Three Days Before the Shooting ... (201 page)

PROLOGUE (10/8/88, TXT 7)

Two days before the bewildering incident a chartered plane-load of those who at that time were politely identified as Southern “Negroes” swooped down upon Washington’s National Airport and disembarked in a confusion of hand luggage, suitcases, and picnic baskets. Most were quite elderly: old ladies wearing white uniforms and small white lace-trimmed caps tied beneath their chins, and old men who wore rumpled ready-made suits and wide-brimmed
hats. The single exception being a towering darkbrownskinned man dressed in a well-tailored blue suit with vest, a pongee shirt, blue pastel tie, and soft planters style panama. Quiet and exceptionally orderly, considering their age and number, they swept through the crowded terminal with such an unmistakable air of agitation that busy airport attendants and travelers alike paused to stare.

They themselves paused but briefly, when one of the women came to a sudden stop and looked around the crowded terminal with an indignant frown.

“Hold it a second, y’all,” she said, looking high and low, “whilst I see if they have one of them up here like they have down in Atlanta …”

“One what, Sister Bea,” one of the other women said. “What you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that ole prideless rascal they had sitting in a rocking chair besides that big dirty bale of cotton, and him holding on to a walking cane and a dinner bell!”

“Forget him, Sister Bea,” someone said, “we have other things to worry about.”

“I might ‘forgive’ him,” the woman said, “but I won’t forget him. Just imagine somebody in this day and age helping to insult his own people!”

“You mean to tell me that thing was ‘alive,’” one of the men said, “I thought he was a statue!”

“Statue my foot,” another man said, “that old grey-headed clown is probably pretending that ole rocking chair’s got him just to make enough money to buy him a cotton-picking machine or a Cad’llac!”

“You can laugh if you want to,” the big woman said, “but it ain’t funny. No, sir, it aint funny worth a dam—And may the Lord forgive me for saying it, because a thing like that is a terrible burden for the rest of us to bear …”

Luggage in arm and hand, the group lurched ahead in short-stepping haste to one of the many taxi stands, where with the aid of the Dispatcher a small fleet of taxis was assembled. Then as the Dispatcher stepped aside and looked on in be-musement the towering dark-brownskinned Negro man saw to it that the group arranged themselves beside the machines with a minimum of talk and milling about. This done, the big Negro made his way to a public telephone, dialed a number, and carried on a brief conversation. Completing his call, he started back and stopped short when he noted that the Dispatcher’s blue wind-breaker had a pair of dice stenciled on its back. Then, shaking his head he returned and began assigning the group their seats while pausing anxiously from time to time to consult an old-fashion gold watch attached to a thick gold chain suspended between the widely-spaced lower pockets of his vast expanse of vest. Communicating mostly by slight nods and gestures, his voice seldom arose above a hoarse whisper—Until, just as he climbed in beside the driver of the lead taxi, the Dispatcher inquired in a manner that betrayed something more than a professional interest, their destination….

PROLOGUE (10/8/88, TXT 8)

Two days before the bewildering incident a chartered plane-load of elderly Southern Negroes swooped down upon the District of Columbia and disembarked at National Airport in a confusion of hand luggage, suitcases and picnic baskets. Although quiet and exceptionally orderly for a group of such numbers, they swept through the terminal with such a pronounced of barely contained agitation and foreboding that airport attendants and travelers alike paused to stare.

Breathing hard and straining along in the short-stepping haste of old folk, the group then hurried to one of the several taxi stands where with the aid of the Dispatcher what amounted to a small fleet of taxis was assembled, and beside which, under the direction of a huge, towering white-headed, dark-brown skinned man dressed in a well tailored suit, vest and shirt of pongee, blue tie and soft planters style panama hat, they distributed themselves and luggage with a minimum of talk and milling about. Then the big man, their obvious leader, made his way to a public telephone, dialed a number, and carried on a brief conversation. Completing his call, the big man returned and began assigning them their seats as he paused anxiously from time to time to consult a gold watch attached to a huge gold [chain] that was suspended between the widely spaced lower pockets of his vast vest. Communicating mostly by gesture of his well-shaped hands and nods of his head his voice seldom arose above a hoarse whisper—Until, just as he climbed in beside the driver of the lead taxi, the Dispatcher asked, in a voice that betrayed something more than professional interest, their destination….

