“When you searched the vehicle driven by the defendant, did you find any marijuana?”
“No.”
“Did you find any controlled substance—that is, drugs—of any kind?”
“I know what a controlled substance is,” the sergeant replied in a surly voice.
“Of course you do. And did you find any?”
“No.”
“What did you find?”
“You got it all written down in that paper. And I already said it.” The officer was irritable. His shortness of temper did not displease Aaron.
“Your Honor, please direct the witness to answer the question.”
“Answer the question, officer.” The judge was curt. He had recognized one of the television journalists as a newsman whom his wife watched regularly every Wednesday evening. The man was taking rapid notes. And the newsman scribbling down almost every word was Les Anderson, whose picture appeared next to his weekly column in Metro. What the hell were all these big shots doing in Peachtree on this penny-ante case? He remembered now where he had seen Aaron Goldfeder’s name. He had argued an immigration case before the Supreme Court. Argued it and won. There had been an article on it in one of the law journals. Judge Merrill leaned forward in his seat with the interest of a professional watching the performance of a talented colleague.
“We found all these here seditious and obscene books. They weren’t no private reading matter. Boxes and boxes of books and pamphlets and magazines. Not what ordinary law-abiding citizens would be carrying in their cars.”
Aaron walked leisurely over to the evidence display and plucked a book from the carton that had been admitted as state’s evidence
“With Your Honor’s permission, I read from material offered in evidence by the people.”
“Permission granted,” the judge said gruffly.
“‘We, the People of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty…’ et cetera, et cetera. Do you recognize these words, Sergeant Carey?”
“Sound familiar.” The sergeant furrowed his brow. Blessings of liberty…we the people—the kind of commie language those commie bastard nigger lovers used. Establish justice. That meant, he supposed, niggers and whites using the same toilets, the same drinking fountains. Uppity James Meredith registering at Ole Miss. They oughta say “establish jewstice.” His own pun amused him. He couldn’t wait to repeat it to his wife after this road show was over. His lips curled in a smile.
“I should think it would sound familiar. You’re an educated man. You uphold the Constitution of the United States, don’t you?”
“I got a Distinguished Service Cross,” the officer replied proudly.
“Then of course you uphold the Constitution. And what I just read was the preamble to the Constitution. That’s not seditious, is it?”
“I guess not.”
“You guess not?”
“No, it’s not seditious.”
“There were twenty-five copies of the Constitution of the United States and twenty-five copies of the constitution of the state of Mississippi in the cartons which you impounded. I might add that they were being transported to a library in the town of Troy for the purpose of teaching the people of Troy knowledge of the law and respect for it.”
“There was a lot of other books in them boxes also. Fiction books that had spit to do with the law.”
Aaron reached into the carton and removed another book. This one was clearly not a law book. It had a brightly colored jacket featuring a drawing of a golden-haired woman wearing a white dress that exposed her arms and shoulders. Aaron looked at it and frowned, as though he had blundered, miscalculated.
Michael grew tense. Aaron’s maneuver had paid off the first time around, but it might not work again, and he could not face the thought of spending yet another night in a Peachtree prison cell. The stench of the bucket in his cell that served as a toilet, the thin, dirty mattress, through which bedbugs crawled in desultory procession, the mournful graffiti scratched on the walls, and the verbal abuse of the jailers who thrust the spoiled food he could barely swallow through the judas hole—the memory of all that would cling to him forever. Ain’t you got enough trouble in the North, Jewboy? they had snarled at him. We’ll really nail you if you ever come through here again. Michael shivered, and Mindell’s hand reached out and covered his.
Aaron replaced the book, and the officer smiled complacently.
“You have a fine library here in Peachtree, do you not?” Aaron asked.
“Yes. We do.” Sergeant Carey regained his confidence. Jewstice. The ball was coming into his court at last. He had only been doing his job, following orders. What the hell?
“I visited the Peachtree Library this morning, and I was much impressed. I made a list of the members of the acquisition committee. Are you by chance related to Adelaide Carey?”
“Sure am. She’s my wife.”
“Yes. You mentioned before that she was interested in literature. An afternoon reading group. Surely Mrs. Carey would not approve of having any obscene literature in the Peachtree Library.”
“Of course not.”
“And yet this book”—Aaron lifted the volume that he had set aside—“which you impounded from the defendant’s car, Ozma of Oz by Frank Baum, is in the Peachtree Library. And so is this book, Huckleberry Finn. And so is this book, Illustrated Tales from the Bible. In fact, officer, every book involved in this case is in the Peachtree Library, which you yourself testify is innocent of distributing seditious or obscene literature. It would follow, then, that the books impounded are neither obscene nor seditious. Would you agree with me?”
“I suppose so,” the sergeant muttered. Despite the fact that he sat directly beneath the propeller fan, streaks of sweat glistened on his neck.
“No further questions,” Aaron said quietly. “The witness may step down. If it please Your Honor, I think that it is now abundantly clear to this court and to my learned colleague who represents the people that there was no justifiable cause to stop the vehicle in which the defendant was traveling. The arresting officer had no warrants that would justify either the search of the defendant or the vehicle, yet he violated constitutional rights and proceeded with such a search.
The materials found in the car were in no way obscene, and the charge preferred, therefore, is frivolous at best, malicious at worst. I move for its dismissal.
“The world is watching Mississippi now. This beautiful state is much in the news. There are those who say that Mississippi will not respect the laws of the land, the Constitution of this great country of ours. I, for one, do not believe that. I have seen courtesy and honesty in this courtroom this morning. The officers of this court surely respect the law of the United States and the rights of all its citizens—even those who were born beyond the Mason-Dixon line and who drive beat-up cars.” (The journalists, taking down every word, glanced at one another and smiled. That kind of statement made a “quote of the day,” a filler at the end of a column. Aaron ignored them, although Judge Merrill, shifting his weight, did not.) “I therefore respectfully request that all charges against Michael Goldfeder be summarily dismissed.”
“Motion sustained. All charges are dropped. The defendant is free to leave, and his property will be restored to him.”
The judge rose, and everyone else also stood. In the rear of the room Matt Williams half leaned against the bench, a satisfied smile gliding across his lips.
*
THEY celebrated that night with a party at the Troy schoolhouse. Mrs. Mason prepared an enormous platter of fried chicken. Norma Anne contributed freshly baked rolls, and Lizzie, who had not come to classes that summer, appeared with a basket of sautéed frogstools, the tender bayou mushrooms for which Michael had developed a special fondness during his summers in Mississippi. There were pitchers of iced tea and strawberry Kool-Aid, and Aa
ron hauled in a case of beer, which they could not get cold enough. The atmosphere reminded Yehuda of a kibbutz celebration after the completion of a project. He remembered suddenly the platters of golden fried chicken Rebecca had prepared after the new dining hall had been completed.
They laughed and told jokes and imitated the judge and the bailiff and Sergeant Carey. Matt Williams improvised a scenario in which the sergeant confronted his wife at home and asked her why she allowed “them dirty books” in the Peachtree Library. Les Anderson phoned his story into Metro and insisted on reading the lead to them.
“Today in a Peachtree courtroom, Judge Archibald Merrill proved that the lyrics of the state song of Mississippi ring true—‘Go, Mississippi, continue to roll—Grow, Mississippi, the top is the goal.’
When charges against Michael Goldfeder were dismissed, this southern state acknowledged that it would continue to grow and to expand the democratic process and would eventually reach the goal set forth by the United States Supreme Court when it ruled against segregation.”
“Don’t you think you’re going a little overboard on that, Anderson?” Matt Williams asked. “After all, we didn’t witness the Second Coming today.”
“No, I don’t think so, Williams. Think you could do better? Give it a try.” Les Anderson was one of the few whites who were not disconcerted by Matt Williams’s biting sarcasm. “It’s my southern upbringing,” he said jokingly. “I’m used to bigots in all sizes, shapes and colors.”
“Are you all right, Michael?” Kemala asked. She touched his bruised lip, and he flinched. It was Mindell who prepared a poultice of Burow’s solution and placed it on the ugly swelling. Kemala remained at Michael’s side and moodily watched Mindell as she worked.
Slowly, the party wound down. They linked hands and sang “We Shall Overcome,” and then, reluctant to lose the moment, they sang “Blowin’ in the Wind.” Aaron and Yehuda did not join the circle. They remained in a corner of the room, speaking softly to each other. Michael, who stood between Kemala and Mindell, was angered because they had separated themselves out at this moment of sharing. Why should his family isolate themselves from this course that he had chosen, from these people whose cause had become his own? It was not enough for Leah to write checks, for Aaron to sweep down and make brilliant arguments in a southern courtroom, for Yehuda to offer abstract generalizations about the dangers of terrorism. He wanted his brother and his brother-in-law to share his sense of involvement, his commitment, to lift their voices with his. But none of them except Mindell had done so, and Mindell was not of his family.
He looked at her now and heard her charmingly accented voice rise in the sweet song of hope. Jeremy was lucky to have her friendship, her love. Michael had recognized the softness in her voice when she spoke Jeremy’s name, the pleasure in her face when she received a letter from him.
He moved out of the circle, and Mindell’s rose-gold hand encased Kemala’s dusky palm. She was so beautiful, so brave. He would have to tell Kemala about it when they were alone. It was strange that he and Kemala had not managed any time alone together throughout the entire afternoon, the evening. But perhaps when the others left, she would stay and they would walk to the meadow and watch the cottonwood tree silhouetted in the moonlight.
Gradually, people drifted out, everyone stopping to shake hands with Michael, to murmur appreciation to Aaron. At last only Matt Williams, Kemala, Mindell, Michael, and Aaron remained in the schoolroom amid the happy debris of the party. Yehuda sat apart from them, his eyes half-closed
“Nice work, counselor,” Matt Williams said.
“Thank you. Nice work on your part too,” Aaron replied evenly.
“What do you mean?” Matt’s eyes narrowed. Feline glints of gold sparked, and he leaned back and reached for the last full beer can.
“Didn’t the scenario play out exactly as you planned? You set it up, didn’t you? Two white civil rights workers on a lonely bayou road, driving a beat-up car. New York plates. The back seat loaded with suspicious-looking cartons. You don’t drive a car with New York plates, Williams, and if you did, you know damn well you wouldn’t drive it down that road at that hour. Michael tells me that you told him to leave before dawn. Safer and cooler, you said. Safest and coolest to leave at night and travel back before dawn. My brother-in-law, Yehuda, comes from Israel, which has a very hot climate. He saw that at once. But those weren’t your instructions. And then there’s the mysterious phone tip the Peachtree cops received. A beat-up car with New York plates coming down the road at precisely that hour. Who could have known that? Who could have phoned that tip in? It’s just too neat. You set Michael up, and it’s pure luck that he didn’t get killed. Am I on target, Williams? Did I leave anything out, get anything wrong?” Aaron’s voice was dangerously low, and his fists were clenched with anger. Yehuda rose and moved closer to him. He knew about Aaron’s temper. He remembered Budapest.
Matt Williams sipped his beer and smiled.
“Oh, you’re on target, but let me draw a couple of things in. Let me ask a couple of questions. Supposing I had been arrested and the girl in the car had been Kemala and not our altruistic doctor friend from Israel. Would you have left your posh, air-conditioned office and been on a plane south in just a couple of hours? Would your mama and the great industrialist Joshua Ellenberg have given you a pocketful of cash for my bail?”
“Probably not,” Aaron said.
“And if two blacks had been arrested in Mississippi, would Les Anderson of Metro magazine, the TV networks, and the Time and Newsweek stringers have scurried south sniffing after a big story, a juicy human-interest story? Bullshit they would. Kemala and I would have rotted in that jail. Black-and-blue marks don’t show so good on black skin, so even if we were beaten, and I guarantee you we would have been, it wouldn’t have come out terrific in color shots—nothing like your little brother’s black eye and bruised lip. Believe me, I know. I’ve been held in a lot of jails in this great state, which today demonstrated its commitment to justice. We wouldn’t have had a color shot in Metro, and we wouldn’t have had our fifty-four seconds on national news. You get the picture?” Matt tossed the beer can across the room.
“I had the picture,” Aaron replied. “I only needed you to put the finishing touches on it.”
“Maybe you think I’m going to apologize,” Matt said. “I’m not going to apologize. I’d do it again. You Jews aren’t doing us any big favor by being down here. You’re having a joyride on our misery. Michael Goldfeder’s here to prove he’s as brave as his big brother who fought the Nazis and his big sister who fought the Arabs. He found himself a cause. He’s fighting Mississippi whites. The other Jews from Harvard, the Quakers from Swarthmore, the Haverford do-gooders—they’re here because they feel guilty, because their fancy educations are paid for by black dollars. You know what James Baldwin said—or maybe your Scarsdale book club didn’t get to Baldwin yet, maybe you’re still on Wright? Anyway, James Baldwin says that the Jew is playing the role assigned to him by Christians long ago—he’s doing the dirty work, like the court Jews, the tax agents, the rent collectors. You did it for the whites; why not for the blacks? You owe us more. When they burned the crosses on our lawns, they left yours alone!” His voice was harsh. The veneer of sarcasm was gone, and the raw, splintered anger was exposed.
Mindell shivered under the stream of invective. She shivered and drew closer to Yehuda. Michael put his head in his hands. He flinched from Matt Williams’s words as from a physical blow. He had told only Kemala of his feelings about Aaron and Rebecca. He remembered the night of their first meeting. They had sat in the starlit darkness of Golden Gate Park, and he had told her about Aaron and Rebecca. He had spoken of them as she lay in his arms beneath the magnolia trees. He had wanted no secrets from her. He had shared her griefs and exposed his own, and she had taken his tender revelations and offered them to Matt Williams.
“It didn’t bother you that you risked Mindell’s life?” Aaron asked coldly.
>
“She was the cookie topper,” Matt answered. “A doctor. She told me herself that she had been in the Israeli army, that she knew self-defense techniques.”
“There’s a lot she didn’t tell you,” Yehuda said. “Not that knowing would bother you.” Matt would have behaved no differently if he had known of Mindell’s terror of enclosed places, of uniforms, of the heritage of her grim and terrible childhood. Matt was at war, and he used whatever weapon came to hand.
“You knew about this, didn’t you, Kemala?” Michael asked.
She nodded but did not look up. He would never see her golden eyes again, he knew, and he was surprised at how little he cared. There had been a slow withering of all that had been between them, but he had willed himself to ignore it. She had changed and he had changed, but they had never been together long enough to assess the changes. Winters apart. Furtive summer visits. Snatched hours. She had used him, in the end, as a pawn in an intricate and dangerous game, but he would not have forgone all that she had offered him. He remembered, with detached melancholy, the interstices of sunlight and shadow on her dusky skin, the glossy coil of her hair about his wrist, the lingering sadness in her voice when she spoke of her father. He wanted to touch her, but he did not. Their time of closeness had passed.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
What mattered was that he had come to Troy and met the Mason family, and now Rodney Mason would come to New York and prepare for a university. Because of Kemala he had taught brave Norma Anne and Lizzie and the boy from Sebastopol whose poetry would be published that year in a respected journal. He had, after all, made a difference. Matt Williams’s invective did not alter all that he had done. He felt suddenly the power of his contribution, the potency of his participation. He was a teacher and he had taught. He had opened minds and liberated talents. He was bruised, exhausted, betrayed, but suffused with an emotion he had not known before. He sat in the quiet schoolroom, resonant with accusation and counteraccusation, with disappointment and betrayal, and he felt a simple yet powerful pride.
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