Lonely Crusade

by Chester B Himes

  “I assure you, sir, you would not get it!”

  “I petition his release only on the grounds that nine honorable, respectable men have sworn that he could not have committed the murder at the time of its occurrence.”

  “And I refuse it on the grounds that the prisoner had motive and has confessed—”

  “To whom?” Hannegan asked, cutting in.

  “To the woman who reported him.”

  “But not to the police?”

  “We have her sworn statement—”

  “To accept the word of one person as sufficient proof of another’s guilt, in preference to the sworn statements of nine honest men, makes justice a whim and is abhorrent to our form of government,” Hannegan said, again interrupting him.

  “It is satisfactory to me,” the judge said complacently.

  “In that case, Your Honor, I will enter a formal protest of police brutality in behalf of the prisoner.”

  “Brutality! Brutality! Who’s talking about brutality!” the judge shouted. “That’s all you lawyers know! Has the prisoner claimed brutality?”

  “No, Your Honor,” Hannegan admitted. “We have not been allowed to talk with the prisoner.”

  “Then how do you state that he has been brutalized?”

  “I state it, Your Honor, because it is ours to know—Your Honor’s and mine—that any Negro arrested and held for the murder of a white officer, in any city, county, town, or township of America, will be brutalized by white law enforcement officers.”

  The judge gave him a long baleful look. “You make this charge on theory and conjecture.”

  “I stake my practice on it.”

  “For a Negro prisoner? You are indeed a union lawyer.”

  “I am, indeed!”

  “Then I must have better proof of the prisoner’s whereabouts than the word of union workers.”

  “Before you reach a decision, Your Honor, let me point out that it is more than the Negro prisoner’s freedom I am seeking. At this time in our national history, during this war in which our form of government is imperiled by the forces of injustice, I seek the living manifestation of the justice for which we fight. Here in this city already are growing racial tensions. Many white persons, residents of this city, among whom is myself, have heard the word being passed about: get the niggers, get the pachucos, get the zoot-suiters. It is only by the administration of justice and fair play that this may be stopped. For this, more than the specific release of any prisoner, is my plea.”

  “Very pretty, Mister Attorney. But do you think the release of this Negro prisoner, accused of the murder of a white law-enforcement officer, will inspire the morale of our police officers, and encourage them to combat your growing racial tensions?”

  “If it will not,” Hannegan said softly, “then we may as well give up trying to continue with our present form of government and create one affording freedom and justice for the white race only.”

  Angrily, the judge signed the writ of habeas corpus and notification was served on the warden of the city jails. As Smitty and Hannegan left the judge’s chambers, both suffered an aftermath of nervousness.

  “Let us hope the boy is innocent,” Hannegan said.

  Suddenly Smitty was confronted by the awful immensity of his action, but greater than his apprehension was his amazement. That his hard-boiled realism had permitted him to take even a minor risk for as irresponsible a person as Lee Gordon now seemed incredible. Yet he had not only jeopardized his own future, but the future of eight other really good guys, and the future of the union. It was certainly not just because he believed one colored boy the victim of injustice—or was it?

  “Let us hope,” he said sincerely.

  While waiting in the vestibule of the city jail for Lee to be released, a nervous, distraught woman stepped from the prisoners’ elevator and searched the room with tortured eyes. Although he had never seen Ruth, with some intuitive faculty Smitty recognized her instantly.

  “Mrs. Gordon?” he asked.

  She turned, hope flaming in her deep, troubled stare. “Yes?”

  “I’m Smitty, Mrs. Gordon, one of your husband’s co-workers—”

  “Oh, Mr. Smith!”

  “How is Lee?”

  “Oh, I was going to ask you. I haven’t seen him; I’ve been in jail myself.”

  “For what, Mrs. Gordon?” Hannegan asked politely.

  “They said they were holding me as a material witness.”

  Smitty muttered unintelligibly, but Hannegan’s bland Irish face rolled back a wave of fury. Suddenly and without warning, Ruth began to cry again.

