The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter

by Kia Corthron

  “With regard to the officers’ assertion that the defendant was not harmed in custody, that he was not beaten after he was handcuffed and defenseless, that all his injuries were sustained at the time of his apprehension. Mr. Daughtery was arrested at 4:35 p.m. on Monday, September 12th. The medical report established the time of his admission to Emergency as 11:32 that night. If Mr. Daughtery’s injuries all occurred at the time of arrest, I find it strange that Mr. Daughtery was not taken to the hospital until seven hours after his arrest, given that his injuries were hardly minor. Let me read for you again the physician’s report, a head-to-toe examination.

  Head trauma with fracture of the left temporal bone. Medial blowout infraorbital fracture (left), with moderate displacement and disrupted soft tissues of the eye. Hemorrhage within the orbit. Three upper left teeth dislocated. Displaced fracture of the left mid clavicle. Left ribs # 6, 7, and 8 fractured in mid axillary line. Fracture right distal radius, fractures of the right hand (navicular, metacarpals #2–5). Spleen is ruptured and surrounded by large hematoma. Pelvic fracture, bladder laceration, ecchymoses of penis and scrotum, with scrotal edema. Extensive lower extremity hematomas.

  “But even outnumbered four to one as Mr. Daughtery was, he would still pose a legitimate threat were he armed, and here we may move on to the second charge: possession of a concealed weapon. The officers allege, after confiscating the defendant’s merchandise, that later, back at the station, they discovered Mr. Daughtery had cut through the pages of several books, turning each tome into a storage area. Most of these makeshift chests were used to hold policy betting slips, and one was obviously cut in the vague shape of the thirty-eight caliber pistol the police claim Mr. Daughtery illegally possessed. So, in putting all this supposedly found evidence together, the weapon and the betting papers, the officers came to the conclusion that Mr. Daughtery’s sidewalk bookshop was actually a front for a numbers racket. There is no dispute as to the existence of the weapon and the betting slips in Mr. Daughtery’s books. The question is when and how did they get there.

  “The gun and its clever concealment, as well as the numbers slips, paint Mr. Daughtery as a shrewd and dangerous criminal. But since the weapon was not discovered until later at the precinct, Mr. Daughtery’s weapon so inaccessible he could not get to it when he needed it most, he suddenly does not appear so shrewd nor so dangerous. But perhaps the defendant was smart enough to know that even if he were to get off a shot, there would be three officers left standing to fire back. This would explain his failure to reach for the gun. It would also conveniently deflect suspicion away from the very real possibility that the officers planted the gun and racketeering evidence into Mr. Daughtery’s confiscated possessions while the defendant was in police custody. At any rate, whether the weapon was Mr. Daughtery’s or whether it was put there by police, at the time of arrest Mr. Daughtery was unarmed and therefore would not appear to be such an ominous menace to the four officers attempting to subdue him.

  “The third and final charge: racketeering. In specific, Mr. Daughtery’s alleged involvement in the policy racket, and not as a mere runner. No, we are asked to conclude that the defendant’s book table was in reality a policy bank—headquarters for the neighborhood numbers game, and Mr. Daughtery the boss. Never mind that Mr. Daughtery has no history of violent crime, that the only violation on his record is a misdemeanor four years ago regarding his lack of a permit to sell his books, for which he paid the fine and now holds a proper license. Never mind the numerous character witnesses who spoke highly of Mr. Daughtery as an honest street merchant, let us examine this portrait of Mr. Daughtery as the local crime czar. Officer Crawley in particular has portrayed the defendant as a self-serving wolf concerned for himself only. He didn’t mention the defendant’s mother, with whom Mr. Daughtery lives and provides for. After she testified quite emotionally on behalf of her only child who, as she stated, since his young teens has always worked hard to support the two of them, never asking anyone for a handout, suddenly Mrs. Daughtery did exist in the eyes of the prosecution, but as a woman indulging in the criminally ascertained wealth of her gangster son. I would like to point out that while Mrs. Daughtery has always come to court dressed respectfully in her Sunday best, her humble attire is hardly the fruit of some extravagant shopping spree.

