[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
two thousand dollars. If those of you that can afford it give a little more,
well, then that s all for the better.
Because you mark my words: it is not just one man who is facing a false
trial. It is a way of life. It is our way of life, our beliefs, our faith, our
futures that will be on trial in that courtroom. The Reverend Aaron Faulkner
represents us all, and if he falls, then we fall with him. God is with us. God
will give us strength. Hail Victory! Hail Victory!
The chant was taken up by the crowd as men moved among them with buckets,
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collecting donations. I saw the odd ten or five slipped in, but most gave
twenties, even fifties or hundreds. At a conservative estimate, I reckoned
Bowen s work this afternoon had probably made three thousand dollars.
According to that day s paper, which had carried some advance coverage of the
rally, Bowen s people had been working flat out since shortly after Faulkner s
arrest, encouraging everything from yard sales and bakeoffs to a draw for a
new Dodge truck donated by a sympathetic auto dealer, with thousands of
tickets already sold at twenty dollars a pop. Bowen had even succeeded in
galvanizing into action those who would not usually have been drawn to his
cause, the vast constituency of the faithful who saw in Faulkner a man of God
being persecuted for beliefs that were similar, if not identical, to their
own. Bowen had taken Faulkner s arrest and approaching trial and made it a
matter of faith and goodness, a battle between those who feared and loved the
Lord and those who had turned their backs on him. When the subject of violence
was raised Bowen usually skirted the issue, arguing that Faulkner s message
was pure and that he could not be held accountable for the actions of others,
even if those actions were justified in many cases. Racist insults would be
kept for the old guard and for those occasions where TV cameras and
microphones were absent or forbidden. Today, he was preaching to the new
converts and those who had yet to be converted.
Bowen stepped from the stage and people moved forward to shake his hand. Just
inside the gate, two trestle tables had been set up so that the women behind
them could display the items they had brought for sale: Johnny Reb flags, Nazi
battle flags decorated with eagles and swastikas, bumper stickers announcing
that the driver was WHITE BY BIRTH, SOUTHERN BY GRACE. There were also
cassettes and CDs of country and western music, although I figured that they
weren t the kind Louis would have wanted in his collection. Pretty soon, the
two women were doing steady business.
A man appeared at my side. He wore a dark suit over a white shirt, with a
baseball cap perched incongruously on his head. His skin was reddish purple,
and peeling badly. Clumps of fair hair hung on grimly to his skull like sparse
vegetation on a hostile landscape. Shades concealed his eyes. I could see an
earpiece in his left ear, connected to a unit at his belt. Immediately, I felt
uneasy. Maybe it was the strangeness of his appearance, but there was a sense
of unreality about him. There was also a smell emanating from him, like the
odor left after an oil fire has been extinguished.
He smelled of slow burning.
Mr. Bowen would like to talk to you, he said.
It was the Ramones, I said. On the CD player. I ll make him a copy if he d
like it.
He didn t blink.
Like I said, Mr. Bowen wants to talk to you.
I shrugged and followed him through the crowd. Bowen had almost finished
glad-handing the troops, and as I watched, he stepped behind the truck to a
small area enclosed by a white tarp that stretched from the bed of the truck.
Beneath it were chairs, a portable a/c unit, and a table with a cooler on top.
I was shown through to Bowen, who sat in one of the chairs sipping from a can
of Pepsi. The cap-wearing man stayed but the other people bustling outside
moved away to give us some privacy. Bowen offered me a drink. I declined.
We didn t expect to see you down here today, Mr. Parker, he said. You
considering joining our cause?
I don t see much of one, I said, unless you call hustling rednecks for
dimes a cause.
Bowen exchanged a look of mock disappointment with the other man. There was
blood in Bowen s eyes. Although he was ostensibly in charge, he appeared to
defer to the man in the suit. Even his posture suggested that he was somehow
afraid of him, his body turned slightly away from the other man, his head
lowered. He looked like a cowering dog.
I should have introduced you, he said. Mr. Parker, this is Mr. Kittim.
Sooner or later, Mr. Kittim is going to teach you a harsh lesson.
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Kittim removed his sunglasses. The eyes revealed were empty and green, like
raw, flawed emeralds.
Forgive me if I don t shake hands, I said to him. You look like bits of you
might start to drop off.
Kittim didn t react, but the smell of oil grew stronger. Even Bowen s nose
wrinkled slightly.
Bowen finished his cola and tossed it in the garbage bag.
Why are you here, Mr. Parker? If I was to get up on that stage and announce
to the crowd who you are, I think your chances of getting back to Charleston
unscathed would be very slim.
Maybe I should have been surprised that Bowen knew that I was staying in
Charleston, but I wasn t.
Keeping track of my movements, Bowen? I m flattered. By the way, it s not a
stage. It s a truck. Don t get above yourself. You want to tell the morons who
I am, go right ahead. The TV cameras will eat it up. As for why I m here, I
wanted to take a look at you, see if you re really as dumb as you seem to be.
Why am I dumb?
Because you re aligning yourself with Faulkner, and if you were smart you d
see that he s crazy, even crazier than your friend here.
Bowen s eyes flicked toward the other man. I don t think Mr. Kittim is
crazy, he said. The words left a sour taste in his mouth. I could see it in
the curl of his lips. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl aikidobyd.xlx.pl
two thousand dollars. If those of you that can afford it give a little more,
well, then that s all for the better.
