Read Online False Witness by Dorothy Uhnak - Free Book Online
Authors: Dorothy Uhnak
Tags: USA
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had a tape of Casablanca on the recorder. “Oh, for God’s sake, Lynne, how corny can you get? Hey, Nebraska, look at Lynne. She’s on the tube.”
CHAPTER 8
J AMESON WHITNEY HALE INTERRUPTED my morning update on the Sanderalee Dawson case with a vague, puzzled, distracted question.
“Lynne? Lynne, did I see you on the television news last night?”
“You saw a brief clip of me from a show I did about two or three years ago. Sanderalee was having at law enforcement in general and the D.A.’s office in particular. The old song: you only prosecute black men. In the clip they showed, she was accusing me of being part of a genocidal plot.”
Mr. Hale looked over the tops of his reading glasses, his dark eyebrows raised in surprise. “Good God, are you part of a genocidal plot?”
“As an advocate of the death penalty, I guess I’m subject to a lot of name calling. ‘Genocidal lunatic’—‘legal murderer of black men.’ That was how Sanderalee Dawson characterized me.”
“Yes. I caught all that. What was it all about? I guess I tuned in about halfway through. I missed the beginning.”
“Well, since Sanderalee Dawson is entering day four of her coma, and since we’re not giving them any tidbits about our investigation, and since her time slot has to be filled, some bright-heads over there put together a rather rushed half-hour of cuts and clips. I’m afraid the purpose was to show the wide range of enemies Ms. Dawson has publicly collected.”
“Ah. So that puts you in the public position of being a known antagonist of Ms. Dawson’s? As I remember it, your closing lines were rather strong.”
What had happened was, the more I tried to present my case calmly, unemotionally, professionally, the more black, down-home, co’npone little nigger gal Sanderalee Dawson became. Finally, she interrupted my assurances that a convicted murderer’s life span of several years would guarantee him the fullest protection of the law and that the death penalty would only be resorted to in the most outrageous, specific circumstances.
“And once he’s dead, baby, he dead, that black man you gonna murder, right? And whut the hell, another black man gone down the road, ri’?” It was her “jes-a-lil-ole-nigrah-gal-fuhm-down-home” best; it’s very effective in walking all over your words to her. I had kept going, then finally had held up my hand and interrupted her bluntly. “You want to do your shuffle-on-home number now or you want an opinion? Is this to be a discussion or a vaudeville routine, because I didn’t bring my dancing shoes.”
They had left that part in. Without the lead-in or any preliminary discussion. I came over as a cold-blooded bitch to Sanderalee’s wounded girl routine.
They were in there working for her, Sanderalee’s crew. Guest after guest, in the clipped and put-together show, was shown “having at Sanderalee.” Although in actuality she always emerged at the top of the heap, in this special thirty-minute tribute to “Our Sanderalee; our brave, outspoken lady whose integrity against all odds has never been questioned,” we slammed at her, mashed her down, in one way or another attacked Sanderalee Dawson.
“Yes, it was a pretty cheap shot, but all of a piece with the way this matter is being handled in the media. Wait, before I forget. ...” He stood motionless for a split second, nodded, lifted up a stack of papers and found the small note to himself, which he extended to me. “Glori Nichols, name ring a bell? About a month ago, she approached us through the public relations office. She’s a television producer. Does documentary things. She said along the lines of the Maysles brothers, does that mean anything to you?”
“They’re very good. Maybe too good. They get in very close to their subjects. Live-in close. I remember something about a city hospital.”
“Well, she spoke to me briefly a month ago, but at the time, it just seemed an intrusion. She called this
CHAPTER 8
J AMESON WHITNEY HALE INTERRUPTED my morning update on the Sanderalee Dawson case with a vague, puzzled, distracted question.
“Lynne? Lynne, did I see you on the television news last night?”
“You saw a brief clip of me from a show I did about two or three years ago. Sanderalee was having at law enforcement in general and the D.A.’s office in particular. The old song: you only prosecute black men. In the clip they showed, she was accusing me of being part of a genocidal plot.”
Mr. Hale looked over the tops of his reading glasses, his dark eyebrows raised in surprise. “Good God, are you part of a genocidal plot?”
“As an advocate of the death penalty, I guess I’m subject to a lot of name calling. ‘Genocidal lunatic’—‘legal murderer of black men.’ That was how Sanderalee Dawson characterized me.”
“Yes. I caught all that. What was it all about? I guess I tuned in about halfway through. I missed the beginning.”
“Well, since Sanderalee Dawson is entering day four of her coma, and since we’re not giving them any tidbits about our investigation, and since her time slot has to be filled, some bright-heads over there put together a rather rushed half-hour of cuts and clips. I’m afraid the purpose was to show the wide range of enemies Ms. Dawson has publicly collected.”
“Ah. So that puts you in the public position of being a known antagonist of Ms. Dawson’s? As I remember it, your closing lines were rather strong.”
What had happened was, the more I tried to present my case calmly, unemotionally, professionally, the more black, down-home, co’npone little nigger gal Sanderalee Dawson became. Finally, she interrupted my assurances that a convicted murderer’s life span of several years would guarantee him the fullest protection of the law and that the death penalty would only be resorted to in the most outrageous, specific circumstances.
“And once he’s dead, baby, he dead, that black man you gonna murder, right? And whut the hell, another black man gone down the road, ri’?” It was her “jes-a-lil-ole-nigrah-gal-fuhm-down-home” best; it’s very effective in walking all over your words to her. I had kept going, then finally had held up my hand and interrupted her bluntly. “You want to do your shuffle-on-home number now or you want an opinion? Is this to be a discussion or a vaudeville routine, because I didn’t bring my dancing shoes.”
They had left that part in. Without the lead-in or any preliminary discussion. I came over as a cold-blooded bitch to Sanderalee’s wounded girl routine.
They were in there working for her, Sanderalee’s crew. Guest after guest, in the clipped and put-together show, was shown “having at Sanderalee.” Although in actuality she always emerged at the top of the heap, in this special thirty-minute tribute to “Our Sanderalee; our brave, outspoken lady whose integrity against all odds has never been questioned,” we slammed at her, mashed her down, in one way or another attacked Sanderalee Dawson.
“Yes, it was a pretty cheap shot, but all of a piece with the way this matter is being handled in the media. Wait, before I forget. ...” He stood motionless for a split second, nodded, lifted up a stack of papers and found the small note to himself, which he extended to me. “Glori Nichols, name ring a bell? About a month ago, she approached us through the public relations office. She’s a television producer. Does documentary things. She said along the lines of the Maysles brothers, does that mean anything to you?”
“They’re very good. Maybe too good. They get in very close to their subjects. Live-in close. I remember something about a city hospital.”
“Well, she spoke to me briefly a month ago, but at the time, it just seemed an intrusion. She called this
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