Chapter 90

When a phone rings at that time of the morning (1:15 a.m.), it can’t be good news. Even those who are welcoming the birth of their first or fifth child have the good sense (and manners) to wait until the sun is up before they start dialing numbers to spread the happy word.

Harlan was snoring on the couch, having fallen asleep in the middle of watching the Johnny Carson show. He was dreaming he was playing a trombone. Lizard was alongside him, strumming his trumpet like a banjo. Using a peacock plume to conduct the orchestra of two was Harlan’s grandfather, dressed in the suit and brown shoes he was buried in.

The phone jolted Harlan from his dream. He sat up and stared stupidly at the American flag fluttering on the black-and-white Zenith console until the phone rang a second time.

“Yeah, h-hello?”

“Harlan? Harlan? They killed John.”

Harlan rubbed mucous from his left eye. “What? Who is this?”

“It’s Solomon, man. Did you hear me? The fucking pigs killed John.”

Harlan gave his head a hard shake. “John who?” He knew at least six.

“John Smith.”

“W-what?”

“Goddamn cracker-ass crackers!” Solomon sobbed. “Harlan? You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he whispered in a state of disbelief. “Where you at?”

“In Newark, at the diner across from the Fourth Precinct.”

Harlan’s knees threatened to buckle.

“You coming, man?”

“Yeah,” Harlan croaked, “I’ll be there.”

* * *

Six blocks from the diner. That’s as close as Harlan got before coming upon the sea of people clogging the streets and sidewalks as if it was a Saturday afternoon and someone was giving away money.

Figuring the cops had more important things to do than write tickets, Harlan parked the car next to a hydrant and walked the rest of the way.

Springfield and Belmont avenues were congested with dozens of taxis from Newark and the surrounding towns. The black drivers of those cabs were shaking their fists and shouting at the riot gear–clad police officers who had formed a human barrier in front of their precinct.

Across the street, residents of the Hayes Homes housing projects streamed from the buildings, shouting obscenities and accusations. The police shouted back through bullhorns. Ordered the crowd to disperse and the area cleared, but their demands fell on dead ears.

Harlan mopped sweat from his brow and elbowed his way through the crowd into the packed diner. He spotted Solomon seated in a booth, surrounded by a group of men who Harlan did not recognize.

“Yo, make room for my man,” Solomon said. The guy sitting next to him slid out of the booth and stood.

Harlan sat down, rested one elbow on the table, and curled his fingers around his chin. The heat inside of the diner was even more oppressive than it was outside.

“What’s happening? Are all those people out there because of John?”

Solomon nodded. “Story goes, pigs stopped John on Fifteenth Avenue. Who knows why? They exchange words and then the pigs pull John out of his cab and start wailing on him.”

Harlan plucked a bunch of napkins from the silver holder and wiped his face. “Who told you that?”

Solomon aimed his index finger at the pudgy Latino sitting across the table. “Guillermo saw the whole thing. Ran down the street to get me. By the time we got back, the pigs and John were gone.”

“There was so much fucking blood, man,” Guillermo said. “Like someone gutted a cow.”

“Puddles of it,” Solomon added.

Harlan plunged his fingers into his hair. “Then what happened?”

“So,” Solomon continued, “me and G walk down to the police station to see what’s what. When we get here, there’s these two chicks outside screaming bloody murder . . .” He trailed off, took a moment to swallow his rage. “The chicks said they saw the pigs drag a dead man from the police car into the station.”

“And how do you know it was John?”

“Who else could it be?”

Harlan nodded.

“So these girls ain’t shutting up, right? They calling the pigs murderers . . . talking about their mamas . . . sayin’ straight-up foul shit, right?”

Harlan’s head bounced again.

“So the cops laugh it off, call the girls crazy, tell ’em maybe if they put down the reefer and got off their black asses and went to work instead of lying up on welfare making babies every year, they wouldn’t have time to be in the streets telling lies.”

The men around the table grumbled.

“But the sisters ain’t letting up. People start coming ’round, listening, asking them questions. The pigs get real nervous. I say, Where’s that taxi man you beat up on Fifteenth Avenue? And the pigs just look at each other. They back off, whisper into their walkie-talkies—”

“Next thing you know,” Guillermo interrupted with a snap of his fingers, “pigs are everywhere—running out of the station, pulling up in cars, dropping out of the sky. Uniformed, undercover—the fucking calvary.”

