“She has a headache,” I said.
So of course he banged on the car really loudly to wake her up. Daphne woke up crying. She was nearly hysterical. She looked at the cop and screamed. “Rob is dead!”
Shit! my mind screamed, but I said nothing. He stared at her, stunned by her admission. My heart thumped with such force I just knew he could hear it. “Get out!” he ordered. He pulled his gun on us. “Put your hands on your head and don’t move.” He walked backward to his car, keeping the gun pointed at us. He called for backup, and in an instant it seemed that two more patrol cars arrived, sirens blaring and lights flashing. We stood there with our hands in the air. Three cops jumped out of the cars with their guns drawn. They were yelling, “Don’t move!” “Get your hands up!”
We looked straight ahead and stood like that for a long time. Other cars drove by, some even blew their horns and yelled derogatory comments at us, but we didn’t move. We didn’t say a word and they didn’t ask us anything. They just stood at their cars, talking among themselves.
I glanced to the side as two more patrol cars drove up, but they looked different than the others. The cops got out of the car and they all talked. Moments later one of the cops began arguing with the others. Whatever the dissension, he was outnumbered. He got in his patrol car and left. I didn’t need a crystal ball to know this was not going to be okay.
Then one of the cops came over and put handcuffs on us. “Which one of you killed that boy?”
“We didn’t see anything. We ran.” We all three said the exact same words at the exact same time. I knew we would take those words to our graves.
“We’ll see about that. Y’all in a world of trouble now,” he said, humored. “We taking you to the next county over. Y’all coloreds being arrested on first-degree murder charges in Forsyth County, Georgia. The worst place in the world for your kind.”
23
THEY DROVE US TO A SMALL CITY IN GEORGIA WITH A name I’d never heard of before. Inside the two-story building there were cops everywhere. They stared at us as we walked through. I avoided eye contact. I didn’t want to see or remember any of this. There was a cop holding on to each of us. The one who was holding my upper arm was squeezing it so tightly he had cut off the circulation and my arm was numb. I knew he was doing it on purpose, but I didn’t say anything or try to move his hand.
They took our photographs and pinned them on bulletin boards on a wall, each outside a different door. They confiscated our purses and jewelry. We stood waiting, then we were separated and put into different rooms corresponding with the photo beside each door. The cop holding my arm took me inside and removed the handcuffs, ordering me to sit down.
“Are you going to read me my rights now?” I asked.
He walked over and leaned down to my ear. “Don’t sass me. This is Forsyth County. We believe in lynch-mob justice. Dey ain’t no coloreds in the county no more ’cause we up and got rid of ’em all. So y’all don’t have no rights in this town. Now sit your ass down.”
“I want to see a lawyer,” I said.
“I told you, you ain’t got no—”
“Then you can’t hold me. I didn’t do anything.”
“So you one of those smart-mouth niggers who thinks she won’t get her ass kicked. Well, you’re dead wrong. I’ll kick your ass, then lynch you up and tell everybody you hung yourself. Now, who you think dey gonna believe? So shut up and sit your nigger ass down,” he yelled.
I sat and stayed perfectly still as he walked out. I listened. The room was bright, like a thousand light bulbs all turned on at once. It overheated the small space and caused sweat to pour down my face, between my breasts, and down my back. It was difficult to breathe, like the air has been sucked out. But still I didn’t move an inch, not even to wipe the sweat away.
I waited silently, listening to my stomach growl. I had to pee, but I just sat there as time passed. My father once told me that cops do things like this. It was called sweating a perpetrator.
After a long while, two cops came into the room. They didn’t say anything at first. They turned the lights down and stared at me. One of them sat down on the other side of the table in front of me and the other walked and stood behind me. I knew this tactic too. I was supposed to be scared and intimidated.
“It stinks like shit in here.”
“That would be her,” the one behind me answered.
They laughed. The cop sitting down looked at me with his nose turned up in disgust, then he opened a thick folder and flipped through a few papers and stopped. “Zelda Livingston.”
