“... By force and violence and against resistance and by putting in fear, did steal, take, and carry away, from and off the person and from the immediate, actual possession of one Maybelle Eva Houseman, then and there being, a certain finger ring, of the value of, to wit, ten dollars.”
He listened now with more attention but no anxiety:
“And in and while perpetrating robbery aforesaid did kill and murder the said Maybelle Eva Houseman; against the form of the statute in such case made and provided, and against the peace and government of the said United States of America.”
P.S. Thereupon Dr. Herman Stein was called as a witness and being first duly sworn testified as follows:
“... On examination of the genital organs there was no evidence of contusion, abrasion, or trauma, and the decedent’s hymen ring was intact. This decedent had not been criminally assaulted or attempted to be entered. It has been ascertained that the decedent’s age was 40.”
Part II
Burning down the house
The last days of Duncan Street
by Julian Mayfield
(Originally published in 1960)
Kingman Park
It was one of those bright days when that Washington sun wasn’t taking any stuff off of anybody. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the wind wasn’t a big wind at all, just a little itty-bitty breeze to take the edge off the sun’s heat. It was a good day, man, because there wasn’t any school, the grown folks were at work, and we could do anything that crossed our natural minds. It was a crazy day, man, because that night Joe Louis was going to knock the living stew out of a big German named Max Schmeling.
We could have gone swimming. There was the colored pool on the other side of town and the muddy Eastern Branch of the Potomac was only a few blocks away. We could have swiped pop bottles from old man Farbenstein’s store yard and sold them back to him. Then we would have had enough money to ride across town to the picture show. A Bob Steele movie was playing at the Gem and a Tom Mix one was at the Alamo.
But this wasn’t the kind of day when you went swimming or sat in a movie. You could do stuff like that anytime. But how often did Joe Louis have a chance to get into the same ring with that blabber-mouth Schmeling. That German had been doing a lot of talking about how badly he was going to beat Joe. Naturally he thought he was better than Joe because he was white, but the newspapers were hinting that he thought he was better than everybody because he was a German. Well, you know Joe, he hadn’t said much, but all of us knew what was bound to happen. Joe was nobody’s talker, but he could dispose of a man before you could call his name. Yes, this was going to be a great night and we were prepared to celebrate it.
The bricks had come out of an empty lot in the middle of the block. They were red bricks that we had broken into halves, good bricks that were just right for throwing, bricks that you could aim at a white boy’s head. The baseball bats would come in handy for any close fighting. A white boy wouldn’t even know what had hit him if he got beaned with one of those Babe Ruth specials. We had a couple of knives and lots of milk bottles. It was going to be quite a night.
By mid-afternoon all our weapons were stored in Austin’s basement. We lounged and talked on the grass near the basement door. Austin had a real grudge against the white boys. They had caught him near the Peoples Drug store the week before and knocked out two of his front teeth. He was a skinny little high-yellow kid with bow legs and curly hair. We thought his people were well-off because they lived in an entire house instead of a flat like the rest of us.
“Wait’ll I catch one of them,” Austin said, spitting through the space where his front teeth had been. “I’ll knock his gut string out.” He stood up, reached out with his left hand, and clutched the air. “I’ll take that paddy boy like this, see, and I’ll hold him up like this, see …” With one hand Austin lifted the imaginary white boy from the ground. “And I’ll say, ‘You’re one of those paddy rats that jumped me last week.’ And he’ll say, ‘No sir, Mister Austin, that must’ve been some other paddy rat, not me.’ And I’ll say, ‘Well, that’s too damned bad because you’re gonna get it anyway.’ He’ll say, ‘That ain’t fair, Mister Austin.’ And I’ll say, ‘Yes it is, because all you paddy boys look alike to me!’”
We laughed as Austin brought his right fist over and wham! the invisible white boy went sailing through the air.
Teeny Mae said, “Boy, I hear that Joe is in really good shape. Wonder how long it will take him to catch up with that German guy.”
I said, “Three or four rounds.” I wanted to give our man enough leeway. Sometimes Joe needed time to figure out a man’s style.
Robert Jackson yelled, “Gowan! Joe’ll stop that jerk in one round. Wanna bet?” I didn’t want to bet. Robert had set himself up as leader of our gang and so far, because he was a year older than the rest (and presumably tougher), no one had challenged him.
“I’ll show you.” Robert stood up and took the Joe Louis stance, which was the only one any of us ever used. “This guy’s got a hard right, see, but Joe will keep him off with that left jab. Now when this guy comes over with that right, see, Joe’s gonna bring that left hard to the jaw like this. Then he’ll whip it right in, and, man, that’ll be the end of that German.” Robert sprawled face downward on the grass like one of Joe’s victims.
Fat Sammy said, “And that’s when I’m going out and get myself a paddy boy.”
We all agreed that, yeah, there was no better time to beat the paddy boys. Then we got into a loud argument about who had beaten up more white boys during the raid we had pulled after the last Joe Louis fight.
To understand this passion for scrapping with the white boys you have to feel what Joe Louis meant to the Duncan Street gang. We loved him. He was our man. He was right out there in front going for us. Some people called us hoodlums but in our minds there was no doubt Joe would have approved of the raids we went on after his ring victories. We justified them very simply. The white boys had a swimming pool nearby and we didn’t. They could see movies right there in the neighborhood and we had to ride all the way up to the colored business district on U Street. And it was shame on you if, like Austin, you were caught alone by the white gang at 15th and H streets. I think sometimes we could not help wondering if there really was something wrong with us that made white folks treat us so badly. But Joe dispelled our doubts. He made us believe that each one of us was as good as anybody. He was our personal representative.
So it was give and take, man. You gave as much as you could and you took what you had to. Life was a crazy kind of thing full of school and the gang and fighting white boys. It was exciting because something was jumping every minute. Of course, the fever pitch ran highest whenever Joe fought. Those were the craziest nights of all. Talk about kicks, that was it.
When the sun got low it hung on a while, kissing everything in sight goodbye. It dropped away slowly as if it too wanted to stay on and hear the fight. Then the night eased down smoothly like warm milk and a gentle breeze cooled Duncan Street. I felt so good being a part of it all that I wanted to yell out loud.
Sammy’s old man, Mister Speed, came home with a whole case of beer because he had invited friends over to hear the fight. We all had a good laugh on Teeny Mae when we saw his father, who was supposed to be a very strict Baptist, sneak a fifth bottle into the house. My pop sat down in the big easy chair, lit a White Owl cigar, and said he wasn’t going to move until the fight was over.