Hard Revolution

by George Pelecanos

  “He wanted to speak with you.”

  “Now?”

  Vaughn nodded. “See me when you’re done.”

  Strange went to the block of cells located on the right side of the station. A uniform standing guard let him into the cell that held Dominic Martini. Martini sat on a spring cot covered by a thin mattress, his upswept black hair disheveled, his eyes hollow. One side of his face was purple and misshapen from the punches he’d taken to the jaw.

  Strange leaned his back against the bars and folded his arms.

  “I finally made it,” said Martini, softly, bitterly. “Just like my old man.”

  Strange said nothing.

  “I used to watch the cops go in and out this station,” said Martini. “I acted like I was against them, but really I admired ’em. I wanted to wear a uniform like them, but I never thought I could. Anyway, when I came back from the service, I got asshole tight with Buzz and Shorty again, so . . .”

  Martini stared at the cell wall.

  “I can tell you what’s out there,” said Martini, his eyes fixed on the cinder blocks. “I don’t need no window, ’cause I got it memorized in my head, see? The driveway, the goldfish pond. The fence. Past the fence, that big old oak tree we used to hide behind. Throw rocks at the police and run if we were in the mood to get chased. Officer Pappas, with his little mustache. We used to call him Jacques, you remember?”

  Strange shook his head.

  “You were with me once. You and that heavyset Greek kid. One day you stopped me from throwing a rock at that black cop, Officer Davis.’’

  Strange couldn’t recall much about Martini except for that shoplifting episode they’d had together over at Ida’s. He remembered that Martini liked to fight. He remembered that he had a younger brother who was gentler than him. That was all.

  “How about my kid brother, Angelo?” said Martini. “You remember him?”

  “A little,” said Strange.

  “I used to try and toughen him up, y’know? I made him fight other guys even though he didn’t want to. I tried to make him fight you once, over at Fort Stevens. But you wouldn’t do it.”

  Strange shifted his weight against the bars.

  “That’s right,” said Martini, looking at Strange, seeing the incomprehension on his face. “You wouldn’t fight him, even though you knew you could take him. You did somethin’ good for my brother that day. You weren’t much more than a kid, but you acted like a man. I didn’t forget that, see?”

  Strange said nothing.

  “I never told him that it was all right not to fight. I called him fairy and faggot and every other goddamn thing you can think of his whole life. I should’ve known he’d follow me into the service. Try to prove to his big brother that he was tough enough. But he wasn’t tough. Just good.” A tear broke free from Martini’s eye. “I wonder why they’d ever send a kid like him to war. Angie didn’t want to hurt no one.”

  Strange dropped his arms to his sides and looked down at his shoes.

  “Anyway,” said Martini. “He died. Angelo stepped on a mine. They had him out on point, on his very first recon patrol. For what I don’t know. He wouldn’t have killed no one.” Martini’s eyes had lost their focus. “He stepped on a mine.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Strange.

  “I knew you prob’ly wouldn’t remember none of it,” said Martini. “I just wanted to thank you, is all.”

  Martini lay back on the cot and covered his eyes with his forearm. Strange called for the guard, who came and unlocked the cell door. As Strange walked down the hall of the block, he checked his wristwatch. It was 7:15.

  Vaughn was waiting for him outside the cell block door.

  “What was that all about?”

  “He just wanted to get straight with me on somethin’,” said Strange. “Somethin’ going back to when we were kids.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Not really,” said Strange. “I wouldn’t say I knew him at all. What do you reckon’s gonna happen to him?”

  “Murder One. Doesn’t matter that Martini didn’t pull the trigger in that bank. He’s lucky he was a hundred yards inside the District line, if you wanna call it luck. Anywhere else he’d fry. He’s gonna get life.”

  “What about Stewart?”

  “They put amputees in prison, too. If he lives.”

  “Cripples don’t last long inside.”

  “They buy the full ticket, just the same.”

  Vaughn shook an L&M halfway out of his pack and offered it to Strange. Strange waved it away. Vaughn drew the cigarette the rest of the way out with his mouth and lit it with his Zippo.

