BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 35. Leon meets another soulmate–19-year old Mary Brown–while selling Raleigh products. And the assassination of Black Panther Fred Hampton was another vile act by racist cops.

https://www.history.com/news/black-panther-fred-hampton-killing

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

November 20, 1969

In the period of over a year that Leon lived with Sarah and the twins at Dee’s in Chicago, he bounced from the few-and-far- between auto repair jobs to washing dishes in a diner. It was only after he hooked up with the local Woodlawn Association’s TWO, a job placement program dedicated to fight for economic justice in the black community, that he got the opportunity to join the local Raleigh Products sales force. Dee had fronted him the first $25, with TWO adding the $100 he needed to purchase the general line of Raleigh products: spices and extracts, household cleaners, healing salves and such, and the wire basket to enable him to sell door-to- door. Out of the twenty or so who signed up in the beginning of summer, 1969, Leon emerged as the top salesman, earning a bonus of 500 S&H Green Stamps with the first month of purchases. He finally felt like a success at something, and that was encouraging for him and his family...the women and children he loved. Suddenly Leon was becoming more of the man he wanted to be, and his days had purpose. No desk job for this suddenly-ambitious bread- winner. He was on his own time-table again, was his own boss just like back at the garage. In winter, the days could be frigid in Chicago, but an inner warmth and vitality kept him going, as he walked the sales route, enduring the rebuffs that all salesmen must endure. How could he have foreseen that an innocent visit to a house on Kimbark Avenue would change his life, estrange him from Sarah for good.

“Hello, Raleigh Products,” said Leon, as the door of the old brick three-story opened up. A young Black woman with an appealing smile peered out from behind the screen door. He inhaled a lovely female fragrance as some of the warmth of the house escaped in his direction.

“Hello! Got sum good Raleigh Products you might wanna buy...and a free perfume sample, though you smell purty good without it.”

The woman, Mary, was only nineteen, but she could enjoy some flirting from a member of the opposite sex, even one as old as Leon, who had just turned thirty-nine. “You’all come in for a bit,” said Mary pushing the screen door open a few inches in his direction.

Now Leon could see both her deep brown eyes, the left “sleepy” one drifting slightly off-center, perhaps a childhood defect she still had to bear. Still, he found hers an unusually pretty face. He could feel his pulse pick up at the prospect of selling to a pretty woman. He walked into the hallway and hung his snowy coat and gloves on the wall hooks as she indicated. “Jus’ remove yuh boots here in da hall so’an we don’t track none ah that ol’ wet snow into da house,” Mary instructed, enjoying the role of matron of the residence while her parents were at work.

Leon pulled his boots off as well and hung up his thick sweater, knowing that he’d overheat quickly in the warm interior. Grabbing his basket of Raleigh products he ambled over in his socks to a large sofa where Mary motioned him to sit. She sat down next to him on the couch and awaited his sales pitch. He began by removing the free perfume samples from the basket and passing a few of the glass capsules in her direction.

“Here’s an example of some perfume we carry – they’re from Paris. My name’s Leon by the way. What, if I may ask, is your name, my dear?” said Leon, laying on the salesman’s charm.

“Why, thank yuh. Always like t’ try a new perfume, adding, “My name’s Mary Brown.” She smiled genially at him. Without hesitation, she snapped the end off one of the small vials and applied some of the liquid to her wrists, then below each ear and some at the indentation in the middle of her collarbone. Leon made an effort to remember his duty to Raleigh Products, as he watched Mary touch the perfume to the skin beneath the collar of her green sweater. He was already all too conscious of the proximity of her high, ample bustline, small waist and trim hips. He realized that she looked like a dark-skinned version of Sarah when they had first met. And he couldn’t deny the same attraction, either.

“I like this smell a lot,” said Mary, sniffing the back of her right hand. Before Leon could reply, she stretched out her hand for him to smell as well. He took her wrist to steady it and brought it up to his nose. As he took a whiff he knew he was inhaling more than just the perfume. He was smelling her own scent as it mixed with the cheap Raleigh cologne.

“Mmmmm,” was the sound Leon made as he smiled agreeably. “Yes, that’s lovely all right,” he murmurred as he finally and regrettably let go of the young woman’s arm. He was struck by just how much the smell had turned him on. What shocked him even more was the activity he felt in the crotch of his pants. He had just about given up on ever being able to get an erection again; the fall off the garage had pretty much lost him that simple function. But now he could feel his swelling appendage actually pushing against the cloth of his boxers. The old trickster come to life, ready to embarrass him in the middle of his sales pitch. But while his natural sense of decency made him want to hide what was happening to him, another part of his mind tempted him to stand up, unbuckle his belt, drop his pants and shorts and announce the miracle to the world. He kept himself in check by quickly focusing his attention back on business, listing off as many Raleigh Products as he could quickly remember.

