by Steve Berry
I ask what I really want to know. “What do you think? Is it time to tell the world?”
“I’ve thought about that these past few years. The movement opened doors. That’s true. Doors that had once not even existed. But that has mainly been for the black elite and middle class. The Civil Rights, Voting Rights, and Fair Housing Acts created a whole list of new freedoms that they were able to take advantage of.”
“And the poor?”
“Exactly. The poor. The inner city. The disadvantaged. Little has changed for them. More to the point, they seemed to have become demonized. It’s easy to beat up on poor people, and it comes from both sides of the political aisle. Look what Clinton did in the 1990s. He caved to the Republican Congress and signed welfare reform, which did nothing but create even more poor people. The poor no longer have a champion. So they wallow in poverty, with few jobs, even fewer opportunities. It’s not hard to see why they decide to kill one another. Black-on-black violence seems epidemic. For me, there’s no doubt that Martin’s dream remains unfulfilled.”
I, too, had thought about that question on the flight from Denmark, knowing that was why I’d been summoned. For eighteen years I have kept the secret, lying to Stephanie, never revealing what I possess nor what I know. Now here I am, inside the childhood home of Martin Luther King Jr., faced with a decision.
“We all made a serious mistake,” Foster says. “Myself included. After Martin died, we grieved him into perfection. That was something he never anticipated. The love and respect people felt easily allowed them to elevate him to a lofty perch. Nearly every town in this country has a street or boulevard named for him. His birthday is a national holiday. To criticize him has come to be regarded as treasonous to the black race. Which is odd, considering that, in his life, he dealt far more with criticism than with praise. We all forgot that his faults, and he had many, only emphasized his humanity. His shortcomings, which we all possess, made him real. He was no saint. But he was a savior.”
“Why are we here?” I ask.
“I’ve lived with the pain of my friend’s death for fifty years, and the pain of my daughter’s for nearly twenty. I don’t want to live with either any longer. I did not pull the trigger when you left my house because I made a pledge to Martin. He gave his life and he asked me to give mine, only in a different way. He wanted me to live to see this day. All right. I’ve kept that pledge. When nothing was ever publicly revealed, I realized that you were keeping that pledge, too.”
We stand in silence for a few moments.
“My daughter never had the chance to experience a full life,” he mutters. “She never knew the joy of raising a child of her own, and that was all my fault. If I’d only made the deal with Valdez and traded the coin for the files, then burned the files, none of it would have ever happened. But I foolishly thought myself capable of controlling events. I thought I was in charge. I thought my refusal was more than enough. How wrong I was.”
I can see where this is headed.
Which has been a long time coming.
“Martin was right about me,” he said. “I was never meant to be a captain.”
“No. You’re a general. He trusted you with the most important decision he ever made. He chose you to make sure it all could be possible. And you didn’t disappoint him. You did exactly what he wanted. And look what you became. A husband. Father. Respected minister. He was right about you. He knew you better than you knew yourself.”
“A part of me wishes I never met him.”
I hear the defeatism and know it’s over. “Are you ready for me to leave?”
He nods. “Thank you for telling me what happened. I wanted to know. I appreciate you coming. Take the tapes and the flash drive and decide what needs to happen on this fiftieth anniversary. You’ve done well so far. I trust you to make the right call.”
No sense arguing, so I retrieve the four items from the side table and head for the door, my footsteps muffled on a thin rug that covers the hardwood.
“Take care,” Foster says.
I stop, turn back, and say, “You, too.”
I leave, gently closing the door behind me. The Atlanta skyline looms a few miles away, lit to the night. Sweet Auburn rests quietly around me. I descend the porch steps and find the sidewalk, turning left, straddling Auburn Avenue. A few cars pass on the street.
I hear a bang.
Deadened by wooden walls.
I stop and stare back at the King home.
Benjamin Foster is gone.
To my knowledge I am now the only one left alive who knows anything. Not a word has ever been heard from Bruce Lael. Dead or alive? No one knows. I still hold the cassette, the two reel tapes, and the flash drive in my left hand.
I trust you to make the right call.
