Rush dialed DuBose’s number.
“Nicole, it’s me.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you. Why didn’t you answer?”
“Battery died. I’m so very sorry to hear about your grandmother.”
“I wanted you to hear the news from me.”
“I know—”
“I tried your number, but you didn’t answer. When they couldn’t find you, I ended up speaking with a woman.”
“My boss. She told me.”
“You were fond of her.”
“Very much.”
“She liked you too. I was going to tell her about us. She would have been glad to know.”
Rush cleared his throat.
“I’ve got some other news I must tell you.”
“What is it?”
“There’s an issue with the case. The Klan case.”
“An issue?”
“The government may have to—will have to—reopen the case.”
“What does that mean, Adrien?”
“It means the Klan grand dragon likely will be released from prison soon.”
“That can’t be.”
“I’m sorry. This is an awful time to say it.”
Rush held his breath, waiting for her reaction.
“Whatever the problem is, just fix it.”
“We are, by reopening the case.” His voice was barely audible. “The issue is the detective—”
“I don’t care about the detective. I want the bastard who burned the cross in my family’s yard to stay in prison!”
“I do too.”
“Then keep him there. Don’t make excuses. I’m begging you.”
“I’m not. I’m trying not to, but—”
“But what?”
“The detective lied about how he got the confession.”
“How could you have missed that?”
“I don’t exactly know. I didn’t ask the right questions.”
“The arrest, the trial—everything that’s happened—we relied on you to know it was all OK.”
“You’ve got to believe I tried.”
“Now, you’re telling me what? It’s either keep the Klansman in jail, or you let him go free?”
“I have no choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” she said, but it was more a statement of resignation than accusation. “What this would have done to her.”
“Nicole—”
Rush started to explain that he had been with Nettie Wynn just a week ago, but he was terrified that she would connect the two events—and if she did make the connection, it would confirm his own fears. How could he live with that?
He didn’t get the chance, because she hung up before he could say another word.
. . .
Rush needed to meet with the other victims and tell them what was about to happen in the Klan case. Mercer had offered to share in the assignment, but Rush was the one who would have to confess error to the court, and he decided the news should come from him.
No one associated with the now-boarded-up Islamic center responded to the FBI’s calls and letters. It was as if the whole Muslim community in Lynwood had disappeared. They hadn’t, but the cross burnings had caused them to go silent—better to be invisible for a while than the victim of another attack. After three messages from Mercer, Modi sent word through a former neighbor in Lynwood that she and her family had returned to Michigan and no longer wished to be contacted.
. . .
The chief judge sitting in chambers at the local courthouse didn’t like that the media referred to the place as the primary enforcer of segregation, or that the lawn had been the site of numerous lynchings. The judge understood at once the consequences of the detective’s misconduct and didn’t react when told the case would be reopened. He offered Rush an officious thank-you for stopping by.
. . .
Rush met Rabbi Steiner at the Beth El Synagogue. The rabbi greeted him with an extended two-handed shake, and they sat down for a few minutes of inconsequential talk of seasons and sports before turning to the purpose of the conversation.
“Rabbi, I’ve some difficult news to tell.”
“Your words make me hesitant to ask, but what?”
“It’s the cross burnings case. It has some issues that might result in the case being reopened.”
“Why now? After all, the case is over and done.”
“I can’t get into the specifics of how, but we learned some new information about the defendant’s confession, and it forced us to reconsider the case.”
“So the defendant didn’t burn the crosses?”
“No, he did burn the crosses. His confession’s the truth, but we shouldn’t have used the confession to prove the case.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have a good answer for you. It’s the way we got it.”
“Something improper?”
“The detective—the one who made the arrest—threatened the Klansman to get him to confess. Then the detective lied about it.”
“I don’t understand. The confession was true, but the detective lied about the Klansman telling the truth?”
“Something like that.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“It’s likely that the court will vacate the conviction, meaning the case gets dismissed.”
“This is all very unsettling.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m always glad to see you, Mr. Rush, you know that, but not for this.”
“The government broke the rules. I’m afraid you and the other victims are forced to bear the consequences.”
“Did the system let us down?”
“No, Rabbi, I did.”
The rabbi delivered to Rush a gentle, reassuring smile.
“In the months after the cross burnings, the synagogue had its highest attendance for services ever in our history. And clergy from several different faiths contacted me to offer support and ask whether the temple would join an interfaith service to show solidarity.”
“That’s good.”
“Better than good, it’s wonderful. Out of hate and fire came these gestures of spiritual generosity. One of our congregants, Petra Růžičková, was asked to talk to a church about her experiences as a child prisoner at Auschwitz and Holocaust survivor. She told them of unspeakable horrors that they never, ever would have heard about otherwise. She also regaled them with stories of her passage on the Queen Mary from England to America in ’47 and how she fell for a southerner from Lynwood while they both were students in New York. You see, good can defeat hate.”
