A second ambulance attendant arrived, carrying a stout wood stretcher. “How’s she doing?”
“We’d better get her moved,” the first attendant said.
I started to ask, “Should I—”
“Get out,” Hilda said quietly. She wouldn’t even look at me. “I trusted you. You said you’d protect her, but you nearly got her killed. So please, just go. Go away.”
* * *
Sick with guilt, I returned to the newsroom and busied myself for an hour, but after that I couldn’t stay away. I headed over to Harlem Hospital. They’d put Mabel in a room with five other women. She was awake and in pain. The facial swelling was terrible. She could barely see and it must’ve hurt her to breathe.
Hilda sat at Mabel’s bedside, reading from the New Testament. Embarrassment and shame flitted across her face at the sight of me.
“How’s she doing?” I asked.
Hilda returned her gaze to the Bible in her lap. “It’ll take a while for her ribs and hand to heal, but they will. The doctors said she’s got to take it easy, though, because of her head.”
I drew a chair up to Mabel’s bed. Hilda’s eyes followed me. Eyes lowered, she spoke in a low voice.
“I’m sorry. It was wrong what I said.”
“It’s okay. Maybe you were right.”
She looked up and a small smile crossed her face. “Aren’t we the two?”
“Yeah.” I gave a little laugh.
“Miss Lanie?” It was Mabel, her voice thick and words slurred.
I placed a light hand on her forearm. “I’m here.”
A single tear spilled from her right eye. “Look at me. Just look what he done to me.”
I took a deep breath. It was time to get to the reason for my visit. “Mabel, you should press charges.”
“No.”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Don’t let him get away with this.”
Hilda was at my side. “The police tried already. She’s not gonna talk. She can’t. That would be dangerous. Don’t you think it would be safer if—”
“No, I don’t.” My gaze stayed on Mabel. “I don’t think she should cower in a corner and let him go free.”
Mabel’s tear-filled terrified eyes moved to Hilda, asking for direction. Hilda looked at me and I looked at Hilda.
“You talking about charges against Mr. Echo or Mr. Whitfield?”
“Both.”
Hilda thought about it. Then she licked her lips. “Mabel, Miss Lanie’s right. Maybe, it’s time you took a stand. Otherwise, he’ll just come back and maybe do it again.”
“But—”
“If you press charges,” I said, “I’ll be able to write about it in the paper. And once that happens, they won’t be able to hide anymore.” I gripped the metal rail of her bed. “I won’t lie to you, Mabel. You’d still be in danger, but Whitfield would think twice before messing with you—not with the whole world watching.”
Mabel’s swollen eyes stayed on Hilda, and Hilda told her to go ahead and do it. “Press charges, honey. I’ll be right beside you. I’ll tell him that he went after me, too. Only I was lucky and saw him coming.”
More tears squeezed from between Mabel’s crusted eyelids and slid down her face. She gave a painful nod and the glimmers of a brave smile lit her bruised face.
Chapter 29
I phoned the station house from the hospital and spoke to a detective named Blackie. He and I knew each other from way back, when I was covering the crime beat. I explained what was up and he said he himself would come by to take Mabel’s statement.
Then I phoned Sam. He knew about Mabel and Echo and the beating—I’d told him earlier. Now, I gave him an update.
“You know what you’re doing, Lanie?”
“Yup. Using a mouse to whip an elephant.”
Next I phoned Whitfield. “You went too far,” I said. “The mouse has learned to roar.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mabel Dean. She’ll be pressing charges. A detective’s on his way to talk to her right now.”
“About what?”
“About you and your lieutenant, and how you had him beat her to keep her quiet. My paper will be running the story: the charges, his arrest and who he works for.”
An angry silence, then a stubborn denial: “I certainly had no knowledge of his alleged activities.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“You’re a perfect example of why the Negro race is where it is today: jealousy, envy, the need to destroy our own. I have fought people like you all my life. All you want to do is find a good man and take him down.”
