The Sacrifice (23 page)

Iglesias wondered if the media people, sequestered in the first few rows of the church, felt trapped and vulnerable. Their responses to Mudrick’s assertations were surprisingly tame. Since the
New York Times
had started covering the case, with extensive, damning quotes from Mudrick, Iglesias had been reading the paper with increasing bewilderment and chagrin—the
New York Times
, giving columns of its front page to the race-baiter’s unsubstantiated charges. Slandering the Pascayne PD, in virtually every issue of the paper, with very
little space given, at the end of the articles, to statements from the Pascayne PD chief of police.

White liberal credulousness, Iglesias thought. Liberals eager to ally themselves with black accusers. Ready to believe the worst of their fellow whites and the worst of cops.

In this crowd,
she
was “white”—unless you knew Ines Iglesias.

Most of the media coverage she’d seen had stressed the girl’s accusations and Reverend Mudrick’s charges but failed to make it clear that, as soon as Marus Mudrick had become the official “spiritual advisor” for Ednetta and Sybilla Frye, and Byron Mudrick had become their “legal counsel,” they’d been invited to meet with high-ranking police officers and attorneys from the Passaic County district attorney’s office, and repeatedly they’d refused. Byron Mudrick, previously an attorney who’d cooperated, to a degree, with legal adversaries, seemed to be concurring with his radical brother. Their first obligation was to their clients, the brothers claimed. These clients had been threatened by police officers in the Pascayne PD. The Fryes’ lives were at risk, as were their relatives’ lives. They were living in fear and terror “as of the Nazi Gestapo.” Both Sister Ednetta and Sister Sybilla had been threatened by police officers, and by the “hierarchy of law enforcement” in New Jersey. They could no longer dwell in their home on Third Street, but had to take refuge in a safe house.

The other night, someone had thrown a rock through the Fryes’ window on Third Street. There’d been shots fired. Cries of
nigger slut.
More than one witness had claimed to see what appeared to be “unmarked police vehicles” cruising Third Street at all hours of the day and night.

It was no secret in Red Rock that law enforcement claimed fraudulently all the time that they would protect police informers and
witnesses against criminals, then left them to die in the street.
That
was how cops treated their own “nigger-snitches.”

The Reverend spoke in a voice heavy with sarcasm. There was startled, harsh laughter in the church.

A journalist in the front row stood to ask that if Reverend Mudrick had no intention of meeting with the police, not even the chief of police, or with the district attorney of Passaic County, what was the purpose of his news conferences?

“‘What is the
purpose
?’—you aint been listenin, has you. Our purpose is to bring this tragic story of Nazi-racist-swine rape of black women to the attention of the world. To the ‘court of public opinion.’ We are exposin the rotten core of the police state. White privilege. White ‘masters.’ The rich white capitalists settin they foot on the back of our necks, an they act surprised when we throw it off. They act surprised when we defend our women. This badly wronged girl Sybilla Frye is our Joan of Arc here in New Jersey—but the girl is no martyr. She has been hurt deep in her soul, you can see, but she be strong in her soul, and she will survive. And we will find justice for her, long prison terms for the white rapists and monetary reparation from the Pascayne police department, many millions of dollars for all who have suffered the white boot on the nape of the neck. All the white cap’lists give a damn for is the mighty buck which is where we will kick them—hard. This, we swear.”

Amid cries of approval one of the reporters managed to ask if Reverend Mudrick would be appealing to the New Jersey attorney general and Mudrick said he hadn’t yet decided. He was demanding a “state-wide” and “federal commission” to investigate the case but it would have to include black investigators—black lawyers—from both New Jersey and out of state; and it would have to involve an investigation of the entire Pascayne PD as well as the Pascayne mayor’s office and the
district attorney’s office. “The whole hive of them is sick, rotten with corruption, and Nazi-racist. You from out-of-town—from New York City—are thinkin it would be a good strategy for us here in Jersey to try to cooperate with the officials that are not so sick and corrupt, and clear out the rogue cops and corrupt politicians. But consider—this is the hallowed state of New Jersey which is number two in corruption in U.S. history, behind only the state of Louisiana which takes that dubious trophy.” These remarks were greeted with raucous laughter. Reverend Mudrick frowned as if such mirth was inappropriate, and gravely continued: “Now, I am a Christian minister, and I am a reasonable man—I understand, there are ‘good cops’ in this city—maybe even a majority of ‘good cops.’ There are ‘persons of color’ on the force—a few. Putting pressure on the entrenched white bosses to hire black and Hispanic, like they putting pressure on the firemen in the big cities to cast aside their race-bigotry. But these are not the law enforcement officers with authority or seniority, and they are vulnerable to their superior officers. They
take orders
, or they out on the street. These brothers and sisters are not the ones who are the problem. Outside this house of worship at this very hour—you saw them, intimidatin you as you entered this church of Christ—as you exercise your God-given and Constitutional right to ‘freedom of assembly’ without harassment and fear of police violence. And the ‘superior officers’ who ain’t present givin them orders—that is the problem, that is the challenge before the
Crusade for Justice for Sybilla Frye
.”

