They had added rhythmic claps to the chants, and noise exploded into the air. Richard, his hands red and his throat sore, thought the New Haven citizens weren’t bored any more.
Over this one loud voice that the chant had become, Richard heard people yelling that Bobby and Ericka were leaving. He saw a whole wing of color and noise swing by, the blue shifting with them, and run down a street to the side of the courthouse. “Stay for the jury,” someone yelled. “No,” yelled a woman. “There’s time. They won’t bring the jury out until they’re gone.” Richard’s group was pushed forward toward the police, and he found himself running with others and for a moment he thought they would run right into the barricades.
The police seemed terrified by this shift until one young man was grabbed by a cop when he came too close to the barricade and was pushed. He hit the pavement hard and Richard felt cold and distant from the crowd, convinced that a riot was imminent. “Pigs!” Do I run? He was a foot away from the cop who had done it, and he understood from the crowd that something was going to happen. “Cool it, people!” A loudspeaker said this. “Just cool it. We’re here for Bobby and Ericka.” In the distance he heard people singing, “We love you, Bobby.” Everyone moved on slowly, the scene suddenly calm.
The police ordered them to the other side of the street, and Richard found his friends sitting on top of cars in order to get a good view. The chant had changed to a sweet sentimental song about how much they loved Bobby and Ericka. It embarrassed him but he forced himself to sing and finally he enjoyed the song.
The doors opened and several plain-clothes cops walked out, behind them Bobby Seale, in handcuffs. “All power to the people!” everybody shouted. There was applause and the song and raised fists all at once, and Bobby smiled intimately at them while he ducked into the car. He returned a clenched fist awkwardly because of his manacled hands: Richard had the illusion while Bobby’s car pulled out, preceded and followed by patrol cars, that Bobby was a good friend going off in triumph.
For the first time he realized Bobby might be electrocuted. The police no longer looked like foolish copies of tough movie cops: they meant to kill that sweet and graceful man.
Ericka’s departure was even more emotional. And when they returned to the front of the courthouse to see the jurors off, Richard honestly joined in the rage that everyone put into their chants.
He watched the jurors as they came out. He wanted to shake them by the lapels. The frustration of knowing that they looked like hundreds of people who would complain of blacks and whose prejudices he had ignored, hurt him—it meant he had done nothing to prevent Bobby’s and Ericka’s deaths.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The jury was out for a week before admitting they were hopelessly deadlocked. The case was dismissed and the charges dropped. The trial had cost the state more than a million dollars and along with other Panther trials throughout the United States had become almost the sole concern of the Left.
Richard was delighted. He had hated being there (sleeping in unheated houses and eating improvised meals depressed him) except for the ritual of seeing the jury off each afternoon. And it must have had an effect, he thought. He finally had concrete respect for the Movement, but, to his amazement, they didn’t give themselves credit or feel encouraged by the victory.
Two days after they returned to New York City his brother and Louise invited Richard and Joan over for dinner. The phone rang while they were having coffee and Louise announced, after a brief conversation, that Aaron was in New York and was coming over.
Joan gulped for air and Richard laughed when she exaggerated her nervousness by running to the nearest mirror and fluffing her hair. They were still joking when Richard’s father arrived, and Aaron listened to Leo’s telling of their hilarity with impatience.
Richard realized that Aaron was preoccupied. He hadn’t even bothered to charm Joan. “What’s up?” Richard asked. “What brings you to New York?”
“Well, it’s over the Padilla thing. I’ve come in to do an article for Henry Wilson to accompany the letter Sartre and everybody else has signed to Fidel.”
“It’s such a big deal you have to come into New York?”
“Well, they’re in a rush. They want it in this issue. And it is quite important. Whatever you may think, young man,” Aaron said, his eyes telegraphing the imminent sarcastic reproach, “your father is considered to have some influence.”
“What is it they want you to write?” Louise asked this question in a hushed voice. She held her head in her hands as if she were in pain.
“Uh, essentially background to their letter from the intelligentsia.” Aaron smiled to take the curse off his last word. “So that people know what has happened to Padilla.”
“What has happened to Padilla?” Richard asked.
“He has confessed to being a counterrevolutionary.” Aaron looked blank for a moment and then laughed scornfully. “It’s a terrible thing, but I can’t help laughing at the idea. Poor helpless Eduardo, who can’t make a cup of coffee for himself, was accused of being a CIA agent”
“By Fidel?” Leo asked.
“No, of course not. You think Fidel cares about a spoiled avant-garde poet? It’s infighting on the part of the Writers Union. Fidel has been put in an untenable position by them. They’re pro-Soviet and they’re in the process of pushing out the real leftists in the intellectual circles. Fidel’s hands are tied because he’s become utterly dependent on the Soviet Union. They’ve had ghastly crop failures and Fidel’s being pushed into taking a hard Stalinist line.”
“You mean he’s a patsie?” Richard asked.
“Fidel!” Aaron was shocked. “A patsie?”
“No, no,” Richard hurried to explain. “Padilla.”
“Oh yes. Exactly. They know this is the time to make their move. Fidel has been protecting all those elements in Cuba from Soviet pressure for years. Those old shits of the Communist Party are daring Fidel to intervene. They know he won’t risk the food the Cubans need from the Soviet Union to keep the arts out of the clutches of those old CP farts.”
“Are you going to say that in the article?” Louise asked. “About Soviet pressure?”
“Oh, my God, yes! I have to make that clear.”
Louise leaned forward and touched Aaron on the arm. “Good. I’m glad you’ll put that in, Aaron. You know, so that no one will think that Fidel is another Stalin.”
“Yeah,” Leo said. “And also so that it’s clear that the United States is responsible.”
Aaron looked at Leo, his face slightly puzzled. “You mean because of the embargo?” Leo said yes, and Aaron continued. “Well, you know it’s hopeless to try to prevent people from misunderstanding and believing that this is a betrayal of Cuba. From both sides. Fidel will be outraged. I expect to be attacked by leftists. Certainly nothing will prevent reactionaries from being delighted that Sartre and the intellectual world are attacking Fidel.”
“But, Aaron, don’t you think you should make it clear that, at least, you are not doing that?” Louise pleaded.
“Frankly,” Leo said, “I doubt the sincerity of the other people.”
“What are you talking about?” Aaron didn’t conceal his knowledge of what Leo meant by this statement, he merely used the words to invest his anger. “Are you talking about Sartre and the others who signed the petition?”