“Save it.”
He was furious, but stuck and he knew it. He couldn’t afford any more bad publicity.
“All right,” he sighed. “What do you want?”
“A meeting, in one hour.”
Chapter 30
The chatter and hubbub of the newsroom quieted when Whitfield and Canfield walked in. From the fishbowl of Sam’s office, I couldn’t hear the sudden drop in volume, but I could sense it. That clamor and the vibrations it produced paused noticeably when two of the most influential colored men in America strode across the floor.
I glanced at Sam. “You ready?”
“Like a pie coming out of grandma’s oven.”
I repressed a smile and made a mental note of Sam’s habit of referring to his grandmother. I’d have to ask him about her one day.
Whitfield had called Canfield as soon as he got off the phone with me and Canfield had called Sam.
“We want this vendetta stopped,” Canfield had said.
Sam told me he ended the phone call quickly. It was an attempt to bargain behind my back and he wasn’t about to do that. He told Canfield that the meeting was set and any negotiating to be done would have to be done there.
Meanwhile, Blackie had called me. “No charges against Whitfield, at least not yet. The charge will be against Echo and it’ll be attempted murder. That’ll give us some room to negotiate. That’s if we ever catch him.”
“You mean he’s on the lam?”
“Some little birdie put a whistle in his ear and he took off.”
I felt guilty about that. As usual, I’d been in too much in a hurry. It should’ve occurred to me that Whitfield would warn Echo.
“The thing is, Lanie, we don’t have the manpower to search for him.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll dig something up.”
Our visitors entered Sam’s office, Canfield in the lead.
“Mr. Canfield, Mr. Whitfield,” I said. “Glad to see you.”
“I assure you, it isn’t mutual,” Whitfield said.
“Now, now, fellows,” Sam scolded. “Let’s be civilized, or pretend to be.” He gestured toward the coat rack. “Make yourselves comfortable and take a seat.”
As he hung up his coat, Whitfield looked around with barely concealed contempt.
“It’s chilly in here,” he complained, taking a seat.
“Would you like some coffee to warm you up?” I asked.
“We’re not here for idle chitchat,” Canfield said.
“I’m not offering you any.”
Canfield gave me his most intimidating glare; it had about as much effect as a feather against stone. We all knew why they were there, and that it was nothing for him to be proud of.
“We need to settle this. Now.” Canfield looked to Sam and spoke about me as if I weren’t there. “Will she stop the vendetta against Whitfield if he proves his innocence concerning Esther Todd?”
“Prove it and we’ll see.”
What Canfield didn’t know, but should have anticipated, is that Sam and I had had our own short, but thorough pow-wow. He and I agreed: I would run the show. He would step in only if necessary. I addressed the tax collector.
“Got your accountants busy at work, Mr. Whitfield, trying to create a problem with my returns?”
“We don’t ‘create’ problems.”
“That’s good t
o know. ‘Cause I’m sure certain people would be very interested in a news story about a certain tax collector who uses his office to intimidate his enemies.”
Whitfield and I dead-eyed each other for two long seconds. Then he grunted and looked away. With that point made, it was time to get down to the nitty-gritty.
“So are you proud of your henchman’s work?” I asked.
Whitfield's visage hardened with resentment. His eyes flicked to Canfield, who remained stony-faced.
“It’s very unfortunate, what happened to Miss Dean,” Whitfield said. “I will offer her a formal apology, on behalf of Mr. Echo.”
“That’s a start.”
“Mr. Echo can no longer work for me. That is clear. And I’ll make sure he never works again in any other government office.”
“How thorough of you.”
His face tightened. He started to respond, but Canfield stepped in.
“You demanded our presence here. Why?”
Wonderful. Not only had Canfield acknowledged me, but he was actually asking what I wanted.
“My demands are modest. I want clear answers about Esther Todd: where you were when she disappeared, you and your lieutenant. I also want information on Mr. Echo’s whereabouts right now.”