  “Mr. Daughtery claims that he had been harassed on several occasions by the police. That during the last such incident before the events of September 12th, the defendant had asserted to Officers Crawley and Sheradon ‘I know my rights!’ He has told us that he was afraid, and that he was praying this reminder that he was legally owed basic human dignities would stop the intimidation. Sadly, it appears Mr. Daughtery was naïve. It was only when the two officers returned the next day with the reinforcements of Officers Pfeiffer and Wooley that Mr. Daughtery realized he may have made a fatal error, that to have mentioned his rights may not have endeared him to the officers and yet. Yet, he knew he was an innocent man in America, and as the wall of brutal authoritative power descended upon him with fists and batons and pistols at the ready, he proclaimed it again. ‘I know my rights! I know my rights!’ This is what you heard when Mr. Daughtery testified yesterday. His speech was slow, and strained, and slurred, but those were his words.

  “The defendant’s instinctive fear of the officers. I imagine it makes little sense to most of you, who probably think of the police as the protectors of citizens. I would like to tell you that Negroes on the whole do not think of law enforcement that way. We generally consider the police an entity to dread and to avoid, and we have ample reason. I don’t mean to say all policemen harass Negroes on no other basis than that they are Negro, but unfortunately there have been enough such incidents to have warranted our general feeling of mistrust and foreboding. You may recall during the voir dire when the question was posed, ‘Have you ever had any tussles with the police?’ that every single colored man save one raised his hand, and that sole Negro male for whatever reasons was excused by Mr. Ingram. From that illustration we can come to one of two conclusions: either ninety percent of the Negro race is criminal, or ninety percent of the Negro race is presumed criminal. Thus I stand before you, ten white men, a white woman, and a Negro woman, and though I don’t by and large consider you a jury of Mr. Daughtery’s peers, I trust that you will all judge him fairly.

  “My final point. In their testimony, Officers Crawley and Sheradon characterized Mr. Daughtery as a mobster who neither knows nor cares about his ‘front’ merchandise. This depiction would contradict those witnesses who spoke of Mr. Daughtery’s loquacious discourses regarding his books. It would also contradict something you were all a witness to yesterday. You will recall as I was questioning Mr. Daughtery, my client suddenly became agitated. Despite the trauma he has undergone, I didn’t imagine at this late date he would be rendered into such an emotional state that the court would have to take an early lunch to allow my client to pull himself together. Here was my error. When I had informed Mr. Daughtery long ago about the evidence the police claimed to have found, that it had been stuffed into several of his books, I failed to mention which books. Mr. Daughtery sold titles mostly of Negro interest, with a few popular paperbacks thrown in. In this courtroom, I picked up the damaged volumes as I questioned him. James Michener’s 1,056-page Hawaii harbored the gun. The Lord of the Flies contained some of the policy forms. As I held the defaced copy of W. E. B. Du Bois’s The Souls of Black Folk, I noticed a flicker of distress in Mr. Daughtery but, foolishly, I ignored it and continued with my examination. By the time I got to the mutilated copy of Invisible Man, Mr. Daughtery was howling. I was bewildered as to how I had aggrieved my client. He was well aware his books had been damaged, why this eruption of emotion now? When he could finally articulate, barely, you’ll remember he asked in his broken speech, ‘Why’d they do that? Why’d they do that?’ And just before the recess he completed the thought: ‘Why’d they do that to Ellison?’

  “Because Mr. Dau
ghtery is a man who cares deeply about literature. After court was adjourned yesterday, I went to a bookstore and purchased a copy of Invisible Man, the one you see on my table. I’d just like to share a little from the beginning.

  I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids—and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed, everything and anything except me.

  I’ll stop there, as I just wanted to give you a taste of the book that so affected Mr. Daughtery, an extraordinary novel that requires a contemplative and committed reader. Someone with more investment in his merchandise than merely as a façade for illegal operations. That line again,

  I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.

