by JJ Partridge
Artemus Vose, in a quilted parka and his leonine head topped by a Cats baseball cap, was suddenly standing next to me. He had watched the Sports Complex rally on the interconnect but had turned it off before the unexpected appearance of the Black Posse; I told him what I had seen as we walked to the steps of College Hall. I didn’t have to see his face to know his expression didn’t change. The drumbeat was now louder as we took our position; the marchers had to be turning on to Waterman Street from Thayer, which meant that the vanguard would be through the College Arch in a minute or two to join those on the rapidly filling terrace. “Okay,” I asked Vose, “what are we supposed to do?”
“We wait, listen, and follow the crowd to President’s House where Danby expects to address them unless something really serious happens here, in which case, I make the call.” He pulled out a cell phone and then put it back in his coat pocket. “That’s his decision,” he said with a sigh that was almost drowned out by the pounding drum as marchers, marked by clusters of flickering dots of light, emerged from under the College Arch, followed by the banner and sign carriers, more candleholders in twos and threes, and finally, those who had joined the march empty-handed. Counting the new arrivals, I estimated the total crowd at no more than four or five hundred, many fewer than I had expected. The Black Posse had not put in an appearance.
“Manageable,” I remarked to Vose as Martine Danby approached the podium. Had the campus been emptied by the threat of The Stalker? Or was it apathy? Or the other attractions of a Saturday night?
A bearded white student, dressed like someone from the Beat Generation in his black turtleneck shirt, black leather jacket, black beret, and goatee approached the podium. After feedback squeals from the address system, he shouted, “Yesss!” pumped his arms, and rocked back from the mike. Again, “Yesss!” and this time, a few in the crowd responded with shouts of encouragement. When they quieted down, he congratulated all for their show of solidarity with Jesse Kingdom and “the women of Carter,” declaring that Jesse Kingdom’s battle was a cause for all of “Young America.” After a few more yells, whistles, and, belatedly, drumbeats, he introduced the three arrested demonstrators—they were “heroes,” “committed to change,” “victims,” and “examples”—and they took the applause holding each other’s hands high over their heads in solidarity. Next, he introduced Latoya Chapin.
I half-expected a repeat of her Journal interview. Instead, in a voice that trembled but never broke, she had a simple message. “Don’t let it happen to you. Don’t be fooled. Don’t have a false sense of security. Don’t let someone else try to protect you—because only you can protect you.” Her thin voice cracked as she recounted her feelings of shame, her terror at the forceful invasion of her body, and asked the males present to try to imagine being the victim of an act of rape. When she stepped back from the microphone into the arms of friends, there wasn’t a sound and I got a sense that raw emotions were gripping the crowd. Somebody started to applaud, and in seconds, everyone joined in; no whistles or drums, only clapping and yells of support.
The restless crowd was probably at a critical point; it would either slink away sullenly or be led as Martine Danby stepped to the microphone.
“There’s one more stop,” she began. Her father had asked her to invite the students to President’s House, she said, in a voice growing stronger. “He’s on the line for me, for you, for all of us. Our committee thought it was right not only to demonstrate that we care—not just about Jesse Kingdom’s cause but also about our University and what’s happening here. My father knows what racism is.” She let that sink in. “He needs your support. Not only to make the University better but also to bring an end to The Stalker. He should see that it makes a difference to us, too.” The crowd’s uncertain response was a low murmur, along with a few isolated shouts of support. “Hear his words! Join us. Join Latoya. Support the black women of Carter. Make up your own minds!” she challenged, left the podium, and walked down the terrace steps followed by Latoya and others. As she reached the first rank of the crowd, the bass drum boomed and hip-hop exploded out of the terrace’s speakers.
Vose looked at me with arched eyebrows, nodded as though he had his answer, and we started across The Green as most of the kids—I could see now that it was largely a female crowd—coalesced behind Martine, heading for the South Gate. Then, a campus thing happened; a young male took over the microphone and, trying to outshout the music, began a hysterical and maybe drunken, confession about his participation in a date rape. He went on until, mercifully, someone slipped up behind him and turned off the mike. His interruption had not broken Martine’s progress nor the enthusiasm of the bass drum nor the clapping of those she passed. I found myself ready to applaud; Vose touched my arm to shush me and we followed the crowd through South Gate.
