Bury Me When I'm Dead

by Cheryl A Head

  “I’m on it.”

  Chapter 18

  Charlie advised Abrams not to discuss the case with anyone. She called it a precaution and finally revealed to him that she and Don had been followed, and she’d been attacked.

  “We’re getting close to something, Leonard, very close and it’s making people nervous.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the attack when we spoke earlier, Charlene?”

  Abrams had known her a long time and was one of the few people to call her by her given name. Her mother did too, and sometimes Judy when she was pissed.

  “I don’t like to worry my clients, Leonard.”

  “You know better than that. I don’t want you in jeopardy.”

  “I know. I can handle it. I’ll call you when we find Joyce.”

  Charlie’s inner voice nagged at her again. She remembered the talk at the barber shop. She gingerly lifted herself from the couch and did a Frankenstein walk to the bedroom where she retrieved a phone book. With the advent of the internet, telephone books were being used more as doorstops, but in an unfamiliar city, they were still useful. Charlie found the number she wanted and dialed. When she hung up, she changed into work clothes.

  “I asked you not to call me during business hours.”

  “I’m calling to find out if you’ve verified our party’s involvement with the feds. You said you’d call me two days ago, so now I’m calling you.”

  “Look, I’ve got a full-time job and I’ve got people watching me, here.”

  “And that’s why you’re paid so well. Right?”

  “Look, I told you the guy pulled some strings in the coroner’s office and right after that the Lieutenant told us the case was moving to the feds. I’m telling you, the guy’s got some kind of insider juice. Hasn’t the son given you anything?”

  “Just some useless investment rumors, gossip about judges, bankers and whatnot. He says he doesn’t want to involve his father, but I’m going to have to turn up the burner on him.”

  “Look, I can’t have this conversation, right now. I gotta go.”

  The call was disconnected.

  Smith ran his finger along the index card until he had the series of numbers he wanted, and dialed. When Grant didn’t pick up, he left a message.

  “It’s urgent that I speak with you. I have a lead on some information and I need you to verify it. Call me as soon as you get this. Remember, you owe me.”

  “Judy, I’m stepping out for a couple of hours. But, I’ll have the cell phone with me,” Charlie said.

  “You think you should? I thought the doc said to stay put.”

  “I need to follow up on an idea I have. I’ve already sent for a cab and I’ll call Gil or Don for a ride back to the motel.”

  “Be careful, Charlie.”

  “Aren’t I always?”

  After telling Judy exactly where she was going, Charlie took a look in the mirror. She’d swapped her sweat pants for gray slacks, added a collared shirt and put on a pair of brown loafers. She wanted to look like a professional and not an invalid. The Yellow Cab arrived at the front office and the desk clerk called Charlie’s room to alert her. The hardest part about getting to the cab was going down the motel’s narrow stairwell. She descended the stairs leading with her right leg and holding tightly to the banister. The wrapping around her midriff worked well when she was lounging on the couch but now she couldn’t quite catch her breath. She paused, took a full breath; her core hurt like hell.

  The day was humid but the cab had air conditioning and the back seat was clean and cool. The ride took Charlie along a now familiar route on 24th Street. When the cab passed the lot that had almost been her grave she said a silent thank you to heaven.

  “Where you from?”

  Charlie looked up to see the driver making eye contact in the mirror. He was a youngish white guy with a scraggly beard and a ponytail.

  “I’m from Detroit.”

  “Whoa, Detroit. Tough city,” the driver said.

  “You know it?”

  “Nah. Just what I read in the papers.”

  “You know how that is. News is almost always going to be the sensational stuff. Man bites dog, not man takes his dog for a walk.”

  “Well, I guess you’re right,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you one thing. Motown music is still some of the best I’ve ever heard.”

