Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (25 page)

“All right, Cole,” the President said. “You've made your point. But still, a girl is dead. A girl who worked for us.”

“For your wife. She wanted to take down your wife and, with her, your administration. And with your administration—the entire Allied cause, which you and the Prime Minister are struggling to create.”

“Eleanor also tells me that a note was taken. A note that could have compromised her.”

“As I said, sir, I regret that Miss Balfour is dead. How it happened, however, doesn't concern me. And neither does an alleged blackmail note.”

“There's a second letter,” the President said.

“No, there's not.”

“Yes, there is.” The President could see the muscles of Cole's jaw tense. “According to Eleanor, the late Miss Balfour's fiancé, Byrd Prentiss, also has a letter from her that casts…aspersions on the First Lady.”

Cole shook his head. “It must be a fake.”

“Maggie Hope allegedly destroyed it, Cole,” the President said.

“I'll make sure of it, sir.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Anything I need to, sir.”

“Cole—”

“Sir, our nation has been attacked. We're bracing for war. Young men are joining up. They're doing what needs to be done. And I'm going to do what needs to be done as well.”

The two men didn't look at each other, instead gazing up at the light trying to shine in from the high fan windows. “All right,” the President said finally. “I don't need to know the details.” He swam over to a ladder, then used his arms to pull himself out of the pool and into a sitting position, his withered legs dangling over the side.

President Roosevelt took the towel Cole offered, blotting his face. “Also, this Maggie Hope, the girl on the Prime's staff. I heard she was attacked.”

“She's fine, sir.” Cole gave a rueful smile. “That one can take care of herself.”

“Keep her safe, Cole,” the President admonished. He gestured for Cole to help him up and into his wheelchair. “God knows we don't need an international incident at this stage of the game.”

Back in the map room, Maggie was still trying to crack the code and making no progress. She jumped when the phone rang. “Hello?” she said, expecting to hear David's voice.

“A Mr. Thomas O'Brian for Maggie Hope,” said the White House operator.

“Yes, this is she.”

“Please hold while I transfer the call.”

“Hello!” Tom exclaimed. “I was wondering if you'd like to meet today.”

There was a long pause. Maggie remembered their awkward encounter in her hotel room. “I'm working.”

“So am I—but we both have to eat.”

“True,” she said. “I learned something new today, something I want to share with you, to get your opinion on. How's five?”

“Sounds good,” Tom said. “I'll be by the statue of Andrew Jackson.”

“
Not
my favorite president.”

“All right, then by Lafayette's statue.”

“I'll find it. See you then.”

Lafayette Square had been named in honor of the Marquis de Lafayette, the young Frenchman who had befriended George Washington and fought on the side of the colonials in the Revolutionary War. The seven-acre park north of the White House was designed in picturesque style with fountains and statuary, now shrouded in fog, cold and opaque. Overhead, the darkening sky was an eerie green, while black cumulus clouds gathered on the horizon.

Tom was already waiting on a bench by the statue of Lafayette in the southeast corner of the park when Maggie arrived with a brown paper sack of Mrs. Roosevelt's honeydrop cookies. She looked around. They had the park to themselves, except for the squirrels, chasing after acorns and scrabbling up and down the elm and sycamore trees in the wind.

She sat down beside him. “Do you think they work for the White House or the District's Chamber of Commerce?” Tom asked.

“Oh, the White House, definitely,” Maggie said, throwing a crumb for one particularly bright-eyed squirrel who was cheeky enough to approach. “But are they Democrats or Republicans, do you think?”

“Democrats, of course,” stated Tom. “They came in with the Roosevelts.”

Maggie contemplated. “Well, the White House's staff doesn't change affiliations with the election of a president, so I doubt the squirrels have to.”

“I have it on good authority that the red squirrels here are Communists—at least that's what J. Edgar Hoover says.”

Maggie guffawed at that, startling one of the plump, furry creatures. “That's terrible, Tom.”

“I know,” he replied, looking pleased with himself, “but you
did
laugh.”

“Thank you for that,” she said. “The weather's so dreary, and then tonight…”
Is Wendell Cotton's execution
. The unspoken words hung in the darkening air.

“I spoke with the First Lady,” Maggie said finally. “And I saw Blanche Balfour's telephone records for the night she was murdered.”

Tom looked surprised. “Is that even legal?”

