Mental State, page 11
DZ decided to make this his case. He wrote out the story on a yellow pad and studied it so that he knew it like he built it. In no time, it was time to bring this to his captain. It was time to get off the campus and onto the streets of Chicago.
CHAPTER 22
Ever since Marcus had been arrested for murder, the apartment was in disarray. Dorothy Jones could barely even keep up with the dishes. She was embarrassed but too overcome to do much about it. She picked at the fraying edge of the linoleum table in what passed for the dining room and dabbed at tears with a handkerchief. It was hard to remain focused on what the two men at the table drinking her watered-down coffee were saying. Their words were important.
Across from her was one of her idols, the Reverend Taliaferro Lincoln. He was the founder and president of Operation LIFT, an advocacy group devoted to ending racial subordination and segregation in all aspects of American society. Dorothy Jones never thought she’d get a chance to meet him, let alone have him sitting at her table. She’d seen him on television leading march after march, and she’d stood on countless occasions at the back of the Greek revival church where he held rallies and gave political sermons, chanting along with the faithful. She even voted for him in the Democratic presidential primary, twice. She never thought she’d be within ten feet of him.
Then one Saturday afternoon, right after the news broke of Marcus’s arrest in the slaying of his former professor, Reverend Lincoln called and offered his unqualified support. When she got over the shock it was him on the phone—on her crummy flip phone with the missing seven key—she told the Reverend her boy was innocent, he was one of the good ones, and this was a wrong only he could right.
“It’s an old-fashioned lynching, Mrs. Jones. They might as well go get a rope and a tree and hang your boy up by his toes, ’cause he ain’t getting no fair trial in this case. No, ma’am. A poor black boy and a rich white man. Nooo waay.”
Mrs. Jones didn’t know that the Reverend’s father was a doctor and prominent landowner in Virginia and raised his sons to speak the Queen’s English and have the manners of landed gentry, so when Reverend Lincoln talked like this, it was an act. He was more Martha’s Vineyard than Mississippi, but no one who had summered in Chilmark could do what he had done without creating a persona. He was a politician, so that meant acting and reshaping the truth were tools of the trade. If George W. Bush could be from Texas, by golly, he could be from, well, wherever he needed to be from to get the job done.
The first order of business, the Reverend told Mrs. Jones, was to engage a legal team. Getting Marcus out of jail was step one. Step two was getting out in front of the news cycle with their story. So that meant hiring a PR team as well. Step three was to build their defense, which meant private investigators. As the Reverend set out the strategy, Mrs. Jones could barely keep up, and she couldn’t imagine how she was going to afford any of this. She looked around at the stained walls and peeling fake tile floor.
“Reverend, I’m so grateful for your help, but I ain’t got no money,” she told him. “I’m getting evicted as soon as my number comes up, and I am going to be on the street. I can’t afford no lawyers or investigators.”
She was irritated at the suggestion but tried to hide it in her voice.
“Oh, you dear,” the Reverend intoned in his deepest baritone, “I’m here to take your burden. Marcus’s case is now our case. My case. Operation LIFT lifts people up who are down because of their race. Your situation is not your fault, and Marcus’s situation isn’t his fault either. We are here to lift you up.”
He could hear her intoning breathy amens as he spoke.
This was Reverend Lincoln’s favorite part of every day. The chance to help his brothers and sisters fight against corporate power, against corrupt public officials, against judges and juries who were biased by skin and class. It was a fight that made him feel much younger than his seventy-three years.
“You’re paying for…for all that stuff for my boy?” Mrs. Jones was incredulous.
“I’m not paying, ma’am. Your brothers and sisters are. Thousands of black souls across this land have given money to me so I can fight for those who can’t fight for themselves. I’m just the messenger of their faith and fellowship. I’m connecting you to them and their deep well of support. Can you feel their love?”
“Praise Jesus! Thank you, Reverend. Amen, amen.” She hung up the phone and collapsed on the floor of her kitchen. Her boy had a chance.
Twenty-four hours later, he, it was actually him, was sitting in her kitchen. He brought a lawyer. The lawyer introduced himself as Winston Ellis. Mrs. Jones didn’t know him, but she trusted Reverend Lincoln without question. Her trust was well placed. Ellis was one of the most prominent civil rights attorneys of the past thirty years. Even in the dingy apartment, he cast a regal aura. He wore a bespoke royal blue, pinstriped suit and bright pink tie. The cuff links on his five-hundred-dollar shirt were encrusted with diamonds. And as the Reverend Lincoln spoke, he twirled his large fountain pen in his graceful, well-manicured hands.
“Mrs. Jones, I just want to reiterate what I told you on the phone.”
Reverend Lincoln reached out and took her hand in his. He looked deeply into her eyes. She would have followed him anywhere and done anything he asked. Especially for her boy.
“This injustice will not stand. We cannot let them put another talented brother in prison for a crime he did not commit. This will not stand. We will fight for Marcus in the streets, in the courtroom, and in the court of public opinion. This will not stand. We will bring his case to the mayor, to the governor, and to the president. This will not stand. I will not stop until your boy is free and back here in your home where he belongs. I promise. This will not stand.”
