Murder in Mississippi: The Medgar Evers Assassination Case

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It was just after midnight in Jackson, Mississippi on June 12, 1963.

Medgar Evers was fighting to keep his eyes on the road.

The stillness of the night had him on edge.

Just yesterday, he learned that the Ku Klux Klan had marked him for death.

Medgar was Mississippi's most prominent civil rights activist.

He served as the local field secretary for the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, or NAACP, and he was in the midst of a difficult battle.

The Klan wanted him dead because he was fighting for integration.

Medgar checked his rearview mirror every few seconds, looking to see if he was being followed.

This had become a force of habit over the last few days.

Mississippi clung tightly to Jim Crow laws.

Most black people couldn't vote, get a proper education, run certain businesses, or even drink from public water fountains.

Activists like Medgar were ramping up their efforts to change things, but lately, the situation had gotten a lot more dangerous.

A week prior, some of Medgar's fellow activists staged a sit-in at the segregated Woolworths lunch counter in Jackson.

They were berated and abused while the Jackson police sat by and did nothing.

This made national headlines, which then turned up the heat locally.

Since then, the threats against civil rights activists had picked up, especially toward Medgar.

The same day as the Woolworths sit-in, Medgar's house had been firebombed.

He hated that his efforts had put his family in harm's way, but backing down wasn't an option for him, especially not now.

After years of advocacy, the NAACP and other civil rights groups had finally gotten the federal government to push for integration.

Just yesterday, President John F.

Kennedy had given a televised address to the nation about civil rights.

He said it wasn't just a political or legal issue, but a moral one.

It was time for the country to change.

Medgar exhaled as he turned into his driveway.

He had been running himself ragged lately.

He wanted nothing more than to relax with his kids and his wife Merle.

The last week had been so busy that he'd barely seen them.

Medgar parked in the carport and turned off the engine.

He grabbed a box of NAACP t-shirts that read, Jim Crow must go, from the back seat.

He climbed out of the car.

and barely took a step toward the front door when a gunshot ripped through the still night.

Medgar crumpled to the ground.

He had no idea what had just happened.

All he knew was that he needed to get inside now.

He began crawling toward the house, leaving a trail of blood.

In the next instant, the front door flew open, and he saw his horrified wife and children silhouetted in the doorway.

Their faces were the last thing he ever saw.

None of them knew that Medgar's killer was hiding in the vacant lot across the street with a sniper rifle in his hands.

He was a World War II veteran turned Klansman, a man whose violent opposition to civil rights was well known.

Medgar died a few hours later at a nearby hospital.

At 37 years old, he'd been murdered for fighting for equal rights.

And thanks to a racially divided and corrupt government, it took 30 years to bring his killer to justice.

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From Balin Studios and Wondery, I'm Luke Lamana, and this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations, and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments tried to hide.

This week's episode is called Murder in Mississippi, the Medgar Evers Assassination Case.

In theory, our judicial system is supposed to be impartial, but in practice, justice is rarely as blind as we would hope.

It was especially hard to come by in the Jim Crow South.

Black people lived in terror of being lynched for no reason and their murderers walking free.

This was especially true in the state of Mississippi.

Eight years before Medgar Evers was shot, 14-year-old Emmett Till was murdered just for speaking to a white woman.

His killers were acquitted by an all-white jury.

After the verdict, They even gloated about the murder they had committed in Look magazine, knowing they couldn't be retried.

So as horrific as it was, Medgar Evers' assassination didn't exactly surprise any of his loved ones.

As a champion for civil rights, Medgar had had a target on his back for years.

If you challenged white supremacy in Mississippi, your life would always be in danger.

What did shock Medgar's family was how, even with overwhelming evidence, the system allowed his killer to walk free.

The prosecution had what should have been a solid case against Byron Della Beckwith, a local KKK member who had been seen in Medgar's neighborhood earlier that evening.

But behind the scenes, some government officials and law enforcement officers didn't want to give the civil rights movement a victory.

They worked to keep Beckwith from being convicted, allowing him to escape justice for three decades.

Around 10 in the morning on June 12, 1963, Detective Sergeant O.M.

Luke weaved his car through a swarm of reporters to get to Medgar Evers' house.

As the patrol cops waved him through, he felt a pit of unease in his stomach.

He knew this case wasn't going to be an easy one.

