Harlem Redux (51 page)

“Think about it,” David said. “This is the best offer you’ll have all day.”

“I can’t just forget about the gun residue test.”

“We both know they’re notoriously fallible. Look, man, I’m offering to go with you. We both know I make the better suspect. After all, I was the target of the scandal.”

The detective’s eyes narrowed. “May I take that as a confession of guilt?”

“No,” David said. “You may not. Just because I’ve offered myself on a silver platter, doesn’t mean that I’ll give you the means to roast me.”

The metal handcuffs were cold and heavy and cut into his skin. Annie watched silently from the kitchen doorway, her eyes full of pain. Rachel’s wails followed him out the house. Then Peters slammed the door behind them, cutting off the sound of her cries.

Two police officers were waiting by a squad car. They came up to him, one on either side, gripped him by his elbows, and led him from the house to the waiting car. It was late afternoon, bright enough for the world to see his disgrace. He was painfully aware of the parting of delicate French curtains up and down the street, of highbrow noses pressed against windowpanes and wide eyes staring. Humiliation overwhelmed him. Although he had volunteered to be arrested for a crime he had not committed, he was sick with shame. That they should see him this way. That his life should have come to this. Yes, he was innocent of this crime, but he was guilty of another—and soon everyone would know it. As Sweet said:
Everyone who is anyone will know your game.

One officer grabbed him roughly by the back of his collar, forced him to bend down, and shoved him into the backseat. The car reeked of stale cigarettes, cold sweat, and dried semen. An odious mixture. The cop climbed in next to him. David looked at him, at his resentful, muddy brown eyes and blotchy complexion.

“It stinks in here.”

The young officer grinned at him. “You’ll get used to it.”

David turned his face away. He tried not to think of the stench and peered out the grimy window of the police car instead. The world whisked by. He caught glimpses of a young woman in a wheelchair with a small girl on her lap, a teenage boy pedaling a rusted cart, an old man in tattered clothes shuffling along with the help of a cane. For a moment, he forgot about himself. What about those people? Look at the burdens they had to bear. What would be their end? An awareness of the brevity of life pressed itself upon him. The words of a psalm Lila had loved rose within him.

Lord, make me to know my end. And what is the measure of my days, that I may know how frail I am. ... Do not be silent at my tears, for I am a stranger with you, a sojourner as all my fathers were. Look away from me that I may be radiant, before I go away and am no more.

Years had passed since he’d thought of those words, but now they returned unbidden. Why? He thought for a moment and he knew. Death, in its psychic form, awaited him. He stood on the edge of a mental precipice. His arrest, his incarceration, the trial and the public excoriation that would undoubtedly follow would push him over the edge. Life as he knew it would end.

But would that be so terrible?

He had been blessed in many ways. Life had been generous to him. It had granted him more advantages than it did most people, black or white. And to what benefit had he used them? That woman in the wheelchair, the teenage boy, and the old man: Their struggles—disability, poverty, and age—had been forced upon them. His problems were of his own making. He’d made too many wrong decisions. He had failed at every determining moment. Why hadn’t he fought for Jonah—even if it meant dying at the hands of that mob? Wouldn’t it have been better to die with honor than to live in shame? Wouldn’t it have been better if when he’d seen that woman in Philadelphia, upon offering to help her, he’d had the guts to tell her who and what he was? And why, dear God, why hadn’t he answered Lilian’s last letter?

If he’d made the right decision at the right time, he would have been able to return. He would have been there to support Rachel and save Isabella. Maybe, he could have dissuaded Lilian from marrying Sweet. He could have protected his women.

He could have made a difference.

He felt the heavy handcuffs cutting into his wrists, pressing into his back, and his shame left him. An odd calm washed over him. Life, he told himself, had once more been generous with him. It had granted him a chance to make amends.

They took him to the City Prison down on Centre Street. They led him to an interrogation room and seated him in a chair before a long, battered wooden table. The room was dark, except for one glaring light, which was angled so that it shone directly in his eyes. He winced, blinded. Several officers stood over him with their shirtsleeves rolled up. They asked him his name and told him to tell them what had happened. He told them everything—beginning with the day he returned, ending with Sweet’s last words that he would not allow himself to be jailed. They urged him to confess to murder. They demanded. They cajoled. They threatened. He refused. Then the beatings began. Still, he refused.

The “interrogating” and fingerprinting lasted well past midnight. They threw him into a small, narrow cell that reeked of urine and vomit. He was grateful, however, to have a cell alone. When the guard extinguished the light, it was pitch-dark. David couldn’t see his hand before his face. Feeling his way in the dark, he stumbled into the cot shoved up against one wall. The mattress was thin and hard and it stank of mildew. He lay down, his body a mass of bruised and aching parts, his right eye swollen shut. Staring into the gloom, he waited for panic to set in, but he felt eerily calm. A warm liquid numbness that began in his fingertips spread slowly to the rest of his body. He closed his eyes, sure that he would be unable to sleep. But he did, uneasily.

37.
 
The Confessional

Early the next morning, he was chained to two other men and hustled to the Criminal Courts Building for a hearing. He looked and felt horrible. His hair was dusty. His swollen eye was purplish and tender. He had a nasty taste in his mouth and his clothes stunk of rot after a night on the cell’s filthy mattress.

