no less. Sadness for sure, right there on the front page. Never thought I’d see such a thing again. No, sir. Didn’t think I’d see it again. Not in my hometown.”
I unfold the paper. The large font headline reads: AFRICAN AMERICAN FOUND LYNCHED.
An elderly African American man was found hanging from a rope tied to a light post at NW Third and Couch Street early this morning, according to Portland Police Spokesperson Darryl Anderson. An early morning jogger found the body. Anderson says foul play is suspected in the hanging. There are no suspects at this time, and the name of the victim is being withheld until notification of next of kin.
It must have happened right at press time because the piece is short but definitely not sweet.
“What have the follow-up stories said,” I ask.
“The po-lice aren’t sayin’ much. Must be gettin’ their ducks in a row or somethin’. Yesterday they didn’t say his name, only they thought he was in his seventies. Po-lice got no suspects, or least they aren’t sayin’. I think it’s ‘cause it’s sensitive, you know. Some folks had a rally outside the downtown po-lice station last night demanding to know what’s goin’ on.”
I refold the paper. This is going to be huge. I know the local press and every other major news organization across the country, and probably every black church, black community leader, and civil rights organization are swamping the PD with calls right now.
“The shit’s about to hit the fan,” the cabbie says. I nod, looking out the side window. When I look back toward the front, I see the cabbie’s eyes studying me in the mirror. “You’re a po-liceman, right?”
Oh man. I’m back in Portland less than an hour and I’m recognized. It’s been almost two months since my mug was splashed all over the bloodthirsty news and everyone wanted to kick my butt, and I was hoping being out of sight meant I’d be out of mind. Guess not. I look out the side window again and wait for him to order me out of his cab.
“Yes, sir. I thought it was you when you walked up to my cab. I got an eye and a memory for faces. Recognized you from the TV news. I’m a news junkie, you know.” I keep looking out the window. “Remembered your physique too. You must be a lifter.” Out of the corner of my eye I see him look back at my arms. I’m wearing a dark blue polo shirt. “Lordy,” he says, shaking his head.
We ride in silence for half a minute, and I can feel him looking at me through his rearview mirror.
“Hey, man. The shit hit the fan for you didn’t it? Lots of people sayin’ bad stuff about the po-lice when you killed the little boy. Me, I wasn’t one of them. I saw a lot of shit in ‘Nam and I got a cousin back in Baltimore who’s on the PD—city cop. I know personally how somethin’ can go down and how it can turn to shit in a quick hurry.”
He doesn’t say anything for a minute, which I’m thinking is hard for him to do. I look toward the rearview mirror, and into his eyes.
“Yes, sir. Everybody says I talk too much, especially my wife. Guess I do. But do you mind if I say something—just a little worthless advice from a man who’s been where you are. For me it was during the war, a short ways outside of the city you just visited.”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty tired. Actually, I’m very tired.”
“Just a quick comment, sir. For what it’s worth, that’s all. My sweet mama, God rest her soul, used to say to me and my six sisters, ‘If God sends us on strong paths, we are provided strong shoes.’” He shakes his head and does the loud guffaw again. “I was barefoot for a while after I come home, yes sir. Then I found me some strong shoes.” He looks into my eyes. “I’ve been driving a cab for thirty years and I know how to read people, probably better than some of these shrinks getting a hundred dollars an hour. I can tell you’re a good man. I wish you luck, brother.”
“What’s your name?” We’re on the freeway now, heading west toward the city. “Rudolph Abraham Lincoln, the third. I go by Rudy.”
“Well, thank you, Rudy,” I say softly. “I’m Sam. You’re very kind.”
“You are most welcome, Sam. Mind if I ask you your take on this lynching?”
“I don’t have one yet. I’ve only been back an hour and just now read this. My educated guess is if the perp isn’t apprehended quickly things are going to get bad. And if it turns out to be racially motivated, things are going to get even worse.”
“Yes, sir. I hear you.”
“It’s fastest if you take the Forty-Seventh Street exit and head south … Oh, sorry. I guess if you’ve been driving for thirty years you know your way around.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, taking the exit. “Tell me, there been many crimes like this lately? They call ‘em hate crimes, don’t they? Were you on the department when all the skinhead nonsense was going on in the early nineties?”
“Came on in ninety-five, but I know what you’re referring to. There were lots of hate crimes back then. Of late, I don’t know. I was off for nearly two months. Kinda kept my head buried in the sand for a while, plus I’ve been in Saigon for the last several days. I haven’t a clue as to what’s happening.”
My cell rings. It’s Mark.
“Mark! What’s going on? I landed at five and called you several—”
“Sam …” Voice weak, strained.
“Mark? What is it?”
Long pause—ragged breathing.
“Mark? What’s going on? Are you okay?”
His words come in a nonstop rush. “David and I were attacked. We were just sitting by the river and he’s unconscious. I’m okay. We’re at Emanuel Hospital can you come here?”
* * *
Rudy could easily be a Saigon cab driver. I ask him to take me to Emanuel Hospital as quickly as he can, and he pulls a one-eighty so fast, if my seatbelt wasn’t fastened, I would have been thrown against the door. We’re heading south on Northeast Thirty-Third now and breaking multiple traffic laws. I’m glad I didn’t say “really fast.”
I ask Mark what happened and all he says is they got jumped by several people, and beaten. He barely manages to say it before erupting into a coughing fit, followed by a lot of moaning. I tell him to stop talking. I’m on my way.
Mark is a tough guy. Almost thirty years as a cop, a hardcore jogger, bicyclist, and swimmer. He competed in Hawaii’s Iron Man event at the age of fifty-two. He’s fifty-eight now and still fit and strong. David is a dentist and trains just as hard on the same three events. None of those things makes them fighters, but it does give them an edge over a pot-bellied couch potato. How could this have happened?
Mark has always been a good friend but I had strained that bond. Just before I left for Saigon, I had been swept into actions in Portland that while in defense of my family’s lives and my own, were nonetheless illegal. I didn’t tell anyone, but Mark is a good cop and he guessed I was somehow involved. I should have trusted him and told him. Instead I had lied to him, lied by omission, anyway. He called me in Saigon and we worked it out. It’s still not over but I’m relieved Mark and I are back on solid ground.
