And they had Martin Luther King.

King was thirty-nine, but he looked older. He had been a little chubby when Jasper saw him speak in Washington, but he had put on weight in the five years since then, and now he looked plump. If his suit had not been so smart he might have been a shopkeeper. But that was before he opened his mouth. When he spoke, he became a giant.

Tonight he was in an apocalyptic mood. As lightning flashed outside the windows, and the crash of thunder interrupted his speech, he told the audience that his plane that morning had been delayed by a bomb threat. “But it doesn’t matter with me, now, because I’ve been to the mountaintop,” he said, and they cheered. “I just want to do God’s will.” And then he was seized by the emotion of his own words, and his voice trembled with urgency the way it had on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. “And he’s allowed me to go up to the mountain,” he cried. “And I’ve looked over.” His voice rose again. “And I’ve seen the Promised Land!”

King was genuinely moved, Jasper could see. He was perspiring heavily and shedding tears. The crowd shared his passion and responded, shouting out: “Yes!” and “Amen!”

“I may not get there with you,” King said, his voice shaking with feeling, and Jasper recalled that in the Bible, Moses had never reached Canaan. “But I want you to know, tonight, that we as a people will get to the Promised Land.” Two thousand listeners erupted in applause and amens. “And so I’m happy tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man.” He paused, then said slowly: “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”

With that he seemed to stagger back from the pulpit. Ralph Abernathy, behind him, leaped up to support him, and led him to his seat amid a hurricane of approbation that rivaled the storm outside.

Jasper spent the next day covering a legal dispute. The city was trying to get the courts to ban a demonstration King had planned for the following Monday, and King was working on a compromise that would guarantee a small, peaceful march.

At the end of the afternoon, Jasper talked to Herb Gould in New York. They agreed that Jasper would try to arrange for Sam Cakebread to interview both Loeb and King on Saturday or Sunday, and Herb would send a crew to get footage of Monday’s demonstration, for a report to be broadcast on Monday evening.

After talking to Gould, Jasper went to the Lorraine Motel, where King was staying. It was a low two-story building with balconies overlooking the parking lot. Jasper spotted a white Cadillac that, he knew, was loaned to King, along with a chauffeur, by a black-owned Memphis funeral home. Near the car was a group of King’s aides, and among them Jasper spotted Verena Marquand.

She was as breathtakingly gorgeous as she had been five years ago, but she looked different. Her hairdo was an Afro, and she wore beads and a caftan. Jasper saw tiny lines of strain around her eyes, and wondered what it was like working for a man who was so passionately adored and at the same time so bitterly hated as Martin Luther King.