Warriors Don't Cry (14 page)

I hoped the opening elevator doors would admit fresh air. Instead, they revealed a crush of people, jammed body-to-body, shoving each other, desperately trying to get through that narrow hallway to go somewhere or do something. I was blinded by the glaring lights held high over the heads of the sea of people by news photographers trying to get pictures. We could hardly get out of the elevator and into the throng. Like sardines we wiggled and pushed, trying to forge a pathway. I stopped thinking about fresh, cool air, I just wanted to breathe and not be crushed. As we emerged, several reporters started shouting questions at us. I felt as though I were attending one of those Hollywood openings I’d seen on TV.

“What do you think of Governor Faubus?”

“How do you think the white students will treat you if you go back to Central?”

“Why do you want to go to the white school?”

“Are your parents buying knives and guns?”

“No,” I shouted. “Nobody’s buying weapons.”

Mrs. Bates touched my shoulder. “Shhhhhhhhh!” she said. We had been cautioned not to talk back to reporters on this day. We were to say nothing until after the NAACP attorneys had made our case.

Flashing cameras and blinding lights followed as we inched our way through the corridor. The questions continued—rapid-fire, close in our faces. Perspiration trickled down the back of my neck. I could see beads of water on the noses and foreheads of many people crowded around me.

“Smile, kids,” Mrs. Bates whispered. “Straighten your shoulders. Stand tall.”

It felt as though there were about a hundred people in that hallway, where only half that many should have been squeezed in. Cameramen were perched on chairs and even on each other to get pictures. They must have been real anxious to be there because they were undoubtedly suffering in the sweltering heat and risking bodily injury as well.

“Melba, we’re inside now. Take off those dark glasses. Please.” I was embarrassed to be singled out that way by Mrs. Bates. The glare of the light hurt my eyes, and I didn’t really want to look into the faces of all those people who seemed to be staring at me.

“Some of you’all think we’re stars, but really, all these reporters are here to see if we’re gonna get killed or not,” teased one of the comics from our group.

Step by step, with enormous effort, we managed to get through the crush of human bodies. The courtroom was smaller than I’d imagined, about the size of an average living room, with wooden benches lining either side of a narrow aisle. I had heard someone say the courtroom only held 150 people. It was filled to overflowing. I was glad to see that a good number of the spectators were our people. Sections of the room were roped off. We were squeezed through the crowd and ushered to one of the areas in front, near the bailiff.

Reporters holding their notebooks sat in the jury box and in a small section at the rear of the room. As we took our seats, I noticed the United States and Arkansas flags displayed in the front of the room.

“Niggers stink. The room smells now,” a voice called out from somewhere behind us. I turned around to see three white ladies directly behind me.

“I’ll bet you don’t even know your ABC’s, monkeys,” one of them said. “You monkeys. What are you looking at?” I glowered at her, trying not to say what I was really thinking. Where I came from adults didn’t behave that way.

Suddenly uniformed soldiers were arriving. I turned my attention away from the woman heckling me as the soldiers paraded down the aisle with military precision. So these were the armed men who were keeping us away from school. These were the leaders of the Arkansas National Guard. Up close, they seemed much less intimidating. Some of them were no taller than I was.

Several men and one woman, all wearing business suits and carrying briefcases, were talking to the uniformed men. I figured they were the governor’s attorneys. I asked where the governor was, expecting him any moment. That’s when one of the attorneys told us that an elected official does not have to appear to answer a summons. Maybe I would not have the privilege of seeing the governor after all. I had hoped that seeing him in person would help me get over my dislike for him.

Suddenly, a whisper of concern made its way through our group. We were all aware that Thelma Mothershed had a heart condition, and now, right before our eyes, her lips and fingertips were turning blue. She struggled to catch her breath. All of us focused our attention on her, and instantly I knew it was a mistake. Not only might it alarm her, but our behavior could also alert school officials to her failing health. I assumed they had never bothered to check her school records; otherwise they might have stopped her going to the integration.