  “You ought to call your mother,” said Vaughn. “She might hear about a cop gettin’ shot in your precinct over the radio. She’ll be worried sick, especially living with your brother’s death right now.”

  “I’ll call her.”

  “She okay?”

  “She’s strong.”

  “Good woman.”

  “Yes.”

  “Been a rough couple of days for you, too,” said Vaughn, looking him over.

  “Guess I’ll feel better when my brother’s killer is arrested.”

  “You think so? You think you’re gonna feel better then?”

  “What’re you gettin’ at?”

  “Is that all you want? To see him put in jail?”

  Strange stared into Vaughn’s eyes. “No.”

  “Like I said, I want to help.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Anything new?”

  Strange told him, in detail, about his afternoon. He described his last stop, at the apartment of Kenneth Willis, and how he’d shook Willis down. He told him about his lead on Jones, and the cousin he was staying with over off 7th.

  “Where’s this Ronnie Moses live, exactly?” said Vaughn.

  “I don’t know. I did get a phone number, though. I was planning on getting an address through the number.”

  “You got the number on you?”

  “It’s in my locker.”

  “We’ll Criss-Cross it now,” said Vaughn. “You’re certain about Jones, right?”

  “I don’t have any hard evidence. But I’m certain as I can be.”

  “You carry an unregistered piece?” said Vaughn.

  “No.”

  “I do,” said Vaughn. “You’re gonna need to get one, too.”

  Strange considered stopping Vaughn right then. But he held his tongue.

  They walked together into the squad room. Some officers were grouped around a desk radio, listening to a news broadcast. One of the uniforms, a black rookie named Morris, broke away from the group. His partner, a white cop named Timmons, tried to grab Morris by the arm, but Morris pulled free and stalked out of the room. As he passed, Strange saw anguish on his face. Strange and Vaughn went to the radio and listened to the announcer repeat the bulletin.

  At 6:05 p.m., central standard time, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had been shot in the neck by a sniper while standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee.

  For the next hour, the police officers stayed in the squad room, taking calls and calling loved ones, talking quietly among themselves. Vaughn went outside to the station steps to have a smoke in the night air. Strange phoned his mother, as Vaughn had told him to do. They spoke about the robbery and the awful thing that had happened in Memphis, and she told him she loved him and he told her the same thing. As he hung the phone up the announcer returned to the air.

  Dr. King had been pronounced dead at St. Joseph’s Hospital at 8:05 p.m., eastern standard time. Officer Morris, who had returned to hear the news, punched his fist into the squad room wall. Strange went to the bathroom, where he could be alone.

  On 14th Street, in Shaw, the news came first to a boy who was walking down the sidewalk, carrying a cheap transistor radio on a strap.

  “They killed Dr. King!” he shouted to no one in particular. “They killed Dr. King!”

  People
stopped to look at him as he ran down the street.

  THIRTY

  AS THE NEWS spread by mouth and phone call, people began to turn on their transistor and tabletop radios, and their television sets, to get the details of the King assassination. Many inner-city residents tuned their dials to 1450, the home of soul station WOL. DJ Bob Terry, a familiar, comforting voice to his black audience, urged listeners to reflect on the news in a spiritual way.

  “This is no time to hate,” said Terry. “And let me tell you something, white man . . . you better stop hating, too.”

  After speaking on the phone with leaders in Memphis, black activist Stokely Carmichael went to the SNCC offices on 14th Street, a couple of blocks north of U, and conferred with some of the leaders of its Washington bureau. He proposed a strike that would force closure of area businesses in honor of Dr. King. He reasoned that stores should shut down out of respect, as they had upon the assassination of JFK. While the officers of the SNCC favored some sort of protest, they did not approve of such a drastic move. Carmichael, wearing shades and his trademark fatigue jacket, disregarded their wishes and left the office to begin rounding up supporters who could help him facilitate his strike.

