The Black Hearts Murder (2 page)

The story ran that Harlan James, then a boy of twelve, had overheard a discussion of the senator's speech between his parents during which his father commented bitterly, “By human rights he means the rights of Lord-a-mighty whites. We sho'ly ain't human in his eyes.”

His father's remark reputedly sank into the young black's memory, to surface in 1968 when the then newly formed black militant group under his leadership was groping for a name. The turnabout use of the senator's metaphor in the black cause delighted Banbury's black community, regardless of individual views, and dismayed whites of all persuasions. James shrewdly played variations on his theme in his speeches. He repeatedly used the terms “black-hearted” as synonymous with “evil” and “white” with “virtuous” in his broad satiric attacks on white racist attitudes and actions. But then, in his perorations, he never failed to make clear what he really meant: “From the depths of my black heart I thank the Lord God that no one has ever said to me, That's white of you, Harlan,' and got away with it—'cause white, not black, is the true color of evil!”

Some of the wearers of the Black Hearts jackets were carrying signs. Their messages ranged from a simple
FREE HARLAN
through a belligerent
HONKY FRAME-UP!
to one savage
D.A. VOLPER AND JUDGE GRAHAM ARE RACIST PIGS
.

McCall parked his rented car in a side street off the plaza, well away from the courthouse crowd. There were police lines set up behind wooden barricades on the courthouse steps, and he had more trouble getting through these than through the pack of people in the plaza. He managed to, finally, by the open sesame which he disliked using: the unique gold shield identifying him as the governor's special assistant.

Inside the courthouse there was pandemonium. In spite of police efforts, an overflow throng for whom there was no room in the courtroom crammed the corridors and stairway to the upper floor. Somehow McCall made his way against the stream, like a salmon, and eventually found himself in the front rank of the crowd before the courtroom marked 2A. The double door was shut and two brawny marshals had their backs to it.

A young man in a Black Hearts jacket and a dowdy middle-aged white woman were in the vanguard of those at the doors, apparently the first to be denied entrance. They were alternately arguing with the marshals and glaring at each other.

McCall used his open sesame again. The gold governor's seal and the legend beneath made the nearer marshal look at McCall sharply.

“Here's a real live one, Bill,” he said to his fellow marshal. “Let this gentleman through.” One of the doors opened no more than twelve inches. As McCall wriggled through the narrow opening he heard someone behind him say, “Can you tie that? How come you let that honky in and we have to cool it out here?” and the marshal's rejoinder, “That honky happens to be Mr. McCall, the governor's representative. Stand back!”

It was now several minutes past nine o'clock, but the judge's bench was still unoccupied. The large courtroom sounded full of bees. Every seat in the spectator's section was filled. A single line of standees ranged against the rear wall; the middle and side aisles had been kept clear. The spectators seemed evenly divided between whites and blacks; by contrast with the crowd outdoors, about one black in three wore a Black Hearts jacket. The aisles were patrolled by nervous-looking policemen, almost half of whom were black.

McCall spotted an empty chair in the press section down front, the only unoccupied one in the courtroom. He promptly made his way down the center aisle. A bailiff stopped him at the gate, and McCall had to flash his shield again. It won him the seat.

Seven men and one woman sat in the press section, the woman sitting next to the empty chair McCall had taken. He smiled at her, and she returned the smile with frank curiosity. She was slim, almost gaunt, the tweedy type, a quite attractive brunette somewhere around thirty. She had the lustrous dark eyes and high Indian cheekbones that he always found himself drawn to in a woman, although it had been said that the varieties of feminine attractions to which McCall was drawn rivaled Heinz's products.

“Hi,” she said in a friendly voice. “I'm Maggie Kirkpatrick of the Banbury
Post-Telegram
. Who are you?”

“Mike McCall.”

“Out-of-town paper or one of the wire services? I don't think I've seen you before.”

He shook his head. “I'm not a reporter.”

“Mike McCall.” The black eyes shimmered. “You don't mean it! Is the Mike short for some name other than Michael?”

“Micah.”

