Streets of Fire

THIRTY-THREE

Ben had just walked back into the detective bullpen when he heard a voice from behind him.

‘What are you doing here, Ben?’

Ben turned toward him. ‘Working a case.’

‘What case?’ Luther asked as he stepped up to him.

‘Same one as before,’ Ben lied. ‘That little girl in the ballfield.’

Luther shook his head. ‘Trail’s too cold on that one, Ben,’ he said. ‘I want you to concentrate on King. He’s made two speeches since this morning, and you weren’t there for either one of them.’

‘Plenty of people were,’ Ben said.

‘That’s not the point,’ Luther snapped. ‘We’re two men down since all this shit got started. First Ryan, now Breedlove. We got to tighten our belts.’

‘How you plan to do that?’

‘By dropping the dead-end stuff right now,’ Luther said emphatically. ‘Fact is, you haven’t brought anything back to the barn on that little girl killing, and the way I figure it, that whole thing is dead in the water.’

Ben said nothing. Luther was right, it was dead in the water. A little girl had gotten out of a car, walked out into a littered ballfield and simply disappeared. It was as if she’d been lifted up into the clouds, murdered and raped, then set down again only a few yards from where Ramona Davies had last seen her.

‘Am I right, Ben?’ Luther asked pointedly.

‘I guess so.’

‘I’m glad you can admit it,’ Luther said. He glanced at his watch. ‘King’s giving a final pep talk at Sixteenth Street in half an hour. Be there.’

For a moment Ben stood in place and watched as Luther spun around and rushed away, his body plunging loudly through the double doors. Then, reluctantly, he felt himself slowly begin to cave in under the weight of the Captain’s authority. But he also recognized that it was a weight which had become more burdensome to him during the last few days, and even as he strode out of the bullpen and headed for his car, he could feel it bearing down upon him in a way that seemed different than it ever had before, heavy, but also willfully malicious, like something chewing at his flesh while it rested on his shoulders.

The mood in and around the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church had changed considerably since the last time Ben had stood outside and listened as King’s voice swept out over the wildly jubilant crowd. The dogs and water hoses had not broken the spirit of the young people who now gathered on the steps and along the cement walkways, but it had changed it visibly. Faces had darkened and grown sullen, eyes more set and watchful. The murmur of the crowd seemed more tense, and the strange, transcending joy he remembered from the day before had been transformed into a grim and bitter determination, one that seemed poised for explosive action.

Not far away, the Langley brothers slouched against Black Cat 13, their eyes scanning the crowd suspiciously. Tod sat on the front fender, his legs dangling toward the ground. Teddy stood beside him, straight and tall, as if at attention before the continually shifting crowd. For an instant he stared rigidly at Ben, his eyes squinting in the light. Then he turned away briskly and walked to the rear of the car. His brother followed him instantly, sliding off the fender, his body plowing through the thick layer of dust that had gathered on the hood. For a time they talked together, huddled closely, their faces nearly touching. Then they parted, Tod going in one direction and Teddy in the other.

The sound of the church choir began almost immediately, and Ben glanced up at the loudspeakers which had been installed outside the building. It was a rousing version of ‘Leaning on the Everlasting Arm,’ but the people on the streets and sidewalks only listened silently, without joining in, their bodies held rigidly erect, rather than swaying to the beat of the old hymn as Ben had seen them do in the days before.

One hymn followed another, and as the singing continued, Ben let his eyes sweep over the crowd once again. He began to see faces he recognized from the streets of Bearmatch. They were the people who’d passed his car while he parked beside the old ballfield, or whom he’d seen along the way, faces that had glanced at him from bus stops, alleyways or tumbled-down porches, always dark with large brown eyes, lost in a blur until his own familiarity had suddenly made them identifiable, faces he’d seen now more than once, faces that had repeatedly marched down Fourth Avenue, confronted the dogs and water hoses, watched him from behind the bars of holding cells or peered at him from the dusty windows of countless school buses. For a little while it was as if he knew everyone around him, had struggled through some common experience with them, shared something fierce, grave, intense, and because of that, now had some small investment in the outcome of their lives.

‘I know you’re tired,’ King’s voice rang out suddenly over the steadily more animated crowd.

‘I know you’re weary.’

A few shouts of ‘Amen’ rose from the crowd, followed by scattered applause.

‘But we must go forward in Birmingham.’

There were a few more shouts of ‘Amen,’ and the smattering of applause increased by a barely audible degree.

‘And I know there are some people that want us to move on.’

‘Yes, Lord,’ someone shouted, and the crowd applauded again, this time with a slightly increased force.