ARRIVAL (10/30/88, TXT 25)

They arrive in Washington and go to Senator’s office.

They are turned away.

They find a hotel.

Hickman and Wilhite go to Senator’s hotel suite, but don’t get to see him.

That night they go to Jessie Rockmore’s house to see McMillen—to no effect.

Next day, Saturday or Sunday, they go to Senator’s mansion, hoping to have a look at him, but run into LeeWillie burning his caddy.

They leave and go to the Lincoln Memorial.

ARRIVAL (5/4/89, RE 19)

Two days before the bewildering incident a chartered plane-load of those who at that time were politely identified as Southern “Negroes” swooped down upon
Washington’s National Airport and disembarked in a confusion of paper bags, suitcases, and picnic baskets. Most were quite elderly: old ladies wearing white uniforms and small white lace-trimmed caps tied beneath their chins, and old men who wore rumpled ready-made suits and wide-brimmed hats. The single exception being a towering dark brownskinned man dressed in a well-tailored blue suit with vest, a pongee shirt, blue pastel tie, and soft planters-style panama. Quiet and exceptionally orderly, considering their age and number, they swept through the crowded terminal with such an unmistakable air of agitation that busy airport attendants and travelers alike paused to stare.

They themselves paused but briefly, when one of the women came to a sudden stop and looked around the crowded terminal with an indignant frown.

“Hold it a second, y’all,” she said, looking high and low, “whilst I see if they have one of them up here like they have down in Atlanta …”

“One what, Sister Bea,” one of the other women said. “What you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that ole prideless rascal they had sitting in a rocking chair besides that big dirty bale of cotton, and him propped up on a walking cane and holding a dinner bell!”

“Oh, forget him, Sister Bea,” someone said, “we have other things to worry about.”

“I
might forgive him,”
the woman said, “but I won’t ever forget him. Just imagine somebody in this day and age helping to insult his own people!”

“You mean to tell me that thing was
alive,”
one of the men said, “I thought it was a dummy!”

“Dummy my foot,” another man said, “that old grey-headed clown was probably pretending that ole rocking chair got him just after he made enough money to buy him a cotton-picking machine and a Cad’llac! Yeah! And so now he’s just taking his ease and watching the world flow by.”

“That’s right!” another brother said. “And getting paid for jiving the white folks!”

“You can laugh if you want to,” the big woman said, “but it ain’t funny. No, sir! It aint funny worth a dam—And may the Lord forgive me for saying so, because a thing like that is a terrible burden for the rest of us to bear …”

Luggage in arm and hand, the group lurched ahead in short-stepping haste to one of the many taxi stands, where with the aid of the Dispatcher a small fleet of taxis was assembled. Then with the Dispatcher stepping aside and looking on in bemusement the towering dark-brownskinned Negro man saw to it that the group arranged themselves beside the machines with a minimum of talk and milling about. This done, the big Negro made his way to a public telephone, dialed a number, and carried on a brief conversation. Completing his call, he started back and stopped short when he noted that the Dispatcher’s blue wind-breaker had a pair of dice stenciled on its back. Then, shaking his head he returned and began assigning the group their seats while pausing anxiously from time to time to consult an old-fashion gold watch attached to a thick gold chain
suspended between the widely-spaced lower pockets of his vast expanse of vest. Communicating mostly by slight nods and gestures, his voice seldom arose above a hoarse whisper—Until, just as he climbed in beside the driver of the lead taxi, the Dispatcher inquired in a manner that betrayed something more than a professional interest, their destination …

PROLOGUE (5/3/91, RE 3)

Two days before the bewildering incident a chartered plane-load of those who at that time were politely identified as Southern “Negroes” swooped down upon Washington’s National Airport and disembarked in a confusion of paper bags, suitcases, and picnic baskets. Most were quite elderly: old ladies wearing white uniforms and small white lace-trimmed caps tied beneath their chins, and old men who wore rumpled ready-made suits and wide-brimmed hats. The single exception being a towering dark brownskinned man dressed in a well-tailored blue suit with vest, a pongee shirt, blue pastel tie, and soft planters-style panama. Quiet and exceptionally orderly, considering their age and number, they swept through the crowded terminal with such an unmistakable air of agitation that busy airport attendants and travelers alike paused to stare.

