One Night in Georgia

by Celeste O. Norfleet

  Daphne snatched the mug shot pinned to the wall that showed my face when I had arrived at the station. She handed it to the reporter. He looked at it and gave it to the photographer, who snapped a photograph.

  “Y’all can’t have that. Dat’s police property,” the captain yelled.

  A man dressed in an army uniform stepped up. “Miss Livingston, I’m Lieutenant Charles Smith. I am the investigating officer.” He handed me a handkerchief. My hand shook. Veronica took it. “These men are military police. We’re here to escort you, Miss Cook, and Miss Brooks to Fort Gordon. Please come with us.”

  I nodded. “Yes, thank you,” I said. With Veronica on one side and Daphne on the other, we walked out of the police station. As soon as the doors opened, I saw a crowd of people standing around outside. They had been causing a ruckus but were now silent. We walked straight through them, tucked between the military police. We looked straight ahead and kept walking.

  24

  I EXPELLED A STAGGERING BREATH AND FORCED MYSELF to inhale deeply. I did this until I could finally breathe normally again.

  At first I cried like a baby. Tears and sobs of uncontrollable grief for the innocence I once savored so preciously. I had seen racist crimes against my father and grandfather, but I had never experienced it firsthand. Not like this. Taken. Stolen. Tainted by the evil that had surrounded me like the water swirling and circling the drain at my feet. Stripped bare in the white porcelain tub, I stood with the realness and knowledge of the unjust life thrust upon me through no fault of my own. I hadn’t asked to be born black. It had been gifted upon me, and I wore my skin proudly with grace and honor.

  I had always known the world was harsh and cruel, but having experienced firsthand the vileness of hatred, I was more determined than ever to reign in my father’s stead and to be the champion he had given his life to be. To help those who couldn’t help themselves.

  I scoured and scrubbed my body, trying to eliminate the muck and filth of my experience. I could still smell the stench of the police station on my skin. I stepped under the water’s nominal spray. The water washed over my face and ran down my body. I washed gently around my bruises and cuts, which were covered in Mercurochrome-soaked bandages to slacken the sting. The swelling around my eye burned a little, but I paid it no mind.

  I took the rock-hard bar of soap and thrashed it against the washrag. I kept scrubbing my skin until it squeaked. I didn’t want anything to remain from my time there.

  The water began to get cold. I had lost time standing under the flow. I didn’t know where the urge came from, but I closed my eyes and said a prayer before getting out. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, God,” I whispered. “Now please help me be strong.”

  I knew what I had to do.

  Veronica knocked. “Hey, are you okay?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I quickly dried off and threw on some clothes. I greased my wet hair and pulled it back, and it sat as a thick braid at the nape of my neck. I opened the bathroom door. Daphne and Veronica were sitting on the sofa talking.

  Daphne frowned in all seriousness. “They’re on their way.”

  I stood in the tiny kitchenette with a glass of water in my hand. With the linen curtain pushed aside, I peeked out the window. It was sunny and bright, and the sky was crystal blue, but everything else on the base in my view was gray, bland, and nondescript. Fort Gordon, on the outskirts of Augusta. The place looked like a board game with a dozen matching building blocks stamped and positioned.

  We were at a military camp waiting. After being seen by the doctor at the Army Medical Unit, they had brought us here.

  “You look much better,” Veronica said.

  “For the record, I never, ever want to go on another road-trip adventure with you two again,” I said, forcing an almost genuine smile.

  “I don’t understand how you two can just stand there and joke about what happened to us, to you, Zelda.”

  “Honey chile, you know this is how us black folks do. We joke about rough times. That’s how we get through them—slavery, emancipation, and Jim Crow days. That’s how we’ll get through this,” Veronica said with the worst Southern accent ever.

  “There’s nothing funny about this, Veronica,” Daphne said sternly and then cut her eyes to me. “You can’t make jokes and then expect all this to just go away. It won’t. Not for me. Not for you. Not for any of us.”

  After that we sat in silence, each of us looking in a different direction.

  “Are you worried about the testimony today?” Daphne asked.

  “No. Not at all,” Veronica said. “I know what to say and I’ll keep saying it. I didn’t see anything. We ran.”

  Daphne nodded. “That’s right. Me too. We ran.”

  They looked at me. I shook my head.

  “What kind of attorney kills someone?” I asked.

  “It was an accident. You said so yourself.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I did it and now everyone is lying to protect me. Everybody’s life is forever changed because of what I did. I have to make this right.”

  “What do you mean?” Daphne asked.

  “I mean I’m going to tell them the real truth and I’ll face whatever justice.”

  “Justice? There’s no such thing as justice for black people. You say that all the time. How can you even think about telling the truth?”

  She was right. Blacks were killed all the time and nothing was ever done. Justice for black people was an illusion and still is. I had seen justice five years ago. I knew exactly what it looked like. It looked like nothing. There had never been justice for black people. Since the beginning of slavery we had been used, abused, trodden upon, and discarded. This country was built with our blood and on our backs, and we had never been treated equally. And nothing has changed. Freedoms were continually being eradicated and laws had been established to ensure we would never see any semblance of justice.

