The Black Hearts Murder (10 page)

“Mr. McCall and I had a telephone conversation last night,” he said to the mayor.

“You seem to have come around to my point of view, Mr. Horton,” McCall smiled.

“About that high bail sparking trouble, yes. Last night I thought you were exaggerating the danger. But you were right—that mob out there was really ready to bust out. I still resent your uncalled-for remarks about our district attorney, though.”

McCall looked Horton in the eye. “I don't retract a damned thing I said about Volper, Mr. Horton. The provocatively high bail was set at his urging. Unless he's a complete fool, he had to have known what he was doing—lighting a match near an open gas tank. This town was ready to go up, Mr. Horton. It may still do it if Volper isn't restrained.”

“What's going to blow,” Jerome Duncan said, “is Volper. The D.A.'s office will have to be represented at the bail hearing, so the court clerk's undoubtedly phoned Volper's office.”

“You people,” Gerald Horton said coldly. “McCall here accuses Art Volper of deliberately inciting to riot for political reasons. Do you believe Art's capable of doing that, Duncan?”

The black man smiled without humor. “I wouldn't go that far without
res gestae
evidence. But you have to admit, Horton, your boy Art isn't exactly objective where the Black Hearts are concerned.”

“Neither am I,” Horton snapped. “Any law-abiding citizen has a duty to oppose an outfit that preaches revolution.”

“It hasn't been established that the Black Hearts preach revolution,” Mayor Potter said gently. “Harlan James hasn't come to trial yet.”

The councilman-at-large made an impatient gesture. “Did you listen to James's taped speech yesterday?”

McCall said, “I did. James won't ever take his place in the history books alongside Tom Paine, but his speech certainly didn't preach revolution.”

“It preached violence! When a black man publicly urges other blacks to beat whites with baseball bats and blast them with shotguns, what can you call him except a violent revolutionary?”

“Wait a minute,” Duncan said in a hardening tone. “He recommended those things only in retaliation against white attack. That's recommending self-defense.”

“Oh, come on, Duncan! This guy has been preaching violence at his Black Hearts rallies ever since he formed the organization.”

“How many Black Hearts rallies have you attended?”

“All right, none. But Ben Cordes went to a number of them when he was researching the special program we did on black militants last month. Cordes's reports of what was said at those meetings convinced me the organization is dangerous.”

The phone on Laurel's desk rang. She answered it. “Mr. Cunningham for you, Mr. Mayor.”

“I'll take it inside, Laurel,” the mayor said. “You gentlemen want to come in?”

Both candidates said they had to run along. The mayor waved and went into his private office. Jerome Duncan pressed McCall's hand in a friendly way.

“I'm afraid you haven't seen much of the better side of our town, Mr. McCall,” he said. “There is one, you know. Mayor Potter's done a great job for the poor here, getting federal money for projects we desperately need—and you know what a magic trick that is these days. I hope, if I'm elected to succeed him, I can continue his good work.”

“I have to stay politically neutral, Mr. Duncan,” McCall said, straight-faced. “But I can say without hesitation that the governor is all for good works.”

“So I understand,” Duncan said, smiling. He had a million-dollar smile that made McCall think again of Carl Stokes. “That being the case, Mr. McCall, you might remind the governor that Banbury could use a lot more state money, too. See you.” He nodded to Horton very politely and left.

“Well,” Gerald Horton said. “I have to be going, too.” He did not offer his hand. “Goodbye, Mr. McCall.”

“Goodbye,” McCall said. “Sorry we disagree about Volper, Mr. Horton. I wish you could see him the way I do.”

“I couldn't disagree more,” Horton said. He sounded very nasty. “Our district attorney is a conscientious public servant and patriotic American who's hitting hard at an outlaw group that needs hitting. I'm delivering a major political speech tonight, incidentally, and if you listen you'll hear me uphold Mr. Volper's actions in a most positive way.”

“Benjamin Cordes mentioned something about a Horton rally tonight. Where is it being held, Mr. Horton?”

“At the Steelmen's Union Hall, on the south side.”

“What time?”

“Eight.”

“I'll do my best to catch it.”

“Yes,” Horton said icily. “Do that.”