“I don’t know—”
“Sure you do. If you don’t, find out. I want you to pay Mabel Dean’s hospital bills, get her a nice little apartment, pay two years rent in advance, and give her at least five thousand dollars in cash. And last, but not least, I want you people to stop messing with my tax returns.”
Whitfield shook his head. “What you’re asking for, the public, even my superiors, could misconstrue as an admission of guilt.”
“Well, misconstrue this.” I said. “We’re the least of your troubles. As soon as this story hits the stands, reporters will be camping outside your door. You’ll have a beehive after you. And it won’t be just the colored press either. When a man of your standing takes a fall, even the New York Times comes a ’calling. So don’t think about me. Think about that. About losing your job, your career, your reputation.”
A heavy silence followed. Whitfield's eyes moved from me to Sam, and then took in the office, like he was already fitting himself for a prison cell. His eyes were certainly those of a man trapped, but they also reflected a determination to find a way out.
“If I comply with your demands, then I want that letter back. You know which one I’m talking about. And I demand that your paper print a clarification attesting to my innocence. You will state clearly that I had nothing to do with the Todd woman’s disappearance. And your article on the charges against Mr. Echo will make it clear that I had nothing to do with Miss Dean’s injuries. I want it out there. Stated flatly.”
“Mr. Whitfield,” Sam said. “You have to understand something. That clarification, as you call it, might simply fan the flames. Now, that your assistant is being charged with attempted murder—”
“Murder?” Whitfield looked genuinely shocked. So did Canfield.
“Yes,” Sam said. “So imagine how it’ll appear. In one column we’ll have your assistant accused of having tried to murder one of your former lovers after she spoke unfavorably about you. In the next, we’ll have you denying any involvement in the attack on her and the mysterious disappearance of another woman, also one of your lovers. Many a reader might wonder—unless you’re going to blame Echo for the Todd woman, too. Otherwise, that so-called clarification, Mr. Whitfield, might do you more harm than good.”
Whitfield exchanged troubled glances with Canfield. Several seconds passed.
Canfield answered. “We want the clarification, anyway. We can’t let that kind of implied accusation stand.”
“We agree to print your comments,” Sam said. “We will not print a conclusion of innocence or guilt.” He waited for both men to indicate that they understood. When they nodded, he continued. “You have to understand that this won’t fully wash away the stink—”
“No,” Canfield said, “But Mrs. Price’s suggestion,” he placed a faint emphasis on his substitution of the word ‘suggestion’ for ‘demand,’ “that we help Miss Dean might actually take care of that.”
“But—” Whitfield objected.
“Don’t worry, Sexton. We’ll bury anyone who questions your motives.”
At this flash of open viciousness, Sam just shook his head.
“All right,” Whitfield said testily. “I don’t like it, Byron, but if you say it’s okay, then I’ll go along.”
“So, it’s agreed,” Canfield told Sam. “Your paper will print a clarification. We expect it to appear in a special edition. We can’t afford to wait for the regular issue.”
Sam and I concurred.
“But first,” I said, “The information regarding Esther. And then the arrangements for Mabel.”
Whitfield glanced at Canfield. Apparently they’d agreed that Canfield would speak for him on this matter.
Canfield regarded me with open contempt. “Whitfield couldn’t have been the one who kidnapped Esther Todd.”
“You know where he was that night, don’t you?”
“You’ll have to leave the room.”
Sam’s anger was instant but controlled: “Get this straight: This is my office, my newsroom. I determine who goes and who stays.”
“She’s dangerous,” Canfield insisted.
“She’s not leaving.”
Canfield didn’t like it, but Sam wasn’t about to budge.
“All right.” Canfield’s gaze took in both of us. “But you two have to give us your word that nothing we tell you will leave this room.”
Sam and I glanced at one another. He nodded. “Done.”
