Jim, hoarse, asked about the archeological work. The guy said the workers were spending the day driving from Florida to Tennessee.

On Tyrsday morning, he arrived at a chilly but sunny Meriwether Lewis Park at 9 o’clock. He found a team of four Park Service archeologists pounding wooden stakes into Pioneer Cemetery. He introduced himself as a freelance journalist and Meriwether lover. The two men and two women responded cordially but said they were somewhat wary of journalists.

“Me, too,” he replied, nodding. “I don’t blame you a bit.”

By afternoon, the weather and the relations warmed. He strapped on his camera and took some stills. As usual, he sighted with his left eye. But his young blind spot pestered his focus. After exposing half a roll, he eagerly donned a borrowed video camera. He narrated as he shot:

“Here’s Tom Hodgson, archeologist technician, sighting through a surveyor’s instrument as the team lays out a reference grid on Pioneer Cemetery and the Grinder’s Stand area. Tom is the one smiling, in the bushy brown hair, reddish mustache and goatee. And—. Oh, here come the ladies returning from, yes, the bathroom. The one on the left, in the gray, Russian-style hat, is Regina Meyer. And on the right is Rhonda Brewer, wearing a white cap. Both are archeological technicians. And there they go, in a fruitless effort to escape the camera’s unblinking eye. Whoops. Did I hit pause? No! Ha ha. That’ll be edited out.

“And now you can see crew foreman John Cornelison, standing about 20 yards away, ready to pound another wooden spike into the ground to mark another corner in the grid system. John, an archeologist, is a big fella. Let’s zoom in and fill the frame with John. Oops. Too far. John is tall and, well, let’s not describe his belly. John is too far away to hear my glowingly complimentary description of him. He appears mean, with his black beard and piercing stare, but really he’s a big teddy bear. Right, Tom? Flash-pan back to Tom. He’s nodding now, unlike a few seconds ago. Heh heh heh. Just kidding.

“Now, one might observe these two men and two women, here, all attractive specimens in their thirties and—dare I say—forties. Uh—I forgot how I started this sentence! Rewind! Heh heh. Anyway, they are not couples. I, of course, had to ask. They informed me in no uncertain terms that they are completely unrelated, although they do enjoy working together. There’s Rhonda holding a spike. Regina is about to pound. Um, let’s see. This team is from Tallahassee, out of the Southeast Regional Office of the National Park Service. They expect to be here about two weeks doing various studies. One is ground-penetrating radar. Another is EM38, which measures the electro-conductivity of the soil. Another is, uh, magnetometer, which is fancy metal-detecting. And the fourth one is—penetrometer. That’s a measurement of the compactness of the soil. Also, they plan to do a little digging, but no major unearthing of anything.

“Okay, let’s pan left, past the monument, and slowly back to Tom—because the camera loves Tom! Next week, an independent contractor is expected to come to do a study of the monument. And now I’d better turn the camera off before I use up all my tape and battery juice!”


He skipped the next day of the archaeologicals. That night, the local tv news reported that Judge Higgins had rendered his verdict in the Meriwether Lewis case in federal court. Jim saw it and made a call.

“Joe faxed me the ruling,” the Professor replied. “It is a pretty ugly opinion. In effect, the judge said Joe is being manipulated by me. Joe may be miffed by that. But the judge is obviously opposed to the exhumation. That much was clear on the day of the hearing.”

For sure. “So, what happens next?”

“Since the judge threw out the entire proceeding brought by Joe on behalf of the state, we simply proceed with the appeal process within the National Park Service. We must exhaust our rights of appeal there, in the Executive Branch, before bringing suit against the Park Service in federal court here in D.C. Oh, Joe could appeal Higgins’ ruling, but that is unlikely.”

“Hm. Well, on a potentially happier subject, are you coming to view any of the archeological work?”

“Yes. I am scheduled to fly into Nashville on Sunday and talk with Joe, then go to Hohenwald to see Marjorie Graves. But also, I would like to stop at the monument and pay my respects to the big man, when nobody’s around and I can have a sense of the two of us being together. I have kind of developed an affection for the man.”

“Haven’t we all.”

“Indeed,” agreed the scientist. “Uh, on Monday, I hope you and I can rendezvous at the monument before I go speak to Christy Ricketts’ class at Lewis County Middle School.”

“Oh! That’s great!”

“Monday evening, I have planned a dinner with you, followed by the NCAA championship basketball game on tv in my motel room. On Tuesday, I am afraid, I must return to my various and sundry duties here. Are you there?”

“Yes! I’m just quietly writing down the itinerary. Proceed.”

“That’s it.”

“Okay. Do you want me to tell you what I’ve learned of the archeological work, so far?”


He gave his friend the scoop. And he found himself defending the federal four. He ended with, “Of course, I’ve only been with them one day.”

“I feel compelled,” the Professor said, “to share a sentiment with you—not unlike the way you did with Jane Lewis Henley that day in Franklin. It has been a wonderful thing to know you and to work with you. And whether we succeed or fail, part of the success is that I made a good friend. Even going through life as many years as I have, I can count my good friends on the fingers of one hand. So, I am glad to be able to count you among them.”

“Thank you.” He was touched. “I feel the same way.” He quipped, “I don’t even need a whole hand.”

Thorsday in The Park, on a beautiful spring day, the journalist was grateful to be invited to lend a hand. It was simple manual labor, nothing technical, but it made him feel a part of the team. And it vanquished his fear that the team viewed him as a media judge and jury ready to pounce on any error they might make. With the higher comfort level came a loosening of lips.

“John, uh—.” Jim took pause and smiled at Mister Cornelison. “Ahoy, there.”

“Yeah,” the big fella said, nodding, “I’m in my pirate garb, today.”

He laughed. “I love it—the head scarf and the black beard—.”

“The scarf is to prevent sunburn. Of course, I had a cap on the other day. But today, as you can see, we’re all in sweats or whatever that have no metallic components.”

“Oh. The magnetometer that Rhonda and Regina are operating would be thrown off by the metal. What about the rivets in my jeans?”

“Yeah,” Blackbeard said, “and coins, keys.”

“How far does the magnetometer reach?”

“About 18 feet.”

He pulled the notebook from his back pocket and jotted down his new knowledge. “By the way, have any other journalists come to visit—like yesterday, when I wasn’t here?”

“No,” the buccaneer replied, hands on his hips, belly stretching his long-handles shirt. “Well, let me correct that. Somebody from the local paper in Hohenwald stopped by. But no others, that we know of.”

Mister Hodgson said, “Why is that? After the court case and the Inquest you told us about, I would think there’d be more media interest. But don’t get me wrong. I’m just as happy without the bother.”

The three chuckled.

“I guess they’re waiting for the monument guy next week,” Jim replied. “That’ll make for sexier pictures. And groups of students are scheduled for next week, too, which will greatly enhance the visuals.” Hodgson and the pirate nodded. “Then again, they might not give a shit.”

Later, as he motored north toward Nashville, his domestic life crowded to the fore in his mind. He pushed an old favorite tape into his car stereo and cranked up the volume. He had more purging to do. Peter Wolf of the J. Geils Band sang. Jim sneered along.

“… It ain’t hard to read between the lines. You jerked me around just too many times.

I could hurt you, baby. But I ain’t gonna do it to ya.

I could hurt you, baby. But let’s just say I’m through with ya!

Yeah, let me show you where the front door is!”

With zeal, he zipped past several tunes and stopped on “I Can’t Believe You.” The blues-based rock stomper started majestically, then thumped menacingly as charges were leveled. Voltage surged, justice was served, and the verdict was shouted to the heavens. Suddenly, the jury caught its breath, but the victim restated the decree, spurring the judge to rejoin in glee. They repeated, with each repetition rising in conviction, leading to a call-and-response finale of primal scream therapy. It buoyed Jim through searing ache and anguish yet again.

The journalist did not know, of course, that Peter Wolf and the band were jews and that the songs had multiple purposes against the true Americans. The angry breakup talk was meant for Whites to employ against Whites, to help prevent White families from starting, and to hasten couple and family breakups. Also, such songs were intended as occupiers of emotions and time, possibly supplying salve for emotional wounds but never supplying hard clues to the true cause of White societal breakdown, and never suggesting solutions.

That night, lying awake in his apartment, his silent contemplation slit open his superficially salved wounds. The suture he grasped was escape. Early Freysday morning, he fled to Crossville, seeking sanctuary with his parents. Washing Day night, still seeking, he returned to Nashville. Sunday, too, passed without solace.

In the morning of another Moonday, he rolled his Del Sol into the parking lot next to the faux Grinder’s Stand and stopped near the pay phone. The sun was clearing the naked treetops. The atmosphere stood calm. He could see the four of the feds’ archaeological team conversing as the women put a shovelful of dirt onto a metal screen and shook, sending loose soil falling into a pile on the ground two feet below. He climbed out of his car and moseyed over to the crew.

“Hi, Jim,” Hodgson said, wearing a white t-shirt and army-type camouflage pants.

Everybody shared greetings and smiles. “We’re doing shovel samples, like I was telling you about the other day. We hope to find a few artifacts that may help confirm—or deny—that Grinder’s Stand really was here.”

“What kinds of things would you expect to find if Grinder’s Stand was here?”

“Pottery shards would be most likely. Anything that might have been broken in the kitchen, or any other hard objects discarded as garbage. I wouldn’t expect them to have walked very far to toss the trash.”

They grinned. He glanced up at Cornelison, who was swashbuckling in a pink corduroy shirt and a matching scarf knotted at the back of his noggin. Mrs. Brewer wore gray sweats with her hair held by a white cloth headband. Mrs. Meyer was clothed in baggy brown pants, a maroon sweatshirt, and her ponytail was tied in blue. He asked, “Anything noteworthy, yet?”

“Clay,” Brewer said.

“Yeah, muck,” Meyer added.

“Not much of the dirt is shaking loose,” Hodgson said, “so, they’re having to inspect the clumps by hand, which makes it tedious.”

“Women’s work,” foreman Cornelison quipped, with a wink. After a round of ribbing and laughter, the boss’s face fell sober. “That Professor Starrs is here.”

“Excellent. Where?”

“He’s down the other side of the monument.” John pointed across the nearby parking lot at a neon-jade Neon. “That’s his car, there. Tom and I were taking magnetometer readings by the monument when Starrs came by, walking down the road.”

“Ah. Did you talk with him?”

“No. He didn’t approach us. He went down that section of old Natchez Trace toward the campground—which is just as well.”

The journalist grinned quizzically. “Just as well?”

“Uh, you know,” Cornelison said, “isn’t he angry at the Park Service? Maybe he’d be ornery toward us.”

“Oh, no, he wouldn’t be negative in any way to you. I first met Professor Starrs almost two years ago, and I’ve gotten to know him pretty well. He may be perturbed at your superiors, at the lofty leaders of the institution—in fact, he is.” He showed a knowing smile. “But he wouldn’t transfer that emotion onto you guys. He would know you’re just doing your jobs. You have nothing to do with policy.” He liked the positive expressions he saw on his new friends’ faces. “I have no doubt that you’d all enjoy talking with one another. I don’t mind saying, I know you four to be good people—unless you’re pulling the wool over my eyes!” Everybody chuckled. “And I know Jim Starrs to be good people.”

“That’s comforting,” one of the archeologists said, and the others agreed.

“If the opportunity arises, I’ll introduce you to each other.”

As the four reengaged in the shovel-sampling, Jim went back to stand near his car and get some things in order. After a few minutes, he glanced at the road. Starrs was striding his way. They smiled. Each gave a one-stroke wave. He welcomed his gray-bearded buddy with a handshake. Starrs was clad in walking shoes, navy blue pants and a light jacket to match. A purple “GW” cap covered his summit. After greetings, the Professor led him to the rented Neon.

“I am on my way to speak to the students in Hohenwald.”

“Oh, good. I’ll go, too. But first, I want to introduce you to the Park Service folks.”

“I avoided them. The men were at the monument earlier, so I went on by and down the trail a ways.”

The younger was troubled, at first, by the scientist’s attitude. But soon a smile grew on his face. “Reticence,” he announced.


“Reticence. You said it on the phone to me. I don’t remember when. You’re being reticent. Anyway, I was telling them a few minutes ago that you’re all good people and you’ll all enjoy each other’s company. And I said I’d introduce you.”

“Oh. But the timing is not good. I must go—.”

“That’s the beauty of it. Short and sweet.”


“Five minutes?”

Starrs checked his watch and gave a nod. They walked to the four, who were still shoveling and shaking.

“John Cornelison, please meet Jim Starrs.” The journalist finished all the introductions. Then he stood by and beamed. The five engaged in 10 minutes of good-natured scientific banter.

“Uh, Professor,” Jim interjected, “You’re on your way to the school, right?”

“Ah, yes. I really must be going.”

After friendly farewells, Jim and Starrs walked together toward their cars. “My good deed for the day!” remarked the younger. “And who knows, maybe this seed of goodwill we just planted will grow throughout the Park Service.”








31      Monumental


On the front steps of the school, the visitors waved goodbye to Christy and headed for their vehicles.

Starrs asked, “How do you think it went?”

“Wonderfully!” reported Jim. “Are you kidding?”

“I am always uncomfortable when speaking to young people. My fear is they will view me as a boring old fossil.”

“Ha ha. I must say, I was concerned for a moment, when you brought up your grandson Willie. But you got a laugh out of it. And the rest of the time, you engaged them, you talked to them, not down to them. And look at all the questions they had. That’s proof.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I am hungry. Are you hungry?”

Inside the General Cafe, a homey diner a block off Hohenwald’s main drag, Jim took a sip of his coffee and frowned.

“Not good?”

“Oh, it’s okay, for restaurant coffee. But it’s gotten cold. I oughta just quit coffee, again.”


“Heh. Yeah. I guess I’m doing with coffee what Mark Twain did with smoking.”

The famous Mark Twain, real name Samuel Langhorne Clemens, had long been a favorite of journalist Jim, the racially clueless, who most enjoyed the author’s biting wit against Christianity, robber barons, and the U.S. government, not realizing that it was all anti-White. But nearly two decades later, an awakened Jim would amass evidence to justify a conclusion that Samuel Clemens was a crypto-jew whose every major deed had served the jew agenda, especially his appearances at fund-raisers to help the jews overthrow Russia’s White governing family, an effort that achieved its awful success not long after Clemens’ death.

Jim’s Twain reference was to the dead international celebrity’s remark: “Quitting smoking is child’s play. Why, I’ve done it hundreds of times.”

Starrs smiled and reverted to the previous subject. “As to your career concerns, I was 48 when I found what I really wanted to do, forensic science. So, by that yardstick, you have plenty of time!” After a laugh, he said, “But for the time being, I would like to find a way to provide a monetary stipend for your services.”

“Hey, yeah. Imagine how much help I’d be if I were being paid!”

After lunch, the two split. Jim headed to The Park while Starrs attended to other business.

At the monument, he was excited to find a “cherry picker.” The orange vehicle sported a yellow bucket on the end of its massive hydraulic arm. Three Park Service maintenance men were relaxing against the shady side of the muscular machine. He’d met the three the previous week and was happy to see them again. Their first names quickly came to mind: Billy, Paul, and Ted.

“Greetings, guys. The monument guy must be here, huh?”

“In the campground,” Billy said. “Ought to be here shortly.”

Paul asked, “Wanna go for a ride?”

“I sure do. But would it be okay? I mean—.”

“We’re probably not supposed to,” Ted said, “But hell, I don’t see nobody that’s gonna object.”

“Take him up,” Paul said to Billy.

“All right,” Billy said, climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Let me get my camera.” He ran to his car and back as Billy revved the beast. He and Paul stepped into the bucket, and Billy lifted them above the monument’s broken peak.

As Jim snapped photos, Paul said, “Oh, here come the uniforms.” To Billy, he yelled, “Better take her down.”

On the descent, Jim said, “Oh, they won’t really care, will they? We’re all adults, here.”

“That’s right. They won’t care, no way.”

“Anyway,” he said with a smirk, “I hear it’s easier to ask forgiveness—.”

“Than get permission!”

The two laughed. A pair of uniformed females with holsters strode near. Billy shut off the engine. Jim stepped out of the bucket and onto the turf. “Just testing,” he said. “It’s safe for the monument guy to go up, now.”

“Yep,” Paul confirmed.

Jim smiled and introduced himself to the women.

“Ranger Francine Morgan,” the taller of the two said flatly, pulling her hand out of his.

“Sara Leach,” the other said with a grin.

“From the Tupelo office?”

“That’s right. Came up to observe the progress.”

He nodded. Morgan turned to Leach and began speaking. He felt shunned, so he walked over by Billy and the boys. Another vehicle arrived. Two men and a woman jumped out and joined the group.

“Michael Drummond Davidson,” a stocky, graying, bespectacled, bearded fellow said as he jack-hammered Jim’s hand.

“Jim Laffrey. Good to meet you. We spoke on the phone recently.”

“Yes, yes. A pleasure. And this is my wife and preservation architect, Belinda Stewart. And my assistant Jacques Murphree.”

By turns, they shook hands.

