“It’ll get attention all right,” I agreed. “Could get folks killed too.”
“Well, everything we take on could get us killed, Cassie. As you probably know, back in forty-seven when there was that interracial bus ride through part of the South—the Journey of Reconciliation, it was called—those riders were arrested; some even served on chain gangs. Back then, we pretty much only had radios and newspapers and word of mouth about things. Now we’ve got television and we’ve got national networks following what’s happening. This time if we start this, it will have to be more than just one bus that comes down here. There’ll have to be bus after bus, buses that keep on coming so people don’t just go and dismiss it. Buses have to keep coming until things get changed, just like the students sitting in at the lunch counters have to keep on doing what they’re doing. One sit-in wouldn’t have done it, but now we’re beginning to see some change. If the bus rides come about, all we’ll be doing is forcing the federal government to enforce the laws already on the books and override the state laws preventing integrated seating and putting colored folks at the back of the bus. And if we do this thing, lawyers like you’ll be needed. If these riders don’t get killed, they will get jailed.”
“And you expect me to come back down here to help take care of that?”
“You could do that . . . or if you’re really brave, you could ride one of the buses yourself. In fact, I recommend it.”
I stared at him. “You plan to ride one?”
“Now, what kind of journalist would I be if I didn’t take the ride at least once? Course now, I’d be scared shitless, but if I’m telling other people to do it, I can’t hardly not do it myself, can I?” He leaned toward me and spoke close to my ear. “We need to do this thing, Cassie. You need to ride too. You need to be on the bus.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
I figured Solomon was right. I figured Rie was right too in what she had said about all of us needing to be in the fight. Stacey and I at Rie’s age would have taken on the fight. There was that much anger in us, that much that needed to be done. I thought about all the times I had put my pride aside, had tolerated the insults of whites, had been denied the rights all the white folks had just because of the color of my skin. I thought often of the time Charlie Simms had shoved me off the sidewalk in Strawberry when I was nine years old. I thought often of when we were on the road to Memphis to take Moe to the train to escape Mississippi and how I wanted to use the restroom at a gas station, a restroom for white women. I thought often of how I was so frightened by white men when they saw me standing in front of that restroom door that I fled in fear, slipped, and fell into the mud. I thought often of the white children taunting us as their school bus passed by my brothers and me, splashing muddy water over us, and how we had to scamper up the banks of the roadside to avoid being soaked. I thought often about all the insults, about all the days of humiliation. Every colored person in the South, every colored person in Mississippi, had memories of humiliation and anger.
Rie was definitely right. If I were her age, I would go join the fight. But I wasn’t her age any longer. Neither were Stacey, Christopher-John, or Little Man. My brothers had their families to look after. They couldn’t just take off and go south to sit-ins and demonstrations. As for me, I had my job and all my legal responsibilities—not the same as family, but still a responsibility. So I sent money instead to the organizations fighting the fight, NAACP and CORE and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. I watched the daily news, saw the students and the arrests, listened to Rie when she called, harbored my guilt for not being there too, and stayed on in Boston.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“You’re looking mighty comfortable,” Guy said as he stopped in the hallway outside my open office door.
I laughed. I was seated at my desk with my feet propped upon it as I perused a stack of papers. My office was no larger than a sizeable broom closet, with only room enough for a desk, two file cabinets, two straight-back wooden chairs in front of the desk, a swivel wooden chair at the desk, and a narrow space for people to walk in and sit. There were no windows. I didn’t feel bad about the office. Everyone low in the office hierarchy had similar offices, even Guy, although his office did have windows. I took my feet from the desk and said, “Come in.”
Guy entered smiling and sat down on the edge of the desk. He was dressed in jeans and a shirt. I was dressed in jeans too. It was a Saturday and the office was closed. Everyone who came to do catch-up work dressed casually. There were usually only low-level people in the office on Saturday, none of the brass, so everything was more relaxed. During the week, when a professional appearance was required, I wore clothing more suitable for my position. There were two other women attorneys in the firm and they always wore suits. I chose to be different. I wore dresses, mostly A-line cuts. I had a couple of jackets that matched the dresses very nicely in case a more formal look was needed. The pumps I wore were practical for long standing or walking and were never flashy. Whenever I saw shoes or clothes I liked, I bought two or more in the same style, but different colors. That way I didn’t have to go shopping for a while. I hated shopping. Because I didn’t like dressing up, as soon as the workday was done, I slipped into a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting top and flat shoes. I felt more comfortable that way.
I tossed a set of papers to Guy. “Take a look and tell me what you think.” It was a case about a colored woman who had been forcedly removed from a white doctor’s office by the medical staff and had suffered injuries during the removal. The reason given for the removal was that the woman had no appointment and had become belligerent when she was told she had to leave. The woman said she had made an appointment over the phone, that her voice had not been recognized as being Negro, and the address she had given was in a white neighborhood. She believed she was denied the appointment because she was colored. There had been only white patients in the doctor’s waiting room. All medical complaints involving colored people and white doctors caught my eye, and I worked them all pro bono.
Guy read through the papers. “Obviously, there’s a strong case here. The woman needs to sue. But tell me, Cassie, are you billing for any of this, or is this another one of your pro bono causes?”
“Does this woman look as if she has any money to pay me or anybody else? We go to the same church, so she came to me. This case is personal to me, Guy.”
“All your pro bono cases are.”
“Well, some of the things in this case are similar to things that happened to me. I plan to win this one.”
Guy handed back the papers. “My dad and my uncle aren’t going to like this, all these pro bono cases of yours.”
“It’s a Saturday and I’m on my own time.”
“In the law firm’s office.”