Johnny Get Your Gun

15

When the morning at last came, it was bright and beautiful. A fresh wind had blown away every trace of smog so that the close-by mountains stood out in needle-sharp detail. Across the street from the Pasadena police station the little cluster of trees around the parking lot was crowned with a rich summer green. The windows were all open, inviting the warm pleasant air of the near perfect day to permeate through the otherwise spartan working areas.

Captain Carl Lindholm sat in his office chair, his elbows on his desk, while he contemplated the face of the quiet, well-dressed man who stood before him. “I know that you had a tough day yesterday, Virgil,” he said, “but I think we need a wrap-up on it this morning if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, sir,” Tibbs said.

“A couple of things first. One: you’ll be glad to know that the three men who pulled that double header are in custody. They’ve all got records and there’s no doubt about it.”

“I heard, sir. Congratulations.”

“Next, since Chief Addis moving up into the top spot the position of Assistant Chief has been open.”

Virgil held out his hand. “Congratulations again, sir. I’m delighted and I know that everyone else will be too.”

Lindholm stood up to accept the offered hand and the feelings which went with it. “You know what I think of you, Virgil. All I can say is that I hope you will be with us for a long, long time.”

“I hope so too, sir.”

The phone rang and Lindholm answered it. He gave a brief directive and then hung up. “The visitors are down in the lobby. Before they come up, are you sure of your ground?”

“Yes, sir, very sure.”

“Are the civil rights loopholes all plugged?”

“Absolutely, sir. I was present when Sergeant Wilson of the Anaheim police informed Dempsey of his civil rights. He was advised again here. An attorney is with him now.”

“Good. Now you’d better explain things to these people and clear up a few points. There’s one or two I want to hear you on myself.”

Five minutes later there was a fair gathering in the captain’s office. Ralph Hotchkiss was there with his son Billy, now a very chastened young man. He sat still in the chair that had been assigned to him and looked straight forward.

Mike and Maggie McGuire were fiercely self-conscious; Mike expressed himself by rubbing his hands together and looking carefully at everything visible in the room. Maggie held her son Johnny tightly by the hand and wished devoutly that it was all over. She did not want anything explained to her, she only wanted to be safely at home with her boy.

In quiet dignity the parents of Willie Orthcutt sat a little stiffly in the two remaining chairs. They were simply dressed, he in a threadbare suit which had nonetheless been carefully brushed for the occasion, his wife in plain unrelieved black which surrounded her ample figure with as much grace as it could.

When everyone was comfortably seated, the captain took quiet command of the meeting. “I want to thank all of you for coming here this morning so that we can help to clear away certain serious misunderstandings which, directly or otherwise, concern you all.” He turned toward the Orthcutts. “Let me begin by saying that I am very deeply sorry for the tragedy which came to your home.”

“Thank you,” Orthcutt answered simply.

“I sincerely hope that you may find a little comfort in learning the truth of what happened. If you wish to leave at any time, please feel completely free to do so; I have a car standing by that will take you home.”

“You’ve been very good to us,” Mrs. Orthcutt said. Despite her grief she was in control of herself and Lindholm admired her for it.

“Now I’m going to let Mr. Tibbs explain to you what happened; I think it’s very important that you understand this, even though it may be painful for Mr. and Mrs. Orthcutt. Part of a policeman’s job is to see that the guilty are punished, another part is to see that, insofar as possible, the innocent are not.” When he had finished he settled back into his chair and prepared to listen.

Virgil Tibbs looked at his audience with the air of a man who is prepared to speak, but only reluctantly. “I think the best way to approach this,” he began, “is to give you a more or less running explanation of what occurred. After that, if you have any questions, I’ll try to answer them for you.

“Some weeks ago Mr. and Mrs. McGuire moved here from Tennessee with their son. Mr. McGuire’s employment and prospects where he was were both limited, so he made the decision to move his family out here in the expectation of a better opportunity.”

He paused for a moment, as though he were considering which words would be the best for him to use.

