Alex Cross’s Trial

“I appreciate that,” Du Bois said.

“We’re not asking for public displays any more than you are,” said Wells-Barnett, warming to the discussion. “As you recall, sir, when you invited Booker Washington to dine at the White House, it caused a political headache for you and accomplished absolutely nothing for the cause of colored people.”

“Booker T. Washington is the whitest black man I know,” grumbled Du Bois.

Roosevelt sat ramrod straight in a large leather armchair. Jackson Hensen loomed over a tiny French desk in the corner, taking down in shorthand everything that was said.

“Mr. Roosevelt, let me put this as simply as possible,” said Wells-Barnett. “What we have at the present time is an epidemic of lynching in the South. The problem is getting worse, not better.”

Jackson Hensen decided to speak up.

It was an unfortunate decision.

“I understand what you are saying, Mrs. Wells, Professor Du Bois,” he said carefully. “But at the same time you are telling us these terrible stories of lynching, we have it on excellent authority that there is also an epidemic of white women being raped and molested by Negroes all over the South. I’ve seen the numbers. The crime of rape is at least as prevalent as the crime of lynching, is it not?”

“That simply isn’t true, young man.” Du Bois’s voice was an ominous rumble. “I don’t know where you’re getting that insidious, completely inaccurate information.”

Wells-Barnett interrupted. “Just this morning, Senator Morgan was telling people in the lobby of this hotel that he intends to repeal the antilynching laws now in effect.”

Jackson Hensen made a skeptical sound. “With all respect, Mrs. Wells-Barnett, I seriously doubt Morgan can muster the votes to do such a thing.”

Then Du Bois: “I disagree, young man. I disagree-vehemently!”

“That’s enough!” said the president. He got to his feet and paced the floor behind his desk. “I’ve heard enough of this squabbling. I am determined to get to the bottom of the problem. And I will!”

The president’s flash of anger silenced everyone. They all stared at him dumbly: the combative Du Bois, the passionate Wells-Barnett, the young and arrogant Hensen.

Now Roosevelt spoke, quietly and with purpose. “At this very moment I have sent a personal envoy to the Deep South on a dangerous mission, to investigate this entire question of lynching. He is a man I trust,” Roosevelt continued. “A native of those parts. I have connected him with certain others who can show him the situation from all sides. I haven’t told you his name because I’d rather this situation remain confidential until he’s done his job. And then I will do whatever I deem necessary to remedy the tragic situation in the South.”

Ida Wells-Barnett rose from the sofa. “Thank you, Mr. President. I gladly tell anyone who asks that you are the best friend the Negro has had in this office since Mr. Lincoln.”

Roosevelt shook her hand enthusiastically.

Du Bois was forced by Mrs. Wells-Barnett’s action to rise from the sofa and offer his own hand. “Thank you, Mr. President,” he said.

“Yes. Thank you, sir.” The president shook his hand. “Let’s hope we can make progress on this.”

“I’ve been hoping for progress all my life,” Du Bois said.

Roosevelt kept the fixed smile on his face until the two were out of the room. Then he frowned and uttered an epithet.

“Sir?” said Hensen.

“You heard what I said.”

“Is there something I should do about this?”

“Get a message to Abraham Cross. Tell him I want a report from him and Ben Corbett immediately-if not sooner.”

Chapter 49

I WENT DOWN to Young’s Hardware-the only such store in town-and bought myself a bicycle. Then I wheeled my purchase out into the hot sun. The machine was a beautiful silvery blue, with pneumatic tires to smooth out the bumps and ruts of Eudora’s dirt streets.

I took my maiden voyage on my new machine out to the Quarters, to see Abraham Cross.

On this day Abraham and I did not head for the swamp. We rode his mules along the Jackson & Northern tracks, then turned east on the Union Church Road. This was fine open ground, vast flat fields that had been putting out prodigious quantities of cotton for generations.

Every mile or so we encountered a clump of trees surrounding a fine old plantation house. These plantations had been the center of Eudora’s wealth, the reason for its existence, since the first slaves were brought in to clear the trees from these fields.

“You don’t mean they lynched somebody right out here in the open?” I said.

“You stick with me,” Abraham said, “and I’ll show you things that’ll make your fine blond hair fall out.”

At that moment we were riding past River Oak, the Mc-Kenna family plantation. In the field to our left about thirty Negro workers were bent over under the hot sun, dragging the cloth sacks that billowed out behind them as they moved down the row, picking cotton.