“JB, is that Lizzy? Is that Lizzy? Get her out! Get her out of there!!”
Just as he rushed to open the door, he was grabbed by a cop. Prez broke his grip and opened the cab door. A deluge of tears rushed down his face as he looked into the cab and saw her. Her body leaned forward, her head against the back of the front seat. “Lizzy, Lizzy!” screamed Prez. Her hair hung in a matted, blood-soaked tangle around her face. Blood dripped from the tips of her hair and settled into a small puddle at her feet. He could only see one of her eyes and it was open, looking far away. Her mouth looked as though she was about to say something. “Somebody call an ambulance, will you? We need an ambulance!” he cried. The red-headed cop rushed over to Prez and Prez evaded his attempt to grab him. “Did you shoot Lizzy, motherfucker?” The cop reached for his throat but he sent the cop to the ground with a powerful kick. Two more cops rushed him and he started blindly punching and kicking while crying hysterically. He was unaware that news crews had arrived on the scene and that Fitzgerald had one in tow as he rushed over and stood between him and the cops shouting, “stop assaulting my client!”
Fitzgerald stood in front of Prez and said, “Son, whoever you are, stop. You won’t bring her back, son. Listen to me. Stop.”
Prez cried like he had not cried since his father’s death. The grief gripped his stomach and twisted it so that he began to heave and vomit all over the street. He dropped to his knees and wailed and moaned and held his stomach. Nobody moved, not Fitzgerald and not the cops. His grief was so intense, even a couple of the white cops came up to the attorney to ask who the dead white girl was to this wracked-up nigger. Fitzgerald said to Prez, “Look, they will cuff you and book you. What’s your name so I can represent you?”
With tears filling his mouth he managed to say, “Preston Coleman Downs, Junior.”
“Just be calm. Calm down. I’ll be down at the station within the hour to get you out. Calm down, okay? The girl in the cab, who was she?”
“The most beautiful girl you’d ever want to know, Lisbeth Beckert. She’s from England. Those are her friends over there.”
“Did you say she’s British?”
Fitzgerald looked around at the horde of cops and said, “I think you boys have just gotten yourselves into a bigger jam than you’ll know how to get out of. If I were you, I would tread lightly from here on out. You just killed a British citizen. Who’s in charge? Oh, I know. Where is he?” Fitzgerald looked around then walked over and spoke calmly to an officer wearing a Police Commander badge, who started to argue obnoxiously. Prez heard the attorney use the phrase “international incident” and the commander shut up, hung his head, and nodded.
44
The Next Morning, A Saturday
“We have received reports this morning that Gabriel Turner, the leader of the radical Black People’s Party, lies in a coma at Cook County Hospital after having been shot by Chicago police last night. The State’s Attorney’s office said the officers were attempting to execute a search warrant when Mr. Turner pulled a weapon from his bag. A leader of the radical Puerto Rican People’s Party, also reportedly armed, was killed in the exchange of gunfire. And a member of the Bricks, the criminal South Side street gang, was wounded and remains in critical condition. A young British exchange student, Lisbeth Beckert, was also shot dead as she sat in a taxicab near the scene. Commander Bronson, who led the police team, issued the following statement: ‘Police are testing the gun found on Gabriel Turner. We believe the British student was killed by bullets fired from that weapon. Lisbeth Beckert was an innocent bystander. Our condolences go out to her family.’”
Prez got up from the floor of the hospital waiting room and stretched his legs. He didn’t bother to ask anyone if they minded him turning off the TV. He just walked over and turned it off. He had come straight to the hospital after being released by the police that morning. He wanted to be there with Gabe’s family. They were very dignified people who handled the situation with a painful stoicism. They still had not been allowed to see Gabe and the only word about his condition was from a little African-American nurse who behaved as if she had to sneak around each time she came into the waiting room.
Strangely, Prez wasn’t tired or hungry. He was too lethargic to feel his anger. He sat on the hard floor in a corner trying to hide from himself. A deep chill had set into his bones. His breathing was so loud in his own head that he felt deaf to the outside world. He wanted to scream but could not find his voice. He wanted to stand but could not find his legs, until Professor Mackey walked in with Jenny and Percy. The three of them looked so fresh and clean. But then they had not spent the night curled up on a cold, filthy jail floor contemplating the meaning of life through the lens of their anticipated mortality like he had. Nor had they spent nervous hours sequestered in a hospital room like Gabe’s family worrying about whether he would live or die.
“Professor Mackey, the news reports on television are lies. I was there. JB and Percy were there. We can testify.”
“Have any idea where Fitzgerald is now?” asked the professor.
“He’s over at the courthouse,” said Gabe’s brother. “He’s got between twelve and sixteen cases.”
“This is Gabe’s family,” said Prez and he began to introduce them.
“I really need to speak to Fitzgerald,” said the professor. “He says he is obtaining a court order to prevent my students here from boarding a plane to go home. We’re being told they can’t leave because they are needed as material witnesses.”