I keep walking, crossing an intersection and reentering the grounds for the King Center. I turn and follow the concrete path around to the rear. A large lit pool with fountains separates the buildings. One, the King Library and Archives, holds the largest repository of primary source materials on Martin Luther King Jr. and the American civil rights movement in the world. All of King’s papers, along with those of the SCLC and other major civil rights organizations, are there. Preserved for all time. So many had tried to silence those voices, but they failed.
I keep walking—no one else is around at this early hour—following the pool toward its far end. After King died he was carried on a farm wagon, drawn by mules, to a local Atlanta cemetery. Eventually, his remains were moved here, to the institute that bore his name, lying alongside his wife, Coretta. Georgia marble had been used to construct their crypt, which sits in the center of the glistening pool, a timeless acknowledgment of the man’s simple southern roots. I stop and stare at the crypt, the white marble lit to the night, and the inscription.
REV. MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.
1929–1968
“FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST,
THANK GOD ALMIGHTY
I’M FREE AT LAST.”
Sure, there’s been great progress in race relations. The elimination of Jim Crow, the end of separate but equal, school integration, fair housing, equal employment. History has shown that, beyond Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr. did more to bring about social change than anyone in American history. His motivations, though questioned during his life, became clear after death. Without a doubt King walked a fine line between morality and politics. But by and large, he’d been successful keeping to the high road. His legacy is exactly as Foster had said. Hope and curiosity. I’ve read many books on his life and work. Along the way I came across something he once said that seems fitting tonight. A nation or civilization that continues to produce soft-minded men purchases its own spiritual death on an installment plan.
Benjamin Foster had not been soft-minded.
Instead, he’d assumed an awful responsibility, thrust on him by a man who could not be denied.
I wonder what King would think of us today?
The unemployment rate for minorities hovers at three times that of whites. The net worth of an African American is $6,000, compared with $110,000 for a white. The average medium income for black households stays $55,000 or more below that for whites. An epidemic of shocking deaths has given rise to a Black Lives Matter movement, reminiscent of something King himself would have organized. Poverty continues to reign. Little has been done to combat it, which King surely would have found horribly disappointing.
And not just in America.
But around the world.
There is nothing new about poverty. What is new is that we have the resources to get rid of it.
King’s words.
Wise then and now.
I stare hard at the crypt, seeking answers. What would be gained by revealing what I know? Those who oppose King would still oppose him, and those who support him might find their faith challenged. Would they feel manipulated? Used? Or would they recognize the sacrifice he’d made? And that was precisely what it had been. The ul
timate sacrifice.
King gave his life, so his message would live on.
And it has.
Every movement requires a hero.
No matter how unlikely or unwilling.
I turn from the grave and see the eternal flame burning behind me. I step close and read the plaque at its base.
THE ETERNAL FLAME SYMBOLIZES
THE CONTINUING EFFORT TO REALIZE
DR. KING’S IDEALS FOR THE
“BELOVED COMMUNITY”
WHICH REQUIRES LASTING PERSONAL
COMMITMENT THAT CANNOT WEAKEN
WHEN FACED WITH OBSTACLES.
That it does.
Many people would agree that history matters. Truth matters, too. But sometimes things are better left unsaid. Revealing what I know would only spread a dense cloud of smoke around an already burning fire, masking the flames themselves.
And that flame cannot be concealed.
To distract in any way from what King helped start seems pointless. Why fuel the naysayers? The work must go one. Sure, battles have been won, but the war is not over. King gave Foster the sole option of deciding what to do when fifty years had passed.
Now that duty is mine.
I toss all four items I hold into the eternal flame.
The two old magnetic tapes incinerate instantly, the cassette and flash drive take a few moments longer. Soon they’re nothing but charred, melted plastic. Unrecognizable. Useless.
Before walking away I whisper to King and Foster and all of the other restless spirits who surely roam this hollowed place.
Three words.
That could still have meaning.
“Free at last.”