  “Personally, I’m going to take this and push it to the back of my mind and never let it bother me again.”

  “How do I do that?” I asked in earnest. “How?”

  “The same way you did when your father was killed,” Daphne said.

  “When your life changes in a way that is profoundly unfathomable, you put one foot in front of the other and keep moving. We’re women. We’re black women. We don’t have a choice. We never did.”

  Seconds later, there was a knock on the door. We looked at one another fretfully. It was time.

  We were driven to another building, much larger, with a lot of windows. We waited in a long empty hallway, sitting side by side on a wooden bench holding hands. My heart was pounding.

  When the door opened, we jumped up anxiously. The man who had come to get us from the police station came out. He nodded curtly. “Good afternoon, ladies. I’m Lieutenant Charles Smith. We met earlier.”

  “Yes, we remember you,” Daphne said hesitantly.

  “Pursuant to Article 32, this hearing is an official investigative proceeding under the United States UCMJ regarding Private Billy Knox.”

  “I don’t—” I began, then looked at Veronica and Daphne. “I’m sorry, we don’t understand.”

  He nodded. “In civilian law, this is a preliminary hearing. Private Knox is being investigated under the statutes of the United States Uniform Code of Military Justice Article 86, Absence Without Leave; Article 128, Assault; and Article 134, Conduct Discrediting the Armed Forces, and articles yet to be determined. We’ll be taking your testimony shortly,” he said calmly, then nodded for another man to come over with the Bible in his hand. “Please raise your right hand.

  “Do you assert that the testimony you are about to give is the truth to the best of your knowledge?”

  “Yes,” I said. Both Daphne and Veronica also agreed.

  “Thank you. We’ll call you in separately.”

  We nodded. He turned to go back inside. I spoke up quickly before he left. “Excuse me, sir. May I please ask you a que
stion?”

  “Sure.”

  “How long is all this going to take?”

  “Something like this can take days, weeks, even months. But this is pretty straightforward. And as civilians, your part should end today.”

  “Thank you.”

  When he went back into the room, a uniformed man stepped into the hallway. We stood up, this time more slowly.

  “Daphne Brooks. Please come in.”

  She disappeared behind the door. A huge lump formed in my throat even though it was as dry as the Sahara. After a short while they called Veronica.

  “That’s me,” she said, standing. She turned and looked at me, smiling. “Be right back. Save my seat.”

  I smiled. Veronica’s dry wit with just a dash of cynicism always made me wonder what was really behind it. To be so open, she never really gave much away.

  I sat alone in silence, trapped in my own thoughts. Suddenly I wished I had been more patient with my mother. She was the woman she was, and she would always be in need of a man in her life. I saw that now.

  Anxious to get this over with, I looked up and down the empty corridor. Waxed and polished, the wood shined and glistened like glass. The whole building seemed to have been chopped from the same tree; the floor, the walls, the doors, even the ceiling was made of the same dark walnut wood. It smelled of musty old wood after it had been left out in the rain.

  There were portraits of important men in uniform hanging on the walls, their chests filled with colorful medals and ribbons.

  The door opened. “Zelda Livingston. Please come in. They’re ready for you.”

  25

  I WALKED THROUGH THE DOOR INTO A SMALL OPEN ROOM. I had to finish this. Desks, chairs, windows, some flags—I remembered this from when my father had taken me to court with him on occasion. It wasn’t exactly the same, but it was close.

  There was a woman sitting at the edge of the room with a stenography machine in front of her. She looked immaculately dressed. She wasn’t typing. She was just sitting there with her hands in her lap looking at me, expressionless.

  Two men in uniform were seated at a long table at the front of the room. With heads down, reading I presumed, they didn’t speak to each other or acknowledge my entrance. There were also two military policemen standing by a door on the far side of the room. The soldier who had escorted me in stood by the door behind me. They all looked stiff and regimented, as if a button out of place would tumble them into sheer chaos.

  I recognized Lieutenant Smith. He stood and pulled a chair out. He motioned for me to have a seat at the table next to him. I walked over cautiously, sat down, and leaned over to him. “Do I have to call them ‘sir’?” I asked.

  “No, that’s not necessary. Just follow my lead. You’ll do just fine.”

  I nodded, and as soon as I did, a door opened. Lieutenant Smith stood up. I did too. A third man, thin, with half glasses and a narrow face, walked in. He took a seat between the other two men at the table and opened a thick folder in front of him. He peered at me over his glasses.

  “Be seated,” he said.

  We sat down. I looked at the three men. My heart pounded nervously. Only one looked at me, but it wasn’t a look of disapproval or condemnation; it was more derivative of inquisitive scrutiny.

  The man seated in the center cleared his throat roughly and then coughed loudly, which echoed briefly. “Miss Livingston, you have been sworn in.”

  “I have.” I spoke up clearly.

  He nodded his head once. I saw the woman sitting to the side begin softly typing on the stenography machine. “Miss Livingston, we’re going to ask you some questions pursuant to a formal investigation. Please answer giving as much detailed information as possible. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Would you please state your name for the record?”

  “Yes. My name is Zelda Owen Livingston.”