“Er...we’s got a lot more things than this... The five gallon bottles of cola and orange concentrate syrup and all the spices – thyme, paprika, sage, cinnamon, good pepper, yuh’ know. And mustard plaster too, for arthritis. an’ salves for sprains. Oh, and...vanilla extract...plus some maple...almond...all good-smellin’ stuff. Here. Smell sum o’ this!”

Almost breathless after his spiel, Leon refilled his lungs with air and reached for the vanilla bottle, unscrewed the cap and held it out toward her.

“Mmmmm,” purred Mary, duplicating Leon’s earlier expression of pleasure. “I love this smell.” She gazed at Leon, her full lips spread in a mischievous grin. It was all Leon could do to not grab the girl’s head and move her lips against his. He was a little afraid of what the below-the-belt part might make him do. While his mind was battling out this dilemma he heard the front door of the house click open. A few seconds later a middle-aged couple walked into the room, stopping short in the doorway.

“Hello...Mary.” And who do we have here,” said Reverend John Brown, her father and a minister of the local church.

“Hi dad!” Mary answered sweetly. She jumped up and kissed him on the cheek.. By then Leon had stood up and began gathering his Raleigh products back into the basket, holding the container against his pants to block his temporary bulge. Mary nodded in his direction, saying “This is Leon Little. He has a lot of Raleigh products we need!”

For the next half-hour Reverend Brown talked with Leon, mostly about the struggle of Woodlawn Organization TWO, while ordering a large bottle of cola concentrate, a spice rack full of seasonings, two large-size bottles of vanilla extract and a jar of mustard plaster for Mary’s grandmother’s arthritis. It turned out that the Reverend worked with Monsignor Jack Egan, so he was at the center of all things pertaining to the church’s battle against racism. Over the next few months of dropping in to visit Mary and her father, Leon would receive his education in non-violent resistance and solidify his commitment to joining the cause of civil rights. In early 1970, it was through TWO connections that Leon received a job offer to move to Atlanta, Georgia, where he would operate one of the first all-black-owned garages in that region.

***

Dec. 4, 1969

Bill O’Neal shoveled the thick burgers off the grill, stuck each in its own Wonder Bread bun, sprinkled chips on the plates and passed them out. He waited until the six other Black Panther Party members started eating before walking into the kitchen and grabbing the kool-aid. In the pantry where the plastic cups were stored he poured out six cupfuls. He then added Amytal to the yellow-colored one, and whipped the drink with a spoon until all the drug was dissolved.

“How’re those burgers?” O’Neal called out to the other room, buying himself a few extra seconds. He wanted to make absolutely sure the drug was invisible. He stuck the spoon back into the yellow glass and looked at the raspberry-colored drink. It appeared clear, right to the bottom of the glass, when he tilted it. Back out in the main room, he handed out drinks, placing the laced one in front of Fred Hampton at the head of the table.

“Thanks, man,” said Hampton as he lifted the cup and took a large swallow before continuing to devour his burger. Things were going according to plan.

At 1:30AM O’Neal left the apartment, making up the excuse that he had to see a girlfriend. Everybody knew girlfriends were like that...and they had heard O’Neal on the phone with her earlier.

“But honey, you sure...Tonight? ” On the other end of the phone line Cointelpro officer Strafford answered. “Just be out of there if you want to live. We hit between 2AM and 3AM.”

“OK, sweetheart. I’ll see you...after midnight then. I love you too,” said O’Neal before hanging up. He let himself out around 1AM, after Fred Hampton fell asleep next to his pregnant girlfriend and Mark Clark had taken up his guard position near the front door, half nodding out over his shotgun. O’Neal gave Clark a wink as he left. The dreams Clark had as he dozed were glorious ones. He was seated on a sandy beach somewhere in the South Pacific, and could feel the grains of sand inbetween his wet toes. His right hand twitched as he thought about gripping another cocktail, its miniature umbrella spinning in the warm breeze. It was surprising that his finger resting on the trigger of the 12-guage Smith & Wesson shotgun didn’t accidentally apply enough pressure to fire it off.

Suddenly a loud crash disturbed Clark’s dream. As his eyes opened and he tried to focus, he felt the impact of a forty-five slug penetrating his chest. Kaboom went the shotgun, as his trigger finger finally had its way, the charge piercing the wall of the Chicago apartment. Officer Brant took five quick steps into the apartment and opened up with his machine gun, aiming the rounds directly into the wall across from the front doorway. RAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT. The bullets slammed into the plaster, right along the area near the floor where O’Neal’s diagram had indicated Fred Hampton would be sleeping. When Brant finally stopped shooting, Sargent Fenton quickly rounded the door jam, lowered his gun and fired it twice, point blank, against Hampton’s head. Fenton’s uniform and hand were splattered as the blood flew in all directions.

“Good and dead now,” said Fenton, turning away, his flushed face contorting with hyped-up energy mixed with middle-of-the night fatigue. Over the echo of his words, he heard the other officers also firing into Hampton’s and Clark’s already-dead bodies. Then he watched, curiously detached, as fellow cops dragged the dead Panthers out of the apartment, leaving a wet, red trail on the carpet.

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