The Southern Christian Leadership Conference grew out of the 1957 bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama. An alliance of black ministers and leaders designed to provide the civil rights movement a spiritual basis for change. King was its president.
“Martin used me like a traveling secretary. I kept things in order.” Foster stared out across the cemetery. “He was not the most organized of people. He needed a lot of managing.”
“You admired him, didn’t you?”
He didn’t immediately answer me.
“I can still see him on that balcony, at the Lorraine.”
King leaned against the railing and enjoyed the cool Tennessee evening. The Memphis police had offered him a full security detail, but he’d refused.
I’d feel like a bird in a cage, was his standard reply.
His safety had always been in jeopardy. In 1958 a black woman stabbed him in the chest, nearly killing him. In 1962 a white power fanatic struck him in the head. In ’66, during a march in Chicago, a rock hit his head. He’d faced tear gas, police dogs, cattle prods, water cannons, his house had been firebombed, and he’d been burned in effigy too many times to count. But never had he employed bodyguards. In fact, no one close to him carried any weapon. His children were not even allowed to play with toy guns. Violence attached to anger was totally alien to him, and to him nonviolence was much more than a catchphrase.
King stepped back into Room 306 and found his black silk suit jacket. “Are you comin’, Ralph?”
“In a second.”
Abernathy stood in the bathroom getting ready for dinner.
“I’ll wait outside for you.”
King stepped back onto the balcony with his jacket on, once again leaning on the railing. There he stood for a few minutes as a crowd began to gather below. Solomon Jones, his driver for the night, cranked up the Cadillac to warm it up.
Jesse Jackson appeared below.
He and King had not seen eye-to-eye much of late, the two strongly disagreeing on the direction of the civil rights movement. A classic clash of young and old. Brash against patience. But tonight King was conciliatory, glad Jackson would be joining them for dinner. The younger man wore an olive turtleneck sweater and leather coat, in stark contrast with the dark suits and ties of the older men. One of those present began to chastise Jackson on his clothes, but Jackson had the perfect retort.
“All you need for dinner is an appetite.”
Which King liked, agreeing and laughing at the observation.
The banter continued, King standing on the second-floor balcony, his rich voice booming downward, the others looking up. He was like a preacher holding court with his flock. Everyone seemed relaxed, a stark contrast with the day’s legal tension.
Six p.m. arrived.
The people below began to head for the Cadillac. King stayed on his perch, waiting for Abernathy to come out of their room. There was more chatter about the evening, then Solomon Jones told King that he might need a topcoat, as the evening was turning chilly.
“You really know how to take good care of me,” King said, still leaning on the railing.
He found a pack of cigarettes and fished one out.
Then he turned for the door to Room 306.
“I was standing below,” Foster said. “With Jesse and Andy Young. We all heard it. It didn’t really sound like a gunshot, more like a firecracker or a car backfiring in the distance. None of us thought much of it, until we looked up.”
The bullet entered the right side of King’s face, leaving through the jaw and puncturing his fleshy neck.
The impact staggered him backward.
Blood spewed onto the balcony.
He grabbed for his throat with one hand and tried to grasp the railing with the other. But his efforts failed and his legs buckled, dropping him spine-first to the concrete, his legs out at odd angles, his shoes caught in the railing. Blood continued to pour from his body with each heartbeat, soaking his head and shoulders in a sea of red.
The cigarette remained clenched in his hand, now crushed.
His arms settled out to either side.
“We were all hiding behind the cars in the parking lot,” Foster muttered. “Then Ralph ran out on the balcony. That’s when I headed up. Martin was lying there, with his arms out, like he’d been crucified. That was my first thought when I rushed up.” His voice cracked. “That they crucified him.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because, Lieutenant Malone, I have to trust someone, and you, whether I like it or not, are all that I have to choose from.”
Chapter Seventeen
I found the comment both strange and troubling. Why would this man trust me at all? We were perfect strangers. And I was from the government. Then it hit me. I should have realized before. But come on, this was my first full day on the job.
“You’ve spoken to Stephanie Nelle,” I said.
“She came to see me yesterday. Apparently, she’d learned about Valdez’s contact with me. She knew about Coleen’s deal, the coin, and the files. That’s how I knew what Coleen had done. She also told me about you. I had no choice then but to become involved.”
All troubling to me since none of this had been passed on by my new temporary employer. Instead, I got an ex-FBI agent trying to kill me.
“I’m here for Coleen,” Foster said. “But also because I want those files destroyed. No offense to you, Lieutenant Malone, but I was hoping you might fail and all of this would remain at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. Mind telling me what Stephanie explained?” I paused. “Especially since you’re trusting me and all.”
He caught my sarcasm.
“She seems to have a problem with the FBI. Which I can understand. I remember when it was the most corrupt organization in the United States. During Hoover’s time it routinely spied on all of us, violated our privacy, even engaged in active character assassination of Martin. It did everything we despise as Americans.”
I was not ignorant of that history. “That was another time and place.”
“Which doesn’t excuse it. Especially since I was a victim of their abuses.”
“All of that ended with the Church Committee. The legacy of J. Edgar Hoover is in the toilet.”
“He should have died in prison.”
“What does that have to do with here and now?”
“Remnants of that corruption remain, which you and Stephanie Nelle now find yourselves in the middle of.”
News to me. “Does that involve the death of Martin Luther King Jr.?”
“That’s not for me to say.”
I was working at a huge disadvantage. Not only thanks to Stephanie’s silence, but because I knew precious little about the King assassination, other than what I’d read in books, newspapers, and magazines. Foster was right. Conspiratorialists abounded on what may or may not have happened, which was no different than the tragic murders of both Kennedys. Anytime a public figure was suddenly gunned down, the word conspiracy immediately became attached. Congress had not helped matters, either. Twice it investigated the King assassination, concluding that James Earl Ray pulled the trigger all by himself. But true to form, it also hinted at a possible broader conspiracy—without offering a shred of proof.
“It’s important to me that my daughter never reads those files you obtained.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Call it the wish of an old preacher.”
Not an answer. But I didn’t really expect one. “That’s not a problem. Those files are going to Stephanie Nelle.”
“I would prefer we burn them.”
“I can’t do that.”
“What are you, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?”
“Something like that.”
“A lieutenant in the United States Navy, who has no idea what he’s dealing with.”
“I catch on fast.”
“I hope so. Because the men you’re dealing with will kill you.”
Those words grabbed my attention.
But before I could probe further a car entered the cemetery from the far side and cruised toward us down one of the graveled lanes that bisected the many graves. A dark-blue, late-model Taurus with tinted windows. I reacted to the potential threat, but Foster grabbed my arm.