“Yes,” I said. “Am I under arrest? I didn’t do anything.”
“We’re gonna get the truth out of you.”
The cop standing behind me threw a newspaper on the table. It slid and landed right in front of me. It was upside down, but I could still read it. Someone had written a new front-page headline with a thick black marker. “Army Hero Killed by Insane Coloreds on a Killing Rampage.”
The cop sitting in front of me motioned to the headline. “You see that? We already know the truth. Your two friends, Veronica Cook and Daphne Brooks, have given you up. They told us what happened. Said that you and your boyfriend pulled the trigger and killed Robert Kent. Said you’re an anti-war crazy and you been arrested before for assault. You tried to rob that boy. We found his watch and wallet in your handbag.” He slid a notepad across the table. “You need to write down your confession right now.”
I looked at the pad. “You want me to write down what happened?”
“That’s right. All of it.” He pulled an ink pen out of his pocket and placed it on the pad. “Write.”
I picked up the pen and started writing: I didn’t see anything. I heard a fight and a gunshot, then we ran. I slid the pad back over to him. The cop read it, then looked up at the cop behind him. He instantly started yelling in my ear.
“Y’all killed that white boy in cold blood!”
“No, I don’t know what happened. I didn’t see anything.”
“You lie. You and that boy did it! Say it!”
Tears streamed down my face as I shook my head. “No.”
“There are other witnesses who say y’all did it.”
“No. That’s impossible. I didn’t see what happened.”
“Then tell me the truth. What happened?”
“I told you. I didn’t see what happened. I heard a fight and a gunshot, and we all ran out of there.”
The cop who stood behind me slammed his hand on the table. I jumped and winced away, fearful he’d hit me next. “Billy Knox is a national hero, an officer and gentleman in the United States Army. He just saved his whole platoon in Vietnam. He put his life on the line to save a dozen men. He has a spotless record. He’s never been in trouble in his life. There’s no way he killed anybody. You did it, didn’t you?”
The cop was lying. Billy was AWOL. I shook my head. “They were fighting. I heard them. I went into the hallway and saw Billy beating Mazie. Rob tried to help her. Billy took Rob’s gun and pointed it at Mazie. Rob jumped in front of her and saved her. Billy shot Rob.”
“That’s not what your friends are saying. They’re saying you and that colored boy went crazy, grabbed a gun, and started shooting. Y’all killed him.”
“No. I didn’t see what happened. I ran,” I repeated.
“Your daddy is gonna watch his little girl fry in the electric chair. Or maybe I’ll just let them have you.”
He walked over to the door and opened it.
“They killed that army hero. Bring them nigga gals out yere!”
“Get ’em out yere!”
“We gonna have us a lynching party tonight, boys.”
The crowd screamed and applauded their delight.
My heart beat so rapidly. I tried to breathe, but it was getting harder and harder. My legs and my hands trembled uncontrollably.
“You hear that mob out there? They’re here for you and your friends. They want us to hand y’all over to the
m. And you know what? I’m gonna do it too. I’m gonna stand there and watch as they tear you apart, then set your body on fire. Now tell me the truth. Y’all killed Robert Kent, didn’t you?”
“No. I didn’t kill anybody. I heard the fight and the gunshot and ran.”
The cop slammed the door. The other cop sitting silently in front of me suddenly jumped up and flung his chair to the side. It flew across the room and slammed against the wall. Then he slammed his fist on the table in front of me. My heart jumped and I started coughing uncontrollably. I couldn’t breathe.
The cop behind me locked his fingers into my natural curls with a vengeance. With a fistful of hair, he yanked hard. My head wrenched back and I could see straight up into his flaring nostrils. His eyes were blazing red and there was spit coming out of his mouth as he yelled at me. My face was covered with his spittle.
“Y’all killed Robert Kent!”
“No,” I stated firmly. My father held strong until his last breath and so would I. “I don’t know what happened.”
