Solomon nodded. “Story goes, pigs stopped John on Fifteenth Avenue. Who knows why? They exchange words and then the pigs pull John out of his cab and start wailing on him.”
Harlan plucked a bunch of napkins from the silver holder and wiped his face. “Who told you that?”
Solomon aimed his index finger at the pudgy Latino sitting across the table. “Guillermo saw the whole thing. Ran down the street to get me. By the time we got back, the pigs and John were gone.”
“There was so much fucking blood, man,” Guillermo said. “Like someone gutted a cow.”
“Puddles of it,” Solomon added.
Harlan plunged his fingers into his hair. “Then what happened?”
“So,” Solomon continued, “me and G walk down to the police station to see what’s what. When we get here, there’s these two chicks outside screaming bloody murder . . .” He trailed off, took a moment to swallow his rage. “The chicks said they saw the pigs drag a dead man from the police car into the station.”
“And how do you know it was John?”
“Who else could it be?”
Harlan nodded.
“So these girls ain’t shutting up, right? They calling the pigs murderers . . . talking about their mamas . . . sayin’ straight-up foul shit, right?”
Harlan’s head bounced again.
“So the cops laugh it off, call the girls crazy, tell ’em maybe if they put down the reefer and got off their black asses and went to work instead of lying up on welfare making babies every year, they wouldn’t have time to be in the streets telling lies.”
The men around the table grumbled.
“But the sisters ain’t letting up. People start coming ’round, listening, asking them questions. The pigs get real nervous. I say, Where’s that taxi man you beat up on Fifteenth Avenue? And the pigs just look at each other. They back off, whisper into their walkie-talkies—”
“Next thing you know,” Guillermo interrupted with a snap of his fingers, “pigs are everywhere—running out of the station, pulling up in cars, dropping out of the sky. Uniformed, undercover—the fucking calvary.”
Solomon flexed his fingers. “I’m telling you, Harlan, them motherfuckers killed John, and they’re going to get away with it again, just like they did with all the others!”
Guillermo called out the names of black men who had been recently killed by police: “Lester Long, Bernard Rich, Walter Mathis . . .”
Outside, the mob of people was punching the air with their fists, chanting, “Show us John Smith! Show us John Smith!”
John Smith. Not the last straw, but certainly the one that broke the camel’s back.
Newark’s black residents had been harassed and abused by police for decades. Stopped for driving or walking while black, cars tossed, pockets emptied—all while the cops called them niggers, jungle bunnies, and spooks.
The victims? What could they do but stand there still and silent, taking it all, swallowing it whole, like a rape victim waiting for it to end so they could get home and see their mamas, women, children, or just another fucking day.
Living under those conditions was as difficult as walking a tightrope in high wind.
But they did it. Every single day, they did it.
Recently the police brutality had escalated to murder on a regular basis.
Police officers were picking off black men as if it was open season. The families of the dead brought one wrongful-death lawsuit after another, but it was all to no avail. Not only were the officers always cleared of any wrongdoing, they were commended for their actions.
“No Cause for Indictment” became an all-too-familiar headline in the local and national newspapers. Lady Justice might have been blind, but that didn’t disqualify her from being racist.
“Look at them,” Solomon growled, jabbing his finger against the glass window. “They’re scared as hell.”
The police officers had never seen so many black and brown faces in one place. It seemed as if all of the Negroes in America had swooped down on Newark.
“Yeah, crackers, the chickens have come home to roost!” Solomon hollered.
His statement was followed by a burst of applause and barking in the diner.
Outside, the agitated crowd drifted closer and closer to the band of officers: “Show us John Smith! Show us John Smith!”
Suddenly, a Molotov cocktail exploded against the side of the police station, sending everyone scattering for cover. Warning shots were fired, another cocktail was thrown, rocks and bottles hurled through the hot night.
The police fired more shots into the dark sky; a trash can was tossed through the window of the diner, and Harlan and the others ran out into the chaos of the streets. The cops raced behind, clobbering anyone in reach of their swinging batons.
Heart laboring in his chest, lungs on fire, Harlan’s body threatened to fail him. He broke from the crowd and stumbled down a narrow street into an alley. Hiding behind a row of stinking garbage cans, he sat on the filthy ground, trying to catch his breath. In all directions, the night quaked with sirens, gunshots, and breaking glass. Fires were lit, sending spiraling plumes of black smoke into the black sky.
When he reemerged, it was dawn.
The crowds were gone, but the evidence of their righteous indignation could be spotted everywhere—in busted car windows, slashed tires, and the smoldering guts of vandalized businesses.
When Harlan reached his car, he found the driver’s-side mirror dangling. Thankfully, that was the only damage the vehicle had suffered. Hands trembling, he coasted the car slowly down the street, looking out on the dazed faces of the residents left to deal with the wreckage. He hadn’t traveled more than three blocks before a police cruiser shot into the street, blocking him.
The white officers jumped from the vehicle and barreled toward him, guns drawn. Harlan cut the engine and threw his hands into the air. Before he could utter a word, they ripped open both front doors.