“I’d like to meet her, but she wouldn’t want to—”
“Don’t underestimate people,” the rabbi said. “If there’s anything my congregation has taught me, it’s that very lesson.”
. . .
Mr. Nathaniel Rollins answered the knock at the NAACP office’s door.
“Hello. Please come in.”
“Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
“Of course.” Rollins led Rush to the small conference room that had once been a dining room for a long-ago family.
“Coffee? Water?”
“Nothing. Thanks.”
“I know you want to discuss the Klan case,” Rollins said, motioning Rush to sit. “I’m surprised it’s still going on.”
“It’s closed, but I’m here to tell you the case must be reopened.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I found out that the grand dragon’s confession wasn’t appropriately obtained.”
“That sounds like a euphemism, Mr. Rush.”
“It is.”
“You can be direct. I have heard everything a person can hear about the imperfections of this place.”
“The detective threatened the Klansman in order to coerce him into talking.”
“I see.”
“And then he lied about it to the grand jury and at trial.”
“So the Klansman didn’t bu
rn them?”
“No—I mean, yes—I mean, the grand dragon did burn the crosses.”
“So it worked, the threatening part?”
“The threats got the Klansman to talk,” Rush acknowledged.
“But we have laws that prohibit police officers from using improper tactics, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And the NAACP Legal Defense Fund relies on those very laws to sue police departments when young black men are improperly targeted and arrested, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ironic that the same laws in theory protect the black man and the Klansman,” Rollins observed.
“That’s a dignified way of stating it. It’s not fair, not at all.”
“I hope someday to disagree with you. I could accept the disappointment about the case if the laws that you say are protecting that Klansman also fully protect my son, my neighbors, and my people.”
“They do, in theory.”
“But not in practice.”
“No, not nearly.”
“So it’s not right. Not right at all.”
44
THE FLIP
Lieutenant Johns circled the police precinct station twice on his Harley-Davidson FXS Low Rider before veering off to a nearby municipal park. From his parked car at the precinct Detective Batiste saw Johns make the loops, and he too left for the park five minutes later. Johns walked over and got into Batiste’s car, which was idling on the far side of an empty lot under a shade tree.
“What up?” Lieutenant Johns asked.
Batiste unloaded. “You asked me about that Klansman, and all of a sudden, I get hauled in by the feds and interrogated about it.”
“I got no clue,” Johns responded. “I was just bullshitting with you. I got no issue with it. I wouldn’t have cared if you blew his head off.”
“The timing’s too close,” Batiste said. “Who told you about it?”
“It was shit talk by drunk fools in RAID, nothin’ more.”
“We’re in deep together. I’d never thought you’d turn on me. You’re our master,” said Batiste.
“You better goddamn believe I ain’t no snitch. You know what happens to snitches.”
“I don’t like the timing. Got to be some kinda heat around.”
Batiste gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared straight ahead as if he were bracing for an incoming round of fire.
“What you want to do?” Batiste asked.
“What you mean?”
“We got cash and shit in the stash house. Move it?”
“Why move it? It’s there for a reason.”
“It needs a new home.”
“You’re overreacting,” Johns said, “but if you want, move it.”
“Where?”
Johns waved his arm like he was swatting a fly. “The old warehouse near Seventeenth Street. Nobody goes in.” Johns considered the situation. “And don’t use the line no more. Might be hot, might not, but don’t use it.”
“Should we stop the rips for a bit?” Batiste asked. “It’s not smart to mess with the street.”
“Come on, man, you talk like you a littl’ bird in a cage. We’re the fuckin’ cops; we rule our world.”
Batiste wasn’t finished.
“No more rips off dealers for a while. Until the feds get tired and move on. Agree?”
“I ain’t scared of no pressed blue suits,” Johns said. “Just keep your trap shut. Let me do the rest.”
“What about the evidence room?”
“What about it?”
“Missing dope and guns in cases. If they audit, they’ll figure out what’s gone.”
“Why you talking ’bout this?” Johns asked and looked Batiste over. “If you got to, get replacement shit, but only approach Jenkins at the lab.” Johns wasn’t finished. “Don’t panic. The feds been sniffin’ ’round before, but they move on ’cause they got nothin’ but scum in their corner.”
“What happened to the guy you ironed like a shirt?”
“Shit,” Johns said, the memory of the incident loosening his tongue. “He needed to learn how to show respect. He took it like a man. We let him alone after he learned, but the iron’s useless.” Johns let out a laugh.
“If the feds keep on me ’bout the Klan, I might have to lawyer up.”
