Harlem Redux (53 page)

Roy left soon after that and David was returned to his cell. His memory stirred, he was swamped with images from the summer he’d returned, the “Red Summer” they called it, referring to the streams of Negro blood sent flowing down American streets. By the year’s end, bloody race riots had erupted in two dozen cities or counties, scores of blacks had been lynched and burned, and the Ku Klux Klan had resurged in popularity. David had read the reports, sickened. Still invigorated by his memories of France, he had planned to attend Howard, and then join the Movement. But as he contemplated a newspaper photograph of a black man’s scorched remains hanging from a tree, he knew there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of re-creating the openness he had seen in France in the United States, at least not in his lifetime. But he promised himself that he would do what he could. He vowed to work until he dropped to at least make it safe for black men, women, and children to walk the streets of American towns. As for what happened to that vow, that was the most painful thought of all.

David’s next visitor couldn’t have been more of a surprise: Toby’s mother. She drew her chair close to the grate separating them. Her gentle eyes were actually amused. She couldn’t believe he had killed Sweet, she said, but she didn’t know what to think about the rest. Had he really led a double life? He explained and when he was done, she simply nodded.

“Well, I suppose a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. And sometimes that means wearing a mask to survive.”

He smiled at her pragmatic way of seeing the situation, but his conscience rejected it. It seemed that while part of him yearned for redemption, another part strove for condemnation, and the more his friends forgave him, the more he demanded punishment.

“What happens,” he asked, “when that mask becomes your second skin? You forget how to live without it. You forget what your own face looks like. What’s worse, you’re not sure you want to know. And when a chance comes to take it off, to tell the world, ‘This is me. This is who I am,’ you pass it up. Life behind the mask has become too safe, too comfortable. That was me.”

“You know, you think too much. It’s always bad to think too much. I got a sister who’s passing. She ain’t found nothing comfortable about it. She the loneliest person I know. At least you did it to help people. She ain’t into rested in helping nobody but herself. Everybody in the fam’ly know what she’s doing and why she’s doing it. And we still love her. We just don’t never see the need to talk about it.” Her eyes went over him. “You got to stop looking back. You done your best. The Lord don’t ask for more.”

For an instant, she reminded him of Annie. “I don’t know what the Lord asks for. I used to think I did, but that was ...” He grimaced. “I was a child.”

“My pappy used to say we got to love with the heart of a child and think with the mind of a man.”

“Your pappy wasn’t talking about abandoning his friends. Lying about his identity.”

“No, he was just talking about surviving.” She looked at him and shook her head. “I done known a lot of people in a lot of trouble, but you take the cake. I got to admit, though, you’d look good in stripes.”

He could feel a smile coming on. “Could be I’ll be wearing them for some time.”

“Don’t think so.”

“No?”

“A man like you got a plan.”

“Have I now?”

“Um-hm. Men like you, they always got a plan. So, what you gonna do?”

He thought about it. It was getting harder to hold back that smile. He gave a wry grin. “Well, like you said, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. And a man can’t live his life looking backward, now can he?”

“Not if he don’t want to get an awful crick in his neck.”

He couldn’t hold it in anymore. He laughed out loud, grateful for her mischievous humor. He asked her to tell him about Toby, something she was happy to do. He liked the way her eyes lit up when she spoke of her little boy. The minutes allotted them passed quickly and soon it was time for her to leave. She would attend the trial, she said, whenever she could, and nothing he could say would dissuade her. He needed friends and she meant to be among them. He watched her go with a new warmth in his heart. It was only then he realized that he’d again forgotten to ask her name.

Nella stopped by. She was bold and to the point. “So tell me the truth, dear boy. Did you shoot him?”

“Would you blame me if I had?”

“Not a bit. But you didn’t, did you?” She sighed. “How unfortunate.”

“Why?”

“It would make my book oh so much juicier if you had.”

Snyder puffed on his cigar and fixed David with a paternal eye.

“You didn’t have to kill Sweet, you know. I can understand why you did it, but I wish you’d left him for me.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Too bad,” he said, but it was with an amused expression. “It always amazes me that I like you. But I do. And now I know why. When I first looked at you, I sensed an old wound—a deep wound—and I sensed the strength that went into hiding it. You’re a strong man.”

“Am I?”

All of the amusement left Snyder’s eyes. He was suddenly dead serious. “I don’t trust men who don’t feel pain. Men who don’t risk pain are cowards, and those who can’t carry it are weak.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then my muscles should be busting through my shirt.”

38.
 
Lies and Whispers

The leaders of the Movement demanded that the accused murderer of Jameson Sweet suffer the full brunt of the law. David McKay had not only destroyed one of the Movement’s best legal minds, but sullied the reputation of the Movement itself. Calling upon their white allies, the Movement’s officials put the heat on police and legal authorities.

On Monday, April 5, one week after David’s arrest, a grand jury needed just twelve minutes to indict him. The trial was scheduled to begin two weeks later, on April 20. In the interim, both the prosecution and the defense scrambled to prepare.