“Very well,” Mister Davidson said, donning a hard hat. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Jim stepped back as Paul fired up the cherry picker and lifted the married experts in the bucket. The journalist snapped a few photos and was amused at how Ranger Morgan seemed to be denying him a clear shot of her. He put his lens cap on and sat next to Billy under the nearest tree. The two chatted, slowly winding their way into the stories about Meriwether.

“You know, I’m related to the Griners who owned the stand.”

Wow. “No kidding?”

Billy nodded. “No kidding.”

“But—. What’s your last name, again?”

“Griner. Most people put a ‘d’ in it, but it’s ‘Griner.’ And that’s what Robert and Priscilla’s name was. Griner.”

“Priscilla? I thought her name was lost to history.”

“No. Heck no. You can see the names on their gravestones.”

The journalist wanted to laugh in delight. “What are you saying?”

“I’m sayin’ they’re buried right over near Centerville, where the family was from, where most of their land was.”

“You’re pulling my leg.” He watched Billy cock his head. He feared the elder man was getting perturbed at the skepticism.

Billy said, “Go see for yourself.”

“This is great. I will. How do I get there?”

“Just take Highway 50 out of Centerville a couple o’ mile. There’s a trailer court on the right on a hill. Dottie’s Trailer Court. The cemetery’s right back up there.”

“Oh, Billy. Thank you. I love this.” He whipped out his notebook and jotted down the directions. “I will go there one day this week. For sure.”

By and by, Starrs arrived. Privately, Jim briefed him on the rangers and monument crew. He offered to make introductions. “It’ll be my second glorious deed today!”

The remains of the day were spent in an atmosphere of professional cordiality. For supper, he and Starrs decided to drive the 50 minutes to Columbia.

He set out in his car with Himself in the Neon close behind. The Professor drove separately to save Jim from having to return to Hohenwald before heading back to Nashville for the night. In Columbia, Jim turned and led the elder south on Highway 31. He kept his eyes peeled for the TGI Friday’s restaurant. After a few more miles, they ran out of town. No more street lights. No more businesses. In the dim moonlight, he pulled into a farm’s driveway. He hopped out and walked to Starrs’ car as the Professor rolled the window down.

“I’m so sorry. Gosh, I was mistaken. I know there’s a TGI Friday’s in Columbia. I ate lunch there, once.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

“Thank you. But I’ve wasted so much time. I’ve misled you.”

“Yeah. Don’t let it happen again!”

He chuckled.

“I saw a Pizza Hut back there,” Starrs said. “Is that okay with you?”

“Oh, the irony. There’s a Pizza Hut in Hohenwald.”

Forty minutes later, over a dough pie smothered in vegetables and cheese, the younger served up his personal turmoil. “As your friend, I feel like we’ve reached the point where we can share opinions or advice and not fear offending each other because we know we’d mean no harm.” The Professor nodded and took a sip from his glass of the Hut’s see-through brew. “And I would be a fool not to seek your counsel, given your experience and—.”

“Don’t say ‘age’!”

“Ha ha. No, you’re not a geezer, yet!” They laughed. “So, please, if you will, you don’t have to, but—. Well, I’ll just ask. Please give me any opinion or advice you may have in regard to my situation.”

“Hmm. I’ll say this much. Some years back, I used to file divorce cases for my students—when they had no lawyer and could not afford one. Many of those cases involved mothers with young children. What I found, generally, is that those mothers put their children first, above their husbands, above their boyfriends, above anyone else.”

He nodded.

“I might add that sometimes, in the case of a boyfriend and a divorcee with kids, that if the kids are fond enough of the boyfriend, he can be a very close second in the woman’s eyes. And for many men in such circumstances, that is sufficient for them.”

“Yeah. Hm.” He picked up his glass. “Well, right now, I’m still a very distant second.” With that, he downed the last of the pale brew.


Tyrsday in The Park, he mixed with his Park Service pals and met two new arrivals to the archeology team. He found both David Brewer and Jeff Jones as engaging as the “pirate” and his mates. Meanwhile, monument-man Davidson and assistant Murphree took turns on a shovel to uncover the east side of the monument. Then they turned the corner and freed half the north face from the earth. During that digging, Starrs arrived. The journalist and the forensic scientist stepped to the edge of the trench.

“This,” Starrs said, “is a sight unseen for about 64 years—the bottom four feet of the Meriwether Lewis Monument.”

Nodding, he thought: Four feet closer to Meriwether. Aloud: “It’s a shame it’ll be buried, again, by the end of the week.”

Soon, students streamed out of two yellow buses from Lewis County schools. Starrs reluctantly bid adieu and set out for the Nashville airport.

Jim initiated conversation with some of the archeologists. Twenty minutes in, he was driven to say, “But the Park Service claims that if this exhumation were allowed, it would spur a flood of other exhumation requests from all over the country. That’s nonsense to me. People don’t want to dig up their relatives without good reason. But for the sake of argument, let’s say there did come a flood of requests. The Park Service could decide, on a case by case basis, which ones had sufficient merit to be okayed. And that number could be tiny.”

Brewer said, “But the Park Service—as far as I know—isn’t set up for that.”

“How difficult could it be to establish a simple, clear set of criteria? Then the judgments could be quick and easy.”

“What I mean is, I think there’s no budget, no structure, in the bureaucracy to pursue that mission.”

“Yeah,” Mister Brewer said. “What you seem to want is someone to do a job that isn’t in anyone’s job description. I’m not sure about that, but—.”

Just then, foreman Cornelison joined the discussion group. “Jim, let me caution you. Nothing said among us is the official word of the National Park Service.”

“I know, John. Don’t worry, you’re not going to see your crew’s quotes in tomorrow’s headlines.”

Mrs. Brewer asked, “Where will we see your story?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, having pitched his coverage of the event to a couple of magazines. “I don’t have a buyer for the story, yet.”

Everybody nodded silently. The hush grew to an awkward five seconds.

“Hey, Jim,” the foreman said. “Last night, I was writing up some of the reports I always have to do for our projects, and I got to thinking about the Lewis and Clark Expedition. It’s amazing how Lewis was able to recognize so many plants and animals that were new to science.”

“Yeah. What a keen mind. But I can’t help feeling a little sad knowing that most of the names he and Clark gave to what they found have since been changed. Rivers, especially. They named one for each member of the party—who all deserved it.”

“Uh huh. Yeah, Lewis really didn’t get his historical due.” Then, the foreman’s face energized. “But you know why?”

He nodded, confident he knew where it was going.

The big fella boomed, “He didn’t publish!”

The group laughed. Jim added, “Yeah, ‘Publish or Perish.’ He perished.”

Funny, and unfair, were their quips, as Jim would later learn. Meriwether Lewis had far more written and collected material than the public had been led to believe by the publishing industry and other corporate media. A proper job preparing for publication would take years, and it was a job the governor earnestly pursued amid his other responsibilities. Delays came not only from his governmental and family duties but at the hands of those deceitful gatekeepers of Philadelphia and New York in publishing, banking, and in key positions in government.

The group jovially split toward their separate tasks. Jim meandered over to the faux Grinder’s Stand and found Tom Hodgson. He felt closest to Tom in both age and attitude.

The archeologist technician smiled up from his sitting position on the ground against the back wall of the little wooden building. He had a computer on his lap. “I was just working with some of the preliminary data.”

“Can I see?”


He sat on the grass next to Tom. After a few displays of squiggles and colorful blotches, he asked: “What can you conclude from all this, so far?”

“Not much. Like I said, it’s really just raw data. When we get back to Tallahassee, we’ll get on our computers and use some techniques to enhance the images and do a full-scale analysis. But I’ll tell you, there’s nothing here that proves Grinder’s Stand was in this location. Of course, there’s nothing here to prove it wasn’t, either.”

Tom closed the laptop, and Jim changed the subject to Tallahassee. He asked about the quality of life, cockroaches, humidity, jobs. Tom answered all the questions, and then asked, “What are you looking for? Newspaper work?”

“No. Not that again.”

“What do you really want to do?”

He put a hand on his chin. “Gee.” He gazed up at a modest cloud drifting by.

“Realistically, what do you most want to be doing five years from now?”

“Well, I hope it’s realistic: I want to be writing books.”


He migrated back to Meriwether and sidled up to a discussion between Leach, from the Park Service office in Tupelo, and Davidson, the monument man.

“There’s nothing official about these thoughts, you understand,” Leach said, with an eye on the journalist, “but I envision a parking area near the monument, here. And restrooms nearby. I don’t see the removal of the four feet of backfill over the cemetery—that would probably be too costly. But I can see uncovering the base of the monument all the way around, and a wheelchair-accessible pathway up from the parking area and encircling the monument.”

That evening, he noted:

March 31, 1998.

Thorsday, April 2, he peered through the videocam lens as he zoomed in on the sun-drenched scene of students and teachers swarming across the cemetery and circling above Meriwether. “And who are you?” he said, focusing on a friendly face.

“You know who I am,” the educator giggled.

“Yes, but your public is dying to know.”

“Ha! I’m Miss Ricketts, 7th-grade teacher at Lewis County Middle School.”

Panning right, he prompted, “And you are the charming—.”

“Miss Holcomb—Belinda Holcomb,” the woman said, smiling but shaking her head. “I teach 8th-grade.”

“And lastly in this threesome,” he said, filling the frame with a beaming face, “the utterly adorable—.”

“Hee hee. You’re silly.”

He added, “And wittily uncooperative—.”

Teacher Ricketts coaxed, “Say who you are.”

“My name is Ashley Pierce. Um. And I’m in Miss Ricketts’ class.”

“Thank you very much,” he said quickly, doing an impression of Tupelo’s most famous native. In his normal voice, he prompted, “And you’re all here because—.”

A boy, off-camera, shouted, “They’re digging up Meri-Lewis, uh, Meri—, oh, you know who!”

Amid the group’s laughter, Ricketts exclaimed, “We wish!”

The crowd assembled around the monument. Ranger Morgan said a few words and introduced Davidson. Mister Monument described the stone memorial, its history, and the toll that nature had inflicted on its pyramidal base, etched plinth, and symbolically broken spire. Some tourists and local folks, including Marjorie Graves, arrived and heightened the happy spectacle. Jim confabbed and hobnobbed into the afternoon until the hordes had dispersed and only the dutiful remained. Davidson and the maintenance crew reburied the monument’s bottom.

The journalist met the husky fellow alone by their vehicles. “You’re all done?”

“Yes. The investigative work is done. Now, it’s mostly a matter of waiting for lab results. Once those are in, I will arrive at my recommendations and submit them to the Park Service. Then, presumably, the Park Service will determine what course of action, if any, to pursue.”

“How long will that process take?”

“Oh, couple of months.”

“Can you tell me anything that seems obvious at this point?”

“Hm. The limestone shaft ought to be cleaned. That can be returned to its original, almost-white color, and it will actually sparkle in the sunlight. That can be done at a relatively minimal cost.”

He waited.

“Well, anyone who knows stone can tell you that the sandstone of the base, there, should not be underground. Or, if their decision would be to leave it buried as it is, some type of waterproofing should be performed to protect against the moisture in the soil. Otherwise, wet sandstone wants to turn to clay.”

He nodded and stuck out his right hand. “Michael Davidson, it’s been a pleasure—and an education—to meet you and talk with you, sir.”

“Good luck to you, Jim. Next time you’re in Europa, look me up.”

“I will. Hey, is that anywhere near Tupelo?”

“About an hour further south.”

“Ahh. Well, who knows.”

He waved and walked away, rubbing his aching hand. Near the pay phone, he fell in with the archeologists. “Will you guys be back tomorrow?”

“It depends on the weather,” foreman Cornelison said. “The forecast calls for rain. Thunderstorms. If it looks wet in the morning, we’re out of here. If not, we may stay one more day. But all the work we really needed to do will be done by the end of today.”

“Well, in that case, I’m going to go visit the Griner cemetery that Billy told me about. Then, I’ll be back here by your quitting time. So, how ’bout a pizza party tonight? All the beer’s on me.”

“Ho ho!” Cornelison bellowed. “You may live to regret that offer!”

Tom Hodgson chuckled, “We’re a beer-drinkin’ bunch, Jim. I mean, even the women down it by the pitcher!” Everyone laughed. No one disagreed.

“Good! Then, it’ll be fun. Guaranteed.”


Jim couldn’t find Dottie’s Trailer Court. After a thorough search of the Centerville area, he was running out of gas. He stopped for a fill.

“Dottie sold out some year back,” said the attendant at the Amoco filling station and garage. “I believe it’s—no, I can’t recall the name. But it’s just up yonder, ’bout a mile, on the right.”

Jim knew the place. He’d been by it twice already. Riverview Mobile Home Village. He drove into it. But he saw no evidence of a cemetery. Finally, a woman unloading groceries from the trunk of a car about half her age told him that there were some graves behind her trailer. “Don’t know whose they are,” she said. “They tell us not to disturb ‘em.”

Following her instructions, he drove round about and found the plot. The cemetery was the size of a tennis court and surrounded by a chain-link fence. But the gate, right next to a dumpster, was one foot ajar. Carrying his camera and notebook, he stepped sideways through the opening. He trod solemnly on the rough, grassy ground and along a row of weathered and broken gravestones. A few paces farther, he came to a stone that bore the inscription “Priscilla Knight Griner.” And near the bottom, it said, in italics, “A loving wife and mother lies buried here.”

He whispered, “The mother. Wow. I’m atop the woman who last saw Meriwether alive—as far as we know.” He reflected for a moment, remembering the conflicting, evolving lies the mother had told, as recorded by an author and reporters. Then, a realization: “That ‘loving wife’ line seems familiar.”

A few feet to Priscilla’s left, he saw the broken base of a headstone. The bulk of it—the part presumably bearing an inscription—was nowhere to be seen. But a footstone bore initials. He read the first as “R.” The middle initial was illegible. The third, “G.” Proceeding to the next headstone, he read, “Robert Griner.”

“Aha. This would seem to be the husband. Another suspect.”

He had an inkling that it was improper to talk ill of the owners of Griner’s Stand while walking on them. Amused, he stooped lower and fingered a faint inscription near the bottom of Robert’s headstone. Finally, he figured it out.

“Only sleeping,” he said. “Now, that’s very familiar! I’m sure I’ve read of these before. But where?”

Proceeding on to the last stone in the row, he read, “Noble Griner.” And at the bottom, “At rest.”

Going back to Priscilla’s right, a newer, taller, easily legible stone told of “Pvt. Robert E. Griner Jr.” as a veteran of military service in the Confederate States of America. Unlike the other stones, the private’s marker offered dates. It said junior was born June 22, 1809, and died December 28, 1876.

“Hmm,” he uttered as he did the math. “So, the likely oldest son was 3 months and 19 days old when Meriwether met his demise. Very interesting.”

He found a few other stones of less interest, but he photographed them along with all the others. He drew a map of the cemetery and included every gravestone and every piece of a stone that he could find. When finished, he took a last photograph of the entire scene. As he peered through the Minolta lens, his black car adorned the foreground. The silent, neglected graveyard—protected by trailer homes—filled the background. As he drove onto the highway, he looked back and marveled at how the plot was entirely hidden from the view of all passersby.


In Hohenwald’s Pizza Hut, he helped the hostess push two tables together. Then he ordered a pitcher of beer and waited. Right on time, John came in with Tom and Jeff. Soon, Rhonda and Regina joined the party. In short order, pizzas and pitchers went round and round amid tall tales—all sworn true—and wave after wave of laughter. Amid the mirth, he overate and overdrank. But there was no overdoing the camaraderie. Of that, he could not get enough.

Late night, as he drove away, he said, “Man! I wish I lived near them, or they lived near me.” An instant later, he added, “Yeah, maybe then, to count all my friends, I’d need my other hand.”

He considered turning on the tape player but decided to forgo any distraction as his brain buzzed with memories of the happy day of uncommon events. He drove all the way to Nashville, and on to his apartment, in silence that was golden.

The high lasted well into the next day. Late afternoon, wind began to whip up, clouds blocked the sun, and soon a massive, black cloudbank with a tint of olive loomed to the northwest. “That looks like trouble.” In his car, he turned on the radio. The announcer warned of tornadoes. At home, a stormy evening ensued.






(Next, Chapter 32: Books)


WHITE HONOR: Chapters 27, 28, and 29

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27      Ricketts


Over the weekend, Jim reviewed his notes from all of the Hohenwald events he had attended. He came up with a candidate for one of Starrs’ requests: a 7th-grade teacher who had had her school Media Club at the public meeting in Hohenwald. Her name, Christy Ricketts. He gave her a call.

The next day, he drove to Lewis County Middle School in Hohenwald, arriving a bit before the appointed time. Teacher Ricketts introduced him to her class.

He smiled. “Hi, everybody.”

Many students said “hi.” Some giggled.

Mrs. Ricketts ushered him into a room adjoining her classroom. It was the Media Club’s domain. He waited there alone till class ended, then she took a chair across the table from him. Already, he had her on the same list as George the geologist and Jane Henley, kin of Meriwether. Christy Ricketts, apparently White, was instantly warm and likable. Her dark hair framed a soft face. Married, moderately overweight, quick to smile, the teacher engulfed him in a comfort zone.

