The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone 13)

y clucked.

“Lieutenant Malone—” Nate said.

“Cotton. Please. You make me feel old.”

“That’s an old southern nickname. How’d you get it?”

“It’s a story too long to tell right now. I’m more interested in why you’re here.”

He seemed a little taken aback by my inquiry, but in my newfound state of justifiable paranoia I wanted to know.

“That’s real simple, Cotton. My family owns this house.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Why are you here?”

“He’s the one who ratted me out to my father,” Coleen said. “That’s how he knew to come. Nate was to meet me here tomorrow.”

“Lucky for us all,” Foster said. “we came early.”

I doubted luck had much to do with any of that.

“I came to read Valdez’s files,” Nate said. “I understand you have them.”

I ignored the observation and gave the room a once-over, noticing the light, airy furniture and white-pine-paneled walls, which you didn’t see much of anymore. Everything seemed appropriate and in its place. Even Benjamin Foster, who stood with his shoes unscuffed, suit unrumpled, the shirt and bow tie as crisp as when he’d put them on this morning.

I allowed Nate’s declaration about the files to hang in the air and, staring at Foster, I imagined his index finger wagging at me like a metronome.

I heard again what he’d whispered to me outside.

Before we entered.

This house could be bugged. Careful with your words.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

My thoughts raced but held no form.

To my tired senses, the revelation that the house might be under electronic surveillance dragged behind me like a lure for hounds. Was Foster serious? Or just trying to rattle me? How would he even know such a thing? And if so, why didn’t he want anyone else to be alerted to the fact? Stephanie’s silence and Jansen’s duplicity were one thing. But this guy was quite another. I definitely had my hands in more than one cookie jar.

Which wasn’t good.

Particularly given that I wasn’t a fan of cookies.

“We want to read those files,” Nate said again. “I know people who would love to know what they say.”

“What people?” I asked.

“Nate was involved with King v. Jowers,” Coleen said.

I knew about the case, which had made the news last December. A civil action filed by the heirs of Martin Luther King Jr. against a man named Loyd Jowers. It started when Jowers appeared on television and openly claimed to have been part of a conspiracy to kill King that involved both the government and organized crime. He owned a restaurant just below the rooming house from which James Earl Ray supposedly fired his shot. But according to Jowers, Ray was not the triggerman. Instead, Jowers claimed to have hired a Memphis police officer to fire the fatal shot. Jowers was supposedly paid $100,000 for the effort by a friend in the mafia. Why was never explained, and conveniently that friend had since died. He then spiced things up by claiming that the government played a big part, alleging that a special forces team also had been dispatched to Memphis to kill King.

But Jowers beat them to it.

The whole story stretched beyond the fantastical.

Still, the King family seized the opportunity to finally have a public airing of their doubts and sued Jowers in Memphis civil court for wrongful death.

“The whole trial was a joke,” Nate said. “There was four weeks of testimony. Seventy-plus witnesses. Jowers took the Fifth when he testified, but his lawyer conveniently stipulated that all of his previous comments to the media could be admitted as evidence. What lawyer in his right mind would do that? The Memphis DA had already said that he had no intention of reopening the assassination case, so Jowers could lie away without fear of any consequences. You can count on one hand the number of times anyone objected to anything. It was a scripted show designed to air out a preestablished point of view. Nothing adversarial about it. The King family believes there was a government conspiracy. They think James Earl Ray is innocent. A patsy. So that’s what the evidence showed. In the end the jury did their part, finding unanimously that Jowers killed King as part of a conspiracy that involved not only other people, but also the government.”

“The family went before the cameras afterward,” Coleen said, “and told the world, See, we were right. Ray didn’t pull the trigger. It was a conspiracy. But that trial proved nothing.”

Foster stood quiet during the discussion. I glanced his way and asked, “Is that your opinion? Was that case a joke?”

“Jowers was an opportunist, looking to sell his story for money. The jury’s verdict merely provided him with much-needed credibility. It upped the price for his story. Thankfully, he died a month ago and will not profit from his nonsense.”

I heard what they were all saying. Trials only worked if there were two opposing sides, each presenting a differing view of the facts in an adversarial way, which an impartial jury would then decide between. Collusion produced nothing but what the colluders wanted you to hear, the verdict inevitable unless the jury saw through the subterfuge.

