The man staring at me scowled, so I scowled back. I wasn't interested in disguising my opinions of him and people like him, and I found myself in one of those rare situations where I could be a bit more honest about my feelings without it jeopardizing my goals. He scowled at me, and I scowled right back, and the two of us sat like that for quite some time.
"Am I under arrest?" He spat out, forcing each word out of him with an intense fury he just barely managed to contain. I saw a twitch in his nostrils, noticed his hands were clenched tightly, and recognized the tell-tale bob of a man's Adam's Apple—he was scared, but he was playing tough. Just as I'd expected.
"Have you done something illegal, Mr. Fox?" I shot back.
"I don't think I should speak any further without my lawyer present. Might I please have use of a phone to contact one?"
I smiled, "I assure you, you will have no need of it, Mr. Fox. You see, everything you say here is protected. You have my word on that."
He shook his head, "Somehow I doubt that, Ms. Waller."
My name was emphasized when he spoke it. Just as in any other context, it carried weight. He shot it at me, hoping that it would cause damage or at least make me recoil. But only a fool is harmed by her own weapon. And I am no fool.
"I am not surprised that you know who I am, Mr. Fox. Afterall, we have some mutual acquaintances, don't we?"
His greying beard wiggled as his face tightened. The eyes behind his large, square glasses narrowed at me suspiciously. The moles on his face jumped in agitation, as if he were preparing a physical assault but trying to hold himself back. There lay the great secret of Mr. Lucius Fox; he portrayed the stoic man in every board meeting, and the friendly mentor when he met with our mutual acquaintance. But the very moment you put him in an uncomfortable situation, it was all over, and Lucius Fox became a man as any other.
"I would reiterate my desire to not speak without my lawyer present." He responded, placing an extra, spitting emphasis on the last two words.
I learned forward in my chair, "That's fine. I'll talk, you listen."
His shoulders sunk a bit, and I took that as reluctant acceptance of my conditions.
"Mr. Fox, I'm concerned that you don't quite understand the position that you're in. You have your finger in quite a few different pots all at once, and I'm beginning to wonder if you can manage them. For years, I've chosen to overlook your work with our mutual acquaintance, for no reason other than both of you were too minor to be concerned with when compared to the grander scope of my offices. And yet, I turn on the news one day and see that you've been behaving irresponsibly."
His eyebrows lifted and his right hand unclenched. I reacted by reaching into my pocket and retrieving a phone. The video was already queued. I pressed play.
Lucius Fox was on the screen, but this one was some days younger than the man sitting before me. He stood in front of a podium embossed with the official seal of Gotham's chapter of the NAACP. His face was smooth and austere, but his fingers twitched slightly as he gripped the edge of the podium. Each word he spoke was flat and uniform, as though passing through a series of checkpoints between his brain and mouth.
"I will say this now and I'll be clear: The tragedy of those riots were a direct consequence of the hero worship towards Minstrel that we've allowed to remain unchecked! I know it's not all of us, I know it's not even most of us, but too damn many in our community validate this individual, and it was these types of people that exacerbated the violence of last night."
Mr. Fox reached across the table to pause the video.
"I fail to see, Ms. Waller, how anything I said during our town hall event would warrant a visit such as this."
"Then you're not as smart as you pretend to be," I replied.
I took a deep breath before I continued. I noticed his shoulders slack in response as his neck shifted slightly forward. I'd captured his attention, he was hanging on to my words. I resisted the urge to smile.
"Mr. Fox, I don't believe you are aware of what your role is. You've got to be the first leader of an NAACP chapter that doesn't understand just what it is that you're supposed to do."
He scoffed, "And just what, do you suppose, is that, ma'am?"
I narrowed my eyes, "You're supposed to advance our people. You are not supposed to admonish them—any of them. You aren't supposed to even speak on someone like Minstrel, not in public. Like it or not, Minstrel is the new Elijah Mohammad, the new Seale and Newton. That makes him persona non grata as far as you're concerned."
It's not often that you see a Black man purse his lips. Pursing one's lips is too feminine a behavior; it shows restraint and for that, most men are too proud. Black men specifically see such restraint as an insult, and I cannot say I blame them. For a race that is expected to be silent, pursing ones lips is a foreign act; it represents either failing to speak up when one should, or failing to remain quiet when one is expected. Black men and women either say what they mean or say nothing at all, only an idiot needs to stop themselves half-way.
"I understand your concern," he began, then interrupted with a sigh. "I know just as well as you that the perception of our community is vital to our survival. But I would have never reassured the establishment without mentioning Minstrel. Like you said, he's the new Elijah Mohammad, the last thing we need is a cult coming up under him."
I shook my head, "You still misunderstand, Lucius. Your job isn't to reassure 'the establishment' at all."
He leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing.
I continued. "The Establishment—as you put it—is reassured just by your existence. That's why we allow you to exist in the first place. Now is not the time to reassure anyone, now is the time to use this fear to your advantage."
He laughed, "Are you kidding? What kind of militant Black Power fantasy are you on?"
Growing annoyed with his inability to see what was spelled out for him, I scowled.
"I'm not the same as you, Mr. Fox. I don't give a damn about things like that. You're an African-American, I am simply American. My job is to secure the national security interests of this country; and part of that is allowing small fires to thin the herd. I cannot accomplish that job if you keep stamping them out."
Mr. Fox continued to eye me suspiciously, "What exactly are you suggesting I do, then?"
"Your job. Organize people, advocate for social change. Make petitions and hold peaceful protests when you have to, support politicians you agree with when you don't. If there's a riot, you hold a prayer circle and cleanup effort. If Black men with guns start marching in the streets, you do a gun buy-back program. If a new religious movement gains members, you hold meetings with city officials and the local Black preachers and reverends that already conform to the plan. And you do not mention those rioters, crazies with guns, or cultists publicly. You pretend that they don't exist, and you allow the 'Establishment' to read between the lines of the writing on the wall."
He didn't respond immediately. I could see from the way his eyes remained fixed on me and the slight fidgeting of his jaw that he was truly listening to what I was saying and thinking about what all it implied. I appreciated that, even though I knew it wouldn't necessarily make this conversation any easier.
He sighed, "Ms. Waller, with all due respect it sounds like you're the one that's confused about what I do. My job is to lead this community towards all the blessings that our people are due. If there's a threat to us, or if I see people going down the wrong path, I will correct it."
I rolled my eyes, "Mr. Fox, you over-estimate both your importance and your ability, so let me make this clear."
I leaned forward, let my voice turn lower, and hardened every part of my heart that I could feel beating in my chest, "You are not a leader. You never were a leader. You will never be a leader. Not unless we determine that you are fit to be such. And currently, you're failing to impress."
Mr. Fox's face tightened. His body began to tremble, and I saw his jaw begin to unhinge. He was going to yell, and like all men he thought that would intimidate me.
"Now see here!" He began.
I slammed a fist on the table and quickly rose, letting my larger body overshadow his. I looked at him from the bottom of my eyes and boomed, "Do not EVER forget your place!"
Mr. Fox flinched back as if I was going to slap him, and I can't say that a small part of my brain wasn't just as afraid that I'd do the same. That was the real trick to intimidation; it wasn't enough to talk loud and act like you were going to hurt someone, you had to convince yourself that it was true. Too many people can spot a lie or a false threat, and I knew that Lucius Fox was one of those people.
The old man was frozen in time as his arms were raised up in front of his body, defensively. He was scared, confused, and small like a child. I could easily imagine the type of thoughts running through his head in that moment. Was I really about to strike him? Would he be allowed to leave this place unharmed? What the hell was wrong with me? I'd heard it all before, and I found it all boring and predictable.
"See what fear does?" I began, "It slows you down. It calms you down. It makes you listen long enough to realize what's truly in your best interest. But if the NAACP did that, we'd have no choice but to place every one of you in a little box with no name. Let the people that carry guns, carry guns. Let the rioters and looters, riot and loot. Let Minstrel and everything else that people fear be fearful. So that when you make a demand and a white man looks at you and asks what possible leverage a bunch of uppity Negroes in a social club have, you actually have something to point to."
I sat down in my chair, leaving just enough time that Mr. Fox might feel compelled to speak up if he was still feeling combative. He didn't.
"Don't try to be a hero to the Black community, Mr. Fox. Those that came before you are already dead or dying. Those that exist right now are already in place and not going any damn where. Those that don't exist yet are still being selected. Being a Black hero, whether that means you're in or out of a mask, means little more than posturing and dancing to a tune you aren't playing, then having a bullet pumped into your body when you've outlived your usefulness or made too fatal an error. The Black community doesn't need a Superman or a Justice League, so stop trying to make one."
He scoffed, "So what are you saying that the community needs? More Minstrels? More bogeymen and thugs and terrorists? Because with all due respect, Ms. Waller, it sounds like you're saying that our community needs more villains."
I looked him dead in his eyes. But that wasn't enough. I could tell from how he sat that he was still resisting me. I grabbed his hand, and instantly I felt him become disarmed. It wasn't a rough gesture--it was tender and kind. I grabbed his hand like I was his friend, consoling him through a difficult time. This simple act of human contact brought his barriers down. And yet, he still couldn't see why he couldn't be the leader he so desperately wanted to be.
"Lucius," I began, "that's precisely what I'm saying."
End Chapter 13