Harlem Redux

by Persia Walker

  As David listened to Nyman testify, his heart sunk. Nyman’s comments, though succinct, were colorful. With a few vague words and several fairly explicit gestures, he implied much while saying little. An out-and-out con man’s trick, David thought, but the judge and jury bought it.

  At one point, Nyman hinted that there was much he could tell about David’s “relations with white females,” but he would prefer not to “out of respect for the ladies present.”

  Nevin objected. This testimony had nothing to do with the murder charge, he said. Baker countered that the testimony was directly relevant since it elaborated on the personality of the accused. Richter found for the prosecution. He not only approved further testimony along the same lines but ordered Nyman to “give details.” First, however, he said, the courtroom would have to be cleared of women and children. There was a flurry of movement; the courtroom doors opened and closed behind little feet and straight skirts. Then Richter told Nyman to continue. The private detective obliged with a graphic description of how David had “preyed on innocent white women who had no idea they were being seduced by a Negro.”

  There was a hush in the courtroom, then a murmur, then an angry hum. David thought of bees when they discover an intruder who’s trying to steal some of their honey.

  Richter banged for silence. Again, Nevin moved to have Nyman’s lascivious descriptions stricken from the record, and again Baker objected. Richter denied Nevin’s motion to suppress, and whites in the all-male courtroom erupted in vigorous applause.

  “My God, Nyman’s destroying me,” David whispered to Nevin.

  He patted David’s hand. “Don’t worry. The prosecutor’s entitled to a few good moments.”

  David shot Nevin a troubled look. “Let’s just make sure he doesn’t have too many of them, shall we?”

  Nevin gave David a reassuring smile. “I got some good news this morning that’ll give this case a whole new complexion.” He chuckled at David’s expression and patted his hand.

  Despite his outer calm, Nevin knew that David’s concern was justified. Nyman had been convincing. It was time for damage control. For more than an hour, he cross-examined the private detective, trying to get him to admit that much of his report was regurgitated hearsay. He did get Nyman to concede that some of it was based on secondhand gossip, but Nyman wouldn’t budge about the core of his report: David McKay’s pretense of being white was a well-documented fact.

  “There’s no end to the proof,” Nyman said.

  He’d collected Philadelphia newspaper reports on David’s cases and statements from white friends and colleagues who were shocked at the mere suggestion that the man they knew might be black.

  Nevin thought it wiser to stipulate that David had indeed lived as a white man in Philadelphia—arguing against a given fact would simply decrease David’s credibility—but he asked the jury to remember: “This does not constitute proof that he killed Jameson Sweet.”

  David’s guilt seemed to be a given, however, for the city at large. Front-page speculation, innuendo, and rumor continued to characterize news coverage of the trial. Someone in the D.A.’s office leaked a copy of Nyman’s provocative report to the press. Many newspapers thought Nyman’s direct testimony too offensive to quote extensively, but they reprinted his written report in full. Once again, as the trial went into its second day, officers posted outside had to stand off a mob.

  Baker called Peters to testify about the crime scene itself, to tell what he saw when he entered the McKay parlor that day. Peters delivered his statement in a dry tone that contrasted vividly with the gruesome details he conveyed. Baker asked Peters how he had come to arrest David McKay. Peters looked David straight in the face and said: “The defendant admitted to knowing that Sweet had the goods on him, but he only gave himself up when he knew his wife would have to take the fall.”

  Not only the whites but also the black viewers in the courtroom shook their heads.

  Baker had Peters describe Sweet’s fatal wound, but he noticeably failed to ask about any gunpowder residue on the hands of the accused or fingerprints that might’ve been found on the murder weapon. Nevin asked, though, in cross-examination, “Whose fingerprints were lifted from the gun?”

  Peters licked his lips and joggled one knee. This was a question he would’ve preferred not to answer.

  “Detective?” prompted Nevin.

  Peters cleared his throat. “There were two sets of prints. One belonging to the victim; one belonging to the defendant’s wife.”

  “Are you telling me that the defendant’s prints weren’t found on the gun at all?”

  “No, they weren’t.”

  “A little louder, please. It’s only fair if those people in the back rows can also hear you.”

  “No,” said Peters a bit louder, in a faintly squeaky tone. “David McKay’s fingerprints were not found on the gun.”

  There was an instant of heated murmuring before Richter stopped it with a bang of his gavel. Baker began his redirect.

  “If David’s prints weren’t on the gun,” he asked Peters, “then why did you arrest him?”

  “Because he was on the scene; he had the best motive and, of course, the best opportunity.”

  “Once more, Detective: Was this the typical wound of a suicide?”

  “No,” said Peters with renewed confidence. “I’ve never known a suicide to shoot himself in the cheek. It’s usually the temple. Almost always, the temple.”

  Late that afternoon, Nevin began to present his case. Nella had offered to testify as a character witness in David’s defense.

  “I’m going to let her,” Nevin said. “She’s a prominent person.”

  David had his doubts. “Nella’s not just prominent. She’s white and she’s a woman. What all-white male jury will heed a white woman defending a colored man? Do you think they’ll listen, especially after what Nyman said about me? She means well, but her testimony could do more harm than good.”