Detective Sergeant Luke was familiar with Medgar Evers.

Most everyone in the Jackson Police Department was.

Medgar had become a national figure over the last year, and he brought a lot of attention to Jackson.

Luke had had worked crowd control for his protests and speeches.

He knew firsthand how this man could whip people into a frenzy.

Like most white Mississippi residents raised in the shadow of Jim Crow, Luke had his own biases about Medgar Evers.

Segregation was a way of life down here.

Removing it seemed like a surefire road to total chaos.

But it didn't matter how Luke felt.

He had a case to solve and would follow the clues wherever they led.

Right now, they had more leads for a murderer than they they knew what to do with.

If anyone asked who might have wanted Medgrabbers dead, most people would just laugh.

The list was long.

Detective Sergeant Luke stepped out of his car into the suffocating summer heat.

The first thing he noticed was the thick trail of blood drying on the driveway.

Medgar had dragged himself a few feet toward the door before he lost consciousness.

Luke looked across the street toward the vacant lot where the shooter had been hiding.

Whoever killed Medgar knew exactly when and where to wait for him, which made Luke think the killer had to have been a local.

Luke walked inside the house and to the kitchen.

The team was examining the bullet that had killed Medgar.

It had passed through him and into the house where it bounced off the refrigerator and landed on the kitchen counter.

So far, they hadn't found any other evidence.

They needed something to tie the killer to the shooting.

like a witness or the murder weapon.

Without these, the case would grow cold fast.

Luke ran his fingers through his thinning hair, trying to think.

He decided to check out the vacant lot across the street.

After he walked over, he crouched down next to a patch of honeysuckle brambles that led to a grassy field.

Here, the shooter had carved out a perfect sniper's nest, hidden from view, but with a clear sight line to the house.

There were no spent casings or footprints in the dirt.

The murderer had been careful not to leave any clues behind.

Luke pushed his way through the brush, brush, sweat beating on his forehead.

He followed the trail about 100 yards into a field behind a restaurant called Joe's Drive-In.

From here, the killer could have gone off in any direction.

Luke squinted against the bright sun, desperately scanning for any hint of a clue.

Just when he was about to give up, he saw something glinting in the sunlight out of the corner of his eye.

He lumbered toward a low hedge and knelt down.

His heart jumped when he saw the stock of a hunting rifle hidden hidden in the brambles.

The sniperscope was what had been reflecting the sunlight.

It looked like he had found the murder weapon.

A few days later, 25-year-old Thorne McIntyre walked down the stairs of his old plantation house in Greenwood, Mississippi, about 100 miles from Jackson.

He sat down at his kitchen table for breakfast.

McIntyre's cook brought over a plate of eggs and bacon.

He barely acknowledged her as he picked up the newspaper, because on the front page was a photo of an Enfield rifle.

His eyes widened.

It was a rifle that looked very familiar.

The news reported that this was the murder weapon used to kill Medgar Evers.

McIntyre's pulse quickened.

The gun looked just like the one he had traded to Byron Della Beckwith a few years earlier.

There were a lot of eccentrics in Greenwood, but none of them came close to the 42-year-old Beckwith.

He was raised by a wealthy Southern family that had fallen on hard times during the Depression.

Beckwith grew up with the idea that black and Jewish people were to blame for all of the world's problems.

Like many other young men, he went on to fight in World War II.

He was wounded and received a purple heart.

But when he came home, he needed a new war.

and it would become the fight to keep segregation in place.

He embraced it with the enthusiasm of a fanatic.

He became prone to accosting people on the street, shoving KKK pamphlets into their hands, and preaching that God put white men on earth to rule over other races.

It wasn't a stretch to think that Beckwith would have wanted Medgar Evers dead.

While McIntyre shared Beckwith's enthusiasm for guns and segregation, even McIntyre found Beckwith's views a little extreme.

The only reason he traded the Enfield rifle was because Beckwith wouldn't stop asking for it.

As McIntyre sat at the table, he silently cursed the day he'd ever met Beckwith.

It didn't bother him that Medgar Evers was dead, but if the police traced the gun back to him, he might get blamed for the murder.

He knew he needed to be proactive.

McIntyre picked up the phone and dialed the Jackson Police Department.

He told them he might know something about the gun and asked for a description.

The officer said the rifle had the numbers 918 and the word Eddystone engraved on the top of the barrel.

