The Secrets of the Hopewell Box: Stolen Elections, Southern Politics, and a City's Coming of Age

Dave

The Secrets of the Hopewell Box 9 It is an epic saga of the urban revolution in America and the birth of a two-party South. It is a crucial chapter in the life of a city that became the breeding ground for the civil rights movement and the launching pad for what is perhaps the most significant political development of the century— the equalization of voting rights that shattered tradition and remade the country’s political map. Moreover, it is a case study in the power of the three most irrepressible forces in politics—class struggle, racism, and personal friendship—and a forty-year journey down the potholed road of change in American life with one of the damnedest crowds that ever traveled it. Dave The car was like the man at the wheel—shiny and fast. It was part of the Tennessee Highway Patrol’s prewar fleet of black-andcream Fords, a 1942 that had been stored unused for two years. By the time it was finally rolled out of mothballs and assigned to Patrolman Dave White, the new tires that had come with it had been taken off and used on another car. His new car was wearing old tires, which irked him. He promptly found a set of new tires on an old patrol car and pulled an unauthorized swap. This earned him a three-day suspension without pay, which might have stalled somebody else’s career. But not Dave’s. His car had the old worn tires back, but there on his sleeve, just above the elbow casually extended through the open car window for anyone to see, was a set of brand-new gold sergeant’s stripes, as much a testament to his political stroke as to his law enforcement prowess. The war had not been too bad to him after all. Actually, when he thought about it, each of the two great Dave James D. Squires 10 wars had brought him prosperity. What his family gained after the first had been wiped out by the Great Depression. But now, after the second, with Hiroshima and Nagasaki still echoing around the world, life was better than ever. Drafted at age thirtyseven , he had returned to a job better than the one he’d left. All about him were the trappings of a dream come true. Around his waist and over his shoulder was a shiny black Sam Browne belt with a swivel holster and in it the polished blue-steel walnuthandled .38-caliber revolver that was standard issue from his employer, Governor Jim Nance McCord. On his chest and above the glistening black bill of his olive green gabardine hat were twin gold shields that authorized him to enforce the laws of Tennessee. Sgt. Dave White shined the badges religiously, along with each copper-nosed bullet in his gunbelt. And in the spit-polished, round-toed black boots on his feet he could see his own reflection, the face of the person his wife Sallie regarded as “the best-looking man I ever saw.” Dave was tall and lean, with black hair, prominent cheekbones, and deep-set, unreadable eyes. He always dressed to kill, favoring three-piece suits of gray gabardine in winter and cream-colored linen in summer, with two-tone shoes or boots of fine leather. His one clearly unflattering physical feature—a set of prominent pee-pot ears—he worked hard to disguise with snappy felt fedoras or sailor straws. One winter he chose a suit in a deep maroon, which he topped off with a white felt hat. And just before Christmas, the village newspaper warned children that “Santa Claus might not be coming because Dave White has his suit.” But one thing the women all agreed on was that Dave looked his best in a uniform. Sergeant White thought so, too, and leaned out the window to catch a glimpse of his own reflection in his side mirror as he eased the Ford along Donelson Pike, a narrow lane ten miles northeast of Nashville, not far from the airport and the bluffs of the Cumberland, toward the intersection with Highway 41, the Murfreesboro Road. The August sun was climbing into the late-morning sky. With it the The Secrets of the Hopewell Box 11 humidity rose inside the patrol car. The only air stirring was the warm wind whipping through the open windows and the dashboard vents...