“Like many other people, Mr. McGuire has a strong sense of self-sufficiency and, also like many others, he expressed his feelings in part by keeping a revolver in his home-loaded and ready for use. Specifically it was a Colt Chief’s Special, which is a particularly dangerous weapon. Unfortunately, he kept it where a child had access to it, told his son where it was, and to some degree instructed him in its use.

“To do justice to Mr. McGuire, I must point out that in keeping this unregistered weapon as he did, despite the great danger that it represented, he was entirely within the law, at least so far.”

Virgil stopped and waited, but Mike McGuire remained motionless and did not utter a sound.

“One of the real dangers of owning a gun is the incentive it provides to shoot it out with possible intruders-which is a quick and easy way to get killed. Most home owners are insured against burglary. If there is any shooting to be done, let us handle it-that’s our job. Private citizens aren’t asked to take such risks, and if you do, you can get into serious legal complications.”

He realized that he was editorializing and stopped. For a moment he stood, head down, his lips pressed hard together. Then he recovered himself and picked up the threads of the discussion.

“Two days ago Johnny McGuire took his small transistor radio to school. During the lunch hour it was snatched away from him and he was cruelly teased by Billy Hotchkiss. The end result was that the radio, which meant a great deal to Johnny, was broken in the scuffling. It was accidental and to his credit Billy offered to replace it immediately, but the fact remains that he was merciless in picking on someone younger and smaller than himself. For that he must stand responsible.”

He looked at Ralph Hotchkiss, who nodded and indicated that he wanted to speak. “What you have just said is true and justified,” he acknowledged. “Billy is still very young, but he certainly should have known better. I’m sorry that I didn’t teach him better manners. For his inexcusable conduct I’d like to apologize now, publicly, to Mr. and Mrs. McGuire, and particularly to Johnny.”

Without yielding to the temptation to do so openly, Tibbs watched the effect of Hotchkiss’s statement on Mike McGuire. The proud man from Tennessee would have found such an open declaration impossible, he would have considered it humiliating. But on his face now there was an awareness that Hotchkiss had gained stature instead of losing it. The habits and attitudes of a lifetime were battling against the hard lessons he had learned during the past twenty-four hours; conciliation came very hard to him.

He made an effort, struggled, and succeeded. “I’ll pay for the window Johnny broke,” he said, “and for whatever else he busted.”

Ralph Hotchkiss was no fool; he knew as well as Virgil did how hard that speech had been for Mike McGuire to make. He brushed his hand through the air to indicate that it was no matter. “I don’t think you’ll have to,” he said. “The insurance company has already replaced the window and the rest was negligible.”

Mike was relieved that he had been able to do the right thing without it costing him any money. “I’m to blame for what you went through,” he added. “And Maggie and me, we’re sorry.”

Anxiously Maggie nodded to indicate her agreement.

Ralph Hotchkiss accepted gracefully. “Let’s call it even,” he proposed, and then turned back toward Tibbs, who was patiently waiting for this side discussion to end. When the room was again quiet, he continued.

“As you know, Johnny put a bullet through the Hotchkiss home and then fled. This was both a tort and a violation of the law. In view of Johnny’s youth, and the state of mind he was in, Captain Lindholm has agreed to dismiss the matter from a police standpoint. So that much is now a closed incident unless Mr. Hotchkiss wishes to press charges.”

Virgil did not even bother to look at Ralph Hotchkiss to see him shaking his head negatively.

“Thank you,” Mike said to the captain, who nodded in reply.

“Johnny made his escape by city bus,” Virgil continued, “and got off when he sensed that he was reaching the end of the line. At that point, I’m sure, he very much wanted to go home, but he was afraid to do so. He did not understand that any police officer would have helped him and protected him from harm. Considering what he had been taught, and what he had just done, his failure to ask a policeman for help is understandable, but it would far and away have been the best thing he could have done.”

“Yes, sir,” Johnny said.

Tibbs acknowledged the remark. “You all know what happened after that-at least in part. Following the shooting, Johnny took refuge in Arroyo Seco Park and stayed there all night. It was unnecessary, because I was already almost certain, despite the evidence to the contrary, that he had not been responsible for the death of Willie Orthcutt.”

