Free The Truth Hurts by Nancy Pickard Page B

arrests were taking place—across town where black members of Hostel lived and where they, too, had gathered together to watch the Speech. Their cheering had broken out just about the time that another phalanx of FBI and local cops burst in—less politely, by far.
    Every black member of Hostel who could be found that night was arrested and jailed. Within the month they were tried and convicted by an all-white jury of any charge that could be trumped up against them. By and large, the black men served prison terms ranging from three to six years. The women were either acquitted or served token sentences and then allowed to return home—except they had no homes.
    On that night of June 12, 1963, all of their houses were burned down.
    “As much as anything,” Eulalie says, “what destroyed us was what Sebastion looked like the next morning. Tuesday, June thirteenth. Not a one of the white people was in jail or charged with a single thing. We’d been singled out, yes. But not actually harmed beyond the damage to our reputations, which were hypocritical at best, anyway. But in the black end of town, there was pure devastation. I think they—the black folks—looked at the difference and they gave up on us that night. I really do. After that, they weren’t interested in our help. They’d still take our money donations, but they wouldn’t look us in the eye. They’d use any lawyer we hired for them, but they never said thank you, and why should they? The FBI and the cops told them that we had bought our safety by handing them over. It wasn’t true! We knew we hadn’t done that, but we knew who did do it. There were only two other white people who knew the identities of everybody in Hostel, the only two white Hostel members who didn’t quite manage to make it to my party that night.
    “Michael and Lyda. Our founders. Our traitors. That’s who betrayed all of us, their white friends. We got over it, more or less. But they downright ruined the lives of a lot of black families that terrible night. An FBI agent Clayton knew even told him so a few weeks later. The agent told us it was Michael Folletino who handed over the list to the local police. Clayton asked him, Why? Why did Michael do that to us? And the FBI agent said, Michael never was your friend, Clayton. Michael Folletino worked for us.”

6
Marie

    So there it is, the rest of the story, all that I know except for a little bit having to do with my parents and how they met. But who knows what any of it means? They seemed, in this telling, to be acting like a couple who feared for their lives. If they were planning to disappear, they don’t seem to have prepared for that possibility ahead of time.
    I toss the pages aside, the way I’d like to toss Michael and Lyda Folletino aside, for good, and just then my phone rings. Without waiting for Deb to get it, I pick it up and say hello.
    It’s Connie, my young publicist.
    “That was fast,” I praise her.
    “I have a friend there. The name you want, the source for that terrible story, is Paul Barnes. Need me to spell it?”
    “No.” I’m silent for a second, absorbing this useless confirmation of the name on the E-mail that was sent to me today. “Where’d they send the check?”
    “They didn’t pay for it, Marie. He didn’t charge the tabloid for it, he said he was doing it for free.”
    Damn. “So he can’t be found that way,” I muse aloud. “Connie, do you know how the tip came in?”
    “E-mail, they said. Supposedly, they tried to reach you to get your reaction. Did they?”
    “Not that I’m aware of.” When she wants to talk about other interviews, I make an excuse and hang up, telling her I can’t talk right now.
    Well, at least now I know one small thing that Paulie Barnes doesn’t know that I know. He lied when he said he would spend his five-hundred-dollar reward on surprises for me. Big deal. That is worth exactly what he got paid—nothing.
    “I’m going home now,” Deb announces,