WRITER’S NOTE
The idea for this book has swirled around in my head for more than a decade, but I delayed its writing until 2018 and the fiftieth anniversary of the King assassination. This is also my rookie foray into full length, novel-sized first-person narrative. Always before I’ve utilized several points of view (usually three to five) to tell the story. This time it’s all Cotton, and he and I have become much closer thanks to the experience.
Time now to separate fact from fiction.
This story is a travelogue of Florida, which included Jacksonville, Key West, Port Mayaca, Lake Okeechobee, Palm Beach, Neptune Beach, Melbourne, Stuart, St. Augustine, Starke, Gainesville, Micanopy, Orlando, and Disney World. Of particular note were the Dry Tortugas (chapters 4, 5). If you’ve never visited, it’s definitely worth the trip. There are indeed shipwrecks scattered off the southwest coast of Loggerhead Key (chapter 7). Sadly, Loggerhead no longer appears as described in the novel, since nearly all of its trees were removed by 2001.
A few extra mentions on the locales: Fort Jefferson is faithfully described (chapters 10, 11, 12), including the staff office, grounds, and moat with a barracuda (which I saw firsthand). Seaplanes and boats do come and go from the fort several times each day. O. Brisky Books is there, in Micanopy (chapter 44). With regard to Neptune Beach (just east of Jacksonville) the Sun Dog Diner (chapter 3) is no longer there, but it did exist years ago. The Bookmark, though, was there then and now, owned by Rona and Buford Brinlee. Since 2003, I’ve held an event there with the release of each novel. The cemetery at Port Mayaca (chapter 15) is real, as is the memorial to the victims of the 1928 hurricane. A similar memorial also stands in West Palm Beach, Florida (chapter 15). Outside of Florida, the Martin Luther King Center in Atlanta figures prominently into the story (prologue, epilogue), and that includes the King family home, Ebenezer Baptist Church, burial crypt, and eternal flame.
The 1933 Double Eagle mentioned throughout the novel exists. The coin is the rarest and most valuable in the world (worth many millions), and it remains illegal for anyone to either possess or sell one. Nearly all of the missing coins have been accounted for, but nobody really knows for sure how many disappeared in 1933. If you’d like to see one firsthand, visit the National Numismatic Collection either in person inside the Smithsonian’s American history museum in Washington, DC, or online. An excellent book on the subject is Double Eagle, by Alison Frankel.
Sadly, the FBI’s counterintelligence initiative, COINTELPRO, is not a work of fiction. It existed from the late 1950s until 1972. First designed to root out supposed communist influences, it metamorphosed into perhaps the most corrupt and illegal organization ever created by the U.S. government. Its abuses included burglaries, illegal wiretaps, mail openings, slander, libel, you name it, they did it. Bagmen, who handled the burglaries and illegal wiretaps, like Bruce Lael, were on the payroll (chapter 31). Paid informants and spies were also utilized, several close to King (chapters 25, 34). The destruction of Jean Seberg, described in chapter 39, and publicly admitted to by the FBI in 1979, is but one example of COINTELPRO’s abuse.
The race riots of 1967 (chapter 38) generated great fear throughout the country. That was when Hoover shifted COINTELPRO toward civil rights organizations. The memos dated August 25 and March 4, quoted at the end of chapter 27, are the actual documents (with the actual wording) that ordered the move.
COINTELPRO’s abuses were finally exposed in 1975 by the Church Committee (chapter 14). Things came to light after the daring burglary of a local FBI office in Media, Pennsylvania, on March 8, 1971 (chapter 14). A group of private citizens stole every file in the office and were never caught. That theft revealed myriad instances of corruption, including COINTELPRO and Hoover’s secret files, all of which found its way into the media. An excellent account of that little-known event is The Burglary, by Betty Medsger.
Hoover’s use of a possible communist influence in the civil rights movement as the basis for his illegal surveillance is historic fact. But that ran contrary to a 1963 internal FBI report (mentioned in chapter 21) which concluded that no such communist influences existed. As described in the novel, Hoover rejected that conclusion, and its author (William Sullivan in reality, Tom Oliver in the novel) changed the report, conforming its findings to Hoover’s predetermined (and false) belief.