That announcement had a decided effect, a wave of surprise went quickly through the room.

“As soon as I heard about the shooting, I went to the hospital where I found Charles Dempsey in the corridor. He gave me his account of what happened, a story which contained a glaring inconsistency. He told me that he had tried to disarm Johnny by seizing his arms unexpectedly from the rear. Now Dempsey is eighteen years old and has the reputation for being smart and alert. It is an idiotic thing to seize a person with a gun that way, but it was incredible that he would do so with a close friend standing directly in front in the line of fire. I will agree that people sometimes become excited and do very illogical things, but that was a more or less deliberate action which has been confirmed by an honest witness.

“Secondly, Dempsey insisted that two shots had been fired; that too I found very hard to believe. By his statement the first bullet had struck the victim in the abdomen, he had clasped his hands across his middle, and had sunk to the ground. Then, Dempsey claimed, Johnny fired a second shot almost immediately at the same target. That kind of act I simply couldn’t associate with a badly frightened nine-year-old boy, especially one who took to his heels and fled the first moment that he could.

“A thirty-eight revolver has a considerable kick to it and makes a very loud noise. After firing once the boy would have been frightened half out of his wits, even though the shot might have been accidental. His subsequent conduct proves that. Also, if the initial shot were unintended, then a second deliberate one right behind it was all but out of the question. So I had very serious doubts about Charles Dempsey right there.”

To Virgil’s discomfort he found that Mike McGuire was staring at him as though he could not believe that this quiet, dark-skinned man had the ability to analyze human reactions. Actually, Mike was astounded that any policeman possessed more than normal intelligence.

“At this point,” Virgil continued, “I had grounds for suspicion but nothing more. I could not prove that the gun had been accidently fired, I only believed this to be the case. My opinion was reinforced by the fact that Johnny was standing alone with four people he believed to be hostile to him literally surrounding him; one was in front, one on each side, and one behind him. Under these circumstances, despite the frame of mind he was in and his youth, he would know that if he were deliberately to shoot the boy in front of him, the others would jump him immediately. And he would have good cause to fear what they might do to him.

“Now let me return to Dempsey, the boy known as Sport. After we received the tragic news that Willie Orthcutt had succumbed, he put on a great show of grief. He even stated that he was going to find the boy with the gun and kill him. At that point I deliberately told him that the boy wasn’t guilty, in those words. At once his whole manner changed, he dropped his pose and with almost animal intensity asked, ‘Then who is?’ It was very clear that at that moment he was badly frightened.”

“No wonder,” Ralph Hotchkiss commented.

“I must point out again,” Tibbs continued, “that all this was a very long way from legal evidence-it was only a guideline. Furthermore, there was a serious objection to Dempsey’s guilt at that time and another appeared when I learned that Willie had been shot in the arm. When the hospital gave me that information, it created a major roadblock.”

He stopped and turned toward the parents of the dead boy. “Is this too painful for you?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Orthcutt replied, his voice even and controlled. “We want to know what happened.”

“At first I entertained the idea that Dempsey, for a motive not yet known, had brought about his supposed friend’s death by placing his own hands over Johnny’s and forcing him to shoot as he wished. After an experiment here in my office I convinced myself that this was not possible. I was forced to reexamine the matter and the exact nature of the wound in Willie’s upper arm gave rise to some thought. Mr. Hotchkiss, would you be kind enough to stand up for a moment?”

Ralph Hotchkiss rose to his feet, not sure what to expect.

“I’d like you to assume, sir,” Virgil said, “that you have just been shot in the left upper arm from directly in front of you.” He reached out and touched the spot on Hotchkiss’s arm where the supposed bullet had entered. “Now what do you do?”

In response Hotchkiss clapped his right hand over the area.

“That’s what everyone does when they’re suddenly hurt, they put their hand or hands over the place where the pain is. Now if you will look, sir, you will see that you have both forearms over your upper abdomen.”

There was a silent tableau for a few seconds; Ralph Hotchkiss standing with his arms folded across his body, understanding dawning on his face.

