It almost seemed as if, rather than being expected, we were suspected: We went through an exhaustive screening process, including a TSA-worthy metal detector, which seemed particularly dubious about me. “Third time’s the charm,” I muttered after I finally passed metal-detector muster.
Miranda, profiting by my example, had divested herself of her keys, two bracelets, and a wide leather belt, which sported a solid oval buckle. The buckle was made of antique silver, ornately carved and set with a cameo at the center: an elegant carving of a Victorian woman. Looking closer, I was startled to see that the “woman” in the cameo was actually a skeleton; beneath an elaborate coiffure of swirling, piled-up hair was a profile of a woman’s skull and cervical spine, as well as the first three ribs. I made a mental note to ask later about the unusual fashion accessory.
Miranda made it through the metal detector on her first try, and Laurie was finally called to fetch us. As Miranda threaded her belt back on, I couldn’t help noticing the contrast between her outfit and mine: Miranda was wearing jeans and a sweater, while I was in a coat and tie—fancier clothes than I normally wore on campus, but this wasn’t campus. This was a nationally renowned legal organization, and in my experience, there was no such thing as being overdressed for a law office.
But when our SPLC host showed up, I suddenly felt overdressed and nerdy. Laurie Wood looked as if she might have just come from an art show, or a pottery studio. A fortysomething brunette, shorter than either Miranda or me, she wore jeans and a sweater—had the two of them conferred and coordinated their wardrobes?—and a large, chunky necklace of silver medallions connected by a leather cord. Her shoulder-length brown hair swayed with her relaxed, rolling gait, and her eyes had a look that struck me as curious, good-humored, and ironic. There seemed to be some sadness in it, too. My immediate impression was of a woman who’d seen a lot of life, and who’d learned not to take herself too seriously. “Hi, I’m Laurie,” she said, offering us a warm smile, a frank gaze, and a solid, welcoming handshake.
She badged us through another security door and onto an elevator, which took us up several floors. We emerged into a large, open area, completely without walls. Everyone worked in cubicles with shoulder-high dividers, and above them, I could see across the entire floor and out two walls of thick glass that overlooked downtown Montgomery. The state’s domed capitol was visible out the east wall; taller, newer buildings—banks and office buildings—toward the north, and, in the distance, an old railroad station perched on the bank of the Alabama River.
“Quite a view you’ve got here,” I said admiringly. “But I’m surprised at all the glass up here. Down below, it looks designed to repel a siege.”
Laurie smiled. “We’ve got good reason to be formidable at street level. We got firebombed back in 1983 by some of our friends in the KKK.”
“Is that when y’all were suing the Klan?” asked Miranda.
Laurie nodded. “We’d won a lawsuit against a Texas Klan group a couple years before that,” she said. “We’d also gotten death sentences for eleven black inmates overturned. So the Klan was pretty unhappy with us. The fire burned down our building and destroyed a lot of records. We still get targeted with death threats and bomb plots pretty regularly.”
I wasn’t surprised to hear this. I had friends, including more than a few law enforcement friends, who viewed the SPLC as a bunch of liberal, left-wing troublemakers, but on the six-hour drive from Knoxville, Miranda had made a convincing case for the group’s importance in tracking violent extremists.
Laurie led us around a corner to the south side of the building—the side with solid walls—and ushered us into a conference room, outfitted with a large, oval table. She gestured at the high-backed leather chairs. “Please.”
Laurie sat at the head of the table; Miranda sat on her right, and I sat across from Miranda, on Laurie’s left. I’d brought a large manila envelope with me, and I laid it on the table in front of her. She looked at the envelope, then raised an eyebrow at me, clearly interested in whatever was in the envelope. “Miranda told me you’re working on a murder case that looks like a hate crime.”
I waggled my hand in a maybe, maybe-not gesture. “I’m not saying it isn’t, but there’s not enough evidence yet to say that it is. That’s why we’re here—to see if it fits the pattern.”
She looked again at the envelope. “And you’ve got material on the case in there?”
I nodded. “Death-scene photos, mostly,” I said. “I should warn you, the pictures aren’t gory, but they’re disturbing.”