  “Now don’t worry, Mrs. Gordon, don’t worry,” Smitty said, trying to console her, appearing big and awkward as his hands made gestures of frustration and his face blushed with concern. “Lee will be free any moment now. We’ve secured his release.”

  Passers-by looked curiously at the three of them and Hannegan moved to block her from the stares.

  Then Lee came out of the elevator, and when he saw Ruth standing there crying between Smitty and Hannegan, the emotional void that had swallowed him since his beating by policemen filled with a million tears. It was as if he had come back from death and knew that he was going to live again. Battered and bruised, he stood there, trembling slightly, trying to accustom his mind to this life that followed death.

  She had not yet seen him but had felt bis presence, and now when she looked up, their gazes locked and held. In that brief instant they crossed the River Jordan into togetherness again, and forgave each other for all the things that they had ever done. And they were safe again; they were in each other’s arms, and her heart was singing thanks.

  “Lee.”

  He let out his long-held breath. “Fin sorry, Ruth.”

  “That’s all right, Lee,” she sobbed, clinging to him as if she would never let him go.

  Finally, ever so gently, Smitty drew their attention and, with Hannegan, ushered them toward the street. As they came down the stairs several police reporters converged on them, snapping questions, and a photographer shot a picture.

  But Lee did not hear them. Although he was not looking at Ruth, his mind was absorbed with her and he could feel her eyes on him, overflowing with compassion and concern, and he knew it was more than he deserved.

  “No statement,” Hannegan said to the reporters, and a moment later Smitty hailed a taxi and they were away from it.

  Sitting close to Lee and holding tightly to his hand, Ruth asked: “Did they hurt you much?”

  Both Smitty and Hannegan looked away. And Lee too looked away, out of the window at the people on the street, and felt suddenly heavy with tears.

  “It was like a funny dream,” he said, and all three turned to look at him.

  No one said anything else after that, and as they rolled along, Lee felt a sense of drifting in a sea of strange emotions, just light enough to float. He had no aim, no will, no purpose—he just went along. When the taxi stopped to let Ruth out, she said:

  “I want to talk to Lee a minute.”

  Smitty nodded and Lee got out and walked with her to the door of their house, which looked unfamiliar now. But she did not say anything at all, just stood there waiting, the setting sun turning her tears to drops of blood.

  He could not bear looking at her, and as he looked away he said: “I didn’t do it, Ruth.”

  “Oh, thank God, thank God!” she cried.

  He turned quickly to look at her again and suddenly he was overflowing; tears were streaming down his face and he was crying like a baby. Pulling his head down to her breast she let him cry.

  “It’s all right, Lee,” she said. “It’s all right now.”

  Then she kissed him, their wet lips together in the taste of tears, and he turned and walked back to the taxi—just riding along in this sea of strangeness. He did not know what was happening to him, or what was in store for him, only that for the moment now he was safe again. At the union hall they got out, went up to Smitty’s off
ice, and locked the door.

  “Now what’s it all about?” Smitty asked bluntly.

  Automatically Lee said: “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Listen, Lee, we’re on your side,” Smitty said patiently. “We must know. Eight of our best men have signed sworn affidavits to alibi you, and we must know what happened.”

  Lee took a breath, and without looking at either of them, said: “Luther did it.”

  “Then you were framed!” He turned triumphantly to Hannegan. “I knew Lee wasn’t involved in this.”

  But Hannegan was not so easily satisfied. “How were you framed, Gordon?”

  While his gaze sought furtively for a place to hide, Lee searched his mind for a lie. “The Forks woman accused me to cover for Luther. It was a Communist—”

  “Stop lying,” Hannegan said, cutting him off. “No one was covering for McGregor. McGregor’s dead.”

  “Dead!” His gaze touched Hannegan’s cold, fixed stare. “God!” As the breath ran out of him. So Luther’s white folks had not covered for him after all. “Was he shot?”

  “Resisting arrest! Now let us have it. We can’t help you until we know what happened. And you were not framed.”

