Foster took a few steps sideward, moving as gracefully as the boxer he once had been, gliding toward where a framed photograph of Martin Luther King hung on the wall. A blonde wearing a dark bluejacket and a gray skirt stepped closer to him, asked her microphone, “Do we need another level?,” and then chanted, “One, two, three, hello, hello, hello, okay?
Want my advice?” she asked Foster.
“Always welcome,” he said.
“Lose King. They’ll be looking at his picture instead of you.”
“How can we do that?” Foster asked.
“Try this, Will,” she said into her microphone. “On me for the intro, then in close on the picture of King, and slide off it to the reverend.” She waited a moment, and then asked, “How’s that look?” She listened to her ear button, said, “Okay, great,” and then told Foster, “You’ve got both now, Reverend, ain’t I smart? Say a few words for a level, could you?”
“One, two, three, four,” Foster said.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll do the intro, then we’ll pan off King and on to you. Say when, Jimmy,” she told somebody.
“Let me put another cake in here,” Jimmy said. “We’re almost out.”
She waited while he changed cassettes, and then said, “Okay, ten seconds, please. Standby, people.”
A girl wearing earphones started the countdown out loud, “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…” and then fell silent as she continued counting down the seconds on her fingers, her hand stretched toward the reporter, five, four, three, two, one, and pointed her index finger directly at her as a red light popped on the camera.
“This is Bess MacDougal here at the First Baptist Church in Diamondback, where the Reverend Gabriel Foster has called a press conference.”
The camera panned past the King photograph and came to rest on Foster in a medium shot, a solemn somewhat angry look on his face. Rivers of rain ran down the window behind him.
“I don’t care what color you are out there,” he said, “you have to believe that what the Mayor said today was untruthful and unjust. Truth and justice! That’s all there is, and all we need to know!”
“Yes, Rev!” someone shouted.
“The Mayor said that it was not any of his detectives who marched into The Catacombs downtown on Saturday night and beat up Hector Milagros, and that is not truth! The Mayor said that Hector Milagros is a self-confessed murderer and not entitled to the pity of the people of this great city, and that is not justice!”
“Right on!”
“I don’t care if you are some kind of belligerent black man, all he needs is a gun…”
“Tell ‘em, Rev!”
“I don’t care if that’s the kind of bellicose person you are, or whether you are an abstemious soul goes smiling at white folks and behind their backs wishes they were dead…”
“Oh Lordy!”
“Whatever kind of African-American you are, rich or poor, whether you a doctor or a homeboy, whether you clever or dim, whether you a telephone operator or somebody scrubs floors on her hands and knees the way my mama done when I was coming along in Mississippi, I know in my heart and in my soul that there is not a single one of you out there tonightblack or white-who is not appalled by what happened to that man while he was in custody and entitled to protection!”
The cheers were deafening.
Bess MacDougal listened and watched, waiting for her back-to-studio cue.
“So tonight, I am making this promise to you. Starting at eight tomorrow morning, when the shifts change, there will be people marching outside every police precinct in this city! And thousands of us will be marching outside The Catacombs downtown, to raise our voices in protest, and to demand an investigation that will lead to the arrest of the two detectives responsible for this brutal act against a helpless black man in custody! We will not desist until we know the truth! We will not desist until there is justice! Truth and justice! That’s all there is, and all we need to know!”
The girl with the earphones pointed to Bess again.
“You’ve been listening to the Reverend Gabriel Foster,” she said, “here at the First Baptist Church in Diamondback. This is Bess MacDougal.
Back to you, Terri and Frank.”
There was the sound of laughter, black and white, the sound of the rain lashing the windows, the noisy swagger of the television crew wrapping up. Bess MacDougal told Foster what a lovely, heartfelt speech that was, and shook his hand, and went to join her crew. Lorraine walked over to where a reporter from Ebony was asking Foster if he would mind posing for a photo outside in the rain…
“Under an umbrella, of course,” she said, smiling up at him. “What I had in mind for the caption was something like ‘Let it come down!’”
“Second murderer,” Foster said at once. “Macbeth.”
“Referring, of course, to the blue wall of silence,” the reporter said.
“I realize. Give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Lorraine extended her hand to him.
“That was wonderful,” she said,
Foster took her hand between both his.
“Thank you, Lorraine,” he said.