“Here’s a letter I prepared as a model,” he said, placing a sheet of paper in front of her. “It makes the points we need made. But you can change it into your own words, if you like. Or retype it. Whatever you’d like to do.”

She read it through. “I like it. I see no reason to change a word of it.”

“Good. Of course, if you change your mind, have your way with it.”

“You know,” she said, grinning, “the more I’ve thought about this, the more I really want to be buried near Meriwether Lewis.”

He nodded. “Me, too. Too bad I don’t live here.”

Their conversation strolled to other subjects, then came to a natural pause. He broke the brief silence.

“Do you know anyone who has a relative already buried in Pioneer Cemetery who might write the other letter?”

“No, but I know who would. Aunt Marjorie. She’s the Lewis County historian.”

“Miss Marjie? Really! She’s your aunt?”

“Yes. You know her?”

Jim had met her through Star, who had arranged for their t-shirt selling affair to be on the property of—as Star had called her—”Miss Marjie.”

“There’s another connection you’re going to like, then.”

“What’s that?”

“My father, Billy Grimes, was Lewis County Historian till he died. Then, Aunt Marjorie became Lewis County historian.”

“Oh! I love it here! Will you adopt me? I want to be a part of this!”








28      Floater


On Wodensday, he placed some phone calls. All were for employment, and all went poorly. Thorsday was the same. Freysday was no different—until the phone rang, late afternoon. It was an invitation for a follow-up interview for the job of medical-newsletter editor. He was flattered, but not that desperate.

On Washing Day, February 28, he got a call-back from his old tv buddy. The man had warmed to the panel-show concept. The next step would be to put the concept to paper.


March came in like a lamb.


On Wodensday, he was at his Mac, typing a detailed proposal on his tv show. Suddenly, he discerned a small, gray blob in his vision. He closed his right eye and found that if he looked at a line of type, the blob would blot out a whole word an inch to the left on the line above. It startled him. He’d never had an eye problem before. He’d always had the best vision among everyone he had known.

On Freysday, after soliciting a recommendation and making an appointment, he sat in the office of a reportedly handsome and popular ophthalmologist.

Willing his left eye to stay open, he looked up and watched a yellow drop come splashing down and blur Doctor Alec Baldwin. He’d already forgotten the guy’s real name. Then, the actor-lookalike switched off the light and left the room. The journalist sat alone, looking at his dim reflection in a metal optical instrument. His left pupil dilated ever so slowly. Lumen by lumen, the room seemed to brighten, but fuzzily. By and by, the celebrity returned. Jim was instructed to place his forehead against the padded frame of an elaborate prop. Then, he was blinded by the light.

“Uh huh, uh huh,” the actor said. He switched lenses, and repeated the line. He switched lenses again. “Uh huh. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” After only seconds, he returned. “Let’s try this one.” Settled again, the famed one said, “Uh huh. Hold still. Uh—. No. Hm. Ah, there.”

“How long have you been practicing?”

“Oh, about 13 years, now.”

Something clicked, and in the instant, the flood of light ceased.

“Okay,” said the leading man. “You have what we call a ‘floater,’ although in your case, it’s stationary. I wouldn’t worry about it. There’s no indication of injury to the eye. It’s just one of those things that can come with age. It may go away in time. Or it may remain. If so, you’ll get used to it. But if it changes, if it grows, if it does something that worries you, come back for a checkup.”








29      Pistol-Packin’ Propagandist


“Hi Jim. It’s Christy,” said teacher Ricketts, phoning from Hohenwald.

“Christy. What a surprise. What’s up?”

“I got a letter back from the Park Service about my burial request.”

“Wow. That was quick. Is it a flat denial, as we expected?”

“Yeah. I have some other news, too. We had a Park Service ranger for a guest speaker at school today. Her name was Francine Morgan. She said the Park Service is going to do archaeological work on the monument and Grinder’s Stand.”

“Holy moly! When?”

“Let me see, the handout says March 23 to April 3. I scheduled my class to visit on April 2nd.”

“It starts this month?”

“Yeah. Exciting, huh?”


“I thought you and Professor Starrs would want to know right away.”

“You’re right! Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, but Jim, you should have heard what Ranger Morgan said. I’m sure she didn’t know that our class knows so much about Meriwether Lewis. She’s young, in her thirties, I guess, and she’s wearing her pistol and acting real confident. She says Lewis was drinking a lot, he got depressed, he was taking drugs, he was using mercury to combat malaria, and he finally got so bad that he just killed himself!”

“Oh, no! A ranger saying that crap!”

“I know. I said to her, ‘In Lewis County, a lot of us think that he was murdered.’”

“Great. What did she say?”

“The kids said she acted rude. It’s so funny: Later, the kids were saying, ‘Miss Ricketts and the ranger were dukin’ it out’! But she also told the kids that Lewis’s family had done a lot of intermarrying, and she said we know that intermarrying causes mental problems. Then, she said he had no direct descendants. We knew that. But she acted like he doesn’t really have any family, like the relatives don’t mean anything.”


“Oh, but then the kids took over! I was so proud of them! One student asked her, ‘Why won’t you let Professor Starrs do the exhumation to find out for sure?’ She said, ‘You can’t dig on federal land.’ But it wasn’t five minutes later and she said to the students, ‘Now, when you come out there, we’re going to be digging around the monument—.’ One of the kids said, ‘I thought you said you couldn’t dig!’”

Jim laughed in delight with her. “Really?”

“Yes! Oh, and the ranger said Lewis shot himself twice, as if she knows for sure. Then, the kids asked where the guns are. She didn’t know. And one of the kids, Zack Barber, said that if Lewis wanted to kill himself and had already shot himself twice, why didn’t he just shoot himself again?”


“She had no answer!”

“Ha ha. That’s wonderful.”

“She probably wished she’d never come to Lewis County Middle School!”

“I’ll say!” He paused for a laugh, which they shared. “Have you called Starrs? Or do you want me call him?”

“I called you first. Oh, but she said something mean about Professor Starrs. Between sessions—she spoke to two groups. She didn’t say this to the students. But she said, ‘Faculty members from other colleges have called us and they say Professor Starrs is a nut case.’ And I said to her, ‘Well, I’ve met Professor Starrs and I think he’s a nice and intelligent man.’ She backed off a little. But she also said that he wouldn’t be able to prove anything by an exhumation. She said, ‘He would just get his name in the paper more.’”

“Oh, that makes me angry. A representative of our government—. I wonder where she learned all her garbage. Was she reading from Ambrose’s book?”

“She made it sound like she’s done a lot of research on Meriwether Lewis. But she tried to end on a positive note. She said there’s a 55 percent chance that Starrs could find something.”

“She said ’55 percent’?”

“Yeah. And she said Starrs has brought a lot of interest to Meriwether Lewis, and that’s good.”

“Sheesh,” he said, shaking his head. “Well, I’ll be seeing you in a couple weeks. I’ll be watching as much of the archeological work as I can.”

“Good. I don’t want to give you the wrong impression, though. Ranger Morgan seemed real sweet—the rest of the time. She’s attractive, tall, blond. But the kids thought she was rude to me. It was so funny: When the kids said we’d been dukin’ it out, I said, ‘You think I’m going to pick a fight with a woman who’s carrying a pistol?’”

“And if she had shot you, the Park Service would call it ‘suicide’!”


Thinking, wrongly, that there was only one victim of pistol-packin’ Morgan’s attacks who could effectively fight back, the journalist gave him a call.

“I had just learned about the archeological dig,” Starrs replied, “But I did not know about the monument probe. Gee wiz! All the things I wanted to do, they are having somebody else do. Oh, I tell you, James. But I certainly wish I could attend the archeological work. However, the timing is not good. I hope I can work something out. But then, being a ‘nut case,’ perhaps I’m not up to the task!”

He smiled, marveling. “By the way, I have not found anyone for the burial-transfer request. Have you?”

“Perhaps. I have been on the phone with Marjorie Graves, the Lewis County historian. She and I are moving ahead on that front.”

“Good. That lets me off the hook, huh? Well, what else have you been up to?”

“I just got back from doing an exhumation in Ohio.”

“No kidding?”

“A woman had called me some time back and asked if I would exhume her daughter. The mother suspected that her daughter was murdered and that the local police had performed a cover-up. It was quite a mess. The remains were in the coffin for 10 years, and apparently the coffin was filled with water for 10 years. So, getting her out, it was like getting a bar of soap. It’s called ‘saponification.’ And you really look like a bar of soap. It’s terrible. And of course, the smell was just absolutely incredible.”

“Amazing. Gosh. Uh, was the woman paying you? Or—.”

“Oh, no. She had no money.”

“It was a freebie?”

“That’s right.”


Another thing gone to soap was his tv-show idea. His former mentor had talked a good game, from Jim’s point of view, but had done nothing, and Jim’s calls were always answered with apologies. With no other ins with the tv industry, he put that idea in the grave.

His fertile mind birthed a new idea: A newsletter. He would call it “Lewis and Clark Today,” which had a ring like USA Today, the young, countrywide newspaper launched by the media gargantuan Gannett Corporation, which also owned the Tennessean newspaper in Nashville, the top editor of which was John Siegenthaler, whose son by the same name was a frequent news reader on NBC tv news.

Jim did not know, of course, that the Siegenthalers were jews, nor did he know the import of that fact. Nor did he know that the media giant Gannett Corporation was owned by jews, even though he had read the book by Gannett CEO Al Neuharth, titled “Confessions Of An S.O.B.,” which included the story of his launching of the newspaper USA Today. Of course, Neuharth, a crypto-jew, had written nothing of his race’s control of all big media.

Jim’s newsletter would, if brought to fruition, be an instrument of journalism, his preferred profession, and he would be able to produce it alone. He had noticed that the quarterly publication from the Lewis and Clark Trail Heritage Foundation did not have the new news in it. When he had scanned the news wires at the now-defunct Banner, he had often seen little items related to Lewis & Clark. They were too piddly to put in the newspaper, but they would be perfect for the newsletter.

The question was, were there enough people willing to pay for such a newsletter? In his mind, it all hinged on how many members the Lewis and Clark Trail Heritage Foundation had. His business plan was based on 5,000 members. He had the newsgathering costs, the computer costs, the paper costs, the postage, everything figured out. Then, he found out the membership was less than half what he needed to make a go of it. He would have to flush this fantasy, too.


20 March 1998, he returned home from watching the movie Primary Colors in a cinema. In his notebook, he recorded: “Cried when idealism committed suicide.”

The book on which the movie was based was authored by, as printed on the book’s cover, “Anonymous.” Jim had bought the book. It was a fictionalized account of a primary-campaign season of Bill and Hillary Clinton, who were not named in the book. Jim thought it a good, useful book, telling entertaining truth by way of fiction to avoid lawsuits and other backlashes. Also, he had fallen for the media game of trying to identify Anonymous. However, when the author finally had been identified as the well-known Joe Klein, Jim had put Klein in the “liar” category, surely not a trustworthy journalist, since Klein had denied being the Anonymous author. Journalist Jim did not know that he had been given a circus ride, a distraction, in the theme-park world of news-entertainment created, populated, and manipulated by jews for the jews’ entertainment and enrichment, and for the occupying and duping of the White population. Klein was a jew. His publisher was a jew-owned publishing company. Hillary Clinton was a jew, a secret jew, as almost certainly was Bill, with his mysterious paternal parentage and charmed, labor-free life. All of the media outlets ping-ponging the Anonymous-mystery were owned and operated by jews. And none of them said that Klein nor anybody else involved was a jew, as nearly all of them pretended in public to be Whites.

That same night, at 10:15 p.m., the duped and race-blind, thus rudderless, White journalist wrote again:

Tonight, pretty damp.

Had 2 Guinnesses, watched some b-ball, some trash, some b-ball, and I weep.

I’ve never tried to believe so hard, so long, despite evidence to the contrary, that I’m doing the right thing, for a love supreme.

Am I a dumbshit, a dupe, making decisions for love that only accelerate my downward spiral?

Over Washing Day and Sunday, he struggled to keep his mind occupied. He went Krogering, he did laundry, he signed up with an Internet provider and surfed the Web, he mopped, vacuumed, cooked, did dishes, worked on some new ideas, watched tv. But underneath it all, his psyche churned over her. They had met in 1996. Now, it was 1998. He doubted her latest promise in a long line of broken vows. He scowled at his luck, the bad kind, finding a job in Nashville. He cringed at the non-journalism jobs he had begun to consider in pure desperation to keep hope alive with her. He detested driving on Nashville’s crowded construction zones pretending to be expressways. He tried to visualize how life had once been. Suddenly, it was as if the roiling sky in his brain split open, the clouds parted, and a ray of sunlight burned through fog to ground.






(Next, Chapter 30: Ugly Opinion)


WHITE HONOR: Chapters 25 and 26

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25      Stress Melts


Jim languished for four days. A fever rose, glands swelled, his throat hurt when he swallowed. Sunday night, he called in sick.

On Wodensday, he felt somewhat better. He sat with his guitar and pieced together a song he had been writing, mentally, through the hours of the days.

He cleared his throat and began to play. The intro chords set the tone. It was slow but lilting, melancholy yet playful. In his ailingly gruff voice, he sang:

She rips lips—.
Talks like my dad—.
Walks like Meriwether Lewis.
She’s well-read, starts at the end, cuz there’s a lifetime burning in every second.

The chorus:

Oh, Christmas came on the fourth of June with a Star named after the Moon.

He croaked another verse and chorus. After clearing his throat again, he sang the bridge and then another chorus building to the finish:

Yes, my Christmas falls on the fourth of June with a Star named after the Moon—.

The rest of that day, he felt chilled. By late evening, he sought refuge under the comforter on his bed. At 1 a.m., he woke up wet with sweat. By Sunday, he was little better. He called in sick, again. When he hung up, having dispelled the dread, he felt much better. But the illusion of health dissolved in the night.

On Moonday morning in bed, he was reviewing the rocky, recent past when arose the realization of how one could descend into wrong if one were lured just one decorated rung at a time. He put it into timeframes:

I used to hope in weeks. Like when I waited for the holidays to get over with during our first year. Then, I hoped in months. Like when I waited for the end of school to come. Then, I started to think in 6-month eras, which is about how long she guessed a divorce would take. Now, well, we’re into a new year. She hasn’t filed for divorce, yet. And—.

The captain, with a shake and a frown, left it there, still in the doldrums of thinking it noble to stay with that ship.

In the afternoon, the phone woke him from a nap.

“You sound awful,” Starrs said. “Should I be worried?”

“Just don’t—.” he swallowed, winced. “Just don’t put your mouth too close to the phone.”

“I would be sick, too, if the fax I just received had not been so expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“The National Park Service issued its denial today on our appeal in Atlanta. Oh, the nonsense. In this faxed denial, which apparently was sent to various media outlets today as well, it contains multiple objections, including highly exaggerated ones, such as the ‘profound impact’ that the exhumation would have on their ‘entire’ operation. I just simply call that bunkum —in the phrasing of Mark Twain.”

He tried to laugh.

“The Associated Press called me today,” the Professor continued. “And I just got off the phone with the Tennessean reporter Katherine—, uh, what’s her name?”

“Could it be Trevison?”

“That’s it. Trevison. She seems good, professional. But no call from your Banner.”

“To hell with the Banner.”

“Well. Now I’m clear on where your illness resides.”

A corner of his mouth curled upward. “The Tennessean is the paper that counts. Its circulation is twice, maybe three times the Banner’s by now.”

“Are you serious?”

He cleared his throat. “Yep. If they don’t call you today, let ‘em read about it in the Tennessean tomorrow. They couldn’t put a story out till tomorrow afternoon, anyway.”

“Okay. You have yet to steer me wrong. Proceeding on to another matter, Joe Baugh tells me he will not run again to keep his post as district attorney general.”

“Oh? Is that going to mean the death of the state’s court fight for Meriwether? Or does Joe have his sights on higher office? Or what?”

“I did not have time to ask him. But I will. In the meantime, I am hopeful that I can get the court decision rendered there in Tennessee before Joe steps down in August.”

“Hm. So, what’s next?”

“Begin the final appeal with the Park Service. Take it all the way to the new director. At the same time, we will proceed in court. I expect to be in Nashville next month for that.”


“I am doing what Meriwether Lewis would have asked of me. I am taking this as far as it will go, just the way he took his exploration as far as it would go. And let’s hope I have the same success.”


On Freysday morning, feeling much improved, he took a drive up to Kentucky to try his luck on the lottery, which Tennessee did not have. It was unlike him, and he wouldn’t make a habit of it, but he entertained himself with the thought: “You can’t win if you don’t play.” That carney barker’s come-on was in fact employed by state governments, as he knew, to drain the dumb and the desperate of what little cash they may have left. The rich had no need to spend money that way, and the intelligent might do it as nothing but an occasional lark. It was the people who could least afford to gamble who gave their money to the government-run con. Jim knew that no government should ever fund itself that way. What he did not know was who had corrupted the governments to such depths, although he thought he knew that they were Whites.

