The Black Hearts Murder (9 page)

“What do you mean by that?” Horton sounded indulgent.

“I'll lay it on the line, Mr. Horton. I'm convinced that the charge against Harlan James and this one against LeRoy Rawlings are both calculated political maneuvers by District Attorney Volper. I think Volper wants to strain further the already tense race situation in this town in order to attract the votes of working-class whites to your law-and-order platform. I don't accuse you of being a party to this, Mr. Horton—”

“Thank you,” Horton said dryly.

“—but on the other hand I'm not assuming your innocence, either.”

“Who appointed you judge of my character, McCall?”

“I'm not judging you, sir. I'm here as an investigator, and any investigator worth his salt makes no unsupported assumptions.”

“My whole career—”

“The political bug, Mr. Horton, invades the human economy in strange ways. However, that's not the point. The point is that stirring up a racial stew here for political reasons was Volper's obvious motive in recommending this unconscionable bail to a handpicked judge. You may win the election by not lifting a finger to get that bail reduced, Mr. Horton, but you won't have as large a constituency to govern, because a lot of the voters will be dead.”

Horton no longer sounded indulgent. “I regard this, McCall, as defamation of character!”

“So sue me,” McCall suggested. “Meanwhile, let's stick to the immediate issue. Doesn't what I've said affect your attitude on the high bail in any way?”

“Not one damn bit!” Horton snapped, and he hung up with a crack.

When McCall returned to the table Laurel asked, “Any luck?”

“Oh, yes,” McCall said. “All bad. I got hold of him, but he won't lift a finger. You think Mayor Potter or this lawyer Duncan he's backing to succeed him would have any influence with the judge?”

Laurel looked incredulous. “You must be kidding, Mike. Edmundson is a Horton man. Besides, he's a segregationist.”

McCall shrugged. “Forget it, baby. While the city burns, let's fiddle.”

So they spent the rest of the evening enjoying themselves. They watched the nine o'clock floor show, which was first-rate, and danced for a while. After the Capri they stopped into two other clubs. They had several more drinks apiece. Laurel became neither stupid nor sick. McCall allowed her only anemic gin-and-tonics.

He got her home after one in the morning. With what he hopefully interpreted as regret, she apologized for not inviting him in—she had to be up in six hours, she said, and she faced a big day.

“I'm one of those dreary people who need eight hours' sleep to function. I hope you don't mind, Mike.”

“That's like asking the condemned man if the rope feels uncomfortable,” McCall said. “Do I rate at least a good-night kiss?”

What happened then, brief as it was, made McCall curse his bad judgment all the way back to his hotel for not having got Laurel home earlier.

TEN

He was up by eight. He picked up a
Post-Telegram
to read with breakfast. The arrest of LeRoy Rawlings was not the lead story—a new Middle East eruption blasted it out of that position—but it was on the front page.

The story was headlined NO. 2 BLACK HEART CHARGED WITH CONSPIRACY. A subhead read
Bail Fixed at $50,000
. The story itself was an unsalted account of the facts.

McCall turned to the editorial page. The
Post-Telegram
vigorously disapproved of the excessive bail; it had nothing to say about the charge itself. Nor was there any comment about the possibility that the arrest might set off racial violence. Perhaps, McCall thought, it was just as well.

After breakfast he headed for Mayor Potter's office. The city hall opened for business at nine; it was about a quarter past when McCall turned into First Street.

Even from two blocks away he could make out the crowd packing the sidewalk and overflowing into the street before the city hall. As he approached he saw that the crowd was predominantly black. The sprinkling of whites seemed young and generally long-haired. He estimated the mob at 500. Perhaps one out of five was wearing a Black Hearts jacket.

The crowd was chanting, “Free LeRoy! Free LeRoy!”

The chant was ugly. McCall had observed such scenes frequently enough to read the temper of a mob from its tone. Any spark could set this one off.

The police had blocked off First Street before the city hall, apparently having abandoned an effort to keep it clear. A traffic officer was directing all vehicles to turn into Douglas Avenue, which was one-way at that point.