  When the police officers began harassing Mr. Daughtery, did they see a well-read man who conceived of his own honest business to provide for himself and his mother? Or did they just see another Negro from the ghetto, someone of such low stature as not even deserving the rights of other Americans. And might it have infuriated them that such a person had the audacity to inform them that he did deserve those rights?

  “Mr. Daughtery. I bought Invisible Man for you. Please accept my gift.

  “I cannot help but to think of how, until September 12th of this year, against all odds, Mr. Daughtery was able to scratch out a living by his simple, entrepreneurial endeavor. One that provided for his family as well as for the social and artistic enrichment of the community. It never made him a wealthy man, but his humble contribution to the literacy of his people rendered him vital to our collective humanity. And what more could any of us ask of life?”

  As Eliot concludes a brief cry erupts from his client. Everyone in the room turns to the defendant, Eliot especially unnerved by the outburst. Sam Daughtery, who initially seemed wildly confused when his attorney had handed him the book, gaping between Eliot and the paperback, now clutches his new, whole, unblemished copy of Invisible Man, holding it tight against his chest, nodding, nodding, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

  15

  Andi pours the champagne.

  “So Winston Douglas and Associates finally wins a case!” She laughs.

  “Hey, I’ve won a time or two.” But Will is grinning. They stand around Andi’s desk.

  “I was shaking.”

  “From what I hear,” Will tells Eliot, “no one could tell.”

  “I was shaking! But I just kept my hands in my pockets. About ten minutes in, guess I calmed down. Good thing I didn’t plan to pick up Invisible Man till late in the argument, any earlier it might have trembled out of my fingers and hit a juror in the face!” Eliot giggles. Giddy as if he were six years old again, all he can do not to cry out: I love Andi! I love Will! I love champagne! Hahahaha!

  The summation had happened yesterday, Thursday, the deliberation lasting two and a half hours, and Eliot is still incredulous. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. The verdict on each of the three charges pronounced separately by the foreman, a white construction worker. Sam Daughtery’s mother had run over to embrace her son long and firm, and in his weakened physical condition, Sam’s attempts to return her hold were poignant in their awkwardness.

  Eliot is glad Beau’s a little late this morning as he might be a bit of a wet blanket, though he wonders when Winston will get in. But too embarrassed to ask, a kid wanting to know when Daddy will get home to show him his straight A’s. Serendipitously, Andi answers the unspoken question. “Mr. Douglas called first thing. He sounded thrilled. He had meetings but’ll be back after lunch.” Her smile is radiant. Andi and Eliot, friends again, at least for today.

  “So what do you think?” asks Will. “Sue the city?”

  Eliot grins and doesn’t reply. The district attorney’s office had made it clear it would not indict the police officers so that avenue was unavailable, but after this verdict. It would be an audacious long shot but this is what he’d dreamed about after that tort law course. The damages in a civil suit would not only be a godsend to Sam Daughtery, whose medical bills continue to drain his and his mother’s meager resources, but, in arriving at a pecuniary amount far beyond a paltry slap on the wrist, the city might actually be jolted into learning a lesson or two: to start keeping better tabs on its police officers, to start training those officers to respect their Negro citizens as well as their white.

  The elevator sounds. Beau pulls open the gate and steps out.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Eliot’s victory party,” Will replies. “Have a glass?”

  “Oh yes, many congrats, Eliot,” smiles Beau. “Shame Mr. Daughtery’s in that wheelchair or he could be here dancing too.” He strolls into his office as the others stare silently after him. So socially oblivious, it’s very possible Beau hadn’t intended to spoil the party, yet Eliot and Will now find themselves quietly retreating to their own lairs.

  But behind his closed door, Eliot can’t wipe off the smile. Half an hour later, a probate case open, he gazes at the telephone, thinking of how he would like to share this happiness with her. But he doesn’t want Didi’s same tired, distant voice to dampen his mood. He pulls out two other files, accident claims, to provide himself with a vaguely pressured feeling of being backed up in his work, and his concentration partially returns.

