The Sugarbush

It was early Saturday morning, May 21, 1932. Rural driving conditions on the red clay dirt roads during bad weather were ruts, mud holes and tire puncturing rocks that left many a traveler stranded for the lack of an extra spare tire. Just as bad, good weather promised bone rattling washboards that sent clouds of stifling dust swirling inside the cars permeating the occupant’s clothes and leaving clammy sweating faces streaked with miniature termite like tunnels of mud.

The Model ‘A’ Fordor sedan was jarring up and down as well as pitching side to side as it lurched its way through the deep ruts of the back woods road.  Snow-melt and spring showers had left the road slippery, treacherous and in places almost impassable.  The county did grade the back roads on occasion but had not done so for several months, a neglect that was causing considerable discomfort for the five lawmen crowded  inside the car: Catawba County Sheriff, Burton Coley, Chief Deputy, Travis Gant, Deputies’, Pace Tanner and Chick Yount, and  Federal Prohibition Enforcement Agent, Sonny Lavin. The five occupants were a character study in diversity, guardians of the law appearing to be the only thing they had in common.

Sheriff Coley, boisterous, brazen and profane, was nevertheless a heralded champion of the Christian majority whose praise and support echoed from the pulpits of protestant churches regardless of denomination. Expert use of radio and newspaper publicity continually bolstered the sheriff’s popular image which was anchored firmly in his success in stamping out the evils that most often tempted the sisters and brethren to backslide; gambling, alcohol and the more lustful sins of the flesh.

If it weren’t for Prohibition and its enduring companion vices, the sheriff’s department wouldn’t have that much to do.

One thing for sure, the sheriff didn’t conjure up any notions of the tall ruggedly handsome individualist lawmen of the old west often dramatized in books and movies. Five eleven, weighing in at one hundred and seventy pounds, his long narrow face made his small ears look out of place. Folds of weathered skin loosely wrapped around large bones concealed rock hard muscles and sinew that supported the sizable paunch drooping over a worn polished belt buckle.  His expressionless steel gray eyes could survey a situation taking in every detail without anyone present realizing he was doing so, a talent that also complimented his favorite pastime; playing poker. Thick prematurely gray hair neatly trimmed high above the jacket collar revealed deep circular scars left behind from a severe case of adult chicken pocks. Unimposing as he might appear, there was no doubt about who was in command.

In the South before Prohibition, the role of a sheriff in maintaining law and order was more symbolic than anything else. The mere presence of a uniformed officer with a pistol hung on his belt and wearing a badge of authority was the principle deterrent relied on to discourage crime. The traditional role of a sheriff was one of servitude, primarily responsible for defending the establishment, protecting wealthy families and simply keeping the peace. On occasions of murder and other heinous violent crimes where maximum punishment was deemed the appropriate measure of punishment for the accused, the sheriff’s role as a mere figurehead was made unmistakably clear. Quietly, he would be relegated to the position of a powerless bystander while a quasi-secret vigilante committee made up of community leaders took charge of the situation. After inciting the good citizens to rage, the vigilantes would melt into the shadows leaving the mob to see justice done. In the event later evidence proved that the person lynched was innocent, the committee would decry the injustice, vehemently denying complicity and declaring that the tragedy would have been prevented had the courageous sheriff only been there to protect his prisoner.