“That's it! I can never remember it. Don't tell me you're really the notorious Assistant for Special Affairs to the Governor?”

McCall grinned. “Explain the ‘notorious.'”

“I wasn't referring to your exploits as Sam Holland's troubleshooter,” Maggie Kirkpatrick said, grinning back. “I was referring to your reputation for
l'amour.
”

“You're a rotten newspaperwoman if you believe every rumor you hear.”

“This one seems awfully persistent. The story goes that every belle in the capital has drawn a bead on you, and every mama of same gets down on her quaking knees nightly and prays that her daughter will get you to the altar before you con her into bed.”

“If so, I haven't been caught yet.”

“You're supposed to be as slithery as an eel.”

“Try me,” McCall said. “You'll find I'm easy to catch.”

“For what purpose?” Maggie Kirkpatrick retorted.

“Aha,” McCall said mysteriously, and his smile closed the door on the subject. He looked around him and began studying the courtroom personnel.

While he made his inspection, the newspaperwoman inspected him with quickening interest and admiration, as most women did. McCall did not impress people, men or women, as a big man, which was more a matter of porportion than size, as in most natural athletes. He was muscled grace even in repose. He had played halfback at Northwestern, and he had never permitted himself afterward to backslide physically. He had a solid, rugged face, the kind other men could not understand women considering handsome, and his dark hair had just the right premature sprinkling of salt.

Maggie Kirkpatrick sighed and looked away. Mama, she thought, if you were still with us you'd be down on your knees right now.

McCall was paying particular attention to the contending tables. At the prosecution table sat two white men. One was plump and pink, with big wet eyes and a sandy gray crewcut. The other was obviously his assistant, a young man, nervous. The defense table was occupied by a lone man, black, wearing a conservative blue business suit and a dark gray silk tie; he kept shuffling through the papers before him and casting worried glances over at the courtroom clock.

Maggie Kirkpatrick said, “The two gents with the white skin are District Attorney Volper—he's the pink slug with the fat eyes—and one of his assistant D.A.s. The Negro—excuse me, black—man at the defense table is Harlan James's lawyer, Prentiss Wade.”

“Where's his client?” McCall asked.

Maggie shrugged. “Out on ten-thousand-dollar bond, and I think Wade is beginning to sweat. He has an assistant, too, and a few minutes ago he sent him off on an errand. Probably to get on the phone and find out why James isn't here yet. This may be starting off with a bang.”

Before McCall could comment, the bailiff rapped, “All rise!” and the judge flapped onto the dais from chambers.

TWO

Judge Graham was a frail-looking man with a stubborn jaw and unruly white hair that made McCall think of the late Senator Dirksen. Court had barely been declared in session—people were still reseating themselves—when a studious-looking young black man hurried into the courtroom, flung himself into a chair at the defense table, and whispered urgently to Prentiss Wade. The black lawyer looked appalled.

The judge was frowning, having noticed that the defendant was not at the defense table. He said to Wade, “Counselor, where is your client?”

The black attorney jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, the arrangement was for Mr. James to meet me here at a quarter of nine this morning. He didn't appear. My associate, Mr. Barker here, has just talked on the phone to the two persons closest to my client. Mr. James's sister, with whom he lives, reports that he did not come home last night and that she has not heard from him. The other person Mr. Barker talked to was LeRoy Rawlings, vice president of the Black Hearts and my client's most loyal friend. Mr. Rawlings has not heard from Mr. James either, and has no idea where he is. I know my client had every intention of being here, Your Honor, so he can only have been delayed by some unforeseen circumstance. I beg the court's indulgence for a few more minutes.”

Judge Graham glanced at the clock. “It is now nearly a quarter past nine, Mr. Wade. I will grant you fifteen minutes for more calls to attempt to learn what has happened to the defendant.” He used his gavel. “Court is recessed until nine-thirty
A.M.
”

“All rise!” the bailiff bellowed.

The judge headed for his chambers. A uniformed man intercepted him and whispered briefly in his ear. He turned immediately to the attorneys standing behind their tables. “I have a message to contact the chief of police concerning the defendant. I suggest that neither the prosecutor nor defense counsel leaves the courtroom until I determine what this is all about.”

