by Lis Wiehl
“Daddy, look. Daddy, I’m skipping.” Lisa took off in an awkward hop and skip up the sidewalk.
“Wait for me,” James said, picking up his pace. The camera hanging around his neck slapped his chest as he reached out for her arm. “Hold my hand now.”
“And look both ways,” Lisa said as they reached an intersection. The light turned green, and they crossed the street with a growing crowd hurrying forward.
James was keenly aware of the glances, and of how people moved ever so slightly away—some even crossed to the other sidewalk—when they saw him. This wasn’t a neighborhood where a white man and his blond-haired daughter would normally be seen. Lisa skipped along, oblivious.
The sounds of cheering and shouts echoing through a bullhorn increased as they closed in on the throng of people. As a tall man raced by, the placard he carried clattered to the sidewalk. Lisa released James’s hand to run a few steps ahead, reaching the sign as the man bent to pick it up.
“Here you go, sir,” Lisa chirped. She picked up the edge of the sign that had FREEDOM NOW painted in bold red against the white.
The man glanced from Lisa to James, then back to the child. She pushed the end of the wooden pole as high as she could with two hands.
“Thank you, li’l miss,” the man said.
“You’re welcome, sir,” Lisa said, smiling back as he picked up the placard.
He gave James a tentative nod before racing up the street, sign in hand.
As the sidewalk congestion grew, James scooped Lisa into his arms, eliciting a joyful squeal. She rested in the crook of his elbow, and her soft hand reached around his neck, curling her fingers into his hair.
At the corner, the streets lined with tall brick buildings opened to a small park and public square. The air was electric with the energy of the growing crowd.
James surveyed the plaza where at least a hundred people lined the adjacent street, waiting for the approaching marchers: women in Sunday dresses, many with hats and white gloves, pantyhose, and dress shoes; men in crisp button-down shirts and slacks, some with ties and jackets even on this warm spring morning.
“Where is the important man, Daddy?” Lisa craned her neck.
“We’ll see him very soon,” James said, moving closer toward the parade route. His eight years with the Bureau had altered training into instinct, but in the eighteen months since President Kennedy’s assassination in Dallas, every important event held the threat of danger, no matter how peaceful it was planned to be.
James had spent countless hours and overtime investigating the JFK assassination. He was assigned to the killer, the deceased Lee Harvey Oswald—his activities, friends, coworkers, family, and especially his Russian wife, Marina Oswald. Good ole cowboy country hid numerous underground connections and secret groups throughout Dallas, Fort Worth, and outward from the South and across the nation. There were Russian expats with connections in the USSR, hidden KKK members in political positions, and a growing group of black freedom fighters.
But today James tried to blend in. Just another bystander, a normal guy who’d brought his daughter to witness a historical event. Just any white dad who happened to have a revolver and FBI credentials in his wallet. The truth was, James couldn’t be just a bystander. A special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation was never off duty, and an event like this had layers of possible intrigue. His wife would be furious if she knew he’d brought Lisa with him. She thought they were going to the park.
“Here he comes.” James lifted Lisa onto his shoulders. She patted the top of his head, bouncing up and down with the cheers erupting around them. “See that man, the one in the middle?”
“The man with the big hat?” Lisa leaned down toward his ear. The girl was hat obsessed. She’d wanted to break out her Easter bonnet today, but his wife wanted it saved for Easter Sunday.
“Not that one. The shorter man with the red necktie.” He lifted his camera with one hand and snapped a picture, then advanced the film and snapped another.
“I see him,” she said, bouncing again.
“He’s an important man, a very good writer and speaker.”
James took pictures as they watched the progression down the street. Benjamin Gray was surrounded by marchers holding signs, the cry for freedom and equality on their lips. The crowd took up singing “We Shall Overcome.” Benjamin Gray carried a Bible under his arm and slapped his hands together as he joined in the singing.
Lisa wiggled on James’s shoulders, trying to slide down just as he spotted his partner, Agent Peter Hughes, up a block and across the street.
“Want down, Daddy,” Lisa said.
The marchers made a sharp turn and moved into the square where Gray and other leaders would speak to the crowd.
James set Lisa on the ground, holding on to her arm, but she tugged away from him.
“Wait!” he called, weaving through the crowd after the blond head.
James watched as Lisa stopped a few feet from a little black girl close to her age who sat on a cylindrical concrete seat. The girl stared back at Lisa, then smiled when his daughter waved. Lisa clambered up the seat, pushing higher with her toes. It seemed that thoughts of parades and important men were pushed aside by the more interesting distraction of a potential playmate.
“I’m four,” Lisa said as she held up three fingers, then the fourth.
James didn’t hear the other girl but saw her show Lisa four fingers back. A nearby woman in a large white hat kept a watchful eye from an adjacent, slightly taller bench.
“Can I take a picture?” he asked her.
She leaned back, studying him and then the two girls before winking and breaking into a smile.
“Go right ahead,” she said, and returned to watching the progression of marchers as they looped from behind them to curve around James toward the central square at his back.
He clicked several photos, struck by the poignancy of the images. These two little girls, one white and one black, sitting side by side, were the symbol of today’s event.
James snapped another picture as the two girls leaned close, smiling and talking as if already friends.
A gunshot pierced the air. Then another.
James jumped to shield Lisa as he grabbed his gun. He moved the two girls directly behind him. His eyes jumped around the crowded plaza behind him, where the shots had come from.
The rally turned into instant chaos, with people running in all directions.
The black girl’s mother screamed at James, hitting him with her purse as she reached for her child.
“It’s okay, I’m FBI.” He flipped out his wallet with the large letters clearly visible, but the woman continued to cry out, gloved hands at her mouth. James passed the child to her, and they were immediately enveloped into the crowd and out of sight.
“They shot him! Help, please help!” someone screamed.
Through the commotion James glimpsed a man on the ground. Beside the body, a Bible lay covered in blood.
James pushed forward with Lisa held against his chest. “Close your eyes,” he demanded.
The faces around him reflected terror and confusion.
As he turned toward the man on the ground, James was certain that Benjamin Gray was already dead.
The story continues in Snapshot . . .