They themselves paused but briefly, when one of the women came to a sudden stop and looked around the crowded terminal with an indignant frown.

“Hold it a second, y’all,” she said, looking high and low, “whilst I see if they have one of them up here like they have down in Atlanta …”

“One what, Sister Bea,” one of the other women said. “What you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that ole prideless rascal they had sitting in a rocking chair besides that big dirty bale of cotton, and him propped up on a walking cane and holding a dinner bell!”

“Oh, forget him, Sister Bea,” someone said, “we have other things to worry about.”

“I
might forgive him,”
the woman said, “but I won’t ever forget him. Just imagine somebody in this day and age helping to insult his own people!”

“You mean to tell me that thing was
alive,”
one of the men said, “I thought it was a dummy!”

“Dummy my foot,” another man said, “that old grey-headed clown was probably pretending that ole rocking chair got him just after he made enough money to buy him a cotton-picking machine and a Cad’llac! Yeah! And so now he’s just taking his ease and watching the world flow by.”

“That’s right!” another brother said. “And getting paid for jiving the white folks!”

“You can laugh if you want to,” the big woman said, “but it ain’t funny. No, sir! It aint funny worth a dam—And may the Lord forgive me for saying so, because a thing like that is a terrible burden for the rest of us to bear …”

Luggage in arm and hand, the group lurched ahead in short-stepping haste to one of the many taxi stands, where with the aid of the Dispatcher a small fleet of taxis was assembled. Then with the Dispatcher stepping aside and looking on in bemusement the towering dark-brownskinned Negro man saw to it that the group arranged themselves beside the machines with a minimum of talk and milling about. This done, the big Negro made his way to a public telephone, dialed a number, and carried on a brief conversation. Completing his call, he started back and stopped short when he noted that the Dispatcher’s blue wind-breaker had a pair of dice stenciled on its back. Then, shaking his head he returned and began assigning the group their seats while pausing anxiously from time to time to consult an old-fashion gold watch attached to a thick gold chain suspended between the widely-spaced lower pockets of his vast expanse of vest. Communicating mostly by slight nods and gestures, his voice seldom arose above a hoarse whisper—Until, just as he climbed in beside the driver of the lead taxi, the Dispatcher inquired in a manner that betrayed something more than a professional interest, their destination.

FILE 0000 (1/27/93, RE 19)

Two days before the bewildering incident a chartered plane swooped down upon Washington where its passengers—who were known at the time as “Negroes”— emerged in a confusion of baskets, suitcases, and brown paper bags. Quite elderly and Southern, the women were uniformly attired in white (including their shoes, stockings and lace-trimmed caps), and most of the men wore dark, ready-made suits and wide-brimmed hats. The single exception was a towering brownskinned man dressed in a blue, well-tailored suit, a pongee shirt, blue pastel tie, and a planters-style panama hat. Quiet and exceptionally orderly, considering their number and ages, they evoked an uneasy sense of the past in the present as they swept through the air terminal’s crowd with such an air of controlled agitation that airport attendants and travelers alike paused to stare.

They themselves paused but briefly; when, suddenly, one of the women came to a stop and looked around with a frown on her face.

“Hold it, y’all,” she said, “whilst I see if they have one of them up here like they had in Atlanta …”

“One
what
, Sister Bea,” one of the other women said. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that ole gray headed rascal the white folks had sitting besides that bale of cotton leaning on a cane and holding a big brass bell in his hand!”

“Oh, forget him, Sister Bea,” another woman said, “we’re up north now and have other things to worry about.”

“I might
forgive
him,” Sister Bea said, “but I’ll never forget him. Just imagine,
in this day and age he’s got so little pride in his people that he helps white folks grin and feel superior!”