  Soon after, Carmichael and a group of followers entered the Peoples Drug at 14th and U, the site of Tuesday night’s disturbance, and asked the manager to close the store in honor of Dr. King. The manager complied, darkening the lights in the store. Carmichael then led a crowd, now grown to thirty or forty individuals, from shop to shop, going from dry cleaner to liquor store to barbershop, speaking to the owners or managers on shift, telling them all to close up shop. All complied.

  The crowd then headed east on U. A light drizzle had begun, not uncommon on an April night.

  The owner of the Jumbo Nut Shop, a woman, was asked to lock her doors. Ushers and box office attendants at the Republic Theater were told to terminate their first evening showing. A couple of Carmichael’s followers walked into the auditorium of the Lincoln Theater and shouted to the audience, watching Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, telling them that their evening at the movies was done. The houselights came up, and patrons abandoned their seats.

  At 9:30, someone shattered the plate-glass window of the Peoples Drug.

  The Reverend Walter Fauntroy, chairman of the Washington City Council and a close confidant to Dr. King, watched the trouble begin from the second-floor offices of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, next to the Peoples Drug. He went down to the street to talk to Carmichael and his followers, whose numbers had now swelled even more. Carmichael shook his arm from the diminutive Fauntroy’s grasp and walked north on 14th, with hundreds in tow. Fauntroy would spend the balance of the evening going from TV station to radio station, urging “black brothers and sisters” to react to their grief “in the spirit of nonviolence.” His words came too late and went unheeded.

  The impromptu parade of protesters closed restaurants and businesses on 14th as they had done on U. Behind them, a trash can finished the Peoples window. Next, a bottle crashed through the window of National Liquor. Chants of “Black power,” “Kill whitey,” and “We gonna off some motherfuckers now” were heard in the night. Carmichael talked to the crowd and told them not to initiate any violence, that it would be harmful to them, as they were outnumbered and would be outgunned. He did this as he continued to lead them up the hill of 14th, where scores of mom-and-pop businesses, chain stores, and apartment houses lined the strip from U to Park Road.

  As of 10:00, there appeared to be little police presence on the street. Officials were aware of the growing problem and had begun to send units down to the scene. Public Safety Director Patrick Murphy instructed officers to try to maintain order but retreat from any “imminent confrontation.”

  Five blocks north of U, at the top of the hill, a woman pushed her backside through the plate-glass window of Belmont TV. A few people tried to get into the display area to take some televisions but were blocked by Carmichael and a couple of SNCC workers. Carmichael produced a pistol from his jacket, waved it, and told his agitated followers that this was not “the way.”

  Meanwhile, crowds had regathered at 14th and U. As he walked south and neared the intersection, Carmichael could clearly discern that he was no longer in control of the situation. The crowd had grown considerably and its movements were erratic and unbridled. The voices of the participants had risen in anger and something like glee. Carmichael got into a waiting car and sped away. He would not be seen for the remainder of the night.

  At around 10:30, the crowd broke the windows of Sam’s Pawnbrokers and Rhodes Five and Ten, both south of U, and began to steal jewelry, television sets, transistor radios, appliances, useless trinkets, and anything else that was not locked up or nailed down. SNCC volunteers tried to stop them. They were laughed at and brushed aside.

  Imploding glass sounded as the display windows of many stores around 14th and U were shattered. The London Custom Shop was looted, as were the surrounding shops. North of U, people began spilling out of tenement-style apartments, some in curiosity, some in anger, some with the purposeless mentality of a mob, and began to damage and rob stores.

  An informal command post was set up at the Thirteenth Precinct station near 16th and V. There, Mayor Walter Washington, Police Chief John B. Layton, and Patrick Murphy developed a rough consensual plan. The Special Operations Division (SOD) of the Civil Disturbance Unit (CDU), which had extensive training in counterriot activity, was called to duty. In addition, the four-to-midnight shift of active Thirteenth Precinct street officers was ordered to perform a double and work the midnight-to-eight a.m. as well. All available units were to report to the disturbance area of Shaw.

  Officer Lydell Blue of the Thirteenth was among many to arrive in this wave.

