Early the next day, Charles Estes called Monk, who was drinking coffee at a local café. “Hey, man, sorry I kind of misrepresented matters last night. Truth is, I haven’t seen Burris in a long time. I don’t know where he could be.”
“Maybe somebody in your family might know.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” and the line went dead.
That was a kiss-off. Thaxton must have told Estes to get the party line right. Why didn’t she want him talking to Burris Parchman? It must have something to do with the shooting. Phoenix was unknown territory to him. But he had a day left on the room that Antony was paying for, and figured he’d use the time productively.
At the main library on Central, an imposing five-story rectangular structure seemingly modeled on a space-age toaster, he went through collected bound hard copy and microfiche newspaper accounts of the shooting. He studied the coverage in the black newspaper, the
On July 4, 1976, during the nation’s bicentennial, Phoenix, like a lot of cities, put on a large parade and celebration. The Mumfords were to be honored, and, Monk noted in one account, the Sugar Kings were slated to perform. But it had been the week before that the fight had taken place at the studio, so naturally that segment of the festivities had been canceled.
From what Monk could gather, the reverend was not a fan of his son’s avocation. “I cannot be reconciled with Hayzell’s pursuit of these most temporal and tempting of concerns,” Mumford was quoted. Another article contained, “I can only continue to pray that the Lord will guide him out of this episode of his life and return him to the fold.”
More recent online searches showed that the father had died in 1998. The partisans who attended the funeral included Harry Belafonte, Oliver Stone, who at that time was trying to get a film made about the Mumfords, and former Congressman Gus Hawkins, the first black man elected to the California legislature. Monk then read a quote from Nazeen Loveless in the
Monk did an eyebrow raise worthy of Spock. He then searched for references to Parchman. There were no articles about him online except for the time during the shooting. But looking back at the bound hard copies of the black newspaper, he spotted several ads for local clubs where Burris was listed as a headliner. The last one was from 2004. That was just a few years back, indicating he was still active, at least then, in the Phoenix area. Loveless and Thaxton had said Parchman had disappeared before that. Maybe he snuck into town and left promptly. Or maybe not.
Burris Parchman wasn’t listed in the white pages, and though Monk called several music booking agents, he got nada. He did find a listing for the Mumfords’ church, Greater First Congregational Methodist on East Jefferson, once the heart of the black community’s south side.
“Yes, you see,” Monk told the helpful woman over the phone, “I’m wondering for the purposes of this documentary we’re putting together if we could interview Mrs. Mumford. I realize she retired some time ago. Is there a way you can get her a message?”
“I would like to help you,” she said. “Justine would love to participate, only …”
“Yes?” Monk said in a solicitous tone. What sort of bad ju-ju was he racking up lying to a good woman like this?
“She’s been under the weather,” the woman said in a way that suggested Mrs. Mumford wasn’t simply suffering from a cold. She was in her eighties, after all. “Let me see what I can do. Give me a number to reach you at, would you?”
He gave her his cell number and the one to his office in Los Angeles, then hung up.