  In fifteen minutes the driver pulled up to a small storefront building and gallantly offered to help Charlie out of the back seat. She accepted. The door of the Birmingham Defender rattled loudly when she opened it but there was no one to greet her. In the reception area, wood paneling traveled three-quarters of the way up the wall, topped by a trophy ledge holding assorted plaques, brass statuettes and framed certificates. In front of the window was a red leather loveseat with worn armrests. A glass coffee table held an arrangement of artificial flowers and a beige shag rug, needing a good vacuuming, completed the sitting area. Charlie stared at the umbrella rack next to the front door. It held a wood cane and she fantasized about using it to give relief to her sore torso.

  A single step led from the reception desk down to the half-walls of an assembly of cubicles. At the back of the building was an iron staircase leading to an upper level. A banner, hung along the backs of the first row of work stations, read: “Freedom, Information, Community.” Charlie searched for a bell or a buzzer to ring but finally resorted to a shouted “hello” which resulted in three heads bobbing above the partition walls. The closest head disappeared immediately and a man approached Charlie.

  “May I help you?”

  He was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with a caramel complexion. His glasses didn’t hide alert eyes and his dress was preppy.

  “I’m Charlene Mack. I called earlier and spoke with someone who said I could look through your archives.”

  “Oh, that was my, uh, Mrs. McCants. She’s the publisher.”

  “And your mother?” Charlie smiled.

  “Yes, that too.” He returned the smile.

  “Come with me, I’ll show you where our archives are kept.”

  Charlie followed to the rear staircase and gingerly mounted her way up. “I just had an injury to my ribs and I can’t move very fast.”

  “Take your time. I’m afraid we don’t have an elevator.”

  “I’m sorry, what is your name?”

  “Greg. Greg McCants. Unfortunately, only the last twenty years of our issues are available on microfilm. Before that you have to look through the stacks, but they’re well labeled.”

  “I think I’ll need to be in the stacks. I’m looking thirty years back, maybe a bit earlier.”

  “Are you doing research on the civil rights movement?”

  “No, but I can see why you’d think that. I guess a lot of people are interested in what you have for the Sixties.”

  “Right. And our back issues for 1960-1968 are also on microfilm. There’s new digital archiving technology available but we’re not there yet.”

  “I’m probably going to need someone to pull the issues off the stacks for me.”

  “I’d be happy to do that. Where do you want to start?”

  Charlie sat at a small table while McCants made three trips into the rows of shelves housing the Defender’s archives. He wore plastic gloves for the job and organized four neat stacks of newspapers in front of her.

  “These old newspapers are pretty dusty. You might want to use these.” He placed a box of latex gloves on the table. “I sneeze like mad if I don’t wear them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m about to have a cup of tea, can I get you something?”

  “No, but it’s very nice of you to ask.”

  “Well then I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be at my desk if you need anything else.”

  Charlie began her search with the 1967 issues, systematically reviewing the society pages of each weekly edition. The musty newsprint pages were shiny. After flipping through and refolding the first tw
o papers she gratefully made use of a pair of gloves. She read announcements for births, deaths, marriages, and engagements. She studied the graduation class photos from the local Black high schools, and scanned lengthy articles about the annual spring cotillion where the daughters of Birmingham’s prominent Black families were introduced. In the issue dated July 20, 1967 a notice caught Charlie’s attention. Robert Stringer had been named a member of the congregation board for Saint Agnes Catholic Church. An adjacent notice mentioned the arrival of a new parish priest, Fr. Stephen Straughn of Indiana.

  Charlie restacked the 1967 papers and moved on to 1968. The April 6 edition was filled with news of the nation’s angst in the aftermath of the Martin Luther King, Jr. assassination. The paper included a six-page pull-out of photos and remembrances of King’s visits to Birmingham, which doubled the usual size of the Defender.

  In the January 1970 issue, she spotted an announcement of the birth of Andrew Meadows to Spencer and Jennifer Meadows.