  Officers from other precincts who were not otherwise engaged were encouraged to join the Thirteenth’s effort in quelling the riot.

  At the Sixth Precinct station house, Officer Strange, along with Officer Morris and two other uniformed cops, volunteered for duty. They got into a squad car and headed south.

  Detective Frank Vaughn drove to the house of Vernon Wilson and told his mother that her son’s murderers had been found, and that those who were not killed in the attempted robbery would spend the rest of their lives in prison. He then went to the Villa Rosa, in downtown Silver Spring, and had a couple of drinks.

  STRANGE AND THE others, grouped down near U, got their orders from a sergeant out of the Thirteenth.

  “Maintain order through intimidation and threat. Use your nightsticks and tear gas only if you have to. Do not draw your guns.”

  “Gas?” said one of the young police officers. “We don’t even have masks.”

  “We’re short on masks,” said the sergeant.

  “So we can’t draw our weapons,” said the young policeman, looking around at his fellow officers for support. “They’re lootin’ this whole block. We supposed to, what, stand back and let ’em?”

  “Orders from above,” said the sergeant, repeating the command. “Intimidation and threat.”

  Strange looked to the south. CDU officers wearing white riot helmets, gas masks, long white billy clubs on their belts, and armed with tear gas canisters, were not far behind them. They had formed at 14th and Swann and were marching north in a streetwide wedge, using their clubs to move looters toward MPD officers accompanying them in squad cars and paddy wagons. As they marched, they passed Nick’s Grill, owned by Nick Stefanos. As of yet, its plate-glass window and the window in its door had not been touched.

  Strange started up the hill on foot with two other police. He passed a used-car lot at Belmont Street, where a Chevy had been set on fire. Orange light colored his uniform and danced at his feet.

  The drizzle had turned to hard rain. Strange adjusted his hat, pulling it down tightly on his forehead so that its bill would deflect the water away from his face. He could see other police on side streets, inside and outside their cars, talking nervously amo
ng themselves, trying to light damp cigarettes. He walked on.

  At the top of the hill at Clifton, youths hurled rocks and bottles at buses and the last of the cars that were still using 14th. A bottle went through the window of a squad car parked sideways in the street. Strange chased one rock thrower down but lost him as he cut into an alley. The boy looked to be in his early teens. A young woman cursed at Strange from an open apartment window as he walked back to 14th. He didn’t even turn his head.

  Strange walked north. He saw some police regrouping at Fairmont Street. He saw the broad back of an officer who was gesturing with his hands as he spoke to the others. He knew from the broad gestures and the way the man stood that it was Lydell Blue. Strange came upon the group and shook hands with his friend. He and Blue stepped back from the others.

  “What’s goin’ on with you, brother?” said Blue. “Heard from my man Morris up in the Sixth that you thwarted a robbery today.”

  “I didn’t thwart shit,” said Strange. “My partner got shot while I was duckin’ behind a car.”

  “I expect it took the juice out you, man.”

  “I’m good.”

  “You’re on your second shift, right? You all right to be here?”

  “I got to be here, Lydell.”

  Their attention went north as the voices of the crowd there neared a frenzied pitch. Between the next street, Girard, and beyond to Park Road, hundreds of young people began smashing the windows of clothing, liquor, and hardware stores, and looting their contents. Uniformed police waded into the crowd, waving their clubs.

  “We better get to it,” said Strange, pulling his nightstick as other officers gathered around them. Blue pulled his nightstick, too.

  The officers went into the crowd with their sticks high. They apprehended some looters and chased others into alleys. These same people, mostly youths and young men, emerged from the alleys minutes later and resumed their looting. Strange took a rock to his back, felt the sting, and turned and saw the man who’d thrown it, who was smiling at him from the crowd. He chased the man with an explosion of energy fueled by adrenaline, and as he reached him swung his nightstick, clipping him on the shoulder. The man, who was Strange’s age, tripped and went down. Strange held him there until a paddy wagon, slowly collecting looters, arrived.