Three Days Before the Shooting ... (16 page)

He was not pleading but speaking matter-of-factly, looking up gravely at the security men as we came up and jockeyed for places before him.

“So why’d they attack the guards?” one of the security men said.

“They didn’t,” Hickman said. “Like I told you, they were trying to protect
me…
.”

“Protect you from what, from whom?”

Hickman sighed. “You have to understand that we’re from down South, and in all that excitement, when they saw those pistols flashing around, they naturally thought they were meant for me. In their minds they were back down in Georgia, and so, figuring that the tallest tree usually draws the lightning, they were trying to save me.”

The security men looked at one another and smiled.

“That’s pretty much a military reaction for a group of church people, isn’t it?” one of them said.

Hickman frowned. “Military? Well, there’s a lot of military action in the Bible, remember; but, like I say, they were simply trying to protect their minister.”

“Well,” the security man said, “they might have gotten you shot—not to mention themselves. You were lucky. But at any rate, we have nothing to do with releasing anyone. And if it weren’t for Senator Sunraider, you’d be in jail with the rest. Frankly, though, I wouldn’t release you even if I could.”

“I can understand that,” Hickman said. “Of course you wouldn’t. That’s why I’m asking you to please get me Deacon Wilhite. Just let me have a few words with him.”

“Who is this Will Hiate?”

“He’s my deacon,” Hickman said, “my second in command….”

“There goes that military terminology again,” one of the security men said.

“I hear it,” the other said.

Hickman looked at him quizzically. “Mister,” he said, “what’s your religion?”

“Catholic.”

“Mine too,” the other said.

“Then you ought to have heard church folks talk this way before, with Saint Ignatius and all those other soldiers of the Lord.”

The security man frowned. “It’s not the same thing,” he said.

“You’re right,” Hickman said. “We’re Protestants.”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” the other security man said. “Revern, just what do you wish to speak to this Will Hiate about?”

“About my people you’re holding,” Hickman said. “They’re old folks who have to be looked after. You can understand that. Most of them haven’t even been north before.”

“And what do you want the deacon to do?”

“Look,” Hickman said, “can’t you let me speak with him? You can listen to every word I say.”

“I’m afraid we can’t,” the security man said. “We have to follow orders.”

Hickman slapped the arms of his chair. “Then get me J. Edgar Hoover—whosoever’s in charge. I want Deacon Wilhite to get a lawyer—not for me, tell him; I’m
willing to
be here. It’s my
duty
to be here. But I want a lawyer for those old folks. They have to have bail; maybe a doctor—”

“What do you mean that it’s your ‘duty’ to be here?” one of the reporters broke in, thus setting off a bombardment of questions:

“Why did you prevent the guard from performing his duty?”

“Who was that gunman?”

“Where did you people come from?”

“From Georgia,” Hickman said.

“What is the name of your county sheriff?”

“Oh, DeCarter,” Hickman said, shaking his head, “Carter G. DeCarter. I was raised with him. If you don’t believe me, call him.”

“Mr. Hickman,” another voice broke in, “what is your connection with Senator Sunraider?”

He looked at his hands.

“Would you care to explain why you were crying?” I said.

Suddenly I heard McGowan’s Deep South accent, “Doctor, now you just rest back there comfortable in your chair and take your own good time, and tell us in your own words who—”

I saw his huge head shift slightly at the voice, but McGowan’s insinuating “Doctor” earned him nothing more than a quizzical roll of old Hickman’s bloodshot eyes.

“Can you tell us the gunman’s name?” someone said.

He shook his head.

“Can you identify the assassin in any way?”

He shook his head.

“Then perhaps you can tell us when it was you realized that the gunman was firing at the Senator.”

“When he hit him the second time and nobody else seemed to be shot,” Hickman said.

“Reverend,” a sharp-faced man from the
Post
said, “are you and your group members of a political-action group?”

He was silent.

“Communist, then?”

“Civil-rights agitators?”

“Where are you stopping in Washington?”

“What on earth is going on here?” a feminine voice broke in.