Because you mark my words: it is not just one man who is facing a false
trial. It is a way of life. It is our way of life, our beliefs, our faith, our
futures that will be on trial in that courtroom. The Reverend Aaron Faulkner
represents us all, and if he falls, then we fall with him. God is with us. God
will give us strength. Hail Victory! Hail Victory!
The chant was taken up by the crowd as men moved among them with buckets,
Page 121
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
collecting donations. I saw the odd ten or five slipped in, but most gave
twenties, even fifties or hundreds. At a conservative estimate, I reckoned
Bowen s work this afternoon had probably made three thousand dollars.
According to that day s paper, which had carried some advance coverage of the
rally, Bowen s people had been working flat out since shortly after Faulkner s
arrest, encouraging everything from yard sales and bakeoffs to a draw for a
new Dodge truck donated by a sympathetic auto dealer, with thousands of
tickets already sold at twenty dollars a pop. Bowen had even succeeded in
galvanizing into action those who would not usually have been drawn to his
cause, the vast constituency of the faithful who saw in Faulkner a man of God
being persecuted for beliefs that were similar, if not identical, to their
own. Bowen had taken Faulkner s arrest and approaching trial and made it a
matter of faith and goodness, a battle between those who feared and loved the
Lord and those who had turned their backs on him. When the subject of violence
was raised Bowen usually skirted the issue, arguing that Faulkner s message
was pure and that he could not be held accountable for the actions of others,
even if those actions were justified in many cases. Racist insults would be
kept for the old guard and for those occasions where TV cameras and
microphones were absent or forbidden. Today, he was preaching to the new
converts and those who had yet to be converted.
Bowen stepped from the stage and people moved forward to shake his hand. Just
inside the gate, two trestle tables had been set up so that the women behind
them could display the items they had brought for sale: Johnny Reb flags, Nazi
battle flags decorated with eagles and swastikas, bumper stickers announcing
that the driver was WHITE BY BIRTH, SOUTHERN BY GRACE. There were also
cassettes and CDs of country and western music, although I figured that they
weren t the kind Louis would have wanted in his collection. Pretty soon, the
two women were doing steady business.
A man appeared at my side. He wore a dark suit over a white shirt, with a
baseball cap perched incongruously on his head. His skin was reddish purple,
and peeling badly. Clumps of fair hair hung on grimly to his skull like sparse
vegetation on a hostile landscape. Shades concealed his eyes. I could see an
earpiece in his left ear, connected to a unit at his belt. Immediately, I felt
uneasy. Maybe it was the strangeness of his appearance, but there was a sense
of unreality about him. There was also a smell emanating from him, like the
odor left after an oil fire has been extinguished.
He smelled of slow burning.
Mr. Bowen would like to talk to you, he said.
It was the Ramones, I said. On the CD player. I ll make him a copy if he d
like it.
He didn t blink.
Like I said, Mr. Bowen wants to talk to you.
I shrugged and followed him through the crowd. Bowen had almost finished
glad-handing the troops, and as I watched, he stepped behind the truck to a
small area enclosed by a white tarp that stretched from the bed of the truck.
Beneath it were chairs, a portable a/c unit, and a table with a cooler on top.
I was shown through to Bowen, who sat in one of the chairs sipping from a can
of Pepsi. The cap-wearing man stayed but the other people bustling outside
moved away to give us some privacy. Bowen offered me a drink. I declined.
We didn t expect to see you down here today, Mr. Parker, he said. You
considering joining our cause?
I don t see much of one, I said, unless you call hustling rednecks for
dimes a cause.
Bowen exchanged a look of mock disappointment with the other man. There was
blood in Bowen s eyes. Although he was ostensibly in charge, he appeared to
defer to the man in the suit. Even his posture suggested that he was somehow
afraid of him, his body turned slightly away from the other man, his head
lowered. He looked like a cowering dog.
I should have introduced you, he said. Mr. Parker, this is Mr. Kittim.
Sooner or later, Mr. Kittim is going to teach you a harsh lesson.
Page 122
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Kittim removed his sunglasses. The eyes revealed were empty and green, like
raw, flawed emeralds.
Forgive me if I don t shake hands, I said to him. You look like bits of you
might start to drop off.
Kittim didn t react, but the smell of oil grew stronger. Even Bowen s nose
wrinkled slightly.
Bowen finished his cola and tossed it in the garbage bag.
Why are you here, Mr. Parker? If I was to get up on that stage and announce
to the crowd who you are, I think your chances of getting back to Charleston
unscathed would be very slim.
Maybe I should have been surprised that Bowen knew that I was staying in
Charleston, but I wasn t.
Keeping track of my movements, Bowen? I m flattered. By the way, it s not a
stage. It s a truck. Don t get above yourself. You want to tell the morons who
I am, go right ahead. The TV cameras will eat it up. As for why I m here, I
wanted to take a look at you, see if you re really as dumb as you seem to be.
Why am I dumb?
Because you re aligning yourself with Faulkner, and if you were smart you d
see that he s crazy, even crazier than your friend here.
Bowen s eyes flicked toward the other man. I don t think Mr. Kittim is
crazy, he said. The words left a sour taste in his mouth. I could see it in
the curl of his lips. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]