McIntyre closed his eyes and sighed.

His hunch had been dead on.

He told the officer that he had traded that very gun to Byron Della Beckwith, and if he had money on it, he would bet that Beckwith had used it to kill Medgar Evers.

On June 19, 1963, three days after McIntyre's call, Two FBI agents came by Beckwith's dilapidated home.

Around here, it was known as the Old Yerger Place.

The once beautiful old house belonged to Beckwith's mother's family, who he lived with as a kid after his father died.

When Beckwith returned from work, the agents asked if he knew anything about the gun that killed Medgar Evers.

Beckwith ignored them and walked into his house.

The agents left without answers.

But three days later, on June 22nd, they were back and ready to arrest him.

That morning, the FBI's crime lab in Washington, D.C.

identified a fingerprint on the the rifle.

It belonged to Beckwith.

Not only that, but a witness reported seeing a white valiant near the crime scene, the same type of car that Beckwith drove.

Around midday, two FBI agents arrived at the old Jürgen place and knocked on the door.

Nobody answered.

So the agents started going door to door, asking Beckwith's neighbors if they knew where he was.

but no one wanted to talk.

The FBI agents headed back to their car, sweating hard under their jackets.

Just as they were about to leave, a well-dressed older man approached them.

In a smooth southern drawl, he introduced himself as Jürgen Moorhead, a relative of Beckwith's.

He informed them that Beckwith was planning on turning himself in, so long as he had the chance to get home first and have a shave in a shower.

The agents noted how relaxed Yerger was, speaking to them more like a friendly neighbor than someone negotiating for an alleged murderer.

But as long as Beckwith was in their custody by the end of the day, it didn't matter to them.

They agreed to the terms and drove off.

Around 11 o'clock that night, the agents arrived at a small office belonging to Hardy Lott, the Jerger family lawyer.

They entered and found Beckwith dressed in a dark suit with a monogrammed shirt, a purple tie, and a pocket square to match.

He smiled at them and gave a polite bow.

The agents handcuffed Beckwith and charged him with the murder of Medgar Evers.

Beckwith only laughed.

He told the agents he wasn't worried.

He was certain he wouldn't be in jail for very long.

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Six months later, on January 31st, 1964, Merle Evers ascended the stairs of the Heinz County Courthouse in Jackson.

Flanked by close friends and wearing a royal blue dress with black gloves, she took deep, even breaths to calm her nerves.

Today was the day she would face her husband's killer.

With every step, her heart grew heavier.

As much as she was glad they had brought Byron Della Beckwith to trial, she wished she didn't have to be here.

She was proud of Medgar's activism and had always supported his work.

But for years, she had lived in fear of the day he would be killed for what he believed in.

Now that he was gone, it felt as if her life had turned into a nightmare she couldn't wake up from.

Merley made her way to courtroom number three.

Multiple guards stood outside the door.

She suspected they were there to keep out civil rights protesters as much as white supremacists.

Reluctantly, she let the security guards pat her down before they let her enter.

Merley took her seat in the front row.

She watched stoically as the gallery filled with press, NAACP organizers, curious townspeople, and angry white supremacists.

Then the jury filed into the box one by one, each of them white men for the Mississippi State Constitution.

Merle scoffed.

So much for a jury of Medgar's peers.

Finally, Byron de la Beckwith practically waltzed into the courtroom with a smile, escorted by two policemen.

Dressed in a fine black suit with a red tie, he calmly sat down at the defense table without ever looking at Merle.

She watched coolly as Ross Barnett, who had just finished his term as governor of Mississippi, walked over to greet Beckwith.

He patted Beckwith on the shoulder and shook his hand.

Merley knew getting justice for Medgar was going to be difficult, but right now, it seemed nearly impossible.

Barnett's presence told her that the good old boys that ran the state were on Beckwith's side.

They were probably happy that Medgar was out of their way.

There was a good chance that the jury felt the same, but even with the odds against her, Merle knew she still had to fight.

That's what Medgar would have done.

A few hours into the trial, Bill Waller, the district attorney, called Merley to the stand.

Slowly she got up and walked to the front of the courtroom.

As she sat down, the moment she dreaded had finally arrived.

Her eyes locked with Beckwith's.

But instead of fear or rage or disgust, she felt numb.

Merle talked through what she remembered of the murder.

She had heard Medgar pull into the driveway when a shot rang out.