Solomon flexed his fingers. “I’m telling you, Harlan, them motherfuckers killed John, and they’re going to get away with it again, just like they did with all the others!”

Guillermo called out the names of black men who had been recently killed by police: “Lester Long, Bernard Rich, Walter Mathis . . .”

Outside, the mob of people was punching the air with their fists, chanting, “Show us John Smith! Show us John Smith!”

John Smith. Not the last straw, but certainly the one that broke the camel’s back.

Newark’s black residents had been harassed and abused by police for decades. Stopped for driving or walking while black, cars tossed, pockets emptied—all while the cops called them niggers, jungle bunnies, and spooks.

The victims? What could they do but stand there still and silent, taking it all, swallowing it whole, like a rape victim waiting for it to end so they could get home and see their mamas, women, children, or just another fucking day.

Living under those conditions was as difficult as walking a tightrope in high wind.

But they did it. Every single day, they did it.

Recently the police brutality had escalated to murder on a regular basis.

Police officers were picking off black men as if it was open season. The families of the dead brought one wrongful-death lawsuit after another, but it was all to no avail. Not only were the officers always cleared of any wrongdoing, they were commended for their actions.

“No Cause for Indictment” became an all-too-familiar headline in the local and national newspapers. Lady Justice might have been blind, but that didn’t disqualify her from being racist.

“Look at them,” Solomon growled, jabbing his finger against the glass window. “They’re scared as hell.”

The police officers had never seen so many black and brown faces in one place. It seemed as if all of the Negroes in America had swooped down on Newark.

“Yeah, crackers, the chickens have come home to roost!” Solomon hollered.

His statement was followed by a burst of applause and barking in the diner.

Outside, the agitated crowd drifted closer and closer to the band of officers: “Show us John Smith! Show us John Smith!”

Suddenly, a Molotov cocktail exploded against the side of the police station, sending everyone scattering for cover. Warning shots were fired, another cocktail was thrown, rocks and bottles hurled through the hot night.

The police fired more shots into the dark sky; a trash can was tossed through the window of the diner, and Harlan and the others ran out into the chaos of the streets. The cops raced behind, clobbering anyone in reach of their swinging batons.

Heart laboring in his chest, lungs on fire, Harlan’s body threatened to fail him. He broke from the crowd and stumbled down a narrow street into an alley. Hiding behind a row of stinking garbage cans, he sat on the filthy ground, trying to catch his breath. In all directions, the night quaked with sirens, gunshots, and breaking glass. Fires were lit, sending spiraling plumes of black smoke into the black sky.

When he reemerged, it was dawn.

The crowds were gone, but the evidence of their righteous indignation could be spotted everywhere—in busted car windows, slashed tires, and the smoldering guts of vandalized businesses.

When Harlan reached his car, he found the driver’s-side mirror dangling. Thankfully, that was the only damage the vehicle had suffered. Hands trembling, he coasted the car slowly down the street, looking out on the dazed faces of the residents left to deal with the wreckage. He hadn’t traveled more than three blocks before a police cruiser shot into the street, blocking him.

The white officers jumped from the vehicle and barreled toward him, guns drawn. Harlan cut the engine and threw his hands into the air. Before he could utter a word, they ripped open both front doors.

The taller of the two officers hooked Harlan roughly by the neck, dragged him from the car, and slammed him onto the ground. His foot came down on Harlan’s cheek, forcing his face into the hot asphalt. “Where’s the guns, nigger!” he screamed while his partner searched frantically beneath the car seats, inside the glove compartment and trunk.

“I-I don’t have any guns.”

The officer buried his shoe deeper into Harlan’s skull.

“I didn’t find any guns,” the second officer said, “but I did find this.”

“Well, look at that. What we got here is a dope-dealing nigger,” the first officer cackled. “On your feet!” He yanked Harlan up by his Afro while the other man dangled a wrinkled paper bag in his face. “You know what this is?”

Harlan dropped his eyes. “Nope.”

But he knew exactly what it was. It was five-to-ten in the state penitentiary.