The accounts of King’s assassination, detailed in chapters 16, 17, and 18, are taken from reality. The only addition is the presence of Benjamin Foster. The details of Eric S. Galt’s (James Earl Ray’s) activities (beginning in chapter 23) from the summer of 1967 until June 1968 are from historical accounts. The only addition was his secret observation and direction by the FBI. The shadowy figure of Raoul (chapter 36) was an invention of James Earl Ray, first mentioned after he recanted his guilty plea in 1968. Through the years the story of Raoul, who supposedly used Ray as a patsy for the murder, changed many times. As did the man’s physical appearance. Even the spelling of the name is clouded in doubt. I used Raoul, but other variations appear in print. No one knows if such a person ever existed. Here, I made him Juan Lopez Valdez.
It is well documented that Ray purchased a rifle in Alabama (chapter 26), then returned it the next day, exchanging it for a more powerful weapon. Ray ultimately claimed that it was Raoul who ordered the switch. To this day, why Ray made the change in weapons remains a mystery.
Ray did in fact stalk King beginning in late March 1968, traveling to Selma, Alabama, on what appeared to be a reconnaissance mission (chapter 44). He then followed King back to Atlanta, where he kept close tabs. An Atlanta city map found among Ray’s possessions after the assassination showed two spots circled. King’s home and the Ebenezer Baptist Church.
Ray was no trained marksman, yet the rifle he used to kill King contained but one shell and only one shot was fired, which struck King in the face. The bullet disintegrated on impact, making it impossible to match the slug to the rifle (chapter 34). Whether the rifle found near the assassination, the one Ray bought in Alabama, was in fact the murder weapon has never been determined. And consider this, as noted in chapter 34: Ray possessed no discernible motive. No fingerprints of his were found in the rooming house where he supposedly stayed. No fingerprints were found in the white Mustang he was driving. An accuracy test on the rifle showed it consistently fi
red both left and below the intended target. And the only eyewitness to place him at the scene was blind drunk at the time, and never made a positive ID until years later.
In addition, Ray’s trip out of Memphis bordered on the miraculous, considering the police sweep that occurred immediately after the murder. The false CB radio report of a car following Ray’s white Mustang, and a gunfire attack on that car, happened (chapter 34). No one knows who orchestrated such a ploy, but it definitely diverted law enforcement and aided Ray’s escape.
Despite one of the largest manhunts in history, Ray managed to stay on the run for two months, finally caught in London’s Heathrow Airport. Ultimately, and never explained to anyone’s satisfaction, Ray pled guilty to murder on the eve of trial (chapter 34), but recanted three days later, starting twenty-one years of ranting in which he maintained his innocence and alleged a grand conspiracy. All of the groups detailed at the end of chapter 34 have, at one time or another, been implicated in those conspiracies.
Nothing has ever been proven.
The Southern Christian Leadership Council (SCLC) stood front and center in the civil rights movement. King served as its president until his death. The civil suit King v. Jowers happened in 1999, the trial far more spectacle than an actual legal proceeding (chapter 18). Its outcome was never in doubt, the finding of an official conspiracy to kill King inevitable considering the slant of the evidence from both sides. No true adversarial court proceeding has ever seriously considered the King assassination. Twice Congress has investigated, but both efforts were tainted by politics. To this day, countless questions remain unanswered.
The operation known as Bishop’s Pawn is all my creation. Except for the two mentioned earlier from chapter 27, the FBI memos (which start in chapter 23) are mine. But I utilized the style, and some of the wording, from actual memos. One phrase that is repeated a lot in those is a confidential source who has furnished reliable information in the past (chapter 27). We now know that those words meant the information came from an illegal wiretap, the nomenclature a covert way to shield that fact. In the context of this novel, it means Benjamin Foster. All of the information contained in the memos from chapter 27 and the conversations in chapters 58 and 61 accurately reflect King’s own words and thoughts. What happened to Jimmie Lee Jackson, James Reeb, and Viola Liuzzo (as described in chapter 61) is fact. We tend to forget, these so many decades later, that people died during the civil rights movement.