I’d never been in Doug’s inner office before. With its leather couch, big comfy chairs, and desk tucked away in the corner like an afterthought, it looked like a den. Doug posed with various celebrities in the autographed photos covering the walls. I didn’t know any of the sports figures but recognized Martin Luther King Jr. and a very young Jesse Jackson.
The largest photo, an October 1967 blow-up from the Chicago Defender, was one of those group shots like in high school. The caption read: Local Illinois man joins voter registration drive in Mississippi. Someone had circled Doug's head. Since he was the only white person in the picture, I didn’t need the visual aide. The woman standing next to him cheesed for the camera like Miss Black America.
I looked at the picture again. In his younger days Doug looked like Winston’s twin: tall, blond, movie-star handsome. Unlike Winston, I’d always given Doug credit for brains as well as beauty. Given what he’d just done, I’d have to rethink my position.
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