He was charged with murder in the death of Jameson Sweet. Bail was out of the question. As he stood before the judge, he glanced around the courtroom, looking for Rachel. She was nowhere to be seen. Yes, he had told her to stay away and he was glad she had listened. But he was saddened. He missed her. Annie was there, however. And so was Byron Canfield.

Later that day, David sat on his thin mattress, reading. A pile of newspapers lay scattered on the floor at his feet.

“Racial Treason: David Lived As A White in Philly!”
screamed the headline of one paper.
“Police: Movement Lawyer Slain By Negro Passing For White!”
proclaimed another
. “McKay’s Double Life: Did He Kill to Protect His Dirty Secret?” said a third.

The Negro press was full of his arrest; more accurately, they were full of Canfield.

“Young Sweet was like a son to me,” Canfield was quoted as saying. “I showed him the ropes, brought him along. We had just returned from Chicago, filled with joy over our landmark victory in the Boston Richards case. Then this happened. Sweet’s work on the Richards case was impeccable. His death is a loss to every colored man, woman, and child.

“David McKay, on the other hand, is a source of shame for us all, most especially for those here at Movement headquarters. We placed our faith, our trust, our hopes in him. He fell lower than any of us could have ever imagined. He murdered a man to keep his dirty lies a secret. He killed in order to steal the money and the house, to which Jameson Sweet had a legitimate right. We are cooperating with the prosecution in every way to purge our community of such a cowardly monster.”

The man makes good copy, I have to admit.
David smiled grimly. He shuffled through the other papers. Apparently, Canfield talked to anyone who would quote him, and most of the Negro newspapers did.
So much for being innocent until proven guilty. As a lawyer, you’d think Canfield would at least honor that.

A guard appeared at his cell. “Get up. Someone’s here to see you.”

Surprised, David laid the newspapers aside. Was it Rachel? He’d love to see her. But what would she think when she saw him? They’d given him a basin of cold water, and he’d done his best to wash and shave, but he still felt grubby. To make matters worse, he now wore a jailhouse uniform. He hoped his appearance wouldn’t shock her.

He touched his bruised eye.
Does it hurt to love me?
she’d asked. Well, yes, he sighed. It did.

Heart thumping, he tucked his shirttail tightly into his pants, ran his fingers rapidly through his hair, and went through the opened gate. The guard escorted him to a tiny visiting room. David stepped inside and stopped. A muscle in his chest twisted painfully.

She sat on the other side of the wall of iron bars that divided the room. She was as lovely as always, but looked wrung out. She paled at the sight of him. He smiled to reassure her. Crossing the room, he slid onto the seat opposite her. The guard warned him to keep his hands in his lap, and then stepped back.

David leaned toward her. “How are you?”

She gave a wan smile. “The reporters have been annoying and the neighbors are gossiping up a storm, but I’m okay.”

“You look wonderful. But you shouldn’t have come.”

“I had to.” Her eyes glowed with loyalty. “The stories in the papers about Philadelphia. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He sighed. “I wanted to. I intended to—but everything happened so quickly.”

“It don’t matter, you know,” she said. “None of it matters to me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. You did what you had to do to survive. I’d rather have you this way than not at all.”

“I’ve been a fool. All those years wasted. I wanted to come back, but I couldn’t.”

“Shush—”

“I have one hope. One chance. I’ve got to face up to what I’ve done. If I survive that, I’ll be free, really free, to live my life with you. To stay here, at home, where our roots are.”

He looked around at the dingy institutional walls encompassing him. “A man has a lot of time to think when he’s here. I’ve thought a lot about what you said that day, Rachel. The fact is, you were right. The world out there will deceive a man. It can bring him down. What I’ve been looking for, I had right here.” He gaze went back to her. He tried to smile, but failed miserably. “What a husband, huh?”

“Oh, David,” she moaned. “But they have no proof against you!”

“This is 1926, baby. They don’t need proof to try a colored man. To execute him, either.” If only he could hold her, at least touch her hands. He had to get her through this situation as smoothly as possible, to protect her from the scandal as best he could. “Rachel, promise me that you’ll stay away when the trial starts.”

“But I want to be with you—”

“You will be. In here.” He touched his chest.

Tears shimmered in her eyes. She reached out to him. The guard stepped forward and gave a warning signal. She let her hand drop. “I’m going to be there, in that courtroom every day,” she whispered.

“No.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Yes.”

Annie visited him. “I can’t stay long. They won’t let me.” Her wise face crinkled with a sad smile. He assumed that she had heard the gossip from the neighbors and read the newspaper reports. She must be so disappointed in him. She answered him as though reading his thoughts.

“You oughta know I’m not here to judge. I want to listen and listen well. Tell me if what I’ve heard is true.”

David looked up at the room’s sole window. How to explain? The light inside the small visitors’ room darkened as clouds moved over the sun. It rained. Heavy, pelting drops that beat furiously against the windowpane. Finally, he began. He spoke at length and Annie listened without interrupting. If she was shocked at what he told her, she kept it to herself. Every now and then, lightning would snap overhead and thunder would roll; a storm cloud would burst and needles of rain would come slanting down to punch against the windowpane. It seemed as though it would rain forever. David talked until he could say no more. It all came out: the years of running and pretending, his efforts to make amends.