BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 44. Professor Sansome's law class at Brown results in Jackson Little meeting and marrying Cissy Benton, a future First Lady. Also the secret Contras and Ollie North.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
October 8, 1984
As twenty-three-year-old Jackson Little sat quietly, listening to the debate over Constitutional law at Brown University, his mind drifted to thoughts of home. He had learned from his last phone call that his mother was not feeling well. At least Rudy had come into their lives before Dee’s heart attack and subsequent death. Sarah had told Jackson how his grandmother had complained for a few days about a shoulder ache, how they had gone to a doctor and been given the prognosis that Dee was fighting a flu. The first symptoms had hit on a Wednesday and by Sunday she was gone. Sarah told him later that she’d learned it wasn’t so unusual for women to be misdiagnosed when it came to heart ailments. Men had their shortness of breath, their sweaty brow and chest pressure, while women had a sore arm or back pain. Often doctors took the men’s complaints more seriously than their wives’, figuring that “the little lady” was just experiencing her usual monthly trial, and might be somewhat “hysterical.” And black women were no doubt treated with even less vigilance than white women, given even less chance of survival in the event of an actual heart attack.
“Mr. Little...” Professor Sansome began, looking up toward the 200 seats from his podium at the base of the large auditorium. “In your opinion, how does the 14th Amendment to the Bill of Rights apply to our present lives, as opposed to when it was first enacted in 1868?”
Before Jackson could answer, the Professor interjected his version of a helpful hint. “To refresh – No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws. Please give your answer five minutes.”
Everyone knew that the professor enjoyed reciting the various Amendments from memory, as a sort of impromptu test for himself, showing off, in fact, his almost flawless photographic memory. And it was another habit of Sansome’s to ask the Black men and women in his classes the race-related questions, trying to get a wedge of reality under the sterility of law. How did the rule of order apply to real-life situations?
“Well, to begin with,” began Jackson, obviously winging it, “the first tenet of the 14th Amendment was set into the Bill of Rights, to insure that state governments didn’t violate basic human rights. In 1868 Congress worried that various states might try to hamper the application of these basic human rights pertaining to the slaves that had been freed by the Civil War.”
I’ve made a good start...laid in clear foundation just like Professor Sansome demands, thought Jackson, resisting wiping the beginning sweat he felt forming between his skin and shirt. He quickly continued before loosing the thread.
“If a Black such as myself – ” glancing around the room Jackson caught sight of a few smirks and raised eyebrows, “...wants to measure the weight of ‘States Rights’ against ‘Basic Human Rights,’ he could imagine himself living in Mississippi, maybe New York, perhaps even San Francisco. These states vary widely in their level of acceptance of certain minority-applicable ‘basic human rights.’”
Jackson paused for a second, took another breath, and jumped back in. “The Bill of Rights must, at the same time, protect state rights from federal rights, and the other way around. When police dogs were released against Black non-violent civil rights demonstrators in the 1960s in Selma, Alabama, that was a violation of the First Amendment – the right to peaceably assemble. The second a dog was unleashed, the State of Mississippi was libel for a lawsuit. It was the state’s responsibility to have fully briefed their police officers on the legal procedures. But I digress...”
As soon as the rustling among fellow law students ceased, Jackson regained his focus. “Free expression of determining what is right and what is wrong – that’s what’s at the foundation of the Rill of Rights. In a society of men – women and men – the question is, can this Bill limit us from making personal decisions that are merely self-serving?
“Turn the tables around. What if all my Black friends hated White people, and we Blacks were the ones in power, had all the money and property? White people decided to march for their ’civil rights.’ They wanted to sit in the front seats of our Black buses, attend our Black schools, eat in our Black cafeterias, live in our Black neighborhoods. Would it be legal for us to stop them?
“Here’s a quick summary of how a Black person views the Bill of Rights. I’ll say the first word that pops into my head: “Religious freedom – bombed churches. ”
“Free press – racist pamphlets.”
“Free speech – ‘nigger.’”
“Keep and bear arms – Kennedy, Kennedy, King, Evers dead.” “Sanctity of private home against quartered soldiers – BYOB.”
A low, tittering laugh traveled across the auditorium. Throughout the stuffy hall students were reminded they’d rather “bring your own beer” than be sitting in hard seats watching the recitation. Jackson Little took a quick glance at his notes before continuing.
“Unreasonable search and seizure – road-blocks, wiretaps, you name it.”
“Taking the fifth – Mafia.”
“Speedy and public trial – lynch mob.”
The room suddenly became very still. Jackson could feel he was edging up on his five minutes and used the last minute to forge his thoughts into a whole. After that, he knew he’d be fair game.
“Jurors get around $40 a day to sit in judgement. Question. What if lawyers got the same pay to try the cases? Answer – short trials.”
Everyone laughed, while Professor Sansome stifled a smile.
“If Whites were incarcerated for petty theft – stealing $20 to feed their children, denied bail, received excessive fines, suffered cruel and unusual punishments while incarcerated, perhaps were even lynched – would there be an outcry from the Black power structure?”
There was another disquieting murmur in the hall. The young lawyers-to-be did not accept Jackson Little’s use of the word “lynch” twice. But he forged ahead anyway, watching the second hand rounding the six on the wall clock. Less than thirty seconds left.
“In Furman v. Georgia, 1972, the court put a stay on executions because...it was deemed that death sentences there were racially biased.”
“Amendments Nine and Ten...check your local listings.”
“To conclude...” There was some muffled laughter...the other law students knew Jackson had omitted the vague amendments because he was out of time.
