Malcolm X had been shot at the beginning of the year. It had crossed Jesse’s mind that his murder might be more than it seemed. To blame the Nation of Islam was a convenient explanation, and normally when there was a convenient explanation the truth was somewhere else. As he began to answer, the man called out to his friends:

—Hey! It’s Jesse Austin!

Though people hadn’t reacted to the sight of him on a crate, at the sound of his name people turned around and paid attention. Voices shouted out from the anti-Communist crowd, coarse with disgust:

—How come you said America wasn’t your home!

—You said you’d be glad to fight American troops!

The old protestor winked at Jesse.

—Better be careful what you say.

Jesse called back:

—I never said anything of the sort! I believe in peace, not war.

The first accusation had burst a dam, more insidious lies poured out, increasingly extreme, from the group of anti-Communist protestors who knew Jesse better than anyone, as a figure of hate and ridicule.

—Isn’t it true you seduced a bunch of white girls?

—Why don’t you pay taxes?

—Haven’t you been in prison?

—Don’t you cheat on your wife?

—I heayou hit her when you’re drunk!

Jesse couldn’t always see the faces of his accusers, voices disconnected. He struggled to control his anger, in contrast to his accusers, and answered the allegations:

—I pay my taxes! I’ve never spent a day in prison, except to visit those people in need of help. And I never touched any white girl, not like that, just like I never hit a person, let alone my wife, the woman I love more than anyone else. What you’re repeating is nothing more than slander! A campaign of hate and lies!

His voice was trembling. The pain of these lies welled up inside him, the memory of being helpless, watching his reputation being destroyed.

Sensing he was in trouble, Anna stepped up onto the crate with him, putting an arm around his waist to steady herself.