by Daniel Black
“The City of Atlanta versus Lazarus Love.”
The judge examined Lazarus and frowned slightly. His court-appointed attorney stood next to him, obviously uninterested.
After formalities, the judge asked, “How do you plead?”
All eyes converged on Lazarus. He’d waited for this moment, although now he found it hard to speak. “Not guilty, Your Honor,” he said.
Murmuring rose, and the judge pounded his gavel. “Order! Order in the court!”
Voices hushed to a light rumble.
“Do you understand the charges against you, sir?”
“I do.”
“And do you understand that these are very serious charges?”
“Yessir, I do.”
“And are you sure you understand what all of this means?”
Lazarus felt insulted. “I do.”
His lawyer intruded. “Your Honor, he understands.”
The judge’s eyes narrowed.
“With a record as clean as his,” the lawyer continued, “I don’t see any reason to deny bail. He has no priors, no convictions, nothing. Spotless.”
The judge studied Lazarus again, trying to ascertain the tension between his appearance and his articulation.
“He’s a model citizen and—”
“Model citizen?” the judge screeched.
With lifted hands, Lazarus’s lawyer surrendered. “Okay, well, maybe not a model citizen”—Lazarus swiveled, appalled—“but certainly an upstanding one. His record is totally clean, Your Honor. Not a blemish anywhere.”
The judge scribbled something on a notepad. The DA didn’t wait for Lazarus’s lawyer to finish.
“Your Honor, this man is a murderer! A cold-blooded murderer!”
Lazarus waited for his lawyer to object. When he didn’t, Lazarus shouted, “Objection, Your Honor! I’m not a murderer. I’ve been accused of murder, and those aren’t the same things.”
Surprise hushed the courtroom. Momentarily stunned, the judge scowled and said, “That’s right. Objection sustained.”
Now Lazarus understood why his whippersnapper lawyer was pro bono. If this was all his lawyer was going to do, Lazarus determined, he would definitely defend himself.
“Our streets are not safe with him walking around. He must be detained! We’re asking for no bail, Your Honor. We believe the defendant to be a flight risk—”
“Oh, come on!” Lazarus’s lawyer said. “How can he be a flight risk? He’s homeless! He doesn’t have anything or anywhere to go!”
Lazarus felt small, like an insignificant ant beside a Georgia pine. He wanted out—out of there, out of this situation, out of other people’s perception—and back to life, his life, his dwelling place in The Upper Room. Yet, from where he stood, home was a world away. The others were thinking of him, he believed, and hopefully devising a plan of action. He couldn’t imagine what they could do, yet he prayed there was something. Truth was, they had imagined far more than he could’ve hoped for.
The DA waited, confidently.
“I’m setting bail at two hundred thousand dollars.”
“But Your Honor—”
Lazarus exhaled, relieved. He didn’t have the money, but the possibility of freedom felt good. Officers grabbed his arms and, just as they’d delivered him, they ushered him away.
Back in the cell, he collapsed against the wall and melted to the floor. He was being accused of murder. Him. Lazarus Love III. The only man he knew who wouldn’t murder anyone. The reality of it all settled upon him like a sudden chill and teased his consciousness. How could he kill someone? Stab them in the chest repeatedly as if disassembling a block of ice? Clamp his huge hands over their mouth and nose until a limp corpse lay across his lap? Knock them on the head with an obvious cast-iron skillet? Or maybe simply shoot them through the heart? Come on! How ridiculous is that? Where in the world would he get a gun? They aren’t lying around, free for the taking! He’d have to use his hands, if he were going to kill, conjure strength beyond his assumed weakness. And he’d have to outsmart the general public, which, of course, would be a brainless act, since, as Lazarus had discovered, Americans believe anything negative about a black man. He’d simply have to play crazy and look stupid. That way, everyone would think him insane. Or at least pathological. It wouldn’t be difficult. Being black was 80 percent of the performance. If he simply kept his mouth shut, others would believe him guilty. Such a shame. But it was true. Unfortunately, though, Lazarus wasn’t willing to play along. He wasn’t crazy enough for that. Or willingly stupid. He was a man, he reminded himself—an innocent black man—and he meant to prove it.
