Hellhound on His Trail: The Stalking of Martin Luther King, Jr. and the International Hunt for His Assassin (61 page)

While serving his armed robbery sentence at Jefferson City, Ray allegedly told a number of inmates that he planned to kill King. Investigators had to take such stories with a grain of salt, of course--prisoners were notorious for telling authorities just about anything--but agents found a consistency to the story that was hard to ignore. One Jeff City inmate, a not always reliable man named Raymond Curtis, said Ray would become incensed whenever King appeared on the cell-block TV. "Somebody's got to get him," Ray would say. Curtis said an inmate from Arkansas claimed he knew a "bunch of Mississippi businessmen" who were willing to pay a hundred thousand dollars to anyone who killed King. This got Ray thinking. According to Curtis, Ray liked to analyze the mistakes Oswald had made in killing Kennedy, and talked about what
he
would have done differently. Ray once said that "Martin Luther Coon" was his "retirement plan
⁶⁸³
--if I ever get to the streets, I'm going to kill him."

THE FBI, MEANWHILE, had already begun to look for avenues by which Ray might have been paid to kill King--or at least avenues by which Ray might reasonably have
hoped
to get paid. The bureau was well aware of the existence of bounties on King's head. The talk was out there. Throughout 1967 and early 1968, FBI informers across the country got wind of new threats nearly every week. It was loose talk, mostly, whispered among liquored-up hotheads in bars and pool halls. The bureau understood that death threats, though they provided a certain barometer of the culture, weren't the real concern; the people who
didn't
threaten were usually the ones to worry about.

But some of the rumors about bounties seemed to have a basis in fact. The White Knights of the KKK, it was said, had offered a hundred thousand dollars to anyone who killed the Nobel laureate. Other groups, such as the Minutemen and various neo-Nazi cells, had also floated assassination proposals that involved a considerable financial reward.

Perhaps the most serious bounty of all, and the one that, years later, the FBI would deem the most credible, originated in Ray's hometown of St. Louis, where a wealthy patent attorney named John Sutherland
⁶⁸⁴
had offered a bounty of fifty thousand dollars. Sutherland had a portfolio of stocks and other securities worth nearly a half-million dollars--investments that included sizable holdings in Rhodesia. One of St. Louis's most ardent segregationists, he was founder of the St. Louis White Citizens Council and an active member of the John Birch Society (he was a personal friend of its founder, Robert Welch). In recent years, he had become immersed in a right-wing business organization called the Southern States Industrial Council.

For years Sutherland had been venting his peculiar strain of racial rage. "Like Khrushchev, the collectivists will settle for nothing less than total integration of every residential area, every social gathering, and every privately owned business enterprise," he once wrote, on letterhead stationery that featured entwined Confederate and American flags emblazoned with the motto STATES RIGHTS--RACIAL INTEGRITY. "The white majority must act before state coercion prevents us from doing so!" Sutherland lamented that "we are deep in the throes of minority rule" and insisted that "we forgotten men got that way by failing to heed the admonition of the great seal of Missouri--'United We Stand, Divided We Fall.'"

Throughout 1968, Sutherland spent much of his time organizing for George Wallace. He sometimes could be found down at the Wallace headquarters in South St. Louis, where organizers frequently met at John Ray's tavern, the Grapevine.

Earlier in the year, Sutherland tried to persuade at least one man--Russell Byers, a forty-six-year-old auto parts dealer and sometime car thief--to accept his bounty offer and assassinate King. Byers claimed he met Sutherland in the den of his house, which was conspicuously Confederate themed: swords, bugles, flags. Sutherland wore the hat of a Confederate cavalry colonel, with crossed sabers on the front.

As Byers recalled the encounter to the FBI, Sutherland told him he'd like to pay fifty grand to contract for the killing of a well-known figure.

And who would that be? Byers asked.

"King," Sutherland answered. "Kill Martin Luther King. Or arrange to have him killed."

Byers had long dwelled in a criminal netherworld and was used to having exotic business ventures floated his way, but the whole situation struck him as strange. "Where's the money coming from?" he asked.

Sutherland replied that he belonged to "a secret Southern organization" that could easily raise the bounty.

Byers declined the offer. Though he was a small-time crook, a thief, and a con man, he was no murderer. But Byers could tell that this shadowy wheeler-dealer, this colonel
manque
in the Confederate cap, was serious about his project. If he was a wacko, he was a well-connected one, someone who could leverage the underworld of St. Louis and get things done.

The bureau never found definitive proof that Ray was ever paid a cent by Sutherland, or even that Ray knew about the bounty. But Sutherland's connections to the Wallace campaign, and to John Ray's Grapevine Tavern, would intrigue investigators for years. Russell Byers did not immediately come forward to the FBI, and it would not be until 1977 that agents were able to piece together the story. Investigators with the House Select Committee on Assassinations found Byers's story "credible" and singled out the Sutherland bounty as one scenario that likely could have motivated James Earl Ray to kill King. But by that point, John Sutherland was beyond the reach of prosecution. He died in 1970.

44
PLAGUES

ALONG THE MALL in Washington, the caravans of the Poor People's Army had all arrived, and on May 13, Resurrection City was declared open for business.
⁶⁸⁵
Much as Martin Luther King had hoped for, more than two thousand people of all colors and backgrounds were now encamped in a sprawling tabernacle city set among the cherry trees of West Potomac Park. Abernathy was sworn in as "mayor," and Jesse Jackson, having more or less patched up his relationship with King's successor, was named the shantytown's "city manager."