In a small border store reeking of cigarette stench, he scratched some tickets—slowly, unveiling one spot at a time. He made a drama out of it. As the state would have it, his groans outnumbered his cheers. He got back 12 of the 15 dollars he had spent. Lucky. He had only lost three dollars. Then, he put up most of his “winnings” on tickets for Washing Day night’s multi-state Powerball drawing. On the way out, he spent the rest on two Payday candy bars.

In the car, headed south on I-65 toward Nashville, he imagined the results of a big win. After all, “somebody” will win. Why not him? He could buy a house, any house, and quit the damn Banner, and write the bio, too.

The thought of the job brought a rush of dread. He considered taking the next week off, as vacation time.

Meanwhile, he continued to wrack his brain for new ideas, things that he could own and make a living on. He hated the idea of working for others anymore.

One idea was about calendars. He had never seen calendars sold for specific rooms of the house, such as one specifically for a home office, and one for the bathroom, and one for the bedroom. He easily imagined photos, art, and information tailored for each location.

Another idea: greeting cards. He would call them Gibson Occasion Cards. Gibson, the guitar maker, had its headquarters right in Nashville. Maybe he could sell this concept to them, or they might hire him to implement it. Each card would use a musical instrument, or just one aspect of a musical instrument, to play off of. And all the cards would be funny, or encouraging, or both. For example, one card could feature an artsy, sexy photo of a Les Paul guitar, with its curves suggestive of a woman’s body. And then, some parts would be labeled, such as the head, the neck, the body, and the cutaway. The cutaway was the part of the body that was cut off to allow the hand to reach the highest notes. A caption could be, “Single Cutaway. The Easy Way To Get High.” Or a fretless bass could be pictured, and a caption could be, “Don’t Fret.” Or “Baby, We’ll Never Fret Again.”

Another idea was a new candy, a chocolate candy. It’s reason for being would be to tap into the countrywide “anti-stress” craze. This candy would have a dash of one of the supposedly anti-stress herbs, whichever would be compatible with chocolate, perhaps chamomile. People who buy chocolate would have a new, purportedly healthy reason to buy more chocolate. His name for this cocoa combo: Stress Melts. He liked that the word “melts” could function as both a plural noun and a verb. He would package a few in a box, similar to, but with better presentation than, the famous Milk Duds or Junior Mints.

On Sunday, he checked the new Powerball numbers against his lottery tickets. They matched only three two-digit numbers scattered among the ten lines of numbers. He crumpled the slips of foolish dreams and slam-dunked them into the tall kitchen garbage can. He sat down, and felt down. Should he make coffee to perk himself up? No, it made him feel like an addict. He vowed to cut the coffee and get back to his old exercise routine. He put on some music, changed into sweats and pumped himself up.

Later, on his computer, he began designing calendars and greeting cards. He sketched ideas for images, made lists of appropriate informational categories, and wrote many potential slogans.

On Thorsday, he informed the Banner he was going to take another week of vacation. He got a little static, but he squelched it.

Daily household chores plus his productive endeavors helped, but the weekend passed long and lonely. Adding to the downer was the lack of caffeine—because he also had given himself the challenge of quitting coffee. As the next week progressed, he thought, I’m feeling almost human, again! I’m starting to remember how good my body and mind used to feel before I started working at the—. He didn’t want to even think the name.

The next afternoon, he called his boss to report that he was going to use another week of vacation. He was told that there had been “some talk” about him and he’d have to “run it by” the managing editor in the morning. That evening, he wrote in his notebook:

I’m quite troubled by this, even though I’m perfectly within my rights and not causing undue hardship on the Banner. My substitute is an ex-lawyer; I don’t write the stories, anyway; no one else is taking time off. So, it’s just another regular vacation week.

I’ll have to call in the a.m. I know this is going to keep me awake too much tonight. I NEED A STRESS MELT! ha ha.

On the horn with the Banner, he was told he would have to take his request to the administrative officer, Mrs. Manning, and “run it by” her. But she would not be in till 9 o’clock. He went out for breakfast. When he returned, he found a message on his answering machine.

The voice said, “Our superiors asked me to call you and say that you could take the week off, but it would be without pay. As they explained it to me, vacation time is accrued based on time worked. Officially, Jim, you haven’t worked enough days this year to have earned the time off.”

That seemed to him a valid point. On the phone again, finding the damn position immovable, he finally said, “Well, I need the time. So, if that’s my only option, that’s what I’ll do.”

Using the phone book, he called two candy makers in Nashville. Each receptionist took his name and said the appropriate person would call him back. He made a follow-up call to the newsletters-publishing company.

Through another long weekend alone, he worked on his ideas, expanding on them, trying to decide if any one of them was good enough to sink money into. Then, he was struck with a new idea. It harked back to his days on camera as a substitute news anchor at the PBS tv station in Cookeville, Tennessee. He envisioned a new tv show. The idea seemed bigger and better than the others.

It would be a panel show, on the model of The McLaughlin Group and Politically Incorrect. But it wouldn’t be tv talk about outside things. It would be tv about tv. Every night, it would be a humorous and biting discussion about the two or three most popular or most important things that had been on tv that day. People loved to talk about their favorite tv shows. So, the host, himself, and guests on the show could discuss the issues and how the characters had handled the issues. He quickly had the whole half-hour planned out, the set, everything, all in his head.

“Brian,” Jim said to himself, recalling the given name but not yet the family name of the guy who taught him everything he knew about tv, the guy who had built the live news show on the PBS station in Cookeville, which had been axed after Jim had spearheaded a report on a local furniture-company strike. After the show, the manager of the station, Dick Castle, in a rage, simply killed the show. Jim had not known that there was a local media collusion against the reporting of any workers’ strike. Brian had known of that ban and had, because of Jim’s journalistic enthusiasm, broken the ban. Thus had come the end to the short happy life of Jim’s live-tv career.

He didn’t know what Brian had been doing during the ensuing few years, nor did he know the man’s current location, but Jim hoped he could find his tv mentor in a position to partner with him and make his big idea a go.

“Welch. Brian Welch. That’s his name!”

Buoyed and emboldened by his resurgent creativity and inventiveness, he attacked the problem of the damn Banner in his life. He listed and weighed, again, the negatives versus the positive. Yes, there was only one positive, the money. Yet the money was also a negative since it was not enough, and they would never make it enough, to qualify as fair payment for his labor.

Fully cognizant of that damned thing’s effects on his health, and recalling the months of mornings he had walked across that parking lot, and up to Broadway, and had forced himself to cross over, and still simmering over the multiple times he had been screwed by the bosses there, his gavel of final judgment came down like the hammer of Thor.

He typed a letter of resignation, first draft, and set it aside. Later, he re-read the letter. While making revisions, the phone rang.

The caller was his favorite political reporter and writer, Jeff Woods. Mister Woods was experienced, accurate, irreverent, witty, and insightful. Months before, Woods had quit the Banner in disgust. The publisher had repeatedly ordered Woods to write stories apparently intended to boost friends and sink enemies, journalistic merit be damned. Woods got fed up with fighting such nonsense. He had taken a job writing a medical newsletter. The company was started, as a side venture, by an executive in the medical behemoth Columbia Healthcare Corporation.

“Jim, we have a job opening,” Woods said, “and I told my boss you might be ready to escape that shit over there.”

“Jeff, you’re timing is unbelievable.”

He agreed to an appointment time for an interview with Woods’s boss. But as soon as he put the phone down, he came to his senses. I don’t want a public relations job—the opposite of journalism! He decided to go through the motions. He figured he might be desperate enough to be grateful to have such a job, some day.

In the morning, he sent his resignation by certified mail. In the early evening, he made a hot chocolate, into which he poured some Irish whiskey and a dollop of Creme de Menthe. He dubbed it an “Irish Hot Chocolate.” After an hour, he made another. An hour after that, he poured whiskey into a shot glass, shunning the dilution. To his surprise, a violin melody began wafting down. That night, he slept more soundly than he could recall.


“Professor Starrs speaking.”

“Good morning, Professor. Jim Laffrey, here, in Nashville.”

“Jim Laffrey from—still from Nashville.”

“Still. Yeah, damn it. Still.”

“Still unmarried from Nashville.”

“Still damn-it unmarried from Nashville. Yeah.”

They laughed. “I was hoping it was Publisher’s Clearinghouse calling.”

“Heh heh heh.”

“I thought I was going to see you in court Friday, but the hearing for Meriwether Lewis has been delayed until February 20th, another Friday. Will you be able to attend?”

With a grin, he replied, “I believe I can work it in.” He briefed his friend on the latest developments.

Starrs wished him well and said, “This will not detract from your efforts for Meriwether Lewis, I hope.”

“Absolutely not. If anything, I’ll have more time for Meriwether.”

“Ah, that is comforting. Well, I have a reporter sitting here with me. She is waiting—impatiently, perhaps—for me to get off the phone.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Keep in touch on email.”

“Have you forgotten? I pulled the plug a month ago on the Website and my Web account. Temporarily, I hope.”

“Really? The Website? The Meriwether Lewis Website is done? Oh, what a disappointment.”

“I thought I sent you an email about this right before I shut it all down.”

“I talked with many people who said they loved the Website. And I loved it, too.”

“Yeah? I never knew. Well, I’m sad about it, too.”

“Oh! Geez, James. We’ll rely on the phone, then.”


Another labor of love in temporary-shutdown mode was the bio. Jim had sent several queries to literary agents, all of whom had declined his proposal, some by form letter, others by silence. In his dreadful ignorance, he thought that a completed exhumation would be the sure, future selling point for his proposed biography of the famed exhumationist. He had no clue about jews in control, nor the import of that fact, looming over every one of his big ideas. Such knowledge, if he had possessed it back at the PBS station in Cookeville, would have explained everything. The manager, Dick Castle, and his wife at his side, a pair who ruled as if the “public service” were their little kingdom, were jews. And the Gibson guitar company was owned by a jew, and the anti-health candy industry was controlled by jews. Television, other than perhaps local cable access tv, was simply shut against White entry and success. The jews could block any White man without his own wealth from gaining even a niche in all of those potentially lucrative endeavors.

Wodensday morning, he awoke to a white wonderland. An inch of snow had fallen in Music City. The man of ancient Norse descent by way of Germans and the Irish always thought freshly fallen snow a beautiful sight.








26      Federal Court


On Thorsday, the Banner called. Mrs. Manning, in her most personable way, said she had received his letter of resignation. She asked if he wanted his 401(k) fund to be held, rolled over into another account, or paid out to him in a lump sum.

“Lump sum, please.”

That afternoon, another call from the Banner. It was his first Banner boss, the man who had hired him, Max Moss. The apparently White, kind, efficient, principled, good-humored yet reserved Mister Moss had been the Wire editor at that time. It had been unfathomable to Jim when Moss had been transferred, suddenly and involuntarily, to the Sports department, never to emerge.

“I’ve always been grateful to you, Max.”

“Well, I appreciate the kind words you said in your resignation letter.”

“They were the only kind words in the resignation letter!”

“I want you to know, I understand. And I wish you all the best. If I can be of any help, let me know.”


On Freysday, snow, again, left a lovely blanket for early-morning risers, and despite how little snow there really was, it disrupted the schedules of many institutions. Unlike the North, the South pretended that winter was so mild that no preparations were needed, that insulation was unnecessary for walls and water pipes, that street-cleaners need not be at the ready, and ignorant drivers made it seem a ritual to cause a rash of fender-benders.

Valentine’s Day approached, and he bought a special gift. Knowing the intended receiver would ask beforehand, “What is it?, he thought up a trio of clues.

It sounds like a bug.
It keeps what it gives you.
It’s what you get when you cross your favorite coffee with the fourth dimension.

The following Moonday, February 17, arrived with morning news about the afternoon news organ. He flipped from C-SPAN to a local channel where a news show was just beginning. The lead story was startling. His jaw dropped. He stood up and cheered.

The tv showed the Banner’s front page. The top headline said, “Banner to cease publication.” The final day in that paper’s history was to be the coming Freysday.

Oh, the irony. As an acquaintance later quipped to Jim, “So, you quit, and the Banner goes kaput! They couldn’t go on without you!”

There was another irony, though. A serious one. Reportedly, each staffer was to receive severance pay of one-thousand dollars for each full year they had worked there. So, by having quit, Jim would miss out on five-thousand dollars.

Thus, did he regret having abandoned that suicidal ship only two weeks early? No. He felt proud to be able to say he had quit the damn place of his own free will. The anti-journalism publisher did not get to pull the rug out from under him like he was doing to everyone else. That was worth five-thousand bucks to him.

Of course, he did have concern for many of the employees who were being upended, some of whom he very much liked. One or two could easily retire, while a few others would likely be hired by the morning bull, the Tennessean. The other good ones were young go-getters with connections and would probably find new jobs soon enough in journalism or public-relations work.

On Wodensday, he made one more drive to Kentucky to play the lottery, again. It would be nice to win five-thousand. But as the house would have it, he did not win scratch.


On Freysday, a frigid day in downtown Nashville, Jim entered the federal courthouse with one clear understanding of what was at stake. The hearing was about the feds’ attempt to remove the case from state court and take it into the federal court system. Starrs had told him the case was winnable in state court but would be nearly hopeless in federal court. What the full fallout of a loss would be, Jim did not know.

On the second floor of the cement and marble building, he sat next to Starrs on a pew in a spacious, wooden courtroom. All was quiet. The judge was reviewing papers. Jim leaned to starboard, toward the Professor, who was sucking on a fragrant, medicated throat lozenge. Very softly, he said, “Do you know if you’ll get a chance to—.”

“We must not speak,” Starrs replied, almost inaudibly. “Some judges are extremely sensitive to even a whisper. He could have the bailiff throw us out.”

Ridiculous, he thought, but he obeyed. It was his first time in a federal court hearing. He looked around. Sitting in the middle of the second long bench on the left side of the room, he had the Professor on his right. Beyond was Tony Turnbow from Hohenwald. Scanning across the center aisle, he saw a smattering of familiar faces, including a tv reporter, among the thin audience. As expected, there were no cameras to record the event with their unblinking eyes. Federal courts had long barred cameras, effectively saying that nobody had a right to view the supposedly public event except for whomever the officials might allow into the confines of the courtroom. Behind him, he recognized another tv reporter and two print reporters. The few other people to his rear were strangers.

The proceeding got underway. The black-gowned judge sat behind his fine wooden desk atop a raised platform. Judge Thomas Higgins directed his first question at District Attorney General Joe Baugh.

“Mr. Baugh, does this matter of exhuming the remains of the late Mr. Lewis relate to a viable criminal investigation where the interests of the state of Tennessee in vindicating its criminal laws is really at issue?”

Jim scanned to the left of the judge. Baugh, in profile, was directly ahead. Tall jovial Joe now appeared quite nervous, and rosy-cheeked.

The judge continued, “Can you look me in the eye, as an officer of this court, and make that representation?”

As Baugh gathered himself, Starrs said under his breath, “Come on, Joe. Be firm, confident.”

“Yes, sir, I can.”

The judge frowned.

“And the reason I can, Judge Higgins, is because the vindication of the rights of the people of the state of Tennessee doesn’t always include taking someone to trial. Part of the rights that we vindicate is letting the relatives’ memories rest easy as to what was the cause of the victim’s death, and that’s part of the duties that we have.”

“After almost 200 years?”

“There are still a hundred-fifty relatives who have agreed with us that they would like to know what is the answer to this historical mystery.”

“All right. Thank you.”

With that, the judge looked in the opposite direction to begin questioning Assistant U.S. Attorney Michael Roden, who stood at a lectern. The judge asked about federal procedures required by Congress. The assistant U.S. attorney used the opportunity to say many things, including a suggestion that District Attorney General Baugh was being led by Starrs. And the famed forensic anthropologist Bill Bass was mentioned as “the other professor” involved.

The judge nodded. “But I’m having some trouble, conceptually, coming around to how these two professors can get into this present case at all. Maybe Mr. Baugh in due course can shed some light on it. But it looks to me like what we have here is a state officer who has proceeded in a state court as if he was pursuing a bona fide criminal investigation. And he asked a state court to give him authority to remove the decedent’s remains. But the decedent’s remains are on federal property, and the United States insists that it’s a matter within its exclusive jurisdiction and that the state court has no authority to act, as you say, under the last paragraph of the Constitution, the Supremacy Clause—federal law governs. So, the United States has removed these proceedings here and said that whatever’s cooking in the administrative proceedings is a different issue for another day and that these learned professors have no standing in this case and can’t enter this case. They have got to paddle their own canoe.”

The assistant U.S. attorney concurred. He reasserted his point that Baugh and Starrs were “acting together.” He added, “Mr. Baugh held a coroner’s jury—.”

“Well, that coroner’s business,” the judge interjected. “I don’t know what to make of that. But that’s sort of like a group of lawyers trying Galileo as if they were sitting in a Papal Court. I don’t know. You know, a coroner’s jury, a hundred eighty-eight years after the fact. It’s not as if we don’t have plenty of business to do getting ready to have a hearing this afternoon among a number of cases, but that’s just one, and that’s only a fraction of the papers filed in that particular lawsuit. That’s just a fraction. And here we are.”

Jim looked at Starrs. The Professor’s face had fallen, and he was subtly shaking his head.

The judge added, “But everybody has a right to be heard. That’s why we sit.”

