The Paper Daughters of Chinatown - Heather B. Moore Page 0,60
and Dolly had no choice but to believe them.
Dolly didn’t have to wait long. By that afternoon, the newspapers had caught word of the situation, and nearby Stanford University students had circulated handbills calling for action:
On to Palo Alto!
Our reputation is at stake.
Bring own rope.
No. 3 Hall. 8:00 tonight.
All the city officials involved in the Kum Quai affair had been named and criticized, including the judge who had ordered Kum Quai to be thrown in jail, the jailer who had dragged her out of the cell, the peace officer, the San Jose sheriff, and even the lawyer who had filed the charges in the first place.
“Miss Cameron?” a man said.
Dolly looked up from the newspaper she was reading in the lobby. She had finally consented to take one of the hotel rooms, but after a short nap, she was back in the lobby. Now she sat at a small table, waiting and watching for any more developments.
“I’m Attorney Weigle.” He extended his hand. “I’ve been on the telephone with Monroe, and I’d like to represent you in this case.”
Dolly shook Weigle’s hand as she examined him, determining that he was of middle age, his eyes were intelligent, and his manner confident. He smelled faintly of pipe smoke. “What do you recommend?” she asked.
“May I sit?” He indicated the chair opposite her.
“Of course,” Dolly murmured.
Weigle sat and adjusted his cuffs. His face danced with shadows in the lamplight surrounding them. “I recommend that you prepare an official statement. This thing is not going to be over quickly. The sooner you write the events down, the more accurate they will be. Tomorrow we will—”
Dolly heard the commotion outside the hotel at the same time as Weigle, and they both turned toward the window. A large group of people, most of them appearing to be college students, walked down the street together, shouting something.
Dolly rose to her feet. “What’s going on?”
Weigle frowned; then his brows shot up. “They’re protesting the wrongful treatment of your Chinese ward, Miss Cameron. I didn’t know it would reach these proportions, though.” He moved toward the front door, where other hotel patrons were gathering to watch.
Dolly followed and stepped out of the hotel. The chanting was louder now, and, up close, she felt the energy radiating from the college students. The night’s atmosphere was like an electric charge. “Oh, my goodness,” she murmured.
The end of the street revealed that not just a few dozen but hundreds of college students were marching together. Torches and lanterns in hand, their chants echoed through the night.
“To the jail!”
“Burn it up!”
“Tear it down!”
Dolly had lost track of where Weigle had gone, but she was transfixed as she watched the approaching mob. Their voices echoed off the buildings on University Avenue, and Dolly was reminded of an impending fierce thunderstorm.
“What’s that?” she said to herself as she noticed a smaller group carrying an effigy.
“It’s the justice of the peace who humiliated Palo Alto with a false trial,” a young man next to her replied.
She turned to look at him, but he had disappeared into the crowd, joining the protesters. Then Dolly watched with mixed fascination and horror as the mob turned down the side streets leading to the jail. She brought a hand to her mouth, not even feeling the hot tears splashing onto her cheeks.
“You should go back inside.” Weigle appeared at her side and grasped her elbow. “I don’t know what will happen.”
“No,” Dolly said in a clear voice. She breathed in the cool evening air, the crackling excitement, and the sight of hundreds supporting her cause. “I want to watch.”
She began to walk, following the mob at a good distance, and Weigle kept pace with her. He acted as if he would have to defend her at any moment, but Dolly wasn’t worried in the least. These students from Stanford were after one thing only: justice. And whatever form that took, Dolly would support it.
The crowd of students didn’t tear down the jail, nor did they burn it. Instead, they removed the contents from inside the jail cell—the filthy blanket, the boxes, and the wooden boards. They carried the items back to the street, where they lit them on fire.
Along with the effigy of the justice of the peace.
As the crackling orange flames reached toward the dark sky, the mob continued in their shouting and cursing, demanding reform. Promising change.