“Apparently it is now. What's interesting is that three calls besides mine were made from Blanche's apartment that night. One to Byrd Prentiss's office. And then one, just around the time of her death, to the Virginia Governor's mansion. And then, hours later—well after Blanche was dead—there was a call placed to the White House.”

“So there was someone else…” Tom whistled through his teeth. “No way to find out who took the calls at the other end?”

“No. Only that they reached the switchboard and were transferred from there.”

Above them, the thick clouds rolled in. “Our friends the squirrels have taken cover,” Tom noted as the wind picked up. “Maybe we should, too? I hear we're in for a real storm tonight.”

“I need to get to Union Station,” Maggie told him. “I'm taking the train to Virginia—I told Wendell and Andi I'd be there tonight, for support. I gave my word.”

“I'll take you.”

“Really,” Maggie said, as she stood and brushed off cookie crumbs from her coat, “you don't have to.”

“I'd be honored to drive.”

“It's going to be…horrible.”

“Then you'll definitely need a friend there with you.”

It was pouring. But despite the cold rain, protesters had gathered outside Thomas Jefferson Prison in the violet haze—those in support of Wendell Cotton and those against. Prison officers and police in rain gear with batons drawn were keeping the two groups separated. A train whistle blew in the distance.

On one side of the road were mostly colored protesters walking in circles, carrying signs reading,
SAVE WENDELL COTTON! RACIST JURY!
and
THOU SHALT NOT KILL,
singing Josh White's “Protest Blues.” As they milled about under the streetlamps, their signs were becoming wet and unreadable. In the distance, a peal of thunder boomed.

On the other side of the road stood the supporters of the execution, some in white hoods and robes, drenched in the downpour. They'd tried to erect a huge wooden cross and set it on fire, but the rain had soaked the wood and the wind had extinguished their matches. Many carried signs—
DIE WENDELL COTTON! VIRGINIANS TAKE OUT THEIR TRASH
and
GENESIS 9:6 WHOSOEVER SHEDDETH A MAN'S BLOOD, BY MAN SHALL HIS BLOOD BE SHED.
But in the rain the ink and paint ran in rivulets down the handles, staining their robes. Singing the Ku Klux Klan's “Stand Up and Be Counted” under his white hood of anonymity, Byrd Prentiss marched with his brethren.

“Do you think it'll happen?” said one prison guard to another. Rain dripped from his cap's brim.

The other wiped water from his face. “It's gonna go down to the wire.”

“It always does,” the first said, nodding. “It always does.”

Tom and Maggie were silent on the ride to Virginia and didn't speak as they passed by the protesters on each side of the road. Maggie gave their identification. They waved them into the dirt parking lot.

Maggie opened the car door and got out into the rain, sending her pumps plunging straight into a cold mud puddle. She sighed as the water bled through and soaked her stockings and feet.

“Sorry I don't have an umbrella today,” Tom called from the other side, his voice muffled by the falling rain.

“It's fine,” Maggie called as they sprinted to the prison doors, trying not to get drenched. “Tonight people have bigger things to worry about.”

Inside, she patted at her hair and shook the drops off her coat. There was nothing she could do about her shoes. After signing in and again showing identification, she and Tom were led down a cement corridor to a holding cell. Maggie could see Wendell Cotton, looking younger than ever in a too-large white shirt and tie, behind thick iron bars. She recognized Mother Cotton and Andi, a white man in an expensive suit who she assumed was Wendell's lawyer, and a colored man in minister's garb.

Wendell and his mother clasped hands through gaps in the bars. The chains from his shackled wrists clanged against the iron. Andi looked up and nodded when she saw Maggie and Tom. Maggie went to her and grasped her hand. “Mrs. Roosevelt says she's praying for all of you.”

Andi nodded, then swallowed, unable to speak.

A guard walked up. “It's time for you folks to be leavin' now,” he told them.

Andi fixed her gaze on him. “How can you do this? How can you be a part of this?”

“I don't believe in it myself,” he replied, almost apologetically. “But it's the law.”

“Then why? Why do it?”

He had the grace to look guilty. “Just followin' orders, I guess.”

Wendell was breathing hard, doing his best not to cry. “Good-bye, Mama,” he said to Mother Cotton. “I'll see you in heaven, you can count on it. And good-bye, Miz Andi. Thanks for all you done.” He looked down at what he was wearing. “And thank everyone at the WDL and NAACP for the suit and tie. I never wore a tie before. I looks good,” he said, trying to smile. “Course, they got me wearing a diaper, too, under all this—but at least you can't see it.”

