The Man Who Wouldn’t Flinch
— From the Archives: A 1920s Article by Lanie Price —
The lights in Darleen’s Fish ’n’ Fry buzzed faintly, flickering against the gloom. The scent of frying catfish mingled with the low murmur of conversation from the handful of diners scattered across the booths. Darleen herself was working the counter, her practiced indifference firmly in place. In the back corner, Lawrence Whitaker sat pouring over a open folder, a steaming cup of coffee untouched beside him. His suit was sharp, his posture sharper.
Whitaker wasn’t from Harlem. He’d grown up in Savannah, Georgia, in a house that leaked in the winter and stifled in the summer. His father had been a sharecropper before disappearing to the city, and his mother cleaned houses for white families. Whitaker had worked his way through Howard University, balancing law classes with night shifts as a porter. He’d come to Harlem not to escape, but to fight. A man like him didn’t let his roots define him, but they shaped him all the same.
Whitaker was now in the middle of a case that could either launch his career to new heights or ruin it completely. He was representing the tenants of a Harlem apartment building owned by Louis Grantham, a real estate tycoon with too much money and too few scruples.
Grantham wasn't just another slumlord; he was tied to Harlem's criminal underworld. Word was he'd made his first fortune running bootleg liquor and now used his properties as cover for more than just housing. His tenants lived in squalor—leaking pipes, no heat, infestations. When they complained, Grantham's "fixers" paid them visits to remind them of their place.
The man fancied himself a king, looking down on men like Whitaker with scorn. But Whitaker wasn't backing down. This "farmer's boy" wasn't the kind to flinch.
Whitaker glanced up as I approached and something flickered in his eyes—weariness, irritation? Both? His tie was slightly loosened, but everything else about him was precision and control.
I slid into the booth across from him. “Lanie Price,” I said. “Thanks for making time.”
A busy man, he wasn’t someone who gave interviews lightly. Now, he closed the folder with a sigh, then looked me up and down, assessing me, then spoke. “Mrs. Price. You’re a society columnist. I’m surprised that someone of your, uh … ilk would take an interest in my work.”
The word ilk landed as intended—sharp, condescending, a scalpel dressed as civility. Well, well, well. So, this was how it was going to be. The man had barely given me a chance to sit down. I felt the cut but refused to show it. Instead, I took a moment to shrug out of my coat, set my purse aside, and take out my pad and pencil. Then I gave him my full attention—and the response his comment fully deserved. I met his gaze and let a small smile play at the corners of my lips.
“Mr. Whitaker,” I said, giving his name the same emphasis he’d given mine. “We’re not so different, you and I. I grew up poor on the south side of Chicago. My mother was a housekeeper, too. My father? A rolling stone. I married the son of the family my mother worked for. A doctor. We moved here and I had to start all over. Then he died and I made my way. Better off than some. Worse than others.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, subtle but unmistakable. Men like Whitaker often assumed they were the only ones who’d ever clawed their way up from nothing. It was always a pleasure to set them straight.
“As for my reporting, it covers more than the wealthy—something I’m sure you know. So tell me, Mr. Whitaker, if you mistrust me—me and my ‘ilk’—so much, why did you agree to talk to me?”
For a moment, the attorney known for his oratory skills had nothing to say. Then he opened his mouth to respond, but I raised a hand to stop him. “Never mind. I already know.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You need this story,” I said. “You won’t admit it, but you do. You understand the power of publicity. A piece in my column could rally support, bring allies to your side, maybe even rattle Grantham enough to give you an edge in court. And there’s something else, too.” I let the words linger. “Fame. Especially the kind that comes from a fight like this—it has its allure, doesn’t it? You might disavow it, but you don’t hate it.”
I glanced over at Darleen and signaled for a coffee, then turned back to him. “Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Whitaker. I don’t judge you for it. Ambition? That’s a language I speak. Fluently.” I opened my pad to a blank page and tapped my pencil against it. “So let’s get to it, shall we?”
“Touché, Mrs. Price. Touché.” He granted me a nod of acknowledgment—and a faint, weary smile. “You’re here about the case.”
“I’m here about the man behind it. It’s not just the Grantham case people are talking about. It’s you. They want to know what kind of man takes on someone like him.”
“The kind who’s had enough of seeing men like him walk away.”
"They say you've been getting threats."
"They're not wrong."
"Does that worry you?"
He smiled thinly. "Justice doesn't come cheap, and it sure as hell doesn't come easy. But worry doesn't win cases. And there is no one else. Not for these tenants. They've been treated like pieces on a board, moved around or discarded by the courts, the city, anyone with power. Grantham thinks they’re too scared to fight back. I’m here to show him he’s wrong.”
“What happens if you lose?”
“Then we lose.” He took a sip of his coffee. “But losing isn’t what scares Grantham. It’s the fight. He’s not used to people like me fighting back.”
“What makes you so dangerous to him?”
“The law is supposed to be neutral. But Grantham knows how to tilt it in his favor. Men like him always do. My job is to pull it back. Every move counts in this game. It's not easy, and it's not always fair. But it is possible.”
“And what makes you willing to take those risks?”
“If I don’t, who will? I grew up watching men like Grantham treat people like my parents as if they didn’t matter. They worked harder in a day than he has in his entire life, and what did they get? A pat on the head if they were lucky. Success meant different things back home. For some, it was just surviving another season. For others, it was finding a way to leave. I swore a long time ago I wouldn't stand for it. And here I am."
“What’s the worst they’ve done to you so far?”
“They sent men to my office. They tore the place apart, took some files. Sent a message.” His grip on his coffee cup tightened and a small vein in his temple pulsed. “I’ve had threats before. This isn’t new.”
“If that didn’t scare you, what does?”
“Failing.”
That one word. It said it all. He wasn't just good at harnessing his rage—he turned it into fuel, used it to drive him forward. More than that, it told me he was the kind of man who'd rather take a bullet than let his people down.
“What about Grantham? What’s his endgame here?”
“Power. Success. Triumph. Men like him collect victories like trophies. He's not just trying to win the case; he's trying to make sure no one ever dares challenge him again."
The room seemed quieter than it had before. Even Darleen looked over once or twice, though she didn’t say anything.
“Is there something that drives you? Something you live by?”
He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the table. It was interesting what he said, unexpected. Just as he began, however, Darleen appeared at our table to refresh our coffee. As she leaned over to pour it, a drop splattered on my notes.
She gasped, horrified. “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry.”
“Not a problem.” I grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the spot as the ink bled into the paper.
When I left Darleen’s, Whitaker was still at the table, head bent over his papers. Outside, Harlem was alive with noise and movement, oblivious to the battles being fought in its shadowed corners. If Whitaker won, he wouldn't just set things right for his clients. He'd show that justice wasn't just for those who could buy it. He’d remind the self-proclaimed “kings” that even pawns could push back, show them that Harlem wasn’t theirs for the taking. Whether he won or lost, I knew Whitaker wouldn’t stop until they felt his presence, sharp as a blade and impossible to ignore.
Later, when I reviewed my notes, I found that the dripped coffee had washed out part of Whitaker’s quote. The words blurred into nothing. “Victory doesn’t always mean _____. It’s making sure the other side never forgets you were in the fight.”
The loss haunted me through dinner and into the restless hours of the night. Then, just past midnight, I bolted upright, a hand to my chest. The answer was as clear as a tolling church bell. Whitaker's truth had been there all along, hidden in the spaces between what was said and what was left unsaid.
Now I’m wondering, dear readers—can you see it too? What words did that coffee stain try to hide?
—Lanie Price, Society Reporter, The Harlem Chronicle