  Nevin conceded the danger, but said: “We need her. She’s not just the best witness we’ve got. She’s nearly the only one.”

  Nella took the witness stand and surprised David and his attorney with a blithe lie. “David McKay generously offered me his biography some time ago to use in my next book. He wouldn’t have killed Sweet to conceal his life story—he’d planned to have it published anyway.”

  “Did you know she was going to say that?” David whispered to Nevin.

  “No.”

  As Nella stepped down, Nevin whispered miserably to David, “She tried.”

  David smiled gratefully, fleetingly at Nella as she switched past. She bent to give him an encouraging tap on the elbow. He did not agree with her having lied, but he was touched by her effort to help him.

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Of course I did. I owe you. Thanks to you, my book’s going to be a bestseller.”

  Annie stayed home on the third day of the trial. The arthritis in her knees was sometimes so painful, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. It was especially bad when she first eased out of bed in the morning. On rainy days, she could barely walk. David knew nothing of her condition. She had never told him and never intended to, partly because she feared that he would retire her, but mostly because she felt he had enough troubles to deal with. Relaxing on the window seat in the parlor, she thought once more of that passage she had seen marked in his Bible.

  He’s tried so hard to make good, Lord. Won’t you help him?

  She wanted to help him, too, but she didn’t know how.

  Show me ... please.

  The doorbell rang. Annie jumped at the sudden sound. The bell rang again. Parting the curtain, she peeked out the window with a suspicious eye. Since David’s arrest, strange people had been stopping by the house, some threatening to put a curse on the family—what’s left of it, she thought grimly—others offering to help with spells, voodoo, witchcraft, and such. I don’t hold with none of that stuff.

  A boy of
about thirteen or fourteen stood at the front door. He wore a brown cap and blue jacket and was holding an envelope. He looked harmless enough. As the bell rang again, she stood uneasily and went to the vestibule. She hesitated, looking at the door, still undecided. Finally, she answered it, her mind set to give the stranger a good tongue-lashing. Before she could say anything, the boy politely whipped off his hat and spoke. He had a message from the Renaissance Pharmacy. He thrust the envelope into her hand, then stood nervously fingering his cap, obviously hoping for a tip. She found a nickel in her apron pocket and gave it to him.

  After he left, she stood in the vestibule, studying the envelope’s contents. She couldn’t read all that fast and many of the words were unfamiliar, but she understood the gist of it. Her face lightened with interest, then darkened with puzzlement. When she was done, she stood quite still for a minute. Thank you, Lord, she whispered, then hurried to her room and fetched her coat.

  In court that afternoon, Nevin called Adrian Snyder to the stand. David looked at Nevin, surprised.

  “You’re calling him as a character witness?”

  Nevin patted David on the shoulder. “Have faith.”

  David held his head high but inwardly battled despair. His star character witnesses were living scandals: a suspected crime figure and a white woman known for socializing with blacks. Leaning into his hand, David rubbed his forehead wearily. He sensed waves of hostility and contempt flowing from Canfield. The aristocratic old lawyer had pointedly placed himself in the first seat directly behind the prosecutor. David resolved to ignore Canfield. His ears picked up the melody of a Negro spiritual, sung softly in the courtroom behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Annie sat four rows behind him. She must have just arrived. She hadn’t been there earlier. And sitting next to her—his eyes widened—was Toby’s mother. She gave him the thumbs-up sign. His heart lifted. He looked back at Annie. She gave him a smile. It was sweet, sudden, and oddly dazzling. It warmed him. He glanced at Rachel. She sat in the first row, slightly to one side of him, so she could see his face easily. She smiled at him, too, but he saw fear in the tightness around her eyes. He returned her smile, and then returned his attention to the theatrics of his trial.

  Nevin took Snyder through a brief description of his courtship of Gem, and Gem’s decision to end their relationship. Baker objected.

  “This testimony is irrelevant.”

  “Your Honor, the relevance will become clear,” said Nevin. “I’m trying to lay the foundation for causal evidence.”

  Richter looked from Nevin’s mahogany-brown face to Baker’s alabaster-white one. Then he brought down his gavel, sustained Baker’s motion, and brusquely ordered Nevin to move on. A frustrated Nevin was forced to dismiss Snyder. He called his next witness.

  “Homicide Detective Bill Rogers.”

  A short, portly white man in his late forties waddled to the stand, identified himself, and took the oath. He worked in Amagansett, he said.

  “Now is it true that you were summoned to Harding House last night?” asked Nevin.

  Rogers nodded.

  “Please tell us what you found.”

  “Mr. Snyder there and some of his men said they’d gone fishing on the Hardings’ estate. They reported finding a skeleton, and sure enough, they had—mired in the waters off the Hardings’ private dock.”

  A wave of gasps and whispers rolled across the courtroom. Richter banged his gavel. He beckoned to Nevin and Baker. Richter, a broad-faced man with rolls of fat under his chin, scowled down angrily at both men.