  “Well—no, I wasn’t exactly framed.” Lee could not look upon the slow growth of bewilderment in Smitty’s face. “I—” hesitating as the guilt moved in—“I—I was with him.”

  Smitty stared, his broad flabby face caught in startled disbelief.

  But Hannegan coldly asked: “Had you gone with him to Dixon’s house?”

  “Well—” there was no escaping—“Yes.”

  “For money?”

  “Well—yes. He came by the hotel and said Foster had some money for me—”

  Smitty walked across the room and struck the wall a resounding blow with his open palm. When he looked about, his eyes were sick with disappointment in his mottled red face.

  “Lee, goddamnit, why?”

  “I don’t know, Smitty, I don’t know.” Lee could not meet his eyes. “I was pretty low, I guess.”

  “You and the woman argued?”

  “Well—it wasn’t just that. It was everything. I had gone so far I thought maybe I just may as well go all the way, I guess.”

  The awful disappointment in Smitty’s eyes now echoed in his voice. “I didn’t think you would do that, Lee.”

  “I didn’t either, Smitty,” Lee honestly replied.

  “Let’s learn what happened first,” Hannegan said.

  “Well—” Now as if he had gone dead of all emotion, Lee reported in detail everything that had happened from the time Luther had approached him in the hotel until his arrest at Jackie’s. All the workings of Smitty’s slow-thinking mind, the amazement and repugnance and incredulity and slow growth of aversion, showed in his changing expressions; but Hannegan’s face retained its cold composure.

  “What happened before that?” he asked. “McGregor didn’t just walk in and state his proposition coldly. What had you done to lead up to it?”

  “Well—that morning I asked Foster for a job. But I only wanted a job,” Lee added in defense. “I didn’t go to him to sell out the union. That was his idea.”

  He looked up for Smitty to believe him and for a moment their gazes held. And when Smitty saw the pain of guilt in Lee’s dark face, he could not help but feel sorry for him again.

  “Why didn’t you come to me, fellow? Why didn’t you tell me what was troubling you?”

  “Well—I had been to you, Smitty.”

  Smitty’s face took on a hurt expression. “I don’t understand you, fellow.”

  “I don’t always understand myself,” Lee Gordon said.

  Again Hannegan brought the conversation back to actuality. “Are you certain you didn’t leave fingerprints, Gordon?”

  “I don’t think so. It seems as if we wiped everything thoroughly.” For an instance he was touched by the irony of Luther’s insistence on this. “What I didn’t do, Luther did.”

  “And you’re certain there’s nothing to connect you with the crime?”

  “I can’t be certain. I was pretty upset. I can’t remember very well what happened after Luther stabbed him.”

  “I suppose I’d better talk to the Forks girl,” Smitty said.

  Hannegan shook his head. “I don’t believe that will be necessary. I should think that by this time she will be far away.”

  “Perhaps, but I can check.”

  “You can, but her testimony is of no importance of itself. The only thing we worry about now is the discovery of evidence to place Gordon on the scene.” Now when he turned his gaze on Lee, a troubled curiosity leaked through the clinical aloofness of his manner, and he wondered at the good Smitty saw in him. “Let’s hope the postman doesn’t ring again, Gordon. You’ll hurt many good people worth far more than you.”

  “Well—yes sir. I don’t suppose there’s any use in saying I’m sorry.”

  For a moment longer Hannegan studied him. And then he said: “No.”

  Into the growing silence Smitty asked: “Then what can we do?”

  “We can pray,” Hannegan answered softly. Closing his brief case, he nodded and left the room.

  “Thank you, sir,” Lee called, but Hannegan did not turn.

  A troubled expression touched Smitty’s flaccid face as he searched his thoughts for understanding—because no one man could be as contradictory as Lee Gordon seemed. Sometimes on the surface he seemed just another rat, yet always deep from inside of him came the sense of something else, disturbing every judgment he might pass. Was this what being a Negro did to a normal man? he wondered. And what was there to do about it that he had not already done?