When she ran outside, she saw Medgar lying on the ground, covered in blood.

She finished her testimony, and Waller thanked her.

Then it was time for Beckwith's lawyer, Hardy Lott, to cross-examine her.

He was condescending.

He wore a patronizing smirk as he fired questions at her.

He asked Murley if it was true that Medgar had just filed a suit to integrate the white public schools at the time of his murder.

Bill Waller objected.

He said the questions were irrelevant.

It was a clear ploy to get the all-white jury on Beckwith's side, since it was highly likely they were all against integration.

But the judge waved him off.

Merley answered Lot's question as calmly as she could.

He seemed determined to break her, but she remained stoic.

When Merle finally stepped down from the stand, she wasn't sure she had done enough to defend her husband.

She looked at the jury jotting down their notes.

She allowed herself to feel the faintest glimmer of hope.

Maybe it hadn't gone as badly as she thought.

Maybe she had appealed to their better nature.

A week later, Merle was seated in the back of the courtroom again.

Today, she wore all black, with a widow's veil.

She hoped it would remind the jury that an innocent man, a husband and father, had been stolen from her.

D.A.

Waller stood up and began his closing arguments.

Merley watched the jury like a hawk, trying to guess which way they were leaning.

Waller reiterated the prosecution's case.

The murder weapon belonged to Beckwith.

His fingerprint was found on the scope.

His car had been seen nearby.

Multiple witnesses, including a cab driver named Herbert Spite, had gone on record as having heard Beckwith ask where Medgar's house was.

Beckwith sat calmly through all of this.

It made Murley's stomach turn to think how this man had gone to their home with hate in his heart to assassinate her husband, and that he seemed to feel absolutely no remorse.

Next, it was time for Beckwith's attorney to make his final statement.

The air grew tense as Lott laid out his arguments in a leisurely drawl.

He claimed there were witnesses who said Beckwith was nowhere near Jackson.

He noted that no one saw him commit the crime and no one saw him flee the scene.

Murley glanced back at the jury box.

A few of the men nodded as Lott talked.

That wasn't a good sign.

Lott reminded the jury that the prosecution accused Beckwith of killing Medgar for supporting integration.

Lott proclaimed that by that logic, there were plenty of people who might have shot Medgar.

With a sickening smile, he said, If anybody had a motive, it seems to me it would be the people of Jackson.

If you're going to bring bring up everybody in Mississippi who believes in segregation, lots of us better leave.

He then held up his hand in the air and said, I might be guilty.

As the trial ended, Merle was beyond the point of anger.

Enduring such a farce of justice had taken every ounce of strength she had left.

All she could do was hope that the jury would be able to see the truth through the lies.

By the next morning, Merley had her answer.

The jury was unable to reach a verdict.

Six jurors had voted for acquittal, six for conviction.

It was declared a mistrial.

They would have to do the whole thing over again.

Murley had serious doubts about their chances of winning at a second trial, but going through with it was the only choice they had.

A month later, cab driver Herbert Spite was walking near his home on the outskirts of Jackson, Mississippi.

It was a dark and moonless night, around 8 o'clock.

Only the stars illuminated the path in front of him.

Spite quickened his pace.

He knew he shouldn't be out alone.

Since the Beckwith trial, Spite had been sleeping with one eye open.

He was one of the prosecution's key witnesses.

He testified that he saw Byron Della Beckwith in Jackson on the night of the murder.

Beckwith had even asked Spite where to find Medgar Evers' house.

That day in the courtroom, it felt like everyone's eyes burned holes into him.

To them, he was betraying his own race by helping a black man.

Ever since, he felt like an unwanted guest in in his own hometown.

Suddenly, a car pulled up beside him, and three white men filed out of the back seat.

Spite's blood ran cold at the sight of them.

He turned to run in the other direction, but several more men were coming up the road behind him, all of them carrying heavy sticks.

Spite's heart pounded against his chest.

He was completely alone.

One of the men called his name.

Spite thought he recognized the voice, but it was too dark to see who it was.

The man told Spite he shouldn't have lied for the district attorney.

By doing that, he dragged a good white man's name through the mud.

Spite managed to sputter out that he was telling the truth.

Beckwith had asked him where Medgar Evers lived on the night of the murder.

Spite might have been a lot of things, but he wasn't a liar.

