Lonely Crusade (48 page)

But though sometimes annoyed, exasperated, and often actually pained, yet deep down he did not condemn Lee Gordon for his attitude, because over all, he vaguely realized that this was Lee Gordon’s way of making his stand for something better. And even though he knew beyond all doubt that in a Negro this was suicide, he had to admire Lee for it.

So when he read the report of the murder in the morning paper, it was not surprise, but trepidation, that shook him to the core. The report stated briefly that Deputy Sheriff Paul Dixon had been murdered early the night before in his home in Inglewood. Lee Gordon, a Negro union organizer, who a short time back had accused Dixon and three other deputy sheriffs of attacking him on the highway, was being held in suspicion of the murder. Luther McGregor, his accomplice, also his companion at the time of the alleged attack, had been shot to death resisting arrest in the home of his employer in Hollywood. The police attributed the motive to both revenge and robbery, as it was known that Dixon had had in his possession a large sum of money that could not be found. In the next column was a picture of Mrs. Dixon, who had discovered her husband’s body upon her return from a motion-picture theater.

And though he knew that Lee was capable of behavior that would tear the face from reason, he did not believe Lee would murder anyone. His mind would not accept it. So his first conclusion was that Luther and the Communists had framed him in some sort of way, as they had done the Forks girl—or perhaps she had been in with them too. But no matter what had happened, Lee Gordon was still an organizer for the union council. He reached for the telephone.

Half an hour later the union attorney Steve Hannegan came into his office. “What do you think?”

“I don’t think he did it.”

“He could have,” Hannegan said. “He had motive enough.”

“I don’t think the boy would murder, Steve.”

“Let’s get his story first.”

But they could not contact Lee. His name was not on the blotter and the police denied holding a prisoner by that name. Nor would the chief of detectives, chief of police, or police commissioner profess knowledge of the prisoner.

“They have talked to the sheriff,” Hannegan said.

“To hell with them!” Smitty said. “Let’s get a writ.”

“To apply for a writ of habeas corpus, I must present alibis to cover each minute of Gordon’s time for hours before and after the approximate time of the murder,” Hannegan said thoughtfully.

“Then we will present them,” Smitty said.

Hannegan drummed his fingers on the flat desk top. “Sworn affidavits?” It was partly questioning, partly informative.

“I will get them,” Smitty said. “I will go to—”

“I don’t want to know about it.”

“Then you don’t know about it!” Smitty snapped.

For a moment Hannegan looked at him, and then said softly: “You like this boy.”

“I believe in him, and I just don’t believe that he’s murdered anybody.”

“Good luck!” Hannegan said.

Smitty did not find it as easy as he had anticipated. First, he drove to the plant to talk to Joe Ptak.

“To hell with Gordon!” Joe said.

“They’ll execute him, Joe.”

“That’ll be good! The dirty quitter!”

Next Smitty approached Benny Stone because Benny was a Jew. But though Benny professed a desire to help, he pointed out the danger of complicity. So Smitty returned to the council hall and began appealing to the various union officials. He pleaded and cajoled, calling upon their union loyalty and becoming eloquent concerning their obligation to their Negro brothers. But neither the eloquence of his pleas nor the righteousness of his cause moved these hard-boiled unionists.

Finally, he himself was forced to alibi Lee to the union men. By swearing that he had been with Lee from nine o’clock the night before until one o’clock that morning, he finally persuaded eight of them to sign statements that Lee Gordon had been in conference with them at the union hall during that time. But for each signature he received five refusals. It was too risky, they all declared, and no one wanted any part of it. Those who signed the statements did so grudgingly, and with the express reservations that their statements be used only to secure the writ and not again if the case came up for trial.

If it were known that he had lied, Smitty would have been forced out of the union, he knew full well. He also knew that the risk he took not only involved the future of eight other men, but of the union. And it was not only the honor of these men, but their freedom, their security, and the security of their families. Yet he felt compelled to take this risk, not only just for Lee Gordon, but for the things in which he believed. And he did it quietly, seriously, and without pompousness.

He would not have done this for anyone but a Negro or some other underdog, but he did not know this about himself. All he knew was that he believed in a guy and was doing what he could to help him.

Again he contacted Hannegan, presenting him with the affidavits, and by three o’clock they had cornered a judge who gave grudging consent to the proceedings. But after scanning the affidavits the judge was not satisfied.

“You are forgetting, counselor,” the judge said irritably, “that just a few weeks ago this Negro accused the victim, along with other officers, of criminally attacking him.”

“We made no legal accusation,” Hannegan replied.

“You were his counsel? He needs a permanent counselor, eh?”

“I am the attorney for the union.”

“I see, and you believe this boy innocent of this crime?”

“I present the affidavits to support—”

“I am asking your opinion.”

“My opinion is the Constitutional presumption of innocence—”

“Yes, yes, the stock speech! But you realize this is a charge of murder. If complicity is later disclosed you will be disbarred.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And the men who have signed these affidavits will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I don’t like this,” the judge said. “These union men are unreliable; they will swear to anything. How do I know this isn’t just another union collusion to effect this murderer’s release?”

“If it has been proven that the prisoner is a murderer, if there is a single bit of evidence linking him with the murder, then I do not ask for his release,” Hannegan said.

“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 office, and locked the door.