“It's time to go,” the guard repeated. “Everyone out except the preacher man.”

As Maggie, Andi, Mother Cotton, and the rest were shown out of the holding room, guards in gray uniforms entered, their boots polished to a high sheen. They all looked up at the long hands of the clock, then back down at Wendell, still breathing hard.

“Is the back of his head properly shaved?” the first one asked.

“Be not afraid…”
quoted Reverend Johnson, locking eyes with Wendell.

“Stand up!” one of the others yelled to Wendell.

“Fear thou not, for I am with thee. Not only within call, but present with thee.”

Wendell stood, the chains around his hands and feet clinking. He kept his eyes on Reverend Johnson's.
“Art thou weak? I will strengthen thee.”

“Lean over!” the officer said to Wendell.

“Art thou in want of friends? I will help thee in the time of need.”

The officer inspected the back of the young man's head. “Yes, it's shaved.”

Wendell's eyes never left Reverend Johnson's.
“Art thou ready to fall? I will uphold thee with that right hand which is full of righteousness.”

Wendell looked to the preacher. “I'm gonna die,” he said, his voice cracking.

“Yes, my son,” Reverend Johnson said, laying a hand on Wendell's shoulder.
“There are those that strive with God's people, that seek their ruin.”

“It's time to go, boy,” the first guard said, his voice hollow.

“Let not God's people render evil for evil, but wait God's time,”
Reverend Johnson said as they began the long walk down the corridor to the execution chamber.

“Dead man walkin'!” called the guard in front. “Dead man walkin'!” His voice echoed against the cement. In the distance, thunder rolled.

Reverend Johnson strode beside Wendell, still speaking:
“It is the worm Jacob—so little, so weak, so despised and trampled on by every body. God's people are as worms.”

President Roosevelt looked at the clock on the desk of his upstairs office. It was ten, one hour before the scheduled execution of Wendell Cotton. His blue eyes were circled, and he rubbed at his nose with a handkerchief. Roosevelt fitted a Camel into his ivory cigarette holder and lit it with his customary long wooden match, drawing in heavily. The cigarette drooped, angled to the ground. He picked up the telephone receiver. “Get me Governor King in Virginia.”

When the connection had been made, there was a crackle and then the Governor's honeyed tones. “Why, hello, Mr. President.”

Roosevelt got right to the point. “Governor, we haven't necessarily been on the same side of things over the years. You've had your ways of seeing things and I've had mine. And I fully expect to see you take your shot at the White House when this war is over—and we've won.” He was silent for a moment, as he watched the ash of his cigarette burn. “So, let's get down to it—whatever our disagreements, I know and you know that you want to be President when I'm gone. And you don't want me in your way. In fact, as a fellow Democrat, you'll need my support. We could achieve great things together, including winning this war—for God, and country, and decency everywhere. And then I'll give you my blessing.”

He tapped the cigarette ash into a chrome ashtray; on it, the engraved image of a sailboat formed his initials. “But, Governor, I must say—call off your dogs.”

“Why, Mr. President—” Governor King backpedaled, his tones sugared.

“Now, don't ‘Mr. President' me,” Roosevelt said. “You know what I'm talking about, King. This Wendell Cotton execution. You and I both know you have the power to stop it and save this man's life. And so, I appeal to you, as both your President and your colleague. We're all going to war now, Governor—both white and colored—but against the Axis, not against each other. We need to keep our eye on the endgame, not on disagreements on the home front. We can work on all that after we've licked the Japs and the Germans.”

“Mr. President,” Governor King drawled, “in representing the Commonwealth of Virginia, I must carry out the Commonwealth's wishes. This man, Wendell Cotton, murdered a man. A white man. And Cotton had a fair trial—he was sentenced by his fellow Virginians. Unless there is clear evidence for innocence—which there is not—I will not appeal the process.”

There was a long silence. “Is that your final word?”

“It is, Mr. President.”

Roosevelt hung up, slamming down on the connecting points with more force than was necessary. Then he used one finger to dial the extension for Harry Hopkins's room. “Get in here, old friend. We need to have a drink.”

“Mr. President?” It sounded as if Hopkins had been woken out of a deep sleep. “Do you think it might be a bit late—?”

“Harry, as your Commander in Chief I am
ordering
you to come to my office and drink with me. An American citizen is going to die in an hour—and I can't do a damn thing about it. The least we can do is drink to the poor bastard.”