“Shhhh. Thelma will be just fine. Sit up straight. Think about what you’ll say if you’re called to testify.” Mrs. Bates relieved our tension as she moved to sit beside Thelma.

“All rise. The Honorable Judge Ronald Davies presiding.” The deep voice sounded like a circus ringmaster announcing the next act. I held my breath. I had read so much about him. What would he be like? A very small man wearing a black robe entered and moved swiftly toward the massive desk. His smooth dark hair was parted in the middle, framing his pleasant round face.

As he climbed up to the imposing leather chair and settled in, what stood out most of all were his huge eyes peering through thick horn-rimmed glasses. From where I sat, I could see only the top part of his black robe, his round face, and those all-seeing, all-knowing eyes.

Shortly after the hearing began, one of the governor’s attorneys, Tom Harper, stood and made a motion that Judge Davies disqualify himself because he was biased due to his appointment by the federal government specifically for our case. Judge Davies pounded his gavel and ruled the motion for disqualification was not legally sufficient and not timely.

Next Wiley Branton asked the court’s permission to file a supplementary complaint joining us in the government’s petition against Faubus and two Arkansas National Guard commanders. Davies ruled it could be filed.

The governor’s attorney Tom Harper then asked to have subpoenas withdrawn that had been served on Arkansas National Guard Commander Adjutant General Clinger and his assistant, saying men on military duty are exempt from subpoenas. Again the judge ruled against them.

Meanwhile, there was a commotion at the rear of the room as reporters hustled back and forth, scribbling on note pads and whispering to each other. They behaved as though they had some divine right to do whatever was necessary to get the information they needed. They were an electrifying show unto themselves, separate and apart from the judge and lawyers.

The more I watched them, the more I thought I’d like to become one when I grew up. As a reporter, I would get to observe interesting events and write about them. I’d also get to behave with a know-it-all urgency, as though what I was doing were more important than anything else.

The seats were so hard that I was pleased Judge Davies moved things along swiftly, pounding his gavel, denying motions presented by the governor’s attorneys, all the while speaking sternly. Finally, just before noon, Harper, once again speaking for Governor Faubus, asked if preliminary matters were taken care of.

“Well,” the judge growled, “I haven’t gotten the late mail, but I think so.”

Continuing in a matter-of-fact tone, Harper then asked Judge Davies to dismiss the case because it involved constitutional issues that required a three-judge panel. Judge Davies ruled that the case would continue. In response to that ruling, Harper said, “May we be excused?”

Judge Davies spoke emphatically: “You are excused, gentlemen, but you understand that this is a moot question. The hearing will proceed.”

Continuing to speak for all the governor’s attorneys, Harper began reading a statement. “The position of Governor Faubus and the military officials of the state is that the governor and the state will not concede that the U.S. Court or anyone else can question the authority of the governor to exercise his judgment in administering the affairs of state, and since he does not concede this responsibility, we will not proceed further in this action.”

To my amazement, Harper led the way as several men and one woman gathered their papers and followed him out the door. “Is this a protest?” someone asked. Reporters ran for the door like corralled horses through an open gate. I thought they’d hurt themselves. The judge pounded the gavel.

The attorneys for the Department of Justice called themselves “amicus curiae,” saying they were prepared to offer more than one hundred witnesses to support the order for integration. Word was whispered down our line that “amicus curiae” meant friend of the court. But surely no real friend would keep us sitting on those hard seats long enough for a hundred people to testify. My heart sank as we nine eyeballed each other with grim expressions.

“We’ll be too old for high school if we have to listen to all those people,” I whispered aloud. To my delight, the judge announced the hundred witnesses would not begin until after recess.

In order to get to our lunch, we walked through a gauntlet of hot flashing lights and squeezed past people shouting questions. Once outside, we encountered the problem that had always plagued our people in Little Rock. There were no restaurants that would serve us, at least no decent ones.

