“Objection!” yelled D.A. Winston. “Is there a question coming out of all this posturing?”
“Yes, there is,” answered Albert. “Officer Rankin, you testified just a minute ago that the defendant was on top of the woman saying—” He paused and pointed to the court reporter for clarification.
“‘He said, ‘No, it ain’t no use in fighting. You might as well give me what I want,’” the female transcriber read from the papered reel.
“That’s right, were those the defendant’s exact words or yours, Mr. Rankin?”
“I’m sure I heard him say that,” the cop answered confidently. “Yeah, I’m sure of it.”
“Mr. Rankin, I have your partner waiting outside. If I bring him in, and I plan to, will he tell us your words or the defendant’s when asked face to face? Think before you speak, Mr. Rankin, perjury carries a jail term too. I’ll ask you again, did he say “You might as well give me what I want” or ‘You might as well give up?’”
“Yeah—yeah, that’s what he said,” the officer recanted. “It was a lot like that. ‘You might as well give up.’”
“Was it those words or something like that?” baited Albert.
“It was exactly those words,” answered the middle-aged policeman. He was willing to agree to anything to get off that hot seat.
“One further line of questioning, Mr. Rankin. When you said to the defendant, ‘You heard her, nigger,’ did Mr. Floyd release the woman voluntarily? And I’ll remind you that your partner will not have heard your answer when I drag him in.”
The hinges had been removed from his previously iron-clad story. “Yes, sir, the defendant got up right away and let us put the chains on him without making a fuss.” Rankin didn’t have to guess what was coming next.
“Then, sir, during a peaceful arrest, why did you and your partner work over Mr. Floyd with your nightsticks, fists and shoe heels?” Albert counted silently to ten while the jury members’ eyes filled with resentment, one by one. “You’re done, Mr. Rankin,” Albert sighed wearily. When he sat next to Baltimore, his client was impressed.
“You sharp as a tack, counselor.”
“Truth is a mighty fine tool in the hands of the right man, Baltimore, a mighty fine tool.”
“Nice, who told you that?” Baltimore inquired.
“Albert Hummel—Senior. My father was a big-shot lawyer back east.”
34
BOLD IS SO BEAUTIFUL
Baltimore confided to his lawyer that he felt the trial was going better than he’d presumed. Albert wisely advised that he not get too excited just yet. The district attorney asked to defer questioning of the last witness until later in the day. Albert saw this wrinkle as a chance to break the case wide open. He petitioned the judge to permit the addition of a surprise witness that his private detectives had suddenly located. Of course it was a bit of a stretch, but D.A. Winston couldn’t prove that a certain woman hadn’t been put up in a cushy white hotel and treated like a queen, so he was forced to roll with it. The D.A. returned to his seat reluctantly when Albert’s surprise graced the courtroom with her presence.
Baltimore was among the multitude left dumbfounded and deceived when Dinah Leonard strutted in, dressed to the nines in a designer outfit, a flashy crimson skirt and jacket. Her hat and shoes were black, ornamented with miniature red silk bows, to set off the stunning ensemble. She sashayed down the aisle like a movie star taking a stroll along a glitzy Hollywood red carpet instead of into a musty municipal mélée. It took some convincing to get Dinah on board for Baltimore’s sake while Albert’s detective’s had her hidden all along. He couldn’t chance letting anyone discover where his bombshell was safely tucked away. She was too valuable. Now that she was poised and polished, he hoped she didn’t remember how deeply it hurt when she learned about Dixie.
“Hello, Ms. Leonard. I know you’re a very busy woman, so I won’t detain you too long,” Albert said, with the utmost admiration. He openly flirted with her to suggest that attraction, in spite of race, was difficult to dismiss. “Ms. Leonard, were you inside or near the defendant Baltimore Floyd’s apartment room on the day in question?”
Dinah wiggled her hips while adjusting her position in the hard wooden chair. It didn’t go unnoticed by the white men sworn to consider all of the evidence before deciding Baltimore’s guilt or innocence. Once she’d aimed more hip and thigh at the jury box, she tilted her head and wide-brimmed hat to the side. “You know I was there,” she answered curtly, while avoiding eye contact with Baltimore. Albert backed away to get a clear picture of what was about to transpire.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Leonard, is that a yes or no?”