McCall maneuvered into the outer lane so that he could turn left halfway between First and Second into the municipal parking lot across from the big building.

By the time he had walked to the First Street exit from the lot, the mob had stopped chanting to watch what was going on at the top of the city hall steps. Mayor Potter stood there, rotund, white-thatched, flanked by a tall, very black man of thirty-five wearing glasses and a conservative brown suit, and a heavy, florid, fiftyish white man with graying hair. A workman in coveralls was setting up a microphone and a pair of speakers.

The silence of the crowd was more ominous than the chanting. McCall could only hope that the men on the steps would be convincing.

He decided to remain on the far side of the street instead of trying to force his way through the crowd.

The man in coveralls stepped aside. Mayor Potter immediately said into the microphone, “Can those in the rear hear me all right?”

The angry rejoinders of the crowd were hardly reassuring. The old man held up one hand.

“My friends of Banbury, I'm sure you all know these two gentlemen, but I will introduce them to any who may not. To my left is mayoralty candidate Mr. Jerome Duncan.”

He turned in the direction of the black lawyer. There were a few cheers and some handclapping; hardly an ovation. McCall told himself that the reaction was not necessarily an index of lukewarm support by the black people of Banbury for Duncan's candidacy; it probably meant that the mob was in no mood for cheering anyone.

Mayor Potter nodded the other way. “To my right is Councilman-at-Large and opposing mayoralty candidate Mr. Gerald Horton.”

A few boos; no applause. The crowd was too exercised over the Rawlings issue to be interested in political introductions.

“Mr. Duncan, Mr. Horton, and I have just held a conference,” the old mayor went on. “We've agreed that it is essential to the welfare of this city that the three of us stand shoulder to shoulder on one issue, in spite of political differences. That area of agreement is this: that violence must not be allowed to shatter the peace of our city. We want you to know that we sympathize with your cause, and we pledge our combined legitimate influence to try to bring about what you demand. If you'll bear with us in patience, my friends, we three will confer with Judge Edmundson and request an immediate reduction of Mr. Rawlings's bail. We will do so the moment Judge Edmundson arrives in his chambers.”

So the sight and sound of the mob had changed Gerald Horton's mind. McCall grinned to himself. That chanting had been considerably more convincing than a mere governor's emissary's voice over the telephone.

McCall was impressed by Heywood Potter's astuteness. The only man of the three standing before the crowd who was going to exert any influence on Judge Edmundson was Gerald Horton. But through the old man's ploy the incensed people would give as much credit to Potter and the man he had endorsed to succeed him, Duncan, as to Horton.

Someone shouted, “That's not enough, Mayor! We want all charges dropped against LeRoy! And Harlan, too!”

“Now, now, talk sense,” the mayor replied. “You all know that any such promise from me wouldn't mean a thing. I'm the mayor, not a judge—I have no authority to suspend charges against anyone in a legal proceeding. I have no control over the district attorney, who is an employee of the county, not the city. And I certainly have no control over the district court, which is under the jurisdiction of the state. Nor can either of these gentlemen here with me exercise any more influence in these matters than I can. However, I do go on record, here and now, as being opposed to the prosecution of either Harlan James or LeRoy Rawlings.”

There was far more applause this time, mingled with a few dissenting voices. A man in a Black Hearts jacket yelled, “Then why don't you get the D.A. and the judge out here?” Another roared, “We want action, not talk!” One deep voice overrode the others: “How do Duncan and Horton feel?”

The mayor glanced at the black candidate and stepped aside. The crowd fell silent as Jerome Duncan stepped over to the microphone.

“I feel the same way Mayor Potter does. I favor dropping all charges against Mr. James and Mr. Rawlings. Not because I'm a black man and they're black, too. I'd say the same thing if they were colored purple—or white. Those two men haven't done anything wrong. I'm against persecuting innocent people. As I'm sure every decent citizen of Banbury is.”

The applause was prolonged.

“Mr. Horton?” the mayor said.