“Three different people told me that Willie Orthcutt went down with his hands across his abdomen,” Virgil explained. “If that were true, then it was apparently established that that was where he had been shot. But when I began to think a little harder about the wound in his upper arm, the light dawned and a second explanation for the arms across the body became permissible. Since the victim was a fourteen-year-old boy, it was understandable why he had sunk to the ground in pain, compounded by shock. I doubt if any one of us would, if we were unexpectedly shot, remain on our feet.”

“When I checked on Charles Dempsey’s background, I learned that he had once been arrested for armed robbery. Later he proved an alibi and was released, the charge was dismissed. I mention this only because it suggested to me that he might have had a gun; an innocent person without one would not likely have been brought in and booked.”

At that moment Mike McGuire looked acutely uncomfortable; that hazard of owning a firearm had not occurred to him.

“Perhaps even more to the point was the way in which he behaved himself after Willie was hit. The only possible thing to do for a person who has been shot in the abdomen is to call an ambulance. I’m sure that Billy here knows that someone in that condition should not be moved except by qualified people who have the proper equipment, and Dempsey is far older and more mature. Yet he insisted on picking up the victim himself, refused offers of aid, and took him to the hospital in his own car. That too was incredible conduct; even if he had been greatly upset, he still would have known better.”

He stopped and waited for a moment. The quiet in the room was thick now, even the fresh air flowing in the open windows could not dispel the specter of cold and terrible murder. Outside there were the sounds of cars and of people about, but those in the office ignored this evidence of life going on.

When he continued, Virgil’s voice was quiet, but it carried the tone of final authority which would not be denied. “Now we come to the key point, the unshakable proof, of Dempsey’s guilt. The gun with which Johnny McGuire was armed was, as I told you, a Colt.38 Chief’s Special. It is a fairly common weapon which can easily be bought on the open market. It is lighter than some other guns, more compact, and it holds only five shots.

“Naturally I was keeping track of the number of bullets fired from Johnny’s gun, because the fifth would be the last, if he fired that many, and the great danger that he represented to himself as well as to others would be over. His first shot went into the Hotchkiss house. Then, presumably, two more were fired at Willie Orthcutt. One in the stadium tunnel at Anaheim made four. The fifth shot was discharged into the air in answer to a salute fired with great presence of mind by Mr. Gene Autry who, I am now sure, deserves his enduring fame as America’s greatest cowboy. That made five. Then Mr. Autry coaxed Johnny to fire once more; when he did that made six shots from his gun which was impossible without reloading. At that point I was immediately certain of two things: that Johnny had accidently shot Willie Orthcutt only in the arm and that Charles Dempsey, known to his associates as Sport, was Willie’s murderer.

“Dempsey tried to convince me that Johnny had fired twice at young Orthcutt and so did one of his friends, but the other witnesses denied the second shot or were unsure. But it no longer mattered, Johnny had no way of reloading his gun and that fact in itself will convict Dempsey. Somewhere en route to the hospital, probably on a detour made for the purpose, Dempsey shot Willie Orthcutt in the abdomen, using his own gun. The bullet did not lodge in the boy’s body and no ballistic tests were possible. I realize now that I should have taken Dempsey in that night for a paraffin test to determine if he had recently fired a gun, but I had at that time only a strong suspicion to go on and I was anxious to keep it to myself.”

Outside the sounds of life going on seemed to be gaining in intensity. There were the noises of people and of voices, of cars and trucks passing by, and the subdued drone of a private plane overhead. Mrs. Orthcutt dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a small white handkerchief. She looked up and in a tone which betrayed her deep emotion spoke only one word. “Why?”

Virgil locked his fingers together, pressed them tightly, and seemed to gather himself together. “I want you to know,” he said, “that this is almost as hard for me to put into words as it is for you to hear. Dempsey’s motive was perhaps the worst thing of all; it occurred to me quite early, but I found it hard to believe. Later on, when I was having some difficulty with a militant individual, he made a grandstand play of a type which partially confirmed it. His hasty long trip to Anaheim to be in on what might well have been the finish of Johnny McGuire made my impression stronger still.