Still, it was an intriguing idea—becoming what others thought he was. And he knew what they thought. Their eyes said it each time they saw him. The sentiment was practically audible: Dirty black-ass nigga. Won’t work. Mentally deranged. Drunk or high or both. Funny thing, Lazarus thought, he was none of these. But he knew how to stumble around as if he were. All he had to do was be obnoxious and dress funny. It wouldn’t take more than that. People would assume the rest. It had happened a thousand times. They had offered money to appease their social responsibility, or human sensibility, and when Lazarus denied it they acted surprised and puffed up with righteous indignation. Once, a man extended a half-eaten sub, and when Lazarus laughed and tossed it in the garbage the man declared, “You ungrateful black son of a bitch!” Lazarus gawked. Was he supposed to have eaten that? Should he have been grateful for the man’s garbage?
Well, Lazarus wasn’t. He’d never begged for anything, and he didn’t intend to. He was homeless—not helpless—and honestly, he wasn’t even homeless. He knew where he lived and he liked it. It was cold sometimes in winter, but other than that it was fine. And it was his. The Family thought of it that way. He dwelled there, so, yes, it was his. That was how America had been founded. People chose a piece of land and claimed it as their own. Simple as that. Didn’t matter if other people lived there. Do birds pay for trees? Do moles rent the earth? Of course not. They simply choose space and make themselves at home. That’s what he’d done. That’s what the pilgrims had done. Chosen space and made themselves a home. And he felt good about it.
Lazarus, oh, Lazarus! You’re not one of them, dear Lazarus!
But now he was in trouble. His life was on the line. And that damn sorry-ass lawyer was no help. He’d come to the jail and talked for five minutes without ever offering his name. He never even asked what happened. “Did you do it?” was how he began. Lazarus growled. “Aren’t you supposed to believe I didn’t?” The man nodded and segued to procedural things, none of which Lazarus cared about, then said, “The arraignment’s Monday at nine. See you in court.” He grabbed his briefcase and left. Lazarus cackled to the four walls of the interrogation room. “This young buck don’t know shit!” he said aloud. Twenty-five at the oldest, fresh out of some rinky-dink law school no one’s ever heard of. And what does he care about a man whose life, according to the system, means absolutely nothing? What would it mean for him to lose this case? Would he really care?
Lazarus clutched his knees to his chest and folded his arms around them, providing a bony cushion for his tired head. He thought of Granddaddy, the first Lazarus, and what he might say about it all. He’d be angry, of course, that Lazarus had gone to the white woman’s house in the first place, and he’d say, I told you not to fool with those folks! Yet once his fury subsided, he’d pray aloud like old Baptist church deacons, begging God to cover his child and spare his life. God didn’t always do what Granddaddy asked, but Granddaddy always believed He could, and that was enough to reinforce his stalwart faith. Lazarus would have to pray for himself now, in this desperate hour, and when he began he discovered there was something those old men had, some method of approaching the throne of grace, that he had never acquired. Still, he proceeded, clear this was the right thing to do. His voice, unlike theirs, wasn’t bold and raspy with age; his language wasn’t smooth and full of poetry; instead, he sounded li
ke a frightened, insecure kid talking to a public official. My, oh my, he thought. What he wouldn’t give to hear Granddaddy pray again.