He turned on his heel and stalked out.

“I ought to turn up all the thermostats,” Laurel said. “That voice of his is what I've always imagined the touch of a dead hand must be like. How about taking me to that rally, Mike?”

“Oh,” McCall said swiftly. “I wish I could, Laurel, but I'm committed elsewhere. I wouldn't condemn you to a political speech, anyway—not one of Horton's.”

He wondered why she gave him such an odd look. The truth was, he had almost forgotten his date for the evening with Chief Condon's blonde secretary, Beth McKenna.

“Serves me right for throwing myself at you,” Laurel said lightly. “Now I really have to get back to work.” And her typewriter began rattling away.

McCall went into Mayor Potter's office. The old man had just hung up.

“One of my staff,” Potter said. “BOKO's announced over the air that another tape from Harlan James arrived in this morning's mail. They're going to broadcast it at ten.”

McCall glanced at his watch. It was five of ten. “I'll have to miss it, Mr. Mayor. I want to be in court when Rawlings gets his bail hearing.”

The marble staircase was clogged with people who wanted to get into the courtroom. Police were clearing the jam without difficulty; the mood of the crowd was docile, even good-humored.

McCall's shield case got him into the courtroom again. He estimated the spectators as ninety percent black; about half the men wore Black Hearts jackets.

Although it was now a few minutes past ten, the judge was not yet on the bench. The defendant was not in evidence, either. His lawyer, Wade, sat at the defense table, his face unreadable. But McCall thought he must be feeling good.

Arthur Volper was not present. A young assistant D.A. sat alone at the prosecutor's table. He seemed nervous.

A few moments later LeRoy Rawlings was brought in by Sergeant Fenner. The black-jacket wearers gave their vice president a standing ovation when he strode in. Grinning, Rawlings clasped hands above his head like a boxer acknowledging the acclaim of his fans.

Sergeant Fenner turned his prisoner over to a bailiff and left. He threw McCall a friendly wave as he went by.

Rawlings had no sooner seated himself beside his lawyer than the judge stalked in and everyone rose. Edmundson was a small, twitchy man in his fifties with thinning sand-colored hair, a case of acne, and a sour expression. He rapped with his gavel and said in an irritated voice, “Be-seated-court-is-now-in-session-will-the-attorneys-of-record-approach-the-bench.”

The hearing took minutes. The assistant district attorney entered a learned objection to any reduction in the defendant's bail; the judge snipped him short.

“This is not an adversary proceeding. The matter is up to the discretion of the court, and my decision is made. Let's not waste any time, Mr. Browning!”

He then suspended bail, released the defendant on his own recognizance, and called the next case. As Rawlings started up the center aisle with his attorney, most of the spectators rose to follow. Judge Edmundson pounded with his gavel.

“Spectators will remain seated!” he shouted. “I will not have my courtroom disrupted by a mass exodus! You may leave at the first recess.”

McCall was already out in the hall. As the courtroom door closed behind the two black men, he said, “Just a minute, Mr. Rawlings.”

Both men turned. The Black Hearts vice president said in a neutral tone, “Hello, McCall.”

“This is Mike McCall?” The lawyer held out his hand. “Roy told me how you gave Art Volper a lecture in constitutional law, Mr. McCall. Wish I'd been there to watch.”

McCall shook it, smiling. “I think the D.A. knows his law, Mr. Wade. He just stretches the rules a little. Glad to meet you.”

Rawlings stared at him. “Just what is Sam Holland's interest in the Black Hearts? If he didn't have an ax to grind, you wouldn't be smelling around.”

“LeRoy,” Wade said.

“It's not the Black Hearts alone that brought me here,” McCall said. “It's the threat of race trouble. The governor wants me to head it off if I can.”

“But it's very simple,” Rawlings drawled. “Order Volper to drop the charges against Harlan and me, and tell Judge Graham to revoke Harlan's bail forfeiture.”

McCall looked the black leader in the eye. “Oh, come on, Rawlings. You're not talking to an idiot, and I'm not talking to one, either. You know the governor has no authority to ‘order' things like that. Are you and the Black Hearts bent on playing Volper's game? Apparently he'd like nothing better than a full-scale riot situation in this town. It would certainly polarize the white backlash sentiment. If it were bad enough, it would make headlines and newscast lead-offs nationally, giving Volper a showcase he couldn't get otherwise in a hundred years. You can't be that stupid.”

