CHAPTER 27: THERE’S A RIOT GOING ON

A Riot is the Language of the Unheard.

Doctor Martin Luther King

Fournier paused outside Romano’s, looked around, then walked in. My investigator’s manual warned me that in the detection biz there were no such things as coincidences. Not even luck. Good detectives made their own luck, the author wrote. I’m not a cause-and-effect kind of guy. For me, life’s more of a gamble and coincidences are part of the mystery. And mysteries make life interesting.

However, if the author was right, I thought as I stood looking at the door of Romano’s then Fournier’s appearance represented something of significance. How about this: the sonavabitch hates his wife so much that it finally reaches the boiling point, and he hops a plane to the Bay Area and shoots her. Then, for some reason – perhaps Arabella recognizes see him committing the deed, so he shoots her as well. There it was, Sweets’ alternative suspect theory. He’d be elated. I was elated. I felt like throwing up both my arms signaling a touchdown. I’d call Carter and tell him, so he could put his weenie legal brain to work organizing the defense. And, best of all, I’d be off the hook with Sweets and my pop. I touched my Saint Christopher’s medal that I wear under my shirt and said a little thank-you prayer. I pushed through the door and adjusted to the light.

Fournier was sitting the end of the bar with a glass of red wine in front of him. He stuck a cigarette in a gold holder and lit it. Wussy, I thought. I’m going to nail your ass. In order to do that I’d need proof of his ass being in the area at the time of the murders. I needed a camera, but mine was at home. If I left, I’d risk losing him. Where would I find a camera fast? Sylvia. Yeah, Sylvia lived near Lake Merritt, Ten minutes max if she was home. There was a sign pointing to a pay phone in the back. I dialed her number. She answered on the first ring.

“Pronto,” she said.

“We’re you expecting a call from Italy?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes. My cousin. What do you want Victor?”

I explained.

“Winona had a husband?” she said, her voice rising into a question.

“You don’t believe in husbands? “

“Of course not, I just. . . never mind. I’ll bring my camera.” She rattled off a few choice Italian expletives to demonstrate how she felt about Sweets, which included stronzo, turd; pigrone, lazy bum, and my favorite, babbo, slang for imbecile.

“Subito,” I said. “Right now.”

She said, “Keep your shirt on.”

I took a seat at the end of the bar close to the door and furthest away from Fournier with a clear view of the killer. Yeah, I thought, killer sounded right to me. I was feeling very much the P.I. I might have to invest in a trench coat, like the one Humphrey Bogart wore in The Big Sleep an oldie but goody I saw recently on TV.

The dude who might have done it was going on his second glass of wine and I was sucking on my second Anchor Steam when Sylvia tapped me on the shoulder. She slipped a small camera out of her purse.

“Where’s your guy?” she asked, handing the camera to me.

“Be cool, Sylvia, okay. He’s the stronzo sitting at the end of the bar, the one with the crooked nose.” Sylvia stepped to the side and looked over my shoulder.

“Oddio.”

“What,” I asked.

“Nothing, nothing. You think he killed Winona and the other chick?”

“How do I know? But he could have. He’d have motive and opportunity.” I explained Sweet’s Other-Dude-Did-It-Defense, adding that Carter Innis believed it to be a perfectly reasonable legal maneuver and not some cockamamie idea Sweets had seen on television.

“Got it Sherlock.”

I said. “I’m Sherlock the Second. As soon as I get these developed, Carter will take them straight to the D.A.”

“You see how well we work together.” Sylvia said.

“Don’t start, Sylvia,” I said.

She shrugged. “Bring the camera to work tomorrow. Gotta run.”

I thanked her. She stomped out the door before I could offer her a drink, looking mad. No problem, I thought. Sylvia often stomped and often looked mad.

The camera was a Kodak Brownie 44 point-and-shoot. Not complicated. But I’d have to wait until Fournier was outside. Outside, it was getting dark. The flash might attract his attention, but maybe not as there were lots of people with cameras. Anyway, I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t take his picture in the bar. I finished my beer and went out to the sidewalk to wait for him. I felt relieved to have a bona fide suspect.

