by Sam Bourne
‘Some of it. But so much of it’s hazy. Anyway, like you say: it’s early days. But seriously, Mags. I bet you’d find it—’
‘Listen, Liz, I need to go.’
‘All right, be like that.’
‘I’m not being like anything. I just need to go. It’s the middle of the working day.’ Silence at the other end. ‘Talk later, yes?’
‘All right. And stay safe, OK? I’ve only got one sister.’
It took another twenty minutes for Maggie to reach the Charlottesville Police Department, a low-rise, red-brick box next door to a multi-storey parking lot. The governor’s office had called ahead, so Ed Grimes, Chief of Police, was expecting her. He ushered her into his office, where the back wall was cluttered with assorted shields, trophies and a mounted mission statement: We aim to protect the freedom and safety of the people of Charlottesville.
The chief was in uniform and had once been a beat cop but, had she not known that fact in advance, Maggie would never have guessed it. He had the harried face of a bureaucrat, his white skin faded under office light. He took his place behind his desk and instantly Maggie understood that he would be on the defensive, anxious that the state governor was looking over his shoulder.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ Maggie began, offering her warmest smile. ‘We hear great things about all you’re doing here.’
‘OK.’
‘The governor is just very keen to be kept up to speed on the Aikman case.’
‘All right.’
‘What lines of inquiry you’re pursuing.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What leads you have.’
The chief was looking across the table, saying nothing. If he had a deck of cards, he’d have been holding them flat against his ribcage.
Maggie tried again, more direct this time. ‘So. What leads do you have?’
‘Well, we’re just at the start of our investigation, Miss Costello.’
Maggie repressed the urge to say ‘Ms’. She nodded encouragement, before realizing the police chief was not planning on saying more.
‘And which direction are you looking in, sir?’
‘We’re looking for whoever’s guilty.’
Maggie leaned forward. ‘Look, I’ve been doing this long enough to know that the last thing a homicide team needs is someone from up top coming down and treading all over your turf. I get that. But I promise you, it’s in your interests to help me out here.’
He gave a small, tight smile that sent the blood straight into the veins of Maggie’s neck. The smile of condescension. Maggie had seen it ten thousand times.
‘How exactly is it in my interest, Miss Costello?’
‘Because if you help me, I will report that back to the governor of this state. And if you don’t, then I’ll report that back too.’ She smiled sweetly, allowing the unstated thought to linger in the air: big-time politicians could make the lives of small-time politicians – like the police chief of a city around the size of Charlottesville, for example – miserable if they wanted to.
Eventually, the chief reached for a pen at the top of his blotter and resettled the glasses on the bridge of his nose. He cleared his throat, as if about to deliver a formal briefing.
‘As you know, Charlottesville has a recent and difficult history, especially involving activists of the so-called alt-right and their opponents on the alt-left.’
Maggie said nothing.
‘This city has had a particularly active cell of the Black Lives Matter movement, centred on the university campus. We believe Prof Aikman’s assailant is likely to have come from that circle.’
‘And what makes you think that?’
‘For one thing, students had easy access to the building in which the professor was found dead. The door to that building is opened by a keypad. Not just anybody could open that door. You had to know the code. Which dozens of students do.’
‘Although there’ll be others who know it too.’
‘Second, Professor Aikman had clashed with the leadership of the Black Lives Matter movement. With two people in particular.’
‘Clashed? How?’
Now Grimes reached under his blotter and produced a copy of a letter, handing it to Maggie.
She skimmed it, but the key lines leapt out:
As students of color, we write to express our deep concern at a pattern of grading which we believe is unjust . . . does not reflect the particularity of our experience . . . can only suggest if not bias then insensitivity . . . issues go wider than this particular case . . . lack of diversity at the highest levels of the faculty.
‘You’re saying that Black Lives Matter activists killed Russell Aikman because he gave them low grades ? Besides, this is addressed to the whole history faculty, not just Aikman.’
‘There’s also this.’ He slid another piece of paper across the desk. It was a petition, ‘We the undersigned . . .’ at the top and a long list of names, all of them professors of one kind or another. She scanned it, looking in vain for Aikman.
‘But he didn’t sign this.’
‘Exactly.’
Only now did Maggie take a close look at the preamble paragraph to which ‘We the undersigned’ had lent their good name. It was from a year earlier, calling on the university authorities to confirm that under no circumstances would an invitation to visit the campus be extended to the President of the United States. There’d been efforts like this across the country, usually pushed by students first, with faculty trailing along behind. But clearly Aikman had refused to play his assigned role.
‘Is that it?’ Maggie asked, sounding unimpressed though her resolve was wavering.
‘No. There’s one more thing. The statue.’ Grimes produced his third visual aid, a photograph of the bronze statue of Robert E. Lee, the lead general of the Confederacy, astride his horse, both man and beast now turned green with oxidization. It had always been a Charlottesville landmark, but the battle to remove it had given it a new currency. Just visible on the base of the statue, though now bleached out by frantic cleaning, were the words graffitied in spray paint: Black Lives Matter.