“Yes,” she huffed, “I was in Baltimore’s room that day.” The D.A. had been making notes and jotting potential questions when he determined that observing the surprise witness’s demeanor might prove more prudent.
“Good, now that we’ve established that, please tell us what if anything you saw before leaving the room.”
“I didn’t see nothing,” she replied, her lips spitefully pursed.
“I’m not so sure of that, ma’am,” Albert contended, as he approached the judge’s bench. “Your honor, permission to treat Ms. Leonard as a hostile witness?” He was given the go-ahead to mix it up with the sultry sandbagger. “Ms. Leonard, isn’t it true that you and the defendant were alone until Dixie Sinclair, the alleged victim in this case, came knocking at the door voluntarily?”
“Yeah, that happened,” was her cold response.
“Isn’t it also true that you saw the two of them arguing like good friends on the bad end of a misunderstanding?”
“No, sir, I didn’t see nothing like that,” she spat defiantly, with her expression souring. Baltimore didn’t know what to expect next. It was poetic justice he reasoned. The prettiest lady in the entire room was holding out because she had assumed incorrectly that he had once done the same to her. It appeared that Baltimore’s legal counsel also agreed because he let her off the hook so easily.
Just when it seemed the momentum had begun to shift, the district attorney had the bright idea to wow the audience with a bout of grand standing. As far as he could tell, Albert left several interesting questions on the table. Since he neglected to ask the obvious, D.A. Winston did. “Ms. Leonard, I also thank you for coming here this morning.”
“You’re welcome,” Dinah replied pleasantly.
Her change in demeanor caused everyone on the right side of that auditorium to wince collectively. Her body language suggested she’d rather be on the prosecution’s team, and that’s what Albert counted on when prepping her. He’d seen the D.A. rush into court unprepared before but lucky for him, the defendant confessed when his first year public defender put him on the stand. He may as well have shoved the poor sap in the electric chair himself. Albert Hummel, Jr. had the element of surprise on his side, aligned with that fine tool in the right man’s hands, truth.
“Ms. Leonard, I’ll be brief. There are a couple of things bothering me. See, I’m contending that Mr. Floyd lured the victim to his room and then attempted to assault her sexually after becoming violent. And for the record, you did not recall seeing any animosity between them?”
“Yes, sir, that’s what I said. When I lit out of there, that white lady wasn’t fighting with him none, at least not with her hands.”
Rumblings traipsed through both sections of the courtroom then. The only person who saw it coming was Albert. He had carefully laid a half-baked trap for his opponent and the D.A.’s over-inflated ego caused him to get snagged in Albert’s crafty snare. District Attorney Winston flew off the handle. He’d been upstaged, not once but twice. In a desperate attempt to cork the hole in a sinking ship, he committed sin after sin against the barrister’s code. First, he asked a question he didn’t know the answer to, and then followed it by taking a wild swing with a dull blade.
With embarrassment fueling his wrath, the D.A. opened the lid to Pandora’s Box. “Ms. Leonard, please enlighten
us as to why you left the defendant’s apartment when Dixie Sinclair arrived, if the defendant didn’t throw you aside with designs on raping her?” He was sure Baltimore had asked Dinah to leave the room, or the defense would have strengthened their position by getting her to say otherwise.
“That ain’t the way it went down,” Dinah answered meekly.
“That sure sounds like what happened to me. The defendant saw an opportunity to be with another man’s wife, a white woman, and he threw you out, didn’t he?”
Dinah pulled a handkerchief from her dainty purse and dabbed at her eyes in grand dramatic fashion. “Baltimore didn’t put me out!” she fired back at him, as if struggling to hold in an entire tribe of tears. “Dixie Sinclair did! She ran me off so she could have her way with him!”
The courtroom erupted. Newsmen darted through the doors to phone in the latest break in the case. Judge Sumner did his best to shout above the noise but failed miserably. “Order! Order!” When no one seemed to give a whirl, he slammed the gavel until pain shot through his hand. “Bailiff, clear the courtroom! Get everyone out of here. Maybe they’ll be more respectful after lunch.”
