by Daniel Black
But there was one other thing to do, one more river to cross, in order to deliver Lazarus safely. She gathered the soiled white shawl about her tightly and headed east on Memorial Drive, then south on Boulevard, all the while dancing and singing in the spirit.
Chapter 9
Lazarus revived facedown on a cold slab of concrete. Other bodies surrounded him, in complete oblivion, too dejected and sorrowful to care whether he was dead or alive. When he rose, a few glanced but said nothing. They, too, were black and poor, or so it seemed, and Lazarus took refuge in their despondency. He’d never been to jail before. It was nothing he’d imagined. More than anything, the place reeked of fear. He could smell it, strong and pungent like ammonia, irritating his nose and his confidence. Each man responded to it differently; one stared into space as though disconnected from reality. He appeared high or drunk, but really he was consumed with confusion. Not about jail, but about life. Lazarus could tell because his lips moved, but he never said anything. His distress was far beyond the moment, far wider than the width of a jail cell. Another man sat stupefied, drooling and rubbing his thighs. Another’s head hung so low it practically touched his knees. They posed no threat, to themselves or anyone else, so they were processed last. Another group talked incessantly, sometimes to others, sometimes to themselves, speaking of children and mothers whom they loved and missed dearly. Lazarus heard no mention of fathers.
Three others, young and vibrant, stood huddled in a corner, free-styling so precisely, so brilliantly, that, for a moment, Lazarus forgot they were in bondage. It was as if melody transcended concealment, as if brothers’ words carried power to set them free. He closed his eyes and listened to a critique of America most lawmakers would never hear. The language troubled him at times, the niggas, bitches, hoes, fags, but the young boys’ desire for money and power echoed a sentiment with which he was intimately familiar. Sympathy rose in him, but he said nothing. Instead, he wondered what had happened to black culture that black children could speak of themselves so derogatorily and worship nothing but cash. Then he thought of his former luxury and sighed.
One lone gentleman sat, yoga-style, in the center of the floor as if in deep meditation. The chaotic surroundings seemed not to disturb him. He looked up slowly, and when his eyes met Lazarus’s he nodded as if finally discovering what he’d been looking for. Lazarus frowned and looked away, but the man stared, unmoved by Lazarus’s attempt to ignore him. He moved next to where Lazarus reclined against the wall. Their legs lay straight in front of them.
The man extended his right hand and said, “Moses. Moses Johnson.”
Lazarus wasn’t interested in cordiality, but he’d never been rude. “Lazarus.” The two jerked each other’s hands.
“What you in for?” Moses asked.
Lazarus mumbled, “Murder.”
Moses never blinked. “You ain’t murdered nobody.”
“How you know?”
“You ain’t got the look. Eyes too steady.”
Now Lazarus stared.
“When you take a life, you lose some of your own. Eyes become dull and murky. Yours ain’t. They still got their glow.” He slapped Lazarus’s thigh.
Lazarus lowered his guard. “Got accused of killing a white woman I was working for. I don’t know what happened.”
“Yeah. They don’t, either. Just need someone to blame.”
“I really didn’t do it.”
“I know. I said you don’t have the look. I’ve seen murderers, man, and you ain’t one of ’em.”
“No, I’m not.”
“No, you’re not.”
They paused.
“What you in for?”
Moses burst into triumphant laughter. “You mean what I’m ‘in for’ this time? Long story, man.”
Only then did Lazarus realize Moses was much older than he looked. A salt-and-pepper cul-de-sac of stubby hair covered the sides and back of his head, leaving the top bald and shiny like a dome. Except for a ragged goatee, he had very little facial hair. It was the baby-smooth complexion that allowed for the façade of youth. There was no wrinkle anywhere, and no sign that there’d ever been a blemish. If Lazarus had been freer in his spirit, he might’ve called the man handsome.
“My life’s a complicated story,” he began. “But let me answer your question first since you answered mine.” He swallowed hard. “Armed robbery. That’s what they got me for. I’m guilty. I held up a gas station in Midtown. Didn’t get but two hundred dollars.”