Dwayne McAllister joined us as the marchers turned onto dormitory-lined Carter Street; he had been at the rally and at the rear of the march. “So far, so good,” he said.
From the Quads came noise, music, and laughter through open doors and windows—this was Saturday night after all. Not surprisingly, the parade picked up additional kids. One or two snowballs were tossed at the marchers, maybe as a compelling target, not in rancor. With the drum marking our cadence in a resonance that surely could be heard and felt for blocks, the march had almost attained a festive mood as we neared President’s House. When Martine and her group turned on to Gower Street, they visibly hesitated until the crowd’s momentum swept them around the corner. The drumbeat abruptly ceased. Puzzled, we looked at one another and pushed our way forward.
The Black Posse, arms raised and hands rolled into fists, filled the sidewalk, front walkway, and the five steps up to the entryway of President’s House. Its scowling leader stood under its entry light, a bullhorn close to his mouth; next to him was a not-at-all concerned Charles Danby in a dark sweater under an open Carter warmup jacket, encouraging arriving marchers to approach the steps. McAllister left us to barrel his way forward up to the chain of Posse members until he was halted by Danby’s upraised hand. Not a security officer nor cop was in sight.
No question, a whiff of confrontation was present. A few in the march left despite Danby’s vigorous, arm-waving welcome. Vose took the cell phone from his pocket and was punching numbers, which I presumed were for Tuttle, when I put my hand on his wrist. Maybe I was wrong but the faces of some of the Posse members appeared to have relaxed since I saw them on television, maybe because some of the black women in the march called out to them and mixed with the young men. Martine squirmed through their barrier to join her father on the porch, embracing him, producing scattered whoops of approval from the uneasy crowd.
Vose’s cell phone was at the ready as we found a place on the lawn of the Episcopal Bishop’s gray stucco mansion across the street from President’s House where we could see and hear everything and still be out of the way. Danby appeared to be very much in control; he said something which caused his do-ragged guest to reluctantly pass the bullhorn to him. Martine attempted to pull the bullhorn from her father who, playfully tugged it back, then gave in and handed it to her. She raised the bullhorn above her head in triumph, earning the crowd’s approval. The girl had style! Only the Black Posse on the steps of the house maintained their attitude; those members on the sidewalk were now stamping their feet in the cold, talking to the girls and friends among the marchers, giving every appearance of being ready to join them. McAllister remained close, looming above them.
Martine raised the bullhorn to her mouth, praised the students for coming, smiled, and gave it back to her father. Danby waited for the crowd to settle. His “friends,” he said, obviously referring to the Black Posse, had heard his remarks a few minutes earlier so he would spare their ears and they were welcome to wait inside the house. At that, he opened its door, revealing sparkling lights in the crystal chandelier in the front hall. His gesture caught the self-appointed guardians on the steps by surprise; there was uncertainty among them as
to how to maintain “presence,” although not one accepted his invitation.
Then, Danby took over.
With his arms punctuating every point, he described growing up in Philadelphia with Jesse Kingdom. He had known mean streets, he had known cold, poverty, and discrimination. He praised them for their solidarity against violence, even complimenting the Black Posse which caused a few high-fives and some head-bopping among its members before he got to the heart of his message: brotherhood against racism and violence, common sense against a common enemy, the real boogiemen being ignorance and despair. He was mesmerizing. He was simply himself, as Kingdom had been, and I wondered how that Philadelphia neighborhood had produced two orators like Danby and Kingdom. If I had any doubt before, it was gone: Carter University had a leader who could break down campus barriers, turn youthful passions into lifetime missions, and provide the sense of community, pride, and leadership it sorely needed.
