Three Days Before the Shooting ... (202 page)

“Are you telling us that he was
alive
,“one of the men said, “why when I read that sign which said ‘The Pride of the South’ I thought he was some kind of a dummy!”

“Dummy my foot,” another man chuckled, “that clown was probably pretending old rocking chair had got him just after he’d bought him a cotton-picking machine and a new Cad’llac! And so now he’s signifying by sitting there taking his ease while watching the rest of the world flow by him.”

“Right!” another brother said, “and getting paid good money for out-jiving the white folks!”

“You can laugh if you want to,” Sister Bea 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 just another burden for the rest of us to bear …”

Then with luggage in hand, the group lurched ahead in short-stepping haste to a taxi stand, where with the aid of its dispatcher a small fleet of taxis was assembled. And now as the Dispatcher looked on in bemusement the towering Negro in the Panama hat saw to it that the group arranged themselves beside the machines with a minimum of talk and milling about. This done, he made his way to a telephone booth, engaged in a brief conversation. And now returning and noting the pair of white dice stenciled on the dispatcher’s jacket he stopped short before signaling the group to enter the taxis. Then with a smile that flickered and faded he glanced at his watch, moved to the lead taxi, and lumbered in beside its driver.

“And now, where are we going,” the Dispatcher asked with notebook in hand.

Whereupon, detecting more than a professional interest in the Dispatcher’s voice, the big man cleared his throat and boomed in a mellow baritone, “We’d like to be driven to the offices of Senator Sunraider.”

The effect was electric. Suddenly the dispatcher’s eyes widened, the stiff visor of his cap lifted skyward, and his hands flew to the roof of the taxi.

“Did you say
Sunraider
,“he said staring downward.

“That’s right,” the big man said, “has something happened to him?”

“Why no,” the Dispatcher said, “but do you mean
all
of you …?”

“That’s right, all of us,” the big Negro said. “And, sir,” he added as he reached for his wallet, “we’d appreciate it if you’d inform your drivers that it’s important that they get us there as quickly as possible. We’ve been circling the city for over forty-five minutes so now we’re about to run out of time …”

Then removing two five dollar bills and thrusting them out of the window the big man said, “We’d much appreciate it.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary, but thanks,” the Dispatcher said as he pocketed the money. “Your problem was caused by a storm somewhere out southwest of here. It’s been fouling things up all morning. But don’t worry, now that you’re down to earth we’ll get you there, and fast. And you’re lucky because the building you want is only a hop and a skip away.”

Then addressing the small lightskinned Negro who had been looking at his
passengers with an expression compounded of big-city condescension, disassociation and incredulity, the Dispatcher roared, “You heard the man, so what’re you waiting for? Get going!”

“Yeah,” the driver said in a crisp Northern voice, “Right on …” Watching impatiently until the last of the taxis was gone, the dispatcher hurried to his station and dialed the number of a leading newspaper and asked for a reporter with whom he had a standing agreement to supply information regarding any unusual incidents that might occur at the airport and carried on a conversation punctuated by intervals of laughter.

“I don’t know who they are,” he said into the mouthpiece, “but I’m telling you there’s quite a bunch of them.”

“…”

“Why? Now
that
you’ll have to tell
me
. You’re the reporter….”

“…”

“When? Hell, just now! That why I
called
you, McIntyre, they just took off …”

“How the hell would I know what for? Maybe they’re taking him some candied yams and southern fried chicken. Anyway, they’re headed for Sunraider’s offices!”

“…”

“Yes! That’s right,
Sunraider!
The big fellow who seems to be the H.N.I.C. just told me …”

“…”

“Oh, excuse me, I forgot that you’re northern—It means the ‘Head Negro in Charge’; in other words, their leader.”

“…”

“That’s all I know, so if you’re interested you’d better get over there!” And now, shaking with laughter, the dispatcher hung up …

Arriving at the address of the Senator’s office, the big man leaped from his seat and rushed to the next taxi in line to consult with a smaller man seated next to the driver. Nodding his head energetically, the little man got out and hurried back along the line of taxis while the big man looked on, consulting his watch and looking toward the building and then back to where, now, as the smaller man moved past, each of the taxis was swiftly emptied. And now as the drivers placed luggage on the sidewalk in front of the building the owners assembled themselves silently beside their possessions while the big man walked nimbly to the end of the line and started back, looking inside each of the vehicles to see that nothing had been overlooked. Then, after paying the fares and tipping the drivers, he herded the group into the building.

Where, surprised by the sudden influx of Negroes, the uniformed guards in the lobby exchanged quick glances and came to attention. Then as the big man saw two of the guards detaching themselves from the others and starting forward
he raised his hand and gestured for the group to halt where they were, a gesture with which they immediately complied while whispering and gazing at the lobby’s high pillared ceiling, while he continued forward and asked to be directed to Senator Sunraider’s office …

ATTIRE (2/26/93, RE 9)

Two days before the shooting a plane loaded with elderly Afro-Americans landed at the National Airport in Washington, where its passengers emerged in a confusion of suitcases, baskets, and brown paper bags. The women wore small white caps and white summer dresses, and except for a towering, brown-skinned old man dressed in a blue, well-tailored suit and a Panama hat, the men wore dark summer suits, white shirts with black ties, and soft felt hats.