“Your Honor,” the U.S. attorney was saying, “it gets back to the court’s point that it strains credibility a little bit to see this as an action to pursue legitimate law-enforcement goals.”

“Well, that was the very first question I put to him.” The judge, with an outstretched arm, pointed at Baugh but continued speaking to the U.S. attorney. “He states to me, as an officer of this court, looking me straight in the eye, that this isn’t any put-on, that he asserts upon his status as an officer of the court that this is a bona fide inquiry in his official capacity on behalf of the state of Tennessee.” The judge shook the finger pointed at Baugh and said, “And—for the moment—I credit that.”

Jim was dismayed at the judge’s dripping derision of District Attorney General Baugh.

“I understand, Your Honor,” the U.S. attorney said.

“And he stands up here and looks me straight in the eye and makes that statement as an officer of the court.” The judge paused, then repeated, “I’ll credit that—for the moment.”

“I understand, Your Honor,” the U.S. attorney said again. “My point is that Professor Starrs and Mr. Baugh—.”

“Whatever reservations I might otherwise have had.”

The journalist felt like yelling, “You’re out of order! This whole court is out of order!” But this wasn’t a movie. And he didn’t want to be cast out. Jim was correct, but for only superficial reasons. Although he had reverently read and reread the Constitution, he had no vital knowledge whatsoever about the Constitution, the actual writers of it, and the true purposes behind such inclusions as that “supremacy clause” the judge had referred to. Such knowledge never was and never would be in the jew-controlled publications from which Jim got all of his historical information. If he were ever to learn what had really happened, and why, he would have to seek out White sources—the only sources for the truth about that entire treasonous atrocity in American history. One such source was Founding Father Patrick Henry, whose words were available but never featured in the big media. Other sources were the words of other Founding Fathers who most Americans had never heard of because they had been flushed down the “memory hole” by the Masters Of Deceit. Indeed, Jim was correct: The court was out of order. The judge was showing himself as a defender of the central government’s “supremacy” over the states and over the people. But Jim, like most others in the courtroom, thought that justice was possible in such an institution, in such a system, if the truth were sufficiently and persuasively presented.

Finally, the District Attorney General from Franklin, Tennessee, Joe Baugh, was given an opportunity to respond. Jim found the arguments confused and straying off point. But then Baugh asserted that federal laws establishing concurrent jurisdiction allowed for the state to proceed with law-enforcement procedures in a homicide. “I suggest to the court that the Congress did not intend to preclude the operation of a quasi-criminal function on federal land and have to go through umpteen federal hoops before you could turn a spade full of dirt.”

“Now, do you know that?” the judge asked. “Have you read the committee reports and the debates on the floor? Do you know whether the Congress spoke to this question?”

“No, Your Honor,” Baugh replied. “I’m just judging by what I read from the act.”

The judge nodded. “Frequently when you look at the committee reports, and also the debates on the floor, it sheds some light as to what the intent was.”

Jim listened quizzically as Baugh and the judge spent several minutes discussing hypothetical and peripheral cases. Then the judge asked whether Meriwether’s case was civil or criminal.

“Actually, it’s neither,” Baugh replied.

“It’s an academic case,” the judge quipped.

Baugh redundantly defended his position, then he slightly shrugged and said with a smile, “Now, we’re not going to arrest the murderer of Meriwether Lewis—.”

Jim was struck by Baugh’s last statements. How could the case not be a murder case, a criminal case? Furthermore, given Baugh’s tone, it sounded as though the state had no interest in who might have murdered Meriwether. Maybe Baugh was trying to show a congenial, personable, reasonable side for the judge. But the journalist could not understand why Baugh would imply that a “quasi-criminal investigation” into a homicide would have no interest in identifying any alleged murderer.

Baugh continued, “But we could give the family and the descendants who’re concerned about this some rest, and in the meantime give historians some rest, too.”

Judge Higgins retorted: “Not going to give poor Mr. Lewis much rest.”

Baugh began a counterpoint by asking if the judge had read “Stephen Ambrose’s book.”

“You mean, Undaunted Courage?” The judge informed all present that he had read the book. He had also read the journals of Lewis and Clark.

The journalist wondered in which order the judge had read the book and the journals, and how thoroughly. Even so, he thought, the more knowledgeable the judge is, the better. Jim was in ignorant denial that the case was not only lost but that Baugh appeared to be a party to that loss.

For a while, the judge conducted arguments on potential technical flaws in the feds’ motion. Then, he ended discussion and identified the issues, as he saw them. Issue One was about jurisdiction: Was the case properly before the federal court? If so, then Issue Two would arise: The U.S. attorney’s motion to dismiss the state’s case would then become “ripe.”

The journalist continued note-taking as “His Honor” went on. Judge Higgins said the interests of Meriwether Lewis’s relatives and the interests of professors did not count in the case at hand. The judge said that Congress’s Archaeological Resource Protection Act must govern. So, if there was no defect in the U.S. attorney’s motion to remove the case from state court and into federal court, then “that’s the end of it.”

Not done, the judge proceeded to lecture Baugh that state officers take an oath to uphold the Constitution, including its Supremacy Clause. Then, after a pregnant pause, the judge concluded, “Well, it’s an interesting and significant issue, aside from the historical interest.”

“Federalism issue,” Baugh said.

“Well, yes. It’s a question that sort of raises it to the razor’s edge of federal and state power.”

Jim took the judge to mean that states’ rights were almost at issue but not quite. In other words, they didn’t count at all in this courtroom in the so-called federal system.

The judge turned to Baugh and began what sounded like an informal conversation. The judge said he had heard that Baugh was going to run for a judgeship.

“Yes, sir,” Baugh confirmed.

After another minute of strained banter, the court was ordered in recess. The judge stepped out from behind his bastion. Baugh and the assistant U.S. attorney immediately gravitated to the judge and engaged in discussion. The audience stood and broke into conversations.

“We’re dead,” Starrs confided. “We are simply sunk. I knew it from the first, given the judge’s attitude and his questions.”

“Oh, I couldn’t believe his sarcasm.”

“His mind was made up before he entered the courtroom.”

A reporter beckoned the Professor away. Jim stood, scanned the room, and found it an odd scene. The judge, while conversing with the two legal combatants, kept an eye on the affair in the center aisle. Four or five journalists were interviewing Starrs.

Twenty minutes later, the scientist asked for a ride to the airport.

“Of course,” Jim replied. “But you mean, after our lunch, don’t you?” They had planned a post-assembly repast.

“Oh, no. I must catch the first flight out. There is always she who must be obeyed, you know.”

The Professor of law and forensic sciences led the way out of the courthouse as Jim heeled in silent dismay at what seemed a blow-off, without foreshadow nor explanation.

Prof. James Starrs, left, and journalist Jim Laffrey at the scene of yet another crime by the "supreme" government.

Prof. James Starrs, left, and journalist Jim Laffrey at the scene of yet another crime by the “supreme” government.

For a while, he held his tongue. By and by, he warmed.

“Why would Joe imply the state doesn’t care who killed Meriwether—if the killer were someone other than Meriwether?”

“He was attempting to bargain with the judge, I am afraid,” Starrs replied, watching the traffic ahead.

“To no avail, it seemed to me.”

“To no avail is right.”


In the morning, his first phone call was from Starrs.

“I have a plan to unveil the Park Service’s arbitrariness on burials, and it involves you.”

“Great. Shoot.”

“Now, this effort needs to be kept under wraps. We do not want the media to get it.”

He replied, employing his Jimmy Cagney impression: “Yeahhh. Secret, see? Yeah.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me, too.”

The Professor laid out the plan. Jim was to find two Lewis County residents willing to write to the National Park Service. One would request to be buried, upon death, in Pioneer Cemetery. The other would request to move a kin’s remains out of Pioneer Cemetery. Starrs said he fully expected the Park Service to flatly deny both requests. Those denials would be used as evidence in an eventual lawsuit, if necessary, brought by Starrs in federal court in Washington, D.C.

“What if the Park Service grants the request and the kin wants his or her relative’s remains moved?”

“In that case, I will pay for it, myself.”

“Oh, good! Another question. We’re not looking for people to lie, right? We want people who have some measure of intent to follow through. I hope.”

“That’s right. In fact, when I was down there doing the ground-penetrating radar, years ago, there was an old man—. I have gotten to the point, now, that I don’t say ‘geezer’!” They laughed. “The old man—I don’t remember his name—requested this very thing. He asked if I could help him move one of his relatives out of the cemetery. He said the National Park Service wouldn’t let him do it. This man, he was up in his 80s then. He is probably no longer alive. But if we can find someone like him, that would be wonderful.”

“Yeah. Um, one more question. What if someone asks to be paid to do this?”

“No. No money involved. Strictly volunteers.”

“That’s a relief. Okay, I’ll get on it. Uh—. Are we done with this subject?”

“We can be. Go ahead.”

“Frankly, I was disappointed that you would blow off our lunch plan and take flight out of town as you did. Is, uh, is there something I ought to know?”

“Oh, no, I meant no insult nor ill will. No, it was my illness. Seriously, I was barely holding myself together.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Yes. I have been taking 600 milligrams of Motrin three times a day for several days, now. I used my wife as an excuse, but the real excuse is my sickness. No, nothing as far as you are concerned, I can assure you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“We certainly would not want something like that to ruin our good relations.”

“Agreed! Thank you.”

“Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

“Ahh. What a relief. Oh, one more thing. How long do you expect Judge Higgins to take to issue his ruling?”

“Joe says six weeks or so.”






(Next, Chapter 27: Ricketts)


WHITE HONOR: Chapters 23 and 24

  • For all posts of chapters of WHITE HONOR, the book, click this link.






23      Gloves Off


September arrived with entertainment news. Two of Jim’s favorites, John Fogerty and the Rolling Stones, were scheduled for performances in Nashville. He planned to attend both concerts, each of which for him would be a first, with the Stones considered “a must.”

The second week of September came, and the current deadline for her big move ticked toward the same abyss as all of those previous. With one hour officially remaining on the clock, there came a knock. She entered with “a raging headache,” he comforted her through the night, and she left at 8:45 a.m. Although she returned later that day, she offered no warmth and did not stay. She cited only that it had “felt weird” to wake up there that morning. Again wearing the wedding ring he had removed during the night, she dropped yet another self-concocted bomb. He was to hang and twist, and she was to do what she was supposed to have done.

He wrote in his notebook:

She’s not level-headed. She’s just hurting me now.

But he was out of sight of land, with no seaworthy lifeboat, and unlike his ancient forebears, he was unequipped to navigate in this long night. And because of his commitment, he would not abandon ship.

However, she would. And within a few days, she did. Following tears, and reasons, and nonsense, “I guess this is goodbye,” she said. But later, she called, and after mental curettage and suction, she did it again.

He could let go. Finally, he could. But his mistake was to neither abandon ship nor scuttle her, as he had no other. He drifted on, alone, and maintained.

The next day was September 22, a day always of significance to the ancient Whites, whose knowledge of and synchronicity with nature had aligned monuments to the fact that the daylight was equally as long as the night. Jim carried a vestige of his ancestral heritage, and always noted but rarely shared with anyone the marvel of the equinoxes.

On the first night beyond that equilibrium, he sat in the famous and refurbished Ryman Auditorium to take in John Fogerty and his touring band’s performances of old favorites and new offerings. Jim was almost moved to tears a few times, wondering “who’ll stop the rain,” and other pertinent thoughts. However, an asshole sitting immediately behind him was horrendously obnoxious. And Fogerty played long, boring guitar solos. Halfway through, the journalist left the building.

On Thorsday at work, he was invited to meet immediately with the managing editor in her office. There, he found the Banner’s administrative officer, Ann Manning, too.

Mrs. Manning, apparently White, introduced the urgent business at hand: “We want to ask you about events that occurred between you and the reporter you supervised—events that you mentioned in the employee evaluation you submitted last month.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do my best. But I had no advance notice of this meeting, so I’ve had no chance to review notes. The events I described in the evaluation occurred one to eight months ago.”

“That’s okay,” Manning said, in her personable way. “We just want to get your responses so we can close the book on this. You see, the reporter has filed an addendum to the evaluation, contesting some of what you alleged.”

He answered the questions as they were put to him. But he didn’t like the inquisitors’ attitudes. By the way the questions were phrased, he suspected that his statements were being doubted more than the reporters’ assertions.

As he left the office and strode across the newsroom to his desk, he muttered, “Ambushed. Fucking ambushed—at the damn Banner.”

That night, when he went to bed, he set his alarm for 2:30 a.m. And he vowed to never set it earlier again.

He was properly angry, but he was ignorant as to the true cause of the systematized effort to apply guilt and imply threats against him for a job well done. Yet, if he had been aware of the cause and had said so, the African and the apparently duped-White inquisitors would have accused him as the “racist,” or “extremist,” or villain of the episode.


October opened with a call from Starrs.

“I got my rejection letter,” the Professor announced.

“You mean, from the Park Service? They denied the application for the exhumation?”

“Yep. So, now I want to go public. As far as I’m concerned, the gloves are off. Everything is litigation from now on. And I’m giving the Banner first dibs.”

“Okay. After we hang up, I’ll give ‘em the scoop. I’m sure a reporter will be calling you back today.”

“I want to talk to the other newspaper there, too. The Tennessean, is it?”

“Yeah, but how ’bout waiting till tomorrow to talk with them? If they get the story today, they’ll run it in the morning and beat us with it. A Banner story won’t be able to run till tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Starrs said. “It was a total denial. Didn’t even mention the trenching.”

“Which office did it come from?”

“Uh, the Atlanta office. But it states on it that I have a right to appeal to the Park Service director in Washington, Robert Stanton.”

“Stanton? A new director?”

“Right. President Clinton appointed him. Apparently, Stanton was retired, a 37-year veteran of the Park Service, a black man, and they called him back, out of retirement, to replace Kennedy.”

“So, meet the new boss, same as the old boss. Eh?”

“Exactly. But this right to appeal—. That’s a waste of time because he’s already decided. I mean, they would not have decided down in Atlanta without calling him. But I am appealing. There’s no question that I will appeal. But Jim, I tell you, they set me up. Oh, they set me up. They told me last January—I thought in good faith—that I would get a fair and complete hearing on the matter before people who were unbiased, new to the matter, without any preconceptions. And that is just not true—because the language of the rejection letter is precisely the language of the letter that I received five years ago, that is, ‘Our management policies are against it.’ And of course, with the governor of Tennessee supporting the exhumation, the only basis they would have to reject me is precisely that, their so-called policies.”

Jim wasn’t quite absorbing every word as they came flowing through the phone. But he was getting the gist.

“And yet,” Starrs continued, “I have heard lots of other reasons. And I have read them in the letters from the National Park Service to the relatives. And the reason that they generally state is, ‘It would establish a bad precedent.’ Well, that’s as much hogwash as I have ever heard! There is no one who could stand on the same platform as Meriwether Lewis in terms of this controversy over his death. Even John Fitzgerald Kennedy has not had 200 years of controversy over his death. And we have the governors in support, and 153 relatives now, and a coroner’s inquest. I mean, this is so unique as to be sui generis, which means ‘one of a kind.’”

“Okay. Well, let me call the Banner and give ‘em the scoop. And I’ll call you tomorrow after the story runs.”


The next day, he faxed a copy of the Banner’s story to Starrs. In the afternoon, he called him.

“The reporter just skimmed over so many things,” Starrs said.

“Especially the angle about the governor’s support,” Jim interjected.

“My theme would be, ‘How dare they turn down the governor of the state, 153 relatives, and the Coroner’s Jury? How dare they?’”

“I agree. That’s what I said in the news meeting this morning. They had a copy of the story there. I told them how the story could be improved. But they changed it only slightly for print. What a disappointment.”

“Well, let us hope and expect the Tennessean will do better. But I have heard something today.”

“Yeah? Something good, I hope?”

“Small solace in small victories. Apparently, the Park Service has decided to do some restoration work on the monument. So, I think I can take a kudo for stimulating and fostering and promoting the interest in restoring the monument.”

“Absolutely. But you know, we don’t want ‘em to restore it till we get under it!”


On Tyrsday of the following week, Star made another revolution. She supposedly moved in with Jim. He noted that her luggage was nothing but a tootbrush. This overnighting lasted only a few days, through October 9, when she cited urgent matters of the extended family.

The weekend brought another annual Meriwether Lewis Arts & Crafts Fair. But this time, Jim made no appearance, fearing the memories, a repeat of boring crafts, and loneliness.

On Sunday, he decided to take the cushions off the couch, carry them outside and onto the front sidewalk, where he would knock the dust out of them. He took the first cushion out, held it between his legs, bent over, and clapped his hands with the cushion between them. Over and over, he clapped. Harder, continually, till the dust stopped spewing and his sweat was dripping. He rotated the cushion and clapped some more. Satisfied, he carried that cushion inside. He decided to move the couch away from the front windows. He moved the rocker-recliner toward the dining table. He pulled the couch out and placed it so it faced the tv and its back was toward the door. He turned his area rug so that it would lay long-ways between the tv and the couch. Then, he put the rocker-recliner by the front windows, facing it toward the center of the room. Pleased, he got the second of the six big couch cushions and took it outside for a good pounding. After finishing the six, he took each of two throw cushions outside and knocked the dust out of them. Then, inside, he vacuumed each cushion and leaned them against the outside of the couch and against the recliner and the bookcase. He vacuumed the cushionless couch. Then, he stowed the machine and took a shower.