  “Miss Livingston, to the best of your recollection, please tell this panel exactly what you heard and saw on the evening of Tuesday, the thirteenth of August, 1968, and the morning of Wednesday, the fourteenth of August, 1968.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  My words were calm, concise, and measured. I didn’t rush. I said only what we had talked about and didn’t stray from the central point. When questions were asked of me, I kept my answers succinct.

  “How did you meet Private Knox and Corporal Kent?”

  “They introduced themselves at a club called the barn.”

  “Had you ever met them before?”

  “No.”

  “Who all was in the guesthouse on the night in question?”

  “Mazie, her mother, Mr. Jackson, Veronica, Daphne, and I were on the second floor. Daniel was on the third floor.”

  “Where in the house were Corporal Kent and Private Knox?”

  “I didn’t see or hear them until the fight in the hall.”

  “In your written statement you allege that Corporal Kent told you he and Private Knox were AWOL and were headed to Canada. Is this true?”

  “Yes. That’s correct.”

  One of the men jumped in quickly, his voice loud and screechy. “Why would they tell you that, a presumed perfect stranger?”

  I stayed calm. “They were drunk, very drunk.”

  “And are you drunk?”

  “No, sir, I’m not,” I said.

  “Were you drunk at the time and misheard?”

  “No, sir. I took a sip of hot, flat beer. That’s it.”

  He glared at me distrustfully. He had tried to confuse me. He glanced down at the thick folder in front of him. “I understand you were beaten up.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  One of the men spoke up for the first time. “Are you alleging Private Knox did this to you?” His thick gray hair and matching eyebrows, stern expression, and rusty-as-nails villainous voice seemed right out of a war movie. But I was not scared or intimidated.

  “No, Billy beat up Mazie. I was beat up by the cops.”

  “Wait, you’re saying the police did this to you?” he asked, holding up a photo that had been taken when I was in the medical unit earlier. He handed it to the other two men. They looked at me, then at the photo, and back at me.

  “Why would the police beat you?”

  “They wanted to know who killed Rob, and they didn’t like my answer, so they thought beating me would change it,” I said as calmly as I could, even as my voice cracked. I kept my eyes focused on each man as he spoke to me. My father had taught me to always look your judge in the eye, to never shy away from standing up for yourself and others.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them that I didn’t know.”

  “Tell us exactly what you heard.”

  “Yelling, shouting, fighting, and Mazie was screaming. Billy sounded drunk, and he wanted Rob to give him the gun. He said he was going to kill everybody there. Then I heard a gunshot. We ran out of the house and drove away.”

  “Are you stating that Private Knox killed Corporal Kent?”

  “I’m stating that they were fighting, then there was a gunshot. They were the only two I saw in the hall.”

  “So you did see them.”

  “Briefly, as I ran.”

  “These are very serious charges, Miss Livingston.”

  “Yes, they are. A man is dead, I’m sorry to say.”

  “If you were so sorry and concerned about Corporal Kent, why did you run? Why didn’t you help him?”

  “I was scared. I didn’t know what Billy would do next. I heard him yelling hate-filled ugliness. He sounded drunk and crazed. Then the gun fired. I don’t suppose anyone would have stayed after that.”

  “Actually someone did stay.”

  It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t respond. My father had also taught me to never get baited by comments.

  “So why didn’t you wait for the police?”

  “Police aren’t very tolerant when a white boy is dead and black people are
around. I have scars, cuts, and bruises on my body right now to attest to that fact.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” one of the men said, obviously impatient. He sighed dismissively. “We understand you were perhaps treated unkindly. That might have been avoided had you stayed and waited for the MPs, but instead you didn’t. And how are we to know if you didn’t incur these marks on your body elsewhere? We have only your word to go by, and I, for one, am skeptical. I am—”

  To my surprise, one of the other officers defended me. “We are not here to refute Miss Livingston’s word as to whether or not she was beaten or by whom. I believe the before and after photos plainly show her atrocious ordeal. We are here to garner the truth regarding the actions of Corporal Kent and Private Knox and what precipitated Corporal Kent’s death. And for the record, perhaps the police deputies of Forsyth County should thoroughly understand that the term ‘Serve and protect’ pertains to all citizens of the United States of America.”

  I didn’t know what the ranks of the officers seated here were, but I had a feeling the officer with the thick gray eyebrows and villainous voice who defended me outranked the officer who didn’t believe me, because the one who didn’t believe me immediately shut up.

  “Thank you, Miss Livingston. We appreciate your assistance in this matter,” the officer seated in the center said.

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  “These proceedings are closed,” the officer in the center said, closing his file folder. The woman stopped typing and placed her hands in her lap.

  Lieutenant Smith quickly stood up next to me.

  I stood as well. “Thank you, sir,” I said and looked at the officer who didn’t believe me. He said nothing. I smiled, feeling victorious, and watched as they walked out.

  “Lieutenant,” the officer with the thick gray eyebrows said before leaving.

  “Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Smith nodded. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I watched as he walked over and spoke to the officer with the thick gray eyebrows.

  Finally, with everything behind me, Daniel came to mind. I couldn’t wait to see him again.

  The lieutenant returned. “You did very well.”