Harlem Redux (57 page)

“After the lynching and the beating, I drifted … just wandered for weeks after leaving that hospital. I don’t even remember arriving in Philadelphia. One day, I met a woman. Her son was in jail. I offered to defend him. She took me for white. I started to correct her, then thought better of it. Her mistaken belief increased her sense of hope. Why take that away?

“Well, I won that case and more came to see me. That’s how it all began. I did not decide to pass for white. I did decide to let people see what they wanted to see.”

David turned to the jury. Some of the men looked away; others frankly met his gaze—with varying degrees of interest, sympathy, belligerence, and accusation.

“I lived as Daniel Kincaid. No one but Lilian knew where I was. I explained the name change as a discretion that was necessary for my work. I think that as time went by, she began to suspect what was happening. But she never once criticized or denounced me.

“I started a law practice, representing poor colored who couldn’t afford good lawyers, who thought they were getting a sympathetic ‘white’ attorney. I thought about revealing the truth. I came close once or twice, but hesitated: What purpose would this particular truth serve? It would destroy my effectiveness as an attorney—and thereby allow others to question the moral and legal validity of every court decision I had won. It would not only endanger my former clients, but end my ability to help future ones. And so I kept mum.

“I helped a lot of my people. I know I did. But the gratitude in their eyes was a dagger in my soul. I had confirmed their belief in the white man’s power, for better or for worse. If they had won their cases or gotten good sentences with the help of an obviously colored attorney, their faith in a Negro’s ability to determine his own fate would’ve been strengthened. I had robbed them of that. I cheated them. It was subtle, but it was there. And it was wrong.

“Most of all I harmed myself. I thought my decision would set me free, but I just exchanged one burden for another. I wanted to walk without fear, but I was never more afraid in my life. I thought I could finally be me, but that’s exactly who I
couldn’t
be. I wanted to be free, but I had to repress the best part of me. I wanted to be seen as an individual, not as a racial symbol. But when my clients looked at me, that’s all they
did
see—a symbol of benevolent white domination.

“I’m not proud of what I did. But having said this, I must add that I don’t fully regret it either. I don’t regret having wrenched back some of the authority that’s been bullwhipped from the Negro in this country. I certainly don’t regret having used it to relieve my people’s pain. For once, the color prejudice of the legal system worked to the black man’s favor.”

David extended his gaze to encompass the courtroom. There was shame, sympathy, anger, frustration, and bewilderment in the brown faces he saw. He thought he detected, hoped he detected, expressions of support, too. Perhaps not all of them agreed with what he had done; but every single one of them had to understand why he had done it.

“I’m accused of having killed Jameson Sweet because he threatened to unveil me, to shame me before the world. I admit he repelled me. This man tortured my sisters, plotted to murder one, and ended up murdering the other. That I couldn’t forgive. But when he said he had discovered my secret, I felt grateful. He had freed me from a burden I was tired of carrying. I needed Jameson Sweet to live. So no, I didn’t kill him. I have never knowingly been destructive toward anyone. No one but myself.”

The courtroom was still and it was a silence no one dared break. In that profound silence, David hoped that his words had penetrated the hearts of his listeners.

Eventually, someone coughed. The rough sound, though slight, broke the spell. The onlookers stirred; they began to murmur among themselves. Richter banged his gavel and recessed the trial until the next day.

David returned to his single jail cell uncertain as to whether the truth had significantly helped his case, but deeply relieved at having told it. He looked forward to a restful sleep that night, but Rachel’s spirit kept him awake.

He’d confronted her the evening before. He didn’t know what reaction he’d expected, but it was not the one he received: She’d laughed and her pretty mouth had curled with spite.

“If you’re waiting to hear me say I’m sorry, you’ll be waiting a long, long time.”

Her green eyes were as incandescent as gems and just as hard. Had he only imagined that less than one month ago, they had shone with love for him?

“Our wedding night. The love we shared. The vows we made. They meant nothing?”

She gave him a pitying look. “You should know better than to ask. Lies and whispers. Whispers and lies. Where would we be without them?”

Nevin turned to Baker: “Your witness.”

The district attorney rose. He leaned forward, planted both fists on his desk, and nailed David with an unblinking stare.

“Thank you for yesterday’s exciting narrative. We were all caught up in your tale of woe. Now let’s clarify a few points.”

The jury turned to David.

“Mr. Kincaid or Mr. David—which do you prefer?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it? In this courtroom, we’re inclined to take a serious view of aliases. However ...” His attitude suggested that he would be generous and let the point slide. With a long finger, he checked his notes, then looked up. “Mr. David, it would appear that when those men in Georgia approached you, you lied about being a Negro?”

“They would’ve killed me if I’d—”

“You lied, did you not? A yes or no will do.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. And when they asked if you knew their victim, a man who had befriended you, you lied then too?”