Byron Canfield became the prosecution’s mainstay. In a major deposition, he recapped how David had disappeared years earlier, then “conveniently reappeared” following Lilian’s death. He described David’s evasive answers at Nella Harding’s party and repeated Sweet’s complaint that David wanted to eject him from the house. Finally, he related the results of Sweet’s private investigation into David’s life and Sweet’s plans to expose David’s duplicity.

Peters subjected Annie to hours of grueling interrogation. She was uncooperative, sometimes flatly refusing to answer. He threatened to jail her until she reconsidered. Annie was sent away with a proud mien and her lips sealed, but twenty-four hours in a cold, damp cell weakened her. With tears in her eyes, she “admitted” to having urged David to fight for the house and said, yes, she’d overheard him argue with Sweet on the day Sweet died. But she was sure she “heard Mr. David leave a long time before Mr. Jameson got shot. Miss Rachel was in the house when that happened. Mr. David wasn’t.” That last statement was given short shrift. She went home sure that she’d put a noose around her own son’s neck.

David didn’t learn of Annie’s ordeal until it was over, but Rachel was there when Peters took Annie away and she saw the old woman’s sorry state when she came back. For the first time since the nightmare began, Rachel stepped forward to speak to reporters. With taunting, angry words, she denounced the way Annie had been treated and proclaimed David’s innocence. When reporters asked Peters for a response, he dismissed Rachel’s statement with a shrug. “A woman,” he said, “is expected to stand by her man.”

The scandal raged, and it spread beyond Harlem. White-owned publications with national circulation picked up the story; even the
New York Times
and one of the Washington papers expressed interest. As Mason Rugby, an influential white editor, put it:

“This is not just an everyday murder, in some filthy Harlem back alley. Here we have a top attorney in the national civil rights movement slain— not by white men, but by one of his own: another civil rights attorney, the rich scion of a Harlem success story. Jameson Sweet wasn’t just any victim; David McKay isn’t just any accused killer. They represent the
creme de la creme of cafe au lait
society—the hopes of the Negro people, the best that the black man can produce. Yet all they could do was try to kill each other. What does that say about the Movement? What does it tell white America about the so-called New Negro? I’ll tell you what it says: It shows that them niggers can’t blame us whites for all their problems, can they?”

The scandal divided not only Harlem, but the conservative black societies of Atlanta, Philadelphia, Chicago, and Washington, D.C. They were riveted and horrified. Everyone, it seemed, had an opinion. Not one fancy parlor—or funky pool hall for that matter—was free from debate.

Passionate syndicated columns for and against David ran side-by-side with confused reports that presented rumors as facts. The newspapers continued to quote Canfield heavily, and he was merciless. He had David tried and convicted before his first court date. For his part, David neither hid nor scurried. He let reporters see him. He gave quiet, lucid, concise statements. By the time he was to appear in the packed courtroom, he had attracted much sympathy, especially among women, but few believed him—male or female—when he maintained his innocence. As the time approached for jury selection, the very newspapers that had inflamed the public now expressed concern as to whether a panel free of prejudice could be found.

Nevin Caruthers, a superbly educated and privileged black man, offered to act as David’s attorney. In his mid-fifties, Nevin was of short physical stature but immense presence. His salt-and-pepper hair was closely cropped and his mustache was copious but carefully groomed. His walk was robust and energetic. Behind his eyeglasses, his dark brown eyes reflected a gentle heart and perceptive intelligence.

“I was a friend of Lilian. I admired her work. Lord knows, she could be temperamental, but she was a talented woman. I won’t see her brother go down without a fight.”

District Attorney Jack Baker, a ruthless cross-examiner, formed the prosecution. He was hungry for a high-profile conviction that would bring him closer to his goal: the New York State governorship.

Nevin warned David that Baker would crucify him.

“This is not about whether you killed Jameson Sweet. This is about Philly. You’ve done what most every colored man at one time or another wishes he could do but would never admit to. You committed the unforgivable. And you got caught doing it.”

“When the time comes, let me testify,” David said. “Let me tell them why.”

“Nobody gives a damn about why. They only care that you did.
You
are every white man’s nightmare. Someone who looks like them, sounds like them, but isn’t one of them. Someone who can pretend to be the Man Next Door. Character. It’s all about character. The prosecution is going to do its best to paint you as a devil and Sweet as a saint.”

“Canfield and the papers have already done a good job at that.”

“We have to reverse those images. We’ll remind them that you’re a war hero. We’ll bring in witnesses who’ll testify to the compassionate work you’ve been doing in Philly. Friends, people you work with—”

“No, not that. I won’t let you.”

“But why not?”

“I won’t have them involved. It’s bad enough that they’ll be mocked because I tricked them—”

“If they’re your friends, they’ll want to help.”

“I can’t ask them to.”

“Maybe you can’t, but I can.”

“Don’t do it.”

Nevin leveled a steady gaze at his client. He saw despair and regret and something else, too. “David, are you afraid that none of the people you helped, that none of the friends you made, would stand by you if given the chance?”