Death of a King Page 17

  Walter Bailey, the Lorraine’s owner, tells Mable that Dr. King is coming to town to lead another march next Monday on behalf of the striking garbage workers. Would she mind vacating her room—Doc’s favorite—and moving to another?

  Mable doesn’t mind at all. She’s known and admired Doc for many years. When she sees him checking in shortly after 11 a.m., they exchange warm greetings.

  “Will you be preaching while you’re here, Dr. King?” she asks.

  “More marching than preaching, Mable,” he says. “Caught something of a sore throat.”

  Mable hears that his voice is scratchy and sees that his eyes are filled with fatigue.

  “The flight coming in was a little rough,” he says.

  “Stormy weather all around.”

  “That, and a bomb scare back in Atlanta. Delayed the flight nearly two hours.”

  “Mercy!” exclaims Mable.

  “I was just grateful that they found out about the threat before we took off.”

  “You need to be careful, Dr. King. You need to take good care.”

  “I’m in the best care, Mable,” he says. “I’m in God’s care.”

  “I just pray to God to keep you safe.”

  “He always has, and He always will,” says Doc. “His love is the only safety we need.”

  “I know that’s right.”

  “Be sure and send me your new record,” he says.

  “I sure will. I’ll be honored for you to hear it.”

  As Mable leaves for the recording studio, Doc and his entourage—Ralph Abernathy, Andy Young, Jesse Jackson, Dorothy Cotton, James Bevel, Bernard Lee—go to their rooms to unpack. Doc and Abernathy share room 306.

  Outside, a detail of police cruisers, sent by the city to protect the preacher, encircle the Lorraine.

  An hour later, Doc and company drive to James Lawson’s church and meet with a group of black ministers to discuss Monday’s march. Doc is more interested, however, in meeting with the Invaders, the militants with whom he established rapport last week.

  Back at the Lorraine, the Invaders come to Doc’s room, where the discussion is long and fruitful. The young men are moved not only by the minister’s concern for their grievances but by the sincerity of his interest in their history. This time they vow to commit to a peaceful march and assure Doc that they will monitor the demonstrators, making sure that all agitators—especially the ones engaged by hostile forces like the FBI to wreak havoc—are subdued. Doc is deeply gratified to accept their pledge of solidarity.

  He feels Memphis turning his way. Only here in Memphis has he finally been able to build a bridge to the militants, a longtime dream come true.

  In the middle of the meeting, though, the dream is disturbed by a loud knock on the door. Doc is served notice that the city has banned any march pending approval by a U.S. district court judge. Unless the judge lifts the ban, Monday’s demonstration will be deemed illegal.

  Doc’s response is quick:

  “We are not going to be stopped by Mace or injunctions.”

  In short order, members of his staff, along with ACLU lawyers, put together a legal response, setting up a hearing for the following day.

  The fact that the power structure has thrown a roadblock in his path does not discourage Doc. Opposition from outside forces is something that he has long learned to navigate. Far more painful has been opposition from his own people, especially the youth. Thus the rapprochement with the Invaders is especially heartening.

  The weather is not heartening. The pathetic fallacy is back in play. The early evening sky is an ominous mix of darkness and light. Tornadoes have touched down in neighboring counties. A storm warning is in effect. Walking out of his second-story room onto the balcony, Doc looks out into the distance. He sees jagged bolts of lightning. He hears the crack and rumble of rolling thunder.

  The bomb scare, the flight from Atlanta, the meeting with the Invaders, the court injunction—the day’s events have worn him out. He thinks of the rally that has been set up tonight for the strikers at Mason Temple and decides not to go. Even if it isn’t postponed due to tornado warnings, few people will brave going out on a night such as this.

  Back in his room, he calls Coretta in Atlanta. In spite of everything, he characterizes the day as “good.” He tells her that he loves her. He asks that she kiss the kids for him.

  He tells Abernathy that if, in fact, the rally takes place, he, Ralph, should speak for him.

  Ralph, in turn, suggests that Jesse Jackson address the strikers.

  Doc agrees that Jackson can come along but insists that Ralph do the speaking.

  Despite the weather, the rally does go on. While Doc rests in his room, Abernathy makes his way to the great hall, where he is surprised to see that, in spite of the stormy night, there is a decent crowd. Everyone is saying the same thing:

  Where is Dr. King?

  When will Dr. King be here?

  We have to hear from Dr. King.

  Abernathy hurries into the hallway, where he picks up a pay phone and calls the Lorraine.

  “Room 306,” he tells the desk clerk.

  The phone keeps ringing. Abernathy fears that Doc has already fallen asleep and won’t respond. He lets the phone keep ringing. Finally, his weary friend lifts the receiver.

  Wasting no time, Abernathy lets Doc know that there is no way that this assembly will be satisfied until Martin Luther King Jr. stands before them and says a few words. On one of the nastiest nights of the year, this crowd has braved the storm. People are here because they need inspiration. Along with their wives, girlfriends, sisters, brothers, mothers, and fathers, the garbage workers have come en masse. They’re not leaving until Doc shows up and lets them know that we shall overcome.