Horton was on the spot. McCall wondered how he was going to wriggle off. But the councilman-radio station owner calmly took the microphone and said, “I believe in law and order with justice. These men have been charged with certain offenses against the law, and I defend their constitutional right to a fair and speedy trial
according
to the law.”

He was about to say more, but the boos swelled and drowned him out. A few whites were cheering, but they had no chance against the volume produced by the black throats. McCall saw Mayor Potter jerk Horton's coattails as Laurel Tate hurried out of the building to whisper in His Honor's ear.

The mayor stepped before the microphone and shouted, “Please! People, please!” It was surprising how his high-pitched old voice carried. Over the subsiding noise he shouted, “I'm informed that Judge Edmundson has just arrived. If you'll all stand by, we will confer with the judge and come right back here to report his decision to you!”

Potter herded Horton and Duncan before him like a fussy shepherd, Laurel bringing up the rear. The four of them disappeared in the recesses of the city hall.

The crowd buzz-buzzed, shifted feet; there was even some laughter. McCall felt a great relief.

He walked up to the corner, circled the crowd, and entered the city hall by one of the side doors. He found a directory that told him the municipal court was on the second floor.

He climbed dirty marble steps. The courtroom was empty, but a bailiff stood at the doors. When McCall glanced in the man said, “Court doesn't open till ten this morning.”

“I was looking for the mayor.”

“He's in chambers with Judge Edmundson, Mr. Horton, and Mr. Duncan. He can't be disturbed now.”

McCall could have joined the conference as an observer, but he decided not to. His presence could add nothing; indeed, any suggestion of pressure from the governor's representative might upset the negotiations. He returned downstairs to the mayor's office to wait.

Laurel was alone. Her eyes were like green glass this morning—not enough sleep. McCall grinned. She was sipping coffee from a plastic cup.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he said. “You're looking mighty pretty after all that dissipation last night.”

“You're suffering from delusions, Mr. McC, or else you had nasty dreams last night. Coffee?” A small urn and a stack of plastic cups stood on a corner table.

“If it's good.”

“It's very good. I brew it myself.”

He drew a cup of coffee and went over to sit on the edge of Laurel's desk while he drank it. It was very good indeed, as advertised.

“You have many virtues, O Flame of the Occident,” McCall said. “I may decide to make a play for you.”

“Well, that's honest,” Laurel said calmly. “Although honesty will get you nowhere. I mean not necessarily.”

“You're also a tease.”

“What woman isn't? I like my men to dangle.”

This went on for some time. Two cups later McCall heard the mayor's amplified voice pierce the windows.

“Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention?”

They ran to the nearest window. The mayor, the councilman-at-large, and the lawyer were back on the steps.

“The court is dropping all bail requirements in the case of LeRoy Rawlings and releasing him on his own recognizance.”

Wild cheering, clapping, whistling. The old man held up his hand and the crowd quieted again.

“The court clerk has already phoned the police officer in charge to have Mr. Rawlings in court here at ten o'clock—less than half an hour from now—so that he may be officially released.”

More cheering.

McCall said to Laurel, “For an old warrior like Mayor Potter, that was bad tactics. Instead of breaking up, they'll hang around to see Rawlings and carry him off in triumph.”

He was proved a prophet. The mayor piped, “I appeal to you good people now to disperse. You've blocked traffic for some time now, so please all go home and let the business of the city hall area proceed normally.”

No one stirred. The mood of the mob had changed from anger to festivity. The blacks, at least, were not going to be denied the sight of their hero.

Mayor Potter hesitated, his eye on the police officers at the barricades. But then he shook his head, smiled, waved to the crowd, and beckoned Duncan and Horton.

The man in the coveralls stolidly began to pack up the public address apparatus.

ELEVEN

A few moments later Potter, the councilman-at-large, and his lawyer-opponent entered the mayor's office. Jerome Duncan offered a warm black hand on being introduced to McCall, but Horton's handshake was perfunctory and he was wearing his political poker face.