The man smacked his lips and smiled. They were interrupted by an officer who called someone’s name, and a man rose and dragged himself forward.
“You seem too smart for that,” Lazarus said, surprised.
“Smart?” Moses mocked. “If intelligence could save a man, most of us wouldn’t be here. It ain’t got nothin’ to do with being smart, man. It’s about bein’ ruthless. These people need a bottom so they can stay on top. They’ll do everything they can to keep us there.”
“But you held up the store!”
“I did. But only because I lost everything I owned. Got hurt on a job twenty years ago and couldn’t work, but they wouldn’t give me disability. Doctors couldn’t find nothing wrong with me, but I couldn’t stand more than ten minutes before my back gave out. I tried other jobs, but couldn’t stand long enough to keep them. Got unemployment for a while, but that ran out. Then my wife passed.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?”
Lazarus froze. Moses laughed. “People say that, just to be nice, but they don’t mean it. We don’t give a shit about each other’s pains, man. This is America! Do for self!” Moses slapped Lazarus’s thigh again. “I’m just playing with you, brother. Don’t pay me no mind.”
Another name was called for processing. Moses continued as if he’d simply blacked out and now returned: “Got a son, but he ain’t much good. Been in and out of prison most of his life. I raised him the best I could. Went wrong somewhere, though.”
Lazarus thought of Quad and said, “They have minds of their own. All you can do is the best you can.”
“Guess so. I ain’t heard from him in a while. Not sure where he is these days.” Moses’s eyes glazed over. “After a lifetime of losing, here I am. It’s a place to stay and a meal. They let me out after a while and I come right back. It’s better than living on the streets.”
“Is it?”
“Hell yeah. Warm in the winter, at least warmer than bein’ outdoors, and there’s always company. You ain’t never alone. I like that. Plenty of these brothers crazy, but you always meet some that ain’t. Like you.” Moses winked. “Where you from?”
“New York, but spent summers in Arkansas. Now I live here.”
“Here where?”
He couldn’t say at the intersection of I-20 and I-75, so instead he said, “Downtown area.”
Moses nodded. “Don’t be ashamed, brother. Life is honorable everywhere.”
An officer stepped into the cell and shouted, “Lazarus Love, the Third?”
Lazarus scrambled upward. “Take care, my man,” Moses said. “Don’t let ’em break you.”
The officer led Lazarus to a small room with a table and two chairs, and instructed him to sit. Within moments a tall black man entered, dressed neatly in a blue pin-striped suit, a white shirt, and a white and yellow paisley tie. His goatee was blacker than any Lazarus had ever seen. There was no greeting.
“Where were you on the evening of April 4?” Before him lay an unused legal pad and a ballpoint pen. He raised the pen, prepared to write Lazarus’s response. His face wasn’t unkind, as Lazarus had expected; it was simply disinterested.
“Sir, I don’t recall where—”
“It’s the day Mrs. Dupont was murdered. Do you recall that day?”
Lazarus fought to look relaxed. The last thing he needed was the appearance of guilt. “I do. I was helping her make a flower garden in her front yard.”
“Approximately what time did you
arrive?”
“It must’ve been about nine.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes.”
“And what exactly did you do?”
“I broke ground with a shovel and mixed in fertilizer with a hoe.”
“Did y’all talk while you worked or were you silent?”
“I was silent, but she talked a little. Told me about her mother who loved flowers and said that’s where she got it from.”
“Did you have any tension, any argument about anything?”
“Not at all. There was nothing to argue about. I did what she said.”
“Did you enter the house at all? For anything? To use the bathroom or whatnot?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
“Did she happen to mention anyone else with whom she might’ve been having trouble?”
“No. She seemed perfectly happy to me.”
The detective’s left hand scribbled a note; then he leaned forward and asked, “Did you find Mrs. Dupont pretty?”