As Dinah stepped down from the stand, she ever-so-slightly peeked beneath her wide brimmed hat then relayed with her eyes what she couldn’t say with her mouth. Baltimore had received his formal acknowledgment of forgiveness wrapped in a stunning red package.
Albert hustled him out the side door during the moment of mayhem for his protection. He was grinning from ear to ear as Baltimore looked him over curiously. “You had Dinah do all that?”
“Yeah, it was my daddy’s idea. He can’t stand the prosecutor any more than I can. Said D.A. Winston reminds him of a fellow he hated for years, Winston’s old man. How’s that for a second generation ass whippin’?”
“First class all the way,” Baltimore chuckled, appropriately amazed. “Remind me to stay on your good side, Junior, where it’s safe.”
During the lunch hour, Baltimore nibbled at a chicken-salad sandwich delivered from the nearby Market Street deli. Because he didn’t care for mayonnaise, he ate the crust around the edges while Albert studied evidence from the morning round. He liked what he saw. “We’re not out of the woods yet. They’ll put Dixie Sinclair on the stand and you’d better believe she’ll come in with some waterworks to beat the band,” he predicted soundly. “I’ll do the best I can to rattle her, but it’ll boil down to your word against hers.” Baltimore appreciated the way Albert handled the jury and made a fool of the prosecutor, so he paid close attention to everything his lawyer said. “You’ll have to tell your side of the story after the Sinclair woman sobs through hers. Winston will come at you with all he’s got. He’ll rant and rave, try to put words in your mouth and insinuate foul things about you. No matter how much or how long he yells, you need to remain calm, like we practiced. If you don’t let him catch you slipping, there’s a good shot you’ll walk out of here a free man.”
Barker Sinclair stormed into the D.A.’s office with a vengeance. He charged up to Dudley Winston and grabbed him by his fancy lapels. “You son-of-a-bitch,” he growled. “You had Floyd’s ass handed to you on a platter and you’re still getting your ass kicked in there. Maybe I ought to get the police officer’s association to pull our support and back another candidate for mayor.”
Winston placed his sweaty hands on top of Barker’s and pressed hard against them until he let go. “You’ve got some nerve barging in here like I haven’t spent the last two weeks trying to clean up after your wife’s mess. She had to go and make a damned fool of the both of you with a connected colored man. Perhaps you didn’t see Dr. Stanton sitting in his back pocket. He’s coming off as a goddamned hero to those people out there and I’m shoveling shit to stay even.” The district attorney openly exhibited his displeasure for being attacked with unwarranted malice. “Don’t you ever come marching in here again like your house is in order. If that coon-chasing wife of yours would have managed to stay off her back in Floyd’s bedroom, we wouldn’t have to take this lying down now.” When Barker stormed out of the office, D.A. Winston was stretched out on the floor with a sharp pain shooting through his rattled teeth.
Outside on the courthouse steps, Barker’s Ku Klux Klan buddies squabbled over pulling a fast one to stall the proceedings. They determined that the sissy D.A. was doing a terrible job of wrangling the coon’s attorney. “The brotherhood came to see a spook-buck get his,” one of them asserted solemnly, “not let him slip out of the hangman’s noose.” A white lady shouldn’t be subjected to public ridicule at the hands of a nigger-loving Jew lawyer. Albert’s family was Presbyterian, but that was of little consequence to them. It was easier for the hate-mongers to despise him if they thought his roots traveled back to the Middle East. One of the rednecks proposed snatching Albert from his bed as soon as they kidnapped Baltimore for an old-fashioned necktie party.
When Barker relinquished complete control, he was informed they’d already orchestrated the defendant’s demise and a strategy to spare his wife from being gawked at by all of those filthy jiggaboos in the gallery. Barker was then told that the afternoon portion of the trial would be cancelled immediately due to an unforeseen incident. And, sure enough, a law clerk came out and announced the postponement. Five of the twelve jurors suffered intense stomach pains and vomiting after eating contaminated lunches, delivered from the Market Street deli. Barker knew then that it was possible to get at Baltimore, and all he’d need was a little help from his friends.
