“Anyway,” said Martini. “He died. Angelo stepped on a mine. They had him out on point, on his very first recon patrol. For what I don’t know. He wouldn’t have killed no one.” Martini’s eyes had lost their focus. “He stepped on a mine.”
“I’m sorry,” said Strange.
“I knew you prob’ly wouldn’t remember none of it,” said Martini. “I just wanted to thank you, is all.”
Martini lay back on the cot and covered his eyes with his forearm. Strange called for the guard, who came and unlocked the cell door. As Strange walked down the hall of the block, he checked his wristwatch. It was 7:15.
Vaughn was waiting for him outside the cell block door.
“What was that all about?”
“He just wanted to get straight with me on somethin’,” said Strange. “Somethin’ going back to when we were kids.”
“You knew him?”
“Not really,” said Strange. “I wouldn’t say I knew him at all. What do you reckon’s gonna happen to him?”
“Murder One. Doesn’t matter that Martini didn’t pull the trigger in that bank. He’s lucky he was a hundred yards inside the District line, if you wanna call it luck. Anywhere else he’d fry. He’s gonna get life.”
“What about Stewart?”
“They put amputees in prison, too. If he lives.”
“Cripples don’t last long inside.”
“They buy the full ticket, just the same.”
Vaughn shook an L amp;M halfway out of his pack and offered it to Strange. Strange waved it away. Vaughn drew the cigarette the rest of the way out with his mouth and lit it with his Zippo.
“You ought to call your mother,” said Vaughn. “She might hear about a cop gettin’ shot in your precinct over the radio. She’ll be worried sick, especially living with your brother’s death right now.”
“I’ll call her.”
“She okay?”
“She’s strong.”
“Good woman.”
“Yes.”
“Been a rough couple of days for you, too,” said Vaughn, looking him over.
“Guess I’ll feel better when my brother’s killer is arrested.”
“You think so? You think you’re gonna feel better then?”
“What’re you gettin’ at?”
“Is that all you want? To see him put in jail?”
Strange stared into Vaughn’s eyes. “No.”
“Like I said, I want to help.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Anything new?”
Strange told him, in detail, about his afternoon. He described his last stop, at the apartment of Kenneth Willis, and how he’d shook Willis down. He told him about his lead on Jones, and the cousin he was staying with over off 7th.
“Where’s this Ronnie Moses live, exactly?” said Vaughn.
“I don’t know. I did get a phone number, though. I was planning on getting an address through the number.”
“You got the number on you?”
“It’s in my locker.”
“We’ll Criss-Cross it now,” said Vaughn. “You’re certain about Jones, right?”
“I don’t have any hard evidence. But I’m certain as I can be.”
“You carry an unregistered piece?” said Vaughn.
“No.”
“I do,” said Vaughn. “You’re gonna need to get one, too.”
Strange considered stopping Vaughn right then. But he held his tongue.
They walked together into the squad room. Some officers were grouped around a desk radio, listening to a news broadcast. One of the uniforms, a black rookie named Morris, broke away from the group. His partner, a white cop named Timmons, tried to grab Morris by the arm, but Morris pulled free and stalked out of the room. As he passed, Strange saw anguish on his face. Strange and Vaughn went to the radio and listened to the announcer repeat the bulletin.
At 6:05 p.m., central standard time, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had been shot in the neck by a sniper while standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee.
For the next hour, the police officers stayed in the squad room, taking calls and calling loved ones, talking quietly among themselves. Vaughn went outside to the station steps to have a smoke in the night air. Strange phoned his mother, as Vaughn had told him to do. They spoke about the robbery and the awful thing that had happened in Memphis, and she told him she loved him and he told her the same thing. As he hung the phone up the announcer returned to the air.
Dr. King had been pronounced dead at St. Joseph’s Hospital at 8:05 p.m., eastern standard time. Officer Morris, who had returned to hear the news, punched his fist into the squad room wall. Strange went to the bathroom, where he could be alone.
On 14th Street, in Shaw, the news came first to a boy who was walking down the sidewalk, carrying a cheap transistor radio on a strap.
“They killed Dr. King!” he shouted to no one in particular. “They killed Dr. King!”
People stopped to look at him as he ran down the street.
THIRTY
AS THE NEWS spread by mouth and phone call, people began to turn on their transistor and tabletop radios, and their television sets, to get the details of the King assassination. Many inner-city residents tuned their dials to 1450, the home of soul station WOL. DJ Bob Terry, a familiar, comforting voice to his black audience, urged listeners to reflect on the news in a spiritual way.
“This is no time to hate,” said Terry. “And let me tell you something, white man… you better stop hating, too.”
After speaking on the phone with leaders in Memphis, black activist Stokely Carmichael went to the SNCC offices on 14th Street, a couple of blocks north of U, and conferred with some of the leaders of its Washington bureau. He proposed a strike that would force closure of area businesses in honor of Dr. King. He reasoned that stores should shut down out of respect, as they had upon the assassination of JFK. While the officers of the SNCC favored some sort of protest, they did not approve of such a drastic move. Carmichael, wearing shades and his trademark fatigue jacket, disregarded their wishes and left the office to begin rounding up supporters who could help him facilitate his strike.
Soon after, Carmichael and a group of followers entered the Peoples Drug at 14th and U, the site of Tuesday night’s disturbance, and asked the manager to close the store in honor of Dr. King. The manager complied, darkening the lights in the store. Carmichael then led a crowd, now grown to thirty or forty individuals, from shop to shop, going from dry cleaner to liquor store to barbershop, speaking to the owners or managers on shift, telling them all to close up shop. All complied.