Lazarus reclined in the chair and said, “She looked okay. Average, I suppose.” It wasn’t his truth, but he couldn’t incriminate himself.
“Most men would’ve found her attractive, I think.”
Lazarus stared and waited for the next question.
“Have you ever been with a white woman before?”
He frowned, offended. “I’ve been with all kinds of women, sir.”
“And were some of them white?”
Lazarus sighed. “Yes.”
“And did you enjoy it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The white women. Did you enjoy them? Sexually.”
“As much as I enjoyed any woman. Nothing special.”
“You didn’t find them a little more … um … how should I say it? Alluring?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You didn’t want to touch Mrs. Dupont? Not in a harmful way, but just to see what she felt like?”
“I know what women feel like, sir.”
“I know you do, brother.” He chuckled. “But you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. I didn’t go over there for that.”
The detective appeared irritated. “How much did she pay you?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“Two twenties and a ten or a fifty-dollar bill?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Just answer the question.”
Lazarus huffed. “She gave me two twenties and two fives.”
“Did she go in the house to get it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you follow her?”
“No. I waited in the front yard.”
“Did she give you anything else? A drink of water? A snack?”
“No!” Lazarus snapped. Then repeated more gently, “No. Nothing else.”
“What was she wearing?”
“A man’s shirt and some jeans. And a hat.”
“What color was the shirt?”
“Light blue, I think. Kinda greenish blue.”
He paused and wrote again. “Did anyone else see you there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I didn’t see anybody.”
“How about her husband? Was he home?”
“I don’t think so. If he was, I didn’t see him.”
“A dog. Was there a dog?”
“Yes. I didn’t see it, but I heard it bark.”
The officer nodded. “What kind of dog was it?”
“I don’t know. I told you I didn’t see it.”
“Oh yeah.” He smirked. His facial expression hardened. “Did you kill Mrs. Dupont, Mr. Love?” The question came easily, as if he’d asked Lazarus for driving directions.
“No, sir, I didn’t. I had no reason to. I didn’t even know her. I was just trying to make a few extra dollars.”
The officer nodded. “I see. It was a nice house, huh?”
Lazarus knew where this was going. “I’m not a thief, sir. I work for everything I get. Always have.”
“I never said you were.”
“You’re treating me like I am.”
“I think you’re being a little defensive, sir. Let’s just settle down.” His hands lifted as if under arrest.
Lazarus gawked and chuckled. “What? I’m not being defensive! I’m perfectly calm.”
The officer’s arms relaxed.
“Well, try to control yourself, sir.”
Lazarus huffed with frustration.
“I just have a few more questions.” The officer flipped a page. “What time did you leave?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Sometime around noon I think.”
“How would you know? Do you wear a watch?”
“No, sir, I don’t. But I can tell time,” he sneered.
“Did you see a clock somewhere?”
“She wore a watch. I remember her glancing at it and saying how hot the day was becoming.”
“Was it an expensive watch?”
“I don’t know. It was a watch. That’s all I remember.”
“Was it gold? Silver? Diamond studded?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t study it like that. I just remember her looking at it.”
“Did you think that maybe you’d like a watch like that?”
“No!” Lazarus shouted. “I didn’t think that. I didn’t think nothin’. I just did my work and left.”
“Sir, you’re getting out of hand! No need being upset if you’re not guilty. I’m just asking you a few pertinent questions and you’re acting like a—”
Lazarus leapt. “A what? I’m acting like a what, sir?”
The detective stood. “I think this is over.” He grabbed the pad angrily and turned toward the door.
Lazarus’s arms flung wide. “I have nothing to hide! It’s like you’re trying to make me say something so you can justify charging me for this crime, but I didn’t do it!”
“Right, right,” the detective sang. “That’s why you’re screaming? Because you didn’t do it?”
Lazarus’s eyes bulged. “I’m not screaming, man. I’m just saying don’t try to make me admit to something I didn’t do!”
Lazarus, oh, Lazarus! Keep your cool, dear Lazarus!
