A.K. straightened indignantly. “Me? You asking if I did it? You think I’d do a thing like that?”
“Didn’t think you’d tear up a graveyard neither,” Daddy said mildly.
“There!” said Andrew. “Now you see what I mean? Once you lose your good name, you don’t get it back just because you say you’re sorry.”
April nudged him with the toe of her sneaker and he subsided.
“Who did most of the spray-painting at the graveyard?” I asked A.K. “Raymond or Charles?”
“They was both about equal.” (“Were both,” April murmured.) “Why?”
“Because there was writing at the church, too, and it looks like the same sort of printing as was on the Crocker grave-stones,” I said.
“Well, it won’t me,” he said huffily. “Wasn’t me,” he added before April could correct him.
8
A man’s heart deviseth the way,
But the Lord directeth his steps.
—Riverview Methodist
The fire—now called the “burning”—made the late news that night. It also led the seven o’clock news the next morning as I was stoically resisting Aunt Zell’s hot buttered biscuits and breakfasting on an unbuttered English muffin and black coffee. (If they don’t hurry up and finish my house, I’m not going to fit through the door frame.)
Not surprisingly, every channel carried a call for federal investigators by a certain leading black activist, North Carolina’s answer to Jesse Jackson. Wallace Adderly had put himself in the news so much that most people were familiar with the sketchy outlines of his history.
Born on the wrong side of the river in Wilmington, Wallace Adderly joined NOISE (the National Organization In Search of Equality) in the late sixties when membership was both politically effective and majorly cool. NOISE was a splinter group of the Student Non-Violent Coordination Committee and was less violent than the Black Panthers, but more confrontational than CORE (Congress for Racial Equality). He and his cohorts crisscrossed the South, popping up in odd places to encourage voter registration drives, to protest unsafe working conditions, to harass segregated hotels and restaurants. Early on, he was charged with leading an unsanctioned protest march that turned into a riot. The judge offered to dismiss the case if he’d resign from NOISE.
“I’ll quit NOISE the day you quit Willow Lodge,” Adderly said defiantly, naming the segregated country club that was the stronghold of white male privilege in Wilmington.
The judge slapped him with contempt of court.
Sometime in the mid-seventies though, Adderly grew disillusioned with the NOISE leadership. On his own, he abruptly dropped out and, in his words, turned bourgeois, graduating cum laude from UNC-Wilmington. He ranked first in his law class at NC Central and aced the state bar exam on his first try.
Not that he automatically got his license to practice right away.
In view of his clashes with the law during his activist days, the board of examiners felt duty bound to conduct a hearing on his moral fitness. I’ve heard that certain Republican attorneys tried to influence the board to withhold his license because of his prison record, but the board ruled that most of his jail time stemmed from sassing judges and that the rest had been imposed for his attempts to eradicate racial discrimination. Two days after gaining his license, he opened a practice down in Wilmington.
Only he doesn’t always stay in Wilmington.
Turning “bourgeois” has made him comfortably middle class but it hasn’t banked his fires. He still does a lot of pro bonos and whenever a high-profile case with racist implications rears its head anywhere in the state, a call goes out for Wallace Adderly. At forty-something, he’s telegenic, quick-witted and politically savvy, and there are many who thought he should be running against Jesse Helms this time instead of Harvey Gantt.
That’s why I wasn’t surprised to see his face on every news channel that morning. The burning of a black church made it more than a local crime and the larger issues it symbolized would move it out of our local jurisdiction. I knew I’d soon be seeing some of my ATF pals on TV as well.
DA Douglas Woodall was shown on the scene and his voice was serious as he assured Channel 11’s Greg Barnes, “Our office is going to look very closely at all surrounding circumstances.”
Doug never overlooks any circumstances—or angles either, for that matter. The assistant he’d chosen to accompany him out to Balm of Gilead this morning was Cyl DeGraffenried, very photogenic and very black.
Sheriff Bo Poole was out there, too, with both black deputies, and he promised his department’s full cooperation, “But, Greg, I’d like to caution everybody about jumping to conclusions. We should remember that the preliminary findings of the president’s task force on church arsons indicate that most of these fires are set by individuals acting alone and not by members of hate groups.”
“Hate is hate, whether expressed by a group or an individual acting alone,” said Wallace Adderly, “and whatever the motive, it’s a black congregation hurting out here this morning.”
Channel 5 had obtained a copy of the amateur videotape I saw being filmed last night. It was fuzzy and the bright flames washed out a lot of details. You could make out a swastika and two K’s, but the letters looked black against the fire, not the green I knew them to be.
This morning, there was only the stump of the utility pole, smoldering ashes and twisted tin. Up above in the background, you could see the cars on I-40 slow down to rubberneck at the two news vans parked down by the dead end. Channel 11’s cameras panned around the grounds, lingering on some of the black faces fixed in pain and anger, then stopped on the Reverend Ralph Freeman.
When asked to speculate about the mindset of the arsonist, he shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m too new to this community to know who the haters are. What lifts my spirits are the offers of help that are already pouring in, the support of the good people in this area.”
The camera caught Cyl DeGraffenried off guard with one eyebrow skeptically raised.
“Oh, look,” said Aunt Zell. “Isn’t that Frances Turner’s boy Donny?”
I know the Turners only by name, but as the camera panned across the official faces, I caught a glimpse of a stocky young white man and recognized him from last night.
“He’s the one who carried out the pulpit on his shoulder,” I said, pouring myself another cup of coffee as the station went to a commercial for orange juice.
“Oh, he’s strong all right.” Aunt Zell held out her own cup and I topped it for her. “They used to call him Tank when he was a little boy.”
“He’s still a tank,” I said. “He hoisted that pulpit as if it was a chair.”
“Frances says he works out with weights down at the fire station. It’s really good of so many young men to give up their free time like that, don’t you think? It just goes to show you, doesn’t it?”
“Doesn’t what?” I asked, not following her.
“The Turner boy. When you think of how prejudiced he is.”
“Is he?”
“Frances says ever since high school when he lost a wrestling championship because the black boy he was wrestling with cheated. Or so he told Frances. Of course, Frances—she’s a little prejudiced, too, though she claims not to be. But prejudiced or not, Donny did do what he could last night to save a black church, didn’t he?”
I nodded.
“Just goes to prove how bigotry can fly out the window when people need help. Shows real dedication to a higher ideal, don’t you think? But Frances, she worries he’s so dedicated he doesn’t have time for girlfriends.”
This from my aunt who’s active in at least a half-dozen volunteer organizations and still manages to find lots of time to keep Uncle Ash happy.