  Doc is moved. He shakes the sleepiness from his eyes, puts on his customary coat and tie, and is driven through the rain to Mason Temple, where he is greeted with a tumultuous ovation.

  As a torrential thunderstorm cracks open and pelts the hall with a pounding rain, Abernathy gives a laudatory introduction, setting up the expectation that Doc has come tonight to do more than merely say a few words. He has come to preach.

  “His daddy is a preacher,” says Abernathy. “His granddaddy was a preacher. His uncle was a preacher. His brother is a preacher, and of course his dearest friend and other brother”—a self-reference—“is one of the world’s greatest preachers!”

  Doc is indeed ready to preach, ready to purge himself of whatever doubts and fears, whatever despondency and darkness, have threatened him in these past days, weeks, and months.

  Like the blues player embracing his guitar or the jazz musician taking up his horn, Doc comes to the pulpit to sing himself out of sadness; he comes to the pulpit to testify to the truth of his conviction; he comes to raise his own wounded spirits even as he raises the spirits of those fighting for their livelihood.

  He comes to say that were he standing at the beginning of time and God Almighty asked him which epoch he’d like to live in, he’d tell the Lord, Let me live in ancient Egypt and ancient Rome; let me live in the ages of the Renaissance and the Reformation; let me live through the American Civil War and World War II. But most pointedly, he’d say to the Lord, “If you allow me to live just a few years in the second half of the twentieth century, I will be happy.”

  Even though today “the world is all messed up. The nation is sick. Trouble is in the land, confusion all around,” he is grateful to be right where he is.

  In this very moment.

  In Memphis.

  He preaches, “I’m just happy that God has allowed me to live in this period, to see what is unfolding. And I’m happy that He’s allowed me to be in Memphis.”

  Happy to be alive.

  He thinks back to recent times, when “Negroes were just going around… scratching where they didn’t itch, and laughing when they were not tickled. But that day is all over. We mean business now, and we are determined to gain our rightful place in God’s world.�
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  “The issue is injustice. The issue is the refusal of Memphis to be fair and honest in its dealings with its public servants, who happen to be sanitation workers.…

  “Now we’re going to march again, and we’ve got to march again, in order to… force everybody to see that there are thirteen hundred of God’s children here suffering, sometimes going hungry, going through dark and dreary nights wondering how this thing is going to come out.… For when people get caught up with that which is right and they are willing to sacrifice for it, there is no stopping point short of victory.”

  Doc goes on to list the victories in Birmingham, where the fire hoses and the dogs couldn’t stop them; where right defeated might; where the words they sang—“Over my head, I see freedom in the air”—sustained the spirit of hope and love, disarming those wielding deadly weapons.

  Doc preaches that nonviolence remains the most potent weapon.

  “We don’t have to argue with anybody,” he says. “We don’t have to curse and go around acting bad with our words. We don’t need any bricks and bottles. We don’t need any Molotov cocktails. We just need to go around to these… massive industries in our country and say, ‘God sent us by here to say to you that you’re not treating His children right. And we’ve come by here to ask you to make the first item on your agenda fair treatment.… Now, if you are not prepared to do that, we do have an agenda that we must follow. And our agenda calls for withdrawing economic support from you.’ ”

  But tonight, Doc’s agenda transcends economic analysis. Tonight mortality is on his mind. His own.

  He tells the story of how, in 1958, a “demented woman” stabbed him in Harlem during a book signing.

  “The tip of the blade was on the edge of my aorta, the main artery,” he says. “If I had merely sneezed, I would have died.…

  “I want to say tonight that I… am happy that I didn’t sneeze. Because if I had sneezed, I wouldn’t have been around here in 1960, when students all over the South started sitting in at lunch counters.…

  “If I had sneezed, I wouldn’t have been around here in 1962, when Negroes in Albany, Georgia, decided to straighten their backs up. And whenever men and women straighten their backs up, they are going somewhere, because a man can’t ride your back unless it is bent.…

  “If I had sneezed, I wouldn’t have been here in 1963, when the black people of Birmingham, Alabama, aroused the conscience of this nation and brought into being the civil rights bill.

  “If I had sneezed, I wouldn’t have had a chance later that year, in August, to try to tell America about a dream that I had had.

  “If I had sneezed, I wouldn’t have been down in Selma, Alabama, to see the great movement there.

  “If I had sneezed, I wouldn’t have been in Memphis to see a community rally around those brothers and sisters who are suffering.

  “I’m so happy that I didn’t sneeze.”

  He goes deeper into the notion of his near death. He speaks of the bomb scare in Atlanta that very morning. He speaks of the threats to his life right there in Memphis, about “what would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers,” and then about strength.

  “Just as I say, we aren’t going to let dogs or water hoses turn us around. We aren’t going to let any injunction turn us around.…

  “Well, I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn’t matter with me now, because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will.

  “And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain.

  “And I’ve looked over.

  “And I’ve seen the promised land.

  “I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!

  “And so I’m happy tonight.

  “I’m not worried about anything.

  “I’m not fearing any man!

  “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  APRIL 4, 1968

  Exactly one year ago today, Doc stood in the pulpit of the Riverside Church and denounced President Johnson’s escalating war in Vietnam.

