TWENTY-SEVEN
DURHAM, SOUTH CAROLINARickey stood in the light rain with the other mourners at the grave site, oblivious to the fact that he was the only white person among the more than sixty people. The preacher uttered the final words of his eulogy and the casket was slowly positioned by the six pall bearers into the fresh hole in the ground.
The widow, in black, was escorted by a handsome young man about twenty-five to the waiting limousine at the front of the procession of cars. Rickey arrived at the vehicle, as the young man slammed the door, the widow disappearing behind metal and tinted glass.
“Douglas?” Rickey asked, rain dripping off his umbrella.
“Yes.”
Rickey held out his hand to the bareheaded man. “I’m Branch Rickey.”
The man’s eyes beamed a greeting. “Ah, yes. This is a
