'Did you ever eat it?'
The black airman looked surprised, then shook his head.
'I collected it once or twice, tried to figure out a way of cooking it, but same as everybody else, it was just too damn disgusting.'
'But you got the ration, right?'
'Yes.'
Tommy nodded.
'Hugh,' he said slowly.
'Take a couple of cigarettes and go out and see if you can't find someone with some of the sausage. The worst, foulest, most repulsive log of German blood sausage you can find, and make a trade for it.
Bring it back here. I've got an idea.'
Hugh looked confused, then shrugged.
'Whatever you say,' he said.
'Although I think you've gone bloody daft.' He patted his blouse to make sure he had some smokes and headed out into the corridor.
As soon as the door shut. Tommy turned to Lincoln Scott.
'All right,' he said.
'Hugh makes good sense. If you have no objection, I think now's the time to stop playing by their rules.'
Scott hesitated before nodding.
Colonel MacNamara reminded Lieutenant Murphy that he was still under oath as the flier resumed his seat in the center of the makeshift courtroom and the morning session was set to get under way. Everyone was in the same position as the day before, defense, prosecution, hundreds of kriegies jamming the seats and aisles, Visser and the stenographer in their customary corner, and the stiff-faced tribunal watching over all of it.
Murphy nodded, squirmed once in his seat, trying to get comfortable, then waited for Tommy Hart to approach with a small, anticipatory smile on his face.
'Springfield, Massachusetts, correct?'
'That's right,' Murphy replied.
'Born and raised.'
'And you say you worked alongside Negroes?'
'Right, again.'
'On a daily basis?'
'Daily, yes sir.'
'And what sort of business was this?'
'My family were part owners of a meat processing plant, Mr. Hart. A small, local plant, but we had contracts for numerous restaurants and schools in the city.'
Tommy thought for a moment, then continued slowly.
'Meat processing? Like steaks and chops?'
Murphy grinned.
'Yes sir. Steaks so thick and tender you didn't need no knife to cut them. Porterhouse and sirloin, even filet mignon'-he pronounced it fee lit migg-non- 'chops that taste sweet almost like candy. Lamb chops. Pork chops. And hamburger, finest in the state, without a doubt.
Man, what I wouldn't give for one of those right about now, cooked on an outdoor fire…'
The entire theater both laughed and groaned at the airman's words. A ripple of talk went through the room, all variations on the same, as one man whispered to the next, 'What I wouldn't do for a rib eye steak, grilled with onions and mushrooms…'
Tommy let the laughter subside. He wore a small, crooked smile of his own.
'Meat processing can be a pretty foul business, can't it, lieutenant? I mean, slaughtered animals, guts, blood, shit, and fur. Got to get rid of all that waste, just leave the good parts behind, correct?'
'That's the game, lieutenant.'
'Getting rid of all that foul, disgusting stuff, that's where the
Negroes worked, right, lieutenant? They didn't have the well-paying jobs, did they, these Negroes you worked with?
They were the people who took care of the mess, right? The mess that the white men didn't want to deal with.'
Murphy hesitated, then shrugged.
'That's the jobs they seemed to want.'
'Sure,' Tommy replied.
'Why would anyone want something better?'
Lieutenant Murphy didn't answer this question. The courtroom had once again quieted.
Tommy moved about in front of Lieutenant Murphy, pacing in a small circle, first turning his back on the man, then suddenly pivoting to face him. Every motion he made, Tommy thought, was designed to unsettle the man.
'Tell me. Lieutenant Murphy, who is Frederick Douglass?'
Murphy thought hard for a moment, then shook his head.
'I'm not sure. Isn't he a general on Ike's staff?'
'No. Actually,' Tommy said slowly, 'he was a longtime resident of your state.'
'Never heard of him.'
'That doesn't surprise me.'
Walker Townsend rose to his feet.
'Your Honor,' he said with a tone of exasperated impatience.
'I fail to see what is the point of this cross-examination. Lieutenant
Hart has yet to ask the witness about the gentleman's trial testimony.
He complained of history lessons yesterday offered by the prosecution, and yet returns today with some question about a man who died decades ago-' 'Colonel, it was the prosecution that made the point about Lieutenant Murphy's racial 'enlightenment.' I'm only following up on that.'
MacNamara scowled, then said, 'I will permit these questions as long as you hurry up and make your point, lieutenant.'
Tommy nodded. At the defense table, Lincoln Scott whispered to Hugh
Renaday, 'There's one of the bones tossed in our direction.'
Pausing for just an instant. Tommy turned back toward Murphy, who again shifted in his seat.
'Who is Crispus Attucks, lieutenant?'
'Who?'
'Crispus Attucks.'
'Never heard the name. Another Massachusetts man?'
Tommy smiled.
'Good guess, lieutenant. Now, you say you are not a bigot, sir, but you cannot identify the Negro who died at the infamous Boston Massacre, and whose sacrifice was celebrated by our founding fathers at that pivotal moment in our nation's history? Nor do you recognize the name of Frederick Douglass, the great abolitionist, many of whose writings were committed to print in your fair state.'
Murphy stared angrily at Tommy but did not reply.
'History wasn't my best subject in school,' he said bitterly.
'Obviously. Now, I wonder what else you don't know about Negroes.'
'I know what I heard Scott say,' Murphy spat out sharply.
'And that's a whole damn sight more important than some history lesson.'
Tommy hesitated, and nodded.