After an hour passed, the judge’s clerk was sent to get Baltimore’s lawyer. Albert Hummel gathered his briefs and headed toward the judge’s chambers. Several things traveled through his mind as he followed the young attendant’s footsteps. His biggest concern was receiving a heated reprimand for sneaking in Dinah Leonard as a surprise witness under their noses. When Albert saw D.A. Winston standing at the window holding a bloody handkerchief over his swollen lip, he knew something else was wrong, very wrong.
Judge Sumner unzipped his robe, slipped it off his narrow shoulders and then hung it on a wooden coat rack in the corner of the office. “Thanks for coming straight over, Albert. It seems we have a problem,” said the old arbitrator. “Dudley here has heard the news so we’ll let you in on it. Sit down, the both of you, and Dudley, don’t get any of that blood on my chair. Why’d you let the husband into your office in the first place?” Albert, seated beside the district attorney, turned slowly to closely examine the result of the embittered detective’s rage.
“Barker Sinclair did that?” he asked, wearing a shocked expression.
When D.A. Winston lowered his head shamefully, the judge pointed his finger at him. “Don’t think this lets you off the hook. We’re postponing the trial, for one day, time for the jurors to get over whatever has them hugging toilet stools in the men’s room.” Again, the defense attorney was a step behind and waiting on answers. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Albert. If I didn’t know for a fact that you also had lunch delivered from the same sandwich shop, I’d hold you in contempt of court for jury tampering.”
“Who, me? I never ...”
“Shut up,” Judge Sumner barked abruptly. “I know you weren’t behind this, but it still doesn’t sit right with me.” He leaned back in his chair and growled some more before spouting directions. “Dudley, I’d get your so-called victim prepped if I were you. And Albert, you need to get that slick thug of yours out of sight before somebody gets up the gumption to do what Dudley might not be capable of.”
The moment Albert realized what that meant for his defendant, he grabbed his things and shot down the hallway in the direction of the small prisoner holding room. When he pushed past the guard and opened the door, Baltimore had his head down on the table. Albert stopped in his tracks, thinking the judge’s prophecy had come to pass. “Baltimore, tell me you didn’t finish that sandwich?”
“Nah, I tossed it in the can,” he answered, peering up curiously. “Too much white spread on it for my tas
te.” Baltimore’s lawyer didn’t have to inform him that was the very reason he was presently chained to the floor. Conversely, he did discuss what he’d learned about the trial postponement and at least five violently ill jurors. Albert had rather not alarm his client but there was no getting around it, Baltimore had to be told.
“There is no easy way to say this,” he whispered across the rectangular shaped table. “That food poisoning incident wasn’t likely an accident. It’s obvious they think we’re winning this case, Baltimore. Your life is in jeopardy.”
“Considering how that’s the first time you used my common name, you really believe it is.”
“Yes, I do, unfortunately. If you’re a praying man, I’d devote some time in that regard,” the attorney recommended.
“Shoot. That ain’t gonna work,” answered Baltimore as he rose from the chair. “It’s been so long since I said something to Him, the Man probably won’t even recognize my voice.”
Albert got up and walked over to Baltimore then placed his hand on his client’s shoulder. “But then again, He just might.”
35
GOT A HOLD ON ME
That afternoon, Henry sat at the restaurant counter with his mouth wrapped around a half order of ribs and coleslaw. The diner was humming over the news that the big trial had been shut down because of bad chicken served to the jurors at lunchtime. Henry’s first response was one of relief. He didn’t have the chicken. Soon after he dismissed it as bad luck for the jurors, he smiled in Baltimore’s honor. In a desperate fight for his freedom, the man was still drawing aces. Some men were lucky that way, he thought, too fortunate for their own good. That’s when something tugged at him to look up from the plate of bones he’d picked clean.
A burly white man, whom he had not laid eyes on before, was placing an old duffle bag in the trunk of the patrol car he shared with Gillespie. Henry was halfway out the door before his partner came into view. Like two casual friends meeting on the street, the two men shook hands and parted ways. Another stranger drove up in a beat-up Plymouth that Gillespie’s acquaintance climbed in. Henry reasoned it was an old friend saying hello, until he mulled over the cold stare he got for asking.
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