“Go get that mob and bring ’em on in yere. She’ll tell us the truth soon enough.”
I tipped my chin up defiantly. I knew my legacy. I was determined like the men and women who had come before me. They had fought and they had survived. I will not yield, I said to myself. I will not yield. I will not yield. I repeated the words over and over again to myself. I will not yield.
Suddenly, a sharp pain cut through my face like the world exploded. My head spun dizzily in every direction. Everything was blurry. I tasted blood in my mouth and I coughed, choked, and swallowed bile and blood. I held the side of my face, staring at the man who had punched and knocked me to the floor. I scowled. I saw him shift his foot back to kick me. I balled up and rolled onto my side. He kicked me on my hip and thigh.
“Get up!” he screamed. “Get up!”
I tried to hold back my tears, but they came in a flood of pain and anger. I will not yield. I will not yield.
He grabbed my collar and yanked my shirt. The summer cotton ripped apart easily as buttons flew off. He smacked the back of my head repeatedly. He grabbed my arm and pushed me like a rag doll tossed and discarded. I stumbled into the wall and fell down.
“Sit down!” he yelled, kicking the chair toward me. It crashed against my leg. I crawled up and sat down. He stomped over, grabbed the back of the chair, and dragged it and shoved it to the table. I put my hands up to block it from crushing my ribs. At this point, the cops left the room, but not before turning the lights back up.
I sat in defiance.
I didn’t lower my head. I wouldn’t yield.
Later. Much later—I don’t know how long—I opened my eyes. I was saturated in sweat. I thought I might have blacked out from getting hit in the head or fainted. My head felt like a sledgehammer had been pounding on me. Every muscle in my body hurt. I smelled vomit and urine. I felt wetness between my legs and realized I had peed myself. I felt humiliated, and the tears began to flow. I examined my hands. They looked the exact same way they had five days ago when we had begun our road trip, yet the blood running through my veins was different.
Inside I knew everything had changed. The world I had lived in all my life wasn’t truth. I had been looking through a kaleidoscope of reality. This was the real world, where the line between life and death was a simple matter of the amount of melanin in your skin. I looked at my arms, my legs. To some I would never be good enough no matter what I did.
The door opened and a woman walked in wearing a business suit, smelling of lilac perfume. She winced, holding her nose, and forced a smile in my direction. “Hello, Zelda. Zelda, is it? I’m yere to take y’all to the bathroom and get you all cleaned up. How’s that sound? Sounds good, right?”
“No thank you,” I said, glaring at her.
“Honey, dere are men from the United States Army ready to take y’all out of yere, and I need to get y’all cleaned up, make y’all look presentable.”
The Southern twang of her voice disgusted me. They had done this to me, and they were going to own it. Like Emmett’s mother said, “Let the people see.” They would not ignore what had been done to me. “No thank you.”
She looked around the room, puzzled. “But it’s my job, you see. Now, I know you must have to go to the bathroom. You’ve been in this room for a little while and—”
“What time is it?” I asked.
She looked at her watch. “It’s eight o’clock.”
“At night?” I asked.
“No, it’s morning, of course,” she said.
I knew that wasn’t right. How could it be eight o’clock in the morning? How could I have been here for less than two hours? It didn’t make sense. I knew it was wrong. “Wednesday?” I looked up at her. “Wednesday?” I insisted more than asked again.
“No. Thursday,” she said nonchalantly.
“I’ve been in this room for twenty-five hours straight.”
She looked around again, refusing to meet my glare. “Well, be dat as it may, I have a washrag and towel in the ladies’ room. And it’s the white ladies’ washroom. We don’t have no colored toilet. Ain’t dat special? I got soap too. It’s a nice new bar, smells sweet, never been used, and y’all can take it with you if you want. We’ll be happy to let you keep it and the washrag too. So come on now. Git up. The army men have things to do. Dey want to see you now.”
“No thank you,” I said with my father’s defiant tone.
