found the brake pedal. The old blue station wagon slowed, stopped.
The deputy sheriff’s car stopped behind it, the same way it had earlier that day. This time, though, the other two cars also stopped. The big black buck of a deputy sheriff got out of his car and strode up to the Ford wagon. “I thought you were going back to
Meridian if we let you out of jail.”
“We were,” Price answered.
“Well, you sure were taking the long way around. Get out of that car,” the deputy said. That was the last thing Cecil Price wanted to do. But he thought the deputy would shoot him and the two Black Muslims right there if they refused. Reluctantly, he obeyed. Perhaps even more reluctantly, Muhammad Shabazz and Tariq Abdul-Rashid followed him.
Men were also getting out of the two cars stopped behind the deputy’s. Price’s heart sank when he saw them. There was the Priest, all right, black as the ace of spades. And there were ten or twelve other Negroes with him. Price recognized some of them as BKV men. He didn’t know for sure that the others were, but what else would they be? Some had guns. Others carried crowbars or tire irons or Louisville Sluggers. They all wore rubber gloves so they wouldn’t leave fingerprints.
“You don’t want to do this,” Muhammad Shabazz said earnestly. “I’m telling you the truth—you don’t. It won’t get you what you think it will.”
“Shut the fuck up, you goddamn raghead race traitor.” The deputy sheriff’s voice was hard and cold as iron. “You get in the back of my car now, you hear?”
“What will you do to us?” Tariq Abdul-Rashid asked.
“Whatever it is, we’ll do it right here and right now if you don’t shut the fuck up and do like you’re told,” the deputy answered. “Now stop mouthing off and move, damn you.”
Numbly, as if caught in a bad dream, Cecil Price and his companions got into the back of the deputy sheriff’s car. A steel grating walled them off from the front seat. Neither back door had a lock or a door handle on the inside. Once you went in there, you stayed in there till somebody decided to let you out.
The deputy slid behind the wheel again. The men from the Black Knights of Voodoo got back into their cars, too. A couple of them aimed weapons at Cecil Price and the Black Muslims before they did. The deputy sheriff waved the BKV men away. “Not quite time yet,” he told them.
“This won’t help you. The country won’t be proud of you. They’ll go after you like you wouldn’t believe,” Muhammad Shabazz said. “If you hurt us, you help our side, and that’s nothing but the truth.”
“I don’t want to listen to your bullshit, you buckra-lovin’ raghead, and that’s nothin’ but the truth,” the deputy said. “So maybe you just better shut the fuck up.”
“Why? What difference does it make now?” the Black Muslim asked.
Instead of answering, the deputy sheriff put the car in gear. He made a Y-turn—the road was too narrow for a U—and swung back around the cars full of BKV men. Then he hit the brakes to wait while they turned around, too. Good cooperation in a bad cause , Cecil Price thought. If RACE members worked together as smoothly as these BKV bastards...
“All right,” the deputy muttered, and the black-and-white moved forward again. Now that he wasn’t chasing people at top speed, the deputy sheriff acted like a careful driver. He flicked the turn signal before making a left back onto Highway 19. Click! Click! Click! The sound seemed very loud inside the passenger compartment. What went through Price’s mind was, Measuring off the seconds left in my life .
As soon as the deputy finished the turn, of course, the clicking stopped. Price wished his mind had been going in some other direction a moment before. The deputy drove toward
Philadelphia for a minute or two, then used the turn signal again. Click! Click! Click! Cecil Price cherished and dreaded the sound of those passing seconds, both at the same
The deputy sheriff’s car stopped behind it, the same way it had earlier that day. This time, though, the other two cars also stopped. The big black buck of a deputy sheriff got out of his car and strode up to the Ford wagon. “I thought you were going back to
Meridian if we let you out of jail.”
“We were,” Price answered.
“Well, you sure were taking the long way around. Get out of that car,” the deputy said. That was the last thing Cecil Price wanted to do. But he thought the deputy would shoot him and the two Black Muslims right there if they refused. Reluctantly, he obeyed. Perhaps even more reluctantly, Muhammad Shabazz and Tariq Abdul-Rashid followed him.
Men were also getting out of the two cars stopped behind the deputy’s. Price’s heart sank when he saw them. There was the Priest, all right, black as the ace of spades. And there were ten or twelve other Negroes with him. Price recognized some of them as BKV men. He didn’t know for sure that the others were, but what else would they be? Some had guns. Others carried crowbars or tire irons or Louisville Sluggers. They all wore rubber gloves so they wouldn’t leave fingerprints.
“You don’t want to do this,” Muhammad Shabazz said earnestly. “I’m telling you the truth—you don’t. It won’t get you what you think it will.”
“Shut the fuck up, you goddamn raghead race traitor.” The deputy sheriff’s voice was hard and cold as iron. “You get in the back of my car now, you hear?”
“What will you do to us?” Tariq Abdul-Rashid asked.
“Whatever it is, we’ll do it right here and right now if you don’t shut the fuck up and do like you’re told,” the deputy answered. “Now stop mouthing off and move, damn you.”
Numbly, as if caught in a bad dream, Cecil Price and his companions got into the back of the deputy sheriff’s car. A steel grating walled them off from the front seat. Neither back door had a lock or a door handle on the inside. Once you went in there, you stayed in there till somebody decided to let you out.
The deputy slid behind the wheel again. The men from the Black Knights of Voodoo got back into their cars, too. A couple of them aimed weapons at Cecil Price and the Black Muslims before they did. The deputy sheriff waved the BKV men away. “Not quite time yet,” he told them.
“This won’t help you. The country won’t be proud of you. They’ll go after you like you wouldn’t believe,” Muhammad Shabazz said. “If you hurt us, you help our side, and that’s nothing but the truth.”
“I don’t want to listen to your bullshit, you buckra-lovin’ raghead, and that’s nothin’ but the truth,” the deputy said. “So maybe you just better shut the fuck up.”
“Why? What difference does it make now?” the Black Muslim asked.
Instead of answering, the deputy sheriff put the car in gear. He made a Y-turn—the road was too narrow for a U—and swung back around the cars full of BKV men. Then he hit the brakes to wait while they turned around, too. Good cooperation in a bad cause , Cecil Price thought. If RACE members worked together as smoothly as these BKV bastards...
“All right,” the deputy muttered, and the black-and-white moved forward again. Now that he wasn’t chasing people at top speed, the deputy sheriff acted like a careful driver. He flicked the turn signal before making a left back onto Highway 19. Click! Click! Click! The sound seemed very loud inside the passenger compartment. What went through Price’s mind was, Measuring off the seconds left in my life .
As soon as the deputy finished the turn, of course, the clicking stopped. Price wished his mind had been going in some other direction a moment before. The deputy drove toward
Philadelphia for a minute or two, then used the turn signal again. Click! Click! Click! Cecil Price cherished and dreaded the sound of those passing seconds, both at the same
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