As the press conference was ending, Mudrick turned to Ednetta Frye to take her hand, and to Sybilla Frye to take her hand. As the audience stared rapt with attention Mudrick brought both Ednetta and Sybilla to the pulpit.

“We are not askin these victims of race violence to speak this afternoon, as they are not accustomed to public speaking, and it has been my promise to them, they need not be subjected to any public
scrutiny at this time. But, Sister Ednetta, will you say just a few words to this gathering?”

Meekly Ednetta Frye stood at the pulpit, rapidly blinking and smiling awkwardly; her gaze darted about the audience before her, she licked her lips and said, in a barely audible voice, “I—I am Ednetta Frye—I thank you all for comin here today—in support of my daughter Sybilla and her ‘crusade for justice.’”

Mudrick turned to Sybilla, saying, “Sister Sybilla, will you say just a few words to this gathering, that is filled with love and support for you in your suffering?”

Meekly Sybilla Frye stood at the pulpit, rapidly blinking and smiling awkwardly; if she’d been coached to speak as her mother had spoken, she seemed to have forgotten what to say, overcome by the rows of raptly staring people before her, and the distractions of flash and TV cameras.

“Just tell these good people your name, dear. They have come to help you.”

Sybilla was trembling. She spoke in a whisper, inaudibly.

“Just a little louder, dear.”

“Sy-Sy-b’lla F-Frye . . .”

The audience murmured sympathetically. Cries of
S’b’lla! S’b’lla!

Iglesias had a sudden impulse to stride to the pulpit, push the hulking Reverend aside and seize the girl’s hands in hers—explain to her, and to her naïve mother, that Marus Mudrick had a reputation for exploiting “black victims” in the past: collecting money on their behalf, brokering interviews and media features, using them to promote himself and dropping them when the public lost interest.

He is not your friend. You are making a mistake to trust him.

If you could trust me . . .

Yet when a collection basket was passed, Iglesias slipped a five-dollar bill into it. She’d been deeply moved.

In farewell Reverend Mudrick blessed the audience and urged them to take the crusade to the enemy—to repeat after him “JUSTICE FOR SYBILLA FRYE—JUSTICE FOR SYBILLA FRYE” as they left the church. “March then along Camden Boulevard—to Pitcairn Bridge—in a
peaceful and orderly manner—
and across the bridge, and to City Hall where the mayor and his white minions are hiding. Chanting loud so all can hear ‘JUSTICE FOR SYBILLA FRYE’—‘JUSTICE FOR SYBILLA FRYE—JUSTICE FOR SYBILLA FRYE.’”

The chant was taken up at once. A frenzied excitement rippled through the crowd. Pressing her fingers over her ears Iglesias managed to exit the church, just barely. She hadn’t noticed so many black youths in the church, unless they’d been waiting outside in the street—now shoving, jostling, chanting “JUSTICE FOR S’B’LLA FRYE—JUSTICE FOR S’B’LLA FRYE.”

Police were waiting for them. Flanked like soldiers.

Iglesias thought panicked
If there is gunfire!

On all sides were cries of elation, and warning. Cries of fear.

Move along! Move along!
Police officers were shouting.