‘What’s this got to do with Aikman?’
‘Lots of people around the university wanted that statue gone. Lots of Aikman’s students.’
‘And he said it should stay up.’
‘Yup. Said, “You can’t erase history.” ’
Maggie took the picture and looked at it hard. Just a man on a horse, rendered in bronze. But its presence in a city with a large black population had become a national wound. And Aikman had been on the side of the past against the future – or at least that’s how the activists would have seen it.
‘See it from my point of view, Miss Costello. They had the means, with access to that building. And they had the motive; several motives, in fact.’ He gestured at his trifecta of paperwork. ‘All we’re looking for is the individual who pulled the trigger.’
Chapter Five
Court 73, Richmond, Virginia, 11.45am
‘I trust your honour has Exhibit two hundred and twenty-three in front of her? I’d like the record to show that I have entered into evidence a volume entitled Twelve Years a Slave.’
‘So ordered.’
William Keane was pacing, a panther circling the turf he had made his own: the small but crucial space between the judge, the jury and the witness box. Over the past weeks, he had grown ever more comfortable in this arena, a preacher in his pulpit, a pitcher on his mound. Here he would allow either his voice, his arms or his hands – and sometimes all three in combination – to command the court. Much ink had flowed on the question of whether his lack of legal background was an advantage – freeing him of the hidebound, stale argot that was the mother tongue of the professional attorneys he faced – or just more evidence of his phenomenal gifts. This man who had never spent a day in court until acting for himself in this trial was the star performer day after day. He was a natural.
‘As the court knows, we are approaching the day of reckonin
g. Soon these proceedings will draw to a close. We will at last be able to leave this place, and re-enter civilization.’ He turned to the jurors, with a benign, conspiratorial smile, lowering his voice: ‘What a relief that will be, huh?’ He returned to courtroom volume. ‘At that point it will be up to this court to deliver its solemn judgement, to decide if I was libelled by the defendant when she called me a “slavery denier”.’
Part of it was simply his costume. Keane understood that a courtroom was a theatre and that looking the part was an essential component of any performance. The southern gentleman in a white suit was as much of a cliche as the English gent in pinstripes, but it worked for that very reason. It tripped some deep nerve of recognition.
Besides, Keane knew not to overdo it. There was no bolo tie, no ten-gallon hat. The look he was going for was less Boss Hogg, more Atticus Finch. He wanted to convey southern decency and intellectual authority, both a match and a contrast with the po-faced, Ivy League intellectuals on the other side.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have sat through many hours of expert, often obscure, even arcane testimony’ – testee-moan-ee – ‘but now I ask you to contemplate a text I suspect you think you know well. Why, it even became a Hollywood movie.’ He gave a childish grin, as if about to offer a treat. ‘We’re talking about this!’
With a flourish, he produced a battered, ancient book and held it aloft. ‘I suspect some of you saw that movie. I’m not going to say you enjoyed it. How could any decent person enjoy such a litany of horrors?’ He looked at his feet and shook his head, as if lamenting the sheer awfulness of it all.
‘But many of you will have an idea of the period my opponents call “the age of slavery” from that movie. It will have shaped you. It will have got into your very soul. I call as my next witness, Professor Andrea Barker.’
A marshal ushered a white woman in her mid-thirties into the box. She wore a pant suit and had long, expensively cut hair. The jurors had seen some mousy, nervous academics take the stand, but the way this woman smiled and held Keane’s gaze suggested that now, at last, he had met his match.
She raised her right hand, placed it on the Bible and took the oath. She gave her name and in a strong, clear voice announced that she taught history at Wellesley College.
‘And that’s a women’s liberal arts college in Massachusetts, am I right?’ Keane was sure to enunciate and emphasize every word, so that his twelve-strong audience could not miss the signal each one carried. If he gave special weight to one in particular, it might have been ‘liberal’. Or maybe ‘women’s’ which he seemed to pronounce as ‘lesbian’.
‘You’ve written especially about this book, Twelve Years a Slave, yes?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re an expert?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘Well, we’re honoured to have you down here in Old Virginia. Thanks for making the journey from all the way up there in Massachusetts. Hope you’ve been getting a fine southern welcome.’
The woman shifted in the box, unsure how she was meant to respond. Was this a barbed reference to the huge crowds penned in by police opposite the courthouse, divided into their two camps, screaming slogans at each other from morning till night? Or was it to be taken at face value?
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘We’re obliged. Now let me begin with a simple question, Professor. Who is the author of Twelve Years a Slave ?’
‘Solomon Northup, a free man who was kidnapped and sold into slavery in Louisiana.’
‘I know that’s the name on the cover. But I’m asking who wrote the book? Who put pen to paper and wrote the sentences that appear on these pages?’