“I should not say this publicly, but you are entitled to know: we have a confession. Following his arrest Dempsey knew that he was finished. He was carefully informed of all of his constitutional rights and told that he would have to stand trial as an adult, but he did not seem to care. He gave us the whole story and there is no longer any need for conjecture.

“Your son Willie, by all accounts including Dempsey’s own, was an outstanding and talented boy. Dempsey stated that ‘he had it all.’ Willie was a handsome boy, he had definite musical gifts, and he was a natural leader.”

Bob Nakamura appeared quietly in the door of the office and caught the captain’s attention. He nodded toward the window. Lindholm turned halfway around in his chair, rose to his feet, and looked down at the street. Then he nodded silently to Nakamura, who disappeared. This bit of activity concluded he sat down again and turned back toward Tibbs, inviting him to continue.

“Willie’s popularity was growing very rapidly, particularly as he was passing from boyhood into young manhood. Dempsey, more than any other thing, valued his status as the big man in his neighborhood among the Negro teenagers. He remarked on this several times in my presence, he even assured me that if I needed any help, he could supply it. He did, as it worked out, prove to be very valuable at one point, but his real purpose was to attract attention to himself and, of course, to divert any possible suspicions I might have. He had had quite a start in the hospital corridor and he wanted very much to be on safe ground, something which was, of course, impossible for him.

“He knew, however, as he has admitted, that his own endowments did not approach Willie’s. Every report I have had on the dead boy stressed his potential: he was reported to be good-looking, smart, a talented musician, articulate, and destined for real success. This came to me on several occasions. Now compare this with Dempsey’s own capabilities. His speech reveals that he was a poor student in school; he was, in fact, an early dropout. He can hardly be described as handsome and his prospects, even before the shooting, were very limited. Yet he stressed the fact to me several times that he was the ‘big man’ in his neighborhood. He did that in my office in the presence of the girl Luella.

“I would have had to be practically blind not to have noticed that with Willie alive, Dempsey’s position of leadership was being severely threatened. In another year or two he would have no chance whatever against Willie Orthcutt-car or no car. He knew it, and it was a prospect he could not endure. That same motivation has, unfortunately, caused a great many political assassinations, perhaps even more than are recorded in history.

“Another factor, which I’m sure intensified Dempsey’s desire to get rid of Willie at any cost, was Luella, the girl whom I referred to a moment ago. She is a very attractive teen-ager, who was described to me, before I met her, as more or less Charles Dempsey’s girl, but my informant added that she also accepted dates with other members of Dempsey’s clique. When I met this young lady it was immediately obvious that her mental and educational levels were superior to Dempsey’s. Her speech very clearly revealed that. I also had an indication that Willie Orthcutt was interested in her. I don’t attempt to forecast love affairs, but it was patently obvious that within a short time Dempsey’s shortcomings as opposed to Willie’s rising capabilities would become very obvious to Luella. Being a better educated girl herself, it was inevitable.

“Dempsey swears, and I tend to believe him on this point, that he never intended to do what he did, but when the opportunity was almost literally thrust upon him, with a once-in-a-lifetime chance to have someone else take the blame, his jealousy drove him to it. With Willie Orthcutt out of the way his position of leadership would be once more firm, and Luella would not be tempted away by someone better than himself. That motivation, incidentally, has also appeared before. He was unable to resist the temptation when he had the means at hand, his own unregistered, loaded gun, in his car.”

Slowly Willie’s father got to his feet and helped his wife out of her chair. “I think we best go,” he said to the captain. “Thank you for asking us.” Then he turned to Mike McGuire. “You must feel better in your mind now.”

When he heard those words, Mike felt perspiration on his forehead; he remembered acutely that whatever else had happened, Johnny had shot this man’s son-and with a gun he himself had virtually placed into his hands. As the captain picked up his phone, Mike steeled himself and held out his hand to the man his boy had wronged. Gravely the two men shook.

Unconsciously Mike wiped his palm on the side of his trouser leg after making his gesture, but it apparently passed unnoticed. The captain spoke and hung up; seconds later a uniformed officer arrived to escort the parents of the murdered boy home. “Use my car,” the captain directed. “Take them out the rear way, it will be shorter and easier for them.”