Ten minutes later Judge Graham reappeared. He seemed angry and puzzled. “Mr. Wade, I have just talked by telephone with Chief of Police Condon. Chief Condon reports to me that some thirty minutes ago he received a call from radio station BOKO. I will not burden you with the details of BOKO's summary of the situation, because I wish to hear them myself—BOKO intends to give a complete airing of the matter during a special news broadcast at 9:50
A.M.
I shall listen to the broadcast on the radio in my chambers, and you gentlemen of both the prosecution and the defense are invited to listen with me. Suffice it to say for the present that I am assured by Chief Condon that the defendant will not appear in this courtroom today, and that his absence is deliberate, an act of naked defiance of this court.”

The black lawyer said quickly, “I'm sorry, Your Honor. The court has my assurance that I had no idea or warning that my client planned to skip bail. In fact, I find it very difficult to believe, with due apologies to the court and the chief of police.”

“I understand your feelings perfectly, counselor, and you have my sympathy for having been placed in this position. However, from the report I just got, there seems no possible doubt about the fact.” In a very sharp voice Judge Graham then said, “Defendant's bail is hereby ordered forfeit. Further, I am issuing a bench warrant for his arrest. Court adjourned! Gentlemen?”

“What do you think, Mr. McCall?” Maggie Kirkpatrick asked in the confusion and babble of the emptying courtroom.

“Make it Mike and I'll tell you, Miss Kirkpatrick.”

“If you'll make it Maggie.”

“Maggie.”

“Mike. Now answer my question.”

“What's to think?” McCall smiled. He was far from smiling inside. “I'm the world's lousiest guesser.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “That broadcast comes on in eleven minutes.”

“Do you have a radio in your car?”

“Yes.”

“Then we have plenty of time—”

“Not so. I'm not parked in the courthouse lot. I took one look at that mob in the plaza and left the car on a side street.”

Maggie jammed her notebook into her super-giant-sized handbag and seized his arm. “Then let's shake it. What are you doing in Banbury anyway, Mike?” she demanded as they hurried toward the door. “What's Sam Holland's angle on Harlan James?”

“Obvious,” McCall said. “The governor wants to stop trouble in Banbury.”

“What's this about the governor?” It was one of the other newspaper people, a man with outstanding ears.

“Private conversation, George,” Miss Kirkpatrick said with a sweet smile, steering McCall elsewhere. “Here, I know another way out.”

She led him down a rear stairway.

“Thanks,” McCall said. “I'd rather not conduct a press conference just yet.”

“Don't thank me, Mike. My motive is strictly selfish. I want an exclusive.”

“Sure you do. But why should I give it to you?”

“Because the
Post-Telegram
and I are on the governor's side, and the other newspapers in Banbury aren't. The
Press-Times
would strangle its collective children to sell another paper, so they're all for trouble, the more sensational the better; the
News-Mirror
is lock, stock and barrel in Gerry Horton's camp. And the outside papers don't count. That adds up to let's-you-and-me-play-ball on my scorecard. How about you?”

“You plead a persuasive case,” McCall said. “Okay, I'll check your information out, and if you're leveling you've got a deal.”

“I'm leveling,” Maggie Kirkpatrick said.

He made a snap decision; her ice-gray eyes had remoteness, but not dishonesty. “Shake,” he said.

She shook his hand like a man. “I'm taking this to mean you'll keep no secrets from me.”

“Whoa, Maggie,” McCall smiled. “I didn't agree to any such thing. My book says ‘exclusive' means that when I decide to tell the media anything I'll let you in on it first.”

Maggie shrugged. “Can't blame a girl for trying. Do you remember my name?”

“Kirkpatrick? Sure. I dig the Gaelic ones.” He gave it a touch of burr.

“Scottish?” Maggie said, surprised. “Somehow I took you for one of us—Irish.”

“A little of each-each,” McCall said. He glanced at his watch. “Two minutes to go. Want to listen with me, Maggie?”