His message finished in applause, shouts, whistles, and the upbeat tempo of the drum. Even the Black Posse caught the mood as heads and shoulders bobbed and arms pumped; only their leader remained sullen. Martine hugged her father, producing extended ta booms from the drum; all were welcome to stay, he said, and “dialogue” but I thought it was clear the kids were through with tonight’s commitment to virtue. Martine kissed her father and went down the steps through the Black Posse and into the crowd, which rapidly dispersed toward the campus. The Black Posse’s leader started down the steps but Danby took him by the arm and said something that produced a grin, a shake of the head, and a high-five.
“In loco parentis,” I said to Vose, who let that go by without rejoinder.
We watched the Black Posse regroup on the sidewalk and noisily shuffle off toward the campus. “Where?” I wondered aloud as Danby motioned to us to come inside. Vose, true to form, held off, saying he was going home; McAllister, clearly relieved and in an upbeat mood, said he was going back to his office, so I was alone when I followed Danby to the family room at the rear of the house. He squinted at my facial bruises and, again, I dissembled. Danby, fortunately, was too pumped up to inquire further; he checked his watch and said, “Can’t believe it’s only ten-thirty.” He opened a cabinet to a shelf of bottles and a tray of glasses. I asked for a Scotch and he poured two Johnny Walker Golds and handed me a glass. I declined ice. Danby looked both fatigued and happy. “I gather Jesse was at his best tonight,” and he raised his glass in salute.
“It was as though he had a script from Junior,” I replied.
“Well, I can assure you that he didn’t, but we did talk a bit today.” His eyes narrowed. “You seemed to have made your own impression on him.” I was flattered by that and took a seat on the sofa; he slumped in a recliner. The Scotch tasted good and it hit my empty stomach with a smack. “Bringing his people up here,” he continued, “right in the middle of The Stalker’s mess, would have made it impossible for Security and the police, ... and maybe dangerous.”
I swirled the Scotch inside the glass. There was no need to comment.
“Well, it’ll be interesting to see how this all plays out. Jesse Kingdom on campus, the march, The Stalker still out there, the press.… Sonny Russo called me yesterday morning. You would think he’d have his mind on the snow cleanup but it was on me. Let me know his views on the state of our relationship. ‘Shitty,’ he called it, so long as Kingdom is welcome on campus. That was when I decided on the rally at the Sports Complex, something I had been thinking about. ‘Shitty,’ and that was before he knew about my friendship with Jesse. Sonny thinks that I’m personally pissing inside his tent. Threatened the usual—the man knows no bounds.”
I sipped my drink and didn’t comment. Perhaps my silence signaled my unease about not having participated in his decision on Kingdom’s rally because he began to explain it. “I felt it had to happen. You would have wanted checkmarks in all the little boxes in your Event Plan. Jesse made it clear to me that he would come alone, and that he knew what he had to say. Also, I figured Tuttle would be better able to control problems inside a huge, enclosed place like the Sports Complex. And Saturday night? I was trying to raise the kids’ consciousness of The Stalker problem. Hard to pick on one when there are three or four hundred in the group.” He looked at me over the rim of his drink. “The Black Posse was a surprise. Thank God for the campus interconnect. When they showed up, I was ready and, you might say I disarmed them.” He grinned. “I was hoping they’d stay until the marchers arrived, and when they did ..., well, it all fell together.”
He raised his glass to me. “Whew! But never again without my counsel’s advice. I’ve been wetting my drawers, figuratively speaking, of course!”
I relaxed, and raised my glass to clink his.
“And now, it’s up to the kids, Security, and the cops. If The Stalker is out there, there’s no better night to nab him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The late game on ESPN, 76ers at Lakers, was viewed with the Johnny Walker, a water carafe, an ice bucket, and an extra large bag of Annie’s Cheddar Cheese Popcorn on the table between us. Near the end of the first quarter, I telephoned Nadie at the Women’s Center and she agreed—consented would be the right word—to join our vigil. At eleven, Danby surfed the late news on all three local channels, and the coverage wasn’t that bad—clips of Kingdom, the candlelight march to The Green, brief glimpses of Martine on Channel 13 and Channel 7, a lot of chatter about the relationship between City Hall and the University—until our channel flipping hit a Channel 11 interview with Latoya Chapin.
