Malcolm X_ A Life of Reinvention - Manning Marable [282]
As the smoke still wafted overhead, MMI and OAAU members stumbled around the ballroom aimlessly, in stunned disbelief at what they had just witnessed. The journalist and OAAU member Earl Grant had been using the pay telephone near the front entrance, making a follow-up call to solicit funds at Malcolm’s request, when the first shot rang out. He tried to reenter the ballroom but was pushed aside by the stampede of people fleeing the building. When he finally reached the stage, Malcolm’s shirt had been opened and blood covered his torso. Grant retrieved his reporter’s camera and began taking photographs. His photos would become the main images of the death of Malcolm X.
When Herman Ferguson finally managed to reach the Audubon’s main entrance, he saw to his immediate right “a big commotion going on in the street. . . . A crowd of people had a man up in the air and they were pulling and tugging on him.” Wandering in shock, Ferguson found himself on the corner of Broadway and West 166th Street brooding over “what I had just seen—Malcolm’s death.” A few minutes later he recognized several MMI and OAAU brothers rushing by with a hospital gurney, which they wheeled into the building. Soon a group of policemen and the brothers returned with the gurney bearing a familiar figure: “I looked down at Malcolm. I could already see the pallor, the grayish pallor of his face. . . . His shirt was opened and his collar and tie were pulled down. You could see his chest . . . [and] a pattern of about seven bullet holes, holes large enough to fit your little finger. And I [thought] to myself that he was gone.”
Ferguson stood disoriented at the corner for several minutes, trying to decide what to do next. Just then a police car, traveling north up Broadway, turned sharply and stopped only a few feet from him. The squad car held two policemen, one of whom he judged to be “police brass,” due to “the scrambled eggs on his hat.” The officer left the car and entered the Audubon, returning moments later with a man with an olive complexion who was “obviously in great pain.” As the man was assisted into the backseat, Ferguson walked to the car. “He was slumped over, holding his midsection, and I had to bend down and look into his face.” Ferguson figured the man had been shot; thinking that the wounded man was “one of our guys,” he asked what was happening. The squad car sped away—only instead of making a right turn across Broadway toward Columbia Presbyterian, the nearest hospital, “they kept going down towards the [Hudson] river, across the street, down that incline, and disappeared out of sight.”
When the frantic MMI and OAAU members and police carrying Malcolm’s body reached Columbia Presbyterian’s emergency room, one physician immediately performed a stab tracheotomy in an effort to revive him. Malcolm was then taken to the hospital’s third floor, where other physicians set to work. The doctors knew Malcolm was almost certainly dead by the time he was brought into the emergency room, but they continued to try to revive him for fifteen minutes before giving up. At three thirty p.m., in a small office overflowing with Malcolm’s supporters and a growing cluster of journalists, a doctor announced in an oddly detached manner: “The gentleman you knew as Malcolm X is dead.”
Malcolm’s principal lieutenants did not personally witness the shooting. Mitchell, Benjamin 2X, and James 67X were all together backstage. “I heard a sound like firecrackers,” Benjamin recalled. “I heard blasts of gunfire. . . . The perspiration broke out of every pore