31. Chapter 28 | Thelma #2
She stepped closer, dropping her voice. "You arrest me before those releases process, this becomes the story. 'FBI arrests woman who posted bail for civil rights activists.' How does that play on the evening news?" She met his gaze. "I'd give it thirty seconds before Cronkite has it."
His jaw tightened. Calculating.
"Process the releases," he said finally to the clerk. "Then she comes with us."
"Sir—"
"That's an order. Process the releases. Then we take her quietly. After the press leaves."
He turned to Thelma. His gaze was cold. "Twenty minutes."
They left.
Thelma pressed her hands flat against the counter. The performance draining out of her now that no one was watching.
Twenty minutes. Has to be enough.
"Thelma—" Oretha's voice was strained.
"Get the car around back. As soon as Dom's out, we run."
Outside, the noise changed. Shouting, but different—angrier, growing louder.
Oretha went to the window, paling.
"Counter-protesters. They saw the coverage."
Thelma crossed to look.
Fifty white men with signs. RACE MIXING IS COMMUNISM. They shoved toward the building, a thin line of police holding them back. CORE supporters pushed back. Both sides screaming. Police in the middle, overwhelmed.
Glass broke somewhere.
"That's not a protest," Oretha whispered. "That's a riot starting."
Dom is going to walk out into that.
Thelma turned back to the clerk. "How much longer?"
"Five minutes. The system is—"
"Make it five."
Outside, a bottle shattered against City Hall's facade.
The clerk looked up. "Releases processed. They're bringing them up now."
"Where?"
"Holding area. Down that hall."
Thelma started toward it. The clerk called after her. She ignored him. Oretha followed.
At the end of the hall, a metal door. Locked.
Behind them, footsteps. The FBI agent and his officers, plus three more.
"Miss Blake. Time's up."
"They're not out yet."
"That's not our concern—"
The metal door's lock clicked. Started to open.
"Wait," Thelma said. "Just—wait."
The agent looked at his watch. "You have two minutes."
The door opened.
Six people emerged into the hallway. Rev. Alexander first, walking but exhausted. Doris Jean Castle and Ruth Williams supporting each other. Jerome Baptiste and Marcus Washington behind them.
Finally—Dom.
Oh God. Oh God what did they do to her—
Dom moved like she was eighty years old, one eye swollen completely shut, purple-black. Her face mottled with bruising even under the fluorescent light, blood crusted in her hair and on her collar. Her left arm was pressed against her ribs, unusable.
Each step was agony.
The agent's hand closed on Thelma's arm. "Time's up."
Then cameras pushed into the hallway.
Press had followed the noise and found their way inside. Five reporters, three cameras—Doug's crew first, as promised. All of them pointed at Thelma and the released activists.
The agent's hand dropped from her arm as if he'd been burned.
Can't arrest her on camera. Not without creating the exact scandal I threatened. The cameras are the deal. As long as they're on me, I'm untouchable, she thought.
She pulled away and walked toward
Dom, with every camera following. Flash bulbs popped, leaving spots in her vision.
She was using herself as a shield. As long as she was the story, the police couldn't touch her. She had known this and planned for it.
Dom saw her through her barely-open
eye, stopped, and stared, taking in the black dress, the cameras, and what this meant.
Thelma got close enough to touch but didn't—not yet, not with everyone watching.
"Can you walk?" she asked Dom softly.
"With help," Dom replied.
"There's a riot outside. I can leave you here. Let them process you safely after it calms down. You don't have to—"
Dom's hand closed on Thelma's arm hard, her grip surprisingly strong.
"Together. We go together," Dom insisted.
"Dom—"
"You came for me. Now I'm choosing you back."
Thelma put Dom's arm around her shoulders, took her weight carefully. Dom leaned into her, trembling with pain and exhaustion, her heat palpable through the thin fabric of Thelma's shirt.
This they could do. This looked like friendship, charity. Not love. Never love. Not where anyone could see.
One kiss and everything she'd just done became worthless.
So she supported Dom and helped her walk.
Rev. Alexander and the others formed a chain around them. The FBI agent and his officers stood back, helpless, as cameras documented everything.
"We're leaving now," Thelma said loudly, to the cameras, to anyone listening. "Through the front. Anyone tries to stop us, you film it. You film everything."
The doors opened onto chaos.
A hundred counter-protesters now, maybe more. Signs and bottles and rage. A hundred CORE supporters pushing back. Police everywhere, overwhelmed, tear gas hanging in the air.
Twenty feet to the street where Oretha's car was. It might as well have been twenty miles.
Thelma kept talking and stayed visible. "As you can see, this is what speaking truth gets you in Louisiana. Violence. Intimidation—"
A bottle arced through the
air, spinning, catching light.
It hit her shoulder. Glass shattered, pain bloomed sharp and immediate, but she kept Dom upright and kept moving.
Another bottle. This one hit her head.
Glass exploded. She felt the cut, felt blood immediately hot on her face, running into her eye.
Don't fall. Keep moving. Keep Dom safe. Almost there.
Oretha's car—engine running, back door open, ten feet away through a wall of bodies.
A counter-protester broke through the police line and rushed at them, screaming.
Thelma turned, putting herself between him and Dom.
His fist connected with her ribs. Pain exploded. She staggered but didn't let go.
Rev. Alexander grabbed the man's arm and yanked him back. Marcus and Jerome pulled Thelma forward. "MOVE!"
Three feet.
Dom stumbled. Thelma caught her, supporting her, her own ribs screaming.
"Almost there. Stay with me."
"Always," Dom whispered.
They reached the car. Thelma helped Dom in first—careful of her injuries, of everything broken—then slid in after her and pulled the door closed.
"Go!"
Oretha accelerated before the door fully latched.
Behind them, City Hall receded. The riot, the cameras, the press—all of it falling away.
Silence except for breathing.
Then: "You're bleeding," Dom said.
Thelma touched her head. Her hand came away red.
"So did you. Worse than this."
Dom pulled Thelma close despite her own pain. Her good arm around Thelma's shoulders.
"You came for me."
"Of course I came."
"You almost got arrested."
"Still might." Thelma touched Dom's face gently, careful of the bruising. "But you're out. That's what matters."
"We'll figure it out," Dom said. "Together."
Dom's head came to rest on Thelma's shoulder, her breathing labored but steadying. Her barely-open eye closed.
"You were wearing black," Dom murmured.
"Borrowed. Doris Jean's."
"Still." Dom's fingers found hers in the space between them, hidden from Oretha's rearview mirror. "I know what you couldn't say out there."
"I know." Thelma's eyes welled. "Me too."
Their hands intertwined. Still hiding, even now—but Dom's pulse beat warm and steady against Thelma's wrist, and they were alive, and they were free.
The car turned onto their street. Papa Louie's bar ahead, lights on, CJ's silhouette in the window.
Home.
Doris Jean's dress was ruined—blood on the shoulder, glass in the fabric, a tear in the hem. She'd have to apologize.
Worth it. Every stitch, every dollar, every piece of herself she'd just given away to the cameras.
Worth it.