The SCLC began this epic demonstration with high energy and fervent hope and even good humor. Abernathy envisioned a "City on a Hill," a great experiment in protest politics that would last at least a month. It would be a kind of American Soweto perched on the back doorstep of Capitol Hill, a deliberate eyesore meant to force the government to pay attention to the problem of systemic poverty. Protesters vowed to disrupt if not paralyze the business of government, and they planned to go to jail en masse. Abernathy threatened to sic "plague after plague
⁶⁸⁶
upon the pharaohs of Congress until we get our demands"--which included an economic bill of rights guaranteeing a minimum yearly income, a campaign to end hunger in America, and a multi-point plan to rebuild the nation's worst inner-city ghettos. The price tag on all of Abernathy's antipoverty measures came to nearly thirty billion dollars.

During its first week, Resurrection City made front-page news and enjoyed a sort of honeymoon period in the media. Reporters feasted on the spectacle of this latter-day Hooverville erected in the shadow of the Mall's cold marble monuments. Congressional delegations walked the grounds--among the visitors was a U.S. representative from Texas named George Herbert Walker Bush. There were marches, parades, press conferences, and sit-ins; there was live music, dancing, even an Indian powwow. Peter, Paul, and Mary came, as did Pete Seeger and a host of black entertainers. Abernathy proudly baptized the first child born in the camp. Resurrection City had the feel and pulse of a freewheeling countercultural festival, a full year before Woodstock.

But by the second week, things had started to unravel. It became apparent that the Poor People's Campaign was short on ideas--and even shorter on organizational strategy. The SCLC knew how to run a march, but it had no experience running a functioning city. Ralph Abernathy was no Martin Luther King--he had neither the shrewdness nor the charisma nor the rhetorical discipline to bring off such an ambitious campaign. Even Abernathy recognized it. "Resurrection City was flawed
⁶⁸⁷
from the beginning," he later conceded. "I realized more every day the loss I had suffered and the burden I had inherited."

Veterans and friends of the movement began to impugn Abernathy's leadership. Stanley Levison, King's old confidant, saw signs of "megalomania
⁶⁸⁸
--Abernathy is thrill-happy and running around everywhere." As far as Levison was concerned, the campaign was fast becoming "a fiasco." Bayard Rustin, meeting with reporters, shared a similar disdain for Abernathy's abilities. Resurrection City was "just another fish-fry,"
⁶⁸⁹
he said. Instead of engaging government officials and building allies, Rustin argued, the SCLC leader was alienating nearly everyone who could aid the cause, leaving Congress feeling "trapped by Abernathy's nameless demands for an instant millennium."

As Andy Young saw it, Abernathy simply didn't have what it took to hold the already-disintegrating movement together, and he couldn't keep his headstrong young staff under control. Bickering between James Bevel, Hosea Williams, and Jesse Jackson nearly descended to the level of fistfights. "Ralph was frustrated
⁶⁹⁰
with his inability to be Martin Luther King," Young later wrote. "The team of wild horses was now really running wild."

Most of the SCLC higher-ups didn't even stay in Resurrection City--they decamped to a Howard Johnson across from the Watergate. In the absence of strong and present leadership, Resurrection City fell apart. Teenage gang members, who served as "marshals" along the encampment's tattered thoroughfares, harassed and even beat up reporters. Thugs worked the long rows of tents, shaking down residents for protection money. The camp was treated to a steady drumbeat of weird and troubling anecdotes: An obese man wielding an ax stormed about the camp, hacking down several A-frame structures. Two psychiatric patients, recently released from St. Elizabeths mental hospital, set a phone booth on fire. A band of rowdies threw bottles at cars along Independence Avenue and fell into a protracted tear-gas war with the police at the east end of the Reflecting Pool. Camp officials began to receive threats on Abernathy's life. Then a rumor went out that vandals from Chicago were planning to scale the Lincoln Memorial and spray-paint it
black
.

Just when it seemed as though the news reports emanating from Resurrection City couldn't get any worse, they did. On May 23, the rains came, and the deluge didn't stop for two weeks. As Abernathy put it, "The gray skies poured water,
⁶⁹¹
huge sheets that swept across the Mall like the monsoons of India," leaving people "ankle deep in cold, brown slush." It rained so much that people suspected the government had seeded the clouds. Resurrection City became, literally, a quagmire. Hosea Williams, who replaced Jesse Jackson as "city manager" after the internecine feuding became intolerable, called the campsite "that mudhole." Pathways had to be covered in sheets of plywood. Tents collapsed. Hygiene deteriorated. Worried health department officials warned that outbreaks of dysentery and typhoid were imminent. The National Park Service would soon be presenting the SCLC with a bill of seventy-two thousand dollars for damages to the grounds of the Mall. Meanwhile, some twenty-two broken-down mules abandoned after the long trek to Washington were given over to the care of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals or placed in perpetuity on a Virginia farm.

No one could have been more pleased by all this bad news than J. Edgar Hoover. Ever since the first caravans had pulled in to Washington a few weeks earlier, he'd been keeping close tabs on Project POCAM. Hoover had dozens of agents, paid informers, and undercover spies milling about the camp. One of his many sources of intelligence came from the Pentagon, which had assigned a unit of signal corpsmen to observe and photograph the encampment, night and day, from the top of the Washington Monument. Once it became obvious to Hoover that the SCLC's internal problems prevented it from becoming the organized subversive force he had feared, he pressed his agents and informers to take a slightly different tack. In a memo, he told them to "document such things as immorality,
⁶⁹²
indecency, dishonesty, and hypocrisy" among the campaign's leadership.