The taller of the two officers hooked Harlan roughly by the neck, dragged him from the car, and slammed him onto the ground. His foot came down on Harlan’s cheek, forcing his face into the hot asphalt. “Where’s the guns, nigger!” he screamed while his partner searched frantically beneath the car seats, inside the glove compartment and trunk.
“I-I don’t have any guns.”
The officer buried his shoe deeper into Harlan’s skull.
“I didn’t find any guns,” the second officer said, “but I did find this.”
“Well, look at that. What we got here is a dope-dealing nigger,” the first officer cackled. “On your feet!” He yanked Harlan up by his Afro while the other man dangled a wrinkled paper bag in his face. “You know what this is?”
Harlan dropped his eyes. “Nope.”
But he knew exactly what it was. It was five-to-ten in the state penitentiary.
Chapter 91
At police headquarters, Harlan was booked and fingerprinted before being transferred to the Essex County Penitentiary. There he was placed in a cell with three other prisoners, including the dissident poet and playwright the white people called “the most famous nigger in Newark.”
LeRoi Jones greeted Harlan with a toothy smile. “What they pin on you, brother?”
Harlan considered the small, stoop-shouldered man. “I had a bag of reefer in my car.”
“You had reefer in the car, or they put reefer in your car?”
“Nah, it was mine.”
LeRoi shook his head. “They charged me with illegal possession of two firearms. Two,” he repeated bitterly, holding up a pair of slim fingers. “Them sons of bitches put them guns in that car.”
Harlan sat down on the wooden bench.
“And,” LeRoi continued, “these mofos talking ’bout a $25,000 bond!”
“Shhhhhhiiiiiit,” whistled from the mouth of a man seated to the left of Harlan.
Frustrated, LeRoi grabbed hold of the thick metal bars and gave them a good rattling. After loudly condemning the p
olice, the president, and all of white America, his eyes grazed over Harlan and the other two men. Their docility sparked a second wave of rage from him.
“I hope that cabbie appreciates what his brothers and sisters are out there doing for him,” LeRoi snapped.
“How could he?” Harlan uttered blandly. “A dead man can’t appreciate much of anything, not even the coffin they put him in.”
LeRoi frowned. “Oh, you ain’t hear?”
“Hear what?”
“He ain’t dead.”
Harlan’s head snapped up. “What?”
“I said, he ain’t dead. Banged up some, but John Smith is still amongst the living.”
“You sure about that?” Harlan’s voice was hopeful.
“Yep, I’m positive. Saw him myself.”
* * *
That night, the streets erupted in violence once again.
Realizing that the Newark police force was ill-equipped and outnumbered, Governor Richard Hughes called in the National Guard, and the state police declared a state of emergency and instituted a citywide curfew.
* * *
Prison had a way of draining people of their hope and humanity. But Harlan didn’t have to worry about that because he’d gone in empty.
He spent all of his free time in the library. Reading books helped to pass the time. Jim Thompson became a favorite author. Harlan read The Killer Inside Me four times.
He refused to keep track of the days because he’d learned during his imprisonment at Buchenwald that counting time was just another form of torture. He kept mostly to himself, and only spoke when spoken to—preferring to save his words for Sunday when his parents came to visit.
It was during one of those Sunday visits that Harlan first saw the magazine. Emma placed it facedown on the table and pushed it across to him. She leaned back and waited for his reaction.
Sam was sitting next to her, fidgeting. Fearful of being knifed to death, he always spent his visits nervously surveying the room.
Harlan reached for the magazine. “What’s this?”
It was the July 21 issue of Time magazine; gracing the cover, in all of his glorious blackness, was none other than John Smith.
Harlan read the headline aloud: “Anatomy of a Race Riot.” He held the magazine away from his face and beamed. “Wow,” he murmured, “Time magazine.”
“Humph,” Emma sounded. “He been here to see you?”
“No, but—”
She snatched the magazine from Harlan’s hand and glowered at John’s image. “People sure do get funny when they get a little money,” she spat.
“Mama, I don’t think—”
“I can’t imagine how much Time magazine paid him for the interview. I’m sure he got double because he’s on the cover. You’d think he’d come and visit, maybe even give you a few dollars. After all, if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be in here at all!” Emma flung the magazine onto the table. “Lucky you don’t need his Time magazine money. Matter fact, even if he offers, don’t you take a dime, not one red cent. You know how many people died out there in the name of his black ass? As far as I’m concerned, that there is blood money, and you don’t need no blood on your hands.”
Emma bit her lip, clutched her pink leather purse to her bosom. Her eyes swept over the faces of the prisoners and their visitors. When she looked back at Harlan, the fire in her eyes had paled. She’d said what was in her heart, and now she could move on.
“So, your father damn near ran us into a truck. He got new glasses, but I think he’s just getting too damn old to drive.”
Chapter 92
It took six months, but John Smith did visit Harlan, on a frigid January day. The scars on his face had healed and faded. He was sporting a bushy mustache, but that new addition didn’t detract from the wounded look in his eyes.
“What took you so long?”
“I thought you were sore at me,” John responded sheepishly.
“Why would I be sore?”