“God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,” he murmured beneath folded arms. “It’s once more that I come to You, humbly as I know how.” This wasn’t his verbiage, but it was the only prayer language he knew. “You are the God Who sits high and looks low. The Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. There’s no other God like You.” The preamble made sense now, considering the depth of his need. “I am but an empty vessel before an ever-flowing fountain. Do me like You did Daniel, o Lord, and stand by me.” Tears came. “You know who I am, God. You know my heart. And You know I didn’t kill that woman. But somebody did, Lord. Move on their heart to come forward so that my name might be cleared. If that doesn’t happen, God, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m asking You to help me. I know I don’t deserve Your mercy and Your grace. I’m nothin’ but a filthy rag before Your nostrils”—these were definitely Granddaddy’s words—“a sinner saved by grace, but since You delivered the Hebrew boys, I know You can deliver me.” Lazarus began to rock slightly. “I haven’t always done Your will and treated my neighbor right, but Lord, I need You now. I can’t make it without You. You own the cattle on a thousand hills, so I know You can handle my situation. You speak to the wind and the waves and they obey Your will. You know the number of stars in the sky, just as You know the number of hairs on my head. You’re the only one who can make Death behave. So, God, do me like You did Jonah and stand by me!” The timbre in his voice hushed others in the cell. They squatted and bowed as Lazarus prayed harder and louder: “I know Your mercy endureth forever! Let some drops fall on me! I’m unworthy, Lord, but I ain’t got nowhere else to turn. Look out for my children and my family, dear Jesus, as I go through this ordeal, and if it’s your will, keep everyone covered in the blood.” He looked up. All eyes were on him. “I pray this in the name of the One who walked on water and parted the sea, Who said, ‘Let there be light!’ and light appeared, Who hung the stars in space, and who hung on the cross, died, was buried, and rose three days later with all power in his hands. You are majestic, mighty, omniscient”—he knew these words—“glorious, wonderful, matchless, incomprehensible! I praise Your name, o God! I give You the honor! If You will, dear Lord, change my situation, I’ll be careful to give You the glory and the praise! You alone are worthy! But most of all”—he remembered this part well—“let Your will be done. I pray this in the name of Jesus the Christ, the Son of the living God, the king of kings and lord of lords, the keeper of my soul, amen.”
“Amen,” Lazarus’s cellmates repeated, and lifted their heads. Something had shifted in the room. Lazarus felt it. Microscopic hairs tingled across his arms as if having been brushed by something invisible. Squeezing his legs harder, he rocked back and forth and saw, in his mind’s eye, Granddaddy kneeling at his bedside, pleading with God to cover his grandson and heal his son. Sometimes Lazarus I prayed so hard he cried. Now Lazarus III cried, too. Trouble had inducted him into the society of faith. He’d thought Granddaddy unintelligent for casting his lot with an invisible God, Who might or might not say a word, but now he knew that all things powerful, all things truly dependable, dwelled in an invisible place. Intelligence was simply an issue of what one knew for sure—without the need for proof. How stupid he’d been to think he could actually believe in God.
Moses Johnson leaned against the opposite wall. Lazarus’s anxiety confronted him the moment Lazarus returned from the arraignment. His fear stank like rotten meat. Cellmates thought him musty, but actually a smelly, sweaty uncertainty drenched his forehead and underarms. The scent, pungent and damp, reminded Moses of a late-October hog killing in the country. Had he touched Lazarus’s forehead, Moses would’ve felt fire emanating as if from a raging woodstove. Lazarus choked and coughed. He thought he might be having a stroke or a heart attack. Moses made his way to Lazarus’s side and, with his right hand, massaged Lazarus’s left shoulder. “Take it easy, soldier. Don’t get all worked up. Save your strength.”
Lazarus thought he would pass out.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Moses said, although Lazarus wasn’t convinced. He nodded anyway, out of respect, and wiped his brow with the back of his left hand. Seconds later, the storm in his head calmed; breathing became easier. Moses relaxed.
“In times like these, my momma used to say, we need a savior.” Moses smiled as images of his mother crystallized. “‘Be very sure,’ she always said, ‘your anchor holds and grips the solid rock.’ I didn’t know what she meant till I got grown and got in trouble. Then I started doin’ what she did—I prayed. Just like you did. Somebody must’ve taught you, too.”
“Yeah. My granddaddy.”
“Hmm. I see. What about your parents? Where are they?”
Lazarus licked dry lips. “My mother’s dead. Father’s strung out in New York City.”
“Damn. Sorry to hear that. About your mother, I mean. There’s still hope for your father.”