It was painful to watch. She barely held back her tears as the reporter snapped a series of loaded questions like “will you ever be the same” and “why doesn’t the University support you”. At the interview’s conclusion, the anchor added that Channel 11 would be on “stakeout” all night at the Carter campus. This produced snorts from both of us since the media was ensconced in the comfortable surroundings of the Information Office, with the delights of hot food, a refrigerator, and a bar to ease discomfort.
Around eleven-thirty, a doorbell rang, and I followed Danby into the back hall off the kitchen to answer it. Nadie, in a black wool walking coat and red tam, was on the tiny back porch in silhouette against the floodlit driveway. She tucked the tam in her coat pocket, handed her coat to Danby, and fluffed her hair; she looked put-together in olive corduroy slacks and a dark green turtleneck, with gold hoop earrings that I hadn’t seen before. I made a cautionary remark about her walking the four blocks from the Women’s Center alone, which she ignored.
We returned to the family room. Danby asked her if she wanted anything to drink; she asked for a Frangelica on ice and reported that the “word” was that many of Carter’s black women were away for the weekend while those remaining on campus were socializing in groups. The campus escort service was busy, she added, the women who had been in the march were likely to hang together, and she had seen a half-dozen Security Office and police cars on her walk over here. The Stalker, she concluded as the buzzer sounded for the second half, was going to have to search for a victim who hadn’t been paying attention. What she didn’t have to add was that there were plenty of likely candidates.
Danby, I quickly learned, was a rabid Sixers fan and was enjoying the duel between Kobe Bryant and Allen Iverson who were attacking each other as though it was a playoff game instead of the season’s first meeting. Nadie had her nose in a magazine. Twice during the third quarter, the telephone rang: Vose checking in and Tuttle reporting that the campus and its environs were well-patrolled and quiet, with a scattering of parties going on at fraternities and around the Quads. The Black Posse, he said, had ended up at a black fraternity house, mostly making noise, but occasionally providing escorts for black women party goers. “Can’t hurt,” he concluded.
The next call was to Nadie’s cell phone. Nadie listened for a few seconds and said resignedly, “Okay, I’ll be right over. Thanks.” She put the cell phone away and said, “Nothing too important. We’ve
got a case of hysteria at Student Health, and I’m on call.”
Danby left us to retrieve her coat. Since I was feeling sheepish about how we had left each other yesterday, I was relieved when she gave my forehead a light kiss, and smiled, straightening up quickly as Danby returned. “It’s never as bad as they think. I’ll just look in for a few moments before I go home.”
I checked my watch. “Let me call Escort, or better yet, I’ll walk back with you ....”
“Finish the game. Anyway, you’re both probably going to be up late. I promise to be a good girl and walk right down the middle of the street the whole way.” She slipped on her coat and adjusted the tam to a jaunty angle. With a wan smile at me, she said “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if this was the last Saturday night you had to camp out like this?” I followed her into the kitchen and I kissed her—this time the passion was there—and she said, “See you later,” as she let herself out into the darkness.
Back in the family room, I found Danby shaking a bag of Cape Cod potato chips into a bowl and saying something about Kobe’s last drive to the basket—when the coin dropped: the driveway! Nadie had walked into pitch black; when she arrived, the driveway had been brightly lit by floodlights over the garage doors! No one had been in the kitchen to turn the lights off since she arrived. So how—?
I rushed back to the kitchen, opened the outer door, and careened around the porch into the driveway. I called “Nadie!” but there was no response. Only the meager light from the kitchen gave any visual definition to the house and driveway.
Danby caught up to me. “What’s going on?” he said, his voice booming over a wind that had picked up to a howl in the past hour. Feeling a little embarrassed, I explained about the driveway lights as we went back inside and tried the switch next to the door. It was up. I pressed it down. Nothing happened. Up again, and down. The driveway remained dark.