“I was there,” Nate said. “The judge and the jurors constantly fell asleep. Hell, I had a hard time staying awake myself. It was all a rubber stamp on the King family’s belief that there was a government conspiracy.”

“Tell us about Juan Carlos Valdez,” Coleen asked her father. “And those files I went to the Dry Tortugas to get.”

“I should have never spoken to you about anything,” Foster said.

“What did you expect me to do?” she asked. “Just forget about it?”

Foster’s warning that the house might be bugged again rang through my brain. Which made me wonder. Was he playing to the gallery? Had the guy back in the cemetery been right and Foster wanted Jansen and company to find him?

“Valdez contacted me,” Foster said. “Not you. You should have respected my privacy instead of listening in on my calls and searching my house.”

I knew what he meant. “Where did the coin come from?”

“I stole it a long time ago.”

“That’s all he ever says,” Coleen said. “From what I’ve read it may be the last 1933 Double Eagle outside a museum. And my father stole it, then hid it in a drawer. Bullshit.”

Nate faced his father-in-law. “Why are you the only one allowed to know the truth?”

They all waited for more.

But Foster seemed off in another place.

“I was there,” he finally said. “None of you saw what I saw. Felt what I felt. When I rushed up those stairs to the balcony, it was like the world had come to an end.”

The hole in King’s right jaw was the size of a fist. Blood poured out in rapid spurts soaking both King’s clothes and the balcony’s concrete. He was still alive, but his breathing seemed labored. He tried to speak, but no words would form.

“It’s all right,” Abernathy told King. “Don’t worry. This is Ralph. Can you hear me? Are you in pain?”

No reply.

King’s skin had turned ashen and seemed clammy and cold. He stared off into the sky, seeing nothing, but perhaps everything. Andy Young and Jesse Jackson had finally rushed up the stairs, too. A Memphis policeman appeared with a towel, which he wrapped around the wound to try to check the bleeding.

Young pressed for a pulse and shook his head. “Ralph, it’s all over.”

“Don’t say that,” Abernathy screamed.

Someone brought out one of the hotel bedspreads and covered King. Not as a corpse, but still as a living being. Chaos exploded below. People appeared from their rooms, most crying, praying, and cursing. There were wails, pleas, and accusations. Firemen and helmeted police arrived with weapons drawn.

“Where did the shot come from?” one of the cops yelled up.

Those standing watch over their leader—Young, Abernathy, and the others—all pointed toward the northwest, across the street, past a bushy knoll,

at a two-story, brick rooming house. A photographer below captured the moment as their index fingers extended outward.

A siren could finally be heard and an ambulance arrived.

By 6:15 King made it to the hospital.

Fourteen minutes had elapsed since the shooting. He was taken straight into an operating room, his clothing quickly cut away.

The massive wound was no longer bleeding.

“Me and Ralph,” Foster said, “watched as they tried to save him. But the whole side of his face was gone. They kept telling us to leave, but Ralph made it clear that we were staying. By now he didn’t trust anybody, especially white people.”

A thoracic surgeon, heart surgeon, pulmonary specialist, renal specialist, and several general surgeons came.

But the neurosurgeon made the call.

The bullet had damaged the jugular vein and windpipe, severing the spinal cord, then shattering into pieces when it ricocheted off the vertebrae, finally embedding in the left shoulder blade. A lot of important nerves had been irrevocably severed.

“He’s alive, but barely. It would be a blessing if he did go. The spine is cut and there is awful brain damage. He could only survive in a vegetative state. He’s permanently paralyzed from the neck down.”

A respirator kept forcing air into the lungs.

Monitors showed a weak heartbeat.

The doctors decided to try a cardiac massage and a shot of adrenaline. But neither had any effect. Finally, the monitors showed no heart function.

Abernathy walked to the table and cradled his old friend in his arms.

They’d been together a long time.

King’s inhales grew farther apart.

Then stopped.

At 7:05 P.M., sixty-four minutes after being shot, Martin Luther King Jr. died.

“We just stood there,” Foster said. “Ralph kept holding him. I bowed my head and prayed. But our dear friend, our leader, was gone.”