“Don't call me stupid, man,” Rawlings said. The whites of his eyes were shot with blood. “Don't ever! I'm not playing any game. It's the black brothers and the black community that take all the punishment when a ghetto burns. The lousy few honky merchants who lose a few TV sets and some plate glass hardly count, considering the profits they've squeezed out of blacks for generations. When Whitey pushes too hard, man, nobody's going to stop blacks from pushing back! Avoiding showdowns is up to you honkies.”

“LeRoy,” the black lawyer said again; he was distressed.

“I don't want to get into a hassle about whose fault it will be if the city burns down,” McCall said. “I just want to keep it from burning down. And if you'd seen that mixed mob in front of the city hall this morning, you'd realize how close this town was to being reduced to ashes. Do you think Harlan James would be willing to use his influence to cool tempers in case another incident like this morning's develops?”

“What influence does a fugitive in hiding have?” Rawlings asked bitterly.

“I'd like to discuss that with Mr. James personally. Can you arrange for me to see him?”

Rawlings's response was immediate and automatic. “Now how would I know where he is?”

“Mr. McCall,” Prentiss Wade said. “Even if LeRoy knew, arranging for you to see Harlan would amount to an admission that the charge against him is true. At least that would be the district attorney's construction. Be reasonable.”

“You have my word as Governor Holland's emissary that nobody but the governor will learn about it from me. In fact, I don't even have to know where Mr. James is. I'm perfectly willing to be blindfolded. All I want is a face-to-face talk.”

“No, LeRoy, wait a minute,” the black lawyer said. “What could your seeing Harlan James accomplish, Mr. McCall?”

“He keeps sending taped speeches to BOKO. Another was scheduled for broadcast at ten this morning.” He glanced at his watch. “It must be over by now. I'd hope to persuade him to make a public plea for restraint.”

Rawlings showed his teeth. “I've already told you I don't know where he is.”

“I find that hard to believe, Mr. Rawlings.”

“I don't give a damn what you believe, honky, y' hear?”

McCall's eyes narrowed. “Up to now I considered this a conversation among reasonable men. Why the name-calling all of a sudden, Rawlings? You must know my reputation for fair dealing—”

“You don't cut it, huh? ‘Honky' pulls you uptight, huh? Now you know how a brother feels when a honky calls him nigger!”

“I never in my life called anyone a racial or ethnic name,” McCall said coldly. “And I'm damned if I'm going to let you put me on the defensive! I heard you were an intelligent man. I'm beginning to doubt the rumor.”

The black face thrust close to his. “What kind of crap you dishing out, McCall? You never counted eenie, meenie, minie, moe when you were a kid? You always called those big nuts Brazil nuts? Huh?” His big fist gathered up McCall's jacket. “Answer me!”

“LeRoy, I want you to take your hand off Mr. McCall,” the black lawyer said quietly. “Right now.”

“It's all right, Mr. Wade,” McCall said. “I could dump your client, big as he is, on his tokus without blinking an eye if I wanted to. Listen to me, Rawlings. Oh, first let go of my coat.” Rawlings expelled some breath. Then his hand went slack. “Thank you. I grew up on Chicago's south side. The first kid I ever had a fist fight with was black. We gave each other bloody noses, and I don't know which of us was more surprised that we both had red blood. We became close friends. I'd never call you a nigger, Rawlings. But I'm not so sure I wouldn't call you a jerk.”

Rawlings grinned suddenly. “Okay, McCall, I withdraw honky. But I still can't help you. Yesterday I got a letter in the mail from Harlan, and it said about the same thing he wrote to the radio and TV stations. He said to tell the other Black Hearts not to worry about him, that he was okay, but he wasn't going to let any of us know where he was so the pigs wouldn't be pressuring one of us to tell.”

Prentiss Wade frowned. “You didn't mention that to me, Roy. Where is this letter?”

“I tore it up.”

“Tore it up?” Wade cried. “That letter could have helped your defense against this charge!”