I still have the brick, one of them anyway, that landed on my Plymouth Valiant in Tallahassee (now THERE was a bizarre looking car) when I drove well after dark too close to scores of enraged Florida A&M students the night Martin Luther King was slain.
Close to panic, Dan thought I was suicidal (nope, just very near-sighted); a quick U-turn, a floor-board on the gas pedal , and we were out of there, our pale bodies unscathed, and headed back to the Democrat.
In moments, we were called again, to cover a family grocery on fire. The parents, who lived downstairs, escaped unharmed; their 19-year-old son was trapped in his small second story bedroom and perished.
I had no sooner written what I had from the scene for another reporter when I was dispatched after daylight some 30 miles west of Tallahassee to a beekeepers house in the Apalachicola National Forest. A private Cessna had crashed a few hundred yards killing the pilot. The passengers, thrown clear, lay injured until dawn, calling for help.. The beekeeper told me he’d been awakened around 1:30 a.m. by the crash but “with all the meanness going on in town, I stayed inside until daylight.”
Three major stories, one of them the stuff of history, in mere hours: not bad training for a young, slightly damp behind the ears reporter. My city editor, well into his 40s, had chosen April 4, 1968, as his day to quit smoking. He went home around 3:30 p.m. (the Democrat then being an afternoon paper) pleased that he had finished a work day without nicotine. He came back in that night when King was killed, and was smoking again by midnight.
I had left by 3:30 that afternoon as well, and headed to my after-hours hangout, for a couple beers or three and their very good sandwiches. But I went back to the Democrat by early evening, to handle a weekly chore. Re-writing handouts for the Democrat Saturday church page.(!) New pastors, Sunday sermon topics, a new organist, etc. Squelch your laughter — at the Democrat the task was always given the newest, and usually youngest, reporter.
I was the only one in the newsroom, and about to leave when a printer walked in from the “back shop” and told me his wife had just called from home — Martin Luther King had been shot. I called the city editor.
Dan, the photographer, dropped by the newsroom with word he’d heard on police radio that some buses had been set on fire at a lot on the edge of the FAMU campus. For some reason his car wasn’t usable so we used mine, and were trying to find the scene when we ran into the students with the bricks.
An hour so so later, we drove to the police line set up on a main street bordering FAMU, where police had taken cover behind their patrol cars. The campus is located on a small hill, and, from my memory, angry students (and plenty of non students) hurled stones, bricks and bottles at passing traffic on the street. According to the Democrat story, the first person injured was a young motorist whose car sported a Rebel flag plate on the front.
I joined the police lines on the street, crouching behind a patrol car, as we listened to the makeshift missiles — and occasional bullets — hit vehicles and buildings. Police said later they even recovered four or five light target arrows aimed their way. The cops wisely chose not to enter campus, but to stop traffic, take cover and wait it out. No one was injured.
My most enduring memory of that night was listening to the wail of sirens, the crack of gunshots from up the hill, the ping of occasional light caliber bullets. The sounds of violence, competing with the voice of Dr. King himself.
Directly across the street, from a radio left playing in a tiny, down-and-out beer joint called “The Dog House,” its doors open but now vacant of people, came the resonant, matchless voice of Martin Luther King Jr. with its familiar messages of hope: “I have a dream today!”…”How Long? Not long!” …”Let Freedom Ring!”
Louder than the sirens. More enduring than the gunfire.
Rest in Peace, Dr. King.