The detective swung the door wide. “A hit dog hollers, sir. That’s all I’m gon’ say.” He left.
Lazarus screeched behind him, “But I’m not a dog, sir. That’s the point!”
He collapsed into the chair, unsure of whether the man had heard him or not. Only then did he notice his rapid breathing, like that of an out-of-shape sprinter. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, trying, though failing, to calm his nerves. Several minutes passed. Streams of sweat meandered across his forehead and beneath his armpits. His mouth went dry; he needed water.
The same officer who’d arrested him escorted him back to the cell. His grip on Lazarus’s arm felt belittling and reprimanding, but Lazarus endured, sure that resistance might cost his life. Moses noticed the shift in countenance and let Lazarus sit for a while before inquiring, “How’d it go?”
Lazarus stared straight ahead. “Fuckin’ bastards.”
Moses didn’t press the matter. Instead, he said, “It’s all a game, man. You don’t ever know how things get started, so you can’t never fix nothin’. Like this right here.” He nodded in every direction. “Nothin’ but black men. Ain’t it funny that jails are full of black men? How did this start? And if they don’t know, how do people justify it? Do they believe black men are more criminal than other men? Really?”
“I don’t know what people believe,” Lazarus mumbled. “I know we in here and they out there.”
“That’s my point, brotha! How does that happen? It ain’t never them? Never?”
As Lazarus contemplated, his resolve returned. “When you run the system, I guess you don’t suffer from it.”
“True, but it ain’t that simple.”
“Ain�
�t it?”
Moses ranted on about the Boule, the Illuminati, the Rosicrucians, the Freemasons, the secret documents housed in the Vatican, and the Seal of the Saints. Lazarus had never heard of the last.
“I know you haven’t. Most people haven’t. But it’s real.”
“Who’s in it?”
“Black men. Those who want deeper levels of knowledge. You can’t join, though. Gotta be nominated.”
“How you get nominated?”
Moses looked around suddenly as if fearful of being watched. “Gotta know your history, man. From way back.” He paused. “Gotta start in Kemet. You ever heard of Ancient Kemet?”
Lazarus shook his head.
“I know you haven’t. Then ain’t no use asking you about the Dogon people, is it?”
Lazarus offered pursed lips.
“We know we African, but we don’t know Africa. Our God is white—dipped in chocolate. We think African spirituality is devil worship. Really, the devil taught us that. We worship him by hating ourselves.”
Lazarus had heard such rhetoric before, but Moses’s sincerity irritated his consciousness. Still, Lazarus said, “I don’t know about that. Take Christianity for instance. It began in Africa.”
“Not the brand we practice. This ain’t the Coptic kind, my brother. This is the imperialistic, conquering kind. The kind that leaves some rich but most poor. Everybody just waiting on their turn to be rich. But it ain’t coming. Not for most of ’em.” Now he shrugged. “But it don’t matter. It’s the hope they need. It’s all a game anyway. A few black people get rich and we believe all of us can. Most of us can’t. By the time people discover this, they too depressed to change, so they keep living the way they been living. Till they die broke. They killin’ us, man. Teach us everything except knowledge of self.”
Lazarus felt guilty somehow. “I like to think more positive. I’ve never been a conspiracy theorist.”
Laughter burbled from Moses’s throat. “You’d better become one! Don’t you know where you live? Don’t you know what this place’ll do to you? You ain’t done nothin’ wrong, but you still here! You don’t see the conspiracy?”
Lazarus couldn’t deny Moses’s point. “This is all a mistake. That’s all.”
“Shit, man! Don’t be naïve! You gotta keep your eyes open and watch how it happens. They’re tryin’ to get you, man, ’cause the world already believes you’re guilty. Don’t you see that? They ain’t gotta prove nothing. Just make up a motive. Or, hell, lock you up without one. Don’t make no difference. The public gon’ buy it. That’s what they’re conditioned to do. You gotta outsmart these bastards, man. Don’t let ’em win. Not if you can help it. And you can. Most brothas can’t, but you can.”