While I’d been in Romano’s, the space in front of City Hall had filled up with people, so many that moving in any direction was difficult. Lots of shouldering, and shuffling as people tried to position themselves for a better view of the speakers’ platform on the steps. From somewhere came the strains of music and a chorus singing a hymn about reaching the Promised Land. People were sitting on top of a couple of old school buses with rainbows painted on their sides, parked to my left. A guy next to me, standing on a milk crate, jumped off, and I leaped on ahead of a woman who gave me a nasty look. Over the top of the crowd, I saw lots of signs saying, “R.I.P. Bobby,” “Bobby, You’ll be Missed,” and “Oakland Gestapo.” Standing on the City Hall steps were groups of men and women, mostly Blacks wearing black armbands. I recognized a prominent Afro-American clergyman from San Francisco who’d been in the news a great deal lately that Jay Ness and his fellow police officers always referred to as a shit-disturber, recognizable by his white ropes of hair jutting out at all angles from his head like Medusa’s snakes. I knew him as Reverend Quincy Davis, proud owner of a 1961 Cadillac DeVille purchased from the Brovelli Brothers. The car had made us a neat little profit. Behind him was Ron Dellums, newly elected to the Berkeley City Council whose photo had been making front pages the last couple of months. Mario liked the guy, which meant he was real liberal. I couldn’t identify any of the other speakers. Certainly his honor, John H. Reading was nowhere close to this site, no doubt sitting down to dinner in the safety of his home complaining to the wife and children about the country going down the tubes. Whoa, I thought, was I getting cynical. I was surprised how many whites were in attendance. I probably shouldn’t have been. This was the Left Coast. Even so, you wouldn’t have found any of Pop’s Lion’s Club buddies here. And probably not many of my own friends and acquaintances from college or Flynn’s. There was no great appreciation of the Black Panthers, among the white middle class that were not impressed by all of the social services the Panthers performed in their own neighborhood, something the newspapers never wrote much about. Black neighborhoods resembled small foreign countries, not worth writing about, unless they were about to go to war, which was the present case. Guerilla war, I thought.

Although it was still twilight, some candles were already lit, their flames flickering in a light breeze, the sun’s last shadows forming a tableau vivant. It reminded me of a scene three years ago when I’d visited relatives in Naples, standing in a crowd, holding lit candles in front of the Basilica of Santa Maria della Sanita built over the spooky catacombs of San Gaudoso. Being a Catholic is important to me, but some stuff my brethren buy into is totally ri-dic-u-lous, something I’d never say to my parents for fear the old man would punch my lights out.

I hung the camera around my neck and withdrew the candle Dila had given me from the inside of my jacket. There were a number of newscasters with their accompanying cameramen. There were singletons with cameras at the ready, probably freelance reporters. Spread through the crowd were Black Panthers and Brown Berets, guardians of order. Or chaos, I wasn’t sure which. As I scanned the crowd, I kept my eye on the front door of the Romano’s. It occurred to me that given the number of reporters and cameramen, Fournier wouldn’t think it was unusual if I snapped his picture. Just getting some background shots, mister.

A turned to the sound of my name and looked into the eyes of my brother Mario with his gorgeous girlfriend towering next him. Either he’d shrunk since this afternoon or she’d grown. I hopped down off the box. I checked out her feet to see if she was wearing six-inch heels. No such luck. Flats. I wanted to ask her how tall she was, but that would have been impolite.

“Don’t ask,” Grace said, reading my mind. “I’m six feet four inches.”

“I bet you played basketball,” I said.

“Ballet,” she said.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“Gotcha, little brother,” Mario said. “I’m surprised to see you here. You growing a conscience?”

“You can’t grow a conscience like you grow a zucchini.” I said. “What I’m doing is making a conscious effort to get a date with a woman who just happens to be here.”

“The only women here are liberals, unless they’re undercover cops or FBI agents,” Grace said.

She spoke with a rising inflection in her voice the way Body and his Irish friends spoke, but in her case it sounded musical. My goodness she was breathtakingly beautiful. Mario, you lucky devil, I thought.

“I already know the woman’s politics,” I said. “I’ve a theory that only a fool would let politics get in the way of romance.”

“I know a lot of the women working today,” Grace said. “What’s her name?”

“Dila Agbo.”

“Oh, my,” she said, turning to Mario. “Your sibling sure knows how to pick them.”

“Well, she’s not quite my girlfriend yet, but I’m working on it.”

“A Black Panther sister,” she said. “The brothers won’t be happy with you Victor.”

“This brother will, but Mom and Pop won’t,” Mario said. “Victor, I’m proud of you. I never thought you were prejudiced, but dating an Afro-American, that I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Before I could explain, over Mario’s shoulder, I saw Jordan Fournier exit Romano’s, stop and look both ways as if trying to figure out which way was the best direction to go. I removed the camera from its case.

“Hey, guys,” I said. “On this historical day, I’m going to take your picture. Right? Right. Now get close together.” Mario and Grace looked confused. I pushed them together and stepped back, so I could get a clear shot of Fournier in the background. Before Mario and Grace could say a word, I was snapping photographs. I reckoned I got at least three good shots before Fournier began walking. I’d managed to get a couple of Little Bobby Hutton signs in the background that would authenticate the date the photographs were taken. I’d read that in the chapter on surveillance.

“Hey, bro. I got to split,” I said, “I’ll explain later. It’s about Sweets, okay. Nice to see you Grace.” I pointed at Mario, “He’s a keeper.” I slipped the camera back in its case and followed Fournier into the herd of people. Behind me, I heard Mario cautioning me to be careful. Did he know something? I didn’t have time to find out.

Fournier maneuvered his way across the street toward the City Hall steps where he stopped to talk to one of the Brown Berets, a big guy I’d seen before, but couldn’t remember where. I snapped a photograph of them. It might come to me later. A loud crackling sound came from the podium speakers. Then a voice calling, “Testing, testing.”

