”My friend’s gonna be a little late,“ Quentin Avery says by way of greeting. ”My apologies, gentlemen.“
I imagined that he would speak precisely, the way so many black leaders of his generation strived to do. But Quentin Avery seems to have retained his Southern accent. His rich baritone rumbling in the lazy drawl of a manservant has probably caused many an opposing lawyer-not to mention judges-to underestimate him over the years. I offer him my hand.
”Penn Cage, Professor.“
Avery smiles an easy smile, then takes my hand in a grip of steel. ”Just plain Quentin works for me. Mind if I sit down? My foot may be gone, but it still throbs something terrible on occasion.“
”Take the couch, Quentin,“ says my father, coming around his desk. ”Penn, you sit back here. I’d love to hear this, but I’ve got patients to see. I’ll kick you out if I need to.“
”Thank you, Tom,“ Avery says, settling into the leather sofa opposite Dad’s desk.
I sit behind the desk and wait for the legend to speak.
”Your father told me a little about your problem,“ he says. ”And based on what he said, I have a good lawyer in mind. Local, too, though not female. Black lady lawyers are still in short supply in Mississippi. But my protege is tied up downtown. Why don’t you tell me a little more about your case? I ought to be able to tell you whether he can help you or not.“
As I summarize the events of the past few days, Quentin Avery watches me with eyes that miss nothing. I tell him about Drew finding Kate’s body, the anal sex angle, the blackmailer, Cyrus White, even the nude photos in the cell phone. Now and then Avery’s eyes narrow or his lower lip pushes out, but he doesn’t break my flow with a single question. I suspect he’s learning as much about the situation by the way I describe it as he is from the facts. I conclude my briefing by telling about the witness coming forward and placing Drew’s car in the vacant lot near the creek. The only detail I omit is Jenny Townsend leaving Kate’s private effects with me. Until I know that Quentin Avery’s ”protege“ intends to handle Drew’s defense, I can’t afford for anyone to know that shoe box exists.
”So, what do you think?“ I ask.
Avery sighs thoughtfully. ”I can tell you’re worried for your friend.“
I nod assent.
”You’re right to look for another lawyer for him. You have no business handling this case.“
He seems to be waiting to see if this offends me. It doesn’t.
”You’re way too close to your client. The man saved your life. You played on the same athletic teams for years. From what you’ve told me about him, Dr. Elliott is a larger-than-life kind of man. A hero, in some ways. That’s why it’s so hard for you to accept that he killed her.“
I open my mouth to argue, but Avery holds up a hand that could easily palm a basketball. ”I’m not saying he did it, Penn. But somewhere down deep in your soul, you’re afraid that he did.“
I remain silent, but my opinion of Quentin Avery’s instincts just went up.
”I don’t care whether he killed that poor child or not,“ Avery goes on. ”And it’s critical that his lawyer be just as detached. That’s the only way he can defend Elliott to the best of his ability. You know that, of course. It’s just tough to remember when you’re that close to a defendant.“
”You’re right. What do you think about the facts?“
”Facts?“ Avery snorts. ”What facts? The police haven’t even found the crime scene yet. Everything the D.A. has is circumstantial, and most of that doesn’t point to murder. Now, I’m not saying that the evidence he does have wouldn’t predispose a jury against Dr. Elliott. A Mississippi jury hears everything you’ve told me? They’re surely going to believe he could have done it. And if they find out Dr. Elliott was down in that creek with his hands on her dead body, they’re gonna vote guilty.
”That’s a pretty tall order, it seems to me.“
Quentin nods. ”Even if that other semen sample matches Cyrus’s DNA, all you’ve done is prove that Cyrus had sex with her.“ He sniffs and gives me a little smile. ”Of course, the jury’s gonna make all the difference in this trial. White folks are gonna come on preconditioned to believe that a depraved nigger dope dealer wouldn’t hesitate to rape and kill a tasty young thing like Kate Townsend. Black jurors will feel exactly the opposite. Odds are, you’ll get a racially mixed jury. That’s good for Dr. Elliott, because this is capital murder. All it takes to acquit is
For the first time in days, I feel a surge of real hope. ”I feel stupid for sounding so pessimistic. I think it’s because I know that the D.A., the sheriff, and the judge are so dead set on convicting Drew.“
Avery nods sagely. ”Cause for concern. And to tell you the truth, that’s why I was willing to get involved in this case.“
”I don’t understand.“
”Shad Johnson,“ he says with obvious distaste.
”Do you know him?“
”We’ve met a few times. I know his people.“
”I think he’s dangerous. Not only to Dr. Elliott, but to every black man, woman, and child in this town.“
I’m dumbstruck. ”What do you mean?“
”There’s a crisis in black leadership in this country, Penn. The leaders of my era are relics of another age. A lost age, I’m sorry to say. Martin, Malcolm X…Fannie Lou Hamer, Medgar…they’re dead as the dinosaurs. You’ve basically got three types of black leaders today. There’s the managerial type, who pretends race isn’t even an issue. He wants a large white constituency, but he also wants to keep the loyal blacks behind him. He’s pragmatic-and not a bad leader-but he tends to suppress the best type by claiming that going mainstream is the only solution for blacks. Then you have your black protest leader. He’s black, loud, and proud. He casts himself in the image of Malcolm and Martin, but deep down he’s nothing like them. He uses the ideals of those great leaders only to get what he really wants: personal status and power. Marion Barry, Al Sharpton, Louis Farrakhan-the list is endless. They’re flashy, flowery, and dangerous. They deceive the mass of black Americans by tapping into their emotions, but they use that support only in service of egotistical ends. You won’t see these men wearing the simple black suits and plain white shirts that Martin and Malcolm wore. They want to be players, and they love dressing the part. True protest leaders are humble men, Penn. They value wisdom, not media consultants.“
”That sounds a bit like Shad Johnson, but not completely.“
”Shad is schizophrenic,“ says Quentin Avery. ”He began as the first type, but failure has pushed him into becoming the second.“
I’m about to ask what the third type of black leader is when Quentin says, ”Shad actually despises his own people. Did you know that? Not all of them, but the ones who most need help. He blames them for their own misfortunes, just like white racists do.“
I nod. ”I’ve heard Shad speak disparagingly of local blacks. He actually used the term ‘bone-dumb bluegums’ in front of me once.“
Quentin bends over to rub his phantom foot. ”That doesn’t surprise me at all. There’s a lot of self-hatred at the root of that language. He’s anti-Semitic, too. He maintains close ties with Louis Farrakhan. It’s sad to see in a man of Shad’s intellectual gifts.“
”Are you all right?“ I ask, as Avery seems to be in some distress.
”I’m fine. Damn diabetes.“ He straightens up. ”The thing is, Penn, to be a genuine black leader, you’ve got to love that lazy, weak-minded brother fishing on the highway bridge with a cane pole in the middle of the workday. If you don’t, you ain’t gonna help nobody.“
I remain silent, trying to decide if I agree with him.
”It’s like Jesus,“ Avery muses. ”Jesus loved the harlot and the sinner. You want to save a whole people, you got to start at the bottom, not in the king’s antechamber. Or in the mayor’s office, as it were.“
Does Avery know that Shad has his eye on the mayor’s office again? ”What’s the third type of black leader?“
A look of regret settles into the lawyer’s face. ”The prophetic leader. That’s Martin, Malcolm…Ella Baker. Or James Baldwin, in the intellectual sphere. Jesse Jackson’s the only recent political leader who had an opportunity to