“That sounds about right,” said Gabe’s brother, who was in the midst of studying for his bar exam. “But you do want to stay, don’t you?” Gabe’s brother looked at Percy and Jenny. “Your testimony before the coroner and the grand jury would be very important, perhaps vital.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said the professor. “They are exchange students and should be allowed to go home!”
Gabe’s family looked at the professor with dismay.
“I just told you a few minutes ago,” said Prez, “that we—me, JB and Percy—we need to testify about what happened. They can’t leave.”
The waiting room door opened, and in a whoosh of air Fitzgerald came through the door with a doctor in tow.
The doctor, a tall man with a mop of shaggy graying hair that hung about his face, said to Mr. and Mrs. Turner, “Your son is resting. We removed a total of four bullets from his body. Miraculously, none struck a vital organ. He’ll need time to fully recover, but I am confident he will.”
“The good doctor and I go way back,” said Fitzgerald. “As soon as they brought Gabriel in, paraffin tests were run on Gabriel’s hands and sleeves. I’ve got a copy of the results right here.” Fitzgerald tapped his briefcase. “He never fired a weapon.”
“None of us did,” said Prez. “None of us had weapons.”
Fitzgerald pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “The police are going to claim that they found a weapon in a bag belonging to Gabriel Turner. This single entry from their police report will be enough for a grand jury to issue an indictment. That’s what this is about. They are trying to deplete Mr. Turner’s family’s, organization’s and supporters’ energy and resources by entangling them in expensive and lengthy legal actions and litigation. This same single sheet of paper will lead to the acquittal of my client. They were too hasty. A serial number is recorded for the gun.”
“And what does that mean, about the serial number?” asked Professor Mackey.
“It means the history of manufacture and ownership of the weapon is discoverable. There is a single significant caveat that I have already accounted for. I filed an inquiry as to whether the number has ever been recorded as stolen.” He pulled another sheet of paper from his briefcase and held it up. “It had not. It therefore has a live, unbroken history that you can bet your bottom dollar will lead straight back to the police.”
“Maybe if the Bl
ack People’s Party wasn’t running around spreading their nonsense about socialism and revolution, none of this would have happened,” blurted the professor.
Gabriel’s mother walked right up to Professor Mackey and looked up at him. “The police murdered a lot of youngsters last night. And you want to place the blame on my son? Let me tell you something, Professor Jambon, yes, I know what they call you. And I don’t care. You can fuck whoever you want, but you cannot—you will not—fuck over my son’s reputation. You will not impugn his integrity. You should be ashamed. Who the hell are you, anyway?”
And that was the question that had long been lodged in Prez’s mind like a pesky, painful, barely visible splinter stuck under his fingernail.
45
The Monday Morning After
Professor Mackey drove his little MG back to his apartment in exactly the manner he told Preston Downs not to—like he was in the Le Mans motor race. He was so angry. He was fed up. It was not until late Sunday evening that he finally got a return call from his control, Agent Wicker.
“Hello? Oh, so you finally give me the respect of a return call. I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”
When Mackey stormed into his office Lester Wicker, his big round-bellied Alabamian FBI handler had two mugs of freshly brewed aromatic coffee on his desk.
Before Mackey could open his mouth, Wicker started. “Don’t go ballistic on me. Let me talk. I’ve looked into the matter and it was one big disaster. Our guys were perfectly coordinated and performed perfectly. It was the local varsity squad who failed because they let a junior varsity player on the field. We’re still trying to figure out how that big dumb red fuck was even there.”
“You need to cut your half-assed sports analogies. This is not a game. A girl, one of my students, was shot to death.”
“We’re all very sorry about that. Even Washington.”
That last phrase enraged Mackey and he fought for control. He needed to be the consummate unattached professional.
“So, what’s the next move? What will Washington do now?”
“About the girl? Washington is handling that through diplomatic channels.”
“Diplomatic channels?! That’s what you think this is about?! Shit, Wicker!”
“Stop screaming. Somebody might hear you.”
“What?” Mackey laughed loud and hard. “Somebody might hear me?!”
Mackey quieted and there was a long period of strained silence.
“Alright, listen. We can’t lose sight of the ultimate mission,” said Wicker.
“Yeah, to get inside the other team’s locker room.”
“More than that, remember?”
“To make sure our guy is captain or co-captain.”
“That can still happen, you know. This may be the ideal time for that with the big cheese out with injuries.”
“Well, ‘our guy’ smells a rat. C’mon, you guys told me his IQ was 130 or 140 or something. You already know he’s smart. He’s also very tough and very street-smart. More worrisome is his moral character—it’s in the fucking stratosphere. You still think you can play him?”
“Like an eager backup called off the bench! He’s still here, isn’t he? Something is keeping him here. It’s that moral character you just mentioned, that’s his weakness. Trust me. Initially, this looked like the worst fuckup, but our end game is now more in play than ever. You won’t let socialist radicalism take root in Dr. King’s movement, will you?”
“Fuck you, cracker. You don’t care anything about Dr. King or the Afro-American community.” What is he not telling me? Mackey wondered.
“But we both know that black radicalism is a snake that needs its head cut off. And us, we’re on the same team. Team America. Right? Say something.”