The story Canfield told was brief. What it boiled down to was this: On the night of Esther’s disappearance, the esteemed Sexton A. Whitfield was in jail in Newark, New Jersey, on a drunk and disorderly. He’d been in a bar, out with a white woman. Somebody said the wrong thing and Whitfield reacted. He called Canfield to help him out. Canfield managed to keep the story under wraps.
Whitfield stayed quiet, allowing Canfield to speak for him. After hearing this story, I said I wanted proof. They were prepared: Canfield promptly produced a police report of the arrest.
Sam and I both looked it over. It was genuine. Whitfield had a solid alibi for the night of Esther’s disappearance.
I won’t deny that I was disappointed. I studied Whitfield, considering.
“Suppose you had Mr. Echo kidnap Esther for you?”
“I wouldn’t have done such a thing,” Whitfield said. “Furthermore, he wasn’t even working for me back then.”
“Then you could’ve had someone else do it.”
Canfield sighed impatiently. “C’mon, Mrs. Price. That kind of thinking gets us nowhere. No matter what he says, you could always raise that objection.”
I had to admit that he was right. “Fine. But remember: The clarification will state simply that you were elsewhere when Esther Todd disappeared. It will not be a statement of innocence. It’ll be what it is, nothing more, nothing less.”
Whitfield's nostrils flared, but he pressed his lips together. Canfield reiterated that the clarification would run alongside the report on Echo and that the article on Echo would contain Whitfield's reaction—including the announcement of Echo’s immediate dismissal.
“Now,” I said. “What about Mr. Echo’s whereabouts?”
Whitfield phoned Blackie from our office. The conversation was short and succinct. Sam sent for Rose, our newsroom secretary, to take a dictation by Canfield. The attorney composed a simple agreement outlining the settlement: in exchange for consideration, Mabel Dean Henry would drop all claims or charges against Sexton A. Whitfield, who in entering into this agreement admitted no guilt or responsibility for her injuries. By the time the agreement was typed and ready, Whitfield had phoned a real estate agent and instructed him to find a one-bedroom apartment for Mabel. Whitfield signed the agreement and wrote three checks: to cov
er the agent’s fee, two years’ rent and monetary compensation.
Handing the contract and checks over to Sam, Whitfield said. “Now, my side of the deal is done. I expect you to do yours.”
“Don’t worry,” Sam said. “We will.”
Sam’s phone rang. He picked it up. Most of the conversation took place on the other end. He nodded once and hung up. He looked at Whitfield.
“That was Blackie. They got him.”
Soon afterward, Whitfield and Canfield left. By then most of the newsroom had cleared out. I returned to my desk, wrote up the two articles, and brought them to Sam, pacing back and forth as he proofed them. He looked up at me.
“You feel good about this?”
“No.”
“You still think he had something to do with Esther’s disappearance?”
“I don’t know. I suppose not. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have agreed to this so-called ‘clarification.’” I flopped down in the chair.
Sam frowned. “What’s bothering you? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Sure there was. My thoughts kept returning to the night I’d been assaulted in my own home. I couldn’t get the attacker’s words out of my head: “If it was up to me, I’d do you right here, right now and get it over with, but Mr. Whitfield wants to give you a second chance.”
Those words bothered me. If only I could figure out why. I wanted to discuss it with Sam. But I was afraid to because I hadn’t told him about the attack to begin with. He’d be furious if I did now.
I forced a bleak smile. “I’m just worried that we’re back to square one. If Whitfield didn’t take Esther, and he didn’t have Echo do it, then who did?”
* * *
That evening, I attended a Christmas concert by Paul Robeson to benefit the Negro Orphan League. The event at the Harlem Symphony was crowded but not packed, and the attendees were certainly ‘select.’ They included Langston Hughes, as well as Mrs. Eugene O’Neil and her sisters. Of course, my recollection would be lacking if it failed to mention one other attendee: Selena Troy. In the lobby after the show, we spoke or, rather, she spoke to me.
Goodfellowe House Page 18
