The next day, Canfield had the Movement declare me persona non-gratis. By then, word had gotten out that in his supposed suicide note, Whitfield not only confessed to having kidnapped and killed Esther, but accused me of having hounded him to death. Many people applauded my having ‘uncovered him and his crime,’ but many more maintained that he was innocent and had been framed.
The great irony was that I agreed with them.
Whitfield's supporters turned on me with a fury. Many of the invitations on my desk were withdrawn. Angry calls came in—some from Whitfield's fans, the rest from people who wanted it known that they disliked the press in general and now me in particular. At some point, I told the operator to stop putting calls through. She could take messages and I’d phone people back. But most of the messages weren’t worth taking and most callers didn’t leave numbers. There was one caller who was different. I got the message and returned the call.
“Hello Hilda. How are you?
“I’m fine. I—”
“And Mabel?”
“She’s getting better. They let her out this morning, and now she’s staying with me. Listen, I just wanted thank you. Thank you for destroying that man.”
I didn’t say what I wanted to say. I told her about the arrangements Whitfield had made for Mabel. I gave her the name and phone number of Phil Payton, the real estate agent he’d contacted, and told her to stop by to pick up the contract. She had to return it with Mabel’s signature before we could give them the checks. She was thrilled. She couldn’t stop thanking the paper and me. Then I asked her the question that had been hovering at the back of my mind.
“Where were you the night Whitfield was killed?”
There was a stunned silence. When she answered, all the warmth in her voice had cooled.
“I told the police and now I’m telling you: I was at the hospital, with Mabel. I wish I’d had the nerve to kill him. Then I wouldn’t have had to wait for somebody like you to come along.”
“It’s just that, the other day, when Mabel was beaten, you said—”
“I said what I wanted to do. That doesn’t mean I did it. Anyway, why are you asking? It was a suicide.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You sure know how to ruin things. I’m sorry I called.” She hung up.
Hating myself, I telephoned the nurse’s station at Harlem Hospital and lucked up. One of the late shift nurses had come in early. She confirmed that, Yes, Miss Coleman had been there, all that night. She had slept in a chair by Miss Dean’s bedside.
As I replaced the receiver, it occurred to me that Hilda still could’ve done it: Unaware that Whitfield had given up Echo and made reparations to Mabel, she could’ve snuck out and shot him, but to be honest, I didn’t think so.
The phone jangled under my hand. I was surprised and annoyed. After all, I’d told the operator to take messages. I started not to answer, but was glad I did. It was Mabel.
“Hi,” I said, surprised. “I’m so glad to hear from you. How’re you feeling?”
“I’m fine. Just got a little pain is all. But I had to call and thank you. Hilda just told me what you and the paper did for me. God bless you.”
“Thank you.”
“I can’t believe it. I’ll have my own place! And Miss Lanie? Hilda told me what you asked her. She was angry and I told her to stop being silly. Look at all you’ve done for me. And you don’t really believe she shot Sexton, do you?”
“No,” I said, feeling guilty about the call to the nurse’s station.
“See, Hilda,” she said, turning away from the phone and speaking to her friend in the background. “Miss Lanie’s just doing her job is all. She’s a smart lady and smart people ask questions.”
She spoke into the phone again. “Miss Lanie, I know you having a hard time. But don’t you pay people no mind. They can be so ignorant. I know Miss Ruth is angry, real angry. But whatever she said, she didn’t mean it. And well … I just wanted to thank you, and to say I know you didn’t do no wrong. Sexton was no good. Whatever you did, you didn’t do nothing wrong.”