  But even now, on top of all this, he was unwilling to give up on Lee. And he knew that however he might help, he would have to do it now. So now he resorted to harshness since all else had failed.

  “Lee, I’m going to tell you to your face. You are one of the rottenest bastards I ever knew.” Of all the times he had become so furious with white men who cursed Negroes, now he was doing it, and finding it unpleasant. But it was the last resort. “If it weren’t for the fact I might get a lot of good guys into trouble I’d let you go up there and die, because you have proven to me that you are worthless.”

  Lee had never felt so much like a dirty dog—not like a nigger, not black and abused, just a common cur of any color. “I know,” he said.

  “But I’m going to give you one more chance,” Smitty said. “And it’s better than you deserve.”

  “Well—” There was nothing else to say.

  “The organizing is not going along as well as we expected, and you are partly to blame for this,” Smitty said. “Since both you and McKinley left, the Negro workers have lost interest. I’ll be frank with you, fellow. We’ve put a lot of time and effort into this job—and spent a lot of money. Every union—every national and every local—in this country is watching us. We can’t afford to fail. If we don’t get the Negro vote in the election next week, we are going to fail.

  “Now this is the proposition, and I mean this. If you can get the Negro vote and we win the election, we will back you to the limit when the trouble comes. And make no mistake, fellow, Foster will be after you until he dies. But if we win the election, we will have a little money we can use for you. But if we lose the Negro vote, we fail. And if we fail, we’re dropping you, fellow.”

  When Lee did not immediately reply, Smitty asked: “Do you want the proposition, or do you want us to drop you now?”

  “Oh, I want it,” Lee replied. “I’ll try—I’ll do my best, I promise you. But suppose I get the Negro vote and we still don’t win the election?”

  “Lee, I’ll tell you,” Smitty said. “That will be just too bad for you. When you went with Luther, you went to sell us out. And the only way I’ll ever forget that will be for us to win.”

  “Well—thank you, anyway,” Lee Gordon said.

  “You’ve got six days. Report here tomorrow morning
at nine o’clock and we’ll see if we can give you a start.”

  Lee waited a moment longer, then started to offer his hand, but thought better of it. He went out and walked down the stairs. For a long depressing moment he stood in the hallway struggling to co-ordinate his thoughts. Then suddenly he became afraid again. He knew he couldn’t do it. He should have told Smitty that it couldn’t be done—not in six days, not all those suspicious Negroes.

  He should tell him now, he thought. But Smitty would take away the union’s protection. And the police would have him in jail again before the night was done. His eyes went furtive and he began to bite his lips. By tomorrow he could be on his way, he thought. Lee Gordon could be finished and somebody by another name suddenly in the world. He’d be a fool to stay and let them execute him, because Smitty meant what he had said. And no matter how one looked at it, Lee Gordon could not get the Negro vote out in six days. No one could. And Smitty knew it, he thought accusingly as he hastened through the doorway.

  Outside Hannegan stood in the darkness, patiently waiting. “Gordon.”

  Lee jumped. “Oh! Mr. Hannegan!”

  “Gordon, I waited especially to tell you that you have a friend in Smitty.”

  “A friend? Well—yes,” he said, feeling forced to agree. “I guess you’re right.”

  “I know that I am right, Gordon. I wouldn’t let him down if I were you,” Hannegan said, and stood waiting for Lee to go his way.

  Smitty his friend? Lee could not see it. It was more as if he were Smitty’s pawn, and Smitty some sadistic chessman. Six days to build him up to knock him down again! Confusion clouded his thoughts—suspicion, resentment! And that fourth apocalyptic horseman of the Negro mind, fear, trampled down the remnants of his gratitude. A friend? Smitty had never been his friend! But yet the small, still voice of reason whispered that somebody must have been his friend.

  Chapter 30

  THE MURDER was gone into another night. Smitty was gone, and the union; and the hard, merciless days that did not give a damn if a Negro lived or died were gone for this moment. Now in the world were only Ruth and himself, held motionless in the soft cone of light from the floor lamp as figures of expectancy. But what they expected, neither knew.