‘But we’re staying right here in Birmingham until justice comes,’ King cried.

Ben took out his notebook and flipped through it to the first blank page.

‘Governor Wallace may not want us here,’ King shouted. ‘But there is a higher authority than he is.’

The ‘amens’ now began to burst steadily from the crowd.

‘And Mayor Hanes may not want us here,’ King cried, his lean metallic voice recharging the previously exhausted air. ‘But there is a higher authority than he is. For God is in His Heaven, and He is watching over His own.’

Ben pressed his pen down on the paper.

‘How long will we stay in Birmingham?’ King demanded. ‘Not long. Because no lie can live forever.’

The applause now rose over the isolated shouts of ‘Amen’ and ‘Yes, Lord.’ It swept along the streets in a tidal flow, building more fiercely as it moved.

‘How long? Not long, because truth crushed to earth will rise again.’

Now the applause took on bursts of wild cheering which seemed to break like fireworks over the heads of the crowd.

‘How long? Not long, because although the moral arc of the universe is wide, it still bends toward justice.’

Now the cheers and applause mingled in a single sustained roar which moved back and forth from the church to the streets and back to the church again, building with each pass, feeding on itself, growing stronger with each sustaining wave.

Ben looked up from his notebook, his fingers loosening halfheartedly around the pen, his eyes now focused on the church, his ears attentive to the voice.

‘How long? Not long. Because God is tramping through the vineyard where the grapes of wrath are stored.’

The crowd began to jump and shout, sing and dance, hundreds of long brown arms swaying in the sweltering air.

‘How long? Not long? For His truth is marching on!’

The roar of the crowd seemed to rise in one long, mighty chorus, and as Ben stood beside the tree and listened to its fierce, rebellious glory, he found himself suddenly caught up and inexplicably lifted by its amazing grace.

‘What are you doing?’

Ben turned toward the voice. It was Coggins. He was staring at him lethally.

‘What are you doing?’ he repeated as he nodded toward the still open notebook.

Ben felt his mouth open speechlessly.

Coggins’ eyes filled with a strange disappointment as they returned to the notebook, then lifted up again and settled on Ben’s face. ‘My God,’ he said despairingly. He shook his head. ‘My God.’

For a moment Luther simply stared at the small notebook which Ben had placed on his desk. Then he picked it up and flipped through the blank pages. There’s nothing written in here,’ he said finally.

‘He didn’t say much,’ Ben said with a slight shrug.

‘Looks to me like he didn’t say anything at all,’ Luther replied. Once again he flipped through the empty notebook. ‘I didn’t tell you to write down whatever you wanted to, Ben,’ he said. ‘I told you to write down everything King said.’

Ben glanced away, his eyes on the window to the right of Luther’s desk. He did not speak.

Luther stared at him accusingly. ‘Did you go to the church?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did King make a speech?’

‘Yes.’

Luther lifted the notebook and waved it in the air. ‘Well, where is it? There’s nothing but a bunch of blank pages in this thing.’

‘I didn’t take anything down,’ Ben said.

‘Nothing?’ Luther said, astonished. ‘Not one goddamn word?’

‘No.’

Luther slapped the notebook down on his desk. ‘Then what are you giving me this thing for?’

‘I’m turning it in,’ Ben said suddenly, before he could catch himself.

‘Turning it in?’

‘Yeah,’ Ben said, this time more firmly. ‘I don’t want that assignment anymore.’

Luther’s eyes narrowed into two small slits. ‘Since when do you decide what your assignments are, Sergeant?’ he asked angrily.

Ben said nothing.

‘You realize how shorthanded we are?’ Luther asked.

Ben remained silent.

Luther stood up. ‘You have an official assignment,’ he said sternly. ‘I expect you to carry it out.’

Ben stared at him evenly. ‘No.’

‘I order you to carry it out.’

Ben shook his head.

Luther’s body tightened. ‘Turn in your badge, Sergeant Wellman.’

For a moment Ben hesitated. He had never faced anything more sweeping in its cause or transforming in its result, and for an instant he tried to find a way around it. But he felt his hand around the pen again, stark and inanimate, and he knew that he could never make it move across the page.

‘Your badge, Sergeant,’ Luther repeated.

Ben slowly pulled the badge and identification folder from his jacket pocket. It felt heavy, as if everything he had were attached to it. Once again he hesitated. Then he lowered it to the table and let it go.

Luther glanced at it quickly, then looked at Ben. ‘Don’t expect a good recommendation from this department,’ he said coldly. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you’ve deserted under fire.’