“Cut off the head and the body will die. Is that it, Wicker? That’s Washington’s strategy?’
The next day, Monday, news was broadcast that Gabriel Turner was recovering well but still not able to attend court. He needed more intensive physiotherapy than initially, though. The Chicago Defender newspaper reported that a Jewish philanthropic foundation was paying for his medical costs and physiotherapy.
*
“They went through hell during the European Holocaust,” said Professor Mackey later that Monday morning while meeting with Jenny and Prez. Percival was nowhere to be found. “And then they were persecuted again here in this country during the McCarthy era, which is really current events because it’s not that long ago that the Hollywood blacklisting stopped. More importantly, the primary feature of McCarthyism was the creation of the modern American postwar police state. Left-wing, liberal, Afro-American, Native American, labor and immigration rights groups became the targets of constant surveillance, infiltration, agent-provocateur activity, and general state repression. And that is still definitely going on, so I’m sure Jewish people can relate to the situation that Afro-Americans are in.
“Our program finds itself in a bit of a bind. A very important source of financing has given notice that next summer’s participation by their fund is in doubt. Without going into details, the feds match these funds dollar for dollar to make this program possible.”
“What does that mean exactly?” asked Jenny.
“Best case, an immediate cessation of student exchanges. Worse case, the whole program is shut down. I have not told the rest of your course-mates because I have not received official notice regarding any of this.”
“This is sudden, isn’t it?” asked Prez.
The professor fidgeted. “It often is. The feds have decided other stuff needs to be funded. Where fed money goes, private funds follow.”
“But all of this is supposed to be under the auspices of the War on Poverty, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Downs.”
“Why does the War on Poverty have the effect of being a war on the poverty-stricken?”
“I’m an academic, not a politician. What I need from you both is a written account of what happened the night Miss Beckert was shot. I need a full account of the entire evening and not just that tragic event. Everything you saw and everything you heard, and placed within the requisite conceptual and analytical framework of the course. Not fewer than one thousand words.”
Jenny and Prez looked at each other.
“You were against us making any sort of statement before.” said Jenny.
“And now you want to make it into some sort of a course assignment?” said Prez.
“I know it sounds perverse,” said Mackey. “But believe me, what you write will begin a genuine academic inquiry into how police power is still being used to suppress Afro-American self-determination.”
Prez had never heard him use that phraseology before. It was straight from Bill Epton’s pamphlet, Black Self-determination and was rooted in the notion that African-Americans were never given the opportunity to exercise their right to consent to the American form of government, and should be afforded that opportunity through plebiscite, a sort of modern African-American Constitutional Convention like the whites had in Pennsylvania in 1787.
Jenny said, “Sorry professor, but Lizzy literally had her brains blown out by your coppers and you think the remedy is academic?”
“And what happened to Percy?” said Prez. “He’s just up and disappeared?”
“Ask Miss Broadwell. She sleeps in his bed every night.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Jenny. “You may be the course instructor but you are way out of line. How dare you? My personal life is none of your business.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. We’re all under a lot of stress. Please accept my apology.”
Prez sat trying his best to hold his face still. There was no way he wanted either of them to glimpse his ballooning distrust. He wondered why the hell Jenny didn’t know where Percy was. But more troublesome was the question of how the professor knew
intimate details about Jenny.
“What I’d really like to research and write about is the money; where it comes from and where it ends up. It’s a federally funded program so Washington controls the purse strings. And Jenny here, she’s here because of coordination between two governments, not two academic institutions. This isn’t a secret is it, the money trail?”
“Of course not,” replied the professor, too emphatically. “Let me give it some thought. It would be better to develop that line of inquiry within the context of your work on the dynamics of neighborhood groups as you’ve already started. It would not be wise to simply discard all that.”
“Oh, I have no intention of discarding anything. And you are so right, it does fit in. Early on I observed meaningful discrepancies in the federal resources the Bricks seemed to have access to versus what the Kobras and K-Knights have access to. Why would the guys on the South Side be given more than the guys on the West Side when as far as I can tell their educational, employment, and business opportunities are equally abysmal?”
“What have you learned, Downs?”
“Just that The Woodlawn Organization gets money straight from Washington as part of Washington’s ghetto empowerment initiative. The money TWO gets goes straight to Uncle and the Bricks.”
As he and Jenny left Professor Mackey’s office Prez noticed how tense she was.
“Thinking about Percy?” he asked.
“Everything, Preston. What happened at the club, Lizzy getting killed, testifying.”
He hugged her and she started crying. They walked over to a bench and he sat her down. She cried more.
“There is a lot of, how would you call it, ‘shit going down.’ And it’s all mixed up,” Jenny said finally. “It’s more than the proverbial right hand not knowing what the left hand is doing. One hand doesn’t want the other to know and vice versa. There’s been a bit of a war declared and the smell of bloody flesh and the certainty of victory are making the expectant victors selfishly reckless. If Lizzy had not been killed, what happened that night would have been merely a grotesque comedy of errors.”
Exile Blues Page 25