The man came a few steps closer, and Spite's chest tightened with fear.

His legs felt like they were going to buckle.

The man repeated that Spite had lied.

He said that Spite hadn't seen Beckwith that night, and if he knew what was good for him, he would say so in the next trial.

Spike nodded, realizing he was in real danger.

They were right, he said.

He must not have seen Beckwith on the night of the murder.

He promised he wouldn't make the same mistake again.

He turned around to try to leave, but the men blocked his path.

They were going to make sure that he stuck to his word.

Two months later, in April 1964, Stanny Sanders, one of Beckwith's defense attorneys, paced the floor of the courtroom.

He was in the middle of jury selection for the second trial.

In theory, he was supposed to be finding men who would be fair and impartial, but really, he was looking for people that would side with Beckwith.

Sanders asked the candidates about their religious affiliations, their jobs, and politics, but he paid the most attention to their beliefs about segregation.

He sent home anyone who even hinted that they were against it.

Midway through jury selection, a court officer tapped him on the shoulder and let him know there was a call waiting for him.

Sanders excused himself and walked over to the court office.

Andy Hopkins was calling, the chief investigator of the Mississippi Sovereignty Commission.

The Sovereignty Commission was a department of the state government.

It was founded right after the Brown v.

Board of Education decision, which ruled that segregating schools was unconstitutional.

The commission was supposed to be a PR office to fight back against the decision, promoting Mississippi's right to maintain segregation.

But secretly, the governor also used it as his own private intelligence agency.

From there, he monitored civil rights activists and squashed attempts at integration.

Sanders was glad to hear from Hopkins.

He wanted any leg up he could get in the case, especially if it came from the Sovereignty Commission.

Hopkins said one of the potential jurors was actually a distant cousin of his, and by all accounts would be, quote, fair and impartial.

His tone was slick with sarcasm.

Sanders thanked Hopkins for the tip, but Hopkins wasn't finished.

He told Sanders that he wanted to help them select the right right jurors to help Beckwith.

Perhaps, he said, the Sovereignty Commission could be of some assistance.

Sanders felt a smile creep across his face.

That was more than all right with him.

He hung up and returned to the courtroom.

By the end of the day, the Sovereignty Commission had a report on his desk with all the potential jurors' information.

The document indicated which of them were white, Protestant, and vouched for by fellow segregationists, and it pointed out which were Jewish or Catholic.

Since they were also targets of the KKK, they might be sympathetic to Medgar.

Sanders smiled.

There was no way this trial was going to get away from him now.

With the state government's help, the jury would all but guarantee Beckwith's freedom.

Two weeks later, District Attorney Bill Waller sat at the prosecution table at the Heinz County Courthouse.

He was practically nauseous as he waited for the jury to finish deliberating.

The second trial had been a disaster.

Herbert Spite, the cab driver and key prosecution witness, backtracked on his testimony in the first trial.

He said he actually couldn't be sure he had seen Beckwith and Jackson on the night of the murder.

It completely undercut the prosecution's case.

Beyond that, the defense had an answer for every new argument Waller brought to the table.

It felt like they knew things they shouldn't, like someone was leaking information to them.

Meanwhile, Beckwith's lawyers had other tricks up their sleeve.

At the end of the trial, they called a surprise witness named James Hobby, a man with the same height, build, and car as Beckwith.

He claimed he was in the diner right by Evers' house on the night of the murder.

All the eyewitness testimony tying Beckwith to the crime scene was demolished in an instant.

Waller knew there were dark forces at work here.

Beckwith's legal fund had received thousands of dollars in donations from local segregationists.

The KKK had shown up during the proceedings, staring down the jury from the back of the courtroom.

As if to emphasize their point, 10 crosses had been burned in Jackson over the past few days.

Waller had done done the best he could, but it felt like the entire state of Mississippi was closing ranks around Byron De La Beckwith.

Finally, the jury returned to the box.

Waller held his breath.

He couldn't bear to look at Murley Evers, terrified he was about to fail once again to get justice for Medgar.

The foreman announced that the jury was hung, eight to four, for acquittal.

It was another mistrial.

Waller shook his head and sighed.

Grateful it wasn't an acquittal, but disappointed the trial had ended like this once again.

He walked over to Merle, who stared straight ahead with bitter disappointment.

He apologized to her, but told her that without new evidence, they were never going to get a different outcome.

