will dodge and weave and avoid the question. They will tell you that the Constitution is the province of the Supreme Court. They will tell you anything that avoids a commitment to take the words out—to remove the offending language.”
The chorus of “Take it out” starts again.
“Some of them will tell you, ‘NO, leave it there as a historic relic, as a reminder of what white masters did to their black slaves.’ But the permanent and enduring stigma of these words, the offense that they carry, is deep!” says Scarborough.
“Ask yourselves…ask yourselves why these ploys on language, these aging, offensive euphemisms, have not been removed? They will pull down the Confederate flag, but they won’t remove this from your own Constitution? It says ‘We the People,’ but the words remain offensive,” he says.
The chant starts up again, but Scarborough shouts over the top of it.
“Can they sweep it under the table as the founders did?”
“NO!” The entire audience is on its feet now, hands cupped to mouths, clenched fists pumping on the ends of raised arms.
“Because I will tell you something more. I will give you another document, a document that the world has never seen, a secret letter written in the hand not of one of the founders but the founder, confirming the darkest deal in American history. If you want to see the originalsin of slavery unmasked at its inception, evidenced in the handwritten words of God himself, then wait for the sequel,” says Scarborough.
Tumultuous cheers, diagonal blue lines across the screen, as the video ends.
Less than twenty-four hours after Scarborough’s speech, a rally in downtown Chicago, demanding action to remove the words of slavery from the Constitution, turned violent when police moved in and clashed with demonstrators.
The next day the national media picked up snippets of Scarborough’s speech, and like a trail of gunpowder, flashes of violent confrontation followed his book tour across the country as sales of the book exploded.
“My question is, how did the guy live so long?” says Harry. “If I talked like that, I’d have blown a fuse years ago. And how did he get so close to the Supreme Court?”
“Did he?”
“That’s certainly the image he projected,” says Harry. “The ultimate in-the-know Court watcher.”
“Maybe it was just that, an image,” I tell him.
Scarborough had argued a single case before the Supreme Court almost ten years ago now and won, not a landmark decision by any stretch. He had coupled this with an uncanny ability to hang on the social fringes of the Court and get his picture taken.
It was rumored in his earlier career that he coveted a spot on the Court for himself. However, given the passion of his politics and its public airing, he had little chance of being nominated and none whatever of being confirmed in the Senate. Some might argue that bitterness over this only drove him to further excess.
Harry and I look through a number of film clips, mostly interviews of Scarborough on his most recent book tour. The screen flickers between clips, and another face appears, a different venue this time.
“This is what I was telling you about,” says Harry. “This is Scarborough’s literary agent.” Harry looks at his notes. “Guy named Richard Bonguard.”
The other image on the screen is familiar to anyone who has ever turned on a television set, Jay Leno.
“This was two days after the murder,” says Harry. “Scarborough was supposed to appear with Leno that night, the night he was killed. From what I was told, the agent filled in.”
The interview is somber, not the usual fare for Leno. There is a text bar under the picture, AUTHOR MURDERED .
Leno: “So you two guys knew each other a long time? Not just an agent, you were his friend, right?”
Bonguard: “That’s right.”
Leno: “You have our sympathy. We really appreciate you taking the time to come in here and talk with us. It can’t be easy.
The chorus of “Take it out” starts again.
“Some of them will tell you, ‘NO, leave it there as a historic relic, as a reminder of what white masters did to their black slaves.’ But the permanent and enduring stigma of these words, the offense that they carry, is deep!” says Scarborough.
“Ask yourselves…ask yourselves why these ploys on language, these aging, offensive euphemisms, have not been removed? They will pull down the Confederate flag, but they won’t remove this from your own Constitution? It says ‘We the People,’ but the words remain offensive,” he says.
The chant starts up again, but Scarborough shouts over the top of it.
“Can they sweep it under the table as the founders did?”
“NO!” The entire audience is on its feet now, hands cupped to mouths, clenched fists pumping on the ends of raised arms.
“Because I will tell you something more. I will give you another document, a document that the world has never seen, a secret letter written in the hand not of one of the founders but the founder, confirming the darkest deal in American history. If you want to see the originalsin of slavery unmasked at its inception, evidenced in the handwritten words of God himself, then wait for the sequel,” says Scarborough.
Tumultuous cheers, diagonal blue lines across the screen, as the video ends.
Less than twenty-four hours after Scarborough’s speech, a rally in downtown Chicago, demanding action to remove the words of slavery from the Constitution, turned violent when police moved in and clashed with demonstrators.
The next day the national media picked up snippets of Scarborough’s speech, and like a trail of gunpowder, flashes of violent confrontation followed his book tour across the country as sales of the book exploded.
“My question is, how did the guy live so long?” says Harry. “If I talked like that, I’d have blown a fuse years ago. And how did he get so close to the Supreme Court?”
“Did he?”
“That’s certainly the image he projected,” says Harry. “The ultimate in-the-know Court watcher.”
“Maybe it was just that, an image,” I tell him.
Scarborough had argued a single case before the Supreme Court almost ten years ago now and won, not a landmark decision by any stretch. He had coupled this with an uncanny ability to hang on the social fringes of the Court and get his picture taken.
It was rumored in his earlier career that he coveted a spot on the Court for himself. However, given the passion of his politics and its public airing, he had little chance of being nominated and none whatever of being confirmed in the Senate. Some might argue that bitterness over this only drove him to further excess.
Harry and I look through a number of film clips, mostly interviews of Scarborough on his most recent book tour. The screen flickers between clips, and another face appears, a different venue this time.
“This is what I was telling you about,” says Harry. “This is Scarborough’s literary agent.” Harry looks at his notes. “Guy named Richard Bonguard.”
The other image on the screen is familiar to anyone who has ever turned on a television set, Jay Leno.
“This was two days after the murder,” says Harry. “Scarborough was supposed to appear with Leno that night, the night he was killed. From what I was told, the agent filled in.”
The interview is somber, not the usual fare for Leno. There is a text bar under the picture, AUTHOR MURDERED .
Leno: “So you two guys knew each other a long time? Not just an agent, you were his friend, right?”
Bonguard: “That’s right.”
Leno: “You have our sympathy. We really appreciate you taking the time to come in here and talk with us. It can’t be easy.
Similar Books
