Jeffery Deaver - The Twelfth Card

· The crime, as reported in Coloreds’ Weekly Illustrated :

· Charles arrested by Det. William Simms for stealing large sum from Freedmen’s Trust in NY. Broke into the trust’s safe, witnesses saw him leave shortly after. His tools were found nearby. Most money was recovered. He was sentenced to five years in prison. No information about him after sentencing. Believed to have used his connections with early civil rights leaders to gain access to the trust.

· Charles’s correspondence:

· Letter 1, to wife: Re: Draft Riots in 1863, great anti-black sentiment throughout NY state, lynchings, arson. Risk to property owned by blacks.

· Letter 2, to wife: Charles at Battle of Appomattox at end of Civil War.

· Letter 3, to wife: Involved in civil rights movement. Threatened for this work. Troubled by his secret.

In the 1920s the New Negro Movement, later called the Harlem Renaissance, erupted in New York City.

It involved an astonishing group of thinkers, artists, musicians and – mostly – writers who approached their art by looking at black life not from the viewpoint of white America but from their own perspective. This groundbreaking movement included men and women like the intellectuals Marcus Garvey and W. E. B. DuBois, writers like Zora Neale Hurston, Claude McKay and Countee Cullen, painters like William H. Johnson and John T. Biggers, and, of course, the musicians who provided the timeless sound track to it all, people like Duke Ellington, Josephine Baker, W. C. Handy, Eubie Blake.

In such a pantheon of brilliance, it was hard for any single artist’s voice to stand out, but if anyone’s did, it would perhaps be that of poet and novelist Langston Hughes, whose voice and message were typified by his simple words: What happens to a dream deferred?/Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?…Or does it explode?

Many memorials to Hughes exist throughout the country, but certainly one of the biggest and most dynamic, and probably the one he’d have been most proud of, was an old, redbrick, four-story building in Harlem, located near Lennox Terrace on 135th Street.

Like all city schools, Langston Hughes High had its problems. It was continually overcrowded and underfunded and struggled desperately to get and retain good teachers – and to keep students in class as well. It suffered from low graduation rates, violence in the halls, drugs, gangs, teen pregnancy and truancy. Still, the school had produced graduates who’d gone on to become lawyers, successful businessmen and -women, doctors, scientists, writers, dancers and musicians, politicians, professors. It had winning varsity teams, dozens of scholastic societies and arts clubs.

But for Geneva Settle, Langston Hughes High was more than these stats. It was the hub of her salvation, an island of comfort. As she saw the dirty brick walls come into view now, the fear and anxiety that had swarmed around her since the terrible incident at the museum that morning diminished considerably.

Detective Bell parked his car and, after he’d looked around for threats, they climbed out. He nodded toward a street corner and said to that young officer, Mr. Pulaski, “You wait out here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Geneva added to the detective, “You can wait here too, you want.”

He chuckled. “I’ll just come hang out with you for a bit, you don’t mind. Well, okay, I can see you do mind. But I think I’ll come along anyway.” He buttoned his jacket to hide his guns. “Nobody’ll pay me any mind.” He held up the social studies book.

Not answering, Geneva grimaced and they proceeded to the school. At the metal detector the girl showed her ID and Detective Bell subtly flashed his wallet and was let around the side of the device. It was just before fifth period, which started at 11:37, and the halls were crowded, kids milling around, heading for the cafeteria or out to the school yard or onto the street for fast food. There was joking, dissing, flirting, making out. A fight or two. Chaos reigned.

“It’s my lunch period,” she called over the din. “I’ll go to the cafeteria and study. It’s this way.”

Three of her friends came up fast, Ramona, Challette, Janet. They fell into step beside her. They were smart girls, like her. Pleasant, never caused any trouble, on scholarship tracks. Yet – or maybe because of this – they weren’t particularly tight; none of them really just hung out. They’d go home after class, practice Suzuki violin or piano, volunteer for literacy groups or work on the spelling bee or Westinghouse science competitions, and, of course, study. Academics meant solitude. (Part of Geneva actually envied the school’s other cliques, like the gangsta girls, the blingstas, the jock-girls and the Angela Davis activist sistas.) But now these three were fluttering around her like best homegirls, huddling close, peppering her with questions. Did he touch you? You see his dick? Was he hard? D’you see the guy got capped? How close were you?

They’d all heard – from kids who came in late, or kids cutting class and watching TV. Even though the stories hadn’t mentioned Geneva by name, everybody knew she was at the center of the incident, thanks probably to Keesh.

Marella – a track star and fellow junior – walked by, saying, “What up, girlfriend? You down?”

“Yeah, I’m cool.”

The tall classmate squinted at Detective Bell and asked her, “Why’s a cop carrying yo’ book, Gen?”

“Ask him.”

The policeman laughed uneasily.

Fronting you’re a teacher. Hey, that’s def…

Keesha Scott, clustered with her sister and some of her blingsta homegirls, gave Geneva a theatrical double-take. “Girl, you wack bitch,” she shouted. “Somebody give you a pass, you take a pass. Coulda kicked back, watched the soaps.” Grinned, nodded at the lunchroom. “Catch you later.”

Some of the students weren’t as kind. Halfway to the lunchroom, she heard a boy’s voice, “Yo, yo, it the Fox News bitch with the cracker over there. She still alive?”

“Thought somebody clip that ’ho.”

“Fuck, that debbie be too skinny to hit with anything but a breakdown.”

Raucous laughter erupted.

Detective Bell whirled around but the young men who’d called out those words disappeared in a sea of sweats and sports jerseys, baggy jeans and cargo pants and bare heads – hats being forbidden in the halls of Langston Hughes.

“It’s okay,” Geneva said, her jaw set, looking down. “Some of them, they don’t like it when you take school seriously, you know. Raising the curve.” She’d been student of the month a number of times and had a perfect attendance award for both of her prior years here. She was regularly on the principal’s honor roll, with her 98 percent average, and had been inducted into the National Honor Society at the formal ceremony last spring. “Doesn’t matter.”

Even the vicious insult of “blondie” or “debbie” – a black girl aspiring to be white – didn’t get to her. Since to some extent it was true.

At the lunchroom door a large, attractive black woman in a purple dress, with a board of education ID around her neck, came up to Mr. Bell. She identified herself as Mrs. Barton, a counselor. She’d heard about the incident and wanted to know if Geneva was all right and if she wanted to talk with somebody in her department about it.

Oh, man, a counselor, the girl thought, her spirits dipping. Don’t need this shit now. “No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? We could do a session this afternoon.”

“Really. I’m down. It’s cool.”

“I should call your parents.”

“They’re away.”

“You’re not alone, are you?” The woman frowned.