The policeman nodded his understanding. “Yes, sir, if they don’t mind using the back door.”

When the Orthcutts had gone Ralph Hotchkiss stood up. “In a way,” he said to the captain and to Tibbs, “this whole series of events is at least partly our responsibility, and I’m very aware of it. I can assure you that nothing like it will ever happen again, at least not where Billy is concerned. We’re going to go now and get Johnny a new radio.” He turned toward Mike. “We’ll be over later this afternoon to deliver it if you’ll be home.”

Mike nodded silently, not knowing what to say. For the first time in his adult life he felt the inadequacy of his own powers of speech. Silently he shook hands with Hotchkiss and watched the father and son as they left the office. Then he turned to the captain. “Thanks for what you did for us,” he said stiffly. He reached into his pocket, extracted his hand-gun, and laid it on the desk. “Here, you can have it,” he said. “I don’t want the damn thing any more.”

“It’s your property, sir,” Lindholm answered, ignoring the technicality that it was legally a concealed weapon. “If you’d like, we’ll be glad to register it for you for your protection.”

Mike shook his head. “You keep it.” He left it at that.

Captain Lindholm directed his attention toward Johnny. “I never did hear how you finally came down off that sign,” he said.

“Mr. Autry told me to and I did,” Johnny answered. “Then he gave me a ride on his horse. I sat right up there beside him on Champion.”

“Johnny, are you ever going to do anything like this again?”

“No, sir!”

“Now, Johnny, I’m satisfied that you didn’t intend to shoot your gun at the Orthcutt boy.”

Johnny burst into tears. “I was scared.”

“I’ll accept that explanation, so you don’t need to worry about it any more. Now you go out into the hallway and wait there; I want to speak to your father for a minute.”

Obediently, Johnny did as directed. When he was out of earshot Captain Lindholm addressed himself to Mike. “Mr. McGuire, I realize that you have been through a great deal during the last two days, and Mrs. McGuire as well. Based on what Mr. Tibbs has told me about you, I am inclined to believe that you have undergone something of a change of heart concerning police officers and the public service which we are trying to render.”

Mike swallowed hard, but remained still. His silence became an admission, and even in that form it was hard for him.

“I’ve looked into the matter of the traffic citation you have outstanding,” the captain continued. “The other car concerned was damaged and either you or your insurance company will have to pay for all necessary repairs. Taking into account your welcome change of attitude toward us, and certain other considerations, I’m willing to reduce the charge from reckless driving to unsafe lane changing. That will save you a considerable amount on your fine; I suggest that you spend some of it to take your son to the ball game.”

Mike swallowed hard, looked at his wife, and gained encouragement from what he saw written on her face. He drew breath, hesitated, and then forced himself to use a simple word for the first time in his life. “I will, sir,” he said. “Thank you very much. I couldn’t pay the big fine; we ain’t got much.”

“I understand. Where is your car parked, sir?”

“Across the street, in the lot.”

“Then perhaps it would be well if I had one of my men pick it up and drive it around to the back for you. We have a disturbance out front at the moment and until we’ve dealt with it, I think it would be better if you didn’t appear.”

Virgil knew, before he looked, what to expect. He glanced out of the window and saw the picket line, the signs with his name on them, the leader, a tall black man in flamboyant African robes. This was not a mass demonstration, this was peaceful picketing, but it would be made up of hardcore militants.

“I’ll take care of it,” Tibbs said.

“It might be better not,” the captain counseled. “They’re after your hide. Larry Harnois is the man.”

“Larry is damn good,” Tibbs countered, “but this one is mine. It’s a matter of complexion.”

Lindholm did not tell him to be careful, or what to do. He watched as Tibbs walked out of his office, then he picked up the phone once more. He spoke to Larry Harnois and gave some specific directions.

Now that the meeting in the captain’s office was over, Virgil found himself in a strangely calm frame of mind. The fact that fifty or sixty men were picketing the police headquarters, protesting his actions, did not disturb him in the least. Johnny McGuire had been safely restored to his parents, Dempsey was in custody, and the immediate crisis was over. The picketing was a nuisance, but he did not regard it as a dangerous one.