  Since then, a national poll indicates that nearly three-quarters of the American people have turned against Doc, and 57 percent of his own people consider him irrelevant.

  Today, a Thursday, Doc is at the Lorraine in Memphis, getting a late start. Last night’s rally did him a world of good. After collapsing in a chair on stage, he managed to attend a small post-rally get-together at the hotel. He was elated to see that his brother, A. D., had driven to the city with two women, one of whom was Georgia Davis, the state senator from Kentucky.

  There was talk about the legal maneuvers to stop next week’s demonstration. The women wanted to know whether Doc was considering canceling.

  “The decision has been made to march,” he said. “Regardless of the outcome of today’s hearing, we will march on Monday. We cannot give in now.”

  When asked whether he was afraid for his life, his answer was chilling: “I’d rather be dead than afraid.”

  The talk turned to Davis’s first term as a senator. Doc was keen to learn of her accomplishments. She, in turn, wanted to hear details of his recent rallies, especially the one at Mason Temple that, due to her late arrival, she had missed. It was evident that Doc and Davis had missed each other’s company, and after a while, they excused themselves from the party to spend time alone.

  Now it is early afternoon and Doc is feeling refreshed. While his aides are in court arguing for the legalization of Monday’s march, he calls Dora McDonald, his secretary in Atlanta, to share his sermon topic for next Sunday’s service at Ebenezer so that she can get it into the church bulletin. His theme is one that has been resonating in his head and heart for the past twelve months:

  Why America may go to hell.

  The topic is somber, but today Doc is not. Today he’s joyful.

  Today he’s taking it easy.

  Enjoying a catfish lunch with Ralph Abernathy.

  Hanging out in A. D.’s room.

  Calling home.

  Chatting with Mom and Dad.

  Feeling the happiness that his parents experience when they know their sons are together.

  Telling his folks that he loves them.

  Assuring Mama King and Daddy King that all’s well in Memphis.

  Claiming that victory is at hand.

  Kidding around with Andy Young when he walks through the door.

  “Li’l nigger,” says Doc lovingly, “where you been?”

  Doc knows that Andy’s been to court to testify about the peaceful preparations for Monday’s March, but Doc wants to forget politics—at least for now. Doc wants to play. He and Ralph grab pillows and start going after Andy. Grown men acting like little boys. The pillow fight has everyone laughing.

  Everyone is looking forward to tonight’s early dinner at the home of Reverend Billy Kyles.

  Looking forward to a soul food feast.

  Learning from Billy’s wife, Gwen, all the items on the menu: everything from chitterlings to neck bones to turnip greens to cornbread.

  Doc’s hungry.

  Doc’s happy.

  Doc’s hearing music coming from downstairs, where Jesse Jackson is rehearsing an ensemble of Operation Breadbasket singing hymns like “I’m So Glad (Trouble Don’t Last Always).”

  Doc greets Billy Kyles, who has arrived at his room intending to drive him over to his home. It’s nearly 6 p.m.

  Doc’s still in jokester mode.

  “Now Billy,” he says, “if you’ve bought this big new house and can’t afford to feed us, I’m gonna tell everybody in the country.”

  Kyles assures him that there will be more than enough good food to go around.

  Doc keeps joking: “Your wife can’t cook, anyway. She’
s too good-looking.”

  The two men step outside, on the balcony. In the wake of yesterday’s storm, the air is clean and fresh.

  Kyles heads down to the car.

  Doc leans over the rail. Takes a deep breath. Spots Jesse Jackson in the courtyard.

  “Jesse,” Doc yells down, “I want you to come to dinner with me.”

  Jesse introduces Doc to the man standing next to him.

  “Doc, you remember Ben Branch? He’s our saxophonist. Memphis musician.”

  “Oh, yes,” Doc calls down, “he’s my man. How are you, Ben?… Make sure you play ‘Precious Lord, Take My Hand’ in the meeting tonight. Play it real pretty.”

  Then a shot rings out.

  The bullet finds its mark.

  Doc falls.

  At age thirty-nine, his life on earth ends.

  EPILOGUE

  Three years earlier, in March 1965, Doc told the White House that, no, he could not accept an invitation to a joint session of Congress where the president was introducing the Voting Rights Act. Doc had worked tirelessly for the legislation, but his heart led him to Brown Chapel in Selma, Alabama. There he delivered a eulogy for Reverend James Joseph Reeb, a white man who had become a Quaker social worker in the Boston tenements before joining SCLC’s campaign. While marching for civil rights, Reeb was attacked and murdered on the streets of Selma.

  Doc began the eulogy with lines from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

  And if he should die,

  Take his body, and cut it into little stars.

  He will make the face of heaven so fine

  That all the world will be in love with night.

  “These beautiful words… so eloquently describe the radiant life of James Reeb. He entered the stage of history just thirty-eight years ago, and in the brief years that he was privileged to act on this mortal stage, he played his part exceedingly well. James Reeb was martyred in the Judeo-Christian faith that all men are brothers. His death was a result of a sensitive religious spirit. His crime was that he dared to live his faith; he placed himself alongside the disinherited black brethren of this community.…