Moving from the plane they were quiet and orderly, but upon entering the terminal their manner so old-fashioned and courtly that seasoned white travelers and black skycaps alike stopped and stared as though ghosts from the past were descending among them. But of this the group appeared quite while silently making their way through the crowd with an air of engrossment. And not until they had arrived at the center of the terminal was their silence broken, and this by a tall black woman with the features of an Indian who stopped and looked around with a frown of displeasure.

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

“One of them
what
, Sister Bea,” a short woman said, “what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking,” the tall woman said, “about that ole gray headed rascal the white folks had sitting besides that big bale of cotton, that’s what. You remember the one who was leaning on a cane and holding that big brass bell in his hand!”

“Oh, that,” the short woman said with a shrug. “So why let something like that get you upset, Sister Bea? After weathering that storm in the air we have much better things to worry about. So forget him!”

“As a Christian I
mi
gh
t forgive him
, but I’ll never forget him,” the tall woman said. “Just imagine, here in this day and age he’s got so little pride that he sits there giving white folks excuses for laughing and feeling superior!”

PLANE (2/26/93, RE 9)

Two days before the nation was shaken by the incident that it hastily suppressed in its memory a chartered plane arrived at the National Airport in Washington where the ground crew that guided its landing looked on in puzzlement as its elderly passengers poured forth in a chaos of suitcases, baskets, and brown paper bags. And although the passengers were marked by the usual mixture of skin
shades and features that at the time were conveniently termed “black,” “Negro,” or “Afro-American,” the main source of the landing crew’s puzzlement was the group’s attire and their manner.

For while the women’s white dresses and small ruffled caps appeared to be uniforms of ceremonial intent, the men’s hand-me-down suits and wide brimmed hats were drably informal. And all the more when a towering, brown-skinned old man emerged from the plane wearing a blue tailored suit and a panama hat with a turned down brim.

With luggage in hand the group moved from the plane to the airport, where their appearance and old-fashioned manners were so quaint and at odds with that of those around them that even skycaps, world travelers, and airline pilots stopped and stared as though ghosts from had returned to haunt them. But of this the group appeared unaware as they continued through the crowd with an air of engrossment. Then upon reaching the center of the building a tall, black-skinned woman with Indian features brought the group to a halt by suddenly pausing and looking around with a frown of displeasure.

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

“One of them
what
, Sister Bea,” a short woman asked. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that ole gray headed rascal who was sitting besides that big bale of cotton,” the tall woman said. “You remember, he was leaning on a cane and holding that big brass bell in his hand!”

“Oh, that,” the short woman said with a shrug. “But why bother with him, Sister Bea? After spending all that time in the air we have better things to worry about. So forget him!”

“As a good Christian I might forgive him,” the tall woman said, “but I’ll never
forget
him. Just imagine, here in this day and age he’s got so little pride that he sits there giving white folks excuses for laughing and feeling superior!”

PROLOGUE (6/23/93, RE 9)

Two days before the bewildering incident a plane chartered in Atlanta landed at the National Airport in Washington, where the crew guiding its landing watched its passengers emerge in a confusion of suitcases, baskets, and brown paper bags. All were elderly and of a range of color and diversity of features which, at the time, were generally classified as “black,” “Negro,” or “Afro-American.” But the focus of the ground crew’s attention was their attire and their manners.

And this because the women wore white uniforms and small ruffled caps while the men were dressed in hand-me-down suits and wide brimmed hats. Further, the women displayed a disciplined formality of manners and the men
an easy camaraderie that was shared by a towering, brown-skinned old man who wore a blue, well-tailored suit and a panama hat.

Hurrying from the plane with luggage in hand, the group entered the terminal. Where immediately their manner and dress were so at odds with that of the crowd that even skycaps, international pilots, and worldly commuters stopped and stared as though ghosts from the past had swooped down to haunt them. But of this the group appeared unaware as they moved through the crowd with an air of engrossment.

Then upon reaching the center of the airport a tall, black-skinned woman with Indian features brought the group to a halt by suddenly pausing with a frown of displeasure.

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

“One of them
what
, Sister Bea,” a short woman asked. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that ole gray headed heathen who was sitting besides that big bale of cotton,” the tall woman said. “You remember, he was leaning on a cane and holding that big brass bell in his hand!”

“So
that’s
who you mean,” the short woman said with a shrug. “But why bother with him, Sister Bea? After spending all that time in the air we have better things to worry about. So forget him!”

“As a good Christian I might forgive him,” the tall woman said, “but I’ll never
forget
him. Just imagine, here in this day and age he’s got so little pride that he sits there giving white folks excuses for laughing and feeling superior!”

“I declare, Sister Bea,” one of the men said as he spun on his toes in feigned surprise, “are you telling us that thing was a
alive?
Why, when I saw him sitting in a rocking chair behind that sign with “THE PRIDE OF THE SOUTH” printed on it I took him for some kind of
statue
!”

“Statue my foot,” another man said with a chuckle, “that clown was probably humming
Old Rocking Chair’s Got Me
and signifying that the one he was sitting in didn’t grab him until after he’d bought him a cotton-picking machine and a new Cad’llac! So now he sits there sipping bourbon out of a Coca Cola can and signifying that he’s taking his ease while white folks from up north wonder how it could happen in Georgia.”