Mrs. Jones nodded along to the Reverend’s rhythmic cadence, whispering amen at intervals. She was sweating profusely, as the window fan tried to keep up with the early summer heat that was blanketing the city. But her concentration was broken not by the heat but the pain of thinking of Marcus sitting in jail awaiting trial.
“We are putting together teams of volunteers to make sure we let the voices of the people be heard, Mrs. Jones. This will not stand…”
“If I may,” Ellis said. “We need to do some paperwork here to get the process started.” He’d been to this show before, and he was anxious to move on with his day.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a blue file folder. He set it on the table and tapped it with his index finger. She was in awe and noticed the perfect shape of his fingernails and cuticles. It made her feel safe.
“In here, Mrs. Jones, is a contract between you and me. It says that if I agree to take the case, I will represent Marcus and to use whatever resources are available to me to ensure his acquittal. By signing, you are agreeing to giving me a first chance to take this, do you understand that?”
“I do,” she said, although in truth she knew that she did not know exactly what that meant for either her or Marcus. But she trusted Reverend Lincoln, and she’d seen the results he’d secured for others wrongly accused of crimes. Just last month, he’d led a march on city hall on behalf of two young boys accused of attempted murder in a West Side turf dispute that left two other gangbangers dead. The boys, both honor students at a local high school, were playing basketball in a park near where the shooting happened. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, the Reverend argued. But the D.A. used eyewitness testimony and some grainy surveillance footage to justify charges against them. The march on city hall drew thousands, but, more importantly, public attention to the boys’ cause. A few days after the march, other witnesses came forward and provided testimony that exonerated the boys. The Reverend could count many victories like this among his accomplishments, as well as pressing for more black access to positions of power in government, academia, and the private sector.
With the signatures he needed, the lawyer turned to the Reverend and nodded. He rose, buttoned his jacket, and wished Mrs. Jones a good evening.
“We will win this case. You have my word. I’ll get your boy home for you.”
Ellis shook the Reverend’s hand and left the apartment as fast as he could. Once outside, he dialed his paralegal and asked her to arrange for a loan to post Marcus’s bail and to prepare a motion for his immediate release, as well as for the prosecution to turn over any Brady material. Ellis climbed into a black Escalade that was waiting outside the apartment on Cottage Grove. It was cooled, as per his explicit instructions, to sixty-eight degrees, and a bottle of Fiji water was in a cooler of ice by his seat. In a minute, he was gone, headed toward the University Club, where his squash partner was no doubt already getting dressed.
Reverend Lincoln wasn’t in such a rush to leave. He asked Mrs. Jones for another piece of peach pie and pulled his chair closer to her. The pie was too watery and the crust store bought, but the Reverend was an accomplished liar. He’d blessed unions he knew had no chance, presided over negotiations he knew were shakedowns, and made countless public arguments that were simply cover for what he thought was the right result. Flattering an old woman who was going to lose her only son about her cooking was the easiest lie he ever told.
“The Lord is on our side, Mrs. Jones.”
“Amen,” she whispered.
“The brothers and the sisters are on our side, Mrs. Jones.”
“Amen.”
“And when we are done telling your boy’s story, the people will be on our side.”
“Amen, Reverend, amen.”
“So here’s what we are going to do, my dear. I’m headed back to headquarters, and when I get there, I’m going to tell my army of God’s warriors the work that has to be done. I’m going to inspire them, like Marcus has inspired me. I’m going to mobilize these brothers and sisters to take your son’s burden off his shoulders and off your shoulders and off your daughter’s shoulders, and put it on to our shoulders. The shoulders of the mighty and the strong and the powerful. The seas are rough for you; we will be your boat. The forces of darkness are against you; we will be your light. The privileged man wants to keep your boy down; we will lift him up!”
Tears rolled down Dorothy Jones’s face. It was a speech Reverend Lincoln would give to inspire a crowd of thousands in Ogden Park at the Bud Billiken Parade. But he was here, in her kitchen, delivering it to her alone, about her boy.
Reverend Lincoln rose and put his hand on top of her head.
“Bless you, child.”
She closed her eyes and felt his power. She forgot for a minute what he was talking about. He was talking to her, and she felt joyous, like she was at one with Jesus.
“In two days, you come to our sanctuary, you know, over on Martin Luther King Drive. You come to the Temple after lunch, and I’ll introduce you to God’s army, to Marcus’s army. They will be working tirelessly to free him.”
“I will, Reverend.”
“Oh, and don’t you worry about that eviction notice. It’s been taken care of. No one is going to take anything else away from you. You are under my protection now.”
He turned and walked out.
CHAPTER 23
Reverend Lincoln strode into his expansive office on the second floor of the Temple, saying “Good morning,” along the way to each of the dozens of staffers who hung on his every word. He knew them all by name. He greeted his assistant, as he did every morning, with a broad smile and a dozen doughnuts from the Abundance Bakery. She handed him a stack of messages and a pile of printed out emails for him to review.
“There is someone waiting in your office, Reverend.”