  Charlie pulled off the right glove and rubbed her eyes. She’d been sitting for more than an hour. Her ribs hurt, her eyes were getting tired, and it was becoming difficult to concentrate. She almost missed the brief blurbs about the birth of a son to Anna Stringer in April of 1970 and the announcement of eight-year-old Joyce Stringer’s win of the city’s fourth-grade spelling championship. In that year’s August issue was a birth notice for boy and girl twins born to Rose and Grant Freeman, Jr.

  None of the papers helped to affirm the notion forming in Charlie’s mind. She decided to look again at the 1970 issue, focusing on the business sections. She found what she was looking for in October, a photo of the senior Grant Freeman and his twenty-eight-year-old son, Grant Jr., posing in front of the funeral home. The accompanying article lauded the elder Freeman for providing mortuary services for Birmingham’s Black community for two decades. The photograph, which seemed to be the one she’d seen at the barbershop, bore the building’s address—just a few blocks away from the Meadows house.

  Charlie lifted herself from the unforgiving chair in the drafty backroom. This afternoon she felt every single bit of her thirty-three years. She eased down the stairs, found Greg McCants, and he matched her slow pace as they returned to the backroom.

  “I’d like just a few more stacks, if you don’t mind. Nineteen-eighty, and 1958 through 1960.”

  “You’re on a scavenger hunt?”

  “Sort of. I have bits of information I’m trying to piece together. It’s more like twenty questions. Speaking of which, I have one for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How many African-American high schools does Birmingham have?”

  “Oh probably eight in the different areas of the city. They’re not specifically designated as Black schools but because Birmingham is polarized by neighborhoods, it affects the racial makeup of the schools.”

  “I understand. Where would I find out what high school someone went to and what year they graduated? Does the newspaper keep those kinds of records?”

  “No we don’t. Probably the best place would be downtown at the Board of Education, they would have the older records. If you’re looking for more recent years there are a few websites devoted to high school connections,” Greg said, showing internet savvy.

  “Well, I’m looking for records from the late Fifties, or early Sixties.”

  “Wow. Good luck with that.”

  Charlie lowered herself back into the hard chair and Greg disappeared into the rows of shelves. He returned pushing a cart filled with newspapers in plastic sleeves. The issues from the 1950s were in surprisingly good condition and Charlie made quick work of scanning the pages for high school graduation photos. She found nothing of help so she moved to the 1980 edition where she had more luck. She spotted a short blurb about Anna Stringer moving to Detroit but it gave few details. A later issue from that year carried a photo of Grant Freeman, Jr., his wife, Rose, and their ten-year-old twins Grace and Grant under a headline that read “Moving on Up.” The accompanying article detailed the relocation of the Freeman family to a Birmingham suburb called Homewood. Charlie jotted in her notebook, “set up a meeting with Grant Freeman, Jr.”

  Greg returned to the room just as Charlie was finishing her research. He handed her a folded sheet from a yellow legal pad. On it was the name Jonathan Fitzgerald, a telephone number and a local address.

  “Mother called and I asked her your question about high school records. She suggested you speak with this man,” he said, pointing to the paper. “He operated Fitzgerald Photography until about five years ago. His shop was right up the street for as long as I can remember. Mother says he took the graduation photos for most of the Black schools and if anyone has the information you’re looking for, it would be Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  It wasn’t difficult to reach Fitzgerald, and he didn’t think Charlie’s request was unusual. He agreed to see her at his home. Charlie looked at her watch. Judy would be checking on her soon, but a conversation with Fitzgerald, if it confirmed her hunch, could provide a breakthrough in the case.

  Chapter 19

  Ernestine Mack would have complimented Gregory McCants as a young man “with good home training.” Not only did he call a taxicab for Charlie, he helped her into the back seat and insisted she take the abandoned cane from the umbrella stand. Charlie was glad to have it when she arrived at Fitzgerald’s home. She slung both legs from the cab to the pavement and with the help of the cane, slowly stood upright.