“Little muddy at the bottom,” someone hollered.

More testing went on back and forth until there was a consensus that all was a go. The sun had dropped and flood lights were turned on. In the Bay Area, when the sun goes down, so does the temperature – rapidly. Through the soft twilight glow, I watched as Black Panthers’ Minister of Education Terrance Bowles appeared at the podium, and tapped the microphone. He called out to the crowd to settle down. Loud voices turned to hushed voices. All around me, people were holding burning candles. Bowles introduced the first speaker, Reverend Davis. As the old man stepped to the podium, an object flew out of the crowd and hit the preacher in the chest. From where I was standing I wasn’t sure what it was except that the reverend’s gray suit coat was covered in red goop. Not blood, Tomato, maybe. Next thing I knew, the air was filled with more flying objects. Miiiiinchia, one landed at my feet and splattered. Definitely a tomato. Another landed, did not break and rolled next to the guy standing to my right. An Heirloom. Pop’s heart would break at the sight of his favorite fruit being used as a missile. A barrage of tomatoes followed and other vegetables; celery, carrots, and potatoes filled the air. Damn, I thought, potatoes could do some damage if you got hit on the head with one. This was clearly an organized attack. Black Panthers and Brown Berets began pushing through the crowd of people, yelling into walkie-talkies. I pivoted in all directions, trying to spot the throwers. I thought of Dila, and bullied my way through the crowd to one of the cement lions guarding the city hall steps and swung up like a cowboy onto its back, trying to locate her in the middle of the growing chaos.

It was only a matter of time, I thought, before a fight would break out. Sure enough, right in front of me some dudes began punching each other. That started a chain reaction. Fucking Domino Effect. A couple of Panthers were hammering their way toward the fight, only to find their way blocked by another fight. Then, it became their fight.

From my saddle, I kept looking for Dila, but by now with the melee going full blast, it became increasingly difficult to identify anyone. I zeroed in on all the women with colorful turbans. Finally, above the noise of people screaming, I heard Police sirens. Strangely, as far as I could tell, there were no officers on the ground to help maintain order. At the start of the vigil there’d been plenty stationed in pairs around the perimeter of the area. Their absence now was peculiar, to say the least. I began snapping photographs. Other photographers were snapping shots. One reporter and his camera man were pushed to the ground by a guy in a black sweat suit who stomped on the camera. I yelled, “Hey,” and snapped his picture. He turned in my direction, but looked past me, to the top of the steps where, suddenly a troop of police officers in riot gear emerged from the entrance to City Hall. The hooded attacker whirled away and pushed into the turmoil, swinging his fists at anyone in his way. I spotted Dila. She was helping a group of older women inch their way up the stairs. I didn’t think she realized the police were poised to march down the stairs in her direction. I leaped from the back of the lion and bounded up the stairs two at a time, just as the phalanx of police, rifles at port-arms, began descending, a second line following the first, and a third on its heels.

Shit, shit, shit, I thought.

From the midst of the crowd, a shot rang out. What the fuck else could happen? I reached Dila, grabbed her arm, and hustled her down the stairs, her struggling all the way. Holding her tightly with one arm, I swung around behind the cement lion and pushed her to the ground then knelt beside her. She bucked and twisted, trying to get up.

“What the hell you doing, Victor?” she screamed. “Those are my sisters. I gotta help them.”

“You got to be safe. The cops are holding rifles if you didn’t notice, and there are people shooting.”

“We have weapons too,” she screamed.

“Are you nuts? Look what’s happening. No don’t look,” I said as she tried to rise. “It’s out of hand.”

It was. There was screaming and shooting and bullhorns blaring for people to disperse. Nobody, it seemed, was paying attention. I wondered where Mario and Grace were in this turmoil. The lines of cops kept slowly marching down the steps. They weren’t in any hurry, but they looked determined.

Shit like this was being played out in cities, big and small, all over the country. The anger on both sides was palpable. You could damn near taste it.

“No, you look,” Dila grabbed my arm. “I can’t stay here cowering behind a lion when I could be helping.”

“The cops were bearing down on you.”

“I know, I know. A couple of sisters were frozen with fear. I was trying to convince them to move to safety. Let me see what’s happening. Come on, you can take your hands off me. I promise I won’t run away.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, yeah. Ease up, Victor. You’re hurting me.”

I released her. Rising up, she pivoted and slammed into me, knocking me backwards into a row of prickly bushes. By the time I struggled to my feet, Dila Agbo had disappeared into the curtain of tear gas enveloping the collective madness. From behind the lion, I put a handkerchief over my nose and mouth and continued to take photographs of the Little Bobby Hutton Candlelight Vigil gone to riot. The phalanx of the police had reached the action and were now methodically and violently dispersing the crowd. The last photograph I took before I ran out of film was of two officers carrying Dila Agbo to a paddy wagon. Above the din, the loudspeaker continued to send forth the voices of a gospel choir singing:

Life will be pleasanter, sweeter,

Stony no longer the way;

Enter the fullness of favor,

Cross over Jordan today.