Reverend Lincoln stopped in mid-stride and gave her a puzzled look.
“Did I have an appointment?”
“No, sir. He came unannounced and insisted that he wait in there.” She pointed to the large burled walnut door that always remained closed. “He, well, he said you’d understand the need for discretion.”
Reverend Lincoln frowned. She was reliable and he trusted her without doubt. Until now.
“Can I take your hat?”
He handed his Homburg to her and keyed into his inner office.
The man sitting at his desk was no stranger. It was the president’s chief of staff, Mike Schafer. He was known around Washington as a smooth operator and a master of political strategy. He had sad brown eyes, fingers like rolls of quarters, and a jaw a carpenter could use to square a corner. He was from Texas. But his folksy, good-ol’-boy manner belied his win-at-all-costs approach to everything in life. He admitted no possibility of losing.
When Reverend Lincoln entered, he stood and strode to him like a charging bull, hand out with fingers spread wide. They shook, vigorously.
“Mike!” the Reverend said with fake enthusiasm in his voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Reverend Lincoln plopped into his high-back leather chair and crossed his hands on his desk like he was about to pray.
“I’m here on business, Linc.”
“I figured you didn’t come all this way to make a donation.”
Schafer smiled. “We need to talk.”
Reverend Lincoln knew Schafer was not someone who talked; he was someone who gave orders, and, if you were smart, you followed them. He wasn’t to be trifled with.
“I’m listening, Mike.”
“We need your help, Reverend.” There was no doubt that he meant the president. “This case your involved with, this kid from the neighborhood who is in jail awaiting trial…”
“Marcus Jones is his name.” Reverend Lincoln hid his shock. Why on earth would the chief of staff care about this kid? And how did he know about Operation LIFT’s involvement? It had only been a few days.
“Yeah, right, Marcus Jones. Well, we need you to not be involved.”
Reverend Lincoln stared at him in disbelief. He could still taste Dorothy Jones’s watery peach pie on his lips.
“Whatever do you mean? Why on earth is the president interested in this case?”
“She is, which is all I’ll say.”
“He didn’t do it, Mike, and I’m not about to let them sell that boy down the river.”
“No one is asking you to do that, Linc.”
“But he’ll go down if we don’t help.”
“You don’t know that. If he didn’t do it, the jury will see that without you.”
Reverend Lincoln rose and walked over to the window. He surveyed the vacant lots of South Ellis Avenue. They were overgrown with grass and weeds, littered with pieces of garbage that looked like chocolate chips baked into a muffin. He closed his eyes and rubbed his hands on his head. He turned back toward Schafer, who was scrolling through messages on his Blackberry.
“You don’t believe that, Mike. No Chicago jury will give that boy a chance.”
“I do believe it,” he said unconvincingly without looking up from his phone.
“Well, I guess we’ll have agree to disagree. I just can’t take a chance. Not with Marcus.”
Schafer looked another minute at his phone. The silence raised the dramatic tension. Phone down, he looked up at the Reverend, then stood and put his hands on his hips.
“He did it, Linc. He killed that professor. We have proof.”
“What are you talking about? What proof? How?” Reverend Lincoln was incredulous.
Schafer walked over toward the window. He put his hand on Reverend Lincoln’s shoulder.
“There are things I can’t tell you. But we know what happened.” He tried to sound as condescending as possible. It was time to end this without escalating to threats.
“Why is this something that is on your radar? I don’t get it. Help me out here, Mike.”
“This professor, he wasn’t just some right-wing crank. He and Judge Pham go way back. They’ve been friends since childhood.”
“I saw the news reports. What does this have to do with Marcus?”
“When the professor died on the eve of his testimony, we had the vetting team—my personal guys—look into the case. You can understand that. There was a chance we could get some blowback.”
“But wasn’t the professor going to support the nomination?”
“We know that now. We didn’t know it then.”
“I see.” Linc saw where this was going.
“So, we did our due diligence. You can appreciate why I can’t tell you what we did or how we learned what we did, but you can trust me when I say that the kid killed him. I’m certain of it. I’ve seen the evidence.” He held up his hands.
Reverend Lincoln knew Schafer to be a straight shooter, but he also knew he was willing to bury some bodies to do what he thought was right.
“So we shouldn’t fight? Just because you think this boy did it.”
“You shouldn’t fight this fight, Linc. There are other fights. We’ll fight those with you. Ending racial discrimination. Raising the minimum wage. Investing in education. Building some social infrastructure around here—” he pointed out at the lots that had caught Reverend Lincoln’s attention. “The president is with you one hundred percent of the way. You know that.”
“I do. But this boy is one of the good ones. I know that too.”
“You are wrong, Reverend. He was, but he made a tragic mistake. Now, if I wanted to, I could make an argument. The system of racial subordination puts this kid in a position that was untenable, and the culture of violence he grew up around gave him the ability to do something that some kid from Glencoe, some kid that is just like him in every other way, wouldn’t ever do. I can make the argument, Linc. But is this what you want to be crusading for? To let a killer loose because he didn’t have a real choice? There is no the-streets-made-me-do-it defense to first-degree murder.”