“Yes.”

“And later, in setting up your Philadelphia law practice, when identifying yourself to the authorities, you also lied?”

David hesitated. “I didn’t fully tell the truth.”

Baker’s tone hardened. “You knew that everyone believed you to be white and treated you as white. You permitted, if not outright encouraged, that belief?”

David took a deep breath, knowing that he was about to hand himself over to his enemies. “I did nothing to correct it. No.”

That admission was all Baker needed. A master at verbal savagery, he scourged David with ridicule, contempt, and innuendo. He twisted David’s words and interrupted his answers. He took obvious pride in putting him to the verbal lash. David took the flogging with dignity. He gritted his teeth and bore it, but that only incited Baker to more. Nevin tried several times to object, but David signaled him to sit down. He would not cringe or dodge or deny, but gradually, despite his determination, his strength left him. The merciless brutality of the questions—the inflexible manner in which he was allowed to answer—all wore him down. Like a bullwhip, the questions came faster, fell harder, cut deeper, and dealt a sharper sting. He was virtually being flayed alive. His admissions, like blood, began to pour from him.

“So in effect you lied to the courts?”

“Yes.”

“Lied to your clients?”

“Yes.”

“Lied to your colleagues and friends?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“And once back here, when asked what you’ve been doing, you said—”

“I said nothing—”

“You let people believe you’ve been working for the Movement, but this too was a lie?”

“Yes, a lie.”

“And isn’t it true that you would be back in Philadelphia if it weren’t for your marriage? Wouldn’t you still be deceiving? Concealing? Living your lies?”

“I would be living—another life. Yes.”

Baker moved in for the kill. “The fact is, Mr. David, you’ve lied to your family and friends, to your clients and colleagues, day after day, month after month, year after
year
—for four years.
Do you know what the truth
is
anymore? Do you even
care?”

David gripped the railing of the witness stand. “I give you my word. I didn’t kill—”

Baker slammed his fist down. “Why should we believe you? Why should we trust you? Why, when it seems that you do nothing but lie?” He looked at the judge. “No more questions, Your Honor. We are finished with this
witness.”

Nevin stood. “Redirect, Your Honor?”

Richter nodded.

Nevin leaned on his desk—the onlookers leaned forward in their seats. With a sonorous voice, Nevin intoned: “This then is the truth: That you accused Jameson Sweet of having killed your sister; that he said to you: ‘I will not let you send me to prison. I’d rather die first,’ that you left him alive, and when you returned he was dead?”

“That’s what happened. That is the truth.”

“On your oath before God?”

“On my oath before God.”

“Thank you.”

Nevin sat down heavily. His kind face was grave. The cross-examination had been damaging. There was no doubt about it. The judge dismissed David with a curt nod. David stood stiffly. The stares of the jury seemed to burn into his back as he walked to his seat.

“You did well,” Nevin told him. “You did fine.”

Baker’s summation was delivered with consummate skill. He reminded the jury that it was the defense that had introduced the possibility of a second powerful motive, “David’s obsessive belief that Sweet killed his sister,” and that it was a Negro civil rights official who had brought police attention to the racial aspects of the case. David McKay’s own people saw him as a traitor to the Negro race and a shame to humanity, Baker said. In bringing in a verdict of guilty, members of the all-white jury need not fear accusations of racism. They need not be concerned with allegations that David lacked a fair trial. Nor would the fine city of New York suffer claims “against its reputation as a place of refuge for the honest and hardworking, no matter what their shade or hue.” None of these matters need concern the jury. What the jury did need to consider was the calculated cruelty of the crime and the deceitful personality of the defendant.

“Through his words and deeds, David McKay has shown himself to be an opportunist, a chameleon who changes colors the way others change clothes. He lies and thinks nothing of it. He abandons his family and thinks nothing of it. He sees a good friend burned to death, stands by, and does nothing about it. Would such a man stop at murder? I think not.

“David McKay is a spoiled Negro. A spoiled Negro? Two terms some would say are mutually exclusive. But there it is. He had more than any decent Negro could hope for; yet he wasn’t satisfied. Cowardice, greed— would a man with such qualities stop at murder? I think not.

“Jameson Sweet, on the other hand, was a hardworking man, a good example to Negroes everywhere. He overcame daunting disadvantages to become an attorney. He was a giving man, a brave man, dedicated to making life better for his people. He was a loving husband who patiently nursed his ailing wife––only to be cut down by her self-serving brother.”

Baker leaned on the rail separating him from the jury. He looked each member of the panel in the eye, taking his time. His normally stern visage was softened by the hint of a sad smile.

“It’s up to you,” he said. “You have the power to make David McKay pay.” He raised his fist and brought it down on the railing in an intense, silent blow. The touch of compassion in his expression was gone, replaced by one of hate. “Make him pay!
Make him pay! MAKE HIM PAY!”