“How many people do you think will show up altogether?”

“Right now we’re guessing double the original estimate.”

George was flabbergasted. “Two hundred thousand people?”

“That’s what we think now. It could go higher.”

“I don’t know whether that’s good or bad.”

She frowned in irritation. “How could it be bad?”

“We just haven’t planned for that many. I don’t want trouble.”

“George, this is a protest movement—it’s about trouble.”

“I wanted us to show that a hundred thousand Negroes could meet in a park without starting a goddamn fight.”

“We’re in a fight already, and the whites started it. Hell, George, they broke your wrist for trying to go to the airport.”

George touched his left arm reflexively. The doctor said it had healed, but it still gave him a twinge sometimes. “Did you see Meet the Press?” he asked her. Dr. King had been questioned by a panel of journalists on the NBC news show.

“Of course I did.”

“Every question was about either Negro violence or Communists in the civil rights movement. We must not let these become the issues!”

“We can’t let our strategy be dictated by Meet the Press. What do you think those white journalists are going to talk about? Don’t expect them to ask Martin about violent white cops, dishonest Southern juries, corrupt white judges, and the Ku Klux Klan!”

“Let me put it to you another way,” George said calmly. “Suppose today goes off peacefully, but Congress rejects the civil rights bill, and then there are riots. Dr. King will be able to say: ‘A hundred thousand Negroes came here in peace, singing hymns, giving you the chance to do the right thing—but you spurned the opportunity we offered, and now you see the consequences of your obstinacy. If there are riots now, you have no one to blame but yourselves.’ How about that?”

Verena smiled reluctantly and nodded assent. “You’re pretty smart, George,” she said. “Did you know that?”

• • •

The National Mall was a three-hundred-acre park, long and narrow, stretching for two miles from the Capitol at one end to the Lincoln Memorial at the other. The marchers assembled in the middle, at the Washington Monument, an obelisk more than five hundred feet tall. A stage had been set up and, when George arrived, the pure, thrilling voice of Joan Baez was ringing out “Oh, Freedom.”

Jasper looked for Beep Dewar, but the crowd was already at least fifty thousand strong, and not surprisingly he could not see her.

He was having the most interesting day of his life, and it was not yet eleven in the morning. Greg Peshkov and George Jakes were Washington insiders who had casually given him exclusive information: how he wished the Daily Echo was interested. And green-eyed Verena Marquand was possibly the most beautiful woman Jasper had ever seen. Was George sleeping with her? Lucky man, if so.

Joan Baez was followed by Odetta and Josh White, but the crowd went wild when Peter, Paul and Mary appeared. Jasper could hardly believe he was seeing these huge stars live onstage without even buying a ticket. Peter, Paul and Mary sang their latest hit, “Blowin’ in the Wind,” a song written by Bob Dylan. It seemed to be about the civil rights movement, and included the line: “How many years can some people exist before they’re allowed to be free?”