Hampton Sides - Hellhound on His Trail - The Stalking of Martin Luther King, Jr. And the International Hunt for His Assassin

AT THE NEW REBEL Motel, Eric Galt apparently never emerged from his room. He placed no phone calls through the motel switchboard and made no requests of any kind. He was a thoroughly unremarkable guest: he rode out the tornado warnings, sipped a few cans of Schlitz, and watched TV in his room.

Aside from reporting on the tornado's destruction, the local ten o'clock telecasts were filled with news that night about the sanitation strike and King's efforts to reverse the injunction so he could march again down Beale Street. The reports noted that King and his aides might have to linger in town for quite some time as lawyers hashed out the legal nuances of the proposed march. One newscast showed footage of King and his entourage standing on the balcony of his downtown lodgings; the clip showed the door to King's room at the Lorraine. The room number, 306, was clearly legible.

Whatever else Galt did that night is unknown. But the staff at the New Rebel noticed that he kept the lamps inside his room switched on; through the evening, a milky luminescence seeped around the edges of his window blinds. Perhaps fueled by amphetamines, Galt appeared to be burning through the small hours of the night. From midnight on, Ivan Webb, 312the night clerk, made his hourly rounds of the motel property and at each inspection found to his surprise that Galt's room remained brightly lit.

AFTER THE SPEECH, King ventured into the Memphis night. The storm had passed, and now a light, fine rain saturated the air. He was lighthearted, reinvigorated, in a playful spirit. His fever seemed to have broken. "He was like a kid again," 313Billy Kyles recalled. "He'd preached the fear out, he'd just laid that burden down."

King, Abernathy, and Bernard Lee went out to a late dinner at a friend's house and didn't return to the Lorraine until after 1:00 a.m. Emerging from his taxi, King saw a familiar blue Cadillac convertible parked in the parking lot. He knew that his brother, AD, had arrived from Florida with AD's girlfriend, Lucretia Ward, who owned this excellent road car. And he knew that the Kentucky state senator Georgia Davis must be here, too, waiting for him.

"Senator!" 314he called out in the Lorraine parking lot. "Where's the senahhtahh?" He spoke in his deepest baritone--rounded, unmistakable, irresistible. Georgia always called it "the Voice."

King, Abernathy, and several others went into AD's room, where Georgia embraced King. Everyone in the room knew about her--there was nothing to hide. They all stayed up for a while, joshing and visiting, talking about the night's speech, the storms, and tomorrow's big day in court. Around three in the morning, Georgia excused herself and walked in the misting rain toward her room, 201. As she approached her door, she heard King's footsteps, just behind her, on the concrete walkway. Outside, they didn't speak or acknowledge each other--they didn't know who from the press or the police or the FBI might be spying on them.

Georgia turned the key to the lock and walked into her room, leaving the door slightly ajar. King slipped in and shut the latch. She studied his face, as a lover, as an equal, her desires unclouded by awe. "I didn't idolize him 315like a lot of other people did," she later said. "To me he was just a man."

King turned and sat on the bed next to Georgia. Opening his arms, he said, "Senator, our time together 316is so short."

21 A ROOM WITH A VIEW

ON THE BRIGHT, warm morning of April 4, Eric Galt slept in at the New Rebel Motel. Around 9:30 the maid knocked on his door to pick up his bed linen. "Yes?" he said, slightly startled, and she replied, "Oh, I'll come back later." 317

Galt ate breakfast, most likely at the New Rebel restaurant, and then checked out, taking several small bars of Cashmere soap from the bathroom. He bought a copy of the Memphis Commercial Appeal . In its copious coverage of the strike, the paper featured a page-one photograph of King standing in front of room 306 at the Lorraine.

Through the middle of the day, Galt spent some time "just stalling around," as he later put it, in the Memphis suburbs. He went to a tavern--he referred to it as a "beer house" 318--and made a long-distance call from a phone booth. The call was to his brother who lived in the suburbs of Chicago. According to a journalist who later interviewed the brother at length, Galt said: "Soon it will all be over. 319I might not see you for a while. But don't worry about me. I'll be all right."

THAT MORNING, KING woke up early for an eight o'clock staff meeting to discuss the day's efforts in the U.S. District Court of the Western District of Tennessee. Even after the late night, he ran the meeting with a sense of urgency and moment. Andrew Young would serve as King's plenipotentiary before Judge Bailey Brown. It would be the job of attorney Lucius Burch to marshal Young's considerable eloquence and experience. Through deft examination on the witness stand, Burch would use Young (as well as Lawson, who would speak for the local cause) to show how vital this march really was, not just for King, but for the concept of peaceful protest in America and the world. If necessary, it would become a symposium on the First Amendment. King's vision of the future was on the line.

JUST ONE BLOCK west of the Lorraine, on South Main Street, stood a tumbledown rooming house 320run by a middle-aged woman named Bessie Brewer. The sign in front of the soot-darkened brick building at 4221/2 Main blandly announced APARTMENTS/ROOMS beneath an advertisement for Canada Dry's Wink soda--THE SASSY ONE.

A resident of Bessie Brewer's rooming house would later describe the place as "a half-step up from homelessness." Its long corridors were narrow and dark, with blistered walls and cracked linoleum floors that smelled of Pine-Sol. Mrs. Brewer's establishment was a haven for invalids, derelicts, mysterious transients, riverboat workers, and small-time crooks--rheumy-eyed souls who favored wife-beater T-shirts and off-brand hooch. Mostly white middle-aged men, they blew in on wisps of despair from Central Station a few blocks to the south and from the nearby Trailways and Greyhound terminals.

The guest rooms were upstairs on the second floor, above a grease-smeared joint with striped awnings called Jim's Grill that sold Budweiser and homemade biscuits and pulled-pork BBQ. Rich smells from Jim's kitchen curled upstairs, coating the flophouse tenants in a perfume of charred carbon and year-old frying oil. The tiny rooms, furnished with scuffed Salvation Army furniture, sweltered through the heat of the afternoon, even though many of the windows were crammed with ventilation fans that vigorously thunked away. For eight bucks a week, Mrs. Brewer's tenants were satisfied with what they got and rarely complained. Among the long-term guests in her establishment were a deaf-mute, a tuberculosis patient, a schizophrenic, and an unemployed drunk who had a deformed hand. A homemade sign on the wall near Mrs. Brewer's office admonished, "No Curseing or Foul Talk."

AT AROUND THREE o'clock that afternoon, Eric Galt spotted Mrs. Brewer's shingle on South Main and pulled the Mustang up to the curb alongside Jim's Grill. A few minutes later, Loyd Jowers, the owner of Jim's Grill, looked through the grimy plate-glass windows and saw the Mustang parked out front.