  The house was freshly painted, a small brown and white bungalow on a block that had equal numbers of boarded and occupied homes. The front lawn was a shock of green and rosebushes dotted the front border. The steps to the porch had no banister so, again, the cane came in handy for steadying her ascent. Charlie was dumbfounded when she recognized the man who opened the door.

  “I know you.”

  “It’s more accurate to say you’ve seen me before,” the man said. “I’ve seen you too, at the barbershop the other day.”

  “That’s it. The owner called you Johnny.”

  “Johnny Fitzgerald at your service, Miss,” the old man said, extending his hand.

  “Charlene Mack.” She handed him her card.

  “I don’t remember you having a cane at the barber shop,” Fitzgerald said, maneuvering his walker away from the door so Charlie could enter.

  “No, I didn’t. It’s a long story,” Charlie said, stepping over the threshold.

  The home was snug. As far as Charlie could see from the front door, carefully stacked boxes and crates were positioned to create wide aisles allowing Fitzgerald to easily use his walker. He and Charlie hobbled into the family room which seemed to be one of the places immune to the storage. Johnny offered her a seat and a cup of hot tea which Charlie accepted, and he clumped toward the back of the house to his kitchen.

  Charlie gave the living room an investigator’s scan. The largest pieces were the couch she sat on and two comfy-looking armchairs made less so by plastic covers. Charlie had seen this kind of furniture before, a mainstay of working-class homes from her mother’s era. This afternoon the plastic was a nuisance because it crackled every time she moved and thwarted her low-level prying. She wanted a closer look at the photos on the fireplace mantel where Fitzgerald’s family life appeared to be displayed in chronological order. First a photo of a young Johnny in uniform, then a wedding photo: Johnny handsome and smiling in a tuxedo next to a beautiful, brown-skinned bride with flashing eyes wearing a gown with a flowing veil. There were two baby photos side by side, a boy with his mother’s eyes and a little girl in a pink bonnet with a tender smile. A Christmas portrait showed the happy family seated in front of a spruce plump with decorations. Mom and Dad beamed proudly and the kids grinned with blissful delight.

  “How would you like your tea?”

  Charlie hadn’t heard Johnny’s return because he’d traded in the walker for his aluminum cane.

  “I’ve got cream and sugar and also some honey. If you’d like a
little something in it, I’ve got that too.”

  “You’re a man of impeccable taste and intelligence but it’s a bit early for me for the hard stuff, so I’ll take mine with two spoonsfuls of honey.” Charlie pointed at the mantel. “You’ve got a nice family.”

  “Thank you. The kids have moved out west and my wife, Cynthia, died eight years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s okay. She was quite sick at the end but we had a very good life together.”

  Fitzgerald and Charlie chatted easily. He admitted he was one of those people who was curious about the world and everything in it. It was what ultimately led him to his profession as a photographer.

  “I was always staring at folks and I thought I’d better have an explanation that made sense to them. You’d be surprised at the wrong ideas people get just because you’re giving them a good once-over.”

  When the tea kettle whistled, Fitzgerald moved to the kitchen, leaving Charlie time to scrutinize the final three mantel photos. Graduation day pictures of the son and daughter, and a formal portrait of Johnny and his wife for what might have been a silver anniversary. The cap and gown photos were embossed with the Fitzgerald Photography name in the lower right corner.

  “So,” Fitzgerald began once Charlie had approved of her tea. “You’re interested in photographs of the graduating seniors in the late Fifties?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who, in particular, are you looking for?”

  Charlie took a sip of tea while she calculated how much she wanted to reveal to Mr. Fitzgerald. He blew on his tea and the comforting aroma of cardamom, brandy and honey curled toward her.

  “Let me guess?” he said. “Grant Freeman, Jr.”

  Charlie gulped her tea, burning her tongue.

  “You okay?”

  Charlie nodded and sucked in a stream of cool air.

  “I saw your reaction when Burke mentioned Junior’s name at the barbershop.”