  “Just what the hell is going on here?” He looked at Baker. “Did you know about this?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Baker, the report is on your desk,” said Nevin hurriedly. “We couldn’t get it to you sooner. We only learned about it ourselves this morning.”

  Richter glared at Nevin, then asked, “What does this have to do with the case at hand?”

  “Everything,” said Nevin. “Jameson Sweet’s death was simply the culmination of a series of murderous events that began with the victim found yesterday.”

  Richter looked down at Baker. “You going to object?”

  Baker looked worried, but shook his head. “No, Your Honor, but I reserve my right to do so.”

  “All right. Get on with it.”

  Nevin turned back to Rogers. “Can you describe the remains?”

  “The skeleton had been in the water for some time, probably a year. It was a woman, not too old, not too young.”

  A wave of murmurs stirred the courtroom.

  “Colored or white?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “How’d she end up in the water?”

  “Put there.”

  “Didn’t fall in?”

  “She was bound and weighted down. Probably dead before she hit the water. Looks like the bullet we pulled from her sternum’s gonna match the bullet we took out of Jameson Sweet—”

  Baker jumped to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Testimony is irrelevant. I move to have it stricken from the record.”

  Nevin went to Richter, his arms raised. “Please, Your Honor. This man’s testimony substantiates my client’s claim. It will show that Gem McKay murdered her sister, Lilian, then took her place—only to be killed by Jameson Sweet, who committed suicide when faced with his crime.”

  Richter turned to Rogers. “Is there any way to identify this woman?”

  “Not definitely.”

  “Any way to prove that she was Lilian McKay Sweet?”

  “Not likely.”

  Richter banged his gavel. “Objection sustained.”

  “But Your Honor—” cried Nevin.

  “Objection sustained!”

  Nevin gritted his teeth. That was our trump card, thought David. That was it. Behind him, Annie sang softly. David closed his eyes wearily. He had never been so tired in his life. Nevin dismissed Rogers.

  “We’re not finished yet,” he whispered to David.

  “Let me testify.”

  “No.”

  “Please—”

  Nevin ignored him. He straightened up and in a ringing voice, said: “In as much as neither my learned opponent, the prosecutor, nor anyone else can prove what happened in the McKay parlor that day, I move for a dismissal of the charges against David McKay, based on lack of evidence.”

  Richter raised his bushy eyebrows in disbelief. With a great sweeping motion, he raised his gavel high, as though it were the hammer of Thor, and brought it down swiftly with a thunderous blow. “Motion denied!”

  Nevin threw his hands up in the air.

  The court took a ten-minute break. Rachel hurried to get to David’s side, but he was swept out of the courtroom before she could reach him. A phalanx of guards surrounded him to keep the reporters at bay. She tried to press her way through the jostling crowd, but was pushed back.

  Annie was waiting for David in the crowded hallway. She waved frantically from the edge of the crowd, trying to catch his eye. He was almost past when one of those odd momentary partings in the crowd allowed him to catch sight of her. He sent a guard to bring her to him.

  “I gotta talk to you,” she whispered.

  Out of breath from the effort to get through the crowd, she stumbled and nearly fell. David grabbed her under one elbow. Nevin showed them to a private room with guards posted outside, then started out. Rachel emerged from the courtroom just in time to catch a glimpse of Annie and David, their heads bent together, before Nevin closed the door behind him.

  The moment they were alone, Annie told David about the envelope. It contained a note from the druggist, and something else, too: a report. She handed him a sheet of paper.

  “They said they made a mistake. They got your medicine mixed up with somebody’s else’s. But this here”—she tapped the paper—“this here’s the report they shoulda given you.”

  David looked at her with anxious eyes, then at the paper she’d pressed into his hand.

  “A homemade
mixture expertly made,” it said. “Can be used to treat bad nerves, but overuse will cause tremors, blurred vision, fatigue, headaches, and loss of balance. Hallucinations, anxiety, a pounding heartbeat, stroke and death.”

  He felt for the chair behind him and sat down heavily. Finally, but finally, he had the proof he’d sought. But at what price? He recalled his relief at the mistaken findings. Now this! He’d had his suspicions, of course. He’d felt that something was off all along. But he had hoped and prayed that he was wrong. Dead wrong—

  There was a knock on the door. Nevin came in.

  “It’s time to go back in.”

  David nodded. He pushed himself up and stood unsteadily. His olive complexion was ashen and his hands shook. He folded the sheet of paper clumsily and shoved it into his inner breast pocket. A look of concern came over Nevin’s benign, round face.

  “C’mon,” he said and rushed them back to the courtroom.

  Nevin called a forensics expert to counter the state’s testimony about the wound that killed Sweet. The witness, Harold Schmuck, a sallow, dry little stick of a man, was obviously proud of his expertise. He took great pains to answer each question in excruciating detail. He multiplied words impressively but ineffectively. He was a bore and painful to listen to. David saw that the jury had not only lost interest but was becoming hostile. Why was Nevin keeping the man on the witness stand? It was obvious to those few people who were listening that Schmuck refused to take sides. Given the nature of Sweet’s injury, he said, it was open to fair interpretation whether the wound was self-inflicted or not.