‘Well, clearly a book such as—’
‘Shall I refresh your memory? Your honour, here I’m quoting from Professor Barker’s widely praised essay, “The Redemption of Solomon Northup”. In this passage, she tells us about a famous New York politician – a liberal, so-called abolitionist – and she writes that this politician “asked a lawyer and fledgling poet, David Wilson, if he’d be willing to interview Solomon and turn his story into a book”. This man Wilson – I’m still quoting Professor Barker – he “jumped at the chance”. And then you go on, Professor – these are your words – “Thus, Twelve Years a Slave wasn’t even written by Solomon Northup but by a white amanuensis.” ’
‘What I meant there is that—’
‘Oh, you’ll get your turn, don’t you worry. But I ain’t done quoting. Your very next sentence is, “Wilson’s authorship of the narrative has long cast doubt over its authenticity.” My, my, Professor. What’s that you say? “Doubt over its authenticity”? Twelve Years a Slave? Well, that’s like the holy scripture of the slavery industry, isn’t it? And there’s you,’ and at this Keane turned his back on his witness and faced the jury, ‘a liberal arts professor from up there in Massachusetts,’ savouring each syllable, ‘admitting, admitting, that there are doubts over its authenticity.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying at all. The context is—’
‘I’m a simple man, Professor. I’m just reading the words you’ve written. In black and white.’
‘Objection. There’s no point questioning a witness if the plaintiff refuses to let that witness answer.’
‘Sustained.’
‘Let me move on, your honour. Uncle Tom’s Cabin. How would you describe that book, Professor Barker?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘What kind of book is it?’
‘It’s a novel.’
‘A novel. Fiction. Made up. Is that right?’
‘It’s obviously based—’
‘Is it a novel or isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘And it came out one year before Twelve Years a Slave, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And can you tell the court what the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin said about Solomon Northup’s book? What she said about Twelve Years a Slave ?’
‘Well, I don’t have the exact—’
‘Don’t you worry, Professor. I have the words right here. The words of Harriet Beecher Stowe, the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, when she read Twelve Years a Slave a year after her book came out. Here’s what she said. “It is a singular coincidence that this man was carried to a plantation in the Red River country, that same region where the scene of Tom’s captivity was laid; and his account of this plantation, his mode of life there, and some incidents which he describes, form a striking parallel to that history.” What do you say to that, Professor?’
‘Well, I would say it means that she found further vindication of her own narrative in Northup’s account.’
‘Or that Northup had copied a novel – a made-up story – to make up a story of his own.’
‘No, that would be to assume—’
‘But that’s what you yourself said. I’m quoting your paper again. “Slave narratives were never intended to give an unbiased view . . . they contain inaccuracies, distortions and embellishments.” Not my words, ladies and gentlemen, but the words of Professor Barker of Wellesley College, Massachusetts. “Inaccuracies, distortions and embellishments”.’
‘You’re twisting my words.’
‘Am I? Am I twisting them as much as Solomon Northup? Or do you not mind “inaccuracies, distortions and embellishments”, so long as the cause is just?’
‘Objection. He’s badgering the witness.’
‘Sustained. Mr Keane, I won’t warn you again.’
‘I’m nearly done, your honour. I have just one last passage I think merits quotation from Professor Barker’s paper. It’s the core of her argument. She tells her readers not to get hung up on a “false standard of authenticity”. Don’t let’s get hung up, folks! What matters is “Northup’s voice, not his facts; that voice is what makes Twelve Years a Slave so enduring.”
‘When do we say such a thing, ladies and gentlemen? When do we say, “Oh, it’s not the facts that count, it’s the
voice, it’s the feeling”? When do we say that? We say that when we’ve seen a movie or watched a TV show or read a fairy tale. We say that about fiction. Because that’s what this is.
‘Twelve Years a Slave won all those Oscars and was a hit movie and that’s fine. You know why? Because it belongs in the movies. In the land of make-believe. Hollywood. The Dream Factory. La La Land. That’s where it belongs. Because Twelve Years a Slave is fiction. Just like this whole slavery story is fiction, from beginning to end. Every lash of the whip, every manacle on the wrist, every chain on the ankle, it’s all a fairy tale, designed to make white folks into ogres and black folks into angels. It’s made up, invented out of whole cloth. And any day now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you’ll finally have a chance to say so.
‘No further questions, your honour.’
Chapter Six
Charlottesville, Virginia, 5.25pm
The light had faded to an autumn twilight by the time Maggie emerged from the Charlottesville Police Department. It was dark enough for the glow of candles on the opposite side of the street to be visible, even from here. At first, she thought it was some kind of display, designed to entice custom into the Tin Whistle pub that faced the police station. But as her eyes adjusted, she could see that the candles were, in fact, held by a small group, huddling together like carol singers on the Dublin street corners of her youth.
Except this group was not comprised of blue-rinsed Irish ladies but a combination of black and white activists, none older than thirty. They were murmuring a tune – it might have been ‘Amazing Grace’ – and three or four were carrying banners. Hope Not Hate, said one. No to Bigotry, declared another.
Maggie approached to get a better look. She took her place alongside two others, both with notebooks, who were scribbling down the words of the group’s apparent leader: a burly, bearded African-American, he towered over them both.
‘Oh, we’re used to that, my friend. Anything goes down in this town, our name’s in the frame. Always. But we’re not going to let that happen this time. No way.’