It would either be another mistrial, or worse, Beckwith would be acquitted.

Merley forced a smile and thanked Waller for his work.

She told him she and the kids were moving to California.

away from the deep-rooted racism of Mississippi.

It was likely they wouldn't meet for a long time.

But she told Waller that the second there was new evidence, she'd be right back here for another trial.

She wasn't going to give up on Medgar.

Waller watched as Murley walked out of the courtroom.

He turned his attention to Beckwith, who beamed as though he had been acquitted.

In effect, he had been.

Until there was another trial, he would walk free.

He shook hands with his attorneys and smiled at the KKK members packing the back of the courtroom.

Waller could barely stand the sight of it.

After the trial, Beckwith was released on bond.

When When he arrived in his hometown of Greenwood, he was greeted with cheers and people flying Confederate flags.

He happily went back to his life.

But the world was changing, and eventually, justice would catch up with him.

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25 years later, in late September 1989, Merle Evers was in her office at the Los Angeles Department of Public Works.

It was a busy day as usual, but she liked it that way.

It made her feel like she was contributing.

Her phone rang.

Merley picked it up, wedging it between her ear and her shoulder.

The man on the other end identified himself as Jerry Mitchell, a reporter with the Mississippi Clarion Ledger.

Merley sighed.

She had been expecting this.

It had been 25 years since Medgar's death, so all the newspapers wanted a quote from her for a retrospective.

She'd been doing it all year.

She started to give her stock answer about delayed justice when Mitchell politely interrupted her.

This was about something different.

He wanted to know if she had heard about the files that had leaked from the old Sovereignty Commission.

Merley paused.

She was uneasy at the very mention of the commission, which she knew had been used to monitor civil rights activists, including Medgar.

But she didn't know much more than that.

Mitchell spelled out what had happened.

He explained that the Sovereignty Commission closed in 1973.

after Mississippi firmly lost the fight against integration, but its files were kept hidden hidden for another 11 years before they were leaked.

And what emerged about Medgar Evers' trial was shocking.

According to the files, the commission had investigated jurors chosen for Byron De La Beckwith's second trial and turned that information over to Beckwith's lawyers.

At best, the Sovereignty Commission was interfering with the DA's office, meaning the state government was working against the local government.

At worst, it was tampering with the jury to keep Medgar's murderer free.

Murley felt a rush of conflicting emotions.

She wasn't shocked that the Mississippi government had tried to rig the system against her husband, but she also felt a strange mix of vindication, even excitement.

She finally knew why they couldn't get justice for Medgar, and this new information could finally put Beckwith away for good.

Mitchell asked Merle if she had any comment.

She said that if new evidence was found and they thought they could get a conviction, she wanted the case retried.

Mitchell's story was published on October 1st, 1989, and it helped launch a brand new push for Medgar Evers to finally get justice.

On Tuesday, February 1st, 1994, Merle Evers was back where she'd been 30 years ago, almost to the day.

She was sitting in the gallery of the Heinz County Courthouse in Jackson, Mississippi, watching her husband's killer on trial.

As she settled into her chair, she said a silent prayer for justice.

She watched as the new prosecutor, Bobby DeLauder, adjusted his suit and walked to the center of the courtroom.

De Lauder certainly had an uphill battle ahead of him.

He had to reconstruct a trial with missing evidence and witnesses who had died, but so far they'd been doing well.

De Lauder even had one of his fellow attorneys give a performance as the late cab driver Herbert Spite.

Together, they acted out the transcript of his original testimony.

Then De Lauder moved on to the new evidence.

Merle's heart was in her throat as she glanced over at Beckwith.

He was almost 75 years old now.

The thought that he had been allowed to live free and grow old while Medgar had not made her sick.

De Lauder called a new witness, a man Merley had never heard of before, Mark Riley.

Riley was slim and middle-aged, and he seemed nervous as he took the stand.

Merley took a deep breath, wondering what this man was going to say.

During his testimony, Riley explained he had no idea that Medgar Evers was a civil rights activist until the week before.

Because of a winter storm, Riley was stuck at his Chicago home and was watching CNN when he saw a report about the trial.

That's when he recognized Beckwith's face.

Riley explained that he was a prison guard in Louisiana in 1979 when he met Beckwith.

Beckwith was serving a five-year sentence for conspiracy to commit murder.