The mighty Thurgood Marshall was forced to join us in a greasy joint that served wilted lettuce on overcooked hamburgers in the shabby section of our neighborhood known as Ninth Street. As he ate, he answered our questions. More than anything he seemed to be astonished that the governor’s attorneys had walked out of the room so suddenly. “It must have been their plan all along,” he said.
THAT afternoon the parade of witnesses presented by the Justice Department made one major point. They said the threat of violence due to integration was not sufficient for the governor to have called out troops. The mayor of Little Rock, the chairman of the school board, the superintendent of schools, the principal of Central High, and the Little Rock chief of police all testified that they found no threat of violence in Little Rock and had not requested that the governor send troops.

School Superintendent Virgil Blossom testified for a long time about the details of the school board’s plan for integration, which had taken two years and two hundred meetings to devise. U.S. District Attorney Orso Cobb asked how many complaints he had gotten. Blossom said the school board had received only a few complaints and suggestions for improving the plan. “As a matter of fact, the plan has been very well received. I’m not saying I believe any majority of the people of Little Rock want integration,” he said. “They don’t. But they favor this plan as the best answer to a difficult problem.” The judge asked the superintendent a question many people had asked me and one I had wondered about myself.

“How were these nine students chosen?”

“The Negroes were selected on the basis of scholarship, personal conduct, and health. We picked those who had the mental ability to do the job and had used it,” Blossom answered.

For just a moment, I fretted they would discover Thelma’s secret heart problem. But the fact was they had never had us examined by a doctor and there was no talk of doing so.
THEN it was time to present our case. The nagging voice inside my head said how could I put my hand on the Bible and not tell the whole truth. Another voice argued that yes, Mother and I were chased, but in fact we weren’t hurt—they didn’t really touch us. So the truth was—we weren’t injured on that day. Over and over again it had been explained to me that to say we were physically injured or attacked that first day on the school grounds or in the immediate area would be to support the governor’s case. We knew he would use the slightest justification to delay integration for all eternity.

First to testify from our group was Ernest Green. He wanted to go to Central, he said, because it was closer to his home and would save time and money. He was asked whether he offered any assault against the troops. “No, sir, I didn’t,” he said with a broad smile.

Next, Elizabeth Eckford testified. She did not complain about the life-threatening mob that had traumatized her. She sat erect, speaking calmly, saying that a few white people lived not far from her house, yet there had been no racial disputes. I was relieved when the attorney said that there would be no need for the rest of us to testify. Had I been asked to place my hand on the Bible, I don’t know what I might have been forced to say, perhaps truths that would have hurt us. I figured it was that divine force again moving us on to integration.

The attorneys for the United States made repeated references to the May 1954 decision. I had to stop listening. The very mention of that decision always made me sad. It brought back the face of the angry white man who had chased me down that day. Panic-filled recollections flooded my mind, blotting out the courtroom proceedings.

“Melba! Melba!” Minnijean was tugging at my arm. The others were excited.

The judge was announcing his decision, saying that the governor had “thwarted” the court-approved plan of integration by means of National Guard troops. The judge’s voice was deep, his tone emphatic, as he said, “There is no real evidence here that we shouldn’t proceed with the court-ordered integration of Central High School. The order is so entered.” He pounded the gavel, stood, and walked out of the room.

“Oh, damn nigger-loving judge!” someone shouted, using all those words that Grandma said would lead a body to hell.

Mrs. Bates told us to remain seated until everyone else left the room. I sat very still for a long moment as everybody around me began moving. So, God, you really do want me to go back to that school. For a time it seemed as if I were all alone in a silent tunnel, and everyone else was way at the other end. I would always remember that judge and his huge, piercing dark eyes. There must be something wonderful in his heart, I thought. I would remember him in my prayers.

As a throng of reporters surged toward us, my heart was pounding, my breath coming in short spurts. I flashed my confident smile, but my knees wobbled. Those reporters went crazy, all shoving and shouting their questions at once. I thought they might injure us and themselves as they climbed over each other and tried to get their cameras into position. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before.