“If a Black man or woman is a citizen of the United States of America, then the Bill of Rights is valid only so far as it supports that weakest, most vulnerable person’s rights to life, liberty, or property in the face of governmental laws and their expedient application...state by state...without bias.”
Just as the wall clock ticked to deadline, Jackson had finished up. There was a light but sustained applause, as was the custom in Professor Sansome’s class. As Jackson Little gathered up his heavy pile of law books after class ended, one of his classmates approached from a side aisle.
“Loved your diatribe on states rights,” said the female. “Really shook old Sansome. Don’t see that every day. Name’s Cissy. Cissy Benton.” She reached a hand out to him. Jackson had noticed the blond in his class before, had admired her from afar, and could now see that the appreciation was mutual. He reached out and let their hands slide together and grip. Her fingers squeezed down on his with the same pressure that he exerted, and with that simple gesture they cemented what was to become a very propitious relationship, one that would lead all the way to the White House.
Before they exited the hall, Cissy invited him to join her on the Law Review. A week later they made love and lay in bed happily exhausted, sharing their most intimate thoughts and dreams. Two months after that Cissy discovered that she was pregnant. They decided to keep the child and get married. At their wedding dinner, at Tavern on the Green in New York City after the service, Jackson met Cissy’s uncle, Jim Benton, one of the men who had secretly helped bring down the Presidency of Richard M. Nixon.
***
November 3, 1986
Nancy Reagan couldn’t believe it as she watched her husband defend himself on TV. Her Ronnie, caught up in some sort of spy scandal? Preposterous. The Post headline said that her husband’s administration was suspected of trading arms for hostages. How on earth, she wondered, could her peace-loving, bumbling Ronnie be involved with something like that? It had to be those goons around him...that Meese, Cheney, Casey...and some of the CIA. When she saw Chief of Staff Regan she came unglued.
“God damn it,” Don, she exclaimed, “you know Ronnie wouldn’t have either the inclination or the know-how to deal arms!” Her eyes were pinched like a Gila monster. “Where is Ronnie?” she demanded.
“Try the Oval Office,” was Regan’s facetious reply.
Nancy walked to the East Wing and threaded her way through the Secret Service personnel, none of whom were particularly delighted to see her. Most of them had been previously dressed down by her, or had had their conversations with the President clipped off by her arrival on the scene.
Ronald Reagan, most agreed, was the nicest boss they’d ever had in the White House. His warm handling of men had made quite a difference after the gelid Carter years. Reagan seemed so relaxed that he brought some needed joie da vivre back to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. But Nancy was a different story. She was edgy, impatient, often cruel and disparaging. Perhaps her worst fault was her constant degrading treatment of her husband in public, acting as if he were some kind of dimwit. It was infuriating to watch for anyone who cared about the man. She constantly whispered loud words into his ear, which he then parroted word for word seconds later.
“RONNIE! CAN I TALK TO YOU?” Nancy called out loudly as she burst into the Oval office unannounced. The President was sitting with national security advisor, Bob McFarlane, Edwin Meese and a few others. Reagan’s advisors sat by quietly and watched the leader of the free world squirm.
“Well...Umm...” was all Reagan got out of his mouth before Nancy unleashed her torrent.
“It says here you traded arms for hostages. What arms? Where did you buy guns and rockets? I know you don’t personally know any arms dealers. So which one of these...men...have gotten you into this mess?
“I’m not leaving until someone tells me exactly what is going on here. I’m not going to just sit to the side like some little wifey and watch my husband get destroyed over this thing!” She sucked in a big breath as Meese, McFarlane and an assistant stood and headed for the door.
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING? I WANT SOME ANSWERS!” Nancy shouted as the men fled the room without looking back. “I HOLD YOU PERSONALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR GETTING RONNIE INTO THIS!”
Meese had witnessed similar outbursts from the President’s wife before and knew it was “no win” from the start. Nancy was the last person on earth with whom he could have a reasonable conversation. And it also seemed to the President that his wife was over-stepping her role as First Lady. He pleaded with her.
“Please, Mommy...we’re trying to sort this out. No one I’ve talked to knows anything about this. But we’ll keep looking into it until we get some suitable answers. Then I’ll let you know. I’ll see you for lunch and....” He glanced quickly down at his wristwatch. “In about forty minutes we can have a nice meal together. Just you and me. How’s that?”
Lunch was brought to the dining room table as Nancy sat regally at one end, POTUS 40 at the other. The Waiters brought in a tuna sandwich for the President, along with potato chips, some pickles and a large glass of milk. In front of Nancy they placed two crackers enclosed in cellophane, one slice of cheese, a packet of raspberry jam, a small mound of cottage cheese, a fork and short butter knife. Before they could return with her iced tea she blew her stack.
“Why do I need a butter knife? Can somebody tell me that? I don’t eat butter! You know I don’t eat butter, and yet you bring me this knife for spreading butter. I hate butter. Butter is what makes all you people FAT!”
***
Fawn Hall’s arms were getting tired from all the lifting. She had already run three files-worth of papers through the shredder and there were still two more boxes to go before she could go home. It was 6:30PM when she called her husband, to say she’d be late, maybe 9:00 for dinner.
“Can’t you put your work off until tomorrow?” Jim Hall asked innocently. “They don’t even pay you over-time, do they?”
“Just that some extra things have piled up here, sweetheart. Got to clean off the desk,” said Fawn, being purposely vague about her task as boss Ollie North had ordered. “Just please understand, OK?”
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