We swung around. It was a small, stiff-backed, gray-haired nurse, her eyes glittering. She said, “This is outrageous. Don’t you men realize that you’re in a
hospital?
It’s highly irregular, your being here, and if you don’t keep the corridor clear and keep your voices down, I shall see that you’re evicted! I don’t care who you are!”

“We’re sorry, ma’am,” McGowan said. “We’ll keep it down.”

“Well, see that you do,” she snapped, leaving with a snap-and-crackle of tinlike linen.

For a moment Hickman watched remotely as we jostled one another around his chair, then he held up his enormous hands.

“Gentlemen, that nurse is right; we’re making too much noise, and it isn’t getting anybody anywhere. Now, I’ve been long-trained both in keeping the peace and in holding my peace, so while I’m sorry, you will have to wait just like I’m having to wait.”

“Now see here, Doctor,” McGowan began, “we have our duty—”

“Yes,” Hickman said, “and I have mine, so there’s no point in asking me anything more because
he’s the
one to do the telling.”

Suddenly, but for the scratching of a single pen, the corridor was hushed. I stared into his face, uncertain as to whether he was referring to Deacon Wilhite, to J. Edgar Hoover, or to some more transcendent “he”—even God.

“Doctor,” McGowan said, “did I hear you say that
he
would have to tell us?”

“That’s right,” Hickman said.

“Then why didn’t you tell us that in the first place?”

Suddenly I was swept along in a hushed stampede for the elevators. Then in the crush going down, it came to me that Hickman’s “he” was not Deacon Wilhite, but the Senator, and when the others rushed off to the Justice Department I phoned Scoggins, my editor, to say that I was sticking with Hickman.

Scoggins was harassed, his voice intensely irritated. “Who is this?”

“It’s me, McIntyre,” I said.

“McIntyre! Where in hell are you?”

“At the hospital.”

“What goddamned hospital?”

I named the hospital where they had taken Senator Sunraider.

“Well, why are you still there?”

“
Why
, what do you mean?”

“Why, don’t you know that the Senator’s dead?”

“Dead? No, he
isn’t
dead!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s still in surgery.”

“Did you see him?”

“No, but I know that he’s still alive. A nurse just passed through the hall.”

“Alive, hell, we’ve had one report that he was DOA and another that he’s in a coma; now you tell me he’s still in surgery. What are the facts?”

“I don’t know yet. He might be in a coma, but they’re still trying to save him. That’s the latest word around here.”

“It had better be, McIntyre. And you stay there and get the latest facts. You stay there, you hear?”

“I’m sticking here,” I said. I hurried back upstairs with a growing sense of alarm. Suppose the Senator
was
dead? Something sinister seemed to have taken over the District. In the elevator I was taken with a fit of nervous shaking.

CHAPTER 7

I
FOUND HIM STILL
there in the hushed, clinical atmosphere of the corridor, kneeling with his elbows resting on the seat of the chair, his face in semishadow I could see his lips moving above his clasped hands, and with the security men having taken position down at the turn of the corridor, he seemed utterly alone. I was puzzled, then drawing closer I saw that his eyes were closed, and upon reaching him I realized that he was praying what was possibly one of the most improbable prayers ever addressed to God, his voice a passionate but almost inaudible whisper which reached my ear in hoarse bursts and soaring flights of supplication.

“Lord, have mercy,” he prayed, “have mercy, Lord, on this unhappy land….

“Yea, Lord, this land that’s left its substance to burn bone-dry in Thy blameless sun, unstrung from Thy ever-redeeming voice …

“This new, most heathenish land, Lord. This land that’s soiled itself before the ancient flight of doves, the screams of eagles, the fall and rise of wheat, corn, cotton, and red roses, Thy Son upon his cross …

“Please, Mahster, I ask your help for this most woeful, mammy-made, and wilful of nations, this nation born in blood and redeemed by sacrifice and sorrow—yea!—but that’s left its God-earned path in doggish devotion to Caesar’s own green bile!

