“And you think killing King is a smart move?”
“I think it could be a profitable move. For me. But let me tell you how it’s also good for you. There’s something I’ve heard the Bishop say more times than I can count. He calls it the parable of the tent. There was this king who sought refuge in a tent with a hundred of his subjects. The problem was, none of those hundred people got along. They always fought among themselves. One day ten of them made the king mad, so he banished them from the tent. The next day ten more did the same thing and they were banished. The following day twenty more were tossed out. Finally, one of the king’s advisers spoke up regarding the wisdom of throwing all those people out. “They’re on the outside now, working against you,” was the warning, which was a good one. The king laughed it off by pointing out that those forty people couldn’t agree on anything. All they did was fight among themselves. Not true, his adviser said. They all agree on one thing. They don’t like you.”
Jansen seemed to consider that statement.
“That’s your problem summed up,” Foster said. “Negroes love to fight among themselves. They can hardly agree on anything. King knows that, so he uses the parable of the tent to keep them united in the one thing they all agree on. They hate the white establishment. So the only move you have is to take him out.”
Foster told me when that conversation occurred. November 1967. I slipped it into its proper historical place. Ray/Galt was back in the United States, cocooned in Los Angeles, where they kept him until March 1968. Then he drove across the country, ending up in Atlanta by the end of the month.
“Did Jansen ever actually say they were planning to kill King?”
“Never. Not until the conversation you have there on the cassette, which was just days before. Prior to that we played cat and mouse on the subject. Both of us knew what we were talking about, but no one spoke the words.”
“To make this work,” Jansen said, “we have to track his movements. I need precise details. This is not something that will happen immediately. Nobody wants to get caught. We have to plan this out.”
“I get it. I can provide everything. He moves around a lot. The man never sits still, and his schedule changes by the hour.”
“Your job is to keep us posted. We have to build a model of his movements. How he interacts with crowds, the people around him, how he travels, where he stays, who he sees. It’s all important.”
“That’s what you pay me for.”
“I gave him that information over the next several months,” Foster said. “Every detail on our movements. From November 1967 to April 4, 1968. I was never told directly what they were doing with it.”
I knew.
At least in part.
From one of the reports in Valdez’s files, dated March 28, 1968.
Since March 18 GALT has been traveling by car from Los Angeles to Atlanta. A confidential source who has furnished reliable information in the past reports that KING is currently in Alabama. Yesterday, GALT was diverted to Selma, Alabama. KING was scheduled to make an appearance there to drum up recruits for his 1969 Poor People’s Campaign in Washington, DC. GALT was sent there to evaluate KING in public and determine any vulnerabilities. Unfortunately, KING never made it to Selma. He was delayed in Camden, Alabama. The source alerted us to that fact and GALT was sent to Camden, 38 miles away, where he attended KING’S event and made his assessments. On March 23 GALT drove to Atlanta. For the past four days GALT has reconnoitered the city and identified both King’s home and the Ebenezer Baptist Church.
My analytical brain plugged that memo into the time line with the cassette’s recorded conversation. The report came three days before the face-to-face with Foster. Then, on March 31, 1968, they all decided that King would die in Memphis sometime on April 4.
“Lieutenant Malone,” Foster said. “I’ll say it again. You must see why I can’t allow Coleen to learn any of this.”
Part of me was disgusted even talking to this man. He was a willing party in a conspiracy to commit murder. Add to that the victim had been a leader, a hero, an icon. Even worse, he seemed to only care what Coleen would think. Which was not in doubt. But I needed this man to keep talking. So I played along.
“I get it, loud and clear. But, Reverend, this toothpaste is out of the tube. It’s going to be hard to keep this a secret anymore.”
He shook his head. “Coleen doesn’t know any of this. Just you, me, Lael, Oliver, and Jansen. Valdez suspects, considering I had the coin, but he doesn’t know for sure. We can keep this secret. Just give them the files.”
Most of the dots had connected.
One remained.
“On the recording you asked for a million dollars. Yet they gave you a 1933 Double Eagle. How did that happen?”
Chapter Forty-five
We sat in the truck, with the windows down, beneath the shade of a stately oak. The June day was warm with little breeze. The bustling metropolis that was Micanopy, population 450 according to the welcome sign out on the highway, churned along at a quiet pace.
I watched as Foster struggled with his thoughts.
“You have to understand,” he said. “I was only twenty-three. Barely out of divinity school. Martin recruited me before I was ever assigned a church. I was young, brash, and, in some ways, terribly arrogant. We all were some combination of that back then. It seemed necessary in order to endure what we had to endure. Four years I traveled across the country with him. So many protests. So many marches. Poverty was everywhere. It seemed the Negro’s fate to always be poor. Most had little to no chance of doing anything meaningful with their lives. A few managed success, but the vast majority were beat down and held in their place by a system that refused to yield. I wasn’t one of those who thought we should burn the country down in a violent revolution to change things.”
“You just wanted to be rich.” I mocked him with words from the tape.
He nodded. “I was foolish with money. I loved to bet on horses, dogs, sports, you name it. And I wasn’t good at it. But it was an outlet. I liked nice clothes, fancy cars, good beer. In short, I liked to spend money. But what twentysomething-year-old doesn’t?”
“What did you think would happen once King was dead?”
“I didn’t care. None of that mattered to me. I only wanted my million dollars.”
“But you got a coin.”
He nodded. “A final insult from the white establishment.”
“What is this?” Foster said, examining the gold coin Jansen had laid on the table.
“A 1933 Double Eagle. It’s worth millions of dollars.”
“How many millions?”
“Four or five at least. It’s actually the last one known to exist.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
Jansen shrugged. “Sell it. Some buyer somewhere will pay you for it. Just be careful and don’t get caught. It’s actually illegal to own that coin.”
“I don’t want it. We agreed on a million dollars. Cash.”
“And I just paid you more with the coin.”
“That was not our deal.”
“Look, Foster. There’s no way we can give you a million dollars in cash. The moment you go to put that in a bank, red flags would rise everywhere.”
“I have no intention of putting that money in a bank.”
Jansen waved off the observation. “We can’t risk anything being traced back to us. This has to be a clean break. You did your part. We did ours. We had this coin, which no one knows about. There’s no trail back to us, besides your word. But you would have to implicate yourself in a conspiracy to commit murder in order to involve us. Besides, no one would believe you anyway. Trust me, preacher, we have erased all connections to you. There’s not a piece of paper that even hints you ever existed. It’s all gone. So take the damn coin. Sell it. And be grateful.”
“You’re a lying bastard.”
“And you’re the guy who sold out Martin Luther King Jr. for money. Which one of us is worse? You’re lucky we even gave you the coin.”