Night on Fire by Ronald Kidd Page B

“There were twenty-one of them, including eleven more from Nashville. They decided to catch the first bus from Birmingham to Montgomery, but when they got to the station, there was an angry crowd, and the drivers refused to go. That’s when Robert Kennedy got busy.”
    â€œYou know, the attorney general,” said Grant. “The president’s brother.”
    Mr. McCall nodded. “He was on the phone for hours, talking to the governor and the head of Greyhound. Kennedy threatened to bring in federal troops, and finally they made a deal. Greyhound would drive them, and the highway patrol would protect them. Early this morning, before the mob could gather again, the riders got on a bus and headed for Montgomery with a police escort.”
    The phone rang, and Mr. McCall picked it up.
    I turned to Jarmaine. “So they’re all right?”
    â€œI hope so.”
    Next to her, Mr. McCall said, “What!”
    He tucked the receiver under his chin, grabbed a pad, and began taking notes. “Uh-huh. Right. Oh my God.”
    Grant and Jarmaine glanced at each other.
    Mr. McCall scribbled. We waited. Finally, he replaced the receiver and looked up at us. His face was pale.
    â€œThere was a riot in Montgomery,” he said, and referred to his notes. “A crowd was waiting for the bus, and they attacked the riders as they got off. Men had pipes and chains, women swung their purses, and children scratched with their fingernails. Meanwhile the cops were off to the side, calmly directing traffic. Twenty people were hurt, some seriously. A few are unconscious.”
    â€œIs the riot over?” asked Jarmaine in a small voice.
    â€œSeems to be,” said Mr. McCall. “The riders were taken to the hospital. The crowd gathered up the suitcases and built a bonfire in front of the bus station.”
    Jarmaine stood motionless, her expression stony. Tears ran down her cheeks. Grant put a hand on her shoulder.
    She said, “How can people do that?”
    Mr. McCall shook his head sadly. “I don’t understand. I truly don’t.”
    â€œYou think the riders will keep going?” I asked.
    Jarmaine blinked, and her expression changed. She gazed at me, her eyes flashing.
    â€œThey won’t stop now,” she declared.
    â€œThere’s a mass meeting tomorrow night at First Baptist Church in Montgomery, to show support for the Freedom Riders,” said Mr. McCall. “The riders will be there. So will the Negro leaders. Martin Luther King is coming in from Atlanta.”
    Jarmaine said, “Dr. King? Really?”
    â€œIsn’t he a preacher?” I asked.
    â€œDr. King is more than just a preacher,” Grant told me. “He leads protests, like the Montgomery bus boycott. He’s an activist.”
    The way Grant said the word made it sound like an honor. I’d heard Uncle Harvey Caldwell talk about Martin Luther King, but when Uncle Harvey called him an activist, it sounded different.
    â€œAre you planning to write this up for the paper?” I asked Mr. McCall.
    â€œYou bet,” he said, flipping through his notepad, “but I need more information.”
    He turned to Jarmaine. “We’ll put a news flash in this afternoon’s paper. Then, once we’ve got all the facts, I’ll do an article for the Sunday edition.”
    Mr. McCall went back to his desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and fed it into his typewriter. Grant reached for the phone. Jarmaine headed to the door, and I followed. She took a seat out front, on the bench where I’d found her that first day. That had been less than two weeks ago, but it seemed like another lifetime in a different town, a place where people were kind and wouldn’t hurt you. Thinking back on it, I wondered if that town had ever existed.
    I sat down next to Jarmaine. She opened a brown paper bag, pulled out some peanut-butter crackers, and offered me one. She ate one herself, looking