“Look, y’all need to wash your body. You stink, and you’re . . . um . . . there’s um . . . blood smeared on your face, on your clothes and other places. I’ll find a shirt for you to wear, which you can keep. And I think I can find some lipstick and maybe even some powder to make you look more presentable.”
“No thank you.”
“Dere are two newspapermen outside dis building,” she said, anxious and nervous. “Dey’ll be taking y’all photographs for the papers. Your face will be all over the country. Now, you don’t want to go out there looking like this. Like you’ve—”
“Like I’ve been beaten up by the cops? Punched in the face by the cops and kicked in the stomach by the cops? It’s fine with me. Let them take my photograph like this.”
“Well, ain’t fine with dis police department. Now, I don’t want to do this any more than you do. But I have to make you presentable, and dat’s all dere is to it. So don’t let me have to force you.”
“By all means, try and force me.”
She scowled. “Y’all nasty bitch.”
“That makes two of us, nasty bitches.” She raised her hand to hit me. “Go ahead, make it worse.”
She lowered her hand and huffed. “We’ll see about dis.” She turned and stormed out of the room.
A few minutes later the same two cops who had come in earlier entered. They looked at me. “You gonna git yourself cleaned up or what?”
“No thank you.”
“Suit yourself. Stand up. Let’s go.”
When I attempted to get up, my legs wobbled and gave way. I collapsed against the table, bumping the side of my face on the edge as I fell to the floor. One of the cops hurried over and grabbed me. He helped me to my feet. I tasted blood running from my fresh wound. My whole body quivered. I steadied myself and took another step, limping and cradling my side as I walked.
“We gotta get her cleaned up,” one of the cops whispered. “Dat newspaperman and photographer can’t see her looking and walking like dis.”
“Dem army men is waiting for her.”
I stumbled and fell to the floor again.
“Shit.”
The door opened.
“What the hell’s going on in yere?” A man at the door yelled as he quickly closed the door behind him. He looked at me sitting on the floor. “What did y’all do? I told y’all not to touch her. Did y’all beat her again?”
“No. She fell.”
“Bullshit. I told y’all to git her cleaned up. Look at her. Shit. We got dat damn Atlanta press up our a
sses. Dey’re out dere right now. What factories are gonna want to come to this county after dey see her looking like this?”
“Tell ’em she resisted arrest. We had to subdue her.”
The man at the door sneered at the cop. “This is on you. I’m not going down for y’all foolishness.”
“Put a rag over her head and carry her out.”
“How’s dat gonna look? Shit. Look at her. There’s a photographer out there too. How is this gonna look?”
“I told him not to touch her. But he wouldn’t stop.”
“Shut up. Come on and help me stand her up.”
They talked about me like I wasn’t even there. They grabbed my arms and stood me up. “Look a-here, I’m the police captain in charge, Miss Livingston. Dere are men from the US Army waiting for y’all outside this room. Dey’re gonna take y’all with dem after we git you all cleaned up.”
“No thank you,” I said, looking at him. “They will see me as I am. I want everyone to see what happened in this room.”
He looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “You’re a pretty girl. We’ll get you all prettied up. Go git Peggy Sue back in yere.”
I stumbled and my legs gave way again.
“Shit, dis is a nightmare. If he takes her photograph looking like this . . .” He reached out and shifted my blouse to close over my bra, but since the buttons had been ripped off, it fell open again. “Dammit. Come on. Dey waiting.”
I staggered out of the room. Veronica and Daphne were sitting on a nearby bench with four men dressed in army uniforms standing nearby. They let out bloodcurdling screams at the sight of me. My legs gave way, and I slouched as the two cops on either side held me up.
My eyes barely opened. My head ached and I could feel the side of my face throbbing.
A man with a camera rushed over. He stopped a brief moment, staring at me. Then he started taking photographs of me as I stood between the two cops. A reporter asked questions about my condition.
“My God, what have you done to her?” Veronica shouted.
“Did she come in like that?” the reporter asked.
“No, someone here did this to her.”
One Night in Georgia Page 19