The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(93)

“In January of ’68, Martin told Coretta about his love affairs. She’d always known in her heart, even before the FBI sent those tapes to their house three years before, that he’d wandered from the marriage. They’d been steadily growing apart. What many never realized, for all his progressiveness on race, was that Martin was a chauvinist at home. He thought a woman’s place was raising children. Coretta desired a more active role. She wanted to be out on the road with him. He lived in the spotlight, which to a degree she resented. Money was also an issue. He took little salary from the SCLC and accepted no gifts of cash from anyone. He even donated the $54,000 he won for the Nobel Peace Prize to civil rights groups. She wanted it kept as a college fund for their children. They never took a family vacation and rarely went out socially together. His life was the movement, but the movement was leaving him behind.”

I’d never heard these details before on King.

“When we first met you asked me what Martin was like. I told you fiery, with an ego. He liked recognition, adulation, and respect. That’s all true. I remember in early ’68 when a Gallup poll showed that he was no longer in the top ten of admired Americans. That hurt him deeply. By then, SCLC fund-raising was dropping because of his antiwar stance. Universities began to withdraw their lecture invitations. No publisher was eager to sign on with him. Above all, the civil rights movement had split into two factions. One that favored civil disobedience and nonviolence, the other pushing for more militant acts. It hurt to his core that violence was winning out. By the time we arrived in Memphis on April 3, 1968, Martin was politically dead.”

I pointed at the tape recorder. “What is this?”

“In a moment,” Foster said. “You must understand some things first.”

I nodded, conceding that this was his show.

“You heard on the cassette tape when I told Jansen about the March 30 meeting in Atlanta of the SCLC leadership. Everyone was there. Tempers flared. Martin wanted to go back to Memphis, then on to the DC Poor People’s March. Everyone else favored another course. He stormed from the building, angry, more so than I’ve ever seen. A few hours later he called and said he was going to come by my house. He came, and we spoke for about an hour. He brought a recorder and taped every word.”

A tight feeling grabbed my throat.

“He wanted there to be no questions. No misunderstandings. He assumed my house was not being bugged, and it wasn’t.” He pointed at the machine. “This is the original tape from that day.”

He sat at the table.

I did, too.





Chapter Fifty-eight


King: Ben, it’s been a year since I stood in the pulpit of the Riverside Church and denounced the war. Three-quarters of America now thinks I was wrong to do that. Nearly 60 percent of Negroes agree with them.

Foster: When have you ever been motivated by public opinion? This whole movement runs counter to everything popular in this country.

King: “You’re a preacher, not a politician. Don’t overstep.” “You’re a Nobel laureate with opinions on race relations that people all over the world listen to.” “A leader of your people.” “Why risk all that by taking a stand on an issue that is irrelevant to your purpose.” Those are the questions I’ve been asked over and over.

[PAUSE]

King: For the past year, I’ve asked myself the same questions. Was I wrong, Ben? Did all common sense leave me? With all my being I believe the war is wrong. It would have been a sin to remain silent. The worst part, though, is how the war protests have nearly all turned violent. I understand why that has happened. Frustration has brought forth an idea that the solution resides in violence. I simply cannot get across to those young people that I embrace everything they feel. It’s just tactics we can’t agree on. I feel their rage, their pain. But the system is choking them, and us, to death.

Foster: It can’t be the entire system. Parts have worked in our favor. The other parts you can fix.

King: No. I can’t. I’ve tried and look where we are. The reality is we live in a failed system. Capitalism will never permit an even flow of economic resources. A privileged few will be rich beyond conscience, and almost all others are doomed to be poor at some level.

Foster: But we’ve had successes. Desegregation is happening.

King: I’ve come to believe that we are integrating into a burning house.

Foster: What would you have us do?

King: It’s time, Ben, we become firemen.

[PAUSE]

Foster: No. No. Not that.

King: We’ve talked about this at length. You knew this day would come.

Foster: I’m not going there.

King: Ben, it’s vitally important you listen to me. Don’t you think I’ve considered this in every way possible? I’ve thought of little else these past few months. Can’t you see how hard this is for me? And don’t forget, it’s not you who’s going to die.

Foster: It doesn’t have to be you, either.

King: There is no other way. You’ve seen what we’re facing. The SCLC is in peril. I want to keep going, stay the course, go back to Memphis, take a stand on poverty. All of my aides, my associates, my friends, they all have a different opinion. Even you have doubts. There was a time when none of you would challenge me. Not anymore. I’m smart enough to see that the world has changed.