Maggie walked with Tom and the others to the execution chamber. She shivered. Her feet were still wet; it was cold and damp in the corridors, and the chamber wasn't much warmer. The bulky wooden electric chair, on a platform like some macabre throne, had been positioned at the front of the room between a United States flag and the flag of the Commonwealth of Virginia.

The room was smaller than she had expected, with mismatched wooden folding chairs set up in rows on the wide-plank wooden floors. There was a section in front for the whites, and one, set apart, in the back for the coloreds. Fewer than thirty people filled the seats. Overhead, fluorescent lights gleamed from steel pendant lamps hanging from studded metal beams. Rain pelted down. The small glass windows, close to the low ceiling, were buffeted by the wind and rattled in their frames.

Maggie and Tom and the lawyer separated from Andi and Wendell's mother, as each went to her or his separate section. Women pulled their cardigans more tightly around them against the chill, while men in suits or in overalls and plaid work shirts worried the hats they held in their laps. All were silent. While it was easy to argue in favor of the death penalty or joke about Old Sparky with the buffer of distance and time—up close and personal, the electric chair was something different.

Above the door, a clock ticked. As the thunder roared again, one of the women gasped and gave a small shriek, then pressed a starched handkerchief against her mouth as though to stuff the cry back in.

Rain continued to drum against the tin roof as Wendell Cotton was led into the room by the guards. There were a few gasps and the scrape of chair legs as people stood to get a better look. Reverend Johnson put a hand to Wendell's cheek, whispered something Maggie couldn't hear, then went to sit with Mother Cotton and Andi.

Although he staggered when he first saw the chair, Wendell didn't falter. Instead, he walked straight to it and sat as each of the four guards began to clamp in his hands and feet, then his knees and elbows. One of the guards' hands was trembling too hard for him to fasten the leather straps, and Cotton said in a faint voice, “Take yo' time, Boss. Don't be in such a big hurry.” There was a nervous snigger from the crowd, swiftly silenced by another growl of thunder.

A woman in the front row muttered, “Can't wait to see you die.” Then, louder, “You killed my husband—and I can't wait to see you
die
!” It was Patsy Chandler, Billy Bob Chandler's widow.

Wendell met her gaze. The widow was pale and painfully thin, her eyes puffy from crying, her face sallow.

“I's—I's sorry I killed your husband, ma'am.” Wendell looked her in the eye. “But he was gonna kill me. Ain't no doubt about it.”

Patsy Chandler surged to her feet. “Fry him up good, boys!” she shrilled. “Crispy, like bacon!” Her hate was palpable in the small room. “I'll dance around his body when he's gone!” A woman next to her shushed her and pressed her back into her seat.

Maggie thought her heart would explode in her chest.
They're just going to…do this? Murder a man? Right here in front of us all? They're all going to sit here and watch?

The warden moved to a metal bucket filled with a saline solution, moistening a sea sponge. It dripped as he walked to Cotton. He placed the sponge in a metal cap, which was then attached to Wendell's head. Another sponge and electrodes were attached to his spine.

Wendell was breathing heavily, his chest heaving against the leather straps.

“One,”
called the warden. The man behind the curtain flipped a switch—marked
THE JUICE
in crude writing on masking tape—that turned the generator up to full. The lights brightened, then dimmed. Maggie glanced up at the murky lights, realizing that all of the building's electricity had the same power source.

“God is angry,” called Mother Cotton in a thin voice from the colored section.

Maggie felt sick. How could they just sit here and watch, while a man was killed? People should die fighting to protect others or in bed of old age—not in a chair as part of a grotesque spectacle.

The warden stood in front of the assemblage. “I will now read the warrant. Wendell Cotton, you have been condemned to die by the electric chair by a jury of your peers—”

Andi shot up to her feet. “That's a
lie
! He didn't have a jury of his peers! That's the point!”

A guard walked over to her, rubber baton drawn. Eyes blazing, she sat and crossed her arms over her chest.

“—sentence imposed by a judge of good standing by the Commonwealth of Virginia. Boy,” he addressed Wendell, “do you have any last words?”

Wendell gulped in air. “I wanna thank everyone who is here for me,” he said, voice shaking. “I think killing is wrong, no matter who. And I'm sorry I done killed a man. I think about it every day. And I wish to God I hadn'ta done it. But I did. And I'll answer to my Maker for that.”