Lazarus shook his head. “He’s gone, too. Been gone. Ever since I was a kid. He tried to get clean, but without help he couldn’t pull it off. Then, after my mother died, he gave up.” Lazarus shrugged. “I gave up, too.”
“I know the feeling. Still, long as there’s life there’s hope, man. Never forget that. This fuckin’ world will make you throw in the towel if you ain’t careful. Don’t give in. Things ain’t always as bad as they seem.”
“That’s what folks say.”
“It’s true. Strange things happen all the time, bro. You can’t never tell how the universe might turn.”
Lazarus sneered, “Yeah, okay. Whatever you say.”
Moses took a tone of authority. “Why pray if you don’t believe?”
“I believe, man. Most times. I just ain’t never been in no situation like this. I’m a little scared.”
Moses tapped Lazarus’s thigh. “Course you are. Anybody would be. All of us are.”
He shifted closer to Lazarus, shoulder to shoulder. Each thought of the other’s life without realizing the parallels—wayward fathers, soured marriages, lost sons, criminalized existences—and unknowingly they wondered if black men had survived simply by being together, especially when words proved ineffectual. If, on slave ships, African men rode in abject silence as arms, legs, and shoulders rubbed involuntarily. Had those men, too, sat wounded and ashamed, leaning upon one another in moments of unspeakable distress? Had they discovered that a brother’s energy is a great healing balm for a suffering soul? Had they discerned, in complete darkness, that their unity was their only hope? History records no such revelation, but Moses and Lazarus sensed, in that fragile moment, that alone they were completely breakable. They would be destroyed if they didn’t stick together. They understood that now. It was an unspoken pact, a silent contract. Every black man and woman in America would lose if they fought the machine unaided. One simply can’t win that way. Not here.
Lazarus thought of Lizzie and Quad and wondered if he’d made the wrong decision. It had seemed right at the time. He didn’t want spoiled brats, too self-absorbed to love others or too arrogant to think they should. He wanted humble children, people who, one day, might alter the course of the world in some significant way. Yet had he and Deborah continued as they were, the children would’ve become unlikable—disgusting even—and he would’ve blamed himself, and he couldn’t have lived with that. So he changed the family’s future, as he thought of it, believing and hoping that a drastic decision would produce an equally drastic result. Now he wasn’t so sure. The children had certainly learned to live with less—that had been part of the goal—but they had also learned to nurture rage about it, and that made Lazarus sad. He’d wanted them to know love without pretense, joy without materiality. Perhaps they’d learned it. Perhaps not.
If Deborah had shared his vision, Lazarus believed, things would’ve been easier. He’d loved her all along, even when she put him out, but her inability to imagine a greater l
ife with less drained their relationship of vitality. Maybe he should’ve simply continued on as he’d been. That was the promise he’d made at the altar. To provide as best he could. Well, he’d done that, he said to himself. The day he quit the company was the day he decided to set the family free. Free from things, unnecessary bills, societal expectations. That was the legacy he’d wanted to leave. Children unencumbered by houses and land, silver and gold. Their only worry would be how to compensate God for breath. And when they figured that out, they’d know the meaning of life.
“Oh well,” Lazarus sighed. He’d tried. There was no regret. In his heart he knew he’d do the same thing again. His spirit simply could not be denied, so he’d given up everything and never looked back. Not until now. Bondage makes the spirit question itself, he discovered, so with each passing hour in Fulton County Jail he reconsidered everything he thought he believed. He reprimanded himself for not saving his father. He could’ve done more, surely, to pry the man away from substances and return him to the family. Or he could’ve convinced the first Lazarus to go see about the second, since his influence with the first was unquestionable. Something. But as a young man, he’d not thought of these things. He’d done his best as a father, even after he left, visiting schools weekly and reminding his children how much he loved them. And of course they never longed for anything. Not anything physical. He made sure of that! Even college tuition was paid for. What more could he have done? If they needed his presence, he was generally right outside the door. Literally. He’d meant to be true to himself and them, a balance few parents ever achieved. Now he knew why.