All the while he had been cleaning and arranging the furniture, he had been cleaning and arranging his thoughts. As he had reviewed the salient features of the recent past, his anger grew and his resolve hardened.

She put me off for the past year. A whole year! Promise after promise broken. Hell, call ‘em what they are—they’re lies!

Now, out of the shower and partially dressed, he strode into the kitchen, pulled the champagne from the fridge, popped the cork over the sink, and poured it all down the drain.

I’ve played the fool long enough. Life has gone awfully wrong. Painfully wrong. Stupidly wrong. I must begin to make it right.

He went to the phone. He punched the numbers, remembering that their previous call had ended abruptly when she had hung up on him. He let her have it.

“You’ve lied to me for the last time. I don’t think you’ll ever treat me right. Don’t ever come here again. Don’t ever call. If you want an explanation, write me a letter. You can mail me the apartment key or throw it away. And this time, I hang up on you.”

He pushed the “off” button.








24      Burns


Tyrsday afternoon, he called Starrs.

“I have an idea,” he said confidently to his superior chum. “Ya know, somebody needs to make the case that we want made. We need to get our case for the exhumation and against the Park Service into publication. If my damn fellow journalists can’t understand the story well enough to write it right, I know who can!”



“But what about your anonymity and your objectivity as a journalist, ad nauseum?”

After a hearty laugh, he replied, “I have that figured out.” Jim would write letters to the editors of the newspapers and ask a friend or two to attach their names prior to mailing.


“It shall be done.”

“On the matter of appealing the recent denial,” Starrs said, “I have found that we have a right of review and a conference with the man who turned me down in Atlanta. So, I immediately sent him a FedEx today asking for such a conference and review.”

“Good. I guess. I suppose they’ll just listen with a deaf ear. But it’ll be a nice opportunity to give ‘em a piece of your mind. I’d like to see that. Keep me posted.”

“I surely will. Meanwhile, I have other legal aspects that require digging. Oh, my new assistant, he is no Nancy Raber. He is good. But he is no Nancy.”

“How is Nancy? I miss her.”

“She is doing well, she tells me. You know, she and I had a good sit-down together, and we smoothed over our previous misunderstandings.”

“Oh, I’m glad to hear that.”

“Yes. Good for the soul, to be sure. Listen, send me a copy of that letter of yours when it gets published.”

“I certainly will.”

“Thanks, Jim.”

“Always a pleasure.”

Early the next evening, he gave to a friend his freshly composed letter, extra copies, and a list of addresses of newspapers and congressmen.

“Now, if you want to retype this on your own stationery, or to rephrase things, go ahead. If there’s anything said in the letter that you wouldn’t say yourself, then please change it. Since your name will be on it, we want it to honestly represent what you think and what you want.”

In the morning, he awoke to the music alarm. A Satchmo-ish voice was belting out a familiar tune.

Ever since the day we met. Ever since the day we met, I’ve been down—I’ve been down—I’ve been downhearted, baby. I’ve been downhearted, baby.
Ever since the day….

He lay still, smiling, listening. The singing faded under the sound of crashing surf. He cackled at how wrong his guess at the lyrics had been. And the voice was not Louis Armstrong’s. But whose? A commercial came on. He shut if off.

On Freysday, October 24, the letter to the editor was published by the Banner. Jim called Starrs with the good news.

“They published every word of it.”

“Are you going to fax a copy of it to me today?”

“No, not till morning. But here, I’ll read it to you:

I want to know what gives the federal government the right to block 160 relatives from finding out what killed their loved one.

And what gives the National Park Service the right to deny the desire of the governor of Tennessee, the governor of Missouri and the governor of Virginia to investigate a homicide? It’s a matter of family rights. It’s a matter of states’ rights.

Does it matter that the case is 188 years old? No, because there’s no statute of limitations for alleged murder.

Does it matter that the grave is now in a federal park? No, because the death occurred on Tennessee land long before the state gave the deed to the feds.

Does it matter that the remains are those of a true American hero? Yes, because we owe him an honest attempt at justice. And we owe it to our children to fix the history we pass down to them.

Does it matter that the relatives and the governors want George Washington University professor James Starrs—noted for probing other famous graves—to perform the exhumation and scientific tests? Yes, because Starrs has proved his interests are not fame and fortune but rather solving mysteries and righting history.

If it were your beloved ancestor, would you let a federal bureaucrat’s cold adhesion to “policy” stand in your way? I dearly hope not.

I’m not a relative of Meriwether Lewis. Nor am I a lofty politician or a mighty bureaucrat. But I’m a lover of our history, and I’m a fan of the man. And I can see that the great explorer’s relatives are being done wrong.

How do we make it right?

“That’s it.”

“Very good,” Starrs said. “Of course, I would have made some other points, such as the ‘Christian burial’ idea, and I would have fleshed out the argument about law enforcement and the germane Tennessee statutes, but—.”

“I don’t disagree. But I wanted to capitalize on the power of brevity, make a few clear points, and keep it short enough so it would have a better chance of getting published. We can follow up with other letters making different points. It’d be great if we could get other people to write.”

“Agreed. Most certainly. And we need to target publications with wider circulation.”

“Yes. Good.”

“Okay. Well, let’s continue fighting the good fight. More soon, my friend.”

“Absolutely, my good man. Bye for now.”



On a chilly, windy Sunday, he headed for Vanderbilt University’s outdoor football stadium, the site of his “once in a lifetime opportunity,” the live performance by the Rolling Stones.

He had bought two tickets to the event, though he had long wondered who would wind up in the seat next to him. Weeks before, he had taken his turn at calling an end to the affair of shame. But it didn’t take. She had called, and called, and proposed that they rent a house together, into which she promised to move. Now, here they strolled side by side.

“It’s a good thing Vandy stadium doesn’t have a nose-bleed section, ‘cuz if it did, we’d be in it! It still irks me that, although I wasn’t far back in the ticket line, almost every seat was already sold.”

They climbed the steps of the football temple and found their pew one row from the top. Forty-degree wind whipped their faces.

She quipped, “It’s the nose-freeze section!”

As dusk fell, the wind slacked off but the temperature nosedived. After the two-hour rock ‘n’ roll spectacle, they walked briskly toward their parking lot, a mile away.

“Damn, I’m chilled to the bone,” he said, through lips too stiff to fully enunciate. “Down to the very marrow. And I’m real, real cold.”

“Me, too. Let’s walk faster, so we’ll generate more heat.”

“Okay. But then we’ll raise the wind-chill factor!”


A disappointing birthday passed, and the next day brought October to a close. A few days into November, he drove to Detroit. His mom’s mom had died. That night, as he lay in bed at an aunt’s house, he wrote in his notebook:

Felt Grandma’s cold hands today.

His maternal grandmother, a beloved woman by all counts, was Irish, one of the colorful, productive, seafaring subraces of the White race’s ancient history. In recent history, the Irish were acknowledged as an admirable ally by the Germans of Adolf Hitler’s era, the White subrace whose combination of inventiveness, honesty, and productivity was second to none. Jim was half Irish from his mother’s side, and half German from his father’s side. Yet, here was a gathering of the extended family—the living embodiment of those White ancestors and their accomplishments—where none of that heritage was remembered. The events of that day, though rightly emotional, were entirely bereft of the depth that only racial reverence can provide.

When he returned to his apartment in Nashville, a light on his VCR was flashing. After getting settled, he pushed a button to take the VCR out of “program record” mode, and another to rewind the tape. He turned on the tv, and with tools of notation at hand, watched parts one and two of Ken Burns’ “Lewis and Clark” presentation, called a “documentary,” which had been broadcast by PBS. Soon, he was yelling at the screen. Frequently, he stopped the tape to write down direct quotes by Burns or other speakers, such as Stephen Ambrose and Dayton Duncan.

The journalist had watched Ken Burns’ documentary on baseball, and the one on Thomas Jefferson, and thought Burns was a truth-teller. Jim had not known enough about baseball history or Jefferson to recognize how Burns had twisted them. But he knew plenty about the great White explorer and governor. So, he knew that Burns had committed character assassination.

A proper education about race, especially his own, would have prevented Jim from swallowing Burns’ previous poisons. A proper education about the jew race would have enabled him to know that Burns was yet another secret member of the enemy, given wealth for well-crafted lying against Whites for the jew-owned media, the media that should have been owned and staffed completely by Whites in Jim’s White-founded White-built country.

When the Public Broadcasting ordeal was finally over, he called Starrs.


“I know it,” the Professor replied. “When I heard Ken Burns was working on a piece about Lewis and Clark, I offered to share my research with him. He shunned it. Can you believe it?”


“He said his film was not about the death of Meriwether Lewis, so he had no need for anything I had.”

“Disgusting—because he did comment on Meriwether’s death. But I’ll bet he had already bought into Ambrose’s propaganda. Hell, Ambrose was listed in the credits.”

“Oh, it was all from Ambrose’s point of view.”

“Yeah, the slights on Meriwether’s mental capacity were planted throughout the piece, just like in Ambrose’s book.”

“I wish there were something we could do about it.”

“The exhumation.”

“That’s it.”

The call ended, but soon, Jim said to himself, “No, that’s not it.” He would initiate another letter-to-the-editor campaign, for whatever little good that might do.


Along came Thanksgiving, the afternoon of which he spent in Crossville, where he always enjoyed the holiday feast his mother provided: turkey, stuffing and dressing, sweet potatoes, onion-bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and desserts of pumpkin pie and lemon meringue pie.


December arrived, and as duped as he was, he had gone to bankers to try to borrow money to buy a modest house. Now, on the 2nd, despite his professional employment and salary of $35,000 a year, the bankers replied with a down-payment requirement that was out of his reach. One final possibility resided with his 401(k) retirement plan at the Banner. The 401(k)’s rules allowed for a “hardship” payout of funds for a first-time homebuyer. On December 3rd, in a meeting with the Banner financial officer, he was denied, to which he rightly responded:

“If I don’t qualify, nobody will ever qualify. So, what it amounts to is, this supposed benefit is a lie. It’s a sham. It’s bullshit.”

For him, the ultimate irony, a monumental irony, was that the damn Banner had refused to let him use his own money. All of that money in the 401(k) was his. What he was entirely ignorant of was the truly ultimate irony that every loan by a bank was a creation of new money. Thus, every loan was windfall profit for the bank owners. They had no need for a down payment, nor interest. The vile, heinous hoaxes inflicted by the jew bankers upon all nonjews added up to a lie, a monumental lie, a lie so big that the White mentality of basic honesty could not fathom such a thing and therefore, could not, under normal circumstances, recognize it as the massive, destructive, nation-killing crime that it was.

The most obvious, utterly in-your-face aspect of the crime was too near for the farsighted White to see: The banks never provided a sizable loan in cash money. Instead, all sizable loans were provided as a mere piece of paper printed by the bank. And since every other bank, in the system fully controlled by jews, would accept that paper as if it were cash money, the robbery victims in their ignorance were satisfied. Yet, there were more layers to the hoax, as cover, as the Masters Of Deceit were always wont to do. Interest was one. The bankers charged interest, as if they needed to receive extra money to pay for business expenses and make a supposedly fair profit. And then the bankers imposed fees on nearly every transaction, such as on loans, transfers, and withdrawals by automatic-teller machines. Most Whites were aware enough to be angered by the fees and usurious interest rates. That anger, as long as it was pacifistic, was an intended result. The angry but meek Whites were sufficiently distracted right there at fees and interest rates, never to peel the onion to its criminal jew core. Indeed, thus far, journalist Jim was in that angry-wimp category.

He intensified his job search. If he could quit the Banner, he could liquidate his 401(k) fund. Withdrawing the money before retirement would cost a 20 percent penalty. But then he could use the remaining 80 percent for a down payment on a house. He interviewed for a job at a company in the business of producing newsletters for many other businesses. His contact in the company had told him that a new position was being created and should be ready to fill within a month. Meanwhile, he applied for employment with the state of Tennessee. There, he couldn’t help but notice the plethora of nonWhites staffing the government offices. The complexity of the application forms and the entire process then struck him as designed more for the denial of jobs to people as opposed to the identification of those best qualified. There were “no openings in his field,” he was told, but he was promised notification if an opportunity arose. Of course, despite his qualifications, such notification would never come.

December 12 had been scheduled as a day in Hohenwald at a court hearing with Starrs. But at almost the last minute, the feds filed a motion delaying the case. The feds also filed a motion to remove the case from the state court system and into the central-government’s court system. Starrs said the hearing on that motion was set for February 6 in Columbia, Tennessee.

And there was one more litigation event on the horizon. Starrs had a hearing scheduled with the Park Service in Atlanta only a week away. The journalist desired to attend that one, but he had no more vacation days available for that calendar year. It did occur to him to call in sick. It would make more sense to call in well, he thought. But in this case, he would do neither.

Two weeks gave way to Christmas. That night, he got out his notebook and wrote.

Yes, this is first entry since Dec. 12.

Got up to go to damn Banner; go to Crossville; come back to watch Bulls game; head to bed to get up at usual awful time for work tomorrow.

I continue hunt for new job so I can work decent hours, free up 401(k) money for house down payment.

On the most personal front, he cited points on the rollercoaster and summed up:

So, I’m the loser.

In the wee hours the next morning, he parked his car and began trudging across the dimly lit parking lot. He saw two ghostly shadows on the asphalt and the patchy ice and snow. Both were his. He stopped and studied their differences. The one at 10 o’clock included his nose and ponytail. The image at 1 o’clock carried no such identifying features—it was just a silhouette of his overcoat with a featureless head. He strained to swallow. The constriction was there, again. He shook his head and whispered, “I don’t wanna go in there.” His eyes moistened. Shallow exhales puffed visibly into the frigid air. He hated the thought of going in and summoning the strength to do another good job for a company he’d learned to loathe. He thought about turning around. He thought of his chances for a better life. He thought of co-workers he liked who would be put into hardship should he not go on in. Again, he shook his head. “Something’s gotta give.” He lifted his gaze to the metal staircase ahead. He focused on taking deeper, slower breaths. A tiny snowflake drifted down very near, another farther ahead. He sighed and proceeded on.

Inside, at his desk, he scanned the morning Tennessean. On the editorial page, he saw a letter with the headline “TV show on explorer Lewis did a disservice.” He muttered, “Well, this almost makes it worth coming in today.” He sped through the letter to see if his wording had been altered. It had not. But seconds later, it struck him. After work, he called Starrs.

“They only printed the first half!”

The Professor said, “Which of your points were left out?”

“Points about the monument committee’s observation and the Park Service’s stonewalling, and uh, the Christian burial.”

“Oh, geez.”

“Damn them. Those last paragraphs provided the supportive material for my position. And the final ‘graph tied it all together.”

“What about the quote you found in the L.A. Times, where Ken Burns basically called us ‘crackpots’?”

“Our ‘crackpot theories,’ Burns said. Yeah, that’s all in there. I mean, it got published.”

“That’s some consolation.”

“I suppose,” the journalist said. “Maybe somebody else will print the whole thing. I’ve been watching USA Today and the New York Times because I sent the letter to them, also. They haven’t printed it yet—if they ever will. If you can, watch the Washington Post. I sent it there, too.”

“Ah, very good. Well, I have been busily engaged, as well. I have been researching and writing our legal response to the feds’ motions. I will be sending a couple dozen pages to Joe Baugh by the 30th so that he can review them and file the lot by the deadline of the 31st.”

“Whoa. Cutting it close.”

“It is exhausting. But Meriwether Lewis deserves it. Right?”


“However, the apparent strategy of the U.S. attorney in Nashville is quite odious. In the filing with the federal court, the U.S. attorney has lumped me in with District Attorney Joe Baugh as the ‘petitioners.’ Joe is the ‘petitioner,’ not me. There is no legal authority for what they’re doing. But they seem to be doing it so that whatever I do or do not do can cause Joe to be shot out of the water. Really terrible.”

Jim wasn’t sure he understood all that. He was having a little trouble keeping the appeal with the National Park Service separate from the legal process in the courts. “By the way, I guess there’s been no response to your appeal to the Park Service in Atlanta. Otherwise, you would have told me.”

“No. No response, as yet. But let us carry good thoughts into the new year until forced, as we may be, to abandon them.”

“I shall hoist a Guinness to that, sir!”

“Aye. As shall I.”

He hung up and went to the fridge. He saw three bottles of Guinness. But he felt a hankerin’ for something warm. Hey, it’s Friday, he thought, going to the cupboard where he kept a bottle of Irish whiskey. “Irish coffee, it shall be.” Continuing to voice the thoughts, he affected a little brogue: “A wee nip o’ the Irish ought warm me soul.”

Half an hour later, he took his special hair scissors in hand and stood at the bathroom sink. He held out his ponytail and lopped it off. Then he drew a small batch of hair between his fingers. He inserted the shears between his skull and fingers, and snipped. He repeated that process for 10 minutes. Afterward, he applied finishing touches with his electric hair trimmer. Finally, with a wink and a nod into the mirror, he jumped into the shower. When he emerged, he made another Irish coffee.