  His first tête-à-tête with Beau regarding the voter registration case happens at 10:30 as scheduled, in Beau’s office, naturally. As with refraining to contact Didi, Eliot decides he is not going to let Beau’s condescension get a rise out of him. As the meeting progresses, he becomes pleased to learn that Beau has good ideas, and is stunned to see that yesterday’s triumph in court—Eliot’s first opportunity to present closing statements—must have impressed Beau, who seems almost humble and very much interested in Eliot’s thoughts, all of which the senior attorney takes seriously. Encouraged that they are starting off on the right foot, Eliot allows himself a rare luxury, leaving the office for his full lunch hour rather than munching at his desk while working.

  He eats his packed sandwich on a park bench, gazing at two pigeons in conversation. He will call Didi when he gets back to the office. Her excuses for disregarding him as of late may be all true, perhaps she is just very busy at work. If so, he’s sure she’d gladly take two minutes away to enjoy this day with him, to be happy for Sam Daughtery. And if something else is going on. Well. It’s time he knew for certain. If she wants it all to be over, at least his present euphoria would provide some bit of emotional cushion from the blow of romantic heartbreak.

  When he returns, Andi, seated at her desk, is staring at him. “Your brother phoned. He said you need to call home immediately.” In that instant, Eliot sees in her face the sense of full betrayal, the artifice of their so-called relationship wherein even the most basic information, her assumption that he was an only child, had been a lie.

  But he has no time to worry about that now. Dwight has never called him.

  He emerges from his office twenty minutes later. The look on his face and his reddened eyes are enough for the hurt in Andi’s eyes to change instantly to alarm.

  “My mother died.”

  Her mouth opens. “Oh. Eliot.” His breath is quickening. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. She was alive today. Dwight said she was alive today, he called her today. And then she died.” His fedora trembles in his hand. “I think I have to go home.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have to go home now.”

  “Yes, I’ll tell Mr. Douglas.”

  He goes back to h
is office, retrieves his briefcase, and walks out to the elevator. He wears his hat but no other outerwear. Andi hurries to his office to snatch his trench coat, then runs it out to him. He stares wildly at a blank corner of the corridor. She notices he has pushed the Up button. She hands him his coat and pushes Down.

  “You’re driving right from here to Maryland?”

  “I have to go to my apartment and pick up some things, my black suit. Oh! I should give you my number there.”

  “We have it. Your paperwork—” She stops herself. When he was hired, for life insurance purposes he had listed his mother as next of kin.

  “Okay.” The elevator arrives. Eliot starts to open the gate but Andi gently blocks him. He is confused. The lift continues going up.

  “Don’t worry about anything, Eliot. I’ll tell Mr. Douglas you’ve gone, it’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.” Then a panic. “My briefcase!”

  “You have it.”

  “Oh. Okay.” The elevator arrives. A Negro businessman stands in it. Eliot steps in. As Andi pulls the gate closed Eliot suddenly snatches it, his eyes crazed. “Will you tell Winston I’ve gone?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell him.”

  “Okay. See you Monday,” the words automatic, as if this were any other Friday.

  He makes several wrong turns, increasing the nine-hour drive time. He pulls over and begins convulsively bawling twenty minutes straight, and when it’s over he is glad to have gotten it out of his system before he has to deal with the family dynamics.

  He arrives half past midnight. The house is full of relations, and he is polite but avoids their comforting touches for fear of unleashing a sob or two that might still be left in him. Everyone knew there was heart disease on his mother’s side, but the family concern had always been his father’s high blood pressure. Claris’s sudden death at fifty-four was astonishing, absurd. She had been sitting at the kitchen table going over the bills, and had apparently simply slumped over. Lon happened to have had the day off from the glass factory, but was at the hardware store buying items to repair a leak in the roof. By the time he returned she was already cold. Dwight tells his brother that Didi had called, looking at Eliot curiously, and that she had said Eliot could call her back as late as he wished. Eliot says nothing. How did she know?