In complete possession of himself he walked through the small lobby, pushed open the front door, and started down the fifty odd feet of sidewalk which led to the curb.

The leader spotted him before he had gone five steps. He let out a yell and then spread his arms to indicate that his followers should fall in behind him.

Without slowing his pace Tibbs walked up to within five feet of him and stopped. “You wanted to see me?” he said.

The man planted the palms of his hands on his hips and surveyed him with hard hostility. “You’re the one who’s betrayed his people,” he accused loudly enough for all to hear.

“What people?” Virgil asked.

“Black people!”

“Is that all you can say for yourself-that you’re black?” Tibbs retorted.

He shook a powerful fist under Tibbs’s nose. “Don’t you get fresh with me!” he challenged. “You know what I can do.”

Tibbs took in the black faces and realized that these were the hard types; nothing he could say or do would have any influence on them.

“Where’s that goddamned white boy that shot my soul brother?”

“The man who murdered him is in jail right there.” He pointed casually toward the fourth floor. “And get this in case it means anything to you-he isn’t white.”

There was a protesting roar; the pickets pressed closer now and out of the wave of sound words like “fake” and “frame-up” emerged with ugly edges.

The leader filled his powerful lungs. “I’m going to rip you to pieces. I’m going to make you crawl in the dust and beg for mercy from the black people you’ve betrayed. I’m going to make you hate the day you were born!”

“No you’re not. You’ve had your say and that’s enough. Now I’m going to tell you what black power is.”

The speaker seized the opportunity to ridicule him. “Be real quiet, boys, he’s goin’ to tell us what black power is. He’s goin’ to tell me the meaning of black power. He’s goin’ to turn the tide of Black America; he’s goin’ to stop us from taking over the country. This black boy with the brown nose!” He swept his arms wide so that the brilliant colors of his African robes dominated the scene.

“You’re a phoney,” Tibbs said. “And you’re a poor excuse for a black man. All you can do is make a loud noise and then sit in courtrooms reading the thoughts of Mao Tse-tung while you’re waiting to be tried. And you look like a freak.”

“Are you calling me a freak!”

“You’re damn right I am,” Virgil shot back. He did not yell like his opponent, but his words carried an even greater power. “You aren’t a leader, you couldn’t shine Ralph Bunche’s shoes.”

For a moment it seemed as if Tibbs might be losing control of himself. His face was contorted now and unconsciously he had doubled his hands into fists.

“Get it through your head that I’m a black man. And I’ve been one a lot longer than you. That means that things were that much tougher when I grew up and got shoved off the sidewalk by young white punks who thought they owned the world.”

The militant tried to wave him down, but Tibbs would not be stopped. “I know more about being a Negro than you ever will, because I fought for the right to live in the South before civil rights was in the dictionary.”

With his right arm he elbowed the bigger man aside almost as though he were not there. When he continued a fire of urgency burned in his words, and total intensity had seized the features of his face.

“I heard about Booker Washington and George W. Carver and then like a kid I dreamed that some day a great man would come, with a black skin, that the whole world would look up to and honor.”

“And when we looked there was Martin Luther King. Nobody shoved him aside when he stood up to accept the Nobel Prize, but some bastard couldn’t stand it, so he shot him. And while things like you cried for black power and started riots that ripped apart the Negro sections in Newark and Detroit other men stood up to take his place.”

He stopped suddenly, his teeth clamped hard together. Then he consciously regained control of himself; when he spoke again it was almost calmly. “I work here because nobody cares whether I’m black or white, just so long as I do my job. I clawed my way up against prejudice, I licked poverty, and I earned my job. And here. I’m not a black man, I’m Virgil Tibbs, a respected police officer, and nobody asks for anything more. I just caught a murderer who’s in a cell upstairs. Now who the hell are you!”

He had nothing more to say after that. He knew that he could not change the jeering mob of professional militants, but he could show that he was not afraid. He knew that he had done that.

He turned on his heel and outwardly as calm as he had been when he had come out, he walked back into the aging building which houses the headquarters of the Pasadena police.