On the penultimate day of the year, at work, he crossed the newsroom and went into the bathroom. He sat down in a stall. Straining was required. Finally, he stood and flushed. At the sinks, he joined two other men.

A graphic artist asked, “Everything come out all right?”

“Ha,” he replied, pumping a glob of soap onto his hands. “Marbles.”

Both others laughed. The graphic artist said, “Man, I was laying cable in there.”

He burst out in laughter. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

The other man, a photographer, said to him, “Sounds like you had a she bear and her cubs—,” and the other man chimed in, so they said in unison: “but for the bear.” All laughed.

“That one, I’ve heard.”

In the afternoon, he called his Web server and pulled the plug on the Website. It hurt, but he couldn’t justify the time and expense, anymore, since he was bearing it all.

Wodensday was New Year’s Eve. Even though he was taking the next two days off, he went to bed at 9 o’clock. He couldn’t stand to be up, alone, any longer. But in bed, he couldn’t help wondering what certain others would be doing when this particular, looming midnight rolled around. Both arms were out, palms up. His wrists throbbed. His heart ached. An urge intruded, beckoning him to curl into the fetal position. He knew that would mean surrender.






(Next, Chapter 25: Stress Melts)


WHITE HONOR: Chapters 21 and 22

  • For all posts of chapters of WHITE HONOR, the book, click this link.






21      Leaps


He vowed to nurture May flowers. However, which flowers could be helped, and which had rotted roots? His was not the only ignorance at play.

The month of beckoning beauty teased him onward through Mother’s Day until a welcome call came. Happily, he heard the voice of Starrs on the line. The Professor asked for more detailed measurements and photos of Meriwether’s monument and the adjacent grave markers. Jim cheered at having a mission to Meriwether, again.

“All these details,” Starrs said, “will go into my tome on the monument. I seek to do an impressive work—within certain time constraints. I want it to be a document Hohenwald will be proud to keep. And perhaps it will help influence the governor of Tennessee to join our effort. Perhaps, too, the people sitting on the fence.”

“Speaking of influencing the governor, people are hinting that Congressman Clement might run for governor of Tennessee.”

“I asked one of Clement’s aides about that. The aide thinks Clement likes what he is doing too much to run for governor.”

“Well, we’ll see. Imagine if Clement were governor.”

“Oh. The exhumation would be assured of going forward.”


The following Washing Day, Jim drove to the Meriwether Lewis Monument. After getting the data he needed, he left Meriwether and proceeded on to a very personal mission.

Two miles south on the Natchez Trace, he crossed over the Buffalo River. He hung a right onto the road to Metal Ford. Down a narrow paved lane, he rolled into a parking lot nestled amid a clearing next to the river. The Buffalo was high in its banks, almost too deep to see where the water flows over a rock ledge—the ford. To his left, a tree-covered bluff. He found a path up and soon reached an overlook spot. Star had told him this was her favorite place. He looked for somewhere to carve a symbol. The best location, he decided, was on a tree next to the edge of the cliff. But he had to risk life and limb to get there. He poised to jump. He knew he could do it. But the base of his scrotum trembled in fear. He gathered himself. He leaped, grabbed a branch, and swung up to safety. With a pocket knife, he carved a special shape in the bark. Then he carved five points equally spaced around the outside of it. Finally, he carved in its center a most simple, symboled sentence. Happy with his work, he stood up on the branch he’d been sitting on. He turned to face the patch of ground whence he came. He took careful aim and leaped.


Hoping May’s blooms would give way to growing fruit, on his first day off in June he arose at dawn.

Water was put in a kettle on the stove to boil. Two eggs were broken and mixed with a little milk. Three pieces of whole-wheat bread were dipped into the egg mix and put on a hot, square griddle pan. The now boiling water was poured into the coffee press. While the French toast continued to cook, a banana was mashed into a bowl. A teaspoonful of strawberry jam was dropped onto the banana mush and mixed in with a fork. The French toasts were flipped. The mush was microwaved for one minute. When the three egg-toasts were nicely browned, they were placed in a pile on a plate. The banana-strawberry sauce was spooned between and atop the pieces of French toast. The coffee was pressed and poured into the Lewis County mug. Into the black brew, some cream was dribbled—just enough to stain it. All the while, the phone was expected to ring, bringing yet another change in plan.

The making of egg-toast had been learned from Jim’s mother. The fruit sauce had been an invention of his own. The Starbucks coffee had been a gift from Star, along with advice on how to brew it and “stain” it. He had been thankful for that gift, as he thought it progress to find coffee he judged good without his usual three creams and two sugars.

Good or not, it was important to know who controlled the international trade in that commodity, coffee, all the more so because of its addictive drug caffeine. Jim thought he knew that Whites controlled that market, and that the “fair trade” movement was yet another publicized effort to rein in those supposedly White fatcats who were profiteering off the trade. Those robber barons were committing crimes from tree to cup, underpaying the farmers and overcharging the customers in coffeeshops glamorized by the media. In reality, not Whites but jews controlled the price of coffee, as they had since at least a century before when the great White automaker and publisher Henry Ford exposed that bitter fact and hundreds more in a series of articles in his newspaper, the Dearborn Independent, which was distributed by his Ford dealer network all across the country. Later, that series was collected into a book, The International Jew: The World’s Foremost Problem, an important tome not available in jew-owned bookstores, of course. But here Jim sat, ignorant of all of those facts, and that the founder of Starbucks was, too, a jew, Howard Schultz, deceitfully wearing a German name. The goals of that pusher were, obviously, to obscenely boost both the daily dosage of that bean’s addictive drug and his profits.

Henry Ford had also exposed the jews’ takeover of the alcoholic-beverages industry. Math simpler than two-plus-two was all that was required for the informed American to realize, as Jim did not, why tv portrayed virtually every adult character as a daily coffee drinker, daily alcohol imbiber, or both. Americans addicted to tv were led to believe that the daily intake of those drugs, actually poisons to the brain and other organs, was a natural part of everyday life and even necessary to be “cool,” “in,” fashionable, manly, alert, productive, intellectual, sophisticated, or “real American.”

Jim ate, and drank, and then washed the dishes, brushed his teeth, trimmed some hair, shaved, and showered, all with an ear out for the phone, which did not ring.

At noon, he sat in his car outside the McDonald’s restaurant on the north side of Columbia. She was to have had her hair done that morning, leave the children in the care of her sister, and meet him at that McDonald’s. At 12:15, the Trooper pulled up alongside his black Honda Del Sol. The refreshed blonde jumped in. They drove west. He asked about the children, to which she briefly and sweetly replied. He put his right hand on her near thigh, protruding from khaki shorts. He caressed. She quizzed:

“Let’s see if you can remember. What’s the state tree?”

“Tulip poplar.”

“Very good! Now, state bird?”

“Uh, mockingbird.”

“All right! State flower?”

“Mmmm. Gosh,” he said, distracted. “I can’t remember.”

They turned south on the Natchez Trace Parkway and motored past Meriwether, straight to Metal Ford. Out of the car, holding hands, they took in the scene on the bank of the Buffalo.

“Imagine,” he said, pointing to the ford. “Meriwether crossed right there. He rode his horse across that very point.”

She led him up the trail to her favorite overlook. Under one arm, he toted a blanket, and at the summit, they spread it. Two motorcycles rumbled off of the Trace, idled down the lane, and halted near his car. The engines stopped. The shuddering woods fell silent, save for the murmuring river. He and Star laid on the blanket and peered through the trees. Two roughnecks dismounted.

She whispered, “I hope they don’t come up here.”

He agreed. They planned what to do if the grubby, leathered men came up the cliff trail.

After 20 minutes, the men re-mounted, their cycles roared to life, and the woods vibrated with their departure. The stress gone, he got up to relieve his bladder. While watering a 2-foot maple, he heard Star shriek in glee. He smiled.

“It’s wonderful,” she said.

“Our tree of love.”

“How’d you get over there?”

“I jumped.”

“Uh! That was dangerous!”

“Yeah. My scrotum told me.”

“Well, listen to your scrotum! But I love it.”

“My scrotum?”

She laughed. “Both.”

They kissed and sank onto the blanket. Tongues, arms, legs entwined.

“Ohhh, my Goddess. I—. I’m gonna have to stop—before it’s too late.”

“Ohhhh.” She whispered a query about starting and then stopping before any possibility of pregnancy could arise.

“Oh, babe. I admire the thought. But no way,” he said through a chuckle. “You’re too exciting. That would take some practice!”

Minutes later, aching for more, they folded the blanket. They took the roof off the car and drove toward Meriwether. While motoring uphill and over the Buffalo, he said there were many things he hadn’t gotten to do in life, yet.

“Like what?”

“Like—marry you. Today. On our anniversary.”

“Oh, Jim.” She rubbed his shoulder. “We can marry ourselves. At the monument!”

“Ho, ho,” he laughed, in delight and approval. Yet, he also grasped the irony in the fact that his lover—still married—was suggesting they marry themselves.

At the monument, they stood in each other’s arms. An older couple, probably senior tourists, left the vicinity as he and Star kissed. Now, the two were alone. She wrapped a leg around his legs and pressed herself against him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gift.

She unwrapped it, revealing a little treasure he had earned in high school. “Your basketball medal. Oh, that’s—.” She stopped, misty-eyed. She further constricted around him. Then, she uncoiled and turned them toward the weathered monument.

The sun was almost straight up and slightly behind them. Its light glistened off a few grains in the spire’s limestone.

The groom looked at his bride as she asked, “Will you always love me?”

He vowed, “I will.”

“Always and forever, forever and always?”

“I will love you always and forever, forever and always. Will you love me always and forever?” He looked upon her as upon an angel, the real kind, of water and the elements electro-chemically sculpted and endowed. Her face wore an expression of blissful dreaming. Had she heard him? “Star, will you love me always and forever?”

Her eyes refocused. “I will love you. Always. And forever.” They smiled as their eyes stayed locked in optic intercourse. “This is when they tell us we can kiss.”

When their lips finally parted, she turned her head toward the monument and said, “Meriwether, you’re our witness!”

He laughed with her but couldn’t help but quip, still gnawed by the irony, “It’s all over but the divorce.”

Indeed, if White principle were in force, he would have recognized her act not as mere irony but as a crime. However, long-poisoned minds were at the helm of this ship, driven by ill winds of dishonor generated by the Earth’s historical Masters Of Deceit.


As they drove to Hohenwald, he directed her to a folder behind his seat. “It’s the first few pages of the Starrs bio. You want to read ‘em?”

“Yes!” She opened the folder. He waited, trying to interpret her occasional murmurs. Done, she said, “I like! But then, I’m married to the author.”

“Yeah. But—. We haven’t consummated the relationship, yet!”

In Hohenwald, they stopped at a store. Both went in. Back in the car, they joked about what they’d bought. Opening an Armstrong’s chocolate pie, they agreed, “This is our wedding cake.” Twisting off the cap of a 10-ounce Sundrop soda in a glass bottle, they said, “This is our champagne.”

With time running out, they returned to the McDonald’s in Columbia. As he stood outside the Trooper’s open window, he popped the question. “Which day are you going to make your move?”

“Granddad’s birthday is this weekend, so—.”

He barely contained a frown, expecting yet another delay.

She concluded, “Saturday or Sunday.”








22      Breaks


On Sunday, Jim made two pieces of French toast for breakfast. By the last bite, he was having some difficulty swallowing. He moved to the couch and sipped a cup of stained Starbucks. As on the day before, the waiting was a grind. He suffered a low-grade throb in his head. He had an urge to go buy a Sunday paper, but he nixed the notion. He didn’t want to be away from the phone. He tried to work on the bio, but he couldn’t concentrate. Every time he heard a vehicle outside, he went to the window, hoping to see the Trooper. Each time someone opened the squeaky front door of the apartment building, his hopes spiked again. Early in the afternoon, he nibbled on a PBJ sandwich and allowed himself a second cup of coffee. Later, a basketball game on tv helped to dribble the time away. In the fourth quarter, he clipped his toenails. After the final buzzer, he prepared a baked potato topped with shredded cheddar cheese. Applesauce on the side. Water to drink. After supper, he began washing the dishes. The phone rang. In a rush, he toweled off his soapy hands and ran to the phone.


“Hi. It’s your mother.”

“Hi, Mom. This is a nice surprise.”

They talked for 15 minutes. Then, he told her he was waiting for Star. His mom wished him well.

He watched 60 Minutes, thinking it educated him, and then The Simpsons, thinking it mere harmless but edgy entertainment. Minutes seemed like hours. Hours were nearly unbearable. At 9:45 p.m., he thought, I cant stands no more. He called her unhappy home.

“Hello,” said her husband.

“Hello, is Star there?”

“Can I ask who’s calling?”

“Yes. Jim Laffrey.” He heard nothing but the phone being set on a table. Excruciating seconds ticked by. Ten. Twenty. He heard the phone being picked up.

“Jim?” It was Star’s voice at low volume.

“Star. My Love, I had to call. I’ve been waiting and haven’t heard a word.”

“We just got back from Hohenwald. I haven’t had time to say anything, yet.”

“Oh. Gosh.” He began to imagine the effects of his untimely call.

“I’ll talk to you later. Okay?”




After giving her an hour, he began a vigil at his front window. Faintly, from above, his neighbor Vickie’s nightly violin practice sawed through the ceiling. His mind imagined scenario after scenario, some that raised hopes and others that dashed all on the rocks. Again and again, he glanced at the clock. Now, midnight. Still on the couch, at the window, he thought maybe he’d better call her again. What might be said? He told himself he’d wait one more minute. After a minute passed, he said he’d wait one more. Finally, one more. “Okay. If she doesn’t pull up in three seconds, I’ll call. One. Two. Ohhhh.” He called.

Star answered. “He’s angry. He wanted to answer the phone.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. We’ve been talking.”

He summoned the necessary question. Trying to sound calm, he said, “Star, are you coming here tonight?” He heard a small sigh.

“No, the children seem to have caught something. I may have to take them to the doctor in the morning.”

“Oh,” he said, now so very tired. “Well. Okay.”

She said she would call the next day.

There was little more, if anything, left to say, but, “Bye.”

His eyes got wet. He didn’t resist. Still at the window. Still looking out. Looking at nothing. The silent scene blurred. The colors ran. The lights streaked. Finally, he blinked and exhaled a burst. He dropped the phone onto the couch and held his head in his hands. Many competing thoughts kicked inside his brain. One said, “What a fool you’ve been! You’re too smart for this. You saw the signs. You knew what was coming.” He stood up. “No, no. Don’t jump to conclusions.” He felt exhausted. “I have to hope I’ll feel better after some sleep.” He scoffed, “If I sleep.”

At 2:15 a.m. and wide awake, he turned off the alarm and trudged to the shower. It was another damn Banner day.


Work and televised distractions, including another Bulls NBA championship, helped days to pass. He also tried to focus on the biography. In that vein, he called Starrs. The elder friend was upbeat and optimistic. Those were attitudes Jim could use.

“I plan to submit the application for the exhumation next week,” the scientist said. “Then, the question is whether to break the news to the media.”

After discussing pros and cons, the journalist said, “Maybe you could ask Congressman Clement’s opinion of that. He may have a sense of the effect that ‘going public’ would have on the Park Service and others.”

“Good point. Thank you. You don’t charge for good advice, do you?”

“Yeah, man. I charge by the Guinness!” He asked how long the Park Service’s decision on the exhumation application might take.

Starrs said the Park Service had previously indicated four-to-six weeks. “So, I am tentatively planning to do the exploratory trenching and the further geophysical probings in September. We may even try to return in October and do the dig. But otherwise, the exhumation will be held over till next spring.”

With business apparently concluded, he asked: “How’s the knee?”

The Professor said he’d been bicycling to and from work. “In short, it hurts. It hurts as I’m sitting here talking. But not so much as it used to.”


Jim’s self-inflicted pain throbbed onward. His race-less thus rudderless piloting of it all appeared, from the outside, like a flat-Earth sailor’s deliberate course for a final plunge off the edge and into the abyss. But his intelligence kept fighting the chosen current, inventing methods toward relief and, ultimately, solution. He proposed “taking the summer off,” clearing the couple’s heads, freeing her from deadlines she always broke, freeing him to improve his health, his sleep, his work on the bio, the Website, and to survive the damn daily newspaper. He told her, and himself, that there was nothing negative about them when together but that the separation and frustration were the producers of the poisons of broken promises and lies.

His efforts went for naught, as she treated every agreement, every rule, and nearly every vow, as but mere guidelines to be cast asunder in answer to any new challenge, significant or not. So, on their tempest-tossed ship, patches to sails were soon unravelled, and plugged holes in the hull re-bored.

His health openly expressed the stress. Bouts with diarrhea and fever. Headaches nagged him twice a week, whereas in the past he had suffered headaches only twice a year. His “real” job was wearing him down. As he had told friends, millions of years of evolution had programmed his genes to turn his brain on at dawn; the 2 a.m. alarm for work had turned his body chemistry upside-down. But he could find no other suitable job that would pay enough to support him and the family he might soon have.