Portions of the unruly crowd were dispersing. Allowed by police officers to cross wide, windy Camden Avenue, which had been blocked off for traffic, and make their way along side streets. But others were trapped on this side of the avenue, and others were resisting the officers’ orders. Iglesias wasn’t sure how to proceed. She would have liked to help disperse the crowd—but had no idea how. As she hesitated, she was being shoved, struck. The chant of “JUSTICE FOR S’B’LLA FRYE” continued ragged and halting and yet ferocious on all sides. Iglesias’s training was to control such a situation—physically—but she could not; she wasn’t with fellow officers, she wasn’t in uniform, she had not the authority of a police officer. She found herself on the street, pushed into the gutter. A line of patrolmen surged forward with batons drawn. What remained of
the crowd was being forced back. There were cries, screams of fear, fury, pain. Individuals slipped or were pushed, and fell. A heavyset woman with a ravaged dark skin yanked at the sleeve of Iglesias’s leather coat. Her stylish black fedora was knocked from her head. The back of her neck felt exposed, vulnerable. She managed to slip free of the clutching woman, trying to make her way to the line of uniformed officers.

She cried out to them, her fellow officers—“I’m a cop! Hey! Here!” Her badge was in her hand, but suddenly her hand was struck, and the badge was lost.

The heavyset woman was pursuing her: “You a cop? You sayin you a cop, bitch?” Another, younger woman tore at her hair. She was called
bitch, spic, cunt, slut
. She was being punched, kicked. She lost her balance in the tight-fitting boots and was grabbing at arms, panting, falling.

Her hair was in a tangle on her shoulders. A coin-sized swath of hair had been torn from her scalp. She was bleeding but not seriously. She was bleeding from a scalp wound which can mimic serious bleeding but is not. Her stylish clothes, stained with blood. She was frightened, but she would not panic. In the New Jersey Police Academy she’d been trained not to panic. Dared not draw her weapon here. Seen with a weapon, she’d be shot by police. A few yards away, a black man in his twenties was being subdued and arrested by six police officers, bleeding from a cut in his scalp. Other black men, a black woman. Subdued, arrested. One of the men was shirtless, and his muscled dark chest glistening with blood. Police were shouting, beating back the crowd. On Camden Avenue were police vehicles advancing like tanks. Amid the screaming young people were older men and women unable to escape. Appalling to see children here—some of them clutched in adults’ arms, crying in terror. Sirens, deafening. A furious-looking black woman clawed
at Iglesias’s face. The smoke-tinted glasses were knocked off. There was an explosion—gunfire, and a smell of gun-smoke—so close to Iglesias’s head, she was blinded, stunned. She fell to the pavement amid screams and desperation as people tried to get away, her left hand was trampled, and her left arm, she could not get to her feet to protect herself, something was wrong with her legs, and with her vision—so suddenly gone . . .

F
irst you think
I am alive.

Astonishment washes over you, bright and vivid and narcotic—
I am alive, still.

Not until later the pain.

Humiliation, and shame.

Still, I am alive. I made it.

She would recall the gunshot—close beside her head. She’d thought—she’d assumed—she’d been shot.

Lifted onto a stretcher. Dazed and bleeding from head and facial wounds, and her clothes torn. Oxygen fitted to her nose and mouth, she could not breathe deeply enough.

But vaguely she was aware of voices urging her—
Breathe!

Vaguely aware of ambulance doors being slammed shut, and the vehicle propelled into motion.

Her brain was faltering, dying. She’d been struck a savage blow to her right temple. She’d been kicked, trampled, terrible pain in her ribs, her lower back, left arm and left leg. Something wet and sticky in her hair. The leather coat had been torn, she would never wear her fancy leather coat again. She could feel her face swelling. A loose tooth. Her badge was gone, they’d taken it from her. She would not discover until later that her 9 mm police service revolver was gone.

In the brightly lit ER, trying to explain—something . . .

Trying to explain who she was, why she had to be allowed to leave, why she didn’t want anyone in her family called . . .

I am a police officer. Detective Ines Iglesias. Pascayne PD. My ID is in my . . . My badge . . .

And when she returned to the precinct after several days’ “sick leave” at once she was summoned to the Lieutenant’s office.

Disgusted with her. Could barely bring himself to look at her.

“Clear your desk, Iglesias. You’re out of here.”

So abruptly, Iglesias had barely stepped inside the Lieutenant’s office. The door had not been shut—he hadn’t asked her to shut it.

She was stunned and disbelieving. She wasn’t sure what she had heard.