“Bullshit. They arrest you? No. If they had anything on you, they’d have done hit you already. They’d put you on ice by charging your ass. So don’t fuckin’ worry so much. It’d be your word against a Klan dick, right? So who wins in that?”
“I hear you.”
“Don’t let them get all up in your head,” Johns said. “I got to get on. You solid now?”
“Good to go.”
. . .
Batiste drove out of the park and made his way to 124 Poplar Avenue, a sullen block of low-rise apartments. The detective parked the car, cut the engine, and waited. A man and a woman—both wearing jackets despite the hot, humid weather—walked up from behind. They got in, with the man settling into the front right seat and his companion in the back left.
“Over?” asked the man.
“Done,” Batiste answered.
“How long did it last?” the man asked Batiste.
“Ten minutes, maybe less.”
“Did you cover the topics we reviewed?” the woman in the back asked.
“Yeah. Maybe not everything, but most. He talked fast like usual.”
“Any surprises?”
“No. The lieutenant’s the lieutenant. He’s as predictable as the daily visit to the shit can.”
The passengers hoped Batiste’s crude assessment was accurate.
“OK, where’s the pen?”
“Here.”
“Was it out on the dash the whole time?”
“Yes, right there. Didn’t move.”
“OK, it should’ve captured everything. We’ll confirm. You’ll have to listen and verify it’s complete and accurate.”
The woman took the recorder pen from Batiste.
“We finished?” Batiste asked.
The man leaned in close to Batiste. “Detective, you’ve just started. As Mr. Rush told you, this is a process. You got to take responsibility first and help us in the police investigation. You’re the first to cooperate, so you’re in a position to help yourself. Got it?”
“I know the drill,” Batiste said. “It’s the only fuckin’ reason I’m here.”
45
ONE CASE ENDS
The ceremonial courtroom was filled to capacity. Rush stood stick-straight at the counsel’s table closest to the jury box, the customary spot for prosecutors. He knew Nicole DuBose might be just several rows behind him. The thought of her presence bore down on him like he was a pressed plant between the pages of a thick book. In addition to DuBose, the NAACP’s landlord and benefactor, two members of Beth El, and an EMT who had responded to Wynn’s home likely sat in the rows. Reporters and the usual complement of court watchers filled in the gaps. Rush wouldn’t find any support in the audience, so he didn’t turn around.
Reporters scribbled notes of the conversations being passed between the pews, with the talk boomeranging from anger to resignation and back again. Rush tried to explain the pending motion to some of those in attendance without success. Some said they understood, even if they didn’t. Most couldn’t accept that a Klansman—who had admitted to the crimes—might be set free. All nursed a misplaced layman’s hope that the judge would keep the defendant locked up.
Daniels sat with a sharply dressed woman at the second long table in the front of the courtroom. His lawyer, Emily Porter, an assistant federal public defender, had handled the appeal of his case. Both tables faced the witness box and the front of the room where the judge presided from a raised bench. The ceremonial courtroom was impressive to behold, but few trials were held there given the unfortunate fact that voices bounced off its cavernous walls whenever anyone but the judge spoke.
The court security officer
entered the courtroom from the paneled side door in the front corner of the room and announced: “All rise. The United States District Court is now in session. The Honorable Gail Matthews, United States District Judge, presiding. Draw nigh and give your attention.”
The hearing was all about Daniels but had little to do with him.
“Good morning, everyone. Please be seated,” the judge said.
The judge settled into her special-ordered ergonomic swiveling high-back chair. She wore a custom-designed black robe made of a light fabric and cut so that it rendered the gown more of a dress than a judicial flock. She was stylish, smart, and in control.
“Mr. Rush, I understand the government is seeking an order by the court on a recently filed sealed motion.”
“Yes, Judge,” responded Rush, his gaze fixed on the small shade lamp sitting on her perch. “The United States, upon learning of facts that undermine the integrity of the conviction and sentence in this case, moves to vacate such conviction and sentence.”
The judge turned the pages of the motion as if the papers were infected with a virus she would catch if not handled with caution. The judge noted that no one from the US Attorney’s Office had signed the motion, and no assistant US attorney was in the courtroom.
“I have reviewed the motion prior to this hearing, which I note for the record is unopposed. The motion also is sealed, and thus it isn’t appropriate to discuss in open court its factual basis. I, however, feel compelled to address the defendant and the public in ruling on the motion.”
Rush and Porter knew what the judge’s ruling would be—what it had to be—but neither knew what the judge would say.
“I presided at the trial of this case,” the judge began. “I heard the victims’ accounts, those individuals and institutions targeted with the burning crosses in front of homes, places of worship, employment, community centers, and even the local courthouse.”
The judge read from a prepared statement, delivering a carefully crafted message to her captive audience.
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