Summer, naturally a celebratory season for the North-born White race, was for Jim a searing test of endurance. In August, she offered yet another mirage on the horizon: Her move was to come “the second week of September.” In his notebook, he recorded his own, private, reaction:

There’s going to be no fucking difference between today and Sept. 14.

On August 7, the owner of Armstrong’s b&b killed the Website ad, citing lack of business income. On Meriwether’s birthday, August 18, Jim puked his guts out for the second day in a row. He suspected accidental food poisoning from an undercooked egg casserole at the southside Crack. It took four days to regain his strength. When he finally felt up to it, he called Starrs.

“Congressman Clement has ruled out any run for governor,” the Professor reported. “Too bad, eh?”

“Sure is.”

“He could have made the exhumation a sure thing. But we are working on getting the support of your Tennessee governor Don Sundquist. Of course, we have the Missouri governor’s support. Missouri Governor Carnahan told me he will talk with Sundquist and attempt to win his support. Boy, I wish Meriwether Lewis were buried in Missouri. Oh, geez. I would have him out jiffy quick! Oh, I tell you, James, people ask ‘why Missouri?’ as if the state is insignificant. Meriwether Lewis was the governor general of the Louisiana Territory, which included Missouri. He was effectively the first governor of Missouri. And of course, Meriwether Lewis started and ended the expedition in Missouri. I mean, he has more connections in Missouri than he has in Tennessee. He was just a transient in Tennessee.”

They shared a laugh.

“But you see,” the elder continued, “the strategy is to get the governors to write letters supporting the exhumation. Then we send the letters to the National Park Service before the Park Service issues the expected denial. How could they deny the governors?”

“The same way they deny the relatives, I presume,” Jim said. “But I agree with you. The letters should be persuasive.”

“I have heard something about Ambrose.”

“Tell me.”

“I have learned that Ambrose’s first wife committed suicide in 1963.”

“She couldn’t stand him, either?”

“Ha. That may be, but I have heard that she was manic-depressive.”

“Ho ho! That’s exactly what Ambrose says Meriwether was.”

“Yes. So, that’s where Ambrose is coming from.”

“So, he thinks he’s qualified to diagnose a manic-depressive based on 187-year-old hearsay!”

“Depressing, is it not?” They laughed. “Speaking of depression, though, my wife suggested I take a break from the Meriwether Lewis project.”

“Why is that?”

“She sees my deep involvement, emotionally, in this case. She fears, perhaps rightly, that there could be real depression if the effort is unsuccessful.”

“Oh. Yeah, I can relate to that.”

“I have developed a profound feeling for the man. All the research I have done, all the reading, has further deepened my admiration.”

“I feel it, too. I don’t see how some people—and we know who I mean—can learn about him and then trash him as they do.”

“And his writing,” Starrs said, “He had a way with words that—the beauty and the descriptive qualities—it moves me to read him, such as when he wrote about the falls of the Missouri.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jim recalled, “He wrote that words could not adequately describe the falls. But then he went on to describe them superbly.”

“That’s right. Just wonderful.”


Days later, Starrs was the caller.

“It was a delight to behold. Governor Sundquist said, ‘I’m with you, guys. I think this is great. It’s a wonderful idea. I think this is historically important. Let’s do it. What do you want from me?’”

“Great!” Jim said. “So, he’s sending a letter to the Park Service?”

“Yes. But not only is he saying he wants the exhumation, he also says the reason is because it is for the benefit of the nation that this mystery be solved if at all possible and it is also for the benefit of the people of Tennessee.”


“Also, we are in contact with Governor George Allen right here in my state of Virginia. It looks as though he will get on board. That would give us the support of the governors of the top three states in regard to Meriwether Lewis.”

“That should mean something to the Park Service.”

“Right. But look at it this way. The National Park Service, when they deny the application for exhumation, they are going to have to meet me head-on in court to show that their denial was not arbitrary and capricious. And I am going to introduce evidence of 148 relatives who have signed on, and the verdict of the jury at the Coroner’s Inquest, and a Lewis County resolution, and the governors. So, what I am doing is trying to make a lawyer’s case.”

“Yeah. It sounds great.”

“And today, I sent a copy of the finished monument monograph to go with the governors’ letters to go with the application for exhumation.”

“You have been earning your keep!”

“And a monograph is in the mail to you.”

“How can I thank you?”

At the Banner the next morning, the boss released the annual pay raises. For Jim, it was $1,000. It amounted to about 3 percent of his salary. He told his immediate boss, Tony Kessler, of his unhappiness, reminding him that the managing editor had promised a “big honkin’ raise” if he “worked out” as Wire editor. Kessler told him to take it up with the new managing editor. So, he did.

The new managing editor, Tonnya Kennedy, was someone Jim had gone jogging with a couple of times and had lunched with on a few occasions. She had been promoted directly from the Sports department to managing editor, which was the same remarkable leap as the secret-jew managing editor before her, who was now basking another step up. That was not a proper journalistic career arc, in Jim’s correct view. However, the new managing editor’s race, at least on the surface, was not jew but was African.

In her office, he asked, “Did you know about the promise of a ‘big honkin’ raise’ if I worked out as Wire editor?”

“No. But did you ‘work out’? You wrote a scathing employee evaluation last month on your reporter.”

“All true and well-documented. I do my job well. My boss, Tony, said so in his evaluation of me.”

“I appreciate that. But I don’t see that you’re blameless in the matter with your reporter.”

“Blame? The person who doesn’t do his or her job is the person who deserves blame. She had every opportunity to learn and to perform, and she failed miserably. The previous managing editor said it was her last chance to keep a job in this newsroom. And I’ll tell you, if any other reporter in the room had been assigned to me, it would have worked out great. Look how well it has worked out when I’ve asked other reporters to do stories for me.”

“Well, be that as it may, the decisions on raises have been made. And I’ve stated my position in regard to yours.”

If Jim had owned the knowledge, the master key, which is race, he would have recognized the pattern being set: Whether by jew or by African, whether crafty or blunt, the result was the same: anti-White. Instead, he only knew he was being screwed.






(Next, Chapter 23: Gloves Off)


Cleanup, 26Aug2014: ‘Illegal Immigrant’ = Invader; WHITE HONOR the book; Turnbow Employs A jew; The Ferguson M.O.; George Washington Was A jew; Irony On Ebola; A Kaminski Peak; Free TV and Movies

Note: This is a posting of all of the contents of the righthand column on this day for the purposes of archiving, searching, and quoting. The righthand column’s contents always evolve.


The real word for foreigners who choose to enter a country without following that country’s rules is: INVADERS.

That’s what the jews of Israel call the nonjews who illegally enter their jew-only country.

But the jews who infest our government and own all of the big media call the invaders into our country “immigrants” and merely “illegal” immigrants.

That’s because we’ve been trained to bend over backward for immigrants. Yes, our ancestors were immigrants to this continent — as were ALL humans on this continent. But once our ancestors invented, established, and built the country, they ceased to be “immigrants.” And we are not immigrants. We are the Whites of White America.

The nonWhite so-called “illegal immigrants” are INVADERS. Likewise, the jews, all jews, are INVADERS. There is no such thing as crime against INVADERS. We have every right as humans and as Whites of the race who invented and built our country to defend what is ours. We have every right to rid our country of them in any and every way.

The quickest and most effective way is to kill enough of them so that the rest flee.

Kill the INVADERS now.

Be smart. Be efficient. Tell no one. See advice in linked articles at the bottom of this website.


Sadly, the enemy’s treachery worked on me until after I turned 50 years old. Please let me help you not take so long to overcome their unceasing lies.



WHITE HONOR, the new book

  • If you like reading novels, this book may be right for you.
  • If you like reading the truth without doubt, this book is right for you.
  • If you want a White book that reads like a novel, tells the truth, and engages and entertains you in service of our race, this is it.

Installments, published right here on WWW!, have begun, August 2014.

MERIWETHER-RELATED NEWS: Tony Turnbow Employs a jew

Mr. Turnbow is an attorney and public official in Middle Tennessee positively mentioned in the historic book WHITE HONOR (now being published on this site).

His law firm employs a Jacob A. Vanzin, as seen on this linked page of the law firm’s website.

Obviously, this is a jew. We must eliminate this jew and all jews from America.

Obviously, this is a jew. We must eliminate this jew and all jews from America.

His name is jew. His appearance is jew. I say he is surely a jew. But I’ll bet he doesn’t tell any White people that he’s a jew, which would mean he is a crypto-jew, despite how easily identifiable he is to we who have trained ourselves to recognize those enemies among us.

I have no reason to think that Mr. Turnbow is a jew. But Jacob Vanzin is a jew who needs to be eliminated — along with every other jew infesting our country.

Are there more crypto-jews infesting the Hohenwald and Middle Tennessee area? Yes. Obviously. Look at owners of newspapers and their families. Look at coffeeshop owners, bank owners, jewelers. Look at the endless-hippie spinoffs, such as The Farm (exa.: Albert Bates). Look at organizations that run on government or foundation money.

Do to them what they have been doing to us and our race since Meriwether Lewis was born.


Why haven’t I written about the uproar in Ferguson, Missouri? It’s a distraction. Interesting? Yes. But still a distraction.

The gist: A White policeman shot and killed a huge African criminal who had already attacked him and was about to attack him again. Good kill.

The M.O., that is the modus operandi, of the jewsmedia and jew-infested government is the same there as with the other race-charged distractions. Their multiple goals are:

  • Inflame the Africans against the remaining Whites in law-enforcement positions, to eventually achieve totally dark, anti-White police forces.
  • Inflame the Africans into raping and killing more Whites.
  • More deeply dupe Whites into feeling “White guilt” — as if Whites are the bad guys.
  • Terrorize the duped Whites into accepting more “security measures” against the crimes of nonWhites. The jews, of course, will take the lion’s share of the funding to increase their own and their communities’ security against us.
  • Keep Whites distracted so that Whites will not identify and destroy the Number One Enemy, the jews.

The way to stop it all, of course, is to kill jews. Yes, it is that simple.

Also, the way to stop the Africans from rioting in your area is to kill some of them — but that is secondary.

Also, the way to stop nonWhite immigration is to kill a good number of those nonWhites being forced into our communities, states, and country. But that, too, is secondary.

Kill jews, solve the problem, save White America.

Be smart. Be stealthy. Tell no one. See advice in linked articles at the bottom of this site.


My July 2014 article exposes one of the jews’ best-kept secrets of American history. Get the facts, the images, and the conclusion that explains what previously defied solid explanation. Click:

George Washington’s Very Flawed ‘Farewell.’


Oh, the irony! We have truthful-site webwriters who know that the “Holocaust” is a hoax, that some terror events have been hoaxes, that Swine Flu was a hoax, that AIDS was a terror hoax on Whites because it was not a threat to healthy Whites, and the jewsmedia lie every day every day every day, yet –

Some truthful-site writers are going ape-shit over the jewsmedia show called the terror of Ebola.

If those webwriters are White, they need to wake up!

Rule of thumb: Until we go to a local hospital and lay our own eyes on a White victim of Ebola diagnosed and reported to us by a knowledgeable White doctor or nurse, there is no reason to believe that Ebola is real nor that it is any threat to normal White people.

Distraction, distraction, distraction.

  • If Ebola is killing Africans, no matter where they are on the globe, who cares?
  • For anyone who believes Ebola is a threat to White people, the way to stop it is kill the jews who keep transporting Africans to America.
  • The way to stop all of it — the media lies, the terror, the destructive immigration, the genociding of White people — is to kill the jews.

For anyone who disagrees, the WhiteSchool page will provide very helpful, undeniable information. So will 200 different websites on the TruthfulSites pages.


Longtime webwriter John Kaminski, living in Florida and featured on a few good sites, has just called for us to do to the jews what the jews are doing to us (Aug. 2014). Yes, kill them. Quote:

“The time has come for all the non-Jewish people of the world to respond to Jews’ barbaric and psychopathological behavior in kind, that is to say, to treat Jews the same way Jews treat everyone else — with ruthless efficiency, to terminate them all where they stand with extreme prejudice, which is the same way Jews treat the rest of the world.”

In the past, Kaminski has said some very good things and then soon backed off. Also, he has a history of injecting defeatism into his annual series of articles. Will he do that again? I bet, Yes. But I hope not.

Welcome, John. Don’t back down. Stay strong and inspirational, along with JB Campbell, me, CrushZion, and MightIsRight. Others are rising, too.

Necessary Free Speech is naming the enemy and urging the solution — no matter what the criminalized jew-infested government says.


For anybody who doesn’t yet know it, we can get tv programs and movies for free. (Easy instructions are within this linked article by me.)

The jews who own Hollywood and other programming centers around the world make noise about free downloads and torrent files as “theft,” and they occasionally prosecute somebody, but that’s only for terror purposes.

Sure, they want everybody to pay for newspapers, news sites, cable tv, etc. Meanwhile, it is always easy for us to get the jews’ news, tv programming, and movies for free. Why?

One reason: We keep inventing ways to get around their restrictions. But the main reason is:

The jews want us to keep watching their propaganda.

The jews need people to keep getting daily doses of mind-poison. If most people stop paying for cable tv and other jew mind-dope dispensers, the jews will give programming away, either by free tv or by free Internet, and they will pretend that advertising justifies the “new business model.”

Yes, indeed.

That’s why there are always ways to get free corporate news, tv programs, and movies with very little real opposition. The jews desperately need to keep our people misled and pacified.

Our first priority is to kill the enemy jews (safely and covertly), but a secondary and effective tactic is to disrupt tv service — absolutely covertly. Let our people build up anger against the jew companies, and give our people time in front of black screens for their minds to clear.



Our scientists — not the jews infesting science, but our White scientists — have done a good job of improving IQ tests and collating results during the last 100 years.

But because of jew participation and corruption, the rankings of Whites, Asians, and jews are not in line with reality. Note that the average IQ for jew-only Israel is down in the mid-90s.

Meanwhile, for the wise who want the Big Picture, the truth is more easily seen in Performance than in IQ.

Throughout history, which race built the monolithic installations in tune with the cycles and positions of the Moon, Sun, and stars? Which race built all of the great civilizations? Which race invented science and every machine and method we hold as valuable, and then shared them with the other races? Which race has tried to record history honestly and tried to provide justice for all?

Only one race. Our White race. From the sea-navigation schools, to the Great Pyramids, to the printing press, the electric light, bicycles, cars, planes, space ships, radio, tv, computers, flush toilets and sewer systems, heaters and air-conditioners, on and on. No other race comes close.

Yet, we have our weaknesses, of course. The worst is our gullibility to believe the LIE that is so big that we, as a race, cannot believe that any large group could agree to inflict such a LIE on all other people. We would never even think of trying to put such gross lies over on anyone. And we certainly wouldn’t lie as a unified race against the other races. It is not in our DNA.

BUT that heinous trait is in the DNA of the jews. They dedicate their IQs to self-gratification and to the operation of that heinous trait, to lying AND MUCH WORSE against all of the other races, especially against us, the White race.

For 2,000 years, the jews’ performance has proved that they are the criminal race in need of race-wide punishment. And their performance of crimes against humanity of mass-robbery, cultural destruction, mass-rape, mass-starvation, and mass-murder have earned for their race the death penalty.

The final test of performance for the best of our race is applying that penalty to all jews infesting our country. Exterminating the parasitic, murderous enemy of humanity will show, again, that we are the best, most valuable race on Earth.

The pursuit of justice is certainly not “hate.” It is not “hate” to state the truth. It is not “hate” to execute invaders and traitors.

World peace awaits our victory, as only the White race has ever had both the ability and the goal of sincere world peace.

Each race, in their own country, cleansed of jewry, will finally get to control their own destinies to the best of their own capabilities. And we Whites will prosper and flourish as the most admirable race of Nature that we are.

What does “Free Speech” mean to White people?

It means freedom to say the absolute truth.

What does “Free Speech” mean to jews?

It means freedom to lie.

Race Awareness is a Master Key to Life, which is why the jews teach us to be race-blind while they simultaneously portray our White men on tv and in movies as the villains of the home, business, country, and world. Sadly, their treachery worked on me until after I turned 50 years old. Please let me help you not take so long to overcome the jews’ unceasing lies.

It is an ancient White symbol, and its meaning is only good. Our race travelled the world and spread this symbol to every continent. Many Asian countries still use it and its reversed image, both for good. Germany used it for the good of all of us against the jews, and now jews have made the symbol illegal in Germany and some other jew-controlled countries. It is our White symbol, and jews have no right nor say about it.

What do you think of my “Americanized” version?


Save America, Kill jews

Fewer enemies = Progress.

While most other truthful sites say “wait,” and “educate,” we know that any more waiting is suicidal. We must fight back now. Be smart. Be careful. Be efficient. Tell no one. See advice in articles linked at the bottom of this site.

For whiners who oppose my free speech of identifying the enemy and urging the solution, this site is not for you. But if you must spew against me, do it directly. My email address is below. Note: jews are never welcome.

I am James T. Laffrey, and I invite my fellow Whites who are strong of mind to add your own ideas on how to grow this White Wave to victory. Put comments on the latest article, or send email: