A cook! An inky-black Jamaican cook! Ednetta was astonished.
One evening over drinks—a dark, fruity wine Ednetta loved, that rushed straight to her brain to numb her thoughts—Esmeralda confided in Ednetta that she, too, had been assaulted, as a girl growing up in Baltimore. “I’ve written in my poetry and memoirs about this, which possibly you’ve read. My point is black or white attacker, it hurts the same. That nasty thing they do, it’s made to hurt.”
Ednetta had a chilling sensation—was Esmeralda the kind of female who likes other females? A lesbian?
It was suspicious to Ednetta: Esmeralda Mason had not once ever complained of a man, an ex-husband, children. She hadn’t even thought to ask Ednetta about her other young children, staying with her sister Cheryl, let alone Ednetta’s grown children scattered in several cities.
Esmeralda said, after a second glass of wine, in a lowered, husky, confidential voice, “Dear Ednetta—‘Sister Ednetta,’ as Marus calls you—if your daughter is telling the truth, she is a tragic figure who must be avenged. If she is not—exactly, in every syllable—telling the truth, she represents other, tragic black figures who must be avenged. Therefore, as I have told Reverend Mudrick, I am in support of the Crusade for Justice for Sybilla Frye—officially. I will never abandon you.”
Ednetta wanted to think that this was a friendly thing to say but Ednetta didn’t know how to reply. The way in which Esmeralda Mason smiled at her, a crinkly-sisterly smile, a smile of complicity, made her want to slap the woman’s elfin-leathery face, that she should dare, so openly, to doubt Sybilla.
A sick sensation came over Ednetta—maybe all the “celebrities” felt that way? Whether Sybilla Frye and her mother were telling the truth, or were God-damn shameless liars, didn’t matter? It was the Crusade that mattered.
Ednetta didn’t tell Sybilla what their hostess had told her, but next day Ednetta insisted to Reverend Mudrick that they were leaving Montclair as soon as they could—“This place just too fancy and boring, for us. Look out the window you see trees. S’b’lla miss her friends like Mart’ne an those girls.”
“You want to leave there? And return to—your life in Red Rock?”
Marus Mudrick was incredulous. Ednetta felt the insult, that their Red Rock lives were so debased, the Reverend couldn’t even hide his disdain.
“Yes, Rev’end. That is what I am sayin.”
“And Sybilla, she feels the same?”
“S’b’lla hate it here. The only nice thing about this place was Mike Tyson comin to see her, and givin her his watch—she wasn’t ’lowed to keep. That girl so heavy-hearted, it gon take two point five million to cheer her, at the least.”
Reverend Mudrick stared at Ednetta. For a long moment he didn’t speak. Then he said, in an even voice, “Sister Ednetta, I have no idea what in hell you are talking about. And I suggest that you have no idea, either. And I suggest you keep your quasi-thoughts to yourself, sister. Is that understood?”
Ednetta staggered back, shocked. For an instant the furious male glaring at her out of the Reverend’s eyes was indistinguishable from Anis Schutt.
Rumor was, Byron Mudrick heard from several sources, the Black Prince was traveling to Pascayne sometime soon in January to meet Sybilla Frye.
The Black Prince was determined, it was said, to convert “the shamed black girl” to the Kingdom of Islam and lead a “Thousand-Man March” through the city.
When Byron spoke of this alarming news to his brother, Marus muttered a crude expletive and laughed. “The ‘Black Prick’ ain’t comin within a mile of my girls. How’s he gon get to them? Past me?”
“‘Lie detector’? But how can they tell?”
Sybilla was terrified of the test, which Byron Mudrick had scheduled for January 11, in the same “neutral” setting—the third-floor windowless room in Family Services.
Ednetta assured her, Reverend Mudrick would not let anything happen to her. He’d promised, neither Sybilla nor Ednetta ever had to be interviewed or questioned by the Enemy.
On the morning of January 11, Byron called authorities to postpone the polygraph to January 15. Eventually, January 15 would be postponed to January 31.
The reason, Byron Mudrick explained, was that his client was not yet prepared for a “recrudescence of her terrible trauma.”
Or, the reason was, Byron Mudrick had discovered some “mitigating problem” in the selection of the polygraph tester. (Born in the Caribbean and now a citizen, he didn’t quite qualify as an American black descended from African-American slaves.)
News of these postponements made their way into the media. In some reports, the Passaic County district attorney’s office spoke of the Mudricks’ obfuscation and refusal to cooperate in the investigation into Sybilla Frye’s charges; in other reports, friendlier to the Mudricks, the brothers were quoted claiming that their client was being systematically intimidated—harassed with threat of legal rape. There continued to be disagreement over the qualifications of polygraphers.
Attorney Byron Mudrick declared in a local TV interview: “My client is eager to take a polygraph test, and to expose to the world the conspiracy forged against her. But only under circumstances that are fair and objective—not prevailing racist. And that is a high standard to meet in Pascayne, New Jersey.”
Ednetta told Sybilla it would be all right. No one would make her take some nasty test hooked up with electric wires. Both the Fryes were coming to understand the lawyerly way of speech—though a lawyer said a thing publicly, he did not (necessarily) mean it; the fact that he’d said a thing publicly was a (probable) sign that he did not mean it.
Reverend Mudrick had forbidden the Fryes to watch TV interviews with him and Byron unless he’d expressly approved of the interview, but one afternoon in late January Sybilla happened to see the Mudrick brothers on an interview program on a New York City channel, discussing the Crusade. It made her feel dizzy—dazed—to hear her name evoked—so many times! And to see photographs of herself, and of Jerold Zahn . . . (By this time, Sybilla had come to believe adamantly that Jerold Zahn, twenty-seven, was the “yelow-hair” rapist.) She hadn’t been prepared for a skeptical question—Why should anyone believe your “client”—or you? Police have said there is no rape kit—there is no “evidence” of rape.
Before the Mudricks could reply, Sybilla switched off the TV. Her heart was beating so hard she felt like fainting!
This was the Enemy, from whom she’d been protected until now.
But what was shocking to Sybilla, and confounding, was that the interviewer who’d asked this nasty question was a black man. Saying such a thing to the Reverend and to Byron Mudrick!
“This would not be an ‘interview,’ Sybilla—it would be a ‘conversation.’”
Though the brothers had assured Sybilla repeatedly that she wouldn’t have to endure interviews, even by friendly interviewers, yet it happened that they’d arranged for an “exclusive conversation” with a reporter from the National Inquirer, which would take place in the office of the Care Ministry, in Newark. When Sybilla rebelled, Ednetta was charged with explaining to her that the “conversation” would be just “relaxed talking” with the Mudricks and with her, Ednetta; really, all Sybilla needed to do was sit quietly, nod yes or no from time to time. Bitterly Sybilla said, “Mama, they payin for this? How much?” Ednetta said, confused, “The newspapers don’t ‘pay’—the Rev’end told me. Like on TV, they don’t pay you for ‘news.’”
Sybilla said sulkily she bet the Reverend was being paid. Him, and the damn lawyer.
Ednetta slapped at Sybilla—“You got a fresh mouth, girl! You know you already got in trouble with that mouth.”
“Bet they bein paid a whole lot, Mama. Like—a thousand dollars.”
“Just don’t you let them hear you sayin such things, S’b’lla. Let me promise you—if somebody has to talk, not just the Reverend and the lawyer, I will talk.”
Eventually, Sybilla gave in.
A photographer ac
companied the reporter to Care Ministry headquarters where the tape-recorded “conversation” lasted four hours at the end of which Sybilla was yawning and falling asleep. She hadn’t had to say much, after all—the adults did all the talking.
Soon after the Fryes left Esmeralda Mason’s beautiful house in Montclair to return to stay, temporarily it was hoped, with Ednetta’s grandmother Pearline Tice in the overheated, airless, cluttered apartment on Eleventh Street, it was revealed by the Passaic County district attorney that an “unassailable alibi” had been established for the accused police officer Jerold Zahn for several days in succession in early October.
This was the occasion for a number of TV news bulletins: first, a photograph of the young police officer who’d been, it was hinted, falsely accused as an “alleged rapist,” followed by interviews with Julio Ramos, the young, Hispanic assistant district attorney, standing on steps outside the county courthouse, glossy dark hair blowing in the wind.
Ramos was claiming that, contrary to the “positive identification” by the “alleged rape victim,” Police Officer Jerold Zahn had been working full-time on October 5, 6, and 7, as well as earlier that week. There was no record of any absence of his from the PD, and his training officer and his fellow rookies had given sworn statements to this effect.
Off-duty, Zahn had spent time with others on at least two occasions. Ramos said: “It is the conclusion of this office that Jerold Zahn has been misidentified by the rape victim. The investigation into Jerold Zahn as the ‘yellow-haired’—alleged—rapist of Sybilla Frye is now closed.”
Pressed for further comment by the interviewer, Ramos said, with carefully enunciated disdain, “The involvement of civil rights activist attorney Byron Mudrick in these charges is shocking, and a disgrace. A once-respected attorney has turned to race-mongering. It is not a surprise that ‘Reverend’ Marus Mudrick would be a party to such reckless accusations, the defamation of an innocent man who is no longer living, under tragic circumstances, but—”
Byron switched off the TV. He was stunned, sick.
Shocking, disgrace. The ugly words echoed in his brain.
Still—his lawyer’s mind continued to work, like any precision machine—it was possible to discredit the “alibi.” Not likely that the young man’s whereabouts could be totally accounted for, during those several days; quite possible to argue, convincingly, or in a way to undermine the Enemy’s credibility, that Zahn would have had plenty of time, during the night, to have participated in the multiple rapes of the fifteen-year-old black victim.
When he learned the news, Marus was furious. Not that Jerold Zahn had been provided posthumously with a convincing alibi, but that the Passaic County district attorney was disrespecting him.
“Brother, this is war.”
“Sybilla.”
Sybilla had been summoned to meet with the Reverend. Mama hovered nearby, anxiously.
Sybilla had trouble seeing the man. Had to half-shut her eyes.
“Here is another of your ‘rapists,’ Sybilla. We have located him and the surprise is—well, you can see the surprise.”
Sybilla stared at the newspaper photograph of a youngish Hispanic-looking man. He looked familiar—but who was he?
“The obvious surprise is, this rapist isn’t ‘white.’ He is a light-skinned Hispanic. Which suggests that we have no bias against ‘whites’—that is now obvious. All you could have seen of this person’s face in the van in which you were kept captive was a blurred but unmistakable image, at a time of great distress.”
Sybilla continued to stare, uncomprehending.
“Who you sayin this is?”
“Julio Ramos. You wouldn’t know the name.”
Soon then, Marus Mudrick called a news conference not only to “adamantly re-confirm” the identification of Jerold Zahn as one of the Pascayne PD rapists, but to announce the identification of a second rapist by the rape victim—“Julio Ramos, assistant district attorney, Passaic County district attorney’s office. One of the district attorney’s cynical ‘minority hires’—made without an adequate background check—a despicable political hire that has backfired—has exploded in the (white) face of the district attorney.”
This grave accusation was made to a hastily assembled gathering of media people within eight hours of Julio Ramos’s news conference. In mimicry of Ramos standing on the steps of the courthouse bareheaded and his hair blowing in the January wind, Reverend Marus Mudrick stood on the steps of that very courthouse in a camel’s hair cashmere overcoat, bareheaded, his dense, oily dark hair stirred by the wind.
Fewer media people than usual had shown up at the news conference, since it had been so recently called. But more were arriving, and would arrive, including a Manhattan-based journalist from the BBC and a feature writer for New York.
For more than an hour, Marus Mudrick stood on the steps of the Passaic courthouse in the January wind, taking questions from the media and posing for cameras. He spoke eloquently, angrily, wildly—his voice lifted, and fell, and lifted again with the cadence of evangelical righteousness. It was not possible to believe that the Reverend did not, in his deepest heart, believe in the absolute truth of his words. At one point, Reverend Mudrick dramatically tore up a “dishonest, blackmailing document—a subpoena” issued by the district attorney’s office, to intimidate him and his attorney-brother Byron. When reporters and TV people arrived too late for the ritual tearing-up of the subpoena, Reverend Mudrick obliged them by repeating it, with another sheet of paper, and allowing the pieces to blow in the wind. Black individuals in the gathering applauded him as he denounced the “lying, heinous, down-dirty-dishonest conspiracies of the Nazi-racist-white police of Pascayne, New Jersey, and the Passaic County D.A. office to hide from the public the identities of rapist Jerold Zahn and rapist Julio Ramos—to obfuscate, prevaricate, and eradicate the vicious kidnapping, beating and rape of a young black girl-victim left then to die in a filthy factory cellar on the other side of the river . . .” In the freezing air, Reverend Mudrick’s breath steamed in vehement little puffs.
Among the gathering of disparate individuals, a number of whom were white, there were those who challenged the Reverend more sharply than usual; one was a tall white straggly-haired heckler in a soiled parka who tried to interrupt the Reverend several times, charging him with “race-baiting” and “race-mongering”—shouting, “Remember what happened to Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.! Got to pay a price for not knowing your place, Reverend Marus Mudrick! One day you might—I’m just saying might—have to pay that price . . .”
These shocking words, an obvious threat against Reverend Mudrick’s life, roused much indignation among the crowd, who shouted down the heckler. Reverend Mudrick, however, only just smiled at his adversary, and said, “No, let the man speak! This is the white-racist speech that is too often silenced, allowing the assassins to do their work without warning.” Bravely Reverend Mudrick opened his camel’s hair coat, that had not been fully buttoned, and said, “Sir, I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of the lynch mob that backs you and the white establishment that tacitly condones you. I am not wearing a bulletproof vest, and I am not myself armed . . .”
Quickly the heckler backed off, and walked away, as if the courage of the harassed Reverend had demoralized him. Infuriated individuals shouted after him. Sullen-faced police officers assigned to protect the Reverend and to forestall violence had been moving purposefully toward him but did not follow him as he broke stride and began to run away.
“If you stand up to a racist, he will always back down. At the heart of the racist is a sniveling coward.” Reverend Mudrick spoke breathlessly as if, now that the threat had dissolved, he was able to reveal his vulnerability.
After a heated hour the news conference began to disband, and a TV journalist for WHNY-TV asked if he might interview Reverend Mudrick for another half hour, on the courthouse steps.
It was this interview that Byron Mudrick saw that afternoon, in his Newark law offic
e.
Byron Mudrick had known nothing of the news conference called for the steps of the Passaic County courthouse. He had known nothing of his brother’s abrupt decision to accuse a Passaic County assistant district attorney of rape, with the announcement that the rape victim had identified “Julio Ramos.”
So quickly the accusation had come, following Ramos’s statement about Jerold Zahn’s alibi, it could not help but seem, to even the more sympathetic observers, that Marus Mudrick was retaliating against the young Hispanic prosecutor.
To endure this nightmare interview, Byron had to pour himself a small glass of whiskey. In recent weeks he’d been bringing a bottle—bottles—to his law office, to calm his nerves. Self-medicate it was called. Klarinda would understand, would pity him and (possibly) forgive him. Not immediately but—in time. Klarinda would say Didn’t I warn you, Byron! Your brother.
Byron had received a phone call from an alarmed law school colleague, to turn on his television, quickly. The press conference in Pascayne had more or less ended, but the live WHNY interview was just beginning. Through a roaring in his ears Byron heard the interviewer ask if Marus Mudrick and his brother Byron were not afraid of “defamation lawsuits”—“charges of slander or libel”—“publicly charging two individuals of rape”—and there was Marus Mudrick’s boastful answer, “Brother, I am not afraid of justice. Reverend Marus Mudrick has never been afraid of justice. And there is no libel of the dead, my attorney-brother Byron will explain to you.”
“But of the living?—Julio Ramos?”
“When the Crusade finishes exposing that rapist-race-criminal, Ramos will think he is dead.”
Marus Mudrick spoke with zest, rubbing his hands together. On the wrist of his left hand, a handsome gold-banded wristwatch was visible, and at the cuffs of both shirtsleeves, gleaming gold monogrammed cuff links.
The Sacrifice Page 23