He'd attempted to bomb the house of a Jewish activist in New Orleans on behalf of the KKK.

Riley recalled that he and Beckwith got close during his time as a guard.

Beckwith acted like a father figure and tried to convert Riley to become a white supremacist.

He even bragged to Riley that he had gotten away with killing a civil rights activist.

A few people in the courtroom gasped.

De Lauder glanced out into the gallery, his eyes catching Murley's for a second.

Her heart fluttered.

Finally, after all this time, they had evidence of a confession from Beckwith.

She looked over at the old man, who was hunched over the defense table.

Riley said that after a while, he started to push back on Beckwith's teachings.

He didn't agree that white people should rule over other races.

Beckwith blew up at him, and Riley cut him off.

He hadn't thought about Beckwith for over 10 years until he saw the newscast.

De Lauder thanked Riley for his testimony.

Beckwith's defense had no questions for him.

There was nothing they could do to poke holes in his credibility.

He had no record to speak of.

His testimony supported the physical evidence in the trial.

He was as good a witness as the prosecution could have asked for.

Merle was buzzing with anticipation as she looked over at the jury.

She'd been burned twice before, but this time felt different.

She allowed herself, for the first time in 30 years, to have some real hope.

On Saturday, February 5th, 1994, the jury found Byron DeLaBeckwith guilty of the murder of Medgar Evers.

At 73 years old, he was sentenced to life in prison.

He died seven years later, still clinging to his beliefs about white supremacy.

The guilty verdict set off a chain reaction.

Weeks after Beckwith's sentencing, the case of Vernon Dahmer, a civil rights leader murdered by the KKK in 1966, was also reopened.

In 2001 and 2002, Two of the men who bombed a Birmingham church in 1963 and killed four young black girls were finally convicted.

And in 2005, the case that inspired the film Mississippi Burning was brought back into court.

The man behind the murders of three freedom riders, James Cheney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner, was brought to justice.

Merle Evers, going by her remarried name, Merle Evers Williams, became the chairwoman of the NAACP.

In her role, she advocated for racial justice and restored the organization to its former glory after it faced bankruptcy.

She was chosen to deliver the invocation at President Barack Obama's second inauguration in 2013.

Medgar Evers may have gone on to make further strides for civil rights.

Had he not been killed by Byron de la Beckwith, he might have run for public office or become a symbol of racial equality like his friend Dr.

Martin Luther King.

But he never had the chance because of a man motivated by hatred and fear.

The system doesn't always work the way it's intended.

In this case, it was manipulated for the sole purpose of keeping a killer free.

In the Jim Crow South, the system was built on racial segregation, and until things changed, justice would always discriminate.

But after over 30 long years of fighting, Merle Evers and her attorneys made the system work for them and finally got Medgar the justice he deserved.

Follow Redacted Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke Lamana, on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.

If you're looking to dive into more more gripping stories from Balin Studios and Wondery, you can also listen to my other podcast, Wartime Stories, early and ad-free with Wondery Plus.

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From Balin Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted, Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke Lamana.

A quick note about our stories.

We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized.

We used many different sources for our show, but we especially recommend Ghosts of Mississippi, The Murder of Medgar Evers by Marianne Vollers, and Never Too Late, A Prosecutor's Story of Justice in the Medgar Evers Case by Bobby DeLauder.

And the article, Medgar Evers, Assassin's Gun Forever Changed a Family by Jerry Mitchell for the Jackson Clarion Ledger.

This episode was written by Jake Natureman.

Sound design by Kelly Cromerick.

Our producers are Christopher B.

Dunn and John Reed.

Our associate producers are Anesse Rennie Kay and Molly Quintlin Artwick.

Fact-checking by Sheila Patterson.

For Ballin Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt.

Script editing by Scott Allen and Luke Baratz.

Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins.

Production support by Avery Siegel.

Produced by me, Luke Lamana.

Executive producers are Mr.

Ballin and Nick Witters.

For Wonder Reef, our senior producers are Laura Donna Palavota, Dave Schilling, and Rachel Engelman.

Senior managing producer is Nick Ryan.

Managing producer is Olivia Fonte.

Executive producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louie for Wondery.

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Follow Lawless Planet on the Wondry app or wherever you get your podcasts.

You can listen to new episodes of Lawless Planet early and ad-free right now by joining Wondry Plus in the Wondry app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.