Split Second

The third home she went to was a modest structure but neat, set back from the road. Loretta Baldwin was waiting for Michelle on the wide porch. Baldwin was a slender African American of sixty-plus years with high, pointed cheekbones, an expressive mouth and steel-rimmed spectacles that magnified her darting and energetic brown eyes. She sat ramrod straight in her chair and had a way of looking one over without seeming to that any Secret Service agent would be proud of, Michelle observed. Her hands were long and heavily veined. When the two women shook hands, there was such strength in the older woman's grip that it took the athletic Michelle by surprise. Michelle sat in the rocker next to Loretta's and accepted the glass of iced tea the woman offered.

"This film you doing, sweetie, we talking big or small?"

"It's a documentary, so small."

"So I guess no juicy part for me."

"Well, if your interview makes the cut, then yes, you'll be in it.We'll come back and film you at that point. I'm just doing preliminary research now."

"No, honey, I mean is this a paid engagement?"

"Oh, no, no it's not. Limited budget."

"Too bad. Not too many jobs 'round here, you see."

"I expect not."

"Not used to be that way."

"Like when the hotel was open?"

Baldwin nodded and rocked slowly in the gathering breeze. The weather had turned chilly, and Michelle wished more for a hot cup of coffee than a glass of iced tea.

"Who you talked to so far?" When Michelle told her, Baldwin smiled and then chuckled. "Them gals have no clue, you understand me, no clue about nothing. Did little Miss Julie tell you she was there when Martin Luther King Jr. was shot?"

"Yes, she mentioned that. She actually looked a little young for that."

"I'll say. She knows Martin Luther King like I know the pope."

"So what can you tell me about that day at the hotel?"

"A day like any other. Except we knew he was coming, of course. I mean Clyde Ritter. I knew about him, from the TV and all, and I read my newspaper, every day I do. The man's thinking was more in line with George Wallace before he found the light, but he seemed to be doing okay, which tells you all you need to know about this country." Then she stared at Michelle, a look of mirth in her eye. "Is your memory that good? Or maybe I ain't saying nothing you think is important enough to write down."

Michelle started and then pulled out a notepad and began scribbling. She also set a small recorder down on the table next to the woman. "Do you mind?"

"Hell no. Anybody sues me I ain't got no money. See, that's the poor person's best insurance policy: no assets."

"What were you doing that day?"

"Just like any other day, cleaning rooms."

"Which floor did you have?"

"Floors. Always had people calling in sick. Most time I had two floors all by myself. Had it that day, second and third. By the time I finished, seemed like it was time to start over again."

Michelle tensed at this. King had stayed on the third floor. "So you weren't on the main floor when the shooting occurred?"

"Now, did I say that?"

Michelle looked confused. "But you said you were cleaning."

"Is there a law against coming down and seeing what all the hoopla was about?"

"Were you in the room where the shooting happened?"

"I was right outside the door. There was a supply closet down that hall, and I had to get some things, you understand." Michelle nodded. "Management didn't like us maids to show ourselves in the main area, you see. Like they don't want the guests to know we're even there. Now, how do they think the place stays clean, you see my point?" Yes, Michelle said, she did. "Well, the room where Ritter was shot was called the Stonewall Jackson Room. It's not like down here we have us any Abraham Lincoln or Ulysses S. Grant Rooms."

"I can understand that."

"Well, I poked my head in and I saw that man shaking hands and talking real slick and smooth and his eyes would hold anybody's he was talking to. I read where he was a TV preacher too. I could see how that man could get dollars and votes, yes indeed. He just had that way. But from a person of color's perspective I think Clyde Ritter was right at home in the Stonewall Jackson Room and was probably sleeping in the Jefferson Davis Penthouse Suite and loving that too, and damn if he was going to get my vote."

"I can understand that too. Besides Ritter, did you notice anyone else?"

"I remember a police officer blocking the doorway. I had to kindof look around him. I could see Ritter like I said, and there was the man behind him, real close."

"Secret Service. Agent Sean King."

Baldwin stared hard at her. "That's right. You say that like you know the man."

"Never met him. But I've been doing a lot of research."

Baldwin ran her gaze up and down Michelle, a scrutiny that made the younger woman finally blush. "You got no ring on your finger. What, are you telling me there ain't any eligible men that would appreciate a beautiful young thing like you?"

Michelle smiled. "I keep really crazy hours. Guys don't like that."