“Because you’re in here, and I’m not.”
Harlan shook a cigarette loose from the pack. “You want one?”
“Nah,” John said. “I quit.”
“Why would you think a thing like that?”
“What?”
“Why would you think that you should be the one in here instead of me?”
John folded his hands on the table. “I dunno, it seems . . .” He cast his eyes up to the ceiling as if the words he needed were embedded in the cracks. “I guess I feel responsible for everything.”
Harlan turned his head and pushed a plume of smoke into the stagnant air. “Yeah, I get that. I saw the magazine.”
“Yeah?”
Harlan took a long drag of his cigarette. “Big stuff.”
“Not really. It’s not like people want my autograph or anything.” John chuckled. “It might have meant something if I had died, then I would have been a martyr. Martyrs mean something to people.”
“Yeah,” Harlan breathed. “How’s your mom doing?”
“She all right, I guess.”
“You guess? Ain’t you staying with her?”
“Nah, I got a room at the Esquire Motel.”
“Oh,” Harlan mumbled. “Still driving a cab?”
“My license was revoked.”
“More time for you to do what you love.”
John shook his head. “I wish, but the cops jacked up my front teeth. Can’t blow with bad teeth, they’ll fly right out my head.”
They both laughed.
“How about you?” The smile slipped from John’s lips.
“Can’t complain,” said Harlan. “Three squares a day, lots of reading material, lots of time to think. What you gonna do, right? I gotta play the cards I was dealt.”
John’s smile returned. “Reading?”
Harlan smashed the cigarette butt into the ashtray, shook another from the pack, and lit it. “Yeah, man, I’m reading. I mean, not the shit you read, Oscar Wilde and Ayn Rand, but I’m working my way up to them.”
“That’s good to hear,” John said. “What is it they say? Oh yeah, Knowledge is power.”
“You got that shit right.”
They fell into a thoughtful silence. The hum of conversations enwrapped them like a well-worn quilt.
“Hey,” Harlan piped, “you gonna like this.” He rolled the cigarette into the right knot of his lip. “So I read Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass.”
Curiosity warming his face, John leaned in. “That’s a good book.”
“Yeah, it was. Fred said this thing that stayed with me—”
“Fred? You know him like that?” John teased.
Harlan waved his hand. “Seriously, man, listen, there was this one line in the book that stayed with me for days.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We keep calling what happened in Newark and all of them other cities riots, but it was more than that,” Harlan spouted excitedly. “It was a rebellion.” Proud of himself, he leaned back, puffed out his chest, and smashed the second cigarette into the ashtray alongside the first.
“Yeah, I would agree. But what does that have to do with Frederick Douglass?”
Harlan lurched forward. “I figure these white folks keep calling these rebellions riots because Frederick Douglass said, The thing worse than rebellion is the thing that causes rebellion. And we all know what—or shall I say, who—that thing is, right?”
John nodded, grinning.
“If they—the newspapers and such—called what happened here and everywhere else what it really was, they would be implicating themselves, right? Revealing themselves as the problem.”
John stretched his hand across the table. “Harlan Elliott, you dropping knowledge like a scholar. Gimme some.”
Harlan whacked John’s palm three times.
Later, when John was preparing to leave, Harlan touched his wrist. “Let me ask you something.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember that first time
you came to 119th Street to see me?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“You said that God saved us and brought us back home to our families because He had a plan for us.”
John nodded.
“Do you think this thing that happened to you was God’s plan?”
John touched the tip of his tongue to his loose front teeth. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Chapter 93
Emma had given the last bit of the money she and Sam saved from the sale of the Harlem brownstone to an expensive attorney who hadn’t been able to get the charges against Harlan dropped but had managed to wrangle his sentence down from ten years to five.
Harlan was an exemplary prisoner, so after serving three years and four months, he was paroled on good behavior. On a wet, blustery morning in November of 1970, he walked out of the Essex County Penitentiary and into his mother’s open arms. She hugged him so tight it hurt.
“This the last time white folks gonna take you from me,” she murmured into his neck.
In the twenty-year-old Chevrolet Fleetmaster, Emma took the backseat and Harlan sat up front, next to his father. The butter-colored car looked out of place amongst the snazzy Cadillacs and Lincolns traveling the highways.
Harlan pointed at the automobiles that roared past them. “Maybe you should get a new car.”
“For what? Ain’t a thing wrong with the one I have.”
Harlan didn’t know how his father did it, but he’d kept the Fleetmaster running as smooth as the day it rolled off the assembly line.
The family, happy to be together again, chattered joyfully above the radio, their voices running in hot competition with Diana Ross. “Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough, ain’t no river wide enough . . .”
“We gonna stop to get something to eat?” Harlan asked, rolling down the window to inhale the damp November air. “I’ve spent three years and four months dreaming about sinking my teeth into a juicy cheeseburger.”
Emma clutched her coat collar and backed away from the cold air. “Cheeseburger? Boy, I got a mess of food back at the house.”
“Your mama been cooking for three days,” Sam said.
“That’s a lie,” Emma laughed. “I only been cooking for two days.”
The Book of Harlan Page 23