“Yea, Lord—Amen!—its Bible forgot, its own laws bleeding from the raw self-laceration and desecration of its ancient dream …

“Yes, Lord, I know it’s true. Its honor compromised and sullied, its sacred, sea-crossing, years-in-the-wilderness memory mocked in talking tubes, in bottles, in hypodermic needles, and in booze …

“Oh, yes, Lord, but knowing all this, I, your poor, guilty, defaulting steward who failed his sacred charge must still ask Thy grace for him who lies beyond these hospital walls in pain.

“Spare him, Lord, and keep him for later days of retribution.

“Give him, Lord, a Jonah’s chance. Just one further opportunity to make the shore and do Thy holy bidding.

“Oh, because both land and child are still
your
land, still
your
child, Lord. And Thine the mystery we suffer and behold.

“So please, Mahster, visit not the father’s sins upon Thy errant children.

“Oh, just one more smile, Lord, upon him and us whose life now lies twisting and turning in the palm of Thy most delicate and powerful, most wrathful and merciful,
all-
creature-creating holy hand….

“Oh, do not close Thy hand,

“Lord!

“Please,

“do not clinch

“Thy fist,

“Lord!”

It was utterly uncanny and unintelligible, and my mind was revolted by that which my ears and eyes recorded: Old Hickman really was
praying
for Sunraider! I simply couldn’t bear it. Suddenly I was crouching beside him, one knee on the floor, shaking my head as I tried to bring matters back to the plane of reason.

“Mr. Hickman,” I said, “won’t you please answer a few questions?”

He stiffened, seemed not to breathe, then, slowly lowering his hands, he turned his head, facing me with closed eyes, waiting.

“I believe that you owe it to the public,” I went on. “Already this shooting has created a panic which will soon be tearing through the streets unless you cooperate.”

His eyelids flickered, and I paused before the force of his moist old eyes.

“Yes, and I suppose with a cloudburst of brickbats and switchblade knives,” he said hoarsely. “Young man, can’t you see the
position
I’m in?”

“Yes, I do, but the news has gone out over the wire services and the world—”

Suddenly I broke off, hearing his question echoing through my head.

“No,” I said hurriedly, “I mean, yes—that’s why I’m asking you to cooperate.”

His voice came sadly, almost pleading in rising inflection, “Young man,” he said, “I’m on my
knees
!”

I felt perspiration break from my forehead, a flush of heat. “But listen, but, sir,” I said, “I won’t quote you, sir. I’ll keep it off the record. But why on earth would you weep for a man who is known, who is
notorious
for hating your people?”
It’s masochism
, I thought,
masochism and anarchy
.

He spoke as to the seat of the chair, his voice echoing—
spink-spink
—against the corridor walls as from the depths of a well.

“Hate? So that’s it. Why should I—Listen, you ask me why, but would you understand it if I told you? Son, who do you think I am?”

“Who?” I said. “I don’t know, that’s why I’m seeking answers.”

“
What do
you think I am?”

“A minister, I suppose. I don’t know.”

“That’s right, you won’t take my word that I’m a man of God, so you don’t know
who
and you don’t know
what
. —But still you think you can just break into this thing and get answers simply by asking a question. Is that how you people who work for newspapers think?”

Suddenly he dropped his arms to his sides. “Boy, I’m on my
bended knees!
Don’t that mean anything to you?”

I nodded. “But there are questions that—”

“What on earth has your life taught you?” Hickman said. “What has it prepared you to understand, or to respect? You really think that all you have to do is to come at me like I was a book in the public library—when you don’t know the right questions to ask or how to go about asking them? Man, if you don’t have manners, at least use some
intelligence
!”

“But it’s not for me,” I said. “I’m neutral—”

“Like the devil, you are,” he said.

“I would argue that,” I said, “but the nation must have answers.”

He got to his feet, towering above me now, his head working slowly up and down. “They’re the same old answers, son: Cain and Abel, the prodigal son and his father, backsliders and blind believers, worshippers of the things of this world and those who thirst and hunger for the things of the spirit. Those who remember and those who forget.”

He studied me from far away.

“Now,” he said, “you’re a Northern boy, and you look intelligent, but here you’re acting as squareheaded as that clown who was up here a few minutes ago calling me ‘Doctor’!”